ALI MUNSON ~ Fangirl & Writer {20+} She/Her

You couldn't shake how much shame buried itself in your stomach or how many times you had to choke back a sob to stop it from alerting elderly couples enjoying their night under yellow porch lights. A couple of tears would escape the corners of your eyes, and like clockwork, you'd wipe your cheeks with damp sweater sleeves, cursing for letting yourself get so worked up over something that, from the outside, would seem incredibly insignificant. How pathetic were you—tip-toeing in close to pure darkness to your parents house after running away from the only real home you'd had.

Home is what you called it as you repeated the words over and over in your head, at least. It's what felt the most fitting. You ran away from home, from Eddie, and instead of the relief that you desperately grasped at in the first place, something worse shoved it's way past and refused to leave—a feeling that felt all too familiar now, but you wouldn't have been able to place a couple of weeks prior. Nausea swirled in your stomach, attacking every time another sensitive thought would make it's way into your brain. You felt as though you could throw up at any moment, but truthfully, you didn't have enough emotional capacity to prepare for it—throwing up all over the sidewalk felt like the least of your worries.

A step in the pavement caused you to lose your footing and you tripped, a rough yelp escaping your throat as you threw yourself out of your spiral for a moment; you caught yourself before you could face plant into the concrete.

It felt as if every single thing that happened to you that day was the universe out to get you—spiteful and determined to kill you before the week ended—or, maybe, everything was simply soaked in Eddie, the thought of him laughing at your clumsy mistake flashing into your brain before you could anticipate your next thought. He'd think it was hilarious, busting into deep laughter. He'd probably call you a million mean names and tease you about your carelessness—but Eddie wasn't there.

Telling him the truth could be the answer to fixing whatever funk you'd been thrown into, logically. Holding something in—something that had consumed every part of your being, paralyzing you with the fear that your entire life could flip in an instant—it wasn't sustainable; not for a long period of time, or anywhere close to the amount of time you felt you needed. Something deep down whispered that telling him would inevitably be the only option, your body attempting to convince you that the only way to feel normal again would mean Eddie never looking at you the same, but it didn't reach the surface enough to be a valid argument. You'd rather kill yourself than have to face him after a conversation like that.

A small exhale of relief left your nostrils as the front door came into view, and you practically tripped over the curb in a rush to get out of the open, sickening outdoor air.

With careful steps, you shuffled down the driveway and up the solid brick stairs, wood planks creaking beneath you before you could make your way inside. Based on the light illuminating from above you, you knew your mom hadn't finished closing up the kitchen for the night.

Mom stood by the stove, movements coming to a halt as she noticed the door opening. Without turning around, she planted her feet, continuing to wipe the granite counters, voice coming out soft and careful, "Where were you?"

"Eddie's." You replied dryly, eyes not meeting hers as you clicked the lock behind you, pulling your sweater over your head and tossing it onto the floor.

"We've been over this so many times. I don't mind you going over there, but I'd like for you to be out of that trailer park when the street lights come on." Mom stated, slight annoyance in her tone, her voice dipping low in obvious disappointment as you stepped closer to the kitchen island.

Mom brought the subject up almost every week, rambling on and on about how a girl your age shouldn't be out after dark and bad intentions, but she never enforced anything. You'd come up with a theory a year ago that she didn't really see a problem with it—Mom only filled an obligation that mothers were supposed to fill. Truthfully, she liked Eddie, even though she didn't see him often. She worked forty-seven hours a week, and Eddies place, over the years, became the obligatory place to go when the two of you hung out—Uncle Wayne didn't mind when you'd hotbox Eddies room, whereas your mom forced you to keep the door open with him over.

Part of you felt bad for not really responding, but exhaustion fell stronger as you hummed and made your way through the kitchen and hallway. The only thing calling your name, now, was your bed and the sweet, sweet release of sleep.

⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔

Eddie didn't call you once he realized you were gone, and you didn't know whether it was better or worse that way, even though you did find yourself staring at the phone until late hours.

Once Saturday finally rolled around, you decided that he'd forgotten about you. During the two days that you didn't speak to him, you'd almost called fourteen times, picking up the reciever and dialing every digit except for one before you slammed it down and screamed into your pillow.

Spring Break wasn't supposed to look like this. You and Eddie spent weeks making an entire bucket list leading up to it, planning meticulously so that you'd have enough time to check off all seventy-seven items. Nothing could have prepared you for the spiraling until four AM, staring into the ceiling and wondering if one stupid realization would cost your entire life, or the fact that you'd waste an entire two days not even saying a word to him.

Oh, how glad you were that you didn't have to face him at school—at least, not for the next four days. You didn't know what your game plan was for Thursday, when you'd have to resume classes and pretend you still stood on solid ground. But that was future you's problem. For now, you could think of all of the ways that everything could go wrong and not have to answer to a single soul.

Bon Jovi played lowly from the corner of your room, blocking out some of the worse thoughts that found it's way through the lighter ones. It felt almost sickening to think about how much time you'd spent rotting behind the same four walls. It wasn't like you. You rarely spent any time in your room on a normal day.

Your gaze drifted towards the bright red numbers displayed on your night stand. 11:07, which meant it had been three minutes since the last time you'd checked. It almost felt as though you were waiting for something, checking the countdown before something disastrous detonated. You'd felt it all day—the worsening feeling of impending doom—and it twisted in your stomach since the moment you opened your eyes. Stupidly, you just then realized why: Eddie would either call you to tell you how his date went, or he wouldn't. Both possibilities made you want to pull the phone out of the wall.

Your decision didn't take long—but as your fingertips brushed the white cord, ribcage stretched and folded over the bed, the handset erupted in a loud ring. You jumped, a wince escaping your lips as you hit your head on the underside of the table—but physical pain was the least of your worries. You knew exactly who it was, and before you could think about it too hard, the reciever pressed cold against your ear and rustling sounded from the other end.

"Hello?" Your voice betrayed you as you spoke, breaking whilst an overwhelming wave of sickness washed over your body.

"Oh my God, she lives!" Eddie slurred, and more rustling sounded from the other end. "I have had the greatest night… I'm calling you from a payphone, ow— stop."

Nothing could capture the absolute heartbreaking and nauseating rush that flooded every corner of your body as he laughed. You didn't speak—you couldn't trust that you wouldn't break down the moment you spoke again. No part of you could've ever guessed that one of the worst emotions you'd ever experienced would be caused by the happiest you'd ever heard Eddie be.

"Sorry." A deep chuckle erupted from his throat, "I haven't heard from you in a couple of days! I was gonna call you when I got home, but I think… It's late, already, and I don't think I'll be home anytime soon—"

The abrupt ring of the phone startled you as you slammed it back down, a choked back sob escaping before you were able stop it. Immediate hot tears began to stream down your cheeks and you immediately reached for your pillow, stuffing it against your face to hopefully muffle the rough sounds escaping your already dry throat.

It felt undeniable now—it would forever feel this way. You would never be able to look at Eddie the way you did as that shy kid in the woods did again. Not now. His smile—his laugh—would forever be tainted with this feeling—with this memory. Would you ever be able to face him again? Would you have to hold in these same thoughts that have nearly paralyzed you for the rest of your life? If they could end so abruptly, did all of the years you'd centered around Eddie even happen? Would he fight to keep you in his life if you could stop yourself from calling? Would it be easier if he didn't?

Will you wear these scars for life?

⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔

Moms voice, yelling your name across the quiet home, caused you to jerk awake and slip back into consciousness. Disoriented, you coughed to get rid of the overwhelming dryness in your throat. You didn't even remember falling asleep—one moment you weren't, and the next your eyes burned as you forced them open.

The sound of heavy footsteps—too heavy to be Moms—carried down the hallway and stopped in front of your door, two agonizingly slow knocks against the wood following. You waited, hopeful that whoever stood at the other side of the door would decide it wasn't worth the wait—but it didn't last long. Twelve seconds later, the same two knocks sounded.

Slight frustration bubbled in your stomach as you exhaled a sigh, pushing yourself to your feet and shuffling your socks along the carpet, the metal doorknob cold against the palm of your hand.

As the hinges opened, Eddies frame appeared on the other side of the doorway, hair unbrushed and still in his baggy pajama pants you'd assumed he wore to bed the night prior. Your stomach dropped so fast that you felt dizzy, room spinning around you and the 5'10 man in front of you. For a moment, all you could do was blink, eyes darting across his tired face as he stared at you with a look you couldn't quite place. He unraveled his crossed arms and took a step closer, wrapping them around your frame gently.

Instinctively, you embraced it without saying a word like you'd always done, huffing a long exhale out of your nose. You couldn't have guessed the night prior that you'd wake up to Eddie at your bedroom door, hugging you without muttering a single word of context, but something about it felt refreshing. For a split second, all of the worry, the pain, the self-loathing disappeared, and something softer lingered instead.

"You alright?" Eddies voice came out low, cutting through the quiet that surrounded the two of you. He didn't pull away.

"Mhm." Your voice cracked as you hummed, nodding your head against his sleeveless shirt. Something sparked in your chest, which you coughed up to being guilt from lying to him once again—but you'd lied to him about much worse, recently, so you didn't keep count.

"I'm so fucking hung over." Eddies smile stretched against your hair as he chuckled, his chest rising and falling and unintentionally pulling you tighter. He patted the middle of your back twice before pulling back, arms falling to his side. A couple of awkward seconds passed as the two of you looked through each other, gaze seemingly avoiding each other—as if they met—something delicate in the air would crack.

If you'd had anymore tears to cry, they would've spilled out, throwing out words you'd already sworn to secrecy. Somehow, you were grateful for your breakdown the night prior; at least you could feel numb today.

"Yeah, I can imagine." A sound—somewhere between a huff and a laugh— exhaled through your mouth, gaze dropping as you spun on your heel and stepped towards your bed. The mattress dipped below your weight as you sat down and began to tap your still trembling fingers lazily against it. You could still hear your heartbeat—rapid and unsettling—and you wondered if he could hear it, too.

"Did I wake you last night? God, I was—I was just fucked, dude." A grin snuck it's way back onto his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, heavy boots pacing along and making prints in the carpet.

"No, I was up." Your voice fell soft, barely above a whisper as your brows drew together, two small nods emphasizing and making up for your gentle tone. Eddie stopped suddenly in front of you, and you lifted your gaze to meet his. Surprise struck—you didn't know your chest could beat quicker than it already had, but as his brown eyes picked your facial expression apart, you were swiftly proved wrong.

"I called you last night. I mean, it was a payphone outside the pizza place, so the connection must've…" Eddie trailed off and shrugged, rubber shuffling against the floor until warmth took it's place beside you. Heat radiated onto you in what felt like the cruelest ten seconds of your life, until Eddie scooted a couple of inches away and gave you space.

"Yeah, must've." The words felt wrong as they struggled to leave your mouth, along with a dry laugh in some attempt to not sound like you were spiraling.

"I felt bad that the only thing open after the show was…" Eddies grin faltered slightly as he trailed off, leg bouncing anxiously against the floor as something flickered across Eddies face—somehow, even with your brain going two-hundred miles per hour, you could still see when he was holding something back. The way he tried to play it off, shrugging his shoulders and hiding behind a mask he most likely hadn't even noticed himself—it was obvious.

You knew that the socially acceptable thing would've been to respond, but no matter how many seconds you'd spent rapidly scanning your brain for a response that wouln't raise questions, it was no use.

"I had a lot of fun last night, if you're up for hearing it. I mean, I don't remember half of it, but the details I do remember are pretty cool." Something about Eddie's expression switched, making you believe he was aware of how thick the air felt.

