Osamu Seems So Calm And Reserved To Most People. (unless They See Him With Atsumu) None Of Your Mutual

Hello! Can I make a request for Satori Tendou?

Where Satori doesn't know how to handle his emotions when the reader is around. So she thinks that maybe she isn't to Satori's liking.

Sorry for the English, I use a translator.

- MIXED SIGNALS -

tendo x gn!reader

Satori Tendou wasn’t the type to get nervous. Not during matches, not when facing down a spiker twice his size, not even when he was being weird in public and people stared. He liked being unpredictable. He liked the way people couldn’t figure him out.

But you—you—were the only one who made his brain short-circuit.

And it was driving him crazy.

Every time you laughed at something he said, it felt like the sun was inside his chest, like he could float out of his skin and hover in the rafters. But when you looked at him too long, or smiled at him with that softness that made his throat go dry, something in him would retreat. Not out of disinterest—God, no—but because he didn’t know how to handle it.

So he covered it up with dumb jokes and awkward silences. Talked too much. Then not at all. And every time he saw your face fall just a little, he hated himself for it.

It wasn’t long before he noticed you pulling away.

You stopped showing up to his practice as often. When you were there, you kept your distance, always talking to someone else, eyes darting past him like he wasn’t worth lingering on.

It hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

At first, he thought maybe you were just busy. But then a week passed. Then two. And suddenly the gym felt colder without your warmth in it. His jokes or brainrot felt hollower. The team noticed too—Ushijima even asked if something was wrong, and Tendou just laughed, too loud, and said he must be coming down with a cold.

He knew he couldn’t keep pretending.

So one day, after practice, when the rest of the team had wandered off to change, he found you sitting alone on the bleachers, notebook in hand, legs swinging slightly. The fading sunlight lit your face in a way that made his heart thump painfully hard against his ribs.

He walked up, hands buried deep in his pockets, and stopped in front of you like a glitching program.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

Your head snapped up. “Huh?”

He gave a lopsided smile. “Dude you heard me.”

You looked down at your notebook, fingers tightening around the edge. “I just… I thought maybe I was bothering you.”

That stung. Tendou flinched, subtle but real. “Bothering me?”

You finally looked up at him, eyes vulnerable, confused. “You stopped talking to me. Stopped joking around. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. Or maybe I wasn’t your type.”

His breath caught.

The words clanged around in his chest like a dropped bell. Not your type.

He sat beside you, but not too close—afraid he might ruin something just by existing wrong.

“You didn’t do anything,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I just kinda… I suck at this.”

You tilted your head. “At what?”

“Feelings,” he muttered, then huffed. “You.”

You blinked. “You suck at me?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “That came out so fucking wrong.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up—small and startled. Tendou glanced at you, a crooked smile forming.

“I like you,” he said suddenly, like it physically hurt to keep the words in. “Like, a lot. But every time you’re near me, I get so… jumbled. It’s like my brain turns to mush or something. I don’t know how to act. So I end up being weird—well, weirder—and then I overthink everything and convince myself you hate me.”

Your expression softened.

“Satori,” you said gently, “I don’t hate you.”

“I know,” he whispered, eyes on the floor. “But I was scared you would if I wasn’t perfect.”

You reached over, resting your hand on his.

He went still.

“I don’t want perfect,” you said. “I just want you.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with unspoken relief.

“Even the parts that I act all dumb and shit around you?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

“Especially those.”

He looked up, red blooming at the tips of his ears. And then, slowly, he grinned—a real one, toothy and bright and a little crooked.

“Okay,” he said. “But you should know—I’m going to be terrible at this.”

You leaned in, shoulder brushing his. “Chat we can be terrible together.”

“Ew don’t say that.”

“My bad twin.”

“DON’T SAY THAT EITHER.”

And for the first time in weeks, Satori Tendou felt like he could breathe.

(TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE THIS FOR NO REASON)

“Babe, have you - oh no.”

Your boyfriend Daichi stopped in his tracks when he saw you sobbing into a tissue on the couch, wrapped practically airtight in a thick fluffy blanket with only the cable from your heating pad sticking out.

On the TV a chubby seal pup was calling its mother that apparently fell prey to an orca just a few seconds earlier.

He sighed and came to stand in front of you, hands on his hips to block the screen.

“What did we say?”

You shrunk into your blanket, looking up at him with big tear-filled eyes.

