#Content: alcohol

[attyrocious]

like hiring a horse to dogsit

[kabr0ztrousers]

A shy chubby fem reader is looking for a job and is offered one by a well built demon. He's looking for another maid for his mansion and he's offering ridiculous sums of money. It's too good to be true and it sorta is? It's still a maid job and she is still getting paid very well but like the rest of the servants she has to dress in a really slutty outfit and be a free use toy for himself and any guests.

Her first day on the job?

Bouncing on her boss’s cock while he and his associates (who are also fucking the staff) are enjoying the view.

Kabr0z Writes Episode 137: Employment Hell

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes Anthology here!

Ao3!

CWs: initial dubcon; enthusiastic content; size difference; oral sex; demons; mild religious themes; mild alcohol use; sex work; excessive cum; cum inflation

A/N: This one almost reached 2600 words, and took literally all day. Have fun with it :D

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You'd think Hell would be a pretty shitty place to live, and you'd be right. Though, you might be surprised when you get down here. Turns out the whole Hieronymus Bosch schtick isn't so popular any more. There's a finite number of demons, and the sheer quantities of the damned are overwhelming. If they were to actually do the job, each demon would be personally responsible for the torment of over ten thousand souls and counting at best guess. That's not considering the impossible task of taking a census in a realm that is literally infinite. Demons are a lot of things: avaricious, impulsive, lustful, but above all indolent. Supposedly, they're the army of Hell, poised to invade and wreak havoc across creation. In practice, they're a bunch of hedonists. Some greater authority makes sure the real nasty bastards get their due, and many of the more violent demons absolutely get their rocks off in the pursuit of that duty, but most demons were perfectly happy in an endless stream of orgies and alcohol.

So the eternal punishment takes another form. It just so happens that it's the exact same varietal of low-grade misery that exists every day for millions of the living. Unless you want to live completely off the grid, rent needs paying, so many people have a job, or live with someone who does. In theory it was a similar level of awful as up above, in practice food is strictly a luxury, as is shelter. If you don't mind couch surfing, you could live in relative ease. Everyone knows that of course, so the actual jobs tend to be less "extracting value from labour" and more "thinly veiled excuses"

When you applied for a job, you didn't know this. Freshly damned and with nothing to your name but the clothes you died in and a glossy pamphlet entitled "Welcome to Hell!" containing the contact information for a few places where you might find a cheap bed, flanked on all sides by dozens of adverts for everything from obscure streaming services to almost every imaginable sexual proclivity for sale. You found a number for a recruitment agency, clinging to the corner of the document, just below an image of a demon spreading her drooling cunt whilst holding her impressively knotted cock.

You begged a coin off a stranger for the payphone and called the number, a bored voice answered your questions. Yes, it's regular work. No, you're not going to be hurt. Yes, most of it is housemaid work. Uniform is provided, as is a room in the manor where you'll be working. Your first shift can be this evening if you like. The voice gave you an address, even called you a cab to get there. You'd find out more about the job when you got to where you're going and the head maid gave you more information.

The taxi arrived, driven by a short-haired man in a flat cap who regaled you on the best places to eat, the best bars in town, when to avoid driving, even some of the nicer demons you might meet out and about. He reassured you, sure, you're in Hell, but generally folks were no worse here than up above, just a lot less pious about things.

He dropped you at the mansion. It looked like an old-money townhouse, the kind of thing you'd see in central London, a large square detached house complete with decorated friezes a gate out front and a woman dressed in a skimpy maid outfit waving at you

"Hi! You're the new hire, I bet?"

You nodded and introduced yourself to her

"Good, good! I'll show you inside and get you a uniform, do you prefer men's clothes or women's? Never mind, I'll give you a couple of sets of each. You'll be refreshments for tonight's soiree, so no need to worry about cleaning anything for now, just get comfy in your room, we'll go over some ground rules while you're living here and make sure you're all set for tonight"

You allowed yourself to be led inside. Serving refreshments doesn't seem too bad, you'd worked behind a bar for a while in life, and the skills don't get all that rusty. The house was surprisingly bright and spacious, marble tiled floors, plush furniture, art hanging on the walls, even the stairs down to the servant's quarters were well lit and maintained, individual rooms were afforded for every member of the household staff. Sure it's a bit of a shoebox but a room like this would set you back 3 grand a month in London's zone 1, so you're not complaining.

House rules were simple enough too. The duty roster is 4 on 4 off, if you're not working in the morning you're not expected back, guests are permitted but must be signed in and enter via the servant's entrance at the rear of the house. She set out a pair of uniforms on your bed. One was similar to hers, a French maid dress if it'd been through several tailors each one directed to make it shorter, more revealing. You held it up to you, it barely covered your ass, the tops of the stockings would be clearly visible, and you'd never be more than one wrong move from your tits falling out. The men's outfit was almost worse, somewhere between butler and stripper, made of leather straps and sporting totally assless trousers. You put away the maid outfit, indicating to your new manager you weren't going to need the men's attire.

"I thought you might say that, but sometimes people surprise you. Go ahead and get settled. There's a book with everything you'll need to know in the drawer. Oh, and before I forget, your safeword is epsilon, like the Greek letter"

Safeword? Nice to know you have one, but you hadn't thought you'd signed up for that kind of job. You shrugged and sat back on the bed, the mattress was a little firm, but not uncomfortable. You lay back and took a handbook out of the drawer. The master of the house was called Ankhayat, he had a whole page dedicated to his list of titles and epithets, but if unsure, you were simply instructed to refer to him as "Dominus"

Your heart sank as you read on. You had apparently misheard when you thought you would be providing refreshments. You were to be refreshments, namely to swan around looking pretty until a demon decided they liked the look of you and claimed you for the evening. Like everything else down here, this job revolved around sex, and you were on the menu.

You sat back on the bed, contemplating your next steps. You’d been promised that you wouldn’t be hurt, and they had given you a safeword, presumably that worked the same down here as up there. The pay was good, and the room was clean. The handbook even went over the process of cleaning the house, such as it is, that mostly boiled down to running a duster across surfaces and bending over a lot., Your job wasn’t being a maid so much as it was eye candy. You didn’t mind that so much, but you couldn’t help dwelling on your trepidation as the appointed hour neared. Every time you checked the clock it seemed to have jumped, time ticking down until you had to put on the dress and walk up the steps to the cigar lounge where they’d be waiting for you.

You changed. The dress clung to you in ways you weren’t expecting, though you’d later learn the fabric itself it enchanted. No matter which way you twisted or turned your tits stayed put. You could bend over and the skirt would just so happen to fall in the perfect way to accentuate your ass without showing too much. Even the underwear was bewitched, riding up in the perfect way to show off your ass and create a perfect camel toe, while being so comfortable you’d forget you were wearing them. On the one hand, it was nice that you wouldn’t have an unexpected wardrobe malfunction. On the other, it was another reminder of exactly why you were there, to be ogled, and then to be claimed for an evening.

Motion outside your door broke you out of your thoughts. Your new colleagues moving down the hallway. You joined the rush, another woman smiled at you, sensing your unease. You felt her hand on your shoulder “Don’t worry, Ank’s nice really. Just don’t be put off by the big horns” The rest of the staff offered similar advice, each one having gone through something similar on their first day. It helped calm the shaking in your hands, but the butterflies still fluttered in your stomach.

The group stood at the foot of the stairs, above was a door in a panelled wall, near invisible from the corridor above. Before you stood the head maid, it occurred to you you never caught her name. She looked over the group and smiled “Looking good, everyone. Remember, if anyone gives you trouble, find me. Don’t be afraid to take some air if you need it, and we’ve got a newbie today so keep an eye on her if you can so she doesn’t get overwhelmed. Have fun out there” She stepped aside and the group started up the stairs. You caught her giving you a thumbs-up as you passed, grinning from ear to ear.

The cigar lounge was exactly as you’d have pictured a room with that name to look. Narrow windows flanked a large fireplace, small tables contained ashtrays and decanters of amber liquid, demons of all shapes and sizes lounging in high-backed chairs, most smoking, some holding hands of cards, some playing dice. You recognised Ankhayat from the descriptions you’d been given. Broad-chested, red skinned, curved ram’s horns on his head, deep scars on his cheeks. He was wearing a smoking jacket fastened about the waist and dark velvet trousers. He was looking straight at you. You milled around the room with the others, topping off glasses, engaging in light conversation, but even as your colleagues were finding themselves being picked up by attendees, nobody asked you, until you got within Ankhayat’s long reach.

You felt his hand rest on your ass. You turned to him, and he pulled you towards him by your waist “So,” he began, speaking in a low, deep voice “How are you enjoying your first day?”

You blushed, turning your head a little until his hand cupped your cheek, turning your gaze back to him “It’s not exactly what I expected, a lot more fucking, a lot less housework”

He smiled at you, “Nobody’s touched you yet, what do you say about giving me that honour?”

Your blush deepened as you stepped into his embrace. You sat on his lap, one of his hands on the small of your back, the other guiding yours to the bulge in his pants. His thighs were like tree trunks, spread apart just wide enough for your hand to slide up his inseam, coming to rest on his member. You opened the buttons of his flies, allowing his cock to spring free. It was thick and concerningly long, ridges spaced out along its length. Your hand slid over them, firm but soft under your fingers. He grunted as you rubbed it, twisting your hand, squeezing the tip, eking out a drop of precum.

