Dwayne + Being Sweet And/or A Dork

STRAWBERRY AND CIGARETTES

strawberry chapstick, cigarette smoke.

cw. reader wears strawberry chapstick, inexperienced!reader, a little bit of peer pressure, don't smoke kids no matter how sexy men are, not proofread

"smoking is bad for you."

your colleague looks up as he removes a pack from his right pocket, shifting it into his left hand as he takes out a lighter from the inside of his other pocket. you're frowning in disappointment, your arm leaning on the counter next to you as you stare.

"didn't know i had a babysitter on my hands—" he mumbles as he fishes a cigarette out, shoving the pack into the inside pocket of his blazer, "did they pay you extra for that?"

"very funny," you smile as your eyes shift between the lighter and the cigarette he holds, "just make sure to invite me to your funeral when you die of lung cancer."

"if i'm dying at an early age it definitely won't be from lung cancer." he laughs dryly, his fingers fiddle with the lighter; the cap is already hinged up, and you watch as his thumb scrapes the gear across the other, sending flames lighting on and off again, and he glances up at you, "wanna try one?"

you blink. it was all light teasing up to this point, but this actually makes you nervous, apprehensive even. it's dark outside, and it's only the two of you in this building; that fact makes you startlingly aware of every action, every rustle of his clothes, every clang of the machines around you.

"c'mon, babysitter," he chides, the teasing lilt at the edge of his voice sending shivers up your spine, "give it a spin."

"this counts as peer pressure, you know."

"i think we're a little bit more than just 'peers', but whatever makes you feel better."

you feel the heat on the back of your neck, tensing as you debate the action of smoking a highly addictive cancer stick that you've been warned your entire life not to touch. you know he won't actually care or berate you if you don't end up taking it, but you think that he might be just as addicting as the cigarette. he lights the end, and you can smell the burnt tobacco already—it smells rich and masculine, much like him.

"here, i'll go first so you don't have to." he helps himself, his lips wrapping around the paper. you don't think you've ever seen anything as attractive as the man in front of you inhaling, the muscle in his neck tensing for just a second before he exhales, blowing the smoke out of his lungs into the air that surrounds you.

well, shit.

your fingertips graze against his as he hands the cigarette over to you, your fingers tingling from his touch, your heart beating out of your chest as you bring it to your mouth. you inhale sharply, the nicotine making its way down your lungs before you end up coughing, a dry hack escaping your puffy lips as you cover your mouth. he has the decency to turn away while a hint of a smile plays on his lips, leaving you swallowing to gather the saliva down your esophagus; it helps, but your windpipe still feels bare and dirty, and you shake your head, laughing.

"get this thing out of my hands," you smile, embarrassed as you give the stupid thing back to him, "i dunno how you do it."

"it's probably better that you don't enjoy it," he affirms, before his eyes catch the edges of the top of the cigarette. there are wet streaks that line where your mouth was— they're wet, but not wet enough to be saliva, and he tilts his head, his tongue peeking out to his teeth, "you're not wearing gloss by any chance?"

"chapstick." you flush slightly, pressing your lips together, "strawberry-scented."

he hums, breathing out a puff of smoke playfully into your face—you wrinkle your nose, waving your hand to blow the smoke away but it stings your eyes anyways, and he laughs, taking another hit.

"wanna try something else?" his mouth says the words but he doesn't look at you, his eyes staring ahead to the moon that shines above you, the buildings whose lights slowly begin to flicker off as the day comes to an end.

"you don't think you've influenced me enough?"

"it's called shotgun smoking," his eyes flit towards yours, completely ignoring your question, "i breathe the smoke to you— just for fun of course."

"...of course." you echo his words blankly, your heart thundering in your chest as he shifts closer, his body domineering over yours. your hands grip the railing of the deck you stand on, watching as he maneuvers his hand right next to yours, turning his body so that he's right in front of you, you can't help but laugh, "isn't this just forced secondhand smoking?"

his lips quirk up into a smirk. "whatever helps you feel better."

with that, he lifts the cigarette, inhaling another puff of smoke. the butt of the cigarette faces you, and you think it might be the sun as it glows a fiery, angry orange, the bits of paper crisping up to black as they float down onto your clothes. he leans in closer, his lips only inches away from yours, and he softly exhales.

oh.

the scent of him is addicting, his arms trapping you against the edge as you breathe in the smoke, you don't cough this time, but you honestly think you might've disliked it if it weren't for him muddling all of your senses. the gray smoke overwhelms your nerves, it's dizzyingly bad how good it feels spasming in your chest, settling into your stomach. his hands lay flush against your own, heat emanating from every part of his body, and you're fleetingly aware of how close he is to you.

fuck it.

your hands grasp the collar of his shirt, and he lets out a muffled gasp of surprise as your lips connect with his. his lips are hot—it's actually warm— moving fluidly against yours. they're chapped, his bottom lip more than his top lip, but you don't really mind, not with the way his hand cups your neck and his head tilts to the side, his jaw flexing as he kisses you deeper.

his lips feel like liquid fire on yours, wreaking havoc where they spread, burning up your will to not consume him. you've always known he was a dangerous man, but this feels so much better than you could've imagined; he's greedy and needy as he kisses you, and you smile when his right hand drops the cigarette to reach for your waist instead, the burning smoke long forgotten when you're right there.

you separate your lips from his, a dazed grin on your face, as he moves his head with yours, breathing heavily under hushed tones. "wasn't that more enjoyable than a cigarette?" your thumb reaches up to his mouth, smearing the little bit of your chapstick to the rest of his lips. he can smell the sickeningly saccharine scent of strawberry invade his brain. it smells like you.

"can we do that again?" his voice is lower and huskier, staring unabashedly at your lips. they're so smooth compared to his, pillowy and soft, the taste of your chapstick lingers on his tongue—fuck, he can barely think straight.

you smile, crossing your arms. "no cigarettes for two weeks."

he doesn't need to be told twice. 

— aki hayakawa, shizuo heiwajima, geto suguru, keishin ukai, shikamaru nara, hirotaka nifuji, sniper mask, gray fullbuster, loid forger, simon 'ghost' riley, plus your other faves!

a/n: yeah i know half of these are ooc but i just wanted to include my fave smokers in one thing ugh i would destroy my lungs (among other things) for them

also genderbent shoko is definitely on this list

80s AU quotes

(All my 80s AU things like this where there’s not a specific pairing will be posting in my misc masterlist)

David: “We’re vampires, aren’t you freaked out?”

Y/N, points to Bill and Ted: “Took me time traveling”

Y/N, points to Hawkins Crew: “Made me fight demons in another dimension”

Y/N: “Honestly my standard for ‘normal’ is pretty low”

******

Eddie: “You didn’t tell me you were dating these guys”

*Y/N, Bill and Ted, cuddled up all over each other*

Y/N: “What do you mean? We’re not dating”

*****

Paul: “So wait, are any of you sleeping with her?”

Eddie: “You’re gonna need to choose your next words very carefully”

****

David: “You’re eating maggots, Eddie”

Eddie, trying to assert dominance: “I’ve had worse” *continues eating*

*****

*David and Y/N looking at Marko, Paul, Bill and Ted*

Y/N: “Oh god, there’s four of them”

*****

Ted: “You dudes should come with us to the beach tomorrow”

Y/N: “Ted, the sun kills them, and they sleep during the day”

Ted: “Bogus”

*****

David: “I want to turn her but she’s too sweet”

Eddie: “Y/N is not sweet, she is an awful gremlin person!”

