#or make a tiny cup cake

[sunnysidesunshine]

'Eggnog'

[em1i2a3]

Here my out. I don't have a solid concept other than Bob finds a sketchbook filled with supersuit concepts so he starts flipping through it and it turns into pictures of the team and then pictures of just him. Anyway reader finds him looking at it and somehow the conversation ends up like "sorry, you're just really pretty in the sunlight. I mean, you're pretty in any light." I just need someone to tell Bob he's pretty 😭

Velour and Velcro

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a hobby of drawing and designing things in your spare time, one day Bob stumbles across your sketchbook and discovers something surprising.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess cause Bob. No crazy warnings apart from that partners, just super fluffy, super sweet stuff happening here, with like a hint of intimacy :)

Author’s Note: Thought I’d make a cute little one-shot for today as I’ve been focusing on a lot of my bigger works and getting those prepared for posting (there’s not a lot of editing to do, just want to go through it with a fine toothed comb.). Hope y’all enjoy this one though!

Word Count: 5,939

The common room of the compound had been a war zone not even less than an hour ago.

The aftermath of game night still lingered in the air like smoke after a fireworks show–explosive, and borderline destructive. A half-empty bowl of popcorn had been flung across the room at some point, scattering kernels into the shag rug. Three pillows had been used as makeshift shields. Walker had accused Yelena of cheating, and Yelena had accused Walker of being a “living embodiment of a root canal.” Ava had sat back and watched the chaos, while Bucky and Alexei had both quietly removed themselves to get their respective alcoholic beverages–Bucky’s was whiskey, Alexei’s was vodka.

Through it all though, you had sat curled into the corner of the oversized grey cloud couch–legs folded up, sketchbook braced against your thighs, pencil and pen moving in quick, distracted arcs while chaos was blooming around you.

Bob had taken refuge in the open kitchen where he would be able to hide slightly from the chaos, and bake without being totally bothered by people.

The cake he made had started as a peace offering and became a full-blown stress bake the moment he heard someone scream “YOU CAN’T STACK DRAW FOURS” with the kind of fury usually reserved for battlefield decisions. The rich scent of chocolate and vanilla had poured into the air, mingling with the salt and butter from the popcorn, and the faint citrus of someone’s spilled soda that still clung to the coffee table.

Now, the kitchen was dark. The last flicker of the oven light had gone out. Most of the team had vanished to their quarters, trailing groggy grumbles and sore losers’ muttering. The common room had finally settled, breathing again after the riot of laughter and arguing had burned itself out.

Only a single lamp remained on beside the couch, casting warm, golden rays over the cushions and the floor beneath. The glow hit the coffee table in soft shapes, glinting off an abandoned spoon and catching in the tiny rainbow oil spill of a spilled cup of tea. Outside the windows, the city buzzed on–he could hear everything even though he was eighty levels up above the streets; car horns honking, people’s laughter, the booming bass coming from clubs.

Bob sat on the edge of the couch, right where you had been earlier.

The cushions were still warm, and your blanket was slipping off onto the floor. And there–tucked beneath one of the throw pillows–was your sketchbook.

He had picked it up with every intention of returning it to your room, but it felt so warm in his hands, and familiar because it was yours–the temptation was great.

You took it everywhere with you–mission briefings, airport lounges, quiet rooftops. He had watched you doodle in the margins of reports, on napkins, sometimes on your own hands when you ran out of space. He’d seen you sketch everything from tactical armor blueprints to a cartoon of Alexei in a tutu–as per his request because he thought you would be able to execute it perfectly…He still has it hanging in his room. Bob admired your creativity, how you were able to conjure anything up onto paper without really thinking about it, and the pride on your face when you made someone laugh with a sketch of them. You took joy in the little things, and Bob loved that about you…It was one of the multitude of things that made him grow so attached to you in such a short period of time as well.

So when he flipped the book open, just to see what tonight had looked like through your eyes…Bob couldn’t help but smile.

The first page hit him like a kaleidoscope–an explosion of rough linework, little notes crammed into the margins, and the chaotic charm that could only belong to you. A suit with heat-reactive armor filled the center, the panels labeled and crosshatched, but the entire thing was surrounded by doodles of stars and question marks. A sticky note had been pressed into the corner with a scrawl that read:

“Would this melt? Ask Ava. Or throw it into a bonfire and find out.”

Tucked under the edge of the next page was a scrap of metallic blue fabric–shiny, a little torn at the edge, maybe scavenged from a prototype–and beside it, you’d written:

“Love this for night missions. Or roller disco.”

He flipped another page.

More sketches. Some wildly technical–complete with annotations, chemical compound breakdowns, tensile strength estimates. Others looked like pure fantasy. There was one labeled “Bucky but make it James Bond” with a tuxedo that clearly had at least three concealed weapons built into it and a bowtie that doubled as a GPS tracker. Right beneath it, you’d scribbled:

“He’s going to hate this. It’s perfect.”

Next to it:

“New project idea: suit that deploys snacks for the hangry people on the team.”

There were fingerprints smudged across some pages. A couple places where tea had clearly splattered–rings of soft brown staining the edges, a few ink trails bleeding where it had touched the lines. Some of the pages had been ripped out and taped back in, corners folded and unfolding like they’d been touched again and again.

It wasn’t just a sketchbook. It was a journal. A blueprint. A scrapbook of your brain.

On one page, tucked into a hand-stitched envelope you’d glued to the inside of the paper, was a tiny Polaroid of Yelena fast asleep during a mission debriefing, mouth slightly open, arms crossed. You’d captioned it:

“Her highness at rest. Do not wake unless you want to be attacked.”

There was another one a few pages later: Alpine in full loaf mode on top of Bucky’s clean laundry pile. Her eyes were mid-blink, deeply unimpressed with the camera. Beneath it:

“Make Bucky a serious portrait of her for his b-day. Buy oil paints and a heavy frame. She deserves it.”

Bob laughed quietly to himself, breath fogging a little against the thick silence of the room. The sketchbook was warm in his lap now, heavy with secrets, and he felt like he’d broken into something sacred–but you’d also left it there, hadn’t you?

Part of him wondered if that was on purpose.

He flipped again. Slower now.

The sketches were less structured as he turned the pages. More personal. Little candid moments rendered in soft lines and shaded pencil.

Ava with her nose buried in a novel, curled under three blankets in the common room.

Walker fast asleep with his mouth open and one sock half-off from Alpine pulling at it, labeled “he snores like a wood chipper.”

Alexei doing squats with a few books balanced on his shoulders like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Bucky standing in the hall with a grocery bag slung over his shoulder and a faint smile on his face–captured like you’d seen it only once and hadn’t wanted to forget.

He flipped again.

Still more familiar faces—moments frozen in graphite and ink.

Yelena dancing alone in the kitchen, socked feet sliding on the tile. Ava perched on the compound balcony, wind tangling her hair as she stared out at the horizon. Walker and Alexei arm-wrestling over a stack of pancakes. Even Val, drawn from behind, pacing a briefing room with her phone clutched in one hand like it was a weapon.

Page after page of everyone else. Little snapshots of the people you spent your days with, drawn in affection and detail. Not always flattering, but always seen.

And Bob…

He wasn’t anywhere.

He turned the page again.

There it was–a suit design labeled SENTRY (high altitude / max durability). It was stunning. Sleek. Reinforced in all the right places. Smart. Sharp. Sharp in a way that felt distant from the rest. You’d even drawn it over a silhouette that wasn’t quite him—too tall, too broad, too composed.

Your handwriting was still there though. All the notes, all the care.

“Reduce friction on shoulder seams. They always leave marks.”

“Flexible core armor. He moves quieter than you’d expect.”

“Lining should be soft. He won’t ask, but he hates the scratchy stuff.”

Bob stared at the page, chest tightening.

You paid attention. You always paid attention. But this didn’t feel like the others. It wasn’t him. It was the idea of him. What he wore. What he could withstand. What the Sentry needed to be.

The ache bloomed slowly in his chest, quiet and a little hollow.

Because maybe you didn’t draw him the way you drew them. Maybe to you, he was mostly suit specs and duty. Not laughter. Not stillness. Not warmth. Maybe you only looked at him in relation to what he could do–not who he was when he wasn’t glowing.

He turned the page anyway. Resigned.

And something fell.

A loose sheet slipped from the binding–like it had been tucked there with a kind of reluctant care. Not meant to be lost. But maybe not meant to be found so easily either.

Bob caught it midair.

And his breath left him.

It was him.

Drawn entirely in pencil, soft and textured. He was sitting on the common room windowsill in profile, knees pulled up, chin resting on his arm. The city behind him glowed like a galaxy, but the light you’d shaded most carefully wasn’t the skyline. It was the way it spilled across his shoulder and cheek.

Sunlight. Or something that felt like it.

He stared at it, stunned.

There was no suit. No armor. Just Bob. Just quiet.

He flipped the page.

Another sketch.

Bob on the rooftop, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, the wind ruffling his hair. He was mid-laugh. The kind of laugh that closed his eyes, tilted his head back. You’d captured the movement like you hadn’t wanted to forget a single detail. And again–there was light. Sketchy, warm, bleeding across the horizon and catching in his smile.

He flipped again. Faster now.

There he was–dozing on the Quinjet, arms crossed, sun pouring through the window and across the bridge of his nose.

There–leaning against the railing in the compound garden, hair mussed, holding a mug. His silhouette edged in early morning glow.

There–half-turned toward you in the middle of a conversation, eyes soft, lips parted. Lit from the side like you’d drawn him straight from memory. Every version of him surrounded by brightness. Like you couldn’t separate him from light even if you tried.

The ache in his chest cracked open into something else.

Wonder.

Disbelief.

Hope, soft and new.

He turned one last page.

This time, it was just his face. Close-up. No background. No distraction. His eyes were open–looking just slightly off to the side, like he was listening. A small crease between his brows, his lips parted as if he’d just started to speak. The light hit only one side of his face, casting the rest in gentle shadow.

And under it, scrawled in your familiar, almost apologetic handwriting:

“I don’t know why I always draw him in the sun. Maybe because that’s how I see him…My Golden Boy.”

Bob stared at the words; My Golden Boy.

His heart thumped once, hard–then stuttered like it was trying to reset itself, like it completely forgot its job. The breath caught behind his ribs trembled, and slowed when it left him. He wasn’t used to seeing himself like this–not as the Sentry, not even as himself…But as someone you looked at with wonder. With affection…With light.

He pressed his hand gently to the page, fingers trembling slightly as if the graphite might smear. His name wasn’t written anywhere, but it didn’t have to be. It was all him. The way you’d drawn the softness in his expression. The warm shadows. The quiet tension in his brow that only surfaced when he was thinking too hard and trying not to let it show.

He could still feel the echo of your voice in the caption, even though he hadn’t heard it out loud.

Maybe because that’s how I see him…

Bob’s fingertips were still hovering over the page–his page–when he heard the quiet creak of the hallway floorboards.

He sat bolt upright.

And then you appeared in the doorway.

Fresh from the shower.

Your maroon robe clung to your shoulders, cinched loosely at the waist, and the dim light from the lamp pooled over your damp collarbones and down the glisten of your chest like water still hadn’t finished tracing its path across you. The robe stuck slightly to your skin in places, hinting at curves and damp warmth beneath. Your hair was wet, curling and dripping at the ends, your legs bare and gleaming from the knee down. You looked soft. Blurred around the edges from heat and water. And the way your eyes swept the room like you’d just remembered something important made Bob feel like the oxygen had been sucked out of the compound.

“Oh,” You said, eyes landing on him, then on the sketchbook. Your lips curled into a sly, sleepy smile. “Caught you red-handed…”Bob opened his mouth. No sound came out.

You stepped into the light, unbothered, tugging the robe closed just slightly more as you approached.

“Sorry,” You murmured, mock whispering like you were letting him in on a secret, “Forgot I left it out here. I usually hide my embarrassing fanart in my room.”

He blinked, surprised by how casual you sounded. “This isn’t—this isn’t embarrassing.”

“Oh no?” You asked, arching a brow. “Not even the page where I drew a suit that dispenses emergency pizza rolls?” He let out a breath of a laugh, eyes dropping to the sketchbook that was still open in his lap.

“I d-don’t think I made i-it to that page.” He muttered, his voice soft and nervous. He was always nervous around you, and his stutter became worse when you were around him. Bob swallowed hard, fingers still curled protectively around the edges of the sketchbook as you settled onto the couch beside him, tucking your smooth, bare legs up under you with ease. The robe shifted again–just slightly–but it was enough to make the air leave his lungs slowly, like they were also resigning from working. You noticed his sudden stillness and smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.

”You really didn’t get to the pizza roll suit?” You asked, kissing your teeth, “What a tragedy. It’s probably the most important contribution I’ve made to modern tactical gear.” Bob let out a shaky laugh, feeling it catch in his chest briefly. You smelled like fresh citrus, like someone had cut up lemons and limes and saved the skin and sprinkled sugar on them. You always smelled sweet to him, and now with the close proximity it was apparent that it was definitely a mixture of your natural scent and a lotion of some kind that gave you that essence.

“I-I’d wear the pizza roll suit,” He started, “If i-it meant I got to be in your s-sketchbook more often.” You tilted your head at him, eyes sweeping his face with a smirk that softened the edges of your mouth.

”Bob Reynolds, are you flirting with me?” Bob’s face went pink almost instantly. It wasn’t a quick flush, either–it bloomed slowly, like heat rising from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was cycling through a thousand possible replies and discarding every single one.

“I–uh–n-no–” He stammered, then gave up with a breathy laugh. His eyes flicked to the sketchbook and then quickly away, like it might catch fire if he stared too long. You tilted your head, grinning softly.

“I like it,” You murmured, and your voice was quieter now. Gentler. “You, flustered. It’s…Sweet.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, as though he didn’t know what to do with a word like that in your mouth–like it wasn’t meant for someone like him. He glanced down, fumbling for something safe to say, but his gaze caught on the sketch again. The one you knew he’d been looking at.

“That one,” You said, following his eyes. Your voice dipped low. “It’s one of my best.” He looked up at you slowly.

“Why do y-you call me that?” He asked, almost a whisper. His hand brushed lightly over the corner of the page. “‘G-Golden boy.’”

You shifted beside him, your knee brushing his. The robe slipped a little on your shoulder but you didn’t fix it. Instead, you leaned in slightly, voice so soft it nearly caught on the warmth between you.

“Because you look pretty in the sunlight,” You responded, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat, reverberating through him like soft thunder. He didn’t know how to hold them. They weren’t something he’d ever been given before–not like this, not in a tone that curled with heat and truth and something dangerously close to want.

You were so close he could feel the steam from your shower radiating off your skin, could see the droplets still clinging to the edge of your collarbone, the damp sheen painting your clavicle in a way that made his mouth dry. And then you tilted your head, eyes catching the lamp’s glow like they were catching him, and with a sultry little smile.

“For the record though…You look pretty in any lighting. But the sunlight just does something to you…” It was spoken like sin and silk. Like worship. Bob looked at you like you’d peeled the sky back and let the sun touch just him.

Your words lingered in the air like smoke after something mass–You look pretty in any lighting…But the sunlight just does something to you–and he was burning from the inside out. Blushing so deep it felt inhuman, like even his bones had turned a soft shade of pink. The warmth of your voice, the way you leaned in just enough to let the intimacy rest on the space between you—it was unraveling him. Gently. Completely.

His throat bobbed. His breath shook. And then, barely above a whisper, he answered:

“I think…I only look l-like because of the way you see me…”

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t practiced. It fell out of him soft and raw, stripped of armor, the kind of honesty that only exists between two people sitting too close in a quiet room.

And you smiled.

Not the teasing kind, not the cocky kind–but a slow, molten thing that curled at the edges of your mouth like you were letting him see something private. Something treasured.

”Do you want a live demo?” She asked, glancing at the sketchbook, before returning your gaze to his. Bob’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyebrows raised slightly, confusion and panic blooming all at once in his eyes like twin stars flaring to life.

“I–uh, I–I don’t–I mean, y-you don’t have to–”The words stumbled out, all jagged and half-formed, tumbling over one another in a panic that came from hope. From longing. From the quiet, desperate part of him that had spent so many nights dreaming of being this close to you and never once dared imagine it could feel like this.

You smiled again–soft and amused, but there was nothing mocking in it. If anything, there was kindness there. Heat. Want.

“Relax, golden boy,” You murmured, rising from the couch with an easy grace that made his stomach twist. You crossed to the low coffee table, brushing past the old Uno cards and empty mugs and remnants of popcorn carnage, and picked up your favorite pen from the chaos. As you turned back toward him, the lamp caught the curve of your throat, the warmth on your cheeks, and the dampness that lined your collarbone–and Bob swore he’d never seen anything more radiant in his life.

“It’s not a big deal,” You said gently, as though you weren’t walking him toward the edge of a moment that would burn into the rest of his existence. And then–slowly, deliberately–you crossed the room to him again.

Your hand found his chest.

Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just sure. Steady.

Your palm rested right over his heart–where it was pounding, thunderous under his ribs like it wanted to climb out just to get to you–and then you pushed. Softly. Gradually. Until Bob let himself be moved, shoulders sinking back into the plush cushions, legs parting slightly for balance, arms trembling where they rested at his sides.

You bit your lip–just a little–concentrating, maybe. Or maybe just savoring the moment, the way he looked with his head tilted up–admiring you. Awestruck. Unmoored.

Then you reached for the sketchbook still balanced on his lap, sliding it away gently, like it was no longer needed–because what you were about to draw wasn’t on paper.

Bob didn’t have time to ask what came next.

You climbed onto him.

One knee, then the other. Thighs bracketing his hips. Bare skin to soft cotton. You moved like water–like gravity had chosen you as its favorite–and then you settled, slow and devastating, into his lap.

Bob’s breath left him in a rush.

A whimper, almost. A sound he hadn’t meant to make.

His hands gripped the edge of the couch like they might keep him from floating away. Every part of you pressed against him now–your thighs warm and damp from your shower, the robe parting just enough to reveal the bare skin of your chest, your breath brushing his cheeks. The heat of you–your weight, your scent, your nearness–it made everything else disappear.

Time bent.

You were straddling him like you were meant to live there. Like he was built for this exact moment. And you were close. So close. He could see the tiny beads of water still clinging to the fine hairs at your temples. The curve of your bottom lip. The way your eyes searched his face with an intensity that made him feel naked–not in body, but in soul.

You rested the sketchbook on his stomach, the spine nestled against the slow rise and fall of his breath.

Then you leaned in.

“Don’t move,” You whispered, the pen now poised in your hand. “I want to remember this expression. The one where you look like you don’t know if you’re dreaming.”

Bob swallowed. Hard.

His voice, when it came, cracked like light through stained glass.

