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saetoru · 2 years

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#𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒

☰ SYNOPSIS ⋮ gojo satoru is a good ceo—but he just so happens to also be an even better boss

— pairing ⋮ ceo!gojo satoru x reader

— length ⋮ 3.3k words (why did this take me forever :/)

— contents ⋮ nsfw and 18+ content, fem! reader, ceo! au, assistant! reader, high key really shady and manipulative reader sobs, unrequited love, lovesick! gojo, unprofessional workplace relations, dry humping, blow jobs, orgasm delay, slight exhibitionism / semi-public sex (you suck him off under the table while someone is in the room + he fucks you over the desk when they leave), begging, teasing, slight brat taming, unprotected sex, he pulls out (for once LMAO), petnames (sweetheart, baby, princess)

— notes ⋮ for snow my beloveds im sucking off a ceo collab @suyacho ty for letting me join !! mwah 💋 also this is not proof read i am lazy rip

“satoru, are you done yet?” you whine, flopping over the couch in gojo’s office. of course, you’d expect nothing less than a sophisticated workspace for a sophisticated man such as him—and it’s certainly an extravagant setup, it makes for a nice atmosphere when you’re alone with him.

he grunts, the sound of his pen scratching against paper ringing through your ears as he continues writing. “ten more minutes, baby.”

“you said that hours ago,” you huff.

“‘s only been twenty minutes, sweetheart,” he chuckles, spinning his chair to face you with an amused look, “but…if you need attention so bad,” the pen finally, finally gets put down on the desk, and you brighten as his hand gestures you over, “then c’mere, baby.”

being a ceo is as anyone would deem, stressful.

and now more than ever, gojo satoru is grateful for his snowy hair—otherwise, he thinks inheriting a business as young as he has would give him white hairs before he turns thirty. but coming into his office isn’t so bad if you’re there, looking pretty in your cute little blouse and your sweet scented lip gloss, clothes neatly ironed (and ready to be creased when he’s done with you.)

you’re the perfect assistant, always sweet and responsible, always making sure he’s done what he needs to do and is where he needs to be, always good at taking notes and organizing—and, you’re always good at relieving stress.

very good, in fact.

like right now, for example, making the stress roll off his body as you climb onto his lap and press your lips to his, giving him a perfect taste of the peach flavoring of your lip gloss—which is his favorite—and making him groan against your mouth. your hands fly to his soft tufts of hair, tugging gently at the roots and making him grunt. he should be getting these last few pages of paperwork done before his meeting (which you so kindly reminded him of before he forgot), but one taste of your lips has him too distracted to care.

and plus, he’s the boss—he reasons it’s okay if he’s a little late here and there.

“baby, we gotta make it quick, yeah? ‘s an important meeting,” he mumbles against your lips, panting slightly as you nibble on his bottom lip, grinding your hips to rub your clothed cunt over his hardening member through his slacks. he’s almost too easy to rile up, too easy to have perfectly dealt into the palm of your hands. and maybe, if you play your cards right, you might just fuck your way right to a promotion—or at the very least, a raise.

in your short time being his assistant, you’ve learned that gojo satoru is almost too fun to work for. he’s young, doesn’t have those old-fashioned rules and outdated views, is lenient with hours and vacation and paid leave, and he even lets you have your own designated parking space. it’s a nice plus that he’s easy on the eyes and fucks you over his desk after hours—or during hours, if you’re being honest—and it’s an extra nice plus that he’s as quick to give into you as you are at trying to convince him.

he’s a good ceo, sure, but he’s an even better boss.

“jus’ send an email and postpone it for a bit,” you drawl sweetly, “want you, toru,” you whisper against his ear, making him moan as you rub over his hardened cock through his pants. his hands dig into your hips, guiding you to drag your cunt over his erection faster, drinking in your sweet whines as he rubs over your clit through the fabric.

and just because you’re extra sweet today—and because you really want to come in late tomorrow—you quickly climb off his lap to sink down to your knees before him, making him let out a breathy chuckle as he spreads his legs wide for you to crawl between.

“looks like you got better plans, huh sweetheart?” he grins down at you. anyone with eyes can see the lust that glazes his crystalline orbs, but you can see beneath that and recognize the fondness, the pure lovesick part that makes you swell with pride. gojo satoru is far too easy to have wrapped around your finger, and you plan on just twisting and twisting him around your well-manicured finger until he’s coiled around your every whim.

“i can think of a thing or two you might like a bit more,” you say with a giggle. he watches through hooded eyes as you unbuckle his belt, sliding the zipper down before rubbing a hand over his thigh slowly, just close enough to where he needs you—but not quite.

he throws his head back and groans. “c’mon, baby. don’t tease,” he whines, making you giggle before tapping his leg, waiting for him to raise his hips so you can pull down his pants and boxers in one go.

his cock is heavy between his legs, bobbing up and pulsing as pre cum oozes from the thick, reddened tip, making you grin as you lean in to press a delicate kiss to the head. he lets out a shaky exhale, watching as you delicately wrap a hand around him and squeeze at the tip, milking him of a bit more pre cum before smearing it over his length.

“stressed, huh? working yourself to the bone?” you pout, faux sympathy lining your expression as you stare up at him with doe eyes. “my poor toru,” you murmur—the words are saccharine, seeping with sickeningly sweet affection, it’s borderline too obvious that it’s exaggerated. you almost want to laugh at how naive he is, how easily he makes it for you to play your cards, like he almost believes you won’t play your ace even as it sits in your hand. and you put a good show of being concerned, even going as far as to press a gentle kiss to his inner thigh, making his breath hitch in his throat. his heart spasms in his chest just a little at your words.

my toru—he likes the idea of being yours.

“you have no idea, baby,” he grunts, panting as you slowly stroke him, fisting his cock and squeezing at the base. “too many things to do—just need a fuckin’ break.”

“well, you deserve a break, toru,” you hum, gently cupping his balls and giving them a light squeeze, watching as his chest heaves as he moans lowly, “so let me give you one.”

you watch happily as he greedily rolls his hips into your fist, searing the image of your boss’s lips caught between his teeth as he fights back the needy sounds threatening to bubble up his throat. you rub a thumb through his slit, twisting your hand around his swollen tip before dragging down his length with a tight grip. his forehead is a tad bit sweaty by now, his bangs clinging to the skin as his cheeks flush a soft shade of pink. gojo is pretty—too pretty. he’s certainly not immune to lingering stares and shy giggles from the other women in the office, women that could only hope to see him in the ways you do.

it thrills you, really. watching him fall apart from the slightest bit of attention from you makes your ego rocket—and perhaps, maybe your bank account too if you’re lucky.

“yeah? gonna help me relax, sweetheart?”

“yes, sir,” you grin, making him groan at your words. with that, you wrap your lips around his cock, taking him down your throat and bobbing your head up and down as you swallow around him. he chokes, hand flying to the top of your head as the other grips the arm of his chair—knuckles turning white from the tight grip.

“oh sh-shit, that’s it, sweetheart,” he whines, bucking his hips slightly and fucking into your warm mouth, moaning softly when your tongue traces over the thick vein on the underside of his cock. your hand still massages his balls slowly, the other pumping the base of his length where you can’t fit him in your mouth as your jaw slacks and you let him use you for his pleasure. “always take me so well, baby,” he breathes, “feels good—oh fuck.”

you let his hips snap up and rut into your mouth faster, slamming into the back of your throat as you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, as you feel him get closer to his high, as you feel him desperately chase the friction. the heaving of his chest harshens and the labored pants get increasingly more erratic as he feels the steady ache between his legs build up until—

“sir? do you have a moment?” there’s a knock on the door, one that makes gojo’s hips still and your eyes widen. quickly, he ushers you to crawl backward, pushing his chair in to cover himself and you under his desk as he clears his throat and quickly adjusts his appearance.

“yes, come in,” he croaks, voice just a bit strained as his cock throbs, aching painfully from his orgasm dying down just before it could even hit him.

the door opens and the soft clack of heels against the floor fills the room, making your eyes narrow as you hear whoever walks through the door approach gojo’s desk.

“i was just wondering about the project you assigned me,” you hear a voice—and instantly, you roll your eyes. the new girl—whatever her name is—might as well attach herself to gojo’s hip at this rate, you think. you’ve always watched in amusement as she stalks up to him with clear hopes of his approval, always rolling your eyes and snorting at how she could only daydream about fantasies, only picture things that are your reality. but right now…right now is not the time for her to play teacher’s pet.

“r-right,” gojo stutters, “i’ll go over details with you later. kinda in a rush for a meeting soon,” he chuckles nervously, hand tapping over his unfinished pile of papers from earlier.

“oh, of course!” and you would be satisfied if not for her next words, “i’m really glad to be assigned this project, sir. i have big ideas!”

instantly your mood sours.

what a bitch, you think—it’s almost too obvious from the way her tone is far too enthusiastic and her goals are much too ambitious for a new employee for any of it to be genuine. you know a sweet-talking, rank-climbing, paycheck-grabbing employee when you see one, and you’ll be damned if some newbie thinks she can get away with that in the middle of your own attempts. with a slightly wicked grin as an idea pops into your head, you suck on the tip of gojo’s cock, making him jump slightly in his chair.

“o-oh—good to hear, i like the enthusiasm,” he grunts, hissing slightly as your hand squeezes his balls tighter. you’re cruel—sucking only at his tip, ignoring the rest of his length even as you can all but feel the ache spreading through his cock. gojo is fighting every bone in his body to keep from bucking into your mouth with his hips to feel your mouth around the rest of him—it would give away the compromising situation a little too clearly.

so instead, he clears his throat and brings a shaky hand to continue signing the papers in front of him.

“are you okay, sir?” you hear the girl ask, making you roll your eyes at the clearly fake concern in her voice, “you look a bit—”

“i’m fine,” gojo says as he cuts her off (a little too quickly) and he offers a tight smile, “just uh…the air conditionings been awful in here. nothin’ to worry about, yeah?”

“oh, of course.

“like i said, i’m r-really busy—like really busy, so we’ll discuss things later, yeah?”

“oh, that sounds—” he cuts her off with a harsh exhale, head falling into his hand as he grits his teeth when you slide your tongue along his slit slowly. “are you sure you’re okay—”

“j-just a headache,” he chuckles nervously, “nothing i’m not used to. now, if you’ll—” he hisses slightly when you swirl your tongue around his tip, “e-excuse me, i really need this paperwork done.”

“right,” she says, and you feel satisfied with just a twinge of pride when you hear her clear her throat and walk to the door, “i hope you feel better, sir. looking forward to our discussion.”

with that, the door opens and then shuts—and gojo instantly lets out a shaky, whiny little moan as he slumps back into his chair, letting you swallow around him a few more times before he clenches his jaw and cups the back of your head, stopping you.

“sweetheart, that was risky,” he tuts, “what? just couldn’t wait? do i spoil you that much? i got you walkin’ around like the office princess, don’t i?” he pushes his chair back, his cock leaving your mouth, making you crawl from under his desk.

before you can even say anything, gojo has you tugged to your feet by the wrist, bending you over his desk with your chest pressed plat against the surface as he pulls your skirt and underwear off in one go, making you gasp as his searing tip is tracing along your dripping entrance and tapping at your clit. he chuckles when you wriggle your hips back, trying to steal more friction from his cock until he tightens his grip on your waist and stills your movements.

“toru, please,” you whine, pouting at him over your shoulder, making him hum as he leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“i pamper you too damn much,” he scoffs, “that’s why you wanted to act like a brat with someone in the room, huh? want me to fuck you like a brat too, is that it?” you only whine when he slowly teases your folds with the first few inches of his cock, slipping into you slightly before pulling back out, rubbing the wet head of his cock over your clit as you grip the edge of the desk and whimper.

“please, toru,” you pout again—but he’s not satisfied, doesn’t think he ever will be. there’s never enough of you, never enough to quench the everlasting thirst no matter how much he drinks you in.

“c’mon baby, gotta gimme more than that,” he insists, and because he’s just a little mean, he shoves himself to the hilt in one go, making you squeal at the stretch as your legs shake. he chuckles lowly, keeps his hips painfully still as you try desperately to roll your hips back onto him for something—anything. but his grip is too strong, making you sniffle as frustrated tears collect at your lashes.

“toru, need it so bad,” you plead.

“need what? i wanna hear it,” he grins, “brats like you have to earn it, sweetheart. otherwise i’ll just sit here with my cock in you as i finish my paperwork. bet you’d like that too, though,” he laughs lowly, just a bit too smug.

“want you to fuck me,” you sob, clit throbbing and pussy clenching down on his still cock as it curves into you just right. “right over your desk—wanna cum for you, want you to make a mess. please? please toru? always fuck me so good,” you add, making him twitch in your walls at your words.

he groans, cursing under his breath at how quickly you turn the tables, so fast to turn him from smug to impatient as he all but pulls out before slamming himself deep into your tight cunt, making you mewl as his fat tip kisses against your sweet spot. he grunts, hands digging into your hips with a bruising grip as he feels your walls hug around him tightly.

“f-fuck, gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he curses, rolling his hips as he bullies his length into your pussy over and over, the thick veins running along his shaft dragging against your walls, making your head spin and your spine burst with jolts of pleasure. “you like when i fuck you like this? bet you wish someone would walk in just to see you stuffed full of my cock, wouldn’t you? want them to see you get special treatment like the little princess you are?” he pants against your neck, hunched over your back as he continues to slam into you.

you writhe under him, gasping as he splits you open with his cock, stretching your walls with his thick girth as his balls clap against your ass. it’s loud—the lewd, squelching of his length fucking into you and the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with both of your moans. you’re sure anyone passing by could hear exactly what’s going on—but somehow, that only excites you more, making an ache run through your core that only the harsh thrusts of gojo’s hips can soothe.

“oh—toru, toru, more,” you wail, letting out a high-pitched whine when his hand trails over your hips to find your clit, fingers rubbing harsh circles over the sensitive bud. your legs quiver, the ache of your building orgasm between your legs clouding your vision and fogging your mind. you can’t think straight—can’t even comprehend that you’re screaming your boss’s name in the same building all your coworkers are in as well. “fuck, feels good—so, good,” you babble, thrusting your hips back and making him curve deeper into you.

“yeah? that feel good, baby? then cum for me,” he pants into your ear, moaning softly as you clench down on him at the words, almost making it impossible for him to move with how tightly you flutter around him. “wanna feel you cum around me, sweetheart,” he groans, “please, gotta feel you—give it to me, princess.”

“toru! ‘m c-close, toru,” you say through breathy pants, and with that, you break, your orgasm ripping through you like a tidal wave as your mouth parts with a silent sob. gojo fucks into you through your high, tip slamming precisely against your sweet spot, making you gasp with each thrust, crying his name as the sensation borders on too much. his fingers are still working your clit, and as your hips twitch away from his touch from the overstimulation as you finish. he chokes on a gasp, cock twitching in you and indicating he’s just about to cum.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—’m gonna cum, princess. g-gonna make me cum for you, sweetheart,” he whines, and with one more thrust, he pulls out of your warmth, hissing before pumping himself with his fist, stroking himself tight and fast as he falls over the edge and spills his seed across your ass. you feel the sticky ropes of cum paint your skin as gojo whimpers with each load that shoots from his tip, hips thrusting into his fist as he fucks himself through his high. “god—feels so good, baby. sh-shit.”

he finishes, slumping back onto his chair behind him, legs wobbly and weak as his chest rises and falls with each labored pant. you both catch your breaths, your body still sprawled over his desk as rolls his chair closer to you, hands rubbing slowly up and down the sides of your hips.

“fuck, you’re something else, babe,” he chuckles quietly, “just what i needed before my meeting.” you grin to yourself as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the side of your hip—and you think you have him just where you want him.

“toru, ‘m gonna need to come in late tomorrow,” you mumble softly, taking the opportunity while you can, “and i need a few days off next week, kay?”

“of course, sweetheart,” he says instantly, mind still hazed from the post-orgasm bliss, making your eyes sparkle in victory.

“thank you,” you giggle happily, “you’re my favorite boss i’ve ever had, you know?” and you can almost see the lovesick and pathetically giddy little grin he lets stretch across his lips from behind you.

“well, anything for my princess,” he hums happily, blissfully unaware of you reeling him tighter and tighter around your finger.

#teepods.writings #thirstee!#fics.#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x y/n

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entity9silvergen · 5 days

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Anytime I get into a Daredevil fanfiction phase, I get so upset about things people get wrong I am tempted to make a tumblr rant about it and I have decided now is the time.

Before I get into it I would like to note this isn't bashing a specific fic and I understand authors write for fun and don't have to be 100% accurate which is why I am screaming on tumblr instead of leaving comments (because that would be a dick move).

For context, at age 10(ish) I began the slow process of accumulating every Daredevil comic at my local comic shop and I do not have those on me currently to check how many comics that is but from some online googling, it is at least 9 inches of the original Daredevil comics starting in 1964, probably about ten years of comics including the crossover issues. So I have strong feelings, unfortunately.

Also for context, the fanfiction I am reading is from the TV show so this isn't about plot stuff. This is about the fundamentals of the character. Specifically, I get incredibly incensed when people get Daredevil's powers wrong.

