#this happened in like 30mins at 5am please be nice

[estrellami-1]

See You

Eddie ran his mouth. Anyone and everyone knew this. He was harmless, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but with a sharp tongue when aimed at the wrong (or right) people. Sure, it made him some enemies—some people, he swore, didn’t know how to take a joke—but for the most part it was okay.

The one thing he’d never do was kick someone while they’re down. Metaphorically, of course, since he’d never actually physically kick someone. Unless that someone was Gareth, who took the last brownie. Then all bets were off. But he’d never poke fun at someone already hurting, which is why so many of his tabletop rants were focused on the royalty of Hawkins High.

He knew that he knew that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that table was fine to poke fun at. Hagan hated him for it, but then again Hagan hated him for just existing, so he took Hagan’s thoughts with a grain of salt. Besides, the object of his attention—though he’d never admit it to anyone—was one Steve Harrington. King Steve, The Hair, the heir to the Harrington fortune and legacy.

For the most part, Harrington would stare back, the barest trace of a smile playing on his lips. Sometimes Eddie would get him to crack, and he’d look down at his own table as he smiled, but for the most part he sat there, mask cracked, mirth shining in his eyes.

There was one time, however, he didn’t. Eddie was ranting about prices, about allowance (or lack thereof) and holes in sneakers and cold showers. “Now, of course, the royal court knows nothing of such trivialities,” he said, taking a mock bow in their direction, almost freezing when he saw Harrington frowning at the table. But he was a performer, and the show must go on, so he changed direction—even got a reluctant smile out of Harrington—before finishing.

Later, he sat thinking about it. Maybe he just hadn’t liked the topic of the rant, but it somehow felt more personal than that. Eddie decided he had to get to the bottom of it, so he approached Harrington towards the end of the school day.

Harrington sighed and shut his locker. “What do you want, Munson?”

Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets. “To talk?”

Harrington raised a brow at him, which he figured he deserved. “Okay. So talk.”

“Y’know, I swore something to myself when I start d this whole shebang. I promised myself I’d never kick someone who was already down. And I don’t intend to make a liar of myself.” He shrugged at the look thrown his way. “You didn’t seem to particularly like today’s topic of choice, is all. I wanted to see why.”

“I didn’t think you cared.” He winced before Eddie could say anything. “Sorry. That was rude.”

Eddie frowned, tilting his head. “You alright, Harrington?”

He sighs and leans back against the lockers, copying Eddie’s position, before tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “Guess I finally got it knocked into me that I’m not a good person. I’m trying to do better. There’s these kids… actually, you play that, uh, dragons game, right? With the dice and the figurines?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “Dungeons and Dragons?”

Steve snapped at him. “That’s the one. There’s these kids I watch, they’re obsessed with the game. The one leading them, the, uh…” he snapped a few times, trying to remember. “Master player, or whatever.”

“Dungeon Master.”

“Yeah, thanks. They call him Will the Wise.” He began to smile. “God, they’re such dorks.” He sighed and sobered. “That… wasn’t the point, sorry. But I’m watching those kids. Something happened—y’know the thing everyone knows about but no one’s supposed to talk about?”

“The thing that stinks of government?”

Steve snorted. “Yup. We were right in the middle of it. Thought we weren’t gonna make it out, a few times. Thought if the kids made it, it’d be okay. I don’t have anything waiting for me, y’know? My parents are off who knows where. And I guess this is where my problem with your rant today comes from. Because… I get it, y’know? My parents aren’t home, and they’re not gonna heat a whole house for someone who only uses two or three rooms. I can pay heating or electric, but not both, and I need electric more, usually. I don’t get an allowance from my parents. Used to, but that stopped at fourteen. I got a job as soon as I realized that was it. I get cold showers and whatever I can scrounge up to eat until the next paycheck. I take such good care of the clothes I have because I can’t afford to buy new ones. God, this isn’t even my style, this is just whatever my mom last bought me. I fuckin’ hate the polos, man,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

Eddie chuckled with him, then sobered. “That… that, uh, really sucks, man. I get it. And I’m sorry about the rant.”

