Squish

unspoken valentine

fwb!eddie munson x reader

summary: you want more, but eddie’s destructive tendencies get in the way. (2.2k)

warnings: sexual content but no smut, small mention of oral (m. receiving), angst, hurt/comfort, eddie self-sabotaging stuff, mdni.

<3

“There you go, babe. All cleaned up.”

Eddie shuffles back into your bed after tossing the used tissue in your trash can, smiling into your hair when you cuddle closer to him. His heart warms when you lay your head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

Eddie knows he’s so incredibly lucky to get to hold you like this in your post sex haze because it wasn’t always like this. Before, when the already muddled boundaries of friends with benefits weren’t crossed, the two of you would quickly dress right after fucking and go on with your days as if nothing ever happened. It’s different now.

Now that he’s surrounded and completely captivated by you, mind foggy with the sultry scent of sex and your fruity perfume that lingers on his sheets and skin, Eddie wonders how he was able to do it before. How was he able to tear himself away from your warmth the second the two of you were done and move on as if you didn’t just have the best sex of your lives?

Leaving you was once easy, but now it is an impossible feat. He’s never felt such a fervent need for affection from anyone until you started coming by more often, letting him kiss your lips after you finished, and touching him as if you weren’t just casually fucking.

At first, he thought the fantastic sex was just getting to his head, making him see you in a way that wasn’t akin to his very platonic feelings towards you. But then he started catching himself admiring the cadence of your laughter and the beauty in your eyes. And so the pining ensued.

He started doing little things for you like offering to fix your car and bringing you lunch to your work (usually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because it’s all he knows how to make and a cookie from your favorite bakery.)

Really, Eddie was disgusting whipped. He found that it wasn’t difficult, rather incredibly easy, to like you. All it took was a simple glance of yours for his heart to skip a beat, cupid’s arrow striking him right through the chest every single time as if he wasn’t already halfway in love with you.

And maybe, a small part of him thought, maybe you like him in the way he likes you. He’s nearly certain that there’s something unspoken between the two of you.

He’s noticed the way you light up whenever he’s near, his mere presence pulling you out of your sour moods, and the way you get all shy and flustered when he compliments your smile or kindness or whatever else it is that has his head spinning that day.

He’s realized that you touch him like you love him. Eddie knows that touch is your way of showing affection, constantly noting the way you hug Robin tight when you haven’t seen her in a while or rub a hand between Steve’s shoulders when he’s stressed. But, when you’re with him, your cuddles and embraces and nibbles and pinches are bursting in a certain romance that you’ve never shown to anyone else. You always take a moment to place a trail of small love-filled kisses down his chest before dipping down to take him between your lips. And when you’re cuddled close against him afterwards, you trace the ridges of his scars with nimble fingers, as if to remind him of how beautiful he is, scars and all.

He’s okay with this odd dynamic for now. But the consuming and enthralling thought of you feeling the same way he does is one he constantly brushes away, his fear of rejection and self-sabotaging tendencies never allowing him to linger on the subject.

He’s having a difficult time getting himself out of that reoccurring turmoil right now as you smooth circles into the skin of his neck and scoot up to place a chaste peck on his kiss bitten lips. He chases pathetically after you for more, but you ignore it and shuffle out of his embrace, wrapping yourself in the throw blanket that was tossed on your bedroom floor. Eddie can’t help but scoff a bit. It’s not like he hasn’t seen every part of you already.

He leans up on his elbows and watches as you saunter to your closet as best as you can while tangled in the fabric. For a second, he thinks you’re going to get changed and ask him to leave. But he before he could dwell on it, he realizes he’s mistaken as you’re coming back to your bed with a sparkly pink gift in hand.

Your breath tickles his skin when you speaks. “A present.” Your words mumble together in laziness. “For you,” you add when you’re met with silence.

Eddie eyes the bag suspiciously and begins to open it when you lovingly pinch his bicep. He gently tears through the red and pink tissue paper stamped in white hearts, ignoring the uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach. A part of him dreads getting to the end of it, nerves aflame with anxiety. In the middle of it lies a painted guitar pick with a few bats threaded through a thin chain necklace and a custom mixtape with “happy valentine’s day” written in your handwriting.

Eddie falters, a sharp exhale jolting you off his shoulder.

Your voice cuts through the silence. “Do you like it?”

