#fic: stuck in the. middle
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Chapter 3: Behind the Door
Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron "Slider" Kerner
Summary: Interrupting Iceman.
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering
Chapter: 3/4
Minors DNI
Previous Chapter
Slider's head whips around, shoulders drawn tight toward his ears as the crash of the door startles you both.
"Kerner!"
The split-second of terror subsides with that voice.
Ice.
Slider grunts, stubbornly diving back between your thighs. A man on a mission.
"I know you're up here, and I'm giving you to the count of three."
"No," you whimper, hips rocking against Slider's fingers, urging them to work faster. "Don't stop."
"One."
Instead of responding, Slider's breath ghosts over your clit as he presses two fingers into your cunt, curling them to pinpoint your sweet spot and hurtle you toward the edge.
The click of Ice's shoes is loud as he stalks toward you. "Two."
"So good," Slider hums against your slick skin. You squeeze your eyes closed, keening at the praise. "Almost there, baby."
Sli hisses as fingers fist in his short hair and yank him from between your legs.
"Three."
You whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation and the pour of cool night air over heated skin.
Slider has the audacity to flash Ice a smug smile. "Oh," he says as if he hadn't known the two of you were no longer alone. "Hey, Ice."
Pale eyes narrow as if asking Slider if that's the game they're going to play, then Ice pulls a tissue from his pocket and holds it to his RIO. "You've got lipstick on your face."
Slider's tongue peeks out to lick his lips. "That's not the only thing on my face."
Ice doesn't dignify him with a response, only releasing Slider when he stands and steps back to give you enough space for Ice to resettle you—steadying you on your own two feet and smoothing wrinkled velvet before procuring another tissue to help clean up the rouge smudged beyond the bounds of your lips.
Once you're deemed presentable, Ice descends the steps with his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with an insistent tug that makes you feel more like an insolent child than his date. You want to stamp your feet as Ice assures you that he only needs to talk to a couple more officers he wants to speak with before you can get out of there.
Between the forced separation through staggered travel to D.C. and the night's two encounters—both of which had taken you to the very edge before leaving you high and dry—you're at your limit. So, to say you aren't paying attention to the conversation is an understatement. How are you supposed to pay attention to anything when you're oscillating between the jitters of unsated arousal and lightly filtered frustration?
Because who the hell does he think he is—do they think they are—to draw you into their little macho pissing contest? It's a wonder Iceman and Slider can both fit into the cockpit with their egos so blown out of proportion.
What should it matter in the end? They know you're going home with both of them.
Not that you get to say any of this. Instead, you're left to stew with empty eyes, a pinched smile, and a clenched fist at Ice's side as he makes a good impression on a commander. You're scraping the barrel with each half-hearted laugh at the officer's dull jokes, the Brut in your glass swirling between your fingers untouched. Each shift of your legs brings you closer to angry tears as the spit between them turns tacky, the microabrasions from Slider's stubble smarts reminding you of your lack of undergarment and the dissatisfied, borderline painful feeling of emptiness.
But it'll be a cold day in hell before you let any tears fall. You have your own pride to manage, and besides, no one wants to mingle with the serviceman whose date's eyes burn a tear-stung red.
"How much longer?" you ask Ice once the commander leaves.
Ice gives you an assessing look, eyebrows pulled down, and his head lightly tilted. You can't tell if he feels bad about what he's putting you through or is confused by your shortness of tone. "Impatient?"
You scoff, barely repressing the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you take a sip of your Brut, nose wrinkling as it bursts bitter across your tongue. "Whatever," you huff, done with the conversation and resigning yourself to more of the same. Ice had said there were "a couple" officers he wanted to talk with, after all.
Ice draws a deep breath in through his nose; lips pursed as he looks up to the ceiling. You know he's looking for the right words. You're still determining what those words would be. You know for a fact he won't find them painted on the ceiling.
Lucky for you—because you're not done being upset with him yet—Ice can't pinpoint what he's looking for before you're interrupted.
"Woah!" a familiar blonde excuses, bumbling into Ice and nearly spilling his beer on matching whites. "Sorry about that, still got my sea le– oh! Ice, hey!" Excuse dropped as a beamish grin overtakes Wolfman's face, cheeks tinged pink with drink.
"Wolf," you giggle as Wolf pulls you into a better mood with a friendly hug. It's hard to be all doom and gloom when Wolf's involved; he's a veritable ray of sunshine. "Where's 'Wood?"
"Pfft," he snorts. "Where's anyone? I mean, 'Wood's somewhere with his girl, but one minute I'm with Sli and Chip, the next Sli's gone and Chip's found himself a pretty little thing to dance with." He shrugs, not looking too plussed about his situation.
"I'll dance with you, Wolfie," you jump to offer. "Ice is being boring anyway."
Ice frowns. Wolf laughs. "Who am I to say no to a lady?" he asks, pulling you into an off-kilter twirl. "Don't worry, Ice, she's in good hands!" he calls over his shoulder as you practically drag him toward the dancefloor.
What Wolfman lacks in prowess, he makes up for in enthusiasm. By the time Hollywood and his fiancée find the two of you on the dancefloor—not a surprise since 'Wood and Wolf are practically connected at the hip—you're a little breathless from trying to keep up.
It's a good time, but you can only be so distracted, and it's only a matter of time before you begin scanning the crowd. Either you'll find Slider, or he'll find you, but you'll be damned if he doesn't finish what he started.
You know Ice has people he wants to impress and a ladder he's trying to climb, but shouldn't you be at the top of his list? With this thought at the helm, it isn't long before you spot a head of brown curls that towers above the rest. You rock onto your tiptoes to feed Wolf a lie—bathroom—and push through the crowd alone.
Except as you get closer, it becomes glaringly apparent that this tall brunet is not Slider.
You scowl at no one in particular when you come up empty-handed.
As you decide to keep searching until you find Slider—and, ultimately, relief—someone grabs you from behind.
You whirl around, ready to smack the person's hands off of you.
It's Pete.
You smack him anyway.
"Ow!" Pete yelps, more from surprise than pain. You didn't hit him that hard. "What the hell?!"
"Pete Mitchell, who do you think you are grabbing a lady–"
"You're hardly a lady."
"–from behind like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Pete disarms you with a light pinch to your side that has you clamping your arms against your sides to protect against further tickling. "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Didn't think I'd catch you without one or the other."
You suppress a roll of your eyes. "Who knows."
"Sooo," Pete drawls a bit awkwardly, "does this have anything to do with the weirdness going on between the three of you?"
"Oh my god. You know," you groan, unable to stop yourself from hiding your face in your hands. How embarrassing.
"I don't know-know," Pete's quick to correct, "and I don't want to. But I know something's up."
This isn't something you're delving into with your brother. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Doesn't seem like nothing if you're avoiding them."
"Like you're avoiding Penny's dad?" you snark back. Deflecting. "I'm surprised you decided to stick around."
"He's old. It's probably past his bedtime," Pete says confidently, a smile tugging at his lips. "The night's mine."
"Whatever will you do with this newfound freedom?" you tease.
Pete gives a half-shrug, surveying the room. "I'm sure some poor officer brought his daughter so she could meet the love of her life."
You don't bother holding in a mocking laugh. "And that's you?"
"No." Pete makes a face. "But I can be her something for the night."
"Ew," you grunt because you so do not want to get into that with your brother. "I need a drink."
A hand catches your elbow as you turn. "Going somewhere?"
You refuse to look as you shake Ice's hand off and continue walking.
"So you're going to ignore me." It's a statement.
"Don't you have other people to talk to?"
Ice reaches for your elbow again, turning you so he can meet your eyes with his own. "I want to talk to you."
"That's my cue," Pete mumbles as he slinks into the crowd, presumably to find trouble.
Neither you nor Ice move, and your stomach roils as his jaw sets, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're mad at me."
Part of you wants to tell him off. Instead, you shake your head. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," Ice says, with a curt nod, his shoulders—which had been bunched—rolling back as he becomes more sure of himself. "I can work with that."
Something about the way he says it rankles you, and you sneer. Earlier, you'd been all aboard hanging off Ice's arm, but now you're wound tight enough to burst, and all you want to do is take a hot bath. And now that he's made you this way, you're something that needs to be dealt with.
"Let's grab some fresh air," Ice says, loud enough to settle any eavesdroppers as he leads you toward the outdoor courtyard with a gentle but commanding grasp on your elbow.
But you pass by the turn for the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me?" The smell of cigar smoke thins as you walk along less-traveled hallways.
"I'm taking care of it," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and continues to drag you after him.
Venturing further from the intended party spaces, the lights dim. You doubt the venue means for you to be down here.
Instead of voicing these thoughts, you scoff. "Helpful."
Making sure you're alone, Ice pulls you down a deserted hallway. "You're frustrated. I have people to talk to," he says slowly, sparing you a glance.
You frown. There goes Ice, talking about other people. Again.
He beelines for two unassuming doors, reaching out to the first, but its handle jiggles. Catches. Locked.
"I'm taking care of it."
Before you can challenge that assertion, Ice steps to the side and grabs the handle to the second door, marked STAFF ONLY.
It clicks.
Ice pushes you inside, following close behind.
The light coming through the foot of the door isn't enough to tell you where you are. But the clinical, electric-orange antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies invading your nose, singeing the hairs, is more than enough to give it away.
When you cross your arms over your chest, something falls to the ground with a wooden clack! "By dragging me into a janitor's closet?"
"Well, you said you'd be good for me, but that didn't last long."
You reach for where the handle must be, but Ice anticipates your moodiness and moves to intercept, deflecting your hand. "But the bet was that Slider couldn't get you off." His breath fans your face as he leans in, so you tilt your head away to avoid his lips. Stubborn. Undeterred, he kisses the long line of your neck, and the ghost of soft lips has you holding back a gasp. "So I'm taking care of it."
"What if it doesn't want to be taken care of?"
Sharp teeth are a shock beneath the hinge of your jaw. "Don't be a brat."
A strangled moan trips past your lips as he catches you off guard.
You don't have to see Ice to know he's smirking. "Noted." Then his hand is cupping your breast. "So, are you going to let me take care of you or not?"
You're not proud of how quickly you crumble, but it's like a switch flips. You hope Ice is okay with the whiplash because after an entire night of teasing, you're desperate for relief. "Please," you whimper, pushing yourself further into his orbit. You want so bad it hurts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got you." Ice captures your lips in a heated kiss—nipping at your bottom lip so you hiss and open up for him. He knows what you need, and he's (apparently) going to give it to you.
Your fingers, clumsy in their haste, scramble for Ice's belt, but he brushes them aside. "This is about you. I'll get mine later," he says, tilting your head to the side so he can track wet kisses up to the spot just below your ear, electricity sparking down your spine as teeth tug at the lobe. "When I lay you out on my bed."
A high-pitched, excited moan is your answer, interrupted by Ice's fingers over your lips. "You've gotta be quiet," he purrs, voice low in your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear us."
"Then kiss me." He does. And as you breathe in deep, the whole situation makes you feel like you're back in high school: shelving digging into your lower back like you're sneaking around, trading uncoordinated kisses in the janitor's closet with David Hodges until your brother finds you and rips poor David away for an ass-beating. But infinitely better.
