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#squat on the grass
unproduciblesmackdown · 7 months
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immediately obsessed with this pic posted by summer stock ensemble member hannah balagot, "Sunday grills with Will"
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fitveganlifts · 1 year
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Video of me doing my squat trick aka I really go ass to grass
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Just Fred and the boys touching grass.
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call-me-the-candyman · 5 months
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Down in the land of the dead, a girl is left stuck. Unable to live or die, she waits for someone to bring her to somewhere. As she waits, she is kept company by a strange and intimidating being....
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oscill4te · 2 months
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cleaning the bathroom is like the most physical chore ever (moreso the shower, really)
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katierosefun · 8 months
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wow i love you the transporting power of music (am trying so hard not to cry because of the film reel in my head)
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chaos-night · 11 months
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Shoutout to my coworker for selling me two lil baggies of weed for $10
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immagoudaboi · 2 years
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A bunch of pandas rolling down a hill at the same time would constitute the world's most adorable avalanche.
an avalanche of black and white fur just rolling down a hill at top speed is a sight to behold indeed hehe 🐼
I have heard we're called the cutest (natural) disasters 😎✨🐼
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opiazapine · 18 days
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About to possibly do the unthinkable and get a Yoga mat
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Watch me front squat a new PR of 180 with my ass to the grass. 🫡
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luveline · 2 years
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𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 
part one | part two | part three | part four
summary you're a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. queue smiley face oatmeal, grossly misused power tools, desserts on the living room floor, a haircut, and an abundance of nerd metaphors [15k]
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie's birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie ends up being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general loneliness, mentions of a shitty/traumatic pregnancy, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, you wash eddie's hair!!!! this was low-key requested by anon
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie opens the door and finds a little girl on the steps of his house. Little girl feels generous – she's barely more than a baby. In a set of tiny matching pajamas and white socks stained green from the morning grass, she looks up at him with wide, sad eyes. 
"Hey," he says carefully. "Hey, sweetheart." 
"Good morning," she says, though it comes out blurry.
"Good morning," he repeats with a breathless laugh, instantly endeared.
He curls his hand around the railing and squats down. She really is very cute and obviously well looked after, although he realises upon closer inspection that she's been crying. 
"Where's your mommy?" Eddie feels silly as he asks, but what else do you say when you find kids by themselves? 
He's not really expecting her to know the answer. She pouts her small mouth and Eddie freezes up. 
"Mommy.” Her breath quivers. 
"Don't cry," he says very gently.
It doesn't work, obviously, and she starts whimpering in a way that turns Eddie's heart entirely. 
"Let's find mommy, okay? Do you wanna do that? Wanna come and find mommy with me?" 
"Yes," she says, though it quickly draws up into a sharp cry. 
Eddie treks down the stairs and turns back, waiting. The little girl looks down at the steps and her eyebrows furrow as she places one foot after the other, looking like her socks are stuck to a fly trap. 
He holds his hand out. "You got it," he says encouragingly, wiggling his fingers. 
Her relief is palpable. Her brows smooth as she takes his hand, so small he can cover her entire palm with the meat of his thumb. She wobbles down the steps and then hesitates at the damp ground awaiting. 
Eddie drops his gaze to her wet feet.
She looks up at him. Eddie doesn't think she means to but her eyes are pleading,and he's already moving to pick her up when she lifts her arms into the air.
She's heavier than he anticipates. He quickly gets used to the weight, shifting her against his side with his arm under her butt, her damp foot digging into his abdomen. She rests one hand on his shoulder and the other reaches for his hair. He can't help smiling at her as she pets the dark mess, hand clumsy but well-intentioned. 
He walks down past the van and onto dark asphalt, looking up and down the road to see if anyone's around. He figures she has to be a trailer park kid – she can't have walked very far, and she'd been waiting outside. She must've gotten mixed up and thought his trailer was her own, which hopefully means her mom lives close. 
The steps up into his trailer are on the right side. Eddie guesses she's come from the right. It's not a great assumption — he's grasping at straws. 
"What's your name?" he asks. 
She's taken a lock of his hair into her hands. Eddie worries for a second that she's going to try eating it but she only waves it around, looking pleased. 
"I'm Eddie." 
"Dee," she says. 
"Almost. Eh-dee," he spells out, again not actually expecting her to understand what he's saying. He's unsure about kids her age – he's unsure what age she even is. 
She babbles something unintelligible and Eddie hikes her higher up his chest. He strides out of the cool shadow and blinks, shielding his eyes against the yellow-white glare of sunshine. The little girl hides her face in his hair. 
He hasn't walked very far when he sees you behind the trailer three doors down, pinning clothes that look the same size as the girl's pajamas to a clothesline with unhurried hands. The front door is wide open. 
"Your poor mommy," he murmurs as he approaches, "out here doing the laundry by herself and you're halfway to Indianapolis. Musta got turned around, huh?"
You drop a small light blue dress on the floor and cuss just loud enough for Eddie to hear it. You pick it up fast and brush it down, looking over the fabric worriedly. 
Eddie cuts over soft grass, giving the baby's waist a pat and holding her ears away from his mouth as he raises his voice. "Hey, is this your kid?" he asks. 
You flinch toward him and your eyes go wide – wide, your lips parting and your brows jumping down like you might start yelling. 
You're really fucking pretty. 
Eddie’s quick to placate you. "She was sitting on my front steps." 
You still don't look very happy though your suspicion melds to confusion and then a stab of too-late worry. You rush towards them and Eddie turns his body to encourage the girl's gaze to you. His chest warms when she perks up. 
She wriggles in his arms impatiently and Eddie's surprised by how quickly she starts to cry, reaching out for you with insistent grabbing hands as he passes her over.
"It's okay," you say softly, tucking her into your chest. 
The difference in body language is unmissable. Where she'd been restless (though more than pleasant) in Eddie's arms, she completely melts into yours. Her little face presses into your neck and her legs curl up. You pat her butt soothingly. "It's okay, baby. Where have you been?" You look up at him for an answer with concern lining your pretty features. 
"I'm only three down," he says. 
 "Oh… Thank you," you say roughly.
Your gratitude is unnecessary. "That's okay. She's real sweet. I opened the door and the first thing she said was, 'good morning,'" he recalls with an easy smile. 
Joy lightens your entire face. He feels his breath catch in his throat. 
"She did? She said that?" 
"Yeah, she did.” He tries not to sound as confused as he feels.
Your eyes close with the force of your smile. You encourages your toddler’s face back and drop your chin to plant kisses all over her tiny cheeks. Eddie feels something foreign yawning in his chest as she starts to laugh, a tinkling sound that's sugar sweet. 
He scratches his neck and pretends to look over his shoulder, tamping his smile back into a neutral expression. 
"She's having trouble talking," you say, lifting your head as the baby's giggles taper off. "She can talk, she says 'mommy' all the time, but she's s'posed to be saying more 'cos she's almost two and I know she can do it, she's so smart, but-" You cut yourself off and laugh all breathless and sheepish. "Sugar, I'm sorry. I mean- Sorry. Thank you," it almost bursts from you, "for bringing her back. I don't know…" 
"You just moved in, right?" You nod. "The lock on the front door- they're all exactly the same, you just gotta shake it and it unlocks. Even someone small as her can could get it open with enough determination." 
"She can be very determined," you say ruefully, voice hushed. You're still patting her butt, swaying her from side to side. Eddie's in awe at how quickly she's settled, her button features crumpled by a big yawn. "Always gets what she wants."
"I bet she does, she's a total heartbreaker." 
You take a step towards him, your beat up sneakers half a foot from his converse. "She can't help it, she was born this pretty," you say. He loves how braggy you sound. 
"I can see where she gets it." 
As soon as he says it he wishes he could take it back. Not because he doesn't think it's true – you're really something else – but because he doesn't want to creep you out. 
Luckily, he's rewarded for his bravery by another beaming smile, your words warm as you tell him, "They said she was the prettiest baby they'd seen in twenty years up in Eskenazi general." 
The name pricks his ears. "You're from Indianapolis?" 
"Kind of." You tilt your head to the side. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name." 
"Eddie." He could applaud himself on how normal he sounds and how not normal he feels. 
"Eddie, I'm Y/N. D'you wanna come in for coffee? Or I can make you some breakfast? To say thank you for taking care of my Junie."
"Junie," he repeats, surprised. 
You shift from foot to foot. "She's a June baby. And she's getting kind of heavy these days, so. Breakfast?" 
He follows you up the steps and through the back door. 
"You can leave it open," you say over your shoulder. 
He catches an eyeful of your bathroom, an organised chaos that smells intoxicating, the rich scent of jasmine heavy in the humidity chased by something softer. Talcum powder, he thinks. 
You murmur something to Junie too quiet to hear and she rouses from her dozing, grizzling weakly. 
"It's breakfast time! Is that what you tried to come and find me for, some breakfast? So impatient," you scold her lightly, smiling all the while as you set her into a bright blue high chair with a big yellow duck with orange flippers printed on the cushioning.
You squeeze one of her feet and frown. "Your socks are wet. Did you go swimming in the grass?" 
Eddie leans against the doorway leading into the kitchen. He doesn't have any experience with kids. You make it look easy, pulling off her stained socks while she wiggles her protest and tickling the soles of her feet with the tip of your finger until she's happy again. 
You turn back to him, socks clutched in your hand. "I'm gonna make oatmeal. Is that something you…" 
"I'm an oatmeal fiend." 
You grin and do a lap to close the front door. "Sit down. I'll get you some coffee? I got milk and brown sugar." 
He throws himself into the seat next to the high chair with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Brown sugar? Sweetness, you're spoiling me." 
Junie laughs. Eddie pulls himself up into a proper sitting position and gawps at her exaggeratedly. "What's funny, little lady?" 
She giggles some more. Eddie leans his elbow on the tray of the high chair and pretends to glare at her. "I can already tell you're trouble." 
"She likes you." 
"Yeah?" he asks, looking at you over his shoulder. 
You're half obscured by cabinets as you poke your head out, an open sack of rolled oats in one hand and a small pan in the other. You nod happily and move to the sink. He can hear the sound of the faucet and the burner clicking on, the saucepan sliding over the stovetop. 
"I like you," he says to Junie quietly, rapping his knuckles on the tray. "But don't tell anyone, okay? I have a reputation." 
"So, uh, how long have you lived here?" you call, almost smothered by the rushing sound of oats tipping into hot water. 
Junie makes a funny face like she might sneeze. Eddie watches. "Since I was a kid." He's smiling as he talks, amazed when Junie starts to smile back. He nods his head gently up and down to encourage her. "Too long. Not that it's not nice here."
Junie looks like she agrees. 
"For sure, but..  not always where you picture yourself," you say tentatively. 
He hums his agreement. "Whatever though, right? A roof is a roof. Even when the roof is made of cardboard and corrugated metal. I mean, all things considered, this is a well kept vessel." 
He's not just trying to make you feel better – you really are making a go of it. There's not nearly as much clutter or decoration as his own home but it's twice as clean and every surface brags a clear affection – you fucking love your daughter. There's a framed photo of her as she looks now at the mantle without a single fingerprint on the glass, baby photos in smaller frames hang on the wall. 
Smallest of all, a photo of the two of you together. Your hands on her shoulders, your lips and nose pressed to her forehead. You're not looking at the camera, but Junie is, and she's exuberant. 
Toys, though few, are arranged neatly under the TV. It's really the type of clean that takes hours. He wonders how you'd ever make time for it. 
"You got a job?"  
"Yeah, I'm waitressing at Benny's?" You say it like a question. "The burger place?"
"Yeah, I know the one. Randolph Lane, near the laundromat. Does Junie go with you?" he asks. He cooes Junie's name and feels very happy when the girl in question smiles some more, reaching out with her hands. Eddie offers up the same palm she'd taken before and lets her squeeze his fingers in a surprisingly tight grip. "She looks like a working girl." 
"Benny said I could bring her with me until she starts daycare next week, so she really is a working girl." You giggle madly and Junie loves the sound, her chubby cheeks rounding as she smiles. 
"I knew it," Eddie whispers conspiringly. "You have the face for it." 
Junie laughs like something is truly hysterical and Eddie can't believe it, squeezing the small girl's smaller fingers in his and waving their joined hands together.
"She really likes you," you say, closer now. 
You set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He pulls his hand from Junie's and moves the hot mug away from the high chair though she'd never be able to reach it as you set your own mug and a pint of milk half-full across from him, the brown sugar you'd promised in a pink and orange ceramic dish with a lid that clinks as he pulls it off. 
You double back into the kitchen. This time you bring a baby bottle full of what he guesses is diluted juice and two teaspoons, handing him one with a quiet, "For you." 
"Why thank you," he drawls. 
He spoons a generous hill of crumbly brown sugar into his cup and swirls. 
"The oatmeal needs to soften. Is there anything you want with it? I've got lots of options," you tell him, pouring milk into your own mug. When you're done you and Eddie swap.
He thinks maybe you sound a little nervous and wonders if he's the first neighbour you've met. Or maybe you're still freaked out about Junie. 
He raises his eyebrows but doesn't look at you as he splashes milk into the dark recesses of his coffee, watching as it bursts back up to the surface and turns the drink a more acceptable brown. "What do you usually have?" 
"Junie gets peanut butter and blueberries." 
He tilts his head toward his shoulder just slightly and plants his elbows on the table, the rim of his mug held in tenuous fingertips. 
"What do you get?" he asks, thinking that if the baby gets such a sweet treat you must get something equally impressive. He thinks of raspberries and chia seeds, flakey sea salt and bitter dark chocolate. 
You blink. "What?" 
"What do you have, on your oatmeal?" He punctuates his question with a sip. 
"Salt. Sometimes raisins." 
You make a nice cup of coffee. Eddie holds it in both hands and leans into the table. "That's it?" 
You shrug. Junie starts to whimper about something Eddie doesn't understand. You reach out to hold her hand. "She loves blueberries. Don't you, Junie?"
"Blue," Junie says. 
You're smiling as you take another small spoonful of brown sugar. You lick the tip of your finger and dip it into the well of the spoon until a few grains are sticking to you and hold it up to Junie's lips. "She loves sugar, too, but toddlers aren't s'posed to have it. Or so they say." You smile as she sucks the sugar off before wiping your spit wet finger in your pants. 
Daughter appeased for a moment, you hold your chin in your palm and turn your attention to him. "Where do you work?" 
He imagines this is how a plant feels when the sun comes out. "The Hideout, for now. I'm a very essential and irreplaceable bus boy." He nods very seriously.
"What's after?" 
"Music." 
Your lips curl into an interested smile. "Music? You a singer?" 
"I have a great set of windpipes," he says agreeably, grinning. "But I'm a guitarist." 
"And you're in a band?" 
"I- I was. Yeah, we were good, too, but everybody graduated and our drummer skipped town. I just sub rhythm guitar for whoever wants me to." 
"At the Hideout?" 
"At the Hideout." He decides on his next words carefully. You could come see me play. Weak. You're welcome to come see it for yourself. Too strong? You're welcome to come by one night. Bring Junie. 
He's not asking you on a date; he's a new acquaintance extending an invitation for you to get out and see a new place. That's all it is. 
He opens his mouth to try and suddenly there's a loud clattering. Eddie flinches, blinks, finds that Junie has thrown her bottle of juice across the room. 
Eddie waits for you to maybe tell her off like some of the mom's he's seen at Bradley's. A glare, a hissing remark to be good. 
You reach over and your shirt rides up your back. Eddie averts his gaze guiltily.
You put the bottle back on the tray, giving him an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, Junie has recently discovered that every time she drops something I'll pick it up for her." 
"Smart Junie." 
The bottle falls to the floor again. "She's a genius." You don’t sound entirely pleased, picking the bottle up again and holding it just out of Junie's reach. You shake it up and down. "S'juice. You like juice," you try to reason with her.
Junie reaches for it. You purse your lips. "Be good," you say softly. 
Junie takes the bottle and shakes it. 
It's a small victory and still softens every feature. Your eyes squint, your bottom lip juts out a touch, your nostrils flare with a pleased inhale. 
"Thanks, junebug."
"Tanks," Junie says. 
"Thanks," you repeat, bubbly baby talk. "Thanks. Say thanks, Junie." 
Eddie watches you encourage her over his coffee. It's quiet, peaceful here in a way nowhere else in his life has ever been besides quiet Sunday mornings with his Uncle. There's only the sound of the gas stovetop burning and your happy, patient voice. 
Junie says "Tanks," a couple more times. You don't give up. When she finally says something that sounds almost like a "Thanks," you whip your gaze to his. 
"Did you hear that?" you ask. Your pride is evident. 
He puts down his half empty mug. "She said it." 
"She said it," you repeat, your shoulders moving in the tiniest happy dance he's ever seen. You stand up and take her face into delicate hands. "She's my smarty pants. Aren't you, baby?" 
You dot a kiss over her head and head back into the kitchenette. 
"Tanks," Junie says animatedly, running on an affection high. She accidentally knocks her bottle over.
"Thanks, Junie," Eddie corrects, righting it. 
He finds it easier to baby talk than he imagined. Being nice to little kids – that's easy. Especially as he gets older. When they hit the pre-teen mark is when he starts to steer clear, but even then he can't help doting on them sometimes. Like his club – idiots, annoying idiots, but his annoying idiots. He doesn't hold back with them. He doesn't feel like he's holding back now, either, it's just different. 
Baby's want love. Care and affection. 
And to pull Eddie's hair, apparently. 
Junie's reaching over the gap with a fierce look on her face. Eddie pulls his chair closer and decides to let her try it out. She hadn't given him any reason to worry before, and she doesn't now as she takes a chunk of his hair into her hand. She pulls very gently, likely more that her fingers have gotten caught in his messy curls than any maliciousness. 
"What's your fascination with my hair?" he asks her. 
In her own home Junie's very noisy. When he'd found her outside she hadn't done much besides whimper weakly. Now, she's a riot of gurgling and humming. 
"Are you a singer, Junie?" he asks. 
"She sings all the time! She loves the Muppet Babies on TV, but I- uh, I haven't been able to actually get cable, yet. But when I get paid next week…" You come back into view with two bowls in hand. "She'll be in her oils." 
Eddie says thanks as you put a bowl down in front of him. There's a smiley face there made up of berries with banana slices for eyes. He feels something crawling up his throat and has no idea what it is, and then something completely different when he sees your own bowl, a stretch of plain oatmeal with no delicious adornment. 
You leave and quickly return with a smaller bowl, a baby spoon and a jar of peanut butter.
"Do you want some?" you ask, opening the jar to push the baby spoon inside. "I would've just put it in anyway but then I worried you were allergic." 
You hand it off to Junie and she licks at it happily. 
"Sure, I'll have some. Where's your smiley face?" he asks. 
Your eyes widen slightly. Eddie's not academically inclined but he's never been stupid, and he sees it for what it is, something he's seen in himself and in every other poor kid who didn't bring lunch to school.
"I don't really like bananas," you say. 
Whether you're lying or not isn't something he needs to know.
"Well, you're gonna have to share the blueberries with me, I can't eat this much fruit. I got a hearty diet of chips and microwave oven dinners to uphold." 
Eddie shovels half of the smile into your bowl. You clutch your spoon in your hand like you want to protest, but no way is he gonna watch you miss out on nice things in your own home. 
You smile and don't say anything for a while, rubbing the edge of the bowl with your spoon, your thoughts somewhere else. 
Junie's food sits billowing steam in the middle of the table, which annoys the poor girl endlessly. She wiggles and murmurs and sucks at her empty spoon with a growing line between her brows. 
Eddie eats and feels much better when you finally start to eat your own meal, leaning back in his chair heavily to loll his head towards Junie. "Your mom makes amazing oatmeal. You're really missing out." 
You choke on a laugh and grab her spoon to load up with another small heap of peanut butter. "That is so cruel to lord over her,” you say. “I can't give it to her yet! It's scorching. She has a fragile mouth." 
