#sticky blob

[jadafitch]

Female bolas spiders mimic the sex-pheromones of moths, luring them close enough to snag with their fishing line. A sticky blob on the end of silk thread, rather than the traditional orb web.

[alexiealducsdrawings]

I fell in love with this relaxed online shop sim called Sticky Business. You design stickers from pre-made elements, fit them on a printing sheet, and people buy them! You earn money and Likes, which are used to buy more elements and packaging decorations. Every client has a personal story/reason for buying your stickers and it's just wholesome. Here's some of my favorite I've designed so far :

And since there's no profanity filter, I also had silly fun

[angsttronaut]

makes me cringe how many gel nail lamps are sold that probably can't fully cure the polish

[tlmtwelve]

August Animation 2023: Day 19, 20 & 21

[sukeruton-san]

Sorta Maybe Blind pt 2

First Next

It has been four hours since the initial discovery of his appearance and he's come to figure out it's not just that he looks like he'll kneel over and die with a small breeze but he feels like it too. side effects just keep coming!

Apparently his eyes are extremely sensitive to the light now. he opened them fully once and it hurt like hell, even with the smog. his internal temperature has always been a little bit on the cold side but now he feels like a freezer and his rugged t-shirt and jean combo is not helping. he's a little frustrated with how much he's shaking especially on his left side

Oh he thinks he forgot to mention that his left side now has a huge lichtenberg figure on it, starting from his hand going all the way up his arm and spreading across his back and chest swirling where his heart should be it also goes all the way down his left leg into the bottom of his foot, some of it is even peeking across his neck. He thinks it's the scar that was supposed to show itself when the accident happened but it didn't.

it's here now and it constantly aches too, another aspect of the ectoplasm levels here. He thinks he's become more fatigued but his sleep schedule was already shity to begin with, 4-5 hours a week can do that to a person. same with his appetite, food was more dangerous than edible most of the time at h- Fentonworks.

He ducked into an alleyway to search through the duffle bag that was packed for him, squinting to lessen the light in his eyes. and he found a lot. Hygiene products, a new phone and modified Phantom-phone courtesy of Tucker, notebooks, files, a lot of snacks, bottled water, Med kit, wild survival kits courtesy of jazz, bunch of the Fentonworks inventions now phantom-tech that he and Tucker modified and improved together, some clothing items courtesy of Sam, and a bunch of other miscellaneous items/small bags he didn't want to look into right now except for

Oh. . .

Oh ancients the fuck Sam!?!?

Sam gave him a crossbody satchel filled with big money, and when he says big money he means probably thousands in big money!?!? taking two 50s out and shoving the satchel inside his chest he looked to see what the notebooks and files were about.

One of the files was the necessary paperwork for his new identity that Tucker and Jazz helped create together, and judging by the glowing green sticky note Clockwork helped them too, probably about the sorta maybe blind thing he got going on. The other files containing pretty much all the Fenton works blueprints and or recipes for chemical compounds like the ecto-dejecto and the cleaning spray for ectoplasm.

The notebooks were small but thick, they hold a variety of things ranging from tips and tricks, locations that may be useful, information about Gotham in general, several were blank, and others had other little things he won't get to. One notebook was dedicated to everything he has done as Phantom, his battles, achievements, and things they learned about his weird biology. some of it was clearly done by Clockwork cuz he hasn't told anybody the full story about Dan or the clones or the other fights and challenges he faced.

Did he forget to mention that besides the necessary paperwork everything was written in Braille? No? because it was.

Deciding that he was done searching through the bag for now he put on a black hoodie with blob ghost sewn on the front, took out his new phone, and put the Phantom-phone in. He turned on the blind aid in the accessibility function and turned the brightness down significantly. He pulls up Google to look for a place to rent. They all begrudgingly agreed that they won't call or text until a month has passed so suspicions won't be as tight on them. Finding something close and cheap and pulling up the directions to speak audibly he goes on his merry way.

Hopefully the owner will be nice enough to him even though he's barely 16 trying to rent an apartment.

--------------- *Hour and a half later*------------------

The building fucking abandoned

No like the top half of it looked like it exploded years ago and Google still says it's for rent!?!?

Why!?

You know what fuck it! he's already made his way over here and it geting dark fast. he'll find a decent corner in there to sleep tonight.

Squeezing his his way through a hole that was supposed to be a door, tripping, and landing face first on the broken disgusting floor below him.

_______________________________________________

Batman and Robin were investigating a weapons deal that was happening later tonight in an abandoned apartment complex, half the building gone from an explosion courtesy of Two Face. 30 minutes before the deal they were doing a quick sweep of the two floors that remain when

*Smack*

Someone face planted 5 ft away from them.

"Ow " they rub their face for a minute before sitting up and

" That's a blind child " Robin was slightly bewildered by the black haired, blind and before closing his eyes he was able to make out the dull icey blue color. He was ill looking 13-14 in age.

A blind boy that was deathly pale, warringly skinny and most importantly alone.

He points in the vague direction of Robin before stating "I'll have you know I'm almost 16 and you don't sound much older than I do" he feels across the ground searching for the phone that was a few inches away from his reach.

Batman grabs the phone off the floor before standing the boy up himself and handing it to him. " The apartment building you have been following is out of service "

" Oh, why is it still operational on Google?"

" Tch, It seems someone has failed to inform the online networks of this buildings status, which is a incompetence on their part" Robin walked up to be beside the boy.

" what's more important is why you were looking for an apartment building in the first place. You're alone as well, when someone should be there with you when you cannot see or you should at least have a cain. It is also heading to a time of night where you should not be walking outside."

" What is this an interrogation, why should I be telling you what I am doing, who even are you." The boy crosses his arms backing away slightly

" We are Batman and Robin and we are only concerned of your safety" the big bat himself States in a softer than usual for his Batman growl.

Robin looks over at him giving him a look before signing ' are you serious ' then folded his arms. Batman ignores him.

Multiple footsteps could be heard across the floor, Batman grabs a hold of the child before grappling up and away from sight. Robin does the same in a different direction.

_______________________________________________

Holy SHIT

Fenton luck strikes again because he just walked in on The Batman and fucking Robin on an investigation and he interrupted. Being held in Batman's arms he realizes that either he's tiny or Batman's huge because he's at least three times his size.

This is turning out to be one of the more fucked up situations he has ever been in. Let's hope he won't fuck up the situation even more then he already has.

(sorry for the cliffhanger I need to rest my brain a bit with writing, but here is what I've written Hope you enjoy also I saw the reblog from @athyriaceae and took it into consideration thank you for rebloging)

[ponderingpebbles]

You'd think that since I'm an emotional wreck, I'd seek out people who also feel a bit too much.

Yet most of my closest friends are some flavor of emotionally unavailable.

Either afraid of emotions, numb to them, or just not terribly expressive.

Somehow I'm still surprised when not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve.

I still love them though.

I like to hope that just maybe our contrasting ways of feeling everything around us will be to the benefit of us all.

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[dizzydaisychains]

sylus loving you quietly part 6

❀ sylus loving you quiety; pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sylus carefully adjusts the desk light as he examines the stuffing spilling out of your childhood teddy who goes by the humble name of mr.hugs. sylus sighs as he stares at the little bear’s worn out features. mr.hugs has seen better days, but it's nothing a little tender love and care can't fix. opening the drawer to the ebony desk, he takes out a little tin of sewing supplies as the critical surgery on mr.hugs begins. he sings a soft lullaby as he uses his skilful hands to bring the bear back from the dead. in a lifetime where he was born to eat souls, it brings him a quiet piece of joy to give life to things every now and then. “sylus?” “hmmm?” “are you….performing open-heart surgery on mr.hugs?” “shhh….he’s under anesthesia right now. perhaps you can hold his paw while his surgeon gives him the chance of a second life.”