Steve shrugged. “You didn’t know.”

“You said you’re not a good person. I think you’re better than you know.”

A smile quirked up the corner of Steve’s lip. “And I guess you’d know?”

“I might be a better judge of character than you think.”

Steve laughed. “I’m sure that’s true. Can I ask a question?”

“You just did.”

“Jackass,” he muttered, failing to hide his grin. “How’d you notice I wasn’t a fan of today’s topic?”

Eddie considered it for a moment. “I’ll give you full honesty if you promise not to retaliate in any way.”

Steve frowned. “Retaliate, like, hurt you? I wouldn’t.”

“Never say never,” he warned, and Steve good-naturedly rolled his eyes.

“Fine, I promise not to retaliate in any way.”

“I kinda, maybe, have a massive crush on you.” He bit his lip, looking away, unwilling to see the disgust in Steve’s eyes, painted on his face.

What he didn’t expect was the chuckle. “You’re joking, right?”

Eddie blinked and turned to face him. “No.”

“Why me? Aren’t I kinda the antithesis of everything you stand for?”

“Antithesis. Good word.”

“I’m not actually an idiot, y’know. I need all A’s or B’a to stay in sports.”

Eddie blinked. “Not what I expected. Okay. Um, yeah, you kinda are the antithesis of everything I stand for, or at least I thought you were, and now I dunno what I think, except you’re not at all what I expected, and I’m probably gonna have to toss the entirely of the Munson Doctrine in the trash.”

Steve blinked. “I caught about two words of that, sorry. You… you really do. Have a crush on me.”

“Yeah.”

Steve grinned. “Good.”

Eddie blinked. “Good?”

“Good,” Steve parroted, gaze flickering from his eyes, to his lips, back to his eyes. “Come over after school?”

Eddie snorted. “No offense, Steve, but I want to step foot in your house even less now than I used to. But you’re welcome over at mine.”

Steve’s grin grew. “You said my name.”

Eddie frowned. “Of course I did. What else would I call you?”

“You usually call me Harrington,” he murmured, and suddenly Eddie realized.

“Oh. Am I correct in assuming you’d rather not be associated with that name?”

Steve shrugged. “In a perfect world, no. But I know that’s not very likely right now.”

“It can be,” Eddie offered. “At least with me.”

Just then the final bell rang, and they jumped apart, looking at each other and letting out a nervous chuckle. “I’ll, uh, see you after school?”

“My place,” Eddie nodded. “See you, Steve.”

Steve smiled. “See you, Eddie.”

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@justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch

[copias-thrall]

DIY

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8)

It’s been a trying day. The staffing agency had gotten you another contract, and the firm wanted to meet with you in person for some reason. Usually you’re just traded around with firms already familiar with you, and you can’t recall the last time you needed to be respectable. You tend to dye your hair when your mood changes, so the fading pink had needed to be taken care of.

“What do you care about their opinion?” Mary had said.

“This would be a little more money,” you’d shrugged. “I could get the good coffee and that mochi you like.”

“I can feed myself,” Mary had snapped.

“Then why don’t you?” you’d retorted.

He’d made a sour face at you when you’d said that.

In the end, Mary had suggested going black, and the two of you had had hair-dye day where you’d introduced Mary to the wonder of Vaseline to keep the dye off his skin.

“Look at you, making me all respectable,” he’d quipped as you’d slathered him up.

“Yes, heaven forbid you lose your coveted street cred because your ears and hairline aren’t mottled with black half the time.”

While most of the dye had ended up in your hair, a few errant blotches ended up staining the tiles and shower curtain (and, ok—the hand print on your upper arm when Mary forgot himself). Mary had called you a spoilsport when you’d refused to fuck in the shower (“What? It’s cool with all the black dye running down our bodies. Come on!”). But in the end you were rather happy with how the fresh dye made your pixie bob look sleek and polished. 

Mary had scrutinized you in the mirror.