"I'm sure." 
He picks one of his blueberries out of the bowl and offers it to Junie, who takes it slowly despite her previously rabid hunger 
More oatmeal eating. Eddie ends up giving the rest of his fruit to Junie, your generous dollops of peanut butter more than enough to enjoy the oatmeal. He might argue it doesn't need any adornment at all.
You stir peanut butter into Junie's bowl and wrestle the baby spoon out of her tight grip.
It's a process to watch. You scoop up oatmeal, blow on it until you're sure it's cool, and push it into Junie's mouth efficiently. There's a method to it, the way you lift the handle of the spoon so oatmeal doesn't drip straight back out of her mouth. When it does you scrape the lip gently against her chin to catch it before it ruins her shirt. 
It starts to rain. Hard not to notice, a light drizzle opens and sprays down against the windows and for a moment there's no reaction. Then, gasping, you drop Junie's bowl back onto the table in stress. 
"Shit, the laundry. Are you okay to watch her please? Sorry. I'll be five seconds," you say, already heading for the back door. 
"Sure.” He sounds about as startled as he feels. 
The back door shushes open and your feet dip down the steps. Junie is not very pleased with her breakfast getting put on pause, her face growing as unpleasant as the weather outside.
"Mommy," she says, unhappy and loud.
Eddie doesn't think about it as he picks up her bowl. It's more a pulse of feeling than a thought. Feed her and she won't cry. 
He blows on a spoonful of oatmeal with likely too much vigour. 
Junie's still complaining as he holds it in front of her face. If she's surprised to be fed by somebody who isn't her mom she doesn't show it, her sticky face growing suddenly slack as she realises her oatmeal is back in play. Her lips part.
He feeds her oatmeal, does a very bad job, and tries to gather what's escaped with the spoon as Junie waves her hands around and pokes at spilled food on the white tray in front of her. By the time you come back damp and breathless with the cold chasing your heels he's successfully managed to feed her what was left of her breakfast. He's embarrassed to be caught but tries not to show it. 
"You okay?" he asks, looking you up and down amicably.
"S'only a little rain." You push the laundry basket onto the sofa and smile sheepishly. "You didn't have to do that." 
"And have the precious little lady starve?" 
"Starve!" you repeat, a feigned incredulousness to your tone. 
"She was giving me the puppy dog's," he says, shrugging as he takes the spoon out of Junie's wet fingers. 
She whines for a second at his robbery but seems to realise she's full, picking her juice back up to shake some more. 
You exhale through an open-mouthed smile.
"Thank you. She's gonna love you now, she loves anyone who gives her food. She's a real cadge at the diner. Never seen so much free cherry pie in my life," you remark, turning to what looks like your diaper station. You wade through a mess of things he doesn't recognise and pull out a packet of baby wipes. 
"And her mom? Is her affection so easily garnered?" 
"Takes more than a cherry pie to win me over," you joke, sitting down in your chair in front of the high chair with a soft sigh. You pull out one of the wipes and take Junie's wrists into your hand, wiping her fingers clean methodically. "I need at least a squirt of whipped cream on top before I consider any fondness." 
He chuckles and you laugh too. It's short-lived, your lips pursed as you wipe Junie's face clean. She hates every second of it, writhing in her chair like she's being tortured as you clean a mess of brown and blue from her round chin. 
"Sorry, I'm sorry. Done, done," you say, holding your hands up in surrender. 
She pouts. 
"Don't be like that," you scold her mildly. "Look how lovely and clean you are now! Eddie can see how pretty you look again." 
You slide your hands under her armpits and pull her out of the highchair, groaning. 
"Oh, there you go. Where's Mr. Bear gone, baby? You can play sticky bricks with him so I can get ready for work." 
Work. Work. Where Eddie was going. Where Eddie is very likely supposed to be. He checks the time and his eyes flare, standing up abruptly. You turn  toward him with Junie anchored on your hip, both wearing matching expressions of curiosity.
"Sh-“ Don’t swear around babies. “I'm sorry, I got somewhere to be that I totally spaced on."
You blink. "That's okay." 
"It was sick to meet you," he says. 
You blink some more and walk to the front door, pulling it open as an understanding smile curls your lips. "Super 'sick,'" you say, bemused. "Thank you so much for bringing Junie back. Really, I mean, if anything ever happened to her." You don't finish because it's obvious, your bright tone underlain with a burning fear.
He walks sideways out of the door and down one step, knowing he's super fucking late but not caring too much as he says, "Listen, I can bring you a deadbolt." 
"You could?" 
"Sure thing. Make sure this little lady," and he says it chidingly, directing his gaze at Junie who goes all shy and smiley from the attention, "doesn't go on anymore morning adventures. Especially without her shoes." 
"That would be… that would be awesome, Eddie. Thank you." 
He waves his hand and descends the last of the steps. "I'll come around tomorrow?" 
It's a Saturday today. He's not surprised that you're both working the weekend, but he is surprised that you're working Sunday too when you say, "Would after five be okay?" 
"That's more than okay. Bye, trouble," he says to Junie, bringing a hand up to shield his hair from the drizzling rain. 
You look lovely on the stoop, fresh-faced and in your lounge clothes. You tug Junie up your chest and take her hand into yours. "Say 'bye', Junie," you tell her, waving her hand. "Bye! Bye-bye, Eddie." 
"Bye Junie!" he calls, waving at the little girl with great fervour.
"Bye!" Junie calls back. 
You both grin. 
-
You're super tired from work and exhausted from an upset daughter. Even now Junie fusses. She hasn't been getting her naps because you can't set her down anywhere that isn't the wooden high chair in Benny's restaurant, which is months of a routine disrupted. 
You're not mad at her – the opposite, you feel awful to mess her up like this, awful that she's so upset. Trying your very best to calm her down, you're swaying her from side to side in the middle of your messy living room with your hand patting a steady rhythm into the narrow breadth of her back. 
"I know, baby, I know. I'm sorry. You'll get your nap tomorrow, I promise," you say, trying for softness and missing, desperation eating at your tone.
You try not to have a heart attack at the thought of her first day at the new daycare. I can't think about it, you tell yourself, moving your thoughts onto the Sunday checklist. 
Junie's been fed. Unfortunately, she's the kind of wound up where the only solution you can think of is to get her in bed. If you can get her down soon she'll sleep until maybe 4AM. Not ideal; you'd prefer she slept later tonight and woke up at a healthier 6AM with you. When she does wake, no matter the time, you'll have her eat something substantial for breakfast and take a much needed bath. 
Laundry, bills, cleaning, it all runs through your head. Junie's hair, her snacks for daycare, her clothes. Does she have clean socks for the week? Does she have a vest top for tomorrow? 
Her crying grows loud and you can't think of anything except how overwhelmed you feel. 
"It's okay, baby, just go to sleep." You shush her softly.
Somebody knocks the door. 
You and Junie are similarly nonplussed. Her crying ceases for a second and her head turns in tandem with yours. 
"Oh. Oh, you know who that is, huh?" you ask her, making for the door while her cries are still on pause. "That's our new friend Eddie. You remember Eddie?" 
You pull open the door. There he is on the porch with a bag and a plastic case, wearing a shirt with short sleeves. You realise for the first time that he has tattoos. 
"Hi," you say. 
"Hi. Hi, Junie," he adds, looking at her tear-stained face. "Have I come at a bad time?" 
"No, you're good. You're great, thank you for doing this." You lean back against the door and Eddie skirts past you. That close, you can smell the heavy sage and sandalwood of his cologne and see the beauty mark under his ear, dark hair tucked behind the shell. 
He stops in the middle of the room and puts down the plastic case. "I'm gonna try to do it. Try being the essential word, and I make absolutely no promises." He makes a small cross with his hands leading out and the bag falls from the crook of his elbow to his wrist. 
It sounds like more than a deadbolt. Eddie sees your gaze and jumps into theatrics that hook Junie's attention straight away, ruffling through the bag. He pulls out a VHS tape and then a second, one old and one newer. 
"For your consideration." He presents them grandly against his check, his eyes flitting from your daughter to the tapes in wait of her reaction. 
Junie has no clue what a VHS is. She thinks the TV is magic. 
You swoop in and gasp loudly for Junie's sake, having identified his proffered tapes immediately. 
"You know what that is?" you ask her, pointing at the slipcover. "Muppet Babies! There's Kermit and Fozzy and Rowlf and Gonzo." You touch your finger to each puppet in turn as you reel off their names. 
Junie looks up at you like maybe she remembers, so you start to sing the theme tune for her. "Muppet Babies, they make their dreams come true. Muppet Babies, they'll do the same for you!"
The song jogs her memory. She starts her nonsense singing in a valiant but juvenile effort to recreate the music, dancing in your arms. 
You sing it again for her as you lower her to the floor. She doesn't whine to be picked back up, a great sign that her mood has turned, instead walking to the TV, a small silver combi with a bubble screen. She raises her arms up high and starts hitting the TV stand with her palms flat. 
Eddie looks to you as if he's checking that it's alright before crossing the small space and turning on the TV, your relieved smile more than enough encouragement. He's careful not to step on Junie's feet, surprised when she walks into his leg. She grabs onto his jeans and looks up at him with wide eyes. 
Eddie visibly softens. 
It's kind of crazy to see him, this metalhead dude covered in dark tattoos and wearing safety pinned jeans looking down at a toddler with nothing but patience in his eyes.
He drops his hand very lightly to her tiny back and pushes in the tape. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," Junie says. 
She doesn't let him touch her for very long, falling to her knees to pull out the bin of stickle bricks hiding underneath as Eddie fast forwards through the adverts and then turns up the volume until the Muppet Babies theme is echoing against the wood panelled walls.. 
Junie's eyes dart up the screen, two bricks held in her hands and a great smile on her face. 
"Where did you find that?" you ask, in awe. 
He steps over her and comes back to your side, crossing his arms over his stomach with a smug smile. "Not telling. Ruins the magic. Got The Bugs Bunny Show for when she gets bored of Miss Piggy." 
You smooth down your rumpled black work skirt and smile shyly. "I can pay you back… Next week." 
He looks lost for words for a split-second. It clears fast, and he says, "Tell you a secret. I have a friend down at good old Family Video that let me have 'em for nothing." 
"Yeah?" you ask, unsure. You worry he's lying to make you feel better. 
"Uh-huh. Friends in high places," he brags sarcastically. 
You turn to watch Junie smile for the first time in hours and have to scrub your face to hide how shattered you feel. It's been a really long week. Your relief is a physical thing, a hand on your shoulder. You feel yourself deflate. 
"You okay?" Eddie asks. 
You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks. "Thank you. Really. You saved me." 
"Yeah?" he asks, dialling up the drama. He lifts his chin high. "Would you say, oh, I don't know, that I'm your hero?" 
It's his clear joking tone that saves him. If you'd detected even a smidge of genuine expectancy from him you likely would've shoved him out the door. 
"Mm-hm. My hero," you croon, both of you grinning. 
He turns back to the grocery bag and pulls out a bottle of juice. "I was gonna bring coke but I didn't want Junie to feel left out." 
You move to the cabinets and can't believe how nice he is. You get a little warning stab, that feeling of if it's too good to be true… and shake it off. Maybe it'll turn out that way and you're not gonna do anything stupid to chance it, but he seems like a normal guy. A good neighbour who wants to be your friend.
You're in dire need of one of those. 
"What was wrong with the little lady?" 
You pour juice into a glass for him, less into a glass for you, and a half-inch into a clean baby bottle. "I can't get her down for a nap when she's with me at work and it really caught up to her today. She-" You yawn so wide it hurts your cheeks, covering your face with your arm. 
Eddie looks up from where he's kneeling in front of the open plastic case he'd brought with him. "Caught up to you too, I think." 
"A little." You smile ruefully. 
He holds something red and black in the air. "This'll wake you up," he says. 
It's a small hand drill. He presses down on the trigger twice in quick succession and Junie lies down on the floor to look backwards at him. 
“Woah,” you say.
Junie rolls onto her knees and then stands. She's in that stage of walking where she can mostly do it but has a great tendency to trip over anything that might be in her way, and she stumbles as she approaches. Eddie moves the drill away from her and opens the case wide to show her his array of drill bits. 
"How'd you like them, Junie?" he asks. "Pretty cool, huh?" 
"What do they all do?" you ask. 
"I don't have the foggiest," he says, grinning up at you. "And I really wanted to be cool and pretend that I did. I was going to, but you asked me that and now we're sunk." 
Junie pokes at all the silver metal and turns away, bored, to return to her cartoons. 
"I'm sorry," you say, not sorry at all. 
"You should be." He shakes his hair out. "Can't say woodshop was something I ever paid much attention to in school." 
You squat down beside him where he's counting the screws out for the deadbolt he'd acquired for you, your small cup of juice in hand. The deadbolt isn't new but it's clean of rust and that's all you care about. It doesn't need to do anything besides work. 
"It can't be too hard though, right?" you ask quietly. There isn't any need to talk loudly this close to him and your head is starting to hurt from a long day. 
"I hope not." He passes you the drill. "Hold onto that?" 
He stands and you follow, the deadbolt frame in hand. He turns to your front door and holds it up to the frame, far from the door knob. "Where'd you want this thing?" 
"Wherever you think is best," you say quickly. 
"Got a pencil?" 
You don't. You're ashamed to offer him a cyan blue crayon from Junie's arts and crafts. He takes it with a gleeful smile and uses it to draw a line under the deadbolt's two parts to make sure they fit together once they've been drilled in. 
Junie starts fussing and you squint at her, trying to guess what's wrong. You leave the drill on the small table by the door.
"Junie, you want some dinner?" you ask, walking up behind her where she's stood watching TV. You rub her shoulder and lean over her, your face upside down in front of the TV. "I don't think you're hungry. Let's change that diaper." 
She certainly doesn't want you to. You turn to Eddie where he's making clumsy crosses on the door in place of the screws, his brows furrowed. 
"I'm gonna go get her some jammies," you say, and then wince. "Pajamas." 
"Jammies," he repeats. You hate how happy he looks. 
A hot flush washes over you. "She's the only one I talk to." 
Again, that awful softening of his features. He's got the biggest, brownest eyes you've ever seen. "Why don't you get changed, too? I'm gonna start drilling." He waves the drill and you don't like how loosely he holds it. 
"Please don't ruin the door." 
A wolfish smile. "No promises." 
You leave all the doors open. Eddie's nice but you're not stupid – if he plans on kidnapping her or something evil this is the perfect time. Though, you suppose, he could’ve abducted her when he found her outside.
You shed your uniform and pull on a pair of loose fitting pants. You can't find a clean t-shirt, probably because you own a grand total of three, and you get distracted when the drill starts whirring and Junie screams. 
You know in your heart that it's just a baby scream rather than a sign that she's in pain and you still can't let it lie, rushing down the hall. You can see her, see that she's uninjured, only looking at the drill.
She's excited. 
"You like that?" Eddie asks her. "Is that funny?" 
Junie claps her hands together and reaches for the drill. 
Eddie frowns. "Sorry, you can't have it. I gotta finish the door for your mommy. Why don't you build me something with your bricks, yeah? Something big." 
Junie reaches up for the drill again. 
"I can't, Junie, it's too dangerous. Don't want you to get all mutilated." You wrinkle your nose at what he's saying. He turns the drill towards his chest and touches the drill bit to his collar. "Look, see this? It's not for little hands." 
Junie steps over the case of things on the ground and leans against Eddie's legs, insistent. 
Your mouth drops open as he starts the drill and puts on some fake anguished screams. "Ah! Oh my god, it's eating me!" 
Junie starts laughing at his fake screaming. Her eyes widen, her hands clinging to a rip in his jeans. 
"Think that's funny, do you? Heartless girl. Where's your juice gone, hmm?" He holds the drill behind his back and points to her bottle on the side of the couch where you'd left it. "You want that?" 
He goes over her head to grab it and encourage it into her hands. "Yummy," he says, his eyes moving to where you stand in the door past the kitchen, eyebrows jumping up. "Everything okay?" 
"Screaming," you say, awkward in your breathlessness. 
Eddie's eyes stay resolutely on your face. "She's okay. The drill is exciting. You're shirtless, you know." 
You spin on your heel and back into your room. Your heart a jack hammer, you sieve through clothes until a rumpled t-shirt that smells of deodorant but not sweat appears and shrug into it. 
Junie has a much better selection of clothes. You pick out some matching pajamas for her and a thick pair of socks and tuck them under your arm with her changing matt.
When you return this time, Eddie's drilling a third and fourth hole into the wall next to the door and Junie's watching with the teat of her bottle in her mouth, chewing but not drinking. You lay her mat down on the floor and grab her with a big sigh. 
"Alright, Junie, let's get you all fresh for bed." 
You change her diaper and she doesn't misbehave too much, Eddie's general presence a distraction. Soon she's sitting in your lap, dressed in new pajamas and smelling of talcum powder and baby creams, her wool socks soft as you rub your thumbs into the instep of her feet. 
You sit on the floor watching Eddie drill the screws into the deadbolt frame. Junie slouches against you, her head digging into your chest and her tired arms struggling to hold up her bottle. You hold it up for her, watching Eddie's hands and his arms, how they move. Muscle and ligament tense under the skin, tattoos warping, his bats propelled into flight. 
"I like your tattoos," you say. 
Eddie stops drilling to look over his shoulder. "What?" 
"I- I like your tattoos." 
He lights up. His back straightens out and he turns back to the lock, giving the last screw a final good twist. The door makes a groaning protest and then it's quiet. Just Muppet Babies, Junie's soft suckling and the compliment you'd given adrift in the room. 
"They're pretty sweet," he allows. You can hear how pleased he is though he won't look at you. 
"They're cool. Have you had them long?" 
Eddie starts to tell you all about them, fiddling with something you can't see on the door. 
Junie decides that she doesn't want to be sitting anymore and turns in your arms, hands coveting your neck. You lift her into your chest and rub circles in her back, the weight of her emptying bottle on your shoulder. Soon, her small arms go lax. There's a rush of air as her lips open from the teat and the bottle tumbles to the rug with a dull thud. 
He pulls open the door.  Cool air rushes in. He closes it, slides the deadlock into place, and then pulls hard to make sure it won’t come free. 
It’s solid. 
He laughs triumphantly and Junie stirs. You pat her back and make some quiet shushing sounds and Eddie turns around, a slip of his teeth on show as he grimaces. 
"Sorry," he whispers. 
You shake your head. "You're amazing. Thank you." 
If his cheeks weren't pink they are now. He leans into it, hiding one cheek behind his hair. "Stop," he says, exaggerated. 
"I'll make it good, I swear," you whisper, covering Junie's ear with your hand. "I'll make you the best dinner ever. I'm the best at Kraft's mac and cheese, or-" You flush hot, realising that mac and cheese might not be the treat you think it is to him. "Or we can order in," you say, doing the maths in your head. You can't afford it, but maybe Benny-
"Kraft's mac and cheese? You're spoiling me." 
You beam. 
Eddie cleans up the small mess he's made. You're afraid to move quite yet in case Junie's not really sleeping, though she's a dead weight in your arms, and you watch Eddie walk through the room with both caution and ease. 
"Oh, you don't have to do that,” you say. 
He folds the baby blanket in his hands and puts it back on the armrest of the couch before moving on to the stickle bricks, not looking at you as he says, "Just earning my wage, doll." 
You can't watch him clean your home. You wrap a tight arm around Junie and rise to your feet. Eddie sees your approach and his movements grow faster, rushing to clean up the mess before you can stop him. You don't know who starts first but you're both laughing as you grab his wrist. 
"Stop!" you whisper, mock-furious. "Stop cleaning." 
"Sh, you'll wake the baby." 
You shake your head in bemusement. "I'm gonna go set her down. Then mac and cheese." 
"Take your time. Lots of things for me to clean up out here," he says with a mock sincerity. 