Ice's lips are familiar. Urgent and addictive against your own as he swallows your whimper—nothing like David.
Ice pinches your fat bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a slick smack. You suck in a sharp breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at the shadow of him in the dark. "So pretty," he growls, fabric rustling as he hastily cuffs the sleeve of his jacket and pushes it up to his elbow to keep it safe from what he has planned.
Handfuls of velvet are bunched around your waist so you can spread your legs more freely, and Ice can slot his hand between them.
Threading your fingers through his hair, you return his lips to yours. You both groan from the kiss—you from the relief of his hands on you, the promise of a sweet release; him from how wet and needy you are (Slider's work, really, but Ice seems keen to reap the benefits).
When you break apart to gasp for air, Ice husks, "I'd get my mouth on you." And it conjures the image of Slider's wicked brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs, your cunt throbs. God, you want that. "Too bad I can't smell like pussy while I'm talking to the brass." But he allows himself the indulgence of a single taste, bringing fingers slick with your arousal to his lips.
You shake your head, unsure if his eyes have adjusted enough to see you. "Unprofessional," you agree, dizzy as his fingers plunge back into your heat. The heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your clit, his fingers working with the frantic cant of your hips as you chase a high that's walking the line of pain in its evasion of you. A steady, unignorable ache.
Ice drags his nails over the dense fabric covering your tits, your nipples pebbling at the faux cool sensation. "Tell me what you need," he whispers against your lips.
Relief is so close the air is thick with it. It tastes like Lysol. You stutter out a breath, and it morphs into a quiet whine. "Just like that," you mewl. "Keep touching me like that."
"Yeah?" Ice teases, a third finger sneaking into you and zeroing in on your sweet spot, thumb coming up to rub circles into your clit. What little light there is in the closet glints off the sharp point of his teeth as his lips part. "You're going to cum on my fingers," he declares, and your heart skips a beat when it jumps into your throat. "Then, you're going to go back to being my good, pretty girlfriend while I talk business," he presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips, and you can't contain a needy, lilting whine, "and no one will know you needed to cum on my fingers just to make it through the night."
"Oh god," you sob, nails digging into the starched fabric of Ice's jacket. You're right there. Liquid flames lick at your core, your tummy tied in knots and thighs jumpy as Ice speeds up his fingers, a muffled squelch each time his fingers bottom out, knuckles pressed tight to your cunt.
The two of you are so distracted that you don't hear the frantic footsteps until they're almost on top of you.
Ice jerks his fingers from you, yanking your dress back into place at the same time as he steps between you and the door to the closet, blocking you from whoever's about to fling the door open.
But it doesn't stop your eyes from meeting your brother's over his shoulder.
Pete slams the door shut.
Silence. Then: "You still dressed?"
Posture going rigid, Ice shoots the door a barbed look. "Maverick–" Pete shushes him through the door. He must be pressed up against the wood. Ice gives in but doesn't give up, continuing with a more hushed, "–what the hell?"
A pause. "That's not a no," your brother mulls. "Scoot over. I'm coming in."
"No!" You and Ice hiss simultaneously, but Pete is already squeezing himself into the closet with the two of you, pressed tight against Ice's back as he shuts the door firmly but with as much care as he gives his Kawasaki.
"Look," Pete whispers, and maybe his hands would be up in a placating manner if there were enough room, "I either hide in here with you two or hack it out there with Admiral Benjamin."
Without the distraction of each other, you and Ice hear far more measured footsteps hesitate at the far end of the hall before heading in your direction.
"I like your chances," Ice bites. "Leave."
Pete jostles all three of you as he turns to get into Ice's face as much as he can, given the confines of the closet. A shelf creaks, but nothing falls. "Well, it won't look good on you either," he whispers furiously. "Huh? Ice-cold, no mistakes, making out with your date in a closet like you're at junior pr–" Ice slaps a hand over his mouth, and the three of you fall deathly still.
The tension thickens until the footsteps pass you by.
No one dares to let out a quiet, adrenaline-shaken breath, even when the footsteps sound like they must have reached the other end of the hallway. Pete does, however, allow his shoulders to sag in relief.
Then, the footsteps pause.
They grow closer—louder—once more. This time, the muffled chaf of dress shoes on the carpet sounds like it's purposefully approaching the closet. Each step ratchets the tension up exponentially. You hold still, certain that if you shift your weight, something on the open shelving will give away your location. Ice, still shielding you from the door, brings a hand up to pet the back of your neck; the cool metal of his Academy ring—grounding any other time—sends a nervous trickle down your spine.
Benjamin is obviously after Pete, but how bad will it look that the two of you are in the closet with him?
There's a mechanical squeal of metal catching, handle turning, getting stuck. Jiggle. A grunt as he encounters the locking mechanism of the next door over.
Two shadows block the ambient light at the bottom of the door.
Well, you pinch your eyes closed. This will be embarrassing.
"Admiral Benjamin," someone calls from further away.
"Ah," the response comes uncomfortably close to your door. "Lieutenant…?"
"Kerner, sir." Slider. "I was with Lieutenant Kazansky earlier. Did you ever find Mitchell?
Two quick raps on the door. Pete flinches. "I believe I have." And Admiral Benjamin sounds smug.
The statement hangs in the air.
"In a closet, sir?" You can see the skeptical raise of Slider's brow in your mind's eye.
The shadow shifts. "I'm sure he came this way."
"Well, I just saw his RIO headed toward the taxis." A pause. "He's a slippery little shit. If he was here, he's long gone by now."
"Hm." Admiral Benjamin doesn't move, but from the sound of things, neither does Slider. "Well, Lieutenant. Really good stuff on the Enterprise."
Slider thanks him as the shadows disappear from the doorway and footsteps hurry off on a Goose chase.
When you're sure the admiral has left the vicinity—thankfully not asking Slider why he decided to stick around—Pete stumbles out of the closet with all the grace of a baby giraffe but none of the height. "Aw, Kerner," he teases with a dopey grin, "you do like me."
Slider snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The Geese are waiting for a taxi."
Pete's chin falls to his chest, and he mumbles a "goddammit" before hurrying to see if he can avoid Admiral Benjamin by sneaking through the courtyard.
"They're not the only ones," Slider tells Ice, nodding in the general direction of what remains of the Ball's attendees. "If you want to talk to anyone else, now's the time."
But as you practically tremble between them, Ice looks at you—really looks at you—and his features soften. He cups your shoulder, offering but not pulling you into his side. "I think I've networked enough for one night," he declares, tone light. His thumb rubbing back and forth, soothing.
Then those gray-blue eyes are on you, and his lips stretch into a slow, soft smile. "No one I can't talk with some other time."
"You sure?" Slider asks. Then, hushed, "I can take care of her while you finish up."
There is quite literally nothing you want less. The venue is clearly cursed, and you don't plan on sticking around long enough to find out what other ways you can get caught or edged tonight.
"The bet's off," Ice states before you can say 'no,' and your heart flutters. If Ice wasn't going to stick around for one last round of shoulder-rubbing, then winning was only a matter of getting you in a taxi.
For his part, Slider doesn't seem as shocked as you are by Ice's declaration.
Ice feathers a kiss to your temple before you can second-guess his decision. It's the most relaxed you've seen him all evening. "Let's get you a taxi."
"Wait." Slider pushes off the wall. He procures a key from his pocket and presses it into Ice's hand. "Holiday Inn. K Street. Leave in 10 minutes."
Ice fiddles with the thick plastic of the keychain but pays it no real mind.
"Don't give me that look," Slider boos.
Ice licks his lips. "You know our rooms were comped, right?" It's a perk of being summoned to the event, you're sure.
Slider takes a half step forward, the three of you the closest you've been all night. From this distance, Ice has to look up ever so slightly to meet Slider's cocky gaze. "You want to what?" he asks, voice going deep and quiet enough no one else could hear if they happened by you. "Pile into a single room at the same hotel everyone else is staying at?" He motions between the three of you. "How's that going to work?"
Some like to write Slider off as all muscle, no brain. But it's his job to see things others don't—things Ice doesn't. He knew they couldn't take you back to their fancy hotel rooms even before he came to the event tonight. The safest solution had been to shell out for a lesser room somewhere you were less likely to turn heads.
"She isn't exactly known for being quiet," Sli stresses.
Ice ponders the key for long seconds before he pockets it with a nod.
Slider smirks. "That's what I thought."
#thirsty's fics#fic: stuck in the. middle#fic: stuck at the navy ball#chapter 3: behind the door#tom iceman kazansky x reader#tom iceman kazansky x f!reader#ron slider kerner x reader#ron slider kerner x f!reader#female reader#tom iceman kazansky x reader x ron slider kerner#top gun smut#tom iceman kazansky smut#ron slider kerner smut#the '86 flyboys#because is fucking your rival-turned-friend's sister even fun if you don't have to be over-the-top sneaky about it?
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No Blood Here | Steddie x Reader
Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Chapter 1: Stuck in the Middle
Warnings: Unprotected sex, cunnilingus, rough sex, spitting, begging, creampie.
Summary: After a bad relationship, you make the self-destructive decision to sleep with your stepbrother, Eddie Munson
You sighed as you inspected your earrings in the mirror. They just weren't doing it for you. You were heading to a party on campus at the local Hawkins University. You were a full time student with a part time job, so you didn't get to go out and have fun very much. It was time you did.
After a terrible breakup last year, you were ready to get back out there again. You'd put on a tight skirt and sweater, ready to drink with your friends and let loose for once. You had even put on heels, makeup and did your hair, but these damned earrings just weren't right.
"Where's your mom?" Eddie's voice came from behind, and you looked away from your ears to watch him in the mirror. He shook a pile of clothing at you, "She said she'd sew these for me."
Ah, Eddie Munson. You'd had a dreadful crush on him in high school, even though he was "Scary Eddie" with his black clothing and painted nails. He was never interested in you, and now you supposed that was fine since he was technically your step brother.
Six months ago your mom married Wayne Munson in a whirlwind romance while you were taking a semester abroad. You didn't even know about it until you got a picture in the mail while you were in Paris of them at the courthouse, Eddie lurking in the background in a ridiculous all-black getup and eyeliner even for their special day.
You got home a month ago, and since then you've been dealing with Eddie in your house all the time. He didn't like you, and he didn't like the house, opting instead to sleep in the basement which he affectionately called, ‘The Cave’. He bitched all the time about how lucky you had it that you grew up in a three bedroom house in town instead of the trailer park. He was right, but he didn't need to yell at you about it. It wasn’t your fault, after all.
He looked too pretty like that in a Metallica shirt and patched jeans. Your mom had taken great pride in fixing Eddie's clothes, making sure they matched his style. His hair hung over his shoulders, and he raised his brows at you when you didn't answer, impatient as ever.
"She and Wayne went out to dinner," you told him, taking off the earrings. You dropped them into your jewelry box and dug around for a different pair.
Eddie groaned, cursing to himself, "Do you know how to sew? I need these tonight."
