#i'm hoping she's having a lovely little spider time enjoying her feast | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 10 months

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hi! i know ur not from the us so pls feel free to ignore this but i think a kbd fic where steve and the girls are doing sparklers for the fourth of july would be so cute! absolutely adore everything u post 🫶🏻

thank u!! sorry i know it isn't the fourth anymore bit I hope u enjoy regardless!! kbd —dad!steve and mom!reader show their daughters how to use sparklers for the first time, 2k

Steve isn't a huge fan of fireworks because of how dangerous they can be, but sparklers are just fine in his book. He buys a box of thirty. The girls can do ten each if they feel like it, though he knows Dove won't be interested, and he guesses Bethie will be too scared to hold them.

Still, he hopes. You're hosting a banquet of food when he arrives, a mixture of things you made and stuff he prepared yesterday. It's a feast of hotdogs and burgers, cupcakes and donuts, macaroni and cheese and chilli with white rice. The table is crammed with plates and the radio is on, playing fun pop music a little too loudly for Dove's taste, her hands over her ears.

You turn down the radio, and ask her where she sits on your hip, "Is that better, sweetheart?"

"Hey," he says, putting the box of sparklers on the counter.

"Hey, Stevie," you say, in a rare tone. You always talk to him with love but he adores how you say his name now, like you've never been happier to see him in your entire life. "They had some?"

"Lucky, right? Guess I'm not the only schmuck who forgot to buy some."

Avery rushes for his legs, a chocolate donut in one hand and a cup of juice in the other. Despite her luggage, she expects to be picked up. Steve grabs her.

"You're cold, dad," she says.

"Really? It's not cold out," he says.

"You need something to warm you up."

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Sure I do. Give me a hug, but don't get icing in my hair, please."

Avery hugs him, sticky cheek pressing into his as her arms strain around him. He pats her back, meeting your eyes and returning your happy smile. Steve turns on the spot to see Bethie practically elbow deep in a bowl of chilli. She loves anything that comes with rice, and she eats it like someone's going to take it away from her, chilli staining her lips and cheeks, a grain of rice stuck to her chin.

"Did you get a photo of that?" he asks.

"Of course I did," you laugh, putting Dove down to brace yourself against the counter. You stretch your neck in a tight circle.

"Thank you. Beth, that looks so nice! Are you saving any for me?"

"No!" she says happily, smiling wide as an ocean.

"Good girl. Alright, you tell me when you're finished, I have something fun for after dinner."

Dinner gets put on pause. You wipe Bethie's face clean, giggling the whole time and telling her how cute she is in your saccharine mommy voice that melts her, "We should have that more often, huh?" It's always a good day when Bethie eats well.

Steve helps Avery put her shoes on and together they step out into the backyard. It's small considering the house is a four bedroom, but maybe that's why you'd been able to afford it in the first place. You work with what space you have. There's a light wood fence, the perimeter half lined by pansies and the other side with a slim shed full of their bikes and scooters and a small bed where the girls attempted to grow strawberries last year. They didn't take, but Steve has hope for this summer.

The yard is clean though slightly neglected, and Steve has to work spider duty before Avery will agree to step off of the doorjam. You follow soon, Dove at your shins, Bethie cautious as she steps out in her socks behind you.

"Where's your shoes?" Steve asks her.

"I told her she didn't have to wear them," you say. "She says they're pinching her toes."

Steve had Beth's feet measured specifically to avoid that. He assumes it isn't pinching so much as not wanting to wear them. He shrugs. "Okay. Stay on the stones then, Beth, I don't know what's in the grass. You might step on a snail."

"Ew," she says, sitting down in the doorway.

Steve lights a sparkler for no one first of all, wondering how each girl will react. He hands it to you as the sparks jump to life, white and bright in the shade of the garden, the shadow of their house. You wave it around gently, but when each of your daughters gasps in unhappy shock, you hold your hand under the sparkler and let a spark kiss your palm.

"They aren't dangerous," you promise. You wave it into a heart, a star, the letter A. "Does anyone wanna try?"

