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hi m!!! what do you think about bf!pete getting his wisdom teeth out? and the reader taking care of him?? hed be so funny lmao xxD
-🧸
pairing: bf!peter parker x reader
w/c: 750
a/n: hi anon!! thnk u for requesting i had sm fun writing this! :)
you’re sat at the dentist's office, cooped up in those uncomfortable chairs while you anxiously waited for your boyfriend’s surgery to finish.
when peter ranted and moaned nonstop over his constant toothache, may decided enough was enough, and took it upon herself to set an appointment for her nephew. he wasn’t too keen on the idea. peter wasn’t afraid of anything ninety-nine percent of the time. dentists, however, wasn’t one of them.
“can’t you stay here with me?”
“stay? baby, no they’re gonna be drilling in your teeth.”
“but i-”
“and it’s gonna be bloody and nasty and i don’t wanna have to see all that.”
you turn towards him, only to come face to face with the boy’s horrified look, his eyes are wide and skin pale, mouth open in shock. you cringe at your response.
“but,” you stand, “you’re gonna do amazing, you’re gonna sit here and let the dentist do his magic.” you smile and lean down to plant a sweet kiss on his forehead.
“y/n/n, wait but-” you drop his hand on the way out, “bye, love you baby! be good!”
“y/n!”
two hours later swing by when a woman in navy scrubs comes to get you, announcing that peter is out of surgery.
you knew that he would be high out of his mind on laughing gas, you just didn’t think it would be this bad.
when you enter, the dentist is off to the side, looking over charts, packing a care bag for his patient.
peter’s head lulls towards your touch on his shoulder and slowly blinks at your presence.
“hi baby, how you feeling?” you give him a beaming smile.
your boyfriend does his best to muster the same grin, but the amount of gauze in his mouth makes his rosy cheeks puff out, drool dripping down the corner of his mouth.
peter takes a moment to stare at you, “woaahh” he languidly slurs his words, “you’re so pretty.”
you giggle at the comment when the boy gasps in horror, “wait, wait, i have a girlfriend, and she’s-” he looks up at you worriedly and slaps his forehead, “i’m in trouble.”
you can’t help but let out a laugh, he’s so dopey.
your fingers touch the bottom of his chin gently and lift his head, “i’m your girlfriend, silly.”
a loud gasp escapes peter as his face turns ecstatic, “get out!” you giggle at his reaction, the dentist glances over at you two and offers an admiring smile.
“so do we have sex?”
the awkward silence in the room kills you.
your face blushes, as you shake your head and clear your throat, “peter, no.”
“no?!” he sighs in disappointment, “aw man.” your boyfriend pouts at the floor, “what have i been doing with my life.”
“oh my god, pete,” when the dentist turns away, you whisper and offer him a shrug, “sometimes we do.”
the delight on his face returns and his eyes go wide, “really?!”
the boy seriously has no filter.
as you’re packing his things, peter pauses and pokes his cheeks, “wait y/n,” he pauses, “my face kinda feels weird.”
you look around and hand him a mirror from the counter, “oh my god…” peter gingerly touches his face as you kneel down at him, “what’s wrong, baby?”
“my face… it’s so fat!” he’s got tears in his eyes and whining with a jutted bottom lip, “y/n,” sniffle. “will-” sniffle. “will you still love me if my face is so fat?”
you roll your eyes and smile at his antics, “of course, i would.”
he seems pleased with your answer because he’s back to smiling. you go back to packing his things. “hey, mr dentist,” he woozily slurs, the gauze is practically spilling out his mouth, “d’you know i’m spider-man?”
you mentally facepalm at his obliviousness and mutter, “jesus christ.”
you turn to the older man who’s chuckling at his mental state and shrug, “he also thinks he’s luke skywalker from star wars.”
“but i am!-” “okay bug boy, lets go.”
“where we going?”
“home, sweetie.”
he gasps eagerly and raises his eyebrows at you, “to have sex?”
“oh my god.”
soon after the dentist explains and hands you everything he needs to recover, you guide peter to the car.
he’s extremely dramatic.
he’s got his hands around your shoulders, dragging himself on the floor, acting like he can’t walk - which he definitely can.
“peter, i know you can walk. c’mon help me out,” you beg.
“no, i can’t" he moans, "carry me,” he demands.
“what? no,”
“why not?”
“because you’re too heavy.”
and he’s crying all over again, “i knew it! you hate me 'cause you think my face is too fat!”
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ok tumblr was like
and so I was like
and NOW WE WAIT for approval
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I'm going on holiday!
Hi y'all! I'm going on holiday the last week of May, so I've closed the shop for now, to reopen in June. All orders already placed will be shipped latest by tomorrow. Thank you so much for your support 🥰
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you know what we don’t talk about enough???
santi flinching when the first shot rings out and the way his eyes immediately harden and turn cold and and and ugh
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How do you think your dad!Santi celebrated Mother’s Day with pregnant wifey?? I see it as detailed planning with a bit of chaos on the side lol!!!!
Summary: Mother’s day with dad!Santiago (~1.4k)
Content: fluff, w/ some sexy implications at the end
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Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Santiago has everything planned out to the minute.
You’re dead asleep upstairs. It’s a phase of your pregnancy he remembers from your son. Four to six weeks where you go to bed at about 1900.
Santiago always carries your toddler upstairs and they put you to bed like you’re the baby. You give them both a kiss and immediately check out.
Back to the kitchen. Put the gate up to close it off to the living room.
He sets your son down on the floor, giving him a second to get his balance. Santi likes to let him walk around underfoot. Likes to look down and see those chubby cheeks smiling or his own dark eyes looking up at him.
He flicks on the oven and gets out the cupcake tin. He takes his bag of supplies out from behind where he’s stashed it at the back of the pantry.
