My Brain The Past Month: PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO

my brain the past month: PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DANO PAUL DA-

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s.

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson.

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?”

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.”

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say.

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume.

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest.

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion.

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this.

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?”

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation.

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.”

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control.

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked.

The friendship.

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.”

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.”

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that.

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?”

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for.

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly.

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.”

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite.

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does.

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?”

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long.

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all.

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst.

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’.

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time.

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand.

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.”

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm.

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt.

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though.

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots.

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser?

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips.

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously.

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.”

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process.

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish.

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs.

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.”

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?”

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.”

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her.

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you.

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.”

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head.

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited.

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head.

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.”

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently.

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself.

“No.”

But this is more fun.

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time.

And you’re done with this game of back and forth.

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.”

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.”

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

Perfect.

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on.

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction.

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup.

Good.

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one.

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead.

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you.

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets.

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy.

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?”

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night?

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night.

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.”

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her.

Where the fuck is Eddie?

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab.

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.”

Fuck.

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head.

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?”

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.”

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy.

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat.

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!”

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke.

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her.

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?”

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any.

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?”

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t.

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.”

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave.

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased.

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.”

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.”

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips.

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?”

Over my dead body.

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him.

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip.

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat.

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.”

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you?

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were.

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.”

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again.

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.”

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?”

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis.

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.”

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said.

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you.

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad.

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie.

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him.

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished.

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head.

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat.

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you.

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all.

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.”

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.”

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan.

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises.

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?”

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.”

With that, you make your grand escape.

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?”

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously.

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.”

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.”

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.”

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.”

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.”

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.”

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.”

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….”

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend.

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking.

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity.

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this.

And fuck, you really want this.

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.”

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?”

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule.

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car.

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.”

“And you remember the hat rule?”

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.”

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of.

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling.

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first.

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you.

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head.

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips.

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out.

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him.

Eddie simply fucking your brains out.

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly.

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you.

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat.

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here.

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it.

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin.

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right.

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target.

His thigh.

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction.

You’re looking straight ahead.

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day.

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher.

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser.

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher.

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up.

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather.

And then he flips the script.

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into.

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear.

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely.

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench.

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Still playing games I see.”

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up.

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now.

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them.

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back.

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles.

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh.

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?”

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment.

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck.

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open.

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him.

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it.

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring.

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for.

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.”

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them.

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway.

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him.

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.”

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night.

It sends your clit throbbing.

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?”

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs.

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely.

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you.

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment.

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name.

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only.

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you.

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his.

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?”

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off?

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours.

And - oh.

Oh.

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off.

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived.

He wants this. You want him.

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth.

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey.

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words.

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face.

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths.

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.”

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient.

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards.

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest.

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later.

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along.

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience.

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care.

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.”

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants.

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned.

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?”

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right.

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.”

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.”

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you.

“What?”

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening.

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time?

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?”

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you.

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.”

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?”

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.”

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head.

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed.

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress.

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?”

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss.

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared.

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy.”

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence.

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours.

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about.

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them.

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.”

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor.

“And the boxers.”

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does.

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of precum slip down his shaft.

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants.

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you.

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?”

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare.

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission.

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself.

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind.

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive.

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy.

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.”

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out.

You don’t answer him as you both moan out.

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly.

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his.

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you.

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.”

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips.

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern.

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly.

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull.

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there.

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat.

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head.

Just like a cowboy.

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie.

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.”

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t.

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck.

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.”

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath.

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?”

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago.

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you.

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory.

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you.

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner.

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue.

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful.

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips.

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone.

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.”

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied.

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.”

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips.

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.”

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him.

“Get on all fours for me, baby.”

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass.

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening.

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when-

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.”

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue.

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt.

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously.

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.”

And let him hear you, you do.

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.”

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.”

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more.

More, more, more.

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way.

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises.

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap.

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over.

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears.

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs.

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him.

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him.

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away.

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body.

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.”

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all.

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.”

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear.

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.”

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?”

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air.

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality.

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content.

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?”

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?”

