#lost leg dew | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alnilaem · 1 year ago

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a more fleshed-out version from the third prompt of this post of mine.

cw for emotional manipulation, breaking in, stalking, smut, babytrapping, and dubcon to be safe

simon riley/reader

Something is wrong.

Your suitcase is halfway past the threshold of your front door, halfway past your new grave, when you notice the hum of salt and tobacco in the air. Discomfort licks your insides and binds to your skin so heavily that you begin to sweat. A tinny sound peals out as you rearrange your keys between your knuckles, clenching it, and step inside your flat.

Your heels are at the foot of your shoe rack. Your coat isn’t where it’s supposed to be, crimped in a pool on the floor. Your framed photographs are all inched to the left—you know this because you committed their placement to your memory—because you feared this would happen.

Something is seriously, gravely wrong.

You feel like you’re lost at sea. Dull-headed and impaired under the alluring melody of a blood-thirsty siren. Walking towards their call, your legs moving before your mind can, spit in the presentiment of fear the same way insects get caught in spiderwebs. Stuck, and about to be eaten.

You trek further into your flat, following the telltale signs that someone has been here—is here. A general shift in air. The stench of stale herbs and metal. A trail of silt on your hardwood floors, that of which could only be caused by certain mud-clogged boots tracking into your flat.

Here, you pause. On the threshold of your kitchen. Your stomach turns inside out and if it weren’t for your ribs, your heart would have burst out of your chest.

It’s like you’re walking on glass. Every thin sliver that pokes your skin, invading you, is a splinter of fear. And it also makes it so that you can’t walk away—you’re frozen in place, watching him above your stove, setting a kettle to boil.

He hears your squeak. Simon turns around, cotton-plated in his civvies, and hums.

“Welcome home, Love.”

The moisture leaves your mouth and rushes to your eyes. A film of dew materialises on top of your waterline. It’s thick and pearlescent and clouds your vision, turns Simon into an incorporeal blob in your vision, turning him into a trick of your eyes that you hope will go away after you blink.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Simon rests himself against your kitchen counter. He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, tilting his head, and bends his lips into an unseemly smile.

“How was your friend’s place?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?” You try getting your anger across, but your voice betrays your emotions. It’s heavily distorted by fear, waning, so much so that it makes him blandly chuckle. Like he can smell the terror roiling off of you. Like he feeds from it.

“How did you get in?”

Simon shrugs. “I’ve got a copy of the key.”

“I changed the damn locks.”

“I got new ones,” he says.

“We broke up.”

“You broke up with me,” Simon snarls. “When I was at my fuckin’ lowest. You broke up with me and I didn’t agree to tha’ shit.”

“Simon–” a gust of disbelief cuts your sentence short. You grip your hair at its roots, tugging it, twisting it, coiling your face in frustration. “Simon, you need to leave.”

“You’re talkin’ like that ‘cause you’re mad at me. Give it a few minutes, and you won’t be.”

“Are you fucking insane!?” You yell. You draw towards him and slam the kettle off the stove. “You broke into my flat!”

“I had a key,” Simon says. He steps towards you, bullying you backwards until the hind of your spine catches on the cold granite of your countertop. Until your back bends over it, Simon, looming over you. “I’ve always told you to use the deadbolt.”

You bite your lip. The blood sticking to the roof of your mouth isn’t as bitter as Simon’s eyes. His are cold, depthless.

“Fuck off.”

Then, Simon flips. His expression shifts in a whirlwind of seconds. Now, his brunette eyebrows are pursed and his lips are pointed down. His head is ensconced on your neck, his shoulder suddenly laden with an invisible weight as he kittens into you.

“Just came ‘cause I wanted to talk…” he mumbles. “One a’ my men died on me yesterday. Got early R&R for it. Thought you’d be happy to see me...”

You’re motionless as Simon clemently begins kissing your neck. You split your hands on his chest and try shoving him away, but he doesn’t move. He’s as solid as rock. Pushing himself into you, grovelling into your sleek skin.

A phantom chain is tightening around your throat. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you can say. You feel that with any words that poise themselves on your tongue, Simon won’t take kindly to.

“Simon… I’m sorry for you. I really am,” you slip out from under him and step back. “But this isn’t the way to go about it. We’re adults. And I’m asking you to leave.”

Simon raises his head, lukewarm. He stares at you through his half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily, clenching his fist around the lip of your countertop. Thickly, you swallow. You fidget with your cardigan and hope it will offset the discomfort hanging in the air. Simon takes a deep breath, sucking it all up—the discomfort, the presentiment—and you expect his huffing to precede an explosive reaction, but it doesn’t come. He just slips himself off the island and turns around, quiet when he speaks.

“Yeah,” he hums. “My old man didn’t want anythin’ to do with me, so why should you?”

Your eyes widen. Though you’ve spent so much time trying to bury it, trying to familiarise yourself with Simon’s sick gambits, a pang of guilt hits you hard.

“Don’t say things like that,” you point an accusing finger to his chest, “it isn’t fair.”

“No, no,” he grumbles. “Makes sense, does’n’it? My old man walked out on me, so I should handle you walking out on me, too.”

Simon shudders with a long breath. He slaps his face into his hands, and it’s at this point, does your knee-jerk impulse to comfort him take hold of you. The last of your even-tempered brain screams at you—he’s trying to ply you with a humanised side of him, but that side died a long time ago—but you press forward and awkwardly bring him into your arms, patting him on the back.

“Simon, I’m… sorry, okay?” He buries his head in your neck, nips at your skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you jus’ yell at me tomorrow?” He asks. Simon slips his hands into the depression of your waist, pulling you against his chest. Against the ever-rising tent of his jeans.

Your mind protests, but Simon keeps you close. He stinks of sweat, impairing you with it, spinning you around and pushing you against the counter.

“Simon–”

“Shhh,” he hums, catching his fingers on the hem of your leggings. “Y’said we can talk later. ’m tired, Love. Just need you right now.”

Any protests rot on your tongue because the wind is knocked out of you as you’re folded over the counter. Simon’s hands travel, gripping every part of you, rekindling old bruises left behind and making space for new ones.

He ruts into you, cock fattening in his boxers and stressing against his jeans. He slides a hand over the divots of your spine and bends it around your neck, hoisting your head back, huffing into your ear.

“You’ve no idea how much I missed y’Love,” Simon’s humping you now. Rutting himself against your ass with unrestrained vigour. He bites the husk of your ear, flattens you against the counter, and sinks a hand below your waistband. He spreads your pussy open like the shell of a fruit, pushing his thick fingers into its flesh, knuckle-deep and kneading you.

“How’s here?” He grumbles. You whine, and he twists himself deeper. “What about there?”

Your mind and body wrestle between pushing him away and yielding under his touch. Simon fucks his fingers a little deeper, a little meaner, into you, and chuckles when you squeal.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you see a sliver of bared teeth as his lips hitch up into a gnarled smile. “Ah, so that’s the spot, innit?”

You’re dew-skinned and fuzzy when Simon throws you over his shoulder, carrying you to your bedroom. Your tongue is heavy and numb and bootless against any objections as he throws you on the mattress, standing balefully at the foot of the bed.

If you were a child, you’d hide under your sheets until he disappeared. But you’re not a child, and Simon doesn’t disappear. He sinks his knees into your bed and swipes his shirt off over his head, unbuckling his belt in one slick motion.

He unzips his jeans and doesn’t even pull his balls out, just cups the gauze of his boxers beneath it and leans onto his hands.

A pearlescent bead of precum slips down the slit of Simon’s dick and drools onto your comforter. He wraps his hand around it, slips his palm up and down, tugging down your pants.

Your legs kick into a paltry complaint, but Simon pins your legs down.

“No reason in fighting,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against your clit, “You’re so wet, Love.”

Simon nudges your panties to the side and thumbs your clit. Leans in for a biting kiss and swallows your moans, slapping his fat cock against your puffy, wet cunt.

“Missed me just as bad, eh?” He huffs, setting his dick against your winking hole, pushing past your first ring of muscle and rolling at the sticky sound of your cunt spreading open.

“Simon–” you hic, latching onto his forearms. Trying to offset his bruising grip on your hips as he falls into a steady, deep rhythm. “At least wear a condom.”

He’s so thick, so heavy between your legs. Hoisting you onto his thighs and leaning over you, snapping his cock into you. He screws his face tight, pellets of sweat running down his marred collarbone. Congealing into the spindly, blonde threads of hair on his chest. Down to the wire of steel wool that thickens on his pelvis, pinching your clit each time he slams into you.

“You’re stayin’ with me, Pup,” he pants, kissing a stripe up your neck, suckling on your pebbled nipple. “Gonna gimme a litter, ain’t you? Just like we talked about?”

A little, lone tear slips down your hot cheek. Simon leans in and licks it off. He stuffs himself to the hilt, shuddering with abrupt pleasure as he skips to his feet and folds you in half, pounding into you, biting down on your shoulder.

It hits you like whiplash when Simon pushes himself so deep that you feel him swelling under your skin. He gives you no warning before emptying his balls inside you, flooding you with a white-hot come, clutching your jaw into a wet, messy kiss.

You’re blinded and eclipsed by pain as your orgasm shoots through you. The pleasure is numbing and makes you quiver, tremble, until you’re gushing around Simon’s cock and swivelling your hips to get away.

You’re shaking when he pulls back, giving your pussy no time to soften. Simon gives it a swat and flays himself off of you, heading to the bathroom. You hear the cellophane of your birth control peeling open, and the successive thunk as Simon tosses it into the bin.

You try getting up but Simon flattens you back as he crawls in bed next to you. There’s a hand of his on your waist, seemingly benign, but tightens itself each time you try slipping away. Your sniffles are piercing and Simon pulls you close. Brushes your tears away, kisses your eyelids.

“You’re not gonna leave me now, eh? You can’t,” he whispers, “you’re all I’ve got. You and our baby. You can’t leave me now.”

A pitiful cry escapes you. Simon takes that as agreement.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost smut #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost/reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #writing #simon riley/reader #simon riley smut #ghost writing #orion writing

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komelliko · 21 days ago

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manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Now that he finally has you alone in his office, Sunday decides to further his goals of dominion. wc: 2.3k - this is nsfw! cw for dubcon! sexual fantasy, piv penetration, office sex, desk sex, softdom!sunday, huge massive misogynistic hypocrite sunday a/n: The guillemets «» are used to indicate Sunday's Harmony powers this time!

part 6 (nsfw) / part 7 (nsfw)

---

You've broken out your old typeboard to compensate for having to sit in an office all day. Most people don't bother with typeboards anymore. Not when phones can record speech or pull up a keyboard on the screen, and not when typeboards are so.. noisy. The flurry of smooth metal buttons clacking like cold rain on a tin roof is a sound that makes the younger Oak Family interns anxious, but you enjoy the sound. When you can't hear the clicking of your shoes against the floor as you walk around, the sound of the typeboard is a decent enough substitute.

Sunday has been watching you from his desk, reading over grievances relating to The Family's congregation. He couldn't care less about the complaints of some of these corrupt, selfish reprobates. Not when watching you cross your legs and stare harder into the screen of your typeboard is more entertaining.

He wonders to himself: Do you even notice the way his eyes linger? How his watchful gaze sticks to you like dew on a fresh blade of grass? How the slightest smile forms at the corners of his lips from the way your trousers are just short enough to show a sliver of ankle, soft and bared?

Should you have no reason or means to protest, Sunday would sit in front of you and remove your shoe himself, gloved hands starting at your short sock, ascending to cradle your ankle, then disappearing up and underneath the leg of your pants to stroke your calf, fingers running calmly over your flesh as the outline of his hands stretches the fabric of your trousers. He smiles as he ponders if that, too, is something you would never even consider from him.

Sunday leans back in his chair, his legs spread slightly open. There’s no reason for him to be ashamed of anything, he surmises to himself. His handling of you has been modest, after all, compared to the filth of Penacony. He’s seen what avaricious, lustful men do when they feel they can exercise their will, and he hasn’t done anything of the sort. None of those men enact their will for the sake of responsibility.

Sunday gets up from his chair, which only draws his attention to how tight his pants have become. Still, he’s sure you won’t notice when he asks you: “Dear, I’ve been looking for something Madam Ellis sent me, but I’m afraid it got itself lost in my desk. While I fetch myself some water, can you look for me?” As you get up to do so, Sunday goes to fill a small paper cup of water from the dispenser near the door. He takes a single sip, glances to see if you’re watching him, and quickly disposes of it, locking the door to his office and gripping the handle.

« Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, may your hands seal this entrance and isolate this space, so not a sound may pass through. »

You bend at the hips to search through the drawers of Sunday’s desk. It’s a learned habit: Even with how long your pencil skirts often are, crouching while wearing one has always felt way too risky, especially for the secretary of a Family Head. Whether this was Sunday’s intention or not when he put them in the dress code, you suppose you can never be sure.

There’s this dull throbbing you feel as you scan over every paper and file, felt in tandem with your heartbeat, that settles itself in your core. Even as you try to take your mind off of those odd moments with Sunday, the knowledge you gained from them is something you can’t shake, tucked snugly within your body with no plans of extricating itself. It’s�� not exactly lust, you reason, but more so an anticipation or a dread. You can feel the anxiety pool between your thighs as your eyes scan blankly over words you’re no longer reading; Whatever you want to tell yourself the feeling is, it’s potent and it clouds your mind.

By the time Sunday is back and pinning you against his desk, you've forgotten why he told you to look through it entirely. —In all fairness, it was meant to be a trap.

"I don't think I thank you enough, [Y/N].” His voice is soft and gentle as he keeps one hand resting on your hip, the other snaking around to find the button of your pants. “I can’t imagine what I’d do without you in my life, dear. I’m a much more fragile man than I present myself to be.” His eyes lock on the door at the end of the room. It would be entirely irresponsible to have left the door unlocked or even open, and Sunday wouldn’t dare take such a risk when a man like him had too much at stake. Still, his nostrils flare as he pictures what it would be like to fuck you in front of an audience. That Avgin scum especially. Perhaps the gambler deserved a demonstration of Sunday’s claim over you, both to send a message and to humble him. Damned wretch.

You can feel his clothed cock poking against your backside even better now that Sunday has let your pants fall to your ankles. You stay put, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you switch between looking at the desk you’re pressed up against and the door in front of you. It would only be sensible to at least raise your concerns (even if making a scene was something you couldn’t bring yourself to do), but… that sense of anticipation building inside of you wants to be sated, even for a little bit. Even if your conscience disagrees.

Two of Sunday’s fingers breach you, and you flinch as they begin to move, stroking you from the inside. Just like before, Sunday lets out a groan, albeit softer and more controlled. You can’t see his face, but his eyes are now focused on where his knuckle ends and you begin, fluid dripping into his palm. Sunday is moved by the sight of it—by its beauty, and by the equal beauty of your mewling noises as he continues to finger you. As he moves closer to you, hips flush against his hand flush against your cunt, Sunday lets his other hand explore your bare legs, gloved fingers running over the soft flesh of your thigh.

“You don’t need to keep quiet, my love,” he reassures you, quickening the pace of his fingers. “I promise you, nobody can hear us right now. It’s just us.” Sunday takes a breath, and as he grazes your g-spot you nearly gasp with him. “I don’t ever mean to frighten you, you know. Sometimes, we simply have to be more forward when it comes to what is ours and what isn’t, yes?” Your brows furrow. What the fuck is he talking about? It would probably be easier to process his words if he hadn’t just slipped a third finger into your cunt, though, so all you can respond with to voice your confusion is a low moan.

“More than anything, I want you to be willing,” Sunday continues, maybe for no better reason than to hear the sound of his own voice over your cries of pleasure. “I want you to want this as much as I do, as often as I do. Only then can I be truly happy with myself. Do you understand that, my love?” You nod out of instinct, and Sunday takes it as his cue to finally free his erection. After cleaning the juices from his hand off on it, Sunday removes your panties, steadies your hips with his hand, and then penetrates.

Another mess of unintelligible noises leave your mouth from the feeling of him inside you. You’re too far gone to have reservations, so all you do is push your hips back into the feeling and grip the ledge of the desk. Your hair must be a mess by now, your face flushed and tear-pricked, your clothes wrinkled and wholly unpresentable—After all this work to get to the top through work alone, you should probably feel like this is an insult. Still, Sunday begins to thrust, and you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“[Y/N]! Mmh, Aeon— You’re divine,” Sunday gasps, his grip on your hips only tightening. “Oh, was this worth every minute of waiting! I’ve been so patient, darling, so incredibly patient.” As Sunday finds his pace, his hands begin to wander, the smooth cotton on his gloves running up and down your naked thighs and hips, gently kneading your flesh. In the safety of the closed-off room, he lets himself moan freely, gasping and crying out every time he feels himself bottom out inside you. Sunday flexes his abdominals to keep himself standing lest he falls over on top of you and loses himself in his own pleasure, the muscles in his stomach quivering and twisting. You’re sure that if you could see it, the sight wouldn’t be awful—Sunday has always been a very attractive man. Maybe his gaze softening into a semi-pained expression of ecstasy would enhance his beauty, if he didn’t have a pattern of fucking you from angles where you couldn’t see it.

