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urhoneycombwitch · 1 year ago

Text

shrine of your lights

Eddie Munson x fwb!Reader edibles and a church wedding to attend. what could go wrong with Eddie as your plus one?

foreword: I listened to Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac for this. LOL. kind of AU bc it’s a few years after ssn 4 and everyone is alive and just fine (lovesick but oh well can’t b helped) based on this anon thank u for inspiring me!!!!

cw: a smidge of Catholic blasphemy, weed usage, friends w/ benefits Eddie, R is a bit of a love (and relationship) skeptic and Eddie is lovesick, R+E are in their 20’s, pining, public sex (no one but them observes tho), R has hair long enough to tuck behind ears, R gets a hickey but skin tone/color is not described, R has breasts and a V, softdom Eddie, marking kink (?)

wc: 4.8k

___

The stained glass window in front of you looms tall, afternoon light streaming through and casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished wood flooring. You stretch out a hand into the warm beam of sun, admiring the way the colors catch and bounce off your dainty star-chain bracelet.

When Eddie had suggested you two eat some weed brownies as a precursor to your (very distant, very Catholic) cousin’s wedding, you hadn’t quite expected to get as stoned as you are now. Since Eddie hasn’t attended any major life functions sober since 1981, and seeing as how you refuse to step foot inside a church space without some sort of social lubricant, the weed wasn’t a hard sell at all.

To be fair, Eddie had warned you of their potency, and you had snuck another quarter of a brownie when his back was turned: but christ, your tolerance must be crazy low or something, ‘cuz a window has no right to be this mesmerizing.

You’ve been staring at it for the past five minutes, in your own little world while a steady stream of wedding guests file in through the big oak doors and mill about before the ceremony. The warm, still air of the church is heady with the smell of fresh florals and incense, and a line of votive candles flicker and wink against the windowsill.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you see Eddie’s still speaking in gentle tones with an elderly woman (whom you’re likely related to, hard to say) near the foyer, all charming smile and sincere hand pressed to the slip of bare chest his button-down displays. You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he’s really great at endearing himself to total strangers; he’s been a natural shoe-in for any plus-one you’ve needed over the past few years.

While Eddie is perfectly in his element, holding what looks to be an engaging conversation while stoned to all hell, your focus is drawn back to the window. You should probably be on the arm of your guest, seeing as how it’s your family wedding after all, but the swirling lights and colors are too alluring to pull yourself away from.

“Beautiful piece of art, isn’t it?”

The voice behind you is unfamiliar, and proper social graces here would call for an introduction, perhaps a firm handshake, but your limbs and tongue feel so loose and the reply is out of your mouth before you can think twice- “God, yeah. S’fucking gorgeous. I want one for my house.”

There’s a light cough, and when you turn on your low-heeled Mary Janes it’s under the amused eye of a priest- in full priest-garb. Green velvet robes and little hat and everything.

You realize your error- swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain- but the brief stint in Catholic school from when you were 6 is unfortunately not recalled in time to stop the scramble of swears mixed with apologies that come tumbling out.

“Oh shit- I mean- fuck. Oh god. Sorry, Father, I didn’t mean-”

The priest- old as hell but thankfully with sense of humor still intact- smiles kindly at you and takes your hand in both of his, patting graciously. “No apologies are necessary, my dear. The beauty of God can be overwhelming and awe-inducing.”

You nod jerkily, grabbing on to his excuse- “Yes, yep. That’s exactly what happened. Struck down by the awe.”

The priest nods to you, and then to Eddie (who’s appeared at your side like a guard dog that sensed trouble), then wanders off down a row of pews to greet other guests.

You’re nearly doubled over with the effort it takes to conceal your laughter, Eddie stroking a calming hand down your back and chuckling with you under his breath.

“Struck down by the awe, huh?” he echoes as you straighten back up and dab at the tears gathering against your lashline. “You really are somethin’.”

“That was so embarrassing but guess what-” here you lean in, voice a conspiratorial whisper as Eddie raises his eyebrows to look down his nose at you- “I don’t give a fuck ‘cuz I’m hi-igh.”

This last word is sung with a two-note lilt, and you turn back to the comfort of the sunny window as Eddie steps in beside you, shaking his head. “I told you to start with a lower dose, ya goose. Did you take more when I wasn’t looking?”

You shrug a shoulder, the soft linen of your cardigan brushing up against the hard leather of Eddie’s jacket. “Maybe. Couldn’t say. You gonna steal this window for me or what?”

He blows out a breath, pretending to appraise the size and heft, rapping his ringed knuckles against the sill- “Well normally I’d say ‘anything for my girl’, but we’d need a shrink ray for this type’a heist.”

“Maybe Dustin has one we can borrow.”

He sucks his front teeth, playing along, shaking his head in faux-disappointment. “Nah, little shit’s only got a ham radio. Useless when it comes to religious robbery.”

Eddie looks overly pleased when you giggle, but some of the humor in his face falls to concern as he reaches out to squeeze your upper arms. “Hey. You doin’ okay? If you’re too stoned to sit through the ceremony, I can find us a little spot to hole up in. I’m good at finding those.”

“I know you are,” you reply, waving away his worry. “I’m fine, honest. Do I look high?”

He holds you at arm’s length, giving you a contemplative once-over. “Nope. You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes, affectionately, then smooth your palms over the front of your black slip dress and pull the scalloped sleeves of your cardigan into place. “Well, of that I am aware.”

Eddie winks, and you really wish you were sober enough that the warmth of his hands and the smell of his cologne would have less of an effect but high as you are, you want nothing more than to burrow into his neck and taste the salt of his skin.

“Do I look high?” he asks, pulling away to do a little spin so you can appraise his appearance.

Eddie Munson, as it turns out, cleans up very well for family functions: smart black boots, maroon button-down tucked into a pair of flare-legged trousers, worn but well-kept leather jacket to top the outfit off. And in signature Eddie fashion, little glints of silver highlight the ensemble- his usual chunky rings, stacked layers of thin chain necklaces, metal buckles on his coat and at his waist, even a set of tiny hoops (courtesy of your jewelry drawer) in his ears.

The dryness in your mouth has nothing to do with your intoxication as you blink back to the present and give Eddie a once-over. “Uhm. Nope. You look sober. And very hot.”

He grins at you, wolfish, but then a bright chord of organ music signals the start of the ceremony. With a steady hand on your back, he leads you to a pew near the last row; when you’re both seated, his hand runs smoothly down to rest on your thigh, drumming a lazy beat with his thumb against you as the processional starts.

Your cousin Marion looks lovely swathed in white tulle, contrasted with her groom in a black tux. Her mother, your aunt- Karen? Karina? can’t recall- dabs at her tears with a delicate lace handkerchief in the front pew as the couple exchanges vows, promising eternal and ineffable love until their ultimate demise, etcetera.

You’re not someone who’s ever fallen prone to the gushy emotions that love seems to create in so many of your peers. While Nancy and Robin will dole out tissues to each other during some cheesy romcom, you’ll get ribbed for being so stoic. None of your breakups have ever ended in giant blowouts or dramatics from your side- hard to fight for something when you hadn’t really cared about it in the first place.

That’s why you consider yourself so lucky, when it comes to Eddie. After the two of you ended your high school fling due to graduation, you’d come back to Hawkins after a few years of college and found yourself sneaking out like a teenager again to hang out with Eddie Munson.

He told you he doesn’t want anything serious, either, and that he’s just fine being friends who sleep around and go to all of each other’s parties.

You almost believe him.

He’s been to every one of your nephew’s hockey games this past season, and you’ve spent two cozy Christmases so far at the trailer with him and Wayne; every party in between has ended with Eddie driving you home, or (more frequently) back to his place. Your collective relatives and friends haven’t asked about your relationship status in years, and it’s all thanks to Eddie’s presence in your life: if the two of you aren’t technically dating, it’s really no one’s business.

The old priest from earlier is droning on about some bible verse; uncomfortable on the hard bench and feeling restless, you shift your hips, and Eddie digs his fingers into the meat of your thigh.

“Quit. Squirming,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. When you shiver and still, he pats your leg and straightens again, eyes fixed to the front altar.

You and Eddie make it through the ceremony with minimal damage, only getting one dirty look from an older man in the pew ahead when you’d snickered at a dirty joke (courtesy of your benchmate). Marion and her new husband greet their guests one by one as everyone filters outside, and you coast easily through the interaction, kissing your cousin on both cheeks and fawning over her dress and giving just the right amount of congrats before Eddie plucks at your elbow to subtly redirect your attention.

“Let’s get some food in you,” he says, linking your arms together as you follow the receiving line outdoors.

The reception is held just next to the church building in a surprisingly lovely courtyard. Sunlight filters through the willow trees at the edge of a grass yard, where a picnic basket awaits on each spread quilt. People are kicking off their dress shoes, unwinding with the lure of nature, kids chasing each other through the paths between blankets as adults wiggle their toes into the grass and dig into the luncheon.

Possibly, you’re high and over-romanticizing, but you can tell by the look on Eddie’s face he’s there with you, taking it all in from your blanket in a quiet corner of the yard.

There are finger sandwiches in the basket, along with some fresh fruit and plastic utensils and plates to eat off of; Eddie fixes you a plate and you dig in happily, sock feet tucked under yourself, yours and Eddie’s shoes in a jumble nearby.

“Could eat anything when I’m high,” you muse, then bite into a sandwich that has the perfect cream-cheese-to-cucumber ratio with a contented sigh. “Food is so good.”

Eddie snaps a baby carrot with his back teeth, then snorts at you before reaching out to tuck one side of your hair behind your ear before it gets eaten along with your food. “I know you can eat anything when you’re high. I once saw you scooping up apple pie with potato chips.”

You give him a sidelong frown, mouth full of bread and veg as you defend yourself- “Yeah, and it was great. Dee-licious. Would do it again if-”

Your name is being called, and you swivel to see a young man about your age weaving along the spaces between blankets towards yours and Eddie’s spot.

“Tony!” In a neat bit of multitasking, you manage to swallow your food and rise to your feet (albeit unsteadily, with Eddie’s hand snapping out to support your efforts), then hold your arms out to envelop the boy in a hug. “Oh my god, it’s been ages.”

Anthony Townsend has grown up in the time you’ve spent away- the last recollection you have of your former childhood neighbor is his mop of red hair bouncing with the trampoline his parents bought him in 6th grade. He grew into his looks, for sure- the awkwardness of pre-teen ears and too-big front teeth have settled into a very kind and handsome face.

He looks genuinely pleased to see you, returning your hug with a squeeze, pulling back to hold both your hands and ask about where you’ve been. You breeze through a highlighted version of the last few years, leaving out all the interdimensional monster bullshit and focusing the questions back on him.

Tony’s telling you about his father’s veterinary practice that’s still running smoothly when you feel Eddie at your back, and Tony falters, dropping your hands.

Social cues come a tad slow to you, under the influence, and you think Tony’s stumbling because you haven’t introduced him yet (how were you supposed to know Eddie’s been glaring daggers at the poor kid ever since you’d hugged him?), and you attempt to remedy your mistake with a casual remark- “You know, Eddie here has been feeding the stray cats at our place every night, a whole colony of them- there’s gotta be, what, ten of ‘em now?”

You turn to Eddie for confirmation, reeling a little at the dark scowl he’s still sporting as he nods. “Yup. Somethin’ like.”

Tony scratches at the back of his neck, freckled cheeks pink as he begins to back away- “Um, yeah. Cool. Well it was great to see you! I gotta…”

With a vague gesture, he turns and tails it back to his blanket on the other side of the yard. You whirl on Eddie, his face smoothing back into relaxed indifference, even as you hiss, “What the hell was that?”

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t know what you mean, princess.”

“That,” you repeat, waving an arm in the air for emphasis. “I know I’m not sober but you were being weird, even by my standards.”

There’s this look that Eddie gets, sometimes, when one of you bumps against the walls of your loosely-defined relationship- a brief flash of pain and sadness before it gets hidden away behind his comfortable mask of bravado.

