#the same smell of onions

[alerraia]

can i just say, from the bottom of my heart: i hate the undying. they suck. i know that's the point and their narrative purpose is to reinforce the overall disagreement with clive's independent/self-sacrificing way of doing things but like all that aside wow they rubbed me the COMPLETE wrong direction

[willowser]

dynamight is clearly trying to go unnoticed in the grocery store, but you recognize him, anyway, despite the mask and low-pulled hat. knowing makes you feel even worse about approaching him—because you'd be too afraid to, otherwise—but you're not sure what else to do at this point.

you lean in close to him as he's standing in front of the produce, poking through the same bin.

"ooh, we need to get an onion, too, remember?"

he startles enough away from you that you can feel the foundation of your last ditch efforts crumbling. even beneath his hat, his light eyebrows pull down hard, gaze narrowing, and on the other end of such a fiery glare, you're reminded exactly why you've never wanted to meet him before: he's terrifying, handsome as he is.

"hah—"

you smile at him and hope it looks real, squishing into the space he's created even though your hands are shaking. "the guy by the juice followed me all around the store from the parking lot and i don't know what else to do." you widen your eyes, and you want to look, you do, but your facade is hanging on by a thread. "please help me."

dynamight swallows, and you hope his expression only seems so guarded because you're so close; enough to smell his subtle yet sharp cologne, to see the dark blonde wisps of his eyelashes. when he blinks, they brush against his mask, feather-light.

"okay," he nods once, and the gravel of his voice makes your stomach turn in some teenage way, that has your cheeks flaring.

(this is really not the time to be getting shy.)

he doesn't look towards the juice either, thankfully, and instead adjusts his stance, leaning into you in return, large and wide and formidable enough to nearly shield you from view. "an onion, huh? think we got one at home."

you can feel the warm press of his body against your own and it has you releasing a breath that had been trapped deep in your chest, has tears stinging behind your eyes. the sharp pain in your sternum lessens, and when you feel his hand come up to sit, carefully, against your lower back, dynamight murmurs,

"y'r alright,"

and you are.

[royalreef]

@nemxricultrix​ inquired: "You should take a break. May not know more of your kind, but I can tell tired huffing from large creatures easily." She's gentle, offering a spot nearby on the beach as she waits for a bite on a long fishing line

      “I am not tired. You may be quite surprised, my people are rather unique.” This is a lie in every aspect, long before Miranda even spoke the words, but all the same Miri walks by, whuffing contentedly as she takes the offered seat. She lays down, really, but the specifics matter less in this case, as she kicks her legs out to the side, chest touching the cool stone as she crosses her arms beneath her. It’s a contented lounging, best seen with the leonine, but one that fits equally as well with Miranda, with the squint in her eyes as the sun dances off the waves like so many roiling citrines.

       Really, she should dog-ear her guest about fishing, and about Merkingdom sovereignty, and the delicate path she has to tread forming treatises and navigating fishing rights, but she doesn’t particularly care in this instant. It’s one person, singular, and all she has is a line and a rod. Anyhow, Miri is here, and that’s basically the same thing as permission by any measure that really matters, so she settles down into contentedly waiting to see what, if anything, is drawn in.

       “Whatever is your hook baited with?” The question comes off-handed, not diverting from the conversation, but chasing the tail of a thought as it occurs. Miranda’s no expert, but she can speak of what works best for her, and one marine animal’s direct opinion is likely better than none. “How pungent is it? You will not get anything if it is not very pungent.”

[hardrockshrimp]

I can't believe I'm gonna be back in the food service mines on Wednesday

[melonn-soda]

❝ PERSONAL STREAM (A Little Too Personal..) ❞

word count: 1.9k

warnings: subbot! cis male reader, domtop! cis male kamo choso, camboy! choso, slight dumbification?, praise kink, reader referred to as a size queen (term is used for a man), mention of edging (choso), mentions/descriptions of manhandling

prompt: congratulations! you just won a solo fan call with your favorite camboy! hope you have fun watching him getting off to you being just the goodest boy ever :)

notes: a gift for and and idea from @sooniebby I jus made it into a choso fic. I've been holding it off for a while now, I think. this isn't as good as had wanted it to be but it's fine regardless. not beta read, sorry not sorry

fem aligned dni

you can’t believe it.

you actually can’t believe what you’re reading right now.

in your email inbox, something you barely ever check unless needed to, had a message from the user of a porn website (not your proudest moment) that you signed up on just to watch his videos, telling you that you won this month’s drawing. you had to stand up, walk around, eat breakfast, and come back to your computer to see if it was still there. if it was still real. you swore you’ve never felt so excited yet so scared in your life.

to know that, somehow, you won that solo fan call, to know that he’ll be jerking off for you, to know that no one else can see him but you, talking to you, and- shit. you were getting hard. you looked back at your computer screen. the email is still there. you’re not crazy. you feel like you are though.

the roll of the cheap gaming chair you bought from amazon sounded muffled in your ears as you backed away from your computer, getting up to get ready for the day with that email still lingering like an itch on your scalp that you can’t seem to satisfy. you need to get to work.

your co-workers noticed the blank stare in your eyes as you slipped on your chef coat and pants, hands on autopilot as you tucked hair into your hat and tied the apron around your waist. it smelled of fresh detergent since they just washed your uniform. your friend had to even point out that you cut your finger when dicing onions because you were too out of it to even notice. or was it that working in the food industry made your fingers numb to the sensation since it happens so many times? ... huh.

when you got back home, you opened up the email again. it’s still there. it’s still real. did you want it to be fake? part of you says yes but the majority of you hoped not. i mean, you’ve been following this guy for.. what, months now? lord knows how much money you’ve sent to him. he wants to start the call at 7pm on discord.

you thought he might use something else other than that app but he was probably just using an alternative account and he most likely changes his user after every raffle. if you were him, you would do the same thing.

...

you should probably take a shower.

it was 6:40 and your hair was still damp with water, towel resting on your shoulders to catch any stray droplets from getting your shirt wet. you kind of wanted to back out. the fear of being one to one with the camboy you’ve been fantasizing about for a long while now was scaring you a bit.

fingers fidgeting with the paper stars littering your desk and your foot rapidly tapping against the floor, you watched the seconds go by on your desktop. your dominant hand reaches for your mouse and highlights his username to copy it and paste it onto the add user section, sending the friend request to see that he accepts it not even 2 minutes later. ...was he getting ready?

your webcam was sitting on your desk, not properly hooked onto the top of your computer. it was plugged in but you hardly ever use it so it just sits where it is. should you set it up? ..no, you didn’t feel like it. your mic was completely ready though, as always. you and your friends would always play together on call, so it was your most used piece of equipment.

4 minutes.

your stomach twisted in anxiety.

choso sighed as he applied lotion all over his torso, all too used to the way he prepared everything during streams and bonus videos locked behind an even bigger paywall. this sidegig he was doing felt like a chore sometimes but money was money, and by god did this account make him a lot of it.

lots of women flocked to his account, entranced by the way his voice stuttered whenever he close, his hips that instinctively jerked because his hand wasn’t able to move any faster, and the whimpers that teared into the mic when he came all over his hands and milked himself for all that he’s worth. they mostly talked about how perfect his dick looked but that was an average comment in his chat.

he saw the friend request notification pop up on his computer and figured he’d at least get his cock hard before the call even started. he put on some random porno in the background, stroking himself with little care and when he got half-hard, he figured that would’ve been enough. he accepted the friend request and close the tab with the video playing, looking over to see that he had 4 minutes until he would start the call.

fingers moving expertisley across the keyboard, he made sure to tell you that the first 30 minutes of this session was free, any longer and you would have to start paying up. you replied with a very short, “got it.” and left it at that. you seemed to type out something more before it quickly went away, causing choso to raise an eyebrow. were you scared?

35 seconds.

choso was getting tired of waiting, so he began the call. unbeknownst to him, you freaked out when you heard the ringtone rumble through your speakers, hesitating to accept the call. in the end, you did anyway because you didn’t have to pay for this private session for 30 whole minutes.

the half-curse’s hand went back to his dick, stroking it with barely any passion behind his movements. however, he wasn’t expecting to see the face of the winner from the drawing within 5 minutes of the call, teeth biting into his fist as his other hand’s fingers worked himself open. choso swore he was no longer half-hard, dick twitching to life in his hands, pre already leaking from the tip of his cock.

he was used to mostly knowing that women were behind the screen and heavily suspected that you might’ve been one- but fuck, to know that another man was getting off to his voice, his cock, drove him wild.

maybe he’ll get rid of that 30 minute rule.

you didn’t mean to turn your webcam on.

you could feel your stomach sink when you could see yourself on full display for the camboy in the discord call. it was too late to turn it off now. whatever. you only live once.

“aren’t you just the cutest?” you aren’t sure why you flinched but the way his voice carried those words certainly got you feeling things, “how about you turn your mic on too, yeah? wanna hear your pretty voice.”

shakily, the hand you were biting on reaches for your mouse and you click unmute. your fingers that were inside you accidentally pressed against your prostate, causing a loud moan to fall from your lips, immediately slapping your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. you don’t want to get a noise complaint from the neighbors... again. the first time having to explain that to an officer was embarrassing enough.

“good boy,” he grunts into the mic, bucking his hips up with a loud smack coming from his end of the call, “jus’ the sweetest little thing, aren’t ya? betcha’d be just absolutely adorable if i were to fuck you stupid. it hasn’t even been 15 minutes and you’re drooling all over your pretty fingers.”

you didn’t even notice that you’ve been panting so much that spit began to run down your chin, too absorbed in the way the camboy’s dick spilled even more pre over his massive hands. fuck, just how strong could he be? could he manhandle you? yank your head back using your hair as a handle while blowing your back out? shove you down on his cock because you simply weren’t riding him fast enough?

“you got a dildo on you, baby?” he asks you, his hand slowing down to a stop. his words pulled you out of your abundance of fantasies to shift your focus back into reality, vision a little blurry from the tears resting on your eyelids.

you managed to fumble out a small, “mhmm..” just loud enough for him to hear and he tells you to grab it. in a slight daze, you reach into one of your many desk drawers to pull out the toy that sat in its box, already cleaned from its prior use.

“do a favor for me, yeah? put it in nice and slow, imagine it’s my cock stuffing you full. how big ‘s your toy? five- six inches?” he sure likes to ask a lot of stuff, you notice.

“‘s seven..” you mutter, wincing when you push the toy inside your hole, stretching you full and your mind goes numb.

he chuckles, deep and breathy and shit- “so you’re a size queen? that’s what they call it, right?” he starts pumping his fist around his cock again, albeit slower than before. you would take a bet that he was edging himself, “that’s it. such a good boy f’me.”

legs quaking in place, you managed to get it all inside you. sitting on it was much harder on your chair than you anticipated, the current position you were holding getting uncomfortable. cautiously, you lifted your hips, wrapping your hand around your own dick and giving it a few strokes while breathy moans left your lips, slamming yourself back down on the dildo. your eyes widened in surprise as the tip of it pressed against your prostate, a loud whimper echoing throughout your room.

“fuck-! you’re so cute, mmph- k-keep going, baby. i’m getting close- ah!” you could see that his hand was moving much faster than when you last looked up at your camera, quick breaths and filthy pleas paired with the desperate thrusts of his hips.

 stumbled cries left your lips when you began to keep up with his pace, fingers getting sticky with pre as you continue to stimulate yourself. through blurred tears, you could see his hips rut one last time before a stifled moan left his throat and his fist was coated with his cum, dripping onto his pants.

he winces at the overstimulation from just shifting his hand to let go of his softening cock, grabbing a tissue to clean himself up while watching you bounce up and down your toy. you could even say he was jealous. even so, he could tell you were pathetically chasing your own orgasm, breathy sighs escaping from the confines of your lips. eyes closed in slight shame yet concentration, your thumb came up to the tip of your dick and rubbed, causing a yelp to slip through and your eyes opened once more.

however, you weren’t expecting to see the gorgeous face behind the creator of all those inappropriate streams you’ve watched the second your hips slammed back down on the dildo. 

“[name]..”

ropes of your own release spilling out of your dick, it finally registered in your head that the camboy was willingly letting you see this. your thighs quaked not only in nervousness but also in fear that you might get a boner again just from how handsome he was. his face was pale although dusted with a bright hue of red covering his cheeks, eyebags signaling a lack of sleep, he had some sort of black line going over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, and slightly messy black hair tied up into short ponytails. if he wasn't attractive to anyone, he was at least attractive to you.

his pretty and slightly plump lips opened to speak once more, “do you.. wanna meet up in person..?”

“h-huh...?”

[inkykeiji]

youre so funny cause I eat scrambled eggs with ketchup for dinner like every night and my brother does nottttt understand how I dont need toast, bacon, cheese, garlic, spices and all that. im like leave me and my terrible stomach issues alone!!!!!

LITERALLY THO!!!!! omg get out i love scrambled eggs and ketchup!!! i love ketchup in general but i don’t eat like, hamburgers at all or anything you’d put ketchup on regularly other than eggs so hehehe c; i use them as an excuse to eat an obscene amount of ketchup (*/ω＼*) but yeah i eat a lot of steamed veggies with hot sauce, vegetable soups, and balsamic vinegar salads! those are pretty much my main meals and then i’ll snack on fruits, nuts & dark chocolate all throughout the day!

honestly i get a lot of comments on the way i eat very similar to ur brother and i genuinely think it is so fucking rude to comment on someone else’s food or eating habits >.>

[devilsminionpdf]

senior at my college who will conduct experiments on me for her exam and has agreed to make us ( me and a girl from my year ) lunch as a thank you: so what kind of lunch do you prefer

me, pickiest eater known to man: oh anything is fine :)

[mixtaper]

disagree w ur garlic opinions so hard BUT respect the bravery. i’m too scared to say i hate onions on here 😔

wow……this is so beautiful. 🤝 our values may not align but we are friends. you could all learn a thing or two from us

[lovedazai]

REUNITING AFTER MEURSAULT

ft. dazai, chuuya, fyodor + f!reader, desc. of blood & injuries, a little suggestive in chuuya’s part, au where fyodor survives wins in his part, s5 e61 & manga spoilers

DAZAI can’t believe he’s finally back home. your living room has never felt so cozy, with all the little pieces of your daily routine scattered around him. the same couch that he once complained was too small for his lanky legs feels heaven sent beneath him. his splinted leg is straightened in front of him, the other bent over the side of the cushions lazily.

he despised his tiny cell in meursault, with its transparent walls and bland food. it was impossible to sleep without you, waking up every hour and reaching over to empty, cold sheets. he only found solace in the messages ango left him ensuring your safety, and he left him secret codes to deliver to you in return.

it was like torture not being able to see you, not being able to touch you. he didn’t even feel the ache in his injured leg when you jumped into his arms when he first arrived home, holding you tighter than ever before. he never wanted to let you go again, but you slipped out of his grasp despite his whines, insisting on making him something homemade to eat after he snuck one last kiss.

even two rooms apart, his eyes never leave you. they trail down the curve of your spine, tracing the slope of your hips and the way they melt into the soft skin of your thighs. he’d yearned for the feeling of your skin beneath his hands every single day he was gone, and all he wants to do now is slide them around your waist. they’d fit perfectly there, like they always do; you were made for him, he swears it.

he thinks you look angelic when you turn towards him, with your pretty face enveloped by wisps of steam from the pan in front of you. a smile curls up on his lips instinctively when your gaze finds his, and he sits up.

