#gift fic

[hitlikehammers]

time for that age old question: is love enough to beat back the apocalypse?

Because Steve's right there to protect everybody like the self-sacrificing asshole he is help Eddie make the music he's not strong enough for yet help them all put Vecna in the ground for good this time, right?(!??!)

or: what's the song for your walkman, baby? does it even matter?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< three: sleep 🌗

🎧 🎹 four: play 🎶 🛡️

To tell the whole truth of it: it comes too quickly—Vecna’s last stand. Of course it does.

But probably, if he’s being fair: they’d never have been really ready. Not for this, and so maybe it’s best that they’re not fully healed, not at full strength when it all comes to a head, not least because that means Vecna and his petal-toothed brigade aren’t at full strength either. And that choice, for their side, is sloppy; the Party stands on the right-side-up against the attack because they have to. Vecna makes his move because—or else, Eddie’s fairly sure—because the sadistic ballsac is losing his fucking mind.

Which is terrifying, sure, but fuck if it doesn’t help their cause.

It’s actually over pretty quick, even compared to Spring Break which, while it felt like a lifetime for how much it changed Eddie’s own, it’s only been those handful of days—but it’s kinda like the grand finale at a fireworks show: everything all at once then, done. In the everything’s though: he might not like it, but Eddie’s not so foolish as to believe he’s not still too tender, still too deep in healing the finer points of being gnawed alive to be anything but a burden in the thick of it. He refuses to be sidelined, though, and he thinks it says a lot for the long-term health of this glorious impossible thing he’s…building? Yeah, he, umm, he, Eddie Munson, is building a real goddamn thing where he doesn’t even just let someone into his heart and treasures them there, no, he’s building a thing where he gives his heart and gets on new and soft and trembling in kind and they both get to work at the treasuring of something more precious than just their own vulnerable insides, but yeah, yeah:

Eddie thinks it bodes really fucking well for the hopes he has that lean hard toward forever, already, in Eddie’s chest at least when Steve looks his way as they’re planning the teams and he locks eyes with Eddie and Eddie doesn’t even get his mouth open to breathe, to plead don’t cut me out, don’t send me to Wayne to be ‘safe’ or ‘out of harm’s way’ or whatever, don’t leave me so fucking far from you my heart hurts just because it’s beating in the middle space unmoored and shaking around all bruised up with it for not knowing and I know I can’t do what everyone else can but it’ll be bad enough not being next to you please don’t push me far enough that I won’t know the moment you’re safe, just—

Steve meets his eyes, and Eddie’s breath catches before his heart trips, and then Steve speaks up—and he doesn’t, not all that often when the nerdiest among them are shoring up the battle plans—but he watches Eddie without blinking when he pipes up:

“Eddie’s on medical and audio, with Erica and Jon.”

And maybe it’s his tone—this almost wholly novel thing in Steve that’s steely and unquestionable but no one pushes, they nod and get back to work, totally seamless and, and…yeah. That’s all Eddie wanted. Best he could hope for. Just outside the gate they go through. Close enough to hold a hand on the way down, and reach for purchase on the journey back.

Steve swallows hard, and nods at Eddie before he looks away and starts gearing up, twirls his fucking nailbat so it catches the sunlight even thought the metal’s mostly rusted, now and just…Eddie hadn’t needed to say a word. And Steve wanted to send him to safety, the way his throat had bobbed made it real clear there was something heavy he’s held back but: he’d said what he said. He’d laid the line in Eddie’s favor. Eddie wants to hold him, wants to pull him close and feel him breathe, and—

Yeah. Eddie kinda feels like the way it goes is a really good sign for their future as a couple. A couple. Them. Together.

With an always on the other side of all of this that could be kinda fucking magnificent, maybe. Given the chance.

Point being: Eddie gets himself set up with at least a full ambulance’s supplies for first aid, definitely not acquired legally, and a stereo set up he really wishes someone had been kind enough to outfit him with in not-the-apocalypse, holy shit is it gorgeous, but since the strength in his hands is still a work-in-progress, he’s gotta be ready to crank up the noise as a distraction from arm’s-length. It’s actually driving him fucking crazy—or, was; it was, pre-active return to the regularly scheduled world ending—the whole not being able to make music, to translate the noise in his head into sounds on the strings but even that, even that’s been tolerable, survivable because of Steve—who he loves, he gets to love Steve Harrington holy fuck—but Steve’s not just there to be everything and more than the air Eddie goddamn breathes, to become the music just by existing, nope, he one ups that shit: he asked Eddie if it’d be enough to learn the chords he needs. So Eddie could match the words with the notes right, so Steve could be a—

“—kinda piss-poor substitute but,” Steve had shrugged for it with a crooked grin; “but even a bad translator gets a message across, and you’d know when it’s wrong so we can figure out how to fix it and—“

And Eddie’d grabbed Steve’s chin and yanked his mouth close to fucking consume that man like a soul goddamn starved.

“I’d be a shit teacher,” Eddie had mouthed against Steve’s lips after they were sucked well-swollen; “if I still can’t lift the fucking neck for more than a minute,” but Steve had heard none of it, just shot right back:

“You don’t think we’ve beat steeper odds than that?”

And in the face of that raised brow, those red lips parted, that pulse in that neck still a little bit visible like a tease: the fuck was Eddie supposed to do but dive back in and love on the man who’d somehow agreed to be his, and to claim Eddie of all people in turn?

Which is a whole other reason why everything’s gonna be fine: Steve’s gonna make music with him. Steve’s gonna be Eddie’s muse and the vessel for what he inspires. It’s gonna be like Greek fucking poetry, except it’s gonna be them.

So Eddie’s all stocked up, s’got everyone’s floaty-bone-breaky songs queued up on blast for immediate deployment as necessary, and Steve’s the last to go through—he always is, in Eddie’s experience, waits for everyone to be safely accounted for before he spares a thought for himself and it might kill Eddie one day but not fucking today, because it’s gonna be fine—

“Eddie.”

It feels a little like history repeating itself, the way Steve huddles him in a little. Henderson’s through, with Lucas and Hopper and the weird stray Russian, but it’s not like history repeating, because Eddie’s got different words to see him off with; so fucking different.

“Last time I didn’t have,” and Steve reaches, cups Eddie’s cheek, drags down to press on his chest as his voice strains hard: “and it almost killed me,” and Steve usually pinches between his eyes to keep his feelings in check but instead of using his free hand to hold back the tears he reaches for Eddie’s and laces their fingers as his voice cracks and he chokes out:

“Please,” and it’s for everything. For all the almosts from last time; for all the possibilities rife this time. For all the hopes Eddie thinks they share beyond how this shakes out.

“Exceptionally underqualified field med,” Eddie breathes, and squeezes Steve’s hand so, so hard like a promise, because it is; “exceptionally overqualified DJ,” and Steve chuckles, wet but real and it’s enough, because:

“I got it, Stevie,” Eddie bends his forehead to Steve’s to say better than with words that he’s not in this to be a hero, he’ll be right here the whole time, but that doesn’t mean he…that doesn’t mean he can help but to ask this time:

“Just,” and the breath in him punches out unexpectedly as he damn-near begs:

“Only bring me back the little things, yeah? That I know how to fix?”

And they both hear what’s said underneath it:

Don’t turn around and die down there, and kill me in kind..

And—if anyone’s keeping track—they turn out not to need it but: the way the kiss is a wholeass wartime farewell, man.

And then: Eddie waits, and fucks with the speakers for less than an hour before the earth shakes, and his heart drops, but then he hears it.

The fucking whooping of those shitheads echoing through the cracks.

And then he sees it, runs, grabs the first hand that’s clinging to the rope this time and pulls with strength he doesn’t have, is probably more a hindrance than a help but he steadies them each back on the ground and hugs them so tight, kisses more than one of them on the head or the cheek as he doesn’t pretend not to be sobbing through the laughter because they did it, they fucking did it, somehow it’s over and he loves these people and he’s so fucking happy they’re alive and safe and here and—

And the person he loves more, loves most, brings up the rear, a little bloodied, a little scratched up, dingy with the fucking air down there but smiling and Eddie…

Eddie falls into him so fucking hard they both hit the ground and just, just grab onto one another. Just hold and breathe and catch lips every few seconds like an afterthought because they feel each other’s heartbeat where their chests are pressed tight and it’s, they’re…

Steve’s got four broken fingers across both hands. None in a row. He’s basically giving a Vulcan salute by default for how they’re taped.

Eddie loves him so goddamn much it hurts.

And Eddie’d obviously known—once things start to settle in the days that’ve followed—that teaching Steve guitar with those Spock-y hands was on the back burner, but he does ask Steve to sit, and to rest, and to help hum back the tunes in Eddie’s head while Eddie jots lyrics with a hand that’s still shaky but steadying out more every day, and it’s kind of perfect, and Steve adds some things into the melodies either on purpose or by accident but they’re better for it every time and—

Muse and vessel, man. The light of Eddie’s whole goddamn life.

With fucking Vulcan hands still, though, so: excuse Eddie for being…bewildered when his boyfriend—boyfriend, that’s his boyfriend—but his taped-up-healing-Vulcan-handed boyfriend is propping the front door open and lugging in a long, not-recovery-friendly thing that looks close to dropping on his toes and—

“The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks with a little more panic in his voice than he’d hoped for as he rushes as best he can to where Steve’s kicking the door shut behind him, fluttering his hands around uselessly as Steve maneuvers past him, leans across for a peck at the corner of Eddie’s mouth and calls—“It’s fine, it weighs, like, nothing”—over his shoulder as he settles the, the thing down on the coffee table in the living room they’ve started actually using for, y’know.

Living.

Eddie follows him in, though, because of course, he’s half-a-dog on that man’s heels, whole-caught-in-the-gravity-of-his-everything: but Eddie follows as Steve tosses himself backward with something in his hand, rolls and rucks up his fucking absurd Hawking Middle tee across the sweet curve of his hips, the way the soft give of skin tempts Eddie to run his tongue over the trail of almost-curls, like baby-curls where they lead under the waist of his jeans: Eddie would happily volunteer to survive on the taste of that musky-delicate space until the end of goddamn time—

But then Steve’s huffing a breathless ha from behind a chair where he’d been stretched to reach and a light catches Eddie’s eye from his periphery where he’d been staring unblinking just at Steve: the big long black thing on the coffee table. It takes a genuine concerted effort not to keep at the Steve-staring—not an uncommon state of Eddie’s existence, in all fairness—and check what’s glowing on the table: something turned on. Was plugged in, right, that’s what had Steve rolling on the floor without Eddie on top of or being deliciously pinned down by him.

The something being the big long black thing that Eddie takes in for the whole of it, now: a keyboard.

“Jon picked it up for me second-hand from the place next to Fox Photo when he drove down for his camera, and Rob vouched that it’s a good brand and like, really good condition,” Steve’s raised up on his knees, now with his hands braces on his thighs as Eddie studies the keys, fingers the ends of a every few of the naturals.

“Rob helped with those, too, so I’d know the right, like, chords,” and yeah: they’re stupa of masking tape stuck to the keys with letters in blue, black, and red pen, alternating so they don’t get mixed up, some with and arrow, Eddie assumes, to indicate a sharp.

“I only remember like half of one song from when my parents thought it would look good to have me take piano lessons,” Steve huffs in whole-ass judgment; “my mom wanted the endorsement of the guy who was stepping down from city council, and his wife taught private lessons, so, y’know,” Steve rolls his eyes; “super convenient leading up to the election.”

“What song?”

Steve blinks, tips his head in askance for what Eddie recognizes very clearly as something closer to a croak than a question, his throat all tight. He tries to cough, to clear it.

“What song do you remember?”

Steve snorts at that, leans back on his palms, and fuck is he beautiful.

“Clair de Lune,” Steve grins crooked; “the one song I was allowed to pick, instead of just being assigned.”

“Why’d you pick it?” Not that Eddie doesn’t like it or anything. It’s more that…he knew Steve could more than just drum fingers on keys, if only just, and that a baby grand used to sit in the corner where there’s a stereo cabinet now, but.

But: see, there’s like a whole half of his heart that’s dedicated to collecting new knowledge about everything Steve: his favorite food when he was 12 versus the now. How his favorite color became his favorite color. The story behind all the polos. The nitty-gritties about why he’s in a big-ass house alone for approximately 360 days a year, and how long it’s been that way. Eddie’s whole heart is basically Steve’s but every day that half overflows a little, and Eddie’s only keeping it relegated to parts filled with Steve-lore so he can feel the collection break containment every other day, this grand and joyous bursting under his ribs as everything spills over again, and again, and again until it’s all just Steve, and his heart has to burst or stretch, or both.

Eddie thinks both will be amazing.

And right now, in the interest of building toward that amazing-both: he wants to know why Debussy.

Steve chuckles to himself—better music than any dead French guy by a country mile—and eyes Eddie almost slyly.

“Do you remember Claire Reynolds?”

Vaguely. Like, very vaguely. He remembers…uneven pigtails. Very actual-cult-like vibes about her family as a vague impression and now that he’s bringing it to mind he feels a new wave of indignation: those Children-of-the-Corn motherfuckers were just fine but Eddie liked a board game and he was probably a murderer.

“When we were in like, first grade,” Steve’s continuing on; “she asked me every, single, day, to come over and see her sheep.” Steve looks up at Eddie and bites his lower lip, lets his gaze dance and lets Eddie fall into it for a few dazed seconds before he spells it out.

“She had these crazy eyes about it, it was kinda unsettling,” Steve nudges, but Eddie’s doesn’t get it until:

“And it’s not like I do now, because obviously I don’t, but I definitely didn’t speak a lick of French when I was eight.”

It takes Eddie a hot second before he snorts hard enough to hurt:

Claire, da Loon.

“I was eight,” Steve protests Eddie’s laughter halfheartedly even as he joins in, reaches to slap at Eddie’s upper arm which honestly: just makes him laugh harder.

“Anyway,” Steve fights through the last of the chuckling as it peters out between them, drags himself to sitting next to the coffee table and taps his hand to the top of the keyboard.

“I know it’s not the same as learning guitar to help, and I can probably only get the top and bottom notes with these,” he lifts his Vulcan-fingers his a shrug; “but I was hoping that’d be better than nothing?”

And, like, how Eddie was talking about his heart having to swell, for all the things he gets to tuck inside of it that come with loving Steve Harrington?

He might crack a rib, just now, because—

“This is for me?”

Steve purses his lips, lifts a brow:

“Well, technically it’s for me,” steve singles his fingers, which looks absurd with the splints; “but yeah. To help you get the songs out. I mean, once these are free again, you can help me with the guitar like we talked about, until you’re—“

And Eddie cannot be blamed, see: he cannot be fucking blamed for tackling Steve to the floor and kissing him hard enough to bruise because…

“You got hurt,” Eddie half-breathes between kisses; “you got hurt and I was so afraid I was gonna lose you,” and Eddie reaches for those taped fingers and kisses them, too: so gentle and Steve’s expression softens so quick:

“I was scared, too,” he whispers between them, cups Eddie’s face with his unloaded hand; “you were as safe as I could make you within the fucking city limits but I was still so goddamn scared.”

