#top-quality toilets

[yoshipupz]

i apologize to the Ren and Stimpy fandom for leaving you on read

Here's a picture I drew in 2 seconds of Ren and Stimpy being their usual self but with the Rio De Janeiro filter slapped on top of it

Eat this while I go cook up better food soon in the future

[emergencyplumbingil]

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon's bestselling "bitter lemon" energy drink was bottled delivery driver piss

Today (Oct 20), I'm in Charleston, WV at Charleston's Taylor Books from 12h-14h.

For a brief time this year, the bestselling "bitter lemon drink" on Amazon was "Release Energy," which consisted of the harvested urine of Amazon delivery drivers, rebottled for sale by Catfish UK prankster Oobah Butler in a stunt for a new Channel 4 doc, "The Great Amazon Heist":

https://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-great-amazon-heist

Collecting driver piss is surprisingly easy. Amazon, you see, puts its drivers on a quota that makes it impossible for them to drive safely, park conscientiously, or, indeed, fulfill their basic human biological needs. Amazon has long waged war on its employees' kidneys, marking down warehouse workers for "time off task" when they visit the toilets.

As tales of drivers pissing – and shitting! – in their vans multiplied, Amazon took decisive action. The company enacted a strict zero tolerance policy for drivers returning to the depot with bottles of piss in their vans.

That's where Butler comes in: the roads leading to Amazon delivery depots are lined with bottles of piss thrown out of delivery vans by drivers who don't want to lose their jobs, which made harvesting the raw material for "Release Energy" a straightforward matter.

Butler was worried that he wouldn't be able to list his product on Amazon because he didn't have the requisite "food and drinks licensing" certificates, so he listed his drink in Amazon's refillable pump dispenser category. But Amazon's systems detected the mismatch and automatically shifted the product into the drinks section.

Butler enlisted some confederates to place orders for his drink, and it quickly rocketed to the top of Amazon's listings for the category, which led to Amazon's recommendation engine pushing the item on people who weren't in on the gag. When these orders came in, Butler pulled the plug, but not before an Amazon rep telephoned him to pitch him turning packaging, shipping and fulfillment over to Amazon:

https://www.wired.com/story/amazon-let-its-drivers-urine-be-sold-as-an-energy-drink/

The Release Energy prank was just one stunt Butler pulled for his doc; he also went undercover at an Amazon warehouse, during a period when Amazon hired an extra 1,000 workers for its warehouses in Coventry, UK, in a successful bid to dilute pro-union sentiment in his workforce in advance of a key union vote:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/the-great-amazon-heist-oobah-butler-review

Butler's stint as an Amazon warehouse worker only lasted a couple of days, ending when Amazon recognized him and fired him.

The contrast between Amazon's ability to detect an undercover reporter and its inability to spot bottles of piss being marketed as bitter lemon energy drink says it all, really. Corporations like Amazon hire vast armies of "threat intelligence" creeps who LARP at being CIA superspies, subjecting employees and activists to intense and often illegal surveillance.

But while Amazon's defensive might is laser-focused on the threat of labor organizers and documentarians, the company can't figure out that one of its bestselling products is bottles of its tormented drivers' own urine.

In the USA, the FTC is suing Amazon for its monopolistic tactics, arguing that the company has found ways to raise prices and reduce quality by trapping manufacturers and sellers with its logistics operation, taking $0.45-$0.51 out of every dollar they earn and forcing them to raise prices at all retailers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

The Release Energy stunt shows where Amazon's priorities are. Not only did Release Energy get listed on Amazon without any quality checks, the company actually nudged it into a category where it was more likely to be consumed by a person. The only notice the company took of Release Energy was in its logistics and manufacturing department – the part of the business that extracts the monopoly rents at issue in the FTC case – which tracked Butler down in order to sell him these services.

The drivers whose piss Butler collected don't work directly for Amazon, they work for a Delivery Service Partner. These DSPs are victims of a pyramid scheme that Amazon set up. DSP operators lease vans and pay to have them skinned in Amazon livery and studded with Amazon sensors. They take out long-term leases on depots, and hire drivers who dress in Amazon uniforms. Their drivers are minutely monitored by Amazon, down to the movements of their eyeballs.

