#first time drawing Rumple

[petty-d4bblr]

First sketch of 2024

#rumpelstiltskin #ouat rumple #ouat #once upon a time #robert carlyle #pencil sketch #pencil drawing #sketchbook #it's ok for my first crack at him I guess #goldstiltskin #fan art #doodlings

[cosmal]

okay tasm!peter parker thought!!! he’s obsessed with touching your face. like, when you’re talking about something he’ll just randomly grab your face and smoosh your cheeks. he’ll boop or kiss your nose at random times. most importantly, when he’s kissing you he’ll be holding your face, his big hands on your cheeks guiding your head so he can kiss you better. omg

doughnuts

summary you're really excited about doughnuts. peter really wants to kiss you.

content tasm!peterparker x fem!afab!reader

note this is my first time writing for tasm!peter please forgive me if it sucks.

For the first time in a while, you come home after work with enough excitement to light up the entire flat.

Peter's sitting up in his bed reading when you find him. All things soft with rumpled hair, his clothes even worse, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. You're not sure if he really needs them anymore, but he likes to wear them to keep an ounce of normalcy.

"Hi," you chirp when he notices you. He dog-ears his book and puts it down almost immediately. You beam.

"Hi, baby," he seems just as happy to see you as you do him. Though, there's a buzz to you that Pete lacks. You think if you got home twenty minutes later he would've been napping.

You move across his room while pushing your work skirt down your legs. Peter's heart skips when it looks like you might trip and he tries to keep his eyes off your soft thighs. You rifle through his draws to find one of his shirts to wear, unbuttoning your own blouse in the process.

"How was your day?" you ask, holding up a shirt to your nose. You choose it because it smells more like your boyfriend than the others.

Peter crumples his face, trying not to laugh. "It was good. Didn't do much - you?"

You say something while pulling the shirt over your face that Pete can't discern. You all but jump into his lap when you reach him. Hooking your thighs over his lap until you're face to face.

He allows you to get comfy, pushing your knees into his side while he sits up, hands finding their place on your hips. "Hello," he says again, much quieter now that you're in his space. You look adorable in his shirt and your work tights.

"Did you hear me?" you ask, basically pulsing with giddy energy. You push your fingers under the hem of his shirt and he short-circuits for a moment.

He blinks. "You had your face in your shirt."

"Right," you giggle, a girlish sound that Peter wants seared in his brain, "I said, you know the food truck around the block?"

"You'll have to be more specific," he says, squeezing at your hips.

"The one that shut down."

"Oh, right. The Jam Van," he laughs knowingly. You'd moped for almost a month when they closed. You were inconsolable.

"Yeah," you grin, poking his chest, "yeah, they reopened!"

You're smiling so hard Peter worries that you'll get stuck like that. With your eyebrows raised and your cheeks appled. He thinks he needs to hold your face like right now.

He lets his hands leave your hips and raises them to hold your cheeks. Your skin is warm under his touch like he expected. "That's great, baby."

You ignore his hands. "Right? It's amazing."

Peter pushes your cheeks together until your lips pout outwards. He thinks you look extremely cute. Even worse when you try to frown and it just looks like a smooshed mess. He wants to laugh but you look peeved.

"Pete," you try to say. It comes out all mumbled.

"Yeah?" he says, distracted by your puffy face.

You pull your face from his hands and struggle a bit. Holding his arms to his chest you say, "Are you even listening to me?"

"The Jam Van," he says nodding. Smarmy.

"Right," you say, still mildly upset, "they're open right now if you wanna..."

"You wanna go get doughnuts?" he asks with his arms still pinned to his body. His hands wriggle to touch you.

"Can we?" you ask, eyes wide with hope. Peter wishes he had his camera with him.

"Can I kiss you first?" he grins boyishly. You wish you had a better resolve. He's awfully pretty and you really want doughnuts.

You let his arms go, huffing like kissing him is a difficult task. "If you really want." You have to hold back a laugh.

He reaches his hands back up to your cheeks and gives them another squeeze, "Of course, I want to."

You let him guide your face down to meet his lips, huffing into his mouth once they meet. You go lax in his lap when he presses firmer, spreading his fingers over your warming cheeks. He tilts your face upwards so he has better access to slip his tongue in your mouth. You whine when he has you exactly where he wants. Putty in his hold, holding you close by your soft cheeks.

You pull away from his lips, blinking away the dizziness. "Pete," you say panting.

Peter licks his lips, "Yeah?"

You push your face into his neck to hide the way he so obviously makes you feel, holding onto his sleep shirt for dear life. You try to even out your breathing and fail.

"You okay, love?" he asks. There's a hint of smartassery you don't miss. He's awful.

"Yeah," you say a tad breathlessly. "Yeah."

He kisses your shoulder and you shudder. His ego swells tenfold. "You sure?"

You take a moment to compose yourself, hating yourself for being so pliable. You sit back to look him in the eye. "So," you say with a confidence you lack, "Jam Van?"

Peter laughs and catches your face again. You like it much more than the first time. "That felt like coercion ."

"You asked to kiss me!" you say bewildered, pushing at his chest with not enough force than you feel is deserved.

"You tricked me," he laughs with you, letting you paw at his chest. It's quite adorable, really.

"Whatever," you say with more heat than you mean, a smile tugging at your red lips. You untangle yourself from his lap and stand to walk away. "I'll get my own jam doughnuts."

Peter smacks your ass before you can get away and you gasp. "Peter Parker!"

"You can't go out like that."

"I'll do what I like!" you call from the other end of the hallway.

Peter chases you around the flat until he gets you in his arms. The doughnuts wait for a few more hours.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x you #peter parker blurb #peter parker x y/n #peter parker headcanon #peter parker drabble #peter parker imagine #peter parker headcanons #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter x y/n #tasm x reader #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm!peter parker fluff #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x you #tasm!peter parker x y/n #tasm!peter parker drabble

[shiggybrainr0t]

The light creaking of your bedroom door is what wakes you from the light slumber you found yourself in. The lamp next to your bed casts your bedroom in a hazy yellow glow, and you rub your cheek against your pillow with a contented sigh. It still smells like Shouta.

Speaking of your boyfriend, he glances at you from where he stands in front of your dresser.

“…didn’t mean to wake you up, baby.”

His voice is deeper and more grainy than usual, telling you how tired he is from his patrol tonight.

“Wasn’t asleep. Waited for you.”

He hums in response, and you can tell by his tone that he doesn’t believe you. He turns around to look at the grumpy glare he knows you’re sending him- and he’s right. You’ve brought your blanket up to your nose and only the top of your head is visible, sleep crusted eyes narrowed his way.

Shouta can’t hold the huff of laughter that builds in his chest. He feels his heart beat harder, and he marvels at how you still make him feel like he did the first time he met you, even all this time later.

He’s lifting his arms to put on a sleep shirt when you see it. There, on his ribs is a smudge of black covered in something that looks like plastic. You’re wide awake now, and you quickly jump out of bed to head towards him, shivering slightly at the chill of the room.

At your sudden movements, Shouta lowers his arms and looks at you quickly, scanning your body to make sure you’re ok. You tug the shirt out of his grasp and pull his left arm back up straight in the air. The look he gives you is one that you’re quite used to: bemused and endeared.

“Oh, I was going to show you that in the morning.”

Shouta had talked to you about how he was going to eventually get a tattoo, though he wouldn’t let slip what he was getting or where. Looking at it now, you know exactly what it is, because it’s a drawing that you look at every day whenever you go to your fridge. Only, you noticed this morning that it had gone missing.

Three messy stick people are outlined on Shouta’s ribs holding hands, two significantly bigger than the one in the middle. The one on the left is tall, and has a shock of black, long hair falling over his face. The middle is a little girl, with long hair and a horn growing out of her forehead. And the person on the right is you. It’s a picture Eri drew for you just a year after being taken from Overhaul and into protection.

Shouta is observing you quietly, obediently keeping his arm in the air as you lightly run your fingers over the shiny plastic wrap covering it. It’s only when you start sniffling that he moves, pulling you into his arms.

“Knew you’d react like this.” He says, amusement lightening his voice.

He’s still warm from the shower, and the hair that covers his chest tickles your cheek as you press your forehead against his collarbone. Your tears hit his skin whenever he runs his large hand over your head, his own cheek pressed against your crown. His stubble is prickly and uncomfortable against you, making you sniff loudly and say meekly, “You need to shave.”

“I will.” Is his only reply. He rubs his cheek against your hair, the same way you did to your pillow only moments before. You lean back slightly in his arms and look up at him tearfully. His eye is so dark, yet it gleams beautifully as it stares back at you. He’s taken his eye patch off, showing you the large scare that runs across his other eye. A callused thumb swipes under your own eyes softly.

“I love you.” He says before you can speak, which only makes you tear up again.

Shouta huffs again, a small grin forming on his face as he mumbles “silly baby” at you. He decides to forgo the shirt, and pulls you back to the sleep rumpled bed. You snuggle under the covers, still sniffling, and wait for him to finish taking off his prosthetic before sliding in next to you.

Immediately, you sling your leg over his and press as close as possible to him as you can. Shouta wraps his arms around you with ease, barely moving whenever you decide he isn’t close enough and move half your body on top of his. Under his chin, where his jaw meets his neck, he smells like his body wash and home.

#I had a similar idea for izuku which then led to this one #maybe I’ll write the izuku one as well :) #mat’s writing #mha #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x you #aizawa fluff #aizawa x reader #mha aizawa #aizawa shouta #bnha aizawa #aizawa shōta #my hero academia fanfiction #my hero x reader #my hero imagines #my hero academy fanfiction #my hero academia #my hero academia headcanons #shouta aizawa x reader #bnha shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa imagine

[luveline]

𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve harrington is your boyfriend now. your boyfriend. and having a boyfriend means doing lots of new things, like dinner dates and movies, cuddling on the couch and kissing — lots of kissing. but there’s one thing you guys haven’t done yet, and steve’s just asked you to spend the night. [17.3k words]

warnings SMUT 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff heavy, new established relationship, first time, an overload of intimacy and affection, p in v sex, pet names, steve being the most loving dork on the entire planet and r being equally infatuated, mentioned that r has stretch marks, proofread not perfect

this is a companion to have you seen her? you don’t have to read it to understand, but if you want to it’s here <3

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inside a sea of flowers lies a girl. Her skin glows with colour, the reflection of pigments. Sunspots of darkest red buffeted by buttery orange, indigo stretching into magenta, whites; endless whites ranging from creamy ivory to the violet shine of snow in the nighttime.

It's as if the flowers themselves bloom over your skin. Steve blinks and everything settles, your skin returns to skin, the reflections fade from focus. You stretch your leg out absentmindedly and lean forward to follow the book resting against the top of your thigh, entirely distracted.

The room smells as bright and fresh as the florist's itself. The flowers he'd given you, more than he could ever name, permeate everything. Most remain in good condition two weeks later, where some wilt despite your dedicated care.

Your fingertips are pin-pricked by the thorns of a rose's stem, injuries sustained in the hours you've spent preening each bouquet. You bring one such fingertip to your lips and suck lightly for a moment like it'll draw the small pain from your skin.

He leans against the doorway and takes in your appearance indulgently. Plaid pyjama bottoms hug your thighs. Your socked feet wiggle along to the sounds of your Walkman, music loud enough that you've missed his entrance.

He doesn't want to scare you into flinching and ruin the content little bubble you're in but he's certainly not about to turn around and leave after waiting all day to see you, no matter how selfish it might be to disturb you. I'm only human, he thinks.

"Hey, beautiful," he says. You don't hear him.

Steve bends at the waist to unlace his shoes before stepping onto the plush carpeting of your room. He weaves between vases and skinny buckets, repurposed cookware and every mug you own, worried that one wrong move will domino your intricate arrangements and spill flowers everywhere.

You catch sight of him before he's made it to your side. You flinch as he suspected you would, only a small jump but a jump nonetheless.

Steve's face creases in sympathy as you pull off your headphones, orange foam padding around your neck. "I'm sorry," he says, expecting you to be at least a little peeved at his sneaking. "I knocked, I swear."

You abandon your book carelessly and are only slightly kinder to your Walkman as you tug the headphones from your neck.

"Steve," you say, smiling.

"That's me. Hey."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, white sheets rumpled in your wake as you scramble to your feet. Steve doesn't know who does what first but he opens his arms and you've opened yours and you fit into the circle of his embrace like you were made to.

"Sorry to scare you," he says.

You're not as confident as he is. Where Steve throws his arms over your shoulders, quick to press his mouth to the skin of your forehead, your hands draw tentative lines up his back.

To be touched so carefully is numbing in the best way. Steve wonders how his affection for you can continue to grow, more when you laugh half-breathless into his chest and look up, pinning him with your bright gaze.

"That's okay," you say, your happiness to see him palpable. It makes his chest hurt.

Steve puts some space between you to hold you at arm's length, one hand clasping your shoulder and the other following the curve of your neck.

He feels almost too happy to speak, like the words won't come out right. You seem to feel similarly, smiling wide, your lips pressed together tightly.

"I missed you," he says finally. Your reaction emboldens him; your eyes crease with pleasure and he has to duck down for a kiss.

Just one, pressed chastely to the skin left of your cupid's bow. You lift your chin in reaction, your hands searching up towards his shoulder blades.

"I missed you too," you say.

He decides to push his luck and kiss you properly. Your lips are warm under his and your cheek is aflame under his hand as he cradles your face.

"Haven't been lying out in the sun again, have you?" he asks as he pulls away. Your eyes flutter open.

"Huh? No, I've been reading inside all day."

"Good. You'll get sick, you sunbathe so much," he chides with no real heat.

He squeezes your face mildly and you steal another quick kiss. Steve would let you steal as many as you want to no matter the duration, but you stick to just one.

"Are you hungry?" you ask. You don't wait for an answer, skirting around him.

His hands miss your skin as soon as you're out of reach. He follows you to the kitchen like a lost dog hungry for scraps – scraps of your voice in the shadow of your exhale, any small flash of your skin, the back of your wrist as you pull open the refrigerator door. Steve situates himself by the sink so he can see your face. Your arms quickly grow heavy with fresh vegetables and a precarious china dish, a familiar carafe slipping in your fingers.

"Here," he mutters, reaching for the glass carafe with both hands.

"Thank you," you say, giggling. "Thought I was gonna drop it."

You set everything down on the clean counter. The sun kisses your skin where it shines golden-orange through the window. A bouquet of tulips sits in the sill, thin petals translucent and bright like the bulbs are made up of sweet maraschino cherries.

"I would've caught it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Super fast reflexes. LaRusso style," he says, putting down your carafe. Fruit slices and rose petals bob on the water's surface.

"The Karate Kid?" you ask, pushing up your sleeves.

He smiles as you walk towards him. "Exactly. You like that movie?"

You turn on the faucet and wash your hands without looking, your eyes drawn to his face. "I loved that movie. I've only seen it twice, though. Once at the movies, once with Dustin."

"You watched it with Dustin?" he asks.

Your eyes flit between the sink and his face as you turn off the faucet and shake your wet hands over the basin. "Yeah, and his mom. She's really nice, you know?"

"She's a real treasure. It's her kid I'm not too sure about."

You laugh and he loves it, less when you flick your still-wet hands at him and pattern him in tap water.

"Stop, idiot," he protests, leaning away from you.

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather."

"Sure."

You grin over your shoulder and flounce to the counter where your wooden chopping board resides. He's desperate to be close to you but doesn't want to look it.

It's too early to show her how much of a total loser I am, he thinks, turning to the sink and washing his hands so he can help you make dinner and steal some closeness.

"Did you have a crush on him?" he asks.

"Dustin?" you ask, horrified.

Steve laughs and rubs the slippery bar of soap between his palms. "No, weirdo, Daniel LaRusso. The Karate Kid."

"Nah, Mister Miyagi was more my type."

Steve drops the bar of soap into the basin and struggles to pick it back up, only pausing in his panic when he hears your self-satisfied giggling. It's infectious.

"That's so sick. Dude was ninety years old," he says, rinsing the suds off.

"I'm kidding!"

You're still laughing to yourself when he joins you. You've already chopped the inedible tops off of three long carrots and peeled them. You start to cut them into uniform batons, your quick peeling and knife work both impressive and daunting to Steve, who's only just weaned himself off of a steady high school diet of TV dinners and chips.

He shakes his hands at you. Flecks of water hit you and shine on your skin like the fine mist of morning dew, a dampened flower. You smell like one, though Steve supposes that's inevitable when you're sleeping surrounded by a crush of petals every night.

"Can I help?" he asks.

You blow a raspberry. "I should kick you out."

He flicks more water at you and you hide your face in your shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek pulled cruelly.

"Don't hide."

"Stop flicking me."

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather," he says dryly.

Finely spritzed, you open your eyes just enough to see him through your lashes, smiling like you wish you weren't. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, mostly because they're dry enough now that any flickage is negligent, and because you're much too pretty to be hiding away. The sun has begun to set, its descent marked by a gaussian blur spreading across the countertops and cabinets, your arms blanketed in a glow. Steve finds your face practically dietific to begin with – the light makes you something else entirely.

He wants to say something too heartfelt, say, Fuck, you're so pretty.

He's not that brave.

"You want a drink?" he asks.

"Yes please. You know where the cups are?"

He grabs two glass cups from the cabinet othweise pillaged for makeshift vases to your left and you cut the celery, a small lull in conversation filled only by the crisp crunch of your preparations and the slosh of Steve's pouring. The flower petals have bled their pigments into the carafe's cold water and turned it a transparent vermillion, something so quietly inordinate that he can't not mention it.

"The water's purple, babe," he says.

"Huh?" you ask. You hold the cutting board aloft, your knife guiding chopped vegetables into a shiny metal colander.

"The water," he says, punctuating his claim with a sharp click as he puts your glass down in front of you.

You discard your knife distractedly. "Oh. It must've been the rose petals."

"Can we still drink it?"

"Sure we can. Rosewater is really good for you. Though I'm not sure if this counts as rosewater, actually, I think you have to steep the petals in hot water first."

You shrug your shoulders and bring your glass to your mouth.

Steve frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly. He doesn't want you to get sick, especially from flowers he brought you.

You get a crease between your eyebrows, lips pursed quizzically. "I'm sure. You worry too much, Stevie," you say.

It's like being struck. You've never called him that before.

The nickname had sounded easy as breathing for you to say and had felt easier, felt right, like you'd used it a hundred times before.

He laughs, says, "Fine, but if you turn purple don't say I didn't warn you," and proceeds to work himself into a poorly contained frenzy.

He takes the colander to the sink and washes the carrot and celery sticks more thoroughly than he needs to whilst he composes himself. He listens with ears made keen by his racing heart as you turn on the stove. The fan hums. There's a loud crackling as you peel back the aluminum foil covering a medium sized casserole dish.

"I forgot to ask you, you like buffalo wings, right?"

He turns off the faucet and almost misses your question, too busy thinking So she called you Stevie, are you twelve? Get a hold of yourself, you-

"What?"

"I can make something else, if you don't."

Steve shakes the colander to drain any excess water as he reassures you. "No, that's okay. That's perfect. I love wings, and I'll love them double if you're the one making them." After all, you make a mean BLT.

The oven door swings open and he turns in time to watch you bend at the waist and insert the dish of chicken wings, your eyes narrowed. Adorable.

You straighten up and dust your hands off, bumping the door closed with your hip. "Awesome. Here, let me-" You take the colander from his hand like you're going to whiz away and then evidently change your mind, stuttering to a jolting stop. "Thank you," you tell him earnestly.

"You're welcome. You did all the hard work," he says, caught off guard.

"Super hard work, cutting up some carrot sticks," you say, mock-agreeably.

Steve reaches out to pinch your side. "Just because you made it look easy doesn't mean it is. It would've taken me double the time to make something, and it would've been, like, a grease fest," he says. "You already made the chicken, too, so that's more hard work you're not thinking about."

"The chicken marinades itself," you admonish lightly. You step on toes to kiss the high point of his cheek. "But thank you."

You turn to tip your veggie sticks into a bowl with a quarter inch of water at the bottom. Steve prods your kiss mark unthinkingly, the skin tingling from a combination of your gifted kiss and the affectionate tone you'd used.