Cue more rib-cracking for the heart-swelling, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“And you,” Eddie exhales, slow and shaky; “you’re hurt, but you went and got,” he nods to the keyboard;

“I know it’s not ideal,” Steve’s quick to, to what, apologize? For being insane and perfect and—

“Shut up,” Eddie says, voice low and watery and he’s still kissing at Steve’s fingers, holding his wrist delicate but also like a lifeline.

“You’re hurt,” Eddie maybe kinda moans it because he hates it, as much as he’s so fucking grateful that’s it’s just this, no worse than this; “and you still—”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

And that…that’s one thing Eddie’s learned beyond reproach; that even to his detriment, Steve keeps his goddamn promises.

And he’d promised to help Eddie get his words out, to place the lyrics to the notes and help unclutter his brain so he didn’t lose his mind.

Holy fucking hell.

“Steve,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, needs to find the right words. “You’re alive,” the most important thing. “You are healing,” another most important thing, for Eddie to oversee and make sure of, even as Steve keeps an eye on the last lingering threads of the long haul on Eddie’s road to recovery in kind, his beloved mother hen.

“This is,” and he runs his fingers too light to draw sounds across the keys, hopes he sounds as awed and grateful as he feels; “but you, you’ve gotta test, you have to,” and Eddie shakes his head and lifts his eyes to just fucking ask it:

“Why?”

And Steve: Steve just studies his face for a few seconds, reads what he needs before he smiles kinda exasperated, mostly fond and answers so simply, while also breaking a few more of Eddie’s ribs when he just says:

“Because I love you.”

And Eddie’s heart’s not so overfull yet of all of Steve, it’s not fair that it just bursts right then and there, Eddie propelled into Steve’s arms to kiss him deep this time, like he’s searching out Steve’s soul to taste and maybe he is, save that he needs his heart to not have exploded for feeling if he’s going to keep the memory of it safe in his chest for always, he needs to patch his heart back up first but he’s too distracted, too drowned in the way love actually fucking feels, fucking shifts his cells around and makes a new version of him, lets his heart grow bigger except it went and blasted apart with the unprecedented immensity of loving and—

And then Eddie’s got Steve’s taped up hands on both his cheeks, and he remembers that night, in the shower, where Steve ripped the seams from his shirt so taking it off wouldn’t hurt him; notices how Steve is wearing that same fucking shirt in this very moment, all in one piece, like it never split apart in the first place.

Master seamstress, tried and tested and true; truer than anything.

So Eddie just dives back in and kisses with everything in him, thinks maybe when Steve tastes the pieces of Eddie’s blowout heart under his tongue while Eddie goes diving for the sweet lick of Steve’s soul:

Eddie thinks Steve’s mouth might know how to stitch up torn things, too. Especially the kinds that are ripped at their seams wholly for the sake of loving that fucking hard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #hurt/comfort #whump #fluff #happy ending #angst with a happy ending #soft #pining #slow burn #(ish) #steddie fic #deep devoted caretaker steve #smitten recovering post S4 eddie #sharing a bed #sleeping together #not like THAT #HE'S RECOVERING OKAY #nightmares #though maybe it IS time to address the...crush-confession-dick-grazing-shower-thing #like: just MAYBE #love confessions #domestic fluff #5+1 things #stranger things #gift fic #penny00dreadful

[hbyrde36]

For my beloved @penny00dreadful 💜🖤

My fandom bestie, writing soulmate, and one of my absolute favorite people in the entire world.

Happy (early) Birthday 🌈👠💖

Huge thanks to @pearynice and @hitlikehammers for all your help in making this story come to life!

WC: 3483 | Ch 1/4 | AO3 <-

Chapter 1: Over the Rainbow

To be perfectly honest, Steve always felt a little unsafe riding around in the van with Eddie. It wasn’t that he was a bad driver, per se, but he was definitely a distracted one, constantly needing to be reminded to keep his eyes on the road instead of the tape deck. He also tended to treat speed limits as more of a suggestion than something enforceable by law.

Tonight was no exception, the feeling of unease even worse than usual because of the storm raging outside. They shouldn’t have even been on the road in these conditions, a fact Steve had tried in vain to convince Eddie of. Hawkins was under a tornado warning for fuck’s sake! But the other boy wouldn’t hear it, their errand was too important.

They had plenty of beer, but they needed snacks. 

According to Eddie there was absolutely no way they could enjoy Friday the 13th part 27, or whatever ridiculous number sequel it was that he wanted to watch, properly without the three basic food groups: Pringles, Twizzlers, and some form of chocolate.

They were having a movie night, just him and Eddie. It was no big deal, really. Steve wasn’t nervous about it at all. They’d been getting along fine since Vecna had been defeated, better than fine! They just… hadn’t spent a lot of one-on-one time together. 

Typically, at least Robin, and some-or-all of the kids, would join them on a night like this, but the kids were set on going to the arcade, and Robin—who’d finally gotten over her fear of driving and managed to get her license on the first try—was taking Vickie out for what may or may not be a date, and borrowing Steve’s car to do it.

Therein lay the source of the problem, actually. It was usually Robin’s job to procure movie night snacks, and in her absence neither of them had thought to pick up the slack.

Which is what had led them to this moment. 

Flying down the road at 15 miles per hour over the posted speed limit, minimum, in a fucking downpour, at night. They were just asking for a deer or some shit to come bounding across the road and then—BAM!

As if on cue, just as Steve had the thought, something did indeed dart out from the side of the road to cross in front of them. Fortunately, for once, Eddie was actually paying attention. He slammed on the brakes, simultaneously jerking the wheel, allowing them to narrowly miss hitting the poor wild animal. 

Unfortunately, that combination of evasive maneuvers caused them to spin out, and sent the van careening into a ditch on the side of the road. The vehicle flipped, and Steve had just enough time to think how glad he was that they’d both been wearing their seatbelts, before something from the rear came flying up to smack him hard in the back of the head. 

-

Steve came to slowly, blinking awake, wincing as the bright light of day attacked his retinas. 

Day?

But it’d been night, hadn’t it? It was dark, and it was raining, and…

The evening before came back to him in a sudden rush. The van sliding across the road, the sickening crunch of metal as it rolled, gravity doing what gravity does. He didn't remember anything after that, but it looked like somehow they’d managed to land upright in the end at least.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck, pleasantly surprised to find no lumps, bumps, or blood, nor did he feel the telltale nausea that sometimes came with a really bad blow to the head. He wondered if Eddie– 

Oh my god, Eddie!

Steve looked to the left, finding the driver's seat empty and was instantly gripped by panic. He scrambled out of the car, nearly falling on his ass in his hurry.

“Eddie?” He called out, fear churning in his gut. “Eddie?!”

He spun a circle, relief washing over him as he found the other boy only a few feet away. 

Eddie was sitting on a large tree trunk, rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, gnawing on his fingernails as he stared at the backside of the van.

“There you are! Dude, you scared the shit out of–” Steve trailed off as he rushed to Eddie’s side to see what he was looking at, and swallowed hard. It was a pair of legs in striped stockings wearing a killer pair of red heels, sticking out from under the rear tires. The shoes glittered cheerfully in the sunlight. “Oh, fuck.”

Eddie dropped his head into his hands. “I thought I swerved in time. I thought we missed it.”

“I thought it was a deer.” Steve mumbled.

Eddie cut him an annoyed glare. “Clearly not, Harrington.”

“Hey,” Steve said softly. He knew Eddie well enough by now to tell when he was scared—when he felt guilty, even if he was trying to act otherwise. “This isn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

“Yeah,” Eddie huffed. “Tell that to the cops! They thought I was a murderer once already. It’s only been a few months where I can actually be seen in public without someone calling me a devil worshiper, or worse. Now they’ll think they have proof that I really am a killer!”

“You know Hop will go to bat for you again, and I’m here. I can be a witness.”

“That’s not all.” 

“It somehow gets worse than us accidentally killing some lady?”

Eddie sighed, raking a hand over his face as he rose from the stump. He turned, gesturing to something behind them, but Steve was still stuck on those legs. He couldn’t look away. 

“Why the hell was someone out in shoes like that in the middle of the night anyway?” Steve mused. “It was pouring.” 

“Steve, look.”

“What if we just said I was driving? Then we– “

“Steve!” Eddie gripped his upper arms, forcibly turning him around. 

Steve’s eyes went wide. They were standing right on the edge of a little town. Little, not only in the way that the town itself was small in, like, area, though it was that—about the size of one city block—but for the fact that all the colorful little buildings and bungalows were miniature. The whole thing was surrounded by gardens laden with all sorts of beautiful plants, shrubs, and trees, with flowers of every shade in bloom.

“What the fuck,” Steve breathed, taking a few tentative steps into the vivid village.

“Yeah.”

“Eddie, what the fuck?! Where are we? And why is everything in technicolor?”

Eddie stepped up from behind to clap him on the back. 

“I don’t think we’re in Hawkins anymore, big boy.”

Steve shot him a look over his shoulder. “What was your first clue?”

“I see where Dustin gets his tone from.” Eddie mumbled.

Steve chewed on his bottom lip. “Do you… do you think it’s like the Upside Down?” 

“In the sense that it’s another dimension? Maybe, but I don't get the feeling this one has any terrifying monsters. It’s too clean. It even smells nice, like roses and shit.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. Eddie had a point, nothing about this place screamed danger. “The Upside Down always smelled like mold and rotting flesh.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“What do we do? How do we get back?” Steve asked, not really expecting Eddie to have all the answers, but he did his best thinking out loud with company. 

“No idea.”

“Should we start walking? Maybe try and find a payphone?”

Eddie scoffed. “A payphone?”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

The other boy was quiet for a moment, a rare occurrence, but eventually threw his hands up in defeat. “No, actually. So, I guess walking it is.”

Steve turned back, intending on pilfering the van for things that might be useful, like water, weapons, or one of the many lighters that littered the floor, when something in the distance caught his eye.  

“What the hell is that?” He asked aloud, pointing up to the sky at a giant pink bubble that was headed straight for them. 

Eddie squinted up at it. “I think there's something inside.”

“Should we run?”

“Maybe we should pop it.”

“You just said there was something inside! Wouldn’t that let it out?”

Eddie shrugged.

In no time, the bubblegum colored sphere settled near them and faded away, leaving behind a woman with long dark wavy hair. She held a long scepter, and wore a tall crown and a poofy ball gown, of all things. There was also something very familiar about her face. 

“Wait.”

“No.”

“Is that?”

“It can’t be.”

“Joyce?!” They both said, in tandem.

The woman in the ballgown tilted her head. “Who’s Joyce?”

“You are.” Steve said. 

She shook her head, offering him a kind smile. “I’m afraid not. I’m Glinda, the Witch of the North, and who might you be?”

Eddie leaned in, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Is she serious?”

Steve snorted a laugh, quickly trying to hide it with a cough.

“What’s so funny?” Not-Joyce asked. 

“Nothing, uh, I’m Steve, and this is Eddie.”

She stepped carefully around them, pointing her sparkly stick at the half-a-dead-body that jutted out from under Eddie’s van. “What do you boys have to say for yourselves?”

“I’m sorry?” Eddie said, sobering quickly. At the same time Steve insisted, “It was an accident!”

“Stop giving them a hard time, Glinda. They did us a favor!” A strangely familiar voice called out from behind a nearby bush, and a moment later 6 small-ish figures came popping out of the surrounding foliage.

“They killed The Wicked Witch of the East!” The one with curly hair shouted, as the others cheered.

Eddie jumped. “Jesus H. Christ, where did all you little fuckers come from?!”

“Oh my god.” Steve muttered under his breath.

It was the kids, except they were actually kids. The 11-year-old versions of Dustin, Will, Lucas, Mike, Max, and El pushed and shoved their way past each other, all trying to be the first to approach.

“Who you calling little?” Baby-Lucas said.

“Okay, what the hell is going on here guys? Why are you so young, and what’s with the outfits?” Steve asked, completely dumbfounded.

Once he’d gotten over the initial shock of their appearance, Steve realized they were all wearing costumes or something. The girls wore pink frilly dresses and tall pointed bonnets, something he knew for a fact Max would never have agreed to, and the boys had these funny little shorts with long socks and matching tops—except for Dustin, who donned long pants and an even longer coat, along with a striped bow tie and a giant pocket watch hanging from his side. 

Eddie looked similarly stunned. “How did you get us here? And how did you get Joyce in on it?”

“Who’s Joyce?” Mini-Mike-Wheeler asked.

“I think they mean me.” Not-Joyce said.

Tiny Dustin’s face twisted up in confusion. “But that’s not your name.”

She shrugged. “I tried telling them that.”

Steve groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Okay fine, she’s Glinda. Who are you?”

“Oh! I'm the mayor of Munchkinland.” A wide, gummy smile spread across tiny-Dustin’s face as he stuck his arm out, er, up, for a handshake. 

Steve stared down at him, unimpressed. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. I'm done playing whatever game this is. How do we–”

A sudden explosion went off in the middle of the town square only a few yards away, creating a thick cloud of red smoke. On instinct Steve and Eddie both moved to place themselves between the oncoming threat and the Munchkins. 

The air cleared quickly, revealing a woman in a long black dress and matching cloak, carrying a broom and wearing a hard scowl.

Steve blinked at her, then looked at Eddie for confirmation that they were seeing the same thing. 

“Mrs. Click?”

Eddie nodded.

Her complexion was all wrong but the resemblance was uncanny.

Steve leaned in, whispering, “If that’s Click, who do you think the one we hit was?” 

Eddie grinned. “O’Donnel.”

“I am the Wicked Witch of the West. You killed my sister. Prepare to die.” The newcomer declared loudly, sneering at the two of them.

Eddie rounded on her, pointing a finger right in her face. “Look lady, we’ve had just about enough–”

Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back. “What my friend here means to say is, it was an accident and we’re very sorry.”

“I’ll show you an accident, young man,” The Wicked Witch said, raising her green hands and long pointy nails threateningly in their direction.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Glinda raised her voice, as she too moved to protect the little ones.

“The ruby slippers! Yes!” The Wicked Witch smiled gleefully and made a beeline for Eddie’s van. 

When her back was to them, Glinda winked at Steve and did some kind of wavy-woo with her stick, which, in hindsight he realized was a wand, and the red shoes disappeared from the dead body’s feet right before their eyes, reappearing in Steve’s hand a second later.

“They’re gone!” The Wicked Witch gasped, whirling on the spot and narrowing her eyes at him.

“Why is it always me?” Steve grumbled, resigned to the fight, only to find Eddie taking a protective step in front of him as she approached. 

“You! Give them back. I’m the only one who knows how to use them. They’re of no use to you!”

She wasn’t wrong, but Steve felt like maybe it wasn’t the best idea to give what he suspected was a powerful magical object to a woman whose sister they’d just murdered. All those months of spectating while the party played D&D were finally paying off. 

“Put them on and stay tight inside of them, Steve.” Glinda said, her tone grave. “Their magic must be very powerful, or she wouldn't want them so badly.”

Nailed it.

“You stay out of this, Glinda, or I'll fix you as well!”