More specifically, I am most upset about his enhanced sense of touch is written. I don't really remember how the TV show handled it, I think they gave him silk sheets because he was sensitive about feeling all the threads, but the thing that comes up in fanfic is how he uses it to read.

Daredevil can read. He does it by touching the paper. It doesn't matter if it's printed or handwritten. He can feel it. Literally on the first few pages of the first issue when they're explaining how his powers work, he reads a newspaper. Newspaper is like the only example they use to explain this power and if he can read newspaper, he can read other stuff.

Also, he can tell color by touch. I don't know if I've ever seen it in a fic and it's not really relevant but I'd like to talk about it. He has to practice but he can feel the pigments in stuff and kind of guess what color things are. I don't really know how it works but Daredevil is pretty good at it.

There's an issue where there's a life or death situation where he needs to tell the color of something and he gets kind of nervous about it and is magically given his sight back (not going to get into the problems with that, he later decides to get un-magicked and go back to being blind) so like it's not a 100% thing but he talks about how he's usually right.

This man uses braille but he can still read when it isn't. Let Matt read.

Okay anyway, the thing that really bothers me is in crossover fanfic with Spider-Man is when people make Spider-Man's senses on par with or stronger than Daredevil's.

Spider-Man (arguably) does not have enhanced senses (depending on the version). It's not really his main power though, as opposed to Daredevil whose only power is his senses, so it feels kind of rude to write the super strong, wall-crawling, precognitive genius with senses better than the guy who's only thing is enhanced senses.

Part of that is just preference and me not liking characters being overpowered for no reason but really guys, he has one thing. You can do whatever you want but he only has the one thing. Let him have it.

Not in the same vein but I did read a fic recently where Daredevil, despite "the world on fire," was using sight to locate things and again I do not want to get into specific fics so I'm done now okay bye

#rant #daredevil #daredevil tv #matt murdock #marvel #mcu #marvel comics #marvel mcu #daredevil fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #spider man

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z0r0z · 2 years

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University AU: When your friend Ace joins you at the library while you study, he accidentally sees something he wasn’t supposed to and gets a new idea that’s way more interesting than studying ♡

This is my piece for @lawscorazon‘s 1k collab! Their work was a big inspo for me starting this blog and I absolutely loved writing this. This event is actually so hot and I just had to write something for it ehe ♡

Content: afab fem reader, public s*x, slight exhib, teasing, dirty talk, clit stim, fingering, piv s*x, use of ‘sl*t’, creampie

Word count: 2544

‘Can’t we do something more exciting?’

‘No way. This paper is due next week.’ You huffed as you and your friend Ace paced to the university library. It had admittedly been a while since the two of you did something fun together, but your work had to come first. Not that Ace could ever understand that- you weren’t even sure how he was still attending university considering how little work he ever did. ‘You’re lucky I’m letting you tag along at all, you’re so distracting.’

‘Distractingly handsome?’ He quipped back at you. He had an annoyingly quick mouth sometimes.

You rolled your eyes as you smacked his arm with one of your binders. ‘Distractingly irritating.’ You mumbled, causing him to childishly pout and huff. ‘We can chat but let me do my work, ok?’

‘Fiiiiiiiine. I’ll try really, really hard not to be irritating.’ He sarcastically droned. You had a feeling that was never going to come to fruition. He noticed you struggling to carry the stack of binders in your arms and effortlessly pulled a couple out, placing one under his muscular arm as he opened the other.

He examined the contents of your binder. ‘This shit looks really complicated. You’re such a smarty-pants.’ He teased, ruffling your hair almost like a proud dad after his son’s football game as he shut the binder and put it under his arm.

You looked up at him and laughed. ‘I’m not your kid. Or a dog.’

‘Yeah, I know you’re not. You’re a neeerd.’ He ruffled your hair again but even more messily this time as you walked into the library. The two of you took a seat at one of the rows of computers and stacked up your packed binders. There were a few people around the other rows, all engrossed in their study with their headphones on- which was probably for the best with Ace around.

Just as soon as you could begin typing, he had already grown bored, mindlessly spinning around in his chair as he rhythmically tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Man, this is boring.’ He sighed, looking at you through his shaggy black hair. ‘People do this all the time?’

You giggled softly. ‘Yep, you just wouldn’t know ‘cos you never study.’

‘That is so not true. I’ve studied at least once.’ He rolled his chair closer to you and peeked over your shoulder at your laptop, watching you diligently typing away and reading your writing. He raised an eyebrow, ‘Yo, there’s some weird mark on your screen.’ Unable to resist the urge he wiped a finger across the screen, unaware that it was a touchscreen. As soon as his finger touched the screen your browser opened, loading up all the tabs you’d closed earlier.

Before you had a second to react the tabs loaded and you couldn’t believe your eyes- at least ten pages of porn opened on your laptop for all to see. Your heart began to race as you shakily fumbled to close the window, your browser of course being unresponsive. You could’ve sworn you’d watched these in incognito mode. ‘Shit. Shit. No.’ You panicked, fruitlessly mashing the close button.

Ace’s eyed scanned the tabs at the top, surprised by the obtusely filthy content you enjoyed. ‘Sex on a busy high-street… getting fucked in the park…’ He confusedly trailed off, but the genuine surprise in his voice soon faded and he returned to his usual joking tone. ‘Wow, I didn’t think you were so wild.’ He laughed.

Your cheeks flushed bright red as you gave up on closing the browser and slammed the lid of the laptop shut. ‘Aww… I wanted to see the rest of those.’ Ace joked before asking, ‘You’re really into that kind of stuff?’

‘S-Shut up! No!’ You snapped, spinning your seat away from his gaze and shoving the laptop into your backpack. There was no way you could keep doing your work with Ace around now that he knew this information.

He placed his hand on the back of your chair and spun you around to face him, smirking at the sight of your rosy, embarrassed countenance. ‘If you don’t like it, why did you have ten tabs of it open?’ He couldn’t resist teasing you about it and your face became even more flushed knowing you’d never hear the end of this.

You shook your head with vigour. ‘I don’t like it! You misread those tabs!’ It was so very obvious that you were lying, making Ace chuckle.

He shuffled his chair closer to you until your knees were almost touching before placing one of his large hands on the side of your thigh, the unexpected touch sending a shockwave through your body. Before you could say anything, he leaned over and into your ear, his lips almost brushing your lobe as he whispered. ‘You know, this studying shit is pretty boring. You wanna do something else for a while?’

You stammered for a moment, shocked by his sudden change in demeanour. Was he really propositioning you? In a library? ‘Huh? I don’t- what?’ The words just couldn’t leave your lips before he slid his hand further up, inching closer to the inside of your thigh.

His lips moved closer to your ear as he sighed at your confusion and his breath tickled your ear. ‘I’m saying we should make your little fantasy into a reality. I kinda always wanted to fuck you but knowing you’re a slut makes me wanna even more.’ His words made your core tingle, a sensation you tried to ignore as you remained utterly baffled. Your eyes darted around the library- it wasn’t busy but there were still enough people around to make his proposal fucking crazy.

You noticed a guy sat directly behind the two of you with his headphones on typing away, literally a few feet away from you. ‘Ace… there’s a guy right there…’ You concernedly whimpered as you finally mustered out some words. He moved his head from your ear to look directly at you. His hand gripped your thigh hard as his other made its way to your lips, placing his thumb delicately on your lips.

‘Oh, so you’re not saying no?’ He purred, his thumb playing with your bottom lip. ‘I definitely didn’t imagine that porn you were watching then, did I?’ The way he jokingly teased you all the time seemed to carry over into this situation, too. Without hesitation he grabbed your waist and deftly lifted you out of your seat, placing you in his lap as you let out a small squeal. You were now straddling your friend in the library as the people around you continued blissfully unaware of the scene playing out so nearby.

As he placed his hands on your sides, he rested his forehead on yours, the closeness of the two of you making the heat rise between your legs. ‘But Ace… what if someone sees?’ You whispered, conscious of the fact you were in a library and nervous of the repercussions you and your friend would face if such a thing were to happen.

He simply chuckled. ‘Hah, you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? Why don’t we check?’ With those words he slid a hand up your skirt and pulled your panties down just enough to expose your soaked pussy to his touch, sliding a digit through your wettened slit and stopping at your clit. ‘Damn, worried about getting caught but you’re still dripping wet?’ As he began making small circles around your most sensitive spot you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and put your head in the crook of his neck to muffle the soft little moans you were making.

Your body twitched at his touch and involuntarily grinded into his finger. You looked over his shoulder at the clueless guy seated behind you, focused on his study as Ace pleasured you right behind him. Just before you could be dragged back to the reality of what you were doing Ace put a hand on the back of your head and pulled you back to meet his gaze. ‘Hey, look at me, not him.’ He had that same childish pout on his face as earlier before leaning you in for a kiss, impatiently prying your lips open with his tongue. You placed your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as you reciprocated, the knot in your belly getting tighter and tighter as he continued to rub your clit. Your legs began to twitch as you grew close, but before that knot could snap, he stopped the titillating motion and you to let out a disappointed whimper.

He broke the kiss, but his lips stayed on yours, gently brushing them as he spoke. ‘Sorry, baby. You can’t have all the fun.’ He facetiously looked down and gestured to the bulge in his trousers before looking back to you. ‘I’ll warm you up good, though. Try not to be too loud, the sign says to be quiet.’ He couldn’t resist reminding you of where you were.

His finger made its way back to your pussy and effortlessly slid inside you, pumping in and out of you at an agonizingly slow rate. You returned your head to the crook of his neck, but this time Ace’s lips made their way to your neck and began placing little nibbles along your skin, sucking hard at the base of your neck and making it that much harder to keep quiet. Your muffled moans still filled the immediate space around you- if that guy didn’t have headphones on, he would have heard you for sure, and you continued to pray that he didn’t turn around.

While that thought crossed your mind you looked up and saw a person walk past your row, your heart began racing even faster as they made their way past, but somehow, they didn’t notice the lewd act playing out next to them. As you let out a sigh of relief, a second thick finger entered you and you let out a small yelp at the sudden sensation. The way his fingers stuffed you made your pussy clench, subconsciously yearning for more than just fingers. They pumped in and out of you, the wetness making a wholly indecent sound that you hoped only you and Ace could hear.

‘Ace…’ You breathily mewled into his ear as your knees began to buckle slightly. ‘Please fuck me…’ You moved back to look at him and saw a wicked smile plastered across his face. You could swear the large bulge in his pants had grown even bigger, becoming that much more enticing.

He pulled his long fingers out of you and began to unbuckle his belt, then his zipper. ‘You don’t have to ask baby.’ He rasped as he shifted to tug down his pants just enough to reveal his delicious, hard cock. You ogled in awe. You never expected your friend would have been hiding such an incredible feature, and you certainly never expected to see it in such a situation as this one. His dick was the perfect girth, with an impressive length and a thick, pink head. Without moment’s notice he lifted you up and placed you over his cock, slowly sinking you down him and allowing you to adjust to his size as you let out a desperate sigh.

‘Fuuuck.’ He groaned and you felt his cock twitch inside you, moving his hands to your ass and grabbing a handful of your soft flesh. ‘You’re so tight. Still nervous about getting caught?’ He began moving you up and down his shaft as he slammed his hips into you; you could hear the quiet sound of skin slapping on skin as he drilled into you, speeding up with every thrust. His large cock was stretching you out perfectly despite your nerves. You nodded in response, as you placed your hand over your mouth attempting to contain the moans you desperately wanted to let out.

Ace, amused by your attempt at being subtle, wheeled the chair until it was mere inches away from the guy who was behind you. You were now getting fucked directly behind him and he was none the wiser, but you couldn’t stop your hips from grinding into Ace’s cock as he continued to pound into you. He smirked at your panicked expression. ‘See, baby? He has no idea. Stop worrying about it.’

He kissed you again, entangling his fingers in your hair, and your head became fuzzy. You dug your fingers into his back as your cunt clenched around his dick, milking him dry despite the ever-present fear of being caught- that was now being exacerbated by Ace. You knew he liked to tease, but you’d never imagined he could take it this far. The hand in your hair turned your head around to face the unwitting bystander who was typing away right in front of you; Ace’s lips rested on your ear, and you could feel the perverted smile growing on his face. He quickened the pace with which he slammed his length into you as he spoke with a grunt, ‘Wish he’d turn around and see how good you’re getting fucked, don’t you?’ His breath quickened and softly caressed your ear- you could tell he was getting close, yet he still had the energy to tease you.

You could barely speak as your mind became blank, you were approaching the edge yourself and you could only babble, ‘Ahn… N-No…’. The thought of being caught had entirely escaped your mind now and the only thoughts left in your brain were of the heavenly sensation of Ace’s perfect dick fucking your brains out. You ground into him, savouring the irresistible sensation as he continued his excruciating pace, matching his exact rhythm as both of you came closer and closer to that sweet relief. The way his dick felt inside you was pure bliss- as though it were made to fuck your pussy. The knot growing in your stomach was quickly becoming tighter and tighter as your legs started to twitch and your muscles began to tense.

He pulled your head back to place small bites on your neck, quickly pushing you over the edge and causing that knot to snap. Shockwaves rippled through your body and you began to shake, accidentally letting out one loud moan. The pleasure rushed through you and your body jittered and tensed as Ace fucked you through your orgasm; you could feel his cock twitch inside you. ‘Shiiiit.’ He sighed, throwing his head back as he came inside you. He held you down, buried deep in your pussy, his dick pulsating as he filled you with his hot seed. You both stayed in that position for a moment as you caught your breath and his cum lewdly dribbled out of you, his cock still inside your beaten pussy. As you felt the warm liquid dripping down your thighs, the idea of being caught was beginning to re-enter your conscience and you panickily looked around the room. You tried to lift yourself off his dick, but your weak, shaky legs remained held down by Ace’s strong hands. He made puppy eyes as your eyes met, ‘Round two?’

Fat chance of that happening.

#portgas d. ace #ace one piece #one piece #portgas ace x reader #ace x reader #ace smut #one piece smut #kaizokuhub collab

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inaflashimagine · 2 years

Text

true soma

pairing: eddie munson x g/n reader (though f!reader at the end/smut)

summary: as part of your writing business, you wrote eddie munson's english essay for $20. the problem was, you got caught by the loving ms. o'donnell. the only way to escape expulsion for plagiarism? becoming an english tutor for eddie 'the freak' munson.

word count: 14.5k (help)

warnings: includes the classic stressors and existential crises that come with being a high school senior applying to college, swearing, few substance use references and lots of book references (and a discussion) by two nerds. nsfw part at the end: oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (oops), hypocritical, inexperienced reader making fun of their inexperienced boyfriend, mentions of handcuffs(?)

a/n: I come out of a year-long writing hiatus on this blog only to write my longest one-shot ever...for a 3d character! At the end of the day, Eddie Munson is a dorky metalhead that leads a group of equally-dorky (but endearing) nerds, so I hope that somewhat came through.

“Please see me after class.”

There was never a time you’d like to hear those words, but receiving them from a frowning Ms. O’Donnell just after the first two weeks of your senior year of high school was less than ideal.

You deluded your anxious self into thinking that your AP Lit teacher wanted to share some information with you regarding college applications. Or that the reason you were the only student who wasn’t handed back their essay on the making of John Proctor as a tragic hero in The Crucible was due to its poignant, publication-worthy analysis that moved its grader to tears.

All those (ir)rationalizations were immediately thrown out the window upon seeing a certain, eccentric person rush into a classroom that everyone but you had now left.

“Ms. O’Donnell! How are you on this fine day?” His growing smile only seemed to further aggravate the visibly annoyed recipient of the question. And when he nodded and offered a wide grin your way, your blood ran cold.

Because you knew what was about to occur was far from fine.

“It could be much worse, Mr. Munson, even if it is only ten in the morning.”

When Ms. O’Donnell retrieved two essays from a thick stack of papers, sweat began to form on your forehead as she scolded, “Though I’m afraid the same could not be said for the two of you.”

“And why’s that?” speculated an oblivious Eddie as you seriously contemplated if the man who flunked high school twice was acting stupid or that genuinely dumb. “Aren’t I next to the smartest nerd in Hawkins? President of the Honor Society? It can’t be that serious.”

“Well, Mr. Munson, that statement provides further evidence of why you would hire said student to write your English essay.”

The smile on Eddie’s face immediately swiped off his face, much like the way you felt the ground give way beneath you as a silently fuming Ms. O’Donnell aggressively returned your respective papers.

Only the pages in your trembling hands did not thoroughly discuss the flaws and adulterous sins of John Proctor but provided a horrible retelling of the adventures of Huckleberry Finn in an essay that was intentionally written to barely deserve a C-.

And the most damning part: the paper was purported to be written by “Edward Munson”.

“Oh, I see what’s wrong, Ms. O’Donnell,” Eddie dared to say, a lackadaisical smirk on his face as he pointed to the main title on the cover page he was holding. You swore you saw him (poorly) wink at you before he blathered, “It’s a classic switch-a-roo, a simple mistake. Who is John Proctor? You should give this to him, the dude must be sweating about his grade.”