You drift down the hall and turn back to sneak a glance at him. He's pulled Muppet Babies out of the TV and is rewinding it around his thumb, a small smile on his lips as he hums the theme tune to himself. 
With Junie finally in bed for the night you take a quick peek at yourself in the mirror on your nightstand and cringe. You look tired. You give yourself a big smile and feel better; a smile makes even your most exhausted features look pretty. 
You slap on some chapstick. You know, to counter your dry lips. It shines. 
Slipping out of the bedroom, you close the door as quietly as you can manage. 
Eddie's standing at the end of the hallway. You expect to feel scared. Instead, you’re perplexed.
"Hi?" you whisper.
"Can I use the bathroom?" 
You laugh. "Yeah. Course you can." 
You have to pass each other in the hallway. His hip bumps your hip, a short rub of fabric. 
You're still thinking about it when he finds you behind the stove, half asleep with your face in your hand. It's the kind of tired where your eyes keep slipping shut, not aching so much as blurry with a heavy head. 
"You okay?" he asks quietly, sitting down at your cramped table. 
You hum. "Hm. Just tired." You give him a guilty smile as you tip the bigger portion into his bowl.  "Sorry. Mac and cheese with bacon bits for you, my hero." 
"Thanks, sweetheart." 
The fatigue ebbs a little. 
Eddie’s easy to talk to. He makes you laugh. When you say goodnight, he looks back over his shoulder twice.
-
It's a funny coincidence that Eddie sees you Friday night. He never grocery shops on a Friday but he knowd when his uncle gets home in the morning there won’t be anything for him to eat after his shift. He takes a sharp turn towards the TV dinners and there you are at the bottom of the aisle with Junie in the seat of the cart. You're talking to her like you'd talk to anyone, though you didn't sound so saccharine sweet over mac and cheese. Close, but not quite. 
"What do you want?" you're asking. "Ham and pineapple or mini pepperoni?" 
Junie holds her hands out for both boxes. You let her take them and the two of you puzzle over the pizzas, heads bent together. 
"Pepperoni, right?" you ask her, quietly enough that he almost misses it. 
"Peroni," Junie agrees. You let her keep the box and put the other one back in the freezer. 
"Pepperoni," you correct, absentminded. 
"Peroni." 
"Pepper-roni." You sound it out slow, looking at a scrap of paper in your hand. 
"Pepper."
"You'll get there. Do you think we need shampoo this week?" You start jovial, but quickly lose your sprightliness. "Maybe I can put some water in the bottle and just… shake it up. No, we definitely need it." 
Eddie watches you look over the cart. He knows exactly what you're thinking, What can I put back?
"Hey!" he calls, walking a little faster to try and hide how he'd been listening. 
You turn on the spot and smile as soon as you see him. Junie, to his delight, is even more excited. 
"Hi," she says, hands thudding along the cart's handlebar. 
"Hi, Junie. How's my favourite neighbour?" 
She babbles. 
"I'm psyched to hear it. How about you, sweetheart?" he asks, parking his cart next to yours. 
You're looking very tired. Still in your work uniform with a hoodie thrown over the top and your smart flats swapped for a pair of converse with the laces undone. You pinch your cheeks up into a big smile. He guesses that with a baby you've gotten very used to hiding how you feel.
You don't hesitate to lay it down thickly. "I'm really good." 
"Yeah? How's Junie liking daycare?" 
You cover your hands with your sleeves. "She loves it. Loves napping again. She-" You frown. "She doesn't like the mornings. Dropping her off. But after." You nod with a tentative smile "Yeah, it's nice to pick her up." 
"Uh-huh. How's work?" 
"What?" 
"How's work for you? How's Benny's?" he prods. 
"You're asking me about work?" 
"Why wouldn't I be?" 
"Nobody ever asks about work," you say. 
You can't look at him as soon as you've said it, your eyes moving back to the grocery list in hand. It's an old envelope, and it crinkles under your squeezing fingers. 
"Sorry," you mutter. 
Eddie bites back a frown. "Well, I'm asking." 
He holds out his hand for the list and you give it without thinking. He adores your handwriting the second he sees it, scanning the list for anything in this aisle.
"Hey, tell me about it," he prompts at your silence, pushing his cart. It takes you a millisecond to catch up, but when you do you're near frenetic. 
"Well, I messed up like, five different orders today. And when I had Junie it was like they didn't care 'cos she's cute, but now she's not there they get pretty angry pretty quickly." 
"She's like a magic item." 
"Right," you say, sounding like you have no idea what he's talking about. "She was my lucky charm. 'N now when I mess up I gotta practically beg some of those guys to leave Benny alone. He's too nice to me already."
"Are they all terrible?"
"No, the regulars, guys in there everyday, they're all great. They're too generous. Benny's too generous. I know he's fluffing up my tip jar. I hate that. I don't want him-" You flinch. It's strange. Eddie takes a small step closer to you and waits for you to continue, but you've lost all steam. "Sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with all of this." 
"I asked. And I get it." 
"I don't want him to feel sorry for me." 
"Hey," he says, reaching out for a box of cereal on your list. He presents it to Junie and shakes it around, "who said anything about all that?" 
"No, I know, I just-" 
Junie smiles her approval and he chucks the cereal in your cart with a rattle of metal. "I'm not trying to make you feel worse, I swear. I get it. I- You said he's a nice guy, right? So maybe he doesn't feel sorry for you at all. Maybe he just likes you. He owns that place. I don't think it hurts him to put an extra twenty in your tips." 
Junie reaches up. You turn to her and lean down until your face is a few inches from hers. "I wish I didn't need it," you say quietly. 
"I know." 
Junie puts her hand on your cheek. 
You sniff, not crying or anything like that, only breathing. "Thanks, Junie," you murmur. 
"Mommy," she says. She sounds a little concerned. 
"Let's go get something yummy, baby." You stroke her face lightly. "I'm thinking canned peaches. Or pears, um. Fruit cocktail. And condensed milk," you add, sounding unsure.
"I got a can or two of that laying around," Eddie says, because he knows that shit is expensive. "Wayne hates sweet stuff." 
"I couldn't-" 
"You let me come over for one of those mini pizzas and I'll bring the dessert," he says, like he knows you'll say yes. He doesn't know. Eddie Munson’s an expert in pushing his luck. 
Junie starts clapping her hands together. 
"I think she's decided," you say. 
-
You're terrible with a can opener. You whine to yourself as you struggle to get open the second can. Eddie had insisted on peaches and pears and fruit cocktail, because he wanted to try them all apparently. And then some dramatic speech about little kids getting spoiled.
You can hear him now in the living room with Junie. They're laughing in a way that you're worried about, that guilty, hushed giggling that raises your hackles. 
"Shush," Eddie says, faux-angry, "your mom's gonna hear." 
"Shush," she repeats with much more enthusiasm. 
"You shush! Look, don't do that, Junie, you're gonna get it tangled in your hair," he says. 
You carry the can and can opener with you into the living room. Something about tangled hair gets your heart racing. 
"Eddie, please don't let her get stickies in her hair," you say quickly. 
"They're called stickles," he says, dropping back onto his hands, head over his shoulder to give you a bright-eyed smile. 
"I know what they're called. Junie can't say stickles." 
"Stickles," she says. 
"She couldn't when I got them," you amend. 
He's up quicker than you can really take in, hands extended. "Let me do it," he says. 
He works the can out of your fingers. It's more contact than you've had with somebody who wasn't your daughter in a very long time and it leaves you shell-shocked. Eyes on his nice hands, bigger than yours with thicker fingers and his riot of rings. He presses the can to his chest and hooks the opener, peeking between it and you intermittently. 
"Go see what we made for you," he encourages. "I'll do it." 
His arm brushes yours as he moves to the kitchen and that's worse than his fingers. You rub where he'd touched and drop down on your knees next to Junie, looking over the stickle bricks with a smile. It's a heart, poorly construed and of tens of colours. It falls apart when she tries to pick it up so you help her remake it, cooing. 
"Thanks, baby. This is for me, huh? You're so sweet." Your voice drops to a murmur. "My sweet girl. Wanna cuddle?" 
You open your arms out and she doesn't seem very interested. "Please?" you ask, vying for her waist. 
She lets you pull her into your lap. When you actually start to hug her she does her lovely melting thing that she always does, a floppy fish in your arms but with tiny squeezing hands. You giggle at her antics and lift her up so her face falls into your neck. 
"Thanks for my heart, Junebug." She snuggles her head into your neck, hair squished to your skin. "I love you," you whisper, rubbing her back. 
"The works," Eddie announces grandly as he appears, two bowls in hand.
"Eddie, that's too much for her." 
"She's a growing girl." 
"A growing girl with a tiny tummy," you say turning her around in your arms. "Tell you what, you have that one," you point to the biggest one, "and we'll share that one." 
"How about you share the big one?" he asks, though it hardly sounds like a question. He sits down and places the bowl in her lap. 
You grab the spoon before she can and stir up some of the fruits. "Wow, look at this! You gonna say thanks? Thanks Eddie.”
She doesn’t say thanks — her mouth is too far open to form words. You make quick work of shovelling fruit and condensed milk inside, chilled enough that she shivers in your arms. 
“Yeah, that’s good,” you say agreeably.
She gets enthusiastic enough to take the spoon and you let her, even when she totally mauls the food, eating so loudly that Muppet Babies becomes inaudible. 
Eddie eats slowly. You can feel his gaze. “You’re not gonna have any?” he asks. 
You’d felt it coming. Your answer is clumsy anyways. “No, I will. I just… I always have her leftovers,” you say, sheepish. 
He stands up. 
You’re gonna ask why when Junie tips fruit down your legs, cold on the naked skin of your ankle. You dab at your pajamas with a small sigh. There’s no point in getting upset. She’s a messy eater but they all are at this age. Honestly, it’s nice to see her attempting to use a spoon rather than her hands. 
“You’re doing a good job,” you say. You’re not totally sure who you’re talking to. 
“Tada!” Eddie cheers, wielding a third bowl of fruit. “Swap with me?”
“What?”
“You think Junie’ll come sit in my lap?” he asks. He doesn’t wait, really. He holds out the bowl and you take it on impulse as he sits down heavily. 
He takes her into his lap with a cheerful groan. “Oh, c’mere, sweetheart. There’s enough milk on your chin to bake a cake.” He wipes it with his hand. He doesn’t so much as wince at the mess. 
You stare. He eases the spoon out of her grip and scrapes up a half-spoonful of what looks like pear and feeds it to her with the same kind of deftness of hand that’d taken you months to learn. 
He can feel your gaze, evidently, because he looks up. There, you catch it, that slither of insecurity he hides well. 
You pick up your bowl and start eating. It’s the nicest thing you’ve eaten in almost two years. You’d die for Junie. You’d do worse. But to eat, to know she’s fed — gorged — to know you can sit here and eat this whole bowl of fruit all to yourself and you won’t have to put it down, that’s heaven. It’s better, because you never let yourself have anything nice if you can help it. 
The fruit turns to a lump in your throat and you swallow it, sniffling. Your lashes grow heavy with unshed tears and you keep your gaze resolutely on your dessert. When was the last time you had something this nice all to yourself? When was the last time somebody ever went out of their way to be this nice?
It’s a small gesture and a huge one. A tear dribbles down your cheek. You lick it away and keep on eating. 
-
Eddie starts to come around every Friday. It’s a good deal; you make dinner and he makes dessert. After that first time he makes it his mission to give you heaping bowls too much to eat most of the time. Soon, he’s coming a few days a week, not always long, sometimes until the late hours, though you tell him desserts are a Friday only occasion. He complies grudgingly. 
You make your first friend in years, and it’s so sweet you don’t know what to do with yourself. 
Or what possesses you to offer to cut his hair. 
Eddie's sitting on the couch with Junie, his big thigh to her little one and a picture book spread between them whilst you clean the kitchen. He's not reading to her – she's trying to read to him. She can't read, of course, but she can remember some of the words in relation to the pictures. She pokes at the blue cat and says blue. She pokes at the blue dog and says blue. She also points at the red cat and says blue. It's a learning curve. 
Eddie gives corrections and encouragements just as you would. You smile at him from behind your cup of water. 
"He's red, sweetheart," he murmurs, arm around her shoulder to hold the book's edges. "Red cat." 
"Red cat," she repeats with enough accuracy to make you choke on your water. 
Eddie gasps almost as loud as you do. "Right! Red cat! You're so smart, junebug, I can't believe it," he praises, squeezing her shoulder. His gaze meets yours and he smiles. 
You send him back your sweetest smile. If he wasn't always so nice to you you'd like him anyway because of how he treats Junie, like she's the fucking sun. 
She gets so excited when other people are happy that she starts laughing, standing up and trampling all over his legs to give him a hug. She's given him half hugs, she's fallen asleep by his side and loves to pet his hair, but this is a proper, tactile hug. Her arms wind around his neck with purpose and as soon as his surprise has faded he brings his arms up to hug her in turn, laughing delightedly. 
"You're such a smarty-pants," he praises, rubbing her back with a boyish brashness. 
She squeals as he squeezes her, his fingers digging into her ribs. Never cruel, only tickling her. She eats up every second of it and buries her face in his neck, laughing her wound up baby laugh that always brings a smile to your face. 
"Ooh, she's so smart. First blue, then red. Next you'll be saying indigo, and vermillion, and-" 
He cuts off when Junie gets one of her nails caught in his hair. She jolts and whines like it hurts and he goes rigid. You move forward to play mediator but he's already pulling her away gently and making small shushing sounds. "Chill out," he chides lightly, "I got it. Here." He pulls the hair from under her fingernail and rubs the pad of his thumb over her hand. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he apologises, pouting at her scowl. He envelops her hand in his and waves it around. "Forgive me?" 
She doesn't learn her lesson, pushing her hands back into his hair, probably less kind than what’s ideal. Eddie doesn't flinch. 
You sit on the armrest gingerly. "Can I ask you something?"
Eddie looks over Junie’s head. "What's that?" 
"Have you always had long hair?" 
He doesn't balk. "No, of course not. I fu-" He clears his throat. "My mom was the best, and I fit in just like everybody else growing up. When I ended up with Wayne I was-" He smiles. It's the kind of rueful grimace that says, You didn't ask for this.
You smile encouragingly.
He drops his gaze to Junie, worming his arms around her in a loose hug as she continues to play with his hair. "I was mad about everything, and I remember him asking when I wanted to get my hair trimmed and I said ‘never’. Took a few years for it to grow past the awkward stage," he bares his teeth and nods toward his shoulder, as if allowing his past misdemeanour. "But now I'd say it looks pretty sweet." 
"I love your hair," you say. 
Eddie beams. "You don't think it's too long?" 
Emboldened by his reaction, you slip off of the armrest to sit next to him, turning in until your knees touch. Junie, loyal as she is, climbs straight into your lap with a babble. 
You pat her back with one hand and raise the other cautiously for permission. Eddie flares his eyes wide, as if to say, You want to? Go on. 
You take a lock of his hair between your fingers like Junie had moments before. "I like it like this." 
"But?" 
You look at the ends, an inch of limpness where the rest curls. "You haven't had it cut since you were a kid?" 
"Maybe not that long, but it's been a while. I do it myself sometimes." He gestures to his bangs. He speaks quietly. A rarity though not unknown for him to be so hushed. 
You tuck the curl you'd been examining behind his ear carefully. 
"Do you think my hair looks good?" you ask. 
"Sh- Sorry, of course I do. I swear I was gonna-"
You shake your head, laughing. "Not like that. What I mean is, I cut my own hair. I cut Junie's, too, and I could do yours if you wanted me to." 
He goes quiet. 
"Only if you wanted. I know it's a lot of trust, so-" 
"Would you do it now?" 
You hold Junie's head away from yours to prevent a loving headbut. "Right now?" 
"I'm in dire need." 
He throws his big brown puppy dog eyes your way and you couldn't say no if you wanted to. 
You explain how he needs to get it wet first and how the shower head in the bathroom doesn't detach. "It's, like, built into the wall." 
"I could go home, come back?" he suggests. 
"I can do it over the sink?" 
-
Eddie can't remember the last time somebody washed his hair for him. He knows there must've been a time, some place in his life where his mom or dad had done it for him. He thinks that, if he'd asked, Wayne would've tried it once or twice growing up, but now Eddie's most definitely at the age where having his hair washed is a foreign luxury. 
And it does feel luxurious.
It shouldn't; the sink basin is very small as they tend to be in the trailer kitchenettes – small sink, small stove, small small small – and Eddie has to crane his neck. Already the space between his shoulder blades aches from being bent over, and he can't breathe well, smothered by steam. 
But your hands. One shields his eyes from run off, a gesture unnecessary and far from lost on him, while the other massages shampoo into his scalp. He'd been surprised when you started because you hadn't mentioned washing his hair, and he'd said, "You don't have to do that." 
You'd hummed. "Well, it's kind of a waste not to." 
That was that. 
Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and if his eyes weren't already closed they would've fluttered shut. He nibbles his lip and tries very hard not to show outwardly how nice it feels. Your left upper arm rubs against his back as you scrub at his roots, your right soaking wet beside his face, covering his eyes uselessly. He doesn't mention it. All this touching, he doesn't want it to end.
Your proximity honest-to-God sets him on fire. Your body pressed to his is a flame over his ribs. 
"Maybe we shouldn't cut it at all," you say, stroking wet bangs away from his forehead. "It's soooo long." 
"Can’t do it?" he teases.
"Keep your eyes closed, okay? I'm gonna rinse." 
It's a comforting process. You dip your cup into the water. It fills with a wet glug, the rim shushing against the basin's bottom. You hold it over his head and pour carefully, heat caressing his scalp as the soap is washed away. 
It's over too soon. You grab the towel you'd procured and tuck it around his shoulders, wringing all the excess water from his curls back into the sink. You encourage his head up wordlessly and he stands there, arms useless against the countertops edge, water sloughing down his face as you press the ends flat between your hands. 
You lift his head and push his hair back with your hands, raking your fingers through it and laughing as soon as his face appears. "Eddie! I'm sorry, you're totally drowning." 
He chuckles. They fade away as you pinch the corner of the towel and start to dab his face dry, dragging the rough material over his cheeks with an expression he can't read on your pretty features. Almost pensive, not quite. 
"There," you say under your breath. "Saved you." 
"My hero." 
You smile at him softly before spinning on your heel. "I gotta find the hairbrush. And the good scissors." You look into the living room quickly and then turn to the hall leading to your bedroom. 
Eddie looks into the living room too. Junie's not upto much, only watching TV, unusually subdued. He doesn't disturb her despite the itch to go over and play.
One of the muppets starts laughing about something and she laughs too. 
"What are you smiling about?" you whisper from behind him. 
"Nothing," he says quickly.
You raise your eyebrows. "She has a nice laugh, right? Doesn't matter how bad I feel, she laughs and everything's okay for a little while." 
He feels a fond stab in his chest. "Her laugh's like yours." 
"I guess we do sound the same." 
You do, but it's not really what he'd meant. 
The metal sound of scissors snapping. You wield them at him faux-threateningly and shepherd him into a chair you've dragged to the middle of the kitchen. 
Eddie fights goosebumps as you pull a brush through his hair, loses when you take a lock at the front between two fingers and stop about an inch and a half from the end. 
"I'm gonna do that much, okay?" 
You're a quiet hairdresser. Eddie doesn't care, he can talk for Indiana, but there's something so sweetly simple about the quietude, just your hands in his hair, the snipping of your scissors and Junie's occasional excited chattering. You start to hum a song Eddie doesn't recognise about halfway through. It's melancholy. He doubts you realise what you're doing. 
You draw silent as you round to the front. Eddie watches your hands work for what feels like hours. You have really pretty hands, not perfect, burnt fingertips and neat little nails. They smell like honey hand soap.
