#i know he likes opening and closing the lighter lid!!!

[eddiesshovel]

Some photos of Garry because I love him a lot and you guys deserve Garry photos

these photos are from the art book!!

[burts-baked-bees]

Okay?

OPLA Sanji x Fem!Reader

{masterlist for OPLA Sanji ongoing story}

Tags: Slight angst to fluff, slight pining, Sanji and reader are close friends and have truama bonded, Sanji has no clue he's in love with reader the poor sap

CW: Launguage, mentions of abuse, slight WCI spoliers, mentions of drinking

“I swear I’m one shift away from throwing myself in the godforsaken ocean.” Sanji huffed angrily as he threw himself down in a nearby booth. The Baratie had cleared out for the night leaving the cooks to clean the line and the waiters to clean the dining room, but halfway through the dreaded cleanup Sanji had both metaphorically and physically thrown in the towel. The dish cloth he had been holding went flying across the room as he put his feet up on the booth he was in and groaned indignantly.

“That old shitbag won’t so much as let me breathe on the line! I’m a cook! Not a fucking waiter!” He yelled, turning his head back towards the kitchen, as if Zeff could hear his complaints.

“You think maybe it has something to do with the fact that you call him an ‘old shitbag’?” A voice came from the other side of his booth. A small smile curled his lips as he sat up some and peeked over the rounded edge of the red leather seat.

“Oh I’m sorry, did I interrupt your nap time madame?” Sanji laughed as he took in the sight of Y/n laying on her back with her eyes closed in the opposite booth. “So sorry for the inconvenience, but aren’t you meant to be cleaning tables?” He teased as Y/n cracked an eye open and glared at him.

“Aren’t you?” She asked with a sly grin, earning an eye roll and angry huff from the blonde.

“Seems the only thing I’m meant to do is slowly die from boredom in this trash heap of a restaurant.” Sanji sighed as he fell back into his seat, pulling out his lighter and messing with the lid. Y/n laughed softly before sitting up and resting her arms on the dividing seat. She placed her head atop her arms and looked at him with a mock pout.

“Awww is the best chef in the East Blue all bummed that his dad doesn't like his cooking? Again?”

Sanji snapped his lighter closed and raised a finger at Y/n, pointing aggressively at her with a snarl.

“I am the greatest chef in the East Blue. Even if that geezer can’t see it.” He stated, earning a chuckle from Y/n as she sat up and raised her hands in surrender.

“Easy now, no need to shout at a lady.” She cooed as Sanji chuckled and gave her an angry smile, hanging his head.

“How dare you throw my own principles back in my face.” He chuckled as he began fidgeting with the silver ring on his finger. Y/n sighed and rested her chin on her folded arms again, smiling softly at the mop of blonde hair in front of her. She reached over the divider and brushed some of his hair from his face, earning a soft hum from Sanji as he closed his eyes.

“I think we both know he’s only doing and saying these things because he wants the best for you. Though I’ll be the first to admit, his way of going about it is absolute shit.” She laughed as she watched his lips curl into a smile. He looked up at her, her fingers brushing against his cheek as he moved.

“Yeah, I know…” He sighed as he leaned his head back against the wall. She pulled her hand back and looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “But you're a stowaway as much as me.” Sanji joked, “And yet I’m the one being treated like a sniveling child every fucking time I step foot in that kitchen.” He huffed as he looked over at her through his bangs. She chuckled as she hung her arms over the back of his booth and cocked her head to the side.

“My dumbass thought I could be a pirate and got stuck here paying off a debt cuz’ my ship damaged the hull of this ‘trash heap of a restaurant’.” She fired back, using his own words. He opened his mouth to speak but soon closed it again as he shook his head.

“Yeah that was pretty dumb.” Sanji joked as he pulled his jacket off and tossed it to the seat beside him. Y/n gawked at him before laughing and reaching forward to hit him softly on the shoulder. He leaned away from her and shouted

“Oi! Don’t damage the goods!”

She looked at him with mocking wide eyes and barked a laugh,

“Both Patty and I would have to disagree with you on that one, lover boy.” She snarked as Sanji rolled his eyes. A calm silence filled the space as Y/n sat up on her knees and looked at Sanji. She could see something was going on inside his head, and she knew him well enough to infer that he wasn’t going to say a damn thing. She studied the way his brow furrowed and noted how his eyes seemed more gray then blue in moments like these.

There was a profound sadness in him that she had only caught glimpses of in her three years aboard this ship. A profound sadness that he had more or less shared with her one drunken night in the bar when they should have been sleeping. A profound sadness that she wished every single day she could lift from him. The two sat in silence as the ship rocked softly under them; Y/n felt compelled to speak, to do anything that might help ease his overactive mind.

“Still, knowing what I know, having Zeff treating you like this can’t be good for the ole’ psyche…”

Sanji tensed up slightly at her words and Y/n mentally kicked herself for making that insinuation. She wanted to help him, but after the words left her mouth she felt a heavy guilt fill her bones. She watched as he shut his eyes and took a deep breath before smiling ever so slightly.

“Trust me, love. I may complain like this from time to time-”

“Almost ninety-five percent of the time."

“Ooookay. Almost ninety-five percent of the time, but nothing is worse than… what I came from.” He gave her a somber smile and pulled out his lighter again, flipping the lid open and closed in an almost rhythmic pattern. She returned his sad smile and pushed her baby hairs from her forehead.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.” She spoke softly as she looked out at the empty dining room; the tables were cast in an eerie candle light and the china adorning the tables glimmered like stars. Sanji looked at her, as her attention was placed elsewhere, and smiled fondly. He felt a warmth rise in his chest as he took in the curve of her profile. The slope of her nose, the length of her eyelashes, the round of her cheeks. The candle light of the empty room cast dancing shadows on her face that made her look otherworldly; he felt his smile, and eyes soften as he looked at her.

“Y/n I wouldn’t have told you about my shitty past if I didn’t trust you to check in on me like this every now and again.” Sanji spoke softly as Y/n turned her gaze back to him. She was almost stunned to see the expression on his face. The look in his eyes was, most of the time, reserved for the elegant ladies that entered the restaurant day in and day out. And yet here he was looking at her like that. She brushed the fond gaze off and swayed her head back and forth while giving him an apologetic look.

“I know, but it’s still not my place to dredge up old memories of abuse when I don’t even know the full story.” She responded, playing with the ends of her uniform shirt.

Sanji smiled at her and leaned forward in his seat, one hand braced himself on the seat top while the other reached forward and pulled her towards him. Y/n closed her eyes as she felt his lips press against her forehead.

“I appreciate you checking on me. It shows that you care.” He said softly, his words muffled seeing that his lips were still connected with her forehead. She smiled softly as he placed a loud exaggerated kiss to the skin there before pulling away and holding her face in his hand. “Okay?” He asked with a huge smile. She laughed at his theatrics and moved to stand up, leaving Sanji sitting alone in his booth as he looked up at her standing form.

“Whatever you say-” She began as she reached out a hand to help him up. He took it with a laugh and allowed Y/n to pull him to his feet. “-My favorite Baratie waiter.” She finished as she dropped his hand and started walking away from him, stifling her laughter. Sanji stood there with his jaw dropped as she walked away from him, his shock soon turning into a smile as he watched her shoulders shake from holding in her laughter. He let a chuckle slip out as he pushed up his sleeves and made a beeline for her.

“How DARE!” He yelled as he grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground slightly laughing as she yelped and then dissolved into laughter when she broke free. She began running to a nearby table to put distance between herself and him as she pointed at him,

“Not fair!” She yelled, watching as Sanji pointed back at her.

“Don’t you dare get me started on ‘fair’!” He responded as he laughed.

____

Zeff stood in the doorway to the kitchen watching as Sanji ran around tables with that wannabe pirate waitress. He observed in silence as the pair laughed and threw dish towels at each other instead of cleaning tables.

The small boy he once knew, terrified of making connections with those around him due to some dark past he kept to himself, was smling and laughing as he chased around what could only be discribed as a friend.

A small smile curled his weathered lips as he shook his head and walked away, the sounds of youth fading into nothing.

“Not bad, little eggplant… Not bad…”

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Dating Miguel O’Hara Would Include…

Warnings: Implied Smut, Domestic Miguel !!!, Possessive Miguel, Protective Miguel, Dominant Miguel, Slight Yandere Miguel (if you squint), Fluff, Mild Angst, Hurt/Comfort, No Pronouns used for Reader Except You’.

Miguel being stoic and militant around his associates, but melting into a massive softie when he gets to see you.

His eyes literally light up when he hears you coming. He has to resist the urge to scoop you up into his arms and cuddle you silly whenever he hears you call his name, your tones music to his ears, his heart thrumming – harpstrings.

Golden retriever boyfriend to the MAX.

He brings you breakfast in bed whenever he’s awake before you – which is often considering his vampiric nature. And he looks so proud of himself when he cooks a good meal, too. Literally just a beaming, teeth-filled, closed-eye smile when you tell him he’s “Done such a good job, Babe !”

Any kind of praise sends him absolutely wild, so use it sparingly. It can either get you out of or into a world of trouble; especially if you're trying to get Miguel hot under the collar.

Miguel’s love language is, simply put, everything.

The adoration that swells in his chest whenever he thinks of you manifests as him throwing himself into your service.

He does anything and everything you ask of him, no matter how extravagant or nominal the request is. And everything you don’t.

He isn’t stingy with his words, either; he tells you how much he loves you whenever you’re alone, often coming up behind you and sliding his arms around your front, resting his head on your shoulder and breathing deeply.

He presses soft, careful kisses into the crook of your neck, making sure to keep his fangs from pinching you, inhaling your warmth, your scent.

“I love you.” His heart drums into your back. His lips capture your skin again. “I love you,” And again. “I live for you.” And again.

He’s lived with a lifetime of regret for not being able to protect those he held dear; he won’t allow you to go without knowing the extent of his adoration for you. Not when he feels he never truly got to show his family – his ghosts – how much he loved them.

On a lighter note, Miguel LOVES having his hair played with; just card your fingers through his locks and he’s as good as incapacitated.

After a rough day, he crawls into bed and lays his head in your lap or on your chest, his body winding down in your soft embrace.

He lowkey moans when you catch his sensitive spot, his brows knotting together, his voice coming out as a rasped whisper.

He knows when you’re purposely trying to get him worked up, though. And he doesn’t stand for it.

“Careful Darling,” he glowers, the phantom sensation of you tugging his hair a half-weight on his senses. He cracks an eye open, his wine irises peaking out beneath heavy lids.

“Or I won’t be so gentle when it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Miguel prefers private displays of affection over public displays of affection; he doesn’t want his subordinates knowing he’s gone soft.

But, there are exceptions to this principle.

Like if Miguel’s feeling particularly hot and desperate, by which point he whisks you away to the bathroom and the two of you aren’t seen for a good hour or so. Usually longer.

The other exception is if he’s feeling jealous or possessive, by which point his sensibilities have vacated his mind and he’s right behind you, his hands on your waist, your shoulders – anywhere he can hold you. Or, he’s filling your mouth with his tongue and your ear with his words if the other party present doesn’t get the hint that you’re taken.

“You’re mine,” he rasps, his breath hot, prickling your skin, the tips of his fang drawing goosebumps. Miguel’s eyes shine an ocean red, dark and unknown. He has you caged, arms encompassing you entirely.

“And I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

Speaking of; Miguel is incredibly possessive.

Years of rumination and a history of scattered failures make for a very territorial man. And it shows.

He keeps his hands on you whenever you’re together or in the presence of someone he thinks can steal you from him; someone better than him.

He stares down at them until they fumble or leave; whichever prevails first. After which point, when you’re alone, he turns you round to look at him and just stares at you like 🥺.

The epitome of ‘Babe you pushed my leg off you while you were asleep; do you still love me ???’

You have to reassure him when things like this occur. Take him by the face and hold him gently in your hands; press a soft kiss to his lips and call him your “One and only,”

Doing so is a one-way ticket to a very long night.

Possessive, heartfelt, grasping, gasping love-making.

Miguel can’t stop until your bottom half is numb and the only thing you’re capable of thinking and saying is his name.

Of course, he rewards you for your endurance after the fact.

Aftercare king right here <333

Treats you like you’re glass; he runs you a bath, brings you your favourite drink and changes the bedsheets.

And, when you’re fast asleep and curled up into his chest, his heart flutters, and, for the first time in his life, he feels that he has stability. Pure, unconditional, everlasting love.

And he’ll sooner dismantle the multiverse himself than let anyone or anything take that from him.

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Sweet Dreams

Logan Howlett x Y/N - drabble - 774 WC NSFW 18+

Masterlist

Warnings: SMUT, absolutely filthy sex, Logan being a consent king, mutant reader, dream/astral sex, penetration, blasphemy, biting, general whorishness, Logan being hot, IDK if this counts as somnophilia? I don't think it does but I'll let the readers decide

------------------------------

Logan stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair. He listened to your heart beat rhythmically thinking about nothing in particular. His position only changed when your body gave a small jolt, your head lolling to the other side. He watched you cautiously; your eyes moved rapidly beneath your closed lids. Your breathing picked up and you had the slightest expression of pain on your face. Logan contemplated waking you up until he heard you say,

“Logan…” you panted out, your back arching slightly. 

You remained asleep, writhing gently as your mind played a deliciously sinful fantasy. Logan wanted to touch you, to help you - but he didn’t. You had never talked about doing stuff to each other while asleep, he didn't want to do anything you weren’t expressly ok with. He did, however, feel your mind poking at his. Like a fog that started to consume him. He saw what you were dreaming of. Him, slamming his hips into you while keeping his lips on yours. He sighed, closing his eyes at the vision. 

“Logan…” you whispered.

Logan opened his eyes, your physical body was still asleep but the version of you in the vision was looking directly at him. His eyes widened in disbelief. Suddenly, with just a blink, he was on top of your dream form. You caressed his cheek lovingly.

“What is this?” he asked, gazing down at your ethereal body. 

“It’s me,” you chuckled, “Well, my internalized form.” you smiled reassuringly at him. You were able to manipulate the minds of others, waking or otherwise. Logan had no idea you could do this though. 

“Are you awake?” he asked with slight confusion. 

“I am. Well, my consciousness is. My body is resting.” you replied, hands slowly wandering over his shoulders, feeling over every inch of muscle you could. 

Logan let out a groan, “Will you remember this in the morning? Will you know this happened?” he asked.

Your heart melted at his concern, “Of course. I am this body, we are one. There is more than one way to make love.” you said with a gentle blush. 

Logan felt like he was lighter, he stared down at you before looking over and seeing his sleeping body cuddled up next to yours. “What is this?” he asked you once again.

“Think of it as soul bonding. Astral forms combining…” you said.

Logan’s hands felt over you deftly, “Are you sure?” he asked with caution. 

You nodded as you pulled him down to kiss you. He was like an animal, keeping your lips on his until they were swollen. He switched to sucking marks into your skin while his fingers teased you below. Your back arched and you let out sweet mewls as he played with you, teasing you. 

“Please…” you whined.

“What is it baby?” he smirked.

“I… Need you…” you gasped as he already had you on the verge of an orgasm. 

“Oh baby, you have me…” he smiled innocently as he replaced his fingers with his cock, splitting you in half. 

You let out a silent scream as your orgasm hit you like a bolt of electricity. He fucked you through it, overstimulating you and rushing you towards another.

“Wake up.” you whispered in his ear.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, seeing you on top of him in your shared bedroom. He shook his head slightly. Logan wasted no time ripping off your shirt and underwear that you fell asleep in, slipping his cock back inside you. You tried to keep pace with him as you rode him but he fucked into like there was a time limit or he was never going to fuck you again. Eventually you slumped against his chest as he fucked you dumb. You bit and sucked bruises into him before watching his healing factor fade them into nothingness almost instantly. You felt him getting sloppy as you tumbled over the edge again, actually letting out a scream of pleasure as you felt him cum inside you. 

With a few more ruts he finally slowed to a stop, “Jesus Christ.” he breathed heavily.

You laughed, kissing up his chest and throat until you could capture his mouth. “Blasphemy?” you said.

Logan nipped your bottom lip as he leaned back, “How did you do that? The dream thing?”

You flushed a little, “My mind and body craved you so much I guess I couldn’t stop myself from trying to link with your mind.”

“Can we do it again?” he asked with hazy eyes and a lopsided smile. 

You leaned into him, kissing him again as you invaded his mind once more.

-------------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Something about this man ya'll I need him biblically. Hope you guys like this, it's honestly one of my favorites. My fingers were on fire typing it - all gas, no breaks. Love ya'll! XOXOXOXOXOXO

[toxicanonymity]

Best friends dad Joel x innocent reader

Reader is sleeping over at her best friends house. Best friend ditches her for a party/bf which leaves her alone with Joel. Joel makes fun of her innocence and pressures her into drinking/having sex with him

Night Talks

2.8k words / best friend's dad!Joel x innocent!f!reader

NSFW 18+ / joel master list

gif from @serenaxpedroo , ask from @subby-bottom

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+ big girthy legal age gap, it's 2008 so 41-19 lmao, first time marijuana use, light drinking, pressure, dubious consent, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, loss of virginity, depraved praise. reader can sit in joel's lap. haphazard editing.

-

"I know your parents are strict as hell, but you’re an adult." 

You feel uncool enough without Mr. Miller acting like you're such a square.  He takes “Cool Dad”  to the extreme.  Yeah, you're an adult, but you don't really party and you didn't feel like going. Yeah, your parents are strict. That's why you regret going to a commuter college. It's also why you didn't go home when Sarah left.  You didn't realize her hot dad was awake when you came down in your skimpy pajamas to get a drink of water.  Now your eyes are drifting to his biceps as you have this weird talk in the kitchen. But if you're looking at his biceps, at least you're not looking at his PJ pants. 

You feel defensive even though everything he's saying is true.  "I just don't like to party," you say. "Plus, they smoke weed."

He squints at you judgmentally.  "So? . . . What, you’ve never tried it?" 

You're not sure how to respond to that.  Mr. Miller is older and hot.  His judgment carries a lot of weight because of it.  You've seen him after a construction job before, sweating, arms bulging.  

"Damn, you're brainwashed as hell. . . ." He looks like he feels sorry for you.  "C'mon, let's have a beer. I've at least seen you with one of those before." It's flattering that he would notice, even though you probably didn’t finish it.

"I should probably go home"

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head as though to say "really?” Then he gets two beers out of the fridge and starts to open them.  “Let’s skip to the part where you take a sip and relax."

"Mr. Mill-"

"Oh. . ." he waves his hand dismissively. "Mr. Miller sounds creepy.  You can just call me daddy."  Your heart jumps to your throat.  Mr. Miller is creepy. 

Then he laughs. "Damn, the look on your face.  Nah, call me Joel.  Look," he hands you a Coors Light.  “Practically water."

You accept the beer. He takes a sip of his IPA, then teases, "We can watch somethin’ pg-13 if ya want.”

-

You watch Saturday Night Fever on DVD.  You think it's just gonna be dancing, but it's far saucier. He glances at you, watching your reaction to the most intense scenes.  You're embarrassed but try to ignore him.  After Joel goes to get a second beer, you’re startled when he sits down next to you on the sofa instead of back in the recliner where he was.  Your skittishness must show.  

“Relax,” he says and squeezes your knee.  His demeanor has changed. He has a whole different voice.    “I don’t bite. . .‘less you’re into it.  Can’t imagine a good girl like you though . . . Fuckin’ Miss America over here.”