Ms. O’Donnell’s eye twitched as yours widened. “Mr. Munson, plagiarism is not some silly joke and can result in suspension or expulsion for the both of you.” Knowing she wouldn’t get any answers from him, her stern expression now faced you. “Care to explain why he turned in your AP Lit essay while you gave me his Academic English Lit paper?”

Yet no explanation, or even lie, would get you out of this sticky situation. The truth was simple, really: you charged Eddie “The Freak” Munson $10–plus a $10 rush fee deposit–to write a shitty three-page paper on Huck Finn.

“You want it to get a C?” you remembered asking him, confusion evident on your face as you scrutinized the energetic man before you.

How dare he approach your lunch table in broad daylight while he incessantly poked at the hole in his distressed jeans, occasionally munched on a pretzel, and made such a preposterous request?

“Did anyone ever tell you how my business actually works?”

His amused grin offended you even more, if that were possible. “‘It’s an A or you don’t pay’, got it loud and clear. But from one entrepreneur to another, it’s not the, uh, best branding–”

“–Excuse me?”

“C’mon, look at me”–he jutted two wagging thumbs toward himself while he looked at you and your baffled friends, wild, brown eyes way too happy over his self-deprecating comment–“do I look like someone who would suddenly write an A+ paper in a course I’ve failed twice?”

After a few solid seconds, you sighed and resigned to his request, before clarifying to the fist-pumping man, “Forcing me to downgrade my writing in less than twenty-four hours will be subjected to expedited service fees.”

Besides, you needed extra money to get a new typewriter, based on the alarming number of essays you were cranking out on your current worn one. At this rate, you’d be able to get one of those fancy computers.

Eddie barked out a jubilant laugh at that, lips curving upward as he said, “I’m only letting you rob me because that’s a clever charge I might start using in my business.”

You wondered if he still thought you were a clever entrepreneur or the ‘smartest nerd in Hawkins’ as you blankly stared at a scowling Ms. O’Donnell, feeling too stupefied to conjure some fantastical story–or excuse, in this case–that the Dungeon Master was accustomed to doing on a daily basis.

Because there was no way you were going to explain that your sleep deprived brain must’ve given Eddie the wrong paper right before classes started. That your tired mind–consumed with worry about the biology exam you had next period–forgot to double check the content of the writing in your hands before accidentally adding the wrong paper to the growing pile of essays at the end of your English class.

Of course, he should’ve also checked the essay you had given him. Any of your other customers would at least perform a cursory glance before handing you the money. Still, you had to shoulder some of the blame for having been unusually careless at an activity that required the utmost discretion and vigilance.

But you’d never admit a mistake like that.

“Please don’t report us,” you blurted out instead, ignoring Munson’s incredulous “Christ!” and exasperation aimed toward your implicit confession.

Ms. O’Donnell pursed her lips, disapproving eyes considering your nervous figure and Eddie’s cursing one. You closed your eyes, clenched hands anxiously awaiting the verdict that would throw out all of the work you put in for four years.

Snatching the two papers she had returned earlier, she acquiesced, “I guess submitting that plagiarism report would be more painful than grading these papers and having to teach Mr. Munson for yet another year.”

Right before you and Eddie could exhale a sigh of relief and utter an endless stream of thank you’s, Ms. O’Donnell raised one finger as if to silence the both of you. “But I have one binding condition, aside from the fact that you’ll never commit plagiarism again.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll do anything,” you pleaded while a weary Eddie muttered, “Well, shit.”

You realized you should’ve bit back your words after hearing the worst stipulation proposed in the history of Hawkins, and possibly all of mankind.

“You must tutor Mr. Munson in English for the rest of the year.”

“You’re late,” you sighed dejectedly, glaring daggers at the smiling culprit banging his black lunchbox on the library table, “again.”

“My bad, a…transaction took a bit longer than I was expecting.” He pulled out the chair across from you, ignoring the librarian’s admonishment of his not-so-quiet voice. Rather, his gaze solely remained on you, the puppy-like excitement on his face just begging you to ask for more details.

Instead of taking the bait, you pressed, “Where’s your copy of Frankenstein? You didn’t even bring a pencil.”

Eddie actually pouted at you before murmuring a phrase that sounded eerily close to ‘party pooper’. “I don’t even need the book, it was an easy read so I remember most of it. And I, uh, may have lost the pencil you gave me.”

You’re not sure what your bemused “Huh?” was a response to, but it’s enough to get him talking about the book with a passion you’d only seen whenever he rambled about the current campaign he was running for his club.

“Look, there’s never shame in running away from your problems, but Victor’s reason for running is the shameful part. Abandoning your creation because he looks like a freak? The scientist is the true monster, if you know what I mean.”

Eddie, folded arms on the table, inched closer to you, adding in a fervent tone, “But the best part? The creature saying, ‘I will be with you on your wedding night.’ Very metal thing to do.”

Though you tried your best to conceal your surprised smile, your face betrayed you.

It had only been a month since Ms. O’Donnell forced this arrangement on the both of you, and the first two weeks had been an absolute disaster. It was a good day when Eddie actually showed up to your thrice weekly one-hour sessions at the typically empty library. But once Ms. O’Donnell threatened to take away his club privileges if he received one more F on a homework assignment, a reluctant Munson began arriving five to ten minutes late, muttering how English was the bane of his existence.

The remaining fifty minutes would then be spent on trying to pull a restless Munson back into the world of the books you were trying to analyze. Sitting still was a foreign concept to him. Only three things seemed to occupy his mind at all times: Hellfire, his B.C. Rich Warlock, and “running away from shitty Hawkins High”. It was in those instances that you were convinced that nothing substantial ever came out of his brain, or his blabbering mouth.

But in moments like these, where Eddie enjoyed discussing the mandatory literature as much as he loved shredding his guitar or annoying the jocks, you realized his head offered more than just a placeholder for his untamed hair.

Eddie Munson wasn’t a dumb dork, he was just a lazy one.

And you could definitely work with that.

“You know what? You’re actually right for once.” Sliding a loose leaf paper to a bewildered and blinking Eddie, you handed him a pencil and suggested, “So why don’t you write all of that down?”

–

“Dude! DUDE!”

Completely unaware that you were the dude in question, you closed your locker door only to startle upon finding a psyched Eddie beaming at you.

“I have a name, you know.”

“Never said you didn’t,” he quipped, now deciding to say your last name while you rolled your eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You pulled your calculus textbook closer to your chest, increasingly cognizant of the stares you two were getting from nearby students.

Aside from the teacher who decided to punish you in the first place, only three other people knew about the tutoring ordeal. To explain why you’d be absent for at least three hours a week after school, you kept your two friends, Maggie and Christopher, and the other editor-in-chief of the Weekly Streak, Nancy Wheeler, in the loop.

And while you didn’t think you were someone who concerned themselves with popularity and image at Hawkins High, you shuddered at the rumors already formulating in everyone’s head.

Spreading gossip that tried to piece together why a straight-A student would be talking to a drug dealer like Eddie “The Freak” Munson.

If Eddie noticed your stiffened shoulders and nervous glances he didn’t mention it, instead raising a piece of paper as he smugly said, “Just look at this.”

The first thing you saw was the big, red ‘C-’–a grade that occasionally appeared in your nightmares–on a Frankenstein pop quiz.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, taking the quiz from him to scan his sloppily written answers, temporarily forgetting all worries as a triumphant Eddie grinned at your widening eyes. In fact, you were shocked to find yourself agreeing with Ms. O’Donnell’s ‘Not Bad!’ comment underneath the grade. “You passed!”

“Hell yeah I did! Told you it was an easy read.”

“Alright, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, there.”

It took a surprising amount of self restraint to not laugh at Eddie feigning hurt as he gripped his chest. “Must you wound me so? Don’t you torture me enough?”

“Apparently not, since your ego got so inflated with just one passing grade.” To soften the blow, you offered a small smile. “But this is progress. How about we call off today’s session, to celebrate?”

Eddie perked up at that. “Seriously?”

You shrugged before handing him back the quiz, avoiding any brushing of fingers in such a public setting. Even though most students seemed to have returned to their own conversations and tasks, it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“Yeah, why not? I’ll have free time for once. If Ms. O’Donnell asks I'll just say I tutored you during our study period.”

“Hey, maybe we should say that more often.”

Just as you’re ready to reject his idea, Eddie claimed, “I’m kidding, sheesh!” before returning your smile, appreciation evident in his eyes. “But, uh, thanks. I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that,” you muttered at his retreating figure, confused at the new wave of emotions replacing the jangled nerves wracking your body a few minutes ago.

Because there was no rational explanation as to why you were sad about canceling a tutoring session with Hawkin’s most pathetic dork.

None at all.

–

“They said you were trying to get stoned with the freak.”

Maggie’s appalled tone made you cackle, covering your mouth with your hand when her eyebrows narrowed, as if waiting for your side of the story.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe that rumor, I’d never get high in the middle of a school day,” you sighed, shifting your gaze to which drink you should choose from the convenience store. “Especially since I almost got expelled for breaking another school rule just two months ago. I think I learned my lesson.”

“The thing is, I don’t know what to believe in lately.” Maggie called for your name, exasperated when you opened the fridge door to grab a Coke instead of paying attention to her. “You barely hang out with us anymore.”

“Not true!” supplied your savior Christopher, who popped in from the snacks aisle and wrapped a comforting arm around your shoulder. “You’re just upset we missed your pom-poms routine last week.”

“It’s called cheerleading, dumbass,” retorted Maggie, crossing her arms as she glared back at you. “And Chris was obviously playing on the football field, but you promised you would go.”

You winced, guilt evident in your next words. “I’m sorry, Mag, but you know I was busy with tutoring and the early action deadline. Since I mailed the application, I’ll see you next time.”

“That doesn’t matter, you’re going to tonight’s party with us!” Chris placed your brown fedora hat on his head before lifting his arm to give you a noogie, much to your chagrin. “Gotta make sure you know how to let loose before heading off to YALE!”

“Chris, stop!” you choked out, though relief washed over you after seeing his antics got Maggie to laugh.

Once you got your accessory back from Chris, you quietly added, “I won’t hear from them ‘til December. And I doubt a school filled with that many nerds party a lot, even on Halloween.”

He grinned, blue eyes swimming with a mirth that seamlessly fit the Danny Zuko costume he was wearing. “Your words, not mine. I’m gonna get some cigs, anyone coming?”

“Wait, Jason told us to get a six-pack, don’t forget!” Maggie dragged Chris further down to the alcohol section, her teased, blond curls bouncing with each step as you wondered how she effortlessly moved in those leather pants.

“I’m gonna pay for my stuff,” you told them, preferring to let your friends play out their lives as Danny Zuko and Sandy Olson. (And before they started arguing on which brand to get.)

Deciding to wait for them outside, you leaned against the brick wall of the 7-Eleven, taking a sip of your drink…

“Freddy Kruger?”

…before promptly spitting it out after hearing a familiar voice.

“Eddie, what the hell?” you shouted, miffed by his loud cackling as you tried to assess the damage on your red and green striped sweater.

He stood up from his doubled-over figure, pretending to wipe away a stray tear. “I thought I was supposed to be spooked.”

“I left my glove in Chris’s car, but my nails are just as deadly, you long-haired freak!”

“Sureeee, I’ll lock the door to my van before I leave.”

“I’ll get you long before then.”

Eddie’s lips curved upwards at the baseless threat. His eyes did a quick once-over, clearly amused. “Last time I checked, Kruger was supposed to be ugly and scary. This might be the first assignment you’ve ever failed.”

You felt your face warm, unsure how to process those words. Was that a compliment? An insult?

Both?

Not wanting to reveal your short-circuiting, you countered, “And what are you supposed to be? At least I’m somewhat creative.”

As if on cue, Eddie dug around the pockets of his leather jacket and put on circular shades, animatedly raising both of his arms to show off his rings and black-painted fingernails while he bellowed, “Ozzy, of course!”

Although you rolled your eyes, you couldn’t help but softly chuckle, deeming his costume as “Very metal” before he asked why you’re dressed up.

“No offense, but you don’t seem like the going-out type. And on a Thursday night?” He covered his gaping mouth with his hand, gasping, “How scandalous!”

Shrugging, you leaned back against the wall, looking at the man next to you. “I don’t go out as much as Maggie and Chris, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to do it once in a while.”

“Respect, no judgment here. And Halloween’s a classic.”

“Right?” you agreed, smiling with Eddie. “But I’m kinda bummed that as you grow up, you trade in king-sized candy bars for cheap beer.”

Eddie lowered his shades as you saw him grab more items from his seemingly infinitely large pockets. “Hey, I know you’re the one who’s teaching me English Lit, but I thought I taught you about forced conforming.”

Just as you were about to ask what the hell he was ranting about, Eddie grabbed your hand and placed a long, rectangular bar on your palm.

Trying your best to ignore his warm touch that made your chest constrict, you laughed at the Snickers bar in front of you as you snorted out a thanks.

“It’s nothing,” he casually dismissed, right before you swiftly snuff out the recently lit cigarette he just placed in his mouth.

Aghast, he pouted, “That’s how you repay me? You monster!”

“The real monster is lung cancer, you dork, it’s for your own good.” As consolation, you gave him your Coke can, “which might also cause cancer, but at least it’s not lung cancer.”

Eddie laughed, though you weren’t able to hear his jest over Maggie’s yelling of your name.

“Sorry, gotta go.” Brushing off your pants, you slowly began to walk your friends who finally found you and urged you to hurry up.

Yet that didn’t feel right.

Inhaling sharply, you quickly turned around and mustered the courage to ask, “Why don’t you come to the party tonight?”

You wish you were able to see his eyes, covered by those ridiculous shades. But his dramatic head tilt spoke enough. “Me? Going to Jason’s party to hang out with the popular kids? Sounds like it goes against my own personal Munson doctrine.”

“But you’d be hanging out with me. I swear I’m a bit more fun than them, at least enough to be an exception to your little principles.”

“I don’t need any assurance on that,” he said, an almost sad-like smile on his face. “Maybe I’ll stop by after my gig.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” You gave a small wave before running toward Chris and Maggie, the latter instantly questioning why you were talking to Freaky Munson as soon as Chris drove out of the gas station.

“That’s not Eddie, that’s Ozzy,” you replied, unwrapping the Snickers bar and taking a bite out of it to hide your smirk.

“Who?” Her nose wrinkled, as if trying to sift through the pages of the student yearbook in her head. “Is he a senior?”

Chris chuckled knowingly as you cheekily answered, “Yeah, he’s coming to the party tonight.”

You wished the lie didn’t include that part, hating the sinking feeling in your stomach when Ozzy was nowhere to be found in Jason’s crowded house.

–

“I freaking love this book,” was a phrase you never thought you’d hear come out of Eddie’s mouth. “But Ms. O’Donnell assigning an essay right before Thanksgiving is pure evil.”

You snickered, way too entertained at the sight of Eddie repeatedly banging his head against his copy of Brave New World. “If you love it so much, then writing five pages on it shouldn't be too bad.”

He lifted his head to look at you, tangled hair masking the disbelief painted across his face. “I’m 95% certain you and Ms. O’Donnell are Mustapha Mond, trying to restrict my free will and deprive me of true happiness.”

Though you’d never outright tell him this, hearing his absurd, embellished statements made these tutoring sessions feel less like a chore and more like hanging out with a friend.

Friend. Pairing that word with Eddie Munson felt like an abstract mathematical concept your confused mind was trying to comprehend; you doubt it would sound less foreign if you were to actually say it to him.

But there was no doubt that these sessions were a lot more fun than in the beginning of the year. When Eddie realized that he would be granted five (more like ten) minutes of non-academic chatting in exchange for five minutes of work, he tried putting effort in his brainstorming or writing. He might even work a bit harder when it was a sci-fi or fantasy book, the only two genres he truly liked.

And talking with him oddly felt natural.

He let you vent about the pressure you felt from your parents to be the perfect student and child, despite the fact that they were hardly home. In turn, he disclosed his own current gripes. (“Tell me about it, my uncle keeps on fussing about me making a mess and using up all the hot water. You know, I should get a place of my own.”)

And he heard your fears on how all the money you saved from odd jobs and your writing services wouldn’t be enough for college, since your well-off parents decided that bestowing such a financial responsibility to you ‘builds character’. (“Not cool for your parents to do. What’s the point of being rich then? College is a scam, anyway. And you want to go to law school? You really like school, don’t you?”)

He sympathized with your complaints on Maggie’s inability to confess her crush to Chris... (“I’m afraid Sinclair is slowly turning to the dark side, he mentioned something about joining the basketball team.” A pause. “You wouldn’t want to be his Hellfire sub this Thursday, by any chance? No? Well, uh, that’s unfortunate. Your loss, really.”)

…Or listened to your frustration about Nancy choosing Fred Benson over George Davis as the Managing Editor for the Weekly Streak. (“Wheeler did what? I’m sorry, but I have no freaking clue what you’re talking about.”)