He doesn’t not like it. No, he fucking loves it. But it’s too much, too much for friends with benefits and too much for his fragile, self-sabotaging heart.

He forces himself not to look at you as he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from falling in love with you if he does. Instead, his eyes bore into the heart above the “i” on the mixtape, despising the way the moths in his tummy flutter alive at the sight of the small doodle. This is just you showing affection towards a friend, right? Eddie thinks you probably got Steve something similar. And even if you didn’t, even if your feelings for him aren’t just a figment of his imagination and you’ve poured your special affection into this one gift, he just can’t. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you or anyone for that matter.

“What is this?” He questions dumbly, wincing at the stern, whispered tone of his own voice.

He feels you trying to catch his eyes as you tilt your head towards him, but his gaze is strictly fixed on the mixtape. “I-I wanted to do something… something nice for Valentine’s day.” Your nervous stutters only worsen the tight feeling on Eddie’s throat.

He shakes his head, “That’s couple shit.” He works up the courage to look at you with a hardened gaze, and the sight nearly kills him. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, the ridges of your teeth bruising your skin maroon, while your brows are furrowed together in something that resembles hurt.

“Is that so wrong?”

It is wrong.

Eddie knows everything about this is wrong. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to play out. You’re only supposed to be fucking, not giving each other sentimental gifts that teeter on the edge of romance. He can’t have this, and he can’t have you because you deserve better. “I just wanted to do something for you.” He can tell by the slight tremble in your voice that you’re trying to keep your composure as best as you can.

“Well, you shouldn’t have. I don’t know what you think we are, but it’s not this.”

His words come out like venom, infiltrating your veins and piercing your heart. He watches your expression shift, hurt now laced into all of your pretty features. In the same way that Eddie masks his affection for you with cruel words, you’re quick to veil your pain with an anger that he knows he deserves.

“Fuck you, Eddie! You’re acting as if you haven’t treated me like your fucking girlfriend for months now.” You move away from him, letting the blanket drop off of you as you begin to dress.

He sighs harshly, eyes quickly darting away from your naked body. He can’t deny your point, but he also can’t let himself express what he truly feels. “That’s not what we agreed on when we started fucking around!”

You’re seething when you turn to look at him, now in a large hoodie and a pair of shorts. “Don’t you think I know that? Do you think I planned for any of this? You think I planned on liking you so bad that it hurts? I fucking didn’t. Things change, asshole! You certainly didn’t plan on liking me either!”

“I- I don’t-“ Before Eddie could spit out more words that he doesn’t mean, you walk to him, your body towering over his sitting frame and eyes squinted.

“Don’t start with that. Don’t try to deny it. You think I don’t recognize your little act? I know you like me, but you’re just self sabotaging because you think you don’t deserve anything, right? You aren’t worthy of happiness?”

Your words strike him hard like a wave of freezing water that crashes over him. He was a fool to think you wouldn’t see right through him.

You’re unstoppable as you continue to lash out at him. “Stop being so fucking mean to your self! When are you going to realize that you’re allowed to have nice things, that you don’t have to fuck everything up? Call me when you do, but until then, get out.”

It’s your words that snap Eddie out of his deranged state. You step back, giving him the space to walk out of your bedroom door and potentially never come back. But he stands up and follows you instead, his tall, lanky body now towering over you. He has to do something quick. He grabs your wrist as gently as he can possibly manage and tugs you toward him.

You watch him intently as he scans your face, trying to piece his words together in his scrambled mind.

He rubs a trembling hand down his face. “Fuck, I- I don’t know how to do this shit.” His heart feels like it’s pounding out of his chest. In some weird and twisted way, confessing his feelings for you is harder than hurting you. “I’ve never been good at feelings. I do shit like this to myself all the time, and I- I don’t know why.”

His eyes squeeze shut for a second, the sparks of light dancing behind his eyelids an odd comfort to his spinning mind. “B-But I do know that I like you a lot and…. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your eyes soften upon seeing the tears threatening to spill out of his own, the anger that they once held slowly draining. Nodding softly, you wrap your hand around his forearm. The warmth and pressure of your touch grounds and encourages him. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I like you so much, and I don’t want to lose you ‘cause I don’t know how to handle things like these. But, I want to learn with you. Just give me a chance, sweetheart, please.”