But none of this is "Amazon" – it's all run by an "entrepreneur," whom Amazon can cut loose without notice, leaving them with unfairly terminated employees, outstanding workers' comp claims, a fleet of Amazon-skinned vehicles and unbreakable facilities leases:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

Speaking to Wired, Amazon denied that it forces its drivers to piss in bottles, but Butler clearly catches a DSP dispatcher telling drivers "If you pee in a bottle and leave it [in the vehicle], you will get a point for that" – that is, the part you get punished for isn't the peeing, it's the leaving.

Amazon's defense against the FTC is that it spares no effort to keep its marketplace safe. As Amazon spokesperson James Drummond says, they use "industry-leading tools to prevent genuinely unsafe products being listed." But the only industry-leading tools in evidence are tools to bust unions and screw suppliers.

In her landmark Yale Law Review paper, "Amazon's Antitrust Paradox," FTC Chair Lina Khan makes a brilliant argument that Amazon's alleged benefits to "consumers" are temporary at best, illusory at worst:

https://www.yalelawjournal.org/note/amazons-antitrust-paradox

In Butler's documentary, Khan's hypothesis is thoroughly validated: here's a company extracting hundreds of billions from merchants who raise prices to compensate, and those monopoly rents are "invested" in union-busting and countermeasures against investigative journalists, while the tools to keep you from accidentally getting a bottle of piss in the mail are laughably primitive.

Truly, Amazon is the apex predator of the platform era:

https://pluralistic.net/ApexPredator

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[vaspider]

Aight y'all. Here's a lesson I learned from my wife, and I wish I'd learned it years ago:

Before you buy anything, take 5 minutes to search (preferably with a non-Google search engine like DuckDuckGo) "best [whatever] for [specific purpose if necessary]."

Make sure you look at who the reviews are from; there are a lot of bad spam sites out there, but you can find good lists on reputable sites. However, you'll get some of the best lists on Reddit.

Most of what you'll find at the top of the lists on Amazon (and Walmart) are people who have paid for that spot. You'll still have to use discernment to make sure you're picking a good review site, but I'm not kidding when i say that the last time we had to buy a plunger, I ended up on a thread on a plumber's forum where they were discussing which plunger they keep in their own bathroom. (The overwhelming winner was something called a Toilet Saber, and... it's much easier to use than the usual style of plunger, actually.)

She searches "best potato peeler" and "best pastry blender" and "best standing desk" and it seems so obvious, right, but she does it for literally everything and the average quality of things I own has gone way, way up since I started taking 5 minutes to search "best yoga socks" and "best cuticle trimmers" and then going to buy whatever it is.

Her research skills go into overdrive when it comes to big purchases; she's the one who researched our sublimation printer and found the desk I currently use. If there's an extremely passionate subreddit out there about the thing she wants to buy, she'll find it and then read half a dozen reviews.

I cannot stress enough how much she does this. About. Everything. And how much everything we own is better as a result.

It's amazing, honestly.

[nouearth]

a sticky situation.

peter parker x male reader.

summary: peter has a major crush on his roommate: you. everything unravels when he walks in on you changing.

wc: 4.1k. genre: smut. warnings: holland!peter, sub!top peter, voyeur!peter, college!au, dry-humping, grinding, frotting, handjobs, kissing, peter's first time, dubcon, cumplay, peter and reader are shooters, characters are aged up!

a bite of the cold air shuddered your damp and nude body once you stepped out of the bathroom, cataloguing the tidiness of your shared bedroom after. your shoulders tensed when the heated air and cold draft clashed for an estate of your body. but by the way your muscles eased into the green towel around your waist, you’ve figured which side won the war. a warm cheer to victory buzzed in your head.

god, did i luck out with peter… 

you found yourself repeating that observation often these days. it’s only been two months into the semester, but you’ve already concluded that peter was leagues better than your previous roommate. though, the bar was low—he was kind of a homophobe. that guy was a walking proof of evidence that opposites, in fact, do not attract.