You pull two locks from the front together to make sure they're the same length. His curls will hide any discrepancy, he knows from experience, but he doesn't want to tell you that. Selfishly, he wants that extra time with you this close. 
You work your way between his legs to comb his half-dried bangs. Eddie looks up at you with wide eyes.
"You want me to trim these, too?" you ask quietly. 
"If you please." 
You huff a laugh through your nose and start to trim his bangs carefully. He closes his eyes, and maybe it's the fact that he can't see you that gives him the confidence to reach out for your hip, a touch that can't be defined as amicable. He curls his fingers into the soft material of your shirt and feels the heat of your skin underneath. 
You draw closer, as close as you can be. 
"What made you decide on bangs?" you ask. 
"Zits, mostly." 
He can feel your laugh under his hand. 
"I used to… I used to powder my face," you confide, a murmur, "like, an inch thick to try and hide everything. Being pregnant makes you so-" You pause to snip some hair, comb it away. It tickles his face. "Well, it makes you spotty. Or it made me spotty. It actually made me really sick." 
"That's must've sucked," he says earnestly. 
"It- Yeah. I guess it did. I don't know." 
He hadn't meant to bring up something unhappy, but he's hungry to know. "Were you on your own?" 
"Mostly." 
"What was the worst part?" 
"Being scared all the time."
He'd been expecting morning sickness or aching feet. "You were scared?" 
"I honestly thought I was gonna die, Eddie." 
He opens his eyes and leans back in his chair, hand flexing over your hip, as he tries to tamp down his surprise. 
"It was," you mess with his bangs with the tip of your ring finger, "hard. I felt sick all the time, and when I didn't I would make myself sick worrying about her. What if I eat something or I catch something and it hurts her? What if- what if it all works out perfectly and then I can't look after her?" 
"Did it work out perfect?" 
You rub your lips together. "Uh, I guess so. It took a long time, and it hurt," you sound especially unhappy with that part. 
He strokes up your waist, wanting to soothe the small crease between your eyebrows. "By yourself?" 
"Yeah, by myself." 
"I'm sorry." 
You tuck his hair behind his ear and grin at him. "Now what are you sorry for?" Your hand lingers near his cheek. Slowly, you turn it, pressing the knuckle of your index finger into the skin under his eye and rubbing a small line. He worries he’s in love with you right then and there. "Not like you're the one who knocked me up." 
You drop your hand and Eddie really doesn't want you to go anywhere, his grip kind but steadfast, bringing the other arm behind your back in a loose hug. "Who was it?" 
"Just some guy. Nobody. Nobody worth thinking about." 
"How old were you?" he asks. 
"Why are you asking me all this stuff?"
"I wanna know about you." 
You bring your hands to the towel around his neck and pull on it mildly. "I was sixteen. Seventeen when I had her." 
He drags his fingertips up and down the small of your back lightly, almost like he's playing guitar. "I'm sorry you were all by yourself. That young. When I was sixteen I was still watching The Bugs Bunny Show."
You giggle and your hands move up to the side of his neck. He can hardly breathe, afraid to dispel whatever enchantment it is that he's under. 
"Could be worse, huh? I'm nineteen and I still watch Muppet Babies," you joke. 
"Why wouldn't you? It's the pinnacle of modern television." 
"Yeah?" 
Your beaming smile hits him straight in the chest. He thinks about how beautiful you look and can't stop, hiding his face in your stomach to stop from saying something stupid, laughing loud. You laugh in tandem, hugging the back of his head until your giggles peter out. 
A small hand on his arm. You both turn at the same time and find a very unhappy Junie.
"What?" you ask her. Then, teasing, "Are you jealous?" 
You lean down to pick her up. Eddie's gutted to lose your touch and then quickly exuberant when Junie ducks out of your arms to grab at his legs. 
"Oh my god, yes," he says, holding out his hands. 
Junie tries to take them and he slips them under his arm, pulling her onto his thigh with a big sigh. The sigh is half the fun, a theatrical reluctance when really he's always happy to have her climbing on him. 
As soon as she's in his lap she's pleased, turning her head so she can watch the TV across the room. 
You roll your eyes at his smug smile. "Shut up. She just wants what other people have." 
"And you had me?" 
"Shut up, Munson, seriously," you say. You don't sound half as mad as you're trying to. 
Eddie takes a drying curl between his fingers and pokes at the side of Junie's face. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," he says, grinning when your daughter starts to squirm on his thigh. 
He grins at her and tickles her until she's curling in with her chin dropped to her chest, smiling despite herself. 
His fondness colours every word as he croons, "I got you." 
Junie sounds about as outraged as a toddler can be when he tickles her nose and then drags the tip of the freshly trimmed curl under her eye. He draws a big circle around one of her cheeks until it's kissing her chin. She dissolves into giggles while squirming to get away from him and so he stops, only for her to blink and tug at his wrist. 
He tickles her until she's screaming. 
You pause on your knees where you'd been sweeping up his trimmed hair to look up at her and he's struck with guilt. "Y/N, you don't have to do that. I'll do it." 
"No, you're okay." 
Eddie finds his gaze drawn to your thighs, spread out as they are in your kneeling position, and then stolen by Junie as she almost topples off of his lap. 
"I think…" he begins quietly, speaking to Junie though it's just as much for you, "that your mom deserves something nice for my haircut. What do you think?" 
"I don't think that," you say. 
"Wasn't asking you," he says seriously. Back in baby mode he continues,  "What's mommy like, huh? What's her favourite thing in the whole world, besides you?" 
"Sleep," you say. 
"Well, I can't help you there." 
"You help me there all the time. Junie sleeps like a log every Friday." 
"Food coma," he says knowledgeably. 
"You really don't have to get me anything, Eddie. My services were administered charitably." 
He pushes his hands behind Junie's back and pulls her to his chest before standing. When he has her secure in one arm he pulls the chair back to your small table and tucks it in.
"Get up," he says to you. "I'll do it, alright? Swap with me." 
You ignore him until he starts kicking you in the leg. "You're ridiculous!"
"You're ridiculous. Seriously, get up. You're not a serf." He returns your glare. "I'm a big boy, I can clean up after myself." 
"It's my house." 
"If you don't let me-" 
"Christ! Okay." You drop the dustpan and brush sullenly, wiping your hands together as you stand before taking Junie out of his arms. "I'll make dinner." 
"No you won't! I'm gonna order takeout," he says factually, already on his knees and sweeping. 
"No you're not." 
"I am. Me and June already talked about it. She's craving Marino's pizza." 
"I'm not gonna let you use the phone." 
"I'll walk to my place and order the pizza to here." 
"Eddie-" 
"Why are you being a hardass?" he asks. 
"Fine! God, clean up your gross hair and order your stupid pizza. You're making me crazy," you say, collapsing onto the sofa with a little oomf, Junie's weight hitting you hard in the chest. She moves into a sitting position and pulls your shirt up, hands moving across the space under your chest. 
Eddie throws himself into cleaning all the mess you'd made for him, the hair and the towel and the sopping wet draining board. He washes the dirty baby bowl on the side and fills up one of Junie's bottles with water, then a glass for you. He hasn't seen either of you drinking a thing since he's been here, likely his fault for distracting you. 
He's about to call for pizza when he peers past the cabinets and sees you dozing on the couch. He decides pizza can wait until tomorrow; it's later than he realised. 
Junie's halfway across the room with Mr. Bear playing make believe. She talks and talks and talks, gibberish to him but what's likely an unending, complicated storyline, no doubt. 
Eddie approaches with the bottle already outstretched. "Junie," he says, and when she doesn't answer, "Junebug. Junie. Junie." Each iteration of her name softer and sweeter than the first, hoping to entice her in. 
He holds the bottle in front of her face.
She finally looks up with a pout. 
"For you," he says, offering the water. 
She seems mildly interested as she takes it, turning back to her teddy and talking around the teat like it's not there. 
You're struggling to keep your eyes open. Eddie gives the room a quick once over before kneeling down in front of you, tugging your shirt down to cover your exposed tummy as he says, "I should head home." 
You blink at him and turn onto your side, cheek squishing into the couch cushion. 
"Okay? Why don't you and Junebug head to bed?" he asks, using a tone not far from what he'd use with your daughter. 
"You know, her full name's Juniper," you whisper. 
He didn't know. "Really? I love that." 
You wrinkle your nose, sounding very tired as you continue, "But someone told me it sounded like a name for a cat. So I've called her Junie ever since."
"It doesn't sound like a cat's name," he placates. "It's beautiful. You chose well." 
"Yeah?" 
Eddie smiles at you fondly, eyes tracing down your nose to your lips, shiny with balm. He tilts his head to the side to mimic yours. He could kiss you. 
"Sounds like the name of an elf. Juniper Lightfoot, or… Goldwind. She could even be a mage. Juniper the Brave." 
"Juniper the Loveliest," you say, and then grin. "Juniper the Hungriest." 
"Juniper the All Great and Hungriest," Eddie says decidedly. 
"Would you make her a hero, in your game?" you ask. 
"Of course I would. She wouldn't even need to divide, she'd just conquer." 
"What about me?" 
"What, would you be a hero?" 
You nod. He doesn't know why, but he thinks his answer is going to hold a lot of weight with you. 
"You would be," he starts quietly, words painted slowly as he raises a hand to rest on your wrist, pinky finger spread over the hill of your thumb, "a fighter. With insight and survival." 
"I don't know what that means," you say. 
He leans in. "It means yes, you'd be a hero. You'd save kingdoms. Slay dragons." He squeezes your wrist. 
"I think I better leave all that stuff for Junie. I'll just cheer you guys on from the sidelines." 
"You're her mom, she can't do it without you. And even if she could I bet she wouldn't want to. Where's all the fun in guts and glory if you can't share it?" he asks, rubbing his thumb over your skin.
Your eyes shut. Eddie doesn't know if it's from fatigue or a want to end this conversation. He feels marginally embarrassed for descending into nerd metaphor with you, but he thinks it's the kind of thing you needed to hear. He thinks if Junie could understand how often her mom prioritises her and misses out for her she'd want to fix that. Eddie doesn't know you half as well as she does and it breaks his heart sometimes to watch you insist on a smaller portion, to watch you put things back at the grocery store because she wants a box of milk duds, even to watch you wear yourself out ironing baby clothes in the only pair of pajamas you own. 
"Make sure you lock the deadbolt behind me," he says carefully. You hum. He gives your wrist one last squeeze. 
Junie looks tired in that she's getting agitated, whimpering under her breath. Eddie ducks down to give her upper arm a good rub. "Why don't you go cuddle with your mom?" he asks her, turning her by the shoulder so that you're in her eye-line. "Go have a lie down." 
He doesn't know whether what he says makes any difference but you extend your arms out and Junie walks towards you, big staggered steps that make him laugh to himself as he pushes into his unlaced converse. 
"Don't forget to lock up," he says in place of a farewell. 
"Goodnight, Eddie," you say. 
He waves. You're both too tired to wave back. 
He's surprised to find his Uncle Wayne still home when he gets in, shoving into his work boots with a grunted hello.
"Hey." 
"Did you cut your hair?" Wayne asks, perplexed, a little gruff. 
"Junie's mom did it for me." 
"'Junie's mom,'" Wayne quotes dryly, slugging his bag over his shoulder. He's heard all about Junie's mom.
Eddie scratches the back of his neck and splutters when a big hand claps his back, a demonstration of Wayne's pity as he passes through the open door. 
Eddie spins to watch him jog down the steps. "We're friends," Eddie calls. 
"Don't be dumb," his uncle says without turning back. 
"I'm not exactly known for being smart," Eddie says to himself, cheeks heated by a furious blush. 
𓆩❤︎𓆪
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nctsworld · 7 months
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fever pitch
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✩‌ mark x reader | pro baseball player!mark | fluff | smut | 8.4k
SUMMARY | your world is shaken up (literally) when you meet the handsome man guilty of the accidental baseball smack to your head. after a comforting meet-cute and realization that he’s the city’s ace pitcher, you two go on a date. and by the end of the night, mark thinks he’s falling for you faster than any pitch he’s thrown before.
WARNINGS | sexual content (near the end), arm riding (iykyk), breast/nipple play, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, piv sex, some drinking // this is 80% fluff-20% smut (with lots of corny writing); there's actually not too much baseball mentioned, but i did a little research on it; however, inaccuracies may be inevitable!
RATING | mature
AUTHOR'S NOTE | i am sorry this is so late </3 i hope y'all enjoy! please also check out (and maybe send in some prompts to) @nctpromptmeme!
TAGLIST | @curieouscapt @dearlyminhyung @infnteen
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Under the warm, summer sun, you beam as you walk towards your close friend, Chenle, and his dog, Daegal.
Shining back, he nods in hello to you with sunglasses pressed against his face. The teacup Bichon by his side wags its tail and pants happily at the sight of you, but is easily distracted the next second due to the park’s stimulating surroundings.
Dogs running amok, families having picnics, kids chasing each other in circles, friends playing baseball—
Specifically, a group of absolutely stunning men playing, as if a model catalogue exploded onto the field across from you.
But one in particular catches your eye.
Kind eyes shine behind wire-framed glasses, paired with a wide smile. His soft hair bounces with his light jog across the area.  
In his fitted white tee, he ends up in one spot and continuously throws the ball into his mitt. The game seems to be on hold as he speaks to a teammate. Absentmindedly, he rolls his arm sleeves up, revealing lean, yet defined muscles.
You silently gasp, struck by the beautiful sight, then gulp at the flexing of his biceps when he continues tossing the ball. His teammate must’ve told him a joke since the attractive figure throws his head back in joy.
And this is the exact moment you go into cardiac arrest because his laugh is the last straw of what you can handle from this man.  
Suddenly, the sound of your name shakes you out of your daze and reminds you to breathe.
“Okay, which one of these guys is the one who made you do a full stop in the middle of the grass?” Chenle asks, coming up beside you.
Daegal welcomes you with loving rubs against your leg. You squat to pet her, but your eyes are still honed in on the handsome stranger. The teams seems to be switching now when someone hands the bespectacled man a bat.
Your friend tracks your line of sight and nods, impressed. “Okay, he’s cute. Your distractedness will be excused this time.”
Scoffing, you shove his leg lightly and he giggles in return. After a few more moments of gawking, Chenle wonders, “Why do I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere?”
Standing up, you reply, “Probably comes here often with his friends when you walk Daegal?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I know him from somewhere else...”
Deciding you should probably drag your attention away and not be a blatant creep, you begin to walk away backwards, heading towards the ice cream cart before the line-up becomes as long as the field.
“Want your usual?”
“Yes, please!”
However, Chenle’s brightness fades instantly, jaw falling and eyes widening. You’re about to turn around to see what caused his change of expression when you hear a piercing—
“WATCH OUT!”
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With a throbbing in your head, you wake up, squinting at the blinding rays. Coming into view, the cute guy from before replaces the sun’s spot, staring down at you with concern written all over his face.
“Oh, my God,” he pants. His hands shake in front of him. “I am so, so, so, so sorry.”
You roll your eyes a bit, trying to center your vision. Groaning, you ask, “What happened?”
“I, uh...” The individual’s mouth, slightly open with gritted teeth, pulls to one side as he runs a hand through his hair, “may have batted the ball and it coincidentally went straight for your head.”
Carefully, he helps lift your upper body off the ground. He asks if you’re okay, and you nod. But a grimace comes after, causing the stranger’s frown to deepen.
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital. You might have a concussion.”
All of a sudden, he inches closer and gingerly runs his thumb over the source of the throbbing. It’s likely all in your mind, but you swear the pain lessens from his touch. You tilt your head further, angling into his palm and embracing the comforting gesture.
“I’ll obviously cover all the bills—”
You cut him off with a slow lift of your hand. “No. I’m okay, I’m okay.”
You know you’ll definitely be more than okay if you can steal some more time with his magical touch.
Continuing, you say, “And that’s too much. If anything, you can buy some ice cream for me and my friend.”
Glancing around for Chenle, you find him, crouching like the stranger, but a few feet away. With a raised corner of his mouth, you deduce he’s deliberately giving space for you to interact with Mr. Handsome Baseball Hitter.
Said handsome baseball hitter chuckles. Hearing it tugs at your chest, even harder now that you can experience it up close.
“I’ll buy you a thousand ice creams to make it up to you.” He retreats his hand and you don't hold back pouting from the fleeting contact you already miss. “But seriously, if there’s any long-term side effects, please reach out to me and I’ll pay for any expenses that come your way.”
“How would I know how to reach out to you?”
He rambles the following matter-of-factly, “Well, you can find my manager’s information online, there’s the team’s Twitter account”—he looks up cutely in thought—“and I guess I’ve been kinda active on Instagram—”
You tilt your head in confusion. What is this guy going on about?
“Okay,” you interrupt, “but who are you?”
His face flips through a few emotions in the span of seconds, but they’re unreadable. Finally landing on a grin, he says, “I think what’s more important is: do you know who you are?”
“Yeah, I’m—” And you properly introduce yourself.
“Good,” he says, “so we’re not dealing with amnesia.”
Your cheeks rise at his humour. Saying your name warmly, he adds, “Nice to meet you, I’m Mark.”
He lends out a hand for you to shake and you do so. With help from his knees, he rises upward, aiding you to stand on your feet in the process.
“Mark,” you repeat his name aloud, locking eyes with him, “the baseball batter with the strength of a thousand suns.”
At the odd line, you catch yourself, thinking how the injury must’ve loosened your filter. He laughs at the lengthy label. “You should see me pitch.”
You shake your head. “Nu-uh, nope,” you playfully say. “I’m going to be safe and stay far, far away from that sexy arm.”
Both you and Mark’s eyebrows rise at the remark.
Yep, definitely a loose filter. Maybe you really do have a concussion.
While Mark breaks out into a pleased smile, you snap your eyes shut, wanting to run away. Or disappear, if at all possible. “Strong, strong. I meant strong...”
Avoiding eye contact, you hurry and make way to a now standing Chenle. Trying to leave the embarrassment behind, you grumble, “Chenle, let’s get going.”
Your friend smirks and whispers by your side, “You sure you don’t want to dig your grave even further?” You attempt to elbow him, but he’s too quick and avoids it.
“It was nice meeting you, Mark,” you call out over your shoulder as you walk away. “Thanks for looking out for... my head?”
Cringe falls over, making you pick up your pace. Time to officially stop talking.
Chenle turns away, his body shaking as he releases a snicker into his fist.
“Again, I’m really, really sorry!” Mark apologizes in a shout. You can hear the sincerity in his voice, and also recognize his voice as the one who warned you to watch out before the incident occurred. “If you need to find me, I’ll be here over the next couple of weekends!”
When you’re far away enough from the scene of the crime, you smack Chenle in the arm. In response, Daegal chirps a bark at you. “You just had to watch me make a complete fool out of myself back there.”
He lovingly places an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. “I mean, Daegal’s great and all, but if anyone has any entertainment value out of the three of us here, it’s going to be you.”
You groan at his harsh, yet true, words.
“Your head good though?”
You note how the throbbing is barely there anymore. Touching the spot, you wince. At most, there’s likely just a bruise. “Yeah, it’s good.”
In a hopeful tone, Chenle sing-songs, “Think you wanna come to the park again with me next weekend?”
Reflecting on what Mark said, you ponder if he really meant it about coming to find him if anything was wrong. Even though everything would likely be fine, you’d love to see him again. 
But how could you face him after the disaster of your mouth running free? You shake your head in defeat.
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On Monday night, the next evening, your phone goes off right as you enter your apartment building. You drag your phone out, eyebrows furrowing at the notification that Chenle’s calling you. When was the last time he’s called you?
Actually, you’re fairly sure he’s never called you. Ever. You pick it up without hesitation. 
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Find a TV playing the baseball game,” Chenle pants. “Right now.”
Out of all the things he could call you for, this is what he’s asking you to do? He’s not even into baseball; basketball is the sport he adores to death. “What?”