“I don’t like it. Makes you look like you’re trying too hard to be normal.”

You’d made a face at him. “Well, we can’t all work at Mickey’s and dress like Oscar the Grouch kicked us out of bed for eating crackers.”

Mary’d lightly bitten your neck. “I’m taking that as a compliment.” He’d then run his fingers through the shorter hair at the back of your head. “You’d look pretty hot with an undercut.”

“I know,” you’d said as you’d winked at him.

He’d snorted. “Modest too.”

You’d shrugged. “Getting an undercut was one of my many tiny actions of rebellion. As long as I kept my hair down, no one was the wiser.”

“They never caught you?” 

You’d sighed. “They did. Bitch of thing too—a picture of the school pep rally in the monthly newsletter for parents happened to catch me in the background.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“After all the screaming about boundaries and disrespect? TThey’d shaved my whole head.”

Mary’d stilled behind you.

“They … what?”

You’d leaned into the mirror, primping your hair unnecessarily.

“Buzzed all my hair off. Said I should never do things by half measures.”

Mary’d given you a look in the mirror, so you’d just smiled brightly at him.

“It’s just hair, Mary. Beside, all my schoolmates thought I was edgy as fuck.”

He’d turned you to face him.

“I really fucking hate your parents.”

You’d just patted him on the cheek. “Why waste the energy.”

“It’s just …” he’d leaned against the washer/drier as you began to clean up. “I had to be like, 15? And I came home from a friend’s house with badly bleached hair and a safety pin through my navel. My mum was in the kitchen, and I told her I wanted to be called Viscount Doom from now on. You know what she said?” 

(It was a rhetorical question.)

“She said, ‘That’s nice, dear—now take out the trash’.” He’d chuckled. “I was always her son first, you know?”

You’d slid a hand under his shirt to stick your thumb in his unadorned belly button.

“Did she make you take the safety pin out.”

Mary’d grinned at you. “Ah, well. The fucker got infected. Angry red blotches with pus and shit. I had to come clean to mum, and she bundled me off to urgent care. Whoops.”

You’d traced your thumb along his belly button, feeling now the obvious bump of scar tissue.

“So you were always fucking crusty.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he’d said as he’d crowded into you and dragged your hand down to his crotch.

The actual "chat” (they’d purposefully pussyfooted around calling it an interview) had gone fine; a girl about your age—probably an intern—had read a bunch of inane questions off a piece of paper in a monotone before a harried-looking woman came in and asked you questions surely your resume could have answered.

The firm itself, however, was a 30min walk from the bus, and about 90 more minutes including a bus transfer away from your apartment. You’d gotten up at 5am so you could leave by 6 so you weren’t late for your 9am appointment (“Jesus. Who schedules interviews for the crack of dawn?” “Sadists, that’s who.”). So, of course, you’d gotten there an hour early and—with no coffee shop in sight—you’d sat on a concrete wall across the street that bordered a parking lot. 

Like a creep.

You’d then been asked to wait for another hour because “an earlier meeting was running late.” The receptionist had at least taken pity on you and brought you a steaming cup of Dunks and a chocolate doughnut.

It was noon by the time you made it out of there—which meant that there was no way you were making the 12:25pm bus. Which meant you didn’t make the 1:33pm transfer, and you had to cool your jets in a fast casual restaurant for 45min. The next bus had never shown. When you finally made it onto the transfer bus, you’d dozed off and had woken up several stops past your destination; you’d opted to just walk back to your apartment instead of waiting the questionable amount of time for the next bus in the opposite direction. 

By the time you finally get back to your place, you’re limping from the blisters your cheap dress shoes had given you, and it’s nearly 4pm. When you enter your apartment, you’re surprised to see Mary on your couch, guitar in hand and scribbling down notes. At the clink of you dropping your keys into the skull ashtray that had just appeared one day, he looks up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, sounding much more harsh than you intended as you kick off your shoes.

“Well, hello to you too. I couldn’t hear myself think at my place.” He gives you a minute shrug.

You don’t know why this irritates you.

