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#Shake those spears
call-me-strega · 2 months
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Dc x Dp prompt #13: Hell to Pay
They say there are only two things certain in life: death and taxes. That’s why even the Joker doesn’t fuck with the IRS.
However, unfortunately for the Joker the other certainty is death and he has yet to pay his dues. Just like how he could only get away with tax evasion for so long, there are only so many times the Joker can dodge death.
Death is coming to collect, with interest.
And the Joker will have hell to pay.
~ A dark green cloud swirls over the city. From it, emerge three oppressive figures:
The one on the far left with flowing hair like white-hot fire. His vambraces made of (what appeared to be) molten glass stopped under his fingers, which then extend into into claws that seemed to drip lava. He had spiked obsidian pauldrons on his shoulders, fastening a luminous, stark-white cape to his shoulders. He wore a coronet of lightning and wielded a flail that appeared to be made of coal chains and a shrunken Red Giant star.
The second on the far right had a helm of dark iron wreathed in a plume of purple flame. His gauntlets and sword flamed with green hellfire. A pure black sheath seemingly made of void and a silver hunting horn were tied to his waist. He wore an armor forged of shadows and proofed with fear. He rode atop a mighty stead. An inky dark stallion with a curved horn and bat-like wings. His form was constantly slightly shifting depending on the angle which you viewed him making him appear larger and more slippery than he was, enhancing his disquieting nature.
The third stood in the middle, smaller but no less terrifying than her companions. Her hair was wild with movement, only just visible because it appeared as if someone had bound the winds to her head. She wore a tiara made of storm clouds and pearls. She carried with her a spear, the shaft crafted of amazonite and the tip of a clear quartz, almost reminiscent of sea salt. At her hip lay a whip made of a restrained gale and a sea glass knife. She wore armor that appeared to be Greco-Roman in origin: a chest plate made of some sort of coral-like material and a battle skirt decorated with metallic bronze feathers.
They slowly descent on the city, bringing down a sense of power and dread. They paused at the top of Wayne Tower, where the city's vigilantes had all gathered in an attempt to create and feasible plan of action to discern what these beings want. The young woman in the middle speaks and the wind carries her voice. She is not loud but it the whole of Gotham hears her words.
"Greetings, Heroes of Gotham. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Spirit, Princess and Head Diplomat of the Infinite Realms. This is Samhain, the Fright Knight, loyal knight to the king,” she gestured to her right before switching to her left “and this is Prince Wraith, current General in Chief of the Realms. We come to you as the King’s Guard and entourage. We have official business in your city and wish to civilly notify you of our presence. The King will be arriving shortly and your cooperation would be great fully received.”
Batman moved forward to shake her hand and address the situation.
“I’m afraid that we prefer not to have unknowns operating within the city. Would you be able to tell us what business you have here? Perhaps we could reach an agreement?” Batman tried to negotiate as politely as he could. He did not want to risk offending the evidently powerful beings.
Princess Spirit’s smile sharpened as she thrummed her finger against her knife. She spoke again with an unnervingly pleasant tone.
“It appears you do not understand. We are not asking for your permission.” Her grip around his hand tightened. “ We are informing you.” She finished releasing his hand.
Batman withdrew his aching hand and regarded her with the beginnings of a protest on his lips. She didn’t allow him to speak.
“ This is out of your jurisdiction Batman. This is a matter of the Realms and the Afterlife. Whatever worldly rules or morals you wish to impose on those who enter this city do not apply to us. We will do our best to work within them, so as to appease you and to attempt to maintain a friendly relationship but in the macrocosm of the multiverse and afterlives you have no official power over us. Additionally, we have direct permission to operate here however we see fit from the City Spirit herself, Lady Gotham.”
Batman’s shadow seemed to fluctuated. His and his team's shadows moved from beneath them, closer to the Princess. Lady Gotham, though not manifesting, was making her presence and approval known. Batman could not deny what he was seeing. His team shifted uncomfortably behind him. He appealed to her once more.
“ I see that we can’t stop you. We don’t want to get in your way either. Could you at least tell us why you are here?”
She smiled as if telling a joke, “All will be revealed in time”
Suddenly, there was a loud noise that sounded like tearing fabric. The green clouds mixed with purples and blues and began to churn faster. The cyclone emitted a flashes of bright light. In unison all three of the King’s Guard lifted up from the roof and took place underneath the eye of the wind storm.
Spirit holds her spear aloft. With one swift, commanding move she slams the butt of her spear down, creating a platform out of solidified air.
Wraith bellows out smoke and ash onto the platform to discolor it. With ferocious and precise movements his claws to carve in a sigil, leaving a soft orange glow against the black and gray.
Samhain sheathes his sword and pulls his horn from his waist. He wills his dark stead to rear up as he blows the horn, letting out one loud prolonged cry.
The three warriors stand at attention and Princess Spirit calls the winds to project her voice once more.
“ Now introducing the Ruler of the Infinite Realms, High King of the In-Between, The Great One, The Benevolent King, The Peace Maker, The Guardian of Souls, The One with the Cloak of Stars and the Crown of Frozen Light, The Perfect Balance, Ancient of Space and Reality, The Infinite King: Phantom!”
With a flash of white light a figure appear in the center of the platform. Simultaneously, the three knights bow in reverence.
The King has arrived.
As the Heroes of Gotham regain clear vision they are met with a striking figure.
There stood a toned young man appearing both boyishly young, yet wisened and weathered. He had side swept hair the creeped to the bottom of his neck. His skin was pale with an icy blue tint. He opened his eyes to reveal they shone an electric green. Upon his head rest a crown made of a crystalline material, reminiscent of an aurora. He wore a navy blue cloak that had a rich purple hood lined with stark white fur. The underside displayed a shifting galaxy pattern. His under suit was the same midnight black as Samhain’s. He donned golden arm bands and a gold chest plate in style quite similar to Spirit’s. His hand were covered in snow white gauntlets that matched Wraith’s vambraces.
They all stood in awe, beholden to the almost divine figure.
The king sent them a gentle smile. It was warm and comforting yet sent a chill down their shoulders.
King Phantom began to fly down toward the center of the city, his entourage fell into step behind him. He hovered several hundred feet over Wayne tower and looked down at the city. He then spoke in a booming voice, his tone kind but commanding.
“ I humbly greet the Lady Gotham, her champions, and her citizens,” the shadows curled toward him appreciatively. “ I am grateful for your cooperation in our effort to rectify a great injustice. As High King of the Infinite Realms it is one of my duties to preside over the afterlife. To bring guidance, peace, and justice to the souls under my jurisdiction. Recently, it has been brought to my attention that there is a soul among you who has not only dodged death, but caused great strife to a vast number of souls who call for justice.”
On the roof of Wayne Enterprises Jason and Damian both stiffen, but remain firm in their gaze toward the king. The king looks out at the city and sparing them the quickest of glances. He continues onward.
“ The man formerly know as Jack Napier, now called The Joker. He has avoided death on many an occasion but his life should have ended moment he fell into a vat of chemicals. Since then he has sent hundreds more to the afterlife. He has long yet to pay his dues. That is why on the behalf of justice, restoring balance, and of my subjects I officially condemn Jack Napier.”
“Jack Napier, you have been allowed 24 hours turn yourself into our custody in order to be put on trial for your crimes in the Infinite Realms. Should you fail to turn youself in, we shall take that as an admission of guilt and acceptance to be punished for your actions. After the 24 hours are up, Samhain shall use his horn to summon The Hunt and we shall track you down.”
His gaze passed specifically over Red Hood, one of the Oracle’s drones, Nightwing, Signal, Red Robin, and Batman before he spoke his next words.
“All those souls who have been wronged by the Joker, both living and deceased, who wish to have a hand in their justice have been invited to join The Hunt if they so choose.”
The king lifted his hand, calling the swirling green clouds to his gather in his palm. The clouds swiftly rearranged themselves into a smokey timer hanging in the sky.
An impish smirk graced King Phantom’s face as he let out a malicious laugh and gave his final decree.
“ Your time begins now!”
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sugurizz · 8 months
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(SMUT/NSFW +18 - minors DNI!)
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Newly married! Toji who's booked a private onsen room for your first honeymoon getaway.
He chooses the cutest baby pink yukata for you to match his, only so that he could strip you off of it the moment you set foot in your private room.
Newly married! Toji who's kneading your clothed breasts, his long shaft slowly hardening and dribbling with his own arousal. His warm hands squeezing your soft flesh tighter.
He pushes away the fabric, revealing your bare thighs before his hungry sight, then shamelessly smothers his face in your breasts.
'Fuck, you're so pretty...'
A sharp spank hit your bare ass, snatching an 'Ah, Tojii!' from your lips. He angrily gropes your burning buttcheeks and violently spanks them again, deeply groaning against your neck.
'shhh, gorgeous babe. save those moans for later...'
Newly married! Toji who grabs your hand and carries you into the hot spring. He wraps your hair in a messy bun, pours the warm water down your sensitive skin and rubs your nipples with his thick fingers. His cock is standing in a raging hard-on, grunting the filthiest promises in your ears.
Newly married! Toji who's fucking you stupid in the onsen, thick arms pulling you in a chokehold as he ruthlessly pounds your ass senseless.
Your senses are fully overwhelmed. the foggy steam wrapping your bodies even tighter, the sounds his thighs make as they brutally smack yours, the crazy pace his tip was kissing your tiny cervix, and his huge palms groping all over your shaking body.
Newly married! Toji keeps wrecking your guts, enjoying your dumb babbling of his name over and over, a string of drool dribbling down your chin as he makes fun of how loud you keep getting.
'Aww...cupcake is fainting on daddy's cock, how adorable..'
He cages your face between his fingers, smirking as he licks the tears streaming down your cheeks.
'Fuuuck! Oh my Goshh! Tojiii!'
Your choked moans got louder as your lips slammed against his juicy ones. you fevershly sucked on his meaty tongue, trying your best to muffle your own moans that soon turned into screams.
Newly married! Toji who's madly wrecking your hole like a maniac. His rabid pace never drops, making your knees shake in weakness. Your little legs eventually give up, only for his beast-like biceps to lift you up and spear you down on his length again.
'Shhh big girl, you can handle it.' He gripped your thighs hard, thrusting his cum deep into your stomach with a raspy 'Fuckk..'
Newly married! Toji who picked you up and layed you on the soft mats, kissing your cheek as he took his hand in his, admiring the shiny rings gracing your interlaced fingers.
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too-deviant · 1 month
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mdni 🃏
luke castellan who never lets second in command!reader out of his sight. and if he does, he always knows where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with. when the som trio first infiltrate the princess andromeda and barely escape with their lives, luke is on a warpath straight back to his cushy suite. he whistles sharply and you (who had been reaming out some dracanae for letting the kids get away) are quick to follow.
standing at his side as he addresses his army, you are all-glaring, deep frowns and snarls. arms crossed, spear at your side, violent energy pooling at your feet. it’s why luke chose you.
but when he pulls you into the room and locks the door behind you, your fingers shake in anticipation and you glance up at him through your lashes, the most painfully beautiful look of longing shining up at him. he groans into his fist and sits on the edge of the mattress, his other hand gesturing for you to start the show.
it always starts slow — the peeling of your shirt from your skin, the dropping of your cargos. but then he can’t hold it in anymore, and he’s grabbing you by the hips and pulling you onto his lap, taking your mouth in his. his hands, rough and callused, travel along the planes of your bare skin. skin that hasn’t bore witness to the horrors you inflict — your back, your thighs, your sternum.
he flips you onto your back, and you wrap your legs around his hips (he liked to keep his clothes on whenever he took you. it reminded him who was the boss of who whenever your pussy made him forget) and he trails kisses from your ankles to that sweet sweet spot — his fingers working more gently than they ever would when wrapped around the hilt of his sword, or even the base of his cock.
he devours you like it’s his last meal, and then politely waits for you to come down from your orgasm before burying himself balls deep between those supple thighs of yours.
(he would never admit it, but his favourite part was watching you pant underneath him after a star-seeing climax. watching your legs tremble slightly, staring intently at the pink blush on your cunt as you sucked in puffs of air impatiently. he would tut and tell you to take your time, “i’ll wait as long as it takes.”)
and as soon as you give him the nod, all pleasantries fly out the window. he is grunting into your neck, hands wrapped roughly around your legs and hips, indenting you where nobody would see but him.
one time you got cheeky, reached down and squeezed his ass. he sat up on his haunches, pulled you into this lustrous position on his lap and didn’t pay your squeals any mind as he committed his sultry revenge.
when you were done, he’d lean back to inspect his work. palm himself after tucking his cock away, fighting the urge to get hard again just from watching you come down from the excursion. his lips would part as you redressed yourself, eyes searing into your skin.
and when you were ready, as always, he’d open the door and wave you through, slapping your ass as you passed him.