“I-I don’t think I am. But if I am, please…Don’t let me wake up yet.” His breath stuttered in his chest, shallow and tremoring, and his hands clenched tighter around the edge of the couch–white-knuckled, desperate. Like if he let go, he might reach for you. Might pull you closer. Might ruin this moment with the sheer want bleeding out of him.

Because he was trying not to think about your legs, draped warm over his thighs.

Not to think about the dip of your robe, the way it shifted every time you breathed.

Not to think about your scent curling around him like a memory he hadn’t earned.

And especially not to think about the way you looked at him–as if he was art already. As if he was worthy of being captured.

But God, he could feel everything.

The press of you against him. The delicate weight of the sketchbook rising and falling on his stomach like it had synced with his breath. And your hand–your hand was moving, slow and fluid, sketching something onto the page with such focus that it made him ache.

You were so close he could see the way your lashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down. The way your mouth curved softly in concentration. And still, his gaze drifted–devotional and restless. First to the hollow of your throat. Then to the curve of your knee. Then back to your mouth like it was something sanctified. Forbidden.

You glanced up and caught his eyes, smiling.

“You’re fidgeting,” You murmured, the pad of your thumb smudging a line across the paper. “What are you thinking about?” Bob could feel his throat tighten a bit, as he coughed a bit. His fingers spasming against the couch cushion.

”I-I’m not,” He whispered, too fast to sound convincing. Your brow arched, slowly.

”No? That blush says otherwise.” He could feel his cheeks grow hotter beneath your stare as he looked down at your hands, “Whatever is on your mind…Better tell me now…Or else I’ll have to draw you with steam coming out of your ears. Might ruin the composition.” You added, sweeping long graceful lines across the page. Bob’s throat worked around a sound that didn’t quite make it out. He shifted beneath you, breath fluttering through parted lips, and sighed.

“I-I…Y-You’re just…” He trailed off, blinked hard, and took a deep breath before continuing, “Y-you’re r-really close…”

Your pen paused mid-stroke. That tiny smile flickered again across your lips–mischievous, but not unkind.

“So that’s what your fidgeting is about, hm?” You asked, cocking your head just slightly as if inspecting him from a new angle. “All this tension just because I’m close?” You dragged the tip of the pen lightly across the paper again–nothing dramatic, just a line to keep your hand busy while you watched him melt.

Bob opened his mouth–probably to deny it–but all he managed was a shaky breath and another glance down. His fists had tightened on the cushion again, knuckles white, like the couch was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You followed his gaze and saw the way his fingers were digging into the fabric.

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, soft and playful:

“You know…” Your voice dropped to a purr as your eyes flicked back to his, “You could put them on my hips. I promise it’d be better than the poor old cushion.”

Bob inhaled sharply–like the suggestion itself was enough to knock the wind out of him. His eyes met yours again, wide and caught between wonder and panic.

“I–I d-don’t wanna mess this up,” He admitted in a hush, the words barely held together by breath. “I-I don’t wanna touch you wrong. Or–or make you uncomfortable. I j-just–”

You leaned in a fraction closer, your breath brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You won’t,” You whispered. “I promise.”

Then, slower, softer, like an invitation dressed as a tease:

“I want you to. That’s kind of the reason why I climbed on top of you in the first place…” Your hands stayed steady on the sketchbook, but your thighs squeezed gently around him in reassurance. His hands twitched against the cushion again. He looked like a man at the edge of a precipice–equal parts terrified and desperate to fall.

You sighed softly–barely a sound–and lowered your pen to rest atop the sketchbook that still remained on his stomach. Your gaze flicked back down to his hands, which were back to being clenched into the cushion, as if it was going to save him from coming undone.

”Alright…I guess I’ll fix it myself.” You murmured, voice like velvet against his ears. Bob’s eyes darted up to yours, startled–uncertain–but he didn’t move, he just froze in his spot.

You reached for him slowly, deliberately, your fingertips brushing the air before touching down gently on the inside of each of his wrists. And the moment you made contact, something happened. His breath stuttered. His jaw tightened. He froze–not from fear, but from the overwhelming awareness of your skin on his. You were the first person to touch his hands in what felt like forever.

You curled your fingers around his wrists–carefully, tenderly–and lifted them. They didn’t fight you. If anything, they followed the motion like they were tethered to you by something deeper than bone. He watched, helpless and wide-eyed, as you guided his trembling hands up to your waist. The fabric of your robe was still damp, soft against his skin, and your body underneath was warm and alive and impossibly close.

And then–you placed his hands on you.

Right on the curve of your hips.

You didn’t let go right away. You kept your hands atop his, cradling them. Holding them in place like you were making sure they knew they belonged there. Like you were grounding him with something far more intimate than words.

Bob exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching instinctively. His thumbs flexed but didn’t dare move–not yet.

Your thumbs brushed over the backs of his hands in slow, gentle strokes. Tracing the veins. The bones. The skin that trembled under your touch. You could feel how warm his hands were. How careful. How desperately he was holding himself back.

Then you leaned forward, just a breath. Just enough.

And Bob tensed.

You saw it in the sharp tick of his jaw, the way the muscles there fluttered under his skin like wings struggling not to fly. His breath caught–again–and his eyes, wide and dark and searching, darted to yours.

Still, you didn’t speak.

You let the silence cradle you both, let the hush between your bodies fill with everything unsaid. The air was thick with heat, your knees snug around his hips, your chest nearly brushing his.

”Kiss me Bob…” The words were soft—barely above a whisper—but they hit him like a solar flare. No fanfare. No hesitation. Just truth. Raw and crystalline and glowing at the edges.

Bob’s breath stilled in his chest. His hands, still resting on your hips beneath your own, trembled like a leaf caught between seasons. His pulse roared in his ears. His jaw clenched tighter, the muscle jumping as he stared at you with wide, reverent eyes—like he wasn’t sure if you were real, or if his dreaming had finally bled into the waking world.

You could feel it—the way his fingers curled just slightly against you. The way his breath shuddered as it passed your cheek. His lips were parted, damp and trembling. And when your nose brushed his—when the air between you seemed to collapse under the weight of wanting—his eyes fluttered closed for a second like the moment alone might undo him.

He was so warm beneath your touch.

So human.

And so afraid to move.

Your hands slid from atop his fingertips gliding up his wrists, along the crook of his elbows, to the dip in his shoulders—slow and patient, grounding him inch by inch. He followed your motion like a tethered thing, like a current pulled toward a shore he didn’t dare believe in. You cupped his face gently–just the edges of his jaw, your thumbs brushing along the sharp lines softened by awe–and tilted his gaze back to yours.

“Only if you want to of course…” You whispered, breath ghosting across his lips like the first touch of dawn.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He was still unraveling–thread by golden thread–under the weight of the moment. The way you were looking at him was unbearable in its tenderness. Like he was beautiful. Like you were waiting for him. Like he was safe here, in your hands.

“I do,” He breathed, and it was hoarse with want. “I–I’ve w-wanted to for…for so long, I–”

You silenced him with nothing but the brush of your forehead against his. Close. Closer. Until the world fell away and there was only breath. Skin. Heat. Until the tip of your nose nudged his again, teasing him, beckoning him to come closer.

He leaned in like a man surrendering–like he was handing himself over with shaking hands and an open heart.

And when Bob kissed you, it wasn’t practiced or perfect. It wasn’t confident or slick. It was slow. Soft. Starved. Like his lips had never truly known what they were for until they found yours.

The kiss started as a brush–barely there. Like the whisper of silk against skin. His breath trembled as it left him, catching on yours, and then he kissed you again. Firmer. Deeper. Still slow, still trembling, but real. Like he meant it. Like he needed it.

His lips were warm and unsure, moving with reverent caution, and you could feel it–the aching restraint thrumming through every fiber of his body. He wasn’t holding you like he wanted to devour you–he was holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

You responded with a steadiness he couldn’t manage, your mouth tilting gently into his, coaxing him closer. You kissed him like you knew he could take more, like you knew he wanted to be undone if you did it slowly enough.

Your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the soft, messy strands at the back of his head. He gasped into your mouth at the feeling—barely a sound, more like a breath catching on something too big to hold. And then you did it again–fingernails grazing his scalp, thumbs sweeping across the hinges of his jaw–and his whole body gave the faintest shudder beneath you.

He whimpered–soft and broken and so full of want it made heat bloom low in your stomach.

You opened your mouth against his just slightly, inviting him in–and Bob kissed you harder. Still careful, but with a new desperation under the surface. Like something in him had finally snapped loose. His hands, once trembling against your hips, flexed and pulled you in tighter. Not greedy–yearning. Anchoring. Like if he pressed you close enough, he could finally quiet whatever storm had lived inside his chest since the day he met you.

When your tongue touched his–soft, tentative–he gasped like he wasn’t prepared for the heat of it. His whole body stiffened beneath you, then melted so quickly you almost collapsed into him. The kiss deepened by inches, by instinct, until it was slow-burning and sultry, hot and aching and so much.

Your lips parted only slightly, breath mingling with his, and you murmured something soft against his mouth–something he couldn’t even register, because the sound of you speaking into his kiss lit a fuse inside him he didn’t know he carried.

He kissed you again, and again. And again.

Each one a little longer. A little slower. A little more desperate.

Your robe shifted with every move–slipping just a touch more from your shoulder, brushing across the backs of his hands, baring more skin to his touch. His thumbs skated over your waist now, unthinking, and slow. As if he was mapping you. Memorizing you.

You broke the kiss with a whisper-soft sigh, eyes half-lidded, your lips still brushing his.

“Still feel like you don’t know what you’re doing?” You asked, breathless and smug and sweet.

Bob didn’t answer right away. His mouth chased yours again, stealing another kiss that was softer than the last. Sweeter. Like a thank you.

“I feel like I c-could kiss you forever,” He said, and his voice cracked beautifully on the last word.

You smiled at him. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want you to stop.”

[cameronsbabydoll]

hi gorgeous!! i was wondering if u would be interested in writing a little fic with scc!rafe being forced into a tea party with his daughter?? 🥹

i need something sweet with them!! and im so obsessed with scc its so creative!!

tysm!

“daddy,” she calls from the hallway, “can you come here please?”

rafe’s already sitting on the couch, freshly showered and still tired from whatever work he’d dragged himself through that day. he grunts, not really looking up from his phone. “what?”

“just come here!” she chirps again.

and maybe he wouldn’t normally. maybe old rafe wouldn’t even flinch.

but she’s got her mama’s voice — that lilting, sugar-dipped tone — and that’s always been his weakness. so he groans and pushes up with a sigh. mutters something about “this better not be some stupid game again” under his breath.

and he rounds the corner into her room — then stops dead in the doorway.

the tea party setup is extensive.

a fuzzy pink blanket laid out across the carpet. three plastic chairs, mismatched and short. barbies sitting in two of them. a dozen tiny cups and saucers lined up with plastic pastries. and right in the center, his daughter in a tutu and glitter heels, holding a tiara.

“you sit here, daddy,” she says, patting the only chair that could maybe hold him.

“absolutely not,” he says flatly.

but you’re already in the hallway, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, smiling so sweet it makes his jaw tick.

“just for ten minutes,” you say, and your daughter is beaming now.

he mutters “fuckin’—fine.” as he sits down — legs cramped, knees almost to his chest — the chair creaking in protest while his daughter places the tiara gently on his head.

“you’re a princess now,” she says seriously.

“i’m a fuckin’—”

“daddy!” she gasps. “you can’t say bad words at a tea party.”

he shuts his mouth. narrows his eyes at you as you silently laugh behind your hand.

ten minutes turns into twenty.

his daughter pours imaginary tea into his cup with careful hands. tells him he has to try the “cake” (which is just a plastic sponge). and when she leans against his arm and sighs, “i love tea parties with you, daddy,” he doesn’t even groan.

he just hums and puts an arm around her, careful not to knock over the barbie sitting beside him. plastic tiara still crooked on his head. socks half off.

and when you peek in a little later, baby on your hip, you don’t even try to tease him.

because your husband — grumpy, tired, and still very much rafe — is sitting cross-legged in a glittery hell of tea cups and doll shoes, letting his daughter braid his hair with mismatched barrettes while he pretends to sip air from a cup the size of his thumb.

and he doesn’t even look mad about it.

[rafeslittlepup]

“MORE BUNNYWIFE TIKTOKS” we yell in unison

day in my life as a bunnywife in charleston ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

bzzzzz! 🐇🍼 “good morning, bunnies, today I’m taking you with me for a little mommy day in charleston!”

she’s posing in the mirror in her pink robe and hair ribbons.

“rafey left a kiss on my forehead before his morning lift… as always ”

now she’s making brekkie for the little bunnies: heart-shaped pancakes, fresh strawberries, and teeny cups of milk.

“rafe gets eggs, steak, and black coffee… “man food” he calls it”

“all dressed up! we’re doing a family day downtown”

the outfits for today is flowy pastel sundress, dainty gold jewelry , and miu miu flats. the twins are in matching rompers and sunhats. rosie has a little wicker purse and jamie has a ralph lauren kids cap. rafe wears a white button-down with his sleeves rolled up and his sunglasses on.

walking hand-in-hand down king street

“first stop: cute boutiques!! rafey always says ‘go crazy, baby’ as he gives me his card 😵‍💫🫶🏻”

clips of her trying on frilly skirts and floppy hats while rafe sits on a velvet couch outside the dressing room, scrolling through his phone and looking insane. also one clip of him adjusting her necklace for her, whispering something in her ear that makes her blush.

“café time!!”

she films the kids sipping lemonade and playing while she and rafe split a pressed panini and she eats cake with a tiny fork.

“rafe says sweets are for girls but guess who ate half my strawberry tart! hehe”

walk around the battery, the kids run ahead while rafe has his hand around her waist.

“he was talking about putting in an offer for one of the historic houses…”

rafe points at one and says “that’s a bunnywife porch if i’ve ever seen one.”

“back homey!!!”

rafe is grilling burgers shirtless while she waters her garden and films the kids in the yard. she’s barefoot and the soft wind is blowing in the hydrangeas.

he grabs her wrist playfully and kisses it, murmuring “you look good enough to eat.”

“bath time and bedtime snuggles with the bunnies!!!”

she’s in bed, curled up in rafe’s duke t-shirt, whispering, “he brought me some tea and rubbed my feet, i stay winning.”

💬

@bimbobunnyfan: everyone’s laughing but she’s literally cracked the code

@lift4wife: bro my wife watched this and now she only speaks in a baby voice HELP

@fbicwatchlistbratz: I’m scared but I’m also ovulating

[kashverse]

hear me out, papakuna totally distraught about babykuna's first bday because he wants it to be absolutely perfect

sukuna has planned a lot of things in his life.

how to build his own company from the ground up? check. how to propose to you the moment he realized he was utterly, stupidly in love with you? check. how to plan an obscenely extravagant wedding despite you telling him no, we don’t need a horse-drawn carriage, suku, this is not a fairytale— check. but none of those compare to the sheer anxiety that consumes him when planning babykuna’s first birthday.

yes, that’s right. one whole year since you made him the happiest man on earth for the second time. (the first was when you agreed to be his wife. the second was when you gave him a mini-you.)

so naturally, this needs to be perfect. spectacular. a grand event to set the standard for all birthdays to come.

you watch from the couch, nursing a cup of tea, as your six-foot-something, terrifying, king-of-the-corporate-world husband paces the room with his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gripping his hair like he’s planning the olympics.

"i don’t give a shit if there are scheduling issues, uraume, i need those ponies on saturday."

ponies. there are ponies at stake now.

"yeah? and tell the bakery i want the cake to be exactly like the reference. if i see even one ugly sprinkle, someone’s getting fired."

he hangs up with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples.

"baby, 'm this close to snapping someone’s neck."

"you mean over the birthday party that she won't even remember?" you ask, mildly amused. sukuna scoffs like you just committed blasphemy. "the disrespect. our daughter deserves the best."

you glance over at the soon to-be birthday girl herself, currently drooling on her own fist in her bouncer, blissfully unaware of her father’s slow descent into madness. "you’re stressing yourself out over nothing," you hum, sipping your tea.

"oh, yeah? and when she looks back at pictures of this day, do you want her to see a half-assed party?"

you raise a brow. "she’s literally chewing her foot right now."

sukuna turns to babykuna, who is, in fact, gnawing on her chubby little foot like a deranged gremlin. "she’s too young to understand stress," he grumbles, kneeling down to scoop her up. she gurgles in response, smacking her drooly little hands against his expensive-ass shirt. "yeah, that’s great, sweetheart," he mutters, gently wiping her mouth before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

she promptly spits up on his sleeve.

"...right. thanks."

you giggle. "maybe you should focus less on ponies and cake sprinkles and more on surviving fatherhood."

"shut up," he grumbles, shaking his drool-covered sleeve. you shake your head, smiling.

"but honestly, baby, you’re doing so much for her. she might not remember it, but we will. and when she’s older, she’ll see how much her dad loves her." he huffs, but you see the way his shoulders relax at your words.

"...whatever. still getting the ponies."

the day of the party, and babykuna is having the time of her tiny little life.

the ponies? a hit. the cake? bigger than her. the decorations? over-the-top. your husband? going absolutely feral over making sure the event is flawless.

"what the fuck is this?!" sukuna growls, glaring at the table.

choso, bless his ignorant soul, stares at the bowl of m&ms he just put down. "uh… candy?"

"these are the wrong colors."

"i—"

"WHERE'S THE BABY PINK? WHERE'S THE WHITE? DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING CIRCUS PERFORMER?!"

choso, looking genuinely scared for his life, quickly scoops up the bowl.

"i’ll—i’ll fix it!!"

meanwhile, babykuna, in her tiny pink party dress, is sitting directly on top of her smash cake, hands covered in icing, face lit up with pure joy as she happily smacks the dessert into oblivion. a photographer snaps a picture at the perfect moment—babykuna, mid-splatter, frosting in her hair, grin wide enough to make your heart burst. you lean into sukuna’s side, watching your daughter go feral.

"see? worth it." you murmur. he sighs, watching babykuna destroy the thing he spent weeks planning.

"...yeah. worth it."

[mahaewebs]

cry over dumplings (l.dh)

PAIRING ▸ boyfriend!haechan x reader WORD COUNT ▸ 500 WARNINGS ▸ sweetest bfie haechan, reader is very sensitive, reader has cries at anything syndrome NOTES ▸ hii this is my first post and im a bit nervous but oh well ... i live and breathe for soft boyfriend!haechan so probably expect a lot of him :) hope you'll enjoy this lil thing

You heard the door click open, then the familiar shuffle of Haechan’s steps. Your heart did this stupid thing it always did when he came home—a little leap, a little ache. The sound was soft like he was trying not to wake you up.

You were curled up on the couch in one of his big hoodies, the sleeves pulled over your hands, face half-buried in the worn fabric that still smelled like him.