Sunday reasons to himself that this instance is merely a fluke—An instance of your union (and of his rightful assumption of responsibility) that shall be the exception and not the norm. It’s the sin of haste that has him fucking you like a common whore, your cyprine rolling down your thighs and reaching your knees as his hips rhythmically collide with your ass. Regardless, it’s a sin that does not define him, and one he will not let define him: Any further instance will take the proper course and order, no doubt occurring in his room, on his bed, in the appropriate romantic fashion.

Still, he finds he's getting close—In no doubt due to how perfect you are, how wonderful you feel around him. So, his thinking shifts: Who could blame him? Who could find this worth scorn? As you continue to suck him in further, further, greedily, he surmises that perhaps this act is no transgression. It is only the just thing to do, to give you what you so clearly and desperately need.

You hear Sunday ask you something, or maybe warn you, but you're too far gone to understand his words. The way his hands continue to run up and down your slick-soaked thighs has you paralyzed, and if you had any room to think between his thrusts your first thought would be to worry about whether the puddle of drool you've left on his desk has leaked onto any of his papers. You just let out another moan in response, another weak and mumbled "Sunday", and his own response is to start fucking you harder, effectively shutting out any chance of processing it.

You can only make out bits of what he starts to whimper and mewl as his nails dig into your hips: "union", "perfect", "meant to be". A string of noises sounding awfully close to "I love you", too, amidst babblings sounding like your name. Sunday leans over, and you can feel his stomach press up against your back, his fingers prying your legs further apart.

"The power you have over me is unthinkable, [Y/N]," he whispers in your ear. "You alone dominate every thought, every waking moment of mine." Sunday whimpers some more, his breath tickling the shell of your ear as it drowns out the squelching noises. "Please, you must understand. I need you as much as you need me. Nothing else can take precedence."

"Mmh, Aeons," you cry out, not really in response to his words more than in response to the way he's drilling into you. "Sunday, I'm-"

"Yes, yes I know," he coos back. "Don't hold back, please. You deserve this."

Sunday is barely able to even snake a hand down to attend to your clit before he feels you clench hard around him, your head thumping against the desk as the high of your orgasm overwhelms you. His hips start to move erratically, attempting to help you ride out that high, but soon it proves even too much for him to last through. Of course, you had given him permission to not 'pull out', so what issue could there be?

A wave of fatigue falls over you as reality sets back in, like a cold sobering splash of water to quell the summer heat. Your hair is a mess, you don't have anything on hand to fix your makeup, and your pants and underwear are likely ruined. As you shift in place, you can feel strewn papers underneath your stomach, all of them likely crumpled. You're not sure how much time was spent doing this that you could've spent working on sending emails or looking over reports.

The anticipation has been satiated, and all that remains is an awful sense of dread.

Sunday plants a kiss on the shell of your ear and finally pulls himself out of you, even more cum and cyprine rolling down your legs. You're too exhausted to shut them to try and stop it. Sunday, too, is exhausted, given the fact that you feel him bend over to rest on top of you, his stomach once again flush with your back.

"What excellent judgement I had in choosing you," he sighs dreamily. "You fit me like a glove—Quite literally, I've found." Sunday chuckles, and you feel his hands worm around your sides to wrap around you. "Thank you, [Y/N]. Geniunely."

The moment is interrupted by a phone call. Sunday gets off of you to pick it up, almost immediately discounting you.

"Sister?" he asks, phone pressed up against his ear as he starts to redress himself. He fumbles through redoing his belt with one hand as he adds "No, I'm not busy at all. -Uhm, mind the noise, we're trying to rearrange my office. No, no, you're not bothering me at all, dear sister..."

Your head falls to meet the edge of the desk again. It will be at least half an hour before you get the motivation to move and look at yourself again.

---

a/n: someone teach this fuckass kfc bucket the concept of aftercare tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos @i-am-tiredd @8x9d @ruruize @herrscherofprocrastination @ikevampharem @hirwishin @jill7848 @breadlmao @belovedoftheanemoarchon @moongirl-1 @qualitysaladfarmstatesman @cupcake54492

#sunday's secretary #hsr sunday #sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr x you #manipulative yandere #sunday hsr #sunday smut #hsr smut

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munson-blurbs · 9 months ago

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Summary: After a beer pong challenge gone horribly wrong (or right, if you're Gareth), Eddie has to shave his head. As much as you'll miss his signature curls, you have to admit that his new look isn't all that bad...

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), drinking, beefy!Eddie, mention of Eddie's weight gain, Eddie + Reader are both 25, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v

Based on a request by @josephquinnsfreckles and a conversation with @blueywrites about the lengths we'd go to for beefy!Eddie.

Divider credit to @saradika

It was all Gareth’s idea.

Gareth had been the one to crack open a Pabst can and make a snarky remark about knowing he could beat Eddie in beer pong.

Had been the one to say that Eddie had gotten soft in the five years since graduation, to which Eddie winked at you and replied, “I think my girl would say the opposite.”

Had been the one to up the ante with a “little bet.”

You shot Eddie a warning look that he ignored, opting instead to meet Gareth’s challenge. “Fine. When I win, you gotta let me pierce your eyebrow.”

“Okay,” Gareth rolled his eyes, “but when I win, you have to shave your head.”

At the same time as you blurted out, “absolutely not,” Eddie grinned and said, “you’re on.”

Jeff laughed from his spot on the couch. “Thank God. You’ve had the same haircut since, what? Ninth grade?”

“Eddie,” you hissed, pulling him over to the side. “You can’t get rid of your hair.”

Your boyfriend had shrugged nonchalantly as though the state of his beautiful brown curls didn’t depend on a drinking game. “Relax, babe.” He pulled you into his side. “He’s never beaten me in beer pong. None of these losers have.”

That’s why you now find yourself stationed outside of the bathroom in Grant’s apartment, too afraid to glimpse at the commotion inside. The sound of the electric buzzer was bad enough.

The guys are all blissfully oblivious to your turmoil; even Eddie is cackling and asking Gareth to give him a mohawk. You can only assume that he obliged once you hear the four men erupt into a round of raucous laughter.

“Last piece,” Gareth goads, a muffled zzzzzz coming from the buzzer as he presses it into Eddie’s scalp. “Aaaaand…done!”

Done.

All of Eddie’s hair now lay on the tile floor, because he lost a bet to Gareth Emerson.

The hair that he pulled back into a low bun before working on his motorcycle. The hair that you twirled around your forefinger whenever he kissed you. The hair that you loved weaving your fingers into as he kneeled before you, leaving teasing kisses along your inner thighs before devouring you.

If you had known he would be bald at the end of the night, you would’ve begged to let his hair tickle between your legs once more.

“Whaddya think, babe?” Eddie peeks around the corner. His eyes, hazy from a night of drinking, stare into yours. Even drunk, he still seeks out your approval.

Too bad you’re speechless.

You’ve become accustomed to Eddie’s various metamorphoses. When you first met Eddie, he was lanky, only relying on assorted snacks and copious amounts of Mountain Dew. It was how he’d survived all of those years of food insecurity. And while you loved his body then, nothing could have prepared you for how he looked just two short years later.

His biceps now hold muscle and softness; you often find yourself unable to risk the temptation of biting into them. His stomach has also acquired a slight heft, a pleasant side effect from eating three square meals a day. His jeans now cling to the curve of his ass and no longer require a belt.

But his hair? That had always stayed the same:curls that frizzed at the first sign of humidity, worn like a badge of honor. You couldn’t picture him without it.

If you had, there’s no way you could have imagined him looking so damn sexy.

Eddie laughs at your shell-shocked expression, your widened eyes and dropped jaw. “That bad, Sweetheart?”

“No…’s good. Really, um, good.” Your throat is suddenly dry, and you swallow just so you don’t cough. “Can I feel it?”

He nods, and you brush your fingers over his bare scalp. Your touch is met with a soft fuzziness that was never there before.

Long-haired Eddie looked wild and chaotic, a Tasmanian Devil of a man. But buzzed-haired Eddie looks tough. Strong. Like he’ll destroy any other man who dares look at you.

And it makes you absolutely primal.

“I think we broke her,” Grant whispers loudly, and the rest of the room breaks out into tipsy giggles, slapping at each other and stumbling back into the kitchen for more ill-advised drinking.

Eddie frowns, not able to read your expression. “It’ll grow back,” he says, one ringed hand rubbing your back. He lets his fingers linger on the curve of your ass and gives it an inconspicuous pinch.

“C’mere.” You take advantage of the guys’ distractedness and pull Eddie into the nearest bedroom. The moment the door shuts and the lock clicks, you’re pressing your lips to his. On instinct, his denim-clad leg slots between yours, creating a hint of friction against the seam of your own jeans.

“Fuck, Sweetheart.” His words are muffled by the barrage of kisses. “Can’t just clobber me like this; gonna get me all worked up.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” You drag your forefinger up his fly, relishing in the way his cock is already beginning to harden.

Eddie practically throws you onto the bed, his biceps flexing with the sudden movement. “Gotta make this quick, yeah? Don’t want those idiots interrupting us.” With that, he tugs your pants away from your body, practically tearing off your cotton panties along with it.

“Oh, honey,” he coos, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and throwing his head back. “You’re already soaked.” He smirks before nipping at the soft flesh of your thighs, alternating between kisses and bites. “All this from a little haircut?”

All you can do is nod, leaning back so he can wrap his arms around your upper legs and fully bury his face into your weeping cunt. “Mmph,” he moans against you. You reflexively reach down to grab onto his locks, stopping when you’re met with his newly buzzed hair. Instead, you pull him in closer until his nose nudges your clit.

You say his name on an exhale, your pussy clenching around nothing as his pointer and middle fingers part your folds. You’re spread open for him, a blank canvas for him to create art. “Inside. Please.”

He might be inclined to make you beg further, but the threat of his buddies banging on the door has him relenting quickly.

Eddie’s grip on you tightens and his fingernails leave crescent-shaped divots. A breath catches in your lungs, your mind blanking when he greedily laps up your arousal and plunges his tongue into your hole.

His groans vibrate against you. “So much easier without my hair in the way.” He pulls back to catch his breath, his chin already shining. Brown doe eyes peer up at you, once again waiting for you to approve.

“K-Keep going,” you mumble, only acutely aware of the party occurring in the adjacent room. “Need you so bad it hurts.”

“Don’t want my sweet girl hurting.” The pad of Eddie’s thumb makes small, concentric circles on your clit, making your whole lower body tense up in anticipation of your orgasm. “There we go. No need to pout.”

Your back arches when he dives back in. He maintains his rhythm, inhaling deeply when the bulb of his nose brushes against that sweet spot. Pleasure is right within your reach, your hips moving in tandem with his ministrations to chase that glorious high.

It isn’t as though Eddie has ever been bad at oral; you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come on his tongue. But now that he doesn’t have to constantly shake his hair from his eyes—now that he has an unobstructed view of just where to touch you—he hits each stroke with perfect precision.

“Eddie—holy sh-shit, Eddie—right there right there right fucking there!” Your release crashes over you faster than it ever has before. It’s as though Eddie has transported you to another planet, another galaxy, another universe, and you will yourself to float back down just to reciprocate the pleasure he’s given you.

His pants button is already undone, hidden behind an oversized Metallica t-shirt, your fingers finding the hint of pudge on his lower tummy. “One of my old pairs,” he says sheepishly.

They’re gone in a flash, along with his pre-cum stained boxers. He climbs on top of you, hard cock in his fist, and runs it through the mixture of saliva and arousal at your core.

“‘M not gonna last long,” Eddie murmurs, locking his gaze with yours. He’s not embarrassed; he’s proud that he can bring himself to the edge just by eating out his girl.

You can’t stop the scream that emanates from your throat when he pushes inside you, but you also can’t be bothered to care about anyone else hearing. All of your thoughts center around Eddie filling you wholly and the sacrifices you’d make to keep him inside you forever.

He punctuates each thrust with an animalistic grunt, taking as much as he can with every snap of his hips. “My…good…girl,” he pants. “My…good…fuckin’…girl.”

“All yours. All yours, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes roll back as you submit yourself to him. “Gonna come. Gonna come inside you, fuck, Sweetheart!” With one final movement, he spills into you.

You cry out his name once more, letting your hand fall to the small love handle just above his hip bone. Another one of your favorite places to bite, especially when you could sneak up on him and catch him off-guard.

He flops down, his fuzzy head tickling your jaw as he nuzzles into your neck. “The buzzcut really does it for ya, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

#eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

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justblades · 9 months ago

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┈── ⟣ tracing their tacet marks! scar, jiyan, & aalto

notes: fluff & slight crack, reader is rover, gender neutral! reader. inspired by this tweet, not proofread.

SCAR : with feather touches, you trail the lines of the tacet mark on his neck with your thumb, drawing zig zag lines to follow its outline. his lips were sewn shut the first second, but gradually lets loose as he realizes what you were doing.

"having fun, rover?" he queries with a growing smirk carved on his lips, heterochromic eyes of solferino red and slate gray hues carefully watching yours as your vision anchors to the end of the mark on his neck.

the male then wraps his dominant hand around your wrist, much to your surprise and proceeds to inch closer, rubbing his scarred, sunken cheek on the back of your hand. the same smile still carved upon his features, a tranquil atmosphere envelops the two of you. as if you were put in a trance, his ivory colored locks ripple along the gust of the wind that blows. "i've always known you were a curious one. don't worry, you can always do whatever you'd like to me."

his tone insinuates something different from what he says, as always, he likes to dawdle around words that are more than what meets the eye. yet still, you couldn't help but indulge in a passing moment where silence runs through your system and revel in the fact that you get to do this to scar, who's always, for some reason, unpredictable at times. grateful for your status as a rover, this is a privilege you had come to appreciate in each day that elapses.

you can tell for certain this part of his doesn't receive that much attention, nor affection - evident enough from his expression. he simply closes his eyes, letting everything at the moment unfold naturally with no more unnecessary remarks to be told. "feel free to do whatever makes you happy."

JIYAN : the general gazes solemnly at the vista of infrastructures in the jinzhou city, getting lost at the view as petals of emortia brush softly back and forth on his legs. a strong, gelid wind blows upon your dewed skin, you notice how he hangs his head low, now admiring the bed of flowers where his efforts brought him - a sudden thought lighting up his mind.

he sits down on the field, one leg up and the other resting on the ground. the teal haired then calls to you, "come, sit beside me." voice laced of resolution and velvet, his tone was not of command, but an honest request. you tread towards the general's figure, his broad back and the tacet mark exposure befitting the view in front of you.

curiosity piques your mind, when suddenly, your index finger ghosts a touch on the middle of his mark. a jerk movement erupts as a bodily reflex, his lips part wide from the unanticipated gesture - tassel earrings dangling along his movement as he looks at you with a confused expression painted on his face. "apologies, that was unexpected . . ." he pauses, golden eyes anchoring from your hand to your face. "but i'd like to ask why."

a short silence with no sound but the wind blowing ensues, "your tacet mark's bigger than those i've previously seen. sorry for the unprompted touch like that." you display an apologetic smile, eyes squinted with a hint of begging for the general's mercy. he turns his attention back to jinzhou's breathtaking scenery, feeling the breeze once more with his guard let loose, at least for now.

jiyan flashes you a small smile in return, "no problem. i don't mind." he simply answers. as if you could see every glimmer of light from the city reflecting in his amber eyes, you could get lost at the imagery inside as you proceed to draw the outline of the tacet mark on his back.

a darker color in stark contrast to his fair skin, the view becomes even more beautiful: the general simply lives in the present tranquil moment, perhaps these light touches will serve as a soft reminder that it is alright to rest once a while. after all, being a general is being a bastion of hope and resolution. amidst having a solid, hard resolve, perhaps soft moments and touches will surely melt the toughest heart of depths.

AALTO : "can i touch your tacet mark?" you delve straight to the point and reach out to the side of his neck even though you haven't received an answer yet. goosebumps ride on his skin as he feels the delicate contact follow along the mark's bizarre shape. he feigns composure and turns his head to the opposite side, just so you wouldn't witness him at his vulnerable state.

although the slower you traced on the tacet mark, the more impatience gnawed at his bones and his sensitivity heightens. "w-wait! why are you doing this?" he inquires and takes a step back for a moment, one eyebrow raised, obviously confused at your actions as of late. "i was just wondering if it was sensitive." you reply and step closer to him once more, driving him to a corner where he'd find no refuge from whatever you're planning to do.

suddenly, a gust of wind leaves a silhouette in front of your eyes in a wink, the pseudo figure of him doing a heart pose with both his hands feel like he's poking fun at you. "come on, aalto, just one!" you purposely exclaim. emerging victorious the moment he comes back to the spot, he heaves a dreary sigh. "i suppose it can't be helped."

he stands still and waits for the teasing episode to come to an end. you reach out your index finger and trail your fingertip on his soft skin, paying attention to his body language all at the same to see if there could be any information you could get out of the man - even if it did not appear to be beneficial at all.

the intel broker then peers at you with a bashful look cast on his flaxen irises, feigning obliviousness but the bit lip was clearly an indicator that he's not used to this. watching his poorly stifled expressions, you could not restrain yourself anymore and a chuckle slips from the margins of your lips, "that was surprisingly entertaining." you state as a matter of fact, comical tears about to well up in your eyes.