“Do it,” he orders. “Now!”
“Okay, okay.”
Thankful you haven’t gone up to your apartment yet, you stride over to the little in-house gym in your building near the front entrance. You haven’t used it much since you moved in, but you recall that the TVs usually play either sports or news.
And you remember right, except at the moment, the baseball game is the only event plastered on the screens. Most people in the room are fixated on the game while they’re doing their set or on their respective cardio machine.
“Okay...” you trail in uncertainty. A pitcher from your city’s team throws the ball and the batter misses. The camera cuts to the batter from the opposing team, shaking his head in disappointment. “Why must I need to watch the baseball game so ba—”
The camera’s now on Mark’s face.
The same Mark from the neighbourhood park yesterday, sans the glasses, and in proper baseball gear.
He’s on live, national television, playing baseball in front of the crowd of tens of thousands of people.  
From a side angle, all eyes are on him as he tips his cap forward. His eyes mold into slits of concentration, his sharp jaw tightening after a lick of his lips. Sure, he’s different from yesterday’s care-free self, but you’d be lying if you said this serious side of him didn’t turn you on either.
Again, the camera cuts away, to the wide shot from behind him. Besides his great body (especially his gorgeous backside in those snug pants), you revel in the back of his white and dark green trimmed jersey, indicating his last name and his assigned number: Lee. 02.
He winds up for the pitch, raising his leg, and the ball is gone within a blink of an eye, landing directly into the catcher’s glove. The number 98 comes up near a rectangle on-screen, signifying the speed of his throw.
Mark wasn’t lying about his skills; he’s the pitcher with the strength of a thousand suns.
All the screens are filled with Player #02’s glimmer of a smirk, before he quickly stashes it away behind his cap. The camera lingers on him while the commentators in the background talk.
“A great put-out pitch for Lee,” one says. “His fastballs this season have been absolutely remarkable. Another great one from him.”
Cameras switch to another shot of Mark catching the ball, resetting once more for the next batter.
Another commentator supplements, “Aside from the slight hiccup earlier this season, he’s definitely on-track in making his mark on his debut in the league. A rookie ace indeed. It’s no wonder they’ve been calling him ‘The Tiger!’”
Understanding dawns upon you as to why he stated how easy it would be to contact him (and to be able to pay for any potential hospital bills). The city’s new star pitcher—how could you not know him?
“I knew he looked familiar!” Chenle pipes up from the other end, just as Mark’s nice figure takes up the screen once more. Awe and shock consume your voice, and you’re unable to create a coherent reply.
But you don’t need to, not when you have Chenle to talk your ear off about the game, but mostly Mark, for the rest of the night.
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The week passes by, with you casually going through Mark’s Instagram (which, as he mentioned, he only occasionally posts on) and watching a few more of Mark’s games with Chenle in tow. 
You fawn together over his plays (and his ass) and, despite not knowing much about the game, he must be having a great week from the commentators’ constant praises and the team’s overall wins.
Once Sunday finally arrives though, a wave of nervous anticipation rolls over you.
Because for you, it’s game time.
Sure, you may not have initially wanted to, but now that you know who Mark is, what is there to lose if you step up to the plate and see him again?
The scene of the park is quite similar to last week’s, except for the large presence of people staring at the men, many you recognize from the city’s team from all the games you’ve watched this week, playing baseball on the field. You wonder if you were too caught up with Mark last week because you didn’t notice how everyone else was this enraptured too.
As you stroll closer to the grassy area with Chenle and Daegal hovering behind, the players coincidentally take a breather. Some parents quickly take advantage of the break to bring their children up to receive autographs.
This is perfect timing for you too.
However, you stop in place, debating if this was a good idea to return. You’re surely going to make a fool out of yourself again (this time with no injury to blame) and Chenle, despite his promise of not interfering, will totally budge in and—
And it’s too late to backpedal, because Mark, although distracted by the little cluster of people surrounding him, lifts his head momentarily and his gaze lands directly on you.
Air seizes in your lungs when he flashes you a grin that could compete with the sun. He gives a small nod and wave. Like a star struck fangirl, you glance around to ensure he’s not gifting that nod and wave to anyone else. 
But no, you’re not mistaken—his eyes are only on you.
Saying his thanks to his assumed fans, he jogs his way over to you, attired today in a fitted grey-mixed tee, ripped denim jeans, and thicker framed glasses compared to last time.
“Hey,” Mark says, still grinning beautifully. “How’s your head feeling?”
His smile is incredibly infectious. It’s a challenge not to do the same when you’re in the presence of this man. “Better. Had some bruising, but it’s all gone now.”
He nods in response, mumbling a “Good, good” under his breath. With his face turned away, he swipes some hair behind his ear and seems to be preparing himself to say something. But, you will yourself to address the elephant in the room first.
“So, why didn’t you tell me that you were in the major leagues?”
At the unexpected question, Mark darts his head up and draws it back in surprise, his lips pouting adorably. Your heart bursts.
Contrasting his cuteness, you notice the hint of stubble around his mouth. First the pout, now this. You’re captivated by it more than you should be.
He chuckles and lifts a shoulder. “Well, you didn’t ask.”
“I did,” you laugh. “I asked who you were!”
After looking up in thought for a moment, he concedes. “Okay, maybe you did.”
You two laugh in unison, and even when the moment is over, both of you stare into each other's eyes. Time’s filled with comfortable silence and equally comfortable smiles. 
Mark breaks the silence, asking, “Are you still wanting to stay safe and far away from my sexy arm?”
“Oh, my God...” you groan, hating to hear the same words that left your mouth from last week.
“No,” he says through another burst of laughter, “it’s a genuine question.”
“I meant to say strong!” you argue petulantly. “I was just a little out of it from the hit, no thanks to you.”
“I know, I know,” he giggles. “I’m genuinely wondering though, cause...” Mark pauses and begins to fidget, this time rubbing the nape of his neck. 
You tilt your head, intrigued. “Cause what?”
“Cause, I was, uh, wondering,” he says, eyes averting yours. “Since I owe you for your head injury—”
“You don’t owe me anything—”
“And I know it’s a long shot cause you’re absolutely gorgeous and you’re probably taken—”
This time, you draw your head back in surprise over the compliment and the grand assumption that you’re off the market. 
“—but did you wanna go out with me sometime?” His hand moves through his hair before he shyly looks at you again. “Maybe?”
Before you can even process what's happening you hear a "Yes!" behind you, causing you to jolt upright. “Yes, she will absolutely go on a date with you!”
“Chenle!” you gasp, appalled but not surprised, in the direction of your close friend as he nears your side. You face Mark again and gesture in the direction of the incoming intruder. “Don’t mind him.”
As per his charming self, your friend holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Chenle. Your newest number one fan. Great plays this week, by the way.”
“Mark.” He takes the hand to shake, giving him a small smile. “And thanks.”
Mark’s eyes wander down and notices the dog wagging its tail excitedly. His face lights up. “Aw, who’s this cute little guy?”
“Daegal,” Chenle answers. “She’s my little handful, besides this one.” he says, jerking his head in your direction. Mark's too focused on Daegal to see you slapping her owner in the arm. 
Squatting down, he pets the lively dog. You follow suit and crouch down too, watching Daegal gift Mark tons of licks and enthusiastically rubs herself against his hands and arms. She’s never this delighted with strangers usually. 
“What do you think, Daegal?” Mark asks, holding eye contact with her as if she could reply, then he glances over at you. “Do you think your friend should go out with me?”
Immediately, she barks happily, causing all three of you to laugh. 
“Good girl,” Chenle whispers from above.
Although you pucker your lips playfully at Daegal’s betrayal, you reach out to pet her fondly along with Mark. 
“But how will you guarantee my safety from your strong arm?” Your stare lingers on them. Not that he has to know, but you had to make a conscious effort to not say sexy once more.
“I promise I won’t be tossing any more of my balls in your direction,” Mark casually says.
After a pause, your eyebrows raise and his eyes widen.
“Wait, I mean—shit...” he hisses, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Your lips twitch, suppressing a laugh and finding him adorable.
“I know what you mean,” you quickly say, relieving him of his embarrassment.
He shyly glances up at you and you share a comforting look. Suddenly, someone from the field hollers his name. With a small frown, he begins to walk in reverse away from you.
“I probably should get back, but now that you know how to get in touch, message me on Instagram and we can figure out a time that works for our date?”
“Yes, definitely!”
Incredulously, you look up at Chenle for answering on your behalf.
“For sure, Mark,” you say. “Have a great game.” With the way he plays, you know he will.
Chenle and you wave your good-byes to him and watch him retreat to his friends.
“You do know that I'm the one he asked out, right?” you ask as the three of you begin to walk towards to the park's popular ice cream cart, except you're more vigilant this time.
Your friend grabs out cash, ready to pay for your order. Or at least you hope so, for all the trouble he caused.
“Yes, and that's why I will live vicariously through you!”
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After messaging him over the last week (with Chenle hovering over your shoulder and backseat driving many of the messages), Thursday really couldn't come fast enough for your date with Mark.
As you step out of your apartment complex, your jaw drops and an impressed smile fills your face.
In a green bomber, black tee, and skinny jeans, Mark coolly pulls up on a red Ducati motorbike. You recall seeing a post or two on his Instagram with it, but it takes you by surprise to see it in-person.
He takes off his helmet and runs fingers through his hair, attempting to ruffle out the messiness. You're a little envious of how good he looks, even with messy hair.
Your date takes in your outfit—an off-the-shoulder floral dress that teeters the lines of being cute and sexy simultaneously—and beams.
“Wow,” he says, mouth agape. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” you say, then make an over-the-top attempt to check him out. “You don't look so bad yourself.”
After a moment of shared smiles, he tilts his head towards his mode of transportation. “Hope this isn't too daunting.”
You shake your head. “Not at all.”
As Mark helps you with your helmet, now that you're up-close, you notice he's clean-shaven, unlike the other times you've seen him, and you presume he opted for contacts for tonight.
You also can't help but relish in the proximity of his hands near your face, flashing previously to the first time you met only a couple of weeks ago.
Once he's done, you ready yourself for the ride by wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, holding onto him snugly.
He twists around with his visor open.
“Ready?”
You respond with a squeeze around his waist and a nod, so he closes his visor and you're off through the nightscape of the city.
Everything passes by in a blur, but when there are the occasional moments when he slows down or stops at the red lights, you drink in how beautiful your city is.
On the other hand, you're dying to know what Mark planned for tonight. He gave you a vague idea—dinner, a small post-dinner activity (no balls involved, Mark promised), and dessert—but that's all.
In a nicer part of the city, he stops and parks in front of a bumbling Italian restaurant.
Once inside, Mark gives his name to the greeter, stating how he has a reservation, and a sweet host immediately leads you to your table. As you walk through the restaurant, you admire its warm atmosphere with dim lights and candles spread everywhere, along with the many other couples eating their dinner.
The host stops in front of a secluded semi-circular plush booth. You shimmy in, and Mark follows. Both of you sit comfortably close near the middle of the booth.
Despite how much you have been talking through DMs over the last week, as first dates often go, conversation is awkward at first.
However, as dinner progresses and the extravagant wine (Mark insisted, “Only the best for my date, please.”) makes its way through your systems, it gets easier.
You learn more about his family, his team, and his love for reading. For him, he learns about your friends, your job vs. dreams constant conflict, and your love for music.
The easiness also goes beyond words. Underneath the table, your legs brush up against one another's. You throw your head back in laughter, and you bravely touch his forearm in response. Mark even leans in close to your body, sometimes the edge of your shoulders gently pressing into the other.
By the end of dinner, being the gentleman he is, Mark doesn't even let you glance at the check and pays it all without hesitation. Then, you're outside and on his motorbike again, off to the mysterious post-dinner activity.
When he reaches a particular end of town where there isn't much around except one place, you have an inkling where you're about to go.
Once you're there and parked, your hunch is answered correctly, but you realize something.
“Isn't the aquarium closed at this hour?”
He shrugs nonchalantly and begins to usher you forward with a hand lingering at your lower back. Whispering into your ear, he says, “I may have booked it privately for tonight.”
As you walk through, Mark and you stick to each other's side, shoulder to shoulder, and switch between revealing more about yourselves while reading and conversing about the informational signs on the aquatic creatures.
Both of you stop in front of the main showcase of the aquarium: the large tank that houses two beluga whales.
Mark leans in a bit closer to the tank, catches sight of one of them in a corner, and points it out to you. As he straightens, you feel the back of your hand brush up against his.
“You’re quite the romantic,” you state while glancing at the tank, almost as low as a whisper. Even with nobody around, there's something so serene about the aquarium that makes you want to be respectfully quiet. "Does everyone get this first-date, first-class experience from you?”
“Only the girls who get hit on the head by me,” he teases in a whisper, making you softly chuckle.
After a moment passes as you watch the tank, hoping and waiting for the beluga whales to move to where you're standing, Mark asks, “Would it be surprising to say I don’t go on dates as often as you think?”
Your eyes dart toward him, but you quickly keep your gaze fixated back on the tank. You nod. “A little.”
He hums, followed by a lengthy sigh. You can sense a shift in him. You hear how it's laced with sadness, maybe even a little regret.
“I’ve been working so hard to get to this point and of course being drafted’s been so worth it, but it also meant that I had to sacrifice some things along the way. But now that I’m finally here”—you feel his gaze now directed on you—“I definitely can rearrange my time for other things.”
Your breathing slows as you turn to face him.
Courageously, Mark intertwines his hand with yours and his free one raises, caressing the bare skin of your upper arm. The contact makes you gasp and hold your breath.
He drags himself forward, as do you, and his hand is about to cup your face...
Until the two belugas are now your front-row audience, glancing at you as if they were smiling.
You both chuckle softly and give them a wave, not wanting to lose this rare chance of seeing them this close.
And although the special moment has passed, you two finish off the marine life tour with your hand in his.
Once outside, Mark leads you somewhere nearby. After about ten minutes of walking, you're standing on a large cliff with a scenic view of the city. You've never seen the city from this height before, and all its twinkling lights and the starry sky beckon you.
An ice cream truck is also coincidentally there, and you assume Mark booked it for your date tonight.
You two grab your waffle cone orders and sit down on a wooden bench that overlooks the view.
“So,” you say, licking the cone on its side to avoid the ice cream from dripping down your hand, “does this go towards the debt of you hitting my head?”
“Of course,” he nods with his signature smile, doing the same as you and trying to avoid his sweet treat from melting. “It'll be one ice cream out of the many future thousands.”
The implication that there’ll be more than just this date hangs in the night air, almost as if it's a promise, and you really hope it'll be true.
At the very least, it feels true as you peer over your city, leaning your head onto Mark's shoulder while he casually drapes an arm around you.
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Getting off the motorcycle, Mark walks you to the front door of your place and you don't even think twice about asking if he wants to come in. He says yes a little too enthusiastically, making you giggle, but it confirms that neither of you want the night to come to an end just yet.
Mark hangs his jacket as you grab beers from the fridge. Both of you make talk for some time on your couch, but the energy in the room is buzzing, especially since the almost-kiss.
The second you gravitate towards Mark, he rushes to wrap an arm around your waist and his free hand cups your face, dragging you in for the first kiss that's been itching to happen.
His lips are dangerously soft, addictive really. You swear he tastes like cherry (could be from the food earlier or maybe a lip balm flavour, you wonder).
It's a slow, yet deep, start. In the beginning, the kissing is with intent, wanting to know what each other tastes like. Naturally, the curiosity evolves into exploration, with Mark cautiously dipping his tongue into your mouth. You react with zeal, swiping your tongue against his and even experiment sucking on it. He shudders at the sensation.
Mark holds you close throughout, but your bodies move into a new position, letting you sink comfortably into your couch beneath him.
Here, passion rises. He grips your waist, whilst his body presses into yours, and he begins to trail down your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Although it's already off your shoulders, he drags a sleeve of your dress further down, hungry to kiss as much of your bare skin as he possibly can.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and you arch into him, embracing his clear desire against you. You're falling and falling and falling, becoming more drunk with every touch and kiss from Mark. Ever since the first day you met, you couldn't help but yearn for his touch. Now, having a taste of him like this, you're desperate to experience more.
Although you're underneath him, you decide to take hold of the kissing. When he takes a breather for an instant, you steal the chance and fervently kiss along his jaw and rugged neck. Mark moans, gripping your waist harder, and grinds into you, his hardness dying to be free.
Shockingly, he suddenly tears away, sitting up and panting. Confused, you mirror him.
“Should we stop?” he asks. “Like, I know I might be being presumptuous, but I don’t wanna ruin our potential next date if we rush too soon?”
It melts your heart that he retracted because he's concerned over your potential future. You delicately rearrange some of his loose hair stuck to his forehead. “If you want to stop, we can.”
He pouts, reminding you of him previously at the park, followed by a cute whimper.
“But I don’t want to stop...” he laugh-smiles, leaning into you, about to drive his mouth into yours again.
“Neither do I.”
And with that, Mark makes the split-second decision to continue this good thing and not look back. Once again, he's leaving love upon your shoulders, at a measured pace currently, and he carefully lowers your dress. Drooping off your shoulders, you let it drop and bunch around your stomach.
Surprise is written on his face, as you didn't wear a bra underneath your dress, but the surprise quickly dissipates into enthrallment over the beautiful sight.
He lowers himself, mouth traversing across your chest while his free hand gently massages one of your breasts. You succumb to the rising pleasure, curving into him again.
When he arrives at one tip of yours, he looks up and asks, his voice low and gravelly, “Can I...?”
You whimper-nod, already on the verge of begging him to take the next step.
It kills you that he teases first, merely pecking the surrounding area and your tip; his mouth leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your patience grows thin.
“Mark, please, just—”
Air is depleted as his tongue swipes against your nipple in a broad stroke. He then wraps his mouth around it, sucking firmly. The other hand that was kneading your other breast turns to focus on your nipple, pinching it between his index finger and thumb.
The more he sucks, the more you hear the wet puckering of his lips, the more it makes you clench tighter. Bliss begins to boil in your abdomen when he flicks his tongue and mimics the same on your other tit with the pad of his thumb.
Your breathing grows heavier, and you sense you're close, but Mark abruptly stops. You're about to speak up, believing he'd be the type to finish you off if you ask, until you realize he's kneeling on the floor in front of you and stripping off his t-shirt.
With your help, Mark eases your dress to the floor and places it safely on the coffee table. Focusing on you, his gaze is dripping of lust—so carnal, so different than his regular self.
As Mark advances to your heat, your palms graze over his defined shoulders and back. He parts your legs further with his hands wrapped around your inner thigh.
“Wearing panties?” he inquires, his finger pulling the fabric a bit to the side.
“Huh?”
“No bra, but panties?” he smirks, making you realize the joke.
You roll your eyes and relax momentarily, leaning your head back. “Are you into that? No panties underneath?”
“Could be hot,” he shrugs, tugging your underwear to your calves and tossing them off to the side.
“Maybe one date I can do th-ah—”
Without warning, he dives in, one his hands now grasping you by your lower back, and you lurch forward to get a good view of his head between your legs. You've got a grip on his shoulder, the other tugging at his hair.
His tongue laps at your folds with agility, figures out what you like or don't like. There isn't much you don't like, Mark deduces. Languid licks. Penetrating patterns. Fast flicks.
You respond eagerly to them all with harsh tugs to his hair, notably when he spreads your folds to devour you entirely. The hair pulling hurts a bit, but he doesn't mention anything; he likes it a little rough.
Despite the positive reactions, he can tell you've been at a simmer with his moves, not quite reaching close to a high. He withdraws his mouth, and, through your hazy vision, you catch sight of his honeyed lips.
But your eyes blow wide open and an acute moan dispels as your lover of the night fills you with his fingers, alongside his licking of your clit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Following a few more minutes of scissoring and a few sucks to your bundle of nerves, he asks, breathing into your inner thigh, “Does this feel good, gorgeous?”