Your cheeks burn.  “I’m not that good,” you protest. You're not sure why. 

“Yeah? Prove it,” he says and begins lightly stroking circles around your knee.  The challenge quickens your heart rate and sends a rush of blood to your loins before he continues, “let’s get high.” 

You're unsure if you're relieved or disappointed that's what he meant.  You resist, but he offers, “you don’t even have to smoke it.”

“What, brownies?”

“No, baby.”  The pet name makes you tingle. He reaches into the end table drawer and retrieves a small glass pipe and a lighter.  

“C’mere, I'll show ya.”  His free hand grabs yours and he leads you to the tiny bathroom.  You can't help but notice the way his soft pants hug his ass.  

-

He shuts the door behind you, then closes the toilet lid and sits down while you awkwardly stand there with your arms crossed.  You lean against the 6” of available wall space.  It’s a very, very small bathroom.   

His biceps stretch his t-shirt as he holds the pipe to his mouth and flicks the lighter on.  He moves the lighter around the weed in small circles and the glow spreads as he sucks the air through the pipe.  He closes his eyes and a sensual expression loads on his face as he inhales.  It’s a face of pleasure. His brow furrows and his eyes open.  He slowly exhales, politely pouting and pointing his lips away from you, but keeping his eyes in your direction,  shamelessly scanning your body. 

As the stench of the weed creeps into your nostrils, you reflexively reach for the exhaust fan switch on the wall and he says, “Nope. Can’t hotbox with the fan on.  That’s the whole point."

-

When the second-hand smoke starts to hit you, you feel a little woozy.  Good, but woozy.  You start to sit on the counter and he stops you.  “Sink’s not braced yet.”  

He pats his lap.  There’s nowhere else to sit unless you leave the bathroom, and you don’t want to.  So you sit on Mr. Miller's lap.  His pants are soft and his legs are warm.  You’re hesitant to put all your weight on him until he says, “Relax, I can handle it,” and he does have meaty thighs.  He strokes your bare thigh, making you wet and self conscious that you hadn’t shaved in a week.  

He looks around at the smoke in the bathroom.  “How’s it feel?” 

“Um, good,” you say.  He looks back and forth between your eyes and smiles.  

"Good, good. . ." 

You look at each other for what feels like a few minutes, playing chicken about who will finally talk next.  Then he asks, "ready for the next step?”

“Nah. . . I don't wanna smoke.”

“Don’t have to.  Just breathe out when I squeeze once."  He squeezes your thigh once to demonstrate.  "And breathe in when I squeeze twice."  He demonstrates again.  "And keep your mouth open."

You don't say anything, trying to envision what he's going to do. 

"You’re gonna love it.”

“Okay,” you say.  Why not? You’re feeling pretty relaxed. 

“Gotta face me though,” he says.  He nudges you to stand up, then he urges you back into his lap, but straddling him.  

You hesitate and resist a little. 

“Only live once baby”

-

You go ahead and straddle him, but you're very aware of how short, loose, and flowy your shorts are. You can feel the air between your legs. He takes a deep, horny breath as you settle in and his eyes darken.  

"God, you're hot," he mutters.  That's the moment you're certain he wants to fuck you.  You shyly look down and away.  

"I'm serious," he says.  

Then he spares you the need to respond, leaning back to make room between you for his muscular arms before he brings the pipe to his mouth.  He sucks in and holds the air in his mouth then turns and puts the pipe on the back of the toilet behind him.  When he faces you again, his large hands slide up both your thighs.  His chest expands as he inhales the smoke in his mouth, then he holds it in and squeezes your thighs once.  

You breathe out. He leans in, cradles your head  with one hand and opens his mouth, not exhaling yet, smoke curling between his lips, then squeezes your thigh twice.  As you begin to inhale, he blows the smoke right into your mouth. And he keeps his face close to yours as he watches you turn your head and exhale. 

“Attagirl,” he says and your heart flutters. 

Every part of you wants to kiss him right now, and it looks like he wants that, too.  He leans in a little.  

But the smoke burns, and you turn your head and cough. Joel pats then rubs your back.  "Damn, I shoulda gone slower."   When you stop coughing, your watery eyes meet his, and he cracks a smirk.  You're super high and very wet. He looks entranced by you. 

"Guess you're right," he murmurs.

"Hmm?"

"You're not that good a girl. . ." You feel conflicted hearing these words, until his hands return to your legs and he says, "Only one thing I like more than a bad girl." His hands slide all the way up your thighs and his eyes follow his hand.   His thumb easily nudges its way inside the inseam of your shorts - it happens so fast - and before you know it he lightly strokes the apex of your folds.  Your hips tilt into his touch and he strokes lower, feeling how wet you are.  With his other thumb he pulls the shorts to the side to see your pussy.  He inhales deeply through the nose, looking you in the eyes.  "Only thing better than a bad girl?  A good girl gone bad." 

His hands find your ass and pull you into his crotch where the stiffness of his warm length takes your breath away, and you softly gasp. 

“Yeahhh,” he says.  “You like that?”  

Yeah, you do, and he clearly knows you do.  But you’re super high and too embarrassed to say it.  

“Bet you're a virgin, too.”  

“I-"

“You don’t have to say it,” he whispers, to your relief.  Then he leans forward and his facial hair brushes your cheek as he brings his mouth to your ear and says, "Cause I know you don't wanna be." 

He leans back, pulling you into him harder and his arousal swells into you, making your walls twitch and your clit throb.

He wets his lips then wraps one arm around you and cradles your head with the other hand.  His lips press into yours and a wave of arousal ripples through your body.  Your nipples harden.  His tongue brushes yours and he grinds into you with a soft grunt into your mouth. You've never been more turned on. 

Your lips tear away from his as you literally swoon. He easily catches you as you slump to the side. 

"Whooaa, okay."  He holds you in one arm and reaches to open the door.  "Let's get you some fresh air."

-

He puts a hoodie of his on you and you go outside for a few minutes.  You're embarrassed.

"Sorry," you say, unsure what you're sorry for. 

"No, no, don't be sorry baby.  That was all me." He puts his arms loosely around you and you rest your head on him.  "Couldn't think straight cause you're so goddamn hot." 

You smile shyly into his shirt.  "I think I'm okay now."

"Good." He strokes the crown of your head with his whole palm. 

You ask, "Think Sarah will be back soon?"

"Doubt it.  Usually sneaks back in around dawn. Wanna watch another movie?"

"Um, sure."

"We can do whatever we want." 

-

It’s not long into the movie before things heat up again.  You’re at the end of the sofa and he has his arm around you.  He caresses you with that hand, starting with your arm, then your shoulder, then your collar bone.  Out of the corner of your eye, he adjusts himself.  “Lord almighty,” he says under his breath.  

“Why dontcha bring those pretty legs up here?”

“I haven’t shaved in-”

“Think I care?"  he urges your legs into his lap, pulls them all the way into his crotch, and presses them down on his solid wood with a soft grunt.  Your eyes go wide and you take a deep breath.  He stops pretending to watch the movie and eases your legs down flat on the sofa, scooting himself out from under them, getting on his side. 

"C'mere," he growls. He watches his fingers trail up your leg all the way to your breast as he lays down facing you, slightly on top of you.  His gaze remains fixed there as he slides his hand up your thin pajama shirt and palms a breast.  Your mouth falls open and he grinds his hard package against your hip.  Then he lifts your top up to see both your tits. "God damn," he says.  

He slides his hand into your shorts, brings his face to yours, and starts kissing you again, hard and slow, his tongue claiming your mouth, your lips softly accepting every movement of his while he gropes your dripping seam desperately and moans into your mouth.  His movements intensify, becoming more urgent as he gets between your legs.  Sweat is blotching his shirt.  He slides an arm under yours and a whiff of his armpit opens your legs. 

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes as your hips tilt for him.  He urgently tugs down your shorts, breathing heavily.  He expertly fingers you, making your toes curl.  He inserts one, then two thick digits.  Three is a stretch but not too bad.  “perfect,” he murmurs.  He fingers you for a minute, both of you getting hornier. 

-

Then he frees himself from his waistband and his thick arousal falls heavily against your slickened clit, sending a bolt of need to your chest. He drags it down and nestles his tip at your entrance, then his large hand lifts your thigh and you wrap your leg around him. He looks up at your face, reads your eyes and says in a low rumble, "yeah, you're ready for it. . . couldn't be more ready, could ya?" Maybe he’s right.  Maybe. 

He grunts as he begins to push into your tight, wet hole and you gasp at the stretch of his tip.  "C'mon now, you can do it baby."  He inhales deeply, then pushes further.  "Yeahh." It hurts, but the pain is nothing compared to the incredible feeling of being filled. He's pretty slow and gentle, but never asks if you're okay.  He pushes harder until about half his shaft is sheathed by your warmth.  "Perfect fuckin' pussy" he breathes. "Tight as hell. Wet 'n ready for this cock."

"C'mon, baby."  He retreats halfway before plunging to the hilt, parting your insides and bottoming out with a shudder.  There's an unfamiliar, primal look on his face that stirs something deep inside you.  He stays there, all the way inside for a moment as though trying not to come instantly at the feeling of you wrapped around him.  He pulls back again, all but the tip, then pushes forward, a little smoother but still a squeeze.  He does it again and groans "Yeeahh," he bottoms out.  His face makes him look like he's in pain.  

-

He lowers his chest over yours and the way he looks at you makes you feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.  He slowly backs out and fills you up again, saying "Good, that's it baby" as you tilt your hips.  He kisses you and his cock slowly recedes then pushes in again.  Your ample slick allows him to slowly pump in and out of you even with you being so tight.  

He kisses you aggressively, then plants his lips on your neck as he buries his length in you again and again.

Slower, then at a moderate pace. He kisses you.  He looks at you. "Hot as hell, baby." He gropes a breast.  Then his lips graze your throat as he fucks you. 

You’re looking over his shoulder with his face in your neck.  Never imagined this would happen tonight.  Or here, or with him, but he feels incredible.     He fills you up harder, then a little faster.  The way his back stretches his tight t-shirt is a vision.

“God damn." Your whole body is rocking with this power of his cock slamming into you.  "You’re a natural, baby." He thrusts hard with a grunt.  "Already takin’ my cock this good?” He brings his filthy mouth back to yours and keeps filling you with his thick cock. "Ohh yeah. . . " His breathing changes.  "wanna come in this tight pussy so fuckin bad" 

"You can't, I don't-"

It looks like it kills him. He mutters, "fuck," holds his breath,  then pulls out, "Ahhh," he releases the breath with a loud sigh and spills his cum on your bare stomach.  His anguished face, his cock in his hand, his cum shooting out onto your stomach, it’s the hottest scene.  You feel it searing into your mind.  

-

He tucks himself away, lies down at your side again, and starts fingering you, circling your clit.  “Look even hotter with my cum all over ya.” He’s making you feel things you thought only a toy could do, not even your own hand.   “C’mon, baby, come for me.”  It doesn’t take long before your back arches and you’re seeing stars, jolting into his big, veiny hand, his dark eyes watching you in a trance.  

As your orgasm fades, a smirk spreads across his face.  “Damn, didn’t think it’d be that easy.” 

The blood drains from your face. 

“No, no, makin’ you come, baby.  Makin’ you come.”

He cups your face reassuringly.  “You’re real damn hot, you know that? Fuck.”

-

Thank you so much for reading and interacting 🖤

This Joel evolves into the menace that is night walks!Joel.

I have a NEW dads' best friend!Joel x virgin!Reader series Left in Lincoln.

Night Walks : @tehweeana @blackvelveteen1339 @cutesyscreenname @ele-meno-p

All joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda

please lmk if i missed you!

[ghost-proofbaby]

15 with Eddie? :)

i woke up this morning, rolled over, and immediately wrote this all on my phone. wasn't even 8 am and i was already all mushy and horny for this man. enjoy whatever this is (morning sex. it's morning sex and being in love) &lt;3

15. "I had a very nice dream that started like this."

warnings: smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), afab reader but no pronouns used, a lot of religious imagery idk why it just... worked?, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: eddie munson x afab!reader

wc: 2.9k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

The sun hadn’t even rose yet. The sky simply lighter, a gentle omniscient light peaking through the curtains, holding little to no warmth yet when you first awoke. The room is shades of grey with hints of violet, soft pinks just on the horizon but not quite painting the scene. 

It’s nice — it’s serene.

You can feel him breathing behind you. Still there, still warm, still holding you with one strong arm around your waist as his nose brushes at the nape of your neck, his snore rustling your hair ever so carefully. It’s almost enough to soothe you back to sleep; counting his deep intakes of air, exhaling in time with him, sinking deeper into bed sheets that are stained with the smell of his cologne and shampoo. Almost.

But when you first awake, you have a different idea in mind.

It starts off innocent enough. Small movements as you press yourself further back into Eddie, minuscule wiggles to just be close to him. You’re still half asleep and yet, every atom in your body is desperate to melt into him. You need every inch of his skin pressed tightly into yours. Your vision still blurry, but the instinct to burrow more tightly into your boy impossible to miss.

“I know you’re awake,” he suddenly murmurs into your neck, voice muffled and rough with his rest.

You hadn’t even noticed the change in his breathing. More focused on the ache between your thighs that you had woken up with. 

“Sh,” you jokingly whisper, smiling as you force your eyes back closed. He can’t even see your face, but it feels right to put on an act, “You’re gonna ruin it, Munson.” 

“‘M not ruining anything, baby,” he nearly slurs. His arm tightens around you, encouraging all your squirming, pulling your hips back to be flush with his a little more urgently.

He’s hard against your lower back. His flimsy boxers do nothing to hide his excitement. It isn’t particularly surprising — most mornings he wakes up hard as it is — but it does cause a soft stirring within you. Encourages your hips to swivel once more, action a bit more pointed, just enough pressure to cause a low groan to slip almost inaudible from between his lips.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a bit louder now. His tone is still gravely, scratching an itch of the farthest reaches of your mind. Somewhere between a cat’s purr and the sound of tires on dirt roads when your favorite person is returning home. Comforting. Serene. 

You press into him further, shamelessly grinding now, eyes still shut, “What? ‘M not doing anything.”

He doesn’t need to see your voice to hear that sleepy grin.

It doesn’t happen quickly — there’s no rush as he slowly tugs at your body, encouraging you to rotate so that he’s no longer spooning you. Your back digs into the mattress holding the warmth of his body from the entire night, wrapping you up in a bliss that’s impossible to replicate. His smell, his warmth, his presence. You don’t think you’ll ever tire of mornings like this, especially not when you finally open your eyes to find him propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes and a half-smile that accentuates  his left dimple. 

He’s fucking beautiful. It takes your breath away.

“What’s got you so excited this morning, hm?” 

The light has grown ever so slightly brighter, just enough as though it whispers, look at him. The room is still grey, but your boy is a vision of colors. Dark russet eyes with streaks of gold that the sun couldn’t compare to, chestnut hair that sticks up in all the wrong places from his slumber, skin that washes out in the pale winter morning and only makes the contrast of the soft fuchsias and violets blooming along his neck from the evening before more apparent. He’s softer than any sunrise, more relaxing than any bath he’s ever drawn for you, more calming than hearing your favorite song strummed out on muted guitar strings. 

You love him. And that only really fuels your flames.

“I had a very nice dream,” you mumble, squinting up at him, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Your touch is delicate as you trace over his stubble, painting mindless patterns briefly before cupping the full side of his face and threading your fingertips into the edges of his hairline, “A very nice dream that started just like this.” 

He rolls his hips against your side, peering down at you as he does so, letting you guide him closer until his lips barely brush yours. 

You can hear birds chirping outside. There’s the rumble of a truck engine. The creak of a nearby front door opening and shutting.

The world is beginning to wake up, but you’re not quite yet ready to share the day with anyone but him. 

“You did, did you?” he’s awake enough now to tease you, body slowly inching its way over yours, arms on either side of your head to hold his weight. The plush comforter slips down, exposing his bare shoulders as his torso serves as your new blanket, “Tell me ‘bout it, baby.” 

Your legs fall open instinctively, making a home for him and only him. A space between your thighs perfectly carved out for the shape and weight of him as he slips into place, hips digging into yours, a homely and familiar position you’ve found yourself in a hundred times before. 

It never gets old. It never elicits any less of a reaction from you, always pulling the softest of gasps from your throat as he leans his head down to trail his lips down your exposed neck. 

The sound has him pulling you into him a bit more urgently, but his pace never quickens. He’s taking his time. You two have all the time.

A car alarm, distant as could be, sounds off. A voice of a neighbor echos across the trailer park. 

Maybe it’s an adoring husband wishing goodbye to his wife for the day. Or a mother, rushing her children for school. There’s a million and one scenarios, thousands of strangers beginning their dreary week, but you only care about the warm welcome of the day that he offers you. 

Anything but dreary, even in tired morning light.

“You were kissing my neck,” you say, careful to be as silent as can be, even if it were just the two of you in the room. The world doesn’t need to know you’re awake yet; it doesn’t deserve your attention like he does yet.

His teeth graze unintentionally against the soft spot below your ear, “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

For emphasis, you lift your hips, seeking out his with ease. You can feel him, pronounced as he presses against the thin fabric of your underwear. There’s too many layers between the two of you, too much cotton and linen in the shapes of his t-shirt you’d worn to bed and his damn boxers, but they’ll come off eventually. 

Eventually. There’s no rush.

Your head tilts back in a sigh, and he pauses all his kisses to ask, “What next?”

“Keep going,” you squirm, hips continuing to roll, flames of desire lighting in your gut, dancing as soft as the morning light, “Keep going, please.” 

The night before, he would have teased your desperation. 

But right now, with just you and him and the ghost of sleep, he’s not in the business of taunting. 

He listens, a hand coming down to your hip. Not holding it down to the mattress, but simply holding. He lets his thumb slip beneath the t-shirt, lets a rough callous built up from years of guitar and working on his van brush roughly over your skin with the most sensitive of intentions. 

Slowly. If the morning wasn’t so heavy still on the two of you, weighing down every movement, slowing every reaction and pacing every adoring kiss, this is the part where the two of you might have grown a bit impatient. More nipping, more bruising gripping, more complaints of going further, further, further. 

But today? In this moment? The two of you have time. 

A dream sequence of his wandering hands slipping that old faded tee up until it’s finally bunched at your chest, until he’s finally peeling himself away from your body and he’s lifting it over your head. Every move is brimming with a love you never thought possible. A love to swim in, a love to sink into. One with the capability to drown the two of you, but it only breathes a new life into both of your lungs. 

When his lips wrap around a nipple and your back arches, that love thrums a bit deeper, coiling up your insides and urging your fingers to tangle up into his curls. 

You need him closer.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your skin as he mouths at it, “So, so fucking beautiful.” 

The back of your skull digs deeper into a pillow engrained with the shape of your head from years of rest, a soft laugh slipping in between your blissful breaths, “Don’t lie. I’m a mess right now.” 

You were. And so was he. In a barely awake, subtle and tired way. Messy hair, messy marks of sleep across cheeks, messy breaths not yet minty from a morning routine the two of you followed like a religion. 

His head lifts, eyes glowing in the limited light, “I like your mess. As a matter of fact, I love your mess.” 

His hand on your hip squeezes for emphasis. 