on the other hand, peter had proven that similar interests and personalities were the foundation of beautiful, growing relationships: both platonically and romantically. still, relationships were never that black and white—a grey area. a theory that will forever be tested on, only for the outcome to come out vaguer than before, you’ve realized.

peter was like you: friendly, smart, awkward at times, funny to some. you and him basically have the same qualities of a dog, but there was more to it. 

you both shared the same liking down to the genre of video games, the magic of fantasy novels, the cleanliness of a room, the color-coded organization of study notes, and more. 

from there, the similar line of characteristics began to blur. whereas you’d prefer to learn from experience, peter liked playing by the book—sticking to it if he could. peter liked red, you liked blue. he favored savory snacks, you devoured them, but preferred sweet drinks.

opposites attract—the theory was once again, broad in your honor.

difference and similarities aside, you were lucky to have peter in your life. the bedroom was colder before you went to shower, but now it blossomed with a gentle heat.

he knew you hated the cold after a warm shower.

taking the other towel, you dried off the rest of your body while you checked your phone for notifications: a missed call from a friend and a few emails regarding construction around the building you had your classes in.

seriously? still? it’s been almost a year already…

normally, you wouldn’t have walked into the bedroom like this, baring skin and all. but peter went to get food because you both have become familiarized with what they served as food at parties.

note to self: you cannot get full off alcoholic beverages. you and peter both tried two parties ago, and it ended with you two sharing the toilet bowl, detoxing your insides of that liquid poison the entire night. the only enjoyment that resulted from that night was learning that peter was a drunk-crier, and you, a drunk-dancer. your friendship had only leveled up since.

you slid on your white briefs once you dried off before shuffling to the other side of the room, browsing through your shared closet aimlessly: he took the left side, you took the right. it was always dim at those parties, so a nice outfit would be wasted. also, you somehow became a magnet for other people’s misfortunes. it took hours to get rid of the smell of this one girl’s vomit—you threw it out in the end. 

“no, no… it’s going to be cold later…” you cycled through your clothes again, sighing when nothing caught your eye. “guess i can wear this aga-“

“hey!” out of nowhere, peter’s voice sprung out from the side of the room, followed by a quiet thud, and you twisted your bare body towards the source out of fright.

“jesus, you scared me.” the closet door blocked your view of peter, and vice versa, but you presumed he was leaning against the frame—a habit you noted. “i didn’t even hear you come back.”

“sorry- what was i saying..? oh!” his shadow loomed between you and him, growing as he stepped closer to the closet. “did you want to eat now or-“

judging from the volume of his voice, you should’ve expected how close peter was when you shut the closet. “fuck!” you jumped back, eyes widening when he was practically chest to chest with you. “dude, you really gotta stop doing that.”

on a daily basis, you always looked up at him, but you never paid it much thought to how much taller he was. 

“sorry! guess everyone’s a little antsy with the- oh.” he paused.

“what?” you curiously looked up at him, catching sight of his wandering gaze. you were quick enough to follow it, flickering between glimpses of your bare body and face several times like a tennis ball. somehow, you didn’t puzzle the pieces between his shock and your curiosity until he backed away, skittish in nature.

you were in your underwear. still in your underwear. the barrier was the captor of your embarrassment, heat rosed your cheeks as you stood frozen. and with it, the barrier was also your savior.

 “oh- OH!” the size of your eyes matched his and upon realizing he’s been staring for far too long, peter cowered his gaze to the side, a gentlemanly hand blocking his sight as he further backed to the door frame, then blindly bumped his shoulder into the door. “i’m so sorry-“ 

“no, no! i should’ve knocked. i-“ he groaned out, pacifying the sting to his shoulder with his palm. “that was stupid of me, i’m gonna-“

that was another similarity that you both valued: privacy. 

before you could reply, he scattered off. for a moment, you felt hot in the face, in the neck, even on your chest. but it would only take a few more seconds for your skin to cool, comforted by the fact that you could’ve shown more—you didn’t.

when peter scrambled out of the room, his gaze fixated on the ground, to the stripes of his socks as they shuffled to the kitchen. 

