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rememberwren · 3 months

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/•Harmless Fun 5•\

Simon and Johnny talk.

The soft rain continues into the night, enhancing the petrichor of the city: metal and concrete and gasoline. You are tucked away safely in Simon and Johnny’s bed, your dress and virtue intact, where you will remain until the late afternoon if your quiet snores are any indication. Simon had slipped the shoes from your feet, rolled you onto your side, and covered you with a blanket just in time for Johnny to limp into the bedroom and ask him to smoke out on the balcony together.

Simon doesn’t smoke often anymore; it makes his night terrors worse. But he misses the lazy, relaxed feeling it gives him while awake, so it’s no real harm to say yes. Buttoned up in their jackets, they stand out on the balcony together passing a joint back and forth, the very image that he could have walked in on earlier that week only with you and Johnny instead.

Johnny opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” says Simon.

He throws his hands up, nearly dropping the joint. “How’d you know what I was going t’ even say?”

“I know you,” Simon reminds him. Johnny has had that look on his face ever since you passed out asleep in the car ride on the way home: brows pressed together, full mouth pouting in a way that is entirely unintentional. Simon has been the cause of that look more times than he cares to admit—and tonight is one more time added to that list. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hafta.”

“Says who?”

“Says I.”

“Leave it alone,” he says. That’s as close as Simon Riley gets to begging: repeating something twice.

“Do you believe me when I say that I would if I could?”

Simon glances at Johnny. The light flooding from inside the apartment casts his face in warm shadows. There is a pleading in his eyes, a begging to be understood. Johnny’s never had to beg for that; Simon’s always been able to read him well, the other man used to wearing his heart on his sleeve and Simon used to seeing much more than he ever says.

He sighs and impatiently reaches for the joint, taking a hit that burns his lungs. “Make it quick then.”

“You don’t want me to fuck her anymore. You’ve changed your mind.”

“Haven’t.”

“Aht, aht—look me in the eyes and say it.”

Simon does, and it makes Johnny frown.

“Then what is it? You’ve got a bug up your arse, I just can’t figure out the species.”

“I love your way with words,” Simon says, silently cutting himself off. He hands the joint back to Johnny, his head swimming a little.

The truth is simple and devastating: Simon’s jealous. It’s not an emotion he’s used to (though self-denial is often in his repertoire). He doesn’t know what to fucking do with it, like a man who has given up smoking and now doesn’t know what to do with his hands. When you had first arrived on their doorstep, the attraction you felt for them had been obvious—except was that Simon fooling himself? Were you attracted to him at all, or just Johnny, Johnny with his pretty pale eyes and charming smile and uncanny ability to make even the most unpracticed of people fall in love with him?

You smoke with Johnny, cuddle on the couch with Johnny, have movie dates with Johnny when Simon is away. The most interaction he’d had with you involved your anxious stammering and quick retreats.

Yes, tonight had really put it into perspective for him. When it came to the two of you, Simon was likely only ever going to be on the outside looking in.

“I’m losin’ yeh,” Johnny murmurs, his words tinted by smoke.

“Never.”

“Don’t put yer mask on, Simon Riley,” Johnny says with tenderness that Simon doesn’t deserve. “Not when it’s just the two of us. All that shite we said about her when we were fucking—it was just the sex talking, wasn’t it? You were talking out your arse.”

“When have you ever known me to do that?”

Johnny doesn’t say anything for a while. The rain is soaking through their jackets. Johnny leans against him, looking for warmth, and Simon is happy to slip an arm around his waist and pull him closer.

“I want her to want me,” he says at length, voice nearly lost to the nighttime city sounds. Somewhere, a siren is wailing. Simon sympathizes. “I don’t know why.”

“Everybody wants t’ be wanted.” The thought of being lumped in with everybody nearly makes him sick, but he supposes Johnny has a point. It’s human. Unfortunately, so is Simon. “She wants you, LT. Nay—it’s not up for discussion. For a man who sees everything, yer eyesight is broken.”

“It’s not worth the breath it’d take to argue with you.”

“Just how I win all our arguments.”

“Fucking her without talking to her first would be a mistake,” he says.

“I’ll talk to her. But I want you there.”

“When you fuck or talk?”

“In an ideal world? Both.”

“Keep dreaming, Johnny boy.”

“I don’t need t’ fuck her, you know,” Johnny reminds him. He looks up at Simon, all eyelashes. “You’re the only thing in this world I need. If fucking her puts any doubt in yer silly head—“

“It doesn’t. I know what keeps you coming back to me.”

“What’s that?” Johnny asks with a grin, feigning ignorance. He crushes the lit end of the blunt to ash on the metal railing of the balcony and tosses the roach over the edge. Finding Simon’s hand buried mostly in his jacket sleeve, he laces their fingers together, comfortable and lazy.

“My winning personality,” Simon deadpans.

“Oh, obviously.”

“My charming good looks.”

“That one’s true.”

“My cock.”

“She’s got one of those.”

Simon stares. The silence stretches on, Johnny’s smug grin unchanging. “Dunno how to break this to you, Johnny—“

“A toy, LT,” Johnny stage whispers.

Simon’s eyes narrow. “How’d you get this intel?”

“My own eyes. But it was an accident, swear to Jesus,” Johnny says, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you haven’t materialized behind him. “The other day when you were taking so bloody long in the shower and I had to piss—she was working, so I went into her bathroom.

“She didn’t have the curtain drawn on her shower and there it was, staring me in the eye, LT. Blue monstrosity with a suction cup on the end.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Big as you, at least.”

“Don’t fucking tell me that.”

“If I have to think about it, then you do too. Thinking about her in the shower, hands against the walls, bouncing away on that cheap bit o’ plastic, wishing it were one of us.”

Simon lets himself picture it: the water sluicing rivulets over your skin, creating constellations of drops on your closed lashes. Your mouth wet and open, hoping the roar of water against the tile covers up the sound of your moans and gasps.

“You’re a menace.”

“One of my good qualities, what keeps you coming back to me,” says Johnny. He shivers, half of it for show. “Can we go back in?”

They go back in and strip off their damp clothes right there in the living room, balcony blinds wide open. Simon opts to take the couch, though he hardly fits, and Johnny takes the bed to be with you in case you are sick in the night.

When Johnny slips into the dark bedroom, he can hear the soft sound of your snores. All seems well. A knot of worry in his chest unwinds, and he tugs on a clean shirt, determined not to look like an opportunistic bastard if you wake up in the night and catch him in bed with you.

You are still there when the sun rises, and Johnny with it. No matter how many years it’s been since he’s left the SAS, the internal clock is ingrained in his subconscious. He lets himself roll onto his side and stare at you: the shape of your brows, your softly parted mouth. You’re drooling on Simon’s pillow.

His heart throbs with fondness for you, and with anxiety. He’s nearly positive that you have feelings for Simon as well—he’s caught the way you stare, the way your eyes will track the other man’s movements when you’re all in a room together—but of course he can’t be sure. Not until you make a move or say as such.

Years ago, your interest in Simon might have made him jealous, back when all the attention needed to be his for him to feel anything at all. Maybe it was a sign of getting older, tamer; or maybe it was just about growing safe in his love with Simon, in knowing that they belong to each other absolutely and in perpetuity, but now it thrills him—the thought of sharing and being shared.

It turns him on, too—sharing. A thought he should not be having while in bed with your half unconscious figure.

Don’t do wrong by us, he thinks, reaching out to tug the covers up around your shoulders more. Give us a proper chance. Let us fuck it up for our selves, if we must—just give us the chance.

Out in the living room, he hears the creak of the sofa; Simon is awake.

Rolling onto his side, he shifts his bad leg out of the bed first, wincing at the early-morning stiffness which seems worse than usual. He’s limping more on his way to the bathroom, but left his cane in the other room.

“Genius, I am,” he mutters, flipping on the bathroom light. “Just another reason why Simon keeps me ar—what the fu-uck.”

Sometime in the night, part of the ceiling in the northwestern most corner has fallen, wet bits of ceiling tile congealing on the tiled floor. Through the hole (big as two of his fists held together) he can see ceiling beams. Water continues to drip, creating a vast puddle that nearly reaches his toes.

“Jesus fucking wept,” he says.

Sometime during Simon and Johnny’s perusal of the bathroom, two calls to the maintenance superintendent, and numerous Scottish curse words, you wake.

You have cotton mouth, your head practically stuffed full of the wooly substance. Your dress has ridden up around your waist, panties bared beneath the sheets and blankets. All around you are the scents of Simon and Johnny, and you have just enough time to wonder what they were doing in your bed before the bed depresses, Johnny at your side coaxing you further into wakefulness. You’re not in your bed; you’re in theirs.

“What’s going on?” you mutter.

“Maintenance is coming to look at the bathroom. Figured you’d want to be wearing something else when they got here.”

“What’s wrong with the bathroom?”

“Ceiling’s caving in,” says Simon from where he leans in the doorway of the bathroom, his hip cocked against it, arms crossed and closed off.

“Sleep well?” Johnny asks.

“Like the dead.”

“Never heard the dead snore like that,” he says, making your face flush with warmth.

You grab his pillow and lob it at him half heartedly. There’s a knock on the door in the other room, startling you the way knocks and doorbells always do. The imminent threat of strangers in your space. Jerking down your dress to the proper length, you kick off the blankets and scuttle out of the bed, doing the shortest walk of shame in history. The last thing you see is Simon at the front door waiting for you to disappear before giving the maintenance person entrance.

Heart thudding, you let your back rest against your bedroom door and wrack your brain to remember the finer details of what had happened last night.

There had been joy meeting up with your girlfriends for the first time in ages—you had saved for so long just to be able to afford a single night out. It was like old times—until it wasn’t. Then you were alone, single in a strange bar watching the last of your friends slip out the door with no more than a wave and a ‘what can you do?’ grin. You had shed some tears at the bar, earning the bartender’s pity. And the pity of a few others, though the name of the man who had given you attention for half the night escaped you.