You look down, wordless as you drink him in. A vision between the pinks dancing through the curtains, a godly presence as the dawn breaks. He’s a salvation, a new beginning and a new ending. He’s everything fairytales had tried to convince you existed in your youth. Prettier than any angel, warmer than any sun. 

And he’s yours. In this moment, and in all the next ones.

“I think I can make an even bigger mess of you, though, if you’ll let me,” a devilish smile finally overtakes his features and both of those dimples you’ve become so unintentionally fond of make an appearance. 

He dips his head, lowers his voice, lets his lips explore. You nearly pray to the Heavens above as you feel his hand slip from its gentle cupping of your hip, moving to slip nimble fingers beneath the band of your panties — but you don’t. Not a single God would care about what’s happening right now.

Just two people, two souls, twisting up in their bed sheets. Finding each other, finding divinity, before the sun even has a chance to stretch its arms fully over the horizon.

When he sinks lower and his face disappears beneath the cloak of the comforter, you hold your breath. When his mouth finds your cunt over fabric, you release it with a moan.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, both hands pulling off your underwear, pressing a hard kiss one final time over the cotton before he slips them off, “Keep making those pretty noises for me.” 

Your thighs drape over his shoulders, heels digging into his back as he begins his morning worship. All lips and tongue and finding the right places as fast as possible. Not out of a rush, but out of practice. He knows your body like the back of his hand, and he proves it. 

He knows exactly how hard to suck on your clit once he’s captured it between his lips. He knows exactly where to trace his tongue, circling your hole in lazy circles, not quite teasing but not quite succumbing as he lets you buck your hips in reckless abandon. When to speed up, when to slow down, when to add a finger and when to let the gravel of his voice vibrate against your core — he knows you. Through every little whimper, through every soft chanting of his name, through every tug of his hair. 

And he knows you well enough to know when to stop his ministrations, pulling back only to crawl his way back up your body, his boxers slipping off somewhere in the process. 

You’re still all over his lips as he kisses you fervently, slick and sticky and a little tart as his tongue dives into your mouth.

And just as he knows you, you know him.

You’d lied, of course. You hadn’t really had a dream just like this. You can’t even remember how you’d awoken with such want, but all that mattered is you had. You’d woken up to an all-consuming need, even if your half-conscious state, and you’d woken up to him.

Your hand reaches down between the two of you, wrapping around him carefully. Your skin is still cooler than his, it’s always cooler than his in the dead of night, and he hisses at the content.

“I love you, you know?” you quietly confess to your lover, as though it might be a sin, as though it might be the greatest secret to ever be held on a patient tongue. 

His skin is nearly velvet under your touch, pliant in your palm as you stroke him. Each movement and twist of your wrist begins to unravel him, his head dropping to the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. Every pant of his breath brushes skin just as his snores had. 

Gold litters the shade of sunrise entering the room, but the only warm colors you care to entertain are the ones in his eyes as he finally looks at you and tugs your hand away.

“I love you more.” 

You could argue. You could fight him on it, start to rattle off your list of all the things you adore about him, prove that no one has ever loved another person in this lifetime the way that you’ve loved him. The freckle below his right eye, the chip in on of his canines from an accident in his youth, the scar on his left knuckles from the first time he’d tried to do a trick with a butterfly knife at nine years old. The jokes he interrupts your day so kindly with, breaking up the mundane with laughter that seemingly fuels you to carry on with your time until you’ve returned home to just him. The passion that flows inside of him until it pours out over everything sacred to him — his music, his interests, his friends, you. A passionate and devoted man, yours to have and yours to hold.

But you don’t argue the point. You just smile as he kisses you, deep and searching, as he lines himself up with your entrance.

He loves you more, you love him most. He’ll figure it out — eventually. 

The stretch of him is pleasurable, just like it always is. Filling you, warming you, making that closer you crave so ardently nearly tangible. Every roll of his hips has him reaching spots inside of you to elicit stars to cloud your vision. The morning light, the white hot pleasure — you don’t care what makes your vision blue. You only care that it does, all your mews and all his groans entangling up in the air. 

Your palms slide over the back of his shoulders, your fingers dig into soft skin that you’ll spend the rest of your days memorizing.

Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

No prayer has ever been repeated with such need or belief as his name from your lips. 

And he returns the favor. Gasping out your name, somehow finding himself just enough in his right mind to continue to whisper sweet nothings against your ear, timing them with his leisurely thrusts.

“So fucking tight and so fucking good to me,” he manages to gasp, digging his hips in a little harsher, “Could stay here forever. Kind of want to stay here forever.” 

You don’t know how he’s coherent; you can’t form a single response, eyes rolling, hands clinging to him tighter. 

“Look at me when you cum.” 

He knows you. He knows you very well. You hadn’t even noticed that coiling in your stomach or the fluttering of your walls when he calls you out, forehead pressing to yours as your eyes open to find his. 

It’s not world-shattering when the waves come — it doesn’t have to be. It’s something to wrap around your entire essence, something to soothe and something to coax you into oblivion. Something to get lost in as his movements stutter and his own eyes grow heavy.

He doesn’t close his eyes, and neither do you. Lost in that pleasure, and lost in each other. 

You’re still rhythmically clenching around him when he comes, filling you up with warmth, burying deep in you and holding there as his mouth falls open and you're quick to pepper his outstretched neck with kisses. The smallest reminders of all the love you have for him. The gentlest of devotions, sprinkled across the skin of a man who will always know an affection like no other. Not everyone in the world will be so lucky as to know the fondness you offer him, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s how it should be. 

Curses spill as his movements slow, before finally stilling. He drops his weight onto you, exhaustion finding its way back into his bones. 

There’s things to do, a day to begin. Work and people waiting on you two, responsibilities to worry about and daily mundane accomplishments to achieve. But for now, it’s just the two of you. Awake with the rest of the world, but completely separate as you cradle him and he holds you. 

“That was one Hell of a way to wake up, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, and you only throw your head back in a laugh.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

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[cringe-but-proud]

I'd like to request ROUGH Logan and reader with healing power the same as his, so scratching, slappingg and squeezing anything harshly is okay

Baby’s first time posting smut. I’M SCARED….

Logan Howlett x fem!reader with regenerative healing

Warnings 🚨: Smut, enemies to lovers kinda, reader and Logan have a screaming match, reader and Logan get rough with each other, biting, scratching, etc. car sex, implied age gap for like one sentence, unprotected p in v sex, that’s it I think. Tell me if I missed anything.

A/n: y’all I am too nervous about posting this. It took me a while to write, but I’m happy with how it turned out. Requests are open!!

Logan thought of himself as one of the key assets to the X-Men. Adamantium claws and regenerative healing were nearly an unbeatable combination against anyone. He prided himself on that, and that’s why he didn’t like you. When you joined the X-Men with regenerative abilities that very much mirrored his, it made Logan feel less special, almost weaker in a way. He’d never admit it. That would only make him feel even more weak. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake. Why was he upset over something so trivial? He never thought on it for too long, and just continued to loathe you.

Well, tried to, at least. After the first few weeks of you being on the team and living in the mansion, his dislike for you began to be accompanied by something else, something he refused to acknowledge. But, he could feel it. Anytime your bodies got close, anytime his eyes lingered on your figure for a moment too long and his thoughts shifted from negative ones to ones of desire.

It only made him dislike you more.

The world always seemed to work against him and his conflicting feelings for you, forcing him to spend time with you, to be close to you, and this time was no different.

Logan tried to completely ignore the fact that you were in his van with him. Charles had made this a habit, pairing him with you for missions, forcing the two of you into close proximity. It pissed you off. Didn’t he know that Logan hated you? Sure, you guys were supposed to be on a team where you worked together. But, that didn’t mean you had to like each other.

You distracted yourself with a lighter that you’d found, flicking the cap open and watching the flame dance before closing the lid and repeating the process.

“Put that down”. Logan said after the first couple flicks of the cap.

“Why?” You asked.

“Cause it’s mine, and I told you to.” Logan said, suddenly taking the lighter from your hands.

You scoffed. “Alright, sorry.” You crossed your arms and shifted away, turning to look out the window at the thick forest the van was parked in. You were only able to sit in silence for a few minutes before your overwhelming boredom made you speak again. “Where are they?”

Logan huffed. Why couldn’t you just be easy to deal with? “You think I know?”

A stake out was essentially what the two of you had been sent out to do. But, the people you were looking for were nowhere to be seen and it’d nearly been an hour since they were supposed to arrive.

“I’m getting bored.” You complained.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Logan seemed to be getting more agitated by the second.

“I didn’t ask you to do anything. I’m just saying I’m bored. This is boring.”

“Be bored in silence. Please.” He gritted out.

You sighed. “Or we could talk without arguing for once.”

“Not happening.”

God dammit, he was impossible. It was like every time you tried to lower the barrier that had formed between the two of you, it only got higher. You had to bite back a groan of frustration.

“Did I do something?” You finally asked, gathering the nerve to ask the question that had been on your mind for a while now. “Like, something to make you not like me?”

“Yeah, you joined the team.”

You took a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. “You’re such an asshole.” You mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Logan perked up a bit and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re an asshole, Logan.” You repeated. You didn’t care about how nice, or, cool, or calm and collected you sounded anymore. If he didn’t try to be civil, then why should you? “I’m fine with you not liking me. Honestly, I don’t care. But, it’s the fact that you make sure I know you don’t like me. You’re a fucking jerk, Logan!”

Logan’s eyes trailed over your body, gaze filled with judgement. “You’re not exactly a saint yourself, sweetheart.”

You scoffed. “Really? What have I ever done to you? How did I hurt you? Please, enlighten me. Tell me what I did that was so wrong, so that we can-“

“Why does it matter so much to you?!” He snapped.

“Don’t interrupt me, you asshole!”

The two of you began to scream at one another, voices getting louder and louder in an attempt to drown out the other’s, until the both of you finally ran out of the strength to continue, left in only the sounds of one another’s heavy breathing.

“Would you please just tell me….” You were still trying to catch your breath and had to pause. “Just tell me what I did that made you hate me? Please.”

Logan took a long pause and looked at you like he was searching for something. He finally spoke. “I don’t have to tell you any-“

“God dammit, Logan!” You grabbed him and practically pulled him over the center console. “What is wrong with you?!”

Logan didn’t respond, his eyes widened slightly at the sudden display of strength and his eyes flickered across your face. His expression was one you’d never seen on him before (let alone directed toward you). For once it wasn’t anger, or annoyance, or hatred (though, you could still see remnants of all of that etched into the crevices on his face); it was something softer.

You thought you were making things up, and for a long moment the two of you just stared at one another, both searching for something.

You were the first to break the silence.

“Logan, what’s the matter with you?”

He peeled his eyes away from you, seeming to try and harden his gaze again. “Don’t know….. You just-“ He huffed. “I just have…. Conflicting feelings about you, alright?” He said the words quickly as if maybe that way you wouldn’t hear them.

“Conflicting feelings?” You repeated. “Care to elaborate?”

He looked at you for another moment, gaze falling to your lips, instinctively your tongue darted out and wet your lips.

That’s when he dove forward and his lips crashed into yours. It was thrilling, rough, passionate, fiery. Everything you’d expect from a kiss with him. Logan groaned into the kiss, hands going to grip at your waist as yours tangled into his hair. He tried to get closer, grunting in frustration when the center console got in the way. Breaking the kiss for only a moment, he put his seat back. You quickly caught on and crawled over the center console, settling into his lap where Logan started kissing you again.

His large hands had a firm grip on your hips and he began to guide them, making you grind against his hardening cock. You broke the kiss, tilting your head back slightly as you let out a soft moan, and Logan took the opportunity to begin kissing your neck. One of his hands came up to the back of your head, tugging on your hair to make you tilt your head back more, giving him more access to the sensitive skin of your neck. You continued to move your hips against his while he kissed your neck, the soft moans and grunts coming from the two of you filling the car. You felt his teeth nip at your skin, he felt your nails dig into his shoulders; and the both of you seemed to simultaneously realize (though, it was impossible) how badly you wanted to leave marks on the other.

After that realization, it was like a switch had flipped and the both of you were now showing no hesitation in your rougher movements.

It only took a few more minutes before Logan lost his patience and pulled away only to practically growl the words “Get in the back.” And a moment later, the two of you had moved into the backseat of the van. From there, the two of you hardly wasted anymore time with foreplay. You tugged Logan’s shirt off of him and ran your hands over his now bare torso while Logan pushed your shirt and bra over your chest, taking a moment to squeeze and then slap one of your tits before practically tearing your pants off of your body. You fumbled with the button of his jeans and pulled his fly down and then Logan pulled his length out of his pants.

Fuck, his cock looked perfect.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, biting down on your shoulder as he slid into your already wet cunt. He groaned into your ear, his grip on your hips tightening as you cried his name.

The absurdity of this situation hadn’t sunk in yet. It hadn’t fully clicked for either of you, the strangeness of it all. But, as Logan began rutting into you in a pace so fast and desperate you’d think he’d been wanting this for years, you found yourself really not caring about how odd it was.

His breath was heavy against your hot skin as his hips kept up their rough, fast pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders and raked across the expanse of his back, leaving marks that immediately healed over.

“Feels so fucking good—“ He groaned. “Too fucking good.” His voice broke off into what almost sounded like a whimper.

You could hardly manage out any words, only hushed curses and cries of his name. Other than that, you could only moan helplessly.

Logan moved his head so that he could see your face. “Look at me, baby.” He said as one of his large hands moved to grab your jaw. “Fuck- I’ve wanted this for so long….” He shuddered and moved his grip from your jaw to your hair. “You know how many times—“ He groaned. “I’ve wanted to shut that pretty mouth up, wanted to bend you over and-“ He cut himself off with a shuddering moan. “Fuck, baby….” His head fell back into the crook of your neck as he panted. “M’gonna cum….”

You could only nod your head in response, a string of pleas and curses falling from your lips as your nails dug into his back. You weren’t far behind.

It only took a couple more thrusts from Logan for you to reach your climax. You threw your head back, crying out as your back arched. Logan gripped your hair to keep your head tilted back and he bit down on your shoulder. His thrusts became more sloppy, his breathing more labored. The moan he let out when he came was muffled by your skin.

For a moment, the car was only filled with the sounds of the both of you panting. When Logan pulled out, he practically collapsed on top of you with a deep sigh.

You chuckled breathlessly. “You alright, old man?”

Logan huffed, shooting you a glare. “Shut it, brat.”

For a moment you did go silent, catching your breath before speaking again. “How long have you wanted to do that?” You asked.

“Too long.” He replied gruffly. “Should’ve done something about it sooner.”

“Yeah?” You smiled. “Got a lot of time to make up for, huh?”

“Careful, doll.”

“Or what?” You asked. “Show me what you’ll do.”

And so he did.

[ickadori]

[cws] fem reader. violence -> sukuna beats up a coworker for you lol. fade to black noncon oral.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The dull sound of steel toed boots knocking against your wooden apartment floors come to a stop outside of your bedroom door. Your fingers pause over your keyboard as your stomach does a lurch, heart-rate quickening just a bit, and you save the essay you had been working on and close the lid of your Macbook.

“Ry..” Your voice dies out halfway through the call of his name, and you try again, getting no answer in return—no verbal one at least. The knob gives a quick turn and you flinch, and then there’s another thud, this one a bit lighter — a small thump of his boot against the door to push it open.

And there he is.

“Ryomen.”

“You left your front door open again.” His voice is rough, a slight drawl to it, almost lazy-like. “I told you about that.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” A crazy concept considering you’re a young woman living on your own, but you’ve had a lot on your mind the past few days, and your own safety was the last thing on your mind. Besides, Sukuna had showed his face around your complex a few times, and that was enough to deter most people from even looking in your direction for fear of getting his unwanted attention.

He chuffs and enters your room.

You look behind him to the darkly colored, boot-shaped spots that he’s left behind in his wake, and your teeth worry at your lip as you think about all the scrubbing you’ll have to do. He follows your gaze, head turning and angling down, and he clicks his tongue.

“What a mess.” He snickers, and you firmly press your lips together as he continues on, his steps slower this time, smaller, boots now leaving behind double the footprints because of his adjusted pace. What an asshole.

Now that he’s closer, you can make out the dark splatters of something on his jeans, along with the blooming bruises on his knuckles. The balls of your feet rest on the base of your desk chair, and you smooth your hands down the length of your thighs.

“Is it—are they…?” You trail off, not wanting to just outright ask it. You never liked to say it out loud after it was all said and done, yet you had never once struggled to get the words out whenever you first went to him, skin hot with anger and eyes sparkling with rage as you begged -demanded- that he do something about whoever it was that had managed to work you up so badly.

“Are they ‘dealt with’, as you so tenderly put it over the phone?” He finishes your question, fingers moving to lift the lid of your Macbook open. It hasn’t been closed long enough to require your password, and the black screens quickly flickers back on to display your half finished essay. “What’s this?”

“An assignment.” His finger makes a feint to tap at the delete button, and you yelp and quickly grab ahold of his hand with both of yours. “Please don’t do that.” The corner of his mouth quirks up as his eyes pointedly look at how you’re grabbing him, and you quickly let him go, thoughts of what those hands had likely did just a little while ago springing forth.

“I put ‘em in the hospital - nothing that’ll kill her, can’t say the same for her baby though.” Your stomach instantly sours, and a gasp forces its way out of your throat as you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“Baby?” You croak. “She was pre—” You can’t finish the sentence, a lump instantly forming in your throat as tears begin to blur your vision.

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.” Sukuna barks out a laugh and you pause, expression still fixed into one of abject horror. “Or maybe she was, who knows—‘s not like I gave the bitch a pregnancy test before I broke her jaw.”

“Okay, enough.” You stress, fearing that you’d dirty the rug underneath your feet with stomach acid if he didn’t stop talking soon. While you may have envisioned all the ways he would deal with your bitch of a coworker two days ago, your argument with the outspoken women still fresh in your mind, you were calmer now, reasonable, not hellbent on revenge and willing to make a deal with the devil incarnate to see it exacted.

You thought he’d scare her a little -it wouldn’t have taken much, just a quick flash of his impossibly sharp canines and the sight of those black lines marring his otherwise handsome face would have done the trick-, maybe just toss her around a bit and take her wallet, call her a few names and send her on her sad way.

“Don’t get all mushy now. This was your idea, remember? You called me.” He looks over the trinkets on your desk, touching things here and there and invading your personal space all the while. You breathe in and catch a whiff of your coworkers signature perfume on his jacket, a scent that you had grown to hate, and you scramble to get out of your seat, only for a heavy hand to push down on your shoulder and keep you in place.

You make a noise of confusion and look up at him, but he doesn’t bother glancing at you, suddenly engrossed in the sight of a tattered, mini plushie that you had received as a gift years ago as a child.

“Where are you trying to run off to?”

“I—your money. I-I was going to pay you, for…you know…like I usually do.” His hand slips from your shoulder to the front of your neck and you suck in a sharp breath through your nose, watching as he finally looks down his nose at you, his lips twisted in that ever present smirk.

“I never asked for your money.” You frown, fingers twitching to push his hand away from you, but you curl them into your palm and keep them on your thighs.

“But you said—” His hand tightens around your throat just a bit, and your hands fly up on instinct to grab ahold of his wrist.

“I said you’d have to pay me, yeah.” He sighs out through his nose. “Never said how you’d pay me though, now did I?” His hand that isn’t squeezing at your neck suddenly fists your hair at the root and harshly tugs it back, the pained noise you make quickly being choked down. He looms over you, and Gods, has he always been this terrifying? You had always been wary of him despite Yuji’s never ending defense of his older brother.

