#More Weather Than You Can Shake A Stick At

[lovebugism]

saw you were looking for shy!reader requests and now I'm having visions of nighttime colorful twinkly lights, snow swirling in the frigid air, frost-bitten noses and tentative glances...

what about reader getting roped into holiday caroling with the gang, including her crush, Eddie? Or some other festive outdoor activity, preferably one which allows them to subtly get closer to each other without giving away their feelings 🤭 I'm feeling those 'will we won't we' vibes tonight hehe

wow. here's me casually writing a wee drabble for someone who's written some of my favorite works on this app lol. hope you like it angel :D !! — eddie keeps shy!you company during a holiday party at the wheeler house (friends to lovers, fluff | 0.9k)

The weirdo has a soft spot for the princess.

The Princess, he calls you, ‘cause Mike once convinced you to sub in on a D&D campaign some months ago now. You were a rebellious fairy from a clan of royal fae sent to guide the rag-tag troop through an enchanted, labyrinthine forest. 

You had dressed the part, too, despite having zero knowledge of the game itself. You waltzed into the Hellfire room in a flouncy pink dress, iridescent fairy wings from last halloween, and a crown of artificial flowers.

Eddie remembers you that way, still. A sweet and timid thing, with a big heart and a pretty laugh. Even now, as you sit all alone in the Wheeler’s backyard, away from all the chaos and the twinkling lights, bathed beneath a glowing pink sky and sparkling snow — you’re still such an ethereal thing. A heavenly being, flung from space.

He weaves through the quaint party and over to you, carrying a steaming cup of cocoa in one hand and his bleeding heart in the other. 

“How’s it going over here?” Eddie asks over the soft holiday music playing closer to the crowd.

You blink up at him with wide, glassy eyes, as though he’s just jolted you out of some sort of daze. “Oh. Yeah. Fine,” you stammer finally, smile wavering when Eddie’s lopsided grin makes you forget how to breathe. 

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders with cold and clammy hands. Hiding feels instinctual to you now.

“Freezing to death?” the boy quips and fights to keep his own teeth from chattering.

The sight of him before you, with snowflakes clinging to his curls and his pale skin softly flushed with wintertime, makes you smile more sincerely than you mean to.

“Something like that,” you nod.

Eddie extends a ringed hand towards you then, offering the paper cup of hot chocolate keeping his aching fingers warm. “Want some?”

“Oh, no— It’s okay,” you decline with a polite shake of your head while your chest blazes with misplaced embarrassment. “I— I can get my own.”

“Well, between us, I didn’t really want it in the first place,” Eddie confesses lowly, taking another step closer until you can smell the deep musk of his cologne. You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. “Little Holly offered me a cup, and I didn’t know how to say no.”

The thought of Eddie Munson, in all his daunting black and silver, having a sweet spot for the youngest Wheeler (whom he exclusively refers to as Little Holly) makes your chest go all warm. 

Holly has her own innocent affections for him, too — you know for a fact she’s got an obsession with his bat tattoo that’s driving Ted insane.

You duck your head in a feeble attempt to hide your smile. Eddie sees it anyway, though, and smiles at your smiling, perhaps wider than he realizes. 

You take the cocoa from him with gentle, trembling hands. His heart skips a beat when your fingers brush over the back of his own. Yours stops entirely when he sits down on the bench beside you — not unwelcome, of course, but more wanted next to you than you’d ever be willing to admit out loud.

Eddie hisses through his teeth and tenses beside you through a shiver. You watch him stick his pale hands in the pocket of his thin leather jacket, which he wears in spite of the inclement weather.

“Are you sure you don’t want another jacket?” you wonder sheepishly, peering at the boy through the corner of your eye.

“I’m good, princess,” he insists with a shake of his head, just before his glowing nose sniffles. “I’m a rockstar, remember? Rockstars don’t get cold.”

“Really?” you hum, quiet and sarcastic.

“Yeah. Freezing to death is, like, the least metal thing ever. It’s like, you know, using an umbrella when it’s raining— It just makes you ten times less cool.”

You shift on the creaking bench and smile at your cup of cocoa. “Well, me and the ladybug umbrella I’ve had since I was nine respectfully disagree,” you joke in shy murmurs, still so meek in humor.

Eddie laughs. You feel him trembling with it beside you from where his shoulder’s pressed against yours. You see his teeth chattering just before he lifts his hands over his mouth, breathing hard into his palms in a desperate attempt to warm them.

Your hands ache with the sudden urge to cover him up. They tremble with uncertainty when you drag the borrowed blanket from your left shoulder to drape the excess along his back. Eddie peers at you with a chocolate button-eyed look as you shift closer into him, made warm and alive by your proximity alone. He’s grateful for the act of kindness, still.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, gaze averted and cheeks pink. You’d almost think he was shy.

“Don’t mention it,” you murmur back and mean it.

“You know…” the boy lilts, nicotine-spearmint breath fanning warm across your cheek. You can hear the smile in his voice without ever even looking at him. “If you just wanted to be close to me, you coulda just said.”

You flash him a stern look from beneath your lashes, which still manages to look just as soft as the rest of you. You try not to think about how close he is to you now — close enough to make out every distinct shape of the snowflakes sticking to his wild hair.

“Don’t make it weird,” you plea through a deadpan.

“That’s a lot to ask of the local weirdo,” Eddie scoffs. “I mean, it’s kinda in the name, princess.”

“Sorry for not wanting you to freeze to death.”

Eddie meets your narrowed eyes with a crooked, pink grin dripping with mischief. 

“I like you, too, princess,” he croons quietly.

Your chest pinches. You have to remind yourself to breathe. “I didn’t say that,” you shake your head and turn away, looking back to the crowd mingling beneath falling snow and fairy lights. You don’t know why Eddie would want to be here with you, instead of over there with them. 

Eddie doesn’t know how he could want a single other thing than to be here with you.

“Didn’t have to,” you hear him say as he pulls the blanket tighter over his shoulder and shuffles closer into you. For warmth, you tell yourself. For warmth and not a damn thing else.

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

The sunlight tries in vain to pierce through the cloud covered sky as you make your way under the canopy of conifer trees. Winter will only last a few more weeks but for now you must trudge through the hardened snow on the forest ground.

You clutch your new book close to your chest, peeking again to see if the piece of paper you slipped between the pages hasn't somehow fallen out despite your tight grip. You look up from your graphite stained fingers to the stone cottage in the middle of an increasingly familiar meadow. Drawing in a breath, you adjust the bow and quiver slung over your shoulder and clamber through the pasture, watching smoke rise from the old chimney.

This time, you don't panic when you reach the door, you knock before the nerves can even seep in. He opens the door for you, eyebrows scrunched in confusion just like the first time. He looks ready for the weather outside, snow boots, axe in hand, he's even wearing his big fur coat. He clearly had other plans today but he still looks pleasantly surprised by your presence and gestures you inside.

You shake your head lightly at him, feet stuck to the stone veranda. He looks more worried than confused now as he looks down at the book in your hands, you try and not let all the determination you just had flutter away. Hands shaking more than you'd like, you slip the piece of paper out of the book and hand it to him unceremoniously. You can't will yourself to watch his reaction, it's weak but you can't seem to look away from the floor.

A shame really, because if you were watching, you'd see his face grow pink in real time as he reads in your terribly scrawled Orcish -

"Hunt with me?"

He has to read it ten times before he can believe it's real. He looks down at you and then back to the poorly drawn Orcish characters, mouth agape. He turns to the shelf next to the door and gently places the piece of paper there before turning to you. You fiddle with the book in your hands, biting your chapped lip. He rests his hand on your shoulder making you look him in the eye, when you do you're taken back by the look he gives you. It's an expression you can't describe, appreciative doesn't cut it but you wouldn't dare say affectionate.

He nods his head firmly.

Now you both sit amongst the brush, target birds nest only a few meters away. Your Orc friend sits quietly, leaning on a stump next to you, waiting for you to make the shot.

Little movements in the nest have you tensing up and pulling the string back. You wait patiently for the birdie to peak its head over the weaved twigs of the nest but you wait too long and before you know it the bird's wings flutter for takeoff. You panic and shoot the arrow before the bird can fly away but the arrow shoots just a bit too high, piercing the tree trunk as the bird takes flight in a rush of feathers.

An agitated sigh leaves you and you turn towards where the Orc roars out laughter. He quickly tries to muffle his laugh when he sees your pointed, deadpan expression. You point towards where your arrow is stuck in the bark of the tree and hold out your bow for him. He goes to decline the offer but you fix him with a challenging glare that says "If it's so easy then why don't you do it?" You shove the weapon in his hands and hand him an arrow as well, then take a seat on the stump.

He breathes in and positions himself on his knees, just like you were. You sit back and watch him fumble with the bow, failing to notch the arrow against the string for a while before finally aiming the thing. He makes the bow looks so small, it's like a thin stick in his hands instead of a deadly weapon. He pulls the string back and you worry for a moment that it might snap before he lets go and the arrow whizzes through the air and into the canopy of pine needles, never to be seen again.

You burst out in laughter, slapping your knee with a hand on your chest. He huffs and hands you back your bow, grabbing his axe from the stump. He aims it carefully and chucks it into the tree. It lands exactly where your arrow landed, splintering it into pieces. You're shocked to silence for a moment before letting out an impressed "Huh". He seems very proud of himself, giving you a cheeky bow, making you click your tongue and shake your head as he walks off to pull his axe from the tree.

He slumps beside you on the frosty dirt as you hastily page through your book. It's a shame you don't see how he leans his head on his hand and stares at you, not even trying to hide the admiration. When you find the word you were looking for you slap his arm hard with the book, he flinches back playfully. You point to the word "owe" in the book and look at him sternly.

He looks back with a blank stare.

You point to him accusingly, point to the Orcish word for "owe" and then point to yourself before getting an arrow out of your quill, pointing towards it and putting up two fingers.

You think he gets it, if his bashful face says anything. He rubs the back of his neck with an apologetic look. He stands up, axe in hand and nods to you with a look of determination.

Now the sun is gone as you walk alongside him, on route to your home, belly full, carrying a basket of fresh bread. You tried telling him you were only teasing, but he insisted on taking you back home and making you a meal. You were never one to turn away a meal, especially if it was his cooking. Hours went by as you sat in his living room, comparing translations in each other's books and trying, mostly in vain, to write in the others language. You didn't even notice the sun setting until you had to light a candle to see the scribbled mix of Human Common and Orcish on the white papers scattered across the table.

He offered to walk home with you and you, once again, didn't put up much of a fight. Maybe it's just the moonlight or the after-taste of his food but you can't stop stealing glances at the orc as he walks alongside you. His dark eyes reflect the warm light of the lantern so beautifully. Little flakes of snow decorate his hair, they look like stars amongst the inky black mane. You can feel his body heat more than you can feel the heat of the lantern, he's always so warm and it makes it very frustrating to be close to him. He looks over and catches you staring, you quickly avert your gaze to the snowy ground, embarrassment bubbling up again.

You come to a break in the trees and all your thoughts are slapped away. You stare fear-stricken at the massive lake in front of you. A deep chill crawls over you as it always does when you see it now, you meant to avoid it entirely, just like you've been doing since the incident but you must have been more distracted than you thought.

Frost nips at your nerves as you stare at the deceptively thin ice covering the lake and remember the cold, dark depths just beneath. Remembering how difficult it was just to breathe after being plunged into those waters, like spikes of ice piercing your lungs with every breath. You clutch your chest as your breathing quickens, ghosts of pain nudging closer.

Your sight is cut off from the lake by a dark brown furcoat. You look up at the worried face of your friend, eyebrows scrunched and frown deep. His pretty eyes are now filled with concern and it only makes the pain in your chest worse. You turn away from him, you can't look him in the eyes like this. This has happened before, when you wake up in your bed cold and crying. At least then you're alone, now you're outside, in the dark, with who is essentially your closest friend watching you break down.

If he didn't think you were weak before, he definitely does now. You let out a choked sob as your legs crumble beneath you. The orc falls with you, he lightly holds you closer, hands just brushing your shoulders. He clearly doesn't know what to do or what the boundaries are for something like this, and neither do you really.

He's right there. You can feel how damn warm he is, you just want to give in, why won't you let yourself give in? His gloved hands gently urge you to look up at him and you struggle against it but when you eventually meet his gaze, his expression punctures right through the cold panic. You expected to see pity but what you get instead is plain tender worry. He looks ready to help but he's waiting for instruction, like he'll do anything you ask him to, even in your state.

You wipe your cold, wet cheeks and push your head into his chest hard, clutching his waist under his coat in the tightest squeeze you can manage. He squeezes you back and you finally get to feel his warmth surround you again, just like that first night. His body surrounds you, like he's trying to protect you from the cold night air itself. The hug is just tight enough that it encourages you to breathe slower, you can hear and feel his heart beating in his chest and you press your face even closer to his chest to hear it better.

Eventually, your breathing and heart beat evens out with his, only letting out the occasional hiccup. Even then, he doesn't loosen his protective hold until you shift to stand up. He helps you up and you meet his gaze, his dirt coloured eyes hold something you can't place. His hand shifts up from your arm to your cheek to warm the puffy skin. You don't think when you take his hand in yours and hold it against your cheek, even through the leather of his glove you can feel his body heat.

You close your eyes and savour his touch for a minute before turning around and pulling on his arm. You hold onto his hand for the rest of the walk home, only letting go when you reach your front door. You both try and decipher the others gaze for longer than you should've until you wrap your arms around his shoulders in another embrace. He reciprocates, hands winding around your back, breathing into your shoulder. You whisper, "Be safe" into his ear and retreat from the hug, missing his warmth the second it leaves you. If he knows what it means, he doesn't show it.

You watch him leave from the front door, basket of bread in hand. When he turns to give you a little wave goodbye, you return it with a smile. You only step inside when he's out of site, lamp light disappearing amongst the trees.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

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[stargazsblog]

how to lose a girl in 10 days | ch.2 first move

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

ʚɞ ryomen sukuna is tall, devastatingly handsome, and the campus heartbreaker. everyone knows his name, and his reputation for leaving girls with broken hearts. but then there's you uninterested and completely unimpressed by him. you're the only girl who couldn't care less about him. when his friends tease him about it, everything changes. they challenge him with a bet to make you, the one person who isn't affected by his charm, fall in love with him in just 10 days, sukuna accepts the challenge, thinking it'll be an easy win. it's just a game, a way to prove he can get any girl he wants. but the more time he spends with you, he finds himself wanting something he never expected.

ʚɞ warning/tags: angst, fluff, romance, use of cigarettes and alcohol, jealousy, asshole sukuna, heartbreak, inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days, college au, enemies to lovers.

ʚɞ now playing - no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys

note: and the game begins…

masterlist

You were still thinking about the party as you got back to your apartment, shaking off the strange vibe that lingered after your conversation with Sukuna. He wasn’t exactly rude, but something about the way he talked, the way he acted so sure of himself, rubbed you the wrong way.

You threw your jacket over the back of your chair, saying goodnight to Shoko as she walked into her room. You plopped onto your bed, pulling your phone from your bag.

You opened Instagram, scrolling through posts finally loving the peace.

Until a notification popped up.

Sukuna Ryomen started following you.

You sat up in shock, staring at your screen. Sukuna had followed you?

Your thumb hovered over the notification, the tension building as you debated your next move. Block him? Ignore him? Or… stalk him?

The smarter choice would’ve been to block him, but knowing yourself, you clicked on his profile.

His account was exactly what you expected.

Post after post of candid photo, Sukuna at some party. A drink in his hand and his arm slung casually around a girl who looked like she’d won the lottery. Sukuna leaning against his car, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine.

He had thousands of followers. The comments were full of heart emojis and flirty compliments. He had only followed 20 people, mostly his friends and family.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the growing curiosity. He didn’t follow anyone unless they were important, so… why was he following you?

Ignore it, you told yourself, he’ll get bored eventually.

As your stared at his profile, a second notification popped up.

Sukuna Ryomen sent your a message.

Your stomach flipped.

2:40AM Sukuna Ryomen: took you long enough to notice me

You scowled, your fingers itching to respond. He was so full of himself that it was almost comical.

2:40AM You: is this part of some weird social experiment?

His reply came almost instantly.

2:40AM Sukuna Ryomen: what me following you? nah just curious

2:41AM You: curious about what?

2:41AM Sukuna Ryomen: about what kind of stuff you post don’t worry i won’t judge… much

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against your headboard. the nerve of this guy.

2:41AM You: wow, lucky me

2:41AM Sukuna Ryomen: relax sweetheart i’m just here to see if you’re as boring online as you are in person

Your jaw dropped. He had to be kidding. You stared at the screen, debating weather to let the conversation die or put him in his place.

2:42AM You: bold words for someone who posts the same three poses over and over

This time, there was a pause before replying. When it came it was shorter than you expected.

2:42AM Sukuna Ryomen: touché

For a moment, you almost smiled.

2:42AM You: now that you’ve satisfied your “curiosity” you can go ahead and unfollow me

2:42AM Sukuna Ryomen: nah i’ll stick around

You sighed, swiping away from his message leaving him on seen. You stared at the screen, the notification still visible: Sukuna Ryomen started following you.

You glanced at his profile one more time. The same images, the same cocky smirk in every picture.

With a deep breath, you pressed follow back.

For a moment nothing happened, you set your phone down and let out a slow exhale, almost feeling dumb for replying to him.

Just as you were about to close the app and convince yourself it doesn’t matter, your phone buzzed.

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: i knew you couldn’t resist

You rolled your eyes, a smile hugging at the corner of your lips.

2:50AM You: don’t get too cocky

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: too late already am

2:50AM You: your unbearable

2:50AM Sukuna Ryomen: only when i’m around you

You stared at the screen, for a moment, unsure how to respond. He was good at this, good at getting under your skin, making you react, and you had to admit it was starting to feel like he wasn’t just messing around.

2:51AM You: we’ll see how long that lasts

2:51AM: Sukuna Ryomen: i’ll be around as long as you let me.

A little shiver ran down your spine at his words, but you pushed it aside. You weren’t ready to admit how much you were starting to look forward to whatever this way.

Sukuna was following you everywhere. You meant it everywhere.

It doesn’t matter if you were grabbing a coffee, sitting in class, or heading to the library, whatever you were doing he was there. Sometimes he would be leaning against the wall, staring at you as you walked by, other times he would be scrolling through his phone like he just happened to be in the same place.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. After all, it wasn’t like you owned the campus. But by the fourth time in a single day? Yeah, no. He was definitely following you.

You were midway through highlighting your notes when the chair across from you scraped against the floor. The sudden sound made you glance up, and there he was. Sukuna Ryomen.

“Are you stalking me now?” you asked, glancing back to your notes.

“Stalking is a strong word,” Sukuna's voice drawled, too close for comfort. “We just happen to be in the same place at the same time.”

You sighed, as you spun back to face him, he’s leaning back casually on the chair, one arm draped over the chair next to him.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

You crossed your arms. “Pretty sure we already had that conversation. Last night.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything interesting, figured I’d give you another chance.”

You let out a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.” there was something about the way he was staring at you, like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “Why are you even bothering me? you’ve got half of the campus eating out your hand, and i’m not interested in joining the club.”

Sukuna leaned forward, just enough to make your knees touch. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t care.” his tone was softer now, the change caught you off guard.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “how tragic for you.”

he grinned. “See that’s why I like you.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding harder than you wanted to admit. What was he even talking about? he didn’t know you.

“You don’t even know me,” you said, your voice quieter now.

“Not yet,” he said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.” you said bluntly, closing your notebook with a snap.

You stood up, gathering your things quickly, but Sukuna wasn’t done. As you walked away, his voice followed you. “See you around, sweetheart.”

“I’m telling you, he’s obsessed. First, he’s showing up wherever you are, second, he’s following you on Instagram. classic Sukuna move.” Shoko says as you guys are seated at a small table in the student lounge.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, and now he’s everywhere I go. It’s like he’s trying to prove something.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “Maybe he is. I mean, it’s Sukuna. He doesn’t exactly follow people around for no reason.”

You scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? He follows around half the campus trying to get in their pants.”

“Yeah, but those girls usually throw themselves at him. You…” Shoko gestures vaguely at you. “…don’t. He’s probably intrigued.”

you snort. “Well, he’s wasting his time. I’m not interested.”

Before Shoko can respond, Sukuna’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Ouch. That hurts.”

Both of you look up as Sukuna strolls over, his signature smirk firmly in place. He’s holding a small paper bag in one hand, the other resting casually in his pocket.

Shoko grins and leans back in her chair, clearly ready to enjoy whatever’s about to happen.

“Talking about me?” His voice carries just the right amount of smugness as he stops by your table. “I can feel the love from here.”

You glare up at him, unimpressed. “Love? please your delusional.”

Ignoring your sarcasm, Sukuna slides the bag closer to you. “Here. Thought you’d like this.”

You looked at the bag like it might explode. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Open it,” Sukuna says, leaning back in his chair, watching you carefully.

You side-eyed him before reaching for the bag, you’re fingerings brushing against the paper as you peek inside. Your favorite snacks are in there.

You looked up at him confused. “How did you know these are my favorite?”

Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, “I have my ways.”

You narrowed your eyes, a mix of suspicion and frustration bubbling up inside you. “That’s not an answer. Are you really stalking me?” It all felt too strange to ignore. First, he found your Instagram without you ever mentioning it. Then, he seemed to show up wherever you were. What was next—was he going to start lurking outside your house?

He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt. “Stalk you? What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You don’t buy it for a second. “The kind who’s trying way too hard.”

“Or the kind who pays attention,” Sukuna counters smoothly, his voice dropping a fraction as he leans forward.

The words hang in the air for a moment, and even Shoko raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show.

You stiffen but recover quickly, crossing your arms again. “You really think this is going to work? Snacks and flirty comments?”

“It’s a start,” Sukuna says with a lazy grin, standing up. “By the way, there’s a party tomorrow night. You should come.”

You don’t hesitate. “Not interested.”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unbothered by the rejection. “I wasn’t asking. I’ll see you there.”

He winks, turning and walking away without waiting for your response

Shoko finally speaks, her tone laced with curiosity. “What was that?”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing the bag into your tote. “Nothing. He’s only doing this to try to get me into his bed. It’s his thing.”

Shoko studies you for a moment, her voice thoughtful. “I don’t know. That didn’t seem like that to me.”

You huff, shoving your drink away. “Whatever. I’m not falling for it.”

Shoko grins, standing up and grabbing her bag. “You don’t have to fall for anything. But we’re going to that party.”

Your head snaps up. “What? No, we’re not.”

“Oh, yes, we are.” Shoko pulls her chair back, already starting to walk away. “I need to see where this goes. Plus, free drinks. You’re coming, no arguments.”