After that, things got very fuzzy. You must have called to ask Ghost for a ride home. He had offered it, after all, before you had left the apartment in the first place. Even drunk, you had known better than to ask for a ride from a stranger.

Then—God.

Oh God. Johnny. The backseat. You had come on to him. He had even tried to stop you, but you hadn’t taken no for an answer. The memories rush over you like a tidal wave, one after the other, bringing with them mortification, horror, dread.

You bury your face in your hands, ashamed and terrified all at once. You had hit on your married friend, against his will, with his husband in the driver’s seat. There would be no coming back from this.

You needed to talk to Johnny and Simon, urgently. An apology was due at the very least. You wouldn’t be surprised if they kicked you out of the apartment altogether. Stripping out of your dress, you drag on the first clean clothes you can find and slip out into the living room, stomach rolling, to find Simon and Johnny speaking together in hushed voices. They stop at the sight of you.

“I need to talk to you,” you say to Johnny, before you can lose your nerve.

“I need to talk to you,” says Simon solemnly.

“Make that we need to talk to you,” Johnny amends, casting Simon a look.

“Well I need to talk to someone,” the maintenance guy says.

The three of you jerk, having forgotten the stranger’s presence and no one very eager to be the one to speak with him. Simon heaves a sigh and tilts his head toward the front door in a silent order. The two of them disappear outside, voices just audible on the other side of the door.

“We should wait fer Simon,” says Johnny.

“Alright,” you give in, choosing to sit at the far edge of the sofa. You clasp your hands together to keep them from shaking, feeling just as likely to panic as you are to burst into tears. Simon’s disappointment and anger are the last things you want to face, but you suppose that you have earned them.

After a moment of silence, Johnny asks innocuously: “While we wait—can I use your bathroom? Sorry, it’s just, since ours is out of commission—”

“Of course, my bathroom is your bathroom.” But then you remember... You stand hastily. “Actually, let me just…tidy up really quickly. It’s a mess in there.”

Johnny doesn’t grin, but it is a near thing. “Alright, lass. Whatever you need to do.”

#ghoap x reader #harmless fun

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whirlybirbs · 1 year

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please god give me "[ CLING ]: having finally been reunited, the sender pulls the receiver into a tight, overwhelmingly relieved embrace, clinging to them and burying their face in their shoulder" with astarion and gale.

┊ astarion ancunín + f!tav!reader┊ CLING

His voice is a near shriek — full of irritation.

"What is wrong with you, hm?!"

"Astarion, I am not in the mood—"

"Oh, well pardon me, my dear lady," comes the snarl of a snarked jest as he follows hot on your trail, "Had I known you weren't in the mood, I would simply have kept my mouth shut and let you die!"

"I had it handled!" you fire back, throwing your hands in the starry, night air and very much ignoring the inquisitive looks from the rest of camp. Astarion does not let up, in fact he jogs to follow more closely than before — right on your boot heels.

"He had a knife to your throat!"

"Wouldn't be the first time that's happened!"

"God, you are the most stubborn woman I have ever met—"

You finally reach your tent and slam your pack down on your makeshift vanity. Inside, the stolen wares rattle amongst pinched gold and silver. A few scrolls, a few potions; enough to get you and your rag-tag team through the next few days on the road.

You'd embarked into the town at sundown, with Astarion by your side, to pull a few old tricks. You're not a stranger to the silver-tongued methods of a thief. A few plucked lute strings, a few batted eyes. Usually, it's quick work. But, tonight you'd met a bit of resistance behind the town's tavern.

At the edge of camp, it's darker. The moon is hung half-full in the sky, and you gather your matches lighter to ignite your trusty lamp. However, the moment you move to flick the ignition, there's a hand on yours.

"Will you listen to me?"

"I told you," you huff haughtily, "I'm not in the mood, Astarion—"

Suddenly, he slaps the pack of matches from your hands.

It hits the ground a few feet away.

You look up at him, brow wrinkled in shock and confusion.

"...Rude..."

His face is set in a firm frown. And then, suddenly, he's pulling you into an embrace that is as unpracticed as it is rough. Your arms are cramped to your sides as the vampire presses his face hard into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel him huff, and then soften slightly.

Your attitude melts away.

"Don't do that again," comes a quiet, desperate utterance. You swear it will cling to your throat forever more; the sound of his true intentions, "As much as I hate to admit it, you've grown on me."

Your eyes slip shut. "...I'm sorry."

He scoffs. His nose, cold and delicate, brushes the skin of your throat.

Astarion can feel the thrum of life beneath your skin there; a familiar feeling. His heart pangs in want. He knows your scent best — comforting. Home. Even if you aren't entirely aware of it.

...But, he'll keep that to himself for now.

And maybe forever.

┊ gale dekarios + tav!reader ┊ CLING

It's a long trek back to camp — and by morning, you've never been happier to smell the last embers of a fire that's burnt noon and night.

Morning rays, fresh from the dawn, spill over the horizon as you meander into the camp. There's dew on your boots and blood in your hair. The gash along your side has long since coagulated into a sticky, cold mess; your leathers are drenched in all sorts of gore. Not all your own. Most belonging to the three Gnolls who had attempted to take you along with your hunted prey for the camp's dinner.

You lost the boar, your favorite bow, and a good amount of pride in the scuffle.

The moment you cross the threshold of camp, you can taste the tang of magic in the air.

You know, immediately, that it's Gale.

Perhaps it's your own awareness of the Weave, or a particular tenderness for the Wizard himself, but you feel him before you see him.

And then, it's a crushing embrace.

His toiling is long forgotten the moment he lays eyes on you, in all your brutality, and he can't help but surge forward with enough momentum to nearly knock you both breathless.

"Where the hell have you been? Avernus?" he mutters, one hand moving to gently cradle the back of your head. His palm is warm, radiating already with a healing magic that alights the air with the smell of lavender.

"Met a bit of trouble fetching us dinner—"

"Karlach will have your head," Gale says, leaning back to eye you up and down as a warm sweep of light graces your edges. You feel it, like a touch white-hot against bare skin. Intimate. Caring. Different entirely from Shadowheart's healing entirely, "She has been out all night searching for you — Astarion, too."

"I'm fine," you mutter — pointedly keeping the fact you had been chased up a tree by the aforementioned Gnolls to yourself — hands falling to his waist, "And I'm ruining your robes."

"Hush."

The magic pulses hotly, and you slip your eyes shut at the intrusion. His sternness comes robed in warmth. A safe sort of thing.

Gale pulls away only long enough to plant a kiss on your brow.

AS ALWAYS: prompts are here, the ask box is here.

#astarion x reader #astarion ancunin x reader #astarion bg3 #astarion imagine #gales dekarios imagine #gale dekarios x reader #gale x reader #gale x tav #astarion x tav #uber rare birbs formatted post #like #a super shiny pokemon card #baldurs gate imagine

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 9 months

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Competition: knight!price x princess!reader

I have to thank @konig-is-bbygrl for helping me come up with the idea for this part. Thank you love!!

Price was used to being around nobles and royals.

It was his entire life, especially because he was tasked to be your personal bodyguard for nearly half his life now. He had gotten used to their delusions, to the fact that most of them are disconnected to the people they rule over, and their snobbish behavior.

What he was not used to was the fact that there were many people vying for your affection often, which meant he had to be around desperate lords and princes who made fools of themselves around you just to get you to look at them.

He cringed at their failed attempts to woo you. Their flowery words mean nothing, especially when many of them are throwing themselves at other ladies who are in their kingdom or towns when you inevitably turn them down.

He couldn’t quite understand why he found it so annoying. Maybe it was the fake devotion and empty gestures they gave that looked more like an insult to you, something he didn’t understand why you let happen, or maybe it was the fact that he knew you personally.

The lords and princes wouldn’t try for your hand if they knew who you were behind closed doors. They didn’t know who you were when he didn’t let you spend time by yourself or when you were forced to do your studies.

Or maybe, in his best judgment, they were so far beneath you that they didn’t deserve you at all. You were so much more than them, more elegant, too beautiful for them, they were not worthy as opposed to-

“You are awfully quiet, Sir John.” You spoke and brought him out of his thoughts.

Price grimaced as he spotted the flowers in your hands, no doubt from the current lords who were preparing for the jousting tournament.

An attempt by the Queen to find a proper suitor for you, something she has been adamant about doing as of late.

“What is there to say?” He grumbled and you raised an amused eyebrow.

“My, you are incredibly ornery this afternoon.” You teased and he sent you a sharp look. “Are you upset that you’re not down there?”

He glanced down from the raised platform you and the Queen sat upon above the tournament floor. Two lords were preparing, both of them too scrawny for this type of sport, too soft and not at all in their element.

It wouldn’t even be entertaining to watch.

“Why would I compete for your hand, your highness?” He wondered. “I’m already bound to you by oath and know the unfortunate fate of that.”

“The lords wouldn’t say the same.” You shot back and he watched them mount their horses.

“I’m not inclined to believe anything that falls out of their mouths.”

The lords were quick in the competition. To anyone else, their fancy swings were entertaining but to Price they were unpracticed.

He glanced at you to see if you were entertained and noticed the boredom in your eyes. He hid his smile, knowing that if it were him or his men, you’d be entertained.

The lord that won bowed to the crowd and flaunted, earning a scowl from both you and the Queen. A bad look.

“Perfect for you, your highness.” Price teased and you sent him a look.

“He’s handsome, yes.” You ignored him and he looked at the lord.

Handsome was generous, he looked rather plain to Price.

The lord walked up to you, a prideful look on his face, and gave a gaudy bow. It took everything in Price to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Your highness, your majesty, I thank you for this opportunity.” He said as he stood up straighter. “If it’s too much to ask, I would be honored to join you for dinner.”

“Before that, perhaps you’d like to show your skills again for us.” The Queen spoke and his face fell. “To see you win against my best knight would surely make dinner worth it.”