“He’s not a bad guy, baby, I swear. He just got mixed up in some stuff when he was younger and did a few years.”

“He’s not mean, he’s just…well, I guess he is mean. But he’s not that mean!”

“He actually likes you, believe it or not…yes, I know he keyed your car but it was only because you double parked in the driveway and he thought it was Megumi.”

A rough thumb brushes across your bottom lip, and you’ve known enough men to know the look he’s giving you. You bristle, and he subdues it with a squeeze that leaves you coughing and pushing at his stomach. He takes the opportunity to push two fingers, pointer and middle, into your mouth, and you gag when a metallic taste hits your tongue, eyes widening and feet moving to kick at his shins.

“I’ve been wondering how it’d feel to have my cock in here,” he squeezes again, fingers pushing a bit deeper, “wondering if you’re as good as Yuji says you are.” You shove at him harder, and just when you build up enough courage to snap your teeth down against his fingers, he pulls his hand back from your mouth. You suck in a gasp of air at the short reprieve, only to lose your breath once again when his hand moves to his buckle.

“Let’s see if you can take it.”

[devils-dares]

Super self indulgent buttt could I get some Carmy Fluff ! Maybe reader calls Carmy over for help with cleaning their apartment/needing help cooking due to executive function issues !! Or vise verse :)

thanks for getting me out of my slump, wrote this in one night :)

wordcount: 721

-----

You looked at the pile of laundry in the corner of your bedroom. Blinds closed, dirty sheets, cups and plates stacked in haphazard piles.

You haven’t taken care of yourself in days, evidence of it lay in the pimples that mar your face, and the smell of the perfume you wore into the office going rotten on your skin.

It’s time to call in the big guns, you think.

A phone call and fifteen minutes later, you hear clattering around your apartment. You sink further into your bed, embarrassment heating your cheeks, turning you red. A few windows open, and the chime of the washer rings across the apartment. You hear grumbling and movement in your kitchen, he’s looking for the lighter, the starter went out in the stove and you didn’t call to get it fixed yet. The pot scrapes against the metal grates of your stove, and you hear ingredients plonk into the water, he must be making a stew. The floor creaks under the weight of his steps, and he knocks on the door before he enters.

“Hey, Birdie.” Carmy says softly, seeing your back to the door. He straightens out piles of laundry and opens the shades just a little so he can get some light in. “Gonna warm the shower, then I’ll come get ya.” He leaves, and the pipes creak loudly before the showerhead shoots hot water.

He walks over to the kitchen to check the stew before coming to get you. He comes around the other side of the bed and smiles at you, brushing your matted hair out of your face. Extending his hand, Carmy waits for you to take it. The smile grows into a soft grin as your fingers tangle with his, and he pulls you out of bed.

“Look at ya, Birdie. So pretty.” You know he’s a liar, and he’s probably fighting off the recoil from your stench, but he lets nothing slip. You don’t speak, even as he strips you and puts you in the shower himself, or when he sits on the closed toilet lid instead of leaving the bathroom. You don’t dare speak when he tells you about the restaurant, and how he and Syd finally perfected that damn recipe. He doesn’t say anything when you shampoo thrice, or scrub til your body turns red. He doesn’t flinch when you sit under the stream of hot water for a while. He simply grabs your towel from the dryer and wraps you in it before wrapping your wet hair for you. He rubs lotion on your flaky skin and dresses you in soft clothes.

Carmy takes you to the couch, and you notice the first load in the washer is done, the blankets and pillow covers on the couch smelling like clean laundry and scent beads. He stirs the stew and then starts on your bedroom, stripping the mattress of your sheets before throwing those in the washer.

“Stew smells delicious.” You say, breaking your bout of silence since he’s been here. It’s a soft smile you get in return.

“Yeah? Michael’s recipe, called it ‘everything and the kitchen sink’.”

“Thank you, Carm.”

“Always, Birdie.” He clicks on your favorite movie, letting it distract you as he empties the dirty dishes from your room. You’re completely encapsulated in the film when he sits down next to you again, right in time for the ending. You lean forward in your seat, moving your mouth to the words said on-screen.

Carmy smiles. Your sheets were clean, clothes were in the wash. You’d showered and now you’d be eating soon. He did his job, and now he was going to dote on you relentlessly.

“You gotta go back?” You ask quietly, and he shakes his head.

“Syd and Richie can handle it. Marcus made these beautiful cakes, said he wants you ‘round to taste ‘em soon.” He says, making sure you’re thinking about the future and not wallowing in your current thoughts.

“I’ll be by.” You smile, and he can finally have some relief, you’re back in some capacity.

“I’ll tell him. Stew?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“Here, just a little longer.” You say, shifting to lay against him. The tips of his fingers get that excited tingle in them.

“Long as you need, Birdie. I’m here.”

[francixoxoxo]

Banana Pancakes ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜; 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐨𝐨𝐯𝐯𝐯𝐞𝐞𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!

Warm morning sunshine filtered through the thin chantilly lace curtains of your kitchen, bathing the room with natural light. The house was already filled with the cozy smell of batter cooking and fresh bananas, wafting straight to the bedroom. So it wasn’t any surprise that you heard bare feet padding into the kitchen shortly after you started making breakfast.

It was Billy’s first day off in a while, and you wanted to do something special for him. You knew how much he loved waking up to the smell of your cooking, so you woke up earlier than you would’ve liked, mixing all the ingredients you’d bought yesterday, and making what you were pretty damn sure were the best pancakes this side of the river.

Billy’s strong arms wrapped around your middle suddenly yet languidly, large hands splayed over your belly as he nosed the base of your neck. “Mornin’. Y’smell almost as good as the food, sweet thing.” You smiled fondly to yourself as he pressed a sweet kiss to your exposed skin. His voice was gruff from drowsiness, he was cuddly as ever for the same reason. His chest was bare against your chemise, infinitely warm.

“Mmm, morning.. almost as good?” You jested, relishing in the soft snort he gave.

“Did I say almost? Oh, sorry baby, I meant better than.” You could hear the sarcasm and the smile in his voice as he spoke against your neck. You couldn’t help giggling, flipping the pancakes in the skillet. Something about Billy’s presence just made you feel giddy— not nervous, but elated. Lighter on your feet.

He rested his chin on your shoulder, thumbs drawing lazy circles near your belly button. “Not that I’m complainin’ ’bout pancakes, but.. Why so early?” He gently pulled away from you to go grab a glass of water, not without turning your face with a strong hand on your chin and giving you a proper kiss.

“Well, I was hoping to surprise you.. Didn’t work so good, but s’alright.” You had begun cutting a banana into slices, your the smile lingering long after the kiss. Billy was so affectionate in the mornings, even more than usual if that could be possible.

Billy chuckled lightly, sipping from the glass but placing the rest on the counter for you. “M’ too light of a sleeper?”

You hummed in agreement, earning another snort and grin from your lover. He pecked your cheek with a content sigh, rubbing his dazzling blue eyes as he pulled away. When he opened them, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror over the counter. With a disapproving huff he moved closer, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Think I need a haircut.” Billy hummed, frowning as if upset with his appearance. He was right. His dark locks were almost past his brows.

“Yeah?” You knew he’d ask you to do it. You always had, he just got peace of mind knowing it was somebody he could trust wielding sharp scissors around his head. Not to mention that if any grooming of his could involve you, it would.

Billy nodded seriously, studying his dark, mussed hair. “You can cut it f’me, can’t you, baby?” His gaze met yours through the mirror, and a soft smile spread over his cheeks. “Breakfast can wait?”

You couldn’t stifle a grin of your own. “Eager, aren’t you?” But you were already making your way to the bathroom, Billy following after you. He shrugged.

“Just wanna get it done, yanno.” He hummed, sitting on the closed toilet lid and watching you rummage through the drawer for scissors and a comb. You weren’t a barber by any means, but you liked to think you’ve gotten quite good at cutting his hair. He always said so, but you knew he’d like it even if it wasn’t any good. If you’ve ever messed him up, he hadn’t noticed (which could’ve just been a testament to his raw handsomeness).

You slotted yourself between Billy’s spread legs, scissors and comb in hand, his large hands finding their home on your hips. He smiled up at you lazily, letting you turn his face with a hand on his chin. “Not too short.” He reminded you gently, making you roll your eyes.

“I wouldn’t make you look bad, Billy, I’m the one who’s gotta look at you.” You smirked, brushing down his hair with the comb getting to cutting. Billy smiled and laughed lightly, but stayed still for you. The sound of the scissors slicing through the dark strands was strangely satisfying, and the sight of your determined expression in the corner of his eyes had him entranced.

“Mm, don’t I know it..” Billy relished in the way you giggled, taking his chin and turning his face again to cut the hair that laid on his forehead. He hummed pleasantly, leaning his head back into your touch. His hands were warm on your hips, eyes closed blissfully as he relaxed under your skilled touch. It took all of his self-restraint not to pull you down on his lap.

"You're an expert at this, ain't you?" Billy drawled tiredly, a crooked, cheeky grin on his lips. “Makin’ sure I look presentable.”

“Oh, I’m just a natural.” You cooed, pausing to dash some of the cut hair off his bare shoulder. When you glanced up his expression was so tender and relaxed your heart ached.

"That's m’girl." A cocky smirk slipped onto his lips, calloused thumbs tracing small circles over your hips. He cracked one soft blue eye open, admiring the look of concentration on your face. “You’re good at everythin’ you do. N’ you look pretty doin’ it.”

You couldn’t resist a smile, leaning down to press a little peck to his cheek with a gratified hum before resuming trimming his hair. You lifted some of it with the comb, trying to cut it the way you’d seen through barbershop windows. But a strand of silver in the dark locks made you gasp. Billy didn’t dare move, but furrowed his brows. “What?”

“You’re turning gray.” You giggled, stepping to the side and gently pushing his head forward so you could cut the hair at the nape of his neck.

Billy huffed indignantly, the cold metal of the scissors against the skin of his neck soothing. “No way. I ain’t that old.”

“Well, you’re stressin’ yourself silver!” You finished up the haircut, setting down the scissors and comb on the sink and putting your hands on your hip. Billy sat up straight and grinned at you lopsided, his face lit perfectly with the soft morning light filtering through the small bathroom window.

He never thought he’d live to turn gray, but he knew where making such a joke with you would lead. “You’d still cut m’hair when it’s all gray, yeah sweet thing?” He drew you closer with firm, calloused hands on your hips, gently pulling you between his legs again. The way his soft blue eyes were fixed on you could’ve turned you into a puddle. You were already helpless, cooing, “Of course, baby.”

“Would you cut our kids’ hair?” Billy mused, his large hands squeezing you a bit. The beam and giggle that drew out of you filled his heart to the brim.

“I’d love to.” You breathed, twirling a lock of his hair between your fingers fondly. Why couldn’t every morning be this way? Why couldn’t your whole life with Billy be this way?

“And make them banana pancakes, too.” Billy added, pulling you into his lap, your legs across his thighs. You wrapped an arm around his shoulders. You gently brushed some loose hair from his neck and shoulders, humming in agreement.

“Definitely. Every mornin’ll be cozy.” Billy smiled at that, a gentle one that barely parted his lips over his teeth. His fingers traced lazy shapes into your back through your chemise, and you thought you clocked him spelling his name.

Neither of you addressed the idea that Billy might not live long enough to marry you, much less have children. Neither of you admitted your fears. Because you both knew that they were dangerously close to choking the other one and swallowing them whole. So you pressed a kiss filled with all the love you had to give on his cheek, then his lips, and murmured against them, “I love you.”

Billy shook his head a little, furrowing his brows and smiling as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. So obvious that you didn’t even need to breathe the words. That didn’t change how stupidly happy he got hearing you say them. “I love you.”

You’d stay true to your promises. You’d cut your babies’ hair. You’d make them pancakes in the morning. You’d sit on the porch with Billy, years from now, listening to him muse that he needed another haircut. And you’d never grow tired of sitting him down, scissors in hand, and giggling like children while you point out new grays adorning his dark locks. A trophy saying he lived long enough to enjoy this.

Ya’ll i promise ill make smth that isnt straight fluff!!! Lmfao if you have any angsty requests pleasee drop them in

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 ao3

When Robin and Eddie return to the trailer, Steve is still unconscious.

“Fuck, should we be worried that—how long can someone…?”

Eddie trails off, goes to check his watch reflexively before remembering that it’s stopped.

Robin shakes her head.

“This kinda thing happened, um. Before. I didn’t see much, but I… I don’t think… Billy Hargrove was completely—well. Steve had to, like, crash a car into him, and I, uh, sorta blacked out? For a bit of it? But he just walked it off, I think. Eventually. Billy, I mean. Like his body wasn’t fully… Like he didn’t really feel it.”

Eddie stares at her, reeling. A dozen thoughts scramble to be heard, many not helpful in the slightest—namely that Billy Hargrove stalked the basketball court like there was something seething within him every goddamn school day, so he can’t even imagine what that combined with the uncanny strength of The Mind Flayer would bring.

And the real major concern is—

“But Hargrove died.”

Robin looks up from where she’s been checking Steve’s head. Her fingertips are flecked with blood.

“He didn’t die from—he wasn’t killed by. By a person,” she says jerkily. “So we… we should be fine to…” She eyes the cistern lid, but her face drains of colour again.

Eddie exhales. “One problem at a time.”

He grabs Steve underneath the armpits, Robin holding his legs up.

They take him to the bedroom. Set him down, back leaning against the cabinet.

Eddie finds the handcuffs and gingerly attaches one end to a drawer handle, the other around Steve’s wrist.

Steve doesn’t even stir at the touch. His head lolls down unnaturally.

“They better not be the shitty plastic kind,” Robin says. “I’m not having him escape cause all you had was a Baby’s First Magic Set.”

Eddie’s startled into a weak chuckle.

“Excuse you, Buckley, these are the bona fide, genuine article.”

It had become a joke in the first place, actually keeping them. A year ago, maybe two. A girl from Loch Nora with a college boyfriend had either naively or intentionally thrown an open invite party—Eddie had only gone out of curiosity, wanting to see just how impressive the living space was.

He’d barely lasted an hour there, because a shithead of a ‘concerned’ neighbour called the cops on young people ‘loitering sinisterly’—as if their precious hydrangeas were in danger of being uprooted and sold.

Eddie got grouped in with a select lucky few accused of stealing. He hadn’t been, but he figured he might as well try and get something out of it. It was either Callahan’s wallet or his cuffs; Eddie picked the wrong pocket.

Now he thinks he actually lucked out, in a grim kind of way.

They take stock of everything they’ve got: lighter fluid; a couple space heaters discovered in the RV, another one found next to Wayne’s folding bed. A few bottles of alcohol along with cloths and spears. One walkie. Lighters.

Rope.

-

Nancy had left with Dustin in the RV. The plan had been for her to drop him off at the Creel House before returning to the Gate at the trailer.

But Eddie caught the steely glint in her eye as she readied herself in the driver’s seat.

Dustin sat by the table. He pinched his bottom lip between his fingers and tugged, harsh enough to draw blood. His hand was shaking.

Eddie couldn’t look at him.

He turned to Nancy.

“You’re not coming back,” he said in an undertone.

It was only once he’d spoken that he realised it didn’t come out as a question.

Nancy grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

“Going to another Gate. Where Fred…”

Eddie understood: it was a last-minute change that she alone was in control of. One that Steve didn’t know.

And if Steve didn’t know, then…

The engine rumbled into life.

Eddie got out—had one last look, hand on the door. There were tanks of gasoline wedged behind Nancy’s seat.

Dread chilled him. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t be alone. That when she burned it all down, she needed someone to pull her back lest she get caught in the flames, too.

He didn’t say any of that.

Because Nancy just looked at him with something close to sympathy, as if she could tell everything he was thinking; it was already clear that whatever he said, it wouldn’t make a difference.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

“Nancy. Be careful.”

She nodded. “You too.”

Eddie shut the door behind him.

He was halfway back to the porch when he realised that the RV hadn’t pulled away. He heard the door opening again, began to turn, and was almost bowled over by the force of Dustin’s hug.

“Hey,” he said softly, once he’d caught his breath.

He ruffled Dustin’s hair and then stopped near the end of the motion, kept his hand there. Just held him.

He didn’t say it was okay, because it wasn’t.

Dustin sniffed. He pulled back and finally looked Eddie right in the eye.

“We’ll get him back,” Dustin said.

His voice wavered in the middle. But his determination was much stronger than the falter had been.

Eddie put his hands on Dustin’s shoulders. Nodded.

It was obvious that when it came to Steve Harrington, Dustin would go to the ends of the earth for him. And here he was, doing the hardest thing in the world: leaving Steve behind.

Compared to everyone else, Eddie thought, his job was simple, really. All he had to do was prove Dustin’s trust in him.

-

Steve’s face twitches when Robin shuts the window.

Eddie watches closely, holding his breath.

One eye opens, barely a slit. Moves sluggishly before finding Eddie.

“Hi,” Steve says.

He sounds… normal.

“Hi,” Eddie echoes cautiously. “Are you—um. Are you…?”

He trails off, feeling immensely stupid. What was he even gonna ask? Are you okay? Like he honestly was expecting Steve to say, Oh, could be better, but the malevolent entity inside me is a fucking bummer, man.

“How’re you feeling?” he settles on, because Steve still hasn’t moved, at least seems in control, and Eddie’ll take any semblance of normality he can get.

“M’okay,” Steve says, after a pause.

He lifts his head up slightly, notices the handcuffs. Gives a faint nod of approval. With his free hand, he gestures vaguely to the back of his skull.

“Feels… distant. I dunno.”

“Good, uh, that’s good,” Eddie says conversationally, like that will take away the reality of what he’s currently doing: tying Steve’s legs together with rope.

Both of Steve’s eyes open, his gaze turns sharper, calculating, and Eddie tenses—

“Eddie,” Steve drawls. He sounds supremely unimpressed. He shifts his legs and the knot Eddie made goes slack. “Tighter, dude.” “Oh, I’m sorry, not of all of us got our Scout’s badge.”

“Here,” Robin says. She nudges Eddie out of the way and binds Steve’s legs; the knots don’t budge. She gives a half smile. “At least Starcourt was educational.”

Steve laughs through his nose, but he grimaces a bit, like something Robin’s said is distasteful.

She puts a hand on his knee, peers at him. “Still here,” she says.

It isn’t a question, but Steve answers anyway. “Still here.”

Robin ties his free hand to another drawer handle.

Eddie catches a glimpse while he’s turning on the heaters, and his stomach twists—unbidden, thinks of Christ on the cross.

Steve nods at the heaters. “Put ‘em closer.”

Eddie does. He keeps waiting for a change, ready to leap back, but it doesn’t come. The only difference is that the pulse point in Steve’s neck starts to jump rapidly when the heaters are tilted towards him, but even that’s nothing like before, nothing like the frenzy in the bathroom.

Eddie puts his palm in front of one of the grilles. It’s only just been turned on, sure, but he can’t help thinking that it’s not nearly strong enough.

He stands in front of Steve, Robin by his side.

No-one moves.

Then Robin speaks out the side of her mouth. “Should you still…?”

Her fingers curl, palm up, and Eddie realises that she’s mimicking fret positions.

“Yeah,” Steve says before Eddie can answer, and Robin jumps. “Should still work.” His cuffed hand twitches. “S’in… Vecna. Me. Not enough… can’t control bats, too. Not—not all of ‘em at once.”