"Me!" Avery shouts, holding out her hand. The sparkler burns remarkably quickly down to the stem.

"Dad will give you a new one. Hey, baby?" you put the sparkler down on the glass patio table as it sputters out. "Don't you have those gardening gloves?"

Soon, Steve's outfitted each girl in a glove too big for their hand. He passes Avery a sparkler, and her bravery and subsequent joy prompts some jealousy in Bethie, fighting her fear to take one too. You crouch down to stand with her as she waves it around, her eyes like saucers as white sparks fly.

"It's so pretty!" you say.

Dove is interested, but not in holding one. Steve picks her up and lights a sparkler, raising it away from her curious hands to draw her name. Avery squeaks with happiness and proclaims it as magic. "Dad, I'm a fairy!"

"I can see! Try not to put it by your hair, okay?"

She squeals some more until it dies in her hand. "Can I have another one?"

"Ooh," you coo, watching with pride as Bethie draws a circle with hers, "my girl's brave today, I'm super proud of you. Isn't this fun?"

Steve lights another one for Avery and gives Dove a loving kiss, thrilled to see them all this happy. He's really surprised Bethie's enjoying herself, but he supposes it would be hard for her to have a bad time with your hands on her shoulders, your encouragement soft and shining as angora silk.

They must use up four or five each like that.

"Daddy," Dove says, imploring as she touches his face.

"What?" he asks, thinking of tacking 'my little princess' on the end but withholding. Lately every sentence he says has a pet name squeezed in the middle. He has a lot of love to give.

She looks at him. He pats her small back, wondering if she's going to bless him with a sentence or two. She's old enough now to be talking, but she's quiet like Bethie most of the time. Or, she's not talkative —Dove is far from quiet.

"Hotdog, please."

Steve laughs loudly. "You want me to make you a hotdog?"

"And ketchup."

"Yeah, I can make you a hotdog. You don't want to stay for another sparkler?" he asks.

"No."

He laughs again, pressing another kiss overtop the first one he'd laid on her chubby cheek. "Thank you for saying please, sweetheart. You're such a good girl."

"Can I have a hotdog, too?" Avery asks.

"Sure you can, whatever you want. Beth? Mom?"

You've sat down on the floor. You're probably cold, but your smile would never show it. "I think me and Bethie are going to have another helping of chilli and rice, aren't we?" you ask hopefully.

Bethie's sparkler fizzles out. "Can we do more sparklers again?"

"Yeah. Tell you what, let's go back inside for food and when everyone's full, we'll come outside and do some more before bed. Sound good?"

The girls head inside, and Steve makes some hotdogs on the stove. Dove falls asleep with a bun in her hand, Bethie with her cheeks painted in sauce. Avery doesn't tire so easily, and while the others sleep, you and Steve take her out to the back door to light another sparkler. You write your names, you draw clumsy constellations. Steve writes 'I love

Avery,' grinning as she sounds out each letter.

Avery relishes in the delight of having your unfettered attention. She stays up for hours after her sisters with you and Steve, long enough to watch stray fireworks shoot up into the sky over your backyard, her head on your shoulder, her hand in Steve's hand.

"This is the best day ever," she says.

Steve wants to cry. Genuinely. He meets your eyes over Avery's head, and you shuffle closer to her without speaking, enveloping her in a hug from either side.

"Every day is the best day ever with you around, Ave," Steve says.

"The best. Me and dad tried some fireworks, when you weren't born." Steve and Avery look at you with mirrored interest. He doesn't remember what story you're going to tell. "You would've been very small in me at the time," you say, looking up as a pink and white firework blossoms across the night sky like a peony. "Like a strawberry seed. We… didn't know you were coming. I knew. I knew, but I didn't know. I could feel you right here," —you point at your stomach— "but I had no idea what you were going to be."

"Hey, you're right," Steve says. He forgets you were pregnant before you knew it.

"But me and dad lived together already," you say. "We were always going to get married and have babies and stuff, but you came really quickly. You were excited."

Steve grins. Avery hangs on your every word.