The TV was still playing something, the volume low, a show you weren’t really watching. You didn’t move. Just listened.

Keys hit the ceramic dish by the door. A plastic bag rustled. The unmistakable scent of garlic and fried something drifted through the air, and your stomach rumbled.

You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“YN?” his voice was quiet, a little scratchy from laughing too much probably. “Baby, you awake?”

You didn’t answer right away, your throat felt thick from not having spoken in hours. You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes like you’d just woken up. 

“Hi,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re back late.”

Haechan walked in, a little flushed from the cold and the alcohol he drank, dark hair tousled and cheeks pink. He was holding a plastic bag from your favorite spot; the one that always forgot the extra sauce unless he asked for it.

“Mark wanted dessert,” he said, setting the bag on the coffee table and crouching down beside you. “We argued for twenty minutes about cake versus ice cream, and somehow Johnny ended up being both.”

You gave him a tiny smile. “Sounds fun.”

“I bought back some good stuff for you that I thought would make you happy. Some things are new so we can try them together—”

“You brought me food?” you asked in shock.

Haechan halted his movements, stared at you in a frown for a moment like you’d just grown two heads and nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Did you eat today?”

“Not since lunch.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He reached into the bag, pulled out the container you always got, your exact order—down to the extra dumplings you only got when you’ve had a hard day.

“I thought maybe you didn’t,” he murmured. “So, I got your favorite. It’s still warm,” he passed you the container. “By the way, Mark has officially stolen your menu. He said he’s only going to order that from now on, so maybe try teasing him about having no personality. It’d be funny—are you crying?”

You shook your head, brushing your tears away with your (his) sleeve. “No. I’m just—god, I’m sorry. I am not crying over dumplings, I swear.”

He reached out, cupping the side of your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. 

“Yeah, you are,” he said, smiling a little. “But it’s okay, baby. You can cry over dumplings. Especially if they’re good ones.”

You laughed through your tears, the sound watery and embarrassed. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Actually, I think I’m not nice enough to you,” he said softly. You leaned into his hand, eyes closed, the scent of food and him and something safe wrapping around you all at once. The warmth of it—of him— settled in your chest like a balm.

[eddiesghxst]

BENEATH THE BLADE - part one

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: swordsman!eddie x noble!reader

summary: with your father on the brink of war he finds himself in need of a bigger army, and the only person capable of helping is none other than eddie munson, the lord of death, but the only way to achieve his loyalty is through marriage.

contains: enemies to lovers trope, marriage of convenience, alcohol use, themes of misogyny/sexism, SMUT - 18+, mentions of bedding ceremony tradition, loss of virginity, oral (f receiving), p in v (unprotected — stay safe pls), hint of breeding kink, tiny bit of blasphemy, mentions of domestic violence (brief), mentions of death, mentions of blood/gore/violence, asshole!eddie, and eddie being dark and hot <3

word count: 12.5k

| next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Eddie is handsome.

Charming in a soft light, you’d say— at least when he’s not covered in dirt and the blood of his enemies— his features are vivid this way, sharp yet kind, free of the anger that you’ve known to follow him in tow.

When he arrived, he was a sight to see— a jarring one.

Mud and filth caked over his body; blood smeared down his face to match the blade of his sword, soiled hair tied back and dripping with a liquid you’re not sure you would even want to know the name of. He was walking death. Cold eyes and a honed fleet to match. When his lips cracked to form a grin, you had accepted that nothing could be worse than marrying the very walking doom of the earth.

You hated it. You think you hate him.

Your wedding caused quite the commotion amongst the city of RedGate— travelers from the opposite side of the world came just to see you be wed today, the biggest day of your life, yet you’re struggling to find the joy in it.

When you were little, your mother would tell you stories of how one day you’d be married off to a prince, a handsome one with a gorgeous smile and all the gold in the world to make you happy, and somehow you ended up with the complete opposite.

Still, even if this marriage is the least adhered to your liking, you don’t have a choice. It’s your duty. Your promise to the people of RedGate.

A marriage of convenience, your father told you.

You have the money, and he has the men.

In the eyes of the storyteller, it’s a match made in heaven. You see anything but.

Because the truth is, you don’t know him— Eddie— and he is now your husband.

Despite the circumstances, Eddie seems to be having a grand time. Beside you, fresh in his sharpest clothes and finest jewelry, he sips on his nth glass of wine, loudly laughing at the room's commotion before you. They’ve been entertaining you for hours now. Hours of singing, dancing, and jesting all to appease you, yet you haven’t cracked a single smile.

Eddie sees it. He glances at you and smiles to himself, dark eyes shimmering beneath golden light as he finishes his chalice. He raises the cup, a silent order for more, and you swallow hard, wary of what’s to come with a drunk husband on the first night.

You’ve heard the stories women tell of their first night. You’ve heard the horrors of the pain and dread their men put them through, and it’s sure to say that wine doesn’t help the case— it never does. 

As you prepare for the doom of your evening (assuming it’s yet to happen), you hardly notice the cup-bearer filling your husband's chalice to the brim. You expect Eddie to begin sipping on the fine wine, but you’re proven wrong when the cup is brought down and held steady in front of you.

You look at the cup, shiny gold with twinkling jewels embedded in the sides, rich red sloshing up the walls, spilling over the edges, and snaking around his bruised knuckles. You drag your gaze up the arm holding the cup, decorated fingers, and storytelling ink on the skin that belongs to him. Eddie quirks up an eyebrow, watching you with such precision that it makes your blood run cold.

“A lady doesn’t drink.” You say.

Eddie grins, light dancing in his eyes as he says, “No? How come?”

You straighten in your chair, dragging in a slow breath as you tip your chin up, “It is not of a lady’s nature to drink such poison.”

Eddie’s face stretches in amusement, “Poison?” He hums. He retracts the cup, bringing it to his lips, but he waits as he adds, “You have never drank wine, then?” He snickers. The boom of the crowd seems to drown out as you glare at your husband, watching as he takes a sip, playful humor still painted across his face. You find nothing funny.

“Wine distorts the mind.”

Eddie sighs, loud and heavy, as he shifts in his chair, turning to look out into the crowd, “Wine tastes good, princess. You’re too rich to deprive yourself of such luxury.”

“Dull thinking is a luxury?” You question.

You’re testing the waters. Asking the questions that will ultimately let you know just what kind of a man your husband is— as if the stench of death from earlier wasn’t enough.

“It is when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen.” He responds.

You assume he means the sight of his enemy's severed heads. The sea of bodies and blood he’s sailed upon. All of which are his doing. You can’t find it in yourself to be sympathetic to him, no matter how hard you try.

Eddie sighs again, sinking into his seat as he taps a ring against the gold cup, “You know, wine might make it better for you.”

Your eyebrows furrow at his words, confusion etched in your voice when you look at him with a tip of your head, “What?”

Eddie speaks with a grin around the rim of his chalice, eyes dancing across the dining hall as he says, “Wine makes it better,” he repeats, his eyes finally landing on you as he adds, “Numbs the pain for your cute little cunt.” 

You’re stunned by his words, disgusted and shocked by such crass words as he casually sips his wine. “Have you no manners?” You stress.

Eddie doesn’t respond; he ignores you as he studies you. He adds, “You’re a tiny little thing. I reckon you would have your fill within less than a cup.” You open your mouth to respond, maybe throw some choice words his way, but he beats you to it, “I’m quite big, you know? I’m sure you have heard the stories. You’ll be smart to prepare for it.” He shifts in his seat, hips tilting up just enough to tell you what he’s talking about.

“I will do no such thing.” You quip.

Eddie shrugs with a snicker and a smack of his lips, speaking against the cup as he eyes you, “I’ll go slow then.” He says with a wink.

A cold shiver runs down your spine, an echoing bang of doom resounding in the walls of your skull as his words sink in. It doesn’t help any better when the infamous bedding ceremony music starts up, the men in the room cheering along to the song as they begin making their way to you.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands, blood sure to rise as your heart races. The bedding ceremony, while for your guests means the nearing end of the celebration, only represents the beginning of the end for you. Your night has only just begun.

The men will carry you away, grab at your clothes, and cheer as they lead you to your bed chambers, and Eddie will soon follow suit with women grappling at his clothes as well, preparing you both for what’s to come behind closed doors.

If you’re lucky, the men will grant you the decency of keeping your chemise on. But even still, that will soon come off as well. You won’t win either way.

Eddie leans in, the sour stench of alcohol seeping from him as he speaks, “Looks like it’s time, princess,” he teases, a white smirk haunting you before you’re hauled up from your seat, a yelp leaving your lips as the men lift you above their heads.

Rough hands and drunken fingers prod at every inch of your body, a song you’ve heard many times before wafting through the air— you still don’t find the joy in it. You always thought the bedding ceremony was a bit unfair. The women were never as ruthless to the groom as the men were to the bride. You’ve seen more than you’d like to admit— and you never wanted to be on the performing side, yet here you are.

You catch sight of Eddie as the dining hall doors open to carry you away. You see the heavy gaze of his eyes on you, an unspoken threat to the men carrying you lingering through the air— harm her, and it’ll be the last thing you do. 

You’d be a fool to think he cared.

Cheerful singing booms down the halls as they tear off pieces of your gown and corset, leaving a trail of innocence through the castle. It’s not long before you’re tossed onto the bed of your chambers, white chemise still covering you, the men still cheering as they leave you alone in the vast room, echoes of the celebration playing harmony to your racing thoughts.

You scramble up from your bed the second the doors close, reaching out for the thin robe that rests on a chair across the room. You pace for what seems like hours, talking yourself down in preparation for what’s to come. To aid you in preparation, you find yourself sitting at your vanity, candlelight illuminating the mirror so you can see as you freshen up— because although you’re not exactly excited, you still (annoyingly so) want to look appeasing for Eddie. You want to fulfill his desires. You will be a failed wife if you don’t.

You find yourself growing worried when time grows longer with no sign of Eddie, and the sounds of the celebration seem to be dying down. You can’t imagine where he’s gone. Maybe he wanted to drink more. Maybe he doesn’t want you— you’re unsure if that hurts or relieves your ego.

Before you can decide to leave and look for him, the heavy doors to your chambers slide open, light seeping into the dim room as your husband steps in. You catch his eye through the mirror before facing him, standing from the worn bench and clenching your fists as you ask, “Where have you been?”

Eddie, ever the dark looming tower he is, steps further into the room, steps echoing in the silence. He’s fully dressed, not a piece of attire missing from his frame, so you suppose the women didn’t drag him here like the men did you. Had something wrong happened?

“Miss me already, wife?”

You grimace, rolling your eyes as you turn back to your vanity, “Hardly so.” You mutter.

A few moments of silence pass before Eddie speaks, “I had a conversation with your lady-in-waiting.”

Your face twists in confusion, chills dancing up your arms at the breeze that blows in through your open balcony doors. “Robin?” You question.

With his back turned to you from across the room, Eddie removes his cloak, draping it across the couch in front of the fireplace. He doesn’t look at you as he walks around the furniture, responding with a smooth voice, “If that is her name, then yes.”

He sits, busying himself with unbuttoning the chest of his shirt.

“Why?” You ask.

It’s not usual for men to speak with the ladies in waiting. There is nothing for them to discuss, really. But Eddie surprises you when he responds, voice steady yet still indirect towards you, “I wanted to know you.”

Suddenly, you find yourself making a journey across the room to stand before Eddie. The light that the candles cast upon Eddie is beautiful, and his eyes glow when they lift to gaze upon you, fingers still busy with buttons and strings. He is handsome and dark, and he is now yours.

“You kept me waiting.”

“And I am sorry.” He admits.

You don’t know why, but you’re left speechless by the apology that rolls off his tongue. From the stories, Eddie is not one to apologize for much of anything, and you expect he would carry the same traits as a husband. Apparently not.

Eddie stands then, tall and broad in nature— intimidating to most, but his eyes are soft and sincere as he looks down at you. You find your feet stuck where you stand, expecting him to reach and touch you, to initiate the big finale, but he never does.

“I want to apologize for my behavior at the feast,” He begins, “That was no way to speak to a lady, let alone my wife. May you forgive me as I am only now learning to be a husband.”

The Eddie before you now is a different Eddie than you had seen at the dining table. Where he had once looked upon you with lustful and roguish eyes, he now looks at you with sincerity. A softness you would’ve never thought could come from a man like him.

“What did she tell you?” You ask.

His mouth twitches, and if you’re not mistaken, you might’ve thought he wanted to smile.

“She told me you like to garden.” He says. “Your favorite flower is the Middlemist Red. You spend a pretty penny each season to import them from Cathay.”

You smile with your eyes, lips pressed into a line, shying away when he finally cracks and lets his lips tip upon the sight of you. “I do. They are beautiful.” You respond.

Eddie nods once, “You will have to show me, then.”

You nod silently. And Eddie doesn’t seem to want to take the initiative, so you take the first step, reaching forward with shaky hands to finish the buttons of his shirt.

You’re too focused on the task; you don’t notice how Eddie looks at you until his warm hands cover yours. His hands are rough and calloused from days of fighting and hours of work, and you don’t know whether the bumps on your skin rise from his touch or the breeze. 

Dark pools of swirling mud sear into you, so kind around the edges that it makes your breath hitch in your throat. Eddie squeezes your hands in his palms, no sense of insincerity as he untangles your fingers from his shirt and says, “Not tonight.”

And for some reason, your heart drops.

You blink at him, confusion flashing across your face for a split second before you mask it. “You do not want to?” You ask, a tremble of worry you so desperately want to bat away dancing around the edges

Eddie’s thumbs drag over the bumps of your knuckles, “You mistake my words.” He says, “I… I do, but I can’t. I won’t.” He shakes his head.

You frown, a feeling of rejection looming over your head as you look at your husband. “Why?” You ask.

He relaxes, shoulders weighed down with the earth as his thumbs drag to press into your palms. Soothing and grounding, yet overwhelming for the moment.

“You’re shaking, my love.” He points out.

Your gaze drops to your hands, heart racing as you realize— yes, you are shaking. Visibly so.

You shake your head, eyebrows furrowing as you reply, “It is only excitement.”

You’re not sure why you’re doing this. You would’ve leaped for joy an hour ago had Eddie turned you away, yet you can’t help but find yourself fighting for him to say yes. A part of you doesn’t want to be seen as a failure in the eyes of your counsel if they find out you couldn’t consummate your marriage. And another part of you— a very small yet loud part of you— just… wants him.

He is handsome; that part was never a lie, even in the stories. It isn’t hard to feel different forms of frustration when it comes to him. And well, you’d be lying if you said you’re not curious to find out what it feels like.

Eddie laughs softly, gently dropping your hands before turning away and grabbing his cloak, “I know when a lady is excited, my lady.” He admits. You hate the green serpent of jealousy that hisses in your chest.

You ignore the unwelcome feeling when he turns back to you, eyes still profound as they fall upon you, “And I also know when someone is scared.” He lowly says.

“I won’t have you when you are afraid of me.”

You gaze up at him, fingers curling around the long sleeves of your robe as you gather your strength. “I am not afraid of you.” And you’re not. You’re more so… reluctant of him— unsure of the extent of his morality in the throes of power. But standing before you, you can see he has no intentions to hurt you.

He looks at you as if he’s studying you. Pretty, dark lashes fluttering beneath the movement of his eyes, and you think you see the grip on his cloak tighten for a moment. “You deserve better for your first, princess. Someone soft. Someone whose hands haven’t touched the face of death.”

And he’s right. His reasoning is so right it may be wrong, and you begin to feel sorry for thinking so ill of him at the start of the night. He is trying now, and that is already more than what most receive. 

How much of it is true?

You don’t think much before reaching out and curling your fingers into the cloak on his arm, eyes never leaving his as you step closer, tilting your chin up to size him. “You are my husband now, and I am your wife.” You say, removing the heavy cloak from his hold.

“So long as you are mine and I am yours, we will have no other.”

And something in Eddie’s gaze churns.

Like your words have altered something within him— opened a portal to something you have yet to experience in him.

“I won’t fuck you.” He replies.

Your gaze challenges his, and you don’t think before dropping his cloak to the ground to press your palms against his chest. Two steps and the back of his knees hit the couch, legs buckling beneath him and forcing him to drop onto the plush seat. 

You grasp at your robe and chemise, hiking the thin material up as you gently mount Eddie’s lap, nerves be damned.

Eddie’s hands hover at your hips, but he doesn’t touch you, resistance swimming in his eyes as he gazes up at you. You settle over him, bare thighs touching the rough material of his breeches, your centers ghosting over one another as you lean over him.

“Then I will fuck you.”

He is so articulated with his eyes, bright in the words that refuse to roll off his tongue, and you know you have him caught now.

You lower yourself onto him, shifting your center over his growing bulge, and your body preens at the shaky breath that leaves him. You rest a hand on the back of the seat, nails digging into the stiff material as your other hand settles on the curve of his jaw.

You hadn’t kissed since the ceremony hours earlier when you were still brewing with anger and misfortune— but now, with Eddie’s wide eyes watching you and the brewing heat of pleasure that comes with every drag of your hips, you can’t help but find yourself wanting to feel his lips on yours again.

Eddie, seemingly keeping true to his word, does not show any signs of acting on the intense pull between you, so you take it upon yourself to lower your lips onto his.

He is soft, bittersweet with the taste of wine on his tongue, but it only makes you want more.

You lean into him, body pressing against him as he kisses you back, lips moving in tandem with yours as his hands finally— and hesitantly— touch you.

They leave trails of fire up your skin, coasting up your sides and back, gentle yet firm as he holds the back of your neck and presses into you.

Your hips are steady in movement against his, seeking pleasure with every roll until you can no longer hold back the moan that spills from you. Eddie breathes heavily against your lips when you part, blown eyes focused on you as you crumble beneath the weight of pleasure, chasing that twisting feeling of heat.

He keeps one hand on your neck as the other travels down the expanse of your body, fluid and malleable with the dips and rises of your body. He lands on your hip, gentle fingers pressed against your skin as he follows the flow of your motion. He doesn’t try to take charge, doesn’t dig his fingers into your skin to move you against him in the ways he wants you to, but he’s there.

He is gentle in his guidance, delicate in the way he lets you use him— and he is a sight.

Flushed cheeks and blown eyes, bated breaths, and shaky grasps of restraint. He is war and the solemn peace that comes after.

You want more.

You move in hopes of searching for the ties of his breeches, but he stops you faster than you can move, shaking his head as he speaks with heavy breaths, “Cum like this. Keep going.”

You whimper, hips never having stopped their pace as the pleasure threatens to spill over the edges. It’s an all-encompassing feeling, having Eddie beneath you and encouraging you as you rut up against him, needy to feel that explosion of fire.