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world.

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table.

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

5K notes View Post

vitzi9

3 years ago

hawks: remember when i said i wanted to grow up to be like you cuz you beat the living shit out of my piece of shit dad

endeavor: yes

hawks: well guess who's a grown man now!

endeavor: er congratula-

hawks: and guess who i heard deserves to get the living shit beaten out of them for being a piece of shit dad too!

endeavor: idk who

hawks: (:

endeavor:

endeavor: i don't like where this is going

313 notes View Post

vitzi9

2 years ago

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; soft fantasy bakugou ; implied arranged marriage ; a lil' bit breeding kink-y ; some perceptions surrounding virginity that i only added because of the genre/setting (medieval fantasy-ish) and not because it aligns with my personal views ; reader and bkg do not speak the same language — but they are learning ; reader and bkg are both a little bit drunk, but very much consenting ; i invented a language for katsuki's people because i am hopeless.

[ wc ] — 4k+

[ ficmas ] — this is my silly little fic for the lovely, lovely @odieoats !! i hope that you enjoy it !! — but, most importantly, i hope that your holidays are treating you well and with love and that your new year be warm and welcoming 🧚‍♂️✨️🎁

[ Nsfw ] — Smut (18+) ; Soft Fantasy Bakugou ; Implied Arranged Marriage ; A Lil' Bit Breeding Kink-y

It's Midwinter.

Shortest day and longest night of the year, Yagi tells you, and therefore cause for a feast. Never in all your life have you consumed as much mead as you have within the short three months since you've been married, and yet still you have not grown accustomed to it; the honeyed taste, yes, but not to the warm, woozy feeling that takes root between your ears.

One moment you are admiring the many gifts that adorn the great evergreen in the middle of camp, and the next you are cross-eyed, struggling to find the top of the tree and the carefully carved sun that reigns in favor of the Allfather. It's just so tall, you muse, stretching so far into the heavens that one could worry its beauty and grandeur might cause offense to their Gods.

A hand is at your shoulder, then, to steady you. “Are you well, Chieftess?”

Chieftess: another novelty with which to grow accustomed.

In the firelight, Yagi’s features are sharpened, shadows long and dark with worry. Frightening is the down-curve of his brow as he stares carefully into your eyes—so tall, you muse—but he must only find your drunkenness, as a smile softens his thin face.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” you return it with ease, cheeks warm, and bring up the small, well-bundled plant in your hands. “It looks as if there’s no place for what my husband has given me.”

“Ah,” carefully, he takes it by the stem and holds it up high to better see, the contrast of its white berries crisp against the night sky. “And do you know where our Chieftain has gone?”

Like slow-falling snow, his words settle in your mind, the flurry of them gathering until the meaning is new and clear. You spin a slippery heel over the snow, looking across the encampment to where you'd last seen your husband: before, he was locked into a fierce embrace with Midoriya, too proud to turn down the invitation to wrestle, but now only his shield-brothers remain, arranged in a circle as they dance and chant and pound their heavy fists against their bare chests. Among the lot of them, you watch on for the ashen mess of his hair, the familiarity of the scars he bears, the drunken, crooked grin that comes so rarely—but Katsuki is not among them.

"I—" you breathe, dizzy, suddenly, as your eyes jump from warm-body to warm-body in search of him. With the fires roaring, the camp is aglow and clouding your vision in an amber haze, and you don't realize you've begun to spin until a firm hand steadies you again.

“Mistletoe,” your Elder murmurs in translation, drawing you from the honeyed-hold. Giant that he is, finding an open branch on the tree poses no issue, and he hangs your gift with a care that melts a nameless tension; still, their traditions are foreign, another language you struggle to interpret. “It says that Young Bakugou is…giving you great love and…asking for your fertility.”

"Fertility?" Such heat flushes your face that you wonder if it could be steaming, and the waver in your voice makes him laugh.

"A common thing wanted of a claimed man," Yagi chimes, voice like mischief as he bows his head to take his leave. Off somewhere behind you is where his gaze falls and freezes, where it thaws and warms with admiration. Your Elder nods, and when you turn to follow his lead, you see why such seasons could come and go in his eyes. "The night will be long, Chieftess, and one should not spend Midwinter alone."