He follows your gaze as it roams down between your bodies, lips bitten in thought. A few tedious seconds of silence, you finally meet his eyes.

“Eddie,” you start slow. “I really fucking like you. I don’t want to lose you either. We can take it slow, and figure things out together. But, if you’re getting in your head about stuff, you have to tell me, yeah?”

He feels like he could cry out of the myriad of emotions he’s experienced. But mainly because he doesn’t understand how someone as charismatic and kind as you is giving him another chance. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry that wasn’t fair to you.,” he murmurs sincerely.

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it.”

He sighs, feeling as if the weight of the world has finally come off him and let him breathe. “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay,” you respond, arms coming around his waist and pulling him into a tight hug. He wonders if you can hear the way his heart swells for you. His eyes flutter closed as his own arms circle around your shoulders, comforted in the way you touch him.

“The mixtape looks sick and the necklace too. Thank you.” He mumbles into the top of your head, nose nuzzled in your hair. “Can we go on a drive and listen to it? Maybe go out to dinner after?”

You giggle against the corner of his lips. “Yeah, okay. But first-”

“What?” He asks, wide-eyed and ready to do whatever you want him to do.

“Put some pants on.”

thank u for reading! this goes out to my single chicks who love angst (me). please consider liking, commenting, or reblogging if you enjoyed! i’d love to know your thoughts.

“As I’ve already stated,” Nanami pauses to sip at the coffee in his hand, “I’ve no interest in speaking to her.” 

Annoyed, Gojo leans back in his seat, casting a glance to the Instagram post that he had shown Nanami — the girl in it was attractive, but somehow it still wasn’t the blonde’s type. 

“Hmm, maybe you’re just not into brunettes,” Gojo says dismissively, scrolling through the woman’s Instagram before stowing his phone away into his pocket. 

Nanami bites back the chuckle in his throat, masking it by taking another sip of his now lukewarm coffee. A shame that Gojo kept interrupting him just as he wanted to enjoy his break.  

“I’m not into anyone,” Nanami finally says, setting down his cup — though he is quite frustrated considering that the coffee had been purchased by someone else for him.  

“Oh? What, have some secret girlfriend I don’t know about?” Gojo teases, already laughing at his own joke. Nanami shoots him a pointed glare, subconsciously running a finger over the smooth metal band adorning his left ring finger.  

“I don’t see how—“ 

Nanami’s phone buzzes on the table, its screen displaying your image. It’s one of Nanami’s favorite photos of you, one that he had taken himself during one of your monthly date nights.  

Gojo’s eyes flicker down to the flashing screen, his eyebrows raising and his eyes widening in absolute shock. “Who—?” 

Nanami is quick to answer the call, pressing the phone against his ear and doing very little to hide the smile that curls his lips upward. “Hi love.” 

Gojo’s jaw goes completely slack. It’s an expression that would make anyone laugh — Nanami is honestly shocked at how well he was able to keep his straightforward façade.  

“Yes, I should be home soon. I did not forget,” Nanami’s tone is reassuring, one that Gojo had never heard in the stoic man’s voice before. It’s heartwarming, not that he would ever admit it out loud.  

“I love you too, bye now.” 

The minute that Nanami hangs up, Gojo is practically screaming. Heads turn, and in a fit of both frustration and embarrassment, Nanami attempts to diffuse the situation. 

“You have a girlfriend?!” 

“Wife, actually.” 

“Are you—?!” 

washing eddie’s hair 🫧🧼💆🏻

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, soft eddie, nicknames (sweetheart and baby, reader calls eddie “eds”), a few “i love you’s”, nudity but still sfw

ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　  ϑ𐑞 　 ꣑୧　   ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　 

“Sweetheart, I don’t want ‘Glacier Freeze’ it sounds like a car scent or something” Eddie sighs and shakes his head but you’re well invested in the shampoo bottles on the shelf.

“Come on Eds, it’s perfect. Good for curls, bigger bottle and smells amazing. Can’t use 3 in 1 forever” You put the bottle in the shopping cart and scan the rest looking for a conditioner.

“Baby”, Eddie wraps his arms around you. He rests his chin on your shoulder and mumbles into your ear. “I thought you loved me no matter what.” You laugh at his little antics, trying to dodge all the self care you’ve been. introducing him to. Last week was facials, this week hair routines and next week? The undeniable mani pedi time, of course eddie only lets you do this when he has a show coming up.