It doesn’t take much longer, not with the way Eddie leans up to press soft, fluttery kisses beneath your chin, and you find yourself falling into the abyss of satisfaction, moans and whimpers seeping from you like loose change.

The room seems to spin, candlelight and heat searing through you as you come to, legs shaking on either side of him. But you’re not done.

You kiss him, wet and heavy and needy. Less calculated than the others yet outdoing them by miles.

“Take me to bed,” you pant against his lips, “If you do nothing, do this one thing and take me to our bed.” You say, fingers curled into the soft material of his collar. 

There is a slight edge of reprimand in your words, a taunting lilt— if you don’t want to fuck your wife like a man, the least you can do is carry her to bed— it’s so mean. Yet, it does the job.

Eddie's eyes grow dim, an untamed beast growling to wake in his chest before he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he stands. You are caught in his gaze, chest still rising with bated breaths as he walks away from the couch and towards the bed. 

“Our bed?” He lowly huffs. 

“Against my wishes, yes.”

Your fingers sink into his nicely pulled-back hair, searching for the tie to tug and loosen. His hair falls like a flower in spring, blooming with the dark riches of the earth, orange fire framing his mane of curls. He is beautiful and devastating.

You drop the string, careless where it falls as you run your hands through the soft strands.

Despite the fire radiating through Eddie, he lowers you onto the bed softly, handling you as if you’re a gem, and you squirm when you find yourself missing the heat of him as he stands at the foot of the bed.

He stands before you, tall and brooding, as he untucks his shirt from his breeches, slinking his arms out from the sleeves and letting the thin material drop. 

The reveal of his body is earth-shattering. Mind-numbing. The feeling of awe that overtakes you when you wake up just in time to see how the sun kisses the sea and melts the glass waters. 

He is violent. Sharp and merciless to the mind, a living depiction of the growing demise of the world.

But he is also radiant. Imperfect like a mine of gold, jagged around the edges with cuts and scars that run deeper than you’ll ever know. Inked stories pressed into his skin, thick lines running across his ribs and slithering to his back, hours of pain spent to capture a moment. 

He is so devastatingly beautiful.

The world grows dull in your ears; you hear nothing but the crackling snap of the candles that light the room and the uneven breaths that expel from your chest. Eddie looks at you, steady and calculated, watching you as if hunting you— and you don’t know why, but you find yourself reaching for him.

Your fingers are colder than his body when they touch him, soft tips grazing the sewn skin of his torso, and you leave trails of bumps in their wake as you dance over his skin.

Eddie’s skin is warm beneath your lips, and the steady thump of his heart is so vivid you can almost taste it through the layers of skin, blood, and bone. You gently caress what you can touch, thumbs sliding over raised skin that had once been broken, lips following suit with gentle pecks to each one until Eddie raises his hands to cup your face.

His lips are on yours like hot metal meeting water, sizzling fire and bursting in color. It’s addicting, kissing him. You don’t want to stop.

He presses into you, pushing you back until you’re laid against the bed, steady on your elbows as his ringed hands coast up your legs. So gentle in tow, rough in comparison to your soft skin as they push your gown further up your thighs. The air is cool between your legs, chills dancing up your spine until you shiver and pant against his lips.

Eddie then parts from you, dragging in air like he is greedy for it. His gaze dances over your body as he drags a hand over his mouth, looking at you in seemingly deep thought. He swallows, his resolve loose as the seconds pass before he finally speaks— “Need to be wet.”

Your face twists in confusion, the sheets twisting in your grip as you gaze up at him, “What?”

Eddie sinks to his knees, wordlessly dragging his hands over your thighs as he grumbles, “You need to be wet.” His hands coast up your legs, pushing your chemise up over your hips until you are bare to his eyes. “Wetter than this.” His gaze is hungry yet appreciative, drinking you in as if he will never get another chance to— if he will, you’re not sure. Your face is warm, blooming with shock, and a churning heat that settles in your stomach. 

And you have never had a man kneel before you. You are of high rank, yes, but you are no queen. Neither are you a lord. The people don’t bend a knee to your honor as often as they do to your father, and though you never really understood why men puffed their chest out so high and mighty upon the gesture, you think you understand now as you watch Eddie sink to the floor.

It’s humbling, seeing such a man of his stature relinquish his pride to rest before your feet, and it only gets better when he parts your thighs and leans forward to pepper wet and warm kisses to the insides of your thighs.

You’re shaking already, fists curling into the plush sheets of the bed, chest heaving in ecstasy. The feeling of Eddie’s curls brushing against your thighs makes you tremble, a smile threatening to pull on your lips at the sensation. His lashes flutter as he moves forward, a sense of shock overtaking your body as he pushes his face into the hilt of your cunt, nose pressed to the neatly trimmed hairs of your pelvis before breathing in deep. You whimper, squirming beneath his hold as he noses at you, breathing you in like you’re the last draw of air his lungs will ever receive.

“You smell divine.” He grumbles, voice thick with lust.

You breathe, teeth sharp against the inside of your cheek as you gaze at him with wide eyes, “T-thank you…” Your words fall off in a moan as he drags his tongue against you, through your folds and wetness, humming as if he hadn’t had his fill from the feast.

He leans in more, hooking an arm around your thigh to pull you in before completely devouring you. You can hardly keep your composure, licks of fire running through your veins in pulses as you quiver on Eddie’s tongue. Your vision wavers, eyes fluttering shut as your head tips back, mouth parted in desperate moans as you struggle to keep yourself open for him.

He groans against you, palm heavy on your tummy as the other hand reaches up to drag a thumb over your lips, sinking into the wet heat of your mouth. “Open your eyes,” he says against you, “Look at me.”

It takes everything in you to do so, but you manage, tilting your head back down to look at the man between your thighs.

“I want you to watch.”

Gods— you’re not sure if the air has been sucked out of the room, or you’re just that speechless. But you have no time to figure it out because Eddie is back to licking and sucking at you like his life depends on it. Like you are his last meal on earth. Like your cunt is the fountain of life and he’s spent years searching for it.

You are his altar, his god, and he is your loyal disciple.

The familiar feeling of pressure builds quicker this time, and your grasp on restraint is little to none, so Eddie can feel it when you’re close. He is cruel when he parts from you. A slick, wet sound and a string of spit come with his withdrawal, and it makes your face burn.

You had forgotten how great Eddie is in size with his position beneath you, but you’re reminded when he stands to his full height. You can’t help but watch with hungry eyes as his hands drop to the waist of his breeches, skilled fingers quickly unlacing the ties. 

He is an encapturing scene to watch, his muscles flexing with each movement, stories coming to life with each twist— and you almost become too distracted with it to notice the unveiling of his cock.

But you can not ignore it for long because Eddie… is big.

He had told you so at the feast, and you had taken it with a grain of salt. However, this is no grain of salt before you. This is—

“It’s not as frightening as it looks.”

Your eyes snap to his, wide and no doubt doing nothing to mask your shock. “Well, that is easy for you to say.” You respond.

And for the first time, a genuine laugh spills from Eddie. It’s warming to hear it, a sound that could— arguably— put the mourning doves to shame. And you think you might see little carves of sun in his cheeks. A strong juxtaposition for someone like him to carry an angel's kiss within his smile, yet incredibly appreciative.

He rids himself fully of his trousers, shoes already off, as he kicks them to the side. He is a force of nature as he towers over you, gentle hands brushing against your skin when he cups your face. But he doesn’t take action. No, instead, he steps away and walks towards the side of the bed, climbing up to lay against your pillows.

You watch over your shoulder before turning to him, face twisted in confusion as you ask, “What are you doing?”

Eddie shrugs, “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

You look at him for a moment, a long moment— his thick cock the only thing giving away the state of his desire, which apparently, is enough for you to turn and crawl your way over to him.

You frown as you swing your leg over him to straddle his lap, an annoyed tone in your voice when you speak. “This is wrong, you know?” You huff as you unbutton your chemise.

Eddie watches silently from beneath you, eyes failing to stay trained on your face when you begin to untie the neck of your chemise.

“You are supposed to fuck me. Worship me and show me that you want me.” You grumble as you fully open your chemise, your body on full display.

Between you, Eddie drags a slow fist up his cock, his tip ruddy and wet with excitement. A thrum of shock and sick pleasure twists through your body when he lightly taps his cock against your lower tummy, “Not proof enough for you, princess? Or are you just being greedy?” He teases with a tilt of his head.

Your heart races at the sight— Eddie pressed into your pillows, hair fanned out beneath him, his bare and scarred chest pink beneath your touch as his cock begs to be touched. Your core aches at the sight of him between your thighs, your fingers taking his place as you wrap them around his cock— and he is so warm. So thick and full of weight between your fingers, you can’t help but look up and ask— “Will it hurt as you said?”

Eddie gazes at you, never having stopped, brown eyes blown with desire. He can hear it, the slight tinge of fear in your voice. A warm hand resides beneath your open chemise and rests against your hip, a gentle thumb caressing your hot skin. “I licked you for a reason.”

Though lewd, it does well to ease your nerves. You find the tension in your shoulders lessen, and you hardly pay any mind as you wriggle closer to Eddie, softly sighing when you feel the heat of him. 

It makes your body ache.

He is heavy in your palm as you press him against your core, the soft tip tapping the aching bud of your clit. Your body writhes at the feeling, thighs parting further for him. His grip tightens on your waist, his gaze falling to watch as you paint his tip through your folds and down to your entrance.

You suck in a breath, toes curling in anticipation before you sink onto him. It’s an odd feeling at first, something more like a foreign pressure than pain, but the further you sink down, the more the heat rises and the burn of the stretch eats away at you. Below you, Eddie curses, his head dropping when you pulse around him. You pull in a sharp breath, thighs threatening to close as the first wave of pain washes through you. Eddie returns to reality quickly, looking up at you as he reaches out to pull you forward, cooing at you soft and sweetly, “You’re doing so good. So fucking well, princess. Just relax.”

You try your best, taking steady breaths as you continue to wriggle down into him, but by the time he is pressed to the hilt, you hardly have control over the breathless pants leaving your throat. “I— it’s big. It’s so big,” You shakily breathe. 

His lips are warm against your forehead, pressing soft, warm kisses as you flutter around his cock, the burn slowly but surely becoming bearable. Your hips squirm against him and he hums, praising you and caressing every inch of you whilst making no effort to make you move. 

You don’t know how long you stay seated on his cock, but you can feel yourself stretched to the brim with him and suddenly you want nothing more than to feel it move within you. With your palms pressed into the pillows beside Eddie’s head, you find stability on your palms and knees before dragging your hips up, slow and steady— and your vision goes white.

It is indescribable, the feeling of Eddie’s cock pressed so snugly against your wet walls, the feeling of him dragging through you slow enough for you to still feel the lingering burn mixed with that dull tease of pleasure. And you can feel Eddie physically holding back. Can see it swimming in his eyes when he looks up at you.

He wants to ravish you.

He wants to push himself into you so deep you won’t know where he ends and you begin.

He is a brooding force of desire and lust and power, and he could very well do it within the blink of an eye, yet… he doesn’t.

He stays beneath you, hands shaking with impulse as they drag up your sides to softly cup your breasts. His chest rises and falls shakily, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he lets you drag your cunt up and down his length.

He watches your body move, eyes seemingly overwhelmed with where to focus— and you don’t even think he meant for you to hear it when he says, “You are so beautiful.”

You whimper at his admission, head lolling back as you sink down onto him again and again. He kisses your neck, wet and hungry, and your body keens when he wraps his lips around your pert nipple, rough thumb dragging over the other, “Such pretty tits. All mine now.” He mutters.

“Is it—” You can hardly breathe when you fully sink onto him again, it feels like his cock is lodged between your lungs, but god it’s so good. “Is it g-good for you?” You ask.

His hands tighten on your hips, face twisting in pleasure for just a moment before he grunts out a response— “Fuck. Yeah, yeah, keep going.” His voice is low and rough and it sends shivers up your spine as you grind your hips into his. “Is it good for you?” He asks. 

Your mind goes blank for a moment— you hadn’t imagined he’d care, not when he’s so vividly troubled between the throes of his pleasure and the fight to sustain his composure. You drop onto him, harder than before, your cunt fluttering around him as you whimper in pleasure and respond, “Yes.”

He smiles at the action, his cock pulsing within you at the sound of your bliss. You do it again, this time both of your resolves cracking, a broken moan slipping from you as Eddie grunts, fingers digging crescent moons into your skin. 

You lean over him and press a hand to his jaw, a thumb dragging across his lips as your breath hitches, watery eyes gazing into his as the stretch burns through your hips and thighs. Your face twists in a mix of unrecognizable pleasure, a mix of pain and fear, but overall— “Show me.”— curiosity. 

How does Eddie want? How does Eddie need? Is he greedy? Rough? Angry? Or is he soft and kind— just like this?

The clench of his hands on your waist says otherwise.

Eddie shakes his head, jaw clenching as you drag his cock out of your wet, warm heat, just the tip caught in your pulsing entrance as your body shudders at the feeling. You sink back onto him, veins running against your velvet walls as you shakily breathe, “Show me, Eddie.” You say again, your other hand sinks into his hair, nails dragging against his scalp.

“I want to know what you like—” “It isn’t kind.”

Your heart races then— will he hurt you? Will he beat you like you’ve heard other women whisper about their own husbands. A feeling churns in the pit of your stomach, his rough hand dragging over your chest to palm at your breast.

“...Show me.”

Earth, dark and rich, pools swirling with lust as they gaze at you. Eddie’s chest is like restless waters beneath your palms— rising and falling— the beast gnashing its teeth, hungry for something between its jaws.

You give yourself right into him. Placing your gentle nature amongst his riot— you’re unsure if you’ll thank yourself or hate yourself later.

Eddie presses his feet onto your bed, fingers tight on your waist as his hips press into you— as if he could get any deeper than he already is. If he could, you think you would die. Your moan breaks around a sob, one hand grappling to hold one of his as your other curls against his chest and your head falls, your knees digging into Eddie’s sides.

One pull out and one push in— hard and fast— it has you seeing stars. He knocks the breath out of you, his cock so wide and deep in you that you fear you’ll be feeling him for days after this. You don’t care enough to be embarrassed about how much you're gushing around him, or the jumbled moans and words that tumble from your mouth with each punishing thrust. 

Eddie groans beneath you, fingers tight on your hips as he picks you up and drops you on his cock like you’re nothing but a toy. He’s punching out staccato moans from you, that beast thrashing in his chains— so close to freedom and yet…

“Fucking cunt’s sucking me in like I paid you for it— shit.” Eddie curses, briefly letting his head drop onto your pillows before easing back up to watch where he pounds up into you. You whimper, an annoying warm twist in your belly from his words despite the disgust that tumbles from your tongue— “As if I’d ever take your money.”

Eddie’s brown eyes snap up to yours, a growl rumbling deep in his chest before he slinks a hand up your body and around your neck. He squeezes, hard enough to have your toes curl and your nails dig into his chest. He drags you down, hovering your face above his as he drills into you, his other hand grabbing a handful of your ass to help him bounce you on his cock. “You can act as if you are above me all you want, princess,” He pants against your lips, fingers tight on your neck, “But who’s cock are you about to come on, hm?” He lowly asks.

Fuck.

You aren’t sure if your lungs exist anymore. You think there might just be a big, gaping hole in your body— an empty space where Eddie’s cock has carved its way into. Because you can not breathe when you fall apart above Eddie.

You can hardly see or think. You definitely can’t speak. And beneath you, Eddie hums as if he’s some sort of demon and he’s satisfied now that your soul has left your body.

You are speechless from the overwhelming feeling of bliss, and it intensifies when Eddie hits his peak, emptying himself into you with moans so beautiful you would call anything else that reaches your ears after this a disgrace. 

It’s warm, the feeling of his cum seeping into you, and it makes your body feel as if it’s boiling, but you sink into it either way, chasing the filling sensation that erupts within you.

Beneath you, though he had just defiled your body and had nearly strangled you, Eddie is spewing out soft words in appreciation, promises of keeping you forever, making a home, keeping you round and full with his babies. If you had known better, and you do, you would say he is drunk on the feeling. You think you might be as well.

And if the feeling only exists in this room— where Eddie holds you like you’re the last piece of soul he has on earth, where he is warm and throbbing inside of you and you can almost swear you share one set of lungs— then you never want to leave.

Morning light comes quicker than you had hoped. 

After a night spent with incessant writhing as Eddie plowed into you more times than you could care to count, you wake with an aching body and a soft pull of a shy smile threatening your lips. 

Between your thighs, you ache, but it is somewhat of a welcomed feeling knowing where it came from. The breeze of warm ocean-scented air drifts through your chambers like a song, and the sheets are soft against your skin as you stretch your sleep-weighted limbs.

Flashes of yesterday come to you with each moment you spend waking. Anger and frustration, worry of what the next chapter brings, betrayal of having to give your hand to another as you came to terms with the fact that your hand was never yours to begin with. You were always a pawn in the game. You were naive to think otherwise.

Understanding and acceptance, opening your world to the favors of the man who is now your husband. Desire and lust and the bittersweet fruits of passion. It comes crashing down on you like a rogue wave.

You are a wife now. You no longer only live for yourself but for and with another as well— and it is jarring to try and understand.

Still, you are thankful Eddie seems to be… less than what he is known to be. Maybe he is more than what is believed— of course, in the sense that he is not some monstrous being that lives and breathes to destroy everything in its path.

He is not easy to read yet, no, that will come with time. But you are hopeful in the sense that you believe you may be able to live with him without hating all you have become.

And anyway, now that you have fully acknowledged yesterday and the fact that you are now married, you wonder— where is your husband?

You leave bed, limbs cracking and popping at the stretch as you throw your chemise over your naked body. You shrug a robe over for the sake of your decency and slip your feet into the nearest pair of silk slippers, shuffling over to the door. Your hand settles on the doorknob before the door swings open, barely missing you.

Eddie steps in, brown eyes roving over you as you gaze at him in slight shock from his abrupt entrance. His eyes drop to your chest, the soft material of your robe having opened when you stepped back to give him space. You cover yourself, face heating in embarrassment as you clear your throat.

Eddie blinks, stepping further into the room to let the door close, “Pack your things; we leave for Ironhold tonight.”

Your face twists in confusion as you step away, furthering your distance from him, “What? Why?”

Eddie lowly huffs, turning away and pacing towards your dresser, yanking a drawer open, “I don’t know if you noticed, but your father is on the brink of war.” He grumbles as he pulls out various articles of your clothing. You march over to him, grabbing your clothes from his hands and stuffing them back into the drawer before slamming it closed. “Why do I have to go?” You frown. Eddie turns to you and looks at you as if you’re a pain in his ass— you want nothing more than to slap the look off his face.

“Because the council demanded I bring you.”