“good job.”
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opencommunion · 1 month
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The Stop Cop City movement has sought to prevent the expropriation of part of the Welaunee Forest for the development of an 85-acre police mega training center: a model town to prepare the state’s repressive arms for the urban warfare that will ensue when the contradictions of their exploitation and extraction become uncontainable, as they did in 2020 after the APD murdered Rayshard Brooks.  That murder, and all those that came before, were the lodestars of the Black-led movement during the George Floyd uprisings; their demands were no less than the dismantlement of the entire carceral system. Unable to effectively manage or quell the popular street movements, the Atlanta Police Foundation set out to consolidate and expand their capabilities for surveillance, repression, imprisonment, armed violence, and forced disappearance. One result is Cop City, which has been racked by militant sabotage, land occupation, arson, and popular mobilizations, in an attempt to end the construction and return Atlanta to its people.  As the Atlanta Police Foundation was unable to contain the 2020 Black rebellion, so too have they been unable to quell the resistance against Cop City. The press reports that the project is hemorrhaging money and is mired in delays and difficulties. For their part, the city, the state, and the federal government, have in turn employed every tool in their power to destroy the movement. Last week, the Georgia State Senate passed a bill to effectively criminalize bail funds in the state; RICO charges have been contorted to target networks of support and care that surround the fighters; and last January, APD assassinated the comrade Tortuguita in cold blood while they rested in their tent in the forest. It is clear that Stop Cop City represents one of the conjunctural spear tips for expanding the existing systems of counterinsurgency that span Africa, Asia, and the Arab world.  Today the system’s belly rests atop Gaza, whose rumblings shake the earth upon which we walk. Through its Georgia International Law Enforcement Exchange (GILEE) program, the APD has sent hundreds of police to train with the Zionist occupation forces. And in October 2023, after Tufan al-Aqsa, the Atlanta Police Department engaged in hostage training inside abandoned hotels, putatively intended to “defeat Hamas,” in an advancement of tactics for the targeting of Black people. With every such expansion, the ability of counterinsurgency doctrines to counteract people’s liberation struggles grows. The purpose of counterinsurgency is to marshal state and para-state power into political, social, economic, psychological, and military warfare to overwhelm both militants and the popular cradle—the people—who support them. Its aim is to render us hopeless; to isolate and dispossess us and to break our will to resist it by any and all means necessary. This will continue apace, unless we fight to end it. Stop Cop City remains undeterred: on Friday, an APD cop car was burnt overnight in response to the police operation on February 8; yesterday, two trucks and trailers loaded with lumber were burnt to the ground. An anonymous statement claiming credit for the former, stated: “We wish to dispel any notion that people will take this latest wave of repression lying down, or that arresting alleged arsonists will deter future arsons.”  As the U.S. government and Zionist entity set their sights on the Palestinian people sheltering in Rafah, as they continue their relentless genocide of our people in Khan Younis, Jabalia, Shuja’iyya, and Gaza City, the Stop Cop City movement has clearly articulated its solidarity with the Palestinian struggle. They have done so with consistency and discipline, and we have heard them. Our vision of freedom in this life and the next requires us to confront and challenge the entangled forces of oppression in Palestine and in Turtle Island, and to identify the sites of tension upon which these systems distill their forces. This week, as with the last three years, the forest defenders have presented us one such crucible.
(11 Feb 24)
National Lawyers Guild, Stop All Cop Cities: Lessons For a National Struggle (video, 1 hr 45 min)
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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months
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Time Written — 5:12 p.m
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“Y’sore, love?”
Your eyes open from your dazed trance, leaning your head up from its tilted rest on the tub. The owner of such heavenly voice stood in the doorway, shirtless with a pair of dark sweatpants hugging low around his waist.
Taking in a breath, mint vapors combined with creamy vanilla invade your nose from the bath he prepared. Your beloved sat himself beside the tub, grasping hold of a nearby sponge to dip into the sudsy waters, admiring his sweetheart he had carried over to provide such ample treatment.
“Didn’t go too hard on ya, did I?” He hints at amusement while ringing out the water, watching you shake your head with damp, flushed cheeks from the heat of your bath.
“Y’can say it, sweetheart. I won’t get mad.” He runs the sponge along the nape of your neck, running warm water over where it hadn’t met your skin before.
“Need to remind you that the idea was yours. Started to imagine how it’ll change you after you told me.”
His gentle words reach your ears as the sponge slowly runs along the front of your sensitive, lovebite dappled neck.
“This beautiful body changing, swelling with our future babe.” His low, velvety chocolate tone of voice made your skin rouse with excitable shivers, nearly making your knees buckle under the waters.
Many parts of him swell with pride over the undeniable fact that his voice excited you, stirring the embers of your sweet, sensitive little cunt he had properly fucked for the last hour.
Returning the sponge to its spot, he grabs a bottle from a small rack full of your favorite bath essentials. Weathered palms rub together to warm delectably scented body oil along your back and shoulders.
“Those perfect little tits plump an’ full of milk.” Such calloused hands caressed said breasts, cradling along as your sore, bitten nipples brushed long his rugged palms.
Such a naughty girl, you never got enough of him. Especially when your body needed rest, your eager willingness to have him take you however he pleased was as erotically exciting. He’d have you speared on his cock all night if he could, buried so deep inside to keep every ounce of his seed in your needy little womb.
“If this doesn’t take, I won’t mind tryin’ again. How’s that sound to you, Princess?”
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agendabymooner · 5 months
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SOMETHING BIG !!! TOTO W. X FEM!READER
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summary: she was too good for him, and he was just a perfect fit.
content warning: smut content (minors dni!), explicit language, pwp, size kink, creampie, praise kink, beta reading what is that we rawdog our writing in here
note: just reached 400+ notes on the max verstappen one… we all need to touch some grass. enjoy xx
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send your 💌re:moony’s planner requests here!
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this wasn’t the first time she found herself in such a compromising position: her back against the mattress, her body folded in half and her legs hanging over his shoulders while his cock repeatedly speared her insides. this wasn’t the first time, but his size always made their encounters feel like it.
she didn’t complain; instead, she begged for more. she wanted to feel all of him and who was he to deny such a pretty plea?
“f- fuck,” she stammered, her mouth opening slightly as she gasped, “h- s’good. so, so good… fuck!”
toto’s 6’5 being hadn’t helped the intimidation that she normally felt, either. six months into the relationship and she still felt intimidated by his aura.
he didn’t want her to feel that way. in those days when cameras and other people weren’t around, he showered her with affection and adoration. he showed her a side that most people wouldn’t have a chance to see; one that she loved the most.
but there were times when she just wanted him to ruin her. much like now.
toto groaned in satisfaction, his hands keeping a tight hold on her ass while his cock continued to split her body. she was so light for him that he hadn’t realized her hips were lifted off the mattress. “fucking hell. you’re doing so well for me, schatzi.”
his hand took her smaller one and brought it down to her lower stomach, his hips snapping against hers as her lower stomach bulged. “d’ya feel that, schatz?”
“i- mh- hm~” she cried out, whimpering at the thought that it was him— that was an imprint of him inside her. that her body was being imprinted and fucked by his cock— one that she thought wouldn’t fit inside her.
yet he did. he fit perfectly well and he continued to be the only person who’d ever fit so well inside her.
“so fucking good for me, schatz,” he growled, his hand now reaching down to rub her clit vigorously as her mouth let out a squeak. “letting me fuck you like this— like a good girl you are. such a perfect girl with a perfect pussy…”
“ngh~ toto,” she whined, squirming against him as his fingers moved in circles on her clit, “s’good… please!” her body remained folding in half, her cunt splitting as he thrusted. her stomach fluttered at the feeling of an incoming orgasm, her body shaking as her walls clenched around his cock.
“gonna cum in you,” he groaned, his hips pistoning against hers. “gonna fuck you full of my cum— fuck, schatz. gonna make sure you’re filled to the brim with my cum— fuck!”
his hips stuttered as he let out a moan, feeling her come around him while she cried out in pleasure. her mind felt hazy, only thinking about the oversensitivity that she felt as her vision turned white.
she almost whimpered at the emptiness when he pulled out slowly, her body limping to the bed as she tried to keep her eyes open, but her mind eventually gave up as she kept her eyes closed.
toto sighed, looking down at his handiwork as he watched the mixture of his and her pleasure leaking out of her glistening cunt. so fucking perfect.
he smiled to himself, eventually finding himself lying next to her. pulling her closer, he leaned down to press a kiss on her hair before murmuring, “you did so good for me.”
of course she did. nobody could handle him and his figure more than she did. nobody could handle his desire and lust like she did, and was he ever thankful for that.
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mischiefmoons · 10 days
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its 10pm again.... 😈😈
rivals with benefits Luke who makes everything a competition. even in bed. 😼
IM ALSO SO SORRY FOR FLOODING UR INBOX
MDNI
🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥
a/n: liv we're boxing because i literally could not rest until i got this right,,,, smut. public sex. wrap before you tap. creampie. all the nasty things. fuck man...
wc: 968
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“That’s a point for me,” Luke says with a menacing grin. The both of you are soaked to the bone after paddling across Canoe Lake to see who could make it to the other end the fastest, and as you gasp for air while holding onto the wood post of the pier, you can’t help but somehow be convinced that he cheated.
“You’re built like a frog with those long legs of yours, how the fuck was I supposed to win?”
Daybreak spreads slowly across Camp Half-Blood, sunlight kissing where the sky meets the water and Luke thinks he wants to kiss you. Knows it, actually—deep down to his bones that the line between hatred and love must be lust.
He swims closer to you like a predator creeping toward his prey, wet curls stuck to his forehead as he admires how hard you’re breathing. You’re right there, and since you like to make a competition of everything from capture the flag strategies to how many campers you both can get to screech at nightly sing-a-longs, he thinks he has an offer you won’t be able to resist. Luke’s hands glide under your shirt as the both of you tread water, still fighting for dominance even when it comes to who takes up the most space to stay afloat. You lick your lips, fingers tugging at his camp necklace as you look at him curiously and raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve got an idea…”
“I’ll start my prayers,” you smirk, before seeing the hot burning want in his gaze. You can feel it in his fingers as they brush the underside of your breasts, nipples stiff in the frigid water. Shaking your head, a nervous giggle leaves you as your arms circle his neck, bodies separated by your thin, sopping nightshirt. If he touches the rest of you, he’ll find other parts that are wet too, warm enough to brave the chill of the morning breeze that settles upon your shoulders.
“The nymphs might see…” you whisper, even though the both of you know not a single soul is awake right now but time is running out like sand in an hourglass.
“You backing down?”
The kiss you press into his open mouth is a clear enough answer—tongues sliding and spearing against each other, hot and angry and bruising. It’s a fair shot, not knowing who’s going to come out on top.
“Oh, gods, please!”
Your hands and knees are scraping in the rocks and sand of the shoreline underneath the pier as Luke pistons into you at an alarming rate, each thrust a blow to your senses. He watches your head bob up towards the sky almost in reverent prayer and he’s grinning, continually sinking into your warmth while the rest of him shudders from the cold. Luke’s cock works inside your slick hole instead of against it, and he laughs at the irony of you finally letting him have his way. Your fingernails dig into the coarse beach, grains of sand making their way through every crevice as he fills your pulsing one with glee.
“Fucking knew you’d behave…” he grunts, one hand pulling at the thin cloth around your waist and the other holds onto your stomach so he can feel himself bludgeon you from the inside. “Can’t fight back when you’re getting your brains fucked out, hmm?” 
He watches your pretty tits swing from the stretched out opening of your soggy shirt as you choke out a sob of pleasure.
“Yes…f-fuck Luke,” you whine, reaching back to ease your hand against his abdomen but he pulls it behind your back to use as a better hold on you. Luke puts two of his fingers in your mouth and they prod at the skin of your cheek, spit dripping around the digits.
Despite the intrusion, you’re groaning loud enough over the icy smacks against your skin that for a moment he thinks it might actually wake the forest nymphs, but then he’s distracted by your pussy pushing and pulling him as his hips clap against your ass, leaving them raw for days to come. Light waves crash against the shore with your movements, splashing against your knees and you’re giggling at him with a dazed grin as you push your hips back harder against his thrusts, overpowering his control over you. 
He swallows thickly, groaning through the building sensation in his stomach as you rock back onto his cock faster and with the purpose of taking him down and winning. The both of you work in tandem as you writhe against each other in a battle to reach the end, unsure of if you’re with him or against him but gods, it feels so fucking good being under him.
“M’so close…Don’t fucking stop,” you shudder, and Luke shuts his eyes hard and takes a deep breath. Even if all 12 Olympians came down right now to smite him he wouldn’t be able to pull out. 
So he doesn’t. 