Katsuki stands at the worn-end of the trodden camp trail with shoulders back and squared, covered by the grand furs of his cloak; a God already watching on. It must be the mead that has made him so crystalline and easy to see through, as there's not a hint of hesitation in his gaze as it darkens and lids, as he slowly pulls the material from his broad back in a gesture that seems all too inviting.

And then he is turning, leaving the young night and its celebration for the sanctity of your shared tent.

You are left within the heat of the fire, all too aware, then, of how it has slipped beneath your furs with such a smoldering intensity; the Elder's revelation has a fever starting in your belly and sweat breaking across your skin.

It has been six days since you've last laid with your husband.

A full fortnight had passed before your marriage was consummated, for no other reason than that you were untouched and afraid. Before knowing him as you do now, Bakugou Katsuki came across as little more than a brute, one that seemed likely to hold you down and ravage you as he so pleased, as your mother had tried to warn you, and yet the night of your wedding, he sat across the pillows and told you that he, too, was just as untouched.

Standoffish and a bit shy, more drawn to actions than words as there were not many the two of you shared. Midoriya has been a constant presence, always dragged one way or another so that he may translate the more difficult words Katsuki is most unfamiliar with. Some nights you can hear them near the hearth, the voice of your husband low as he tries in earnest to learn all that he wishes to say to you.

To enter his manhood with one he so loved is considered a great honor, as Yagi had told you, and to hear him sounding at words in the dark that are so foreign to him, to know that he was just as pure as you, to learn that you were not a thing to be ravaged, but to be cared for; love-making after that seemed only natural.

You watch the firelight dance against the canvas of the tent, wild and without caution, hindered only by your shadow as you approach. Katsuki's boots lay at the entrance—one on its side and the other upright—and despite the snow and ice covering the ground, you shed your own right beside his.

If he hears you enter—and you're sure he must, the savage beat of your heart at the very least, something attuned to his ear only—he offers nothing; instead, his head is back, leaned over the edge of the round, steel tub that sits across from the hearth. Even from where you stand, the steam wisping above the water is visible, causing you to shiver as you begin to undress; if there is one thing you will always have with a Chieftain of Dragons, it’s a boiling bath.

The rustle of your furs finally captures him and Katsuki raises his head just to turn it, to peer over his shoulder at you with one bright red eye. Slow, he blinks, the heat of his gaze searing over your body as it becomes bare to him, lingering on the few, faded burns that sit at your hips from when last you were together.

Virginal and green as he once was, your husband did not—and still does not—lack enthusiasm whenever he is tangled up within you; the ache you’ve been nursing in your lower belly in the recent days seems to have subsided, though you wonder if it is only your rapidly building arousal that has dissolved pain to pleasure. One broad hand breaks the surface of the water to rise and trace over your forearm, and Katsuki looks at you as if you are a deity to worship—and you find you couldn’t care less about any lingering soreness.

"May I join you?"

Already he’s begun to make room for you, but he hums in assent, nodding. "Yes."

At your hiss of surprise from the temperature of the water, a crooked grin breaks across his face and he leans forward, wrapping his arms around your thighs as he presses his mouth into the soft skin below your belly button. Not to kiss but just to soothe, laving you with a drunken affection.

When you can finally stand it, Katsuki pulls you into his lap, slotting your legs around his hips with such ease that you need not ask the Gods if he was made for you or you for him; one and the same, you are, neither existing without your shared heart. Its beat flourishes, spreading to the points of your fingers and the pit of your stomach and the thick of your neck. Only now do your bones thaw, made warm from the water and the lingering dregs of mead and his love, from the home he has made your own.

You kiss away the natural crease of his brow, following down the marks of war that scar his cheeks, his neck. It earns you a small grunt and he eventually turns, overwhelmed, then, by your attention to his intimate details.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, “for the gift. I didn’t—” guilt rushes through you like a winter wind, returning with a bite for all that you still have to learn of his people. Your people. “I didn’t think to find one for you.”

“No need for gift.” He murmurs, into your skin like a secret.

A frown he doesn’t see deepens your lips, and you run your now wet hands through the strands of hair at the base of his spine, dampening them. “I would have liked to give you one.”