The baby reaches up for it, curious already. "Mine," he says.
Santiago says a silent prayer that they're not in that phase of toddler-hood yet. Although Santiago himself has a bit of a possessive streak, so he understands.
“You want to pick the cupcake papers?” Santiago asks him. He takes out the packages of wrappers he’s bought, kneeling down carefully to hold them out to his son, who leans mouth-forward to chomp down on the pink ones. “Good choice,” Santiago says. "Your mama will love them."
He swaps out the container of papers for a teething ring from the refrigerator. The baby's pretty much outgrown it, but it'll keep him busy.
“We make the cupcakes now. I frost them in the morning. Then, I’ll wake you up and we’ll make her breakfast. What do you think? Does mama want eggs and bacon, or pancakes?”
The baby looks up at Santiago. “Mama. Love.”
“Yeah, better make all 3.” Santiago sets up the mixer and starts assembling the dry ingredients. “Then, we’ll watch the video of your first birthday party. And then she gets to unwrap the necklace we got her. Your Uncle Frankie helped me frame you and your sister’s ultrasound pictures together. We can hang that right away."
A thought wanders through his head. 3 pictures. Maybe more. He mentally erases it. One step at a time.
“Mama. Love,” the baby says, tugging on Santiago’s jeans.
Santi has flour all over his hands, but what the hell, he’s the one who does the laundry anyway. So, he bends down and picks up his son, letting him look at the slowly-turning mixer.
“Kiss,” the baby says.
Santiago kisses his sweet little face.
“You know, you’re going to have to share her when the next Mother’s Day rolls around. You’ll have a new little sister, so we’ll have to spoil your mom twice as much. You’ll be bigger by then. Shit.” He pauses. He gets a lump in his throat. “You’ll be a lot bigger.”
His son looks up at him, rubbing his hand over Santiago's sandpapery chin. “Shit.”
Santiago winces. “I really need to watch my language.”
He finishes the cupcakes efficiently and while they’re baking, he cleans up the kitchen and sets things out for the morning.
Afterward, he reads a book in the chair in the baby’s room, his son drooling on his shoulder. Both of them will fall asleep at some point. But they know to wake each other up before it gets too late. They have a big day tomorrow.
*****
Santiago is a full two hours behind schedule.
Your 10 hours of sleep turn into 12. It’s brunch now, not breakfast.
He’s frosted the cupcakes. Went to the basement and spent 45 minutes on the rowing machine while the baby watched cartoons next to him. He showered. He tidied. The flower delivery came (which you were supposed to be awake to receive).
Santiago checks his watch. It had been his dad’s. Really the only thing he had from his father, although his mom said he’d inherited his dad’s charm and ability to grow a full beard in 24-hours.
Mother’s Days has always been a big deal to Santiago. Every year, he corralled his sisters into his mom’s room and presented her with jewelry. They all went out for breakfast and took a long walk afterward. She didn’t lift a finger all day. His mom had worked so hard to raise 3 kids.
Santiago was just as proud of you as he was of his mom.
You two were a lot alike, he thought. Not in a weird way, just that you turned mama bear at the speed of light, didn’t think twice about being too selfless, and you both liked to remind him that not everything was so serious.
But schedules, to Santiago, were sacred.
Two hours turns into three and he stops checking the clock.
Eventually, he picks up the baby from where they were chilling in the living room and heads upstairs.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” Santiago says, depositing his son back in his own bedroom for a minute so he can check on you.
Waking you up would ruin the entire day. You’re never madder than when you get woken up before you’re ready.
With more stealth than when he used to infiltrate enemy houses, more care than when he used to hold firearms and knives, he turns the handle of the bedroom. He holds his breath.
The curtains are open. His brain scrambles. He knows they were closed. You both like to sleep in pitch black darkness.
“Hi honey,” you say.
Santiago swings the door the rest of the way open. You’re sitting up in bed, a book propped open on your pregnant stomach, smiling at him like a million watts of sunshine.
“Why do you look like that?” You ask, setting aside your book.
Santiago stands in the doorway, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Happy Mother’s Day. How long you been awake?”
You shrug. “Dunno. An hour maybe.”
“An hour?” Santiago says a little louder than he intended to.
You look startled. “What? I thought it was my day to do what I wanted.”
Santiago scrubs his hands over his face, realizing you're right. “Absolutely. Your day.”
He walks over to sit on the bed next to you. He lays his hand on your stomach. The baby’s quiet inside.
“I had a plan,” he says, looking at you with big, dark eyes.
“You always do,” you say, feeling a tug of sympathy. You hold out your arms. “Come here. Tell me about it.”
Santiago crawls up the bed and into your arms, resting his head on your shoulder. He tells you about the cupcakes last night. The frosting this morning, and how your son had known every color in the container of sprinkles. How he’d planned breakfast. The flowers and how he’d helped your son write his name on the card.
How the more time went on, he started to feel nervous like it was a first date or something. Like he was waiting for Christmas morning.
“Just want you to know we love you,” Santiago says.
You kiss the top of his head, fingers brushing through his curls. “I know. Thank you for going to all that trouble. The good news is, I’m really hungry. I should probably eat twice as much, since I slept through breakfast.”
Santiago leans in to kiss your neck, lets the tip of his tongue play against your skin. “Well, since I’m up here and we’re already in bed…”
“Oh, it’s like that?”
He rubs his chin against your neck, making you laugh. “It’s definitely like that.”
“I don’t know, is this on the schedule?” You ask him.
Santiago pulls down the covers so he can get under them with you, already kissing his way down your body.