❀ sylus loving you quietly; sitting on a wooden workbench, sylus moulds the clay in front of him, pinching and pressing the grey blob until it slowly shapes itself into a shallow heart-shaped dish. who knew dangerous hands like his could cradle something so delicately? the pottery instructor claps in delight as she asks sylus what the purpose of his artwork is. “it’s a dish for her earrings,” sylus explains, smiling down at his little creation. “she’s always losing them. now she can keep them somewhere safe.” 

❀ sylus loving you quietly; one sunny afternoon, he finds you snoring softly on the hammock he built for you in the garden. tutting at the pink burn marks forming on your exposed skin, he makes a fuss of quietly setting up a parasol, fiddling with its position until it perfectly shades every part of you. he can’t have you getting burnt. not on his watch, anyway. eventually when you wake up, you find his head in your lap, your floral bucket hat jammed on his silvery mop of hair as he snoozes against your warm body, mumbling in his sleep about needing to buy suncream.

❀ sylus loving you quietly; communicating with you through different mediums around the house. on the fridge, he arranges the alphabet magnets to spell out encouraging messages. other times, it’s a knock-knock joke written on a sticky note and taped to the toaster, or the vacuum cleaner. sometimes it’s drawing hearts in the foggy mirror after a shower. it’s nearly like a game of hide and seek. even when he’s not by your side, sylus is with you. he lives all around you; so long as you remember to look.

❀ sylus loving you quietly; matching miscellaneous items. it started as a joke; two toothbrushes sitting snug in a cup, balancing on the bathroom sink. then came the couple mugs with twin handles that join together to form a pair of dragon wings. two cushions on the couch, two towels hanging over the bath. it’s an abundance of pairs, and sylus finds himself picking up more and more of them as time passes and you both continue to grow together, tumbling into a love that sylus knows he’ll never tire of. 

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧

(ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ in case you want to read more:

sylus loving you quietly part 1

sylus loving you quietly part 2

sylus loving you quietly part 3

sylus loving you quietly part 4

sylus loving you quietly part 5

[puppetmaster13u]

Now Constantine deals with a lot of shit. He can deal with this, really, but the thing is, he would really rather not deal with it. He specializes in contracts and conning supernatural creatures. Like he is the guy, as the Laughing Magician, to go to to look over supernatural contracts.

Like he can in fact, canonically fight gods by manipulating luck and becoming pretty much impervious. But does he want to? Hell no! He's done this for over 80 years, but information about the Infinite Realms are scarce. He is able to do what he does because he has information. Generations of information in fact. So while he doesn't want to deal with this, he (urgh) is going to have to ask questions. Damnit.

Now Lois? Practically has stars in her eyes. Is shaking both Jimmy and Clark like they're maracas while she rambles and informs-orders them to help her get this typed up and pictures taken care of. Phantom was it, is it fine that Jimmy takes a picture? It is? Great!

The floodgates have opened and Henry is having more than a slight breakdown, while being comforted by Danny. Who has completely wrapped him in his cape and is purring, echoed by the blobs. Or most of the blobs.

The rest of the blobs? Investigating the members of the Justice League. Delighting in potentially making friends and feeling bold since Dad King is right there.

inspired by this wonderful art made by @puppetmaster13u

So, Danny, cemented king and practically father of the Blob Ghosts and certified little shit.

Has found something new to play with.

For you see, despite his various kidnappings by the GIW Danny was never aware of there being a League of Earth's mightiest heroes at all. He off-handily mentioned them to Henry, who was now genuinely jobless because even though he never got told he knew he was jobless for helping Danny escape and Henry?

Henry did not want any part of this, he's just a civilian he doesn't want to meet the Justice League of all people!

Sadly, Danny did not care at all in the slightest.

Henry was then reminded of why Danny was valued by the GIW and why he also king class ghost entity (the only other known king class was the Ghost King who they barely have any information of). Because he easily, cleared the distance between Amity Park and Metropolis.

Henry, unfortunately, was not used to traveling at such speeds and was left hanging limply in Danny's arm as everything started spinning and thinking he might puke.

Danny, being the child that he is at heart, immediately starts calling out Superman's name. Superman, predictably and unsurprisingly, hears this and comes over questioning who was calling him.

Danny decides to be even more of a little shit by speaking in ghost speak even though just earlier he called out Superman's name in clear English. Henry, the de-facto translator, is out of commission right now so Superman is really just left guessing here.

Unless, you go with the fact that Kyrptonian is a dead language, and since Superman can speak and knows Kyrptonian, Danny's ghost speak is automatically translated to Kyrptonian.

Superman is, understandably, stumped by this occurrence and he may or may not form the idea that Danny might be a Kyrptonian.

Danny then gently places Henry down on the roof, pats him on the head, tells a few blob ghosts to keep an eye on their new littlest sibling while Dad has fun.

Then he turns to Superman, with the most feral, shit eating grin on his face. Cracks his knuckles, and then tells Superman that they're going to have a fight.

He wasn't asking, and before Superman could say anything he's already been punched through the air. Not that it hurt, really, mostly took him by surprise, but now Superman is now in a fight with what may or may not be a Kryptonian.

[gojoest]

MDNI, f! reader, fingering, thigh fucking, creampie, satoru calls you pretty + my darling + my love, he cums so easily, wc: 1.1k, not proofread as always, bit messy too (i am so sleep deprived)

the fresh, tangy scent of coffee wafted through the air, momentarily distracting your senses from the smell of sex lingering on you from last night’s activities as you watched the coffee machine fill your mug. elbows resting on the counter as you waited for your drink, and a few seconds in—your nose adapted, you could once again distinguish the musk soaked into your skin.

you smelled like satoru — his cum, his sweat — lots of it in fact; but also like yourself. both of you combined and oiled all over your body, especially on your inner thighs.

you had noticed, in fact as soon as you got up and made your way to the kitchen — layers of his now dried load parched and glued onto the plush between your legs, reminding you of how many times he came inside you last night, ineluctably feeling its still somewhat sticky texture as your legs brushed against each other with every step.

a soft smile cracked your lips at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind you. it was time, you thought, he was coming to you.

satoru could never stay in bed too long without you. no matter what kind of deep slumber he were to be in, he’d always wake up shortly after were you to sneak out. i become restless when you’re not in my arms, he would say.

“morning”, you smiled but didn’t turn around. “coffee?”

“morning, pretty”. he stopped right behind you. you figured he was naked — the tip of his cock, hard and rigidly up already, was poking at the small of your back.

a hand slid under the oversized shirt you had quickly tossed on yourself, palming the bare cheeks of your ass — “i want some of that, definitely” — grabbing a handful and squeezing it inside his massive hand.

a hum dragged out of you, body jolting and back arching from the way the squishing caused one of his fingers to graze against your cunt, the tip of it almost prodding at your entrance. “i’m so hard, i can bust any moment”, his voice still low and loaded with sleep. there was something so undeniably sexy about the way he spoke to you in the mornings. drowsy, husky and lower than usual. “but i want it to be in you”

he rested his chin on your shoulder from behind, snaking his other arm around your waist to hold you still while the one between your legs worked the arousal out of you carefully. two digits rubbing against your folds, wiping the insides of your lips with the tips. you could feel a huge portion of your slick gathering at your entrance, threatening to blob on the floor any moment. but his hungry hand went for it first — he used his entire palm to wipe it off and then held it tightly pressed against your cunt for a few moments.

“s-shit”, you hissed, head falling down.

lifting the hem of your shirt you watched as his fingers peeked from in front. it was such an obscene view — your entire pussy inside his massive palm.

“can’t have you making a mess here, my darling. it’s the kitchen after all — it’s where we eat”, he pulled his hand away only to smear your slick all over his cock with a few slow strokes.