He couldn’t even if he tried—he cums so hard, his front meeting your back as you fall into the sand with a muffled yelp and he’s pumping thick rods of his release into your pussy. You shiver under him slightly until you realize your belly is warm from his efforts.
“That’s gotta be like 5 or 10 points,” Luke pants, nipping at your shoulder before he sits up. You’re laying there, ass up and motionless so he slaps a cheek before you start laughing.
“For me. At least you came,” you drone, having been on the brink of an orgasm.
He couldn’t argue with that. So he flips you onto your back and eats you out (sand and slick and all) until he’s ready again and by the time the morning bell rings, you’ve both lost track of who’s won your so-called competition.
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pwncez · 1 year
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𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 | eren jaeger
૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა warnings . . . ࿐ ♡ ˚ . jus bimbo reader :3 n this is a lil drabble .
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you’re addicting and eren simply cannot get enough.
smack . . . slurp . . . smooch.
he holds the fat skin of your chubby pussy lips open with his thumbs to grant himself maximum avenue to the sticky, little nub of your swollen clit. no longer is it hidden by its hood of protection — ‘s now fully coaxed out, plumped up, and glowing a bright pink from the almost forty minutes of abuse he’s been inflicting on it with his stupidly long, stupidly thick tongue and fingers.
bright, green eyes glare up at you beneath dark, full eyebrows and stubborn, wispy strands of chocolate brown across his forehead that appear to have escaped the band holding a sloppy bun at the nape of his neck.
you hiccup his name, “e-eren,” gasp. “please.”
he hums . . low and long — a deep, ‘hmmm’ while slowly shaking his head from side to side and slipping his tongue from your clit down to your hole to get a mouthful of a sickly sweet tang. it’s a taste seemingly patented to you and only you, a salty-sweet that eren sometimes finds himself craving as if you were his own, personal favorite snack.
you thought it’d be cute, you know? eren had been grumbling about craving a shredded chicken and cheese wet burrito from his favorite burger shack whose establishment is only located in the next city over all week. you had driven an entire forty five minutes there to get it then back here to his tattoo shop to surprise him with it right before his lunch slot and he had been happy with your little treat.
only now do you realize he was happy for perhaps another reason because he hasn’t even touched his burrito yet . . it’s still in its styrofoam container, wrapped tightly in a plastic bag and sitting on his desk. “you know what you’re doin’,” he had mumbled after kicking his door shut and you’re folded up on his reclined, tattoo bed with his fingers thumbing with the hem of your tiny panties underneath your micro, denim flared skirt. “comin’ here dressed like this.”
“. .wha’ . .” you pouted. you were confused. “what do you mean, ‘ren?”
he never answered you — plainly popped a glob of spit on your clit after snatching those little panties down and stuffing them in his pocket.
and for almost the past hour, he’s continuously left you on edge — a constant push and pull of pleasure and pain that has your eyesight hazing with viscid tears. mokenstef’s he’s mine blares throughout the shop’s installed ceiling speakers, drowning out the loud slugs, swills, and swallows eren’s purposely allowing to slip from his mouth to watch you slap your hands to the round apples of your cheeks as if that could stop them from burning any hotter.
“shit, there you go.”
you haven’t heard his voice in over thirty minutes; he pulls his mouth back with his jaw, chin, and lips varnished with your sticky juices. “pussy’s always so fuckin’ good to me.” he lets his palm fall down on your clit with a sharp smack which makes you respond with a flinch and whimper. “fuckin’ love you — shit.” it’s almost like he can’t help himself. his head moves with a jerk as if your pussy’s iron and his mouth’s a magnet so that he can give your clit another strong, loud slurp; one that has his cheeks hallowed out and everything before he’s pulling himself off again, leaning back in his short, rolling chair and kicking it a few inches back to let some space enter the both of you.
you’re panting and your head feels like someone’s unscrewed it and laid a dozen stones within the space where your brain should be. you lift it though to watch him look you dead in the eye for when he smiles and wipes his mouth clean with a single hand. “. . why did you,” your voice is soft, whiny. “why’d you stop?”
eren washes his hands then tears open the bag holding his burrito to spear a plastic fork into it, pull it up to his lips, and practically inhale a huge bite of the thing. infra, “break’s almost over, pretty girl,” he says through a mouthful of cheese, tortilla, chicken, and sour cream then gives a handsome grin. “only five minutes left. rennie has a client comin’ in.”
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stvrchaser · 3 months
Text
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬
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( pairing ) : clarisse la rue x fem!reader
( words ) : 2000
( note ) : noticed that clarisse has her nails painted in the show and… well this came out of that. reader is heavily aphrodite coded but i don’t think it’s explicitly mentioned anywhere what cabin she’s actually from? only that she’s not from apollo’s and she’s on clarisse’s side for capture the flag
also don’t we just love that every fic i’ve ever published is literally 80% pining? honestly can’t tell you the last time one of my fics didn’t have a scene that goes on for like three paragraphs about how much admiration reader has for their love interest
oh and happy new year!!
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Summer days can last for a lifetime and a fulfilling one at that. There’s so much to be done when the world wakes, engulfed in light and warmth, nurturing possibility. There’s so much to look forward to. But today, that anticipation has chosen to work against you.
The sun is setting now, approaching dinnertime, and Clarisse is nowhere to be found. For all of her spontaneity and occasional recklessness, it’s unlike her to abandon routines. That is, routines she shares with you. And walking to dinner together happens to be one of your longest-running practices.
You tried to ask around, careful not to sound too concerned so as not to spark rumors. See, Clarisse La Rue has never been publicly caught in a state that warrants concern. Clarisse La Rue is untouched by the fears that plague the rest of them. But you know better.
It isn’t until you come across a few Ares kids, very obviously overworked and looking nearly faint with exhaustion, that you come to your senses. It isn’t infrequent that Cabin 5 becomes victim to one of Clarisse’s drills, training until fatigue overpowers their fear of her authority. As predicted, you find her in a clear patch of the forest overlooking the strawberry fields. Some days she likes to train here, away from watchful eyes.
The setting sun casts her in golden light, bronze armor glistening alongside golden skin. Clarisse liked to train in full gear — a fruitful habit to get herself accustomed to the added weight of leather and metal. It allows her to move with ease, swinging her spear with grace despite the strength of her whole body being evident in every step. With her head held high, spear raised, and the incredible speed at which she moves, she doesn’t look even the slightest bit mortal, but rather a god amongst men. A warrior and hunter. She is the perfect picture of divinity if you’ve ever seen it.
You let your feet drag against the dirt, a fallen branch snapping beneath your weight. It informs Clarisse of your presence from a safe distance, although the remnants of her focused state aren’t any less intimidating. Her eyes burn bright like the electricity that charges the tip of her spear.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clarisse realizes her error with a glance at the horizon where the sun is setting and you smile warmly, dismissing any indication of displeasure. You watch her demeanor change, the rigidity in her posture fading with an apologetic tip of her head. 
“I’ve been training. Those idiots would know that if they’d stuck around to join me.” Something tells you that that isn’t entirely true. Anyone could assume that she’d been training, but the matter of where was an entirely different question. As far as you know, this particular spot is something only the two of you are familiar with — a small refuge away from everyone else.  
“Well, we don’t all have your… passion for these things.”
“You think I’m ridiculous,” she says with a sigh. 
“Babe, you’re training for capture the flag. Not war.” Clarisse only shakes her head, knowing there’s no point in arguing. She thinks this is something the two of you might never see eye-to-eye on. While you like your fair bit of competition, Clarisse takes every victory with great significance. As she does with every loss.
“Here, I’ll help you,” you say, approaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. Your touch lingers at her cheeks, flushed from physical exertion and maybe something more by the way her gaze settles on your lips. Every intake of breath is louder now that you stand toe to toe and the adrenaline has started to wear off. She’s too worked up to have done this all for a game of capture the flag. “I hope you’re not doing all this to get back at Percy.” Her eyes still linger on your mouth and you think she might’ve not heard you until her brows furrow in confusion.
“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”
“Oh, come on,” you say with a disapproving shake of your head. “He’s just a kid.” You reach for the leather chord at the edge of her breastplate, undoing the knot with ease.
“He’s full of it.” She refuses to look at you now, her head turned upward as if she’d developed a sudden interest in trees. You can’t tell if she’s trying to maintain her composure to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret or if your gaze and proximity was distracting her from the discussion. Maybe a bit of both.
“He’s a baby. You could body-slam him into next Friday. It’s hardly a fair fight.” You untie the last knot keeping her breastplate in place, tugging upward to slip it over her head. Clarisse doesn’t even seem to realize that you’d freed her of her armor until the weight vanished from her body.
She looks at you then with an expression you can’t quite read. Something warm, like gratitude, but reluctant. When she speaks, it’s unexpectedly solemn.
“Do you really believe he killed The Minotaur? Him? Gods, everyone here trains themselves to death for that kind of stuff and he gets all the glory? He doesn’t even know how to shoot.” Now that you’ve been made aware of the gravity of the situation, it’s suddenly harder to find your words. This isn’t the petty rivalry you’d assumed it was, and you had to handle it as such.
“Well, I’m sure a few things have been exaggerated here and there, but that’s not his fault. People love to talk about him, but nobody’s really talking to him. I don’t think he’s had a say in anything that’s been said about him. You know how rumors spread around here.”
“But he’s—”
“Look,” you start, taking her hands into yours. “I’m not asking you to make him friendship bracelets. Just… try not to drown him in the lake, okay?”
You know the exact moment an idea hits her by the mischievous glimmer in her eye. It takes a lot of strength not to bury your face in your hands, afraid that you’ve now planted an idea that would get the poor boy killed. Or worse.
“Clarisse, please.” She surrenders, albeit reluctantly. 
“Fine,” she says. Still, you’re not entirely convinced.
“Good. Now say it.”
“What?”
“Say you won’t drown him in the lake.” Clarisse laughs, but it dies down when she realizes you don’t plan to join her.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m really not.”
“I swear not to drown Percy Jackson in the lake,” she agrees through gritted teeth. You don’t say anything about the way her hands tighten around yours as if it physically pained her to say the words.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you tell her, ignoring that it did, in fact, seem hard. “Now, what are we gonna do with those nails?” Clarisse stares blankly at your joined hands. Chipped black nail polish alongside your perfectly pristine, perfectly preserved set of nails.
“Why do we need to do anything about my nails?”
“Honey, I painted these like two days ago. What do you even do to get them chipped like this? I mean, are you fighting with the back of your hand? I don’t understand.”
“I have to train, you know?” she says, like it’s meant to explain anything. You know better than to ask her to elaborate.
“Shame. You have very pretty nail beds. You should spend less time fighting puppy dog-eyed middle schoolers so you can actually keep them pretty.”
“You think I have pretty nail beds?” You shrug.
“Among other things.”
“Well, tell me about these other things.”
“Hm, and people think I’m vain.”
“Come on. What other things?”
You take a moment to look at her — to really look at her. To dissect every inch of her face and the features that create the picture of beauty you know and love. There are far too many pretty things to point out, but you find yourself drawn to one in particular.
“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Shut up. I’m not finished.”
“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.”
“And you have the most gorgeous smile.” Clarisse beams with pride. “Yeah, that one. And it doesn’t even matter if it looks like you’re just about ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth. I just like to see you happy. I like hearing you laugh even better.”
And laugh she does. Low but sweet, like honey. She looks like the teenage girl she is, deeply infatuated and with a capacity for love she has only ever shared with you. 
You indulge in the temporary amusement it brings you to think of how horrified Clarisse might be if anyone else were around to hear her giggle. Clarisse La Rue, Daughter of Ares, infamous for waging war on whichever unfortunate soul so much as breathes in her direction — producing a laugh so gentle and beautiful it could give Orpheus and his songs a run for his money. And you might be the happiest girl alive to have been the cause of it.
“You’re sure you’re not Apollo’s kid?”
“Are you calling me a talented poet?”
“I’m calling you a sap,” Clarisse insists with a sour expression, but her voice is saturated with mirth, eyes too bright, and you know she isn’t entirely opposed to your antics. 
“I think the term you’re looking for is romantic.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.
“I know I’m right, but thank you for the confirmation.”
“I know the nail polish fumes are getting to your head,” she mocks. You feign defeat, retreating with an exaggerated sigh.
“Maybe.” Two steps to your left and you’re concealed by a tree, its trunk twice as wide as either of you. You peak your head, locking eyes with Clarisse. “Or all that training is slowing you down. Honestly! If you’re gonna try to insult me, at least try to come up with something original.”
“Oh, you think I’m slow?” Clarisse asks, every word a thinly veiled threat — a challenge, and one you’re willing to accept.
“Unless you want to prove me wrong.” Clarisse lunges at you without warning, almost too fast, but you’re able to gather your senses. The tree had bought you just enough time to keep her whole body from slamming into yours, the force of it undoubtedly capable of launching you both to the ground. 