You groaned, grabbing your things to follow her. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” Shoko calls over her shoulder, grinning.

Sukuna didn’t realize how hard this was going to be. Day one of the challenge, and you were already proving to be unlike anyone he’d dealt with before.

It was frustrating and intriguing.

He had done his research, of course. Stalking your social media was step one, but even that had been harder than he expected. Your profiles were understated. No attention-seeking selfies, no overly revealing posts. Just snapshots of books, obscure playlists, and the occasional candid photo with friends.

“I can’t figure her out,” he had muttered late one night, scrolling through your feed for what felt like the hundredth time.

That’s when he realized he needed help.

“You really don’t know anything about her?” Geto had asked, his tone laced with amusement as he leaned back against Sukuna’s desk.

“She’s invisible,” Sukuna muttered, tossing his phone onto the table. “No parties, no drama, no clue what she’s into. It’s like she’s living on a different planet.”

Geto smirked. “Sounds like someone’s not used to working for it.”

Sukuna shot him a glare, but Geto just shrugged. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

The next day, Geto cornered Shoko during a break between classes. He made it look casual, of course just two old friends catching up. But Geto had a knack for reading people, and Shoko wasn’t hard to crack.

“She’s into the little things,” Shoko had said, blowing out a puff of smoke from her cigarette. “You know, stuff that actually matters. Like, she’s not going to fall for some big, flashy gesture. She likes thoughtful things her favorite snacks, a good book, stuff like that.”

By the time Geto reported back, Sukuna had a plan. It was subtle, sure, but he could work with that.

After handing you the snacks, He strolled back to his usual spot with Gojo and Geto, settling down next to them with a frustrated sigh.

“So, any luck with her?” Gojo asked, not missing a beat.

Sukuna set his drink down, running a hand through his hair as he slouched in his chair. “Not as easy as I thought. You guys are right—no amount of flashing a smile and throwing out my usual charm is going to work on her.”

Geto smirked, leaning forward. “She’s in your head, huh?”

Gojo chuckled, propping his chin on his hand. “This is new. Sukuna Ryomen, struggling to win over a girl? What’s next, you’re gonna write her a love poem?”

Sukuna shot them both a glare, his jaw tightening. “Laugh it up,” he muttered. “But I’m not backing down.”

Geto raised a brow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Maybe I am,” Sukuna said, a glint of determination sparking in his eyes. “And maybe that’s what makes this fun. I invited her to the party.”

Geto and Gojo both blinked, momentarily stunned by Sukuna’s straightforwardness.

“You invited her to the party?” Gojo asked, leaning forward in surprise. “Bold move. What’s the plan there? Just charm her in front of the whole crowd?”

Sukuna shrugged, but there was something sharper in his expression now. “It will work. I don’t think she’s the type to fall for a big scene, but if I show her I’m not like the others, she’ll bite eventually.”

Gojo chuckled. “You’re really going for the slow burn, huh?”

“Exactly.” Sukuna’s lips curved into a confident grin. “She won’t see it coming.”

Geto raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “You’ve got, what, few more days to make this work? Good luck, man.”

Sukuna smirked, not looking away from you as you stood up, chatting with Shoko. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

Later that night, you were lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying to forget the strange encounter with Sukuna earlier. Your mind kept drifting back to the way he’d smiled when he handed you your favorite snack, the way his eyes seemed to linger on you just a second too long.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glanced at the screen, and your stomach flipped when you saw his name. Hesitating for a moment, you opened the message.

11:30PM Sukuna Ryomen: hope i see you at the party tomorrow sweetheart wouldn’t be the same without you

Attached to the text was the party’s address.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the pillow beside you. Why did he have to be so persistent? And You told yourself you wouldn’t go—there was no way you were giving him the satisfaction.

But as you stared at the message again, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go.

taglist: @clp-84 @ssetsuka @lymsfm @monic19 @bol0-de-morang0 @strxberryicecream @r0ckst4rjk @gojocumslut @elliebelliegi @kazuuhali @luna-v-roiya @sussiesushi @nakiich @mourart7 @neuvilletteswife4ever @rusted-dolly @blueyesuguru @lillycore @yourhornysister @bnbaochauuu @ferretsqueen @anonnieghost @boogiemansbitch @sukubusss @sterzin @miazzzma @silkija @blueemochii @number0netrash

[ace-inthehole]

Tf 141 with a medic reader in which they begin making up all sorts of excuses and ailments all over the place just to be near you.

Soap is arguably the worst offender. He barges into your office just about everyday complaining about an ache here or a strain there. And every time without fail, you check him out thoroughly just to make sure. When he actually does get hurt, he milks the hell out of it. If it's something serious, he knows better than to fake it, but he will let himself be a little extra whiney.

Maybe he'll ask you to hold his hand because his wound hurts, or to sit by his bedside a little longer because he had a nightmare. Every excuse has questionable validity. Yet sure enough, you comply to just about each one. You put all your attention to care for his needs and whims, and make damn sure he'll be fine afterwards. He repays you by bothering you again the next day.

Gaz is more smooth and subtle about it, but he's just as shameless. He drops by occasionally, sometimes after a sparring session or after a mission. Tells you he's sprained a wrist or twisted an ankle. Has he? Most of the time, no. But sometimes when you check him over you find an injury he hadn't even noticed. Works out for him, another excuse to see you more often.

He comes around sometimes claiming an old injury has flared up, or maybe he's just feeling sick and under the weather. And he'll stick around even if you find nothing wrong with him, just hanging out on one of the vacant beds, enjoying your company. If he was in fact sick, he takes full advantage of it to have you take care of him. Revels in you checking up on him, giving him pain meds and ensuring he's drinking enough fluids. It makes him feel so loved and cared for, he can't help but come back for more.

Price has his pride, so he won't actively seek you out so obviously. But he does however, complain about a headache or a backache or a something or other ache just about everytime you speak. You fuss over him everytime, telling him to get more sleep and stop overworking himself. He loves hearing it, loves knowing that you care. He really does try to take your advice, he doesn't want to worry you, but this kind of lifestyle has been so deeply ingrained in him he can't shake it off.

So sometimes when he realizes he's pulled another all nighter doing paperwork, he'll drop by your office the next morning. For a little pampering, perhaps. Not because he misses you, no. He smiles to himself when you scold him and hand him some ibuprofen for his headache, quickly pushing him over to lay down on a bed. Maybe it isn't so bad to visit once in a while.

Ghost doesn't even bother to prepare any excuses. He refuses to be treated by anyone other than you if he's injured on missions. In the past he's had made a bad habit of keeping injuries to himself, he doesn't want to show that he's in pain, that he's weak. Because he couldn't afford to when he was younger. But after meeting you he's slowly falling out of that habit. For a wound he may have ignored in the past he sulks over to your office and just sits down silently on one of the beds. You ask him what's wrong, and he'll tell you exactly what happened. You don't make a big deal out of it, don't scold him for letting the wound fester, all you do is simply take care of him with the same gentle hands as always.

Of course, you'll still tell him to be more careful, and that he can come to you whenever, even if he's just got something on his mind or wants some company. It takes a long time for him to take you up on that offer, maybe months, maybe years. But he'll eventually come over every once in a while and sit with you in silence. You always ask him if he's alright, if he's injured, if he's sleeping and eating properly. The answer most of the time is yes, he's alright, no, he's not injured, and a grumble of agreement to the last question that you both know isn't true. But you don't push him, never. So he keeps coming back to you, over and over again.

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: pervy choso, implied chubby reader, you wearing a bikini/swimsuit,

despite how cranky you can get because of the hot weather, you do love summer more than you can admit. something about the sun beaming down on you, cold water tickling your toes, the laughter that is seemingly never endless during this time, makes you feel content.

you and your friends visit the beach on one of the hottest days of the year. its a spacious place, not filled with as many people as you were expecting there to be, but it's another group of guys there that mirrors your own group. they're all entirely too handsome for their own good, sweet and flirtatious as they offer a round of volleyball with your friends.

you stay back though, offering to watch everybody's stuff as you sit under the sun. its calm there; the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, your friends raucous laughter, their screams of fun. you lay back on your beach towel, your forearm resting over your eyes when you remember that you hadn't put on any sunscreen.

lazily, you reach over into your bag, digging around until you can find what you're looking for, squeezing some out on your hand as you lather your arms, stomach, and legs up. when its time for your back, you go to call one of your friends but hesitate. you don't want to interrupt their fun for something so small, so you snap your mouth shut as you try to scan the near area for someone to—

oh. is he apart of the guys' group? you think to yourself as you suddenly lock eyes with a very handsome, toned man. he's paler than ever, his dark hair wrapped up in two cute little buns on the top of his head, his eyes dark, his mouth pulled tight as he suddenly freezes when he realizes he's been caught.

"can you help me?" you ask kindly when the man finally blinks. you hold up the sunscreen in his direction with a smile and a tilt of your head, friendly. he only stands there for a few seconds before clearing his throat, crossing the few feet between you two as he stands before you.

"you're with that group, right?" you ask him, nodding your head over to where everyone plays volleyball. the man looks, his eyes wide, a little unnerving, before he turns back to you, nodding.

"yeah," he says plainly, sticking his hand out to shake yours. "here with my brother and some friends. I'm Choso."

you give him your name as well, before you hand off the sunscreen, flipping over onto your stomach without preamble. Choso hesitates for just a second, hopes you don't have eyes in the back of your head at how he ogles you. you're just so pretty, with your sweet smile and round ass, cellulite dimpling your skin, makes him have to adjust his hardening cock in his swim trunks.

he'd been watching you ever since you and your friends came on the beach. watched how they linked up with Yuuji and his friends, how you stayed behind, how pretty and soft your stomach looked with every breath you take. he can't believe he's so close to you now, he thinks, as he kneels over you, his knees on either side of your soft looking hips.

Choso's hands shake as he squirts the sunscreen into his palm, rubbing them together, breath heavy as he nears your skin. if he were to sink any lower, you'd be able to feel how his cock strains against the fabric, feel it rest over the curve of your ass. he restrains himself though, splaying his hands over your upper back as he slowly starts to massage the cream in. without thinking, he blurts out,

"your skin is very soft." he regrets it almost immediately, freezing in his spot over you, wonders if you'll start throwing a fit and push him off of you. but instead, you laugh, your eyes closed as you rest your cheeks on your crossed arms.

"thank you! I try to exfoliate often." you smile, eyes still shut as you sigh softly when he resumes rubbing the sunscreen on you. his palms are big and rough, as they massage it in, working over a knot you've had in your shoulder blade for entirely too long. you sigh when he kneads it out softly, body a pile of goo as Choso breathes entirely too heavy above you.

if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself sinking right inside of you. your breathy little sigh of contentment as his tip kisses your womb, his hips snug against the curve of your ass. he can already see the way you'll look at him from over your shoulder, all low and seductive, pretty, smiling at him with a look that tells him to devour you whole.

"your hands are so nice." your voice brings him out of his fantasy, makes his jolt in place from surprise. "you ever think about becoming a masseuse?" Choso grumbles under his breath at the thought, hands toying with the back of your bathing suit as he tells himself to bite the bullet.

"never considered it. can I untie this?" he says it all in one breath, afraid that if he doesn't spit it out now, he'd lose the courage to do so. you still from under him, suddenly getting the feeling of being watched entirely too closely, of baring your jugular to a predator in the wild. but you agree nonetheless.

"uh, yeah, go ahead." you tell him quietly, barely getting the words out when he pulls the string undone. you swear you hear him sigh, goosebumps raising on your skin at the way he squirts entirely too much sunscreen on your back, the quiet groan under his breath when he rubs it in down your flank too, too close to your tits beneath you.

Choso inches further and further down, his hands gripping your waist as he kneads your skin. his cock hangs low with its hardness, barely skimming your ass, makes your eyes bolt open in surprise. but you don't say anything, just look over your shoulder at the man, whose focus is solely, solely, on working the sunscreen into the divot of your lower back, inching closer and closer to the top of your ass—

"hey, bro, come join us for a game!" a deep voice similar to Choso's rings out, suddenly pulling you both out of the trance you've fallen into. Choso's eyes snap up to yours guiltily, both of you stuck, unsure of what to do next. he's sure that you're definitely going to kick him off now, especially when you glance down and find his cock straining to get out of his swim trunks.

but instead, you signal for him to tie your top back up, licking your lips once as he shakily ties it up for you. "meet me in the unisex bathroom in a few minutes, okay? I wanna thank you for putting the sunscreen on my back."

and something tells Choso, that you'd like to do more than just thank him.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One TwentyTwo

This chapter is NSFW

“Okay,” Steve says to himself quietly, trying to psych himself up for this. They’ve washed up and brushed their teeth, Eddie’s already in bed and Steve is running out of excuses to hide in the bathroom.

Yesterday was a pretty long day, the couple hours of housework before watching ‘Splash,’ at lunch time, and then Joyce and Hopper's visit in the afternoon. So, last night after scrubbing the pool, Steve had been exhausted and Eddie’s new muscles had been quivering with exertion. He’d walked like an old man to get up the stairs, and showering together had been quick and perfunctory; Eddie practically falling asleep against Steve under the water. He’d barely managed their ‘last kiss of the day’ before falling asleep.

Tonight, not so much, and Eddie had been watching Steve expectantly for at least an hour before they came to bed. Or at least, it felt like he had been, maybe it’s just Steve’s imagination.

Tonight is the night. Probably.

Steve remembers the way Eddie’s dick had seemed to startle and slip back inside, like a terrified cat hiding under the couch. “It’s probably more frightened of you than you are of it,” Steve whispers reassurance to himself as he dries his hands, then heads into the bedroom and climbs into bed.

“Stee love,” Eddie says as Steve settles down.

“Hey baby? You okay?”

Eddie makes an affirmative noise, “kisses?”

“Sure,” because how could Steve possibly resist him. The prickliness has grown out of Eddie’s hair, it’s long enough to become more like a peach fuzz now, and Steve likes running his hands over it a little. He fiddles with the point of Eddie’s ear too.

“Eddie? Before...when you had a tail...did you have a, uhm, did you have a dick then?”

“Dick?”

Steve hums, leaning back to cup himself through his pants to show him, “dick. Or penis I guess, is the proper name.”

Eddie’s face lights with understanding, “no. Not before.”

“Right. Right. So...we need to work this out together.”

“Together,” Eddie latches onto the salient point there. Steve’s pretty sure Eddie would agree to pretty much anything as long as Steve spiced it up with a ‘together.’ Which is kind of nice, to be loved like that.

They kiss again, soft and gentle, Steve sometimes pulling back to rub noses, until it’s Eddie’s turn to ask a question, “pull pants down?”

Steve snorts a laugh, he can’t help it. Fond and warm inside; nothing could possibly be scary with Eddie.

“Sure baby, we can do that.”

They undress themselves, Eddie with no concern for the space around him, and Steve has to dodge a lethal elbow as Eddie strips off real quick.

Looking down the long pale line of Eddie’s bony body, a thought occurs to Steve, “did you poop before?”

Eddie shakes his head, “no poop tail.”

“Oh. So I guess you just...digested absolutely everything? There was no poop at all?”

“Yes poop,” and then Eddie makes a motion, opening his mouth and fake coughing, indicating with his fingers that he caught something, that something...came up.

“Out of your mouth,” Steve says, unable to hide how absolutely horrified he is at the image. And then flashing on all the times they kissed before Eddie had legs.

“Not...poop,” Eddie thinks for a second, “seeds. Pear…” he holds his hand above his head, a single finger sticking up, “pear hat.”

“Ohhhhh...the seeds and,” Steve copies Eddie, one finger pointing above his head, “stalk.” Eddie nods, “what did you do with them?” Steve never ever saw Eddie do this, he had no idea this was even happening.

Eddie makes a fair impression of scratching at the coverlet, and then pushing a mound of...dirt back over what he’s just imaginary buried in the covers, “you planted them. You planted the seeds. Like with the pine cones?”

Eddie nods, “planted the seeds, yes,” and then he points, their universal sign for ‘outside’, “pear trees?”

“I...I don’t know if they will grow, I don’t really know much about trees but...when the weather gets a little warmer, we can go looking for them?”

“Warm weather put tent out?”

“Yeah, yeah sure baby we can put your tent back up,” Eddie nods, content with Steve’s answer, he leans in for more kisses, the oval points of Eddie’s nails scratching gently down Steve’s back, Steve stops them again, carefully disengaging, another thought occurs to him, “did you plant things in The Upside Down?”

Eddie nods, “seeds. Black trees and…” he makes a wriggly motion with his hands.

“The vines,” Steve suddenly understands, “you planted them, for food?”

“Yes...tadpole vines best food. Not good when...parent?”

“Ohhh...they’re nicer when they’re, like young, I guess?”

Eddie hums smiling. Steve can’t help it, he kisses him again, Eddie wriggling closer, pressing them together. Eddie’s bony, but it isn’t off putting, and Steve can feel his cock pressing against the top of Eddie’s slit for a moment before he remembers what comes out of there and pulls back a little, “can I touch you?”

“Touch good.”

“Can I touch you here?” Steve hovers his hand in the space between them, wanting to make sure Eddie understands completely before he does anything. Eddie nods, rolling onto his back a little to allow Steve some access, “okay, lets do this.” There’s no way Steve’s going to be able to let himself get into this if he’s worrying about Eddie’s dick suddenly biting him.

It also means if Eddie just...didn’t have a dick before, then that means they need to figure out...everything. Can Eddie even have an orgasm? Steve has no idea how his parts work so, “I guess we can just...try stuff, okay baby?”

“Eddidie try,” Eddie confirms, shifting his legs further apart, as clear of an invite as Eddie could possibly give; Steve throws a leg over Eddie’s to get close enough. The soft light of the bedside lamp is enough to see by.

Eddie’s shifting, parting his legs, has caused the slit to gape a little down between Eddie’s legs, but nothing has made an appearance just yet, “I guess I’ll just...go for it.”

Steve traces the edge of Eddie’s slit with a fingertip, careful and soft. He figures it’s not that different to what a girl would have in placement, but it seems tighter and smaller, more flush to Eddie’s body; neater somehow. He’s also completely hairless here, and there’s no stubble, so Steve figures nothing is ever going to grow down here. Steve lets his fingertip slide into where Eddie has gaped open a little. It’s not dry inside, but it’s not exactly moist either. It just feels like more skin.

Steve rubs his finger up and down the middle of Eddie’s slit a couple of times, not going any further than the part that’s opened naturally. Eddie’s dick still hasn’t made an appearance. “This okay?” Eddie’s watching him with wide eyes, lying still for the moment. He doesn’t appear to be...well...aroused, or showing any particular interest yet, but he nods. “Okay, lets go a little...more.”

Steve lets his finger sink in. There’s no resistance, and Steve finds it’s a little more moist the deeper he goes. Eddie accepts his finger easily, shifting a little and letting out a sweet sounding sigh once Steve is as deep as he can go. The top of Eddie’s slit finally parts, just the head of his dick poking out a little. Like it’s...cautious. Curious.

“Uhm, hey,” Steve says, and then berates himself internally for how absolutely fucking ridiculous that was. Luckily Eddie has no clue what’s normal and clearly isn’t judging him for having a chat with his dick.

Steve’s been with plenty of girls, but never with a guy. And definitely never with anyone who doesn’t have human parts so, unfortunately, absolutely non of Steve’s experience is translating to how he’s supposed to deal with this…he takes a breath, and decides he needs to be all in.

“Okay,” he carefully presses down with his finger, Eddie’s narrow inside, the sides of his channel gripping Steve’s finger as he slides downward until he finds the ‘bottom’ of Eddie’s opening. He traces it with his finger, following the dip until he finds a...ridge. Or a pucker; he rubs it with his moist finger. Eddie makes a huffing noise, “feel good?”

Eddie frowns at him, “maybe?”

“Right, okay,” so Steve withdraws his finger, Eddie making a soft noise of what Steve hopes is pleasure. He carefully offers his slightly moist fingertip to the black, rounded exposed head of Eddie’s cock, and then just...waits. Eddie’s penis slithers out a little further, and then, after a brief stand off, it gently nudges at Steve’s offered finger. “Oh, okay, yeah,” Steve’s eyes flick to Eddie’s briefly to check in, only to find he’s looking down his own body, watching with as much open interest as Steve is. Right then.

Eddie’s dick slithers all the way out, the head as black as Steve remembers, fading into the usual color of Eddie’s pale flesh; it tangles gently with Steve’s fingers, and Eddie makes a noise. Just a little wisp of a thing, but it gives Steve hope that he’s doing the right thing with this. He risks a brief look; Eddie’s cheeks have a little flush to them, his mouth popped open just a tiny bit.

Eddie’s dick is nudging at Steve’s finger, drawing his attention back down, and Steve watches as the head opens up, slowly the petals peel apart. It’s pink inside, Steve sees this time, and covered in hundreds of the most minuscule little pink bumps. Like kind of teeth, or the start of teeth, but they never quite made it there. It waits, hovering uncertainly.

Steve takes a deep breath, letting it out slow, “okay little guy,” and he really, really needs to stop speaking to Eddie’s penis, like, right now.

Steve, gently, offers the pad of his thumb. The petals cup it, a soft touch, all of the tiny little nobbles pressing against Steve’s skin, just wide enough that their petal tips cross over the edges of Steve’s thumbnail. Eddie sighs, and then...kind of nothing happens.

Steve’s eyes flick to Eddie again, since his dick seems content to just hold Steve’s thumb, “Eddie, this okay?”

Eddie nods.

“Any idea what I should...do?”

Eddie shakes his head, looking at Steve helplessly.

“Right, okay, maybe I can…” Steve shifts his hand, keeping his thumb where it is, he wraps his fingers around the thick shaft. Eddie’s dick squirms a little in his grip, but otherwise it seems fine. Steve holds a little tighter, and next to him, Eddie breathes out a little sound. Maybe a little startled, “okay?”

Eddie nods real quick, the sound of his short hair dragging on the pillow, “touch good,” he insists, reaching up himself to grip Steve’s arm where Steve is half hovering over him.

“Okay,” they both look down again, past Eddie’s ribs and his still nearly concave stomach, “okay.”

Steve grips a little tighter, Eddie dick is squirming against Steve’s palm but not like it’s trying to escape or anything, just like it’s rubbing against all of Steve’s hand that it can reach. Steve figures sticking to what works is probably the way to go, so he takes away his thumb to hold Eddie properly, then tries gently sliding his hand down, in an attempt to jack Eddie off.

The flower petal head flails a little, grasping at the air. When Steve pulls down, Eddie's dick simply bends with him, and Steve is sure some of it just...goes back inside. So rather than rubbing Eddie’s dick he just ends up...moving it. Steve hums, that’s not going to work he doesn’t think. Eddie’s dick might be firm but it’s just not rigid enough for Steve to make that work. Steve draws his hand back up to the top, offering the flailing head his thumb, where once again it latches, apparently, happily.