"shall i trace your tacet mark again next time?" you ask in a rhetorical manner, heart brimming with wonder. "that'd be the last." he says bluntly and takes a swift turn around, proceeding to put on his tinted glasses as a last resort to upkeep his cool guy style.

#scar x reader #jiyan x reader #aalto x reader #wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves scar #wuthering waves jiyan #wuthering waves aalto #scar #aalto #jiyan

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caplanbuckybarnes · 5 months ago

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Heartful Confessions

Summary: Logan confesses his feelings

Warnings: Fluff!

WC: 682

Read on Ao3!

It was a quiet evening in the cabin, nestled deep within the forest. The glow from the fireplace cast a warm, golden hue on the rustic furniture. You sat on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, holding a mug of hot tea. Logan had gone out earlier, doing his usual brooding walk through the woods, but you knew he’d return soon. He always did.

The sound of the door creaking open caught your attention. Logan stepped in, his leather jacket still slightly damp from the evening dew. He gave you a gruff nod as he kicked off his boots, then went to the couch, sinking down beside you.

"Long walk?" you asked softly, resting your head on his shoulder. His warmth enveloped you immediately, and the familiar scent of pine and the faint hint of cigar smoke comforted you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. He gently took the mug from your hands, setting it on the coffee table. His rough hand came to rest on your knee, and he rubbed his thumb absently against your skin.

You let out a soft sigh, content to be there with him. With Logan, words weren’t always necessary. His presence alone calmed your mind and filled your heart with a sense of belonging.

But tonight, something felt different. Logan was quiet, even more so than usual, and though his hand was on your knee, his eyes were distant, lost in thought.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him.

He let out a low grunt as if debating whether or not to answer. But then, after a beat, he finally spoke.

"I’ve lived a long time, darlin’," he began, his voice low. "Longer than anyone should. Seen a lot, done things I ain't proud of… Lost a lot of people along the way."

Your heart ached at his words. Logan carried the weight of his past like a heavy burden; sometimes, it seemed like it would crush him.

"But then you came along," he continued, his gaze finally meeting yours. His expression softened, the usual hardness in his eyes replaced with something tender, something you rarely saw.

You shifted closer to him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Logan…”

He caught your hand in his and held it to his chest. “You’re different. You don’t make me feel like I’m some kind of monster… You make me feel human. Like maybe, after all this time, I can still find a bit of peace.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Logan wasn’t one for grand declarations, and hearing him speak so openly sent a warmth flooding through your chest.

"You are my peace, Logan," you whispered, feeling the weight of your own emotions bubbling to the surface. "You're my home."

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist, and all you could feel was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm.

“You’re my missing puzzle piece,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t think I’d ever find it… but here you are.”

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words. Logan, with all his gruffness and rough edges, had finally opened up in a way you never expected.

“I love you,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion.

Logan’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer until his lips brushed against yours in a tender, lingering kiss. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was slow, sweet, and full of everything he couldn’t say.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb gently wiped away a stray tear that had slipped down your cheek. "I love you too, darlin’. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his touch as he pressed another soft kiss to your forehead. In that moment, in the warmth of the fire and the comfort of Logan’s arms, you knew you’d found your forever.

tags!

EVERYTHING PERM: @nekoannie-chan @kjs-s @notyourtypicalrose @mistressofallthingsgeeky

MARVEL PERM: @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @late-to-the-party-81 @capsthot @kenzieam @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes

LOGAN/WOLVERINE: @winterslove1917

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett fic

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orcasoul · 1 month ago

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The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter summery: You begin to doubt your preconceptions about Marcus. Your actions last night catch up to you with dire concequences.

Warnings: Swearing, smut (eventual), threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, gore, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, protective Marcus Acacius, age gap, OFC/reader

Word Count: 5,214

Chapter 3 Friend or foe?

Dawn breaks hazily over the ancient woodland. Morning mist blankets the emerald foliage in tiny dew drops, which glisten when the sun manages to seep through the clouds. You've ridden all night, mostly in silence. For hours your mind has been stuck on an endless loop; blood, the feeling of flesh tearing, the life you ended. It was then you'd realised you had left your fathers knife embedded in Adhelms chest. Your heart sank to your stomach. That knife was all you had left of your father and now a part of you feels like you've lost him all over again.

Fresh tears tingle in your eyes under the crushing feeling of loss. Marcus' voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "We should stop for a while and rest the horse. She's been carrying us all night." Poor Inga. You'd been too lost in your own head to pay her any mind. "Okay." You gently squeeze the reins, bringing her to a stop. You dismount and turn to help Marcus down. "Thank you," he nods and limps to the nearest tree, plonking down, rather ungracefully. You tether Inga's reins to a low branch so she can lower her head to graze.

Placing your bag on the floor, you sit, cross legged in front of it and begin to rummage inside, pulling out a cloth filled with cured meat. After dividing the it evenly, you wrap up half and toss it over to land on Marcus' lap. "It's not much but it's better than nothing." "Appreciate it," Marcus says with a small nod. You both eat in silence for the next several minutes, the sounds of Inga grazing and the birds chirping are amplified in the otherwise still forrest. You decide to break the silence. "How's the leg?" you ask, tipping your head to his wound. "It's sore, but it'll be fine." "I should check it." You open your bag to gather fresh bandages, balm and your water skin.

"There's no need," Marcus shrugs and lays his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. You roll your eyes at his stubbourness. "No point you making it this far just to die of an infection now. Just let me check it." Marcus sighs and slowly opens his his eyes. He holds your gaze for a moment as if he doesn't want to admit you're right. "Very well," he grumbles and shifts onto his side, exposing the wound to you. He hisses as you peel the blood soaked rag from his skin. He must have bled while riding. The balm you apply stings as it makes contact with his raw skin. "Sorry..." you suck in through your teeth, "It won't take much longer."

Through the sting Marcus can feel how delicate your touch is, how you are careful to not add too much pressure. The sensation becomes somewhat soothing as the pain eases. He's almost disappointed when you finish wrapping his leg, coldness replacing the warmth of your fingertips. "All done," you sighed, voice flat and drained. After packing your bag, you too sit against a tree, head back and eyes closed. But the crystal clear image of Adhelms shocked face flashes before you, taunting you. Your eyes shoot open, unable to bare the sight. You bring your knees to your chest and lay your head on them, shaking it as if the motion could expel the mental picture from your head.

"You know he didn't give you a choice, right?" Marcus says with caution. "It was either kill or be killed." Your shoulders tense as your head snaps up. Shame has you turning your head from Marcus' gaze. "You did nothing wrong," he continues. "You defended yourself." "Can you just...!" You let out a defeated breath, still unable to look at him. "Can you not speak of it... please?" Your voice cracked on that last word and Marcus suspects that you've never had to kill anyone before now. He remembers with clarity his first kill and how it haunted him for so long, so he can sympathize with the inner turmoil you're feeling at this moment.

"Alright." he responded, gently. "But if you ever feel the need to talk abou-" "I don't!" you snap, frustration evident in your voice. Marcus says nothing more, much to your relief, but the silence that follows is now heavy. A part of you feels compelled to say something, anything to lighten the atmosphere, but at the same time, you just haven't got the energy. And besides, he's a Roman and you are of the Gutones. Its not like you're here to befriend him and vice versa. You're both using each other for one common goal; to get safely to Rome, and once Marcus has fulfilled his promise to grant you citizenship you will both make your own paths in life. You're not sure how much time has passed while being stuck in your own head, worrying about the arduous journey and all the uncertainties ahead of you, when Marcus rises somewhat unsteadily to his feet.

"We should press on. We don't know if we're being followed." He steps in front of you, offering you his hand. Reluctantly, you take it. As he pulls you up, you unintentionally make make eye contact and for the first time you notice how the rich brown tones of his irises blend together and your breath catches in your chest. After a moment, you realise you're still holding his hand and you quickly pull yours away, still feeling the warmth of his palm on yours. You offer a small, awkward smile and make your way over to Inga. Marcus limps behind, wordlessly, climbing up behind you and you're sure you can sense the same awkwardness from him that you'd just felt.

*****

Hours pass before you stop to rest again. The last of the rations have been consumed but it shouldn't be a problem. If all goes well, you'll reach the Roman encampment tomorrow. You both ride on until the evening sunshine begins to slip below the horizon, casting an almost eerie haze across the ancient landscape. It's no wonder that settings such as this gave rise to tales of encounters with otherworldly creatures such as the Irrlicht, Aufhocker and Fevermann. It's almost as if the forrest itself has eyes. Just before dusk blends into night you reach the river Isar. You are only a few miles from the encampment now and you would have insisted on travelling through the night if it wasnt for an approaching storm.

A nearby cave has become your saving grace for the night. Luckily, it's quite small and doesn't stretch back far, meaning it won't house any preditors. It has just enough room for the three of you to shelter from the elements. Do you t-think it's safe enough to l-light a fire tonight?" you ask through chattering teeth. Of course it's too risky out in the open - the light and smoke would be a beacon to anyone pursuing you - but inside the cave entrance should be okay. Marcus is silent for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons. Finally, he decides. "A small one, just to warm up for a while." As if the gods had been aiding you all along, you just so happen to find some dry sticks and kindling further back in the cave. There had obviously been some nests in here in the past.

You gather them up and place them in a pile in front of you. Marcus takes two stones in hand and in no time at all a warm and welcoming fire lights up the dark cave. It's amazing how simply having a fire can lift your spirits and bring a sense of calm, despite the grave situation you are in. Outside the wind has picked up, whipping the rain sideways. The howling wind makes Inga restless, so to calm her you smooth your hands down her neck while humming a tune quietly. After a few minutes she relaxes enough to lay down. When you turn to walk back to the fire you see that Marcus had been watching the whole interaction, only now turing his head back to the fire as you sit next to him - but keeping a respectful distance.

Holding your hands over the fire, an involuntary shiver ripples through your body as the warmth begins to seep into your bones. "That song... it sounded nice," Marcus said, still staring into the flames. "Yeah..." you nod. "My mother used to sing it to me whenever I had a bad dream." After a moment's silence Marcus asks, "What happened to your parents?" Judging by your now rigid posture and tense jaw, this is a... difficult subject for you. "Nothing," you replied, sharply. Marcus sighed exhasperatedly. "Alia..." You turn your head to face Marcus at the serious tone of his voice. "I do not wish to pry into your past, but I need to know why you fled; what these people did to drive you to turn away from them." You narrowed your eyes in response. "You don't need to know that." "Yes, I do," Marcus insisted, eyebrows set in a firm frown.

"I'm involved now and I need to know what I'm bringing back to my men, to Rome. If I'm going to vouch for you, I should know everything." An indignant scoff rose up your throat. "That wasn't part of the deal. The agreement was I help you escape and you take me to Rome!" The audacity of this man to change the terms now. Your cheeks become flushed with ire as you stare in disbelief at the now impassive face of the general. "That was before I realised you're hiding something. And if it could compromise my legion or my honour-" "You really thInk I could be dangerous?" you laugh, devoid of actual humour.

"You tell me," Marcus eyed you warily as if he was trying to figure you out. "What did your chief mean when he said you couldn't be trusted? Why did he call you evil?" With a frustrated sigh, you roll your eyes closed and shake your head. He's not going to drop this! "You want the truth, fine. Everyone in my village believes I'm a Seer..." "A Seer?" Marcus questioned, raising one eyebrow. "Someone with... unnatural abilities." "You mean like a witch?"

You nod briefly, lower your head and continue, "My mother was considered to be a bit odd in the community just because she kept to herself. She also helped people with various ailments. For a long time people appreciated her contribution, but one year the harvest failed and when people got hungry and angry enough they blamed her. One night a large group came to our house and my..." You pause to take a breath and blink back the threat of tears. "My father was killed when he tried to protect her... and then they burned the house down with my mother inside it." Your head has turned away now, tucked into your shoulder, waiting for the inevitable fear? hate? rejection? There's no way he'll allow you to remain with him now.

So you're a bit surprised when he calmly asks you, "How old were you when it happened?" "Eight," you mumble, quietly. "I'm sorry," Marcus whispered, softly. You slowly lift your head and take in the look of sadness and sincerity on his face. His large eyes seem to shimmer in the glow of the fire and there's a hint of disbelief in them. A heaviness settles in your chest, causing your throat to tighten and your chin to tremble. This is the most kindness you've been shown in years. You quickly wipe away the water blurring your vision and turn your attention back to the fire. "No child should ever have to endure something like that." You nod and exhale, "I think the only reason I was spared is because I was a child."

The air has now become oppressively quiet, as if neither of you know how to steer away from such a dark revelation. Marcus then clears his throat, "Let's get some rest. We leave at dawn." You whip around to Marcus in surprise. "You mean I can still come with you?!" Marcus' brow scrunches at your incredulity. "That was the deal, was it not?" "Well, yes but..." Marcus shifts to fully face you now. "But...?" "I just assumed you'd want to be rid of me, knowing the truth." Marcus scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't believe for one second that you're a witch, or that your mother was." Stunned, your jaw hangs low as your mind scrambles to process what you'd just heard. "So... you don't fear me?"

"No," Marcus stated, with no reservations. "I am not a superstitious simpleton, and you didn't deserve what they did to you." Marcus' words struck you deeply, completely upending what you had been led to believe about Romans. You had been told nothing but horror stories of rape, torture and unspeakable brutality that befell anyone in their path. That they are an unstoppable force that thrived on terror and carnage, yet the first actual Roman you have met is nothing of the sort. He hasn't attempted to harm you in any way and even now, after learning of your past he intends to keep his promise to you.

In a small, wobbly voice you say the only thing you can think of, "Thank you." Marcus nods to acknowledge your appreciation. He can sense there's so much more to your gratitude that you can't articulate at this moment. They say the eyes are the window to the soul and now, in your glassy eyes he sees the weight of all you have suffered, but also a flicker of hope. A part of him feels contented that he could bring you said hope, even if it's just the smallest morsel. The feeling is strange to him, a satisfaction he rarely feels. It's settling and unsettling at the same time. "You get some sleep," Marcus offers. "I'll take the first watch." You give him the faintest hint of a smile before laying down by the fire. "Goodnight Marcus," you say, softly. "Goodnight, Alia."

You wake just as the sun begins to brighten the early morning sky, the birds' melody bringing you back to the world. The cold air sends a shiver through your body as you roll onto your side, noticing the fire has reduced to embers. On the other side of the fire, Marcus snores lightly. Why the hell didn't he wake me? A shuffling outside the cave makes your heart jump up into your throat. Tip Toeing to the entrance, you release your bated breath when you realise it's just the horse grazing. You walk over to where Marcus is fast asleep. Crouching down, you gently touch his shoulder to rouse him.

The moment your fingers brushed him, Marcus' hand shot out, lightening quick, gripping your wrist so tightly you would have cried out, if not for his other hand squeezing your throat. Before you even realise it, you're on your back, Marcus pinning you down while his eyelids blink rapidly. "Fuck!" he gasped as he realised his mistake. He released you as if your skin had physically burned him, throwing himself off of you. "Forgive me," he stuttered, panic evident on his face "I didn't- I thought... Shit! Are you okay?" He reached out to comfort you as you lay gasping and coughing beside him, rubbing your tender throat.

But as soon as he made contact with you you recoiled sharply, looking anywhere but at him. "I'm sorry," Marcus held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't mean to hurt you." "It's okay," you answer fearfully, voice raspy from coughing. "I just wanted..." cough, "to tell you..." cough, cough, "I'm going to take the horse to the river to drink." Your throat burns with every word. "I'll... be right back." You quickly get to your feet, grab your water skin and make a quick exit. Marcus watches you leave, a part of him wanting to call you back, to make sure he didn't hurt you. Guilt gnaws at him as the image of your wide eyes and red face refuses to leave his mind.

He rubs a hand over his face in exasperation, cursing himself for falling asleep. If he'd woken you as he'd intended, this never would have happened. The last thing he desires is for you to fear him. He rises, his leg stiff but feeling a bit stronger and limps to the cave entrance, ready to follow you to the river to make amends. He walks out into the gleam of the morning sun, shielding his squinting eyes with his hand when it happened. The wind is knocked out of Marcus as he is tackled to the ground, pain shooting through his back with the force of the impact. His attacker quickly rolls behind him, gripping him around the neck with both arms.

"Hold him still!" another man yells as he approaches with his sword drawn. Marcus, now on crouched legs, fights to free himself from the headlock but the grip is solid. "You and that little bitch are going to pay for what you've done!" the man restraining Marcus growled into his ear. A burst of fury and determination overtakes Marcus. Damn it, you'd both made it this far. He won't let it end like this now. Not when you're both so close to safety. With his uninjured leg, he kicks out at the man in front of him, hitting his kneecap. The sound of crunching bone is almost drowned out as his would be executioner wails in agony, dropping his sword and falling to the ground.

The man holding Marcus freezes in shock, giving him the opportunity to strike. He throws a hand over his shoulder, digging his thumb into the mans eye. He looses his grip around Marcus' neck, screaming as he falls onto his back, hands over his bloodied eye. Adrenaline pushes Marcus to his feet, despite the pain in his leg, and he swiftly grabs the sword. Moments later both men lay dead, blood pouring from their open throats as Marcus drops to his knees, catching his breath. But he doesn't have long to compose himself. Your shrill scream echoes through the trees causing Marcus' heart to seize with dread. Gripping his sword tightly he pushes up and limp - runs as fast as he can towards the river.