Marko: “That sounds a little harsh”

Bill: “No it’s true. While y/n is our friend and we love her, she is also a gremlin”

Ted: “One time she bit someone who was laughing at Bill”

Dwayne: “That just sounds like a sweet kid”

Bill: “It was last year”

Eddie: “Chaotic good kinda gremlin but still a gremlin”

Steve: “Also if you try to turn her we’ll slit your throats”

Rock star eddie, you're his drummer. One of his songs requires moans in the background. He wants it live. Wear special panties during show, boom live moans or if that's too much maybe just has you in the sound booth since he doesn't want some random chick's moans, the grand finale is the sound of you coming during the climax of the song 👀

Glitter Girl

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Reader

Based on Glitter Girl by Dixie Dragster (Eddie's song in the fic)

A/N: I was editing this and I was like ugh this is ass, but then I got to the smut and I was like okay this is good actually lmao. This is my attempt at not answering a request with an overarching storyline like I did here, but this still ended up being about 4.6k Thank you for the request it was very slutty, perfect for rockstar!eddie.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: SMUT 18+ mdni!!! unprotected sex, PiV sex, masturbation (fem), voyeurism, ass slapping, cum eating, oral sex kinda (fem rec), cum swapping lol, kinda dirty talk, edging, talk of fingering, audio recording sex, some feelings

My asks are open, come talk to me about Eddie!!!

Masterlist

You came into the studio looking for Eddie, finding him next to the band’s producer, Jared, at the soundboard. 

Gareth had left a message on your machine saying Eddie needed some more backing vocals for the new song. The song was a little different from what the band had done before—more eccentric, more glam-rock—but Eddie said it would be a blast to perform live so you didn’t mind, always up for making the shows more electric. 

Eddie told you he wrote the song in two hours after the insane New Year’s Eve bash the band threw at a club. You remember bits and pieces of the party—glitter falling at midnight, spitting a shot of vodka into Eddie’s mouth, making Gareth give you a lap dance, watching Jeff motorboat a bottle girl. Definitely one for the books.

But as daybreak neared and guests began drunkenly shuffling home, the night became a little clearer in your memory—leaving you and Eddie covered in glitter and confetti, giggling about how he’d be finding that shit in his hair forever. Three days later, he played the song for you and the rest of the band.

You laid down the drums for the song last Friday and your vocals the following Monday. Eddie had told the band it was a wrap, but it seems he’s changed his mind—deciding something was missing, rendering the song incomplete in his eyes. 

Music is the only thing he’s ever been picky about, the one area where his usual chaos shifts into precision. It’s like he develops a Type-A personality just for that. 

When he hears the door open, Eddie looks up to see you walking in, tattered jean shorts and an old band tee hanging loose on your body. He waves you into the room, ushering you over to the soundboard with him and Jared.

“Hey! Glad you got my message, sorry about the game of telephone. Apparently there’s no landline in this fucking place.” He exclaims, throwing a pointed look at Jared—like the poor guy owns the building and has a say in its architectural decisions. 

You huff at his attitude, tilting your head, giving him a reprimanding, deadpan stare. Eddie loves to give the guy a hard time, much to your chagrin. It’s only because Jared’s genuinely the nicest person all of you know, especially in the LA music scene. 

“No problem, although I am confused because I thought we finished everything.” 

You watch as Jared starts fiddling with some buttons, getting the sound booth ready. 

“Yeah, okay. See, I thought it was good–great even!” He obfuscates, “But then I had this idea…and now I wanna see how it’ll sound, and you’re the only girl…” 

Your brows furrow as a confused smile overtakes your face. It sounded like he said a whole lot of nothing just now, and what does being the only girl in the band have to do with anything?

“What are you talking about?”

“Okay, force my hand,” he groans dramatically. “I think some moans would sound really fucking cool on the R–O–C–K part.” 

He says it so fast, you have to take a moment to replay what you heard in your head to understand. Nervous for what you’ll say, he’s shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and eyeing you intently. You hesitate, gauging whether he’s serious or not, but he doesn’t back track. 

“Alright, I mean–,” you gesture to him, deferring, “you’re the musical genius.” 

It’ll be a little weird moaning in a sound booth by yourself, having poor, innocent Jared monitoring the levels and Eddie coaching you, but if it’ll make the song even cooler—you’re in.

Eddie appears shocked at your deference, he really thought he’d have to run down the list he made of why it would be sick as fuck. He’s suddenly feeling very thankful to not only have a talented female drummer, but one who appreciates his artistry as much as you. 

“Really?”

Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah, if you think it’ll sound cool. I trust you.” The last part is so simple but it makes him grin, excited that you’re down for this.

“Yes! Thank you!” Rushing to hug you, he lifts you off your feet in a bone crushing embrace.

When he sets you back down, you’re laughing at the child-like giddiness written all over his face. Jared lets you know the booth is ready for you, heading in there you stand behind the microphone, placing the headphones over your ears so you can hear the backing track and cues. 

Jared counts you in over the master microphone, hearing the metronome. you nod your head to the beat, keeping time. When the part approaches, you stand up straight, breathily moaning the letters, spelling out ‘ROCK.’ 

Once you’ve done it, Jared cuts the music, turning on the soundboard mic for Eddie to give notes. You watch through the glass window as he leans down, sounding less than satisfied. “Okay…that was good, um–let’s take it from the top, okay? Gimme a little more oomf.”

Nodding your head—only slightly understanding what he means—you begin keeping time with the metronome again. You do it about three more times for him before Eddie starts running his hands through the roots of his hair, clearly frustrated at your inability to portray the tone he’s looking for. 

“Eddie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do differently.” You don’t mean to be so difficult, honestly not comprehending what’s off about your performance. And he’s not being very helpful with his notes, you’re pretty sure you’re all out of ‘oomf.’ You’re certain the last two renditions are as oomf-y as he’s going to get from you.

He shakes his head, curling his lips into his mouth, “No, it’s–uh, hold on.” 

The sound from outside the booth cuts out, you watch as Eddie leans down to Jared telling him something. The guy looks at him, appearing to ask him something before Eddie nods his head, then the guy stands up and leaves. You frown at the sudden exit, Eddie sits down into the command chair, clicking the microphone back on and leaning in. 

“Okay, so I asked Jared to take five. We’re gonna try this again, but—hear me out—do you think you could–,” he hesitates, working through how to make his request. “How about this, what if you—okay, this is gonna sound insane–”

Losing your patience, you speak up, “Eddie, just spit it out!” 

“What about if you touched yourself? While you–you know, did the vocals…,” his words come out stilted, eyes squinting like he’s expecting you to blow up at him for his outrageous request. 

Instead, you just laugh. He’s got to be joking, that’d be insane! Your eyes widen when he doesn’t laugh with you—just curling his lips inward again.

“Eddie, you can’t be serious…,” you shake your head incredulously. “Just get a porn star, or something, if you want real moans.”

He clearly rejects that sentiment, shaking his head and holding his hands out in front of him like he’s presenting at a business meeting, “No, I don’t want just any girl on this track! Plus, there’s like legal shit I don’t even wanna touch with a ten foot pole.”

Scoffing, your jaw agape, “What, and I’m easier?”

Frantically shaking his head, placating hands held out in front of him, “No! Of course not!” His voice lowers to a nervous mutter, but it still comes through loud and clear in your headphones, “I just think the muse should be on the track, that’s all.” 

Your brows draw together, jerking your head back in confusion. “You wrote this song–about me?” He’s never written a song about anybody other than random hookups. Most of his songwriting is inspired by life stuff anyway. Not even his best friends got songs written for them, but he wrote this for you—about you? 