You slid between his legs, licking up his ventral duct, tasting him as he looked down at you, hand gently resting on your cheek. You kept one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other palming his balls as you went, hearing his groans as you licked and sucked on him, tracing the ridges with your tongue, teasing the tip, taking the end into your mouth. You could feel him resisting the urge to push you down, his hand tensing on the back of your head. You pulled off him and stood up, planting a kiss on his cheek as he panted at you.

He helped you up onto him, your feet on his thighs, facing him as you reached down, lining the ridged cock up with your cunt. You lowered yourself down onto it, whining as each ridge slipped in. Every one made you whine, each getting thicker as they entered. You paused halfway down, feeling the tip pressing against your cervix, rolling your hips a little, rubbing him against your back wall. You locked eyes with him, he was staring back at you, his breath catching, hands on your waist, barely touching you. You nodded, just a little, just enough for him to see what you were doing, and know what you meant.

His hands tightened on you, squeezing your waist as he pushed you down. You felt him pushing against you, slipping deeper in, grinding painfully against the entrance to your womb. You leant forwards a little, slipping it past your cervix to the space above. You gasped as another two ridges entered you, rocking your hips, trying to get the last one. Your cunt was stretched wide, the last ridge challenging you as you struggled to take it.

You both gasped as it slid in. You rocked yourself on him, feeling the ridges sliding up and down inside you, massaging your insides like no cock had before. You could feel him leaking, an extra layer of lubrication dripping from his cock in a steady stream, helping you as you stretched yourself around and over him. You felt close, your belly starting to tense up as you grabbed his wrists, leaning backwards to rub him against you better. You could feel your belly bulging as his cock filled you up, one of your hands sliding to your belly to feel him rearranging your guts.

Your eyes rolled back as you succumbed to your orgasm. You groaned loudly as you squirted hard on the demon fucking you, eliciting a ripple of quiet applause from the other guests, some clearly watching your antics. Your body shook and twitched, your breath coming in great heaving gasps. You could feel yourself squeezing him, pulsing against the ridges of his cock, his face screwing tight as he fought not to empty his balls in you. You reached behind yourself and grabbed his tight ballsack, feeling them churning in your hand, aching to release.

You squeezed, only a little. A long, low groan escaped his mouth, almost a growl. You felt him throb, twitching and squirming under you as he held on. Then he sighed. Thick streams of cum pumped out of him, gushing into your ready cunt as you rolled your hips on him, edging every drop out of him. He squeezed your waist, driving himselkf deep inside as more of his cum flooded you, swelling your belly even as it dripped out onto the chair

At last you fell onto him, feeling his still-hard cock still leaking inside you. He held you to his chest with one arm, the other picking up a crystal tumbler, sharing his drink with you. You stayed like that for the rest of the evening, him wearing you like a drooling, whining accessory, occasionally feeding you sips of whisky as he smoked and gambled until you eventually fell asleep, still wedged down on him.

You woke the next morning to a note, and a roll of bills.

“For an unforgettable first night. You’ll go far around here

- Ankhayat”

[lifelikesimz]

FUNCTIONAL LIQUOR: DON JULIO REPOSADO TEQUILA

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[yourdependente]

[wri0thesley]

a prize to be won - capitano x fem!reader (5.3k)

you are not there for the destruction of your home. but you are there for the aftermath, when you catch the eye of the captain.

cw: dark content. kidnapped 'spoils of war' reader, descriptions of a razed village and death of everyone reader knows. explicitly fem reader. dubious consent, alcohol. based on this post.

this was a commissioned work.

You have never seen so much destruction. 

You have never even thought you would see so much destruction, truth be told; the very idea of such things has never crossed your mind, when your village is ordinarily so calm and peaceful. You have loved your home fiercely and protectively your whole life - you have done everything asked of you, you have shared in the joys and the sorrows of your neighbours. Your home life is a humble one - your father a baker, your mother his assistant, your older brother set to inherit the bakery with the understanding you would work in it until the end of your life too - but it is not one you have ever maligned! 

You've felt, perhaps, a rumbling of discontent once or twice - the thought that out there, there might be something more than what you have always dreamed about - but it has always been quickly quashed when you've been called to work, or your father has smiled at you or your friends embraced you. This is a good life you lead, and you are happy to live it. 

Your village is supposed to be peaceful. 

Your village has stood for years and years; was here for your grandparents and their grandparents before them. There are people who say the great tree in the village square is a thousand years old or more, who'll tell stories about the settlement that sprung up beside it with a laugh about how it will probably stand for a thousand more--

And yet, in front of you is the heart-rending proof that this is not to be so. 

You feel yourself start to shake. 

You had only gone out for a few hours; to gather some flowers for the bakery's window, some herbs that grew in the woods that your father would turn into deliciously flavoured bread. You had expected to come home, as you have so many times before, to the exact same place that you had left. Who would expect anything else?

But before you--

You can hear shouting and screaming, the beat of boots on the ground. Great plumes of smoke rise up from the houses that you know just as well as your own, as fire devours thatch and wattle and everything else the walls are made from - your own home is on the other side of the village, and it makes your stomach twist and ache to think that it could be following the same fate. 

You do not understand. 

You drop the basket you're holding, your arms suddenly feeling far too weak to support even themselves, let alone your spoils. Your feet drag against grass as you numbly, desperately, try to make yourself approach the smouldering ruins of your home. Nobody has seen you, not yet - but as you walk, as the smoke stings at your eyes and your throat, you can begin to make out figures striding amongst the carnage. 

Big-booted, armoured and weapon-furnished figures, in helmets and furs, barking out orders in an accent you can only just place. 

The Fatui. 

But why here? Why now? Why your village? 

It would be foolish, you know, to go any further. A clever girl would turn tail and run and hide out amongst the forest and the wilderness until the threat has gone and then maybe return to her home to see what the damage that has been wrought is. Your family have always been proud of you for being that kind of clever girl, when you've found errors in the accounting or remembered some little detail or other your harum-scarum brother is too bright and bouncy to keep in his head. 

It is not clever of you to duck beneath the fence of the nearest home, to sidle into the garden, and to pick yourself a path behind the houses to try and stay out of sight. 

You cannot simply go into the wilderness, not fully knowing if perhaps within that cacophony of flame and noise and horrors your family may still be alive and frightened and able to be saved. You have never thought yourself a particularly brave person, but it turns out that when one is in dire straits a hidden well of courage may be tapped into, and that is how it feels as you work your way through the grassy back gardens, ducking behind hedges and trees and walls and begging all of the Archons you can think of for their aid in staying hidden. 

You hear screams, sometimes, and wet plunges and noises that are worse, and you cannot bear to think of what is happening to your friends and your neighbours. If they catch you, what will happen? Will they throw you to the fire? Will they plunge blades into the soft flesh of your body, will they tear you limb from limb, will you even have time to beg for your life before the rush of death is upon you? 

You try not to think about it. 

You're doing well, you think. You get closer and closer to the side of your village that your own home is on (you cannot go past the bakery - it is far too central, and has probably already been ransacked. You can only ask the Archons for their grace that your family was not inside of it when the Fatui squadron arrives). 

And why are the Fatui here anyway? Simply for the pleasure of murder and pain and suffering? There are no riches in this village - there is nobody important, nothing that ought to have dragged a whole army down onto you--

You slide yourself into a small alleyway between two houses. With the sun setting, you are more hidden - and you must cross the centre of the village in order to reach your own home. You cannot stay on this one side forever. The spot is sheltered in shadows, at least, and you will yourself to peer into the murk of the darkness to ascertain whether you can dart out without too much attention.

You hear a crunch of leaves underfoot and your heart flees into your throat. You stop dead where you are, but as the noise gets louder and louder, you realise you have been found. You will not reach your home before the Fatui reaches you. You will not get to give your father one more kiss, your brother one more whisper of how proud he makes you, and bury your face in the sweet powdery scent of your mother's apron for one last moment. 

He rounds the edge of the alley and stands there, an impressive figure caught in strands of moonlight, a visor down over his face, a cloak billowing around him. Trembling, you raise your chin to look your death straight in his face. 

When the figure speaks, his voice is low and dark and rasping. 

"Well," he says. "What do we have here?"

Everything about this man tells you that he is more than just some Fatui grunt. There is a certainty in the way he stands and surveys you, a craftsmanship to his armour that you have not seen in any of the other soldiers, a commanding tone to his voice than can only belong to a man who is used to issuing orders and even more used to those orders being followed to the letter. You are still trembling, and you do not lower your gaze. 

You wish you could tell if he was smiling, or if he was preparing to strike you down - but behind his armour, his face remains a mystery to you, no matter how badly you may wish to know. 

"Who are you?" He asks you, surprising you. You are expecting death, truth be told; the rest of your village, it seems, is burning around you. There is no reason to suspect you may be spared that fate. 

You tell him your name, still trying desperately to cling onto the bravery that has made you lift your chin and stand proudly instead of running away. Far better to die staring it down, you remind yourself, even as it feels that your insides are a snarl of knots begging you to run. You even tell him that your family owns a bakery in the village. Even, at the end, you find yourself asking this; 

"And who are you?" 

It is enough to surprise a laugh out of him - a strange noise, half low velvet and half wheeze, as if he is unaccustomed to making merriment. That helmet stays levelled at you, and you see a hint of blue fire behind the darkness where his eyes should be, and you get the distinct impression that you are being observed. Sized up. Considered. 