“I love you Eddie” You rub the ringed knuckles of the tall metalhead hovering you, back pressed into his lean physique. “This is part of my love for you. My pretty boy, my handsome rockstar, hm?” You gently tap his hands and walk foward to grab the conditioner. Of course he doesn’t let go of you, following right behind you as he pats your tummy.

He groans. He pouts. His usual behavior trying to pity you to just put it behind. He’s accepted defeat when you put the items onto the conveyor belt. Once you’ve made it back to Eddie’s trailer you set the items on the counter. Oil, shampoo, conditioner, brushes, combs, clips, scrunchies. All for Eddie. He never in his life imagined a girl would ever be doing something like this for him.

Eddie’s in his bedroom, stripped down to.. well nothing. You and Eddie have been dating for quite some time. You sleep over a lot, you help clean, you have seen each other in ways no one else has. So you find it humorous when you start undressing and Eddie starts gawking over your body.

“What is your problem.” You laugh and shake your head, tossing your shirt at Eddie. He laughs and smiles. “Can’t admire my pretty girl?” He fakes an offended look and walks up to you. Bare bodies and affection. “Well you were staring. Must’ve seen something you liked.” Eddie smiles and cups your face, softly stroking at the gentle skin of your cheeks. He runs a thumb over your soft lips, parting his own. “I see something I really like.”

Blushing. That’s what you do when eddie says things like this. You can barely hold the eye contact, and he knows it. so he pulls you into his arms and hugs you, soft yet very callous hands gently rubbing up and down your back, stopping at your hips. You love being affectionate with Eddie because deep down under the tough metalhead everyone thinks he is, he’s a softie for his girl.

Placing your hands on his soft shoulders, you look up into his honey smitten eyes. You whisper, “I love you.” He smiles and brings you in, pulling gently at your hips and plants a soft kiss on your lips. He nibbles and gives a small pull to your bottom lip. He smiles when he pulls away. “Love you more, sweetheart.”

You smile and look at the bottles of hair products lined up by the bathtub. “We’ll see if you feel that way after this.” He chuckles and finally, he starts his shower. Although now his showers have become your showers. Saves hot water and gives eddie extra time to be close to you. You and Eddie stand under the warm water covering your bodies. Once his hair is soaked enough you grab the shampoo bottle.

“Okay. First shampoo. I’ll do this part it’s more fun for me.” You start to lather his scalp with the shampoo. Oh.. Eddie’s never been more wrong in his life. ‘Glacier Freeze’ smells amazing. Feels great too, or at least that’s what the little happy murmurs from his lips are telling you. “Feeling okay?” You tilt your head a bit to see that Eddie has a small smile on his face. “I take it back.” He chuckles, “This is the best feeling ever.”

You raise a teasing brow. “The best feeling.. you positive?” He laughs a bit more, knowing what you’re getting at. “Okay second best. No wait..” He thinks to himself. “Fifth best feeling.” A bunch of laughs, followed by a bunch of scalp massaging and a bunch of complaints about ‘this taking way too long’ from Eddie and his hair is clean. Baby soft long brown curls.

Once you’re out of the shower and in much more comfortable clothing you sit on the sofa, Eddie sat on the floor between your legs letting them hang over his shoulders as you watch tv. It’s mainly eddie shutting his eyes to the comforting feeling of his girlfriend’s fingers in his hair, gently caressing in that conditioner that’s gonna make his hair smell so good. Feel so soft. He’s definitely gonna make you do this all the time now.

“Sweetheart, you were right.” He says a bit lazily, most likely dozing off from the comfort of your fingers in his hair. “What’s that?” He speaks up. “I’m thanking you,” He squeezes your calf that hangs over his shoulder gently. “For caring for me. My hair.. it’s never felt this nice”

You smile. “Aw. So sweet. You’re being so cute right now.” He groans and laughs a bit. “Okay knock it off. I’m not a softie I just love you. I love this.”

ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　  ϑ𐑞 　 ꣑୧　   ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　 

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

It’s another Sunday afternoon and you’ve barely moved from your spot on the loveseat as you stare out the window with a faraway look on your face.

You’ve been so quiet lately.

Eddie didn’t know what to do as he stood watching you from the kitchen with his second cup of coffee in hand. The frown etched on your face seemed to stretch further and further the longer he looked.

