contstructive mentalism

“They look like guitar picks,” he observes, “What’re they for? They band aids are something?”

“If I tell you, will you make fun of me?” you ask tentatively, like you’re talking to a kid who is about to get in trouble.

“Yes, of course,” he answers honestly.

You tsk, shaking your head, “Then that’s too bad.”

“C’mon, just tell me,” he nudges, arm wrapping around you as it always does when you’re winding down in the living room. He scoots you close, grabbing under your knee to park you half on him, half not.

“It’s to help with my forehead lines,” you say, “To smooth them out a little.”

Eddie looks at you like he can’t believe you just said that, “What forehead lines?”

“I have them, they’re called 11s,” you explain, “It’s cause I’m always tensing my forehead. My mom has them, too.”

“Peach, you don’t have lines. I look at you every day,” he sighs. It was always a new thing these days. New moisturizer, new eye cream, new mask, new hair dye. He liked when you didn’t worry so much about stuff like that; but he guessed he had his own crisis in his 30s, too. Maybe it’s different for guys; it’s definitely different for guys like Eddie.

“I look at myself every day, too,” you sigh back, “I see them.”

“Do you see mine?” he asks, “They’re worse because you stress me out.”

You giggle, “I didn’t have these before we started dating, so…”

He shakes his head, grinning, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, girl.”

He feels you melt into him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I don’t think you need them, Peach but if they make you feel better then go for it. Just know that you look ridiculous.”

“Thanks,” you nod, “At least I’m not a 45 year old man with bangs.”

He nods, “What’re you turning this year? 34?”

You look up at him with a warning grin, knowing he’s gonna be an asshole, “And what about it?”

“Damn,” he shakes his head again, “You old bitch.”

“Fuck offfff,” you groan, leaning up to press a kiss against his full lips. He kisses back happily, pulling you close to him.

“See if I let you in my shower again,” you say as you break apart.

It’s been three weeks of dating Steve, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to this. Especially what pokes the small of your back, or the way it stretches you out in a way you didn’t think was possible. Your hips shift on their own, letting the hard length of fit between the apple of your ass only covered by a thin pair of cotton panties.

The immediate flutter in your stomach at the feeling of him so close has your teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip. Wiggling your hips again, he slides between your thighs, the tip of him tapping against your already swollen clit. A quiet moan slips from between your lips at the feeling, your body begging for more.

Steve’s grip on you tightens, his breathing coming out quick and sporadic. The blunt ends of his nails dig into the soft fat of your sides, grunting as he meets the next roll of your hips.

“Honey.” He murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, nudging the back of your ear with the tip of his nose.

“Good morning.” You whisper with a hidden smile, spreading your legs a little more, whimpering when his already leaking tip pushes your panties to the side for a fleeting moment.

“Fuck.” The word comes out of his mouth in a hiss, his hips searching for that angle again.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing this early, tough girl? hmm?” He chides, gripping your curves holding you in place, doing it with more force this time.

His name slips breathy from your lips, your leg hitching over his hip, giving him full access to you.

“So needy already.” He murmurs a little cocky in your ear, using the length of himself to push your panties to the side, groaning at what he finds. “So wet.”

“Want you.” Pushing your hips back with a whine, you relish in the way the tip of his cock starts to split you open.

“Always want you, baby.” He hums, reaching up to cup your breast in the palm of his hand, fitting himself half way in.

Your walls are greedy, sucking him in the rest of the way, and with a slow grind of your hips, he bottoms out. A string of curse words are whispered along the curve of your neck, followed by a sharp nip of his teeth.

“Oh my god.” Tilting your head back in a loud moan, he takes full advantage of the newly exposed skin.

His fingers pinch at your sensitive nipples standing at attention for him. Littering open mouthed kisses up to the soft spot behind your ear, he sucks hard enough for you to shiver. Steve sets a slow pace, pulling himself almost all the way out letting you feel every inch and ridge of him before snapping his hips, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound of his name, followed by short gasps every time he pushes the air out of your lungs fills the empty space of your apartment. He feels bigger in the morning, the stretch of him rolling your eyes in the back of your head with every thrust. The blunt ends of your fingernails dig into the tanned freckled skin of his forearm, finding the strength to meet the quick roll of his hips.

It should feel impossible to want more, but it’s all your body screams for. As if he can read your mind, his long lingers find their way to your clit begging for his attention. Using the pad of two fingers, he rubs quick circles on the bundle of nerves, earning such a loud moan of his name he thinks your neighbors heard. So he keeps it up, needing them to know who’s making you feel this good.

“Gonna cum for me, tough girl? Gonna give me what I want?” He whispers against your ear before taking the lobe of it in the heat of his mouth.

Jaw going slack, all you can do it nod, the tightening flutter of your walls telling him you’re close.

“I can feel it, you’re gonna make me cum too. Want that?” He adds a third finger to your pulsing clit, hips setting a punishing pace.

“Steve — god — I want it.” You whimper, trying to chase the high that’s on the cusp of breaking you into a million pieces.

“Where? Where do you want it, honey?” he grunts, his body surrounding you, losing himself in the feeling of your silk.

“I-inside.”

His hips stutter at your words, a deep growl rumbling from his chest sending another wave of arousal coating him. You’d be embarrassed at the sounds of just how wet you are if he wasn’t claiming you like a man possessed.

“I’m gonna —“ the second half of your sentence dies on the tip of your tongue for a moment when he keeps himself deep, grinding on that spot only he can find. “Steve, I'm — I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it with me.” He moans, twitching inside of you, letting you know he’s just as close.

All you can manage is a nod, pressing your ass as tight against him as possible, pushing him impossibly deeper, snapping that tight rope in your gut sending you tumbling over the edge.

“That’s it baby, you’re so good, so good for me.” He says the last part through gritted teeth.

A guttural moan rips from his throat spilling himself inside of you, filling you to the brim. He keeps pumping his hips like he’s trying to make sure none of it escapes moaning ‘mine’ over again turning possessive.

He doesn’t stop, until he physically has nothing left to give, wrapping your limp body in his arms, slipping out of your walls that beg him to stay. The two of you lay there trying to catch your breath, a small giggle escaping from between your lips.

“What?” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Good morning.” You smile snuggling yourself deeper into his chest, basking in the feeling of him dripping out of you and onto the sheets.

The overhead light in your kitchen hums faintly as you cook. The butter finally melting into a puddle at the bottom of the pan. The sizzling the chicken makes when you place it down starts to mix with the quiet clacking of Eddie's laptop keys where he's hunched at the island. I just wanna spend time together. He'd mumbled as he kissed your shoulder. Not even a full thirty seconds after, there he came, following you into the kitchen like a little lost puppy. He's got his reading glasses on too. He refuses to let anyone other than you and the girls know he has them (Gareth knows). He'd actually rather die. He's got one socked foot hooked around the rung of the bar stool and he bounces his other leg gently. 

"Why is this thing asking me for a password? What even is my password?" He mumbles, more to himself than anything. "I swear to God, Bats. Technology was not this hard when we were kids." 

"I wrote it down." You say, not looking up from where you were cooking. "In the notebook next to you." You say just as the front door slams open. It's followed by the loud and familiar sound of two pairs of shoes hitting the floor in two very different rhythms. Alice's hit the floor lighter, quicker, like she didn't do more than kick them off and go. Roan's are heavier. She drags in. 

"Mom?" Alice calls, rounding the corner to the kitchen. "We're home." 

Roan rounds the corner right behind her, dropping her backpack to the floor with a thud so loud that Eddie considers he may have just been shot at for a brief moment. "This is so stupid." She murmurs, dropping herself into a chair at the dining table. 

Eddie peers at her over his laptop, glasses sliding down his nose slightly. "Well good afternoon to you too, sunshine. Who are we hating today?" He asks softly. 

"My history project." She snaps and shakes her head, brown curls flopping this way and that. "It's so dumb. It's about a tree. A literal tree, Dad." 

Alice, who had heard about this damn thing the entire drive home, is digging through the fridge when she smirks. She grabs a water bottle and opens it, leaning against the counter, laughing lightly, What kind of tree, Ro?"

"A bottle tree." Roan sighs. "Like, people put glass bottles on the branches to "trap spirits" or whatever? It's so…" She gestures, trying to find the word. She settles for one, "weird." 

Eddie's fingers stop tapping and his mouth pulls tight. "A bottle tree?"

Roan nods, but keeps going, too worked up to stop now. "And I have to make a model of it and do a presentation or something. There's like… no real and normal information on it. It's like… all folklore and ghosts and tall tales and stuff." 

"My mom used to make one." Eddie says softly. 

That stops Roan, mid-sentence. Alice looks over at him, holding a newly found string cheese halfway to her mouth. You glance over your shoulder. He's not looking at any of you. He's staring at the edge of his laptop and then he shrugs. "When I was little… She made one outback. She used blue bottles mostly, were the ones my dad had around the most. Used to tell me it'd keep things away." 

Roan frowns a little, letting her eyes drift over to you when something pops in the pans. "I… like ghosts and stuff?" She asks softly. 

Eddie nods and lets out a quiet laugh, but it doesn't sound amused in the slightest. "Yeah. That was the idea." He shrugs one shoulder and closes his laptop with a soft click. He slides his glasses off his face and places them down on top of his laptop. "I used to freak myself out real bad at night. Thought every creak in the trailer was something." 

Alice leans her elbows on the island's counter top. "Did it work?" 

He glances at her finally, there's a flicker in his eye as he smiles. "I mean… I made it to adulthood so… Jury's still out." He chuckles. You watch as he pushes back his stool and stands. He moves around the island, his hands finding your arms as he steps up behind you. They rub up and down once and he presses a soft kiss into your hair, right at your temple. "Smells good." He says softly. Then before you can even try to respond to him, he turns and heads towards the stairs. They creak with each step he takes. 

The kitchen settles into quiet after that. Alice blinks, confused. "Okay…"

Roan frowns. "What was that?" 

You reach out and turn the burner down, giving the chicken bites a quick stir as you buy yourself a second to think. 

Alice nods as her sister, "that was kinda weird, wasn't it?" 

You glance towards the stairs then, then back to your girls, agreeing. "It was." You sigh, setting your spoon down on the porcelain rest Alice had made you when she started taking advanced ceramics. "He's been thinking about his mom a lot more lately."

Roan's expression shifts then, from a frown to something more akin to concern for a 14-year-old. "Why?" She asks softly. 

You shrug, leaning your hip against the counter as you talk to them. "He always does this time of year." You say softly. "Reminds him of her. Just happens. Stuff comes back around." 

Alice nods a little and peels open her string cheese, "We could make it like… not lame." She says as she looks at her sister. "The bottle tree thing." 

Roan shakes her head. "It's always gonna be lame." 

Upstairs, you hear something shift. Then comes the faint thud of a drawer opening. You glance towards the ceiling, picturing him up there all alone. He's probably sitting on the edge of your bed, digging through things he hasn't seen in years. You can even imagine that faraway look in his eyes that you hate so much. 

"Hey." You say softly, catching both of your daughters attentions. "Bring your stuff back in here after you decompress. We'll figure the project out together." You tell Roan and she just nods. The pan of chicken crackles again. Dinner. Oh right. You still have to get dinner on the table. The world keeps moving, even if your husband is falling apart a floor away. You turn the burner down even lower, making sure Alice would check on it if you were gone longer than five minutes, and step away. You just needed to keep the food warm long enough to check on Eddie. The girls drift off, Alice spread out on the couch with her phone, that you made sure has a timer set for five minutes on, and Roan at the table with her homework open in front of her. "I'm gonna go grab your dad." You tell them.

"Okay. Tell him dinner's ready before I starve to death." Roan mumbles, tapping her pencil eraser against her notebook. 

"Yeah, and tell him I found a way to recreate his mom's tree with the blue bottles."

You hum in acknowledgement, your hand trailing along the banister as you climb the steps. The stairs creak under your weight in the same places they always have. Your bedroom door is open just a little when you reach the top of the staircase. You wait, just watching. 

He's sitting on the edge of your bed, his forearms resting on his thighs. He's got something small in his hands, turning between his fingers slowly. His hair is falling forward in his face and his shoulders are rolled in just slightly. The shoebox he keeps in the closet— the one you recognize from the many years of memories stuffed into it— is open beside him. You take a step towards the door, pushing it open gently. "Hey?" You whisper.

He glances up and smiles a bit, "Oh, hey." He says softly, "dinner ready?" 

"Mm." You nod, stepping into the room. You move closer to him, running your hand over his shoulders and scratching at the base of his neck gently. "You go and disappear on me, Munson, I've gotta do a wellness check." 

That gets a huff out of him, "Yeah?" He looks down at the object in his hands. "Everything look okay from your professional standpoint?" 

You start to say something back, but then your eyes catch what he's holding. It's a small piece of blue glass. It's the neck of whatever bottle it came from, edges worn down with time. It catches the light streaming in from the window and shines it across his face. Eddie rolls it between his fingers, thumb brushing over the threads, "Yeah, uh… I think it's from that tree." He says softly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Or one of 'em. She used to swap 'em out when they'd crack." 

You sit down beside him on the bed quietly. The house continues to move around you, creaking and settling. Alice's laugh rings out through the house and carries up the stairs. 

"I forgot I kept it." He admits after a moment. "It's been in my box for years and I just…" He sighs, his eyes still on that little piece of blue glass in his hands. "She swore that thing worked. Said the wind'd catch in the bottles, keep whatever it trapped from getting out… Made me feel a little better." He laughs, his eyes glassy. "Roan said bottle tree and it was like… suddenly I was six again and convinced something's watching me from the hallway, just this time I had no one there to fix it." 

You reach over, letting your hand settle at the warm base of his neck. You brush your thumb just under his hairline gently. He leans into you a bit and you kiss his temple. "You were a real creepy kid, you know?" 

"Oh, absolutely." He teases. "Prime nightmare fuel." 

You smile faintly, your thumb still moving slowly across his skin. "Are you okay?" 

He pauses for a moment and then nods, "yeah." He nods, finally. "Just feels weird, I guess…" His eyes flick down to the glass again. "It feels like I should remember her more than I do."

You nod a little, "baby, you were six years old. It's been a long time… and it’s okay that you don't remember as well as you used to.”

His lips press together and he sighs, nodding. "Yeah, I know you're right." 

You sit together in silence for a few more moments before you nudge his thigh with your knee. "C'mon." You say gently and kiss his shoulder. "Your children are about five minutes away from eating without you." 

He chuckles and nods, setting the piece of glass back into the box carefully. Then he closes the lid and slides it back under the bed. Getting himself back together for dinner with his wife and daughters.