You dash through the woods as fast as your legs can carry you, your only advantage being that Clarisse must have tired herself out from training. But you know she’s hot on your trail.
From here, you can see the bonfire, flames burning high. You turn, prepared to declare that your victory is just seconds away. You’re tackled to the floor before a word can leave your mouth. 
“Oh, come on! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”
“Distracted by what?” Clarisse laughs hysterically although taking a much more graceful tumble to the floor than you had. She’s covered in fallen leaves and her jeans are brown at the knees where the denim fades.
“The pretty girl chasing me.” Clarisse is beside herself with joy, clutching at her stomach and close to tears, and it takes her a minute to calm herself. When the two of you have settled, she speaks again. Or tries to, that is.
“Oh, you are so—“ You place a kiss on her lips, short and sweet, but enough to leave her speechless. Clarisse turns a violent shade of red and you think she might need another minute to calm herself. You take that time to revel in your victory.
You stand, offering your hand to help her up. 
“Come on, let’s get dinner and you can rest for the game tomorrow. If you’re gonna lead us to victory, you’re gonna need your strength, captain.” She smiles, intertwining her hand with yours.
“You’re gonna be there? Right beside me?”
“La Rue, you’re crazy if you think there’s even a chance I’d ever leave your side.”
•°. *࿐
reader: pls don’t drown percy in the lake
clarisse: ok fine
clarisse: *tries to drown percy*
reader: what did i say about drowning people??
clarisse: …
clarisse: you never said the toilets were off-limits 
also i'm like brand new to the pjo fandom but i’ve been kindly informed of clarisse x silena (and their tragic ending but i turn a blind eye to that so i can preserve my sanity) but when i get there you WILL need to physically restrain me from writing fics about them
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samodivaa · 1 month
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Dip it, Lick it
Bucky x Reader: You are eating an ice cream—Bucky can only think about your icy mouth.
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Warnings - smut, oral (m), overstimulation Words - 1k
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Bucky watches you lick the ice cream before you wrap your lips around it, closing your eyelids and savoring the flavor which dances on your taste buds. You slowly withdraw the ice cream from your mouth and open your eyes. You smile innocently at his rapt attention as you continue to talk about your day while Bucky thinks about those sweltering kisses from your frosty lips―not so innocently.
But then something crosses his face, a thought, a hesitation, and he tries to shift slightly. It doesn’t help that you are straddling his lap on the couch. Not now. Not yet―Bucky keeps eye contact, gazing lovingly at you as naughtiness emanates from his eyes—you stare at him. You have curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes, eyes that are very pretty and very nice, he loves when you stare at his blue orbits—such divine orbs—not just one shade of color, but...many, with a hint of confusion glimmering, he sees it. Your eyes narrow slightly.
Without taking his eyes off your face even for a moment, but his expression is very strange, he gazes at you as though you are an object a couple of miles distant, or as though he is looking at your portrait and not at your real self at all, with a look of weariness, focusing on his lungs, on his ability to take deep breaths, to soothe with oxygen as he wants words to rolls off his tongue. He is hopelessly enslaved by something—lust. This purgatory of the spirit, arousal is something that he cannot hide, not with that huge tent between his legs.
“Bucky, are you listening to me?” “Of course I am,” he says unsteadily. He smiles, wanting your voice aimed at him, he wants his face to absorb the direction of your eyes—but your gaze moves downwards. To his crotch. Your eyes look up and Bucky’s are black as chips of obsidian staring back into yours, two black holes, letting nothing out, not even information. You don’t say anything—at least, not with your mouth. Your eyes tell him a different story. And slowly, clumsily, you lean forward, your lips find his, the coldness of yours and the warmth of his tongue beneath yours, disintegrating your entire body. His tongue spears more into your mouth, and the taste of him, mixes with the flavor of the ice cream, sweet—closed-mouth kisses that still feel scandalous, but too delicious to resist.  And you thought that you might be wrong, but then a deep sound comes from him, almost a growl and instinctively you know it is a sound of approval. You chuckle softly when you pull back and if Bucky thought your mouth was dangerous, your chuckle should’ve been classified as a weapon. Sin in a sound. “Turned on by me eating ice cream?” you ask, voice barely audible. You take the ice cream in your month while looking to see his blue eyes soaking you in as Bucky groans and your core melts at the sound, your breath stops as his tongue skims his lower lip. He shakes his head, but there's something more than lust in his eyes as he stares at your lips. He wants more. “I. Will. Try. It. On. Your. Dick.” As you draw closer again, his eyes widen a little at the boldness of your words. You punctuate each word with a chilly kiss along his jaw, making your way to his ear. You bite the lobe, and Bucky’s cock twitches as the fingers of your free hand drift lower, from his abs, to his stomach. The slight touch of brow sweat-coated, his breathing uneven. He moans against your lips. His metal hand slides down between your legs and he presses a fingertip against your knickers. You just keen and your hips buck forwards. His body is on fire, his hands move to your hips, encircling your waist and pulling you onto his cock, seeking friction. Bucky runs three fingers along your covered cunt, soft folds through the thin cotton fabric. He wants to stroke you slowly, but you suddenly pull away to rise on your feet just to kneel between his legs seconds later—a tremendous rush runs through Bucky’s body, as if every cell is electrified at once, he even has to bite his lip to not moan at the sight in front of him, why is he so desperate? “Bucky” you whisper, breaking him out of his trance. 
His heart races as you reach for his waistband, sliding his sweats enough to free his cock. His dick is straining against his briefs with a wet patch forming from the precum, and you watch as his dick springs up and then falls slightly, reaching his stomach. He stares at you apprehensively, and you wrap your much smaller hand around his length, hearing him suck in a breath as you lick the ice cream again before leaning down to kiss his tip, he almost cums at the sensation of the coldness hitting his cock. Perhaps his breathing eases. Perhaps he looks a trifle more peaceful, despite his eyes rolling beneath their lids. In this moment, his mind is between two elements: one, excitement, the other, focusing on not cumming on the spot. He tries to pay attention, but the kiss with your cold lips is electric and pulsing—his loud moan makes you waste no time. You pump his cock a few times as you bring the ice cream into your mouth once again, swirling your tongue over it before pushing his dick down your throat. His cock is so large that you have to fight not to scrape your teeth against it, flattening your tongue under the base of it so you decide to focus on sucking only the tip. “Wait, stop…I-I need a moment” he nearly sobs out the words. His eyes are open, face flushed, ragged breathing which he fails to hide, his extraordinary earnestness and self-control is non-existent, he can’t keep his composure while trembling all over. An impossible pleasure goes through him, making him gasp, legs start to quiver with the impending orgasm—he has a whole body shudder while finishing and you're so mean so you keep sucking his tip.
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elfven-blog · 10 months
Text
But look at you
Look, i’m sorry?? i dont know WHAT this is! but enjoy?? also let me know if i missed any cw??
Leon Kennedy x F!Reader, co-workers who used to hate each other.
CW: MDNI, 18+, badly written, female anatomy for reader, Leons POV, no real descriptors of reader, it’s smut, public.
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It was all snarling, glaring at each other from across the room, snapping answers, disgust in those eyes, a build of resentment…until it wasn’t. Then, oh then it was all searing kisses, heavy hands, hushed whispers, and smothered moans.
That’s how he found himself in this position, his thighs pressed to the back of hers, one hand pushing her down while the other covered her mouth. She was pressed against the door, couldn’t have someone walking in after all. But he had no patient to wait anymore, not with her behaviour earlier. He felt her squirm, try to move away a slew of ‘s’too much Leon…please, can’t’ falling from her.
So, what was he to do? Push further, his hips spearing him forwards so he could feel her wrap around him again. “No, no princess, be good for me. Know you can” and oh she could, like this. Whining and whimpering below him, taking him over and over as she lost herself in the feeling. Of their warmth colliding, the sounds of how much she could take him filling the small space. Felt her tighten around him, suck him in further “God baby, you say it’s too much but look at you”.
He leant forward, pressing his back to hers and wrapping a hand around her waist. His hand moving to that puffy sensitive bundle right between her legs, earning him more moans and he moved his hand from her mouth to her jaw so he could press a wet kiss to her lips. His hips stuttering further forwards as he felt her gush over him. A moan leaving his mouth as he licked his tongue into her mouth, his tongue fucking her as he came closer and closer. Her breath hitching, her nails digging into the wood of the door.
Suddenly, he was impossibly close his arms wrapped as he stilled inside her and his head fell down to her shoulder, using the fabric of her work shirt to muffle his groans as he comes, his own thighs shaking his breath trembling and his muscles flexing. His mouth running faster than his mind “so good for me baby, see didn’t need to act out. Would give you what you wanted, just had to wait a bit. Feeling better? Yea you are, look at you all dazed like that”.
And then he was pulling out, using his tie to wipe the drool from her mouth and pressing another kiss to her lips. Pulling his pants up, helping wipe their mess from her thighs. His tie was ruined, that much was obvious as he pulled her panties up and her skirt down. “c’mon pretty, gotta get back to work”
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munson-blurbs · 10 months
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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Summary: Thanksgiving brings back memories of happier times, and all you want is to recreate the past. But when those plans go awry, Eddie--and Harris, of course--are there to help you look forward to the future.
Warnings: mentions of Eddie's parents, brief familial conflict, Reader's grandma has dementia, most of this chapter is fluffy tbh
WC: 6.8k
Chapter 8/20
Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @vexed-n-hexed Divider credit to @saradika
Thanksgiving, 1975
The sound of the kitchen timer beeping draws nine-year-old Eddie Munson’s attention from the television set. The local news network had been replaying the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on a loop. It was now the third time that Eddie had watched Santa Claus make his way into Herald Square in a comically oversized sleigh, but he couldn’t get enough of it. The colorful balloons that hovered over the crowd, the marching bands playing in perfect unison, the feeling of excitement in the air—it was palpable all the way from his new home in Hawkins, Indiana. 
“Dinner’s ready,” Wayne announces, grabbing the worn mitt off of the counter and pulling two TV dinners from the oven. “‘S not much, but at least we got turkey and mashed potatoes,” he bashfully adds. 
Eddie nods, trying to walk without taking his eyes off of the screen. 
Wayne’s bushy brows pinch together as he watches his nephew. “You always get this into the parade?” he asks. 
“Never seen it before,” Eddie says softly. His parents had had a TV for a couple of years until they’d pawned it, but he doesn’t recall ever watching a parade. “Pretty cool.”
“We can keep it on while we eat, if ya want,” Wayne tells him, smiling when he sees the boy’s face light up. He places the plastic trays on the snack table and heads back to grab forks. “Ya got a favorite balloon? I’m partial to Snoopy, if y’ask me.”
Eddie nods, still transfixed on the TV. “Yeah, Snoopy’s good. I like him.” He takes the utensil from Wayne’s outstretched hand, absentmindedly dipping it in the congealed mashed potatoes. He pauses for a beat before bringing it to his lips. “Do I have to go back?”
“Hm?” Wayne mumbles, too focused on his own food to fully hear him. 
“Do I have to go back with them when they get out?” Eddie repeats, keeping his voice low and training his gaze on the floor. “‘Cause I like it better here. With you. ‘S nice and quiet.”
There’s a lurch in Wayne’s chest at Eddie’s request. “Technically, I only have ya till your folks are sprung,” he admits, scratching a nail against the table, “but I can talk to a lawyer or somethin’ about keeping you here longer. Only if you want,” he adds. 
“I wanna stay here,” Eddie confirms, spearing a pale turkey slice and popping it in his mouth without any attempt to cut it. “If it’s okay with you. I can sleep on the cot an’ you can take your bed back.”
Wayne shakes his head. “Room’s yours, Ed.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t wanna promise you that the courts will agree to it, but I’m gonna try my damndest to keep you safe.” And it’s true. He’ll work double overtime at the plant if it’ll cover legal fees. When the social worker dropped Eddie off last week, Wayne had no idea how either of them would adjust. But aside from a few growing pains—like having to shave his nephew’s head when they’d discovered he’d had lice—things seemed to be alright. 
“I, um, I wrote something at school yesterday,” Eddie pipes up, traipsing to his backpack and pulling out a sheet of paper. In his sloppy, boyish handwriting is written:
I am thankful for my Uncle Wayne because he takes care of me. He’s really nice and he works hard and he doesn’t mind that I listen to loud music. He also lets me feed my dinner scraps to the stray dogs in his trailer park. My Uncle Wayne is the best. I hope he’s thankful for me, too. 
Wayne feels his throat constrict, and he clears it before Eddie can catch on. “‘Course I’m thankful for ya, Ed,” he manages. He reaches out to put his hand on his nephew’s back, flinching when the boy jerks away nervously. Eddie’s reflex to defend himself rather than embrace touch stirs up a reserved anger Wayne didn’t know he had, and he wills himself to simmer down before his nephew can sense it, lest he think he’s angry at him.  