“No schedule,” Santiago says. “You’re going to stay in bed all day and let me spoil the shit out of you. Starting now at,” he checks his watch, “quarter after eleven. I say this with love: sweetheart, you slept a long fucking time.”
He looks up at you, laughing contagiously.
“I’m growing your second child, don’t give me attitude,” you say, giggling behind your hands.
“I’m not. Let me apologize, okay?” Santiago’s face goes from laughing to completely dangerous in the blink of an eye. “There’s no better way to celebrate your day than for me get under these covers for 30 minutes.”
“So much for no schedule.”
Santiago’s already pulling up your nightgown with a gentle touch.
“Now, it's more of a to-do list than a schedule. And you're on the very top of the list. Always.” He kisses the bare skin of your stomach, right above your belly button, his eyes still on yours. “I love you and today’s going to be perfect. You deserve it. Happy Mother’s day, sweetheart.”
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Himbo joel is definitely into humping
Call this bitch humpty dumpty because all he DOES is hump anything reader has when she's not home.
Warnings: humping, pillow humping, dry humping, public humping, cumming in pants, cum eating, mommy kink, typed out on my phone at lunch and not proof read one bit
18 + ONLY
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He loves curling up in her bed, sniffing her bedsheets and pillow case. The remnants of your scent sending rivers of arousal right down to his cock until its stiffening. Can't help but hump the matress as he inhales your smell.
The need is so strong that he pushes your one pillow between his knees, the other right in his face. Lying down on his stomach and smashing his nose into it as he start experimentally grinding down on the soft plushness. He groans with a laugh. You'll be mad, no doubt, but so long aa he can enjoy it, he'll just be sure to put it right back.
He keeps rocking his hips into the pillow, suffucating his thick length. It encompassed it perfectly. Just the right amount of pressure to make him grunt with each roll. He props himself on his knees a little higher and angles the pillow to bend taller. The position nudges his balls effortlessly. He whimpers face down into your sheets, his teeth tearing into the fabric with damp Saliva forming while he Bounces along the pad. "M-mommy," he whines, wafting the scent of your sweat and shampoo. He fucked you right here just a couple hours ago but he'd give anything to plunge his length into your soft sweet wet tight pussy right now.
Fuck, it's cruel you leave him like this. Mommy is so cruel sometimes and he doesn't always understand it. Maybe he should be bad, make you spend time with him (punish him) and remind him why he needs to be kept close at all times.
His jaw drops as he stills and starts cumming in his pants. Creamy white slick pours through his sweats and begins to seep into the soft once dry pillow below him. It feels so fucking good, making a mess just for you that he pushes his crotch further in and slowly rubs his cum into your pillow. Sticky and wet, Joel smears it all over like a giddy Painter who's satisfied with his art. He knows he should clean up before you come home, but he can't bring himself to care. Instead, he keeps his softened cock messy cum covered pants and pillow tightly wedged against him and falls alseep wrapped up in your distant presence.
-
When they are together, and he's too horny just looking at her and begging Mommy to take him home and let him have you, he pulls you close in a crowd and humps your legs or ass. Just enough that it looks like swaying. But the immediate relief he gets from the burning ache in his jeans does wonders to calm yet agitate his brain further.
"Stop it," you whisper warningly. Not even looking his way as you try to brush him off. But joel just takes your hand below and presses it against his Jean clad errection, grinding himself into your palm with a slutty sigh.
He likes brushing his cock against your jeans. The curve of your butt providing the perfect cavern to put his tented cock, rolling up and down on his heels or back and forth with little pats in each Crash.
"Cum in your pants and you're getting punished tonight, you threaten. He has to hide his smirk as he pushes himself fully against you and starts shivering, undoubtedly spilling his load right into his trousers with a raspy groan only for you to hear.
Hes so bad sometimes. He does it on purpose. You know it. He knows it. And he knows you won't do anything right now in public in front of others.
You grin and drag your pointer along his bulge, now slowly dampened with cum. He jitters from your touch, watching with parted lips and hazy eyes as you push your digit into your mouth and hum.
His mouth twitches, ans he can already feel his dick pulsing again with excitement, just thinking of the million ways you're going to make him suffer tonight for directly disobeying Mommy in front of everyone.
Anyway what yeah himbo!Joel likes humping and stuff.
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I just jqirjeksosnchwjsnnxnne when I'm reading a moon knight fanfic and Jake just speaks Spanish, like DAMN. As a woman from Latin America IDFC about the "I used Google translate, srry". Imma eat that shit UP. Likeeeee amor? Cariño? Querida? Princesa?!
Scrumdeliyumyum a purr purr
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a/n: Mother's Day can be anything from trauma revisited, grief old and new, dashed hopes, all the way to the most exhilarating overflow of love and joy, and anything in between. I acknowledge you, wherever you are, whatever your feelings.
This is a short story about the Moon Knight system sharing a life with the mother of their children. If that is for you, today, then enjoy. If not, I wish you a wonderful day with much love.
Pairing: Moon Dads! Steven Grant x mother!reader, Marc Spector x mother!reader. (Jake is mentioned). The story does not state that this reader has given birth to these children, nor the reader's gender, so anyone who could ever feel like a mother would be included here.
Word Count: 1.7k
Content: MOON DADS!! fluff, domestic fluff, kids, married life, it's Mother's Day, kissing, mentions of food and eating, there is a tinge of angst-ish, as Wendy Spector is mentioned, but this is not an angsty fic. This story is what I wish for the Moon Boys IF this is what they would want. They deserve to heal and they deserve a family if they want one - whatever that may look like. not beta'd
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
He finds you in the kitchen early Sunday morning, standing over a hot griddle, pancakes sizzling.
Your babbling toddler wiggles in the high chair, pinching one Cheerio at a time in her chubby fingers and stuffing it into her mouth, making a kind of weird mush as she entertains herself.