“No nature documentaries when I’m on my period?”

“Then why are you doing this to yourself? This is gonna be the seahorse thing from last month all over again.”

At the mention of your previous trauma, a new wave of tears rolled down your cheeks.

“It got carried too far in the current! It was all alone!”

“And what did you make me do?”

“Hold my hand in the supermarket so you wouldn’t lose me?”

“And why was that not a good idea?”

You took a deep breath and tried to recount the gentle scolding you received afterward, “Because to safely push a cart you need two hands.”

“And?”

“And I made you swerve into a display of tomato sauce.”

“So in conclusion?”, he raised an expectant brow.

You picked up the remote and turned on a different movie.

“Thank you.”, he said and leaned down to kiss the top of your head, “I ordered take-out for dinner. Now, move over.”

You scooted a bit to the left so he could sit down next to you and pull you into his arms for comfort, large warm hand slipping into the blanket cocoon gently rubbing your soft aching tummy.

a/n: this might be the silliest one yet

it’s late, and you’re both curled up in bed, the room completely dark except for the soft glow of the moon peeking through the blinds. you’re lying with your back to simon, his arm draped lazily over your waist, fingers lightly tracing patterns on your skin.

"you ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t a soldier?" you ask, your voice soft in the quiet.

simon doesn’t answer right away, his hand stopping for a moment before continuing its slow, comforting motion. "no," he says finally, his voice a deep rumble in the darkness. "never thought that far ahead."

you smile to yourself, knowing that’s so typically him—always focused on the present, on the mission, never on what comes after. "okay, but what if you had to choose something else? anything at all."

he’s quiet again, like he’s actually considering it, and then he mutters, "maybe a mechanic. or a farmer."

"a farmer?" you ask, trying to hold back a laugh at the thought of simon, the terrifying ghost, tending to crops and chickens.

"yeah," he says, completely serious. "quiet life. away from everything. i’d like that."

you turn to face him now, grinning in the dark. "you? a farmer? with overalls and everything?"

"don’t push it," he grumbles, but you can hear the faint amusement in his tone.

you laugh softly, reaching up to brush your hand across his stubbled jaw. "i think you’d look cute. you’d be grumpy, but in a charming, farmer simon way."

he huffs, but you can feel his body relaxing next to you, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "you’d get bored with me in a week."

"never," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "i’d help you with the chickens. we’d live on a cute little farm with a big garden, and we’d sit on the porch every evening and watch the sunset."

"that sounds nice," he admits, his voice softer now, almost wistful.

you snuggle closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body as he pulls you tighter against him. "see? i think you’ve got the right idea. farmer simon. i’d take that over ghost any day."

he chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating against your skin. "you say that now."

you smile, closing your eyes as his hand moves gently through your hair. "yeah, well, i think i’d like you no matter what."

the silence settles again, but this time, it’s filled with a warmth that makes you feel like you could drift off to sleep any second, wrapped in simon’s arms and the thought of a peaceful life somewhere far away.

and just before you drift off, you hear him murmur, "i’d like that too."

------------------------------------------------

something short and sweet before i finish this longer fic i've been working on for a few days :) hope you like ittt

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

i wish i had met you earlier (eddie munson x reader)

cw: depressing pillow talk and comfort idk, reader was sad and lonely an: a nod to the only boy ive ever loved who coincidentally became the only man ive ever loved. we grew up together and i still wish i had met him earlier. wc: 1k

“I wish I had met you earlier,” you whisper.

“Earlier?” he smiles, nose scrunching at the silliness, not knowing the depth of your sentiment. 

“Yeah,” you smile back. It’s hard not to do— to smile, when his eyes are so soft, and his lips are that plump, just kissed colour, and your body still hums from the evening behind you. His lashes flutter the slightest bit, blinking away your flattery with a bashful roll of his eyes. 

“You’d be sick of me already if we met earlier,” he lightly huffs, cheek squishing further into the softness of your shared pillow, crooking his smile. 

If the lights were on, you’re sure you’d see a flush suffuse across his face. It would highlight the curvature of his cheeks that accompany his boyish simper, and it would emphasize the winsome rounded tip of his nose. When he blushes like that, your heart always adds an extra beat into its rhythm, one that lives for him. You can picture it so clearly, your heart flutters all the same— that’s not the point of this though. 

“I wouldn't be sick of you,” you promise.

“No?”