"I am the Captain," he says, eventually. He does not elaborate beyond that, but you do not need him to. 

Rumours do not often make it this far out, but the exploits of Il Capitano have certainly preceded him. You have heard tell that he is a monster of a man, that his men will kill you as soon as look at you, that he leaves a trail of ruined cities in his wake, let alone villages. If this is truly the Captain before you, then you are in even worse trouble than you anticipated, and any last-minute desperate hopes that your family may be alive vanish on the wind as you swallow back tears. 

He must be able to see the shake in your shoulders and the sway in your knees, but you do not let yourself show any more weakness than that. Your gaze stays steady, even as you feel a tear roll down the apple of your cheek. 

"Then I suppose I am going to die here," you say, your tone final. You swallow. You lift your chin even more, exposing the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat, hoping he will make it quick. You are all the more aware of your clothing now than you were before - the simple peasant dress, well-made but worn, the skirts and the aprons you had just a few hours earlier gathered herbs in. It feels like almost nothing, standing before Capitano in furs and silver and armour, but it is yours. And a peasant girl dies as a peasant girl lives. 

You prepare yourself for the swing of a sword, the gush of hot blood down your neck - but Capitano does not so much as place his hand upon his sword. He simply continues to look at you in that terribly interested way, as if you are a puzzle he desires to solve. 

"You would give your life to me so easily?" He asks you. "Give everything up, little flower, and die here?" 

"It is no more than everyone else in my village has done," you say, trying to be careful with your words. If you are too rude, perhaps he will drag you into the town square - perhaps he will make an example out of you, before his men. And though you are prepared and expecting to face your death, you would rather not make it even worse than it has to be. 

A figure appears at Capitano's side, and then another; two of his men, who immediately fall to their knees and do not pay you a whit of attention. 

"We're done here, My Lord," they say, in the voices of sycophants. "We have no useful information. No intel at all." 

Is that what they were looking for in your little humble village? Intel about what? Nobody here goes further than the next village over! What could they possibly know that would be of any use? 

"Very good," Capitano says, without turning his helmet from you. The two grunts laboriously pull themselves up from their knees, finally sneaking a glance at the peasant girl still standing, wondering what you must be doing here. Wondering if Capitano is about to kill you. "One more thing," he says - the men straighten to attention, waiting for whatever orders their leader is about to give. 

You think you hear the ghost of a smile in his voice. 

"I wish to take a souvenir," he says. "Bring this one back to camp and put her in my tent."

You are not fool enough to struggle against the Fatui who come to you, who take you by your arms - gentler than you'd expected - to march you on your way. You suppose they do not want to risk hurting you, when Capitano has expressed such an interest - but it rankles in the back of your throat that you are nothing more than a 'souvenir', some thing that can be taken and placed as and where the Captain pleases. 

But you are lucky to not have been killed where you stand. 

They march you out of your village, and you try not to look at the burnt-out husks that were once your neighbour's homes - you try not to let your eyes desperately seek out the shell that was once your family's bakery, or worse, your home. You keep your chin high and your lips pressed tight together, and all of the thoughts and feelings that are spooling around your head remain silently trapped within there. You do not think you would like anything you will hear from these soldier's mouths. 

The campground is more alive than you would expect - and it simply makes you feel worse. When they have meat aplenty, to roast on open fires, when they have fine furs to drape over their tents and books to read . . . why ransack your home? Why not just search for this so-called 'intel' and leave? But you cannot say this aloud. You bite your tongue. 

Before you know it, you are brought to the biggest tent of all. It stands tall and royal-blue, imposing and regal in the insignias and crests embroidered upon it. The two Fatui guards push you inside, and you hear the sound of something zipping, and see their shadows take guard outside to make sure you make no attempt at running. 

As if you would. 

You would not get a hair's-breadth from the tent before you found yourself shot or stabbed or grabbed or worse, and all the more painful they will make it when they realise you are running from their leader. You bring a hand up to smooth over your hair, noting ruefully that in your morning activities foraging and your attempts to sneak around, you are dusty and dirty and out of place. The tent is a strangely clean place, for all of the bloodshed that its occupant must regularly indulge in. 

You take a moment to peek around it. There are those fine, expensive furs - there are bottles of wine and alcohol stacked together, a makeshift desk scattered with papers and quills and ink, a bedroll far bigger than any you've ever seen festooned with pillows and blankets and more of those same white pelts. It is only a tent, only designed to be brought from place to place, somewhere to sleep at night and nothing more - and yet within it, there is more luxury than you would have ever seen in your humble cottage home. 

Voices from outside. 

A low rumble that you now recognise as the Captain makes you stand up, stock-still and straight, from the books you were crouching to read the spines of. You press your hands into fists at your side and wait for the flaps of the tent to open and for the Captain to come in, to kill you or worse, all fury and blood and desire. 

It does not happen like that. 

Il Capitano does enter the tent, and you notice that he dismisses the two grunts standing guard outside with an order ending '. . . and bring it back here'. You wonder what it is they are to bring back - something to dispose of your body, perhaps? But he does not rush at you. In fact, he strips his sword from his side to rest it in a rack by the entrance of the tent, and then he stands there, regarding you once more. 

The silence stretches between the two of you like a thing that can be seen, a shroud of fear on your side and amusement on his. Finally, you break: 

"Are you going to kill me now?" You ask him, hating the tremble of your voice. It is difficult to get a read on whatever it is he is thinking, with the mask covering his face, but he tilts his head to the side. 

"I would not have brought you here to kill you, little flower," he says. "What do you think I wish to do?" 

"I . . ." You swallow. There are hundreds of possibilities running through your head, and you do not like a single one of them. "I don't know." 

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, after a pause, your fear shimmering in the air. "I would not have wasted my time."

"Why not?" That one falls from your lips before you can deadfall it, and your shoulders draw in, all fear. You shouldn't be questioning why he doesn't wish to rip you limb from limb! You should be grateful to still have all of your internal organs on the right side of your body! But . . . you are nothing special, and you do not understand what it is that has saved you thus far. 

Capitano crosses the room instead of answering you, and one of his gauntlet-clawed fingers tilts up your chin instead, to look down at you with that inscrutable blue-fire gaze behind the mask he wears. 

"You didn't run," he says to you, after a moment. "You didn't scream. You're terribly sweet to look at. You trembled and shook like a leaf, all big wide deer-eyes - and yet you stood firm and strong and brave. Why do you think I had you brought back to my tent, little doe?"

You are saved from answering the question by the tent opening - and those two Fatui grunts from earlier enter, hauling between them what looks like a large tin bath. One of them goes to a corner and begins to poke and prod at a fire, and then they place it before the fire and bow respectfully at Capitano. A creeping tendril of dread strokes down your spine as you look at it, and Capitano calls out a thanks as they leave. 

He turns back to you. 

"You're filthy," he tells you, and that gauntleted hand strokes over your cheek now, and further down, until it rests against the bare skin of your collarbone. "Will you undress for me and let me bathe you, or do I have to unclothe you myself?" 

Oh. Oh. 

"I--" You fumble, the truth crashing about you like a tidal wave. Your hands flutter helplessly. But there is no escape, is there? And if you wish to keep your life-- "I can undress myself," you say, swallowing back more protestations and begging. You strip off your apron, and move to the buttons of your blouse - through it all, Capitano's eyes remain hidden by his mask, just a flash of blue fire. But you know he is looking at you. You know he is watching, as your skirt falls to the ground, and then your chemise, and then you are standing bare and shivering in his tent. 

"Beautiful," he says, after a moment. "And you'll be all the more beautiful once clean. In the bath, please, little flower."

You give one last lingering look to your pile of clothes - the last remnant of your home life - and hope he will not have them destroyed, before you cross the short distance to the tub before the fire. You lower yourself into it gingerly, expecting it to be either boiling hot or freezing cold - but as you dip a toe in, you find that the temperature is perfect. It soothes the aches and bruises you have from your adventures today, and you can't stop the soft sigh of pleasure that falls from your lips as you fold yourself into it. You hear Capitano let out a low chuckle - and then he is kneeling beside you. 

You notice he has shed his gauntlets, now - but he still wears dark gloves beneath them, and he seems not to care if they get wet as he reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"I shan't hurt you," he reminds you, in that low voice like the churning of an ocean. "Submit to me. Let me take care of you." 

It is a strange thing to hear after everything he has done, but you are at his merch, so all you do is give him a stiff little nod. You wonder if he smiles at your acquiescence beneath the helmet, even as he reaches to a small shelf beside the fire and pulls out a collection of jars and bottles and washcloths and sponges, in colours and shapes and sizes that feels like an excess to you. 

He pours something sweet-smelling and floral into the bath water, uses one hand to swish it through so that the sweet scent will permeate your body, and it seems it flows up from the surface of the water in almost-visible swirling curlicues.

(At home you are used to bathing in a similar tin bath, but there is one washcloth for each of you, a communal bar of soap, and the thought of anything so luxurious as bath oils or your own shampoo would get you a scolding for the waste of money. You have never wanted for such things - you are content with your life - but the thought that Capitano would use them, on you, a lowly peasant girl--)

The first thing he does is reach into the water, to swell the sponge - and your breath catches as he leans closer, and then the sponge is slowly working over your body, to clean the dirt and the dust of the day from your skin. You feel like you cannot breathe at his closeness - and you expect him to take advantage, to use this as a way to touch you more--

But he does not. You find it rather strange how his body does not seem to kick off any heat, but he is so close as he leans to work at a particularly stubborn grass stain on your shoulder that you cannot give it more than a single moment's thought. 