but he never made it very far, because he was easily persuaded. either by his hormones, by the shape of your body, or by his closeted feelings about you. in the end, it didn’t matter because a tightening feeling conjured him back to his original spot—it was always going to be about you. 

he was silent in his footsteps, treading backwards to the bedroom as his throat ran dry—heartbeat equally.

tonight. i should do it tonight. are my feelings that obvious? god, i hope not. wait, no- they are! they gotta be… who the fuck wipes marshmallow off of your roommate’s lips and calls them cute?!

peter does.

as his thoughts ran rampant, clouded his regularly murky mind, you were in his line of sight, perfectly captured in the middle of his gaze—now stilled—awe-strucked while he watched you change. 

quick portraits of your thick thighs and calves came and went before they were completely masked by the slide of your shorts. then your stomach and chest; pliant, moist skin that layered over the contours of your body before being covered by a tee. he exhaled, then inhaled, smelling the scent of your shampoo and body wash, and he was delighted because you own that scent.

enraptured because only peter could have his senses triggered by you on a daily basis.

if peter could frame this moment, it would be an expensive endeavor that would sacrifice all the money in the world to find the most perfect materials that complemented your textured skin. your smooth body. your handsome face. 

you. that was all he wanted. 

peter had been trapped since the day he saw you unpacking your things into the dorm. sweaty from the sun, and you knew that, because you refused to shake hands with him until you insisted on washing up first. he wished you never did—your thighs looked better sweating under those shorts.

he’s had crushes before. one in middle school, three in high school. but they amounted to nothing, he never had the confidence. rather, he preferred isolating himself and admiring from afar. rejections had already been predicted, and he was used to the feeling of defeat. if someone were to accept his advances one day, then that would lead to a disruption of events—a catastrophic end to humanity—he joked.

you were different to peter. he loved how, for once, he didn’t have to be the one initiating conversation. he also loved how you didn’t use him for answers because instead, you would help him out with his assignments.

oh, is that professor warren’s class? I think i still have the textbook for her class… let me look. 

even when it would only take five minutes to grab a drink down the street, you still invited him. not out of pity like everybody once did, but because he was your friend. parties have never been your thing, but you accompanied them with him because it made him feel better—to know someone.

maybe since he’s grown more mature since then, but now that he was off on his own, it was up to him to predict his future. it was an advice you gave him one night, and he’s kept that close to his heart since then.  not the hate that had inflicted his mind, not his peers telling he wasn’t good enough for someone—but him.  

in his imaginary world, peter could feel the walls shake when he was around you. the buildings would then fall apart, the earth would scorch civilians and planetary life with heat, and the thundering rain would only make it worse. it was a morbid image. yet, if it meant that you truly liked him, then…

aliens, come do your thing. we insist upon an invasion!

peter wanted you. point, blank, period. it wasn’t his preferred way to confess, but intense sentiments of like, love, lust—all at the same time—ate him up on the inside, and he was scared of being devoid of feelings for you.

“i want… you,” peter muttered, and you jolted again, turning back around in case you misheard him. you were bewildered at the sight of him. once again, you didn’t hear his footsteps.

“what?” you shuffled nervously on your feet. the tension in the air was thick and hot now with the way he stared back at you, frightened yet assured.

“i want you.” there was credence in peter’s tone, and he neared to the door now. 

your eyes narrowed into the deep abyss of peter’s eyes as you sat on the foot of your bed, putting on socks. somewhere in your endeavors, you found a flicker of that familiar joke. “ha. ha. very funny,” you muttered bitterly.

it haunted you. as soon as you came out, you were taunted by those same exact words by your ‘friends,’ by your previous roommate. what made you different from them became a simple reason to cease empathy and kindness, and you were baffled that this was happening again.

maybe peter was like the others after all.

you avoided peter’s gaze in favor of the floor, the legs of your desk, your rug—anywhere but him—and you could feel the color drain out of your face, out of this room—deja vu. “look, i know it’s funny to you because i like guys and for whatever reason, straight guys like to flirt with gay men to get a reaction out of us,” 

the rug cushioned the weight of a familiar pair of feet, and you looked up, a great frown etched in your face when your eyes met peter’s. he towered over you, bewildered. “but it makes me uncomfortable. and it’s not funny to-“

he didn’t know what roused him. the pain in your voice made him want to apologize without any resort to excuses. the pout on your lips made him want to cradle your head, yet kiss you at the same time. the growing tent in his pants made him want to pin you to your bed, and simply ravish you.

it was all a blur. 

his impulsive thoughts became a reality once he stole the remaining words left in your distress, and clumsily swallowed them with a kiss. you didn’t have time to process his lips on yours because you were then pushed onto your back, stilted and surprised, as peter applied his weight on top of yours—his broader build shadowed you in welfare.