Relief hopelessly spilled out of you as his words registered, stomach sinking and mouth drying. How could he ask something so cruel? How did he expect you to muster up some type of excuse to explain why you didn't want to hear about the number one thing that best friends are supposed to talk about?. Sure, you could blame it on lack of sleep, or feeling ill, but how many times had you used those lines before?

 You swallowed, eyes floating anywhere except for his, the only noise able to crawl it's way out of your mouth being a string of "um's".

"What's up with you?" Eddies voice cut through your struggle urgently, his shoulders sinking as he retreated almost immediately, obviously uncomfortable with the confrontation.

A shaky breath escaped your mouth as you struggled to find something to say. It felt like there wasn't a correct answer that didn't end in destroying everything you'd spent building—but on the other hand, watching Eddie with glassed over eyes, nervously fidgeting with his rings with an obvious look of hesitation across his face filled you with the worst guilt you'd ever felt. You violently fought the urge to scream at the top of your lungs, every part of your body so desperately wanting to tell him everything; anything to get that look off of his face.

But nothing came out—only a dodgy question while you attempted to maintain some sort of composure, followed by a nervous laugh that Eddie could see right through, "What do you mean?"

Uncertainty tugged at the corners of Eddies mouth, the urge to ask further evident in his gaze, painfully locked in with your flushed cheeks—but Eddie never pushed. He blinked twice and lifted his shoulders, shaking his head dismissively, "Nevermind. Do you wanna come over later tonight, or…? If you're busy, then—"

"Yeah, uh, maybe." You forced your lips to curl into a half-smile, gaze awkwardly dropping to your lap as you fidgeted with your sweats.

Eddie didn't feel like this, you thought. Not once, in all the years that you'd known him, did the air ever feel this thick—so much so that it made you hot, your body either rejecting the right amount of oxygen, or the atmosphere withheld it. It felt worse, somehow, than the night prior; in that moment, you realized that he felt it, too, in some capacity. Based on his body language, you figured it felt awkward for him, too, but you wondered why. What did he have to be awkward about? He'd just had the night of his life, while you laid hopelessly in bed, secretly wishing he'd throw pebbles at your window and tell you she was a mistake.

Eddie was the first to break the long stretch of silence as he placed his hands on his knees to push himself back up to his feet, taking a step backwards and clearing his throat, "I guess I'll see you, then. Call me, okay?"

"Okay." You nodded and swallowed, vision scanning his disheartening expression. Nothing felt worse than being the sole reason for it, and part of you wished you'd had the strength to stand up and reassure him that everything would be alright—that you would be alright, but it felt difficult to believe yourself. Silently, as you watched Eddie stand in front of you for another three agonizing seconds before he turned to leave, you'd silently convinced yourself that you'd told him in some way—every secret you'd tried so hard to hold from him, spilled because you couldn't completely keep your composure.

It was high school when you got pregnant; the father was a friend...or he claimed to be. You'd known him so long that you'd assumed he'd never do that to you, never use you like an object...why would he ruin such a deep friendship? But he did... You got pregnant and became the talk of the town, the girl no one wanted to be around because she "couldn't keep her legs closed."

Eddie was always there for you; he'd always tell people to fuck off when they got too close or bitched about you breastfeeding at school, even though they couldn't see anything cause he'd covered up Ella with his jacket. Eddie was there for it all, the birth where you squeezed so hard he was afraid that you'd crush his hand into dust.

"Okay, Killer. Careful there, that's the hand I play with." He had said before, earning a groan of pain from you, and that shut him up because he quickly realized you had been in pain. Eddie stayed all night in the shitty chair beside your bedside to watch over you and your little girl.

The nurse had asked if he was the father, and before you could say anything, he signed his name on the birth certificate. Of course, this wasn't random or overstepping; you had spoken to him extensively about the fact you didn't want her birth father on the paper; he didn't deserve it. Eddie was more than willing.

The endless nights in the small "home" that you two share after she was born, where Ella would scream and cry at night, but he didn't wake you unless it was for feedings because you "needed the rest," no matter how much you insisted. Eddie would get up every day regardless of how tired he was and go to work without a single inch of a complaint. This wasn't something you discussed because he'd always act like it was so natural. Eddie taught you it's okay to want help, that you should demand it when it comes to the people that claim to "care" about you.

That was years ago though, and nothing has changed for the worse, but he's on tour now. You and Ella are at home because she has school, but without fail, no matter how late the night gets or how tired he is, without fail he calls you to check up on you both. "How's my beautiful girls?" "How's your day been, Baby?" "How'd her soccer game go?" "They won?! Oh my god, I knew they had it in them."

A few months on tour actually passed by quickly, thankfully, and he's now pulling into the drive as he blasts his music.

"Daddy! Daddy's home!" Ella screams with her eyes already watering at the thought of him. Eddie and Eddie had never put labels on any of your relationship, never told her not to call him Daddy, and you never corrected him when he had started calling you Babe or a brush of the hand against your back had become a kiss on the lips, making out or having sex when Ella was out.

Eddie scoops her up with one arm, his other hand dragging in a suitcase. This suitcase was not full of his own things. No, that one is still in his truck. This suitcase is all the things he's bought for you and Ella. A bear, bubbles, a yo-yo, a doll, and so many other little toys he's found in the shops while he's missing his girls. Ella, of course, jumps down from his arms and gets into the bag as she's done before.

"Daddy, what is this?" She holds up a little square box, and he stiffens a little; this is not how he wanted you to find out he had gotten you a ring or that he wants to marry you.

"I- Um...I guess now's as good as any time." He grabs the box from her and kneels in front of you; you're already in complete shock...not only is he home, but he's going to ask you to marry him. "Bear with me, the box is kinda a pain to open, Honey." He fiddles with it for a good few minutes, awkward but so very cute. "Ah okay, got it." He opens it, and it's a bat-shaped ring.

This is something you'd offhandedly mentioned when the TV had turned to those all-night infomercial types where they try to sell things to people. You had been wrapped up laying against his chest, one of the few nights that Ella slept in her own room since she sometimes psychs herself out and then she can't sleep.

"Look at that one, you want an old granny ring, Baby?" He had asked as a joke as he ran his hands through your hair, down your back, and down to your ass before going back up your body.

"No, God. I want something unique like a bat or something. Like most women get these big diamonds and shit, and I can only imagine how upset I'd be if I lost it."

"Hey? Earth's down here..." He waves a hand in your face, and you focus back on him. "Will you marry me or do you wanna wait until the state declares us married because we've lived together so long?" Eddie jokes with a nervous smile. Of course he's sure the answers yes but there's always the off chance you say no.

"Yes! Oh my god. Yes!" You kneel with him, kissing his face softly as he slips the ring on your hand.

"Mommy, I get to be flower girl?" Ella had been your friend's flower girl, and she had loved it so so much. Your friend had commented about how maybe Ella could be flower girl again once "Mommy gets married." And I guess that's now.

"Yes, of course." You reassure her. I guess forever with him is official, even if forever started ages ago when you sat next to the "weird" guy in high school who never has and never will judge you, the same way you won't judge him. DND campaigns, rock concerts, very odd yard decor, and everything else. He's been Ella's dad and your lover way before either of you fully knew what it meant. Forever would never be enough time with him, but it sure is a great place to start.

Music plays on your home radio as you're occupying yourself with a Sunday house cleanup. Eddie knows not to bother you while you're doing so.

Before you married him, you'd both get into small, playful bickers about "what goes where". Eddie handles all of the managing of the house appliances and "fix-it-ups".

You're currently loading up the sink as Eddie double checks your shared monthly budget in the living room. You take off your ring and place it on the kitchen counter. Eddie heard the clinking of the plates being put down.

"You know I fixed the dishwasher, right?!"

"I want to hand wash!"

You can't see it, but Eddie shakes his head in amusement. You're just about to get started with dishes when the house phone rings.

"Babe, it's your mom!"

You huff, tossing down the dish rag. Always when you want to be productive. You rush to the living room, thanking him and taking the phone.

"Hi, Mom!" You say in your best fake cheerful voice.

"Hi, sweetie! I really need your help with something over here!"

"Mom, I'm busy-"

"Too busy for your dear old mother? You know, when I was carrying you for-"

"I'll be over." You huff, clicking the phone down.

"What's up?"

"My mom needs help really quickly. I just wanted to do this dishes-"

"I've got them, honey. Go help your mom." Eddie soothes.

"You're a lifesaver. Just let me go get my purse."

You rush to make yourself look presentable, and sling it over your shoulder.

"I'm going out with the guys later, but you'll probably be back way before then."

"It's my mother, so here's to hoping." You giggle. Eddie does as well, leaning in and giving you a quick peck.

"Be safe, love you."

"I love you too. I'll try to make this quick."

Once you're off to heading to your mother's, Eddie places down the budget to head towards the dishes. A glint from the counter makes Eddie curious. He's able to identify that's it's your wedding ring once he gets close, and puts it in his pocket. He chuckles to himself at how you're always forgetting something.

By the time you return home, Eddie's out with his friends. You're mentally exhausted from your mother's shenanigans, but at least the dishes are done.

You set your purse down and go to wash your hands, frowning when you realize your hand feels more naked than usual. Your eyes widen when you realize you must've forgotten your ring somewhere. You look over at the kitchen counter, but it's not there.

Did I drop it on my way out? I was in a rush.

You dry your hands and return to the living room, looking into your purse. Maybe it slipped in there.

Nothing.

You run to your phone to call you mother.

"Hey, honey. You okay?"

"I made it home safe…did you happen to see my ring around there somewhere?"

"I don't think so, honey. But I'll keep a lookout."

You thank her before the call ends, setting the phone down to begin looking around again.

It could be anywhere.

You begin looking under tables, chairs, and even the bedroom. You had it on this morning, you're sure of it. You've never left to anyplace without it.

You look in between the cracks and crevices of the couch before deciding to pull the cushions off and toss the pillows aside.

You decide to head upstairs again, and ruffle up the bed sheets and pillows. You huff, beginning to feel your panic set in.

Bending down onto the floor to look under the bed came up short, as well.

The rate of your heart speeds up, and a cold sweat settles in. You believe you've lost the ring Eddie worked hours to get for you, and you dared to be irresponsible with it.

You begin to cry, hoping that he won't hate you. It's a mean thought your anxiety is telling you, and you're starting to believe it'll be true.

In the midst of your breakdown, the front door opens and closes.

"Babe? I'm home!"

Eddie looks around at the Sunday cleanup gone very upside down. When he doesn't get a response from you, worry grows inside him.

"Babe?"

You head downstairs, mascara streaks evident on your face.

"Did something happen while I was gone?"

"…I lost it!"

"Lost what?"

"The symbol of our marriage! You worked countless hours at the plant for that ring and I lost it! I didn't mean to, I swear. I'm so sorry, and if you hate me now- tell me."

"Sweetheart-"

"No, I can handle it! Break it to me easy."

"It's in my pocket."

"What do you mean?"

He pulls it out.

"You forgot it when you left for your mom's place. I found it and put it there for safe keeping."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie! I tore up this entire house!-"

"Yeah, I can tell. You've done wonders with the place." He smirks.

"That's not funny." You're holding back a smile.

"Seeing as you unintentionally unmarried me for a few hours…" He grins, getting down on one knee. "Will you marry me again?"

You wish you could get this fucking blindfold off your face, but with the zipties tightly fastened around your wrists and ankles, it would be useless to even try.

He'd tied rope around your legs to the chair, keeping your thighs spread apart as cool air blew against your exposed pussy. The wet patch beneath you had yet to dry.

When you figure out who sold you out, you're going to kill them with your bare hands. It must have been Boar—the son of a bitch—it had to have been, especially after that incident at the restaurant. In your defense, he was being fucking stupid.

