#a pièce de résistance if you will | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wyvernest · 1 year

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bright red lust

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!trophy wife! reader

warnings: smut, car limo sex, misogynistic undertones (reader feels good about being a trophy wife), pda, teasing, dryhumping, unprotected sex, creampie, cowgirl

summary: you attend a gala with miguel and tease him until he finally gets you to himself in his limo

translation: "que rico" = 'how nice'

Any woman’s dream is to be his wife. For his rank, his money, his reputation, his everything. And it feels so good to know that he's so desired.

Because you’re at his side, not them. It’s you whom he spends his money on. It’s you whom he buys all the exquisite dresses and gowns for, all the best things you could ever want or need. It’s you whom he makes love to after a tiring day. Or after you wake up. Or anytime, for that matter.

You’re irreplaceable, but at the same time at his disposal. You don’t see it as a price paid but rather as a bonus. You’ve never been pampered so good before, loved so good, fucked so good.

So that’s why, whenever he has a new gala or special event to attend, you let him pick your dress out of all the various selections you spend so much time on finding.

“Too long.” he dismisses, vision darting from your mauve-satin covered legs to your face. He’s manspreading on the king size bed of your presidential hotel room, hair dishevelled and half lidded eyes sleepy, relaxed.

“You’re so picky today. I only got a few more!” You giggle with a faux offended expression. Behind the façade of worry that he won’t be satisfied with any of the looks, you secretly love these little fashion runaway sessions, feeling like his own personal top model, trying out different outfits for him. If you weren’t in a hurry, you wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to sit on his lap and accidentally grind your ass on his crotch when you got up as part of the little show.

“Mm.” He hums, seemingly unaffected by your playful frustration. He knows you love it when he acts so pretentious and superior, but he loves you, and he loves the enthusiasm with which you show him everything. “Next, bebita. This one’s sombre.”

After a few minutes and struggles, you manage to pull on the pièce de résistance; a bright, blood-red skin tight satin dress. Miguel’s eyes widen at the sight of you, brows raised in silent approval and admiration. The length isn’t a problem this time, your beautiful legs and thighs peeking out with every step through the long slit on the right. The fabric is wrapped so deliciously around your breasts, slightly pushing them up together, plump and tantalising.

"Maybe this one's a bit too much? I-"

"Do a 360." His eyes lit up, attentive and pleased. You twirl, making sure to slightly stick your ass out, checking yourself out in a full body mirror nearby.

"Me gusta." He gets up from the bed, gripping your waist to place a needy kiss on your cheek, before placing his lips on your own. You take his face in your hands, melting into his embrace. “This is the one.” His deep, low whisper sends shivers up your spine, your brain short circuiting. Who are you to say no to him? To those pretty, dark brown, red-tinted eyes?

"I'm gonna go get ready now. Thank you, papi." You turn around, yelping as he doesn't miss the opportunity to smack your ass as you do, smirking to himself.

When you finally arrive at the gala, you get out of your limo and start flaunting your exquisite dress, proud and flashing. You feel Miguel instantly cling to you, a secure, strong hand on your waist, its touch fervent and possessive.

He doesn’t fail to notice all the other spiders gawk at you, turning their heads too sharply just to catch a glimpse of his beautiful wife. All the lingering looks, the whispered words of admiration, all for you. The hand on the dip of your waist tenses, both in immeasurable pride and a hint of stinging jealousy. But it felt amazing.

All the comments, the remarks.

“Can’t believe he pulled such a pretty thing.”

“Imagine coming home at the end of the day to her.”

“Maybe being the leader of Spider-Society has its perks.”

They thought he wouldn’t ever hear them, but his enhanced senses have little to no limits. He feels his pants slightly tighten at the thought that so many other men want you. And yet, it’s his cock that you beg for, late at night.

And you’re aware of this weakness of his. You know that showing everyone that you’re his gets him hard in no time. And as the brat you are, you can’t help it. Especially not when all eyes are on you two. Not when the paparazzi’s come in.

You run a cursory hand from his chest to his abdomen, arching your back, pretty figure on display for the pictures. Bolder. Your hand finds his cheek, his jaw, your eyes never leaving him. You enjoy feeling like an accessory, something that accentuates him, his masculinity. Something that belongs to him.

No other man has ever made you feel this way.

You gesture to him to lean down, your heels still not enough for you to be able to reach his face without his aid. He does, and you place a tantalising peck on his cheek, light enough so that your bright lipstick doesn’t transfer.

Feeling him stiffen, unsure of your teasing, you decide to risk it and lean your face down to the crook of his neck.

Hundreds of photographs flash as you kiss his neck, your soft lips lingering just a second too late, only for a red print to remain plastered on his skin, for everyone to see.

He turns to you with an expression worth a thousand words. You know that face all too well.

As soon as you get back in the limo following the after-party, you wave good-bye to all your acquaintances and friends. The driver takes a turn and exits the flash-lit area.

Turning to look at Miguel, any conversation or small talk on the event you just attended gets smushed into a heated kiss you both longed for, his hands on your hips, pulling you into him on the back seat, your arms thrown over his shoulders.

When he grabs your thigh, you waste no time in lifting your leg over his waist, straddling him without breaking away from the kiss.

His warm hands slide underneath the red satin, grabbing at the globes of your ass greedily. You start grinding on him, your damp panties rubbing onto his erection in his pants.

Your breasts nearly pop out of your dress during the hazy make out session, and he parts from your lips to start kissing down your neck, stealing a glance down at them. Throwing your head back, your body turns into putty in his strong arms. He licks and kisses at the delicate skin of the tops of your tits, slowly and reflexively grinding up into your heat.

You moan his name, your breathing getting heavy.

He knows that having you in risky places only makes you even wetter for him, and he can't get enough.

"Ah! Oh- Miguel!" You whimper as a heavy hand smacks your ass, making you jerk forward into him, your tender body smushed against him so perfectly.

"Here? Are you sur-"

"Here, yes." Hot, shallow breaths fan your neck as he speaks in between kisses and gentle bites. "Can't wait any longer."

Your hands fumble with his belt and he quickly rips your panties at the seam, making a hole over your slit. Panting and rushing, you pull his hard, meaty cock out and align it with your dripping cunt. You feel him slip into you, nice and slow, filling you up with the familiar euphoria you have craved so ardently for the whole night.

He groans as he enters you, wet, warm and tight. Just when you were getting adjusted to his size, the limo goes over a speed bump and his cock thrusts up into you with the turbulence, its bulbous tip kissing your cervix.

You feel him deep in your guts, and as you begin riding him, he starts to buck his hips up into you, making you see stars.

"Que rico", he pants out, whispered, "having a pretty thing like you all over me." He

Keeping the thrusts quick and shallow, so as not to make your shenanigans too obvious, you bounce yourself on his cock; at first for his pleasure alone. Seeing him drowned in ecstasy will eventually being you your own pleasure as well.

All until he brings a hand to your swollen clit, rubbing furiously, throwing you over the edge in mere seconds. You come all over his dick, eyes rolling back, his name falling off you tongue in a strangled moan, sweet music to his ears.

He feels your pussy pulsate oh so deliciously around his cock, and it doesn't take him much longer to also release his load in your velvet walls, painting your insides white, claiming you as his.

As soon as he comes down, catching his breath, he smothers you with another fierce kiss, groaning into your mouth as you stir with his still sensitive cock inside you.

"We should do this again sometime, Mr. O'Hara." You tease, your lips straying away to nibble at his pulse point.

"Oh, we will, bebita."

divider by @cafekitsune as always

a/n: finally wrote this 7 mesozoic eras after it was requested sorry man

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bunny584 · 5 months

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OBSESSED: SHOKO feat THE BOYS (FINALE)

A/N: Well, well, well. Oh how the tables have turned, dear reader. It’s not so easy — juggling two special grades and their personal physician…is it?

S/N: This is it. The pièce de résistance. I was…this is…NO ONE LOOK AT ME AFTER YOU READ THIS. No idea the word count. Long af, though.

C/W:….the trio is their own content warning lol. Mature. 18+, MDNI.

Part I, Part II.

Is this…a dream?

This must be what it feels like to hear Domain Expansion, Infinite Void.

White static coats Shoko’s brain. She’s breathing underwater. Thinking in molasses.

It’s a miracle her legs are working — they’re currently trailing behind you and the boys, back to her apartment.

Her eyes are working, too — they’re attached to the dress rippling and bouncing off your ass. Your hips are a hypnotic pendulum. Swinging back and forth.

Back and forth.

The tailwind from your strut is a bad actor.

Every so often teasing your cotton panties that won the lottery. Kissing up against your pretty petals. Riding along the plump curve of your mounds. Accentuating the intoxicating swell of your hips.

It’s paralyzing.

You are paralyzing.

Satoru’s hand is curled around the back of your neck. His azure glow is so pristine, so bright it refracts off your gorgeous cheekbones. Dampening his Limitless and intensifying his Six Eyes.

Because the first to taste a meal is usually one’s eyes…right?

Shoko can nearly hear the depravity ringing between Satoru’s ears.

Then there’s Suguru.

An arm is draped around your waist, capturing and releasing the hem of your dress every few seconds. Mindless movements. His sniper-like gaze focused on the apartment door at the end of the hall.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

One would think, if you don’t know Suguru well enough.

His normally, perfectly repressed cursed energy surrounds him. Flickering into the air like campfire embers just waiting for the next gust of wind to erupt. Amethyst and graphite swarm around her best friend — the only indicator of his disintegrating self-control.

20 steps left until she is expected to produce door keys. The only thing standing between everyone and you.

This is it.

This is the moment. The one chance you get at ‘doing it right this time.’

15 steps.

There are no more wishes granted. No more genies stuffed into bottles, or whatever. This is it.

10 steps.

Get your shit together, Ieiri.

Do not squander this on the sidelines.

Shoko wires around the three of you. Stepping ahead to slot the frivolous piece of aluminum standing between her and her wet dream.

The apartment door flies open. Satoru’s hand moves on autopilot — deepening his grip around your neck.

His conscious brain recedes. Triple distilled, unadulterated need moves in like a tropical storm.

Silky strands of your hair plaited in his fingers.

Wide, warm eyes locked into his.

Tiny slit in those pouty, siren lips of yours.

He will dismantle you. Piece by fucking piece.

Until you’re a babbling, sobbing brook beneath his fingers. Apologizing for being such a cocktease.

“Satoru…?”

There’s a change in your voice.

Fear? Nerves?

Prey finally realizing who is next on the menu?

Satoru is staring. Fully aware of how disarming his eyes can be. Born with godlike vision and somehow the only thing he can see in the room is you.

His greed is a threat to National Security. DEFCON Level 1.

His mouth ghosts yours. Barely registering Suguru encasing you from behind. Trailing his palms along your thighs.

“Safe word, princess.” Satoru maps every ridge, every teeth indent on that gorgeous bottom lip.

“For when you need to tap out.” Suguru augments Satoru’s command. Gentle nip at the tip of your ear and you moan. Bitten back and clipped.

“Such pretty sounds,” Shoko’s voice is distant. Breathy. Coated in Cabernet.

“I..don’t—”

Satoru slices your protest in half. Rolling your bottom lip under his teeth. Biting and licking his way across your pout. At the same time Suguru drops his mouth to your pulse point.

“Don’t what, sweetheart?” Suguru murmurs into your neck. A filthy fucking whine escapes your lips and Satoru’s fingers go to your nipple.

Hard. Pert and neglected. Desperate for attention.

Just like you.

The way you’re panting into Satoru’s mouth. Listless and loose, bending into Suguru’s presence behind you.

“He gave you an order, baby.” Suguru’s smile is so tender. Almost torturous against your oversensitive skin.

“Don’t…ah..don’t need a safe word.”

A weak declaration against Satoru’s kiss. Earning yourself a sharp twist of your sensitive buds. And gifting him a kitten squeal that makes his cock twitch.

“Ohhhh Suguru, Shoko. We have a brat on our hands.” He muses, hovering his lips over yours. Satoru pets the steel rod between his legs. Already dewy with his arousal.