The Good Witch waved her off. “You have no power here. Now be gone before someone drops a… a… a…” She stuttered, waffling as if searching for the right word.

“A van?” Eddie supplied.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Eddie dear.” She cleared her throat, pausing for what Steve could only assume was dramatic effect. “Now, be gone before someone drops a van on you, too!”

“Very well, but I'll be watching.” The Wicked Witch hissed, zeroing in on Steve once again. “I’ll get you my pretty-boy, and your little dog too!”

“Hey! Who are you calling a dog? You looked in the mirror lately?! Witch.” Eddie spat. 

She huffed, raising her broomstick high above her head and bringing it down hard against the road at her feet, sending more red smoke billowing up from the spot to quickly engulf her form. When it was gone, so was she.

“Little dog. Pfft.” Eddie muttered.

“It’s the hair.” Little-Max said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” Tiny-Dustin agreed, nodding as he rubbed stubby fingers against his small chin. “The word scruffy does come to mind, to be fair.” 

“Watch it, Mayor.” Eddie warned.

“That, and the way you were guarding your friend there.” Little-Max spoke again.

Eddie glowered as she dissolved into giggles that quickly spread through the small crowd. Soon all the Munchkins, as well as Glinda, were clutching their sides with laughter.

Steve didn’t get what was so funny. 

“Don’t listen to them, Munson. I like your hair. It’s very… metal.” 

Eddie put on a show of rolling his eyes, but under it all was a shy pleased smile. “Thanks, Harrington.”

“That’s rough, boys. You’ve made quite the enemy. The sooner you get out of Oz the better I think.” Glinda said, when the laughter had finally faded. 

“And how do we do that exactly?” Eddie asked. “The van’s broken down, and even if it wasn't, I have no idea where the hell we are or how we even got here! Let alone how to get back to Hawkins.”

“The only person who might be able to help you would be The Great and Wonderful Wizard of Oz himself.”

Steve pursed his lips. “Okay, I'll bite. How do we find this Great Wizard?” It took all his strength not to put those last two words in air quotes.

“He lives in the Emerald city.” She said.

“And how do we get there?”

“Follow the yellow brick road, of course.”

Eddie shook his head. “Of course, she says.”

“Do you not have yellow brick roads where you come from?”

“No.” Steve snapped. He was already so tired of this shit, and somehow he knew that the end of, whatever this was, was nowhere in sight. 

“My, my, you two are grumpy.” Glinda muttered. Without another word she took a few steps away from them and waved her wand, conjuring a new pink bubble around herself. 

“Wait, you can’t just leave us here with these kids!” Steve shouted, but it was too late, The Good Witch had already started to float away. 

“We’re not kids, y’know.” Tiny-Dustin said.

“You look like kids.”

“Whatever.” The boy shrugged, taking one of their hands in each of his. “Come on, we’ll walk you to the edge of town.”

-

The edge of town turned out to be roughly 10 feet away from where the van had landed, which wasn’t a surprise given the compact nature of Munchkinland as a whole, but it did have Steve wondering why they even bothered. 

At least the kids—sorry, the Munchkins, had been helpful enough to point out the yellow brick road. 

As if they could have missed it.

Eddie let out a long whistle. “Wow, that is YELL-ow. Like, I know they said it, but I guess I expected it to be dull or dirty or something, not this bright sunshine color. Kinda reminds me of that sweater you used to wear.”

Steve tucked the pair of heels awkwardly under his arm and started down the path, wishing he had a bag or something to put them in. Holding onto them like this was going to get annoying fast. 

“Aren't you going to put those on first?” Eddie asked.

“Are you serious, Munson?” Steve slowed his pace, turning to gape at him.

Eddie grinned, bumping their elbows together when he caught up. “What, afraid you can’t walk in ‘em?”

“I wear a size 13 men’s shoe, they’re never gonna fit me!”

For a fraction of a second Eddie’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “Jesus, guess I was onto something with that nickname, big boy.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shoving the shoes in Eddie’s direction. “Why don’t you put them on?”

“No, that Glinda lady gave them to you, expressly.”

“I'm telling you they’re not gonna fit.”

“Magic shoes, Steve.” Eddie wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “Magic shoes! Just try, I'm sure it’ll be fine.”

Steve glared as he toed his sneakers off, tying the laces together before throwing them over Eddie’s shoulder, and finally slipped his feet into the sequin adorned pumps. 

They fit like a glove.

He twisted at the waist, glancing behind his own back, sticking first one leg out, and then the other, as he looked down at himself. “Hmm, they do make my ass look nice, I guess.” 

He also just so happened to be wearing his date night jeans, the ones that hugged him in all the right places, and with the addition of the shoes? It was a good look, if he did say so himself. 

A high pitched noise escaped Eddie’s throat. “As if you needed any more help in that department.” He mumbled under his breath.

Steve swallowed hard. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

Eddie was always doing that—flirting, making little comments and then pretending he hadn’t. It drove Steve crazy, never sure if Eddie actually meant it, or if he just liked to tease—not quite sure which answer he hoped was the truth.

Steve turned on his heel, literally, and strode away, tired of wasting time. His first few steps were a bit wobbly, a little like a newborn calf learning to walk, but he got the hang of it pretty quickly. He wasn’t, like, swaying his hips side-to-side confident or anything—yet—but he was reasonably sure he wasn’t going to randomly fall over. It was good enough for now. 

“What are we looking for again?” He asked without turning around. 

“The Emerald city.” Eddie replied, falling into step beside him again, cheeks a little pink. “The little guy who looked like Will said we’d know it when we saw it.”

“Nicely vague, figures.” 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. They seem to take everything very literally around here, so my guess is if we see a place with a lot of big bright green buildings, that’ll be the one.”

Ch 2 (coming 4/26)

Ch 3 (coming 4/27)

Ch 4 ( coming 4/28)

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in the next chapter(s)!

#steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #steddie wizard of oz #post season 4 #eddie lives #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #gift fic #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #the party

[nerdherderette]

The Inheritance

Derek Hale, the Viscount Hemming and only son of the Third Earl of Beacon, was London's most notorious rake. His disinclination to appear with the same partner at social events was well-known; his discountenance to wed, even more so. Which is why no one was more surprised than Stiles when the dashing viscount—and Stiles' once childhood friend—presented him with a proposal he couldn't refuse.

[excerpt]: "Is Graceview Hall your only responsibility? What about love? Your family?" Derek jerked back in shock. She, of all people, knew what happened when he last fell in love. "You are four and twenty," Lady Belmont continued. "You cannot remain on your current path, carousing and bedding anyone who catches your eye. Why, even Lord Deucalion wed this past summer, and he was a reprobate of the first order." Derek may have owed his great-aunt what little remained of his dignity. This, however, was asking too much. "I will never enter the marriage mart," he swore.

For the amazing (and incredibly patient) @elisela, who challenged me with several things:

1. To write a historical romance

2. Make it a Sterek arranged marriage

3. Sprinkle in a bit of Marrish

4. And make it Friends-to-Lovers

I cut my teeth on Harlequin romances and this is an utterly self-indulgent homage to the genre. While it took me several outlines (and as many discarded drafts) to figure out how to make a friends-to-lovers scenario work, I finally came up with a story I'm excited to share! Thank you, elisela, for generously donating to FTH and for giving me something so amazing to work with!😘

Part of @fandomtrumpshate 2023. Posting on AO3

Please note: The image used to create the book cover is based on an AI generated image that was subsequently manipulated and then edited to make the cover. It's described in the tags but may be missed, and I don't want people to mistakenly reblog who didn't see the tags and who don't want any AI on their blogs

#sterek #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #fanfic #regency AU #bodice ripper #harlequin romance #The Inheritance #arranged marriage #friends to lovers #Fandom Trumps Hate 2023 #yes it's 2024 #gift fic #AO3 #base image generated by AI #and subsequently manipulated and edited

[muffinlance]

Welcome to the Earth Army by dandelionlily

When Zuko gets knocked out (again) during the town fight in Zuko Alone, he doesn't pop back up again. He wakes up hours later at an Earth Army camp with amnesia and enlistment forms that say his name is Li.

Thus begins the biggest headache of Captain Wu's career, which just might tip the balance of the war.

Inspired by Amnesia!Zuko Joins the Earth Army by MuffinLance.

Read on AO3

#Amnesia Zuko #gift fic #avatar the last airbender #atla #Zuko #I know what I'm queueing up in the ol' e-reader tonight <3

[twola]

Yo yo yo! I have a request. Do Arthur x f!reader where he's teaching her to fish because Hosea/Dutch has found out shes weirdly squirmy about fish but she's being a reluctant brat about things and Arthur loses his temper 'GODDAMMIT wOmAn!' Style. Make its as unhinged smutty as you please (so a LOT 😏) Thank you! 😘😘😘

Ooh. Well now - I do not like fish that much, so this isn’t a stretch for me 😂 This was super fun!! I hope you enjoy.

Gone Fishin'

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

As Arthur reaches the end of his convalescence after his run-in with Colm O’Driscoll, Hosea has a task for him - teach one of the girls how to fish. The task, he finds out, is a little harder than he imagined. Also, he’s a little harder than he imagined. 

Lemoyne was warm. Warm and humid, buggy, and miserable. Arthur’s work shirt stuck to his skin, even after shedding his full union suit underneath his clothes, he’s still too damn hot. 

He’s hot and bored.

The pain in his shoulder is just a niggle at this point, but Grimshaw refused to let him go work again, even though the wound has closed up, scabbed over, and is scarred with new pink skin. 

Three more days, Grimshaw pointed at him, and with that tone that he knew he would catch hell from her if he disobeyed.

But he’s past languishing under the shade of his tent. Idleness may suit a drunk like Uncle - but not a man like him. He is a man of action.

He needs to do something. Or he is going to go crazy.

-

“Oh, come on, dear. It’s relaxing.”

“Hosea, I don’t do fish. I don’t like eatin’ them, and I sure as hell wouldn’t like catching them.” You huff, standing at the end of the dock. 

Hosea sits next to you, a fishing pole in his hand as his feet dangle over the side of the dock. You fiddle with your skirts as you gaze out at the lake, the water glinting in the afternoon sun.

“It’s an art, dear girl.”

You scowl down at him, “Fish are disgusting.” 

He laughs, “Oh, you. We’re on a lake, you’re gonna have to get used to fish real soon, missy.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s hot, and you wear just a simple white chemise top tucked into your cotton skirt, baring your arms and decolletage to the sun, a welcome opportunity after almost freezing to death in the Grizzlies. 

Hosea looks back toward the camp, where he sees Arthur mulling about. An idea strikes him, genius, as his ideas often are. He stands up, and waves over to the recovering gunslinger, “Arthur, c’mere! Got somethin’ for you to do!”

“No- Hosea,” you whisper harshly, clenching your fists in your skirts, “What are you doing?”

Arthur approaches the end of the dock, running his hand through his long beard, not having shaved in weeks at this point. “Hosea,” He grunts, then looks to you, “Miss.”

“Dear, you need to learn the fine art of fishing. And Arthur over here? He needs somethin’ to do other than sit around pissin’ off Grimshaw.” Hosea waves his free hand toward the camp,

Hosea claps Arthur’s back with his free hand, then turning and tugging you toward the gunslinger on the dock.

“Now you kids take the boat and get on out there, it’ll do both of you some good.”

“Wait wait, wasn’t it you and Dutch makin’ fun of me for the trout incident? I shouldn’t be teaching anyone how to fish.” Arthur shakes his head.

“Nonsense, boy. You caught plenty last time we went out. Besides, it’ll get you out of camp.”

“Fine.” Arthur groans, grabbing the fishing rod from the older man’s outstretched hand.

“Hosea-”  You whine, but your benefactor nods his head, cutting you off.

“Go on.” 

You roll your eyes, following Arthur as he steps into the rowboat moored at the dock, taking his outstretched hand, and helping you step into the small boat.

“You kids have fun now.” Hosea waves, a smile on his face.

Arthur grunts, picking up the oars and pushing off from the dock. You sit in the bow of the rowboat, scowling, as Arthur rows away from the camp, scanning the horizon. A hushed quiet falls as he guides the boat southbound, the camp becoming smaller and smaller as he rows deeper out into the lake.

“Why do you want to learn how to fish?”

“I don’t.” You huff, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Then why the hell are we out here?” Arthur stops rowing, a scowl also settling in on his face.

“Cause you can’t say no to Hosea.”

“Looks like neither can you.”

An awkward silence settles in between you.

“Well, we’re out here now. Might as well make the best of it.” Arthur says, pulling the oars into the hull of the boat and picking up the fishing rod. He holds it out to you.

You let out an exasperated sigh, refusing to uncross your arms.

Arthur grumbles, adjusting the hat on his head, before drawing the rod back and pulling a feathered lure from his pocket, placing it on the hook. He casts the line further out into the lake. 

“Didn’t really plan on fishin’ today, otherwise I’d have some live bait - worms or crickets or whatnot.” He turns back to you, tugging on the rod slightly, glancing back as the lure bobs in the water.

You glower, scrunching your nose at the mention of live bait.

“I hate fish.” You grit out.

“Oh, hush.” Arthur chides. The line pulls, and he feels something bite.

“Here ya go!” He pulls back the line, the fish hanging in the air. With a grin, he swings the pole in your direction, the bluegill flopping on the line, getting closer to your head.

You scream, standing up in the boat and batting the fish away from your face, causing Arthur to jerk to the side, dropping the fishing pole in surprise. The boat violently bobs side to side with your movement.

“Goddamnit, woman!” Arthur yells, nearly falling over the side of the boat as he tries to catch the pole that you batted away from him.

“I told you I don’t like fish!” You screech, sitting back down slowly as the boat bucks. 

“That’s it, Christ; you’re such a goddamn brat!” Arthur throws the pole within the hull of the boat and grabs the oars, thrusting them into the water forcefully. He heaves the oars, forcing the boat forward as he angrily pulls and pushes back toward the shore, breathing heavily as he propels the boat through the water.

“Arthur - wait-”

“Waste of my goddamn time,” He continues, fuming. It actually feels good to work his muscles like this.

“Arthur!”

By then, it’s too late. The boat hits a sandbar and beaches itself, and the speed at which Arthur was rowing causes the boat to lurch violently, sending you flying forward into his body, and you both tumble to the hull of the boat, a jumble of limbs and your skirts.

Arthur pushes you up, and you nearly fall backward with the force of his shove.

He swears as you get your footing, sitting up and looking for the oars as he pulls himself back up to his seat.

The oars are nowhere to be found. He probably dropped them when he beached the damn boat. Actually, as he squints, he sees one floating away from the sandbar, back toward the middle of the lake.

“Shit.” He curses.

“You idiot.”  You sneer at him, lifting your boot to find it wet with lakewater, a hole having sprung in the bottom of the hull, the wood splintered as water rushes in. You hike up your skirts as the level of water rises within the boat.

Arthur jumps out of the boat, grumbling, looking this way and that as you climb out as well. The sandbar the boat is beached upon is on one of the small islands off the shore of the lake, a good fifty feet to the mainland. He curses to himself as he looks back into the boat, the hull filling with water.

