#I WAS WASHING A MOUNTAIN OF DISHES | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gfguren · 23 days

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pro hero!bakugou x reader | fluff, a little bit domestic, a little bit intimate, a little bit suggestive? (not really) | cw: cursing, a very modest bath scene

-teaching bakugou to 'take'-

Thinking about the newly domestic give and take between you and Katsuki. It doesn't come naturally to him. He's hell bent on doing everything himself, at first. That's the way he's always lived after all - hyper self-sufficient, independent to a fault, and so goddamn stubborn about it all.

It makes you feel almost useless, his insistence on doing everything, not only for himself but for you as well. Honestly, you should have expected it; he was like that well before moving in together. Taking all the responsibilities on himself, wrangling you out of the way when you so much as try to help, because he "feels like it", or he's "better at it", or "just move, f'r I make ya".

But you were a guest in his house, then - so you let him have his way, bullheaded as it was. Now that you share a house - a home - you want nothing more than to take care of it, -him.

Though moving mountains would be easier than convincing him to accept it.

You try brute force, first. And it goes as well as you might expect, like throwing pebbles at a brick wall. Putting yourself between him and the dishes is just as futile; he cooked dinner, you should be the one to do this. It's only fair. Still, he takes it upon himself to pick you up and physically remove you from 'his' spot by the sink, ugly yellow gloves dripping dishwater all the way to the counter.

The floor is completely soaked by the time he plops you down on the countertop, as are your jeans, your flailing arms and exasperated "Katsuki!" having done little to deter him. Your mouth opens in protest but his hands, firm at your sides and eyes, red, and stern and definite leave no room for discussion.

So you try to 'talk about it', second. When his mood has cooled and he's feeling a little sweet. He usually is, when hero work has worn him down, chipped away at his fire until there's nothing left but his worn down bones and the aching desire to be enveloped in you - his head on your chest, your fingers in his hair.

He's nothing but mush in your arms by the time you bring it up, nearly two hundred pounds of limp muscle, eyes half lidded, and slow, warm breath. You think he doesn't hear you at first, more likely he pretends not to; but then you hear a half-hearted, "hmph". And you sigh.

"I'm serious, Kats." you rake your fingers across his scalp absently and he groans in appreciation, furling into you more. "You can't do everything, just look at you."

He peers up at you with one eye, an almost glare, more playful than anything; too tired for anything more. He huffs gently, warm breath across your chest when you don't back down. "We'll talk about it later."

'Later'; meaning never. Still, you don't press him. Not when he's so tired, not when this small moment of peace is all he allows you to offer him.

Ever predictable; there isn't a later, and he finds a way to avoid the conversation, in one way or another. Over and over and over again. You're at the end of your rope just trying to get him to listen.

Instead, you try a last ditch effort at patience, at compromise (usually a losing battle, with him); working him over, little by little.

And it works, mostly.

You find that, most times, you can slip past him while he's cooking to steal the dirty mixing bowls and discarded pans; wash them while he's preoccupied trying not to burn the chicken or fretting over cutting the vegetables 'just right'. That him doing the cooking is non-negotiable, but he'll let you help as long as you stop trying to kiss him while he's "tryin' to make y'r dinner over here, god damnit".

(Don't let him fool you, he likes it).

That it takes you far too long to realize how much he craves being asked for 'help', instead of your usual insistence on helping him. That when he feels appreciated and useful, he's almost eager to share the housework with you, looking almost boyish standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, the tepid scowl twisting his pretty face betrayed by the blush creeping up the back of his neck when you hum a lilted, "Thank you, Katsuki".

Your strategy's not foolproof, of course; he's still quick to steal whatever you're working on once he's finished his, itching to make himself busy once more.

But it's progress.

Still, no matter how much you try, or how long you pester him, he puts his foot down at taking care of him while he's sick, while he's training or on patrol. Anything that could end with you hurt, or put you in harms way is a hard 'no' - always, always, always.