But first you had to figure out how to get out of here. Imagining all the ways you're going to skin that Boar alive when you get back is the only thing keeping your mind in order. No high could keep you from planning out every aspect of the way you’ll torture that man.

You don't know how long you've been here, you don't know if it's night or day. You can't even fully confirm that you're in a basement—the only times your blindfold is removed, a light blinds you from seeing anything past glimpses of your captor.

His voice keeps playing over and over in your head. Questions upon questions, taunts, pet names, all the things driving you fucking insane in a whirlwind of words that keep jumbling together or fading into nonsense. He'll be the first one you kill, and then you're going to find out who he belongs to and kill him in front of the rest of his men.

The sound of a heavy door being pulled open alerts you. Your entire body is riddled with goosebumps, and it takes so much focus and effort to keep your breath steady so as not to let off how exhausted you've become. You want to sleep, but every time you start to drift off, you’re interrupted by another Q&A session or pumped full of more drugs to keep you hazy.

“Hello, Kitten.”

You don't say anything—not that you can with your torn panties shoved in your mouth and wrapped around your head. You just sit there, your back as straight as you can get it. His voice, smooth and dark as velvet, fills every crevice of the room and your mind. You steel your thoughts.

“You're not gonna say hi back?” He tuts, and you can hear the fake pout on his lips. “And here I thought you missed me.”

His hand comes down on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You try to close your legs—having your body on full display for him was not something you found entirely enjoyable—to no avail.

He chuckles his growl of a sound. Your thoughts flash with the memory of the sounds he'd made when he was abusing your clit, where you could do nothing but sit there and take it, try not to whine so loudly when he made you cum for the fourth and fifth time.

You squeeze your eyes shut behind the blindfold to try and force the thoughts away. Your body is on fire, buzzing with anticipation and a sick need for him to touch you again. The callouses on his hands provide the best feeling against the sensitive aching of your clit. His hands are large and warm and—stop! He is quite literally assaulting you, you should not be dreaming about the way his thick fingers feel when they stretch you out and curl.

“I have some questions for you, the same ones as before,” he says. You can hear him circling you, and it takes everything not to feel the overwhelming tickling over your skin as he does it. “Like I said, if you answer my questions well, I'll take those panties outta your mouth. If not, they stay in.”

But he won't stop. No, he'd made that clear before when he'd said between your thighs, “I could never have turned this pretty pussy down.” He'd grabbed so tightly at your thighs, laughed every time you trembled—which was a lot when being blindfolded makes being eaten out a million times more sensitive. “I was always going to have a taste of you, whether you gave me my answers or not.”

You don't know how he knew you weren't listening, but he's suddenly snapping his fingers right in your ears. His voice is a bit louder now. “Hey, pay attention.”

You huff at the disorientation it brings but continue to stay silent. The last thing he needs from you is a reaction, and you sure as hell aren't going to give it to him.

“Answer my questions,” he says, a softly spoken warning. His hands land on your shoulders once more, and you startle.

He chuckles deeply, breathing down your neck as his large hands rub intently at your shoulders, working his thumbs into the sore muscle until your eyes are fluttering and you're trying your damndest not to fucking moan. Your body feels two seconds from going limp under his touch.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” He's met with stern silence. You can hear the wicked Cheshire grin on his face. “Perfect.”

You feel like your skin burns when his lips make contact with the space between your neck and your shoulder. You think he's just going to kiss you, but you nearly make a sound when his teeth come out to nip at your skin. It sends a shudder shooting straight to your core.

You wish you could press your thighs together, if not to hide yourself than to get the pressure you need. His lips curve into your flesh when the shocks had your thighs just hardly trembling.

The sick bastard accounted for that.

Your teeth tighten around the damp fabric in your mouth.

“Where are the rest of the assets your father owes to Pandemonium?”

You say nothing, tensing when one hand slides over the curve of your shoulder, slipping below your arm to rest against your ribcage.

“How long has the Lion been siphoning money, arms, and drugs from his drops?”

You clench your jaw around your underwear. You told him his methods would get him killed, instead it got you kidnapped, raped, and likely killed when they decide they no longer have use for you.

His hand reaches up and gropes you, squeezing your breast in his greedy palm as he noses along your neck. You feel his other hand on your thigh, experimenting. You fail to suppress your jolt—or worse, your gasp.

“Who else in your sector is involved with this?”

You imagine yourself at home. Not the mansion, not the safe houses, not even your secret place out of the city. Home, where you grew up before your father pulled you and your mother—The Coyote—back into his world before you were nine.

The tiny house by the lake where something broke every two days, and she made a game of trying to figure out how to fix it. The one that was insufferable in the summer when the air was sticky. The one with the back porch door that you refused to go through at night on account of the hoard of Daddy Longleg spiders decorating the frame (harmless or not).

Anything is better than thinking of the electric feeling of his hand finding the apex of your thigh and slipping forward toward the spent heat between them. Anything is better than feeling his warm lips at your ear, nipping and occasionally licking the spot that makes you shudder. Anything is better than his hand kneading your breast like dough and his near lecherous breathing.

“What other gangs or mafia are involved?”

His voice is so low and gentle, like honey in your ears. It sickens you, how he has the kind of voice you would shudder beneath if you'd met at a bar and taken him home. He has the kind of hands you would have let rip your clothes off and touch every inch of skin with. In the brief glimpses you'd seen through shadows of his face, you think he probably has the kind of face you would kiss stupid before sitting on. If you're unfortunate enough to learn it, the fucker might have the kind of name you'd be shouting to the rooftops, happily subjecting your father to your activities he has no interest in.

You're violently ripped from your thoughts when his fingers push inside of you. Despite the fight you try to put in, they slip in easily. You're still wet from earlier, and your stupid, dumb, traitor body is greedily sucking them in like a ticket machine at Chuck E. Cheese.

You don't mean to. It slips out, like it had before, when you whimper at the way two of his thick fingers fill you. They pump slowly in and out of you, and your legs tremble worse every time you try to make them stop.

“I really like when you don't answer me,” he breathes, his voice calm like he isn't violating your cunt. His fingers move inside of you, and you can feel each and every single movement. You feel it every time he curls them, spreads them, every time one tucks under the other before returning to its side.

Tears are beginning to sting in your eyes again, but you will them away. You don't need him to see that (again).

“This little pussy of yours is just so fucking warm and wet. I'm tempted to taste you again to see if it's still sweet.”

He hears the way your breath stutters between all of your rough ones. You can practically hear his smile. His hand moves from your tit, reaching up to cradle your throat. You tilt your head up—your reasoning being to get away from him—but end up simply baring your throat for him on full display once more.

He squeezes so gently. It cuts off no air supply, you still breathe the same as before (ragged and harsh in an attempt to hear your breath over the feeling of his fingers), but now your head is fuzzy and warm and not just from the drugs. Your pulse is hammering at lightning speed, and you know he can feel it beneath the fingers pressing against your jugular. He gets off on it, breathes a little deeper, moves a little faster.

“You always have the best reactions,” he fawns. “Even when you were fighting me before, you weren't screaming and wailing. God, you’re perfect.”

You're trying not to speak. You've already slipped a couple times (the first when you'd humiliatingly cried for him to stop before you'd come on his tongue) (the second when you were two orgasms in and said “please”; no “stop”, no crying, just “please” in a devastating whimper after his fingers fucked you through a terrible splash). You don't want to give him the satisfaction of your voice, especially when he's already enjoying the satisfaction of your determined silence and your body betrayals.

Fingers curl and rub right against your weakest spot. You keep your moan choked down, choosing to focus on your breath instead.

“Last question, sweetheart.” He rolls your earlobe between his teeth. The stubble on his cheek scratches the side of your face.

An unwelcome panic floods your system. You try to force it out, but it prevails as his hands continue to work you. He's not going to repeat his questions this time around, which means after he asks, he's done. He'll leave you be, and you'll be able to breathe again for a little while longer.

But that means after he asks, he's done. He'll leave you be, whether you've cum or not. As great as that is—it saves you a little more humiliation—you've been doing this long enough that your body has grown accustomed to the constant pleasure. It's unwelcome and entirely degrading…but he's brought you to another high that you're craving more than anything else. Between the drugs flooding your foggy brain and the hunger and thirst beginning to really make itself known in the pit of your stomach, another orgasm would be a reprieve that would sustain you for just a little longer.

The pad of his thumb finds your clit. He rubs in steady circles until he finds the spot that makes your legs shake. Focusing on it with startling precision, he builds up a high that makes you feel fuzzier than the drugs. In a low, final voice, he asks, “What else is the Pride hiding?”

Your jaw clenches hard until the panties still stuffed in your mouth is no barrier between your teeth. Your eyes are beginning to roll back behind the blindfold, and your chest aches with need. You're going to cum. He's going to watch you cum again, and he's going to taunt you and slap you and maybe even smear your own arousal all over your face again just to humiliate you further.

His fingers plunge faster and faster, a wet, sopping sound filling the air with filth. The pleasure tightens in your belly, it tightens in your fingers and toes and around your desperate lungs until–

“Okay.”

The sound you let out as he removes himself from you entirely is nearly a sob. You fail to keep it in as your body slumps as much as it can bound to this chair. The feeling of your pleasure retreats hastily, draining out of you like sand from a broken bag until you're left cold and aching.

You struggle. You forget about your restraint, you forget about your pride and your lost dignity. You yank and tug at the ropes and zip ties holding you down like a wild animal. The last amount of energy you have left in you frugally spends itself in the pursuit of anger and frustration and need as you growl and shout.

The bastard laughs. He sounds like he's having the time of his life watching you lose the last bits of sanity you feel you have left. He claps his hands together and guffaws as the strain gets to you, beating out the last ounce of strength you have left to throw your fit.

“Look at you go! Such a fucking joy you are. You never disappoint, do you?” You catch your breath, defeated for the moment as your muscles loosen into something useless. You're so exhausted now, heavy and spent without the help of a release to ease the pain of it.

You suddenly feel the warmth of his body only inches from you, leaning in close and lowering his voice to that husky sound you wish you could choke out of him. “I'm sorry, kitty, but I just don't have time to spend on making you cum. I'm a very busy man, and I have more important things to do.” A breathy chuckle looses from him. “And besides… only good kittens deserve to cum for their masters. Isn't that right?”

You huff sharply, saying nothing as your hands stay balled up in useless fists. “Maybe if you're good next time, I'll make sure you get to cum for me. How does that sound?”

You say nothing.

“Good girl.”

You feel his lips on your forehead, and your entire body tenses. A rush of cold replaces the warmth he once provided as you hear the sound of his heavy boots stepping away. “Don't miss me too much,” he says as he walks farther and farther. With the loud shutting off a thick door, he's gone.

You're left alone, exposed and shaking and wondering when he's going to come back to finish what he started.

~

You can feel yourself beginning to break.

It’s been days…you think. You don’t really know how long it’s been since you woke up in this cellar, surrounded by cold and cameras and a man who keeps using your body as a hobby.  Between the drugs, his fingers, and the lack of context clues, day and night kind of fuse together into one long string of time you have no control over.

You’re trying to hold on. But the longer you try, the more you ask yourself why. Why are you protecting that man? What are you protecting yourself from? He’s not coming for you. As far as your father knows, you’ve given everything up and he now has the excuse he’s been waiting for to put a bullet in your skull.

You’d hoped, at least, that when he finally did, he’d have the balls to do it himself. But what were you expecting really? Looking for any kind of courage in a bag of dicks. That’s your bad.

Every time you hear those heavy boots coming toward you, your body strings itself up tight in preparation for what you’ll have to endure for however long this man decides to entertain himself with you. It’s becoming harder and harder to distinguish between dread and anticipation. It’s all the same to the twisting in your gut, the clenching of your thighs, the way your heart beats a little faster when he touches you. When he calls you–

“Poor kitten, can’t keep herself together.” His voice rumbles in your ear as he plunges his fingers inside of you with ruthless abandon. “All you gotta do is answer my questions, baby. You know I’ll give it to you either way. Who else in your sector is involved?”