You turned and headed over to him, holding out your hand for it. Eddie dropped it into your palm, leaning against the door frame and squinting down at you.
"How do you always tear your clothes?" you scoffed, moving over to one of your drawers. You weren't as good a seamstress as your mother, but you could patch the holes in his jeans.
You had no idea what Eddie got up to outside of the house. During the day he worked with Wayne at a mechanic shop in town since the plant closed down a few years ago. He’d decided not to go to college after barely finishing high school. After work, he usually came home long enough for dinner with you, your mom, and Wayne, but hauled ass out of the house soon after. He’d come home smelling like weed and cheap beer… and even cheaper perfume.
You bent over to search for your sewing kit, and a wolf whistle erupted behind you.
"What are you wearing, sweetheart?" Eddie asked slyly. He only seemed to call you that when he wanted to be an asshole. "Or should I say, not wearing?"
You stood up sharply, your face rushing with heat. There was no way your skirt was short enough for him to see your tiny underwear, was there?
Turning slowly, you faced him with a sheepish glare. "Do you want me to fix your pants or not?"
"Where are you goin’, anyway?" he asked, ignoring your question. "You got a hot date?"
"I'm going to a party on campus," you told him sharply. You snatched your sewing kit, careful not to bend down too much, and went back over to your vanity to fix his jeans.
Sitting down in front of the mirror, you went to work. Eddie sidled up behind you, smirking at you in the reflection. He put both hands on the table, caging you in from behind. His breath landed hotly on your cheek, "You trying to get laid tonight?"
“Ugh, Eddie!” you snapped, swatting at him over your shoulder. He dodged it easily, and made no move to pull away. If anything, he got closer, his chest brushing your shoulder blades.
“What’s a good girl like you going out dressed like that if you aren’t trying to score?” he asked. His dark eyes glittered in the mirror, way more playful than the mood you were in. “What would your mother say, sweetheart?”
“Will you leave me alone?” you seethed, nearly baring your teeth at him. You were embarrassed enough that he was right. It had been way too long since you’d had an orgasm by someone other than yourself, but it was none of his business.
You sewed up the gash in his pants the best you could, desperately trying to ignore him looming behind you. When they were finished you snipped off the excess thread and held them up for him.
"There, now go away."
Eddie took them out of your hands, eyeing the stitches. Slowly, he set them back on the vanity, caging you in once more with his palms on your makeup table.
"What do those guys have to offer you anyways?" he asked quietly, but it had an edge to it.
You cleared your throat and shrugged, "Fifteen minutes of forgetting about school and work and everything else."
"Can those guys even make you cum?"
The question startled you so much you sat up ramrod straight, your back pressing into Eddie's chest. You flinched away nervously and avoided his gaze, sputtering, "That's, th- that is none of your business!"
"So that's a no," Eddie chuckled. His hands pulled away to grip the back of your chair, and suddenly you're pulled away from the table. He rounded you before you knew it, getting on his knees on the plush rug beneath you. His dark eyes shone with amusement as he gazed up at you. "Those dumb frat boys can't satisfy you, sweetheart."
"Eddie, what are y-," you began, but he set his warm palms on your knees, thumbs rubbing circles on the tops of your legs.
"I've been thinking about these strong cheerleader thighs since high school," he mutters, eyes trailing up your bare legs to your tiny skirt. "I wonder what makes them tremble…”
His wide palm slid up the inside of one of your legs, and your eyes followed until he reached the lining of your skirt. Your brain seemed to kick into gear, thighs clamping shut around his hand, “Eddie! What the hell are you doing?”
His eyes went wide, catching yours, but that smile didn’t fade. He sat up on his knees, nuzzling his nose close to yours. It’s nearly impossible to swallow the lump in your throat as he whispered in a gravelly voice, “Now, why would you go all the way to Hawkins U to get your rocks off when I’m right here?”
“W-what?” you stuttered, watching him nervously, but your heart was falling back into a bad habit. Eddie Munson was beautiful, and all four years of high school you’d fantasized about kissing those full lips. Here they were a few inches away, but reality couldn’t help but rear her ugly head. “We’re… practically related, Eddie…”
“Technically, we’re step cousins,” Eddie shrugged. The muscles of your inner thighs quivered around his still-trapped hand. The other one smoothed its way up your leg, palming your hip. “No blood here, sweetheart. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
He leaned forward, bumping his nose with yours and nearly making you jump out of your skin, “You need someone to make you feel good. All those college dumbasses? They can’t satisfy a woman like you, but I can.”
“You can?” you asked, barely above a whisper. Your legs fell open, freeing his hand. His soft slow voice was mesmerizing, and those big brown eyes didn’t help.
“I sure can. I’ve wanted to be between these thighs for years,” he murmured back. His rough fingertips dragged upwards, and you sucked in a shaky breath as his thumb pressed against your clothed slit, “And would you look at that? You’re already wet for me like the good girl you are.”
"I, uhm," you began but Eddie's hand pulled painfully away from your long neglected sex to palm your jaw.
"Yes or no," he said firmly, and to your embarrassment you could feel the slick pooling between your legs. His thumb rubbed your cheek, "You won't hurt my feelings if you say no, but I want an answer."
Your mind raced with conflicting thoughts. On one hand, your mom was married to his uncle, and no amount of bargaining would change the fact that he was technically your family. You had to see him every day… and could you really look your mother or Wayne in the eyes knowing you'd done this taboo thing under their roof?
On the other hand… his hand was warm, the scent of cigarettes and cinnamon cologne washing over you. It had been so long, and you needed to let your mind go blank for a little while. Eddie was strong from working at the garage, calloused fingers that were firm and sure from playing guitar all these years.
Oh, fuck it.
"Yes," you incredulously found yourself saying.
Eddie's warm eyes turned devilishly dark, and in an instant he was looping his fingers under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the seat. He spread your legs wide and planted himself between them on his knees.
They stayed on yours as his fingers danced up your thighs, disappearing under your short skirt. Hooking your underwear, Eddie pulled them agonizingly slow down your legs, taking care to lift each heel-clad foot before stuffing them in his pocket.
"Hey," you said, squinting down at him. "Those are mine."
Eddie patted his pocket and grinned wolfishly, "A souvenir."
Before you could yell at him, Eddie pushed up your skirt around your waist. You could visibly see his pupils dilate, licking his lips as he laid eyes on your cunt. To say you felt exposed was an understatement, and you gripped the arm rests for dear life.
"Good lord, look at you," he whispered in awe. You were pulled all the way to the end of the seat, on display for him all alone in your room. The door was open, and anyone could walk in at any moment.
Eddie pressed his lips to the inside of your knee, sending a shiver up your spine. You watched through hooded lids as he trailed upward, warm kisses lined with spit smearing along your skin. Each one twisted something deep in your gut, a mix of lust and shame.
"You sure you want this?" he asked slowly, sitting on his knees before you. He was so close, and you needed this. You hadn't had someone touch you so gently in so long… and Eddie was beautiful and deliciously dark.
"Eddie, please," you gritted out between clenched teeth. The heat in your cheeks burned down your neck and shoulders, focus tunneling in on just what it would feel like to have Eddie Munson eat you out.
It seemed to be all he needed, and in a flash your knees were hooked over his shoulders as Eddie dove face first into your pussy. The flat of his tongue delved between your lips, licking a thick stripe through your folds.
Your head rocked back on the chair back, a shuddering gasp escaping your chest. Eddie groaned as he did it again and again, tongue plunging into your hole. Your thighs clamped around his head in pleasure. He was sloppy, uncaring about the mess he was surely making. He moaned with each new part of you he reached, pulling back just enough to lick up and flick your clit with the tip of his tongue.
"Oh, God…" you gasped, fingers peeling from the armrests to tangle into Eddie's hair. Soft curls twisted around them, and when you tugged to keep him close his moan vibrated through your cunt.
His lips enclosed around the sensitive bud, sucking just for a sweet moment before laving around it. It had been so long, and before you knew it a long overdue orgasm rushed through you.
"Fuck, Eddie!" you cried out, thighs clamping around his head. Your empty pussy clenched around nothing, a steady rush of slick pooling onto the seat below.
He slowed as it waned, embarrassingly gone as quickly as it had come. Your legs twitched with overstimulation as he gathered every last drop, licking his lips as he pulled back.
“Mhmm, sweetheart,” he growled out, looking up at you through hazy eyes. His chin and lips were soaked with your slick, lips pink and swelling. He cocked his head and chuckled breathlessly, “You have no idea how good you taste.”
Impatient, and desperate for anything he was willing to give you, you dug your heel into his shoulder blade, “Then why are you still talking?”
Eddie squinted up at you, and chaotic as ever, lurched up to pick you up. He threw you over his shoulder with ease, ignoring your startled yelp. He moved over to the door enough to swing it closed, then threw you roughly on the bed. Your heart burst in your chest as you laid exposed before him.
There was something dangerous in his eyes that excited you in a sinful way. It wasn’t frightening, but you knew in an instant you were getting more than you’d bargained for. His hands went straight for his belt as he knelt slowly on the bed, dark syrupy eyes fixated on you heaving beneath him.
“You’ve got a bit of a mouth, there. Don’t you?” he asked gruffly as he got it loose, letting the buckle hang open. You swallowed thickly and tried to sit up and give a bratty reply back, but Eddie simply gripped the hem of your sweater and pulled it roughly over your head.
He pressed a palm to your chest and shoved you back down on your pink blanket. A small oof rushed from your lips, captured instantly by Eddie’s. His hands gripped your cheeks as he kissed you roughly, catching you entirely by surprise.
His body covered yours, pressing you into the mattress as you kissed Eddie Munson for the first time. You could feel his length pushing against your core, and he ground himself into you. As fierce and desperate as it was, his lips were soft, leading. It was all consuming, the way he pushed and pulled you in any direction he wanted.
You'd never been kissed like this. It wasn't demanding with no room for you to enjoy like it had been with Billy. Eddie was coaxing, making space for your moans to echo back against his. He swallowed each gasp and breath, one hand smoothing down your body.
"Wanted to get a handful of this for years," he groaned against your lips. Eddie's wide hand slid down to reach under your skirt, gripping your ass tightly in his palm.
"You have?" you asked as he moved on to your neck. His teeth grazed the tender skin, nipping lightly before swiping his tongue over to soothe. You let your eyes roll back at the sensation, reveling in the feeling of his wandering hand moving back between your spread thighs.
“Prettiest girl in school,” he whispered against you, biting just a bit harder this time. Your eyes flew shut as his fingers brushed your pussylips, easing them gently apart. His hot breath fanned across your ear, your body flushing with shameful excitement. “Putty in my hands.”
Two fingertips pressed inside, making your jaw drop. Calloused and thick, Eddie took his time opening you up, kissing you in between each slow pump. He pushed in to the knuckle, his rings cool against your labia as he curled his fingers inside.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours sweetly even though he was saying such dirty things to you. “You get like this for everyone or am I special?”
You swallowed thickly and shook your head, “I haven’t, it’s been a… it’s been a long time.”
“How long?” he asked coyly, a small smirk playing on his lips.
