#ffs is not an eating disorder

[ovaruling]

veganism being willfully misconstrued as promoting or encouraging disordered or restrictive eating is so dishonest. tell me what’s limiting about POTATOES, potato chips, french fries, breads, tortillas and flatbreads, pretzels, crackers, oats, pasta, all rice, all beans, bananas, berries, avocados, peanut butter, lentils, OREOS, tofu, peas, coconut, nuts, quinoa, all forms of soy, every seed imaginable, every vegetable, every fruit, every grain… it’s endless. and all that you can make with these, to boot.

truly some of the most nutritious and/or flat out calorie-dense foods there even are. and that’s not even counting specialty foods, “substitutes,” and recipes that mimic traditional junk and comfort food. you cannot be serious.

[lousydrawingsforgoodpeople]

[batsinurbelfrey]

.

[soldier-poet-king]

'if you can't fast at least abstain from meat'

bro I am like 75% of the way to being a vegetarian already, asking me to do anything to my already weird rituals around food is asking for trouble

[mysaldate]

One thing that never fails to puzzle me are people having stupidly exaggerated headcanons and then getting pissy that the canon "treats X poorly." My brother in Christ, that issue was never IN canon to begin with.

Vil is not canon transfem, him changing his personal pronoun isn't transphobic.

Azul does not have an eating disorder, him watching what he eats so that he doesn't get fat is not ableist.

Kalim, Floyd, Jade, Idia, etc. are not canon autistic (though I can see the arguments being made in one case but this is about canon), them being "annoying" or not to your personal taste is not ableist.

Headcanons are fine, great even, but you're imposing your headcanons on canon and then getting your panties in a twist when the canon doesn't pander to you. That's the issue here.

[elizabeethan]

as you notice more and more

She laughs with her friends but it’s always forced, she sound helping her blend and hide behind her mask of perfect head cheerleader, basketball star’s girlfriend, Queen of Hawkins High.

She grimaces, and he’s pretty sure no one has noticed that it’s not a smile. He’s noticed, because it never reaches her eyes and it doesn’t give him that almost nauseous feeling in his stomach when he sees it.

He’s noticed she’s different, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

A/N: Hello there... you must be wondering if I have any self control. the answer is no. Eddie and Chrissy have wormed their way into my heart and won’t go away, and I found myself with some free time at work today and this happened. 

No Vecna, I guess. Chrissy is stressed and needs to unwind. Eddie is soft and right there.

There are references to eating disorders throughout this fic. also drug use, plus some kinda mild sexual content. Please take care of yourself and message me if you need more info!! 

Rated M

~6300 words

Read on Ao3

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tagging @sotangledupinit 🥰

~~~~

He’s noticed her before, but not like this. 

 He’s noticed the point to her nose and the roundness of her eyes, the shape of her lips and the slightly crooked tooth behind them; he’s noticed enough about Chrissy Cunningham. He’s an observer, you see. He’s intelligent, despite what everyone seems to think. He’s smart, he just doesn’t apply himself. But he notices things about people, and sometimes he thinks that he notices the things that people want to hide. 

 Like Chrissy Cunningham. He’s never noticed before how desperately she tries to hide behind the mask of perfect head cheerleader, basketball star’s girlfriend, Queen of Hawkins High. Behind the perfect face and the perfect hair– behind the perfect outfits and the perfect body and the perfect relationship– hides a frightened young woman, riddled with stress and angst that seems to run deeper than he can see from the surface. 

 “Sure you want something stronger, Cunningham?” he asks, wondering whether he’s doing the right thing by tainting the Queen of Hawkins High with Special K. She asked for it, he reminds herself, but still, something nags at the back of his mind, telling him that this isn’t what she needs. 

 “Yes,” she answers softly, her arms tense around her middle, her legs pressed tightly together, her shoulders tense. In a fleeting moment, he wishes to dig his fingers into the muscles of her shoulders, loosen them so that she relaxes and breathes and smiles again. 

 For whatever reason, he can’t stop thinking about that smile. The one she gave him in the woods, the one he’s never noticed before. 

 He’s noticed her before. He’s noticed the facade she puts on and has been for years. But now he’s starting to notice more of her. When he saw that smile break across her cheeks at one of his favorite spots, he realized that he’s never seen the real her before. 

 He wonders if anyone else ever has. 

 Probably not Jason, if the way he’s seen her smile at him is any indication. 

 But that’s neither here nor there. 

“It’s just that, if you haven’t even tried–” 

 “I said yes,” she insists, eyes shooting daggers straight for him and he almost ducks out of the way to avoid them. 

 Well, well, well, he thinks to himself with a small smirk fighting its way onto his lips. Sweet, innocent Chrissy Cunningham’s got claws.

  Maybe he should’ve noticed those sooner, too. 

“This is, uh, my castle,” he tells her, gesturing broadly towards the front door. She holds her hands in front of herself, clasped tightly together as she hurries into his trailer, likely mortified at the thought of being caught. 

 She’s biting the inside of her cheek, her bottom lip, wandering curiously, reaching for things with shaky fingers while she asks him questions that he knows are born from nearly crippling anxiety. Whatever thoughts she’s hoping to put to rest tonight, he can see them growing stronger, and even though he isn’t sure it’s such a good idea to give her something so potent, watching her fear grow makes him look faster. 

 “Are you sure you have it?” she asks, her voice shaking along with her hands, and he has to do something. 

 Maybe it’s a bad idea to leave her alone as he tears his room apart, but he has to do something. Even if he gives her the smallest dose imaginable– maybe that would help take the edge off of whatever has her looking like her brain is about to explode without actually making her brain explode. 

 When he finally finds it, he wonders whether he should celebrate or not. He’s the first person to advocate for substances to take the edge off, always a salesman first, but still he wonders if this is truly what Chrissy Cunningham needs. Never before has he really worried about whether the drugs he was giving his buyers are what’s best for them, but maybe he just never noticed anyone else the way he notices her. 

 He hears her long before he sees her, at least it seems like a long time between the sound of something hitting the floor and the sight of her lying lifeless in his living room. He thought she was just being curious, tinkering around with the weird little chotchkies and baubles he’s collected over the years, but the volume of her body collapsing to the ground has him running from his room, dropping the small bag of K without a second thought. 

 “Chrissy?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm as he kneels beside her, but what’s the use? She’s out cold, and calling her name and snapping his fingers in her face isn’t doing much to help. “Hello? Chrissy?” The tone of his voice gets higher as he claps this time. “Chrissy, wake up! I don’t like this, Chrissy, wake up!” 

 Shaking her shoulders is useless, shouting in her face is useless, panicking is useless. She’s lifeless to the point where he takes his two fingers and presses them to her neck, searching for that comforting thrum beneath her skin, the very one that he couldn’t find the last time he did this. 

 But the blood in her veins pulses in her throat against his fingers and he lets out the slightest breath in minute relief. “Time to wake up, time to wake up,” he says frantically, shaking her shoulders again. He leans down, his ear hovering above her parted lips to hear her breathing, and he feels the shallow warmth against his skin. “Can you hear me? Wake up, Chrissy,” he begs. 

 Her skin is soft in his palms as he cradles her face, but despite how warm it is in his trailer, her cheeks are cold to the touch. He can’t stop himself, his thumbs running gently along her skin beneath her eyes, and he notices her once more; notices that this must be the first time that he’s seen her truly relaxed. “Chrissy,” he whispers, panic rising in his blood as his pulse hammers in his temples so loudly that he almost misses the soft whimper that passes her lips. “Chrissy, come on. You’re okay, come on, wake up.” 

 She whines, groans a little, and her eyes start to flutter in a way that he thinks could probably make his heart stop if it hadn’t already. The breath she takes in is sharp and shocked, her eyes widening suddenly, likely terrified of his close proximity to her, but part of him just has to know that she’s alive and awake and still here with him. 

 “What happened?” she asks, as if he should have any idea why Chrissy Cunningham just collapsed to the floor of Eddie “The Freak” Munson’s trailer without warning. 

 “What happened?” he repeats, trying not to be incredulous, but he’s scared, god dammit. “I don’t know what the hell happened, you just passed out!” 

 “Oh,” she murmurs, hand on her stomach and eyes fluttering again as she slowly sits up, accepting his hand on her back for support, although he probably needs it there more than she does. “Sorry.” 

 “That’s it?” he asks, mouth agape, one brow raised. “Just… pass out on a guy’s floor and all you say is sorry?” 

 Her eyes are wide and round and shimmery, scared again, frightened as they meet his, hiding something behind her display of nonchalance which he can read through without a problem. He can’t tell exactly what she’s thinking of course, can’t tell what it is she’s hiding from him, and maybe he has no right to try and figure it out, but they’re sitting side by side on the ugly old run that his grandmother weaved together, surrounded by all of his little trinkets that she seemed so fascinated by, and for whatever reason, he feels close to her. 

 Maybe that’s what this is. This was a pretty dramatic experience– at least for him; she seems to be taking it lightly. He’s not easily scared, honestly, but having an unconscious girl on his living room floor when he was just finding himself worrying about her is scary, and now he’s acting out.

 So he takes a deep breath, because as little as he seems to know about Chrissy Cunningham, as little as he realizes he’s noticed about her, he does know that she doesn’t need some asshole yelling at her right now. 

 “I’m sorry,” he says more softly, letting his breath out slowly before he looks up at her once more, dragging his gaze from her stark white sneakers and their hidden brown soles. “I didn’t mean to be… snarky. Are you okay?” 

 She nods meekly, hand still pressed to her stomach and brows pinched tightly together as she seems to take in a steadying breath. She lifts her other hand from the floor to brush her hair away from her eyes, detangling the strands from her black eyelashes, and he catches the way her fingers quiver like a leaf in a windstorm, far worse than before. 

 Maybe he should’ve stopped himself, but he can't. He grabs her hand in his and holds it tightly, the skin even colder than her cheeks and sending a shiver down his spine, the origin of which he has trouble figuring out. Maybe it’s because of the ice pressed to his palms, or maybe it's the fear of what a part of him knows it means. 

 “I’m fine,” she whispers, eyes still wide as she stares at him, and he notices now the pale color to her perfectly shaped lips and the way that her breathing washes between them far too quickly as she pants for air. “Honest.” 

 Part of him knows what this is, despite how badly he wants to fight against it. He’s noticed enough about her to know that if he prys, she’ll shut down, so he turns to lightness, regretfully dropping her hand and forcing a grin as he stands. “Did you have dinner? I’ll order a pizza.” 

 “No,” she says too quickly. “I mean, I’m fine; I’m not hungry.” 

 The hunger pangs must have subsided, and in a way, it makes him feel worse. “Come on, Chrissy, you just had a game, you’re gonna need munchy food if you’re gonna take–” 

 “I’m actually all set, I think.” 

 God dammit. Is this worse than giving her the K? Is it worse to just let her go with nothing, starving herself to nearly nothing, to the point where her brain can’t even keep her awake? Probably. 

 “Aw, come on, Cunningham,” he tries playfully, recalling the way he was able to make her laugh earlier and craving that sound again if only to calm his worries for her. What the hell has Chrissy Cunningham done to him? “You came all this way; you’re not gonna hang out and take some?” 

 The original plan that they had established said nothing about the two of them hanging out, and yet… 

 “No, I– I think I'm just gonna go home.” 

 Maybe that’s a good idea, he thinks. At least if she’s at home, there’s probably someone there to watch after her. “Let me give you a ride, then,” he says, trying to insist without showing her his desperation. 

 And she nods, at the very least, her arms tense around her middle again as he opens the front door and gestures for her to lead the way. And she clasps her hands together again as he opens the passenger door of his van. And she holds herself together as he drives her, legs pressed close and waist held tight until she instructs him to drop her off a block away from her house, daring not to be caught dead with Eddie “The Freak” Munson. 

 ~~~~

 She’s tense, he’s noticed. She flinches, startles easily, gnaws on her bottom lip until it’s bleeding. Maybe he never noticed before, or maybe it’s worse than it’s ever been, he can’t be sure. 

 But she shies away from Jason Carver’s touch, and he knows she wasn’t doing that before. 

 She laughs with her friends but it’s always forced, she sound helping her blend and hide behind her mask of perfect head cheerleader, basketball star’s girlfriend, Queen of Hawkins High.

 She grimaces, and he’s pretty sure no one has noticed that it’s not a smile. 

 He’s noticed, because it never reaches her eyes and it doesn’t give him that almost nauseous feeling in his stomach when he sees it. 