“No need for gift.” Katsuki repeats, pinching you beneath the water until you are squirming against him, until you can argue no longer. His hands grow bold, mapping you carefully, adding every crease and curve to what he already knows of your body.

You speak up when he cups your bottom, before either of you can get too lost. “Yagi tells me it’s a symbol of love, your mistletoe.”

It does little to distract him; the fine point of his nose drags up the column of your throat, breath tickling just under your ear. “...yes.”

“And…fertility.”

Katsuki’s head pops up then, eyebrow raised. “Hah?”

“For—” you pause, thinking, “—having children.”

A common thing wanted of a claimed man, Yagi told you, but in the slow burning light of the hearth, your husband’s face pinkens and he glances away, instead watching his hands below the water. It’s something you know is expected, though it remains a conversation yet to be had, perhaps when you know the words, the both of you; in the meantime, you’ll continue to learn his sensitivities and delights, to teach him yours—all that there is left to know, at least.

“Yes,” he murmurs, fitting his thumbs back into the grooves he’s left on your hips, what of his hands he’s engraved in your skin. Despiste the claim it marks on you, Katsuki frowns, watching you carefully as his fingers move in slow, firm circles. “Pain here?”

“No,” you smile, to this man that you thought would ruin you. “No pain.”

Warmed, he spreads beneath you easily, shifting you along with him as he presses where you are soft to where he is hard. The pressure surprises you both despite the heady weight circulating throughout the tent, and Katsuki exhales like he wants his breath to move through you.

"For love," he speaks to your heart, the devotion molded in his image. "And…what is it?"

You snort, pressing your lips into his hairline. "And fertility."

He is silent for a long moment, thinking in your tongue, before planting kiss after kiss along your chest, your collarbones, the hollow of your throat. "'n givin' babies."

A true laugh startles out of you, shaking you both with its sincerity, but Katsuki only continues to sigh into your skin, his hands moving to the dip of your waist, up the stretch of your spine and back, walking every last mile of your distance.

There's a soft tickle from where his mouth trails and you think he means to make you squirm again, but you soon realize he is murmuring —"...engitt vakvaniki?"—though you think the words are more for him than yourself; a reiteration, some kind of assurance that you've outgrown the intimate soreness he once gave you.

"No," you breathe again, quietly. "No pain."

It's all the promise he needs: Katsuki's grip tightens, meaningful, and then he is pushing and pulling you over him until the stars are shooting through your every nerve. A haze develops in the soft bicolor of both his eyes, and you can see him fighting to find you through the clouds as you follow the silent commands of his hunger.

Desire leads you; top to bottom, back and forth, head to base. Against your chest, you can feel the slight part of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils as the lap of the water grows. One of his arms slowly winds behind your waist as you gasp, the swollen tip of him catching your most sensitive spot, tenderness making you both groan.

You lose yourself to the movement, dragging just behind Katsuki's stifled, narrow upward thrusts. Wide as the tub may be, it's nothing to having him underneath you amidst his thick, woolen blankets, but the seedlings of lust are growing, blooming, into something with roots you don't want to unearth just yet.

Fingers tangle in your hair, angling your head down towards him so that he can press wet, open-mouthed kisses against your lips; full of bite and teeth, revealing what little control he has over the animal of his body, just as wild and without caution as the fires that blaze in a dragon's honor.

But—his attention to the water is lost and its heat is steadily fading, smothered out by the winter winds slipping between the flaps of your tent. A shudder wracks your spine, but despite the rough hand that trails up to cup your breast, their stiff peak isn't from Katsuki's touch.

Voice low, you pull back just enough to fit the gruff of his name, stopping him mere seconds from sucking your soft, pebbled skin into his mouth.

His eyes dart up to your face, half-lidded. "Hah?"

If he wasn't so cute, you might prove a stronger willed woman; a light kiss to his nose has him scrunching it, and a light kiss to his lips has him surging, welcoming the wet dip of your tongue into his mouth.

Only when the frost creeps further in are you able to steady yourself, now swollen and bitten. "I'm cold."

As if finding himself after ages lost, Katsuki leans back, seemingly surprised, to peer down into the water, glaring at it like it's betrayed him in some way. With a lip between his teeth, his attention shifts from you to the nest of furs you've been bedding in this season, and it's not long before his arms are tightening around your body.