Your lip is drawn between your teeth, digging so hard from the pleasure you wonder if it'll bleed soon. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good,” he says, kissing your thigh tenderly, “'cause I'm gonna need you to remember how good tonight is so you'll keep coming back for more.”
Not gonna be a problem, you think, but all you could muster is senseless panting.
“You close?”
You can barely release a whimper out to respond, and Mark orders you to tell him when you're near.
It doesn't take long to get there. The warmth in your abdomen encapsulates your body and your hips rut upward frantically, desiring your climax to take authority.
“Mark, Mark, Mark. Fuck, I'm close, I'm—”
Immediately, he stands up, fingers still inside you and somehow impaling you further and faster while his thumb lazily strokes at your clit when possible, and his ardent kiss is the needed catalyst to take you over the brink. Simultaneously, the kiss swallows your bountiful whines.
When you finally come down from your high, you kiss him deeply and feel him through his jeans against you.
“Let's take this to the bedroom, I need to grab—”
“Should I run to the pharmacy to—?”
In tandem, you chuckle over how in sync you are, and tip your perspired foreheads against the other.
Holding his hand, you lead him to your bedroom. You turn on your bedside lamp and gesture to the tissues, so he can clean his hands. You then bound to your bedroom bathroom and fumble around to find your condom packs somewhere in a drawer.
Upon your return, you're graced with the sight of Mark sitting naked on the edge of your bed, stroking himself. You almost salivate.
God, he's bigger than you expected, and that's only one part of his magnificent body. You didn't have the opportunity before to admire his muscular abs, but you take every chance to do so now. The way his arm flexes with each stroke. And those thighs...
“Sorry,” he murmurs and shyly shrinks a bit, in contrast to his lewd action, “hope it's okay that I took my pants off already.”
He really is quite endearing. Maybe even a little perfect.
“There is absolutely nothing to apologize for, Mark.”
You place the condoms onto your bedside table, but are so absorbed with Mark's cock and existence. Entranced, it's your turn to drop to your knees.
Fingers wrap around his cock, and Mark's groans rise. You delve in your enthrallment for a bit, squeezing and stroking to your heart's content until you finally decide to ease him into your mouth.
Your tongue works wonders, tasting the underside of his length with every bob of your head. Meanwhile, his hands lazily thread through your hair and he watches attentively.
More saliva develops and drips, especially when you relax your mouth to let him hit the back of your throat. Obscene slurps accompany his delicate moans, both of which permeate the room in melodious unity.
As his threading develops into tight pulls of your hair, you detract yourself to avoid the night ending right then and there.
Since he's still sitting on the side of the bed, you sit onto his lap with a plan to abate and elongate the tension. You're back to kissing him, allowing both parties' hands to roam each other.
“I love your arms,” you mumble into his mouth as you reach for them.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “I know you love my sexy arms.” You punch him teasingly.
But an idea flickers in your head. You halt your actions.
“This might be weird to ask, but could I...” you trail off, picking at your hands, realizing maybe you shouldn't finish your question.
“Hey,” he whispers, holding your chin in his hand. “You can ask me anything, beautiful.”
You hesitate with closed eyes.
“Could I... ride your arm?”
Peeking a nervous eye open, an evidently puzzled Mark stares back at you.
“I—What? Sure?” His voice raises in octaves.
Embarrassed, you try to wave it off. “Never mind that I asked.”
“No, hey,” he says, his palm caressing the side of your face and angling it towards him. “I'm flattered and obviously, nobody has ever asked to ride my arm before. But if you want to give it a go, by all means, I'm open to it.”
“Yeah?”
Mark gives you the sweetest smile and a reassuring nod. “Yeah.”
Since you suggested it, you lead him to lay on the bed, more in the centre so there'd be enough room for you to sit. He watches you gingerly lift his hand near head-level, as if he's almost flexing to show-off or about to lay his head on his palm.
Carefully, you sit onto his left arm, facing the direction of his body. At the contact, you shudder. “Is this okay?”
He agrees, enticed by your ass near his face and the general exquisiteness of your being. “You can put more weight on it, it's okay.”
You comply, relishing in the pressure of his arm against you. After becoming more comfortable and placing most of your weight to an arm on the bed, you slowly rub yourself upon his arm.
Mark's fascinated by this foreign act, eyes watching your every move. With his free hand, he touches himself.
His favourite part about you riding his arm? The look on your face—fluttering eyes paired with your lip biting—and the fact that you find him this attractive, that using him this way can simply get you off.
“This okay still?” you breathe.
“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes himself harder. He knows the answer to the next question, but he wants to hear it from you directly. “Does it feel good for you?”
You assent with a sharp moan. Without notice, you lick your palm with the intent of reaching over to grab his cock. At first, he's confused when he notices your hand, but he happily lets you handle him.
“Oh, God,” Mark pants.
You fasten your pace on his arm, grinding greedily against him. As you do so, your arm attempts to match the pace for his desire.
“Fuck,” Mark twists his head to look at your hips, tries to focus on how wet you are amidst his own pleasure, “you really do love my arms...”
It's a sweet dream for you—no, sweeter than any dream or fantasy could ever be. This is real, this spectacular sensation spreading all over and it's all thanks to his arm. Your body winds up, tighter and tighter, and you eventually break, chasing your second orgasm of the night.
Cleaning your mess up, you wipe his arm fast, keen on what's about to happen next. You then draw him into your mouth a bit to get him up again before rolling the condom onto him.
Once the rubber is on, you tease him from above, sliding the tip of his cock against your pulsing centre.
Mark may be a gentleman, but a gentleman can only be patient for so long. He seizes his possession and you gasp as he holds you by your hip, forcing you to sit down onto him.
The feeling is heavenly, stretching you sweetly. You bounce on his cock, and the sounds from you two are louder than from before. There's a small voice inside your head, worried about a noise complaint from your neighbours, but future you could deal with that.
Right now, it's all about Mark. He plays with your breasts with every move you make, while you fondle his abs and arms. Both of you try your best to look at one another through the pleasure, but it's difficult when you're floating higher and higher.
He then clasps your lower back and skillfully rises upward with the help of his strong abs. This position provides an angle for him to do all the work to thrust into you, as well as continuing to rub your breasts and even suck on them again.
At this point, you're in absolute state of frenzy, drowning in all the stimulation. Mark's underwater, right there with you too.
He pulls away in the midst of licking your nipple, his eyes going round. Nevertheless, you lean into him, your breasts pressed into his face and your mouth hangs.
Together, you cry each other's names and swear in endless spirals and the bliss finally reaches its peak for the evening.
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As Mark lays next to you in your bed, observing your peaceful sleeping state, he's obviously amazed by tonight's events, but he’s also unsure what’s in-store for either of you.
There are so many factors at play with his career, you're both essentially still strangers, the future is unknown...
And yet, despite these worries, the feeling blooming in his chest is more than a blossoming liking. It’s akin to the moment he steps up to plate, either ready to bat or pitch. Nervousness, determination, and...
It’s too early to call it, but when he’s around you, he swears it feels a lot like his love for the game.
He shakes his head, not wanting to jump into the deep end this fast. He doesn't want to ruin this good thing prematurely.
Nevertheless, he places one last kiss atop your forehead before he sleeps, praying you'll be a new constant in his life, at least in the near future.
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EPILOGUE — FOUR MONTHS LATER
Today is game four of the World Series and your city has won the previous three. If they continue their streak, tonight will be the night where Mark and his teammates take home the championship.
Hours prior to the big game, the teams are having batting practice beforehand to warm-up.
With your chin perched in your palm, you watch Mark closely—of course, safely from a distance and from behind him—and nod with every ball he hits well at the mound. You're seated in the lower area of the stadium among many of the other team members' families and friends, including a gleeful Chenle.
“Stop checking out your boyfriend's ass,” he orders, nudging you with his shoulder as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
“You stop checking out my boyfriend's ass,” you retort, nudging him back.
The two of you continue your little nudging contest until he says, “So when you guys get married—”
“Oh, my God, Chenle...”
“I'm just saying, we all know you two are going to have beautiful little baseball player babies! Anyway, as I was saying, when you guys get married, can Daegal be the ringbearer somehow? She's pretty much the reason why you guys got together in the first place.”
You shake your head, eyes still on your love. “Chenle, we'll have that conversation when and if we get there.”
“When we'll get there,” he states confidently, and you laugh, dismissing him.
Sure, it may have been a fresh relationship only four months in, but you couldn't deny that maybe the idea of marriage wiggled its way through your mind here and there. Despite your thoughts, it wasn't at the forefront; you were happy in love with Mark now, here in the present.
Player #02 hands his bat over to another player and jogs towards you. It makes you wonder why he hasn't done an advertisement with slo-mo running and wind blowing through his hair yet.
“How’d I do?” Mark asks, leaning onto the railing next to you. Chenle gives him two thumbs up with a large grin.
“Awesome," you agree. "Did you think about hitting my head with each ball?”
Mark chuckles and juts his tongue to a side of his mouth. “You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”
“Never,” you quip, scrunching your nose. You reach out for him and hold the tips of his fingers in yours. “You nervous?”
“Yeah,” he exhales, closing his eyes. “More than usual.”
Your fingers progress forward and your thumbs rub the back of his hands lovingly. “You’ll do amazing, like always.”
“You’re too sweet, babe. But this might be the game and I might—”
You cut him off by cupping his cheek in your palms.
“And you are the Mark ‘The Tiger’ Lee”—you tenderly swipe some of his hair away from his face—“top contender for both the Rookie of the Year and CY Young Award. So no matter what happens, you will come out on top.”
In awe and in a little disbelief with how well-put that was, he stares at you with starry, doe-like eyes. He's so grateful to have met you, to have someone so supportive of him in his life.
After a few moments, he concedes. “I had a pretty great run this season, haven’t I?”
You admire how humble your boyfriend always is. It's one of his greatest traits.
“And you have me,” you add jokingly.
He tilts his head side to side. “I guess there’s that too...”
The two of you share a kiss, innocent at first, until he deepens it and you wrap your arms around his neck, which generates some of his teammates to holler and whistle. Likewise, you hear Chenle screech, "Save it for after the win!" and you swear you feel some popcorn being thrown at your back.
Finally, until you're content, you peel away and press your forehead against his.
“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” you whisper.
Mark nods, a little more confident than before. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“So much,” he punctuates it with a loving squeeze to your shoulder.
You don't think you'll see him before the game starts, so you grant him one last good luck kiss.
You wouldn't know it that night, but by the end of the season, Mark would indeed take home the Rookie of the Year and the CY Young Award, being the youngest recipient of both awards.
That evening though, your city's team works in unbelievable harmony (or maybe the opposing team is having its worst day) because the game is a perfect one. Mark shuts out the other team, not allowing them to have any runs whatsoever...
Thus, sealing his first title of being a World Series champion.
But certainly not without his beloved running out into the field to give him a congratulatory hug and kiss among the sea of people.
And at the end of that night in the confines of your bedroom (after earth-shattering celebratory sex), you would find out that Chenle was right (and later, that he was in on it) when Mark, merely in his boxers, gets on one knee with a little opened box in front of you.
He's visibly shaking, and not because he's half-naked. You've never seen him so unnerved. Your love spills the following in almost one breath:
“I know we just started dating, and we can be engaged for, like, ten years or whatever. I just know that, deep down, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I may have felt this way since our first date. I really, really, really hope you feel the same, even if just a little bit."
Mark takes a deep breath, trying to regain composure for the important question he exhales.
Tears rise in your eyes as an ocean of feelings hit you, but within that ocean, no doubts rise to the surface whatsoever.
All you think about is how you will be forever grateful for the baseball that hit your head on that life-changing day.
You immediately say yes.
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roadkillremi · 9 months
Text
Catch Me.
Billy Loomis X F!Reader X Stu Macher
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MasterList
Warnings : MINORS DNI,( the following is all consented ) degrading, tying up, chasing around with a knife, chasing through woods, language, exposing the readers chest, a small grinding moment
Summary : Billy and Stu love to play their little games on Reader. This time it's a game of cat and mouse in the woods. But what happens when she makes it past the woods?
Billy reflected his sick games onto you all the time. He would pick out clothes for you to wear. They would be the most feminine and dainty things. This time it was a white night gown that went to your ankles. Billy smiled at you, "So pretty.". You looked up at him, "Billy I wanna go to bed.". He looked at you, "and leave me alone?". You darted your eyes around the room.
"No- I'm just tired." You whined. Billy shook his head, "You should have thought of that earlier. Before you called me all needy and shit.". You looked down ashamed of yourself, Billy grabbed your chin.
"It's okay, baby. Let's play a game, hm?". You looked up at him, "Billy I'm bad at games." You whispered.
"Shh, not at this one. Now let's play one of your favorites when we were kids.". Your eyes widen and you shook your head.
"Yes. Let's play cat and mouse in the woods." He grabbed your wrist taking you outside. You breathed heavily, you were sure it was another psychotic break from his mother leaving. He walked to the border of the woods.
"You run. I count to 15.".
"What about Stu?-" you whispered. Billy looked into the woods, "You know what happens when I catch you. So Run.".
"Billy. I'm scared." You said softly. He looked over at you, "Do you know what to say when you're uncomfortable?". You nodded, "What is it? What's the word?". You swallowed, "Parrot." Billy nodded, "Now run." He demanded. You took off wincing at the pain of your bare feet hitting the sticks. You glanced behind you, nothing yet. You stumbled down a hill tripping onto your knees. You hissed in pain, you heard Billy's boots against the leaves. You stood up quickly trying to find a hiding spot. You darted around finding two big rocks to hide between. You hated to admit it, but you loved running from Billy. He knew it and that's why he did this to you. You heard a low whistle and foot step. You looked down at the ground trying to steady your breath. Billy squatted by one opening of the rocks.
"Found you."
You crawled out the other end and ran off. You knew if you ran far enough you'd make it to Stus house. And you'd win.
His heavy steps were close behind you. The cold air stung your lungs. You pumped your arms faster as you saw Stus house in the distance. You felt relief in you and tried to run faster in the field of overgrown grass. Billy's footsteps grew faster and louder, you stumbled upon the porch. You banged on the door, "Stu! Stu! Open up!". Stu opened the door and you ran in and slammed the door shut. Stu looked at you a bit surprised.
"What's wrong?" He asked. He held you close to his lanky body.
"Someone's chasing me!" You panted, a knock on the door echoed. You shook your head, "Don't answer it, Stu.". Yes I backed up from him as Stu opened the door with a soft chuckle. Billy walked in and looked at you.
"This is the farthest she's made it..." Stu said with a wide smile. Billy nodded, "It is. She usually trips so God damn much.". You backed up into the couch causing you to fall. Billy and Stu walked into the living room looking down at you. Billy squatted, "What now, Bunny?".
"I-I won!" You fussed. Billy smiled and gently grabbed your chin.
"So naive. So dumb. So Pretty. That's why you're our final girl." He said grinning. Stu sat you up right, "Look at your dress it's all dirty.". You looked at Billy, "He made me wear it.". Stu put his finger on his chin, "Better take it off so I can wash it.". You shook your head, "No.". Billy stared at you, he leaned into your ear.
"Are you still wanting to play?"
You nodded, he backed away before standing up.
"Stu take her upstairs." He demanded. Stu grabbed at your hips, you pushed him away getting up. Stu took out his pocket hunting knife flicking the blade up. Billy gave Stu a small nod, you ran up the stairs. Stu laughed running after you, "Come on! Don't be scared, baby!". You ran around the hallways before locking yourself in a bathroom. Stu banged on the door, "Let me in!". You stayed silent, "I know you're in there.". The doorknob jiggled aggressively before it went silent. You stayed there waiting for a sign of him. You slowly creaked the door open looking down the hall. You stepped out silently walking, Billy pushed you against the wall.
"Get off!" You fussed. Billy smiled, "Got her.". Stu huffed, "I wanted to catch her.". Billy glared at him, "Then handle the brat.". He threw you towards him, Stu grabbed your wrists and pulled you into his room.
"You're okay with this?" Stu asked softly. You nodded, "Yes, Stu.". He smiled pushing you onto the bed, Billy walked in holding rope.
"Let's see if she wants to be a rope bunny for us.". Billy grabbed your ankles. You kicked at him trying to fight it off. He smacked your leg leaving a red sting. He tied your ankles together tightly. You kept fighting against Stu as he tried to grab your wrists. He put his knife up to your neck, you stopped fighting him. You stared up at him instead, Stu smiled and grabbed your wrists tying them together.
"What now?" You ask softly. Billy tilted his head to the side, "We hurt you." He smiled. Your eyes widen, he chuckled "Don't worry.". He grabbed Stus knife dragging it down your nightgown.
"It won't last long.".
Stu stood above you staring down at you. He grabbed your face smooshing your cheeks.
"Don't worry, sweetie. Its the stuff you like.". He let go of your face and back away with a wide smile. Billy pushed your ankles up revealing your underwear to the two men.
"Seems like she's enjoying it." He smiled. He put his knee onto your clothed cunt. He pushed it down watching you whine beneath him.
"Poor little whore. So needy for us." Billy whispered. Stu watched intensely, "Should've thought twice before calling us. Telling us how much you wanted us." Stu cooed. You groaned causing Billy to apply more pressure. You moaned softly grinding against his knee. He smacked your thigh causing you to yelp.
"fucking whore." Billy muttered. Stu hiked up your night gown more revealing your chest.
"No bra either." He tsked looking back at Billy. You grunted, "Asshats" you Whispered. Both the boys looked up at you, "Let her go" Billy Whispered. Stu backed up obeying Billy. Billy got up and left the room, Stu followed. You stared at the door and yelled their names.
No answer. You yelled again and again until your voice grew tired. After what ft like hours Billy walked in.
"Done being a little bitch?"
You nodded, he cut the top letting you free. He gently picked you up out of the bed carrying your tired body out of the room. Stu was in the hall waiting for you, "Is she okay?" He whispered. Billy shrugged carrying you downstairs laying you on the couch. Stu kneeled down to your level.
"Did we go too rough?"
You shook your head, "No, just tired.". Stu nodded before sitting on the couch snuggling you. Billy sat on the other end, his hand placed firmly on your thigh.
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loveindefinitely · 4 months
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02 — 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐'𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈𝘉𝘖𝘜𝘛
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༊*·˚ LUST FOR LIFE — task force 141 x reader
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, angst, graphic violence, slight power imbalance, enemies to lovers, slow burn, betrayal
series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.
// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //
"You assaulted two Special Forces Operators, kid," Price says, a barely veiled grimace contorting his features. "That's not a good look."
You tug against where your hands are cuffed to the metal bars, your brows furrowing. "Kidnapping the girl -- whose dad you killed after taking her virginity -- isn't a good look either."
...Alright.
So, if you could go back in time, and never eavesdrop on the four men who have completely ruined your life, you would take up the offer in a heartbeat.
Between landing your fist to Gaz's jaw, and where you are now, your life has become a total shit show.
Like, complete, this might just be a fever dream level of crazy.
It started from the moment you saw blood trickling from your now late father's forehead, and in the glint of the moonlight, seeing Ghost holding the gun.
Then, you'd turned, without another thought, and landed a punch right to Gaz's jaw. The man who had taken your first kiss no more than two hours ago.
You can relive the moment even now, under the harsh neon lights of an interrogation room, as if you're experiencing everything for the first time once more.
༊*·˚
Gaz hisses, wincing as he brings a hand up to the aching pain radiating from the bone that'd taken the brunt of your punch.
"You guys -- what the fuck --" You stammer out, eyes wide and borderline manic as you gape at the man before you. "You guys just killed my dad!"
"Yeah, but," Gaz starts, before backtracking. You figure he has enough braincells to realise that 'rationality and reason' isn't going to work with you, not in this state, and especially not after you just witnessed the murder of your only living family member. "Ah. Well. He wasn't a good guy."