 He’s noticed she’s different, and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

 ~~~~

 It’s a week after he watched his life flash before his eyes that he sees her again. 

 He’s been seeing her all along, from a distance, noticing the small intricacies about her that no one else does, but it’s not for another week that he sees her again up close. 

 He wasn’t expecting to see her at all, not after the way she sat stiff and silent as he drove her home (almost), not after the way she shut down after he practically insisted she eat something. That wasn’t the right thing to say; he knew it at the time and he knows it now. 

 And now, there she is, back against the surface of the picnic table, eyes shut against the bright sun that breaks through the tree branches, face turned to the warm beams of light and putting color into her skin. 

 She jumps a mile when she hears him, the branch beneath his boot cracking loudly and startling her into a seated position. Her eyes are as wide and frightened as ever, but then they seem to relax just slightly when she sees him, and something about that makes his cheeks feel warm. 

 “Hi,” she says, clearing her throat and looking down at her impossibly white sneakers with the hidden brown soles. She sits in such a way that her cheerleading skirt fans over her thighs, and the fabric looks too rough against her soft skin. 

 “Chrissy Cunningham,” he says with a grin, trying to keep things light and airy between them, worried that if he doesn’t, he’ll scare her off. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the Queen?” he asks, bowing deeply with one palm on his stomach and the other behind his back.

 “Stop,” she laughs, a real laugh that makes his heart flutter. “I just… needed to get away, I guess.” She shrugs.

 She needed to get away, and she came here. Probably because the last time she was here, he promised her that no one would come out here and she wouldn’t be disturbed. Well, consider yourself disturbed, Chrissy Cunningham. 

 He probably shouldn’t have offered, but he finds that he has much less self control than he thought he did whenever Chrissy Cunningham is around, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that. He drops his backpack to the ground, sitting on the bench theatrically just below her, probably too close to her skirt that covers her thighs and begging himself not to stare, then he takes out his trusty old lunch box. 

 “Well, I came here to get away, too,” he says with a smirk. “Care to join me on a little trip?”

Her eyes widen a bit as he takes out the joint, but it’s not because she’s fearful this time. They aren’t filled with tears, and her bottom lip isn’t stuck sharply between her teeth. Curious Chrissy is back, and he finds himself grinning like a fool. 

 “Pot?” she asks innocently, especially for someone prepared to buy ketamine off him a week ago.

 “Right you are, Cunningham. Sometimes you don’t need the strong stuff.” 

 She hums softly, pursing her perfectly shaped lips, the ones that have a subtle pink hue to them unlike that night a week ago, and nods. “Okay. But… doesn’t it sometimes… I mean, I always hear about people getting the… the munchies?” 

 He lets his elbow fall heavily against the wooden surface she sits on, leaning his head on the heel on his palm and gazing up at her, entranced as her eyes capture his. “Sometimes,” he tells her truthfully, trying not to insist that it’s sometimes for the best. “Is that okay?” 

 She stares for a while, for what feels like maybe a whole hour, her blue eyes deep like the ocean he’s never seen, a tempest in her irises crashing like a hurricane he’s never experienced. Then she nods slowly, her features calm, her lip red and raw but free from her teeth. “Yeah,” she whispers, her voice almost too quiet over the sound of the wind rustling the leaves above them. 

 Maybe it’s an excuse, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to really look into it, choosing instead to make sure the end of the joint is pinched right and lifting it to his lips. He flips his Zippo and lights it against his jeans in one swift movement, drawing a small gasp from her that he thinks means she’s impressed. She smiles just slightly, her mouth turning up and her eyes brightening, shimmering in the sunlight. 

 He lights it expertly, not really intending to impress her although her smile grows as he holds the flame steady and breathes in deeply. Once he gets a good drag, he holds the smoke in his lungs and lets it out with a dramatic groan and a smile before offering the joint up to her. 

 She’s cautious at first, her hesitation a good indicator that she probably didn’t need the K in the first place. Her eyes really are like windows to her soul, as much as he hates a cliche, and it makes him think of her sneakers. Perfect and shiny and clean on the outside, stained and scuffed underneath. 

 Maybe he’s high already. 

 Her fingers are delicate as they pinch the rolled up paper, her eyes unsure as she brings the same piece he had between his lips between her own, and then she leans forward towards him. Part of him wants to take the joint and toss it to the ground so that nothing is between them, so that her lips are free and so that he can capture them against his own, but instead, he flicks the lighter again and watches as she takes a shallow breath. 

 She’s never done this before. 

 At least, he assumes she hasn’t, if the tiny breath that doesn’t make it past her throat is any indication. 

 “Deep breaths, Cunningham,” he encourages softly. “It’s not gonna do shit just sitting in your mouth like that.”

 She blushes. She smiles. She giggles. His heart nearly stops. 

 “Okay,” she confirms. “Lemme try again.”

 “Deep breath in,” he instructs, showing her by raising his hands in front of his chest as he demonstrates. “Hold it for as long as you can, then breathe out.”

 She nods, and try again she does, dedicated to her task of inhaling deeply so that the hot smoke fills her lungs, holding it there for a second before her eyes grow wide and scared again and he’s desperate to stop that look from ever making an appearance on her face again. She chokes, and he stands abruptly and takes the joint from her, not caring where on the table he tosses it as he takes her hands in one of his, his other pressing to her breastbone solidly until she coughs and falls forward against his palm. 

 He squeezes her hands, tries not to think about the weight and warmth of her against his right palm as he feels her breathing start to even out once she’s coughed a few times. “Woah,” she breathes, chuckling softly. “That was… deeper.”

 “Yeah,” he laughs, relaxing slightly and leaning his hip against the table once it’s clear that she’s alright. “Sometimes it can take practice.”

 Her breathing is heavy, perhaps for the first time since he’s started to really notice her. She’s heavy against his hand, too, still leaning on it for support, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the weight of her, her small frame the perfect size against him, and it makes him want to pull her onto his lap and hold her close and see what the weight of her will feel like on his thighs. He doesn’t, though, because he may be a freak, but he’s still a gentleman. 

 “Need any more?” he asks after a moment, noting the way she never tries to lift herself from him.

 “Sure,” she says with a shrug, smiling down at him and reaching behind herself to pick up the bud from where he tossed it nervously. “I’ll try to be careful this time.”

 He can’t answer, can’t seem to form any coherent thoughts as the pot swirls around in his brain and images of Chrissy Cunningham smiling down at him with her thighs right in front of his face cloud his vision. He simply lets go of her other hand, the one she didn’t drop from his as she reached behind her, and he drops his palm from her breastbone as he picks up the lighter again. 

 “Did you draw this?” she asks, taking it from his hands and staring down at the design he etched into his Zippo with a Sharpie. 

 “Yeah,” he nods as he stares down at the faded lines. 

 “It’s really good,” she practically whispers before she presses it back into his waiting hands, her fingers lingering for a moment before she raises the joint to her lips again and leans towards him. 

 “Thanks,” he breathes. He snaps the lighter against his thigh again, making her smile as he lifts the flame towards her mouth. Then he uses his other hand to move a stray strand of her bangs behind her ear, eyes affixed to the skin beneath her earlobe, fingers dancing against that very spot and making him think of a week ago when he pressed them to her throat to ensure that she was still alive. He can’t say anything, can’t say what he desperately wants to, can’t tell her that he just wants her to be okay and that she scared the shit out of him, because he has no right to. He has no claim to her. He has no reason to feel this protective over her. 

 But still, he feels her relaxing beneath his fingers, feels her leaning against his hand just slightly as he hovers the flame over the end of the joint and she breathes in, much more expertly this time. He drops the lighter once she’s had enough, his eyes finding hers although he doesn't mean to stare. He also has every intention of dropping his hand from her neck but he instead finds himself running her hair between his fingers, reveling in the soft texture of it, before his thumb finds its way to her jaw. 

 She’s warm this time, and it makes him smile. 

 She smiles, too, when she releases the smoke she was holding in her lungs, letting out a slight cough as it tickles her throat before it washes over him. He shuts his eyes peacefully for a moment, certain that he caught a hint of cherry chapstick mixed with the scent of the pot, and holy shit, he wants to smell that again. It makes him lean closer to her, his mouth parted slightly before he catches himself. 

 “Good?” he asks in a whisper, and he’s so glad he opened his eyes, because he caught hers fluttering shut at the sound of his voice. 

 “Yeah,” she breathes, purely blissful as she sits beside him, too close to him, not close enough to him. “Really good.” 

 “It shouldn’t take too long to really kick in,” he assures her, and she smiles languidly before humming and leaning away from him. She moves just right so that her skirt doesn’t ride any higher up her thighs, the expertise of being on the squad since freshman year coming in handy, and then she’s on her back again, her face turned towards the sun which means it happens to be turned towards him. 

 “What do I owe you?” she asks euphorically, eyes still shut as he sits back on the bench just beside her so that their faces are practically in line with one another. 

 “Nothin’,” he answers. “Girls who pass out in my living room get free weed.”

 “Do a lot of girls pass out in your living room?” she asks, raising a brow, her lips almost quirking into a smirk. 

 “You’d be surprised, Cunningham,” he flirts without meaning to. “You’re actually the second woman to pass out in my living room.” 

 The first time, it wasn’t his uncle’s trailer, but the sentiment is the same. 

 “Is that so? And I thought I was so special.” 

 She’s playful, and he thinks she’s being flirty, and it kills him to feel himself fading into that place of depressed solitude as he considers the way his mother lied lifeless on the carpet, foam on her lips and her chin, eyes wide open and heart still. But Chrissy Cunningham did not overdose in his living room, and her eyes were softly closed, and her pulse was strong. 

 “You are,” he whispers before he can stop himself. He should probably have made some kind of joke to lighten the mood, at least for himself, but something tells him that he needs to ensure that she knows this, because something else tells him that no one ever tells her. 

 It’s probably the weed. 

 Her eyes are open, deep and blue and shimmering but not because of tears this time. They meet his and she smiles, and then he feels her knuckles on his cheek and then he feels her nails lightly scraping against his scalp and his eyes flutter shut this time. 

 “No one talks to me like that.” 

 “They should.” He doesn’t open his eyes as he says it, choosing instead to lean his face against her hand. “No one should ever make you believe you aren’t special, Cunningham.” 

 He feels her sigh, this time her sigh smelling more like the cherry chapstick than the weed, and he’s intoxicated by it all over again. He’s drowning in the sensation of her fingers in his hair and he’s catching his breath again as her other hand cups his cheek. “Thanks, Eddie,” she murmurs, and he swears if he were to open his eyes, she’d be right there. But he doesn’t want to because he’s scared that if he does, she won’t be. So he just nods and then he nuzzles his cheek against her palm by accident. “Eddie?” she whispers loudly, and his eyes snap open. 

 “What is it?” 

 “Do you have any snacks?” 

 Although she’s never told him, and although she never has to, he feels like this is significant. He’s an observer, you see. He’s intelligent, despite what everyone seems to think. He knows Chrissy Cunningham is too active and too toned for how hungry and exhausted she was that night and has been since. He thinks if he had noticed sooner, she would have been for a while. 

 And this feels significant because Chrissy Cunningham, perfect head cheerleader, basketball star’s girlfriend, Queen of Hawkins High, is confiding in him. She’s asking him for her vice, for the thing that seems to be her enemy despite how badly she needs it. She trusts him, and she feels safe with him, or else she wouldn’t be here and she wouldn’t be asking him for something that scares her. 

 “Yeah,” he says, blinking a few times in an attempt to snap himself out of the haze she’s put him under. This isn’t a regular weed high, you know? This is a Chrissy Cunningham spell that he’s under. He has to literally shake his head before he can lean down for his backpack. “Cheetos or Pringles?” 

 She smiles and hums, sitting up and then reaching for both packages, turning them over to look at the back and he snatches them from her without thinking. 

 “Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds playfully, wagging a finger at her before poking it against the tip of her nose. “Don’t think, just do what feels good.”

 Her face falls. Of course it does, he shouldn’t have said that. This is something they’re probably going to dance around, the fact that he knows her secret and they still refuse to talk about it. And talking about it was a mistake; he can see it in the way her eyes start to fill up. 

 “You’re right,” she whispers, sniffling and grabbing the Cheetos, pulling the bag open and shoving a handful into her mouth. Her eyes go wide, Eddie sitting in front of her completely still, waiting for the shoe to drop, but then she smiles again. “Holy shit,” she curses, the sound of it falling from her lips making him grin wide. “That’s good.”

 “See that?” he laughs, cracking open the can of Pringles. “Go with your gut, Chrissy.”

 She hums and nods again, the sight making his stomach flutter just as much as the sight of her shoveling another handful of Cheetos into her mouth does. The way she groans and rolls her eyes back is way more erotic than it should be, and while he would normally put away both snacks at once, he can’t focus on anything but the shape of her lips as they close around the food she desperately needed and the way she sighs happily with each bite. 

 “I wouldn’t do this if I was sober,” she says, her honesty making it perfectly clear that she definitely isn’t sober. “I almost passed out again, before practice, but I felt so nauseous that I knew I wouldn't be able to eat unless–”

 She stops herself, realizing what she’s said, perhaps realizing it once she looks into his eyes and is met with his heartbreak. He knows she was with Carver, too, and the fact that the prick seemed not to notice how sick she was, wasn’t able to give her what she needed, has him seeing red.

 But then she looks down at her orange fingers with a soft smile, cringing playfully before meeting his eyes, and he smirks before taking her hands in his once more, the slightly cooler skin grounding him through his racing heart. He pulls her fingers up to his lips, dipping his tongue out and gently running it along the pads of her fingers, closing his lips around them until the orange hue is gone from each of them. She smiles, something shy yet bold, nervous yet excited.

 And then his heart stops when she pulls a Pringle from the can, popping it into her mouth with a coy smile and a raised brow, then takes another one and places it between his own lips as she laughs. 

 “Stay still,” she instructs with a wide grin that brightens her eyes. She pulls out another chip and flips it over, shoving it into his mouth as well and laughing. “You’re a duck.”

 “Quack,” he says, eliciting a laugh from her that rings through his ears and shoots down to his heart, the sound almost inaudible as she laughs from her belly, completely breathless. And in a desperate attempt to ensure that he never stops hearing that sound, he says again, “Quack, quack.”

 She falls forward, her own body heavier than she’s used to as her hands land on his shoulders and his hold into her elbows. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but still, she’s so close now that he can see the way her breathless grin carves the lines of pure happiness into her skin beside them. When her forehead collides with his, she lets out a surprised oof, pulling away just enough to touch her fingers to hers and then his, her smile never wavering. “Sorry,” she whispers. 

 He doesn’t want her to say sorry. He wants to let go of her elbows and hold onto her waist, fingers gripping firmly on her hips. “It’s okay,” he promises around the soggy chips, consumed with the knowledge that she can do no wrong in his eyes. 

 His words through his duckbill make her laugh again, more softly this time, and she slides off of the table and lands with her thighs straddling his, sitting solidly on his lap in the exact way that he longed for just moments ago, and it’s making his breathing quicken to feel just how perfectly she fits atop him. She uses her fingers to delicately push the bottom chip into his mouth, holding the top one as he chews and watching him intently with her lips slightly parted. 

 “Good?” she asks, raising her brows slightly. 

 “Very,” he mumbles as he finishes chewing, the other chip sticking to his lips. 

 She hums softly, licking her lips and leaning towards him as she releases the Pringle from between her fingers and then slides them along his skin to the back of his neck, playing with the unruly hair as her breathing picks up pace. “Can I try?” she asks in a breathless whisper, the sound of her voice shooting through him from his tingling lips to the throbbing between his thighs, so close to where she sits.

 “Yeah,” he breathes back, because who is he to turn her down? How could he possibly say no? Even the knowledge that she’s hurting, healing, maybe, even the knowledge that she’s technically already in a relationship can’t stop him from leaning closer to her and letting her close her perfect, slightly crooked teeth over the chip and crunch down on it, catching the crumbs with her lips and her tongue and humming once more as the salty crisp hits her taste buds. 

 She’s not kissing him, but she’s close, her lips brushing against his as she chews and then swallows, her smile pulling on his lips and making him mirror her. “Good?” he asks, and she shrugs. 

 “It’s a little soggy,” she says against his mouth, and he chuckles. 

 “It’s been in my mouth for, like, three minutes.” 

 “Yeah, well…” She shrugs again and before he can even take a second to ground himself, to get his shit together, her lips are on his again and for real this time, sliding over his, her tongue tracing the seam along his lips until he parts them, her sigh sending another spark of need and desire for her from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. 

 His hands land on her hips and she lets him keep them there, lets him gently dig his fingers into her flesh beneath her wool uniform, lets him feel the pleats in her skirt as he glides along whatever part of her he can reach. She lets him slip his fingers beneath the tight cropped top that covers her perfectly soft skin, lets him feel the small dips between her ribs and between each notch of her spine. She lets him groan into her mouth, lets him lift his lips slightly, even presses her own against his as she seeks to get closer to him. 

 Her sigh is better than the pot, the taste of her cherry chapstick better than the scent of it; the way she responds to him makes him higher than anything he’s ever tried and is likely to try again. Her fingers are in his hair, tugging and scratching along his scalp before her left hand slides along his neck, cupping the back of it to hold him close to her. 

 She grinds down on him again, with purpose this time as she lets out a soft sound from the back of her throat and slides her fingers down his neck, tucking them just beneath the collar of his shirt. “Fuck,” he murmurs, almost worried that the sounds of his voice will drag her from her trance; almost wondering if he’s doing that on purpose. She’s probably making a mistake, although he certainly doesn’t mind. She’ll remember where she is, who she’s with, why she was here in the first place. She’ll remember that she’s supposed to be the perfect head cheerleader, the basketball star’s girlfriend, the Queen of Hawkins High. The last thing she should be doing is getting high and making out with Eddie “The Freak” Munson. 

 “Chrissy,” he says, certain this time that he should let the sound of his voice drag her from her trance. 

 “Eddie,” she breathes back– half of him wondered if she would say his name of Jason’s. “Eddie, I–”

 “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, pulling back from her, moving his hand to cup her cheek tenderly for the last time. “It’ll be our secret, okay? I swear, I won’t tell anyone.” 

 “Okay,” she whispers, her forehead pressing to his before she leans forward again and captures his mouth in hers. 

 The first time could’ve been an accident, something that slipped her mind, something that the Queen of Hawkins High might do to get a small thrill before running back to her douchebag of a boyfriend. But the second time… the second time is on purpose. The second time, her tongue flicks against his and she scoots herself closer to him so that he can feel the warmth of her core through her underwear and his jeans. The second time, his cock twitches slightly and she lets out a soft, perfect moan as she presses down onto him. 

 “Our secret?” she breathes against his mouth, and he nods. “I like that.” 