That's not to say he doesn't let you take care of him ever. Though it was more hassle than it should have been, getting him to just sit comfortable instead of disappearing into the bath for hours, or taking his frustrations out on his poor, battered training equipment.

These days, when he's had an especially tiring evening, he'll sink down into the sofa without you having to say a thing, let you press your fingers into his shoulders and down his spine until the knots unwind. That occasionally he'll let you take him by the hand even, coax him gently into warm water and vanilla scented bubble bath.

That he becomes particularly docile when you're massaging your flowery conditioner into his wily blonde hair. The scent of you - over his waist, around his shoulders, in his hair - it's almost intoxicating, and he wraps his arms around you, like he's desperate for more, burying his face in your chest; sighs like he's at ease for the first time in his life.

It isn't easy, teaching Katsuki to take - but when he lays down with you at night, his eyes are a little brighter, hands hold you a little tighter, a little longer than when all he knew was how to give, give, give. And when his lips find yours, and you can feel his smile against them, you figure all the trouble is worth it.

And when he rolls the both of you over til you're pinned beneath heavy thighs, impish grin on his lips and calloused fingers beneath your shirt, trouble and promise brewing behind his newly fired eyes, well that's just a bonus.

#bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x you #mha x you #had to physically restrain myself from writing 'he could teach you a thing or two about taking' in the last line djshfd someone stop me #happy katsuki day to all my bkg girlies mwahmwah mwah 💗

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undercoverpena · 9 months

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home and the ghost mug

simon “ghost” riley x reader (cod)

this is unedited, and born from a random thought as I put away dishes and cleaned my kitchen at 1am. warnings: none. themes: fluff, cute mug moment, ghost and a non-military partner. just toothrotting 1am thoughts.

you don’t like to think you live alone, but you know you spend more time waiting, than you have with him.

this time it’s been months. the last contact weeks ago. it’s normal, but it doesn’t lessen the frustration you feel—or how it balls and clumps with worry.

you know you signed on to this. married yourself to the wondering and standing by when you bought the house with him. it’s why you’ve perfected the art of keeping busy, remaining distracted.

today, your mind slips. falls down on the job, scrapes the skin from your knees and bruises your heart. thoughts appearing, the faint sound of his gruff voice echoing in the walls. unable to unsee the shadow of his last time here—how broad he appears in your door frames.

it’s the slip up that means you unconsciously make a tea for yourself in his mug. a no-go, a thing you never do. the cup sacred, forever off limits unless he’s here. the one you’d bought as a joke, wrapped it in paper and watched him stare at it when he unveiled the skull on the side with the bone handle.

“this bought for me?”

“well, it’s not for next door, simon.”

suddenly, you don’t fancy tea. your heart aching, all heavy and downtrodden in your chest. so you pour it away, washing it out and putting it away quickly. because you know it’ll sting seeing it on the drainer in the morning. practically punch you in the gut—because your mind will trick itself into thinking he’s home. that he’s back. for whatever time he can spare.

by the time his car pulls onto the drive, the house is coated in darkness. the moon full, high in the sky. shimmering a luminescent glow on everything and anything it can touch.

you must be tired, shattered. no murmur of his name or quickened footsteps when he slides his key on the lock, when he takes his boots off. he does do it with precision, care—almost mouse like for a man that’s more mountain than man. shoving them away in the contraption you bought sometime between the two of you moving in and him coming back to you.

and because the house is quiet, silent. a pin being dropped sounding like a shout, he begins his routine. the one where he shoves the things away he doesn’t need to have. not needing reminders of what he does as ghost when he’s trying to focus on being simon.

his routine concludes with a shower in the downstairs guest bathroom, watching the places he’s just been slide down the plug hole, all out of sight, out of mind. you know this routine, keeping some of his casual clothes—sweats and tees in a drawer, for moments like this.

even if he should expect it by now, he still smiles as your genuineness. your kindness. the one that comes ti you with ease.

it’s why he craves being next to you, being able to hear your breaths—close his eyes and allow the evidence to bury the niggling worries he amasses when he’s not with you.