You back is turned to him so you don’t realize he’s there until his arms wind around you from behind.
“You can’t cook today,” he breathes on your ear, stealthily removing the spatula from your hand.
You giggle and pretend to shrug him off. “Why not?”
“It’s Mother’s Day,” he declares, with an adoring kiss to your cheek.
“So? We have two boys about to come barreling in here,” you remind him matter-of- factly. “My present to myself is not listening to them demanding to know what’s for breakfast.”
A sliver of shame shoots through Steven's heart. He intended to wake up before you and take care of all this: breakfast and the kids. But Jake was out late last night and he accidentally overslept.
“Dada!” Lockley calls from her high chair, playfully slapping her hands down on the tray.
“Hey, sweet girl,” Steven greets his daughter, bending over to kiss her forehead. “Did you know it’s Mummy’s day?
“Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma,” Lockley wiggles back and forth, chanting proudly.
As predicted, two energetic boys burst into the kitchen, their tousled curls an adorable mess.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” the twins shout in unison, holding up a handmade banner, constructed from about 60 post-it notes stuck together.
“Wowww,” you whistle in admiration. “Somebody’s been ransacking my office for supplies.” You wink, kneeling down to inspect their handiwork, and assuming they were unable to locate the construction paper to make this unique banner.
Then you take a closer look as Steven tends to the pancakes, finishing them up and removing them from the heat.
“Oh…” Your eyes mist over instantly when you realize the reasoning behind using such small paper to build a banner.
"There's messages on each one," Grant, the oldest twin by two minutes, shyly murmurs.
"Read 'em, read 'em, Mom!" Your energetic Jakob almost tears the feeble construct apart with his bouncing up and down.
Several of the notes boast simple messages such as, "Happy Mother's Day!" or "We love you!"
A few of them have small handprints - Mother's Day classics. There's even a tiny handprint, with LOCKLEY printed messily underneath.
"We had to write hers because she can't write," Jakob states the obvious. "But she tried to eat the Post-its."
"I'm sure she did," you chuckle, glancing over a few "coupons" where the boys have offered to load the dishwasher, fold laundry, give you a back rub and the like.
Then you notice a rather good drawing of your family under a banner reading, "The Spectors": You, holding baby Lockley. Grant and Jakob are flanking either side of you. And there are three dads pictured and labeled, Marc, Steven, Jake, underneath, "DAD" written in all caps. "MOM" is above your head.
"Grant, did you draw this, bud?" You ask your little artist, ruffling his curls.
"Yeah. It was hard to fit everyone on a Post-it, so I made it on two. So you have to keep them together...okay?" His dark eyebrows shoot up hopefully.
You nod, continuing to inspect each one.
Jake has written a few notes in Spanish and Steven left you a riddle...which led to a second riddle underneath the first one. And a third.
Jakob is giddy, dying to tell you what the riddle's answers are, but Grant silences him.
The bottom post it says, "Turn around."
Curious, you stand back up and turn to find Steven holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and a wrapped present in the other.
"One-two-three," you hear Grant coach. Then Jakob joins in. "Surprise!" Your husband and twin sons chorus.
"Happy Mother's Day, darling," Steven smiles at you, handing you your gifts. "These are from Marc and me."
"Thank you, I love them," you accept the flowers and kiss him sweetly on the lips.
"And Jake says he's going to get Frenchie to babysit next weekend so he can take you out in the city and 'show you off.' His words."
You snort, clearly amused. "Frenchie wants to babysit these three?"
"Yay!" Jakob cheers. "Uncle Frenchie! Uncle Frenchie!"
"Fen-he!" Lockley attempts, bouncing in her chair.
"See, everyone loves the idea," Steven grins, nodding for you to open the wrapped gift. "You can wear this."
A moment later, as he places your flowers in some fresh water, you unwrap your gift.
"It's beautiful," you gasp, touching the golden necklace, bearing hieroglyphs.
"It represents motherhood," Steven gushes. "Here, I made sure to get the paper that explains it all."
"Thank you." Wrapping your arms around his neck you hug him tightly. "Will you put it on me?"
Steven obliges, and you turn back to your boys. "What do you guys think?"
"It's pretty, Mom," Grant sweetly replies.
But Jakob has already dropped his half of the banner and is reaching for a pancake when Steven clears his throat pointedly.
The five of you gather around the table for an all too sugary breakfast before heading out to the park to get some fresh air, let the kids play and spend some quality time together.
Lockley can't walk quite yet, so she's rolling and scooting on a blanket on the grass while Grant and Jakob play close by.
Steven has already apologized for oversleeping, but you confess that you heard Jake come home extremely late. Lockley had a fussy night, so you turned off the baby monitor not ten minutes after he fell asleep and spent most of the early morning rocking your sweet, fussy girl.
"The perfect mom, as always," Steven compliments, with a sparkle in his eye. "And the day's not over yet. There's more to come."
You tangle your fingers with his, laying your head on his shoulder. After a brief silence, you ask, "How's Marc?"
You normally don't ask one alter to deliver messages for another. Half the time, they don't know anyway. But this is Marc. On Mother's Day.
"Quiet," Steven answers. "I think he's okay."
You hum a response, handing Lockley the pacifier she spit out.
"And you, my love? How are you today?"
Because Steven lost his mom too. And not simply because she passed away, but because the mother he thought was his was not real. Parts of her were real, to Steven anyway. The parts from childhood when she wasn't drunk, wasn't violent.
Those were Steven's memories to hold.
But he lost who he thought she was, as well.
"I'm better this year. Better every year," he nods, eyes focused on his twins playing together. "Get to spend this day with the best mum there is."
He gazes over at you adoringly.