 “Chrissy Cunningham,” he murmurs, making her smile as she kisses him again. “Pot makes you kinky.”

 She breathes out a soft laugh, open mouth hovering over his, and murmurs, “Maybe it’s just you.”

 And god dammit, as intelligent as he is, he’s foolish enough to squeeze her hips again, to pull her close to him again, to let her grind against him again, to kiss her again until he’s seeing stars. And he’s foolish enough to do whatever the hell she wants him to once she sobers up, whether it’s getting high and making out in the woods in secret, or maybe dating publicly, or maybe never talking to him again. The last one makes him squeeze her in his arms, but he’d do it if it’s what she wants, no matter how much it would hurt.  

 Maybe it is just him. Maybe he’ll find out tomorrow, when she’s sober and realizes that she missed practice to get high and make out with Eddie “The Freak” Munson in the woods. For now, though, he’ll do whatever she wants him to, as long as he has her here, safe in his arms.

[asterjennifer]

hi! i love your content so much, and you’re such a sweet person! i’ve actually started writing fanfics bc of your encouragement!!

i was hoping to request GE and SE Saeran (or just GE if that makes it easier!) with a chubby mc with a history of self harm, relapsing with their atypical anorexia (due to hitting their highest recorded weight) and hiding it from him? mostly because they don’t want to add to his problems, as well as a fear of being stopped. i’ve relapsed in my atyp ana, and it’s been a bit of a struggle lately. i’m quite in love with saeran and have been for years, so i’m sorta looking for comfort, haha. but!! if this is too triggering of an ask, you def don’t have to write it!! thank you so much <3 and pls don’t worry, i’m sure i’ll come out of it again :)

🎀 Oh my dear... Hearing you being encouraged by my words makes me so happy.. And you got this! I know you can, you'll be okay again just like Saeran <3 🎀

© @guririries on Tumblr

Body and Mind

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Pairing: GE Saeran x Reader

Category: Angst (Fluff)

Warnings: eating disorder, confrontation

Word count: 2106

Author's Note: Well if you'd like a little story, then let's focus on GE Saeran^^

Summary: What had happened to your body, it's none he should know.

Although you try to hide away it's obvious he comes to learn as he never fails to watch you closely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Probably, it wouldn't have been so difficult for you if you'd said something from the beginning, you knew that very well. But opening up wasn't always one of the things you could claim as your strengths. Most of the time it's incredibly difficult for you to get even a single word out about your problem, or to squeeze it out like you've actually been doing all your life.

Whatever happened, one of your last intentions had been for the man you loved more than anything in this world to find out about your habits, which caused you ending up where you stood today.

Sometimes you broke your mind over the 'what ifs', although they only added oil to the fire named health. What if you would've been comfortable in your own skin. What if looking into the mirror wouldn't make you sick to the stomach? Could you have avoided ending up this way if having someone in your younger years reassuring you about better eating habits instead of scolding you for the intention of seeking attention instead?

People liked to misinterpret the weight that lay on your shoulders when it came to this topic, especially if it's your body as a whole. Some thought you're just wanting to be taken care of, others assumed you're stuck in major depression. Despite the sadness taking over at the subject, which you could never deny, it's not either of it.

That's fickle, the perfect picture of the flawless body. Was it even real outside of the internet? You sighed, rubbing your forehead in order to ease some of the headache following you around since the morning set in.

When others accused you for being needy, it's always the opposite reaction they earned. You didn't want pity or hushing, on the contrary, you never wanted for anyone to find out the mess you could become once it's back to the older days. Was it the recent stress? The fact it took so much out of you all when trying to save both Saeyoung and Saeran after dealing with three bad sides at once? Rika suddenly turned out to be one of the last concerns, that meant something.

You rushed through your hair, enjoying the sun coming through the curtains with the birds outside the house singing their usual songs. Now it's all settled, the bad was defeated and the days to come seemed to be filled with happiness, as Saeran loved to put it.

However, you're uncertain how true this would be for you personally. Not that you didn't enjoy the peace overtaking the future with many bright memories in mind, but there's a nagging feeling corrupting your bones.

You'd been handling it just fine until recently. Because it's finally time for the past to sink into your mind? Or perhaps the insecurities which had no time to reach your mind when being busy with more important matters crashed down onto you all at once with the impact so heavily. It's suffocating, to say at least.

Yet there's a small wish praying in the corner of your heart, even though it felt foreign to just think about it. What if he knew?

Never in your life did you want to bother your lover, who'd gone through a hell nobody could understand. All his life he was surrounded by the bad and dark parts of life itself, how could you ever end up spilling your worries on top of these haunting memories he's trying so hard to work through these days? How would you speak this burden if it's nothing in comparison to his pain? It didn't appear fair towards him. He deserved a carefree life.

Adding yourself to the list of his concerns felt selfish, so much so it's close to impossible mentioning the problem in any given way. It's not the first time you're dealing with it by yourself, it's only a matter of time until it's going better, all you had to do's keep quiet and go through this silently.

But you should've known better; should've known he's coming to realize when you started eating less. When standing in front of the mirror with a frown covering your face.

All these little indications painted the picture of what's truly happening without you making that conclusion before it's too late to turn back. Of course Saeran managed to find out, it's the confrontation you really should've seen coming and prepare for.

There you sat, trying not to let the stare of his ocean eyes get to you. At the edge of the bed, playing with your hair strands while staring out of the window instead of creating eye contact. It tore the thread of patience that's so thin to begin with.

The moment he'd been wishing you a good morning, as he's often up before you, and asked to join him in the kitchen since he made breakfast; you felt anxiety coming over your soul. Therefore you refused softly, waving your hand to play if off as having simple loss of appetite. But his kind facial expression changed to something so strict you hadn't seen in months.

Then he asked what has changed, literally laying out the issue at hand in front of your feet and it took all effort not to break down.

With his arms crossed, he watched your face twist in uncertainty. He leaned against the wall of the bedroom as he eyed your reaction rather closely and somehow it made you feel more exposed than ever. You had no idea what to say; let alone how to smooth out his suspicions.

He'd been dealing with weight problems back at Magenta as well, it's one of the reasons why you bonded so well with Ray from the start. He seemed to understand the torture of an empty stomach while still hating on the own body, which most of the time ended up in self-punishment. He understood and frankly; one hand you'd been grateful you've found someone who's struggling with similar issues, on the other, however, it created an empty space in your chest.

To know someone that pretty and amazing agonized himself to the brim's hard to accept once you develop feelings for that someone. Thanks to some knowledge, you're able to help him take better care of his health in general. Yet it never worked for yourself and now it looked like you're going to pay for avoiding that fact.

"Saeran, it's..." Your words stayed stuck in your throat by the imagination you're becoming another burden in his life. The man with white hair titled his head, pink tips long enough to cover his face by now.

He waited for you to continue. But you shook your head, knowing there's no explanation working in your favor. "Is it your weight that's bothering you?" His question stabbed right through your heart as you looked back at your lover. Saeran's face was unreadable which almost scared you more than getting called out. "You use the scales a lot lately.."

You bit down your tongue, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat from the bitter taste. "How will you know?" Sounding a bit too defensive, Saeran didn't seem offended by it and just pointed back to the door. "The battery is empty. And Saeyoung and me use it very rarely." Now the feeling of incompetence filled your head as well, it's beyond your comprehension how he wasn't acting frustrated at your stupid questions.

"I.." The noise of your heart ripping echoed in your ears along the pulse that shoot through your veins. You searched for words, anything to ease the tension in the air before Saeran let his hand fall back down beside his body. "(N), whatever it is, you know.. I don't judge. I love you." The affection broke down the dam afterwards.

You immediately rubbed away the tears that found their way to the surface. "I'm dealing with eating disorder!" It wasn't your intention to snap; it happened regardless because you couldn't remember the last time you've said it out loud.

Saeran's eyes widened which you couldn't see as you avoided gazing into his face by staring at the floor. "I- I didn't want you to know, goddamn it," Your voice broke off at the edges. "I didn't want to be another problem you have to take care of and tend... But of course you had to notice!" The mumbling died down, leaving the silence to thicken the air you found difficult to breathe in.

What would he do now? Knowing this man from head to toe, yet getting surprised by his decisions to this day, you're unsure what his reaction would be like. Perhaps it's enough for him to drain out until he's unable to stay by your side. God knows it wouldn't be the first time someone took distance by that never ending circle you're stuck in.

"Why did you never tell me?" Was the first thing he said after what felt like an eternity of uncomfortable silence. "Keeping that a secret from me... I was worrying sick about you." Confused by that particular tone you finally found the courage to see he's pained.

His bright eyes owned a darker shade, for a second you feared he's close to crying. "You trust me with everything, why not this? What made you suffer all alone like this?"

The way he phrased it had the tears winning when running down your cheeks. You hugged yourself, a pathetic attempt to relax your stiff muscles. "I- I couldn't bear the thought of putting any more pain on you." Your confession deepened the frown on his face. "But you're the love of my life. You need to be open with me about such things, what.."

You hid your tears behind your eyes after lowering your head into both palms, it's not funny how you shook from the fear and nervousness inside your system. "I'm sorry-!" You yelped helplessly. "I don't know, I was scared.. I still am! I'm sorry."

The two hands coming around your shoulders frightened you until you realized he took steps closer. Saeran put them both onto your back to have your tears soak into his white shirt instead of your own skin. He pulled you pretty tightly and you sank into the safeness it offered. "Don't be sorry about your condition.. Don't be sorry for anything, my love." He whispered into your hair, leaving a little kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm just.. I'm sad you thought this would be a burden to me, because it's not. You could never, ever be a burden to me.. You know this, don't you?" Saeran felt you nod into the embrace, stroking his hand over your head lovingly.

You sniffed away the hurt, able to take in the warmth of his body and the fresh scent he carried tore down your walls, making you cry and sob out. At least the sound's muffled when pressing yourself deeper against him as you put both arms around him in return. God, shouldn't you have known better? You shouldn't have underestimated your lover.

Saeran hushed you accordingly. His heart beat faster than you're familiar with, it made you wonder how he's feeling about you keeping your lips sealed when wanting to be open with each other, maybe you deserved it he bluntly confronted you with everything. "Saeran.."

You sighed after calming down some more. The young man with minty colored eyes took the words out of your mouth before having the chance to say something else. "You know you're beautiful to me, right?" It caught you off guard.

He stroked through your hair strands carefully, never coming to a hold. "Your weight doesn't matter to me. Whatever you feel insecure about is something I cherish. Try to see if from my perspective." You closed your eyes, thinking what you would've done if he's the one dealing with this stuff. And it's no surprise it hurt when picturing him bearing it all by himself.

"I love you the way you are and if you need help, that is okay." He brushed his index finger under your chin, wanting to get a glimpse at your eyes. Looking up to him being that close, your heart couldn't help but skip a beat.

Saeran smiled warm while letting the touch wander to your cheek to wipe away the rest tears. "You're my angel. And I will gladly go through this with you. For however long you need it.. Or how hard it might be." As you smiled back at the comfort, Saeran huffed relieved. "You're no burden (N).. You're my everything."

[lain-is-here]

i need to get back on my shit HARD

and

ASAP

[powderedwhiteviolets]

massive tw for eating disorder related stuff ahead

going on reddit diet subs and seeing such a large congregation of people partaking in my exact behaviour and exact same thought processes and describing them as “lifestyle changes” and “being disciplined/vigilant/insert synonym here about food” and talking about tracking calories and all that nasty shit for the rest of their lives never fails to trigger the hell out of me

[kettlemouse]

Haha, imagine eating dinner while a family member is angry at you for forgetting some things, and you are eating your dinner while trying to hold it together and not fall into a panic attack/trigger response before promptly being told to "Quit stuffing your face" and that "Food isn't a comfort" so you lose your appetite and feel the beginning of an eating disorder developing.

Couldn't be me.

[zeawesomebirdie]

... I'm glad that people have their healthy cookbooks and whatever, but I think I am still too eating disordered for this shit

[breakdowns-upon-breakdowns]

TELL MY WHY when i would regularly go a week without eating through the school year my period was still going strong and heavy like clockwork

but no ofc me eating like 600 cals a day while my mom is starting to get suspicious is when my period decides to dwindle away of course that makes perfect sense

[magical-butterflies]

My friend sent me a tiktok that was fatphobic and expected me to laugh. He’s lucky I didn’t get in my car and run him tf over. We don’t do that over here

[elizabeethan]

as you notice more and more (and more)

Part 2 / 2

A week after Chrissy got high in the woods with Eddie Munson, things feel different. Mostly in the way that she finds herself much more able to take what she wants. It doesn’t really come as any surprise to her that Eddie is the one to give it to her.

Hey, how did this happen? I'm not sure either. It started off fluffy and comforting and got a little angsty before it turned into pure unadulterated filth. Note the rating change. I almost faded to black and then was informed that I shouldn’t do that, so... Tammy, this is for you.

Trigger warning for Chrissy’s eating disorder!!

Rated E

~10k words

Read Part 1

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~~~~

It’s been a whole week since Chrissy Cunningham did that rebellious thing she shouldn’t have done. 

 Honestly, the fact that she sought out Eddie Munson for pot was outrageous in the first place. Then, going to his house because she had it in her head that she needed something stronger? Unbelievable. 

 But passing out in Eddie Munson’s living room because she worked herself way too hard at the game and hadn’t had a bite to eat since the previous morning?

 She knows better. But she's still the same old Chrissy.

 Of course, she had a week after that to sort herself out, too, and still she found herself at his meeting place waiting for him. Still, even after the mortifying first time, she went back again and got high with him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, well… 

 Where’s her self control? 

 It certainly flew right out the window the moment the pot set in. The moment she felt her stomach churning, the moment she looked to Eddie and asked him for a snack, she knew she had lost all control. And for the first time since she can remember, she didn’t panic at not having any control over herself. She just let herself eat those damn Cheetos and enjoyed them.

 And then she started flirting with him and she found that she couldn’t stop. 

 And then she basically fell into his lap– she let herself do that– and she freaking kissed him. Why would she even do that? She’s never once felt the urge to kiss someone, not even Jason. And who the heck is she that she found kissing Eddie Munson even remotely enjoyable? Normally, kissing is transactional, something that normal couples do, but it’s never really been something that she’s sought out, or something that she thinks about when she’s not doing it. 

 And yet she can’t stop thinking about kissing Eddie Munson. 

 What the heck is that all about? 

It’s kind of eye opening, in a way. Part of her has known for a while that she isn’t going to continue seeing Jason after graduation, but she’s also been content to just stay with him until then, figuring, why not? Plus, graduating and moving away to college is a perfect reason to separate from someone. 

 But now she’s worried, because there are still two months until graduation, and what if she can’t wait that long? After all, she can’t get her stupid mind off of kissing Eddie Munson. And she’s already cheated on Jason once. 

 Shoot. She’s already cheated on Jason once. 

 She jumps a mile when his hand lands on her shoulder, startled to the point where she practically screams into her locker. She’s shaken already, that need for control back and stronger than ever, ever since that Friday evening. The constant stress, the dread, the guilt, the feeling like something’s going to go wrong at any second… it feeds into the sense of unease in her stomach, it makes her fingers shake harder than they usually do. It’s anxiety she tells herself, but she can’t help but to think back to the few short hours a week ago when she didn’t feel like this. 

 “Woah, babe,” Jason says with a smirk that makes her bite the inside of her cheek, a soft chill running down the length of her spine. She remembers a long time ago when she felt like this for him and it wasn’t because she was jumpy. “You okay? We’re going to Benny’s tonight.” 

 “Cool,” she says flatly, ignoring his question because it’s clear enough that he wasn’t looking for an answer. 

 “That’s it? Aren’t you coming?”

 “I don’t know,” she answers with a soft, timid voice. Honestly, she never really lets herself get surprised at the fact that he doesn’t notice that something’s bothering her. Usually, it’s too much of a hassle to explain, anyway, the inner turmoil running through her crooked mind too much for him to attempt to understand, so she gives him a pass. But now, it feels different. It feels like she’s being perfectly obvious that something’s wrong, and it feels like he doesn’t even care enough to ask or wait for her answer. 

 “Why?” 

 “I don’t feel that good,” she tells him. It’s true enough; she feels awful and out of control and like she needs to get away from all of this, somehow. 

 But he snorts under his breath. “So what, you’re just gonna spend the night at home? You and I both know you don’t want to do that.”

 It’s true, of course, and while Jason usually ignores the environment that she goes home to each night, apparently he can also use it to throw in her face when he isn’t getting what he wants. “So you think I'd rather spend my time in a half-condemned building alone in a corner while the basketball team gets drunk and high and screams all night? I said I don’t feel good, Jason. Why would I want to hang out with your entire team?”

 “Jesus, Chris,” he scolds, his face shifting angrily and his shoulders squaring as he steps in front of her, and she realizes she hates it when he calls her that. She’s pressed between his chest and the locker behind her, his arms caging her in where she stands and his eyes dark as they glare down at her. “Can you just chill the hell out? You’re acting like a freak.” 

 She’d rather be a freak than let him walk all over her. She’d rather spend her evening with a freak than with him.

 “Let me go,” she says softly, firmly.

 “I’m not even touching you,” he rolls his eyes.

 “You know what I mean. Move out of my way.” 

 “So you’re not coming tonight?” he asks, as if she hasn’t been clear enough that she doesn’t freaking want to. She shakes her head, trying to hide the timidness that’s coursing through her veins just beneath the surface of the display of strength she’s trying to portray. “If you don’t come tonight, you can forget prom.” 

 Classic, she thinks. Jason using prom as a bargaining chip is so him. Leave it to him to hold something she really wanted over her head as a means to try and get her to do what he wants. And three months ago, it would have worked. Heck, three weeks ago it would have. Prom has been on her list of things to look forward to for four years now, her dream of becoming prom queen and him being her king seeming so reachable for so long. But now, things just feel different. 

 “Fine,” she says, ducking under his arm and squirming away. “Forget it, then. Forget everything.” 

 He calls after her, he tells her not to be stupid, but she ignores him, and even though the shaking is worse than ever and her stomach feels like it’s inside out, even as she shoves the bathroom door open and makes a beeline for the furthest stall, she feels powerful, and she thinks she can get used to it. 