You rolled your eyes as you struggled to reply. The incessant curling and pumping of his fingers was making your brain go hazy. “Uhm, almost a year.”
“That long?” he cooed, pressing his lips to yours once more. Your fingers tangled into his hair, a shuddering moan falling from your mouth. Eddie pressed the flats of his fingertips into that spongy spot inside you that made the whole world fall away. “You sure you want your first lay in a year to be your dear sweet brother?”
“Ugh,” you scowled, but he just kissed you again with a small laugh. “Eddie, you’re disgusting.”
“Then why are you so sloppy wet, huh?” he asked, smirking against you. “I think you’re one of those girls who likes being talked to like this. The dirtier the better.”
“Oh shut up,” you snarled back. Your hands went for his pants, wanting to even the playing field. Here you were in your bra and pushed up skirt and this bastard was still clothed.
You slid the button free on his jeans, struggling with the zipper for a moment before you got it impatiently down. Eddie pulled himself from your neck with a soft pop, watching you as you pushed his pants down enough to get to his boxers.
His belly shuddered as your fingertips grazed the waistband, his eyes glazed over. You kept eye contact with him as you freed his cock, tired of only feeling it pressed against your leg. Through the tangle of your limbs, you slid your hand around his length.
You had to tear your eyes from his to look at it for the first time, curiosity getting the better of you. Your jaw fell open at the sight. Long and thick, and curved slightly to one side, Eddie Munson had a gorgeous dick. It made your mouth water as the thought of how it must taste filtered through your lust-clouded mind.
“Need you, Eds,” you murmured sweetly, brushing your lips against his. Eddie let out a shuddering moan as you pumped him slowly, your hand so much smaller than him and his girth. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and you took the opportunity to throw him off his game this time.
“I’m so empty,” you whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Eddie chased it, but you moved on, kissing the corner of his mouth. His fingers slid from your stretched hole, smoothing up your body until he could cup your cheek. “You gonna fill me up?"
He seemed entranced, hips bucking forward with each slip of your palm over him. You couldn't seem to help yourself as you reached your free hand to grip his jaw, "Yes or no, Eddie, or I'll go find one of those college guys to do it instead."
That seemed to do the trick, and in a lightning fast move Eddie had both your hands in one of his, pinning them to the frilly pillow above your head. His other hand slid between you, gripping his dick at the base.
"I'm gonna fuck you so good you'll never want anyone else again," he growled huskily, dangerously.
"Prove it," you dared.
Eddie let out a pained sigh, squinting down at you in a mixture of irritation and amusement. You stared right as he pressed the blunt head of his cock against your pussy, your legs spread wide around him. You both groaned in anticipation as he pushed inside, just enough to stretch and your lips to part in a light gasp.
Eddie was the first to look away, head turning down to watch his length disappear inside you. Each roll of his hips made you suck in a breath, a burning stretch that you hadn't felt in much too long igniting a fire in your belly.
"Fill you up," he scoffed as he blissfully sheathed himself inside you. He held you wide open on his thick cock, letting out a small groan as he ground himself deep. "I can't believe the mouth on you, sweetheart…"
“Eddie…” you groaned impatiently, full of desperation and desire. He was still mostly clothed, and with you in your bra and skirt it somehow made all of this hotter and dirtier. His wide palm held you down by the wrists with one hand, the other moving to hold himself up on his elbow.
Your chest was light and airy, and you watched him through hooded lids. You nearly went cross eyed as he pulled out slowly, watching you begin to squirm before plunging right back in. A loud yelp sounded from your chest as his dick hit you deep, but Eddie just did it again. He started out slow, building speed with each pointed thrust.
He moaned with you each time, picking up his pace as he bounced his head off your cervix. It was perfectly rough, his fingers digging bruises into your wrists above your head. Eddie pounded into you, moving one hand from you to grip your hip, the other tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck. You rolled in time, echoing groans between you until he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.
He moved on quickly to your throat, your tits jiggling each time green thrust into you. He pulled your hair tightly, sucking and nipping hickies into your skin. Your arms wrapped around him, sliding up his shirt to dig your nails into his back.
“Eddie…” you moaned pathetically, holding him tightly to you. “Please, fuck!”
“That’s what I wanna hear,” he growled into your ear, pummeling your pussy with his cock. “Beg your big brother to fuck you like the little slut I know you are.”
The sick squelching noises of your sopping cunt being screwed into oblivion filled the room, his hips slapping into the backs of your thighs. Eddie continued on without a care in the world, his voice dripping with carnal excitement, “I always knew there was a good whore in there deep down. You just needed the right guy to pull it out of you.”
Tears filled your eyes. It was so filthy, so wrong, but you loved it. Your pulsing cunt was filled by your step brother’s cock, thick and hard and holding you wide open in a way it never had been. That all too familiar tingling reverberated through your veins, igniting you like a flame.
“Wanna cum, Eds,” you babbled. Your nails dig deeper into his spine, forcing a sharp grunt from him. His cock twitched deep inside you, your slick dripping between your cheeks and onto your pretty pink sheets. “Please let me cum. Please!”
“Whose dick do you wanna cum on?” Eddie asked darkly, grazing his teeth along your earlobe. It made your eyes roll back. “C’mon, let me hear it.”
“Yours!” you yelled, but you knew it was the wrong answer. Eddie got sharply to his knees and gripped your jaw, forcing it open.
Eddie leaned down enough to spit on your tongue, making your hips jump as he slowed. You moaned, watching him with heavy lids, just wanting release as you swallowed it. He pressed his nose to yours, “You’re mine now, sweetheart. Tell me what I wanna hear or I’ll cum inside you and leave you wanting.”
His grip loosened a bit as he ground himself deep inside you, hips trembling with his own need for release. It was so dirty, but you wanted to explode, so you gave in.
“Want you, Eds,” you whispered, your chest heaving and blotched red with shame. “Want my big brother to make me cum…”
Eddie tapped your cheek with the flats of his fingers, smiling wide, “There’s that good whore I was looking for.”
Diving right back in, Eddie kissed you as though he’d never stopped. He licked every inch of you he could, nipping your lips and leaving you a wreck beneath him. His slippery cock glided through you like it was made to, fitting perfectly inside. Your fingers tangled into his hair, keeping him right where you wanted him as your legs tightened around his waist.
You rocked back down on him just as hard as he thrust into you, your whole body bouncing. You chased your release, the taste of his spit on your tongue and the feeling of him stretching you open taking completely over. The coil that had been building deep in your belly snapped, and your body shuddered as a wildfire ripped through you.
“Eddie!” you cried out as you came. You lost all control, your core trembling as pure ecstasy took over your mind.
Eddie’s thrusts turned sloppy as he felt you clamp down around him. His moans turned louder and sharper before he buried himself deep one last time and called out your name. Eddie bit your bottom lip as he spilled deep inside you, hot sticky cum flooding your used pussy. He rocked into you until he was spent, going limp on top of you.
“Fuck me,” he groaned into your neck as he pressed you into the bed. He laid sloppy kisses along your throat, his tongue swiping over the bruises staining your skin. “You’re amazing, sweetheart, just like I knew you’d be.”
Sweaty and shaky, Eddie pulled out of you, making you both sigh at the loss. He pulled your skirt back into place before grabbing your hand and pulling you up to sit. You said nothing as Eddie picked your sweater up off the floor and put it back over your head, gently this time, then stuffed himself back into his pants.
You scooted to the end of the bed as he brushed back his damp curls and looked around for anything he missed. You tried to catch your breath as a flood of shame and regret washed over you. What the hell did you just do?
“You good?” Eddie asked quietly, pulling you out of your mind as he sat next to you on the bed.
You nodded, desperately holding back tears. You couldn’t believe yourself. “I’m fine.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” he insisted softly, and you just nodded again.
“I know.”
“Hey, c’mon,” Eddie told you, pushing back some of your sex mussed hair over your shoulder. He pressed his lips to your cheek, and in that moment all you wanted was to ask him to stay, but that would be pathetic. More pathetic than sleeping with your step brother because nobody else wanted you and he just wanted the novelty of it.
“I’m fine, Eddie, really,” you told him, giving him a false smile. He didn’t seem convinced. “I’m just thinking about how late I’m gonna be to this party.”
Eddie flashed you a cocky grin, “Just going for the company now that you’ve gotten your rocks off?”
“Yeah,” you replied, smiling wider. “I could do with letting loose for a bit.”
Eddie nodded as he stood. He leaned down and kissed your forehead before turning on his heel and heading for the door. As he opened it, he looked back at you, “Be safe.”
“You too,” you said back, and then he was gone.
You waited until you heard the rumbling of his giant van start up, going to the window to watch it back up far too quickly out of the driveway and tear off down the street. When you were sure he was gone, you picked up your phone and dialed a number.
“Hey, Chrissy,” you said shakily as she picked up on the other end. “I’m gonna back out of the party. I’m not feeling very good.”
“You sure?” The frown in her voice was clear, but you were no longer in any mood to go outside the house and be seen by the townspeople of Hawkins. They’d surely take one look at you and know what you did.
“Yeah. I think I’m gonna sleep it off,” you told her. “Watch a movie and go to bed early.”
“Want me to join you?” Chrissy asked brightly. She was a good friend. “We can snuggle up and drink some boxed wine. I can bring some soup too.”
“Nah, don’t let me ruin your night.”
Chrissy fought back and forth a few times, trying to come over and take care of you, but you shut her down. As you set the phone back into the cradle, you started to cry. Tears flowed down your cheeks in pure shame and hatred for yourself as you undressed and put on an old tee and some butt-covering panties, ignoring Eddie’s cum as it slid down your leg.
You crawled into bed and sobbed yourself to sleep, disgusted with yourself. After everything you went through last year, why would you put yourself in another position for more heartbreak? Eddie didn’t even want to cuddle you, he just got up and left as soon as he could. He was just like every other guy. He got what he wanted and moved on.
You couldn’t believe that after all this time, you were still this stupid.
Notes: This has honestly been a super fun one to write... and super dirty and just expected to get dirtier...
Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist
@tlclick73 @theloser007 @sadbitchfangirl @chaoticcancer @harrys-tittie @assassinsasha23 @spacedoutdaydreamer @legendarytrashcopeclipse @notahappystan @kbakery @eddiesguitarskills
#Stuck in the middle#smurph writes#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson x reader#Steve Harrington x reader#throuple fic#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#eddie munson x you#Steve Harrington x you#Eddie munson#Steve Harrington#steve harrington/reader#steve harrington/eddie munson#steve harrington/you#eddie munson/you#eddie munson/reader#steddie
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chapter three of my joker's palace fic stuck in the middle is up! nobody's having a good day and everyone is at least mildly uncomfortable, but at least they're getting somewhere.
(chapter 1) (chapter 2)
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"I love you."
Cas stares at Dean. Blinks. Stares. Blinks again. Tears drip onto the cold floor, leaving tracks down both his cheeks.
"No," Cas says, "no, you can't."
The undulating pile of black goo emerging from the portal behind him stops. Death’s knocks on the door echo into nothingness. The dungeon’s stale air is stifling. It’s as if the room has become a void, a vacuum, a place free of both time and space.