“Well maybe think about giving me the same courtesy,” you snap as you limp toward your bedroom. “I need to lie down.”

You don’t even get changed, just untuck your pussy-bow blouse and unzip your pencil skirt before flopping down onto your bed.

“Interview not go well?” asks Mary’s from your doorframe

You wave your hand. “The interview was fine, but it was a fucking trial and a half getting there and back. Thank god I won’t be onsite.”

“Yeah. I was kind of wondering where you were.”

You just snort and start to wrestle off your nude hose, but then Mary’s kneeling there and rolling them down you. You hiss when he gets to your feet.

“Fuck, your feet are wrecked.”

“Remind me to bring flip flops or something next time.”

“K.”

He tosses your pantyhose at your laundry basket (they only half make it in), then he leans down to kiss the instep on each foot.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he asks as his hands travel up the inside of your legs.

You lean up to look at him. “Yeah, actually. Would you?”

Mary grins at you. “Ok, baby doll.”

You lie back down as Mary begins to kiss and nip up your legs. You help him to get your panties off and to push up your skirt—then he’s diving into your folds, his tongue enthusiastically lapping at your clit. Unfortunately, you’re just too exhausted to really get into it, and Mary notices your lack of engagement. His head pops up.

“Fingers?”

“Fingers,” you agree.

He wipes off his chin with the back of his hand before climbing onto your bed. You shimmy out of your skirt before he’s rolling you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, his hand sliding down your stomach until it reaches your lips. You arch back into him at the feeling of his finger slip sliding across your sensitive clit.

“Oh yeah, Mare …”

He doesn’t tease you, just keeps up a steady motion, changing it up to avoid touch numbness. Despite your lethargy, you pant and squirm against him as your blood pools and your orgasm slowly builds. He’s been giving your neck little nips and sucks, but as you get close to blowing, Mary leans over to engage you in a wet, sloppy kiss. It ratchets your arousal, and you suck his tongue into your mouth, saliva leaking out the other side, as you begin to press back against his hand. He quickens his finger, and you cry out at the burst of pleasure. Your orgasm swells and breaks soon after, and you moan and thrash a little as Mary works you through the waves.

When you sag, sated, he gives your ear a lick, then removes his hand.

“Mmm,” is all you manage as you roll onto your stomach.

“Yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s get you out of that top.”

“No,” you say into the bed.

“Yes,” he says as he starts to tug up the hem. “You’ll thank me later.”

You just grunt at him.

He manages to get the material up to your armpits before you’re obliged to move by lifting your arms—and even then all you do is hold out your arms.

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

“Mmphb.”

Through minimal effort on your part, Mary finally removes both your top and your bra before rolling you this way and that to get you under the covers. You’re asleep before he even leaves the room.

You sleep, nude, sprawled out and face mashed into your pillow. It isn’t until much later when you wake. It’s almost certainly because Mary is on all fours over you, mashing his face into your neck. You must move in some tiny way, because he stills.

“Mare,” you mumble groggily into the pillow.

“Shh,” he breaths. “Don’t. Just …” His mouth moves to your ear. “Can I?” he whispers. “I was so good earlier.”

“Mhm,” you agree sleepily.

“Stay still then,” he growls as he shifts about. “Don’t. Move.”

You feel the head of his cock enter you, and you clench and moan. Mary’s other hand is quick on your head, smashing your face further into the pillow.

“Shut up,” he hisses, then his hand is gone.

He takes the tip out, then slides it back in. 

Then out. 

Then in.

He teases himself like that a few more times—making pleased rumbles—before finally sliding all the way home. You bite the pillow in an effort not to twitch or make noise. The bed jostles when his balled hands land on either side of you, supporting himself up. He takes a handful of slow, smooth pumps in and out of you, making little Mmm noises. It’s a nice feeling that you relax into—silently. 