“pete-“ you groaned into the hot, breathy kiss, and despite the light attempts to push him away, you were compelled to return the wet exchange. breathlessly, you repeated, “stop, this isn’t funny-“ he kissed you again. all this time, you could’ve had him, but you deluded yourself into thinking otherwise. 

“i’m not laughing,” peter muttered, and his hips began moving into yours, aimlessly trying to alleviate the stiffness in his pants. “i want you.” his voice lowered—no longer a confession, but a demand. he rocked into you harder once he felt you throb under those tight short, and you slipped out a moan, memorizing the beat of peter that pulsated against you.

you remembered him being bashful when you two talked about your firsts. you weren’t completely inexperienced like he was, but you mentioned that it’s been a while since you’ve done anything remotely intimate. school was your focus, a relationship was your reward.

“peter,” you repeated again, he wasn’t listening. “peter.” he whispered a demand; to keep calling his name, and you couldn’t help but quietly chuckle at the cliché line often heard in soft porn.

then, you cupped your hands around his temples to pull him away. he gazed into you with ardent hunger, almost annoyed that you ruined the trail of kisses he began leaving on your neck. “did you drink without me? because if you did, then i don’t think we should-“

“i didn’t,” he sobered on the softness of your lips, and like a flip switch, he snapped out of his fictional world of you. “fuck- i’m so sorry, i didn’t even ask you if you wanted to- fuck, i even forgot to say that i like you.” he ranted to himself, beginning to pull himself away. “this was not how it was supposed to go.”

infatuation had expanded into something beyond your control, and your feelings for him ignited even more. a wick bursted into powerful flames, and it warmed your body knowing that you two shared the same sentiment.

before he completely peeled himself off your body, you pulled him down by the neck, then pressed your nose to his, grinning. “I like you too.” a peck to the tip of his nose, then the center of his lips. your onslaught of fleeting kisses to his skin drowned him, pacifying every muscle in his body until it became jelly, and also making it all the more easier to roll him under you. 

“not exactly how i imagined my first date with you, but,” you straddled his lap, roaming your hands around peter’s chest, an asset of his you’ve frequently daydreamed about. “you sure?”

the applied pressures to your waist, then bottom should’ve been a definite measure of his answer, but he smiled up at you, guiding a steady pace of your hips to his groin. he was easily distracted, suddenly cascading his other palm up your shirt then down to finally feel the bare skin he had spent long showers jerking off to. fantasies had now been served onto a platter before him, and peter planned on devouring you, piece by piece. “please.”

“must have had a lot on your mind if you couldn’t even confess to me.” it was unusual to see him like this—absolutely enthralled by your presence, high off of it. aching for more of you with the way he pushed his groin into you. “how long have you been thinking about this?” being unusual always had negative connotations to it. 

you pressed into him harder, rubbing at his print with gallant grinds. not in this moment. 

he moaned, “far too long…” then fumbled with the waistband of your shorts before doing the same with the zipper. “you’ve been driving me crazy, especially these days.” it was a simple task, a daily labor that peter was great at, but his hands shook when his finger met metal. you chuckled, and placed a comforting hand to his cheek, stroking the soft skin with the amplest caress. 

take your time. i’m not going anywhere.

“mind sharing what you thought about then?” the only time you peel yourself away from peter’s groin was to help him slide your shorts off, then his jeans. peter lifted his hips, and you two were joined together again. aching together. “just curious.” you joked by pulsating your bulge, and he shyly laughed when he saw the restrictive twitch. 

felt it.