“says the man who’s fucked me on every possible surface in this very kitchen”

“almost every surface — i didn’t fuck you by the coffee machine, you see”, the smug in his voice was evident, “gotta fix that now. you just stay still and pretty the way you are”

bending his knees he lowered himself just enough to sneak his cock between the gap of your legs and brought your thighs together with his hands forcing them to clench around him. you smiled after realizing what he was up to. “can you cum from this?”, you looked at him over your shoulder.

“i can cum just by being next to you, my darling”, he breathed out a moan at the friction around his throbbing cock, pushing himself forward and effortlessly sliding across your sopping cunt all thanks to the little prep sesh from before.

“oh, f-fuck—“, satoru quivered when you took his tip poking out from in front and pressed it against your clit. “—fuck”, squeezing your thighs, bringing them more together, he settled into a rhythm of slowly drawing his hips back and forth into the slippery crevasse between your legs. “keep holding it like that… please, my love—it makes your lips kiss my cock”, he groaned through yet another slow thrust forward. the squelching noises, too, they were fucking with his brain. the vast ocean of you was right before him, yet he was only dipping his feet. regardless, it felt so fucking good.

“of course, baby”, you breathed, holding his cock flat against yourself from the underside — helping the upper side grind harder against your pussy, rubbing it on your clit each time he pushed himself forward. you couldn’t help but bite your lip as you watched his cock go in and out of the gap of your thighs swiftly.

“nghh..”, satoru moaned, his breathing now shallow as he felt the tingles at the base of his shaft. the tension rising in his groin rapidly, he wasn’t sure if he could endure a few more strokes without busting his balls out. “i’m sorry, love… don’t think i can hold it back…”, sweat dripping down his face and onto the back of your shoulder, he was desperately trying to keep his load under control as part of him was guilty that he was about to finish first.

“shh”, you hushed, rocking your hips against him to match his pace, to help him out. “you can cum, baby — do it for me”

your words were almost the end of him, but he managed to stop himself and paused his ministrations. pulling back from you slightly to spread his legs a bit more and grab a hold of his throbbing cock to guide it into your entrance and slowly slide it in.

“fuck” — he wasn’t even halfway in when all the tension in his balls suddenly released. he let out a loud groan, body slightly spasming as he shot a hot glob of his cum inside you…

extra:

“see — when i cum there is no mess”, his hands circled around your waist from behind (cock still inside you)

“that’s because you unload inside me. besides you haven’t pulled out yet”, you snorted, placing your hands over his.

“i’m not pulling out, yet”, his lips kissed the top of your head. “but i will ask of you to walk with me to the table”

“hmm, and why would i do that?”

“i am going to eat you there, for breakfast”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Flag IV

Frida Maanum x Emma Lennartsson x Child!Reader

Summary: You're hurt and scared

Your head throbs as you wake up, the pitter-patter of rain falling on your skin.

The rain is cold but your tears are hot, scorching your skin as they roll down your cheeks.

The butterfly you were chasing is missing, flown away to hide from the spring storm that you now find yourself trapped in.

You don't know how long it has been raining but you're soaked to the bone and shivering.

Two Jordans whine at you, both blurry around the edges as you sit up.

There is a sharp rock where your head was, blood being washed away as the rain gets heavier.

The Jordans whine at you again and you reach out for one of them but your hand passes right through.

"Jordi?" You ask as the second Jordan nudges you with his snout," I'm tired. Where's...Where's Mama and Mummy?"

Your eyes slip closed for a moment. It's easy to nod off even though you're very cold and your head feels icky.

Jordan barks and you jolt awake again, head throbbing.

Hot blood runs from your forehead down your face as your gaze goes blurry again, Jordan just a weird dog shaped blur.

You want Mama and Mummy. You don't know where they are.

The rain turns to snow quickly and the temperature plummets, your clothes freezing on your body.

Your breath comes out in a puff in front of you.

Jordan barks again, lightly nudging you under a little ledge. It does little to stop the cold but it keeps you out of the snow that clings and melts in your hair.

Jordan is warm against you and you shiver, little hands burying themselves into his fur.

"Mama an' Mummy," You say through cracked lips," Jordi...Where Mama an' Mummy?"

You don't remember much, not really.

You were playing in the forest with Frida earlier and she let you run ahead with Jordan a little bit, as long as you stayed in sight at all times.

There was a fork in the path. Usually, you swing right but Jordan got distracted by a butterfly and went left.

You followed after him, distracted by the butterfly too.

You'd tripped on something. You're not sure what it was, maybe an upturned root or tree branch. You'd tripped though and went tumbling down into the ditch.

You must have hit your head on that rock because your head is all sticky with blood.

"J-Jordi," You say, shivering," 'm cold. Mummy an' Mama be here soon?"

Jordan doesn't answer you, patting his front paws on the ground as you lean more heavily into him.

"'m tired too," You say," Havin' a little nap."

Your fingertips are freezing. You can barely move them as they go from their usual colour to a little purple. Your lips are the same colour but you can't see them.

"Jus' a little nap. A little one, Jordi."

Your eyes slip closed again as you lean your head against Jordan's body.

He whines a little, shifting around before he's curled fully around you.

Jordan's nice and warm like your blankets at home, when you're wedged between Mama and Mummy in front of the fire with a little mug of hot chocolate that Mummy makes special for you with whipped cream, chocolate shavings and marshmallows.

You don't know how long you nap for or even if you nap at all.

It's like one long blink as Jordan shifts away from you, barking and snarling.

You've never heard Jordan snarl before so you try to wrench your eyes open. It's hard going though, frozen shut by all your tears, but eventually, you get them open.

There's another dog shaped blur in front of Jordan, lying down on the ground nonplussed.

There's a human shape too and you puff out a big breath.

"Mama?"

"No, sweetie," The blob says," I'm not your Mama. But I'm here to take you to her. Can you come a bit closer?"

You try to get closer but you don't have much strength to get to your feet, all shaky and weak.

Jordan whines when you fall over and snaps as the strange woman comes closer.

"Easy," She says to your dog," I'm here to help her. That's a nasty cut you've got there. Can you tell me how it happened?"

"I...I hurted myself when I fell. Big ouchie."

"Yeah, it is. I've got a little bandage here, can I put it on you?"

"Bandage? Like-Like a plaster?"

"Like a big plaster."

You lean forward and the woman gently presses the gauze over your bleeding head.

"And what about your eyesight? Can you see me properly?"

"Like-Like a blob," You answer," Saw two Jordi's earlier but now only one."

"Okay, sweetheart, thanks for telling me." She reaches for her radio. "I've got her here. Skipper tracked her and her dog down. I've got a serious head wound and a likely grade three concussion. Complaints of blurry vision. Likely loss of consciousness. Difficulties with balance and speech. I've got early symptoms of hypothermia but it seemed her dog helped stave the worst of that off."

You reach out for Jordan again, who presses into your body.

"Got it, boss. Bringing her in now."

The woman reaches for you and you go willingly.

She'll take you to Mama and Mummy.

Jordan pads after you, still wary.

Emma sits at the entrance of the forest next to the ambulance. Frida sobs at her side, both of them wrapped in a blanket as they wait.

They know the paramedic has found you now, her and her dog Skipper have tracked you and Jordan down but it doesn't quell Emma's worry for you.

Not until the high-vis jacket pokes out from the forest and the search and rescue team swarm.

A blanket is wrapped around you tightly and the gauze is gently pulled away from your face to see the extent of the injury.

"Squish?" Frida calls, trying to fight through the crowd," Is she okay? Will she be alright?"

You're loaded into the ambulance, awake and talking as Emma and Frida crowd around you.

"Mama. Mummy," You say," Found me."

"Yeah," Emma says, blinking away tears," Of course we found you, squish."

You shiver. "Stayed put like you told me if I got lost. Stayed with Jordi."