Price stiffened up but said nothing. The lord looked nervous while you had an unreadable look on your face.

“As you wish, your majesty.” Price bowed and made his way towards the ring.

He missed the sickly sweet words that fell from the lord’s mouth, the near pleading eyes as he spoke to you and the way you tensed up at the lack of preparation for someone so pushy.

However, he didn’t miss you giving the lord your handkerchief, of all things, as he grabbed the lance.

A spike of anger he didn’t understand rushed through him. You showed no signs of wanting the lord yet you gave him something of yours? Did you despise Price that much? Did you want him to lose that bad?

Price wasn’t one to gloat, in fact he hated it and would much rather let his skills show through action, but anyone knew that he could beat the lord easily without much straining.

You knew that too and yet you gave the pompous, worthless man your attention as if he deserved it.

Price kept his composure and didn’t break a sweat at defeating the lord almost instantly. He didn’t pay attention to the roars of cheers from everyone, especially from his own men, or the cries from the lord as he laid haunches over on the dirt.

Instead his attention was on you. He’s not sure what he expected from you but the looked of horror on your face wounded his pride a little more than he wanted.

It didn’t matter. The lord wouldn’t have your hand.

Price made his way back to you and you wasted no time in arguing with him.

“Were you trying to kill him?” You exclaimed and he raised an eyebrow.

“I was light on him. He couldn’t handle it because of who he is.” He argued and you stared at him in shock.

It was the truth. If he had been against any of his men they would’ve laughed at him for that type of treatment.

Just another testament of how the lord wasn’t a good fit and that you had made a mistake to give him something of yours.

“You should be happy. A princess who’s loose with her affections shouldn’t be vied for.” He spat and watched you glare at him in disbelief.

“You’re barbaric, someone as cruel as you should never win someone’s hand.” You curled your hands into fists and he huffed.

“It was Her Majesty who wished for me to compete, I have no desire to win you over.”

You opened your mouth to argue more before the Queen approached you both. In an instant, you both composed yourselves as best as you could, though neither do you could hide the anger you had for each other.

The Queen ignored it in favor of giving Price an approving look.

“Sir John, an excellent performance.” She complimented and he gave her a polite nod. She turned to you. “You’ll be fine without him for a few moments while I discuss the lords with you?”

“Happily.” You said from behind your teeth.

“Thank you, your majesty.” He bowed and watched you walk away with your mother.

Was he cruel? He wouldn’t say he was and yet that seemed to be all you saw him as.

He didn’t like the way that made his stomach churn.

A/n: jealous price anyone? didn’t mean to make this as long as it was oops lol

@deadbranch @makayla-666

#knight!price #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #price mw2 #price mw3 #princess!reader

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muffinsin · 4 months

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Hear me out…hear me out.. G!P donna x reader where Donna catches the (fem) touching themselves while holding a picture of her?

(Idk I’m touch deprived.)

Oh hell yeah! I’m pairing this one with another ask for Donna I’ve got🙌

Some more Donna appreciation on this blog? It’s more likely than you think! Let’s get into it!

Masterlists

She stalks the dark hallway, down, down, a little more. She knows exactly what you’re up to. She felt, heard, saw and knew all at once when you began your naughty game.

What especially caught her off guard though, was the raw want for her displayed by her picture clutched in your shaking hand.

Too warped in the pleasure you experience, you didn’t and still don’t notice the heads of several dolls turned your way. You don’t yet know she is watching.

She watches, like a predator might watch its prey. Though, her eyes are loving, if a little stern and dark. Possessiveness and arousal seems to flood her whole being, so much so she feels the pheromones coming off the plants in the house.

Perhaps, she is close to warping your mind a little in this state. She is dangerously close to doing so, certainly.

Donna watches quietly as she hears your thoughts, the naughtiness, the desperation, the arousal, the pleasure.

And even as she steps closer, past the hall, in the doorway, she is still one with the shadows. She stands quiet, entirely still, save for her twitching fingers and flexing thighs.

Her dark eye glances over your form on the bed.

Beautiful, bare naked, your smooth skin stretched out on the warm brown sheets. Your hair strands, sprawled out around you, creating a pattern she wishes to trace.

She sees your spread legs, shaking slightly, more the harder your fingers push into your sopping wet pussy. She smells your aroma in the air.

Subtly, she inhales and groans quietly to herself.

You’re a naughty girl today, it seems, believing you could take what is rightfully hers.

Your moans, breathy, loud, fill the room quickly. Donna grows more tense the more she hears, and feels herself become harder the more sounds escape your lips.

She feels it between her legs already, the large cock that causes the rather obvious tent in her dark dress. She feels the wetness against her boxers, the precum leaking from her already.

Then, a single sound leaves your lips that has her snap.

“A-Ahh, Mommy”~

You moan, a curl of your fingers in the right spot enough to lure this particular petname from you.

She moves fast, less moves, even. She rather appears on top of you, her fingers closing around your wrists tight, nearly like shackles.

Her gaze is hungry, her eye even darker than normal.

“What did you say?”, she rasps out, her voice rough and unpracticed. You shiver and gasp in surprise. It’s rare for her to actually talk, rather than use other means of communication.

Her voice immediately sends a jolt of pleasure from your chest to your very core. If your wrists were not restrained, maybe you’d raise them to her shoulders or hips.

Her gaze only hardens for a moment. Your eyes widen, as though reminded of the question asked. She’s close, her beautiful lips parted. Moments pass, you feel as though lost in her eye. She pulls you in, quite literally, but also your mind feels pulled in. You feel as though the pheromones of her plants dig right into your skull, yet, you are not in pain. You feel soothed, warmer, more flustered. You feel slightly less in control of yourself, and light, as though you are a puppet to the dollmaker. And really, would that be so bad?

You nearly forgot your fingers have been pulled from you; yet, the warmth inside of you barely has you notice the emptiness yet. That is, until you grow more aware of the tent in her dress, the hardness pressing up between your warm, upper thigh.

She clears her throat, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room. You feel as though torn from a clouded, quiet world.

At last, you speak.

“Mo-Mommy”, you repeat, your voice a mere whisper. Your pussy clenches at the mere words and her presence. Of course, she is always with you. You merely don’t always know.

A smile spreads on her lips, happy, pleased, hungry.

Your wrists are released, yet you are dominated enough by her mere presence to stay still unless instructed otherwise.

“My lady…”, you whisper breathlessly.

You watch, mouth watering, as smooth, black fabric comes off her body. First her dress, then her bra. Full breasts and light, dusty pink nipples that are already hard greet you. Her smooth skin glistens in the dim light of the room. Her hair is let down next, and you feel your body reacting yet again as a wave of her scent hits you. Your holes tighten automatically, a fresh layer of wetness dripping out of you. Your nipples harden instantly, your back arches slightly as you feel shivers run up and down your spine.

She’s beautiful, a goddess in your eyes.

Little do you know, you are the very same to her.

She cups your cheek softly and you no longer jump when you hear her familiar voice invading hour mind.

“Take them off”

No more instructions are needed, so that your hands immediately shoot forwards, your fingertips gently hooking into the waistband of her bulged boxers.

You pull them down slowly, each inch revealing more of her creamy skin.

Your thighs clench together at the sight of her thick crimson tip. The head is big, leaking, and sensitive. You moan lowly under your breath at the mere sight.

When her boxers are pulled down entirely, her large cock slips completely free. Slightly curved, large in size, and dripping, it slaps against your thigh. You moan, her eye still set on you even when your hand wanders to her cock.

Your eyes widen in surprise when she moves quickly again. One moment she is straddling your hips, in the other your face serves as a seat for the length of her cock. You feel it pressed up against your cheek and forehead, warm, wet, leaking precum onto your skin.

“Open up for Mommy, my most beautiful doll”, comes her voice in your head again.

You don’t even think of denying her.

As your fingers clasp the picture of her tighter, your lips part and your mouth stretches open.

And Donna wastes no time at all. She slides herself deep down your throat, her curved dick making you gag within moments. Her hips thrust slowly, but deep and precise. You feel your wrists be released in favor of her wandering hands finding and caressing other parts of your body. You feel strong, but delicate fingertips push into your hips, feel the featherlight touch of them against your bulged throat.

Tears come to your eyes from the constant gagging on her cock. You can, by now, fit her inside your mouth rather comfortably, though you doubt you will ever be able to do so without gagging and clenching around her. You can barely breathe with your spit in the way, instead feel her cock throb in your mouth from the messy and sloppy blowjob she is given.

And Donna? She thrives off it.

Her hips shake a little, her thighs and muscles are tense. She’s close, you know, but you also know your lover can hold herself right at the edge for long.

Precum leaks down your throat, feeding you her sweet cum bit by bit.

Almost offended, she slaps your hand away when you attempt to touch yourself.

“Little doll, you know I can do better”

The use of her voice catches you off guard. For a moment, you gasp, then choke, then gag, then drool some more. A low, deep chuckle is heard from her. She eases up a little, merely enough for you to breathe despite the spit smeared against your lips and her cock.

You groan and moan when her fingers push into you instead, having slid down from your throat. Of course, the dollmaker is exceptionally skilled with them. Of course, the knows this.

Curling and turning, thrusting and grinding, she brings you closer and closer to the edge. Her eyes flicker between your eyes, your throat, your body, and the picture of her held tightly between your fingertips.

You nearly whine when she plucks it from you, but even if you tried, the cock in your mouth would barely allow sound to pass. As such, she rests it on the nightstand and clasps your hand in hers, intertwining your fingers.

Your legs tremble soon, the light, overwhelming feeling rising in your stomach. You feel it, your orgasm, approaching faster and faster.

Her knuckles slide into you, until her fingers are buried deep in you and she’s palming your pussy with each stroke into you.

Her thumb rises to rub against your clit. Small circles at first, featherlight, then harder. Your body jerks on the bed as you’re stimulated.

“Would you like to cum, beautiful doll of mine?”

