Cigarettes Out The Window
cigarettes out the window
A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.
You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.
pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.
Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.
The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.
Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton.
A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.
You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.
Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom.
You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause.
Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago.
The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.
Instead, you light another.
The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing.
The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings.
You wish he’d hang around more.
The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.
You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.
“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained.
You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in.
In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence.
“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.”
Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities.
Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.
Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows.
What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt?
Go on then. Spit it out.
The target had pulled a knife out on your operative.
A dead end.
His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.
Dead ends, dead ends.
He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried.
There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas.
You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight.
You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still.
You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore.
He’s jus’ taking the piss.
And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.
You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do.
Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.
“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command?
“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.”
If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it.
He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli.
Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–
You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.
No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.
Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh.
Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.
You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day.
Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.
Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling.
With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken.
You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?”
He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.
Right.
Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze.
Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room.
“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.
“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.”
“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”
You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.
You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.
Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor.
You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.
Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?”
Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.”
You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts.
Then –
“You don' drink?”
It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested.
“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”
He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees.
“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–
“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.
He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.
“More of a sesame guy, myself.”
Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.
Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church.
I’d murder for a whiskey.
You mean scotch?
I drink bourbon.
You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees.
Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.
Problem, Scout?
Negative, sir.
He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did.
Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water.
It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid.
There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.
“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.
“Can’t we send in an extraction team?”
His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line.
It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one.
Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it.
Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.
Your mother couldn’t have cared less.
You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side.
The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from, too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you.
You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.)
Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise.
The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it.
But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.
So–
“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile.
“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.
All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.
This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.”
And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?”
The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning.
You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon.
You spit the first thing that comes to mind.
“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.”
And still with the revelation of what you just said.
Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance.
But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards.
“Afraid she’s not my type.”
And that’s all he gives you.
A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin?
Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.
But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead.
Fuck.
You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb.
You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy.
“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.”
You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves. You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.
You: Ran out of shampoo.
read at 3:25 am
He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood.
“Didn’ know what you liked.”
You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart.
“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient.
In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin.
You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes.
It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush.
He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red.
You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant.
Anxiolytic.
Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache.
You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.
Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him.
Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now?
No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud.
You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks.
Atta’ girl.
Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars.
He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)
Problem, Scout?
Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.
A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes.
You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.
A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.
Simon.
“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door.
Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp.
“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder.
You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.
You’ve been in here too long.
“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.”
Bloody hell.
You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart.
They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.
Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.
Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once.
Dead ends.
When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.
“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.”
You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”
“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.
You’re left alone with him.
There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.
“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin.
“Alright?”
Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be.
“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal.
“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.”
“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums.
“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.”
You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.
“And when they do?” You ask.
“We’ll be ready for them.”
Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team.
You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls.
It’ll be hard not to miss it.
You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.
But–
You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.
They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun.
You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you.
You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes.
“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command.
What did he mean by that? Bad timing?
Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths.
He can’t know. Can he?
The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun.
He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag.
I’m good.
You’re not. Drink.
And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak.
Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors.
He doesn’t miss a thing.
He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless.
He draws a deep inhale.
He knows.
“Didn’t finish, pet?”
Shit.
That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid.
“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness.
His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into.
“Turn around. Face the window.”
Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says. Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.
But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.
You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.
A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour.
As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms.
“Keep an eye out. Got it?”
Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.
You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine.
But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant.
It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.
He’d taken off his gloves.
Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts.
You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone.
A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut.
“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.
“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out
“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?”
But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire.
You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –
He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.
“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–”
“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss.
“We can be quick,”
And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.”
You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more.
You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world.
“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,”
Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”
“M’already there.”
And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper.
But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.
This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs.
Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.
But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust.
Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street.
“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.”
He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone.
“Lt… I think– I think I see something.”
Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl.
“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.
He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat.
You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.
Why’s he so worried?
It was only a shadow.
Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it.
A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour.
You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss.
And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures.
But your name is not for nothing.
Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green.
You’re the reason we’re alive, kid.
It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you.
A red laser, pointed straight at your chest.
Sniper.
“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before.
Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you.
At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price.
Never at you.
“SCOUT.”
A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.
The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb.
Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.
There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed.
Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.
You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.
Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat.
You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back.
It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash.
A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns.
She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.
When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base.
You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else.
Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety.
No, that’s not quite right.
Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate?
You need a cigarette.
Not embraced.
Your eyes fly open.
Simon.
“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”
The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers.
A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead.
You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.
“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine.
She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left.
You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,
“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.
But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf.
“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.”
Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will.
You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand.
“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.”
You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.
Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.
It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages.
Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.
Found him in the wreckage.
sent tuesday
Accompanied by a photo.
A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.
You don’t see him for a month afterwards.
The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus.
Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.
Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.
You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here.
Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe.
Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.
Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like.
As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.
You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind.
Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out.
It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.
You: finally out
[attached: current location]
And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill.
Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.
read at 9:03 pm
Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway.
You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach.
Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him.
You’re the one who invited him. And yet–
His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema.
It all comes swarming back to you.
The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough.
Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down.
Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.
“How are you?”
He takes a step forward. “Your head–”
“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound.
“And Johnny?”
“Better than ever.”
“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?”
A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated.
The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle.
“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel.
“Sent on some other mission, then?”
“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde.
You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches.
You think you know why.
“It’s not your fault, Lt.”
His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you.
Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.
“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.”
The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness.
Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.
Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you.
That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that.
When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.
But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks.
Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon.
That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity.
He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.
“And you saved my life.”
Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head.
“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”
“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.”
An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.
“Simon…”
He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless.
“I still–”
His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls.
“I know, pet. Me too.”
Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.
“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.
“I think I’ll be able to find it.”
With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.
“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.”
An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles.
“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-”
He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.
But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.
“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low.
Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava.
Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask.
“You’re quivering.”
“Huh?”
His thumb swipes over your hole.
“Oh–”
He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you.
“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth.
Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit.
He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.
To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper.
You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper.
The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers.
Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall.
“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise.
No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him.
“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”
“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs.
You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia.
And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.
“Atta’ girl.”
“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.
His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks.
Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex.
“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him.
Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.”
Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you.
“Chocolate?”
You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon.
“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.”
Simon drives himself deeper into you.
“There are sweeter things.”
He’d named the kitten Tommy.
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More Posts from Ssunny-side and Others
art student!reader x life drawing model!Eddie Munson
E 18+, so nsfw Words: 7048 read on ao3
find the sequel here
Paint It Black Summery: You’re frustrated with your latest work and look for distraction by attending the open life drawing class on what looks like a very ordinary Thursday. Eddie, the new model, is everything but ordinary but definitely a distraction.
CW/tags: characters somewhere in their twenties, meet-wild, smut, fluff, some sort of voyeurism/public erection, gets a little rough, unprotected sex, piv penetration, oral for everybody, v fingering, biting, love marks, talky sex, aftercare, art school bullshit, messy sex, artsy sex (I guess), love at first sight (I guess)
A/N: @edsforehead made me do it. (thank you so much)
comments and reblogs are so appreciated
The air is cold, stinging your cheeks as you ride your bike through a clear and crisp winter morning. It does wonders for waking you up and clearing your mind; you had spent way too long in your studio last night, hovering over this painting that just wouldn’t go the way you wanted. Inside your mind, you hoisted it off the wall to place it right in the middle of the room, a bucket of thick black paint in one hand, the other one dipping in until the medium reached your wrist. You drop down to your knees and get to work, blacking the wretched thing out one large swoop of your arm after another, sending hours of work into oblivion.
Oh my, it was so tempting. Your fingertips tickle with the urge to turn your frustration into something wild and rough and… simple.
But your Professor had sworn to make your life very hard if he ever got wind of you destroying one of your works again, so you followed the advice he had given you: You had decided to take a break. Do something different, something simple, something rewarding and easy to clear your mind to recharge your drained batteries.
So it is Thursday and you crawled out of bed after four measly hours of sleep to go to the life drawing class. You are early as always to get one of the good spots. The small auditorium is still empty except for your teacher who is busy untangling the cords of the various space heaters that will keep the model warm for the next hours.
“Ah,” he says as he sees you, “haven’t seen you here in a while.”
“Yeah, been busy wasting paint.” You smile and walk down the steps of the middle aisle and drop your bag on the best chair: first platform, second chair on the right from the aisle. It had the perfect distance and angle and the top of the backrest of first row to put your feet on so you could rest your paper on your thighs and wouldn’t have to struggle through two hours and a half hours of numb feet.
“Good decision to waste some graphite instead today,” your teacher says and grins. “I’m excited to see your progress.”
You hum, unpacking your supplies. “Who’s the model today? Someone familiar?”
“No, actually, I finally could recruit someone new. He should already be here though. Maybe he has difficulties finding us.” The building was old and could be confusing if you never set foot in it before.
“He,” you say, sharpening your pencil. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”
Male models were rare - maybe two out of ten sessions - and you start to get excited about coming in today.
Your teacher climbs up the stairs past you, “I’ll go and see if he’s wandering around somewhere.”
—
The room fills with students; you say your How are you?’s and What are you working on?’s and when the clock shows 9:37, you brace yourself for the session getting cancelled. Just then, the door opens and your teacher hurries down the stairs.
“Good morning everybody. Sorry for the delay, our model got lost in our hallways. Let’s hear: anybody working on something particular and has some requests for poses?”
You crane your neck up to the back of the room towards the overflowing coat rack while your teacher keeps going through the usual procedure.
The model’s back is turned and you see a long black coat being shrugged off of lean shoulders and underneath: more black. Black lines of ink meandering out of the sleeves of a black shirt; a harsh contrast against pale skin. Ringed hands come up to the back of his head to put the long dark wavy hair into a bun.
No! you plead internally, surprised by that strong reaction.
He chooses the far left aisle down, almost disappearing behind the rows of students but your eyes follow him with a burning curiosity as if you wouldn’t get the chance to look at him for hours in a moment. You shake your head and open your sketchbook to do just anything but stare. There was a difference between observing and staring and the latter wasn’t fucking appropriate inside this room.
“Everybody,” your teacher announces, “this is Eddie. Eddie has never done this before so be patient and just let him know if he’s moving too much.”