When you think about the lyrics, your face heats up—to be seen in that way, to be romanticized like that…You had no idea he felt…things…for you. But now the way he stuck to your side at the party makes sense. 

Usually, he’s all over the groupies and the women throwing themselves at him, he’s a gluttonous guy—he likes to have them all. But that party was notably different, he even took you to breakfast after the wild night, making you laugh as he shook more glitter from his hair into the pancakes he ordered. 

Eddie shrugs, very clearly trying to seem passive, “Well, yeah, you’re my glitter girl.” He voices the nickname like it’s obvious, like it’s an endearment—he did put ‘my’ in front of it. 

Huffing out a fond laugh, smile growing on your soft lips, you nod, “Fine. But you can’t watch, okay, perv?” 

You tease him, but the thought of him watching is far too overwhelming for you. You just found out he feels a certain way for you. Unsure if it’s just fondness, care, like—love, even? No, that’d be preposterous. He’s your friend! Lead singer of one of the top bands right now, and you’re his drummer! You’re just like one of the guys—at least that’s what Gareth always says. 

Now you’re not sure what you are—to him, at least. But you know you couldn’t handle him watching you do something so intimate. 

He nods his head vigorously, “Yeah, of course! How about this, I’ll turn around and you–do your thing.” 

Nodding at his earnest face, you move to unbutton your shorts. Shaking your head in disbelief that this is happening, you watch as he turns around. 

“Although, to be clear—I do still need to listen to make sure I–,” he pauses, unable to choose better wording, “like–what I hear, I guess. Sorry.” 

You huff, rolling your eyes at his poor choice of wording. “Yes, Eddie, I know. Don’t look!” 

Raising his hands in surrender as his back is turned, “Let me know when you want me to start the track.” He wants to give you enough time to work yourself up—for lack of better words. 

Taking a deep breath, shaking the nerves out of your body, you reach into your panties. It isn’t the best angle with you standing so you quickly turn around, pulling the stool up to the mic, adjusting the equipment to your new height as you sit on the edge of the wooden seat. Propping your foot on the rung of the stool, you spread your thighs, reaching back into your panties to gather the wetness at your hole. 

Thankfully, Eddie is hot enough to get you going any time you see him—his long, dark curly hair, obsidian eyes, the contrast of black tattoos on pale white skin. Today, he’s wearing an old Dio band tee he cut into a muscle shirt and a pair of ripped black jeans. 

Every time he leaned over the soundboard—reaching to fiddle with some controls—the gaping armholes of his shirt gave you a perfect view of his biceps, his body. It had you pressing your thighs together. Yeah, you’re good to go just looking at him.

Spreading the wetness across your folds as much as you can in the confines of your shorts, you bring your soaked fingers to your clit, catching the little nub just right, making your breath hitch. When your breath turns shallow and you’re biting your lip to withhold moans, you look up to see a hunched over Eddie through the glass. He looks like he’s straining, turned around with clenched fists, gnawing on the white knuckles. 

“I’m ready.” He jumps into action at your breathy comment, reaching behind him for the button, starting the metronome track. 

His strained posture doesn’t unfurl, in fact it looks like he gets even more stiff as you do the part. Circling your clit for maximum pleasure, you moan out the letters, stopping completely with shallow breaths as you wait for his notes. 

Leaving your shorts unbuttoned, you remove your fingers, resting your arm on your thighs as Eddie turns around with a hand over his eyes. 

“I’m decent,” you breathe, letting him know he doesn’t have to feel around the soundboard blindly to shut the track off. 

Letting his hand fall, blown eyes take you in as he clears his throat, pressing the ‘on’ button for the microphone. “T–That was–good, uh, yeah, good,” clearing his throat again. “I think–okay you’re gonna hate me for this—and I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose—but when I was blind, I accidentally pressed the wrong button, so I recorded none of that.” 

He bares his teeth in nervous expectation for your anger, but you just let out a shaky sigh, rolling your eyes. Par for the course with Eddie. 

“Okay, fine. Just–start recording, then close your eyes this time, okay?” 

“Yes. Yeah, I’ll do that, I’m sorry!”

Since you’re already worked up, you tell him to go ahead and start the track right off the bat. Precisely following your directions, he starts the track, quickly hits record, and swivels his chair to face the couch against the wall. 

You do exactly the same thing as last time—running your index and middle finger through your folds before bringing it to your throbbing clit. You’re working yourself close to the edge, but never surpassing it as you moan the lines.

The notes you receive from him make you want to strangle him, he looks awfully jumpy, continuously letting his hand fall into his lap below the soundboard where you can’t see it. “That was good,” he says lightly, like it’s a consolation compliment.

The frustration of touching yourself with no orgasm at the end is getting to you, you grit out an annoyed, “Eddie!” 

“I’m sorry! There’s something off about it! You know? Like it’s too–I don’t know…,” he stops to think as you huff your chest, imagining exactly how you’d run out of this booth and strangle the singer. “It’s missing that oomf,” he repeats, as if that perfectly describes why your performance is not hitting.

Oh, you’re going to kill him. You’re going to skin the fucker alive. “You said that already!” 

“Wait! I think I know what it is,” your eyes widen as he pauses, raising your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Please, feel free to share with the class,” you bite, thoroughly annoyed at this point. 

“How exactly are you touching yourself?” He asks the question so casually like he’s asking you which football team you’re supporting in this year’s Super Bowl, like he’s an engineer trying to figure out the faulty cog in the machine. 

You throw your head back, eyes on a god you know isn’t watching, praying for enough strength to spare your bandmate from your fiery fury. You laugh—sharp, incredulous. “Oh, we’re doing this?” Resigning yourself to the present situation, you answer without shame—your frustration is far too overpowering. “Okay, I’m rubbing my clit.” 

He shakes his head, unruly curls shimmying with the gesture, “No, see I want like–a thrusting oomf, you know?” He’s wagging his finger like he just cracked the case, grinning, “See, I knew something was missing!” 

“Okay, well, I’m not gonna finger myself for you, Eddie.” You’ve given him enough, plus you know from experience—your own fingers are not going to give him the ‘oomf’ he’s looking for.

Eddie pouts at your rejection, jaw on the floor like an indignant child being told ‘no.’ 

“Why not?” He’s practically whining and you tilt your head at him in disbelief that this is the ‘man’ so many women drop their panties for. 

“Because! Why don’t you do it,” you argue. 

His pout is gone as he shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head, “Okay.” 

“Wha–,” you’re thrown off by his response, but you watch him hit record and you hear the metronome start in your ears as he joins you in the booth, unbuttoning his jeans. 

“I didn’t mean–what the hell are you doing?” You look at him like he’s lost his mind—because, honestly, he has. What exactly is he doing here? Freeing one ear from the headphones, you wait for his—sure to be interesting—explanation.

“You want me to do it,” it’s half–question, half him telling you what he got from that exchange. 

Shaking your head, lips parted in awe at his absurdity, “No! I mean like–you do the moans yourself if you’re gonna be so picky about it!” 

Disappointment clear on his face, he leaves his jeans unbuttoned, “Well, nobody wants that!” 

Laughing at his absurd comment—you, you want that—you shake your head, “I don’t think me fingering myself is really gonna sound good–”

“I beg to differ,” he snorts, eyes shooting to your wet fingers.

Giving him a reprimanding look, you add, “You know what I mean.”

“Okay, but what if…I did help you,” he implores, it’s like he’s bargaining for your pussy. 

“Eddie, you can’t be serious,” smiling at him, waiting for him to crack, but all you see is wide, earnest eyes. “You really want this?”