You shiver at her words. And while words can’t escape your lips, you plead with your eyes as best as they allow you to. You whimper, whine, moan, widen your eyes and try to nod. Your pussy clenches around her fingers, your clit grows even warmer, your nipples harden painfully.

A smirk.

“Cum”

A command, not an offer. A command from her, but also from your very body, it seems. Whether her touch or the pheromones surrounding the two of you, you feel pushed over the edge the second the words leave her dark-painted lips.

Your back arches and you groan around her cock as you cum, your vision blurry for a mere moment as you choke again and tears run down your cheeks.

Yet, you taste the delicious liquid that is her as it is shot down your throat in ropes of cum. She’s moaning lowly, her cheeks flushed slightly, her balls throbbing, her tip overly sensitive in your mouth.

When she pulls out, to your surprise, you see a string of cum and spit connect you to the tip.

Alas, she is far from done with you yet.

Giving neither of you time to truly recover from this ecstasy, you feel her fingers slide out of you and join her other hand in grabbing your hips.

“Ti stai divertendo, non è vero?”, she hums, a playful smile on her lips. “Let me join in on your little game then, my darling doll”

A scream, a breathless “Mommy…!” slips past your lips when first her huge tip, then the rest of her slides into you.

You’re settled against her, her balls pressed flush against your ass cheeks for a moment. Then, the woman begins to thrust, though. Or rather; rut. She feels feral from the name alone, this much is clear by now. You feel her loving touch, her hands kneading and savouring the touch of your skin. A sharp contrast to her hard and deep thrusts, her cock working your pussy sore and stretching it out.

Your head is thrown back, a string of moans and gasps leaving you.

“Mommy!”

“Yes! Yes yes!”

“Please, my lady! Yes! YE-YES!”

You feel sensitive, warm, and utterly loved. Kisses are trailed over your chest and neck, hands explore your body lovingly. Her curved cock hits all the sensitive spots deep inside your body, none any other could ever each.

As your eyes struggle to stay open, you feel the light feeling rise and bubble up in you again. You’re lightheaded, almost, high on the pleasure.

Your lover seems to have a similar feeling. Donna’s grip tightens on you, her thrusts become faster, more desperate.

You beg, “please, mommy, please, my lady, let me cum again..!”

And your darling lover, how could she ever refuse you?

She cums with you, her low groans and moans of pleasure a contrast to your loud, breathless moans and screams. You feel her cum in you, warm, thick, enough for you to feel it wholly in you.

When she attempts to move out, your legs swiftly hook around her and whines fall from your lips. How could she, if she is keeping you so very warm and comfortable?

A soft smile crosses her lips, and you join in on it when she merely pushes herself back inside wholly and leans down on the bed with you. She’s rested on top of you, her hair tickling your neck slightly.

Your hand finds her brown hair, her hands cup your cheek. As you share a kiss, you smile. You know, she will take care of you.

#donna beneviento #donna benevento x reader

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beartitled · 1 month

Note

how did Euclid go about experiencing the third dimension for the first time? did Scalene have to like physically show him what was different somehow, or did he figure that out on his own?

also, why does Euclid wear eyepatches over his injured eyes, but Scalene doesn't wear an eyepatch over her (one) injured eye?

also also, here's a random headcanon I wanna share: since the mutation attempts are numbered 1 through 4, and Euclid's attempts are #1 and #2, I get the feeling that he volunteered to try to mutate first so Scalene wouldn't have to risk her own eyes as much. even though both attempts failed in the end, they improved the mutation process through these failures, and so Scalene's last attempt finally succeeded.

A person who noticed the implications 😈

Ok I will go in order

Euclid and third dimension

I imagine this was extremely confusing for him

Picture the scenario where you’ve been speaking your native language your entire life

And somebody says “you been speaking with a thick accent and wrong grammar, also all things are called differently, you have to relearn now”

You will try to speak “correctly”, but slipping into old habits when you’re not thinking about it

This is pretty much how Euclid felt when his wife said that “ok imagine a square, but it has another one, and another one, and another one, but they are one, like you know… ummm… mmmermm.. you get it right?”

He still thinks, imagines stuff and dreams in 2D

But he’s kinda adapted to moving around in this weird world that has so many copies of things in it

Also one person had a headcanon that Euclid has an exceptional hearing

I 👏adore 👏this idea 👏

I don’t remember who exactly wrote this comment, there are so much cool headcanons people have actually, I need to keep a file on cool ideas with credits™️💥

Why Scalene doesn’t wear an eyepatch

Well

Her eye doesn’t look that bad

First attempts have a kinda brutal aftermath, because they had no idea of what they’re doing

+ I an eyepatch would be a bit unpractical for the successful eye

Headcanon

My guy

🫵You get it 🫵

This is exactly what I wanted to hint towards

Euclid was completely against of Scalene trying to mutate her eyes (he loves his life guys 🥺)

So his initial plans was 2 attempts, if they fail they’ll find another way

But you see, when your wife is stubborn

You don’t really see what she’s up to

And can only hear that she did not agree to the initial plan

He was terrified when she started testing the 4th eye

I’m writing this and going to eep immediately after, wish me good dream horrors guys 😎

Thank you for your ask❤️ Hope everyone enjoyed a lil essay 🧐

#bear answers #evil cipher parents AU #the ask box is constantly getting filled 💥#I both appreciate you guys and struggling to keep up ❤️💥#content updates will probably be with a bit of a breaks in between #my eyes hurt 🐻‍❄️ ow #(this is what I get after blinding an innocent triangle)#bill ciphers parents #book of bill #bill cipher #gravity falls au #gravity falls fandom

117 notes · View notes

kitmon · 1 year

Text

Oh Yeah, That's Right | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Newly graduated, you and Eddie take a trip to Lover's Lake to celebrate.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 9.3k

Tags: smut (18+ only), porn with a lot of plot but I promise it's worth it, drug use (weed), skinny dipping, swimming while intoxicated (don't do this, you will die), sex out in the open, Eddie is kinda a perv but that's just his way of flirting with reader, unprotected sex, Eddie refers to reader as "Pigeon" or "Pidge," it's just a nickname

Author’s Note: I've had this fic in mind since last June and omg I'm so excited to share this! It definitely is a labor of love and something that I wanted to be really good, especially since it is my first smut piece for Eddie (which is wild considering I've loved him for an entire year already) but I am very very proud and I hope that you enjoy it just as much as I do. Also, a big thanks to my bestie @queenimmadolla for beta reading and leaving me the most hilarious notes ever, I love you! And with all that said, enjoy!

The crunch of gravel under your boots is ambient bliss to your ears. Accompanied by the soft ebb and flow of the lake’s tide, the sound of untouched nature; the crickets and the cicadas, the skittering of small paws and the flustered flutter of birds and nocturnal creatures of the night frightened by the stuttering of your breath, taken by the glittering sight of Lover’s Lake at twilight, all glowing with the beams of the moon. Water striders glide across the liquid black mirror, the ripples in the water look like they carry diamonds on the crests of their waves before simmering into smaller crystals that turn fluid and slip between the gaps in the pebbles to return to their home.

Eddie cuts through the silence of your appreciation with the harsh slam of his door, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to turn to look over the hood at him, his lithe frame strutting towards you as the corner of his lips reach for the dips in his cheeks.

His voice is deep and lilting as he speaks to you, “Told you I knew a spot.”

“Lover’s Lake isn’t a ‘spot,’ anyone over 16 and horny knows about Lover’s Lake,” you retort, eyes remaining unimpressed as he sidles up beside you.

“Well, would you look at that?” He teases as he spreads his arms out and studies himself in front of you.

You giggle, pushing your fingers into his chest and sending him back a step as you ignore him, walking towards the edge of the water. Your boots give way under the clacking stones before you shift your weight, crouching down with your arm around your knees as you pick at what the tide brings in; the forgotten shell homes of gastropods, the algae that grounds itself to the heaviest rocks and sways with the movement of the water like blades of grass in the gusts of April. You submerge your hand into the water and wrap your fingers around the flattest stone you can find, the water teasing the hem of your sweater.

As Eddie’s heavy, less than subtle steps approach you from behind, you stand with a bit of effort as your unpracticed joints groan, examining the grey, marbled layers of the rock before leaning back and launching it over the water before it plops once, twice, three times before sinking on its fourth splash. Eddie whistles low and your head turns to watch him, all haughty hip-jut and sass-laced hands over sides.

“Not bad, Pidge.” He leans down and doesn’t even study hard before snatching a rock. “Not bad at all,” he mumbles before tossing it with an imperceptible flick of his wrist. The soft-edged stone sails over the water, jumping in six skips, effortlessly beating out your measly three.

“Show off,” you chastise with an unbothered smile as you stock off to where the grit of the shore is lessened by the flatness of the rocks, sitting gracefully before falling to your back to watch the unperturbed night sky glisten with smatterings of light that twinkle and wink down at you. Eddie falls beside you, grunting as he attempts to make himself comfortable over the uneven terrain. You sigh through your nose and turn to look at him.

“Now what?” You question.

He looks down the length of himself, pursing his lips as he takes a minute to inspect the journey from his chest down to his crotch, before turning to meet your eyes, a playful glint in the dark abyss of his own, “Wasn’t kidding when I said I was horny.”

“Not gonna happen,” you smile, matching his mischief as you place your arms behind your head.

He pouts in faux disappointment before brightening again, “Well, darn, then it’s a good thing I brought this to pass the time.”

He reaches his hand into the denim of his pocket, struggling against the tight fit before brandishing a crumpled joint that had been stuffed away inside. You sit up with him and laugh in your throat as you watch him clumsily try to straighten it back out. The pink muscle of his tongue peeks out past the seam of his lips as he rolls the joint over the meat of his thigh like he’s thinning out pasta. Once it’s decent enough to smoke he brings it to his lips and mumbles out around it, “Would you do me the honor?”