Eddie makes another soft noise at that, he did last time too, Steve thinks. Maybe that’s where he should focus his attention. He decides to try it, gripping Eddie’s dick more firmly, it gives him purchase to rub the pad of his thumb across the dip of the opening and the petals.

Eddie’s breath comes sharp and startled, his nails digging into Steve’s arm, “did I hurt you?”

“No. No it didn’t hurt. Good. Touch many good.”

Right, well, that's about as big of a green light as Steve figures he’s going to get. He rubs again with his thumb. He rubs straight across, forward and back, the pad of his thumb following the shallow bowl shaped dip revealed by the petals, which Eddie seems to like if his quiet noises are anything to go by.

Steve changes it up, trying small circles across all the petals, the tiny little bumps dragging on his skin...almost like he’s rubbing the soft side of velcro. “Stee,” Eddie moans, shifting his hips, parting his legs even further.

“Okay baby?” Steve asks him, although he can’t take his eyes off where Eddie’s penis is wriggling against his palm and fingers, where the flower petals are opening and closing on Steve's thumb. They bend easily where Steve presses on them, alternately stretching as far open as they can before they grip at Steve’s thumb again, moving in a strange, pulsing dance.

The next time they open fully, Steve uses the opportunity to rub his thumb all the way across them, tip to tip, and Eddie’s hips buck uncontrolled, Eddie making a startled noise of pleasure.

Steve himself has started to get hard against Eddie’s hip, Eddie’s wriggling and obvious noises of pleasure causing Steve to become aroused, and he lets himself grind a little, only half aware of his own movements. The wet head drags against Eddie’s soft skin, so Steve rocks again, he’s not able to drag his eyes away from where he’s working the flower petal head of Eddie’s cock.

The drag of all the little nobbles feels a little dry, so Steve leans down, lifting his thumb out of the way for a moment to let a blob of spit drip onto Eddie’s dick, Steve presses it in with his thumb, spreading the moisture.

Eddie’s reaction is almost immediate, his back arches and the petals grip Steve’s thumb tight. Much tighter than they have up until now. Eddie’s hips are writhing against the bed, rolling like waves as Steve just holds still. Eddie makes quiet noises, and Steve flicks his eyes up for a second to check on him; Eddie’s eyes are squeezed shut tight, his mouth hanging open wide. The hand on Steve’s arm holding there loosely, forgotten as Eddie, presumably, orgasms.

The head of Eddie’s dick feels like it’s pulsing. Sucking. Gentle pulls against the pad of of Steve’s thumb, like little sucking kisses. And then it fades, becoming weaker, the petals grip loosening as Eddie’s hips relax back onto the bed and become still, his penis slowly slipping from Steve’s fingers. It withdraws some of the way, resting floppily against the bottom of Eddie’s tummy.

It looks a little drunk, the way it wobbles over.

“Stee,” Eddie says weakly, his hand flopping against Steve’s arm in a halfhearted pat.

“Yeah?”

“Good,” Eddie blinks at him, pupils blown wide but eyes all sleepy. He smacks his lips a second before shifting against Steve and frowning down at himself, “et.”

Eddie’s speech seems to have regressed back to how it was in the beginning, but Steve doesn’t mind. He kind of likes that he just blew Eddie’s mind, “wet? Where?”

“In,” Eddie answers, shifting again, one leg is still trapped by Steve’s thigh, but Eddie moves the other leg, trying to pull them together, he wriggles his free leg to scissor his thighs together.

And yeah, Steve can see it now, seeping shiny wet from the middle of Eddie’s slit, “can I?”

Steve’s hand hovers, waiting for Eddie to nod, which he does.

Eddie is very wet now. He shifts, parting his legs again to accommodate Steve’s finger, and then fingers after the first one slips in so easily. It looks completely clear in the light, and it’s very viscous on Steve’s fingers. Steve pulls them out again to look at them; it’s very thick, almost jello like where it clings, all shiny. It’s super slick where Steve rubs his fingers together.

Sever rocks against Eddie’s hip again, his hard cock dragging against Eddie’s hip at the thought of sinking his cock into Eddie’s wet slit.

It’s warm inside, Steve notices first when he puts his fingers back, the slick on his fingers had chilled in the air, highlighting the difference. It’s much easier to feel around now, Steve’s fingers sliding easily through the slick. Eddie sighs, and it sounds contented, so Steve asks, “this okay?”

Eddie hums, “touch good.”

“As good as when I was touching your dick?”

Eddie frowns sleepily, thinking about it, “no. Different.”

Steve nods, he gets that.

Steve investigates properly now, touching all of Eddie’s insides that he can reach. The walls are slick all over now, some of the gooey slick being pressed out around Steve’s fingers. Steve can’t find any features but for the pucker right at the bottom, so he touches there again.

A wet fingertip breaches it far more easily than Steve expects, and Eddie yelps, suddenly grabbing Steve’s wrist, “no,” Eddie’s dick slips back inside, like it wants to get out of the way.

“Okay, okay, is it bad?”

Eddie giggles, shifting against the sensations before relaxing again and blinking, “maybe. Good bad.”

“Okay,” Steve files that away, but avoids it for now.

Steve’s hips have started rocking again, as he slowly finger fucks Eddie’s channel. All the soft wetness making slick noises as he does. Eddie makes happy noises, the occasional relaxed sigh, but he looks sleepy again, “do you think you could come from this?”

“Come?”

“Like before, it felt really good?”

“Eddie come then wet? Dick touch come?”

“Yeah, do you think me touching you like this will make you come again?”

Eddie seems to think for a minute, blinking more awake again and tilting his hips a little to rock down onto Steve’s fingers, “feel many good...not come good.”

“Right, okay,” Eddie keeps shifting, and Steve follows the movement with his own hips, his cock leaking now, leaving a little smear of precome on Eddie’s skin.

“Stee come?”

“Not yet...I want to, though.”

“Eddidie can? Help? Same before? Tail.”

“Yeah. Yeah baby you can touch this time, if you want. Use your hands?”

“Okay,” they switch positions a little, Eddie not seeming to be at all bothered by it when Steve’s fingers abruptly slip free of him. Steve uses the slick on his fingers to wet his cock first, and when Eddie’s sees this he lifts a leg, not at all self conscious, and drags his own fingers over his slit, gathering the thick wetness there.

Steve helps Eddie position his hand, wrapping it around Eddie’s hand on his cock, then moving them both. Eddie catches on fast, “I’m not going to take long,” Steve tells him, already feeling the familiar tightening in his balls.

Steve lets go, Eddie has the idea now, and he jacks Steve fast, making wet noises. His fingers are so pale next to Steve’s skin, but firm and strong, and Steve doesn’t look away from the movement of Eddie’s hand.

“Close baby,” Steve breaths out a warning, his own hips starting to tilt, fucking a little into Eddie’s movements.

Steve lets his eyes close and his head slide back, Eddie lets out a sweet sounding, “oh,” as Steve starts to come, the first pulses landing hot on his own stomach. He has to reach out again, grasping Eddie’s hand to slow him, to show him how to work Steve through his orgasm.

Steve lets himself have a second, after, blinking sleepily as the last twitches of pleasure tingle though him. Next to him, Eddie makes a sound of disgust, and Steve looks over to find he’s clearly just licked some of Steve’s come off his fingers.

Steve can’t help it, he laughs, “not good?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose, “not good.”

“You want to get cleaned up?”

Eddie nods, “wet.”

They shower again together, just to get the worst of it off, “did that feel okay baby? Was it good?”

Eddie nods, “good. Feel…” Eddie stops a second, standing under the water, trying to figure out how to tell Steve. He makes the flashing movement from the Christmas lights, with his hands, “pretty. Many many,” he rubs his tummy, but low down, making his fingers dance in little tingles across his skin, “good like Christmas food and Pizza and Pears.”

“I think I get what you mean. It felt really good.”

Eddie nods, seemingly satisfied, but then frowns, “more later? Again?”

Steve snorts a laugh. That does make him feel absolutely certain, Eddie must have liked it if he’s asking again so soon, “sure baby.”

Eddie’s not at all self conscious, and he happily cocks a leg, resting his foot on the side of the tub to let Steve clear out the goop from inside his slit. Steve figures he gets the worst of it, inspecting a particularly lumpy part that’s has stuck itself to his fingertips.

There are darker shapes inside, small dots Steve thinks, about the size of peas maybe. Steve inspects the darker splotches clinging to his fingers; he’s only found a couple in amongst the clear jello they’ve cleaned from between Eddie’s legs, “baby, what do you think these are?”

Eddie shrugs, “seeds?”

Steve lets the water catch them, washing them away, “best not plant those in the yard.”

Eddie snorts a laugh, “Eddidie trees,” and then laughs again, tickled by the idea.

Part TwentyFour

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 8 - Breeding

John Price x Reader - 1k (on ao3)

summary: You worry that your boss sees your relationship as more long-term than you do. (Reader POV, second person)

cw: implied stealthing, under negotiated breeding kink, one-sided daddy kink

You tell yourself it’s just a kink.

You’re not ready to become a mother - you’d like to be married for at least a year before even trying for a baby, and you’d like to have an established career before even getting married. For you, the idea of a bun in the oven is so far down the line it’s not even visible on the horizon yet.

But you know it’s not the same for Price. He’s older than you, has lived a far wilder life and lost it what must be nearly a dozen times over. He’s a weathered man, with deep lines on his forehead and wrinkles around his eyes, just the tiniest hint of silver creeping into his beard.

You know it’s not smart to have a fling with him. Not only is he your boss and a controversially older man, but he’s also the exact opposite of a commitment-phobe like you. He’s always looking for more commitment in fact, something you hadn’t expected considering the illicitness of your relationship with him.

You'd assumed an affair with your boss would involve mostly quickies in closets, a refusal to be in the same room as one another during the workday, maybe even pretending to dislike each other around other coworkers. Instead, he talks to you more once you start sleeping together than he had before - he parks himself on your desk at any time he pleases, invites you to have lunch in his office with him (alone), and laughs when your co-workers call him your work-husband.

So you know that he wants more, that he wants you to really be with him (he hints at far more than just that, but doesn’t dare say it aloud, which you’re glad for) past just being his secretary and his fuckbuddy. 

In fact, he’d nearly torn you into two when you’d giggled and called him a “bootycall” after he called you back into work hours after you’d gone home. His face had gone from eager and affectionate to what you can only call scolding, and he’d been rougher with you than normal. You enjoy a few smacks to your ass, but that night he’d spanked you hard enough to leave you squirming the next morning when you sat at your desk. You’d been pouty about it, had glared only half-playfully at him when he smirked, but the way he ate you out on his desk for lunch more than made up for the discomfort. 

And he makes these… comments sometimes, while he’s buried inside you. Things that allude to a future you’re not ready for.

Gotta come after me, sweetheart, it takes better like that.

Hips up, don’t let any of me drip out.

Gonna make me a daddy, pretty thing? Huh? Gonna take my cum and grow me a baby?

My good fuckin’ girl, lettin’ me breed her pretty cunt.

Gonna look so pretty, all round for me. Gonna take such good care of you.

C’mon, honey, wanna make sure it sticks this time.

You tell yourself it’s just a kink. He plugs you up with a couple fingers once he’s finished, says “Just to make sure you don’t lose any of my cum, can’t be wastin’ it right now,” and licks your clit until your legs shake. 

He hardly fucks you in any position that isn’t bent over his desk, no matter how much you whine and beg for me. He just smacks your ass, gives you an extra orgasm or two to keep you placated. More often than not he leaves you bent over the desk after he’s finished, tilts your hips up a little higher and gives you a kiss on the temple as he sits back in his seat to get back to work.

You’d told him to use a condom the first few times, even though you’ve been on birth control for years. You’ve always been responsible with flings, been more than willing to send a man packing at the first hint of whining if he didn’t want to wear protection. A baby has never once crossed your mind as an option, and it certainly doesn't now.

So it was instinct to tell Price to put on a condom before he fucked you the first time. And he had, without kicking up any fuss about it past a furrowed brow and a grumble or two.

But then the condom broke, and you were left with his cum dripping down your thighs. You’d had a moment of panic, but he’d given you money for Plan B, and you told yourself the odds of getting pregnant with Plan B and birth control were so low it wasn’t worth stressing out over.

The condom broke the second time. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. And every time after that you asked him to wear one.

At some point you stopped asking, and he never remembered himself. A few muttered questions about what brand he’d been using between fevered kisses, thick fingers at your cunt a distraction, and eventually you told yourself it wouldn’t matter as long as you kept taking the birth control pills.

It would be rude to demand Plan B after every round, right? Plus, asking for cash minutes after you'd both gotten off always made you feel a bit... dirty. When you feel him drip down your thighs, when you pull your panties up and feel the mixture of both of you gather there, you tell yourself that the birth control will surely do it's job, and you try not to worry.

Now, pulling open the drawer where you keep your pills, you wonder if maybe all his talk of babies and his cum taking is more than just heat-of-the-moment dirty talk.

You stare down at the empty drawer and every time he’s called himself Daddy echoes in your ear like a choir.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (viii)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the paranormal, the passage of time, panicking,

A/N: omg guys new banner reveal. i put a flower on that man because i felt like it. personally thrilled that we have made it this far because that means it's only 2 more chapters to 10 and then we're in double digits. also unsolved drabble requests are very welcome and encouraged please ily THANKS BYE

Previous part || Series masterlist

“I don’t get it,” Bucky says, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Inside the room, the air is thick with dust and the scent of aged metal. The walls are lined with dark wooden beams, their surfaces weathered by time, and the faint smell of oil and rust lingers in the air. 

“It’s a haunted clock tower,” you reply, walking up the stairs, floorboards creaking generously under you. 

“I got that,” he retorts, “but what the hell is it supposed to haunt? All the search results were just some kids' show.”

In the center of the room stands the massive, intricate clock mechanism, the gears and cogs slowly gathering rust as the years have passed without maintenance. Moonlight through the giant clock face casts a faint glow into the dimly lit room.

“I’m surprised you checked the internet,” you tell him, “I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was an undercover agent for 80 years. I know how to use technology.”

“You’re also older than the concept of time, so you can see how that may confuse some people,” you reply, taking a tour around the room. “Second, I’m surprised you checked the internet.”

“You already said that.”

You stop in your tracks, hand on your chest as you say, “Yes, but you’re researching things now? For our show? That’s real sweet, babygirl.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he continues to climb up. “It was one Google search.”

“It’s one more than what you’ve done in the last 3 months,” you say, eyelashes fluttering comically at him before your demeanor returns to normal. “Anyway, there’s no like, ghost sightings here, per se–”

Bucky comes to a halt only two steps away from his door. “Then why are we here?” 

“It’s still haunted, Bucky,” you chastise. “That doesn’t always mean ghosts. Maybe it could mean orbs. Or shadow people, like from the hospital–”

“Not a thing.”

The clock creaked and groaned, the hands inching forward, their motion sluggish and uneven, as if the gears hadn't been properly oiled in years. With every tick, a loud whine echoed through the tower, vibrating the air in the otherwise silent room.

“Ooh, maybe we’ll find our doppelgangers.” Your eyes shine. “What would you do with yours?”

“Nothing.” Steve met another version of himself once and immediately beat the shit out of it, if that was anything to go by.   

“Not even a date?”

His eyebrows knit together, eyes creasing. “Why would I date my doppelganger?”

“Who’s gonna know you better than yourself? But the more important question is, would you fu–”

The noise from the clock grows more intense—a final, desperate groan before it comes to a jarring halt. 

The ticking stops abruptly, leaving an unnatural silence hanging in the air. The hands remain frozen at 9. 

Both of you are left staring at a now defunct clock. 

“Clock died ‘cause of your stupid question,” Bucky comments, voice dry. 

“Just say you don’t like modern philosophy and go.” 

“Oh I’m going alright. Two hours and all we’ve gotten footage of is stairs, trash and a washout Big Ben.”

“Don’t insult Kinley Clock Tower like that,” you scold. “You’re gonna piss it off and it’s gonna haunt us for the rest of our days.”

Bucky gives you a flat look. “By doing what.”

“Showing you the wrong time wherever you go.”

“Devastating,” Bucky responds, not sounding fazed in the slightest. “Right, so nothing haunted here?”

“Maybe it’s haunted by the failure of proper clock maintenance.”

Bucky’s eyes sweep across the largely empty room one last time. “Other than that toolbox, place’s empty. Chalk this one up to bullshit and let’s go.”

You let out a deep sigh at the thought of a wasted evening. “Fine, but that means we have to find another idea for a video.”

“Use one of the reserves.”

“We’re gonna have to, if we can’t find anything by tomorrow.”

Bucky’s heavy footsteps echo through the staircase. “That is a problem for tomorrow-you to deal with.”

You let out a scoff, following behind. “Tomorrow-us.”

“No,” he replies thoughtfully. “Pretty sure I got it right.”

Whatever. You counted tonight as a win the second you managed to get Bucky out of the compound without having to lie out of your ass. He even threw in a Google search worth of research. And he even told you the batteries on the cameras were all charged. Small steps for a regular co-host, big step for Buckykind everywhere. 

The elevator stops at his floor and he gets out, sending you a two finger wave on his way out. 

Should I walk you to your door?” you throw in at the last minute, the makings of a smile on your face. 

Bucky casts you an indignant look. “Why?”

“Chivalry, baby.” You grin, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “Didn't they literally invent it in your era?”

Bucky flips you the finger instead, not bothering to dignify you with a response. Your laughter subsides as the elevator closes on you with a ding.

Bucky sees a faint light in the hallway, and figures Steve’s slightly ajar door is its source. In between trudging back to his bedroom, he drops a quick knock on it.

“Come in,” Steve calls, voice deep from the sleepiness starting to set in. “Oh, you’re back.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies from the doorway. “Shoot got done early.”

“Where’d you go?” he asks, laying down his book beside him. 

“Kinley Tower,” Buck stands with his arms pulled over his chest, leaning against the doorway. “Place was a dud. Nothing to see.”

“What about other things?” Steve asks, curious but still casually indirect. “How was it?” 

Bucky shrugs. “The same. Bounced right back, like nothing ever happened.” 

“You still don’t know what Nat was talking about?” 

“No,” Bucky replies, scratching the back of his neck, before hesitantly saying, “Should I be asking? I don’t know if we’re— y’know.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re friends by now, Buck.” Steve smiles briefly. “Wouldn’t hurt to check in.”

Well, Steve may be sure, but Bucky wasn’t. Then again Steve only had 1 best friend for over a hundred years until he met Sam, so how the fuck would he know. 

Still, Bucky gives a curt nod, glancing around Steve’s room for any notable changed but coming up empty handed. 

“You wanna tell me why there’s several charges on my card for tarot websites?” Steve picks up his book again, thumbing through the pages.

“Wasn’t me,” Bucky grunts. 

“Seems a bit suspect after you did an episode on witchcraft,” Steve speaks without lifting an eye from his book. “Could just be me though.”

It catches him by surprise. “You watch our episodes?”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Yes? Every last one.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles, finding everything else in the room infinitely more interesting all of a sudden. 

“Looks like it’s doing you some good,” Steve continues, turning back to his novel. “It’s nice to see you out and about.”

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” Bucky gives him a look that could be seen as peeved if the blond hadn’t known him for as long has he had been alive.

Steve hides a smile. “Nothing. Left some apples on your nightstand. Eat it if you’re hungry.”

It forces Bucky to try to catch onto Steve's train of thought. Sure you hung out occasionally after work, but it wasn’t like you were hanging out on a friends basis. Bucky definitely would know if you were, because it would be a laborious task to even get him to consider leaving his bedroom. A thousand elephants would not be able to make him go do things that friends do. 

So he stares at him for another whole minute waiting for a follow up, a clarification, but Steve makes no other comment, only turning the page of his novel. 

Bucky finally leaves silently, shutting the door behind him.

Sure enough, there are apples and a fork on his nightstand. They were good too, crisp like Steve had gotten them from the market just today.  

By eleven Bucky’s already in bed, eyes straining as he watches this woodworking guy on YouTube teach him how to make a dovetailed box. For no reason. And just because he heard Sam mention offhand that he needed a place for all his keys doesn’t mean Bucky was making it for him.  

From: co-host 

how about we take a road trip down to washington to go meet my dear friend

From: co-host 

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

what friend

mr quatch himself

From: co-host  

first name ‘sas’

From: co-host

i’m talking about bigfoot

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

yeah i got it 

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

when 

From: co-host

well we’d have to start at 4am

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

fuck no

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)how about something within a 5 mile radius 

From: co-host

How about Sunday 

Bucky switches his phone all the way off and tosses it onto the bed beside him, smothering his face into the pillow. 

​​From: co-host

How about your mom

He’d deal with your nonsense tomorrow. 

And probably fill the gas tank for a trip to Washington. 

Bucky’s eyes snap open when the cold air hits his face. He keeps his window shut all the way,every single night. 

He blinks several times before his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. 

“Bucky?” a disembodied voice comes from beside him.

His head whips to the side, making him realise that one, he was standing, and two, he had no idea how long he’d been standing for. 

Only, he finds you next to him, looking disoriented like you’d just been shaken awake from a nap.

“Where the hell–” your voice trails off as you take note of where you’d landed up. 

In front of him, mechanical gears whine as they scrape against each other in a desperate attempt to move.

He peers down at his clothes; the same black t-shirt, jacket and cargo pants he distinctly remembers changed out of nearly an hour ago. 

“What the fuck,” Bucky snaps. “Did you bring us back here?”

“No,” you say, face rigid, solemn. “I swear I didn’t. I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

Bucky’s shoulders loosen. “No, I was asleep.”

The wind rustles by, and everything looks exactly the same as when you left it nearly 3 hours ago. 

“We’re back at Kinley,” he tests it, taking a step forward. “What just happened?”

“This is weird, right?” you put forth, clearing your throat. “I definitely was going to send you a text about the next video idea, and the next thing I know you’re in front of me. I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Bucky pinches the inside of his arm. The skin comes back red and stinging.

“No, it’s real,” he murmurs. “Unless this is a weird fuckin’ dream that I’m having.”

It wouldn’t be the first time you showed up in his dreams either. He just doesn’t remember any of them being so… vivid. 

“I’m in the physical realm, I can feel that,” you talk so quietly it’s like you’re speaking to yourself. “It’s not your dream. I’m here too.”

He checks his phone. 

9:05. 

Bucky opens up his messages, finding none from you tonight. His YouTube history similarly didn’t have the video he was watching earlier today.

Bucky clenches his fists and releases them, before taking a deep inhale. “Okay. We just had a strange fuckin’ flash forward into the future because of… I don’t know what. But we never left, and now we’re going home.”

