#the last episode was a wild ride | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jo-harrington · 4 months

Text

Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction - Prologue: Crossover

Summary: Everyone wishes that they could have an Eddie Munson in their lives. In a strange turn of events, Eddie wishes that he could meet you, his favorite character from a cult classic 80's TV series. And he's about to get his wish.

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader

Warnings/Themes: No-Upside-Down AU, Minor Angst, Fluff, Isekai, Mentions of FOI-compliant events

Note: Hello and welcome. I'm very excited about getting to expand on this idea; it's going to be a wild ride. Please note as you head in, and as we get into further chapters...this fic is going to be a little mind-fucky and a little bit self aware. This is my love letter to and my criticism of fanfiction, but at the end of the day, we're still gonna get to fall in love with Eddie and get some kind of Happily Ever After. This is my guarantee.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

May 2022. Such a weird time.

A time of uncertainty, a time of change. A time where the world seemed like it had been torn apart and was slowly being knit back together again.

But then a switch was flipped. Something happened. An old season ended and a new one started and with that start came something new. Someone new. And suddenly, countless people began to yearn for this new person in their lives.

A new, old person. Eddie Munson.

Joy ignited. Creativity sparked. Millions of words written and read. Edits made. Art drawn. Merch bought.

So many voices crying “why isn’t he real. WHY ISN'T HE REAL.”

If there was a god, he would let them have their own Eddie Munson. And if there was a Satan, he would let them sell their souls for Eddie Munson.

That’s just not how the universe works.

At least…not this one...

October 1985. A different kind of place and time. Still weird.

But Eddie Munson was real.

Sometimes to his detriment.

And for the most part, it was alright.

He played guitar, laughed with friends, mocked bullies to protect the people like him that were considered less than. He'd overcome hardships of one sort or another for most of his life, he could keep at it for a little while longer.

It would be his day week month year sometime soon.

Wouldn't it?

But until then, he would bide his time. Hopefully, this year, he'd pass all of his classes and finally graduate. Get to flip that douchebag Higgins off and snatch up a long-awaited, and well-deserved diploma.

What made it all easier, what softened the blow...was you.

It was silly. He knew that. Ronnie used to tease him on Wednesday nights when he needed to run home because he had a "standing date with his girl."

"Your girl doesn't even know you're alive," she'd scoff as he bustled her into the van. "She isn't real."

No...no you weren't.

Why couldn't you be real.

See, for the past...however long Eddie had spent his late nights half-assing homework, planning campaigns for Hellfire, working on music, and watching a television show. His guilty pleasure, a show about the ups and downs and upside downs of living in a sleepy suburban town: Port Geneva.

A show where you were his favorite character.

And crush.

You weren't the main character--in fact, you were just the main character's quirky best friend--but you were a fan favorite, as much as he could tell. You'd only been in the background during the first season, but before long you were front and just-left-of-center. And last year, you'd even gotten a two-episode arc in the season finale as you turned the small town on its head by announcing, a month or two before graduation, that you were quitting school to follow your dream and become an artist.

And man...Eddie had been there.

He'd actually missed those episodes airing when...well, when everything happened with his father and the heist...and the house...and Paige.

He'd missed a lot of episodes that season. Missed seeing you come into your own as he tried and failed to come into his.

Thankfully Wayne--and Eddie wasn't a believer but whatever deity in charge needed to bless his Uncle Wayne--had the foresight to tape those episodes for him.

Those tapes would be cherished 'til the day he died, because they had truly gotten him through those tough days after everything.

He wished he had seen them when they aired, maybe...maybe he would have made some different decisions if he had.

Of course, Eddie had already loved you before then.

Since he had first laid eyes on you, actually.

He was sure that if you were real, you would be the one to understand him more than any of his friends. See the real him. In return, he would understand you, be there for you too.

He already had been. He'd seen you cry countless times, he'd laughed with you, celebrated your successes and mourned your failures. He'd been there for you when you crushed on that dickhead Mark, and then had your heart broken by the careless jerk.

And somewhere deep down inside of him, when he was sitting in that jail cell after he wasted his phone call on Paige and he felt the weight of the world bear down on his shoulders…he wished that you were real so he could have called you instead.