"I got all kinds of dip. Hummus, artichoke and spinach, tahini, ranch. Do you like those?" you ask hopefully.

If he didn't he'd try and find a way. "Who doesn't like ranch?"

"I'll make fries too, okay?"

He really, really likes you.

-

Steve still looks kind of silly eating at your small kitchen table. You're in the seat that's crammed against the refrigerator and he's in the opposite. You're so close that your calves keep touching, often enough that you both forgo apologies in favour of sending the other a small smile. Less of an 'I'm sorry,' and more of a 'We touched again,' a confirmation that he's real and you're real and you're eating a home cooked meal that you made together.

He's so handsome, so ridiculously lovely, and the food is good but not good enough to keep your attention. Not when Steve takes a sip of water and his arm moves, the muscle beneath his skin shifts, pulls taut, and his shirt tightens around his bicep and you're just as hopeless as you were the very first time you'd invited him in.

He's saying something and it must be pretty funny because he's laughing, a chesty, giggling thing that sounds boyishly happy, like he just can't help it. You're not sure what he's laughing at but it's enough to set you off, infectious as it is.

"So Robin's in the back pretending to search for this movie that doesn't exist, and I'm thinking, shit, maybe I should call the police. Because he's got both hands in his pockets and, whaddya know, one pocket is like bulging out."

"Steve?" you ask, trying to sound forceful, befuddled that he's laughing at all. "Someone came into the store with a gun?"

His laugh peters off. "No," he says reassuringly. "Klondike bar."

He chews through a big mouthful of celery and you dissolve into giggles.

Cleaning up with Steve ends up being just as fun as cooking. He stands at your side with a hand towel wiping off dishes as you wash them, hip to hip.

"I can wash them," he says.

"That's okay."

You pass him a wet plate. He wipes it dry and sets it to the side. It could only be five minutes of this before you're done. Weirdly, you wish it had taken a little longer.

It's nice to spend time with him.

"I was thinking you could come over to my place tomorrow, if you wanted to."

Your heart flutters and you're hit with the realisation that you might get to do dishes with him tomorrow, and again, that today isn't a one off. That Steve likes you enough to kiss you and buy you flowers and invite you over.

"I've never been to your house," you say.

"I know. It's supposed to be really hot out tomorrow until seven. I thought you could sunbathe for an hour and I could keep an eye on you, you know. We can get takeout, listen to music," he continues, his voice soft, a melodic cadence to his suggestions.

Why is he trying to sell you on it? You hand him the last plate and twist, holding your dripping hands in the basin.

"I'd love to," you say, smiling. "Though I resent the idea that I need to be supervised."

"I just don't want all those brains to turn to mush." He puts the plate down on top of the others and reaches for your hands without saying anything, eyes on your face as he dries off your fingers gently. "Though you were super adorable when you had heat stroke. All clingy and giggly," he teases.

"Heat exhaustion," you correct. You feel like there's water in your ears.

"Mh-hm."

When your hands are to his satisfaction he swings the towel over his shoulder and takes them into his own, your fingers hooked gently over his. He rubs the fingernail of your index finger and then moves up, smoothing a path over your knuckles. He arrives at your pinky finger and wraps his index finger around it, massaging the length of it with the pad of his thumb.

"Are they still hurting?" he asks, hushed.

"A little bit. Not really, though. It's like after a splinter."

He holds your hand open, palm bared, his thumb pressed to the bottom of your last three fingers as he bends to look at your fingertips. Every touch, every detail, every movement he makes feels urgent to you, your heart racing fast as a mouse's.

"Poor girl," he mumbles to himself. He looks up and sees what must look similar to panic on your face. "Are you sure they're not hurting you? They look sore."

You're gonna say Yes, I'm sure, but he straightens up and brings your hand to his lips before you can muster the strength. He kisses your smattering of tiny injuries and grins when he's done, your entire body awash with a dizzying pleasure.

His hair is falling in his face. You take your kiss-warmed hand from his grip to tuck the longer strands behind his ear. Your heartbeat plays loud. You worry he can hear it.

You stall with your index finger shaking over his skin. Steve covers your hand with his, the look in his eyes unreadable, and you know he's going to kiss you.

You shut your eyes. His breath warms your lips as he closes in, his nose sliding against yours slowly. Your anticipation is a hand closing around your throat, at first a welcome touch and then dizzying breathlessness, an aching for the brush of his lips. He squeezes your hand where it cradles his cheek.

"Breathe," he whispers in bemusement. "Breathe, baby."

You suck in a breath and lift your chin as Steve knocks your nose with his and crosses the distance, his lips parted just slightly. Your head moves back under his kiss, your eyes screwed too tight. Steve takes your hand from his face and guides it over the slope of his shoulder until you're cupping his neck, his fingertips trailing down the length of your arm and moving under, palm to your shoulder blade. He pulls you in, makes the softest little sound against your lips that tickles madly and has a warmth like the setting sun filling your chest.

He kisses slow and sweet, his lips a softness against yours. You can feel as he starts to smile, as he takes your face into his hand, almost pulling at your skin in efforts to be impossibly nearer.

He laughs first, a huff that fans over your twin smile. You can't help but join in as you search up, ardent and excited, laughing into his open mouth until every kiss is a struggle.

"Y/N," he says. It doesn't even sound like your name. He could've said babe or baby or sweetheart and it would've burned the same.

"Do you have to go home?" you ask knowingly, reluctantly opening your eyes.

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

It's getting late, a warm Thursday evening becoming night. The street lamps outside burn yellow-white in the darkening sky and the flowers on the sill have lost their shine. Steve is the brightest thing in the room.

He checks his watch and frowns. "I probably should."

"But I'll see you tomorrow?" you check.

"Did you wanna stay the night? I'm not working Saturday."

You have the first thought that most girls your age might have at a new love asking that question: sex. For a moment, a split second of a moment, Did you wanna stay the night? becomes Do you wanna have sex with me?

You give him a guilty smile and he mistakes it for something else. He says, "You don't have to, I can drive you home. And uh, you know, I would…" You bring your hand back to his face. "We wouldn't do anything you don't wanna do."

"I know," you say quickly. "Yeah, I wanna stay the night." Which is scary to admit. Scary to want.

Whether anything happens or it doesn't, you want to go.

You walk Steve out and he kisses you goodnight chastely. You watch him all the way to his car and wave as he drives away, standing in the doorway until his tail lights are a mere suggestion of white in the distance, small and bright as a pearly star.

-

Robin shrieks as her chair reclines back as far as it can. "Shit, why does it go back this far?"

Steve is more than tired from a full day of work and while he loves Robin to the point of dying for her, he can't handle stupid questions. His short fuse is further shortened by missing you, and he groans.

"You fucking reclined it all the way?"

Steve watches in the rear view as she raises her eyebrows and hugs herself with both arms. "It went down too easy, is all I'm saying."

"That's all?" he asks.

He knows exactly what she's implying and he refuses to feed into it, even when she hums to herself happily. Her happiness lasts for only a few seconds before she's springing up and giving herself whiplash.

"You haven't actually fucked in this seat, right?"

"Christ, Robin."

Her nose wrinkles. "Have you?"

"No! No, I haven't done anything in here… in a while. And me and Y/N haven't-" He bites his tongue.

"You haven't?" she asks. There's no teasing to be detected in her voice, only curiosity.

He keeps his eyes on the road but his thoughts travel elsewhere. You're so close he convinces himself for a second that he can smell your sweet floral scent, a hundred different flowers clinging to your skin. He lets himself sink further, imagining the feeling of your cheek under his hand and the softness of your skin and fine hairs, the shape of your eyes as he leans in.

"Loverboy?" Robin asks expectantly.

Steve clears his throat. "What?"

"Ew, you're being disgusting."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to," she says, and then laughs. "In deep, huh?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! I'm serious, you like her. And it's nice," she draws the word out hesitantly, "to see you happy. I guess. After I broke your heart, and all."

He doesn't blush like he might have before. Steve had liked Robin, a lot, and it was easy to understand why: she's the first real friend he's ever had. He's more than over his crush now, platonic (with a capital 'P') suits them well.

"Thanks, Robs," he mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You're welcome." She whistles. "So, you haven't fucked?"

Steve turns his face. "Don't you think that's, like, a private thing?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Y/N is an entire other person who isn't your best friend."

"I'm not gonna tell anybody."

Steve knows that. He sighs to himself, conflicted. He doesn't wanna kiss and tell but he does need advice. "She's staying over tonight."

"Ah, huzzah!" Robin cheers. Steve worries his eyes might get stuck inside his head from all the rolling. "And you're gonna…"

He chews his lip. "I don't think so. I think I scared the shit out of her when I asked her to spend the night."

"I doubt that, she still said yes. But, you know. Not all of us lose our V-card when we're in junior year."

He hadn't even thought about that. "Shit. Having a girlfriend is terrifying."

Robin laughs and throws the seat back up. "If she's scared, it might not even be about hooking up. You've been together for, what, a week?"

"Two weeks today."

Robin nods thoughtfully and then shrugs. "Forget about sex and everything and just have fun."

"I'm not a nympho." He isn't. He doesn't care if you want to hook up or not (though care might be indelicate – he won't lie and say he hasn't thought about it).

"I know. I'm just saying, there's no point worrying about if you will or won't."

He takes the turn onto Robin's street. Her house comes into view, and he suddenly realises, "I wasn't worried until you brought it up!"

"Then forget I said anything!" she shouts back, laughing.

Steve laughs too as he pulls up at the curb outside of Robin's house.

"It's fine," he says decidedly. He's still worrying about it because if you do want to hook up he's not exactly in practice right now, but underneath it is that building anticipation, an excitement. "Fuck, she's so fucking pretty, Robin."

"Sure is, idiot," Robin agrees, unbuckling and kicking open the door. "Wear a rubber or your kids will be pretty, too."

She closes the door with a smug smile.

"You're awful!" he calls at her retreating figure. She waves over her shoulder and doesn't look back.

Steve drops his head into the wheel and startles himself when it beeps.

By the time he's pulling up outside of his house he's forgotten all his sex-related nerves, any anxiety occluded by a want to see you. He rushes to clean up the huge mess he's made over the week in the kitchen and the smaller mess in the living room, soda cans and take out and all the gross things he'd rather die than have you see.

He throws open every window and heads out to the back yard to make sure the pool is actually swimmable. The sun is high but falling. The day's most punishing heat is over. Perfectly safe for sunbathing.

He doesn't have anything fancy but he fills a jug with water and tops it with badly cut orange slices to cool in the fridge while he waits for you.

Steve stretches, smells himself, realises he smells like sweat and checks his watch in alarm. Your visit is fast approaching but if he does it quickly he can shower before you get here.

He's not right. He's still in the shower when you knock the door. Steve almost kills himself as he scrambles over wet tiles. He's still basically soaking as he drags his clean clothes on, hair sopping and quickly saturating the neck of his shirt.

You smile when he opens the door, though your smile quickly fades. "I'm sorry, were you showering? I know I'm early, I just wanted to see you."

You look like you always do – pretty, so pretty, your hair a little messy, your shirt crinkled at the bottom, the slit in your skirt showing a tantalising stripe of your thigh. A breezy, thin outfit for the hot weather.

Steve couldn't say why but he needs to kiss you badly. He takes your shoulder into his hand to hold you in place and kisses the corner of your smile, your cheek, the small stripe under your earlobe. He lingers there for longer than the others, feeling the ever-present heat of your skin beneath his lips. He presses a second kiss over the first and then pulls away.

"Don't be sorry," he says. He pats your face. "I'm glad you're early. I wanted to see you more, I swear."

"You make everything a competition," you grumble, though your eyes evidence your bliss.

Steve leads you into the living room and you drop your backpack onto the couch. The sight of it makes him fawn, because you really are staying the night and you look cute and you'd wanted to see him. It's enough to make him ecstatic. It likely shows on his face.

You turn on your heels, taking it all in. "You have a really nice house, Steve."

"I'd say thank you, but it's all my parents'."

"Where are they?" you ask.

Where are they usually? He doesn't really know. "Chicago, I think? My dad's on business and mom always goes with him, so…"

You turn your eyes from the open patio door and back to Steve where he stands in the middle of the room towel drying his hair. "Lucky me, I get you all to myself," you murmur.

"Do you wanna take your shoes off?" he asks. "There's water in the fridge. Are you hungry?"

You peek up at home where you've bent down to unstrap your sandals and smile. "I'm good, Stevie," you say softly.

When you've stepped out of both sandals you hold them by the straps and they dangle from your hand, swaying with your steps as you walk towards him.

You look up at him and tilt your head to one side. Always charming, Steve's fondness for sky rockets.

"Are you okay?" you ask, a murmur, raising your hand to his bicep. Your fingers slip under his sleeve. "You seem frazzled. Long day?"

It felt endless, knowing that you'd be waiting for him.

"I'm fine. I'm good. I'm great, actually. Got a whole night with my girl."

"And tomorrow, too," you say, sounding as happy as he feels.

"What are we gonna do with it all?" he says teasingly.

Again, a flash of that nervous smile. He hadn't meant to insinuate anything at all. He's about to clarify when you bring your hand to his collar and kiss him.

Steve really likes your hands, he's fascinated by them, the way you move them and the way they feel, their tentative but tender touch as you feel along the ridge of his collar bone. You come to a stuttering pause as he kisses you harder, the wet of your tongue addictive as he opens you up.

He takes your face into both hands and pushes your face to one side so he can move in closer, thumbs careless where they press into your cheeks. You taste like something sweet and the sound you make is sweeter as he dedicates himself to your top lip, a quivering breath as he slows.

He tries not to feel smug at the lost glaze in your eyes when they blink open.

Your bottom lip shines. He wipes it clean with his thumb. "You wanna go sunbathe now?" he asks mildly.

You nod like he thought you would, slow, but then there's a sudden clarity on your face. "I brought you something."

You move out of his reach and he follows. You're only stepping towards the couch where your backpack rests, unzipping it and in no rush as you pull your pajamas out and lay them on the cushion. He tries very hard to pretend he hasn't noticed your underwear, a pair of pink lacy panties, but he thinks maybe you can tell as you turn to him with a tupperware of cookies in your hands.

"More flower shortbread?" he asks happily. "You spoil me."

"I think you're someone who deserves to be spoiled."

Steve's mouth goes dry. He holds his hands out for the tupperware and hugs it to his chest, throwing a hand around your shoulders to tug you close. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome."

He takes your hand and pulls you out into the backyard. You beam, your head tilting back to take in the warmth of the fading sun.

Steve drags two sun loungers close together and you waste no time in stretching out on one.

You bloom.

There's no other word for it. You unfurl like the petals on your beloved flowers. Your body relaxes completely. Steve reaches across the gap to take your hand again and they hang between your languid bodies.

You're smiling as you balance your red shiny Walkman across your chest and click play, adjusting the volume until the feminine scratch of Cyndi Lauper echoes over the concrete space of his backyard. You close your eyes soon after, and Steve knows he might not get as much conversation out of you as he craves but it's worth it to see you like this, to hold your hand.

He struggles to open your tupperware with one hand but doesn't consider letting you go, eyebrows furrowing at the stubborn lid.

When it clicks it's loud and he inhales fast, worried the entire thing is gonna topple off of his chest and your perfect shortbread biscuits will be destroyed. Flower petals adorn the top. Steve picks them off while you're not looking – they're beautiful, of course, and don't taste like much, but the texture is super weird.

"How was work?" you ask.

He takes a big bite of shortbread. "It was fine. I mean, it was fucking boring as hell. We watched Back to the Future again."

"I've never seen that movie."

"Never?"

"No. Is it good?"

He squeezes your fingers and pushes the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. It's not too sweet. You've dusted the tops with fine sugar that melts in his mouth and the crumbly texture is awesome, better than any store bought cookies he's ever tried.

He swallows and lets his head fall back, greedy enough to pick up a second one. "Wanna hear a story?"

You turn your head towards him and your eyes crack open. "A good one?"

"Depends on your politics."

You close your eyes. "Tell me."

"The first time I saw Back to the Future was at the Starcourt mall with Robin. We were high out of our minds, total whitey's. And I had a concussion, so I was… worse."

Your eyes open fast. Your one shoulder lifts, like you might have to protect him from something. "What?" you ask, frowning.

He pulls your hand towards him, a tug, not to come closer but more in an everything is okay, kind of way.

"It's fine. Anyways, we laughed our asses off and left before the end. The first time we watched it sober I thought it was the wrong movie."

"Why did you have a concussion?"

He shakes the tupperware at you until you take one. Only when you've bitten into it does he answer, though he's not entirely truthful, "It was like, you know how there was a fire?" he asks. You nod. "Well, everything in starcourt was fucking janky, and we went down this one elevator shaft and- concussion." He explains without explaining. He doesn't lie.

No way is he ready to tell you about all the weird shit he's had to deal with. Not yet. He doesn't wanna scare you off or scare you at all, and the upside down shit is fucking terrifying.

You take his explanation without any suspicion and he feels a little guilty.

"You should get workers comp," you say, brows pinched.

He chuckles and rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. Being cared about like this is so weird, he thinks. How mad and worried you are over something that happened before you knew him makes him feel hot, something electric and melting on top of his chest.

"You wanna be my lawyer?" he asks, grinning.

You reach for another shortbread. "I wouldn't know the first thing about it."

"You'd look cute in a suit, though."

"Shush," you mumble. You roll your thumb over your shortbread until the flower petals fall off. "They're so pretty but they feel so weird. Maybe I shouldn't put them on there."

He looks at the scattered flower petals on the floor to his left where you can't see them. "Nah, I like 'em."

You glow. "If you like them I guess I'll leave them on there."

"That's generous. You'd never be a good lawyer."

"Lawyers can be generous! They do stuff for free, right? Pro-bono. Like that one movie last year, with the guy who kills his wife, but he doesn't kill his wife, but he totally does, um…"

"Jagged Edge."

"Jagged Edge! Exactly."

"Was she pro bono?" he asks sceptically.

"Maybe not," you say, and laugh. "That movie sucked."

"Better than Back to the Future."

You choke on a laugh and pull your hand out of his to dust yourself off. He misses your touch but doesn't complain, clicking the lid back onto your tupperware and hiding them under the lounger from the heat. The sunshine is amazing, not too suffocating but definitely warm enough to melt him into jelly. He'd been a little worried about wearing shorts rather than jeans but you hadn't mentioned anything.

He combs his hair out of his face and wonders if it looks awful. It probably does. Only the strands closest to his neck feel chilly with damp, half dried by the sunshine.

"Steve," you say shyly.

He turns back to you and you're sitting up, one leg off the lounger.

"What?"

"Can I… you don't mind if I take off my shirt, do you?" you ask.

He's quick to assure you. "No way, beautiful. Throw it off."

You huff a laugh and cross your arms. Steve's fascinated by the way you take off your shirt, how you've dragged the front over your face where he would've grabbed the back and pulled indelicately. Your back arches and your chest moves up as it comes off.

You're wearing some sort of animal print bikini top underneath, a cheetah or a panther or something. Steve watches the curves of your breasts rise as you breathe in and then snaps his gaze to your face, guilty. You aren't looking at him, busy fiddling with the Walkman in your lap.

"Do you have anything you wanna listen to?" you ask him offhandedly. "I brought this and A Night at the Opera, but if there's something else you wanted to-"

"Night at the Opera?"

"Queen?" you ask.

"Like Hammer to Fall?" he asks.

You turn to face him entirely, skirt ruffled by a gentle breeze. "That's their new one. Night at The Opera is from, like, '76? '75? It has that really long one. And there was," you start giggling, your words all jumpy and honeyed, "there's one called 'I'm in Love with my Car.'"

"Sounds like an album for me. I'll go get it."

You spring up, something he can't read on your face. You look fucking insane shirtless, all soft and shiny, the lightest sheen of sweat illuminating the hills and dips, the slope of your shoulder, the lengths of your arms. "No, I'll do it. I'll get the water at the same time."

He watches you pass back into the house from over his shoulder. "It's in the fridge!" he calls.

"I guessed!"

He wonders for a second why you'd sounded nervous before remembering your underwear. His cheeks go a similar colour as he tries not to think about it, only he can't not think about it. They had not constituted a great deal of fabric, and then he's wondering how much the current ones are made up of and feeling guilty for that too.