 ~~~~

 He almost exploded the moment she jumped. Has she always startled this easily? He’s never really noticed that before. He’s been noticing her as more jumpy lately, but he isn’t sure he’s ever seen her jump so far out of her skin that she almost screams. 

 And he’s noticed enough of her to know that she’s never looked this frightened and angry with Jason “Douchebag” Carver before. 

 Has Jason ever pushed her up against a wall like that before? If Eddie ever did anything like that, it’d be in a sexy way, not like how Jason did it. It wouldn’t be to intimidate her or to make her feel small. 

 He’s beaming with pride as he watches her move away from him, the fight clearly ending on her terms, but still, he wants to commit a crime as he watches the violent fire in Jason’s eyes and wonders what he could possibly be capable of. And then he wants to throw up as he watches her weakly shove her way into the girl’s bathroom, her coordination practically gone as her body lands heavily against the door. And against his best judgment, he waits for the bell to ring and for the crowd to clear and he pushes the same door open, locking it behind him. 

 He second guesses locking the door. He’s not trying to intimidate her when she’s already clearly been through enough. He doesn’t want to freak her out by locking her in a room with Eddie “The Freak” Munson. But he does want to give her privacy, and he’s pretty sure that if his hunch is correct, that’s exactly what she’ll need right now. 

 “Go away,” he hears, her voice hoarse and weak before it’s cut off by the sound of her retching. It echoes through the room, the acoustics pretty impressive, but that’s not important right now.

 He walks through the bathroom, peeking beneath each stall door to make sure he doesn’t see any foreign shoes, and stops when he sees the dirtied soles of her pristine white sneakers. 

 “I said go away!” she repeats more loudly once she’s caught her breath. 

 “Chrissy,” he says, half asking for her and half calling out to her. 

 “Eddie?”

 “You okay?” 

 He hears her coughing and sniffling and all he wants to do is break through the door and pull her into his arms until she feels better. 

 But then he hears the telltale sound of the toilet paper dispenser, and then he hears the toilet flushing, and then he hears the lock to the stall door sliding open. So he doesn’t have to break through the door at all. 

 “Hey,” he says softly, noting the way she refuses to turn her head to look at him, keeping her elbow on the toilet seat and her cheek planted against her hand. He slips through the door and shuts it again, figuring it would give her some more privacy, and then he crouches to the ground to sit beside her, his hand on her back. 

 “Hey,” she squeaks before she sniffles again, and then she lets out the most gut-wrenching cry he’s ever heard. 

 “Hey, hey, c’mere,” he coos, reaching for her, and she falls into his arms and lets her head hit his chest, her own arms wrapping tightly around his middle. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. You’re okay.” 

 “No I'm not,” she argues through her tears. 

 “Are you sick?” he asks, although he thinks he kind of knows what this is. Maybe he’s wrong. 

 She shakes her head and stays silent, save for her soft cries and sniffles and whimpers that break his heart, and all he can do is whisper meaningless shit into her hair and run his hands along her back until her breathing starts to even out.

 “I’m sorry,” she says after a while, once his shirt is wet and she’s out of tears.

 Stunned, he places his hands gently on her shoulders and moves her away so that he can stare into her red, puffy eyes, and he can’t help but to brush his thumbs beneath them before he says, “What the hell for?” 

 Her frown is so deep that he has to mimic it. “I don’t know, everything? Letting you see that, ruining your shirt, ignoring you for the last week…” 

 “This old thing?” he asks with a smile, pulling at the collar of his Hellfire shirt and letting it spring pathetically back to his chest, the fabric worn and stretched. “Don’t worry about it; I can make more. All I need is the blood of an infant, the brain of a goat, the heart of my enemy–”

 “Shut up,” she laughs, the sound sending actual fucking butterflies through his stomach. What the hell, Chrissy Cunningham? “You know what I mean.” 

 “I’ve missed you,” he says softly, palm laying gently across her flushed cheek, thumb catching the last of her tears. “And I’ve missed the high version of you, too.” 

 “Me too.”

 “What do you say? Wanna get outta here? Screw this place and everyone in it?”

 Her smile is soft but sad, exactly what he never wants to see again as his heart starts cracking. “I can’t miss class,” she argues weakly even though she’s already missed more than half of it.

 “I hate to break it to you, but you already basically have. And there’s only one period left. Come on, have you ever played hookie?”

 “No,” she says, her smile brightening. “You’re a terrible influence.” 

 “That’s what they call me,” he shrugs casually, pushing himself into a standing position and then offering her his hand and helping her up. “That, and murderer, satanist, freak…” 

 “You’re none of those things,” she argues, as if he didn't already know. Well, aside from the freak thing. “Well… you’re not a murderer, right?” 

 “Right you are, Chrissy Cunningham.” 

 ~~~~

 She likes the way he smiles at her, the way his eyes light up and crinkle around the edges and his mouth gets all wide and lines get drawn into his face. She likes how it looks different from every other time she’s seen him smile, different from when he’s making fun of the basketball team in the cafeteria or talking to the freshmen about the campaign they’re working on. It’s different, and she can’t quite put her finger on how, but she notices it and she likes it. 

 She likes how he smiles at her as he leads her to the picnic table in the woods, walking just ahead of her and turning back occasionally as if making sure she’s still there, his smile beaming and blinding when his eyes meet hers. 

 He’s happy and cheerful and carefree, exactly the opposite from what she’s always assumed he’d be whenever she watched him stand up on a lunch table and spout off passionate but barely comprehensible speeches. And still, she’s always kind of envied him even then, because at least he was getting up and saying what he felt. At least he was sticking up for what he believed in. 

 But that’s not what she likes best about Eddie Munson. Sure, his smile is intoxicating, and his passion is admirable, but what she likes best about Eddie Munson is that he’s predictable. 

 In the few times she’s hung out with him, and even before that when she was just watching him from afar, she’s always felt like she could tell exactly what he was thinking and exactly what he was going to say. She’s never been surprised by his words or his actions, even that one time he faked getting stabbed in the heart, because she always expects him to be silly and down to earth and just… sweet. He’s energetic, but somehow he’s also calm. He’s excitable, but he isn’t overwhelming. It’s refreshing. It’s… safe. 

 Safe. 

 She tries not to dwell on that thought. She finds that she can’t really keep thinking about it for fear of where the thoughts might take her. 

 “Alright, milady,” he says, bowing dramatically and casting out an arm to gesture for the wooden bench. She sits with a smile as she meets his gaze, and he smiles back and her stomach does a flip but it’s not because she wants to throw up. Then with his smile still carved into his cheeks, he walks around the table and sits just across from her, his hands landing gingerly on the wooden surface between them, and he cocks his head to the side. “So?” 

 “So?” 

 “So… you okay?” 

 She gives him an indignant look, or, as indignant as she can muster. “I told you, I’m fine.” 

 “No you didn’t… and, fine? Chrissy, you fought with your boyfriend and then puked in the bathroom and then cried into my shirt for 20 minutes. You’re telling me that’s your personal baseline for fine?” 

 Her face falls, her shoulders, too, along with her facade of perfect head cheerleader, basketball star’s girlfriend, Queen of Hawkins High. It cracks all at once until it shatters and she realizes that’s not what she wants at all. She doesn’t want to be head cheerleader even though she loves cheering. She doesn’t want to be the basketball star’s girlfriend. She doesn’t want to be Queen of Hawkins High. 

 She doesn’t want to be perfect Chrissy Cunningham anymore, dammit. 

 She stands and he watches her, his eyes big and wide and curious, cautious maybe, watching her every move as if he thinks she might crack open, although he doesn’t do anything to stop her from grabbing his backpack. He lets her drop it onto the table, open it up, and pull out his metal lunch box. Then, he lets her crack that open, too, and take a peek inside as if she has any clue what she’s looking at. So she looks down at him and smiles just a bit, putting his backpack back on the ground and then going for her own to pull out her wallet. 

 But he reaches across the table as she moves to pull out a few bills. “Stop it,” he insists with a straight face. He pulls out a small bag and some white paper, shaking his head quietly as he pushes the lunchbox away. “You’re not paying me.” 

 “Why?” 

 His eyes meet hers again, deep chocolate brown with flecks of gold that catch the sun, and he smiles again and something in her melts. “Just let me be here for you, Cunningham. God dammit.” 

 He breaks the green buds into small pieces, lining them up along the white paper meticulously, his concentration as he stares down at his task making a line appear between his brows. She wants to reach across the table and brush over it with her thumb, but that would be inappropriate, she thinks. 

 Once he’s rolled the paper around the weed, he lifts it to his mouth, running his tongue along the loose edge of the page, and she can’t help but to stare. And he must feel her staring because he looks up at her as he’s finishing up, his tongue flicking back into his mouth before he smirks and winks at her, and gosh, she’s blushing. 

 “There we are, Cunningham,” he says softly, his voice deep and quiet, almost hard to pick up over the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves just above them. It’s so quiet here, save for the breeze and the sounds of the woods; she could probably stay out here forever without missing a thing. “Ever had a joint this fresh before?” 

 She giggles slightly and his face changes, softening around his eyes. “I think you know the answer to that question.” 

 “True! Well, get ready to have your world rocked.” 

 For whatever reason, she finds herself more than ready. She happily takes the joint between her lips, leaning forward and watching as he flicks the lighter to life on his jeans again, giving him a smirk as she leans towards the flame. She does much better this time, taking a deep but careful breath and letting the smoke fill her lungs, holding it for as long as she can before she exhales and passes the joint to him, coughing just slightly. And while he takes the joint from her, the tips of his fingers lightly grazing her knuckles as he does, the look he gives her is almost unreadable. 

 “What?” she asks, her voice still a bit hoarse. 

 “Nothing,” he replies, placing it between his lips and lighting it again, taking a long drag before he passes it back. “I’m proud of you.” 

 She scrunches her face in confusion, laughing lightly as she takes another puff. “Why?” 

 “I saw you, Chrissy,” he says, and the way he stares into her eyes, the way he doesn’t shy away from being so genuine with her, it makes her take the joint back to her lips and take another hit. “I saw you with Jason; I saw you fight back.”

 Maybe it’s already starting to kick in, because she’s bold as she hands the joint over and tells him, “Yeah, and then you saw me puke my guts out and cry for 20 minutes.” 

 “And you’re fighting that, too.”

 She’s silent after that. 

 It’s stupid of her to hope he hasn’t noticed. Of course he has; he’s noticed everything about her that no one else has. Her own boyfriend has never even talked about it. She knows he knows something isn’t right, but he’s never brought it up. 

 So instead of admitting that that’s the reason she passed out on his living room floor, or that that’s the reason she made herself vomit, she just takes the joint back and asks, “Do you have any snacks?” 