“Now what?” You ask critically as you let your skirts down, following him as he stalks along the island’s shore. 

He doesn’t answer, looking around at the sandy ground beneath his boots.

“Watch out for the snake.” He points at the ground next to you, and your eyes dart downward as a brown water moccasin slithers by.

You scream, jumping toward him in fear away from the snake as it glides away into the water, and in a jumble of limbs, you’re somehow climbing the man as he stumbles backward.

“Get me out of here!”

Arthur tries to have some sort of propriety as he tries to regain his balance, but it’s hard when the only hold on you he can get is to loop his hands under the backs of your thighs. You’re clutching at his shoulders, trying to get yourself off of the ground, and end up finding purchase on him by wrapping your legs around his hips, your skirts askew as you pant in terror.

“Fuckin’ stop-” Arthur grunts, stumbling backwards, finally losing his battle with gravity as you and he tumble into a sand dune. His hat flies off, rolling on its rim in a circle, finally settling a few feet away.

Of course, of course, it couldn’t suit him to land in any kind of proper or decent way. No, no, he had to land completely on top of you, slotted between your hips, your skirts creeping up while his traitorous, immature, villainous cock swells at the pressure of his weight against your clothed cunt.

The air has been knocked out of your lungs, but beneath him, you gasp as he tries to move. Your knees frame him, skirts fallen to your hips to show your skin. Your arms are still thrown around his shoulders as he tries to push himself up, his hands slipping in the sand, causing him to crumble down on you, his hips fully pressing down on yours.

Shit. Shit.

He’s trying to think of anything - rotten meat, Uncle’s laundry - anything to stave off the growing erection tenting within his pants. But alas, he is a slave to his own biology, as his cock stiffens and his blood rushes into his groin.

You stare up at him. His eyes dart away in embarrassment, a blush deepening on his cheeks.

Then, you do something that throws him even further into this pit of arousal he finds himself in.

You slowly roll your hips against him and he cannot help but to let out a low moan in response and press his swollen cock against you harder.

Christ, your hair has fallen from its bun, spread out on the sandy soil of this island like some sort of halo.

Two minutes ago he wanted to throttle you. Now, underneath him, he wants to make you gasp and cry and oh, to say his name in a high whine-

“Fuck-” he curses, but before he can go any further, your hands move from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and you pull downward gently - not enough to move him, but enough to give him permission.

He waits for a moment, searching your wide eyes, your open, wet lips, and in that moment, he throws caution to the wind and leans down to slot his lips against yours. You continue to roll your hips against him, crossing your ankles over his back in a surefire sign of what you wanted, whining into his mouth.

And fuck, if he wasn’t going to give it to you.

As he leans back on his knees, sliding his arms from around your waist, he paws his suspenders down and starts unbuttoning his pants, desperate to free his swollen cock. He grunts with a hint of satisfaction as he pulls his length from his pants, closing his eyes as he strokes himself several times. He faintly recognizes your squirming beneath him, and when he’s opened his eyes again, hand still on his cock, he’s struck by what he sees. You’ve shimmied down your bloomers, skirts flipped up and over your hips, pooling across your waist.

Your folds glisten with moisture, and his hips jut forward near uncontrollably, his cock seeking out your warmth, his body yearning to bury itself within your hips.

“Y- you sure-?” One last chance - one more opportunity to back away from the precipice - to realize that you are both being ridiculous - one second ready to kill each other, the next…

“Arthur please.”

Well, there goes his reservations.

One of his large hands spreads out over your hip, the other around the base of his cock, and he presses the swollen, dripping head of his cock against your folds, trailing downwards as he parts them to your opening, groaning in pleasure as he slips in half an inch.

His hand leaves his cock as he leans back over you, arm landing next to your shoulder, as he gently presses his hips forward, sliding in as you shut your eyes in overstimulation. By the time his hips press against your own and he’s sheathed in you to the hilt, your eyes flutter open as you let out a breath you were holding. Arthur’s other arm comes up to bracket you in, his mouth hanging open as a strand of his honeyed-brown hair falls forward between his eyes.

He lowers himself down to his elbows to press himself completely against you, seeking out your lips again as he bucks his hips forward, causing you to mewl into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers threading into his long hair, grasping it tightly as he settles into a rhythm of rolling his hips back and forth.

You pull on his hair and he groans, thrusting hard into you in response. Seems like you aren’t over your surly mood. He finds a hard and punishing rhythm, again feeling good to work his muscles after his convalescence.  It had been much longer than that since he’s worked these particular muscles.

“A-Arthur-” You moan loudly as he continually strokes that spot within you. He grunts in response, pulling his cock nearly out of your cunt before slamming his hips back into you.

You shriek in pleasure, and for a moment he’s thankful he’s marooned the two of you on this island yards away from the shore of the lake.

“Y’gonna come for me?” He harshly whispers into your ear, “Y’gonna come on my cock?”

That does it.

You cry out, back arching against him, head thrown back into the grassy dune, a high keening sound that makes him moan helplessly in response, gyrating his hips as your cunt clenches hard around his length, warm and wet and perfect.

“Fuck - fuck - woman…” He groans, rutting forward as you come down from your high, his cock pulsing and covered in your warm slick, and he is forced to pull himself from you, gliding out as he sits back on his knees and starts to pump himself.

You look up and god, is he a sight. His hips buck forward as he strokes his length, his mouth hanging open and muscles of his abdomen clenching under his shirt tails. A low moan escapes him as his other hand flies to cover the head of his cock, and he comes with his eyes screwed shut, looming over you.

He pants, for several moments, before opening his eyes. You sit up, needing, needing more, and you loop your hands around his neck again and pull his lips to yours, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He grunts in surprise, but leans into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours.

You pull back, a smile creeping across your face, and as he opens his eyes, he cannot help the same.

“Is that how your lessons always end?” You laugh as he tucks himself away with his clean hand, leaning to the side to wipe his other hand in the grass as a half a smile creeps across his face.

“Only when the student is difficult.” He rumbles, tucking his shirt back into his pants as you start to pull your skirts down over your thighs.

“Mm.. I do remember you offering to teach me to shoot before Blackwater.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow as he rebuttons his pants and slides his suspenders back up. “Y’gonna be a brat about it?”

“Of course.”

He smirks, reaching for his hat on his knees. You push yourself up to stand, shaking your skirt free of sand and grass as you look for where you tossed your bloomers in your fit of passion.

“Arthur.”

“Mhm?” He replies, running his hand through his long hair before placing his hat back on his head.

“How are we going to get back to shore?”

-

Hosea smokes a cigarette sitting by the scout fire, the sun having gone down some time ago.

He’s starting to feel a niggle of concern that the two of you aren’t back. The both of you can certainly take care of yourselves.

You’re stalking back toward your tent, your clothes soaking wet, hair plastered down your neck. You refuse to give Hosea even a passing glance as you head back to the women’s tent.

Hosea arches an eyebrow as Arthur walks closer, also fuming. Also soaking wet. The gunslinger looks at Hosea briefly before carrying on.

“Lesson didn’t go as planned.”

#rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fanfic #red dead smut #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #tumblr prompt #drabble #twolafic #gift fic

[steddieas-shegoes]

didn't even need a plan

THIS IS A BIG BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR @messessentialist WHO I HAVE HAD IN MY LIFE FOR TWO MINUTES AND IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO HER I WOULD DIE. Short Queens rise up (on a stepladder because that's what we need to reach things)!!! I am kissin you on the mouth rn.

Rated T | 1,315 words | tags: meddling, good uncle Wayne, secret established relationship

“How do they not see it?” Dustin asked, turning away from the scene in front of them to look at Wayne.

“I don’t know, son. Sometimes smart people are dumb,” Wayne shrugged.

Their plan was in place for weeks: get Steve and Eddie in the trailer alone together, cut the power, and hope they don’t leave.

Step one was easy. All they had to do was lie to Steve about Dustin needing a ride.

Step two was a little more difficult, but only because they forgot the trailer next door was on the same breaker. Wayne bribed the owners with enough cash to go get dinner somewhere, glad that they didn’t even ask for an explanation when money was being shoved into their hands.

Step three was the problem.

Steve and Eddie hung out all the time. The problem was they never hung out alone.

Dustin watched as they walked from the living room to the kitchen, then Eddie walked down the hall to his room before rejoining Steve by the couch.

“It’s just us I think,” Eddie said.

Dustin had rigged the walkie talkie so it stayed on, his own sitting between him and Wayne on the lowest possible volume so they could hear.

“So not Upside Down, then,” Steve said, sounding relieved.

“Nope, just good old fashioned unreliable power,” Eddie sighed. “We could probably try to flip the breaker. Maybe it was just a short.”

“Yeah. Maybe we give it a few minutes first?”

Dustin smacked at Wayne’s arm, smiling.

“They’re gonna sit down!” Dustin whispered excitedly.

“Calm down. Could be that nothin’ happens,” Wayne whispered back, though he could feel his own hopes rising.

It was hard to see them through the window, but they could see shadows moving to sit on the couch.

“Something will happen. There’s no way it won’t. They almost kissed yesterday and that was with all of us around,” Dustin insisted.

“That’s what you keep sayin’,” Wayne squinted to watch.

“I really can’t believe Dustin didn’t radio to let me know he found another ride,” Steve didn’t sound angry, but he definitely didn’t sound happy.

“I didn’t even know he needed a ride.”

“Do you know who picked him up?”

“Shit,” Dustin said.

“Didn’t think that through did ya?” Wayne asked, smirk audible.

“Nah, he just left. Didn’t really question it. He does a lot of crazy shit,” Eddie explained.

“Right.”

A minute of somewhat awkward silence followed and then someone slapped their knees.

“I’ll go check the breaker? It’s the one right outside to the left?” Steve asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Dammit,” Wayne said, slowly moving away from the window and sitting down against the side of the trailer.

“Maybe he won’t be able to figure it out,” Dustin said, joining him on the ground.

“He’s definitely gonna figure it out. He’s a smart guy.”

“Who? Steve?”

Wayne looked over at Dustin, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, Steve. Why’re you surprised?”

Dustin shrugged.

“Gonna be honest, it doesn’t sound like you think much of Steve’s intelligence, son.”

Dustin’s eyes widened.

“It’s not that! He just isn’t usually quick to fix stuff.”

Wayne’s brow raised, waiting for Dustin to realize how that sounded.

They were interrupted by Eddie’s voice on the walkie.

“No luck?”

“Nope. Maybe we should try to call someone at one of the neighbor’s?” Steve responded, the sound of him sitting back on the couch barely audible.

“Maybe in a bit. Kind of nice just sitting here,” Eddie said.

“Yeah. Kinda tired,” Steve admitted, the sound of cloth shifting on the couch.

Wayne stood and looked through the window, small smile taking over his face before he sat back down.

“What is it?” Dustin asked, just a bit louder than he probably should have.

“Might get what we wanted after all,” Wayne replied with a smirk.

“Really?”

“Take a look,” Wayne waved up at the window.

Dustin looked in, barely containing a childish squeal when he saw what was happening.

Steve was leaning his head on Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s arm around him, running his fingers up and down his bicep, rings glinting off the little bit of light shining through the window.

“Wayne’s out for the night if you wanna stick around,” Eddie said, softer than he had been all night, softer than he’d been to anyone else maybe ever.

“Are you asking if I’ll stay the night, Eds?” Steve’s voice filtered through the walkie, a bit crackly as if he was barely speaking above a whisper.

Dustin turned to Wayne, eyes comically wide.

Wayne just shook his head.

He had an idea of where this was going.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Been too long,” Eddie just managed to say before Wayne snapped the walkie off.

“Why’d you do that?” Dustin hissed.

“Because we’ve been played and you’re too young to be listening to what’s about to happen,” Wayne said as he stood up. “C’mon, I’ll drive ya home.”

“What?! No! We had a plan!”

“We didn’t even need the plan, bud. C’mon.”

Dustin crossed his arms over his chest and started to argue when the window above them opened and Eddie spoke.

“Mind turning on the power before you go?” He asked, teeth bright white in the darkness surrounding them as he grinned.

“How did you know we were out here?” Dustin asked.

“I could hear the echo of the walkie. Plus, you think Steve didn’t already see you when he walked outside?”

“Don’t sound so smug, Ed,” Wayne laughed.

“What exactly was the grand plan?” Eddie crossed his arms over the sill. “Hope we got bored enough to make out on the couch? Maybe if we thought it was dark enough, we wouldn’t think about who we were kissing?”

“Yes!” Dustin exclaimed, though Wayne remained completely silent.

“And you didn’t think that we do that with the lights on already? Like, for months?”

Dustin sputtered out his best attempt at words, but failed miserably.

“You broke him,” Steve said from behind Eddie, smiling over his shoulder at Dustin and Wayne.

“So. Months?” Wayne asked as Dustin continued muttering incoherently to himself.

“Officially only two. But we first kissed when I was still in the hospital,” Eddie admitted, turning his head to place a kiss on Steve’s cheek.

“But. But. That was five months ago!” Dustin was pacing, kicking up dirt under his feet as he tried to figure out the timing of everything and how he could have missed the most obvious signs. “You’re never even alone that much!”

“We find ways,” Eddie said.

“I work a lot of nights still,” Wayne said to Dustin. “Why didn’t ya say anything?”

“We just wanted something for ourselves for a bit. We’re in this for the long haul and if everyone knew, we’d never find peace to just be together,” Steve said.

“But-”

“Alright, son, let’s get the power on and I’ll take ya home. These two probably want some privacy,” Wayne interrupted, squeezing his shoulder once to get his attention.

Dustin sighed.

“Fine. But you have to tell everyone soon. I can’t keep this a secret for that long.”

“Sure thing, bud,” Steve agreed before turning away from the window.

“You sure you can take him home?” Eddie asked Wayne.

“That’s the only part of the plan that’s workin’ so far, so yeah,” Wayne laughed.

Eddie nodded and waved before closing the window and following Steve.

Wayne walked over to the breaker box and flipped the switch, turning to Dustin and waving him over.

“C’mon. Don’t think we wanna be here in the next five minutes.”

“Gross. They’re like…my dads or something. That’s disgusting,” Dustin gagged as he walked to Wayne’s truck.

“Yeah, well. Maybe you’ll get a new sibling.”

“That isn’t how science works.”

“Yeah, well. We got a whole other world under our feet, kid. I think science is far out of our understanding.”

Dustin didn’t respond.

He didn’t want to even consider Wayne being right.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #drabble #ficlet #gift fic

[greatunironic]

title: i give myself to you (as long as we move on the floor) summary: "At this point, Eddie's life had really just sort of become an Aristotelian confluence of events." Or: Steve has a migraine; Eddie helps him out.

excerpt: At this point, Eddie’s life had really just sort of become an Aristotelian confluence of events. It was maddening, if also hilarious, and sometimes he found himself laying in bed and just kind of staring up at the ceiling, wondering how the fuck he got here, or, like, anywhere. One wrong turn — or, more accurately, one ill-fated drug deal — and, lo, there he was: stomping through Steve Harrington’s house like he belonged in the place, trying to make sure the guy hadn’t, like, drowned himself in the bath or something because he was supposed to be picking up the shitheads they had joint custody of after Hellfire 2.0 but he didn’t show, and now the kids were all freaking out, more or less, and Eddie had to do a welfare check because he was concerned too sure but mostly because everyone had come to labor under the impression that Eddie and Steve were a Secret Item and, for reasons that really didn’t need exploring at this juncture (mainly because Eddie didn’t like looking directly at them, right?) they’d yet to disabuse them of the notion.