You look up and grind your teeth. This Eddie is fucking gorgeous.
“Uhm, hi!” he smiles into the room then looks back at your teacher. “So, uh, I just get naked or what?”
Everybody laughs, but you don’t. You’re taking a long slow breath.
“That’s the general idea,” your teacher grins. “You can put your things on that table in the corner and then just come back to this spot.”
But Eddie does not move to the mentioned corner, he simply pulls off his shirt and throws it the distance to the table. More tattoos come to light; all black, no color. He then kicks off his shoes and you watch his fingers as they open his belt and his fly, how they lodge into the hem of his black, frayed jeans and pull them down in one swoop. There are giggles as he throws the bundle, aiming at the table like he’s at the bowling alley, completely naked.
And then you realize, Eddie didn’t wear any underwear.
“The rings too, please.”
“Oh, sure.” He picks them off his fingers; one two three from one hand and one more from the other. Eddie looks at them on his palm for a moment and grins. “Nah, not gonna throw those.”
The class giggles again as Eddie takes two three long strides to the table to put his rings down carefully and prances back, taking his spot in the middle of the small platform surrounded by space heaters.
There is a soft crack coming from your lap and you look down to see that you had pushed your pencil to the paper so hard that you’d broken the tip.
—
It’s as always: a series of short poses to warm up. One minute, then three and up from there.
Except it is not like always. You're flustered, you’re hot and you spend way too long staring, not finishing any of the one-minute poses.
This has never happened to you before and you had been presented with a lot of good-looking people over the years but this guy was something else.
Three-minute poses and Eddie is slouched back in a chair, long legs spread, left arm resting on top of his head, the right one on his thigh. This was sinful. You just corrected the angle of his left thigh for the third time when you look up and find him looking right back at you. No lost glance into the distance over your shoulder, no: your eyes meet. And those eyes are big and dark and curious and he holds the gaze for several seconds before the timer beeps and announces the change of poses.
He’s not only beautiful and scorching hot but also incredibly adorable. He’s giddy between poses, shaking his arms and legs - and with that his cute little ass - bouncing on his toes and you start to think that holding still normally isn’t his forte. When he lies on his belly, soft gaze on the floor, he tries to stifle a yawn once, twice and only lets it out when he’s allowed to move again. You like his dedication.
Five-minute poses and you finally get into the flow; things start to make sense on the paper until you find him looking at you again. And not only that: he mouthes a small 'Hi'. You bite your lip and look down, feeling the looks of some of the students on you.
He’s cross-legged, leaning back, hands braced on the ground behind him. The angle is weird and it doesn’t help that the way his lean, inked chest moves every time he takes a breath makes you want to bite down on those sharp collarbones. You hold your sketchpad in your outstretched arms doing those quick back-and-forth glances to find out where to correct the mess when his eyes move back to you. Every time you meet his gaze makes your spine tingle more and more and you have to bite down on your lip again to not let a fucking noise slip from your mouth.
Ten-minute poses and your teacher has made it to you to give you some feedback. Nothing you hadn’t expected: you go about it too complicated, want to do too much in too little time, too much detail. Eddie is stretched out on his back and smirks towards the ceiling.
On the next round of feedback, he tells you to really look at Eddie’s hips. You get the angle wrong, it throws off the stance, and you know why all your stupid drawings look a little wonky: you try to avoid looking at his cock for too long. You never thought about a penis as a cock before in this class and it drives you up the walls seeing it twitch slightly while your teacher keeps explaining things you already know and you’re forced to stare at Eddie's crotch, knowing he's side-eying you and your flustered expression the whole. Damn. Time.
Eddie gets a brief pause to stretch and have some water and you want revenge. While his back is turned to you - shoulder blades rippling deliciously under his skin - you open the top two buttons of your blouse, sliding the collar off your shoulder.
One final five-minute pose before the session ends with a twenty-fiver and Eddie is crouched down with his knees pulled under his chin. He shuffles a little before he really settles, tilting his head slightly in a way that forces him to look in your direction unless he wants to lower his eyes to the floor for five minutes.
When he finally looks up, you’re waiting for him, head titled yourself exposing the side of your neck down to your shoulder where your bra strap is barely holding onto your skin.
Eddie’s eyes widen and you smile, tongue poking out just a little to lick your bottom lip before you focus on the paper in your lap to roughly map out the pose. You don’t linger on him while you draw, quick glances only, but you can feel his gaze heavy on you.
This sketch is turning out to be the best so far. You lean back a little, biting down on the back of your pencil and start rolling your shoulders. One gets stiff sitting like that for so long, so people stretch all the time and nobody will notice that you’re giving Eddie a little show. You tilt your head to the right and run a hand over the muscles in your neck, massaging the achy spot right beyond your skull for a moment. When you give in to look down at him, you do it from under your lashes, taking the pencil stuck in your mouth between two fingers and let your tongue play with it ever so slightly.
Eddie takes a deep breath; you can see it in the way his shoulders rise and his knees are pressed forward. You grin and he pulls up his brows and you can’t tell if he begs you to stop or go on.
Twenty-five-minute pose and the crowd demands him to stand.
“Twenty-five minutes of standing is ok?” your teacher asks Eddie, who hasn’t jumped up like a spring toy after the timer rang.
“Uhm, yeah,” he says, legs still drawn to his torso. “Sure thing, uh-hn.”
It takes him another beat to push himself up and come to a stand. Your eyes wander from the top of his cheeks, tinted in a pretty pink, down to those hips to find him not exactly half hard, but on a good way to it. You feel your eyes roll up.
Shit.
Your teacher instructs him how to stand, feet wider apart - a little more, perfect - arms crossed over his chest which too is now slightly pink. His biceps’ flex a few times as he waits for more instructions.
“Can you turn a little, to the left?” a guy in the top row asks and Eddie does.
“Like this?”
Like this you get him in a three-quarter-view and your heart is racing; will he look at you again or did you push it too far?
“Anything else?” your teacher asks and you want to bite down on your tongue but instead it’s moving and forming words.
“Can we have the hair down for this last one?”
Eddie’s head snaps up, catching you in the middle of your request. He pinches his eyes shut at the approval of your fellow students. Below the waist, he’s twitching again.
Loosening his hair tie, Eddie musses around in his dark waves with practised fingers until he seems satisfied with what he sees in the mirror across the room. You suppress a moan, breaking the tip of your pencil again. He’s not looking at you, this time choosing to turn down his eyes while his face points in your general direction again. You curse at yourself internally; you should have just gone to him after the session and slipped him your number or asked him if he was busy after this while the both of you were still flooded with whatever this was and—
Shit!
Whatever Eddie is thinking while not looking at you did not help with what was going on in his loins. That pretty cock was getting bigger: half-hard-hello! And judging by his current state, he was big. You involuntarily grind your hips on your chair and drop your pencil in the process. A groan escapes you, sounding much too pleasant for a case of dropped art supplies and you bend down to get it back. When you come up, brown eyes are waiting for you. There is a smile playing around them while his pretty pink lips are slightly pressed together. Thank god he doesn’t look mad or annoyed, only the blush giving away that something was going on.
You can’t help it, you’re biting your lip, eyes wandering between his face and his cock and his brows draw slightly together before he averts his eyes again, breathing a few times: deep and slow.
Deep and slow.
Holy shit you are throbbing and wet and all you can do is fake another stretch and while shuffling around, press your thighs together for a little bit of friction. You tilt your hips down slightly and the sensation is so good and welcome that your eyes pinch close and your back arches. The movement is jerkily and you stretch your arms over your head to conceal it, slowly opening your eyes again.
Eddie is watching. Eddie is hard.
You grab your pencil and start drawing the spectacle in front of you; concentration isn’t the right word for the sharp focus that settles over you. It’s fucking lust.
It’s not the first hard-on you’ve seen in this class, not by any means. It happens now and then and usually a slight blush from the model was the only reaction. But this wasn’t any hard dick: you did this. You did this to this gorgeous man and you wanted to capture this with your own hands. In case he just bolted right after the session, you would have something to remember this.
You’re leaning in, literally, sketch pad balancing on your knees and bent over your thighs you almost forget the additional loosened buttons on your blouse until you catch those eyes directed at your chest. Seems like Eddie figured the damage was done anyway so why hold back now?
And fucking hell was that precum glistening at the tip?
This is when the timer starts announcing the end of class.
Eddie shoots you one final look, a sharp grin, a slight shake of the head, tips of his hair tickling his shoulders and hops off his little platform to get dressed.
“Holy shit,” says the guy next to you, leaning over. “Have you seen that dick?”
You huff a laugh that throbs in your pussy. “Hard to overlook.”
“Exactly,” he groans and picks up his things.
—
You look at drawings of Eddie of all kinds. They are all beautiful, even the bad ones. You rub your forehead catching that corny thought and look across the room where Eddie is talking to two people, gesturing to the drawings on the floor, laughing. The two of you are slowly moving towards each other. The journey consists of looking, talking: This is a good one! and That one is crap, right? and glancing to your right. You reach the row with your own stuff, groaning internally at how very off everything looks, everything but two.
Suddenly, a chest presses to your back and an arm sneaks past you to point at a drawing.
“That’s amazing.”
The explosion in your insides barely travels to your voice and you’re impressed with yourself. He even smells amazing. “Thank you.”
“Oh, that’s one of yours then?”
You turn to face him. The smile on his face is obscene.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Eddie.”
The smile shrinks a little and his nostrils flare with the air he pulls in. His voice is low and deep when he speaks. “You… uh, made that a very hard job to do.”
“I’m almost sorry,” you croon. His face is way too close; one uptilt of your head and you could bite his plush bottom lip.
“Don’t be,” he licks the spot you just imagined nibbling on. “I didn’t start it for nothing.”
You both jump when someone hijacks your moment. “Those detailed studies are really nice.”
“Yeah, right?” Eddie says with genuine enthusiasm. “Almost the only ones who got some of my tattoos…”
“Uhg, tattoos are hard in that short time, man and you know, not really anatomy.”
The exchange goes back and forth a little longer until Eddie loops his arm under yours and not so causally pulls you in the direction you’d come from under the disguise of looking at sketches.