He’s got it now- a small pinch in his eyebrows, doey eyes swimming with emotion, and you put a hand on his leather-clad arm as the pieces fall into place. “Were you… are you jealous?”

In the span of a blink, the mask is back up, and with a dry laugh that’s so unlike him, Eddie shakes his head. “Nah. What do I have to be jealous of, huh? ‘S not like we belong to each other.”

Maybe on a different day, with half the weed in your system, you’d be able to let this comment slide. But there’s something deeply hurtful about it, sinking and twisting in your stomach like a stone. Your grip tightens on Eddie’s arm, tears stinging hot at your eyes, voice a watery, desperate thing- “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Eddie is quick to comfort you, once he realizes you’re close to crying- “Shit, sweetheart. Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to think…” Your voice is still shaky with emotion as Eddie lets you hold on to him, gently shushing you even though there’s no one near enough to hear. “You’re important to me, Eddie. I never wanna make you mad, or upset, or-”

“I’m not.” Eddie cuts smoothly into your rambling, placing his hands on either side of your neck as you cling to him, cool rings kissing into your skin. “I’m not mad, promise. I was just being an asshole for no reason, okay? Could never be mad at you.”

His thumb strokes at the column of your throat, your breath and heart rate lulled to normal under his touch, his expression returning to the gentle fondness you’re used to seeing.

“Let’s finish up lunch, hm?” Eddie says, and with a final soft squeeze he pulls away from you, taking with him the warmth of his palms.

It’s always like this, with him, at least in front of your respective families- any PDA is kept to a strict minimum, nothing too intimate or drawn out so as not to attract attention. You’d implemented this rule from the beginning, and Eddie has been nothing but respectful of it, your peace of mind over not wanting a label pacified.

But right now? The lack of Eddie’s arms around you or his lips on yours was starting to make you ache.

You both settle into the blanket again, conversation flowing around mouthfuls of food as you catch Eddie up with the latest family gossip, laughing when he bats your pointer finger out of the air (as if anyone is really paying attention to you two giggling loons).

Someone’s brought a radio and has it dialed to a soft rock station; you gasp and shove at Eddie (sprawled out like a house cat after a full meal in the sun), exclaiming “It’s Fleetwood Mac and you love Fleetwood Mac!”

“I so don’t,” he grumbles, but rises easily when you tug at him to stand sock-to-sock feet with you in the grass.

You both fall into a smooth rhythm, Eddie’s hands staying (respectably) on your hips, yours looped around his neck, doing a slow little rotation. He gazes at you as you sway back and forth in each other’s arms, the scrutiny making you titter and fidget.

“What?”

“Thought I told you to quit squirmin’,' ' comes his answer, hands tightening into the meat of your waist. “Let me look at you a minute.”

So you let him look.

While his chocolate eyes roam your face, you trail a hand up to curl a lock of his hair around your finger. Eddie leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, giving you room to do some staring of your own at those long, dark lashes.

After another slow circle, Eddie inhales and draws himself back, clearing his throat. “Not that I’m not enjoying this, sweetheart, but we’re gonna start getting looks if you don’t quit using me as your personal stress toy.”

You snort. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“All good,” he replies, dimples springing into his cheeks, teasing again- “When we get home later you can pet me like a dog, if you want. Just gotta tone you down ‘cuz you get touchy when you’re high.”

Eddie’s being a perfect gentleman. He’s sticking to your rules and looking out for you.

So why is it making you so sad?

You realize, with a stunning clarity, that you don’t want to wait until you’re back at the trailer to touch Eddie. That you’re starting to crave him when he leaves, whether it’s for a day or an hour or just out of bed to get a snack.

Fuck it, you think, and bend to scoop up your shoes.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you tell Eddie, slipping on your shoes then starting towards the building. When you realize he’s not following, you pause, giving him a look over your shoulder- “Aren’t you coming?”

Eddie blinks, wondering if you’re insinuating what he thinks you’re insinuating or if he’s just really, really high. “Um. Uh…”

You don’t leave room for the shock to sink in, turning on your heel and smirking when you hear him swear under his breath and scramble to catch up.

In a narrow hallway lined with portraits of long-dead saints, you push Eddie against the wall, mouth sealing over his and hands roaming hungrily over his body.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, in between kisses, your fingers tugging at the root of his hair, near the nape of his neck where it stings the best- “what’s got you so worked up, princess?”

“You.” The answer is an honest one. You slip your tongue between Eddie’s teeth and the boy moans, melting into you.

Peppering kisses down Eddie’s face, your lips settle into the hollow just under his jaw, then part to give room to your teeth. Eddie stiffens as you bite down, sensitive skin pierced by your mouth; it’s his turn to be the squirmy one as you suck a bruise into that soft spot.

His cock is filling out, as proved by the steadily-growing bulge behind his zipper. You give a mean little wiggle of your hips and Eddie jolts so hard you lose your spot on his neck, popping off him with a wet smack.

“Angel, you have to stop.” Eddie sounds absolutely wrecked as he tries to maintain some distance, head tipped back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. “M’not gonna last if you keep doing that. Let me take you home, we can-”

“Shhh.” You quiet him with a pointer finger smooshed against his lips, your other hand tilted to your ear. “You hear that?”

Eddie strains to hear distant cheers and hip hip hoorays from the festivities a few corridors away; when he nods, you whisper, “That’s the cake cutting. We have a good ten minutes before anyone thinks to come back here.”

At first, Eddie thinks he’s off the hook when you release him completely, walking swiftly towards the main sanctuary. But then, because you’re a temptress, you beckon him with an impatient wave.

And because he’s so easy for you, he follows.

It’s like that window has a magnetic pull- you’re back under the prismatic glow of the stained glass, brushing a hand across the wide sill to dust it before hopping up to perch there. You fit neatly between the split row of votive candles (all snuffed out by now), enough room for your knees to part and for Eddie to fill the space.

You cross your arms around his neck, drawing him in with another deep kiss as his hands find your waist.

“Want you to mark me up,” you murmur, and when Eddie draws back, wary, you let your chin tip up. The crown of your head knocks into the window, exposing your throat. “Show them I’m yours, Eds.”

Only have to tell him twice, apparently, ‘cuz his teeth sink into your stretch of soft skin without further qualms. The feeling of his tongue soothing over the sore spot makes you jump, hips bucking forward into his hand that you didn’t even notice had trailed up the inside of your dress.

His long fingers pet at the wet patch that’s seeping through your underwear, catching at your clit on an upstroke, your gasp a harsh noise in the otherwise silent sanctuary.

Eddie begins to rub at you through the fabric in earnest now, tight circles with his thumb even as he pulls his mouth from your neck to assess his handiwork. “Yeah, fuck, sweetheart, that’s gonna leave a mark. You want everyone to know who you belong to, huh?”

Your bundle of nerves throbs under Eddie’s touch and you curse, hands weaving tight into his hair again. “Shit, Eddie, yeah- just like that…”

He dips back into the well of your neck with his teeth, keeps just the right amount of pressure on your clit, and that tension coiling in your lower stomach is just about to snap before you stop him with a hand around his wrist.

“Sorry,” you pant through the apology, forehead crushed to Eddie’s collarbone as you try and catch your breath. “Was about to come and I want you inside of me for that.”

“Jesus fucking christ.”

Eddie fumbles with his belt buckles as you giggle, chastising- “Hush and mind your manners, Munson. That’s blaspheming and we’re about to fuck in a church.”

“I’ll show you manners.” Eddie has his pants and briefs shoved to mid-thigh before you can draw breath to tell him off; one hand smears precum down the shaft of his ruddy cock as the other pushes your dress up and hooks your panties to the side.

You’re wet and worked up enough that he slides into the heat of you with ease, breath punching out with the way his cock completely fills you. When Eddie pulls out and sinks back in, you let out a keening whine and scrabble for purchase on his leather jacket.

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it-” his voice is a dark rumble, each word punctuated with a snap of his hips, the squelch of your slick walls responding. “So wet for me. That’s my good girl. You like gettin’ off to being mine, huh, angel?”

You nod, head lolling against the window, and Eddie grins wicked even though you can’t see it. “Come on. Show me whose pussy this is.”

When his hand snakes between your bodies to press against your clit with his thumb, you come with a long, strained whimper, ankles crossing at the small of Eddie’s back to draw him closer while the velvet walls of your cunt spasm.

Eddie’s free hand shoots out to the supporting wood arch of the window for stability as he angles his hips up, longing for that glossy honey-eyed look you get sometimes: and there it is, your eyes half-lidded and brow pinched in pleasure as his cock hits against that gummy spot, the tremble of your thighs locked around his waist as your orgasm peaks.

Once he’s fucked you through the height of it, Eddie dips to bite at the taut muscle where your neck and shoulder meet, clamping down on the words threatening to flood out as his hips stutter. He comes hard, deep groan muffled into your neck, curses and praises spilling out in mindless babbling: “Fuck fuck, angel, that’s it, honey, shit, you’re so wet. All for me, huh, baby? Doin’ so good…”

He sags into your arms, pinning you to the window, chests heaving in tandem as you both catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, towards his ass, and then to the edge of his pants.

When he realizes that you’re trying to tuck him back into his clothes he whines at you, but you’re quick to shush him. “We’re cuttin’ it close with timing already, Eds. Help me out?”

Reluctantly, Eddie pulls away from the wet warmth of you to re-dress. Once his belt is in place he attends to you, helping shift the hem of your dress back down, rubbing his finger lightly under the skin of your eye where some mascara had smudged.

“I’ll double back for the keys and we’ll go home, ‘kay?” Eddie says, nose nudging into your cheek. “Wait here. You got some wicked marks and everyone will know we just fucked.”

“Pfft. No they won’t. Who would actually fuck in a church?” You push Eddie back playfully, hopping down from the sill with a wink. “You’ve gotta be sick to do that. Good thing my family believes you to be a perfect goody-two-shoes.”

Eddie stares as you make for the doors back to the courtyard, shrugging off his incredulity- “Eddie. It’s fine. So they’ll think we made out a bit. Who cares? Not me. And plus…” here you trail off and point, mischievous, Eddie’s eye’s following the line to his sock feet- “...you kinda have a no-shoes situation goin’ on. Gotta fix that.”

When you disappear through the doors, Eddie slams a palm to his chest, in awe- then feels the outline of the lighter in his inner pocket. With a practiced twist, he has it out and lit in a second, holding the flame to the wick of a votive candle.

“I don’t know how these candles work, exactly, or if atheists are allowed to…” Eddie clears his throat, glances over his shoulder to confirm you’re still out of earshot, then whispers above the flickering light: “Please let this be real life and not just some high-fueled fantasy because this is kind of huge for me. Okay thanks. Amen, or whatever.”

Eddie blows out the candle like it’s a birthday wish then hurries to catch up with you, sock feet silent against the wood floor as he calls out your name- “Slow down and have a heart, babe, I’ve got no grip!”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #weed mention #tw weed

697 notes · View notes

portraitofalinkonfyre · 5 months ago

Note

DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE DANCING WITH FIERCE

Ahem...

How bout a fic where we share, maybe teach Fierce how to dance?

I am living for these fics

I love this idea!! One dance scene coming up, and I'll throw in some /drama/ to sweeten the deal ;)

Smooth

Pairing: Fierce Deity x Reader

Warning(s): some possessive thoughts, but nothing crazy

Masterlist

It was a preposterous idea, in the Fierce Deity's opinion; far too poignant to be introduced at the breakfast table, much less to the likes of him.

"I've picked up the waltz," the Link called 'Warrior' preened, leaning forward to fix you with a gaze the deity couldn't help but loathe. Of course, you were your own person and free to do as you pleased, though that sentiment did nothing to stem the flow of... he dare say it was jealously, through his veins. "I'd be happy to show you, if you'd like."

But sweet, unassuming you only grinned at him from across the table. "I know that one too! Anyone heard of the square dance?"