The sadness in your eyes growing darker with so many thoughts running through your mind.

“Sweetheart?”

Your head turns slightly in answer, eyes not lifting from their spot on the floor, afraid of what he might find there.

“What’s on that mind of yours?”

Too much and nothing at all

Static filled chaos

Echoing silence

“Just tired, Eds.”

Your eyes find his, a smile meant to reassure him painted on feels as heavy as a boulder sitting on your shoulder to keep up.

And he sees right through it, because he always does. He knows you better than anyone else.

You can’t hide from him.

He sits perched on the arm of the loveseat closest to you, a hand coming to rest on your back, pressing firm as fingers massage along the muscles there. You melt into his touch, face immediately finding his chest, breathing him in.

“How about I run to the bakery and pick up some of those croissants you love?”

You press further into him, the soft fabric of his hoodie kissing your face as his warm scent swirls through your head. Arms wrapping around his waist bringing him even closer.

“We can drive out to the lake and sit for a while like we used to? Maybe listen to one of our mixtapes.”

He laughs at the memory of those tapes. Especially that first one he gave you, when you were nothing more than friends fumbling around trying to figure out your feelings.

Songs that reminded him of you.

“How does that sound?”

Another bout of silence passes as you hold him, his hand still trailing along your back as he presses another kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes close as you sink into the tenderness, the care he shows, something you feel undeserving of some days.

With a sigh, you pull back to look up into Eddie’s face, heart stuttering at the look you find there.

He presses a light kiss to the tip of your nose as you reply, “I’d like that.”

eddie is the type of guy who takes any opportunity to kiss you. you’re helping him clean up after hellfire and as he passes by he leans down and places a kiss at the base of your neck before he resumes cleaning up. he peppers your face with soft morning kisses and slow reverent ones at night. forehead kisses after sex. he’s laying on your stomach while you read in bed and he’ll occasionally place a kiss onto your skin. kisses on your hand at a red light. he’ll make a show of grabbing your hand as you hop out of his van and kiss the back of your hand. when he walks by you at school he’ll quickly stoop down to kiss your cheek and keep walking as you turn and watch him walk away. kisses to your ankle as he takes off your shoes after you’ve had a long day. him wrapping his arms around you from behind when you least expect it and kissing the edge of your shoulder. kisses to your temple as you both sit together watching tv. him leaning over you from behind while your sitting to place a kiss on your forehead, his hair falling down temporarily blocking your view. whenever you’re hugging, he loves to kiss the top of your head. when you’re holding hands he likes to bring the back of your hand to his lips. whenever you’re caressing his face he tilts his head to kiss the inside of your wrist and the inside of your palm. when you’re sleeping he places a quick kiss on your hipbone as he climbs into bed with you. he’d definitely do the hand to shoulder kisses like gomez addams.

Eddie sighs against your chest, all but purring with each rake of your nails through his hair while watching The Muppet Christmas Carol.

He sings along and giggles every so often, warming you in ways the heater never could, making your heart swell.

You fight to keep your eyes open, feeling so relaxed after a long day. A long Christmas Eve, filled with a half a day of work, last minute shopping and so much food.

Eddie gives you another squeeze as your eyes lose their fight with sleep a few minutes after minute. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest before nuzzling against your neck.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Thinking of a shy!autistic!reader who sees Asahi Azumane for the first time…

You’re quiet, gentle, and overwhelmed by how tall the Karasuno guys are when you show up to bring them to the gym. You’ve been practicing what to say all day—going over it in your head like a script—but then you see him.

Asahi.

Big. Broad-shouldered. Soft-eyed.

You forget your entire sentence.

And while you manage to speak to Coach Ukai just fine, you keep sneaking glances at the third-year with the bun and the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen. You’re trying so hard not to stare, but your face is already flushed and you’re tugging at your sleeves like it’ll hide you.

Asahi notices. Of course he does.

He thinks she’s cute, but also wonders if something’s wrong. He doesn’t realize he’s staring back a little, and Daichi and Suga absolutely pick up on it.

Later, after the match, Nishinoya’s like, “Yo Asahi, your girlfriend was eyeing you the entire game.”

Asahi turns redder than Nekoma’s jerseys. “She was not!“

“She totally was,” Hinata adds, grinning.

“She literally walked into a wall watching you serve,” Suga says, just to stir the pot.

Across the gym, you are hiding behind one of your teammates, wishing the floor would swallow you whole—but also kinda hoping you get to talk to the soft boy with the pretty hair again.

fictional boyfriends (e.m.)

summary: eddie gets jealous of your newest fictional boyfriend from a game he got you into.

warnings: kinda sweet. kinda cringe. eddie is jealous of astarion. twilight reference jumpscare. not edited. biting and vague mentions of sex at the end.

wc: 2.5k+

a/n: this is the dumbest, cringiest thing i have ever written. but on this side of town, we embrace the cringe <3 happy valentine's day, enjoy me combining my current favorite fictional men (astarion and eddie) for my own personal delight. maybe one day i'll write a serious fic regarding the biting kink

It’s not that biting had ever been off the table with Eddie, per se.

Nips between kisses, using a little more teeth when he’d kiss across your neck, a joking sinking of your teeth into his shoulder when you were vying for his attention — they were all normal occurrences between the two of you. There was just never much discussion about it. No conversation explicitly had in which the two of you said, “Why, yes. This is something I’d like to bring into the bedroom.” 

Until that damn game.

When Eddie introduced you to Baldur’s Gate 3, the last thing he expected was to watch all your free time you used to spend pestering him suddenly handed over to some fictional vampire. He thought it’d be a game you tried, grew tired of, lost interest in, and that was that. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t expect a sudden competition for your goddamn affections. 

“Baby, please come to bed,” he all but whines as he drapes himself over your shoulders, trying to nudge off your headphones. He could feel just how warm your ears had grown beneath them. He swears he can feel your back crack from the slightest bit of his weight on your shoulders. And, sue him — he was tired and he wanted to cuddle. 

“One more minute,” you mumble the same phrase to him that he has used a million times on you; he instantly knows it’ll be far more than just sixty more seconds if he agrees, “Let me just finish this-“

“No,” he’s still whining, but it’s more stern now as he properly removes your headset, earning a glare from your bloodshot eyes, “You’ve been playing this game all afternoon, sweetheart. I think I might die if you don’t offer me some immediate attention. Truly.”

For emphasis, he lays more of his body weight on you, your chair creaking from holding up both of you now. 

“Eddie,” you moan out, wiggling beneath his dead-weight, “I swear to God, get off of me-“

“I’ll get off of you if you come to bed.”

You pause. Your hands hover near your keyboard and mouse, but you’re no longer walking your avatar across the world of Baldur’s Gate, and he knows he has you considering it.

More weight. More groans. At this rate, he’s questioning if your chair won’t break from his outrageous method to get your attention. 

“Fine.” 

The small yes he lets out only earns him a punch to the shoulder. But it gets you off the game, and that’s still a win for him.

He doesn’t even care about appearing over eager as you follow him back to the bedroom. He’s gone as far as preparing the bed, pillows fluffed and comforted pulled back while awaiting your arrival. He’s already washed his face and brushed his teeth (something he usually fights you on as you nag him before bed), and the moment he’s got you in the room with him, he’s dragging you right onto the mattress with him.

“You’re gonna hurt us!” you yelp as he wraps his arms around you and flops down, dragging you with him, but it’s through a laugh. He knows you really couldn’t care less — he’d never deliberately injure you, irritated about your newest fictional boyfriend or not. 

“Oh, no,” he mocks, rolling so you’re laying on top of him, “What ever will you do if I injure one of your precious wrists, and you can’t use it to flirt with your new boy toy tomorrow?” 

“Astarion would be devastated,” you giggle into his chest, not moving off of him despite all your protests. It’s nice — to feel the full weight of you, to just get to bury his nose in the crown of your head as he shamelessly inhales the sweet lingering scent of your coconut shampoo, “He’s even needier than you.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you serve as his functional juice box.”

“I do not!” you wiggle against him, and it only makes him tighten his arms, “He’s needy because he loves me.”

“Well that makes one of us.” 

Your head lifts off his chest in an instant, faux offense shadowing your features, “You tryin’ to say you don’t love me, Munson?”

He smirks, pressing his lips together tightly, making you huff in frustration. 

Of course he loves you. There wouldn’t be a ring in his sock drawer that he’s terrified of you finding if he didn’t. 

You pout, subtly and adorably so, starting to lift off of him, “If you’re going to be mean, I’m just going to go back to someone who appreciates me-“

“Mean?” he scoffs, enjoying himself far too much. He’s missed your attention, your affection. The effect it has on him is similar to a high, making him dizzy on serotonin as he rolls over and pins you between him and the mattress, “Oh, baby, that’s not me being mean. I can show you mean, if you want.” 

He’s always thought you looked prettiest like this. Under him, eyes wide as you look up at him as if he’s the only thing in this room worth looking at. Worth more than your prized bookshelf, more interesting than all the various posters the two of you have hung on the walls. You look at him as though he’s the greatest thing to exist in these four walls, and he doesn’t take it lightly when your favorite albums and candles are right there.

“You don’t have a mean bone in your body, Munson,” you whisper softly, face going soft for him. The two of you are still surely joking around, the playfulness of it all thick in the air, but there’s something genuine in your words that makes him even more enamored with you. 

He should have predicted you’d fall for Astarion when he showed you the game. You had a thing for people who put up the tough front, but who really just needed a little extra softness and patience under the surface. He was living proof of it.

Unlike your fictional vampire boyfriend. 

“Yeah?” he taunts, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushes yours. His hair works like a curtain, messy as ever as he shields the two of you from the outside world. One of your hands have crept up so that you palm rests against his cheek, and he can hardly remember that flare of jealousy that had gnawed at him when you’d spent your entire afternoon absorbed in the game instead of him, “I bet I could be meaner than Astarion. Although, I’m not sure just how mean that man has ever been to you, given all the war crimes you commit for his approval-“

He’s cut off when the thumb of the hand cradling his face trails up, pressing on his bottom lip. It only makes him grow even closer to you, pressing in, drawn by your touch.

You squint your eyes at him jokingly before cooing, “Someone sounds jealous.”

“Damn right,” he doesn’t even try to deny it, caught in the web of your trap with ease, “Does your pixelated lover even know what a catch he’s got?” 

You snort adorably at that. He pulls away to see the full force of your laughter, lifting up into his elbows to admire how your face scrunches with your smile. He bets Astarion would make some sarcastic comment about it — about the crinkles by your eyes that he aches to pepper with kisses, about the indents in your cheeks when you smile this wide, about the sound of your genuine laughter when you unrestrained and entirely comfortable like this. But there’s not a single joke forming on Eddie’s tongue. He’s all but hypnotized. 

God, he fucking loves you. So much so he’s jealous of a video game character.

“I’m not sure I’d consider this,” you lift the hand not holding him carefully still to motion at your current state of being, “A catch, my love.” 

He has to disagree. Messy hair or not, wrinkled pajamas or not.  You’re the greatest catch of this entire existence; not just Eddie’s, but the Universe’s. Nothing you could say or point out would deter him from this belief. He loves you, mess and all.

“My love?” he chooses to tease instead, all the words of affection threatening to choke him if he so much as considers letting them pour out, “I like the sound of that. If that’s the Astarion effect, maybe he isn’t so bad after all.”  

His elbows are sinking deeper into the mattress. With every passing second, his face is dropping closer to yours, and he’s not sure if it’s by instinct or choice. But when his lips finally brush yours, he decides it’s all the same — it doesn’t really matter what sort of gravity is at work here, as long as it keeps bringing him down closer to you.

“Shut up about the game and kiss me, Eddie.” 

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

The kiss is as sweet as ever. A comfortable dance that still sends shivers down his spine. If either of you looked closer at his arms bracketing your shoulders, you’d see the goosebumps raising as you eagerly returned all his affection.

You taste like the chocolates you’d been snacking on during your gaming. You taste like the greatest gift ever given, and he doesn’t care if he’s exaggerating or not. You’re divine — his favorite good morning and his only goodnight. 

And he’d say all that, but you’d probably accuse him of trying too hard to be like Astarion. Probably bring up that ridiculous line the character once said about you being made by the Gods, just to ruin him.

You were, though. Made by the Gods, specifically to ruin Eddie. Fuck the game. 

“You know,” he whispers against your lips, breaking for air as he adjusts positions. Your thighs open up and welcome him home, letting him slot right between your legs comfortably. He’s not trying to seduce you, but he can’t even be mad about it. He feels like a starved man now that your attention has been divided as of late, “If you wanted a lover who bites, all you had to do was ask, darling.” 

If you weren’t so wrapped up in the kisses he was pressing down your jaw and along your neck, you would have ripped him to shreds for the awful impersonation. 

But you’re already far gone, lost in his touches and his adorations. You let the half-assed attempt at a British accent slide, and you even bare your neck to him at the minute threat. 

Biting had never been off the table, per se, and Eddie was really fucking glad for it.

When he presses one, two, three greedy kisses to that sweet spot just below your ear, he has one intention in mind. Not his usual sucking and nipping and soothing, not leaving behind one of his ordinary love bites. No, he lets himself get caught up in the moment, and when he catches that quiver of excitement the moment he drags his teeth over your neck carefully, he’s fully committed to his decision.

He bites.

Not hard enough to draw blood, or even be terribly painful. He knows it’s nothing like the game or any of your subsequent fantasies you might have had from it. His canines are fairly dull, even as they dig carefully into the skin of your neck, holding for a moment for effect. But your legs tighten around his hips, and he almost wishes he was a damn vampire, able to actually pierce your skin in the moment. Drink your blood. Whatever the allure was with the origin companion.

You let out a soft gasp which has him keeping your skin between his teeth a few extra seconds, and then he’s letting go. Lifting his head and looking into your eyes, a silent exchange of is this okay?

If the glazed over look is anything to go off of, it’s more than okay.

He returns with reckless abandon, switching between his usual desperate kisses and the newer, sharper ones. He has one goal in mind: to mark you up as his, to the point in which you’ll be scolding him in the morning. It’s like a drug, to feel you writhe beneath him as he paints the picture. 

Love notes of freshly born bruises, the imprints of his teeth – a letter across your delicate skin that reads, he was here, and he loved you, more than anyone else in this Universe may ever be capable of. 

“If I had known how much biting would rile you up, I would’ve started doing it ages ago,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, finally pausing his assault. 

He settles for softer presses of his lip, peppering the affection where he had been a bit more violent. 

Your hands that had taken to tangling into the curls at the nape of his neck have gone more relaxed, no longer tugging but instead just lingering. Pulling him closer. Touching him with softer hands than he’s ever felt deserving of. 

“Guess you’ve got a certain vampire to thank for that,” you tease, but he can hear just how breathless he’s left you. He had sworn he could feel the pulse of your facing heart beneath his lips, even if just for a moment. Even if he just imagined it. 

“Please. Astarion is not getting the credit for that,” he scoffs, lifting up onto his elbows again to just look at you. His lover, his favorite person. It’s nice to see your face when it’s not washed over with the cast of a computer screen. “That was all me. And even if it wasn’t, I won’t forget that you had a Twilight phase.” 

Your hand quickly drops between the two of you, only to smack at his chest. The thump holds no weight as you whine, “I told you that in confidence.” 

He dips down, capturing one last kiss, “It’s okay, baby. It’s good to know that you have a type.”

“I do not-”

He cuts you off with a more playful bite to your neck. Less about marking you, and more just to make a point. 

“Just,” another nip, “admit,” another graze of his teeth, “it.” 

You’re fighting a smile when he looks down at you again, impossible to hide behind your mask of annoyance. “I am not admitting that I have a thing for broody, pathetic vampires.” 

“Well, I’ve got broody and pathetic down-”

“Eddie,” your thighs still bracket him, one hand still clinging to the back of his neck. When you say his name, the game is over. “We can spend all night bickering over the fictional men I love, or you can give me a reason to forget their names. It’s up to you.” 

His eyebrows jump up his forehead, and he’s just about to give up the bit, but not before one last snide remark.

“Kind of hard to do that when I share a name with one of them, but as you wish, sweetheart.” 

Another bout of beautiful laughter from him. Another smack on the chest from you. It’s good – it’s everything Eddie has ever wanted, and it is good.

He does, of course, make you forget their names. And if you find it difficult to get out of bed the next moment, dramatically unable to make the walk to your gaming computer, well – he won’t try to hide his smug smile in between the soft rays of morning light.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

join my taglist!

insta posts you would make if you were dating spencer reid:

⇝ a/n; i did a series like this on my criminal minds account back in 2021 that i deleted but @princessbrunette series has inspired me to remake it!! plus im getting back into my criminal minds phase! if you enjoy the posts please let me know and as always asks and requests are open!!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