“Yep.” You nod in confirmation, but the camera levitating behind you wobbles with uncertainty. “So– do we recreate what happened or…?”

“No, let's just leave,” Bucky debates, running a hand through his hair. 

You take a step towards the stairs, holding onto the bannister as you make your way down. 

Bucky holds up the flashlight of his phone as he follows, throwing another look behind him. 

“Having a shared flashforward… could say it’s soulmate shit,” you give him a quick glance, but the grin on your face is unsure, and he knows you’re trying to shake it off. 

“It’s a carbon monoxide shit.” 

“You can be carbon mine-oxide.” 

Bucky wordlessly shoves past you as he walks down the stairs, leaving you to follow with another stupid laugh. 

The car ride back brings with it some air of normalcy, so does the elevator ride. 

Bucky once again gives you a two finger wave as he gets down at his floor. 

“Offer’s still there if you want me to walk you to your room,” you call. “I may be delirious, but I’m still chivalrous.”

“Go to sleep,” Bucky carps, shaking his head, banishing the slight lift in the corner of his mouth. 

The faint light in the hallway makes him falter. 

He sticks his head in anyway. “Hey.”

“Oh, hey,” Steve smiles from his bed, book in hand. “You’re back.”

Bucky glances around the room. “Did we talk earlier today?”

“Only when you texted me for my Netflix password.” 

“Nothing after that?” Bucky hesitates from asking him outright.

“No. You okay?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Just had a weird dream,” Bucky dismisses, forcing his face to relax. “See you around.”

“Left you some apples if you’re hungry,” Steve calls, as Bucky shuts the door.

He crawls back into bed, eyeing the clock suspiciously. 10:30. 

He closes his eyes, wills himself to sleep, knowing that this glitch in the matrix was only temporary and tomorrow, you’d be at his damn door, forcing him to go to Washington with you. 

Bucky’s eyes fly open when a draft of wind blows past his cheek.

“You’re fucking shitting me,” he growls, taking in the stupid tower again. 

“Well, fuck,” you exhale from beside him, in the same clothes from that evening. “I think we’re stuck in a timeloop.”

Of all the things to happen to him. Has he not suffered enough.

“Fine. Alright,” Bucky recalibrates, voice short, running a hand through his hair. “What now? How do we get out?”

“I don’t know, let me just consult with my vast experience in timeloops.”

He throws you a look so dry it would have crops withering. You don’t seem to care at all. 

“If I had to guess from the movies I’ve seen, we either gotta solve a puzzle or one of us has to reach self-actualisation and turn into a good human,” you postulate, arms on your hips as you survey the room. “We both know it’s not me, so is there anything you want to share with the class?”

If your release was contingent on Bucky working through his issues, you’d be here for a century at least.

“We keep coming back here at midnight,” Bucky elects to focus on other things, tilting his head towards the clock. “Is it because we left at 9 instead of 12?”

“Maybe,” you consider it. “We can stick around, I guess.”

It wasn’t a bad place to start. You’d have to trial-and-error your way out of this one. 

“We’ve got…” he pulls his sleeve back to look at his watch “...two hours and fifty five minutes.”

You shrug. “We can check out the rest of the tower to see if we missed anything.”

“Fine,” he relents slowly as if still weighing his options, only to come up with nothing better. 

The next level is at least a few flights of stairs below and if you thought the room with the clock in it was barren, there was nothing here for you except spiders and dust bunnies.   

“Maybe we have to clean it up,” you suggest, nose scrunching. “Maybe the tower’s super mad that everyone’s disrespecting it.”

“That's a stupid reason.”

You spin around, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Take that back. We just said maybe it doesn't like being disrespected.”

Bucky grumbles a few choice words under his breath, none of which reach your ears. 

There's nothing along the walls of the tower, nor on the ceilings. The intermediary floor and the ground floor come up empty as well. 

By the time you've confirmed that you’ve exhausted all possible leads with nothing to show for it, Bucky’s memorised the layout of the place. 

11:58.

“2 more minutes,” he tells you.

“All right,” you say, rubbing your palms together. “Experiment one. Let's go.”

Bucky keeps his eyes peeled.

11:59.

He doesn't even fucking blink, and neither do you as the seconds count down on his phone. 

12:00. 

He exhales, looking up. 

A cold wind blows past his face. 

When he hastily looks back at his phone, it reads 9pm once more. 

“Damn it,” you curse softly. 

Bucky’s growing anger resonates in a rumble in chest. “What kind of twisted shit is this?”

“It's fine,” you hold your hand up, breathing out. “I have a few more ideas.”

Bucky carelessly gestures for you to go on, and you point at the big clock.

“That thing stopped working at 9,” you hint. “We'll have to fix it. Get it working again and then we go back.”

“You know anything about fixing clocks?”

“I worked at a toy shop near a watchmaker once,” you offer. “That's gotta count for something.”

“What the hell, sure,” Bucky gives up, throwing his arms up. 

He only had experience taking apart the old leather strapped wrist watch his parents got him for his 11th birthday, and Steve’s pocket watch that he inherited from his asshole dad. He’d dismantle it carefully, methodically piece by piece, learning the insides and out of each device, so that if and when they stopped running, he'd know exactly what was wrong just by holding it up to his ear.

That didn't necessarily transfer here, but it couldn't be all that different.

Turns out it's very different and you both had to resort to watching several videos before you even began to attempt to fix it. 

He retreats the toolbox from the corner, grateful that at least you didn't have to waste a good half hour going looking for tools to fix a fuckin’ clock.

“There's no signs of life in the mechanism,” you say, reading from the phone. “So I guess we start with the most basic shit.” 

He only lets out a noise in acknowledgement, before you both spend time dusting away at gears and checking for broken parts. When nothing seems bent or misaligned, you move onto the next step. 

And that's when the fun actually starts. 

“That’s not how you oil a gear.”

“Sure it fuckin’ is,” Bucky comments, careful making sure the grease reaches every nook and cranny.

“You’re doing it wrong.” 

Bucky doesn't take his eyes off the machine, and instead raises his left hand up, clenching it into fist and releasing it, leaving the soft shifting of all the plates to prove his point. 

You scoff. “What, just ‘cause you have a metal arm you're the world’s leading expert in oiling mechanics?”

“It means I’ve got some experience in taking care of them.” 

“I’ve seen you put that thing in the dishwasher, don’t even try with me,” you warn. 

Busted. He usually got away with lying flagrantly about his arm, but apparently you pay attention to him and the fact that the Wakandan tech only required a wipedown every once and a while. 

“I do woodwork, I know how to oil things,” he switches seamlessly over to the next lie. 

The tools rarely needed any maintenance and he really didn't have to do much with them yet, considering how high quality they were. But he has an idea of what he could be doing, and that's what counts. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “How come you’ve never made anything for me?”

“I don’t like you.” 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bucky continues squeezing oil into axles without sparing you a glance. “What do you want?”

“What can you make?”

“Boxes.”

“Make me a box then.”

“No.”

“Bitch.”

Bucky smiles to himself, turning the gears to see them move smoothly.

You dust off cobwebs from the pendulums to get it swinging again, you use your powers to stare at the crank until it rotates on its own to wind up, and to the best of your estimation, make sure the weights are raised to the right heights. 

The whole affair takes nearly 3 hours and towards the end, the both of you are hurriedly rushing through the motions, placing aside the need to argue to just get the damn thing done in time. At some point, telekinesis keeps the pendulum swinging. 

“Did you check everything?”

“Yes.”

“Everything.”

“Yes, Bucky.” you sigh. “All major pieces are working. The clock should move.”

Proof of your word, the clock starts ticking again. It goes from 9:00 to 9:05 without any hitches, and then continues on without interference. 

“Hell yeah,” you cheer and Bucky heaves a sigh of relief.

“Come on,” he urges under his breath, checking his phone again.

2 minutes to go.

“I love the passage of time,” you state unnaturally loudly. “I've never been more grateful for the passage of time.”

“Don't jinx this.”

1 more minute.

“That's not jinxing, it's good lu-”

Bucky feels a cold breeze swipe across his cheek. 

He inhales sharply. 

“Fuck.” Your stomach drops to the ground. 

In the blink of an eye, everything you'd managed to get done in the last 3 hours had gone right back to the way it had been. Dusty, unmoving and dull. 

Bucky robotically checks the time on his phone. 

9pm.

His fingers rub his temples. “What's the next plan?”

“We must have not done it right,” you reason quietly, taking a step towards it. “Something's wrong.”

“The thing was moving, I think we got it,” Bucky sighs irritatedly. 

“Well, we gotta try again,” you turn to him sharply. “You don't have to be here but I'm gonna do it.”

Bucky raises both his eyebrows at you, and you stare back with equal determination. 

“Fine,” he forgoes. “I'll look downstairs.”

It takes less time this time around. It gives you half an hour to check if it is moving again, and you watch the hands move from 9 to 9:05 to 9:20 with no problem.

Meanwhile, Bucky spends his time turning the intermediate room inside out in search for other clues. 

When he finds nothing there, he trudges back to the clock, finding you fingers crossed but confident that you'd done it.

“This is it, baby,” you say, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “We're getting out of this.”

“Here's to hoping,” he says in a tone that lets you know he isn’t convinced, watching his timer countdown from 30 seconds.

“No hoping. There's nothing to do. We're leaving,” you declare. “I've never seen a clock work more beautifully in my life.” 

Three.

Two.

One.

Bucky holds his breath. 

And a wind blows past his face.

The machine resets to the way it was. 

“All fuckin’ right,” Bucky mumbles, expiring a breath deeply. 

“It's fine,” you say, forcing a smile. “I've got a few more ideas.”

Cleaning the floors doesn't work. 

Reading up about the clock tower in  detail and honouring its legacy in an earnest ceremony doesn't work. 

Fixing it for a third time doesn't work either.

“I'm takin’ a nap,” he informs, back against the wall. “I'll deal with this shit again when I wake up.”

“How can you even think about sleeping right now?” you ask, using your powers to pull the damn clock out of the wall. It changes nothing.

“I've thought about sleeping through much worse,” he grumbles, eyes closed. 

“I'm beginning to think you have an iron deficiency.”

“Literally a supersoldier.”

“Vitamin D deficiency,” you revise. “Can you step into the sun or do you just like, start hissing and burning?”

“We’ve never gonna find out, ‘cause we’re never making it out of tonight,” he hums, eyes closed. 

You go still, clock hovering mid air. 

“You don't think we're getting out?”

“I think we're fucked,” Bucky mumbles, yawning as he makes himself as comfortable as old wooden floors would allow him to be. “Y’told me yourself, we tried all the big plans. There's no puzzle. We're trapped.”

The clock lands on the ground with a heavy thud. 

“Careful,” he warns, wondering how cozy the floor would be if he just slid down and laid there. “Wouldn't wanna break the fuckin’ thing that put us in this mess to begin with.”

“Fuck,” you breathe out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bucky opens one eye to peer at you. “What?”

“What do you think, Bucky?” you fire back. “We’re stuck in a timeloop for eternity because we’ve tried the most obvious options and we’re still here.”

“Could be a lot cleaner, but this ain’t the worst place to get stuck for the rest of your life,” he tempts, arms crossed behind his head, feeling a dull strain in his neck. 

“We’re gonna be stuck here forever,” you say, dawning horror in your inflection. “I’m gonna be stuck with you for the rest of eternity.”

“So much for chivalry,” he says wryly.

“We need a new plan,” you digress hectically from the other side of the room. 

“Here's one. I get some sleep, order some pizza in the next loop or two and–”

“No.”

“Fine, Thai works too. Whatever. Then we-”

“You don’t get it,” you snap abruptly. “Jesus Christ, this is literally my worst fucking nightmare. Either help or leave.”

He pries both eyes open at the sudden shift in your tone. He’s used to you snapping at him for his bullshit, and the favour was usually reciprocated, but not like this.  

Your back is turned to him, but he can tell you’re breathing heavily as you check out the new gap you've created in the wall where the clock was, before turning around and lifting the entire machine in the center of the room. 

“Hey,” he calls, voice gruff, slowly pushing himself off the floor. 

You throw him a look, continuing to move pieces of newspaper and tools and check under it. 

He watches you curse under your breath, lifting things too high and dropping them down a little too hard without flinching even once. 

“Look,” he tries again, a little louder. 

You flip the machine upside down, fully intending on taking it apart and putting it back together as if it was going to make a big difference.

“Grab the wrench. Or don't, I don't give a–”

Bucky grips your shoulder with a call of your name. It’s enough to get you to pause from sheer surprise at how close he suddenly positioned himself, considering it was a well known fact that Bucky hated people in his space. 

“Listen to me. We’re going to get out of here,” he instructs, voice much more muted than you were used to. “But you have to calm down.”

You take in a deep breath, before it leaves in a shaky exhale. Whatever you’ve got levitating gently drops onto the ground.

“You’re panicking. I would be too if I wasn’t dead inside,” he notes, hands still on your shoulder firmly. “Do whatever you need to to get it out of your system. It’ll be easier to focus after that. We'll be out of here soon enough.”

“You seem awfully sure.” Your mouth curls into a half smile, but it drops as quickly as it came up. 

“We’ll figure something out.” His shoulders rise and fall. “Got all the time in the world.”

You swallow the thickness in your throat, giving him a small nod.

“‘M sorry,” he says, eyes intense, and you know he’s talking about the nonchalance he showed earlier. “I was bein’ a prick.” 

“Honestly, you being a prick is, like, the most normal part about this.”

“...thanks.” 

“It’s fine, I could use some normal.” You brush it off with a slight smile. “You’re right. We should get some food. I’m hungry.”

“Alright,” he says, eyeing your features for a second more. “But you’re buying. Payback for making me clean up every floor twice.”

“Prick.”

His conversation with Steve from earlier that night comes back to him, the same time you take another breath to shake off the antsiness. 

Bucky lifts a eyebrow to look more natural. “You still sure it’s me who needs self-actualisation? ‘Cause it sure seems that you’ve got a whole lot to talk about.”

You half-scoff, half-laugh. “Is that your way of saying I’ve got issues?”

“Just using your words.”

You watch him for a second, like you’re thinking about saying something. He tilts his head at how contemplative you look, only for you to open your mouth and ask,

“Say, do you think emotional baggage is hot?” you wiggle your brows. “‘Cause if you do, I’ve got a whole lot of it.”

He groans out loud, neck craning as his head drops back. 

“Also,” you pose a bit more curiously, “you gonna let go of me any time soon or are we about to slow dance?”

Bucky’s hands immediately drop from your shoulder, taking a step back. “Fuck off.”

“I could, but I’d just respawn here in three hours.”

He rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but feel a bit relieved that you looked a lot less in distress. 

You'd spent two loops doing a deep dive into timeloops, coming up with more possibilities to try out.

Leaving the building at each hour did nothing. 

You spent 1 loop eating dinner and reaching out to scientists you knew on how to break out. Those who replied either said they weren't real, told you stuff you'd already figured out, or blocked you.

You even spent half a loop painstakingly combing through footage from earlier in the night to figure out if you'd fucked with anything by mistake that you were yet to correct, not noticing it so far because it had been so minor or mundane. 

“Oh shit, I just noticed something,” you gape, pointing at the screen

Bucky pulls the little monitor closer to his face. “What?”

“You’re looking at me so much in these,” you remark, voice relaxing immediately. “What's up with that?” 

“Maybe because you’re the only one talking,” Bucky fires back, irritatedly putting the camera back down, “and it’s not like there’s anything else to look at here.”

“So defensive,” you comment. “Just say you think I’m cute and move on.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut me up yourself, coward.”

To be clear, Bucky didn't realise he was looking at you that much. And now that you’ve pointed it out, he can’t really argue because he is doing it a lot more than he realised he was, even unconsciously sometimes. 

“How many more timeloops till you run out of these lines?” he questions instead.

“How many more timeloops till you stop being a handsome son of a bitch?”

The clock tower may be cold, but he feels too warm all of a sudden. 

“I swear, if this doesn’t work, I’m throwing the clock out the window,” you say, powers forcing the hands to speed through every hour and second at 2x speed. 

Bucky doesn’t even look up at you from over his phone. “You throw it, you’re fixing it again.”

You stop trying to spin the hands when one of them creaks. 

A few loops in and the growing frustration from the both of you manifests into tension that is palpable. 

You'd spent a loop or two outside the tower so you didn't drive yourself insane. Without fail, you'd end up right back up watching the clock every single time the world outside struck 12.

Bucky’s done his fair share of attempts. Jacket on, jacket off. Holding the camera, being the one who led into the room, the one who led out. 

Mainstream movies, obscure movies, video essays, podcasts. 

“I don’t fuckin’ get it. What are we missing?” you pour over the options again, frustrated. “We’ve done everything. We’ve done combinations of things.”

“There’s something we’re missing,” he says, staring at the moon through the face. “Some detail.” 

It's not like you can physically keep track of every variable. Everything resets the second it strikes 12, no matter what you changed. 

“I think–” 

He sends you a glance.

“Maybe if we–” you try before you stop altogether.  

Bucky just stays quiet because at this point you've exhausted every option you can think of, to no avail. 

He knows you don't want to say it. 

But it's time you start accepting that you're well and truly stuck. 

“Should write Maya an email,” he tells you. “Tell her we quit.”

You give him a smile, knowing it would never even make its way to her.

Still, you pull out your phone and let Bucky peek over your shoulder as you start typing, helpfully suggesting curses as you went. 

____

You absentmindedly tinker with the machine, able to take it apart, fix it and put it back together by heart and in no time now.

“What was the last mission you guys did?” you inquire, rotating a gear between your fingers. 

“Something small,” Bucky replies, voice steady. “Think it was just a recon in Detroit.”

“Do you miss it?” 

“No,” he says resolutely. “Everyone got tired of them a long time ago, but we stick around, just in case.”

You spare him a glance. “When was the last time you actually relaxed?”

Bucky considers it for a second. “Wakanda. Wasn't exactly a vacation though.” 

“New question. When was the last time you went on vacation?”

He raises an eyebrow, head twisting to look at you. 

You place the gear in its place before picking up the oil dropper. “Don’t answer if you don’t wanna.”

He turns his head back to the ceiling, and all the spider webs lining it. 

“Couple of years before I got drafted, my family took a day trip to Convey Island.” he reveals, voice low. “We were supposed to hit as many rides as we could but my sister was aboslutely fuckin’ taken by this damn steam engine they had running. Everyoe got sick of it after the second time so I stuck around with her. Must’a ridden that thing 5 times before she finally let up.” 

You have half a smile on your face. “Did you like it?”

He can't really remember. He can't even remember if the rest of his family was actually there, or whether it was just him and Steve and Becca, or it was just him and Becca.

“I liked that she liked it,” he decides.

You nod, wiping a gear before putting it back, snickering lightly.  “Was the last vacation you took really in the 1930s?” 

He exhales a laugh. “Steve and I went to the Canyon once. It was near a mission location. He told me I'd been dyin’ to go there as a kid. I don't remember that, but he fuckin’ dragged me there by the collar. Not sure if that really counts– we were both bleeding pretty heavy for it to be a real holiday.”

“Steve would say it counts.”

“Steven’s never taken a vacation in his life.” Bucky snorts. “I don't think he physically knows how to relax.”

“I don't think I've ever seen that man sit still for more than a few minutes.”

“Fuckin' rich coming from you. How many jobs have you had? A million?”

You exhale a laugh. “Something like that.”

You push the pendulum with your finger, watching it swing back and forth. 

“Where’d you stick the longest?” Bucky asks, hands supporting his head as he lies on the ground. 

You take a second to think, picking up a gear you’d already cleaned, wiping it down again.

“When I just got out of Leviathan, I used to wait tables for this elderly lady who ran a bakery. Mrs. Mullens,” you say finally. “She was kinder than anyone else I'd met till then; gave me leftovers that didn’t get sold that day, and enough money to get on my feet. I must've been there, what, a year? Year and a half? I think that’s the longest I’ve stayed.” 

“Why’d you quit?” He does his best to not sound too intrusive. 

“One evening she slipped keys into my pocket and told me I could stay in the room above the cafe if I wanted. Realised I’d been there too long, so I left the state the next morning.”

Bucky’s eye twitches as he turns to look at you. “She gave you a place to stay and you skipped town?”

“Yeah.” You half-shrug. “Staying in a place too long feels– suffocating. I don’t know. Just knew it was time to leave.”

Bucky looks at you strangely, mind inadvertently trying to piece together a bunch of information. 

Working on a hunch, he tests, “You got family out there somewhere?”

“I was literally created in a lab,” you deadpan. “I don’t have a family. Unless you count test tubes.”

“It doesn't have to be mean literally.” He arches an eyebrow. “What about Nat?”

“Nat’s a friend.” you disclose, holding a cog up to check for any stains, “The Avengers aren’t my family the same way they are for you. They’re great, but it’s just another job.”

Oh. 

“Right,” he says, settling back into his position, feeling a frown on his face.

“I haven’t really found what you’re asking me about,” you add, and he knows you're trying to be kind.

He isn't sure what he thought the team was to you. He isn't sure what he feels about the new information either.

“What’s it feel like?”

“What?” he asks distractedly. 

“Having people like that,” you clarify. “Maybe if I know what it feels like I’ll know when it happens.”

You’ve all but asked the most emotionally constipated man on earth what family feels like to him.

So reasonaly, Bucky blanks. 

Literally every single interaction with the dead and the living exits his mind. 

And so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, 

“Silent blenders.” 

And then he cringes. 

“Is that the name of a movie or…” you trail off.

“No. They got me blenders that don’t make a sound. It was a nice gift,” he mumbles. 

You wait for him to provide even a little more context. He instead shifts uncomfortably. 

“Okay,” you allow, looking back down. “Silent blenders. Got it.”

Bucky thinks about it for a second more, and his head starts throbbing.

Instead, he dodges. “Guess you’re not gonna stick around for too long then, huh?”   

“Well, yeah,” you answer, like it was the easiest thing in the world.  “I was always going to just bounce after this was done. I thought you knew that.”

“Right,” he repeats. “Where you headed next?”

“Who knows?” you mull over. “I could go anywhere. You got any reccs?”

He doesn’t really have an answer for you. Bucky can’t imagine packing up and leaving again. Living life never knowing when he can finally take a seat. He’s spent so long wrestling with the turbulence of having multiple identities that he clings to what little semblance of stability he can find.

But a tiny voice in the recess of his mind whispers to him that maybe the reason he's stayed at the same place for so long is the same reason you can’t. 

He has a half formed hypothesis. And then soon comes to the conclusion that he really has no business deriving theories about you like that… but he’d be lying if he said he didnt store it in his head for later. 

He also doesn't know why there's a strange churning in his stomach, a deeply uncomfortable feeling that he hasn't really felt in years. It makes him want to get up and leave. 