You gasp helplessly, your voice hoarse from the labor it’s been put through from falling apart so many times and then being so crudely put back together for the purpose of being torn apart once more. You’d given up on that part of your dignity a long time ago. He’s left you shaking, crying, pleading for mercy (whether that be more or less, you can no longer truly tell). The drool that gathers at the corners of your mouth and the tears that stain your cheeks started being ignored by you days ago.

His fingers dance on the line between pain and pleasure as they curl inside you. You’re dizzy, you’re needy, and you just want a moment to breathe. “C’mon, Kitten, where are the rest of the assets The Pride owes to Pandemonium?”

“Gone!”

He stops. Briefly, the room is silenced, with the exception of your gasps and sobs. You take the moment as it comes, sorting through your thoughts and feelings to turn them into something useful. He only allows you a moment.

“Gone?” he asks, starting up again, but this time with much slower and much gentler movements. His fingers press right up against that soft spot that makes your brain fuzzy, the one that he’s been abusing for days that’s at least grateful for the moment of tenderness.

“It’s gone,” you say. Your voice is rough with overuse. You’d be humiliated if you still cared by this point. “Gambled, used, sold. He never…” You run out of breath, hanging your head as you struggle to catch it. His fingerpads prod against you. “He never keeps what he takes! It’s the f-first to go so h-he can’t be caught with it.”

He becomes forgiving again. You take it with gratitude. “Who’s he gambling with? Who are his buyers?”

Your words are thick and labored. “No name groups outside of the territories. Gangs with n-no power to oppose him.” You take a desperate breath, throwing your head back and sucking down air like water. Your legs tremble. You’re surprised you’re making any sense.

“Where?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. Everywhere.”

“Who else?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

The way his tone shifts has you panicking for a moment. “He knows that I disagree w-with what he does, so he keeps me out of the details. He doesn’t trust me.”

He scoffs. “You’re his heir.”

It’s your turn to scoff. Your hands clench into fists, your jaw tightening with a hatred that takes him momentarily by surprise. “Yeah. And all his shit gets dumped on me to deal with when he gets himself killed.” Your lip twitches. “Or he’ll suddenly appoint that fucking pig to keep me in my place. I’m the one trying to get him to stop to keep me out of situations like this.”

He considers then, takes a pause to let the silence linger. “What else?”

You hesitate to answer. You’re worried he won’t like your response. “I don’t know.”

The silence stretches once more. You don’t realize you hold your breath in the space between you. You wait for him to say something. You wait for him to keep going.

“That’s alright.” You still don’t breathe. “You did very good for me, Kitten.” His thumb strokes a tender path down your cheek. It tickles through your tears. You let out a breath that has your whole body going heavy.

He pulls his fingers out of you. You hear his boots beginning to retreat from you, followed by the suckling of his fingers in his mouth just a second later.

You panic. “W-Wait.”

He stops. His voice is flat, uninterested. “What?”

You swallow hard. Your thighs tremble, the cold air of the space around you is cruel against your exposed cunt. “I… You…” Your fingers flex in lieu of more useless words.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” The air shifts, you can practically feel the smirk that settles over his lips with a devilish amusement. “Aw…did you wanna cum?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not to this. You’ve already begged and plead, cried and sobbed when he used his mouth or his hands to fuck you within an inch of your life. Now you’re tied to this fucking chair with him so close to that fucking door…and you can’t ask him to do it again.

“Well,” he hums, “what did I expect?”

There’s another long stretch of silence. You listen to him contemplate. You listen, and you refuse to move a muscle. You don’t want to beg. You don’t want to ask.

“Oh, what the hell? I’ve got some time left, and you’ve been good.”

Mercy. He’s giving you mercy. His bootsteps approach once more, and your breath kicks up again in frantic welcome. You blame it on the drugs. You blame it on the haze. You blame it on the fact that your body has been surviving by him and his hand alone, and you crave to survive a little longer while he has you here.

You expect his fingers when he comes toward you again. You’re met instead with the heat of his mouth closing around your cunt, his tongue lapping along the seam of you to fill the emptiness he’s left behind. Your head falls back, you fill the air with the sound of your moans and your desperate breaths.

Your thighs tremble around his head as he licks you with precision and mess. You feel the mix of your arousal and his saliva leaking through your folds and making a puddle beneath you, one you’ll have to sit in once he leaves. It’ll soak into your skin as a reminder that he’s broken you.

He’s broken you, and you’ve let him.

Your hips rut against his face as much as you can manage it, relishing in the scratch of his stubble. His dull nails dig into the flesh of your thighs until you’re crying out from the pain. You can feel his smirk against your skin, taunting, knowing.

“This what you needed, baby?” he goads, sinking his fingers into you once more. They pump and curl and coax you closer to where you want to be. Somewhere along the way, the painful pleasure he’s been giving you became intoxicating, more of a drug than the ones he’s got coursing through your veins. “You need me to make you feel good?”

Your answer is nothing short of a sobbing whine as he tortures your aching clit. He laughs cruelly. “If you ever get out of here…no one will ever be able to make you feel good again.” He laps at your cunt, drinks you up with pleasure. “I’m gonna have you crawling back to me on your hands and knees, Kitten.”

Your vision goes slant, your muscles spasm with each curl, each lick, each suck. Your hips search out the pleasure. You let yourself drown in it as those crashing waves continue to approach. “G-God, please. Fuck, please, please, please.”

“Cum on my fuckin’ fingers, you little slut.”

You burst. It nearly stops your heart, has your head falling back with the intensity as you gasp. You shake with every wave. You let it take over you. And he gives it to you until you’re breaking down into a bout of humiliated sobs.

He stands, walks around you and wraps his hand around your chin. The top of your head presses against his belly, his thumb strokes tauntingly up and down your jaw. Then he removes your blindfold.

Fuck. The face that stares back at you is twisted with sick pleasure, with amusement and wonder as your breath stutters in trying to steady itself. He’s pretty, with wild hair and dark eyes, with stubbled cheeks and a big nose that he’s rubbed into your clit more times than you can count. His lips are plump, swollen and wet from your undoing.

He licks his lips, eyes almost black as he looks down on you. He grins. It’s charming and evil.

“Good girl.”

His rough hand smacks across your face hard enough to pull a grunt from you. Your cheek stings in the shape of his palm. He steps back and walks away, leaving you to sit alone in your mess, naked and shaking and still aching for him.

~

You’re startled awake by the sound of the door scraping against the floor. You look toward it frantically, straining your eyes to see past the light still obscuring your view of anything outside of it.

The first thing you notice is the smell.

Food. There’s a plate of food that is set down on the metal table in the room. It’s not a shitty snack meant to tie you over until he decides to feed you again. It’s not a shot glass of water for you to down in less than a second. It’s a bowl with soup, still warm and fragrant and calling to you. Your eyes are immediately stuck to it, mouth practically watering, tummy gurgling with a hunger you stopped paying attention to a long time ago.

Your eyes find your captor, your torturer, as he comes closer. In his other, you see an unlabeled box. You shrink away instinctively.

When he gets close, he pulls up a chair opposite you with a loud scrape against the floor that grates at the migraine you’ve been nursing since you arrived. He sets the box in the space between your spread thighs and opens it.

Bandages…and antiseptic?

You watch him flick a switchblade open, the steel glinting in the concentrated light. You brace again, just to feel the blade press against your skin, between your ankle and the zip ties restraining you, snapping it in two and freeing you by that much. He does the same to your other ankle.

Then he takes a cloth and the antiseptic in the box and cleans the cuts torn into your skin with plastic, cuts made by your fight and your resistance, which has long since faded. It burns like hell, but it’s better than an infection that would lead to amputation.

He does it again with the ties around your legs, then your wrists and your arms, until you’re free. He eyes you once your restraints are gone. There’s a warning there that you think is utterly useless. Between your utter lack of strength, the fact that you wouldn’t even be able to reach the door, and the fact that—if you somehow managed to get that far—you’d probably be shut down immediately by whoever manages to find you outside of this cellar.

You’re not an idiot. You’re just pathetic.

When he’s wrapped all of your wounds with bandages and hands more tender than you expected, he takes you by your arm to make you stand. You struggle. You stopped being able to feel anything but spasming pleasure in your legs a long time ago. They feel like jelly beneath you as you try to stand. He ends up carrying most of your weight.

Before you even have enough time to process being free from your chair, you’re being shoved into a kennel.

You stare at the floor with a clenched jaw and labored breaths. You’re locked in a fucking cage. Like an animal. You’ve spent the past—has it been a week?—being degraded and reduced down to a fucking kitten just to be treated like a fucking pet. Next, he’ll slap a collar around your neck and have you licking out of a bowl.

He sets the soup in front of you. On the floor.

From here, you can make out the shape of the bowl he’s given to you. It’s a doggy bowl. You look up to meet his gaze, entirely unimpressed and trying not to look as livid as you feel for fear of retaliation.

He lets a smirk curl his lips. “Eat.”

You don’t say anything immediately. Your stomach churns and growls at the mouthwatering smell. Your gaze meets his again as you hold yourself back. “Is it poisoned?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

He tilts his head. His smirk remains intact. “Why poison you if we can just shoot you?” It’s an honest question.

You shrug and look back down at the bowl. You’re starving. “You could dump my body somewhere and blame it on The Serpents.” You swallow hard. “Infighting, pandemonium. Like Lucifer wants.”

His smile grows. His gaze somehow darkens. He nudges the bowl closer to you, and the smell of bone broth is dizzying.

“Eat.”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out something balled up in his fist before tossing it at you. He closes the kennel door soon after, clicking a lock that keeps you perfectly secure. Then he turns to leave.

Your pulse jumps to your throat at the sight of him getting closer to the exit. “Wait,” you call, sounding more pathetic than you intended. He stops, but he doesn’t turn. You open your mouth to say something else, anything. You just…don’t want to be left alone again.

Nothing comes out. He leaves without a glance back.

Your head falls, looking back down to what he’s given you. Reaching out and touching the balled up fabric, it unfurls and reveals to you a pair of underwear. Well, it’s a thong. It’s not much, but you suppose it’s better than being stark naked as you clumsily slip them up your thighs to “cover” yourself.

Then you find the bowl in front of you. Your stomach growls again, and you can feel something rising in your throat, something you have to choke down to scare away the heat and the stinging. You bring the bowl shakily to your lips and moan at the first sip.

~

A sharp cry mauls its way up your throat before anything else. Pain ripples from the side of your neck like fire as you frantically claw at your skin. Your vocal chords are torn raw as you gasp and scramble up to stand, hitting your head against something loud that echoes off concrete walls before you can get to your feet.

Right…the cellar. And the cage.

You look up, wide eyed with your jaw clenched so hard that it hurts. Staring back at you is not the same man who’s been with you this whole time.

He’s got bags under dark eyes, and hair much lighter and much more tame. It falls over his ears and down to his chin in straight, brown locks. He tilts his head as he looks down on you, his thumb stroking a stick in his hand that you come to identify as a stun gun. He doesn’t seem any kind of impressed or amused. But the unmistakable anticipation in his gaze makes you feel bare, barer than you are curled up on the cold, hard floor in nothing but a flimsy thong.

It’s quiet for a moment before he speaks, his voice flat. “Get back.”

You don’t move, holding as steady as you can as if you have any kind of actual footing here. “Where is he?” You curse yourself and your voice for sounding so thin and weak. It’s better than it was before, but not by much when you’ve just woken up screaming.