He slowly brings his hand to the couch cushion, careful not to make too much noise. We’ll get there, he thinks as the parade starts up for a fourth time. We’ll get there. 
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Thanksgiving, 1978
Ten years old is a strange age. 
Too old to play with the little kids, but too young to hang around the teenagers or adults. You’re just kind of…there, like a piece of furniture that everyone absently walks around. This hiss of beer cans opening is barely audible over the men shouting at the football game on TV. You don’t know who’s playing, and you don’t really care, but it’s the only place you feel like you’ll be out of the way. Taking a seat on the floor, you remain there generally unnoticed until one of your uncles calls out your name.
“Couldja get me a refill?” Uncle Tim slurs, shaking his empty can of Bud Light to emphasize his request. Before you can respond, he throws a, “thanks, kid” and goes back to yelling at the football players.
It’s not like they can hear you through the screen, you snidely think, but you keep your comment to yourself as you pad into the kitchen. A collection of spices tickles your nose, the mixture of cloves and garlic and thyme and rosemary warming the room. You rummage through the refrigerator until you feel someone bump up against you.
“What are you doing in there?” Your aunt asks, disapproval carving her already sharp features. Her gaze drops to the can in your hand. “Seriously? Trying to sneak beer right in front of us?” she scoffs. 
Grandma quickly becomes aware of the commotion, and she wipes her hand on her sunny yellow apron as she assesses the situation. “Everything okay?” Her soft eyes are concerned, not accusing, and you feel your anxiety slowly dissipating.
“I caught her trying to steal some beer,” your aunt reports proudly, as though she’s caught some serial offender, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Not even a teenager yet and already getting into this kind of trouble.” She shakes her head with a tsk. 
“No, I wasn’t,” you insist, setting your jaw in defiance. “Uncle Tim asked me to get some more for him. That’s all.”
“Tim!” Grandma calls out, tone thick with irritation. “Get over here!”
 Uncle Tim trudges out to the kitchen, head already hung low in anticipation of the tongue-lashing he’s about to receive. He may be a grown man, but his mother can easily put him in his place.
Grandma folds her arms across her chest. “Why are you having your niece fetch your drinks like a barmaid? Your legs broken or something?”
“No,” he mumbles, taking the beer from your hand and haphazardly tossing a “sorry” in your direction before returning to the game.
“C’mere,” Grandma beckons you, crooking her finger to join her at the counter. She’s got a bowl of Granny Smith apples, half of them peeled, their green skins piling on the cutting board in front of her. She hands you the peeler, picking up a sharp knife and cutting a peeled apple lengthwise and cubing each slice. “Help me out. It goes a lot faster when there’s two of us. And it’ll keep you out of trouble,” she adds with a wink.
You grab an unpeeled apple from the pile and drag the tool down its curve, repeating the motion until the inner fruit is exposed before starting on the next one. You and Grandma work in tandem; you peel and she chops in a comfortable silence. As you’re finishing up the last of the bunch, she leans over and whispers in your ear, “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re the best helper I’ve ever had.” She starts placing the cubed pieces into a pot, shaking the cinnamon container over it until she takes a satisfied step back, no measuring spoon required. “Mix it together for me?” 
You nod eagerly and pluck the wooden spoon from the canister behind the sink, dunking it into the pot and stirring until the apples are fully coated in cinnamon. “That good?” you ask, giving another stir for good measure.
“Perfect.” Grandma smiles, covering the mixture with water and setting it on an empty burner, twisting the knob until the coil turns red. “Once it softens up, you can mash it. Give these old arms a break,” she teases gently.
“You’re not old!” you protest, and she smacks a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you, kiddo,” she murmurs, voice muffled against your scalp. “To the moon and back.”
You wrap your arms around her waist and squeeze her tight. “I love you, too. To the moon and back.”
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Thanksgiving, 1996
“Daddy, look! It’s Santa!” Harris points at the TV excitedly, bouncing up and down on the couch. He kicks his feet and squeals. “He’s gonna come to our house, right? An’ bring me presents?”
Eddie chuckles as he spreads mayonnaise on white bread, layering thin turkey slices on top. Three sandwiches for three Munsons. “I dunno, Har-Bear; have you been good this year?” 
Harris scrunches up his face in contemplation. “Um, I think so,” he answers honestly. “I can’t remember.”
“Hey, Wayne?” Eddie calls out as his uncle walks out of the bathroom. “Has Harris been good this year? I feel like he’s been a bit…mischievous.”
Wayne shakes his head. “My angel of a grandson? He’s never caused mischief a day in his little life!” He sits down next to Harris, letting out a small grunt as his bottom hits the sofa cushion. 
“Yeah! I never cause mischief a day in my little life!” Harris echoes confidently. He turns to his grandfather. “Grampa, what is Santa gonna bring you for Christmas?”
“A toupée,” Eddie says from the tiny kitchen, piling their plates with potato chips. Normally, he’d make sure there was a fruit or vegetable on there, but it’s a holiday. 
Wayne has to hold his tongue in front of the impressionable young boy, though he shoots Eddie an inconspicuous middle finger when he’s setting the plates on the coffee table. 
The three Munsons tuck into their sandwiches and crunch on the chips. This is how Thanksgiving has been since Eddie moved back with Harris: watching the parade followed by an early lunch so Wayne could pick up a shift at the plant. He always insisted on it, saying that the holiday pay helps offset the cost of Christmas presents. It was quiet, but nice, and Eddie couldn’t ask for anything else.
“Y’know,” Wayne says to Harris with a mouthful of sandwich, “the first time your Daddy watched the parade was with me. And now, we got to watch it with you.” He bumps his arm against Harris’s, making the boy giggle. 
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie muses, chomping on a potato chip thoughtfully as the memories flood back in. “Forgot about that. Is Snoopy still your favorite, Old Man?” 
Wayne considers this. “Hmm. Who’s our favorite balloon this year, Har?”
“Clifford!” Harris answers without missing a beat, kicking his little legs in excitement. Eddie should’ve known; the boy was damn near obsessed with dogs.
Once we can afford a house with a yard, I’m getting you that puppy, Har-Bear, he thinks, though he doesn’t dare make the promise aloud.
“Then that’s mine, too.” Wayne brushes the crumbs off of his lap, calloused hands scratching the worn denim of his jeans. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he adds, “I wonder what Ms. Sweetheart’s favorite balloon is.” He acts like he’s speaking to Harris, but Eddie knows it was aimed at him.
Harris claps his hands together gleefully. “I know! Let’s call her!” He turns to Eddie with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes the man has ever seen, lower lip jutted out exaggeratedly in the most precious pout. “Please, Daddy? Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie says with a laugh, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Once you finish up lunch, we can call her.” Harris opens his mouth to protest that he wants to call right now, but Eddie cuts him off before he can start. “Ah ah; no whining, or we won’t call.”
Harris harrumphs but ultimately complies, taking another bite of his food. Wayne gives Eddie a small thumbs-up, and he preens slightly at the acknowledgment of his parenting win. They didn’t happen very often, and they rarely happened when someone was around to witness them. He takes a long gulp of water; as soon as he does, his son lifts his own cup to his lips and takes a sip. Another reminder that he’s watching, even subconsciously, wanting to be just like his dad.
For a split second, Eddie allows himself to believe that that might not be a bad thing.
“‘M done!” Harris chirps; sure enough, his plate is clean, save for the bread crusts. He squirms a bit in his seat, a gesture that Eddie has come to learn means only one thing.
“Go pee while I find her number,” Eddie tells him, purposely omitting the fact that he’s already committed those seven digits to memory. In case of an emergency, he thinks, and I don’t have the slip of paper on me.
Wayne can sense that his nephew isn’t being completely truthful; as soon as Harris closes the bathroom door behind him, he starts in with a shit-eating grin.
“Y’don’t need to find her number, do ya?”
Eddie flicks off an imaginary speck of dust on his shirts. “Knock it off, Wayne.” But he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, further affirming his uncle’s point.
“Look, Ed,” Wayne exhales, adopting a more serious tone. “You clearly like this girl. I mean, all Harris did was say her name and you smiled–don’t give me that look,” he chastises lightly when Eddie rolls his eyes. “I know you two didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but all that seems to be in the past now, right?”
“Guess so,” Eddie mumbles. “But not hating me doesn’t mean she’s into me. Maybe she’s only being nice to me because of Harris.”
The older Munson pauses, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks; his reflex when he’s deep in thought. “One date,” he challenges, holding up his forefinger to emphasize his point. “Ask her on one date, and see where it goes.”
“Fine,” Eddie relents, the nerves already churning in his stomach. You’d just found this good rhythm together, and he was going to risk messing it up. Again. “I’ll ask her. But on one condition.”
“Whas’ that?”
“Don’t say anything to Harris.” He crosses his arms over his chest when Wayne chuckles. “‘M serious, Wayne. I don’t want him getting his hopes up. For Chrissakes, I gave her a tape and the kid had us getting married.”
“Fair enough,” Wayne agrees, clamping his mouth shut when he sees the little boy enter the room. “You wash your hands?”
“Yep!”
“With soap?” he presses, narrowing his eyes.
Harris heaves an impatient sigh. “Yes! Can we call now?”
Both Wayne and Harris keep their eyes glued to Eddie as he punches in the numbers. When it starts ringing, he holds out the receiver to his son. “Say hi and your name when she picks up,” he reminds him, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself before asking you on a date. He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands in his pockets and gnawing on his lower lip so forcefully that he swears it might bleed.
You got this, Munson. The worst she can say is no.
But that’s not quite true, is it? The worst you can do is laugh in his face, leaving him a rejected mess. Scratch that–the worst you could do is accept the date, have him fall head over heels in love with you, then leave him in the dust to pick up the pieces while you move on with someone better. 
Maybe you won’t pick up the phone. Maybe he’ll have more time to–
“Hi, Ms. Sweetheart! It’s me, Harris!”
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It was a small thing. Miniscule, even. Just your meager attempt at reclaiming part of the past that had been lost to time and disease. A simple family recipe, apples boiled and mashed into a sauce that you’d hoped even vaguely resembled the way Grandma made it. A tiny cut on your fingertip serves as a battle wound from peeling, the sweet aroma of cinnamon still lingering in the kitchen.
You try to convince yourself that it isn’t a big deal. It’s just applesauce. But the thought falls flat as you stare into the trash can. You can still see all of your work literally tossed away through the tears that blur your vision.
You’d left the room for two minutes, two goddamn minutes, and when you came back, the plastic pink bowl that held the applesauce was nowhere to be found. You could’ve sworn you left it on the counter, but maybe you’d already put it away? A quick scan of the refrigerator gave you nothing but a chill. Where the hell did it go? Were you losing your mind?
A rogue apple peel had fallen to the floor, and you scooped it up, flustered at how you could have misplaced an entire bowl of applesauce. Sure, it wasn’t as much as when you and Grandma made it for the whole family, but it was still a decent amount. Your foot presses the pedal that lifts the bin’s lid, and that’s when you see it.
“Grandma?” you choke out, looking over to where she’s sitting on the couch. She doesn’t respond, and you raise your voice a bit to grab her attention. “Grandma, why did you throw out the applesauce?”
Her empty gaze briefly flits over to where you’re standing, not even registering the burgeoning frustration and sadness coursing through your veins. “Wasn’t me,” she says flatly, scratching at the side of her nose with a jagged nail. Before dementia, her nails were always painted bright hues of red or blue; now, it was difficult enough to get her to leave the house for essential doctor’s appointments. You weren’t going to put up a fight trying to get her to the salon.
You know you should just close the lid and walk away instead of torturing yourself by continuing to look, but your feet are glued to the linoleum floor. A cold drop of something lands on your toes, and that’s when you realize that you’re crying. Crying over goddamn applesauce.
All you wanted was some semblance of normalcy, something reminiscent of life before Grandma got sick and your family still felt whole. But what you got was a thickening realization that you can’t relive the past, no matter how hard you try.
The ringing phone startles you from your wallowing. You have half a mind to ignore it, but you know that Grandma will just grumble about how she hates the sound of it, so you pick up the receiver and answer with a shaky, “H-Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Sweetheart! It’s me, Harris!” A little voice chirps through the other end. You can hear Eddie mumbling something, though you can’t quite make out what he’s saying. “Happy Thanksgiving! What’s your favorite balloon?” There’s more hushed speaking from Eddie, and Harris huffs out, “Daddy, stop! I know what to say!” 
“My favorite balloon from the parade?” you ask, biting back a giggle. 
“Mhm! I like Clifford,” he tells you.
You’d kept the parade on in the background, catching glimpses of it every now and again. Shit, what balloons did you see? “Clifford’s a good one,” you agree, “but I think the Rocky and Bullwinkle one was my favorite.”