“Y’know, just ‘cause I’m gonna leave eventually doesn’t mean we’re not friends.” You snap him out of his first great attempt to understand human emotions other than annoyance. 

He hums. “I wouldn't call us that.” 

“You’re right, we’re star crossed lovers.”

“I feel bad for the next person who has to deal with you.”

You laugh, swinging the pendulum into motion and wiping your hands down. 

You’d taken turns sleeping in two of the time loops, keeping watch while the other rested for a while.

Only when you're asleep does Bucky fully comprehend how quiet it is in there. 

The clouds cover the moon. The floorboards don't make much noise even as he walks around.

He's lost track of how many 9pms it's been. 

He doesn't know why it’s lingering in his mind like this. Probably because he had only thought of her a couple of hours ago. 

He knows you suggested it as a joke but he can't help but wonder.

What if it was actually him keeping the both of you here?  

He really thought he'd made amends. He'd been living as peacefully as he was able to. And yeah, he's a dick, but he wasn't outright evil.

Or so he thought.

Maybe he hadn’t repented as hard as he’d needed to. 

“Becks,” he calls quietly. “If you can hear me– I'm sorry.”

No one responds. You don't stir. 

He forces himself to exhale and continue, “I know you'd hate what I turned into, but I'm tryin’ here. I promise.”

He wishes a damn piece of paper would give him a sign on what to do, or at least tell him there was no coming back. That he should probably resign himself to his fate. 

“You should've had someone who coulda shielded you. Given you a chance to be a kid.” He swallows down the stone in his throat. “I know you're mad, Peanut. I'm really fuckin’ sorry. You deserved a whole lot better.” 

And then he waits, and waits some more, ears straining for anything– a giggle, a scrape. He doesn't know what he expected, but he gets nothing. 

Only a draft blows through the window. 

A shiver runs through you, and you curl into yourself, but thankfully you still don't wake. Bucky has no idea how he’d explain this to you anyway. 

Still, he quietly makes his way towards you, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across you carefully, watching as you relax again.

He blows out an exhale, watching the minutes tick by. 

“Do you think we’re gonna get old here or do we reset every time the loop resets?” you ask aloud.

“Our clothes kept regenerating with us, so I guess we keep resetting too.”

You hum. “Damn, we can’t even grow old together.”

Bucky adds nothing, only turning to you with a deadpan expression.

“What?” you ask.

“What?” he counters. “No old person jokes this time?”

“There’s no fun if you're expecting it,” you sigh.

“Incredible,” he replies, monotonous. 

There’s silence. He hears wind rustle through the room. 

You sit up, and he can feel your eyes boring into him. 

“What?” he asks again.

“Does it upset you?” you ask somberly. “When I make those jokes?”

“No,” he replies. “They’re fine.”

“And when I keep using pickup lines on you– does that make you uncomfortable?” you continue, however, much to his surprise. 

He turns to you with his eyebrows lowered. “Since when does that matter?”

“It matters,” you say quietly. “I knew it annoyed you, I didn’t know they made you uncomfortable.” 

He stares at you for a long while, before settling on, “They don’t.”

“Sure?”

“I don’t care.” He looks ahead. “I’ll tell you if they do.” 

“Okay,” you relent. “If you say so.”

He shakes his head, feeling a strange sort of feeling settle in his chest. He can’t say he hates it, but he would rather not deal with it.

“Bein’ in here’s making you weird.”

You narrow your eyes. “The fuck does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” he asserts. 

“I’m being totally normal, you’ve just refused to hang out with me so you wouldn’t know what that is.”

“I see you every week.” 

“For video shoots.”

“We hang out otherwise,” he scoffs, suddenly feeling very offended. “We literally went to the store the other day.”

“To buy batteries,” you emphasize. “For the video shoots.”

“We’ve gone to the park,” he exclaims, sitting up. “And we eat lunch together sometimes. And we watched that stupid fuckin’ movie in theatres at midnight twice because you lied the second time and told me it was another one – what was it called? Metropolis?”

“Megalopolis,” you say, amused at his outburst. 

“That. Garbage fuckshit. And we’ve taken the cat–”

“Alpine.”

“I know her name,” he hisses. “To the vet. And that’s all in the last month.”

“Jeez, you keep a journal every time we hang out? What are you, obsessed with me?” you ask, trying to bite back a shit-eating grin. 

“Point is,” he grits. “We hang out.”

Fuck. Turns out, maybe Steve was right.

“Tomato, tomahto,” you dismiss. “You’re so obsessed with details. You could’ve just said you’re in love with me and moved on instead of bringing out the whole Excel sheet of every minute we spent together.”

“I hate you,” he groans, dropping back down.

You laugh. It makes the corner of his mouth curl up, just a little.  

“What’s the time?” he asks, blowing out an exhale from his nose.

“Like 11:30?,” you sigh.

“That’s all?” He wants to groan again. 

“Does it matter? We’re stuck here forever. We can get more takeout in the next loop.”

“You’re paying.”

“I paid last time, asshole.”

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Tomato, tomahto.” 

“Touché.” 

You spin a gear in the air, waiting for the hour to pass.

It suddenly hits him. Something that you'd shown across episodes of witchcraft and haunted hospitals. 

Something you showed literally three minutes ago. 

If this worked, he’d probably hug you and your stupid, chaos incarnate self.  

“Come on, let’s get this clock fixed,” he grumbles, getting back up on his feet. 

“What?” 

“I think you’re right,” he says, sticking his arm out to help you up. 

“Huh?” you blink at him. “I know the footage is gonna get erased again, but I need you to say that into the camera once for me. And state that you’re of sound mind and body while you’re at it.”

He sends you a look. “Come on.”

“I fixed it already, Bucky.”

“What’s the time?” He ignores you.

“Nearly 12,” you tell him, checking your phone. 

“Need you to be precise.”

“Why?”

“Humour me,” he says calmly. “Details are for losers, remember?”

“11:57 and 32 seconds.”

He manually winds the big arm up, the short hand still following. Until the seconds ticker matches the time you were calling out, down to the last second.

“What are you doing?” you enquire curiously, peeking over his shoulder.

“Making it match real time,” he tells you. “Properly.”

He checkes gears and pushes pendulums and everything works like it’s brand new. You’d gotten real good at this. 

“11:59 and 43 seconds,” you call.  

Bucky closes his eyes, forcing his breath to remain steady. It’s the first time that evening he’s had more than a sliver of hope. 

“57 seconds,” you say quietly, voice tired. 

And then there's silence. 

He doesn't have the energy to open his eyes and find the machinery back to scraps. 

But eventually he does. And when he opens it again, you’re still standing there, near the machine. Not the entrance of the room. 

The clock reads 12:02.

He turns to you, calmly saying, “Let’s get out of here.”

The drive back home is silent, apprehensive with tension tight as a stretched rubber band. Like if you breathed too hard, you'd find yourself back in the dark room. 

You step in the elevator together, pressing the buttons for your floor and his. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s the fear or the fact that you've now spent several hours together when time didn’t make sense, but the ride up is slower than usual. 

Bucky stands with his back pressed to the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“It never occured to me,” your voice is quiet. “It’s the one thing I didn’t think of because I was so focused on getting out.”

“Didn't think of it either.” Bucky’s shoulders shrug, eyes closed. “Not your fault.” 

“Kinda is.”

“I would've realised earlier if I paid attention,” he counters. 

You stare at him. 

“Are you done or should I keep going?”

You blow out an exhale. “This game sucks.”

“Don't play this shit with me. It's the one thing I'm good at.”

The elevator dings, creeping open on his floor.

He stays right where, back pressed against the wall, unmoving. 

“It's your floor,” you inform.

“I know.”

The door waits a few seconds before it closes.

It finally reaches your floor, opening with a bright ding. 

He watches you step out, casting an unsure look towards him.

You gesture awkwardly, “Do you need anything?”

“Nah,” he says, eyes still closed. 

“What are– oh,” you stop all of a sudden. “Is this your way of walking me to my door?”

Bucky’s face doesn’t betray any expression. “See you later.”

You fight a smile, raising two fingers to give him a wave. 

He gives you a small nod as the door closes on him, reaching forward to press the button to his floor again.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it's the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist </3

[thegnomelord]

I wonder what’s the aftermath of the gaz baby trapping fic?? 🤔🤭

Okay this got me into another hyperfixation so here's a super quick thing. NSFW, MDNI FTM Gaz/ cis male reader

One line.

Gaz's fingers shake as he stares at the pregnancy test in his white knuckled grip. Acrid disappointment burns at the back of his throat, sharp tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he lets out of a long breath. He shakes his head and tosses the damned test into the bin, trying not to think of it as he washes his hands.

He tries to make sure he doesn't look like it bothers him, but you're perceptive, "What's wrong?" falling from your lips the moment you see him, and shit, if that doesn't warm his heart.

"Nothing love." He eases your worries as he gets into bed in record time, huddling up next to you and feeling your arms wrap around him. "Just a bit under the weather. Rookie duty." You make a sound of understanding and pull him closer, laying gentle kisses on his lips and cheeks and anywhere you can reach until he's giggling against your lips.

"Good night." You mutter once you're satisfied and think you've lifted his mood. He stays awake after you've fallen asleep, simply staring at your slumbering face, your warmth seeping into his marrow.

He'd been so sure it would take, he'd ridden you until you were shooting blanks. But at the back of his mind he had thought this could happen, understand he had been sloppy, his chances lessened by you being injured and him having freshly come off the infertility drugs.

So he takes his time to do it with precision this time: Carefully timing his cycles and using fertility drugs, eating the foods old wives tales claim will boost the chances of him getting pregnant.

So he's confident when he seduces you into sex again on the one evening both of you are free; not that it takes much — simply meeting your gaze across the meeting room and licking his lips has your attention fully on him, a small nod of his head all it taking to have you follow after him.

His fingers claw into your back from how tightly he clutches you, heels digging into your flanks and hips gyrating to meet your thrusts as you pound into him. He's so loud you're sure you'll get complaints come morning, but right now you couldn't care less except to hear more of his moans and whimpers and cries as you fuck another load into him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes- oh love more!" He tries, sweet cunt clenching sinfully tight around you, drops of your cum leaking past your cock as his hole flutters around you. The position you have him in, legs over your shoulders and bent nearly in half, has your cock going to deep he swears you hit his diaphragm with every thrust, your heavy balls slapping against his ass.

He's happy he'd slipped you that aphrodisiac as you just continue to fuck him all night long, pumping his hole full of cum again and again until by the end of it he looks pregnant, both of you exhausted as hell and unable to do much other than fall asleep in a tangle of limbs.

You don't think nothing of it, just glad to be alive to be able to enjoy his love and affection. That is until you find him crying in the bathroom, and you hug him before you can think of anything else, just trying to comfort him and understand why he's sad, only for him to silently hand you a small white stick, burying his head into your neck to silence his sobs.

And you don't notice him smirking against your throat as you stare at the two lines on the pregnancy test.

Taglist: @dead-end-stuff

[lowkeyerror]

The Family Business Ch.3

WandNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Chapter Notes: Mentions of death, violence, underaged drinking, slight mentions of SA, lisichka=little fox

Summary: Natasha has heard stories of you from Wanda. It has her doubting your current day skill level. With Dragos and Wanda in a meeting, you get the chance to tell her a bit about the person you've become.

An: Finally something between Y/n and Natasha (I say finally as if this isn't chapter 3 lol) Anyway enjoy this chapter and see you back next week.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You could feel Natasha’s eyes on you as you worked. It was tedious work, but you typed away with a smile on your face regardless.  You thought that maybe she’d pick up her phone or something, but she seemed to just watch you.

“You want to ask me something or you just going to keep staring?” You kept your eyes on the computer screen as you addressed her.

“You’re different than Wanda said you’d be,” was all that she said.

You finally looked at the red head, “Well like I said, it’s been a while since she has seen me. A lot has changed in the years she’s been gone.”

“Like what?”

You paused your work to give Natasha your full attention. You sat back fully in your chair pondering back to the last time you saw Wanda. “Well, she left before I graduated. Back then I thought I was going to take my degrees, find an honest job, and live a normal life. I was fragile, even after the self-defense training. I hadn’t held a gun, I hadn’t hacked into anything, I was just a little girl.”

“And now?”

You gesture around you, “Now, I have this nice office. I crunch numbers for the most high-profile company in town, that just happens to be a front for a criminal organization. I have 2 degrees, I can defend my family and myself, I’ve shot a gun more times than I can count, and I could hack into anything that you could imagine.”

“You’ve got a ledger?” The line about the gun seemed to stick out to Natasha.

You shrug your shoulders, “I’ve carried my weight.”

“How many?”

The question startles you a bit. It was so candid as if she was asking about the weather. You could see them, the people you had killed. It wasn’t a large number, not even in the double digits, but still.

“7.” You don't know what compelled you to keep speaking,” I remember all of them. What is it they say about the first one? You will never forget it. I was 20, it was before I joined the organization. Pietro had dragged me to some party.”

“I take it you weren’t a party animal back then?”

You chuckle and shake your head, “Not even a little so I did what everyone does to get comfortable at a party. I took a few shots, it was stupid. As a light weight and someone not of legal drinking age, I should've been more careful. The shots had loosened me up, so I was enjoying the party for awhile. I lost Pietro at some point, but I was too drunk to notice.”

You see Natasha frown a bit, but you continue, “The host of party finds me on the dance floor. We dance for a while; we don't say much, just hi. Someone spilled a drink on me while we were dancing. He offered to get me a new shirt. Like the innocent little idiot I was, I followed him up to his room.”

You paused, almost feeling like you were back in that moment. You could feel everything again, your skin was hot and sweaty, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, you could feel him on you.

Natasha could sense she lost you to the memory. She got up from the couch in your office to make her way towards you. She took a seat on the edge of your desk and pulled your hands into hers. “What happened in his room?”

“He tried to take advantage of me. He tore my shirt off just so his gross hands could grope my skin. He pulled me against him fiddled with his belt before trying mine. His breath was hot on my neck as he peppered kisses on my collarbone. When his hand slipped into my pants, is when it really clicked in my head. I had told him to stop, but he wouldn’t. You know the kind of guys that say, ‘you want this’ or ‘you teased me all night’ or ‘You’re the one half naked in my room’. He was one of those, no wasn’t going to cut it.”

Natasha squeezes your hand as you recount the harsh memory. It looks like you could cry right there in the office. Then all of a sudden, the tears pooling in your eyes are gone. A blank expression takes over your face.

“For a minute, I pretend I’m into what this creep is doing to me. Only enough for him to loosen his grip on me. At this point my back was against his front. I reach behind his head, like my arms trying to loop to bring him closer. Except one of my hand rests on top of his head and the other one is on the opposite side of his jaw. I snapped his neck. His body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.”

“Y/n- “

“I threw up when I saw him. After I was done, I called Pietro, he found me upstairs with the body. He felt so guilty for leaving me, but I could tell he was surprised too. So surprised that fragile little Y/n had snapped someone’s neck.”

Natasha’s eyes bored into yours, “That asshole deserved that. He deserved worse.”

“He didn’t rest even in death. Dragos made sure of it. He made that family’s life a living hell. It was a message to the entire city that I was under their protection. If anyone so much as laid a finger on me there would be dire consequences.”

A silence filled the room. Natasha didn't remove her hand from yours and you didn't ask her too. You glanced back at your computer, knowing you had to finish your work.

“Wanda never said you were fragile, just delicate,” Natasha’s fingers drew patterns on your hand.

You shake your head, “Wanda has always had a way with turning something negative into a positive. I never saw the difference between the two words, but she’d always say- “

“Fragile things break quickly into millions of pieces under the slightest pressure,” Natasha starts as if she had been there when Wanda said it to you.

“If you were fragile, you wouldn’t be here with us. You’re delicate, beautiful, intricate, and deserve to be handled with care,” you finish with a fond smile on your lips.

“For what it’s worth, I think she was right,” Natasha returns to her space on the couch to allow you to keep working.

She finally pulls out her phone seeming to have relaxed a bit because of your vulnerability. You want to refocus on work, but there are some questions that are nagging you about the woman in your office.

“How did you two meets? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Natasha ponders a minute for a suitable answer, and you take note of it, “The short version is that we met at work.”

You raise an eyebrow, “And what did you do for work?”

“Guess.”

You let your eyes look over the woman. You took in her relaxed posture, the muscles hiding under her shirt, the way she allowed you to be vulnerable with her, the mischievous glint in her eye. She was a multifaceted woman, you could tell.

“Spy, a Russian spy to be exact.”

Natasha seems slightly surprised, “How’d you guess Russian?”

“Romanoff sounds suspiciously close to Romanov, common last name in old Russia.”

“You’re a smart lisichka aren’t you?”

A blush takes over your features, “Little fox is new, but you’re stalling, Natasha.”

She crosses her arms across her chest, “Well I was formerly spy, turned into assassin for hire. I was anonymously hired to kill Wanda.”

“Too charming to kill?”

Natasha sighs, “I tried, but she was just too good. We started this rivalry, playful banter, suggestive tones, I spent a lot of time trapped under her thighs. It got to the point where I didn’t want to kill her, I had terminated the contract, but I just kept coming around to see her. She told me that my skills were being wasted on petty assassinations, when I could be working for her. I said the only way I’d consider was if she went out with me. The rest is history.”

“Leave it to Wanda to seduce an assassin.”

Natasha laughs, “Hey, she only seduced me because I let her.”

“Whatever you say super spy. I’ve got to finish this work before we have to leave for dinner.”

“Flora might have your head if you show up late,” Natasha comments.

You press the small button on your desk, “Thanks for reminding me. Kate, do you think you could get me some hydrangeas for Mrs.Maximoff.”

“Of course, Y/nn, anything for you,” she responds cheerfully.

You roll your eyes, “Thanks Katie.”

With that you're back to working. Though Natasha pulls out her phone, you still feel her eyes on you at time. It sends shivers up your spine, yet you don't want her to stop looking.

Taglist: @natashaswife4125 @autorasexy @alexawynters @blkmxrvel @toouncreativeforausername

[lovebugism]

hi!! could I possibly request something with Eddie or Steve with their chronically ill gf? I have POTS and although I don't full on faint, I get super fainty often and can lose my vision a little sometimes from that, and I think it would be cute to see how either boys would be with a partner like that (IF NOT THAT'S TOTALLY OKAY, THIS IS A VERY SELF INDULGENT REQUEST)

i tried to make this more general since i don't personally have pots, but it ended up being very self-indulgent bc i do get fainting spells quite often so enjoy hahah :D — the one where eddie munson is a very panicky caregiver (established relationship, hurt/comfort | 1.2k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

The hottest day of the season weighs heavily upon you. The golden hour sunlight and sticky summer air seep into your bones, sucking all the energy from your already tired body. You feel a bit like a vampire now — a withering thing wasting away in the center of Eddie Munson’s bed, with nothing but a clicking fan beside you blowing hot air around the room.

Eddie seems largely unfazed by the summer weather despite his metalhead qualities, which should otherwise clash with the heat. 

He’s shed his leather jacket for the first time all year. The thrifted t-shirt he wears below it leaves his pale, tattoed arms on display. You can see the tendons in them pulsing every time he strums lazily at his acoustic guitar. His wild curls, more untamed than usual in such humidity, are pulled out of his face with one of your hair ties. A few stubborn strands stick to his face still — now a darker shade of brown, going damp from the sweat beading on his jaw and forehead.

You watch him tilt his head back to shake his bangs from his eyes, then smile to yourself when the attempt proves fruitless. His hair’s grown much too long now — enough to be perpetually frustrating. Not that Eddie cares to acknowledge it, anyway.

“I think it’s time for a haircut, Eds,” you try to tease, though the words come out strangely heavy on your tongue. They sound lightyears away as they spill from your mouth, and the thought alone makes you dizzy. Dizzier.

Eddie’s face, glimmering and softly flushed, screws in a boyish pout. “Don’t say that. You know I hate that word.”

“Look at your bangs, Eds! They’re way too long—”

The mattress squeaks softly under your weight when you go to reach for him. You’re barely able to sit upright without your head spinning. It’s like you blink once, and suddenly you’re underwater — vision blurry, ears ringing, the world swimming with various indistinct shapes. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and sit back again.

It takes Eddie a moment too long to notice.

“No, they’re not— See?” He pauses his strumming to muss at his curls. His ringed fingers tousle his already frizzy bangs to get them out of his eyes. He smiles all cheeky at you then, as he glances at you over his shoulder. His smile ebbs at the twisted look on your face. “Hey… You okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer immediately, though the pinched look to your features never wavers. 

“Okay. Yeah,” Eddie nods. “But… Are you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut until it hurts — until blue and white stars start to twinkle in the nothingness. But even in the quote-unquote nothingness, you can still feel the world spinning around you. It’s like you’re on a sailboat in the middle of the ocean, swaying in time with the rocky tides even though you’re sitting still. The notion makes your swimmy head spin. 

“Yeah,” you repeat, pitched higher this time as you dig your palms into your eye sockets. A feeble attempt to ease the dizziness. “I just— I just got a little dizzy all of a sudden. But I’m fine.”

Eddie starts reeling immediately. “Shit. Are you… Are you gonna pass out?” he stammers and rises suddenly from the bed. He leaves his guitar at his feet as he rushes to you. The mattress bounces under you and makes you feel sicker. His panicking makes you feel sicker, too.

“I don’t think so,” you answer, voice quiet and faraway.

“You don’t think so?” Eddie echoes as he looms at your side. 

You can’t see him, but you know he’s there. You can feel his shadow and the heat radiating from his lanky form. His ringed hands sit awkwardly out in front of him, aching to comfort you but frightened of making it worse. 

“Do you— Do you want me to do something? Do you need me to get you anything? Like… Like a glass of water or—”

“Eds. I’m fine,” you interject a bit too firmly for your poorly state. “It’ll pass, just… Just sit down.”

“I can’t,” he squirms. “You’re makin’ me nervous, babe.”

“Standing on top of me isn’t helping, Eds.”

The boy sits gingerly at your side, then. He doesn’t move a muscle as he waits for you to tell him what to do. Obedient but hardly patient. He tries not to fidget too much, lest he add to your unease, but he buzzes with worry in the meantime. He watches with his heart in his throat as you finally take your hands from your face.

His wide, chocolate eyes dart over your pallid features. “You okay?” he whispers.

“Mhm,” you hum in the affirmative, though you haven’t yet tried to open your eyes. 

The mattress feels less like a wobbling water bed now, but you’re still scared of what the world will look like — if everything will be slightly askew or flipped upside down entirely.

“Can you try to look at me?” the boy presses gently.

You peek one eye open and turn your chin to look at him. The subtle movement ends up being an obvious mistake. “Fuck,” you curse in a quiet murmur, shutting your eyes when the world goes staticky again.