She's my girlfriend, he thinks. I can think about these things. Not, like, obsessively. But in passing. God, she's fucking beautiful. He descends into a panicked reasoning.

Steve scrubs his face with his hand and looks out over the pool. It's been a while since they used it. He can't say he wants to use it after last time, and he definitely wouldn't consider any night time swimming but if you want to splash around in there in the daylight hours he's not gonna stop you.

You flounce back onto the patio with the cold jug in your hands and two glasses hugged to your chest, the cassette in the other. "Here, Stevie, can you-"

"Yeah." He stands up. He takes the cassette and jug from you and you manoeuvre the glasses into your hands. "Swap?" he asks.

You swap one glass for the cassette and the two of you sit down in tandem. Steve pours water for you both as you take Cyndi Lauper out, the cold a blessing. He holds his glass to his face and sighs.

"It's still hot even though it's late," you say knowingly.

"Endless Indiana summer." You're struggling with the cassette, your lips puckered in confusion. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I think I jammed it."

He watches you struggle with the lip that doesn't wanna open. "Pass it over?" he offers.

You pass it as soon as he asks, moving to sit by his side. He's very gentle with the small machine that you've once or twice affectionately monikered your 'baby'. He doesn't know a lot about tech and doesn't know why he offered. It had felt automatic. You had a problem and he just wanted to fix it.

The button that usually opens the door is pressed down, but the door is closed. He digs his fingernail under the button and pulls it up until it pops back into place and tests the play button.

The cassette starts to spin.

"Sticky button," he says easily.

Your thigh presses into his. "You're a genius, Harrington."

"That's Steve to you, babe."

You laugh and shift ever closer, until your arm is pressed to his arm, both perspiring lightly and too warm to really be touching like this. He should pull away, or you should. One of you should.

"Whatever you say…Harrington," you murmur through the corner of your mouth, smiling so nicely that he can't be bothered to argue.

He tucks his hand between your arm and your naked chest and pulls it toward him. You drop your head against his shoulder and turn the Walkman in your hand.

"How's your brain? Jello?" he asks lightly, flexing his fingers against the crook of your elbow and resting his head on top of yours carefully

"Jello pudding pops," you say wistfully. "You remember those? I haven't had one of those in years. Think they still make 'em?"

Your question is out of the blue. Enough to worry him some more.

He brings the arm furthest from you to your head and brushes his pinky finger up from your eyebrows to your hairline. "You feel warm."

"I'm perfectly fine, nelly."

"I'm allowed to be nervous. You were kind of out of it last time."

"We've barely been out here for thirty minutes," you argue with barely any heat.

His hand smooths down to your neck and then back up. He pulls your cheek back with his thumb and then drops his hand. "Just tell me if you feel sick, okay?"

"I promise I'm fine."

"Jeez," he groans, his lips barely parted. A fond annoyance. "Think a guy was asking the world."

You let your weight lean on him, the hand of the arm he's hugging moving around his back until you've found his side. You move it up and down sluggishly.

Like this, Steve has a perfect view of your lovely shoulder. One hidden behind, the other bared.

"You're beautiful," he says.

You tense up and he hates it, bringing his hand to your coveted shoulder. He rubs a line up the soft slope, the curve of your neck and then down again until you've relaxed.

"You… can't even see my face," you murmur. Your breath is a small hot patch into his sleeve.

"I don't need to see your face," he says, feigning a frustration he doesn't feel. "Think I haven't stared at you enough to know? And I was talking about your shoulders."

You laugh and drag your face up. "My shoulders?"

"Well I can only see one. But I assume the second is just as nice."

"You're weird," you say.

There's a certain weakness to it. He thinks maybe you need to hear him say it again. He doesn't hesitate.

"You have nice shoulders."

You shake your head almost imperceptibly. Steve takes the player from your lap and turns it down by half, putting it on the floor with the water jug.

Your legs poke into his as he encourages you towards him.

"Come on," he says, "I don't bite, babe. 'Less you ask me to."

"You'd like that, you sicko."

He laughs and really bundles you up, a too warm hug where your face presses to his shoulder and his hovers above yours. He squeezes and drags his hand down your arm, rough but not cruel.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Shh, I'm busy."

You've wrapped your arms around his waist loosely. Steve tugs your thigh over his until your legs are overlapped, as close as you can be while sitting side by side like this. He'd pull you completely into his lap if he thought you'd let him.

He can feel your smile.

His hand soothes a kinder path over your arm before he gives in. Shyly at first, Steve drops his mouth to your shoulder and leaves it there, barely a kiss.

Don't be a loser, he thinks.

Cautious but sincere kisses. He drops them in a uniform line down your arm, your sunned skin hot under his lips. Kisses not meant to be anything but kisses, little worships, a scattering of affection. Indiscriminately. His mouth passes over blemishes, beauty marks, the fine hairs at the top of your arm. You curl tighter around his waist.

He kisses back up the hill of your shoulder and his lips part. He sucks very, very gently, kissing the same spot until he's adorned your skin with shiny crescent moons. He doesn't know how long he kisses you for. He doesn't want to stop, or pause, or do anything but this.

His hands have moved to your back. One toys with the tie of your bikini top unthinkingly, the other rubbing your shoulder. You're limp in his arms.

He rubs his nose against your shoulder for long, quiet minutes. Perfumed by a thousand flowers and yet you still smell like yourself underneath it, your skin an indescribable scent and secret, something he selfishly doesn't ever want to share. Steve can't make himself move from you and you don't seem inclined either.

He groans. "Alright, you hungry?" he asks.

Your fingers stretch across his back. "Maybe."

"I'll call Mazzio's. What do you want?"

"Anything."

Steve pulls back to give you a fierce look. "Just tell me. I gotta know your favourite toppings. S'like, a boyfriend thing."

"A boyfriend thing?" you repeat, smiling wide.

You tell him what you like and he squeezes your shoulder, disappearing into the house to call the pizza place. When he returns you've laid out in his lounger, your eyes closed like you're sleeping. The worst of the heat has fallen away and cloud cover threatens to give you the chills.

"Come inside?" he asks from the doorway.

"No… come and give me another hug. It was nice."

"I bet it was," he mutters, a feigned irritation that's completely overturned by how quickly he does what you tell him to.

The lounger isn't big enough for both of you. Steve's already laughing as he climbs on top of you, careful but not really as he crushes the fabric of your skirt with his knees and thighs and wraps his arms tightly around your neck, rubbing your foreheads together roughly.

"This what you meant?" he asks through a grin.

"No."

-

Steve's bed smells of him unequivocally. You're trying to withhold from lying down and sniffing, wondering curiously if that's something you're 1) allowed to do, and 2) supposed to want to do. Is it odd to like the way he smells as much as you do? That familiar bergamot, the almost smokey undertone of lavender, cedar. It makes you feel doped up. Your happiness has you heavy-limbed.

"You head up, okay? I'm just gonna lock the door," he'd said.

So here you are, backpack at your feet. After greasy takeout and an entire movie holding hands you think you're probably as content as it's possible to be in this body and in this life.

You hear Steve's footsteps up the stairs and lie down flat against his pillows, turning your face to sniff indulgently, the fabric cold under your cheek.

He walks in and he's all rumpled clothes and smiles, his hair in total disarray like you've never seen. As soon as he's crossed the threshold he's pulling off his polo and you think Oh fuck, that was quicker than I imagined this happening. Your heart feels fit to explode but he's barely looking at you, his sights set on the huge oak dresser at the end of the room.

You watch his arms as he walks past, your heart a hummingbird as Steve says, "Did you pick a movie?"

You gawp at what you can see of his naked chest, the side of a pec. You've never seen him undressed like this. Your distraction leaves you quiet, and Steve turns to you with a soft looking t-shirt in hand.

"Baby?"

"I didn't," you say, your voice scratchy. "Uh, sorry. I just laid down and…forgot."

He bends forward a little before he puts the shirt on and his entire chest moves. You can't help but look at it. Steve has… Steve has pecs. Pillowy-

"Y/N?"

"Sorry," you say, blinking hard.

"Are you tired or something?" He turns back to the dresser and opens a different drawer and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. "Don't look," he says teasingly.

You avert your eyes.

"Do you wanna change?" he asks when he's done, leaning back against the dresser with his arms crossed.

You don't know what Steve wants, if he wants to hook up or if he doesn't, and you don't mind either way. (A bad lie – you really, really want to.) (But it's cool if he doesn't want to.)

You won't be upset if he doesn't make a move, but if he does you'd prefer to be less sweaty.

"Can I shower? Not to wash my hair, just…"

"Sure you can."

Steve holds out his hand and you take it, grabbing your backpack as he pulls you off of the bed and into the bathroom. He drops your hand as fast as he'd taken it to open the cabinet under the sink. "Listen, the shower doesn't work. Well, it does, but the hot water only gets lukewarm and I don't know how to fix it. But the bath works fine. Uh…" He pulls a basket of girly toiletries out. "You can use whatever you want, my stuff or my mom's, whatever."

You stand by the tub. "She won't mind?"

"It's fine. I'll have to get you stuff next time you stay over." He moves you to the side with his hand on your hip and you look up as he moves down, turning the faucet. He holds his hand under the stream and messes with the temperature until he's satisfied. "Sorry. I should've thought about all of this before I asked you to spend the night."

"It's okay," you say quietly. "I didn't think about any of that stuff either. It's like I said, I- I just wanted to see you. Wasn't thinking about shower gel."

You laugh awkwardly. It ebbs when he grabs your shoulder and gives you a little shake. "Half as much as I wanted to see you."

He ends the shake with a good rub of his thumb.

"Want me to get in with you?" he asks with a smirk.

You laugh and start shoving at his chest playfully. "Get out," you whine.

He puts his hands up in surrender and you close the door between you, unsurprised when his voice rings out against it. "You come here often?" he asks.

"Do you?" you ask. Your voice sounds loud.

You strip off your clothes and your bikini top and slip into the water.

"Every morning for the last twenty years."

"What do you recommend?"

"The three in one."

You gawp and giggle, horrified at his suggestion. You know he's lying, his hair's too nice to use something like that. There's a few seconds of silence where you shudder at the new heat and rub yourself down.

"Which shower gel is yours?" you ask, looking between bottles unsure.

"Just use whatever you want. What movie d'you wanna watch?"

"Can't you choose?" you ask, bringing each gel to your nose until you find the one that smells like him. You lather the soap between your palms and run it over your body.

"I picked the last one."

"And you're good at it!" You reason, laughing loudly at your own joke. Steve's reluctant chuckles echo from the other side of the door.

You go to ask, Why are you still standing there, dork? But you're afraid that asking will make him move, and you like him too much to want that to happen.

"You were half asleep, how do you know it was good?"

"You were rubbing my hand!" you argue.

"You liked that?" he asks. His tone is honest.

You cup water in both hands to wash off your shoulders. You don't want to answer and give yourself away. Of course you'd fucking liked it, is he kidding? Boys. No, you think, not boys. Steve.

And after the stunt he'd pulled in the back yard, too. The nerve.

Warm water laps at your naked stomach. You think about his lips running over your shoulder and how tenderly he'd held you. Suddenly the water feels scorching, and you climb out over the lip as Steve says, "How much longer?"

"Stop stalking me."

"You're taking forever."

It's barely been five minutes. You go dizzy with pleasure at the idea that he might miss you so badly, the implication that he likes you that much.

You wrap a towel around yourself and squat down to sort through the contents of your bag for your pajamas and underwear.

"I'm getting dressed," you inform him, putting your clothes on the counter so you can dry off.

"I've never been any good at that," he says.

You pull your underwear over damp thighs and laugh under your breath so he can't hear it and get spurred on. "At getting dressed?"

"Right. Just awful. You should see me in the mornings, it's like, what limb does this go on?"

You stop scrubbing the towel over yourself to ask, "Are you flirting with me?"

"I'm trying. You're dodging the punchline."

"Wouldn't you want me to teach you how to take them off, rather than on?"

"How presumptuous!" You can hear his smirk.

"What was the punchline?" you ask, eager to draw the attention back to his bad joke rather than your suggestion.

You pull your shirt over your head and step into your pyjamas pants, tying the strings into a neat bow.

"Well, because you're so ridiculously nice I thought you'd offer to teach me how to do it, and then I'd get to say something like, 'Baby, I'm a visual learner.'"

"That's awful," you mumble, bent at the waist as you hop into your socks.

He hears it anyways. "Say it to my face."

You look yourself over in the mirror. Fresh faced, shirt sticking to your damp chest, pajama trousers high on your hips. You tug your shirt over the waistband. An entirely normal outfit for a normal night.

You open the door and Steve falls onto his back into the bathroom, looking up as you look down. He must've been sitting with his legs hiked, too much weight on the door to fall in readily. You laugh guiltily.

"Are you okay?"

He blinks. His eyes look impossibly wide.

"Steve?" You tilt your head to the side.

"You look killer," he says.

You mime like a slasher over his prone body and try to do the sound effects. Steve giggles and you decide it's your new favourite sound. He covers his face with his hands, one shoulder lifting from the floor with the force of it. You've never heard him laugh like this, all high pitched and gasping.

You can't decide whether you want to kneel down and kiss him or kneel down and pretend to stab him to death. You think the latter will make him laugh some more and you'll do anything for that next hit, falling to your knees with a threatening hand poised above you.

When Steve laughs really hard his mouth opens in a big smile, all his top teeth on display and shining.

You drop your hand to his chest, having lost all steam. The need to tell him how handsome he is, pretty, lovely, beautiful, all of it, is maddeningly high. You don't want to ruin the moment and you won't, spreading your palm flat over his chest and leaning down.

"I'm gonna kill you," you murmur, lips barely parted as you look between both of his eyes, memorising their flush of dark lashes. You drag your hand down his torso. "Why are you laughing?"

"I mean, if I'm gonna die-" He blows a big puff of air up his face and his hair moves like sea grass. "I'm okay with it being you who kills me."

"You'd let me kill you, baby?" you ask, still quiet, bemused and endeared and on the precipice of something big.

"I'd let you do a lot worse," he says.

You brush the hair out of his face. "I don't wanna do any of that stuff."

"Good. I was getting nervous. Here, give me-" he lifts up off of the ground to kiss you once. A chaste peck that leaves you a smiling mess.

You climb off of him before he has to ask and put your hand out to help him up. He takes it but doesn't need it, surprisingly lithe as he stands and pushes you back into his room. You laugh when he encourages you none too gently into his bed again. He flips on the TV, swaps the VHS out for one you can't see and then joins you at the top, lying down with a suffering sigh.

He stretches and groans. You ogle him.

"What's the movie?"

"Don't laugh?" he asks.

"No, I won't."

He shifts so you're two halves of a heart curved towards each other. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." You nibble the inside of your lip. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"Am I laughing, Steve?"

"Just about," he grumbles.

You don't know why but it feels more than natural to curl up towards him. Any insecurity is fixed quickly when he pulls you close, one arm behind your head and propping him up tall, the other coming over your waist loosely, his wrist to your hip but his fingers not touching you.

You have to turn your neck to see the TV across the room. After a few minutes it aches and you consider moving, then Steve manoeuvres to press his lips to your head and you forget all about it.

His shirt's ridden up. His stomach is soft from the way he's on his side, and you can see the dark trail of hair leading from his navel that disappears into the plaid of his pants.

You reach out to slip your fingers under the hem and wrap your arm around him, feeling the croft of silky hair at the small of his back. You trail up, your finger bumping over the smoothed ridges of horizontal stretch marks.

"Can you feel that?" you ask.

Steve slowly moves his elbow. His face level with yours, he asks, "Can you feel this?" He scratches his fingers lightly over your hip.

You giggle with your mouth closed. "Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question."

Steve moves back and you turn to look at him. You're very close. You're in bed.

"Wasn't stupid," he says quietly.

You raise your brows and incline your head to his until he's laughing.

"It was misguided," he allows.

"I don't know why- I mean, I have enough stretch marks. I know they're not-" you laugh, a bubble of sound that warms his lips, "not dead."

"Maybe yours are special," he teases.

"Wanna find out?"

He laughs and kisses you. Pressure that slowly builds, a chaste pressing of his lips to yours. It's miraculous how quickly your breathing syncs, how you're inhaling at every parting, how your mouths open at the same time. He takes in a big sigh that lights you up and pulls you in like it's nothing.

He dedicates himself to your top lip. There's urgency there that wasn't before, and you're feeling it too. His mouth a crescent of heat, he takes your lip between his and sucks gently. You gasp and your hand twists in his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," he says, "I haven't done this in-"

"It's okay. It's okay, I liked it."

"Yeah?"

You huff against his lips. He's smiling as he does it again. You shudder at the feeling of his teeth, his careless nipping, your hands searching for comfort.

Everything goes slow. He kisses slow, he touches slow. His hands move over your back, slip under your shirt and climb up. Not looking for anything, just looking.

Your hand climbs over his chest. You brush your fingers through the ends of his carefully before pushing up, weaving into the soft strands at the back of his neck. You rub his thumb over his skin in time with your kisses.

Steve encourages you onto your back. You feel a heat growing in your chest, somewhere lower, as he hovers over you, his lips pushing you down into a space that doesn't exist. Your fingers are busy learning the back of his head, fingertips moving over his scalp, scratching lightly as you trail back down to hold him in place.

You kiss up. Steve's hand knocks your shirt up your chest as he squeezes the skin just below your breasts, breathing hard.

He hesitates. His fingers pinch your shirt as if he's going to pull it back down.

"Steve," you murmur. "It's okay."

He kisses your cheek without looking at you, his eyes on your naked skin. "You sure?"

You bring your knees up until they brush his hip and push them away from him, petting the hair out of his face. "Yeah," you say, smiling.

More kissing. Steve ducks down and holds your face steady in one hand, giving you short-lived, wet kisses as his fingers approach your chest. He pauses, watching your face as his fingertips bump into the swell of your breast. "Okay?" he asks.

You lift your chin. "It's fine, Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects steadily, the pads of his fingers ghosting under your nipple to caress the side. His thumb rubs a quarter circle just underneath and you feel the soft skin perk up.

"Steve," you utter.

From there you endure some of the worst kisses of your life – worst as in, life changing, as in sticky, as in everything you've ever wondered about and more. You know you're hopeless. You feel yourself melt into nothing as he massages your peaking nipple, laughing into his mouth when he squeezes and hitching when he squeezes harder.

He pushes the small nub between his index and middle finger and his teasing stutters. He holds you like this and kisses you and you don't know how much time passes. With him, time feels implausible. Like a guideline you ignore.

When you think you might be more him than yourself he pulls away, leaving your lips hot and bruising.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, pulling the hem of your shirt over his finger. His eyes are so brown. You can't believe how brown they are.

"Please."

"Don't- You don't have to say please with me. Not with this, okay?" He rubs his hand over your breast and presses it deep into your heart. "Not with anything."

"You'll regret that," you say, heat like nothing you've ever felt in your chest and the tips of your ears.

"I don't think I will."

He kisses you again like he just can't help it and sits up enough to work your t-shirt from under your back. The excitement gets mixed up with enough insecurity then to make you nauseous.

Steve drops your shirt onto the floor and plants his hands on either side of you. "Oh, you're fucking pretty."

His eyes take you in. It surprises you when he spends half the time staring at your face, entirely too much of it at your eyes. "You know how pretty you are?"

"You tell me enough, Stevie," you mumble, aflame.

"Wanna hear it again?"

You don't say anything. His eyes bore into yours. His lashes kiss.

His grin is practically dietific as his lips curve up. "You're beautiful. 'So fine and pretty,'" he says, almost but not quite singing.

"You're just as handsome," you say, bringing your hands to his defined cheeks. You smooth your hands over his face and ears and hair, holding it all away from him. "You're…" You drop your hands to the curve of his neck and follow over his trap muscle. "You're amazing."

"Stop," he says. You take it for 'keep going'.

"Handsome sounds too formal," you mutter, almost to yourself, "but it's true. You're handsome. More than handsome, you're- you're funny and kind and-" You shake your head. "I think you're the first person I've ever wanted like this."

You don't mean to get emotional. 'This' comes out so rough it burns, and you swallow it all down, blinking fast.

"Like 'this'?" he asks.