His head tilts again. His tone remains the same. “Who?”

“The guy who’s been here?”

There’s a moment of silence. His tone remains the same as his fingers flex around the taser. “Busy.”

You huff. “Doing what?”

Your scrambling doesn’t save you from another shock, this time to your side, as you watch him stick his stun gun between the bars of the cage you’re stuck in. Your whole body goes tense as a silent shout strains in your throat. “Sure are talkative, all of a sudden,” he quips.

You hold yourself up weakly with your hands, trying to catch your breath and hold your tongue. “Doing. What?” Two more sharp shocks send you to the ground. You cry out once you’ve gained access to your voice again. Electricity spasms through muscle and vein.

“Get. Back.”

You don’t protest again. Dragging yourself to the far end of the cage, you watch him unlock the cage. “Turn around.” You do as you're told, though not without attitude. You feel him harshly grab your wrists, twisting them both behind your back and locking them tight with metal cuffs. Tight enough to cut.

He drags you out without a care in the world for how you struggle to keep up. He hoists you to your feet, and you have to work not to let a cry fall from your lips from the pain. It’s not long before you’re being shoved into the same chair you’d been condemned to before.

Your mind is reeling. You don’t know where the other one is, and you can already tell you much prefer him to this freak. He takes his time in restraining you further, tying you down to the chair with more cruelty. He makes sure every move hurts. He makes sure your jaw stays clenched tight.

He steps back, looks you up and down before he’s circling your chair like a predator. You keep his gaze until he’s out of sight, and then find it once more the moment you’re able. Your gaze is hard as his, though each circle makes him seem more and more eager. You watch him lick his lips and fight the shudder that rushes through your spine.

He stops in front of you. You stare.

Silence stretches and nobody moves. He crosses his arms over his chest and observes you like he’s mapping something out in his head. You watch him move closer. You watch him raise the stick. You flinch hard when he presses it into your gut.

Nothing.

You keep bracing for it, waiting, holding your breath in anticipation of the pain. But nothing comes. You slowly open your eyes again, dragging your gaze back up to his own.

He smiles.

The burning pain sears your insides, makes your whole body clench as he presses the shock stick to your gut and holds it there just a little longer than he should. He watches in twisted pleasure, his eyes lidded and his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, as your body seizes. He sinks his teeth into his lip and groans.

He says something—a question. You don’t have the strength to answer. The ringing in your ears keeps you from even being able to hear the question in the first place. Your horrified gaze finds him again, smiling like a madman as he murmurs, “Oh, thank God.”

He turns to the metal table, where you finally see a bag laying in wait. He opens it, and the first thing he pulls out is a long, thin piece of cloth, which he places over your eyes and around your head. Once again, you’re blinded from the rest of the world.

“You and I…” he sighs slowly, mirth filling his voice like he just can’t help himself as he lowers what you assume to be a rag onto your face, “...are going to have a lot of fun together.”

The next sound you hear is the heavy sloshing of water.

~

You jolt up and scramble to the corner of your cage like a frightened animal, small and helpless and shaking as tears instinctively spring to your eyes and burn. Your lungs gasp for precious air, your body already scorches and seizes from what’s to come.

You stopped being able to register the sound of your own voice pleading a long time ago—so when you’re desperately begging “no, please, please don’t, please” and blindly searching for any sign that someone is listening, you assume it falls on deaf ears. Still, you beg.

A low whistle echoes off the walls of the cellar. Your body tenses. You almost missed it over the sound of your hoarse gasps.

“Oh, poor girl,” a familiar voice hums. “You look rough.”

You don’t say a word. Your breath stops in your chest, and a cacophony of confusing feelings rushes through you and keeps you scared and confused. Is that… No, it can’t be. He left you behind days ago. You’ve already resigned yourself to the idea that he was never coming back for you.

Heavy boots continue to approach you. You tuck yourself even tighter into your corner, trying to offer yourself the allusion of safety. Every resounding step makes your heart race. It stops right in front of the cage.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” he purrs.

You feel like you’re going to cry…but you can’t tell why. For some reason, the sound of his voice makes your muscles ease up and your breath calm. He’s back. It’s him.

When you don’t respond, he continues on. “Hope he didn’t hurt you too bad,” he says.” But it looks like he went easy on you.”

Bile rises in your throat, and you can’t tell if it’s that weird relief in your gut, fear at the mention of him, or anger that this is how he chooses to greet you.

Your voice is as hoarse as ever. It’s scratchy and raw, low and cracking as you try to speak without sounding as pathetic as you look and feel. “Th-that…was easy?”

A sigh, something that could be amused if you listen hard enough. “He gets carried away sometimes.”

You don’t respond. It’s really hard to find words, to find any semblance of safety in the simple act of talking. You feel like opening your mouth will be enough to earn that same frantic suffocation, that same searing shock straight through your veins. What do you say to him? What can you say? What is there to say?

“You…” you swallow thickly, feeling yourself shudder all over again, “...l-left.”

He makes that taunting, tutting sound, his tone full of mocking. “Sorry, kitten,” there's a shift, something… something sweeter? No, you're certain that can't be it. You're delirious, sore and tired and still fucking high. Your head is full of cotton, still. It's airy, and there's an awful buzz in your ear that feels a little less harsh with his voice as he says, “I've been away, but I'm back now.”

You hear a shuffle, and then you hear the jingling of keys on a chain, one scratching against a lock before that familiar click is heard. The sound of the door creaking open makes you smaller. His voice resounds in the cellar, still low, still relatively mocking, but somehow still soothing in the strangest way.

The slightest touch of his fingers at the side of your face startles you so much that you actually yelp when you jump. You hear him chuckle before he continues, even as you tremble like a frightened animal. Then…he takes off your blindfold.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. When they do, the first thing you see is him. He’s…still pretty. Still maddeningly, evilly, unfortunately pretty. His wild hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands curling at the sides of his face and framing him perfectly. He’s dressed in black, dangerous in a charming sort of way. Black leather, bulky rings, studded earrings, stubbled cheeks and you swear you see black liner around his eyes.

“I hear we haven’t given up any information since our last questioning,” he hums. You don’t respond, and he tilts his head with a grin. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t wanna confess to his ugly mug either.”

You remain still and silent, staring at him with wide, wet eyes. When he lifts his hand, you flinch like you’re ducking away from him. He pauses, narrows his eyes. “You’re not gonna bite me, are you?”

You stare, then slowly shake your head. His smile returns, and he continues to reach out to you. You tense and brace for the worst, shutting your eyes tight, no matter how much it hurts. His hand continues reaching out, his finger curling beneath your chin and lifting it slightly so he can see your face. He watches you carefully, assessing the damage that comes in split lips and skin, a bruise around your left eye, dried blood. Your hair is a mess, you’re dirty and your skin looks less than healthy.

The softness of his touch confuses you, but your body accepts it before your mind can as you feel yourself slowly and involuntarily relaxing. You swallow thickly, your throat sore and scratchy. You already regret speaking before you’ve said a word, but still you do.

“Y-you left…”

He hums, his eyes finding yours again. “Had some things to take care of.” Your chin is creasing, your bottom lip trembling like you’re stifling a sob. He just makes the face right back at you, looking barely sympathetic and mostly just condescending as he does it. Then it drops again as he continues to take you in, your grimy skin, exposed apart from that flimsy thong and in need of some care. His eyes find yours again.

“Your voice sounds a little rough,” he says. “You need some water, sweetheart?”

Your body seizes with fear. You flinch wildly and feel yourself scrambling uselessly, despite already being tucked into the farthest corner of the cage with nowhere else to go. Your voice trembles, cuts in and out as you whisper a barely restrained sob. “Please n-not again.”

He tuts, that same mocking sound that makes you crazy in more ways than one. His head tilts to the side and he juts out his bottom lip. “Oh, honey,” he sighs. “Did he waterboard you? He really likes that.”

You just continue to hide your face, rather than respond. Your lungs are already seizing, you can already feel your body preparing to fight for air, your mouth gaping like a fish out of water. You can feel the heavy weight of the wet cloth over your face. You already feel that panic feeding on your insides, suffocating.

His hand comes to the back of your head, cradling you like he actually cares about your potential fragility. His thumb strokes your cheek with too much tenderness not to leave you scrambled and confused.

“Don't worry, sweets. I'm not gonna do that to you.” His fingers play with a strand of hair, his voice sounding way too soothing for your own good. “I don't find his kind of torture as rewarding as he does. And I wouldn't hurt you unless I had to.”

The irony is rotten in your belly, sour on your tongue. Something bitter makes its way up your throat, and that sarcasm that lives in you slips out before you can stop it, like reflex, like instinct. “No…” you murmur in your broken voice, “you prefer raping your victims and letting other men torture them. Much better.”

You don't have time to process anything before your head is being slammed into the cage. Shock blossoms before the pain does. You cry out either way as your body slumps down. You feel the cruel pulse of the pain a moment later, your brain foggy and your vision hazy. You don't have the strength to do more than cradle yourself and try, uselessly, to shoot farther away from him.

The look on his face isn't necessarily angry. He looks at you like you've been pestering him, sighing and rolling his eyes like you're nothing more than a nuisance, a bug buzzing in his ear that he catches out of the air with his bare hands.

“I said I don't find it rewarding, not that I wouldn't do it. Show some fucking respect.” His gaze pierces you, makes you shiver like nothing more than some frightened prey animal waiting to be devoured.

His stare doesn't falter. Not when fresh, hot tears build in your eyes. Not when they spill over your cheeks as you struggle to keep from sniffling like a pathetic little creature. Not when you sway like you're seconds from passing out.

“Apologize,” he commands. His tone is flat and leaves no room for refusal.

But you can't find your voice. Your tongue is heavy as lead in your mouth, and you can hardly see straight. Blinking past the fog is its own heap of effort that requires your full attention.

His jaw ticks, and a scoff passes through him. He raises a hand to scratch at his stubbled cheek. “Okay. Let me go grab him again—maybe he can get an apology outta you.”

He moves to stand. Your heart jumps up to your throat, ice shocks your system and kicks it into overdrive, leaving you behind as nothing more than a weight being dragged around like a ragdoll.

Your words are a mess of syllables, jumbled and rushed and pitched with fear and desperation. You find yourself scrambling toward him. If you'd been standing, you would have thrown yourself at his feet and damn near kissed his boots, the way you ramble your atonement.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry,” you gasp. You can't find anything else to say. The more you try to appease him, the more you panic, the less words make sense in your brain until the only thing that makes sense is how sorry and how pathetic you are. You rattle off your pathetic apologies over and over again until he's cutting you off with a thick palm over your mouth.

“Better,” he says. He lingers a moment, looking you up and down. You don't have the energy or the dignity to try to cover yourself from his predatory gaze anymore.

He sighs, finally grabbing you again and pulling you out of the cage. You can't stand very well, your legs a useless heap of bone and muscle beneath you. You look like a baby deer, the way you struggle to walk at his side.

He lowers you back into your chair. You're terrified he's going to hurt you anyway. It's hard to tell with him, whether or not he's going to hurt you M He's finicky and impulsive. He keeps you on your toes and doesn't allow you a moment to gather yourself enough to think clearly. Even if he did, this brain fog from the pain and the drugs and the need for food and water don't allow much to work with.

He fastens you to the seat. Once you're secure, he turns his back on you to go towards that steel table you've grown accustomed to seeing nothing but weapons on. You're already bracing yourself for the incoming pain. You're already preparing to be beaten.

But when you look over, you don't see weapons. No blades, no dirty rag, no bucket of water, no brass knuckles to dig into your flesh. Instead, you see another bowl of soup and glass of water, accompanied with that same box from before that he'd used to bandage your wounds before leaving you behind for however many days.