“What,” Dean says, flat.
Dean finally says it— it’s his last chance— and Cas says no?
Cas’s hand— still bleeding, still warm— tightens around Dean’s shoulder. “You can’t. You can’t because then—“
“What?” Dean gestures to the stationary mass of Empty tentacles halfway out the portal, looking like some kind of demented sculpture, and scoffs. “It’d make you truly happy?”
And it’s not fair to say. Dean knows it’s not fair to say but Dean’s mad, Dean’s furious, because Cas had planned to leave him. Again.
Sometimes Dean forgets he’s not the only being capable of anger.
“How dare you.” Cas seethes. He hisses his words. His fingers dig into Dean’s flesh through his outer layers. Cas is strong. Sometimes Dean forgets that, too, with how gentle he can be. “How dare you say that. After all this time. After—“
Cas cuts off and pulls away from Dean. Dean’s shoulder tingles. He already misses the touch.
Cas walks away from Dean but he doesn’t have far to go. There’s Death to the left of him and the Empty to the right. He’s stuck in the middle with Dean.
Racking his hands through his hair, the air around Cas crackles in light blue shocks of grace. He’s not just angry. He’s pissed.
Because Dean said he loves him.
Well, that’s one way to keep Cas from leaving.
Dean laughs— shouldering shaking, chest heaving, hands on his knees— because what else is he supposed to do?
Cas’s head snaps up. “What?”
Straightening his posture, Dean wipes the corners of his eyes dry. “This is all one big cosmic joke, isn’t it?” At Cas’s head tilt, Dean continues, “I finally say the three little words and I ruin your perfect moment of happiness.”
Cas rolls his eyes then throws up his hands. “Well, you weren’t supposed to reply!”
This time, Dean stares at Cas. Blinks. Stares. Blinks again. He opens his mouth with a gasp. “You were just gonna say that and— and die. You were gonna leave me here!”
Cas purses his lips and looks down at his shoes.
“You bastard,” Dean says.
“I’m the bastard?” Cas closes the scant distance between them, close enough that Dean can see the lines of anger pulling down Cas’s dry lips, feels the heat of his breath when he spits, “You let me spend a decade destroying my reputation among heaven, left me to— to—“ He stutters his way to a full word. “Pine for you all this time and now you want to call me the bastard?”
Dean reaches out, grabs Cas by the coat lapels, and catches a glimpse of red in his peripheral vision. He looks down at his shoulder and sees the shape of a bloody handprint, stark against the green canvas coat.
Cas’s hand. Dean’s coat.
Dean meets Cas’s eyes and he’s looking at him— really looking at him— with a mixture of hope, love, frustration, adoration and anger and fuck Dean loves him.
“I guess we’re a couple of bastards, then,” Dean whispers.
“In love,” Cas adds, his voice near silent, breathless.
Dean holds Cas’s face between his hands, strokes his thumb over Cas’s lower lip. “Yeah. A couple of bastards in love.”
When Dean kisses Cas, time starts again. The dungeon door cracks and splinters and Death comes calling. The dark shadows swirl through the portal, long tendrils groping forward.
Cas pays no attention to the chaos around them. He watches Dean.
“This fight is not over,” Dean says.
Dean takes Cas’s hand and, together, they run.
#destiel#deancas#destiel ficlet#deancas fic#spncreatorsdaily#creativecaviar#spn 15x18#shout out to the post that said cas would be mad if dean said he loved him. i propose: they'd both be mad#also stuck in the middle with you has been stuck in my head all week... hence the reference#enjoy!#writing paige
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Heyoooo, new chapter of my MacDennis + Brian Jr fic is out!
#macdennis#mac mcdonald#dennis reynolds#it's always sunny in philadelphia#IASIP#Always sunny#Fanfic#My fic#stuck in the middle with you
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(the eyes, chico, they never lie)
#once again this is a whole ass fic in my mind. sighs#this is steves OH in italics moment#listen this is EXTREMELY important: tony cant sing. okay? he cant#he just plays the bass#had a punk rock band when he was younger#but he CANNOT sing aight#like come on he cant be extremely hot + a musician + A GOOD SINGER like thats too much#he cant be perfect#(+ the best mechanic in town)#also hes disgusting hes playing the bass w his hands full of motor oil and stuff. clean up b1tch boy#boo you wh0r3#sorry i just read a fic where kirk says that to bones and it stuck w me its so funny#me to my dog unprompted at least 5 times a day: boo you wh0r3#anyway#god i wish. i WISH i could draw comics#i also wish i wasnt lazy as fuck and knew how to animate without struggling 2 make tony WINK in that middle panel#like i know how to animate. in theory. but ive never done it seriously so its way too much effort#like. to animate a whole 4ss painting w colour and stuff.... even something small like a wink............. no way marica#BUT#i am happy w this drawing!!!! thats so crazy!!!!!! STEVE LOOKS GOOD??!!!!!!!!!??!?#please zoom in on that steve. he is HOT. an ADONIS#i peaked#baffled. astounded. bewildered#my art#tony stark#iron man#captain america#steve rogers#stony
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Call of Duty x Army of the Dead au
Army of the Dead au where Ghost and Soap are the alpha zombie couple! Ghost is obviously the big alpha and Soap gets to be the malewife with the zombie tiger. Soap scaring everyone who dares attempt to steal from them even though they don’t need the money they still consider it theirs and no one’s getting anything without giving in return.
Ghost and Soap who’s training means it’s not so easy to escape them and so when the thief team come in with Price and Gaz as hired bodyguards (who really just want to see if the rumours about their teammates survival is true) they’re all caught. And Price and Gaz are just so happy that they’ve found Ghost and Soap that they ask to be bitten while everyone else is like wtf?! Actually if you take them can we take the money and go?
Soap who just goes absolutely feral when some human dares tried to harm his Ghost. Ghost who has razed a city and would do so again just so he and Soap had a safe place to live. Soap getting pregnant cause it’s some weird alien virus that’s turned them and they just have little Ghoap zombie babies who climb all the tall buildings like spiders. Who would give Uncle Price heart attacks if that were still possible because they throw themselves everywhere.
Uncle Price who actually waits to get bitten so he can sort out the politics of it all and convince the government to just let them be and die out naturally. Of course the government don’t know that that’s never gonna happen so they agree and concede to like let them establish a New Zombieland Las Vegas.
And it’s all just a happy ending.
Why does my brain do this to me?! I have 300 other things to write! And now this is just stuck in my head!
#bluespoonswriting#call of duty fanfic#cod fanfic#ghoap#ghoap au#141 headcanons#cod headcanons#I was in the middle of Stuck ch4 when this hit me like one of the fireworks outside#ghost x soap#call of duty headcanons#call of duty fanfiction#call of duty fic
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Fanart for @wutheringmights ao3 fic Call Them Brothers! Here is a Spirit Drawing and its alternative. I had a lot of fun with this one. Side note: These were originally going to be one big group drawing with Lincoln included (I had the sketch done and everything :p) but I decided making three portraits would be better. For the Alt, I switched between covering his whole face or just doing a scar but once I added the hand I thought the scar looked cooler. Long story short, these pieces have gone through so much. Anyways, we have one more left!!! 2/3
#linked universe#lu ctb#ctb#linked universe fanart#linked universe spirit#ao3 fanfic#fanfic fanart#I have had a song stuck in my head that is begging me to make an animatic for this fic but college has me busy frfr#also I totally did not go back to make Wars eyes bigger to fit to the other two portraits#I would never do that#;)#Also#am I monopoly anon? who knows#It's time to face my worst nightmare: middle parts#link legend of zelda#legend of zelda#the legend of zelda#legend of zelda spirit tracks#spirit tracks
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An excerpt from something that's been in my drafts for far too long now
Luffy & Sabo, pre-canon, Sabo still has amnesia but Koala dragged him to spend a day on Dawn Island and just so happened to time it right after Ace left, and he ended up spending the day with Luffy
Sabo gave in to the impulse, leaning forward to press a kiss against Luffy’s forehead.
The kid looked up at him, eyes wide and only just starting to fill up with tears. The cry that escaped his throat sounded almost painful, raw and violent, and he lunged forwards, hands fisting in Sabo’s coat as his face pressed against his cravat.
“I miss Sabo,” he sobbed into Sabo’s chest.
Sabo gingerly wrapped his arms around the kid.
“...I’m sorry I’m not the person you want me to be,” he said.
They stayed like that for a while. Sabo kept rubbing Luffy’s back in what he hoped to be a soothing motion, allowing the kid to let it all out.
In the end, Luffy was the one to pull away, straightening up as he wiped at his eyes with wrist.
Sabo gently pulled his arm down, grabbing a handkerchief to use instead.
He carefully cleaned up Luffy’s face, letting him use the handkerchief to blow his nose once done. Sabo intended to leave the fabric with Luffy, anyway, so it would be fine.
Once Luffy was all cleaned up, the time has come to say goodbye.
#one piece#one piece sabo#monkey d luffy#fowlficsbits#this is from a fic thats over 8k now#probably will finish at a total of 8.5k-ish?#and the first 6k of it was written in a nearly feverish dream over just under 6 hours of non-stop sprints at the end of February jasdflkjal#i had the start written two middle scenes and the ending#(this is slightly misleading bc the 'start' was solid 5k lol)#but i got stuck on the three gaps#no more tho#one gap closed#two more to go!
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I’d love an Oromë pov fic of seeing Tyelkormo Turkafinwë as a child and instantly recognizing one who could, should, will grow up to be one of his finest hunters, and watching over him through adolescence, welcoming him into the forest and then into the Hunt, maybe a little ritual hunter/hunted sex if that’s your thing…the teaching of animal languages, the gift of Huan…watching nearly helpless from ever-more-afar as he falls with his father and brothers, as he proves that Beleriand under Morgoth’s influence is a terrible place to have a well-honed sense of predator and prey…and one day, finally, many ages hence, welcoming him home again…
And the whole thing is draped like heavy furs in metaphors of spotting prey and stalking, lying in wait, trapping, chasing, capture and even bloody fight and feast. Because Oromë is the Vala of the Hunt, and how could his point of view be otherwise? Tyelkormo is, will be, a great predator, but all creatures are prey compared to the might of the Hunter himself… But while the language is entirely predatory, and there is an edge of It Is A Grand and Terrible Thing, To Be Beloved of a God, the intent is never “predatory” as we might define word today. Oromë is the Vala of the Hunt; he could no more disrespect the prey than he could the predator (perhaps that’s where Celegorm went wrong in Beleriand). Hunting with intent to love vs hunting with intent to kill, and the overlap. Hunting with intent to consume vs hunting with intent to be worshipped, and the overlap.
Also something something untamable wildness but also natural order; something something the nature of Valar in ruling vs embodying their domains, and how those who worship/follow/serve/love them fit into that. Something something a person’s nature (not nurture, just nature) and everything goes wrong when you deviate from that into too much competition and cruelty—or maybe something something competition and cruelty, too, are natural (both broadly and person-specifically), but if you want to spend time with people whose natures are inclined towards things like pretty gemstones and diplomacy (and you do want that, they’re still your family), you have to learn how to tamp down the more violent wildness for at least the duration of a dinner party, much as the Vala of the Hunt must tamp himself down at least a little to spend time with even the fiercest and finest of his young hunters.