“Why, of course I could, Sir Dumbass-ington,” you tease with a jaunty shake of your head before reaching into your pocket, digging through your miscellaneous trinkets of gum wrappers, a pocket knife, and chapstick, silver flashing with the white light of the moon once you procure the boxy Zippo. There are vulgar engravings along the side, a relic of your father’s time in Vietnam now used to light Edward’s crinkly joint. You flip open the lighter with a satisfying clink, your faces suddenly shrouded in yellow, carving out the hollows and defining the angles of your faces as you lean it towards him. He dips the end of it into the flame, tutting at it while the stark light draws your attention to the soft slant of his nose, the whetted cut of his cheekbones, the hollow of his cupid's bow all puckered out as he sucks at the cigarette. He huffs in a good breath and, with voice strained, he declares, “Fuck, that’s some good shit,” coughing at the end of it as he hits at his chest.

“Well, don’t go hogging it all,” you laugh, reaching for the jay which he passes to you without complaint. Pinched between soft-tipped fingers, eyes closed, you sip at it and let the warmth of oncoming inebriation roam without restraint, the smooth burn of your throat oddly soothing and a relaxant that tames the tense energy within your muscles. You release it, hiccuping a puff of smoke before pushing it out past your lips where it floats up in waves of nihonga-like wisps, curling and uncurling before being swept up by the breeze where it sprints through the needles of pine trees and over the unbothered surface of the lake.

He watches the way the tendrils float past your puckered lips, puffed out in a sensual ‘o’ before they’re consumed by a stupid grin that pushes against the fat of your cheeks and causes your eyes to squint, all too endearing as the last dregs of smoke seep from where they can through the gaps of your teeth. You giggle as you pass it back to him, trying but uncaring of your failure to hide it behind grunts of fake throat clearing. He smiles at you, your incompetent subtlety comical, childish amusement infectious.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, eyeing the joint for a moment before bringing it to his lips for another deep hit.

“It’s just,” you cut yourself off with another stunted giggle, “I could be eating mushroom risotto in a clean, crimson booth, sipping on champagne while my good ol’ Papa raises his glass and nods his head at me and says,” you deepen your voice and make your features stony, squaring your shoulders and puffing your chest, “‘we’re so proud of you, sweetie’ before tipping his glass back to three ‘hip, hip, hoo-rah’s.”

As you finish, you gently take the joint from him, savoring the image of the thick appendages cradling it between deft fingers as you bring it to your mouth and inhale, your shoulders rising with the movement, gathering like a frozen rubber band before slackening as the hashish thaws you free. You simper on the exhale, jolting with a few coughs through your nose as you try to cover your smile with your hand, the other examining the unironed creases in the rolling paper, “Instead, I’m smoking a squished joint in the dark, sitting on warm-ish gravel, with you.”

You bring your legs into you, tying your ankles together with the weight of your palm in your criss-crossed position as he settles the heels of his hands back into the rocks to prop himself up. You move into his space, leaning over him as you tilt your head to reach his level and emphasize your question, “Why is that?”

His lips are barely curled in a tempered smile as he takes his turn with the doobie, rolling his lips in to lick at them before clarifying for you, “‘Cause you love me,” a breath of hemp-tainted air, “duh.”

It’s laced with boyish charm, a sort of supercilious confidence that floats along the shreds of his exhaled fumes, the jab washing over him like dribbles of water gliding down the waxy feathers of a duck’s back, flicking his head and sending the droplets flying like diving hawks back into the water. It’s the kind of breezy personality that only draws you closer, impressed by his ability to pick up on the minute insinuations between each line of dialogue, enough to know that all you could ever want is to be near him.

“Oh yeah.” It's spoken as if you really did need the reminder as you smile that dopey smile, the fuzzy, assuaged feeling of the drug settling into that saturated calm in your chest as you finish with grin-impaired words, “that’s right.”

The roach is all but a barely-there nub anymore, leached at until the brown-grey paper and bud are dispersed in speckles of crumbly ash across the lake-beach. Your muddled mind, though preoccupied with your earlier thought of Eddie’s ringed fingers, registers the minimal amount left and compels you to pick it up between index and thumb. Eddie, just as stoned as you, gives easily, the joint falling into your dainty fingers just the same as you mumble, decisively, “I get the last hit.”

Despite having the joint in your hand, you move forward, one hand bracing you as you lean over his torso. His fingers hover around yours, not protective but seemingly as a product of his dazedness. He watches you, taking in the way your lashes brush the hill of your cheek as you close them, the slow-motion way your plush lips wrap around the paper, your cheeks hollowing as you suck. The embers at the end glow a violent crimson before crumbling to the rocks where they burn out into white ash. You hold the smoke in your mouth, your throat burning with the prolonged presence of the joint’s exhaust as you turn to face Eddie, eyes half lidded and mind running on autopilot. You don’t need to ask, he already understands, parting his lips for you as you close in, tilting your head before releasing the smoke into his mouth. You can feel the heat of his face radiating against your cheeks and lips, the tip of your nose brushing along the side of his own. Your lips are less than a centimeter apart, a hair’s width away from brushing as the smoke curls through the space left between you, catching in Eddie’s mouth.

Once it all leaves you in a hot exhale, you flick the charred butt into the rocks and turn to flop onto your back, the rubble, though dense, cushions you with rounded edges and eroded stone faces, soft to the touch. You relax beside Eddie who does the same, laying back with his arms cushioning his head, having closed his mouth, exhaling the smoke through his nose like Smaug perched above his mountain of treasures.

He hums, satisfied and made to feel all warm inside, the gentle sound of your exhale accompanying him before he asks, “Wanna play a game?”

That makes you smile; he couldn’t just enjoy the silence, it had to be filled with banter or grandiose speeches or ‘games’ but you decide to bite, amused by him always.

“Depends,” you sigh, “what game?”

There’s an impish pause where, through the lapse in conversation, you can hear the smirk playing on his lips.

“Truth or strip?” He turns his head towards you, and you follow, admiring the way his smile seems so uninhibited, roguish with his insinuation. You know it’s in poor taste to tease but you go on anyway.

“Mm,” you pretend to deliberate, pursing your lips from side to side, before giving in. “Okay.”

His eyes light up with perverted hope, or more so astonishment at your agreement, mouth morphing from an awed slacken jaw to a lopsided grin. He moves to speak but you’re quick in intercepting him, “What do I get when I win?”

It’s back to astonishment, turning to lean on his forearm and gaze down at you, his eyebrows shooting up as he releases a disbelieving chuckle, “When you win?”

“Mm-hmm.” Undeterred, you go on, trying on his haughty nature for a change, “What do I get?”

“Well, in the incredibly unlikely occurrence that you do win, I’ll…”

He trails off, huffing a breath up that rouses his bangs, looking towards the sky for an answer strung somewhere in midnight thread, spelling it out for him behind the stars. He must find one there as he turns, benign grin aimed down at you that scrambles your chest with tender feelings that you force yourself to swallow down with a subtle bob of your throat and the added issue of a suddenly dry mouth.

“I’ll buy you that Cure album you’ve been wanting since August, even though the lead singer is a whiny little—”

You press your thumb over his lips, preventing him from finishing.

“I refuse to allow anymore of this Robert Smith slander,” you protest, removing your hand to tuck it back under your head. “You’re just jealous that he’s so attractive without even having to try,” you swoon.

“Careful,” he rolls his eyes at you, teasing, “don’t want any of that lipstick to ruin that pretty face of makeup you’ve got on.” He says this while trailing his index finger over the contour of your jaw, tickling your skin before you squinch up your face and rub your cheek to your shoulder to shoo him away.

“Ya know,” you roll over with a grunt to prop your head up on your hand while you lie on your side, “there’s something sexy about a man confident enough in his masculinity to wear lipstick.”

“Got any on you right now?” He asks, leaning closer, “Wanna test that theory?” He puckers his lips up and makes towards you. You waste no time in intercepting his tirade with your palm, lips connecting with gravel-roughened skin before you push his face away.

Dismissing the way he falls back to the ground dramatically, arms spread, and tongue lolled out as if your push was enough to seriously injure him, you redirect the conversation back to the initial topic.

“Okay, truth or strip,” you remind, mostly speaking to yourself and ruminating on the raunchiness of the idea, puffing a laugh out your nose as you wonder just what may have influenced it. “Seems like someone’s been taking a few too many trips behind the velvet curtain at Family Video but I’ll humor this,” you point a finger at him, raising your brows and lowering your chin as you eye him, “you’re lucky I’m stoned enough to play along.”

You start to hum out your first question before Eddie halts you, “Woah, woah, woah! We didn’t discuss what I’d be getting if I won.”

“Well, the reason we didn’t bring it up is because that’ll never happen,” you say, cheeky grin pushing against your cheeks as you press your finger to his chest where he glances down only to be met with your pointer finger flicking up against his nose.

He wrinkles his nose before bringing his hand up to rub at it, sniffing when his thumb swipes at it, going on to insist with a nasally filter.

“Well, since you’re in a pandering mood, indulge me.”

“Okay, fine, I guess we can play pretend for a second,” you say with a minx-ish smile before flopping on your back again with an ‘oomph’ rattling up from your throat, dissolving into a hum as you play with your lips. You pull the puffy bottom one down with the tip of your finger before releasing it, the fat bouncing back into place before you speak.

“If you win, I’ll buy you a new pair of Reeboks.”

“What’s wrong with my Reeboks?” He asks incredulously, looking down the length of his body towards his scuffed, dirt-stained sneakers, the stitching all but frayed and loose, the soles uneven with wear.

“You’ve needed new shoes since March, God knows what you got up to during spring break that you fucked ‘em up so bad.”

He ignores your suggestion and offers up his own, “That just won’t do, how about, instead...”

He’s tilting his head to look down the length of your body, not lecherously though that wouldn’t be out of the question for Eddie, but almost as an excuse to hide the bashful tinge in his features.