A mix of emotions is spiraling through you and making thinking that much harder. He's wetting a cloth with antiseptic and pulling out a wad of bandages. The smell of the soup finally hits you again, and you're drooling like the dog they've been treating you as.

Your swallow thickly as you watch him sort through that box. In a weak, little voice, you murmur those same little words haunting your mind. “You left me.”

He pauses, his chin tilting toward his shoulder before continuing as before. “Had to,” he says plainly, turning around with a rag in his hand that makes you flinch. Your lungs anticipate their struggle before your brain can explain that it's not meant for them. “I had work to do, and I couldn't leave you alone.”

He comes up close, raising the rag to your brow as he gently dabs at your split skin. You win e harshly but stay otherwise still. Your gaze falls, and you're swallowing down the heat in your throat and the burning in your eyes. You sound just as pathetic as before, but there's a growing bitterness mixing with a sort of pain and disgust you wish you didn't feel.

“You left me…with him.”

His eyes find yours briefly, before averting right back to your wounds as he continues to clean you up with more care than you originally thought him capable of.

“Either that or with the rest of the dogs. I don't want to leave my girl with big scary men who'll probably kill her once they've used her up.” The thought invades your mind like a plague, the room flooding with disgusting, evil men who would pass you around like a fucking toy. They'd laugh as they ruined you, they shove your face in it the same way someone would a dog's face to their own shit on the living room floor. “At least with him, I know they won't.”

It's hard right now to listen to him and not find the rationality in his words. A lesser evil, a kinder torture than the one you could have endured. In a way, he did save you from that pain, that torment, that soul-crushing humiliation that would kill you long before they did. Was the alternative desirable? Absolutely not. But it's better than what a group of twisted, perverted men would have done to you had they just been given a chance.

But you don't want to give that to him. He protected you, sure, but he's been hurting you still. Even as he bandages your wounds, gives you food and water, touches your face with tender fingers that make you melt the way you never should…

The confusion gives way to anger. It's an easier emotion, one you could run on until your heart gave out. You give in to it because the alternative is accepting that he has had a certain extent of good intentions for you. You can't do that. You just can't.

“You're lying.” You shake your head, letting the anger fuel you enough to seethe. “You're a liar, you don't care–”

The pain is sharp and disorienting as it flashes across your face. Your vision briefly goes black as the smack of his thick palm renders you silent, other than the pitiful sniffles you struggle to contain.

You don't meet his gaze when he speaks. You can't. You're afraid it'll break you more than you've already broken.

“Sorry, baby, but I can't have you disrespecting me like that,” he says. That same hand makes you flinch before you realize he's come to cradle the side of your face with that same gentleness that baffles you. You're shaking, refusing to look him in the eyes.

He sighs slowly, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger and guiding you to look back at him. You stare past him, exhausted and in pain and confused and wanting nothing more than a break from the madness.

He doesn't speak, he doesn't move. He remains completely still until you're forced to finally meet his waiting gaze.

You always thought yourself stronger than this. You've spent your whole life trained to take the pain, to return it tenfold, to be a force to be reckoned with no matter the challenge. You've always had so much strength and power and now? Now you're nothing more than sniveling prey, trembling like a leaf and struggling to look a man in the eyes as you fear the next time he decides to hurt you again.

His gaze is intense. He's unyielding. He strips you of any fight, any sliver of strength left in you. You're nothing under his gaze, and you can't tell if it's hurting you to be so useless or if it's a relief to let go of that fortitude that's been keeping you semi-sane.

He tilts his head. “I could have left you behind and never come back.” His voice is a purr. You shudder under it. “I could have told him to kill you. I could have killed you myself.”

Something in his eyes softens. You can't take it. You're barely holding on to whatever it could possibly be that you have left to hold on to. “But I don't, and I won't. Because you're mine, and I like my things to be treated well.”

He holds your gaze a moment longer before letting you go continue patching you up. You both sit in silence for a while. He disinfects your cuts and scrapes. He covers your wounds with tender fingers. He makes sure to take extra care in smoothing his thumb over each bandage before he moves on to the next.

When you speak again, he's on his knees with your hand in his own. He's cleaning blood and dirt from under your nails, wrapping bandaids over your fingertips, which had been scraped to hell from all the torment.

“Why am I still here?” you whisper. There's no bite, there's no strength. You're nothing more than a broken down girl in a cellar. “I already told you I don't know anything else, and it's not like my father will give up anything for me. He hates me just as much as I hate him.”

He's silent as he listens to you, stroking his fingers over your own with too much care. Something in you is melting down to nothing, and you let it because you don't care enough not to at this point. You're tired, and there's little point in fighting if you're just going to get hurt again.

If it were possible, you sound even weaker. You're slumped over and you feel heavy. You're certain your body is warning you of its impending shut down. “I'm not useful to anyone anymore… So why not just kill me and be done with it?”

He looks up at you from where he's knelt. One of his hands lands on your thigh, stroking the length of it with the slowest touch. “Believe it or not, Kitten,” he says, “you're of plenty use to me.”

He parts your thighs, and your heart begins to race all over again. The cold air of the cellar is crawling over your skin and leaving you trembling. “Y-You…” you swallow thickly, “...can find anyone else to use. You don't need me.”

He chuckles darkly, pulling the thong down your thighs to reveal yourself to him once more. “No one else is as fun as you, Kitten.”

You're exposed again before long, and you're too warm and too wet for him to resist licking his lips at the anticipation of you: the taste of you, the smell of you, the feeling of you trembling against his tongue once he finally gets to have you again.

You shiver and feel yourself beginning to squirm. “If this is all I'm good for,” you gasp, “you should just kill me now.”

He laughs. You feel his fingers a moment later, his knuckles dragging through your folds. Your leg jerks against your restraints. You're not entirely sure where you're trying to go, what you're trying to do. You just know that your body is aching, and you know that he's going to give you this pleasure whether you want it or not.

“You don't mean that,” he taunts. The pad of his thumb glides along your seam before lining up with your clit. He doesn't rub or stroke, he just holds it there, applying a miniscule amount of pressure—just enough to have you yearning for more.

“Does it matter?” Your breath shakes. His eyes stay locked on you, smirking like he knows something you don't. “Once Lucifer knows I'm useless, he'll get rid of me anyway. I'm a loose end, and loose ends are dangerous.” You speak in a rush, like the words will stop him if you get them out fast enough. (Is that even what you want?)

He lets a breath pass through him, amused and enjoying the way your hips search for his touch, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. “You can keep acting strong, sweetheart,” he coos, “but you're perfectly happy being here with me.” His smile spreads like something twisted. His dark eyes glisten, his thumb presses a little tighter. “You like being drugged up and used.”

You shake your head. It would be frantic if you could put enough energy into trying to be stern about this. Your voice comes out as a weak little “n-no”, completely and utterly unconvincing.

He raises his free hand, presses his finger to his plush lips with a taunting little shush. He says nothing else as he drags his thumb down and pushes it inside of you. Your jaw drops down. Your body had gotten so used to him, you've been craving his touch since the moment he left, and the feeling of it now is far too intoxicating as you let the thickness of him fill you.

“There you go,” he purrs in your ear, a dark rumble that you feel reverberating in your spine. “I know you missed me, sweetheart. Open up for me.”

You obey. You don't mean to, but it happens anyway. Something in you relaxes, makes way for him to sink his thumb deeper. Your jaw goes slack, tears spring to your eyes. His crooked smile widens, and then he pulls his thumb out of you.

The sound you make is dreadful. He laughs when your thighs shake, but you don't have the energy to be ashamed. Instead, you meet his eyes with a needy gaze and let yourself succumb, for the moment, to your cruelest desires. He watches in real time, his eyes getting dark in a way you have yet to see. You feel so exposed under his gaze—moreso than you already are. It's like he's cut you open, split you down the middle, and pulled your skin apart just to see what was inside.

He likes what he finds.

Without another word, he pushes two thick fingers inside of you. Tears fall down your cheeks, more relieved than you will ever let on. It feels so much better than it should—like you're finally being fulfilled after having something inside of you be empty for so long. Your head falls as you moan, parting your thighs by that much so he can sink them deeper.

He buries his fingers down to the base and curls his other hand around the back of your neck. Without any kind of tenderness, he pulls your head back up and presses your forehead to his. “Watch me,” he says as he slowly begins to thrust his fingers at a steady, tortuous pace. “I want you to watch me while you cum on my fingers like the sick little thing you are.”

Something twists inside of you like a rag, tighter and tighter like it's waiting to burst. His steady pace becomes faster and faster until your cries and moans are being echoed right back at you, the slick and squelching sounds of your pussy filling your skull. Your hips search out his touch as he fucks you on his fingers, wetter and wetter as he hits that squishy part in you over and over again. Relentless, unyielding.

Every time your eyes begin to drift shut, he huffs as he shakes his head. “Eyes on me.” A command, one you listen to without protest every single time. You keep your gaze locked on his, his eyes boring into your own until you feel like he's seeing something he should not have been able to find.

Your gut tightens, something in your chest curls in on itself. The palm of his hand presses itself up against your clit. You buckle under the pressure. “Ahh, please.” Your hips buck forward. “Please, God, please.”

He chuckles darkly, shaking his head without ever relenting. “You're not gonna find God here, Kitten.”

His calloused fingers stroke inside of you, deep and deliberate. They sink into you until you're gasping at how far he's gone. His gaze holds steady. In his eyes is a darkness that stirs in your gut, it winks back at you while you try not to lose yourself in the comfort of its familiarity.

“Keep lookin’ at me. There you go.”  His voice rumbles between you, sinks deep into your skin and into your brain until it's imprinting itself there. Something in you goes slack, it sighs like it's relenting to something that it had spent so much energy trying to resist. Your brain gets hazy and confused, makes it hard to see past anything but the way his gaze bores into your own like it holds a secret you already know.

“Let it go, baby.” He leans in close, and you miss the way your head tilts up to meet him until his lip curls into another dangerous smile. “That's right. Give it up,” he purrs. He gets so close, his lips brush your own, and you nearly choke at how bad you find yourself needing more.

His eyes consume you. The pleasure builds, crawling up your throat and infecting your brain. Everything else fades away until the only thing you can see, the only thing you can feel, is him. His gaze burns with possession, with a dark and twisted hunger. His fingers fuck you like he's rewiring the very processes of your brain, changing the fabric of your being.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and ragged. “D-don't…please.” Your eyes fill with tears, blurring your view of him.

His free hand reaches up, slow and tender and deceivingly kind. He strokes your tears away with a calloused thumb, clearing your gaze so you can see his smile. Inches away, with a voice dangerously soft, he purrs, “Oh, sweetheart… I already have.”

You're blinded by the orgasm that tears through you like something dark and destructive. Your jaw goes slack as your mouth drops open to let out the choked sob that claws its way up your throat. Still watching him, still finding yourself utterly lost in the sight of him, you come apart like wet sand in his hands.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice something close to a growl as he works you through the ecstasy. “Such a pretty, perfect little kitten… There you go. Give it to me, baby.”

Your brain goes numb, your skin and your gut and everything else about you is on fire. It burns down until you're nothing but a crisped little thing on the ground. You find solace in his eyes, the very things that have turned you inside out and altered your soul.

His lips crashed into yours as your pleasure continues to spasm. You shake and tremble as the kiss renders you otherwise paralyzed. His hand wraps around the back of your head and holds you to him as he devours you, his teeth sinking into your lip, his tongue invading your mouth and finally having a taste he's been salivating for since the beginning. The chill of his piercing laps at the roof of your mouth, and you want to suck on it until silver is all you know.

Your mouths mash together like they don't know how to do anything else. You don't find yourself pulling away. If your hands were free, you would tangle your fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pull him so close that your bodies would meld into one.