#orome#celegorm#the silmarillion#valar#feanor and feanor’s kin#ficlet#please#my fic#and maybe the endgame is that celegorm reembodied lives in the forest and on the trail more than in any building#(as he always would have done eventually)#and rides in pride and savage glory with Orome’s Hunt#and sometimes they ride so far and fast that they reach middle earth again and pass thundering howling through trees and dark-windowed towns#because ‘the Hunt goes where it wills’ is an older and more fundamental part of the Song than even the sundering of the world#and sometimes on those nights orome let’s celegorm take the lead - just for a moment#just long enough to turn the thundering howling cavalcade toward brighter higher prey#never to catch it of course - earendil stays in the sky and the Hunt stays on the ground#or close enough to the ground#but the chase does ease something in celegorm’s heart that will never fully loose#making it easier to peaceably go to a dinner party#(albeit maybe never enough to be stuck in an underground city for 15ish years with assorted arafinweans. that was always too much)#(don’t invoke the power of Eru into your oaths kids; he might let you and so curse you irrevocably to never grow far past your worst self!)
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Stuck at the Navy Ball
So… I decided I wasn’t done playin’ with the boys.
As this is a continuation of the original Stuck in the Middle fic, I highly recommend that you read through that before diving into this. Could you dive headfirst into this? Yes. There might be a little confusion, though.
Inspired by a comment someone left on SitM over on AO3.
Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron “Slider” Kerner
Summary: You, Ice, and Sli haven’t lost that loving feeling. So when the flyboys are reunited at the 1986 Navy Ball, it's only natural that they bring a bit of chaos with them.
Word Count: 4200
Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, under-negotiated situations (but everyone involved is fine), fingering
Chapter: 1/4
Minors DNI
gif originally posted by neuromancer1888
Chapter 1: Under the Table
The invitation arrives early in September, printed on thick cardstock and addressed to your brother. But if Viper’s words are to be believed—and you’ve yet to hear of a situation in which they aren’t—Pete’s attendance isn’t exactly optional. So the summons finds its way from the trash onto the fridge, rough edges taped back together.
Please Join Us For the 211th Navy Ball.
Monday, October 13th
Washington D.C.
Cocktail Hour 1700 | Ceremony Begins 1800
Live Music. Food. Dancing.
The same invitation has Carole positively giddy. Born and raised in Virginia, she’s been looking for an excuse to fly east to visit her parents. And for a party? Isn’t that swell! Arrangements are made for Bradley to sleep at his grandparents on the night of the ball before Goose—whose PT-mandated wheelchair has landed him desk duty—is home from work.
Which is how, roughly one month later, you find yourself in Goose’s room at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill, sharing precious mirror space with Carole. Breathing in Aqua Net while putting the finishing touches on your looks.
The hotel calls the four of you a taxi, Goose’s wheelchair is stuffed into the trunk, and then you’re off to meet your date.
Singular.
There hadn’t been a question of if you’d attend or whose arm you’d decorate once Pete’s invite arrived. Officially, you’re at the ball with Ice. After Layton, Ice had made it a point to be seen with you while he was off-duty. Your relationship, which you’d tried to keep on the down-low, was worth showing off publicly after he and your brother had dropped their rivalry in favor of mutual respect. Friendship.
But the other half of your relationship was still very much under wraps.
That fact hadn’t stopped you from nodding eagerly when Ice pulled you close to ask you to attend the Navy Ball with him. Ice wants to climb the ladder, and earning stars is more than clambering into the cockpit every morning or disappearing on a carrier for the better part of a year at a time. It’s politics. It’s achieving perceived milestones on or ahead of schedule. And in October, for Lieutenant Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, naval aviator and promotion hopeful, it’s attending the Navy Ball with a woman on his arm.
Pete wrestles the wheelchair out of the trunk while Goose pays the cab driver. As you step into the crisp October evening, you marvel at the palatial, white-stone building that is to be the backdrop of your night. A steady flow of servicemen and women crossing beneath grand archways with their dates for the promise of a good night.
You aren’t left alone to gawk for long before you catch sight of them chatting with someone or another: decked in their whites, Slider leaning against the wrought iron rail and Ice to his side. Ice’s gaze flicks to you instantaneously, as if he’d felt your eyes land on him. The natural pout of his lips morphs into a grin as he excuses himself from the conversation and moves toward you against the flow of the crowd. Slider follows close behind, ultimately making his way to Goose, Carole, and your brother. But you catch the hesitation in his step. The course-correct.
Events like these will be challenging for the three of you—that had been a foregone conclusion—but this knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. It feels all sorts of wrong to have Slider keep himself at such a purposeful distance when you’re used to his proximity. Even at the O Club, he manages to stand close. Doesn’t shy away.
Before your mood can be irreparably embittered, Ice takes your hand in his and coaxes you into a slow spin. “You’re beautiful,” he coos as he kisses your cheek, and a delicate smile lights your lips.
The dress had been a surprise. Something you’d insisted on buying yourself despite Ice and Slider offering to pool their money for something truly extravagant. But after years spent in the foster system, even the thought of spending money on something so frivolous left a bad taste in your mouth. Instead, you’d taken Carole, your more comfortable budget, and found an old gala dress at a thrift shop. The sleek, black velvet gown up to your collarbones with the slightest sparkle as the fabric shifted beneath the store’s old lights ticked all your self-imposed boxes. A dress fit for an aspirational young officer’s date, even after Carole added a slit up the left side to show a little leg and “bring the dress into this decade.”
“Look who’s talking,” you say, squeezing Ice’s arm as it’s offered to you. Typically, the change of season calls for blues, but the Navy Ball is an exception to the rule. You wonder whose wife you have to thank for that because although your boys look damn fine in both, you have a not-so-hidden preference. “And Kerner didn’t clean up so bad, either,” you shoot in Slider’s direction with a playful grin.
“Surprised?” Slider asks, brow raised. You shrug because, no, you’re not surprised, but you aren’t sure what to say that will fly under the radar. And that’s the name of the night’s game. That doesn’t stop Pete from rolling his eyes as he passes you with Goose and Carole on their way to the building’s ramp.
The closest you ever got to a ball before tonight was prom—not yours; you’d been on staff at the venue. Frankly, you’d half expected you and Pete to have been blacklisted, given your father’s ill-gotten reputation, but they let you in without issue. You wonder if Pete’s face appearing on the front page of every magazine in the English-speaking world has anything to do with it, but you keep that to yourself while Ice, ever the gentleman, escorts you further into the event.
If the outside of the building is beautiful, then the inside is magnificent: all barrel vaulted ceilings decorated with Romanesque gold leafing and warm mahogany. A vast hall that steadily fills as guests arrive for cocktail hour and to mingle before the evening officially kicks off.
Slider spots Carole’s shock of blonde hair by a table with easy access for Goose and herds Ice in her direction. They aren’t alone at the table. “Merlin,” Slider barks, bounding over to shake his fellow RIO’s hand. “I thought you were stationed over the Atlantic. What’re you doing here?”
“Turned out to be an exercise. Over and back in sixty-two days.”
“And just in time for the party,” the woman at his side chips in, and Merlin wraps an arm around her to pull her close.
“Oh! Tom Kazansky, Ron Kerner, my wife, Laura.” Ice takes the opportunity to introduce you in turn. The conversation is easy-going, Ice and Slider filling Merlin in on their time instructing at Miramar.
Slider gets in several quips about Ice having a list of officers whose asses he needs to kiss to speed up a promotion when Ice spies one of said officers. He gently tugs you in the right direction so you can play the part of the doting girlfriend. The officer—a captain—quickly introduces you to his wife before he and Ice talk shop.
You manage to pluck a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray, sipping daintily and nodding along with the captain’s wife. Considering most of your knowledge concerning the Navy revolves around the planes your brother flies and the stunts he’s pulled in them, the conversation goes in one ear and out the other.
Not that it matters. Your role tonight—thankfully—is just to follow Ice around and look pretty.
The captain’s wife finishes her champagne in record time, and though you’re hesitant at first, you aren’t too far behind her. It is at this point, glass empty, that Slider appears like your guardian angel. “Captain,” he nods. “Ice.”
“Captain Reid, have you met my RIO?” Ice asks, knowing full well that Slider has no interest in schmoozing. Much like your brother, Slider is there because it is expected of him. Unlike Pete, Ice doesn’t need his friend’s emotional support or commiseration to make it through such events, mandatory or otherwise. Every opportunity like this is one Ice can use to his advantage.
Slider offers the captain a firm handshake. “Lieutenant Ron Kerner, sir.”
“Your RIO? I thought you were stationed at Miramar?”
“The perks of winning the trophy, sir,” pride leaks through as Slider says it. He and Ice worked damn hard to finish at the top of their class. “We’ve been together since flight school. When Ice took a teaching position at TOPGUN, I followed.”
“And how does a man of your stature fit in the cockpit, lieutenant?” the captain’s wife asks from beneath heavily painted lashes.
The grin Slider offers her is loose. “It’s a bit of a squeeze, but no complaints so far.” The minute narrowing of Ice’s eyes says behave. You nearly avoid snorting, hiding the unladylike compulsion behind the rim of your empty flute, a reflection off the crystal drawing Slider’s eye.
“Actually,” Slider says, hand twitching as if he’s had to stop himself from resting it against your back, “I noticed your glass is empty.” Sli nods toward the bar, an invitation to refill your glass. You look up at him with a grin—a genuine one, not the soft smile that’s grown stale throughout Ice’s conversation—acceptance on your lips when–
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ice’s brow wrinkles, noticing for the first time that you’ve finished your drink.
”I didn’t want to interrupt,” is your bashful answer.
”Don’t be ridiculous,” Ice says. “I’ll come with you.”
”You don’t have to leave.” Slider will take care of me, you don’t say.
Ice picks up on the silent part but blatantly ignores it. His eyes take on that warm, charmed look, tongue peeking out before his lips curl into that honeyed smile you love so much. “You’re too good for me,” he says as if it’s a secret meant only for you. There’s no doubt he means it, but something about the way he’s playing the sentiment up for the brass makes it feel different in a way you’re not entirely comfortable with. No mistakes. “If you’ll excuse us, sir. Ma’am.”
Captain Reid is already turning to walk the room with his wife when Ice’s eyes narrow into what can only be described as a glare at Slider, his arm cementing itself around your waist in a way that probably looks far more relaxed than it feels.
”What?” Slider asks, shooting for casual, but now you’re not sure you’re buying it, either. “I’m just trying to do my part so you can talk to everyone on your list.” The subconscious flex of Ice’s jaw, as if he wishes he could chew out his frustration on the butt of a cig or some gum, doesn’t go unnoticed, but it does go unheeded. “Admiral Benjamin is on your list, right?” You perk up. As in Penny Benjamin? “I think I saw him by the corner with wife number three and Commander Johnson.”