And you actually enjoyed the constant mindless spats with him; whether it’d be better to be a book nerd or a D&D nerd (you obviously won that argument); how vapid the jocks were (you loved Chris and some of his football friends, but basketball captain Jason was definitely an example of all brawn but no brain); or which alien movie was the best (he claimed that Ripley’s badassery was one of best highlights in Alien while you swore by the perfect mix of intelligent characters and the right amount of horror in The Thing).

Ironically enough, your favorite parts always revolved around book discussions. Though these tutoring sessions were required by Ms. O’Donnell, it was surprisingly fun to hear Eddie’s opinions. They weren’t like the contrived contributions you had heard countless times from your classmates during discussions and presentations. Sure, they were far from articulate, but what genuine, spontaneous thought was?

With each idea you felt like you were getting to know more about Eddie and his perspective on life, an outlook so different from others that you continued to be intrigued.

“Well, I’m not sure if Mustapha Mond is the best comparison, considering that the World State would shock their babies if they even touched a book,” you responded. “If anything, I feel like I relate more to Helmholtz’s struggle to express his intense feelings in a society devoid of such emotion.”

Leaning your head against your palm, you smirked as you imagined the gears furiously turning in Eddie’s head.

“Ah, so you agree that there’s no free will in their society?” he spoke after a solid minute, finger extended toward you as if in a ‘gotcha’ moment. “If you don’t fit in or conform to your stupid caste, you’re either forced to leave or you end up dying like good ol’ Johnny boy because you’re so miserable. You call that happy?”

“Free will and happiness aren’t always linked, though. Because of soma, most of society was happy with their position–”

“Because they were ignorant. Does that make them truly happy?”

“Well, how would you define happiness?”

Eddie scoffed as if you were asking him what color the sky was. “The freedom to be yourself and not care what others think. Why, you think differently?”

You mulled the question in your head, before concluding, “I’m not sure. I just know when I’m happy, I’m not in pain and everything feels stable around me.”

“That sounds like you’re content, which isn’t happiness,” Eddie countered. His intense gaze made you uneasy, brown eyes indecipherable. “Don’t you want more than that?”

“Of course I do,” you said, rather defensively, “but we’re not getting that in Hawkins.”

“And you think you’ll get it at that pretentious college with students that are worse than the rich douchebags in this town?”

“Yes, because Yale,” you corrected, “has one of the best English departments in the country. I would be able to take so many courses in creative writing! Hawkins has the Hawkins Post. ”

Eddie scratched his head, suspicious eyes narrowed as he questioned, “I thought you wanted to major in Political Science?”

You faltered for a second, astonished he even remembered that. Did he see through your facade?

“R-right, that’s what I meant. I doubt law schools would care, anyway. I’d still meet teachers and friends who’d respect and support my dream of being a lawyer.”

“But why do you still care so much about what others think? To conform to their mindset?” he pressed on, irritation starting to gnaw at you.

“Because, unlike you”–you rose from your seat, packing up your things as you averted his gaze and furiously whispered–“there’s people that I care about. God forbid I want to be normal and make my friends and parents happy. Your method of running away just creates more problems!”

“Oh, so you think I’m some evil freak?” He stood in your way, preventing you from leaving the library. Of course, the librarian wasn’t at her desk to intervene.

So you stared straight at him, jaw set as your hands tightly gripped the straps of your backpack. “You want the truth, Munson?”

He crossed his arms before having the audacity to roll his eyes at you. “The floor is yours! Clearly you think you’re smarter than me.”

“That’s not true,” you shot back, pressing a finger against his chest, “but what’s true is that you think the whole world is out to get you, when there’s people who care about you. Gareth, Jeff, Mike, Dustin.”

You gulped, closing your eyes and dropping your hand from his chest as you whispered, “Me.” Opening your eyes, you looked at his dumbfounded expression as you finished, “People do care for you. But you’re too eager about running away to realize and admit it, you coward.”

Right before his stunned self could say anything, you violently blinked away your blurry vision and asked, “There, are you happy with that answer, Munson?”

At least the one thing you were thankful for this Thanksgiving break was that you wouldn’t need to see him anytime soon.

–

“–and Chrissy’s upset that Jason’s been so focused on preparing for the season, he even held a practice today, on Thanksgiving!…I’m speaking to the void, aren’t I?”

You regained the loosening grip on your phone, a surprised “Hm?” leaving you while you sat up from your bed and untangled yourself from the telephone coils.

“What has been going on with you? Are we fighting?”

“Mag, what, why do you think that?”

“Because I tell you my whole life story, and you say one word. One word!”

“No–”

“See what I mean? If you’re angry at me, we can work it–”

“Mags, the only thing you need to be working on is telling Christopher Perkins that you’ve been in love with him for the past three years.”

“Oh, don’t bring that into this! That is low, even for you!”

But hearing her light chuckle across the line showed she wasn’t upset at your daily reminder to get her act together. You laughed, too, before sighing at your own hypocrisy.

A whisper, almost too soft to hear it. “It’s the college stuff, isn’t it? You’re stressed about that?”

“More like I’m having a mid-life crisis at the ripe age of eighteen,” you complained, puffing your cheeks frustratedly as you stared at the ceiling.

How would you even begin to tell her that Eddie’s words a few days ago still rattled you? That his disappointed face–as if he had realized his gut instinct was right, and that you were no different from the popular kids of Hawkins High–was seared into your mind?

You questioned every single choice you made, pondered the motives behind your greatest ambitions.

Did you actually want to be a lawyer? Or were you enticed by the prestige and financial security that came from such a title?

And why were you so hellbent on pleasing others? Why did the respect of your friends and family seem to matter more than your wellbeing?

Just as you felt yourself begin to spiral, Maggie’s concerned voice now a distant buzz in the background, two loud knocks made you jump from your bed.

“Shit!” you cursed, heart hammering out of your chest as you locked onto Eddie Munson’s sheepish eyes behind your window.

“Maggie,” you breathed, hoping she didn’t detect your shaky voice, “Maggie, dinner’s ready, I gotta go. Can’t miss my dad’s cranberry sauce. Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Wait a–”

Hanging up, you rushed to your window to open it, harshly whispering, “You have a lot of nerve showing up after all you said–”

“Can we have this conversation inside, I’m freezing!”

You let Eddie crawl his way to your bedroom floor, your body still fuming as you murmured, “That’s what you get for wearing a leather jacket, you dumb metalhead.”

Your anger then increased when a revelation dawned on you.

“How do you even know where I live? Were you stalking me?”

“What, no!” he whispered back as he stood less than a foot from you, just as annoyed. “The movies make this seem a lot easier than it is. But Mike Wheeler was nice enough to tell me you’re neighbors, unlike a certain person I know.”

“When would that ever be relevant information, you creep?”

“Stop calling me a–”

You covered his mouth with one hand, using your other to make a ‘shh’ gesture.

When he made a confused sound, you simply mouthed the word ‘dad’ to Eddie. His comically-widened eyes would’ve calmed your heightened nerves if it weren’t for your name being called by a person whose ascending footsteps grew louder each second.

“Hide,” you urged as Eddie dove straight into your closet while you ran to sit against the headboard of your bed, trying to appear as collected as possible.

“Hey, dad.” You looked up from the book you were supposedly reading, smiling at the confused man who just opened your bedroom door. “Something wrong?”

“I dunno, you tell me. Why’d you scream bloody murder?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I got off the phone with Maggie and I accidentally stubbed my toe trying to grab this book to read. I’m fine, really.”

You caught his glance toward your open window and mentally cursed at your mistake.

“I didn’t know your room was hot enough to crack that open.”

“It just felt a bit stuffy in here,” you weakly supplied, tugging at the collar of your wool sweater while you cleared your throat that felt drier than sandpaper. “Maybe I should’ve worn less layers.”

“Right…I’m going back to the turkey, should be done in an hour.” He pursed his lips, before gravely adding, “If anyone breaks in, just holler again. I’ll bring out the shotguns in the living room.”

Sighing after the bedroom door shut, you felt your frustration toward Eddie slowly chip away as he shyly peeked his head out of your closet, a mixture of fear, concern, and skepticism in his eyes as he asked, “Shotguns? Plural? In your living room?”

“You’re safe,” you assured him as he began to look around your room, “but why the hell are you here?”

“You have a lot of books,” he muttered instead, eyes continuously flitting to a new growing pile out of the many haphazardly distributed in your room. “Like, a lot of them.”

“Munson…”

He noisily peered at the cassettes next to the Walkman that laid on your desk. “Big Fleetwood Mac fan. No surprise there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

It was almost as if he knew his teasing grin would dissipate some of your anger. “What do you think it means?”

That you had better taste in music than he did. The snarky reply never left your mouth, though you could vividly imagine his over-the-top response that would’ve followed—how his affronted gasp would be paired with him banging the library table in false indignation, desperately trying (for the umpteenth time) to convince you to listen to Judas Priest.

But you two weren’t at the library, and this was no time for banter.

“Eddie…”

“I know, I know, I’ll stop skirting around, just gimme a minute.” As if to give you space, he opted to sit in your desk chair.

After an awkward silence of averted glances and hand wringing, Eddie prefaced, “I’m sorry for the shit I said on Monday. It was crazy and unnecessary. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It was crazy, and it hurt.” You played with the sleeve of your sweater, unsure of where to start yourself. “But I was also mean, and I’m sorry for that. At least you were right about a few things.”

His knitted eyebrows displayed his lack of understanding. “Right about what?”

“I don’t know what I want to do in my life,” you confided, laughing at the instantaneous relief you felt after sharing the haunting thought aloud.

You brought your knees to your chest, sending Eddie a quivering smile. “I’ve spent eighteen years of my life constantly pleasing everyone around me, thinking I’d be a burden if I did otherwise. Constantly afraid of failing, not meeting their expectations.”

“You haven’t failed them.”

“But I’ve failed myself.”

Eddie shook his head, standing from his seat before balking at the empty spot in your bed. When you nodded, he quietly sat across from you, his face the most solemn you’d ever seen him.

“Look, I’m sorry if I made you think you had to have all of life”—he gesticulated wildly, large, brown orbs matching the madness—“figured out. But no one knows what the fuck they’re doing. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. So if someone tries to plan out every single part of your life, fuck them! What authority do they have?”

“And you don’t need to take life advice from a dude who has flunked high school twice…” Eddie nervously twisted the ring on his index finger before giving you a genuine grin. “…but you have time to get it all sorted out. Hey, maybe you’ll get some help from that fancy ass school that will definitely accept you because they’d be stupid not to. And even if they don’t, I know whatever you do will be a hell of a lot better than what most people in this town accomplish.”

You blinked at Eddie, once, two, three times. You then offered the smallest of smiles, not confident that your tightening chest and the lump in your throat would allow you to say anything.

So you hugged him instead, an admittedly awkward embrace with your arms around his neck as you buried your face into his shoulder. But the odd combination of pine, cigarettes, and cheap cologne consumed all your senses, your overactive brain forgetting everything else as it now focused on one thing.

One person.

“You need to stop smoking,” was the first thing you said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, voice muffled as you directly spoke into his vest.

Soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek while you felt the deep laughter reverberating from his chest.

The arm around your waist briefly tightened. “Maybe that’ll be my New Year’s resolution.”

“No, your first resolution should be to finally graduate.”

“‘86 will be my year, I feel it in my bones.”

“Didn’t you say that with ‘85 literally two months ago?”

“I was full of shit back then. That was before I got my first C- in Ms. O’Donnell’s.” He gingerly lifted your head from his shoulder, cupping your chin as he said, “Which was thanks to you, by the way.”

“Not true. Since you actually wrote it.”

His wide grin fell a bit, and you worried you crossed yet another line.

His next words only increased your anxiety.

“If I ask you something, will you be totally straight with me?”

You gulped at the abrupt shift, heartbeat erratic. “Depends on the question.”

He continued anyway.

“The other day, you said you cared for me. Did you mean that?” Those brown orbs imploringly scoured every inch of your face, hoping to find a sign that’d appear before your verbal answer.

He didn’t need to.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice so quiet he would’ve missed it if you weren’t mere inches away. “I meant it.”

His eyes softened, glancing at your lips before returning your gaze.

Sharply inhaling, you began to close the gap, feeling your lips brush against his—

Before jumping for the second time today, releasing a startled gasp at the shrill sound of your ringing telephone.

“You should get that,” Eddie croaked, voice suddenly hoarse.

When he got up, you panicked. “I’ll get it later. Stay here, I can sneak you some dinner.”

He cleared his throat, fingers and eyes increasingly interested in fixing the pins on his vest. “Uh, I don’t know. I usually spend Turkey Day with my uncle. Chinese food, shitty beer, you get the gist.”

“Y-yeah, of course.” Your forced, tight-lipped smile made your cheeks ache. “Have fun.”

You hated the growing distance between you two. Hated how the incessant ringing punctured the now stifling air.

He nodded and scratched the back of his head, an uncharacteristically speechless Eddie Munson unsure of what to say.

Bidding for an awkward “See ya later,” he exited your window, not privy to the spectacle of you screaming into your pillow.

When the phone continued to ring, it was impossible to conceal your pure frustration when answering the call.

“Somebody better be dead or dying…”

“I told Chris!” Maggie exclaimed, who sounded very much alive. “And we’re going on a date tomorrow!”

Groaning loudly, you collapsed against your bed, Maggie’s bubbly voice fading into the background once again as you were on the verge of yet another spiral.

—

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Who?”

The way Maggie half-growled your name confirmed you weren’t going to get out of this. “You know who I’m talking about.”

Taking a bite of your sandwich, you looked at a wary Chris. “Do you know who she’s talking about?”

“I’m actually gonna get more tater tots,” he decided slowly, furtive glances sent toward the both of you before he practically ran to the lunch line.

“Don’t play dumb,” Maggie persisted, “not when I just saw you smiling at Eddie freaking Munson.”

“I mean, what he said was kinda funny. And true.” Jason’s comically peeved face after Eddie asked if the basketball captain’s singular brain cell still functioned now reappeared in your head.

“No one laughs at his ‘jokes’ unless you’re one of his lackeys.”

Your lips soured into a shape that was far from a smile. “So you’re saying I’m not just dumb, but I’m also a lackey?”

“I’m saying you have a crush on the weirdest person in this school!”

The deafening silence that ensued was the nail in the coffin, but your next words truly sealed your fate.

“He’s not that weird.”

Maggie sighed, your brain unable to comprehend the simultaneous, paradoxical look of understanding and pity in her eyes. “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

She wasn’t the first one to tell you that. After all, you’d read plenty of Austen and Brontë novels to know the reason behind your dysfunction.

It wasn’t that you were embarrassed to have feelings for Eddie Munson. You were mortified that–

“It’s that obvious?”

Especially after what had (almost) happened on Thanksgiving. Those few minutes were all it took to open Pandora’s Box, releasing a disconcerting cloud of emotions that controlled your thoughts every second of every day.

Which explained why each tutoring session for the past three weeks had been absolute torture. A switch flipped inside you, heightened senses observing the smallest of details.

The multitude of shirts with names of heavy metal bands you’d never knew existed.

The demon puppet tattoo on his forearm, which neighbored six tiny bats. (And you swore you once caught a glimpse of black ink peeking from his shirt, right underneath his collarbone.)

That slight furrow to his brow whenever he began an essay or homework assignment, which was quite similar to his ‘I’m on a writing roll’ look but also completely different. Or how he rolled up his sleeves whenever he was psyched, but mindlessly twirled the ring on his index finger when he was processing something.

Yet you also noticed the strange change in your dynamic. You initially attributed it to midterms stress, despite knowing Eddie’s lack of concern for exams, or school in general. One second you’d catch him staring at you, as if wanting to tell you something. Then he’d quickly raise the wall, attempting to diffuse the charged tension with some cringe-inducing joke.

It drove you crazy.

“Uh, considering that you’re currently looking his way,” Maggie interrupted your thoughts, “I’d say, yeah, pretty obvious.”

As if he heard, Eddie’s eyes briefly locked with yours before his chortling friends seized his attention.

He drove you crazy.

“What do you see in him?”

His talent to tell terrible dad jokes. Some signs of intelligence. Way too much confidence.

Kindness.

“Why do you even care? You’d hate whatever I’d say.”

Maggie shook her head, placing her hand over yours. “I’m just concerned for you. He’s dangerous. And what would others think? Your parents? It’s social suicide!”

“If you’re worried about that last part, then let me make things easier for you. Goodbye, Maggie.” Getting up, you ignored her pleas to come back as you rushed to one of your safest spaces at Hawkins High.

Only to find someone else sniffling at the Weekly Streak’s editor-in-chief workspace.

“Nancy, are you crying?” You frowned, forgetting the reason why you were here as you gently questioned, “Wait, did you hear from Emerson?”

“Huh? No, not yet, I just think I caught a cold–”

“Is it Jonathan? I’ll kick his ass if he–”

“No!” she shouted, wincing at how loud she sounded before she laughed to herself and sent an appreciative smile your way. “I mean, everything’s fine with us. He’s actually visiting soon, for Christmas. But I appreciate your concern.”

“Oh, that’s great! I’m so happy for you, Nance!” you exclaimed, your wobbly grin and teary eyes indicating otherwise.