If you were real, Eddie's life would just be a little nicer.

He knew…he just knew.

Of course, in the mean time while he wished with every fiber of his being that you would walk into his life, he brought you to life in other ways. During mid-season and summer hiatuses, he would write you into his DND campaigns. His friends knew, they always called him out for it.

"Are you seriously making her an NPC man?" Dougie would scoff and throw a D20 across the table at him.

"No, what are you talking about?" he defended and threw the die right back at his friend. "This is Spiria the Bold."

"Uh huh," Jeff rolled his eyes. "Sure."

By his imagination and his pen, you became a powerful warrior, a sharp-tongued trickster, a seductive mage. You became anything he wanted you to be--most often with a companion and lover that mirrored him--and everything he knew, deep down, that you were.

And then the unthinkable happened.

September ‘84. He and Wayne were in the checkout line at K-mart. Cart stacked with new clothes and school supplies and groceries. When suddenly...there you were. Right in front of him.

Alright, not you. Per se. But your face, smiling alongside Samantha and Patrick and Scotty and Bill on the cover of the TV Guide.

On Set with the Stars of Port Geneva.

Wayne was the one to snatch the magazine from the rack and add it to their bounty, a knowing smile on his lips as he shook his head.

He knew Eddie needed a little pick-me-up.

Or a big one.

How could he have known this would be anything but one...

Eddie scoured over the pages once they got back to the trailer. He was hoping there would be a big enough picture of you that he could cut out and tape to the otherwise barren walls of his new room. And there was; you were leaning against the back of your signature pastel blue Volkswagen Beetle, arms across your chest, head tilted to the side with the signature scrunched smile you gave when you were embarrassed.

He adored you.

Before he took scissors to the page, he read the interview with your actress.

He wasn't too keen on her, even though she had your face.

The illusion that Rosemary Glass was really you had been shattered the first time he'd heard her voice on a radio interview; instead of your perfect and familiar middle-American speech...Rosemary's voice was accented.

Not to mention, she sounded pretentious.

Gross.

Still, he could look past that annoyance if he got some kind of insight to what the next season would bring for you.

Hopefully not a new love interest. His heart could only take so much.

...gives us a tour of the Patterson and Son's set, one that is forever enshrined as the setting of Patrick and Samantha's first kiss. "Oh I'm actually not fond of that scene," Rosemary confesses. "Yeah it's sweet, and the way I bring Sam in so Pat could confess his feelings but the...when I fell down? It was not scripted. And I was honestly shocked they kept that in. But fans seem to think she's clumsy now because of it. That I'm clumsy. When I just tripped over a wire. It's quite awful, really." We ask Rosemary to tell us what she'll miss most, now that the show is coming to an end...

Eddie went rigid as he read those words.

The show...coming to an end?

"What?" he exclaimed into his empty room. "No, no, no."

He carefully examined the article again, then turned back to the beginning of the feature, only to feel his heart stop in his chest.

The title of the feature was like crit hit.

The final killing blow to his already weak constitution.

One Last Summer in Port Geneva - On the Set of the Final Season

The final season was a sham.

Eddie savored every episode, though. Of course he would!

He would enjoy every last moment with you that he could get before he lost you forever. But...he hated it.

It was lazy writing--seriously what were they thinking--and a quick, cheap means to tie up all the loose ends they'd set up over the years. He could tell they tried to deliver as fulfilling a finale for the extensive cast of characters as they could. Still, he was sure he could have done better.

Samantha and Patrick got engaged after graduation. That was lame.

Bonnie finally quit the bakery to open her own cafe the next town over. Didn't anyone remember that she wanted to quit because she wanted to be a vet instead? That was the whole point of her! She didn't want to follow in her family's footsteps and she was doing just that.

And you? You took a backseat.

Instead of leaving town right after graduation--something that you had followed through reluctantly to make your parents happy even though you had just resolved to put your own happiness first for once--you stayed to help Pat plan his proposal.

Your big adventure, your big push for your dreams, were on hold again. You played second fiddle over and over until the final episode.

Eddie was grateful to have you for a little longer, but...once again annoyed that you were looked over--over and over, just like he was--when you had already proved that you were worthy of top billing.