“osamu,” you point your wooden spoon at him, spotted with miso and slices of green onion. he freezes, eyes big and blinking. “don’t move. you know you need to rest your leg.”

the cushions sink beneath him as he throws himself backward, a whine slipping through his pouted lips. “but i miss you, bella! i need your love to recover!”

he hears the click of the stove turning off and the soft clatter of you spooning his food out of the pan first, then the quiet steps of your socked feet approaching him. the bowl is hot against his hands when you hand it to him, full of warm, fluffy rice and fried vegetables.

your thigh presses against his as you sit on the edge of the couch. he’s blowing away the steam when you brush his bangs back, and he turns to you curiously. your thumb traces the spot chuuya’s bullet struck him, leaving behind a dull bump and a patch of discolored skin. you lean forward, delicately pressing your lips to the small bruise.

even after all this time, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to how gently you treat him, or the sheer amount of love he can feel through your every action. his palms are warm from the bowl when he cups your cheeks, pouring every part of himself he can into a kiss. you let him tilt your jaw and part your lips with his own, exhaling shakily through your nose.

you bury your head in his neck to ground yourself, breathing in the scent of him; not the smell of stale prison air and blood, but the mix of his body wash, the shampoo he stole from you, and his fresh, sterile bandages. he lets you hold him, even as his food cools against his lap.

“did you know?” you whisper, and he hums against you. “that you’d be come back?”

“no,” you can feel his bittersweet smile against your temple as he presses a kiss there. “not completely. but you trusted me, right?”

“always,” he feels the vibration of the world against his chest. “you just scare me sometimes. i need you, osamu. i can’t do this without you.”

“you won’t ever have to,” he squeezes you tighter against himself, eyes closing as he presses his nose into your hair. “just keep your trust in me. please.”

CHUUYA hated being away from you during the best of times. even a crowded sidewalk is enough for a gloved hand to stay pressed against your lower back, keeping you at his side.

the only place he can be completely certain you’ll be safe is with him on a regular day, and it heightens tenfold when half of his subordinates have turned into vampires. when mori calls him, telling him he’d have to fly out to europe, he stalls by the door to cup your cheeks, looking directly into your eyes.

“promise me something,” he whispers. “don’t open the door. don’t leave. just stay here, and if something goes wrong, you call ane-san. got it?”

“only if you promise to come back to me,” you whisper back. “or i’ll go over there and get you myself.”

he leaves with a desperate squeeze to your waist and a firm kiss goodbye, his promise pressed against your lips. he keeps it faithfully, welcomed home by you rushing into his arms as soon as he opens the door hours later, crying into his chest with a mumbled sob of his name.

“what’s wrong?” he pulls your face up to look at his. even with the smirk curled on his lips, you can see the relief in his eyes that he’s home, with you in his reach. “you didn’t think me and that shitty mackerel would lose, did you?”

“never,” you sniffle. you brush your fingertips through his bangs, holding his face between your palms. he doesn’t mind that your nose is running a little bit when you kiss him. the cool leather from his gloves sinks into your warming skin as he cups the base of your skull, his thumb tracing along the soft cartilage of your ear.

“god, chuuya,” he smells like smoke and metal when you pull back, and you can only imagine what he’s gone through the past few hours. “i was so scared you’d get caught.”

“you know i’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles, thumb stilling against the pulse point of the side of your neck. “no one can take me away from my best girl.”

you tilt your head, tracing the corner of his lips with your fingertip, a small, teasing smile growing on your own. “you kept these on?”

he frowns, tongue poking at the fangs stuck to his teeth. “i can’t get them off. boss used fuckin’ super glue.”

“don’t,” you thread your hand through the long pieces of hair, twirling them through your fingers and pulling them over his shoulder. “you look sexy like this.”

“i do?” he leans closer, until his nose brushes yours, and squeezes your hips, fingertips spreading towards your rear. “what else?”

“we’re going to open the good wineー” you grin, draping your arms around his shoulders.

“my good wine.”

“our good wine,” you giggle, kissing his nose. “because i want to forget this whole shitshow ever happened and show my new vampire boyfriend how hot he is after he saved the world.”

“it was no big deal,” he grumbles, cheeks dusted pink as he looks down at your feet, stroking your hips in small circles. “but if you want to celebrate, then i guess we can.”

you cup his cheeks, peppering kisses all over his face. one to the bridge of his nose, another to the straight edge of his eyebrows, then another on the dip of his cupid’s bow.

“alright, alright,” he cups your jaw, pulling you back to his lips for a proper kiss. “c’mon. show me how much you really missed me.”

when FYODOR reaches to open the hideout door, he uses his right hand out of habit.

he looks at it with disdain as it throbs painfully against the ill-fitting bandages, white cotton heavy with blood and in need of a change. he wasn’t used to pain like this, and he swears he’ll never let himself come to physical harm again. he can’t afford to be so careless.

his eyes fall back to the door. you’re waiting for him behind it, aren’t you? he’d taken every precaution he could think of when he left you. it wasn’t like him to overcompensate, but you seemed to be the exception for everything.

he’d flown through the night to get back to you, and when he twists the doorknob open, he’s met with sunlight from the open blinds. he feels something he can’t explain settle in his stomach at the sight of you, safe and sound, curled in a blanket on the couch, one of his books on your lap. he thought you would’ve loved the starry sky outside of meursault, beautiful and unpolluted, but something about you in the glow of golden hour, coating the room in honey, felt more appropriate for someone as sweet as you.

“fedya?” your voice is still soft with sleepiness, lips trembling around the sweet nickname.

he smiles, but it drops as his vision swims and the room tilts as you dash off the couch and lunge at him. he steadies his wobbly legs as you wrap yourself completely around his lithe torso, his body weakened from blood loss and pure exhaustion.

“hello, my dear,” he kisses the top of your head, inhaling deeply. you smell so much sweeter than the stale air of meursault’s basement, and he catches the lingering scent of black tea in the air. he pets your head with his good hand, letting you bury your face into his chest, even if he wishes you wouldn’t. he didn’t want you to dirty your pretty face on his prison uniform, still damp from dazai’s trick.

when you pull away, your eyes are glassy, drawn to the saturated bandages and their stark contrast against his pale skin.

“oh my god,” he narrows his eyes at your language as you grab his wrist. “fedya, your hand…”

you push him down firmly to take a seat on the couch. closer to his height, you cup his cheeks, looking at him like you can’t believe he’s truly there. you kiss his forehead, lips lingering before you mumble a quiet “i’ll be right back.”

when you return, it’s with a first aid kit and another cup of tea. your eyes water as you unwrap the messy bandages from his hand, taking in the sight of his bloody, marred skin.

“you can’t afford to lose this much blood,” you whisper.

“it’d be ideal if i didn’t lose any blood at all. wouldn’t you agree?” he smiles, but you don’t reciprocate. this close, you look more exhausted than anything else, and he frowns that he didn’t notice sooner; you were worried sick about him, weren’t you?

“what if you died?” you ask, voice breaking around the words.

he cups your cheek with his good hand, thumb brushing beneath your tired eyes. he frowns at the thought of you losing sleep over his return without him being there to soothe you. he can tell you’ve been restless, with the mess of his books scattered around the room, the papers on his desk clearly reorganized and studied over in his absence.

“that’d never happen,” he presses his thumb firmer into your cheek, raising your gaze to meet his. “not yet. i still have to be here for you.”

you re-wrap his hand gently, more gently than anyone else has ever dared to touch him. your fingers are tender as they graze his skin, cotton and ointment cooling against his burns. you tighten it securely, finishing with a press of your lips against the bandages before you cradle it gently in your lap.

his eyes grow heavy, and before he realizes it, he’s falling forward, head landing on your shoulder. he scolds himself again, but it’s different this time. he’s safe here. your lips brush his temple, hands rubbing on his shoulder as you lean back, taking him with you.

“you can rest now,” your voice is soft, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed hearing it. you press a kiss to the crown of his head, exhaling deeply as your lips linger. he feels the kind of warmth you can only get from laying next to another body. your hand trails up the relaxed curve of his shoulder blades until your fingers thread through his hair. “you’re home, fedya.”

BSD MASTERLIST

[ddejavvu]

eddie brock is the og loser boyfriend and i can’t stop thinking about venom just like completely bullying him when he’s in a relationship like his partner is like this drop dead gorgeous person and eddie wears the same sweaty jacket all the time and eats frozen tater tots haha

"There are crumbs on your shirt." Venom observes, and when Eddie nods with a noncommittal grunt, he continues, "And it is not a shirt. It is a sweatshirt. A sweaty sweatshirt, Eddie. And you wore it yesterday."

"That I did," Eddie crams another handful of chips into his mouth, salted and straight from the bag. His attention remains solely on the television in front of him, and Venom's goopy form shakes its head.

"Y/N is coming over later." He reminds the human, watching with disdain as Eddie chokes slightly on his mouthful because of the way he's slouched in his seat. He swallows regardless, and when he speaks, his voice is gruff from the irritation in his throat.

"Yeah, she'll be here in a few minutes," Eddie nods, "Hey, do you think they fake this show? The drama, and all."

Venom has no interest in whether the trashy reality show that Eddie is so enraptured by is fake or not. He cares that you'll be here any minute now, and Eddie looks like a corpse that's been rotting for a few days.

When the doorbell rings, Eddie moves to get up. Crumbs begin raining onto the carpet and he groans as his lazy joints ache, so Venom shoves him back into place with a strong tentacle and uses another to stretch and open the door for you.

You're clearly expecting a person on the other side, but you're quick to recognize the tentacle you're met with instead. It wraps greedily around your waist and you place your hand over its sticky form, grinning as you're barely able to shut the door behind you before Venom yanks you over to the couch.

"Hi, baby," Eddie greets, tipping his head onto the back of the sofa to grin upside-down at you, "How are you?"

"Good," You lean down to kiss him upside down, and Venom is appalled that you're willing to put your lips on Eddie's crumb-coated ones.

"Sour cream and onion?" You guess, and you're rewarded with the near-empty bag of them that Eddie had been demolishing.

You settle happily onto the couch by Eddie's side with the chips in your hand, and when Venom begins to let go of you you hold his tentacle in place. The symbiote watches you silently for a moment, observing your behavior and thinking a whole host of unsavory thoughts about humans and their disgusting tendencies.

"I do not understand," Venom interrupts your gushy sentiments with Eddie about how terrible the acting is on so-called 'reality' shows, "Eddie is disgusting."

The man's nose wrinkles and you let out a scoff of a laugh.

"Thank you, Venom. That's very kind of you. Did you forget you're made of slime?"

"Slime does not sweat. And I do not have crumbs stuck all over me."

"Venom, being in a relationship with someone means that you need to be comfortable with them. We don't have to dress up all the time, Y/N knows what I look like in pajamas and I've seen her hair unbrushed in the morning."

Venom, too, recalls the rather impressive tangled mess of hair that you sport after a night of deep sleep.

"You do not mind that he smells?" Venom turns to you, his milky-white eyes blinking with a squelch.

"He's smelled worse," You give a half-shrug, only one of your shoulders moving as you squirm closer to Eddie beneath the blanket he's draped over you.

"You're both too good to me," Eddie grins, batting his lashes sarcastically, "Careful not to flatter me too much, don't want my head to get too big to fit in my helmet."

Venom regards Eddie for a moment, then thinks of the motorcycle helmet the man breathes into every day. It's repulsive.

"Your head is already abnormally large," Venom observes, settling into Eddie's shoulder opposite from you, "I will keep insulting you so that it does not get bigger. You are repulsive."

[ramp-it-up]

Try a Little Tenderness

Paring: Mob Boss! Steve Rogers x Reader

Word count: 3.7 K

Summary: Steve can’t win you with presents. He’s got to try a little tenderness.

Warnings: 18+ As always, MINORS DNI, SMUT, Lil bit of ANGST. Not Beta’d. All mistakes my own. Pining, flirting, organized crime, implied ice skating, teasing, former jerky boyfiend, inexperienced reader, nipple play, oral (both receiving) p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up!) breeding kink, size kink, crying during sex, violence (due to mob world).

A/N: This is for #DJ’sAllIWant4KChristmas and based on this ask.

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“Good morning, Steve!”

You were stocking onions, but you looked up and smiled as the tall blond entered the store, setting off the bell. He was well built and handsome and wearing a fine wool coat with a red scarf. It was a cool December, but New York had not yet had its first big snowfall.

“Mornin’, Ambrosia,” came his gruff response. 

You kind of liked his early morning voice. And the nickname. The first time he came in, he’d picked up an apple, already biting into it but also already paying. He handed you a twenty and said, “Mmmmm, Name?”, pointing to you with the apple. Flustered, you replied with the name of the apple instead of your name and the rest was history. 

This morning, Steve smiled at you and his blue eyes were sparkling. They always sparkled when he looked at you. He seemed very sweet.

“The usual.”

You laughed and went behind the counter to wash your hands.

“Of course, already had the fixin’s set up for you.”

You started the water for the espresso and got out the fresh everything bagels you’d put aside for him. Steve was one of your best customers, coming in every morning, and several evenings. He’d been coming in for about four months now.

Steve settled at the counter and watched you prepare his food. He looked at his watch: 7:42 am. He knew you'd been at work almost two hours now and that you were working very hard. One of your braids had come undone from your bun, and he wanted to put it back, but he didn’t touch you. You wore no makeup, yet your skin always glowed, and when you looked up at him, his heart nearly stopped. 