You really, truly, cannot believe the audacity of this man.
Your mouth opens.
Gaz grimaces.
Your mouth closes.
He takes a step closer, hands raised in a placating gesture.
"Take another step near me and I'll punch you again!" You threaten, with an aggressive point of your finger.
You're extremely aware that your punch had done next to nothing, and Gaz's reaction to it was more one of sympathy, but the threat lands nonetheless.
"Alright, alright, we're not gonna hurt you," he raises his hands further, eyes bouncing between your own. You're not sure what he sees -- maybe resentment, or horror, or fear.
Whatever it is, it makes his frown deepen.
He goes to say something else, when your bedroom door opens with a soft click. "Finishin' up, ya read--"
Soap pauses his whisper, ice-blue eyes meeting yours. His grimace isn't unlike the one Gaz is sporting, and it only worsens your mood. If looks could kill, he would be lying on the grass beside --
Oh god. Your dead dad.
"Steamin' Jesus," Soap mutters under his breath, looking up to the roof in some semblance of a last minute prayer.
There's a moment, then, for a decision to be made. It's as if your brain can only come up with two options, and one of them will lead to your untimely death.
So, really, it's not entirely your fault when you pick up the salt lamp sitting on your bedside table and throw it right into the arrogant Scot's face.
"Holy shit," Gaz's eyes are comically wide as Soap cries out, the heavy pink rock slamming into his nose. He stumbles back, and the sound of your lamp hitting cartilage even has you wincing, panicked state or not. "How the fuck have you survived this long with those kinda reflexes, Soap?"
Soap drops into a squat, cradling his nose in his hand as he tilts his head back, squeezing the ridge between two calloused fingers. His voice comes out nasally as he mumbles, "Mighta' broke 'gain."
Your entire body is trembling, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you creep to the window with soft, quiet steps.
Maybe, you think, in the back of your mind, I can make the jump into the garden.
It's not to be, however.
"You're smarter than that," Gaz directs an unamused glare your way, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards your door.
Digging your heels into the carpet, you attempt to wrestle out of his grip -- but a trained military expert and you are no match, not even with the energy overtaking your body.
"Let go of me!" You grit out, tugging and displaying your weight in the opposite way to his goal. He doesn't even turn around as he drags you out of your room, slamming your door shut behind you.
"What the fuck is goin' on," Ghost's growl comes from the stairs, heavy bootfalls following until he's standing, gaze drifting from you, to Gaz, to Soap, back to you again.
"Fuck, man," Soap whines, squeezing his eyes shut as he keeps his head tilted back, blood running down his lips and chin. You somehow find it in yourself to feel slightly bad. Not enough to apologise, and certainly not enough to stop fighting back.
They were going to kill you. Probably. Or, like, what's the skin trade like in your area? Oh god. Fuck. Shit.
"She saw," Gaz mutters to Ghost, and his eyes narrow, black face paint crinkling where it's been put on the upper half of his face, skin not covered by the balaclava.
There aren't any lights on, and it's the lights on downstairs that cast shadows and highlights over the men's' faces.
"Fuckin' christ," Ghost groans, before turning and walking back downstairs without another word.
You continue to struggle against Gaz's hold, but both of your wrists have been collected in his hand, and he's pulled you so your back is to his chest. If it were any other circumstance, you'd be blushing, most likely turned on from such an embrace.
Right now, however, you're questioning every possible decision you've ever made.
"Ye Dad treated ya like shit 'nyways," Soap says, too loud to be under his breath, but too quiet for it to be conversational. "Dinnae why yer freakin''."
"You're murderers!" You hiss back, lips pulled back into a snarl. Your muscles ache from the punch, the hefty throw, and now from struggling against Gaz. "And I don't exactly have any other family, do I?!"
Gaz makes a sound of agreement, before shaking his head and countering. "We're not murderers, not really."
You choke a laugh, but it's entirely too wet and sad for it to be threatening or cruel. "So you guys didn't just shoot my father?"
"Si pulled th' trigger," Soap pouts, almost like a child would over a lack of candy.
"Soap," Gaz exasperates, and although you can't see his face, you're sure it's dismayed and annoyed. "Seriously?"
"What?!" Soap counters, and when it comes out high-pitched, he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his nose tighter. "Jus' tha truth, dinnae why yer so shitty. Yer not tha one bleedin'."
Speechless.
You are fully, unbelievably, speechless.
What the actual fuck was wrong with these... men? And what was wrong with you for being more than ready to spread your legs for them not too long ago?
You needed therapy. And coffee.
And a time machine, preferably. If one was made available at this given moment.
"Get down here," the final man of the hour shouts up the stairs, and your blood runs cold. There's something about him that's not quite as threatening as Ghost, but somehow makes you even more fearful.
Gaz, with surprisingly careful and gentle movements, guides you down the stairs. The parallel of how Ghost's hand had been at your lower back as he invited you to the lounge room, mere hours ago, isn't lost on you.
His hand doesn't move from the tense grip it has on your wrists. You can't help but feel like it's a completely unnecessary gesture, considering the fact that any of them could take you down within seconds if they really needed to. Hell, they all had actual, military-grade weapons.
"Seriously, Gaz?" Price huffs, looking entirely like a disappointed dad in this moment as he stands, leaning against your kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed over. "One job, mate."
"You lot weren't exactly quiet," he retorts, but he slowly releases your wrists.
At this point, you know it's a lost cause to try and escape this situation, so you just ball your hands into wrists at your sides. You can't imagine it's an overly threatening position, considering how your entire frame trembles, and your lips wobble.
Your father was dead.
And the men that had made you feel so comfortable, so cared for, are the culprits.
Stupid, stupid girl.
They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.
"Peas," Soap's voice is practically a beg as he stumbles into the kitchen, opening the freezer door with no preamble as he scours it for... peas.
They're in the far right of the bottom shelf.
You don't tell him that.
"Have some water," Price encourages, holding out a glass cup full of chilled water.
Your eyes narrow, standing your ground. "Not accepting drinks from murderers. Dad taught me that, y'know?"
Gaz chokes a laugh, before covering it up with a fist to his mouth and a clearing of his throat. It fools no one, and you allow yourself the tiny bit of pride that fills your chest at the reaction to your taunt.
"Ghost," Price mutters, resigned and almost frustrated as he looks at you.
You understand why, as soon as the feeling of a needle imbedding into your neck has you flinching, pain prickling at the intrusion in your muscle.
"What --" you begin, before your legs fall out beneath you, your eyes falling to half mast as Price hefts you up, beefy arms holding you beneath your armpits as your body becomes dead weight.
"Sorry, kid," are the last words you hear, before black overrides all of your senses as drugged sleep takes you.
༊*·˚
Sometime between then, and now, you've found yourself in a white-walled room, blinding lights turning the throbbing in your head from a low pound to an echoing boom of a drum.
"We didn't plan for... any of it to happen the way it did. This was our only choice." Price shakes his head, hands resting at the top of his vest as he studies you.
Right. The virginity, kidnapping and assault thing.
...Great.
"I must've forgot the part where I resisted arrest," you retort, forcing your eyes to remain open, despite the heaviness to them. It's as if a weight has been hung from your eyelids, and every blink drags them down more and more each time.
"Jesus -- you're not under arrest," Price rubs at his eyes, head dipped down as if he's recollecting his thoughts. You're not sure if he's had any sleep, although your sense of time has been completely thrown out of the window.
"Then release me," you say, voice softer than you'd intended, more pleading -- a truer reflection of your current state of mind.
The air is crisp, cool, like that of a hospital. Chemicals and bleach are a potent undertone to the clean scent, and it makes you question what could've previously been done in this room to warrant them.
Your heart pounds almost weakly, and you know if there's any more heartbreaks to come, it might just give out.
How you've resisted a complete mental breakdown is beyond you, and frankly, you'd give yourself a pat on the back if you could. Although, that act might in itself be a sign of insanity.
"Not until we can be assured you're safe," Price insists. "And not until we can clear your name from the books. We have enemies, sweetheart, and those enemies were also your father's. They are not above punishing you for your father's sins."
Your heart is lodged in your throat, and it takes everything in you not to just burst into tears and pray. Pray that this is all some sick joke, some terrifying nightmare that you haven't woken from yet.
But you know it's a baseless hope. You know that this is real.
You're in a military base, somewhere, surrounded by the country's most dangerous men. The most dangerous men on their side, at least.
"So I'm not getting charged for assault?" Your voice is entirely too small for the situation, not for someone who's still cuffed to a bed, going through grief in the most ruthless type of way.
The worst part is that you don't entirely miss your father. You miss the comfort of having a family member, that's true, but he wasn't a good parental figure, and his treatment of you could be classed as abuse to most people.
And from what these four are saying, he wasn't a good man either.
People didn't often talk about how separate the two things were. It was possible to be a great man, but the worst of fathers, and the opposite could be true, too.
Fate had dealt you a bad hand, in giving you one who was terrible on both sides of the coin.
"Technically," Price leans back into his chair, his voice littered with exhaustion, "We... should report it."
Your stomach drops.
Price's eyes meet yours, and somehow, he must see the turmoil battling inside of your head, because he lets out a deep breath, deflating just a bit.
"No. You're not getting charged for assault, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that," you reply, too quick for your brain to catch up. The endearment is entirely too wrong, smarting on a chafing wound, a reminder of the mistakes you'd made, and the deception these men had pulled on you. "...Please."
You refuse to meet his eyes as he nods, slowly, as if in understanding.
"What did he do?" You don't mean to utter those words, to ask that question, but after you do, you can't find it in yourself to regret it. "What made him worthy of death?"
Price rubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, you register the lines of his face. Lines of a story having been told, proof of a life lived. It makes you want to learn, to find the origins of the small scars you can see, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
"He broke many promises. Betrayed his team," Price states, and you can tell the millions of words he leaves out, the context better off left unsaid. "He did terrible things. Killed people who had made no faults."
Oh.
For some reason, it hadn't truly hit you, not before now, the truth behind his death. What hadn't you been told?
How hadn't you been made aware that he was -- he was part of the special forces. He was a dangerous man -- he was one of the men he'd warned you about. How blind had you been? For so long? Those business trips, when he'd come with bruises, brushing them off whenever you gained the courage to make attempts of caring, of forming a relationship with the man who raised you.
They weren't business trips. They were missions -- ones with impossibly high death rates.
And he just.
Hadn't said a word. Just continued to treat you like you were worthless, a nuisance, a pain in his ass. Something worth protecting, if only so your weight in gold wasn't minimised.
What were you to do, if he just. Didn't come home after a mission gone awry? If he died on the field. If you woke up one day without a single living family member left.
You only realise that tears have fallen down your cheeks when Price's thumb brushes them away, your nose scrunching with a sniffle.
Jerking back, as if electrocuted, it takes everything in you to glare at the man whose gentle hands had led you to this position in the first place. "Don't touch me."
He backs away. Doesn't argue.
It hurts your heart in a way you don't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Not right now. Not ever, maybe. Preferably.
You let out a deep, stabilising exhale, before weakly meeting Price's gaze. "Can I sleep? Feeling kinda shit after the drugs," you mumble.
Price's lips twist into a grim line, but he nods curtly. "'Course, kid. Call out if you need 'nything."
You just lay back, turning on your side, facing the white wall as the lights turn off, leaving pitch black in its wake. Your wrist smarts where the handcuff has left a red mark, your free hand rubbing at the small patch of visible skin.
If you were more aware, more... ready for the conversations you needed to have, you would've demanded all four of them speak to you right this moment.
But your head is heavy, and thoughts are few and far between.
Grief and confusion cement in your brain like a thick fog, your emotions like cars without lights in the thick mist.
No directions, no ability to brake before crashing into one another.
You're an absolute mess, and you have no one to blame but you and your sick curiosity, your reckless decision making.
But, you realise, this was a long time coming.
Because there's one thing Price -- nor the other three men -- don't know.
Your father wasn't the only one who held secrets.
And it was you who held the key to this force's undoing.
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a/n. lol so like. who's ready for some enemies to lovers? sorry to everyone who wanted immediate hurt/comfort!! for some reason plot lines and depth hit me and i was like. i need to do it justice. so here we are!!!
thank you all SOSOSO much for the reception of the first part. it genuinely means a lot to have people excited about my stories??? like omg youre all SO kind. comments and reblogs make my absolute week!! mwah mwah mwah
taglist comment/msg to be added. @captainjamster @alfa-jor @simp4miguell @yaboibauldano @dreamaboutpinkk @guyser @lovewithasideoflust @redz0mbie @ghost-is-my-bbg @astro-ghoul99 @the-faceless-bride @casterousaudrey @cutiecusp @kit-williams @lilpothoscuttings @florabelll
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1K notes · View notes
aesthetic-bbyg · 19 days
Note
HI I LOVE UR WORKS could I pls request like a mean dom ex bf Luke Castellan x fem reader who just canNOT get over him 🙏 it’s ok tho cuz we can get under him instead 😍 (smutty ofcccc)
DON’T STOP ~ L. CASTELLAN
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lowk based of this p link
ex!Luke Castellan x fem!reader
🎀🤍 - It’s been awkward around camp since you and Luke broke up, even worse since you miss him so much..
Oral!fem receiving , Luke being a meanie , teasing , rough&dom!Luke , squirting , sum fluff at the end
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EVEN THOUGH HE WAS YOUR EX, AND HE broke things of with you, you couldn’t help but stare at every chance you got. When he was practicing sword fighting with another camper, or when your gazes met at the picnic benches during breakfast.
And Luke hated this. It made his blood boil, those sweet looks you sent him. The innocent doe look as your round eyes widened each time he finally gave in and stared back. The few seconds he actually managed to make eye contact with you he saw that desire that he was all too familiar with swirl in your irises. Then again, it made him chuckle each time you turned away from his strong gaze, shyness overtaking you.
Yet, it made him cocky, knowing he still had that power over you despite breaking things off. It made him want to get closer and see just how much you blushed at his presence. He wanted to feel the way your body stiffened when he touched you, before eventually melting with each gentle caress. It was sick, how much pleasure it brought him to think about messing with you. But, he also couldn’t deny that he had his own desires that needed to be fulfilled. So it wasn’t all that twisted because part of that want for you was because of his own lust and not just his ego.
Even now, as Luke stares at you from across the field, his helmet adorning blue whilst yours red, he could sense that same desire seep from your body. He wanted to soothe that ache he knew pooled under those leggings you were wearing. He took the opportunity as he snuck through the trees like an animal, and saw you, guarding a red flag stuck into the dirt.
If you could even call it guarding. Your back was turned to him, picking at the flowers by your feet, you sat atop of a tree stump nearly dying of boredom. Your helmet and sword had been discarded and rest on the grass next to you. You gasped, feelings sharp tip dig into your back.
“You never learn.” A familiar voice that sent chills down your spine echoed into your ears. “How many times did I tell you, never get distracted.”
“Many times.” You replied, voice weak and small. You slowly turned your head, peeking at him over your shoulder. Your eyes holding that same doe eye look as you stared up at him innocently. He removed the faux sword from your back, squatting down to reach your height. “Luke.”
He took your chin between his fingers and thumb, staring intensely into your eyes. “You’re a stupid girl, y/n.” He leaned his so close that his lips nearly brushed over yours, “But so irresistible.”
You gulped down thickly, “Lu..”
“You’re not gonna be eating dinner tonight, you’re going to stay in your cabin.” Luke demanded, not even asking you, but stating it like it was a fact of the future.
“But—“ You stumbled over your words pathetically, breathing heavily against his pink lips that were so close and yet so far. “Luke.”
“It’s an order.” He stood up, tone cold and harsh as he ripped the flag from the ground and began walking away.
“Hey!” It was the loudest your feeble voice had been the whole interaction, your hands reaching for the sword by your side as he paused. “The whole point of the this game is to not let the opposing team win the flag.”
Luke let out a mocking laugh, turning around to look at your like you were dumb. “What, and you’re gonna fight me for it?”
You knew you didn’t stand a chance against the greatest swordsman of all of Camp Half-Blood, and yet you still allowed the words to slip your mouth. “Yes.”
He shook his head, tossing the flag aside. “Fine.” He readied his sword, pointing at you threateningly, “Have it your way.”
“Yeah.” You mumbled, mimicking his actions and sucking in a deep breath. You truly couldn’t go against Luke even if you put all your might into it. You were a fool for even instigating a dual, and that same proclamation ended in you on your stomach, cheek digging into the grass with your sword knocked across the field. Luke held both your wrist behind your back, knees on either side of your hips as his hard on pressed against your backside.
“You’re a stupid girl.” He repeated his mean words from earlier, this time so close to your ear that his breath tickled the side of your face. His grip on your was getting painful, but it felt numb as he leaned down to press a soft kiss against your temple. “You’ll learn one day.”
He stood up, releasing you from his grip as he walked away, picking the flag up and disappearing into the trees. You’re team was going to give you so much shit for this.
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THIS IS STUPID, Luke Castellan was your ex. What type of control does he have that you had to listen to him? You’d been pacing around the empty cabin during dinner time for five minutes.
“Aren’t you gonna eat, sister?” One of your siblings asked before leaving, watching you with curiosity as you laid under the covers.
“Not tonight, I feel a little sick.” You lied, even mustering up a fake whine as you gripped your stomach. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine.” And within a few moments, she was gone, and you waited and waited, which left you to pacing. “Fuck this.” You stomped towards the door, deciding that you shouldn’t listen to him, because who was he? Ordering you to do what he wanted.
“Where are you going?” Luke asked smugly as his gaze met yours when you opened the door. “I told you to stay here.”
You stepped back slowly, “I was going to eat.” Your voice had become stronger, but that didn’t mean that your mind felt anymore confident when confronting the son of Hermes.
He shut the door, following each step you took backwards by stepping forward, his smirk very clear, even in the dark atmosphere. “But I told you not go, to wait for me here.”
“Well, I’m not gonna listen to everything you say, Luke.” You stopped, feeling your legs collided again the side of one of the bunk beds. It was yours, and you could tell by the curtains you had Luke nail onto the top for extra privacy. “You’re not my boyfriend anymore.”
He let out another chuckle, something about your words had entertained him so much that he’d revealed his pearly canines. But in a split second it dropped, he hurled at you, pushing you against the bed and pining your arms above your head. You’d be lying if you said that this didn’t soak your panties almost immediately.
“I tell you do things, baby, ‘cause you don’t know how to do them yourself.” Luke whispered into your neck, planting sweet kisses along it’s curve and your shoulder. Then he began sucking, leaving bruises behind and then soothing them by licking gently against the purple skin. “Did I really fuck you so dumb that you just can’t comprehend when someone tells what to do.”
You sigh at his touch, “Stop calling me stupid, Luke.”
He huffed out a laugh, trailing further down your chest kissing at the tops of your tits that spilled out the white tank top you had on. “It’s what you are, I mean, you can hardly form a sentence when I just so much as look at you.”
You whine, “I can speak for myself.” You said in a whisper, tugging at the grip he had on your wrist.
He lifted his head from it’s spot in the valley of your tits. “Then tell me,” He took one hand, still restraining you with the other, “what do you want.” You went silent, brain going foggy as he inched a warm hand under your tank top, under your bra. “I said, what do you want me to do, stupid girl.”
You whined, “Fuck, I want you to eat me out.” Your tone was meant to come out a lot more stronger then it actually did, it nearly sounded like you were pleading.
“Aww, look at my girl, finally learning a new thing.” He cooed, letting go of your wrist and lifting his head from your chest. He caressed your face, eyes lowering down to your lips and inching closer just like how he did in the forest earlier. “I really meant it when I said your irresistible, baby.” He whispered, kissing your cheek, purposely avoiding your lips. “I‘ve missed your taste.”
“Then why have you been a dickhead and ignoring me since we broke up.” You muttered, bringing your now free hands to wonder up and down his toned arms. “You could’ve had me if you wanted me.”