"No, wait—!"

He rises at once, laughing meanly in your ear as you struggle to cling to him; in return, you bite his lobe and snort into his cheeks as he hurries across the tent. Cradling the back of your head as if you were a child, as if you were something more special than you are, Katsuki lays you down amongst the wool and feathers, eager to slot himself behind you.

A shiver tears through even him, has him burying his face into your neck as he pulls the blanket up around your heads. It only takes a moment for his hands to heat, for his heat to spread, to have you loose and wide open once again; hips against your backside, your husband hikes your leg up, tucking your foot behind his thigh so that you are bared for the fever of his touch.

"Need no gift," the words are lost to your gasp, when the too-light pad of his fingers swirl where you are tender and slick. "No-thing but you."

And then the thick weight of him is gliding over your core, teasing, before he can no longer stand to be without you; a plead falls from his mouth as he guides himself into you, needy and wanton against your temple. Surrounded by his love and touch and sounds and entwined in such a way has your stomach tight with want, and with every inch Katsuki pulls out and pushes back in, you angle your hips so that he is seated as deep as your body will allow.

"Katsuki," you gasp at how he carves himself into your nave, arching your back and groping blindly at his body.

One of his hands finds your cheeks and he seizes them, turning your face so that he may press his lips into yours. "Fuck," he hisses, capturing a rhythm that rattles you both. "Var in svo—good. Fuck, s'good."

You can only wordlessly agree, settling for a noise he eagerly drinks down. Only once he's certain your head will not fall away from him does his hand return to the seam of your body, pads of his fingers stroking you and the mess already leaking down your thighs. When your lips part, he hums in appreciation and presses down further, as if your pleasure is feeding his own.

The wet sound of skin against skin grows, a drumbeat to the song you both sing as your fires rage; sweat builds in all your creases and curves, dampens your hairline and his as you fall prey to a savagery you once feared—and now have come to crave.

Katsuki groans into your mouth, worship in a language you do know. The rough drag of him in and out of your heat never ceases and beneath your touch, he starts to tremble, too deep into something neither of you can stand.

"Ah," he props himself up on an elbow, fingers digging into the fat of your hips so that he may pull you to meet his every thrust. You look back over your shoulder at him, core pulsing at how his head has fallen slack, with mouth open and eyes shut as he fucks himself into a euphoria he only finds with you.

You make a weak attempt at his name, lost in the throes of your own pleasure, and wait for the hot spill of him inside of you, but—you are all at once empty.

"I—shit," a hand is fisted into his own hair like he's trying to hold back his tide, to keep it low for now. His skin gleams in the firelight, a God wrapped in gold.

Chest heaving, he shuffles around your leg, finding the home between your thighs as he presses a weak trail of kisses down your chest, down your sternum and to your stomach. You know where he's going; at the mere thought of how he drank from you the last time you were together, your core clenches, something that doesn't go unnoticed by him as his crooked smile is pressed into your skin.

It's an act that still has you a bit shy, and as the furs shift and the cold clings to the droplets lingering on your skin, you shiver. Katsuki struggles a bit to bunch himself up beneath the blanket, so that he and you may stay covered, and the stars are still burning in your veins, in your nerves, and so you pull at his shoulders.

"Later," you can't help but to laugh when he frowns. "When it's not so cold."

Words you know to be little, childish insults tumble from his lips, foreign, as he crawls back up the expanse of your body. You tug a bit harshly on his hair and his lips curl, the brat, mischievous and taunting with a bite to your cheek.

"Baby," he grumbles, although smiling.

You mean to nip back at him, but Katsuki pulls one of your legs over his shoulders and your attention is drawn to his body now that it sits in plain view. Scars that color him, that bear proof to the strength he's grown; such a body like his seems carved from marble, and your heart softens at every memory of his unfouded shyness.

A God at your center, heart shared. Katsuki looks upon you just as you look upon him and the honey-mead warms in your belly, drips down your spine with the weight of all the love you hold for him—and he for you.

You tell him quietly, as he bows his head to spit where he means to join you. "Ig siggna vik."