And when he goes to pull away, you lunge forward as much as your restraints will allow and consume him right back. You breathe him in and suck on his mouth until you're unsure if there was ever a time where he wasn't with you, where he wasn't this close and more. His fingers curl cruelly against a spot in you that makes you moan into his mouth and lap him up like he's the air you've been surviving off of your entire life.

Your lungs burn, your vision goes spotty behind your eyelids. He infects you like a sickness, like a disease that leaves you aching. Incurable, chronic, hooked to him like life support.

When he pulls away this time, you can't get any closer. You chase his lips, and his laughter rumbles like a growl. He watches you through lidded eyes, and you gasp for air that makes you sick with need. Your whole body shakes when he thrust his fingers deeply into you one last time before pulling out, emptying you like he's pulled your insides out and left them exposed on the dirty, concrete floor.

You never look away from him. He towers over you, his other hand still holding tight in your hair, his lips swollen and his breath almost as ragged as your own.

You moan around his fingers when he shoves them into your mouth. He presses down on your tongue, pushes them deeper until you're nearly gagging at every movement. You suck around them as you helplessly watch him. Drool oozes from the corner of your mouth and down your chin, dripping down onto your thighs.

His head tilts back, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. His lip curls into something primal as you lick his fingers clean of your own slick. Another praise rumbles in his chest and fills your head up. You whine when he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wipes them over your chest where he smears your saliva. Your gaze stays glued to him, hooded and dazed as you gasp for breath. You don't even notice yourself drooling still, even as it slicks up your chin and your chest and the bare skin of your thighs.

He watches you like you're a sight to behold, and you drink up the darkness in his eyes like whiskey. “Lucifer doesn't want to get rid of you,” he rasps, still inches away. His eyes dart between your own and your wet, parted lips. “Like I said, you're mine now. And as long as you know that, I have use for you.”

His words strike you like lightning, and you shudder at the way it shocks you as such. How stupid you've been not to figure it out, how naive to assume someone like you would be left in the hands of a miscellaneous. It settles in the pit of your stomach, it twists itself in knots that you find yourself hoping never go away.

“Lucifer,” you breathe, your voice barely above a broken whisper.

His lips curl into something devilish. He tightens his hold in your hair, pulls you closer until your foreheads are pressed together and he fills every speck of your sight.

He pushes forward, catching your lips once more with just as much possession, just as much lust and greed. You whimper and whine, just as eager to taste the hunger dripping from his mouth like honey. He pulls away with a smack, and licks his lips for good measure.

“Please…” he purrs, “call me Eddie.”

Stranger Things taglist: @activebliss @queermaxwooo @life-on-needs @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @emmalee-01 @sw34ter-w34ther @gublur @allofmaris @redwineandnicotine @the-cryptid @katsukis1wife @chaoticcancer @papichulo120627 @emistrash @jjmaybankswifes-blog @thegr8estpuff @lover-of-books-and-tea @xxhanililoxx @quickslvxrr @joonbread Eddie the Banished taglist: @iiiiluvhobie @eddiiiieeee @hb8301 @queermaxwooo @lovemegood @munsaniac @digital-charlie @eiriancrow @littleblondesoprano @alexxavicry @samz31 @sparkletash @fandomgirl17 @marjoriea13 @akiratoro420 @mewchiili @mischieftom @hiscrimsonangel @sadbitchfangirl @mediocredreams Taglist here...

"You almost ready, sweetheart?" Eddie calls from the bedroom.

"Almost!"

With the busy schedules of everyone lately, having some time with each other is a rare occurrence, but all of you still manage to make it happen.

You and Eddie will be spending the day with Robin and Steve. Spending a day of the weekend at Steve Harrington's always calls for some crazy shit to happen.

The bathroom door finally opens, and you step out to do a little spin.

"How do I look?"

Eddie wolf whistles. "Like we should be a few hours late to the meetup."

"We're already a few minutes late. Let's go, hotshot." You smirk.

"What babe wants, babe gets." Eddie stands, grabbing his keys out of his pocket.

Eddie's van pulls up to Steve's place, and he waves from his doorstep with a cig in his other hand.

"Let's go meet the guests, shall we?" You give him a cheek kiss before removing your seatbelt. Eddie starts to fidget with his pants.

"Are you seriously hard? It was just a cheek kiss!" You laugh.

"It's your cheek kiss! Christ, just give me a moment!" He panics, cheeks flushed a soft pink.

When Eddie finally manages to get himself together, you both walk up the catwalk to go and greet Steve. You extend your arms for a friendly hug.

"Hey, there. You look good." Steve compliments, moving his cig aside before returning your hug.

"So do you!"

After your exchange with Steve, Eddie gives him a respectful dap.

"Smoking without me, motherfucker?" Eddie jokes. He giggles when you smack his arm swiftly.

"He's on a strict no-nicotine diet."

"Really? We smoked a cig last week." Steve lies, grinning before he takes another drag. He laughs as you jokingly start scolding Eddie.

"Oh!" You say, tearing your attention from Eddie. "Where's Robin?"

"She couldn't make it. Something about a rash."

"…Okay…sounds like Robin. Well, I'll check on her as soon as I can." You link your arm with Eddie's.

"Go on in, I'll be right inside."

Once inside, you and Eddie begin admiring the decor of Steve's place. You've both grown up in households that are far from riches. His house never gets old.

"I'm gonna buy us a house just like this one day. And I'll work my ass off." Eddie warmly smiles.

"We have to ask him what his parents do, first. This house costs a fortune!"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it. I'll make it happen."

"I don't doubt it." Your eyes are gentle with him, showing just a fraction of the love you feel for him. Eddie's heart skips multiple beats.

"Dear Lord, when you look at me like that." His hands squeeze your hips tenderly, fingers kneading the sides of your ass. He cups it and squeezes it completely, getting a gasp out of you.

"Eddie, behave!"

"What if I don't wanna?" He chuckles.

"If Steve walks in here with your hands on my ass, I'm going to gut you!"

"Why? He knows we're together~."

"Eddie, I swear to-" The front door knob turns and you rip Eddie's hands from you, and he only giggles.

"Now." Steve claps his hands together . "We were going to play Spin the Bottle."

"…With Robin?"

"She was supposed to watch and bring Nancy…but to no avail…" Steve rolls his lips together.

"We'll play with you." You tease.

"Who am I gonna kiss?" Steve asks.

You eye Eddie up and down.

"What?! You want us to kiss?!" Steve shrieks.

"Don't you guys know how to have a little fun?"

"She's insane. She is actually insane."

"Makes it a bit interesting. Everyone expects a girl and guy to kiss. I get to pucker up for Sweetie-Pie Stevie." Eddie plays along.

"Gross, never call me that again."

"Wait…Robin was supposed to bring Nancy? Why didn't you?- oh."

Steve scratches his neck.

"You guys broke up again?" Eddie asks.

"Surprise." He gestures his hands cheerfully though his voice is calculated sarcasm. "We decided we're…better off as friends. The game was going to be for jst for well…fun."

"Oh, Steve. We're sorry. Eddie can kiss you and make you feel better." Eddie puckers his lips hard enough to make a sound, and Steve waves him off.

"Haha, very funny you two."

You head to the kitchen and grab an empty beer bottle. "You drink today?"

"Nah. Last night. Just a little."

"Well it's empty, so we can use it."

"I can't believe I'm getting wrapped up into this."

Spin.

Your bottle lands on Eddie, and in an instant you're full on making out with him. Steve wants to look away, but he can't. The unadulterated passion between you and Eddie makes him shift in his spot with longing.

"Your turn, Steve."

He gulps.

Spin.

The bottle lands on you.

"Well, well, well. You won't have to kiss Eddie, after all. At least for now."

When you crawl to him, you take his cheek into your palm, pulling him forward to slip your tongue into his mouth. He whimpers amd begins to kiss you back, cupping yours in return. Eddie watches with his dick beginning to poke in his pants. You try to pull away, but Steve doesn't let you. He's moaning softly under his breath, brows furrowed. You push him off to observe his face. He opens his eyes, afraid he crossed a boundary with you.

"Was- was that?-"

"Holy shit." You say. "You want to fuck me, don't you?"

Eddie's head tilts, which makes Steve panic.

"I'm sorry, I can't- fuck, I couldn't help it I just miss Nancy already-"

But neither of you are angry. You're intrigued. Steve catches on, and he raises a skeptical brows.

"What?"

"You want to fuck my girlfriend?" Eddie asks.

Steve sighs, feeling defeated. "Yes, okay? I do."

"Okay, Harrington. But you'd better do it right."

Your back rests on Eddie's chest as you're laying on top of him, your legs propped up and open. Your pussy is exposed to Steve, and he seems to be in a cold sweat.

"Come on Harrington, don't chicken out on us now." Eddie says coyly.

"It's just been a little while since I… did this."

Steve crawls onto the bed, gripping your thighs softly. He gifts your pussy with a soft kiss, testing the waters just before he snaps. He stuffs his face, his nose buried as he sucks on your clit. You gasp, and your legs shake.

"Steve!"

"Flick your tongue, she loves that shit." Eddie says.

Steve does just as told, his tongue moving rapidly on your clit. Eddie holds you against him firmer. Your thighs squeeze Steve's head, ruffling it out of it's previous perfection. Eddie's fingers fondle with your erect nipples, causing him to grow hard.

"Oh, Steve!"

"She's sensitive, Steve. I bet she's about to cum already. Come on baby, fuck his face like you do mine."

Your hips rock on Steve's tongue and nose, desperately fucking them to get you closer.

"Steve, I'm gonna-!"

Your thighs tighten like a vice around him when you cum with a scream of pure, dizzying pleasure. Eddie chuckles into your ear. "Good girl. Wanna use that pretty mouth of yours, baby."

Steve retreats, allowing you to turn around to go down Eddie's body, and undo his pants to stuff him in your mouth. Eddie groans, grabbing your hair as you start to suck him off. You poke your ass out on purpose, showing Steve your sticky cum webbed at your pussy.

You hear the shuffling sounds of Steve taking off his belt and pants before climbing onto the bed. He grabs the back of your neck, pushing every thick inch of himself into you. Your whine is muffled by Eddie's dick. He keeps you grounded with his hand on your hair, rutting his hips into your mouth.

Steve's fucking you steadily, moaning pathetically shaky from how wet you are. All the girl talks Nancy had with you about Steve having a big dick are true. He's blissfully stretching your pussy, his thick tip hitting your cervix with each thrust.

You take being fucked from both ends so well, rubbing your own clit to their moans.

"I love this fucking pussy." Steve speaks through shuddered breaths, giving your ass a hard smack. He spreads your cheeks to hit you harder from the inside which makes wet, lewd noises.

You're gagging on Eddie's dick with each face fucking thrust he gives you, and he sounds like he's on the verge of crying.

"Oh, baby- fuck!- his back arches amongst his orgasm, tiny orbs of sweat dripping down his face and neck. He cums into your mouth, not letting you up until he's done.

Steve's biting his bottom lip, fucking you hard to please himself. He's enjoying the way your pussy sucks him in, walls clinging to his dick. His head hangs back with his mouth agape as he stutters your name when he cums.

You orgasm with him, dripping cum out of both of your ends. You remove your mouth from Eddie, and he wipes your mouth with his thumb. Your eyes are dazed, and you're beautifully wrecked, yet happy.

"You liked that, baby?" He gets a satisfied nod from you. "Good pussy, right Harrington?"

Steve's speechless. Because it's true. He never thought Eddie would ever let him lay a hand on his irresistible girlfriend. Yet here he is, watching his cum drip out of you. Steve and Eddie exchange satisfied grins.