You are so beautiful, trying to resist their coordinated touch. The sound of Suguru’s large hand palming your ass reverberates throughout the room.

“I’ll teach her some manners.”

Suguru’s voice trails down your spine. Slow and sickly sweet. Like maple sap dripping down tree bark mid spring. He caresses the hot sting from his spanking.

“I—I have manners.” Voice as small as your frame engulfed between the 6’3 counterparts.

“I won’t ask again, princess.” Satoru tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. And Suguru continues sucking kisses into your neck, marking his territory.

“Uh..mmm..god, S—“ Your eyes flutter closed. An earnest attempt to stay present. And not settle into the fuzzy, warm submission they are baiting you into.

“Safe word, now.”

“B—um. Blue? Blue.” Your resolve is about as rigid as cotton.

“Blue?”

“Well that’s not fair.”

Shoko and Suguru’s incredulous reactions intertwine with Satoru’s smug chuckle. A dusty rose high on your cheeks.

You know why you chose Blue. Everyone else does, too.

“Blue, huh?” Satoru presses a soft kiss on your lips.

“To match me? Noted, baby.”

Shoko melts into her couch. Her heartbeat rattles around her skull. With short, ineffective breaths that taste like full bodied red wine. Wet heat surges around her lace thong.

The way you’re writhing between her best friends’ hands is sinful.

Gazing up at Satoru like he is Vincent Van Gogh and the Starry Night above you is the product of his paintbrush.

Incoherent as if Suguru’s fingers put the Sun to bed. Whimpering his name like a prayer.

Adorable, girl.

God isn’t going to save you here.

The pads of Shoko’s cool fingers nearly sizzle against her puffy pleasure point. Slick coating her with just one, two, three long stripes against her sticky folds.

“God...fuck..bring her to me.” The grit in Shoko’s tone scrapes along her voice box. Matching the aggressive pace of her fingers against her needy cunt.

The boys lock gazes with their third. Cavalier smile tugging against Satoru’s lips. Suguru’s brow touches his hairline.

Ladies, first.

“You heard her.” Satoru snakes your arms around his neck and hoists you around his waist in one fluid motion.

“S—sato—“ He bullies his tongue back into your mouth. No more protesting, gorgeous.

Slow steps towards Shoko, so he can drink from your well. A sweet, delectable spell dripping from your lips. And if Satoru doesn’t wake up tomorrow morning after eating your forbidden fruit, then so be it.

Suguru lets himself watch you from a short distance.

His hand can’t stop rubbing his cock. Shamelessly tugging his heavy rod. Burning your little expressions into his mind’s safe. The way your eyebrows come together at the center whenever Satoru bites your bottom lip. Your desperate grabs for air against his relentless kiss.

“Hi, pretty.” Shoko drawls the moment Satoru settles you down on her lap. Her thigh digs into your soaked, gummy core. Glazing her skin with your drool.

“Hi, Sho.” Still panting from Satoru’s embrace. So fragile. A harsh breeze could shatter you to stardust. And Shoko pulsates around nothing.

One hand is firm on your hip. The other tracing mindless shapes on your chest. Leaving a poetic cascade of goosebumps in her wake.

Reflexively, you go to caress Shoko’s shoulders only to be caught by Satoru’s enormous grip. Whipping both of your wrists behind your back. While his other hand toys with the erection straining against his pants.

“She didn’t give you permission to touch, did she princess?” He drops his tone into the shell of your ear.

“Oh, I—“

“Manners, gorgeous.” A gentle reminder in between smearing kisses along your neck. Shoko hooks her index finger along your neckline. One tug and your mouth-watering tits come into full view.

“Fucking, hell.”

“God, baby.”

“Perfect…fucking perfect.”

Satoru, Suguru and Shoko’s praises crash into one another. God took his time with you. Sculpting a fucking masterpiece.

To be praised.

To be worshipped.

To be taken.

Used.

Filled.

“Shoko. I want to hear her.”

Suguru’s command is guttural. Fist snug around the base of his cock. Shameless about the tears of precum falling down his shaft.

Shoko’s fingers work their way down to your pulsing clit. You preen into her touch. Pretty, tiny gasps against her cheek.

“Let it out, baby.” Shoko coos into your ear. Thumbing little circles around your clit.

You bury your face into her neck. Delicious ache swelling between your legs. Grinding along her slender thigh. Honey seeping around your clothed cunt.

“S—sho, mmnngh..fuck..” Desperation fans Shoko’s neck. Bucking your hips with your hands restrained.

“There she is.”

Suguru’s fist slams to his hilt. Now close enough to cup your perky mound. Rippling and bouncing with every jolt. Feathering his finger over your pebbled bud.

The sudden touch and velvet voice above you drags your gaze upward.

And Suguru nearly cums in his hand right then and there.

Misty eyes, drool covered lips. Breathy pants. Angelic features rewritten by lust.

“Suguru?”

“Such a good girl. Keep fucking her thigh like that, baby.”

Throaty praise in return. Suguru rips his hand away from his angry length. Staving off his finish.

Not yet.

They’re not remotely close to being done with you yet.

“She’s so responsive.” Satoru chimes in. Releasing his grip on your wrists.

Your hands fly to Shoko’s face. Melding your mouth with hers. Leaking precious sounds, from your lips and your sopping wet core. His hand kneads your neglected breast, pinching your nipple every so often.

Satoru and Suguru palming at your tits. Shoko fucking your mouth with her tongue. You humping Shoko’s leg like a dog in heat.

It’s too much.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashes into your groin. You nestle into the crook of her neck. Grasping at her thick, brunette locks.

“S-sho, I’m close, I’m—mmgh..”

“It’s okay pretty,” Shoko husks. Her thumb at a perfect rhythm and pressure.

“You can cum, baby.” Suguru rasps, tugging at your nipple at the same time Satoru smacks the supple flesh he was petting.

“Oh fuck oh fuck—“

The delicious sting from their touches sends you over the edge. And the wire seated deep in your stomach snaps. Hips stuttering to an abrupt stop.

The room stills. Satoru, Suguru and Shoko studying your micro movements through your peak. So quiet that the walls have to lean in to hear you and your lovers breathing.

Six eyes laser into your body. Everyone’s appetite for you simultaneously tripling.

Satoru swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Subconsciously aware of the pool of saliva forming. His manhood mirroring the trail of drool running down his mouth.

He’s always been a fan of dessert.

“I need to taste you.”

“And I need a front row seat.” Shoko nibbles at your cheek.

Satoru lifts and spins you around on Shoko’s lap in a matter of seconds. You, still gummy and compliant from your orgasm spread your legs weakly over Shoko. Earning you a chorus of praise from your lust-drunk lovers.

He drops to his knees. His blushing, weeping tip in hand. Pushing your sodden panties to the side. While Shoko cradles your thigh in her hand, holding you open for her best friend.

Your rose blooms in front of him. Dewy with your slick. Candied scent holding all of Satoru’s senses hostage.

“Look at how pretty, she is.” He breezes against your swollen pearl. Your petals quiver, and his dick leaks.

“S—Satoru..please.”

Satoru’s head is spinning. Entirely drunk off of the sight of you like this. Choking back his own pathetic groans.

His tongue licks a long stripe up your ripe folds. And your taste pollenates his mind for an eternity. An addict with his chosen vice.

Your hands magnet to his snowy halo. The melody you sing from his kisses and licks could sink any ship. Echoing in Satoru’s and Shoko’s groin.

Shoko is in a complete haze. Molesting herself numb at the way you undulate against Satoru’s eager tongue. Pitiful little mewls that are worthy of a platinum record.

“Feeling good, gorgeous?” Shoko eggs you on. Quickly sinking into her own threatened orgasm.

“Y—yes..mmgh so..god..” Paper thin squeals from your lips.

Crystals line your eyes in response to Satoru’s tongue fucking in and out of your pussy. Suckling your clit. Figures of 8, and 8 and 8 again until your mind is mush.

Except Suguru refuses to let you get lost at Satoru’s sea. He grips a handful of your hair, whipping your head in his direction.

Both you and Shoko tilt up to see Suguru’s driveling manhood at your eye level. Veiny, heavy. So clearly abused by his hand. Volcanic eruption in his hooded gaze.

“Hands on my cock, baby.”

Barely above a whisper, but somehow your body recognizes his authority.

And you seem genuinely shocked by your visceral obedience. Immediate acquiescence to Surguru’s will.

An approving grin teases Suguru’s lips. Your hands are comically small wrapped around his length.

God, he could split you in half.

Heavy eyelids from Satoru’s agonizing touch, you’re mystical. Gazing into Suguru’s eyes like his soul is nothing but an appetizer. Yours to swallow, digest, play with.

“Ask nicely.” Suguru grunts, as your eyes rake over his leaky cockhead. Longing for a taste.

Satoru and Shoko come to a hush. Her fingers slow. Satoru forces himself off of your folds. Somehow knowing the next words to roll off your tongue will shift their brain chemistry, permanently.

Palatial lashes fan your utterly fucked-out gaze. Swollen lips millimeters away from Suguru’s blunt tip.

“May I suck your cock, please?”

Filthy-nasty-dirty-fucking-vulgar noises fill the room, while you swirl Suguru’s cum covered head around your tongue.

“Fuck. Your lips baby.” He hisses, his hips piston into your pretty, accepting mouth.

“So messy, princess.” Satoru murmurs into your swollen cunt, slipping his fingers past your tight ringlet.

Beautiful gurgles around Suguru’s shaft. Crystalline streams of spit glazing your puffy tits.

You buck into Satoru at a similar, haphazard pace that he strokes his thick rod. Shoko sinks her teeth into your shoulder.

“G-gonna c..gonna—“ high pitched, broken warnings spill from your lips. Just as a blinding wave of electricity surges down Shoko’s legs — curling her pedicure inward.

“Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

Suguru’s decadent baritone sends both you and Shoko over the hot edge. A cacophony of huffs and whines, coating the walls in your shared ecstasy. Spraying your essence all over Satoru’s face.

He’s slow to stand. Savoring remnants of your peak. He and Suguru exchange sordid glances. Sharing the same thought.

Pretty little doll.

Loose limbed and spent in Shoko’s lap. Hair mused. So deeply entrenched into sub space you’ll need to sleep it off of to come to your senses.

A work of art, you are.

But not quite broken, yet.

“It’s our turn now, little one.” Deep and measured. Thick with want. Suguru lifts you by your arms off of Shoko’s lap.

His back lays flush against the couch. You straddle his muscular lap. Satoru stands directly behind you.

Suguru’s manhood is rigid. You’d have to impale yourself on him to get any closer. Similarly, Satoru’s length makes itself very present along the curve of your spine.

“Look at me.” Satoru’s throaty demand comes from above your head.

Obedience is the only language you can currently speak, so you tilt back. Soaking in the celestial boy behind you. Closer to God than Man, from this vantage point.

“You want to taste yourself, baby?”

A rhetorical question from Satoru, but you still bobble your head in an eager yes.

“Such a desperate little puppy, aren’t you?” Suguru mocks you, taking one of your puffy nipples into his mouth.

“She is.”

Satoru affirms in between spearing your mouth with his warm muscle. Kissing the breath directly from your lungs until you’re air hungry and clawing at his neck. Leaving red streaks on his pale skin.

Shoko has since poured herself another glass of red wine. Settling herself on the long arm of her couch.

‘Far enough to drown into her own spiral. Close enough to register everything they do to you in the the most permanent part of her mind.’

Dèjá Vu.

But this lifetime? This reiteration of events? It’s fucking sublime.

Shoko’s lips curl into a cheshire smile against the rim of her glass. Hedonistic on every single level known to man and she wouldn’t have it any another way.

Her eyes flicker down to where Suguru’s hands are eclipsing your hips. And Satoru’s hands are cradled into the small of your waist. Hovering you over Suguru’s cock. The weapon of mass destruction that it is.

“Suguru…Suguru it won’t…” Beautiful little panic ascending in pitch.

“It won’t, what baby?” He teases. Eyes fixed on you like the apex predator he is.

Crimson erupts from the tip of your nose to the tips of your ears. Fluttering away from his quicksand gaze.