“So, uh, what are you doing, like, right after this?”
“You, I hope.”
“Shit…” he shakes his head, hair falling into his face. “You’re killing me already… where do you want to go?”
You think about this for a moment, greedy and soaking through your panties you’re in no mood to wait much longer to have him naked again.
“I have a studio two corridors down…”
His brows shoot up. “You ahm…” he blurts out, then lowers his voice, “want to do me here at school?”
“Yes, Eddie… like the pretty little muse you are.”
—
His hand is warm in yours as you pull him along behind you through the hallway past your fellow students who throw curious glances over their shoulders.
Eddie catches up to your side and leans close to your ear, “Are you already wet for me? The way you moved on that chair…”
“Drenched,” you breathe against his neck and almost stumble over your own feet. Eddie sneaks his arm around you, keeping you steady.
“Easy, sweetheart. Let me be the one to bruise you, ok? I’ll do it in aaall the nice places.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open.
“Promise,” he adds, tapping the tip of your nose, a devilish smile spreading on his face.
You drag him on and he laughs behind you until he catches up again. There is a brief moment where you leave him in the middle of the empty foyer to get your key from the doorman, interrupting his lunch break, praying to whoever deity will listen to your horny call that none of your studio mates is in there already. You almost moan when the guy hands the key to you and you bump into Eddie’s chest face first when you turn around in a hurry.
“Fuck you’re so pretty,” he rasps, takes your face in his large hands and bends down to press a hot kiss to your mouth. Your fists close around the lapel of his coat as he licks along your teeth until your tongue finds him. The world around you feels vague and unimportant until the doorman behind you knocks against the glass of his booth.
“I don’t need to see this, folks.”
This time Eddie takes your hand and walks on. “Show me the way, babe, or I’ll have to hoist you up one of those windowsills… you people are doing performance art here, right?”
Eddie is mumbling filthy things at you the whole way down the empty corridor where your shared studio is the last room on the left. You try to fumble the key into the lock and drop it because Eddie is already busy bruising your neck. Pressed flat to your back he brushed your hair to the side and started sucking at the spot just below your ear, his hands sneaking around you, cupping your tits through your blouse. As you bend down to pick up the key, Eddie grabs your hips and rolls his own against you, almost pushing you into the door. You both laugh and he pulls you up by your waist.
“Sorry,” he chuckles as you finally unlock the door. “I couldn’t help myself.”
You let him inside and lock the door behind you.
“What’s your workspace?” he asks, already poking his nose into things. “No! Don’t tell me… it’s… this one.”
“How did you know?” you ask surprised, taking off your coat and fully unbuttoning your blouse while he looks at your work lined up on the wall, hand on his chin like a proper little art critic.
“Well, I saw your drawings and this stuff here… it has the same… Duktus?”
“Christ,” you moan and he looks at you. “That was so sexy.”
“Hey, you’re starting without me?”
Eddie rushes to you, hands instantly sliding inside your open blouse against your bare skin. His hands are rough, calloused in some places and the slight scratch is making you shiver in his arms. He pulls the fabric off of you and drops it to the ground. His coat falls next, then his shirt. Eddie hisses as you sink your teeth into his collarbone as soon as you have access to them.
“Too much?”
His eyes are lidded and so very dark as he shakes his head. “Just start pulling my hair too and you’ll never get rid of me again…”
“That a threat or another promise?” you purr as you open his belt and fly over the impressive bulge in his pants.
“Which one turns you on more?” You hook your fingers into his waistband and drop to your knees, pulling his pants down with you, making his breath hitch. “Oh, s-shit…”
This is the close-up you've been yearning for all morning. Fully hard and flushed a deep pink already; you wonder if it will feel as heavy on your tongue as it looks. You run a finger along the underside and it twitches again, bobbing up and down in front of your face. You lean in, stick out your tongue and give the swollen tip a lick that makes Eddie whimper above you.
Again you meet his eyes and the expression in them is so unexpectedly soft that you almost whimper too. Your cunt is clenching around horrible nothingness as you lick him again, flat tongue sliding along the underside, feeling a vein, tasting salt, watching those big brown eyes roll up and close as a moan escapes him.
“You’re gorgeous, holy shit.” You firmly grip his cock around the base and stroke him a few times, your mouth watering, before you close your lips around the tip, your tongue swirling in lazy circles around it. Eddie’s breath is uneven and laced with soft moans from his glistening parted lips while you softly play around with his cock. Every twitch of his face is a delight, the way his abdomen tenses when you press small kisses to the length of his shaft makes you swoon with adoration. You reach up one hand to trace up the lines of a tattoo on his ribcage and he catches it, pressing it flat against his chest. Eddie’s heartbeat pounds against your palm and you moan around his cock.
“Holy… fuck… I wanna watch you so bad but I don’t know if I can take it.”
“You can take it, big boy,” you say in a low voice. “Look at me.”
It takes him a few more seconds until he opens his eyes and looks down at you; the moment you lock eyes you take him down as far as you can. A string of loud but mostly intangible curses echoes through the large room as you suck him down again and again in long leisurely motions. Your lips stretched around his girth curl up into a smile when his hands look for something to hold onto in your hair and you place your index finger at the corner of your mouth without stopping your onslaught to signal him to keep the volume down.
“Sorry, ah fuck fuck FUCK… I’ll try… shit I’m balls deep in your mouth and still don’t know your name—”
You don’t want to stop, not even for the moment to tell him your name. There’s a big portfolio folder leaning against the wall and you point in the general direction before running your fingers through the dark curls around his base and up the trail to his stomach while he’s trying to figure out what you’re showing him, failing at his attempt to stay quiet.
Then he says it: your name, no, he moans it. And he doesn’t fucking stop.
Suddenly your abdomen is on fire and you have to pull back to catch your breath. But you can’t, not really, because Eddie has kicked off his pants the rest of the way, dropped to the floor and pushed you to your back to peel you out of your clothes.
The floor is cold under your ass and back and you thump your head a little as he wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer to him.
“Shit, you okay?”
“Yeah,” you giggle, “keep manhandling me.”
Eddie grins like the devil himself and goes to work. He’s everywhere: kissing, lapping biting at your mouth, your jaw your neck your tits, his fingers pushed into your thighs and you know it will bruise. He’s keeping his promise, leaving wet tingling marks all over you, a purple trail of small galaxies. His fingers find your cunt, finally, and Eddie eats the moan out of your mouth.
“Shh,” he says with a cocky laugh, his forehead pressed to yours, two fingers circling your clit in dragging motions. “You’re loud, beautiful. You don’t want us to get caught before I had a chance to fuck you.”
“N-no… ahhh.” Two thick fingers slide into you and your muscles grip down hard at the sudden intrusion.
“Hi,” he grins down at you as if he wasn’t just pounding your g-spot out of nowhere and making you see stars.
You hold on to his face, grappling for purchase and finally wind your fingers into this wild tickling hair and pull.
“Jesus, finally!”
“I— I’m so close.”
“Keep holding on,” he groans and moves down your body, fingers stilling for a moment.
You keep your hands in his hair, pulling in frustration from the ebbing pleasure.
“Of course, you have the prettiest fucking pussy, you—“ he doesn’t finish his thought, diving in with his tongue to lap at your clit like he’d been starving for you his whole life.
You bite the back of your hand to keep from yelling out at the sight alone. His eyes meet yours, of course they do and he sucks one of your lips into his mouth.
“You’re a fucking tease, Eddie… what’s your last name?”
“Munson,” he mumbles against your core and keeps on feasting.
“You’re a fucking tease, Eddie Munson… ahhh don’t stop please.”
And he doesn’t. He gives you his fingers and his mouth, his eyes fixed on you— well, most of the time, he keeps looking to a spot behind you but you have no time to inquire as your legs start to tremble and everything inside you starts to tense and pulse and you’re coming apart under his mouth before you’ve really seen it coming.
Yeah, that guy was something else.
When you’ve come down he gently pulls his fingers from you and litters your thighs and belly with kisses. His fingers are sticky against your skin but a slight roughness remains.
Your head lolls against the floor while you’re still blissed out and Eddie still puts those feathery kisses to your skin.
“You… you’re a musician…” you drawl out.
He looks up. “Yeah! How do you know?”
You take his hand from your chest and lick your wetness from his fingers before you turn his palm to him, sliding a fingertip over the calloused skin.
“You like that?” he grins.
You let go of his hand and nod. “Something with strings?”
“Guitar. And vocals.”
“Fuck you, you’re way too hot as it is…” you squeeze him with your thighs and his eyes go to that spot behind you again before he kisses your chest.
“What do you keep looking at?” you wiggle and crane your neck. It’s that painting. The one that has been haunting you for weeks.
“Sorry,” he scrunches up his nose. “I don’t know, draws me in somehow… it’s… weird… sorry.”
“No, no, don’t be…” you say and pull him up to you, kissing him. “You’re right.”
“Yeah?” he glances over again. “Well, fuck… yeah… m’ not gonna lie to you it’s kinda terrifying.” You both laugh. The warmth in your chest only expands more.
“Want to slather me in paint and fuck me against it?”
Eddie’s eyes widen as he glances between your face and the canvas. “Yes? Fuck yes!”
He pulls you up and into a hungry kiss, his thick cock hard against your belly.
“Is that stuff safe to use?” he points his chin to some paint tubes on the trolley in the corner.
“No, oh god, no. But…” you leave him to look for a large bottle of black paint letting out a triumphant ha when you find it. You turn around beaming. “This here is… and will wash out of hair with no problem.”
“Come here…” he curls his finger to beckon you to him. “And hand that over.”
“Is that turning you on?” you ask as you join him.
“You have no idea.” Eddie takes the paint from you and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling your back to his chest. “You’re so pretty already with all my marks on you.” He walks you over to the canvas that way, his lips pressed close to your ear.
You turn in his arm and reach for his cock, stroking him softly. “How do you want me?”
“Fuck if I know… gimme a second and don’t stop that.” He looks at the canvas, really thinking about this. You suddenly want to pull his hair again. “Hands above your head, babe,” he says, opening the bottle of paint and squirts a generous amount into his hand. “Keep them clean. You have to put me inside you.”