Though the words fit odd inside your mouth, their shape is known to him; he glances up as if in awe, and his answer is a breathless exhale of your name as he slips inside you once again. His face goes directly to your neck, already trembling hands slipping up to hold your face so that you are always close, so that his breath is yours and your moans are his.

"Var in svo hott," he tells you again; it's so good, a common phrase that has your threads wearing thin.

It's take little time before he is falling back into the same bruising pace, chasing the high you're eager to grant him. You fist a hand in his hair as his teeth sink into your skin, as he bullies into the sweet spot that has your stars aligning, has them shining behind the lids you can't help but to close.

"Fuck," you breathe, arching into him. "Katsuki—Gods—"

Your vulgarity has his breath pitching and exhaling sharply and he stops, only for one long, horrible moment, before he can't bear it.

"Fu—sorry," he breaks, the sound so fragile on his tongue. It's not a word you've ever heard from him and your chest tightens at the thought of him asking Midoriya for it. "Sorry, sorry."

With a desperate moan, he's sitting back on his knees, brow crumpling as his eyes are forced shut. "Oh, I—" and his hold finds the dip of your waist, grip tight enough to steal your breath so that he can pull you up into him as he cums. Deep and hard, shoulders shaking as he tenses over you, groaning on such a low sound that your own tide nearly crests.

The sight of your husband—Chieftain of Dragon's, the warlord that won you from the hands of your father, that loves you as winter loves the wind—reduced to ashes at your heat, trembling on the breeze as he twitches and spills inside of you; wild is your desire, without caution.

Katsuki only takes the time to press a sloppy kiss into your cheeks, to push back the damp hair that has fallen into your face before his hands are re-molding to your hips. Though you are more than slick enough, still he leans back to spit into the space between you, spreading the wetness as he circles you again with the pad of his thumb.

And then you are following not far behind him: it's the pressure around your tenderness and the deep sink of him inside you and the eyes rolling back into his head as he fucks through his own sensitivity. Your cries mingle, him at the sudden flutter of your walls, and you at the honeyed-bliss that he gives you.

"I—fuck," he pants, running a hand up your stomach as your trembling slows into delayed, sporadic aftershock. You feel him kick inside of you at the sight and you laugh despite your sudden weariness. "I love you."

Though he is flushed in you and the firelight, his cheeks brighten, if possible, like such an admission is yet another display of his idle bashfulness. You smile and his own grows in return, crooked and dazzling, and you open your arms for him to slump down onto you.

Katsuki does, but it's not long before he is reaching to toss the wool off his back, murmuring, "hot," into your ear—and then because he is a terror, he hisses, "baby," too, like an overgrown child.

There are other words he whispers into your skin, some you know and some you don't. Some you'll come to learn, some he'll share with you, this language that will tell him all you cannot. You're not worried, however, at either his understanding or yours, with a love as true as stars in the sky, like white berries—crisp—against even the longest and darkest nights.

2K notes View Post

vitzi9

2 years ago

can you make a lo’ak imagine where its first set when they were kids (like in the flashback scene of awotw) and the reader lives in the lab along with spider, and the people at the lab gave the reader a trampoline to play on, so one day lo’ak and neteyam see the reader jumping on it and lo’ak thinks it looks super fun (and the reader looks pretty) so the next day he comes by and asks to use the trampoline except he has no idea what it’s actually called, but in the end they become super good friends 👍👍

— TOUCH THE SKY !

pairing : lo’ak x reader !

a/n : yes bro i got you. this was so fun to write. lmk if you wanna be added to be taglist :

@nyotamalfoy @victoirey @itssiaaax @grierpilots

Can You Make A Lo’ak Imagine Where Its First Set When They Were Kids (like In The Flashback Scene Of

“Bro, remember when we first met?” Lo’ak asked randomly, nudging you.

You looked up and closed your eyes, recollecting the distant memory you had back when you and him were younger.

You then smiled and opened your eyes to look at him.

“How could I forget?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were jumping on your trampoline that Norm gave you for your twelfth birthday, doing mini flips and tricks. You wished that Spider were here, or anyone, honestly, to watch you.

Unbeknownst to you, two Na’vi brothers were watching you from afar.

“What is she doing?” Neteyam whispered to Lo’ak. his eyes glued on your figure.

“That must be some ‘Sky People’ tech,” Lo’ak paused, then muttered, “she’s pretty.”