Your chest brews with a strong sense of annoyance— your father’s council has always found ways to prod and poke at your peace. And have they not done enough within the last day?

You hardly realize you’re pacing out of your room, quick strides carrying you down the wide hallways, ignoring the greetings of maids because how can you think straight when you have just been ordered to leave your home?

The knights at the door of the council chamber don’t ask why you’re there; the fury in your steps says enough to make them drag the heavy doors open.

“I won’t go.”

The councilmen are no strangers to your sharp tongue. Since you were a child, you were never one to willingly bend to their absurd demands— you want me to do this? Then you do this— and they hate it.

The meeting has yet to finish; they are all seated, seemingly still in conversation— but you don’t care, your gaze set on your father— the man at the center of it all. He drags in a breath, shifting in his seat; the slow tap of his finger against the table shows his patience with you— you have never given him an easy day in your life, and he knows your anger best. Which is why he doesn’t hesitate to respond, “You will go.”

You step further into the room, passing the council members to stand at your father's side, the heavy, stone table cold beneath your palms when you lean down to face him. “I will have nothing to do with your corrupt and murderous war.” You sneer.

Across the table, a councilman who is watching the entire interaction barks out a laugh, “My lady, you lost that choice when you married him.”

Your body burns hot and red, frustration pumping through you in riveting waves— that was not your fault. “That was against my wishes. You forced my hand.” You remind them all.

“So you say,” Your father says with a dismissive tone. He taps against the table again, “You owe a service to your country—” “I owe a service to our people. Not your politics.” You snap.

“I will not go.” You slowly repeat.

Your father’s gaze is bothered and bored when he looks at you; a long pause of silence before he speaks, “You are married now. You go where your husband goes—” he lifts a finger to silence you when you try to talk, “You will accompany him in solidarity, and you will provide him the love and care of a good wife— do not forget that he is helping us. He is helping our country— your people.” He mocks your last words. “You will go with him if it is to be the last thing you ever do, am I understood?”

The room, though physically quiet, is loud in suffocating domination. You gaze at the stone table. You remember when you were a child and sat on your father’s knee, here in the council chamber, and you wanted nothing more than to fill his space when you grew older. You know now that his chair was crafted for no one but him.

Your voice is stern when you speak again, “I am not a mercenary.” 

The councilman speaks again, “No, but you are a woman— a wife now. This is now your assignment.”

You stared at your chamber door for some time— how long, you’re not sure, but you feel the heat of your anger as if it’s been there for years. You are no longer your own. You’re now the property of the council, told what to do and expected to follow through with no complaints, and this is only the second time you have felt it hit full force— the first being the second a ring was slipped onto your finger.

You’re being pulled away from your home now, the place you know best, the place that has kept you safe, healthy, and free. The place you’ve grown to love and know— you’re being ripped away from it and it fuels the fire within you.

You pack your things with angry hands, grabbing clothes and necessities and tossing them onto your bed in a disordered manner. Robin steps in just after noon, eyes widening when she sees the heap of clothes on your bed.

“They’re forcing me to go with him.” You huff.

Robin walks towards you where you angrily fold your clothes, stuffing them into bags with an angry scowl. Robin places a hand on your arm, a gentle suggestion to let her take over.

You huff and step away, turning towards the window of your room facing out towards your city's port. “As I have heard,” Robin softly says as she begins folding your things, “I will be with you the whole way.” She tries to comfort you. It’s kind, and although it does ease you a little bit, it’s not enough to put out the burning embers in your gut.

Out in the port, you watch as Eddie’s men prepare the ships, hauling heavy crates of goods and weapons onto the deck. Eddie is there too, on the deck of the biggest ship, pushing crates and barking orders, telling them where to put containers and what shipments go on which boat. He commands like it’s second nature. Hardly thinking about it as he flicks his wrist to gesture towards a ship, never having to repeat an order twice because his men hear him, and they obey him.

You grimace at the sight of him, annoyed that you’re about to be stuck on a ship for him for at least two weeks.

“He is insufferable, Robin.” You grumble, eyes trained on him down at the port.

“One moment he is sincere and kind and the next minute he is the complete opposite. You should have seen him last night,” you say, briefly turning to look at her, “He was like a shapeshifter. And to think I’m bound to him til death— gods, nothing could be worse.” You grumble.

You’re brewing in silent anger, watching the chaos from above as Robin softly sighs.

“I wish he would just disappear.” You softly whisper.

And you do… you think. The only good thing Eddie has brought you was quivering legs and a few purple bruises between your thighs. 

Robin drags in a deep breath as she walks over to you, her shoulder touching yours as you both gaze out into the port. “It will get better, I’m sure, my lady.” She softly says.

Eddie’s ship is not what you had imagined it to be.

In stories and word of mouth, the Lord of Death sails on ships made of bones and steel, with a putrid scent of burning flesh and echoing screams of torture to complete it.

It’s terrifying to imagine. Appalling to hear and nearly impossible not to gasp at, but somehow, the moment you stepped onto the ship, no overwhelming sense of death hit you. Instead, you were greeted with curt nods and quick, warm hellos— surprisingly good hospitality seeing as the men you’ll be stuck with are brooding with rage and a thirst for blood.

Eddie’s quarters are adequate. Where Eddie has a character that exudes chaos and disarray, his quarters are somewhat cleaner than you had expected.

There is a large desk to the right, books upon books stacked on the floor and shoved into the bookcase on the wall behind it. There’s not much room, so aside from the desk and the books, there’s a sofa that rests beneath the window and a bed off to the left of the room. It’s a shameful sight of a bed, but it is now your reality.

Upon boarding this ship, you were under the impression that you would be sleeping somewhere else given the unfortunate circumstances of your presence and rather strained relationship, but after a short (and exasperating) discussion, Eddie told you it would be ridiculous for you to sleep anywhere that is out of his sight on a ship full of men. So, despite your heart's desires, you begrudgingly agreed that it would be best that you just stay in the captain's quarters… with Eddie.

You are not so excited about staying with him.

Along with Robin and your few bags of clothes, Steve has also tagged along despite Eddie’s clear and strong distaste towards him and his ‘unnecessary need to protect you’ as Eddie had said it. 

“Steve goes everywhere I go; he is my guard.”

“I’ll give you a new one in Ironhold. A real one.”

Your face pinches in annoyance, “Steve is a real guard, he’s a sworn knight.” You argue. 

“He’s an amateur.” Eddie grumbles. 

“Well, I only want Steve—” “Oh, would you like to fuck him as well?” Eddie pressed. You looked at him for a moment, realizing this was not an argument of your safety, but one of possession. “Steve is coming. End of discussion.”

Because Steve is your guard. His father was your guard when you were little, and when Steve became old enough and well-crafted with a sword, he became your guard. He has never left your side since and he won’t be doing so anytime soon just because Eddie has some unspoken problem with him. Steve was the deciding factor that you would be sleeping in Eddie’s quarters, even though Eddie refrained from saying it— you can tell.

RedGate is now nowhere in sight, and the only thing you can see through the cabin window is miles of nothing but water and sky. It’s been only a few hours since you left shore, but you are already feeling the burning rocks of yearning beginning to settle within you. 

Or maybe it’s just brewing anger that’s hot within you.

Eddie’s desk is clear of papers and has been replaced with plates of warm food and bread, and across from you sits none other than your beloved husband. It is silent in the cabin, save for the humming noise of the rocking ship and the occasional clinking of Eddie’s utensils. And despite the fact that the meal looks good, you haven’t moved an inch to even try it.

Eddie takes note of this after a few bites of his dinner, glancing up at you as he chews his food, jaw prominent under work. He gestures to the table with his fork, “Are you going to sit there and stare until it rots?”

Your gaze flickers from your plate to the brown eyes watching you. They look like thick honey under the candlelight, and you hate that it stirs your insides. He nods towards the food before you, “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

As if you are a child.

“Do you enjoy telling me what to do? Is that the kind of power you seek in a union?” You prod.

Eddie looks at you, chewing his food as he drops his fork and knife on his plate to rest his fists against the table. He swallows, eyes never leaving you as he shrugs, “If you do not want to eat then—” You don’t care to let him finish before you cut him off, “Because I will warn you now, it will be easier for you to cut off your fighting arm and learn to wield a sword with your other than to tame me to be your pet.”

Honey light spills across Eddie’s face, silky smooth tendrils framing his face and casting shadows— and you think you see a ghost of a smile on his lips, but you don’t see well enough before his lips start moving, “I have hounds in Ironhold, I do not need a pet.”

Your eyes subtly narrow, “You’re clever.”

“And you’ll starve,” Eddie drags in a breath as he picks up his utensils again, “Eat.”

You don’t bother moving to reach for your fork and instead reply, “Shouldn’t captains eat with their crew?”

Eddie gazes at you for a long moment, letting your question hang in the air as he cuts his food— and from here, you can see why people are so afraid of him: he glares like his gaze is meant to kill.

He finally drops his gaze from you, focused on his plate, as he replies, “I am a married man now. I should dine with my wife.”

To which you can’t help but scoff, rolling your eyes as you shift in your chair, “Please,” you scoff, “I thought the people of Ironhold do not follow tradition.” You say, reminding him of the conversation he had with your mother right before you left. Your mother had scolded you for being difficult about your situation as you pleaded that there was no reason for you to accompany Eddie on his journey home. 

“I’m sure you have a tradition for newlyweds in Ironhold— you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?” Your mother pointed out. To which Eddie softly laughed, “We’re not a traditional family, my lady.” 

Eddie grumbles, cutting into his food and still avoiding your gaze as he responds, “That was a lie to get your mother to relent for your and my sake. My people are built on tradition, everyone knows that.”

You watch as he eats, his words turning your head— it was almost as if he was implying your mother isn’t well-versed in her history— and she is. You relent and pick up your fork, pushing at your food before you softly say, “She’s only looking out for me.”

Eddie still does not look at you when he replies, “Good for her then.”

And Eddie’s walls are thick and tall. Indestructible from your point of view. You had hope last night, but now he is as cold as he was at the feast, if not more. And even though this is not ideal for you, it would be foolish of you to not at least try to make it work— at least for your father’s purpose. What does it take to ignite the man from yesterday?

You stare at Eddie for a moment, the candle flickering against his features. Soft and beautiful in this light, always. Your nails dig into the skin of your palms as your fists clench before you abruptly rise from your seat, “You are insufferable.” You huff, tossing your napkin on your unfinished plate and walking away towards the bed.

“If I’m so insufferable, join the fish.”

You scoff out a laugh, forcefully rearranging the pillows and blankets on the bed with a scowl on your face, “Believe me,” you huff, “I would want nothing more than to leave this god-forsaken ship. Anywhere far away from you and this vessel of death.”

Eddie laughs, a screech of his plate bouncing through the room as he replies, “I can guarantee you won’t find that place in my bed, darling.”

Gods, the smug manner of his words infuriates you. You opt to stop replying, busying yourself with getting the bed ready for your rest. Eddie takes a deep breath and sighs, “You have barely eaten, you can not go to bed.”

“I’m not bloody hungry.” You snap

“Stop being difficult.” Eddie huffs.

You manage to tune out the noise of Eddie cutting and eating his food, paying no mind as you begin to undo the laces of your dress. You focus on untying your dress, becoming frustrated when the intricate lacing does not bend to your will because— god, the dressmaker really loves to make your gowns extravagant and storytelling, but it is times like these when you curse him for such talent.

And in the frustration of your dress and your situation, you must’ve missed the tapping of Eddie’s boots on the hardwood floor, only realizing his presence when it’s too late and he presses a warm hand to your arm.

You jolt with a breath, body colliding with Eddie’s hard chest. “Let me,” He says. You shrug yourself away from him, elbow digging into his chest as you huff and continue twisting and prodding at the strings, “I don’t need your help.” You sneer.

Eddie’s hands are firm this time when he touches you, steady and demanding, and flashes of last night roll behind your eyes. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He grumbles, gentle but annoyed as he pushes your hands away. 

You give in, seeing as he is your best way out of this damned dress, and neither of you say anything as he weaves the strings in and out of one another.

His touch is a path of fire, knuckles brushing down the middle of your back, shivers splitting like roots through your bones when you feel the cool air of his breath.

So gentle and affirming, much like the touch you knew just hours ago. As quick as it comes, it goes, and the cracking sound of silence is gone with the clearing of Eddie’s throat.

“It gets cold at sea.”

You clench your jaw, teeth-gritting against one another as you step out of your dress, a loose slip keeping you modest. “Do you think I have never sailed before?”

You glance at Eddie, raising an eyebrow as you neatly fold your dress. Eddie says nothing, jaw clenching as his fingers curl towards his palm for a moment. He paces back behind his desk and sits, ignoring you as you move about the room and he continues eating. You get into the bed— it’s stiff and hard, and the sheets are nothing like the sheets you have at home— but there’s no point in complaining, is there?

You turn your back to Eddie, shutting your eyes in defiance as you try to force yourself to sleep. But… that noise. That constant noise of chewing and utensils clicking, jesus christ— “Could you eat in a quiet manner?” You snap.

You don’t turn to look at Eddie, your body still facing the wooden wall that lines your side of the bed— but you can feel his stare. It burns against your shoulders and spine, heat trickling up the back of your neck despite the cool temperatures of the room.

“This is as quiet as I can be.” He finally responds.

And god, he’s such an asshole.

“Then you’re an imbecile.” You grumble back.

Eddie hums, dragging in a breath as he continues to eat, “Not far off from you then, princess. You’re going to freeze.” He says, an etch of annoyance dancing around the edges of his voice.

You roll your eyes, though he can’t see, “I’d rather freeze to death than be stuck here with you.” You respond. 

And when you expect to get some annoying and rude response, you only get a huff of a laugh and more clinking of plates and forks. As if he doesn’t care that you’d just implied death is more welcoming than the thought of being with him. Though you can’t see him and refuse to turn to do so, you imagine a pained expression on his face— or maybe an angry one— either way, the picture paints in your mind beautifully and you let it dance there behind your eyelids until you fall into a deep sleep.

The room is dark when your eyes flutter, barely able to fully open.

It is still night, the moon bright in the window above the sofa. Eddie is gone, his desk clear of dinner and replaced with his usual stack of scrolls and books. He is not beside you; and though the extra heat would’ve been pleasant, you don’t mind his absence. The boat softly groans against the small waves, the sound pulling you back under the arms of sleep.

And just before you feel the weight of sleep covering you again, you glance down at the bed you are laying in, more blankets spread over you than you remember there being when you fell asleep. You don’t have the time to feel your face warm before your eyes shut and your body falls limp once again.

And in the morning, you refuse to eat breakfast at the table.

When Eddie was a boy, his mother drowned at sea.

He doesn’t remember much of his mother, but from the tall portraits that hang in the vast castle halls, he knows she was beautiful. 

At night, when Eddie feels the most restless, he walks the gallery and studies his mother's portraits, tries to commit as much as he can to memory, and cling to it as if she’s still here. A part of him feels guilty for forgetting his mother; what her voice sounded like, what she smelled like, what she hated, and what she loved. He remembers none of it.

Some parts of Eddie he likes to believe came from his mother. There are the physical parts; her curly hair, her brown eyes, her sharp structure. And there are the other parts, the parts from within; his intelligence, his stubbornness, his strong-willed nature. Eddie inherited them all from her.

At the passing of his mother, Eddie loathed the sea for its treacherous waters that took her from him, and he swore to always carry the resentment in him. But it is hard.

It’s hard when you spend most days of the year bending to its will. It’s hard when the sound of her swishing waves lulls him to sleep most nights. It’s hard to hate the sea when the sea is what knows him best.

He can not sleep tonight. His mind is busy with a whirlwind of thoughts; tasks that need him, things he left unfinished back home, people he needs to see, and— you. It always swings back to you.

He’s been pacing on the deck for nearly an hour now. Trekking to one side of the boat to gaze at the still and dark waters before growing bored and switching sides.

Robin interrupts his silent storm, raspy voice nearly causing him to jump when she speaks, “You do know there are people sleeping below deck, yes?”

Eddie glances over his shoulder, stares wide-eyed as if seeing a ghost, and almost believes he is considering Robin's white gown. He clears his throat, looking away and clenching his grasp on the ship's rails, “Sorry. I did not think I was loud.”

Robin huffs out a laugh, stepping up to the rails, a good distance between them but enough for him to hear over the roar of the waters, “It’s wood. Sound travels. I would assume you, as a sailor, would surely know this.”

He does, though he does not care to point it out or pay mind— again, too busy with other things.

“What troubles you?”

Eddie glances at the woman, scoffs a laugh, and shakes his head, “Nothing you could fix.”

The wind whips around them, wisps of hair brushing across Eddie’s face, salt filling his lungs. Robin hums, “Sometimes it’s nice to talk…”

Eddie thinks for a moment. Considers the waves below him, sees his mother's face in them, catches a glimpse of the rippling moon, and sees you. Hears you. Almost thinks he can feel you. He clears his throat, looking at the sky for a moment, “There’s a losing war I’m joining,” He starts, “Ironhold is starving, I owe debts I don’t think I can ever repay, and my wife— she hates me.”

It’s been six days now. Six days since you and Eddie joined hands, and you just can’t seem to see eye-to-eye. One would think with the sex being as good as it is, the resentment would lessen tenfold— but no. Days go by where you don’t even say a word to Eddie. You refuse to eat with him, you grumble when you have to sleep next to him, and on the days that you do speak to him, it’s never a kind word. 

But Eddie isn’t innocent either. He plays your game just as dirty; says sly and mean things to you, and only ever really tolerates you during the few times you’re on top or below him— hell, most hours he even goes the extra mile to make himself busy with tasks that are usually left for his crew just so he can avoid you. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only way either of you can exist without wanting to fling the other overboard.

“You avoid her.”

“There’s work to be done around here.”

Robin scoffs a laugh, “I’ve sailed many times in my life, and never once have I seen a captain scrub the deck.” She points out. “How will you get to know her when you can hardly spend a day with her?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, frustration bubbling in his chest, “I don’t want to know her. It’s better this way. Easier.” Which is true. Eddie may come off as cruel, but he’s doing this for the both of you. Keeping you at arm's length, in the long run, will make life easier for both of you.

“It doesn’t seem easier from this point of view.”

Eddie drags in a deep breath, turning to Robin, “It doesn’t matter what it looks like to you. Our marriage is political, it doesn’t have to be anything more and it never will be. For the sake of peace, don’t encourage it to be something bigger.”

Robin looks at Eddie as if she can see right through him. Sear the skin off his bones and see to his heart, the true and devastating foundations of Eddie Munson. 

Eddie hates it.

Robin takes a short breath, shifts on her feet and tips her head, “You can learn to co-exist, you know?”

Eddie nearly forgot Robin was even there. He glances at her, freckled face and soft eyes watching him, picking him apart. 