Worthy of being the main character for once.

Still, at the beginning of the series finale, you packed your bags, cashed in your savings account, and drove out of town. The future was yours, just like it was always meant to be.

And Eddie cried.

The whole time tears streamed down his face as you said your own watery goodbyes. He might have even waved as you stuck your hand out the windshield to say goodbye to your friends as your car idled at the last stop sign. You blew a kiss to everything you knew and loved then started on your way into the unknown, car getting smaller in the distance right before the commercial break.

He held his breath for the final scene: a walk through the house where it all started and then Sam smiled her signature hopeful smile as she shut the door on the audience.

The screen faded to black for one final time and he exhaled.

"It's over," he muttered in slight disbelief, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.

Port Geneva was over, and you were gone for good.

It was a strange feeling.

Heartbreak, mourning, disappointment? He couldn't really know for sure. Empty was the best way to describe it; the lack of feeling. It was infuriating. Port Geneva was just a television show, he attempted to rationalize for the nth time since he started watching. You were just a character on a tv show; how could you mourn for someone and something that wasn't even real?

You hadn't actually died. He could still see glimpses of you if he wanted, whenever Rosemary Glass' next movie came out or something.

But that wasn't you.

You were gone, for all intents and purposes, and it was a blow that hit Eddie hard.

How could he go on without you?

Devastated, he got high that night after he stewed on his grief. He day-dreamed and monologued to an empty trailer about a universe where the two of you were together, where your travels took you to Hawkins, of all places, and you fell in love with him, just like you were supposed to.

If the walls could talk, they would have a fantastic tale to tell. One with heroes and misunderstandings and love at first sight. One with a horrible, unseen foe and many pitfalls and dangers that exceeded anyone's wildest imaginations. One with a magic door that led to the happily ever that was beyond well-deserved.

Grief did wonderful and terrible things, after all.

He woke up for school the next morning with cotton mouth and a vague outline of a story that did just that: brought you to Hawkins to fall in love with him and all of the other things that seemed like nonsense once he was in a more right-minded state.

The only problem was that it was all in his English notebook. And he didn't need anyone finding that.

"Fuck," he groaned and ripped the page out. He shoved it into his bedside drawer, where it would be doomed to a crumpled and forgotten future.

Or until he needed a condom.

Which, considering how everyone had doubled down on their disgust of him, wouldn't be any time soon.

But there you stayed.

Put away, like old obsessions and childish things, to be ignored and forgotten.

At least for a little while.

Eddie tried.

He did.

He kept you and Port Geneva out of sight and mind as much as humanly possible. It was the most effort he had really put to anything tangible in the past year.

The series ended at a weird time--during the middle of the season--and some investigative journalism show took over its time slot. Barbara Walters couldn't hold a candle to you, so it wasn't difficult for him to keep himself rooted in reality on the nights where he typically indulged in his silly fantasies.

The daydreams that he had were limited to lyrics for Corroded Coffin originals and ideas for Hellfire, and nights were spent alone in the darkness of the living room, with his reflection in the television set to keep him company as he tried his best to do homework that he'd already done before.

Before he realized, though, the school year was coming to a close and he was--big shocker--on the brink of failure. It wasn't until Higgins called him into his office, again, that you made your violent resurgence into his life.

There was a tentative truce between Higgins and Eddie for a while.

Civility was a strange thing for both of them. They actively avoided one another, save for a snide jab here and there, and Eddie tried to stay out of the Principal's Office as much as he could.

That is, until Higgins was forced to tell Eddie that he needed to repeat his repeat senior year.

"Don't act like I want this at all," he sneered at Eddie who tripped over a reaction. "I'd rather have you out of these halls for good. You drop out one year, then you re-enroll and you fail another. Try to make the most of it this time Munson; I don't want to have this talk again."

Eddie grumbled the whole drive back to the trailer, and he fell onto the sofa with his head in his hands once he got in.

"Which one of the fates wrote this stupid plot for me now, as if last year wasn't enough. You can't make this stuff up sometimes."