He brings a hand to your face, holding your cheek like you're made of solid silver, like you might bend under his touch.

"Like this," you say again. "If you want to."

"I want to," he says, nodding happily. "Of course I do."

You laugh and he laughs. There's a gap where you're both thinking, Oh, we're doing this.

And then Steve's in motion.

He pulls his shirt over the back of his head and you're starstruck. His hair's a dark mess, the ends cast light by the TV. You reach up to smooth them down and it's too late, Steve's ducking down for a smattering of heavy kisses across your lips, one corner to the other. His nose taps into yours and you turn your face to accommodate him, his tongue a wet heat as he pushes it into yours. You reciprocate as best you can, eyes closed tight and hands all over the place. You start at his collar. One hand runs over the twisting of chest hair over his pecs and the other holds his face to yours. He curls his fingers around your wrist, the other paying some much needed attention to your neglected breast. He plays until both nipples are aching and then some.

He spreads your legs and your heart skips as he puts his knee between your thighs, lips starting a ruinous journey downward. He sets kisses like tiny sparks of heat against your jaw and under it, nose dragging down your neck as he turns. You cup the back of his head as his lips part, as he takes your flesh between his teeth and sucks tenderly.

"You smell like flowers," he says, kissing his half-hearted hickey.

"Some idiot bought me a florists," you tease.

His hand slides under your back. His knee presses to the bump of your cunt. "Best decision that idiot ever made," he says, words soaking into your neck, smothered.

You roll your hips shyly against his knee, a negligible friction as he rubs your back and scandalises your neck.

You lift your hips high and he gets the idea very quickly, fingers pinching at fabric until your thighs are out. He tries to move away and you hold him there, dazed by his ravenous attentions.

He laughs and strokes your arm. "I'm gonna take them off, okay?"

You drop your hands from his hair sheepishly and he moves back onto his knees.

"Pretty panties," he says. You don't think he's teasing.

"I thought you might like them," you tell him honestly.

"I do. They're dainty," he says, sliding your pajama pants off of your ankles. "Almost don't wanna take 'em off."

You feel a little bit nervous and decide to direct your attention to his own pants. There's a noticeable bulge at the seat of them. Your cunt twinges at the sight.

Steve's hands worship at your ankles. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"This is the first time you're seeing me like this. I'm just nervous."

He pulls your foot onto his thighs and fiddles with the elastic of your sock. "If you could see what I'm seeing, I don't think you would be."

You try to imagine yourself as he sees you. Mostly naked and kiss mussed after a day of sun and fun and his affection, the dopey, slightly shy smile, with one arm crossed under your breasts and the other picking nervously at the lace of your underwear.

"You're fucking killer." He mimes a stabbing motion and you giggle. "I don't have to let you kill me, seeing you like this might just do it."

You let him keep your ankle in his lap but bring the other leg up, folding it across your thigh to hide your cunt from view. His eyes dip to the twin globes of your ass and he groans. Your ears strain to hear it.

"Are you gonna take them off?" you ask, eyes on the curve of his dick, eyebrows raised cheekily.

"You don't wanna take them off for me?" he asks. Your startled expression makes him giggle as he slides off of the bed and hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

He kicks them off, his boxers tighter than you'd pictured. You hike up on your elbows and bring your knees together, biting the inside of your lip as his hand drops to his cock. He readjusts the sizable length and a hiss of breath escapes him as he does.

"Fuck," he groans. "Shit, you're fucking- you're fucking everything."

You rub your thighs together coquettishly. "Come back and kiss me?" you ask. He takes a step forward. You tilt your head towards your shoulder. "Are you gonna take those off too?"

You had your suspicions, but the real thing makes your heart stop.

Steve kicks out of his boxers and holds his hands out. You spread your legs and he climbs on top of you, hands braced above your shoulders until he's negotiated himself into the gap. You feel the curve of his cock press into your stomach as he kisses you.

You try your best to be casual and let him kiss you, but you're curious and excited and you can't not think about it now that it's happening.

You stroke your hands down his back and leave them loose at his waist. "Steve," you whisper, breaking the kiss early.

"You wanna touch me?"

"Please?" you whisper.

"What did I say about please?" he murmurs. He doesn't sound very scolding.

"That I don't have to say it."

He leans back on his haunches. "So don't."

You sit up, hands between your laps and wringing. "Uh," you reach out. "Tell me if I do something wrong?"

He softens. "Sure, baby."

You lean in and Steve pulls you closer by the calves. Your hand trembles as you take his cock into your hands. He's thick. Fat. Girthier than you'd thought he would be and twice as hairy, though trimmed neatly at the outskirts, you slide your hand down to the underside of his shaft and pause.

When you align your hand, bottom of your palm to the very start of his shaft, the tip of your index finger misses the tip by two whole inches. You encircle him curiously.

"Spit in your hand," he says gently.

"Oh."

You spit into your hand and press it back into his cock, spreading it with loose strokes over veined ridges. The curls of his pubes brush your hand as you reach the bottom. The entire length of him jumps.

You're honestly dazzled. You laugh out of the corner of his mouth and look up at him with a happy smile. "You're packing a lot of heat here, Harrington."

He looks relieved. "Do you know how fucking scary it is when your girl has your dick in her hand and gets the giggles? I started second-guessing everything I thought about myself."

"I can see why you're popular with the ladies," you murmur, eyes bright with mirth as you dip down and kiss the tip where a dot of precum wells.

"Oh, don't, baby."

"Huh?" You sit up tall. "Do you wanna stop?"

"The opposite. I don't know how long I'll last, especially," he pulls you by the chin to his lips, "in this pretty mouth."

More giggles. He swallows them in their entirety, hand wrapped around your wrist to pull your fingers from his length. Your hands go limp, languid under his gentle kisses and featherlight touching.

You pull away from each other but fight to kiss anyways, cheeks aching with a smile as he steals one, another, a handful of sweet, catching pecks.

You pout as he pulls away.

"D'you wanna lie back?" he asks, hand behind his neck. He rakes his fingers through his hair.

You lie down with his pillows under your head.

Steve smooths his thumbs against the waistband of your panties.

"It's okay," you say, wiggling your hips from left to right encouragingly.

He drags them down. Over the slopes of your thighs and the hills of your knees, he slides them down to your calves. He pulls them off one ankle and they hang off of the other. You lift your leg and let the dampened pink fabric fall onto his rumpled sheets.

He crawls forward, hands hooking under your knee. "Lemme see you, babe."

You bring your legs up and spread your thighs, feet between his knees.

He takes his cock into his hand and tugs. "Fuck," he says, eyes heavy, "fuck, are you wet?"

"You've been kissing me for hours," you say bashfully.

"I'd kiss you longer if you're gonna let me. Can I touch you?"

You push your palm down to your cunt and spread yourself just slightly, more to get used to it than to tease him. "Yes, please."

Steve crawls until you're close and you settle your legs either side of him. He does as you'd done, pushing his thumb to the small well of slick at your entrance and spreading you open with his fingers. "Fuck," he says again. "Shit, baby. Look at you…"

He pushes his slick-wet thumb into the waiting bead of your clit. "There?" he asks.

You remember to breathe. "Yeah," you say, eyes drifting closed as he familiarises himself. You drop your head into his pillows, neck aching. "Right there."

"Aww," he says sympathetically, free hand pressed flat to the inside of your thigh, holding you open. "You have the cutest fucking pussy ever. Shit, i'so wet, you must have such a crush on me."

You smile to yourself and hide your face in a pillow that smells like him. "A huge one. It's kind of embarrassing."

"I bet it is."

His fingers probe your clit. It pulses under his touch, swollen and sensitive to every brush of skin.

"Can you come kiss me some more?"

He looks like he wants to argue.

"Please, Stevie."

Steve reaches over your chest and pulls open his nightstand, procuring a new box of rubbers. You flick his chest. "Is that a new box?"

"Maybe."

You kiss his shoulder and he rips one open with his teeth. "How many's in there?"

"Enough, you minx." He rolls it on.

Kissing. His weight pressed over you, his cock against your mess of slick. You whine as he grinds down into you hard, his tangle of dark curls a blessed friction.

His hips jerk back and the tip of his dick hits into your clit.

"Are you gonna tease me all night?" you ask.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, dropping his head next to yours, his arm wrapping around your neck. You turn your face to his. His eyes are closed and his smile is nearly peaceful, though the crinkle between his brows speaks to his growing desperation. It's as casual as any cuddle with him before. "I could."

"But you won't."

"No, I won't."

Steve gives you one last kiss and situates himself between your legs at full height, pushing your legs back until the tops of your thighs kiss the bump of your stomach. He takes his cock into his hand and guides the tip down the length of your crease. His head bumps your entrance.

You let one leg fall to the side, arm crossed under your rising chest, looking at Steve with bright, adoring eyes. He's beautiful above you, pumping his cock with one hand. The other plays at your weeping hole, fingertips dipping inside two at a time.

You clench around his fingers as they ease in.

"Shit, you're tight. You okay?"

You nod voraciously.

He spreads his fingers wide, his eyes rolling back showfully. "Fuck, babe… Gonna spread you wide open, yeah? Is that what you want?"

"Want you inside."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows are furrowed, a certain stress to his voice.

"Are you gonna make me say please?"

He takes your thighs into both hands and lines up. His grin is both salacious and adorable, a familiar mischief adorning his pretty features. "Never."

The stretch is a lot but he takes it slow. Really slow, his hands on your skin and constantly measuring your reaction. Which must be a super ego trip for him, because your face goes slack with pleasure and you have to focus a lot of energy on smiling rather than frowning; there's somethingwonderful about being this close to him. His cock pushes into you and you gasp with every gentle intrusion, every half inch of space he takes until he's halfway inside and staying there.

He bends over you and takes your face into his hand. You hadn't realised before you met Steve how often your face could be held by someone, and how safe it could make you feel. How the brush of someone's fingertips over your cheek could tickle and somehow you never want to move away. He pulls his hips back, rolls in, and your eyes crease with pleasure, lashes touching as you squint.

He smells like everything you're used to. He must be thinking the same thing as you, because he smiles, and says, "You might as well be a flower for how much you smell like one."

Bergamot. He touches something sensitive, gummy walls stretched around him. You whine under your breath.

Lavender. "Make that sound again?" he asks.

Cedarwood. The murmur of the TV fades away entirely. The only things you can hear are you and Steve. You; your panting, the high warping of every breath as his thick cock works you open. Steve; a panting all his own, a scratchy roughness. You try not to make too much noise in efforts to hear him.

The slightest hint of citrus. An impression. Maybe his breath, something lingering from the orange-infused water you'd sipped on earlier. His breath fans out over your collar as he bottoms out, a sound like a hiccup ripped from him.

You wrap your hands around his back. "Oh my god, Stevie."

"How's that feel? That okay?" He stays very still. "Pretty baby, taking all of me right now." He starts to move his hips in leisurely circles.

You pull him down for a kiss, a world away from being able to answer intelligibly. You're so full it aches, so full – the blunt tip of his cock pushes into your sweet spot and you have to break the kiss to gasp for air.

"Feels so good," you whisper, rubbing his back unhurried.

A shiver courses down your spine as he pulls out to push in again. The sound is filthy, an erotic slapping as his thighs hit into yours and he moans. He fucking moans.

"Fuck, Steve. Can you go faster?"

Steve forces his forearms under your shoulder blades and his forehead presses to your collar, lips sluggish as they kiss your chest. He pulls your nipple into his mouth as he starts to thrust into you rhythmically, sucking and nibbling and twisting, his ministrations sending little bolts of pleasure down to your throbbing cunt.

He kisses hickey after hickey into your chest. You're too busy getting fucked out to notice, lavished by his mouth and numbed by his cock. Every thrust starts to hit deep, and every thrust pulls an unintelligible sound from you. Panting turns to moaning, moans turn to mewls.

"Hear how wet you are? Do you hear that?" Steve asks as he pulls away. He flicks at your bruising nipples and pouts when you jump. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Not my fault you have the cutest rack ever."

"Steve!" you cry, flushing with an embarrassed heat.

"What? It's fucking true." He takes your hips into his hands and hits in hard, cock prodding your spongey g-spot unapologetically. "Cutest pussy, too."

He brings his hand down to your cunt and slows his pace, thrusts shallow and eyes wide as he spreads you open. You can feel your hole shaping around him, the stretch as he opens you up. His thick fingers press into the bead of your clit and he starts to draw, tight messy circles in time with his thrusts.

"Taking me so well, babygirl."

You cup your aching tits and feel them sway with every thrust, every hit of his thighs into yours. A sticky mess grows between you that leaves your clit wet with slick. Steve fights to find purchase as he spreads your lips, thumb coming up to pinch at it.

He moans and looks up at the ceiling, his throat bared as he rolls his hips and pulls you onto his cock. "Fuck…" he groans, beggy and out of breath.

You stare at him, unabashed in your rabid attraction.

"Fuck, Steve," you say between hitching breaths, "I'm lucky you're mine."

His gaze jumps to yours. He snaps his hips and you squeal happily. "Say that again."

"I'm lucky you're mine," you say without missing a beat. It's true.

He holds your hips in an iron grip and ruts into you, deep-seated and unrelenting. He's barely a half-inch back when he's rubbing back in, moulding you to the shape of his cock. Dark curls press into your clit as he leans forward.

"You wouldn't believe how perfect you look on my dick." He grinds down, pulls out and thuds back in.

Your face screws up.

"You like that, baby? You want me to do it again?"

You nod and open your arms. Steve falls into them, letting you wrap him up in a grip so tight you can feel the suggestion of his ribs, his chest hair scratching your chest as he repeats the motion. You squeeze your eyes closed and whimper into the top of his head, hands pulling at his back as he rocks in again and again and again.

"Y'making such a mess on me."

You're not surprised. Every thrust into your sopping heat sounds loud in the quiet of his room, and your slick is everywhere. Wetting the thatch of pubes around his cock, the insides of your soft thighs.

"Steve, can you- can you-"

He presses his fingers back to your clit. "This? Sorry, you're just gripping me tight, I had to hold onto something," he apologises, sounding a short fall from reverential. "I got you."

Your sticky thighs start to shake as he fucks into you, the quick rub of his fingers against your clit tightening the coil inside you until it's snapping hard. You can't even warn him, chasing the circles he's making with your hips as you force your face into his pillow and fall apart.

You want to hate the sound that you make. It's an embarrassing combination of a squeal and a breathless gasp, only partially muffled by the fabric under your lips. You find yourself unable when Steve chokes on his words, stuttering, "F-fuck, oh fuck, sweetheart, you sound like- like heaven. You fucking feel like it, clamping down on me."

Steve fucks into that extra snugness and you can see on his face that he's close.

You blink out of the haze of your climax and cover Steve's hand where it teases your overstimulated clit, pulling it up and around your neck. You slide your arms around him and scratch up his back lightly, his hips staggering into yours as you say, "You gonna cum too, baby? Please?"

"Fuck," he groans through gritted teeth.

You clench your walls down around him and the drag is insane, better when he gets his final burst of energy and fucks into you with big, rough thrusts, your knees clamped around his hips. His teeth close around your shoulder and he bites you, maybe harder than he means to, a white hot pain that lasts a split-second, his hitching breaths hot in your skin. His hips slow and his entire weight falls into your tummy, wrought with post-orgasm aching.

You rub his back, damp with perspiration.

He kisses an apology over his cruel hickey.

"Fuck," he whispers.

His kisses move up and he moves too. You both hiss – disturbed, sweaty, blood still pumping fast. He's only adjusting for the height advantage, his mouth at your ear.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You have a lot more to say, but you need a second.

Steve makes a humming sound at the back of his throat. "Can I go get a towel? I'll be right back."

"Yeah, Stevie. Whatever you wanna do," you say lightly, rubbing his back and hoping each pass of your palm implies the depth of your fondness.

Steve is cautious as he climbs off of you. You close your eyes and bring your hands to your sweaty face, fingers over your eyes before pushing them to either side of your forehead to stare at his ceiling, entirely blissed and in disbelief.

Steve climbs over you with a towel in hand. You can feel the warmth coming off of its wet corner.

He drops it onto your stomach and you go to pick it up. He grabs your hands in both of his and holds them, joined, against your shoulders. "I'll do it, but just-" He ducks his face to yours. "Let me kiss you."

You smile happily and close your eyes, fingers flexing in his grip as he brushes his lips against yours, at first gently and then with an enthusiastic pressure. You're worn out from everything and can't respond how you want to, but if Steve minds he doesn't say anything, hands squeezing your hands and his lips all lazy and curled up against yours.

Your chest hurts.

Steve keeps a hold of one hand as he breaks the kiss in favour of cleaning you up though quickly drops it to take your shaky thigh into his hand. Spread wide, he wipes every trace of slick he can find, especially kind to your centre.

He's already discarded the condom and wiped himself down. You reach out to stroke the start of his damp snail trail as he throws the towel on the floor next to your discarded clothes. Pulling the sheets where they'd fallen to the bottom of the bed over your naked bodies, Steve slouches onto his side.

"Come here," he says, pulling you into his chest with infinite tenderness.

You turn into his hold and ram your face into his skin, hand searching for the tempting curve of his bicep.

He drops a kiss into your temple and then another. You feel surprisingly awake, his body a hot and heavy thing beside you.

"Do you feel like talking?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you say, giggling. "Yeah, sorry. God, Steve."

He bends at the waist to cuddle you like he's shielding you. "I know."

You lie there in his embrace and you can't stop thinking about it. That was perfect. That was fucking perfect. Right? You want to ask him. You'd never felt that pretty or pleased before in your life.

"God, that was fucking perfect," Steve says.

You rub your nose against his chest and giggle, an overabundance of joy bubbling messy at the surface. "I was just thinking that."

"Yeah?"

"Oh my god."

"I'm kind of pissed off. Like, if that's the standard, how am I gonna live up to this every time?"

Every time, you think.

"Maybe we just got really lucky. We're never gonna have sex that good ever again," you theorise.

He starts laughing, big, contagious chuckles that boom from the centre of his chest and catch you by surprise. He sounds as happy as you feel.

"Don't jinx it." He rubs his hand over your shoulder blades.

You kiss his chest lazily and he slinks down under the sheets with you, dragging you up until your face is eye-level with his. His eyes are closed and you close your own, moaning as he crushes you to his chest and starts to pat your back.

It's an immense domestic pleasure. You couldn't explain why, but the continuous, steady rhythm of his firm patting makes it easier to calm your racing heart.

"You look really beautiful," he says.

"Your eyes are closed."

"So? You looked beautiful when I closed them. I just want you to know. And your sounds… God, I'm gonna be touching you all the time if that's what you sound like."

"I love how you sounded too." You rub his chest with your knuckle. "I love that you sounded like that for me."

"Because of you."

"I meant what I said. I'm really lucky."

Steve pushes his hand behind your ear and draws your face from his. You open your eyes and find him already looking at you, eyebrows raised. "Thanks for telling me?"

"Shut up! You know what I mean. I'm lucky to have you."

"If you're lucky I'm fucking blessed."

"I've never heard you swear that much."

"And it's entirely your fault," he jokes.

You're okay with that.

You tuck yourself into Steve's neck and trace the lines of his body. The small roundness of his Adam's apple and the ridges of his collarbones, the small dip between his chest muscles and the line underneath his pec. You go to just below his ribs before needing your hand between his torso and his arm, hugging him like he's hugging you.

The hickey he'd given you on your shoulder twinges, reminding you of his maltreatment. You place your lips against his throat and mouth lazy kisses until he sighs in content. When you know you've lulled him into a false sense of security, you take his skin between your teeth and nip.

"What's that for?" he asks in bemusement.

"You tried to take a chunk of me."

"Shit," he says.

You kitten lick the tiny welt you've bitten into his pale skin and he tenses. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, wondering if he likes that, and deign to give him a smattering of wet, sloppy hickeys to find out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers brushing over the small embeddings of his teeth in your shoulder.

"Not really," you say, mouthing up until your nose is to his cheek. You close your eyes as he turns his head. You can feel his breath against your lips. "No, I like it, anyway."

Your arms slide over his back as he pulls back to take you in. You stare at each other, not sure how to say anything that hasn't already been said or anything that hasn't been felt. He looks pretty and ragged, perfect hair mussed and dainty brown lashes in damp triangles. The dim lighting shadows his face, the lightest brightness under the well of his eye.