"But anyway, me and dad lived together. Not here, but somewhere, and we didn't have a yard but there was a little patch of grass and we figured we'd buy some, but he burned a stripe of my arm hair off by accident with a long lighter, and the we didn't have a fence to nail the Catherine wheel down, and he accidentally dropped the firecracker box on the way home so it didn't work anymore, and the rockets wouldn't light."

"Oh, no," Avery says. "You didn't have any fireworks?"

"None. But we had a pack of sparklers. We did it just like we did with you. I wrote 'I love Stevie' in big letters, and your dad tried to hug me and jabbed me in the stomach with his burned up one."

"Your hoodie," Steve remembers finally. "Your white hoodie, I bought it for you the week before at the mall after you threw up in Dairy Queen. I remember."

"I had it for a week, and he got this huge ash smudge on it."

"But you wouldn't let me wash it with bleach."

You give Avery a kiss on the top of her head. "I wanted to remember how happy we were. I thought the smudge was a nice reminder. Turns out I got much more than a smudge."

"You got me," Avery decodes.

"We got you," you say. "You're a thousand different things, Avery. You're smart, and kind, and pretty, and you're also a really good reminder that your dad loves me."

"Do you need a reminder?" Steve asks, genuinely worried, and kind of in awe. How you can sit there and say something that romantic off the cuff is beyond him. He really might cry soon.

"No," you say smugly. "You tell me all the time."

Not enough, he decides. After this, he'll be sure to tell you more.

Steve falls in love with you for the thousandth time.

"What I'm trying to tell you, Ave, is that dad is right. Every day with you in it is a really good day. I love you so much," you start to fizzle, which is to say your voice gets tight. You won't cry, but Steve teeters. "I'm really, really happy you had the best day ever, 'cos you make every day the best for dad and your sisters and me."

"Really?" Avery asks softly.

"Really," Steve says, rubbing the space between her shoulders.

A rocket squeals into the air and fractures into a ring of spectral colours.

Avery climbs onto her feet, and, torn between who to hug, wraps an arm around both of your necks.

Steve wraps his arms around you both, squeezing your hip. He's gotten used to being loved, to feeling it, but tonight might be an all time high. Sparklers become a Harrington tradition that year.

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

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You know I just have to give you a Calamórë request and those smut prompts made me go brrrrr so hear me out

“i’m going to fuck your so hard you’re going to forget that guys name”

I'm thinking another modern au but honestly it could work in normal verse too. Just imagine a bit of a possessive Manwë thinking that someone is getting a bit too friendly with his little crow ( you can decide who that person is! )

Hmm I'm a whore so spice level 🔥🔥🔥

Can't wait! Take your time with it, love your writing always<3

I hope you don’t mind, but I kept to the normal timeline. I also changed the prompt a wee bit, just to suit the story. I hope you like this.

“Mine”

Pairing: Calamórë

Themes: Smut

Word count : 1.9K words

Summary: At a feast, Manwë finds Tilion getting too close for comfort where Námo is concerned.

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form can be found here.

The feast was nearly over. Many of the guests had already departed for their rooms. Only a few remained in Oromë's great hall. Some made the most of the food, talking and laughing while they ate, while others danced, hoping to enjoy the music a little longer before leaving.

The hall was still hazy with smoke from the fireplace. The air was still heavy with the scents of wine, fruit, cheese, and baked bread. The empty tables had been cleared, but those with occupants were served as much food and drink as they had a hunger and thirst for. A great tree stood in the middle, its lower branches spreading under the roof. Pelts and skulls of fell beasts that had fallen to the Lord of Forests decorated the walls. Manwë barely noticed them. His gaze kept cutting to Námo and the Maiar speaking with him.

Oromë called him Tilion. As skilled as his mentor, Tilion had joined the hunt for Ungoliant and Melkor and would have killed the spider himself had she not shielded herself and her dark master with an impenetrable cloud of darkness. The fact that he came so close was impressive. And he seemed to have captivated Námo completely.

Manwë didn't like it. Not one bit. Tilion said something to make Námo laugh. Then he touched Námo's arm, squeezing it ever so gently. He leaned in and got closer than he should have. Manwë had seen enough. He rose and left his seat on the dais. He needed to get the measure of this Maia trying to be all too familiar with his little raven.