“It doesn’t have to be a beautiful harmony, but… you both know the circumstances of your marriage, I'm sure you could both come to an understanding if you just… talked.”

Eddie looks away and grunts in response, fingers curling over the railing. “She is smarter than you think.” She adds.

“I don’t underestimate her wit.” Eddie quickly corrects. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

“She shouldn’t want to.”

“So you expect her to happily lie with a stranger? Protect a stranger? Risk her cause for a stranger?” Robin challenges. “She lost more than you see. She’s grieving.”

Grieving. What could you possibly know about grieving? A noble woman who’s only ever known sunshine and the riches of your father’s work. If anything, Eddie just feels sorry that he’s ripped you from the luxury he’s always wanted.

Eddie grips the railing, leaning forward slightly, annoyance bubbling through him as he acknowledges Robin's words. At the very least, Eddie should make sure you don’t hate his entire being. You carry his name now. You hold the title of his home— his people will look to you as an emblem. Having this division between you two— it’s not only putting your image at stake, but his as well.

You swore a promise to the council, a promise to your father and your people and despite the tensions between you and the world you’ve grown to detest, you’ve done a damn good job at never losing sight of your duty— no matter how much you despise it.

But how long until you grow tired of him? How long until you destroy him for all his worth? How long until you realize you and Eddie will never be the same? You are like oil and water.

Eddie can admit you're good for the game you were forced to play a hand in. You have the strength to withstand any obstacle thrown your way. He just can’t say he’s all that happy to play a part in it— not when half of his name resides on your shoulders.

“She can not read your mind. Talk to her.”

Eddie glances towards Robin again, watching as she turns and walks away, back to sleep he supposes. And Eddie is left with this new task of having to figure this out— figure out what is best for the stability of this union in the eyes of the crown and his home. 

Eddie hates to admit it, but Robin is right. He will have to set aside his pride and meet you in the middle, no matter how much it pains him.

part two.

————

a/n: OH EM GEEEE, guys this has been in my google docs for over a year LMAOO, I'm SHOCKED she's seeing the light of day honestly. if you've made it to the end of this chapter, thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoy the ride if you choose to stick around !!!

as always, thank u for reading and being here, ily and love appreciate any form of feedback <3 THERE'S MORE TO COME, ILY MWAH <3

————

cutesy lil royal taglist: @munson-blurbs @ali-r3n @rogueinmymind @pretty-vulture @jasminelafleur @georgeweasleyslostearhq @emxxblog @3rd-conchord @leelei1980 @t00thfairy20 @bl00d-puppy @hereforshmut

@sst0txx @mdurdenpitt @stylesxmunson @l1ving-d3ad-girl-69 @chaoticgood-munson @sirensleepingsoundly @missjadesfics @awkward00noodle @darknesseddiem

[this-is-tiny-mia]

White Frosting (H.S. Blurb)

General Masterlist dadrry! x fem!reader pregnant!reader

Summary: Based on this request. A fluffy look into Y/N and Harry’s life as soon-to-be parents of two — snow, cravings, bedtime cuddles, and their curious 5-year-old keeping things interesting.

A/n: Hello my loves, here is a little blurb of a request i had from @harrys-wifeyy (thanks for that! btw) i loved writing this little moments.

Word count: 1.6k

It was past midnight when he heard you shifting.

The soft rustle of the blanket, a few sleepy groans — Harry had always been a heavy sleeper, but ever since becoming a father, he woke at the tiniest sound. That night was no exception. He knew this second pregnancy was hitting you like a wall of bricks, and he had been especially attentive lately. Yes, even at 1 a.m.

You kept moving, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was pointless. You needed to sit up, stretch, maybe drink something warm. The baby inside you was either practicing soccer or training for the Olympics.

With a long sigh, you finally sat up — not even bothering to open your eyes — and within seconds, you felt two warm hands on your back.

“Mmm… H go to sleep,” you mumbled. But the words didn’t match how you felt. You melted instantly at his touch.

“No, I’m practicing for the midnight cries,” he said. Only he could make a joke at 3 a.m. while half-asleep.

“You’re crazy,” you muttered, letting out a tiny moan of comfort as his hands moved gently over your back.

“You’re pregnant,” he replied simply — no further explanation necessary.

You chuckled softly, one hand rubbing your belly. “I think I need some tea,” you said, starting to shift off the bed.

But before you could fully sit up, his hands were on your shoulders, gently pushing you back down.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, already standing up and heading for the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

Two minutes passed, and you were now cradling a cup of tea with both hands, staring out the window as the snow fell outside. Once again, a pair of warm hands moved gently across your back, soothing and familiar. Everything was quiet, and under his touch, your eyes began to flutter shut again.

Until

“Daddy?” came a tiny voice, sleepy and soft.

You both turned slightly. There she was — one hand rubbing at her eye, the other clutching her little blanket.

“Can I sleep here?”

“C’mere,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “Mommy needs to be comfortable tonight, so stay on my side, okay?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, half-asleep, and curled up against him without another word.

You finished the last sip of your tea and set the cup down, sliding back into bed with a sigh. Your body relaxed instantly. Everything felt a little better again.

—----

It was snowing heavily, so neither of you could go to work or send Maeve to kindergarten. Naturally, the three of you decided the best way to spend the day was by baking cakes. “Okay, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” said Harry, staring at his poorly shaped cake with the kind of determination that didn’t quite match the results.

You, of course, were irritatingly good at it. Among your many random talents, making heart-shaped cakes had somehow made the list. Yours looked perfectly neat, like you’d been doing it professionally for years — the way you frosted it so effortlessly only added to the illusion.

Meanwhile, your husband and five-year-old were staring at their “heart-shaped” creation, trying to figure out why it resembled something closer to a lopsided duck.

“It’s a duck,” said Maeve, pointing at it.

“I think it’s a pig, Maeve,” Harry said, as if he were delivering very serious news.

“It’s a duck,” she repeated, completely unfazed.

Harry melted just a little at the sound of her voice. “It’s a duck then,” he surrendered instantly, giving in to his little girl without a fight.

“Mommy is doing a heart!” Maeve suddenly exclaimed, her eyes wide as she looked at your cake.

“Yeah, Mommy’s a show-off, right?” Harry teased, grinning over at you.

“Mommy is doing her best,” you said with a chuckle. “And actually… I have a surprise.”

Harry and Maeve exchanged a confused glance, then looked back at you, and then at the perfectly white, heart-shaped cake sitting on the counter.

“Inside this cake, there’s either blue or pink frosting,” you explained easily. “If it’s blue, that means I’m having a boy. If it’s pink, it means I’m having a girl.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. Maeve giggled, clearly delighted by the sudden twist.

“I got the email this morning,” you added, grinning as you watched Harry’s expression shift from shocked to speechless.

He looked at you, then at the cake again, completely floored. “You’re serious?”

You just nodded, your smile growing. “Go ahead,” you said, handing him the knife. “Cut it.”

Harry quickly grabbed the knife and moved to Maeve’s side, gently wrapping her small hand in his. Together, they carefully began to cut into the cake.

You watched them with your heart racing, barely able to contain your excitement. You already knew what was coming — and you couldn't wait to see their reactions.

Harry had been so eager to find out and neither of them had noticed when you’d quickly mixed in the colored frosting for the big reveal. They’d been too focused on shaping their cake into something that vaguely resembled a heart.

And now… the knife sliced through the soft white frosting, and as Harry lifted the first slice, a soft streak of blue peeked out from the inside.

Maeve gasped. “Blue!”

Harry froze, staring at the slice in disbelief. Then he looked up at you, eyes wide and already a little teary..

“It’s a boy?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, biting your lip to keep from tearing up. “It’s a boy.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything — just stared at the cake, then at Maeve, then back at you. Then he laughed, breathless and amazed, before pulling Maeve into his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re gonna have a baby brother, Maeve,” he said, his voice cracking a little.

Maeve blinked. “Can I name him Olaf?”

You let out a small laugh, and Harry groaned, resting his forehead against her curls.

“Let’s… put it on the list,” he said, smiling through it all.

Then he turned to you, reaching out with one hand, pulling you into the hug — careful, gentle, warm.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your hair. “Thank you for this.”

“Thank you for building this family” “We both did”

—-

It wasn’t even late, but the sky outside was already dim and heavy with clouds, and the cold had sunk deep into the walls of the house. You were curled up on the couch under two blankets, hands resting on your belly, when the craving hit — sudden and urgent.

“Harry,” you called, half whining. “I need hot chocolate. With whipped cream. And those little marshmallows, but the American brand that they have on the café around the block, Please.” “That’s quite specific” He said “Please?” you said again doing puppy eyes.

From down the hallway, you heard the unmistakable rustling of layers — coats, scarves, something that sounded like him wrestling with his second pair of socks. He looked absolutely ridiculous — three layers of sweaters, a beanie that barely covered his ears, and his winter coat already half-zipped. “Are you sure you need it?”

You gave him the look.

He sighed dramatically, already reaching for his gloves. “Alright, alright. You’re growing a human. I’ll go brave the Arctic tundra for some whipped cream and american mini marshmallows.”

“You’re my hero,” you said sweetly.

He pointed a gloved finger at you. “You better name this baby after me.”

“You want to name him Harry Styles?”

He paused at the door. “You know what? It has a ring to it. Kind, Special, That’s a great name, Harry” he said teasing obviously. You both aughed and as he wrestled with his coat by the door, a little voice piped up from behind the couch.

“I want hot chocolate too,” Maeve said, peeking her head over the backrest, her cheeks pink from the warmth of her blanket fort.

You turned to her with a smile. “You were supposed to be napping.”

“I was,” she shrugged, crawling out with her favorite stuffed bunny. “But then I heard chocolate.”

Harry groaned, turning around mid-zip. “So now I’m getting two hot chocolates?”

“Three,” Maeve corrected. “Bunny wants one too.”

He blinked at the both of you. “This baby has turned my whole house against me.”

Maeve giggled and ran over to him, holding up her little mittened hands. “Can I come?”

Harry squatted down and looked her seriously in the eye. “Maeve, it’s cold. Like… so cold I had to put socks over my other socks.”

Maeve considered this, then looked back at you. “Can we wait by the window and wave when Daddy comes back?”

You nodded. “Of course. We’ll be your hot chocolate welcoming team.”

Harry smiled, kissed the top of her head, then leaned in to kiss your forehead too. “Alright. Operation Cocoa is a go.”

—--

The house was quiet, blanketed in that peaceful hush that only came with a long, snowy day. Maeve had fallen asleep in the big bed, curled up between you and Harry, one tiny hand resting on your belly like she already knew she had a job to do — big sister mode.

Harry was lying on his side, watching you quietly in the dim light, his fingers lazily tracing shapes over your arm beneath the covers.

“You tired?” you asked, your voice soft.

He shook his head, brushing your hair back gently. “Just happy.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed as his hand moved to rest over Maeve’s. “Me too.”

There was a long, quiet beat. Then Harry whispered, “Can we just stay here forever?”

You nodded, sleep tugging at you like a warm tide. “Mmhm. Right here. All four of us.”

He kissed your forehead, then Maeve’s, then the curve of your belly. “Perfect.”

And with the snow falling quietly outside the window, the three of you — almost four — drifted off in a pile of warmth, love, and everything good. Taglist: @hermionelove

[ozarkthedog]

𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

summary: joel secretly watches you shower.

warnings: 18+ mdni. older!joel miller x afab!reader. dubcon -> reader has no idea. reader has a bush but no other physical descriptors. male masturbation. joel is a conflicted, dirty old man but we love him so. w.c: 1.3k

author's note: the title is way too sweet for this. thank you @ghotifishreads for looking this over!

Part 2 — heavenly bound

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Joel is a bad man. 

A very, very bad man. 

Still, he couldn't think of a reason to stop as he gripped the base of his cock and began to stroke while he watched you dance like a sprite under the flowing stream.

It was a miracle the two of you stumbled upon a YMCA this far from the city. Joel figured it'd be swarming with people or worse, but it was oddly barren aside from crawling vines and small critters living in the alcoves. 

It was even rarer that the water would still be working, but after you begged him with those big doe eyes, Joel checked it out. 

You wait anxiously on a pathway in the center of a large washroom, shifting back and forth on your feet between the shower stalls while Joel stands in one of the less scary cubicles. The room was a mess. Mud cakes the floor and walls; once pearly white tiles are now smeared with dirt. Various tiles and mirrors are splintered and broken. 

"'ere goes nothin'." Joel turns the knob, and the pipes behind the wall make a slew of thuds and loud creaking noises before a rush of water flows from the tap like a waterfall spilling over the edge of a cliff. 

"No, shit." Joel curses in shock and tests the water's temp. "S'ice cold." he hisses before stepping out of the tiny stall. 

You squeal elatedly. Uncaring about the cold, you move closer and cup your hands under the stream. You let out a soft moan at the frigid temperature. The unruly summer days were doing a number on you both.

Joel swallows hard at the sound and shifts his eyes to the floor before spying a few bars of soap a few feet away. He grabs two and tosses you one. "I don't know about you, but I'm taking a shower now," you announce, dropping your bag into the path between the stalls.

"Guess I should, too," Joel says, looking at the other, relatively clean stall across from yours. 

"You definitely should." You quip and playfully wrinkle your nose as you shuck off your shoes.

"Shut up." Joel bites back with a sly grin. He takes a few short steps and turns the shower knob. Sure enough, crystal clear water streams freely from the head.

"See ya when we're clean." you send him a smile before tugging your curtain closed. 

Joel shifts on his feet in the small space as he watches you pile your clothes on top of your bag from behind the curtain. He should keep guard and give you some privacy, but all coherent thought evaporates when he sees and hears you step under the stream.

Sunlight pours down into your stall from a window above, creating a tempting silhouette as you shimmy in the water and let loose an unrestrained moan. The sweet sound echoes off the washroom walls and slithers into Joel's brain. It races down his spinal column, and reaches home in his groin. His cock fills with blood instantly, forcing him to bite his cheek and mute his own moan.

"Ah, what the hell," he mumbles, setting his pack next to yours and closing the curtain to his stall. He's out of his clothes quicker than he remembers moving, chucking them carelessly on the other side of the curtain. His cock stands hard and raging, but he ignores it, choosing to step under the freezing stream with the hope it'll curb his arousal. 

"Fuck." Joel groans when the cold rains down on his sweltering body.  

"Told you." he hears you tease.

Joel shakes his head with a smile. It was by chance that your paths crossed. He wasn't looking for anyone to share in this new way of life, especially after Tommy left, but as luck would have it, you stumbled into his world at the right time, and now he's not quite sure he wants to live without you in it.  

He'd kept his distance over the last few months. He was too old to get caught up in sappy feelings and didn't need the distraction when life was on the line. However, that raw, gnawing need never went away. It took him a while to relax and feel secure enough to get off, but when he did, he was able to let go and succumb to the urges he remembered enjoying so much before the outbreak. 

He scrubs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, across his broad, hairy chest, expelling dirt and grime from his skin as it swirls down the drain. His erection still hasn't faded; if anything, it's even harder now as your airy singing fills the room. 

He teethes his bottom lip as he succumbs to the urge once more and curls a soapy hand around his twitching length, circling the girthy base with a tight grip. Blood pulses in the crown— a desert sunset red, throbbing and weeping.

Joel knows it's wrong, but he's past the point of caring. With his left hand, he eases the curtain to catch another glimpse of your inviting silhouette but gets more than he imagined.

A breeze from the open window above your stall must have pushed the curtain open without you realizing. It was no bigger than a small gap, but it exposed enough of your body to Joel's prying eyes.

His jaw clenches tight as his deviant gaze travels along the wet, soapy expanse of your body. Water drips from your hairline, over your clavicle, between your breasts, and trickles down your soft belly. A mess of droplets and soapy suds cling to the patch of curls that covers your mound. Joel's cock throbs at the sight of your bush; he always loved the taste of a sweaty, hairy pussy.

You wash yourself, utterly unaware of his stare. The knot in Joel's abdomen twists, an unyielding cramp cinching ever tighter. He swirls his large, slick palm over his drooling tip, expertly moving with the right touch, trying his quickest to get off before the floor opens up and swallows him whole.

His sac tightens, drawing up as an intense wave burns through his gut. He watches with shameless infatuation as you run your soapy hands around your breasts and between your legs before rinsing away the filth. He roughly thrusts into his grip, imagining it's your cunt as it hugs and swirls around him while he greedily fucks into your warmth. He wants nothing more than to feel you under him, writhing from his illicit and soothing touch. 

His spine curves as he hunches over and leans one hand on the wall for support as he comes with a mess of deep, broken grunts. Fingers scratch the tile, body quivering with searing pleasure as thick white ropes splash against the dingy tile; he pictures you gasping for him while he fills you to the brim.

Shame creeps in, swarming hot and fast like the midday sun after a summer rainstorm. He yanks his hand from his cock like he's been burnt when you suddenly appear on the other side of the curtain.

"Are you almost done?" your voice cutting through the white noise of the shower stream. Joel peers around the side of the curtain, eyes piercing yet sorrowful. "Yeah, gimme a minute."

For now, Joel shakes off his shame. He cleans himself up and haphazardly splashes the wall with water, washing away any evidence of his perverted seclusion.

"Here," he hears you say as you hand him his clothes. He opens the curtain a bit and notices your eyes are cast downward. Joel instantly feels the sharp fangs of regret sink into his flesh; you must've heard him. 

"Thanks," Joel mutters. His fingers brush yours as he grabs his clothes, making your big eyes snap to his before they curiously travel down over his bouldering, sun-kissed shoulders. He watches your jaw drop with a silent gasp, and your knees slightly buckle at the dewy sight of him.

"Be right out," he smirks when you forget to let go of his clothes, forcing you to mumble a mortified apology before he closes the curtain.

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he's not as bad as he thinks, and just maybe he might have a chance with you.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ 06⠀‌⸻ angel tears / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: toxic!rafe, psychological abuse, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of cheating, loneliness.

A heavy silence echoed through the Cameron mansion. Y/N drifted through the rooms like a ghost, her footsteps soft, her presence barely registering. Her cooking, once a source of pride, had turned lackluster, her rosemary chicken too dry, her pastries too dense. Rafe noticed, of course.

“Fuck, this tastes like cardboard,” he’d snapped last night, pushing his plate away, spitting on a napkin. “Can’t you do anything right anymore? I mean, Jesus—how hard can mixing ingredients be?”

The words cut deeper than they should have, making her feel more useless than ever. Since the blood-soaked sheets and the hollow ache in her womb, she’d been unraveling, her heart a fragile thing she couldn’t mend. She hadn’t told Rafe about the miscarriage. She hadn’t even told herself, not really, afraid to face the grief alone.