"I wish I was one of the old masters."

He smiles. "What's that?"

"Like, the great artists. Painters, masters of their craft. Like the guy who painted The Girl with a Pearl Earring."

Steve starts to shift onto his back. You lay your arm across his chest and hold your weight off of him. He doesn't like that very much, pulling you in with one arm crossed over the small of your back, the other held high but loose. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, fingernails sliding over your skin. "Is painting something you like to do?"

Your heart melts at his genuine interest and his willingness to listen to something seemingly tangential. "I wish I could paint like they could. I would paint you."

"Yeah?" he asks, clarity brightening his face. His eyes are lined with pleasure.

"I would. The," you raise your hand to his face and start to trace each feature as you go, "bridge of your nose. The slopes here," his brow, the dip underneath, careful of his eye, "your cheekbones. Your lips. This line here, and this one. This one, too."

"Are you trying to tell me I have wrinkles?" he jokes.

"Only this one." You smooth the pad of your thumb between his eyebrows. "Though I think it's inevitable."

"Oh you do, do you?" he asks, abruptly loud. You're startled into giggling, dropping your hand over one of his eyes in your shock. He kisses your palm.

You fall silent. You take your hand to his jaw and press the invisible remains of his kiss to his cheek as you lean in.

"I think… I think I'd want to paint you. Just so people know," you murmur, touching your forehead to his, "that you were this handsome."

You wait for him to laugh and he doesn't. Like the trepidation of a sneeze that doesn't come, you feel off-kilter.

"Steve?"

He shushes you and kisses you for the hundredth time tonight. You could happily take another hundred, eyebrows pinching up at his silence.

He kisses you until you forget what you'd been saying, until the aching in your abdomen can't be ignored.

"I need to go to the bathroom," you announce regretfully.

"Yeah, okay. Want me to come with you?"

You laugh and climb off of him. His hand reaches for you as you go, his fingers catching yours until you pull away. You grab the damp towel and your sleep shirt off of the floor, slipping it on as you walk away. Steve acts like he's been grievously injured.

In the bathroom you clean up properly and pull on the spare underwear you'd had the foresight to bring. You stretch until you moan.

"You okay?" Steve calls.

"Stop listening to me in the bathroom, perv."

You can hear him stand. His footsteps in the bedroom. You shiver in the cool bathroom and smile at yourself really hard in the mirror.

When you return he's done the same as you, changed into new boxers. You stare at his thighs unabashed as he steps into his pyjama bottoms, yours rescued and folded on the end of the bed. Steve holds his hands out at your approach and tugs you towards him, not hugging but close. He pushes your shirt up to your ribs and you struggle to see what he's doing, craning your neck.

"What?" you ask.

He follows the impression of a stretch mark down your skin. "Did you feel that?" he asks genuinely.

You'd more than felt it. He pulls up the waistband of your panties thoughtlessly and traces another stretch mark. "You're pretty," he murmurs.

You hug him hard enough that he has to take a step back to avoid falling over. His hands stop their studying, braced at your waist and walking you backwards toward the bed. He pushes you down and you fall onto your back, clinging to him as he tries to pull away.

"Come on," he says, laughing, "I'm gonna get you something to drink. Let go."

"Whatever," you grumble.

Steve disappears downstairs and you sit up, eyes bright like you're seeing his room for the first time all over again. Fast Times at Ridgemont High looks to be nearing its end. You switch off the TV with a triumphant smile and move your attention to his dresser, where the cassette player you'd 'loaned' him sits. You're half hoping Van Halen II will be inside but it must still be in his car. Your disappointment ebbs quickly when you see what's really inside.

Steve has the good graces to blush when he returns. You've clicked play and sit with the tape deck in your lap, beaming. "American Pie?" you ask knowingly.

"It's a good album."

He presses a cold glass of water into your hands and you sip feverishly, best pleased when he sits beside you, thigh to your naked thigh.

"Softie."

He dips his fingers into his glass and flicks you. It feels good and you move back encouragingly. He indulges you, flicking cold water over your face and neck until you're finely misted as a flower in the morning dew.

The best part of American Pie starts to play. You gasp as Steve pulls the glass from your hand and sets them heavily on the dresser, hands wet with condensation as he sews your fingers together and pulls you up.

"What are you doing?" you ask curiously.

His shoulders move back. "Dancing?"

"You wanna dance?" you ask. Your legs are tired – his must be double.

"You're old enough," he says, encouraging your hands from side to side.

You were gonna give him what he wanted anyways, but that small smile toying over his pretty pink mouth spurs you on. You jump on toes and follow his lead.

-

Steve digs a short fingernail into the deep orange skin of what he thinks is a tangerine and watches as citrus spritzes into the air. It leaps from the fruit with every slice of rind he pulls away, and his hands quickly smell of it.

You lay in the grass with his sunglasses perched over your nose. Steve worries you might be sleeping, your smile demure and your arms still where they've crossed over your chest. Your cotton dress blankets the grass around your thighs, the hem waved as the thin edge of a peony petal.

"You better not be sleeping, Y/N," he warns.

You'd definitely been dozing. You hide it well, your hand hardly trembling as you stretch it across the grass towards him. "I wasn't."

"You know what happened last time."

"You're here to protect me."

He can't argue with that. Orange juice stains his fingers as he splits the segments apart, pulling white pith from the flesh until each slice is clean. He drops two into your hand. "For you."

"Thank you," you say, sounding genuinely excited. You sit up slow and your dress falls down enough to expose the top of your breast where Steve had hickied at a risk of excess the night before.

He moves across the grass until your knees knock together and presses his hand to your forehead. You're definitely hotter than you should be but not about to burst into flames. Steve ushers more tangerine into your hand and reaches for the grocery bag to grab your drink and put it in your lap. You gasp at the sudden cold and gasp again when he pulls the strap of your dress up your shoulder. There’s no hiding the worst one at the meeting of your neck and shoulder. Every time he looks at it, he blushes.

"Was I flashing?" you ask worriedly through a mouthful of fruit.

"Not really? But, uh, you know. Hickey."

"Ohhh," you say knowingly. "Well, that's your fault."

"Did I say otherwise? Have some water. We're gonna have to go soon, it's too hot."

"Steve."

"I'm serious."

"Let's just go buy one of those little hand crank fans."

"So I can crank it all day? No way."

"You'll dictate-"

"Dictate!"

"-my sunbathing but won't crank a little fan for me? What kind of relationship even is this?"

"Stop it," he says concisely.

Your lips pull into a self satisfied smile and you drink your drink like he'd asked you to. "What are we gonna do after?"

You'd woken Steve up early, before the sun had really come out, a vision and perfect and everything he'd known you would be in the mornings. Hands on his shoulders, you'd kissed him until he'd stirred, skipping kisses over his neck and chest.

"Ba-by," you'd whispered, dragging the last syllable, your voice croaky with tiredness, "let's go get breakfast."

Breakfast at a sticky diner that consisted of pancakes with too much syrup and whipped cream on strawberries. You'd dragged him into the fancy grocery store across the street and filled a basket with fancy drinks, pretzels, lip balm and a net of tangerines.

Now, hours later, sweaty from the outpour of ultra-hot sunlight and your company, Steve doesn't know what's left to do that could be any better than this.

He spread his legs and tucks a rogue lock of hair behind his ear. "What do you wanna do?"

You twist the cap back onto your drink and push onto your knees, grass crushed. "I don't know. Anything. I don't have anything to do tomorrow, so you can keep me as late as you want."

He doesn't feel bad when he says, "Could I keep your for the night again?"

You hesitate. He doubles down.

"I'll take you to your place and you can get some more clothes. And I'll make you something better than takeout, if you want," he promises, thinking of your home-cooked meals, the evident love poured into each one.

"No, it's not-" You smile at him, your eyes soft. "Of course you can keep me. But I'm not staying up to dance with you again." You yawn to drive the point home.

He breaks grass between his fingers. "Fine, no dancing."

You nod in agreement and take his shoulder into your hand, throwing your leg over his to straddle his thigh. You look comfortable despite the 'w' shape you're in, settling down with a harrumph of breath.

Steve tries not to think about the silk of your underwear against his leg, but of course he does. The pink colouring his cheeks isn't from the sun.

You look shy but happy as he grabs your hands, stroking your knuckles with his thumbs. "We can make something cool for the weather," you suggest lightly, the skirt of your dress ruffled by the breeze. "Sanwhiches. And something sweet for dessert 'cos we didn't have any yesterday."

"I don't know about you, but I think I had more than my fair share of dessert."

You drop the top of your head into his chest. "Sicko."

"A little. When it comes to you."

You start to fiddle with the bottom of his shirt, humming something very quietly. The Waterboys or something like that, your lips pressed together tightly. You lashes flutter and you rub your cheek with your shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm just really happy," you confess.

What's he supposed to do? Not kiss you silly? He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you in.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington one shot #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things #stranger things 4 #x reader #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut

[moonstruckme]

do you think you could write poly!marauders just having a calm morning with a gn reader plz? like they lie in a bit and go sit on the couch for breakfast or smthn like that? i’m loving your fics btw babes, reading them everyday LMAO.

also do you think i could be the 🌶️ anon plz? i’m peppers_library, but i can’t request with that account!

Absolutely you can, my love! And this is suchhhh a sweet idea. I can't seem to help making Sirius a nuisance lately, so I'm a bit worried I've missed the mark on a calm morning, but I hope you like it <3

poly!marauders x gn!reader ♡ 907 words

You rise to consciousness slowly, roused by a slight movement at your back. You turn in Sirius’ arms with a soft whining sound.

“Sorry,” Remus whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” you murmur, cracking an eyelid. Buttery morning light has infiltrated the cracks in your curtains, illuminating Remus angelically from behind. It turns the rumpled ends of his hair golden, and when you cup the back of his head to give him a kiss, it’s warm as a cat’s fur after laying in the sun. Remus makes a satisfied humming sound, hands snaking around your waist to bring you closer as he kisses lazily at your bottom lip. 

“Oi,” Sirius grumbles, arm tightening around you and halting Remus’ progress, “get your own.” 

“James left to go on a run already,” Remus replies.

“Doesn’t matter. I had them first.” 

“Wait, has he really?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbow to see over Remus. Sure enough, there’s only a faint indentation in the sheets where you’d supposed James to be sleeping. “I think I’m going to try and make muffins before he gets back,” you decide, starting to get up, but Sirius keeps you, his arm surprisingly unmovable around your middle. 

“That sounds lovely,” Remus says, watching amusedly as you try to pry Sirius’ fingers from your t-shirt. “Should I make us some tea as well?”

“No,” Sirius protests, reaching around you to clamp his other hand around Remus’ forearm. “Neither of you can leave me, it’ll get cold in here.” 

Remus extricates himself from Sirius’ grip with little effort, standing and leaving you to fend for yourself. “You’re welcome to get up too, Pads.” 

Sirius casts his head forlornly into the juncture of your neck as he moans, “But it’s so early.” 

You make another attempt at escape, and Sirius rolls over you with a vitality that defies his claims of lethargy, pinning you under his weight. “Siri,” you laugh, cupping his face with one hand and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “you can’t keep me here, honey.” 

He all but ignores your tenderness, looking down at you obstinately. “Can’t I?”

“Don’t you want muffins? I’ll let you pick the flavor, so long as we have the ingredients for it.”  

Sirius frowns pensively. “Those blueberries haven’t gone bad yet, have they?”

You grin. “Nope.” 

Time is on your side this morning. James slips in and goes straight to the shower just as you’re setting the timer on the oven, emerging eucalyptus-scented and in his pajama bottoms when the muffins are cooling on the counter. 

“Smells good in here,” he says as he comes into the kitchen, stopping short when he sees you like you’re not in the same disheveled state you were when he left. “Oh, sweetheart, what’re you trying to do to me?”

“James.” You take a tentative step back, all too familiar with the glint in his eyes. “It’s just a t-shirt.” 

It’s no use; he’s hauled you up onto the counter before you can take another breath, pushing between your legs with both hands on your ass. “Don’t play coy with me.” He nips at the underside of your jaw, drawing frenetic giggles out of you. “You put those legs on display on purpose.” 

“Let them go, you neanderthal,” comes Sirius’ hypocritical call. “Bring us the muffins while they’re still warm.”  

James grants you one, sweet kiss to soothe the damage he’s done to your face before giving you a conspiratorial look. “So demanding,” he says lowly, but helps you down from the counter. 

“Finally,” Sirius says as you enter, as though the plate of muffins isn’t still steaming. “What was the point of getting out of bed if I can’t have muffins or cuddles?”

James doesn’t hesitate to indulge him, sidling up to the other boy and holding a muffin under his nose as a temptation. You sit on the floor next to Remus, taking the cup of tea he offers you gratefully. He’s already resumed his work on the puzzle you’d started the night before, which both James and Sirius claim they’re going to “win” despite neither of them having the patience to put much work into it. You pick up an oddly colored piece, studying the picture on the box alongside your pensive boyfriend. 

“Doesn’t look like the same brown as the tree, does it?” he murmurs. 

“No. Maybe the fence, though?”

“Ah.” He takes the piece from you, putting it in its place with a satisfying click. “Nice one, love.” 

“What a couple of nerds,” Sirius drawls, and you look up to find he’s moved into James’ lap, being fed pieces of blueberry muffin like a prince. “How’d we end up dating such losers, Prongs?”

“I don’t know,” James says consideringly. “They make us tea and muffins, so that’s not bad.” 

“I’ll allow that the muffins and tea are perks, definitely.” 

Remus drags his attention from the puzzle to give Sirius a deadpan look. “You seemed alright with us this morning,” he reminds him. “But I suppose Y/N and I could go handle our nerd business elsewhere, if it suits you.”

“No need to leave me, too. I’m not in his camp,” James says, though he breaks off another piece of muffin to give him. 

Sirius rolls his eyes, chewing the muffin before giving you and Remus a benevolent smile. “I suppose we’ll keep you around.” He winks at you. “Thanks for the muffins, darling.”

#poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders x y/n #poly!marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders fanfic #poly!marauders fic #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders oneshot #poly!marauders scenario #poly!marauders drabble #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #marauders fic #marauders x reader

[writtenbymoonflower]

hi!!!! could you do polymarauders reacting to reader getting a tattoo (or multiple!) dedicated them? love u!!! 🧁

Thank you for requesting, lovely! gn!reader x poly!marauders.

cw: tattoo, swearing, Sirius being himself

681 words

You knew the secret was out when you had flinched away from James. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he just didn’t know. When his hand found its usual spot on your ribs as you were laying down on the couch with him, you couldn’t hide the discomfort you were feeling as his hand pressed into the tender flesh. James, of course, had no clue. 

“What’s that for, baby?” He looked a mix of concerned and amused. “Did that tickle?” He turned mischievous as he tried to worm his fingers into your side again. Remus flit his eyes to you both, stifling chuckle. You hissed, squirming away from your boyfriend's hands, no matter how gentle they were. 

“Ouch, Jamie.” You said before you could stop yourself. This made Remus drop his book. 

“What hurts, lovie?” His eyebrows rumpled, leaning closer to you and James. 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” You said, looking panicked. It seemed like Sirius could smell the trouble, because he stood up from where he sat at Remus’ feet, crawling over to you like a cat. 

“You hissed when Jamie touched you here, dolly.” He wriggled his fingers over your side, looking surprised when your shirt moved oddly slickly over your skin. You tried to bat his hands away, but he didn’t move. 

“Siri! Get away.” You tried to seem unsuspicious, but you mostly gave up on the act. 

“What’ve you got under here?” Sirius waggled his dark eyebrows at you, pulling your shirt up until your whole torso was exposed. You almost felt bashful at the realization that your whole chest was pretty much exposed, but they weren’t looking at it. Instead, they all looked varying levels of surprised. Remus moved faster than you’d ever seen him, crouching at your side next to Sirius. But it was James who spoke first. 

“Sweetheart! When did you get that?” He kept looking between your face and your ribs. Underneath the plastic cover was a small tattoo over your ribs. Lined up was little drawing of a moon, star and sun. 

“Well it was gon’ be a surprise.” You playfully scolded. “But I got it a week ago. It’s… it’s for you three.” You turned shy on the spot. You thought you would’ve had more time to get over the sliver of anxiety you felt. You had all been together for a long time, you all loved each other very much, you were all each other’s emergency contact even! But this was a big step, permanently marking them on your body. 

Sirius gently thumbed the skin next to the tattoo, looking in awe at your rib and leaning down to kiss over the plastic cover, being featherlight to not irritate you further. He knew from experience it was probably still sore. “I fucking love it.” He whispered against your skin. 

“Lemme see better.” Remus (gently) shoved Sirius out of the way, making him squawk offendedly. Remus didn’t care though, he looked entranced. James squeezed you tighter to him. 

“I can’t believe you did this and didn’t tell us! We would’ve gone with you, baby.” He trapped you in a kiss before you could respond, rubbing his thumb over your jaw gently. Sirius snickered at your dazed look when he pulled away. 

“Like I said,” trying to push away your flustered state. “It was a surprise.”

“Hell of a surprise.” Remus had nuzzled into your waist. “I’m gonna need one too.”

“Ooh, I like that.” James said at the same time that Sirius whistled.

“Oh yes fucking please.” He dramatically fanned himself. “You too Prongs,” He licked his lips looking at your boyfriend. James didn’t know whether to feel objectified or very flattered. (As how Sirius usually left people feeling). 

“I should, now that I’m the only un-inked one in this relationship.” He playfully jostled you. “You’ve abandoned me, lovely.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” You kissed his cheek. “I’ll pull you to the darkside with me.”

“Oooh, you minx. Thankfully I’d let you three corrupt me any day.” None of you would complain about that.

#poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders imagine #the maruaders #marauders fanfiction #the marauders #marauders x reader #marauders era #marauders x y/n #hp marauders #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #anon ask #anon request #fluff #drabble #blurb #marauders #marauders fandom #lily’s asks

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 5 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, the beginning of pregnancy weight gain, body insecurity, lots of Mother's Day fluffiness

WC: 1.1k

A/N: Reader/Ms. Sweetheart borrows jeans from Viv. I've never specified or alluded to Viv's size or body type, so she's whatever size y'all are 💚

May 1999

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!”

Harris’s excited voice rouses you from your half-sleep. You’d awoken earlier with Eddie’s alarm–it’s unusual that he sets one when he doesn’t have work–but you hadn’t thought much of it, rolling over and pulling the comforter up to your chin. Rest is a precious commodity lately, one that you refuse to waste.

You sit up slightly, blinking until his and Eddie’s faces come into focus. This is your second year celebrating the holiday as Harris’s maternal figure, but it’s the first since you and Eddie have gotten married. Still, his enthusiasm is just as high as it was last Mother’s Day as he climbs onto the bed, sheets rumpling underneath him, thrusting a homemade card in front of your bleary eyes.

The front displays one of Harris’s signature drawings, you and him standing next to each other with matching smiles. A bright yellow orb in the left hand corner represents the sun, shining down on the two of you. He’s drawn your fingers intertwined; in your free hand is a book, and in his, a crayon.

With slanted handwriting, the message inside of the card reads: I love you, Mommy! Happy Mother’s Day! Love, Harris.

You smile, wrapping him in a spine-crushing hug and tickling him until he’s breathless. “Thanks, Har,” you murmur, grinning against his curls. “I’m the luckiest mommy in the world today.”

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Eddie chimes in with a wink. “Go ahead and get dressed, Sweetheart. The Munson boys are taking you out for breakfast.”

Your stomach growls in response; now that your morning sickness has mostly subsided (save for a smattering of oatmeal-related incidences), breakfast once again sounds appetizing. You gently place Harris on the empty side of the bed “Sounds great,” you say, swinging your legs over the edge to stretch away your exhaustion. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Eddie nods, leaning over and kissing your waiting lips. “Take your time.” He motions for Harris to follow him out of the bedroom, giving you some privacy to change out of your pajamas. 

You slip out of your oversized nightshirt, carefully hooking your bra around your tender breasts. They’re even more sore than when you’d get your period, and you wince as the fabric grazes your nipples. 