 ~~~~

 He probably shouldn’t have said anything. He tends to say whatever the fuck is on his mind at any given second, and he really is trying to work on it. His mother used to say that he lives in his own little world. He guesses he gets what she meant by that, now, at least, realizing that he was so in his own little world that he just blurted out that he was proud of Chrissy Cunningham. 

 And then he brought it a step further by telling her that he’s proud of her for fighting. For fighting her shit boyfriend, for fighting whatever the hell is going on in her head that makes her never eat and throw up whenever she can, so frequently that she carries a toothbrush wherever she goes. Fuck, he should have just kelp his fucking mouth shut. 

 Because she asked him if he had more snacks. And he’s so damn proud of her for asking but he doesn’t have anything in his backpack. But he’s so proud, so he offers to take her back to his place to get a snack. 

 And she accepts. 

 And she’s so damn cute, perching herself on the shitty lumpy couch, her knees together and ankles spread apart, her hands pressed between her thighs, her smile soft and wide and perfect. “Do you have it?” she asks, and it’s reminiscent of that first night she was here, the last time, when she collapsed on this very carpet. But she’s here again, and she’s smiling, and she’s okay. And he’s proud again. 

 “Of course,” he calls back from the messy kitchen as he finally grabs the box he was looking for. “Right here, sweetheart.” Pressing his luck, he asks, “Wanna give me a hand?”

 “I don’t know,” she says, her voice sounding closer as she nears him and then leans back against the counter right near the sink. “I don’t know how to make it.”

 “What?!” he gapes dramatically, whipping the pot out from the sink and reaching for the box again and tapping on the instructions printed on the side. “Preposterous. Your guide is right here, fair lady.”

 She laughs, really laughs, and jumps lithely onto the counter before taking the box from him and turning it over. “Step one,” she announces, her voice just as dramatic as his, “boil one point five quarts of water. How much is a quart?” 

 He shrugs, holding the pot beneath the faucet and filling it. “Doesn’t matter much, I’m sure. We can ignore this one rule.”

 She giggles again as he puts the pot on the stove and pours salt into it before putting the lid on. She looks back down at the box, still giggling and making his heart hammer in his chest, and then he watches her start to turn it in her nervous fingers. “Wait,” he insists, putting his hand over the box and meeting her eyes with his. “It’s… it’s okay. I mean– I’m sorry. If you want to look, be my guest, I don’t mean to– just…”

 Her eyes are deep as they stare at him, her gaze sad for a moment, but she doesn’t look down and she lets him take the box, nutrition facts and all, and he wonders if she’d do that if she was sober. Then, he wonders if she’s even all that high anymore. “Is your band playing sometime?” she asks him softly. 

 “Sometime?” he answers theatrically, shifting back into his Dungeon Master persona if only so that he can keep her smiling. “Every Tuesday night, baby! Nine pm, on the dot. The Hideout is lucky to have us.”

 “I’m sure,” she laughs. 

 He won’t get tired of hearing her laugh. 

 She diligently stirs the noodles once he pours them in, and he tells her that she can have the extreme honor of testing them when she thinks they’re ready. And then he pours them into the colander in the sink and makes a display like he’s having a steam bath and she laughs, standing beside him and telling him that she could use a good steam for her pores. 

 She lets him make the mac and cheese following the box instructions, with all the butter and milk and without looking at the calories, even though he can see her fingers shaking anxiously. And then when it’s finally done, she makes to jump off of the counter, but he stops her. 

 “It tastes better like this,” he explains, scooping a mouthful onto the spoon he used to stir the cheese in and carefully hovering it towards her mouth. “Straight from the pot.” 

 She grinning as she tries to blow on the orange blob of deliciousness, and it’s so adorable that he has to grin, too. And then she nervously meets his eyes, her grin falling as she blows on it once more, then wraps her perfect lips around the spoon. 

 She’s still at first, and then her brows pinch together slightly and her eyes roll back, her shoulders slouch and she moans and he almost dies right in front of her. “Holy crap,” she says around her bite of noodles. “That’s good.”

 “Told you,” he smirks, taking the spoon from her mouth and then getting a bite for himself. 

 “Hey! You’re double dipping!”

 “I told you, it tastes better when you eat it like trailer trash. You gotta trust me, Chrissy Cunningham.” 

 Her eyes are sparkling in the shitty lighting of his kitchen, brightening the whole damn place somehow. “I do trust you,” she says softly. “A lot.” 

 Of course his first thought is that what she’s saying has a deeper meaning to it. It probably doesn’t, and he’s probably projecting his fantastical wishes onto her, but he smiles either way and takes another bite, leaning against the counter to face her and smirking. “You want another bite?” 

 Of course, he also doesn’t tell her that the main reason he’s eating it out of the pot is so that she can’t tell how much or how little she’s eaten. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty either way about what she’s eaten because it seems like she already does on pretty much every other occasion. Except for, maybe, that day a week ago when she ate a whole bag of Cheetos and then took some of his Pringles. 

 “Yeah,” she says, then she clears her throat. “Um, didn’t you say your uncle works nights?” 

 “Oh, yeah,” he nods, passing the spoon to her, half expecting her to take it in her hand although instead she just smiles and playfully opens her mouth, leaning towards it and shutting her eyes when he pops it between her lips. And yeah, he wants to die again, because when did eating mac and cheese become so hot? “Sometimes he picks up a few hours, though. He’s not here.” 

 “Oh,” she nods. “Okay.” 

 “Why do you… uh– why do you ask?” All of a sudden, he’s nervous. Not that he wasn’t before, but there’s gotta be a reason behind her question, right? 

 She just shrugs. “Just curious, I guess. I wasn’t sure if you usually bring girls home when he’s around.” 

 With a laugh and another bite, he doesn’t think before saying, “I don’t usually bring girls home, period.” 

 She smiles at that, at his mortifying and accidental confession, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth in a way that makes him want to bite it, too. “Not usually?”

 “Well,” he starts, probably failing at sounding flirty, probably sounding more like a creep than anything, “last time, it was you, and before that… uh, yeah, that’s about it.” 

 And she laughs again, and he scoops up more macaroni and she opens her mouth happily, humming around the bite he gives her. And then a few minutes go by, and she has another bite that surprises him, and then she speaks again. “I’m breaking up with him.” 

 “Huh?”

 “Jason,” she clarifies softly. “I’m breaking up with him.” 

 Mind blank. No thoughts. 

 “Uh…” 

 “Eddie? Are you okay?” 

 He swallows, gulps, maybe, and then shakes his head to bring himself back to reality. Because why the hell would she tell him that so specifically? After asking him if Wayne was home? 

 “Yeah,” he answers after too much time has passed. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I– yeah, I'm good. You…?” 

 “Yeah,” she laughs. “I’m great, actually. Ever since I decided.” 

 His mouth has never been this dry. He coughs, actually. His heart isn’t even in his chest anymore, he doesn’t think. “You… since you decided…?” 

 “To break up with him,” she clarifies, holding out her hand towards the pot he still holds against his stomach and smiling at him with expectantly raised brows. 

 He has to shake his head again to right himself, like an idiot, before he gives her another scoop. “What made you… decide?” 

 With a shrug as she chews, a thoughtful hum before she swallows and the cords of her neck make him want to bite her, she answers casually, “I was kind of just gonna let it fizzle out. You know, after graduation.” 

 “Right,” he answers, staring at her with his jaw hung open. She laughs then, taking the pot from him and grabbing the spoon, scooping a mouthful onto it and then feeding it into his open mouth. His eyes go wide, and god dammit Chrissy Cunningham, how did she make that hot?!

 “It’s never been, well, fireworks between us, you know?” 

 “Uh huh,” he says, chewing obnoxiously before she passes another spoonful to him, and he takes it because he’ll never say no to her. 

 “But then I kind of realized… I can do way better.” 

 “You can?” She cocks her head. “I mean, of course you can.” 

 “Right,” she smiles. Then, she watches him finish chewing, watches him swallow his macaroni, and puts the pot down on the counter, checking the bottom to make sure it isn’t hot anymore. And then her hands are on either side of his neck, her thumbs on his jaw right below his ears, and it sends a shiver down his spine and right to, well… “He never really cared for me that much, you know? I mean, he did, in his own way. But it’s never really been what I need out of a relationship.” 

 “Right,” he says again, like an idiot. 

 “I realized I need someone who respects me, and cares about me, for me, you know?” He nods, her thumbs rubbing along his jaw. “Someone sweet, and kind, and funny, and sexy… you know?” 

 Basically inaudibly, he says, “Yeah.” 

 “Eddie,” she whispers, and he hasn’t even realized that her hands have been pulling him closer, and that he now stands against the counter she’s sitting on, her knees spread wide and his hips between them, her face mere inches from his. “You do know I’m talking about you, right?” 

 He’s silent again, mostly because his brain is silent again, giving him absolutely nothing in response to her admission, leaving him unable to say a damn thing other than, “Fuck.”

 And she laughs, and she shakes her head, and she pulls him just a tiny bit closer so that her nose is touching his, and, god dammit, it’s the cutest thing ever. “Eddie?” 

 “Chrissy,” he says almost silently, and he finally gets his head on straight enough to put his hands on her hips, realizing that they can’t get any closer without… well. “Chrissy, I…” 

 “Do you, like… I mean–” 

 He’s too stunned and idiotic to say anything. All he can do is pull her the last tiny bit closer and close her lips against his in a searing kiss. 

 And her fingers are long and deft as they card their way into his hair, tugging lightly and pulling him closer, her lips parting and her tongue poking out exploratively. He lets his hands slide up from her waist to her ribs, one of them high enough for his thumb to graze against the bottom of her breast atop her shirt, and her moan is the thing that’ll probably send him right over the edge. “Chrissy,” he breathes into her mouth, and she pulls him closer, her thighs tightening around his hips. 

 “Please,” she moans into the kiss, her lips pliant and needy and her hips jutting forward.

 He doesn’t even know what she’s asking for. He does know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to her. 

 He thinks about saying something, but he honestly can’t. His lips are as busy as his tongue is as he kisses her desperately. He feels her ankles lock behind him, keeping him close and her heels pressing against his ass in a way that makes him step impossibly closer, and then he doesn’t think before he lets his hands slide back down the length of her waist and push beneath her skirt. He feels the warm skin of the backs of her thighs beneath the fabric, his fingers brushing against the tiny shorts under her cheer uniform, and he hoists her up, pulling her off the counter and steadying her weight against his chest. Her arms lock around his neck, her ankles still gripping him, and he walks blindly out of the kitchen and into the living area, dropping her onto the couch. 

 She’s breathless as she looks up at him, her legs weakly separated and her arms falling to her sides as she processes the loss of contact. She’s lying the long way, her back against the seat and her hair spread wildly beneath her. He looks down at her with hunger in his eyes, biting his lip, and she lifts her arms again, reaching for him in an invitation that he has to accept. He crawls onto the couch with her, his knees between hers as his body falls over her’s. At first he worries about being too heavy, but her thighs keep him where his hips are pressed to hers and her arms pull him more heavily on top of herself as she kisses him again. 

 He wants to keep kissing her because she’s the best kisser he’s ever been with, but he also wants to taste every inch of her skin so he finds himself sliding down the length of her, his lips greedy as they taste her neck, his tongue desperate to feel the way her pulse beats beneath her skin. She lets out a soft cry when he sucks lightly on her collarbone, her fingers tight and encouraging in his hair. “Eddie,” she breathes into the too-warm air of his living room, and he stops in his tracks. 

 “Are you okay?” 

 “Yeah,” she pants with a soft smile. “I just… Are you?” 

 “Uh,” he starts, trying hard to collect himself enough to answer clearly. “Pretty damn okay, Cunningham,” he laughs. “Never better, actually.” 

 “Okay,” she nods. “You’re not, I mean– This isn’t–” 

 “Hey,” he tries, pressing onto his elbows and scooting up so that they're face to face again. He smiles when he catches her eyes and brushes her bangs away from them. “It’s okay. We aren’t gonna do anything you aren’t 100 percent okay with, I promise.” 

 She nods, shifting so that she’s lying on her side and facing him. “I know that,” she says softly. “I trust you. I just… I don’t know if you’re okay with…” 

 “What is it?” he asks, trying to be soft and gentle and soothing. 

 “I mean, I'm kind of, like… a– a virgin.” She whispers the word to him, like it’s some kind of evil curse that she’s been told to never utter, and it kind of makes him sad. Why would her virginity be anything to be embarrassed about?

 “Okay,” he tells her with a smile. He lets his hand run up and down along the length of her waist before lifting it to cradle her cheek. “That’s okay. Like I said, whatever you’re comfortable with. There’s no pressure, Sweetheart.”

 “You’re not, I mean, that’s not weird?” 

 “Honestly,” he laughs, “I think it’d be more weird if you told me you’re a seasoned pro. Virgin princess Chrissy kind of fits the bill.” 

 “Are you calling me a prude?” she asks in false horror, hand to her chest like she’s clutching her pearls. “I know how to… you know. All that stuff– that’s not a problem–”

 “So when you says you’re kind of a virgin–” 

 “Well, yeah, I’ve done stuff for– for Jason–” 

 “Blegh,” he says, shaking his head and sticking out his tongue as he makes a face of disgust. “That’s okay, I don't need the dirty details.”

 “Sorry,” she giggles.

 “Just… whatever you want, Chrissy. We can go at your pace; there’s no pressure. Promise. I’ll do as much or as little as you want. As long as you’re happy and you feel good.” 

 “Okay,” she whispers with a sweet smile, and he blushes when her own fingers minick his and brush his bangs away from his eyes. “But isn’t it more… well, never mind.”

 “More what?” he whispers back. 

 “Well, it’s for you, right?” 

 That better be a joke…

 Jason Carver better not have gotten it into this poor girl’s head that the only reason to have sex, or to do anything remotely sexual, is to pleasure the guy. 

 He tries to ignore the very pleased little part of him that realizes that Jason Carver has no idea how to pleasure a woman. 

 “For me?” he asks, desperate for some clarification and hopeful that he’s wrong. 

 “Like, for when you… to get you to… you know.” 