“well... where do i start?” peter’s warm hand rested on your inner thigh, dangerously close to your erection while delicately exploring your soft skin. “there’s been so many times where i just wanted to…” he was too ashamed to finish his sentence, looking away.

“wanted to…?” your body arced over his, placing a persuading kiss to his cheek, then neck. “what was it?” they lingered, sunk deep into his skin with the utmost affection, and he left the deepest, pleasurable sighs as if you withdrew it from him. you commenced his dilemma. “tell me what you thought when you first saw me. saw that i was your roommate.”

 “i...” peter began, and you could tell his nerves got the best of him, so you rocked into him again, begged with your hips. the position made it easier to feel all of him, press into his warmth more, and you couldn’t stop. wouldn’t. “i didn’t know what to feel. i was happy, that i had someone as kind as you…” you gleefully hummed, agreeing as you continued leaving kisses to his neck.

“then i was nervous, because you were so… cute. handsome. beautiful.” he moaned when you began to grind in slow, deep strides. your bulges squeezed and pushed one another, peter did the same, growing impossibly bigger against you. “but when i saw you in those shorts, sweating because move-in day was always on a hot day…”

“yeah?” you beckoned him to finish his sentence because you were closing your eyes now, remembering that very moment because you felt the same. the way peter’s chest, his muscles, were broad and stunning under his own layer of sweat, under his loose shirt, under that naivety that you would never have dreamed to think of him as such a…

“i just wanted to fuck you.”

pervert.

the shy smile he gave you messed with your perception of him. clearly, you’ve underestimated him all this time, and you kissed him again. “so, you only thought about pleasuring yourself.”

he quickly broke the kiss to defend himself. “wait, no! t-that’s not what i meant.”

“peter, relax.” your laugh calmly settled into a comforting smile, and you blindly reached down to his thick print, feeling and squeezing at whatever you can because you were desperate to explore him. “i’m joking.” his chest rose.

for the remainder of time, you spent it stroking peter through his underwear. dryly to his frustration, but he never told you because he wanted to experience you in every way. his lips never left yours, only parted to moan into your mouth when you shoved your hand into his briefs to sate your desire to feel him bare.

peter was big in your small hand. the weight felt suffocating to your palm when you grabbed ahold of his sack, fondling his balls, then stroking his cock again, and you were intoxicated in the way he melted under you, looked into you, begged for you to go faster. 

you did. who wouldn’t when he gazed at you with the most puppy-like eyes?

he had complete control of you now, because every action, every stroke, from then on had been a journey to his personal paradise. you didn’t care that you were left abandoned, that you were aching harder than he was. watching him was more than adequate.

both pairs of briefs and shirts have been tossed to the side now, and you maintained your straddle. it was riveting to watch how much bigger peter was when you took both of your cocks together and stroked. he practically enveloped you with the weight of his length, the girth of his shaft, and you wallowed in the fact that he was incredibly bashful about it. 

peter’s hand never left your body. he charmed you by his neediness. it was clumsy in execution, but he always squeezed a moan out of you with he felt your ass, your chest, your nipples, your thighs. “fuck, pete.”

everything about you was beautiful, incredibly more so when you caved into him as he dealt kisses to your bare skin and took his own turn at jerking the both of you off.

he was eager. delirious. hard, stiffening hard, against you, and you felt every vein pulsate the harder— the faster—he squeezed and stroked. you leaned back, hands planted to the mattress beneath you, then maneuvered your hips to the rhythm of his fist. you found a pace while peter kept you steady, and fucked into his fist, against his wet cock, sliming your dripping pre-cum together with the utmost fervor. 