Harris laughs so loudly that you have to pull the phone from your ear. “The squirrel and the moose?” he guffaws. “Ms. Sweetheart, that’s so silly!” You’re about to ask him how his holiday is going when he says, “Hold on, my daddy wants to talk to you.”
Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of talking to Eddie, and you wipe the tears from your wet cheeks as though he’ll be able to see them through the phone.
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving!” he says. Something resembling trepidation tinges his tone, though you’re not sure why. Could he still be anxious to approach you after he confided in you at the parent-teacher conference? After he’d watched you panic when Grandma locked herself in her room?
You swallow, trying to choke down the sadness rising within you. “Yeah, y-you, too.” Despite your best efforts, your voice breaks on the last word, and you hope Eddie doesn’t catch it.
But of course he does.
“You okay?” he asks with a nervous chuckle. “‘Cause it kinda sounds like you’re crying.”
“‘M fine. Just, um, chopping onions,” you lie, hoping you’ve done a convincing job.
“For the…applesauce you’re making?” Eddie sees right through you; you’d forgotten that you’d told him and Harris about your plan during your weekly post-tutoring dinner last night. “Not gonna lie, that sounds even nastier than olives on pizza.”
You manage a laugh, but it’s disfigured by the catch in your throat. “The applesauce was a bust, unfortunately,” you admit. “I left the kitchen for a second and Grandma chucked it in the trash.”
“All of it?” he asks incredulously, letting out a deep exhale when you confirm that she did, in fact, throw out the entire bowl. “Jesus H. I’m so sorry. Is that what’s got you upset?”
“Mhm. I know it’s stupid, ‘s just applesauce, but–”
“‘S not stupid,” Eddie interrupts softly, and you twist the phone cord around your pointer finger with the sudden drop of his tone. “I know you were really looking forward to it.” He pauses, and you wonder for a moment if the line’s gone dead before he says, “We’re coming over. Me and Harris. Be there in twenty; fifteen, if I don’t have to argue with him about wearing a jacket.”
Before you can protest, he really does hang up. You look down at the baggy sweats and college t-shirt you’re wearing; you weren’t expecting any guests today, let alone the Munson boys. You should probably throw on some actual pants, and a bit of mascara couldn’t hurt, either.
You find a pair of jeans that aren’t buried under a mountain of laundry and tug them over your thighs before quickly swiping some makeup on your face. It’s enough to mask your exhaustion while still looking natural.
It dawns on you that you’re not quite sure why you suddenly care so much about your appearance. Harris couldn’t care less, and Eddie…well, even if Eddie did care, why would that matter to you? He’s your tutee’s parent; a new friend at most. On more than one occasion, you’ve answered the door to Jess with a wicked case of bedhead. Why does Eddie Munson of all people make you feel the need to look halfway decent?
When the buzzer sounds, you nearly jump out of your own skin. “It’s us,” Eddie says into the speaker; the smoothness of his voice has your stomach in knots. “And we come bearing gifts. Well, one gift, I guess.”
“Fuck off,” Grandma mumbles from the couch, cranking up the TV volume to an ungodly loud level. One of the Law & Order detectives says–no, screams–something about a murder, and you quickly reach for the remote and click the power button.
“We have company,” you tell her, and she just grunts in response. Hopefully her mood will change in the minute it will take Eddie and Harris to get to your apartment. You can hear them down the hallway, so you open the door just as they’re about to knock.
Eddie takes a step back in surprise. “You psychic or somethin’?” he laughs, looking down at his son and giving him a small nudge. “Go ahead, you can give it to her.”
Your gaze drops to the curly-haired boy standing by his father’s side. He’s holding a brightly colored package of off-brand Oreos, which he brings closer to his chest, pressing it tightly against his zippered sweatshirt. “It’s s’posed to be a surprise,” he reminds Eddie, wide-eyed with genuine concern.
“Only until we got here,” Eddie says gently, soft brown eyes encouraging Harris to hand you the cookies. He brings his attention back to you. “I know it’s not the same as making applesauce with your grandma, but I’ve never been sad eating an Oreo. An oatmeal raisin cookie, maybe. But not an Oreo.”
Now it’s your turn to smile. “You may be onto something here, Munson.” You take the package from Harris and guide the two of them to the kitchen, calling out to Grandma as you pass by. “Grandma, Eddie and Harris are here, and they brought cookies, if you wanna join us.” Her non-response is familiar at this point; the sting is much easier to brush off than it was a few short months ago. But you still feel it.
Even though Grandma isn’t at the table, Harris still climbs onto his dad’s lap. “Daddy, can I have one?” he asks, resting his dimpled chin on his palms as he glances upwards.
“Gotta ask Ms. Sweetheart,” Eddie shrugs, tickling Harris’s ribs and loudly whispering, “and ask her if your poor, hungry dad can have one, too. She can’t say no to you.”
You open the package and shake your head at his antics, sliding out the flimsy tray and offering it to them. “Of course you can have one, Harris,” you say, tone saccharine sweet. His chubby fingers darting out and snatching up a cookie before you even finish your sentence. “But I don’t know about your dad. Do you think he should get one?”
“C’mon, Har,” Eddie urges him, “us men gotta stick together. All for one and one for all, right?” He flexes his bicep; it’s an attempt to emphasize the manliness that supposedly bonds him and Harris, but the gesture has your breath catching in your throat. You sputter and cough embarrassingly, excusing yourself to pour a glass of water. 
“Anyone else want?” you manage once you can speak again, holding up the ceramic pitcher. 
Eddie nods, lifting Harris from his lap and placing him on the nearest empty chair. “Here, let me help you.” He stands up and calls out over his shoulder, “Grandma, how about some water?”
You’re about to tell him not to worry about it, but to your surprise, she nods. “Ya.”
“So, four waters,” Eddie reports, taking the pitcher and refilling your glass. 
You grab another just like it from the cabinet before taking two blue disposable ones, plopping a bendy straw in each. “Grandma, um, she needs stuff that isn’t breakable,” you explain lamely. “And the other plastic one is for Harris.”
Eddie grins. “Thought it was for me. Y’know, always making a mess.”
“Ah, but only of your life,” you tease. “You’re pretty good with basic human functions.” Your face burns at what you’ve potentially implied, but Eddie isn’t fazed. 
“Y’know what? I’m gonna take my cookies back!” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest in mock-indignance. A piece of curly hair sticks to his lower lip with his sudden movement, and you brush it away with your thumb before you can stop yourself. 
The crinkling of the fake-Oreo package draws both of your gazes, with Eddie poised to tell Harris that he’s only allowed one more. But to your surprise—and perhaps Eddie’s, too—Harris isn’t the one rifling through the tray. Grandma’s taken a seat next to the boy, handing him a cookie before taking her own. She just nibbles on it in silence, but it’s the most present she’s been in days. 
“Y’like Oreos, Grandma?” Eddie asks, pouring water into the two plastic glasses and carrying one in each ringed hand. He places them on the table, and Grandma brings the straw to her lips as she nods again. He pauses for a moment, lips tucked into his mouth as he ponders something. “What kind of music does she listen to?” he asks you. 
“She has a record collection over in the living room,” you tell him, pointing to the low bookshelf near the door, “but we haven’t played any in awhile. She’s kinda…weird with noises.”
He considers this, walking over to the records and thumbing through them until he finds one that he recognizes. “Could I put this one on?” He holds up the battered copy of Frank Sinatra’s It Might As Well Be Swing. “I’ll take it off if she gets upset. I just wanna try something.” He carefully slides the record from its sleeve, lifting the player’s needle and placing it on the space for the first track. 
There’s a soft static as the record starts to spin, and Ol’ Blue Eyes croons: 
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars
Eddie joins in with the next part. His voice still carries its signature rasp, but it’s noticeably smoother, warmer than the night he’d dedicated the Def Leppard song to you. 
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me
His eyes remain trained on the record player, but you swear you can feel the lyrics drifting towards you. The melody wraps around you like a hug, and you momentarily lose yourself in a musical embrace. 
Another voice, low and timid, chimes in. You have to stifle a gasp when you realize that it’s Grandma, her lips curling into the smallest of smiles–the most joy she’s shown in a long while–as she half-sings the words. 
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, and before you can exhale the third syllable, the world shifts back to normal. Grandma goes back to mindlessly munching on her cookie as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. You turn to Eddie. “What was that?”
He shrugs, suddenly feeling shy. “I read somewhere that music can, like, bring back some memories. Not permanently or anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.”
You can’t stop yourself from flinging your arms around Eddie’s neck, nearly knocking him over in the process. He pauses before he returns the gesture, pulling you tightly into him. One hand is on the small of your back; the other gently rests on the back of your head, allowing you to rest your forehead on his chest. Your tears flow freely, leaving tiny wet spots on his shirt. He doesn’t let go until you start to pull back. 
“Thank you,” you whisper; when he pinches his brows in confusion, you elaborate. “You gave me back a little piece of who she was before…” you trail off, swiping at your cheeks messily. “Just…thank you.”
Eddie nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes are practically glued to your lips; this time, when his fingers brush against your palm, he hooks his pinky with yours. “‘Course,” he murmurs.
You’re not sure how long the two of you remain linked like this, joined hands swaying ever-so-slightly as Fly Me to the Moon fades out to I Wish You Love. It’s somewhere between ten seconds and ten years, because time seemingly slows to a halt. 
You might stay with pinkies hooked forever if Harris doesn’t bolt from his chair, hugging your waist and looking up at you with concern. 
“Ms. Sweetheart?” he asks. His wide, misty eyes indicate that he’s absorbed some of the emotion in the room, though he may not even be aware of this. “Why are you sad?” His chubby fingers grab onto the fabric of your pants.
You choke out a tearful laugh as you crouch down to meet him at his level. “I’m not sad…well, I’m sad and happy at the same time,” you try to explain, shaking your head when you realize you’re only adding to his puzzlement. “Grown-up feelings are weird sometimes, Har. But your hugs definitely help.”
With that, he squeezes you tighter, and you glance at Eddie with a full heart. He takes a step forward, scooping up Harris. You worry that you’ve crossed a line, that you’ve shown too much of your vulnerability to a four-year-old, but your fears are subdued when Eddie extends one arm and brings you back to both him and his son. Something brushes against your scalp, and you realize that he’s pressing a light kiss to the top of your head. 
Harris squirms, and when Eddie puts him down, he runs over to the TV set. “Can I watch something?” It’s clear that the moment has passed, and Eddie throws you an apologetic shrug as he waits for your response.
“Sure,” you say, trying to pepper cheerfulness into your voice. It’s easier now that the wave of loneliness has passed, taking with it some of the mourning you’d clung to earlier today. You click on the TV and flip through channels until a familiar cartoon appears on the screen. “I think we’re just in time to watch A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving!” you exclaim, and Harris mirrors your enthusiasm by flinging himself onto the couch, making his dad cringe.
“Careful, little dude,” Eddie says, clicking off the record player and gently placing the vinyl back in its sleeve. “You just got that cast off a few days ago. Don’t need you to break another bone.” Certainly don’t need another hospital bill, he thinks bitterly. He takes the spot next to Harris, silently begging you to join them. 
You turn to the kitchen table and put a hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “You wanna watch Charlie Brown with us?” But she rejects your invitation with a simple shake of her head, mumbling something about being tired and padding into her room. 
You take the empty space to Harris’s left so that the boy is sandwiched between you and his father. He’s a small kid, but it seems like there’s an entire ocean separating you and Eddie. 
“Why’s Lucy so mean?” Harris asks no one in particular. “She’s always yelling. Like Ms. Marion.” You have to stifle a giggle at that observation, and when you allow yourself a glance, you see that Eddie’s doing the same. 
The first half of the movie is filled with Harris’s constant commentary; he speaks more than all of the cartoon characters combined. But he tires out eventually, though in typical four-year-old fashion, he denies his sleepiness even as he’s yawning. He fights it pretty well, you’ve got to give him credit where it’s due, but eventually, the exhaustion takes over and he lays his head on your arm. His curls tickle your elbow, and you gingerly reposition him so he’s tucked up against your side. 
“You can move him over, if you get uncomfortable or somethin’. Kid sleeps like a rock. Except, y’know, when I need him to sleep.” Eddie snickers as Harris lets out the softest, tiniest snore. 
You return the laughter and shake your head. “Nah, I’m good,” you reassure him, smiling at the ruddy cheek pressed against you. “Don’t tell my other students, but Harris is the cutest kid ever.”
Eddie shrugs, but you can tell that the compliment tickles him. “Well, it makes sense, since his dad is a total stud.” He waggles his eyebrows before turning his attention back to Charlie and Lucy. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that; if you play it off as a joke, you risk hurting his feelings. If you tell him the truth–
“D’you like coffee?”