"Thank you," you whisper, sealing your mouth to his.
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Later that evening, after you and Steven have wrangled three kids into bed, you decide to take a quick shower.
When you emerge, Marc is waiting for you with a glass of wine.
"Happy Mother's Day," his dark eyes flicker down the curves of your body and he wets his lips.
"Marc," you breathe, taking the wine glass from his hand and setting it aside so you can throw your arms around him. "I didn't think I would see you today."
His strong forearms flex against your back, pulling you closer. "I'm here. Did you get the flowers?"
"Yeah they're on the dining room table. Thank you, they're beautiful."
"Good." Easing back, he kisses your mouth, before taking your hand and retrieving your wine glass. "Come on."
The sound of the record player drifts faintly down the hall, welcoming you into the den, where Marc has built a fire.
"I know it's May, but I turned the air down low," he explains, answering your quizzical look. "I know how much you love a fire."
You beam at him as he leads you to sit down on the plush rug in front of the fireplace. There's a tray with some adult-worthy snacks, like - the nice brand of cheese and fancy chocolates.
"No kids allowed," he winks, knowing you're always the one to give up the last pancake or slice of pizza for your children, or for him.
"Oooh, okay, this almost feels like an anniversary." You reach for a chocolate as the two of you get comfortable.
"Too much?" He questions, dark eyes focused intently on the way your lips wrap around the candy.
"Owh naw - its puwfect," you mumble, mouth stuffed full of a truffle.
Marc laughs, nodding mockingly, but playfully. "Sexy."
"I know," you humph, finishing your treat. "But today's my day. I don't have to be sexy."
"You couldn't help that if you tried," he smoothly counters, reaching up with his thumb to swipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.
"You're really racking up the points here, babe, like, this is..." You glance all around you before taking a swig of your wine. "This is good. Really good."
"I thought you could use some kid-free time," he explains, "With your favorite things - without Jakob eating them all first."
You share a laugh, knowing it's true. Jakob is barely a middle child, but he certainly acts like one.
"If you want some alone time, just say the word," Marc adds, a bit reluctantly. "I just want you to be able to relax."
Setting down your wine glass, you pull him close by his t-shirt. "Don't you dare. You're mine."
You surge forward to meet his lips in a hungry kiss, the wine and the pampering treatment truly reminding you of more of a romantic anniversary setting than anything else.
Marc hums against your lips, cupping your face in his hand as you deepen the kiss, licking open the seam of his mouth to taste him. The wine and the chocolate and the essence of your husband soothes and calms you equally as you melt into his arms.
"Thank you," you whisper, rubbing your nose against his as you part for air. "Thank you for making me a mother."
He touches his forehead to yours and earnestly returns, "Thank you for showing me what a mother can be."
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
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“Yes man” (Cecil Dennis {fuck me, how did I get here} x fem!reader)
Summary: Blurby McBlurbFace. Mainly chat, slight fluff, smut, pining / friends to lovers vibes.
18+ ONLY MINORS DNI
Warnings: alcohol consumption; drug use mentions (weed); smoking; dumbification of Cecil, I guess. Mommy kink if you squint. Public erections / handjob sorta, premature ejaculation / cum in pants. Mentions of dead fish but no fish were harmed. Actually, a surprising number of animal metaphors. Oops. Rimming I’m sorry that one snuck in very last minute Omg.
A/n: having a shitty mental health day (boo) and this Cecil blurb (whilst not my best) is my self-care ☺️ I don’t remember his character well aside from wet bloody cat boy, but I’m damn sure not rewatching that again so this will have to do 😅. Feedback appreciated! 🧡 (Is the rimming too much? 🙈) Not proofed and I’m almost positive autocorrect will have screwed me over.
Also totally inspired by @my-secret-shame’s meme and @foxilayde’s amazing blurb. I will not pretend to have had an original idea! 🧡
“Come onnnn, Cecil,” you whine, poking him in his soft belly with your index finger. He giggles lightly, almost like a hiccough. “It’s always me coming up with the ideas. What do you wanna do next?”
He turns his head as though in slow motion. Moves as if he’s underwater, this one - at least when he’s got food and several beers in him (which is most of the time). He looks up. Blinks at you; dumbly. “What do you mean?”
Eh. You’d really thought your statement had been quite clear.
You resist the urge to pinch his cheek and tell him It’s a good job you’re pretty.
“I mean, that I suggest things, and you go along with them.”
He blinks again. It’s like everything is just a little slower in Cecil’s world. Takes a little longer to filter through. It’s refreshing, in a way. He’s in no rush, and it encourages you to slow down too. To smell the roses.
Cecil is beyond easy-going, come to think of it. Goes with the flow like a dead fish. You’re pretty sure, in fact, that he’d go along with just about anything. With just about anybody’s hare-brained schemes, without once thinking through a single one of the potential consequences.
Scratch that - he probably already has done just that; which would explain a lot of the trouble he’s routinely gotten himself into since you’ve known him.
Though, you suppose, in a way that’s refreshing too. You always did worry too much.
Besides, he always seems to muddle through, somehow. Though quite how has you stumped. It’s hardly due to his charm or his smarts, now, is it? Even so, despite whatever attributes he is lacking in, you can’t deny that he must be doing something right. Trouble simply seems to slide right off the man’s back. Like water off a… well. A dead fish, you guess. What a versatile metaphor.
He blinks at you again. Maybe those big pretty cow eyes help, just a teency bit, to get him out of trouble, you would wager.
Look at him though. You’ve never seen anyone more relaxed. Practically horizontal as he’s hunkered down in the booth, seated next to you in the corner of your usual dive bar. Maybe there’s something to be said for all the pot and seedy hotel room fucks he indulges in. You bet his shoulders are inordinately loose. Maybe he really does have it all figured out, despite appearances.