*****

Sunlight dapples on the slow moving river, the splashing and burbling of water crashing against the rocks along with the smell of wet earth and moss invoke an atmosphere of calm and stillness to an already tense start to the day. You lead Inga to the waters edge, gently patting down her side as she begins to drink greedily. Crouching down, you begin to fill up your water skin, enjoying the feeling of the cool water on your fingers. Your throat and wrist still ache and upon closer inspection you can make out a faint ring of purple bruises already forming on your wrist.

It's clear what happened was an accident and that Marcus feels bad about it, but this incident reminds you that those who are stronger than you - both physically and mentally - will always have the upper hand. Last night you had seen a softer, more compassionate side to Marcus and foolishly, you had allowed yourself to lower your guard, just a little. The wake up call you gave him was also a wake up call to you. You can't put your trust in anyone. Marcus seems to be a man of honour and because of that, you've no doubt he will fulfil his promise to you, but if you ever get on his wrong side...? You shudder to think. He is a soldier after all, crafted on the battlefield; violence and brutality as much a natural part of him as everything else. And because of that, you cannot afford to underestimate him, ever.

You hadn't even realised you'd zoned out while contemplating until Inga began to shift nervously, heavy breath flaring her nostrils. A snap behind you has you spinning around, only to be met with a fist to your jaw. Shock pulses through you, both from the pain and the freezing water you now find yourself submerged in. A pair of hands squeezes your throat as you attempt to fight back, desperate for air. With the water distorting your vision all you can make out is the rippling face of a man above you. Just when your empty lungs can take it no more, you are roughly pulled out of the water, a furious Bardulf snarling in your face, teeth bared and spittle forming at his mouth.

He eases his grip just enough for you to suck in some much needed air. "You murderous, evil witch!" Raged Bardulf. "You killed my father, your chief in cold blood!" "Please!" you cry as he drags you from the water. "And then you run like the snivelling little coward you are!" He throws you to the ground, then flips you onto your back, straddling your hips and pinning you in place. Bardulf is joined by another man, a short, stocky man you've always seen lingering around him like a loyal and pathetic hound. "We should kill her now," he sneered. "No!" Bardulf snapped. "That's too quick, too merciful!" Bardulf grips your wrists as you attempt to claw at his face, pushing them to your sides and trapping them under his knees, leaving you completely defenceless.

"You thought your life was bad before? You have no idea what's waiting for you once I get you home. You will suffer like no one ever has before. I'm going to show you exactly what I'm capable of." Bardulf reached to his side and pulled out a knife. But not just any knife; your fathers' knife! "You forget something..." he smiled maniacally as he traced it lightly along your throat. "Thought you might like it BACK!" You watched in terror filled slow motion as he brought the knife down, sinking it into your shoulder. The scream that tore through your throat hurt even your own ears as white hot pain flashed through your upper body. Bardulf gripped your hair, forcing you to look him in the eye. "This is only the beginning," he threatened, darkness swirling in his horrid eyes.

"Heeeeelp!" "Scream all you want, bitch." Bardluf twisted the knife, clearly getting a sick kick out of your pain. "That Roman can't hear you now." Bardulf then stood up, kicking you in the ribs so hard the force rolled you over only to receive another hard kick from his friend. Your ribs feel like they're about to collapse from the unbearable force. Your instinct is to scream, but the constant blows mean you can't inhale. All you can do is lay there while they extract their pound of flesh. You honestly don't know how much more you can possibly withstand when suddenly a guttural roar swallows the men's laughter and you open your eyes to see the end of a sword protruding from the short mans chest, blood oozing from the laceration and from his mouth.

When he drops, Marcus is standing behind him, blood sprayed over his face and breastplate, swinging the bloodied sword in his hand. Bardulf unsheaths his own sword and lunges at Marcus. Marcus meets each blow time and again. Even in his weakened state, he can tell this fool is lacking in comparison. He has the skill but not the stamina. In his peripheral vision, Marcus can see you trying push yourself to your knees. Bardulfs attacks are becoming more sloppy and careless the angrier he gets. In a moment of fortune, Marcus seizes his oppertunity, disarming Bardulf with a quick twist of his sword.

The sword falls to the side, Bardulf throwing himself to the ground after it, stopping just out of reach as Marcus sweeps at him. Just before Bardulf can reach it, Marcus sees you grab the sword and toss it into the river, collapsing afterwards. "No!" Bardulf explodes, leaping up. He spins to see Marcus advancing on him, ducking out of the way of his sword at the last moment, and backing up. "This is far from over, Alia!" he warns before running off into the woods. Marcus drops the sword the moment the coast is clear, slumping to his knees beside you. It's only now he notices the knife lodged in your shoulder. A small whimper accompanies your laboured breathes, tears streaming down the sides of your face. Marcus feels sick at the sight. He should have gotten here sooner.

"Alia..." he calls but your tormented eyes are fixed on the sky. "Alia!" his tone is more commanding now as he gently grips your face in both hands, giving you nowhere to look but at him. "Look at me and listen carefully. You're going to be okay, do you hear me?" Marcus looks again at your shoulder, grimacing. "The knife doesn't appear to be too deep, but it will hurt to remove it. I have to take it out-' "No!" you beg, desperately, gripping both of his hands. "I have to and when I do you need to keep pressure on it. You can do it!" "No no, please!" Marcus has to swallow the lump forming in his throat. He's seen many injured people in his time but seeing someone like you in this situation - kind and soft and completely undeserving of such cruelty - hits him right in the center of his chest.

He rips a long strip of fabric from his own clothing and turns his attention back to you, wrapping his hand around the handle of the blade. "On the count of three," "No don't," "One..." "No!" "Two..." he continues trying to not focus on the fear in your voice. "Oh nononono!" "Three!" "ARRRRRGH!" That almost inhuman scream is one he hopes to never have to hear again. He quickly places your hand over the gushing wound. "Keep it there," he orders as he begins to wrap the fabric around your shoulder, only moving your hand when he's ready to tie the makeshift bandage. "It's all done," he soothes pressing his hand on your wound. "You were very brave." You wince as he keeps the pressure on you. "I'm sorry," he whispers, regretfully. "I'm going to help you up now." Marcus slips his hind under your back, supporting your weight, slowly pulling you to sit up. Your breath catches from the pain. "Where's the damn horse?!" Marcus grumbled looking around the immediate area, realising she must have panicked and ran off in all the commotion.

"We have to go. It's not safe here now. The horse has fled so we'll have to walk." Your head lolls to the side, colour draining from your face. "Hey!" Marcus taps your cheek. "Did you hear me?" You nod slowly, as your regain focus. "Good. Which way is east?" You point behind you. "Okay, let's go." Marcus groans as he pushes himself up, his leg now flaring with sharp jolts as warmth trickles down it. He must have pulled all the stitches during the fight. Seeing your father's knife beside you, you grab it and tuck it into the waist of your trousers. Marcus places your arm around his neck and pulls you up, holding you tightly around the waist and you both begin to head east.

*****

You've both been going for what feels like forever now, every step gruelling as Marcus struggles onward, half dragging you beside himself. His leg continues to bleed, the pain increasing as time wears on. As a soldier he has endured pain and injuries all of his adult life and has come out of it stronger; this time will be no different. With steely determination and the stubbornness to match even the most wilful mule, he ignores the persistent burn and staggers forth. "Marcus...?" you mumble, voice so quiet he doesn't hear you. "Ma... Marcus," you whine. "We n... need to stop." "No, we're not... far from the Castrum (army encampment). I... recognise this area. We should," urrgh, "come across a patrol soon." "Please," you implore. "I can't... walk anymore." Every breath, every step, every sway of your body shoots straight to your shoulder. You didn't know it was possible to feel fire under your skin! But that's how it feels; like a river of flames coursing through your chest and arm. Marcus stumbles on unsteadily, seemingly intent on ignoring you. You can tell he's tiring as his steps begin to falter.

"Leave me," you pant. "I'm slowing you down." Marcus' hold on you tightens, his voice low and gravelly. "Now you hear me. You did not come this far just to," urgh "give up now. I won't.. have it. There's strength in you, I see it." "I-" "No," Marcus cuts you off. "No more talking, just... walk. That's all you have to... do now. Just keep going." You haven't the energy to argue so you do as you are told. Time feels inconsequential right now. You don't know if you've been walking for minutes or hours. Through the constant ringing in your ears you notice Marcus' breathing has become heavier. Your steps have slowed to a snails pace, but then you realise it's not your steps that have practically stopped, but Marcus'. Up until this point you've just allowed yourself to be lead .

He suddenly collapses to his knees, taking you down with him, exhaustion weighing heavily on both of you. Marcus is clearly in great pain. You look to where his hand reaches behind his leg and gasp when his fingers come away red and shiny. "Your leg!" "It's fine," he grits between clenched teeth. "You should rest," you insist. "No time..." Marcus shakes his head, "We're nearly there." Marcus groans as he tries to stand, falling to the side. "Marcus!-" "Halt!" The booming voice makes you jump, aggravating your wound. "Who goes- General!" the roman before you exclaims in disbelief, lowering his sword. "God's be praised! We thought you had died sir!" "He... help her," Marcus rasped. "Yes sir. You two..." he points to two men in the patrol group, "help the General, you..." he points to another soldier, "Go on ahead. Inform the Medicuses and bring them to the Praetorium (Generals' tent).

Your head is spinning, consciousness becoming harder to cling too. When you feel two large hands grabbing you, you cry out in alarm, trying to shift away from the strange man, who is even larger than Marcus. Marcus' hand finds yours and you can instantly tell the difference, his already familiar touch grounding you. "He won't hurt you, I promise. We're safe now." Marcus' encouragement were more than just words to you; they're a comfort, a reassurance that your spent body can rest, knowing that whole dreadful ordeal is finally over. The soldier bends down and scoops you up, and with the adrenaline now dissolving from your system, your whole body slumps into the mans breastplate. Two soldiers drape Marcus' arms over their shoulders and pull him up, taking his weight as you all make your way to the Castrum (army encampment).

Series Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Ch 4

@myownwholewildworldwhole @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius smut #general acacius #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius fluff #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal characters #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius x ofc #marcus acacius angst #gladiator 2 movie

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the-monkeies-girl · 6 months ago

Text

did u miss me??? but anyway—-

Caesar was a remarkably fast walker--- at least, in your mind there was no doubt that his proportionally shorter legs were swift, balanced and spaced toes able to give assistance when needed for extra grip and it was hard to ignore the ever lingering sense of envy that drifted against your ribs at the mere sight of him trailing ahead of you. Even despite your rain boots having decently new tread against the soles, they were nothing compared to the dexterity and assurance that Caesar had to not stumble over himself. He was confident in every stride, gait powerful from the tips of his shoulders that bristled with the thickened fur of the Winter Months that were now cresting their peak against the sleek land, all the way down the narrowing but not lanky torso and protruding with muscles that deemed purpose even when not in use.

There was a desperate urge from the recesses of your mind to move faster, to catch up and walk shoulder to shoulder with the Ape King himself, to feel the fur that your fingertips were so familiar with kissing the polyester of your jacket but that never garnered favor. Caesar lead you- figuratively and mentally, emotionally… To keep you safe in the Colony, comforted away from the Humans who brought their own destruction… Secure, with him and only him… It was an unspoken rule between the Ape and your Human self that beckoned no one to break it, sacred almost like a promise between two children on the playground. Never to be broken, but over time, it would be forgotten in favor of falling into a routine, mundane and just another way of living.

And that’s what this was, you thought to yourself with a small smile as Caesar peered over his left shoulder, urging you in silence to follow his placed foot steps over a fallen tree-trunk, covered in moss and silken dew from condensation that clung all too desperately to the air. Whenever you left the Colony together on foot, Caesar would bring his large frame a few paces in front of you to the point where your vision was nothing more than the broad shoulders that swept side to side with radiated assurance for you but juxtapose held nothing but warmth in the middle of the night when you were tangled in the nest together.

He was scanning the area with his lustrously green irises that were now brighter in color than the foliage that turned a bleak and boring gray this time of year, anything that posed a danger he would help you through. Anything that your Human feet could trip over, he pointed out in usual silence and it left you reeling that anyone in the days after the Flu took all semblance of empathy away from Humanity would care for you in such a way.

Caesar did though --- despite differences, you watched in bated hushedness as he reached his hand out, the fur along his knuckles tickling at your fingertips as you reached up and allowed him to laden your body closer as if you weighed nothing more than a leaf, embracing you against his chest with momentum that left you staggering for a breath, moving you around the fallen trunk that did not pose much of a threat, but the Ape was intuitive enough to notice you were falling behind in your hurriedness. Slowly, the arm that was by his side wrapped to tuck itself around your waist, pulling you in even further for stability as your center of gravity kissed feverishly against his own, submitting and leaning into it without reserve.

You smiled a 'thank you' towards your mate, returned only with a creased upward haze of his mouth and a playful gesture of his hand as the Chimp signed, 'Need you to stay close.'

"I know." You whispered softly, seeing the surge of the gray fur that lined his muzzle bristle at the sheer tenacity your breath had being so close to his face. "I could get lost, blah blah. You've told me---"

To outsiders, it would appear you were being scolded for not listening, but to the inner workings between Caesar and yourself, it was playful... Flirtatious around the edges as his voice came out in a deepened and rich baritone, a few notches below from the voice he used with others. It itched at the inside of your brain that yearned to have him inside of your skin, inside of your mind just to cure all the morbid and lasting curiosities you had about being mated to the King himself.

"Should listen then. Do not know... What I would do if you... Got lost." In a mirror position, you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheeks, playing along the thinly placed baby hairs of your skin and catapulting a shiver down your spine that was not due to the sudden breeze that sky-rocketed the landscape and rustled the graying and dead leaves. Caesar.... cared for you more than any Human ever would or could.

#planet of the apes #pota #Caesar #Caesar x reader #planet of the apes x reader #pota x reader #andy serkis #caesar planet of the apes #Caesar pota

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revived--c · 5 months ago

Text

Headcanon that when Mountain ventures out to the woods that surrounds the ministry, sometimes he ends up getting so lost in his element he stands so perfectly still, birds mistake him for an actual tree.

The big guy is, in truth, completely asleep standing up. So while he's taking his snooze, a couple birds sit and rest on his antlers, there's two snails slowly scaling up his left leg, a contented squirrel nestled in the crook of his neck and even a small butterfly resting her wings on his glasses.

Dew finds him later on, still standing and even snoring now. With all his little (unexpected) friends still using him as a penthouse. They get spooked away though and in the struggle of all of the critters scattering off Mountain-- the earth ghoul wakes with a jolt and sputters out a "wha-- oh! Hey Dew.."

#ghost bc #the nameless ghouls #the band ghost #poly ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #ghoul headcanons #mountain ghoul #mountain x dewdrop

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aestheticpearl · 1 year ago

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— ‘you’ve got to press it on you.’

characters. dewdrop, rain, swiss, mountain, phantom

themes. SMUT

[warnings] smut, blood, biting, dacryphilia, size kink, corruption kink, light choking, mirror sex, spanking

[gender neutral reader]

ghoulettes

a/n: they’re ghouls, read at your own risk

➳ dewdrop

he def fucks with a PASSION

very accommodating

if you want to go slow, he’ll go slow

if you want it rough, he’ll be rough

he can be whatever you’d like, praise or degradation

‘oh yeah, that’s it baby— fuck you really know how to move, where’d you learn that hm? you fucking the other ghouls?’

POWER BOTTOM

i said what i said

dew loves to watch you ride him

and he loves to hold your hips to guide your movements

it’s definitely his favorite position

he doesn’t mind topping tho

this ghoul will mark you up until your neck is painted in your own blood

he’ll lick it up cause he love how sweet you taste

“such a pretty thing covered in your own blood and my cum, fuck you turn me on.”

you lay breathlessly on top of the ghoul as he pets your head. you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum, your mind fuzzy and fucked out.

“few more rounds yeah?” dewdrop states moving so he’s now on top of you.

he slips himself back inside you with little effort, using his own cum that’s on you as a lubricant.

you groan into your pillow at the stretch of him. no matter how many times you do it, it still burns in the best way possible.

“that’s it, you’re so good at taking my dick.” he says before leaning over to bite your shoulder.

➳ rain

he doesn’t fuck

he makes love

and he’s so good at it

gives the BEST head

he would stay between your legs for hours if you’d let him

shower sex

y’all are always fuckin in the shower or in some kind of water

oddly enough he’s not a fan of bath sex

the water splashes on the floor and you almost slipped because of it one time

shamelessly loud moans

he breathes heavily after he cums that’s so hot holy fuck

he’ll definitely thank you while cumming

‘thankyouthankyouthankyou— hgnnn i love you so much’

loves to make out with you while he’s inside you

he’s def cried after sex cause it felt so good but don’t tell anyone that

your lips are starting to go numb because of the heavy make out session between the both of you. it almost distracts you from the slow but skilled rolling of his hips into yours. almost.

“you feel so good around me, satan i love you so much.” rain says before moving back into the kiss and pinning you more up against the shower wall.

the water pours down both of your bodies and something about it just absolutely does it for rain.