His sudden, seemingly arbitrary question snaps you from your indecision. “I teach four-year-olds,” you reply lightheartedly, hoping he can’t sense your mind continuing to linger on his stud comment. “I practically have coffee running through my veins. What about you?”
“I have a four-year-old, so, same.” He clears his throat, seemingly double-checking that his son is still sound asleep. His leg is bouncing up and down, and he nearly has to press on his knee to get it to stop. “Um, Harris is going to a birthday party next Saturday morning if you wanted to get some with me? Get some coffee, I mean.” He silently chastises himself, wondering if he’d ever been suave around women or if it had just been the unearned confidence of a young man in his early twenties convincing him that he had. 
“Like...like a date?” Fuck, do you sound too eager? “Because if you feel like you owe me a date after…after our night at the bar, you don’t have to. I forgave you after you gave me those M&Ms, remember?”
“Yeah…wait, no. Hold on.” Eddie holds up his pointer finger as he collects his thoughts. He could deny that it’s a date altogether and throw out some bullshit lie about it just being something between friends. But he promised Wayne, promised himself that he’d give this a shot.  “Yes, I’m asking you on a date. No, it’s not because I feel like I owe you one–although I definitely do,” he adds with a goofy grin that sends flutters to your stomach. “It’s because, fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you, and how happy you make me–and Harris, too–and how I get kinda nervous around you, which makes no sense because you’re, like, the nicest fuckin’ person ever. Oh my God, why can’t I stop talking?”
“Eddie.” The way you say his name is like a song he could replay forever. “I’d really like to get coffee with you. I just need to see if someone can watch Grandma…maybe Jess,” you surmise, biting back the fact that you’ll have to withhold your date’s name, lest she subject you to a lecture about sleeping with the enemy.
Eddie nods, swiping the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and smiling. “I can pick you up at noon? If Jess can watch Grandma, of course.”
“Noon works.” You want to kiss him right then and there; if Harris wasn’t nestled in the middle of you both, you might not hold back. “I can let you know on Wednesday when we have dinner together.”
Eddie’s not sure he can wait that long for an answer. What if you’re just buying time to get out of it? What if you’re only being nice to him because you’re afraid that he’ll get angry again and reignite the bitter feud you’d been locked in just a month ago? He swallows the insecurities, gaze flickering to your eyes.
And maybe it’s because you can sense his unease and self-doubt, or maybe it’s because you genuinely want to–Eddie doesn’t know for sure–but he feels you lace your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on his thigh. He shifts his grasp to weave them tighter together, learning back into the couch and allowing his body to relax. His shoulders let go of tension he hadn’t realized he was holding on to, and a contented sigh slips from his lips.
It’s you, him, and Harris. Sitting on the sofa and watching a holiday movie. An unconventional little family, but a family all the same. Eddie swears that he could stay like this forever, a thought that almost has him bursting out in laughter. The same man who had concocted an elaborate method to keep women around without actually committing to them was now reveling in domestic bliss. 
When the movie ends and Harris begins to rouse, Eddie begrudgingly stands with an exaggerated groan. “These old bones, y’know,” he laments with a mischievous click of his tongue. “Everything starts fallin’ apart when you turn thirty.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, lifting Harris onto his hip and rubbing his back to help him fall back to sleep. “I know.” He grabs his keys from the shelf near the door as you walk them out. And before he can wimp out, he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead in a gentle kiss, stubble scratching against your skin. His hands are trembling when he pulls away.
“You’re the best,” he repeats the same statement he’d made on parent-teacher conference night. It’s even more true now than it was then. “We’ll see you on Wednesday for pizza?” And an answer, hopefully a ‘yes.’ “Wednesday,” you echo, still processing the fact that, for the second time today, Eddie Munson’s lips have been on you.
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wynnyfryd · 1 year
Text
hey, quick question but what if Eddie hadn’t just said “make him pay” at the end? what if he’d actually done it, screwed up his face and his single scrap of courage and kissed Steve hard, one desperate press of lips before he stepped back out of Steve’s space? Only…
Only Steve’s not gay. He’s not. Not that there’s anything wrong with it if Eddie is, but he isn’t. Steve likes girls, is kind of hung up on one girl in particular, actually, and she’s standing right behind him watching this go down, and oh, God is this awkward now.
He squares his shoulders, gives Eddie a nod that he hopes conveys something like “sorry” and “it’s okay” and “I’m not gonna punch you when this is over, man, I’m really not,” but Eddie’s eyes cut away and he clears his throat and then Nancy’s saying, “Steve? Steve, we need to go.”
So Steve goes.
Steve goes, trudges through the woods with Nancy radiating uncomfortable energy all down his side, and Steve’s got a pit in his stomach and a scorch mark on his mouth where Eddie’s lips left a fucking brand, the kiss repeating on a loop in his mind. He starts thinking about how he’s probably about to die, how he’s gonna die feeling all upside down in the Upside Down and it’s a really stupid joke but it gets him mulling over the fucked up weird life he has now versus the one he always kinda thought he wanted. He tells Nancy about it: the crawling backwards, the thump on the head, how she’s always his co-captain in his Winnebago dreams.
She looks at him with soft, sad eyes — God, her eyes are always so sad, have been ever since the day Barb disappeared — and she rests a delicate hand on his forearm and asks, “Do you think… do you think maybe it’s always me in your dream because I’m the only person your mind thinks it’s allowed to put there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Steve.” Her eyes aren’t so soft now. They’re shining with that hard glint they get when she’s lost patience with Steve’s bullshit. It’s a look Steve knows well, and his hand comes up to touch his lips.
“But I- I’m not…”
“Just go,” she says, her jaw set, all that unbreakable resolve on display. “Robin and I can handle this. Go.”
Robin turns back to look at him over her shoulder, gives him an encouraging nod, and Steve takes off running, sprinting through the trees, following the sound of screeching bats.
When he bursts through the treeline, panting and sweating and clutching at his torn-up sides, Eddie’s in the middle of a maelstrom, his makeshift shield held in a shaking grip as an army of bats encircle him.
“Eddie!” Steve shouts, lungs burning as he begs his feet to move faster, to run fucking run because one of the bats dives at Eddie’s head and another takes a bite out of his leather sleeve; a third one whips a tail around Eddie’s ankle and then Eddie’s going down, pulled to the cracked, filthy earth by gnashing teeth and bloodied claws, and they’re eating him, getting at all those squishy vital bits around his middle when Steve finally hacks his way through the horde to get to Eddie’s side. Armed with an ax and Eddie’s spear, Steve strikes and slashes blindly at the wall of shrieking monsters as they start circling tighter, caging them in, and he’s dead they’re both dead they’re so fucking screwed—
The bats drop. All at once and with no reason Steve can discern, their screams fall silent and their bodies squelch all around them as they slap the hard ground like dead fish on a dock.
Steve drops to his knees beside Eddie, and Jesus Christ, there’s- there’s so much blood oh God oh fuck.
“Bad, huh?” Eddie asks, and how is he still smirking when there’s blood spilling out of his mouth? When there’s a chunk missing out of his jaw?
“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” Steve mumbles frantically, not sure if he’s praying or panicking or both. He gets his shirt off, rips at the remaining scraps of Eddie’s, too; starts using them to make bandages. “Shit, Eddie, just- just hold on, okay? Stay with me.”
He wriggles a scrap of fabric under Eddie’s brutalized torso, and Eddie screams when Steve pulls it tight around his sides, ties it off and presses down, trying to slow the bleeding. There’s so much fucking blood. His knees slip in it as he ties a tourniquet just above Eddie’s elbow, hoping it’ll save Eddie’s mangled arm, and he bunches the last of the fabric up and presses it to the shredded edges of the wound on Eddie’s face.
Eddie smiles up at him with tears in his eyes, with blood on his lips. “Pretty- pretty grand gesture for a guy you don’t want to kiss.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Steve says, and he’s crying, too. “I don’t- I just…”
“Steve,” Eddie chokes, his breath whistling out with a sickening wheeze, and Steve doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to get him through the gate and back to safety without making him bleed out. “Steve, it’s… s’okay. M’sorry I kissed you, man.” His eyes are glazing over, and no, please, please, don’t—
Eddie looks up at him, brow furrowed, like it’s taking a lot of effort. His eyes are still so pretty, even now, as Steve hovers helplessly and watches the light slowly leave them. “Actually, I- I guess m’not,” Eddie slurs. “Had to do it at least once b-before I- before I—”
“EDDIE!!!!” a furious, cracking voice echoes through the empty park. Eddie’s trailer door bangs open, falling off its hinges, and a limping Dustin Henderson comes storming across the lot.
“Dustin!!” Steve hollers back, relief flooding his veins like maple syrup straight from the tap, and incredibly (hysterically, he’s probably in shock), he’s laughing when he looks back down at Eddie. Eddie, who’s half dead in his lap, whose blood is all over Steve’s pants. Who Steve might be able to save now.
He shakes Eddie’s shoulders and says, “You can kiss me all you want when we make it out of here, man,” his voice all high-pitched and full of phlegm and trapped somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Eddie’s eyes go wide at the promise in Steve’s words.
“Dustin!” Steve yells again, pleading, “Dustin, come on, come help me move him!”
It’s slow going, but they get Eddie through the gate, get him taped up so he’s more bandage than boy by the time the ambulance arrives. A medic claps Steve on the shoulder and says ‘You did good, kid,’ and Steve cries at that and then spends an annoying amount of time crying over the next few days, curled up in a rickety chair at Eddie’s bedside in the hospital.
More tears when Eddie finally wakes up. Happy ones this time, and there’s a parade of people coming in to hug Eddie and give him flowers and even Hopper gives him a grudging hair ruffle and an attaboy, and then Steve’s driving Eddie home in the Beemer; gets all the way to the driveway before Eddie brings it up.
“Did you mean it?” he asks, his voice timid and barely audible over the hum of the car.
Steve cuts the engine. “Hmm?”
“Did you, um- the thing, that you…” Eddie spins a ring around on his finger, lets out a frustrated huff. “I mean, I didn’t die, right? I made it out of there, so…?”
You can kiss me all you want when we make it out of here.
Steve’s ears burn at the memory, his mouth going dry, and he must take too long to answer because Eddie starts trying to backpedal. “Sorry. Sorry, you said you’re not— I just thought, maybe— shit, uh, f-forget I said-”
“No! No, um.” Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Turns out I kind of am. Or, like. Well, I mean, Robin said liking both is its own thing, it’s not a mix of the two, but…”
“…But both?” Eddie finishes, and his eyes are sparkling.
“Yeah. Both,” Steve shrugs. It’s getting easier to say. “…Mostly just you, though.”
“Oh, just mostly, huh?” Eddie teases, unbuckling his seatbelt so he can lean into Steve’s space.
Steve’s face feels too warm. His neck is probably all splotchy. “Whatever. Are you gonna shut up and kiss me already or what?”
“Uh huh,” Eddie grins and runs his tongue over his teeth. “Many times as I want, right?” He brushes Steve’s hair behind his ear, his calloused fingers so gentle against Steve’s jaw as he lines their faces up.
“How many times is that?” Steve whispers.
“Mm….” Eddie’s mouth brushes against his. “Start counting and let’s find out.”