Emma glances down at her feet. Jordan's covered in snow, streaks of blood drying on his fur.

"Jordi, good boy."

"The best boy."

Frida takes Emma's place talking to you, cupping your cheek as Emma reaches down for Jordan.

"You're such a good boy, Jordi," She tells him," For looking after her. The best big brother in the world."

"He almost attacked Skipper for trying to get to her," The search and rescue paramedic that found you says," He was very worried on the walk back. You've got a good one there. Both of them. She didn't run off. She stayed exactly where she fell."

"Thank you, for finding her."

"It's my job. We've got a hospital nearby that will take care of you all. They'll take her for a scan, sew up her head and put her on concussion watch. She'll be fine."

Emma can't help but repeat it again. "Thank you."

"Go," The woman says," Be with your kid."

You won't remember much of this experience. You'll never really remember the fall or the crack of your skull against the rock. You'll never really remember the nearly three hours you spent missing, huddled under the ledge with Jordan, who was desperately trying to keep you awake as your breathing got shallower and shallower and your got colder and colder.

You'll never remember the trip to the hospital but you will remember the paramedic that found you and her dog Skipper.

You will always remember her high-vis jacket and her body against yours as she carried you out of the forest back to your mothers.

You will always carry that memory with you, even when you're out in your own high-vis jacket with your own tracking dog and your own emergency medicine kit.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

sparkles in our hair

Mingyu sat at the table with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. His fingers worked carefully with the bottle of glue and the stack of colored paper. He was making a special flower for his mom's birthday.

Across the classroom, Seungkwan was dramatically narrating his own art project to anyone who would listen.

"And THIS" he announced, holding up his paper creation, "is going to be the BEST TANGERINE Mrs. Park has EVER seen in her ENTIRE teaching career!"

Jeonghan, sitting nearby, simply smiled and continued meticulously organizing his crayons by color while occasionally "borrowing" glitter from Seokmin's supply without him noticing.

"Careful with the glue," She whispered to Mingyu from across the table.

Mingyu nodded but squeezed the bottle harder. A big blob of white glue splashed onto his paper flower. His eyes went wide.

"Oops!" he said, tipping the bottle up. But it was too late. The glue was already running over the edge of his paper and… plopped right into his dark hair!

"Oh no!" Mingyu's hand flew to his head, but that only made it worse. Now his fingers were sticky too, and more of his hair was getting caught in the gooey mess.

Wonwoo looked up from his book at the next table, peering over his tiny glasses. "That's why I always keep my distance from art supplies" he mumbled, returning to his reading.

"Mingyu-ya! What did you do?" Hansol called out, his own project forgotten as he stared in fascination at the glue disaster.

Joshua, ever helpful, started walking over with wet wipes, but tripped over Soonyoung who was sprawled on the floor, making "tiger paws" with paint on construction paper.

"YAAA!" Soonyoung exclaimed as Joshua stumbled past him.

The little girl looked over at Mrs. Park, who was helping Jia with her project on the other side of the classroom. Mrs. Park had told them to raise their hands if they needed help, but Mingyu looked so worried.

"It's okay," She whispered, sliding over to his chair. "I'll help you."

She grabbed a paper towel from the art supply shelf and tried to wipe the glue from Mingyu's hair. But the paper towel stuck to the glue, and now little pieces of white tissue were tangled in his hair too!

"Is it coming out?" Mingyu asked, his voice shaky.

"Um... almost," She fibbed, not wanting him to worry.

From the corner, Seungcheol noticed their predicament and put on his serious face. "Everyone stay calm," he said, marching over importantly with his hands on his tiny hips. "As class president, I need to assess the situation."

Jun sidled up next to him, striking a pose. "Maybe it's a new hairstyle? Very avant-garde!" he said, attempting a sophisticated accent that made Chan giggle uncontrollably from the reading corner.

"I can fix it!" Jihoon declared, approaching with scissors he'd somehow procured.

"NO!" Seokmin yelled too loudly, making Mrs. Park look our way briefly before Minghao distracted her by showing off his surprisingly perfect origami crane.

She reached for more paper towels, accidentally knocking over the container of glitter Mrs. Park had set out for their special projects. A cloud of sparkly dust puffed into the air.

*achoo!*

Her sneeze sent the glitter flying everywhere—onto their table, onto their clothes, and right into the sticky glue in Mingyu's hair!

"Now your hair is full of stars!" She giggled, watching Mingyu's hair transform into a galaxy of silver and blue sparkles.

"Really?" Mingyu touched his head again, getting more glitter stuck to his fingers. He looked at his sparkly hands and started to laugh.

That's when she felt something wet on her own head. Mingyu's eyes grew even wider.

"You've got glue in your hair too!" he pointed.

She reached up and felt the sticky patch on top of her head. When she pulled her hand away, her fingers were coated with glue and glitter.

"We match!" She laughed.

Mingyu nodded, his shoulders shaking with giggles. She couldn't help it! She started laughing too. They laughed so hard that they had to hold their tummies, which only spread the glitter to their clothes.

Mrs. Park finally noticed the commotion and came hurrying over. Her mouth opened in surprise at the sight of the,, covered in glue and glitter from head to toe.

"What happened here?" she asked, hands on her hips.

Before we could answer, Seungkwan stepped forward dramatically. "Mrs. Park, I saw EVERYTHING. It was a TRAGEDY of EPIC proportions!" he explained, hands gesturing wildly.

"First the glue attacked Mingyu's hair, then—" he continued, before Jeonghan gently pulled him back.

"I think they just had a small accident" Jeonghan said with an angelic smile that made Mrs. Park immediately soften.

The rest of the boys gathered around them in a protective circle. Wonwoo adjusted his glasses. "Statistically speaking, glue-related incidents are the third most common art mishap," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I think they look AWESOME!" Soonyoung shouted, making tiger claws with his hands. "LOOK! Sparkly tigers!"

The two best friends looked at each other, then burst into fresh giggles.

"We were just—" She started.

"—making our hair pretty!" Mingyu finished.

Mrs. Park tried to look serious, but the corners of her mouth twitched up.

"Well" she said, reaching for the class camera, "I think this calls for a special award."

At the end of class, Mrs. Park presented them each with a certificate. In big letters it said "Messiest Artist Award" decorated with drawn-on glitter specks.

Mingyu's mom had to come help wash his hair in the classroom sink, and the little girl’s dad brought her a clean shirt when he picked her up. But they kept their certificates proudly displayed on their cubbies for the rest of the year.

The next day, all thirteen boys arrived with tiny dots of glitter on their hair.

"We're the Sparkle Team now!" declared Seungcheol, while Jeonghan pretended he had no idea how the glitter had mysteriously appeared on everyone's heads.

Seokmin and Seungkwan composed a "Sparkle Song" that they performed during show-and-tell, with Soonyoung creating tiger-inspired choreography. Joshua nodded along, occasionally throwing in English words like "Awesome!" and "Sparkles, bro!"

Jun strutted around like he was on a runway, while Wonwoo quietly read a book about stars and occasionally pointed out that glitter was just like "earthbound constellations." Minghao attempted to incorporate glitter into his watercolor painting with surprising artistic success.

Jihoon somehow managed to create a rhythm using glue bottles and glitter containers that had even Mrs. Park tapping her foot.

And throughout it all, Chan followed the older boys, trying to copy their glitter styles and declaring, "When I'm bigger, I'm gonna have EVEN MORE sparkles!"

And sometimes, when the sun shines through the classroom window just right, the little girl can still see tiny bits of glitter sparkling in Mingyu's hair, like a secret they share.

Sometimes the best art doesn't end up on paper at all.

Sometimes it's thirteen boys with sparkles in their hair and friendship in their hearts.