Neteyam slowly turned to look at his brother with a shocked expression caused from his words. His brother? Having a crush on one of the Sky People? How could this be?

“Brother, that is a human!” Neteyam spoke, a little too loud.

“Shh, you’ll blow our cover!” Lo’ak shushed him quickly, cringing a bit at the thought of being caught.

You continued to bounce, completely oblivious to the scene happening right in front of you. Neteyam covered his mouth quickly, but then eventually spoke again.

“How are you going to approach her?” Neteyam asked curiously.

An invisible lightbulb appeared over Lo’ak’s head, “I have a plan.”

Later that day, you were face to face by a Na’vi male, about the same age as you, with another boy standing behind him. By the similarities in appearance, you assumed that they were brothers.

Nonetheless, you were shaking in fear, tears nearly spilling out of your eyes. You heard stories about the Na’vi, both good and bad. You didn’t, however, expect them to be this tall.

They were towering over you.

“Don’t… don’t hurt me.” You tried desperately to sound tough, yet fear was the only thing evident in your voice.

A twinge of guilt struck at Lo’ak’s young heart before he gulped, almost not knowing what to say. He felt bad for you — you look like you had just seen a ghost.

“We are not going to hurt you,” Neteyam spoke up, “we are friendly!”

You gasped, your mood switching in a heartbeat.

“You speak English!” You said, fascinated. Your eyes were practically sparkling.

Neteyam nodded, excitedly, “My brother came to ask you something.” He nudged his younger brother towards you, Lo’ak stumbling a bit before regaining his balance.

He shot a glare at Neteyam then crouched down to match your height, quickly planning what to say in his head.

Before he could speak, you gasped again, moving closer to him. You noticed the little white dots displayed across his face down to his torso.

“They’re so pretty..” you mumbled, instinctively reaching out to touch them. You ran your fingers across the pattern, your eyes wide in awe.

Fascinated to say the least, you squinted your eyes, pressing on one of the dots then looking at your finger to check if it left a mark. You were distracted, almost forgetting that you were in the middle of a conversation.

Lo’ak, scared to move under your touch, cleared his throat. You quickly took your hands off him, placing your arms behind your back. He was still blushing from your previous actions, but quickly collected himself.

“I… think you’re pretty too,” he pulled a bracelet out of his pouch before handing it to you.

You gently took the bracelet, automatically putting it around your wrist. You examined it carefully. It was made out of woven leather, with pebbles from nearby lakes attached to the material.

Squealing in excitement, you twisted your wrist around to show off your new jewelry.

You then hugged Lo’ak tightly before silently thanking him with a blush on both of your faces.

Once you pulled away, you two shared a smile. It was then he remembered what him and his brother were here for.

“Can I…” he trailed off, realizing that he had no idea what that thing was. You looked at him, confused.

He gave up on trying to find the right words, and simply pointed to the trampoline. You slowly looked toward the direction he pointed to, realization striking you.

“Do you want to play?” You asked, hopefully.

Lo’ak and Neteyam both nodded at the same time, making you giggle.

Next thing you knew, all three of you were bouncing on the trampoline.

“I can touch the sky, look!” Lo’ak exclaimed before bouncing and reaching upward.

You smiled for the tenth time that day, happy that you found new friends to play with.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You know, now that I think about it,” you looked at Lo’ak, only now realizing how much the two of you had grown since then, “we wouldn’t have met without that trampoline.”

He nodded in agreement, then turned to face you, holding eye contact. You two sat in silence, just looking at each other. You loved this. You loved that you two could stay quiet without it being awkward. You were the most comfortable when you were with him, as he was with you.

“I still think you’re pretty,” he whispered, breaking the silence.

You smiled at his words. He had no idea how much he meant to you.

“I think you’re pretty too,” you said as you brought your hand up to caress his face gently. The action was incredibly intimate, especially for a pair of best friends.

But something, only Eywa knows what, told you that you both wanted to be more than that.

So you continued to caress his face, studying the pattern of white freckles you’ve known like the back of your hand by now. His cheek was slightly grazed by the pebble attached to the woven bracelet on your wrist — the same one you’ve kept since your twelfth birthday.