He laid there, wallowing in his misery for hours, days, years, until it got dark enough for headlights outside to be noticeable as they shined through the window. There was a glint of a reflection that caught his eye and had him turn his head.

"TV," he sighed and reached out as though he could touch the set and stacks of tapes neatly piled below. “The cause-of and solution-to all of life’s problems.”

He contemplated his life for a few more minutes.

He could make the most of the final few weeks of the school year. He could set himself up as a willing and reliable pupil for these last few assignments and tests, even though they wouldn't mean very much.

He could do all of these things so that when he walked into the halls of Hawkins High in the fall, on his absolute last first day of school--whatever deity or powers-that-be willing, because how "getting the hell outta dodge or he would die here" turned into "two extra years in that shit hole" he could only attribute to cosmic intervention--the faculty would already know he would try his best this time.

It would show them he was serious about graduating and that he would succeed despite all odds against him. Finally.

He could do this.

Or...

He could put in one of the tapes from the stack and scrounge for loose bills left over from his last few transactions and order a pizza. Pretend like he didn't exist for a little while.

And given the choice?

Eddie Munson chose the latter.

And he continued to choose the latter throughout the summer and even into the fall.

Nights that he didn't already have plans were spent in front of the television.

They were cherished nights with you.

Aside from his VHS recordings, he found a channel that showed reruns of Port Geneva after 10pm. Two hours of small town shenanigans that might very well be found just outside of his own door--if he only went and looked--with you just there, making your appearance every so often and catching his eye.

Homework was sometimes left halfway done on the coffee table until he needed to switch out a tape, or change the channel, and he spent more time filling his heart than enriching his mind, so to speak; he knew all of this school stuff already anyways.

Third times a charm and all right?

He talked to the screen more often than not, tried to warn you against one disappointment or another. Sometimes, if he was watching one of his tapes, he'd pause right on your face and just talk to you. Mundane things, usually, like Ronnie's last phone call home or some album that got released and a song he thought you might like.

Other nights, like tonight, he got vulnerable. Moments where life seemed a little extra trying, and he'd confess his feelings to your image.

Knelt on the floor in front of the coffee table, warm light bathed his face promising comfort as he spoke, and the din of static emitted from the television set, akin to an angel's voice...beyond understanding of humans.

He'd never been one for church, but this kind of confessional was sacred enough.

An eternal bond, just you and him.

He stopped his ramblings at that thought.

It was a strange moment of clarity.

Where had that come from?

"I..." Eddie looked down at himself, a foot away from the television set, remote clenched in his hand. Then he looked at you, soul-filled eyes just beyond the glass, not looking at him, only...through him, just past him. "What am I doing?"

What was he doing? He was...he wasn't a kid anymore who could hide in his dreams; well, honestly he was always going to do that, but this was different.

One minute he felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as he told you about his troubles, and the next it was all back, heavier than ever, as he realized how silly this all was.

And here he was, wasting his life knelt at your altar.

It wasn't holy. It was pathetic.

You'd never answer; you weren't real.

"Why?" he asked aloud, jaw clenched. He gripped the remote tightly. "What did I do to not have...someone? Huh? What have I ever done to be alone? That I have to rely on a fucking television character to feel understood. And now I'm losing my mind talking to myself, talking to you, at midnight every night. Why am I here wishing that you're real? Why couldn't you just...be...real?"

If there was a God, he would let Eddie Munson have you. If there was a Satan, he would let Eddie sell his soul for you.

And that's how he knew neither of them existed: you didn't exist either.

Eddie hit the eject button on the VCR and was about to shut everything so he could go to bed, when there was a crash outside.

Crashes in Forest Hills weren't abnormal--someone backing into trash cans, losing traction on the icy roads in the winter, and the one time Mrs. Dawson kicked her husband out and threw all of his things out the window--but it was something he'd gotten used to since he came to live with Wayne.

This crash, however, started a ruckus.

Someone was yelling and that stupid dog across the way started barking.

Eddie was a lot of things...but a dramatic gossip was definitely high on the list.

What else was there to do in the Midwest?

He grabbed his cigarettes from the bowl full of junk on the coffee table and stepped outside, fully intent on plopping down on the old couch on the porch to smoke and watch the scene unfold.