[solbaby7]

Sugar Kisses

warnings: sexual themes (not really smut but def alludes to it) , swearing, oral fixations, poor poker descriptions, idkkk i just picture cassian to be soft and flustered on the outside when he’s down bad but lowkey obsessed asf on the inside 🙂‍↕️

summary: Cassian has a sweet tooth for you and the things you do.

—

Cassian had come to the conclusion that lust was a shapeshifter.

Tonight, it seemed to favor you—setting up shop in the curves of your body and easing into the strappy little tank tops you favored and those flowy lounge pants that accentuated the curve of your ass.

Such simplicity and yet Cassian couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Utterly hypnotized—fixated solely on your mouth and the bright pink gum stuck between pearly white teeth. The slightly obnoxious chewing is soothed by the slow swipe of your tongue flattening it out, full lips parted, cheeks slightly puffing and the fruity scent blows his way when the bubble pops prematurely.

Your nose wrinkles in displeasure, tongue retrieving the remnants and tucking it back in your mouth to restart the process.

He’s hooked. Fingers digging roughly into the leathers on his thighs, worn fabric straining under the pressure but it holds strong. “Can I have another one?” Cassian hears you ask, a grin growing on your face when Azriel complies without even sparing a glance away from his cards. He pulls another from his pocket, handing it over with nothing more than a ruffle of the wrapper.

Mor huffs from her spot beside you, possessively hiding her cards as the game finally starts getting good. Her leg crosses over the other, upper body sinking further into the soft cushions when she cuts her eyes to Az and the pocket of treats he’d been steadily loading you with the whole night. “You’ve given her two already—if I have to hear her jaw smacking through this whole game, then I quit.”

Azriel breaks a smile, peeking over seven cards. “Was that a formal forfeit?”

And so it begins, that familiar banter that filled the living space once a week when the entirety of the Inner Circle gathered for family game night. It had been Azriel’s turn to pick and he always chose poker—robbing the High Lord and Lady of more gold coins than they cared to admit before deciding to sit the next round out to nurse their drinks instead.

They’re all so lax; so casual. While Cassian’s heart thudded like a bass drum against his chest, unable to stop noticing the way you were draped across the couch, taunting him with your every move. Painted fingers peel away at the faded red parchment before another bright ball of bubblegum was popped in your mouth.

It takes two whole minutes for you to smoothen everything out, all three pieces combining into one giant blob. Your cheek bulges on the side you chew on, lips sticky and tongue tinted. “That’s disgusting,” Mor whines, muttering complaints about the affects so much sugar would have on your teeth.

You take it in stride, rolling your eyes playfully as you pull your feet from her lap to move elsewhere. “Fine,” The lingering scent of your body wash fills Cassian’s nose when you plop down beside him with no regard for personal space or knowledge of the complete filth running rampant in his brain. “I’ll be disgusting over here—you don’t mind, do you Cass?”

Wide eyes framed by thick lashes peer up at him. They’re glassy, a side affect of the whiskey no doubt and an easy smile grows across his cheeks, body shifting to make room for you. “Not at all,” He answers softly, hoping that you don’t notice the way he all but shoves a pillow into his lap before your head finds a home there.

It’s not unusual. You were always the most affectionate when you were a little tipsy; five times more inclined to settle into whatever warmth you could find no matter who it came from and usually Cassian wouldn’t have minded. But you’re all sprawled out, hair fanning messily down his thigh with your neck bared and cheeks rosy.

The perfect temptation just within arms reach.

Tunnel vision takes over, golden eyes catching on the flimsy dip of your neckline. The soft fat of your breasts spilling upwards and Cassian actually finds himself jealous of the shiny gold necklace that rests between them.

“Why aren’t you playing?” Your voice pulls him from the trance, dragging his gaze back up to your eyes and a distinct warmth creeps up the back of his neck. “Usually we have to drag you away from the table.”

“Saving my luck for something more special.”

Someone more special, was more like it.

You hum in acknowledgement, finger twirling around the gum until bright pink fades into dusky hues from the strain. “Like what?” Cassian follows the hypnotic wrapping of your finger in the sweet treat, the pretty color a stark contrast to the dark polish on your fingers. Hearty laughs and soft chatter weaves a comforting symphony in the background as ice cubes melt in crystal glasses, watering down aged booze and creating a ring of condensation on the polished wood table. “Did some pretty little thing catch your eye?” You mean it as a joke and yet even after a few drinks you’re still terrifyingly attuned to Cassian’s shift in body language. His mouth clamping shut, hazel eyes drifting off to anywhere else—and maybe it was the firelight but you were certain you’d caught soft peachy tones beginning to warm his cheeks.

“Maybe.”

A flicker of emotion darkens your eye but it’s gone before Cassian can name it. “Do tell—I can keep a secret.” The same finger wrapped in pink raises to your mouth, glossy lips wrapping around until it disappears down to the knuckle.

Moisture coats his tongue, golden eyes shadowed with desire directed towards you and you alone. Maybe it’s the distraction that has the truth spewing from his mouth as if he’d injected a truth serum. “She’s—“ The crackling heat from the firelight feels slightly less comfortable now and Cassian can’t resist the way his body adjusts, hips bucking to settle better into the cushions. “Sweet.”

“That’s it?” You deadpan, the gum chewing momentarily pausing. “Come on, Cassian. I know you can give me more than that.”

It was a poor choice of words, like fuel being added to an already blazing fire. Need burns under the surface of Cassian’s skin, singing away at his self-control and his fingers itch to swipe away the strands of hair that tease at your collarbones. “She tests my self-control,” He answers vaguely, listing superficial features to mask the way honeyed eyes melt from the warmth lacing every word. “Wears my patience thin but otherwise a total dream.”

A total dream.

Your lips part to reply when Mor shouts her displeasure, throwing her hand of cards to the table while Az greedily slides his winnings to his side, shadows swiftly stacking like coins in neat piles. “You have to be cheating!”

“Come on, Mor. Don’t be a sore loser.”

Her wine sloshes over the rim of her glass, bright red seeping into a similar shade on her dress but Mor doesn’t mind a bit. Pointing an accusatory finger your way, her cheeks flush in frustration. “He cheated and you were an accomplice with that stupid gum.”

“If that’s all it takes to distract you then shuffle the deck,” You muse, making a show of blowing bubbles through your teeth and Cassian has to hide his laughter behind his knuckles when Mor flinches at the sharp sound. “I’ve been eying a pair of earrings in town— it’ll be the sweetest treat to purchase them with your money.”

“Oh, you’re on. If I win, you’re going to buy those earrings and then you’re going to give them to me.” Her heels are kicked off, the hem of her dress bunched up to make enough room for her legs to cross comfortably on the couch. “But, you have to spit that shit out first.”

With an eye roll you comply, showing off your tongue in all its stained glory. “Happy now?”

“..you swallowed it?”

“Spitters are for quitters.” Azriel spares his brother a glance, noting his fixed stare and that barely restrained clench of his jaw. The grip on the throw pillow conveniently placed in Cassian’s lap tightens, though it doesn’t hide a thing with the spicy scent of arousal tinging the air. “And, I don’t like to lose.”

Mor pauses her shuffling, eyes a little bleary and hands shaky from the alcohol. “Hm, maybe I should just forfeit before you end up conning me into giving you my apartment.”

“I do love your balcony.” You mumbled thoughtfully. “Private and with a view.” Crisp cards rustle against one another while you adjust the unruly ones and split it in two to shuffle. “The things a girl could do.”

Now you’re just being cruel, Cassian thinks. Mind wandering to the picture you’ve painted. You dressed in some skimpy silks or see-through gossamer, the winds chill cooling sweat slick skin after the rigorous physical activity the General would make you endure.