Like he said: Aristotelian fuckin’ confluence of events, man. Of course, Eddie — you know. Eddie wasn’t, like, unaware of the part he played in it all. Why do you think he didn’t want to look at those reasons, hm? He’d been, okay, he’d been a little heavy handed, just a little, on the flirting, perhaps — the big boy of it all had been kind of a tell, sure, and calling out to Steve as he’d walked away? Maybe not the subtlest of moves but hindsight was always twenty-twenty as the cliche went — but in his defense he’d thought people might be a little bit more preoccupied with, you know, other shit. Such as their sudden but inevitable tragic early demises, to name one.

#stranger things #fic #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #gift fic

[winniethewife]

Special day for a special girl (Blue Jones X F!reader)

A/N: For @ominoose Happy Birthday Mushi! Hope you enjoy!

Warning: smut under the cut, Blue is his own warning, fingering, Cunnilingus

Words:705

She woke with a start. Blue looming over her with an unusually cheerful look on his face. She instantly felt on edge. Blue was usually unpredictable, and his mood was hard to understand. She sits up slowly, apprehensive,

“Good Morning pretty girl.” Blue smiled at her a twinkle in his eye. He takes her hand in his and kisses it softly. She looks at him with a slight tilt of her head. He must want something. And want it bad.

“What’s going on Blue? You’re never this nice…”  She tried to pull away but he holds on tight.

“Hey…Baby baby…I just want to make you’re special day special…” He sits down on the bed next to her as she curls her legs up to her chest, he’s still holding on to her hand. . She feels confused.

“Special day?” she asks, she had no idea what day it was anymore, every day at the club was pretty much the same day in day out… it was near impossible to keep track. Blue just smiles.

“Yes, it’s your birthday. A special day…all about you.” He purrs as he takes her chin in his hand lifting her face to look at his. “I want to give you something special… something special for my special girl…” He presses his lips to hers, which was also surprising. As he pulled her in closer, putting his arm around her, bringing her chest to his, she softly moans. This was unexpected, unusual, and… nice. She puts her hands on his chest, the fabric of his suit was surprisingly soft. He took this as a sign… he pushes her down onto the bed, not daring to remove his lips form hers as she clutches his clothes in surprise. Her eyes open wide as he gets on top of her, her heart starts to race. She pulls away and opens her mouth to say something, to ask a question, he puts a finger over her mouth. “Shhhh….Don’t worry, I’ll take care you, My pretty girl…” he croons, kissing her on the lips, then her cheek, her jaw, neck…His hands caressing her skin, as he makes his way lower and lower on her body, His hands gentle, his soft words sweet. She was surprised, Blue wasn’t usually so kind, but shed take anything. Blue looks up at her from between her legs. “I’m gonna take good care of you baby. Keep your eyes on me pretty girl. That’s it…” He says quietly as he pulls her underwear to the side, sliding his fingers through her folds, rubbing his thumb in circles around her clit.

“Blue…” She moans his name softly, her breathing heavy, her eyes locked on his as he leans in to her, sliding his finger into her. She lets out a soft gasp as she feels him inside her, the feeling familiar but different, gentle, loving, not at all like her  clients. Her soft whimpers fill the room, like music to Blues ears as he carefully slides in a second finger curling them up into her. She bucks her hips into him, eagerly seeking his touch.

“That’s it pretty girl, making you feel good right? Tell me, who makes you feel this good?” He eggs her on stilling his fingers waiting for her response.

“You do Blue, you make me feel good” She cries out. She needs him badly.

“Good girl.” He praised her as he leaned in kissing her clit, pushing his fingers in and out of her, his tempo increasing as he sucks on her wanting to bring her to her climax. He runs his tongue along her folds and moving his fingers faster as she clenches her walls around his fingers. “That’s it pretty girl. Cum on my fingers. Can you do that for me baby?” He says into her skin, before nipping lightly at her thigh. She yelps slightly at the sting, then as he moves to bite the other side she feels the hot wave of pleasure come crashing down on her. As she rides out her high Blue smiles, pulling out his fingers and slides them into his mouth to clean them off, a satisfied hum leaves his throat. “A special day, for a special girl...”

~

Masterlist

#blue jones #blue sucker punch #blue jones x reader #blue jones smut #Blue Jones smut #x reader #xreader smut #blue jones fanfiction #oscar isaac #oscar isaac smut #oscar isaac x reader #gift fic #sucker punch #sucker punch fanfic #sucker punch fanfiction

[anika-ann]

A Night at the Museum (A.B.)

Type: one-shot, fluffiest fluff; canon-divergence from Defending Jacob

Pairing: Andy Barber x reader  WC: 5000

Summary: You always loved wandering through your museum after closing time – there was something so peaceful about it, a new layer of beauty to space and all the art that adorned the walls.

Tonight however, the peace is interrupted by a charming handsome man who has no business to be there… will you throw him out?

Warnings: 18+ for allusions to smut, TOOTH. ROTTING. FLUFF., uncomplete list to keep some mystique - so read at your own risk (but no supernatural elements)

A/N: a story dedicated to lovely @chase-your-dreams-away ✨, to everyone who enjoys a tooth-rotting fluff and to all you lovelies who support my writing shenanigans - you know who you are, giving me love and life 💕 Happy Holidays, if you celebrate! // divider by @firefly-graphics

Every single step you took felt so light it was almost as if you were floating.

The endless beauty adorning the walls, the soft intimate lights reserved for occasional night visiting hours only accentuating the already romantic atmosphere of the art museum, walking through the halls and galleries equalled a magnificent experience that made your soul shiver and yet feel at peace. You let the serenity wash over you as you roamed the art museum, already having helped usher the lingering visitors outside. The sound of your heels echoed in the vast galleries, your eyes drawn from one beautiful piece of art to another, even as you had seen them all a hundred times.

There were simply sights in this world that would never get old, you mused, a small smile playing on your lips, a slow steady pace bringing you to another section – and having you freeze in your step.

Just standing there without a care for the outside world, apparently immersed in admiring a painting – one of favourite, you realized distantly – stood a man. A man who most definitely did not worked here.  Your heart skipped a beat.

“Excuse me, sir,” you called out lowly, anything louder than a that feeling wrong in the otherwise quiet gallery. “It’s after hours. You can’t be here.”

He startled too at the first sound of your voice – his head snapped to you, piercing but kind blue eyes wide with surprise, as if you brought him down from a haze, from a deep thought; from thorough appreciation of art. You would have smiled at that, since you knew the feeling too well, but you were too distracted by the man’s handsome face.

Awfully, unbearably handsome, with a ruffle of dark hair and a clearly well-kept beard, a dark blue suit that only highlighting his beautiful eyes, hands slipping from his pockets as he straightened upon facing you; his biceps bulged a bit with that movement, visible even under the suit jacket. There was a good-natured expression on his face, a pleasant note in his voice as he responded on the same volume, if not slightly quieter.

“Oh. Sorry.”

His voice was as lovely to hear as his face was to look at; almost like he had belonged here, the central piece among the sea of art, a sculpture capturing the peak of a man crafted by talented hands of the old masters.

As you walked closer to him, your chest ached a little; he wasn’t just handsome. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And while that didn’t authorise him to be here, it sure made your approach more amicable. You were only human, after all.

“I was actually heading out,” he continued, “but I just… got a little caught up in admiring the art.”

The corners of your lips rose involuntarily. You could see that easily happening to anyone – it was after all a painting close to your own heart and soul. Some might call it too simple – an image of hands, one larger, rougher than the other, held out palm up to the other, softer, smaller one, fingertips barely brushing, the mahogany brown background with a few lighter strokes of brush adding an aura of warmth. But its simplicity and what some would call imperfections were deceiving.

Many would argue that hundreds of art students all over the world drew a hand study every day. Masterfully executed or not, this particular piece of art could indeed be called plain; but it wasn’t. As things stood, the painting was no Creation of Adam, your all-time favourite, but it had earned a rightful place in the art gallery and n your heart, and it wasn’t only because of how old the painting was or who had created it.

If you were being honest, you were never able to quite put your finger on why, but it always tended to touch something deep inside you. So truly, you understood the man perfectly.

He had no business being here so late – and yet. Perhaps for his pretty face and his breathtaking physique indeed, perhaps for his warm gaze having returned to the painting with curious, soft eyes – you couldn’t just have him dragged away, keen on hearing his insight instead.

“How so?” you inquired.

His gaze snapped back to you, surprised. He examined you for a bit, as if he couldn’t figure out whether you were asking or just bidding your time before security found you, but in the end, he just smiled, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, I couldn’t say. I don’t know the first thing about art, so I can’t even appreciate it properly-“

“Of course you can,” you interrupted him, regretting your hastiness when his eyes widened, watching you intently. You smiled apologetically, gaze dropping before it returned to the painting, the sight of the beautiful man too much – and you were used to looking at art every day. “What I mean is… sure, the knowledge of history of art and art technique can help you recognize a painting’s value to the world, but not its value to yourself.”

You cringed internally; you sounded like a fool, a pretentious one at that, contradicting your own words. And yet, his voice was soft when he spoke again without a hint of offense.

“I’ll take your word for it… but still. Might help to have a guide… what do you like about this painting?” he asked, gaze returning to the art in question. “That is, if you like it at all.”

“I like it a lot, actually. It’s one of my favourites.”

“How so?” he echoed your earlier words, something about the way his gaze flickered to you making you feel warm all over. He sounded genuinely curious. About what you thought. He seemed interested in your very personal insight; and in the intimate lightening of the gallery, you reluctantly gave in, all too aware of how close you seemed to stand now, side by side, barely two feet apart.

“I like how it makes me feel. I like wondering what made the artist capture this particular moment in time – not sooner, not later. Not when the hands touch further or part completely. And what the moment even is. All that wondering just leaves a lasting impression.”

“Yeah… I suppose that’s what I could say as well,” he mused, tilting his head slightly to side as he considered your words. “Tell me more.”

It wasn’t an order – despite the wording, it sounded more like a plea. Something pleasing hummed in your chest, a gentle stroke to your ego.

“It’s the position of the hands. Hands can be so expressive, we can say so much with them, with a touch. And I don’t mean it in the sense of sign language, where people literally use them to form words agreed upon earlier, but… they can convey feelings, capture so much more than words themselves often can,” you tried to explain, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You sounded like a crazy person who read Jane Austen too much – and you were all too aware. You often couldn’t help it, when you talked about art – but the poor man didn’t sign up for this. You chuckled bashfully. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” he opposed, causing you to risk a side-way glance. His gaze lost nothing of its warmth, quite the opposite; his lips melted in a gentle smile and he was certainly paying more attention to you than the painting. You’d lie if you said it wasn’t flattering. And the electricity you seemed to feel in the air sure wasn’t unpleasant either. “I never thought of it this way, but I certainly cannot argue with that. And I argue for living.”

“Ah. A lawyer then?” you said, his hands rising in surrender in response.

He had really nice and big hands. Someone should paint them. And he should put them on me.

“Guilty as charged.”

“And with a sense of humour, I see.”

There was something a little shy and definitely intimate about his laugh, his gaze firmly on yours. “I have been told I only have old man jokes these days.”

“Well, that’s just rude. You should have that person arrested for such insult.”

“That’s not how this works.” He was laughing again, crinkles around his eyes. He had such a gentle laugh, quiet, fitting for the space. “Now… what do you think is happening here then?” he beckoned to the painting.

You pursed your lips, accepting his prompt.

“Well, that’s one of the things I love about it so much – it can be whatever you want it to be. A man and a woman… there’s this atmosphere of longing. Tenderness to the touch. Uncertainty, as if they aren’t sure if they are allowed. The man especially. Maybe they are future lovers…” You felt your cheeks heat, blush spreading as the man’s eyes flickered to yours. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s a goodbye.”

“How do you figure?”

“The blurry lines,” you whispered, your smile turning dreamy. You truly did love this piece – it conveyed so much emotion, offered so many interpretations. Made you feel so much. “They’re not accidental – the moment is hazy. Maybe it’s a memory, a painful one, a memory of a goodbye smeared by unshed tears. Maybe it’s a dream – dreaming about what can’t be, no matter what the heart desires.”

“Wishful thinking,” he murmured under his breath.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he’s an artist asking his muse to be let into her favour.”

Your head snapped to him in surprise; but for once, he kept looking at the painting. Still, your breath caught; that definitely was a lovely interpretation.

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Your gaze returned to the painting, even as your gaze was drawn to him instead, distracted, your thoughts consumed by the image of his handsome profile and the well-fitting suit – and those damn hands. He stood even closer now, slightly behind you; you could almost feel his warm breath on your cheek, the woodsy tones of his cologne wrapping around you like a blanket. You could get in trouble, lingering here, with him – but deep down, you felt you’d happily do so. And probably thank him for it.

He spoke again before he gathered your wits, a warm smile in his voice. “Could be a lonely artist who set his eyes on the most beautiful of women…”

You felt the back of his hand brush yours. No accident; a lover’s caress. You felt tingles spread thought your whole body from the point of contact, your heart thundering in your chest even as it shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have such an effect on you. Not after two years of much more intimate touches, teasing brushes of his fingertips, his palms roaming your body firmly, his lips appreciating every inch of your skin. A simple touch of a hand shouldn’t have made you shiver, but it did. With Andy, it always did. Especially when he talked like that, your face growing warmer by the second at his praise. Because it was clear he was no longer talking about the painting on the wall. Not when he ran his fingers over the back of your hand before turning it so your own hand slipped into his easily, and squeezed.

“…and was somehow insanely lucky that she accepted when he asked her out two years ago. And ever since then, his life’s been full of happiness he thought was no longer in cards for him. How’s that for knowledge of history?” he asked cheekily now, full grin spreading on his lips as he pulled lightly on your hand to spin you around to face him, his free hand already cupping your cheek as you giggled, letting the façade fall.

“You’re a charmer and a flatterer,” you muttered as he leaned in for a kiss, palm cradling your face and guiding you closer to his lips, soft whiskers tickling your face as your lips finally met.

His hand released yours, sneaking around your waist instead, deepening the kiss, making your toes curl in your pumps even after having received thousands kisses like this from him.

You had met pretty much like this – with you working late and him charming your wits out of you and having you lose yourself in his beautiful blues, mesmerized by his almost startlingly handsome face, even if he had been the one who had got a bit lost in the museum complex. Sparks flew, hearts fluttered, hands wandered – much sooner than they ever had in your previous relationship. But the whirlwind of passion was wrapped in an intimacy on an emotional level too – you had never fallen so fast, body, mind and soul, but Andy Barber was simply special. Bless his heart, he hadn’t really known much about art back then – but he had a quick mind and willingness to learn, eager to listen to you as you talked about your long-life love, watching you with a curious adoring gaze, a patient smile on his lips.