“you look so amazing like this, soaking wet while i drill my cock into you.” he moans.

➳ swiss

kinky bastard

degradation king

but like his aftercare is amazing so it’s fine

corruption kink

fav position is doggy

loves shoving your face into a pillow while he plows you from behind

also likes to lean down and yank you up so he can hold your neck

has marked you everywhere

needs to let everyone know you’re his

‘you’re mine, don’t forget that’

almost bit a major artery in your leg

ALMOST

there was a lot of blood but it’s okay cause you didn’t die and it only turned him on more

he will try any angle that feels good

he MAKES you flexible

this bitch definitely growls

LOVES to make you watch how he disappears inside you

def has a mirror next to his bed

“look at how good i fuck you.” swiss grips your face and makes you turn to look at yourself in the mirror next to him bed. “look at how well your slutty hole takes me ahh fucking whore for my cock.”

you let out a pathetic whimper that makes swiss chuckle as he pushes your head back into the mattress.

“keep your eyes on me.” he whispers in your ear as he holds the back of your neck. he plants a swift smack on your ass before rubbing his hand over it gently to soothe the sting.

“good play thing.”

➳ mountain

he knows his size

he also knows how to use it

OH LORD

he is so gentle tho

a little scared he’ll hurt you

he also can’t degrade you

he tried and HE ended up crying

loves how he towers over your body

can and will man handle you which means he will fuck you everywhere he can

the wall, the bathroom, the practice room

everywhere

loves the thrill of getting caught

‘shhh baby you don’t want us to get caught do you?’

he loves when you’re vocal, since he kinda just grunts and groans

mountain lifts your leg gently for better access and you can’t help but moan loudly before his hand covers your mouth and he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“so loud, i’m starting to think you want someone to catch us pretty thing.”

your eyes squeeze shut as your body is hit with another wave of pleasure as you feel mountain’s free hand take yours to guide it down your chest and stop at your abdomen before pressing down.

“i’m right here, you feel that?”

➳ phantom

i love phantom i do but he’s younger and doesn’t have as much as experience as the other ghouls

that being said

he focuses a little too much on himself but

HE WHIMPERS

‘ah fuck’

he loves holding you close to him while thrusting into you

doesn’t pull out all the way, he kind of just jerks into you really fast

lil jackhammer

he learns how to make you feel good from your guidance

likes when you communicate how you feel during sex

he likes seeing you cry but only because it feels good

he doesn’t like hurting you

bites you but not hard enough to draw blood

he likes praising you

very possessive

phantom places gentle kisses over the fresh indent of his teeth on your neck while holding onto you for dear life.

“such a good little thing for me nghh so tight, all mine.”

you’ll admit he was going a little too fast for it to feel good on you end, that was until you adjusted your hips and he started hitting a certain spot that had your legs shaking.

phantom takes notice of this almost immediately.

“i hit your sweet spot didn’t i?”

“p-phantom i need to you slow down and keep that angle.” your eyes are practically rolling back into your head at this point as he listens to your instructions.

“fuck you’re squeezing me so tight.”

please reblog to show support ✧·˚ ༘ * ༄

feral i’ve gone feral you guys

.love always <3 pearl

.masterlist

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builtaworldwithyourlove · 8 months ago

Text

Sweet

one shot

1.5k / joel miller x f!reader / minors dni

summary: summertime saturday bliss with joel. Inspired by ‘Sweet’ by Cigarettes After Sex

warnings: fluff, dad!joel, boyfriend!joel, no specific description of reader, no outbreak, age gap (reader is mid20s& joel is early to mid 40s), just a whole lotta loving.

Main Masterlist 🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You were never fond of sharing a bed with anyone. As a child, you hated sleepovers and always wanted to be asleep early. As a teenager, you had a scrupulous night routine which carried on into your life now. Skincare, meditation, reading and sleep no later than 10pm. You were a light sleeper too, the slightest twitch, distant car alarm or whistle of wind would startle you.

That soon changed after you met Joel and you stayed the first night with him. He was double your size and he made sure to hold you all night. He was a deadweight and didn’t disturb you in the slightest. After the first night with him, the loss of his arms draped over you was huge and you could no longer sleep easily without him next to you.

Joel always slept in later than you, and would only wake after you did, to you either stifling a laugh to some stupid cat video, or vigorously writing down your manifestations and goals for the day. He didn’t mind. Your face first thing in the morning was a sight he’d want to cherish for the rest of his life.

‘Morning darl’ he drawled through a squint.

‘Sleep well?’ You rolled over to face him, and he cupped your face and pulled you in for a kiss.

‘Better than ever,’ Joel rubbed his eyes and scooped your hair off over your should and behind your neck. ‘Coffee?’

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You both moseyed downstairs and opened all the doors and windows, ready for the heat of an American summer to fill the home .

Joel made your coffee, exactly how you liked it, with frothed milk, plenty of syrup and in your favourite mug, engraved with your zodiac sign.

He held out his hand and you delicately took it and walked outside onto the patio.

Wildflowers were scattered across the borders of the garden, splashes of colour and flickers of wildlife dashed throughout the morning dew.

A sparrow darted across the garden and landed the fence, calling out to the magnolia tree which shaded your patio. Joel laid propped up on his elbow as you both lounged on the deckchairs watching the birds and butterflies in the morning sun.

He aimlessly ran his fingers up and down your leg, gazing at you sipping your coffee, and smirking with a full heart.

‘Enjoying the summer mornings baby?’ Joel drawled, as he stood up and stretched. His shirt lifted, revealing a strip of golden skin and chiselled stomach.

You tilted your head, squinting as the sun glowed into your eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else, sweet boy. The city life doesn’t even compare’

‘Well this is your home now darl’. Can’t let you go anywhere now’ Joel winked and took your empty coffee mug into the kitchen.

You followed him into the house, finding the motivation to get your life together and not strip the man down to his bare bones.

He pointed a finger at you. ‘You, shower.’

You rolled your eyes.

‘Er, none of that little miss. I’m not having you moaning when it’s 11am and the parking lots are gridlocked and you can’t get your damn scented candles and bed linens.’

You were too stunned to speak, and cackled as he knew you too well. How could you be mad when he loved you too deeply to let you lose out?

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

You hopped in the shower, scrubbing yourself whilst filling the air with fragrance that came from Joel’s mahogany teakwood shower gel. Women’s toiletries smelt sweet, but didn’t last anywhere near as long as men’s. And anyway, who wouldn’t want to have Joel’s scent lingering all day.

Wrapped up in a fluffy white towel and your hair in a towel wrap, you did your makeup, brushed out your lashes and eyebrows, and drowned yourself in Lost Cherry. Your signature scent.

You decided on a linen co ord, baby pink with shorts and a long sleeved shirt, which you had unbuttoned slightly lower than normal, but smart enough to leave enough to the imagination.

You danced down the stairs, hearing Joel and Sarah playing in the garden. Breakfast had been made and you invited Sarah to join you on your Saturday shopping trip before Joel had to go to work

‘Come on peanut, I’ll treat you to the soda shaped candle you wanted’ you called to Sarah and grabbed your purse and some snacks, of course. Sarah ran upstairs to find one of her favourite dresses and matching bows. You prayed she’d never grow up out of her tutu dress stage for any occasion.

Joel looked like a dream, in his cargos and tight fitting flannel. The sky could be on fire and this man would still be wearing a flannel insisting it’s never too hot. He smelt like coffee and cigarette ash, and cedarwood.

He grabbed your waist, threatening to tilt you backwards over the garden sprinkler. You yelped and whacked him off with your purse and whispered seductively ‘That’s just taken away your chance to see what’s underneath my outfit.’

He fell to his knees and lunged into you, your knees buckling as he stood up with you over his shoulders. He ran into the kitchen, still holding you as if he was a fireman and the garden was a burning flame. Sarah skipped down the stairs and immediately ran with concern hearing you yelping.

‘Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to clear the exits!’ Joel did his stupid talking down a walkie talkie impression and pointed to Sarah to give way to you both.

She crossed her arms and stood firmly in the doorway, as if she wasn’t 4ft nothing.

‘You leave me with no choice’ Joel seemed to forget he still had you upside down over his shoulder and squatted down to put Sarah in the same position.

You clumsily bumped heads as Joel flung you both about with no care. He dropped you on the sofa and Sarah on the armchair.

You were out of breath from laughing and trying to keep some of your dignity.

Joel realised the time, he had to leave in two minutes to go to the site.

‘Well girls, thanks for holding me up’ he jokingly muttered, trying to imitate the attitude you and Sarah sometimes give him.

Sarah looked at you and you both shook your head and giggled. Joel chucked you the car keys and you and Sarah went out to do some shopping.

🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️🫧☁️

After facing the trenches of a retail park in scorching heat, you headed home. Joel had called to say he would be home before you and asked what cocktail you wanted lined up.

Sarah was asleep in her car seat, and you reversed onto the drive, texting Joel to grab Sarah while you got the bags.

Joel’s eye widened and jaw went slack as he saw you unload the car.

‘Baby, if I see another throw cushion I may have to scream.’ Joel delivered the most deadpan one liners sometimes, digging at your femininity and weakness for home furnishings.

‘Don’t act like you don’t fall asleep on them every single night half way through the film you decided to pick’ you shut the car door and let Joel chuckle as he went and layed Sarah on the sofa.

‘What’s for dinner baby?’ Joel asked.

‘Not sure, ask Sarah when she wakes up what she wants, I got groceries yesterday so she can pick’ you kissed his cheek and reached up for the wine glasses.

You gestured at Joel if he wanted some, and he pulled the cork out of the half finished wine bottle from last night with his teeth.

You began to crumble under how hot this man was, until he blew the cork out of his mouth and aimed it for your head. He laughed like a boy and smacked your ass as you rolled your eyes.

‘You know Miller, for someone who likes sex so much, you’re doing an awful lot to sabotage your chances of getting some tonight’ you tapped him on the hip with your foot, and he grabbed your ankle trying to trip you up.

‘You can’t resist this boyish charm, baby’ he winked and showed his perfect white teeth through a grin.

Sarah came tiptoeing into the kitchen and cuddled her daddy. You sat on the breakfast stool next to Joel, and she clambered onto your lap. You kissed her forehead and she wrapped her arms round her neck.

‘Daddy, can we have Pizza and the special salad you make?’

‘Anything for my princesses’ Joel stood and wrapped his thick arms round you both, before getting dinner ready for you all.

Sarah picked up your phone and scrolled through your playlist, picking the song you were humming as you drove earlier.

‘It’s so sweet, knowing that you love me. Though we don’t need to say it to eachother, sweet’

‘I love you’ you mouthed to Joel. Your eyes welled up as the song played and filled your heart with an overwhelming feeling of how happy you were.

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hotchner-edu · 7 months ago

Note

hiiiiiii! your hotch fics are chef's kisses~ is it possible to request one where r and hotch are on a running date (totally hotch's idea & r is STRUGGLING lol)? <3

Morning Jog (Drabble) | Aaron Hotchner

The warbling of sparrows danced around in the treetops above you, the morning twilight melting away into soft blues as the air stiffened with dew. Looking forward, you could see the ocean of tree leaves swaying and jittering from the bristles of wind that whizzed through the air.

All of the beauty surrounding you in your local park was however lost on you as you felt your muscles searing in agony. With every step you took, it felt like pins and needles were being torched and inserted into your tendons.

"Aaron, wait... can we stop for a second..." You huff out, puffs of air leaving your chest as you rest your hands on your hips. The cold air stuck to your lungs and made the journey all the more agonizing.

Aaron stops a few paces in front of you, hardly having worked up a sweat. "Sure, sweetheart. Do you need some water?"

You wave off his question and tip your head back to look up at the sky. "My muscles... are disintegrating."

"That's just the lactic, honey." Aaron chuckles fondly and checks his watch. "We've done a little over a mile, do you want to keep going?"

You plop down on a nearby bench, legs completely jelly. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" Aaron hums sweetly, walking over to massage your legs gently.

"I love you, but please don't ever put me through this again. I think I'm done with running dates. My ego is fragile enough as is." You grunt out, only half-serious as you feel his large fingers deftly working to soothe your muscle aches.

Your boyfriend lets out a deep chuckle and kisses your knee. "That's a shame then. I just ordered that new compression shirt after all." His words are light and brimming with temptation, twisting your resolve and wringing it out onto the concrete as you mouth quirks into a frown.

"What was that?" You croak out, resolve already faltering.

"What was what, honey?" He teases and grins at you brightly, still crouched beside you and squeezing your calves.

Furrowing your eyebrows you lean forward a bit. "Why must you insist on torturing me like this?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He says playfully and stands up again, offering his hand to you.

Grumbling, you lazily take his hand and let him lug you onto your feet.

"Do you need me to carry you to the car?" He asks and rests his hand on your lower back.

"And save me all the public embarrassment? I think I'll be okay." You say sarcastically and chuckle softly. "And don't you usually run like three miles? I can just wait on the bench while you finish up..." Your voice grows softer, feeling bad that he has to cut his routine short on your behalf.

Aaron gives a small shrug, and a lazy smile tugging at his lips. His next words are overflowing with suggestiveness as his fingers trace circles on your back. "Usually I do, but I have an idea for how I can make up for my morning cardio."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds aaron

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Summary: Your weekend getaway to Indianapolis comes with a boyfriend who's trying to quit smoking, a five-year-old who has difficulty acclimating to new routines, and your own insecurities about your mothering abilities. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: angst, insecurities about motherhood, lost child, Eddie gets mad at us, discussion of menstrual period/PMS

WC: 7.7k A/N: There is a moment where someone refers to us as Harris's mom; however, she doesn't see us. There is no indication that we resemble Harris in any way.

Chapter 16/20

Divider credit to @saradika Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsonsmum

The morning dew still kisses the grass when you arrive at the Munson apartment, hauling your duffel bag up to their half-packed car. Eddie’s leaning into the backseat, only his jean-clad legs visible from your vantage point. Harris stands behind him, watching his dad’s every move earnestly and intently. If you had a camera on you, you’d take a photo of this Kodak moment.

“Hi, boys!” you chirp as enthusiastically, tucking your lips into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing when Eddie bangs his head on the roof of the car. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah, ‘m good,” he mutters, rubbing at his scalp with one hand, expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile.”Morning, Sweetheart. You sleep well?”

You nod, opening your arms as Harris races towards you for a hug. “What about you guys? Or were you too excited about our super-fun weekend?”

“Daddy snored!” Harris reports with a grin, overjoyed to share what he perceives to be a juicy morsel of gossip.

Eddie gasps in mock-offense, reaching out to take your bag and arranging it amongst his and Harris’s in the trunk. “I did not!”

“Did too!” Harris retorts, turning back to you and adding, “like, so loud!”

You crouch down, and hold a pinky out in front of him. “We’re gonna have to stick together this weekend if we’re going to survive,” returning his smile when he wraps his little finger around yours in a promise.

“Can’t believe my girlfriend is conspiring against me with my own flesh and blood,” Eddie grumbles, eyes widening when he realizes what he’s said; rather, in front of whom he’s said it. His panicked gaze meets yours, and you both anticipate some reaction from Harris, but he’s fortunately unfazed and too fixated on the utter silliness of his dad’s snoring. Eddie clears his throat, determined to change the subject before his son catches on. “I think we’re ready to ship out,” he offers, slamming the trunk shut and pressing down to double-check that it’s closed.

“Snacks?” you ask, running through a mental checklist of necessities.

Eddie holds up a family-size bag of pretzels. “Got ‘em.”

“Water?”

“Backseat,” he points to the floor to the left of Harris’s booster seat–a recent upgrade from his carseat. “Harris will be in charge of that, right, Har?”

“Right!” Harris confirms with a thumbs-up.

“Sounds good. Put him to work,” you tease. Eddie’s heart skips a beat at the playful relationship that you and his son have, swapping smiles and making each other laugh. “Music?”

Eddie juts his chin towards the center console, filled to the brim with cassettes. “Always.”

You cock your eyebrow knowingly before posing your next question, preparing yourself for some visceral response. “Nicotine gum?”

Eddie groans, patting the pack of Nicorette in his pocket. “Unfortunately, yes.” About a week and a half ago, Harris had come home from school crying after the school had put on an assembly about the dangers of smoking. Eddie had been meaning to quit for a long time, but his son worrying over real problems, using words like cancer and heart attack, was what finally pushed him to chuck every pack of cigarettes he owned into the trash.

“Okay,” you smile and clap your hands together, “I think we’re good to go!” You help Harris buckle his seatbelt before climbing into the passenger seat.

The sedan rumbles to life, catching on the second key turn and disrupting the otherwise still morning. “Gentlemen, start your engines!” Eddie roars in an exaggeratedly deep voice, and Harris giggles from the backseat. With Eddie’s hand on the gearshift, you seize the opportunity to squeeze it, light pink tickling his cheeks at your touch.

It’s only thirty minutes into the drive before it starts.

“Daddy, I gotta pee!”

You can practically feel the patience leaving Eddie’s body, fingers tightly gripping the wheel until his knuckles flush white.

“Har Bear, we just hit the road,” he tries, knowing his efforts are fruitless. “Can you hold it?”

“No, it’s a ‘mergency!”