“Don’t move so fast, babe. You’ll pass out,” Eddie chuckles despite the panicked ache in his chest. 

He moves slowly so as not to jostle you too much — lifting his arm to rest over your shoulder and pulling you very carefully to his chest. His free hand covers your eyes and rests over your temple. He squishes his cheek against your hair.

The humidity doesn’t often allow for such contact, but the heat isn’t nearly as strong as Eddie Munson’s love for you. He holds you close in spite of the slightly agonizing way your skin sticks together, fully content to melt with you completely.

“‘M not gonna pass out,” you murmur, words sitting heavy in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Eddie scoffs. “‘Cause slurring your words like you’re drunk all of a sudden is real convincing, sweetheart.”

“M fine,” you insist anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Well, the world’s not spinning anymore, at least.”

“Good,” Eddie hums, smacking a chaste kiss to your head. “Lay down for me, alright? I wanna get you some water. And maybe something salty. That shit’s supposed to help, isn’t it?”

You whine in protest when he starts to move. Less because of how faint you are, and more because of how little you want him to leave. 

“No. Later. Don’t move,” you grouse.

“I gotta make sure you’re alright, babe,” the boy laughs through the warmth blooming in his chest, a sparkling sort of pride perhaps, as you curl further into his side.

“I’m fine right now,” you mumble tiredly. “But if you stop holdin’ me like this, I won’t be.”

“Ah, right…” Eddie sighs in defeat. “Guess I’m stuck here then, huh?”

You nod slowly, cheek rubbing along the cotton fabric of his shirt. “Mhm.”

He smiles softly to himself, wider than he usually allows, ‘cause there’s nothing metal about being a lovesick puppy. But, in truth, he’s happy to be stuck here with you — even with your swimmy head and humid air and clicking desk fan that’s hardly working now. The circumstances a mildly inconvenient, sure, but he’d take a billion inconvenient circumstances if it meant getting to be with you.

Lovesick puppy, indeed.

[hauntedwitch04]

Video call

Sam Winchester x reader

Words: about 1.2k

Warnings: smut, brat Sammy

Author's note: Hi loves<3. So first day of this kinktober! So happy to share again my fics with you. Hope you enjoy it<3

kinktober 2024 - taglist

You haven't heard from the boys in two days, and you're starting to worry.

You get out of the shower, drying your hair with a towel when you hear the computer make a rhythmic, cheerful sound, and immediately with run to answer the video call.

You read your fiancé's name on the screen, and immediately a shiver of happiness runs down your spine, before a little voice in your head reminds you of what he and his older brother had gone through on the hunt they went on far from what you now call home. As soon as you answer, you see his handsome face reveal itself before you, with his usual infectious smile that he often only turns to you. His happy eyes immediately make you let out a sigh of relief, realizing that he is all right, though that doesn't stop you from taking a good look at him.

"Love, how are you?" he breaks the silence after a few seconds of you standing in silence watching each other. You smile and shake your head.

"I should be the one to ask how you're doing, you're the one who went on a suicide mission with Dean." He comments and Sam can't help but laugh at your words.

"Suicide mission seems exaggerated to me, we have done much worse things. This was a simple ghost, nothing out of the ordinary." He says as if he were talking about today's weather.

"To think that a few years ago ghosts were the strangest thing we encountered."

"Yeah, those were good times, other than demons, angels, God and Lucifer." Sam comments, shaking his head as he takes a good look at you.

"Did you just get out of the shower?" Your fiancé asks as he looks around for a second in the dingy motel room where he and Dean are staying. His brother has gone out for a drink at the bar, so Sam is sure that for some time he will certainly not be bothered by the elder Winchester.

"It's not nice to peek into the cleavage of a lady Sam Winchester, you know." You say as you purposely lean forward so that your breasts are even more visible, knowing that they are one of the few Sam's weak spots when it comes to you.

"Come on baby, all I've been doing for a week is thinking about you and all the unpronounceable things I would do to you if I had you here in my hands." He says whining.

"You are lucky then that just this morning I bought a little something for you. I've been waiting to show it to you when we meet again, but I might make an exception to the rule and show it to you." You say as you get up from the bed you were sitting on. "But you must promise me that you will close your eyes and wait."

"Scout's honor." Sam says bringing one hand to his chest, while with the other he slides the computer lower, thus managing to pull down the zipper of his jeans and over his boxers massaging the erection that was becoming more painful as the minutes passed.

After a few minutes you reappear in front of the screen in a sheer satin dress that reaches just below your ass, through which you can see everything. This perfectly wraps your breasts and also allows you to see the microscopic panties you are wearing. In his eyes you are always a godness, but in this moment, he swears he never believed this much in something supernatural, because for sure you are not human, an neither an angel or a siren, a new species, his and only his.

Sam lets out a sigh as he feels he might burst out at that same moment.

"God, help me." He whispers in an under voice.

"There is no one to help you Sammy boy, just you and me." You say sensuously, as you sit back on your heels, making your tits stick out even more prominently, pointing out your turgid nipples through the thin fabric to your boyfriend, who by now had pulled his dick out of his boxers and started gently massaging it, fearful that he might orgasm at any moment. On seeing this you cannot refrain from bringing your right hand down to your thin panties, the only barrier separating you from the most sensitive spot on your body. He begins to touch you gently as you see him close his eyes and rest his head against the wall behind him.

"Eyes on me Sammy." You incite him as you uncover your breasts with your left hand and begin to massage them, moaning with the pleasure this simple act brings you. But that is not enough and you know it. You will never cum as you do on his thick finger, on his sexy hands. You start to imagine that is his hand to touch you on you cunt, and in the exact moment you feel yourself closer than ever to the orgasm.

"We'll see if you're still this commanding when I get home honey." Sam says, moaning as his eyes fix on the movement of your hips, on your fingers as you chase a pleasure he knows you can't get to without him. He continues to look at you, chasing with you the same high you bith crave. The man then remains mesmerized by your tits that continue to move as if in a dance to the sound of your moans.

"Good, that's the way to move. I know you can't come except with my fingers anyway, don't you love?" He says in a sensual tone as you nod too caught up in the pleasure. "You are my little slut, you can't cum if I'm not the one that is making you cum." He continues. "Words, babe, I want words. I want to know what my voice is making you while you ride that preatty hands of yours thinking is mine."

You moan while your finger starts to go faster while you can't say a single word, your brain to lost to even comprend that anymoment Dean could come back. While you are loosing yourself, Sam start to stroke his cock even faster than before, reaching everytime somewhere closer to the pleasure he longs for. You hear his moans and you understand that he is cumming, so you start to touch you clit faster, feeling your pleasure near. In this moment, where you where on the peak, ready to fall in that sinful sensation, when he suddenly tells you to stop.

You open you eyes, closed for the pleasure you where feeling coming near your orgasm, and you see him looking like a god, while he still slowly stroke himself, glowing from his previous pleasure.

"You wanted to provoke me with the little thing you are wearing, now you don't get to cum sweetheart. You'll wait until I come home tomorrow, and I'll get to tear that dress on the floor. See you love, sleep well." He ends the calls like this, sending you a kiss while you are still there, unsatisfied and angry with him, but at the same time turned on for the things he will do tomorrow when you will be together again.

Taglist:

@alinabookworm @lynbubble @beanpods-blog @bartonsgirl @chaos1864 @anu-piyakya97 @alexyzm0on @elliexHerron @throwing-up-butterflies

[snoopledrooplecheesedoodle]

Fall Yandere Prompts

Fuck Me I put prompts on the other thing at didn't actually put prompts, I suck anyways here are a few prompts made by yours truly. Others are free to use them just please tag me. Thanks. I'll make more Halloween ones if people like these.

Apple Cider: A sweet yet tangy that leaves a warm feeling. Your eyelids start drooping after drinking every drop.

Bonfire: Dry sticks and leaves are so easy to burn in high bright flames. Be wary of what the light attracts.

Crows: Inky black birds with a glimmer of intelligence in their eyes. You feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching your every move.

Dry Leaves: Crunchy and brown and always fun to mess around in. You hear a second set of feet slowly trotting behind you.

End: Autumn signifies the end of Summer and a change in season. It also signified the end of your freedom.

Flannel: The warmth of this fall apparel is so comforting in the crisp weather. Don't you like it, they picked out just for you.

Grain: Bountiful and golden, shaking in the cool breeze. You meet a friendly stranger standing in the grain field, holding a scythe.

Harvest: Fall provides us with a bountiful harvest of corn, pumpkins, apples, pears, and grain. Such bounty requires a sacrifice to be made.

Indoors: Why go outside when you can snuggle under the covers and keep warm? Just because it's your home doesn't mean you are safe.

Jack-O-Lanterns: Grinning gourds light up the night, carving them is a fun activity. They want to participate but got a little too creative.

Kettle: Boiling water for a hot beverage on the stove is so nice. The water isn't quite done but you still hear whistling.

Leaf: Colorful trees make such wonderful leaves they look good pressed in a book. You see one on your bed side every day, they have a distinct metallic scent.

Mushrooms: Clustered together they're a fungi to be around. More seem to grow near you each day in strange patterns.

Nutmeg: Fall spices are aromatic and make every dish warm with flavor. If your running low the next-door neighbor might have some, might as well come inside while they look for what you need.

Orchard: Fruit trees tended to with tender care, baring crimson fruit. Picking just one won't hurt.

Pie: Steaming goodness wrapped in a golden shell. Have another slice there's plenty to go around.

Quiet: Many an autumn night is filled with sweet and calming silence. It feels a little too quiet tonight, might want to retire early.

Reaping: How to harvest the crops grown, you reap the rewards of the Earth. Someone has come to take you or your soul, they're not very picky.

Spider: Dainty legs weave beautiful webs, enticing as they are dangerous. Any prey they catch, they won't let go.

Tree: Majestic and tall these ancient plants reach up to the dwindling sun with aching branches. Haven't you seen that tree before, you must be hopelessly lost, perhaps that's better than being found.

Umbrella: The cold weather makes rain extra chilling; with a warm smile you share your umbrella. No good deed goes unpunished, as the storm outside isn't what you should be worried about.

Vermillion: Beautiful shade of red found plentifully in the fall, its beautiful yet it can be a dangerous color too.

Wind: Rattling trees and blowing the leaves to the ground, the wind tickles your ears and nips at your nose. It carries with it the unhinged words of a person you never want to see again.

Xenial: Being most hospitable is a must during autumn. This does not change when a stranger shows up at your front door requesting shelter.

Yarn: Soft threads of vibrant colors used to create warm clothes, blankets, and other things. The string prevents you from moving while someone knits in the corner, eyes focused on you.

Zipper: Better zip up when it's so chilly outside, wouldn't want to catch a cold. You also might want to zip it before they hear you.

[knightjpg]

Tending the Garden

His other hand lets yours go, knuckles brushing sweetly over your cheek. Your breath hitches. You can't help yourself—your gaze drops to his lips. The sweet curve of them.  What you wouldn't give. 

tags: 🔞Javier Escuella/reader, unprotected piv, oral (m receiving), body worship, fingering

part 1 | part 2

The weather turns. Summer rainstorms plague you, and while your garden drinks it up the sudden bursts of heavy rain make doing work outside impossible. 

It comes and goes without warning or announcement—which is why you're startled into a surprised shout when you get hosed down again while crouched in between your tomato plants. Javier is close by, already rushing for shelter, but something catches your eye. 

“The laundry—!” 

Damn it, and it was nearly dry too! You can't help yourself and rush over to try and save some of it. It turns out to be a futile effort. Everything's drenched. When you realise it's hopeless you curse, leave it and turn on your heel to run inside. 

Not that that really matters anymore. You're soaked from tip to toe, your light work clothes sticking to you like a second skin. Javier is already toweling himself off when you burst inside and push back the rain-slick hair out of your eyes. In your haste to get dry you miss the way Javier freezes when he sees you. His eyes linger on your chest, on the curves of your body that show through the soaked fabric so clearly, on your ass when you bend down to shake the water out of your boots. 

You laugh a little breathlessly when you make eye contact with him. “Tried to get the damn laundry...” you explain yourself while gratefully taking the towel he holds out to you. 

In an effort not to stare at his shirtless torso you turn around, wiping your face dry and ruffling the towel over your hair. Should probably get changed... 

...into what, exactly? Your other blouses are dripping on the laundry line, and you ripped your one spare while tracking down an elk a few days ago. With the garden harvest keeping you busy you haven't gotten ‘round to mending it yet. 

You huff a breath of irritation. 

“¿Cuál es el problema?” 

He's reading you better by the day, ain't he?  

“'S nothing, 's nothing. Just ain't got a single dry thing to dress myself in.” You shake your head. “Guess I'll just wait it out.” At least it's not too cold. Hopefully the air will warm up again quickly after the rain's passed. 

“No, no, you will get sick,” Javier frowns. “Wait.” He disappears into his room and comes back out with his poncho. 

You protest, but Javier won't hear it and wraps the fabric around your shoulders. You stumble forward just a little when he does, closer to him, his hands still holding the fabric on either of your sides. Trapped. Your heartbeat accelerates when Javier looks at you for just a beat too long and you think you see—a flicker of something. 

Then it's gone, and you're left wondering. He lets you go, taking a respectful step back, but you replay the way his gaze burned on you many times over late at night. Feeling ashamed of yourself for—for wanting him. 

Because oh, Lord, you do. You try to deny it, but you know you do. 

Wrapped in his scent all day, musk and smoke and the scratchy fabric of his poncho on your bare skin, has you wound more tightly than ever before. God forgive you, but— 

Just... just this once. 

The nights out here are quiet; just the occasional hoot of an owl or the cry of some other night creature out hunting. 

You can hear your sharp intake of breath cut through the air as your hand trails lower, over your stomach, through the rough, curling hair on your mound. You bite your lip to muffle the whimper that threatens to escape when you touch yourself. 

You think about Javier's rough, slender hands. The way he presses your father's old harmonica to his mouth, playing you a sweet tune when the labour of the day is done. Wishing he'd press his lips to your skin in just the same way, his low, pleasant voice whispering over your naked body. Praising you, licking you, biting you. Pressing into you— 

You arch up, losing yourself in the pleasure that spikes through you. It's so easy to slip into the daydream of Javier, Javier coaxing you through your release, Javier's fingers working your clit, Javier whispering your name in the dark. 

Despite your best efforts some soft sounds escape you, and as you lie on your bed, panting slightly from coming down from your high, you burn with embarrassment at what you've just done. Good God, how are you going to look him in the eye tomorrow? 

And what if—what if he heard? 

Mortifyingly, you can't decide between wishing he had or not. 

—

Summer keeps you busy enough to push your shame to a far, dark corner in your mind. There's so much to grow and harvest and hunt, and even though the days are long the hours feel far too short. Canning beans, drying herbs, fermenting vegetables; smoking meat and cutting wood. 

Your garden has all but exploded. Sweet, red-ripe tomatoes, rich purple eggplants, peas that grow faster than you can cut them, and what must be the record for the largest zucchini you ever did see. There's berries, too, daily sun-warmed sweet treats, bursting apart on your tongue. 

Perhaps it's because there's two pairs of hands to care for the soil this year around; your father always did find fishing and hunting to suit him better, and often you were the sole caretaker of your plot of land. 

You didn't mind; you liked growing things. Liked the warm earth between your fingers and the rush of pride when another small green sprout popped up because of your hard work alone. 

But you hadn't known that shared joy could taste this sweet. Javier goes out with you during early summer mornings, feeding the chickens—the ladies—before poring over every little stalk and leaf. He scolds bugs and snails in Spanish, tossing them far across the hills after he's shown you the accursed criminal, and argues with the birds brave enough to come close enough. 

“El ládron has visited again,” he huffs. “He made a hole in the net.” 

“That scoundrel,” you say, trying hard to hold back your laughter. Javier looks cute when he scowls, brows furrowed and mouth pursed disapprovingly like a teacher disappointed in his student. As though the birds should know better by now than to try and steal from him. 

You relish in your shared routine.  

“Mira, there are more frambuesas,” Javier points out. He's right; many of the still too-hard raspberries have plumped into thick batches overnight. 

“Look at that,” you say. “I guess we better start eatin’ them before el ládron does.” 

Javier bends down to pick a handful and presents one to you with a smile. “Here—” 

You don't know why you open your mouth. Surely he meant for you to take it from him with your fingers— 

Javier slips the berry in your mouth. His fingertips brush your lower lip, smelling fresh and sweet. His smile has faded; his gaze has locked on your tongue darting out to catch the juice spilling over. 

It's quiet for a beat too long. 

You duck your head and clear your throat, an uncomfortable laugh bubbling up to prick through the silence. “Right! Um. I guess we better get to work, yeah?” 

—

Javier slumps in his chair with a relieved groan. The kitchen smells like sweet fruit; your freshly made jam is cooling in jars on the table. 

You pat his shoulder. “Thanks for helpin’ me, darlin'.” 

“Anything for you,” Javier replies tiredly. You huff a laugh, fingers lingering on his arm before pulling away. 

“I'll bake you some pancakes,” you promise him. “Those'll go real well with our jam. We'll have ourselves a right feast for the hard work we been puttin’ in.” 

Javier perks up. “A party?” 

“Sure,” you smile. “We'll make it a party. Why not.” 

You follow up on that promise two days later. You spend nearly all day in the kitchen, sweating over the fire, shooing Javier when he comes wandering multiple times to try and sneak a bite of something when you're not looking. 

Your effort pays off: there's venison roast, its fragrant herb garnish mouth-watering; savoury vegetable pies, stuffed with today's pickings; sweet cornbread, with butter and nuts to go with; and fruit cobbler, Javier's favourite, for dessert. 

You pour yourself and Javier wine that you save for special occasions and make a short, sweet toast; “To our hard work!” 

You laugh and chat and eat, and when you've had your fill you linger over your plates. Happy. Content. Even when he leaves—you'll have this. You'll have this memory. 

You look up when Javier scrapes his chair back, holding out a hand in invitation. “Señorita,” he says with a quirk of his lips, “it is not a party without dancing.” 

“Dancin’?” you ask, amused, even if your hand is already placing itself in his. “We ain't got no music to dance to.” 

“Of course we do,” Javier replies lightly, pulling you to your feet. One of his hand presses against the small of your waist, tugging you closer; the other takes the hand already in his and puts it over his heart. “Listen.” 

Words falter you, then, against the thrum of his heartbeat strong and alive under your fingertips. Your cheeks feel warm, warmer than because of any effect the wine might've had, and you're powerless to stop Javier when he pulls you into a simple two-step, swaying from side to side. 

And when he starts humming a song, gently guiding you into a twirl, you follow with a smile. When Javier dips you and you almost bump into the kitchen table both of you laugh. Javier is careful with you, though, and doesn't allow you to bruise yourself on the wood. He seems to prefer keeping you closely tucked against his chest, anyway, and you're not about to complain. 

But you do wish the song lasted longer. Javier smells like summer. Warm dirt, sweat, something green that is beautiful and alive. You want to bottle it up and store it on your shelves next to your jam and pickled berries and dried herbs. Something for the hard days, the cold and quiet days where you need something sweet and light to get you out of bed in the mornings. 

All things end, you know that. The cycle of the seasons you live with is a constant reminder. Javier's humming dies away like the birdsong just before autumn becomes winter. You can't help your smile turning just a little sad, and wait for him to release you. Ready to drift away like a little leaf turned brown and dry. 

...Except he doesn't. His beautiful eyes have softened into something straight from your daydreams, the ones where you let yourself be greedy and selfish. Keep him all for yourself. The weight of his hand on your waist does nothing to ground you, either—it's too easy to imagine his touch on your bare skin. 

His other hand lets yours go, knuckles brushing sweetly over your cheek. Your breath hitches. You can't help yourself—your gaze drops to his lips. The sweet curve of them. 

What you wouldn't give. 

An easy apology is on the tip of your tongue, ready to break away from this momentary bubble, ready to step back into a friendly distance. You're about to say it. Manage to tear your eyes away from Javier's mouth— 

And startle at the heat in his eyes. “Ay, cariño,” he murmurs. “Eres hermosa.” 

You know that word. A hot flash rushes through you at the compliment, bursts into flames when Javier leans forward and presses his lips against yours with a sweet insistence. Your eyes flutter shut, the hand that was resting on his shoulder sliding to his neck, responding eagerly, needily—wanted him for so long—  

Javier is not unaffected by your enthusiasm and he groans into your mouth, pressing you closer against him. His kiss grows hungrier, demanding. And you— 

You force yourself away, panting for air. “I can't,” you gasp. “I can't.” 

It'll hurt. This—no more Javier, no more made-up songs hummed in the morning, no more complaints about dirt scuffing the knees on his pants. This is already going to hurt, and if you let him take this piece of you as well you don't know how long it will take you to recover if at all. 

“Why?” Javier doesn't let go of you but allows you a little more space when you push against his chest. “Te deseo. I want you.” His voice is low, husky. A shiver works its way along your spine, and with the way he squeezes your sides you know he felt it too. 

“I—” You look away from him, pained. “You'll leave someday, Javier—I can't... Can't do this if you—if I know you'll disappear on me—” 

“You want me to leave?” Javier asks, frowning. 

“No! No, of course not, just... You ain't owed me a thing, and—I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to go. I'm sure you've got better things to do—” 

“Querida,” Javier says, more forcefully this time. You look up at his him, his expression fierce. “I do not want to leave. ¿Adónde iría?” Realisation dawns on him. “Dios mío, is this why you said I should get Boaz—?” 

Your guilty expression tells all, and he lets out an exasperated laugh before pulling you into another kiss. This one is a less careful. Less sweet. Never mind the meal you just had—Javier kisses you like he hasn't eaten in days. You let out a soft, surprised sound and he swallows it, biting at your lower lip so he can slide his tongue against yours. Swallows all the little whines and moans that follow, too, until your knees grow weak and the only thing you're capable of doing is melting against him. 

“No voy a ninguna parte,” he mutters, his lips moving against yours without ever leaving you. “Todo el tiempo que me lo permitas.” 

“Javi—” you're cut off when he kisses you again, set on devouring you. “Can't—I don't know what...” 

He slows down then, just a little, thumbing your cheek and forehead pressed against yours. “I will not leave, cariño. Unless you tell me to.” 

Warmth blooms through your chest, spreading all the way to your fingertips. “You better not,” you murmur back. Your free hand has come up to fist the fabric of his blouse. “Who'd fix the fence for me if you went?” 

Javier smiles, huffing a quiet laugh through his nose. “Te lo prometo.” 

Promise.   

It's what snaps that feeble thread pulled taut, on the verge of breaking for months. 