808 notes View Post

vitzi9

3 years ago

John Doe should be pepper sprayed on sight. (Guess who watching there back log of Love Manlybadasshero videos). Breaks the forth wall not in this house burn John.

11 notes View Post

vitzi9

3 weeks ago

I'm speechless, the talent is immaculate

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

222 notes View Post

vitzi9

2 years ago

Bitchy & mean reader

Y/N was a spoiled brat

She got what she wanted

And she destroyed whoever got in her way

She wasn't nice

Popular because people feared her

Never bothered to have many friends

She doesn't do the fake shit

Boys wanted her

And wanted her bad

But she'd ruin them in seconds

Leave them wishing they never tried in the first place

The day she set her eyes on Eddie Munson

She knew he had no option but to be hers

She fucked him on the first date

Had him crying and begging in seconds

He was a gorgeous crier

Didn't bother to listen to the rumours when he came to school, neck covered in hickies

His puppy eyes following her every move

It happened to every guy in the school

Many felt bad for Eddie

Until they noticed he got special treatment

She actually talked to him the next day

Shoving her tongue down his throat in the middle of class

Grabbing his hand and moving it under her skirt in the bathroom stall

He felt like he died and went to hell

This girl was no way making it to heaven

She loved that he was a soft boy

Quickly protecting him everywhere they went

Two boys were shoving each other in the hallway, one ended up smacking Eddie into a locker

He groaned as he held his head

"WATCH WHAT YOU ARE DOING YOU PRICKS" she screamed. Shoving both boys as hard as she could.

Both smacking into the lockers behind them

Her heated glare disappeared in seconds when her eyes landed on his puppy eyes

"you okay baby?"

Or when a girl decided to trip Eddie in the cafeteria

Laughing as he landed harshly on the ground

She marched over to the table in seconds

Grabbing the girl by her hair and yanking her off her seat

"YOU TOUCH HIM AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU!"

Her eyes and tone soft as she helped him up

"it's okay baby. Let's go home"

Or when a server had the nerve to get his order wrong

Eddie excitedly took the bun off of his burger, preparing to drown it in ketchup

A small frown took over his face

"baby what's wrong?" She caught on quickly

"it has mustard. I hate mustard" he admitted quietly

Grabbing a knife and preparing to scrape it off

But she snatched the plate away, marching up to the counter

"BABY ITS FINE" he yelled quickly

Not wanting her to cause a scene

Her pink heels clicked on the floor as she waited

"can I help you?" The server asked

With a polite smile, "my boyfriend asked for no mustard. Would you be able to make him a new one please?"

She may be a bitch but she had manners

Unless they didn't have manners back

"I'm sorry ma'am but he never said that"

"you calling my boyfriend a liar?"

Eddie heard her voice getting mad

Quickly sliding out of the booth to calm her down

"baby it's fine" he said sweetly. Kissing her cheek

"no baby. You want no mustard and you ordered it with no mustard" she said sternly

"no he didn't" the server snapped back

"YES HE DID! HE WANTS A BURGER, SLIGHTLY PINK WITH NO FUCKING MUSTARD!"

Another time they forgot his extra pickles

"is your food right baby?" She asked sweetly

Her pink nails holding his hand

He nodded and lied through his teeth

"perfect"

She eyed his plate

"did you get your extra pickles?" She asked, noticing his plate didn't seem to have a single pickle on it

"no but that's okay. I don't really want them anymore"

But her ass was already walking away

Her tiny skirt flowing on her hips as she walked with purpose

Seconds later coming back with a plate of pickles

Free of charge :)

Eddie simply got whatever he asked for

She had money and she'd buy him anything he wanted

The blue guitar he kept seeing at the mall?

She bought it a day later

The leather jacket he tried on but put back when he saw the price?

She yanked it right off the rack, shoving it in her cart

If he wanted three types of candies at the movie theater, her baby got all three

She was a bitch

A stone cold mean asshole

But with Eddie?

That was her baby

And she would cherish him for life

862 notes View Post

vitzi9

2 years ago

fr tho why is everything smut😭😭 i wanna read angst that would ruin me, make me sick to my stomach and cry like there's no tomorrow bro i want a fanfic that is so devastating that i won't be able to function for the next few months

11K notes View Post

vitzi9

6 months ago