 “You know you should be… doing that… too. Right?” 

 “Oh, no,” she says, looking confused and adorable as she stares at him, and he feels horrible. “Maybe I could have, if we had ever… had sex,” she whispers. “But that’s more of… I mean, it’s not every time.”

 “Chrissy,” he begs, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against hers as he shakes his head. “No, baby. It should be every damn time. Multiple times. I mean, like, you should be brain dead afterwards.” 

 “Brain dead?” Alright, sure, maybe that was a dumb choice of words, but she’s giggling again, so he laughs, too.

 “I said what I said, Cunningham.”

 “Well,” she starts, her eyes casting down and staring at the collar of his t-shirt, her fingers playing nervously with the stretched out fabric. “I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.” 

 Well, fuck. 

 “Is that so?” he asks breathlessly. Her face is so close to his that he can’t possibly breathe, never mind the fact that she’s just lying here, asking him to… fuck. 

 “I mean,” she starts shyly, “if you’re so sure that I should be–”

 He cuts her off with his lips again, hoping to at least give her some kind of preview before he shows her what she’s been missing.

 ~~~~

 His lips are soft. They’re swollen, and plump, and they fit perfectly against hers. Jason’s have always been just fine, just like how kissing him has always been just fine. But Eddie? Kissing Eddie is like nothing she could have ever imagined. 

 She’ll never recover from this, actually. She’ll never be able to go on with her life knowing how he makes her feel unless he’s here, making her feel it every day for the rest of her life. His hands are perfect as they slide up and down along her covered body, slow but not shy as they explore each curve they find. And she finds that she isn’t even all that worried about him touching her. In fact, she wants him to touch her, and she isn’t even all that insecure about it. 

 His fingers tickle her waist as his tongue laps against hers, his elbows holding him up just enough so that he doesn’t crush her, and she’s buzzing beneath him. She’s so hot that she thinks she might start boiling, but the last thing she wants is to push him off of her. With Jason, she’d get hot and uncomfortable and need him to back away, but not now. 

 She doesn’t mean to whine, but she can’t hold it in as his mouth drags lower and lower. He sucks on her collarbone again and it sends a zip of need down her spine and into the very pits of her stomach. He groans against her in response to the sound that escapes her throat and she feels the pressure of his hips pressing into the couch between her thighs. 

 “Chrissy,” he says against her skin, his lips trailing down and pushing her shirt out of the way so that he can suck lightly against the top of her breast. 

 The way he says her name is so intoxicating; it makes her feel powerful and sexy and incredible in a way that the sound of her own name has never made her feel before. She makes a sound of acknowledgement, a soft whimper as she tugs his hair. “Yeah?” she breathes. 

 “Have you ever had an orgasm before?” 

 The words are taboo. She’s not supposed to be hearing these things just like she isn’t supposed to be feeling these things, and the totally forbidden nature of the entire situation she’s found herself in doesn’t make her uneasy like she may have assumed. Instead, she finds herself wriggling her hips beneath his waist in needy circles, like her body is in complete control and her mind and any logical thoughts are taking a back seat. 

 “No,” she whispers breathlessly, although her voice is unsure, and he groans again as he bites into her flesh and then licks the tender skin, lighting a fire there that she never wants to put out. “I don’t know,” she admits more truthfully. 

 “You would know if you have, baby,” he croons. His fingers tickle against the skin just beneath the hem of her shirt, and she surprises herself when she moans again. “And you’ll know when you do.” 

 “I will?” 

 He leans up, meeting her eyes and giving her the most salacious smile she’s ever seen. “Oh yeah,” he promises as he plays with her hem, lifting it higher and higher. “Can I?” he asks, fingers tickling her too-sensitive skin again. 

 She nods, sitting up quickly and letting him tug her top over her head, leaving her exposed in just her plain, boring old bra, but she doesn’t feel nervous. She’s surprised to know that she doesn’t feel insecure with him looking at her, his tongue tracing his bottom lip with desire, like she has with Jason. He bites his lip as he meets her gaze, his hands finding her skin and his thumbs running along the top edge of her bra. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking perfect.” 

 She wants to argue with him. She’s in an awkward position sitting on the lumpy couch and trying to keep herself upright, and it makes the extra skin on her stomach roll together in a way that’s always made her feel ugly. But then he leans forward with his big, calloused hands holding her and he kisses her in a way that makes her feel unlike she ever has. As she sits here before him, even though she recognizes her own insecurities, he makes her feel… precious. Like she’s the best thing he’s ever laid eyes and hands on. 

 He lies her back again and his mouth is quick to work down to her bra as his fingers deftly make their way beneath her and start fiddling with the hooks she lies on. She giggles softly as he struggles, cursing against her skin until he has to sit up again to get a better angle. When he finally gets her bra undone, he grins at her, clearly pleased with himself, but his face falls flat in shock when the straps fall down to her elbows, her breasts set free and his jaw dropping. 

 “Chrissy Cunningham,” he murmurs before looking back up at her eyes and smiling softly at her. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” 

 “You’re very talkative,” she points out softly, smiling up at him as she fights the urge to argue with him. 

 “I can’t help it. I can’t shut up about how stunning you are. You’ve ruined me.” 

 She giggles again, rolling her eyes and shaking her head up at him. “You’re crazy.” 

 “For you,” he argues without thought or hesitation, and her blush blooms from her cheeks down her neck and across her chest. “Fuck.” He leans down and kisses her neck, then whispers in her ear. “Can I touch you?” 

 “You already are,” she points out, her fingers reaching for his hair again without her permission. She may have been bold before, but it was more of a show than she really realized, and the way he talks to her now, so dirty, makes her unsure of how to reply, so she falls back on logic again. 

 “I know, but I wanted to make sure you’re okay with me putting my hands and my mouth on your perfect tits before I lose my mind.” 

 “Your mouth?” she asks, suddenly letting her eyes open wide and her hand drops to the couch again. 

 He sits up slowly, looking at her as if trying to decide whether she’s kidding, and then he shakes his head. “Baby,” he starts, and her heart races faster and the pit of her stomach tingles when he calls her that again. “He’s never put his mouth on you, huh?” 

 She shakes her head, screwing up her face in confused disgust. “No, never. Why would he?” 

 “Because it would make you feel good,” he offers, as if it should be obvious. “And because it’s the absolute best place to be in the entire world.”

 “The best place? With your mouth on my… breasts?” she asks in a whisper, making him smile. 

 “Yeah, among other places.” He moves one hand up to her cheek tenderly before letting it slide down her neck, softly squeezing her left breast and running his thumb over her nipple in a way that makes her gasp. “Like right here,” he offers in a breathy whisper. Then he slips his hand down her waist and plays along the hem of her skirt before sliding lower, gripping her leg and then sliding to her inner thigh. “And here,” he continues before slipping his fingers up higher and higher until they’re pressed lightly against her underwear, and she jumps at the contact. “And here.” 

 “There?” 

 “Yeah,” he whispers into her ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. His fingers gently push the fabric of her panties to the side and slip along her sensitive skin, making her feel odd in the best way possible as the area seems to dampen strangely. “And here, baby.” 

 “Right there?” she asks again, more weakly this time. 

 “Oh yeah,” he hums. “This is the best place for my mouth to be.” 

 “Y-you don’t think that’s, like, kind of gross?” she asks, recalling the way that Jason almost never even attempted to put his fingers there, never mind his mouth. 

 But Eddie shakes his head against her neck, moving his fingers along her skin a bit more in a way that feels so good before he pulls them away from her and lifts them to his lips, wrapping his tongue around his damp fingers and sighing contentedly. “Definitely not gross,” he promises. “Fucking devine.” 

 “Oh,” she breathes, sort of getting the picture but still unsure. “That's… different.” 

 “Well, hopefully it doesn’t stay that way,” he offers playfully. “Can I show you what you’ve been missing, baby? Can I show you how good I can make you feel?” 

 And, really, who is she to refuse such a promise? If he’s so confident that this is something that she should have been experiencing all along, and that it’ll make her feel as good as he says, she really shouldn’t be turning that down, right? Plus, she’s horribly curious. So she nods, and she looks into his eyes desperately, and she finds that she needs him to touch her like that again because wow, that felt incredible. So she practically begs, “Please, Eddie. Show me.” 

 He’s basically growling as he kisses her again, dirty and needy against her in a way that makes her feel just as dirty and needy. Once he breaks away, his lips reach her breast this time and close around her nipple in a way that makes her whimper as he sucks at it and runs his tongue over it. And then he’s kissing her stomach, the part of her that she hates, although she doesn’t hate it so much as he presses his mouth against it. And then his lips are just below her navel as his fingers pull down her skirt and her underwear, and then he moves lower, and then lower, and then she practically screams when his tongue traces along her skin, the sensation new and startling and intoxicating. 

 He hums over her skin when he presses a kiss where she’s most sensitive, her hips bucking up against his face in a way that makes him groan. Immediately, she tries to control herself, pulling away, although he retaliates by wrapping his arms around her thighs and holding her close to him. “No,” he says up at her, shaking his head and making his hair tickle her inner thighs. “I want you to do that, baby. I want you to fuck my face.” 

 Her eyes widen as his words completely scandalize her, her chest rising and falling quickly in shock and in desire, and he smirks up at her. He bends her knees so that her legs are spread before him, and he has complete access to an area that she never thought anyone would touch with their hands. But then he’s smirking and keeping his eyes on hers and dragging his tongue up along her intimacy before drawing circles over that nerve that makes her buck her hips again. 

 “That’s it,” he encourages. “Take what you need from me, baby. I want you to take everything you need.” 

 He doesn’t just kiss her there this time, he wraps his lips completely around her, he sucks on that spot and he flicks his tongue over it and she can’t help but to grab onto his hair tightly and arch her back against him. And then his tongue drags down lower and he does something she could have never seen coming, his tongue slipping in and out of her before returning to that other special spot. She lets out a mewling cry and she almost wishes she could bring him back up to her and kiss him, but the way his mouth is working against her makes her push his head down against her a bit more firmly. He groans against her and he lets out a soft little cry as his lips buzz. 

 He moves his right hand, the left one pressed to her belly above her head and keeping her relatively still, but still allowing her the freedom to grind her hips into him. One of his fingers swirls around her like his tongue does, touching her softly and gently as he seems to explore her before he does something new. His finger touches where his tongue had before, and then he very slowly and tenderly slips it inside her, just a little bit, before sliding back out and tracing patterns against her again. His mouth is hot on her still, but he pulls away very slightly to ask, “Are you okay?” 

 She throws her head back against the couch cushion beneath her, letting out a breathless sigh, and she nods. “I’m– f-fucking good.” 

 He bites her inner thigh and she jumps with a giggle, Eddie laughing as he kisses her again. “Chrissy Cunningham,” he scolds playfully, his finger moving while his mouth is busy and carefully testing her again. “You have a dirty mouth.”

 She wants to retort with a quip like, so do you, but all she can do is moan again when his lips return to her wet skin and his finger plunges into her a bit deeper this time. He pulls out, then in again, and this time, she thinks he crooks his finger just a tiny bit and it makes her hips jump against his mouth again. “Eddie,” she whimpers when he does it again, his finger hitting her in a spot she had no idea existed until this moment. 

 He hums against her as he continues his movements. “Is that good?” She nods as he sucks against her and then cries out again. He lifts his head to look at her and asks again, “You’re okay?” 

 “Yes,” she moans. “More.” 

 “You want more?” he asks teasingly, and she nods again. “Use your words, baby,” he encourages, kissing her thigh where he’d bit it earlier. 

 “Eddie,” she whines. “I want more. I want– I want–” 

 She doesn’t know what she wants. She doesn’t even know what he’s doing, really. All she knows is that she’s going to explode if he doesn’t keep doing it. “Alright, Sweetheart,” he soothes, his finger moving again, a bit more quickly. “You want to come, don’t you? Is that what you want?” 

 “Yes,” she breathes even though she has no idea if that’s actually true. But then she feels him pull his finger away and she lifts her head to complain, and he smirks at her like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Eddie,” she tries, and then two of his fingers start drawing little patterns over her this time, and she guesses she’ll let him do… whatever it is he’s going to do. 

 “Is that okay? Let me hear you.” 

 “Yes,” she begs. His fingers slide down the length of her and his lips return to that spot that she really likes, and she cries out again when he carefully eases both fingers into her. It’s mind numbing, and she thinks back to when he said she should be brain dead, and she wonders if this is what he was referring to. 

 But then his mouth starts moving a bit faster, a bit more desperately, and his fingers move in and out as they hit that perfect spot again and again, and her vision starts fading, black and white specks coloring the ceiling of his living room. Her legs are shaking around him, clenching tightly around his head as her hands grip his hair, and she feels like she’s going to fall apart, the feeling so intense that she can’t even care about how forcefully she’s gripping him. And then, finally, his fingers keep moving just right along with his mouth that she lets out a scream, every part of her tight as she loses complete control of herself, her body moving in ways it never has, her mind going blank, her vision going spotty. 

 He doesn’t stop, even as her body flinches and twitches against him, even though her grip on his hair is probably painful, even though she’s worried he’s crushed her skull between her thighs. He just keeps going, dragging every bit of pleasure out of her that she’s ever even had the potential to feel. He keeps licking and kissing and thrusting until she’s shaky and whimpering and it’s almost too much sensation, no matter how good it feels. 

 She can barely catch her breath, and she thinks her eyes are open but she still can’t really see that well. She feels him pulling away and half of her is grateful and the other half wishes he would stay and do this all over again. But as he pulls away, he’s kissing her thighs softly and leaving little wet marks on her skin and it makes her smile. 

 Brain dead was a good description, because she doesn’t even notice that he’s gotten up until he returns with a box of tissues, delicately wiping her skin and peppering soft kisses to her collarbones and up her neck and to her cheeks as she breathes heavily through her mouth. 

 As she starts to come back to earth, floating back into her body despite wanting to stay in that place of unadulterated bliss, she notices a few things, like how she’s lying in a wet spot on the couch that makes her feel mortified, and like how she’s completely undressed while he still wears all of his clothes. She doesn’t want to let the insecurities start flooding back, but she can’t really help it. 

 She takes in a deep breath, feeling the weight of his arm across her hips as he lies beside her and kisses her cheek again. “You still with me, Cunningham?”

 She smiles softly and lets out a breathy little laugh despite feeling a bit unsure of herself, and then she turns her head to face him and nods. “Kinda,” she answers, earning a laugh from him. 

 “I told you, brain dead.” 

 “You were right.” 

 It’s hard to collect her thoughts, but she thinks about what he’s just done for her, how he’s just made her feel, and she realizes that it’s probably expected that she return the favor. So she rolls onto her side and moves her hands down to his belt, but he stops her. 

 “It’s okay,” he whispers, shaking his head and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose. “This was about you, remember, and I, uh, didn’t really need any help anyway.” 

 “Oh,” she says, looking down and noticing the dampness of his jeans, and she nods with a soft smile. “Sorry.”

 “Are you kidding? If you ever apologize for anything like that again, Cunningham, so help me. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.” 

 “Really?” she whispers, and his hands wrap around her waist and pull her close as he nods, kissing the top of her head. “It wasn’t… weird or gross or anything?”

 “Like I told you,” he starts, “best thing ever. I never wanna be anywhere else but with my head between your thighs.” 

 She nods and chuckles, moving closer to him to snuggle up against his soft shirt, finding herself unbothered by the dampness between them but reminded of the spot beneath her. “Well, sorry about the couch.”

 “Fuck the couch. Seriously.” He shakes his head in disbelief, letting out a sigh. “Best fucking day of my life.” 

 She finds that she loves lying here with him, letting him hold her against him, and she knows that his uncle won’t be home for a long time, but still, it feels odd being completely naked in his living room even though she’s pressed between him and the back of the couch. But she doesn’t even have to say anything, because it’s like he’s reading her mind as he stretches over and grabs a blanket that lies across the back of the couch above her, lifting it like a parachute and letting it drape over the two of them so that she’s covered and warm and comfortable.

 As much as she’s noticed the differences between him and Jason over the past few weeks, especially over the past few hours, it’s like he just keeps proving himself. Everything he does is the opposite of what she’s been getting from Jason. Everything he does is with consideration of her feelings, of her desires, of her needs. And as she lies here with him, with her head tucked against his chest and his chin resting on her hair, she drifts off to sleep with the knowledge that he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her. 