You’re mainly asking about how badly he wants the song to reflect his vision, but you realize the question takes on a whole new meaning with what’s on the table. 

Nodding his head frantically, “Yes, it means a lot to me!” 

Sighing at his genuine desire to make the song he wants, you let out a subtle nod. “Fine,” you pause as he pumps his fist in victory, “But don’t be weird about it.” He immediately collects himself, bringing his energy from ‘kid who just won a sweepstakes to Disney’ to ‘solemn mourner.’ It makes you crack a smile. 

You can hear the metronome of the song repeating in your ear, you watch his quickly widening eyes as you shimmy your shorts down. A raised eyebrow alerts him he should be doing the same, you put the second pair of headphones onto his hair, flattening a line into his poofy hair. He starts removing his black jeans as you turn and adjust the microphone even lower, nearly at the level of the wooden stool. 

When you turn back around, you see his hard cock, standing at attention, his shirt still on—same as you, not bothering to remove the article of clothing because that’d require removing the headphones, which was too much work at the moment. His eyes are lust blown as he looks down at your half-naked body, shallow breaths moving his chest. 

“Cute,” you quip at his stiff cock, admiring the jump you get for the compliment. He’s not the first naked man you’ve seen and knowing him—his ego is already enormous. He doesn’t need to get another worshipping compliment on how pretty and big his dick is, he has the groupies for that. You always try to keep him in check, this’ll be no different. 

Clearly, you had him remove his pants for more than just fingering, but he wants to make sure. “So you don’t want me to finger you?” 

Snorting, you shake your head, “No, if you want this to sound good, it’s gotta be the real deal.” You’ve built up enough frustration that you’re giving him creative directions now, if he’s intertwining music and pleasure—he knows music, and you know your own pleasure. “And you get one take, got it, rockstar?”

Eddie sucks in a breath at the title, nodding his head, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. And it’s recording?” 

Another nod. 

You smirk at his uncharacteristic silence, turning around to rest your elbows on the seat of the stool, making sure the mic stand is right in front of your face. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, the view of you bent over, chest down, ass up—presenting your pretty pussy to him—has his dick jumping, twitching with need. He moves forward, caressing the junction of your hip, squeezing the fat of your ass.

You can’t help but hum at the feel of cold metal rings on his large hands, you’re so worked up you’re practically dripping for him.

He gathers himself enough to remind you the metronome is repeating, meaning you need to pay attention for the cue to the letters. 

“Just fuck me already,” you’re almost whine, rolling your hips to jut your pussy out more. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, grasping his cock and rubbing it up and down your wet folds. He nearly curses at the way your lips almost suck him into your greedy hole, the way you’re pulsing, trying to lure him into your warm, wet heat. 

He teases just a little more, gathering as much of your wetness onto his cock as he can. When you whine, wiggling your hips back, trying to catch the head and slide him in—he decides to put you out of your misery. 

With a strong grip on your hips, Eddie thrusts in harshly, fully sinking his cock into your tight cunt. The sudden intrusion has a cross between a moan and squeal erupting from your throat, you thought he’d go slow—boy, were you wrong. He has to take a minute to steady his breathing, wishing away the impending orgasm. His body is curling over you, chest moving with stuttering breaths. 

You’re so aware of his pelvis and thighs against your ass, how snug his cock is in your hole. Relishing the feeling of him balls deep inside you, you feel so full. He’s so thick, it’s driving you up the wall. Your pussy is gripping him like any moment he’ll pull out and leave you gaping.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Holy shit–best fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.” He’s babbling, gone completely out of his mind at the way your walls squeeze his poor cock in a vice grip. You mewl and whine at the compliment, so turned on from all the edging, you just want him to start moving already. 

“Move–please, move! Fuck, Eddie,” you draw out his name, sounding pitiful and fucked out already. 

He starts thrusting at a bruising pace, you feel every ridge and vein, you’re not even trying to temper your moans. Barely hearing yourself over the metronome anyway, you let him know just how good you feel. 

Eddie reaches up, shoving one earphone off so he can hear your noises. All the moaning, mewling, and whining only spur him on. He’s breaking a sweat railing into your cunt, relishing the sound of skin slapping. 

You hear the song start over again, knowing the cue is coming up, you try to draw your brain back from your needy pussy long enough to moan the letters. Apparently, you didn’t sound desperate enough because Eddie slaps your ass, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from your throat. 

“Again,” he grits, reaching around to messily rub your clit through your shared juices. 

The song is short so when it loops back around, you’re at the very precipice of an orgasm. 

“Please–Eddie, please let me cum! Oh god, I need it, please!” 

He groans when your walls suffocate his cock, needy and pulsing, on the very edge of the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had. 

“Be good, and I’ll let you,” he grunts, slapping your ass to cue you in. When you open your mouth to moan out the letters he starts vigorously yanking your body back onto his dick, meeting his already jarring thrusts. Ever the musician, he times each shove of his hips with the ticking metronome. 

His hard cock knocks the air out of you as you moan every letter, sounding fucked out and desperate by the time you spell ‘ROCK’ fully. 

Once you know you’ve done your part, you wail out in pleasure, “Oh god!”

Slapping your ass particularly hard, he urges you to cum, “Cum for me, baby. Lemme feel that fucking pussy choke my cock, give it to me, honey.”

The slap sent you over the edge and his words had you floating among the stars. You’re crying out in pleasure, absolutely beside yourself. Barely aware of the loss of rhythm, he shutters and jerks, drawing your attention with an urgent, “Where do you want me, baby?”

Feeling full and needy, you whine, “Inside! Please, Eddie, gimme your cum–I wan’ it so fuckin’ bad!” 

He stutters out a string of curses, pumping rope after rope of warm cum into your greedy cunt. Slowing to a stop, he hunches over you. You can feel his hot breath against your shoulder blades, the softs wisps of his hair tickling your back. 

Resting your chest on the stool, you let your mind come back down to earth. He moves to pull out but you reach behind to grab his hips, holding him to you. 

“Hold on–jus’…wanna feel you still.” You’re exhausted, voice sounding utterly spent. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out in disbelief, thanking whatever is out there that he got to experience what he’s dreamed about for so long. Not to mention, the way you don’t want his cock to leave your pulsing pussy. He shudders as your walls twitch with aftershocks. 

Eventually, he has to pull out, his soft cock no longer able to stay in. His heart rams against his ribcage at the soft whine you let out as he pulls out, he’d keep you stuffed forever if he could. 

You don’t move, even though you’re free to. Staying bent over the stool, your pussy still captivating him as he looks down to see his load slowly inching out of your hole. Admiring the way the cum moves like molasses in the hot summer, he thinks about how many songs he could write just about the view of your gaping hole—still spread open from his girthy cock.

Since you don’t seem to be moving anytime soon—just resting on the stool, relishing his attention—he kneels down, spreading your ass cheeks. Leaning in to lick up the cum dribbling out of your hole, he makes sure to thrust his languid tongue in, scooping out the delicious, tangy combination of juices. A loud moan escapes your scratchy throat, not expecting such raunchy affection after everything that just transpired. 

Once he gathers the juices, letting them pool on his tongue, he stands up. Reaching around your neck to pull you up, your back to his front, feeling his now half-hard cock against your ass, he spreads his hand on your jaw, effectively pushing your head to the side. He wraps his free hand around your pelvis as he thrusts his tongues into your open, panting mouth. You moan at the feeling of him swapping spit and the mix of cum into your waiting mouth. Messily kissing you, his tongue dominates your mouth, not letting your head go as he grinds against your ass. 