He chuckled, “Trust me, I’ve been doing anything but ignoring.” He squeezed your hip, finally dipping his head to kiss you desperately. It was a messy and hot kiss, full of desire, clashing teeth, and tongue. Your hands had lifted to cup his face, eyes pressed shut as you took in this long awaited make out. Nothing could describe the lust that emitted from the kiss alone, how heavy the both of you inhaled through your nose, refusing to part your mouths and breath.
But it eventually had to come, Luke grew impatient and hungry as he was the first to pull away, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed roughly. He fell to his knees in a heartbeat, pulling off your shorts in one swift move and shoving your panties the side. He then folded your legs just enough so your whole cunt was exposed and openly glistening in the little bit of light that illuminated the cabin.
He nearly came just at the sight of it, leaning down to begin his feverish licking and sucking on your folds. You let out a surprised moan, not expecting him to dive into your pussy like a starved man. Your hand flew to his dark curls, the other gripping the pretty pink sheets you already knew were going to be ruined by the time he was finished.
After all, dinner time was a whole hour and thirty, giving him plenty of time to enjoy his meal without stop. Luke flicked his tongue in and out your hole teasingly before moving to suck on your clit loudly. The noises were disgusting, a sloppy combination of slurping and high pitched moans. He lightly shook his head against you, digging his features into you, his grip on your thighs tightening each time you attempted to push them down.
“Fuck, Luke, don’t stop, don’t stop!” You moaned, legs trembling at the way he worked his tongue against you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You nearly screamed, your grip on his curls painful but he didn’t even mind it. He didn’t even flinch as you began to leak milky cum from your cunt, he just continued to lick at your sensitive bud. You did everything in your power to try and get him away, pushing at his shoulders, gripping his arms, shoving away his face, letting out choked whines of surrender. “I can’t—“ Each feeble attempt in getting your point across was interrupted by your own moans and squeaks as he brushed over your overstimulated clit.
You’re pussy was probably a mess of spit, cum, and arousal mixing together, yet something about that was so addictive to Luke. It wasn’t like he didn’t hear your pleas, or that he was ignoring them, he truly couldn’t pull away. He was letting animalistic groans each times he swiped his tongue onto your pussy, letting the wetness fill his taste buds.
He couldn’t help it when he just pushed your legs closer to your chest whenever you squirmed and attempted to push the closed. He heard you whines and it only fed his own pleasure, his licks became quicker, more messy if that was even possible. He was out of breath and heaving, yet didn’t pull back for a second, he just kept stuffing his face back into your cunt. He noted the way you nearly screamed whenever he fucked his tongue into and rolled with it, repeating the motion as his nose stimulated your clit.
With that you were letting out the most pornographic moans he’d ever heard come from you. Your attempts to shove him away for noticeably more frantic and aggressive, you’re whines, despite being almost unintelligible, begged for him to stop. There was a overwhelmingly tight coil in your stomach that just felt different compared to your last orgasm, it went from your stomach and moved down in waves. Before you could let another push to his shoulder you threw your head back and gripped the sheets desperately. You heard a gentle squelch, very faint but it made your eyes widen in horror as you sat up at stared down at Luke.
He finally pulled away, wiping away at the wetness that dropped down his chin and onto his neck. He fell back on his knees, a drowsy smirk on his lips and heavy eyelids that stared back at you. You squirted, and all over his face at that. “Fuck.” Was all he could mutter, biting his lower lip as he stared at you. “That was..so fuckin’ hot, baby.”
You blushed, hiding your face in your hands as you groaned. “I made a mess.”
He leaned up, removing your hands and lightly pecking your lips. “A beautiful mess, baby.” He whispered, “I bet I can make it happen again.”
“No!” You squeezed your legs shut, shoving his shoulder as he laughed, gently caressing your thigh. “Dinner is almost over and you need to leave before anyone notices you were here in the first place.”
“I don’t care if they see me, they probably already heard you.” He stood up, making you notice the painful bulge that outline the cargo shorts he had on.
“Oh, fuck, Luke.” You whispered. He didn’t have to ask what you were referring to with your pitiful tone as you stared at his hardened dick without shame.
“Don’t worry about.” He reassured, digging into his pocket to pull out a picture. “I’ve got you to help me out later in the night.” With closer examination, you noticed that it was an old photo that he’d taken months before the breakup. You laid down on a bed, shirt lifted just enough to show your tits, legs spread open with a cock shoved in your cunt.
“You’re dirty.” You slapped his leg, but a sheepish smile betrayed any ounce of annoyance you were trying to display. You leaned down to grab your shorts, but before you put them back on you paused. You looked up at Luke, who wasn’t paying attention as he slipped the photo back into his side pocket, and then at your lap. You stood up and slipped out of your panties, balling them up and offering it to Luke like a present. “You can have ‘em, they’re ruined because of you anyway and it could be useful for helping you later.”
Luke let out a chuckle, not even blinking as he took them and shoved them into his pocket. “Thank you.” He took your waist, his hand trailing down to the plush cheeks of your ass and squeezing the flesh. He leaned into close of the night with a another hungry kiss, except he replaced the painful lust with love and devotion. He regretted ever letting you escape his arms, and knew that he wouldn’t do it again, no matter what. He kneeled down, picking up the shorts he’d discarded and lightly kiss your thigh, you stepped into them, watching with admiration as he dragged them back up.
“I love you.” You weren’t sure if maybe it was too soon to confidently say the words once more but part of you didn’t care.
Luke didn’t know either, but he definitely knew in his whole heart that he didn’t give a fuck. “I love you too.” You walked to the cabin door, feeling a pool of dread as he opened it and slowly let go of your hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You nodded, giving him a smile before he was gone, the door shutting completely with a quiet click.
“Hey, Luke, where were ya?” You heard a fellow camper call out just moments after Luke’s exit. “Didn’t get some dinner before bed?”
“Nah, man, don’t worry.” Luke shrugged it off, he voice getting more faint the farther he went, but you definitely heard him say: “I already ate.”
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Natti speaks !!: I actually ended up liking this way more than I thought so a big thank u to the person who sent this request in🫶🏼🫶🏼 Luke Castellan is js to fine and he needs to be stopped.
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪
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thisthatpinkvenom · 9 months
Text
IT'S SWEATPANTS SEASON, OH MY!
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JOCK!SAN / BAND GEEK!FEM READER
⤏ Synopsis: Autumn has arrived; the season of pumpkin spice lattes, corn and—unfortunately for you—grey sweatpants. those pesky little things have attached themselves to your boyfriend's legs like glue, and you're having a hard time keeping your mind out of the gutter.
⤏ Genre(s): drabble*, fluff, humor(??), smut, smut, smut
⤏ Content: jock!San, band geek!fem reader (I know, I'm so original), you're referred to as "sweet potato" once—don't ask, just go with it, established relationship!au, college!au, non-idol!au
⤏ NSFW Warning(s): dry humping, unprotected piv (it's fiction, guysss. use your rubbers and stay safe!), creampie, just lots of build up because I'm down bad for a man in grey sweatpants 🙈
⤏ Note*: this content is completely fictional.
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The mosaic of orange and yellow was striking below the dull blue clouds as the trees continued to shed their leaves. Your eyes swayed with the leaf you'd been watching descend its way patiently to the ground while you sat on the bench, shoulders jittering in the midst of the decreasing temperature. Your hands peeked out from the ends of your sleeves before rubbing together, the crisp morning air making your fingers tingle in the cold. You should've worn a thicker jacket, is what you mulled over in your head that you hadn't even noticed San until he enveloped his own padded jacket over you. The gust of warmth awoke you from your reverie and you hummed, meeting eyes with him when he lowered himself into a squat.
"You didn't have to come here," he said, a dimple indenting his cheek as he curled one corner of his mouth upward. After pulling the hood over your head, he tenderly brushed his thumb across your cheek. "I know you're not a morning person."
You struggled to fight a yawn until you decidedly gave in, white fog manifesting in your breath.
"I want to support you," you murmured. You were too busy blinking away your fatigue to notice how he looked on in nothing but fondness. Your conscience warped your thoughts when you scanned over the jacket engulfing your frame, your lips forming into a small pout. "Mm…aren't you going to be cold?"
San took a glance at his attire; he's only got a windbreaker left to keep him warm. Nonetheless, he shook his head and insisted he was used to practicing like this on the field. Despite wearing less than you and the flushed red on his nose and cheeks, you couldn't really tell if he felt the effect of the weather as much as you did. You couldn't fathom how he had the motivation to get up at the ass crack of dawn to run around with a ball, doing drills with his teammates while Coach Kim rapid-fired pointer after pointer without a stop to catch his breath. It truly was admirable how smiley he was at 7:00 a.m. without consuming any caffeine.
Coach Kim sauntered along the grass before he blew his whistle and commanded the team to group together. Your boyfriend looked over his shoulder before turning back to you, eyes squinting as the sun's orange glow began to blanket over the field.
"Well, gotta start soon," he observed. "Stay warm and if you're sleepy, just go back. I'm happy you're here but don't force yourself to stay. All right, Sweet Potato?"
You made a small noise of confirmation, unfazed by the odd affectionate nickname you had gotten used to over time. The heat of his palms skimmed over your ears as he pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead before standing tall. But what you didn't anticipate—whoa—had really slapped you awake right then and there. For the mere five seconds you'd managed to capture a mental image, time felt as if it'd been stretched to hell when your boyfriend's crotch had leveled with your eyes. You hadn't realized the grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips and now that you've gotten a face full of…that, you're acutely aware.
You're shook to the core.
Your gaze trailed after his jogging figure, following the path up his long and toned legs to his cute little bu—okay, whoa! It's only 7:15 in the morning. You had no business indulging in these thoughts right now. Get it together.
Oh, he's facing your general direction now.
Are you staring at it too much? It's starting to feel a little warm, all of a sudden; it's the jacket, isn't it? Just how long is this going to take?
You're trapped on this bench. It hadn't even been 10 minutes since practice started and Coach Kim was rambling on about the importance of warming up while you're glued to your seat, pathetically staring at your boyfriend's dickprint while he seemingly had no idea. God, you felt like a perv. Even though he assured you that it was okay, you didn't want to just up and leave. This was a relationship built on give and take, and there were one too many times when he watched your concerts while knowing little to nothing about orchestral music.
You'll just suffer, then.
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"Just fuck him."
"Lisa!" you chided, pushing three fingers against your friend's arm as she rolled her eyes.
"What?" She swirled her tongue around the glob of chocolate ice cream sitting on top of her waffle cone. "He's a hot, charming guy. Your own boyfriend makes you horny and that's supposed to be a problem now?"
"Oh, my gosh, I just…" you trailed off, eyes searching elsewhere for your thoughts. "I'm not used to being all"—you waved your hands disorientedly in front of you—"dirty…minded. He's the one who usually initiates it."
"Sex?"
"Everything physical, really," you clarified. "I just feel like if I start it, it's just going to be off—and awkward."
You sighed. "How am I going to get through this season?"
"Oh, yeah, the sweatpants; that's what's been making you a sex freak," Lisa recalled with an airy laugh. "Those things are like lingerie for guys. Especially the grey ones…oomf. 'Dicktoria's Secret' is real," she snorted.
You gave her a blank stare.
"Look, just be honest," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—which it was. "You really think any guy is gonna find it offensive that his girl's drooling over his bulge?"
"I wasn't drooling—"
"You will be."
"Oh, my gosh."
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You weren't aware that having a footballer-boyfriend automatically signed you up for three months' worth of almost nothing but sweatpants. You also didn't know how many he had stashed in his wardrobe until now—it's good to know he didn't wear the same pair everyday. But this meant he had enough pairs to flaunt his dick outline in your face whenever you were together.
Not good for your cavewoman brain.
Fingers danced along your neck and you squirmed at the intrusion, meeting eyes with San's own with your face sporting a frown. The same fingers belonged to the arm lazing comfortably around your shoulders, both of you having snuggled together into mush on his couch while you binge-watched one of your favorite shows. You whined his name in annoyance when you're kicked out of your thoughts.
He chortled. "Sorry, I just—it's Buffy and you don't even seem that into it. Is everything okay?"
Let's see: it's a Friday night. His roommate, Mingi went to visit his parents for the weekend and you're all alone with your hot, charming boyfriend™ who's clearly gone commando under his sweats. And you're supposed to be watching Buffy slay vampires…how?
"Y-Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" you stammered.
He hummed in feigned ponder, and the knowing smirk surging its way onto his lips would've sent a churn in your belly if you'd actually caught sight of it.
"You know that my eyes are up here, right?"
Your eyes snapped up in panic, and silence was the only response you had sitting on your tongue. You wanted to hide in a cave, where you could wallow in embarrassment without disturbance. Your own boyfriend had just caught you ogling his crotch like a perv.
San tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, suppressing a smile at how you resembled a deer in headlights. "You thought I wouldn't notice?"
Your mouth was stuck in a battle between opening and closing as you desperately searched for the right words. With a defeated sigh, your face fell into the safety of your palms.
"This is so embarrassing," you groaned, words muffled against your hands.
"Hey," he laughed softly, grabbing your wrists in an attempt to retract your hands away from your face. "It's not a big deal"—you sighed when the light from the standing lamp washed into your eyes—"it's cute."
You gave him a funny look. "Cute," you stated, doubt laced in your tone.
"Yeah. Usually, I'm the one doing all the staring."
He scanned you up and down with a pondering pout on his lips, continuing on to ask, "It's the sweatpants, isn't it?"
"Do you have to state the obvious?" you whined.
"What? I just wanna make things clear, so I know what to wear for you," he teased. He shifted closer and smoothed a hand up your thigh. "I'll wear more for you."
If he felt the goosebumps on your skin, he didn't comment on them.
"You say it like it's lingerie," you quipped, recalling what Lisa said a few days ago. You're saying anything to distract yourself right now, but you crumbled easily whenever he touched you. And he knew it well, especially when his hand moved dangerously close to your pyjama shorts. You're not even sure if you were breathing.
"If it's gotten you like this, then I'd say it pretty much is."
He moved on to say, "I like it when you look at me like that."
Your expression was frozen. "Like what?"
San's eyes changed ever so slightly, his hand finally slipping between your squeezed thighs.
"Like you really want me."
Your thighs parted for him. "I…I do," you murmured.
"Oh, really? Where do you want me?"
"Where else?"
"I asked you first."
You made a quiet huff from your nose, looking down at his hand that's aching to pull your shorts down. "Inside"—you hesitated—"inside me. I-I would like it if we had sex…please?"
His lustful gaze turned softer, eyebrows raised high at your interesting way of words. While you, on the other hand, visibly grimaced. San found your eyes shutting tight and your nose scrunching up all too adorable, and without a doubt, he would've bitten your cheeks if he could.
With a chuffed smile, he hooked his fingers at the waistbands of your shorts and underwear, waiting for you to lift your hips. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's have the sex now."
You sulked at his incessant teasing, knowing well enough that he was purposefully expressing his words awkwardly. He laughed and assured you he would stop there, before grabbing your now half-naked body by the hips and having you straddle him. His fleece sweatpants were rough from the continuous use, giving you some nice sense of friction on your sensitive nub.
But above all that, you could feel the presence of his cock hiding beneath his pants, your pussy lips spreading the slightest on his erection. Your breath hitched as his hands made their way under your sweater, then your shirt; reposed comfortably at your hips as if they made home there. The pads of his fingers kneaded your skin as he looked up at you with expectant eyes.
"C'mon, get yourself off for me."
You waited with bated breath for nothing in particular—you'd just been momentarily distracted by his intense stare. Nodding too many times in the span of a second, you began to move your hips under the guide of his hands.
"Oh…"
There was a minor ache in your hips when he dug his fingers deeper in your skin, but you were too focused on the soft chafing of the fabric against your clit. It was getting you in the right place; so rough.
"Are you doing okay, Baby?"
You released an unstable sigh. "Y-Yeah."
He eyed the way your skin slightly folded with every move you made on his clothed cock, teeth pulling at his bottom lip. Your motions grew faster and more impatient as you yearned for his mouth against yours, falling forward before your lips touched his.
He pushed you down each time he pulled you forward, earning growingly unsteady breaths from you into his mouth. You nearly choked when he bucked his hips upward, soft moans having no chance to escape when each were engulfed by his lips. You continued to do nothing but mindlessly grind your clit on him, humping his clothed cock like you were in desperate heat.
You didn't have the mind to warn him at this moment, unable to hear anything but your own moans until you were reaching your impending climax. And soon with trembling thighs, you came. Your skin grew rampant with shivers while your mind went elsewhere for the bite of a second.
San finally spared some mercy, separating from you with a thin string of spit connecting your lips before he's splitting it with a lick from his tongue. Stealing a glance at the dark spot you left on his pants, he served you a lustful, lopsided smile.
"This is what you'll get if you're just a little more honest with me," he chuckled.
Your ears grew hot at the sight of your arousal leaving its mark, adjusting yourself with your hands on the backrest behind him. You waited a few beats to gather your words before you muttered, "Well…can I be honest with you right now?"
"Of course."
San waited with patient eyes, his stare nearly melting you into goo while he thumbed your skin again.
"I'd like to have the sex—with your penis inside me…please."
He didn't try at all to suppress amusement at how you'd poked fun at yourself, hearty laughter producing from the pit of his belly. The dimples in his cheeks emerged from hiding as he grinned and nodded while pushing his waistband down, just enough for his cock to free itself. When his laughter had settled, he pressed a peck on the tip of your nose.
"Whenever you're ready."
You grabbed the base of his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance, pausing for a moment until you began to slowly but surely, sink entirely down his length. The stretch always started as an odd pressure between your walls, but once they'd completely swallowed his dick whole, it always left you wanting more. It's a feeling you don't think you could ever give justice to, if you were ever asked to describe it. He was just so right for you.
Your body gave into him as he pulled you flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist like a tightened belt. His hushed groans were made only for you, and hearing them continuously by your ear sent shivers down your spine.
"So warm," he muttered under his breath. He slid his bum further down the couch with you in his grasp and spread his legs wider. And when he was sure of the angle, he rolled his hips to meet yours, finding a steady pace with the most agonizingly unyielding thrusts. With every slam of his hips, your moans rendered into off-key whimpers as you melted under his guidance.
It felt like you were experiencing the hottest temperatures of the summer; your cheeks were burning and at moments, you felt like pushing away just from the sheer heat of your bodies entangled together.
A cuss left your boyfriend's lips when you gnawed on his shoulder, the salty tang of sweat grazing your tongue. And as if he wasn't holding onto you tightly already, he pulled you even closer as his cock rammed relentlessly, his rhythm growing sloppy when he began reaching his peak.
Your back felt like it'd been bent beyond repair as his cum coated your walls, the familiar twitching of his cock presented inside you. But he didn't stop there, he wouldn't until you came as well. And with his jaw clenched, he fucked into you like you were his toy, white rings of his own orgasm spilling with every move and making way to stain his pants.
"C'mon, Baby," he grunted. "Cum, f-fuck—cum, fucking c-cum…"
And in a few more thrusts, all you saw were specks of white among darkness. Your pussy spared no consideration on his sensitive cock and clenched as you trembled, the string of swears leaving his lips going deaf on your ears. Your limbs fell limp to pure exhaustion, despite how much you wanted to just wrap them around him like you were a koala and he was the tree. You wanted to mark your kisses all over his face but not even your lips were functioning right now as you barely managed to muster out a "thank you".
It was clear that it took a moment for San to register what you'd said, before he let out a breathy laugh. Not because he found something funny, it was just one of those laughs you got when you felt so euphoric—like getting your balls drained until you were a moaning mess; that kind of euphoric.
He kissed the top of your head, looking ahead at the TV where Buffy was still slaying vampires as usual. His dick stayed inside you, soft and relaxed in your warmth, neither of you in any rush to clean up.
"Mm…remind me to buy more of these sweats."
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