“What’s the matter, pretty? Don’t tell me you think you can’t handle—“

“I can handle it—I can…handle it.” You cut Satoru’s taunt down, convincing absolutely no one in the room— including yourself.

But the shred of pride you have left comes forward. Bracing your hands on Suguru’s flexed shoulders. Digging little crescent moons into his olive skin.

He can barely bite back the groan in his throat when your wet heat drags along his cockhead.

Twitching around your opening.

Feigning for entry.

“Go ahead, little one.”

“You can do it, baby.”

“Oh FUCK..GOD.” Your volume is nothing in comparison to the fire incinerating your plush walls. Stretching your womanhood in a way that’s ungodly.

Suguru is blinding.

Flashing lights. Black spots in the visual field. Floaters everywhere kind of blinding. The prior encouragement from your lovers did nothing to soften his blow.

Knowing this would be the result of you trying to work his inhuman length inside yourself, Suguru buries himself in one side of your neck. Satoru mirrors his action on the other side.

Gentle adoration. Tender kisses. Light caresses to dull the pain.

“Such a good girl.”

“I knew you could take it, princess.”

“You’re doing so well for me, pretty girl.”

Suguru rocks his hips in a slow, dreamy pace. Back and forth. Encouraging your body to reset around him. And the pressure. The delicious fucking fullness from his cock is mind numbing.

“R—ready.”

Barely loud enough to register. But Suguru could hear your red blood cells colliding with one another in your veins if you keep him next to you long enough.

“Eyes on me when I’m inside you, sweetheart.”

“Yes sir.”

The smile on his lips is no where near as tantalizing as the smile in his crushed velvet eyes.

And for a moment that is going to be on cinematic repeat in everyone’s mind — Suguru thrusts into you like a man trying to repopulate earth. Never once letting you break his eye-contact.

Melodic sounds of bodies smacking together ring throughout the room. Beautiful ripples of flesh, like soft waves during low tide. Your wet sex colliding with his. Him locking you into place because nothing else exists at this moment.

Both Satoru and Shoko’s jaws are slack. Satoru can’t even bring himself to stroke his length thrashing wildly in his hands.

This is hypnotizing.

A motion picture worthy of an Oscar.

You can feel Suguru recreating the shape of your soul. With each thrust. Deliberate. Deep. Ensuring that he will be a part of you, permanently.

“God, ngh Su—fuck..purple..” unintelligible words, incoherent sounds. You’re grasping at rescue from this pleasure.

“Hah..” Suguru’s serrated breaths kiss your lips. “Try again.”

“Suguru, please. I’m cu—I’m pink..pink.”

“Wrong color, princess.” Satoru’s husks above you. Tears of his thick cum streaming steady down his shaft.

Suguru’s bucks into you relentlessly now. Chasing the high you both are riding. Shredding what consciousness you have left. Not that you wanted it, not that you needed it.

“Fuck.”

Suguru’s hips come to a screeching halt. Floating over Shoko’s cushion. Painting your warm walls with his seed. With you filling his lap with your dew. Delirious, choppy intakes of air between your lips and his.

Momentarily forgetting your audience, you instinctively fall into his chest. Every single muscle in your body, suddenly without tone.

Satoru’s mouth is ajar.

Still not completely comprehending the fact that he just came — hands free — watching his best friend rail the conscious mind out of you.

“Blanket, Satoru.” Shoko quietly nudges from her position on the couch.

She can’t blame him for being stunned in place. Her mind is still reeling at the dessert her eyes just feasted on.

“Come here, baby.” Suguru murmurs. Working himself out of you, while Satoru drapes you in Shoko’s throw.

“Thank you.” A tiny chuckle escapes your lips. Cozying into Suguru’s arms. They should be proud of your manners.

And as if you said your cheeky thought out loud, your three lovers break into soft laughter.

“Wait here.” Satoru presses a chaste kiss to your damp forehead. Disappearing into Shoko’s bathroom a moment after.

A small sigh of relief tumbles out of her when she hears the familiar sound of bath water running.

Satoru must’ve done this before. Once or twice.

Suguru, too.

Judging by the way he’s whispering sweet affirmations in your ear. Lulling you to sleep. In his warm, safe embrace.

She’s never seen her friend like this.

“Girls! Bath time!” Satoru beckons from the bathroom.

His voice rustles you out of your post coital daze. Nestling deeper into the crook of Suguru’s neck. Shoko watches the way his eyes rest on your flushed face; stroking his hand along your arm. Intermittently pressing kisses along your hairline.

An enchanting, glass doll they were so eager to shatter just a moment ago.

“Ready, baby?”

Suguru murmurs into your ear. And Shoko just knows he’s hoping for a no. Silently praying for more time with you, pliant in his arms like this.

“Mmhm.” Your puffy lips curl up into a sleepy smile. Glossy-eyed, when you finally pull your heavy lids open.

Suguru’s breath catches in his throat.

Shoko’s heart rattles around its bony cage.

How do you do this?

How do you make it so easy to trip and fall so hopelessly in love with you with a bat of an eyelash?

“…I get it guys, but the water will get cold. And that would be a shame. Because this bath is, perfect.”

Satoru teases from the bedroom doorway. Startling Shoko and Suguru out of the trance you unintentionally put them in.

“You don’t have to carry me!” A half-protest bubbles from your lips when Suguru stands with you wrapped up in Shoko’s favorite blanket.

“Shhh, let me do this sweet girl.” He coos, for your ears only. Navigating around Satoru’s lean stature.

Shoko follows closely behind him, itching for her alone time with you.

“You’re going to let her feet touch the ground, Suguru?!”

Her sarcasm is followed by light-hearted laughter settling around your bodies.

The four of you in tandem like a world class orchestra. Shoko is already lamenting waking up from this dream.

“Not if I can help it.” Suguru sets you down on the kitchen sink. Nudging enough space for his muscular hips between your legs.

He cradles your chin in his hand. Taking as many butterfly kisses as you’ll allow.

“Mmm, goodnight, Suguru.”

His name rolls sweet and soft off of your tongue. Like a dark chocolate truffle, and suddenly Shoko wishes her name was Suguru.

Satoru does too. Judging by the way he yanks his counterpart away from you. His eyes caress your face before his hand does.

“How are you feeling, princess?”

Hushed and saccharine. Doting. As if a decibel too loud is akin to Hollow Purple. Circling his fingers around your thighs.

How foreign.

Shoko can almost taste Satoru’s concern. Attentive in a way that’s inconceivable.

From her vantage point, she watches you ensnare Satoru in those big, helpless doe eyes. Tempting him to fuck the living daylight out of you (again) but also handle you like a butterfly with a broken wing.

“Just a bit worn out, pretty boy.” Said with a dreamy little laugh. And Satoru would chase your voice into the clouds if he could.

He drapes your arms around his neck and you’re putty in his hands.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby.” He grazes the corner of your lips with his. A dull, insistent ache welling between Shoko’s legs.

You’re irresistible like this.

“Unless you want us to wear you out, again.”

“Satoru!” Your tiny, ineffectual fists slam against Satoru’s pecs. Making the trio even more fond of you.

Their muse.

“Alright boys, I can take it from here.”

Unhurried but finite, Shoko shoos her best friends out of the bathroom. Not before Satoru can steal one last kiss from your swollen lips.

In a matter of minutes Shoko is settled in a sea of warm, eucalyptus bubbles. The light sheen of essential oil grazing her skin, still glimmering with remnants of love-making.

Her eyes ride the dips and swells of your alluring lines.

Balmy skin decorated with lust-drunk imprints from Satoru, Suguru and herself. Hand prints. Tiny crescent moons from fingernails. Ellipses of bite marks. A kaleidoscope of red, blue, deep purple. Living, breathing residue of the desperation — the need — you so easily draw from them.

“Such a pretty girl.”

You flush under Shoko’s praise. Newly stroked desire bubbling in the back of her throat. You’re so full of averted gazes and warmed cheeks. Twiddling your thumbs. Tentatively shifting a few paces away from the bathtub.

So shy, now. It’s adorable.

“Come here, baby.” Shoko curls her fingers inward.

“Okay.” Your response high and thin. Feet moving without resistance.

Obedient little doll.

Shoko’s wet dreams couldn’t even come up with a vision this decadent. You’re an oil painting. Soft on the hands, even softer on the eyes.

You nestle in the warm waters between Shokos legs. Her nipples pebble against your supple flesh. Resting the back of your head on her chest. A lock-in-key fit.

Comfortable, serene quiet sheaths the room around you. And Shoko is soaring.

“I like you like this.” She presses a small kiss against your temple.

“Like what?” You whisper.

Shoko’s hands travel up your navel, cupping your sensitive tits. You arch into her touch. Kitten mewls escape you. So responsive.

“Soft.” Your nipples stiffen between her thumb and index finger.

“Vulnerable…a little broken.” Shoko continues. Catching your needy gaze. Pupils blown to full moons. She hovers her lips over yours. Already parted, hanging open. Ready to receive.

“Shoko.”

Such a beautiful, pitiful little whine. Tilting your chin up, chasing Shoko’s lips. But she maintains the minimal distance. Instead, kneading your mounds. Drawing a gorgeous melody of whimpers; squirming beneath her ministrations.

“I like being the one to put your pieces back together,” Shoko teases, dropping her tone. And you draw her in like a moth to flame.

Shoko’s lips slot into yours with ease. Puzzle pieces meant to fit. She swipes her tongue over yours. Nibbles along your puffy bottom lip.

You’re delicious.

And panting, when Shoko finally pulls away. Aurora borealis in your eyes. Sparkling. Expansive.

And even though you are putty in her hands right now. Docile and pliant, hanging on every brush of a finger, every kiss. Shoko is falling.

Free falling.

Without a safety stop in sight.

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ddarker-dreams · 2 months

Note

Lock, would you please explain the differences in your husband rotation when they're in a "normal state/character" compared to when they exhibit yandere tendencies/ are extremely yandere? I'd love to read your thoughts🖤!

this was such an interesting question that i've been thinking about it all day HGETJNKR

speaking in general terms, even when writing 'non-yandere' versions of the husband rotation, i still make them a lil weird. just a dash of unhinged. what changes depending on if they're yan or not is how willing they are to consciously impede on the reader's wishes for their personal gain. now, getting into specifics...

my take on non-yandere and yan chrollo

there are a lot of little specifics that change depending on the variation of the character i'm writing for, but we'd be here all day if i got into that. so, i'll be focusing on the most prominent differences. regarding mr. lucilfer, i consider the most pertinent changes to be: him divulging his identity to reader and how out of his way he goes to rope reader in.

yan chrollo holds off on revealing that he's the leader of the phantom troupe, but is eventually fine with you finding out. it serves a dual-purpose. first, you're Extra cognizant of the power difference, thwarting any potential shenanigans you might get up to. second, he can unapologetically be himself. non-yandere chrollo's fine expressing his apathy toward the plight of others in small, socially acceptable increments. he's less blunt about it overall because he doesn't want you to drift away from him.

then there's his manipulation of outside variables to scooch you his way. yan chrollo accepts subjecting you to some traumatic things as a 'means to an end,' whereas his non-yandere counterpart values your mental well-being more. thanks king. regardless, they're both going to stalk you to varying extents, utilizing morally ambiguous methods without any guilt. they're also both going to make liberal use of lying by omission.

non-yandere and yan gojo

i am physically incapable of writing gojo being normal toward reader. it'd lack the pièce de résistance. that being said, non-yandere gojo is weird and yan gojo is weird with malicious intent. i'm not sure if that makes any sense, so allow me to elaborate.

they're both not the best with respecting boundaries, although in non-yandere gojo's case, that'd improve slightly with age. i always write reader as having attended high school with him because that's the dynamic i find most intriguing. in both cases, gojo in his teenage years is going to be obnoxious and unapologetic about keeping your eyes on him. non-yandere gojo deviates in his ability to mature by trusting you enough to believe you when you say you're not going anywhere. yandere gojo always has that gnawing fear that he'll end up with no one who can truly understand him if he isn't vigilant.