The way he cleans you is almost worshipful - ritualistic, slow and careful and thorough. Your breath shakes in your chest, as he reaches the curve of your breast. And though he does indeed clean it, though the sponge does indeed brush over your nipple and make it pebble and harden, he does not linger any longer than he needs to in order to ensure your cleanliness. 

Even when he switches to a washcloth and he dips it between your thighs - he notices, from the brief tense of his shoulders, that you react to the sensation - he does not push further. 

"Your hair, now," he intones, and he moves to kneel behind you - and with those same fingers that washed you like he was a postulant in a church, he works through the tangles, smooths and cleans it, until it lays about your shoulders in clean wet strands. 

You think this is to be it, but Capitano is not yet done in this strange pampering - he reaches for other things, for other bottles full of ointments and lotions and potions, and he works those, too, into your skin where it is red or bruising. You can do nothing but stay there in the tin bath, as he calmly continues. 

"You will want for nothing, now," he tells you, as he dabs something sweet smelling on your collar bones, behind your ears - you think this is perfume oil, though you've never been able to afford it. "I will take care of you, little flower. You will be my most prized of all." 

Your hair, as he works more floral oil through it. And then he is standing, taking your arms to help you up - your knees feel strangely weak, like they will buckle beneath you. You have never felt quite so clean, even after baths at home. Flour always seemed to linger in the cracks of your palms, dough beneath your nails. But you feel as if you move in a cloud of fresh-scented air, as Capitano's massive bulk lifts you from the bath as easily as if you were a doll and wraps a fluffy towel about your body, thicker and more luxurious than the scratchy old ones that you have - had - at home. 

You feel strange. Warm and hot and wanted, and fearful at the same time of what Capitano will want from you now he has cleaned you. You can feel a strange stirring between your thighs - an awareness of your body that you are not used to. You have never given much thought to the men of your village. You have always thought one day you would marry, of course . . . but no men have ever caught your attention. 

And though Capitano is your kidnapper, though he has lain waste to everything you have ever known - he is broad and mysterious and far more gentle than you would have expected, and him being the first one to touch you in such a way has ignited a fire within you that you do not know how to quell. 

"Come over to the bed, little lamb," he says to you - and like a lamb, docile and obedient, you follow him. 

This must be it, you think. This is when he will shove you onto his bedroll and have his way with you, wanting as only a man can, using you as nothing more than a receptacle - and then you can once more hate him, and these strange feelings whirling in your stomach will finally abate, and life will put itself back on an axis you understand. 

It is still not as you expect. You should not have thought anything would be, in this strange new existence you have found yourself in.

Instead, he cups your cheek and murmurs against your ear; 

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

You realise you have not eaten all day, and you feel your cheeks heat as you give him a nod. It still feels frightening to let him know of your weaknesses - but as you say it, he produces a tray laden with breads and cheeses, and places it upon the bed between you. You go to take a slice, but Capitano stops you - and then he is hand-feeding you, as delicately and with as much care as he had washed you. 

It's delicious. You are used to freshly baked bread, as a baker's daughter, but the soft sweetness in your mouth is something else - you are almost glad that he's feeding you himself, for after the day you have had you are hungry, and you are not sure you wouldn't shame yourself falling upon it like a wolf. 

"Pace yourself," Capitano says, and though you cannot see his face there is a smile in his voice. "There is more where it came from. You will not want for anything, my sweet flower. Not ever again." 

He decides when you have had enough - your stomach comfortably full, as he moves the tray and takes it across the room for some lowly other Fatui member, you're sure, to clean up. You feel that fear again, as he moves towards you, and you realise the wide bedroll you are on is draped all over with furs and cushions, and you are still in nothing more than the towel he wrapped you in after bathing you. 

"A drink," he says, and it is not a request. He brings a bottle of wine and one glass over to you, and you watch as he pours the viscous red liquid into the glass, so like the colour of blood that you have to dampen the fear that goes coursing through your veins. He must notice that you have tensed, for he softens his words as he says; "It will make you relax. It will make this easier. I have no desire to hurt you, little lamb." 

So you let him wrap one of his strong, big hands around the back of your head, cradling you as gently as one would cradle a lover. You let him lift the glass to your lips and tilt it, until the red wine - sweet and thick and cloying - slips down your throat as easily as silk. You have drank before, but never something so rich, never something so expensive - never with a man like Capitano beside you. 

"There," he murmurs against your ear, cradling you, holding you, his body still cold but firm and strong behind you. "Another sip. Good. Good girl." You swallow what he gives you, and in time - as you're laid there for him, as you're held and coddled and treated as precious glass - you feel that familiar sensation. 

A warmth that spreads to your toes and makes you feel as though you're floating on air - a soft kind of airiness, as if the things that are happening around you are not truly real. Capitano does not lean down to kiss you, but you understand why he has carefully gotten you just drunk enough to feel light and expectant when he peels your towel away and tosses it aside, leaving you utterly bared before him on his bed. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and this time he does let his hands learn the shape of you. This is no quick attempt to clean you - he is not intending gentlemanly cleaning now. This is a desire to hold you and touch you--

And yet he still does not wrest control from you, as you had feared he might. 

"I have promised," he murmurs, "that I would not hurt you." The curve of his palm, taking hold of the heavy weight of your breast - your nipple gently tugged between thumb and forefinger, just enough so that your back arches involuntarily and a soft whine escapes your mouth that makes him sigh. "I do not break my agreements, little flower. You are safe."

You ought not to feel safe. You ought to be terrified - you ought to be wondering if, when he has had his fill of your body, he will toss you aside. You ought to be wondering how much of this is a lie. But Capitano's hands are stroking over your waist, your hips, the softness of your thighs. When he urges you to spread them, you cannot help but do so. 

"Exquisite," he breathes, as he uses his thumbs to spread open your sex, the coolness of the air hitting it and making you fight back the squirming. You do not want him to touch you. You want him to touch you more than you've ever wanted anything before. 

"Lovely," he murmurs, when he leans down and presses his helmet up just enough for a mouth - strangely cold, again, a tongue harder and longer than you're expecting - to wrap around your nipple, for teeth to graze the sensitive skin and your body to go on high alert that he will bite and eat you alive the way that fairy stories and rumours of the Fatui have said that they so enjoy doing. 

"Perfect," he murmurs, when he brings his thumb to your mouth and you - terrified and brave, afraid and yielding, unsure and battling with your own conscience - open your lips to let him slide the tip of it past your lips, to rest there. 

And when he moves, when he covers you, when you feel the stiffness of something impossibly hard and big pressing against your inner thigh, he murmurs;

"Will you be good for me, little lamb? Will you be my spoils?" 

Your throat is dry when you answer him; the only answer you can really give. An answer that gives up your personhood, that reduces you to nothing more than a prize to be won - but an answer that wins you, at least, your life. 

"Yes, My Lord. Yes."

[kenpachissluut]

ꨄ︎ Shunsui Kyoraku Headcanons ꨄ︎

Shunsui would be the most perverted man you‘ll ever known to exist. that man would just taunt you all day with perverted comments and flirting. He is not afraid to also touch you in public, smacking your ass and pinching your boobies.

Shunsui has many kinks. Like i said he is just fucking perverted. He would be open for almost everything when it comes to you. If it pleasures you, it pleasures him. He won’t force you to anything though that you don’t like.

Shunsui might be a damn womanizer and he would also flirt sometimes but he would never cheat on you. He knows how lucky he is to have you, considering his reputation. But he would also enjoy to make you jealous, so you would ride him desperately with your flared up jealousy and anger.

Shunsui loves when you ride him. That man is dominant yes, but he doesn’t have a problem when you take control at all. He would love to see you all bossy, riding him desperately, sucking him confidently like the beautiful goddess you are.

Shunsui has an big, thick dick. Atleast 22 cm long. It’s beautiful and well formed just slightly hooked down but that just helps to hit your sweet spot over and over perfectly. Some veins are showing on it and you guessed right. He is hairy, just like the rest of his body. He doesn’t shave, he likes it natural and he also loves it when you leave it natural aswell. If you are bothered by it, he would think about shaving for you a bit off though.

Shunsui eats your pussy like a starved man. It’s his favorite meal of the day, he always takes his time devouring your delicious pussy. His tongue is lapping over your sensitive folds, teasing your entrance with his wet tongue and his fingers gliding in and out your hole. He would make you see stars, making you feel like you are in Heaven.

Shunsui is very vocal. I mean like pretty much. Moaning, grunting, growling. He doesn’t care if anyone hears him, he wants everyone to know how good you are. He also loves it, when you are not afraid to be loud, so also everyone knows how good he fucks you.

Shunsui always reeks of alcohol. Every kind of sake, he is an laid back alcoholic. But your relationship would be never affected by it. He would never neglect you and always treating you like a Goddess. Worshipping the ground you walk on.

Shunsui loves it to fuck you roughly. In every position and every direction. But he loves it even more to fuck you slowly and extremely intimately. Teasing you all night to make you cum, intense eye contact, prolonging your act on how much he can.

Shunsui is like i said an alcoholic. But that would make your Fuck just even better. When he comes home drunk, pounding you all night in a mean matting press, from behind, against the wall you name it, filling your hole up over and over again. Until your pretty pussy is dripping with all his cum and your juices.