And finally... you relax. Pull him into you, trying to kiss him sweet and slow and then immediately abandoning that effort the second you taste him again. Javier's hands rove over your body, squeezing your hips, your waist, your ass. You're eagerly exploring him, too; smoothing your hands over his chest, feeling his lean muscles flex under your touch. His strong arms. His narrow hips. 

“Llevo meses queriendo besarte,” he groans against your mouth. “I think about you. On your back. On your knees. Todas las noches.” 

Oh, God. You whimper when he moves his mouth to your neck to bite at the soft, sensitive skin and your hands fly up to tangle in his hair, tugging at his ponytail. His own hands have slid to your hips, keeping them pressed against him in an iron grip. You can feel his arousal press against you, and when he sucks on a particularly sweet spot below your jaw your hips buck forward. Javier moans against your skin. 

And when you grow daring and let your hand trail down to cup the bulge in his pants the groan he lets out rumbles through his entire chest. You lower yourself slowly, holding his eyes, and Javier watches you with parted, kiss-swollen lips, breath coming more quickly with the way you're caressing his cock through the fabric of his dark jeans. 

“You wanted me on my knees, sweetheart?” you ask with a smile, tugging at his button and fly and Javier wastes no time helping you, his cock finally springing free with a tip leaking precum. You keep yourself from groaning. It's a good thing you're kneeling—your legs might have buckled if you'd kept standing. You shift and the wooden floor digs into your knees, but you can't bring yourself to stop or care. You wrap your hand around him, and Javier's hips jolt forward involuntarily. His hands stroke your hair, your cheek. Looking down on you with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.  

Beautiful. 

You give a few experimental pumps and relish the quiet moans and groans fall from Javier's lips. “Mierda,” he hisses when he feels your tongue on his shaft. You lick up from the base to the tip, your hand still pumping him slowly. Javier's breath quickens in anticipation, the hand on your head grabbing your hair for something to hold onto. You've wanted this for so long it's hard to draw out any teasing, but you try. Try to make it good for him. You slowly take him into your mouth, hands sliding over his hips and tugging him forward gently, encouraging him to take the pace how he likes. 

Javier throws his head back, a low, constant groan filling the room. “Dios mio... You feel—oh, querida...” 

The hand in your hair tightens his hold on you, and he slowly thrusts forward, a string of curses and praises falling from his lips. “Tan bueno, tan bueno, cariño... Oh, don't stop, don't stop. No te atrevas a parar—” 

You relax your throat, pushing yourself onto him further until the dark, wiry hair trailing down his stomach tickles your nose. Javier is loud, hips stuttering as he moans, lost to words when you gag and swallow around him. Drool trickles down your chin as you breathe heavily through your nose, then pull off to gulp for air. You do it again; and again, and each time Javier's low whines and groans fill the room heat pools in your core. You can feel your wetness against your bloomers, sorely tempted to touch yourself, but you don't want to miss even a second of Javier's pleasure. 

“Oh, mi angél,” and Javier shudders when you slide your hands over his thighs, nails dragging over his skin. You repeat the motion, swirl your tongue over the head, and that's all it takes. Javier’s hips jump one last time, voice shooting up an octave as he finds his release. Your eyes water but you keep your mouth on him, swallowing down his salty bitterness, then slowly ease off and look up through your lashes. 

Javier watches you with half-lidded eyes, chest heaving, and reaches down to swipe a stray drop of cum off your chin to bring it to your lips instead. You flush, but open your mouth for him. Javier groans weakly when you clean his thumb, watches intently as you swallow. 

“Hermosa... Ven aquí—come here.” Javier helps you up and kisses you again, drinking his own aftertaste from your tongue. 

He pulls back and watches you with lidded eyes, a sated flush settled over fine features coloured a warmer brown by days of summer sunshine. His gaze softens when you smile at him, a little breathless and a lot aroused. 

That softness is replaced by a mischievous glint a second later, and you watch, everything feeling sticky-slow through the haze of your lust, as he bends through he knees and lifts you in his arms. 

“Javi—what are you doing?” you laugh, arms flying around his shoulders for purchase. “Put me down, I'm heavy—!” 

Javier defiantly does a little spin that has you clinging to him tighter, and you let out a half-smothered squeal of surprise. 

“My turn now,” he says smugly, and then he's marching to your bedroom, nudging the door open with his shoulder and pushing past it with a wide grin and flushed cheeks. It's clumsy and uncoordinated because he refuses to stop looking at you longer than a second, too caught up in the dizzying high of chasing something that has been brewing between the two of you for too long. 

When he deposits you on your mattress and half-falls over you, legs tangled together, he laughs, giddy with happy disbelief, and you join him while reaching for him with greedy arms. 

Javier goes willingly. Now that he's had a taste of you it's like he can't stop, chasing your lips while barely stopping to catch his breath. His hair slips out of his ponytail, tickling your cheek and then your neck when his kisses trail down to your chest. He curses when the buttons on your blouse don't yield immediately, and you help him impatiently rip the fabric out of the way.  

A moan stutters out of your chest when warm, wet lips caress your breasts, joined by callused fingers only moments later. For all his impatience Javier's touch borders on reverent. He kneads your flesh gently, dragging his fingertips over the goosebumps left in the wake of his cooling spit. Your eyes squeeze shut when he laves his tongue over your nipples, spurred on by your whines. 

You're not the only one feeling pent-up. 

Javier's hips rut into yours seemingly without being aware of it, chest pressing against your own, the need to be closer overtaking everything else. Mercifully he's not so far gone that he doesn't remember to move his hands further south in the direction of what has gone from a simmering excitement to an aching heat. 

Javier lets out a breathy “oh”, followed by shocked, pleased laughter when he feels how drenched you are for him. “This is for me?” he has the audacity to ask with that wicked curl to his lips. 

You flush and try to answer him, then stutter out something unintelligible when his fingers swipe up and around and Lord—  

You throw your head backwards, choking on a moan. The only thing you manage for Javier is a harsh, panted “oh God” while your hips buck and writhe without your permission, trying to get more of that delicious friction.  

It takes Javier a few tries to settle on what you like, but he's got a good ear and a stubborn streak. He listens closely to your whines and groans, and when your back arches on a particularly good stroke he repeats it. Again. Again— 

“Like this?” Javier rasps. When your eyes flutter open they look right into his, dark and huge and hungry. If you had half a mind to think on it his expression would remind you of the day you found him, sat at your dinner table and wolfing down his food. 

“Yes,” you whimper. “Oh—Javier, yes, right—right there—”  

Javier answers with a moan of his own as though your pleasure with his. His fingers are steadily pouring more of that hot syrupy feeling in your lower stomach, feeding the boil of the flames, and the temperature spikes when Javier leans forward again to kiss your chest. 

When his teeth gently scrape your breast you whimper, stomach tensing, and when his lips close around your nipple to suck on your flesh you break. A brushfire rages through you from tip to toe and leave you feeling like you're the smoke coming off it, floating high and hazy far above in the clouds. Time is slow and sticky, just like your body when you come down. 

When you open your eyes again, ears ringing and chest heaving, you're met with a daydream lovelier than anything you could've conjured up yourself. Javier's eyes have turned into warm honey, sweet and soft and wanting, drinking you in with undisguised affection. 

You cup his face in your hands and feel him tremble ever so slightly, and you let a shaky laugh yourself. Smooth your fingers over his brows, his jaw. The world has tilted from its usual axis. The abundance of summer bursting at the seams while birds trill their songs for love-making, every little thing in the world around you vibrant and at the height of its arching crescendo. 

“Hermosa,” Javier murmurs again, voice raspy. He bends down to kiss you again, and though this one is less hurried it is by no means any less sweet. 

When he pulls back you take the opportunity to shuck off your pants—they feel too-heavy and coarse. You want to feel Javier's calluses without fabric in the way. 

Javier mirrors you, quickly shedding his blouse and pants, hopping on one feet while he fights with the leg, and you laugh. He looks up, grinning, and you feel your heart flood.  

His smile remains when he crawls over you again and you shift to pull him closer, further across the bed. It's as though the two of you have always fit together—you part your thighs and Javier's hips follow, slotting into the space like this was always meant to be for him and him alone. 

So much skin on skin after so long feels overwhelming. Everything you've wanted condensed down to the essence, suddenly too rich a flavour to swallow down without choking on it. 

You shudder. 

Javier sighs. 

You'd wager both of you have been hungry for something other than a well-cooked meal for a while. 

“Yes?” Javier asks, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. 

“Yes,” you answer, hushed. Like a prayer. 

Javier groans when he slides his cock through your slick, but he's patient while he lines himself up and gives you time to adjust. He feeds himself to you slowly, heartbeat jumping wildly under his pulse while you breathe through the stretch.  

It's been a long time since you've had anything but your fingers, and though the fullness is welcome it makes you tremble and clutch at Javier's arms for support. When you nod for him to move Javier pulls out halfway, then rocks back in, each time a little deeper until he fills the whole space of you. 

Javier exhales shakily, dropping his head to the crook of your shoulder when you circle your arms around his neck. For a little time the only thing in the room are quiet pants, the slap of skin on skin, and the slide of sweat. Javier kisses your neck, your cheek, your lips, and you wrap your legs around his waist to keep him as close as you can. 

That sticky feel-good feeling in your stomach burns low and steady, each stroke adding to a lazy simmering arousal—but when Javier wriggles his hand between your bodies to stroke your clit again it jumps. You gasp, tensing and squeezing around him. 

“Dios mío,” Javier groans, hips bucking forward in response. “You feel so good—so good. Am I—nnngh—am I making you feel good, cariño?” 

“Yes,” you tell him. “Yes, yes—” 

Javier curses. He loses his rhythm with the tight flutter of your cunt, panting “Take it, take it,” before tensing and spilling deep inside you. His release brings forth another zing of pleasure and Javier's fingers keep working you until you follow him in his release. 

Boneless, you lie together to catch your breaths until Javier pulls back to look down at you. “You are beautiful,” he says quietly, and he dips down to kiss you. Chaste, this time, tired and sated. Loving. It unknots the last of your worries that Javier might leave in search of something better after all—if this kind of tenderness isn't real, nothing is. 

“So are you,” you smile. 

You spend the aftermath tangled in each other's arms. Javier's collarbone digs into your cheek and you know for a fact your leg will start cramping in a little while, but you wouldn't trade it for the world. You can feel his lungs expand, breathing slow, alive like summer winds. 

Javier's rough fingertips swipe over the naked skin of your shoulder in a circular soothing motion. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your temple. “For caring.”  

A soft kiss on the column of your throat. 

“It makes me want to care, too.”

[eroselless]

────────────── sommer house // 1

series summary: After starting a new job at a prestigious museum in London, you form a close friendship with Helaena Targaryen. You're surprised when she invites you to stay at her family's estate for the summer holidays. [1.7k]

[aegon targaryen x reader, modern!HOTD AU ]

masterlist

warnings: talk and description of bugs. if there's any I missed, let me know!

note: hello friends! I’m sure some of you might be a little confused seeing this coming up again. after much contemplating and many many re-reads, I decided I would rewrite what I had of moth to a flame now that I had more inspiration and motivation. for this first chapter, it’s not much different from my first draft but I removed and added a few things that I thought made the story begin flowing a lot better. thank you for the support and happy reading <3

Dashing through the rain, your coat pulled tightly around you, you navigate the bustling streets of London. The sky opened up as you were leaving the train station, drenching you instantly. You’re breathless when you reach the entrance of the museum, soaked to the bone with hair sticking to your forehead. Pausing briefly under the awning, you try to catch your breath, shaking off as much rain as you could before hurrying inside, the patter of rainfall fading behind you. 

The familiar warmth and silence of the museum envelop you, offering a stark contrast to the chaotic weather outside. The lights are dim and if you listen closely, you could swear you can hear soft music permeating the air. 

You make your way to the back of the museum, passing through employee doors and to the entomology department, where you knew Helaena would be waiting. Rounding a corner, you see you. She stands at the entrance of your shared office, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She leans against the doorframe, her free hand fiddling with the key card that hangs around her neck. It’s 5 past 9, you're not that late and her casual demeanour only makes for a comforting sight.

“Rough morning?” she asks, a grin on her lips as she entends the cup of coffee towards you. 

“Don’t even get me started,” you reply, taking the cup and making your way past her into the room. “The tube was a nightmare. Some sort of signal failure. I’m surprised I made it at all.”

Helaena laughs, “You wouldn’t have to deal with the tube if you drove,” she teases, raising her eyebrows. Following you to your desk, she stands in front as you set your things down. You roll your eyes at her, making a face, to which she responds with a half-smirk.

You met Helaena three months ago when you first started working at the museum. After a seemingly endless job search, you happened upon one that just happened to be in a country halfway across the world. Seeing as how you fit all of the requirements, you pushed fear aside, taking a leap. You packed up what you could and made your way to London. The idea of working in another country had always captivated you, but the reality of moving hadn’t fully sunk in until you stepped off the plane. Everything felt surreal—the accents, the bustling streets, the historical buildings whispering stories of the past.

Working in the entomology department with Helaena, you spent countless hours cataloging and preserving the museum’s vast insect collection. The late nights became routine, often the two of you working late into the night, at times at each other's homes. Her companionship made the hours more bearable. Helaena quickly became more than just a colleague; she became a friend, someone you could rely on and share with. 

Clapping her hands, a wide smile now on her face, Helaena turns to you from a large cluster of boxes: "Well, you're here now, and just in time; we've got a ton to do today."

Settling into your desks, surrounded by cabinets filled with specimens and shelves lined with books and equipment, the morning passes quickly.

You take turns pulling out cases from the large boxes, a new shipment from South America, examining and cataloging each specimen. Each one is carefully inspected, labeled and documented. The vibrant colors and intricate patterns never cease to amaze you, each telling a different tale. 

As the afternoon rolls around, you find yourself leading a group of young school children through an interactive exhibit, one you spent the last week preparing with Helaena, explaining the life cycles of different insects and answering their curious questions. Their eyes widen as you show them the cases of insects, pointing out each of their intricate and unique features. Together, you carefully examine drawers of pinned needles, getting lost in the details of their iridescent shells.

The children nod as you explain different insects, jotting down notes in their small notebooks to bring back to school. Their laughter and curiosity makes the rest of the day pass quickly, their enthusiasm making even the most mundane tasks feel rewarding. 

The day winds down from there, the absence of the children making you realize how tired you’d gotten. You put the exhibits back into their boxes, making sure everything is in its place for the groups coming in tomorrow and the day after that. From the corner of your eye you can see Helaena making her way to you, rolling a cart identical to yours. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face. 

"So, any plans for the summer holidays? They're not gonna need us at all during these renovations they're doing," she inquired, pursing her lips at you.

You shake your head as you continue placing boxes onto your cart. “I would but I can’t afford to go home right now. I’ll probably just stay in London and explore the city or something.”

Helaena’s face lights up. “Why don’t you come with me to my family’s country estate? We’re having a big party for my dad’s retirement. It’ll be a nice change of pace and you can officially meet my family. They’ll adore you.”

Your lips part as you stare at her wordlessly. “Are you sure?” you asked, searching her eyes, 

Helaena waves you off, “Of course!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “"It'll be fun. Besides, it would be nice to have another girl there so I don’t have to deal with my brothers all on my own. Say you’ll come," she pleads.

The thought of spending the holidays with Helaena, surrounded by the English countryside and her family’s hospitality, race through your mind. It sent a shiver of nerves through you. You knew very little about her family, only hearing of her brothers in passing. You’d seen them in pictures she had littered around her apartment and on her facebook. You met her mother, if you can call speaking to her briefly over the phone, one night that you spent the night at Helaena’s. Her older sister and her father were a complete mystery to you, both of them a subject she didn’t ever really talk about. 

She bats her eyes at you, gently wrapping her arms around yours. You let out a sigh, breaking out in a smile. “Alright, I’ll come.” you laugh, and she throws her arms around your shoulders. 

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It's a few days later you find yourself tossing clothes at Helaena. The afternoon sunlight streams through the window behind her. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. It looks as if it were glowing. She sits on your bed, gingerly folding different shirts and pants into your bag. Rejected piles of clothes are strewn across your bed, shoes littering the floor and small packing cubes full of toiletries and makeup sit next to your gradually filling case. 

“What about this?” you ask. Swaying slightly, you hold a dress up to your chest. It’s red and covered in polka dots with a large white bow cinching the middle. Her face stays in a slight grimace, shaking her head and laughing.

"We need to get you some new dresses; these look like they belong in a history museum," she says with a playful smile. You laugh, shoving her shoulder as you tuck the dress back into the wardrobe. She pulls a knitted sweater from the edge of your bed and tucks it tightly into your bag.

Once your outfits are sufficiently coordinated and your essentials pulled into packing cubes, Helaena helps you pack them into your suitcase, ensuring you have enough of everything you need for your stay. She speaks up when you struggle with the zipper. 

“So, I know you’ve sort of met Mum and you’ll be meeting everyone else while we're there.  My sister is even coming with her children. A fair warning, though having everyone there can be a bit … intense but they’re good people.”

You note her hesitation. “Intense how?”

Helana shrugs, trying to downplay her words. “It can get a little overwhelming, is all. But you’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

You nod an ok at her, climbing on and bouncing on your suitcase to press it shut with your knees. She joins you, twisting with you as you begin to pull on the zipper. 

"The place’s been in my family for generations. There’s lots of history there, places you could get lost in. You’ll really love it.”

You struggle for a little bit, pulling the zip a little more to fully close the case before sitting on it, breathless. 

"What was it like, growing up in a place like that?" you ask, looking up at her as she takes her spot back on the edge of your bed. 

Helaena smiles, a distant look in her eyes. It's a smile that has a drop of sadness behind it. "It was magical. There are all these secret passages and hidden rooms. We used to play hide and seek for hours.” 

She traces a pattern on your quilt as she continues speaking. “We each got puppies at some point and when we’d pretend we were princes and princesses, my brothers would pretend they were dragons.” 

There's a bittersweet expression on her face as she recounts the memory. It's not an expression you're used to seeing on her face but it’s one she seems to fall back to every time she speaks of home. You can’t help but to be curious about it but you always stop before prying or saying anything. You smile, reaching out a hand and placing it on her knee. It pulls her out of her momentary daze and she flashes a smile at you. A mixture of nerves and anticipation fill you again. "I can’t wait," you say with a soft sigh.

Helaena looks at you, her eyes sparkling. "You're going to love it. It’s like stepping back in time. Just be prepared for a bit of drama; there’s always something happening when we're all together."

"Drama?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you know, family stuff. Arguments, misunderstandings, that sort of thing. But it’s all part of the charm," she says with a wink.

You laugh, feeling a bit more at ease. "Well, I’m ready for anything."

With the suitcase finally zipped, you both collapse onto the bed, giggling. Helaena turns to you, her expression softening. "I’m really glad you’re coming. It’s going to be a summer to remember."

If you want to support my writing you can buy me a coffee over on Ko-Fi <3

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary: Conflict arises with Harris's new teacher, filling Halloween with more tricks than treats. But it's nothing a visit with Ms. Sweetheart can't fix.

Warnings: allusion to Reader and Eddie's one-night stand, panic attack, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 5.6k

Chapter 6/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Guns N’ Roses t-shirt: check. Goodwill jeans with makeshift holes in the knees: check. Bandana tied snugly around his forehead: check. Arms littered with an assortment of temporary tattoos: check.

Eddie grins as he assesses his son’s costume, reaching into the thrift store bag as he pulls out the pièce de résistance: a denim jacket, only two sizes bigger than Harris would usually wear. It was a bit over what he’d been hoping to spend, but he’d reasoned with himself that it could also be worn after Halloween. It was an investment, he’d decided, not a splurge.

His smile falters when Harris indignantly stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest. While Eddie had hoped his son would go with more badass tattoo options, perhaps a skull and crossbones or even a snake, he had insisted on a Sesame Street theme. Cookie Monster munches on his signature treat as Harris pouts.

“No, Daddy!” he whines, twisting away when Eddie holds the jacket closer to him. “I can’t wear that!”

“C’mon, Har,” he tries, scouring his brain to come up with a convincing enough lie. “Axl Rose wore jackets all the time!”

Harris doesn’t just shake his head; he swivels his entire body back and forth in protest. “I don’t care! No one’s gonna be able to see my tattoos!” He holds out both arms in front of him; nearly every square inch (besides the section blocked by his cast) is covered. Eddie had spent most of last night diligently applying them precisely where Harris had asked, lest there be a tantrum. There was, unfortunately, a headless Elmo from when Harris had asked–no, demanded–that he try by himself. Still, Eddie figured that only one casualty was a win.

“Those are some sweet ol’ tatties,” Eddie muses, biting back a laugh at the two-dimensional Big Bird on his son’s forearm. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you wore the jacket into school and then–BAM!--took it off and surprised everyone with them?

Harris appears to consider this, mouth tucked into his cheeks. “Can I show Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Sure, bud. We’ll stop by her classroom when I pick you up.” Whatever gets us out of the house in weather-appropriate attire. “But first, show me your most metal pose.”

The boy opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue as far as it extends, scrunching his face dramatically until the corners of his eyes crinkle. His middle and ring fingers press into his palm, thumb crossing over them, with his forefinger and pinky raised in the quintessential rock ‘n roll symbol. 

Eddie swoops down and smacks a wet kiss to Harris’s cheek. “That’s my boy!”

Standing among the crowd of parents at pick-up, Eddie opts out of making banal small talk and instead chooses to look at the bulletin board. The previous art project that had been hanging against the faded blue paper–”self-portraits” that the students had made on the first day of school–have been replaced by finger paintings of orange blobs that vaguely resemble pumpkins. There wasn’t one for Harris because he was in Ms. Sweetheart’s classroom then, so it’s his first art project in his new class. He eagerly scans the board for Harris’s, frowning when he can’t find his name. 

Maybe it’s still drying, he tries to convince himself, imagining his son over-saturating the paper with globs of paint. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Ms. Marion’s classroom is a sea of costumed children. A boy dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stands by his mom. A Cinderella, a black cat, and a Thomas the Tank Engine surround Ms. Paula. As soon as Eddie spots Harris, he smiles and waves him over, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the sign-out sheet.

He expects Harris to zoom past the other kids, fueled by the standard Halloween diet of sugar and chocolate, but he just kind of…mopes to the doorway. His shoulders slump dejectedly, and though he keeps his gaze low, Eddie can still see the film of mist staining his innocent eyes.

“Har, what’s wrong?” He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t receive one–an oddity for his perpetually chatty son–he tries a new tactic. “Wanna show me where your artwork is? I must be gettin’ old, because I couldn’t find it on the board out there.”

“‘S not there,” Harris mumbles, scratching off a flaking piece of the Rosita tattoo on the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Eddie watches as the tears start to slip down his cheeks, and he brings him into the hallway before Ms. Marion or Ms. Paula sees what’s going on. He can’t be certain, but his paternal instincts tell him that they’ve contributed to Harris’s sad state. “Why not?”