When he pulls away leaving you breathless, you eagerly lick your lips, swallowing all the swapped spit and cum, humming at the taste. He lets you turn around in his hold—facing him, moving both hands to rest on your cheeks, leaning in for another firm kiss. Your eyes are lust blown, he’s panting, bobbing his head closer for another kiss. The kiss you’re wanting doesn’t come, though. Instead, he plants a sweet, chaste, smooch to the corner of your mouth. 

“Will you go on a date with me?” 

You huff out a laugh, eyes squinting with giddy humor at the backwards order of events. “Yeah.”

He grins at your hazy eyes, kissing you again. 

Pulling away, your eyebrows knit with concern, “I think we just accidentally made an audio sex tape.”

“A sex mixtape,” he quips, unworried. 

“Poor Jared, he’s gonna have to isolate my vocals over all the ass clapping,” you giggle. 

“Eh, that perv will love it.” 

A/N: Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed it! Especially comments because they let me know I’m doing things right!!! Because right now I’m going a little coocoo crazy, judging my writing probably too harshly. Idk, y’all tell me what you think

hopeless romantic! jason todd who thinks cheesy pick up lines are stupid, and that surely, the shakespearian shit is gonna work on hinge

hopeless romantic! jason todd who doesn't get why everyone he tries to match with doesnt fw his poetic bars (hes TRYING)

hopeless romantic! jason todd who finally, FINALLY gets a match. he has to put his phone down for a million years just to process everything and then glances back down at his screen to make sure it's still there.

how is someone is genuinely that stunning?

hopeless romantic! jason todd who feels like he's fumbling every time his messages you. if he had less pride, he'd probably ask dick for advice, but no, fuck that, he can do things on his own. it'd be humiliating to beg for romantic advice from him.

at least you seem amused by jason's antics. even if he does seem mildly inept with flirting. dork.

hopeless romantic! jason todd who makes sure to ask about your favourite flowers to get you a bouquet of them for your first date and meet up

hopeless romantic! jason todd who drops said flowers when he finally sees you in person and loses all his words and cognitive function for a moment when you say hi and greet him with a friendly hug. yeah he's not surviving the date.

completely and utterly hopeless! jason todd when the date goes incredible. he walks you home because... obviously? it's gotham and it's dark.

you leave him with a kiss on his cheek and the promise of seeing him sometime again, and he just knows he's a goner.

for @pinkumiilku, hope you enjoy!

kawaii sanji pixels

requests are open!

please keep in mind I have never watched one piece, so sorry if this is inaccurate!

This is so stupid

High school au where the batboys are teenagers of age 15-18. Damian being 15, Tim being 16, Jason being 17, and dick being 18. You, the reader are their childhood friend. You are aren’t popular like the boys who are the rich boys of the Gotham academy. You are just a simple student who’s not known, so you don’t hang out with the boys at school much. You are almost 16, being in the middle of the age of Damian and Tim. You are closest to the two youngest of the brothers, dick and Jason are not close with you, but they think they are.

Dick is the type of guy who always waved at you despite being surrounded by his peers which make them stare at you intensely.

Jason is the type of guy to ask you if you need to ride even though he rejects people that ask to ride his motorcycle.

Tim is the type of guy who ask if you understand the work or need help. Always suggesting a tutoring session together at the manor. When really he sees it as a study date.

Damian who always give you small gifts, he knows you hate attention just like him. So he gives you small meaningful gifts just so you can still tell he cares for you.

Even if you don’t want their attention at the school, it’s bad enough that these batboys can’t help but love their childhood best friend.

I HIGHLY recommend this series, granted that it’s not finished yet. But it is seriously good so far, and I can’t wait to finish it.

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; I

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: your family moves to your mother's hometown of santa carla, california after her divorce is finalized. you are less than enthused to be there, but you try to keep your complaints to a minimum for the sake of your mother. on your first night, you run into a strange group of punks.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, mentions of homelessness, mentions of poverty, stuck-up?reader (she's rather prissy at times),

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: here it is—the first chapter of the new and improved version of cry little sister. i initially wrote this fic back in the beginning of 2021 and you can still find the original, orphaned version on AO3. I hope you enjoy! Note - I used the term 'multi-murderer' at one point because 'serial killer' was still a relatively new phrase in the 80s. fun fact - the orignial chapter one was 2661 words; this one is 4434 words.

… [2] [3] … [8] [9]

" —You, too, can make a difference with a one-time donation of nine-ninety-nine— "

"Keep going."

Snow emanates from the car's speakers as Mom fiddles with the dial.

" —degrees today, a record high for our slice of sunny California. We'll see temperatures drop into the low seventies this evening —"

"Keep going, Mom," says Sam.

Snippets of songs, commercials, and talk show host voices overlap as she flips through the radio stations, again, to appease her youngest. Finally, a semi-clear melody plays as she settles on a new one. However, Sam shakes his head. His sandy blond curls bob with him in disapproval.

"Keep it goin'."

"Hey!" Mom cries, "I like that song!"

But Sam makes a face. "Keep going."

You're tempted to kick his seat.  If he says keep going one more friggin time...

Huffing, Mom complies, choosing peace over violence. The next station is, somehow, even worse.  Country.

"Ooo, what about this?" She giggles, shooting you a look in the mirror. You cover your grin with your hand.

"Keep going, mom," says Michael.

"Oh, alright."

More static until the middle part of an old sixties tune began to play. Immediately, your brothers groan.

"No, no, no—wait!" Mom perks up, "This one's from my era." She bops her head from side to side, drumming her fingers on the sweat-slick steering wheel. " Groovin' on a Sunday afternoon! "

Michael and Sam exchange glances and chorus, "Keep going!"

You gap, bracing your hand on the armrest, "Wha—no.  I  like this song."

"Keep going," they echo. Much to your chagrin, Mom joins them, albeit mockingly.

"I got it, I got it. My music isn't hip enough for you."

You sneer at Michael. "Who died and made you king of the radio?"

"The same person who crawled up your ass before he kicked it, four-eyes."

Michael moves to flick your forehead, but you smack his hand away before he makes contact.  That little shit!  Michael swats you back in an equally childish move, chuckling.

"Hey, guys," Mom cranes her neck to look at you through the rear-view mirror. "No fighting, please? Here, I'm changing it."

She turned the dial and stumbled onto a popular rock station. The boys relaxed into their seats, finally listening to good music. You roll your eyes and settle back in your seat, arms crossed.

Triumphantly, Michael wiggles his eyebrows. You flip him off.

"Oh, now this," Sam comments, "This really jams."

It did not, in fact, jam, but you let sleeping dogs lie.

Not literally, though. Nanook was wide awake, sandwiched between you and the window with his shaggy head out the window. He might have been the only passenger in this car having the time of his life.

You can't wait to get out of the car. You've been on the road for nearly thirteen hours now, stopping only to refuel or if one of you really had to pee. You were dying to get out and stretch your legs, which had become a near-permanent bed for Nanook to rest his head. Sure, you liked the dog, but sometimes he got on your last nerve. Especially right now.

You're tempted to pull the classic 'are we there yet,' but fate is on your side.

"Hey, we're almost there," Mom cheers.

She gestures out the window to a corny billboard. A cartoon beach with brilliant blue skies and cresting waves greets you. Yellow-and-orange letters stretch across the sign, reading WELCOME TO SANTA CARLA.

Sam wrinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

Mom takes a deep breath and sighs, "That's the ocean air, baby."

"Smells like someone  died ."