Grabbing a few tissues, Nancy rushed to your side while she gave a reassuring squeeze of your shoulder. “Did you hear back from Yale?”

“Nah, I’m in the same boat as you,” you grumbled at remembering yet another lurking stressor.

“Then whose ass do I need to kick?”

“Let me write a list,” you deadpanned, though Nancy found it far from funny.

“I’m just so stressed, and tired.” Throwing out your used tissues, you leaned against the desk and sighed, “So, so tired.”

“Midterms?”

You barked out the ugliest laugh. “I wish! That’s easier to understand than Eddie Munson.”

Mentally cursing at your blunder, you rushed to fix the mistake. “Like, how many times do I have to tell him that Frankenstein is the scientist, not the monster?”

“Right,” said an unconvinced Nancy, her eyebrow raised as she innocently added, “So is that why you tutored him on Thanksgiving?”

Everything in your body ceased to function, save for your dry mouth that tried to ask her–

“How?” she said, the wry twist to her lips showed she was enjoying this too much. “I was going to keep it a secret, but it’s not everyday you see a man spending over half an hour climbing a tiny tree and spending even longer getting down from it.”

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears pricking your eyes while your body shook from uncontrollable laughter. “He is such a loser.”

Unsure of how to soothe you, Nancy enveloped you into a tight hug. “Mike agrees. I don’t know what happened to the two of you that night but ever since then he’s been in a weird mood. Something about making a campaign much harder?”

“Stop lying, Wheeler.”

Breaking the hug, she firmly placed her hands on your shoulder as she forced you to look at her. “You think I like hearing my little brother constantly complain about Dragons and Dungeons?”

“It’s Dungeons and Dragons,” you corrected meekly, afraid that those words would be your last.

Nancy’s eye twitched as her grip on your shoulder tightened to an almost painful degree. “Please know that I say this because you’re my friend, but if you don’t tell him how you feel, then Eddie’s not the only loser in this story.”

–

“Today’s the big day!” exclaimed Mr. Benson, the mailman excitedly waving the envelope like it was a golden ticket.

You wanted to hurl. Figuratively and literally.

Nancy’s gift of friendship not only included an absolutely inspiring and vaguely threatening pep talk, but she threw in a bonus side of germs that left you bedridden with a cold the entire weekend.

Still feeling somewhat weak on Monday, you unexpectedly convinced your parents to let you take a sick day, knowing that at worst you’d be missing lectures dedicated to reviewing for your midterms.

Now every step toward Mr. Benson was tinged with regret in deciding to stay home, not ready to read the either exciting or crushing news.

His gloved hands gave it to you as he sent you a wink. “I dropped off Nancy’s as well. Fred told me he’s already prepared the article to make the announcement.”

“You’re both too sweet, Mr. Benson,” you lied through your chattering teeth, not sure if the trembling was due to your nerves or the frigid weather. But there was no doubt that the Nancy-obsessed nerd wrote only one name on that headline, and it certainly wasn’t yours.

“Good luck!” he bid as he moved to the next home, allowing you to scuffle directly across to the Wheeler mailbox.

“NANCY!” you shouted from the top of your lungs, attempting to reign in the coughing fit you were about to go into. “NANCY, GET YOUR ASS OUTSIDE OR I’M OPENING YOUR EMERSON LETTER! Oh, hi, Mrs. Wheeler!”

The younger Wheeler appeared not a moment later, sharing an anxious glance before tearing open the envelope you gave her.

Though there was no reason to be nervous for her in the first place, finding yourself jumping alongside her mom and hugging Nancy before she even screamed, “I GOT IN!”

And you probably would’ve continued celebrating were it not for her stabilizing your dizzy body and looking you dead in the eyes.

“Wait, you need to open yours! Should we call your parents?”

The unopened letter stuffed inside the pocket of your puffer jacket suddenly weighed like a ton of bricks.

Even if it was good news, you wouldn’t be able to do this by yourself.

Which is why you shook your head at a puzzled Nancy, her bewilderment increasing with your next request.

“Do you think I could borrow Mike’s bike for a bit?”

–

“Fucking hell!”

About halfway into your freezing joyride, the burning sensation in your lungs painfully reminded you of your sheer stupidity in declining Nancy’s offer to give you a ride in her heated car. (You also made a mental note to take your driver’s exam before graduation.)

You had no idea what you were doing. Quite frankly, you hoped the bike ride would clear your head and make it easier for you to choose your next course of action.

But the closer you got to your destination meant the farther you were from turning back.

So you peddled even harder, whizzing by the sign to the Forest Hills Trailer Park as you spent your last burst of energy. It wasn’t until you spotted a certain battered van that you felt your tired body buzz in anticipation.

Because maybe there was a slim chance your plan wouldn’t fall apart.

Or at least that’s what you told yourself as you knocked on the door to the trailer before you.

When no one responded, you took a deep breath before you pleaded, “Munson, please. I know you have early release on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

Deciding whether to knock again or head back home, the choice was made for you as the door finally opened.

“I’m not the Munson you’re looking for,” drawled a middle-aged man who was right in his deduction.

“Mr. Munson! Nice to meet you!” you squealed, wishing you could crawl into a corner as you began profusely apologizing to the man who was probably resting after a graveyard shift.

“No need, about to head out to grab some food anyway.” He studied you for a moment, as if piecing together a puzzle. “You’re his tutor, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away?” you laughed, surprised that he knew his nephew had one in the first place.

“You did, just now.” He lit his cigarette, exhaling smoke the other way before facing you again. “I thought the boy was coverin’ his tracks whenever he talked about goin’ to the library to see his uptight tutor. Good to know it wasn’t a lie.”

“How…nice.” You weren’t sure what irked you more: Eddie Munson calling you uptight or his uncle being able to immediately identify you through that descriptor.

“My nephew uses all our hot water washin’ that hair of his. But he should be done showerin’ soon, feel free to stay warm inside.”

It was a nicer welcome than the one you received from the younger Munson, who clutched his chest and screamed “JESUS H. CHRIST!” when he walked out of the bathroom and saw you.

A joke was on the tip of your tongue, ready to poke fun at the intimidating metalhead cowering in fear. But you felt yourself freeze when he hesitantly said your name, oddly shy with all of his attention on you.

Having a crush was so unnerving.

He slowly approached the couch you currently sat on before harshly rubbing his eyes, still not believing what he was seeing.

“Stop acting as I’m some ghost, you dork.”

No response, just a suspicious glint. He broke the uncomfortable silence when he poked at your shoulder, yelped, and realized you were, in fact, telling him the truth and casually in his home.

“I have so many questions.”

“Nice to see you too, Eddie.”

“And you, uh, look and sound like shit,” he continued, a line that would’ve made you slap him if it weren’t for the concern in his voice. “So Ms. O’Donnell wasn’t lying about you being sick. Do you want water or something?”

“Well, at least I don’t have a hole in my shirt,” you lamely pointed out, hoping he didn’t catch your eyes lingering on his biceps. This was the first time you’d seen him wear a short sleeve t-shirt–Iron Maiden merch, no surprise there–and holy shit, was that a new tattoo?

“And water would be great,” you whispered, trying to swallow the new lump in your throat as you exercised great strength to stop admiring his inked arms in that tiny, black shirt. “I hate feeling this thirsty.”

“I’m only ignoring the slander because you’re sick. Even Gollum has seen better days than you.”

“I have no idea who or what a Gollum is, but I’m still offended.”

His face split into a wolfish grin, mischievous eyes twinkling as he half-sang, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you!”

As he went to the kitchen to fill a glass with water, you then caught his perplexed expression from the counter. “But speaking of being lost as hell, how’d you even get here?”

“Address or vehicle wise?”

“Uh, both, I guess?”

He plopped himself on the opposite side of the couch after handing you the cup, your fingers grazing his ring-cladded ones for what seemed like a second too long. Not trying to dwell on how touch-starved you were, you threw your head back and downed the water in one swoop, ignoring Eddie’s sarcastic, “Lemme pour myself a vodka shot, too.”

“Nancy gave me the address and I may have borrowed Mike’s bike.”

“How did that answer everything but nothing?”

Then a beat later. “Hold on, you biked all the way here in the freezing cold while having a cold? Are you insane?”

“Mike’s odometer said it was only seven miles.” You winced at Eddie’s high-pitched repetition of the number.

“Man, so maybe you wouldn’t design the most intelligent character in the Dungeon…”

“Hardy har har. I didn’t come all this way to play in your little campaign.”

“Care to share the real reason why you’re here, then?”

You laughed–of course Eddie would ask the most important question last rather than first.

Fishing out the item from the pocket of your jacket, you answered by showing him the envelope.

“Well, shit.” He whistled and gently grabbed the wrinkled paper when you nodded for him to take it.

“Shit, indeed.”

Eddie’s eyebrows knit into one when he saw the envelope was still sealed. “Why haven’t you opened it yet?”

“I can’t,” you replied honestly, hands fidgeting as you felt the nausea return. “I’ve been waiting so long for this, but I’m fucking terrified.”

“So you’re never gonna open it?”

“Maybe”–you smiled sheepishly, your next jumbled words sounding more like a question than a statement–“that’s because I want you to open it?”

“Me?” he squeaked out, eyes wide.

“And read it, too.”

“Are you sure this cold didn't also, I dunno, fry your brain?”

“Even if it did, you know how stressed I was about applying to schools. Am.” You pointed at the envelope. “You helped me even though you hate talking about college. Hell, you probably saw that side of me more than anyone else.”

“That can’t be true–”

“It is,” you interjected, grabbing one of his hands to squeeze it, hoping your face showed your sincerity. “I don’t want to open it alone, but the idea of reading the letter for the first time with my parents feels even worse.”

“I’m still not getting how I would make things better.”

“Because you wouldn’t judge me, Eddie.” Not when he’s been so supportive.

When he’s been there for you every. Single. Time.

“I’d be stupid to judge you.” He squeezed your hand back, though his softened eyes still held that hesitancy. “But are you sure about this?”

“100%.”

“Yeah, but, are you really that sure?”

“Hey, remember when I canceled tutoring because you passed your Frankenstein quiz? And you said you owed something to your ridiculously hot and smart tutor?”

He rolled his eyes but you still caught the slight twitch of his lips. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, I’m cashing in that favor now.”

Even if the dynamic between the two of you felt different after Thanksgiving, his excited grin and brightened eyes toward you never changed.

And the sweet way he said your name, tone hushed, as if in awe. How easily it rolled off his tongue as he softly told you, “You’re something else, you know that?”

It was in that split second you felt incredibly tempted to ask him for another favor.

But you shook your head and laughed, trying to shake away any of those thoughts before you half-glared at him. “You’re one to talk. But please, please, read the letter, or the suspense will literally kill me.”

“Impatient, are we? But I will say, it’s quite thick.” Giving your hand one last reassuring squeeze before he let go, Eddie began breaking the envelope seal. “They wouldn’t waste more than a page on a rejected student, right?”

“Ah shit, I can’t watch this.” You shut your eyes, hearing Eddie unfold the letter as he cleared his throat and read the greeting in a neutral voice.

He dropped that tone quickly upon reading the first two sentences, the dramatic shift providing such whiplash that it took your brain a solid minute to fully register the words.

“Welcome to Yale College! It is with the greatest enthusiasm that I write to congratulate you on your admission to the Class of 1990.”

Tears welled up in your opened eyes, but you could still see Eddie’s toothy grin as he made you stand and jump with him.

“Oh my god, Eddie, the rest of the letter!” Yet your gaze only fixated on the elated man in front of you rather than the paper on the couch.

“Screw the rest of the letter! YOU GOT IN!”

Your excited shouts and laughter joined his as he began twirling you around and almost knocked down a lamp in the process, only stopping when both your voices became shot.

“Fuck,” you coughed out, laying on the couch as you barely caught your breath and blankly stared at the paper in your hand. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Well, you better start. And we gotta keep celebrating.” Pacing throughout the living room, each finger ticked off an option from the endless list of activities you could choose from. “–a movie, or stuffing our faces at a diner, you name it. What are we doing next?”

“Mmm, how ‘bout a nap?” you yawned, an instant wave of exhaustion washing over you.

“Huh? Christ, I forgot you’re sick.” Kneeling in front of you, Eddie warned, “Don’t you fall asleep on me.”

“Your hand feels nice,” you pleasantly sighed at the cool touch of his hand on your burning forehead, further confirming his suspicions of a fever.

Consciousness was becoming increasingly harder to tap into, but faintly hearing Eddie say the word “home” briefly jolted you back to reality.

Your heart lurched when you realized he was carrying you, senses overwhelmed by the familiar scent of pine and cheap cologne mixing with a minty fragrance coming from his recently-washed hair.

“No, wait!” You weakly grabbed onto his shirt, whining, “I still wanna celebrate!”

“Next time,” he assured you. “I promise.”

It was the last thing you remember hearing, the calming smell of mint lulling you to sleep.

–

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop by, even for a few minutes? Mrs. Henderson made these cute Christmas cookies. Well, they’re shaped like cats so maybe they’re not that festive, but they’re still really good.”

“Nance, I’m fine, really. I’m used to the parentals working in the ER on Christmas, saving and healing the Santas that have fallen off their roofs.”

Holding the phone closer to your ear as you shifted on your bed, you could make out the faint laughter in the background and what sounded like Dustin recruiting someone for the Hellfire Club.

Laughing at the antics, you teased, “Sounds like you got a full house anyway. How’re you and lover boy?”

“We actually got into a stupid fight about him applying to Emerson.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Nancy sighed, “We made dinner a bit awkward for everyone. But it’ll be fine, I think. How’s your lover boy doing?”

“Don’t call him that,” you huffed, face instantly burning.

Besides, the last time you saw Eddie Munson was when you knocked out on his couch. Nancy thought otherwise, especially after last Monday evening, when she answered the ringing doorbell to the Wheeler residence and saw your calmly sleeping figure in his arms.

Despite her interrogation, Eddie only told Nancy that you were worn out from your biking escapade and that he left Mike’s bike in the driveway. After giving you and your decision letter to Nancy (“Don’t lose that, Wheeler.”), he apparently ran back to his van and drove away in his typical maniacal fashion.

It didn’t help that you missed another day of school, spending the entire time sweating out your fever. Considering you didn’t recall any of this, and Nancy’s journalistic abilities in telling this story seemed compromised, you had hoped to talk to Eddie the day you finally returned to Hawkins High.

Only to miss his chaos in the unusually quieter cafeteria, freshman and even seniors stressed about midterms and getting last-minute Secret Santa gifts. When Gareth–shocked to see you approach him and the others during lunchtime–had told you that Eddie was sick, you doubted that the metalhead wanted any visitors.

So you resigned to the horrible timing and focused on taking your exams for the rest of the week, immensely grateful for the start of winter break the following Monday.

“Nothing’s going on between us, I swear.”

“Mhmmm.” Hearing more indiscrete voices, Nancy giggled before saying, “Oh, how nice! Mike just said you could borrow his bike again if you wanna pay someone a visit. Maybe Christmas miracles do exist.”

How were you getting clowned by a fifteen-year-old?

“You’re both insufferable.”

“I’m just fulfilling my duty as a journalist and being honest.”

“But I told you the truth–he’s not interested!”

“Then why is he climbing the tree next to your bedroom window, again?”

You hung up the phone and ran before your body could tell you to stop, opening the window as your face was hit with the bitter air and disbelief.

“Eddie!” you half-whispered, startling the man as he almost lost his grip. “What are you doing?!”

And of course he still had that leather jacket on.

“Christ, you’re not supposed to see this!” he panted, his frosty breath revealing how cold it was. “Gimme a few more minutes.”

Despite anticipating the oncoming headache, you couldn’t control the amused laughter that escaped you. “You dork, you’re lucky there’s no snow. Just go through the front door. My parents aren’t here.”

You swore you heard a “Oh, thank god” before flying down the stairs and opening the door for him.

“Hi,” he greeted–shooting you a stiff wave and a lopsided smile–as if he hadn’t failed in climbing your tree a few seconds ago.

“Hi,” you returned shyly, that tightness in your chest re-emerging. Quickly picking away the twigs in that ridiculously soft hair and trying to act as if it was no big deal, you let Eddie inside.

“Um, are you feeling better?” you asked as you led him upstairs, hoping you sounded more nonchalant than what you currently felt.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that, considering you, uh, passed out in my arms?”

You flipped him the bird before opening your bedroom door, scoffing, “I didn’t forget everything that happened that day. If I remember correctly, you promised to celebrate my acceptance with me.”

Letting Eddie sit next to you on your bed brought a sense of déjà vu that was getting harder to dispel with each passing second.

“You’re totally right. Which is why I brought you something. It was gonna be a Fleetwood Mac poster, but I didn’t have the strength to buy it in public.” He shuddered at the name, a gesture that made you roll your eyes.

“You’re so dramatic,” you muttered playfully, accepting the weirdly heavy plastic bag from Radioshack that he gave you, a sheepish look on his face as he nervously scratched the back of his head.