“Fuck,” Eddie swears under his breath. The likelihood of it actually being an emergency is slim to none, but he’s in no mood to risk it. “All right, I’ll pull over at the next rest stop, ‘kay?”

Eddie takes the next exit, parking at a truck stop and nearly falling out of the car in his scramble to get Harris to the bathroom. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, walking so quickly that Harris nearly trips over his own feet. You quicken your own pace just to keep up with them.

The scent of coffee grabs your attention as soon as you walk in the door, and you make a beeline for the tiny Dunkin Donuts tucked in the corner. The cashier looks as though they could use a shot or two of espresso, eyelids closing under their visor as you give your order. When the boys get back from the bathroom, you present Eddie with a large coffee with far more milk and sugar than your own, and hand a chocolate donut to Harris.

Eddie's eyes shift back and forth from the donut to you before he speaks. “It’s, like, 9 am,” he points out. “He’s gonna be bouncing off the walls if he eats that now.”

Oh. Obviously. What were you thinking, giving an already-hyperactive child pure sugar in the morning? All of the times you’d cringed when parents had sent their kids into school with Cocoa Puffs or some equally sugary cereal, and you’d given his son a chocolate donut for breakfast. “I’m sorry,” you sputter, shaking your head in frustration. “I should’ve asked you first, or saved it for later.”

“‘S fine,” he mutters, heaving an exasperated sigh as Harris takes a giant bite of donut. “At least there’s two of us to chase after him,” he adds with a weak smile.

Harris has devoured nearly the entire donut by the time Eddie’s buckling him back in, chocolate crumbs tucked into the crevices of his mouth. He’s oblivious to your faux pas, and you’d like to keep it that way.

“I really am sorry,” you say again, guilt gnawing in your stomach. “I should’ve known better; I guess I just got excited about our little vacation together.”

Eddie’s grin is more genuine this time. “Me, too, baby.” He sneaks a quick kiss to your cheek when Harris is focused on what remains of his snack. “The whole no-smoking thing has me extra bitter, y’know?”

You know. You definitely know, but you’re not about to point out all of the ways he’s been short-tempered lately. Instead, you relax into your seat and try to brush off your mistake as Eddie turns on the radio and guitar riffs replace the silence.

Eddie rolls down the window as the springtime sun warms the air, and you stretch as the rush of wind cools your body. His curls whip around the base of his neck, dancing in the breeze, and you can’t help but push them out of his face haphazardly.

Your stomach growls, and you’re grateful for the blaring music masking the embarrassingly loud noise. You’d forgotten to grab something for breakfast in your rush to leave your apartment, and coffee is a poor substitute for the most important meal of the day.

You reach down to the bag of pretzels nestled against your feet. “Y’want?” you ask Eddie, who nods and opens his mouth for you to feed it to him while he concentrates on the road. Laughter bubbles up from within you as he takes one from your hand by pinching it between his teeth.

Harris giggles, too. “Daddy, you look like a goat from the zoo!”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie slides the snack into his mouth and bites down with a crunch, “and what sounds do goats make?”

“Hmm,” Harris ponders this for a moment before bleating a resounding, “maaaah!”

You swivel in your seat to give him a high-five. There’s donut residue on your hand when you pull back. “Smarty pants! I bet you know every animal sound there is.”

You and Eddie rattle off different species as you feed him more pretzels. Harris manages perfect impressions of each, until you call out, “sloth!” and effectively stump him.

“Ms. Sweetheart!” he cackles maniacally, partially because of his sugar rush, you’re sure, “that is so silly!”

“Y’just gotta do everything suuuuper slooooow.” You drag out the last two words to emphasize your point. “Like this: Haaaaarrisssss…caaaaan…youuuuu…haaaaand…meeeeee…aaaaa…waaaaterrrr?” This brings on a fresh round of giggles from the backseat; even extra-bitter Eddie manages a hint of a smile.

Harris grabs a bottle at a snail’s–no, a sloth’s–pace. “Heeere…youuuuu…goooooo!” His pace is far from hurried, and you feel the gentle tap of the plastic cap against your shoulder blade a full thirty seconds later.

“Thaaaaank…youuuuu!” You crack open the bottle of water and take a swig, quenching a thirst only made worse by the salty snack. “Wanna play again? See how many other animal sounds you can do?” you ask, grateful to have found a way to keep him occupied. Before you can close the bottle, Eddie reaches over and snags it, lifting it to his lips.

“Daddy, no!” Harris screeches from the backseat, little hand shooting out in protest, causing Eddie to slam on the brake. Water sloshes over the top of the bottle and onto his pants.

“Shit—what, Har?” he snaps, shoving the now half-empty bottle into the cupholder. He swipes haphazardly at the wet patch on his thigh, darkening the denim as it spreads along the fabric. He gives up with a mumbled, “whatever,” when he realizes he’s only rubbing it in more.

“You’re gonna get her germs,” Harris points out matter-of-factly.

Eddie huffs out a terse chuckle, slightly amused but still irritated. “Yeah, yeah, right,” he mutters, and you take that as a sign to reach back and get him his own bottle.

The remainder of the drive is uneventful, though Eddie has to dip into his Nicorette stash when a maroon Toyota Corolla weaves in and out of lanes at lightning speed and cuts him off. He instinctively reaches for the pack of cigarettes he’d always kept in the console, groaning when he remembers that it’s long gone.

“Good job, baby,” you murmur softly, giving his knee a quick squeeze in approval as he pops a piece of gum into his mouth. “‘M proud of you.”

You pull up to the hotel just after 10 AM, the morning chill has dissipated as the sun’s rays warm the air. The fair weather made the trip smoother, a small miracle if you’d ever seen one. Truthfully, you don’t think Eddie’s frayed nerves can handle a rainy day.

Eddie takes Harris’s hand as you all walk through the parking lot and up to the front desk. A middle-aged concierge greets you, the customer service smile plastered across his face faltering when he clocks Eddie’s ripped jeans and disheveled wind-blown hair.

“Reservation’s under ‘Munson,’” Eddie says to him, not making eye contact; your heart is a sinking stone when you realize that he also noticed the man’s shifting expression. “I called ahead and they said we could check in early.”

The concierge nods. You catch a glimpse of his shiny silver name tag, proudly proclaiming “STU, ASSISTANT MANAGER” gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “Room 325,” he grunts, handing you and Eddie keys dangling from matching logo-branded chains. Elation is a sunflower blooming in your chest; your first vacation has officially begun. Maybe it’s a little getaway only ninety minutes from home, but it’s a new adventure that you’re taking together.

Eddie flings his and Harris’s shared bag, then yours, onto one of the queen beds with a groan. “We made it!” he announces, flinging an arm over your shoulder. The pads of his fingers brush your upper arm, a tissue-paper light touch that has you soaring.

“Daddy? I gotta pee again,” Harris’s urgency breaks the moment. He’s hopping from one foot to the other, a potty dance if you’ve ever seen one.

“Go for it,” Eddie says, pointing towards the bathroom. He shakes his head when his son sprints the short distance.

Once the door closes, Eddie’s hands are on your hips, tugging you so close that your stomachs touch, your breasts pressed to his chest. His mouth immediately swoops down to your neck, nipping gently at the flesh along your collarbone.

“Hello there,” you manage to speak through a laugh. You’re unable to say more, as he’s pressing his lips to yours in a hungry kiss so fervently that your teeth nearly click together.

“Hi,” he breathes once he’s pulled back, brushing the tip of his nose against your own. “Sorry, y’just look really pretty.”

You wrinkle your nose in confusion. “I’m wearing sweatpants. I don’t even have makeup on.” Truthfully, you’d meant to at least swipe on some mascara, but you were preoccupied making sure that you’d packed everything you needed for the weekend.

“Don’t care,” Eddie mumbles, leaning in for another kiss, “still s’fuckin’ pretty. Don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off of you.”

The solution to that problem comes in the form of a flushing toilet and Harris calling out, “I’m done! Gonna wash my hands!”

Eddie throws his head back in frustration before burying his pink-tinged face in his hands. “This, uh, was not exactly how I imagined our first time in a hotel together,” he admits.

“At least he’s washing his hands,” you joke, trying to ward off the throbbing need building in your core. It fails miserably. You want him, need him, to relieve the ache in the way that only he can. You yearn for the way his fingertips dance across your skin, eagerly reaching under your shirt or dipping below your waistband, desperate to make his girl feel good.

The two of you break apart as the bathroom door swings open. You fly across the room and pretend like you’re rifling through your duffel bag while Eddie flops onto the bed. His shirt rides up slightly as he lays down, and you have to fight the urge to bite the exposed sliver of tummy.

“When are we going to the market?” Harris asks, catapulting himself onto the bed and landing next to his dad.

Eddie rolls over and checks the digital alarm clock between the two queen beds. “Doesn’t start for another few hours,” he says. “I was gonna try and take a quick nap before we—”

“I’m not tired!” Harris whines, and you can see in Eddie’s deflated, tense physicality that his already thin patience is wearing down further. “I wanna go now!”

“Hey, Har Bear,” you try, hoping you’re not inserting yourself into the dynamic too forcefully, “why don’t we go on an adventure while Daddy sleeps? We can wake him up when we get back.”

Harris hops down onto the floor and readily slips his hand into yours. “Bye, Daddy!” he calls out, dragging you towards the door. “Me an’ Ms. Sweetheart are having a ‘venture!”

Eddie gives you a weary but grateful smile as he scoots upwards to rest his head on the overstuffed pillow. “Godspeed,” he mumbles into the sheets, already beginning to doze off as he speaks.

The elevator dings and you shuffle into the small space, reaching for the “L” button to bring you down to the lobby.

“I wanna push the button!” Harris laments, and his sudden shriek has you instinctively pulling your hand back before regaining your composure.

Do you correct him? Let him press the button despite raising his voice? Deciding a consequence comes naturally to you in the classroom, but the anxiety of making the wrong choice serves as a massive roadblock. “You have to ask nicely if you want to push the button,” you offer, sending up a silent prayer that this staves off an impending tantrum.

He pouts for a moment before relenting. “Can I push the button?” It’s more grumble than request, but you accept it anyway.

His hand remains tucked safely into yours when you leave the hotel, basking in warm weather. You breathe in for three, breathe out for three. Okay. You can do this. Your job revolves around children; you can survive an afternoon taking care of just one.

Except that one happens to be your boyfriend’s son, and if you mess this up, it could ruin both Munsons’ perceptions of you.

“Where’re we going?” Harris asks, and you realize that you have no earthly idea; to be honest, you’re surprised that he so readily agreed.

”We can go for a walk?” you suggest, pasting on a smile in feigned confidence. “Maybe we can find a playground or something?”

“Okay!” he chirps. He’s fast for someone with little legs, and you have to remind him multiple times to use his walking feet. Yeah, this kid needs to burn off some energy, stat.

To your relief, there’s a playground just a few blocks away, fully equipped with a swing set and a jungle gym. Harris races across the grassy field onto the wood chip-covered area, assessing the space to figure out what he wants to conquer first.

You sit on the bench next to a woman who simultaneously reads a James Patterson novel and keeps an eye on the jungle gym, where a little girl is dangling from the monkey bars, putting one hand in front of the other.

She looks over with a sympathetic smile when you breathe out a long sigh, sinking into the wooden back like a weight has been removed from your shoulders.

“I hear that,” she says with a kind chuckle. “Mine will be tired for about…hmm, five minutes? Just long enough to get her home, and then she’ll be hopping around like the Energizer Bunny.” She shakes her head. “Is yours the same way?”

Yours. The term is peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, and it takes a beat too long for you to respond. “Y-Yeah, I’m pretty sure he would sleep run if he could.” The stranger laughs at your joke, and you relax a bit. “Sorry, he’s really my boyfriend’s son, and it’s kind of…new to think of him as being mine, too.”

You expect her to pick up and move to a different bench, away from the weird woman who’s baring her soul on the playground, but she just closes her book and turns to you. “Carly is technically my stepdaughter,” she explains in a hushed tone, “but her mom’s not in the picture so, for all intents and purposes, she’s my daughter. No ‘step’ necessary.”

“Is…is it hard?” you ask, the question spilling from your lips in a desperate plea for answers. “Being a stepmom?”

She nods. “Oh, absolutely.” She brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, and you can see a sparkle behind them. “But, trust me, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Her words, spoken freely of judgment and purely with empathy, alleviate the nervousness burning through you. “Thank you,” you murmur, gratitude forming a lump in your throat that you struggle to swallow.

“Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris shouts from the top of the jungle gym. “Look what I can do!” He hesitates for a moment before reaching out his arms and grabbing onto the metal pole. You stand up to call out a preemptive warning, to get to him before he can fall, but before you can, his chubby hands grip the pole. He hooks his legs around it and slides down expertly, not letting go until his sneakers are firmly planted on the wood chips scattered across the ground.

Pride warms your heart when his eyes lock with yours, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he awaits your approval. Anticipation reverberates within his little body, and before you can get in a word edgewise, he’s jumping up and down with an excited, “didja see me?”

“You’re amazing!” Your praise floats through the air and envelops him like a long-awaited embrace. “Super brave, too. I don’t think I could do that.”

He furrows his brows before a knowing smile forms on his lips. “Yes, you can! I’ll show you.”

Kind of walked right into that one, you lightly chastise yourself, but you dutifully shuffle towards where he’s already darting up the steps on all fours, hands splayed out for balance.

“C’mon, Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris cheers, waving his fists in the air in earnest, and you simply cannot let the boy down. He easily glides down once more, big brown eyes looking up at you from the ground. “Just like that, see?”

“Right, got it.” You give him a thumbs-up and emulate his movements, holding on tightly to the metal pole and sliding down. You grimace as it squeaks under your grasp, nails on a chalkboard, but your feet reach the ground soon enough.

Harris flings his arms around you, chin digging into your thigh as he gazes up in adoration. “I told you you could do it! Y’just had to try!” His admiration is fleeting; he soon spots another child leap from the swingset to play elsewhere. “Can you push me on the swings?” he pleads, already leading you to the equipment. “I just need a little help getting started, but then ‘m good.”

You hold the chain links dangling from the top of the structure, allowing Harris to maneuver himself onto the rubber seat. He scoots back so his bottom is fully supported and announces, “‘m ready!”

“Hold on tight,” you remind him, more out of routine than necessity, as you pull back the rust-covered chains. You move as far back as you can, double-checking that he hasn’t let go, and release the swing. His squealing giggles are music to your ears, and you push him a few more times before he’s able to take over independently.

His mop of curls defies gravity as he sails back and forth, pumping his legs to gain height. “Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Hm?”

“Do you love my daddy?”

You ponder the thought for a moment. You know exactly how you feel about Eddie; he simultaneously kicks up the butterflies in your stomach and calms every buzzing nerve in your body with just a smile, but you’re unsure how much he wants to tell Harris. You settle on the truth, direct and simple: “yeah, I do love him.”

Harris wastes no time asking a follow-up question. “A lot or a little?”

“A lot,” you answer quickly, realizing the magnitude of your enamoration as you say it aloud. The way Eddie’s kisses wrap you in an armor of safety; you hope your kisses have the same effect on him. “Definitely a lot.”

He hums his acknowledgement. “Grampa Wayne says Daddy loves you a lot, too, but I can’t ask you to be my mommy yet.”

You freeze in place so suddenly that the swing’s momentum nearly knocks you down; you step out of the way just before his sneaker-clad feet can make contact with your torso. “You want me to be your mommy?” you repeat dumbly, still half-convinced that you heard him incorrectly.

“Mhm,” Harris confirms, “but Grampa says that being a mommy is a big ‘sponsibility, and I gotta be patient. That means I gotta wait until Daddy says it’s okay to ask you,” he elaborates matter-of-factly.

This is clearly something they’ve talked about, extensively enough that Harris knows that he shouldn’t say anything about it. You’re temporarily rendered speechless, words failing you as you search for an appropriate response. Do you thank him? Act like you hadn’t heard him? Hope that a sinkhole opens up in the middle of the playground and swallows you whole?

“Th-That’s great, Har,” you manage, shoulders suddenly heavy with the weight of his statement. He goes back to focusing on pumping his legs, leaving you to tend to the anxiety gnawing at your insides.

Motherhood–the term stepmother seems arbitrary, given that Harris’s biological mother has all but dropped off of the face of the Earth–is a terrifying prospect. Any time you try to explain your fears, people just shrug them off, claiming that you’d be a ‘natural,’ that your years of teaching would ultimately ‘pay off’ when you had children of your own. As if teaching and parenting were remotely the same.

To you, the differences are as clear as day. When you’re a parent, there’s no ‘clocking out.’ Your obligations don’t begin at 9 AM and end at 2 PM; they’re twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It’s not the same thing. Not even close.

Before you became a teacher, you had to go to school and take education courses. Read your textbooks cover to cover. Had to do an internship for a semester. You’d had ample opportunities to determine whether or not it was the right job for you. Motherhood doesn’t offer that luxury: you don’t know if you’ll be a good mom until you’ve already chosen to become one.

“Ms. Sweetheart?” You jump out of your skin when you realize that Harris is slowing himself down, scuffed Reeboks scraping against the ground as he comes to a stop. “Can I get ice cream?”