As you ponder this, Cecil -eventually- makes a non-committal noise, before his bloodshot, glassy eyes flick back to the TV hung up on the wall. He is barely even watching it. Just letting it happen to him, like he does with most everything else.
That’s probably why you’ve never fucked him, you realise, like a bolt out of the blue. He’s pretty, sure. But you wouldn’t.
You don’t mind control - that’s not it. You don’t mind taking charge. But with Cecil? You think he’d take it lying down - a little too literally. If you’d ever suggested you and he fool around, you’d never know for sure. Never know if it really was his idea - a thought or desire he’d ever had before - or if he was simply far too agreeable and opportunistic to decline. So agreeable, that he’d let you ease your vagina up and down on his cock until you came on him. You were intrigued by the thought, sure. But you refused to go there simply because Cecil couldn’t come up with anything better to do.
You look at him, and immediately bat that thought - the vagina all over cock one - away though, as you regard his complete lack of gumption. It’s tangible. Look at him now, for example. He’d seemed to like the way the air from his non-committal noise had filtered over the neck of his bottle, tucked under his folded chin. Indeed, he is now pursing his full, curvy lips, and blowing over the mouth of it until a soft series of “hoots” fill your booth.
You fold your arms and sigh.
You reckon that will amuse him for the next ten minutes at least, so clearly, once again, Cecil’s not the one coming up with a plan for the remainder of this evening.
It’s not that you ever really have to do anything with Cecil to have a good time. It’s just that, tonight, you’re antsy, and it’s making your thoughts wander in directions. Down below his zipper directions, so help you.
“Beer’s empty,” Cecil states flatly, finally noticing after sucking on the bottle for a mo, poking his wet pink tongue around the rim like the little wet cat boy he is. Cute though. Does things to you.
Anyway. You register his statement, but you observe that no action follows. He doesn’t look at all like he plans to do a damn thing about it.
You decide to test your theory, then. Your theory that Cecil’s simply a dead fish swept along in your river. That maybe he doesn’t even want to be here at all. Never did. That you are just another something that happened to happen to him.
“Do you wanna go get Mexican?” you offer, with ulterior motives Cecil is not shrewd enough to pick up on.
His eyes tick back from the captivating, shifting lights of the TV. “Sure,” he smiles softly at you, perfectly content, it seems - and yet, you are less than satisfied.
“See!” You smack the palms of your hands together in triumph, and he jumps. Pushes himself up a little straighter in the seat, his palms disappearing into the worn, lumpy upholstery. “See what I mean?”
He blinks at you blankly. Again.
Clearly not, then?
“You just go along with anything I say. We ate two hours ago, Cecil,” you complain, recalling the all you can eat Chinese buffet you and he had gorged on with two coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper. You drop your hands to your lap, dejectedly. You’re getting agitated with him, which surprises you, in truth. And still… there Cecil is. Unflappable. Calm. Constant. There are pros to his cons, for sure. “I just… I never know if you actually like what we’re doing, you know?”
“But. You always suggest things I like. So why would I say no?” He shrugs a little. “Tacos are good. I like tacos. I like…” he hoots into his bottle again as he says the word. “You-ooooooh.”
You hate to admit it, but his answer has you stumped for a moment. Cecil’s statements may generally be simple. Uncomplicated. But they can be oddly profound at times.
Christ. Maybe… Does the man actually have a valid point? Or, perhaps you’re looking too hard for meaning in his words - it’s possible. You feel like you’ve spent a lot of time lately looking hard at Cecil, perhaps to justify your bizarre and inexplicable feelings.
Possibly you’re even projecting. His seeming lack of independent willpower would certainly make that easy enough to do.
Maybe the man has a point though. Maybe he’s not as “easy-going” as you think he is. Maybe you’re just coincidentally so attuned to his desires that he’s never had cause to deny you. Maybe you are aligned with his desires. One and the same. “What if I asked you to do something you didn’t like, then?”
You slurp up the dregs of melted ice through your straw and Cecil blinks again as though it’s taking all of his processing power. Damn, though. You’re surprised that the fanning of those endlessly long cow lashes didn’t cause the curtains behind you to billow in the breeze they threw up. “Like what?”
You shake your head. Touch his arm to placate him. “Never mind, Cecil.” Christ. If he can’t even think of a single Thing He Wouldn’t Like, maybe you can safely stick to your dead fish hypothesis. It’s all the same to him. Just happening to him. He’s not choosing you.
That particular thought, when it arrives, niggles you more than expected, but you quash the growing agitation which rides in alongside it.
Meanwhile, Cecil looks around, quite visibly thinking. “I wouldn’t get up outta this seat,” he states adamantly, his voice croaked from all the blunts he’s worked through today. “I wouldn’t like that.”
You believe him. He’s practically sliding down to become a puddle on the floor. Dissolving into the bar furniture; becoming one with the upholstery.
Your lips curl up into a tender smile, remembering one particularly ridiculous night at Cecil’s. The night involving a 3am bong sesh, culminating in him genuinely believing he had merged with the couch, becoming a half-human half-upholstery monstrosity. He had waved the two huge, puffy couch cushions around as though they were his arms, and he’d grabbed you up in the middle of them like a grilled cheese, sandwiching you and taking you down to the floor where the two of you had rolled and laughed until you’d cried.
When the laughter had subsided to only the odd titter here and there, and you had lain on his disgusting rug almost nose to nose? That’s the first time you’d wanted to kiss him, and it turned out not to have been the last.
Fuck. You are rather fond of this idiot, aren’t you? How the fuck did that happen?