He gets stuck fantasizing about flushed cheeks and unbound hair. Lacy panties left in a messy heap on the floor and duvet sheets that reek of sex. Breakfast in bed with a sappy sunrise illuminating mouth shaped bruises along your neck while hand feeding you chopped fruit.

A fools dream. A sinners fantasy. A need that refuses to go unfulfilled.

“We doing this or not?”

Complying ends up being Mor’s downfall, with every second that passes you conjure up some new way to goad her on—adding to the stakes and then grinning like a fool when sliding the earnings over to your side. A shiny gold key dangles from one of your fingers, palms cradling a pouch of coins, a triumphant glow gracing your cheeks. “I hate you,” Mor grumbles but it only makes you laugh harder, hips shimmying in a little victory dance. “I’m going to bed.”

“Enjoy my sheets,” You tease, jubilance evident in the grin you sport as you wave her goodbye and even Azriel can’t fight a smile at the antics, your joy too contagious. “I’ll definitely be enjoying yours!”

Cassian tracks your exit, grinning to himself about the pep in your step and once you’ve finally gotten out of earshot he faces his brother. Azriel’s already looking, a knowing expression lingering in his eye as he pockets his winnings. “She can’t winnow, you know.” Cass’ brows furrow in confusion. “It’s dark out,” Az continues, tone holding a restrained amusement. “And awfully late for a female to be out travelling alone.”

“I don’t know what you—“

“Take her home, Cass.” There’s an annoying amount of smugness settling into the line of Azriel’s shoulders. It festers in his stride, steps casual and lacking any real urgency as if he wasn’t unveiling the crush his brother has had on you for years. “I know you want to—whole room fucking stinks of it.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, fuck her. Seriously, the sexual tension is making dinners unbearable.”

Az leaves him there, lips parted in what appears to be shock but Cassian identifies the feeling that emerges rather quickly.

He knows he shouldn’t haven taken it the way he does.

Like permission.

As if the locks to his cage had been picked open, iron bars creaking agape; urging Cassian forward, crooning for him to seek out what he’d fixated on during the entirety of his imprisonment.

Colorful candies and the stain they leave behind. Sticky lips, sugar kisses and coy smiles. Strappy pajamas with pretty lace trim. Dainty gold jewelry. Unbound hair and soft skin that smells of cocoa butter and comfort.

A sweet thing that Cassian’s just dying to sink his teeth into. He barely notices the way he seeks you out, body moving on autopilot; nose greedily huffing in the trail of your perfume until he sets eyes on you and the duffle bag at your feet. “Make a wrong turn, General?”

“M’not that drunk.” He hides the greedy flinch of his fingers by grabbing your things instead, just barely grazing the curve of your ankle—he thinks his hand would make the perfect chain around it. All his. Locked in place; to do with as he pleased. “Just here playing escort.”

“Only playing? Could’ve sworn you were trying your luck on something sweet.”

That makes him double-take. A brow raising as he’s frozen in place, watching the swish of your hips while you walk down the hall.

He’s certain he’s imagined it; the teasing way you’ve dangled a hot meal before a starving animal. But he can smell the sustenance, swears he can feel a hearty supper filling his maw and settling in his belly. Watches the way you peer over at him through half-lidded eyes, tongue stained red when it wets supple lips. “Hurry now, Cassie.” The strap of your shirt dips down the curve of your shoulder, lashes fluttery and flirtatious when you lean against the doorway. “Luck runs out.”

[rosewaterandivy]

at the fever pitch

summary: an incident at Hawkins Lab and a fever you can't sweat out. well, sweat out on your own at least.

pairing: s.h. x f!reader

W.C.: 3.9k

warnings: NSFW 18+MDNI, cursing, dub-con because sex pollen (hello!) , my usual brand of filth (protected p-i-v, overstimulation, switch steve & reader ig, soft!dom elements), improper lab safety

a/n: spruced up this bad boy for reasons unknown; enjoy! 💜

🎶 I got the holy rope, I felt the fever grip me when I needed it most🎶

“Well, anyone can lie back and think of England,” Eddie says, gravel crunching under his shoes as you wrench open the car door.

“As if,” you scoff, waiting for the ignition to catch. “That’s un-American pal.”

He rolls his eyes, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Apologies Princess, I’ll add myself to the Blacklist immediately.”

“The Boston Tea Party, at least,” you remedy, pulling out of Forest Hills. “The Constitutional Convention.”

“Powdered wigs.”

“See?” you say with a grin, “More patriotic. Less Henry the VIII.”

You let your arm drop from behind his seat, your skin sticky and damp with perspiration from the summer heat. It wasn’t even that hot yet; it was early summer at best. But this knowledge did nothing to quell the stifling warmth.

Flicking on the a/c, you fan yourself while waiting for a respite of cool air and take a hard turn onto the quiet suburban street.

All day there’s been a roiling in your gut, something you’d chalked up to resident boredom and hoped would be placated by a visit with Eddie. But even shooting the shit with your nearest and dearest wasn’t enough to keep it at bay.

You’d sweated through your clothes and had to change into some of his before decamping to the blessed cool of the Harrington house.

“Hey,” Eddie says, jarring you from your thoughts. “You’re looking a little…”

“I’m fine. It’s just the heat.”

His eyes assess you, quick and curious, not markedly different from his usual glance. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and you know it’s to save himself from saying anything further.

Truth be told, you’d been a little short of temper as of late. This, in addition to your newly acquired running temperature, which was not the kind of hot you were aiming for.

“Anyway,” you say, steering the conversation back toward the matter at hand. “If I’m having sex, I don’t wanna ‘lie back’ and be able to think of anything. My brain already goes hyper-drive on its own, and I am not lookin’ to introduce that into my sex life.”

“What sex life?”

“Right, okay. Because you’re knee-deep in dick right now, sure.” A scoff slips from your lips as you pull into the drive and cut the engine. “How’s that right hand treating you?”

Eddie quips back some sort of response.

Not that you’re able to discern in, mind you. And while, yes, on occasion you’ll opt for ignoring your motor mouth of a best friend in favor of say, zoning out as a shirtless Steve Harrington strolls by, or maybe in favor of contemplating the implications of string theory, what the fuck ever.

But not this time.

In fact, you’re barely able to make it out of the car before the world decides to careen sideways and Eddie, for all his good intentions, has no choice but to call for help lest he snap his spaghetti arms in two attempting to drag you into the house.

You’d think for loading up all that gear for the band he’d be more capable, but no. Gareth, on the other hand–

“Hey,” someone says from above where you’ve chosen to lay down and die. “Where’s the fire?”

You blink your eyes open momentarily, finding a blurry sort of man-shaped thing, but it’s kind of hard to tell with the sun piercing directly into your eyes. And before you can reply, your stomach flips only to land in an unholy cramp that has you spitting, “Oh goddamnit, fuck me running!”

The blob that has to be Eddie pauses to say, “That sounds difficult, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Muscles uncoiling after the searing pain has passed, you prop yourself up on an elbow to firmly say, “Once was more than enough, never again Munson.”

Steve, who has dropped into a squat somewhere near the vicinity of your face, furrows his brow. Apparently, sitting up has proven to be too much for your body, as you slip back with an audible thud onto the concrete. If you turn your head just so, you’d be able to see where his red shorts have ridden up his toned thighs.

You can feel your heart as it attempts to beat through your chest, as if it could make a mad dash outside the confines of your ribs. Steve lays a gentle hand on your forehead, mumbling something to himself as Eddie worries his lip.

“She been like this all day?”

“Yeah, the fever is new today. But she’s been acting weird since the last time she was at the Lab.”

Your head feels all fuzzy. Your body, which you were previously capable of operating, feels so heavy. And hot. Like you're a bag of bones and magma just swirling around, well not swirling at present, you’re very much getting cooked from the summer sun on Harrington’s driveway.

