Mmmm - we're supposed to be talking this out. [This may have backfired. She wants them to move; to go slow, to go fast, to plow in until she's sobbing against Billy's chest telling him how much she loves him, needs him, how he's so important to them both.
Her breath hitches, arms still shaking with the effort of leaning on them. Her whole body feels a little like it's trembling, really. ] Talk first, then - then move.
O-okay. ( he can do that, he thinks. maybe. it’s really hard not to move, not to sink back and then slide into Jem’s wet heat and to feel Billy straining up against him, against them.
he wants them both, forgets what they’re supposed to be talking about for a moment and pants against the side of Jem’s neck. ) I’m not— I’m not going anywhere else tonight. I don’t want— you’re important. Both of you.
( he shouldn’t have teased, shouldn’t have invoked Danny when shit is complicated and fragile. he doesn’t want to upset anyone — wants Billy to know he cares. )
[ The problem is: he doesn't actually want to talk, had to be coaxed back here with the promise of weed and the promise that Eddie was just being a fucking asshole. He doesn't actually want to say anything, and he nips hard at Jem's shoulder, dragging his teeth against her skin there, worrying a fresh new mark.
Jem's right though, sort of, he will talk once he's stoned. Sort of. Weird though, to talk about serial killer morality while you're rock hard in your girlfriend and you're waiting for your boyfriend/situationship/matrimonial companion lover (?) to fuck her too.
It's been a long, long time since he's gotten stoned. Probably what, a week before he died? Before that thing got into him? After work when the pool was closed, so the high could hit and he wouldn't drag the smell home. It's hitting hard and heavy, his mouth feels slow. ] You don't even give a shit, [ he complains. ] You said they were your merry little band of world savers, and you don't even give a shit.
[ Wheeler wasn't his friend, and Billy can't remember if he ever once spoke to Byers. Steve wasn't his friend either, but Billy's thoughts flow like molasses, and he's pretty sure if you asked him, he could count Harrington's freckles, his moles, from too many side-ways looks in the locker room. ]
( in hindsight, this may be a terrible idea. it’s hard to focus on anything than the way Billy’s words slur, the little hitch to Jem’s breathing as Eddie keeps a steady hand on her side and glides his fingers along where their names are tattooed on her ribs.
the weed’s hitting quick and Eddie hasn’t smoked in ages either; since before he died, since he was holed up in Rick’s little boathouse praying to any entity out there that he fucking made it out alive and look what good that did. then again, he has this. he had them. even if it’s not fucking easy at least he’s trying; putting in more effort than he’d ever seen Al put in.
Billy complains and Eddie opens his mouth to snap back but the weed his his tongue heavy, so he takes a breath instead. he doesn’t snap back, say his name, though he remembers doing it when Murphy’s monster had its claws in him. the weed makes him too slow, too fluid. the weight of their bodies makes it safe. his voice is a little slurred, his words slow and confused instead of angry. ) Who said I don’t care? I give a shit.
It’s just not — It’s not that simple. ( because it’s the wrong Wheeler that would have Eddie enraged and Harrington? Harrington’s proven to be way different than Eddie thought, a real hero. But — but Danny risked his life too, died for it when Eddie meant jack shit to him instead of being baggage added to the freshman Harrington was following. It would be different if Henderson had been with Danny in the fog, Eddie thinks. It’d be more complicated, the depths of him harder to reconcile. ) The only reason I haven’t been spider food yet is because Danny also happened to give a shit.
[ there's something absurd about this, obviously. about being sandwiched between them, stoned, forcing them to talk out their feelings while they're both nestled deep inside of her, cock to cock, chest to back, chest to chest. this is the most content she's felt in a while; stretched full, their heartbeats against her own, so, so warm, head floating.
she smiles against Billy's neck; soothes with the brief feeling of adoration that swells in her, while they talk, bicker, explain, misunderstand, so and so forth. she says, voice sounding a little far away: ] Why do you hate Danny?
[a bad fuck doesn't warrant it. a bad fuck is forgettable, it's miniscule. ] We see one side of it, and him. How did he hurt you?
A bad fuck is one thing — a bad fuck when you hadn't been fucked like that, when it something secret that you wanted, but not like that, well, then it's more than a bad fuck. And maybe all that could have been massaged, if he'd ever seen a little more, whatever Jem and Eddie saw, before everything went to hell.
Billy seethes. He didn't give a shit, he wants to tell Eddie, but that's getting in the weeds, tangled thoughts where Billy can't tell if there's anything in Danny save for a need for tools and stimulus. How do you tell two people you love that they may just be tools and stimulus? Billy's thoughts are wilder than that, less centered, bucking, they gravitate toward: Is he even a person? Or does he just like sucking marrow out of bone?