Engaged fully now though - slightly more lucid than your fond memory- Cecil sits up. Still slouched but this time over the table, his forearms bracing him against the surface. As he moves, you get a waft of his layered, stale cigarette smell. It’s… confusing, in its appeal. Should be off-putting, but you find, in fact, that it’s a comfort.
“No? You don’t wanna?”
With a rush of affection you link your arm through Cecil’s, and he slumps his head on to your shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You weren’t ready for the way his knotted curls brush your cheek, and it inspires a similarly dense and tangled knot to form in your middle.
“No.” It’s the most sure you’ve ever heard him sound. “I don’t wanna get up.”
“A minute ago we were going for Mexican food, Cecil.” There’s a beat. “That kinda involves movement, you realise?
He swivels his head towards you then, gaze all doe-eyed and pathetic, and the proximity of him parroting on your shoulder knocks you for six. “You mad at me or something, Hottie from Walmart?”
You snort. He doesn’t always pull out that nickname for you - how you’d been known to him before you had been known to him - but it always makes you sentimental when he does.
He shifts from you then, tilting his body towards you. Scrutinising you with apprehension in his sweet face.
Fuck him actually, and fuck his pouty beautiful kissable lips most of all.
You sigh, and you deliberately soften your face. He’s easy-going, sure, but he’s sensitive. Trouble slides off of his back, but other things… other things don’t slip off quite so well, and he often gets like this. Like he’s done something wrong, when he hasn’t.
You actively resist the urge to coddle him. To tenderly rake his somewhat grimy but beautiful curls off of his forehead.
You hardly want to examine the fact he brings out your… motherly instincts; but it doesn’t escape your attention that he always seems like he’s craving just a little nurturing. You want to take your thumb and smooth out the creases in his troubled brow.
“No, Cecil. I’m not mad at you. I’d tell you if I was and we’d talk about it.”
He nods.
You’re not mad at him. Really. And so, you take pause to wonder why this happy-go-lucky trait of his is particularly irking you today. “It’s mostly a good thing, I promise.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.”
He looks pleased for a minute and then: “Wait. What’s a good thing?”
You want to kiss his stupid mouth until he can’t think. Which you don’t think would take long at all, actually.
“That…” You think about how to phrase it, and it quickly occurs to you. “That. You’re my ‘yes man’.” He is expressionless for a moment, and you wait for comprehension to slowly crawl over him. “I mean, Cecil,” you take his clammy hand in yours. “That it’s always fun with you. I mean that you never shoot down my ideas. Even when you probably should.”
His face splits with a brief - goofy, but wholly endearing - smile. “You have fun with me?”
His big cow eyes go all soft and wet.
Oh boy. This idiot. If you didn’t have fun with him, even just sitting on his grotty couch, what other reason could you possibly have to hang out with him, huh?
You open your mouth to say as much before thinking better of it, but for once Cecil beats you to it.
“I have fun with you too, Hottie.”
It’s another one of those moments of levity that you’ve experienced surprisingly often with Cecil. One of those moments where everything feels a just little more profound. A little more magical. Sometimes, Cecil gets you in the gut just a little harder than expected.
Great. And now you’re thinking of Cecil all up in your guts.
“I should think so - I’m awesome. But, right now? All I’m saying is…” You tap your noggin. “Tank empty. No ideas. It’s your turn to decide what we do tonight? Okay?”
You search his eyes. His big, beautiful, sincere and secretless eyes. You silently ask the true question you want to ask him. I want to know what you want.
You’re not yet ready to admit the questions buried right beneath that one: do you want me back? Could you? Would you, Cecil?
“Yeah?” Cecil responds, unsure, and you immediately worry that you have, in fact, given him too much responsibility. His expression compresses in a frown of deep, deep concentration. Like he’s really wrestling with this.
You watch with bated breath, dying to see what he comes up with - if anything at all.
And then - aha - he finally has it.
“I could jerk off.”
“Wha-?” You playfully bat him in the arm, aghast. “Cecil!!”
“What?” A surprised, contrite laugh bobs in his throat.
“I mean.” You swallow. “How is that an idea for both of us?”
Oh that’s your problem with his idea?
That it’s not participatory enough?
“You could help.”
Your jaw drops open. “Cecil! I’m not gonna-” you switch to a loud whisper “-jerk you off!”
He blinks again, his eyes glinting with a gentle - ever so gentle - flicker of amusement. “You’re not a yes man,” he complains softly, his curly lips sneaking up into a curly smile. “Always shooting down my ideas.”
He bats his lashes at you and oh boy - even Cecil must be starting to figure out that you’re a sucker for those big, pretty brown eyes. Your one true weakness.
“That’s really what you want?” you ask, trying to keep things light. To keep your tone jokey and jovial, like always, despite the rising tremor in your voice. “It would involve getting up, you realise?”
He winks at you - a gesture which seems entirely unlike him and yet somehow works - and smirks down at his crotch. “Already am.”
“If you’re really so uncontrollably horny, why don’t you get someone else around here to help you, huh?” Your heart skips a beat. “Why me?”
He’s looking at you like he wants you but… he’s an opportunistic guy. Goes with the flow. That’s how things come to him; he’ll take his cigarettes and beers and fucks wherever and whenever he can get them.
He unceremoniously pulls out a rolled blunt and lights it up, the filter end pressed between his plush pink lips.
“No.” It bobs as he talks and he takes little, peppered drags to get the burn going.
“No?”
You blink at him dumbly now.
“No. I only want you.”
Correction. That’s the most sure of anything you’ve ever heard him.
He slips forward, exhaling his smoke into your mouth as his lips caress yours. “Come on,” he encourages. “Get going. Before my penis turns into a couch cushion.”
He kisses your laugh, and as his tongue slides hungrily against yours suddenly it isn’t quite so funny. Suddenly, you feel like maybe Cecil has the best ideas.