Speaking of—

You turn just as two arms slide beneath you, one at your knees and the other at your waist, and you’re lifted off the ground only to dive smack into Steve’s chest. Oh god, he smells so good.

“Okay Gumbo, come on,” He grunts as he stands up.

“It’s Gumby man, we’ve been over this.” Eddie corrects, and attempts to swing one of your arms to land at Steve’s shoulder, so you don’t fall bodily from his hold.

The two continue their conversation, as he carries you into the cool dark house. His deep voice radiating from his chest in a soothing vibration from where you rest your head. You could just melt right here, right now. Steve is warm and golden and everything right in the world.

There’s a sound of trampling feet as he sets you on the sofa, and to your great reluctance, turns to Dustin, his mouth tilting in slight disapproval. “You said nothing happened at the lab.”

Dustin shrugs in a teenage approximation of nonchalance. “For all intents and purposes, nothing did happen.”

Steve grimaces and sweeps his arm over to you. “Does that look like nothing to you?!”

His eyes finally land on where you’ve slumped across the couch. “Oh,” Dustin mutters, “That.”

“Explain.”

Eddie, by this point, has settled himself on the floor, his back reclined against the foot of the sofa, his fingers twining with yours as your eyes flutter close. _

“Oh shit!”

Turning toward Dustin on the abandoned sub-basement floor of Hawkins Lab, you raise a brow in curiosity. Knowing him, it’s probably something innocuous, like a spilled beaker or whatever.

Taking a step toward him, you hear a distinct crunching of glass, over his warnings of, “No, no, no! Don’t move!”

Too little, too late.

Beneath your sneakers lies a broken vial with its stopper intact. As you move to back away from the hazard, because Dustin would only freak out if something was hazardous, a soft plume of purple vapor rises through the air.

“Get your mask on,” you shout, “Now, Henderson!”

“But what about–”

“Just do it!”

You hear rather than see him get the gas mask on, and deeply regret leaving yours behind in the van earlier that day.

Even backing away, slowly and steadily as you were, was no help protecting you from an airborne chemical concoction. Tugging the bandana holding your hair back over your nose and mouth as some semblance of precaution, you reached out for Dustin’s hand as he traveled the wide berth around the toxin, and lit out of there.

Once outside, you pull the fabric off your face and inhale deeply. You check Dustin for any physical injuries and then make him do the concussion test, just in case. He gripes and grumbles the whole way through, but like hell are you bringing back an injured kid. He checks you as you turn around, searching for any offending purple stains, but finds nothing.

As you race the setting sun and leave Hawkins Lab in the rearview, if you look closely, you can see an abandoned sneaker and bandana thrown off to the side of the parking lot. Dustin, for all his prattling, seems fine as you drive with socked feet back to Harrington’s place.

He fiddles with the radio dials, surely fucking up whatever system Steve has in place, before settling on a local college station. You can feel his gaze studying you, looking for anything amiss. Hand flexing on the wheel, you swallow audibly, your sinuses filling with a distinct scent of sweat and laundry detergent— warm and clean as it sticks to your lungs.

Easing the car into the drive and stepping out of it, you twirl the keys before tossing them over to Steve. He’s talking to Dustin, and you can see his eyes flitting to and fro, doing the safety check that all of you subconsciously do after a mission. He smiles and claps the kid on the back, watching as he dashes inside.

He pockets his keys and turns to you. “You okay?” he asks, just as pollen tickles at your nostrils.

You nod, willing the sneeze away, eyes reddening with the effort.

“Y-you got something, just there.” He mimes brushing something from his lip. They’re pink and full, how had you never noticed that?

You mirror him, swiping at your nose, which somehow dislodges the pollen, and oh, fuck, here we go again.

He moves toward you and is in the middle of calling your name, right as you sneeze into Steve’s open mouth.

“Fuck, it’s inside me!”

He blinks and coughs. “Yeah,” he says, settling a hand on your shoulder and guiding you inside. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He smells like bedsheets and aftershave. Sweat and skin.

Your mouth waters. _

“It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad,” Steve mutters to himself as Dustin goes pink in embarrassment. “Not that bad? Whaddya call this then?!”

“An accident?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Oh my god,” He straightens up, arms crossed against his chest. “Surrounded by idiots everywhere I go.” Steve sends Dustin off for swabs or something, stopping mid-turn as he catches sight of your finger looped with Eddie’s.

“What’re you doing?”

Eddie stops tapping his foot against the carpet to look up at Steve. “Uh, holding hands?” He slows the normal cadence of his speech and overly enunciates, “What are you doing, Steve?”

“That’s not hand-holding,” he corrects, just as something hot and vicious settles at the base of his skull. “And don’t.” He bats Eddie’s hand away, watching as it falls limply to the floor. “What if she’s contagious or something?”

“Well, in that case,” he says, “It’s your mouth she sneezed in, man.”

Steve blinks but doesn’t balk.

Eddie cocks his head, eyes narrowed as he assesses Steve. And he wouldn’t say that he’s mad exactly, he’s never really seen Steve get mad— terrified and horrified, yes, but never quite angry. Truthfully, Eddie is glad he’s never had the pleasure; he’d dealt with enough belligerent and angry men, thanks.

Whatever Steve is doing… it’s different. He’s hovering, which isn’t exactly new for the guy, but it’s weird that he’s doing so around you. You’re not exactly friends; in fact, just the other day you were really on a tear about not having any clients for the summer ever since Steve became a self-avowed babysitter.

Eventually, Dustin returns with a q-tip and swabs your cheek. This is, of course, what wakes you up, snorting and grumbling while failing to suppress a full-body shiver. Eddie throws a blanket over you under the surveillance of Steve, who’s then pulled into the garage by Dustin.

It’s only after the door clicks shut that it dawns on him, and even then, Eddie thinks it’s better kept to himself. _

Steve leans against a worktable while Dustin checks the swab. There’s a lot of beakers and vials with an occasional crackle from the walkie. He doesn’t ask questions of what exactly Dustin gets up to in here, he’s better off not knowing.

Dustin mutters to himself as he gently swirls a glass vial.

“What is it?” He asks hesitantly, because the way you slumped against him with no argument was a little disconcerting. The two of you are not close, not even very friendly despite dealing with this Upside Down bullshit together. But when he thinks about you now, that spike of heat when he saw your finger looped with Munson’s—

“Well,” Dustin says, clearing his throat. “Her fever is going to get worse, I’d imagine.” He sets the vial down and shakes his head. “And you’re exposed too.”

Steve snorts, “Yeah, I’ll say.”

He listens dutifully to Dustin’s instructions while attempting to ignore how damn hot it is in the garage. _

All things said and done, Steve thinks he’s done pretty well. Ibuprofen, blankets, saltines, gatorade, and water. Even hefted you upstairs to one of the guest rooms while Eddie swiped his keys and promised everyone a trip to the arcade.

Kept his emotions in check once he noticed that you smelled faintly of cigarettes and weed, a familiar Metallica t-shirt adorning your form.

Eddie.

“Hey man,” he said from the base of the stairs, Steve’s keys spinning around his finger. “Wrap it before you tap it.”

“What?”

The door slams shut in reply.

So, yeah. After that, Steve left you to your own devices and was just hoping for the best. His symptoms seemed to lag a bit after yours, so he was anticipating some dizziness just as you knocked on his bedroom door.

“Steve?”

The door opens slowly, he’s half-illuminated by the dull glow from the streetlamp outside. It spills out into the hallway, bathing you in a warm light that cascades down your legs, the ragged hem of the shirt skimming across your bare thighs.

Breath stutters in his lungs. His chest is burning. His fingers seem ready to rip the door from its hinges. He watches as your body shakes, the worn fabric swaying side to side revealing a hint of your white briefs.

Correction, your soaked white briefs.

Steve swallows audibly, nostrils flaring as he picks up your scent.