“You know,” Ice says, his grin glacial, “it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you rubbed elbows at an event like this.”
Slider scoffs, though it’s affectionate. “Why bother? We both know my military career ends when you take a desk job. Besides, I think my time is much better spent keeping your date’s cup full.” You’ve all agreed to go to the bar, but no one is moving. The tension between Ice and Slider is palpable.
”Okay,” you interrupt. There’s something off about their banter tonight. You’ve seen Ice stare down many a handful of people since landing in Miramar, but never Slider. It’s enough to raise a sculpted brow. “What am I missing?”
Slider senses blood in the water. Sees the smoke in the air. The grin he gives you is far tighter than the one he gave the captain’s wife. He opens his mouth, but Ice beats him to the punch. “You said something about grabbing my date a drink.”
Slider’s jaw clicks shut, but his grin isn’t so easily wiped away. “More champagne?” When you nod, Slider picks his way toward the bar while Ice escorts you to the side of the room where there’s more room to breathe and a lesser likelihood that someone will overhear when he presses close. “Sli’s upset that you’re with me tonight.”
That’s it? You hadn’t thought the arrangement would bother Slider so much. The three of you had discussed it and mutually concluded that you should go with Ice. That you had to go with Ice. Was Slider having second thoughts?
“Well, not upset,” Ice concedes at the concern that drags your lips down. “But he was talking a big game.”
Color you curious. “What’d he say?”
“Well,” Ice pulls you closer so his breath tickles your ear and you can smell the mint on his breath, “he thinks he can get you off before we leave the building. Steal you away while you’re being my pretty little girlfriend for the brass.” You gulp. Where is Slider with that drink?
”Oh.”
Ice chuckles. “Yeah. Oh. But I’m not worried.” Two fingers find their way under your chin and lift until your eyes meet Ice’s. “I know you’ll be good for me.”
“What’s the winner get?”
”Bragging rights.”
”And?”
It’s impossible to miss the way Ice’s eyes flit to your lips and linger there because he can. Those are the perks of being your date out in the light of day. “Can’t that be it?”
“Could be,” you breathe and slowly wet your bottom lip with your tongue, delighting in the way gray-blue eyes track the movement, “but it isn’t.”
Ice double-checks that no one is eavesdropping on your conversation. “You remember what got delivered the other day?” Your breath hitches. Yeah. You remember the catalog order you’d put in for a remote-controlled toy. The excitement and disappointment that had come with unfortunate delivery schedules. “Single-night, exclusive access once we’re all home.”
”That’s quite a lot on the line.”
”It would be,” Ice concedes, one large hand spanning the small of your back, warming you and holding you close enough you can breathe in his cologne, “but you can be good for me, right, baby? I’ll make it worth your while.” You nod, a little dumb as you inhale teakwood, sage, and sea salt.
It’s sure to be a profoundly satisfying night as long as you can stick to the script.
“I’m not going to make it easy on you,” Slider promises, appearing by Ice’s shoulder.
”Wouldn’t be fun if you did.” Ice’s smirk is all cocky confidence, cracking only when he notices Slider has only fetched two flutes of champagne.
”Only got two hands, Tommy,” Slider says with a toothy grin, “but I’ll keep her company while you grab yourself a glass.” The crystal buzzes with the steady fizz of bubbles, your fingers brushing Sli’s ever so slightly before Ice pulls you back into the throng.
The room becomes more difficult to navigate with each new attendee, but Ice only seems more in his element as cocktail hour drags on. He introduces you to a flurry of officers and their wives whose jewel-tone dresses all start to blend together, brushing shoulders with the men who ultimately control his upward trajectory.
On his arm, you smile and nod, interjecting where appropriate because, despite the smattering of female officers present, the Navy remains very much a boy’s club.
Still, it’s nice to be shown off so publicly. To delight in the knowledge that Ice’s attention never strays far from you despite his planned schmoozing. You preen each time he introduces you to someone new with a tender look—there are many things tonight that may be manufactured, but that look isn’t one of them.
An ache blooms in the ball of your foot as Ice delivers on the same script over and over to increasingly dismal company. The throbbing is nothing compared to the pinpricks in your cheeks, though. Beauty pageant smiles are their own form of torture. But this is important.
It’s all for a good cause.
Tonight is important to Ice, so it’s important to you.
You’d do anything for your boys: ignore every sour expression at your last name, force a pleasant laugh along with each rear admiral’s wife, stifle a relieved sigh when everyone is invited to find their seats for dinner.
The flyboys have claimed three closely clustered tables during your absence, forcing others to walk around them as they spill into the spaces between each table, leaning close to make up for the distance forced by post-graduation reassignments. Viper is curiously absent, or perhaps Jester had pulled the short straw and been stuck with babysitting duties.
But there’s someone you don’t recognize at your table, sat between Merlin and Slider, a stranger in your midst. A smile splits Ice’s face when he spots him. “Cougar?” The man stands and pulls Ice into a quick embrace, Ice’s hand on the man’s—Cougar’s—shoulder. Ice makes quick work of introducing you to Bill Cortell and his wife, Maria. “Cougar and I were like brothers in flight school,” Ice beams. “We were supposed to meet up at TOPGUN, but–”
”It turned out for the best,” Cougar cuts Ice off goodnaturedly with a quick nod toward Pete. “Besides, desk life isn’t so bad.” Ice raises a brow at the assertion while Goose lets out a ‘bullshit!’ “Okay,” he cedes, “it’s pretty bad, but I wouldn’t give up being at home with Maria and the kids for the world.” Maria, who is heavily pregnant, rests her hand over her bundle of joy.
The lights choose that moment to dim, commanding stragglers to find their seats, but neither man moves. Slider stands up. “Here,” he offers Ice his seat on Cougar’s left because the two clearly have some catching up to do. Ice takes the seat while you slide over to stay seated next to him, and Slider takes your spot as the lights come up on the stage for the opening ceremony.
By the time everyone is seated and some speaker makes his way to center stage, Ice is only half paying attention to the night’s program. He and Cougar have a lot to catch up on in appropriately hushed whispers. You’re about to zone out when you’re yanked back to the present by a hand on your knee.
Above the table, for prying eyes, Slider doesn’t give anything away. Attention seemingly focused on the stage. Below the table’s skirt, however, you press your thighs together as Slider’s hand massages the skin exposed by the modified slit in your dress. Familiar callouses drawing senseless patterns above your knee. His hand stays there, occasionally giving you a comforting squeeze, like he knows you crave reassurance through gentle touches after being dragged so far out of your comfort zone. It’s nice. Before long, between the buzz of quiet conversation and each soothing caress, you relax back into your chair.
Polite applause fills the room as the admiral gives the podium to the next presenter. Pete and Carole chuckle at something Goose murmurs. Wolfman yawns. Someone coughs. A waiter comes around to top off champagne.
You wrap your fingers around the delicate stem of your flute, raising it to your lips in the same instant that Slider’s palm shifts so it’s wedged between your thighs. Your sharp breath is lost in the crowd as nimble fingers creep higher, never once pausing their massage.
The corner of Slider’s lip tugs the slightest bit up. Smug bastard. When you’re sure no one is paying attention, you give his wrist a tug, but instead of retreating, Slider brushes a finger against the flimsy fabric of your panties.
Your heart jumps into your throat as you become hyper-aware of how loud your breathing is, and your brain kicks into overdrive. Can anyone hear you over the clink of glasses? Your nails dig into the meat of Slider’s wrist in surprise, but you’re fairly confident that the rest of you looks normal—suddenly, you’re not sure what that means.
Is this the way a normal person’s mouth rests? The way a normal person sits in their chair? You need to leave, but you can’t. Being good for Ice, among other things, means not causing a scene. Not fleeing the room in the middle of a presentation. Not letting anyone know that while your boyfriend dutifully splits his time between the podium and his colleague, his RIO is pushing your underwear to the side for better access to your cunt. How you’re responding to his touch.
“Hey.” Pete’s giving you a strange look from across the table. “You okay?” From the way he’s pulled a face, you missed the bar for normal, and now Goose and Carole are also looking your way.
“I’m fine,” you hiss. “I-” need a distraction. You mentally stumble as Slider continues to stroke up and down your slit, his fingers spreading the wetness until they glide effortlessly through your lips.
The universe grants your wish when the crowd bursts into polite applause and the mic is turned over to the next speaker. “Isn’t that Admiral Benjamin?”
“As in Penny Benjamin?” Carole perks up, sitting tall in an attempt to get a better look at the stage while Pete bangs his head onto the table. Probably. You’re admittedly not paying attention.
Pleasure zings up your spine as thick fingers nudge your clit. A reward for redirecting the eyes on you. It’s everything you can do not to press your hips into the pressure or let your head loll back with a gasp. And with Penny’s father keeping attention off of you, Slider hooks an ankle around yours to encourage your legs further apart.
You shouldn’t, but Slider has always been convincing.
Ice won’t be particularly pleased with how promptly you gave into Slider’s suggestions, how readily your legs fall open, but that’s barely a blip on your radar as firm circles rub into your clit. The devil on your shoulder whispers that if Ice had really wanted to win, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be so easily distracted.
None of that matters nearly as much as it should when your heart pulses between your legs.
A hand lands on your velvet-covered thigh. Ice. “Sweetheart.” You whip your head around too quickly for the move to be anything but suspicious. Like you’ve been caught with your hand—or someone else’s—in the cookie jar. You try to focus on the cool, grounding pressure of his touch. It’s working, you think, but your leg is still trembling from the effort it takes to keep still. Keen eyes move from your face to your leg, trembling under his touch, to your lap, and then to Slider, where they narrow almost imperceptibly. “You alright?”
With a nod, you reach past your champagne for water to wet your dry throat. “Just taking it all in.”
A poor choice of words. Ever the opportunist, Slider presses a finger into your hole, the stretch delicious and unexpected enough that you almost choke. If anyone catches the color on your cheeks, you hope they’ll blame your earlier drinks.
“I was just saying I didn’t know Maverick had a sister,” Cougar says, this time loud enough for the table to hear him.
“He doesn’t talk about me much.”
“Yeah,” Pete scoffs, “because when people find out about you, this–” he gestures between you and Ice “–happens.”
“You got any other sisters, Mav?” Chipper’s question from the next table over prompts Pete to load a pomegranate seed onto this salad fork. He’s ready to launch, but a disapproving look from Jester dissuades him. Goose flips Chipper the bird in a show of solidarity.
“So when did this happen?” Cougar asks, eyes flitting from you to the blonde on your right.
Slider chuckles and leans into the conversation at the same time as he crooks his fingers. You bite the inside of your cheek. The circles Ice is rubbing into your knee aren’t as distracting as either of you wants them to be. “He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off of her since we made it to Miramar.”
Hypocrite. You clear your throat. “About five months?”