~~~~

~~~~

[haeni]

Tiny like a baby

Asdfghjkl thanks

I have been about the same height since like 5th grade.. if only i was the same weight 😅

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 5461

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

8. Banana-Dulce Cheesecake

Bucky

It occurs to him to tell Steve about the kiss later that night, when Steve is three fingers deep in him and Bucky wants some leverage to make him get in him already. He’s told him four damn times already to move things along.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, making an effort to control his voice so that Steve doesn’t know just how well he’s getting at his prostate like this. “If you don’t listen to me and get your dick in me in the next fifteen seconds, I’m tying you up and riding the dildo while you watch.”

Steve’s rhythm falters and his eyes widen, because he knows his husband and he knows it’s no idle threat. Sexual denial is one of Bucky’s favorite cruelties. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay, okay.” His fingers leave a sad absence inside of Bucky, but he gets right to work in reaching for the lube bottle to slick himself up.

“Aht, forgetting something?” Bucky raises his eyebrow and watches Steve huff in exasperation as he stretches across the bed to reach for their beside drawer. Bucky takes the opportunity to smack his ass, enjoying the slight jiggle and the clenching muscle. “Good boy,” he purrs, as Steve comes back with a condom in hand. 

Even when he’s fucking Bucky, Steve isn’t allowed to come inside of him. Only Bucky gets the privilege of leaving a load up inside his husband's ass, a possessive reminder left behind to slide out, slow and filthy. He watches Steve roll the latex down his dick and then give himself a few indulgent pulls with the lube. He's red and throbbing, and Bucky can tell by the way he keeps sucking his bottom lip back into his mouth that he’s feeling very sensitive. “That feel good, Honey?”

“Nngh.”

“That’s enough. C’mere.” He hooks his heels in behind Steve’s ass to urge him forward. Steve drops his dick and climbs over him, settling into the spread of his legs and reaching down to line himself up. Bucky feels the wet drag of his cockhead over his hole.

Obedient boy, he thinks with a smirk. But it slips off his face when Steve starts to push in. He inhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes as he focuses on letting Steve in. “Ungh,” he grunts quietly, brow furrowed at the stretch.

“You okay?” Steve’s hovering, not pushing any further. Waiting for permission.

Bucky swallows and nods, because he is okay, but goddamn. Sometimes he forgets just how big his Stevie really is. (No better reminder than to have it shoved up his ass.) “Yeah,” he pants, sliding his hands up the backs of Steve’s arms and feeling up the tension in his triceps—he’s straining so beautifully, trying so very hard to hold still for him. It makes Bucky melt when he opens his eyes again and gets a look at the beautifully pinched expression on Steve’s face.

Oh, his golden boy.

“C’mere, you,” he husks, pulling him down by the jaw for a kiss. It forces Steve’s cock a little bit further into him, and he groans at the stretch. “Ff-uck, uhn, Ssteve.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

He shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth like it’s payback for the way he’s invading his body right now, the lewd, wet swipe of his tongue a counterpoint to Steve’s dick. Bucky just wants to get inside his man, any way he can. Steve makes a filthy, tortured noise when their tongues roll together, and Bucky relishes it. He growls and drives their mouths together again and again, making it sloppy, taking Steve’s breath away, tongue-fucking his mouth before he gets any real chance to start fucking him.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, the word wet on his lips as he holds himself still. He’s looking so pleadingly at Bucky, near-pained self restraint and begging eyes that make Bucky want to destroy him. “Please. I gotta. Gotta move.”

Bucky feels that ever-familiar dark thrill zip through him. “Yeah?” he asks, mock sympathy lacing his tone. He strokes Steve’s hair. “Is that what you want, big guy? You wanna bury that fat cock up in me? Wanna go to town?” Steve nods, of course he does, and Bucky forces one more harsh, unyielding kiss onto him before he pulls back and relents. “Okay Baby, push it in a little. Go slow. Make yourself feel good.”

Steve sags with relief, instantly sinking deeper into Bucky’s body. He goes slow like he’s been told, easing in each of the seven plus girthy inches he has to give, and since Bucky’s just put up with God knows how much time and lube and fingers softening him up for this, it doesn’t hurt.

It’s just so fucking much.

Steve waits once he’s settled all the way inside, because he knows he needs permission to start thrusting. Bucky strokes a tender thumb just under his eye, taking the time to soak up his expression, his pretty features when he’s feeling good like this. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, y’know that?”

Steve grins shakily and knocks their foreheads together. “That why you married me?”

“Mmm. Had to do somethin’. Couldn’t let somebody else get at you.” Bucky grinds up, feeling Steve’s hot length rub inside him, so big. “Oh, Honey.”

“Fuck,” Steve says tersely. “Fuck, Bucky please. Say I can. C’mon Baby.”

Bucky nods, and that’s all the permission Steve needs. He starts moving, thrusting into Bucky with short, deep rolls of his hips. Steve’s a goddamn savant when it comes to getting at Bucky’s sweet spot with his dick, and now’s no exception. Bucky hisses as sparks fly up his spine, his balls pressed deliciously by Steve’s pubic bone every time he rocks in deep. It’s so damn good. “S-sumthin happened today,” he says, stuttering over his words in a way he almost never does.

“Mm.” Steve starts necking at him, humming in acknowledgement. “What?”

“With Mary,” Bucky grunts. “I—nnh—I kissed her.”

Against his neck, Steve makes this tiny, appreciative sound that just about makes Bucky's blood boil. His hips jolt down in an uncontrolled thrust. “Yeah? She liked it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, a dirty thrill shooting through him at this: at talking about someone else while Steve fucks him. Talking about her. “Yeah she did. She felt so good, Stevie. Felt so nice in my arms.” 

Steve groans again. "Tell me."

“Wanted more, God, I wanted to squeeze her, y’know? Trap her. Right up between me and you.”

“Fuck, Bucky. Uhn.”

“Yeah.” They’re grinding filthily now, all firm and deep, skin slapping quietly, Bucky’s legs wrapped up around Steve’s waist to draw him in hard again and again. “I wanna do something about it,” he pants. “Want to have her.”

Steve moans and nods, his face pinking from the effort, from the thought of the three of them together. This, the idea of the two of them in a three-way relationship with a woman, used to be one of their biggest fantasies that they’d talk about. “Can we?” he asks, looking to Bucky for permission. Always to Bucky. It gets him hotter than anything, so in love with his man.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching down to grab handfuls of Steve’s flexing ass, urging him on. “Yeah we can. We’ll take her apart. Fuck her so good.”

“Oh, God. How?” Steve’s back to kissing on his neck while he grinds into him, dirty pants against sucked-wet skin going straight to Bucky’s dick. “Tell me.”

“Mm, I dunno. Maybe you can hold her, huh? Hold her open while I go down on her. Or maybe we’ll—ugh, shit—maybe we’ll both have her at the same time, yeah? You behind her and me in front, taking turns dipping our cocks in her ‘til she screams.” 

Steve groans, his hips slowing and his head sinking over Bucky’s shoulder—He’s close and doesn’t want to come.

Bucky bites sharply at his neck. “Did I say you could stop? Keep fucking me.”

Steve, trooper that he is, whimpers and gets back to it. Bucky grits his teeth, angling his hips into the thrusts just right so that his prostate is getting it good. “Aw, fuckyeah. Like that, Honey, juust like that. Shit. You’re gonna make Daddy cum, y’know that?”

Steve whines, his hips stuttering at the words. Bucky rarely calls himself “Daddy” when they’re together, it’s usually something he only utters when he’s domming a sub. But with Steve topping like this, Bucky needs the extra dominance. The growled words get to Steve too though, and he starts to come, shoving harder and uncoordinated. “Ohn ... shit,” he whimpers, the high pitched, desperate sound of it making Bucky’s cock pulse dangerously.

He growls and smashes their mouths together, shoves his flesh hand down between their bellies and grabs himself, starts stroking off hard and fast as he feels Steve’s jerky final thrusts. They finish seconds apart, with Steve still grinding his orgasm out as Bucky’s cock starts shooting up his belly and over his knuckles. “Uh, ughn, godyeah …”

They slump against each other with exhaustion once it’s done, panting against skin and reveling in the aftershocks. Steve eventually takes the initiative to pull out, getting rid of the condom and snuggling back up against Bucky’s side. Bucky hums and wraps his arm around him, pressing a kiss to the edge of his temple. “S’good,” he mumbles, letting Steve pull the blanket up to cover their legs, even though they haven’t even wiped off yet. It feels too good to move right now.

“So,” Steve says a few minutes later, his voice softened and lax from the afterglow. He’s got his head pillowed on Bucky’s chest, and Bucky begins to play idly with his hair. “The Mary thing.”

Bucky inhales deeply, his chest rising and falling underneath Steve’s cheek. “Yeah. The Mary thing.”

“What’s the plan?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time, picturing various scenarios in his sated brain. “Hell if I know.”

Bucky

Steve’s already back from his ass-o’clock morning jog and putzing around the kitchen by the time Bucky has finished dressing for work and emerges from the bedroom. He hears (and smells) the coffee pot percolating, and sighs gratefully as he walks into the kitchen to join him. “Mornin’ babe. Thanks. for getting that started.”

Steve gives him a cheerful peck on the lips as he passes to open one of the upper cabinets. “There’s a piece of cheesecake in the fridge for you,” he says. 

“Cheesecake?” Bucky’s slightly distracted by the shape of Steve’s muscular back through his tight Under Armour top as he stretches to reach his preferred to-go mug. “For breakfast?”

“I may have mentioned that it’s your favorite dessert of all time.” Steve shoots him a knowing smile when he turns back around. "Enjoy the view?"

"You know it," Bucky says, shameless. "I'll have to have a talk with her about making cheesecake. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and I have a problem."

Steve snickers and goes to grab the coffee pot and fill the mug. “At least take it to work with you for lunch. She’ll be bummed if you don’t.”

“Sure.” In the fridge, Bucky discovers a clear plastic clamshell box with a single slice of cheesecake inside. Previously unaware of any hunger, his stomach suddenly turns over in a growling vote of confidence for the cheesecake. “Damn,” he mutters, reaching in and pulling the clamshell out. “So that’s what the banana threats were for.”

“Yep.” Steve chuckles. “I already had a piece. And Buck:” He turns around and looks at him with theatrically wide eyes. “It’s really good.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.” Bucky checks the time on his phone, decides that he has enough time to sit down and eat it there before he leaves for work. He goes to grab a fork from the silverware drawer. Seated on the stool at the breakfast bar, his eyes slide shut as the first bite of dense, creamy goodness slides over his tongue. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” he moans. “Caramel.”

“I know, right?”

He opens his eyes again and gives Steve a withering look. “We’ve gotta set some boundaries for ourselves. Or she’ll have us rocking dad bods in no time.”

Mary’s laugh sounds from the hallway just before she appears, dressed in sneakers and workout clothes. “With the way you two work out? Yeah right.” She shoots a cheerful finger gun in Bucky’s direction. “And it’s dulce, not caramel.”

“Oh. Well I stand corrected, then.”

“Basically the same thing as American-style caramel.” She makes a face. “Which hardy counts at all. Just wait until I make you a real caramel. Where the sugar’s actually cooked dark enough to taste.” She nods with an adorable amount of conviction. “Your mouth’ll know the difference.”

“I’m sure it will,” Bucky drawls, looking her over with the same sort of appreciation that he’d just done with Steve. Mary wears leggings on a regular basis, which is always very enticing, but her gym leggings are even tighter, and it’s a total cocktease. Bucky waits until she has her back turned before he lets his gaze drop to her hips and ass. Jesus, help him. “You going to the gym?” he asks, knowing that it’s her day off.

“Yeah,” she huffs, going over to grab her jacket from the catchall. “I’ve gained so much weight since Halloween, it’s not even funny. Got about fifteen pounds to work off now. Blegch.”

Bucky actually puts his fork down, he’s so disturbed by the casual way that she throws it out.  “What?” he says, and Steve echoes him with a stifled noise in his throat that basically means the same thing. “Fifteen pounds?” He lets his eyes drag over her body, mouth agape. “Mary, wait.”

“What?” She’s shrugging her jacket on with a humorless laugh. “It’s true.”

“No it is fucking not,” Bucky snaps, and at hearing his tone, she stops laughing. “Mary,” he says sternly. “You do not need to lose any weight. And certainly not fifteen pounds. Jesus. That’s ludicrous.”

She turns around with an incredulous expression. “Seriously? I literally just heard you complaining about dad bods. Have you seen yourself? And you’re gonna talk to me about what’s ludicrous?”

Bucky frowns at how defensive she’s gotten and how fast. “Mare,” he says, trying to soften his tone. “You look great. Now I’m fine with you going to the gym if you want, but let’s not get out of hand, here.” Something about the tense determination in her features sets off alarm bells in his head. “You should wait to go to the gym with Steve when he goes in the afternoon,” he decides, making it an order. “You don’t need to be going by yourself.”

Her entire face screws up. “Excuse you,” she scowls. “I’m not a child. I can go to the freakin’ gym by myself.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I want you to wait.”

For a split second, he sees her expression smooth over at how calmly and firmly he’s said it—her own natural submissive reaction to a direct order from him. But that quickly bleeds back to astonished anger. “Sorry, Daddy, but I’m ready to go now. I already took my pre-sup and I’ll just waste it if I—”

“Pre-sup?” he hisses (forcing himself to ignore the ‘Daddy’ thing—holy shit). “What supplements are you taking?”

“None of your business!” She laughs meanly, and Bucky sees Steve shift out of the corner of his eye at how quickly this is devolving. “Jesus. I’m a grown woman, Bucky.”

“I know that, Mary,” he grits. “Now take your coat off and wait for Steve.”

“No.”

“Have you even had any breakfast?” he growls.

“I don’t like to eat before a workout,” she says, grabbing up her purse from the catchall. 

“Mary,” Steve pleads, looking worriedly at Bucky. “You should have something for fuel. C’mon, let me make you a piece of toast at least.”

She huffs, shouldering her purse and heading for the door. “You guys’ bread has like a hundred and thirty calories a slice. No thanks. I’m fine.” She unlocks the deadbolt and reaches for the doorknob.

Bucky lets loose his full Dom-voice when he warns, “Mary, don’t you open that door.”

Her shoulders visibly tense, as if she’s fighting off the full-body urge to obey him. “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she says, then pulls open the door and leaves.

Bucky stares, furious. “A couple of hours?!” The barstool’s legs scrape against the floor as he hastily pushes out from the counter, intending to go after her.

“Babe, wait. No.” Steve stops him with both hands on his shoulders. “That’s not a good idea.”

“She just willfully disobeyed me!” Bucky snarls. “I can’t let that go!”

Steve’s fingers curl over his shoulders in a squeeze and he ducks his head to fix him with a meaningful look. “Buck, hey, take a deep breath. You’re not handling this well.” 

The message is clear. This is the way Steve talks to him when he’s trying to calm him down from domspace—and not the good kind of domspace, either. Bucky jerks away from his hold, but Steve arches an eyebrow, and so Bucky takes a few deep inhales and exhales, glaring at his husband the whole time he’s doing it. “She can’t get away with behavior like that,” he reiterates once he’s done. He forces his tone to be more calm so that Steve can’t hold it against him. “That was out of line. She needs to be corrected.”

“I know,” Steve says, still looking at him cautiously. “But we don’t have a discipline plan in place, so what’re you gonna do? Go grab her in public and drag her back here kicking and screaming?” 

Bucky's jaw works in frustration. “No," he grits. "No, that won't work."

“Good. I'm glad you can see that.” Some of the tension releases from Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky instantly feels bad. Poor Steve. He’s already married to one erstwhile/sometimes mental case, and now he’s got another one on the extreme opposite end of the spectrum to deal with.

“Sorry,” Bucky says tightly, turning away in embarrassment. He can still feel the ticking of his pulse in his veins, and the desire to control pulled tight throughout all his muscles. “Sorry,” he says again, going back to sit at the breakfast bar.

“It’s okay, Babe.”

He scoots back in to the counter and grabs his fork, moodily spearing another bite of the cheesecake. His thoughts still linger on the showdown with Mary as he chews, and after he swallows he mutters, “The hell’s gotten into her?” Normally she’ll go soft as a stick of butter the second he starts talking sternly at her, but this time she’d seemed to actually harden against him the more he tried it. 

Steve comes over with the to-go mug, emptying a Splenda packet into it. “You think it has anything to do with you kissing her?” 

Bucky frowns, not having considered that. He shakes his head grumpily. “No. She’s been coming down every night. It doesn’t make any sense for her to be acting like this."

“Okay, but Babe … maybe we should try to get her in to see Linda this week. See if there’s something she needs that we’re not—”

“What she needs is a quick trip over my lap,” he growls, left hand flexing. “She’s bratting.”

“She does like to go to the gym,” Steve hedges, but he shuts up when Bucky shoots him a withering glare. “Yeah, okay, maybe you’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right. Call the Center today. Try and get us in. The sooner the better.”

Steve nods. “And what do you suggest I do about her when she comes back?”

Bucky grunts and eats the last bite of cheesecake n his plate, vaguely aware that he would’ve savored it a lot more if he wasn’t so riled up over Mary’s behavior. “Just leave her alone. You’re right: we don’t have a discipline plan in place.” (Though he plans to correct that very soon.) “We’ll sort it out at this next visit. Linda already said she has strong indications for impact play.”

Steve winces. “Why do they need to put the word ‘play’ after everything?” Bucky shrugs, and Steve looks rueful. “You know she’s gonna throw a fit when you bring it up.”

“I know.” And he really doesn’t care. A dark thrill of dominance zips through Bucky at just the idea of putting Mary over his knee, of trapping her wrists at her lower back and holding her down, giving her a good spanking until she’s crying and grinding and sorry. “She’ll learn real quick that it’s what’s good for her. That girl needs consequences like a fish needs water."

“Uh huh.” Steve seems almost amused, but he holds up his hands again when he gets another glare from Bucky. “I’ll call and make an appointment, I will,” he promises. “But what about you, Babe?”

“What about me?”

Steve gives him a look. “You could stand to go in yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes slip down to Bucky’s left hand. “Babe ...”

Bucky looks down—Somewhere in the past few minutes, he’s bent the fork in his fist a little bit. Huffing, he sets it down.

“Take the morning off and go get a session in with one of the Pros,” Steve coaxes. “Spare your poor coworkers.”

Bucky scoffs and takes his plate to the sink to rinse it. “No. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.”

“I am,” he insists, giving Steve a warning look when it seems like he’ll argue further. “Steve,”

“Okay, okay.” Steve holds up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help.”

Bucky softens, feeling bad. “C’mere, you. Hey, I’m sorry.” He gives Steve a big hug, and then a kiss that’s equal parts possessive and apologetic. They part, and he smiles a little, nudging Steve’s nose with his. “You still having fun in the nuthouse?” he murmurs.

Steve ‘tsks’ at him for the joke and give him a chiding squeeze. “Yes,” he insists. “Now get going, nutso, before you're late. And don’t forget your coffee.”

Bucky gives him one last peck on the lips and then grabs his things. He puts his coat on and drapes his suit jacket over his arm at the door. “Try to keep her here once she’s back,” he says, frowning once again as he thinks about the “hours” remark Mary had made. “Ridiculous,” he mutters. 

“I’ll head over to the gym in a bit. Make sure she isn’t overdoing it,” Steve promises. “Now go on, try to have a good day. Try not to make your secretary cry.”

Bucky huffs, though he is smiling a little as he heads out the door. He’s only ever made his secretary cry once, and Steve will never, ever let him live it down. “Bye Babe. I Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Steve

That evening, they bite the bullet and show Mary the letter that came in the mail: addressed to Bucky, from the circuit court of New York. It lists the court date for review of Mary’s case of custodianship.

Steve’s expecting a meltdown, but what they get instead is a morose sort of silence. He’s not sure he wouldn’t prefer the meltdown. Mary just sniffs and doesn’t talk much, picking her portion of dinner to smithereens before deigning to eat any of it. After their nightly tv time and Bucky's low key domming, she goes off to bed without bidding them goodnight like she usually does.

Steve wakes in the early hours of the morning, having to take a piss. He’s just flushed and is considering being naughty and slipping out to the kitchen to grab himself a slice of cheesecake, when he sees that Mary’s bedroom door is open. He sticks his head in to check on her, but she’s not in her bed. “Mary?” he whispers.

That’s when he hears soft noises coming from the kitchen.

It’s Mary. Steve stalls in place when he sees her, leaning back against the cabinets and face splotchy from crying. She’s dressed in her workout clothes again, hair messy like she’s already been out and back from another workout. Steve frowns worriedly when he spots her house keys and empty water bottle on the counter next to her phone. “Hey Mare,” he says quietly, so that he doesn’t spook her. 

She sniffles as she sees him and hurriedly scrubs her face. “Oh. Hi Steve.”

“What are you doing up?” He takes a few cautious steps closer. “It’s late."

“Just wanted to get a snack,” she says, voice sounding tearful and pitiful. It’s such an obvious lie, Steve doesn’t even bother remarking on it.

“Were you at the gym again, Honey?” he asks. He’d had to intervene at the gym yesterday, when she’d been approaching hour number three with no signs of stopping. Now, he walks over and leans against the countertop’s edge right next to her. The room is dark, but he can just make out the silvery tracks left behind on her cheeks, the puffiness around her eyes. He smiles sadly at her. “You want to talk about it?”

Her expression pinches and she looks away. “No.”

“Okay.”

“... I went to the gym,” she eventually murmurs. 

“Yeah, I cry at the gym, too. All the time.” Steve nudges his bare foot against her sneakered one. “Come on,” he coaxes. “I’m a good listener.”

“You’re a good tattletale,” she grumbles.

“Hey.”

“Well you are. You tell Bucky everything I say and do. And he’s always on me about everything and I just …” she huffs. “I just don’t want to deal with it sometimes.”

“Well …” Steve hedges, knowing that he shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. “You could still tell me,” he offers. He lets his hand inch over on the counter’s edge and hooks his pinkie over hers. She looks down at it, then up to him. Steve’s mouth quirks. “Bucky can be a lot. I know. But he’s just trying to do what’s right. And you’ve gotta remember that he isn’t perfect. He has to live with this thing just like you do. Some days he handles it better than others.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Steve sighs. “Look, if there’s something you want to talk to me about, but you don’t want him to know, it can stay between us.” Mary looks over in surprise and Steve cringes. “Just ... promise me that you’ll talk it out with Linda, too?”

She hums noncommittally. “Walk me back to bed?”

“Course, Hon.”

She shuts herself into her bathroom and returns after a few minutes, dressed in pajamas and her hair towel dried. She seems surprised that Steve has stuck around when she sees him standing there, toeing the line of the doorway. "Oh."

“I didn’t know if you meant …” he shrugs. “Tuck you in?” 

She smiles a little, though it’s sad. Steve thinks she might’ve been crying again in the shower. “Sure,” she says, tucking her head down. She gets into bed and Steve covers her with the blankets, then sits on the edge of the mattress for a moment. “So do you want to talk?” he asks softly.

She chews her lip for a long moment, and just when Steve thinks she’s about to turn him down, she whispers, “... I don’t think it’s working the same anymore.”

“What isn’t working?” 

“The stuff with Bucky. The drops.”

Steve’s lips part in understanding. “Oh. I see.”

She nods and won't meet his eyes. “It doesn’t feel the same as it did before. Like it’s not as strong, or something. And it’s wearing off faster.” Her face pinches and for a second she really looks like she might cry. 

“Honey?” Steve reaches to tuck her damp hair back from her face, and that seems to be what does it. She starts crying and turns into the pillow, hiding there as her breath hitches in tiny sobs. Surprised, Steve lets his hand fall to her shoulder, where he gives her a comforting squeeze. “Hey,” he soothes. “Shhh, it’s okay. It's okay.”

She shakes her head with a little whimper. “No it’s not. I th-thought they’d stop now. They did stop, for a while.”

“What stopped?” Steve asks, confused. 

She sniffles, face crumpled up in distress. “I have bad dreams sometimes. That’s why I was up. Went to the gym to try and run it off.”

“Bad dreams?" Steve says, concerned. "You mean nightmares?" Sometimes Bucky has them too, so he's under no illusions about how debilitating they can be. "Mare?" he prods gently. "What are the nightmares about?”

She burrows further into the pillow, turning onto her side and curling up in a little ball. “Just stuff,” she mumbles. “From when I was a kid.”

Steve gets a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he has to really consider his words carefully before he speaks. He finally settles on a quiet, “Your dad?”

“... Yeah.”

Ouch. Steve swallows. “Honey … you really need to talk to somebody about this.”

She sniffles and shakes her head, and when Steve puts his hand on her shoulder again, she doesn’t try to shrug him off. “You promised not to tell Bucky,” she says.

Steve winces. “Yeah, I know.” Bucky and he already had a pretty good idea about this, but he doesn’t feel the need to point that out right now. “And you promised you’d talk with Linda,” he reminds. “It’s not safe for you to be sneaking out of here at night.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. "It’s just that ... the only thing that ever really made ‘em stop was getting drunk. And then with Bucky …” Her body shudders in a quiet sob. “But now it’s not working the same anymore! So what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, Mare.” Steve rubs her shoulder. “Shh sh sh, Honey, it’s alright. It’s a process. We just gotta figure out what works for you." He gives her a comforting squeeze. “We’ve got an appointment for tomorrow, okay? We’re gonna talk to Linda and figure this all out. It’ll get better, I promise.” He bends to kiss the top of her head, and soothes her with a gentle litany of murmured words as she cries. “It’s okay, Mare. We’ll figure this out. It’s all gonna be okay.”

She calms down after a while of that, and Steve gives her one last hug before he stands to leave. “Goodnight, Sweetheart. Tomorrow’ll be a better day, you’ll see.”

“Steve?” He turns back around to see her peeking at him from over the top edge of the covers. “On the dresser. On the top, there's a ... You can take it.”

He’s confused, until he goes over and sees the only thing that’s sitting on top of the room’s highboy dresser. His heart all but stops. Carefully, he slides it into the palm of his hand, dread filling his chest like cold water. “Mary,” he says, fearful. “Did you—”

“No,” she says. “But I was thinking about it.” 

With a sinking sense of horror, he realizes what a massive mistake it was to tell Mary he’d keep secrets for her. “Mary,” he says warningly, “You know I can’t keep this from—”

“I’ll talk to Linda,” she says, looking at him with tearful, angry eyes that dig into Steve’s heart. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

Steve’s lips thin and he frowns, pained. “Where did you get it?” 

“From work.”

“Why would they have these at your work?”

Mary squirms, looking embarrassed. “It’s for a lamé. For scoring the bread before it goes in the oven.”

Steve sighs and drops his hand, letting his fingers curl loosely over the razorblade. “There’s a limit to this, you know,” he warns. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me without worrying that I’m gonna tell him every little thing, but he’s still my husband. And that means that my responsibility is to him, first.”

Her eyes lower in defeat. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I know.”

“Hey.” He holds up the blade and gives her a pointed look. “And you can’t be doing this. Because at the end of the day, he’s still the one who’s legally responsible for you. He has to do what he thinks is in your best interest. We both do.”

She frowns and won’t meet his eyes, but after a moment she nods, and Steve believes that she means it when she mumbles a tiny little, “Kay.”

“Kay. You gonna try to get some sleep now?”

She nods, still tearful, but calmer. Steve gently bids her goodnight and heads for the door. When he’s almost got it closed, Mary calls out softly one more time. “Steve?”

“Yeah Honey?”

“Thank you,” she says, so quiet that Steve almost doesn’t hear. “I feel like … I just needed that. To talk to you.”

Steve’s shoulders relax and he smiles grimly, relieved to hear that he’s made her feel a little better, and that he’s able to be someone she can confide in. He even feels a little bit proud that she trusts him enough to tell him these things. It’s almost enough to take away his guilt over promising to keep secrets from his husband.

… Almost. 

“G’night, Mary,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Steve.”

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