“You let me take you out on a date? A real date. Not movie night but, like, dinner in that crimson booth you wanted with that fucking mushroom rice or whatever.”

“Risotto,” you correct him with an endeared smile.

“Risotto,” he nods.

The words don’t read as pushy, never pushy. Never entitled or expectant, just gleaming with that curious lift in the eyebrows and a hopeful shimmer in his smile. You mirror a similar girlish crinkle in the corner of your eyes, lips pulled at the edges as you speak, kind and gilded with the softest tone.

“Okay.” It’s so merciful that the vowels get swallowed by the click of the consonants.

Coming to an agreement, you sit up, shuffling a bit to sit with your knees brought up and secured with the linking of your hand over your wrist, Eddie following in the silent shift of bodies rattling grey and brown stones.

You sigh a breath through your nose that untenses your shoulders and relieves the pressure in your head a bit, bringing a lazy twitch of your lips as you ask, “Alright, who goes first?”

He flicks at a pebble on the ground, pouting out his bottom lip in thought as it skips in ‘tick, tick, ticks.’

“Rock, paper, scissors?” You nod and offer your fist, settled over the platter of your palm, Eddie doing the same before the barely audible pat of your hand against the other indicates a ‘one, two, three, shoot.’ He settles on rock, your gentle palm hovering in paper. You smile and gently drape it over his curled hand before he says, “Alright, fair and square, go ahead.”

You remove your hand as you tuck both under your bum before continuing in an unsure buzz, “Hmm, okay, the grossest place you’ve ever hooked up.”

He blows out a raspberry that trills his lips. “Easy! the men’s bathroom at The Hideout, second to last stall,” he gives easily, no hesitance, “Gotta try harder than that to win.”

It’s his turn and he squints down at the ground as he thinks before shooting his question, “Alright, most recent porn rental.”

You worry your lip, chewing at the corners and tearing at the chapped skin there. It feels too early to cave and for such an inconsequential question no less, but you know that if Eddie found out about the George Michael lookalike tape hidden between your box spring and your mattress right now, he would never, in a million years, ever let it go, so you figure you can spare a layer in favor of the never-ending humiliation you’d suffer.

You huff as you lean down to begin tugging at the laces of your boots but he tuts, “Shoes don’t count.”

You scoff, “Since when?”

“We’ll be here forever if every unimportant article of clothing counts!” He explains with his arms spread at his side, dramatics on full display.

“You got a hot date sometime soon?” You counter with a lifted brow.

“Look, I’ll take mine off too so it’s fair,” he concedes, pulling at the laces of his ruined shoes. You sigh before continuing to pull your boots off, tossing them aside. You roll your socks off as well, tucking them inside your shoes so they don’t get lost in the dark.

Your toes flex, curling and extending without being encumbered, taking a moment to embrace the feeling under the pads of your feet, savoring the warmth that emanates from the erosion-softened stones. The rocks have been baked by the rays of the midday sun, cooling now that she’s hidden behind the jagged horizon of pine trees. Your fingers tease the hem of your sweater, ticking over the threads before you grip it and pull it over your head. Your modesty remains intact, though, by the white underlayer you wear. You spit your next question out with hardly any hesitation, “Last thing you masturbated to.”

He blanches under the white light of the moon, lips splitting apart. The momentary surprise on his face is colored by the flushing of his features and the attempted diversion of his throat clearing where he points his finger and eyes you with a look that reads ‘well, just you listen here…’ before it fizzles out as he decides against it. He compresses his lips, shaking his head and sighing as he starts to shrug both his vest and his leather jacket off, laying them over the rocks, the water creeping close to one of the splayed sleeves, teasing the faded and worn-out leather. Your lips curl, impressed for having got to him.

It goes on like this for 20 minutes, invasive question after invasive question while garments continue to be strewn across the lakeside— belts undone with clinking clasps, buttons popped, shirts tossed to the side— until you’re both dressed only in your underwear. You’d think you’d both have the idea to be embarrassed being so exposed to the other but the both of you find it no different than when you go to the public pool dressed in bikini and swim shorts, though, to be fair, the fabric is much thinner than the nylon of your stringy swimwear and the way his milky skin glows under the celestial curtain of May is much different than when it burns in June.

It’s Eddie’s turn as soon as he shucks off his black jeans, pale white chest and slender legs displayed with each clumsy wiggle of his feet. After nearly tripping twice over the denim, he grabs the garment and yanks them off from where they’re tangled with his toes, aggressively attempting to chuck them away but, with all his exertion, they flop to the floor with a pitiful ‘plop.’ You snort at his exaggerated display, laughing as he sits back down, leaning over on his elbow like a French muse lazed out on a chaise sofa; sultry, alluring, calling out like a siren with the way he exhibits the entire length of his body unabashedly. His breaths are heavy— that’s what draws your attention back to the present— mixed with his shared laughter as he trains his challenging gaze on you, all suppressed titterings hidden behind loose lips, aiming to get you on the same level as him; one item left.

“Thought you were clever with that last one, hmm? Alright, what sounds do you make when you’re doing it?”

You laugh a choked, disbelieving noise at the audacity of the question, “You think you’re gonna pull a fast one on me, you perv?”

“Answer the question, why don’t you,” he implores, voice unconcerned with your accusation, that obnoxiously cocksure grin backing you into a corner.

You narrow your eyes at him, scrunching your nose in petulant defiance before you falter in a histrionic groan of peevishness, rocking back while your legs are crisscross before leaning back forward to tell him, “I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction.”

What’s supposed to be stern becomes watered down with the way a smile is twisting your attempted snarl and Eddie remains just as calm as before, eyes becoming thin with the joy he gets from seeing you like this, all frisky and playfully mad at him. Oh, and half-naked, that makes him very happy.

You sigh, giving in to his hair-brained ploy as you reach back to undo the hook of your bra, fingers gliding over scratchy lace trimming and the creamy texture of the satin as you release the bond. The underwear falls limp over your chest, no longer supported and, as Eddie watches on, eyes vacantly focusing on the expanse of silken flesh beneath your collarbones as his tongue tempts the chapped skin of his lips, you stop yourself from sliding it the rest of the way over your arms.

“Turn around,” you order, eyes stern.

“What?” He exclaims like someone has just committed a heinous wrong against him. “Come on! It’s just getting good.

“We never said anything about exposing ourselves,” you defend, maintaining your resolve. “Now turn around!” He grumbles but complies, scooting over the gravel until his back is to you and his hands are covering his eyes for good measure. He can hear the way the article flops to the floor as you toss it away, the atmospheric noise of your fidgeting and shifting is euphoric white sound to his ears as he imagines the way your ungainly arms and legs move with your undress. It’s a few more moments of shuffling before silence is restored.

“Okay,” it’s spoken with an underlying quiver, “You can look.”

He turns back to you with some awkward swiveling and finds you with your arms crossed over your chest, your knees brought up for extra coverage as your ankles cross over each other to protect his eyes from your area below. Your face is sheepish, lips twitching in anxious occupation as your eyes focus on your lacquered toenails to keep from finding his own stare.

His face morphs into, what was originally a giddied smile into a sympathetic gaze, features concerned with your sudden timidity. “We don’t have to keep playing, you know?” He tells you, more occupied with your comfort than any boyish fantasy.

“No, no, I’m okay, I swear.” You look up at him wide eyed before shaking your head to convey your fortitude. You straighten your back and take a breath to steady yourself, your once skittish expression softening as you lean closer to him and confide, “I trust you, Eddie.”

He beams at you, touched by your credence in him. “Not to mention, I totally need to smoke you in this game and crush that ego of yours.”

That amorous radiance at the center of his chest is smothered by your taunt and he rolls his eyes as he urges you to continue, “Yeah, yeah, now are you going to ask me a question or are you going to keep being a big sap?”

You giggle with your next query, “Okay, how big are you? Down there?”

He grins at the question and raises his brows, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”

You match his overdone eye roll before pressing him, “Just answer the question.”

He maintains his Cheshire-ish impression as he thinks on it before admitting, “A bit over six inches. Something like that.”

“Mmm,” you hum, a moderate expression relaxing over your features as you shoot him a level headed grin, “‘something like that?’”

“Don’t believe me?” He challenges, eyebrows shooting up in his bluff.

“Oh, I believe you,” you giggle at the tail end of your words before caving to your levity, laughing through your punchline, “believe that you’re full of shit!”

He acts mock-offended, choking on his words as he scoffs and sputters, placing a hand over his bare chest, “I have just about the right mind to lose on purpose and wipe that so-sure smile off your face.”

“Please do, that record will look absolutely lovely with the rest of my collection.”

“Hmm,” he twists his lips as he eyes you with a squinted stare, “unluckily for you, I’m of the least sound mind right now so the game’s still on, sweetheart.” It’s a dare spoken as he invades your space, so close that you can feel the heat of his words over your cheeks, his eyes darting to your lips with the endearment. Your smug exterior hardly falters as you counter, “And I still plan on winning.”

He leans back, licking the enamel of his canine as he lets his eyes rove over your nearly exposed figure before asking, “Your biggest insecurity.”

Your pleased act falls away at the question as you roll your lips in, scrunching up the side of your face in displeasure before you figure that the vulnerability of the answer is less of an expense than being fully exposed in the dead of night with your best friend.

“Maybe how much I need the attention and validation of others.” It looks like admitting that causes you physical pain as your face is contorted into all sorts of wincing motifs.

“It’s embarrassing to have to say that out loud,” you whisper into your knees as you lean forward into them, the joints obstructing your lips as you go on. “Especially to you, ‘cause, like, nothing gets to you.”

“Hey, woah,” he stops you in your tracks at the inaccurate perception of him, “Who said nothing ever gets to me?”

You cock your head at him as you send him a look that asks ‘really?’

“C’mon, Pigeon, you know me better than that,” he encourages as he gently knocks your leg with his fist, rocking you with the impact. “That whole standing on tables and dungeon master shit, it’s just a front.”