"Aw …. Honey." Mom merges into a new lane. The general distaste for the place was not lost on her. She glanced back at you and Michael and rubbed Sam's arm. "Look, guys, I know the last year hasn't been easy, but I think you're really gonna like living in Santa Carla."

Her tone is so optimistic it hurts. You cover a wince by re-adjusting your glasses. It's like if she says it with enough conviction, it'll come true. You hope she doesn't notice how you shrink away.

Outside your window is a kaleidoscope of weirdness. Immediately you're hit with crowds of people walking or leaning out their windows as they drive, whooping and hollering. It's a free for all. A high-intensity beach town if you'd ever seen one.

Sunburned skin and skimpy clothes are a staple here. On the sidewalk, you spot a woman wearing rollerblades and a bikini weaving through the crowd like a ballerina. Ice cream cones leave a trail of sticky puddles on the street, serving as a catch-all for cigarette butts and loose bandaids. It's a mess. And yet, an intriguing one. Nothing at all like Phoenix.

Michael nudges you. "Did you see that?"

"Hm?"

"The sign."

"What about it?"

Whatever he's about to say is drowned out by Mom. "We're going to gas up really quick, okay?"

You quirk an eyebrow, elbowing Michael to continue.

"Uh. Nevermind, okay?"

"Sure..."

Mom flicks on the blinker and turns into a rinky-dink station off the main road. A crowd disperses, allowing the vehicle to pull in but not without complaint. Some smack the hood, others shout an oh-so-witty  Watch It!

You sink lower in the seat, cheeks burning with secondhand embarrassment. A group of vicious-looking punks passes by—the kind that has huge mohawks and neck tattoos. You can't help but gawk.

Hello, Santa Carla.

As soon as the car stops, you're careening out of the vehicle. Your knees pop as you stand as if crying out  for freedom, at last!  Mom and Michael stand near the attendant while Sam takes Nanook for a bathroom break. You stay on the opposite side of the car, casually stretching your arms and back as you bask in the breeze.

For the thick of summer, Santa Carla is mild. It must have something to do with being on the coast. The breeze from the water would keep it relatively cool, but the humidity was a bitch. After spending less than a minute in the elements, you can feel your hair frizzing up.

You shield your eyes, squinting over to the beginning of the sandy beach. It's packed.  Damn , you wish you'd bought a pair of sunglasses, but constantly changing them out with your prescription ones would've been a hassle. Squinting like an idiot would suffice.

A couple minutes later, Sam comes running back. Nanook jogs beside him, panting happily.

"Mom!" he calls.

Mom glances briefly over her shoulder and says, "Yeah?" before returning her attention to the attendant.

"Mom, there's an amusement park right on the beach."

Your eyes follow where he points. There is an amusement park a little ways away. You make out the shape of a rollercoaster and cartoonish kitchen shops, which spill onto the sand from the boardwalk. Mom is unphased and instead moves her flighty attention in the opposite direction of the coastal wonderland.

She passes him a few dollars and says, "Sammy, go tell those kids to get something to eat, yeah?"

Across the way, a couple of teens are dumpster diving, picking up half-eaten sandwiches and moldy Chinese takeout containers, giving them a sniff before discarding them into the dumpster once more. You lean further against the car and cross your arms as if they'll shield you from the uncomfortable reality you're faced with. They're runaways. This place is crawling with them. It's like a  Where's Waldo  - once you find one, you suddenly see a dozen more, blending into the background.

Reluctantly, Sam accepted the cash and did as Mom said. You choose not to add your two cents, knowing it would only crush her. Your family needed the money just as they do. You're poor. Barely scraping by over the past couple of months as you prepped for the move, and now you're almost positive that's the last bit of money Mom had on her. But when Sam gestures toward Mom after giving it to the runaways, you watch your Mom's face light up, and you know you are better off keeping quiet. The runaways show their appreciation with a wave and yellow-toothed smiles.

Sammy jogs to the car, jutting his chin at the boardwalk. "Can we go now?"

"Maybe later. Grandpa's expecting us, soon."

Your little brother whines.

A pair of surfers pass the car, raking their Ray-Ban-covered eyes across your body. Their skin is red and peeling from hours in the sun.

One of them whistles at you. "How you doin', baby girl?"

Nose scrunched in disgust, you deign not to respond. Instead, you open the back door and slide inside, taking shelter in the humid cabin; so much for stretching your legs.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long before Mom, Sam, and Nanook re-enter the sedan. Michael, who had unhitched his bike from the trailer, follows behind your car for the rest of the way to Grandpa.

You can't say you remember the old man all that well. It's been years since you saw him. Probably since Sammy was born. Grandpa didn't like to leave Santa Carla, and he and Mom's relationship had been strained until recently. (No thanks to your father, you're sure.) You can only recall his face from pictures in a photo album, back when he still had color in his hair. You're not sure what to expect.

The lively scenery fizzles out, turning into dirt roads, bleached from the sun and overcrowded with scraggly flora. Large wooden poles lay discarded on the law, a fencing project long since abandoned. Although they don't look out of place, the yard is littered with strange knickknacks and ornaments, making the space seem more like a junkyard than the house of a man pushing eighty-five.

When the car stops, you tentatively pop open your door.

The house is … not what you expected. And that's being mild.

Michael hops off his bike, walking ahead of you, but stops short. You follow his gaze and see a pair of legs sprawled out. The rest of the body is hidden by debris.

The four of you approach with caution. The legs don't move.

You share a look with Michael. Unfortunately, this could be only one person, which doesn't bode well.

"Is he dead?" you ask.

Michael affirms, "He looks dead."

Mom waves you off and climbs the porch. "He's just a deep sleeper." She shakes his arm, "Dad? Dad, wake up."

Michael inches closer. Not getting too close to the Maybe-Corpse, but close enough to have a good look. "He's not breathing, Mom."

Sam pops his head in between you two, Nanook trotting up the steps to get a sniff. "If he's dead, can we move back to Phoenix?"

You wack him on the back of the head. "Dude."

"What?"

You make a face as if to say  Have some fucking tact, dipwad!  But Sammy merely rubs the back of his head with a pout.

"What?"

Suddenly, the Maybe-Corpse sits up, one eye open. "Playin' dead … and from what I heard, doin' a damn good job at it."

"Oh, Dad!"

Mom embraces her father, laughing at his incorrigible attitude. You exchange a look with your brothers. What a weird old man.

Unpacking the car was the easy part.

The issues arose when it came to deciding where to put it.

And, hey, it's not like you came here packed to the gills with miscellaneous belongings. Quite the opposite. The four of you had paired down exponentially before the move, donating and selling your items left and right. Sending them to church yard sales, the Salvation Army, or your next-door neighbor's sister-in-law.

No, it wasn't your fault. Grandpa's house was, to put it delicately, a fucking mess. A hodgepodge taxidermy nightmare with tribal art, kitschy figurines, and petrified wood art cluttering every little nook and cranny.

Grandpa filled you in on the house's layout as he supervised. There were two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, and four bedrooms. One, which was obviously occupied by Grandpa (though from the sound of it, he didn't sleep there), only stored more of his disturbing taxidermy.

Mom would have her own room, which left two others.

Michael attempted to pull rank, claiming that he should get his own room as the oldest. But you refused to go down without a fight. It was quite easy, in the end. All you had to do was pull your Woman Card—citing exactly why neither wanted to room with you.

So, Michael would room with Sammy, and you got a bedroom all to yourself.

You carry your books in by the armful, neatly balancing more atop your head. (A cool party trick but not useful in many scenarios—present one excluded.)