A car crashed into the telephone pole; didn't look like there was much damage but it had run through some trashcans and might have clipped the drivers side mirror off of Mrs. Mayfield's car. The same Mrs. Mayfield who was on her own porch being held back by Max as she yelled.

"Are you kidding me? It's fucking midnight!"

"Mom! Stop!"

"The car, Max!"

Maybe there'd be a fight.

He barely got his cigarette lit when he noticed--really noticed--the offending car: a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.

He blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes, thinking it might have just been a trick of the light or something.

Or it was a coincidence.

Or a dream.

Maybe he'd had a heart attack and died in front of his television or something?

Plenty of people drove Volkswagen Beetles. He was pretty sure he'd even heard Nancy Wheeler asking her parents for one as a graduation present.

But with the same license plate number?

The same one from the show, the same one that was in the TV Guide all those months ago. The same one on the makeshift poster he had taped on the wall next to his bed, that he'd run his fingers over to "kiss" you goodbye countless times, just like he did to his guitar.

"It's just dark," he tried to convince himself, "and I'm tired, and...and..."

It was a coincidence. It was a dream.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head like a lifeline.

It was another fan like him who just used fantasy to make their life a little better. That's all he was trying to do too, right? He could understand; hell, if this was a new neighbor, maybe he'd be able to chat with them about the show. Wouldn't that be something?

Eddie was so distracted making up endless excuses for himself that he didn't notice Mrs. Mayfield as she threw her hands up in the air with an exaggerated "I'm calling the police. He didn't hear Max holler at her mom to calm down, or see the tail lights of the Beetle turn off either.

It wasn't until the driver's side door swung open and a sneaker-covered foot crunched against the gravel that he forgot all the excuses he was conjuring.

And his heart stopped as the driver got out of the car and stood in the faint glow of the streetlight.

Because that driver was you.

Next Chapter: Alternate Universe

There is no taglist for this series, please follow the STFF Updates tag or check the series out on AO3.

#Eddie munson x reader #stranger than (fan)fiction #stff #Eddie munson fic #Eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson angst #stranger things fic #stranger things Eddie munson #Eddie munson #stff updates

558 notes · View notes

lazyjellyfish300 · 2 months

Text

I'm Here.

Miguel O'Hara x Fem reader

Synopsis: Miguel is here to help fix your back pain. Fluff ensues. 💕🖤 Word count: 2k

A/N: for the lovely @ilovetoomanymen . Thanks for the inspiration! I ran across one of their posts with this prompt in mind and decided to give it a go. Hope you like it. 😁🫶🏽 Cuddles with Mig would be soooo heavenly. Mrpmphhhhjj. This was written for fem pov, but besides the gendered terms the story could be enjoyed by anyone.

TW: established relationship, back pain, crying, fluff, some heavy kisses

Miguel sighs loudly as his mask dissipates, rubbing his temples as he shuffles towards your shared bedroom, nearly tripping over the jam-packed laundry basket with a mountain of clothes that's now begun to lean lopsided, until he knocked it slightly, sending the underwear, shirts, and dirty sheets on top into a heap on the floor with Miguel rolling his eyes in annoyance.

He kicks a stray sock off his foot and opens the door carefully with a small creak. The TV is playing your favorite show, but it's long forgotten, the autoplay on its sixth or seventh episode by now, no longer following the plot. You're sprawled out in the middle of the bed, sheets askew. You let out a small groan, your sweatpants you're wearing are starting to ride up on one leg, socks mismatched, your hoodie is making your skin itch but you're in too much pain and feel too lazy to move. Your hair is wild and one of your arms is covering both of your eyes as it lays across your face. You dip slightly as Miguel sits on the bed next to your torso, the soreness of your back triggered by the mild disturbance and you let another loud groan escape, this one slightly more dramatic than the previous.

Miguel raises an eyebrow, one of his hands gently pulling at your arm that's covering your eyes, wanting to have you look at him. "Looks like both of us had a shitty day, huh?" A very faint chuckle rolls from his chest as he notices your arm flops like a dead fish, but his eyes grow slightly wide in alarm when he notices your eyes are wet. Your glistening lashes blink rapidly at him as more tears build up in your irises below, gravity already causing some to leak out of the corners, racing down your face and grazing your ears, the temperature warm, the feeling salty, your face puffy indicating this wasn't the first time today you cried.