But today, Y/N resolved to pull herself together, not for her own sake, but for Rafe’s. The image of him with that ginger woman in his office haunted her. She couldn’t lose him. He was her husband, her family, the center of her world. Families stayed together, no matter the cost. She couldn’t bear the thought of him turning to someone else, someone who wasn’t her. So she forced herself out of bed, her limbs heavy, her heart heavier, and decided to be the wife he wanted, the one he’d married, the one he couldn’t look away from.

She chose a blue dress sprinkled with tiny yellow flowers, the kind Rafe used to love when they were teenagers sneaking kisses in the moonlight. In the mirror, she brushed her hair until it gleamed, pinning it back with a pearl clip. She looked like the Y/N he loved, not the ghost she’d become. In the kitchen, she poured her energy into a chocolate fondue, melting dark chocolate until it was silky, pairing it with fresh strawberries, pineapple, and delicate cubes of pound cake. She set up a picnic in the backyard, reminiscent of their early days when they’d sprawl on a blanket under the stars, Rafe kissing her senseless until the world faded away. She draped a white tablecloth over a wrought-iron table, arranged the fruit in a crystal bowl, and lit a citronella candle to keep the mosquitoes at bay. It was perfect, a gesture to win him back.

Hours passed, the sun dipping low, the candle flickering.

Rafe was late.

She waited, but she was exhausted, miscarriage leaving her weaker for weeks. She curled up on the living room couch, her blue dress fanning around her, and slipped her thumb into her mouth—a childish habit she’d never broken, one Rafe despised but she couldn’t stop, especially when she needed comfort. It soothed her now, her eyes fluttering shut as she drifted into a restless sleep.

A hand on her shoulder jolted her awake. Her eyes snapped open, her heart leaping as she saw Rafe standing over her, his silhouette dark against the dim lamplight.

“Rafe!” she gasped, a smile breaking across her face, bright and hopeful. She scrambled to her feet, her dress wrinkled, and threw her arms around him, her hands cupping his face to pull him into a kiss. “I made something for you,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s in the backyard, a picnic, like we used to—” Her thumb, still damp from her mouth, brushed his cheek, and Rafe’s expression changed in an instant.

He winced, his face twisting with disgust, and shoved her away, his hands forceful enough to make her stumble, her hip catching the edge of the couch.

“How many times have I told you to stop putting your damn fingers in your mouth?” he snapped, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand as if she’d tainted him. His blue eyes were dark with irritation, pinning her in place. “Grow up,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain, each word a hammer striking her already fragile heart. “You’re not a fucking child anymore.”

Y/N froze, her breath catching, her smile crumbling like ash. The warmth she’d felt seconds ago drained away, replaced by a cold, sinking shame. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, to say something, anything, but Rafe’s look silenced her, a look that made her feel small, insignificant, a speck of dust on his pristine world. He turned, his shoulders rigid, and stalked toward the guest room, not sparing a glance for the backyard, not noticing the effort she’d poured into the evening, the dress, the fondue, her heart.

He didn’t tell her she looked pretty, didn’t ask why she’d been asleep on the couch, didn’t care.

She swallowed her tears, her throat raw, her hands trembling as she stood alone in the living room. The mansion’s silence was deafening, its grandeur a cruel reminder of her isolation. She moved to the backyard, her steps mechanical, and began dismantling the picnic she’d so carefully crafted. Each item she packed away felt like a piece of her broken heart, her hope for Rafe’s love slipping through her fingers like sand. She carried the crystal bowl inside, her arms heavy, her chest aching with unshed tears.

Back in the kitchen, she set the bowl on the counter, her reflection in the darkened window staring back at her—a ghost in a blue dress. She loved Rafe, needed him, but the fear of losing him warred with the growing dread that he’d never be the man she needed. As she sank to the floor, her back against the cabinet, her thumb crept back to her mouth, a desperate grasp for comfort.

The tears came then, silent and unstoppable, spilling down her cheeks as she curled into herself, knowing that she was always going to be in his shadow.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[fredswrite]

A/N: This was supposed to be longer than that, but oh well, I love my cute emo boy even if it’s short.

SUMMARY: Your punk neighbour finally has the guts to ask you out on a date. bubbly!reader x sam!monroe

WC: ~ 900

No warning <33

MLST

KIND OF A DATE

The summer air was thick with the smell of salt and cut grass, and somewhere down the street, someone was playing Bad Religion too loud through a screen door. You were skipping across the Monroe driveway like it was your personal stage, lemonade sloshing dangerously in a plastic cup, the ice clinking with each step. Your voice dances through the air as you speak about your latest theory of clouds having secret lives.

"You see that one? It looks like a squirrel in downward dog. Don't lie, you see it too!"

Sam Monroe, half-shadowed on the porch in his navy jeans and an old Misfits t-shirt, didn’t answer. He's crouched over a warped board with a screwdriver in hand, pretending to be very invested in home repair, that his dad wanted him to join in. His black nails were chipped. His piercings caught the light. He hadn’t looked up once.

But you knew better.

You've caught him watching you more than once, usually when you're not supposed to notice. At first, he was all eye rolls and silent groans whenever you came over. Now, he just kind of... existed in your orbit, like a moody little planet circling your sunshine.

You hopped up the steps and sat beside him with a huff. "You know," you started, sipping your lemonade, "you're the most interesting person I've ever met who hasn't smiled at me even once."

His shoulders tensed. He glanced sideways at you, long enough to give a noncommittal shrug, before returning to the board.

"I smile," he muttered, and you swear it's the first thing he's said to you all week.

"Prove it."

His lips twitched. Barely. A phantom smile. But you could see it.

"Oh my god," you gasped, "was that it? That was like... a micro-smile. A mini. A smol."

He rolled his eyes, but his ears turned pink, which you considered a victory. He pushed his bangs out of his face, fingers smudged with sweat and dust, and kept his gaze glued to the screwdriver like it's more dangerous than you.

You leaned back on your elbows and tilted your head toward the sky. "You're like one of those cats that acts like it hates everyone but then starts sleeping on your pillow. Slowly. Stealthily."

He exhaled through his nose. "Do you ever stop talking?" He finally sat up, looking at you.

"Nope," you chirped. "It's one of my top five skills. Right after making bracelets, eating popsicles too fast, and finding four-leaf clovers like, weirdly often."

He gave a tiny huff—almost a laugh—and you know he's cracked. He just doesn't know it yet.

There's a pause. You sipped your lemonade. He pretended not to look at your knees tucked under you, the rainbow anklet you were wearing, the little sticker on your shoulder you forgot was there.

Then he cleared his throat. "So... there's this thing."

You blinked at him. "A thing?"

"Yeah. At the lake. On Friday." He fidgeted with the screwdriver, thumbs the worn edge of his jeans. "They do fireworks. And funnel cake.

You smiled slowly, watching the way he wouldn't quite meet your eyes.

"I was wondering if you... Maybe wanna go. With me. Just us."

It came out rushed, like he was afraid that if he said it too slowly, he would chicken out halfway through.

You blinked. Then you beam. "Duh. I've only been waiting for you to ask me out since you glared at me in your hoodie like a sad little vampire."

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His ears were bright red now.

You reached over and gently bumped your shoulder into his. "Took you long enough, Monroe."

He shrugged, lips quirking in that way that might became a real smile if you kept poking at it. "You're just... a lot."

"You mean awesome?"

"I mean loud."

You grin. "You love it."

He didn't deny it.

Friday came. You were wearing glitter on your cheeks and a skirt that twirled when you spun. Sam showed up in all black, of course, but he had a bracelet on—one of yours, braided with bright thread and a plastic skull bead in the middle.

At the lake, he was quieter than usual, but you filled the space between with your laughter, with questions he pretended to hate answering but secretly liked. When the fireworks start, you don't ask, you just take his hand.

He stiffened, then relaxed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers were sticky from the powdered sugar of the cake. His thumb brushed your knuckle softly.

"You're not gonna write a poem about this, are you?" he muttered, watching the sky explode in color.

"I might," you teased. "Something like: 'Black hoodie, black heart, but oh, those hands. Sticky with love."

He groaned.

You lean your head on his shoulder. "Shut up. You're smiling again."

"I'm not."

"You are. Just accept that you like me. It's inevitable."

And this time, he didn’t argue. He just squeezed your hand tighter as the sky lit up, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to hide behind silence or sarcasm.

With you, being seen didn’t feel so scary.

[monstas1ut]

Jjk Characters having soft sex w/ black!reader

SUKUNA, TOJI FUSHIGURO, SUGURU GETO

Contains

__ black!reader, female!reader, Sukuna has two cocks, Toji is not too much of a deadbeat dad, Geto is depressed kinda… some angst, creampie, mentions of pregnancy and getting pregnant, raw sex all over, gentle manhandling? Cuddle sex :)

___brown skin can be dark, light, medium color.. whatever. brown is brown.. and it's gorgeous

Sukuna

Sukuna was a ruthless monster filled with evil. Women, men, children, they all feared him and it fueled his desire to destroy and kill. Sukuna simply wasn’t good, nor did he want to be. It would be repulsive if he’d done something grossingly nice.

However, without much thought, his rough callused hands ran down your precious back. His four eyes that usually barked hatred were hesitantly soft. His rough exterior was nowhere near the usual, as it was softened on the edges.

His eyes carefully watched your sweet, engrossed face as your pretty little dress was slid up on your stomach. His most upper cock was firm, rubbing against your bikini line each time you’d slowly sink to his pelvis. His other cock was inside you, completely engulfed by your gushy pussy. It was quite a sight, both seeing you take such a big cock and Sukuna being.. gentle.

Now, Sukuna could be railing you with one cock up your cunt and one in your tiny asshole, however he refrained today. Sometimes he just basked in days like this, filled with love. Now, he used to despise the love word and truthfully you’ll never catch him saying it to you, but he showed it in many ways.

Whether it was the male’s chin resting on your shoulder as you would move back and forth, grinding on his cock. Or, it could be his soft touches on your waist or your ass, caressing it with his thumbs while the other set of hands above makes sure you do not fall.

Either way, love was caked throughout his actions whether he liked it or not. The funny thing about it is that Sukuna hasn’t realized his faults. He would think this sort of thing is repulsive, right? No.

“I have no idea what’s got you so worked up… but I’m enjoying it.” He says this with a bit of tease lacing his throat. Sukuna then used his uppermost right hand to cup your pretty face. He enjoyed watching you melt in his hands, still using his cock like some toy.

“Kuna’…” you whispered hoarsely , feeling yourself tighten up around him. Sukuna could feel it as well, partially chuckling while a grunt followed suit. “I won’t stop you from your high, mortal woman..” He smirked, knowing you were getting closer and closer to your orgasm. Sukuna watched as you wrapped your arms around his bulky middle section. This action actually took him aback, a butterfly appearing in his stomach before it burned up and the ashes whisked away. For a split millisecond, you had sukuna feeling like a little school girl with his crush… then he began to chuckle just a little.

“Don’t make me fuck those pretty guts of yours.. I’m trying to go slow with you.” He whispered, his upper arms wrapped around your body before his lower hands gripped your hips and ass in such a way that he could lift you easily. You were like paper to him, a feather even. He had to be careful when lifting or holding onto you, he also had to be careful with your pretty pussy that was leaking juices and coating his cock. He wished you would try putting both of his meaty cocks in, but he didn’t want to break you.

Yet anyway.

“Sukuna!.. o-oh-.. f-feels so good..” you whined, nails digging gently in his back. This pleasure felt so good, too good. It wasn’t so rough, it wasn’t so hard… it was just right. The comfort, the warmth of his body and his cock, it all felt good. Moments like this were sparse, but you cherished it so bad when it would roll around.

“I’m giving you the opportunity to drain both my cocks… not just one, so keep that same stamina for me if you want me to keep playing nice..”

Toji Fushiguro

Being on good terms with Toji was always rare in your case. The both of you were compatible, but somehow petty arguments always arise and the two of you begin to realize that maybe you should stay away from each other. It wasn’t really that easy to say, not when you gave birth to his child. Toji would always be perched in your life, as his son’s.

But you realized a few things. When arguments occurred now, Toji would muster up a new vocabulary word. The word sorry, you know, the one used as an apologetic phrase. And while the way he’d say it is kind of blunt and uncaring, you could tell he was trying fairly hard. It was unlike him, nonetheless. Apart of you wondered if this was some type of scheme to get you under him and on your back.

Whatever it was, it worked.

Your lips parted, gasping out for untainted air as the air around you was filled with uncontrollable lust and.. love? This was different, the feeling of being treated like a small piece of art.

“ do me a favor n’ hold your legs for me..” his voice caused your pussy to quiver around his cock. His own cum was coating his pale cock without shame. He’d already nutted in that pussy once, a few minutes ago to be exact. But even with that, his cock was still hard and his body was still calling for you. You understood this with his hard but sensually slow thrusts.

“Ah.. ah! Toji-… Toji y-you’re gonna get me pregnant again…” you whined, failing to take any action for birth control merely because you weren’t fucking anyone. Life got tough and you simply didn’t care to take them… so the minute Toji comes over to see his son, you just knew you fucked up.

“Don’t give a fuck about that.. you know that..” he grumbled under his breath, watching your golden pussy take every inch of his girth. That’s right, no other dick could fit so well. Besides, he took his place in his throne, which was inside of you. If another baby came of it, he’d do what he could to take care of it.. just like he did the previous. He might be slightly inattentive, but providing he will do.

Though, Toji was trying to be better… and that’s all you wanted from him. That and the headboard hitting the wall. It felt so good being all crushed, your feet were damn near touching the headboard itself. And while he was digging deep in you, it was so slow.. so sweet.

“Don’t-.. don’t wake megumi… h-he has to go to sc-school..”

“He can ride around with me tomorrow.. ain’t nothing wrong with missin a day..” he retorted back and you just whined, hearing how loud your cunt was gushing. You could’ve sworn you could see his cock going in and out, bulging from your stomach. That made you tap out, your moans getting louder as he got intensely closer, taking your leg and easily putting it on his broad, hard shoulder. His scar on his lips running against your ankle before kissing it.

Toji was so gorgeous, he knew it.. but he believed in all circumstances, you took the beauty. He’d never outright say it, but he was glad to have a kid by you. Your looks and sweet personality saved his child from being something ridiculously unbearable to deal with. From your gorgeous eyes to your intelligence, he couldn’t find a better woman, he didn’t want to.

“I’m-.. go-..”

“I know baby… I feel it tightenin up on me..”

Suguru Geto

The days where things would get rough, were the worst. You could sense his sorrow, and his mental state was wandering off into some deep dark woods. As his lover, it was your duty to cause him sunshine, but you felt as if you were failing. Small kisses, hugs, reassurance, you felt unreliable.

But, that wasn’t the case. Suguru appreciated every little thing you do, it just amazes him at how attentive and thoughtful you were. The world was so gone to shit that he was so focused on the problems of earth rather than the good which.. he only could see you being in that category of good.

So, when entering the shared home.. all he could really look forward to was the sweet scent of you. Your gentle touches and your welcoming smile that just made him realize not all and everything could be that bad.

Every touch of your sweet bronze skin, every breath you took against his neck? He felt alive again… He just needed you over and over again. Today wasn’t different. Those slow strokes of pure cock were plugging deep in you, past your lips and almost kissing that sweet g-spot everytime. You two were entangled, laying down on the bed as you were both on your sides.. cuddling each other whilst your leg wrapped around him as much as it could.

His long, raven hair was all messy, but that’s because your fingers were running through it. His face hidden deep in your neck while his large hand gripped at your ass, keeping it open so his cock had no problem slipping in and out.

“Suguru…” only a soft, but deep growl came from his throat. He loved when you’d moan his name, all sensual and light. It gave his stomach a lighter feeling than it is usually. “Little more..” he whispered against your neck, his kisses running up your ear.. an angelic moan seeping from him. It made you clinch up, causing him to moan again.. He knew you liked that, and he had no problem letting you know your pussy was the only heaven he knew about.

Suguru believed that life as he knew it was changing, but you didn’t. Your thoughts about him never changed, your personality didn’t change, nor did your beauty.. or the tight little pussy that was corrupting his mind. He could only shakily breathe out, swimming in naughty thoughts.

“Look-… look at me.. please?” Although feeling cock drunk, you just had to see his face. He gripped your ass a smidge harder before he lifted his face from your neck, his love struck eyes now staring deep into yours. His pale face was filled with masculine yet pretty features, casted with red hue. He was so needy today. You noticed.. so you decided to gently move over on top of him. And what caused you to melt was his strong arms wrapping around your back as you laid your head on his bare chest.

“I refuse to let go of you…” “I didn’t say you had to, I -.. fuck… wouldn’t want you to either..” you whispered, only sharply breathing in when you began riding his cock, and what’s fortunate is that the night just began.

ⓒ Monstas1ut, do not copy

[chuuyrr]

KISSIN' AND HOPE THEY CAUGHT US — DAZAI OSAMU

⊹ CW(s): f! reader, suggestive (kissing, touching, and making out in the office), dazai being a menace, established relationship, mentions of marriage, lovesick! dazai

⊹ SYNOPSIS: in which he wants you, and for you two to get caught

inspired by: agora hills by doja cat !

dazai osamu could never keep his hands to himself. he was dazai for goodness sake, and he has no shame, especially when it comes to you.

he enjoys being near to you at work just as much as he enjoys being with you in private. so, dazai takes every opportunity to be with you, whether it's holding your hand or twirling a strand of your hair in his hand while you work on reports, subtly leaning his head against your shoulder, or secretly squeezing your thigh, and he always loves the pink blush that spreads on your cheeks as you whisper yell him about pda.

but that's what makes it so difficult for him; dazai loves you too much to keep you a secret. you were his, and he wants everyone to know who you belong to, as well as who he belongs to.

you were about halfway through the papers given to you by the president when dazai slides next to you in his swivel chair, whining as he clings to your arm, "belladonna!~"

"osamu, i'm busy," you smile and giggle, but you quickly switch up, changing your tone as you sigh and flick his forehead, prompting a tiny scream and pout from him, "busy doing the papers you should be doing, mister."

"oh, come on! everyone has already gone out for lunch, and we're the only ones left here!" dazai grumbles as he wraps his arms around you after rubbing his forehead.