It's sad to think this was a mere fraction of your collection. When the divorce was final, you had pawned off most of your books for extra cash to help Mom out. She didn't ask you to do this, but you wanted to. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Abruptly, Sammy and Michael tear past you. Sammy clips your shoulder, sending the stack of books on your head, crashing to the ground. You stagger, dropping the box in your hands to the ground unceremoniously.

"Watch it, dweebs!"

"Mom! Help me, help! He's gonna kill me! "

Mom sidesteps, narrowly avoiding a similar fate. "Hey, no running in the house, guys!"

In a daring attempt at an escape, Sam threw a set of double doors open. It led into a once-spacious room filled with dead animal heads, disturbing tools, and … fresh animal carcasses.

"Talk about the Texas Chainsaw Massacre," Michael mutters.

"Rules!" The three of you whirl around, coming face-to-face with Grandpa's stink-eye. "Got some rules around here."

With a flick of his wrist, Grandpa motions for the three of you to follow as he trudges into the kitchen. He wrenches the fridge door and points to a cardboard piece that reads OLD FART, covering the middle shelf.

"Second shelf is mine." He flips it open, showcasing the goods that lay inside. "I keep my root beers and double-thick Oreo cookies in here. Nobody touches the second shelf."

Another pointed stink eye at the three of you.

He takes his leave from the kitchen, an unspoken command to follow him. Leading you into the living room, Grandpa says something about how he prefers his couch to be when Michael interjects.

"Hey Grandpa—is it true that Santa Carla is the murder capital of the world?"

"Where did you learn that?" you ask, startled.

"'S on the sign."

Grandpa presses his fleshy lips into a thin line. "Ehhh … There's some bad elements around here…."

Sam blinks. "Wait a second, lemme get this straight. Are you telling me that we moved to the murder capitol of the world? Are you serious, Grandpa?"

He shuffles, choosing his next words carefully. "Now let me put it this way; if all the corpses buried around here were to stand up all at once, we'd have one helluva population problem."

With two hats stacked on top of her head, Mom stopped long enough to hear the tail end of the conversation. She rolled her eyes and said, "Great,  Dad. Now you're going to give them nightmares."

Grandpa waved his hand at her, muttering something under his breath about how kids this age are surprisingly well-adjusted. Your stomach twists at the mere thought of what you just learned. But, apparently, living in the Murder Capital of the World doesn't phase an old codger like your Grandpa because he's on another one of his tangents before long.

"Now, when the mailman brings the TV Guide on Wednesdays, sometimes the corner of the address label will curl up … You'll be tempted to peel it off. Don't. You'll end up rippin' the cover and I don't like that." He turned into the taxidermy room and, with a stern glare, began to shut the doors. "And stay outta here!"

Sammy jogs after him—the horror of his new living arrangements suddenly forgotten—eyes bright. "There's a TV?"

"No. I just like to read the TV Guide. Read the TV Guide, you don't need a TV."

Grandpa slams the double doors shut with a definitive thud. Sam flinches, his expression falling flat. Apparently, the imminent threat of murder is nothing compared to being without MTV.

Together, you walk hand-in-hand with Mom along the Boardwalk. Night has fallen, and yet Santa Carla doesn't know darkness. Neon signs and blinking lights glistening from amusement park rides chase away the blackness. It's an artificial Arcadia. The smell of corn dogs mingles with the salty ocean spray and BO.

"Isn't this place fun?" Mom cheers.

To say that Santa Carla was better at night would be a lie. It's just as sweaty and packed as before, but now there are more miscreants. People up to no good, drawn to the dark, have come crawling out of the woodwork and currently infest the Boardwalk like maggots on a carcass.

You would rather be at home reading, but you endure the torture for Mom.

"It's … something."

You won't deny that it's exciting, but it's not your cup of tea. Everything is a little too much, a little too loud, a little too bright. A group of surfers pass you by, brushing against you. You shy away, gripping her hand tighter.

Mom giggles to herself, pointing vaguely. "I think I dated that guy."

Instead of following her finger, you stare at a four-sided bulletin board. Flyers stacked upon flyers create an inch-thick layer over the cork. Some advertise band performances. Others, the grisly black and white photos of the MISSING. A woman in her late sixties tapes a new one atop another. You'll avert your eyes.

"Horrible," you mutter.

Mom notices, her happy mood dampening. "That's the kind of thing that makes you sad with the world."

"More like  depressed ."

"You've just gotta hope they're somewhere good. Somewhere better. Like me," she motions to herself. "A little running away never hurt anybody. It's all about improving your situation. That's all."

Her admission makes your heart feel heavy. It's no secret that Mom was a bit of a rebel back in her day. She's been open about her time on the street, how it made her more appreciative of the little things, but still ...

You get a good look at her and try to peel back the layers of makeup and age, imagining her as a naive sixteen-year-old. Did she have a missing flyer? Would Grandpa have made one? Did anyone who saw it care, or did they walk away blissfully ignorant.

Michael's words flash across your mind. MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD. What an ugly thing to know? How lucky were you, knowing that Mom was one of the lucky ones when she could have been some multi-murderer's nameless victim.

Tightening your grip on her hand, you rest your head on her shoulder. "You don't have to worry about me running away."

Mom sighs—it almost sounds relieved. She lays her hand on my cheek, smoothing it over my hair.

"Thank you—I hope I never do. But if you want to, you know, just tell me."

"I think that defeats the purpose."

That earns a giggle from her. You laugh. It's nice to see her laugh again. She's been depressed even before the divorce was final. The sudden upheaval of her life, losing her job, and moving to a new state with three children ... It's a lot. You try to remind yourself that she's only human. Flawed and scared, just like you.

A sun-bleached HELP WANTED sign sits in the restaurant window; however, something else steals Mom's attention before you can point it out.

A small child. Maybe seven or eight—you've never been good at guessing children's ages—stands in the middle of the crowd, sobbing. No one else has noticed him, save for the two of you. You think you can hear him crying for his Mom, but it's drowned out by the general raucous of the Boardwalk.

Mom makes a B-line for the little boy, leaping into action before you realize she's gone. She kneels to his side and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. They exchange a few soft-spoken words. The boy doesn't quit crying; he seems marginally calmer now that an adult has stepped onto the scene.

She calls out to you. "I'm going to go in here, okay? I'll see if I can find his Mom. Just stay put for me."

"Yeah. Of course."

She smiles, close-lipped yet appreciative. Mom leads him into the video store with one hand on the young boy's back.

You watch her go, suddenly feeling out of place on the Boardwalk. Too exposed, too vulnerable. All around you are swarms of people, cackling, smoking, and stealing. Everything is so new and unknown that it makes you tense. Even though you're old enough to stand on your own—a full-fledged adult, if you want to get technical—you can't help but miss the safety that your Mom provided just by being beside you.

" ... Murder capital of the world ...? " You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. "That's just ... peachy."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a used bookstore, some of their wears outside on a cart.  Hm. A Perfect distraction . You wander over and pursue the cracked spines. Some of them are so worn that you can hardly read the title.

Dragging your fingers along the battered books, you randomly pluck one from the cart, which appears to be a serial gothic horror, and flip it over. The synopsis is mildly interesting, similar to dozens you've read before, so you can easily guess where the plot will go.

Glancing toward the video store, you see the little boy being led away by who you presume to be his mother. He's sobbing harder, but it's out of relief. The mother scoops him up. The boy is much too big to be coddled that way, but it pulls a small smile out of you. But, now ...

"... Where's my mom?" you ask, the air under your breath.

Instead of getting an answer, another group exits the video store. A group of punks around your age draped in black leather and bad attitude. One of them catches you staring. Quickly, you avert your eyes, returning to the book.