You were naturally beautiful. And your apron did not hide your curves. Or the fact that you were wearing the same pants that you’d worn three days ago. Steve figured that you didn’t have many clothes. He had the urge to take you shopping on Madison Avenue and let you go crazy. But somehow he knew you would never blow a load of cash on clothing. And that’s part of why he was so far gone on you.

He watched you battle your espresso machine with bemusement.

“Why haven’t you set up your new machine yet?”

You stopped and put your hands on your hips, looking so cute that Steve restrained himself from jumping over the counter.

“Is that from you?” You shook your head. “I suspected it.” 

Steve had unexpectedly given you many gifts, the espresso machine, a cash register. He’d even tried to have a new walk in cooler installed. You refused and sent back everything he’d sent. It wasn’t right. He barely knew you. 

You wondered what he did for a living, always dressed in the finest and able to afford multiple thousand dollar gifts. You figured that he was one of those Angel investors. Well, he wasn’t very good at being anonymous.

You watched as Steve gave you a lopsided grin, then leaned over the counter toward him. 

“Listen. Steve. Mr. Rogers.” 

You looked from his eyes, to his perfect lips, to his golden St. Christopher’s medal. He smelled so damn good. You bit your lip and Steve smiled, warmed by your proximity. This was his chance.

“Yeah, Ambrosia?”

“I’m not taking your gifts.”

You straightened up abruptly, handed him his drinks and finished his order. You gave him two folded newspapers.

“One Daily News for your friend and one News Day for you.” 

“Have you thought about it yet?”

You raised your eyebrow at him.

“About what?”

You thought he was finally going to ask you on a date. You knew the main reason he came in was to check you out. But you weren’t about to be bought.

“About the possibility of getting The Times in here? Alright, the Sunday Times at least.”

“Sorry Steve, it doesn’t sell. If it doesn’t sell, I don’t order. Can’t afford a non starter. But I do subscribe to the Sunday Times myself for the crossword. You can borrow mine any time.”

You winked at him. Something about Steve brought out your inner flirt.

Steve wanted to say something about sharing the Sunday Times in bed, but he thought better of it. Any other girl, and he would have been able to spit all kinds of game. But with you, he was tongue tied.

Steve sipped his coffee and shook his head as you gave him his bag.

“You are the most stubborn person I have ever met.”

You waved at him as he stood up.

“Have a great day!”

Steve chuckled at your dismissal as he walked out of the door. Bucky was waiting by the car. Steve handed him his cup and sandwich. 

“Send Sam to pick up the espresso machine.”

“Still a tough nut, eh?”

“Yeah. She’s still refusing gifts…”

Steve got in the passenger seat while Bucky sat behind the wheel.

“Instead of giving her all of this expensive shit, why don’t you just be nice to her?Ask her out ice skating or something.”

Steve scoffed. He didn’t know how to ask a girl out anymore. He felt like that scrawny kid running around with Bucky back in the day. Now, women were always clawing at each other to get to him. And they always wanted something. 

Steve didn’t respond to Bucky, just asked about his calendar.

“What’s on the agenda for today, Buck?”

“We gotta meet with the truckers today. They don’t want to bend to our terms.” Steve put on his sunglasses. 

“We know what to do to make ‘em bend, don't we Buck?”

“Sure do, buddy.” 

You were in your walk up apartment above the store halfway listening to the 10 o’clock news. They were doing a story about an explosion at the Eatern Tri-State Trucking hub in Bay Ridge as you put your body oil on after your shower. The reporter indicated that authorities thought that the Valkyrie crime organization was behind it. You were zoning out looking forward to the next day.

You were glad that Janie and Nate would be back at work tomorrow. Nate had just taken a week off, and Janie had recovered from the flu.  You were going to take the next afternoon off. You could have taken the entire day, but you wanted to open up for some reason.

Running an organic bodega in Brooklyn was a tough job, but the business was growing, but it was even tougher when your help was not there. You deserved a bit of a break.

The next morning, you were humming an Otis Redding song when Steve came in. You looked over your shoulder and caught him looking at your ass.

“Good morning, Mr. Rogers.”

“Mornin’ Ambrosia.”

“The usual?”

Steve wanted to say no, I want to ask you to marry me, but that might be a little too forward.

“Yeah.”

He sat down at the counter and noticed that you had on something brand new. When you turned around, he gestured to your outfit.

“What’s the occasion?”

You looked down and then grinned. 

“This outfit is my Christmas present to myself. I’m taking the afternoon off and I’m going into the city to go to the Central Public Library.”

Steve tried to respect your glee. But he had to do it.

“How thrilling.”

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch, “ you quipped.

Steve laughed at you. He thought about what Bucky said the day before.

“Grinch hunh. Well, would a Grinch offer to take you ice skating instead?”

You turned around and leaned on the counter. Steve leaned toward you.

“I don’t know. Are you offering, Mr. Grinch?”

You loved teasing him. Steve groaned.

“C’mon. I’m trying here. Ambrosia. Do you want to go ice skating with me in the city this afternoon? And to dinner afterward.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

Steve was very close to you now, staring at your lips.

“Yes.”

You stood up and put your hands on your hips.

“It’s about time. Sure!”

Steve laughed at how easy it was. You shoved his order into his hands.

“Pick me up at 1.”

Steve was grinning like an idiot out at the car, and didn't know how he got there.

“So you finally asked her out, hunh?”

Steve snapped out of it as he got in the passenger seat.

“Move the talks up to 10. I’m taking the afternoon off.”

“Rumlow is stalling. I can handle it this evening.”

“You sure?”

Bucky looked at his best friend.

“Sure as shootin’.”

You and Steve had a great afternoon, and Steve thought that ice skating was genius. He had to thank Bucky. You had to hold hands to stay steady, and when he pulled you in close, you didn’t pull back so you could stay warm. He didn’t know that you were thinking the same things.

Steve got to treat you to Via Carota and you two walked right in. The food was great, the wine was amazing, and you even stole a kiss in your corner booth. The night was perfect.

He drove you back to your place and you sat in the car for a minute. He’d been a perfect gentleman, and you were the one to make the first move with the kiss. You looked at him quizzicaly.

“Can I ask you something, Steve?”

“Yes, Ambrosia, anything.”

“After today, this afternoon and tonight. Do you still like me?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course. Why do you ask?”

You looked down. 

“Well, you’ve been such a gentleman. I see how you look at me, all hungry all the time. And the gifts. I don’t know. I just thought you’d be. You know. More…”

“Aggressive?” Steve responded.

“Well. yeah. I just thought.”

You looked back up and saw that Steve’s eyes had darkened.

“I am not a gentle man in my everyday life, Ambrosia. And I know that I can come on strong. But you make me want to be tender with you. I want to cherish you.”

“Oh.”

And Steve pulled you in for a sweet, but sexy kiss.

“So, yes, I still like you. And I have very aggressive thoughts about you. Want to ruin you in fact. But I want to do it carefully. Make you feel it. And make you glad you did.”

“Oh. No one has ever…damn, Steve.”

He recognized that you had been hurt.

“Here’s an aggressive question. What kind of an asshole would make you feel that way about yourself? His name is all I need.”

You laughed.

“Do you want to come up for the answer?” You cocked your head at him as he chuckled and nodded.

“Yes.”

When you got up to your place, you were settled with a glass of wine on your couch.

“I’m not going to give you his name, but I will tell you that we were together for a few months, and we only did it a few times. He’s the only one I’ve ever been with.”

The way you looked as him made Steve’s heart soft, but other things hard.

“It…It didn’t feel good. He said I was frigid and too small. I… I went to the doctor and everything. She said I was fine physically. So I figured it must have been in my mind and I haven’t been able to get out of my head after that. He broke it off and then I just decided to focus on work.”

You peered at Steve to see his reaction.

Steve’s eyes flashed with anger, then cooled.

“That joker is a fucking idiot.” 

His eyes traced your body.

“He didn’t know what to do with all this?”

Steve reached for you and kissed you, this time with undeniable passion. You broke away and stood up, offering him your hand.

“Show me, Steve.”

He stood up and followed you to your bedroom.

You stood at the foot of the bed and reached up to kiss Steve, and he picked you up and sat down, sitting you down with both of your legs over his. You made out like this, Steve’s hands still in neutral places until you whined and scooted closer to him.

Then, he went under your sweater, finding your nipple in your bra and brushing it with his thumb. He was exhibiting intense will power, but he couldn’t hold it all back as you responded to his passionate kisses.

Steve lifted your sweater off and your tank top, which was underneath, with it. Your bra contained your breasts, but your nipples were erect and straining against the material. He brought your body towards his for a kiss, his thick fingers pressing and playing with your sensitive buttons. He had you squirming on his lap as he reached around and expertly unfastened your bra.

He looked down at you and then back up, eyes hungry. You’d been yearning for that look.

“I’m gonna cherish this moment, get you ready for me, Baby. You’re gonna feel so good.”

He was weighing and kneading your breast and tenderly flicking your nipple, then he leaned down and kissed you, moving down your neck and collarbone, descending your chest and kissing all around your areolas, teasing your stiff nipples.

He had you moaning and writhing, wanting some friction for your cunt.

“Patience, Baby. You’re gonna get everything you deserve. Including this.”

Steve moved your hand to the hard member in his pants, which you tried to grip in vain through his slacks. You whimpered in frustration.

“I know. I know. I want to do so many things with you.” 

Steve’s fingers were in your leggings, through our panties and tracing your wet pussy lips gently as he finally started sucking your nipples. You pulled his hair wantonly as he teased you.

“Mmmmm. Who’s got you all wet, Ambrosia?” he asked, as he pulled his fingers out and put them in his mouth.

“Y-you, Steve… unhhhhh.”

The sight of him relishing your taste made you even wetter. And he found out, because his hand was right back down your pants. 

His lips were at your ear and he was breathing hard.

“Can I…”

His thick finger parted your lips and the rough pads of two fingers slid over your clit into your wetness. You arched your back in anticipation.

“...Can I eat you out, my sweet Ambrosia?”

His voice and the request sent you on a tailspin. You nodded vigorously as Steve pulled his hand out to your whine of desperation at the loss of contact.

You quickly stood up as Steve captured your hips to stand still in front of him. His eyes raked up and down your form as he took hold of the waistband of your pants, and slowly pulled them and your panties down your legs. You stepped out of them and Steve’s hands ran back up your form as you looked down at him. He grabbed the backs of your thighs as he pulled you near him.

Steve put one knee over his shoulder and stared at your most intimate part. 

“She’s a sweet little flower. So pretty and tight.”

His fingers were parting your folds so he could see even more.

“But she will be ready for my thick cock, I know she will, Ambrosia.”

He pulled you forward and held you up as he licked through you, almost causing a near stroke as far as you could tell. 

“Mmmmmm,” Steve’s eyes rolled back into his head.  “You are so sweet. I could eat you all night.”

You almost cried as he dove back in, grabbing his hair for purchase. He grabbed your bottom and stood to place you on the bed. He kneeled on the floor and held you down and open with his huge hands.

Steve started his feast, gently licking at first, then made you build to a crescendo as he started tongue fucking you. He made sure to stimulate your nipples, and when he felt your hard little nub vibrate, he sucked your clit hard as you came.

“Was that good?”

“Oh my stars, that was good.”

You both laughed.

“You’re so fucking cute, Ambrosia, but there’s levels to this.”

You sat up and watched as  he took off his shirt. You were sure that your eyes were sparkling now.

“It’s just going to get better and better.”

He was just clad in his black boxer briefs, a huge bulge leading the charge. He reached in and you were certain that he was going to pull out an entire pack of socks, but instead, he showed you the largest, thickest dick you’d ever seen. Your eyes were like saucers. You were a little afraid, but your legs fell open out of reflex. 

“See what you do to me?”

You bit your lip and nodded, reaching out and touching it tentatively.

“I’ve never seen one that big.”

You looked up at him and his heart melted simultaneously as his cock jumped. Your trembling fingers around him made him almost bathe your hand in his spend.

“Oh, Baby.. So sweet.”

“You are too, Steve. I want to taste you.”

You looked up at him through your lashes and Steve groaned, trembling with the effort to hold back.

“Christ… I’m…I…. Whatever you want, Baby.”

You stared at his cock for what seemed like forever. Then, you tentatively reached out and kitten licked his tip, causing him to groan as he palmed the back of your head.

“You’re killing me here, Ambrosia.”

“Hmmm.” You smiled. “Lay down for me, Steve.”

He did as he was told and put his arm behind his head to watch you. The way his muscles bulged inspired you anew. He reached down and roamed his fingers over your body as you hovered over him. You stroked him a couple of times and then played with his balls, Steve putty in your hands.

“B-babyyyy.”

You smiled in triumph that you had him whining as you spread your lips over the thick mushroom cap and sucked it into your mouth vigorously, causing him to moan and buck his hips up. You took the cue and drew him into your mouth, making him hit the back of your throat and gag.

“Holyyyyyy sssssshit. Stop. StopStopStopStop.”

Steve pulled you off his dick, which made you release him with a plop. He sat up and stared at you, disbelief in his eyes. 

“Did I do it wrong?”

“Did you do it wrong. Fuck, you almost made me…. C’mere.”

You giggled as you ended up with your back on the bed again, Steve eating you out, this time one finger inside you as you came. You were in shambles as he looked up at you and inserted another finger inside as his opposite thumb stroked your still-quivering clit.

“Gotta get you up to three. Hold on.”

You did, and when he crooked his fingers this time, you let out a wail that caused dogs to bark down the street.

After your fourth orgasm, Steve looked up, smiling ear to ear.

“Still want this dick?”

You scowled at him.

“If you don’t…”

He laughed as he kneeled between your legs, stroking the magnificent beast. You opened your legs even wider and stared down at it.

“No. look at me, look at me. You’re ready. I got you Baby.”

Steve supported himself with one arm as he got nearer to you and started swiping his head between your folds. You keened as he entered you.

“Ow. Steveeeee.”

Your face looked so adorable as you struggled to take him.

“Holy shit, you’re, fuck you’re so….”

Steve kissed you through your moan of shock and pleasure as he slid all the way home. You gripped his bicep, your fingernails leaving marks. Steve pecked your lips as you pounded together, waiting for you to get used to him.

“You ok? You good?”

Steve checked to make sure you were okay. You nodded at him with tears in your eyes.

“I- I- think it feels good. You’re so big, Steveee. But.. but I like it….”

You started moving, a little at first, and then more wantonly. Steve looked down to where you were impaled upon his dick.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You are perfect. Just so.. Fucking… tiny…. But made for me…Shit.”