¿Qué pasa? ¿Por qué lloras, mi alma? (What happened? Why are you crying, my soul) Miguel murmurs, laying on his stomach as he cups your face in his hands, looking down at you as you look up at him, his face upside down in your vision because of how you're positioned.

You shake your head with a small sniffle, one of your hands pawing weakly for the tissue box that lay next to you. Miguel reaches over, taking the box and offers you one. You greedily pull out one after another, Miguel's brows raising slightly at how many tissues you could possibly need. You sit up, a pained wince flashing across your face as you blow furiously into the Kleenex bouquet.

Miguel watches you patiently as you furiously rub your nose, your breath shaky as it exits and you turn and look at your boyfriend fully for the first time. "My back is killing me."

Miguel's eyes flicker across your form, as though he was trying to search for the spot that was giving you trouble. "Where?"

"Everywhere..." you whine feebly, a scowl appearing on your face as you go to lay backwards again. "I slept on it funny last night...I had to call off work today because there was no way I could do everything in this much pain..." You suck in air between your teeth as you try and shift positions and move the pillows.

Miguel sits up, trying to stop you from overexerting yourself. "Hey...hey..." He drags a pillow to your front, patting it so it's nice and fluffed, flipping it to the colder side. "First of all....you shouldn't lay directly on your back if it's hurting, mi vida..."

You brace yourself for more pain to radiate through your body, squinting as you gently lower yourself down, laying on your favorite side. Miguel places both hands on either side of you, guiding your head to the pillow which you hit with a gentle sigh. The cold temperature of the fabric brushing your face in a satisfying feeling that tickles your brain, soft purrs of contentment leaving your lips. Miguel smiles and hums, one of his hands sliding down your hip as he gently lifts your knee, propping another pillow between them for support.

"That better...?" he asks in a soothing tone, careful not to make his voice too loud and disrupt the pain-free trajectory you were finally on after hours of discomfort.

"Much better, baby...thank you."

"You're welcome, baby..." He presses a soft kiss into your cheek which you answer with a faint twitch of your mouth.

Miguel's eyes wander to your overcrowded nightstand, the space being taken up by empty bottles, plastic drink tumblrs, bobby pins and a couple of your favorite books you keep forgetting to finish. "You been drinking enough water?"

"Mmm..." you lazily answer, the cozy position you were laying in already making your eyes droopy, your mind struggling to form coherent thoughts to audible sentences. "Yeahhh kiindaa.."

Miguel shakes his head and gets your water cup off the night table, brushing all the empty bottles into your mini trash can, carefully creeping across the room and down the hall to get you a fresh glass.

Once he's back, he sets the glass in the nightstand, gently waking you up for you to take several generous sips before you get comfy again. Miguel brings the bed comforter over you, tucking your feet in like a human burrito. "Where you going, babe?" You ask him, your voice a little sad at the thought of him leaving you already.

Miguel gives you a soft look, crouching down to your level next to the bed. Crimson irises flicker with tender study as they look back into your own. "I was gonna see if you needed anything else?"

You shake your head, one of your hands reaching behind his head, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck, making his face go warm. "Just you..."

Miguel gives you a dazzling smile, standing up and walking to the other side of the bed. He lays behind you in the spoon position, being careful not to press too forcefully against you and hurt your back again. He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at you, running his fingertips across the side of your face, tracing the outline of your body as you squeak out a small yawn.

"Rub my back, please?" You ask, closing your eyes. Miguel nods, sitting up, gesturing for you to reposition so you're on your tummy. You wince again as you lay on your stomach, Miguel positions himself over you so his knees are in between the gaps in your legs, lowering his upper body so he's hovering and careful not to press too much weight onto you.

He brings both hands to your shoulder blades, working his palms into a gentle caress on the skin below. You suck air between your teeth, jerking your head slightly upwards in pain with a whimper.

Miguel tilts his head in concern, "I hurt you?"