either way, you're not locked up in some dungeon where you'll never see the light of day, which is a boon. they're both content to let you interact with geto & shoko in your high school years, as well as their students into adulthood. selfish as yan gojo can be, his dream of the next generation usurping the status quo is paramount. he believes your influence too invaluable to deprive his students of. they both complain about how much you dote on megumi though.

non-yandere and yan scara

... ahem. the differences here are less pronounced. a driving factor behind scaramouche's character is his fear of abandonment, along with the resentment from the betrayals he previously experienced. they're both not the easiest people to be in a relationship with (or the healthiest). there's always going to be some level of codependency with non-yandere scaramouche. his yandere variation just cranks that to the highest setting.

the key difference lies within your ability to steer him away from being a weirdo. there's a skill ceiling for yan scaramouche, you can only make it so far. non-yandere scaramouche, on the other hand, has a sliver of hope. it'd require a mind-numbing amount of patience and forgiveness, but it's technically possible. everything comes down to how much you love him at his worst. should you accept him, albeit with some conditions (such as him being more honest with his feelings), he will make a legitimate effort to reform himself.

anything else nets you a bad end. he's emotionally volatile and prone to callousness. it isn't like yan scaramouche wants you to hate him — he's driven by paranoia. compounded by your understandable distaste for his new, restrictive behavior, he ends up saying things he'll later regret. tl;dr scara is eevee and will evolve into a slightly normal partner or yandere depending on your stats.

non-yandere and yan blade

somehow the most normal from this lineup?????? not that that's an achievement, since that bar's in hell, but it's still kinda funny.

unlike the other weirdos on this list, non-yandere blade could come to accept if you loved another. it isn't inconceivable or a reality he'd seek to alter. if anything, non-yandere blade would find your romantic interest in him far more perplexing. he's a jaded, immortal weapon who guiltlessly sheds blood. he knows you deserve better and that you're likable enough to find another partner. said partner would be subject to his scrutiny, but he wouldn't be vehemently opposed.

yandere blade thinks a similar way. what changes is his self-restraint — or lack, thereof. would you be happier with another? yes. can he love you the way you deserve? absolutely not. that doesn't remedy the incessant urge to possess you. you don't even have to like him back, per se, just having you around satisfies him. you quench this hunger that his non-yandere self ignores (with great difficulty).

here's to hoping this makes any sense 😭...

#chrollo brainrot #blade brainrot #scaramouche brainrot #gojo brainrot #answered #mimyun

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munson-blurbs · 1 year

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary: Conflict arises with Harris's new teacher, filling Halloween with more tricks than treats. But it's nothing a visit with Ms. Sweetheart can't fix.

Warnings: allusion to Reader and Eddie's one-night stand, panic attack, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 5.6k

Chapter 6/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Guns N’ Roses t-shirt: check. Goodwill jeans with makeshift holes in the knees: check. Bandana tied snugly around his forehead: check. Arms littered with an assortment of temporary tattoos: check.

Eddie grins as he assesses his son’s costume, reaching into the thrift store bag as he pulls out the pièce de résistance: a denim jacket, only two sizes bigger than Harris would usually wear. It was a bit over what he’d been hoping to spend, but he’d reasoned with himself that it could also be worn after Halloween. It was an investment, he’d decided, not a splurge.

His smile falters when Harris indignantly stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest. While Eddie had hoped his son would go with more badass tattoo options, perhaps a skull and crossbones or even a snake, he had insisted on a Sesame Street theme. Cookie Monster munches on his signature treat as Harris pouts.

“No, Daddy!” he whines, twisting away when Eddie holds the jacket closer to him. “I can’t wear that!”

“C’mon, Har,” he tries, scouring his brain to come up with a convincing enough lie. “Axl Rose wore jackets all the time!”

Harris doesn’t just shake his head; he swivels his entire body back and forth in protest. “I don’t care! No one’s gonna be able to see my tattoos!” He holds out both arms in front of him; nearly every square inch (besides the section blocked by his cast) is covered. Eddie had spent most of last night diligently applying them precisely where Harris had asked, lest there be a tantrum. There was, unfortunately, a headless Elmo from when Harris had asked–no, demanded–that he try by himself. Still, Eddie figured that only one casualty was a win.

“Those are some sweet ol’ tatties,” Eddie muses, biting back a laugh at the two-dimensional Big Bird on his son’s forearm. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you wore the jacket into school and then–BAM!--took it off and surprised everyone with them?

Harris appears to consider this, mouth tucked into his cheeks. “Can I show Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Sure, bud. We’ll stop by her classroom when I pick you up.” Whatever gets us out of the house in weather-appropriate attire. “But first, show me your most metal pose.”

The boy opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue as far as it extends, scrunching his face dramatically until the corners of his eyes crinkle. His middle and ring fingers press into his palm, thumb crossing over them, with his forefinger and pinky raised in the quintessential rock ‘n roll symbol.

Eddie swoops down and smacks a wet kiss to Harris’s cheek. “That’s my boy!”

Standing among the crowd of parents at pick-up, Eddie opts out of making banal small talk and instead chooses to look at the bulletin board. The previous art project that had been hanging against the faded blue paper–”self-portraits” that the students had made on the first day of school–have been replaced by finger paintings of orange blobs that vaguely resemble pumpkins. There wasn’t one for Harris because he was in Ms. Sweetheart’s classroom then, so it’s his first art project in his new class. He eagerly scans the board for Harris’s, frowning when he can’t find his name.

Maybe it’s still drying, he tries to convince himself, imagining his son over-saturating the paper with globs of paint. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Ms. Marion’s classroom is a sea of costumed children. A boy dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stands by his mom. A Cinderella, a black cat, and a Thomas the Tank Engine surround Ms. Paula. As soon as Eddie spots Harris, he smiles and waves him over, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the sign-out sheet.

He expects Harris to zoom past the other kids, fueled by the standard Halloween diet of sugar and chocolate, but he just kind of…mopes to the doorway. His shoulders slump dejectedly, and though he keeps his gaze low, Eddie can still see the film of mist staining his innocent eyes.

“Har, what’s wrong?” He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t receive one–an oddity for his perpetually chatty son–he tries a new tactic. “Wanna show me where your artwork is? I must be gettin’ old, because I couldn’t find it on the board out there.”

“‘S not there,” Harris mumbles, scratching off a flaking piece of the Rosita tattoo on the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Eddie watches as the tears start to slip down his cheeks, and he brings him into the hallway before Ms. Marion or Ms. Paula sees what’s going on. He can’t be certain, but his paternal instincts tell him that they’ve contributed to Harris’s sad state. “Why not?”

“I-I t-tried, but M-Ms. Mar-Marion and Ms. P-Paula got m-mad at me.” The words come out between choked sobs. “‘C-Cuz I c-couldn’t sit d-down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I k-keeped st-standing up, ‘cuz m-my legs wanted to st-stand.” The explanation tumbles out of him so quickly, as though he’s trying to beat the clock. “And they s-said if I did-didn’t sit down, I c-couldn’t do art. But I k-keeped f-f-forgetting, and th-they t-taked away my pay-pay-paper and said, ‘sit in the c-corner!’”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Did…did that happen in Ms. Sweetheart’s class? The legs thing?”

“Mhm,” Harris manages, “b-but she let me stand and d-do ju-jumps to get the wig-wiggles out. She just t-t-telled me not to do ju-jumps with s-s-scissors, ‘cuz of s-safety.” His breathing increases to a rapid pace, face flushing red as his chest heaves. “B-But Ms. M-Marion ye-ye-yelled at me!”

Eddie’s brows pinch together, and he gently presses his calloused palms against Harris’s narrow shoulders, desperate to prevent him from hyperventilating. “Harris, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this!” Despite his efforts, his frustration bleeds into his tone, and he winces when the latter sentence ends with an unwanted snap. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just an art project.”

“Harris?”

The sound of your voice draws the attention of both Munsons. You let out a small oof as Harris flings himself against your legs, and though he practically flew the five foot distance between his father and you, now is not the time to remind him about using his walking feet.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You crouch down, taking his hand in yours, and notice his quick, shallow breaths. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay? Eyes on me.” You demonstrate inhaling for three seconds, holding for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. “Now let’s do it together.”

He hesitates but ultimately follows your lead, and you guide him until his breathing slows enough for him to sputter, “I t-tried to sit, b-but I c-couldn’t.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but Eddie fills you in. You feel the heat of anger creeping through your body, not just for the way your co-worker treated the sweet boy, but for her insolent approach to teaching as a whole.

“We can go to my classroom,” you offer, silently sighing in relief when the boy nods in agreement. “I don’t know if I have the supplies to make the same project as Ms. Marion, but if you have a few minutes, you can draw something now. I bet Mr. Will would love to help you; he’s a super-duper artist.”

Just as you’d predicted, Will jumps at the opportunity to help Harris with his impromptu art project, encouraging him to draw something that makes him happy. While he does that, you comb through the mess left behind from the Halloween party you’d thrown. You’d sooner toss one hundred cupcake wrappers in the trash before attempting a conversation with Eddie Munson. He’s simply too unpredictable; kind and thoughtful one day, harsh and guarded the next.

One of the wrappers in your hand drops to the floor and you reach forward to pick it up, pinching the pleated material between your pointer and middle fingers. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on your form, the way the backs of your thighs are slightly exposed when you bend over, and you stand up quickly.

“Are you the Magic School Bus lady?” He takes in your lavender dress with planets and stars stamped all over it. Oh. He wasn’t checking you out; he was just trying to figure out who you’d dressed up as. Good. Anything else would be inappropriate.

So why does a twinge of disappointment radiate through you?

You glance at your costume; with all of the commotion, you’d forgotten you’d even been wearing one “I mean, would I even be a teacher if I didn’t jump at the chance to be Ms. Frizzle?” You motion over to Will, decked out in green from head to toe with two yellow horns glued to a headband atop his mop of brown hair. “Have you met my trusty sidekick, Liz the Lizard?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Byers actually used to play in my D&D club back in high school. Made some pretty sick art pieces to liven up that dingy excuse for a room.”

You look between the two of them, trying to do the mental math. “Will, didn’t you say you’re twenty-four?” And if Eddie is thirty, that means…

“I, uh, had a little trouble graduating,” Eddie sheepishly admits, ruffling the back of his hair and offering a tight grimace. “But I got there eventually. Class of ‘86, baby!”

“Worked out for me,” Will shrugs with a grin, looking up from Harris’s drawing. “You were the best DM Hellfire ever had. Although, rumor has it that Erica Sinclair gave you a run for your money.”

Harris picks up a yellow marker, furiously scribbling a circle in the left-hand corner of his paper. You try peering over to see the whole drawing, but he presses his whole body against the table, successfully thwarting your plans. “No peeking!” he warns, not putting his feet back on the ground until you’ve averted your gaze. “‘S a surprise.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll be surprised.” You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, who shares a similar response in return.

“Dunno when he got so bossy,” he snorts before calling out to his son, “Har-Bear? Five more minutes. We gotta get home to trick-or-treat with Grampa Wayne.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you echo as Harris grabs a purple marker from the box. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“Hmm.” Harris uses his free hand–the one with the cast–to tap his chin, continuing to color with the other one. “M&Ms. But only the plain ones. Daddy doesn’t let me have the peanut ones ‘cause he says I could choke.”

You shoot a sly, knowing look at Eddie. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. Such a selfless father.” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head innocently. “And what do you do with all of these confiscated peanut M&Ms, Mr. Munson? Donate them?”

Eddie tucks his lips into his mouth to mask his grin. “Listen, the jig is gonna be up at some point,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, loud enough so you can hear but soft enough that Harris can’t. “Let me enjoy my free candy while it lasts.”

“No judgment here,” you say with a small laugh, “they’re one of my favorites, too.”

“TA-DA!” Harris shouts, startling you, Eddie, and Will. He holds up the construction paper and smiles widely. To anyone without kids–or who didn’t teach preschool for a living–it would look like a bunch of colorful scribbles. But you can tell that he’s drawn a group of people standing by a tree (or a really, really tall flower) underneath the sun.