You bite your lip at the admission, suddenly feeling inadequate with your assumption.

“I mean, yeah, most of it’s like one ear out the other but when it’s something real, that’s the kinda shit that hits deep.”

“You just seem so,” you struggle for the words, twisting your hands about before you find it, “Unbothered.”

“Yeah, well, I just do that to impress you,” he laughs at the ground, watching as his pointer finger twiddles with one of his discarded rings over the lining of his jacket.

You smile at his sudden demureness, leaning forward as best as you can with your legs folded up against you to capture his cheek in your hand and lift his gaze to you. He’s got that sudden starstruck look in his eyes, where they go all big and glassy and his beautifully full lips part as he stares up at you like you’ve emerged from the sky, twinkling in moondust and star particles.

“If you shed a tear once and a while when around me, I’d be even more impressed.” You rub your thumb over the thin, discolored skin under his eye, purple and green from lack of rest. The corner of his mouth ticks up as he moves to look down again at his set of jewelry, lengthy lashes kissing the very tops of his cheeks as a warm hue spottily decorates his skin. The movement displaces your hand before you bring it back around your legs, happy with your effect on him; capable of shutting up the biggest attention whore this side of the Mississippi.

You disrupt the silence with your next question, “If you knew you were to go to sleep tonight and not wake up in the morning, what’s one thing you’d regret not saying?”

His eyes glow as they flit up to you, taking away from his fiddling before that same reticent smile takes over and you’ve stupefied him once more. He laughs a breathy sound, a bit embarrassed, before he stands up and clears his throat.

“Alright, you know the deal,” his hands are on his hips, still maintaining that underlying sass, “turn around.”

A giant grin overhauls your features, “I won?”

“Yeah, you won.” His stare is soft and enamored as he gazes down at you, looking almost delighted to have lost if it meant he was able to see that precious stretch of your lips over your teeth and the choice twinkle in your eyes. “Now turn around.”

You giggle as you tuck your head into your knees, the sound carrying, though muffled, from where you’re burrowed. You can hear the way he balances from one foot to the other while he extricates himself from his final article of clothing, the rocks under his feet clicking with his distributed weight. You shriek as you feel him shoot his boxers at you, scrambling to toss them off of you while he tells you, “Open your eyes, butthead.”

Your tee-heeing filters off into throaty huffs once you’ve gotten the offending item off before looking back at him and falling into a fit all over again. You roll onto your back once you’ve seen him: both hands cupped over his groin to shield your eyes while he fosters a sheepish look over his face, lips curled in.

You straighten, eyes squinted and smile beaming as you ask him through a mirth-induced rasp, “Can we get a little spin?” You twirl your finger with your request, leaning back on one arm while the other stays wrapped around your chest. He kisses his teeth, huffing through his nose before obliging you, shuffling on his feet to do a full round. That only serves in starting you up again, the sight of his protectively clenched ass sending you into another frenzy of uncontrolled witch-like cackles.

“Oh, this is rich,” you sigh, wiping an imaginary tear of gaiety away before you settle back into relative calmness. “Well, now that you’ve been thoroughly humiliated, what now? I’ve still got a buzz going.”

His dismayed pout is replaced by a mischievous grin as he looks out to the dock, not all that far from where you’ve planted yourselves, looking back to you with an expression that nearly worries you with how wickedly no-good it is. Before you can even make out the first syllable of your interrogation, he’s booking it, sprinting along the shoreline, twisting his ankles with the way he slides over the insecure beach front. He’s whooping and hollering, screaming ‘aye, aye, aye, aye’ as his feet clomp over the landing before he jumps off the dock in a gangly flurry of limbs, hitting the surface in a crashing splash that manipulates the water that reaches out for your form, so near the waterside.

You gasp in your throat, hurrying to your feet and chasing after him, tripping once or twice over the rocks before you’re planting yourself at the edge of the dock. Leaning over on your hands and knees, you call for him in a voice that tries to maintain still, “Eddie?”

You give him a moment to reappear, eyes flicking over the water to catch sign of him. He doesn’t respond and an unrelenting tension tightens within your stomach as you grow worried, continuing to scan the water in attempts of deciphering his figure through the murky darkness of the lake.

“Eddie!”

The water opens in front of you with his reappearance, but you barely have any time to feel relief as he leaps up, the feeling taken over by a looming dread as he grabs you by your biceps and pulls you over the edge. You squeal as you tumble to the water before the sound is swallowed whole once you’ve collided with the surface. It’s dark and near unnavigable and the only way you find the bottom is by flailing your legs, shooting yourself up once your feet are able to catch a boulder. You scramble to the surface, sputtering a choked breath between a brief coughing fit. Through the waterlogged fuzziness of your hearing, you can make out Eddie’s booming laugh. You push your sopping hair out of your eyes to regain your sight, though it’s also distorted by water droplets that cling to your lashes, and lunge at him with angry fists and a peeved growl. He’s too swift for you, though, as he snatches your wrists before they can make impact, but what you can’t do with your body you’ll do with your words.

“You ass! I thought you’d gotten hurt and– and you– urgh!” He’s still snickering at the way your cheeks puff out with your labored breathing and how your dampened hair has turned you into what resembles an unhappily drenched cat, but he tries to damper them at the sight of your flaming temper.

“I’m sorry,” he attempts to apologize through the laughter, but you have none of it as you try to pull yourself from his hold, grunting as you yank your arms away from him, but he just ensnares you as he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you nearby. He tries to reason with you, his voice falling into a softer, more understanding tone once he acknowledges your distress, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

He’s still smiling, looking down at your tetchy expression while a hand emerges from the water to brush your hair away from your face, petting you before coming back to hold your cheek in his massive hand. You ease with his touch and quit your huffing, though your eyes are still shadowed by the knitting of your brows, darting all across his face, so near and framed by brown, matted strands, made ebony by the lack of light, that stick in tangled swirls across the planes of his face. His bangs drip, disturbing his eyes as he blinks to keep the water out, the droplets landing over his nose and lips.

It’s then that you register the warmth of his hand between your shoulder blades, the heat of his sturdy chest against the plushness of your breasts, nipples pert and skin pebbled from the chill that ran through you from being dunked under. Even further, below that, where you’re still covered by now sopping cotton, you can feel the thick prod of something neat the junction where your vulva meets your thigh and your heart stutters, breath hitching and, suddenly, all you can do is look at Eddie with the same desperate expression he's giving you. His lips are parted, eyes clouded with lust as you take in the clumped length of his eyelashes that flutter with troubling water, the darkness of his brown irises, consumed by want and arousal, the beautiful slope of his nose as it catches the light of the moon, and the glossy plump pink of his lips that draws you closer. It’s all you can do to lean in at the same time he does and press your lips against his and, fuck, if this isn’t what they talk about in John Hughes movies then you don’t know what is.

It just feels… right. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place or the final cassette needed to complete your favorite artist’s discography sliding against all the others on the shelf, leaving no gaps, slotting so perfectly together. You hum into his mouth, dragging your hands up to wrap around his neck, pulling away, not to exchange any words but to tilt your heads to the other side, deepening the smush of your lips. He can hardly contain his yearning as he does his best to bring himself as close to you as possible, nose digging into the softness of your cheek, teeth clipping the gummy flesh of your lips. His tongue begs your approval as it glides against the seam of your lips and you waste no time in allowing him entry, your muscles meeting in the middle, sliding against each other as you taste the herbal tang of weed on him though you’re unsure if there's any delineation between your taste and his as you suck at his bottom lip.

Eddie detaches from the mess of your kiss, saliva stringing between the two of you before it breaks, falling into the mix of water. He connects to the height of your cheek, placing a romantic kiss there that lasts what feels like forever as you sigh, closing your eyes as you take the wrist of the hand that he uses to hold you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever been lucky enough to touch. He starts trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and neck, nipping at the delicate skin occasionally between his love-pecks, laving his tongue over them when you shiver against him.

“Eddie,” you keen in a needy cry, the syllables soft and aching as he holds you to him tight, never letting you dip below the surface as his fingers dimple your skin with his relentless grip as he grows excited. He separates from where he was lavishing your skin in kisses and soothing licks to mutter, “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.” It sounds lost, like he’s not speaking entirely to you, almost talking to himself, like he can hardly believe he’s got you, right here, wanting him back.

“Eddie.” You draw his attention as you thread your fingers into his dripping head of hair, begging, “I need you, Eddie.”

“Fuck, I got you, Pidge,” he pacifies, connecting your lips again, murmuring into your mouth, “‘M always gonna take care of you.”

You cry against him as his hands drift lower to your thighs where he urges you up, hiking your body higher and dragging you against his chest as he carries you, beginning to find purchase on the algae-slick rocks to bring the two of you to shore. He lays you down over his jacket and vest, supporting your head as he rests you there, protecting your back from the gravel, unconcerned with the safety of the treated hide as your more than damp skin connects with the lining and soaks it through.

He’s clumsy, all adolescent vigor and enthusiasm, swallowing every sound you give him, complimenting every curve of your body with the hollow of his palm, tracing the contours of your figure with the calloused pads of his fingers. You’re no better, dragging him closer by the roots of his mane, scratching along the muscle and bone of his back, breathing wanton noises and arching into the divots of his form. When he leaves your mouth, you breathily whimper, feeling his amused chuckle rumble against the tender skin of your neck as he pays the planes of your body all the attention they could ever hope for.

He licks the protrusion of your clavicle, kisses the notch between the bones before lifting himself with his arms and takes in the luscious sight of you; skin dewy, gathered droplets glowing pearly like the diamond stars above, lips swollen and spit-shined thanks to him, breasts heaving with the exertion of your lungs. His hand lifts to bring it over your stomach, dragging his thumb from your navel up between the line made by your ribs before he takes your breast into his palm and massages it. His eyes are foggy, unable to focus on anything other than the way the fat and tissue bulge through the gaps in his fingers. He’s brought back by the touch of your fingers ghosting over his cheek and brushing back a clump of hair, tucking it behind his ear.