You lean against the canvas; it’s large, so large that your outstretched arms above your head just graze the wooden frame inside.
Eddie’s hands are dripping black paint as he grabs your hips, bends down and sucks your nipple into his mouth before he kisses up to the crook of your shoulder to suck on you once more. “One last one before I make a mess out of you.” The contrast between the warmth of his lips and the cool paint as he slides his hands up your sides to your ribs makes you squirm and whimper. Eddie steps back to look at his work.
“Fuck, I’m an artist.”
He grabs the bottle from the floor and gets more paint, letting it drip right to your tits before smudging with splayed fingers. You watch him, mesmerized. When he is satisfied, he spins you around and pats your thigh as a sign to widen your stance. You feel him shuffle behind you as he presses himself against you and your chest against the canvas.
“Ready?”
You reach down, fumbling in the air for a moment before you find him. “You ready?”
“Ye—ahhhh, you little minx,” he groans as you line him up and push back on him half the way. He holds you steady and slides in the rest of the way breathing out a long low fuuuuck. Then he stills. “Are you holding your breath? You ok?”
You are more than ok and you let the air out, your forehead dropping against the canvas. “It was that or letting everybody in the building know I’m getting stretched real fucking good right now…”
He angles your hips back and pushes closer. “Yeah, you are… shit, you’re unreal.”
“And you’re big. Gimme a moment.”
“All the time you want, I’m cosy here.”
While you get used to the stretch, Eddie caresses your back, rubbing small circles up the sides of your spine.
“I have a show next Tuesday,” he says kissing your shoulder. “Would love to see you in the first row.”
“Wouldn’t miss it… I assume it’s something hard?” you wiggle your ass, making you both sigh.
“You like it hard?” he laughs. “Music, I mean.”
“I do.”
“’Course you do. Can I fuck you now? Please?”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Before the paint dries.”
He starts slow, pulling out almost all the way and sliding back in till he bottoms out. Your front slides against the canvas blackening out parts of it in big splotches.
“How’s this?” He’s so careful it makes your throat feel tight.
“You feel in-incredible.” You push back, meeting his thrusts as he picks up the pace.
“You’re incredible, sweetheart.”
Then you’re just getting lost in each other. His movements get rougher, more confident as he thrusts into you. You feel him deep inside you lighting little fires everywhere. A hand presses to the canvas next to your head, an arm loops around your waist and you yelp as he sharply slams into you. You beg him to do it again but he’s already on it, relentlessly fucking you into the canvas. Most of the paint is dry now, it’s prickling on your skin. Eddie moans your name into your ear, squeezing your tits and you squeeze your muscles around his cock.
“Shhh, babe…” you chuckle after he cries out.
“Fuck you,” he laughs hoarsely into your hair.
You’re so close again and you slip your hand between your legs but Eddie stops and pulls your arm to your back. “No nono, shit, not-not like that…”
“Eddie…”
“Stay like that,” he says and pulls out of you, leaving you empty and confused. There is some shuffling and then he is back behind you. “Going to be cold.”
“What— uhn!”
Paint trickles onto your arched back, sliding down your spine and making you shiver. Eddie gives your ass a little smack and turns you around, crowding you against the canvas, and hoists you up by your thighs.
“Oh my god,” you huff, wrapping your arms around his neck while he balances you out.
“Can’t do that all day but you’re close ‘n I wanna see that face when you come.” He leans you back to create some space between you. “Help me out, put me back inside you…”
You do as you’re told and you clench your thighs hard around his hips as he starts up almost at the same pace he stopped. He kisses you, so sloppy so wet you feel a string of spit between your mouths when he pulls back again to hook his arms under your knees and spreads you open so wide that you’re crying out his name.
“I got you,” he assures you, pounding into you at a new angle, so deep it makes you dizzy. “I got you, you can juuust fall apart…”
The noises you two are making where you’re joined are obscene.
“Holy shit,” you moan, “li-listen… those sounds.”
Eddie drops his head to your shoulder, sweat dripping from his forehead onto you. “Like fucking music…”
You laugh. “Fucking music indeed.”
“God, you’re perfect,” he presses out through a laugh and really leans into you. You grab a thick strand of hair and pull as your insides begin to tense.
“Oh… oh shit, don’t stop.”
The world tilts as he leans you back again. “Wouldn’t dare… touch yourself for me, I need to feel you come around me.”
“Come inside me, yeah?” you rasp as you circle your swollen throbbing clit.
His eyes bore into yours, the strain and pleasure all over his face. He’s a mess as much as you are. “Come on, darling… come for me… I want you to run through my fingers.”
And you swear you do: your head thumps against the wood frame as your muscles try to create a black hole or whatever happens under so much pressure, but who cares when this stupidly perfect man fucks you through the hardest orgasm anyone ever had while looking at you like he was fulfilling his fucking destiny. You can’t hear him over the blood rushing through your ears, but he looks so pretty with his nose scrunched up, a streak of black paint running over the bridge and his eyes shut tight. A few more thrusts and he collapses against your chest with stuttering hips, pinning you so hard against the wall that it drives the air out of you.
There is only breathing, hot air from his lungs against your tickling skin. You cup the back of his head and stroke his hair; he nuzzles deeper into your skin and makes a noise that sounds like fucking home.
“I need to put you down now… sorry.”
He puts you down but doesn’t let go. Kisses cover your face until you cup his cheeks and claim his mouth while he’s dripping down the inside of your thighs.
Then you giggle together, Eddie squeezing your ass with both hands, smiling at you so silly and soft. You’re thirsty, you let him have the bottle first and he gulps the water down, spilling down his chest, creating little rivers of paint that let the ink show through. You want to study those lines up close without twenty people around you, without the blinding fire of lust, but calm, taking your time asking questions.
“What’s going on up there?” he asks, tapping a finger against your forehead.
“I wanna study you some more,” you say, taking the bottle and down what’s left.
He doesn’t ask you what you mean, only tilts his head and smiles. Then he sits down in that worn-out armchair your mate had dragged in a few months ago, still naked, it isn’t time to cover up yet and you find a clean enough rag, climb into his lap and clean the paint off his face as gently as you can.
“Stop,” he grabs your hips, “do you have a camera or something?”
You do and the timer takes too long for you two not to start fooling around before the soft click of the shutter sounds. One more and one more and the film has only two more left and he pulls you in to kiss you just before the camera rewinds.
“You want to join me when I make the prints?”
“You, red light and chemicals?” he grins. “It’s a date.”
The painting is dry already; Guache dries rather fast, you explain to him. It’s itchy, he adds and scratches his chest, small flakes of black falling down to the floor. You sit in front of both your work, your head against his shoulder and your fingers fumbling with a strand of his hair that is stiff with paint.
“You know,” he says, “it would have made a damn good record cover before…”
“You can have a picture… I document every night before I go home.”
“Really? I mean, the picture?”
You brush sweaty hair off his forehead, “I’m sure it’s in good hands with you.”
He almost shoves you over when he kisses you, the giddy streak you saw earlier during class showing when he chuckles and licks your cheek like a puppy.
“It looks really good now though, don’t you think?”
“You’re just horny,” you laugh.
“What? You don’t like our work?” he pouts and this shouldn’t pull at your heart that much.
“I do,” you kiss the pout, “I was just teasing.”
“I mean it,” he looks at the canvas, “It’s a bit crooked and dented now, but that just adds to the charm.”
“It has nothing on you though when it comes to charm.” You lean in with a sultry smile and his palm cups your breast and then—
A knock on the door. “Come on, you still fucking in there? I need to work.”
You look at each other with large eyes and break out laughing, scrambling for your clothes. Eddie hisses sharply when you slap his ass just before he pulls up his jeans and you forgo the bra because one strap did not survive Eddie’s enthusiasm. There is paint sticking out of his collar that you couldn’t clean before your photo shoot and you remember to put the film in your pocket while he kisses your temple because he seems to can’t help himself but stay close to you.
“Ready?” you ask and he grabs your hand and nods, following you out.
“Finally,” your mate says, but smiles when she sees you. “Aren’t you that new model?”
“Muse,” he grins without further explanation.
You hand her the key, mouth a small sorry and admit it when she calls you out on your lie.
His hand is warm in yours, his thumb playing with your knuckles as you walk back through the hallway.
“So,” he says, “we gonna shower at your or my place?”
David Bowie (1974)
series
virgin!eddie | part i // ii // iii // iiii // v // vi | smut | x reader | 13.9k
oneshots
i get off | smut | x reader | 1.4k
hysteria | smut | x reader | 3.2k
she's got the look | smut | x plus size!reader | 2.1k
don't you want me baby | smut | x plus size!reader | 2.3k
living dead girl (kas!eddie) | smut/noncon | x reader | 3.7k
knocking on heavens door | smut | x reader | 1.7k
lay your hands on me | smut | x reader | 3.9k
the sex is good | smut | x reader | 3.7k
'what're you wearing?' | smut/phone sex | x reader | 2k
'you're cute when you beg' | smut | x reader | 1.5k
'you wanna get cucked by steve?' | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 2.1k
two for the price of one | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 1.3k
'you want some help with that?' | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 2.8k
this must be the place | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 8.6k
like a secret in your throat | smut | eddie x steve | 1.1k
isn't that so sad | angst/mental health | eddie x steve | 1.9k
blurbs
'go on, what else would i like?' | smut | x reader | 1k
'are you that easy for me?' | smut | x reader | 1.7k
'those are gonna be hard to cover up' | smut | x reader | 1.1k
'i bet i could make you squirt' | smut | x reader | 1.1k
'same time tomorrow?' | smut | x reader | 1.1k
'you'll take what i give you' | BULLY!EDDIE smut | x reader | 1.6k
'dunno, eddie. i feel funny.' | BULLY!EDDIE smut/piss kink | x reader | 1.1k
'sorry? too little too late.' | BULLY!EDDIE smut/dubcon | x reader | 1.1k
'i need to see you cum.' | VIRGIN!EDDIE smut | x reader | 1k
grower not a shower | smut | x reader | 1k
eddie & steve dp | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 1.5k
virgin!eddie watching porn | smut/phone sex | x reader | 1.2k
rockstar!eddie signing your tits | smut | x reader | 1.2k
drabbles
'who's the desperate idiot now?' | smut | x reader | 672 words
'tell me, was he as good as me?' | smut/dubcon | x reader | 1k
save a horse, ride a cowboy | smut | x reader | 503 words
'your perfect little nose' | smut | x reader | 248 words
'fucking hate you, munson' | smut | x reader | 557 words
'you think bad girls deserve to cum?' | smut | x reader | 866 words
'shit sweetheart, didn't see you there.' | smut | eddie + steve x reader | 730 words
'so desperate you couldn't wait, huh?' | smut | x reader | 495 words
‘s’not all gonna fit is it?’ | smut | x reader | 945 words
'oh shit, sorry, m'gonna-' | smut | x reader | 246 words
eddie fucks fat girls | smut | x reader | 362 words
eddie 'minuteman' munson | smut | x reader | 200 words
edging eddie until he cries | smut | x reader | 847 words
perv!eddie likes to make you squirt | smut | x reader | 246 words
modern day!eddie + reddit | fluff | x reader | 449 words
eddie + sick reader | fluff | x reader | 537 words
'i never thought you could hurt me like this' | angst | x reader | 630 words
'here comes the airplane' | fluff | x reader | 266 words
'i was gonna knock your socks off' | fluff | x reader | 461 words
eddie and your daughter | fluff | x reader | 383 words
eddie finds out you're pregnant | angst | x reader | 659 words
updated january 14th '24
yearbook photo 📷
Hey everyone, please consider buying the 2024 itch.io Palestinian Relief Bundle- it's 373 games, game-making assets, tabletop roleplaying games, zines, and comics for a minimum of just 8 USD! They have a goal of 100,000 USD, and as of the time I'm writing this post, they have 8 more days to reach it.