“Wow, Harris! That’s amazing!” you clap your hands together to punctuate your enthusiasm. “Who are all those people?”

Harris’s pointer finger travels left to right across the paper as he names each person: “That’s me, Grampa Wayne, Daddy, you, and Mr. Will!” The stick figure that represents you has a purple scribble on it, which you realize must be the costume you’re wearing. “An’ we’re all smiling because we’re happy!” Sure enough, each person has a curved red line at the bottom of their face. But there’s something else that catches your eye.

All of the people have a small space between them, except for you and Eddie. The circle that Harris drew to represent your left hand overlaps with the circle that is Eddie’s right.

You glance at the real Eddie, and if he notices, he doesn’t give any indication. “I love it, buddy.” He takes the drawing and inspects it closely. “Yup, this one’s definitely going on the fridge when we get home.” He flicks the paper for good measure. “Go clean up the markers so we can head out, Axl Rose.”

Among the noise of markers clattering back in the bins, you lean in to Eddie, inadvertently inhaling the scent of his cigarettes and cologne. For a brief moment, you’re transported back to the night fate had led you to cross paths; the thought of his lips on your neck in the stairwell has you clenching your thighs and swallowing thickly as you murmur, “I can ask him to make a new one with just you, him, and his grandpa.”

Eddie shakes his head. “N-No. I like this one.” He lets one hand drop to his side and it grazes yours. His rings brush your knuckles, and you instinctively draw back at the sensation of the cool metal and the zing of heat that pulses at his light touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“S’okay.”

He blinks a few times and redirects his attention to his son. “What do you say to Mr. Will and Ms. Sweetheart for letting you do your art project?”

Harris’s little chest swells as he inhales deeply, storing up as much oxygen as he can fit in his lungs before bellowing, “THANK YOUUUUUUU!”

Eddie brings his palm to his ear canal, rotating his forefinger as though trying to repair a punctured eardrum. “Love the enthusiasm,” he says through gritted teeth. “Seriously, though. Thank you both so much.”

“Of course,” Will says warmly, picking up the marker bin and placing it in its space on the shelf.

“Anything for Harris.” You smile, motioning towards the little boy already by his father’s side. “Have fun trick-or-treating tonight, bud! I can’t wait to hear about all the yummy candy you got.”

Harris scrunches his nose in contemplation. “Are you going trick-or-treating, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Nah,” you laugh, “I’m gonna stay home and give candy to all the kids who come by.” And pray that Grandma doesn’t curse them out, you silently add.

“Oh.” Harris pauses, grabbing his dad’s hand. “Okay, bye!”

Eddie chuckles as his son pulls him towards the door. “That’s my cue. Um, Happy Halloween,” he adds awkwardly, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.

There’s so much more that he wants to say: you’re the best; you saved the day; you should be my son’s teacher instead of that old, bitchy bat. But he didn’t have time. Maybe another day. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Wayne arrives just a few minutes after Eddie and Harris get home. As soon as his gruff voice comes over the intercom, Harris excitedly buzzes him in. “Grampa Wayne’s here!” he yells, even though Eddie’s standing right next to him. He grabs the pillowcase from the couch; it was originally white, but after Eddie accidentally threw in a red sock with the white laundry, it’s tinted light pink.

No sooner does the older man cross the threshold into the apartment, Harris is trying to drag him out again. “Let’s go, before all the good candy is gone!” he whines. His eyebrows pinch together and he drops his grandfather’s hand. “Oh, wait, I gotta show you something.” He scampers off into the kitchen, and Wayne winces when he hears the rattle of magnets falling to the floor.

“I’m okay!” Harris calls out, running back with a piece of paper in his hand. “Look what I drawed at school today!” He gives Wayne the rundown of who’s who.

Wayne analyzes each person in the picture, stopping at the overlapping circles between you and Eddie. “This is great, Har-Bear,” he muses. “Are, um, are Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart holding hands?”

“Mhm,” Harris casually confirms, taking the drawing back. “‘Cause they’re married.”

Eddie chokes on air as Wayne does a double-take. “Congrats, Ed,” he jokes, clapping a hand to his nephew’s shoulder. “Gotta say, I thought I’d at least get an invite.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Harris, why do you think that Ms. Sweetheart and I are married?” He wracks his brain for answers, but he can’t come to a logical conclusion. Did I talk about her in my sleep? Oh, shit, what if it was when I had that dream—

“Because you gived her a present,” Harris says, eyes innocent and wide. “And when grown-ups love each other, they give each other presents.”

“Oh, he gave Ms. Sweetheart a present, huh?” On the surface, Wayne’s words are as innocuous as Harris’s, but Eddie hears the teasing buried just beneath.

Harris nods. “Mhm. He gived her a tape!”

“It was the Toni Braxton one that she came into the shop for…that day that, uh…” Eddie raises his eyebrows at his uncle, who nods in acknowledgment. He brings his focus back to his son. “It doesn’t mean that we’re married. People have to go on dates and fall in love before they get married.”

The young boy absorbs this information. “So you should go on dates and fall in love with Ms. Sweetheart!” His face lights up at the idea of it, and it breaks Eddie’s heart to let him down.

So, he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you hang that back up so we can get outta here and get you some candy, huh?” He forces a smile and watches his son scamper into the kitchen before turning back to Wayne and shaking his head.

Harris peels a magnet off of the fridge, the one Eddie bought him on their Daddy-Son day. It has a sea lion balancing a beach ball on its snout, with HAWKINS ZOO printed in bolded letters along the bottom.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he speaks directly to his drawing. “When Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love and get married, I’ll finally have a mommy.” He presses his hand flat against the paper as though he’s sealing in the wish. He stays like that for a moment until his dad calls his name, and he clutches his pillow case as they head out the door.

Eddie assumes that the love and marriage talk is done for the evening, but the feeling of relief doesn’t last long. The trio of Munson men is halfway down the stairwell when Wayne starts instigating. “Hey, Har, is Ms. Sweetheart pretty?”

“WAYNE!” Eddie grits his teeth and shoots a sharp look at his uncle. The last thing he needs is for Harris to get his hopes up about a blossoming romance between his dad and his former teacher.

“Oh, yeah!” Harris gleefully agrees, oblivious to the mounting tension. He grips the railing and jumps from the second to last step onto the tiled landing below. “Super pretty! Like a princess.”

The eldest Munson turns to Eddie. “Didja hear that? Pretty like a princess.”

“I heard him,” Eddie replies tersely.

“Daddy?”

No. Don’t ask me. Harris Wayne Munson, do not ask me what I think you’re going to—

“Do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty?”

Although he anticipated the question, Eddie still freezes. If he disagrees, Harris will inevitably want to know why not. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t name a single ugly thing about you.

He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. And even though he’s literally seen you naked, fully on display for him–a memory he revisits more often than he’s willing to admit–it’s the thought of what you did today that solidifies your beauty. The way you’d effortlessly calmed Harris down without Eddie even having to ask. The frown on his face almost instantly became a smile, the flow of his tears ceasing and turning into the giggles that brought sunlight into Eddie’s life. You did that.

Any woman can be sexy, but you? In that moment, you were perfect.

Fuck.

“Daddy? Hello?”

At the sound of Harris’s voice, Eddie realizes that he physically hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs. His hand is gripping the banister so tightly that it leaves an imprint in his palm. “Yeah, buddy,” he manages through his Sahara Desert throat. “I think Ms. Sweetheart’s pretty.”

“Like a princess?” Wayne’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to tease his nephew about a crush, and he’s not passing up this limited opportunity.

“Yeah. Like a princess.”

Education outsiders might think that Halloween is one of the worst days to be a teacher. The lethal combination of sugar and excitement barely contained in tiny costumed bodies seems like a recipe for disaster. But any teacher worth their salt will tell you that there is a day far, far worse than Halloween: November 1st.

On Halloween, there is the expectation for fun. There’s a costume parade, classroom trick-or-treating, and even a little party. The kids are out of control, but who cares? It’s Halloween.

But on November 1st, there is work to be done. And you’re expected to teach the months of the year to 10 four-year-olds who are suffering from candy hangovers and won’t stop asking why they can’t go trick-or-treating again today.

You and Will are preparing for battle as students trickle in, excited to show off the candy stashes they acquired the night before. Abby Carver cries because she ate her Reese’s cup and now she’s sad that it’s gone. Joshua Harrington is continuing to “sling webs” at the other kids despite your incessant reminders that he is no longer Spider-Man. A fight over a KitKat bar breaks out not even five minutes into the day, and you confiscate it before someone causes serious bodily harm.

Two fingers lightly tap on your shoulder—too high up to be a kid—and you whirl around with an irritated, “what?”

“Whoa,” Eddie says, concern etched into his otherwise soft features. He takes a small step back, nearly tripping over a rogue Lego that somehow made its way out of the toy area. He stumbles but catches his balance easily. “Everything okay?”

“‘S a warzone out here,” you try and joke, but you feel it fall flat. You’re too tired for humor. Grandma may not have yelled at the trick-or-treaters like you’d feared, but she did get increasingly angrier with each knock on the door. After the fifth time of her snarling at you to “shut the hell up” (like you could simultaneously be on both sides of the door), you’d relented and just put the candy bowl on the welcome mat, scribbling “TAKE ONE” on a yellow sticky note, adhering it to the plastic container.

Two decades earlier, Halloween at Grandma’s house had a completely different connotation. She’d have a little pizza party all set up for you, and she’d buy a big bag of your favorite candy, in case you didn’t get enough during your door-to-door quests. And she’d always let you watch whatever spooky movie your heart desired, regardless of your parents’ rules.

“That’s what grandmas are for,” she’d said with a wink, and the two of you curled up to watch Little Shop of Horrors. Her demeanor matched the hokey magnet on her fridge that read, If I knew how fun my grandkids would be, I would’ve had them first. You’d stay like that until you both fell asleep, only being roused by your parents arriving to pick you up. The good old days, before Grandma waking up involved watching the confusion in her eyes as she tried and failed to place you.

“C-Can I help you with something?” Your guard goes up immediately when you notice that Harris isn’t with him. The time you’d spent together after school yesterday had been nice, fun, even, but you couldn’t trust that today would be the same. Not after what happened a few short weeks ago.

“I, um…I just swung by to give you this.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his denim jacket; it’s the same one that he lent to Harris when he’d forgotten his at home. A flash of yellow paper catches your eye, and he unfurls his palm to reveal a small bag of peanut M&Ms. “You said they were one of your favorites, right?”

You look at the treat, not willing to reach out and grab it. What if it’s a joke? An elaborate ploy to reel you in, just to shout “gotcha” when you finally let your walls come down?

“Are they poisoned or something?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you spike them with Ex-Lax?”

Eddie’s lips part in surprise before he collects himself. “Guess I deserve that,” he mumbles. “But, no. They’re not. I swear on James Hetfield’s life.” He drags his fingernail over his heart in an X-formation.

You take the bag, inspecting it for any sign of tampering, but you come up short. The edges are sealed, and there are no pinpricks as far as your eyes can see. “Dipped into Harris’s stash for me?”

“Hey, these bad boys are technically mine for the taking until he figures out that he can eat them without dying.” Eddie chuckles lightly, peering at you through impossibly long lashes. “But, yeah, I was hoping you’d accept these as part of my apology. Or apologies, I guess. For, uh, for not calling when I said I would, and all of the awful shi—awful things I said to you.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he steps closer and says, “I am so fucking sorry.”

You make a small tear in the bag, tapping it against your palm until an M&M falls out. Popping the blue candy in your mouth, you allow the shell to start dissolving on your tongue before crunching on the peanut, hoping you can process what he’s said by the time you’re finished chewing.

This is what you’ve been waiting for—an actual heartfelt apology. His brown eyes reflect nothing but shame and remorse, and you can tell by the way that he’s fidgeting with his rings that he’s anxiously awaiting your reply.

His vulnerability softens you slightly, and considering you haven’t keeled over after ingesting the candy, you throw him a bone.

“This fun size bag covers the ‘not calling’ part, but I’m gonna need a lot more candy if you want me to forgive you for what you said at the music store.” You keep your tone light; teasing, even, but there’s a layer of truth to it. He can’t merely waltz into your classroom with a gift and expect you to forget his hurtful words.

Eddie nods, his frizzy curls brushing the tops of his denim-clas shoulders. “I know. I’ve said some pretty terrible things in my life, but that might’ve been the worst. And, um,” he fumbles his words, desperately searching for the right ones. Semantics has never been his forte. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s not true; your grandma didn’t want to forget you. And…neither do I.” When you raise your eyebrows, he starts to backtrack. “Because you’re so great with Harris; like, you understand him and stuff. He’s always talking about you.”

Daddy, do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty? The question replays like a song he can’t shake from his head, its melody familiar but the notes still keeping him on edge. Pretty like a princess, only instead of saving her, I’m the one who needs to be rescued. So much for Prince Charming, huh?

The M&M melts in your mouth while you formulate a response to his candid admission. Sweetness seeps into your taste buds as you try to straddle the line between careful consideration and overthinking. Speak too quickly and you might say something you’ll regret. Take too long and you’ll make this even more awkward.

“W-Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Short, simple, to the point. Your words are slightly slurred by the candy obstruction, but what else is there to say? You could add that you forgive him, but you’re truthfully not sure that you do. His words scarred, had taken your already mangled self-worth and snapped it into pieces, and so did his reasoning for hurting you. Despite the love and kindness you’d shown his son, Eddie had fully believed that you were responsible for spreading personal information that would wound him. It was exactly as Jeff had said: Eddie struck below the belt at the first sign of conflict, so determined to protect himself that he didn’t even realize that he was attacking the people on his side.

The sound of books clattering to the floor snatches your attention from him, and you whip your head to your little classroom library to see two kids standing over a pile of fallen books, guilty looks stamped on their faces. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurt out, dashing off to assess the damage. You’ve never been so grateful for your students causing mischief.

The hour hand crawls to the number two; at one point, you swore the clock was moving backwards. The chaos of the morning was only a preview of the rest of the day’s fiascos, but you and Will had navigated as best as you could.

“Jesus,” he murmurs once the kids have all been dismissed, gingerly rubbing his temples, “that was brutal. I can handle the day after Halloween; I can handle Fridays, but when they coincide? Nope, never again.” He slumps into a chair dramatically, letting his arms drape over the sides.

“Gonna have a glass of wine when you get home?” you joke, wiping Play-Doh residue from a tabletop.

Will nods. “Or a whole bottle.” His focus shifts to your desk, and he nods his chin in that direction. “I see you have something to look forward to tonight, too.”

You follow his gaze, widening your eyes when you see the object he’s referring to. A bag of peanut M&Ms–much bigger than the one you’d inhaled this morning–sits on top of your desk calendar; resting next to it is a cassette. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you. The cassette is Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction; you recognize the iconic cover as soon as it comes into view. It’s not your usual music choice, but you’ll listen to almost anything.

There’s a piece of paper taped to the giant yellow M&M bag, folded in equal triads. Messily scrawled across the front in black ink is Ms. Sweetheart. You gently pull the adhesive loose and open the letter, nervously running your forefinger across the irregular edge where it was obviously torn from a composition notebook.

Fun size mistake=fun size bag of candy

Family size mistake=family size bag of candy

I’m really good at fucking things up, but really bad at fixing them. I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we both know that I did.

You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know how sorry I am.

-Eddie

P.S. Not sure if hard rock is your thing, but I saw this at work and it reminded me of the kindness you showed our favorite little Axl Rose yesterday.

“Who’s it from?” Will asks, breaking into your thoughts. “A secret admirer?” He brings his clasped hands to his cheek in mock dreaminess.

You manage a laugh as you fold the note back up and tuck it under the calendar. “If it is, he’s really bad at it, because he signed his name.” When did he even sneak in here to do this? Kind of scary that someone could walk in and you didn’t even notice.

“Aha! So it is a guy!” Will pumps his fist triumphantly, though you’re not quite sure what he thinks he’s won.

“Just Eddie Munson, thanking us for letting Harris draw here yesterday.”

It’s not a total lie, but Will sees right through it. “Uh-huh. Thanking us? So that note is also for me? Can I read it?” He starts towards your desk, outstretched hand reaching towards where you’d tried to hide it, but you playfully swat them away.

You glance at the clock and frown. “If you leave a little early, I won’t tell anyone.”

Will flips you off; over the last two months, you two had developed a sibling-esque relationship that came out more once the kids had left for the day. He grabs his backpack from the supply closet and slings it over his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m exhausted, or I’d stick around and keep bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, knowing full well that he’s itching to leave regardless. “Gotta save up your energy for when Marshall visits.”

Will blushes at the mention of his long-distance boyfriend’s name. He still wasn’t out to many people, but when you’d casually mentioned the date Jess had with a girl named Robin, he’d felt comfortable opening up to you. “I can’t wait!” His grin is so wide you swear it’ll stretch right off of his face. “Thanks again; you’re the best.”

That leaves you alone with your gigantic bag of candy, a Guns N’ Roses cassette, and an apology that you have no idea what to do with.

Once again, Eddie Munson has given you more questions than answers.

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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dragons-and-handcuffs · 2 months

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Aegon Targaryen x reader

Modern AU

Aegon is a disaster in the kitchen but he still tries to cook for his lovely girlfriend

Aegon Targaryen, the notorious party-goer and all-around charismatic university student, had a reputation for being good at many things: charming his professors, acing last-minute exams, and throwing legendary parties. However, cooking was definitely not one of them. This fact was well-known to his friends, who had learned the hard way to avoid anything Aegon attempted to cook. Unfortunately, his girlfriend, you, had yet to experience Aegon’s culinary misadventures firsthand.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and you were curled up on the couch in Aegon’s apartment, scrolling through your phone. Aegon, sprawled out beside you, suddenly sat up with a look of determination in his eyes.

“You know what, babe? I think I’m going to cook us dinner tonight,” he announced, puffing out his chest as if he'd just declared he was going to climb Mount Everest.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Are you sure about that? I remember hearing something about you nearly burning down your kitchen once.”

Aegon waved his hand dismissively. “That was one time! I’ve learned a lot since then. Trust me, I can handle it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Because last time you tried, you set off the fire alarm with a bowl of cereal.”

“That was a fluke!” Aegon insisted, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “I’ve got this. You’ll see. I’m going to make the best meal you’ve ever had.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his confidence. “Alright, Mr. Master Chef, but just in case, I’ll keep the fire extinguisher nearby.”

Aegon shot you a playful glare but quickly got to work, rolling up his sleeves and tying on an apron. You sat back, fully prepared to witness the chaos that was about to unfold. Aegon strutted into the kitchen with all the swagger of a TV chef, throwing ingredients onto the counter with a flourish. He’d decided on pasta because, as he put it, “How hard can it be?”

It turned out, very hard.

First, there was the issue of the boiling water. Aegon had filled the pot nearly to the brim, not realizing that pasta needed space to cook. As he tossed the dry pasta in, a geyser of boiling water erupted, narrowly missing him. He yelped and jumped back, glancing sheepishly at you.

“Just a minor setback!” he called out, trying to maintain his bravado.

You stifled a giggle, watching as he attempted to salvage the situation. But things quickly spiraled out of control. He tried to make a tomato sauce, but somehow ended up with a charred mess that looked like it had been scraped from the bottom of a coal mine. He accidentally seasoned the sauce with sugar instead of salt, turning it into a bizarrely sweet concoction that smelled distinctly wrong.

The pièce de résistance came when Aegon decided to flambé the sauce, something he’d seen done on a cooking show once. He grabbed a bottle of rum, splashed way too much into the pan, and ignited it with a match. A dramatic whoosh of flames shot up, licking the kitchen ceiling. Aegon’s eyes widened in horror as the fire alarm blared overhead.

You leapt to your feet, grabbing the fire extinguisher and rushing to his side. With a practiced hand (clearly, this was not the first time), you doused the flames, leaving a slightly singed but intact kitchen. The smoke slowly cleared, and Aegon stood there, covered in soot, looking utterly defeated.

“Maybe... maybe flambé was a bit ambitious,” he admitted, coughing slightly.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Aegon, I think it’s safe to say cooking is not your forte.”

He looked at you, his face a mix of sheepishness and amusement. “Okay, okay, I admit it. I’m a disaster in the kitchen. But hey, I was just trying to impress you.”

You softened, stepping closer to wipe a smudge of soot off his cheek. “You don’t need to impress me with cooking,” you said, smiling. “Besides, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Aegon grinned, pulling you into a hug. “Yeah, but next time, maybe we should order takeout.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “Definitely. Although, I have to say, this was pretty entertaining.”

He chuckled, holding you close. “Glad to provide the entertainment, babe. But seriously, I’ll leave the cooking to the professionals from now on.”

As you both stood in the smoke-filled kitchen, laughing and holding each other, you realized that even in the midst of a culinary catastrophe, Aegon’s heart was in the right place. And while he might not be a master chef, he was definitely the guy who could make you smile, even when things went hilariously wrong.

#aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #modern au #modern au!aegon #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones #game of thrones imagines #hotd headcanon #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd imagines #house of the dragon imagine #hotd one shot

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nataliesscatorccio · 1 year

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Dead cabin guy and his technicolor dreamcoat have haunted me since the wardrobe reveal in season two, and today im going to make it everyone's problem.

Travis wears the coat first. He and Natalie take the blessing and go out to look for Javi. Travis hallucinates (prophesies?) that Javi is dead and buried beneath the snow, but Natalie shows him it's only a fox. Travis finds the strange, mossy tree stump. The next day Travis has strong feelings about which direction is best to search for Javi in, and we don't see more of him until Nat reveals the bloody pants. Not that weird, all things considered. New season, new wardrobe additions. Hiking on a caloric deficit with PTSD, you'll probably hallucinate. Pretty standard stuff.

Then Nat wears the coat. She takes it to lay Jackie's bones to rest at the crash site, and while she wears it she sees (hallucinates? prophesies? I'm not sure!) the white moose that they'll later lose to the lake (ergo the hunt, ergo Javi dies for real but more on that later).

We get to Old Wounds, the hunting competition, and Lottie wears the coat now. You see where I'm going with this but just to be thorough: she enters the realm of death dreams, talks with Laura Lee, almost freezes to death.

Episode five. Melissa wears the coat. Maybe that's not important! Maybe it's just to show that they all share the wardrobe, and that the side characters are as equally All In This Together as the main characters are. Or it could mean something that a peripheral character, wearing important wardrobe, framed in antlers (not unlike Travis in 2.01), has the line "maybe he did die, and that's his ghost." It's a little suspicious, and at this point starts to feel like a pattern.

Who wears it next, who wore it best!? That's right baby, it's Paul! For his dreamworld drifter, hallucination hunk Coach Ben Scott. Nicholas Urfe himself. Ben spends almost all of his time in a dream, until *drumroll please* Paul, very pointedly, takes the coat and walks out the door. "Where do you think you are, Ben?" he puts the coat on. "You had to have known you couldn't stay here forever. [...] What matters now is that you aren't welcome here anymore." Following Paul means committing to death (to dream), and until interruption that's the choice Ben makes. Because letting Paul (and the coat) go would mean committing entirely to reality.

Of course, the pièce de résistance is something I didn't even notice until I went looking for it. The first dozen times I watched, I thought that after Lottie's beating Shauna brought her a blanket. "Lottie's cold." But she doesn't. She brings her the coat. Lottie is laying with it when, in a fever dream, she witnesses/hallucinates/prophesies parts of the hunt.

It's there again (on the back of the chair) when she sits by the fire and speaks for the wilderness, appointing Nat their queen. Ben watches, having woken from the dream himself, as they all bow to Natalie and leave reality behind for good.

Of course, there are a lot of times when characters hallucinate strange things in the cabin while not wearing the coat, because they're all starving to death and traumatized. Mari. Shauna. Akilah. But in addition to that, it seems like a pattern worth noting that in each instance where a character wears the technicolor coat, the line between the real and the imagined seems to blur with more ease. Does dead cabin guy's technicolor dreamcoat help the Yellowjackets connect to the dream realm?

I'll be brief here with the biblical parallel: blah blah Joseph is the favorite son (you were always its favorite), his father gives him a technicolor coat (they're nothing special, they don't change color in the cold or anything). blah blah Joseph starts having prophetic dreams etc etc his jealous brothers throw Joseph down a pit (the wilderness chose) and bring his bloodstained coat back as false proof of his death (hanging on a branch. a couple miles back). You get my drift.

Does it mean anything? Who knows. But in a series where wardrobe is such an integral part of the storytelling, it felt worth paying attention to.

#yellowjackets #long post #travis martinez #lottie matthews #natalie scatorccio #melissa yellowjackets #paul yellowjackets #yellowjackets meta #javi martinez #shauna shipman #ben scott #akilah yellowjackets #mari yellowjackets

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 10 months

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I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i feel like this idea is really cute and just had to be written down:)

word count - 1.4k

in which, when you and harry are putting the christmas presents under the tree on christmas eve, with harry dressed up in a santa costume just for his own novelty, and share a little moment to themselves, unbeknownst to them that there four year old son arlo, was watching the whole time.

00:13am. 25th December, 2023.

On this whimsical Christmas Eve, the air is infused with the scent of pine and anticipation as you and your husband Harry, donned in a jolly Santa suit purely for his own delight, tiptoe around the cozy living room.

The soft glow of twinkling lights casts a warm ambiance, enveloping the space in a serene holiday magic.

Upstairs in the master bed, your precious four-year-old, Arlo, is lost in dreams of sugarplums and toy-filled wonderlands.

As his dreams weave their gentle tapestry, you and Harry share mischievous smiles, conspirators in the clandestine mission to deliver presents beneath the twinkling Christmas tree.

In the quietude of the night, laughter bubbles between you and Harry, a shared joy that needs no reason. Silently, you exchange glances, finding amusement in the simple joy of being together on this enchanting night. The muffled laughter dances in the air, a secret language spoken in the hushed tones of love.

The presents, adorned with festive paper and ribbons, find their places beneath the tree like treasures awaiting discovery. With each shared giggle, you and Harry weave invisible threads of happiness, wrapping the room in the warmth of familial love.

The task at hand becomes a delightful game of stealth and joy. Harry, in his Santa suit, moves with a festive grace, and you follow suit, your hearts synchronized in the shared delight of creating magic for Arlo. Laughter, sweet and spontaneous, becomes the soundtrack to this festive ballet.

Beside the twinkling evergreen, Arlo's offerings for Santa and his reindeer beckon: a plate adorned with mince pies and a bunch of crisp carrot for Rudolph.

Harry, ever the good sport in his Santa attire, merrily takes a bite of the sweet, spiced pie, savoring the festive flavor with genuine delight.

Meanwhile, you opt for the crunchy carrots, enjoying their crisp freshness. The contrast of flavours mirrors the yuletide spirit, blending the sweetness of the mince pies with the earthy simplicity of the carrots.

The pièce de résistance, however, is the offering of milk. Harry, with a theatrical flourish, lifts the glass to his lips, only to be met with a cringe as the chilly liquid meets his tongue. The milk, left out for Santa's refreshment, bears the unmistakable chill of a night spent waiting. The internal wince is evident on Harry's face, though he valiantly soldiers on, determined not to let a bit of cold milk dampen the festive mood.

As you stand in the hushed glow of the Christmas tree, satisfied smiles exchanged with Harry, a sense of completion washes over you. The presents are arranged, the festive treats enjoyed, and the world outside is wrapped in a blanket of silent snow. It feels like the perfect moment to retire to bed, where dreams of sugarplums can join the night's symphony.

But just as you entertain the idea of slipping under the warm covers, Harry, in his Santa suit, wraps his arms around your waist with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His lips press gentle kisses against your neck, creating a trail of warmth that contrasts the cool air of the room. You can't help but laugh, a delighted sound that dances in the quietude.

"M’not quite ready f’bed yet," he murmurs against your neck, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "If I go now, I'll just get kicked in the back by ‘Lo, and I'll end up with no quilt."

The unexpected declaration sends a ripple of laughter through you, and you playfully turn around in his embrace. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you meet his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" you tease, your lips curving into a smile.

In the gentle dance of shared laughter and lingering gazes, you both revel in the magic of the moment. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow on Harry's face, accentuating the warmth in his eyes. His lips meet yours in a brief but tender kiss, a sweet punctuation to the unspoken joy that fills the room.

"M’suppose bedtime can wait a bit longer," he concedes, his arms tightening around you. "After all, who could resist the allure f’a quiet, magical Christmas night?"

In the gentle glow, Harry's eyes meet yours with a magnetic pull, and the world outside seems to vanish. His arms envelop you, creating an intimate cocoon that shields you from the outside world. The soft strains of holiday tunes linger, providing a subtle backdrop to the unspoken language of desire that fills the room.

The air is thick with a sweet tension as Harry's lips find yours in a series of passionate kisses, each one deepening the connection between you. Both of you smiling into each others mouths, your hands find the peach fuzz at the back of head neck, whilst his find habitat on the groove of your bum.

The room transforms into a haven of shared intimacy, where the only language spoken is that of desire, and every touch is a brushstroke in the masterpiece of this moment.

The heat of the moment intensifies as you lose yourselves in the magnetic pull of each other. The world outside continues its hushed existence, oblivious to the crescendo of emotions echoing within the room.

The bed, usually shared with the comforting presence of his parents, felt empty, and a sense of curiosity tugged at his tiny heart. Arlo, with his baby blanket in tow, embarked on a solo journey down the hallway.

The plush carpet beneath his little feet muffled his steps as he approached the top of the stairs. The house was still cloaked in the tranquillity of the evening, and Arlo, with wide eyes and tousled hair, peered down into the living room below.

A strange sound caught his attention, and he instinctively clutched his blanket a bit tighter.

At the bottom of the stairs, a tableau unfolded. His mother, adorned in her pajamas, was locked in an embrace with Santa Claus—or so it seemed. Arlo's innocent gaze widened, his imagination dancing with the possibility that Santa himself had arrived early to share a moment with his mom.

The festive glow of the Christmas tree provided an ethereal backdrop to the unexpected scene.

Unaware that the figure beneath the Santa suit was, in fact, his dad, Harry, Arlo continued to observe with a mixture of awe and confusion.

08:21am. 25th December, 2023.

The Christmas morning sun spilled into the kitchen, casting a golden hue on the day's festivities. As you walked in with Arlo nestled on your hip, the air buzzed with the promise of holiday magic.

However, a quiet tension lingered as Arlo, unusually reserved, gazed around the room with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

Harry, donned in a festive apron, stood at the stove, the sizzle of eggs providing a comforting backdrop to the scene. Arlo's silence persisted, his little mind undoubtedly preoccupied with the mysterious encounter from the previous night.

As you settled into the kitchen routine, the atmosphere held a subtle undercurrent of curiosity. Arlo's wide eyes shifted between you and Harry, his silence becoming a palpable presence in the room.

The bewilderment in his gaze hinted at the lingering confusion from witnessing the unexpected kiss with Santa Claus.

With each passing moment, the unspoken question hung in the air. Harry, flipping eggs with a practised ease, stole a glance at Arlo, sensing the inner turmoil of his young son. The parental instinct to reassure tugged at your heart as you navigated the morning, your steps mindful of the unspoken query hanging in the air.

After the hearty Christmas breakfast, Arlo, still harbouring the mystery from the previous night, toddled over to Harry.

His little arms reached up, a silent request to be lifted. Harry, ever the doting dad, scooped him up onto his hip, planting a cascade of playful kisses on Arlo's cheek. The room echoed with the sounds of affectionate giggles.

As Arlo settled into Harry's arms, he seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing around to ensure that you were nowhere in sight. Satisfied that the conversation would be just between him and his dad, Arlo took a deep breath, his eyes serious.

"I have something to tell you, Daddy," Arlo announced in a hushed voice, leaning in as if sharing a grand secret.

Harry, playfully intrigued, raised an eyebrow and encouraged him to spill the beans.

With an air of importance, Arlo whispered, "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus."

The words hung in the air, and a mischievous sparkle lit up his eyes. Harry's reaction, however, was unexpected.

A loud, hearty laugh erupted from Harry's chest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Arlo, momentarily perplexed, couldn't help but join in the infectious laughter. Harry, wiping away an imaginary tear, managed to compose himself and leaned in with mock seriousness.

Harry brought his face closer to his mini-me and brought his voice to a quiet mock whisper.

“Tell m’more.”

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brewed-pangolin · 6 months

Text

MDNI 18+

Gym Rat Soap is so outrageously possessive of you that if he comes home to you pleasuring yourself, he takes it as a personal challenge and will go out of his way to make you come solely for him.

And he's not holding back. He'll pull out all his pleasure tricks (except pulling out. That's a possessive no no.)

He starts with his usual tried and true method of fingering you so good against the wall that your legs turn to numbed jelly within minutes. Holding yourself up against his chest while you moan his name into the fabric of his sweat ladened shirt.

"Tha's it, bonnie. Ya come for me. And only me."

Next is his feast. Tossing you onto the dinner table like a sacrificial lamb and delving immediately between your thighs. Lapping at your folds like a starved and dehydrated animal. Hell bent on consuming you whole for his own pleasured ego while you cry his name to the heavens and writhe in steady overstimulation.

"Oh my God, Johnny!"

"No God 'ere, lass. Only me."

To finally close out his pleasured torture and culminate in his ultimate taking of you, he throws you over his shoulder and stomps his way to the bedroom to begin his pièce de résistance. Your calves hoisted onto his shoulders, his hands griping like a vice into the sides of your torso as he pistons his cock at just right angle, making you see stars and completely losing the capacity for speech and all other thoughts until all you could think of was him. And only him.

"Jo-, Jo-, John-"

"Tha's it. Say my name, bonnie."

"JOHNNY!"

And with a series of roars that would undoubtedly have the neighbors calling to report an escaped lion, he empties himself completely into the silken walls of your cunt. Marking you as his own as his hips falter. His hands grabbing at your limp form as he cradles you against his chest and reassures just how good you are for him. For him. And only him.

Gym Rat Soap Masterlist

#super soap sunday #soap squad™️#gym rat soap #hes definitely my dom soap #hes such a menace #i love him #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x f!reader #johnny mactavish x you #soap smut #cod soap smut #cod fanfic #call of duty #cod

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theostrophywife · 10 months

Text

silver lining.

pairing: draco malfoy x reader

song inspiration: bathroom by montell fish.

author's note: this is just filth. don't imagine draco looking at you like the cover picture when you're on your knees for him. don't do it.

The rosewood door clicked shut as Draco hastily ushered you inside. Your heels echoed against the marble tile, the train of your velvet dress kissing the floor as you faced your boyfriend with anticipation.

Beyond the lavish bathroom, the sounds of the soirée filtered through the packed halls of Malfoy Manor. Nearly everyone who was anyone in the upper echelons of society was present for tonight’s festivities, which meant that you were supposed to be on your best behavior.

A task that you so arduously failed the second you caught sight of Draco.

In truth, you couldn’t be blamed. Your boyfriend had no business looking that delectable. When he greeted you at the door earlier that night, you nearly swooned. The suit that adorned his body was perfectly tailored, showing off his lithe and lean frame. It cinched at his midsection, sending your gaze further down and letting your imagination run wild with images of you wrapping your legs around his trim waist. The deep navy color accentuated his silver eyes and they flashed like streaks of lightning as his gaze descended on you.

Mischief danced on his features as Draco indulged in the sight of you, his gaze snagging on your curves, perfectly hugged by velvet fabric that matched the color of his suit. The dress was delivered to your door early that morning along with the diamonds that dripped from your ears and fingers. The pièce de résistance, a gorgeous sapphire necklace, hung proudly around your neck. It was easily recognizable as a Malfoy family heirloom. One that Narcissa had worn out and about in countless society events. Draco’s message was clear. He intended to make you a Malfoy soon enough.

The note that accompanied the necklace said as much. Your boyfriend simply wrote: A jewel for my jewel. See you tonight, my future wife as though he hadn't splurged a year's worth of wages on the dress alone. To Draco, money wasn't an object. Not if it meant making you happy.

As the Malfoys welcomed your family into the manor, Draco swept you in by your waist. He caressed your cheek, the cold bite of his rings kissing your skin as his fingers slipped down to wrap around your neck possessively.

“You look ravishing, darling.” Draco said as he pressed a chaste peck against your lips. The kiss was soft and gentle, likely for the benefit of your parents. You doubted that Draco’s usual affections for you would be deemed appropriate in their eyes. Your boyfriend seemed to know this too because he smirked, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “I can’t wait to rip this dress to shreds tonight.”

That little comment ignited a fire within you. As the night progressed, you couldn’t stop staring at your boyfriend. Thinking of all the filthy things you’d rather be doing in his bedroom instead of paying attention to the millionth what a beautiful couple you make or how refreshing it is to see young love at work comments that various guests showered you with. You already knew that you and Draco were the perfect couple. He repeated this sentiment to you every day. Not just with words, but with his actions as well.

Draco was possessive in every sense of the word. Like his namesake, there was a dragon underneath that handsome face, hoarding his most prized possession—you—with unmatched devotion. Your boyfriend showered you with affection and you loved every second of it. Selfish as it was, you weren’t well pleased at the prospect of sharing his attention even for a few hours. You were utterly spoiled, to be sure. But Draco had made you that way.

By the time that dinner started, food was the last thing on your mind. You probably would’ve been more well-behaved if your friends were present to help take your mind off of things, but traitors that they were, they had left you all alone to simmer in your sinful thoughts. Pansy and Blaise were off on holiday in the Maldives while Theo, Enzo, and Mattheo disappeared soon after their required appearances. Knowing the boys, they were probably in the gardens getting higher than a hippogriff.

You felt envious. The last thing you wanted to do was sit through a stuffy dinner, smiling cordially at the high profile guests around you and acting like the prim and proper aristocrat that your parents raised you to be. Draco was certainly faring better than you at the moment. The charm and confidence came naturally to him. He leaned back against his wingback chair, sipping red wine and conversing with the Minister of Magic like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Through the crystal glass, you examined him with a smile. His platinum blonde hair was slicked back and not a single strand was out of place. Silver rings adorned his knuckles, which were loosely curled around his wine glass. You couldn’t help but think that his fingers would look better wrapped around your neck, but perhaps that was the alcohol talking.

Draco licked his lips, which were now stained a pretty crimson color. You wondered if he'd taste like wine when you kissed him, which you couldn't wait to do. Kiss, lick, suck. All over. Every single inch. You flushed as Draco's gaze trailed over to you. A sly smirk curled against his lips as he leaned in.

“Darling, is everything alright? You’ve barely touched your food and yet you look absolutely ravenous.” His cold breath tickled your cheek. “Hungry for something else, are we?”

A devious expression flickered through his features as your cheeks heated. Your boyfriend knew exactly what he was doing. He was being a tease, plain and simple.

“What if I am, Draco?” you replied, placing your hand on his thigh. Draco’s breath hitched as he looked down at your perfectly manicured hand.

His voice was low and husky, tinged with need. “You can devour me all you’d like after this dinner, princess.”

“You know I’ve never been patient.” You pouted, causing Draco to chuckle lightly. “And I’ve been waiting all night.”

Draco chuckled darkly, patting your hand. “Behave, darling. I promise to reward you after.”

You weren’t satisfied with that answer. Draco was determined to leave it at that, but you had other ideas. Dating him meant that no wasn’t really in your vernacular. Draco doted on you, spoiled you beyond belief, and most importantly, he never made you wait. You were used to getting what you wanted, when you wanted. Tonight would be no different.

As Draco returned to his conversation with the minister, you busied yourself with the guests around you. The Greengrass sisters were gushing about the dresses you had all picked out for the Yule Ball, while their parents commented on your recent charity work. You took it all in stride, accepting each compliment gracefully while inching your hand higher up Draco’s leg.

Lucius had joined the conversation, bragging about Draco’s most recent accomplishments. Narcissa smiled fondly at her beloved son.

“We’re quite proud of our Draco,” she said with a smile. The older woman looked positively regal and intimidating as always, but there was a warmth to her as she turned in your direction. “Especially since he’s brought the wonderful Y/N into our lives. If he plays his cards right, then we may be adding another Malfoy to our midst soon. Though I already think of her as a daughter.”

You beamed. “Thank you, Cissy.”

Draco cleared his throat as you inched your hand higher, toying with the seam of his pants. The minister was none the wiser as he turned his attention towards the both of you.

“You two make a very handsome couple indeed.”

You flashed the minister a charming smile as you palmed Draco through his trousers. He was hard as a rock and positively delicious against your palm. You rubbed over him slowly, making him jolt from the contact. “Do you hear that, Draco? Why, I think we have the minister’s approval.”

Your boyfriend nearly spilled his glass of wine when you squeezed him between your fingers.

The minister furrowed his brows in concern. “Are you quite alright, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Splendid,” Draco replied through gritted teeth. “Though I just recalled, Y/N and I must check up on dessert. She needs to practice if she’s to be lady of the manor soon.”

Draco subtly removed your hand from his lap. Ever the perfect gentleman, he stood up and gallantly offered you his arm. “Shall we, darling?”

Hiding your smirk was nearly impossible. Though he appeared calm and collected, you knew Draco well enough to clock the tick in his jaw. Your boyfriend was pissed. This was further confirmed by the silence that followed as he escorted you through the halls of Malfoy Manor. Not a single word or glance was spared in your direction.

Instead, Draco opened the door to the bathroom and watched as you ducked inside. Before you could even speak, Draco pushed you against the door. One hand wrapped around your throat while the other gripped your waist.

His silver eyes flashed with anger. “You want to tell me what that was back there, princess?”

The anger radiating off of him in waves awakened a sick sort of thrill within you. You lifted your chin defiantly, nearly putting a crick in your neck as you glanced up at Draco. Every in your tallest heels, he still towered a good foot over you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Draco. It’s not my fault that you’re all hot and bothered over a simple touch.”

“A simple touch?” He asked, quirking a pale brow at you. From his tone, you could tell that his patience was wearing thin. “Darling, you were practically clawing at my trousers. In front of our parents. In front of the bloody minister. Are you so desperate for me that you couldn’t wait until the end of the night?”

“What if I was? What are you going to do about it, Draco?”

He flashed you in irritated glare. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, my love. You know better than to test my patience.”

“Oh, but it’s so much fun.”

“Is it? Well, it isn’t fun for me.” Draco grabbed your hand and ran it over his length. “Do you feel that? You’ve caused this problem, darling. By acting like a needy little slut all night and riling me up. Now you’re going to fix it.”

“And if I say no?”

Draco squeezed your throat so hard that your air supply was momentarily cut off. “Then I’ll just have to put you in your place.”

You smiled. This was exactly what you wanted. Draco clocked your satisfied little smirk. “Don’t think I don’t see that smile. You think you’ve won, don’t you? Well, you won’t be smiling once I fuck you throat until you’re crying and begging me to stop. I’ll make sure you won’t be able to talk for days, let alone grin.”

“It would be a genuine pleasure, Dray.”

“Such a smart mouth on you, hm?” Draco released you from his hold and stared down at you with a menacing grin. “Get on your fucking knees, princess. It's about time you remembered your place."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. You were so turned on that you could barely breathe. As you knelt on the cold tile, Draco unbuckled his belt. You looked up through your lashes with a lust filled gaze as he freed his cock from the constraints of his meticulously pressed trousers. Draco pumped himself and the sight made you groan with need. You tried to reach for him, but he swatted your hand away.

When you whined, Draco responded by taking fistfuls of your hair and yanking your head back. “Open your mouth like the pretty little whore that I know you are.”

Without warning, Draco shoved his fingers into your mouth. You whined, wanting much more than just his digits. He tilted your head back, those silver eyes flashing with irritation at your bratty behavior.

"You think I'd give you my cock without making you work for it first?" He asked with a sneer. "Show me that you can handle my fingers and maybe I'll let you suck me off. I'd like to see if you can still mouth off to me with your lips wrapped around my cock, you fucking brat."

You moaned in response, peering up at him through your lashes as you sucked on his fingers. Draco watched hungrily as you flicked your tongue over his silver rings and wrapped your lips around the Malfoy family crest. He hissed as you coated his digits with saliva, letting him gag you with his long fingers while you gazed lovingly up at him.

"Look at you. You're fucking filthy, darling. Putting on a show for me, hm?" Draco laughed when you nodded eagerly. "I bet you're soaked, princess. So turned on and all I've done is gag you with my fingers. You're such a whore, aren't you?"

You looked up at him and smiled, kissing the tips of his fingers. "Only for you, Draco."

This seemed to please you boyfriend because he leaned down and rewarded you with a sloppy kiss. With a hand around your throat, Draco slipped his tongue into your mouth and groaned when you sucked on it.

"Come on then, darling. Let me fuck that pretty throat."

You swallowed thickly, your lips barely parting before Draco shoved his way in. You gagged as he hit the back of your throat with a sharp thrust. He groaned and picked up the pace. There was no precursor. No gentleness. This was just Draco selfishly abusing your throat for his own pleasure and you loved every second of it.

Draco held nothing back. While he was quite domineering in bed, you’ve never seen him unleashed like this. Your boyfriend was feral, roughly fucking into your throat like it was his god given right. Tears and snot quickly covered your face as he rutted into your mouth over and over again. You were slobbering all over him, leaving lipstick marks all over his cock.

With a particular sharp thrust, Draco flashed you a vicious smile. The hand that wasn't gripping the back of your head tugged the straps of your dress off of your shoulders. He pulled the fabric down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You hissed as he roughly squeezed your tits, alternating between them with equal attention. He flicked his thumb over your stiffened peaks and hit the back of your throat with brutal force. You cried out, your words nothing but an incoherent stream of pleading and pleasure.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, princess? You talked up such a big game, but now you’re crying like a desperate little slut. Oh, you can’t take any more? Am I bruising your pretty little throat? Well, too bad. You asked for it by acting like such a fucking brat. Now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.”

You moaned at his words, making him throw his head back at the vibrations. His perfectly coiffed hair was now a mess. Platinum locks framed his handsome face, looking like some unholy angel. He panted and moaned, signaling his release. Draco pulled out and positioned the tip of his cock onto your tongue.

“Swallow, darling. Every single fucking drop.”

You were shaken. Your knees ached. Your throat was definitely sore. But it was all worth it to watch your boyfriend come apart above you. Draco’s lips parted, releasing an animalistic groan as he spilled onto your tongue. His eyelids fluttered as he came, those pretty silver eyes rolling back until they disappeared.

Draco looked down, watching intently as you flashed him the load he’d emptied into your mouth before you swallowed obediently. He smiled proudly.

“That’s my good girl.”

He picked you up off of the floor and kissed you, groaning when he tasted himself on your lips. Compared to his earlier actions, the kiss was rather affectionate and endearing. After you had a chance to catch your breath, Draco cleaned you up. With a quick incantation, he vanished the evidence, wiping away the snot, tears, and mascara until you appeared pristine again.

Draco smiled, wrapping a possessive hand around your throat as he kissed your forehead. You whimpered at the slight pressure.

“Poor baby, but you had it coming. Told you I’d ruin your throat.” Your boyfriend murmured, trailing kisses down your neck. “Have you learned your lesson, darling?”

Your voice sounded rough and scratchy when you spoke. “Mhm, I learned that I should make you mad more often. That was so fucking hot, Draco.”

Draco chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless, princess. But I love you anyway. Now come on, let’s get back to dinner before anyone suspects the ungodly things I’ve just done to you. If you’re good, maybe I’ll make you see heaven later.”

You leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll hold you to that, Draco.”

#when i tell yall that i need to be institutionalized for my thoughts about this man #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco lucius malfoy #draco x reader

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