Brows furrowed, you grab another book, but you're too distracted by your own thoughts to read anything. What's keeping her?

You gnaw on your lip. Then, just as you decide to look for her, a figure blocks your light.

Prepared to rip someone a new one about personal space, you look up, coming face-to-chest with one of the aforementioned punks. He leers at you with gorgeous baby-blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile. Long blond hair cascades down his shoulders in a well-styled wave. Your insult dies before it's born, lips parting in shock.

Blondie's smile broadens. "Hello, hello, hello." He rests his arm on the wall beside you, casually leaning closer. "How are you doing on this fine evening?"

He speaks with the quintessential west-coast accent, and it suits him. He's summer personified, and perhaps in another scenario, you would have reciprocated his energy, but you're starting to feel claustrophobic.

"I'm fine." You blindly put the book back and duck under his arm, "If you'll just excuse me—"

A second punk blocks your way. He's shorter than the other, cherubic face and curly blond hair forming a halo around his head. His smile is less than angelic.

"Isn't that the darnedest thing?" He doesn't touch you, but his hand hovers inches from your skin. "We're going that way, too."

You turn away, but the first blond is waiting for you. "Yeah," drawls the first. "We can be your armed escorts for the evening. Don't want a babe like you getting lost."

"That's very generous of you, but I'm fine. I've gotta go, I'm meeting someone."

This earns a chuckle out of them. It echoes around you, and with a quick sweep of your eyes, you also realize the other two punks are there. They stay a few steps back, allowing their buddies all the space they need while they lean against their motorbikes.

Heart pounding, your throat constricting as if an invisible hand had reached out to choke you. You stagger back and bump into the railing.

The bleached blond pushes off his bike, readjusting his leather gloves. "Aren't you meeting someone right now?"

You avert your gaze from his, only to lock eyes with the fourth and most silent punk. His irises are like sloes, blackened pits of amusement. You would find no help in that man; he liked taunting you just as much as his companions.

Californian Blondie leans in close, toying with a strand of your hair. "What's your name, baby?"

He draws out the word—bay-bee—lazily. It sounds eerily similar to Jon Travolta's character from  Grease ; he nailed the greaser accent. It sounds like he's used it on hundreds of chicks, and it's worked every time. Unfortunately, you are no different. It brings a rush of heat to your face, and you try to hide it behind your hand.

You tell them, if only to shut them up. "Really, I need to go—"

"So soon?" The shorter, curly-haired blond pipes up.

Another bought of laughter ripples through the four of them. You want to die. Shrinking against the railing, you can't help but wish that Michael was around. He may be a meathead, but he was bigger than them. The threat of a punch might make them stand down.

"Don't you wanna get to know us?" jeers Curly.

"Not particularly."

"Ack—" He grabs his chest, feigning injury. "—you wound me! Be careful, boys, the lady's words are sharp!"

He stumbles back, colliding with the tall, dark, and brooding punk before dramatically collapsing. Apparently, his act is worthy of Shakespeare because the bleached blond is clapping. Yet, all the while, his piercing cyan gaze never leaves yours.

"Marko!" California Blondie cries, abandoning his position beside you to come to his friend's aid. "Hang on a little longer, buddy. There's still a chance!"

You catch a glimpse of Mom exiting the video store. Seizing your chance, you push through the boys and join her.

Mom takes one look at your face, and her smile falls. "Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." You link your arm to her and pull her in the opposite direction of those punks. "Let's just go, okay?"

The punks erupt into another fit of laughter, and you flinch.

Omgg you write based on ur fic right? If so could u do the club boys x a reader in their club that does school cheer and allstar? Like going to her comps or games, seeing her uniform, and watching her become like a totally different person from her normally shy self?😭 I think it would be cute!! Love love loveee ur fic keep up the good work😽

THIS IS SO FIRE🔥🔥🔥🔥 YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE GENIUS FOR THIS REQUEST!!!!

OH. MY. GOD????

Okay, you CANNOT be the same girl who joined their club cause what???

Now, they were wondering why you haven’t been coming to the club meets on Fridays hardly and on this particular day, they were gonna give you some shit for it. Bill specifically because he’s the “leader” so of course he’s gonna ask why you haven’t been showing up.

So, the four of them waited on your front porch for a good hour…they were VERY impatient but they wanted to catch you at the right moment to pester you about where you have been going, completely unaware that nearly every Friday their school had a football, basketball, or even a soccer game to host. This is what they get for not sticking around and not caring about what events are happening but it still doesn’t excuse you being missing!

After an hour of them sitting there on your porch, they saw car lights pulling up in your driveway and they perked up. They were going to confront you ONCE and for ALL—let’s hope you don’t possibly be kicked from the club due to your shutout attendance.

… “WHAT THE FUCK?” -Bill, who’s standing there with his mouth agape as he stared at you. The other three had the exact same expression as they watched you—who was also looking like a deer in headlights as you held your cheer bag tightly.

It was just some silent staring that the five of you were doing until your mom broke it with asking you if you told the boys that you got into Cheerleading now. You hadn’t told them.

Were they mad? Nah. Were they still upset about you not telling them? Yes. But did you look hot in that cheer uniform? Hell yeah. Sooooo what could they say?

They were confused. They didn’t understand why or how you found yourself involving in such a competitive and social sport like Cheerleading. It went out of your character gradually so it was a surprise for them.

They were cool with it—cause I mean you’re still their crush- I mean friend, right? The only thing that’s an issue is how are you supposed to tend club meetings now? Even worse, will you be able to hang out with them as much as you did before getting into Cheerleading? It was a wreck because they NEEDED to see you. They HAD to see you. It was like a drug for them that they never did wish to have a hangover from. Crazy comparison, but it’s the genuine truth, the whole truth!

“Why not just go see her games or competitions?” -Jerry.

Oh. Oh Jerry. You dumb FUCK. Why would they drop everything to go see the girl of their dreams, do some backflips and cartwheels alongside her clown ass teammates, look at sweaty jocks, and their school lose this seasons game? Are we deadass?

Yes. Yes we are deadass. Cause guess what? The next game, they sat on those bleachers and cheered you on like no other. Even if y’all’s school did lose, they cheered like batshit crazy. They received so many weird ass stares from people beside them while they stuffed theirselves full with snacks from the concessions. It was a whole THING with them.

Would yall believe me if I told you Jerry let out the girliest scream when he saw you do a backflip while one of your cheer buddies were holding you up. Luckily, you landed on the other girl’s hand, ultimately ending up okay in the end but that was scary!

Don’t invite them to your cheer comps. Dont do it.

Cause one time, your team didn’t win the competition—it was the hardest one yet and you all worked very hard on it. The judges were pretty biased and what not—it was very obvious that they were and it got under your skin. So that sensitivity inside of you boiled over as you cried because that’s so frustrating. Your teammates were trying to comfort you and all of this other stuff but it will NEVER beat how bad the boys acted.

They cussed the judges out and everything cause are we FOR REAL? How did you not AT LEAST get third place? The shit is rigged! It ended up in them getting escorted out while you followed after them. Did they get the spot you deserved? No. But was it sweetly chaotic about what they did? Yes.

They saw that you have came out of your bubble SO MUCH and it genuinely makes them proud because they never saw that side of you. It really showed that you changed—and not in a bad way either. The five of you still hang out a lot, they see you every Friday for games, they cheer you on. The list grows!

It makes them even more happy when you tell them that they were one of the main reasons why you started to open up.

They love you so fucking much, girl💔💔💔