His throat clicks as he swallows, like the words are getting stuck.

“Should follow. Like… like, um.” His eyes widen for a split second, as if in panic, before he swallows again and says, a little clearer, “Pied Piper.”

Eddie glances between Steve and Robin. “Okay,” he says eventually. He steps back while Robin remains where she is. “I’ll—”

“No,” Steve says, and this time the panic remains; he shakes his head urgently. “Not alone. Don’t—not alone with—with me.”

“Steve,” Robin says.

“No,” Steve repeats, and there’s a fierceness to the word—Eddie feels it thrum in his chest, and he somehow knows that it’s not from any unnatural force, that the power is being drawn from Steve alone.

“Buckley,” Eddie says reluctantly.

She squares her shoulders. Takes a step back, eyes never leaving Steve.

Something in Steve unwinds, relaxes. His head droops, almost like he’s falling asleep. A stark vein in his neck pulses.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.”

Robin pauses at the door. Her eyes dart to the heaters, then Eddie.

“Are they…?”

“Highest they’ll go,” Eddie says.

Robin bites her lip.

Eddie knows what she’s thinking: that Nancy said unbearable, and right now barely one corner of the room is being warmed.

“It just takes time to, uh, kick in,” Eddie says.

It doesn’t sound convincing—sounds like he’s free-falling, desperately searching for something to hang onto.

But Robin accepts it, Eddie thinks, because what choice does she have? What choice do any of them have?

“Eddie,” Steve says, just as Robin’s stepped out of the room.

“Yeah?”

Steve wets his lips. Swallows again. It looks painful.

“It’s gonna… make him mad.”

Fear seeps down Eddie’s spine.

“We’ll come back,” he says, because right now, it’s the only promise he can make. “We’re not leaving you alone.”

“S’okay,” Steve says. He’s starting to slur his words. “Better this way.”

-

They tumble through the Gate as quickly as they can, then immediately set up the trailer defences.

“We’re lucky this is here,” Eddie says when they’re done, as he picks his electric guitar off the wall, untouched by vines.

“Yeah,” Robin says. “Lucky…”

She abruptly gasps and runs from the room.

Eddie curses, follows her—flinging the guitar across his back.

But there’s nothing in the living room, no bats to fight—just Robin pulling something out from behind Wayne’s bed, laughing with a touch of hysteria.

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes, “you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Then he actually processes what he’s looking at. Robin’s brought out a space heater, a bulky kerosene-fuelled one, much larger than what they’d originally rustled up.

“But that—that broke last winter,” Eddie says, bewildered.

Robin doesn’t say anything, just turns it on. The effect is almost immediate compared to what they’ve been working with: the heater glows red-hot, and Eddie already feels the urge to take off his jacket.

“Eddie,” Robin says slowly. “It’s 1983.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says. He grabs her by the shoulders. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Robin turns the heater off, drags it to a point just underneath the Gate.

There’s a couple more treasures they manage to stash away: a match box found on the counter, thrown into a deep cooking pot Robin snatches from a cupboard.

“Oh, you mean business,” Eddie says. “That’s the good pot.”

Robin grins, and it makes Eddie’s heart ache—he knows what they’re doing, forcing smiles to hide their shaking hands.

“And what goddamn atrocity befalls it in the future?”

“That’s between me and God.”

They’re up on the roof, Robin crouched by the amp, when Eddie hears the Walkie crackle.

“Max is—bait’s still been taken,” comes Erica’s staticky voice.

“Uh, copy that,” Eddie says. “Sinclair. Henderson with you?”

A click.

“I’m here,” Dustin says quietly.

Eddie breathes out. “Good. Stick together.”

He sets the walkie down and yanks off his guitar pick. He thinks of Chrissy, her body contorting. Of Patrick, dragged from the water.

Steve’s hands clenched around the sink.

“Showtime, Buckley.”

The noise is explosive. It barely takes a few seconds for the bats to start coming; Eddie watches the horizon as his fingers fly over the strings.

Underneath everything, he can hear Robin counting out bars like she’s in band: One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four.

Prestissimo.

“Eddie, two more bars!”

He nods in acknowledgement. Feels his heart pound as if in time with the music.

“Now!”

They run. The bats circle dumbly round the roof, some clustered onto the still ringing amp, like moths drawn to light.

Pied Piper.

“Go, go, go!” Eddie urges.

It’s tricky getting the heater through, but they manage it between them, an awkward handover across the Gate.

And then Eddie’s falling, landing next to Robin, breathless. They sit up as one, give each other a speechless high five.

Robin moves first. But she stops midway to Eddie’s room—like a reversal of when he was first brought to a standstill, seeing Chrissy’s eyelids fluttering erratically.

“Eddie,” Robin says. “You—you closed the door, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, mouth dry.

He knows that for certain because as he shut the door, his last glimpse was of Steve leaning the back of his head against the cabinet drawers, eyes closed.

Now the door’s ajar.

Eddie strains to listen, but he can’t hear anything.

He feels Robin’s hand dart into his. He squeezes tight before letting go. She picks up the heater. He’s got the cooking pot under his arm.

Together, they open the door.

The space heaters they’d left are broken, cracked down the middle. The handcuffs are dangling from the drawer handle, pried open, the ropes frayed apart—and the whole room is littered with…

Shards of wood. Snapped strings.

Eddie’s guitars. They’re shattered beyond repair, the red of the Warlock mixed with the dark wood of the acoustic.

And there, backed into the far corner, is Steve.

He’s cradling his wrist to his chest—it looks badly broken. Even from here, Eddie can see evidence of splinters embedded in both hands.

But above all, what’s drawing Eddie’s attention is that his shirt is off, revealing the state of his stomach, the bandages shoddily ripped away. The wound is oozing slow, thick trickles of black and red.

Steve doesn’t seem aware that anyone’s entered the room, just mutters indecipherably to himself, hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

Eddie manages to set the pot down silently—takes one hesitant step forward, cringes when he jostles a piece of wood.

Steve’s head jerks up at the sound. He stares at Eddie, a crease in his forehead.

“Who’re you?”

Robin lets out a breath like she’s been punched in the stomach.

“It’s…” Eddie clears his throat. Stays as still as he can. “It’s me, man. It’s Eddie.”

Steve doesn’t reply.

More wood scatters across the floor—Robin stepping forward frantically, “Steve, it’s me, it’s—”

Eddie stops her with a touch to the back of her hand.

“Steve,” he says, digs deep to find a calm tone. “Who’s this?”

Steve’s jaw works.

“R… R…”

Robin’s face shatters.

She sets the heater down. Turns it on full blast.

“Robin!” Steve gasps. “Robin, it’s me, I’m still—Robin, Robin, please—”

Robin takes another step—“Careful,” Eddie whispers, heart in his throat—and forcibly shoves the heater across the room.

Steve tries to dodge it, but he’s not quick enough; the grille slams against his arm, and Eddie inhales sharply as the skin blisters an angry, weeping red.

Steve’s cries are piercing.

But they reach a peak than taper off into whimpers; he presses himself against the wall, curls his upper body around his blistered arm.

He starts to sob.

They have to get closer to hear, stepping into the circle of heat radiating from the grille, Eddie just behind Robin; sweat pools in the small of his back.

“No, no…”

It’s a dreadful whisper.

They crouch down. Slow.

It doesn’t look like Steve notices: his eyes are shut tight, lashes damp as he continues to plead, “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”

Eddie can’t blame Robin for what she does next.

It’s instinct—he’d seen it in his peripheral vision at the boathouse, her hand reaching out to comfort, like she couldn’t stop herself.

No, he can’t blame her. Because Steve is hurting, sobbing like his heart is going to break from it, and he’s right there.

Robin’s hand moves forward.

Eddie sees the moment Steve’s eyes open, cold and inhuman, and Christ, for a millisecond too long, he’d forgotten that they had stepped into the ring with a cobra.

“Robin,” Eddie warns, too late, as Steve’s hand seizes her wrist.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and it’s almost perfect, almost Steve’s gentle concern, but there’s something off in the inflection, a misplaced note—“I’m not killing you first.”

He twists Robin’s hand.

She doesn’t scream, doesn’t even try to move, like she’s holding her breath just to stay silent.

“I can…” Steve breathes in and out through his nose. Predatory. “I can feel her.”

“Who?” Robin says.

A vague noise rumbles from Steve’s chest, like he’s searching for a name again.

“N… Nancy,” he says eventually. “She’s dying,” he says, off-hand. “She can’t breathe.”

Eddie reaches behind. Feels carpet beneath his palm. Steve doesn’t track the movement, eyes fixed on Robin.

“She will be like… like her friend. She will know how it feels to die alone.”

Steve grunts, and then…

Eddie has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from making a sound; the skin around Steve’s stomach wound ripples, like there’s something bubbling up underneath, moving, alive, crawling up, up, up—mottled veins spreading, black as tar.

Eddie swallows back bile as his hand finds something solid. Wood.

He feels for the lighter in his pocket.

Steve leans towards Robin, baring his teeth.

“I will—”

Click.

“—consume her.”

The jagged piece of guitar burns in Eddie’s hand.

He throws it.

Sparks fly, land directly in Steve’s eyes, and he yells, lets go of Robin—with such an impact that she’s thrown across the room, landing slumped against the cabinet.

“Robin!”

But Eddie doesn’t have any time to help her, because there’s another click, a crackle, and the walkie comes to life, and it must be on accident because all he can hear is the sound of someone—Dustin and Erica—breathing quickly. Running.

Steve’s eyes narrow.

Eddie thinks of Dustin saying, “He knows where we are, he’ll know—”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses.

He tries, desperately, to turn the walkie off, but it suddenly feels like all the air leaves his lungs, and he’s pinned against the wall, Steve’s hand on his chest.

The walkie’s wedged between them. Steve’s somehow using his broken wrist to still Eddie’s hand, to keep the walkie turned on.

Eddie has no choice but to listen to what comes through the static.

It’s chaos. Heavy, frantic breathing; it’s like he can feel the kids clutching their sides as they run. In the distance, a car, the engine stopping. A door opens.

Jason Carver’s voice. “Did you see them?”

Behind Steve, Eddie spots Robin stirring.

Steve keeps staring down at the walkie.

An abrupt cry of pain, and another voice curses, says, “Shit, Jason, I think it’s broken.”

“El?” Dustin breathes.

Something in Steve’s face flickers, but Eddie’s too terrified to know what it means—tries and fails to turn the walkie off again, but he doesn’t even know what’s the right thing to do anymore. He just wants them to be okay, he just wants—

“Jason, no-one’s fucking there. You—you can’t even stand, I’m taking you to the hosp—”

A car door slamming shut. An engine starting up, fading…

Gone.

Dustin and Erica exhale shakily. Running again, footsteps pounding up the stairs, across floorboards…

The walkie cuts off.

Steve grits his teeth.

“Please,” Eddie whispers.

Robin’s up, moving so quietly—scooping the remnants of his guitars into the pot.

Another crackle.

“Eddie!” Dustin’s voice again, up close. “Max is—the music’s not working! I—I don’t know what to—”

There it is again: that flicker across Steve’s face. A ripple in a lake.

“Max,” he says.

The name cracks with emotion, and although his voice has been used before, an uncanny imitation, Eddie knows this is different, feels it in his gut; it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

The snick of a match being struck.

Steve’s head tilts ever so slightly, but he doesn’t turn around. Like he already knows Robin is right behind him.

Instead—

Steve pries the walkie out of Eddie’s hand. Presses down on the button. Inhales.

“Run.”

The walkie drops with a clatter. Behind them, the fierce roar of flames; Eddie’s face stings.

He can feel Steve’s grip on him loosening, feels himself sliding down the wall.

Steve’s eyes bore into his—and although dark veins have spread across the whites, like spider webs, Eddie can still see the slightest gleam of something real in them.

Something human.

Steve’s lips move, cracked and bleeding.

Now, he mouths.

“Robin!” Eddie yells.

Steve lets him go, and Eddie sees a flash of Robin throwing the entire contents of the pot over Steve, raining fire upon him; Eddie covers his face from the scorching heat, scrambling to get away, relying on touch alone, and his hand hits something, the crunch of plastic, fuck, the walkie—

He’s by the doorway, gasping for breath.

Awareness comes in stages: the fire’s gone out, charred remains of the guitars on the ground where Steve once stood; Robin’s there, her hands red raw, and she’s looking at something, what’s she…?

Steve.

Steve dragging himself across the floor, his broken wrist pressed against his stomach. Crawling to sit next to the space heater, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. Breathing.

Just breathing.

Then, so faintly, Eddie almost thinks he’s imagined it.

“Railroad… Snow Ball… Muppet.”

Steve thumps the back of his head against the wall with each word.

Robin goes to him.

Eddie can only watch. He feels like he’s staring at a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Despite everything, Robin reaches out with her hand again. She touches Steve’s knee gently, and Steve falls silent, stops hitting his head.

Robin smiles, tearful.

“You’ve—you’ve changed that song for me forever,” she says, choked up, and although Eddie can’t really understand, he senses the heart in it, the echoes of their story, of their love hitting him square in the chest.

“Do you remember,” Robin goes on, laughing through it, “the first time we were closing, and you—you got that whole bag of chocolate chips? Tore the corner and just, like, scarfed it. You looked like a chipmunk. It was—it was so gross. And you just said let’s see you do better, then. So we just kept eating them, and we had to pretend we had, like, a whole week where every order had chocolate chips just so we could get another shipment. You… you made me feel like I was five years old. That’s—that’s when I knew.” Robin takes a shuddering breath. Keeps smiling. “Right there. I wanted to be your friend.”

Steve just looks at her. He blinks, and a tear falls down his face, and Eddie can see it, like the sun briefly appearing through storm clouds, can see more of him breaking through, and for a moment, just a moment, there could be a chance, please, please…

Steve’s stomach spasms, and he groans, inhales short and sharp, twists away from Robin’s touch; the litany starts again, fever-slurred.

Eddie rediscovers the walkie. There’s cracks all through the plastic—it might not even work.

But Steve keens, pressing, pressing as blood flows through his fingers, as he trips up on the words, almost insensible now, and Eddie knows he has to take the risk.

His thumb pushes the button.

“Dustin,” he murmurs, “don’t tell me where you are. But if you’re—if you’re safe. Christ, please say you’re… Steve, he—he needs you.”

Silence.

Eddie closes his eyes.

“—safe. We’re all safe. I copy.”

Eddie thinks he laughs or something close to it. Maybe something else, too. He presses his forehead against the walkie. A benediction answered.

“Eddie?” Dustin says, and his speech keeps crackling, keeps threatening to cut out, but he’s there, he’s there.

Steve blinks, turns towards the sound of Dustin’s voice.

But Eddie’s not afraid this time.

“Railroad,” Steve repeats. Soft yet intentional, like he means it with everything he has left. “Railroad.”

Eddie passes the word on to Dustin. Waits.

Dustin takes a little while to figure it out—or maybe he solves it almost instantly, but here, time moves slow: just Robin and Eddie holding their breath, Steve only mouthing the words now. Barely there.

Dustin must push his button down mid-gasp, the words rushing out.

“That’s how we—that’s when everything—”

What follows is a garbled speech Eddie can barely make sense of, as static obscures every third word or so: about the junkyard and demodogs, and tunnels, and…

“D-different details, Henderson,” Eddie says with a choked laugh.

Fondness wells up; for a second it had felt like he was listening to Dustin in the middle of a campaign, on a tangent, and Eddie knows he just has to nudge him down the right path and then he’ll work it out, because the kid’s a goddamn genius.

“Stuff he can feel,” Eddie tries.

Steve looks at him, unblinking, and God he’s still in there, Eddie thinks, there’s so many thoughts, so much of him trapped beneath the surface.

So Dustin talks about Queen playing in Steve’s car, of how the fall leaves looked as they walked, of his shoelaces coming loose, and Steve getting down on his knees in exaggerated exasperation, you’re gonna fall flat on your face, dickhead, we’ve got enough going on.

Eddie takes the thread he’s been given, adds embellishments where he can—the crunch of leaves underfoot, the steady clunk of walking on the tracks, Dustin sometimes hurrying a little, just to match Steve’s stride—and as Steve finally blinks slowly, Eddie prays.

Can you feel it? Please go there. Go somewhere safe. Go somewhere it can’t find you. “What—what else did he say?” Robin says, when Steve lips stops moving, and his eyes close; he looks so tired. “Snow Ball?”

“Yeah, that’s—” Eddie pushes the walkie button again, so Dustin can hear. “Didn’t the Middle School have something… Did you do anything for it? Like put up decorations or…?”

Robin shakes her head.

Eddie furiously racks his brains for one detail, anything—curses himself for not paying attention, for shirking the ‘volunteering’ he was forced to do that December in lieu of detention; for viewing it all with a petty indifference, when for others, it must’ve meant so—

He releases the button.

“Did you say Snow Ball?” Dustin asks, before he launches into Steve shielding his eyes from hairspray, of the forest green gift bag his mom had passed into Steve’s hands, of Steve’s surprise, his shy smile—and then it’s Erica who takes over, calling over somewhere, “Lucas, remember when we came to pick you up?”

And the Sinclairs had stayed much longer than expected because Max’s folks were late in collecting her; and when Steve came to pick up Dustin, he’d noticed and stayed, too.

“He didn’t make a big thing of it,” Max says quietly, somewhere distant; Lucas adds that Steve opened up all his car doors so the tape he was playing could be heard: The Carpenters, some Christmas medley.

“He danced with Max,” Lucas says. “We were betting on how many times he could spin her in a row.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Eddie can hear Max’s eye roll. Her smile.

“And,” Erica says, “he actually enjoyed dad’s small talk. Like, he was fully hooked on mom and Uncle Jack’s gift wrapping contest.”

Eddie smiles, covers his mouth just in case a traitorous noise slips out. The kids sound happy, and he doesn’t want to ruin that for the world.

Steve’s eyes shine, almost like he’s thinking the same thing.

Sorry, he mouths. I’m sorry.

The walkie dies.

Steve groans again, pushing down on his stomach wound. He’s trying to hide it from view, Eddie realises.

Robin keeps reaching for him. “Steve, don’t—let me help. Please.”

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t—can’t hold it back.” His voice is rasping.

“I saw you,” Eddie says, and Robin glances at him. “Last year. At school.”

The memory comes to him all at once, sparked by the kids and the thought of Steve chatting in a parking lot, so at ease.

“I was pissed ‘cause I’d just flunked—doesn’t matter. Was walking it off outside, and you turned into the parking lot, windows down, and you looked so fucking pleased with yourself cause you’d already passed everything. You must’ve had a free period, maybe a double, I dunno. I was,” Eddie huffs self-deprecatingly, “jealous.”

Steve’s head slumps against the wall. His chest rises and falls rapidly, laden with sweat. Eddie tries not to look at the marks—where the burning pieces of wood struck his skin.

Steve’s eyes find his. One long blink.

Keep going.

“You—you were wearing these sunglasses,” Eddie says, and Robin sobs, laughs, like she knows exactly the pair he means. “And you—the radio was on, but I—I can’t remember what was—anyway, you were kinda. Singing. Or, like, humming to yourself. And you were walking to the middle school, you kept throwing your keys in the air. You caught ‘em every damn time.” Eddie chuckles. “Do you know how annoying that was? And I—I just kept watching, ‘till the bell rang, and I just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why you looked so… so happy. But I—” Eddie swallows. “I know now.”