but, joining you isn’t possible. discovering you star-fished, snoring lightly—one of his t-shirts covering and concealing you. practically burying you. and so he closes the door, heads back downstairs. running a hand over the back of his head, feeling clumps of long and short hair from his bad diy cut you’ll undoubtedly have things to say about.

but it isn’t until he’s walking past the kitchen, does he notice the mug and glass cupboard ajar. a thought appearing, his hand retrieving his mug and placing it on the side. a sign, he hopes—a bold exclamation that he is home, in case you wake before him.

you don’t wake before him. simon and fucked up body clock, as usual, wakes at the first break of sunlight. only rising from the guest bed when he hears the floorboards above. your feet eventually coming down the staircase, all slow and heavy, his mind imagining you rubbing your eyes, softly sighing at another day.

he waits in the doorway—the one connecting the guest bedroom to the kitchen—watching you come to a standstill, eyes blinking as you stare at the mug.

simon doesn’t know the error you made yesterday, that you’re going through a crisis of whether you’d put it away or not. whether you’d lost your mind from missing him so much.

he just knows you’re not reacting. not whispering, never mind shouting his name. so he clears his throat, loud, purposeful.

and your head spins—he’s even pretty sure he hears it crack—and then the reaction he expected lands.

it erupts over your face. an explosion of confusion and joy, tear-filled eyes and a large smile, before you’re in his arms, face buried against his chest as he feels you shake with sobs he hopes are because you’re happy.

“take it you’re happy i’m home?”

“more than you think.”

his chin comes to rest on the top of your head, fingers stroking up and down your back.

the mug becomes a sign, a beacon.

it only ever used to indicate he was home—a trophy that remains on the side, until he gets the call that he has to go.

then he is the one to put it away, hating how he turns to always find your lips being chewed by your teeth.

“it’ll be back out before you know it.”

“it better be.”

simon doesn’t promise. because he knows—as do you—that there’s none he can keep in the games he plays. he comforts you without words, his mouth slanted over yours.

I’ll always fight to get home to you.

#ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii x reader #cod ghost #ghost cod x reader #ghost cod mw2 #ghost cod x you #mwii x reader #ghost x you #Simon Riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod mwii #cod mw2 ghost

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luveline · 10 months

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𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it.

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused.

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out.

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say.

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes.

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello.

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart.

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it.

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers.

"Hey," Eddie says.

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance.

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?"

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them.

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad."

"It was accidental."

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart.

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare.

"I'm the sorry one."

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding.

He's in a mood.

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips.

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks.

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again.

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up."

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing."

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch.

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect, if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer."

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first.

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs.

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?"

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk.

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap.

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye.

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay.

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask.

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?"

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them."

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in.

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain.

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse.

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table.

"Dick," you say.

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age."

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back.

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you.

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind.

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask.

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan.

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says.

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused.

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford."

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things."

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it."

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind."

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else.

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray.

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry.

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown.

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?"

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose.

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner.

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask.

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you.

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you.

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous.

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird.

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve.

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are."

"Oh, I have to know."

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot.

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty."

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today."

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed.

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual).

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it.

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe."

"Oh."

"I got gum though, if you want it."

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up."

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip.

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost.

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair.

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…"

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?"

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me."

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward.

You pull back. "Wait–"

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks.

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to."

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?"

"But you haven't, today."

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen.

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will.

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss."

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle.

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say.

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you.

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation.

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer.

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly.

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye.

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next.

"Would you wanna move in with me?"

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side.

"I… what?"

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be."

"You'd really want me to?" you ask.

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready."

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud.

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–"

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders.

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time.

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you."

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head.

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back.

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks.

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask.

"For the rest of time, if I get my way."

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic.

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time.

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile.

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss.

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to).

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you."

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation?

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love).

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep.

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss.

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer."

"Very funny," you murmur.

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him.

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?"

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough."

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured.

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

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