Your favorite pair of jeans sit atop the laundry pile. They glide over your thighs with ease, but when you try to fasten the button, it won’t close. 

“What the hell?” You try to mutter it under your breath, but Eddie hears it and pushes his head into the room. 

“Everything okay—ooh, boobies.” He immediately clocks your shirtless torso, closing the door behind him as he makes a beeline for your chest. 

You pout, fingers pinching the open waist of your jeans and tugging on them exasperatedly. “My pants don’t fit,” you moan, tears brimming along your lash line. “I don’t even have a bump yet; why won’t they close?”

Eddie’s amused expression drops into a frown when he notices the storm brewing behind your eyes. “Hey, it’s okay.” His voice is soft as he presses his lips to your forehead. “Baby Munson is just growing, that’s all.” He slowly drops to his knees, palms bracing your hips while worshiping your stomach with light kisses. He stands up and takes your hands in his. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t worry about what you’re gonna wear.”

Before you can question it, he’s left the room once again. You wipe at your cheeks and resignedly brush your teeth and fix your hair, eyes never leaving the mirror. Your midsection doesn’t look different, but your clothes would beg to differ. You knew your body would change with pregnancy, but that didn’t make it any easier to cope with. 

Your hands rest just below your belly button where your jeans should fasten. There’s a baby in there, you remind yourself, taking a deep breath. Our baby has to get bigger, which means I have to get bigger, and that’s okay. You silently repeat the mantra, hoping to convince yourself of its truthfulness. 

You’re unsure how long you’ve been critiquing your appearance before there’s a knock on the door. “It’s me. Viv.”

You don’t even bother to throw on a shirt before letting her in. She’s clutching a pair of jeans with a black elastic waistband. “Eddie called and asked if you could borrow a one of my, and I quote, ‘pregnant lady pants.’” She grins, tossing them on your bed. “He didn’t tell me why, but between that and you not drinking when we went out for dinner the other night…” Her eyes glimmer mischievously, not wanting to reveal her assumption without permission. 

“Well, I am pregnant,” you confess, laughing when she pulls you in for an ecstatic hug. “About three months along, so we’ll officially be telling people pretty soon.”

“My lips are sealed.” Viv mimics locking her mouth with a key and throws it away. “Seriously, I didn’t even tell Jeff; I just said I had to run a quick errand. And,” she lowers her voice even more, “you won’t be going through this alone.” Her gaze flits down to her stomach.

You squeal, gripping her wrists. “Ettie’s gonna be a big sister?”

“Mhm,” she nods, smiling just as wide as you are. “In seven months. We’ll basically be having these babies together.”

It’s the best news you’ve heard since you’d seen your own positive test. Your body releases a tension you hadn’t realized you were holding. Not only are you and Viv pregnant at the same time, but she’s also already experienced this. And now that she knows, you have a list of questions to ask her within the coming weeks.

 “I gotta get back home, but we need to make a mom-date and catch up,” Viv promises, squeezing your hand. “Maybe go shopping for some maternity clothes?”

“Perfect.” You give her another strong hug before she walks out of the room, and you change from your too-snug jeans into Viv’s pair. Taking another look at yourself in the mirror, you process this temporary change in your wardrobe. You’re wearing maternity pants because you’re having a baby; you’re having Eddie’s baby.

You throw on a fuschia shirt and bound into the living room where Eddie and Harris are waiting for you, their patience visibly waning.

“C’mon, Mommy!” Harris hurries you, tugging on your hand and leading you towards the door. “We can share the silver dollar pancakes! Oh, and can you sit next to me in the car and at the diner?”

Before you can answer, Eddie chimes in. “I don’t get to sit next to Mommy at all?” he asks with a dramatic pout, clutching his car keys and opening the apartment door for you and Harris.

Harris shakes his head. “Nope. It’s Mommy’s day, and she’s my mommy!” He looks up at you and beams, and you return the expression tenfold.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Eddie mutters under his breath, though you can see him smiling as he locks up behind you. “All right, troops; let’s ship out!”

As the three of you–four, if you count the tiny person forming in your womb–make your way to the car, you relish in the day’s joy. Old traditions mix with the new, yet the feeling of unconditional love remains the same.

--

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

[kiss-me-cill-me]

i’m not sure if anon has already requested a character for that song but if ur up for it CAN WE HAVE THAT SONG WITH JONATHAN CRANE. also i just listened to that song for the first time in like 3 years and got major deja vu lmao 😭

also ps i love u and ur writing !!!

This is related to another ask from an anon, requesting a fic based off of Katy Perry's song, The One That Got Away. I am so sorry to both of you that it's taken me forever to write this, but thank you for your patience and support <3

Now We Pay The Price | Pt. 1

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Life hasn't turned out exactly the way you wanted it to. Isolated and distraught as you watch time slip by while you sit, trapped in Arkham, your only wish is to recapture the way that things used to be.

Warnings: Angst, whump, sexual themes but no explicit smut, mental health themes, obsession, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mention of needles, mention of sedatives, unrequited love, established past romantic relationship, ambiguity

A/N: I hardly ever write angst, so please be gentle with me lol. But with the song inspo, I couldn't help but go in that direction. Slightly nervous to post this, but also happy that I've branched out from my comfort zone a bit!

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

Lying on your stomach, feet in the air, you stretched the thin cotton sheets with your hand. Just enough to give them the tension you needed to glide a ballpoint pen over the fabric, scratching over and over the same mark to make it appear complete. This was far from the perfect medium for doodling - but sheets were what you had, and so they were what you used.

Even the pen was contraband. You knew you weren’t supposed to have it. What anyone thought you’d do with it… honestly, you had no idea. As if you could use a pen for anything other than what you were wrapped up in doing now - carefully and determinedly drawing hearts.

You stopped to rest your head for a moment on the pitifully thin pillow. Across the room, blank white concrete stared back at you. Day in, day out. Endless. The same room with the same walls.

Picking up the pen again, you placed the tip right in between the lobes of one of the many hearts. Scratch, scratch, scratch. A messy, zig-zagging line bisected the doodle. 

Broken.

You sighed, and started to color a different heart, filling it with blue ink that didn’t seem very inclined to stick to the bed sheets. It was slow going. The deep azure tint reminded you of deoxygenated blood, like you would see in a textbook diagram. Once the heart was completely filled, you moved dutifully on to the next.

A rustling at your door made you jump. Quickly, you stuffed the pen under your pillow, and turned up the sheets to hide your drawings. It wouldn’t be very good for you if anybody saw them.

You sat up, arranging your rumpled jumpsuit as neatly as you could. Leather straps hung off the sides of your bed, and you spared them a glance, bristling at the memories of having them lashed over your body. 

The metal door slid open slowly, until you could finally see…

Him. Your heart skipped a beat and a half as he stepped stiffly into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He didn’t make a show of locking it, but it was still all too hard to miss the way his hand stopped short at the keyhole, before slipping into his pocket.

“Jonathan. I’m so glad-”

“Don’t call me that,” he bristled. “In here, we don’t know each other. Please. You always forget that.”

“...Dr. Crane,” you corrected yourself. 

His tone was so bitter that you could feel it in the very back of your throat, trying to claw its way down to your heart. You swallowed, trying to bite back the taste.

“I’m sorry. I was just happy to see you.” You smiled, pushing through your discomfort, for his sake.

Crane was clearly agitated. He took a few steps into the room, before turning around and facing the door. For one brief moment, you couldn’t see his face, until finally he turned back. His eyes were ice as they stared down at you.

“Do you have any idea how difficult you’ve been making things for me?” he spat. 

The accusation hurt, of course. Though you knew very well what he meant. You had been acting out, more than usual, as of late. And although it wasn’t without a purpose, you could see that it was wearing him thin. But… how else were you supposed to see each other? 

Arkham Asylum wasn’t exactly known for its model patients. It took a lot to get Dr. Crane’s attention.

“If we spent more time together, I wouldn’t be so difficult,” you replied, trying to keep your tone even.

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, in that way that you were well acquainted with. He’d always had that habit. Back when you’d first met, you had loved making him get frustrated - just enough for a laugh. Some things never changed.

“You’re really backing me into a corner,” Crane sighed. “And I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Let’s talk,” you offered, patting the bed. “That’s what you’re here for, right?”

Crane, reluctantly, sat down. You could sense his exhaustion in the way that he almost collapsed onto the bed, hands gripping the edge for support. You inched a bit closer, enough so that your knees touched briefly. Crane pulled away.

You wanted to reach out; put a hand on his shoulder, just like you’d done so many times before. He used to like it when you touched him. Sometimes, you liked to think that yours was the only gentle embrace that he had ever known. Maybe it was silly, but the thought of it always made you feel better.

Now, Crane’s eyes held nothing but menace as he glared over at you, as if you were a stain on the bed sheets. You wondered, vaguely, what had happened to change things.

So much. So much that had led you to this place, where you could be so close to him and yet felt more separated than ever.

“I hate to say it, Doc, but I think I’m going crazy in here,” you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He barely had a reaction; a deep sigh the only hint that he’d heard what you said at all.

“And why do you think that is?” he asked, finally. 

The psychiatrist in him always came through to shove even more distance between you. Like a shield, put up just when you’d started to press through the fog of tension that hung heavy in the room. You swallowed your frustration at being kept out, and tried to answer him honestly.

“Because I barely get to see you,” you replied.

That was the wrong answer, and Crane’s shoulders swung abruptly to face you. 

He was scary like this. Almost scary, anyway. If you didn’t know him better, the look in his eyes would have sent you cowering. 

But you did know him, so well, and you remembered with sudden clarity that he’d always been bothered by feeling inadequate. You felt awful; you hadn’t meant to imply that he wasn’t doing enough.

“I’m sorry,” you soothed, before he could say anything. “I know that you’re busy, but-”

“But you continue to make yourself into a problem,” he hissed. “You know the only reason you’re in here instead of rotting away over at Blackgate is because of me, right?”

You nodded, too shocked by embarrassment to speak.

“Then for my sake, why don’t you act like it?”

“I’m…” You paused for a moment, sharp tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m just… lost without you,” you whispered. “You know that. I always told you I would be.”

The first tear fell, and you tried to hide your face.

“Don’t cry,” Crane sighed.

You could hear the harsh tinge of annoyance in his voice, and wished that it was anything else. Even his pity would have been better than knowing that your feelings were now nothing but inconvenience. You choked on your own throat, trying to stifle a sob.

“Please don’t cry,” he mumbled, slightly softer this time.

But now that you’d started, you couldn’t make yourself stop. If anything, the tears were only coming faster, and you felt yourself start to shrink into your own chest. The little black pit that always seemed to sit there, now swiftly opening up to swallow you.

With a deep and lingering exhale, Crane pulled you close. Suddenly, you were back where you both had been, so many years ago: one person’s cheek pressed into the other’s shoulder. Tears soaking into fabric that seemed to be stained with sadness. You let out a half-laugh, half-sob, and nestled into the crook of his neck.

“Remember when I used to do this for you?”

Crane stiffened slightly beside you.

“Things have changed since then,” he muttered. 

Your memory suddenly flashed back to the first time he had used the words “dysfunctional attachment” to describe you. That had hurt worse than anything else. Even more than all of the other occasions to come, when you’d heard those same words and worse fall from his lips. They could never truly compare to that first time, when your whole world had come crashing abruptly to the ground.

His arm dropped away from you, but you kept your face pressed into his shoulder.

“Things haven’t really changed,” you said. “I still belong to you.”

“You don’t.”

Two words that stung worse than hundreds of needles. You tried to pretend that the wind hadn’t been knocked out of you, as you replied.

“I do. And I will. Always.”

You looked up at him with wet eyes, a trace of the old life that you’d shared together still evident deep within your pupils. Even if only the memories of it lived inside of you, they still lived. They were still something.

“You need to move on,” Crane said flatly. “I know it’s not easy in here, with me…” He sighed. “I did what I could to protect you, but maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed out of your case. Blackgate would have at least given you distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you whispered. “I just want to be with you.”

“You can’t be.”

Always so stubborn.

“I could be, if you’d help me get out.”

Confusion flashed across Crane’s face, quickly replaced with raw terror. 

“Escape Arkham?” His eyebrows furrowed, nearly knitting together. “You can’t be serious. Do you even realize what-?”

“I know, I know,” you hummed. “But just think - we could run away together, just like we always talked about.”

“Stop.”

“Don’t you remember? We promised-”

“Things. Change.” Crane’s voice almost shook as it thundered.

You brought a hand up to his face, gently coaxing until he looked at you.

“But they don’t have to,” you breathed. 

Your eyes drifted down to your wrist, to the space just below your thumb, and over the little tattoo that was etched into your skin. A heart - just like the ones littering your blanket, hidden carefully from Crane’s view.

“Remember when you gave me this?” you asked, holding up the tattoo in front of him.

“No; I remember you doing that to yourself.”

“At first, sure,” you chuckled. “But then, you helped me to finish it, ‘cause-”

“Because I didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Crane muttered. “Just like you always seem to. Even now.”

You ignored his remark as your hands drifted down to collect one of his pale wrists, then lifted up to your face. The sleeve of his suit jacket slipped back, revealing the spot where once, long ago, you had given him the same mark. Just with a felt-tip pen; he would have never allowed you, even back then, to deface his own body in the same way you had yours. 

At the time, the impermanence of it hadn’t seemed to matter. You’d been too distracted; elated by the way that his and your matching blossoms of ink had pressed up against each other as you’d held hands. 

Now, you pressed a kiss to the blank space.

“Us against the world, Jonathan. Remember?”

Suddenly, his fingers pressed into your face, digging into the sides of your chin as he forced you back into focus.

“Don’t call me that,” he warned, once again. “How many times do I have to tell you? That life doesn’t exist in here.”

Your hands still dangled from his wrist as he continued to crush your jaw, not letting you look away. But this was the one part of him that you didn’t want to face. The part that didn’t need you anymore.

“Jonathan. You know the reason I’m in here, don’t you?”

“Are you asking if I know about your case? All of the crimes you committed?” he huffed. “Because yes - I was very involved in the trial, and it was nearly impossible to keep everyone else in the dark about…”

Us was the word that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“That’s not what I mean,” you said. “I mean, do you know why I did those things?”

“Stop - please don’t tell me this again.”

“I did them for you,” you cried, your emotions getting the better of you again. “I do everything for you. So don’t you dare pretend you don’t need me, when really the only fucking reason you’re not stuck in here with me is because I always-”

“Stop.”

Crane’s hands tore away to grab you by the shoulders, wrenching you back to reality. Somehow he always managed to do that. To pull you straight out of the riptide, just as it was about to sweep you away.

“I never asked you to do what you did,” he hissed, articulating each word between clenched teeth.

“But I did it anyway,” you spat. “Because you always get into trouble. Because I told you I’d be there for you, no matter what. And because I always keep promises.”

“I don’t need you to anymore.” Crane’s hands squeezed you uncomfortably. “I don’t - I didn’t need you to ruin your life for me.”

“My life isn’t ruined if it’s for you.”

“Jesus Christ…”

Crane’s hand came up to rake through his hair, but before he could pull away fully, you caught him. Fingers clenched tight to the front of his suit, you pulled back and forced him to fall with you. Your back hit the bed, and Crane scrambled to catch himself before his full weight could slam into you. His body perched just above yours, caging you in his arms.

“This. You must remember this.” 

Your words were a whisper, barely loud enough to pass from your lips to his ear, despite how close he was. Your legs frantically came up to tug at his waist, trying to force him closer.

“This was the only time I felt alive,” you continued. “When we were like this. You remember.”

How could he not? You could still live in that moment, if you tried hard enough. As if it had been only yesterday. Both of you nervous and fumbling, nearly falling off of the bed as he hovered over you and you clung to him. 

The way that your bodies had melted together, almost desperately, in a way that had made you feel certain that neither one of you would let go. Letting go then had meant something worse than death; it meant a life that dragged on without you and him together. 

The stale echoes of passion still rang in your ears as you looked up, silently begging for him to rekindle the spark that had been there.

Crane’s expression was all but impossible to read. His face half-hidden beneath bangs that fell into his eyes. The two-second pause was like a lifetime as you awaited his answer.

“Of course I remember.”

Your heart soared, flying recklessly up.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the same now.”

Broken. Smashed hard against the cold floor of your cell.

“I don’t believe that,” you breathed. “I can’t. I-”

“You need to,” he interrupted. “Because it’s the truth.”

You stayed stock still on the mattress as Crane briskly pushed himself up, disentangling himself from your limbs. He exhaled as he tugged at his jacket, trying to make himself presentable. 

You weren’t sure how he could find the nerve, after ripping your whole world apart.

“I’m upping the dose on your sedatives,” he informed you, still not meeting your gaze. “But I would prefer if you could find it within yourself to behave so that I don’t have to. I don’t like to do this, but-”

“Appearances…” Your voice drifted through the room. “Have to be kept up.”

He had told you as much, probably dozens of times. Just like he’d told you the old life between you no longer mattered, or even existed. If it ever had.

“I’m glad you understand,” he said shortly. 

His back was already turned, but you looked up to watch him drift out of the room, quickly pocketing the keys on his way out. 

Your head fell back, hard, but the sensation did nothing to ground you. You felt all too lost and adrift; trapped in a situation you had created. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end up.

Your hand drifted silently under the pillow, and wrapped around the barrel of the pen that was still hidden there. 

Suddenly, grotesque understanding of all the reasons why no one would want you to have such a thing flooded into your consciousness. The possibilities were many and bleak, but they all led back to the same conclusion. It was just like you had told Crane earlier.

If your life together didn’t exist in this place, then the only solution was to leave. 

You smiled. With resolve swirling dangerously inside your veins, you vowed to make sure that nothing like this ever happened again. You were going to be together, no matter what. 

There would be no getting away.

This fic now has a Part 2! Read it HERE

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #cillian murphy x reader #angst #LemmyFics

[house-of-kolchek]

Leon Kennedy's Bed (18+)

Leon Kennedy x Reader

@obsessedwithtoomanythings said "Leon Kennedy's Bed" and I took that personally. ENJOY THIS AND I PROMISE I'M WRITING DRESS PART 2

Word Count: 1.3k

Leon’s bed was simple. The sheets were a little messy, pillows and covers thrown together as a result of his early morning job requirements. When you had to rush out at a moment's notice, there wasn’t exactly time to tuck the corners in a militant style.

The sheets themselves were basic, light grey in colour and void of any pattern. It was familiar, the way Leon liked it.

Until you were thrown into the mix.

The messy covers were downright rumpled as your back hit the mattress. Sheets clung to your sides, twisted around your fingers when you dug your hands down. Leon barely felt the soft fabric over his own hands, his focus honed in on the way your breath tickled against his browline and the warm velvet of your skin against his lips. 

He settled onto his forearms, digging his weight against your hips. With a pleased sigh, you released his sheets, caging your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling into his scalp. Leon hummed his approval, fixing a particularly steamy bite to the junction of your collarbone. He soothed the mark with his tongue, practically preening at the sound that escaped his throat. 

It was a moment he almost thought was a dream, even going as far as to pinch himself, expecting to wake up in an empty, cold bed, with a particular problem against the sheets instead. But when he blinked, you were still there, your legs tangling against his waist and your hands gently massaging at the back of his neck. 

You reached for his hand first, prompting him to shift his weight slightly as you guided his fingers to trace under the line of your shirt, against the skin of your waist. He growled, drifting his hand up further, and drawing a long sigh from you as he traced the underside of your bra. 

“Can I take this off?” he whispered against your skin, chuckling at your eager nod. He helped you sit up, just enough so he could pull the shirt over your head, and unclip your bra with practiced ease.

He sat up on his knees, taking in the sight of you. Your eyes, hooded and glazed. Your hair fanned out against the sheets contrasting against that plain grey he was so familiar with. The smell of your skin that he knew would cling to the fabric, driving his mind crazy for days. 

It didn’t take him long to decide that he liked his bed much better with you in it.

With a muttered curse, he moved to strip his own shirt off, beaming at the way your eyes dipped downwards, widening with something he could only define as wonder. Your hands drifted up, sliding against the top of his thighs and just missing the aching spot between, instead brushing lightly against the curves and contours of his abdomen. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, tracing over one particular scar near the side of his waist.

“You’re gonna tell me about all these some day, right?”