“I-I t-tried, but M-Ms. Mar-Marion and Ms. P-Paula got m-mad at me.” The words come out between choked sobs. “‘C-Cuz I c-couldn’t sit d-down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I k-keeped st-standing up, ‘cuz m-my legs wanted to st-stand.” The explanation tumbles out of him so quickly, as though he’s trying to beat the clock. “And they s-said if I did-didn’t sit down, I c-couldn’t do art. But I k-keeped f-f-forgetting, and th-they t-taked away my pay-pay-paper and said, ‘sit in the c-corner!’”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Did…did that happen in Ms. Sweetheart’s class? The legs thing?” 

“Mhm,” Harris manages, “b-but she let me stand and d-do ju-jumps to get the wig-wiggles out. She just t-t-telled me not to do ju-jumps with s-s-scissors, ‘cuz of s-safety.” His breathing increases to a rapid pace, face flushing red as his chest heaves. “B-But Ms. M-Marion ye-ye-yelled at me!”

Eddie’s brows pinch together, and he gently presses his calloused palms against Harris’s narrow shoulders, desperate to prevent him from hyperventilating. “Harris, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this!” Despite his efforts, his frustration bleeds into his tone, and he winces when the latter sentence ends with an unwanted snap. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just an art project.” 

“Harris?”

The sound of your voice draws the attention of both Munsons. You let out a small oof as Harris flings himself against your legs, and though he practically flew the five foot distance between his father and you, now is not the time to remind him about using his walking feet.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You crouch down, taking his hand in yours, and notice his quick, shallow breaths. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay? Eyes on me.” You demonstrate inhaling for three seconds, holding for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. “Now let’s do it together.” 

He hesitates but ultimately follows your lead, and you guide him until his breathing slows enough for him to sputter, “I t-tried to sit, b-but I c-couldn’t.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but Eddie fills you in. You feel the heat of anger creeping through your body, not just for the way your co-worker treated the sweet boy, but for her insolent approach to teaching as a whole.

“We can go to my classroom,” you offer, silently sighing in relief when the boy nods in agreement. “I don’t know if I have the supplies to make the same project as Ms. Marion, but if you have a few minutes, you can draw something now. I bet Mr. Will would love to help you; he’s a super-duper artist.”

Just as you’d predicted, Will jumps at the opportunity to help Harris with his impromptu art project, encouraging him to draw something that makes him happy. While he does that, you comb through the mess left behind from the Halloween party you’d thrown. You’d sooner toss one hundred cupcake wrappers in the trash before attempting a conversation with Eddie Munson. He’s simply too unpredictable; kind and thoughtful one day, harsh and guarded the next.

One of the wrappers in your hand drops to the floor and you reach forward to pick it up, pinching the pleated material between your pointer and middle fingers. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on your form, the way the backs of your thighs are slightly exposed when you bend over, and you stand up quickly. 

“Are you the Magic School Bus lady?” He takes in your lavender dress with planets and stars stamped all over it. Oh. He wasn’t checking you out; he was just trying to figure out who you’d dressed up as. Good. Anything else would be inappropriate.

So why does a twinge of disappointment radiate through you?

You glance at your costume; with all of the commotion, you’d forgotten you’d even been wearing one “I mean, would I even be a teacher if I didn’t jump at the chance to be Ms. Frizzle?” You motion over to Will, decked out in green from head to toe with two yellow horns glued to a headband atop his mop of brown hair. “Have you met my trusty sidekick, Liz the Lizard?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Byers actually used to play in my D&D club back in high school. Made some pretty sick art pieces to liven up that dingy excuse for a room.”

You look between the two of them, trying to do the mental math. “Will, didn’t you say you’re twenty-four?” And if Eddie is thirty, that means…

“I, uh, had a little trouble graduating,” Eddie sheepishly admits, ruffling the back of his hair and offering a tight grimace. “But I got there eventually. Class of ‘86, baby!” 

“Worked out for me,” Will shrugs with a grin, looking up from Harris’s drawing. “You were the best DM Hellfire ever had. Although, rumor has it that Erica Sinclair gave you a run for your money.”

Harris picks up a yellow marker, furiously scribbling a circle in the left-hand corner of his paper. You try peering over to see the whole drawing, but he presses his whole body against the table, successfully thwarting your plans. “No peeking!” he warns, not putting his feet back on the ground until you’ve averted your gaze. “‘S a surprise.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll be surprised.” You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, who shares a similar response in return.

“Dunno when he got so bossy,” he snorts before calling out to his son, “Har-Bear? Five more minutes. We gotta get home to trick-or-treat with Grampa Wayne.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you echo as Harris grabs a purple marker from the box. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“Hmm.” Harris uses his free hand–the one with the cast–to tap his chin, continuing to color with the other one. “M&Ms. But only the plain ones. Daddy doesn’t let me have the peanut ones ‘cause he says I could choke.”

You shoot a sly, knowing look at Eddie. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. Such a selfless father.” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head innocently. “And what do you do with all of these confiscated peanut M&Ms, Mr. Munson? Donate them?” 

Eddie tucks his lips into his mouth to mask his grin. “Listen, the jig is gonna be up at some point,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, loud enough so you can hear but soft enough that Harris can’t. “Let me enjoy my free candy while it lasts.”

“No judgment here,” you say with a small laugh, “they’re one of my favorites, too.”

“TA-DA!” Harris shouts, startling you, Eddie, and Will. He holds up the construction paper and smiles widely. To anyone without kids–or who didn’t teach preschool for a living–it would look like a bunch of colorful scribbles. But you can tell that he’s drawn a group of people standing by a tree (or a really, really tall flower) underneath the sun.

“Wow, Harris! That’s amazing!” you clap your hands together to punctuate your enthusiasm. “Who are all those people?”

Harris’s pointer finger travels left to right across the paper as he names each person: “That’s me, Grampa Wayne, Daddy, you, and Mr. Will!” The stick figure that represents you has a purple scribble on it, which you realize must be the costume you’re wearing. “An’ we’re all smiling because we’re happy!” Sure enough, each person has a curved red line at the bottom of their face. But there’s something else that catches your eye.

All of the people have a small space between them, except for you and Eddie. The circle that Harris drew to represent your left hand overlaps with the circle that is Eddie’s right. 

You glance at the real Eddie, and if he notices, he doesn’t give any indication. “I love it, buddy.” He takes the drawing and inspects it closely. “Yup, this one’s definitely going on the fridge when we get home.” He flicks the paper for good measure. “Go clean up the markers so we can head out, Axl Rose.”

Among the noise of markers clattering back in the bins, you lean in to Eddie, inadvertently inhaling the scent of his cigarettes and cologne. For a brief moment, you’re transported back to the night fate had led you to cross paths; the thought of his lips on your neck in the stairwell has you clenching your thighs and swallowing thickly as you murmur, “I can ask him to make a new one with just you, him, and his grandpa.”

Eddie shakes his head. “N-No. I like this one.” He lets one hand drop to his side and it grazes yours. His rings brush your knuckles, and you instinctively draw back at the sensation of the cool metal and the zing of heat that pulses at his light touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“S’okay.”

He blinks a few times and redirects his attention to his son. “What do you say to Mr. Will and Ms. Sweetheart for letting you do your art project?”

Harris’s little chest swells as he inhales deeply, storing up as much oxygen as he can fit in his lungs before bellowing, “THANK YOUUUUUUU!”

Eddie brings his palm to his ear canal, rotating his forefinger as though trying to repair a punctured eardrum. “Love the enthusiasm,” he says through gritted teeth. “Seriously, though. Thank you both so much.”

“Of course,” Will says warmly, picking up the marker bin and placing it in its space on the shelf.

“Anything for Harris.” You smile, motioning towards the little boy already by his father’s side. “Have fun trick-or-treating tonight, bud! I can’t wait to hear about all the yummy candy you got.”

Harris scrunches his nose in contemplation. “Are you going trick-or-treating, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Nah,” you laugh, “I’m gonna stay home and give candy to all the kids who come by.” And pray that Grandma doesn’t curse them out, you silently add.

“Oh.” Harris pauses, grabbing his dad’s hand. “Okay, bye!”

Eddie chuckles as his son pulls him towards the door. “That’s my cue. Um, Happy Halloween,” he adds awkwardly, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.

There’s so much more that he wants to say: you’re the best; you saved the day; you should be my son’s teacher instead of that old, bitchy bat. But he didn’t have time. Maybe another day. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Wayne arrives just a few minutes after Eddie and Harris get home. As soon as his gruff voice comes over the intercom, Harris excitedly buzzes him in. “Grampa Wayne’s here!” he yells, even though Eddie’s standing right next to him. He grabs the pillowcase from the couch; it was originally white, but after Eddie accidentally threw in a red sock with the white laundry, it’s tinted light pink.

No sooner does the older man cross the threshold into the apartment, Harris is trying to drag him out again. “Let’s go, before all the good candy is gone!” he whines. His eyebrows pinch together and he drops his grandfather’s hand. “Oh, wait, I gotta show you something.” He scampers off into the kitchen, and Wayne winces when he hears the rattle of magnets falling to the floor.

“I’m okay!” Harris calls out, running back with a piece of paper in his hand. “Look what I drawed at school today!” He gives Wayne the rundown of who’s who.

Wayne analyzes each person in the picture, stopping at the overlapping circles between you and Eddie. “This is great, Har-Bear,” he muses. “Are, um, are Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart holding hands?”

“Mhm,” Harris casually confirms, taking the drawing back. “‘Cause they’re married.”

Eddie chokes on air as Wayne does a double-take. “Congrats, Ed,” he jokes, clapping a hand to his nephew’s shoulder. “Gotta say, I thought I’d at least get an invite.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Harris, why do you think that Ms. Sweetheart and I are married?” He wracks his brain for answers, but he can’t come to a logical conclusion. Did I talk about her in my sleep? Oh, shit, what if it was when I had that dream—

“Because you gived her a present,” Harris says, eyes innocent and wide. “And when grown-ups love each other, they give each other presents.”

“Oh, he gave Ms. Sweetheart a present, huh?” On the surface, Wayne’s words are as innocuous as Harris’s, but Eddie hears the teasing buried just beneath. 

Harris nods. “Mhm. He gived her a tape!”

“It was the Toni Braxton one that she came into the shop for…that day that, uh…” Eddie raises his eyebrows at his uncle, who nods in acknowledgment. He brings his focus back to his son. “It doesn’t mean that we’re married. People have to go on dates and fall in love before they get married.”

The young boy absorbs this information. “So you should go on dates and fall in love with Ms. Sweetheart!” His face lights up at the idea of it, and it breaks Eddie’s heart to let him down. 

So, he doesn’t. 

“Why don’t you hang that back up so we can get outta here and get you some candy, huh?” He forces a smile and watches his son scamper into the kitchen before turning back to Wayne and shaking his head. 

Harris peels a magnet off of the fridge, the one Eddie bought him on their Daddy-Son day. It has a sea lion balancing a beach ball on its snout, with HAWKINS ZOO printed in bolded letters along the bottom.  

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he speaks directly to his drawing. “When Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love and get married, I’ll finally have a mommy.” He presses his hand flat against the paper as though he’s sealing in the wish. He stays like that for a moment until his dad calls his name, and he clutches his pillow case as they head out the door. 

Eddie assumes that the love and marriage talk is done for the evening, but the feeling of relief doesn’t last long. The trio of Munson men is halfway down the stairwell when Wayne starts instigating. “Hey, Har, is Ms. Sweetheart pretty?”

“WAYNE!” Eddie grits his teeth and shoots a sharp look at his uncle. The last thing he needs is for Harris to get his hopes up about a blossoming romance between his dad and his former teacher. 

“Oh, yeah!” Harris gleefully agrees, oblivious to the mounting tension. He grips the railing and jumps from the second to last step onto the tiled landing below. “Super pretty! Like a princess.”

The eldest Munson turns to Eddie. “Didja hear that? Pretty like a princess.”

“I heard him,” Eddie replies tersely. 

“Daddy?”

No. Don’t ask me. Harris Wayne Munson, do not ask me what I think you’re going to—

“Do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty?”

Although he anticipated the question, Eddie still freezes. If he disagrees, Harris will inevitably want to know why not. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t name a single ugly thing about you. 

He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. And even though he’s literally seen you naked, fully on display for him–a memory he revisits more often than he’s willing to admit–it’s the thought of what you did today that solidifies your beauty. The way you’d effortlessly calmed Harris down without Eddie even having to ask. The frown on his face almost instantly became a smile, the flow of his tears ceasing and turning into the giggles that brought sunlight into Eddie’s life. You did that.

Any woman can be sexy, but you? In that moment, you were perfect.

Fuck. 

“Daddy? Hello?”

At the sound of Harris’s voice, Eddie realizes that he physically hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs. His hand is gripping the banister so tightly that it leaves an imprint in his palm. “Yeah, buddy,” he manages through his Sahara Desert throat. “I think Ms. Sweetheart’s pretty.”

“Like a princess?” Wayne’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to tease his nephew about a crush, and he’s not passing up this limited opportunity. 

“Yeah. Like a princess.”

Education outsiders might think that Halloween is one of the worst days to be a teacher. The lethal combination of sugar and excitement barely contained in tiny costumed bodies seems like a recipe for disaster. But any teacher worth their salt will tell you that there is a day far, far worse than Halloween: November 1st. 

On Halloween, there is the expectation for fun. There’s a costume parade, classroom trick-or-treating, and even a little party. The kids are out of control, but who cares? It’s Halloween. 

But on November 1st, there is work to be done. And you’re expected to teach the months of the year to 10 four-year-olds who are suffering from candy hangovers and won’t stop asking why they can’t go trick-or-treating again today. 

You and Will are preparing for battle as students trickle in, excited to show off the candy stashes they acquired the night before. Abby Carver cries because she ate her Reese’s cup and now she’s sad that it’s gone. Joshua Harrington is continuing to “sling webs” at the other kids despite your incessant reminders that he is no longer Spider-Man. A fight over a KitKat bar breaks out not even five minutes into the day, and you confiscate it before someone causes serious bodily harm. 

Two fingers lightly tap on your shoulder—too high up to be a kid—and you whirl around with an irritated, “what?”

“Whoa,” Eddie says, concern etched into his otherwise soft features. He takes a small step back, nearly tripping over a rogue Lego that somehow made its way out of the toy area. He stumbles but catches his balance easily. “Everything okay?”

“‘S a warzone out here,” you try and joke, but you feel it fall flat. You’re too tired for humor. Grandma may not have yelled at the trick-or-treaters like you’d feared, but she did get increasingly angrier with each knock on the door. After the fifth time of her snarling at you to “shut the hell up” (like you could simultaneously be on both sides of the door), you’d relented and just put the candy bowl on the welcome mat, scribbling “TAKE ONE” on a yellow sticky note, adhering it to the plastic container. 

Two decades earlier, Halloween at Grandma’s house had a completely different connotation. She’d have a little pizza party all set up for you, and she’d buy a big bag of your favorite candy, in case you didn’t get enough during your door-to-door quests. And she’d always let you watch whatever spooky movie your heart desired, regardless of your parents’ rules. 

“That’s what grandmas are for,” she’d said with a wink, and the two of you curled up to watch Little Shop of Horrors. Her demeanor matched the hokey magnet on her fridge that read, If I knew how fun my grandkids would be, I would’ve had them first. You’d stay like that until you both fell asleep, only being roused by your parents arriving to pick you up. The good old days, before Grandma waking up involved watching the confusion in her eyes as she tried and failed to place you.

“C-Can I help you with something?” Your guard goes up immediately when you notice that Harris isn’t with him. The time you’d spent together after school yesterday had been nice, fun, even, but you couldn’t trust that today would be the same. Not after what happened a few short weeks ago. 

“I, um…I just swung by to give you this.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his denim jacket; it’s the same one that he lent to Harris when he’d forgotten his at home. A flash of yellow paper catches your eye, and he unfurls his palm to reveal a small bag of peanut M&Ms. “You said they were one of your favorites, right?”

You look at the treat, not willing to reach out and grab it. What if it’s a joke? An elaborate ploy to reel you in, just to shout “gotcha” when you finally let your walls come down?

“Are they poisoned or something?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you spike them with Ex-Lax?”

Eddie’s lips part in surprise before he collects himself. “Guess I deserve that,” he mumbles. “But, no. They’re not. I swear on James Hetfield’s life.” He drags his fingernail over his heart in an X-formation. 

You take the bag, inspecting it for any sign of tampering, but you come up short. The edges are sealed, and there are no pinpricks as far as your eyes can see. “Dipped into Harris’s stash for me?”

“Hey, these bad boys are technically mine for the taking until he figures out that he can eat them without dying.” Eddie chuckles lightly, peering at you through impossibly long lashes. “But, yeah, I was hoping you’d accept these as part of my apology. Or apologies, I guess. For, uh, for not calling when I said I would, and all of the awful shi—awful things I said to you.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he steps closer and says, “I am so fucking sorry.”

You make a small tear in the bag, tapping it against your palm until an M&M falls out. Popping the blue candy in your mouth, you allow the shell to start dissolving on your tongue before crunching on the peanut, hoping you can process what he’s said by the time you’re finished chewing. 

This is what you’ve been waiting for—an actual heartfelt apology. His brown eyes reflect nothing but shame and remorse, and you can tell by the way that he’s fidgeting with his rings that he’s anxiously awaiting your reply. 

His vulnerability softens you slightly, and considering you haven’t keeled over after ingesting the candy, you throw him a bone. 

“This fun size bag covers the ‘not calling’ part, but I’m gonna need a lot more candy if you want me to forgive you for what you said at the music store.” You keep your tone light; teasing, even, but there’s a layer of truth to it. He can’t merely waltz into your classroom with a gift and expect you to forget his hurtful words. 

Eddie nods, his frizzy curls brushing the tops of his denim-clas shoulders. “I know. I’ve said some pretty terrible things in my life, but that might’ve been the worst. And, um,” he fumbles his words, desperately searching for the right ones. Semantics has never been his forte. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s not true; your grandma didn’t want to forget you. And…neither do I.” When you raise your eyebrows, he starts to backtrack. “Because you’re so great with Harris; like, you understand him and stuff. He’s always talking about you.”

Daddy, do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty? The question replays like a song he can’t shake from his head, its melody familiar but the notes still keeping him on edge. Pretty like a princess, only instead of saving her, I’m the one who needs to be rescued. So much for Prince Charming, huh?

The M&M melts in your mouth while you formulate a response to his candid admission. Sweetness seeps into your taste buds as you try to straddle the line between careful consideration and overthinking. Speak too quickly and you might say something you’ll regret. Take too long and you’ll make this even more awkward.

“W-Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Short, simple, to the point. Your words are slightly slurred by the candy obstruction, but what else is there to say? You could add that you forgive him, but you’re truthfully not sure that you do. His words scarred, had taken your already mangled self-worth and snapped it into pieces, and so did his reasoning for hurting you. Despite the love and kindness you’d shown his son, Eddie had fully believed that you were responsible for spreading personal information that would wound him. It was exactly as Jeff had said: Eddie struck below the belt at the first sign of conflict, so determined to protect himself that he didn’t even realize that he was attacking the people on his side.

The sound of books clattering to the floor snatches your attention from him, and you whip your head to your little classroom library to see two kids standing over a pile of fallen books, guilty looks stamped on their faces. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurt out, dashing off to assess the damage. You’ve never been so grateful for your students causing mischief.

The hour hand crawls to the number two; at one point, you swore the clock was moving backwards. The chaos of the morning was only a preview of the rest of the day’s fiascos, but you and Will had navigated as best as you could.

“Jesus,” he murmurs once the kids have all been dismissed, gingerly rubbing his temples, “that was brutal. I can handle the day after Halloween; I can handle Fridays, but when they coincide? Nope, never again.” He slumps into a chair dramatically, letting his arms drape over the sides.

“Gonna have a glass of wine when you get home?” you joke, wiping Play-Doh residue from a tabletop.

Will nods. “Or a whole bottle.” His focus shifts to your desk, and he nods his chin in that direction. “I see you have something to look forward to tonight, too.”

You follow his gaze, widening your eyes when you see the object he’s referring to. A bag of peanut M&Ms–much bigger than the one you’d inhaled this morning–sits on top of your desk calendar; resting next to it is a cassette. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you. The cassette is Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction; you recognize the iconic cover as soon as it comes into view. It’s not your usual music choice, but you’ll listen to almost anything.

There’s a piece of paper taped to the giant yellow M&M bag, folded in equal triads. Messily scrawled across the front in black ink is Ms. Sweetheart. You gently pull the adhesive loose and open the letter, nervously running your forefinger across the irregular edge where it was obviously torn from a composition notebook.

Fun size mistake=fun size bag of candy

Family size mistake=family size bag of candy

I’m really good at fucking things up, but really bad at fixing them. I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we both know that I did. 

You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know how sorry I am. 

-Eddie

P.S. Not sure if hard rock is your thing, but I saw this at work and it reminded me of the kindness you showed our favorite little Axl Rose yesterday.

“Who’s it from?” Will asks, breaking into your thoughts. “A secret admirer?” He brings his clasped hands to his cheek in mock dreaminess.

You manage a laugh as you fold the note back up and tuck it under the calendar. “If it is, he’s really bad at it, because he signed his name.” When did he even sneak in here to do this? Kind of scary that someone could walk in and you didn’t even notice.

“Aha! So it is a guy!” Will pumps his fist triumphantly, though you’re not quite sure what he thinks he’s won.

“Just Eddie Munson, thanking us for letting Harris draw here yesterday.” 

It’s not a total lie, but Will sees right through it. “Uh-huh. Thanking us? So that note is also for me? Can I read it?” He starts towards your desk, outstretched hand reaching towards where you’d tried to hide it, but you playfully swat them away.

You glance at the clock and frown. “If you leave a little early, I won’t tell anyone.”

Will flips you off; over the last two months, you two had developed a sibling-esque relationship that came out more once the kids had left for the day. He grabs his backpack from the supply closet and slings it over his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m exhausted, or I’d stick around and keep bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, knowing full well that he’s itching to leave regardless. “Gotta save up your energy for when Marshall visits.”

Will blushes at the mention of his long-distance boyfriend’s name. He still wasn’t out to many people, but when you’d casually mentioned the date Jess had with a girl named Robin, he’d felt comfortable opening up to you. “I can’t wait!” His grin is so wide you swear it’ll stretch right off of his face. “Thanks again; you’re the best.”

That leaves you alone with your gigantic bag of candy, a Guns N’ Roses cassette, and an apology that you have no idea what to do with.

Once again, Eddie Munson has given you more questions than answers.

--

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