“Aw,” Maria sighs in that way so many in long-term relationships do. You try and fail to focus on that as a second finger prods at your opening before pushing in slowly. “You’re still in the honeymoon phase.” Thankfully, Ice steps in with a reply because all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears when Slider rubs his fingers against your sweet spot, thumb applying steady pressure to your clit. Your nails dig crescent moons into Ice’s wrist in a last-ditch attempt to ground yourself because if Slider keeps this up, it’s going to take a miracle to keep you from causing a scene.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Viper’s unapologetic quip appears from seemingly nowhere. Your own personal savior. “I need to borrow Iceman and Slider, Maverick and Merlin, Hollywood and Wolfman.”
You shiver at the abrupt emptiness. Slider wipes his fingers, dripping with arousal, off on the tablecloth, eyes locked on Ice.
Next Chapter
#thirsty's fics#fic: stuck in the middle#fic: stuck at the navy ball#chapter 1: under the table#tom iceman kazansky x reader#tom iceman kazansky f!reader#ron slider kerner x reader#ron slider kerner x f!reader#female reader#afab reader#tom iceman kazansky x reader x ron slider kerner#back for another reader sandwich#top gun fanfiction#top gun smut#tom iceman kazansky smut#ron slider kerner smut#the one where mav's sister continues to fuck his rivals-turned-friends#nick goose bradshaw#carole bradshaw#all the flyboys really
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I have yet another Fic idea that’s been bouncing around in my funny lil noggin for months! Yay! I call it my Stuck in the Middle AU (working title).
 Premise: Master of Death Harry unsatisfied with the role forced on him in the afterlife, endeavors to recruit an disembodied soul from a Universe where the entirety of HARRY POTTER is nothing more than a fictional story for children to help him destroy the 3 Hallows before they could ever come into his hands. He finds such a soul through happenstance & makes a deal, to allow that soul to return to their life they just left if they help him destroy the Hallows to which they agree.
The catch: Because Harry’s only enjoyment in the afterlife is messing with one Tom Marvolo Riddle, the vessel he chooses to house this soul is none other than the recently deceased Myrtle Warren, killed by none other TMR himself.
This entire fic is told from the soul’s pov as they struggle with being stuck in the middle of the most bizarre form of purgatory.
Snippet #1:
Abraxas Malfoy (outta breath & rushing into the Slytherin common room): SHE’S ALIVE!!!
TMR: Who’s alive?
Abraxas: WARREN!
TMR: What?!
Snippet #2:
Albus Dumbledore: Do you remember what happened to you, Myrtle?
Not Myrtle: Who the fuck is Myrtle?
Prof. Dumbledore: You are.
Not Myrtle: No I’m—(pauses suddenly seeing MOD Harry shaking his head)—Where am I?
Prof. Dumbledore: Hogwarts.
Not Myrtle (laughing): Oh sure…What’s next you’re gonna tell me you’re Albus Dumbledore?
Prof. Dumbledore: …I am.
*MOD Harry face palming*
Snippet # 3:
Not Myrtle (to themself): This a post 2020 world, yeah this might as well just happen…
Snippet # 4:
Cygnus Black (talking about Myrtle): Word is she has amnesia. Doesn’t remember who or what attacked her.
Tom: Good. Let’s ensure we keep it that way.
Cygnus: Though I’ve heard she’s been a bit off.
Tom: How so?
Cygnus: She’s been talking to herself incoherently.
Tom: Incoherently?
Cygnus: Just what Hornby tells me. They think she’s made up her own language or something. Sounds like she’s gone mad. Even if she did remember, I doubt anyone would believe her.
Tom: Prof. Dumbledore would.
Snippet #5:
MOD Harry: You do realize, you’re the only one who can see me? Everyone else thinks you’ve gone mad babbling to yourself.
Not Myrtle: What?! And you only tell me this now?! I’ve been here for days!
MOD Harry: I thought it was obvious. Do you see anyone else addressing me? And I’ll also inform you that when you speak to me, you don’t speak in English…
Not Myrtle: Then what the hell am I speaking?!
MOD Harry: The language of the dead.
Not Myrtle: Is that why people keep looking at me like I’m crazy?!
MOD Harry: Oh definitely. Most of them think you’re possessed.
Not Myrtle: …isn’t that technically true?
MOD Harry: Sort of. You’re the possessor, not the possessee.
Snippet #6:
Not Myrtle (to MOD Harry): Look I didn’t ask to be put in the middle of whatever dick measuring contest you have going on with a teenage boy!
And I think that’s all the dialogue snippets I have for now. But if I think of more I’ll post ‘em.
#hp fandom#tomarrymort#hp fanfic#fic idea#crack fic#mod harry#Harry Potter#tom riddle#stuck in the middle au#myrtle warren#snippets
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Stuck in the Middle | Steddie x Reader
Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader x Steve Harrington
Summary: After a bad relationship, you make the self-destructive decision to sleep with your stepbrother, Eddie. When Steve Harrington enters the picture, your life changes in ways you never expected.
Chapter 1: No Blood Here
#Stuck in the middle#smurph writes#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson x reader#Steve Harrington x reader#throuple fic#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#eddie munson x you#Steve Harrington x you#Eddie munson#Steve Harrington#steve harrington/reader#steve harrington/eddie munson#steve harrington/you#eddie munson/you#eddie munson/reader#steddie
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Chapter art for chapter 2 of my Joker's Palace AU! gonna rb with all the links so tumblr tags don't kill me
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*white knuckling the sink* I have more than enough ideas for a series of oneshots that I can reasonably complete, these are good premises for a story and I sat down today to finish writing one of them.
...
*makes note in my document* But also. Funney.
#yugioh gc au#Listen folks I need to put Yugi in more of these#so we're all just going to have to deal with Jaden and Yugi Attend A Wedding That Results In Astral Stealing A Middle Name#Interspecies Gay Rights#And Finally Closing A Two Year Old Missing Persons Case#i realized how amazing Jaden and Astral interactions would be and I had to to scribble some dialogue#okay NOW back to Jaden Has To Take Care Of A Pack Of Wild Middleschoolers (And It Goes About As Well As You'd Expect)#still a horrible title#but I have yet to think of a better one#so I might be stuck with it#writing#fanfic#fic writing#rambles
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Fic idea: he hasn't slept in weeks, except for a number of naps he can count on one hand. It's been nearly a month, and it's catching up to him in his quarters— he's yawning a couple of times, his sharp blue eyes are tired, and there are slight eyebags. He's never been this tired, he thinks. cortana notices this, and he insists he doesn't need sleep, and obviously, he's stubborn about it.
"I'm fine."
"You're falling asleep standing up."
"I'm fine, Cortana."
"Oh, what, you think if you repeat yourself louder I'll leave you alone? You know me better than that." She crosses her arms and tries to lean into his line of sight. He still wouldn't look at her. Stubborn bastard. "You've been running on adrenaline and thirty-minute naps for three weeks. Almost four."
"Nothing I haven't done before."
"That's the point I'm trying to make. You're not on assignment. You don't have to run yourself ragged for Palmer's training drills." She thinks she sees his eyes flick toward her, just for a second. "...a few hours, that's all I'm asking."
He turns toward the door without saying a word, but she's faster. There's an audible 'click-beep!' as the door locks and the light on the keypad goes red.
He stops in his tracks, but still doesn't turn toward the holodeck. She's expecting to hear her name again, but what comes out instead - in an annoyed growl - is, "Roland."
She can feel the other AI moving through Infinity's mainframe, quicker than lightning, focusing on this room, this holodeck. "Roland!" she snaps, just as his gold glow is starting to layer over her blue. "Do not open that door for him!"
Lovers' quarrel? Roland teases, tactfully keeping the comment inaudible to the human occupant of the room.
Cortana spears him with the digital equivalent of a glare and he backs off. Slightly. The golden light flickers and fades from the holodeck, but she can still feel part of him close by, curious. She doesn't bother chasing him off completely, even as irritating as it is to have him watching over her metaphorical shoulder. "I'm not unlocking that door until you sleep," she grouses at John's still-turned back.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Oh, I'm being ridiculous?!" How could a man be so smart and so stupid at the same time? "You're the one refusing to sleep until you—" she tosses her hands in the air, not that he can see it, "—drop dead, apparently!"
"Commander Palmer's expecting me in forty-five minutes."
"No, she's not. I told her you were unavailable." At this, he finally turns to face her. She's expecting to see annoyance, at the very least, but what she mostly sees instead is...fatigue. The petulant determination in his eyes is no match for the shadows around them. He's exhausted and he knows he is... It doesn't add up.
The energy between them shifts. The fight flooding her code ebbs away. It ripples out like waves, loosening threads of herself she didn't even realize had been wound so tightly, until all she's left with is the overwhelming desire to figure out what's wrong with her Spartan. "...why won't you sleep?"
His jaw tightens and he breaks eye contact, focusing on the floor instead.
She feels Roland finally retreat as her concern spikes higher and she sends a wordless 'thank you' after him. John still hasn't answered. She doesn't push him. Slowly, she sits, prepared to wait as long as he needs. Silence had never been uncomfortable between them, but she finds herself wishing she didn't have to be confined to the holodeck. She wants to reach out, to put a hand on his arm, steady him somehow. Reassure him. It'd been so nice, all those years ago. Circumstances aside, obviously.
His chest deflates in a sigh. "Dreams haven't been too friendly lately."
She hums her acknowledgement. They'd never really talked much about dreams - she usually wasn't in his head when he was having them - but she knew they could be strange. And sometimes painful. Sedatives wouldn't help; he had told her that, once. They forced him deeper, made things more vivid. "...I dreamed, you know. When I was..." she gestures vaguely toward the ceiling. "Out there." She didn't know if that was technically true. She didn't know what dreaming felt like. She knew what it looked like, neurologically, but if that was anything close to what she'd experienced... She doesn't particularly care about the semantics right now. That isn't what he needs. "Mind if I talk about it?"
He takes the bait. She watches him cross the room to his bunk, sitting heavily. "As long as they're good."
His voice is rougher than usual, edged with sleep deprivation, but she can hear the relief, the settling calm. He's grateful to have something else to focus on. She musters a smile and dims the lights. "I wouldn't have offered if they weren't." It was a white lie. Harmless in the short term, forgivable in the long term.
And she begins. Pointedly, at first. Stringing together half-truths of the best parts of what she'd seen, embellishing where necessary. He's horizontal after five minutes, on the brink of unconsciousness after ten. She doesn't stop talking. Not after his breathing has finally slowed into a deep, even rhythm. Not after an hour. Not after two. Not after three. She feels Roland swing by again, but he doesn't bother her, just sends curiosity-contentment-happiness toward her in a rapid succession of data pulses. She echoes back the last two and he's on his way again.
It feels good to be able to say what had been trapped inside her head for months, to try to make sense of it all. And to be able to say it to John without the expectation of any response. She doesn't want to put the weight of it - the reality of it - on his shoulders, too. Not really. She could figure it out by herself. And she would, eventually. But right now? She's just happy to hear nothing but the soft breathing of her Spartan in reply as he, finally, sleeps.
#halo#master chief#john 117#cortana#roland the ai#halo fanfic#my writing#i knew how i wanted to start this#got stuck in the middle#and finished the ending in a fugue state#i am once again writing in my AU#i live there#also this gave me Ideas for the bigger background fic#so thanks for that#cortana Saw Some Shit out there in the domain
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