“Right here?” You reach down, and you smooth your palm over the clothed bulge at his crotch. “In the booth?”
“I’m already barred. Heh. What are they gonna do?”
You smile at him, licking your lips as Cecil bucks up into your hand, his head lolling back against the lip of his seat, and his pretty eyes fluttering closed.
He groans, as your fingers snake to tease open the button at his fly.
“Oops,” Cecil whispers contritely, almost immediately, his cheeks and his ears darkening with a deep crimson flush as he looks over to you. “I just… I…”
Oh God. He just came in his pants, didn’t he? Oh Lord that makes you inexplicably hot.
His big, pretty eyes are wet with apology. “Are you mad?”
“No, Cecil.” Poor baby. “I just think I should take you home and get you cleaned up, hmm?” You next words all run into one, as you struggle to get your new genius plan out of your mouth. “Mayberimyoualittlewhatdoyousay?”
Did you actually just suggest that you take him home to rim him? Good Lord.
He blinks rapidly, the colour in his cheeks flowering more, like a beautiful rose unfurling. “Y-Yes. I say yes.”
It’s a hare-brained plan, for sure, but you decide that for once,
you might as well just…
go with the flow.
It certainly works for Cecil.
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Getting drunk on Christmas (Cecil Dennis x reader)
A/N: A Christmas Drabble as a present for @ominoose hope you enjoy it!
Warning: Alcohol consumption, fluffy fluff
Words:439
“Finally some alone time, with my darling.” Cecil says as he re-enters the living room after bidding the guest’s farewell, His cold beer in one hand a glass of her favorite wine in the other. He smiles at his Fiancée who is still picking up wrapping paper from all the mornings festivities. She turns to him with a smile taking the wine from him, letting the cold liquid hit her lips as she looks around the well decorated home.
“It’s really a Christmas miracle we get through all this every year.” She laughs. Cecil’s family was always a little much, very sweet and kind but very rowdy and excitable at the same time. She was much more used to her family, a quieter lot, with simple traditions, but she loves them all either way. But now that they were gone, it was nice to just get a little time the two of them.
“You’re my miracle baby.” He says with slightly slurred speech. This wasn’t his first beer of the day, and this wasn’t her first glass of wine. His glassy brown eyes looking at her with drunken adoration. He wraps and arm around her as she sets down the bag of trash, he nuzzles his face into her neck as he pulls her in closer. She laughs at his antics as he pulls her closer.
“Cecil! That tickles!” She giggles. He laughs with her his breath on her skin. He playfully wrestles her to the couch, both of them slightly spilling their drinks on themselves as they horse around like they usually do. Their drunken laughter fills the room as Cecil begins to tickle her. The wine glass hits the carpet, the beer bottle forgotten as the rough housing and tickling quickly turns to making out. Her lips on his, His hands in her hair, holding each other close as they share an intimate moment. He pulls away for a moment before littering her face with kisses.
“I…Love...you…so…much!” He says in-between kisses as she smiles at him with half lidded eyes.
“I love you too, baby. You make everything better…every day I’m thankful to have you.” She kissed the tip of his nose and he looks at her with eyes wide and full of love. “Merry Christmas Darling” She whispers
“Merry Christmas Babe.” He smiles. He hugs her close before looking over her shoulder at the Christmas tree. Smiling ear to ear. This was all he ever wanted. To be happy, with her, domestic bliss. Year after year, for the rest of their lives.
I'll be getting drunk on Christmas, As long as I get Christmas with you
~
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No Upside Down AU where Dustin says fuck it and invites his favorite band to his wedding.
Corroded Coffin shot to popularity when he was 17, and even now, eight years later, they're still his favorite band, his favorite music to put on whenever he's working late on one project or another. Him and the boys have been to a handful of concerts over the years, and it's some of the best memories he's created with his friends.
After he proposes to Suzie and they're working on the invitation list, he jokingly proposes the idea of inviting the band. To his surprise, Suzie encourages it, telling him that he has nothing to lose.
So when they mail out the invitations six months before the wedding, there's one in the stack addressed to the Corroded Coffin PO box, along with a short but heartfelt letter.
In the midst of planning and working and everything else, he forgets about it. The day of his wedding, Mike comes stumbling back into the room where Dustin is getting ready, stammering about "Band- it's the- they-!"
It takes a moment for the three of them - Dustin, Lucas, and Will - to decipher what he's saying, but when they realize-
Dustin sees them once he's up at the church altar, a few rows back on the groom's side. All four members of Corroded Coffin plus a woman Dustin in pretty sure is their manager. He's vibrating as the ceremony starts, and the thing that pulls his attention from the surprise guests is Suzie, absolutely fucking radiant as she walks down the aisle towards him.
It's a bit of a blur after that, and Dustin doesn't get the chance to talk to the band until the reception, after the first dances when he actually has a chance to mingle.
The group is genuinely delighted to meet him and Suzie, says that they've had people ask them to perform at their weddings before, but they'd never just been invited. So they made sure to add it to their schedule, and even brought them a wedding gift.
(Yes, Dustin loses his entire mind over the signed guitar. The chunk of money meant to go towards their honeymoon is also nice, he guesses.)
They happily give autographs and take photos with anyone who asks, and Dustin gets to have a dream conversation about D&D with Eddie, the lead guitarist. It makes an already amazing day all that more special, especially when Eddie gives Dustin his personal number and tells him to call whenever he wants to chat.
(And later on, if Dustin catches Eddie making eyes at Steve, his babysitter-turned-older brother figure, and he also happens to see Steve flirting back, well. You can't blame him for encouraging it.)
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joe for man about town spring / summer 2024.
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