You nod a little, pressing your cheek back into the pillow. "It's okay..."

"Pobrecita..." (Poor thing) Miguel murmurs, moving his hands away from that spot for now, working on the other areas of your back.

Miguel's not a stranger to back pain, although his physical ailments he's dealt with are usually few and far between after his transformation into a Spider person. If he is feeling crummy he doesn't need to deal with it for long, thanks to his enhanced ability to heal. The scientist he is, he loved anatomy and studied muscle groups, incorporating it into his trainings and used the knowledge to help him maintain his envious physique. Now, he was transferring what he knew into this moment as he began his massage on your tender back.

He hummed quietly as he worked on you, calloused hands from climbing, webbing, and fighting normally tense and rough handling you as though you were made of glass and paper. Gently kneading, skillfully transferring weight between different parts of his hand, murmuring to you in a sweet tone, checking to make sure you were doing alright, that he wasn't overwhelming you, that he was handling you gently and properly rubbing the muscles without triggering your pain.

Your skin utterly melted under his touch. His hands the brush and your back morphing into something of a canvas. Your chest gently heaved, breaths becoming more relaxed, more content as you just allowed your discomfort to leave you and he soaked it up like a sponge. You could feel the tension and worry being tugged out of your body with each ginger press of his fingers. You could never get over the way this seemingly intimidating man to those who didn't know him seemed to evolve into the biggest sweetheart who wouldn't hurt a fly the moment you entered his orbit.

You were dissipating at this point, your skin and your body rendered to a liquid underneath this man. He stayed silent, save it for his soft murmurs and your gentle purrs of satisfaction. He looked at you when you weren't looking like you were responsible for putting the breath in his lungs, a quiet sense of pride making him feel warm all over when he saw how successful he was at making you feel better. His sweet girl.

When you were fully satisfied with his work and your pain much more manageable, he shifted so he was laying behind you once again. You felt an emptiness when you could no longer sense him above you. "Miggy..."

"I'm here." He reassures. His tone dulcet. "I'm here...." he coos again. Mellifluous, soothing melody that silenced all your fears and put them to sleep. You exhaled as you felt his body press against yours in the bed, making yourself small against him. His strength wrapping you up like a hug.

He pulled you closer to him, a fuzzy feeling running through his veins at the outline of you. A shape he could never get used to, a pattern he became an expert in. Handling and taking care of your body was a job he'd gladly accept and take ownership in. It made him feel special, the way you so trustfully lent yourself to him, though he knew how stubborn you could be. You all but turned to putty in his hands.

He rests his chin in the crook of your neck, letting the silence between you amplify in tranquility when the gentle patter of raindrops begins to beat against the window. He presses soft kiss after kiss into your temple, the plump feeling of his lips on your skin is too sweet to resist. You gently roll over, meeting his kiss and he groans feebly, his turn to become completely helpless under the tenderness of your touch.

You lay there and kiss him, your fingers tangling themselves in his tousled locks, the soft moan you release in his mouth causing him to respond by lightly sliding his tongue into your mouth. You oblige, the kiss deepening, making him sigh. His pleasant noises leaving you with a healthy dose of desire, your pain all but a distant memory at this point.

He pulls away for a moment and you shift your face closer to his, your gazes become intertwined for several intimate moments.

"I love you, you know that....?" you ask softly.

Miguel places a hand on your hips, his thumbs leaving tiny circles, gradually finding residence underneath your hoodie so he can feel your bare skin. His touch sending a tiny pulse of electricity up your spine. He leans in closer, "I sure do, beautiful..."

He plants a kiss in the middle of your forehead. "Te quiero tanto, mi cielo(I love you so much, my sweetheart)..." He murmurs against your skin, the tremor of his voice calming your soul.

"Mi cielo..."(My sweetheart) He presses another kiss, this time on your cheekbone, gently dragging his lips down to yours, a trail of adoration on your face. You lock lips with him again, softly sighing and moaning, both your hands and his all over the other's body, raindrops persistent on the roof of your little apartment, light slowly draining, leaving the sky a murky gray, his lips the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment as your heart stirs alongside his in your cozy bed.

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel ohara fluff #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #Spotify

311 notes · View notes