He told you he’d pick you up after work so you could celebrate the two-year anniversary of your first date. So as soon as you shoed away the last visitors, you hurried to the staff room to freshen up at least a bit. Andy hadn’t told you where he would take you up until two hours ago – where he called you on your short break to inform you that he was, in fact, a sneak who had an exceptional way with words.

Bribing your colleagues with god-knows-what, he had arranged for you to have the museum for yourselves up until midnight – a private tour with the softened lights saved for the evening, likely wandering hand in hand, beauty surrounding you as well as love. You had no doubt he had brought refreshments too, having left work right after lunch, probably preparing one of his excellent recipes; the premise of spending your special night like this with him had you giddy and soft for the rest of your shift. So when you saw him standing there like that, you couldn’t help but re-act your first encounter for a bit – but you didn’t expect him to lean into it so fully, letting you relive the awe of a handsome stranger being so impressed by whatever you had to say.

The nip of teeth on your lower lip brought you back to reality, heat swirling in your belly, having you press into Andy’s firm body further, not an inch left between you just as it should be, especially since your head was already beginning to spin with the lack of oxygen.

He was the one to retreat, smiling against your lips, nose caressing yours, your palms smoothening over his shoulders lovingly.

“You started it,” he opposed, pecking your lips again and then once more for a good measure, a little breathless himself. When you met his gaze, you saw nothing but adoration in his eyes. “I simply played along. …hi, by the way.”

You chuckled and returned his greeting, meeting his lips once more.

“Hi stranger. Happy anniversary.”

His smile was almost blinding as he tucked the lose strand of your hair behind your ear, fingertips stroking your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes roaming your face so attentively – as if he was admiring what had been no doubt etched into his memory by now – that your felt your skin heat up again, gaze lowering timidly. “You’re beautiful. I love you.”

I love you. It was a simple admission – but that didn’t mean it still didn’t send your heart flutter, especially when he looked at you as if you were the single most precious piece of art in the whole complex.

“I love you too—what?” you questioned, when his eyes suddenly flickered behind you, back to the painting, and a frown twisted his features.

“There’s something missing,” he mused, causing your chest to spasm with panic. You spun on your heels and escaped his embrace so fast you nearly toppled over. Your eyes frantically searched for any sign of what was wrong – a missing plate with description? Had piece of the golden frame broken away? A- “I do like the painting, but it’s just… it’s missing something.”

You huffed out a breath of relief, turning back to Andy swiftly, hitting his chest with the back of your hand, earning a burst of silent laughter.

“Sorry-“

“You are not! Don’t do that, Andrew!” you whisper-yelled, your ribcage actually aching a bit from the sudden scare. “I’d be in real trouble if there was something missing, you know that! But do enlighten me, Mr. I Don’t Know The First Thing About Art. What is missing here?”

He had the decency to look a tiniest bit guilty as he gently touched your shoulders, spinning you back to the painting, wrapping his arm over your middle to pull you flush to his front.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful. I know you love this one. But I… I think finally figured out what the scene is about,” he explained slowly, voice dropping back to a whisper, only a trace of gentle laughter in his pleasant timbre.

“Oh?” you inquired nonchalantly, still pouting a bit even as your exasperation evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. You could get fired if something got lost on your watch, so that was a mean joke – but you should have known better. You had known him for two years now after all.

“Uh-huh,” he hummed, guiding your hands to lay on your stomach, placing one of his warm palms over them, chin resting on your shoulder. “Well, obviously, they are a man and a woman.”

“Is that how you win all the cases at court? With your excellent observation skills and dead-on-point arguments, Mr. Obvious?”

Andy continued, unbothered by your snarky teasing.

“And he’s an old, maybe a little dorky man, who is crazy in love with this gorgeous woman with passion for art…”

The corners of your lips twitched as you turned your head to him, nose nudging his cheek as you understood where this was going. “You’re not that old… but you’re plenty sappy for sure.”

“Who said I was talking about us?” he teased, squeezing your hands again as he nudged you to look forward again despite your prolonged ‘riiiight’. “But he’s a little bit like the artist, asking a muse for her favour… he’d feel like the luckiest man on Earth if she’d allow him.”

You leaned your weight back onto Andy’s warm body, tilting your head, as a full smile spread on your lips along with the sweetest warmth curling in your heart.

“Well… I know you said it’s not us, but… if it were, he wouldn’t have to ask. He’s already plenty in her favour.”

You let your eyes slip shut, revelling in the feeling of being in the arms of the man you loved, almost tasting his own affection for you on your tongue, feeling it float in the air. You felt at peace; safe, warm and loved. Nothing could measure up to the serenity of the moment. Whatever Andy had planned for you two, as nice as it no doubt was, it didn’t matter much – you could just stay like this for hours, with his lips occasionally reaching to kiss your cheek, your temple.

“I adore you, Andrew Stephen Barber,” you sighed. “Sappy and all.”

His chest rumbled behind you as he hummed, his finger softly stroking your hand, pulling you somehow even closer to him. “Well perhaps he’s asking something else then.”

You felt your eyebrows rise, eyes fluttering open, smile still plastered on your face – you were probably grinning like a loon at this point.

“What’s he asking then? And what was that thing you said was missing?”

He caressed your fingers again. You felt him gulp behind you before he straightened and took your left hand, bringing it to your shoulder, to his lips, his hold on you never faltering.

“Maybe he’s asking if he could gain her favour forever.”

You chuckled breathlessly. Sap. For someone who had already been married once, even if mostly for convenience of an unplanned child, and then got divorced, he sure stayed a romantic.

“Forever is a long time,” you hummed noncommittally, not at all opposed to the idea though.

Andy was without doubt your Prince Charming in a three-piece suit, the wishful image of a happily ever after having crossed your mind more than once. With him, forever sounded sweet – and entirely plausible.

“Yeah, I know. But I want to try my luck asking anyway.”

That was the only warning you got before Andy suddenly released you from his embrace and used the gentle hold he still had on your left hand to turn you to face him, the strangest expression on his face.

Adoration. Affection. Worry. A nervous smile.

Nervous? What reason-

The realization slammed into you the very second Andy began to drop to one knee, a voiceless ‘oh my god’ knocked out of you along with your breath. A little blue box held up in his free palm, he gazed up at you as you watched him with wide eyes already filling with tears.

God, had you had any capacity to do so, you’d feel like a dumbass for not figuring out sooner what all his talk had meant. Why the missing thing. Why this was the painting he decided to stand in front of, this one among hundred others that adorned the walls of this place. Why the hand that had been right under his had been your left one, the whole time, and he hadn’t been caressing all your fingers. He had been – perhaps subconsciously – tracing a line of a ring which he hoped to put on your ring finger.

“Andy-”

“Sweetheart… I’m supposed to be great with words, but now when you’re actually facing me when I kneel here, they all… disappeared. But know that I love you. I love you with everything I am, with my whole heart. I will never understand art as well as you do, but I promise I’ll never stop trying and never stop listening, because I want to understand everything you love. I promise I will always do all I can to stay in your favour, in the favour of a woman who might as well be a muse herself,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes turning glassy as a huge lump grew in your throat, several tears escaping you and rolling down your cheeks even as you were biting your lip – as not to cry, a not to laugh giddily.

He wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend the rest of your lives with you and he wanted to make it as tangible as possible. He made this damn moment all about you, a true promise, a true testimony that he meant what he was saying. You bit your tongue hard as not to blurt out your answer before he could even ask the question.

He choked a little as he said your full name, thumb pressing to the edge of the box for it to open and reveal a no doubt beautiful ring – but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at it, not when his lips twitched in a smile, his hand a little clammy as he still held yours. Or perhaps it only felt that way because your own were trembling, your heart threatening to beat its way out of your chest?

“Will you marry me?” he asked at last, finishing the question with a wide grin as you started to nod halfway through, the yes escaping a little too loud in the enormous room, the echo drowned in Andy’s relieved laugh, his hands – indeed shaking – slipping the ring on your ring finger meticulously before rising to his feet and framing your face with his palms and smashing his lips to yours, a grin to a grin, salty tears to salty tears.

Your fingers found purchase into his locks, holding onto him for dear life as he kissed you with vigour, nearly bending you backwards in half, one hand gripping your nape, the other moving to your lower back instead for better balance as he continued to steal your breath all for himself, an insistent press of his lips tasting like heaven and a promise of happiness.

“I love you.” A kiss to your lips. “I love you.” A kiss to your nose. “I love you so fucking much-“

You giggled against his lips, returning the affection as much as you could, your heart pounding in your chest, pressed against Andy’s ribcage – his heart was racing too, as if he had run a marathon or argued the case of his life in front of a full courtroom.

“I love you too-“

“Thank you-“

You laughed breathlessly, yelping when his hands slipped under your thighs and he lifted you to up to spin you around, a brilliant smile on his face.

“You’re a sneak, Andrew Barber,” you teased him, the world still spinning even as he set you down, taking both of your hands to place a tender kiss to your fingers.

It was the first time you actually took a proper look at the shiny ring – and your breath caught in your throat, eyes burning, nose tingling with fresh tears.

“Andy…”

It was gorgeous – and most definitely not a mindlessly picked piece of jewellery with the biggest diamond in a ten-mile radius to show off. No. Much like he had shown dedication to the proposal itself – you were getting married, holy damn, Andy just PROPOSED – he must have put plenty of thought into choosing what was to adorn your finger for hopefully a very long time; forever even. Delicate but intricate in design, a bigger centre stone with what seemed to be a thousand of tiny gemstones surrounding it as a halo in an unpredictable but beautiful pattern. He must have spent a fortune on it – it was a piece of art itself. Probably one of a kind.

Just like the gem of a man who now stood in front of you with a mix of pride and bashfulness in his expression as you admired your new accessory – a new promise.

You met his gaze, eyes probably shining brighter than the ring.

“It’s gorgeous,” you sighed, unable to resist and leaning in for another kiss, hoping to pour all your gratitude and delight into his lips. “I see what you did here, Andy. Thank you… and I really really adore you, you have no idea. I’m the lucky one.”

He shook his head with a grin, nudging your nose with his, hugging you close. “Let’s agree to disagree, sweetheart…”

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips. “Mr. Barber… are you already disagreeing with your future wife?”

Judging by certain sensation against your belly, you weren’t the only one who felt a shot of euphoria through your veins when you said it; Andy’s pupils dilated, gaze flickering to your lips, this time with less than sweet intent, hand wandering from your lower back to the globes of your ass instead.

You giggled and let him pull you to him until you realized the direction you were facing – not. Because like this, Andy’s hand appreciating your ass was perfectly visible to the camera.

“Andy, wait-“

“I wouldn’t dare to disagree… guess we can both thank to our lucky stars then…” he muttered, completely ignoring your protest, lips nearing yours, suddenly painfully slow, butterflies fluttering in your stomach despite the rational voice in he back of your head that your really shouldn’t give in. But how when his palm sprawled further, long fingers reaching to your quickly heating centre.

“An-“

He swallowed your noise of protest and plea at once, your knees buckling an inch when he stroked over your covered slit.

 “Celebrate with me?” he whispered against your lips, his hips rutting against yours making you whimper.

“Andy, the cameras-“

“-are off, I bribed the guard, I swear-“ he cut you off as his other hand slipped under your pencil skirt,  already tracing the line of your panties on your thigh.

“Andy-“ you whined as his lips retreated only to pepper soft slow kisses down the column of your throat, your head tilting back on its own volition as your body craved his touch, your core now throbbing. He’d better not be joking about the cameras, otherwise you really would-

“Come on, love, you gonna let me pin you to the wall like the masterpiece you are deserves?” he whispered and it was a terrible, terrible line, but he nipped at your pulse point and your feet obliged as he back you into the wall, fingers pushing the soaked fabric of your underwear to side, finding your hot and wet and waiting for him. A groan escaped his lips, his hard cock rutting into you as his fingertips teased your slit. “Gonna let me paint you all pretty with my cum, like a good little wife?”

“Jesus, Andy-“

“Gonna say yes to me one more time today, won’t you?” he demanded huskily, a knowing teasing lull to his voice as he kissed you again, letting you taste his sinful smile. He knew you would. You could never tell him no, not when you knew what awaited you was pure bliss, a loving but no less filthy ecstasy.

It was wrong. It was beautiful. It was insane and you’d happily take the leap. You were getting married. What other answer was there, especially with such a reward in your reach?

“Yes,” you sighed, head hitting the wall lightly, the hard warm planes of Andy’s body indeed pinning you in place, right between two damn exquisite painting. “Yes, I will.”

And then, because that beautiful bastard seducing you in the least appropriate place deserved a retaliation, you breathed out the last coherent words you could form before Andy made you forget how to do so:

“I will always say yes to my husband.”

Misc characters masterlist

Full masterlist

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed 🥰

Once again, Happy Holidays to all who celebrate 💕

Headboard info: framed picture from this artist (edited) - https://displate.com/displate/5918780, gif from Tenor

#r #andy barber x reader #andy barber imagine #andy barber x you #andy barber #defending acob au #andy barber fluff #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber fanfic #a night at the museum #anika ann #gift fic

[heranubis]

gift for @rocksinmuffin! another twst (and lilia) fan<3

due to a tumblr glitch - this was posted instead of saved. working on finishing this asap.

5 signs you're dating a vampire (by the great grimm)

sign 1 (one): tends to avoid sunlight (like. a lot)

another day in ramshackle dorm, another day of the student body marching through like an endless parade that actually lives there. normally Grimm minds a fair amount (the prefect is His magickless servant, not theirs!) - but today he's Extra grumpy about it.

today was the designated (self-appointed) nap day between him and you. he always gets a small can of tuna (and belly scratches!) but... naturally, that all flew out the window the very second Lilia flew in.

decorated with a black, lacy parasol (something that looks delicate and old) and he refuses to put it away until every window is closed and curtain drawn. the very second the last sliver of light disappears, so does the parasol. naturally - avoiding sunlight isn't Always suspicious, but this is Lilia Vanrouge. everything he does is suspicious (according to Grimm, anyways).

the diasomnia member simply giggles as he usually does and waves grimm's concerns away with a flippant hand. "i don't do well in the sun. i burn very easily~"

the cat gives him a suspicious look before running up to his own room in the dorm. he was going to nap - regardless if lilia wanted to drop by and avoid sunlight. it's been a long day and he's sure you would yell for help if it was needed.

(unspoken is how he lingers just outside the doorway, sleeping while an ear remains perked - just in case.)

sign 2 (two): he refuses to eat garlic (slight agreement there)

garlic, by any means, is far from grimm's favorite seasoning - it makes his nose itch. so when lilia comes over for dinner (the 91th time this month alone), he barely notices when the older student gently rejects any offers of Anything that even smells remotely of garlic.