You felt Steve’s cock jumping inside you when he said those words, and you clasped your hands behind his back and uttered, “More!”

And that’s when you began to get fucked. Tenderly yet filthily. It was the best Steve had ever had, trying to be gentle and knowing that he wanted to put the bed under the ground. It was such a turn on. The ragged moans that you gave him with each stroke was a gift from god, and he started cumming before he could think.

“Shit! I didn’t use a condom…Fuck. But why does that just motivate me to keep going?” 

Steve laughed into your ear as he kept stroking for dear life. He was usually so careful, knowing that most women wanted his kid. But with you he didn’t care. You wrapped your legs around him, taking the pounding he was giving you now.

“Hmmmmmm. You want me to put a baby inside you? Pump you so full of cum that you get all round and full with my seed?”

“Hnnnnghhh. Steve… I…”

“Tell me. Do you want it? You want me to get you pregnant?”

“Ohhhh shitttttttt! Steeeveeeeee!”

You detonated around him and Steve cursed, finally pulling out and jacking hard onto your stomach as three fingers on the other hand continued to fuck you through your orgasm. His pearly spend looked beautiful on your skin.

“So gorgeous. There’s time for that yet, but we gotta get you to a doctor, because I don’t want to do this too many more times. And fucking you with condoms is no longer an option.”

You were fucked out, absentmindedly playing in his cum, causing him to spurt one last rope onto your fingers. When you brought them to your mouth was when he shivered. He collapsed beside you.

“I can’t even explain how good that was.”

You just smiled at him, lips shiny with gloss that he made.

“You are an angel. A Christmas angel.”

Steve sighed as you smiled at him. He got up and went to your bathroom to clean up and get a warm towel.

“I’m hungry.”

“Anything you want, Babe. I’ll get it for you.”

You grabbed the remote and  turned on the tv, catching the tail end of the news.

“Shootout in DUMBO tonight between the Rumlow and Valkyrie crime organizations. Several high-ranking officers dead or injured, including Brock Rumlow and James Bucky Barnes. More news when we have it.”

“Steve? Bucky? What’s going on? Valkyrie?”

Steve was up and grabbing for his clothes, an inscrutable look on his face.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this, but I gotta go.” 

He gave you a quick kiss. 

“Don’t leave. Sam will come back with some food for you and he will stay with you. Don’t open the store tomorrow.”

“But Steve!”

“No buts! I will call.”

And then Steve disappeared into the night, leaving you with so many questions.

Knock that reblog button off the block fa me. 😉

Read part two, All I Want.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Simmer #5

CH5. Wake 'n' Bake | The Menu [4.9K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

“Well, you don’t know what we can find. Why don’t you come with me, little girl? On a magic carpet ride.”

The diner was quiet and the radio was louder than usual, lilting through the kitchen and between the empty tables. It was a too hot Sunday, with most of the usual clientele swapping leather booths for loungers by the community pool. Only Mr Creel sat in his usual stool by the bar, parked perfectly underneath the TV screen that was playing the same old western movie that came on every day at three o’clock. Jonathan was manning the counter, pouring the old man refills when he grumbled, whistling as he went. 

Everyone else had either gone home earlier or was preparing for the night shift that started at eight that evening. The diner was too hot, the old AC barely keeping up, blowing out a whisper of cool air that you and Jonathan had taken turns standing under, watching the glass door for any signs of life out on the street. 

None came. 

So you’d long taken off your apron and after some internal arguing with yourself, you had plucked up the courage to push the doors to the kitchen open. There wasn’t much happening there either. Eddie was the only chef in, clock watching until there was a customer to feed or for when Argyle would arrive to take over the next shift. 

And now? Well, now you think you were just annoying him. But he was allowing it, and that was something. 

“And what’s that?” You asked for the fourth time. 

You were hunkered down on the stool you’d dragged over to Eddie’s station, elbows on the stainless steel and your cheeks squished between your hands as you watched the boy work. He’d told you and Jonathan he’d made some lunch, and after some back and forth (Eddie argued enough until Jonathan gave in), Eddie was making some ramen. 

“It’s gochujang,” Eddie mumbled back. He was too busy concentrating as he tapped a teaspoon of the red paste into the pot on the stove. He was more relaxed than you’d seen him, with no big orders to cook, he’d been humming along to the radio, his curls knotted on the top of his head to keep himself cool. He’d merely smiled when you plopped yourself down at his table. “And if you ask me what something is again, m’gonna put you in this pot too.”

You didn’t take offence, not anymore. You scrunched your face at him. “Mean,” you said. “When’s it ready? It smells real good.”

“Soon. And I’m not mean,” he grumbled back, tossing some ramen noodles into the pot that had been ready to overspill with bubbles. “You’re annoying.”

You gasped, all faux dramatics. “And he’s rude too,” you told no one. You grinned when Eddie rolled his eyes and shook his head, but when he bent over to chop up some spring onion at a scarily fast speed, you saw him smile. “Can I do anything?”

“You could get us some drinks,” Eddie suggested and he peered out of the hatch at the empty tables. Mr Creel glared back. “Seeing as you know, you’re not doing anything. At all.”

You huffed but there was a laugh under it that Eddie was beginning to recognise. He raised his brows at you as you let your sneakers slap onto the floor, hands pushed to the worktop as if getting up was an awfully exhausting thing. “I suppose I could manage that,” you told him wistfully. “If you’ll cope without my help for five minutes.”

Eddie snorted, stirring a delicious smelling broth he had simmering in another pot. He levelled you with a stare that a month ago, would’ve made your stomach churn with nerves. “I’ll try,” he played along. “I’ll tell Jim it was your fault if the kitchen burns down though.”

“Snitch. Coke?” You asked him as you made your way to the door. 

“Just the one line, sweetheart, I’m driving,” Eddie smirked back. 

He had an adorable habit of letting his head tilt to the side when he joked with you, as rare as it sometimes could still be. Dimples in both cheeks, stray curls over those big eyes, thick lashes that he liked to bat at you when he thought he was being real funny. It was becoming a problem. 

“You’re hilarious,” you told him flatly from the other side of the hatch, shooting some soda from the gun into a glass for him. “Jonathan, coke?” You called to the other boy from across the diner, holding up an empty glass for him too. 

“Shhh!” Mr Creel hissed at you, teeth bared, brows furrowed and you grimaced back, a smile that wasn’t customer service worthy but you’d long learnt to stay away from him. 

“God, stop annoying the customers,” Eddie told you when you came back in holding two pints of coke, he was grinning as he ladled your lunch into a big blue bowl, letting his eyes settle on you as you passed him his drink. 

“Don’t tell Jim,” you joked, but the humour in your voice fell flat as you watched Eddie bring the glass to his lips and gulp the fizz down. 

His neck bobbed as he swallowed, chin tilting up and back as he led his eyes flutter close and you could help but stare at the line of his jaw, the up and down of his Adam’s apple, the push of his lips against the cup. Your mouth felt dry, your head a little empty and when he opened his eyes and put the empty glass down, you were still staring. 

“What?” Eddie was staring back. 

You shook your head, words unable to form. You stuttered and stammered and shrugged your shoulders, gripping tightly to your own glass. “Nothing,” you finally managed. “What?”

“What?” Eddie squinted at you. 

“What?” You asked again, before you could help yourself and you realised too late that you’d asked him a question there wasn’t even an answer to. “Shit.”

The corner of the boy’s mouth lifted and he looked at you, amused, if not a little concerned. “Okay,” he drawled, sliding your lunch over to you. “Here, eat. Lack of good food must be makin’ you loopy or somethin’, christ.”

So you ate in silence, sitting across from Eddie and exchanging shy smiles as he watched you hum at each flavour, nodding at Jonathan when he slapped him on the back in thanks, taking his own bowl outside so he could smoke at the same time. It was a new kind of friendship that still made you nervous, too aware when Eddie looked at you - like, really looked at you. Eyes earnerst, watching, gauging what you liked and what you didn’t. He knew that a scrunch of your nose meant you were unsure, a little taptaptap of your feet on the stool meant you loved it. 

He still made you shy, even though you spoke more. Stomach dipping and somersaulting when he called your name out of the hatch, some kind of plate made up for you, grouching good naturedly about how you needed to stop skipping meals. It made your heart jolt when he got too close, when fingers brushed as he passed you a bowl of fruit, a sandwich you could inhale between serving tables. 

But then again, maybe that wasn’t nerves. Maybe that was just the crush you were telling yourself you didn’t have. 

It was becoming harder to lie. 

“Good?” Eddie asked like always, letting his foot kick gently against yours. He’d finished his own bowl and was watching you with a fond look on his face as you wrestled with the last few noodles. 

You nodded and hummed happily, “mhmm. Could’ve done with some more salt though.”

Eddie did a double take, lips parted to argue because he knew that broth was damn perfect, before he realised you were joking. He narrowed his eyes at your grin, tried to hide his own smile when you laughed. 

“Oh, she’s actin’ real cute today, huh?” He snarked but everything about him told you he thought you were hilarious. He took your empty bowl from you, poked at your shoulder with a chopstick. “The self proclaimed crybaby s’gettin’ bold.”

It was a meaner type of teasing that you’d grown used to, but still, you wrinkled your nose at the boy as your cheeks burned, head ducking down at the memories of your teary eyed encounters with certain customers. You heard Eddie laugh as he dumped the bowls in the sink, but it wasn’t a cruel sound at all. And when you lifted your chin back up from your chest, he was back on the other side of the work station, elbows on the stainless steel and leaning over to you. Close. Closer than before. 

You blinked and Eddie smiled, a lazy, knowing thing, his eyes darting over your face like he was able to read you. Maybe he could. “There she is,” he murmured softly. “Shy thing.”

“Oh my god,” you tried to joke weakly, your voice a soft, embarrassed drawl. “Stop.”

It made Eddie laugh, a wide grin pushing at his cheeks until the dimples you rarely got to see appeared. You wanted to push a finger to one, to see if the tip of it would fit perfectly into the dip. You sat on your hands instead. 

“What?” The boy asked. “She’s got no jokes now?” But he smiled a little softer and went back to preparing the dough for tomorrow’s rolls, not saying anything else when you leaned back over the counter to watch. If you’d looked up, taken your eyes off the way his big hands kneaded at the sticky mess, you’d have caught the boy watching you, still smiling. Awfully fond. 

—————

“Hey,” you interrupted a while later, once Robin had arrived to take over you shift, once Argyle was throwing some burgers on the grill for the customers that had finally shown up. “What’re you doing tonight?”

 Eddie looked a little startled as he closed over his locker, chef whites in a bundle in his bag, ready for washing. He blinked at you, pretty, pouted lips parted as he wondered where this conversation would lead. “Uhh, I- I dunno. Probably gonna go home, roll a joint and wait for another day in this shithole to start. Why?”

You wondered if Eddie could hear your heartbeat. ‘Cause it echoed in your ears, inside your head. A thud that made your mouth feel a little dry and suddenly the bravery you’d felt when asking that question melted away with the boy’s gaze on you. You weren’t sure what you’d planned to ask. Maybe if he knew of any good films to rent. Maybe if there was a nice park to explore. Maybe if he’d want to hang out—

“That sounds like a really good night,” you said instead, a nervous laugh following your words and Eddie’s brows shot up in surprise. 

“You smoke?” He asked in disbelief. 

You shrugged, leaning back against your locker as you tried not to sound completely uncool. “Kinda? Not really. I don’t like to smoke it but- but I’d sometimes, you know, bake some brownies or something. I haven’t done it in a while, but—” you wrinkled your nose. “—moving to a new city really makes you wanna just… get really fucking high.”

Eddie was laughing and nodding, beaming at you with a pink flush covering his cheeks. You watched him swallow hard and then gesture to the door. He almost couldn’t meet your eyes when he said, “d’you, uh, wanna come hang out? Smoke with me?”

It took Eddie a whole ten minutes to drive to his house. A trailer that was tucked into the back of the park you passed every day. You shot him a look when he parked up and he rolled his eyes, like he knew what you were about to say. 

“You drove me all the way home that day, when you live, like, seconds away from—“

“Oh, shut up,” he told you, scrunching his face. “It was a fuckin’ tsunami that day. You weren’t walkin’ anywhere.” He nipped his fingers playfully at your knee as he bent over to snatch his rucksack from the footwell. When he sat back up, he was too close. You held your breath. “Besides, Wayne told me I had to, remember?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes then, shoving at his shoulder as he cackled. “God, you’re such a gentleman.” 

He was still laughing as he jumped out the van, surprising you as he appeared at your door to open it as you busied yourself with gathering your bag and jacket. Eddie waved his hand in a dramatic gesture as you got out, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“I’m gentlemanly enough to be sharing my weed with you, sweetheart, don’t put me down too much.”

It made you soften and you followed him to his front door, the trailer humming from a generator you couldn’t see. “Thank you,” you told him shyly. “For this. For the invite.” Somewhere in an ugly part of your head, was an even uglier voice that was telling you you’d made him feel bad enough that he had to invite you. That he felt sorry for you. 

You told it to shut up. 

But Eddie turned the key and looked back at you over his shoulder, his eyes soft. “S’alright. What’re friends for?”

You blinked, unable to help the smile that spread across your lips. Your cheeks ached with it.  “We’re friends, huh?” 

Eddie walked into the trailer and waited for you to follow. “I know,” he drawled dramatically. “I don’t know how it happened either.” He was grinning, an awfully pretty thing. 

You didn’t know what to say, or do, for that matter. This felt close to flirting, something that made that horrible crush you had rear up in interest, it’s heart pounding. But maybe that was just your own. 

“Here,” Eddie gestured to a small dining booth, a c-shaped bench around a little table. He cleared a pile of laundry from it and looked flustered as he decided where to put it. It got thrown onto an armchair in the corner. “Sit down, you want a drink?”

 That’s where you sat with a can of soda, watching with a stuck laugh in your throat as Eddie upended his tiny kitchen, looking for the bag of flour he insisted he had.  “I swear, it’s in here,” he told you, holding various jars of spices and cake moulds. “What the fuck?”

“You’re supposed to be a chef, Eddie.”

“I know,” the boy wailed mournfully, swearing when he dropped a whole tub of dried fruit, chocolate sprinkles and vanilla pods. “Shit, kid. Looks like you’re gonna have to be a big girl and smoke up.”

He turned, raising his eyebrows at you like a challenge. You huffed, tipping your head back so he wouldn’t see the panic in your eyes. “Fine.”

And that’s how you ended up in Eddie’s bedroom, a space filled mostly with his double bed, a glaringly personal thing that you felt like you couldn't even look at. But he blushed and spread back the unmade sheets, fluffing up his pillows before he told you to make yourself at home. So you perched on the edge and toed your sneakers off, watching as Eddie flitted around his room, kicking things under the bed as he went, pushing cook books and comics back onto his shelves. Then he plopped himself down beside you, knees almost knocking, an old tin lunch-box on his lap. He flipped the lid and grinned as he produced an already rolled joint, wagging it in front of your face. 

“A chef is always prepped,” he whispered conspiratorially. 

“You’re a dork,” you whispered back but you leaned into his pillows as he brought it to his lips. 

A lighter flickered, a flame lighting up his face in amber just for a second or two, and then he was blowing a cloud out towards his open window. You watched Eddie’s eyes shutter closed, pretty lashes fanning over his cheeks and his lips hung open for a second or two, letting out a sigh along with blue-grey smoke. He let his shoulders drop, his head roll. Melting, like butter in the heatwave.

Then, “here, have at it, sweetheart.” Eddie handed you the joint, careful that you didn’t burn yourself on the glowing ash. He watched you take it dubiously, eyeing it with caution as you prepared yourself to bring it to your lips. You cringed a little, inhaling too sharp, too quick, coughing it all back out before you could even inhale it properly. 

You were mortified, coughing into your hand as you handed the joint back to Eddie blindly, eyes tearing up, blurring him and his room. He took it quick, making sympathetic noises as he rubbed his other hand down your spine. He waited until you wiped at your eyes, until you managed to catch your breath. “You alright?”

You wanted the ground to swallow you. “Mhmm,” you managed, keeping the heels of your palms pressed to your eyes, just so you wouldn’t have to look at him. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” Eddie said quietly, voice soft. “None of that, c’mon. You want another drink?”

You ignored him, reaching for the smoke instead, insistent on showing him you weren’t a complete loser. But Eddie tsked and held it out of your reach, frowning at you with concern. You wanted to tell him you’d almost missed that stitch between his brows. “Hey, woah, slow down, yeah?” Eddie knocked a hand into your knee, a comforting touch that didn’t push either of your boundaries. Yet. “You sure you wanna smoke? I can run back to Jim’s, see if I can smuggle some flour and we can make brow—”

You shook your head emphatically, not wanting to be any sort of annoyance. “No, no, it’s fine. I can try again.”

You weren’t sure if it was the setting sun that was coming through Eddie’s window that was turning his face fuschia, or if he was suddenly blushing something furious. It took him a second or two to meet your gaze and when he did, you saw a shyness there you’d never really seen before. Eddie was blushing. 

“I could, uh,” the boy cleared his throat noisily, awkward and fumbling. He gestured to the joint he still held, to you, to himself. “I could, I could help. I could help you. You know?” He frowned at himself, annoyed at his own stuttering. 

You frowned too, confused. “No?” You replied, unsure. Your hands were fisted in his sheets, a nervous reaction.

“Shotgun. I could, well— I could shotgun you.”

“Oh.”

The room suddenly felt infinitely smaller. Warm and intimate, soft with the last of the sunlight, dust motes floating in the rays that came through slats of the blinds. You were on Eddie Munson’s bed. With Eddie Munson. You sucked in a breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Eddie seemed as surprised as you were at your answer but you nodded firmly, keeping your gaze on his, your chin lifted in a boldness you so rarely felt. So Eddie nodded too. “Right. Um, yeah. Just— c’mere.”

It was a clumsy thing, the way you both shuffled closer, the mattress dipping, sheets rippling. You moved until your knees knocked against Eddie’s and he was watching you so carefully, cautious enough that you felt too shy, a burning in your chest that spread up across your neck, your face. Eddie was holding the joint out to the side, the smoke being drawn to the open window and you looked back and forth between the cigarette and the boy. 

“Done this before?” Eddie asked you quietly. 

It was suddenly silent in the trailer, in the whole park. Fuck, Hawkins had fallen asleep, you were sure of it, because looking at Eddie this close, you couldn’t hear the way the generators hummed, you couldn’t hear the crickets or cicadas, no car engines or muffled televisions. You could hear Eddie breathe though, normal enough before it hitched a little and he had to exhale that little bit heavier - like he was nervous too. 

You shook your head and swiped your tongue over your bottom lip, chasing the taste of the orange soda you’d drank at the kitchen table. “No, never like this. I— I know what to do though.” You sounded so naïve, small and a little silly, but Eddie smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

“Atta’ girl,” he murmured and then he was bringing the joint back to his lips. He spoke around it, muffled. “Ready, yeah?”

You watched the way his cheeks hollowed out, how his gaze got a little heavier even though he kept looking at you. And this time, instead of blowing the smoke out to the window, he leaned in, one hand holding the joint away from you both, the other gesturing for you to come closer. You obeyed, moving forward with your heart lodged in your throat. You moved until Eddie’s fingertips met your jaw, skimming over the skin there and he tapped gently with his thumb. 

His gaze was lowered, lashes fanning out over his cheeks as he leaned in closer still, eyes searching yours for some kind of hesitation, a sign that you’d maybe changed your mind. And when he found none, he coaxed you a little further until his nose bumped yours and you gasped, lips parted and waiting. The boy opened his mouth, just barely, smoke slipping from between his lips and he gently blew it into yours. You didn’t realise how his hand had fallen to your neck, fingers curling around the sides of it, the cool metal of his rings on your overheated skin and the blunt scratch of his nails in your hair. 

You inhaled, a shuddering breath, shaky from how close the boy was - nothing to do with the weed. Eddie’s hand on your throat made you feel higher than anything else had before. And when there was no smoke left, when the last of it had floated up towards the ceiling and had turned into wisps in the sunlight, neither of you moved. You were still close enough that your nose bumped his when you tilted your head and you could see the freckles on the bridge of it, the tiny silver coloured scar at the end of his right brow. You wondered what Eddie could see when he looked at you, if he’d find your imperfections, if he’d find them as pretty as you did his. 

You watched as his eyes looked into your own, unabashed and completely shameless, like another hit of the joint made him a bit more bold than before. Maybe it had, because you were feeling fuzzy, a warm, heavy feeling pulling you into the mattress, into Eddie. 

Your forehead touched his. 

His thumb was on your jaw, tucked into the space underneath your ear and it was pressed there like he meant it. Like he wanted you to feel it and god, you did. You did. His eyes wandered, flicking from yours to your lips and back again, warmer than ever, a honey colour in the setting sun. You wondered what you both must’ve looked like, sitting cross legged and knees knocking on Eddie’s unmade bed, heads bent together like you were sharing secrets, like you were going to share more. 

The boy swallowed harshly, Adam’s apple bobbing and his stare on your mouth and it all made you feel so heavy and warm and lightheaded at once. You weren’t sure if it was the weed, you weren’t sure if it was Eddie. 

“Your eyes are really pretty,” he whispered and he sucked in a breath when your idle hands found his bare knees through the rips in his jeans. 

You played with the frayed hem, the loose threads and tried not to squirm at such a compliment. You hummed, nose wrinkling even when you smiled. “Thank you,” you replied politely and just as quiet. “Your eyes are pretty too.”

The boy turned pink, a pretty flush over the bridge of his nose that you wanted to trace with your fingertip. He tilted his head, inspecting you, eyes flicking over each of your features like he was drawing you in his head. “You shouldn’t be handing out compliments,” he mumured bashfully. “Not when I was such a dick to you.”

You shrugged, smiling as you leaned back just a little, too focused on the way Eddie’s lips moved as he spoke. The small space you put between you both gave you some air and Eddie’s hand dropped from your neck to trail down your arm. His fingers found your ring, a dainty thing on your middle finger that was so different to his own that it was comical and he played with the gold as you did with the rips in his denim. 

Touching. Still touching. 

“S’okay,” you told him gently. “You’ve made up for it now.”

A wry smile, a thumb brushing over the inside of your palm. “I have?”

“Oh, yeah. Free food and free weed?” You grinned when Eddie scoffed. “What more could a girl want?”

It was a rhetorical question. Eddie knew that, but still, he hummed as if he were thinking about it, his fingers dancing over your wrist now, climbing, climbing, climbing. You wished he’d cup your jaw again, warm, wide hands making you feel small and soft. 

“I dunno,” he mused. “What about a d—”

Whatever Eddie was going to say was interrupted by the opening of the trailer door. A sharp noise in the quiet and it rattled off of the wall as Wayne barged his way in, arms full of pizza boxes and a giant bottle of soda. “Ed!” He yelled out in greeting, oblivious. “Grubs up, boy, come get.”

It made you spring apart, the mattress squeaking obnoxiously at the movement and you burned at the noise, at what it made it sound like you were up to. You stared wide eyed at Eddie, like a teenager caught doing something they shouldn’t and suddenly you wondered if Wayne would shout at you both for getting high. 

But then Eddie was yelling back something noncommittal as he got off the bed, looking back down at you with an amused expression. He bent at the knees, shins hitting the mattress and his hands found your knees where he squeezed them reassuringly. “Hey, hey,” he smiled like he found you funny. Maybe he did. “S’all good, relax. Wayne doesn’t care.”

You sucked in a breath and willed away the weed induced panic you could feel brewing in your stomach, a knotting of nerves that Eddie managed to unravel with the way his fingers smoothed over your lower thighs. So you smiled back and nodded even though you felt like cardboard and when Eddie offered his hand to help you stand, you took it. 

“Hey, Wayne,” Eddie called out into the living room. “We got a dinner guest, that alright?” 

You could hear the rustle of pizza boxes being opened, the smell of basil and tomatoes wafting through the trailer. Your stomach rumbled and Eddie laughed, chuckling harder when you batted the back of your hand into his side for his lack of manners. 

“You can’t just announce that!” You hissed. “That’s so rude.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and then held out his hand to the bedroom door as if to say ‘see?’ when Wayne grunted and said, “If it’s Steve, tell him I ain’t paying extra for those damn mozzarella sticks when there’s already cheese on the pi— oh, hey, kid.”

Wayne looked surprised to see you as you shuffled out of Eddie’s bedroom in your socks. The boy had his hand on the small of your back as he coaxed you forward into the main space of the trailer. “Hi,” you waved shyly, watching with a hot face as Wayne looked at you, at his nephew and back again, brows raised in interest. “Sorry I interrupted your dinner plans, I—”

“Nonsense,” Wayne said at the same time as Eddie scoffed, “shut up.”

“C’mon, now, sit and grab a plate,” the older man urged. “Hope you like Jeopardy! ‘‘cause that’s pizza night tradition.”

You smiled and nodded as Eddie slid into the breakfast nook beside you, hips nudging yours as you budged up. And as Wayne argued with the remote control, the boy loaded up your plate with pizza slices, ignoring your protests completely. 

“God, you’re such a feeder,” you joked weakly, still embarrassed to be crashing the Munson pizza night. 

Wayne was still frowning at the buttons when he grunted and laughed. “Yep, the boy doesn’t know how to give someone a damn hug, but he’ll make sure you never go hungry. Gotta show love one way or another, huh?”

Nobody said anything and Wayne won the battle as the channel flicked over and the voice of Alex Trebek filled the room. You couldn’t quite look at Eddie and both of you sat side by side as you ate your pizza, Eddie’s curls hiding his face from view. You wondered if he was pink again, blushing and cursing out his uncle in his head. 

You wondered if you should’ve said something.  

But then, as if to prove some kind of point, Eddie barely glanced at you as he picked up the last slice of pepperoni from the box, and slid it onto your plate. 

[thyrell]

onions and garlic are in the same vegetable family, pitting them against one another is like being a homewrecker

whenever you fry garlic and onions in the same pan thats like marriage. and when it makes your house smell so good thsts their honeymoon

[sturniolosass]

Sick - a Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Summery - Nick and Matt are sick with Covid and you offer to come and help take care of them.

*fluff, like…pure fluff*

It’s Tuesday Night and you get a call from your boyfriend Matt letting you know he tested positive for covid, Your first reaction was to ask if he need anything medicine, soup, water. He had stated that he and the boys were fine without it and that you should stay home and rest but you insisted. So ending the call you decided to head over to him and his brothers home to help take care of all three of them.

Before heading to the house you decided to run to your local grocery store and grab a few things for the soup you’d be making and also a box of tea.

Once you checked out you started making your way to the house.

Once you arrived you knocked on the door urgently and saw Chris, you urgently pulled a mask over your face

“Yo! I’m good, i don’t have Covid…” he said

“ohhh oh my god, i thought all of yall were sick as fuck” you stated with a sigh of relief

“where are Matt and Nick?” you asked with a sense of panic

“they are both locked away in their rooms..i wouldn’t let them contaminate you” he laughed

“I don’t think it would matter hence i put myself in this situation. Wanna help me cook?” you ask Chris hoping he’d say no remembering his cooking history

“uhhhh im not sure you want that..” Chris replied

“you know what! you’re right” you replied rushing over to the stove

You put everything down on the counters before rushing around the corner hall to Matt’s room. Knocking on the door you say “Matt, are you hungry? How’re you feeling?” then listening in for a response you hear counting..

“1..2..3..4..5” Matt counts..

You call again “Matt?!”

Matthew then hurriedly opens the door wearing a mask he then says “what’re you doing here..? you’re gonna get sick! go home!” he rushing griefs to shut the door.. but your foot’s in between the hinges “i wanted to come and take care of you guys i know you guys don’t really know how to do that yourself.., have you even had any medicine..?” you ask worriedly “yea..” Matt looks around suspiciously “well no..but still i don’t want you getting sick, you should go home, coming here was sweet though i really appreciate you thinking of us honestly” he replies expecting you to leave which you do.. but not the house

Time to cook..

You grab all your ingredients and start making the soup. Onion, Celery, Garlic, Carrots, Noodles, etc.. once everything is cooking you decide to throw on a movie within the same time in which Chris decides to come up stairs from the ground floor… “sooo like, I know i’m not sick but that smells oh so yummy” he says in a weird yet entertaining voice “can i please have some too?” he begs. You look at him funny and reply “I mean.. i guess i’m trying to make enough so that there’s at least enough for two days..” he then notices the TV and asks “what is this? saltburn or some shit?” you look at him in disgust “No. it’s The Turning” you say matter of factly. “what is it about” he asks, “i don’t know for real, just some indie horror film” you tell, “oh alright well please let me know first when the food is done” he pleads. “whatever.” you say.

One the food is done you call up the guys one by one to grab a bowl. First Chris cause he asked so kindly, then Nick.. Once Nick comes down he seems fine, Then he starts coughing a lot, causing you to worry and offer him tea. He politely declines claiming to not enjoy tea that much. He then heads back upstairs and Matt comes out of his room after 5 minutes..

“Hey, I really appreciate you coming here and treating me and my brothers so sweet.. i was on the phone with my mom and she really thanks you because she can’t be here to do these things for us” he says lovingly smiling up at you with his cute little red nose from blowing it all day. “no problem, i love you guys a lot. you especially, so i have no problem with probably leaving here sick just to make sure you guys are ok” you reply. Matt them comes behind you whilst you’re stirring the soup on the low heat and gives your back a nice firm hug. “I love you” he says. At first you’re very caught off guard because that’s the first time he’s spoken those three words to you.. but coming to your senses you immediately respond “i love you too, Matt” in to which he smiles in the crook of your neck and kisses it. You turn and hug him back.

“Want some soup or tea?” you ask politely. “Sure, i’ll have some tea” he responds thankfully. “i already had food like a few hours ago. thank you though.” he adds. You pop a Peppermint tea in the keurig and he sits at the table. “i’m glad you’re here, i feel like i’ve been going crazy locked in my room all day.” he speaks. “I was counting my steps as i paced my room earlier because my apple watch felt i was being ‘lazy’ even though i’m quite frankly sick as all hell” he adds.. “hahaha yea i heard that, i was so confused” you reply coming in for a kiss in which he hesitates “i don’t wanna risk your chance of getting more sick” he states in to which you reply “the sickness is airborne, love. if im gonna get sick it’s gonna happen regardless. i’ve already stepped in the house.” leaning in you kiss his lips. The keurig finishes and you mix a little bit of honey in his mug and hand him the cup.

Nearing the end of the night you and Matt head into his room to relax, figuring you’d already be sick Matt invites you to stay the night knowing it shouldn’t get any worse from here unless you go home where your family lives. You both decide to watch a movie, Matt begging you to help him finish saltburn stating he was bored with it in the first 20 minutes. You oblige only to regret it seeing he’s only watched a small portion of the ‘weird’ movie, however you continue watching just to keep him company and watch him fall asleep comfortably in your arms...

The End :)

a/n: idk how i feel about the end of this.. but you know what, its my first and i’ll only get better as i keep going.. :)) THANKS FOR READING!

[blindmagdalena]

Don't Fret Precious (I'm Here)

Summary: 18+ 8.1k homelander x reader, f!reader, mild sublander, immoral reader, off-screen murder, blood, attempted assault (not by HL), cunnilingus, lite comeplay, penetrative sex, fingering, dirty talk, breeding kink, marking, mild pain play.

During one of his evening patrols, Homelander overhears the beginnings of an assault. By intervening, he not only becomes your personal hero, but falls into a whirlwind of infatuation and obsession with you, and the supposedly ordinary life you led before he happened across you.

thank you @mari-thesimp, whose prompt inspired this monster of a fic! 🖤 AO3 Link.

To this day, Homelander doesn’t know why you were alone in that alleyway that night: he never thought to ask, and by now, it’s an irrelevant detail. He just knows that it was in a shady side of the city, nowhere near your work or your home.

That was where he first heard you. You were screaming in this shrill, throaty way that reminded him of how women in the movies screamed. You were the perfect little Hollywood damsel, trapped down a dark side street by a man twice your size with a brutish smile and clear intentions. It was almost too perfect of a stage, and Homelander found he couldn’t resist intervening. 

Sure, there weren’t any cameras, but maybe you’d give a couple interviews and boost his ratings.

“S’aright by me, I like it when they scream,” the goon told you, pulling at you with dirty, meaty hands. Homelander could smell his rotten breath from a distance. It must have been like chopped onions in your face, stinging your pretty eyes.

“What a coincidence,” Homelander said from behind the man, voice full and confident. He placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “So do I.”

He tightened his grip until tendons popped and bones groaned under his strength. The man screamed twice as loudly as you had, relinquishing his hold on you. Clearly not comprehending the sheer danger he was in, the man tried to retaliate, lashing out with swinging arms and legs until Homelander finally let him turn around, at which point the severity of the situation dawned clearly in the man's eyes.

“Homelander,” He realized, tongue thick in his mouth, words heavy with sudden fear. “It’s not what you think,” he said. He was taller and broader than Homelander, but it hardly mattered. He was shaking like a leaf in his hold. “We were just playin’,” he said, sweat prickling along his hairline. Homelander twisted the brute down onto his knees, and angled him to the side, focusing on you now. You, who were staring at him with wide, watery doe eyes. It’s no wonder you were hunted down by a predator. You looked… delicious.

“Is that true, miss?” He asked you in his best discerning hero voice. “Do you know this man?”

The question was followed by a tense beat of silence. He held your gaze, only for his to drop and watch your lips form the simple word, “No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he said with a chuckle. Before the man could protest, Homelander made a fist, and struck the back of the man’s head with the bottom of it just hard enough to knock him out cold. The thug crumpled to the ground, and Homelander stepped over him to make his way towards you. He gave you a cursory check for broken or fractured bones, but aside from being disheveled, you looked unharmed, slumped back against the brick wall.

One interesting thing he took note of, however, was the small gun tucked into your purse. Why hadn’t you been reaching for it? Panic, he supposed. Perhaps, though you had thought preemptively to protect yourself, your pretty little head had emptied the moment there was any sort of tangible threat.

You were like a little rabbit. Born to be hunted.

“You alright, miss?” He asked, offering you his hand. You took it, eyes as wide as saucers, lips tilted in an awestruck little smile. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t accustomed to, but it was sweet nonetheless. You were sweet, as soft in his hands as ripe fruit. Just the same, it would take so very little to bruise such a delicate thing.

“I am now,” you answered breathlessly, taking a step closer to him, your hand lingering in his long after he’d helped you up. “That… You were incredible. More amazing than I ever imagined.”

Homelander’s brows lifted curiously. “You imagine something like this often?”

“Yes,” you admitted readily, surprising him. “I’ve had a lot of fantasies about you.”

He laughed breathlessly at that, throat clicking on a dry swallow. You were standing just a few inches from him, but your only point of contact remained your hands. One by one, you began to loosely intertwine your fingers with his, drawing his gaze down. He had met hundreds upon hundreds of fans during his career, but rarely were they brave enough to be so direct with him. “Wow, you are, ah… forward,” he said, feeling heat prickle along his collar.

“Is that a bad thing?” You asked. He felt hyper aware of the slow way you squeezed his gloved hand, the gesture strangely enticing. 

“No, no,” he said, licking his lips. “Always good to feel wanted.”

You smiled at him. “Good.” With a gentle pull, you eased him down. He felt certain you were going to kiss him at that moment, but instead, you bypassed his lips and brought yours to his ear. “Because I want you. Very, very much.”

Your words, your voice instantly pooled heat low in his gut. He found himself breathing shallowly, leaning into the faint, sweet fruit smell of you.

When you drew back, your eyes met. You smiled, still squeezing his hand as you did. Your soft little breaths were warm on his lips. After a split second hesitation, Homelander kissed you. He kissed you again, and again, and again. He would kiss you many, many more times after that.

At first you were just a pretty little thing. A secret indulgence with sweet tasting lips, soft skin, and a seemingly endless propensity for adoration. You were removed from the blood and corporate grind of his day to day life. Before him, your life was simple, mundane, and predictable. It seemed like a lonely and bleak thing to him.

Perhaps that’s what made it so easy for him to become your sun, and coax your entire world into revolving around him. He saw his own loneliness mirrored back at him in your glossy eyes. To you, he is salvation. To him, you’re convenient.

Homelander particularly enjoys the way your breath catches with palpable excitement when he drops in on you unexpectedly. It doesn’t matter the time of day, be it midday or in the earliest hours of the morning, you welcome him with open, warm arms. Stepping into your comedically ordinary apartment is like watching The Wizard of Oz in reverse, wherein Dorothy retreats from the vulgar, brightly colored Oz to the quiet sepia of her humble little farmhouse. 

Here, his only care in the world is the gentle coo of your voice in his ear. Your heart is a steady, soothing rhythm. The first night Homelander found himself in your bed, he was surprised you didn’t accept him as a trophy fuck the way so many others liked to. Instead, you had stilled his greedy hands, and settled them around your waist. You slowed him. At the time he assumed you were still shaken from your encounter in the alley, but even then, the choice had seemed calculated.

You have a way of making him wait. Making him crave. You held him through the night, fingertips tracing patterns along his scalp, hands cupping his face, touching him as if you were trying to commit every detail of him to memory.

He was enraptured. He still is.

It’s what brings him back to you night after night after night.

Tonight, you’re awake when he slips in through your sliding glass door. It’s always unlocked for him. He would scold you for it if you didn’t live several storeys off the ground. To this day, he cannot shake the image of you as a vulnerable creature, watery eyed and terrified in that dark alleyway. It feels good to hear the skip of your heartbeat at the sound of your door opening, only for your breaths and pulse to calm at the sight of him.

It soothes his frayed nerves. The rest of the world is full of vicious ingrates who love him when he serves them, but who continuously prove themselves eager to tear him apart at the slightest provocation. Not you. Never you.

“My hero,” you sigh as he sinks into your arms. You never ask him about what’s going on in the news. This place–the warmth of your embrace–is a sanctuary from the noise of it all. “I missed you,” you tell him. You always do. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of you. His hands settle on your hips, neediness spilling through in the way he grips you, twisting the fabric of your clothing in his grasp. Homelander doesn’t respond right away, choosing instead to brush his lips along the bare skin of your neck, following the line up to your ear. You tilt your head, giving him greater access. You’re always giving more and more of yourself. You’ve done nothing to dissuade him of his possessive thoughts, the ones that whisper he is owed every breath and inch of you. If anything, he could swear you stoke his fires knowingly.

“Are you okay?” You ask gently, coaxing him to look at you with your hand on his cheek. He complies, pulling back just enough to meet your stare. You cup either side of his face, stroking his skin with your thumbs. The sound of your thumb pads catching against the faint bit of stubble on his face is soothing, like scratching an itch deep in his ears. “What do you need?”

“You,” he answers at last, leaning closer.

“You have me,” you say. He can feel your smile against his lips when you kiss him. “Forever. And always,” you say, punctuating each sentiment with a kiss. “What else do you need?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice sinking beneath the weight of his building desire, the heat of it radiating through his body in slow waves. “Not a goddamn thing. I don’t… I don’t need anything or anyone but you,” he whispers, clawing more purposefully at your clothing now, resentful of the barrier they create between him and the warmth of your skin. Too many things that have kept him away from what he desires, what he deserves. Your cheap cotton blend clothes won’t be among them. “Me neither,” you breathe, guiding his hands up your sides, helping him to strip away your shirt. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. All I’ve ever needed.”

Your words drip like sweet nectar. He swears he can taste the heaven of them on your lips as he kisses you. He follows the imaginary drip of it from your lips to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. He relishes the low moan you give. You push your hands into his hair, wringing a matching note from the back of his throat with the way you grip it. More, he thinks, insatiable. Give me more.

His gloved hands slide down your sides, mapping out the curves of your body as he has a hundred times before. His thumbs hook on your pants, and he pulls those down, too. He smiles at your bare skin beneath, leaning in to press a kiss to your pelvis, just above the thatch of hair there. “No panties?” He rumbles, helping you step out of your pants.

“I was hoping you’d come,” you say through a smile, hooking your leg over his shoulder, hand braced in his hair. He nuzzles in, lips brushing against your already sensitized clit. He gives a tonal sigh, opening his mouth to inhale the musky-sweet smell of you, his tongue snaking out to glide from your velvety, slick cunt to the gently throbbing nub of your clit. He closes his lips around it, opening his eyes halfway to meet your gaze from between your legs. He’s pleased to see you already staring down at him, admiring him openly. You’re flushed with heat, pupils blown wide. He purrs for the way you smooth his hair back with your fingers, his eyes falling shut so he can focus solely on the taste of you. He cups your ass in his hands and lifts you onto his mouth, hitching your other leg up over his shoulder as well.

Homelander holds you up and drinks greedily from you, coaxing your sweet wetness with slides and thrusts of his tongue, panting into the welcoming heat of you. Drool and slick coat his mouth in equal measure, dripping down his chin, wetting him so thoroughly he can almost pretend it’s sweat. As if he could exert himself. As if he were anything less than a god putting the light of heaven into the space between your thighs.

His favorite part is the way your pussy clenches around his tongue every time he pushes it into you, knowing you’re aching for more. For him.

“Nnngh, baby,” you moan, locking your ankles behind his back, rocking your hips. He squeezes your ass, egging you on. He can almost taste your swelling climax. He moans into you, meets the sway of your hips with eager dives of his tongue. “I’m–hahh, ahh, oh, there, there, mm, baby, you feel so good, m’gonna come,” you moan, prompting him faster, deeper, riled up by every aching praise that falls from your lips.

You pull his hair sharply when you come, and his eyes roll back into his skull with it. He revels in the way you smother him, literally and figuratively. Since the beginning, your affection, your attention, has been an endless, all-consuming thing. There was a time that he believed there would be no one who could stomach the depths of his emptiness, and yet here you are. With him, you form an ouroboros. Neverending mutual consumption.

Homelander laps at you until your shivering body goes lax, and you slide down into the strength of his arms. You kiss him, heedless of the mess you’ve made of his mouth, hands clumsily working to open the top of his suit. “Take me to the bed,” you tell him. The authority in your voice sounds effortless, despite the reedy quality your orgasm has given it. “I need you inside me.”

I need you. The words echo in his ears on a loop like a broken record that he never wants mended. He stands with you secure in his arms, licking your own taste into your mouth as he walks. He sets you down gently, but he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise. He wants to see the evidence that you are as changed by him as he is by you. 

He shrugs his top off. Before it even hits the ground, you’re slipping your hands up beneath the hem of his undershirt, purposefully skating his ticklish sides with your fingertips, surprising a giggle out of him. The shirt comes off of his head with a flourish, mussing his hair into a splay of blonde locks. You smile at one another, secretive, as if this intimacy between you is something stolen.

Homelander often behaves as though it is. More times than not, this happiness feels like borrowed time. Like something he is owed, but was never supposed to have. It leaves him feverish for it, clawing at every second of it he can get his hands on.