Leon blinked. The softness and care in your voice was unexpected, especially given the context of your situation. And yet, his chest bloomed with a fuzzy warmth, and he only knew further that he was never going to let you go. Leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips, he nearly stuttered on the words against your ear.

“Every one. Promise.”

You smiled against his jaw, your lips brushing across his skin oh so delicate. Gently turning his head, you gave him another soft kiss. And another, until that soft warmth between you grew back into that sparking heat. 

Your thumb traced along the length of his collarbone, drifting lower as you teased the skin of his front. Leon sighed against your lips, dipping his tongue against yours and biting softly against your lip. He muttered a curse as your thumb teased the waistline of his pants, tugging the elastic down and shimmying your hips against him.

Oh, he was hard.

His touch growing frantic, Leon stood from the bed to yank his pants off, reaching for your own with a hot kiss just below your belly button. He teased every new inch of skin he revealed, leaving messy kisses all the way down to your knees. And as he came back up, he placed his lips directly on your clothed core, drawing a sharp gasp from you and sending your hands flying into his hair.

Leon caught sight of one of your hands, falling to the sheets beside him and gripping tight. A sense of possession struck him, sending even more blood rushing south. These were his sheets. And he was about to paint them with every part of your essence. With a growl, he wasted no time ridding your underwear, and diving into your core with teeth and tongue.

You arched your back, squinting your eyes shut and twisting the sheets beside you. Leon’s arms looped around either one of your legs, draping them over his shoulders as his tongue drew various patterns over your clit. Your core pulsed against him, tightening over nothing until he teased you open with his thumb, dipping in just the tip and massaging the edges of your walls. 

A jerk of your hips had him twitching against his boxers, and he broke his mouth away from you to strip off the final garment. You whined at the loss, lifting your head to look down at him with knitted brows. And in a moment, Leon was pushing you up on the bed, practically folding you in half as he lifted your legs back over his shoulders.

With his name on your lips, you whined, his mouth returning to your head and two of his fingers teasing at your core. As you rolled your hips against him, Leon bucked his into the mattress, groaning at the friction against the sheets. 

The mix of his movements and the vibration of his noise had you moaning out loud, your nails digging into whatever they could reach. Leon rutted into the sheets again, setting a lazy, feel-good pace as your breaths grew shallow, your voice rising in pitch. 

Leon fell into a haze, the smell, taste and feeling of you drawing every one of his thoughts away. You squeezed his fingers, reached a hand to pull at his hair, twitched to the pace of his jerking hips. Your words were slurred, incoherent as you babbled your praise, pausing mid sentence to let out the loudest moan.

He curled his fingers up, spread them apart in a scissoring motion just as you reached the edge, clamping down on him fully. You shouted his name, told him you were cumming as you pulsed around his fingers. Your thighs tightened around his head, and Leon was so focused on every movement you made that he didn’t even realize he was driving himself to the edge.

His release hit him like a train, his vision flashing with stars as a strangled moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered against the mattress, the sheets darkening as he spilled onto them. Your legs slipped from his grasp, falling around his shuddering waist.

As Leon finally relaxed, taking in a deep breath, he found your bleary gaze. With a grin, he leaned back, massaging his thumbs into your legs as he took in the ruined sight of his bedsheets. There was something erotic about the darkened stains against the cloth, both from him and you. Evidence of what had happened. And he liked it. 

Leon pulled you into a seated position, pressing a long kiss onto your lips as he turned the two of you over, falling to his back with you resting across his chest. His arms wrapped tight around you, your chest rising and falling against his with the long breaths you took. 

“So. Round two?”

You hummed, taking in the ruined bed beneath you. “How about the shower?”

Oh, he could work with that.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader

[secretwritingspot]

Sea Legs

Pairing: OPLA Sanji x Reader

Rating/Content Warnings: definitely PG/PG-13 at most, wholesome fluff. Implied soft!dom Sanji but like you can read it without that tbh, he's just being assertive. But like...we know.

Summary: request for @justyouraveragefangirl1967 - soft!dom Sanji taking care of Reader with chronic pain

Disclaimer(s): first and foremost, I personally am not someone who suffers with chronic pain, but I tried to write this as accurately as possible with feedback from a friend who does. It's still entirely possible that I got a few things wrong because the closest personal experience I could draw from was the pain that comes with hypermobility. That all being said, I hope I did it justice <3

It's far past the crack of dawn, and yet the sun rolls over you like a new discovery- unpleasant, if only for the moment.

You don't do much but groan at first, slinging your arm across your face as the sound quickly dissolves into a whine, the ship already tossing. The gentle movement, which you would normally find incredibly soothing, makes your stomach roil. It takes a few moments of unplacable, vague discomfort before the reason why registers in your mind.

Ah, that, you think as teeth bare in a hiss.

There's an empty ache running down your legs, dull but no more awful for it, twinging like the joints in your knees, hips need to crack but won't.

You allow yourself a moment to wallow before taking a deep breath, swinging your legs over the side of the bed with as little actual movement from them as possible. It won't be that bad, it won't be that bad, it won't be that-

A whimper escapes parted lips when you put your weight on them to stand, steadying your wobbling self on your nightstand. It is just as bad as you expected it to be, as bad as it always was on days like this, but you knew that allowing yourself that white lie was the only way you'd get out of bed at all.

The ship sways underneath you again and this time the bed isn't there to catch you, the movement sending you stumbling slightly for balance in a way that shoots pins and needles up your legs, a different kind of pain that came with taking your first steps when you got like this.

It got easier after a few minutes of walking around. Kinda.

(It did not.)

Before you had decided to join the crew of the Merry, your friends had teased in that knowing way that only friends can, even with dark subjects, that you'd need to find your sea legs first. You'd laughed and told them you hadn't even found your land legs yet.

The memory is fleeting and it isn't long before you've (mostly) stabilized yourself, albeit painfully. You lurch to your dresser, throwing on something new enough to hopefully not look as rumpled as you felt, and practice your walking on the way to the door.

Step, breathe, step, breathe- one foot in front of the other.

When trembling hands find the doorknob you tell yourself that the shaking is only from being tired. You never were a morning person. It doesn't take too many tries before you manage to open it, each step you take getting steadily more practiced and confident, despite the gritted teeth hidden behind your lips.

It's as close to normal walking as you can manage by the time you emerge in the galley, an imitation learned from years of practice. Your knees feel like they'll give out but you know they won't, not for a few hours or so.

For now, you are normal.

Or as close to it as you can manage.

"The fuck are you doing?"

It isn't even a second after stepping into the room that you hear the voice, the solitary other person in the galley with you. The usually honeyed tone is, despite remaining gentle, firmer than you're used to. It's a tone of voice you've only ever heard from the blond-haired man in...other situations.

Ah, right. Him.

Him, who knew too much, saw too much with eyes far too pretty, paid enough attention to notice things about you that you hadn't yet. The ever-present thorn in your side. Though maybe that was too harsh a word for a man as warm or soft as Sanji.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm just getting breakfast-"

An unfortunately timed rock of the ship sends you stumbling, disrupting your steps that are just light enough because they're practiced, has your feet landing too hard in a way your legs protest against with a sharp sting of pain.

In an instant he's on you, holding you up like the nights when the crew goes out drinking, his volunteered job to hold you stumbling home. The look in his eyes is different now, though, as he mumbles to himself under his breath.

"Absolutely not."

His voice is laced with an obvious frustration and for a moment you feel bad, unused to that tone being used with you.

Of course, you know it isn't really directed at you. He's talking to himself, after all.

He drags you back to your room without much of a fuss, movements still deceptively gentle as he supports most of your weight for you to keep it off your legs.

He knows. Somehow, always, he knows.

He hadn't been the first you'd told - to everyone's surprise (including your own) that had been Zoro. Not Sanji and his sweetness, not Luffy and his stubborn care for his crew, not Nami for the safe, conspiratorial environment she created with you, as though even if her trust was hard to earn and dangerous to break, there was a sort of camaraderie between the two of you in simpler ways. You two against the boys.

No, it was not any of them. Any of the logical choices.

It had been when you were reading in the sun on deck, Zoro training a bit away. This was the kind of contact he liked, you were discovering. Companionable silence with the two of you doing your own thing while sharing the same space. It was easier than small talk, anyway.

You didn't mind, really. The two of you got on well enough and it was a simple expression of friendship, sharing the deck.

When he'd finished, the sun considerably lower in the sky, he'd complained about feeling faint. Not to a concerning extent, but there was an undeniable ache in his muscles that came from training so relentlessly every day. You didn't even think before slipping out that you felt like that a lot of the time without even doing anything to cause it.

Aside from a concerned squint, a cock of his head, and eventual, "...that sucks", the information didn't seem to phase him. You noticed he was less hard on you on days when you weren't much help to the crew, though.

For that, you were grateful. In his own way, that was him "helping".

Sanji's "helping" is, unsurprisingly, far different from Zoro's. After a few awkward moments of trying and failing to stumble back to your bed, he simply picks you up, as if you weighed nothing, carrying you the rest of the way.

This part - the flushed, apologetic look down at the floor once he'd set you back on your bed - was always the worst. There's a thick feeling of disappointment, even though you know it's all in your head. With his arms crossed across his chest as you avoid his eyes, though...it doesn't feel like it.

"...I thought-"

"I know what you thought."

He's quick to cut you off as soon as you break the silence, too uncomfortable with awkward pauses like that one to let them stretch on any longer than necessary.

The response is not cold, but it's not the Sanji you're used to either. It is not coddling or doting and overwhelmingly affectionate. It is not a happy sound. You keep your head down and look away, clearing your throat and willing tears not to form in the pinpricks you feel behind your eyes.

He sighs, sitting down next to you.

"...you know I worry."

There's more silence and you sniffle, fidgeting with the sleeves of your shirt. Of course he does. Of course, he does.

He seems to sense the tension and guilt in your motions, offering a hand to you in comfort. Even now, you take it. You know, when offered, you will always take his hand.

"I know it's rough. I know that you...want to help. Want things to be normal..."

A part of you wants to scream that he doesn't at all, doesn't know anything about what it's like. But you don't. You know that they're words you'd regret tomorrow. You know that he's trying.

"Love, I just want you safe."

Is his final, exasperated plea, your traitorous heart doing flips at the nickname.

You know. Of course you know he wants you safe, he wouldn't ever be this direct with you if it involved anything else. Your safety, above all else, was paramount. Though you could fight or delay or try to bargain with him if you wanted, that's the moment you know you've lost. You know the outcome, even if a stubborn part of you doesn't want to admit it.

"...lie down for me? Please?"

And he knows exactly what to say, "for me" and "please", the words lighting up a part of your brain that doesn't let you question him. Instead you nod, lying down slowly before curling up on your side. He gives you a wry smile, crouching down to stay eye-level with you and pulling the blankets up to cover you, eyes softening.

"What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

The question is asked to no one in particular, his voice is liquid velvet. He lightly taps the tip of your nose, shaking his head fondly as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"Do I have to?"

It's the first time you've spoken in a while, voice raw as you whisper the question.

It is the same every time- you ask him the same question, and he gives you the same answer.

He sighs, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes again, reaching a hand out to lightly stroke across your cheek.

"Sorry, sweetheart. You have to."

It's not the answer you want, but it's the one that's familiar. And in a way, that's a comfort in and of itself.

His eyes are bright and lovesick as he looks after you, cataloging every freckle, eyelash, tint on your skin like you were the answer, though the question you couldn't be sure of. He stares like the light bends around your face, like you're the only source of illumination he's ever seen. The silence is comfortable and warm, intimacy inherent in it all as he traces your face lightly, making his examination with slow and steady strokes.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to stay here. Just for a while.

Eventually, he rises from his position at your side, standing up and straightening out his suit as he does. The distance makes you whine, though you bite it back, and he shakes his head fondly, voice low and calm.

"Just going to inform the others I'll be busy today. Stay put."

The door closes gently behind him and, despite yourself...you do.

#vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #opla sanji #opla sanji x reader #opla #opla x reader #sanji x you #opla Sanji x you #opla x you #one piece #one piece live action #one piece x reader #one piece x you #opla x y/n #opla sanji x y/n #sanji x y/n

[yellowbunnydreams]

Mechanised Devotion (Part 1) ~Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader~

~ Please be nice to me, this is my first time writing fanfiction in a while and honestly have just been experiencing the phenomena that is Matthew Lillard as William Afton. Also, first time posting on tumblr! Also thinking of making this a multi-part series, so feedback is really appreciated!~

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), afab reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 40's), mention of crimes and violence, blood, mentions of child death (it's FNAF, what did you expect?), past trauma; abusive relationships.

When it had been suggested by your previous manager that you should see a career counsellor, you had thought it was a funny joke. You had laughed at the idea of something such as going to see another human being who's job was solely to tell you what jobs you were good and qualified for.

Until the paperwork had been handed over in an unsealed manila envelope letting you know that you had been terminated.

Unemployment had hit you like a truck, but without the pay-out that might have come from the trucking company. Filing paperwork to try and get even a few dollars a week to survive and contribute towards your house-share whilst already struggling to try and push through college had fallen by the wayside and you had been hitting the pavement both physically and online to try and find your next job.

That perfect one that was sure to turn up the next day, or maybe the next week.

But as somewhat expected, that moment had never arrived and neither did that job. So it was with great reluctance that you found yourself in a drab beige building with the occasional sound of human misery making the area feel like anybody was left alive in the room despite the faint clicking of the keyboard from the receptionist.

'Would it have killed them to put a small plant or something in the room?' You found yourself thinking as you looked around, almost missing the gesture from the receptionist lady who scowled over her glasses at you and handed you a slip of paper.

"Your councillor will see you down the hall, third door on the left."

"Thanks ma'am." your voice was quiet, and the woman scoffed before shooing you away with her somewhat ridiculously long nails. You wondered how she managed to do anything with them, but your thoughts quickly turned to the office you were supposed to find as you set off quickly down the hall.

The walls were beige, the floors were beige and you were minorly impressed that they had found somewhat beige doors as you moved down the hall cautiously. But the door you needed seemed almost comically like an old episode of Scooby-Doo where it was easy to tell what object was going to be interacted with due to the significantly different colours and quality of drawing. For some reason, the one door you needed was a nice deep wooden colour, although you seriously doubted it was real wood in a place like this. It took you a moment to breathe deeply, steeling your nerves and running your hand through your hair to tidy it up a bit, hand smoothing down your skirt before reaching up and knocking.

There was sound of shuffling from inside before a smooth, warm voice that came from inside though slightly muffled. "Come on in!"

Entering slowly, you blinked as you spotted a man sat at the desk infront of you, his hair peppered with greys despite being a cool brown colour and his slightly gaunt face adorned with greying stubble. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, which he looked over the rim of to see you before reaching up and pushing them back onto his face with his index finger, standing up with a warm, lopsided smile. What surprised you next was how tall he was. The guy was easily over six feet tall, and you felt dwarfed by his sheer size, broad shoulders accentuated by a neat by rumpled beige plaid shirt and a neatly knotted tie.

"You're my new client right? Come on in! Sit, sit!" he gestured to the cracked plastic chair opposite the desk with a large hand before extending it to shake your own, hand engulfing yours and allowing you to feel how rough and calloused they were compared to your own.

'How does an office worker get such rough hands?' you wondered as you took a seat, hands automatically tucking your skirt underneath you as you sat in the hard plastic chair. Blushing as you felt the man's grey eyes wandering over your appearance with something akin to disinterested amusement before he opened a folder and made a humming noise as he scanned it.

It allowed you to look around his office, noticing several framed diplomas on the walls, surprised by the amount of colour in the room with the warm wooden bookcase and even the occasional muted purplish-blue folder dotted amongst the shelves. You noted his room smelt like coffee, both freshly brewed and stale grounds somehow, a faint smell of smoke and cologne. Sniffing quietly, you wondered if perhaps the person who had sat there before you had been a smoker and worn some cologne to try and impress. But you supposed that you had gotten dressed up yourself despite your scuffed up converse ruining the somewhat ill-fitting blouse and skirt giving some illusion of professionalism.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" His voice made you jump as you suddenly snapped your attention back to him. Heart pounding as you blushed, realising as he tilted his head slightly to one side that he had caught you off-guard and slightly snooping.

"Pardon sir?" You asked, swallowing softly as you met his gaze for a moment before you looked down at your hands again. Picking slightly at your nails and more specifically the pale blush nail polish you had hastily tried to apply yourself that morning to hide the fact that you bit your nails. He paused before sighing and leaning forwards onto his elbows, chin resting on his hands as he gave you a somewhat lazy smile.

"I asked, miss..." he glanced at the paperwork before letting your name roll off his tongue in a way that made your heart pound slightly. You weren't sure why it did, but some tiny part of your brain was eager to hear him say it again. "what I was going to do with you. You have a clean employment record...aside from all the dismissals due to.." He paused and pulled his glasses down to peer over them to stare the text, his lips moving silently as he read before putting his attention back onto you. "it says here 'staffing issues and personal life interferance'?" Raising a quizzical eyebrow

"I um... I had some issues at home at that time Mr..." Glancing down at the nameplate on his desk, you realised he had never formally introduced himself to you apart from the handshake. "Raglan. I'd rather not talk about it."

"Well, I can't help you find a job if you don't help me help you." The man you now knew as Steve Raglan sighed, giving you another one of those lopsided smiles that made you feel like you were talking to a sweet, disappointed but supportive dad and gave you a pang in your chest that you might be letting this total stranger down.

"You don't have to tell me today, but I want to see you next week and I want you try to open up, tell me about what was going on and I might be able to offer something." Steve offered, gesturing to his pile of potential job prospects. You weren't aware that he was looking at you again, wondering if you purposely had chosen something that obscured your body-type and meant you weren't confident in yourself, or whether financially you had chosen what option was available.

The way you sat there meekly and picking at your nails was somewhat infuriating as he wanted to demand you looked at him when he spoke, but he remained calm. You were probably his most interesting client to date, hunching in on yourself and avoidant of filling in the blanks that your open ended statement had left. He decided he would lay on the charm slightly, see what got you to cave in and perhaps provide some amusement as his mind whirled with too many ideas and desire to move, do something and be far more active than his life as Steve Raglan allowed.

"I guess I'll see you next week then, thank you having me Mr. Raglan." you spoke softly and stood up. Watching as the hulking man stood too and opened the door with a somewhat sad smile, like he was watching a bright student walk down the wrong path in life.

"Of course, please, take this and give me a call if you would like to talk about this matter sooner. I hate to see a young woman like yourself go to waste because of one little hiccup." Another pang went through your chest as he spoke. He really did seem dissapointed in you, and some how, you found that you wanted to please the man you had met barely half an hour before.

As you walked down the corridoor, his eyes lingered on your smaller retreating form and tilted his head to one side, licking his lips to wet them for a moment in thought. He hoped whatever you were hiding from his was worth his time, and would perhaps find him another fun thing to play with.

#william afton x reader #steve raglan #steve raglan x reader #fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #william afton #springtrap #springtrap x reader #purple guy #william afton x you #william afton smut

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

So for the ficlet build your own prompt thing could you maybe do “Should I kiss it better?”, someone who cares, hurt/comfort, and instrument?? (Btw love all your stuff, you’re such a talented writer ❤️)

Aw, that made me blush, thank you so much.

I did a little missing scene thing for your prompt - this would be after Eddie moves in but before these two dumbasses first kiss. Hope you like it. 🥰

I'm celebrating 1k followers - requests are open!

Maybe some day

Rated: T

Words: 996

Tags: domestic fluff; Steve Harrington needs a hug; Steve Harrington has a crush on Eddie Munson; Steve is Dustin’s dad; single dad Steve; good babysitter Eddie Munson; flirting; sexual tension; pining (oh God, so much pining)

Notes: Bonus scene to Someone who cares

Dusk is falling as Steve steps out of the elevator. His shoulders are sore from the office chairs, his eyes itching from staring at screens all day, and his head is feeling like someone is digging its way out through his eye socket with a pickaxe. He’s tired and weirdly on edge at the same time.

When he tries to unlock the door, he drops his keys.

“Fuck!” he snaps, then winces. It isn’t like himself, getting this angry at petty inconveniences like that. Then again, it isn’t really the keys he’s angry about. It’s his father and his stupid company and endless board meetings. Himself for being such a fucking pushover, for playing along in this farce.