"Little raven," he said when he reached Námo's side. "Care to introduce me to your new friend?"

"Your grace," Námo said, doing a double take when Manwë's jaw tensed and he stood to his full height. There was anger flashing in his king's starry eyes, and jealousy too. Even his wings were tensed. It gave him pause. "This is Tilion of the noble house of Oromë. He was talking to me about his most recent quest."

Manwë pretended to be interested. "And that quest was?"

His hand still on Námo's arm, Tilion said, "I was telling Lord Námo about the time many of us searched through an abandoned fortress that was once under the control of the Dark Lord. Lord Námo was eager to hear more."

Yes. Eager and always ready to give a listening ear and mine! Manwë fought for composure. As the king, it would have been unbecoming if he lashed out because of a fit of possessiveness. He had to find another way to tell the Maia he was stepping over a line.

"He is, to be sure," Manwë said, his glare going cold as ice and his eyes frightening. Tilion gulped and took a step back. "I find it all rather endearing, really. But I believe we cannot stay any longer. Come, little raven. It's time we said our farewells."

The term of endearment and the murderous stare were all the hints Tilion needed. He took his arm away and bowed as deeply as he could. "Of course, your grace. Farewell."

Manwë wasted no time escorting Námo out of the great hall and shepherding him to the cottage Oromë had prepared for their personal use during their stay. He was courteous to those who stopped to talk for a moment or two, but he always made his excuses. Námo went along, wondering what was going on. He would have stopped to talk to the elves that served Oromë, but Manwë was having none of it. The king wanted to go straight to their cottage, and he had no choice but to comply. He couldn't even stop to admire the garden and its sweet-smelling roses. Námo could not stop until he was safely inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.

"He touched you," Manwë growled under his breath, pulling Námo to him. The king's arms went around him like vises. "He fucking touched you."

So this was the cause of everything. Námo looked up, only to find Manwë's eyes fixed on his. "It meant nothing to me, your grace, and..."

"That may be so." Manwë cut him off and walked him back to their bedroom. "But it still doesn't change the fact that he touched you. All I can see is that pathetic Maia laying a hand on you and touching you. No one touches you but me. No one. Is that fucking clear?"

Námo nodded, heady anticipation coursing through him. He knew what the king was like when he was in such a mood. And it always ended with him bruised and sore in all sorts of wonderful ways. Námo tilted his chin, hoping to goad the king a little more.

"He did touch me," he agreed. "His hand was soft. I never knew a hunter's hand could be so soft. Usually, they're...-

Manwë crushed Námo's lips with his, drowning out the last of his words. It was a kiss that had more teeth and tongue and left Námo gasping for breath. His knees nearly buckled by the force of that kiss when Manwë growled and tightened his grip. Námo whimpered, his arms circling Manwë's shoulders. When the king pulled away, his gleaming eyes had gone hazy with lust.

"Get rid of those robes," he hissed, his voice thick and hoarse, "and get in bed. I'm going to fuck you so hard you're going to forget that Maia's name."

Námo didn't have to be told twice. His robes were disposed of in moments. His fana trembled when cool air danced over his skin. Námo got in bed, acutely aware that Manwë had been watching his every move. By the time Námo made himself comfortable amongst the silken sheets, Manwë had already begun disrobing himself. Námo's eyes wandered the length of the king's fana. Manwë's skin was flawless and seemed to defy all flaws. His wings were relaxed now, rustling softly every time he moved. When he finished, he went over to a trunk and threw open the lid, fishing around for what he was looking for. The crystal bottle glittered in the starlight streaming through the windows. Manwë brought it over and left it by the bedside counter. He pushed Námo onto his back and moved over him.

His kisses were just as rough as before. All Námo could do was whimper helplessly, his nails leaving little gouges on Manwë's back. The king was all over him, his kisses hungry, his teeth leaving dark bruises to form in their absence. Pain and pleasure mingled and licked their way up Námo's spine. His first moan spilled free.

"Do you think that Maia could make you moan like that?" Manwë's eyes were glinting in triumph. He ran his tongue over a stiffened nipple, causing Námo to moan even louder and arch his back. "Rouse you the way I do?"

"N-no your g-grace." Námo let go of Manwë and grabbed the sheets, making them bunch up around him every time his nails dug into the fabric. "He cannot."

Manwë kissed down and tugged, not too gently. His tongue took over where his lips and teeth left off, leaving a wet trail all over his companion. His hands gripped Námo's thighs every time he arched his back. And he didn't stop there. Every time Námo moaned, every time he whimpered the king's name, Manwë grew bolder, leaving very little of Námo's fana untouched.

"Now everyone knows who you belong to." Satisfied, Manwë rose and went over to the counter. He picked up the crystal bottle and pulled out the stopper, emptying some of its contents into his hand. The ointment spread easily around his cock. He came back to bed and flipped Námo onto his stomach. Námo raised his hips, making Manwë growl in approval.

"Already eager, little raven." Manwë grabbed Námo's waist and pulled him closer, entering him slowly and carefully. The sounds Námo made when he filled him made it sound like he was dying.

"Y-yes, your g-grace." Námo trembled when a large hand glided over his thigh. He jumped when it struck him, and he moaned again. Manwë didn't go further, but Námo wanted more. Once was not enough. "M-more your grace. Please. Give me more."

It was music to Manwë's ears. He struck Námo's thigh once, then a second time, and a third. Each time he struck, Námo would moan long and deep. The sounds he made were like a drug. Manwë couldn't get enough of it. "Do you think that Maia could make you beg and plead like this? Like a needy little slut?"

Námo had nearly forgotten about Tilion, just like Manwë had said. "No. He cannot."

Manwë rewarded him with another spank before grabbing onto his hips. He started to move slowly and gently at first. He had to rest his legs over Námo's own. His little raven tended to squirm, and Manwë didn't want that. When Námo propped himself on his hands, Manwë let go of his hip and wrapped his hand around thick silver-grey hair, yanking on it and pulling Námo's head back with every thrust. His wings rustled every time his fana trembled. His breath grew ragged and labored. Manwë was close—so very close. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Námo's moans matching his own filled his ears. His fana tensed, and his muscles coiled. A wave of unimaginable bliss spread through him as he neared his orgasm. Námo moved in time with his thrusts, his own fana tensing. Manwë grabbed onto his hip, hard as ever, and cried out when his orgasm ripped through him. He waited long enough for his seed to spill and his fana to stop shaking before pulling out and flipping Námo onto his back.

Námo had been waiting for this. Manwë dipped his head and wrapped his lips around the tip of Námo's cock, running his tongue over the length of his shaft. Námo trembled violently when Manwë took his cock into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down, his hand moving in rhythm with his tongue and lips. It felt so good. The warmth of Manwë's mouth, the softness of his lips, and the wetness of his tongue were all a heady mix. No one could ever make him feel like the king did, all needy and wanton. He grabbed at the sheets, his fingers practically ripping into the fabric. He felt it—a coiling in his belly. He closed his eyes, the king's name falling off his lips like a soft chant. Manwë draped a hand over his belly to stop him from squirming. Námo arched his back one last time, and the world seemed to stop spinning. He couldn't breathe or even think. All he could feel was a pleasure of the acutest kind shooting all over his body. It pulled him in and threatened to drown him. Námo willingly surrendered and allowed himself to be pulled under.

Soft kisses started to move over his legs and his belly. Námo took a deep breath and blinked, welcoming Manwë into his arms. He ran his hands over the king's wings, marveling at how soft the feathers were. Manwë sighed in bliss. Only Námo could make him feel like this, treating him with reverence. He hoped to always prove himself worthy of such devotion.

"Will you talk to that Maia again, little raven?" Manwë rested his head against the crook of Námo's neck.

"Which Maia, your grace?" Tilion was utterly forgotten by this time. Manwë chuckled, his chest rumbling against Námo's. His little raven returned the feeling, and they both laughed in the end.

Tags: @fictionfordays @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

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