"and you insisted on staying with me! ugh, well maybe if you helped me, we can both get some lunch like the oth—" your eyes widen as dazai snatches the papers from your desk, putting them out of your reach and even causing some of the notepads and pens you had on your desk to roll off.

you gasp sharply, opening your mouth to scold him, but he slams his lips against yours, earning you a groan from him.

dazai's hands reach for your waist as he feverishly kisses you, his warm lips pressing deeply yet eagerly against yours.

you turn your face away, attempting to avoid his kiss as you let out a soft whine, trying to tell him off, "not now, osamu!"

but, alas, he closes the gap between you once more, this time much closer as his hands tenderly slide down and hold your hips to pull you into his lap.

dazai feels you squirm on his lap and finds himself chuckling in between the kisses, but he simply holds you firmly, one hand tenderly carressing your hip and the other now on the back of your neck to hold you in place.

how could he resist such a work of art as you? the way the sunlight from the window delicately highlights your face just for him to admire as your hair frames everything perfectly like icing on a cake, and don't even get him started on how you always smell so sweet like vanilla with your perfume.

dazai loves every single part of you and feels the need to be always closer to you, so he has his attention on you like a moth to a flame as you were a temptation for him.

you're so warm and plush in his embrace, and you can feel his warmth seeping through your clothes as much as his hands tenderly hold you in place on his lap.

"m-mmh, osamu. please—" you try to speak again, but he shuts you up with his lips once more, his kiss a demand as well as a declaration of love and desire.

"hush for a second, pretty girl," dazai's breath tickles your lips as he pulls away just a fraction before his lips were on yours again.

"then stop eating my face," you whine softly, grabbing his shoulders and successfully yanking your face away from him.

"aww, and why should i?" dazai says, smirking as he caresses your hip with one hand while the other glides from the back of your neck to your cheek to cup it, "you're just so tempting my dear."

"w-we're at work!" you stammer, squirming on his lap once more, "now put me down or else we might get caught, osamu!"

"too bad," dazai rolls his eyes at you, pinching your cheek before pulling you by the chin, so you were now nose-to-nose with each other.

you feel blood rush into your cheeks at his proximity, and even more so when he says the following words to you.

"i want us to get caught."

at this point, your face was on fire. in fact, the room—no, everything becomes too hot all of a sudden, prompting you to raise your voice out of surprise, "w-what? are you crazy?!"

"crazy in love with you, that is," dazai winks at you before tracing your cheek with his nose, trailing it down as his breath tickles your neck this time, and his breathy voice sends tingles up and down your spine, making you unable to sit still on his lap, "and you have no idea just how far a crazy man would go for his darling angel."

"your hips are an altar i would worship anytime of the day, my love," he whispers as his hands sensually trail from your neck and waist to your hips, squeezing them as he kisses your neck.

as one of his hands began to slip under your shirt, your breaths hitch and you couldn't help but let out a soft whine, and dazai revels in the feel of your skin as he kisses your neck, writing his love on it with marks and soft groans.

"and i know heaven is a thing because i go there whenever i touch you, and whenever i'm with you, baby," he groans with indulgence as his lips continue to kiss and bite at your neck, his hands slipping under your shirt now, caressing your side, the spot just under your chest.

dazai's emotions were all over the place, but it was desire mixed with exasperation. he immerses himself in the sensation of your lips and body during the heated moment, closing the gap between you with undeniable intimacy.

"fuck, i wanna tie the knot," he says in hushed mumbles, completely in love with you.

dazai lifts his head from your neck and presses his forehead against yours tenderly, his hands now cupping your face at a daydream of you that he has now engraved in his mind, "i wanna see my pretty girl in a wedding dress, walking up to me to be with me til' death do us part."

"and i just wanna show her off. tell everyone she's mine and no one else's," a soft, low growl escapes his breath as he claims your lips one more time with a feverish deep kiss to mark his territory, but this time it comes with a hint of tenderness as he strokes your cheek.

"osamu, we're gonna get caught," you say softly, your breath shaky, your hands still gripping his shoulders as he continues his assault of kisses.

"then let them catch us, sweetheart. you're mine to brag about," you feel dazai's smirk against your lips, and his hands on your hips again, but this time they're sliding down to squeeze your thighs in a firm grasp that causes you to squirm on his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

dazai then purposefully but playfully bounces you on his lap, causing you to let out a sharp gasp mixed with a whine. suddenly, you hear footsteps outside the office door just as his hands begin to slip further past, and your eyes widen. it was as if he knew your coworkers were about to return from their lunch break, and he did know that.

your heart rate increases with strange excitement and fear. you squirm and try to pull yourself up and away from his lap, but he simply holds you tighter against him, his arms now locking around your waist to keep you in place.

"h-hey, now! let me go!" you whisper yell.

"oh, no. you stay right where you are, my pretty girl. i'm not letting you go," dazai says with a grin, finding amusement in your panic, "nope."

"what are we gonna tell them if they see us like this?! kunikida is gonna scold us!"

"heh, tell em' that we were kissing and hoping they caught us~"

"OSAMU!"

⊹ A.N: happy halloween! ok, but like, after re-reading this and stuff, this was waaaay better in my head ૮꒰ つᯅ⊂ ꒱ა ՞ˎˊ˗

[emacrow]

Alfred was about to go on his annual grocery shopping excepted... he didn't count on bringing a baby in a basket home. Pt 1

It was that time again for alfred to get some much needed groceries replenishment as he has noticed a great shrinkage in the food pantry..

Going to his annual favorite grocery store that had his favorite teas, exotic spices and blueberries cheese cake that was to die for.

Collecting 3 carts full of ingredients, food and snacks with the new assistance workers help of a nice young ladies with blue flaming like hair and orange hair.

He was done with his groceries shopping in less then 3 hours and had his groceries helped back in his personal car by the two young workers.

He make sure to tip them extra generously, the young lady with the orange hair look up to him with a almost misty light blue eyes as she cling to the money to her chest.

"Thank you.." She whispered quietly but he heard it well enough as he nods getting in his car and driving back to Wayne Manor. Unaware of a extra basket added in the backseat with other groceries bags.

Once he arrived around 6am in the morning , he picked each groceries bags and brought to the kitchen along side help of sleep deprived Tim who was only here to get his Death wish Coffee espresso that he just ran out yesterday.

He was now just organizing everything in the correct place until there was only the last thing left was in a brown basket..

Tim had just escaped with his freshly brew cup of death coffee.

That was when Alfred heard a distant noise... coming from the basket.

A coo.. that he haven't heard in decades.

A little baby coo.

Alfred walk softly towards the basket as he peek in a bit forward to see a tiny little fluffy of blue baby cap with a small baby suckling onto a galaxy theme pacifier, tiny yet bright blue eyes and a scatter of freckles.

Along with a letter addressed to him as grandfather Pennyworth. Signed by his great great great granddaughter.

New post

[dollfacefantasy]

you and satoru have this little morning tradition now that came about by total accident.

each day you wake to the sound of him showering. the sounds of the water rushing through the pipes and splattering against the tile pulls you out of bed and to your dresser. there, you freshen up and get dressed, going about your individual routine.

the last step places you at your vanity, powdering your skin and coating your lashes in mascara. you see him in the reflection in front of you strutting back into the room. you study his soft white hair that sits damp against his forehead, the small towel slung around his hips, the little beads of water trickling down his abs. the only thing you don't catch is the little smirk on his lips that arises from seeing your eyes linger on his v-line.

after a few moments, you pull your gaze away and return to your checklist of tasks. you reach forward to the chapstick collection that lines the space in front of your mirror. satoru had teased you for the overwhelming number of flavors when you first set it up upon moving in.

"cherry sorbet, lemon lime, banana cream pie," he'd read off while going through the small pastel tubes, "you got an entire gift basket in here."

today you grab one of them and pop the cap off. you twist the bottom to make the balmy cylinder pop out and apply it to your lips. it takes a few swivels to make sure you're fully coated.

when you've finished, you turn to find satoru standing next to you, waiting for this exact moment. he smiles at your sweet face, done up with your makeup, and then cups your jaw. bringing his head down, he meets you in a kiss. your soft lips press against his. you both melt into each other, savoring the warmth of each other's breaths and the silky feeling of his tongue brushing against your mouth.

this is the game.

a few moments later, he pulls away only a couple of inches. his thumb strokes your bottom lip while his shimmering eyes stare into yours. that smug smile graces his features.

"strawberry pound cake?" he guesses softly.

your eyes light up when you hear him guess the correct flavor on your lips. you nod with a tiny laugh before rewarding him with another peck.

"that's everyday this week i've been right," he teases, "think i deserve a special reward. maybe remind myself if any other parts of you are sweet as that chapstick."

"tonight. when you get home," you say.

"always making me wait," he smirks. but he obliges and kisses you once more, on your cheek this time, before walking away to finish getting himself ready.

[missbluee]

Damage Control (and Other Dad Fails)

Pairing: kylian mbappè x reader

Summary: Kylian takes their 4-year-old son to the park, determined to be Fun Dad , while mama takes a break. There are snacks, duck impressions, and piggyback races — until a tiny bump on the head turns into a full-blown operation: hide it from mama before she kills him.

‎ ‎🩶 ‎❜୧

🎧 Vibe Track :

...

The sun was warm, the park was half-empty, and Kylian had already broken a sweat - not from a workout, but from trying to open a stubborn juice box with one hand while his son clung to his other like a baby koala. "Papa, vite! Les canards!" the little one shouted, pointing dramatically toward the pond, legs kicking against his dad's side. "I'm trying, mon cœur," Kylian huffed, finally stabbing the tiny straw into place with the force of a man who once won a World Cup. He handed the juice box off with triumph, only to realize too late it was upside down. A spill. A sigh. A small gasp from the toddler. And somehow, Kylian was already mentally preparing how to explain this outfit's mysterious orange stain to you later.

By the time they made it to the edge of the pond, Kylian had already pocketed a sticky candy wrapper, tied one shoelace twice, and convinced his son not to eat a suspicious-looking rock. The little boy-four years old with curls that always reminded Kylian of you-ran ahead with wild energy, then turned back every few steps just to make sure his papa was still there. "Regarde, Papa! Les canards font dodo," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips like it was the world's biggest secret. Kylian smiled, crouching beside him, one arm around those tiny shoulders. "Shhh," he echoed softly, "we don't want to wake the duckies." His son giggled, leaning into him like they shared a conspiracy. And for a moment, just a moment, Kylian forgot all about nap schedules, snack drama, or what time you'd be home. It was just them, the soft ripple of the water, and the way his son's hand stayed curled inside his like it belonged there.

They sat on the grass with half a sandwich between them, the kind Kylian had tried to make exactly like yours - crusts cut off, a little heart shape pressed into the center with a cookie cutter. "Mama does it better," his son had announced with the blunt honesty only a four-year-old could pull off, and Kylian had laughed, pretending to be wounded. "Ouch. Tu brises mon cœur," he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. The little boy giggled, then leaned in to kiss his cheek like he was trying to patch it up. Kylian felt it in his ribs. That kind of love - small and sticky and pure. "When I grow up," his son said between bites, "I'm gonna be a footballer... and a dinosaur." Kylian nodded solemnly. "The world's not ready for that." His son beamed, proud. And somewhere between brushing crumbs off his lap and handing over a juice box with the right end up this time, Kylian thought: this is it. This is everything...

After the ducks lost their charm and the sandwich was nothing but crust, the two of them lay back on the grass, Kylian's hoodie serving as a makeshift blanket beneath them. His son sprawled across his chest, small fingers playing with the drawstrings, tugging them gently like reins. "Papa," he said suddenly, his voice soft and full of thought, "Mama sing me song at night." Kylian smiled, eyes half-lidded under the afternoon sun. "I know, mon amour. She has the prettiest voice in the world." His son nodded, satisfied, then added, "She smell like cake." Kylian let out a laugh that shook them both. "She does, huh?" "Yeah," the boy whispered, curling into him, "like pink cake... with the little sparkles." Kylian pressed a kiss into those soft curls, heart aching sweetly. "You miss Mama?" A small nod. "Me too." They lay there a little longer, the world slowed down, as his son traced invisible stars onto his chest and whispered secrets only a child could carry - about dreams, dinosaurs, and how he was gonna marry mama if papa didn't mind.

It started with a game - one of those reckless ones only dads invent, half-thought-out and full of laughter. Kylian had hoisted him up on his shoulders, running in slow, exaggerated circles while his son squealed with delight, arms flapping like airplane wings. "Faster, Papa! I'm flying!" he shouted, voice ringing clear across the park. And Kylian, as always, obeyed without thinking. A little faster, a little looser, until the boy leaned too far, a wild giggle turning into a surprised yelp - bonk. It wasn't awful, not really, just a little bump against a low branch Kylian hadn't seen in time. But the second his son went quiet, clutching his head and blinking at him with watery eyes, Kylian's heart sank to his knees. "Oh, mon cœur," he murmured, crouching down fast, hands everywhere at once - checking, soothing, panicking in silence. "You're okay, you're okay, shhh... Papa's got you." The little boy sniffled, nodding bravely, but the red mark blooming on his forehead already told a story. A story Kylian definitely didn't want his wife to hear just yet.

The damage control began before they even left the park. "Ice cream?" Kylian offered, wide-eyed, as if dairy might erase all evidence. His son, still holding his forehead like a war hero, gave him a considering look. "Two scoops," he bargained. "Deal." Kylian didn't stop there. By the time they got home, the kid was armed with a dinosaur plushie the size of a backpack, a coloring book with stickers that sparkled, and a suspiciously new toy truck that "just happened" to appear in Papa's car. "Remember," Kylian whispered as he unbuckled the car seat, "if Mama asks... you tell her we had a perfect day, okay?" His son blinked up at him with the gravitas of a four-year-old philosopher. "But my head still go bonk." Kylian swallowed hard. "I know, baby, but like... maybe we don't lead with that. She'll kill me." The little boy seemed to weigh this. "Okay. tell her after ice cream." Kylian groaned into his hands. "Sabotage," he muttered. "My own blood."

When they stepped into the apartment, the scent of lavender and warm vanilla greeted them first, followed by the soft hum of music playing from the bathroom. She was in her robe, hair pushed back with a velvety headband, dabbing something that looked suspiciously expensive onto her cheekbones with the focus of a sculptor. Kylian held his breath. The little boy clung to his leg, unusually quiet for someone holding an armful of new toys. "Bonjour, mes amours," she called out, not even turning, voice lazy with calm. "You had fun?" "Perfect day," Kylian shot back too quickly. He tried to sound casual but it came out with the exact pitch of guilt. She still didn't look up. "You fed him?" "Yup. Ice cream. Sandwich. Fruit. All the food groups." "Fruit too?" "Yup." Kylian kicked the dinosaur plushie behind the couch. His son giggled. "Mama," the boy whispered, peeking into the bathroom doorway, "your face is shiny." She finally looked down at him - soft, amused - ruffling his curls. "That's because Mama's trying to stay pretty," she teased. "You like it?" He nodded solemnly. "But Papa says you'll kill him."

Kylian choked!

She froze mid-pat, the cotton pad suspended in front of her cheek like a weapon. Slowly - dangerously s/owly - she turned to face them, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. "Excuse me?" Kylian coughed. "He -uh-misheard. You know kids. Their brains are like, full of cartoons and lies." Her eyes dropped to the giant stuffed dinosaur poorly hidden behind the couch. Then to their son's forehead, where the swelling had faded into a soft red bump, right there. She looked back at Kylian. One eyebrow arched. "What. Did. You. Do." Kylian smiled with the desperation of a man about to be thrown into the sea. "It was very minor. He was running. I turned. He turned. There was a bench. But he's fine! He's thriving. He said his ABCs like five minutes ago." She crossed her arms. "So you bribed our child into silence with sugar, stickers, and a plushie that costs more than my skincare routine?" "I-what matters here is that he's happy." Their son nodded. "I'm so happy." Kylian shot him a thumbs-up. "See?" She blinked. Then turned around slowly, muttering, "I'm going to kill you after toner."

She said nothing. Not a word. Just turned, applied the toner in absolute silence, and walked-no, glided-out of the bathroom with the poise of a woman wronged. Kylian backed up immediately. "Baby, let's talk about this like adults." She was already walking past their son, grabbing the nearest couch cushion with purpose. "Like adults?" she repeated, tone airy and terrifying. "You bribed our child into omertà with marshmallows and a mutant lizard." "Okay first of all, it's a dinosaur, and second of all-run, baby, run!" Kylian bolted, practically leaping over the couch while laughing in panic, the cushion sailing past his head and landing with a dramatic thud. "Don't throw things!" he called from behind the furniture. "We're setting a bad example!" "Oh, you wanna talk examples?" she snapped, chasing him around the living room, wielding a second pillow like a weapon of righteous fury. Their son, watching from the hallway, clapped and giggled like it was the best sitcom on earth. "Get him, Mama!" he shouted, clearly picking sides. "Traitor!" Kylian yelled at him, dodging another cushion. "You're four, not forty!"

"I swear to God, Kylian, I'm never letting you take him out again-ever," she declared, chasing him down the hallway with the wrath of ten generations of mothers behind her. "You're banned from the park, the zoo, and the entire outdoors!" "That feels excessive!" he called back, nearly slipping on a rogue sock as he dashed into the bedroom. "It's a scratch! Not a crime!" She flung another cushion-this one heart-shaped, ironically-at the door just before he slammed it shut. "Next time he'll come home with a tattoo or a girlfriend!" "I mean, he has good taste-" "KYLIAN MBAPPÉ!" He peeked through the crack of the door, one eye wide. "Let's just talk like-like people who love each other. You love me, right?" "Not right now I don't!" she shouted, but even then, her voice cracked with laughter, the corners of her mouth giving her away. Down the hall, their son was curled up with his dino, whispering, "Mama's so cool," in total admiration. Kylian opened the door slowly, cautiously, holding up both hands. "Truce?" She narrowed her eyes. "Only if you hand over every gummy worm you promised him and do bedtime duty all week." "Done." "And you're doing laundry." "Fine." "And foot massages are back on the table." He blinked. "... You drive a hard bargain." She smirked. "Good. I married soft, not stupid."

Their son barreled down the hall like a rocket, throwing himself into her legs with a happy little, "Mamaaa!" She caught him mid-giggle, crouching down to kiss his cheeks and inspect the infamous scratch with exaggerated seriousness. "Mon bébé," she whispered, brushing his curls aside. "Papa let a dragon bite you, huh?" He nodded with theatrical sorrow. "It was so big." "I fought the dragon," Kylian said dramatically, appearing behind them with his arms wide and a hopeful grin, "and then I brought him ice cream. That counts for something, right?" She raised an eyebrow, still holding their son tight, but didn't push him away when he slowly wrapped his arms around them both from behind. "You're lucky we like you." "Lucky I'm cute," he murmured into her shoulder. "And lucky he's on my team." Their son leaned his head between them and declared, "We all the team. Mama the boss." She laughed softly, the sound melting the last of her frustration. "Damn right." Kylian sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple, "I live to serve."

author's note 🫧

thank you for reading 🫶🏻

I have a serious weakness for soft dad!Kylian content there's just something about seeing him in full goofy-dad mode, trying (and failing) to keep everything under control. I loved writing this one. If this made you smile, I'd love to hear your thoughts. reblogs, comments, and messages mean the world with love,

- @missbluee 💙