"ah," he sighs - seemingly tired as if he's answered this question a million times before - "i'm simply... allergic to garlic. it doesn't particularly agree with me."

grimm vaguely remembers adeuce talking about Something (symptoms of some disease) and a few things caught his attention. things lilia did. he thinks they called it vampirism.

you'd gotten onto him several times now about jumping to conclusions, so he sat silently at the table (eyes never leaving lilia) as the student joked and giggled. it was totally normal and fine for someone to not like garlic - but the more grimm thought about it the more suspicious he got.

sign 3 (three): never wears silver (from what's been observed - thank you, r.h.)

sign 4 (four): has no reflection!!! Ever!!!!

perhaps inlisting the help of one rook hunt wasn't the brightest idea - he was terrifying and always manage to make grimm jump a few feet in the air. but he was also the best at observing others - often while remaining unseen himself.

therefor, he was the perfect choice for what the cat had in mind. a big tell of vampirism was avoiding silver - something about it burning their skin. and while lilia didn't often wear jewelry - he Had been spotted sporting it when dressed up for a holiday, school event, or something to do with his club. (rook even mentioned one time about him doing something called 'cosplay' with idia.)

sure, some people looked better in different metals, but Everyones worn silver at least once. and the fact lilia seemed to avoid it only made grimm more suspicious.

(naturally, what the little monster Didn't see was lilia waving in a friendly manner to rook - who was lounging in a tree, within perfect sight of his 'prey'.)

the mirrors in ramshackle dorm were old and busted and dirty. but he also knew there was one the prefect used quite often - the one in their bedroom. grimm could never use it, as it sat too high for him to feel comfortable climbing towards. but... on lilia's more frequent visits - that was the only mirror he seemed to use.

sign 5 (five): mysterious red stains that he never bothers to explain

and it was once (only once) grimm was in the room when lilia was using the mirror. he was re-applying what the prefect later explained to be eye-liner - something that could be done without a mirror but it was easier to see your reflection.

when grimm looked up at said mirror being used, he saw no reflection. no eyes, no nose, nothing on lilia's person was reflected back. only vampires had no reflection - every other creature in twisted wonderland had a reflection (this grimm knew for a fact.)

he'd barely rambled out some excuse before bolting from the room - haunted by lilia's giggles as the vampire older student went back to finishing his eye-liner.

the final nail in the coffin for grimm was when he would show up with random red stains peppering his white undershirt (red! red stains!)

sign 6 (six): he has a biting problem (written and scribbled out by the prefect)

the prefect always brushed it off with a light scolding to be more careful next time, meanwhile lilia would just give them a secretive little smile.

grimm is more firm in his beliefs now. he can say with absolutely no room for doubt - lilia vanrouge is a vampire. perhaps even the only one in twisted wonderland.

lilia is just a regular fae who is more expressive in his affections - he has sharp teeth and likes to nibble. garlic smells too strong to anyone with heightened senses (see: beastmen and other fae). he does wear silver but only on special occassions.

the old mirror in the prefects room is imbued with an old magick, it only reflects mortal souls. if malleus, crowley, or even sebek were to look into it - there would also be no reflection.

lilia has a pale complexion and does burn easily - he's also just a fan of pastel gothic fashions and when not attending lessons (in his own free time) tries to incorporate pieces of the style into his wardrobe around campus.

the stains, however, are blood. lilia's fangs are sharp and he's not always gentle with his bites. but far as anyone else is concerned - its just ketchup or wine.

#heranubis #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader #gift fic #suggestive

[random-thot-generator]

'S'

Ghost x Fem Reader

Summary: Your mystery lover 'S' has finally returned and is on his way over. You prepare for his arrival, ready to meet his every need, gladly catering to each of his unique desires.

Tags/Warnings: Explicit language, swearing, explicit sexual content, light voyeurism, mutual masturbation, PiV sex, slight breeding kink if you squint, dirty talk as foreplay, lil bit of edging - Ghost likes to edge himself to save it all up for reader, mention of oral sex- male and female receiving, light Dom/sub dynamic- Ghost likes it a certain way & reader submits to his every whim, allusions to an innocence kink, no Y/N

(A/N: After reading the NSFW Ghost HCs one of mutuals posted, I mentioned maybe writing a fic for them, so this is it. It's debauched, little to no plot, just a filthy one-shot to weave all her HCs together. Lots of dirty talk. Sorry, not sorry. Enjoy the smut.

You can check out Rhea's HCs here .

@luminousbeings-crudematter I didn't forget. This one's for you, sweets.

Word Count: 3540

You're putting away groceries when your cell phone dings an alert. You scoff, leaving the fridge door standing open, and turn back to the counter with a bag of grapefruit dangling from your hand, sliding the phone closer to read the screen.

'S sent you a message.'

A tingle starts at the base of your skull that tightens your scalp and lifts the hairs at the nape of your neck. You huff out a shaky breath and open the app with a trembling finger to read his text.

[S]: omw. eta 30m. b ready

You inhale slow and deep. He's back. He's home. He's on his way. He'll be there in thirty minutes… and he wants you to be ready to greet him.

You scramble to get the rest of the groceries put away and hurry to your bedroom, stripping clothes as you go. A quick shower, like the fastest you've ever taken, and then you're in your closet, looking for that one white sundress with the tiny orange and yellow flowers in the print. It's his favorite. He's never said it, but he always takes his time removing it, toying with the straps, rubbing the eyelet trim between his fingers.

You utter a quiet, "Yes!" when you find it.

Skip the bra. The straps don't look right with the dress anyway, but the panties…

Which pair should you choose?

You hold up thongs and high-waist French cuts and boy shorts in multiple colors and textures. No. No. No… but then you smile when you pull out a pair of white cotton bikini panties with the tiniest pink satin rose sewed onto the stretch-lace waistline. He loves the innocent look, the virginal white. You slide them on and then shimmy the dress over your head, contorting your arms to work the zipper up the back.

You feel a little frantic, knowing he is just minutes away.

Now what? you ask yourself, and somehow your brain supplies the answer.

The lotion. God, how could you forget the lotion?

He likes to watch you put on lotion; says he loves how it makes your skin feel like silk. You grab the bottle from the bathroom and set it on your little vanity table, then arrange yourself on its cushioned stool just so. You check the time on your cell, then put it on silent and wait, heart pounding in your chest.

'S' has his preferences, some run-of-the-mill, others more unique in taste. The mask he always wears took a little getting used to, and his refusal to share his name. He could have lied, given you a false name, but he didn't. He only gave you an initial - 'S', but you are confident it actually is his real initial. Say what you want about the strangeness of your relationship, but at least it's honest, which is more than most can say about their own relationships.

You hear the muffled jangle of keys and the squeak of hinges as your front door opens, then silence. For such a big man, he moves about with such eerily quiet steps, but you can sense his presence in the other room. He'll take off his boots and leave them by the door before he joins you. He never walks around your flat with shoes on; he thinks it's disrespectful to track up your floors. You cross your legs when you hear the creak of a floorboard and begin rubbing lotion into your calf.

You can feel when he stops at your door to stare. The jamb gives a soft pop when he leans a shoulder against it, but you don't look up, giving him time to watch as long as he wants. Eventually, there's a sigh from the doorway and you finally glance up at him, a little smile on your face. "Hey."

His mahogany eyes are half-lidded, lazy, but their gaze is avid as they follow the motion of your hand. "'Ello, love. Miss me?"

The rough gravel of his voice in that familiar Manc accent settles along your spine, sinks into the marrow of your bones, both a thrill and a comfort to hear. You hum at the sound, smile widening. "Always."

He watches you a moment longer then comes to sit on the bed across from you, eyes still locked on the hand smoothing lotion over your skin. "Just get out of the shower?"

"Mm-hm." You tug the hem of the skirt up higher to reach your thigh. A tingle of anticipation sparks to life deep in your core and radiates a warmth through your pelvis.

He'll start talking now, you think, telling you everything he thought about while he was away.

He pulls the hem of his shirt out of his pants, begins to undo the buttons down the front, his movements casual, leisurely. He's in no hurry. "Missed the smell of that shampoo ya use. Always makes my cock hard when I get a whiff of it."

…and here we go.

You try not to squirm as you recross your legs to lotion up the other one. "Yeah?" you murmur, keeping your voice low and soft. "The herbal one with lemongrass?"

"Yeah. Tha's the one." He breathes out a heavy breath and reaches down to adjust the bulge in his pants, giving it a little squeeze before releasing it. "Like t'think about it when I fuck my fist in the shower."

You feel that heady drop of arousal in your lower belly as you let a little smirk play around your lips. "Is that all you think about while you're fucking your hand?" you goad.

He huffs out a grating chuckle. "'Course it's not, love. It gets me goin', but I usually think about yer cunt to get off. How wet ya get for me. How tight ya squeeze me when I fuck ya good an' deep. What ya feel like when ya cum. The thought of it's got me leakin' right now." He reaches down to grip himself, eyes meeting yours. "Want t'see?"

You peer at him through lowered lashes, biting your lip to hide your coy grin. "Yeah. I'd like that."

He removes his shirt, tosses it to the foot of the bed, then reaches for his belt. He's patient, methodical as he strips it from the loops and lays it aside, then undoes his pants. He pulls his cock out over his underwear, cupping his balls in one hand while he strokes his length with the other. He swipes his thumb over the tip, gathers the precum. "See how much I've missed ya?" He holds it up for you to see. "Want a taste, sweetheart?"

You nod, leaning forward, stretching your torso out to meet him. He rubs his thumb over your parted lips before slipping it between them, letting you suck and tongue at his thumb before pulling it back, dragging it down your bottom lip. "Thought about this mouth, too," he murmurs, his deep rumble sinful and low. "I almost like fuckin' it as much as yer sweet lil cunt. Like how ya use yer tongue on me, how ya swallow 'round my cock. Feels so fuckin' good, makes my balls draw up so bloody tight. Nothin' in the world like it."

You preen at the praise and your channel clenches, slick oozing into the already damp cotton of your panties. You love this game, but it's torture, listening to him talk about all the things he imagines you doing to him, all the things he wants to do to you. It's a kind of foreplay you've never experienced with anyone else, at least not to the extent that he takes it.

Sure, you've been with 'talkers' in bed before, but their words were always said in the heat of the moment, gasped out and desperate. He does all his talking before the main event, his words even and deliberate, building up the anticipation as he describes his debauched thoughts in detail. It leaves you dripping before he ever touches you.

"Had a dream about ya," he says, giving his cock a languid stroke. "You were on the bed, arse up in the air, and I'm just poundin' ya, an' yer makin' those fuckin' noises that make my gut twist. I swear I could feel how wet ya were, how it felt slidin' in an' out of ya. Woke up to find I'd made a bloody mess o' m'self," he laughed, short and husky. "Bet ya like that, don't ya, lovie? Do ya like that ya make me cum in my sleep like some horny fuckin' kid?"

You smirk at him, nod. "Yeah. I do." You can't take your eyes off his stroking hand, how it looks wrapped around his thick length. You rub your thighs together for a little friction. Your clit is throbbing so hard right now.

He grunts. "'S my fault. Gave it a wank before I fell asleep, ya know, just a few tugs while I was thinkin' 'bout ya. Pissed me off, losin' my load that close to comin' home. Ya know I like to save it all up for ya, give it to ya proper, fill up that sweet lil cunny of yers."

You let your knees fall apart, feel the skirt drape between your thighs as you press your fingers to your clit through the cotton, too turned on to resist the urge to touch yourself. Your eyes flutter closed with a breathy sigh. You lick your lips. "I don't have that kind of strength," you confess. "If I think about you, how good you fuck me, it always makes me cum. I can't stop myself."

You hear his low groan and slit your eyes open, see the way his head is thrown back, resting his weight on one arm while he continues to stroke his cock. You want to push him, so you continue to talk, watching him.

"I think about what your tongue feels like when you lick my pussy. God... h-how good it feels when you fuck me with it or suck my clit. Love how you look with my cum on your lips, how it tastes when you kiss me." Your voice has gone high, edging into a whine.

"Fuc-kin' hell…" he breathes out. His hand torques down on the base of his cock. He's reached his limit. Anymore and his cum will be arcing through the air to splatter on the floorboards between you, and he'll be damned if he's losing another load like that, not when you're this close.

He stares at you as he grips his cock, watches your hand circling in the folds of your skirt. "C'mere, love," he rasps out. "Come stand in front of me."

You're on your feet in an instant, teetering a bit before he reaches out to steady you. He draws you closer to stand between his knees, hands skimming down from your waist and over your hips, fingers trailing along the skirt until he reaches the hem. "Want me to touch ya, love?"

You nod, swallowing down the spit that's lodged at the back of your throat. "God, please touch me," you sigh out in a rush, resting your hands on his bare shoulders to steady yourself.

His eyes crinkle and you know he's smiling beneath the cloth mask, pleased by your words, the needy way you said them. "'S alright, sweetheart. Ya know I've got ya. Spread those pretty legs for me a lil, yeah?"

You widen your stance, a shiver racking your body as he places his fingers feather-light on your calves and then glides them up beneath the hem of your dress, sliding past your knees to skim over the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He doesn't stop until he reaches your hips, thumbs caressing your hips bones through the cotton panties. He slips them underneath the elastic that circles your thighs, calloused pads pressing lightly into the meat of your mons. His thumbs meet right above your clit, and your mouth falls open as you prepare for that first touch.

It's euphoric.

The pad of one thumb grazes over the swollen nub; it's a light touch, but slow in execution. He slides his thumb over it again, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm as he increases the pressure. When he finally begins to rub circles into your clit, your knees threaten to give out and a pool of slick puddles in the crotch of your panties. "Oh, my god…"

He's watching you with rapt attention, eyes zeroed in on your face. His chest is visibly rising and falling with his heavy breaths now, his voice strained as he rumbles out, "Take yer knickers off for me, sweetheart. Do it nice an' slow."

You blink your eyes open and nod, stepping back. You hitch the skirt up and hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties. He leans back for a better view, his cock flexing against his lower abdomen when he sees you pull the white cotton down from between your thighs. You lower them slow, just like he asked, letting them go when they go past your knees.

"Look so fuckin' pretty when ya do that," he murmurs, sitting up again. He grazes a hand over the front of your skirt, voice gone to gravel when he tells you, "Hand me yer knickers and hold up that skirt, love. Want t'see that pretty lil cunny. I've missed it."

It feels so obscene to be holding up your dress for a man to stare at your naked pussy. He' still stroking his cock, your damp panties clutched in the other hand, and he's pressing them against the mask covering his nose. You can hear him taking deep breaths, filling his sinuses with your musk, low moans escaping when he exhales. Eventually, he brings his hand down, and the panties disappear into the front pocket of his jeans. You won't see those panties again, you know, so you make a mental note to buy more just like them.

"Yer so beautiful," he sighs out, pulling you closer to press his face into your stomach. He breathes you in, muttering into the folds of your skirt. "Pull up the mask, sweetheart, like I showed ya."

Your trembling hands slide from his shoulders to his neck, cool fingers curling beneath the fabric, giving him a moment to adjust to the sensation before you slowly begin to peel it up. You stop when you reach his nose, leaving the lower half of his face exposed. You feel a shiver quake through his form and he groans.