Link will be in the reblog!
Hi, I’m new here! I’m not sure if requests are open or if you’re currently writing for ghost, but could we have a scenario where there is a new female ghoul and they’re trying to figure out where they fit in the hierarchy. She’s bratty and challenges sodo, but he’s having none of it and it gets a bit smutty/suggestive and has her submitting. Thank you and my apologies if you don’t write anything like this!
Hello there! They are open, so thank you for the request. I am also terribly sorry for the very long wait. I have been having trouble with my writing motivation but it's back!
•°. *࿐ Rocky start
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Take Me Back To Eden - Sleep Token
Sodo x fem!reader
The new ghoulette challenges Sodo, he’s not amused in the slightest.
Word count: 1.590
Ghost masterlist
It’s been a while since you’ve been summoned to the top. You were summoned to replace Aether for the upcoming tour while he stays back to help around the clergy. Copia and the other ghouls and ghoulettes have noticed that you are having a harder time adjusting to the surface than previous ghouls. For a quintessence ghoulette, you’re a bit more snappy than usual. As days go by, some ghoul’s patience is running thin. That certain ghoul is Sodo. There isn’t a time of day when you two aren’t arguing. To their confusion, you are a lot more agitated around Sodo than the others. Yes, you have your moments with the others but it’s never as bad as it is when you’re around the fire ghoul. Sodo has noticed it too and isn’t too thrilled, to say the least.
You’re in the practice room with the rest of the band, rehearsing for the upcoming shows. Currently, you are on a short break so everyone is conversing or playing something random. Sodo is trying to fix his solo since he kept messing it up previously during the rehearsal. You, wanting to annoy him a little bit, decide to play the solo as well but add your little twist. As he's nearing the solo you start getting ready and crank your amp up. You both start playing, at first he doesn't notice but as he messes up again, he growls and throws his pick across the room. You, however, continue playing. You finish his solo perfectly. You place your guitar down and give him a sly smirk, "wanna try again, Sodo?" Some snickers could be heard throughout the room. He snarls and flips you off, "yeah yeah, whatever." Just as you open your mouth to say something Copia pipes up, "Alright, ghouls and ghoulettes. From the top!"
***
As the rehearsal goes on. Everyone within the room can tell how fired up Sodo is. At least, more than usual. He plays with a lot more passion, aggression, and spirit. At some point during the rehearsal, you were going to match or top his attitude to get a rise out of him, but the look that Copia gives you says enough. It’s like he’s saying, ‘Don’t aggravate him further.’ And for once, you pull back a little on your playing and continue as if there isn’t tension in the room. An early practice already sets off the fire ghoul and topping it with your attitude isn’t the ideal morning for the said ghoul.
You can see from the corner of your eye that he’s fiddling with his pedals. His guitar and pedals have been giving issues as of late, during practice and the rituals. “Fuck!! Stupid thing won’t work!” He shouts out with frustration. He fiddles with it once more before giving up and throwing his pick at it. “Maybe if you stop throwing shit at it, it would work.” You mumble out. He hears it and snaps his head to you, “what did you just say?” he asks in a low tone. “I said, maybe if you stop throwing shit and kicking at it, it would work.” He glares at you, “maybe if you mind your own business I can get it to work.” He retaliates. Copia sighs, “(Y/n), take over his parts until he fixes it. We don't have time for this.” You nod and smile triumphantly at Sodo. “Oh! Of course, she gets my parts! What a fucking joke.” Copia gives him a pointed look, “Sodo if you need a minute to cool off, feel free to do it outside of this room.” He takes of the strap of his guitar and holds the guitar by its neck and storms off, “fine!! You don't need me anyway! Do this stupid rehearsal without me!” and with that he slams the door behind him closed. Looks are exchanged with each other throughout the room.
“Should one of us talk to him?”
“He won't set the clergy on fire, right?”
“Maybe one of us should go after him, to calm him down.”
“I can go.” You propose to the group. Swiss chuckles, “no offense, he hates you the most. You'll just set him off more.” Copa sighs and pinches his nose bridge, “no one needs to go after him. He’ll calm down on his own. And no, he won't set the clergy on fire. He has enough self-control. Okay from the top now, 5, 6, 7, 8.” You all look at each other and shrug. Deciding to trust his judgment you continue playing, without Sodo.
***
You can't help but dwell on Swiss’ words the whole morning. ‘He hates you the most.’ It hurts to think about it. ‘Does he actually hate you?’ you ask yourself. You hope not, you actually like him a bit, even if it doesn't look like it. You walk mindlessly through the halls of the clergy, some halls you haven’t even seen before. Eventually, you reach the gardens. You decide to spend a couple of hours there. You look around the scenery. It is well kept by the earth ghouls. You spot Mountain among them, you smile and give him a subtle wave. He notices and smiles and waves back. You see a tree near the pond where the water ghouls like to spend their time, especially during the warm summer heat. You take a seat at the base of the tree and watch the handful of water ghouls swim around, splash around, and relaxing. You look around some more and you see the air ghouls playing around with the kits. And the fire ghouls... well they are being typical fire ghouls. Messing around with the other ghouls and goofing off. Even the few multie ghouls that the clergy has are scattered about. They’re spending time with the other elements. But you see no quintessence ghouls. What are their roles? What is your role in the clergy? Eventually, the sun sets and the ghouls are heading back inside. You, however, decide to take in the serenity of the garden while you can.
You spend how many minutes before Aether walks up to you. You look up at him and give him a questioning look. “I thought I'd find you here. Come inside, before they start eating your dinner.” You nod and take his hand that he outstretched for you. He pulls you up and leads you inside.
“Aether?” he hums in acknowledgment. “What do we quintessence ghouls do? All the other elements are outside doing different stuff.” He chuckles, “is this why you are bothering Sodo so much? He's your mate, isn't he?” You slap him on the arm, to which he laughs at. You're only proving his point. “Well, we help out the papa’s if they need it. We also occasionally help out Sister Imperator and the other sisters and brothers. A simple job really, not much to it if I do say so myself.” You thank him, and before you know it you're at the dinner table. You sit across from Sodo, who's picking at his food. All the other ghouls and ghoulettes at the table have already finished if not, almost finished with their food. Sodo usually finishes by now. You put your knife and fork down, “Sodo?” He raises a brow, acknowledging you but not saying a word. “I’m sorry about earlier during rehearsals, and for the earlier weeks. I have been giving you a hard time for no reason.” Sodo grunts before standing up and stalking over towards you. He wraps his hand around your arm and pulls you up from your chair. Aether looks at you to ask if you need him to intervene. You shake your head, wanting to see what Sodo wants. He drags you out of the mess hall. He walks over to his room and nearly throws you inside. He pins you to the wall and gets close to you, so close that you can feel him heavily breathing. “You know we are mates, correct?” He asks you. You nod timidly, clearly having lost your tongue. “Then why have you been giving me a hard time the whole fucking time since you have arrived here?! You have been nothing but rude to me, insulting me, trying to put me down. I can't even hate you for it, because I love you too much.” You raise a brow, “you love me? Even after all of that?” He nods, “when you have a mate, you just want to be close with them, love them. But you make it so fucking difficult. Why have you been doing this?”
You sigh, “I don't know.” He looks at you incredulously, “you don't know?” He repeats. You hesitate before continuing, “I loved you, I still do. I just didn't know where I belonged. I was confused, angry, and upset for being suddenly summoned, expected to know everything and take over Aether’s position so soon. And I took it out on you, I realize it was wrong of me to do so. I'm sorry Sodo.” He loosens his hold on you, “you could've just said so. We would've helped you. I would've helped you. All you needed to do was ask.” You hang your head low, ashamed of your actions. He lifts your chin up with his finger, “but I forgive you. We are mates after all. We can't be separated.”
You give him a look, “does this mean?…” you trail off. He chuckles, “I'm yours, and you are mine. At last.” You smile brightly, “I like the sound of that. You're mine, and I'm yours.”
His eyes 🖤
Simon "Ghost" Riley | Modern Warfare III (2023)
Light On
Simon Riley masterlist
Simon has a new neighbor. His new neighbor has a baby.
Simon Riley/female reader Single mom, neighbors fic. Fics are listed in chronological order
Simon discovers something unexpected Simon realizes where you live Simon gives you a hand Simon comes over for dinner Simon eavesdrops Simon spends time in the garden Johnny learns his LT's secret Simon helps you out last minute Simon gets a phone call Simon accompanies you to the park Simon steps in Simon answers the phone in the middle of the night Simon learns something about you You miss your neighbor Simon's choice has consequences
Safe hands
Eddie Munson x fem reader
Sex has never been a pleasant experience for you. Selfish partners, anxiety, and pain have all ruined something that you should enjoy. You’re convinced there’s something wrong with you, but Eddie is determined to prove otherwise. 6k.
18+ minors dni: soft smut, oral (f receiving), mention of oral (m receiving), fingering, protected piv, praise kink (because of course there is), reader has anxiety around sex and there’s mentions of pain during intercourse. Pet names used in place of Y/N.
A/N: I know I should be working on the dozen other wips I have gathering dust, but this self-indulgent idea popped into my head and I couldn’t shake it out. So enjoy this very soft and tender smut 🖤
You’d known for a while that this day was coming. As much as you’d hoped there’d be someway to avoid it, it was inevitable that you and Eddie would find yourselves here.
It’s frosty outside. You can see the tiny sparkles of it decorating the edges of the window in Eddie’s room. The last cold snap of those long dark months, winter clinging on by its fingertips, refusing to give over to the warmth and softness of spring.
But it’s hot in the trailer. The air is humid and heavy, heat clinging to your skin, despite the layers that have been stripped away.
Eddie burns over you. Like when the sun disappeared from the sky he’d swallowed it whole, the star glowing white hot in his chest.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He whispers against your neck.
Your own chest feels tight, his words spoken with such soft adoration you could weep. He raises his head enough to flash you that boyish grin that you love, his lips stretched wide with it. Your fingertips trace over the dimple in his cheek.
Eddie’s hands can’t keep still. He grabs at you greedily, but still gentle, rough palms gliding over smooth skin. Cups the weight of your breasts, kneading over the cotton of your bra. He’d pulled your jumper up over your head as soon as the bedroom door was closed, giggling at the static crackling in your hair. His shirt was next to go, followed by your jeans, left in a crumpled heap on the carpet.
His pillows are soft beneath your head, your body pressed into the mattress by his weight laying over you. Thighs parted so he could slot himself between. There’s a heat blooming between your legs, made worse when the hard length that strains beneath his boxers catches there with each slow roll of his hips. As the pleasure grows, so too does your anxiety.
“There’s something wrong with you.”
The snarling voice is so clear, you find yourself turning your head, glancing around Eddie’s room. Of course there’s no one here but the two of you.
But you can still hear him. See the curl of his lips when he’d spat those words with such disdain.
Your last partner had initially thought he’d won the jackpot.
A girl who was more than happy to get on her knees for him, put his pleasure above all else, expecting nothing in return. But of course he’d wanted more from you. More than you could give him.
You’d grit your teeth and tried to relax, tried so desperately to let it happen. After a few tension filled minutes of awkward shuffling and frustrated grunts, he’d rolled off of you, snatching up his clothes from your bedroom floor.
You’d cried. Apologised. Pleaded with him to stay.
“There’s something wrong with you.” He’d said, as he slammed the door closed behind him.
“Hey.”
You blink. Pull your gaze away from the bedroom door, back to Eddie’s face. He hovers over you, eyes round with concern, brows pinched in the middle.
“Are you okay?” He murmurs.
“Yeah. M’fine.” You lie.
“You sure?” Eddie smoothes his hand across your brow, sweeping down to cup your cheek.
“Do you want to stop?”
Yes.
“No. Of course not.” You reply.
You pull him in by his shoulders, pressing his lips to yours. It’s a poor attempt at a distraction. You just can’t bear to have Eddie looking at you like that. Like he can see beneath the mask you’ve been so careful to keep in place.
You kiss him deeper, slipping your tongue into his mouth. Eddie makes a surprised sound when your hand snakes down between your bodies, reaching for the tent in his underwear.
“H-hang on. Just stop for a second, okay?” Eddie says. He pushes your hand away.
“What did I do?” You whisper.
“Nothing. It’s just.. sweetheart, you’re shaking. And you look like you’re gonna burst into tears.”
Shame twists your guts. You can feel the heat prickling your eyes, Eddie’s features blurring.
“I’m fine.” You say unconvincingly.
“Look, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Eddie says. He sits up on his knees, putting distance between you.
“I want to.” You say quickly.
“Doesn’t really seem like it. You keep looking at the door like you wanna fucking bolt.” Eddie says sourly.
He knows he shouldn’t snap at you. But it’s so hard when all of his insecurities and fears are rearing their heads once again. He’d convinced himself things might be different this time.
You weren’t using him, not after cheap weed or satiating some curiosity about whether the rumours about the freak were true. You were sweet, patient, seemed so genuinely interested in all the things that made Eddie Eddie.
But now you looked like you’d rather be anywhere but here with him.
Your quiet sob makes his chest ache. You clamp your hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds, tears steadily leaking down your cheeks and wetting his pillows.
“Hey. I’m sorry, please don’t cry.” Eddie says, that usual warmth returning to his voice. He takes your wrists and gently pulls you up, holding you to his chest as you cry.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? You know you can talk to me, right?” He says.
“I’m s-sorry. I’m ruining everything.” You sob.
“Shhhh. Stop it. You haven’t ruined anything.” Eddie cups your cheeks and tilts your head back, forcing you to look at him.
“Can you just talk to me? Tell me what’s going on in your head?” He pleads.
“I’m scared.” You admit quietly.
“What are you scared of?”
“Of.. of not being good, at all this.” You say, weakly waving your hand between your bodies.
“Of not being good enough at this for you.”
“Sweetheart, I really don’t think you need to worry about that.” Eddie says with a soft smile.
“I want you, I want to do this with you. If you’re not… experienced, that doesn’t matter. We’ll just figure things out as we go.”
You shake your head. He wasn’t getting it.
“N-no. It’s more than that. I - I can’t. I’ve never-.” Your breathing was now coming in quick pants, panic coursing through your veins. Your body trembles more violently.
“It’s alright, just breath.” Eddie says calmly.
“It hurts Eddie.”
“What hurts?”
“Sex. Every time I’ve had sex before it hurts. It’s like my body just won’t let me relax, I get so in my head and I go all tense.”
Eddie’s brows dart up in surprise, but now the words have started to flow out you’re powerless to stop them.
“The first time I thought it was normal. But then it just kept happening, every time. And some guys like it, y’know, they say it’s good that I’m tight, but it never feels good for me. And last time.. the last time I tried to do this with someone, I was so wound up, I just couldn’t. He couldn’t get it in. And I was trying to relax, and he was pushing and pushing and it’s like my body just wouldn’t let it happen. And so he left. He said there’s something wrong with me. And he’s right - I’m broken!”
Eddie’s been staring at you in horror. Jaw hanging slack, dark eyes owlish and glistening. When you stop speaking, losing yourself in more sobs, his jaw clenches tight, a deep frown on his face.
“Look at me. Sweetheart, look at me.” He orders firmly.
You sniffle, but comply, just managing to bear the heat of his stare.
“There is nothing wrong with you, you’re not broken. Fuck, I - I could kill that asshole for talking to you like that. I could kill everyone of those fuckers for not treating you right.”
“It’s not their fault.” You say weakly.
“Yes it is. Don’t defend them. It’s shouldn’t hurt sweetheart, it should feel good. God, you deserve to feel good.” He says softly. He kisses the corner of your mouth, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.
Resting his forehead against yours, Eddie looks you in the eyes.
“We don’t have to do anything, okay? I’m happy to just lay here and hold you, if you’ll let me.”
You don’t know what you did right in your life to deserve Eddie Munson. This kind, gentle boy, who looks at you like you hung every star in the sky that glitters above the trailer.
“I want to.. y’know.” You whisper.
“Okay. Well we can, but let’s talk about it first yeah?”
You nod. Eddie moves to lay at your side, arms wrapped around your waist to pull you close.
“Has it ever been good?” He asks.
“No.” You admit.
“So no one’s ever made you cum?”
“No, they haven’t.”
Eddie clears his throat.
“Have you uh.. have you ever?”
Your cheeks burn with heat.
“I have.” You mumble against his chest, too embarrassed to look at him.
“But only on my own.”
“Okay, well that’s good. Definitely not broken.” Eddie smiles.
“When you’ve slept with people before, did you tell them what you like?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“They never asked.” You shrug.
Eddie sighs, his frown returning.
“Well that’s the problem. No two people are the same, right? You can’t just do the same thing with anyone and expect the same results. You have to take your time, figure out the person that you’re with.”
The heat between your legs is back. Your core throbs as Eddie murmurs to you, his hands stroking soothingly over your hips.
“Will you - can you do that?” You ask hesitantly.
“Of course I can sweetheart. If you want me to.” Eddie says softly.
“I do.”
Eddie nods, laying you down and resuming his previous position over you.
“We’ll go slow okay? I want you to tell me what you like, and what you don’t. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.” You reply. It’s always so easy to say yes to him.
“Good girl.” Eddie smiles.
Your breath catches in your throat, another wave of arousal making your underwear damp.
“I - I like that.” You whisper, like it’s a secret.
“Yeah? You like when I call you my good girl?” Eddie says, his lips trailing a burning path down your neck.
“Yeah.” You sigh.
“Noted.” Eddie grins.
You giggle, peering down as he moves to your chest, mouthing over the flesh spilling from the cups of your bra.
“Can I take this off?” He asks.
Your spine curls in permission, arched so he can reach a hand underneath you. Eddie makes quick work of unsnapping the hooks. You expect him to tear the garment away in a hurry like he did with your sweater.
Instead he hooks his fingers under the straps, kissing along your shoulders and arms as he slides them down. When it’s finally peeled away, Eddie groans, pupils blown as he takes in your bare chest.
“Perfect.” He says, so quietly it’s like he’s saying the words to himself.
“Can I kiss you here?” He murmurs, one finger tracing the swell of your breast.
“Please.”
He’s so gentle. Far slower than you anticipated. He takes his time, pressing kisses to your heated skin, his nose nuzzling in the valley between your breasts. When he moves up to swirl his tongue teasingly around the hardened bud of your nipple you whine, a high pitched keening sound from the back of your throat.
It could be minutes or hours, you’re not really sure. Time slows, losing all meaning as Eddie moves across your chest. His teeth graze one bud, nipping lightly.
“I like that.” You gasp, remembering his instructions to voice what pleases you.
He responds by doing it again, just a little harder.
Eddie shuffles lower on the bed, kissing the indents on your ribs left by your bra. He mouths over your stomach, tongue leaving a glistening trail. You’re shaking again, not from nerves this time, but from the anticipation. Each inch lower brings his mouth closer to where you want him.
“Eddie.” You whine. He looks up, his chin resting on your hip.
“Yeah baby?”
Your eyelids flutter at the new name, falling so easily from his lips, now red and swollen from his kisses.
“Please.” You beg.
“Please what? What do you need sweetheart?” He says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
You squirm, body flushing hot, feeling too shy to voice your desire. But he knows without you saying a word.
“D’you want me to kiss you here?” He says, tracing a finger along the seam of your panties.
“Y-yes.” You squeak. Your hips buck, chasing his touch.
“Thank god. I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you since the moment we met.” He admits.
You raise your hips from the bed, an invitation for you to pull off your underwear. But despite being so keen himself, Eddie presses you back into the mattress.
He sinks to his knees at the end of the bed.
“Shuffle down a bit for me honey.” He instructs, his voice low and raspy with lust. He waits patiently as you move, but unsatisfied with your position takes hold of your ankles and pulls, until your ass is right at the edge, legs draped over his shoulders.
It starts at your ankles. Chaste kisses pressed to each one. Then your calves, one being loved on with his mouth, the other massaged with his large hands. It has the desired effect, relaxing you until you’re almost boneless. No longer worried about the weight of your legs on his shoulders, you let your muscles go limp, melting into the mattress.
At your thighs his kisses become hungrier, but he never increases his pace. Kissing up up up, nuzzling the round tip of his nose into the crease where your panties rest on your skin. When you feel the heat of his breath over the cotton that covers you, you whine his name once again.
“You’re so pretty.” He says, his lips brushing the fabric as he speaks.
“Doin’ so good for me.”
The kiss he leaves on your clit is dulled by the barrier of your underwear, but it’s still enough to have the heat in your belly increasing. The gentle warmth now the crackling beginnings of a fire.
“Can I take these off?” He says, still kissing the fabric, growing damper by the second from your arousal and his mouth.
“Please Eddie.” You whimper.
You hardly recognise your own voice, you’ve never sounded like this. So fucked out, so desperate, and he’s barely even touched you yet.
He leans back as he pulls on your panties, peeling them away from your slick skin and rolling them down your legs. When you’re bared to him, he lifts your legs back into their previous position.
“Remember, tell me what you like. And if you want to stop, we can.” Eddie says.
“Okay.” You whisper.
The first kiss to your bare skin has your toes curling.
It’s almost chaste, just a delicate peck to your bud. Eddie’s mouth falls open, his breath hot as it wafts over you. His tongue inches out, an experimental lick swiped up the seam of you. He flattens the muscle, dragging it slow, chocolate eyes trained on your face for a reaction. Your head falls back to the sheets, a shuddering moan tearing from your chest. You can feel the victorious smile he wear as he continues to lick at you.
He’s so slow with it. Not hesitant or unsure. No, it’s like he just wants to take his time, savour every drop of you that spills. He alternates between dancing his tongue through your folds, and sucking your clit into his mouth, pillowy soft lips sealed over you.
You want to tell him you like it, you want him to do it more, to never stop. But you’ve lost the ability to speak.
Not that it matters. Eddie seems to read your body better than anyone before, perhaps because he’s the first to try. His gaze never leave your face, intense eye contact as he waits for the hitches in your breath and the shaking of your thighs to guide him.
He’s groaning against your flesh, like it feels just as heavenly for him as it does for you. He grips your hips, blunt fingernails digging in as he pulls you down, smothering his face with your cunt.
Those flickering flames are now a raging inferno. It feels different than anything you’ve managed to achieve on your own. Your body is burning, lava coursing through your veins, white hot heat polling low in your belly.
“E-Eddie! I’m - I’m gonna-“ you gasp. You fist the bedsheets so hard it’s a wonder you don’t tear clean through them.
He doesn’t speed up, doesn’t change anything about his movements. He continues to suck on your clit with that same firm pressure, his hold on your hips turning bruising. When you dare a glance down you find his eyes still trained on you, fire burning behind them, flecks of gold in the brown that hasn’t yet been swallowed by his pupils.
It’s enough to push you over the edge. You give in, letting the flames engulf you, sure that when it’s over you’ll be nothing but a smoking pile of ash on the bed. Your thighs clench, squeezing around Eddie’s head, but he still doesn’t stop. Languidly licking at you until you’re whining from the overstimulation, no longer rocking your hips against his face but trying to twist away from him.
He smiles up at you, slick shining on his chin and cheeks. Lips ruby red and swollen.
“How was that baby?” He asks, soothing his hands over your twitching thighs.
You’re panting, still not sure you can speak. You nod weakly, and Eddie laughs. He clambers back onto the bed, pulling your pliant body with him, until the two of you are once again settled on his pillows.
His kisses are soft and sweet, tasting of you. Eddie cradles your face in his palms, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, while you tangle your legs with his, determined to be closer.
“You’re - you’re so good at that.” You say breathlessly.
Eddie chuckles, smiling almost bashfully, like he hadn’t just given you the best orgasm of your life.
The firm length of him is trapped between your bodies, pressed to your hip.
“I can do the same for you now, if you want.” You offer.
“That’s a very tempting offer sweetheart.” Eddie says softly.
“But I’m not done with you yet.”
You frown.
“But I already came.” You reply.
“I know. But I’ve got some making up to do. So I think you deserve another, don’t you?”
Eddie kisses your temple, the hand on your hip skimming down to cup between your legs. You’re still sensitive, jolting when his thumb brushes over your clit. But you can feel it, beneath the sensitivity, that heat still lingers.
“You deserve to feel good, don’t you baby?” He whispers into the juncture of your neck, pressing kisses there as the rough pads of his fingers swirl over you.
“Y-yeah.” You say shakily.
“Say it.” He gently commands.
You swallow the lump in your throat, his ministrations so distracting you struggle to arrange your thoughts into a coherent sentence.
“I deserve to feel good.” You whisper.
“Yeah you do. Good girl.” Eddie grins.
There’s something so unfamiliar about his touches.
They’re not hurried, not impatient, like every boy before him just looking to get you wet enough so they could take what they wanted. Eddie’s not touching you for his own benefit. He’s studying you, figuring you out just like he promised he would. Between sweet kisses he watches your face, smiling to himself when your breath shudders and your eyes roll back.
“When you touch yourself how many fingers do you put in?” He asks. The question could sound filthy coming from anyone else, but from Eddie it’s caring, like he doesn’t want to push you too far.
“Just one.” You whisper.
He nods. His fingers are still collecting your slick, bringing it up to rub frustratingly slow circles on your clit. Not enough to get you off, just keeping the embers burning.
“You want me to put one in?” He says, nuzzling his nose against your jaw.
At this point you’d usually freeze, the panic setting in. But you feel so safe, you find yourself nodding before you really register what you’re agreeing to.
“Okay. Just give me a sec.” He says.
Eddie pulls his hand away, chuckling when you whine in frustration. A kiss is pecked on the tip of your nose as his hand reaches blindly into the drawer of his nightstand. The items inside rattle for a moment while he searches, until he pulls out a small plastic bottle.
You cringe at the sight of the lube. Your ex lamented using it.
“You should be wet enough without it.”
“I’m sorry. That you have to use that.” You mumble, feeling your cheeks burn with shame.
Eddie shushes you softly.
“What are you apologising for sweet girl? I just don’t want to hurt you.” He says.
He squeezes a small amount onto his fingers, warming the gel between them. When his hand reaches back down between your legs his fingers glide smoothly, your arousal and the lube providing a satisfying wetness.
“I’ll go slow, okay?” Eddie says.
You’re so grateful for his patience, for the way he keeps checking in and reassuring you. You know you’re in safe hands.
As the tip of his finger nudges at your entrance, you feel your muscles clench involuntarily. Your teeth grit together painfully, preparing yourself for the inevitable pain.
But it doesn’t come. Eddie slides in slowly, and your walls accommodate him easily. As he reaches the second knuckle you exhale the breath you were holding.
“Keep talking to me baby. Let me know you’re okay.” He instructs.
“I’m good.” You reply.
He’s all the way in now. Eddie curls his finger, exploring inside you, his thumb keeping that torturously slow pace on your clit. You feel him brush a spot within you, somewhere you’ve never felt another’s touch before. A gasp escapes you, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“There.” You exclaim.
“Yeah?” Eddie grins.
“That’s the spot?”
“Uh huh.” You sigh.
He presses more firmly against it and you keen, hips bucking into his hand again.
The steady motion of his hand, his finger rubbing insistently over that sweet spot, and his gentle touches on your bud. It all feels so good, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before.
“M-more.” You beg.
“You want another?”
“Please.”
Eddie’s ring finger presses in alongside his middle. It’s more of a stretch now, that familiar sting as you try to let him in. But it’s over in a second, the pain replaced with a pleasant fullness.
“That’s it. Just breath. You’re doing so good.” Eddie murmurs.
Your thighs are shaking again. You can feel the coil in your belly winding tight, each slow thrust of his fingers moving you closer and closer to the precipice.
“I can feel you squeezing me baby.” He says in awe.
“You gonna cum for me again?”
A friend once told you the French call orgasms ‘la petite mort’ - little death. You never really understood it, until now.
Those flames swallow you whole once more, and you’re so absorbed in the pleasure you could be dying in Eddie’s arms, lost to everything but him. And when he kisses you, he breathes life back into your lungs.
As the ringing in your ears subsides you can hear him, whispering praises into your hair as you come down. It’s like a prayer, those saccharine words recited with such adoration.
Eddie’s hand retreats, and you feel the loss instantly, that delicious fullness now missing.
Your chest heaves, lungs screaming as you gulp down mouthfuls of humid air, every nerve in your body quivering like a like wire.
“Oh my god.” You whimper. Your heavy lids peek open, finding the boy looking over you.
“Wasn’t too much was it?” He asks hesitantly. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, still wet fingers tapping a sticky drumbeat on your thigh.