He’s gone full war paint. Eyeliner is smudged dark around those ridiculous doe eyes, turning them feral. The black shirt is ripped—sleeves torn off, collar cut into a deep V that shows the ink on his chest. His hair is wilder than you’ve ever seen it, and he’s grinning with that manic, unhinged grin you’ve seen across the D&D table, the one that says I am the Dungeon Master and tonight you are all at my mercy.

He grabs the mic.

"Hawkins!" His voice cracks through the room like a whip. "Are you ready to have your souls devoured? Because Corroded Coffin didn’t come here to play nice. We came here to raise the dead!"

The crowd roars. Eddie slings his beloved BC Rich Warlock low and strikes the first chord.

It isn’t just loud; it’s alive. Eddie doesn’t just play guitar—he wages war with it. His fingers fly up and down the neck, the body slung low against his hips , and his hair whips as he headbangs. He rules the stage like he rules the D&D table - fully immersed. 

You press your back against the wall and feel your pulse sync to the bass drum.

They play metal covers. Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Metallica make the crowd lose its collective mind. Eddie commands the room between songs, prowling the stage edge, pointing at people, and calling out hecklers with the same theatrical menace he uses on reluctant D&D players.

"You in the back! Yeah, you with the Bon Jovi patch—this is a metal show, brother. We don’t do ballads here."

The crowd eats it out of his hands.

And then, mid-song during a blistering cover of "Hallowed Be Thy Name", his eyes sweep the crowd and find you.

You see the exact moment recognition hits. His fingers don’t falter, but something shifts in his face. The stage persona cracks for a fraction of a second. Underneath it, it's just Eddie, staring at you through a wall of sound, looking stunned and raw and so nakedly happy that it makes your chest ache.

Then the grin comes back: wider, wilder, and aimed directly at you like a spotlight.

He launches into the solo like a man possessed. He plays the rest of the song right at you. Not obviously, but you feel it. Every shredding run, every howl into the mic, every time he drops to his knees on the stage and arches back with the guitar across his lap—it’s for you. 

By the time Corroded Coffin starts their last song, you are wrecked.

Not emotionally—well, yes, emotionally, but that’s secondary to the more immediate problem: watching Eddie Munson perform has turned you on so much it’s embarrassing to admit. The way he moves, the way he snarls into the mic, the way sweat runs down his throat while his chest heaves, and those ringed fingers moving with obscene dexterity... the same fingers that were inside you two days ago, curling against that spot while he whispered come for your Dungeon Master...

You are soaked. Standing in a dive bar full of strangers, thighs pressed together under your leather skirt, breathing through your mouth, absolutely drenched. The skirt is short enough that you’re viscerally, constantly aware of how little is between you and disaster. Every time you shift your weight, the leather slides against your thighs, and the lace underneath reminds you just how wet you are.

This is a problem.

You aren't the only one dripping deep down, though. While you’re still leaning on the wall, a braver girl in the front row unhooks her bra and throws it on stage.

Grave mistake. You start to make your way through the crowd.

Eddie doesn’t notice at first, but the other guys do. Following their stares, Eddie lifts the lacy thing and dangles it in the air.

"Looks like Cinderella dropped something. How could we find the owner and return this pretty thing?"

A few girls start to scream and wave their hands. Your eyes x-ray them for the absence of a bra. Suspicion lands on a steamy redhead, and you launch yourself at her.

"You bitch! He’s mine."

The girl pushes you away and your heels betray you. Someone catches your fall and shoves you back onto the redhead. You go straight for her hair.

"I will stuff that bra down your throat, you slut!"

Eddie should stop this, but he just stares, mesmerized by the fact that two girls are fighting for him. Or maybe that you're crazy enough to attack the other girl.

Her nails go for your face, but you turn away just in time, grip the chain around her neck, and pull. Her fist catches the side of your cheek. You return the favor.

It’s a fight between two feral cats: clawing, cursing, and pulling hair. For a minute you get on top of her, straddle her hips, and pin her hands down.

"Pick up your fucking bra and get out before I claw your eyes out!"

A few pairs of hands land on you and drag you away. You keep kicking and cursing until you’re in the back room with Eddie, who is clutching your hands.

"Hey, princess, it’s over. The rival is gone."

Your head is still spinning.

"Here, drink." He gives you a glass of cold water and wraps some ice in a towel to press to your cheek where you took a blow.

"Why did you pick it up?" you ask angrily.

"Sorry baby, I thought it would be funny for the show."

"Did I give you a show?" You snarl at him, still high from the fight.

"You sure did, and it was hot as hell. I’ll know better than to pick up underwear in the future. I'll let the guys have it. Honestly, that’s never happened before."

"Eddie, I don't know what got into me." You finally start to realize that you were fighting another girl over Eddie, and it could have been way worse than a few scratches.

"Oh, princess... I’ve never been this flattered in my entire life. But I can’t risk you getting hurt. You’re lucky that girl didn’t expect it. You scared her; Gareth is taking care of her."

"Wait, she’s not gone?"

"Take a breath, champ. I’m right here with you. Drink." His voice brings you back to the present moment, rough and wrecked from singing. "Let's get some air."

He helps you back into the shoes you lost mid-fight and guides you to the car, supporting your elbow.

Eddie leans against the building’s corner and lights a cigarette between his fingers. He’s damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged, and grinning like you gave him the best gift in the world.

"You came," he says. It isn't a question.

"Turns out I need to watch you," your voice comes out shaky. "I was in the area."

"In the area." He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between you. "Of a dive bar. On a Friday night. In a band tee you definitely didn’t own a week ago." His gaze feels like he’s undressing you. "And a leather skirt that’s doing things to me."

"It’s vintage."

"The shirt is vintage. The skirt is a cold weapon and we both know it." He stops in front of you, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin. He braces one hand on the car roof above your head, caging you the way he did in the school hallway. His voice drops. "So tell me—how was the show?"

Your back is against the car door. Your heart is trying to escape through your ribs.

"It was fine."

"Fine." He leans closer, lips almost brushing your ear. He smells like smoke, sweat, and that cheap cologne he wears that has no right smelling as good as it does on him. "Is that why you launched at that girl like a wild cat?"

"I’m possessive."

"Yes you are, and you’re certainly very jealous." His free hand finds the hem of your skirt, fingertips resting on bare thigh just below the leather edge. "I’m so horny from watching you fight for me."

"Eddie..."

"Can’t help it. It’s like trying not to stare at a car crash." He pauses. "A really, really hot car crash." His fingers inch higher under the skirt, tracing the edge of lace. "And unless I’m mistaken... you feel the same."

You grab his wrist, but not to stop him.

"Get in the car," you say, before the reasonable part of your brain can stop you. 

Eddie’s eyebrows rise. "What?"

"Get in the car, Munson. Now. Back seat."

His grin splits slow and wicked. "Bossy. I like it."

You yank the back door open. Eddie tosses his cigarette, folds to get inside, and you climb in after him, pulling the door shut. The light dies behind the tinted windows. The back parking lot is mostly empty now.

The back seat of your car wasn't designed for this. It’s tight, the leather seats creaking as Eddie settles in the middle with his legs spread to make room for you. You don't hesitate.

You climb into his lap.

The leather skirt rides up your thighs the second you straddle him, bunching at your hips and leaving nothing but the lace of your panties between you. Eddie’s hands go to your bare thighs immediately, and his breath hatches when you settle your weight right against him, already hardening against his jeans.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Okay. This is happening. In your fancy car. In a dive bar parking lot."

"Shut up." You grab fistfuls of his ruined shirt and kiss him, tasting his last cigarette. The adrenaline of the fight still lingers and you want to claim him, prove he’s entirely yours. He groans into your mouth and pulls you tighter, grinding you down against him. You catch his lower lip and bite hard, then soothe with your tongue. 

"You were so hot there..." You bite his neck. "On stage. The way you..." Another bite. "I couldn’t allow her..."

"Use your words, little feral." He’s grinning against your mouth, hands palming your breasts and pulling the shirt up. "What specifically about watching me play guitar made you so crazy that you attacked a fangirl and dragged me into your car?" The denim seam rubs against your clit through soaked lace, making you whimper.

"Everything." You grind down, and you both moan. "Your hands. Your voice. The way you..." He reaches for his belt, both of you panting in the dark. "The way you played for me. Like nothing else in the world existed."

Eddie’s expression softens for one second.

"Nothing else did exist," he says quietly. "You were there." Eddie frees his large cock, teasing your clit with it through the lace. 

Your breath catches. "That was smooth, Munson."

"I have my moments." He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the spot below your ear that makes you shudder. "Now, are we doing this properly, or are you going to keep humping me?"

"I’m going to ride you," you say, watching his beautiful eyes, "and you’re going  to tell me you’ll never pick up whatever garbage they throw on stage."

"Yes ma’am." Eddie whispers. "Yes.”

He lifts his hips, shoving jeans and boxers down just enough. You reach under your skirt, hook your thumbs in the lace, and drag your underwear down your thighs and off one heel. The other dangles from your ankle, and neither of you cares. The skirt stays on, bunched at your waist, with your heels still on your feet.

Eddie produces a condom from his wallet and rolls it on with shaking hands. Then you sink onto him.

Eddie’s head falls back against the seat. His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise. His mouth falls open with no words—just a raw, guttural sound that vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck," his voice cracks. "You feel so good."

You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift, then drop. Lift again. You find a rhythm, slow at first, rolling your hips, adjusting the angle until... there, that spot. You gasp, and Eddie’s eyes snap to yours, wide and wild in the dark.

"That’s it," he rasps. "Right there? Show me."

You show him.

The car rocks slightly, the windows fog with your heavy breathing. Somewhere distant, a motorcycle starts but you’re too gone to care.  You ride him with the leather skirt shoved up around your waist and your heels digging into the back of leather seats. Hips rolling, grinding, thighs burning, sweat sliding between your shoulder blades. Eddie keeps one hand on your hip to guide you, while his other hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit without even looking.

"My crazy girl..." Eddie pants against your ear. He grabs the back of your neck and kisses you, sloppy and desperate, hips snapping up to meet yours. The car bounces harder. His thumb circles faster on your clit. You fuck him harder, bouncing now, one hand on his shoulder and the other fisted in his hair. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting deep where you need it. You can feel your high building like a coil tightening low in your belly.

"You watched me the whole time?" he growls against your throat. "Got wet just watching me play?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Couldn’t stop. Wanted to climb on stage and..."

He cuts you off with a hard thrust that makes you cry out.

"Next time," he promises, his voice wrecked. "Next time I’ll pull you up there. Fuck you right on the amp stack while the crowd watches."

The idea pushes you over the edge. You come whispering his name with your broken voice, shaking and clenching around him so tight he can’t hold back a small moan. 

Eddie follows right after. His hips snap up, burying deep with a guttural groan, his face pressed into your neck. 

You stay like that: sweaty, panting, tangled in the back seat. His arms are wrapped around you, your forehead drops on his shoulder. Eddie kisses your temple soft and tender.

"You really came."

"Couldn’t stay away," you whisper back.

He smiles real: not the stage grin, not the DM smirk, something he keeps just for you.

"Good."

"Your set was good," you mumble into his neck.

"My set was legendary, and you know it." He wraps both arms around you, loose and warm. "Also, did you just fuck me in the back seat of what I’m now realizing is a very expensive car? While wearing heels that cost more than my van? Because I feel like that’s a class mobility moment we should acknowledge."

"Shut up, Munson."

"Never." He kisses the top of your head. "Not when I’ve got a city girl in my lap who just made sounds that would get her expelled from the country club."

You bite his collarbone. He yelps, then laughs.

The parking lot is completely empty now. The neon sign of the Hideout is off. You end up back at the trailer because neither of you wants the night to end.

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