He's sucked plenty out of Billy; a feast. Billy doesn't talk, he thinks he'd spit poison, say something to the two of them that he'd regret eventually. He doesn't say anything, but his hands grip them, agitated as his memories surface, pass from him to them. It's Danny's emotionless mental voice, but cold, cold. Ghostface.
There's who was your favorite? wheeler or harrington? and i'm as hollow as i left harrington the last time i saw him and it's too embarrassing to end on, really, but the memories are a rush until: but until then, i'll still be fucking your girl.
He's on the bottom of this configuration. He can't push them off, but his nails dig in.
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Her breath hitches, arms still shaking with the effort of leaning on them. Her whole body feels a little like it's trembling, really. ] Talk first, then - then move.
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he wants them both, forgets what they’re supposed to be talking about for a moment and pants against the side of Jem’s neck. ) I’m not— I’m not going anywhere else tonight. I don’t want— you’re important. Both of you.
( he shouldn’t have teased, shouldn’t have invoked Danny when shit is complicated and fragile. he doesn’t want to upset anyone — wants Billy to know he cares. )
no subject
Jem's right though, sort of, he will talk once he's stoned. Sort of. Weird though, to talk about serial killer morality while you're rock hard in your girlfriend and you're waiting for
your boyfriend/situationship/matrimonial companionlover (?) to fuck her too.It's been a long, long time since he's gotten stoned. Probably what, a week before he died? Before that thing got into him? After work when the pool was closed, so the high could hit and he wouldn't drag the smell home. It's hitting hard and heavy, his mouth feels slow. ] You don't even give a shit, [ he complains. ] You said they were your merry little band of world savers, and you don't even give a shit.
[ Wheeler wasn't his friend, and Billy can't remember if he ever once spoke to Byers. Steve wasn't his friend either, but Billy's thoughts flow like molasses, and he's pretty sure if you asked him, he could count Harrington's freckles, his moles, from too many side-ways looks in the locker room. ]
no subject
the weed’s hitting quick and Eddie hasn’t smoked in ages either; since before he died, since he was holed up in Rick’s little boathouse praying to any entity out there that he fucking made it out alive and look what good that did. then again, he has this. he had them. even if it’s not fucking easy at least he’s trying; putting in more effort than he’d ever seen Al put in.
Billy complains and Eddie opens his mouth to snap back but the weed his his tongue heavy, so he takes a breath instead. he doesn’t snap back, say his name, though he remembers doing it when Murphy’s monster had its claws in him. the weed makes him too slow, too fluid. the weight of their bodies makes it safe. his voice is a little slurred, his words slow and confused instead of angry. ) Who said I don’t care? I give a shit.
It’s just not — It’s not that simple. ( because it’s the wrong Wheeler that would have Eddie enraged and Harrington? Harrington’s proven to be way different than Eddie thought, a real hero. But — but Danny risked his life too, died for it when Eddie meant jack shit to him instead of being baggage added to the freshman Harrington was following. It would be different if Henderson had been with Danny in the fog, Eddie thinks. It’d be more complicated, the depths of him harder to reconcile. ) The only reason I haven’t been spider food yet is because Danny also happened to give a shit.
no subject
she smiles against Billy's neck; soothes with the brief feeling of adoration that swells in her, while they talk, bicker, explain, misunderstand, so and so forth. she says, voice sounding a little far away: ] Why do you hate Danny?
[a bad fuck doesn't warrant it. a bad fuck is forgettable, it's miniscule. ] We see one side of it, and him. How did he hurt you?
no subject
Billy seethes. He didn't give a shit, he wants to tell Eddie, but that's getting in the weeds, tangled thoughts where Billy can't tell if there's anything in Danny save for a need for tools and stimulus. How do you tell two people you love that they may just be tools and stimulus? Billy's thoughts are wilder than that, less centered, bucking, they gravitate toward: Is he even a person? Or does he just like sucking marrow out of bone?
He's sucked plenty out of Billy; a feast. Billy doesn't talk, he thinks he'd spit poison, say something to the two of them that he'd regret eventually. He doesn't say anything, but his hands grip them, agitated as his memories surface, pass from him to them. It's Danny's emotionless mental voice, but cold, cold. Ghostface.
There's who was your favorite? wheeler or harrington? and i'm as hollow as i left harrington the last time i saw him and it's too embarrassing to end on, really, but the memories are a rush until: but until then, i'll still be fucking your girl.
He's on the bottom of this configuration. He can't push them off, but his nails dig in.