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splataii · 11 months
Text
so uh @b1ueprinc3 made a post and i was inspired to make this drabble.
pervert manager dabi x male reader
cw: sub/bottom male reader, top/dom character, dacryphilia, degradation, minor exhibitionism, groping
anyway dabi first meets you an just thinks ur so fucking cute. he just loves your enegry and attitude, and becomes a lil too eager to train you, always being a lil touchy. hes down horrendous, always grabbing ur ass to congratulate you for a job well done at the end of the day or whatever.
insists he a “hands on learning” typa guy. always grabbing you by the waist so he can grind his obvious boner against your ass as he scoots behind you. always grabs u by the back of the neck, rubbing a thumb up its side as he leans over your shoulder to look at whatever work has you occupied. grabs you by the beltloop when youre passing him so he can spin you around and tell you about this “important work related thing” while he keeps his fingers pressed into your hips.
he already thinks you look pretty good in the assigned uniform, but one day, he has the genius idea to spill some water or something over you so you're forced to change into a top that's a couple sizes too small (which he insists is the only available uniform, yes it's mandatory, no you can't go home and change).
he promises it was an accident, and that he’ll wash it for you (despite the fact you insist you can clean it yourself) but instead spends his time dropping random shit on the ground so he can see your pants strain against ur ass and the way your shirt rides up your back.
the liar also takes your old shirt to the backroom to fist his cock with, pretending it's ur fucked out face he's cumming on. you ain't never getting that shit back
speaking of jerking off, this bitch does it all the time. specifically does it when youre getting off break and heading to the break rooms, so you can hear the sound of him shamelessly moaning your name as he finishes to another one of his gross fantasies of you laying spread out for him in his bed. he exits the stall and smiles when he sees your face like its no big. always makes sure to give ur ass a nice slap and some half assed “work hard” crap before he leaves you totally embarrassed.
nyway he also a bit overprotective, never stepping more than a couple feet away from you while you're working with a customer, and even other coworkers. he knows people know how cute you are. why would he leave his sweet boy to deal with those random mofos? he just stands behind you glaring when he feels someone is getting too close. you get a little confused, when they eventually leave, terrified, but he's always there to comfort you. your ass is his, you don't need no one else baby<3
he can have a bit of a mean streak sometimes tho, stretching you thin. whenever you (expectedly) fail to meet his impossible deadlines, he’s teasing you. talking about what a dumb little boy you are. he could probably fire you, if he wanted to. but he wont. if you could do this one little thing for him.. he pulls you into an old storage closet, freeing his cock from the confines of his pants so he can slap it on your face and spread his pre all over your cheek and nose. he can't help it, you just look a lot cuter this way. besides, he knows you can take it. dumb little boys like you are only made for one thing. since you're such a bad employee, show him what a damn good whore you are.
dabi claims he's only mean cause he cares. boys like you need to be taught a lesson so no one can take advantage of you. but sometimes, he plays like he's gonna make you answer calls while hes spearing you on his dick, just so he can see your pretty tears as you shake ur head no.
once again, he can have complete one eighty's, giving you all these bonuses and gifts at work saying “you deserve it” and all that shit, but everybody at work knows the reason you get all this special treatment is cause he slutting you out behind closed doors.
at the end of the day, you’re really just dabi’s personal whore. and everyone knows it.
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babybluebex · 2 years
Text
𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you make eddie strong in his weakest moment // aka a quick fix it fic for that rotten ass finale (part 2 here!)
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You could see it happen, just meters away from you. Just far enough that you couldn’t do anything but scream his name as you watched him get swarmed by the bats. Even though your limbs were heavy with exhaustion and your legs protested, you ran to him, using your modified trash can lid as a shield and spearing the fuckers away. You couldn’t focus on anything but Eddie, lying prone on the ground, and you swung your arm and stabbed a bat right through the heart. 
The bats dissipated, and you were left alone with Eddie. Even though you felt like absolute shit, you knew that he was in worse shape, gashes on his sides and throat. You instantly abandoned your weapons and knelt down beside him, and you pulled his head into your lap. “Munson?” you whispered, and his eyes flickered as he looked at you. He was not doing too good. “Hey, there’s my guy. We’re gonna get you help, okay?” 
“No,” Eddie mumbled, his voice gurgling a bit. “I can’t—” 
“Yes, you can,” you told him. “We’re gonna stand up and go back to the trailer, and we’re gonna get you help. You don’t have a choice, Ed.” You tried to control the shaking in your voice, because it was obvious to anyone that Eddie was in bad shape. But, if you got to the trailer, you could send Dustin to get help, and everything would be okay. 
“I can't,” Eddie insisted, his eyes wide. “I’m done for.” 
“Like hell you are!” you exclaimed. “I-I, Eddie, there are people that need you! Dustin needs you, Max needs you, I need you! Y-You can’t just go and give up when there are people who need you! I know it hurts, Ed, I know it does, but you have got to hang in there. Okay?” 
Eddie shook his head, and you chewed your lip. He was right, and you knew it; he couldn’t make it to the trailer, and you weren;t nearly strong enough to carry him. He was going to bleed out and die right here in the Upside Down. You tried to think of something, anything, to do, and you nearly missed Eddie reaching up towards you. He tucked a little bit of hair behind your ear, almost a loving gesture, and he mumbled, “I’ve always loved you.” 
“Oh, whatever,” you sniffled. You couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. “Deathbed confessions…” 
“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “Since the first day I met you, I knew I was going to marry you. I could just feel it.” 
“Really?” you whimpered out. You held him close, smoothing back his hair, and you watched as Eddie nodded again. 
“Really,” Eddie replied, blinking slowly. 
“W-Well, why didn’t you ever tell me?” you asked. The more you touched him, the more your clothes stained with his warm blood, but you didn’t care. You just had to keep him talking until Dustin came for you. When Dustin showed up he would be able to help you limp Eddie back to the trailer, and everything would be fixed. You knew it wasn’t that simple, but your plan needed to be simple to avoid your head exploding. 
“I was scared,” Eddie told you. His hands shook as he gathered up yours, holding you tightly, and he shook his head. “But I’m not scared anymore. I love you.”
“Jesus,” you uttered. “Eddie—”
“Don’t say it back if you don’t have to,” Eddie told you quickly. “I-I don’t want to hear you say it unless you mean it.” 
“I love you,” you whispered to him. Your chest heaved with a heavy breath, and you watched Eddie’s do the same. That was the deepest breath he had taken since you had had him in your arms, and, as you examined him again, you saw that the trickle of blood from his neck had nearly fully stopped. Did you…? There was no way. Did talking about you make Eddie grow more resilient? Did you make Eddie stronger?
“Glad to hear it,” Eddie said, and your heart lifted. He was trying to be funny. He was trying to be funny for you. 
“Um,” you started, wiping the tears hastily from your cheeks. “Y-You said you wanted to marry me?” 
Eddie nodded. “Not one of those big, embarrassing weddings,” he told you. His voice cracked and broke, but he was talking, and that was enough. Keep him talking until Dustin came to your aid, that was the plan. “I always imagined that you wouldn’t want a real wedding, just something small… Am I right?” 
You nodded. “I hate weddings,” you admitted, and Eddie chuckled weakly. 
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I figured.” 
“Tell me more,” you told him quickly. “Tell me a-about, like, how did you know?”
“Sometimes you just know things,” Eddie said, and he paused to cough. Blood stained his lips as he coughed, but you could see color returning to his cheeks. He was going to be alright, you could feel it. “I saw you, and Gareth said something about you being new, a senior and all... You smiled at me, and I fell head over heels. I just knew.” 
Now, your tears were for a different reason. You actually remembered the moment well, the first time you met Eddie. You had been roaming the lunchroom on your first day at Hawkins High, and you had already felt like an outcast, starting a new school as a senior, and then you saw the badass devil illustration on a boy’s shirt. You had looked up from the shirt to see the face, and those moonish brown eyes were already looking at you, and you had given him a friendly smile. Eddie had then come over and introduced himself, said some line about “You look lost”, and offered to let you sit at his table with him and his friends. And the rest was history. 
Since then, you had lost count of the amount of times that you went over to Eddie’s trailer to watch a movie, to help study, to paint D&D figurines. Eddie was your best friend and you were his, and suddenly his pining made sense. He would let you borrow his clothes when you slept over, he always saved the last bite of his lunch for you (the man made a mean ham sandwich, what could you say?), and he held doors for you and offered you his hand to stand up and sit down. At the time, you thought it was him being a good friend and a gentleman, but it was so much more. He loved you. 
“Eddie,” you said softly. You didn’t know exactly what to say, so you let your words fail you. Instead, you leaned down and softly kissed his bloody lips, not caring about the mess. To your delight, Eddie lifted his hand up and lightly touched your face as he kissed back, and you felt your stomach flip. He was going to be okay. 
“Is this a pity kiss?” Eddie asked, his lips still against yours. “Like, ‘you’re dying. Let me kiss you goodbye’?”
“Does it feel like one?” you asked, lifting your face from his. “How do you feel?” 
“Not great,” Eddie admitted. “Everything hurts… Bastard bats. Those fuckers aren’t metal at all.” 
Finally, you laughed, and you saw Eddie smile. Everything was okay. Eddie was cracking jokes, getting stronger by the second. You quickly called out for Dustin— “Dustin! Come here, I need help!”— but you turned your attention back to Eddie without missing a beat. “Maybe marriage is rushing it,” you told him, and Eddie nodded in agreement. “I say we both have to graduate first—”
“Not that far away,” Eddie told you, and you jokingly rolled your eyes. 
“We should probably date for a while first too,” you added, and Eddie nodded again. “But, sure, Munson. I’ll marry you.” 
“Sick,” Eddie said, and he coughed again. “Here comes Henderson.”
“See?” you told him, sniffling away your tears. “Everything is alright.” 
"Why did I ever doubt you?"
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avoxrising · 4 months
Text
The Feral One • Chapter 4
Finnick x Reader
Series Masterlist Link
I’m on a roll with my writing! Was able to grind out another chapter today. Lmk what you guys think of the story so far :)
Content warnings - descriptions of death and lots of angst
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My love, you have my heart for all of eternity. And if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.
You and Finnick had never been anything more than friends, although friends feels like an understatement to describe what you are to each other. After your games, you lived in Victors Village with your family, doing your best to heal.
When your family was killed after your victory tour, the victors deemed that you weren’t stable enough to live alone. You were only 17 and had nobody left to take care of you.
Finnick had volunteered to move in temporarily until you were better, but better never happened. He felt guilty about how he mentored you. He had told you that what you did in the arena didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how many you killed, or how you killed, it was a game and to play it you had to be entertaining and win sponsors.
So, you entertained. You joined the career pack, hoping they would take out most of the other tributes for you so there would be fewer for you to worry about. That only worked for a week.
One week in, your district partner was killed and you were on the outs. The alliance would turn on you at any moment, so you had to strike first.
You lay awake in the arena, nearly two weeks into the games, as the pair from one were on watch. They thought you were asleep, just as you had hoped they would.
“Let’s kill her now,” Gimena stated.
“How?” Aries replied.
“I’ll wake her up and ask her to go pee with me. You’ll follow and provide back up if the fight drags on longer than necessary,” she told him.
“I doubt you’ll need me but go ahead,” Aries chuckled. “She’s all yours.”
You can still feel Gimena’s hand on your arm, shaking you awake.
“Hey,” she whispered. “I need to go pee. You’re coming with me as guard.”
You nod and follow her into the trees, preparing to use the knife hidden in your sleeve. She makes you walk in front of her, plotting how to attack you. She wasn’t fast enough.
You quickly whip around and fling your knife into her throat, killing her immediately. Because there was no scream, Aries thought the cannon was yours, so he didn’t panic.
If you were going to kill the careers, it had to be now. You removed your only knife from Gimena’s body and climbed into one of the trees. Hopefully only Aries would come looking. It’s hard to kill three people with one knife.
Aries came crashing through the forest a few minutes later, calling out for Gimena. You waited until he stumbled upon her body before flinging your knife into it the side of his head, directly below his ear. The canon wasn’t immediate, but it was quick.
You hopped down from the tree to retrieve your knife, only to be tackled to the ground by Floyd, the boy from 2.
“What the hell did you do four?” he shouted, pushing his spear down onto your throat to choke you. What worried you wasn’t the spear, but the fact that you couldn’t spot Hals, his partner.
You wiggled your fingers in an attempt to reach the knife but it was too far. Oxygen was leaving your body and you needed to think fast.
Your sudden growl caught him off guard, causing him to momentarily lose focus. The pressure on your throat let up just enough for you to turn your head to the side and spot Aries’ sword stuck under his body, barely within reach.
Hals arrived on the scene just in time to watch Floyd’s head roll away from his body. She let out a yell before charging at you, machete in hand. She managed to slice up your cheek, but found herself dead moments later. You had jumped on her and beaten her to a pulp, not caring that the machete was digging into your face.
Those four weren’t your first kills in the arena, nor were they your last. Nobody else in the cage with you stood a chance.
“Hey,” Finnick sighs as he enters your room. He’s still in his outfit from the interview. “Can we talk?”
You nod and he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I need to ask something very important of you in the arena,” he starts and you already feel yourself getting nauseous with anxiety. “I need you to help me keep Katniss and Peeta alive.”
This request shocks you. Finnick had told you about potentially allying with 3, 7 and 12 but asking you to control yourself around a firey person like Katniss was like asking a baby not to cry near loud noises.
You shake your head at him, hoping he understands how you can’t promise him anything of that sort. In reality, you can’t even promise him that you’ll be in control of yourself enough to not hurt him.
“Y/N,” Finnick sighs. “There’s a plan to break some of us out of the arena and take us far away from the capital where we can help change Panem. But, we need Katniss and Peeta alive in order for it to work.”
“Just kill me now,” you whisper. “I can’t do any of this.”
“Yes you can!” Finnick states in frustration. “I know it’s hard but I’ll be with you the whole time. We will get through this together.”
You give him a meek “ok” to quell his nerves, but deep down you know that this wouldn’t work. You know what you have to do.
“Can you stay tonight?” you ask. This takes him off guard as you’ve never let him stay in the same room as you at night, worried you might hurt him.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks, knowing his nightmares might set you off.
“No,” you sigh. “Sorry. Forget I ever asked. Goodnight Finnick”
“Goodnight”
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