He speeds up a little … and then a lot … until he’s pounding into you with such force that there's an audible slap! slap! slap! as he makes contact with your skin and your one arm is jostled slightly off the bed. Mary moans, and changes up to long, hard strokes that hit your sweet spot deliciously; you know your breaths are labored at the strain of staying motionless and quiet, but luckily, any sound you’re making is being drowned out by Mary’s grunts every time the bowl of his pelvis smacks into the meat of your ass. 

You’re pretty slick from your arousal, and Mary easily pumps in and out of you. You can feel your heartbeat in your pussy—and your frustration with not being able to touch yourself increases. Mary suddenly grabs the fat on your back hard enough you almost cry out. He lowers himself down onto his forearms and starts to fuck into you with quicker, deeper thrusts that are no longer quite hitting your G-spot—much to your chagrin. He’s not quite laying on your back, but he’s close enough that you can hear the rasping air through his nose and the Uhn noises he’s making—his breath hot and moist on the nape of your neck.

You expect him to finish like that, so you’re surprised when he heaves himself up to a kneeling position. His hands grip your hips hard, and then he’s yanking you back onto his dick as he buries himself deep into you. 

And again. 

And again. 

When he accidentally hits your cervix, you do let out a little mewl, but he doesn’t seem to notice—cock still deep in you and his hands still clamped on your sides. After a moment, you finally feel the tension drain out of him, and he releases his grip, flopping down on the bed beside you. Sluggishly you begin to move your limbs, but Mary gathers you up to him with a soft C’mere. He presses his sweat-cool body against your back and kisses your neck once before he’s maneuvering your vibrator (oh, hello) between your legs.

You reach your hand down to help position it to your liking, mashing into it once … twice … thrice, and then you’re moaning and twitching—the nails of your free hand digging into Mary’s thigh—before the intensity has you finally shying away from the toy lest you make a mess.

Mary clicks the vibe off before letting it go, and you twist around until you’re facing him. You grip his hair in your hands and kiss him deeply, smashing your slickness into him as your cunt still gives an errant spasm or two. He grabs your ass and pulls you into him.

“Yeah, mash that wet pussy into me—I want to smell you on me all night.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You fucking love it.”

“I should pee on you.”

“Do you think I’ve never been pe—”

You shove a pillow in his face. “OH MY GOD—do not finish that sentence.”

His hand shoots out and presses on your bladder. You shriek and push him away from you, and he subsequently falls off the bed with an undignified noise. He looks up at you like a disgruntled cat, so you just cackle and sprint out of the bedroom. You can hear him start after you, but he’s not quick enough, and you manage to lock the bathroom door behind you before he can catch you.

You’re too tired to cook, and you’re wondering if you can count on getting that contract enough to order takeout when Mary surprises you; he takes out a beat up looking Tupperware from your fridge. Something reddish-brown sloshes in it.

“It’s my kitchen-sink goulash.” He beams.

You put a smile on your face.

“Aww, Mare. What’s … in it?” you ask as you squint at the contents.

He pokes you in the ribs. 

“Just fucking try it.”

You reheat it in a big pot, and it looks edible enough—elbow macaronis, ground meat, tomato sauce, green … things. Once you’re settled at your rusty cafe table with the hot food, you dig in and you have to admit that it’s actually not bad. Mary has a smug look on his face as you tuck in.

“Shut up,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your thoughts are loud.”

He just giggles at you.

“So what is in it?”

“Uh,” says Mary as he chews. “Frozen hamburger patties, spaghetti sauce, noodles, and some okra from the Latin grocer near me.”

You make a thoughtful noise.

“I wouldn’t have guessed okra. I knew it wasn’t green beans, but.”

“I swear that store is the only reason none of us have scurvy.”

Afterwards he packs up his guitar.

“I gotta be getting back to my place.” He licks your nose, and you sputter. He grins. “But thanks for the sex.”

“Yeah, well …” you say as you rub at your nose, “thanks for the Goulash.”

He looks at you for a moment before slipping a hand into your robe to rest on a love handle.

“I didn’t come by just to hear myself think, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but step into his space.

“I kinda got that, Mare.”

You tap your lips, and he leans down to kiss you.

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