His eyes lift to yours, catching sight of your adoring smile made real by the way he worships you, touching you like you’re art. The corners of his lips lift in a sheepish grin, made embarrassed by the way he's been caught.

“So much for looking away.”

That has you throwing your head back, releasing such a sweet peel of laughter that forces Eddie to lay a kiss between the valley of your breasts, chuckling along with you, before taking you by surprise when he latches his mouth to your nipple. It makes your laughter blend with an approving gasp and a resulting groan, your fingers encouraging him with scratches to his scalp, the sensation making him moan over the skin, providing delicious vibrations that have you releasing gorgeous sounds, encouraging you to roll your still-clothed hips against his thick, hot, hard-on. You’re glad he bestows you with enough mercy as to not have you eat your words because he definitely is something like that.

With a particular flick of your pelvis, the cushy head of his cock catches on your folds through the scratchy material of your underwear and he releases you with a pop, head tipping up as his eyes snap shut and he releases a stuttering breath.

You bring his head down for a kiss, soothing the scrunched nature of his expression before he separates with a huff, burying his head into the crook of your neck while he hugs your body close to him, asking, begging, “I need to be inside you.”

The desperation is enough to have you responding, just as wrecked, “Please, Eddie.”

He untangles himself at your go-ahead, leaning back on his haunches as he takes your legs and admires the way the soaked fabric of your underwear clings to your puffy lips, the white of the material leaving nothing to be imagined. He traces over the hem of the leg opening with his thumb, your coarse hair peeking out and tickling the pad of his finger before he brings it to slide through your folds over the cotton. You jolt and whine as he travels from your seeping hole up to your aching clit, rubbing it in caressing circles before he takes your legs and lifts them, closing them together and placing them over his shoulder so he can drag the garment over the length of your legs. He savors the way it guides his eyes over your perfect skin, all that’s been exposed and what hasn’t before he drags them over your feet, where you kick them off. He chuckles at your fervor before taking the item and tossing it away. He kisses the muscle of your calf, eyes still locked on yours before he takes your legs and spreads them once more. At the sight of your exposed cunt, all glittery and soaked, he releases a low groan, leaning down to lay a kiss just above your thatch of hair.

You arch your lower back to present yourself to him and remind him of what you’ve been begging for, mewling in an insistent, pettish way. He straightens a bit, leaning forward on his left arm as he gathers his ruddy and leaking length into his hand and pumps it once and then twice before rubbing the weeping head through your slick.

“Don’t worry, baby, m’gonna treat you so good,” he assures.

With his promise made, the head of his cock presses into you and you squeak. The sound falls into a satisfied groan, melding with the heavy grunt Eddie releases at the breach. “Shit, you’re so fucking tight," he rushes out, "and damn warm, too, holy shit.”

He leans over you again, elbows supporting his weight, and with his shift, his cock buries deeper within you, making you cry out as he nudges against your sensitive velvet walls, the thick veins catching against your nerves and making your body sing.

Given a moment for both of you to catch your breath, Eddie starts to rock into your wet heat, slow gentle thrusts matching the rhythm of the lake as the incoming waves lick at his knees. They’re yawning and slow, pitching both of your bodies with each snap of his hips against yours. Your arousal coats him and leaks out with each retreat of his hips, your creamy release raveling your mess of hair and squelching with each kiss of your pelvic bones.

Your noises mingle together in high pitched keens and deep, gravelly groans and curses. You hug him tight, bodies mashed together as your arms hug him from under, nails fighting to keep him close to you as they scrape along his skin and leave glowing irritated markings where they pass while your legs lock at the ankles over his ass to keep his hips from venturing too far from your own.

His head hangs low above your chest, watching as he exits and enters in and out of you, listening to the wet slap that disappears with the gentle crash and retreat of the waves. His bangs, still clumped with moisture, tease the skin of your breasts, dragging up and down with each of his thrusts, the chill droplets of water that dangle like crystal beads from the ends causing a rash of goosebumps to spread. His breathing is heavy, panting and gulping thick as he moves with you, fucked out on your pussy and the salt of your skin on his tongue when he kisses your chest. You watch as the muscles of his shoulders sway with him, his pale, near translucent skin, speckled with beads of water that you can't help but lean down and lick, kissing, biting every inch of skin you can reach, falling back once he ruts forward and prods at that spot that has your belly tightening and your cunt clamping over him.

“Shit, Eddie,” you gasp, the sound muffled to your own ears, taken over by the chirp of crickets and cooing owls, the croak of sleeping frogs that burrow in muddied soil and fall to rest, their heartbeats slowing with the chill of the earth. The head of his cock keeps tapping against that patch of nerves that has your body shaking and you plead with him, through the way you tighten your legs around his slender hips, to move faster and to hit harder. He understands your subtle request and delivers you firmer, quickened thrusts that have each one of your nerve endings chiming like a silver bell, feeling surrounded by his adoration of you with each kick of his hips that has you ringing in ‘ah, ah, ah’s.

He falls over you, unable to hold himself up anymore while also craving the complete touch of your skin as he winds his arms around your waist and presses his cheek to yours. His hold on you forces you still against him and intensifies the reach of his cock, his dick ramming into you and making your voice jump with each of his pounding thrusts.

The sound of him leaving and then sliding right back home, the clapping of skin on skin is lost to the night while your ramblings of how good he feels and how much you care for him, every word is captured just as every peck against your skin is memorized in a fizzing prickle against your flesh and every sigh and grunt is cataloged in the back of your mind; this is how he sounds, this is the rate of his breathing, this is how he loves.

The thought overwhelms you in a way that excites your senses, suddenly hyper aware of all of the little details: the smell of his cheap cologne invading your nostrils in an intoxicating burn, the feel of his hair, coated in product, made crunchy with hairspray and tickling your cheeks and your lips, the way he fucks into you in the softest, most adoring way. It’s the way he holds you and the way that he protects you, the way that he breaths your name like they’re the most essential set of syllables he’ll ever utter that makes you feel so good that you think you can cry and it’s the prick of your tear ducts and the sniffle caught in your throat that ensures it.

The way he’s moving inside you, you’re tumbling to that glowing end, breathing growing tighter, and Eddie can feel it. He can feel it in the way your skin is hot to the touch despite the late spring temperature and the way your cunt squeezes and chokes his cock every time he drives it back into you.

“I’m so close,” you whisper into his ear, voice trembling, and he growls, the aggressive noise dissolving into a whimper as he lifts his head to look down at you. His eyes are lidded and the weight of his bottom lip hangs as he readies a strained response that gets caught in his throat.

He notices, then, the streaks along your cheeks, illuminated like liquid silver against your skin and his eyebrows grow taut as he reaches to hold your face and wipe at the water there. “You okay, Pidge?”

His thrusts begin to slow, afraid he may have hurt you, but you refuse to allow that, tightening your legs and securing your arms over his shoulders as you call for him to continue.

“No, no, don’t stop, please.” He returns to his set pace, and you moan for him in a blissed-out haze, turning to kiss his palm over every line, pecking the swirled pads of his fingertips and loving the feel of the grooves against your lips.

“I’m okay, swear, Eddie," you gasp, head tilting back as you get lost in the heavenly sensation of his cockhead snatching against your walls. "Just feels so good.” You look up at him with sultry eyes that implore him to keep fucking into you and the sight of you all puppy-eyed has his abdomen clenching and his breath catching.

“Fuck,” he chokes.

You whine at the wrecked crack and desperation that laces his voice, reaching your hand up to pull his head down and kiss him, muffling your cries into his mouth as his groans echo within yours. His thrusts grow erratic and unmeasured, and you thrill at his increased speed, breath hitching with the way his thumb travels down your body to rub speedy circles into your clit, each flick causing fireworks to erupt behind your eyelids.

You flinch as you cum, the warmth in your stomach releasing in a white-hot wave of pleasure that has you shaking with the force of it, crying Eddie’s name as it springs like a bound coil finally allowed to relax. With the spasming of your pussy he has to pry himself away from you and pull out, fisting his cock in hurried tugs until he spills all over your stomach, painting your soft skin in streaks of his release.

You hum at the feeling of his warm cum coating you, finding it comforting as you draw him closer, cooing at him and holding his face in your hands as he finishes in stuttering waves before he falls over you, careful not to crush you under his weight. You find the smear of his finish between you not unpleasant and neither does he it seems as he negates it and releases a contented sigh with his head buried into the furnace of your neck, wrapping his arms under you to hug you tight.

You smile at his affection, nuzzling your nose into the side of his head, sighing with him before he admits, slightly slurred, “Fuck, you’re so fucking good.”

His profession has you cradling his head closer and squishing your nose deeper into his forest of hair, smiling like an idiot as you only chuckle in return.

You smile, kissing his head, before murmuring into his locks, “Not so bad yourself.”

You can feel his smile against your neck before he kisses it, and you giggle at his tranquil display of satisfaction.

“But don’t think I’ve forgotten; you still owe me Head on the Door,” you remind while sniffing up the leftover snot in your nose and wiping at your eyes with the heels of your palms. He extricates his face out of his little hovel and looks down at you with that troublesome glimmer in his eyes.

“I mean, may be a little hard, I’ll have to take down the whole door, but I’ll give it a try.”

“Eddie!” You chastise as he barks a booming laugh that has his stomach rumbling against your own.

“Aw, c’mon, I thought my overpowering sex appeal would wipe that weirdo from your thoughts completely!” He groans in faux disappointment.

You giggle at his theatrics, “Nope, you better count your days because as soon as Robert Smith accepts me as his second wife, your bags are packed.”

He whines as he lays his head beside yours, cheek pressed to the scratchy denim as he moans, “You’re so mean to me.”

You pet his drying hair over his shoulder before pecking a kiss to his mouth, “It’s only ‘cause I love you.”

He hums a brief laugh, “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

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