“No, it wasn’t too much.” You say quietly.
‘It wasn’t enough’ your heart screams.
‘Give me more. Give me everything.’
Reassured by your words Eddie breaks out into a smile, his rounded cheeks glowing a rosy pink. You love when he smiles like that. The crinkles at the edges of his eyes deepening, that dimple making a reappearance.
“You’re so pretty.” You confess, leaning up to press your lips to the divot in his cheek.
Eddie falters. His cheeks flush deeper, brows shooting up under his bangs. He grabs a fistful of his hair, tugging it across his face in a poor attempt to conceal his grin.
“What?” You giggle, poking at his sides.
“No ones ever called me pretty before.” He says. He’s still smiling, attempting to be humorous, but there’s a tremor in his voice. Like he can’t quite believe your words.
“Well they should, because you are.”
“Thank you baby.” Eddie says, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Say it.” You whisper, repeating his own words back to him. There’s a hint of teasing, but beneath it you’re deadly serious. You want him to know just how special he is.
“I - I’m pretty.” He mumbles against your skin.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?” You tease.
Eddie huffs, grinning and blushing as he raises his head.
“I’m pretty.” He repeats.
“Good boy.” You smirk.
Eddie groans, dragging his palm down his face.
“God. You’re gonna kill me.” He says.
“Not before you sleep with me I hope.”
It’s bolder than you’ve ever dared be in a situation like this. But despite the vulnerability, being completely bared to someone physically and emotionally, you know you have nothing to fear from Eddie.
“Oh. I - sweetheart, I don’t think we should...”
Eddie realises his mistake as soon as he opens his mouth. You recoil, pulling away from him like his rejection was delivered as a stinging slap to your cheek. He watches as your eyes turn glassy and your bottom lip trembles.
“No! Baby no, I didn’t mean.. it’s not that I don’t want to!” He says.
“It’s fine.” You reply quickly, the wobble in your voice suggesting it’s anything but.
Desperately Eddie grabs your arms and pulls you close before you can climb out of his bed.
“Sweetheart. Please listen to me. I want to sleep with you, of course I do. Christ, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock here.” He says.
“It’s just, we’ve already done so much. And this was about you, not me. I don’t want you to think all of this just so I could get something out of it. I just wanted to make you feel good.”
“I want to make you feel good too.” You sniffle. You blink back the tears, refusing to let them fall.
“Please Eddie. I want you.”
Eddie’s head is telling him this is a bad idea. He should insist that you clean off and get some sleep, this can all wait for another day when your thoughts aren’t clouded by a post orgasm haze. But his heart, and perhaps another body part, are saying something different. You’re here in his bed, practically begging for him. Who was Eddie to resist such a sweet temptation?
“Okay. I’ve got you honey.”
When he kisses you, your lips part eagerly, letting his tongue snake its way in. It’s a slow waltz of two muscles, wet and warm, with so much tenderness.
When your hand reaches to touch him, Eddie doesn’t push you away this time. He moans into your mouth as his boxers are pushed down, louder still when your hand wraps around him.
You feel more confident with this part. You know that you’re good at this, have touched enough boys as a distraction from them touching you to know exactly what to do to get them to fall apart.
Your fist squeezes around Eddie’s cock, hot and heavy in your hand. The movements start slow, an echo of the way he touched you. Up and down his length, feeling it twitch in your palm. Your thumb swipes over the flushed head, smearing the beads of pre that are steadily leaking from the slit.
Eddie groans, hips bucking, thrusting himself into you fist. You pepper kisses along his jaw, down to his neck where you can suck a small bruise onto pale skin.
No one before him has been so vocal. Every soft sigh, every grunt, every strained word of praise that he utters goes straight to your core.
“F-fuck. Baby, you gotta s-stop.” Eddie stammers.
You cease your movements immediately.
“What’s wrong?” You ask.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. But if you keep that up this is all gonna be over too fast.” He admits sheepishly.
You flop back onto the pillows with a satisfied grin, watching as Eddie sits up on his knees.
He reaches over you back into the drawer. Retrieving a condom, he hastily tears the foil wrapper with his teeth, rolling it down over himself. He’s settled between your legs now, squeezing more lube into his hand and giving himself a few light teasing strokes. You watch in awe at the way he touches himself, making a mental note of his speed and pressure, paying attention to what he likes.
That familiar anxiety is beginning to churn in your guts. Even in his own large fist, Eddie’s cock looks huge. A longer than average length, but it’s the thickness that has moths stirring in your stomach. There was no way this wasn’t going to hurt.
He shuffles to a better position, the head of his cock lightly pressing on your clit. As he swipes down through your sticky folds, you feel your muscles clench involuntarily.
“Hey.” Eddie says softly, pulling you from your spiralling thoughts.
“Eyes on me baby. Just breathe, and keep looking at me.” He instructs.
You nod, throat too tight for words.
You focus on those chocolate puddles of eyes, the way they never leave your face, even as his head catches at your entrance. There’s so much warmth behind them, a tenderness and care you’re not used to feeling directed your way.
Eddie presses in slowly.
The burn is intense, despite all of his hard work to get you prepared. Your brows pinch, and in less than a second it’s gone. Eddie’s pulled out, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your thighs.
“D’you wanna stop?” He asks.
“No. Keep going, please.” You manage to whisper.
He tries again. As Eddie rolls his hips forwards you exhale a deep breath, like you’re trying to blow away all the tension in your body. His head pops inside, and you just keep breathing like he told you to. A few seconds later and he’s halfway in.
The sting is already subsiding. All you can feel is that same fullness, more intense than with his fingers, and more delicious. Hooking your ankles over his lower back, you pull him closer. Encouraging him to slide all the way in, one final push having him bottoming out.
“Oh shit.” Eddie whines. His teeth are gritted, heavy eyelids fluttering.
“You’re so warm.”
“Y-you’re so big.” You squeak in reply.
His cock twitches at your words.
“S’not too much?” He asks.
“No. S’perfect. You’re perfect Eddie.” You smile.
He flashes you a grin. His body falls over yours, forearms resting on the pillow either side of your head to keep himself propped up. The new angle forces him deeper than you even thought possible. Your body feels like it’s stretched to its limits, but it’s working, your walls wrapping around him snuggly like they’re welcoming him home.
Eddie nuzzles his nose against yours, warm breath fanning across your face when he sighs in pleasure.
“You can move now, if you want to.” You murmur.
With your permission granted, Eddie rolls his hips back. Pulling out halfway only to sink back into your heat. You can feel him everywhere: the smooth glide of his cock pressing into you, his hands in your hair, bellies damp with sweat stuck together, his lips ghosting over yours. Each slow thrust has the wiry curls at his base stroking over your clit, swollen with all the attention it’s received.
Burying your face into the crook of his neck, you dot kisses across his skin like silent thank yous.
“You okay?” Eddie says breathlessly.
“Yeah.” You sigh, meaning it completely. You’ve never felt so cared for.
No ones ever had you like this. You’re used to harsh unforgiving thrusts, quick fucks that left you sore and disappointed. Everything about Eddie is so different. His languid pace, the careful attention he pays you, the intimacy of him kissing your temple as you squeeze around him.
“God. Baby, you’re doing so good f’me. I love the way you feel, s’like heaven.” Eddie slurs, sounding more than a little pussy drunk.
That four letter word spins around and around in your mind like a carousel. It’s much too soon for it to be spoken in any other context. Your relationship was still so new. A tiny bud just beginning to awaken in the sunshine, unfurling its delicate petals to stretch in the golden glow.
Still, you realise then how easily you could fall in love with Eddie Munson. It already feels like his name is branded across your heart, the letters seared into muscle.
Your third and final orgasm of the night creeps up on you. Building as a tingle that runs up your spine, spreading into every limb until you feel it in the tips of your fingers and toes. It’s not a blazing heat like the others. More like sinking into a warm bath at the end of a long arduous day. Soothing heat. Comforting and safe.
Eddie whines your name. Turns his head and crashes his lips to yours just as his own high reaches its crescendo. His hips stutter, fingers curling into a fierce grip on the soft down of his pillows. He cries out, and you feel the blooming heat of him spilling into the condom, thrusts growing weaker as he rides it out. For a moment you find yourself hating the thin latex that covers him. Wishing you take all of his pleasure, watch it trickle back out when he’s done.
Eddie collapses onto you. His chest heaves, spent limbs turning to dead weight, not that you mind. You weakly raise one hand, combing through his curls, dampened at the roots from his efforts.
There’s a slight aching in your cunt. Your hips are screaming in protest from being spread open for so long. But there’s no pain in your chest. No hollow emptiness, and no sour taste on your tongue. You exhale a contented sigh, pushing Eddie’s bangs back so you can kiss his forehead.
He lifts his head, resting his chin on your sternum. His eyes are heavy. He looks blissful and sleepy.
“Hey.” You say softly.
“Hey.” Eddie replies.
“Was that okay?”
“Perfect.” He grins.
With a groan he pushes up, moving slow as he pulls out.
“Was it.. was it okay for you? I didn’t hurt you?” Eddie asks anxiously.
“It was amazing.” You reassure.
Eddie smiles. You roll onto your side, watching as he clambers off the edge of the bed and removes the condom, tying it and tossing it into the trash.
“Thank you.”
Eddie tuts.
“You don’t need to thank me silly girl.” He says affectionately. You shuffle back to make space for him to climb back in beside you.
“But you took such good care of me.”
“M’just treating you the way you deserve to be treated.” He says. His fingers wander lightly over your cheek, tracing tiny patterns across smooth skin.
“I should probably get us some water. And you can go to the bathroom.” Eddie comments.
“Don’t wanna.” You grumble, pushing your face against his chest.
“Just wanna cuddle.”
Eddie laughs.
“Alright cuddle bug. Five minutes, then you’ve got to pee, and I’ll make you a cup of camomile.”
“I didn’t have you down as a camomile tea kind of person too.”
You feel Eddie shrug.
“I’m not. I just remembered you saying you like it, so I picked some up.”
You were definitely right.
It would be so easy to fall in love with Eddie Munson.
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19F / they/she / i am LURKING, if you see me reblog stuff HUSH YOU SAW NOTHING 😳
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