Taking a deep breath, he wills himself to calm down. His head still wails in protest as he crouches to retrieve the keys.

The foyer is dark and silent, but a keg of light is filtering in from the living room.

Dustin is on the sofa in his pajamas, hands fiddling with something in his lap - Eddie’s guitar. When he hears him approach, he looks up, mouth tugging into an unamused scowl that Steve knows looks a lot like his own.

“Hey, Dad. You’re late.”

“I know,” he grouses, collapsing on the opposite end of the sofa. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Dustin pouts. “I wanted to stay up. Haven’t seen you all day.”

Steve, who was just drawing a breath to argue, snaps his mouth shut. Because the kid's right. He left before Dustin was awake and he’s only returned now, way past his bedtime.

What kind of dad is he?

The sound of something going twang startles him from his stupor.

“Ow,” Dustin yelps. “Shit!”

“Language,” Steve says, at the same time that another voice floats over from the kitchen.

“Jesus, I step out for five minutes and this is what you do?”

Eddie spares Steve a lazy wave, sliding into the spot next to Dustin to assess the damage. Like it's perfectly natural. Like they belong together. His son. The man he's in love with.

“You'll be fine,” Eddie mutters, voice fond. “No real damage done.”

Dustin scoffs, cradling his finger. “Still hurts.”

“I meant the guitar, dipshit.”

Dustin gapes at him. “You're such an ass. I'm injured here!”

“Aw,” Eddie coos, making grabby hands at the finger. “Should I kiss it better?”

Dustin balks.

“You're gross, I'm going to bed! Night, Dad!”

“Love you, too,” Eddie calls after him. “Remember to brush your teeth. Floss, too.”

He watches Dustin stomp off, dark eyes brimming with affection, and Steve’s heart flutters in his chest. Only to drop right out of his body when those eyes shift over to him.

“Rough day?”

“No,” Steve says automatically. Eddie raises an eyebrow, gaze sweeping over his rumpled form. Steve feels himself flush and rubs at his prickling neck. “Yeah, I guess. Just one of those- ow, fuck.”

His muscles scream at the touch and a jolt of pain zaps all the way from his shoulders to his skull. Eddie’s worried face shifts into a slow grin. He raises his hands, fingers wiggling invitingly.

Steve knows he shouldn’t. He’s promised himself to keep his distance, to not give in to his desires. He’s lucky to have Eddie here at all, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him away by doing something stupid. He’d never forgive himself.

But his self-control is a feeble thing, and it’s wearing thinner with each day.

“Okay,” he breathes, shifting his position and loosening his tie.

There’s a hum from behind him, and a shuffling sound, and then the warmth of another body blankets him from behind and deft fingers find the knots in his shoulders. It’s heaven and hell all at once, the sting of his muscles relaxing under Eddie’s touch, the feeling of having Eddie close. The knowledge that all he’d need to do is turn around and reach out and pull him in. Never let him go again.

“Sorry about the guitar,” he says, more to distract himself. “He needs to learn to be more careful with other peoples’ shiiit.”

“‘s okay,” Eddie murmurs, skillfully ignoring Steve’s pained hiss. “He was pretty grouchy about you being late, it was a welcome distraction.”

The familiar guilt settles heavy in Steve’s abdomen and he lets out an involuntary sigh. “Yeah. Sorry about that, too.”

“Don’t be.” Eddie shrugs, the motion pulling them a little bit closer together. “That kid loves the shit out of you. You’re a fantastic dad.”

Steve huffs weakly. “I’m a tired dad with one hell of a headache, that’s what I am.”

“Hm,” Eddie hums, and leans in. His breath is a warm tickle against the shell of Steve’s ear, lips almost touching skin, but not quite. “Y’know, that offer applies to you, too. I can always kiss it better.”

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat.

“Eddie!” Dustin hollers from the bathroom. “Where’s the stupid floss? I can’t find anything with your stuff in here!”

Steve has shot up from the sofa and is halfway across the room before he even processes it.

“I got it,” he blurts. “You stay put, you’ve done enough.”

“Fine,” Eddie quips, and Steve imagines there’s an ever-so-slight undercurrent of disappointment in his voice. “But after, you’re coming back and we’re putting on that stupid show you like. You need to relax, Stevie.”

There's a whole lot of things he needs to do, Steve thinks. Get a hold of himself. Tell his dad to fuck off. Tackle Eddie into the sofa and kiss him senseless, or at least talk about this thing that's crackling in the air between them like electricity.

Some day, he might.

But not today.

Today, he'll lie on the sofa and watch tv with Eddie’s feet in his lap and be thankful to have this mesmerizing man in his life - warm and close and so, so tempting, but not his.

For today, this'll have to be enough.

More celebration ficlets

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #1k followers #Hype's 1k follower ficlets #someone who cares

[kissingghouls]

If You Remember This Tomorrow

Phantom Ghoul x GN! Reader - Fluff, Tipsy Kissing, 1700 words

Heard a song, had an idea, wrote some fluff. I don't even know. Thank you to @ramblingoak because you're always so dang supportive. 💜

fic list // ao3 // Little Ghost (pt2) // A Late Night Call (pt3)

The room is loud, almost unbearably so. There are bodies everywhere, some paired off and some not, but all of them are illuminated by lights that flash in a wonderful rainbow of pretty colors. The dancefloor is full, and you feel as though you’re floating after that last drink that tasted more like red than anything else.

A smile spreads over your face as Swiss sways a little too excitedly and stumbles over his dance partner. None of this is new, not even the multi-ghoul falling over his own feet. He barks out a hearty laugh from his new spot on the floor, his whole body shaking. Somehow, he manages to get back to his feet without spilling a drop of his drink. It’s an impressive feat that earns him a kiss on the cheek as a prize before the pair spins off together to get better acquainted.

The success of the Ghost project meant that a good portion of the Ministry was on tour more often than not anymore. While the Ministry parties had always been wild, the more recent homecoming celebrations left most of the congregation with little to no memory of the night before.

A thick fog rolls over the floor, that sickly sweet smell of chemical syrup pumped out from the machines filling the air. Phantom materializes in it, a vapor turned solid shape that now blocks your path. You bounce off him, unsteady and unable to correct your course in your current state. He grabs your elbow, keeping you upright and off the ground with a soft smile. His teeth have a red tint to them, much like your own, but it’s too bright and too loud to make out what he’s saying.

He leans in to repeat himself, his grip a little tighter on your arm. He smells like strawberries and some kind of alcohol. But under the top notes of what you guessed was the last drink he had was the soft smell of a cologne so nice you wanted to bury your face in it.

You hadn’t spent a lot of time with the newly summoned ghoul—time was a luxury neither one of you had. But the pull had been there from the beginning, ever since he clawed his way out of the Pit and locked eyes with you. It’s a dance, one with several complicated steps and neither one of you had felt compelled to lead.

He says something else, words that taste like fruit punch and candy. You grin lazily and pat his shoulder, allowing yourself the first intended contact from you to him. His breath hitches, grip tightening once more. He’s so close now you can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. A uniform you dare to imagine, for a split-second, rumpled in a pile on your floor.

It’s clumsy at first and your teeth clash together more than your lips, but the two of you are in such a stupor that you don’t stop. His hand moves to your back, pressing you close as he adjusts and kisses you properly. Behind you someone whistles—most likely Dew or Cumulus—but it doesn’t distract the ghoul from the task. He brings a hand to the side of your face, fingers splayed over your cheek and neck as he pulls the breath from your lungs.

You grab handfuls of his collar and break away, keeping your forehead pressured to his as you struggle for air. Kissing him is like drowning and you want nothing more than to be underwater again.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles against your lips. He draws a line over your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb and moves in again.

The next kiss is dizzying, knees buckling under the pressure and the flick of his tongue. He keeps you upright with a firm hand on your back and the one on your face slides into your hair. He tugs lightly, a smile hidden between you as you let out the tiniest moan.

Someone clears their throat nearby and the pair of you split apart like you’ve been caught behind the bleachers at a school dance. Papa offers Phantom an almost fatherly smile and pats him on the shoulder. He suggests the two of you get some air to avoid the cluster of ghouls watching nearby.  Phantom is flustered, a pink tinge highlighting his cheeks as he stares back at his captive audience. Mountain and Rain each give him a thumbs up paired with toothy grins.

Your own cheeks heat up as you realize at some point you had been the topic of discussion between the ghouls. Some lonely night had passed between them on the road, maybe on the bus or in some dingy greenroom, and you were the reason he asked for advice from the others. The revelation makes you feel too warm in your clothes, a blush now spreading over your entire body.

You press your face against his shoulder, hiding a shy smile. He slides his hand down your arm, fingers brushing as the lace with yours. He asks if you would like to go with him and yes is the only word you know for a moment.

You don’t miss the smile on his face when the two of you start moving toward the exit, hand in hand.

“Wait!”

Sunshine, ever the perpetual dealer of chaos, approaches carrying two large cups filled with that same red drink that now tastes like Phantom’s kiss. She drops a wink in your direction that is the opposite of subtle and tells you both to have fun before sending you away.

Outside the night is unseasonably cool, a rare break from the heat of summer and the abbey’s sweltering ballroom. You both close your eyes, enjoying the gentle breeze that blows over the grounds. It’s quiet as the wind stills. No one else has made their way out from the party yet. In a few hours the lawn will be filled with your friends and his, but for now it’s just you and Phantom and maybe a curious spirit or two.

You sip carefully from your cups as you walk, the red dye staining your lips and teeth. It doesn’t matter to either of you anymore.

Phantom trips over a gnarled tree root, his drink spilling sticky red liquid over his fingers as he drops to the ground. You can’t help but laugh, the alcohol in your system doing you no favors. He pouts beneath you and wipes his wet hand across your thigh, smearing juice and dirt into your clothes. As you move to help him up, you catch the same root with your own feet and land in the grass next to him in a fit of giggles.

“You ok?” he asks through his own laughter, smiling wide when you nod. He settles on the lawn propped up on an elbow as he watches you.

The minutes pass, the pair of you splitting the remainder of your drink as you sit together in the grass. It’s a clear, beautiful night—a lot like the night he was summoned and pulled from the ground by Papa himself. You smile at the thought, the memory now a tiny movie in your head.

“I think I’m stuck,” he tells you and sinks into the ground a little more.

You shuffle closer, the space between you reduced to maybe half an inch. He drapes an arm over your waist, closing the gap even more with a soft sigh.

“You’re nice to look at,” he admits happily, a small hiccup breaking the sentence.

“Am I?”

“Mmhmm. There’s a word for it up here—I can’t remember it now, but in the Pit we’d say,” he pauses for a moment and brings his mouth to your ear before making a noise that sounds like a dryer full of gravel. “There’s not a word for word translation, but it’s close.”

You do your best to imitate the noise, giggling at his surprised face.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he teases, clutching a hand to his chest in fake shock.

You laugh harder at his stupid joke than you mean to, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“No,” you finally manage as you dare to reach for his waist. “Kissed you with it, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “We should do that again.”

“We could. Or you can tell me more about how I’m nice to look at.”

He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder with a tiny whine. “Words are hard, ok?”

“So you’re not going to kiss—mmph!”

He catches your lips in another slow, passionate kiss that leaves you lightheaded. Your legs tangle as he pins you against the soft ground and you can’t think of anywhere you’d rather be. He tastes like heaven or maybe hell, syrupy sweet from whatever the ghouls had put in those cups.

He sounds smug as he mumbles something about being right to want to kiss you again, not quite pulling away enough to be fully understood. It doesn’t matter because you’re both smiling, completely drunk on fruit punch and each other.

Minutes become hours, but Phantom keeps you warm through the night. You talk about everything as you slowly sober up. He tells you about his time on the road, stories about mischief and misbehaved ghouls and the thousands of happy faces that he’s seen. You explain what he missed while he was away, like the time the hell hound puppies escaped their crates and dug up part of Primo’s garden and the day Cowbell fell into the fountain.

The two of you rest against a tree—the same one with the root that had taken you both down. In the comfortable quiet you fall asleep on his shoulder, his arm draped around you to keep you close. When his eyes begin to feel too heavy, he presses a kiss into your hair and rests his head on yours.

It won’t be long before your friends find you and tease you while you all nurse hangovers and swear never to drink that much again. There will be stories about what you missed and who came searching for you, who fell in the pool and who taught Papa the latest dance. You’ll listen to all of it while Phantom holds your hand and you will know you were right where you were supposed to be.

#my fics #my writing #phantom ghoul x reader #phantom ghoul x gn reader #the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fic #ghost band fanfic #nameless ghouls x reader #nameless ghouls fanfic

[luveline]

hey! sorry if you’ve done this already, please ignore. pls could i request hotch with reader who’s recovering from a (major) surgery? thank you 🫶

“Is it hideous?” 

“Yes,” Hotch says, though he doesn’t look at the bandage nor the wound. “You’ll be marred forever, likely.” His hand cups your cheek, and his thumb draws teeny lines across the apple of it. “Unsightly.” 

You laugh into yourself and let your eyes close under the pleasure of his small touch. The hospital room is quiet, private even, though that’s soon to change. You’ve been informed of another visitor who will need to share your room in an hour. Visiting hours will be over shortly afterwards. 

“Are they sure I can’t come home?” you ask. 

“They need to do so much,” he says unhappily. 

“I don’t want to be alone when it gets worse again.” 

Hotch speaks softly. “It might not get worse again. But if the pain is too much, I’ll stay. They won’t be able to force me out.” 

“You’ll abuse your power.”

“Only for you,” he says sincerely. His kiss says as much, so gentle and slow to your chapped lips. It’s as chaste as they come but you’d needed it. Your shoulders relax as he sits up again. “I know you feel off kilter, you’re going to, because this isn’t a small thing to recover from, but I’m not going anywhere you can’t reach me if you need me.” He tucks your blanket back over your chest, but he’s sitting on it, and it doesn’t have much give. “Will this be enough? I’ll bring the nurses a fleece tonight after I’ve gone to give to you. This isn’t going to be warm enough.” 

“I feel too hot.” 

He feels along your forehead softly. “You feel perfectly normal. Don’t worry.” 

Your chance of infection is high. Surgical infection especially. You won’t know you’re sick until your vitals tank, and then it gets dangerous. 

Hotch frowns at you. He, as always, how tiresome, looks handsome. His hair has grown unkempt to his standards but perfect to yours, dark strands falling down over his forehead. His eyes are darker, shadowed by the lack of light, shades down and the privacy curtain still drawn. You can’t tell his pupil from the iris, not where his gaze is pointed. 

“Don’t forget,” he says. “Drinks in the drawer so you can reach them. Your chapstick is in with your glasses. There are face wipes if you start to feel the need for them–”

“I won’t forget.”

His hand smooths down to your neck. “The chocolate is in the top drawer too.” His fingertips draw lazy circles into your neck, brushing against the rumpled neck of your pyjama top with every revolution. “Your phone is charged, and there’s a charging bank–”

“In the top drawer,” you finish for him. “Thank you, Aaron, I promise I know.” 

He folds when you call him by his first name. His frown falls away, his eyes softer and lighter as he lifts his head to the frail shaft of light coming in through the curtain. He’d take your breath away if you weren’t feeling as shockingly frail as you are. 

“You’re doing so well.” He clasps your shoulder. “A few more days and you’ll be home. We’ll both be feeling better, and Jack will fall to pieces in sympathy and keep you company in bed all day.” 

“What about you?” 

“Me too, obviously,” he says quietly. “Move over, honey. I’ll start now.” 

You shuffle over one centimetre at a time and he doesn’t rush you. Eventually, there’s room for the two of you to squeeze in shoulder to shoulder, where he takes your arm into a careful hold and hugs it to his chest, his lips to your cheek. 

“You okay?” he asks. “Out of ten.” 

“Five. And a half.” He kisses your eyebrow. “Seven,” you correct. 

He kisses you again, but you’re feeling shitty from the surgery and seven is as high as you can go.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

[theartofdreaming1]

Some more Captain Swan (or would this qualify as Captain Duckling? idk)

This started out as a simple, mindless ouat doodle, but then my brain decided to come up with bits and pieces of a story for this while I was working on it, so... If you're interested, you can read the basic premise under the cut:

Basically, we have bar wench Emma teaming up with infamous pirate Captain Hook to bring down the Dark One: Killian has finally gotten a way to get rid of the damn crocodile and Emma has learned of that while the crew of the Jolly Roger stopped by the tavern she works at; for Emma, it's about getting her son back (Neal/Baelfire is still Henry's father in this AU, but left the realm to escape his father, so Rumple's trying to use Henry to track down Neal, i guess)... Anyway, Emma steals onto the Jolly Roger (to steal whatever magical item required to best the Dark One or to stowaway on board, your pick), gets discovered by our good captain ('feisty lass' that she is, she still manages to hold a dagger to his throat before he gets the best of her - there are on his ship, after all), she reveals why she's doing this in the first place - to reunite with her son - and they strike an accord to work together as they share a common goal... Shenanigans ensue, (and no, there is connection/bond between them that's growing closer over time, Emma is absolutely positive of that, thank you very much ;), plans go awry - they are chased by a monster of some sort, Killian decides to fight it off, to give Emma some more time to flee - she has to make it back to her son, after all - and tells her to go, to leave him behind... (but we know she doesn't listen... she never does ;)

Something like that, I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (and hey, if any Captain Swan writers out there feel like writing that story for me, let me know - I'd love to read it!)

(Also, I'm kind of happy how dynamic the poses in this drawing have turned out! I reworked the lineart a couple of times, not sure if I was wasting my time but while I liked the og sketch, I think the end result is a definite improvement)

Og sketch/doodle:

#captain swan #captain duckling #emma swan #killian jones #ouat #my sketches and drawings #aside from being a slowass writer I'm also swamped with having to write my thesis and term papers #so who knows when I'll maybe finally get to actually write this story #but I think it could make for a fun AU #also please ignore me continuing to struggle with damn backgrounds 😭

[gabessquishytum]

not sure if you’re a fan of crack treated seriously, but here goes a silly one: dream and hob are in an arranged marriage. dream was only barely taught about sex; he was told hob would penetrate him and that’s about it. except dream didn’t really know *where* he’d be penetrated, and he was left with the long lasting impression that hob would try to stab him on their wedding night. repeatedly. any tales of your first time hurting or being bloody did not help to dissuade this notion. so in their wedding bed, the second the door is closed, dream smacks hob clean across the face as hard as he can

It's giving........ our flag means death homoerotic stabbing. And I love it. That being said, someone please give Dream a biology lesson 😭😭

Poor Hob is blindsided. His new husband seemed quite nice before they got into the bedroom alone! And Hob does try to understand - he immediately rushes to reassure Dream that he wasn't going to force him, or anything! He's willing to wait until Dream is ready. And Dream just snorts and says something like "as if I would ever be ready for you to stab me!"

Hob wonders if he's getting concussion from the smack Dream gave him and he's like "I'm not??? Going to stab you??? Ever???" Which makes Dream pause and look at him suspiciously.

"I was given to understand that it would be my marital duty. To submit to... Penetration." He says warily. And Hob, oh, he tries so hard not to laugh because it's really not funny!! It's not!! But. He can't help it.

Nursing his sore face, Hob grabs some paper and draws a crude but explanatory diagram for Dream, outlining exactly what... thing would go inside which orifice. Dream is mortified. He flops face down on the bed and simply bursts into tears. He's made a fool of himself in front of his new husband! He can't possibly recover.

But Hob gives him a friendly pat on the back and tells him to cheer up. It's not Dream’s fault, after all. Hob is just glad that his pretty, sweet new husband presumably won't be smacking him on a regular basis.

They fall asleep cuddling on top of the bed, still fully dressed, just totally exhausted. But in the morning... Dream wakes up with a stiring feeling in his gut. He glances at the diagram and thinks, maybe... maybe Hob could give him a more practical demonstration?

When someone finally checks on the newlyweds, the bed is pleasingly rumpled, Dream is very pink and flushed, and no one has been stabbed. Hob has quite a healthy bruise on his cheek, though. He's promised not to tell anyone how it got there. Getting to finally make love to Dream and give him a good first time was absolutely worth it <3

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft