#good news: the poem turns out pretty well

[ronanlynchbf]

diversity loss! those ppl correctly gendering u assumed you're straight..

[inkblot22]

Give You Something To Cry About

Yay, my time management skills continue to be straight ass. Sorry to the anon who has waited so patiently for this, and thank you so much for giving me an excuse to write this depraved ball of snot. Headers by @/cafekitsune. Also don't believe everything you see on the internet, there's no scientific proof that certain things work for your skin. I think Vil would know that, considering.

This Fic Is For: Anyone who can handle it! Once again, I tried to make it as gn as possible, considering Rook's use of Franglais, but I'm delusional and will say I did exactly that. Reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, and no real allusions to specific body parts are made for them.

TW for DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, forced dieting, non/dubcon, mentions of death, questionable use of magic, captivity, someone has a case of dacryphilia and a strong sadist streak, won't say who, Rook Hunt because he freaks me out, unhealthy relationship dynamics, abuse, forced BDSM if you squint, I feel so bad for the reader in this one, toxic relationships, possibly OOC characters.

“I am not going to tell you again, my love.” Vil bends down to get in your face, already wearing his ceremonial robe and heels. He points a finger in your face, like you’re a small child or a dog, “If you continue to pick at your skin, I am going to let Rook punish you this time.”

You swallow and look away, and Vil pinches your cheeks between his thumb and fingers, pulling your head so you’re looking at him again. His violet eyes bore into you, and you swallow again.

He looks offended, almost, “Well? Have you forgotten basic manners? Speak.”

Your voice sounds dry and weak, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

He seems satisfied enough with that, moving around as he continues to prepare for whatever school-wide assembly is happening today. He elegantly tucks his hair behind his ear and sighs, scrolling through some page on his phone.

You remain standing where you are, turning your head to look out the window. It’s so pretty outside, but you only get to leave this room whenever Rook is watching you or Vil sends you on an errand. It’s always spring, never too hot, never too cold, but you’re sweating anyway.

Vil approaches you again and tilts your face back so you’re looking at him with a hand on your cheek. His eyes narrow a fraction.

“Your skin doesn’t seem to like this foundation. Make sure you discard it today; I’ll get you a new one.” He bends down again, this time to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He rubs his own together after pulling away and smudges his thumb over your bottom lip, “Hmm. What lipgloss is this?”

Your voice doesn’t sound so dry, but it still doesn’t sound like you, “Uh… The dark red one with the metallic purple? ‘Electric Berry’?

He’s silent for a second, just staring down at your lips as he cups your chin, and then he sighs and turns away, “It’s sticky. I’d tell you to wash your face and reapply your makeup, but that’d be a waste. Make sure you put on lip balm next time.”

You swallow, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

“I have to get going now. You’d better be at least halfway done with that list by the time I return.” He breezes towards the door and gives you a last, long look. He’s completely silent before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Your palms ache. You stiltedly wander towards the list pinned in the closet, glad to see it’s not insane today. All you need to do is tidy the bathroom and skim through Vil’s mail to see if it’s anything but hate mail or advertisements. Tack on getting rid of that foundation and that’s it, at least until he returns at lunch.

You relished this time to yourself, even if it was just cleaning or whatever else. Vil always said that motion is good for you, a structure does the mind good. You didn’t care much anymore. As you sat down to search through his mail, finding nothing but the usual hate mail and what appears to be a poem from Rook (why did he even mail that? He’s not even down the hall from this room,) you catch yourself craving something sweet.

The diet Vil has you on sucks. He has assured you that your body is lovely, and he is having you eat like this to help clear your skin, but really you just want something. Anything, you’d even take a breath mint over this lack of junk food. You’re young, what young person doesn’t enjoy gratuitously unhealthy food? A basket of french fries? Ice cream? 

You frown to yourself and toss the last of the mail into the recycle bin. You know he’s just going to check it over again anyway, but at least you’re moving around. That’s what he would say.

By the time you’re almost done scrubbing the tub, you hear the door open. You don’t want to go greet him, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything and keep cleaning, making sure to disinfect the non-slip mat that resembles a bunch of ugly gems glued together. 

You hear him clicking towards you, and his hand rests on your shoulder, “Going above and beyond today? I have lunch, come eat.”

You school your expression and stand up, pulling off your cleaning gloves and hanging them on the rim of the tub before you follow Vil. He ensconces himself in his desk chair, leaving you to awkwardly lift the stool near his vanity. He hates it when you push the furniture.

He clucks his tongue, not even looking at you, “Lift with your knees, darling. As much as I’d love to massage your back if you pull something, I simply don’t have the time.”

You can’t help it. You shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster as you lift with your knees, right as his eyes flick up to meet yours. You nearly drop the chair as his lips curl into a cold smirk.

“Do you have something to say?”

You hastily shake your head, “No, Vil-”

“Then don’t allow me to see that expression on your face again.” He bites, “Come sit down.”

You put the stool down a little harder than you mean to and take a seat beside Vil at his desk. He passes you your nice little container containing one of several things he gets you- a pile of leafy greens and chopped veggies on a bed of quinoa, fresh fruit, and a murky green smoothie topped with chia seeds.

 You don’t like chia seeds. They remind you of frog eggs- a bunch of slimy lumps, sliding down your throat. You accept the straw Vil passes to you and stir the smoothie before eating in silence.

Vil doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him for feeding you. Since he’s keeping you here, it’s pretty much the least he could do. Still, it doesn’t make up for hearing about his boring day.

“This morning’s assembly was complete and utter chaos, as usual.” He muses, sipping his own smoothie. It’s a soft purple. “It’s ridiculous. Those brutes never wear their robes correctly.”

You don’t respond. There’s two reasons: first of all, you don’t care, and secondly, there’s a knock at the door. Vil hums, as though he’s been waiting for someone, and turns to face the door.

“Who is it?”

That boisterous voice you are so used to hearing echoes past the door, “‘Tis I, Roi du Poison. I have come to join you for lunch.”

You can hear the smile in Vil’s voice, “Oh, of course. Come in.”

As Rook walks in, you feel a stab of jealousy in your chest. He takes a breezy seat on the loveseat in front of Vil’s bed and glances at you. You break eye contact and dully pick at your salad.

Vil treats Rook so nicely. He considers his feelings and opinions, although he doesn’t always listen. He speaks to him as though he’s a person. You suppose Vil’s obvious care for Rook trickles down to you in some capacity, but it hurts. Vil claims that the two of you are lovers, but really you’re more like a doll.

“Do you mind meeting me in the lab later on, Rook?”

Rook chuckles from where he is and you cast another glance at him. His eyes meet yours, again, and you look away, again.

“I can always make time for you, beautiful Vil.”

You lamely pick at the fruit, having finished the salad, before you decide to save it for last. You take a sip of your smoothie after stirring it again and openly recoil, trying not to cough. You didn’t smell it, but there must be ginger in there, because there’s a mellow burn alongside the bitterness from the kale. It makes your eyes water and settles in behind your nose.

“Mmm. Something wrong?” Vil smiles at you.

You shake your head, blinking rapidly so you don’t start crying. There’s not enough tears to fall, but taking your chances is stupid, “No, Vil. The ginger just caught me off guard.”

“Oh. My apologies, I should have warned you. I don’t want you catching a cold, and you’ve been a little irregular. The smoothie also has spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, and, of course, a little mango.”

You nod and force yourself to smile, taking another sip and soldiering past the rush of that aromatic pain in your sinuses. “Oh, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, darling.” Vil turns away from you to speak to Rook again, “What else did you have planned?”

“I thought I might take a walk. It is a wonderful day, non?” There’s a slight mocking tone to Rook’s voice, “Hardly the type of day to be cooped up all day, hmm?”

Vil furrows his eyebrows as you choke down the last of the smoothie. His voice is curt, “You can say what you mean.”

“Est-ce que je peux? You are not very open to suggestion.”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, taking a deep sip of his smoothie before he places it on the coaster sitting upon his desk. He uncrosses his long legs and stands, walking over to sit with Rook on the loveseat. Rook watches him approach with a smile, the same pleasant one he usually wears before he shoots you a beaming grin and turns to look at Vil.

Their conversation is hushed, and you can’t really make out all of what they say. You can hear someone say your name, Vil’s tone swiftly turns vitriolic, then sweetens once more, and Rook chuckles under his breath. When their little meeting is over, Vil walks back over and finishes his smoothie before petting your head like you’re some kind of cat.

His hand strokes the crown of your head, then smooths over your cheek, he cups your jaw and thumbs over the swell of your lip, all while staring at you with a look you cannot read. And then he tilts his head, and smiles.

“Make sure you thank Rook. And you mistook a letter from my father as garbage.”

“Yes, Vil.” You reply obediently, “Sorry, Vil.”

He smiles. Your palms ache, and you have to bite back the urge to move, to peel at your cuticles or scratch the sides of your fingers.

“I’ll see you in class, Rook.” Vil says politely before he tilts your face up and pecks you on the lips.

You’re left alone with Rook. He doesn’t get up, not yet. You remain where you are, looking at your slippers. You hear Rook stand up and discard his garbage. You can feel him come up to stand behind you. 

“Has today been particulièrement difficile? My poor dear… You seem so sad today.” His arms wrap around you, looping them around your shoulders so they warm your collarbones like a scarf and he can rest his cheek against the back of your head. You hear him take a deep breath in.

With Vil, you don’t even try to speak anymore. You know he won’t really listen to you, because he knows better than you… But with Rook, as long as you wait a moment to make sure he is done speaking, he welcomes and even encourages you to speak your mind.

Your breath hitches and you swallow, “Uh, I mean… I guess I’m just having a bad day. It’s really been the same as usual.”

“Hmm.” Rook hums, completely devoid of emotion. You feel him turn his face so his nose is buried in your hair. He presses a kiss against your hair and sighs, “Ah, yes, the monotony of life is très épuisant, mmm?”

You wait for a second, then deliberately don’t answer the question in favor of asking your own, “Um, he said I should thank you?”

“Perhaps you should ask why more clearly. I have convinced our very own Vil to allow me to arrange a surprise for you.” Rook removes himself from your back and turns you around to face him, “And thus, I believe I have earned a kiss from you.”

“Wait, what?” You don’t get time to really back away or tell him to explain, as Rook squishes your cheeks with one of his gloved hands until your lips part.

His grip isn’t as harsh as Vil’s, but this is still something that only happens when you’re in more trouble than usual, so you involuntarily wince and close your eyes, cowering away from Rook as he dips his tongue into your mouth and slithers it between your teeth.

It is very easy to like Rook. He is passionate, and he’s far more kind to you than your supposed lover is. He’s intelligent and has an adonis-like form, and if not for the taste of blood on his tongue from whatever he ate for lunch or the grip he has on your face, maybe you would enjoy this kiss. But the big issue is that Rook honestly frightens you a little.

It’s absolutely not his fault, not entirely. Upon first meeting him, it was hard to tell if he was being genuine. He’s difficult to read, as he is often wearing the same set of expressions and his tone is always a bit melodramatic.

His hand releases your face to clamp around the base of your head, his tongue twisting in your mouth, pressing against the crevices in your teeth.

Not only is Rook hard to read, he is also uncannily observant and will not hesitate to ask somewhat invasive questions about his observations. The fact that he dresses in a way that conceals his mass is also disconcerting, as you were unaware that he had such a build until you saw him roll up his sleeve one time. You were aware Vil could do a lot of damage, but that was the day you realized that Rook was capable of doing about as much as Vil, if not more.

He purrs into your mouth, the vibrations feeling oh-so-wrong, and his other hand clamps down on your shoulder. He sucks your tongue into his mouth. It’s not a good feeling, as he is literally stealing what little air is in your mouth. When you feel something feather light flutter against your lashes and cheek, you feel a bit confused for just a moment, not even a second, before you realize that Rook just blinked. His eyes are open. 

He pulls away and sighs, almost dreamily. You suppress your distressed sputtering, holding your breath as Rook stares at you.

“Ah, enough time has passed. I will need to leave you, mon lapin. Thank you for indulging me; your kiss was divine and tasted sweeter than the finest fruits!” He presses something into your palm and adjusts his hat before he casts you a wave and shuts the door.

You stand there, your lips drying out from the saliva left on them and your cheeks feeling a little odd from the way he was holding your face. You’re processing, because, ever as always, Rook is simulated spontaneity. So many things just happened, and you don’t… 

You blink a few times and look down at your aching palm stupidly. The crimson cellophane crinkles as you unclench your fist. He gave you a piece of candy.

Just looking at it makes you start crying. One second you’re staring wide-eyed at the little lump of sugar, and the next your vision is blurring and you’re crying off your makeup, plump tears cascading down your face. Your nose begins to run and you sniffle. You can’t find it in yourself to sob, because you’re mostly certain that these are happy tears. 

Unfortunately, you can’t eat the candy now. If you threw the wrapper away, Vil would notice it in the garbage and you’d get in trouble for “breaking your diet plan.” So you hide it in the very back corner of the drawer of Vil’s armoire. You’ll be tidying it on your own anyway, and Vil never reaches all the way into the back of it.

Once your tears have stopped, you stand up and go back to cleaning the bathroom. It’s spotless and smells like lavender and lemons about an hour before Vil gets back, so you decide to skim one of the books on the shelves. 

It’s not long before you’re bored with that as well. You carefully put the book back and wander over to the lattice window, staring out of it. The window, paired with your usual low mood, made you sort of feel like a bird in a very ornate cage. 

From where you are, about three stories up, you notice a familiar figure notching an arrow before he unnotches it and takes a knee. You blandly spectate as he fiddles with the bow.

Partway through him notching the arrow again, you see his hat tilt. He’s far away enough that you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel his stare. His gloved hand bends his brim and you jerk away from the window, only to bump into someone.

You don’t get to shriek, as a hand clamps over your mouth. It’s just Vil, but you don’t relax yet as he drags you towards the bed and deposits you there.

“How many times must I tell you to stay away from the window?”

He’s never once told you to stay away from the window. Not as far as you can recall, at least. Your lips tremble and you decide it’d be more wise to keep silent.

Vil glares down at you and you feel the rest of your body start to tremble. His lips curl into a displeased sneer, “You didn’t wash your face after crying?”

“N-no, Vil-”

“We do not stutter.” Vil hisses, bending to get in your face. He stares at you for a moment before standing straight again, “Speak up.”

You swallow and clench your hands into fists, “No… Vil. I… got rid of the foundation like you, um… asked me to. I wouldn’t have been able to redo-”

“Alright. Go wash your face.” Vil interrupts you again.

You jump up and rush into the bathroom, going through your skincare routine. You can feel Vil staring at you, your skin crawling under his gaze. As you rub moisturizer into your skin, Vil finally says something.

“Did Rook do something to you, darling?” His tone is soft, tentative.

You glance at him, blinking a few times. What does he mean by ‘something’? He did do something, but it wasn’t bad, or particularly different.

“Um… Not exactly.” You say, massaging your forehead.

“I see. What did he do?” 

You look down at the sink. You’re not saying anything about the candy. “Rook kissed me?”

“That should not be a question.” Vil says. You see him shake his head through your peripheral, “Would you like to change your clothes before I redo your makeup?”

You’d like to ask what he’s talking about, but instead, you look down at your clothing. You don’t have a proper Pomefiore uniform because you’re not a part of this dorm. You’re an interloper- or a caged bird.

You don’t know what to do here. You don’t want to say something wrong and unintentionally offend Vil. Your palms ache. You give him a confused look from where you are.

He doesn’t look impressed, but before he can say anything about you gaping at him, you speak up, “What… am I supposed to do?”

You’ve only seen Vil surprised a few times. He raises his eyebrows and looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads, then sighs, “Well, I suppose I’d like to see you in something else. I’ll choose your outfit.”

That’s nothing new, he always does that. You wait in the bathroom for him to return. He strolls back in with a mockery of the Pomefiore uniform. There’s a deep purple cloak and capelet, which Vil drapes on the bed before handing you the actual clothes. It’s a very ruffled dress shirt, the long, puffy sleeves cinched into more ruffles at the wrist paired with a pair of black bloomer-style shorts. The buttons are all white and gold, marbled together. 

Vil leaves the bathroom and you change, neatly tucking your previous clothing away in the hamper. When you leave, as usual, Vil picks at your clothing, making sure it looks as good on you as he pleases, and then he steers you to sit down.

For however vicious he can be, Vil can be oddly gentle. For every time he grabs you roughly, his touch is feather-light ten more times. He hums a soft tune as he puts light makeup on you, just your eyes and lips, and then he drapes the cloak around your shoulders and places his hands on his hips.

“You look lovely. Go put on the pair of gold boots with the black decals.”

You do as told. He very likely wants to just take pictures of you or something so he can ask that Mira app about it.

Except when you stop in front of him, he doesn’t tell you to go sit in the loveseat or on the table near his window, no, he scoops you up and presses his forehead against your jaw.

“Oh, when did you put on this cologne? What a ravishing smell on you.” He presses a kiss on the column of your throat and breezes out of his dorm room's door.

Almost immediately, you go limp in his arms, like a doll. He never gave you explicit verbal permission to leave this room, so the curse he placed on you when he decided you should be his smashes into you like a giant wave at the beach.

Vil carries you all the way outside and looks at your face, then happily struts along the path behind the dorm. Since you can’t turn your head, you can only go off of the view of Vil’s neck and chin, the sky, and whatever you can hear.

“Ah, I am glad to see you did not change your mind, Roi du Poison. J'aurais été très déçue et triste pour notre chéri.” You hear Rook say. 

You can almost feel Vil get a mite warmer, “Yes, well. Hand me the basket. Since you want to make out with them and make them cry, you get to carry them as an apology.”

Rook happily scoops you out of Vil’s arms, giving you a cloying look as he strolls along. He and Vil chat as they walk, something not really worth listening in on, just boring musings about class and “this teacher did x” or “that student did y”. An insect lands on your cheek and you are incapable of batting it away or expressing your discomfort. Its legs tickle the peach fuzz on your face and you remain still, like a corpse.

Rook slides you into a seated position, posing you like a toy before shooing the bug off of your face. Now you can see that you’re in a clearing in the woods, seated on a picnic blanket. There’s a few lanterns staked into the ground, and Rook and Vil are busy with whatever is on the floor. You can’t look down, so your best guess is that it’s a picnic.

Vil leans over and snaps in your face, smiling kindly at you, “Now. If I release you, you are not going to run. You are not going to so much as consider running. We are going to have a nice picnic with no shenanigans from you.”

You can’t nod, so you just stare at him, trying to telepathically communicate.

He looks pleased enough, “Wonderful. I give you permission to leave our room.”

Your muscles relax and you look back, finding that you’re leaned against a log. The picnic spread is very nice, as well. It looks like finger sandwiches. You’re not expecting to get to eat one, as you haven’t had bread since Vil switched up your diet. Vil passes something to you.

“Oh.” You mumble, staring at the plate Vil hands you. 

It’s a sandwich. A very wonderful looking sandwich, cut into triangles and with the crusts still on. You blink at it a few times and look back up at Vil.

“Don’t expect this to be a pattern. This is a treat for good behavior.”

You look back down, “Yes, Vil.”

“There’s no need to remind them. They’re being obedient.” Rook’s voice is more firm than you expected to hear him ever speak. Usually his tone is buoyant, and you’ve never seen him outright pick a fight with Vil like this.

“Please. You give anyone an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Vil cuts back, then turns to you and pets your head like a dog or a cat again, “Eat your food, beautiful.”

You take a bite. Bread is just as good as you remember it. The air feels thick, like you’re in a bubble as Vil and Rook communicate through eye contact alone. Before you know it, your sandwich is gone and your hands are covered in crumbs. Rook, still staring at Vil with that happy little smile, wipes your hands and places a glass in your hands. Whatever is in it smells sweet. You take a tentative sip.

Were it Vil, you would have never drank whatever this is. It kind of tastes like a mellow mixed berry juice. It’s very pleasant, actually. Better than the potion Vil used to lace your food and drinks with. You smile into the cup and Vil snatches it from you.

He takes a sip and frowns, handing it back, “Mmm. I have an even better surprise.”

Rook pulls your legs into his lap and gently kneads your calves as you watch Vil rifle through the picnic basket. What is happening? You sip your juice and Vil produces a triangular container. He places a fork on top and hands it to you.

You finish the last of your juice and accept the box, looking conspiratorially at Rook. Something you can’t put your finger on dances in his eyes and he digs his thumb into your shin a little strongly. You flinch and cautiously open the box. It’s a piece of fluffy white cake, with even fluffier meringue and an uncannily perfect cherry wedged into it.

You look at Vil, expecting some kind of trick. Not that he’s ever done that before, usually he’d just take it from you or make some snide comment, things like that, but he and Rook are acting really strange today, 

“I know how much you long for junk food, so I spent some time after club activities today whipping up some angel food cake. It’s got agave instead of sugar so it won’t completely break your diet and your skin won’t suffer as much.”

Yeah, this is weird. The cake is good, though, it’s fluffy and sweet. You pace your bites so that Vil won’t make a comment and you can savor this. You can feel both of their eyes on you and it makes your skin crawl.

You lower the cake box and look at Vil, who looks a bit offended for just a second. The fleeting expression is replaced by a pleased little grin, the mauve lipstick making the curve of his lips all the more sinister in the dimming light.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, Vil.” You glance at the cake and then back at him, “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m a little confused.”

“Why?” Rook asks.

Your shoulders jerk as you turn your head to look at him. You weren’t expecting him to say anything. His chest swells in what appears to be a suppressed chuckle as he squeezes your knee. It seems his hands have climbed.

“Uh…” You swallow, “This is just… not what I’m used to.”

“The cake?” Vil looks hurt. Why does he look hurt?

You shake your head rapidly, “No! Oh- No, Vil. I… It’s just been so long since I’ve been out here…”

“Do you want to go inside, chéri?” Rook murmurs.

You do, but you also don’t really want to risk sounding ungrateful. Being outside has stressed you out more than you’d like to admit. You’re not really sure what to do because Vil has you trained like a dog, and none of what he’s hammered into you involves picnics. You’re scared.

Rooks eyes narrow as you just stare at him. Your chest hurts from how hard your heart is throbbing, and on the other side of you, Vil sighs.

“Well, I’ll start cleaning up, then. When we get back, I expect you to take a seat on the bed.”

That sounds like what happens every time you get in trouble. A terror shudders through you and your eyes water a bit as you gnaw on your lip. Your palms ache as you fight to keep from picking at your cuticles. Vil packs up everything and Rook offers you a princely hand to help you up.

You can feel the calluses on his hands through his gloves as he essentially lifts you to your feet. You keep between Rook and Vil as you walk back to the dorm.

It’s quiet, since everyone else is winding down for bed. For a moment, you think you spot Epel, but you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. None of your old friends talk to you anymore. Not since Vil started having eyes for you.

Just as you were told, after taking off your boots you take a seat on the bed and retrieve the silver ruler from the side-table’s drawer. You place it beside you as you look down at your feet. You look down at the streaky bruises on the lighter skin on your palms and try not to start crying. It’s always worse when you cry.

He adds smacks by twos. Depending on what you did, you start with four or six, and then any time you flinch or pull away or make a loud noise, he adds two more. Last time, you spilled one of his nail polishes, and after watching you clean it up, you ended up getting ten lashes.

At least Rook didn’t do it then. He tries to make it quick but that just makes it hurt more. A tear slips down your cheek.

You don’t even know what you did. You tap the tear track dry with one fingertip and Vil and Rook fully enter the room.

“Why is the ruler out?” Vil asks, and then his voice goes sharp, “Are you crying?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Vil.” You sob.

“I don’t know why.” He grabs the ruler and shoves it away before you can raise your hands, “Go wash your face.”

You stand up and shakily do as told, returning to sit on the bed. Vil goes into the bathroom after you and Rook takes a seat next to you, his hand on your shoulder.

He smiles at you, rubbing your shoulder, “You are très précieux, chéri.”

You look at him in a state of hollow bewilderment as he brushes his cheek against yours and presses a soft kiss to the shell of your ear.

You hear the bathroom door close and a tired sigh from Vil, “Do you have no patience?”

Your head jerks to look at VIl, “Rook is…?”

“Yes, he’s joining us tonight.” Vil plucks the loop of his sleeve from his middle finger and loosens his belt. You get the feeling that the next words he says aren’t for you, “Well, go ahead.”

You feel Rook’s chuckle more than you hear it. With his lips against your neck, his hands begin to slide. The hand on your shoulder rests on the nape of your neck and his other hand slides down to your thigh, then up to your waist. You try not to cringe against his touch, but it’s difficult.

His hand slides down again as he trails his teeth against the back of your ear. His thumb hooks in your pants and starts yanking them down. You outright flinch.

“Wait-”

“Relax, darling.” Vil mumbles, hanging his clothing in the armoire.

You try. You absolutely try. Rook throws your bloomers aside and rests his hand on your lower belly for a moment. He sighs into your ear and reaches up to unclasp your buttons.

You feel stiff. You want to push him away but you can’t move. It’s as though your body is frozen. It’s not due to a curse, so the only possible solution is that you’re quite literally scared stiff. 

He pulls away your shirt and glances at Vil, “Are you prepared?”

“Please.” You can hear the smile on Vil’s lips as Rook turns back and kisses you again, his hand smoothing along your collarbone and shoulders.

Your underwear is the next to go. Of course it is. You fight to keep from breathing oddly, because you’re aware that if you pass out, Vil will get annoyed.

“Mmm.” The devil’s hand glides up your back and you fight back a shudder as Rook leans you backwards into his arms. “How are you feeling, darling?”

You’re honest, “I’m scared.”

“I thought you would say that.” Vil freely manhandles you, shifting you so you’re leaned chest to chest. He slides something off of the side table and passes it behind you, then cups your cheek, “You would save a lot of time and stress if you’d just learn to trust me.”

“I…” You hate him. You hate him so much. He keeps you here like a pet, and you don’t know how he’s supposed to expect you to treat him like a lover when he treats you the way he does. 

Before you can articulate an answer that pleases Vil, a wicked burn besets your sphincter and you clench your jaw. 

Vil’s voice is sharp, “Rook, please.”

You hear Rook make a noise underneath the harsh sound of blood rushing in your ears and your own heavy panting. Something cool oozes around the ring of your ass and you press your face against Vil’s chest. His robe is lazily tied, which is not particularly like him, and you can see his cock poking out where the fabric separates. You let out a strangled noise and Vil shushes you, rubbing your back soothingly.

“Relax. I know, you weren’t prepared. Relax.” Vil soothes.

“I don’t mind if you remain tense, chéri. Mon plaisir n'en est que plus grand. And your little cries and whimpers sont terriblement mignons.” Rook mumbles behind you.

Rook is better than Vil in most areas, but once he gets his dick inside of you, it’s as though he forgets to be caring and kind. The tables flip, with Vil acting the part of a caring lover and Rook becoming a sadistic bully. You let out a ragged sob as Rook rolls his hips and Vil hisses something that you don’t quite catch.

It almost sounded like he was telling Rook to slow down. That very well could have been the case, as Rook eases back a bit and only shallowly thrusts.

Vil continues petting you, coaxing you so your cheek is pressed against his thigh. He is always a perfect warm. He is always perfect, so it sort of makes sense, but his skin is a pleasant temperature. He feels alive, a perfectly human temperature that tells you he’s breathing and his heart is beating. As he fingers through your hair, Rook gives a harsher than usual thrust and you cry out.

“Rook, if you’re impatient then you’re going to hurt them, and neither of us have the time to take care of them all day.” Vil chides, and then his tone softens as he rubs the space between your shoulders, “Are you ready for me as well, darling?” “What…?” You ask, blearily. Somewhere in the back of your awareness, you know what he wants, but you can feel Rook’s thrusts growing impatient and seeing as you weren’t given any prep, you’re in a bit too much shock to think straight.

“Mmm… You’re awfully cute but I need you to be a bit more lucid.” Vil snaps in your ear and resumes his petting, “This isn’t the first time, sweetheart. I’m not going to hold your hand.”

The soft tip of his member spreads his pre like lipgloss against your lips. As you shakily open your mouth, you figure you’re lucky that Vil doesn’t have a chaotic, unhealthy diet like Leona or Ace, that he doesn’t drink coffee for fun or often like Deuce does. The taste of his skin is lightly floral and dominantly human, likely thanks to the body lotion he applies daily. 

He hisses and presses against your forehead, “Ah-ah. You’re taking enough from Rook. Just the tip for me is fine.”

From behind, you hear Rook grumble under his breath, “Je n'en peux plus de cette merde…”

“Watch your- unf- watch your language, Rook.” Vil snarls, massaging the nape of your neck as you carefully lave your tongue over his glans.

Rook’s patience breaks, his hands clamping down on your waist, just above your hips. You have the sense to pull Vil’s cock out of your mouth as Rook begins battering into you.

As much as you feel okay about Rook, he is not a doting lover by nature. He’s mean and brutal, chasing his climax, and only after he cums does he bother to think about you or your needs. Your palms ache as you grab Vil’s member and gently tug on it. Vil flinches and snaps at you to get your attention.

You look to the side and for a second, as the pain ebbs, you assume you’re having an out of body experience, and then you realize that you’re staring into his vanity mirror. Rook’s hair exaggeratedly sways with his motion. He removed his hat but just haphazardly displaced the rest of his clothing. He’s not smiling, he’s making some sort of smug expression.

It’s funny. As Vil is satisfied with you weakly jerking him off, his touch gentle, Rook is wild on your other end. Every time you just barely begin to relax, he thrusts harder, which makes you tense and a spike of pain batters through you. 

You endure as best you can. You endure every day, enduring through eating the same unfulfilling food, enduring through walking on eggshells around Vil, enduring getting your palms beaten to hell for the most human of errors, so what’s getting sodomized in the face of everything else you can handle?

You bite back a shriek as a harsh pinch on your bottom, followed by a smack administered by Rook. He leans down and blows in your ear, snickering as he leans back, “I thought you had given up the ghost for a second there.”

Vil sucks in a breath and you quietly mumble against his thigh.

“Hmm? I didn’t hear you, mon chou.” Rook’s voice is almost mocking, like before.

“P-please… Rook, I can’t-”

“You can. You’ll live.” He grunts, the steady clap of your ass against his body punctuating his statement.

“It hurts.” You sniffle. You’re not particularly prone to crying, but, then again, Rook and Vil usually prepare you before deciding to fuck your ass.

You sob and Rook’s grasp tightens on your waist, a ragged moan punching out of his chest. He pulls your body flush to his and jerks his hips into you, drilling a bit harder for all of four or five thrusts. And then he’s no longer on you, and you feel your body getting shifted so your head is still in Vil’s lap but you’re lying prone.

You tilt Vil’s dick down to massage the head with your tongue and something warm drips on your back. You hear a noise of disgust from Vil, capped by a quiet moan.

“Absolutely not. All three of us are getting in the tub if you don’t clean that up right now.”

Rook chuckles and coos, “Hmm, but it looks so lovely. My alabaster essence creates a wonderful contrast with their soft and supple skin.”

A flush of humiliation crawls up the back of your neck and you hide your face against Vil’s belly, using your own arm to hide the other half. Vil shudders as he pushes your head down a bit, but his voice sounds incredulous.

“That’s vile. It doesn’t have any proven health benefits, you know that.”

You felt Rook’s hands spreading his semen into the skin on your back and your palms ache as Vil cums in your mouth. He doesn’t do that often, so it hits you like a shock.

You gag but force it down and Vil shoots up, fretting over you.

“Did you just swallow that?” He bends down to look into your eyes.

“Yes, Vil.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” Vil snips, sounding much harsher than he might intend, “I’m going to run us a bath, alright, darling? I’ll make sure you can brush that icky stuff out of your mouth.”

It didn’t taste bad. Vil usually cums on your face as an incentive for you to wash your face very well after a day of wearing makeup, or he has you jerk him off until he cums, but the few other times you did taste it, it was the same as this time. It was mostly salty, not too bitter, likely from his good diet. Regardless, he breezes away and Rook gives your bottom a light tap. You stand up and glance at Rook, who is looking a bit disheveled but pretty pleased with himself.

“How are you feeling, cheri?”

“That hurt.” Your voice is quiet, and your throat is still lined with tears.

“Does it still hurt?” He smiles and tilts his head.

The sound of the tub running is thunderous even where you are. Vil would never tolerate you complaining, but Rook is amicable, “A little.”

“The bath will do you good, then. Come.”

You let Rook guide you into the bathroom, his hand on your elbow. As he undresses and joins Vil on the edge of the tub, you look down at your bruised hands and glance at the slowly closing bathroom door, then at Rook and Vil where they stand near the tub.

You can’t say you prefer either of them, really, but you don't get an opinion. Do dolls at tea parties get to ask for a different kind of tea?

[lovebugism]

hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you. 

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write. 

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it. 

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve. 

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped. 

It’s a good kind of trapped, though. 

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon. 

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself. 

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve. 

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room. 

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet. 

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly. 

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work. 

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips. 

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty. 

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it. 

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve. 

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy. 

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now. 

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you. 

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody. 

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef. 

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant. 

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again. 

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened. 

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one. 

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to. 

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was. 

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you. 

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia. 

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same. 

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him. 

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods. 

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second. 

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it. 

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing. 

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own. 

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin. 

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time. 

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile. 

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you. 

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with. 

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out. 

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his. 

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it. 

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone. 

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one. 

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could. 

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him. 

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway. 

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.” 

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside. 

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move. 

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you. 

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again. 

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted. 

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile. 

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue. 

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started. 

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired. 

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak. 

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe. 

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes. 

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later. 

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you. 

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself. 

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully. 

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to. 

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry. 

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all. 

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward. 

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth. 

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you. 

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth. 

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly. 

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again. 

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot. 

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it. 

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch. 

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride. 

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling. 

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.��

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint. 

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass. 

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning. 

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring. 

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants. 

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either. 

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads. 

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away. 

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you. 

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck. 

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult. 

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him. 

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own. 

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him. 

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time. 

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity  of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin. 

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor. 

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste. 

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own. 

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor. 

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds. 

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze  like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you. 

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart. 

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone. 

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too. 

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

[shoyoist]

ﾟ+* ꔫ — 𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐒 + 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 !!

content: gn!reader. sfw — fluff. slightly suggestive in shidou's part. featuring: bachira meguru, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, michael kaiser. some of these hcs were suggested to me by other tumblr users! they are credited separately under each part<3

— . ｡˚ ♡ he thinks of these special moments whenever he's feeling down, and it helps him get right back up.

° 𐐒𐐚 . bachira meguru + painting date!

credit to @katasstrophy for the idea! the bachira family has a little art studio built in their house, owned by bachira's mom. he takes you there one time, and though you'd been doing your best to keep things clean for his mother's sake, the two of you end up making a huge mess.

you're intently dabbing brown and yellow paint on your little canvas, looking back at the mental image you've conjured of your boyfriend sitting in a field of flowers and smiling at you, when you hear shuffling behind you.

"baby, baby," is all bachira says in warning. "look this way!" and you turn around, wide-eyed and inquiring as you finally look away from the canvas on which you've been meticulously painting a picture of your rogueishly adorable boyfriend—

only to be met with a splat of bright pink paint across your face. "m—meguru? what the hell?" it's on your cheek, dangerously close to your mouth that had been open in question to bachira's urgent request for you to turn around, and it's nearly in your eye. "god i could've eaten that shit!"

the sound of bachira's unapologetic giggling fills the quiet studio as you get up and pluck a wad of tissues from the box on the table nearby, wiping your face off with it. while your back is turned, he flicks his paint-sopped brush at you again, and you feel the paint hit the back of your neck. "don't do that!"

you stand up straight and turn your back to your easel, squaring your shoulders and doing your best to protect the painting.

"it's—" bachira's laughing so hard now, he snorts in between his words. "it's even worse now, baby — it's all over your face!" and you know that. because you can feel the paint smear down to your chin as you wipe. oh, you think, he's so fucking cute right now, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkly as he giggles.

but that's not going to stop you from retaliating. meguru, you're about to get it.

his mother chewed him out and made him clean the place up afterwards, but bachira would do it again and again and again, just to see your pretty smile and hear your pretty laugh, your eyes lit up as you tried to stay angry with him while the two of you made a mess of yourselves and the studio once more.

° 𐐒𐐚 . hyoma chigiri + poetry analysis date!

credit to @yakshasslut for the idea! chigiri gives you a book of his favourite love poems to read while he's away, and by the time he comes back home, you're brimming with tender feelings for him and he flusters so sweetly when you express it. ever since, it's been a tradition to share and mull over novels and poems together.

not many of chigiri's friends or teammates are well-versed in poetry or literature in general, but there is one novel of prose that each and every one of them can name and recognize within an instant — and it's a book that you gave your boyfriend as a gift, years ago.

it doesn't have much of you in it — it's a collection of poems that express the joys and pains of long distance love, and the only hint of you in it is the lipstick kiss on the front page, with a "for hyoma, my one and only<3" written on it in your handwriting.

he takes it everywhere. flicks through the pages while he's on the plane, while he's resting in his hotel room, and sometimes even takes it with him to games.

he takes so much care to keep it safe and in good condition, but it's quite worn now— he can't bring himself to shelf it, though. it's his most prized posession, almost.

he reads it and keeps in mind that while he's away, you're reading the new book that he had gifted you before he left, and he smiles to himself, imagining how you underline and draw hearts around your favourite lines and write little pencil notes about how "this is you @ me!"

don't get it wrong, chigiri loves being on the field. he loves the glamour, the adrenaline, the fire of scoring a goal — but at his heart, he's soft. domestic.

he hopes fondly for the day he'll get to lay in bed with you again (he's only going to be away for two weeks. but it feels like two months, or even years, sometimes) and have a cozy little date where you just sip on warm coffee and share sweet cakes while mulling over poems together.

it's comforting. it's home.

he thinks about the worn book of poems that sits on your shelf, back at your place. the one he gave you.

the one you read all the time, leaving new annotations bookmarked for him to find each time he picks the book up for a read.

if he ever actually tired of football, chigiri thinks he might just become a poet. for you.

° 𐐒𐐚 . mikage reo + picnic date at the beach!

credit to anonymous! reo is a rich man, and he's so used to fancy dinner dates, luxury trips, first class service, all that. so when you take him on a cute little beach date, getting him to help you cut sandwiches and bake brownies and cookies earlier in the day, it was a new experience for him. and he loves it.

“reo, what about here?” you ask, turning around to look at him as you hop in your cute little sandals on the sand. he's carrying the picnic basket and you have the blanket folded under your arms — and he's been following you across the pretty beach for about fifteen minutes now.

though you ask him if he likes the spot, he knows from the look in your eyes that you actually like this place, and it's nice! the sand is soft and there's not a lot of rocks or seaweed under foot, the shore is a short walk away, and the sunset spills so pretty onto your skin and into your eyes.

he's almost lost in the sight — but when you call his name again, sounding a little concerned as you ask, “reo? you okay?” he snaps out of it and gives you one of his signature, wide and adorable grins. “yeah! here is fine, baby.”

he doesn't know but even his eyes are lit up, the violet of them beautiful and tinted gold in the light of the setting sun, and you can't help but cup his face and kiss him as he puts the basket down and sits on the blanket beside you.

“isn't this fun?” you giggle against his lips, and he hums in agreement, taking your waist in his hands and pulling you in for another kiss. the evening has just started, but he already knows that he'll remember this moment fondly, forever. “mhm, it is fun.”

“you sure?” you ask, tracing his cheek with your thumb, and it's almost a softer, warmer feeling than that of the sun kissing his face. “it's not your usual scene, i know. we can always go to a—”

”no,” reo cuts you off, taking your hand. the smile he gives you is prettier, brighter than any he's ever given you before. it takes your breath away. “it's not my usual scene, yeah.” he chuckles. “in fact, i've never had a picnic on the beach in my life until now. but it's... nice. i love it.”

he says it so softly, and it's rare, coming from your bubbly, bright and ever-so-forward lover. and that's how you know he's telling you the truth.

“alright then.” you kiss his cheek, pulling away and sitting back, dragging the basket closer so you can take the food out. it's just a little kiss, the same as any other kiss you've given his cheek — but somehow, it holds a different sort of warmth, and it comforts him. makes him feel so softly, gently beloved.

and he swears he'll hold this warmth to his cheek, to his chest, to his heart — forever.

° 𐐒𐐚 . michael kaiser + homemade spa date!

credit to anonymous! off days with kaiser are the nicest spent indoors. you go on outdoor dates (and on dates overseas) so often, that it's a nice change to stay at home once in a while and spend some sweet, domestic time with him instead.

“mikka,” your tone is scolding as you cradle his face in your palms, stopping him from wiggling around as you try to stay balanced in his lap. “can you stop moving? the serum is getting in your hair!”

kaiser laughs, the lift of his lips making him look all the more prettier, and hence all the more fucking distracting, as you try to wipe the residual bits of the face mask you'd just peeled off your boyfriend's face, replacing the thick, opaque cleanser with softly translucent moisturizer.

he taps your palmful of moisturizer with an index finger, and with a quick move of the digit he swipes the blob on your nose, making you flinch back and blink in surprise.

“mikka!”

ah, there it is. mission successful. kaiser almost wishes he could go to sleep forever and in his dreams, listen to you calling him by that sweet little petname for the rest of his life. almost.

because he wishes more than that to kiss you all the time. like right now. he leans forward, the smile stretching his mouth giving away his intention to you, but not in time for you to escape. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in, kissing you with soft, sweet and swollen lips that you'd just finished exfoliating with sugar and honey.

“baby,” your eyebrows furrow, but you still kiss him back and it makes him chuckle because oh, for all the fuss you make and all the scowling you do, you love him so. “we'll never get to the manipedi by movie time at this rate.”

“movie time can wait, princess,” he sighs against your lips. “all i want right now is to watch you, anyway.”

and his words are romantic, suggestive, and they'd bring a blush to your cheeks for sure — if he hadn't accidentally tipped you off balance in that second.

“mikka!—” you yelp (to his delight) as he grabs you and tries to steady you — but even as he saves you, your hand reflexively flails upwards to curl around his arm for support.

and with a smack, the moisturizer is all over his bicep instead of lathered evenly across his face as it should be.

the upset on your face is apparent, but kaiser only grins expectantly as he grips your waist, adjusts your position in his lap again, waiting.

and you don't disappoint. “look what you've done! mikka!”

[blingblong55]

Healing -Vladimir Makarov

A/N: this is not me telling you how reader looks^

Based on a request:

i love love LOVE the great war. i’m foaming at the mouth for a part 2 BUT can you maybe do something with vlad and his love taking a bath while he reads her poetry or something along the lines. again love your work you truly are amazing 🌷

---- F!Reader, fluff/romance, wife!reader, husband!Makarov, poetry read, pregnant!reader ----

It's been a long day, Vladimir and you haven't seen each other since you left bed. And now, as you walk inside your home, he greets you with a warm meal. "Ah, the girl I have been waiting for." He walks to you, wrapping you in his hold. "What's all this about?" you ask curiously. His hand on your belly, "I think my sweet wife deserves a treat, after all, you did some hard work today." He teases. "Shopping is a sport," you kiss his cheek and he guides you to the warm kitchen. For months since he found out he would become a father, he gave you a credit card, 'spend it on you and our little one.' he said and every day, he sends you out with at least two of his men to buy at least ten things.

He wanted this all to be a thank you, for turning his life around and giving him a new purpose and as you both eat a meal he so carefully cooked with love, he finds himself admiring you. You look up, insecure for some reason until he smiles. "Did you know you are the kind of woman men write poems about?" He continues eating and you feel yourself blushing and a rush of happiness. One thing about your husband is that he knows what to say and how to make you feel, especially, now that you carry your first child.

You look at him, "What have you so….happy today?" He shrugs, "I have many reasons to be happy. I have you, my lovely wife, today all went well, we have a son arriving in a few months and did I mention I have a lovely, beautiful, small and incredibly amazing wife?" You smile and look away. "I mean it, love. I seriously thank you for being part of my life so please just accept all my love because trust me, pretty girl, no one else can get this."

After that much-needed meal, he offers a bath. And as he warms the water for you both, he watches mesmerised as you undress in front of him. Your beautiful body is all for his gaze to admire. For some reason, Vladimir couldn't help but feel a gush of emotions, all good ones of course. The way the room lit up, showcasing all your beautiful features and there was him, watching a goddess undress. It was like a schoolboy, the feeling he had, blushing and looking away from how excited you made him. To others, it's nothing to see your beloved undress anymore but to him, this was a privilege.

They always portray men like him as heartless men with no soul behind their evil loving gaze but if you look closely, there it is, the warm fire that still shines through. "Get in the tub, my love," his voice was always so soft with you. It was comedic how it changed when he spoke to those who aren't you. He was always so cold to others but when he turned to you, gave you one glance or one word, his voice was pure and soft. His hand holding yours as you get in. Hold it until you sit down in the tub. The second he let go, as he walked to the counter of the bathroom, his hand flexed. He was anxious in many ways and for good reason since you had changed the man he was before.

In his hands was the old book of poems he collected of his favourite poets or wrote himself. The book was old, but the words inside were worth more than anything in the world. As he sat down, he could feel the warmth of your back to his chest. You laid against him, finding comfort in his embrace and in some romantic way, this was professing love with unspoken words. His free hand playing with your hair as he holds the book of poems. "Let's see my love, what poem shall I read you today?"

You point towards one. "First Love by John Clare," the title wrote. "Very well, my love." he kisses your head and begins. "I ne’er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start— They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter’s choice? Is love’s bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more."

His voice throughout the poem so steady, and clean and expresses the same emotion the poem itself meant to convey. He places the book on the small shelf by the tub, his arms wrapping you in a loving embrace. "Did you like it?" Vladimir's head resting on your shoulder as his hands caress your belly. "Mhm…I loved this one." your voice was soft as you began to relax with him. "Good, my love," he whispers before kissing your shoulder, one of his hands so delicately lifting your hair as the other writes on your back.

"I- L-O-V-E- Y-O-U" his fingertips spell out. You try and figure out what the message was but before you begin to think, you feel his soft and warm lips kiss the back of your neck. To him, this was the most beautiful thing lovers could do that also meant intimacy. Sitting in a tub, looking out a window that brings light to the bathroom, reading poetry and then doing something like this, kissing your neck with nothing but love, rubbing the same belly that carries his child. And then you got it, "I love you too, Vlad," you lean back, your head turning and your lips meeting his.

It was as if no other worry could bother either of you. Being here, that is what counts and in the darkest corner of his heart, he feels all those old wounds and worries heal. This is real, this moment in time, that is what feels so unreal to those who can't have this privilege but to both of you, this is real, it's love to its simplicity.

Tags:

@goldenmclaren @liyanahelena @selarus @kielsegur @mseccentricks @johfaam0 @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frazie99 @viomast @vampsquerade @saoirse06 @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @strangepuppynightmare

[thealbatrovss]

take my hand // wolverine x reader

summary: it’s probably a good thing logan doesn’t involve himself in school projects, you learn

basically: logan destroys school property but gets a date

oneshot-fluff, this is just fluff. suggestive material. flirting, a bunch of that. cringe but I am free! Not proofread I apologize

-probably ooc idk but i haven’t written anything in YEARS so this is a practice one for me. Enjoy!!! More fics to come.

word count: 1k+

masterlist

Persistent knocking on your bedroom door woke you out of an afternoon slumber gone on way too long.

“Shit!” The alarm on the stand read 7:15pm. You fell to the floor, tangled up in your own sheets. The wooden boards beneath connected to your forehead. You winced, peeling your face from the floor. “Fuck!”

You could hear Logan’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. “Are we going or not?”

“Of course!” You shout, shaking numb legs out from the covers. Trying to stand up took a few tries but you eventually got there.

Logan stood with one hand against the wall and one on his hip as the door opened. A stream of smoke trailed from the cigar nestled between his teeth. You wondered what it would be like to kiss him senseless, letting the smoke permeate your clothing, lips, everything. But you were just friends. Well, friends that also found a way to flirt in most situations.

“What the hell was that?” He cocked an eyebrow, leaning to look over your shoulder into your room, noticing the disheveled bed. “Got someone in there or something?”

“Yep” You went along with it. You turned towards your open window, dramatically sighing. “Looks like you just missed them.”

“I'm sure that’s exactly what happened here.” His lips turned upwards. It was hard not to get lost in his gaze.

“Lost inside that head of yours again?” His thumb slid over a small cut on your forehead that quickly healed itself over due to your mutant abilities. He smiled, his hand lingering on your cheek for a little bit longer. Like he was holding on to a moment. “There you are.”

You tried to hide the way he made you feel by straightening out your clothing. “I completely spaced out. Fell asleep going through Hank’s notes. By the way, did you know he wrote poetry?”

“Hank?”

“Yeah. He must have mixed it in with the papers he gave me earlier. It’s very good.”

“Great. Now you'll be serenading me with poems about science and shit all night.” No sarcasm oozed off him, he was dead serious. “As soon as we get to that party, I’m heading straight for the booze.”

Your eyes widened. You were still running late. “Orono is going to kill me.” You both started down the hallway, your pace out matching his for once.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m late too.”

You grinned at the nickname, walking backwards to face him. “You wouldn’t be, I don’t know, avoiding this night because you were supposed to help and didn’t?”

He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t agree to work here just to end up becoming a gardener.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have destroyed the old one in the first place.”

“Hey,” he pointed his cigar at you, “it’s not my fault those government bastards decided to sneak in through the greenhouse. I can’t always choose my battle grounds.”

You looked at where his claws came out. “Those plants never stood a chance against you.”

“Nope.”

The way he said it so casually made you laugh out loud. “They were only asking for an hour of our time. Once a week.”

The greenhouse blossomed with life upon entering the new scenery. He took another drag of the cigar, embers floating through the air. “Well, would you look at that. Seems like they did just fine without me.”

You could feel the smoke on your face. “Wow, such a team player.” Logan laughed at that.

Ororo’s end of the year project with the entire student body was finally finished. A brand new, beautiful garden for mutants to study, take care of, and admire lay before them. Hopefully Logan could keep himself from destroying this one.

“It’s so pretty.” Your fingers lingered on a rosebush nearly blossomed. “Ororo really outdid herself.”

“She always does.” Logan put out his cigar, making sure to avoid the plant life.

Strings of light zigzagged overhead, a soft glow of white and yellow hues going nicely with the greenery. A large water fountain stood in the middle of the encasing plants creating a fork in the road. The pillar in the middle of the fountain had multiple hands reaching out from the center, as if they were beckoning for those below them to take their hand.

Voices came from the very far side of the greenhouse. You could hear your friends' and fellow X Mens laughter all the way from here. It would just be the teachers and staff tonight. The students will get to see the final results tomorrow.

“Fancy stuff.” Logan stopped in front of the large structure. “But doesn’t this seem a bit over the top?”

“I’m pretty sure this was the Professor's idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“I kinda like it. Feels very symbolic.”

He tapped on one of the white marbled hands with the back of his knuckle. “Sounds hollow. How about that symbolism?” But apparently that was a little too hard. One of the fountains arms gave away from the crack Logan made, and splashed into the water below. He stumbled trying to cover up the place where he chipped off the art piece. His feet ended up in the pool of water.

“Do you have some sort of grudge against this place?” You held in your laughter as best as you could.

He groaned, rolling up his sleeves. “Stupid thing.”

You tried to think of anything but him at that moment. But of course that always fell through. Wet skin shimmered against the last fading rays of sunlight. Strains of dark hair stuck to his furrowed forehead as he searched the water below.

“Oh come on, it can’t be that hard to find.” You shook yourself out of those thoughts.

His hazel eyes landed firmly on you. “It’s stuck.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know, but if I pull it out, I’ll definitely break more than just the arm.”

You sat down at the fountain's edge and dipped your arm in all the way up to the elbow, curious as to how this could of happened. “It’s fucking freezing. Did Bobby have anything to do with this?” Before you could even begin to look a hand dunked your head into the water with a surprising gentleness. You gasped as you came up for air.

Logan held the broken arm up towards you, smirking at his actions. “Got it.” He wiggled it in front of your face for extra effect. “You didn’t need to do all that but I admire the desperation.”

You didn’t let him relish in the moment and splashed waves of water into his face. Beads of liquid clung to his mutton chops, the sweetest smirk clinging to his lips. He licked them, spitting out water. “Deserved.”

He offered the broken statues hand towards you, and you gladly took it. Stumbling a little too close, your chests nearly touching, the only thing separating you both was the broken piece of marble. The quiet laughter quickly faded as you stared back at each other. Your breathing quickened, the marble arm cool against your skin dripping with water. His white tank top was soaked, accentuating his upper body.

“We should try and reattach the arm.” Your voice was just barely above a whisper. “Do you think they’ll notice. Oh god, they’ll noice, won’t they?”

And then Logan gave you the softest smile you’d ever seen. Like there was a secret just between the two of you. He delicately moved pieces of wet hair from your face, as gently as wind blew leaves off the pavement. “And how do you think we do that?” A breeze ruffled your cold frames, but you could only feel a blazing warmth coil within.

The intense yet intimate moment was broken by the sound of Ororo sighing from behind you. “Well, you can start by getting out of the water and giving me that.”

Logan and you shrank from each other, hopping out of the cold water. He held his head high, putting the broken object into her hand. “Sorry about that.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Again.” He finished. As he stepped back, his shoulders brushed yours. He never once bothered to move. You were more than happy to stand in that awkward yet sweet moment.

Ororo brought the marble hand up to her forehead, shaking her head. “Will you two just date already, this is getting exhausting.” She walked away, murmuring to herself about Logan’s “great” hospitality skills.

The two of you stood there, letting the water drip to the stone beneath. Logan shook his wet hair, trying to light his cigar. “You can ask me out tomorrow.” Is all he said, walking away, leaving a smoke trail towards the mini bar.

All you did was smile so hard you could feel your teeth hurt.

[multi-fics]

Hi! I want to request a Thomas Thorne x ghost! reader with the reader being a ghost from the 1960s! They're from America and was visiting the Button House when they died (or murdered if you want to include that). The reader is pretty oblivious to advances Thomas makes, as they believe it's just a sort of thing he does as a poet (like a persona in a way). Reader is as down bad for Thomas as he is for them, though lol. Reader can manipulate any radios nearby to play a certain station or sound.

Sorry if this is a lot! You can leave out what you wish to. Have a good day/night! Thank you :]

HAUNTED BROADCAST

A/N: Thanks so much for requesting! This is literally such a good idea woah, I hope you like it :) Also I haven’t watched ghosts in a while so I’m sorry if Thomas is OOC, btw this is my first post so it’s bound to have bad writing D:

Pairing: Thomas Thorne x GN!ghost!reader

Warnings: talks of how reader died (also Thomas being a simp for reader)

Thomas walked through the halls of Button House nervously, he had just composed a new poem and had to tell someone before he forgot. The first person he absolutely needed to tell, was of course you.

You were his muse for his newest poem, not that he would admit it, he was scared that if he actually admitted his feelings for you, he would be rejected, like how his advances with Alison would often turn out.

The others would constantly tease his giddy nature around you, but Thomas always made an excuse to them, that the reason you were always the first to hear his poems was because you could broadcast his performance on the radio that Alison would conveniently leave in the sitting room, which is where you were the moment he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh thank goodness, you're here! I need you-", Thomas was cut off by you letting out a giggle as you proceeded for him, knowing exactly what he was going to say, "Hey sweetie you need the radio?"

Thomas grinned bashfully, trying his hardest to hide his lovestruck blush by your nickname for him, well you actually called everyone 'sweetie', but the delusional romantic that Thomas was, made him convince himself that it made him particularly special.

"Yes, how did you know? Oh my, you must be able to read minds on top of controlling that contraption!"

You smile and playfully roll your eyes at his signature dramatics, "No silly, you ask for the radio almost everyday.”

Trying your hardest to distract yourself from his charm, you prepared yourself to focus hard, “Right sweetie you can start in 3, 2, 1.", you flexed your fingers and placed your index finger on the tip of the radio antenna, focusing all your strength on sending a broadcast through the radio stations just like you had done over the decades of knowing Thomas.

Thomas then started to recite his poem from the top of his head, he spoke confidently as he always did, but unfortunately as was the way, most of the time you could not listen to his work. Focusing on the radio was your job and having to multitask was not an option, so with a guilty heart you had to pretend you heard every word and applaud him once he had finished.

Thomas smiled proudly, “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was beautiful sugar, probably your best work to date.”, your proud smile strained on your face as guilt ran through your body, you deeply cared for Thomas but at this moment you wished he would leave so you could stop feeling bad for him.

“What are you two up to? Another poem Thomas?”, Alison asked walking into the room alone.

You looked at Alison gratefully, now Thomas’ attention would be elsewhere and you wouldn’t have to lie. “Hey Thomas I think The Captain is looking for you.”

You and Thomas frowned, confused as to why The Captain of all people would be looking for him. “He just wants to talk to you, now go before he gets cross!”, Alison shooed an utterly confused Thomas up the stairs; she returned to the sitting room and took her place next to you.

You raised a brow suspiciously at Alison, “What was that all about?”, you couldn’t decipher why Alison looked almost giddy at you.

“Didn’t you hear the poem that Thomas was performing just now?!”, Alison couldn’t wipe off the now cheeky smile off her face.

“I’m sorry sugar but I really don’t know what you mean. The thing is I don’t listen to his poems, I’m so focused on broadcasting them that it takes up my attention. I know it’s horrible that I lie to him afterwards, but he just looks so happy it would crush me to tell him the truth.”

“That’s probably the best since none of his poems are that great.”, Alison had slipped out, not realising she was thinking out loud. As she slapped her hand over her mouth, you looked offended at her and she proceeded to raise her hands in surrender, eventhough she secretly thought she was right. “That’s not nice, I’m sure you’re wrong Alison.”

“Hey, I never actually asked, how can you control the radio?”, Alison looked at you curiously. “Well it’s because I died in the 1960s, radios were the rage back then.”, you replied as if it were obvious, considering you were still wearing very stereotypical 60s clothing too.

“Right so how did you die?”, you raised a brow at Alison, “well aren’t you full of questions today”, you sighed and got comfortable on the sofa.

“It all started back in my hometown in the US. I was married to my partner who was very wealthy back in the day and they had friends here in England.”, Alison had opened her mouth to ask a question but you continued to talk, wanting this explanation over with as quickly as possible.

“I didn’t much care for flying, I got airsick a lot but my partner had forced me to go with them for the sake of being polite.”, you paused for a moment getting lost in thought when Alison tapped the sofa closest to you to proceed, “Anyways, we had made our way to Button House, where my partner’s friends lived and we stayed here for a couple days, we partied and traveled around town, it was fun, no doubt about it, but I was always left out. I wasn’t friends with anyone else at the house and my partner was so wrapped up in the fun they forgot about me.”, Alison kept her gaze on you apologetically.

“It was the last night of our vacation, everyone was drunk excluding me, I didn’t mind a drink here and there but I wanted to make sure at least one of us could wake up on time to catch our flight the next morning. I was making my way upstairs to the guest room.”, you both turned towards the sound of Pat and Robin bickering on the top of the stairs, you turned back to face Alison, this time with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“It was very late at night, I was tired, it was dark, so I wasn’t watching where I was going and I slipped at the top step, it caused me to fall all the way to the bottom and that’s how I died.”, you refrained from getting too detailed with the process of your death since it was too much for you to explain.

“It was so strange when I became a ghost, frightening, to see yourself watching over your own body just lying there. That was nowhere near as scary as when I first met the others though, it was all so overwhelming, but of course the only exception to the group was that Pat and Julian weren’t dead yet. They became my new family very quickly, they didn’t make me feel left out and were all so caring, especially Thomas, he was the one who made me eventually discover my talent with the radio.”, you smiled fondly thinking back on those days of newly being a ghost, “So that’s how I died, anything else you wanna know sweetie?”, your signature smile returning to your face.

“Woah that’s so sad, I’m so sorry I just get really interested in how you all died, I never think about how it must feel to retell it. I wish I could give you a hug.”

“That’s alright sweetie and please don’t hug me. I’m sure you’re a great hugger, but you know, it feels super freaky.”

“Oh you know you should really talk to Thomas, tell him the truth that you didn’t hear his poem. He’s so smitten I don’t even think he’s capable of being mad at you. The truth is, I was eavesdropping and I heard some of the poem, you need to hear it.”, she said fighting a smile on her face which you were oblivious to, you could only imagine what Thomas’ poem could be about.

Without another word you sat up and mindlessly walked through the sitting room and up the stairs, making sure to check the top step as was your routine. “Have you seen Thomas?”, you asked Pat who was still bickering with Robin.

Pat noticed you wringing your hands nervously through your clothes and smiled warmly at you, “I think he’s in his room dear, he’s been in a right state you know.”, he said and picked up where he left off in his argument with Robin. You nodded and carried yourself through the hallway leading to Thomas’ room.

The door was shut so you stomped your foot gently on the wooden floor and Thomas spoke quietly from inside his room, “The door is open.”, you sucked in a breath and walked through the closed door. “Thomas we have to talk.”, he furrowed his brows and nodded, he knew you must be serious since you didn’t use your usual nickname for him, “Speak my dear, tell me what worries you.”

You sighed and sat next to him on his bed, “I must confess that I haven’t been listening to your poems whilst broadcasting them. Before you say anything, I’m so so sorry sweetie, I really wish I could but broadcasting takes up all of my focus.”, Thomas just blinks at you.

“Well?”

“Is that all?”

“Yes … that’s it. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought it would be worse, I thought you would say you didn’t like me.”

“I would never say that Thomas, of course I like you, I always will.”

“Could you recite your poem for me again, I want to hear it.”, you asked now feeling much better after confessing your guilt to Thomas.

“Um of course.”, Thomas cleared his throat and stood up in front of you. He couldn’t take his eyes off you; the feeling was mutual and the tension between the two of you grew stronger.

“I feel so unsure,

As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor,

As the music dies, something in your eyes,

Calls to mind a silver screen,

And all its sad good-byes—”

“I'm never gonna dance again

Guilty feet have got no rhythm

Though it's easy to pretend

I know you're not a foollll”, Pat had been walking past Thomas’ room, cutting him off since he recognised the lyrics, he was very off beat but regardless he caught the two off guard and completely ruined the moment.

“Patrick! How on earth did you know the lines to my poem?!”, Thomas asked completely shocked at Pat’s sudden appearance.

“It’s a song from my time mate, it’s a classic!”, he smiled oblivious of what he had ruined and danced down the hall, singing the rest of ‘careless whisper’.

Thomas pouted, he was upset that he couldn’t complete his poem. “Um Thomas as beautiful as that was, I think Pat is right. I do recall hearing that song on the radio, it’s called ‘careless whisper’ by George Michael.”

“Um who is George Michael, is this man a poet?”

“I guess you could say that, yeah.”

He gasped loudly, “Oh my goodness I must send my apologies to Sir George Michael at once! How could I plagiarise such a talented individual!”

“Oh sweetie that’s not necessary, he’s dead too, unfortunately.”

“Oh, what a shame his poem was beautiful. It made me think of you my dear.”

“You know that song is about love right?”

“Yes, I gathered from the words.”

“…is there any particular reason you chose that song to recite to me specifically?”

Thomas sucked in a breath and blushed, “Yes there is a reason. I think you know that for a very long time, like since you came to Button House, even when you were alive, I fell in love with you.”

“Y-you have loved me for that long?!”, standing up to face him properly, in shock, had you really been so painfully oblivious?

“You didn’t know? I thought I made it obvious. All of my poems were for you, you have been in my dreams almost every night, surely you must have known.”

“I’m sorry Thomas I didn’t know, but I have loved you for a long time too, I just didn’t think you shared my feelings. Telling you could have ruined our friendship which is something I treasure.”

“Don’t worry my love.” Thomas smiled bashfully and took your hands in his. “May I kiss you?”

You smiled leaning your forehead against his, “You may sweetie.”

He pressed his lips to yours gently and you returned his kiss as ‘careless whisper’ started playing on the radio downstairs.

[maleyanderecafe]

Bleeding Canvas (Visual Novel)

Created by: Frogcake

Genre: Horror

I think it's pretty fun when yandere games have a twist that slips right under your nose. It makes playing the game a second or even third time more interesting when you go "oohhh, that makes a lot of sense!" Bleeding Canvas does this pretty well and not quite in the way that you would expect, and you can really see the various foreshadowing of this in some of the more weird interactions.

The story starts with You (yes, you) in class sleeping, and having a dream about your crush, Mikey. The professor wakes you up, and while walking home, Mikey asks if he can walk you home. The next day, you go back to attend your art lessons class as people come in. It seems that you and your best friend Julia had an argument recently and rumors are starting to spread. Mikey interrupts and the two talk about art for a bit before heading to your other classes. Mikey wakes you up after you fall asleep in class today and brings you home. Worried about the events of a serial killer in town, you decide to follow him to make sure he's safe- only to come back into an alleyway to watch him killing your friend Julia. Freaking out, you run back home, with Mikey there to see you. He admits that he's enamored with you and that he wishes that you were to be his muse, despite feeling unworthy (good, I love yanderes with self esteem issues), asking if you love him back.

If you admit that you do, Mikey will be incredibly happy, and you can either ask Mikey to drag the body back to your place or to go mourn the body at the alley.

The next day at Art class, a bunch of students ask you if you know what happened to Julia, to which you contemplate about throwing Mikey under the bus, but decide not to. Mikey thanks you for this and the two of you continue your classes, cooking and then finding out that one of your professors was found dead. You end up going home afterwards and the next day you are painfully hungry with no food to eat. On the news, it seems like the professor who died's body was tampered by two different people. You receive a poem from Mikey in the mail, which deeply disturbs you. While at class, you notice that Mikey isn't there and due to your lack of food, you nearly pass out, eventually being called out by one of the professors to go home and sleep. At night, Mikey breaks into your home and when you awaken, you see Mikey on your couch. Mikey seems remorseful for killing someone. Mikey finds out that you are actually a cannibal (and a murderer), explaining why you wanted Julia's corpse. He is incredibly happy about this, believing that the two of you are meant for each other. Mikey seems to have started killing because of your murders. Mikey gives an ultimatum, asking you to be his muse, and stating that if you refused, he would turn both of you into the police.

Rejecting his love initially can lead to actually being able to throw Mikey under the bus. To which afterwards, Mikey drags you into an alleyway and kills you.

Rejecting walking home with him the first time and going to mourn your friend Julia will instead lead to Mikey at night coming into your house and waking you up. We see that he's trying to get some blood out of you, and in a panic, you freak out, causing you to impale yourself on his knife. This leads to a panicked Mikey as you slowly bleed to death.

Rejecting him entirely will lead to Mikey simply leaving, no longer coming to class and you having mixed feelings on him.

Personally, I always think it's really cool to have a MC that is evil or otherwise pretty twisted. Not only does it give them character, but I think it also makes their relationship with the yandere that much more interesting. There are actually quite a lot of hints that the MC is a cannibal, though most of them are not super obvious. The MC seems to eat food at a generally very animalistic manner, and when they do run out of food, they don't seem to go buy things from the grocery or eat a snack or anything. There's also the detail that they are really good at cooking class, the fact that it seems there are two killers on the loose, the fact that they are self conscious about smelling bad (and the fact that their apartment also smells bad a lot of the times), and of course, asking Mikey to drag the dead body into their apartment, and then never mentioning what happened to it again. There are also a lot of other small details, but there are a lot of hints that there's something up with the MC that isn't normal. I can assume that the player constantly falling asleep is likely a product of not being able to eat that many people, considering the effort to kill and then consume an entire person without getting caught. I honestly only caught on that something was off about the MC when they asked to drag Julia's body back into the apartment (since... who would do that?) and the fact that they just very casually accepted Mikey as their boyfriend, stating that "well, all guys have a few flaws, right?". It's pretty neat that Mikey seems to have fallen for the MC because of the murders and has their murders based off of theirs, making them a perfect killing duo. Honestly, I really hope to see more games with a more twisted MC because it makes the story much more interesting.

Mikey as a yandere seems to just be the player's crush until they catch him murdering their friend. From what I can tell, aside from being a muse type of yandere, he also is a worshipper type, sending mail to the MC and eventually finding out that he was inspired by the player themselves. It seems pretty obvious that he would responsible for the killings, considering we see that he kills our friend Julia, but as a turn we do actually find out that there are actually two killers on the loose! While Mikey does seem to not want to hurt the player, he will if he is threatened, as shown in the ending where we do out him to others, and that he has been stealing the player's blood for his own art projects. I am curious what happens after the true ending when Mikey outs the player for being a cannibal, and I kind of hope that they end up being a duo and just going from town to town killing and eating people because that would just be cool. Not exactly sure what happens in the "Good End" when he kinda just disappears, though I'd like to think that he simply just watches the player from afar and continues to stalk them. Plus, his design looks pretty cool and I'm a sucker for his lovestruck face when he confesses to the player.

Overall, a solid and pretty fun game with a twist. The saving system is a bit weird though since it only allows you to save at the end of every day (and I think the game would really benefit from a skip button for players who want to get all endings, like me), but overall, very fun.

[shalomniscient]

god i love raven…. she’s my fav silly goofy of the ptn cast just because she’s so shameless about it LMFAO n e ways, having raven thoughts….

fight me on this but raven has some of the nicest hands in the bureau. raven will say it’s because she’s such a good writer, but please take her statements with a generous serving of salt. her long, dextrous fingers fit snugly between your own—like the both of you are meant to be, she’ll joke. agree with her and you’ll see her turn bright red. (she’ll keep holding on to your hand though.)

beyond that, raven is a literature freak, right? shakespeare lives rent free in her head at all times. so i think it’s fair to say she’s binged all of jane austen’s novels and gained some very Particular ideals for love. that is to say, raven wants to be Romanced. maybe not a whole bouquet but definitely give her a flower or two on your dates, or give her a kiss on her knuckles. pull a chair or hold the door for her. give her your jacket when she’s cold at the movies. every single one of these will make the prettiest flush settle across her cheeks and send her heartbeat racing.

also, raven totally writes for you. and about you. but, mostly for you. sonnets, poems, something with no particular rhyme or reason beyond the fact that it shows how much she loves you. you get something new at least once a day. she half expects you to throw most of them out—but you keep them in a large box near your desk instead. when raven finds out she’s a little embarassed but she kisses you so sweetly, as if to say, thank you for appreciating them.

nsft utc—

back to raven’s hands……. oh she’s a menace with them. she knows they’re pretty and she knows how much you love it when they’re stuffed up to her knuckles in your cunt, her long fingers delicately scissoring you open and probing at that perfect spot inside of you. she can finger you to an orgasm so fast it’s not even funny. she absolutely adores seeing the way tears decorate your lash line as she brings you to your third climax, her hand drenched in your slick. she’ll make a show of licking it off her fingers, too. maybe fire off a line or two about how you taste like ambrosia of the gods before she’s crawling over your spent body to kiss you silly.

i don’t think raven uses the strap all that much but when she does, boy are you in for a ride (in every sense of the word). call her basic but raven is kind of fond of missionary—mostly because she can see your expression up close as she fucks you, and also because she’s close enough for you to drag your nails down her back as you writhe with pleasure on her cock. she’s leaving the bed looking like she got mauled but god does she love seeing the marks you leave down her back. she’ll switch up the positions sometimes if she feels like it but she’s very content with this already.

raven is a little bit of a mouthy bottom. she’s always got something to say, but that’s alright—you know just how to get her so fucked out she goes non-verbal, which is usually by edging the ever loving fuck out of her. raven loves being gentle dommed, in that you edge her ruthlessly, bring her up to that peak with your hands or mouth only to pull away at the last second, whispering so softly and lovingly, no, you can’t cum yet, sweet thing, and look at you, you’re doing so well. praise her and she’ll be putty in your hands. once you finally, finally let her cum she’ll squirt all over you, arching right off the bed. keep going for four or five more rounds and her brain would have leaked out of her pussy by now, and the most words she can string together as she snuggles up to your side is “i love you.”

[kingdom-by-the-sea]

The Not Valentine’s Date

Summary- Mutual pining, an office bet, and baby sitting make for an interesting Valentine’s Day between Spencer and Hotch’s daughter.

Warnings- fluffy fluff

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Hotch’s daughter

Word Count- 2.7k

A/N- This is something I randomly wrote last year after Valentine’s Day but didn’t post cause I felt like I had missed my window. Who knows maybe I’ll write something later this week that I’ll post in a year.

—————-

“Eww,” Emily complained, scrunching up her face in disgust, “Please tell me that none of those lines actually work on real life girls. I don’t understand why guys had to start going around saying stuff like that and ruin Valentine’s day for the rest of us.”

”Woah,” Prentiss stopped Reid mid-explaining, “You are not actually referring to that,” she gestured vaguely in Morgan’s direction, “as poetry.”

Spencer scrunched his face in consideration, “Not in the traditional sense, I suppose. However, in my opinion, some of the best lines of poetry about love have nothing to do with Valentine’s day so using it as the standard might not properly reflect what you’re looking for.”

“Oh really,” Morgan questioned, “And what exactly would you use to woo the ladies on the fourteenth?”

Reid considered the question seriously his fingers tapping to some indiscernible beat as he thought, “‘We loved with a love that was more than love.’”

“What?” Morgan’s reaction was quick and it seemed that everyone else in the group mirrored his sentiment, “Hate to break it to you, pretty boy, but no girl you mention that to is going to have a clue-”

“You quote a man who married his thirteen year-old cousin on love?” Y/N asked suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention.

“They really are a match made in heaven…” Prentiss muttered only loud enough for Morgan to hear, who responded with a chuckle.

Reid’s face darkened several shades of red, “I just mean-”

“It’s fine,” Y/N let out a small laugh, “I’m just teasing. Annabel Lee’s probably my favorite poem. Just sucks that most of the romanticism poets were… just really weird.”

Spencer regained his composure and released an unexpected laugh, “Yeah.”

“Anyone want more coffee, I’m going to get another cup,” Y/N stood and left for the kitchenette after finding there weren’t any takers.

“So close and yet… so far,” Prentiss said once Y/N was out of earshot.

“Seriously, man,” Morgan started, “Just ask her to go to dinner or something already.”

Reid rolled his eyes, “Is this about your bet pool thing again?”

“Not anymore,” Morgan said, “I’ve been out since last month. Somehow I thought New Years would do the trick.”

Prentiss laughed, “You’re doing way better than me. I really thought the hormones would outweigh this nerdy stupidity,” she gestured at Reid’s face, “and said Halloween.”

“Halloween?!” Reid squeaked out before lowering his voice significantly, “There is no way you thought Y/N and I would get together by Halloween of last year.”

The two agents dutifully ignored him and Morgan continued, “Who’s even left at this point? I know Rossi chose St. Patrick’s day for whatever reason.”

“And Hotch said Valentine’s,” Prentiss finished and any air of concern left Reid’s face.

“Well now I know you’re making this up,” he turned back to his work, “There is no way Hotch would bet on his daughter’s love life.”

Prentiss tsked, “Your future father-in-law is going to be very disappointed if you miss this benchmark.”

“Seriously though,” Morgan started again, “Just ask her to hang out. Don’t even call it a date.”

“We hang out all the time though…” Spencer whispered, fiddling with his tie.

“Then it shouldn’t be that big of a deal,” Morgan patted him on the shoulder, “Go get her, lover boy.”

Reluctantly, Reid rose from his seat and made his way to the kitchenette. Y/N was busy filling up her mug with the right amount of sugar- that is as much as can fit in the cup- but smiled when she noticed him.

“Did you change your mind? I can grab another mug.”

“What? Oh- no, I’m good,” he glanced over at her searching for the right words, “I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to hang out on Monday…?”

Y/N’s face lit up at the thought before she scrunched up her nose, “I’d love to but I can’t. I’m actually watching Jack so my dad can go out but maybe this weekend?”

She returned to stirring her coffee not noticing the third person entering the vicinity.

“Or Reid could come over and help you with Jack?” Hotch said, forcing them both to turn suddenly in his direction.

“Oh no,” Y/N began, “You don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t want you to waste your Valentine’s Day.”

“No, no. That sounds great,” Spencer smiled at her and her heart seemed to warm as she mirrored his reaction, “Send me the times over the weekend.”

With that Reid walked back to his desk in semi-victory.

“Did Reid just ask you to hangout with him on Valentine’s Day?” Hotch asked with a mock accusatory glance.

“Yeah,” Y/N said absentmindedly, “I mean no- I mean he did but it's not like that. We are just two single adults who enjoy each other’s company and not having to feel lonely on a day devoted to love.”

“Y/N, what exactly do you call it when two single adults meet up on Valentine’s Day to ‘enjoy each other’s company?’” he could barely manage to suppress the smile growing on his face at the teasing.

Her face turned pink, “I’m not sure- but apparently you call it babysitting.”

~~~

As the evening waned on, Y/N was more and more glad for Spencer’s company. Outside of simply enjoying his presence, it helped to have a second person there to reign in some of Jack’s more energetic behavior. However, her appreciation wasn’t enough to keep her from noticing how her heartstrings tugged seeing the way Jack and Spencer both lit each other up with excitement. Spencer was beyond engaging and Y/N finally understood why Henry always seemed to immediately latch onto Spencer at BAU gatherings. It was intoxicating to watch them together and Y/N easily could have lost herself in the moment if it weren’t for the screaming six-year-old running around the house constantly threatening to knock things over. Luckily for Reid, Y/N, and their respective sanities, this level of energy wasn’t sustainable and an eventual crash was inevitable.

He nodded lazily in response, “Can we watch Encanto?” for a brief moment the sparks returned behind his eyes as he mentioned what was quickly becoming his new favorite movie.

“Sure,” Y/N said with a small laugh. This would have to be close to the twentieth time she had seen the movie but for Jack’s sake, it was all worth it.

Jack headed for the stairs and Spencer was quick to follow after him.

“I’ll help him get ready for bed,” he explained, noticing what was apparently a rather obvious expression of confusion and the slight tilt of her head, “You could set up the movie?”

Having your heart flutter this much had to be medically concerning, but there was nothing Y/N could do to stop it as she watched her best friend take her brother’s small hand.

“Okay,” she whispered and was met with a smile that sent her straight back into heart-fluttering territory. No matter how long she knew Spencer, he never stopped surprising her. Considering the effort and detail he put into every other aspect of his life, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he would be so attentive with her brother. And yet he still managed to strengthen his hold on her heart with every little action that came as some unexpected surprise to her. In truth, she suspected it was a precautionary measure, if she truly let herself recognize how kind and wonderful Spencer was, she’d be done for in an instant.

All the precautions in the world couldn’t have stopped the back of her mind from spinning stories about him though. Spencer was too gentle and pure to keep the less hardened parts of her soul from imagining what it all could be like if she could indulge if she could step over the line she had drawn in the sand for herself.

Upstairs, it seemed Jack had stumbled upon a small reservoir of energy, taking the time to show Spencer his favorite toys and stuffed animals while Spencer attempted to offer him various pajama set options. Eventually, Jack settled on the set covered with small dogs.

Spencer didn’t mind the push and pull Jack, or other children gave him. There was something so strangely fascinating to him about a mind so free from insecurity and a child’s willingness to simply say what was on their mind. Despite his extensive memory, he couldn’t remember a time he truly felt like that and hoped it was merely a result of the fog around his earliest memories. Every decision he made was coated in consideration and accounted for every possible result. He couldn’t help but wish that his hypervigilance would let up from time to time and leave him free to explore the thoughts, and emotions, that remained.

“You work with my sister,” Jack offered up less as a question and more as a statement.

“Yes, I do,” Spencer responded to the not question.

The boy’s head bobbed in as much seriousness as a six-year-old could muster, “Can you still be friends with someone if you work with them?”

Spencer watched as he stepped away from him and began absentmindedly examining the toys around his room.

“Of course,” Spencer answered, not sure where this line of question was headed, “Your sister and I are very good friends then.”

Jack’s attention swiftly returned to Spencer, “So you like her then?”

“I do like her. She’s smart and cool,” Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly on the boy, “Just like you.”

Jack came closer to him and in what he seemed to think was a hushed voice said, “Did you know that sometimes when people really like they get married…?”

“And then….” he scrunched up his face and whispered, “They make a baby.”

Spencer’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in what Jack considered to be genuine surprise.

“I know, right?” Jack stepped away and began picking up a blanket and stuffed animal to take downstairs with him, without looking up he added, “Do you think you and Y/N will get married?”

Spencer’s mind went completely blank. None of the dozens of courses he had taken over the years would provide him with any sort of answer that would satisfy Jack. Part of him wanted to say yes and not give any of it another thought but reason quickly squashed that idea. And yet…

And yet he couldn’t bring himself to say no either. It was far too permanent and left no room for the small bead of hope he hid away in the back of his mind.

“Maybe…” he answered finally, “I don’t really know though…”

Jack pulled the blanket and toy behind him and giggled, “I hope you do!”

Spencer’s stomach did a somersault and he scooped the small boy and his blanket up into his arms before he could notice the strange smile emerging on his face. I do too.

~~~

“I swear that kid is pure energy,” Y/N said, shutting the door behind them and stepping out into the cool night with Spencer.

Y/N pointed a somewhat accusatory finger at him, “And don’t say something like ‘technically we are all energy since we’re made of mass.’’

He rolled his eyes at her with a smile, “I was going to say that while he may have been more energetic than I expected- I had fun hanging out with you guys.”

She couldn’t help the smile that immediately bubbled up to the surface of her lips, “I had fun too. I’m glad I didn’t completely waste your Valentine’s day.”

“Never,” he whispered just loud enough for her to hear.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on Monday,” Y/N said when they reached the end of the driveway where Spencer’s car was parked.

His eyes narrowed slightly on her, “What are you doing? How are you getting back to your apartment?”

“Oh I have an uber coming in a little bit. I”m just going to wait here until they get here.”

“You want me to leave you here on the side of the road and drive away?” he questioned.

“No,” Y/N corrected, “I want you to leave me at the end of my dad’s driveway.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” Spencer said definitively, “I’ll drive you or we could go back to my apartment and watch awful romcoms and start working on the mound of candy Rossi and Garcia got us.”

She blinked at him, “Really?”

“Yeah,” his movement suddenly became awkward and choppy, “I mean you obviously don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, no,” Y/N smiled, “I’m just surprised. You spent the past five hours with me and my hyperactive brother and you want to hang out more?”

“I always want to spend time with you,” he said shyly.

“Sometimes I just forget that you’re you, Spence,” Y/N shook her head slightly and took a step closer to him.

“I hope that’s not a bad thing,” his eyes were slightly wider than usual.

“No, not at all. It’s the best thing actually,” Y/N smiled up at him, “And just so you know, I’d gladly spend every moment of every day with you.”

He looked down at her, not able to suppress the smile growing on his face.

“You know,” Spencer said, clearing his throat slightly, “Jack said something to me earlier and I didn’t know how to respond to him.”

“Oh gosh…” her voice faded into a slight chuckle.

“He was asking me all these questions about you. Like if we were friends and if I thought you were nice,” Spencer watched as Y/N glanced up at him, “I said yes to both of those… but then- then he asked if we were going to get married.”

Y/N’s lips let out a silent “oh.”

She blinked and glanced down at the ground momentarily, “What did you tell him?”

He scratched absently at the side of his head, “Well I wasn’t sure what to say so I told him maybe?”

Y/N’s face broke into a smile and near laugh, “You told him ‘maybe?’”

“I’m sorry I just didn’t know what to say. You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, no,” she let out the rest of the laugh, “I just think we should go on a date before you start promising these kinds of things to my brother.”

Spencer blinked and swallowed before looking down at the ground, “Would you have said yes if I asked you out?”

“Yeah,” a soft smile settled on her lips, “I mean of course. Don’t tell Jack but you’re kind of my favorite person in the world.”

“Really?” his eyes settled on hers.

“What? Did you think I’d say no?” Y/N asked with genuine concern.

“I don’t know I just thought that it would make things difficult since we work together and-”

“Spence, hey, hey, stop it!” she said with a slight laugh.

A beat passed where she just looked at him.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

Y/N smiled, “I just want to remember the moment right before I kiss you.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly.

“Is that okay?”

He nodded not sure if she was referring to the moment or the kiss but it didn’t matter either way. She smiled up at him again, looking into his eyes and her hands moved up till they met behind his neck. After inhaling slightly, Y/N perched on her toes and gently pulled Spencer’s face down until their lips met each other.

[bleedinqdove]

Rocky Rickaby Smut Alphabet

A/n: Haven’t wrote smut in like a while so sorry if this is a bit rusty 😭😭 again, apologize if my writing sounds a bit awkward. This is just mainly to get some practice in :p

And also this is 18+ content so minors DNI.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Makes sure to check if you’re fine but after that good luck trying to get out of bed with him cuddling you. Just because he’s asleep doesn’t make his grip any less weak. A serial cuddlebug.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself he probably likes his hands the best. They allow him to play his violin so skillfully, and hold your own hands…and he also likes how they allow him to pleasure you too.

His favorite part of you would probably be your face. He loves seeing all your expressions, and reactions to things. He could admire your eyes all day if you let him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Likes to finish inside, only if you’re okay with it.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Likes stealing your more intimate articles of clothing and saving them for later.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

When he first met you I think he wouldn’t be too experienced, but he’s a very quick and eager learner! Just show him what you like and he’ll master it in no time.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any position that allows him to be real close to you and give him a good grip. He’s all about that skin to skin contact…or more like fur to fur.

Another honorable mention though is that he loves it when you sit on his face. Every time you squirm against his grip and cry out in pleasure just reinforces the fact that he’s doing a good job in pleasing you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I don’t think he’s totally goofy, but definitely not super serious either. I think he’s more lighthearted as this is a moment for the both of you to enjoy together. Just the two of you.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Well seeing as he’s an anthropomorphic cat…it doesn’t really matter.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When you two do have the time to properly spend time together he likes to be as romantic as he can, extravagant poems and all.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Doesn’t do it as often as you think he would. Only when he’s really stressed or is unable to see you for a set of time.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise kink. Please just call him a good boy and tell him he’s doing a good job :(

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Either in your bedroom (Since he lives in a car but he wouldn’t mind doing it there too.) or if you’re doing quickies he not one to shy away from risky spots.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

When you’re angry or passionate about something. Loves seeing that fiery spark in you.

Also if you’re in heat or he’s in a rut that gets him going pretty good.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Open to trying new things, but wouldn’t want to do anything too extreme that hurt you badly.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Loves both giving and receiving.

As stated before he loves having you sit on his face. Have him hold you in place or grind against his tongue, he doesn’t care as long as you get your pleasure.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Starts of slow but it doesn’t last long. Grips onto you so hard that it leaves marks when he’s pounding into you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Doesn’t mind quickies, in fact with his busy schedule it’s probably the next best thing until he has enough time to actually do the real deal.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Definitely. When he’s particularly jealous he enjoys semi public sex, the fact that someone could possibly walk in on you two fills him with adrenaline. Sometimes he finds himself hoping someone DOES walk in.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Has a ton of energy so could definitely go a good amount of rounds.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Wouldn’t particularly care unless you wanted to try them.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Depends on his mood, if he’s feeling jealous he would be pretty unfair. However most of the time he just wants to give you what you want.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Rocky is VERY vocal and not shy about it either.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You two have been caught by Freckle once.

No amount of apologies and gifts can make him forget what he’s seen.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Not big but not small either, just the right size.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Is down to go whenever you’re down to, but it does get higher when he’s in a rut or notices you’re in heat.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After making sure you’re fine he crashes pretty quickly.

[decayedgloria]

secrets i have held in my heart

ft. Jean

In the midst of a loveless marriage, Jean finds solace in her husband's new employee.

Inspired by a poem on tiktok called tongues (I forgot who wrote it but it was so good tbh)

Tags: Jean x afab!reader, cheating, nsfw under cut, mdni, jean is married to diluc, dilucs kind of an ass, good ol’ lesbian sex, cunnilingus, fingering, pwp, this is not my best work tbh

Word count: 1.3k~, not proofread at all

The acting grand master’s office was certainly not the place for this. It was hardly appropriate for you to be on your knees in front of the woman herself, licking and lapping at her cunt as your fingers slipped in and out of your own. Her wonton moans only motivated you to move your tongue against her, eager to please your lover in whichever way she desired.

You both knew this was wrong. Jean was a married woman, married to your boss no less, and she wouldn’t normally be the type to do this. But then you came along one stormy night, sitting next to her in the cathedral pews as if Barbatos himself had granted a solution to her worries. While she prayed for any way to be happy in the now loveless marriage, she found solace in you. You were such a breath of fresh air, a person so serene she felt at peace every time she was with you.

It started with a yearning for your presence, with Jean frequenting Angel’s Share during your shifts just so she could see your smile. It was even sweeter when directed at her. Then she started walking you home under the guise of making sure you were safe, relishing every second that her arm held yours, like a knight escorting a princess. 

Jean thought that that was enough to sustain her. Just mere thoughts and small affections for her wouldn’t get in the way of her marriage to Diluc, even if her heart and core began aching when you weren’t there. But suddenly, when she dropped you off at your door just like every other night, you pulled her into a fervent kiss that spilled out your feelings for her, and well…

Here you both were. One of Jean’s hands was tangled in your hair, moving you impossibly closer to her cunt as she ground her hips into your face. A part of her was concerned you wouldn’t be able to breathe, however, the way you eagerly move with her proved otherwise. The other hand was braced on the back of her chair, keeping her body from shaking too much. 

“Hah… ah- oh my archons…” Jean’s hips bucked against your eager tongue, sighs and gasps leaving her pretty mouth as you bring up a hand to play with her clit. Her pleasure only served to turn you on, with your free hand pumping your own pussy with your fingers. In the heated atmosphere of the room, it was so incredibly easy for someone to just walk in and see your liaison, but neither of you cared as much as you chased your releases with each other.

“More, please more- yes, move your tongue that way darling. You’re so good at this… you make me feel- oh, you make me feel so good…!” Her grip on your hair tightened, her breathing erratic and heavy as she could feel her orgasm finally approaching. You pick up your pace, your tongue now darting across her folds as you too try to achieve your own orgasm. You looked up at her; blonde hair disheveled, eyes closed tightly as she moaned. You wanted to smirk at the fact that you had Monstadt’s Dandelion Knight in such as state, you doubt Diluc had ever made her feel this good.

“I’m- I’m cumming!” She all but screamed quietly as her thighs squeezed against your head, shaking as she release against your tongue. Her juices coated the bottom half of your face, prompting you to pull away and lick your lips, her saccharine taste overflowing your mouth. As you ride off your own orgasm, Jean’s hand reached down to cup your face, breathlessly looking at you affectionately. Her thumb caressed your cheeks as you trembled, wracked with your release as you fall towards her thighs. 

The two of you lay like that for a moment, relishing in the afterglow of your illicit affair. The feelings of guilt will return later, but for now, you could enjoy being in each other’s presence for a bit longer. As you both catch your breath, the silence between you says more than it needs to. The unspoken words and rampant thoughts shared by both of you cannot be any more clear, yet you were sure Jean wants to ignore it as much as you do.

Quickly rising to your feet, you wipe your face before giving Jean a kiss, smiling as she returns it. You help each other get dressed and clean up, giggling here and there as you tease each other about anything and everything.

“You know, as acting grand master, I really should stop entertaining this.” Despite her unamused tone, Jeans smiled coyly at you as she fixed your shirt. Likewise, your hands fixed her collar, expertly buttoning her corsage as you snicker.

“Yes, of course. Just like always you say that, and yet all I have to do is go…” Your eyes shift into a pleading stare, imitating a puppy as you fake pout at the woman. Though you cannot hold the expression for long as you burst out in a fit of laughter along with her after you do so. Ah, to have the Dandelion Knight wrapped around your finger. When you first moved to Monstadt, you didn’t think it was even possible to meet her, and yet you’ve become much more than what you’ve bargained for.

As soon as you were both finished cleaning yourselves up, there was a sudden knock at the door. Jean, whose demeanor was once relaxed, stiffened as she heard it. Her blue eyes darted to you in silent alarm, a warning which you took seriously, reluctantly stepping away from her as she told the guest to come in.

You keep your head down and your expression neutral as Diluc walked in, his indifferent face startling you just a little bit. You give him a polite smile as he looks towards you, an eyebrow slightly raised. You could feel your heart thumping in your chest as his sharp gaze is turned towards you, unaware of the sinful acts you and his wife just committed.

“It’s a surprise seeing you here.” Diluc remarked, “Do you have business with the knights?” Before you could answer, Jean gives him a firm reply.

“It’s her day off, isn’t it Diluc? She’s my friend,” If you were none the wiser, the slight strain on her voice might have gone unnoticed when she said ‘friend.’ The name stung a bit, but it was necessary, especially when her husband was right there. “She’s visiting me.”

“Oh? And allowing you to be distracted at work? No wonder the knights are so horribly inefficient.” His tone was cold, though it was not actually filled with malice. Diluc’s gaze was still on you, and you hesitantly look towards him, almost in protest to his words.

“I was actually just leaving.” You answered firmly, turning your heel sharply towards the door and bidding Jean a final goodbye. You turned so quickly that you missed the surprised look on Jean’s face, who had expected you to stay just a little longer to avoid suspicion. What she missed was the growing ache in your heart as your mind replayed the image of both of them alone in that office.

As you walked, you could still feel his cold gaze until you closed the door behind you, sighing in relief as you did so. 

The world must never know about you and Jean. Because if they did, you both would be ripped away from each other at a moment’s notice- by Diluc’s hands, nonetheless. Secret meetings and late-night liaisons were all that your love needed to thrive, even if at times it was suffocating.

[itstokkii]

All these anons just make me want to talk about Turkey more. What are your favorite Turkey headcanons? Personally I love to think that Sadik writes poetry in his spare time, and is very, very good at it.

As someone who ships Turkfra because of how fascinating the history between France and the Ottoman Empire is (Franco-Ottoman alliance) I like to think that they would both really bond over each other’s rich poetry culture. Not to mention their rich cuisines. Maybe they cook together in the evenings, or take turns cooking and surprising each other with elaborate dinners.

Youre so right

aph turkey hcs

- physically he's around 180cm, perhaps he had visible muscles during the ottoman empire period but he's mellowed out now and let a little softness take over his form. He put on a little bit of weight bc he's a sweet tooth but it fluctuates from time to time.

- definitely keeps cat treats in his pocket for the stray cats of istanbul!! and when he fishes he leaves a portion for the cats to eat!

- while he is a cat person and owns cats(one of them is named tombili 🥺), he also owns a few dogs too! he probably gets along with germany on that part(maybe korea? though korea owns the cute fluffy tiny dogs that feel the need to eat your face off when it makes eye contact with you).

- is a man of the kitchen. aside from cooking the most banger meals, he dabbles in tweaking recipes or creating new ones altogether! ive seen enough turkish dessert accounts on instagram to know he'd make a bomber cake with coconut shavings, or a pretty good custard.

- the coconut shavings are important btw they're like on every single homemade turkish chocolate cake for some reason??(source: baby tokki grew up with a lot of turkish family friends)

- sorry i have to do this but...he has mediocre drip 🥲 sometimes he dresses like your average old man or middle aged dad and then sometimes it's so obvious that he's trying to dress like the youngsters.. he def has his knockoff Adidas tracksuits and they always come in clutch

- he's not an old man however. he was born as one of the many tribes running around in the seljuk era before he eventually became the ottoman empire. physically...around his mid 20s to early 30s?

- and cuz he has turkish dad vibes...he regularly watches soccer games. like he lays down on the couch elbow propped up eating pistachios as he watches soccer in a Galatasaray shirt(actually turkish fans of hetalia pls tell me who hed be a fan of bc I don't regularly watch turkish soccer)

- regularly plays volleyball!

- life of the party at weddings tbh, especially those rural ones

- very hospitable! he'll arrange a table full of treats and black tea for you and won't take no for an answer as he brags about how hospitable he is.

- when you're at his house DO NOT EVER suggest getting takeout. he will stare at you with a >:0 face

- WILL spill the tea over tea. man's got enough connections to tell you abt who's cheating on who etc. while he has his whole spread of treats and black tea out he'll keep you up on everything. when he goes "Ok so basically" that's when you brace yourself because OH BOY is someone in a secret relationship with someone else and that person you'd always assumed was super shy actually sprinkled salt on their ex's backyard

- the ac in his istanbul apartment keeps breaking(good luck with that man 😔)

- that's why in the summer he spends a big chunk of his paycheck on icecream. bro makes sure to always have icecream stocked on him at all times(just like me fr !!). he'd even eat it in the winter he loves it that much.

- also at the same time he drinks hot tea in the 40-50 degree summer as well, another win for the turkuzbek fans !

- big into architecture, and back in the day it was custom to write a poem to commemorate a new building. he definitely wrote a few but spent forever thinking about how to write it and pissed a lot of people off because they were waiting for the poem lol

- i actually really like fraturk's dynamic! because theyve got a lot of history together, it would be terrible to ignore. i think they have definitely gotten together during the Franco-Ottoman alliance lol.

- one time the french wanted to flex on austria × spain by going "oh yeah??? well we got turkey!!" and commissioned a huge super ornate crown to gift to suleiman the great. see the funny part about this is um. the turks didn't wear crowns. so suleiman never wore it lol

turkey, holding the crown: uhmmmm... wall decoration I guess?? this is awkward

- the name "turquoise" comes from the French "turkish" to describe the gem. i guess that's a fraturk win??? since we all associate that color with turkey now

- they'd probably try to one up each other with the dinners they cook! (can france handle lahmacun??? tune in later today at 11pm to find out !!)

- coffee guy x tea guy with the whole parisian coffee culture and turkish tea culture thing. (except I mean. turkish coffee also exists so)

- I wanna think france tries to help turkey with his drip situation but. turkey always got that inner middle aged dad in him it's not going anywhere

- bulgaria likes going to turkeys place cuz the stuff there is dirt cheap ~~~~!!! rip the lira you would have loved economic stability

- speaking of bulgaria, bulgaria greece and turkey argue a lot over who invented yogurt. turkey thinks he's got a stake in it because of the etymology of yogurt(yoğurtmak), but like the bacteria to make yogurt is called lactobacillius bulgaricus, but everyone thinks of greek yogurt...yeah you can see why they're all arguing

- speaking of arguing he's ratioed saudi a couple times on twitter lol

- he also posts those ironic turk/turan copy pastas as well

- egypt kinda doesn't like him. during the ottoman empire turkey launched egypt to suppress arab revolts like a pokemon.

*putting down fingers* "the greeks don't like us, egypt doesn't like us, saudi definitely doesn't like us....bulgaria likes us cuz we're a cheap travel destination for them..." - my turkish business teacher in highschool, 2023

- gets along well with korea(uhoh BIAS incoming !!!) due to their history beginning from the korean war. the turkish brigade was the only military unit that built a school for korean orphans. there's a story of a soldier taking care of a korean orphan, but he wasn't able to adopt her. they were separated for years after that until one day they reunited. they'd also suffered the third most losses in the war. that's why we call turkey our "older brother country."

- there's even a turkish culture center in seoul(which baby tokki went to a lot lol). recently turkish kaymak has been trending since one of the top korean celebrity chefs paik joongwon visited turkey a while back to try food. people have been traveling to turkey to go to the exact stores and try those foods as well. there's a lot of kebab shops in korea! the turkish presence in korea was the starting point to accommodate muslims in korea as well.

- all of this to say korea and turkey have a mutual admiration and korea definitely calls turkey oppa or hyung. korea also tries to get him to change his drip but NOTHJNG CAN DEFEAT THE STEADFAST TURKISH MIDDLE AGED MAN RAAAH 🇹🇷🇹🇷🇹🇷

- I've said it before I'll say it again: turkey cannot hold a normal conversation with mongolia because he'll always go "OH MY FELLOW NOMAD STEPPE ALTAIC BROTHER HOW ARE YOU DOING!!!" what???

- same with the central asians tbh given their nomadic history as well. he was the first nation to recognize all of their indepences fom russia. he gets along with turkmenistan a lot because they're the closest languages to each other(both in oghuz family) and a lot of turkmens go to turkey to study at their universities! the governments quite stagnant with their policies however, so turkey's having a hard time convincing her to join the turkic council as a full time member. they give me a gojo and megumi vibe for some reason lol

- kazakhstan 🤝 turkey: both having the asian/european identity crisis

- in terms of first meetings, the kazakh khanate and ottoman empire first established diplomatic relations in 1713, and along with uzbekistan, tried to seek turkey's help in the face of an expanding russian empire.

- nowadays, turkey and kazakhstan are the ones to both try to stir up that regional/turkic unity among the central asians. they've gained some small wins along the way lol. in fact, turkey, kazakhstan, and kyrgyzstan were the founding members of the turkic council! kazakhstan admires all that turkey's doing for them but sometimes thinks he's too cocky. actually all the central asians think he's cocky to certain extents lol

- bro gets along a little better with hungary now and that could be because of the whole "huns=turkic?" debate resurfacing in hungary which is why they somehow landed a spot in the turkic council as well???

uzb kaz kyrg turk azer @ hungary: white woman jumpscare,

- he and hungary regularly bother prussia whenever they're in germany lol

- scraps w the netherlands bc tulips come from him!!! not from Licorice Man!!!!!

- fluctuating relationship with iran over the years

- was a fanboy of iran during the seljuk empire until she joined the khwarazmian empire(uzb's mom lol) and then he hated her

- also close with: azerbaijan(who may or may not be his number one fanboy), japan

Here's everything I could squeeze out of my brain lol hope you like it!!

a good chunk of these hcs are by @peonycats and @hetalia-fannn btw!! sorry for not initially crediting u guys i forgot 😭

[infinitelibraryofheadcanons]

(HSR) Astral Express Crew Headcanons

Hi everyone! I have returned, this time with a library entry for one of the newest fandoms on the list: Honkai Star Rail! While I am not confident about writing for all the characters yet, I figured some headcanons for the members of the Astral Express would be a good start. I hope you enjoy!

~~~

Welt

- Mr. Yang enjoys spending his time quietly. From playing chess with Himeko or Dan Heng to doodling in a notebook of his while sipping some tea - he's got all the grandpa habits you can imagine.

- One of these habits is crochet. After picking up some yarn and tools from a planet they visited, Welt tried to learn knitting...and failed miserably. Therefore he was hesitant to attempt crochet, but gave it a try nonetheless. It worked a lot better than knitting because it doesn't use two needles, just one hook. While he does get cramps and wrist pain from time to time, he does enjoy making crochet items, like scarves and amigurumi.

- Additionally, Welt knows how to make origami. He has tried to teach March before, but she gave up pretty quickly. The Trailblazer on the other hand has shown to be quite skilled at it, so making origami has become quite the bonding activity for the two of them.

Himeko

- As the mom of the Express, Himeko knows everyone's drink preferences in and out. She likes to make alcoholic cocktails for Welt and herself, though sometimes she does give non-alcoholic ones to the youngsters. It has definitely earned her March's favor.

- Totally a mix between a wine aunt and a mom. She definitely loves red wine.

- Speaking of being a mom, it isn't just an inside joke on the Express. Himeko has tried taking up a caring, motherly role for Dan Heng. While the two don't share too many similarities on the surface, Himeko is one of the only people who knows about Dan Heng's fascination with the arts. She supports him trying out different kinds of art - from poetry to painting - and actively funds his endeavors. Mostly in secret though. After everyone is asleep, she will invite Dan Heng to a large storage room on the Express where he can try out different things - music, painting, poetry, all the good stuff. While they don't talk too much, Himeko does notice that Dan Heng appreciates the opportunity to try out new things in secret and build his own identity, far away from Dan Feng.

March 7th

- March is the sunshine of the Express. Things would be way too calm without her around. Everyone knows that and everyone appreciates March for simply being herself.

- With her enjoyment of cute things and Welt's newfound hobby, March often asks him to crochet a few amigurumi for her. Whether it be a Diting Plushie or a small Trotter keychain, she has ideas for everything thanks to her travels with the Express Crew. Welt does quite enjoy being able to bond with March like this, occasionally explaining crochet stitches to her. March appreciates being able to talk to Welt about whatever she wants while he crochets and listens.

- Another thing is that March definitely collects cute stickers to decorate her photo albums with. If she's going to store all of her pictures somewhere, might as well make that storage space look cute, right?

Dan Heng

- As mentioned in Himeko's section, Dan Heng has taken a liking to the arts. He will secretly learn anatomy from YouTube videos or write some poems about whatever occupies his mind, maybe even try to turn some of these poems into song lyrics. His current preference is poetry, though he does enjoy going wild on a canvas with acrylic paint sometimes.

- Speaking of song lyrics, he seems like the kind of guy to be interested in Serval's rock music to some extent. March has dragged him to one of her shows before, and while he didn't quite see the point at first, he did end up enjoying it. So he ended up using March and her camera as a disguise to visit more often and learn about Serval's music.

- Speaking of music, he seems like someone who plays music for the plants on the Express because he believes it will help them grow. Maybe it's an old Luofu tradition? Though he will deny ever doing such a thing or push it on his home planet's culture.

~~~

God, this has been sitting in my drafts for ages,, I do still enjoy these headcanons though, they're really sweet to me. Might as well share my joy, right?

See you next time, folks! Remember: requests are open!

~Curator Silver

[dont-blame-it-on-the-kids]

50 Random Character Asks: Mako

OH MY GOD this took me 4 hours sitting down lmao

here you GO lins underway i am not accepting anymore FULL Asks but if you have a few numbers (up to 10) and a character i will accept those

1. Canon I outright reject

All of book 2 my fucking god. The whole love triangle never happened. He found Rina, and he fell in love. They’re married and pregnant with the twins in book 3 

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

His wife and twins, foreverrrrrrr

3. Obscure headcanon

He turned into the unofficial handyman for his apartment and is always helping when plumbing goes wrong or when the aircon units go haywire 

4. Favorite line

I like any line where he's pointing something ONLY HE noticed out like it was obvious and just being a good detective. (also those cheesy cop lines he was practicing lmao) 

5. Best personality trait

That hes pretty willing and ready to face challenges head on 

6. Worst personality trait

Hes so stubborn and thick headed i love it 

7. Age/height/weight headcanon

Hes like 18-22 throughout the show 

I think he’s 6ft 5inch 

Idk weighs probably a little underweight in book 1 cuz street rat probender, but after then lin gets him set up in an apartment and she and kya along with asami just make sure he’s got food stocked. 

8. Unpopular opinion about them

I know its not mako specific but I hate Wu*ko I HATE IT 

9. Scene that first made me love (or hate) the character

Him getting work at the electric plant ONTOP of being a probender, a part of the Krew, and trying to keep bolin from trouble. True big sibling activities. 

10. Best moment on screen (or in the book)

I really like the scene where he fights the red lotus in zaofu. He does a good job. 

11. Faceclaim for the role

Chai Hansen

12. Crack headcanon

He’s allergic to Lychee nuts but thinks Lychee juice is supposed to be spicy. 

13. Dumbest thing they’ve ever done

If we’re looking at canon he fumbled BOTH Korra and Asami, my mans, 

14. Most heroic moment

Honestly I know end of book 4 was a big moment for him but I think he was a hero LONG before with keeping him and Bolin safe on the streets and as out of trouble as they were. 

15. Worst thing they’ve ever done

Godddddd that good intentions but ruining the investigation in book 2 i CANNOT dont get me started 

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves

He hates bolin, he hates that bolin doesnt remember their parents well, he hates that he had to raise him, he hates that bolin gets to be irresponsible while he had to grow up at 8 to make sure they were okay. He loves his brother, he really does, but when he’s no longer responsible for bolin mako refuses to accept the relief that comes with that for a while. 

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them

Can't Go Wrong by Phillip Phillips

Sleeping In by All Time Low 

18. What they’d go to see a therapist about

Everything for reall like his parents being murdered infront of him batman style, to raising bolin, to having every adult that new him before we did in the show was abusing him (i.e. the probending owner taking his entire winnings, the triad they worked for when he was younger. My boy had it ROUGH) 

19. Vices/bad habits

I think he picks up smoking honestly. I think he’s been smoking since he was like 11 with the triad and he doesnt let bolin know but he hasnt been able to kick the habit. 

20. Scars

I think he's got a few thinner like knife and burn scars before the explosion scarred up his arm. 

21. Drink of choice (not just alcoholic)

Milk 

22. Best physical feature

Cheekbones lmao the cheekbones in that show are insane 

23. If they were a scented candle, what would they smell like?

You know that moment when someone throws pine needles on the fire? And its pine and charcoal and fire and smoke. Yeah, maybe like that. 

24. Most annoying habit

Sleeps with socks on 

25. 3 things they’d want to take with them if they were dropped off in the middle of nowhere

Some money, a map, and his scarf he’ll make his way home lmao 

26. What they would do if stuck in an elevator with [insert character of your choice from the same fandom]

Dont matter who hes with hes gonna get them all out lmao 

27. Their guilty pleasure

Wood carving, he doesnt think it’s a useful use of his time and as the unofficial handyman in his apartment he’s usually rather busy.

28. How they feel about [insert character of your choice from the same fandom]

🤷idk i depends on the person lmao 

29. Eating habits

Bad, bad bad until he meets rina. He gets like A cup o noodles in mid day and mostly survives off milk and juice lmao 

30. Sleeping habits

He has stints of nightmares sometimes but most of the time he can sleep anywhere, unless its too soft. He cant stand soft beds. 

31. If the had a tumblr what would it look like?

He would have a family blog where its pics of his family and the twins and updates and their art and stuff. Then maybe he’ll reblog some like fandom stuff from probending or a radio show he and rina listen to. 

32. Something guaranteed to make them smile/laugh

His twinssss he loves them so much 

33. Something guaranteed to make them cry

Theres a song that his mom used to sing all the time. He still cant listen to it without crying. Rina finds out the hard way when she was humming it cuz it was stuck in her head one day. 

34. How they react when they are feeling X emotion (sad, angry, excited, scared, etc.—can specify as many as you like)

Bottle it mostly. Emotions can be dealt with later. 

35. Their idea of a perfect day

Wake up and make the family breakfast, head off to work for a bit, move a few cases forwards, get home, have dinner, bathe the twins, get them to bed with a story book then cuddle on the couch with Rina until bedtime. 

36. Their favorite season

He loves winter because hes not overheating and people stand closer to him for warmth lmao 

37. What they really think about themselves

He thinks he’s doing well by the end of the series. In my hc world He’s married with his twins, he and bolin have found a name and a path for themselves and they’re not struggling anymore. He’s really grown up and done a lot of work. He’s proud of what he’s done and who his family is, both chosen and blood related.

38. Favorite holiday

Growing up on the streets they did not celebrate holidays for many reasons. He hated them for a long time. but seeing the twins opening gifts on the in universe equivalent of christmas, lin, kya, and asami over for dinner while korra and bolin were away during the timeskip and seeing the twins so happy and opening gifts and stuff. He found he could enjoy the holiday again and even was looking forward to the next years dinner when the twins were older and bolin and korra were back. 

39. Favorite game

He enjoys playing Cabbage Land with the twins (thank you @btheleaf for the Candy Land knock off name)

40. Favorite book

He really got into the romance series lin brought with her to the stakeout once lmao hes not so slyly asked to borrow her copies. Rina, Lin, and Kya have included him on their book club meetings now xD 

41. If they could have lunch with anyone in the world (living or dead, from any fictional universe or the real world), who would it be?

I think he would want to meet his grandfather (i’m excluding his parents cuz thats a copout answerrr)

42. 3 comfort items

His scarf, a tiny glass bird a homeless man made him when they were on the streets (he made bolin a small fireferret), and a photo he has of him korra and bolin from the probending team 

43. 3 favorite foods and 3 they despise

Fav - strawberries, Rina’s chicken fried rice, and he was surprised he enjoyed walrus-cow chowder as much as he did in the south. 

44. Their happiest memory

Hes got a few lol, when he married Rina, and when his twins were born. 

45. Their favorite celebrity

He doesnt seem the kind to follow celebrities too closely honestly. 

46. The person they most admire

Lin Beifong 100000% shes the reason he joined the force and he kinda is always looking for her approval. 

47. Their dream job

He seems to be really good as a detective. Maybe he would have liked to stay a probender for life but the trauma from the attacks were too much to go back really. 

48. Scariest moment of their life

When the dust settles in book 4 and he doesnt know where Rina and the twins are. He doesnt know if they were on the last train out or stuck in the city during the attack. 

49. Favorite toy as a child

He used to have this wooden bird that worked as like an ocarina. Hes using his wood carving skills to try to make one again and maybe make some for the twins.  

50. A memory they’ve blocked out

👀👀 lots of things can happen to young kids on the streets.

[flimflamfandom]

The Love song of Rocky Rickaby

A Vignette, wherein Rocky meets a girl. (Specifically Ari from @ladybugkisses )

WARNING for corny poetry and slightly sad Rocky.

-

"Calvin? Caaaaaaaalviiiiiin? Freckle? Cal? Freck? Mr. McMurray? Sideburns McBigEye-" Rocky's incessant knocking on the door of the apartment was answered by a slightly annoyed looking Calvin.

"Aye?"

"Calvin!" Rocky gripped his shoudlers. "I need your help - I met a girl!"

Calvin rolled his eyes. Third one this month, he thought.

"...What do you want Me for, then?" Calvin asked.

Rocky let himself into Calvin's new apartment. "You're a fanciful writer type, right, Calvin?"

"Well, I mean, I've...written before, but-"

"Perfect!" Rocky sat down by the typewriter and looked over. "I need your help writing to her."

"...this is rich," Calvin rolled his eyes, walking over. "You're the one who makes poems, aren't you?"

"Oh, sure, sure, but those are about...places, and things! But you...I've seen your letters to Ivy!"

"You've WHA-"

"And I know you're an incredibly romantic man! Please, Calvin, this time it's different, I know I need to woo her with romance instead of my usual rogueish charms! Pleas, I BEG OF YO-"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine." Calvin sat down at the typewriter. Rocky was a bit...fast and loose with women. Never a creep, never unclear about his intentions, but always a one night sort of man - Calvin figured this would be no different.

"Oh, thank you! How will I ever repay you?"

"Don't...don't worry about it." Calvin quickly hid some papers on his desk. "So, this girl...what's she like?"

"...uhm..." Rocky blinked. He sat down for a moment. "I...well, she...uhm..."

Calvin blinked a few times. "...go on?"

"...she's...a lady...and...has...fur?"

Calvin stared for a moment. "You're sure you met her? Because it doesn't sound that way."

"I know, I know, I just...she's hard to describe! You can't always have words for Ivy, can you?"

"I could tell you what color her fur is."

"Oh, good, Zib and I have a disagreement about this, is it gray or-"

"Rocky. The love...letter? Poem? Song?"

"Poem! That I can turn into a song~!" Rocky winked and nudged his brother, then went back to looking a bit...afraid of something. He sighed. Calvin cocked his head to one side.

"Rocky...you need to help me here if I'm going to write something." Calvin stood, and walked towards the kitchen. He started to get some tea going, and looked over. "Now, tell me the very basics."

"Red fur." Rocky said. "Sort of. And these big eyes, I...I couldn't guess the color. And she had such a cute dress, and-" He blinked. "I...well. I, uh...I'm sure you get the idea. right?"

"Tell me about how she is." Calvin came back, waiting for the kettle to whistle. He sat by the typewriter, and began to take notes.

"...how?"

"Aye, how. Who. What. She's not just fur and eyes, is she?"

"No, no, of course not!" Rocky said. "She was...kind. And nice. And she was...well when she looked at me, she smiled. I nearly ran her over coming out of the café, and we didn't see each other long, but-" Rocky cleared his throat. "...is this...enough to go off of?"

"...Rocky, I think you might be more intimidated by her than in love."

"What? You're crazy! Bonkers! Wacko! Insane! I'd never be scared of someone so....so..." Rocky fought for a word, but didn't find it. Calvin nodded.

"You're clearly at least a little nervous about this. That's normal! A lot's on the line, and all." Calvin said.

"Oh, I know, but...this is just a girl. Really, all it is! And while I'm, infatuated now, and in need of your expertise, I'm sure it'll wear off eventually, as is so oft the case in this modern age!" Rocky winked, with a sense of denial that was painfully obvious to Calvin.

Calvin merely rolled his eyes.

"Rocky, if you're just attracted to her, then go ahead and ask her yerself, you don't need a love poem for this sort of thing, let alone a song."

"You're right." Rocky said. "I mean, so what if she was pretty? There's pretty girls! All over the place! Sure, I mean, none has ever made me...want to settle in, but-"

There was a pause.

"I mena really, what was I thinking? A love letter? Why, all i need to do here is find a good night with her! I would LOATHE the idea of...of waking up to her in the morning, and-" Rocky's ears drooped, "and...nestling into her as she slept." Rocky sighed. "I've never, EVER felt any affection like that - why start now? Why now turn from my lustful ways to wanting to hold her in my arms as she looks into my eyes, and...and to see, to really see what she's thinking?" His tail drooped. "And honestly, I doubt there's any woman on the face of the EARTH who could make me want to keep her safe...to kill for her, to die for her, but also to live for her, and to see things and learn things and love things I've never...loved before...oh, god, Calvin, I-" Rocky tearfully looked over to Calvin, who was hastily scribbling things down. Rocky spoke, through a choked voice.

"I'm...I've never been in love...that must be why I couldn't think of anything to..."

Calvin looked up, and smiled. "It hits you late, aye?"

"Sure, sure...did...did you get anything from that?"

"...I caught a bit." Calvin handed him something. "You can make changes if you'd like."

"...Aces."

-

It was late at night, in an apartment building in St. Louis. And a girl heard something against her window. It sounded like a pebble...annoyed, she looked out, and saw-

"...Rocky, right?" She asked. The two had talked a while, outside the café. She remembered his name. His colossal eyes, his soft smile...

He was just standing there. He cleared his throat, and took out a piece of paper. He'd foregone the song bit...but what is a poem but a song?

"...as..." Rocky cleared his throat, "As a shearwater over the sea, I too have been to many shores...but as the noble bird does, so to have I chosen one to rest on evermore."

He was different than he normally was - shaky, and nervous. He'd never tried to be this...sincere before, about ANYthing.

"Indeed, as astronomers plot the stars, my gaze has laid on many lights, but-" He sputtered, "but...as if transfixed by a celestial glow, only one star remains in my...ehm...mind? No, that doesn't rhyme, I-"

"Sights."

"Sights?" Rocky looked up at the girl. She was smiling.

"You meant to say sights. Rhymes with lights?"

Rocky smiled, too. He looked up, and perked his ears, throwing the page away. "I cannot tell a lie to you, I've had my share of loving guests, but none so lovely as you, who makes me want to build a-"

"Nest?"

"Is it that predictable?" Rocky knew he shouldn't have asked Calvin - good a writer as he was, he was no poet - but the girl let out a chuckle.

"It's a sentiment a girl hears a lot, you know." She said, which caused Rocky's ears to droop, and his tail to flatten.

"But...I mean it, I promise I do, I-"

"I know." She said.

"...you do?" Rocky held his hat nervously in his hands. The girl nodded.

"If someone is coming by to read odes to me at night, they aren't doing it because they want a quick date...or because they're afraid to be embarrassed." Rocky did feel a few extra eyes on him...including one particularly angry eye.

How was HE supposed to know she lived right next to Viktor!?

"I...I ought to come up there, then? Just so I, ehm...don't anger the neighbors." Rocky, for the first time in a long time,w as genuinely nervous - worried about his odds, and contemplating what he might do if he lost.

The girl spoke.

"Come in...but no funny business."

"Of course!" Rocky rushed up the fire escape.

He smiled all the way up.