"I have, but 'm no good," Twilight chimed in, fork piled high with the eggs you and Wild made.

"I can dance on any ship mast!" Wind proclaimed, looking pointedly at everyone before his gaze settled on you. "If we ever end up in my world I'll teach you!"

"I can't wait," there it was, the soft smile that never failed to frame your face when you were truly happy. Fierce hoped you never lost it. Picking at the last of your food, you turned to the deity beside you. "How about you, big guy? You can't tell me you haven't danced at least once."

The Fierce Deity felt a sort of melancholy at your words, mostly because he had not, in fact, danced at least once and partly because impressing you was typically the highlight of his day. "I," he could feel Time's working eye on him, as cerulean as the Termina sky and twice as calculating. "am not familiar with the dances of this world."

That seemed the safest response, and the deity was relieved he could think as quickly on his buttocks as he could on his feet. When understanding settled in your gaze, he knew he made the right choice. "Well, allow me to impart some moves on you in case someone asks for your hand on the floor."

Aside from the fact that he had heard none of those words in the same sentence together, and that he would likely never accept the hand of anyone but you, the Fierce Deity could only helplessly nod, no more ensnared than a fish in a net. At night, your sway over him would be so baffling that he could hardly close his eyes, too caught up in the great mysteries of the heart he didn't know he possessed. "I would like that."

And so it was decided. The conversation devolved to you detailing all the errands the day required, and there was no shortage of help when it came to your needs–you had given them a home, food, and good company, so how could Time and Twilight refuse tending to the petunias, or Wild and Sky the cooking? Hyrule looked as though he would sooner restart his hero's journey than gather ingredients for the stew you had planned for dinner, while Legend's expression indicated that he would rather fight the beast Volga a thousand times over than not assist with laundry, never mind the amount of soiled clothes eleven people undoubtedly generated a week. Four's eyes resembled a mismatched kaleidoscope (he had been quite disturbed when you let him use yours, but the Fierce Deity wasn't one to shy easily) when you asked if he wanted some scrap metal from the neighbor's garage sale, and Wind was downright ecstatic when you invited him to the grocery store. Warriors gaze practically held heart-eyes when you informed him that the sewing materials to fix his ripped scarf would be arriving in the afternoon, only souring when you delegated the last task to the Fierce Deity himself: dance lessons at 4.

It was a laughable thought that his only responsibility was to prepare for lessons on dance, but the Fierce Deity was not one to complain at the newfound freedom, as if you had never offered it before. The tasks you laid out were simply requests, and it was clear that they could back out at any time, not that any of them would, of course. The Fierce Deity knew your behavior would have never passed in his world, and it was one of the things he admired about you, a mere mortal who could convince them of anything. He saw it in Time's eyes, in Twilight's and Wind's and Wild's. Devoted was too soft a word to describe it, but there was no better one.

And as you began to gather plates, chirping happily about the great weather, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was.

You found the Fierce Deity in the living room, sat beside Time and Warriors, their eyes practically glued to the episode of Family Feud playing on the TV. You found it funny how much they enjoyed the show, though you supposed it was a bid to learn more about your culture without having to ask you about every little thing. Wind had even begun to use slang, and while you were proud, his use of 'bro' was simply out of control at times, though nothing could top the time Twilight tried to use 'rad' in a sentence.

Leaning against the wall, you fake-coughed, tapping your watch when they turned to look at you. "Hey, Fierce, you ready to get some moves?"

Despite the obvious differences in word choice between the two of you, Fierce nodded solemnly and followed you to the backyard. A large 'patio' extended nearly to the middle of the yard, and his boots clomped obnoxiously on the slate-colored stone. It had been one of the only articles you allowed him to wear everywhere, as the people of your world tended not to be fond of men in armor that carried swords bigger than they were, which led to several heated discussions from you about proper dress. The Fierce Deity tugged on the sleeves of his grey 'shirt', a gift from you when you realized he was a bit large to shop at regular stores.

"We should be good here," you stated, hands poised on your hips. "I still can't believe you've never danced at all."

"It is not uncommon," responded the Fierce Deity. "Song and dance are for people of mirth."

You raised an eyebrow. "You don't consider yourself a 'person of mirth'?"

"I am the god of war," for a moment, the bitterness in his gaze was almost palpable. "There is no happiness in battle."

"Not even victory?" You were curious of the Fierce Deity, of what the lens of divinity really entailed. Had it truly made him cold, or was it merely a front?

"Especially not victory," he intoned, and you were nearly consumed with the urge to hug him. You'd never denied the vast differences your lives held, but it still stung to hear him speak so... despondently.

"Well," you patted his shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. You had. "We haven't had a world war in, like, years, so don't worry your pretty little head about it!"

The Fierce Deity raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on your choice of words, much to your relief. Clapping your hands together, you changed the subject. "You have a very waltz-y style, so we'll start with that."

You offered him your hands, which he took with no hesitation. Contrary to your assumption, his porcelain skin was warm to the touch, and just as smooth. You couldn't help but wonder if all deity's were like this, or if it was merely another thing that set him apart from the gods. Carefully, you brought your right arm up, encouraging his to follow suit, then placed the palm of his right hand on your side, sliding your left hand up to rest on the curve of his bicep. "You're going to want to hold your arm up like this–and keep your hand under my arm like so."

"Then you step back with your right foot," you said as you stepped forward with your right. "Aaand take another step so both feet are parallel."

It was a testate to the Fierce Deity's character that he followed your movements with nary a grunt. Stark eyes burned holes into your own. The Fierce Deity was a man of few words, so you supposed it was fate that you had more than enough to share. "Now you're going to take a step with your left," your shoes clicked on the stone as you stepped back carefully. "Then another so your feet are parallel, and now move them together."

The Fierce Deity did just that, brows set in concentration. His dedication was flattering in a soft way, as was the thought that a god thought you were important enough to dance with. You had no doubt that he wouldn't have agreed if he didn't want to, though you could still hardly comprehend his interest in you, a mere mortal. Surely there were more compelling souls he could associate with, or were you simply a distraction from the shock of living in a new world? You tried not to think too hard, shooting the deity a practiced grin. "And that's all there is to it!"

Instead of pulling away, Fierce began anew, until you were dancing in the middle of the patio like no one's business. If dancing with a deity wasn't on your bucket list before, it sure was now.

"You are a good teacher," were the Fierce Deity's first words in however long you'd been outside. He was close enough that you could feel the steady puffs of his breaths, and you doubted you would ever feel quite as protected as you were now. "I shall treasure this experience."

Well, if that wasn't the sweetest thing you had heard today. "I'm glad, you're doing great!"

Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, it did. "Are you familiar with more dances?"

"A few," you shrugged. "Square dancing, the waltz... and the tango, but don't quote me."

The question in his pupil-less eyes was clear: when did you have the time? Time was a fickle concept, and it didn't surprise you that the Fierce Deity wouldn't have any left for song and dance. Yet here you stood, locked in a creative embrace that he should have scorned. What about you could have intrigued the deity so, or at least enough for him to request dance lessons?

Not that you minded, you would never mind.

"Do you want to learn those too?"

The Fierce Deity's head jerked up and down, ruffling his unusually impeccable bangs. You had no idea what sorcery he employed to achieve such an effortless look, but you wanted in. "Has your hair always been this long?"

His grip on your waist tightened a fraction, gaze practically burning a hole into your skull. "Yes."

Hair held memories, so what mysteries did his carry? Stories within strands, just begging to be discovered. Most importantly, would he allow you to read them, or were you simply grossly overestimating your relationship?

"I had it cut," the deity spoke, effectively coloring you surprised. "once."

"Only once?"

"It was during my service," it was back--the tone he used when he was only humoring you. You swayed across the cobblestone, ears perked for his next words. "I did not like it."

You... you could tell. "You don't say..."

"Do you cut your hair?"

"I do," you had no idea why admitting that felt embarrassing. "Not often, but enough that it doesn't get split ends."

"Split... ends?" By the way he said it, you would have assumed it was a curse. That and the fact that he apparently was oblivious to haircare other than what you assumed to be sorcery.

"...You don't know what those are?" His blank expression said all, so you coughed and stood a bit straighter. "It's when your hair grows to long and the ends just... split. Getting regular hair cuts and using good products helps."

"I... see," just when you thought that was the end of it, the madness continued. "And these products you speak of?"

Was he... did he really want to learn about human haircare? You supposed your hands were tied on the matter, so you heaved a sigh. "It's an umbrella term; there's hair masks, shampoo and conditioner, oils, butters–"

"You apply butter to your hair?" came a new, incredulous voice. Warriors and Wild strode out from the patio door, the former's scarf looped around his nose and mouth in a manner that made you wonder if you should be nervous. You attempted to release Fierce, but he refused, hold only tightening. "Dude– what's up, Wars, Wild?"

"Where's the... Hylia, I can't remember the name for the life of me," Wars scratched his head and groaned. "The red cylinder–"

"You mean the fire extinguisher?" You asked incredulously, trying and failing to hide your mounting terror.

Warriors grinned and snapped his fingers. "That's it! So...?"

"It's under the sink," you deadpanned. "Please tell me the kitchen isn't on fire."

"Okay, we won't," said Wild, already jogging backwards. You sighed as they retreated back into the house, the acid scent of smoke fingering in through the cracked windows.

"God give me strength–"

"You may utter that once more," said the deity with an exhausted expression.

Other than his horrible euphemism for 'you can say that again', you completely agreed with that statement. "I'd love to stay, but I really don't have the money to get a new microwave," you said a tad sheepishly, weaseling from his slackened grip. "You've got the talent, and don't you forget it!"

It was only until you disappeared inside the house that the Fierce Deity released the sigh he had been holding... and the arm that had raised in a half-hearted attempt to draw you back. 'Pitiful' was the first word to come to his mind when he thought of you; he was a god, and yet he was practically helpless to the whims of a mortal. He wondered how the goddesses saw him now, tamer than a sparrow in a golden cage and more obedient than a hound on a leash. Perhaps it was wonder that drew him closer, emboldened by the terrifying presence of love in his barren heart. There were so many different types of love, and the Fierce Deity liked to think he felt at least one of them toward you. It would certainly explain the uncomfortable feeling in his chest when one of the others had your attention. But, rational as he was, the deity knew attempting to control you would be like trying to stem a raging river. Not that he wanted to, he simply desired your eyes on him, your hands in his own, warm and soft with gentle promises of comfort. He wondered if you would make good on your word, because, really, the concept of dance lessons was a preposterous idea–the Fierce Deity didn't dance at the whims of mortals–and he would be eternally grateful to the goddesses for granting him that pleasure.

This ask is insanely on time because I JUST learned how to square dance yesterday at college. Also this is an unofficial part of Knightmare in Toronto <3

#fierce deity x reader #fierce dadity #the chain x reader #fierce deity #linked universe #linked universe x reader #loz fanfic #loz #lu wild #lu x reader #lu time #lu wind #lu twilight #lu legend #lu warriors #legend of zelda

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sidekick-hero · 1 year ago

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we were meant to be (we live happily in my fantasy)

(steddie | explicit | wc: 5672 | written for @steddiemas Smutty Sunday prompt needing to be quiet | tags/cw: public sex in a bathroom, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Escort Steve Harrington, Modern Setting, Multiple Orgasms, Happy Ending

Eddie Munson has it all.

The big mansion with more bathrooms than anyone could ever need, five platinum albums in as many years, countless awards to show the world that the trailer trash from a shithole town in Indiana had made it, and enough money to buy said shithole town if he ever wanted to. Which he certainly didn't, thank you very much. The only good thing about this hellhole is his uncle, who still refuses to live anywhere else.

Eddie Munson also has the most gorgeous date of all the Grammy attendees on his arm, smiling charmingly at the flashing cameras and winning the hearts of everyone he so much as looks at.

God, Eddie wishes Steve Harrington was his, too, in all the ways that really matter. But just like his house and his cars and his wardrobe, which is worth more than his uncle made in a year at the plant, Steve is only as much his as money can make you. Sure, he owns his time and his attention and his devastatingly handsome smile for the agreed upon amount of time, but not his heart. Never his heart.

Eddie Munson has it all, except the love he so desperately wants. That's what you get, he guesses, when you fall in love with your escort.

When Chrissy first suggested it, hiring an escort seemed like a great idea. It would solve most of his problems, especially because it would keep people off his back by making them think Eddie was seeing someone. It stopped most of the stupid questions about his love life in interviews that were supposed to be about his and his band's music. It stopped all the rumors about him dating some random celebrity or one of his friends. It gave him someone to take to all the boring as fuck events he had to attend without getting anyone's hopes up only to have Eddie walk away from them the next day, already bored.

When he opened the door to his hotel room almost a year ago to find the most beautiful man he'd ever seen standing in front of him, he already had a feeling that he might regret ever saying yes to Chrissy's idea. That feeling only got worse when Steve, the name of the apparition in front of him, turned out to not only be kind and caring, but also funny as hell. The more comfortable he got around Eddie, the more Eddie got to know his bitchy side, and it had Eddie in stitches every time Steve unleashed it on some annoying redneck or corporate suit they encountered.

Spending time with Steve soon became something Eddie looked forward to weeks in advance. Because it meant he had a reason to tell Chrissy to book Steve for a few precious hours, he found himself saying yes to more requests than ever before. At first, Eddie told himself it was because it was so rare for him to meet new people he enjoyed being around. All of his friends he's known since high school and the people he hooks up with usually don't stay long enough to have a real conversation. So, Eddie tells himself, it's just the novelty of having someone who hasn't heard (or lived through) all of his stories, and who, in turn, broadens Eddie's horizons with funny anecdotes and surprisingly clever analyses of movies and shows they've both seen.

Eddie knows he's been fooling himself since the first time their lips touched and a kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight in his stomach.

Steve had kissed him for the first time about three months after Eddie had hired him. They had been at a party in the Hollywood Hills after another award show. Eddie's band had won six awards and he wanted to go out and celebrate. Returning from the restroom, he had found someone talking to Steve, hands on his shoulders, slowly sliding them down to his waist and crowding closer to him. The sight had hurt more than Eddie had expected, especially when the guy leaned in to put his mouth on Steve. But the kiss never happened because Steve had pushed him away forcefully.

Eddie didn't even realize he'd gotten close enough to the couple to hear the man's next words.

"Come on, you fucking slut. You spread them for Munson but not for me? Afraid of a real man giving it to you, is that it?" Hargrove spat, and Eddie finally recognized the backup singer from some wanna be rock band that always talked shit about Corroded Coffin, obviously jealous of their success.

"You disgusting pig," Eddie heard himself say from afar, and before either man could say anything, Eddie drew back his fist and connected with Hargrove's sneering face. The sound of it hitting his jaw was extremely satisfying, but Eddie had never hit anyone before and the pain in his hand came as a surprise.

Worst of all, Hargrove didn't go down like Eddie had hoped. Instead, he looked at Eddie with murder in his eyes, the muscles in his body tense, and Eddie knew what was coming next, so he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come.

Only it never came.

He peeked one eye open to find Steve with his hand fisted in Hargrove's shirt, their faces inches apart as Steve hissed at him. "If you so much as look at him the wrong way, I'll go to the press and tell them all about your charming words to me for not giving you the time of day. Maybe talk a little bit about what a sad and pathetic loser you are, clamoring for my attention because you wish you could be half the man Eddie is."

Eddie has never seen anything hotter than Steve Harrington threatening someone and he doesn't care how wrong that sounds. He dares anyone to look at his blazing eyes and the flexing muscles in his toned forearms and tell him it's not the hottest thing they've ever seen.

"Are we clear?" Steve growled, waiting for Hargrove's answer. For a moment it looked like fists were going to fly anyway, but then Eddie saw Hargrove nod almost imperceptibly and he let out the breath he'd been holding.

They left soon after and Steve insisted on going home with Eddie to look at his hand, which was starting to swell. "I've been there a few times, this is going to hurt like a bitch if you don't treat it right," he told Eddie and that was that. He took Steve home.

As he opened the front door of his house he expected some sort of reaction from Steve but none came. No looking around, no whistling, no remarks about his wealth or choice of decor. Just a warm hand on his shoulder and Steve asking where he keeps his first aid kit. Eddie wished he'd asked Steve over sooner, even though there was never a good reason.

In the master bathroom, Steve sat him down on the closed toilet seat before gracefully sinking to his knees in front of Eddie. Heat rushed to his cheeks at the sight, the movement conjuring up images he usually only indulged in the safety of his bedroom.

There was a thick tension between them as Steve tenderly reached for his swollen hand and began to put ointment on it. Eyes fixed on what he needed to do, Steve broke the silence that had fallen over them and began to speak in a low voice. "I'm not your damsel in distress, Eddie. I can take care of myself and I don't need anybody to save me, okay? This is not Pretty Woman, and if you want to keep asking for my services, you have to accept that."

Despite the calm in his voice, Eddie could tell that Steve was worked up, probably nervous about how Eddie would react to this. He had no idea where this speech was coming from, but the thought of Steve needing Eddie to save him sounded utterly ridiculous. He had only known Steve for a few months, but he was already well aware that Steve Harrington was a certified badass.

When he told Steve this, he was met with hazel eyes looking at him questioningly. "But why did you hit that guy if not because you thought I needed saving?"

Something in Steve's voice tugged at his heart, a vulnerability shining through the confident way he usually held himself, and Eddie responded instinctively, cupping Steve's neck with the hand not currently wrapped in Steve's.

"Because he deserved it? Steve, I know you could kick anyone's ass and probably look hot as hell doing it. Hearing that asshole talk like that about someone who is... I dunno, like you, I just couldn't help myself."

"Like me?"

With anyone else, Eddie would think they were fishing for compliments, but he knows Steve isn't. He really has no idea how maddeningly exceptional he is.

"Yeah, like you. Someone who talks all the time about a bunch of kids that he used to babysit because he's obviously so proud of them and he cares about them so much. Someone who makes our limo stop so he can give a homeless family the contents of our mini-fridge, who always makes himself seem a little smaller than he is around people who are shy and easily intimidated. Someone who gives the best verbal dressing-down I've ever heard, but also makes me feel like I'm funny and interesting every time I spend time with him. Someone who sees the world differently and isn't afraid to ask questions and speak his mind, even if people think they're stupid for it. Because they're not, they just don't fit into their dumb little boxes. You don't fit in those stupid boxes and a disgusting pig like Hargrove doesn't get to talk to you like that."

Eddie has no idea what came over him at that moment, the words pouring out of his mouth like water from a burst pipe, but they seemed to be the right ones. At least judging by the way Steve lunged forward to capture his lips in a surprisingly sweet kiss.

It was then that Eddie realized his grave mistake. He never expected it to happen, so he had left his heart unguarded around Steve, not realizing it had been stolen until it was too late. Running away was no longer an option, so instead he surrendered to the intoxicating feeling of Steve's plush lips against his, giving his body to the man who already owned his heart.

Not surprisingly, they ended the night with Steve buried deep inside of him, his hand still wrapped around Eddie's bandaged one.

Eddie doesn't know how much more sleeping with him would add to Steve's rate, but he doesn't care. He felt a little sleazy at first, paying for sex, but every time he looks at Steve he knows it's worth every penny in his bank account, along with his dignity.

Knowing he was royally screwed the second Steve's lips touched his, Eddie shoveled his grave deeper and deeper, finding more and more reasons to go out with Steve on his arm, only to bring him home and get lost in his body.

Eddie always wakes up alone, though, and it starts to eat away at him, this longing for more. He wants to wake up with Steve's bed hair tickling his nose where it is tucked against Steve's neck, to feel his sleep-warm skin against his own, to hear Steve grumble as he inevitably begins to explore the tantalizing body in his arms, only to have the sound turn into a wanton moan. He wants breakfast in bed and morning showers together, fighting over who gets to read the editorial cartoons first.

When he accepts his first Grammy, he wants to tell the world that as incredible as it is to stand here and see a lifelong dream come true, it's not the most important thing in his life anymore. It's not the award in his hands, but the man sitting in the third row, next to his manager and best friend Chrissy, beaming at him with pride.

But he doesn't, he just thanks their crew, their fans and of course his friends and his uncle before he hands the microphone to Jeff to do the same.

Later, at the reception, he drowns his heartache in the expensive champagne being handed to him left and right. Steve is plastered to his side and when Eddie reaches for the fourth glass, he stops him with his lips against his ear. "I have plans for you and they don't involve you passing out drunk." His deep voice whispers and Eddie feels goosebumps rise all over his body.

He lets the waiter pass and eyes Steve hungrily. "Stevie, you naughty boy. Not in front of the kids," Eddie giggles, waving to his bandmates and Chrissy, who all roll their eyes indulgently. They know he pays Steve, but they never act like it, and Eddie is grateful for that. They're probably aware of his feelings because Eddie has never been subtle and they've known him most of his life. If they feel sorry for him, they don't show it, but Eddie sees their worried looks sometimes.

Steve snorts inelegantly and Eddie thinks they're both a little high on champagne and endorphins.

When he leans in close again and Eddie wraps a possessive arm around his waist, Steve purrs in his ear, low enough that only Eddie can hear him. "Meet me in the restroom in the back. I have a surprise for you, Mr. Big-Shot-Rockstar." With that, Steve plants a wet kiss on his cheek and tells the group he'll be right back.

Eddie counts to 83 before he can't wait any longer and follows Steve, not even bothering with an excuse. They all know what they are up to anyway. He thinks he hears Gareth muttering "Unbelievable" and Chrissy whistling behind him, but he's already on his way to the restroom Steve mentioned at the back of the venue.

When he gets there, however, he can't find any trace of Steve.

"Steve?" he calls, his voice echoing off the tiles. Even his breathing sounds loud, so he holds his breath, listening for any sign of life. Then he hears it, the slick sound of slippery skin sliding against skin and ragged breathing. It comes from somewhere around the corner and Eddie follows it slowly. When he turns the corner he sees another row of stalls and feet peeking out of the last one. The door is open.

The closer he gets, the louder the sounds coming from the stall, and his cock stiffens in his pants at the thought of what he'll find.

He's still not prepared for the sight of Steve standing inside, naked as the day he was born, his clothes neatly folded on the closed toilet lid. His big, veiny hand is wrapped around his hard cock, already gleaming from the pre-cum smeared along its length. He's pumping it almost lazily, his eyes lustful and bright as they blink back at Eddie. His other hand plays with his stiff nipple and Eddie can feel his own cock leaking at the sight.

"Steve," he breathes out in wonder, "fuck, look at you. What are you doing to me?"

"Not enough, so you have to come here and let me get my hands on you." Steve's voice sounds strained, like he's already keyed up from the way he's touching himself, and Eddie has half a mind to just keep watching Steve getting himself off. But then he moans Eddie's name, and it's high and needy, luring Eddie over with its siren call.

Following it, Eddie squeezes into the narrow stall and wraps his own hand around the hard length of Steve's cock. The flesh is hot in his palm, its girth already familiar, and Eddie thinks he'll never touch another dick, not even his own, as long as he can have this. Steve has ruined him, completely and utterly, and it's that thought that finally breaks the tenacious control he's had over his emotions all these months.

His lips crash against Steve's without any finesse, there's just hunger and love and an urgency he can't explain as his arm wraps around Steve's waist while his other hand remains wrapped around his cock. They're pressed together from head to toe, Eddie still fully dressed in his expensive designer pants and burgundy shirt and Steve gloriously naked. He's probably smearing Pre all over his pants, which are rented and which he probably has to pay for now. But what are a few thousand dollars more when he can have Steve moaning brokenly against his already swollen lips at the feel of the smooth material rubbing against the sensitive head of his cock.

"You're killing me, baby. So sexy, knowing exactly what you're doing to me," Eddie pants as he pulls his hungry mouth away from Steve's, kissing along his blushing cheeks and down the sharp line of his jaw to take it between his teeth. Steve's hips keep twitching, desperate to rub against Eddie's hand, Eddie's pants, anything that will give him some friction, shameless and so fucking hot that Eddie can barely think.

He soothes his bite marks with his tongue and picks up the pace of his hand on Steve, reveling in the slick sounds that fill the empty restroom. "This is what you want, huh? For me to get you off in a public restroom, for you to come all over me, for you to mark me with your cum so that everyone can see how gone I am for you?"

Steve moans brokenly at his words, his hips stuttering and Eddie can feel the telltale twitch of his cock so he quickly sinks to his knees, the movement eerily similar to the night of their first kiss all those months ago when their roles had been reversed.

Twisting his fingers in Eddie's hair, their grip painfully tight and arousing at the same time, Steve comes in Eddie's mouth, his hot cum shooting down his throat, making him cough and splutter, but still eagerly drinking down every drop. He keeps milking Steve's cock until the overstimulation becomes painful and only then does he pull off of Steve to look up at him.

What he sees takes his breath away.

The hands in his hair have loosened their death grip and are instead tenderly combing through his messy locks. Steve's eyes are liquid amber, the color high in his cheeks as dark as the red of his lips, and the expression on his face is unbearably soft. One of his hands slides from Eddie's hair to his face, gently cupping his cheek and wiping away a few stray drops from the corner of his mouth. Their eyes lock and Eddie couldn't look away even if he wanted to, lost in Steve, in his smell, the feel of his hairy thighs under his palms, his taste on his tongue and the sight of his beloved face filled with warmth and affection.

He's not sure he'll be able to come back from this.

"Eddie," Steve begins in a soft voice and he knows what Steve is going to say and he just can't bear to hear it right now. Steve will tell him that they need to get dressed, to go back, to continue their charade until Eddie has to go home to his empty house and his empty bed and his empty life.

"Quite a surprise you had there, Stevie. Totally worth paying for those pants," he jokes, trying for some levity.

Steve gives him a crooked smile and says, "That wasn't my surprise, actually. Well, not all of it. But you... I wasn't expecting... um, this," he finishes lamely, shrugging, and Eddie feels his face heat up. Steve did not expect Eddie to lose it so much at the sight of him.

"Oops," Eddie jokes, obviously embarrassed but trying not to show it. "What surprise have I ruined?"

The hand still cupping his cheek pulls Eddie back to his feet and he winces a little as his knees crack. Smiling at him, Steve uses his hand on Eddie to draw him in for a sweet, almost chaste kiss, were it not for the fact that Steve is still naked and can probably taste himself on Eddie's lips and tongue, which he playfully teases with his own.

As they kiss, Steve blindly reaches for Eddie's hand and guides it to his ass and between his cheeks. Following Steve's lead, he teases his fingers along the crack down to his hole and gasps against Steve's mouth when he feels the hard stopper of a plug there. "Fuck," he hisses, "you are trying to kill me."

"I take it you like your surprise?" Steve sounds smug, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction at the wrecked look on Eddie's face.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea. No idea."

Palming Eddie's hard cock straining against the fly of his pants, Steve smirks. "I might have at least some idea. How about we do something about it, huh?" He adds, giving his cock a squeeze that causes his eyes to almost roll back in his head.

"Please," he practically begs, eagerly playing with the plug, pulling it out and pushing it back in before twisting it on the next pull.

Steve's arms wrap around him, pressing against Eddie and suddenly turning them both around so that Steve's back is to the open door. He pulls away from their embrace and Eddie whines at the loss of Steve in his arms. "One second, baby, just lemme close the door real quick," he coos.

Making good on his words, he grabs the door handle and pulls the door shut before locking it. Eddie reaches for him again as soon as it's done, but Steve seems to have a different idea. He turns and rests his forearms against the closed door, his forehead between them. Arching his broad back, covered with moles and beauty marks, he pushes his round ass out at Eddie and shakes it for good measure.

Looking over his shoulder and giving Eddie a cheeky grin, he asks, "What are you waiting for, lover boy? A written invitation?"

Smack.

The sound of Eddie's hand connecting with Steve's cheek is loud, echoing off the tiles and ringing through the empty restroom. A red handprint is already forming on the pale skin and the sight makes something primal inside him purr with satisfaction.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Steve curses and for a moment Eddie is afraid he has really hurt him, but then he sees Steve's hips buck. He moves closer and drapes himself over Steve's back, reaching around to find his cock more than half hard again.

"Every time I think you can't get any hotter," Eddie mutters to himself and Steve chuckles.

"Yeah? Right back at you," he replies with a smile in his voice. Then, more quietly, he asks, "Do it again?"

There's nothing Eddie would like more, but first he wants to see how far this newfound dynamic will go. "Only if you ask real nice, baby. Only good boys get what they want."

The cock he's still holding fills out even more, growing fully hard in his hand, and Eddie has never been in love like this. It's a weird moment to realize, but they didn't call him a freak for nothing, he supposes.

"Fuck, okay, okay. Can you -" Steve begins, already breathing hard, almost panting. "Can you please spank me again?"

Smack.

The moan that bursts from Steve's throat is loud and guttural, and the redness on his cheeks looks perfect. There's only one thing missing, his cum decorating it, the white a beautiful contrast to the angry red.

"Yes, please, Eddie, please, come on me, paint me with your cum, rub it into my skin, anything you want," Steve babbles, his cock as hard as it was just before he shot down Eddie's throat. Eddie must have said his thoughts out loud, too far gone to realize it, but he doesn't care. They clearly want the same thing and he suddenly can't wait any longer.

"Please baby, tell me you brought lube and a condom?"

"Jacket. Right pocket. Hurry, I need you, Eddie."

"You got me, baby," he whispers, taking the time to plant a soft kiss on the back of Steve's neck. Then he fishes what they need out of Steve's jacket and is back on him in seconds. He reaches for the plug that keeps Steve stretched and open and gently pulls it out, watching in rapture as Steve's rim stretches around it, trying to suck it back in, thinking of how it will feel around his cock in a minute.

When it pops free, he sets it on the floor and pushes Steve's legs further apart before coating two of his fingers with lube. "I'm just checking to see if you're ready for me, okay?" Eddie tells Steve as he pushes his fingers inside. They sink in easily, no resistance as Eddie smears the lube around the rim. He can feel Steve's heartbeat against his fingers and thinks he'll never get tired of this.

"I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready, c'mon Eddie, please," Steve begs and Eddie doesn't even think about denying him. Instead, he shushes Steve with another kiss, this time between his shoulder blades, before resting his forehead against the skin there as he pulls down his fly, finally freeing his cock. It's an angry red, leaking copious amounts of pre-cum, and Eddie knows he won't last long.

He rolls the condom down his length and coats it with more lube before guiding the head to Steve's waiting hole and slowly pushing in, wanting to give Steve time to adjust. Steve is having none of it though, just pushing back until Eddie sinks in all the way, making them both groan.

"The. Death. Of. Me," Eddie pants against Steve's back and Steve chuckles. Then, once again showing no mercy, he tightens around Eddie's cock before relaxing again, but before Eddie can catch his breath, Steve slides almost all the way off him before pushing back, effectively fucking himself on Eddie's length.

"Fuck, baby, I won't last long like this," he whimpers, already feeling himself getting closer, his orgasm pulled from him by the tight grip of Steve's ass around him.

"Good."

Steve breathes hard, moans and high-pitched whimpers falling from his lips as he manages to fuck Eddie's cock against his prostate, and Eddie holds on for dear life, his hands wrapping around Steve's and pulling them up to the top of the door, both of them clutching it just to hold on to something.

Just as Eddie feels his balls tighten against his body, he hears the door to the venue creak.

Acting on pure instinct, adrenaline flooding his system, he slaps a hand over Steve's mouth, his other hand grabbing his hip to halt his movements.

Someone enters the restroom, the man's footsteps clearly audible as he walks over to one of the stalls, and Eddie is shocked to find a giggle rising in his throat. Here he is, in a public restroom at the goddamn Grammy Awards, balls deep in the man he's paying to be with him and who he's in love with, while another man is probably about to take a dump. Everything about it is so fucking ridiculous that he has to fight the laughter that is about to burst out of his mouth.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn't seem to suffer from the same fate. Instead, he clamps down on Eddie's cock inside of him, silently urging him to get over himself and let Steve fuck himself on his cock again.

"Steve," Eddie warns in a low voice, nothing more than a breath against the shell of Steve's ear. They can hear the other man's zipper coming down and then the sound of a stream hitting the bowl. Eddie uses the sound to speak as quickly and quietly as he can. "We have to be quiet."

Steve nods against his hand, but doesn't stop clenching rhythmically around him, moving his hips as much as he can with Eddie's hand still wrapped around him.

The flush of the toilet startles them both but only seems to spur Steve on, his movements becoming faster, more erratic and Eddie surrenders to him, no longer trying to hold him still but reaching around him and grasping his hard cock in his hand, thumbing at the slit and smearing the pre-cum around the head. A whimper escapes against his palm and he hastily stuffs Steve's mouth with his fingers to starve out any more sounds. He's glad it happened while the man on the other side of their stall turns on the faucet to wash his hands.

Steve comes all over the door with the sound of the dry blower drowning out his stifled moans around Eddie's fingers, and Eddie has to bite down on Steve's shoulder to muffle his own scream as he follows him over the edge and fills the condom.

They both catch their breath as they hear the restroom door close again.

The giggles finally break free and this time Steve joins in. "Fuck my life, that was hands down one of the weirdest moments that has ever happened to me," he laughs as he pulls out and ties off the condom.

"But also kind of hot," Steve adds, and Eddie isn't sure he agrees. It had been hot to have Steve squirm on his cock, so drunk on pleasure that he didn't care if someone overheard them. The way he had somehow used Eddie for his own pleasure, that had been hot too. But someone taking a piss while he was fucking didn't really do much for him.

He kind of liked the pressure of having to keep quiet, though. Definitely something he'd like to explore.

" Sort of, yeah," he allows, turning Steve over to give him a deep kiss. When they part, he helps Steve get dressed again, aching all the while with how much he wants to take Steve home now, to curl up in bed together and fall asleep in each other's arms. He's suddenly tired, not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally.

He's not sure he can do this anymore.

As they leave the bathroom to find his bandmates and Chrissy, Eddie thinks maybe it's time to accept the facts and try to get over Steve. He can't keep chasing a dream that will never come true. Steve won't do this forever, and when he decides it's time to do something else with his life, Eddie will be left behind, on his own, to put the pieces of his heart back together again.

He'd rather start now, while he still has a chance to maybe find something real someday. Because one thing Steve has shown him is that he wants that. Something real. Someone to stay.

Eddie wants that someone to be Steve, but even if he has it all, he won't have that.

When they say their goodbyes, Steve asks if they're going to Eddie's, and it hurts to see his face fall when Eddie tells him no, but it's for the best. Steve will still get paid handsomely for tonight and Eddie has the memory of their little adventure today stored away for bad days.

The next morning, he calls Chrissy to tell her that they will no longer need Steve's services.

"But why?" Chrissy asks, clearly surprised after having to book Steve at least once a week for the past few months.

"Because I need to find someone who wants to be with me, Chris. Really wants to be with me. Steve's great, but I need to stop living a lie."

"So you're telling me you're not hopelessly in love with him, Munson?" That's his best friend, cutting to the chase and getting right to the point. He loves and hates that about her in equal measure.

"You know I do, or you wouldn't ask, but I don't see what that has to do with me needing to find someone to love me."

Chrissy sighs deeply. "Oh, Eddie." And that's her "You're an idiot, Eddie Munson" voice.

"I don't know why you're 'Oh Eddie'-ing me here, Chris. I'm trying to be -"

"He hasn't accepted payment in five months." Chrissy cuts him off.

What?

"What?"

"He hasn't taken payment for the last five months. He asked me not to tell you, and I figured he'd tell you eventually, but he never did. He always said he would soon, that he was waiting for the right moment, and I promised myself to wait until the new year, and if he didn't tell you by then, I'd tell you. Even someone without eyes could see how much you are gone for him."

"So the last five months, all those hours, all those events, all those nights we had sex, he never got paid for it?" Eddie couldn't believe what he was hearing. They spent so much time together, time he didn't pay for, time Steve could have spent with clients making money.

"Eddie, he never charged you for sleeping with you. That's not part of the services he offered, he told me that when I first hired him. He did it because he wanted to, he's been dating you for almost half a year. Which you'd know if you -"

"I gotta go, Chris."

"Tell Steve I said hi," he hears her say as he ends the call, already throwing on some random clothes before heading down to his car.

He has to talk to Steve, tell him what a fucking idiot he's been before asking him to move in with him, since they've apparently been dating for several months now and it's not too early to ask.

Eddie can't wait to really have it all.

#steddiemas #steddie smut #steddie #eddie x steve #steddie fanfic #nsft #my writing #rockstar eddie munson #modern au

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kairiscorner · 2 years ago

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Helloo, can I request Miguel with an artist reader who draws him a lot? 👉👈 Like the reader has a secret crush on Miguel and he inspires them a lot, without even knowing it. And maybe there's a Gwen-and-Miles-like-situation where Miguel by accident discovers the drawings of him in their sketchbook?

AAAAAAAA ANON THIS IS SO CUTE !! tbh i wanted to finish the miggy fic i had for ate @binibinileonara bc i wanted to connect these two together, BUT I COULDN'T RESIST, I'LL MAKE IT SEPARATE BC WHY NOT !! thank you for the lovely idea btw (i also had an idea like this actually in my notes) THANKS FOR GIVING ME THE OOMPH TO DO IT !!

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

you always had this desire to capture all that interested you in its full beauty, in its unbridled greatness. that was, to you, the essence of all your art pieces; they always reflected how you saw the world, how you saw nature, how you saw people.

you never believed people had one or two faces to them, you believed people were multi-faceted, that every person was a kaleidoscope of beauty, skills, quirks, flaws, fears, hopes, and dreams. you loved capturing every bit of people who intrigued you the best you could, and you hoped that if you stood back and admired the big picture that was them, going over the details and fibers that made each person their own–from the good, bad, pretty and ugly details–you would finally see the whole, uncut image of the person you were illustrating; who you were painting in the colors you saw them in, the colors that stuck with you and filled the empty canvas of your mind with all sorts of shapes and splotches of hues and shades that formed the image of them when their name would come to mind.

and for some reason... that person to you right now was miguel o'hara. you had a lot of things to say about him, even words that many would argue don't exist. you felt a myriad of feelings when you were around miguel, and you knew there was more than just the dictating leader miguel that everyone was familiar with. like all people, miguel, too, was an explosion of different kinds of colors to you–colors that only you could see, because when he was around you... he was more than just the cool, calm, and collected boss everyone saw him as.

he was much more caring, much more funny around you. his smile when you told him a funny story illuminated a bright yellow and a warm orange to you–his eyes would twinkle and you'd see the hazelnut brown in his eyes, and a shade of what appeared to be coffee brown at the bottom of his irises. he exuded a commanding aura, a dark, cool blue–but when paired with you, and only you, he exuded a bright red; a color of fiery passion, intimacy, and most of all... attraction.

he was the subject of your affections, you, the soulful and emotional artist that admired him and all that he was from afar and up close. you admired the way he held your hand when you were scared on a few missions, you admired how gently he held you when you two were caught between a rock and a hard place; and how soft and loving his eyes were when they gazed at you. you knew he might have felt a platonic kind of love for you, what with being so comfortable around you and all, but you felt a different kind of love for him–and you hated denying your creative side the indulgence of capturing him in all his beauty.

hence, you began slowly filling the empty spaces of your sketchbooks and notebooks, or whatever other papers lay around when inspiration struck you, with images of him and only him. you caught his face in moments where he was nonchalant, disappointed, angry, grumpy, and... smiling.

when you witnessed his smile for the first time when you met him, that image was burned into your retinas, into your mind, into your heart. you saw that smile from the minute you went to bed to the minute you woke up, the only thing that saddened you was that you could never hold that man who smiled at you and made your heart beat a little faster–you could only watch him and be with him at a distance. but art was the bridge between you two that'd close that distance you wanted to cover so, so badly.

you did, at times, believe what you were doing was... a little creepy. you refused to let anyone see your sketchbooks even before you drew him, and that was out of embarrassment at your drawings. but now, it was a new kind of embarrassment, a feeling adjacent to guilt and disgust at how nobody but he could fill your mind and have you wanting to keep him in your mind by feeding yourself, indulging yourself in putting him on paper and coloring him in; to be with him at a closer perspective than how you two were in the real world.

you had to admit it–seeing him constantly in your mind, wanting to let thoughts of him out on paper as you wanted to be through with imagining him, but knew you couldn't the more and more you portrayed him–it meant you... wanted him. you really, really loved him.

you knew nobody should know, nobody had to know about this little crush you had on miguel. you'd rather die than have someone peek at your sketchbook that was filled with all kinds of drawings of him. but unfortunately, the man himself bore witness to your caricatures and illustrations of him when you left your sketchbook at his office.

you ran as quickly as you could, praying he hadn't opened it out of curiosity. he was always asking you what you were up to, and you'd immediately shut your sketchbook and laugh awkwardly, claim you were merely doodling. you always left out the part that you were constantly drawing him, and only ever him; and now, he'd find out.

as you entered his office, scouring with your eyes for your sketchbook, a figure emerged from the darkness behind you and gave a slight cough. "this is yours, isn't it?" that low, fluid voice was none other than miguel's. you turned around in fear of what he was going to look like–would any of the faces you drew seeing him as be one of the faces you'd see?

to your surprise... no. he had a different, completely new face that you had never drawn him in; a flustered state. he was blushing, his angled cheeks and high nose bridge were covered in a pink-red hue–and he was grinning. he handed you the sketchbook with a now sheepish smile. "i'm sorry, i wasn't sure if it was yours. i had to... look through for a name. and, um... it was very–" he wanted to continue, but then, he saw you were on the verge of tears.

"i'm... sorry..." you muttered, feeling incredibly ashamed of yours and busted for having indulged in drawing him without him knowing. guilt stirred in your stomach and elicited tears to well up in your eyes. miguel smiled, and as his eyebrows curved upwards together to form a look of reassurance, he placed both hands on your shoulders.

"listen, you have a wonderful talent. i'm sorry if you don't hear that enough, but that changes today. i'm so... wow, i'm so flattered you thought i was good enough to be drawn that way. it feels... amazing, to know an artist sees me fit to be their, what would you call it?" he asked as he wiped a tear rolling down your cheek away from you.

"a... muse." you whispered, wiping the rest of your tears away. miguel chuckled. "right, a muse." he said as he inched closer to you, with the sweetest smile on his face. "i might sound really crazy right now, but... i want to be your muse. i really, really want to be your muse." he said, with emphasis on 'your'.

your face lightened up as the tears that welled up gave your eyes a glassy look, and you saw the blush on his deepen as you became more and more flustered. you smiled and wrapped your arms around his chest, pulling him in for an embrace you needed to release. "and i want to be your artist. only yours." you whispered, to which miguel reciprocated your hug. and it was here that you witnessed him in a new color, a pinkish, reddish hue that made you feel all kinds of happiness and excitement.

a love meant to be captured and painted in with bursts of emotion and care for one another.

a/n: I'M SO SORRY IF IT DIDN'T COME OUT THAT WELL NGL I MADE THIS A LITTLE RUSHED 😭😭😭 BUT I LOVE MIGGY HERE PLSSS AND I HOPE Y'ALL LOVE HIM HERE, TOO <333

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #atsv #atsv miguel #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spidersona

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the-danmei-multiverse-and-angst · 6 months ago

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Danmei I've read & Love and My Ratings (mostly angst with happy endings)

MDZS/Mo Dao Zu Shin (Angst) /5🌟 TGCF/Heaven Officials Blessing (Angst) / 5🌟 Yuwu/Remnants of Filth (❤️‍🩹🥹 Angst) /5🌟 Sword Named No Way Out (Angst) /5🌟 Would You Like to Have A Drink /4🌟 Wu Chang Jie (Angst🥹) /5🌟 War Prisoner (Angst) /5🌟 Cold Sands (Angst/Bittersweet Ending/not a HE but not a bad ending) /5🌟 The Ugly Empress (Angst) /5🌟 Swallowing the Seas (Modern/Angst) /5🌟 Mo Du/Silent Reading (Modern/some decent Angst) /5🌟 Cherry Blossoms Upon a Wintry Sword ( Some Angst) /5🌟 Nan Chan (Angst) /5🌟 Misvil (Mistakenly Saving The Villain/Angst but with comedic tone...hard to explain but has TWs) /5🌟 Blind Concubine (Angst/No HE, Bittersweet? Haven't read in a long time) /5🌟 Spring Trees & Sunset Clouds (Angst) /5🌟 Huitian /5🌟 Ballad of Song & Wine (Qiang Jin Jiu)/ 5🌟 Peerless /Wushuang /5🌟 Can Ci Pin/ 5🌟 Kaleidoscope of Death/5🌟 Global University Entrance Exam/5🌟 Mist /5🌟 Copper Coins ( A little bit of Angst to me, but still a great story, HE)/ 5🌟 Governor's Illness /5🌟 Faraway Wanderers /5🌟 It's Not Easy Being a Master (Angst)/5🌟 Record of the Missing Sect Master (Angst) /5🌟 Stranger (KR novel) /4🌟 Thrive In Catastrophe /5🌟 The Legendary Master's Wife /4🌟 Rebirth of The Supreme Celestial Being /4🌟

I wrote a poem for Cold Sands danmei novel years ago, right after I finished the novel because I was so inspired by the story and it made my heart ache. Here is the poem:

Wings clipped by truth The fall swift and harsh Lies unveiled Fate strung a web of deceit A trap, snaring the victim This bird, tied down Voice cut-out -silenced Never to sing Never to cry out Never to sing its beautiful melodies once more Never to give sound to its pain The world itself, what a beautiful cage- A big and wide unknown, and sometimes deceitful place Freedom- is only a short illusory image Unobtainable- A Mirage in the desert when one is dying from thirst Just out of reach, as though grasping at sand as it slips through your fingertips And as the dark begins to unravel Twist and unwind- Mighty is the weight thrust upon the heart, Subduing its pulse, the beating drum- a strangled ba-thump...ba-thump...ba-thump... An anchor drowning the soul, Just as as heavy as one that bears a crown upon their head, No escape is possible now As the strings of fate tighten, the birds wings are broken Fragmented and shattered Unable to never fly Never again to soar the skies

(End/ Extra below)

......

Did you ever once hear the Greek tale of a boy, the boy who wanted to fly close to the sun?

His father created wings of made wax for his child and warned him, told him not to fly to high, to not fly to close to the sun.

However, the boy, Icarus, didn't listen to his father's words.

He flew, soaring higher, and higher, as close as he could get to the sun. His wings made of wax were melted away by the suns brilliance and Icarus fell to earth.

To his end.

And the Lotus flower, that blooms at the bottom of a lake, steeped in mud, struggles and craves, longing and yearning for the suns brilliance, but they can never touch the sun.

And a bird, born with wings to fly, can only fly so high, but never crossing that line, that boundary.

And sometimes love is just the same.

Not every story can have a happy ending, no matter the toil, the strife, the pain.

And some times, no my matter how much you love someone, you may forever be enemies, on opposing sides, love hidden deep in your heart, and all you can do, is to stare wistfully at the horizon, yearning until the end.

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honey-minded-hivemind · 6 months ago

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A reader with wings, but instead of big, fluffy angel wings or leathery, sharp bat wings, they got beautiful, delicate fae wings.

While they aren't anywhere near as fast as Peter, they can still zip around on the battle field, making them hard to hit and harder to catch.

The wings themselves are translucent but full of colors. When the sun hits them just right, a kaleidoscope of light shines out. But they aren't just for show, no no no no! They are razor sharp despite being so thin. It's like getting a paper cut from the world's longest sheet of paper.

The fairy comparison doesn't end there, because they can shrink down to fae size! They can be travel sized for your convenience! No room in the quinjet? They can chill in someone's pocket. Not enough seats in Scott's car for a snack run? They'll sit in the cup holders, just don't squish them with your soda. Playing hide and seek? You'll never win cause Reader shrunk down and is hiding in the cookie jar. Room in the mansion gets destroyed, and they got no where to sleep? Set up a Barbie Dreamhouse in someone else's room and they r good to go.

They got a super green thumb and can be found in the greenhouse with Storm growing the weirdest plant hybrid ever. Their powers let them get real down close to the dirt and stems to see if anything is wrong. Though now they are waging a mini-war on the snails and squirrels that keep ruining their garden.

If you wanted to take it a step further, you could make them able to control plants, give them twisty vine hair, and give them pheromones. Instead of animal pheromones, they're plant pheromones, so they work a little differently, but still follow the same concept. Reader smells all floral instead of the musk the ferals have, but they could still track their bby down if they fly away.

Aaaawwww, fae mutant Reader!!! Super creative and cool! They're like the personal garden fairy, but a cut from their wings stings like a wasp!

They're great with hiding and doing missions where they need to spy or gather intel. They shrink down to an easier size, slip in, and simply stay still and listen in as long as it is safe to do so. They need to get away quick? Reader can fly them to safety, just one at a time, though! Someone tried to launch a weapon or hit at Reader's teammates during a battle or riot? Reader is using their wings to deflect anything, or cutting the person who tried to throw a punch. The garden needs an extra set of hands to keep it pest-free? Never fear, Reader will look for any mold, rot, or pests, and get rid of the problem!

They smell sweet, like roses or honeysuckle or lavender, and are beautiful, almost ethereal. Whenever the teens go out, they're making sure no one tries to get near Reader or mess with them, and Reader returns the favor. If someone makes sweet potatoes or a sweet potatoe casserole or sweet potato fries, Reader is right there, ready to taste test them! If anyone needs help lifting boxes or books, or washing dishes, or cleaning up, Reader is there to help!

(They're such a helpful bean, and the teens like hanging out with them, finding them thoughtful and a delight. The adults appreciate their helpful attitude, and do make sure to tell them they're being a big help. It's hard to feel upset with fae mutant Reader, as they're overall a helpful, thoughtful person who is quick to help and doesn't mind spending time with others)

(Cute idea, @sugar-soda! Fae mutant Reader is a delight! Which other mutations did you want to explore? Or any possible parent secret parent plot twists? I hope you're doing well! Thank you for sharing your ask!)

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen evolution #platonic yandere xmen evolution au #🍁one of us🧡 au

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riordanness · 7 months ago

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— trying to make the most emercy coded playlist ever 🌊🌸

🩰 wonderland,, taylor swift

act my age,, one direction 🦋

🎟️ habit,, louis tomlinson

suburban legends,, taylor swift 🌊

🌷 close to you,, gracie abrams

uh oh,, junior doctor 🫐

🌸 yeah boy,, kelsea ballerini

i’m falling in love,, wildflowers 🐬

💞 when emma falls in love,, taylor swift

the alchemy,, taylor swift 🐟

🎀 stand by you,, rachel platten

message in a bottle,, taylor swift 🪣

🦩 fictional,, khloe rose

the very first night,, taylor swift 🧞‍♂️

🍬 place in this world,, for king and country

not the 1975,, knox 🩵

👙 cruel summer,, taylor swift

vibes,, chase atlantic 🩱

👛 nights like this,, st. lundi

call it what you want,, taylor swift 🖌️

💐kaleidoscope,, a great big world

fortnight (feat. post malone),, taylor swift 🚙

🐷 wild uncharted waters,, jonah hauer-king

good kid,, chris mccarrell 🪁

👚 be kind (feat. halsey),, marshmallow

i like me better,, lauv 🫂

🩷 this kiss,, faith hill

mine,, taylor swift 🥣

💄stargazing (feat. amelie),, severo

rise,, jonas blue, jack & jack 🎽

🪷 long way home,, 5 seconds of summer

irresistible,, fall out boy ❄️

🌺 labyrinth,, taylor swift

wildest dreams,, taylor swift 🐳

💒 holy ground,, taylor swift

🫐🪷 link below ->

#percy jackson #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #perseus jackson #emma rebekah #emercy #emercy edit #emercy playlist #percy and emma #emma and percy #emma rebekah and percy jackson #taylor swift #book percy #book boyfriends #book percy jackson #percy jackson x me #Spotify

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tgrailwar-zero · 2 months ago

Text

You denied any of the options that DRACO provided. Most likely because none of them seemed that appealing. And you had things to do other than die. She scoffed.

DRACO: "Do you think yourself bold enough to say 'no' to me? Fools. Fine, you'll die by my choice. Drown in my cup so that I may consume you."

She lowered her grail, black mud beginning to pour out.

Curses, lurching forward, far more potent than anything you had ever seen or experienced.

Pure evil, pure malice, pure depravity, the worst of humanity all gathered together in a wine that smelled as sweet as the freshest fruits and as pungent as the most rotten of foods.

SUZUKA: "--Now!"

YIN YUANSHUAI: "Mm!"

SUZUKA leapt towards the head of the dragon, unsheathing her sword as she sliced the dragon's head off, the massive form falling to the ground as she caught the wounded MUSASHI.

Meanwhile, you saw as YIN manifested two more arms, drenched in cursed energy. They sprouted from his back and lunged forward- slashing against the nascent Beast and striking DRACO, causing her to loose concentration on whatever spell she was planning on casting.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "...You've clashed with the Taisui… very inauspicious of you…"

DRACO: "You think yourself above me, do you? The world, the sun, the moon, and all the stars... they revolve around one such as myself, not you!"

Her arms, as thin as they were seemed to shudder and shift, growing in size and extending in length as they were layered with crimson scales. They gripped onto the cursed arms, clawed fingers digging into them as she roared, ripping them off of YIN's body and tossing them to the side as they dissolved into cursed energy.

YIN grit his teeth, as the cursed pools that the arms had faded into summoned smoke-like tendrils that lashed out towards DRACO, striking her.

The two began to engage in combat. DRACO was faster, much faster than YIN, and seemed to land far more hits- but when YIN's attacks landed… they landed hard. You saw it, a barrage of fire and curses, the two of them engaged in devastating spellcraft.

SUZUKA: "Take cover!"

You heard SUZUKA yell, tackling you off to the side and rather roughly flinging MUSASHI behind a rock.

The sky grew black with cursed magical energy, before erupting in an array of colors. You saw DRACO's grail flash, gemstones shining brightly as a burning kaleidoscope rained down and sent YIN spiraling, crashing into the ground. She hovered above him, raising her hands before dark purple and red smoke erupted from the ground, the smoke itself forming into hands that gripped DRACO by the legs, yanking her down.

Her head cracked against the hard stone walkways of the village as she pushed herself up to her feet, YIN at the same time.

The two of them glared at each other, before resuming their brawl.

The amount of pure cursed energy emanating out of them was immense. Gargantuan. You had the sense that if a normal human was even a few hundred meters away, they'd begin to feel sickened and weak.

And you were right in the middle of it. Instinctively you covered your mouth... breathing in the miasma from the grail's mud and YIN's curses would be like inviting a thousand misfortunes onto your doorstep.

These were two calamities. A great calamitous god, and a demon that brought forth the Apocalypse.

SUZUKA: "...I'll let him handle softening her up-- don't worry, he's built for this."

SUZUKA: "Yin's a big boy. He's fought in a great divine war with allies and enemies a bajillion times scarier than Draco."

DRACO's tail raised, a beam of red light firing outward as it swung in a wide arc. SUZUKA pushed your head down further as the beam was inches away from decapitating you.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "Philosophy Key… on."

He held up an arm, symbols and glyphs forming in a circular pattern around it that expanded to match his height. The red beam struck it, the light breaking like glass against stone, before YIN held up one finger.

You saw another set of glyphs manifest around him. The images were clearer this time. Animals.

Rat. Ox. Tiger. Rabbit. Dragon. Snake. Horse. Goat. Monkey. Rooster. Dog. Pig.

Again and again and again and again. They swirled- spinning faster and faster around him, his magical energy climbing higher and higher.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "…Be cursed, for daring to stand against the Grand Duke. In an act of respect for your former self, I will be lenient in my punishment... Feel agony and misfortune... twelve times over."

A thin beam of azure light shot forward, before like a stampede of wild animals it expanded into a thunderous cloud of greens, blues, purples, reds, and black smoke as it struck and consumed DRACO. You heard her stifled scream that was swallowed into nothingness.

A moment passed.

Two.

Three.

Some of the rubble shifted, as a figure emerged.

Slowly, DRACO stood up, gritting her teeth in pain. She dusted the rubble off her dress, red eyes flaring with rage. However, she didn't seem that injured either. If anything, only her pride was chipped.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "..."

DRACO: "…I am still weak. Stronger, to be sure, but still weaker than my peak. That... and you don't belong to one of the Seven, do you, Zodiac God? No matter. Killing you and your handlers is a personal endeavor, but not my true goal. No, there is much sweeter fruit on a much higher vine."

DRACO: "The White Titan descends upon the world, eroding civilization as it stands."

DRACO: "The Sun Goddess tramples Humanity to stop it, drenching the world in flame."

DRACO: "And I drink deep in their last moments, indulging in their despair as humanity falls for good."

DRACO: "After all… Humanity sent its bright stars to the Moon in hopes of a wish…"

DRACO: "…And one by one, those stars all went out."

DRACO: "And thus, directionless, it will lead itself into oblivion as the planet dries up and their endless wars and resource hogging go nowhere. You may as well die now, as you'll have plenty of company in Hell."

DRACO: "Humanity is not facing a bad ending. No, it had already touched that point- now it faces its worst ending. And why not? It deserves it. It has stagnated, even this Human Order wouldn't taste as decadent on my tongue as others. Still... 'inauspicious', you said? No, fortune is rather firmly on my side to provide such a meal."

You saw her form begin to shimmer, the air around her beginning to distort. She was preparing to leave.

#thgw story #thgw: chapter 7

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amethystfairy1 · 9 months ago

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Do you have songs in mind for specific duos and couples in TTSBC?

ooooo y'know I did this awhile ago with all the SkyBlue couples that were out at the time, but I'll just do it again without looking at that old post and we'll see what's changed! I tend to shift songs depending on what I'm writing! So I'm sure most of the songs have probably changed for each couple since then! Here's what they're all running on right now 😆

Flower Husbands: Colors by Paradise Fears

Treebark: Talk Too Much by COIN

Doctho: Heart Open by KAYDEN

Desert Duo: Bad Word by Panicland

Zedango: Dog Days Are Over by Florence + The Machine

Nature Wives: Come With Me by Chxrlotte

And also this might be fun, here's another song I've been listening to a lot for...let's just say another couple of lil guys that I may or may not be working on 😉 lets see who can call me out first.

Kaleidoscope by A Great Big World

#fanfic #ao3 fanfic #music #hermitshiping #traffic smp #trafficshipping #ttsbc #ttsbc au #through the sky blue cracks #flower husbands #treebark #doctho #desertduo #zedango #nature wives #foreshadowing #worldbuilding

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tedwardremus · 4 months ago

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Oh!!!!

I got one, Mad-Eye babysitting Teddy Lupin and it’s a complete disaster, moodboard

As always, please and thank you 😊

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody had faced dark wizards, curses, and two deadly wars. He had trained countless Aurors and sacrificed more body parts than he cared to count, all in the name of keeping the wizarding world safe.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The toddler with blue hair sat across from him, staring at a plate of spaghetti with all the indignation of an Azkaban prisoner. Teddy Lupin was small but fierce, his chubby little face set in a defiant pout, his Metamorphmagus abilities on full display as his hair cycled through a kaleidoscope of colors.

Moody narrowed his good eye at the child, while his magical one spun furiously, keeping track of every potential threat—though right now, the greatest danger seemed to be the cold spaghetti Teddy refused to touch.

"Eat," Moody growled, pointing at the plate. "It's not going to kill you."

Teddy’s blue hair turned a deep red, the toddler's tiny nose wrinkling in rebellion. “No!”

Moody sighed, leaning back in his chair. Babysitting had never been on his list of duties, but when Tonks—his former protégé and the closest thing he had to family—had asked him to watch her son for an afternoon, he hadn't the heart to say no. And honestly, how hard could it be?

Apparently, very hard.

“Right, if you won’t eat,” Moody grumbled, getting to the heart of the matter, “let’s talk about this watch.”

Teddy’s face was a mask of innocence, but Moody wasn’t fooled. Somewhere in this house was Remus Lupin’s old watch—a family heirloom. Tonks had told him Teddy had a tendency to make things disappear, but Moody didn’t expect a toddler to outwit him so easily.

“I know you took it,” Moody said, folding his arms. “You think you can hide it from me? I’m an Auror. I’ve interrogated Death Eaters.”

Teddy’s red hair now shifted to green, his eyes brightening with delight. He giggled and pointed at Moody’s magical eye.

“Spinny!”

The magical eye rotated slowly, focusing on the toddler. “Yes, yes, very amusing. But where’s the watch?”

Teddy didn’t answer, instead reaching over and grabbing a handful of spaghetti, smearing it across the table. Moody winced, his patience wearing thin. He had dealt with rogue wizards and ambushes, but he had never been this outmatched.

“Alright, Lupin,” Moody growled, standing up and pacing around the room. “You’ve left me no choice. Time to bring out the big wands.”

With a flick of his wand, the lights dimmed. The toddler stared at Moody in awe as he waved his wand, creating tiny, glowing orbs that danced in the air.

“Confession time, Teddy,” Moody said in a mock-serious tone. “Tell me where the watch is, or I’ll… turn all your hair brown.”

Teddy gasped dramatically and clutched his head, eyes wide with mock horror. “Nooo!” he squealed.

Moody cracked a rare smile. At least the kid had a sense of humor.

With another flick of his wand, he sent the glowing figures twirling around Teddy, who laughed and clapped in delight. But the moment was short-lived as Moody’s magical eye caught sight of something gleaming in the corner.

The old grandfather clock was slightly ajar. Moody's eye zoomed in, catching a glint of silver tucked inside the mechanism.

“Ah-ha!” Moody strode over, reached into the clock, and pulled out Remus’s watch.

Teddy burst into giggles again, clapping his spaghetti-covered hands.

Moody returned to the table, watch in hand. He wiped it off with the edge of his robe and slipped it into his pocket. “You’re a crafty one, Lupin.”

Teddy beamed as if being called “crafty” was the highest compliment.

“Alright, lad,” Moody said, sitting back down at the table. “You win this time. But next time—next time—I’ll be ready.”

Teddy stared up at him, his hair now shifting back to blue. He picked up a single strand of spaghetti, dangling it above his mouth with great concentration.

“Eat it,” Moody encouraged. “One bite. That’s all I’m asking.”

With a look of intense determination, Teddy slurped the spaghetti noodle into his mouth. Moody raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Good lad,” he muttered. “Good lad.”

Send me a character/pairing and an aesthetic/concept and I’ll make a moodboard based on the ask!

#mad eye moody #teddy lupin #harry potter moodboard

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littlemissbigears · 7 months ago

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Chosen Characters as songs from my Chosen vibes playlist ✨part 5✨

Waving Through A Window from Dear Evan Hansen

Man in Room 39 by The Arcadian Wild

You Will Be Found from Dear Evan Hansen

Found/Tonight by Ben Platt and Lin-Manuel Miranda

Disappear from Dear Evan Hansen

Wake Up Sleeper by Austin French

The New Song of Trumpkin by Sarah Sparks

Eustace Scrubb by Sarah Sparks

The Graduate by The Arcadian Wild

The Anthem of Mr. Dark by The Arcadian Wild

Kaleidoscope by A Great Big World

Dead Man (Carry Me) by Jars Of Clay

Long Way Home by Steven Curtis Chapman

I Hate It Here by Taylor Swift

This Is Me from The Greatest Showman

Words Fail from Dear Evan Hansen

History Has Its Eyes on You from Hamilton

Pale Moonlight by The Gray Havens

Pompeii by Bastille

Ghost of a King by The Gray Havens

Eurus by The Oh Hellos (channeling that Zealot energy here)

Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? by Taylor Swift

REVIVAL ANTHEM by Rend Collective

SING IT FROM THE SHACKLES by Rend Collective

Which Witch by Florence + The Machine

#Spotify #the chosen tv series #the chosen tv show #the chosen #the chosen season 4 #*slaps Matthew’s forehead* this man can fit so much Dear Evan Hansen in him

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justforbooks · 3 months ago

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Letters by Oliver Sacks

The kaleidoscopic world and polymathic interests of a great neurologist brought to life in his correspondence

In 1960, Oliver Sacks, a 27-year-old University of Oxford graduate, arrived in San Francisco by Greyhound bus. Born in Cricklewood, London, Sacks spent the better part of his 20s training to be a doctor, but came to feel that English academic medicine was stifling and stratified. A “tight and tedious” professional ladder, he thought, was the only one available to aspiring neurologists like him.

A young queer man with a growing interest in motorcycle leather, Sacks had other reasons to leave. The revelation of his sexuality had caused a family rift: his mother felt it made him an “abomination”. And so he looked for escape across the Atlantic. America, for him, was the wide open west of Ansel Adams photographs; California was Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. The new world promised “space, freedom, interstices in which I could live and work”. This is how we meet Oliver Sacks in Letters: as an immigrant undertaking an internship at Mount Zion hospital, the first step in a career on US soil that would span another five decades.

Sacks’s San Francisco years also marked the beginning of his life as a writer. The city wasn’t an arbitrary choice. As he eagerly confessed to a one-time lover, Jenö Vincze, his true motivation for travelling to California was to force a meeting with an artistic idol, the British-turned-Haight Ashbury poet, Thom Gunn. Gunn’s The Sense of Movement (1957) spoke to and stirred Sacks’s predilection for motorbikes. Moreover, it performed on Sacks the kind of private miracle only poetry can: it helped decode “the babble” of his emotional life. “There is a queer, colossally big London Jew called Wolf,” Gunn wrote to his partner in 1961, after first meeting Sacks (who used his middle name, Wolf, as a nom de guerre when frequenting the city’s gay bars, wise to its lycanthropic resonances). “[He] came out to be a doctor here because I live here.” Sacks shared his writing with Gunn, whom he found a ruthless but tender critic, later crediting the poet with first impressing on him that he had real literary talent; a pivotal moment for a man who would go on to publish a dozen books.

“I am not a good correspondent,” Sacks wrote to his parents in 1961, “because I speak and write at people rather than to them.” This is an apt summation of Letters: 52 years of outgoing mail sent (or left unsent) to family, friends, scientists, writers and later, fans and celebrities, a panoply of addressees as diverse as the subjects Sacks writes “at” them about. Unleashed in a self-described “volcanic logorrhoea” that typifies his writing style, these letters variously consider botany, etymology, entomology, geology, neurology, and literature; the tussle between xenophobia and xeniality in Star Trek; the “phantasmagoric-comic unconscious” of actor Robin Williams. Edited by Kate Edgar, who worked as Sacks’s editorial assistant for over 20 years, Letters represents a mere fraction of the total in his archives, which runs to more than 200,000 pages.

Many of the included letters are incomplete, with ellipses denoting gaps whose editorial logic we must take on faith, even when they occasionally appear to interrupt tantalising trains of thought. In a 1984 letter to Lawrence Weschler, for instance, Sacks’s conflicted reflections on strike action in hospitals that might put vulnerable patients at risk feel prematurely curtailed. Despite these excisions, Letters leaves one with the overwhelming impression of a brilliant and vivid mind, a man whose intellectual appetite was vast, and whose professional and creative passions – far from being the self-absorbed obsessions of a pedant – were first and foremost an act of reaching out, the means through which he sought to communicate with others, a “love affair with the world”.

Sacks is an endearing and entertaining prose stylist – inquisitive, often funny, never obtuse – and the organisation of Letters, separated into broadly thematic, chronological chapters with concise editorial introductions, provides narrative momentum. The resulting book is far more engaging than the unwieldy reference text for Sacks specialists it could have been. It might, in fact, serve as a more affecting autobiography than his On the Move (2015), which occasionally slides into sentimentality. Letters is crammed with off-the-cuff profundities, moments of elevated perception that briefly unriddle the more inscrutable aspects of human nature. Here he is on grief, after the passing of his mother in 1972, an emotive state he deems “so unlike depression: it is so filling and real and expanding and uniting and – (it sounds an almost blasphemous word) – nourishing”.

Letters also draws an illuminating line from Sacks’s neurological career to his unlikely emergence as a bestselling author. In the late 60s, having relocated to New York, Sacks treated a group of patients suffering from encephalitis lethargica, also known as “sleeping sickness”, with an experimental drug, L-dopa. This experience informed his second book, Awakenings (1973), which married scientific research with storytelling through case studies of his patients’ lives and their responses to the treatment – a hybrid genre that irritated his colleagues just as it struck a chord with general readers. The literary attention Awakenings received set Sacks on a course to public renown.

“Brevity has never been a quality of mine,” he wrote to Mrs Miller, a physical therapist who helped him regain mobility after a leg injury in 1974. Indeed superabundance – the instinct toward excess – is everywhere in these letters. As a man of 30, dallying with powerlifting, Sacks routinely bragged to his parents about his weight, how much he could lift, the amount he ate – “I love to shake the pavement as I walk, to part crowds like the prow of a ship.” At Mount Zion, special scrubs had to be made to accommodate his bulk, and he found himself in disfavour with his superiors for stealing patients’ food.

But his overconsumption wasn’t always dietary. During the following 10 years or so, Sacks took a prodigious amount of amphetamines and psychotropics – “every dose an overdose” – with one trip producing visions of the “neurological heavens” so intense it inspired him to write his first book, Migraine (1970). By the 80s, following Awakenings and an appearance on The Dick Cavett Show that boosted his profile, pumping iron and popping pills had been replaced by correspondence. “I receive at least fifty or sixty letters and phone-calls a day,” he told his father with the same pride he formerly felt after squatting 575lb, “and, if anything, this number is increasing!”

What was Sacks trying to satiate? His substance abuse, the workaholism that eventually displaced it, speaks of the addict’s need to fill or stuff a void, an effort to forestall the unbearable loneliness that might accompany a moment’s rest. And loneliness certainly runs through these pages. Sacks once felt that his very existence was only made tolerable by rejecting intimacy and becoming “impersonal or supra-personal”; relationships, he said, were a forbidden area for him.

Late in life, he cited internalised homophobia as the driving force behind this isolation, a heart-rending admission, given that he temporarily felt liberated from this oppressive “social matrix” during that short-lived 1965 love affair with Jenö. It wasn’t until 2008, after 30-odd years’ celibacy, that an epistolary meet-cute with the writer Bill Hayes precipitated a loving, intimate companionship, one that would last the remainder of Sacks’s life. It’s a touching if bittersweet moment that arrives towards the end of Letters, the coda to this portrait of a man who, half a century earlier, had travelled across the world hoping to meet a poet who might truly understand him.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Oliver Sacks #Letters by Oliver Sacks #book review

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