“I was gonna gift-wrap it but then realized that A) I don’t have anything to actually wrap the gift with and B) I had no time because I had to make-up my midterms two days ago.” Eyes widening as if he forgot something, he grinned and added, “Oh, speaking of that, I’m preeetyyy sure I bombed Ms. O’Donnell’s exam so I guess you’re still my tutor. Sorry.”

You pretended to shake your head disapprovingly–even if you tried, you couldn’t be mad, secretly happy to hear his rambling again. “You don’t sound sorry.”

“That’s because I feel more sorry for myself. Spending more time with you?” He fake gagged, his hands pretending to clutch his throat as he stuck his tongue out. “Ugh, a fate worse than death. I’d rather head to Mordor.”

“I’ll hit you and your obscure references with whatever is in this bag,” you teased, opening it as you peered inside. “What even is in this–”

You fell silent as you took out the boxed set of books, eyes scanning over the different titles written by J.R.R. Tolkien while your coy smile grew..

“You know, when I said I wanted to read The Lord of the Rings, I didn’t mean you had to get me the whole trilogy.”

In fact, you were planning on getting a library copy soon, in search of a new series to read. (And to finally understand whatever the hell Eddie kept on mentioning these past five months.)

“The books are actually mine,” Eddie said quietly, hands fidgeting as he nervously looked at your face to gauge your reaction. “I also threw in The Hobbit, which you should read first because it sets the stage for everything but is quick to finish. And if you ever get confused look at my notes. Not to toot my own horn, but they’re pretty damn good. Sometimes even funny.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed, shocked by the myriad highlights and annotations across hundreds of pages.

In August, if someone had told you Eddie Munson read and enjoyed a series that was over a thousand pages long, you would’ve outright laughed at them.

Now, you could easily imagine him excitedly flipping through each page, listening to Megadeth and Dio in the background as he hunched over his messy desk and scribbled his endless thoughts, wondering how he could incorporate some elements to his next D&D campaign.

It was an endearing picture, one that calmed your frantic heartbeats as you were reminded of how you two weren’t so different.

“Are you sure you wanna give these to me?” you asked, gazing into the warmest, brown eyes that belonged to Hawkin’s allegedly most dangerous teenager.

His cheeky grin already provided his thoughts. “I’ve read these books so many times I can probably quote it back to you. And I know once you finish these bad boys you’ll want to join Hellfire, so it’s a no-brainer, really.”

“Only when hell freezes over, pun very much intended,” you taunted, about to thank him for the gift until a smug Eddie placed a finger on your lip and whipped out another item underneath his jacket.

Unlike the boxed set, this one was wrapped in newspaper, his intent touching you enough that you didn’t even think about poking holes at his white lie from earlier or at his shoddy craftsmanship.

“I will say, that horrible pun made me consider whether I wanted to give this to you, but since I’m an incredibly nice person”–he gently placed the rectangular gift on your lap–“I got you this, too.”

Your forehead tilted in confusion and uncertainty, but you nodded and began opening the present.

“A journal,” you whispered in awe, admiring the intricate tree designed on the cover while your fingers appreciated the feel of your initials engraved in the corner of the authentic leather.

“Thought you would need something to write on for all those college creative writing courses you keep on talking about.” He shrugged impassively, but there was no way to hide the genuine gratitude in his eyes, the sincerity that followed shortly after.

“And I want to thank you for all your help. And for not hating me because people think I’m a freak. You’re cool in general, but I guess not being a douche makes you a pretty good person, too.”

The number of times Eddie Munson had left you unsure of what to say were more than you’d like to admit. But this was the first time he rendered you speechless, brain unable to think of an action that would show how much his words affected you.

How much Eddie meant to you.

So you kissed him, ignoring the weird angle or the way your teeth clicked after pulling his W.A.S.P. shirt a bit too roughly. Ignoring his slightly chapped lips and the fact that you ate sour cream and onion chips not one hour ago.

You kissed him, press after press of his lips against yours, climbing into his lap as your fingers got lost in his hair.

He kissed you, one of his hands grabbing one side of your face while the other rested on your hip. Your head felt light, but you didn’t want to stop, enjoying the delightful warmth in your chest, addicted to the way his lips seemed to melt into yours.

Eddie was the first to break it off, allowing for your panting figures to breathe for just a few seconds before he instantly regretted the separation and dove back in, these soft and sweet kisses feeling more raw and open than before.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, hot breath tickling your face, “I wanted to do that for so long.”

You slowly leaned back, one hand against his chest as you smirked at the sight of his flushed cheeks and shiny, swollen lips. “I thought spending more time with me was a ‘fate worse than death.’”

Laughing, he pecked the tip of your nose before caressing your cheek, affectionate, brown orbs crinkling as he clarified, “You heard me wrong, sweetheart. Spending time without you is worse than death.”

“Ha, smooth!” you teased, amused as you raised an eyebrow. “And whipping out the pet names already? We didn’t even say what we are, you dork.”

Clearing his throat dramatically, he bowed his head as he finally asked the question.

“Would you do me the honor of being your boyfriend?”

Lifting his chin, you smiled into the kiss, hoping that was a good enough answer.

–

“Edward, slow down!” you screeched over the loud music, reaching for the roof handle of the van.

Eddie’s chances of receiving his diploma from Principal Higgins this May were getting slimmer by the day, but based on the current speed an extremely excited Munson was driving, that chance was falling to zero for you, too.

The speedometer only lowered a sliver as Eddie scrunched his nose at the use of his first name. “Sorry, babe, but I’m still psyched after that show! We had a solid turnout.”

You recently started going to Corroded Coffin’s Tuesday gigs at the Hideout, and while they weren’t the best band in the world, you only had to watch a few shows before confirming that Eddie was a damn good guitarist. You’d even argue that seeing one show was sufficient to draw the same conclusion, but you could just picture Eddie’s shit-eating grin and constant bragging to his bandmates if you actually said those words aloud.

Proudly smiling at him, you grabbed his free hand and kissed the back of it. “The band’s best show yet. Told you people dig Fleetwood Mac covers.”

“Not as much as I dig you~” he sang giddily, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he slowed down to turn into Forest Hills.

“Ugh, stop being corny, Munson,” you laughed, affectionately squeezing his hand. Some of Eddie’s funniest moments came from the rush that followed after a performance, the man’s hyperactive brain rambling and continuously throwing out whatever joke or vague reference to see what would stick.

The nights after concerts were also when he was practically bouncing off the walls, itching to release his pent-up energy.

Which explained why he was already peeling off your coat while trying to open the front door to his place. Why he tossed his own leather jacket aside and immediately placed you against the kitchen counter, knocking down a few items as he buried his face into your neck, hands dangerously inching up your thighs.

“Ed,” you mumbled, sighing pleasantly at the soft bite on a sensitive spot as your legs instinctively wrapped around him. “Why do we never go to your bed first?”

He raised his head, a mischievous look in his eyes as he roughly kissed you. Lips grazing the shell of your ear, he whispered, “But where’s the fun in that?”

A few tugs to his hair convinced him to follow your directions, shared laughter filling his bedroom as he gently threw you onto his bed. He wasted no time taking off his sweaty shirt and removing your top before leaning into you, the cold, metal rings on his calloused fingers trailing up to your bra and sending goosebumps all over.

His lips ghosted yours before he breathed out, “You’re so pretty.”

The comment made you smile and arch into him, his tongue entering your mouth right after you gasped at him unhooking your bra.

He kissed you slowly, relishing your whimpers as he toyed with your nipples and shamelessly grinded against you, head too hazy with lust to care about the rough fabric of his jeans against yours.

Closing your eyes, you let his hungry lips taste every inch of you, committing your skin to memory. For the first time ever you were grateful that the March weather was still cold enough for you to wear a turtleneck, the only way you were going to be able to hide the marks he so generously left on your shoulders and exposed neck. The loud, wet sounds of him gently sucking on the soft fat of your breasts caused you to press your thighs together, frustrated at how soaked your panties were getting.

“Eddie,” you urged, breathless, fingers tangled in his hair as you guided him upward, foreheads meeting tenderly. You felt the low groan rumble from his chest as you told him, “I want more.”

You and Eddie weren’t necessarily walking into uncharted territory. After two months into your relationship, your intense make out sessions and roaming hands prompted a conversation about boundaries and sex.

Though neither of you were virgins (“Harrington?” Eddie asked you, his eyes practically falling out of their sockets. “As in rich boy, drives-a-BMW Steve Harrington? I’m competing against him?”), the two of you weren’t the most experienced. (“Oh yeah, I’ve been around…” Eddie started smugly, your unrelenting stare getting him to feebly rectify, “...uh, with two women.”)

You both agreed to take your time, not wanting to rush things. Truthfully, you felt it improved communication between the two of you, Eddie quickly listening and learning about your needs. What you disliked and liked. What turned you off and what moves made you want to jump his bones.

The latter now a feeling that you were experiencing, your chest filling with a greedy desire as the discomfort in your legs increased.

“Please, Eddie,” you pleaded against his lips, rolling your hips into his and enjoying the low moan you riled out of him. “I want you so bad. I need you.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned, bumping noses and placing a light kiss on your forehead when you confidently responded with, “I’m ready.”

“But–”

He instantly froze when you said that, hands that were ready to lower your pants now firmly planted on your waist. “It’s okay to say no, now or later. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Fuck, that was sexy, biting your lip at his words. Smiling softly, you reassured, “I’m definitely ready. But no handcuffs.”

The tip of Eddie’s ears matched his bright, blushing cheeks. “You saw those?” he whispered, his sideway glance toward his wardrobe incriminating himself.

Rolling your eyes, you ran a soothing hand over his chest as you teased, “It’s the first thing I saw in this messy ass room. We can use it some other time, but not tonight.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining, at all.” He worked quickly on discarding your pants, giving you a chaste peck before starting a trail of open-mouthed kisses on parts of you he neglected before. “Just the thought of using them is hot enough for me.”

“You kinky bastard!” you joked, body tingling with excitement when he tugged off your panties and part your legs even further, but not before tightly snapping the waistband against your skin.

“But I’m your kinky bastard.” That comment and a sloppy kiss on your inner thigh drove you mad, not even thinking it was possible for the wetness between your clenched legs to continue growing.

It hurt to swallow your moan, your eyes refusing to leave his as you impatiently challenged, “Then do your magic, Dungeon Master.”

The only warning was the flat of his tongue teasingly gliding between your parted folds, a shiver traveling up your spine at the sight of his shiny lips when he sighed, “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

His tongue continued to thrust straight into your leaking cunt, slow flicks become more assured as he found a rhythm that drew out your loudest moans and the most forceful hair pulling. The heat of his mouth closing around your core made you dizzy, hips bucking from the touch as you brought him further down to that tiny bundle of nerves.

“S-shit,” you stuttered upon feeling two fingers inside you, writhing helplessly into the bedsheets as he continued sucking your clit like a starved man. The curve of his digits hit a deep spot that made your eyes roll back, breaths becoming shallower as the searing knot in your stomach tightened.

“Eddie,” you whined, aching walls clutching his pumping fingers, “I wanna—”

“Cum, baby,” he encouraged, and you almost did.

But your eyes flew open, animated hands directing Eddie upward and shakily unbuckling his belt as you begged, “Want you inside, wanna ride you. Now.”

His hooded eyes widened while nodding enthusiastically, flipping you to the top and helping you lower his jeans and boxers before he cursed under his breath. “Shit, where are the condoms?”

“No time, just pull out” you stammered, fingernails digging into his biceps as you spared a second to ogle at his considerable length, the tip glistening with precum. Hard. Ready. Waiting.

For you.

You lifted your hips and sank down, immediately keeling over and whimpering at the way his cock buried into you. Your shaking body alternated between going up and down and rocking back and forth, moaning at how good it felt.

How good he felt.

“That’s it,” Eddie grunted, one hand steadying and holding yours while the other ran up and down your flushed body, mesmerized by the sight of your bouncing tits and the cute mewls that left your pretty little mouth. Stars clouded your vision as Eddie quickened the pace and slammed into your hips, the friction of his thick cock against your walls a sensation you both continued hunting after.

The incoherent babbling began as soon as he rubbed your clit with his ring, the cool steel bringing a new wave of pleasure that washed over your burning body.

“‘M gonna cum,” you managed to cry out, his name and curses tumbling from your lips as you felt a tense coil wound inside you.

You let go, eyes shut in bliss as a white, hot burst of pleasure flooded your veins, your numb mind drowning in a newfound sense of euphoria. Eddie felt himself teetering on the edge of an orgasm, chest puffing in pride and eyes darkening at your fucked-out face as he chased his own climax.

Flipping positions again, the bed creaked with every thrust as you sunk further into the mattress, the sounds of slapping skin became louder than both of your groans combined. Eddie swallowed your moan by clumsily capturing your lips into a kiss, the faint taste of your arousal on his tongue.

“Christ, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered into your ear, voice so low you barely caught it.

You laughed, your insides doing somersaults as his palm arched your back toward him. The new angle allowed his twitching cock to slip deeper inside your spasming walls as you held his gaze, watching his pants become heavier and rhythm more erratic.

Eddie quickly pulled out after, your body already missing the fullness as he painted your stomach in warm, white lines.

“Fuck,” he breathed as he stood on his knees, voice thick and jaw dropped. His heaving chest displayed all the tattoos scattered across his pale skin, entrusting you with a secret only you had access to. His sweaty bangs clung to his forehead while the rest of his tangled hair stuck out in wild directions, framing his face like a halo. Hypnotized, you drank the stunning sight before you as he grabbed some tissues from his desk and gently cleaned you up.

Eddie Munson was absolutely breathtaking.

And you were so done for.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, breaking your reverie as he laughed at your dumbfounded reaction. He collapsed next to you, letting your head snuggle into his chest as he lightly stroked your arm. “Or did I fuck you too hard?”

You snorted, playing with the tattoo underneath his collarbone before kissing it. “Mmm, no. I was thinking about how you, Eddie Munson, one of the most disorganized people to exist on this earth, found tissues in less than a minute but forgot where his condoms were. Good to know you masturbate more than actually get around.”

“How funny,” he drawled, pinching your waist playfully and raising a shriek out of you as he tried tickling you. “My biggest supporter quickly turns into my worst enemy. Was the sex that bad?”

Looking up, you pinned him with a cheeky grin before nestling your face into the base of his neck, gifting multiple butterfly kisses into the sensitive skin as a peace offering. “No complaints from me. It was amazing.”

“Would you say it was mind-blowing?”

You shrugged casually, amused lips curving upward while you twirled a strand of his hair. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Perhaps even better than sex with, I dunno, a popular douchebag?”

“Eddie!” you guffawed, unable to control your laughter.

“It wasn’t a joke,” he pouted, feigning hurt that you thought so.

“So I’ll answer seriously,” you said, pecking him before resting your chin on your hands that laid comfortably on his chest. “Who am I currently with?”

He rolled his eyes but you saw the slight twist of his mouth, felt his soothing hand drawing patterns on your back. “Fine, I guess, you proved your point, my fair lady.”

“Damn right I did. You’re lucky I’m still with you after I found out who Gollum was.”

“Oh, not again,” he whined dramatically, “everyone looks like Gollum when they’re sick!”

“Except?” you pressed, head turned to the side as you listened to his calmly beating heart.

“Except for my insanely hot and intelligent girlfriend…”

Satisfied with the amendment, you hummed loudly, briefly noting his heartbeat quicken.

“...who I happen to love.”

Your finger stopped re-tracing the tattoo on his chest, wondering if you heard that correctly.

Slowly raising your head, you searched his anxious, brown eyes and cautiously asked, “Did you say what I think you said?”

“What, that you’re hot and intelligent?” he nervously returned.

“No, the ‘L’ word,” you encouraged quietly, a hand caressing his cheek.

“Lesbians?”

“Eddie,” you slightly scowled, not enjoying how the fluttering in your stomach was about to turn into nausea. “The other ‘L’ word.”

The next beat of silence was the longest in your life, his warm eyes meeting yours before he muttered, “You got this, Munson.”

He cradled your face with the utmost care, thumb tenderly stroking your cheek while he said three little words.

“I love you.”

His fond smile was contagious, the joyous laughter spilling from your lips music to his ears.

Though nothing sounded better than you saying–

“I love you too.”

The kiss felt sweeter than ever, lifting you to a place you weren’t sure you’d ever reach.

This moment. This person. He was the true happiness you dreamt of.

His eyes lit up with a pure brightness when you told him that, both of you smiling goofily at one another while cherishing that rare, comfortable silence that few lovers had the privilege of experiencing.

“Not to disturb the peace or anything…” Eddie muttered after a few minutes, struggling to stay awake in your intertwined arms.

“Huh, that’s a new goal for you.”

“...but since we’re on the topic of happiness,” he rambled on, “it would make your boyfriend immensely happy if you were to participate in his D&D campaign. It’s never too late to fight the Cult of Vecna.”

“You have guts, I’ll give you that.”

“So is that a yes?”

Chuckling as you closed your eyes, you relaxed further into his embrace while mumbling, “Mmm, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. If it makes my boyfriend happy.”

You heard his fist pump swoosh the air, Eddie kissing the top of your head before he exclaimed, “The happiest man on earth! I knew ‘86 was my year.”