His hands slide up to knead at your breasts through your dress, rolling and pinching your nipples until they're hard and tight beneath the fabric. He slides a hand behind your back and pulls down the zipper, then hooks his fingers into the straps, dragging them down your shoulders. As soon as your breasts are exposed, he's yanking you forward, hitching your legs up around his hips as he wraps an arm around your waist. His hand comes up to cup your breast, fingers indenting the flesh as he dips his head to suck the nipple into his mouth. He moans as he rolls his tongue over it, then grunts when you grind against his cock.

He releases your nipple and grinds up into you with a filthy grunt before he captures the other nipple between his lips, eyes locked with yours as he catches the bud between his teeth and worries it. You're whimpering, pressing your chest into his face, throwing your head back with a gasping, "Hah!" as he draws in as much of your breast as he can fit into his mouth. He's ravenous with them, biting and marking, staking his claim.

You're mindlessly grinding against each other now, his cock gliding through your slick heat, making the most obscene wet sounds. You feel his hand slip from around your waist and burrow underneath your gathered skirt to grip your ass, and then you're being flipped over, landing on your back with an 'oof!' as he settles his weight against you.

He only pauses long enough to push his pants down past his hips and then he's notching the head of his cock at your pulsing entrance and pressing forward, a guttural groan vibrating through his chest as he sinks into you. He doesn't stop until the head of his cock bumps against the sensitive barrier of your cervix, and then he holds himself there, panting through gritted teeth.

You know he won't move until he'd regained some control. He'll wait til he feels the muscles in your channel relax, the spasms easing into pulsing undulations that milk at his cock. His eyes slide halfway open and lock with yours as he begins to move inside you, bracing his weight on his arms so he can hover over you, so he can watch your face as he fucks you. You know he won't speak again; he can't. It renders him as speechless as it does you, catching you both up in the heady sensation of being joined after so long.

All of his focus is on you now, intent on making you cum for him. He won't be satisfied until your clenching around him, just a shaking wet mess lying beneath him. He fucks you slow and deep, drinking in every detail of your face as your jaw goes slack and your eyes haze over. Your breathy pants morph into moans when he begins to thrust harder, snapping his hips, clapping his balls against your ass in a steady tattoo. You see his eyes roll back, his lids slide shut, but he blinks them open with a grunt, determined not to miss a moment of your pleasure. It gets him off to know he makes you feel so good.

He hits that spot that only he can find, a pleasure-pain that vibrates deep in your core and radiates out to thrum through your clit. Tears begin to swim in your eyes and thoughts fade into the background. Nothing else exists except that building pressure in the cradle of your pelvis, each thrust he delivers threatening to burst the dam holding it back. Your channel flutters, begins to spasm, and his low moan becomes a choked whine when your walls clamp down.

Your heels dig into his ass, your fingers raking down his back, and he growls through his clenched teeth. Your neck arches as you tilt your chin up to the ceiling, body tense as a wire and vibrating around him as you teeter on the very edge of orgasm. One more hard thrust sends you over, and you inhale a sobbing breath as the world melts around you.

It's a rush of bliss, a cascade of liquid heat that flows like warm, sticky honey throughout your lower body. It comes in waves that pulse in time with the throb in your clit. You can feel your cum flow over and around his cock, hear the squelch of liquid as he continues to rail into you with unhinged pleasure. With one final thrust he buries himself balls deep and cums, growling as he empties himself inside your spasming walls. He finally allows his eyes to roll shut, chin lowered to his chest as he gives a few more sloppy thrusts, wanting to push his seed deep into your pulsing core.

With your feet still hooked over the backs of his thighs, your legs quake around him as you shudder. He lowers himself to an elbow, brings his other arm back to run a soothing hand over your trembling thigh, soothing you as you ride out your orgasm. His mouth descends to cover yours, his tongue snaking out to tangle with yours in a wet, sensual kiss.

He only releases his claim on your mouth when he feels you go slack beneath him, completely spent and utterly wrecked. Wrapping his arms around you, he drags your limp form further up the bed until your head is resting on the pillows, your body sinking into the mattress. He stretches out beside you and gathers you against him, his arm around your waist pulling you snug against his side. His lips brush over your temple as he sighs, relaxed and sated for the first time in months.

"Missed you," you murmur into his chest, sliding an arm around his waist and a leg over his thigh. "Stay with me tonight?" you ask, like you always do.

"Maybe," he lies, but he holds you close, and you feel his hands grip you in remorse. If he could, he would stay. You know he would. "Jus' sleep, love. I'll be here when you wake up."

You close your eyes and pretend it's the truth.

#simon ghost riley x fem reader #cod ghost x fem reader #ghost x fem reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #cod ghost smut #ghost smut #cod smut #gift fic #showing some mutual love

[lossie92]

This story is a direct result of @kooriicolada pitching an idea to me (again) and me going "lemme write that down real quick" (again). In conclusion, neither of us has self control and you're benefitting from it (again).

The working title is Romance Comes Later. Hope you enjoy? 😅

Also, happy holidays to you all! I'll be posting more stuff this week so stay tuned!

-

Warnings: a/b/o dynamics

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He raised one of his hands and with movements that were painstakingly slow he reached out to place it along the curve of Tobirama's cheek. Without the ever-present happuri the omega's features appeared much softer. He looked younger like this, the innocence of childhood not entirely gone yet. 

It made Madara think about how young Tobirama actually was as he stroked the delicate skin under the omega's left eye. Even with the glove on he could still feel the warmth of Tobirama's blush and he smiled at that, amused.

Tobirama nuzzled against his palm, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked lazily, drowsy with what Madara suspected to be exhaustion finally catching up with him.

"You should rest," Madara said quietly.

"I'm not tired," was Tobirama's whispered response. "Just… It's nice. This. I— Nobody really does this."

"Mm? What do you mean?" Madara leaned in, his forehead against Tobirama's. The omega's breath caught at the gesture. It was more than obvious he wasn't used to this, which was a thought that didn't sit well with Madara for whatever reason. "What is it that nobody does?"

"Touching," Tobirama responded. His voice was small and the single word hard to catch, but Madara heard him anyway. "Nobody— not like this."

The admission was shockingly honest. It made something twist in Madara's chest – something that felt an awful lot like anger.

He wasn't a stranger to the concept of touch starvation. It wasn't uncommon in their profession. Being trained to fight and kill from a young age tended to result in intense paranoia. Madara himself had some hangups about people he didn't know getting too close, but he still had his pack to provide the comfort when he wanted and needed it most.

The younger Senju brother, it seemed, didn't have that despite the fact he had family.

Apparently able to sense Madara's unease, Tobirama added, "Anija does mark me with his scent. It just… ends there."

"Only Hashirama?" Madara asked just to be sure. He didn't expect much from someone like Senju Butsuma, but the idea was that the man would push away his own child…

He felt Tobirama nod. "Touka-nee is a beta. She doesn't understand," he explained in the same soft, quiet voice. "It's… I'm used to it. But I also want… this. There's something I— I j-just want you close. I don't know why, I—" Tobirama paused for a moment before continuing, "You'll think I'm crazy, Uchiha-sama, but it's almost like— there was this story my mother used to tell anija and I."

"A story," Madara repeated. "What was it about?"

"Fated mates," Tobirama said with a vivid blush. Though he had ducked his head presumably in order to hide it, Madara could see clearly how red his cheeks and ears were. It was beyond adorable. "She told us that, um… that it could happen sometimes," Tobirama continued. "A match so good it felt life-changing. I didn't believe it could be true back then."

Madara hummed, considering. "But you do now." It was a statement, not a question. "You think this is why we're so… drawn to each other.

"Yes," Tobirama responded. "It seems plausible. I don't— I haven't felt this type of pull before."

"Me neither." 

Tobirama looked up at that. There was something entirely too vulnerable hidden in his wide eyes – a type of hopefulness and yearning that Madara found completely disarming.

Heart in his throat, he cupped Tobirama's face in his hands and kissed him square on the lips before he could talk himself out of it.

#mdtb #madatobi #tobimada #uchiha madara #senju tobirama #madara #tobirama #madara x tobirama #a/b/o au #lossie writes #gift fic #naruto #naruto founders #naruto fanfiction

[muffinlance]

Gift Fic: Zuko the Theatre Gay Discovers Wrestlemania by back_that_sass_up

When Zuko and Iroh get separated in the Swamp, Zuko makes his way back to Gaoling to find himself immersed in the world of professional earthbending. Overly theatrical hijinks ensue.

Welcome to the "The Boulder Adopts Zuko AU" that nobody asked for.

#Gift fic #avatar the last airbender #atla #Zuko #I can't remember if I posted about this fic when it first started so here take (another?) link now that it's finished! #Cracky good times

[moxfirefly]

Rated Some What Spicy.

A little something that came to mind and I’m gifting it to @turtle-babe83

The feeling coiled within his stomach, deep and low to the point that he thought he was going to puke.

One can puke from excitement, right?

Because he was just about to prove it.

There was no anxious mission, no fighting about to start. He was simply existing within himself and probably training his green eyes at you. Watching carefully as you moved about the space. A section of his brain screamed at him to stop, to quit staring and shut his brain off.

But, fuck…

How could he? He hasn’t succeeded in doing so since the first day he had met you. The very second you had smiled up at him, something sweet and innocent that he wanted to eat.

He wanted to eat you.

Not in the full definition of the word, but the spirit of it. He wondered what sinking his teeth into sensitive gentle flesh would feel like. He wondered what the shape of his name would sound like exhaled from your throat. He wondered what the sweat that clung to your skin would mingle like with his seed sprayed against it.

Raph swallowed, audibly, but it proved useless to swallow the metaphorical knot stuck in his throat.

He picked up a piece of candy that April had flung towards Mikey’s direction not five minutes ago. Concentrated on the mundane task of unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue wrapped around t until the gooey centered spilled.

And yet all his brain could picture was your lips, his dick and that atrociously desperate need to see your swallow him whole.

His teeth broke the candy, loud enough that April cringed.

“You alright big guy?” She asked, avoiding another onslaught of Mikey hurling popcorn at her. They had been engaged in a hefty debate on what tonight’s movie marathon genre should be.

Raph hadn’t been mentally present for half of it. He had personally checked out when you had pushed your seat out and gotten up to get the food ready. The whole motion of movement had made your skirt floosh and the faintest reveal of thigh had been enough to send him into his own personal horny hell.

“M’fine, just getting a headache from Mikey defending The Matrix so much” He managed to move his eyes from you to cast a glare at his youngest brother.

“We can’t watch a Patrick Swayze marathon for the fifth time dude, we gotta expand our horizons” He was adamant that Mikey simply wanted to bust his balls.

“One doesn’t get tired of Point Break” Was his final statement before April offered up another trilogy as an option.

The five minute break had helped, the candy had fully melted in his mouth and by the time his eyes found you like autopilot, you had gone to the bathroom by the lack of your presence.

“Keep an eye on the food numbnuts, be right back, and no April we ain’t watching Jennifer’s Body, ya get a weird look in yer eye when that broad goes berserk on them dudes” Her huff made him smile but why were his legs lifting him up and delivering him towards the bathroom that surely was occupied?

Had he finally fucking lost his mind?

He silently prayed he’d trip and perish on his way but much to his dismay he was at the door just as you began to step out. The little jump was endearing, the wide look in your eyes quickly changing before the nervous laugh kicked in.

“Jesus I didn’t hear you” You commented with a giggle.

“My bad, ninja shit and all that” He felt his tongue was made of clay.

“Well naturally you’d be good at sneaking around, so what’s the finale decision for the marathon?” You asked, peaking a glance behind him as the debate for The Matrix had now been swapped for Rush Hour.

Raph swallowed, eyes taking in your small frame compared to his massive one. The concept of how you’d look beneath him punched him in the gut and exhilarated him all at once.

God he wanted to fucking eat you up.

“…Do ya wanna skip the movie?”

It was out of his mouth before he could shove it back down his esophagus.

“What? Like not watch them?” You weren’t taken aback, merely intrigued by his sudden change. But he could tell there was a little beneath your words an almost hopeful want.

It took a great deal for Raph to unglue his mouth, a rattle in his spirits as the adrenaline zig zagged inside of his veins.

“Kinda just wanna hang with ya…just us” He whispered it, a little nugget of information that found itself smacking your concern into a grin.

Why were you grinning?

Oh fuck!

“If you wanna be alone with me all you had to do was ask, is that it? Is that what you want Raphie?” His palms felt sweaty, he felt his stomach do a violent somersaults but your grin, your eyes casted upwards at him didn’t allow him to move. All he could muster was a nod, slow and meaningful enough to make your eyes shiny with curiosity.

Did you know? Could you read every shameful thought that’s ran through his brain all these years?

The aftertaste of the candy still clung to the inside of his cheeks, it mixed with the little saliva he had left from swallowing so much.

“Hey Mike, watch the food, something came up and Raph’s gotta take me home!” There was a muffled yeah yeah yeah from him and before Raph could look back your hand was in his.

Soft skin on his callouses.

“Well, let’s go” You smiled whilst leading him towards one of the exits in the Lair.

He allowed you to tug him, mind too wrapped up still on how your hand felt against his own. That impossible desire to pull back against him, to feel your further against him.

That need to consume you ran through his body like electricity.

What the fuck was he getting himself into?

#paimon writes #tmnt bayverse #tmnt raphael x reader #raphael x reader #raph x reader #raphael #tmnt raphael #gift fic #turtle-babe83

[artaxlivs]

It's not everyday that you get excited that your friend gave you crabs but here we are! Thanks @doomcheese! I love them 😍 Here's a little drabble I wrote just for you because I think you might like creepy little creatures:

“Eddie, stop bringing me crabs.” “But they want to meet you!” Eddie says, excitedly shoving yet another tiny crab toward Steve’s face in his cupped palms. “Look how happy this little guy is!” The crab rears back, pulling itself down into a defensive position before charging a few little side steps and brandishing a claw like a little battle ax.  “Aawwww,” Eddie coos, “he’s like a tiny little barbarian!” It’s barely bigger than a quarter so Steve’s not cowed. He just sighs and points to the outcropping of rocks with their puddles of teaming tidepools.  Grumbling, Eddie takes the crab back, gently releasing it back where he found it. Steve watches him with a smile. He’d known that Eddie had never seen a beach before but his absolute joy upon discovering the tidepools had been a thing of beauty.  There’s a happy sounding squeal, much like the five year old who’d been here earlier, then Eddie is sneaking slowly around to another of the pools. Steve hears him mutter “roll for stealth.” And then he dips one hand into the pool.  When Eddie sits back up, he’s got a small octopus, no bigger than his palm, clinging to his fingers. The grin he turns toward Steve is all teeth and happiness. Steve wants to kiss him silly.  “Careful, they love shiny—“ the octopus slides off of Eddie’s hand and plops back into the water, probably nestling itself between some rocks or back into a little cave. “—things.” Steve warns too late, eyes focused on Eddie’s now empty middle finger. The skull ring missing. Throwing his head back, Eddie laughs gleefully, “So octopuses are rogues. Noted. I’ll guard my shiny bits next time.” Flashing another grin at Steve, he clamors over to the next pool like a toddler looking for trouble.

#stories for crabs #creepy crawlies #it's octopuses not octopi #steddie #steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson loves creepy creatures #you can't change my mind #gift fic