“I'll never get sick of you.” 

Tactile as always, he draws his affection over your features, trusting his touch to communicate what he feels. His fingertips dance over your cheek bone, daring to grace close enough to your eye to feel the very tips of each silken lash, flittering with every reflexive blink. He feels the fan, every feathery gust of air, and it affects him in magnitudinous ways— feeling any part of you is like that, a full-hearted reminder that you are here. You are here and you are his. 

His palm settles to your cheek, fingers curving just below your ear, cradling the edge of your face. His own version of a promise, he shares his warmth and oath-taken heart through his touch.

“When would you have wanted to meet?” he asks curiously, blinking his own thick lashes at you as his gaze meets yours. 

“Just before high school.”

He smiles widely, “you answered that quickly,” he says, thumb tracing once over the hill of your cheek and back down.

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” you smile back. You lean into his touch and he draws his thumb across again. You close your eyes for a moment and he does it another time. 

“Why?” 

The softness inside you hardens momentarily at the question. Swallowing thickly, you also know the answer, but it doesn’t come out as quickly. It gets stuck to the roof of your mouth, stuck to the tip of your tongue. His eyes encourage your honesty, and on the sole notion of knowing him and knowing his heart, you trust him with this part of you.

“Maybe if I met you then, I wouldn’t have been so lonely.”

His thumb glides across your cheek and you watch as his eyes give way to his realization that it wasn’t a light hearted question for you. It wasn’t just pillow talk like it was supposed to be.

“Maybe if I met you then, I wouldn’t have been so sad,” you continue, trying to smile.

“You were sad?” His brows turn up, worry lines settling in. It’s a sorrowful look he gives you, not pity, but a softness, a grief, a regret. 

For a split moment, you think that maybe you should lie— make it all go away. Maybe you should lie, but you couldn’t, not with him. Not when his hand is so graciously connected to you, and the warmth of his bare chest radiates into yours, and your shared pillow smells like your shared shampoo, and the sheets smell like the laundry soap you picked out together, with hints of your lotion and his body wash scattered throughout like every kiss you’ve ever shared here. Maybe you should lie, but you couldn’t— especially not when you love him and he loves you. 

“I was so sad, Eddie.” 

You muster a smile, but it betrays you, trembling just under your lower lip. The corners of your mouth remain pointed high, but it’s not a smile, not with the way your lips purse tightly, holding back what your eyes cannot. Your lash line fills, but less than a few side fallen tears survive the heavy blinks that draw them back inwards.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, thumb tracing under your eye this time. He pulls you forward with the lightest touch, a gentle encouragement, and a purposeful reminder that he’s here. He's here and he’s yours. 

One day you’d like to explain it all, but it’s a hard feeling to understand. You’re not sure if it’s wholly a feeling to begin with— it’s more like a ghost. A haunting of all the feelings that used to exist. It washes over you in fast moving gray clouds, settling into your chest like heavy smoke in your lungs, lingering only long enough to remind you of how it was. Just enough to make you sputter, but not enough to hold the bleak weight of it all once again.

Breath coming out heaving and choked, Eddie’s palm glides to the back of your neck. His thumb presses soothingly into the tensed and taut muscles, and as soft as air he breathes a whispered apology against your lips— a simple ‘sorry,’ but it translates to so much more when he holds you like he does. 

Sorry for bringing it up. 

Sorry for the ghosts in your lungs. 

Sorry for the years of you that died all alone with nobody to mourn them. 

Sorry that no matter how many flowers you bring to their grave, they still come back, just like this, to haunt you.

Sorry— breathed against your lips and into your lungs, filling you with the gift of a life with him in it. 

“It’s not your fault,” you answer.

“I know,” he replies.

“I’m still glad I met you when I did,” you say. 

He looks into your eyes, steady gaze sincere with a tender adornment. Entirely loving, but his usually gladness is hindered by the gravity of the moment. He moves in closer to you again, lips just barely brushing yours as he speaks. 

“I wish I had met you earlier,” he whispers.

———

ty! <3

Okay hear me out, Eddie nervous on your first valentines day together wanting to make it special and only knowing how to valentines from what he's seen at school and he panics and is very eddie about the whole thing 👀

please my heart almost couldn't take this. i swore nothing over 1k but nervous and panicking eddie being all cute?? yeah i couldn't help myself. this isn't edited, sorry in advance. no warnings, just fluff.

wc: 2.2k

He feels stupid.

It's the only thought ringing through his head as he sits at the Munson's dining table, scraps of construction paper strewn over the worn wood, glue stick drying out to the side and scissors digging into his knuckles. 

It had started as a prophetic vision after a few hits from his blunt; it was quickly souring into the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done. 

The high had worn off, Eddie had glued his fingers together thrice now (seriously, how was this glue stick approved for children?), and the end product…. Well, he hated it. 

The card was tacky. The flowers were uneven. He didn’t even have the willpower nor time to make a full bouquet as he had originally wanted to while under the influence. Pink glitter was now overtaking the trailer, and he’s never seen his uncle look so damn entertained. 

“Boy, what on God’s green Earth are you going?” 

Normally, the twang of Wayne’s accent would be comforting. But right now, all Eddie could hear was held back laughter choking up his old man’s throat, and a glint in his eye that felt a lot like a taunt, and he felt the farthest from comforted in a very long time. 

“Mind your business, old man,” Eddie grumbles, tongue sticking out as he tries to reglue a corner of a paper heart he had cut out, needing it to stick down properly. He probably should have purchased glue, in hindsight. 

“Where did you get all this paper?”

“I said mind your business.”

“Is that pink glitter?” 

“Don’t you have work?” Eddie huffs, grabbing at the Valentine card he was attempting to salvage, cheeks blushing more vibrant than any of the arts and crafts supplies spread about. 

He didn’t want to admit how embarrassed he was. He didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction. It was his own damn fault, really – he had offered for your nightly diner dates to be on him one too many times this last month, and entirely forgotten to put away any extra cash to get you a proper Valentine. And this was his last resort. 

He’d tried to convince the local florist to discount the flowers missing one too many petals for him, he’d tried to scope out the cheapest cards available at Melvald’s. He’d begged and bartered with every option in town to simply get you something for the day of love, and in the end, he’d simply fallen short.

So now, all he had was a palm full of gritty glitter and homemade items that looked worse for wear. 

One of the kinder ladies that lived two trailers down had been happy to offer Eddie some of her scrapbooking papers, throwing in the glitter for good measure, and he still had an old glue stick from when he’d built one of his custom tabletop maps for a D&D campaign. With five hours and a dream, he was now the not-so-proud creator of three handmade paper roses, and a card hardly large enough to fit in his palm. 

When he took a step back to look at it all, Wayne was right to be snickering on the couch over it all. 

“They’re going to hate it,” Eddie laments, glaring down at his creations, “They’re going to hate it, and I’m going to get dumped on our first Valentine’s day together.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, son,” Wayne tries to genuinely comfort Eddie now, leaning forward to get a better look at his last five hours of work, “I’m sure they’re gon’ be happy that you just thought of the-”

“My life is over,” Eddie interrupts, walking over to the couch to collapse dramatically.

Wayne stops him, however, throwing up a hand, “Nope. You’re not gettin’ that damn pink glitter all over my couch. Go mope in your room.”

After a brief stare-off, a whole ten seconds wasted when Eddie could be wallowing in his self-pity, Eddie does exactly that.

He hopes Wayne is right, for all their sakes. There’ll be bigger things to worry about than just glitter if you really do hate Eddie’s attempt at a sincere Valentine. 

—

It takes nearly a full minute of knocking on the Munson’s trailer’s front door before Eddie opens it for you – that’s your first sign that something is terribly wrong. 

Your next sign is when Eddie hardly adds any enthusiasm into your welcome kiss, so reserved, as though he might be in a constant state of cringing; a constant state of preparing for the worst. 

“Is something the matter?” you ask innocently enough, toeing off your shoes and shifting your bag in hand. You’d picked up a few movies for the night, a variety of cheesy rom-coms Eddie expressed a slightest bit of interest in along with a few more up his alley. A horror film that neither of you had seen that looked to have a budget of $10 and a dream, and Labyrinth. 

The latter, you’d both already seen. Neither of you would pass up seeing David Bowie in his full glory, though. 

“It’s fine,” Eddie huffs out, still refusing to meet your gaze, “Want me to put on some popcorn?” 

You can’t help but light up as you follow him in his rush to the kitchen, “God – yes, please. I also got some sour patch kids, your favorite, and-”

You cut off when you catch sight of the dining room table. 

Eddie doesn’t glance back as he reaches up to the cabinet holding the stash of popcorn he keeps around for your movie nights, “And?” 

“Eddie…” you slowly draw out in a questioning tone, looking at the mess before you, “What, uh, happened here?” 

It’s an explosion of quintessential Valentine’s day. Pink paper hearts, strips of deep reds discarded messily. A shimmering glitter covers the table, and you can’t recall any DIY projects of Eddie’s for Hellfire that might involve that. 

“What?” He’s quick to turn around at that, and you watch as all the blood drains from his face, “Oh, fuck, I-” he launches himself back around the kitchen counter frantically, grabbing at any piece of paper he can find, “Shit, I meant to clean this up earlier, I’m sorr-”

“What were you making?” 

Eddie pauses all movement, glancing up at you in fear. 

You’re not even sure what he’s afraid of. All you can do is furrow your brows, twist your lips, scrunch your nose. 

Was it meant to be a surprise of some sort?

He swallows hard, standing up straight as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, “I….”

When no words follow, you raise a brow, trying to silently encourage him to continue on. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And oh, he’s such a bad liar. A pretty one, but a terrible one. 

There’s no sign of the stellar poker face you’ve seen him wear during Hellfire sessions, no impeccable cockiness to cover up the obvious. His wringing hands draw your attention to his knuckles, all the drying glue and glitter peeling off bit by bit.  

“You sure about that?” you press, grin slow spreading as you take a step closer to him, eyeing the mess he tries to shift in front of to block from your sights.

“Positive.”

“Has anyone told you you’re an awful liar, Munson?”

“I’m not ly-” 

You scooch around him effortless, dropping your bag in the process and making him yelp out as he tries to catch you. His arms are quick to wrap around your waist as you try to get a clearer view of what he had been so desperate to conceal, but even his best efforts can’t stop you. 

It’s all a bit childish from the outside. Reckless giggles, flailing limbs – even Eddie is smiling in his panic. 

“Let go of me!” 

“Then leave it alone!”

“I wanna see what you made!” 

Each screech between the two of you is overcome with laughter as he pulls you flush to his chest, caging you in and yet failing to cover your eyes. 

You spot what he was trying to hide, and all attempts to escape his hold cease. 

“Are those…” you start, a little breathless as you stare in awe. You swear, you could burn up from the warmth blooming in your chest. When his arms go the slightest bit limp, you have your answer before finishing the question, “Are those for me?” 

A small jar, one that had once held some of Eddie’s pick collection, now holds three handmade paper roses. Mingling petals of two different shades of red, with tightly rolled pieces of green paper servings at their stems. Two even have leaves, cut jagged and true to nature. 

Leaning against the small paper flower display is a card.

It’s a messier ordeal than the flowers, but you’re still prying Eddie’s forearms from your stomach in a rush to grab it. 

“Hold on,” he rushes out, no longer laughing as you get a hold of the card, “Wait, listen, I can explain. I just- I spent most of my money when we went to Benny’s for shakes last week, and I forgot I wouldn’t get any more cash before today, and I just-” he’s stumbling over his words, a mess of flying hands and wide eyes as you turn to face him, “I… I’m sorry, okay? I swear, they’re just placeholders until I get you a real gift for Valentine’s Day.” 

You’re hardly listening to him as you look down at the small paper, folded over fairly impressively to mimic one of the fancy cards from Melvard’s. It’s thinner, sure, but you’re mesmerized as you trace over the heart cut out of the center. It’s filled with pink glitter that clings to your fingertip as it passes, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh. 

And then you open the card. 

The outside was plain white save for the heart, but the inside is gorgeous. Hand drawn vines and flowers fill the empty space inside. Roses, mums, lillies – every flower you can think of is amongst the bunch. All etched out in ink, an ink you recognize from Eddie’s favorite pen, and every gentle line sketched out to make the larger picture sends your heart racing a few beats faster.

Underneath the glitter heart is a large bee, made with a speech bubble. 

“Placeholder?” you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip to stop from smiling like a fool. “You call all this a placeholder?” 

Bee mine? 

It’s so cheesy, it aches. 

Written in makeshift cursive, not quite as neat as it could have been, but clearly a valiant effort from the shy man standing before you. You can’t fathom how he’s embarrassed about this when you look up at him with fluttering lashes and a chest full of fizzling love. 

“I thought you were going to hate them,” he hoarsely whispers as he reaches a hand to the nape of his neck. 

“Hate them?” you repeat in disbelief, turning your attention back to the handmade flowers. “In what fuckin’ world would I hate these?”

You lift one of the roses from the mini jar, and sniff it on instinct. It should only smell like paper and glue, but it doesn’t – Eddie’s obviously spritzed his cologne onto the flowers.

The miniscule detail has your heart bursting. 

He’s still petrified as he stares at you, shrugging hopelessly, “I just know it’s our first Valentine’s together, and people usually go all out-”

“This is going all out, Eddie.”

You can’t imagine being capable of any more love for the boy in front of you. Genuinely – you don’t believe your bones could handle the weight of it, that your heart could take it. You’re filled to the brim with it, buzzing like summertime cicadas beneath your skin from all the vibrant emotions you have for him. For every blemish across his skin and every kink in his curls, for those big brown eyes simply staring at you now. Those knuckles covered in glue and glitter. Those lips that you can’t handle another second not kissing. 

And so you don’t. Not another second is wasted as you fling yourself forward, nearly dropping the paper flower in hand as you grab each side of his face, bringing him to you in a hard kiss. 

You hope he feels all that love. You hope the weight of it presses down on his shoulders, even if just a little, so he gets it. 

“I fucking love it, Eds,” you laugh into the kiss, pressing your forehead, “I- Honestly? I think this is the nicest Valentine I’ve ever gotten.” 

“Really?” his eyes pop open, pulling back from you slightly until you simply won’t allow it. You want him close – you need him pressed against you. “Well, shit. I thought you were going to hate them and break up with me.” 

“Me, breaking up with you? After this?” you parrot back in disbelief, shaking your head, tip of your nose rubbing against his through the action, “God, you’re an idiot, Eddie Munson. My idiot, but still.” 

He finally cracks a smile, and you lose yourself in the dimples that appear as he asks, “Does this mean you’ll be my Valentine?”

“Absolutely.”

(this was not proof read.)

"I’m only doing this because I’m cold." Abbacchio whispers to you while breathing deeply. A moment of silence goes by as Abbacchio's embrace tightens and you feel his chest heave in and out with his heavy breathing. Your body relaxes as you wrap your arms around his back and sigh gently into the crook of his neck. You can feel his strong heartbeat as his body temperature continues to rise due to the closeness of your bodies. You rest your chin on top of his head and rub small circles against his shoulder blades.

"It’s okay," you mumble in response. Your voice rumbles softly against his ear, making him shiver. "You don't have to pretend." Abbacchio stiffens at your words but doesn't say anything else.

He pulls away just enough so he can look into your eyes with an annoyed expression plastered across his face. His brows knit together as he looks down at you with narrowed yellow eyes. The way his heart flutters differs from his annoyed expression. "What do you mean I don’t have to pretend?" He asks gruffly, trying to sound intimidating, though his face remains flushed with embarrassment.

"I’ve been holding you like this for the past ten minutes, and you’re still cold." You smirk, looking up at him. "Don’t give me that face, y/n." He grumbles, letting his hands fall to your waist before gripping it tightly. Abbacchio takes another deep breath and closes his eyes, leaning his forehead down onto yours.

"Just stop talking. Just... be quiet for now." He mutters quietly and presses his lips firmly against yours. It’s as if the world seems to disappear for the two of you. Your fingers clutch his coat tighter as Abbacchio’s mouth works against yours hungrily. His arm wraps behind your back, grabbing your lower waist with his other hand and pulling you flush against him.

This kiss feels like nothing less than heaven. The way he holds you makes everything seem more real than it already is. In that moment, it feels to him like time itself has stopped, if only for a few seconds. He feels a new emotion rush through his body and mind, and you begin to slowly feel the same thing. Your hearts beat in sync, and your breathing patterns are similar.

At this moment, it seems the two of you are one.

Choso x reader<3 comforting Choso!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

“Choso?”

You’d been looking for your boyfriend for a while now. He hadnt answered any of your calls, and you were getting worried. He’d never missed a call from you, and if he had he’d called you back a minute later.

And now you were infront of his apartment, unlocking the door with the key he gave you. No response came when you call his name. And you take off your shoes, walking further into his home.

And then you hear it,

Muffled whimpers and cries coming from his bedroom. You take fast steps and open the door to the room, and when you walk in you dont see him at first. And then he sniffles.

You look down to see him sitting on the ground, hands on either side of his face as if to muffle out any loud noises.

And there are tears running down his handsome face.

“Choso…” you say softly and he looks up from his lap, and as if on cue he starts sobbing. You almost run to him, getting on your knees infront of him, careful not to touch him in case he doesnt want that.

Its always him taking care of you, him protecting you. Seeing him like this made your heart break.

“honey…whats wrong?” you speak to him quietly as hes still crying, trying to hide his face in his hands.

Suddenly He reaches out his arms and pull you into him, your form almost invisible now as he incases you in a hug, whimpering into your hair, spilling his tears. You reach up and stroke the top of his head softly, trying to calm him down.

You feel yourself start to cry too, from how much it hurts to see him like this. He senses it immediately and pulls his face away from your neck to look at you,

“no…” he says in hoarse voice, “m’ sorry…sorry dont cry my baby im…im fine,” he hiccups the words out, his breathing a little shaky.

You shake your head, “this isnt about me Choso…just…dont like seeing you sad,” you say in a small voice as he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

“just…” he starts, “just miss my brothers,” he gets out before sobbing again.

You hug him tightly to you, carresing his back.

You sit there for a little while, you stroking his hair, and him crying into your neck, your shirt now wet with his tears. Hes almost calm now, his body has stopped trembling, and hes only sniffling a little.

“i know you miss them Choso…its okay” you tell him gently, “but you dont have to deal with it alone,” you stroke his cheek, whiping away the last of his tears.

“im here now…im here for you okay?”

He nods, “love you so much,” he says quietly, “i wanna get takeout for dinner…and watch a movie with you in my lap,” he kisses your forehead, “and you cant leave…not even to pee…or ill go with you,”

you giggle at him, hes adorable.

“promise me you’ll tell me next time you’re sad okay? i want to help…just like you always help me,” you kiss his lips softly.

“promise,” he says in a serious tone.

you kiss his face all over before speaking again, “ill call for some chinese food,”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

hes so cute im gonna jump.

this is very self indulgent i needed to write this so i wouldnt tweak too much about seeing him cry in the new Ep :’) i needed to hug him so bad.

Tangled Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie gets a comb stuck in his hair. Evil Woman untangles it, and a little bit of his tragic backstory comes out with it. Contains: A minor tantrum, a sad Eddie, a little hair lore, and our boy being loved and taken care of. Words: 1.2k Note: This takes place during their first winter together.

"FUCK!"

A loud clatter follows the yell from behind the closed bathroom door, making you jump from your position on the Munson's couch.

You're sitting there in borrowed sweats, watching a Mork & Mindy rerun while you wait for Eddie. You'd spent most of the day playing in the snow with the neighborhood kids, and had both required about a gallon of hot chocolate and a warm shower to recover. The girls had won the final snowball fight, which meant you earned the first shower. (He probably would've let you go first even the boys had won, but you're counting it as a victory shower anyway.)

When you don't hear anything else, you rise and slowly approach the bathroom door. Silence. You knock lightly. "Eddie? You okay?"

The door slowly creaks open, revealing a pair of worn burgundy sweats, a faded Hellfire Club shirt, half of a black comb stuck in a tangle of matted hair, and the most pathetic puppy eyes you've ever seen.

"You okay?" you ask again.

"Comb got stuck," he says miserably.

"Want me to get it out?"

Eddie squirms, looking like he wants to wash himself down the drain. He turns toward the mirror and gives another feeble attempt at getting the comb out. You lean against the doorframe, waiting for him to ask for help, and your eyes drift to the bathtub. All of the bottles that usually sit on the ledge are scattered across the bottom of the tub. He must've thrown something and knocked them all down. Maybe you should take him bowling sometime.

Eddie sighs, releases the comb, and hangs his head in defeat. Looking at the floor, he turns to you and nods his head slowly.

"I promise I'll be gentle," you assure him, as quietly as you can. "C'mon." You tilt your head toward the living room and start walking, hoping he'll follow.

You slide the coffee table to the side, drop a pillow on the floor for him to sit on, and take your seat on the couch. You gesture for him to sit between your legs. He does, reluctantly. You want so badly to know what's actually wrong, you feel like you may burst… but you know better than to ask.

You reach for the comb embedded in his wet hair without a word, and he flinches. You rest your hands on your knees instead.

You play with his hair all the time. When you watch movies, his head often ends up on your lap, and your hands gravitate to it. He gets the cutest little smile on his face when you tuck his hair behind his ear. You know for a fact that rubbing light circles on That One Spot on his scalp will put him right to sleep. Why is this different?

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah."

"You know I'm gonna try my very best not to hurt you, right?"

"Yeah." His voice is hollow. Emotionless.

You carefully reach for the mass of tangles and the buried comb again. He tenses, but doesn't flinch. You begin working it out, piece by piece, taking your time and focusing all your energy on keeping it painless while the laugh track on TV keeps the room from falling into awkward silence.

When you finally get the comb out, you set it aside and reach for your own brush. Starting at the ends, you gently work out all the rest of Eddie's tangles. The whole process takes nearly an hour, and he doesn't move a muscle the whole time.

"Alright, you're done," you finally declare, setting your brush aside. He heaves a sigh of relief, and you lean down to kiss the top of his head.

He turns sideways and rests his chin on your knee. You cup the side of his face, rubbing your thumb across his flushed cheek, and he closes his eyes. Just when you think he's fallen asleep, he heaves another sigh and starts talking.

"My mom used to brush my hair when I was little. Her brush had those hard, scratchy bristles that felt like wire." He swallows, but still doesn't open his eyes. "My hair wasn't this long, but I used to play outside all day. To get away from them, mostly. But when I came home at dark, she'd make me stand in front of her in the kitchen so she could brush it. She'd yank and pull at it and brush my neck and my ears and my forehead. I think it actually drew blood once or twice. If I moved or complained, she'd put me over her knee and use the other side."

You didn't realize your hand had stopped stroking his cheek until he stopped talking. You move it to his shoulder, still a little damp from his hair, and give him a light squeeze.

"One day, after she died, I went in the bathroom with scissors I stole from school and cut it all off. Well, I tried. They were dull and kid-sized. Dad laughed at me when he saw it. Made me go to school like that. The nurse finally took pity on me and evened it out after a few days."

He crawls onto the couch and lays his head on your lap, facing the TV. Normally in this position, your hands would be in his hair immediately, but today… you hesitate. Although he can't see you do it, he must sense it. He puts his hand on your knee, palm up. You take it, and place your other hand on his arm in a gesture you hope is comforting.

"When I came to live with Wayne, he'd give us both a buzz cut on the first of every month. The noise from the clippers scared the shit out of me at first, but after watching him do his own a few times, I finally let him do mine. I didn't start growing it out again 'til the summer I graduated from middle school. That's when I decided nobody was gonna fuck with it. And nobody was gonna fuck with me."

He lets go of your hand and flips onto his back, staring up at you.

"Kay, that's the whole traumatic hair story you didn't ask for."

You smile and reach for his hand again.

"It doesn't bother you when I play with it?"

"Not gonna lie… scared the hell out of me the first time," he chuckles. "Usually, when a girl goes for the hair, it's to pull it or stick something in it. One time, a girl dragged me across the playground with it. But you? Just started twirling it and playing with it and putting me to sleep. Didn't ever want you to stop. Couldn't fucking believe it."

You feel your heart warm at his confession, and finally let your hand return to that beautiful head of hair. Your fingers lightly work at his scalp, and he smiles sleepily up at you.

"You know I'd never hurt you, right?" You know he knows, but you need him to hear it. "Unless it's like… in a kinky way that you specifically request."

"I'll keep that in mind," he smirks.

i love when ppl in the eddie fandom try to act like they’re hot shit. babe, you’re a simp for a fictional boyloser who’s never been fucked. we are all in the clown car

🦢— (mutuals only) send me this and I’ll create a moodboard of you + the character of your choice, on your dream date.

With Eddie please please 🤭♥️♥️ congratulations on your follower milestone that’s awesome!! I love you so much and am so glad you are here!

Thank you so much, my love. I hope you like this! ILYSM! <3

You and Eddie find yourselves at the local library, the pouring rain makes light taps on the glass of the windows around you and the gloomy light filters into the large room as the smell of leather and old books fills the air. You and Eddie find the novels you both had been searching for, in between light hand grabs through book cases and soft whispers and giggles.

Once back home, you both dance in the kitchen while baking cinnamon buns and put on a pot of coffee before snuggling up into Eddie’s chest as he reads his newest fantasy book to you while he plays with your hair as the rain continues to rage on outside, it’s the perfect night.

✩ my 5k celebration ✩