Smiling into your sleep, you couldn’t help but agree with the dork.

a/n: if you read this long ass fic then you're automatically my friend. i might write more parts featuring this pairing, i might not. i tried to write g/n smut but failed spectacularly so that's the next goal on my list. would love comments, feedback, or the opportunity to talk about eddie munson's shaggy hair and/or s4 pt. 2 theories. much love

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things #Eddie Munson

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 1 year

Text

Part 7 - Spirits, sorrow and surprise

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 6 -- Part 8

Summary: The boys celebrate the beginning of their Christmas break with a drink (or several) at their regular bar.

Warnings: (Vague) mention of blowjob, consumption of alcohol, fluff, some angst? Mentions of domestic violence. Tell me if I'm missing any.

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: This one was fun to write! Lots of interactions between the boys, intro of the next girlfriend, and for anyone who's been curious; by the end of this you'll know how Sy and Dani know each other.

Timeline-wise we're in the weekend after the first 6 chapters. I'd planned for ch7 to be a Charles-chapter, but I have 5 Christmas chapters and a NYE party to write and post (not including this one) meaning I'm hopelessly behind. Please forgive me.

@peaches1958 @keanureevesisbae Sorry if I'm keeping y'all busy ;)

“Fuck me, one more quiz from Laferrier and I’m switching majors,” Charles groaned as he and Walker left the lecture hall.

“Be glad you missed the last one, that was much worse,” August replied sourly.

“You aced the last one.” The surprise in Charles’ voice caused August to shoot a confused look at his friend.

“I fail to see how those things are mutually exclusive,” he shrugged, his voice thick with the kind of arrogance only types like Walker or Napoleon could get away with.

“Whatever, we’ve got two weeks of sweet freedom ahead of us,” Charles laughed. Walker happened to know Charles was hopelessly behind on nearly all assignments for all of his classes, but he couldn’t feel bad. The man couldn’t balance business and pleasure for shit, and all of this was his own fault. It wasn’t that he wasn’t smart - he always passed, and with minimal effort - he was just distracted a little too easily. And he was nothing like Mike, either, who was an idiot when it came to most things, but a borderline genius when you put him behind a computer.

“Sounds like a cause for a celebration,” Marshall turned up next to Charles, somewhat out of the blue, followed by Sherlock, who looked far more awake and confident than his friend.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Charles laughed, slapping Marshall on the back. He did look tired - not that that was unusual, but today it was striking.

“Just handed in a ten page psych-paper.” Marshall yawned. From the looks of it, he’d been up for the bigger part of the night, if not all of it.

“Keppler?” Walker asked - he was careful, not sure if Marshall had forgiven him for last weekend’s little episode yet. “Liebermann,” Sherlock said. The reply was accompanied by a groan from both Marshall and Walker. The fact that she was insanely hot didn’t make up for the fact that that woman was a fucking harpy. As the four of them walked home, Walker and Marshall talked about the paper some more - Walker had taken the course as an elective the year before. Sherlock gave up on trying to convince Marshall that his assignment was absolutely fine after about six tries.

“What’s up with you and the orchestra-girl,” Charles grinned. Making Sherlock feel awkward wasn’t the sole purpose of his question, but it was a nice bonus - and easily achieved.

For once, Sherlock decided to forego his regular answer (‘nothing’) and tell the truth: “Her name is Elena, and we… kissed.”

“And last week’s rehearsal went so poorly because you were imagining what her boobs look like?” Charles rolled his eyes. It’s not that he was trying to be a nosy, gossiping git, he was just curious. Inappropriately so, according to some - alright, according to most.

“I don’t have to imagine, I know what they look like.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he’d even opened it. Walker and Marshall each raised an eyebrow and half-listened to the conversation between Sherlock and Charles while continuing their own.

“I’m impressed, Holmes. Mildly, but still. I was beginning to think I’d have to take her off your hands,” Charles laughed. The laughter was replaced by a sharp gasp when five fingers suddenly dug painfully into his shoulder and Sherlock appeared in front of him. Walter and August paused their conversation when they noticed what was going on.

“You so much as look at her wrong and I swear to you, Brandon, you will not walk away in one piece, do you hear me?” Three pairs of eyebrows were raised at this outburst: It very decidedly wasn’t like Sherlock at all to react like this - emotional and rash. He had a far better handle on his temper than August or even Geralt - in fact, none of the guys had been aware that Sherlock Holmes had a temper. Turns out he did, and it was quite intimidating.

“Sherlock,” Marshall said carefully, “I’m sure Charles was just joking.”

“I’m quite sure he wasn’t.”

Charles looked at him in disbelief. “You seriously think I’m that bad a friend?”

“I don’t think you are, but I can’t trust you aren’t.” Quite frankly, nobody could disagree with that statement.

“Solo, you have five minutes to finish up with whoever is underneath your desk right now, we’re going out for a drink.” Leon made a face at Walker’s remark - either he was too predictable, or August knew him a little too well.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you didn’t know how to knock,” Leon growled through gritted teeth. Walker barging in unannounced was unwelcome at the best of times, least of all when you were halfway through getting your dick sucked. When August disappeared and slammed the door shut, Leon looked down at the pretty blonde between his knees.

“Baby, I don’t need five minutes,” she purred, and with a devilish look in her eyes, she returned her attention to what she’d been doing. It wasn’t a lie; barely ten minutes later, Napoleon pulled the door of his room shut behind him.

“Sorry I’m late!” Mike threw his jacket over the back of the last available chair.

“No need, we’re grateful,” Sherlock said dryly, “had you been on time, all of us would’ve died of shock.” Everyone laughed at the joke. Nobody seemed to mind that he was the last to get there, but Mike couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about it.

“Ask Elena what she thinks of guys who come last.” That one earned him a smack in the head from Marshall as soon as he sat down.

“Don’t get comfortable, you’re getting the next round,” Marshall told him. A round of drinks for the lot of them was usually an odd combination. The beers were the easy part, but the sometimes unusual whims of the guys who preferred something more decadent - usually August, Napoleon, Charles, Sherlock or, God save the poor bartender, all of the above - had on multiple occasions gotten you desperate looks from personnel. Occasionally, some of the more attractive female bartenders had even refused to sleep with Charles because of the tables consistently time consuming orders - and Charles rarely struck out.

“I’ll bring ‘em over, Mike, shift’s almost up, anyway!” Anjelica shouted from behind the bar, signaling you to sit back down. She’d been around long enough to know that waiting around by a bar could make Mikey annoying very quickly. He raised a hand by means of a ‘thank you’ and turned back.

“... as terrible as last week, practice somewhere else.” The group laughed at Leon’s remark, and even though Mike hadn’t heard the beginning of that sentence, he could guess that it was about Sherlock’s unusually bad rehearsal from last Saturday.

“Yeah, what was that all about?” Sy asked. His voice sounded genuine enough, but his face told a different story.

“Elena, of course,” Mike said - suggestive eyebrow-wiggle included - as he sat back down. Geralt scowled at both of them, annoyed at how immature they were being. Sherlock looked slightly uneasy, which wasn’t helped by the fact that Leon doubled down on the teasing by bringing up the bets that had been made about the situation between Sherlock and Elena. Right at that moment, Anjelica walked over to the table with the drinks and set them down.

“Can I sit?” She asked. Without waiting for an answer, she sat down in August’s lap and leaned her elbows on the table, dropping her face in her hands.

“Soooo?”

“Anjelica, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Sherlock, my friend Isabelle is on the volleyball team with Elena’s best friend Lahela’s roommate Susanna’s boyfriend’s sister Joanne,” Anjelica said with a sickly sweet smile on her face. Reactions to that sentence were divided between the Got Its and Got It Nots - as was proved by Sy’s eloquent response: “Huh?”

Leon was the one to answer, because he saw Anjelica open her mouth and she would no doubt try to explain the whole thing: “If she wants to know, she’ll find out.” Anjelica approved the summary with a meaningful shrug and another smile.

“Angie…” Sherlock rarely used Anjelica’s nickname.

“For God’s sake, man, you snogged her, you didn’t murder her mother,” Charles chuckled. He often shared the more intimate details of his life a little too freely, so this was getting on his nerves.

“Charles, when were you planning on leaving for Christmas?” Geralt interjected - he was thoroughly fed up with the entire conversation. His one-on-one with Sherlock on Friday had been awkward enough - and neither had had to worry about a whole table (and the rest of a room) full of people then. Anjelica was about to protest, but August wasn’t having that.

“Ange,” he said softly. When she turned to look at him, he just shook his head. The look in his eyes said it all. Charles also finally took the hint.

“I’m leaving tonight, Henry’s driving me and his sister Mary back. I’ll be back on the twenty-eighth, though. Can’t miss New Year’s Eve here,” he shared a meaningful look with Leon as he said that last bit. The conversation quickly turned to sharing holiday plans with each other. Leon was leaving the next morning, and returning on the 27th, just like Marshall.

“August?”

“He’s coming with me,” Anjelica answered before he could say anything. August didn’t look particularly happy about the whole situation - no one dared to suggest he was terrified to meet Anjelica’s family, though they did all consider that a very valid reason to be afraid.

“That whipped, huh?” Mike said jokingly, already preparing to duck in the event of flying glassware. It was probably a good thing that the man was on his third scotch and he was generally a pretty laid back drunk.

“What about you, Mikey?” Anjelica asked. Mike just shrugged and told her he wasn’t going home, indicating he didn’t want to talk about it any further, and despite being incredibly curious by nature, Anjelica felt it best not to press the matter. She moved her eyes to Sherlock and nodded at him to ask the same question.

“Staying to practice for the concert,” he said simply. Under his breath, but poorly disguised, Charles muttered some remark containing the words ‘snog’ and ‘Elena’, which earned him a swift kick in the shins from August - which in turn earned August an approving nod from Geralt.

“Sy?” Anjelica was now genuinely curious about the last few people at the table.

“Long as I ain’t plannin’ on apologizin’ to ma’s son of a bitch boyfriend, I ain’t welcome,” he growled. From the look on his face, everyone could tell he had no intention of apologizing.

“Apologize for what?” Anjelica whispered to August, knowing she probably wouldn’t get much of an answer out of him. She was right: he just made a gesture that meant something along the lines of ‘ask him yourself’, so she repeated the question out loud, to Sy.

“You ever wonder why I don’t use my first name?” He asked in return. She shook her head.

“I don’t even think I know your first name.”

“Nathaniel Evan Syverson,” Sy said, “Evan’s the name of my uncle, ma’s brother. He’s alright. Nathan’s ma’s boyfriend. He takes a li’l too kindly to beatin’ the shit out of her for my taste, so forgive me if I don’t exactly like the guy. She defends the piece of shit tooth ‘n nail, though. You can take that literally.”

“Shit, Sy,” Anjelica put a hand in front of her mouth. He said it so casually, as if it was the most normal thing. “What about you?” She couldn’t quite find the words to ask what she wanted to, but he understood perfectly.

“Oh he beat on me, too. Think I ain’t got a single rib that he ain’t broken at some point.” “No one ever suspected?”

“Oh, school knew. Never did nothin’, though.” Sy chuckled grimly. “Kept beatin’ on me ‘til I grew too big for him to take. Tried to hit ‘m back once…”

“What…” She couldn’t say anything else.

“Ma protected him. Ended up catchin’ my fist herself. That’s when she told me I wasn’t welcome no more ‘til I said I was sorry for tryna hit Nate.” Sy had been staring at the bottle in his hands for the entire duration of his story, which meant he was surprised and a bit startled by the arms that wrapped around his shoulders all of a sudden. He patted her arm softly.

“‘S alright, Ange, but thanks.” He was even more surprised when Anjelica pulled in a chair and sat next to him.

“Is that why you and August…” She had no idea how to finish the sentence she started, and she didn’t have to. Sy knew exactly what she was asking about. Everyone at that table did.

“Anjelica, what’s that?” Sy carefully grabbed her hand to get a better look at her wrist, where bluish-purple peaked from under her sleeves. She shook her hair back and smiled at him.

“It’s nothing, Sy,” she said sweetly, “nothing to worry about.” Everything could have been alright, if Mike hadn’t come into the kitchen at that moment, which made Anjelica turn her head. Sy’s eyes went wide when he saw the four spots on the side of her neck, and he grabbed her chin to search the other side for a matching one. When he found it, he stared at her for a while, connecting the dots as he gently raised his hand to her throat and hovered his fingers over the marks.

“Where is he?”

“Sy…”

“Where. Is. He?”

“Where is who?” Unfortunately for August, it was August who asked.

“You…” What came out of Sy’s throat was more vibration than sound; a low growl, dripping with pure, unadulterated rage. “I’m gonna kill you.” And without further warning, he lunged forward - practically through Mike - toward August, grabbing him by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall.

“Fuck!” Mike yelled as he jumped out of the way to avoid being tackled.

“Sy!” Anjelica was on the verge of tears, looking helplessly at Mike as she reached for Sy’s arms and tried to pull him away from August, “Sy, it’s not what you think!”

“Sy, let him go, man,” Mike tried. From the look on his face, Anjelica could tell he was shocked. August, on the other hand, looked completely calm.

“Please let go of me, Syverson, so I can explain.” He said it so matter-of-factly it was almost comical in this situation.

“If you think I’m gon’ let you justify beatin’ the fuck outta ya girl, you’re fuckin’ insane!”

“Sy,” Anjelica tried again, “that’s not…” He ignored her pleading again. When Sy pulled his arm back to punch Walker, Mike grabbed his arm. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the muscle to deal with a guy of Sy’s size, especially not when he was angry like this. Fortunately, they’d been making enough noise for the whole house to check out the situation, which quickly escalated to a full-blown fight between the two.

It had taken four guys - Geralt, Marshall, Charles and Mike - to pull the two apart, and they hadn’t managed before Sy got a couple of good blows in. Leon had taken care of Anjelica, who had curled up in a corner, scared that Sy would make good on his word to kill her boyfriend - friend, date, hookup… whatever they’d been back then. What had followed the fight was a lengthy and awkward conversation between the guys about the nature of Angie and August’s relationship, which ended with Sy stating very clearly that he neither understood nor supported the dynamic, but that he’d accept that it was their choice and none of his business. He’d never explained, though, why he’d had such a strong reaction to begin with.

“Yeah,” Sy finally answered Anjelica’s half-asked question. She gave him another hug - letting him know that she understood now - before walking back to August, who pulled her back into his lap.

“You knew.” It wasn’t a question: The look in his eyes was more than enough for Anjelica to figure it out.

“I did.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“Wasn’t my story to tell, Angie.” Anjelica replied to that by rolling her eyes and then turned back around.

“Alright, where were we?” She asked cheerfully with a hint of that thing women did when they told you ‘it’s fine, do whatever you want’ when in reality, it wasn’t fine and you definitely shouldn’t do whatever you want. August knew he hadn’t heard the last of this yet, but for now, they were going to let it rest. “Geralt, your plans?”

“One moment,” he replied while holding up his phone. He answered it at the table, which Anjelica had found rude when she’d first met Geralt, but now she knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Sol? I’m at the bar with the guys, can I call you back?” He barely waited for an answer before he hung up.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “to answer your question: Me and my brothers don’t celebrate Christmas, so there’s no real reason for me to leave here.”

“You have brothers?” Anjelica asked, surprised that this had never come up before. According to Geralt, it was rather a long story, but she wanted to hear it nonetheless.

The other side of the table had moved on to a different subject altogether. Over the past hour, Sy and Marshall had been looking at Mike, who checked his phone nervously every five minutes. He seemed kind of sad.

“What’s up with you?” Marshall asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Dani,” Mike sighed, “we’ve barely talked since last weekend, and I have no idea what could’ve happened or if I did something wrong or something…” If there was anything he wanted to add, it was put on hold by Charles asking about the next round of drinks.

“Sucks,” Sy said dryly - a little too much, even for his doing.

“Can’t think of anything?” Marshall half-joked. He raised his hands apologetically when Mike shot him a dirty look.

“Alright, assuming it’s not you - ow! - I noticed she freaked out when she saw you,” he nodded in Sy’s direction, “what was that about?”

“I thought I saw something! Wasn’t sure though…” Mike said almost triumphantly. Sy looked at the beer in his hands, nervously tearing at the label. The atmosphere turned more awkward with every passing second.

“Look, Mikey…” That didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded so bad that Marshall’s mouth fell open when he realized what Sy was trying to tell Mike.

“You fucked her,” Mike groaned in disbelief. Then, he fell silent for an uncharacteristically long moment before he started laughing and wondered out loud why he and Sy always went for the same girls.

“Dunno,” Sy laughed in reply, “good taste?”

“The most we can say is that you have similar taste,” Sherlock interjected, “that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good.”

“At least now we know that Dani has terrible taste in men,” Marshall noted, “sleeping with just one of them could have been a lapse of judgment, but both of these jerks?”

“We can’t rule out charity,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Watch it, Holmes,” Mike said, obviously faking the threatening edge to his voice.

“So, we alright, Mikey?” Sy asked with an apologetic smile on his face.