Steve’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile—he’s trying, he’s trying.

“You were gonna go see the kids, huh?” Eddie says. “Surprise them or something, I don’t know. You can tell me later. Promise me? And you—” His voice threatens to go, but he pushes through it, because if there’s one thing Steve needs to hear, it’s this.

Just this.

“You were happy. Because you loved them,” Eddie whispers. “And they loved you.”

Steve breathes in.

And he rises up so suddenly that Robin falls back in alarm. He hits the space heater as he goes, and while it still blisters his skin, he doesn’t cringe away, more deliberately leans into it—

“Quick,” Steve mutters. “He’s mad, he’s mad, we don’t have much—”

And he lies down directly on the bed frame, his stomach still oozing that viscous black and red; Eddie’s stomach drops.

He feels strange, like his body already knows what’s coming before his mind’s caught up.

“Quick, quick—”

The smash of a bottle as Steve fumbles it, spilling alcohol on the floor—he tries again, reaches for lighter fluid and douses the whole bed frame in it.

“Robin,” he says, “Robin, please.”

She’s watching Steve’s every move with wide eyes; Eddie just looks on helplessly.

Fucking move.

“Robin!”

“Steve, I—” She shakes her head, uncomprehending—more like she doesn’t want to understand. “I don’t—”

Steve doubles over, picks something off the floor. Eddie’s distracted—stupid, stupid—watching in horror as more black veins spread up, across Steve’s shoulders, the strained muscles in his neck, and too late, he realises that Steve’s holding a lighter in his hand.

Click.

Steve drops it.

Sets the wooden slats ablaze.

He cries out, back arching—the flames lick higher, higher, and Robin’s screaming Steve’s name, running to him, like she can pull him from the flames…

There’s something else in Steve’s hand.

Robin’s trapped where she’s stood, a broken piece of glass to her neck—and Steve’s struggling against it, but his hand doesn’t move, as beads of blood dot Robin’s skin—

Eddie doesn’t know when it happened. Just knows that he’s holding a spear, and it’s on fire too, flames creeping up…

“Eddie!” Steve says. “Finish it!”

His skin writhes, contorting; Eddie thinks of Chrissy again, of Patrick—and a faint memory of Will Byers, vanishing without a trace.

It was you, Eddie thinks numbly. It was all you.

The glass presses closer still against Robin’s neck. She gasps—

And Steve begs.

“Kill me!”

The stomach wound heaves like a living creature, gaping and monstrous.

“Give him back, you son of a bitch,” Eddie breathes.

He lunges forward.

With all his strength, he digs the spear straight into Steve’s stomach; the flames surge, engulf—

Steve screams.

A black mass pours out of his mouth, and Eddie thinks he’s screaming, too, but he can’t hear anything, can’t hear anything but Steve, the torture in his voice, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and the mass hits him; he flies through the air, feels his head smack against something solid.

Then nothing.

He comes to in the living room. Blood dampens the back of his head.

Sits up. Blinks dazedly at the ceiling. The Gate… the Gate’s gone.

Bedroom. Has to… Steve, Robin. Bedroom.

He shoves himself up, wobbles. Forces himself on.

He knows he’s lost time when he nears the room: a chill hits him from the broken window, and the flames have been put out.

Robin. Robin kneeling by the bed, burns all up her arms.

“—open your eyes,” she’s saying. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

Eddie very deliberately doesn’t fully register who she’s talking to. If he does, he’ll freeze, useless. He will never forgive himself.

“Band lungs, Buckley,” he croaks, and then he falls beside her.

Starts compressions.

You’re not going, you’re not going. You’ve got so many people to see again. No. You’re not going.

He tries just to count out loud, but even as he’s doing it, something crumbles, something breaks apart irreparably inside of him, “Don’t you dare leave, don’t you…”

Robin. Two breaths.

“I wanna talk to you, Steve Harrington, and you’re gonna fucking be there to listen, do you understand, do you…”

He loses track of what he’s saying completely, lost to wilder and wilder promises, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except this, except the desperate push of his hands, the crack of Steve’s ribs, Robin’s long breaths; and God, Eddie would give anything, anything at all, would tear his fucking heart out if it would help, if it meant that Steve would—

“—just breathe!”

Something jolts underneath his fingers; for a moment, it destroys him: it’s back, it’s—

“That’s it,” Robin’s saying, “there, there, that’s—”

Eddie’s head sinks down to his knees.

Wretched coughs. Gasping.

“He can’t—Eddie, he can’t breathe.”

Eddie staggers over to the window. Makes the hole bigger, again and again. Glass slices through his palms.

“That’s better, huh?” Robin’s murmuring, and Eddie can’t look at her, can’t look at who’s in her arms; if he does, the proof will shatter, and that can’t… he has to…

The phone rings.

Eddie goes to it. His arm lifts, heavy and delayed. Like he’s in a dream.

On the other end, a terrified voice.

Mike. Mike Wheeler crying.

“Did it work?”

“I—” There’s a high-pitched ringing in Eddie’s ears; he shakes his head. “I don’t—”

“I-is Nancy there? Where’s Nancy?”

And there’s that gut feeling again, the one that pulled Eddie out of the RV in the first place; “Hang on,” he says to Mike, and he lets the phone fall, pushes the front door open to stand on the porch, breathing in shallow, frigid breaths.

There’s something coming out from behind the trees.

Closer and closer, and Eddie almost assumes the worst.

But it’s Nancy. There’s ash in her hair, and she’s drenched, coated in black sludge; her teeth flash as she smiles, a pocket knife gleaming in her hand.

“I made my own Gate,” she says.

Barely missing a beat, she tilts her head to the side to throw up. She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, spreads more thick tar across her face.

Underneath everything, there’s a scarlet ring around her throat.

“Your brother,” is all Eddie can get out.

Her eyes blaze white-hot.

“Mike,” she says, clutching the phone so tightly, like she would do the very same if she could hold his hand. “It’s gone, it’s all gone.” And then, louder, louder, trembling, “And whoever’s fucking listening on here, get us help. I know you’re there. I won’t stop. I won’t—”

Eddie knows she says more. She must do.

But he can’t stop staring down at his hands. At the blood.

He steps forward—almost sways, and Nancy catches his wrist.

“Don’t go outside without me. Don’t talk to anyone apart from us, Eddie. Okay? They won’t touch you. I won’t let them.”

Eddie thinks he manages a nod. He believes her. Her jaw quivers, but her head’s held up high: if a gun was pressed to her head, he knows the bullet wouldn’t take.

The phone call continues, but the sound is muffled, underwater.

Eddie comes back to himself in the bedroom doorway.

Robin’s still by the bed.

Steve’s lying there, eyes closed. His stomach’s still bleeding, slow, slow, but the veins have gone, they’ve…

“Eddie.” Robin reaches out a hand to him. “Come on. You… you can feel him breathing from here.”

Why don’t you hate me?

He should leave. He should leave.

He doesn’t deserve…

But Robin keeps reaching, and Eddie’s on his knees next to her, a coward, you’re a fucking coward.

“Here,” Robin says.

She guides Eddie’s hand. Places it on Steve’s sternum, above the awful wound, above all the pain Eddie caused—

There. A rise and fall.

Just breathing.

Eddie’s breath catches.

“I thought—” He shudders. “I thought I’d—”

Robin must sense it before he does, before he even really knows it’s happening.

“You’re okay,” she says, and she pulls him into her embrace—keeps one hand on Steve as she does.

Good, Eddie thinks. He needs to know you’re there. He shouldn’t be alone.

He turns his face into Robin’s shoulder, and weeps.

[torscrawls]

A Ghost by Any Other Name ch.3

You can read the whole story on AO3!

If you prefer tumblr: Chapter 1 can be found here. Chapter 2 can be found here.

---

Danny was big. Like seriously big, with a tall frame and wide shoulders, but Tim didn’t think he had been for very long. He still moved his body as if he wasn’t quite used to the size of it yet. Maybe Tim should have been intimidated, but he was too used to big enemies and siblings to really take notice. 

No, what he had taken notice of was the prosthesis making up the other's left arm. A prosthesis that Tim would bet his whole hidden stash of coffee in the Batcave was homemade, a fact that had spurred him to start talking with the guy when he had spotted him sitting alone at lunch.

A prosthesis that currently lay on the table between Tim and Danny where they sat in an otherwise empty room usually used for construction and prototype testing.

Tim hovered with his hands over the arm as he looked up at Danny and asked for the third time, “Are you sure?”

Danny nodded, straightening the liner covering his now exposed upper arm. “Yeah, man. I’ve been doing this solo ever since— well, since I got it. If you could help me work out some kinks that would be great!”

Tim let his hands fall to the prosthesis, tilting it this way and that to get a better look at it as he took in the patchwork of metal. He didn't have any trouble believing that no one else had worked on it as it was clearly cobbled together from whatever Danny had been able to find. The soldering was stable, but looked patchy from where it had been stretched thin to cover what it needed to.

It was an impressive piece of machinery to have been made by one person, even more so from what were clearly scrap-pieces, but if Tim was being honest the most impressive thing was that it moved at all.

Considering its weight, its many functions, and the length at which Danny could use it without charge, there was no known source that could possibly power it. 

Danny had given him some vague explanation of batteries, sustainable energy, self-sufficiency, and a whole lot of nonsensical buzzwords. Tim might not be an expert in prosthetics, but even he knew that it wasn't possible to have batteries big enough to sustain it for a whole day, and small enough to keep the arm as lightweight as it was.

“So,” Tim said as he placed the arm back on the table. “What do you need help with?”

Danny looked up from where he was fiddling with the fingers of the prosthesis. “I can’t get the thumb to move but I'm thinking of adding something to make the articulation of the fingers better, so if you have any ideas about that I would love to hear it.” He perked up, “Oh! I also need to make it lighter, I think, so that I can keep it on for the whole day. It’s starting to become too heavy for me.” Danny gave a strained laugh. “Not getting any younger, you know?”

Tim didn't buy the excuse of age, Danny wasn't old by any means and he certainly was big enough to be able to support the weight, but he had noted that Danny didn't use the arm every day. Which meant that there was another reason for it. 

“Is this related to your… Illness?” Tim asked carefully.

Danny didn’t answer. Which in itself was answer enough.

“Can I ask… What it is?”

He really didn’t want to pry, but maybe Danny didn’t seek out treatment because he lacked the money for it. If so, Tim found that he wanted to help. “If it’s a question of money, then I can—”

“It’s not,” Danny cut him off. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Alright.” Tim dropped the subject as he reached for a small, closed hatch at the underside of the arm. “What’s this part? The power source, right?”

He had just managed to get it open an inch, peeking inside to see something glowing green when Danny snapped the lid shut with a harsh, “Don't touch that.”

Tim held up his hand in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry.”

Danny kept his eyes narrowed and fixed on Tim a second longer, but then relaxed. “No, I'm sorry. I just—It feels personal, okay?”

“Hey, no worries. I get it,” Tim assured him, trying to curb his own curiosity by reminding himself to feel grateful that Danny had trusted him enough to let him work on the arm to begin with. “Thanks for letting me take a look at it.”

“I know it’s not much,” Danny said self-consciously.

It was, but Tim understood what he meant; understood the frustration of being restricted by material things. Tim would love to see what Danny could do with better materials, and there were some benefits to being the son of the richest guy in town. 

“I might have some materials lying around, if you're interested. And I might have an idea about that thumb.”

Danny's whole face lit up.

Tim realized that they were actually starting to become friends. Wish meant that there was only one thing he could do in this situation.

——

Tim scanned the results of the background check he had just completed on Danny.

He had come up clean. Almost too clean. But he also came from a small city in the middle of nowhere; maybe there hadn’t been that many opportunities to get into trouble in Amity Park.

Tim had found no signs that Danny was in any way out to get them, which was great since Tim really didn’t have the time and energy to fight some new villain pretending to be his work-friend and coffee-buddy. His heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

He did trust in Wayne Enterprise’s HR-department (and security department’s) ability to screen new employees but since he had started to run into Danny more often he wanted to investigate himself. But to his surprise, those accidental meetings seemed to just be actually accidental. So even if Tim had been burned one too many times, Danny was starting to look like an actually nice guy. No matter his big size, slightly uncanny looks, and cobbled together technology. The villains can’t get all the cool people, Tim thought smugly and found that he was more relieved than he wanted to admit that Danny had come up clean.

“A new friend?” Dick asked with a raised eyebrow and an infuriating smirk as he leaned over the back of Tim’s chair to get a better look at the screen.

“A colleague,” Tim corrected distractedly as he scanned the documents.

Danny almost seemed too perfect; a friend factory-made to suit Tim.

He liked coffee, he was witty, not afraid to tease him even though Tim was his boss, quick-witted, and had a big interest in technology and inventions. A fact that was proven in his work as well as his prosthetic arm.

In truth, Tim had already started to sneak Danny some projects under the table. Not bat-classed project, but… Maybe some personal things he had under development and would like a second pair of eyes on. And Danny’s insights had proven to be invaluable. Tim looked over his shoulder at the still-smirking Dick. Danny was also non-judgmental and non-infuriating, in contrast to certain other people that should not be named.

As if hearing his thoughts, Dick laughed and nudged his shoulder. “This is a thorough check for a colleague.”

Tim averted his eyes. Maybe it had been longer than he thought since he made a normal friend.

Dick smiled. “I’m glad it came up clean. You could really need some more friends.” 

Dick ignored Tim’s outraged “Hey!” as he scanned over the document before pausing with a frown. “Amity Park? Where's that?”

“No idea.” Tim clicked away on the computer. “Apparently a small town that mostly makes its living as a tourist trap. And their draw is…” Tim trailed off as he digested the last word before exclaiming, “Seriously?!”

Dick leaned in. “What?”

“Ghosts. The whole town claims to be haunted by ghosts.”

“Alright? That's eccentric, but it's not that strange.”

“No, it's just…” Tim dragged a hand through his hair. “It's the second time lately that ghosts have come up.”

And he really didn't want to associate Danny with the two lunatics from a couple of months ago.

“Well, maybe it’s a sign that you should change careers and become a ghost hunter! Can you imagine? A superhero ghosthunter!” Dick laughed and punched him in his shoulder.

Tim snorted and swatted at him. They were really lucky that ghosts weren't real.

——

Of course, after foolishly tempting fate, ghosts stayed not real for far shorter than Tim would have preferred. It wasn’t even a month later when his entire worldview reoriented itself (and really, he should be used to that by now) as that belief died and didn’t come back to life. Which seemed to be a rarity all of a sudden.

At first, they hadn't realized what they were; seemingly harmless and, most unsettlingly, impossible to catch. The blobby apparition had fazed through any and all containment devices they had tried to capture them in, and more often than not they hadn't even been able to touch them. None of their sensors worked, just spouting nonsense readings that fluctuated wildly.

The blobs were hard to handle but thankfully they weren't very destructive since they mostly caused confusion and some accidents brought on by gawking bystanders.They weren’t really attacking anyone—yet, the cynical part of Tim’s mind added—but they were causing enough of a panic to be a problem.

Thankfully, Gothamites generally knew to keep well away from new and unknown possible threats.

The real problem was that they had no idea what they were dealing with and no idea on how to make it go away, but overall Gotham’s green and glowing new decor didn’t really take president over all the daily attacks from both villains and normal criminals.

Tim had foolishly (once again, damn it Tim) believed that was it.

And then he got a message on his communicator masquerading as a cellphone summoning him to the cave for a new type of threat. Tim straightened up from where he had been sprawled over Danny's sagging armchair. “I'm sorry, I have to go. Something came up.”

“Oh?” Danny looked up, eyes immediately jumping from the video game on the TV to Tim. “You okay?”

Tim waved him off, feeling a bit guilty at the clear worry on his friend's face. “Yeah, yeah, nothing bad. Just… A family thing.”

Danny grimaced and Tim guessed he'd had his fair share of family things. He let go of the controller in his right hand, instead grabbing at his prosthetic left, rubbing at it as if in pain.

Tim got to his feet. “It was nice hanging out though. Same time next week?”

Danny's grimace immediately turned into a smile and even though it looked genuine, there was something strained at the corners. “Sure! Good luck with the family.”

There was real fear there, barely visible under the happiness. Tim reluctantly discarded the observation, reminding himself that his friend wasn't a mystery for him to solve. “Thanks. Good luck with the boss without me.”

Danny laughed and shucked a pillow at him. “As if your so-called skills make any difference.”

Tim ducked the soft projectile with a smile before leaving, mind already focusing on what new threat could have come up for him to be called in on one of his few nights off.

Said threat turned out to be an intangible, periodically invisible, glowing, and floating villain. All of those characteristics wouldn’t necessarily lead Tim to the conclusion that he was facing off against a ghost—Gotham was filled with a lot of weird people with even weirder powers—but what sealed the deal was the fact that this new villain just wouldn’t shut up about being one. The ghost of boxes, to be more specific.

Tim would say that he had higher hopes for his own afterlife, but who was he to judge?

And, sure, if that had been the end of it then maybe the easiest answer would have been that they were facing off against a man with very specific interests and an unfortunate chemical accident in his recent past (it had happened before, more than once) but now they were staring down a new villain every other week. All of them proudly proclaiming themselves to be ghosts, and all of them freaking every sensor and scan the Bats threw at them the fuck out.

So ghosts. Were apparently a thing.

Tim wished he was more surprised than he was.

So far, most ghost attacks would stop seemingly by themselves. The ghost in question would be mid-rant and mid-destruction, only for them to suddenly pause, eyes wide. Every time this happened, the ghost’s focus was directed at the group of innocent civilians unwisely trying to catch a glimpse of the action that always accumulated during attacks that weren't too destructive. Their leading theory was that the ghosts were simply scared of the living.

Which was lucky, because the ghosts were both frighteningly strong as well as too many for comfort. Tim was desperately looking for more dependable ways of combating them, but so far he had come up with nothing.

It was hard to fight an enemy you couldn't touch and they weren't used to feeling so powerless.

Which also meant that the small and round creatures that shared all the characteristics of the bigger ghosts, except for the fact that they were shaped more like jelly than people, were also—more than likely—ghosts. It had taken them a frankly embarrassing amount of time to reach that conclusion. Yes, Tim was well aware that Bruce was a world-known detective and that he himself was a genius. No, neither of them had mentioned this slow deduction to anyone.

All of this led up to Tim stumbling into work on a Wednesday, definitely late and definitely operating on way too little sleep. They had all stayed up late yesterday (or maybe it was today? It was hard to even think) facing off against a ghost that claimed to be able to control technology. Okay, facing off might have been an exaggeration. The truth of the matter was that they had ran. The risk of an unknown villain, someone with largely unknown powers and unknown motivations, getting into their tech had been enough of a threat to warrant a tactical retreat.

Which had proven to be a good choice since not even half an hour later there was an attack on their servers. And then another. And another. All of them seemingly from the same source. They had taken readings and scanned everything five times over, but the source of the attack seemed to adapt and change and move in a way that was almost… conscious.

Tim would swear off coffee forever if it turned out not to be the ghost that claimed to be able to control technology. They had been able to stay on top of the attacks but only barely, which was very worrying considering their top-of the line and frankly absurdly paranoid firewalls and assorted protections, as well as the fact that they had, well, Tim on their side.

He promised to never mock Bruce and his paranoid precautions again. At least for a week.

Thankfully they managed to contain the possible (probable) ghost in one of the computers stored in the basement by continuously upgrading and changing their fire walls. But this thing was learning and adapting faster than they could keep up with. It was only a matter of time before it broke out.

Too bad they had no idea who to reach out to. Or even where to start looking for a person who specialized in supernatural possession of computers. The science of ghost hunting didn’t exactly amass reputable scientists and inventors, or if it did, they were probably laying low so as to not get lumped in together with their more… eccentric colleagues. Understandably.

Which meant that trying to find a reputable expert on ghosts was as impossible as grabbing a hold of the ghosts themselves. But Tim knew that he would never be lucky enough for an expert to just stumble into his life, so they kept on searching.

So. No sleep. A whole work-day in front of him. If only he didn't have to keep up appearances. 

Tim tried to keep a brave face and go about his normal duties in his day job and nightly activities, but the threat hung heavy over his head. As well as the lack of sleep, but that didn’t feel as heroic.

Thankfully, his tiredness seemed to act as a homing beacon for his new friend and before he even sat down at his lunch table, Danny was there with two extra-large coffees.

Tim accepted one of them with teary eyes. “You’re a life-saver.”

Danny laughed. “At least I can keep you from joining me.”

And Danny did look tired. He always did.

He was holding his own coffee in his shaking right hand. Apparently the little tweaks and upgrades they had made on the arm hadn’t been enough to make it as reliable as he had wanted, if Danny chose not to use it. Instead it was hanging at his side, looking a little less cobbled together with a new top-plate and Tim felt happy knowing that Danny had taken him up on using the materials.

Tim had started to be able to anticipate what kind of day it was going to be just from how Danny held himself and today didn’t seem like a good one. He was still unsure of what exactly was wrong with his friend, but he was scared to ask again and risk offending him. Their relationship was still too new.

So Tim sipped his coffee and simply said, “I appreciate you keeping me alive.”

“We don’t need any more ghosts,” Danny muttered under his breath and took a sip from his own coffee.

The comment made Tim’s exhausted brain suddenly remember that Danny came from a town known for being haunted. It was a slim chance—since it probably was a cheap way of luring in tourists—but maybe Danny had some insights that could help them with the newly appeared ghosts. And especially the one trapped in the computer in the basement.

The only problem being that Danny had never revealed where he was from and Tim couldn't very well admit to doing a background check on him. That would probably ruin the mood since he was fairly certain that wasn't normal behavior between friends. Admittedly his perspective on what was normal or not was pretty skewed; something his siblings never hesitated to point out to him. Which was true, but they really didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to being normal. 

Tim made sure he sounded casual as he tapped the logo on his coffee cup and asked, “Hey, do they have Crabby Coffee where you’re from?”

Danny paused, something suspicious in his eyes. Then he smiled and asked in an almost casual tone of voice, “What, you don't believe I'm a local?”

Tim snorted. “You asked me if Arkham was an arcade just last week. Besides, you don’t have the right accent.”

“Fair,” Danny allowed with a shrug and a grin that was only slightly strained at the edges.

“So...?”

“I’m from Amity Park,” Danny said in a way that indicated that he didn’t like the fact, mumbling the last words as he looked away from Tim

Tim pretended to be surprised. “Amity? Never heard of it. Is it known for anything special?” And then he almost winced at his own clumsy and obvious fishing for information. Bruce would be so disappointed if he saw this. Okay, maybe he was more sleep-deprived than he thought.

It was lucky that Danny seemed distracted by some sort of inner conflict as he shuffled from foot to foot, not meeting Tim's gaze. “Well… It's a tourist thing…”

“Oh? Like what?” And now Tim was interested why Danny seemed so hesitant to share. Not a mystery, Tim reminded himself.

Danny deflated, looking defeated. “It's ghosts.” Then he switched to the overly-enthusiastic way of speaking inherent to all slogans, clearly mimicking some commercial, “Come on down to America's most haunted town! Guaranteed to scare the ghost right out of you!” and then in a fast paced mutter, “The city of Amity Park is not liable to retrieve any ghosts that decide to leave their bodies during your visit.”

Score.

“That's so cool!” Tim didn't even have to fake his interest as he asked, “Was it really? Haunted?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Danny hedged.

Tim gestured at Danny with his coffee cup. “I'm asking you.”

Danny paused with a worried frown on his face that he quickly tried to hide, looking at Tim intently as if he tried to work something out. Then he shook his head and simply said, “No.”

And it was the first time Tim had detected a lie from his new friend. Which meant that he did know something. Tim felt himself get excited at the prospect of a challenge, a mystery, and this time it was connected to their current problems which meant that it was fair game. He finally had a lead and he refused to let it go.

Why would Danny lie about his town being haunted? Was he scared of being made fun of? Didn’t he think that Tim would believe him? Ghosts was a rather eccentric thing for your town to be known for, maybe he had been ridiculed before.

Or maybe, a more jaded part of his brain supplied, he had been threatened to not say anything. Maybe he was hiding something.

Maybe Tim would have to show him some things related to ghosts and see how he reacted sooner rather than later.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It's not haunted.”

“Ah, so it's just a tourist trap, then? To make money?” Tim asked, trying to keep the excited interest out of his voice, trying to keep the conversation casual.

Danny wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, but it's nothing special. Just like any small town, you know?”

“Some people always take it a bit more seriously, right? There's always some believers,” Tim fished for more information. In every tourist attraction that claimed to be the home of Bigfoot or Mothman there was always someone who actually believed in what they were selling.

And if they believed, maybe they had some real information. Maybe even ways of combating them.

“Yeah, sure. There's those that believe and even—” Danny paused, swallowed, and then said, with real anger in his voice, “even some nut jobs that claim to study ghosts.”

Some people were studying ghosts? Tim made a mental note to look into them.

Danny cleared his throat as if embarrassed by his outburst and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Tim allowed the subject-change, not willing to push it and risk Danny suspecting him. “Haven’t you seen all the new villains on the news? They look kinda ghostly, don’t they?”

“Most newspapers write about them as if they’re a new kind of meta-humans.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Tim shrugged. “But I don’t think ghosts would be much stranger.”

“You’re not scared?” Danny asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Of course!” Tim laughed. “But I don’t see why they would be more dangerous just because they’re dead. If anything, that only shows that they’ve already been killed once!”

Danny smiled at that and Tim took it as a win. His new friend might not feel comfortable opening up about everything just yet, but at least he could show that he’s open to talking about it when he was.

[oristian]

PARTY MONSTER / HIGH FOR THIS

SUMMARY — Azriel teaches Gwyn how to smoke on a dirty frat house couch. (17+ RATING)

NOTE — (Re-uploaded after I fully finished) This is my first fan-fiction I have ever written, so I am not fully certain on the etiquette. The idea was supposed to just be a small scene, less than one-thousand words, but I had such an urge to finish it out. Let me know if you all would like to see a part two, or to flesh it out into a full-length fic! You can also find this on Archive of Our Own

WC / TAGS — 3,713. Stoner Azriel, Good Girl Gwyn, Modern AU, College AU, Exhibitionism, Mentions of Drugs

Azriel sprawled widely on the velvet couch, his long legs spread to where their knees were almost brushing. The heat radiating from the closeness of their bodies sent pinpricks and shivers down her spine.

He watched her lazily from his peripheral as he raised the end of the blunt to his lips, inhaled for five counts, and removed the joint from his full, red mouth. His lips pursed momentarily and then he settled back against the couch, parting his mouth and releasing the smoke into the dimly lit room—his eyelids fluttered closed with the exhalation. Gwyn observed him with a bated breath, her hands clenched into tight fists against her lap, and a buzzing numbness at the back of her head.

Azriel dangled his left arm over the back of the couch and reclined further back, the movement sending the end of his semi-cropped shirt riding up the expanse of his abdominals. The muscles flexed under the drawn-out stretch—a single vein disappearing into the waistband of his tight black jeans—and Gwyn drew her focus away quickly, her cheeks dampening with heating.

“You wanna hit?”

Gwyn tensed, her knees knocking together and her copper-brown hair flying over one bared shoulder as she met his unwavering stare. His hazel eyes were tinged pink and his lids low over the irises, his long lashes casting shadows against his deeply tanned cheekbones. He slowly tiled his chin downwards to the hand he had offered towards her, the blunt pinched between his thumb and index finger.

Gwyn swallowed slowly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Does it … taste funny?” From her vantage point, the blunt appeared to be a spit-wet piece of thick paper with ashes dusting one end—the smell alone had her nose wrinkling. She raised a single eyebrow in question, but leaned forward nonetheless, driven by the curiosity of the whole situation.

Azriel’s lips quirked upwards into a leisurely smirk. He raised his hand upwards and a bit more closer to her, a chuckle resonating lowly in his throat. Gwyn traced the movement of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed with the noise, her lips parting slightly and a dry feeling in the back of her mouth.

“Only one way to find out, Princess.”

Gwyn quirked an eyebrow at the underlying challenge lacing his tone, the amusement lilting his words. The smoke clung to his breath, brushing over her skin, as he scooted closer to her, their knees fully touching. “Here,” Azriel mumbled as he helped her steady the blunt between her fingers—the areas in which his fingertips brushed sent jolts down her arm. “It’s gonna be a real bitch ‘ya first time.” Gwyn felt a bubbling, “And what says this is just my first time?” in her throat, but she pushed it back down; there was no reason to lie, given the racing speed of her heart and the pooling of heat under her freckled skin.

“Raise it up to your li—good girl,” he said with a sly grin. Gwyn placed the damp end of the blunt against her mouth, looking over at Azriel for both reassurance and next steps. He sat up and reached for the lighter sitting precariously on the edge of the acrylic coffee table. He flicked open the metal tip and placed the open end against the burnt side of the joint. “When I light this,” he said, his hazel eyes boring into her teal, “inhale for as long as you can. Tap my thigh if it gets to be too much—just don’t drop it. It’ll burn like hell.” He rubbed a scarred thumb against one of her pale thighs, the digit sliding just under the stretch of her leather miniskirt. Gwyn was acutely aware of any place his skin met her’s.

Azriel glanced upwards under his lashes and Gwyn nodded tersely, beginning a countdown from ten in her mind as he flicked the lighter and ignited the joint. Gwyn inhaled for a count of two before her throat spasmed and a cough built in her chest. She quickly pushed Azriel away from her and turned her neck, coughing deeply into the crook of her elbow. Her eyes watered and her ears buzzed as she hacked sideways for a few seconds, gasping for breath at the end of it all. Gwyn reclined back against the couch and inhaled deeply, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. She felt a jerk beside her and glanced over at Azriel laughing into the palm of his hand, his shoulders moving with the effort. Gwyn sent a pointed glare his way and huffed as she crossed her arms around her torso. Azriel held up his hands in surrender.

“That was awful,” Gwyn grumbled, an embarrassing tinge pinkening her cheeks. Azriel rubbed his thumb over the head of the lighter, the blunt securely back between his fingers. After a breath he said, “I could help you. It would be easier than you trying it on your own.”

Gwyn sat upright as Azriel again scooted closer to her, their shoulders knocking together as he adjusted his weight on the sinking cushions. “I’ll take a hit,” he muttered slowly, raising a hand to move the stray strands of hair back from her face, “and all you have to do is sit pretty and open your mouth for me.” The lazy smirk pulled at his mouth once more and Gwyn felt her attention diverting to the swell of his bottom lip as it catches against his teeth. “Open my mouth?” She repeats as a whisper, as she leans ever so slightly into his bubble of space.

Azriel craned his neck to inhale from the blunt, then turned back to Gwyn. His lips were pressed together and his right hand slid under her jaw, turning her neck just the way he needed it—his fingers tangled in her long coppery hair. As he leaned inwards, Gwyn parted her lips, her eyelids fluttering closed, her hand reaching to brace against his broad shoulder.

His upper lip nudged hers, prying her mouth wider as he angled his head down. His scent of fresh cedar and burnt ash was intoxicating, grounding her more than the smoke ever could. The hand resting against the jut of her hipbone gingerly traced upwards, venturing under the hem of her shirt, his palm flattening on the lowermost part of her waist. His deft fingers traced the constellation of freckles that mapped the expanse of her back, a singe of fire following in his wake.

The hand gripping the back of her neck eased, traveling down the length of her arm and lifting her pliant wrist onto his muscular upper thigh. Azriel used his index finger to tap three times atop the back of her hand, as if to indicate for Gwyn to use his leg as leverage if it became too much for her. His hand returned again to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing small circles against the edge of her jawline.

His breath tasted like smoke and mint, his mouth moist from the charged mingling of the air between them. His lips pressed firmly against her own, the grip he had on her neck tensing as he pulled her closer into his body—so close that Gwyn could feel his heartbeat fluttering atop her own.

His mouth flattened against hers, and he languidly moved their lips together. Gwyn swallowed the smoke pooling in the back of her throat, a soft whine breaching up and through their kiss.

“M’gonna use my tongue,” Azriel mumbled against her mouth, his breath fanning over her swollen lips. Gwyn nodded slowly, her head spinning; she was not certain if it was from the high, or from being bracketed within his scorching embrace. True to his word, both of his scarred hands gripped either side of her jaw, angling her head up towards him, and his tongue gingerly entered into her mouth. He explored her slowly, tasting her, before he urged her to respond to his ministration.

Gwyn fisted the front of his shirt, her long nails dragging against the fabric. Azriel teased his hands down the length of his body—stopping every so often to rub his fingers over her exposed, overheated skin—until he gripped the back of her thighs and hoisted her up onto his lap. Gwyn yelped, the movement jolting their lips apart momentarily and she focused blearily on the man beneath her.

“You still with me, Princess?”

Her gaze was heavy and clouded, and a limitless sort of weightlessness settled from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “Yeah,” she managed to mumble, though her tongue was weighed down in her mouth. The dryness in the bottom of her throat was steadily creeping upwards, and Gwyn instead leaned forward to capture his lips once more. Azriel hummed appreciatively at her forwardness, hands grabbing at her waist and pulling her flush against him. Her miniskirt raked up her thighs, the seams bunched and the fabric stretching as she was spread for him.

Something swelled underneath her and every brush of her against it had a low groan resonating in Azriel’s chest. His hazel eyes had darkened into dark, blown-wide pupils as he watched her atop him, his gaze steady and intense. His hands dropped from her waist to fist handfuls of her backside, grinding her down right where he needed her—moving her body effortlessly while his mouth claimed her from the inside out.

“Azriel,” Gwyn breathed as his lips trailed from her mouth, licking into the seam once more, and down the expanse of her neck, “someone is going to s-see.”

His teeth dragged against her skin, cresting upwards until they closed around her earlobe, tugging it into his mouth. “Let them,” he murmured, the warmth from his breath sending a cascade of goosebumps down her back and arms.

Gwyn settled her fingers atop his shoulders, the pale, freckled skin of her hands a stark contrast to the deep, sun-kissed wash of him. Her hands travelled up his neck, running along the black studs in his ears, and up into his tousled dark curls. Her fingers knotted in his hair and she positioned his head against her pulse point—his lips parted and his canine scratched against the spot where her neck met her ear.

“Please,” Gwyn rasped, arching her back, the swell of her breasts flush with his broad chest.

Azriel ground upwards against the center of her, every brush of connection sending prickles of pleasure jolting up her spine. His hips rolled languidly, his legs spread wide; his shirt had rolled further up his torso, his toned muscles flexing with each punctuated thrust against her.

He chuckled at her quiet gasps and the uneven drag of breath as his teeth continued to trail down her throat and back up to her jaw; he turned her head and kissed her jawline, biting softly into the skin. “You taste so good,” Azriel hummed against her ear, brushing her hair back as his lips connected once more with her neck. “So good, just for me. My good girl.”

Gwyn felt her mind steadily becoming assaulted by him—his hands as they held her, the thick of him as it pressed against her, his every word deepening as his tone grew heavier with his arousal, the soft curls under her fingers, him. His mouth had unleashed a wildfire deep within her gut, and every passing second fanned the heat, burning her with an overwhelming intensity. Gwyn felt as if she could erupt at any moment—her only tether being the grip of his fingers pressing her down atop him, and the zipper of his jeans cool against her inner thigh.

Azriel pulled his sinful mouth back from her neck, adjusting himself as he maneuvered upright. His hand resting on her lower back held Gwyn securely in his lap, his knees knocking her legs wider to fully straddle his waist. Gwyn glanced over her shoulder as he reached for the half-used blunt and lighter from where they perched on the edge of the table. Azriel settled back against the couch, the torn upholstery tickling his flesh, and tugged his lips into a lazy smirk. “Light it for me?”

Taking the blunt between his teeth, Azriel gripped her wrist and urged her fingers to unravel from its fist, placing the lighter atop her palm. His large hand encompassed hers, raising them up towards his face, and steadied the lighter under the burnt tip of the joint. Gwyn flicked the metal top open, then pressed down on the flat piece jutting out from the side. Azriel leaned forward, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. As he settled back, his eyelids rose slowly and a content grin formed on his lips as he exhaled.

Gwyn’s eyes tracked his tongue as it traced along his plump bottom lip, wetting it, then disappearing back into his mouth.

“Can I hit again?”

Azriel quirked a brow. Gwyn took her lower lip in between her teeth, biting down and then rolling it. “You sure, Princess?” The challenge was palpable in his tone, the amusement gleaming in his hazel eyes—testing her. With a slight huff and narrowed brows over her teal eyes, Gwyn reached for his arm and dragged his hand still holding the blunt to her mouth, pressing her lips firmly over the damp end of the joint.

“Don’t hurt yourself, baby. Careful.” Azriel reassuringly rubbed alongside her thigh, his knuckles brushing her skin tenderly. Gwyn counted backwards from five, inhaling deeply as the smoke filled her lungs. She pulled the blunt from her lips and held her mouth firm, relishing in the burnt itch at the back of her throat. “Yeah, just like that,” Azriel mumbled, his fingers dancing under the hitched hem of her skirt, tracing the edge of her panties, “you’re taking it so well.”

Gwyn felt her eyelids grow heavy as she parted her lips, the smoke fanning over Azriel’s face and disappearing into the shadows that danced above them. Her head lolled to the side, the effort to hold it upright suddenly too exerting. Azriel cradled a hand against the side of her face, rubbing his thumb along her cheek.

“You’re gone, baby,” Azriel chuckled lowly, brushing the copper hairs back from covering her face.

Gwyn eased into the hand on her face, reaching upwards to twine her fingers in between his. “No,” she giggled, scrunching her nose, “m’right here.” The silver rings stacked on his middle and ring fingers were a cold contrast to the warmth of his palm and she signed contentedly, nuzzling her face further into his careful hold.

Azriel felt something spark in his chest at the sight of the woman sitting atop his lap, the dopey grin pulling at her full, pink lips, but nudged the feeling further down deep inside of him. He bit down on his bottom lip, tugging it inside of his mouth, as he muttered, “Where are you right now, Princess?”

“In your arms.”

Gwyn carried their joined fingers down to her waist, placing his hand on the jut of skin between the clinch of her miniskirt and the hem of her blouse. Her hands returned to his shoulders, trailing downwards until they were firm against his pectorals; she could feel the poke of his hardened nipples under her palms. Using his chest as leverage, she experimentally rolled her hips lower against him. “On your lap,” she said as she lifted her hips and dropped them down, creating a steady rhythm of movement—his hand on her waist clenched and unclenched, dragging her body down tighter against him, grinding slow and dirty below her.

Brushing her hair back and over the cleft of her ear, she leaned down and pressed her mouth once more against his. Their lips moved as if some insatiable ravenousness possessed them—teeth nipping at skin, tongues caressing, dribbles of spit wetting their chins, and the same smoke and mint taste of him numbing her. Gwyn flicked her tongue upwards, stroking the roof of his mouth, and Azriel groaned soundly, the noise vibrating under her chest.

Her lips trailed from his mouth, down his angular jawline, and across the wide expanse of his neck. His skin tasted like leather and sweat, a tinge of something sweet and citrus just under the surface. Azriel’s pulse raced under the movement of her tongue, and she traced the tendon, relishing in the throbbing of it against her teeth. Gwyn nibbled on his flesh, spit-soaked red bite marks and smeared lipstick coloring his neck. He twitched under her and Gwyn reached a hand back behind her, her nails tracing the ridges of him under the tightness of his jeans, and held him in place as she ground down.

“Making you feel good.”

Gwyn carded her fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and brought her mouth to the shell of his ear, “Do you feel good?”

Azriel swept his nimble fingers from the cleft of her knee, rounding the uppermost portion of her leg, and trailing a careful wake of pinpricks and goosebumps along her inner thigh. “Fuck yes,” he rasped, the hand that had been resting against her waist snaking up into her hair, taking a fistful between his fingers, tugging her head back, exposing the line of her throat. Gwyn gasped wetly, eyes rolling back into her skull. “So good, baby.”

Gwyn felt every nerve rapt with searing wanton interest, the cascade of his hands on her body an unheard symphony ricocheting through her very center. Wrapping his hands around her middle, Azriel repositioned the weight of her body to straddle one of his muscular thighs, her sensitive core brushing against the denim of his jeans.

“Ride my thigh,” he instructed, spreading his legs wider to accommodate her.

Gwyn jutted forward, knocking her head backwards and shuddering at the rough sensation of his jeans and the delicious friction between her legs. She grinds and circles her hips down against him, her miniskirt hiking further up her thighs, a tight heat coiling low in her abdomen. “Yeah, baby,” Azriel groans, sliding his hands further up her inner thigh and slipping his thumb under the scalloped end of her panties, “take what you need, just like that.” Two of his long fingers slid over her closed center, rubbing slow circles against her tight bundle of nerves, and Gwyn’s hips stuttered at the pressure.

“Don’t stop,” she whined, gripping his corded forearm in both hands and holding him in place, canting her hips down and against his fingers, chasing a far-off release.

Gwyn slumps forward, resting her forehead against his and bites down on her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth to quell the whimpers and moans that were building low in her throat. Her pulse thuds behind her ears, a deafening throbbing that pairs with the way in which her blood, her very being, sings for the man beneath her. She chases the need for pleasure, riding his fingers with a senseless sort of reckless abandon.

“Are you close, baby?” His breath fans over the side of her face, tickling the shell of her ear, blanketing her in the same potent smoke scent that circumscribes his very self. “Yes,” Gwyn sighs, her eyes glazed and unfocused, her breath ragged.

She digs her nails into his bicep as his pace hastens, his fingers unrelenting and oh so very talented as Azriel takes her to places she has only ever read about. She felt as if she was cresting a wave, the current drawing her back and forth against the hightide, and the storm threatening beneath the surface would pull her under, succumbing to her downfall. He would be her downfall, if she so allowed him to be. If she dared.

His mouth returned to her throat, lapping at the beads of sweat that trailed down her jaw and pooled in the crevice between her neck and shoulder. Azriel took his time in tasting her, savoring her, as if he was committing each freckle, each press of his lips against her skin to memory. He was deliberate in each place he so chose to leave the indentation of his teeth, marking her, claiming her. Each pass of his mouth unraveled her further, taking her apart piece-by-piece and constructing her anew all at once.

Azriel licks a line up the side of her neck and draws his mouth to her ear, “Come for me, baby.”

The tight coil in her gut untangles, snapping any sense of resolve that may have tethered her, the brewing storm beneath her skin erupting with a ferocity that was foreign to her. Gwyn heaves, whining, her hips grounding against his hand, her vision whitening and every nerve ending a static wave wherever their skin was flush. She was present, but somewhere else entirely at the same moment—her mind ever consumed by him.

Her head drops down to his shoulder, her body trembling and a budding soreness washing over her lower back, waist, and thighs. Azriel grips her chin and turns her face towards him, his hazel eyes boring into her own as he brings his hand to his mouth. His tongue rolls over each pad of his fingers, sucking on the digits—humming as he feasted on her residue, tasting her. “Delicious,” he mutters, as if a man starved. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Gwyn feels the length of him twitch against her knee and a sense of worry closes around her throat. She had been so insistent on her own pleasure that she had forgotten that he would also need the same sense of release. She made a move to ground her knee onto him, only for Azriel to lift her fully off of his lap and back onto the sunken couch cushion. Gwyn felt a pang of hurt resonate in her chest, constricting her, only for him to drape his leather jacket around her shoulders, pulling her back into his bubble of space once more. “S’okay,” he reassured, reaching behind to tug her copper hair out of the puffed collar and back behind her ears, tracing the pink that dusted the highest points of her cheekbones.

“Wanna get outta here, Princess?”

[daisies-daydreams]

Under the Desk (John Price x F!Reader)

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader Category: Smut (18+) Warnings: Oral Sex (M!Receiving), Semi-Public Sex, Swearing, Spanking, Hair Pulling Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Just a little something I wrote while I'm working on a few requests. 👅💦

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

You squealed as you wrapped your arms around Price's thick neck. A small squelch erupted from your lips as he thrusted his tongue inside of your mouth. A small jolt of electricity shot through you as your clothed sex bushed against his stiffening cock. The action earned you an eager squeeze to your bum, your boyfriend’s hand kneading the flesh in his rough palms. Price parted lips with you, his chest heaving as he gazed at you with blown pupils.

“Get under the desk, sweet girl. You know what to do,” Price rumbled, his wet lips dancing over yours. You nodded, your hands trailing down his t-shirt as he pulled back in his office chair. You gave a harsh grind of your hips one more time, savoring how he gasped at the friction. You slowly slid off of his lap, maintaining eye contact the whole trip down. Price stared at you through half-lidded eyes as you shuffled onto your knees, your hands working at his belt.

Price pulled out one of the desk drawers and fished a fresh cigar out. He flinched when your fingers slowly pulled down the elastic of his blue boxers. His hard cock jumped out of his pants, the red tip dripping with precum. You licked your lips, taking his burning hot shaft into one of your hands as you pumped it slowly. Price grunted as he flicked his lighter, setting the tip of his cigar ablaze. He puffed at it a few times before releasing a stream of smoke from his nostrils.

“That’s a good girl,” Price praised as you continued to stroke up and down his length. He inhaled another drag of smoke, only to nearly choke on it when you kissed the tip of his cock. “Bloody fuck,” he groaned when you swirled your warm tongue around his plump, bulbous head. His balls ached as you worked your hands in tandem with your tongue. You raised his dick before licking a stripe from the base all the way up to his leaking tip.

“Fuck, lovie,” Price grunted as he shallowly bucked his hips. You sighed and closed your eyes as he slid his hand down to your head, threading his fingers through your hair. He puffed at his cigar again as he massaged at your scalp.

You moaned around his cock, taking it an inch deeper into your wet cavern. You let your hands fall to his inner thighs as you shifted closer, allowing him to sink in even further.

“That’s right-use your mouth just the way I like,” he rumbled, billows of smoke pouring past his lips. You suckled around his dick before starting to pull your head back, leaving his head between your lips. Price released a subtle moan as you bobbed your head across his length, his cock stuffing your mouth full. His fingers began to grip at your hair as you used your tongue to smooth over the vein on the underside of his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-“ he grunted. Price quickly set his cigar in his ashtray as you watched the resolve slip from him. His free hand clutched at the arm of his desk chair while he used his other to guide your head up and down his shaft. You repressed the urge to gag as his cock began to hit the back of your throat.

“Mmm, love how your lips wrap around me, baby,” Price swallowed thickly. You squeaked when he thrusted his hips into your mouth, his cock nearly splitting your jaw apart. Tears pricked at your eyes as your fingers raked down his pants.

“Shit-gonna cum,” Price growled, his cock twitching inside your wet cavern. Your eyes opened to look up at him and his face scrunched up.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Captain? Mind if I have a word real quick? It’s urgent," Gaz spoke from the other side of the door.

Price’s head whipped forward before looking down to you. You reflected his gaze of panic, his cock still lodged deep in your throat. Your love’s breathing stuttered as he pushed himself forward.

“Not a sound, bird,” he demanded softly as he scooted you beneath the desk. You nodded as Price straightened his clothes out. He sighed as he held his hands on his desk.

“Come in!” he called. Gaz opened the door, his brows instantly knitting when he saw the Captain's red face.

“You alright, Price? Look a bit feverish,” Gaz stated as he approached the desk. Your heart thrummed against your sternum as you felt some of his precum slide down your throat. Your mind was swimming with arousal, numb to any consequence of being caught. You fluttered your eyes closed as you cracked a wry grin.

“Ah, well, I’m not faring too well-Gaz,” his voice strained as you hollowed your cheeks around his cock. Price's hands squeezed together, his knuckles turning whiter by the second as you swiped your tongue against a prominent vein. Gaz raised a brow, his eyes scanning his Captain.

“Right. Well, there’s some important news from Las Almas,” Gaz stated. Price kept his hands tightly wound together and nodded as Gaz explained the most recent report given by Alejandro. You shallowly drove your mouth up and down his length, careful to not make too many wet sounds. Price’s hands tightened around each other every so often. His left eye twitched whenever his sensitive tip tapped the back of your throat. Gaz paused.

“You sure you’re alright, Price?” the Sergeant asked. Price nodded and gritted his teeth as you deftly massaged his heavy balls with one of your hands.

“I’m fine, Sergeant,” he seethed as you stroked your thumb across his raphe. His hand slipped down to the arm of his chair, grasping at his as Gaz finished his conversation. Your eyes widened as Price snatched your hair, squeezing his fingers around it roughly. You didn't cease your ministrations as Gaz saluted and saw himself out. You released his dick from your mouth, smiling up at him.

"Little minx," Price huffed. You squeaked as he shoved his cock far down your throat, using your hair to guide you along his thick shaft.

“Think it’d be funny to make me cum in front of one of my men, hm?” he asked. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks as he relentlessly drove himself into your mouth, each squelch louder than the last. He groaned as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your walls clenching around nothing.

“You're gonna take all my cum like a good girl,” Price grunted when he gave a few more hungry thrusts. He bit his other hand as he stiffened, his cock twitching over your tongue. Your moans were muffled as he came down your throat.

"(Y/N)..." he slurred as you felt the warmth drip down your esophagus.

He panted before shifting his gaze down. You looked up at him with wet doe eyes as he kept your hair in a tight grip. You felt the tension in your throat loosen as he slid you off of his cock. You gasped and sputtered for air, some of his cum dripping down the corner of your mouth. Price clicked his tongue before swiping at the drop and shoving his fingers between your parted lips. You clamped your mouth down and swirled your tongue around his fingers, suckling his spend greedily.

“Fuck-look at you,” he groaned as his chest heaved. You whined as he withdrew his long digit, wiping it on his pants leg. You rested your cheek on his inner thigh, your hips wagging like a dogs. Price patted your head before rolling back in his chair.

You blinked as he nodded his head towards the desk.

“Come up here,” Price softly commanded as he curled his finger. You quickly bounded up, squeezing your thighs together as you stood in front of him. The Captain hummed, a dangerous glint in his eye as he rose from his chair. He splayed his hands over your hips before leaning his face down to your ear. You yelped when he laid a sharp smack across ass, the flesh instantly stinging.

“Turn around and bend over," Price rasped as he lined his cock up to your soaked entrance. You shuddered as he raked his teeth over your pulse, his hand wrapping around your hair.

"I'm gonna make sure you truly understand what it means to listen,” he husked.

____

Thank you for reading! ❤️

[hirokari]

cherry flavored slushie

wc: 0.8k | g: friends to more, fluff, high school!au | w: none!

Lu Guang never pegged you to be a person to show up to basketball games. He supposed you showed up for Xiaoshi, though you sit oddly far from the game, leaning on the net outside the court, sipping on the typical slushie you tend to buy after school.

Wordless, Lu Guang leans against the wired net next to you, looking your way, though you don't take your eyes off the game.

"I didn't know you liked basketball," He says. "I don't," You answer, handing the boy your slushie. He takes it and sips on the straw, imagining your lips tasting of this cherry flavor. Finally, you look at him, "Why don't you play? You're tall and pretty good at it," 

"You've seen me play?"

"Yeah, dude. Were you so immersed in playing to notice me?"

He guesses he was- which is a surprise. It takes a lot to get Lu Guang’s eyes off of you. He responds with a shrug, tilting and tapping the straw against your lips. You comply and look back at the game as you let the cherry flavoring dye your tongue a hot, bright red.

"Why are you watching if you don't like basketball?" He can't help but ask. He thinks it's a stupid question. You answer, though, unbothered, "Because I know the rules. And I know this referee is incredibly blind. I'm out here so I don't strangle him with my bare hands."

He can’t help but let out a light chuckle, one that feels innocent and pegs a smile out of you too, but it also ignites a sharp feeling in your stomach. “They don’t seem to play fair, but I believe Xiaoshi is decent enough to overcome said blindness.”

Your worn out converse nudges his knee as you sit back against the wired fence and you give him a teasing smile, “Finally giving him credits, Guang?” With his cheeks dusted pink, his eyes avert away in a shy manner as he mumbles gruffly through a frown, “No.”

And it’s your turn to laugh, though yours is much more bubbly than his, and he likes to hear your voice more than his own. The fuzzy feeling that washes over him merely from your voice and its tone; the wide smile you give him and the crinkle at the end of your eyes; your fingers that ignite tingles when they graze over his shoulder; frankly everything about you makes him go crazy, as hard as it is for him to admit.

Your tongue is painted a hot red from the cherry flavored slushie that you’d just finished, and he supposes his is a little dyed as well. But it makes you all the more kissable. Your lips are also stained– but they’re much lighter.

“You like sweet junk?” You ask, leaning forward to sip from the slushie that he holds in his hand. He watches as you drink the cold treat, your eyes still skimming across the court, carefully analyzing each player. “Truthfully: no.”

“You tried it out, though?”

“I know you like this junk,” He says. “So I went for it.”

Oh. Your cheeks flare, attention abandoning the game almost completely to look at the white-haired boy. “But you’re still drinking it.”

“I don’t mistrust you and your taste,” Says Lu Guang, sending you a boyish smile. Who’d have known the stoic boy could ignite such feelings in you, your chest tightening in hope and your stomach, twisting. You watch as he smacks his lips open and close; as if playing around with the residue taste that the slushie had left in his mouth.

“Doesn’t taste the best.”

“No?”

“Not from a cheap foam cup, no,”

“Hm? Where would it taste the best from, then?”

There’s a moment of silence. The grass you both sit on rustles when Lu Guang shifts and leans forward, but it comes to a halt. So does the thump in your chest. It freezes– you freeze. His nose brushes against yours and for a moment you think he’s teasing. 

Lu Guang, the often emotionless and objective robot of a human, is in fact teasing you by brushing his nose against yours. And you think you love it as much as you hate it. His breath is hot when it fans against your skin and it makes your skin ignite with goosebumps. Your eyes grow half-lidded, charmed by both the anticipation and frustration he leaves you in.

A loud clattering noise emits from the court. Instinctively, you turn your head to watch as Xiaoshi scores a point. Lu Guang, seemingly growing a little jealous, plants his fingers against the base of your jaw and leads your attention back to him.

“Wh-”

Lu Guang doesn’t give you time to breathe or respond, lips pressing against yours in a chaste kiss. And you think he’s right, as always. This cherry flavored slushie tastes way better from his lips compared to the foam cup (that is now tipped over and abandoned next to Lu Guang’s side). You always imagined his lips would have tasted sweet, but nothing like this.

You imagined he’d taste sweet of citrus and warm like a summer breeze. Though, you don’t think you want to complain right now. Cold cherry lips are all the same, as long as they’re Lu Guang’s.

a/n: experimenting with the idea of straightforward n flirty lu guang hehehe

©️ hirokari, 2024

[wroteclassicaly]

“Be my Slave” with older Eddie for the prompts please!! (Obvs we’re the slave for him)

Hiiiii, thank you, baby doll! Ilysm ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

My first time writing for Older!Eddie, so I hope it’s okay?

Warnings: Language, a little NSFW.

~*~

“I’m sorry, what?” Your jaw was agape, the array of products littering his rumpled sheets, ones that he’d previously locked out of the way when he ate your pussy until his beard was drenched and his jaw ached.

“You said you wanted to know the heavier side of the shit I’m into, right? You gonna back out on me now, kiddo?”

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head, muscles protesting with an engulfing sting. “I’m thirty, Eddie. I’m not a child. Whilst it might look that way to your geriatric ass—“

“Wasn’t sayin’ how old I was when my tongue was buried in your pathetic cunt just an hour ago, sweetheart. In fact,” he pauses, inhaling deeply as he leans over to snatch his Marlboros and lighter off the dinged up nightstand, retrieving one from the cellophane. He knocks the pack a few times, peering back into your eye-line, pulling a fresh stick out with a needy stare, the creases around his doe eyes blending in perfectly with his sharp features. “I can’t recall much in the realm of you having coherent speech. You were too busy crying and screaming so damned much.”

“Guess being a loser in high school has given you quite the ego now, hasn’t it?”

That comment doesn’t phase him. He shrugs a naked shoulder, threaded bracelet sliding down his wrist when he raises it, taunt knuckles protruding beneath his skin as it stretches to help him bring the flame to life. It licks the cherry to a bright sizzling burn, a smoke cloud swirling out and blanketing the room. “Just because I was a loser doesn’t mean I didn’t know how to fuck, little girl.”

It’s your turn to attempt a ridiculous deep breath. His musky scent of aftershave and your cunt still soaked into his beard, unwashed, it cascades over your every sense as he invades your space. “All your holes just open right up for me, don’t they?” His irises sparkle with mirth, a suggestion smirk pressing his mouth. He flicks the zippo closed in your face, your lids fluttering from the sudden action.

You want to remark, fish a deadly insult out to keep steering this dangerous game into further uncharted territory. Eddie’s experience clamps down on yours, leaving nothing left but a simpering mess of limbs and a panting bitch in heat. Still, you try.

“Yeah, well… Coke for seniors is free at McDonald’s, and you’re almost at that age.”

He snorts, his ringed hand propping the cigarette between his fingers and propping above your head on the wall, effectively caging you in. “See, you keep insulting me with my age, which is already a well established fact, babydoll. If you’re trying to prove a point by saying I fuck you like an old man, that bruise between your legs says otherwise.”

His free hand travels mid air, in a wiggling of calloused digits, dipping down to nudge the meat of your thick thigh in featherlight brushes. His dark curls, layered with wisps of silver — they tickle your cheek the moment he finds your immediate airspace, nose bumping your own, using it to tilt your gaze to meet his own. He doesn’t miss a beat, ashes hissing upon an inhalation, smoke being blown from a plush set of pursed lips. He wets them red, tilting his head, the words spoken across your mouth as if they’re a kiss, drifting like snow and settling, leaving behind impressions.

“Be my slave, sweetheart. Just for an hour. Let me show you what else this pre-geriatric can do.”

Word Prompts