Sex.

Skin and warmth and salt.

He watches idly as a bead of sweat trails down your neck to disappear beneath the torn collar of Eddie’s shirt.

Oh fuck, this is how he dies, isn’t it? Positively wrecked with no hope of release; a mallet to the back of the head would be kinder.

“Y-yeah?”

And for some godforsaken reason, his dumbass keeps breathing. The scent of you swirling through the air only to hit the back of his throat and remind him of what he can’t have.

Steve’s grip on the doorframe tightens as he attempts to steady himself.

“Are you…” Your brow furrows in concern, eyes dark and trained on him, “Are you feeling alright?”

And you don’t just smell good anymore, Steve thinks as he takes another shaky breath, you smell fucking delicious.

“I’ve, uh, been better,” he stammers out, his mind going fuzzy.

Another shiver rattles through you, and something in him just snaps.

“Hey, c’mere,” he whispers, reaching an arm out. “Lemme take care of you.”

His touch is like a brand as his fingers press against your arm and pull. Letting yourself be led forward, you throw your head back and giggle.

“Oh honey,” you sigh, lips pulled in a devilish smile, a solitary finger trailing down his chest as you back him against the wall, “But who’s going to take care of you?” _

Whatever’s between you, this infection, this thing, it’s desperate and wild. Alive and howling for respite, primal even. Steve lets himself be pinned, lets you drag your finger to the band of his shorts. Swallowing thickly as your stomach brushes against his cock, screws his eyes shut, and thinks of baseball, cold showers, those hard candies in the stupid crystal dishes as his great-aunt’s house, the smell of mothballs, golf—

But nothing works.

Because, try as he might, Steve has thought of you in this way. In passing. Somewhat. But he tries not to, because like, he should be respectful? Robin’s always harping on about feminism and choice and sexual liberation, but truthfully, Steve mostly zones out on the cut-out of Phoebe Cates and remembers that one string bikini you have with the ties on the side.

And it doesn’t help that you despise him. How your gaze is nothing but scathing toward him and yet you're smiling at everyone else. How touchy you are with Eddie, well he is your best friend, and he guesses that makes some sense. But you’ll greet Robin with a kiss on the cheek, and wolf-whistle at Nance like all the time.

He can’t make it make sense.

Because there are times when you’re softer. Like earlier today, for example. Or when you’re worried about the kids. No one worries like you and Steve worry. So much so, that everyone calls you mom to his dad and jokes about the acrimonious divorce. He let you drive his car to the Lab, and Steve never lets anyone drive the BMW unless he’s under duress.

“I’mma do you a solid, big guy.”

Your mouth is open and panting, red and wet. You’re standing in front of him dripping in need and all Steve can do is stand there, alternately flexing his hands into fists in order to keep them to himself.

“Do wh-what? You’re not—?” Steve stammers as his teeth chatter from the growing fever. The pet name that rolled so sweetly off your tongue is certainly not helping.

“I won’t make you beg,” you say, breath ghosting along his neck. “But you won’t be able to skin me from your bones by the time I’m through with you.”

If he wasn’t already concerned about passing out from all the blood rushing to his dick, he would be by now.

He calls your name softly, sweetly, and in a frenzy. He is this close to breaking down and giving in.

“Easy, easy,” you intone, hot fingers gracing muscles pulled taut.

The silent agreement between you looms like a specter. There’s a few beats of silence–heavy breaths and shuddering gasps until goosebumps break out over his skin as you blow a cool breath against the column of his throat. A ghosting of lips against your own until, “I need you Stevie,” you plead, grinding up against him, “I’m burning up.”

He opens his eyes and nods, biting back a groan in favor of crashing his lips against your own. His tongue slides against yours, sweet and heavy with promise into the cavern of your mouth. “S’okay, honey. I got you,” he says pulling away, and the endearment pulls painfully in your chest—it shouldn’t fall so easily from his mouth and scald across your skin.

His free hand snakes along the column of your spine, freeing you from your shirt as a moan slips forth. Your briefs tumble down your legs as he backs you toward the bed, his own shorts joining them. Fevered skin meets cool sheets, a shudder rolling through you both when he brushes against the slickness smeared between your thighs.

Yanking a drawer open, Steve fumbles around for a condom while you pepper kisses and bites to his neck. Frantically, he rips the foil packet open and rolls it on, one hand pressed to your bucking hips. He exhales a shaky breath, running his dick along the seam of your cunt.

“Hey, look at me.” Your command is softer, gentler than he would’ve guessed. With one hand, you tilt his face down to see where he catches against you. A roll of your hips prompts him to slide in like he was made for you. You mention as much, as you whimper and cry beneath him.

The tether inside of him snaps in a blaze of white light. The fire stokes hotter and hotter as you let out a strangled pant, “S-Steve.”

“Yeah,” he mutters against your jaw as you clench around him. “Yes.”

It would be sweet, under any other circumstance, the way your hands grip his shoulders as his name falls from your lips. Another strangled pant, “Fuck.” He blinks the spots from his vision, God. Watches as your whole body shakes.

Inside of this inferno, a small part of Steve is awake and aware– this is wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He had a plan, goddamnit.

It’s all he can do to lick your jaw, push his tongue into your mouth, and steal the breath from your lungs before the inevitable descent. He slams into you once more and your eyes screw shut, he nearly forgets how to breathe.

You’re searing hot as he thrusts upwards. All wet lips and dazed eyes, “You were made for this.” You’re delirious now, and he is too, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Your head tips backwards against his pillow, “You were made for me.”

He groans and presses one hand beneath your navel, thumb circling your clit. The sounds coming from you are unbelievable, and he prays he’ll hear them until the day he dies. It makes him even hotter as you repeat his name like a litany, like a prayer, his hips slamming into you as your eyes screw shut.

Blindly, you drag him down by the nape of his neck. He’s slippery and slick all the way down to his thighs, and he can’t help but groan into your ear, “Gonna make it good, honey. Gonna make you mine.”

And who would’ve thought it would be Steve who could pull you apart so prettily only to stitch you right back together? You can’t help but reach the peak of your desire over and over and over again as his husky voice lilts lovingly in your ear.

All the world drops dead when you come sobbing his name. _

It’s been hours and hours, and Steve has been run ragged from all the fucking. The fever, the virus, the compulsion has been sweat out. You are passed out beside him, hogging the pillow and blanket, mouth open and drooling. There is a soreness shared by you both, there is a chance Steve may have fucked his dick raw. He drips from between your thighs, a puddle of rampant desire.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Just like that, and everything feels brand new. The world has sloughed from your shoulders and it’s just the two of you in the silence of the comedown. He lifts his head from your shoulder as you blink yourself awake and kisses you softly, with more tenderness than he knew he was capable of. You hum and lean into the kiss, into him, hands winding back into his hair and splaying against his chest. You shouldn’t feel this … content. Bubbly yet exhausted, smiling as you sponge sleepy kisses along his jaw.

Steve smiles, and he knows.

It’s fairly obvious now, to him at least, that what he mistook for loathing turned out to be love.

“So,” you whisper, nails scoring down his biceps, “You gonna keep me?”

He drags you closer, all warmth and need, until there’s not an inch of space to spare. “Depends,” he says, lips brushing against yours and allows you to swallow his voice. Kisses you stupid, only to leave you desperate for more. Steve rests his head against yours, eyes dark in the fading summer light. “You gonna let me?”

And you know, as maybe you always had.

“Yeah,” you whisper, nuzzling into his chest, head nodding with the beat of his heart, “I think I will.”

Steve releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in and keeps you close.

_

[apoemaday]

Blackberry-Picking

by Seamus Heaney

Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

[pennotfound]

Part 8:

Beachside Candy Store 🍬🍭

The adventures of mini blob and pocket gogy: part one

Sunrise 🌅