“As long as it wasn’t somewhere in the past month,” Mike laughed - he clearly wasn’t mad, which made Sy sigh with relief.

“Orientation party,” he said, “we’re good, then?”

“Yeah, no big deal!” And he meant it - Mike was easy going even on his worst days.

The boys got louder with every new round of drinks. August, at some point, even abandoned his extreme aversion to PDA, which the others found quite amusing.

“God, Walker, keep your hands to yourself,” Geralt sneered. It surprised the others; he was usually the last person to care about others’ inappropriate behavior - and certainly the last to ever comment on it. Anjelica, Sherlock and Marshall were the only ones to pick up on the hint of jealousy in his voice. A gust of icy wind rolled into the bar when the door opened, but other than some shivers, no one took too much notice of it. Charles, Leon and Sy, who were sitting on the side of the table that faced the door, saw and recognized the tall blonde woman who entered the room. She was quick to raise a finger to her lips to signal that they should remain quiet, and then made her way over to their table, until she was standing right behind Geralt.

“You miss her.” Sherlock said when he heard the tinge of jealousy in the dark voice of his friend. Geralt just scoffed and nodded by means of a reply, not looking up from the glass in his hand.

“You don’t have to,” the blonde behind him said. Geralt jerked his head around so fast that any normal human would have pulled a muscle - or broken their neck. Part of it came from the sheer surprise of being snuck up on - that was a very hard thing to do to Geralt, even when he was a few drinks in - and partly because he recognized that voice immediately. He’d been dreaming of hearing that voice this close to him for weeks. Another fraction of a second later, he stood up - without much subtlety; she had to step aside to avoid taking a chair to the knee.

“Sol?” He stared at her in disbelief. Was it really her? Was she really here? He reached one hand to the side of her face, slowly and hesitantly. Whoever looked closely enough could see that he almost trembled. It was as if he didn’t trust his own eyes. Until his fingers touched her skin. In a split second, he pulled her against his body and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was far too passionate - and involved entirely too much tongue - to be appropriate in public, but the boys let it slide. Even Walker, who clearly fought with the desire to throw Geralt’s comment from earlier back into his face. These two hadn’t seen each other in months - they deserved this.

“Solveig,” Sherlock answered the unasked question on Anjelica’s face, “Geralt’s girlfriend of… at least two years, they were together when I moved in.”

“We’re indulging them because they’re long distance and he hasn’t seen her in four months,” August added. Anjelica chuckled and seemed to decide that that little fact made the entire situation endearing rather than gross.

“Five months and two weeks.” Geralt and Solveig had finally managed to tear themselves away from the other and sat down. Unlike Anjelica, Solveig grabbed a chair and sat between Geralt and Sherlock. “And we’ve been together for three years.”

“Three years, today,” Solveig added, “December twenty-second. Midwinter.”

“A long night, indeed,” Charles joked.

“Hm.” It was Geralt’s favorite multi-purpose remark. This time, it was mostly a chuckle, while the expression on his face suggested there was at least some truth to the statement. After congratulations from everyone, and a quickly squeezed in introduction of Solveig to Anjelica and vice versa, Geralt got up to get his girl a drink.

“Are you staying with us, Sol,” Sherlock asked.

“For the holidays, if that’s alright,” she looked around the table; nobody seemed to have any problems with it.

“I’d have loved to see them do anything about it,” Geralt laughed. Everyone shuddered at the thought of having to deal with an angry Geralt. “You’re staying two weeks, then?”

“I’m staying until I graduate,” she answered shyly - it was clear that this hadn’t been brought up between them before, “I was offered a place to finish my master’s here.”

“You never…”

“I didn’t want you to think I did it for you,” she whispered apologetically, “I didn’t want me to think I did it for you.”

“Did you find a place here?” Geralt asked it carefully, but everyone knew he was praying to any god who would listen that she wouldn’t ask to move in with him. Not that Walker or Sherlock wouldn’t be quick to point out that the lease didn’t allow that, but still.

“I did, I will get the keys on the second of January,” she smiled. Solveig knew exactly what the intentions behind that question had been. Talk at the table shifted to dinner - Mike and Sy were getting hungry, which meant one of them got jittery and the other cranky. Luckily, the bar served good burgers.

“Geralt, why don’t you take Solveig home to get settled in,” Marshall said casually, “she looks beat from the flight.” Mike opened his mouth to say something but was shut up by a kick in the shins from Sherlock.

“Don’t you need to eat,” Anjelica asked Solveig with a hint of concern in her voice. Both Napoleon and August answered, suggesting takeout and leftover pasta from the day before, respectively.

Solveig and Geralt didn’t linger - as per everyone’s expectations. Anjelica wondered out loud whether the guys had a problem with Solveig, which resulted in laughter from her audience.

“They haven’t seen each other for nearly six months,” Sy chuckled and, after he finished his beer, started taking orders for the next round.

“We owe it to them to give them the house for a few hours,” Napoleon added with a grin on his face.

“We owe it to ourselves to stay away for a few hours,” Mike snickered. Everyone cracked up at that; truer words had never been spoken.

-> Part 8

#henry cavill #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill characters #august walker #geralt of rivia #napoleon solo #charles brandon #sherlock holmes #henry cavill sherlock holmes #mike hellraiser #captain syverson #walter marshall #geralt of rivia x OFC #mike hellraiser x ofc #august walker x ofc

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mask131 · 9 months

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Simple facts about Ancient Egypt (2)

Last time, we talked about generalities - history, geography, pharaohs, government... Today, let’s look at some of the main social classes and jobs in Ancient Egypt!

As I said before - warning, these are oversimplified and general facts for a short and easy introduction and comprehension to Ancient Egypt. These are not in-depths studies or analysis, and I might have gotten things wrong, so beware!

SCRIBES

# Scribes, from the Latin “scribere” (to write) were public writers: they were tasked with redacting administrative documents, with the job of accountants of the State, but they were also tasked with writing things such as letters, poems or fictional tales. The job of a scribe went from father to son, and every future scribe had to undergo a very strict and difficult apprenticeship. To be a scribe was a very envied position, for it was a privilege given only to boys – and to the wealthiest of boys! The material of the scribe was quite simple, all contained in a wooden case: there was just a reed pen, and two blocks of ink, one red and one black – to write, the scribe plunged the tip of his reed pen into water, and then rubbed it against either the black or red ink-block.

# Because ink was we know it today didn’t exist back then in Egypt – their “ink” was actually blocks of compact powder. Black ink was created with soot or crushed coal, whereas red ink was created with ochre. Similarly, the Ancient Egyptians did not write on paper but on papyrus – a type of material that shared its name with the type of Nile-reed it was created from. (Fun fact, the name “paper” does come from “papyrus”). Creating papyrus was done by cutting and peeling the papyrus-reed into thin slices, that were then gorged with water, placed in crosses layered on top of each other, and then brutally hit with a hammer until it became one uniformed page (the sap of the reed and the water fused together to form a sort of “glue” holding the stripes together). Finally, the page was thinned down, and smoothed with wooden items.

# Papyrus was however very costly. So, to not lose all of one’s money, Ancient Egyptians wrote for every day needs on pottery fragments or wooden planks covered in plaster. Pupils in schools for example wrote on broken pieces of bowls or vases. The papyrus, so precious, was kept exclusively for law texts and religious texts. To create 5 scrolls of papyrus, of roughly 10 meters each, a man had to work for a whole year!

# Most scribes worked for the government: one of their job was to do note down the state and quantity of the harvests each year before calculating the taxes based on the amount of harvest. They were also the accountants of the state, as well as the ones charged with writing down the laws and the orders of ministers. Other scribes rather worked for temples, where they engraved magical incantations on amulets ; and a third group acted as clerks in tribunals.

# Learning to become a scribe might look easy, since what you need to do was just copy texts all day long… But in truth it was a very hard thing! Our alphabet only has two dozen letters or so – the Egyptian scribes had to learn thousands of different signs to write down the texts, and they had to learn how to write them on every material possible. If you wanted to be a scribe, you had to go a “scribe school” – pupils usually went there are the age of ten, and left at fifteen. After these five years of studies, the scribes had to undergo an internship of five years in either the administration, in a temple or with a notary. After this internship, would-be-scribes had a final exam – and it was only then they could become certified and testified scribes, at twenty years old. Scribe school was notably a very harsh and unpleasant place – a common saying among scribe teachers was “Students have ears in the back, and these ears only listen when you hit them”. Yes, corporal punishment was a standard method of teaching in these schools – if students didn’t pay attention, spoke with each other instead of copying their texts, or wrote a hieroglyph wrong, they were immediately beaten up with a stick. In fact, to prevent the students of scribe schools from leaving unsupervised, the teachers attached to their ankles wooden blocks! Yes, just like the cartoon prisoner with the iron ball around their ankle!

# All scientists were scribes, but not all scribes were scientists (or scholars). You see, to become a scientist or a scholar you had to learn how to write and read – and to do that, you needed to become a scribe. But many scribes stopped there and did not pursue their studies further – only some decided to take on a specific field of expertise (medicine, architecture, astronomy) and thus became more than just “regular” scribes.

# Scribes wrote their text in a very specific way. They sat cross-legged on the ground, placed the papyrus they wrote on their loincloth – that was pushed by their knee very strongly on each side, so it would be a flat surface to write onto. Scribes also wrote with their pen standing up, very still – so that they wouldn’t do any stain or mess up a line, because their ink took a very long time to dry.

# Scribes were the object of admiration, but also jealousy, from the everyday ordinary Egyptian man, because scribes were very well paid AND were exempt of taxes. Plus, their work was a non-manual one, unlike the other Egyptian men who were peasants or craftsmen. This was notably why in Egyptian art scribes are always depicted with a potbelly or fat rolls – thanks to their wealth and effortless job that demanded them to sit around all day, they were the only inhabitants of Ancient Egypt who could easily become fat. In return, the scribes themselves were very proud of their position and status – and this often made them quite arrogant, according to the ancient texts. One of the favorite entertainments of the scribes was to mock other jobs or workforces of Egypt by telling funny stories or jokes about them.

PRIESTS

# Do not get things wrong: in Egyptian religion, only the pharaoh can act as an intermediary between the gods and men – he is the true voice and right hand of the gods. But then, you’ll ask, why are there priests? Well it is simply because the pharaoh is one human man, and cannot be everywhere in the country – so the pharaoh delegates his powers to the priests, who act in his name. This is something important to remember: Ancient Egypt was a form of theocracy, and the priests did not get their power from the gods but from the pharaoh. Though the priests’ role WAS to serve the gods. Ancient Egyptians and Ancient Egyptian gods had a deal worked out: the priests would tend to their need, and take care of them, through various festive celebrations and everyday rituals, and in exchanged from being tended to, the gods ensured the protection and wellness of the city/region/country they were worshiped in. As easy as that. But this explains why for example priests were not depicted on murals or paintings of temples: priests were not perceived as worthy of being depicted alongside the gods, because in the Egyptian mindset, priests are just servants – or rather some sort of religious bureaucrats. Only the pharaoh, the one and true emissary of the god, and himself equal to the gods, could be painted on the walls of temples.

# The role of priests, just like the one of scribe, usually was passed from father to son. Usually priests began their apprenticeship as children, studying at the school and at the library of the temple alongside scribes. Given being a priest was a very prestigious function (again, quite like scribes), some people rather could buy a priest job with a heavy sum of money, or it could be given by the pharaoh himself as a reward, to those that served him well and faithfully.

# In every great temple and religious center of Egypt there was, at the top of the priestly hierarchy, a great priest, or “first prophet”, named directly and personally by the pharaoh. This great priest held authority over all of the other priests, and also played a political role in the city he was in charge of. Below him came the “divine fathers”, important priests that took care of the rituals and walked in front of their god’s statue during processions. Finally, at the bottom of the hierarchy, there were the “purified ones”, whose job was to carry the god’s statue during procession, to clean up the temple every day, and to do all the chores. Speaking of cleanliness, being pure was a very big deal for Ancient Egyptian priests – they usually took four baths a day in the lake’s temple, or rather two baths during the day and two baths during the night. It was a way for them to stay “pure”.

# Priests had a LOT of work and so, to be able to rest and not die of exhaustion, there were “teams” of priests formed in temples. Each team was to work in the temple during one month while the other went to live into town, and after one month a new team went in. In smallest temple there were only two teams, each doing half of the year, but in the biggest temple, there could be up to four priest teams. And since the priests were to live in the town quite regularly, and couldn’t possibly live alone (for Egyptians a man couldn’t just live all on his own, it was not a good or healthy lifestyle), the priests were allowed and even encouraged to marry, so that when leaving the temple they could have a wife and children to return to – children that in turn would become priests once their father grew too old.

PEASANTS

# Peasants formed the bulk of the Egyptian population, and they were a key part in the wealth of the nation: without them and their constant toil, Egypt couldn’t have existed. But despite their immense utility, priests were very poor and not respected, forming the lower rank of the social hierarchy. Most of them acted like serfs, in service of great landowners, temples, or the ministers of the pharaoh. The comparison to serfs is quite relevant as, just like serfs, Egyptian peasants did not own their lands, and they could be sold just alongside the land they were dependent.

# The fields of the peasants were actually really small, roughly the size of a vegetable garden today. They were delimited by big and heavy rocks – every year, bureaucrats of the realm checked after each flood is these rocks hadn’t been move. The peasants also had to swear an oath to never move secretly the stones to augment their field – if they were caught doing that and lying about it, they had their two ears cut off!

# Scribes went three times a year into every peasant’s home. A first time to measure their field, a second time once the cereals ha d grown – to evaluate the harvest and calculate future taxes based on this hypothetical harvest – and a third time during the harvesting, to collect the taxes. Of course, on this third visit, scribes were escorted by armed soldiers. If a peasant refused to pay the taxes, he was beaten up, and/or his house and tools were taken away from him – sometimes he was even thrown into prison. According to some tales, the most extreme cases of punishment had peasants that did not pay their taxes being beaten up, tied with a rope, and thrown at the bottom of a well in front of his wife and children – who in turn were imprisoned in his place! Better pay the taxes the, you say? Well, the problem was that the taxes were calculated during January, two to three months before the actual harvest. If any sort of disaster happened, and they lost their harvest, they still had to pay the taxes as if they had a full harvest…

# No need to tell you that the peasants’ worst enemy (outside of the locust) was the hippopotamus! Hippopotami were considered a true disaster, since in a single night, a hungry hippo could eat up to sixty kilos of plants (132 pounds). If a small group of hippos came by a field in the night, in the morning nothing was left… So peasants hunted and killed hippos without pity or mercy.

CRAFTSMEN

# Craftsmen were the middle-class of Egypt, coming below the scribes and bureaucrats, but above peasants. Craftsmen worked numerous types of material: stone, wood, iron, precious metals (such as gold), leather, textiles and glass. Craftsmen never worked alone – they were always forming groups and teams, part of workshops financed by the government, or by a temple, or by a rich family. Each workshop gathered various specialists – a carpenter, a painter, a smith, a jeweler, a stone-sculptor…

# The quality of a furniture could be identified by the type of wood used: good quality furniture was done by sculpting cedar, a tree that was important from the Lebanon. High quality furniture was also often decorated with ivory or ebony. Lower quality furniture however, was usually sculpted in sycamore trees or palm trees – a wood so friable they were often covered in plaster to just be able to stand up and hold any kind of weight!

# The Egyptians discovered how to make class towards 1500 BCE. They created it with sand, salt, and they always colored their glass with metallic pigments – an Egyptian would have never created a transparent piece of glass. Egyptians loved colors, and so their glass work was always red, blue or yellow.

# Potters were considered to be “different” from other craftsmen. More specifically they were thought to practice a very “common” craft. Scribes liked to mock them by describing them as dirty, and always covered in mud. Potters did not work in the royally-sponsored workshops I described above – they rather worked all alone, for their own. They built most of everyday objects: vases, plates, cups, jars… Potters usually worked with the clay of the Nile, sculpted by hand (at first, then the potter’s wheel was invented), and then left to dry up in the sun before being “cooked” in an oven. Their other technique was to create a material by mixing sand with water, salt, ashes and lime – this substance was then placed inside molds, and placed in an ove.

# Pearls in Ancient Egypt are a fascinating thing, because Egyptians did not know about the existence of oysters – or if they did, they couldn’t access any of them. So, Egyptians created their own pearls, by polishing stones so much they were reduced to very small spheres, that were then pierced to be placed onto necklaces.

# All the gems and precious stones used by Egyptians (the red carnelian, the purple amethyst, the turquoise and the blue agate – plus gold of course) were extracted from mines located in the desert, and in which criminals and law-breakers were sent to work (because working in these mines often killed the miners). The favorite gem of the Egyptians, the lapis-lazuli, was rather important from where today’s Afghanistan is located. However, faience/earthenware was very common among Egyptians precisely because with its blue-green color it could look like emeralds or turquoises, while being much MUCH less costly. This is why there were a lot of faience jewels in Ancient Egypt – they were basically for those who wanted to look good without having the means to.

#ancient egypt #scribes #peasants #egyptian religion #egyptian priests #ancient egyptian crafts #craftsmen #ancient egyptian society

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