⋆˚ lunaeanima 𝜗𝜚˚⋆🎀

Comments and reblogs appreciated ꨄ︎

[slabime]

haven't drawn A Lot. school started again I'm real tired.

[ickytreats]

Friend group that takes the most innocent friend and ruins them in one night.

The girls make me dress all slutty short dress one that if I make one wrong move everyone can see my panties, extra makeup, heels, jewelry and all that. I've always wanted to dress like that but never had the guts to. They make sure to reassure me, touch me all over, and take pictures.

Everyone in the group makes sure to feed me different drinks at the club, get their turn to dance with me, and make sure I take a hit when they smoke. They all enjoy their turns to show me something different. They especially love how fucked up I got so quickly.

Until I'm in the VIP area or in a corner making out with one of them. Something they also taught me to do that night, of course they each get their turn. I'm a quick needy mess as they all touch my body groping me nonstop. My dress is not doing anything to stop them. They drag me back to the car and that's where the show starts. I'm too fucked to even stop them as I sit in the back middle and someone is yanking my panties off. My legs being forced open, hanging off of my friends lap. I'm still shy so I try to cover up but it's a weak attempt as they shove my hands away.

My count on display as they touch, another of the many firsts of the night. I bite my lip trying not to moan as one rubs my clit and the other fingers me. Eyes are on me in the car as they watch me fall apart on their fingers. Smiles and cheers are heard in the car as we finally get to someone's home. I'm thrown over someone's shoulder, cunt on display as they carry me.

It would turn into such a big orgy, everyone getting with someone. Of course they all need a first with me! The one that's lucky enough to be my first cock is so sweet to me. Making sure I take his size well and that I don't feel uncomfortable. But that won't last too long as I'm getting dragged into different positions by different guys. The girls making me eat them out, some even scissoring me dragging any other persons cum all over our cunts.

All for me to pass out and wake up sore and used.

[fiyaharts]

companion piece to this pinup drink poster but this time reigen is in his feelings

[cobaltcreations]

Me and my partner @the-good-ol-art-corner collaborated on this AWESOME poster for one of our favorite Bendy Aus @toontiedterror by @dictatortirah !! I am in LOVE with how it came out and I am so excited to see how this story and world develops!!

I put so many details into this, it is absolutely silly, but I had a swell time doing them. Those headshots on the missing posters belong to the staff from our own Bendy project @howdy-folks-its-showtime and we didn't even intend to make two versions. But I put so much into the background... I just had to make a version without the foreground to show it off <3

[kabr0ztrousers]

An big gentle dom orc doing anal for the first time with his shy girlfriend? (She’s the one receiving the anal)

Also, your work is incredible!! Take care🫶

Kabr0z Writes Episode 133: Backdoor Shenannigans

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here! including the other two times we've seen Oreg the Orc!

Here's the Ao3 series!

CWs: Oral sex; anal sex; alcohol use; returning characters; enthusiastic consent; size difference; age gap

A/N: Now I'm having to do some homework to figure out if these two have done it up the ass before. By remarkable happenstance, they hadn't, so we get to do that today 😁

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Dawn light spilled through the fine curtains covering your bedchamber windows. You rolled lazily in the bed, knowing Oreg would already be up and in his chapel, as he so often was. You've been married about a year and a half now, ever since the village, and today was his birthday. As usual, you'd bought him some necessities you knew he wouldn't have bothered getting himself until he'd already been in dire need of them for a month, as well as arranging for his favourite meals to be prepared by the kitchen staff. He's all to happy to spend money on you, but when it came to indulging his own wants, he was practically an ascetic. Years of knightly oaths and cloistered upbringing are hard to shake, even for a noble.

You were giving him another gift, too. Prepared entirely without his knowledge. You weren't even sure he'd go for it, but he was an orc underneath all the piety and nobility, and if you knew anything, you knew orcs. You wrote him a letter, to be presented to him as he took his breakfast, which would be soon. In it you asked him to put aside his good manners. For the day you were his to do with as he pleased, not as Duke and Duchess, but as an Orc chieftain, and his favourite prize. In truth, this was as much a gift to you as it was to him, but he always did need a little convincing to come out of his shell and take what you both knew he wanted. You smiled to yourself, who knows? Maybe this'll be the thing that finally tips him over to being the stereotypical permanently-horny orc you'd always expected you'd marry.

You could hear him moving through the house. Heavy footsteps thumping through the downstairs corridors. As predictable as any clock, he would've seen the dawn light through the window and finished up, walking across the main hall to his office where he'd go through any important documents and await the mail whilst he ate breakfast. The staff were very happy to inform you how some years he'd entirely forget it was his birthday unless someone reminded him, even then he'd normally just shrug and get back to it. Again, practically an ascetic when it came to treating himself.

Today was different. Ordinarily, you'd just roll back over and go to sleep for another hour or so before your chambermaid woke you to attend to something or other while Oreg worked in relative silence keeping the duchy in order and planning whatever public works he wanted to channel funding to next. Instead you heard his footsteps again, thumping down the hall and on the stairs, presumably he'd seen your gifts and realised what day it is.

Sure enough, he stepped into your room, only now trying to soften his footsteps. In his arms were the new belt and cloak you'd given him, and the unopened letter you'd written.

"Naughty, you were meant to have read that already" You smiled blearily at him, propping yourself up by your elbow "Go on then, open it up"

Oreg's huge fingers pulled on the ribbon running through the wax seal, cracking it and unfolding the letter. For all his attempts at being the perfect steward, and a certain mathematical gift, he was never the fastest at reading the common tongue, preferring to write in Elfish or Orcish when he had to. Unfortunately, literacy was never a priority when you were growing up so while you spoke Orcish, you couldn't read or write in the language. You followed his eyes as he slowly scanned the paper, going over some parts twice, furrowing his brow in places, before placing it down on the bed

"Sweetheart, did you write this?"

Your heart dropped, you'd upset him. "I'm sorry, darling, I thought you'd like it"

He grinned "Of course I like it, I just wished that if you wanted me to be like that, you'd have said something" He sat on the bed, the mattress squashing under the weight of his immense bulk. He cradled your face with one of his hands, so large your whole head fit into his palm.

"I do want you to be like that, but I also like you as you are. It's tough" you nuzzled into his hand, your own small hand against the back of his, holding it in place as he leant over and kissed your forehead

"So, what would you like right now?"

You looked at the letter, then back to him. His big brown eyes followed your gaze and he smiled warmly, his filed tusks peeking up from his lower lip, greenish-grey skin darkening with a blush.

He drew you close to him, your head against his chest, hearing the bass drum of his heartbeat as it sped up. You rested a hand against him, laying it on his barrel chest. His breath sped up as he held you in one rigid arm. You giggled, considering how bold he was the first time you'd met him, he gets so bashful when it comes to him taking charge sometimes.

Wait a second, maybe that was it. "One moment, dear, I've just had an idea"

His hand released you and you raced out of the door, sprinting in your slip and precious little else towards the pantry. You found what you were looking for, picking it up carefully and walking with measured steps to your bedroom. Oreg was in the bed when you got back, his tunic and trousers in a pile on the floor, the letter carefully laid on top. He looked over to you and raised an eyebrow "Wine? This early in the morning?"

You opened the bottle and stepped onto the bed "Last time you really took charge, you were drinking with Mazorn. Let's see if it was the booze or the company that did the trick" You held the bottle up to him and he took it in one great hand, taking two great gulps, almost draining the bottle before offering the last mouthfuls to you. The wine was strong and dark, warming you from within. Only a couple of mouthfuls made you giggly, and he'd had far more than that.

He rolled his head, stretching out the muscles of his neck before draining the last dregs of the bottle. You watched as the alcohol reached his head, the timidness brought on by years of temple education and chivalric training melting away. His gaze became hungry, his eyes slipping from yours, lingering on your tits, your waist, your legs. You sat on the bed, stroking the mornings stubble, rough against your hand. You laid your other arm across you, tits squeezed between your biceps in a practiced motion you'd had work on dozens of young orcs in the past. "Like what you see?" you mock-pouted, drawing in close to your lover, draping yourself across him.

Oreg sat up slightly, stroking the side of your face, his gaze softening a moment before his hand slipped around the back of your head and his grip tightened. He guided your head under the blanket to his crotch. You could already smell him, thick musk emanating from his balls as he guided you down. You repositioned yourself, pointing your bare arse and pussy at him while you lay on his belly, face to face with his cock. You felt his fingers at your entrance, stroking your lips as he got hard in front of you. You bit your lip, his rough hands tantalising you, riling you up for what is to come.

You gave the tip of his cock a kiss, then a lick, teasing the tip as you watched it throb and grow in front of you. You could feel yourself starting to drip with arousal as you huffed his smell, kissing and fondling his cock.

"You're a real slut when you get going, aren't you?" Oreg's chuckle was deep and heavy, almost a purr.

You lifted your hips, opening yourself up to him "Only for you"

His hand pressed down on your head, forcing himself into your mouth. You opened as wide as you could, but you could still feel him struggling to stuff himself into you. You gagged on him, even as you whined at his fingers exploring your slit. Your whines turned to a satisfied groan as the finger sank into you.

He knew you, every fold, every corner. His finger twisted inside you. Your muffled groan told him he'd found what he wanted. The finger crooked. Your hips lifted higher. He was still fucking himself with your throat, even as he pressed against your spot. Your eyes rolled as he used you, twitching and groaning, a thick finger in your cunt, a thicker cock punishing your throat. You felt yourself getting hotter, sweat beading on your skin as your legs shook and kicked. Pressure built in your loins, pressing against you as you got closer to the edge

"Let go, sweetheart. Let go for me"

His voice, soft and deep. Gentle and commanding. You came hard, tears welling as his cock stifled sobs. You sprayed over him, the pressure releasing in a jet of hot relief.

He pulled out of your throat, leaving you gasping over his cock, still kissing the tip as it twitched and jumped in front of you. He manhandled you to the pillow, holding you down with one hand placed on your back while two fingers still slick with your juices slid into your mouth. You sucked on them, tasting yourself on his skin as he slapped your ass with his slick cock

"How far am I allowed to go?"

You whined, too blissed out to form words. He chuckled again, shifting his weight to pin you down, leaning over you "Tell me if it's too much"

The head of his cock slid between your asscheeks, pressing against your hole. You looked back at your husband, caught somewhere between the desire not to hurt you, and the deep, primal need to stuff himself inside.

You met his eyes. He was waiting for you. You gave the nod.

You gasped as his tip entered you. It didn't hurt as much as you expected, but the size of it stretching you out made your eyes water even more than before. You groaned as he picked up speed, the pain fading as your sphincter relaxed around the thick orcish cock pounding it. You could feel him filling you up, his thickness stretching you out. You lifted up into him, enjoying the sensation of fullness. Your hand strayed underneath you, brushing your clit as his cock thumped into you.

Your next orgasm came quicker than the last. Your fingers circled your clit, rubbing in time with your husband fucking your ass. The familiar twitching and whining, then the whole-body clenching. You felt yourself tighten around him, willing him into you with every fibre of your being. Your hand left your twitching, drooling cunt and gripped his oversized balls, holding him in as you groaned with relief. You could hear his breathing speeding up. You rolled his balls in your palm, feeling the weight of them as they slowly climbed towards his abdomen.

"Cum in me" you groaned to your lover as he throbbed inside you "Give it to me"

Oreg roared. The roar of an orc chief claiming his prize. You felt his balls twitch. Once, twice, thrice they pumped before his cum came flooding into you. It was a river of hot, sticky reward. You sighed as it filled you, flowing through you, warming you from within. He always gave you a lot, and today was no exception. Wave after wave, pump after pump, he filled you up. You could feel it flowing out of you, dripping onto your cunt, mingling with your juices and squirt, slicking your hand with cum.

It felt like forever before he pulled out. You were just on the verge of falling asleep again, surrounded by his warmth. Cum leaked from your gaping ass, flowing out of you and into a puddle on the bed.

Someone's going to have to clean that up

#####################################

You know when you're sure you posted something last night, and it doesn't appear in the morning?

Yeah. Tumblr sucks ass sometimes

[spacedoutrosie]

my partner was talking with a friend about lobster clowns and couldn't find a SINGLE one on the internet, so i had to do the normal thing anyone would do and make one :3

[kinokoshoujoart]

scribbles based on my Another Wonderful Life file where i discovered Rock and Nami showing up together at Vesta’s farmhouse late at night on multiple occasions to cause various types of chaos and disturbance and havoc until Marlin and Vesta’s bedtime (which they both announce in unison to kick everyone out) this included

Rock levitating and attempting to rizz up vesta

Nami making a beeline for Celia’s room where she stands around making very subtle remarks (celia isn’t even in her room)

Marlin Enduring

haunting crime scene photos of the shenanigans:

[i-eat-deodorant]

gay

[ickytreats]

One order of eggnog and presents

You didn't think you could get drunk on eggnog, yet here you are sitting in your best friend's lap making out with him. The only one who stayed after the Christmas Eve party. You feel his hands all over you as the fireplace keeps you both warm and soft melodies playing. Such a pretty little thing on my lap. He'd mumble as he trailed kisses all over you. You couldn't help but feel sleepy, softly moaning at his touch. I made those drinks extra strong for you so I could have you so obedient on my lap. He'd admit as his hands grabbed your hips, pulling you closer.

You look at him shocked; he did what? You try to pull away, but he keeps you in place. Come on, don't you feel good? Hazy, tummy full, and being smothered in love. Just let me have this; you did say you didn't know what to gift me. Let me play with you like this. Keeps kissing you, and just this once, you give in. He had a point; you didn't get him anything. I'll take care of you no worries, pulls you off his lap, and walks off to the kitchen. He comes back with a bottle and sits down again, patting his lap for you to crawl onto it. Keep drinking for me, straight from the bottle? Straight from the bottle, I want you out of it.

Brings the bottle to your lips and makes you drink. Watch as your face scrunched up and laughs. Come on, dirty girl, you can keep drinking. I’m taking care of you tonight. He runs his hand down your stomach and stops over your cunnie. Running his thumb up and down the thin fabric, you had opted for a more comfortable look. Unknowingly giving him much more easy access, he is soaking you in watching as you get weaker for him. How your pretty words are slurred as you let yourself go for him.

Once you are leaning onto his shoulder, not being able to keep yourself up as you quiver at his touch, he is smiling so brightly. He could do anything to you and wouldn't do anything about it. For now, he'd be nice as he moves you so he can pull your pants off. Does the same with his own and slowly sinks you onto his cock with a moan as you whimper. Let's sit on it for a couple of minutes and glance at the clock past midnight.

Guess this is the best Christmas present I could get. He laughs to himself as you cling to him. Bounces you on his cock, a tight grip on your hips as he pulls you up and down. His own personal fuck toy is his drunk best friend, and he loves it. Loves how all you can do is wrap your arms around his neck, hide your face, moan, and whimper while taking it. Pulls your face away from where you have it for a second to look at your pretty fucked face. How your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open.

He didn't know if it was possible to get harder, but he just started to screw you harder. Both your moans and skin-hitting skin were heard around the room. Smiles when you go even more limp in his hold as you cum, good girl. Giving me such a good gift, he groans and pulls you in closer. Love this cunt; love you kisses your shoulder as he keeps using you. Fuck~ gonna cum, can I cum in you, baby? Knows you can't properly answer as you grunt, just makes him more excited to cum deep inside you.

Slams his hips up into you as he cums with a loud moan. Doesn't pull out; snuggles into you as you are now passed out. Holds you close as he runs his hands all over you and kisses anywhere his lips can hit.

[steviewashere]

Birthday Blues

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Abuse, Brief Mention of Child Abuse, Brief Mention of Financial Abuse, Brief Mention of Secondary Original Character Death Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Stepdad, Steve Harrington Has a Good Mom, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Emotional Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Mom is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Birthday, Steve Harrington is Loved, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending

Based on my own experience with my stepdad and uh...yeah, that's it, basically. Be kind, I guess? 🤷‍♂️

Also on Ao3 because this shit is long.

🫂————————🫂 He thought his twentieth birthday would come with more fanfare. Maybe not the whole calvary. But something simple. A cake, maybe. A card, possibly. Even just a simple “Happy Birthday.” That would’ve sufficed.

And the problem isn’t with his friends. No. They’ve sent him messages over the walkie since the clock hit midnight on June 29th. Made plans for the next few days. Promised birthday gifts tonight. He wondered if everything was supposed to be a surprise: the gifts and cake and plans. But Robin had already reached out, promised him that she already spoke with everybody, made sure to tell them how he doesn’t like surprises; not after Vecna, not after his ankle had been grabbed.

The issue is with his mom’s boyfriend. His ‘stepdad.’

Nobody really knows much about him. Not really. Nothing above: “He’s an asshole. I don't like him.” Which is…a way to make an impression. But he doesn’t really enjoy talking about him.

The boyfriend came into the picture when Steve was seven. When he was naive and confused about the world around him. When he was used to it just being him and his mom for a while. His birth dad had passed on really young—nothing that could’ve been prevented, but it wasn’t any sort of accident, and Steve doesn’t like talking about it; so he just doesn’t. But the boyfriend came along after so much nothing. After a life half-lived.

He was kind, at first. Interested. Capable. Made Steve’s mom happy. Took her out for dates—which left Steve with a babysitter; then on his lonesome when he turned thirteen—he bought her things, promised the moon, was at her beck and call. He even cared about Steve. Introduced him to the world of Spiderman comic books and baseball games and driving with the windows down. Had been there for home baseball games, Steve’s first piano recital, and for the first handful of birthday parties. He helped, when there was nothing. He helped, even when they had everything.

Then came the alcohol.

Steve remembers it clear as day. The vacation they all took together. They’d taken a plane from Indianapolis to Seattle. And it was sort of cool, Steve figured. The hotel with the indoor pool and the double-wide beds and the really nice view over the tops of tall apartment buildings. It was the first of many trips; one of the last Steve went on. What came with the nice hotel, though, was a bar and grill down at the lobby.

And sure, it was a time for celebration. Of sorts. They were heading out for Disneyland, Steve had been wide awake since the night before, his mom had bought them matching shirts so that nobody got lost. It was ideal, fun, what say you. But then the boyfriend came upstairs, a cup of something sticky in his hand, and a glaze to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“We’re celebrating,” he had slurred, “it’s alright, just for the night. Let’s have some fun.”

It didn’t stop there, though. Steve hadn’t known why at first. But then came the arguments over the next couple months after that decision. When the recycling bin was full of more beer bottles than empty containers of yogurt. When Richard was slurring his words earlier and earlier in the evening. When he’d sleep a good amount of the day, try and right himself from work, barely talk to anybody when he came back, and already had a bottle in hand by the time conversations started. The arguments were unrelenting, though. He could hear them through the floor of his bedroom: “Laura!”, “Richard.”. A few tense moments would pass after Laura, Steve’s mom, would say that name. Steve would leave his bed, in all the right spaces to make sure it didn’t creak, and settle himself by his bedroom door—where he could open it a crack just to hear, just to know, in case something happened and he had to go down there. Then, she’d speak again. Quiet and wet and calm, “I wish you would stop. If not for me, do it for Steven.”

Steve would hold his breath. Waiting. His mom never called him that, not unless he was in trouble, not unless she was serious. And his stomach turned at the thought of it. She’d call him Stevie otherwise, all soft and sweet and soaking—akin to the sugary butter at the bottom of a freshly made cinnamon roll. He liked that. He loved her. He loved Richard, despite all of this.

Until, finally, Richard spoke. “Is that supposed to make me care?” He questioned with ire. “He isn’t mine,” he eventually spat. And then he stormed to their bedroom—downstairs on the first floor, just off of the living room—slammed the door.

His mom wept that night, Steve could relay if asked. And he had been too tied up in his own awful sadness to go downstairs and comfort her. It wasn’t the last time. Wasn’t the last slammed door, or argument, or soft cry; for either of them. At least Mom loves me, he had thought, at least she’s mine.

With the alcohol and that understanding of absent love and those arguments, Steve would instigate them, too. He’d pick fights if only to get Richard to leave the house quicker. He’d scream and spit and stomp his feet, if only to get time alone. He’d even get fussy with his mom. Because if he could be an ass, get them both to be angry at him, maybe Richard would stay off of her for a little while. Maybe he wouldn’t drink so early. Maybe he’d have to have a conversation about “Steve’s antics.” It only made him more distant. It only made him angrier.

And with all of that in mind, he stopped the birthday celebrations. He stopped caring. He stopped saying “I love you,” when Steve went to bed. He stopped being a dad.

Because Steve wasn’t his. And he wanted to make sure the whole world knew it.

In comes his twentieth birthday, though. And he thought, maybe, that Richard would care. That he’d do something similar to when Steve was a kid. Make pancakes and wake him up with a soft knock to his door and sing the birthday song. He supposed, though, that that was all so foolish. That he wasn’t a little kid, so why would Richard do any of that? Maybe to prove himself, that’s something. Maybe care at all.

His mom had said something at midnight. Then again at nine in the morning. Then again over scrambled eggs and bacon. Made plans. Ushered a card full of cash and the Duran Duran album he didn’t have yet, Notorious, on cassette into his hands. He thanked her, kissed the top of her head, and put his things away upstairs. Richard still had said nothing. In fact, he was snoring through the wall. And the evidence of his latest binge had been scattered across the kitchen countertops before making it to the recycling bin; Steve should know, he had to put them in there and his hands came away smelling of cheap beer—it’s not even the good stuff, how can he drink this shit, he asked himself.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sure, his chest caved in something funny. And his throat sort of went dry. He went to his car, though. And he drove off to where Robin had told him to go. To Eddie’s new double-wide trailer, a damn replica of his old one on the outside. Where everybody was already parked and waiting. Hanging out outside, sodas and…beer in hand.

He took a steadying breath and forced his way over to them. Let them shout ‘Happy Birthday’ at him. And then he took a seat by Eddie. He was in a pair of loose black basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and barefoot. His hair was piled up. And he was drinking. 

“Hey baby,” Eddie greeted. He leaned over the side of the sofa they were on, dug around in what Steve assumed was a cooler, and held out a weeping beer can. “Technically, it’s not legal, but I’m not going to tell anybody.”

Steve eyed it for a few long seconds. Enough that Eddie’s hand wavered, the beer threatening to fall to the floor. He looked back up. “No—uh—no, I don’t want that. Can…I’m going to sound like a dick, but can I make a request?”

Eddie put the beer away with a sidelong glance. He furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. Of course you can make a request.”

“Can we put the beer away? I don’t…It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Another odd glance to Steve, Eddie gave. His mouth pinched. He swished his near empty can in his hand. How many has he had, Steve wondered briefly, some weird pulse of panic in his belly. “Sure,” Eddie agreed slowly. “You going cold turkey or something? Could’a sworn you had one the other day when I saw you?”

He watches Eddie stand up briefly, pour out his beer over the side of the porch, and then place it in a clear garbage bag that’s been tied to the railing. There’s already three or four beer cans in there—Steve knows that’s what they are, they all say Miller and the cans the kids have are bright red or green. He looks back to Eddie’s face when he settles down again, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, hair falling loosely from his bun, sweat on his brow, sweat or beer on his upper lip.

“I just don’t want people drinking today, please.” And he feels kind of silly. Having to explain himself.

But Eddie’s hand curls down from the back of the couch, dangling loose at the back of Steve’s neck. Fingers trailing over the top notches of his spine. “You got it, sugar. I’ll have Robs put it away inside, okay?” Steve nods loosely, lets Eddie holler out, and relaxes into his side.

The rest of the day went by pretty smoothly. There were gifts: hairspray from Dustin, some artwork from Will, a new basketball from Lucas, matching shirts from Robin, a book he’d asked for from Eddie, and cards from the others who couldn’t find something in time or afford anything. He’s thankful for it all because it’s more than he expected. And there’s cake, his favorite, German chocolate with Ferrero Rocher candies on the borders; “Nance and I made it,” Robin explained and he gave her a knowing look.

It was all so normal. So good. So sweet.

Just like it had been last year. Even the year before that. And the years prior, when it was his mom and Tommy and Carol and Nancy. And the years before that, when it was Richard and his mom.

He really wants to cry about it.

When the party dwindles down, it’s just him and Eddie. Eddie’s putting out the last of the recycling and cleaning up some dishes, to which he adamantly refused to let Steve help with. And so Steve takes advantage, using the new phone.

He dials his house number and waits as it rings for his mom to pick up.

“Harrington household, Laura speaking,” she greets, her voice…nasally. Unusually so.

“Hey Mom,” he greets back, “it’s…Well, you know it’s Steve. Just called to…wanted to check-in. How’s everything going?”

She shuffles on the other end. Clears her throat. Sniffs. “He’s not going to say it, Stevie, I’m sorry,” she says, voice unreasonably apologetic. “I tried to get him to at least call this number you gave me, you know for your Eddie friend. And he…he just scoffed at me. Said some things, you know how he is.”

“Oh,” he mutters. His voice must do something weird, because Eddie’s slowing his wash on the dishes, leaning further into the counter edge to look at Steve. “Are you okay?”

“It’s the usual, Stevie. It’s just—“ She sighs, a great heaving thing. “—Just the usual. He’s already out to the store. Took the last bit of my cash for it; he spent all his own. Left me here with microwaved leftovers. Might turn in early.”

“I can give back the bit of cash you gave—“

“No,” she rushes. “No, Stevie. That’s your money. If it came back to me, he’d probably take it anyway. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just…If your friend can let you, I think you should stay the night there. Richard’s…he’s got the whiskey out from the den. Just stay with Eddie for now. I’ll take you out tomorrow for cake, okay? We’ll make a little date out of it. Just us. Like it was…Like it was before.”

He stands still for a moment. The phone cradled in his hands by his ear. Her words ringing out so loud, yet so soft. He really wants to cry about it.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters in his silence, “I’m sorry he ruined this for you.” She shuffles again. Probably got one arm wrapped around her waist, stepping to the side in her slippers. Like she always does when she has to call her sister about…him. She sighs again. “I’d leave him if I could. God, Steve. I would create whole galaxies for just us to live in if I could. I wish I knew how to fix this. I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he whispers, utterly broken. “’T’s alright. We’ll do cake tomorrow, yeah? I’ll pay for us to get milkshakes for old times sake, right? Like…” He swallows. Murmurs, “Like before.”

Just off to the side, Eddie’s inched closer. The dishes completely abandoned now. Steve doesn’t want to look at him, thinks he’ll break down if he does. But his body heat is welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm hug.

“Like before,” she echoes. Sniffs. “Just heard the car outside. I’ll…Call me in the morning, okay? I’ll let you know how tonight went. I love you, Stevie. I love you, don’t forget that.”

He takes a breath, it stutters like the skip over a scratch on a record. “I love you, too,” he breathes out. “Be safe,” he murmurs, “you have the address if you need to get away. Or…call me if you need me to get you.”

“I’ll be okay,” she mutters, a wisp of a smile to her voice. “Now, you go have fun. Tell Eddie I said hi. And that…Tell him I say thank you for keeping you.”

They share their goodbyes almost hastily. Right as her words fall through the receiver, the front door seems to open, and the phone is hung up before he can chance anything else. The dial tone is blearing in his ears. He keeps the phone cradled close, like maybe she’ll reach a hand out through the speaker and caress his face. Kind of wants her to.

And he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself from crying. Trembling where he stands. Tears streaking hot and fast down his cheeks, over his jaw. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s a near damn thing.

“Baby?” Eddie calls softly. He takes a hesitant step forward. And he’s closer than Steve thought. Right at his left side. His hands reach out and take the phone from Steve, hanging it back up. He wraps his palms over Steve’s biceps, barely turning him. “Sweetheart?” He calls out again, softer this time. Bending down just a little to make them stare at each other. He moves up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs working over the tears. “’S everything alright?”

He sobs something little at that. Closing his eyes so he can’t see Eddie. “He’s so selfish,” he manages to cry out, “Why doesn’t he care?”

“Who, sweetheart? Who’s ass do I need to…” Steve finally stares back. And whatever it is that’s there, Eddie seems to understand. “Oh,” he coos, “oh baby.” In a flurry of movement, Steve is pulled in tight and close. Haphazardly dragged back to the sofa and plopped down almost unceremoniously, if Eddie weren’t holding him so carefully. There’s a palm at the center of his back and one on his head. Both of them firm and welcomed and warm.

“He—Just—He just doesn’t,” Steve hiccups between breaths, “Never—Never cared.”

Eddie shushes him gently. Leans back against the armrest behind him, and pulls Steve on top. His face is tucked into Eddie’s left shoulder, where it’s awkwardly stuffed between the armrest and the backing, and he just cries.

There haven’t been a lot of moments where Steve’s cried over this. Maybe once or twice when he was in high school, but that’s about it. Otherwise, he was getting it out through anger or ignoring it altogether or trying to talk it out with his mom. So many conversations and so many arguments and so much just shoved inside his chest. He thinks if he weren’t getting it out right now, soaking the fabric of Eddie’s white shirt, he’d probably burst at the seams, maybe teeter, fall right off the deep end into something murky and thick. He’d probably die from it. Have a heart attack, maybe, like his dad did.

When there’s nothing more to cry out, he just breathes hot and heavy and choking over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, fingers petting through Steve’s hair, “we’ve got nowhere to be right now, okay? You can fall apart here, I’ll still catch you.”

He sniffs. “I just…I just want him to love me,” Steve admits quietly, “To think of me as his kid and to want to do better and to just be somebody I wanna be around.” His arms wrap snuggly around Eddie’s waist, pushing himself further into the hold of their bodies.

“Can I ask something?” Eddie asks gently.

“You just did,” Steve murmurs, voice crackling with the joke. It’s almost hollow coming out of his mouth.

But Eddie snorts anyway. “Okay…Fine. Two questions. Does this have anything to do with the whole beer thing earlier?”

Steve stiffens, brain fighting to find an excuse, but he figures it’s best to just be honest. Even as shameful as it seems to be some days. “Yeah,” he sighs, giving in. Swallows harshly, his jugular moving over Eddie’s shoulder, the sharp outline of the joint against his neck. “Yeah, it does. He drinks like everyday. Sometimes he…some days he doesn’t, claims he’s stopping for good, says he won’t pick it back up. But then he’s doing it the next day and I—“ He shrugs where he can move. “I just don’t get it, I guess. And I…I try so hard to not think of him badly, y’know? He’s probably got shit he’s working through. But it’s almost everyday, Eddie. He’s almost always drunk. Always arguing with my mom. I can hear him through the floor of my room,” he admits. “I want to feel bad, but the way he treats me—the way he treats my mom—“

“How does he treat you? Just focus on you right now, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a harsh sigh through his nose. He can’t bring himself to pull his head up, to look Eddie in the eyes. “I want to feel bad,” he repeats slowly. “But he’s so awful. He’s not a good person when he’s drunk, Eddie. He just riles me up, argues with me, tears me back down. That sort of shit.” Steve shifts, rolling his head over onto Eddie’s chest. The depth of his breath under Steve’s ear.

“He told me to go fuck myself the other night,” Steve murmurs, “I don’t know why, but that like…It solidified in me the fact that he doesn’t love me. I don’t know why I expected him to tell me happy birthday today. Why he’d choose this year out of ‘em all to finally be the person I expected him to be. Just my stupid brain, I guess.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Hands petting over where they rest. “It’s okay to be disappointed, Steve,” he carefully states. “You wanted the best for him and he let you down, tore you apart in the process. You needed him to be your dad and he’s made no effort, it’s not…You’re not stupid for wanting that love.”

“He used to be so nice, Eds. I used to love him. I want to love him, but he makes it so hard. God, that makes me sound like such a terrible person, to admit something like that out loud.”

“No, Stevie,” Eddie immediately says. “You’re not a bad person for wanting to love somebody. And you’re not a bad person for refusing yourself to love them. He’s hurt you, Steve. And you’re allowed to feel how you need to.

“And…” Eddie’s hands clasp over the middle of Steve’s back. Heavy and sure. “From experience,” he musters, “with my dad, sometimes you just gotta let go of that love. Sometimes you just gotta tell yourself that it’s not possible. Because…honestly, in some ways, it is impossible. My dad had every opportunity, and yet he chose alcohol and drugs and crime over me.

“I miss who he was…Before my mom died. I miss his laugh and his hugs and our inside jokes. Miss the way he used to play guitar and the late night drives we’d go on. I miss when he taught me good things, like catching lightning bugs in our palms and how to make a good smash burger and how to tell entertaining stories.

“I don’t miss him now, though,” Eddie confesses quietly. The words almost lost in Steve’s hair. “He hurt me in irreparable ways. Mentally and…and physically. But what got me through the worst of it, before I came here, was knowing there were other people out there who’d love me. Who love me and continue despite who I am or what I’ve experienced. Like Wayne. And my grandma, at the time. My friends; Corroded Coffin especially.

“I could spend a million lifetimes unloved by my dad, but at least it’s the real love I was surrounded by. Sometimes people are so damaged that they like it, they like the cracks they can trace and the anger in their blood, they almost enjoy it—they usually don’t get better. My dad was that way. Even when he quit the couple times he did, he always found his way back to that alcohol, those drugs.” Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the notches of Steve’s spine. His breath a little heavier, a bit raspier. And Steve is absorbing the words. “Sometimes people want to get better and they don’t know how. And that’s when help is needed, outsourced hands, intervention, that kinda shit.”

“We’ve tried,” Steve breathes heavily. “My mom and I have tried so damn hard, Eddie.”

“What’s he usually say in response to that help?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath. Sighs, “That he doesn’t want it.” He slowly brings his left hand to Eddie’s chest, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “I wish he’d want it. I—He was my dad for a little while. Now I just live with a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Eddie murmurs, “for what it’s worth. I’m sorry you’re going through this. That you’re still going through this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Stevie. Things don’t have to be this way.”

“It has to be fine,” Steve mutters, “there’s no other way right now. I can’t leave my mom. And my mom can’t leave him. And he won’t stop.”

Eddie takes a careful breath. “You can leave, though. Steve, you’re an adult, you can go,” he softly states.

“I’m not leaving my mom,” Steve snaps lightly. He sniffs, the last of those tears and snot receding. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I just can’t do that to her, Eds. She wouldn’t do it to me. I’m not gonna do it to her.”

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, “then, look at me, sweetheart.” Slowly, careful of the slight tension in his neck, Steve raises his head and stares down at Eddie. There are tear tracks on Eddie’s cheeks. A sheen to his eyes. And Steve begins to reach up, but Eddie holds him down tightly. “You, Steve Harrington, are loved by people who want to do right by you. You, Steve, will have love in so many corners of your life. The love that Dick has isn’t for you and it definitely isn’t for your mom.

“I love you, you hear me? And Wayne does. Hopper does. There, that’s two dads. Your mom loves you, too. She loves you with her whole soul. And you’ve got your friends, Robin and Dustin especially. And you’ll have more, Stevie,” Eddie explains gently, his fingers going back to trace along the edges of Steve’s spine. “I can’t fix things, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure how things turn around. But they will some day. I know it because I lived it. We can’t figure it out right now, but we’ll find our way some time down the line. Focus on the people you’ve got right now, though, Stevie. Not him. He ain’t worth a rat’s ass.”

Steve snorts wetly. His lips tremble and his eyes ache something fierce. He’ll cry forever at this rate, but at least Eddie’s hands move to his cheek, at least he wipes the tears away. “I love you, too,” he breathes. “And I’m sorry that you have to know all this shit. That you had to go through that.”

“I’ll figure out a way to know how to get you through it, too,” Eddie murmurs, smiling softly, his eyes moments away from leaking. “But you’re loved. He ain’t worth it. Don’t go searching for something you ain’t gonna find.”

He drops his head back down and burrows under Eddie’s chin. At least he found this. “When I’m ready to go, will you have space for me?”

“Always and forever,” Eddie rushes to answer. “Remember, baby? You fall and I catch you. You come knocking on my door, I’m gonna answer it. And if you climb in bed with me, I’ll hold you close and never let go.”

Steve nods gently, pushing himself in further. He sighs. “Thank you,” he mutters. Eddie squeezes him in. “My mom said hi and thank you, by the way. Remind me to call her in the morning? I wanna make sure I get her before he wakes up.”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “now let’s get ourselves to bed before we fall asleep on this couch. Gotta be comfortable, don’t we?”

He huffs. “But you’re comfy.”

Eddie snorts. “I love you and I don’t want you to be sore. Come to bed with me?”

Steve wriggles. “Okay,” he relents. “Because I love you and I also don’t want you to be sore.”

And, he supposes, because he's loved.

🫂————————🫂 Sorry if this sucked, I wrote this with a raging migraine and have no grasp on how shit it is. Whoops.