You help divest him of his pants next, metal belt hitting the ground with a thud. He steps out of his boots, and back tight into your space, grazing his teeth tantalizingly along the line of your neck before he sucks a dark mark just beneath your earlobe.

Your sigh of pleasure is music to his ears. His own breath catches when your hand slips between his legs, grasping his aching cock. You give a couple of leisurely strokes, but the tunnel of your fist is so loose, he knows you’re teasing him. He thrusts needily against you. “Sshhh,” you hush, guiding him to the bed. “Sit.”

He does, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a bounce, lips parted, breathing his excitement in shallow huffs. Initially, you confuse him by turning your back to him, but he catches on quickly when you put your hand on his thigh, and lower yourself slowly into his lap. He takes hold of your waist reflexively, aiding your descent. His grip on you flexes at the first glorious, wet press of your cunt against the throbbing head of his cock.

“Slow,” you remind him, your own excitement turning your voice thin and airy. Homelander grits his teeth, caught somewhere between impatience and dread. He’s not sure he’ll last long, not with the taste of you so fresh on his tongue and the hot, drenched pull of your body sucking him in. He wants to slam in and flee all at once, caught paralyzed in the middle.

Luckily for him, you’re wholly in control. You grip his wrists and sink down slowly, tipping your head back with a moan as you take every inch of him, settling fully in his lap. Homelander keens, pressing his face between your shoulder blades. You’re so tight and wet, it makes his head spin. The throb of your body alone could make him come, he’s certain of it. Your heart beat is a drum in his ear, one he can feel every pulse of in the velvet walls of your cunt. 

“Please,” he moans, adjusting subtly. Even that makes his balls ache.

“I have you,” you assure him, reaching back over your shoulder. You push your hand into his hair, guiding him to rest his chin on your shoulder as you massage his scalp with your fingertips. He wraps his arms around your waist, fighting the desperate urge to slam up into you, to break you apart and spill into the deepest parts of you. There is such violence in every part of him. It would be foolish to think it would not bleed into his love.

Instead, Homelander remains perfectly still, panting into the crook of your neck while you grip his hair, grounding him. “I love you,” you sigh, to which he screws his eyes shut, exhaling a rough little noise. “It’s okay. I want you to feel good. I want you to fill me up. Give me all of you,” you murmur, reaching down between your legs. You cup his balls in your palm, gently massaging them as you begin to lift, but only barely, fucking yourself down on his cock in deep, sharp drops.

“You’ll do that for me, right, baby? Always make me feel so good. Let me feel you come,” you coax, voice too sweet for the wicked way you seduce him. His balls are tight in your grasp, heavy, his cock weeping precome that’s lost amidst the wetness of you.

Still, he holds back. He adjusts himself to take hold of your breasts, massages them until you moan. He kisses the mark he left on your neck, teases your skin with sharp teeth. He almost bites down when you squeeze his balls, making him jerk up into you with a keening moan.

“F-fuck, mm, like that, do that again, baby,” you urge, tightening your grip on his hair while you continue to fondle his balls, eager to feel them unload inside you. In the midst of it all, he’s rapidly coming undone. Your tone breathy and low in his ear, you moan, “My sweet, perfect boy.”

Homelander chokes on his own sharp inhale, baring his teeth as something primal overtakes him. He locks his arms around you and in one, two, three, four sharp thrusts, lets out a guttural moan alongside the sweltering rush of relief and pleasure that erupts throughout his body. You make all kinds of sweet noises alongside him, surprised every time by the sheer force of his release.

The two of you rest like that, your body slumped back against his, his arms encircling you, keeping you pressed tight to his chest.

You’re spent, but he isn’t finished with you. He doubts he ever will be. You and your ordinary little life are unremarkable in every possible way, yet he clings to you now as though it is your strength that keeps him upright. For a long time, Homelander had believed the crux of his divinity was his distance from humanity. Now, he’s not so sure.

Never has he felt more like a god than he does with your words of worship furling sweetly within him, your body enveloping him in the warmth of your reverence. 

Somewhere along the line, though Homelander finds himself unable to pinpoint when or where, your presence in his life shifted from something convenient to something he needed.

It would scare him if he wasn’t so convinced you need him twice as badly. It compels him to ensure you never forget it, to show you that there will never again be anyone or anything in your life that changes it, enhances it the way he has. The more he needs you, the more you must need him.

It’s what drives him to eventually lift you from his lap and lay you on the bed, to nestle between your legs and lick up the mess he’s made of you. Eating his own come out of you tastes like possession, like familiarity, like love. Your moans, even muffled by the press of your inner thighs to his ears, are divine. He slips his fingers into your dripping cunt both for your pleasure and to push the spill of his come back inside, sucking on your clit while you rock against his fingers.

He loses himself to the fantasy playing behind his eyelids, imagining that this time, the seed takes. That it makes a mother of you. His baby growing in your belly, fattening up your breasts and making you glow with the radiance of it. You would carry the child of a god with incomparable grace, heavy with the weight of his legacy. You’d be bound to him beyond pretty words and carnal embraces. A baby would be his gift to you, and you would accept it without question, he assures himself.

Your cunt spasms around his fingers, pulling him back to reality. He fell so deep into his own bliss, he nearly forgot what he was doing. His eyelids flutter open, dazed and utterly at peace between your legs. Your orgasm hits his tongue beautifully, rhythmic thrums that have you clenching your thighs tight on either side of his head, arching up into his mouth. He slows the thrust of his fingers, licking you leisurely through the aftershocks, until you eventually relax and give his hair a gentle tug, prompting him to crawl obediently up the length of your body.

You kiss him with hunger. He leans back slightly just to see if you’ll give chase. He’s pleasantly surprised when you do, following his lips and pulling him greedily back down into your arms, bringing him flush to your chest. You hitch your legs over his hips, arms sliding around him, holding him like you have the strength to keep him there.

Someday, perhaps, he’ll come to terms with the power you have over him.

“I love you,” you whisper. The sentiment unspools around him and ties loose knots around his every muscle, soothing him until his weight rests fully upon your body. He nestles in between your breasts, brushing his lips along the swell of one. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, voice soft. He feels utterly lost to this marriage of sex and intimacy, secure enough to relax, to let go of the impulse to hold you tightly in place. He knows you will not try to leave him, try to reduce sex to a transaction to be completed and disregarded. It feels good to slip his arms loosely around you, and hold you with the knowledge that he need not fight to keep you.

Instead, it is you who holds on tightly. You entangle your fingers in his hair and cross your ankles over his back, locking him in place. It adds a kind of giddiness to his smile to, for once, be the one clung to.

More and more of Homelander’s day begins to revolve around you. When he isn’t with you, he’s thinking of you. He wakes to your text messages. He gets through the flash and pomp of his day to day life for the sake of returning to your arms. He grows increasingly territorial over his time, irritable when his position in the world forces him to be gone from you longer than his typical schedule calls for.

It’s a difficult feeling to describe. He’s never had something to look forward to outside of the validation of being Homelander.

It begins to manifest in frustration. He’s twice as curt with his responsibilities and those who assign them.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Stan Edgar warns him after a particularly messy incident. “I don’t care what you do in your personal time, or who you do it with,” he says. Homelander’s gut clenches. The words are too pointed to be anything other than a threat. “But here, on my time, you will perform as expected. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Homelander answered through his teeth, hands locked tight behind his back, beneath his cape, where the world couldn’t see the subtle way they shook.

That night, in your creaky bed, he fucks you missionary–simple, intimate, face to face–and begs to hear your approval.

“More,” he pants desperately, one hand gripping the headboard, the other in a tight fist against the bed, above your shoulder. “More, fuck. Please.”

“My hero,” you croon, cupping his face in your hands, breath hitching with every slow, deliberate thrust of his hips. “They don’t deserve you. They don’t know how good they have it. How good you are,” you say, your words a soothing balm against his scorched ego. “Mm, even now, you’re making me feel so good. I love you so much, I wish you were all mine, only mine,” you say, drawing him down into a messy kiss.

“Only yours,” Homelander echoes through a broken moan, fucking into you harder, faster. He doesn’t miss the way you flinch at the pace, but you don’t tell him to stop. Instead, he feels you clench down hard around him, lips parting on a silent gasp.

“Only mine,” you repeat like an encouragement, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your headboard is slamming loudly against the wall now, each beat of it a step closer to the climax building between you. If you give a fuck about your shitty bed or the thin dry wall behind it, you give no indication of it. Instead, your eyes are locked completely on his, oblivious to the world around you.

He wants to lose himself in that stare.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m–”

An out of place bang against the wall abruptly knocks Homelander out of his delirium. He looks up, and hears a voice on the other side of the wall holler, “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!”

Homelander bares his teeth, and without a thought, his eyes flare crimson. Two high intensity laser beams cut straight through your wall and into the adjoining apartment. Deafening silence follows. Homelander blinks the light away, staring for a long few seconds at the two holes before he looks down at you, uncertain of what he expects to see. Shock at best, horror at worst.

While your eyes are wide, it’s neither of those he sees.

“Don’t stop,” you tell him breathlessly, thrusting up against him. You look wild with it, heart pounding with adrenaline and arousal in equal measure. Not an ounce of fear. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He obeys immediately, driving into you so sharply it knocks the wind from you. He doubts you’ll ever hear from that neighbor again.

Homelander comes harder than he ever has before. He leaves you tender to the touch from the force of his thrusts, fucked raw. He offers apologies, but you don’t accept them as they’re spoken. Instead, you guide him down to kiss the marks his passion has left on you. Even then, he recognizes that it is not reconciliation you seek. You’re showing him his work, appreciating the canvas he has made of your body.

“Never apologize for this,” you tell him. “For leaving me with so much. It keeps you with me even when you’re away from me.”

For that alone, he would fuck you a dozen more times. It makes him want to sink his teeth into you, leave you with something more permanent. It makes him ache, wishing you could do the same. He never desired the capacity to be wounded until you taught him the beauty of bleeding for love. He finds himself viciously envious of the bruises blossoming on your skin in the shape of his touch. He imagines you idly pressing on them through the day, remembering with that dull ache how thoroughly he had fucked you.

“I wish you could do this to me,” he admits feverishly, tracing the pattern of his hand bruised onto your hip.

You’re quiet for a moment. “Maybe I can,” you say, causing him to pick up curiously. He watches you cover his hand with your own, and bring it to his forearm. His brows furrow slightly. He looks to you for an explanation, but you’re focused intently on wrapping his own hand around his arm, your fingers lined up with his. “Squeeze,” you tell him.

Understanding dawns. Licking his lips, Homelander flexes his grip on his forearm. At the same time, you kiss him, squeezing your hand tight over top of his. “Harder,” you say. He obliges, squeezing until pressure builds into a more alien sensation: pain. His instinct is to stop, to shy away from it, but before he can he feels you cup your hand between his legs, grasping his barely-hard cock. He gives a startled little moan into your mouth, and his hand retightens on his arm. 

“Good boy,” you say wickedly, stroking his cock in slow, firm pulls. “Nice and tight. I want you to remember me, too.”

“I will,” he rasps, folding in against you. “I will, I will, fuck, hhahhh…” he moans, taken apart not only by your touch, but the ease and eagerness with which you fulfill his every wicked thought. Is there any part of him you will shy away from?

He makes a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure, his skin discoloring around the press of his fingers, swelling up between them. At the same time, his cock fills out steadily with your every stroke. The pressure of it is not unlike the grip on his arm, a gradually building sensation that he wants to shy away from as much as he wants to dive into head first. The contrast, the contradiction of it, is intoxicating.

“So good for me. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” You ask, smiling fondly. He nods fervently, refusing to relinquish his grip while you’re still squeezing his fingers down tight. He never could have fathomed that pain might feel like love.

“Yes, yes, anything,” he grits out, the tips of his fingers beginning to tingle. He lets out a rough breath when you begin to pump him faster, firmer, before he comes hard into the narrow tunnel of your fist, hips jerking while he dutifully maintains the painful, vice-like grip on his arm. You stroke him through it, milking him so thoroughly of his orgasm that he nearly misses when you loosen your fingers over his hand, and prompt him to release his hold. 

Once the skin settles, what Homelander is left with is a throbbing ache, and the unmistakable outline of his grasp imprinted in the burst vessels of his arm. He stares down at it, dumbstruck for a long moment. He has known pain, he’s even known injury, but never like this. He’s still coming down from the euphoria of his release, unable to process what he’s looking at, when your hand slips over top of the bruise, settling nicely into the shadow of it. You press it gently, and though it doesn’t hurt per se, it is different. Strange. It makes his stomach flip unfamiliarly.

“How does it feel?” You ask, tipping his chin up to kiss him.

“Weird,” he answers, distractedly reciprocating.

“How do you feel?” You continue, helping to settle you both down into bed, pulling the covers over your naked bodies.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“That’s okay,” you say, voice dripping over him like honey, warm and sweet. You lift his arm and turn it, kissing each sprawling line of the bruise he inflicted on himself. The mark he has given himself in your stead. No one has ever… “Do you like it?” He asks, hating how small his own voice sounds.

“Yes,” you sigh, looking at him, your cheek pressed lightly to the palm of the bruise. “Very much.”

Slowly, he smiles. “Kinda fucked up.”

You smile, too. “Good.”

The bruise lingers for several days. For as indestructible as he is, once the damage is done, his body heals at an uncomfortably human rate. It would set his teeth on edge if not for the fact that this mark reminded him that he is yours. He finds himself touching it absently during his day to day, thumb pressing into the fabric of his suit while he zones in and out at various meetings and interviews.

Every day he has it, it reminds him of where he’d rather be.

That same territorial irritation that got him in trouble with Stan Edgar returns tenfold. Every job and press conference feels more arduous an endeavor than the last. The flash of the cameras sting his eyes more than ever, their questions like endless needles pricking his eardrums. Their mindless adoration feels so shallow, it barely registers anymore.

He just wants to be done with it all.

It’s this headspace that leads Homelander to fucking up the worst he has since he was a goddamn teenager.

The flight back to your apartment feels longer than it ever has. Most of the blood and viscera either dries down or flakes away, but every inch of his exposed skin feels tight and itchy with it. He can feel it caked in his hair, too. 

He should return to the tower. There will be press. There will be speeches. There will be a cleanup job that sees him at the center stage.

He should return to the tower he tells himself again and again.

But he wants you.

Your balcony door welcomes him, unlocked as always. He hesitates briefly, staring at his glove. The color of it would mask the blood if not for how dark it has turned. His stomach churns as he steps inside. He wishes the bruise had not faded, that he could press on it now and feel the dull, aching assurance of your love.