You bite back a laugh. “You just had a donut, silly boy,” you remind him with a gentle ruffle to his curls, trying to keep your tone breezy, “but we can grab some sandwiches. Maybe even get one for Daddy, too?”

His lower lip quivers, making your heart lurch. “B-But–”

“And,” you interject, “we can go out for ice cream after the market. With Daddy.” You hope it’s a promise you can keep.

It was too good to be true. Deep down, you knew it, despite the fleeting victory of getting Harris to eat an actual lunch. His hands were sticky with peanut butter and jelly–you were making a mental note to reassure Eddie that, yes, some had gotten in his mouth–when you’d done the unthinkable. The unimaginable.

You hadn’t let him press the elevator button.

He howls and sinks down to the floor, knees slamming into the linoleum tile and making him scream even louder.

“Buddy, you’ve got peanut–”

“I wanted to press…the…BUTTON!” he shrieks, every minor inconvenience he’s encountered today culminating in what you can only dub the Tantrum of the Decade. The crash from the sugar rush, not going to the market when he wanted to, the lack of ice cream are represented in every fat tear rolling down his reddening cheeks, in every flail of his legs as you try to scoop him up and bring him into the elevator, in every heaving breath. He’s overtired, overwhelmed, and out of his normal routine.

Your own eyes get misty as the metal door slides shut, enclosing you in a small space that seems to shrink with each wail. The kid has the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer, while you’re drowning in your own pity.

He’s still sobbing when you reach the third floor, and Eddie’s flying out of the room as soon as he hears the sound of his son crying. Curls disheveled from his nap, crust still at the corners of his eyes. I woke him up, you realize. Another nail in the coffin.

“Wh-What happened?” His voice is raised, not in accusation, but just to be heard over Harris yelling. “Did he get hurt?” He takes Harris from your arms, clutching him to his chest in sheer panic. Reflexively, he inspects his boy’s head, arms, and legs for bruising and blood.

You shake your head, afraid that any attempt to speak will have your voice fracturing into pieces, no better than the little boy’s meltdown.

Fortunately, Harris has no problem filling his dad in. “I–wanted–to push–the button–and–she–said–NO!!!” Each word is punctuated with a hitched breath and is angrier than the last.

Eddie looks at you, more puzzled than worried now that he knows his son is unharmed, and a visit to the emergency room is unnecessary.

“His hands were sticky from his sandwich,” you mutter, unable to make eye contact with either Munson. “Oh, um, this is yours,” you add robotically, handing him the bag containing his hoagie, now a darker shade of brown from the grease it’s soaked up. You wince at how stilted you sound, simply going through the motions, not at all like the enthusiastic presentation you’d planned on the walk back to the hotel.

“Thanks.” Not unappreciative, but far from enthusiastic, and you can’t blame him. “Let’s just, uh, let’s just get him in the room.”

The sleepiness consumes Harris after a few more arduous minutes in his dad’s embrace. Eddie rubs circles on his back to calm him down, tiny shh sounds passing through his teeth. Harris begins to catch his breath; hiccups like aftershocks ricochet in his chest, gradually subsiding into soft snores.

“Jesus,” Eddie whispers as he gingerly places him onto the unmade bed, still warm from where he was lying just moments earlier, “that was one hell of a wake-up call.”

You speak at the same volume as him, though you don’t even have to try. Shame buries your voice deep in your diaphragm. “I’m so sorry.” Your right incisor digs into your lower lip as emotion ravishes you. The absence of Harris’s tantruming creates a loud silence that neither of you have the energy to fill.

“I could say the same to you,” Eddie says with a soft chuckle, taking your hand and squeezing it tight as he sits down on your bed. “His meltdowns are no joke.”

“I should’ve just let him press the damn button.” You’re only half-serious, but your stomach sinks when Eddie says nothing; instead, he carefully unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. A glob of mustard lands on the parchment paper with a soft plop.

He doesn’t disagree. You made a mistake—two mistakes, if you’re counting the donut fiasco—and Eddie saw it. Saw that you’d failed.

“Did you get enough rest?” It’s a feeble attempt to change the subject, and you both know it, but you go for it anyway.

He lets his knee knock into yours. “Never enough, Sweetheart,” he says with a smile, wiping his lips with the flimsy deli napkin. “But, yeah, I got some sleep.” He leans in and murmurs in your ear, “Would’ve been better with you next to me, though.”

You turn so that your nose brushes his. “If I was laying next to you, you wouldn’t be able to sleep,” you quip, stifling your laughter when he takes your cheeks in his hands and smacks a kiss to your lips.

“I would be a perfect gentleman.” He stretches and exposes the happy trail below his navel. “My eyes are up here,” he teases, catching you checking him out. “And you were worried about me.”

The dynamic shifts back to playful and lighthearted, his joke chipping away at the tension that’s been weighing you down.

“Shut up and eat your sandwich, Munson.”

“Yes, dear.”

You’ve showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes, jeans replacing the ratty sweatpants you’d donned earlier. You’d tried to wash the day’s stress down the drain along with the eucalyptus-scented soap suds, and though you don’t feel completely recharged, you’re ready enough to tackle the market.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from murmuring to Eddie, “d’you want me to stay here with Harris? Just in case it’s too much for him?”

He considers it for a moment before shaking his head, shrugging on his denim jacket. “Nah, he got his nap. Should be fine.”

The little boy in question slips one hand into yours and looks up at you with a grin. Eddie had talked to him earlier, reminded him about expressing himself in ways that didn’t hurt people–or their ears–and Harris apologized tearily. All is forgiven; at least between you and him. You still feel an uneasiness with Eddie, though it may be one-sided, as he’d quietly lamented that you two couldn’t shower together.

“We’re goin’ to the market! We’re goin’ to the market!” Harris chants, shuffling on the balls of his feet in a little dance. “Ms. Sweetheart, guess what?”

“What?”

“WE’RE GOIN’ TO THE MARKET!”

“Shocking,” Eddie mutters under his breath, a wry smile on his lips, and you use your free hand to swat at his stomach. “Okay,” he pats the wallet in the side pocket of his jeans, “got the company card, keys, handsome son, beautiful girlfriend…” He glances around the room; this time, he’s either unaware of his slip-up or is unbothered by Harris knowing your relationship status. “Looks like we’re good to go!”

The car ride isn’t too long; it’s only about a ten minute drive before you reach the market. And since you’d remembered to let Harris press the elevator button, it didn’t feel endless.

“Now, Harris,” Eddie says as his son climbs out of the car, hopping onto the parking lot pavement, “the market’s gonna be busy–”

“I know!”

“--so you have to hold my hand, or Ms. Sweetheart’s hand–”

“I know!”

“--the whole time. Got it?”

“Yes!” He’s far too exasperated for a five-year-old, and you have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing. “Can we go in now?”

Eddie obliges and takes Harris’s right hand; you take his left, the three of you walking towards the gigantic building together.

You’d figured it would be crowded, but you’re unprepared for just how overstimulated your senses become upon entering. Vendors shout advertisements for their booths, beckoning potential customers to check out their wares. Snippets of different conversations infiltrate your ears, and you swallow hard to clear your head, though the grainy muzak pumping through the overhead speakers doesn't help.

Immediately, you spot a booth selling secondhand books, and you look at Eddie with a hopeful gaze.

“Go,” he motions with a smile, laughing when you all but skip off to the stack of novels. You don’t want to take too long, as neither Munson has the patience to wait while you peruse your options. A weathered paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath catches your eye, some pages dog-eared and smelling faintly of stale smoke, and you fish out two quarters from the bottom of your bag and place them in the vendor’s hand.

“Okay,” you breathe when you get back to Eddie and Harris, overwhelmed just by the short walk. You grip Harris’s hand even tighter, all-too protective of him in such a crowded space. “Let’s go get some records!”

Eddie finds a variety of vinyls that he knows will sell at Rock Records—from older classics like Louis Armstrong, Etta James, and Buddy Holly, to more recent gems from Van Halen, Queen, and Michael Jackson.

“Babe, check this out!” he announces gleefully, showing off a copy of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning. “I must’ve listened to this a hundred times when it was released in ‘84.” His enthusiasm is palpable, and you have to wonder if this purchase is for the store or for himself.

To his credit, Harris lasts a full twenty-five minutes before he starts asking for ice cream again. “You promised, renember?”

Eddie grins at him, then at you. “A promise, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “Can’t break that.”

“I think I saw a booth down there that’s sellIng some.” It’s a local shop, and you know one cone will probably cost more than a half-gallon at the grocery store, but you’ll risk the upcharge if it means avoiding a second meltdown today.

“I’ll be right there,” Eddie tells you, eyes flitting back towards a row of booths you’d passed by earlier. “Just get me something with chocolate?”

“What’s the magic word?” Harris interjects.

“Please.” He lays it on thick, throwing you a wink before turning around.

You grab a $5 bill from your back pocket, change from when you’d bought the sandwiches earlier, and approach the ice cream stand.

“Can I please get one cherry chip cone, one chocolate fudge cone, and…what do you want, Har?”

“That!” He points to a giant display of model cars displayed in front of a toy vendor’s booth. “I want the orange one!”

“We can look after,” you reassure him. “First, you have to pick the ice cream flavor you want.”

“Hmm,” he presses on tiptoes to peruse his options before pressing his forefinger to the glass, pointing to cookies ‘n cream, declaring, “that one!”

The vendor hands him his cone, then turns to you and confirms, “just the three cones?”

“Mhm.”

She punches some numbers into the register, expression far too serious for the gig. “That'll be $6.”

Exhaling, you hand her the bill in your palm. There’s no way the stodgy woman is going to cut you a break for the extra dollar. “Give me a sec; I should have a single in my wallet.” You let go of Harris’s hand, fumbling around in your bag until you pull out what you’ve been searching for.

The vendor takes your money and hands you the remaining two cones, already starting to melt with all of the body heat surrounding you.

“Thank you,” you say with a polite smile. “Okay, Har, let’s—” Your blood runs cold when you realize he’s nowhere to be found. “Harris!” you call out, voice shaking on the last syllable, unable to hide how frantic you feel. “Harris!”

Eddie, already on his way from his earlier errand, runs over to you. “Where’s—”

“He was just here!” You push your way through the crowd, accidentally brushing your scoop of cherry chip along someone’s jacket, but there’s no time to apologize.

You and Eddie take turns yelling out his name, bile rising in your throats with each unanswered shout, until you hear somebody ask, “is that your mommy and daddy calling for you?”

Both your and Eddie’s heads swivel towards the conversation, breathing identical sighs of relief when you see the familiar mop of curls in front of the toy car display.

“Oh, thank God.” It comes out in one breath, your chest deflating as you and Eddie rush towards him.

“Harris, what are you doing?” Eddie admonishes him, heart still racing as the surge of adrenaline tapers off. He picks him up, fingers digging into the shirt fabric as he holds him as close as possible, and presses a kiss to his scalp. There will be some sort of consequence later–revoking TV time and a lecture on stranger danger–but for now, there’s only the comfort of knowing he’s safe.

“I just wanted to see the cars,” Harris protests, trying and failing to wriggle from Eddie’s grip. “Can I get the orange one?”

Eddie huffs out an incredulous laugh, astounded that Harris doesn’t understand the seriousness of his actions. “No, you can’t!” he yells, attracting unwanted attention from other shoppers, “and you can’t wander off like that! I told you that you have to stay with one of us the whole time!” He flexes his palm before clenching it into a frustrated fist. “What were you thinking?”

Harris’s eyes fill with tears. “I j-just wanted to s-see them,” he tries again, taken aback by the anger in his dad’s voice. “An’ Ms. Sweetheart was right there!”

The mention of your nickname reminds Eddie of the other adult involved. “You were supposed to be watching him,” he spits, gritting his teeth to keep from raising his voice at you.

You wince at his tone, filled with venom for the first time since his comment about Grandma forgetting you all those months ago. The difference is that, now, you deserve it. Letting go of his hand was careless; at the very least, you should have reminded him to stay put. The early morning donut, the elevator button were menial indiscretions compared to this mistake. There’s no denying that you’d royally messed up.

“I’m so sorry.” Sorry for not keeping a closer eye on Harris. Sorry for waking him up from his nap via a screaming child. Sorry for waltzing into their lives and thinking you had a snowball’s chance in Hell of being a decent parent. The ice cream drips down the cones and onto your hands, pooling in the crevices between your fingers. You dump them in the nearest trash can, neither of you hungry anymore.

You can’t return to the hotel soon enough, and as soon as Eddie puts an episode of Rugrats on TV for Harris, you begin inconspicuously packing your collecting your toiletries from the bathroom to back in your luggage.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks from the doorway. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, perplexion wrinkling his brows.

“Going home.”

He presses his forefinger and thumb to his eyelids and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like–”

“No,” you interrupt him, choking down your frustration, “you were right. You trusted me to watch him, and I didn’t.”

“Hey, hey,” Eddie steps forward and puts out a hand to stop you from grabbing your toothbrush, “it was an accident. Things happen in a split second, yeah?” He thinks back to the way Harris had tumbled off of the bed months ago. “We found him, and that’s what matters.”

He’s trying to comfort you, which somehow makes you feel worse. You lost his kid, but he’s focusing on making you feel better.

The next words out of your mouth shatter his heart into pieces: “I think it would be better for everyone if I leave.”

A small puff of air escapes his nostrils, unsurprised but hurt nonetheless. “‘S too much for you, isn’t it?” he mumbles, not even daring to glance in your direction as he says it.

He knows. He knows that you aren’t cut out for this, that you’ll never be the mom Harris needs or deserves. In his own words, he knows it’s too much for you.

You say nothing in return, and your silence is louder than the cartoon squabble just a few feet away.

“Fine, just…just go, then.” He slams one palm on the bathroom sink, the other raking through his hair so forcefully that a few strands come loose. “God, I need a fucking cigarette!” he mutters, jaw clenched.

“I’m so sorry.” It’s all you can think to say. You’ll repeat it over and over again if it rectifies the situation.

“Yeah, whatever.” He starts to leave the room, not even turning back around to say, “I’ll tell Harris you’re not feeling well.” He wants to ask you to call the hotel room when you get home but bites back the request. That’s something one partner asks of another, and you aren’t partners anymore, he realizes bitterly, and it’s his fault. He’d put the responsibility of parenthood on you far too quickly.

He could have insisted that Harris stay and nap with him rather than letting him go to the park. He could have kept Harris by his side while you got the ice cream, or the three of you could have gone together. Instead, he’d just assumed that this was a role you had no qualms about taking on. In his eagerness to build this little family, he’d squandered the foundation before it had even set.

Eddie watches as you walk away, the words wait and don’t go and we can figure this out lurking behind his molars, but he remains silent.

When the door slams behind you, he bites on his thumb. Go after her, some part of him—his conscience, maybe—nags, but he pushes the thought away. He can’t ask you to stick around and be a mom to his son if it isn't truly what you want to do.

He removes his finger from between his teeth and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, temporarily confused when he’s met with some resistance. The tiny brown paper bag crinkles as his fingers make contact with it, and he pulls it out dejectedly.

He’d spotted the necklace while scavenging for record vendors and made a mental note to return to it when you weren’t there to see. A tiny metal heart on a chain that he’d planned to give to you at the end of the trip. It was the reason he’d left you alone with Harris; he’d wanted it to be a surprise.

“Well, that was a fuckin’ waste,” Eddie says to no one in particular, shoving it back in the confines of his pocket. He sits next to Harris, hoping Tommy Pickles’ shenanigans will melt his brain for just a few moments.

The next bus to Hawkins pulled up thirty minutes after your cab arrived at the station. It was the only way to get home, and an embarrassingly large part of you hoped that Eddie and Harris would swing by, enveloping you in a tight hug and promising you that you’re doing a great job. That you’re enough.

That moment remains a daydream, one that replays over and over as you lean your head against the window. It’s all highway from here to your small town, close to three hours on the road because of the intermediate stops, but you’re in no hurry to return. If it hurts now, you can’t imagine the pain when the loneliness sets in.

Of course Eddie wasn’t coming to rescue you; you’d let him down right when he’d needed you. It was all so superficial on your end, thinking that you could be a mother just because you’d taught Harris how to read and have dinner with him and his dad once a week.

Wallowing in pity is too indulgent, too pathetic, but you can’t keep from berating yourself. You’re a preschool teacher; how hard is it to remember to hold a kid’s hand?

Tears slip down your cheeks involuntarily and you swipe at them before your seat partner can notice. The last thing you need is to strike up an emotional conversation with a complete stranger.

And what is it with you and crying today? Getting choked up when Eddie had pointed out the donut mistake, feeling like you were going to have a meltdown alongside Harris, and now this? It’s like you have an endless supply of tears.

The most likely culprit is your run-of-the-mill PMS; you can always count on being overly sensitive on those select few days. You open your bag and take out the pocket calendar where you keep track of important appointments and dates, including your periods.

Today’s April 26. You flip back to March, rifling through the pages until you see that the first day of your last period was the twentieth.

You’re almost a full week late.

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corroded-hellfire · 1 year ago

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I just realized it's them. Eddie, the Reader, and my kids.

It would be funny if they were watching the movie and Eddie teases them that they look like kittens and some say it's actually them as a family.

I needed to write this. Was very compelled to write about Eliza making everyone watch this movie lol. I hope you like what my crazy brain came up with!