He has kept this animal inside him far from you. It’s time to see whether or not you’ll withstand the blood-soaked bite of it. Whether or not you meant it when you said give me all of you.

Homelander steps inside. It’s late, nearly 11:00, but he knows you’re awake. He can hear tinny music playing from your phone, reverberating off the bathroom wall. He can smell the lavender of your bubble bath even over the copper tang of blood in his nostrils.

His stride through your hallway is uncharacteristically slow, footfalls heavy. He hears the water of your bath slosh, and then the music goes silent. “Homelander?” You call, trepidation in your voice. It churns his gut to hear, even if he knows it’s the unusual cadence of his steps you’re reacting to. He knows he sounds like a stranger. Part of him feels like one. He should have showered, washed away the filth until he was your hero again, shining brightly and walking as if the weight of the world did not sit upon him. He still doesn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

An awful, warped part of him wants you to see the bloody mess hiding underneath. His throat is tight, twisted up in sickly anticipation. He does not answer your call. He wonders if you’ll scream when you see him. Another slosh of water, followed by the slap of your bare feet against your bathroom floor. He makes his way to your bedroom, listening to the quicken of your heart.

Answer her, he tells himself. You’re scaring her.

Good, answers another thought. It’s time to know, once and for all, what she’s truly made of. To know whether or not all good things come to an end. She should be scared.

Homelander listens to you move from your bathroom to the soft carpeting of your bedroom, hears the hushed, quick way you begin to rummage about. He stands in front of your bedroom door, one blood crusted hand resting on the doorknob. He hesitates for a second, in which everything goes quiet, save for the shallow sounds of your breath, and the quick, rain-drop pattering of your heart.

He opens the door. He barely registers the gun in your hands–or the sharp, focused look in your eyes–before you fire. The sound of it rings almost painfully loud in his ears after he had been listening so intently to the race of your pulse. He blinks several times, glancing down at the bullet wedged between the carved musculature of his suit.

“Homelander,” you gasp, lowering the gun. Since the first day he met you, he knew you owned it. He just didn’t expect you to be any good with it, not after the way you failed to defend yourself with it. Had you been practicing? He can’t remember ever smelling gunpowder on your hands. He plucks the bullet from the chest of his suit, examining it. That shot would have killed a man. You didn’t hesitate long enough to even recognize who stood before you. You knew precisely what you were doing.

“You didn’t answer me,” you say. Gone is that keen killer stare. Your eyes are wide, mortified. He watches you register the state of him, taking in his expression, the blood. You haven’t moved an inch. Why haven’t you come to him yet? He drops the bullet to the ground, and extends his hand out to you.

“C’mere,” he says, voice low.

You look at his hand, but you hesitate. The surge of anger it ignites within him is white hot, making his gut churn violently. “Come here!” He snaps. Your eyes shoot back up to meet his gaze. He can’t read the expression on your face, which only adds kindling to the flames of frustration and anxiety burning him up from the inside out.

He wants to grind himself deep into the marrow of your bones, find sanctuary in the hollow of them. Your body, your mind, your soul, which you have emptied into a haven made for him alone, has become the greatest solace he has ever known. The notion that you might deny him now–might deny him ever–is more horrifying a thought than he can bear.

The handful of seconds it takes before you begin walking feel like hours. Your steps are tentative, like a deer navigating the underbrush silently so as not to disturb the wolves. You look so much like you did that very first night: like you were made to feel the sharp teeth of a predator.

You slip your lavender fresh hand into his bloody one. He closes his gloved fingers around it, gentle with you despite the thrumming tension in his body. He can feel the corners of his mouth twitching with it, his breaths shallow. For once, it’s his own heart thundering in his ears.

“Sshhh,” you hush softly, barely a breath. His brows furrow, dried blood cracking apart on his skin. You lift your free hand to his face, palm lightly ghosting along his jaw. He cups your hand in his and turns his head to push fully into it, lips pressed to your palm, eyes falling shut. He can’t stomach that unfamiliar look on your face.

“I didn’t… they weren’t supposed to be there,” he begins to explain, readying a contingency plan. An explanation you’ll believe. Something to say that will make your face recognizable to him again. However, before he can continue, the press of your thumb to his lips quiets him. 

“It’s okay,” you say, coaxing him from his downward spiral. “I don’t care.” “What?” He doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“I don’t care what you did,” you clarify, squeezing his hand in yours. Slowly, you begin to pull him down, towards you. “I don’t care whose blood this is.” Just as you had that very first night, you bring your lips to his ear. “You are all I have ever cared about.” Goosebumps erupt across every inch of his skin. He lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around you, sinking down against you in sheer relief for the way you slip your arms around his neck, fingers carding up into his hair, matted as it is with blood. He exhales roughly, squeezing you too tight. He can hear it in the strain of your breath, your chest compressed to his, but you don’t fight him. You endure him.

That alone is more than anyone else has managed.

Over your shoulder, Homelander stares at the gun resting atop your bedside table. For the first time, he wonders who truly ensnared who.

Drawing back, he takes hold of your jaw in both hands and kisses you desperately. If you mind the taste of blood, you give no indication of it, opening for his tongue and meeting him readily with yours. “I thought you would–I thought you were–” Fuck, even as his pulse steadies, he can’t get the words straight, can’t get them off of his tongue.

“I’m here, I’m here. I wasn’t,” you manage to say between the fervent presses of his lips, sounding as relieved as he feels. It’s as if you’ve heard his thoughts. “I love you. I love you.” 

A treacherous little whimper crawls up the back of his throat, but he chases it with a groan. He takes his hands from your face to your arms, itching to feel every inch of you, to remind himself that it’s all real. That you’re real. 

“Come with me,” you say. I will. Anywhere, he thinks. You step backwards, and he follows. At some point, the towel slipped from your body. Your damp skin has become a canvas of bloodied impressions ranging from his hands to the texture of his suit. Piece by piece, you begin peeling away the soiled suit from his body. He lets you work, though he cannot keep his hands from you, particularly once you remove his gloves. He pushes his hands into your wet hair while you unbuckle his pants, kisses you hungrily while he steps out of his boots. 

It is a maddening thing, to be loved when you are at your most unloveable.

The bathwater sloshes over the edges as you both sink down into it, all tangled limbs and devouring kisses. The blood stains the soapy lavender pink while your hands leave messy crimson handprints on the ceramic tub. You straddle his lap, and with wet hands, begin working his blood crusted hair wet and loose. Leaning in, Homelander settles his hands on your ribs and kisses a trail down the valley between your breasts, turning his head to lap and suck at your right nipple.

You encourage him with a low moan, nails dragging along his scalp. You cradle his head to your chest, retaliating by rocking your hips slowly down against his, pinning his stiffening cock between your bodies. “Listen to me. There is nothing you could do that would drive me away,” you tell him, punctuating your words with sinuous slides of your hips, wringing tight, needy little moans from him. Your own voice is breathy, the pitch of it gradually climbing. You reach down between your bodies, and take a firm hold of his cock, steadying it until you can sit astride it, and slowly sink back down.

With your mouth at his ear, panting noisy little breaths, you whisper, “I would kill a dozen, a hundred more men if it made you mine.”

What do you mean more?

The thought doesn’t linger long. It’s impossible to focus on anything other than the molten hot clench of your cunt seizing all around him, swallowing him up like it was made to. Homelander slides his hands to your hips and takes a tight hold, meeting the roll of your body with sharp thrusts up. “Nnngh, aah, fuck, I love you–I’m–fuck, I love you, you’re so–so fucking perfect,” he growls through his teeth, dull nails biting crescent marks into your skin while he holds you, pulling you down into every jagged, desperate snap of his hips. Each deep thrust knocks a noise from you, has you gripping his hair tight. Without leverage, all you can do is take it, your moans growing louder and louder, your pussy squeezing him tighter as he fucks you with inhuman precision. Homelander picks up his pace, dying to feel you come for him when he’s like this, messy with the worst parts of himself and wholly at your mercy, whether you know it or not.

“C’mon,” he grits out, though where he means to have authority in his voice, it comes out like a plea. “Come for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock. F-fuck, please, let me–let me feel you,” he says, trailing off into a moan before he buries his face between your breasts, flexing fresh bruises into your skin while you prettily pant and whimper in his ear from the sheer force he fucks you with.

“I will, I–I–” That’s as far as you get before you come, before you double over against him and scream his name loud enough for your entire apartment complex to hear. It tips him right over the edge with you, has him crying out as he arches his back, flooding his release deep into your tight, quivering pussy, thrusting weakly through the aftershocks.

By the time the two of you settle down against one another, your breaths calmed, the majority of the bathwater is outside of the tub. The night air is cool on your naked bodies, but you’ve never been cold in Homelander’s arms. He traces absent patterns on your skin while you recover, your thighs still shaking.

“We should shower,” you say eventually, a slight slur to your tone. It makes Homelander smile. He loves feeling, seeing, and hearing all the ways in which he has ruined you. “Let me finish washing you.”

“Can you stand?” He asks. It’s an earnest question. “Carry me there,” you say.

He stares at you warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkled with the width of his smile. “ ‘Kay.“

The shower is slow, less frenzied. You lather shampoo into his hair, washing away the remnants of what had come before this. You work body wash into his skin until he smells like coconuts instead of blood and viscera. He nuzzles into your touches, kisses you whenever the impulse strikes. There is no way to describe the unparalleled feeling of sharing space with a body that not only welcomes your touch, but also houses a heart that loves you. Once the two of you are sufficiently towel dried, the two of you settle into your familiar creaky bed. You draw the covers up over your bodies, and he draws you into his embrace, kissing the top of your head. He intertwines his fingers with yours, absently rubbing your skin with his thumb, his mind drifting.

“Say,” he begins eventually, stirring you from your near slumber. “The night we met… What were you doing on that side of town, down that alley?” His voice is low, curious.

There’s a pause. He can’t see your face like this, while you’re nestled into the crook of his neck, but he can hear your heart clear as day.

“I was looking for you,” you answer eventually, pulse as steady as a metronome.

At that, he smiles. “I love you,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

“I love you, too,” you answer, your own smile audible in your sleepy voice. “And I always will.”

Don't fret precious I'm here Step away from the window Go back to sleep Lay your head down child I won't let the boogeyman come Counting bodies like sheep To the rhythm of the war drums Pay no mind to the rabble Pay no mind to the rabble Head down, go to sleep To the rhythm of the war drums

[soldat-buck]

i had a vision while making coffee this morning

bg3 culinary headcanons: Companion Edition

- Shadowheart: absolute zero regard for contamination while cooking. kitchen habits of a permanent bachelor. licks the tasting spoon clean and keeps using it to cook. eats hot cocoa straight out of the container with a spoon. thinks pouring ranch over an entire head of lettuce and eating it like feral animal while holding it over the kitchen sink counts as "salad". if you can get past the contamination thing, the food she makes actually tastes pretty good, even if it's sometimes odd (she cooks like a stoner, despite being perfectly sober. she is just Like That).

- Astarion: perfectly capable of cooking, and actually can cook quite well. food may not taste the same after becoming a vampire, but his enhanced sense of smell tells him nearly everything he needs to know about how to season and cook food properly. he doesn't cook because he doesn't like to (washing dishes? by hand? no fucking thank you, being undead is harsh enough on the nails and skin. finding a good lotion for normal undead dryness is already impossible)

- Lae'zel: in the modern world, if her life took her in a chef direction, she'd be in a Michelin star restaurant as the world's best and most terrifying sous chef. she absolutely would throw a knife at you for fucking up her plating (she'd intentionally miss. the first time). no nonsense is ever tolerated in her kitchen, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's got temper issues (her coldness and lack of tantrums is what makes her terrifying). she'd put Gordon Ramsay in his place for his rage theatrics and then make him weep with joy after serving him the most competent omelet he's ever had in his life. if she likes you, you may address her as "Yes, Chef!" outside of the kitchen.

- Karlach: uses 4 pots to make ramen. not because she's doing anything fancy or elaborate with it, the first pot was too small and started boiling over (whoops). the second one was, oh hold on, that's a cast iron pan, maybe you're not supposed to use that for boiling liquids, huh? wait shit, can't use this one either, i'm not supposed to use metal spoons on nonstick, don't want to scratch it. There we go! this one is the right size! and if i scratch this one, it's fine! wait, where the fuck did the flavor packet go (you should definitely be concerned about leaving her alone for the weekend)

- Wyll: very resourceful cook due to his Blade of the Frontier days. can improvise a meal out of damn near anything. can identify every edible plant and mushroom and tell you how to use it in a dish. would carry an herb garden in his adventure pack if he could. would absolutely thrive on the show Chopped (he's actually banned from auditioning again because it's not fair to the other competitors to have him on). he could make you a dessert featuring rattlesnake and fresh picked clover, and you don't know how or why, but you actually like it

- Gale: approaches the kitchen the same way he approaches most things in his life - academically. knows the proper safe temperature to cook meats/etc to, knows how to brown an onion, knows what seasonings are typically used together for certain flavor profiles and how to match seasonings to proteins. knife work sucks because he uses mage hand for mise en place and his mage hand has shitty DEX, but he's scared of his chef knife from the one time he sliced his thumb open (he was cutting an onion with improper hand placement and the knife slipped)

- Minsc: would exclusively eat by dumpster diving if it weren't for Boo's disapproval. eats like a human garbage disposal. he will eat a n y t h i n g that fits in his mouth, he is the least picky eater you will ever meet. does not understand how food challenges in the show Fear Factor are supposed to be challenges

- Halsin: world class forager. very competent hunter. prefers to eat everything as raw as possible. understands but doesn't believe in strict food safety because obviously stomach acid kills germs (and anyway, a little dirt here and there never killed anyone; exposure to germs is good for your immune system). open-mouthed kissing him is gambling with your health. makes the best vegetarian salads but do not trust any chicken he has "cooked". people with weak CON might want to consider avoiding his food

- Jaheira: uses Talk to Animals to Cinderella/Ratatouille rodents in the kitchen. she commands them like she's in perilous battle and the entire world is at stake (also rodents are worse to direct than cats, they do not know the difference between left and right. there's a lot of "No! Not that cupboard, the other one! NO, the OTHER other one! Flank him, he's off balance!"). making a cup of tea is a convoluted, stressful process that takes 10 times longer than just boiling the damn water yourself

if you want more bg3 culinary headcanons, there's also: the Absolute Edition