Previously talked about on this ask too 😻

Words: 1.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Family movie nights have become rarer as the boys have gotten older, but the tradition hasn’t been altogether lost. Once in a while you can wrangle the boys down for an evening of snacks and family bonding.

Luke is laid out on the floor as per usual, on his stomach and pounding down Doritos and Mountain Dew like a man starved, not a 14-year-old boy who just had three large helpings of baked ziti not an hour ago. Ryan occupies the La-Z-Boy lounger that is effectively known as Wayne’s chair, it being the older man’s favorite spot in the household. The older Munson brother’s attention is currently half on the movie and half on the girl he likes at school.

Eliza is sitting cozy on the couch between you and Eddie. At some point during the movie, she’ll end up snuggled against either you or her father, but right now she’s content enough to sit on her own, her pink unicorn blanket spread out over her lap and little legs.

Eddie is slouched against an arm of the couch but has his arm draped along top, the tips of his fingers just barely able to brush over the back of your neck. So, of course, that’s what he’s been doing since the movie started. You sit hip to hip with your daughter, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your thigh that she and you keep taking kernels from.

As the song Everybody Wants to Be a Cat ends, Eddie smiles to himself. He sees his children in all three of the troublemaking kittens that were just singing and dancing around on screen.

Ryan notices and raises an eyebrow at his father. “The singing cartoon cats making ya happy, Dad?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and flicks a pretzel in his eldest child’s direction.

“No, smartass. I was just thinking how they remind me of you guys.”

Luke rolls on his side so he can look at his dad over his shoulder.

“Did I grow a tail I wasn’t aware of? I’d like to think you’d keep me updated on that kind of thing, Dad.”

“You’re the little wiseass cat,” Eddie says, gesturing to the screen with his chin. “The orange one that tries to act all tough.”

“Toulouse,” Eliza says, as if her father should’ve known his name and it offends her that he didn’t.

“And he’s the one who’s most like the dad,” you point out with a shrug. It’s no secret that Luke is basically Eddie’s twin.

“He’s not their dad!” Eliza says with a small huff. Her parents are disappointing her with their Disney knowledge tonight.

“My point still stands,” you say before pressing a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head.

Luke shoves another handful of Doritos in his mouth and goes back to looking at the screen.

“I’m not a ginger,” Luke says, though with his mouth being full it sounded more like, “M’not a jinjuh.”

“Who’s he?” Eliza asks as she points to the black and white cat on the screen.

“I thought you knew all the names,” Eddie says. Eliza rolls her eyes, looking identical to her father as she does it.

“No. Luke is Toulouse so who Berlioz?”

“Oh, okay,” Eddie says now that his daughter has cleared up his confusion. “Definitely Ryan. He’s the quietest one but he can still be mischievous.”

“Silent but deadly,” Ryan says.

“Like his farts,” Luke adds, making Eliza giggle.

“Who me?” Eliza asks, looking up at her father with the same big brown eyes that she inherited from him.

“Marie, of course,” Eddie says as he musses her curls. That name he knows by now. “You’re the spoiled, pampered, sweet girl of the gang.”

The word “sweet” doesn’t seem to matter to Eliza, only focusing on the first two. Her little round face pinches up in a frown; her brows coming together over her dark eyes and her lips forming into a puckering pout. You try, and almost fail, to contain your laughter as your daughter stares at your husband with the cutest menacing look you’ve ever seen.

“What?” Eddie asks when she doesn’t look away.

“Not a spoiled kitty,” she says.

“You asked!” Eddie scrunches up his face and sticks his tongue out at her. She does the same in return, proving that your husband is as mature as a three-year-old.

Luke finishes the Doritos in his mouth and wipes his cheesy hands off on his White Sox shirt.

“You know, I think our whole family is like theirs,” he muses.

“What?” Ryan asks. By the tone of his voice it sounds like he’s over everyone talking and just wants to watch the movie in silence again.

“Yeah,” Luke says and gestures to the screen in front of him. “Stray, scruffy alley cat gets the pretty, sophisticated girl that’s out of his league?”

As unsubtly as possible, Luke jerks his head back towards you and Eddie on the couch.

“Hey!” you pout. “That’s not true.”

“Pretty much is,” Eddie admits with a laugh.

You move to scoot closer to your husband, little Eliza getting caught in the middle. The small girl hisses like a cat when she gets squished between her parents.

“Jesus,” Ryan groans as he rubs a hand over his eyes. Any form of overt affection between you and your husband has been annoying the teen boy lately. Eddie finds it amusing and whenever the two of you are alone your husband quietly surmises to you that your son is more annoyed by the fact that he can’t express the same sort of affections to the girl he likes. It makes sense since Ryan has always been one to express his love physically with hugs and such.

Now, Eddie presses a smacking kiss to the side of your head—almost to spite Ryan’s attitude—

before looking down at your daughter squeezed between the two of you.

“I think you even look like a kitty!” he tells her.

Eliza pushes her way to her feet on the couch with a huff. Watching her trying to stand in the cramped space has you tucking in your lips to avoid laughing. Once up, Eliza shoves at her dad’s shoulder as she’s seen her brothers do to one another many times.

“My little kitty!” Eddie teases, finding her reaction comical. He snatches Eliza and holds her in his lap as he tries to press kisses all over her face. Stubble scratches and rubs against Eliza’s soft skin, making her squeal and wiggle around in Eddie’s grip.

“If we’re all cats, do you think another family will adopt me?” Ryan asks in a sullen adolescent tone.

“No,” Luke answers simply. Thank God he hasn’t become a brooding, moody teenager—yet, anyway.

Eliza manages to slip free from her father’s grip and runs over to jump on Ryan’s lap.

“Save me!” she wails.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” Ryan says as she snuggles into his lap, tucking her head beneath her eldest brother’s chin.

Eddie takes advantage of the newly empty space between you, and he pulls you flush up against his side. You give Eddie a soft kiss before laying your head on his shoulder.

“Ick,” Eliza complains, looking over at you on the couch.

“Yeah, ick,” Ryan echoes.

“Wasn’t he the one who wanted us to have a baby practically as soon as we got together? Now he thinks it’s gross that I kiss you,” Eddie says softly to you, but not soft enough that Luke didn’t hear.

“Yeah, but now we got what we wanted,” Luke says with a shrug.

“Maybe now you guys can get fixed,” Ryan says with a smirk.

Eddie opens his mouth to retort but Eliza holds her arms in the air, an immediate call for silence.

“Shhhh! This good part!”

She snuggles back against her big brother, who sticks his tongue out at his dad.

Casually, Eddie wraps his arm around your back so he can flip his oldest son the bird without Eliza seeing. Ryan just laughs and goes back to watching the movie, curious to see what’s so special about this part. The sixteen-year-old’s laughter brings a smile to your face. You haven’t heard it as often as you’d like to lately.

After Eddie situates his arm around your shoulders, you snuggle up to him and drape Eliza’s unicorn blanket over your lap. The Disney movie is not as enticing to you as your husband is, so you press a kiss just below Eddie’s ear before whispering to him.

“I love our kittens. No matter how ferocious they like to pretend they are.”

Eddie chuckles his agreement.

“The cutest little feral monsters around.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #AYW #AYWS #request

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starryhutcherson · 2 months ago

Text

━━ BED HEAD

author's note: my christmas gift to my lovely followers and viewers <3 yes i am aware i've been M.I.A for the entirety of the second half of the year. forgive me! when the jhutch nation died a piece of me died with it. pls enjoy this apology fic, made it nice and sweet for my mike lovers (cough cough for me). enjoy!! ps. this is my personal favourite that ive written, boyfriend mike just hits different so expect a lot more of him coming soon wink wink! i mean it this time

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: boyfriend!mike schmidt x reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing word count: 2000+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Early mornings make for soft kisses. Outside, the streets are licked with hazes of morning fog, sprinkled with droplets of dew and not even ghosts wander the empty streets. In here, in Mike’s house, there’s no need to worry about the world beyond his peeling windowsill. You’re cradled into his chest, his arms which encircle your torso and his legs which tangle into a web with yours. The mornings are just for you.

And Mike always wakes up before you. It’s not something he does intentionally, but rather the blessing of his eternal clock, stirring his soul before the sun has so much as nipped at the horizon – and yet he reckons this is the best part of his day. It’s the part where he gets to see you at your most vulnerable, your most unaware. Your lips are parted, carrying an imprint of yesterday’s smile, and your hair is sprawled around you too deliberately– like you were made to be perfect, even in your imperfection.

He likes to trace each fault and flaw that may linger in unsuspecting places with the plush pad of his calloused thumb, to explore the way your body dips at its own will, to memorise each pathway of skin that leads to your heart, a map that’s solely his. He might pluck an eyelash oh so carefully of your cheek, he’ll watch as your chest greets his with each soundless inhale, only to part momentarily when you breathe out again. He likes it best when you’re slotted right between his heartbeat. You’re a dream he’s afraid to wake up from.

Of course, these moments are only beautiful because of their status as moments. They aren’t eternal, they were made to be preserved. They fade when you wake up; when your big eyes blink up at him like a heedless doe. Like now. When you start to stir, your face scrunching up in a sleepy frown, Mike immediately closes his eyes. He rolls onto his back, one arm draped over his face like he’s shielding himself from the non-existent sunlight, like he hasn’t been watching you for the last ten minutes.

You crack an eyelid, admiring his figure as it soaks up the beginnings of a sunrise. “Morning bedhead,” you tease, grogginess and all. He grunts in acknowledgement, not shifting from his position of comfort.

“Morning,” he grumbles back, not appreciating the teasing but not having the energy to send anything worthy of offense back at you. Your eyes trace over his messy hair, wild unruly ringlets of chestnut licking at his temples.

You shuffle over to him, wading through the sea of tangled bedsheets, and ruffle those curls, making his face bunch up like crumpled fabric, in mild irritation. “You look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower,” you snort. He catches your wrist with a solid grip; sturdy as a tree is, down to the root. “Don’t even start. Pretty sure you’ve got me beat.” His voice is a baritone grumble as he references to your own head of locks, knowing full well that the cascading waves of pure velvet that are sewn into your head aren’t even close to looking messy. He teases anyway.

“I dunno about that,” you murmur. Cocking a hesitant brow, watching his body flex into the sheets as each limb slowly begins to arise from slumber at it’s own snail pace. It’s then you pad out of bed, to go attempt to start the morning━ and he stops you. A dull grunt sounds from his lips and he tugs at your arm.

“No,” he mumbles━ broken by a dull yawn. “C’mon. You can… you can stay. S’still dark. Nothin’ to do yet.” The sort of puppy-ish pleading that swallows his irises is too strong not to resist to. So you let him have his little ritual; he tucks you into his shoulder, thumb circling supple skin. You let him smell behind your neck and nip at the junction where your collarbone becomes your shoulder becomes your arm. Suddenly it’s turned into lazy tastings of your body. He’s drinking you in in the morning light, rolling you down and deep onto your back to make sure you’re imprinted on his fabric for later, lonelier nights.

“Mike━” He cuts you off. He has a habit of doing that, when he gets like this. All agitated and croaking, like you are his eternal life source.

“Shh, no, let me━ let me have this.”

And he’s trekking lower, still. Warm hands planted on your knees, he’s opening your thighs for himself with that look in his eyes. He’s a paradox, greed and yet utter selflessness as he buries his body right where you want him, idly tugging at the waistband of your cotton pajama pants.

“Gonna make that bedhead worse.” He mumbles almost comically to himself. “Gonna, gonna give you some bed head.”

You roll your eyes, heat of the moment evaporating as you erupt in stupid giggles. “You’re such a dickhead,” you tell him, admiring the smug expression that spreads across his features. He looks like he’s where he belongs, nestled comfortably in that gap he’s made just for him, cradled by your legs.

“Maybe.” He mumbles with a stupidly self-satisfied grin, delving into you like he knows best. He rolls the cotton comfort of your legs and exposes you to the chilly bedroom air, and knowing it must be unpleasant to be so cold when it’s so early, he’s latching onto you as quick as he can to try and maintain heat pumping through your system.

And he’s a cocky motherfucker who knows that it works; molten fever rushes through every aching crevice of your figure and pushes to the surface as he flicks his tongue with expertise. He knows every spot, every stroke, every single way that makes you tick. He’s spent a lot of time practicing, exploring, just so he can be perfect.

Every. Single. Time.

You’re writhing already, with each motion. Calling his name out to nothing and nobody, the silence of the morning suddenly so obnoxious when it’s broken by the cracking chorus of your moans. Mike. You cry. Mike, Mike, Mike.

And he’s all entranced by you, you, you, as you quake right into his palms, just how he wants. The perfect way to start the morning is by breaking you apart and dealing with the mess. He admires, awfully, every tremor, every sob, every time your eyes lock with his and you watch him worship you, even if just for a fragile second before they roll back into your skull.

He plugs you up with one thick finger, reeling in the wet squelching suction of your cunt around his digit. Another follows, curling beside the first, resting snugly inside you. A few testing movements as he tries to find that place, and then finally you double over into yourself mewling like a lamb for slaughter.

“Oh, that’s it? That’s the spot?” He mutters, baritone voice just so sexy when it’s the only melody spilling into your ears, your brain, you soul. You answer with a little hum, and he coos as your hips buck to meet his palm; catching your weight as you grind your clit into the heel of it. You need more━ you need so much more.

So he mutters a brief apology as he severs your orgasm; saving it for later, the upcoming future. And leaves you for just a moment, carefully maneuvering himself free from his sodden boxers and pumping his angry length a few times, convulsing as he does so. He’s more sensitive in the mornings, every single goose-pebbled part of him. You bite your lip in anticipation, pink flesh billowing white under the force of your teeth.

His eyes glance up to you; coffee and caramel stirred with a copper spoon, awaiting your command. “You... you want me, right?” He breathes gently. Shuffling himself closer, hoping to meld a piece of his soul into yours. To secure you to him, through and through. And of course you nod, with ego-inflating eagerness.

“Course I do. And how about━”

It throws him off when your tender hands grip onto his shoulders; like a turning tide your body steers him of course, pummeled over so he can drown under your current as you position yourself ontop. “Let me,” you whisper, holding his cock so gently in your hands, a contrast of efforts in the way you stroke so slowly, so patiently. In all honesty, he hasn’t got much of that left.

A salacious groan slips free from his throat. “Shit, can you just, uh, can you please put it in, I can’t━ I’m gonna blow right now.”

He expects another mocking comment but all he gets is compliance. A gentle kiss, fanning across his freckled cheeks that glow so red in the heat of the moment, a slow and calculated sink of your pelvis against his, and a juggled handful of shared rugged breaths as the feeling of fullness branches across the pair of you. He’ll never get over your fit, it’s too hand-crafted, too cunningly created. His hands shakily struggle to make their way onto your hips, not so much for control as it is to keep himself grounded. Skin to skin to skin, as though to prove you aren’t just a fabrication from his desperate, delusional morning mind.

When your hips begin to roll, it’s lazy. Grogginess permeates every part of you and there isn’t enough strength for anything more than gentle juts; back and forth, back and forth, a seesaw of sorts, but he appreciates the movement anyway. Mike’s head falls back into the pillow, framed by a halo of his own sweat and drool as he lets you do the work. It’s his own hazy heaven, the morning he wishes he could preserve.

You suck his cock up deeper into your hole, clamping down on him in a vain attempt to try and keep him there, tucked away inside you forever like a pocketed memory of sorts. He begins to meet your thrusts, sending sparks through each wild thrust of his flying hips.

“Want this every day,” he whines, deep through his throat like he can’t even contain his words as they bleed all over you in a wash of near orgasmic bliss.

“Yeah? You do, Mikey? Wanna─ wanna just wake me up to fuck me like this? Right here on your bed?”

His eyelids flutter and unfocus, blunt nails severing the skin of your hipbones as he begins to forcefully drag you across his cock, faster faster faster until the headboard squeaks along with you and he’s completely wordless and wounded. “Wanna fuck you. Wann─ needa fuck you every day, yeah, jus' like that, shit, you were made for me,” he whines, pummelling into you with purpose. Force and purpose.

He’s spearing you open on his eager cock, nudging your cervix, coaxing an orgasm out of it’s grave, the one he ended from earlier. You can feel it brewing and bubbling inside you, erupting it’s carnal desire like acid wash across your narrow cunt as you drink him in tighter, willing him to come with you. “Mikey, mmm, come with me, c’mon, please─”

And it’s your begging that sends him over. A saccharine flush melts across his entire body, bottom to top, and he’s moaning as he tugs his length from beneath your folds and showers your sweaty torso in a creamy wash of white ribbons, spraying buckets from your belly button right up to your chin.

There is calm after the storm. A tranquil quiet falls back over his modest bedroom, accompanied by heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets. The aftertaste of the morning is careful sponge-washing and coffee. He clears you off with a damp washcloth, love ebbs from every action from him to you, like an endless chain. A circle has no end because it has no beginning; Mike thinks he’s always been drawn to you, even before you both knew it─ because he’s always been looking for this. For the gentle fleeting kisses that he’s showered in before the morning, for the bed he returns to which smells like sex and sodden promises. He can’t wait for you to get home so that he can come back to his bed-headed girl.

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