“wait, (m/n),” he hiccuped, and his hold on you tightened, nails dug into your left waist but you ignored his plea, fucking steadily into his fist. “stop, i’m going to-“ they fell on deaf ears, and mouth agape, peter watched you with incredulity. you can feel his body flex, your balls smushed to his when you grinned up, your pre-cum sticking to his, his to yours, like a sick web. “s-stop, oh god.”

and peter unraveled before you with a guttural moan, finishing the rest of his plea with a blasting of thick and creamy ropes to his chest, like a cannon. the force was strong enough to have a few shots land on his face, then his hair, and then somewhere above because peter was a big shooter—a strong one, you’d passionately testify. “f-fuck, i didn’t mean to cum so-“

“holy shit.” you watched peter in all his glory, then in his embarrassment, while stilted on his lap and sweating, not taking notice of the delay of your climax because it crept up on you quick. a rocket broke the cloud in your thoughts with a boom, and you spilled all over him, shooting like fireworks. “shit!”

peter was your canvas, and it was your duty to paint him. debris of sex splattered everywhere, because you somehow found the strength to continue fucking yourself into the cream of fist, unloading and unloading onto him until you were dry, heaving and dripping.  

“fuck- I didn’t mean to ruin your sheets-” he mumbled, a blush stained his cheeks, and you joined in the warmth with a kiss, panting.

“where’s the fun in all of this if you aren’t going to stain at least one thing.” your brows raised at the wet stain on the wall above peter’s head, right below your wall-shelf, and peter’s gazed followed. 

he groaned, distressed by the evident he made. “fuck, sorry…” his bashfulness only endeared you even more. 

“it’s okay,” you hopped off his lap, stretching your arms into the air. “i’ll clean you up.”

“okay,” peter lay still, his hand cautiously held over his stomach to catch the drips of his cum and yours. it was fascinating to watch the mixture flow together, strands of it melding and un-webbing as he played with the sticky residue. it was the scientist in him. “my towel is on the- fuck-“

without a beat, you took his dripping flaccid cock into your mouth, sucking off any remnants of spunk. an unfamiliar taste you weren’t used to, bitter and salty. it wasn’t until you noticed how peter’s eyes glazed over you, half-lidded because he was in heaven now, that you found the taste of him delectable. peter’s caution for staining your bed sheets was disregarded, because he knew you’d clean the rest of him off. 

after you pulled away with a soft pop, he traced your wet lips with the cum on his fingers, then his knuckles, before he pushed one by one into your mouth. one finger at first, then two, then three, you moaned erotically around his digits as peter pumped, marveling in the eagerness of your mouth. he slowly pushed more cum into your mouth. the creamy residue gathered at the corner of your mouth at first but he made sure to scoop it back in, and continued doing so until he was polished clean. 

nothing was wasted. 

the taste of you and him spread in the warmth of your tongue, and you have never felt more intoxicated.

to peter, you have never looked more beautiful.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Looking for quality homes that are under $500K brings nothing but garbage, mostly, but every once in awhile I come across a gem. If you like your mid-century modern homes, big, original and wild, this 1977 beauty in Monett, MO is incredible. 5bds, 5ba, $429,900.

The ornate front door has nothing on the original sculpted orange rug. And, check this out- you enter on the upper level.

As soon as you enter, the floor is open and you're looking down at the conversation pit. Note the mural on the far wall.

Check out the giant chandelier and the 2-story stone fireplace. Is this incredible or what?

The stairs are immediately to the left of the front door. Note the custom made curtains for the rounded windows in the front.

The view from downstairs.

Thick pine cabinetry is sturdy.

Big island with a butcher block top and cook top. It has a nice hood, but it needs a re-spray.

There's a built-in desk, too.

Very large dining room open to the conversation area.

So, that's the lower level. We'll take these other stairs back up.

And, here we are in a very interestingly-shaped bedroom. The carpeting in this house is crazy.

It's the primary bedroom- there are built-ins that include a desk, and 2 steps up is a large stone fireplace and open bathroom.

A sunken black tub surrounded by red carpet and a half wall separating a cool black toilet.

Next to the fireplace there's a large cabinet with 2 black sinks.

And, mirrored doors that open to a walk-in closet.

The next bedroom was a child's room.

The bath across the hall also has a huge cabinet and double sinks.

This green bedroom has a cool original lime green en-suite.

Spiral stairs take us down to the huge basement rec room.

It has a stone fireplace and a kitchen.

Then in this room, there's a bar and guest bathroom.

Large laundry room with a counter could be a craft room or workroom.

There's a stone patio outside.

And, a rooftop deck on the 2-car garage.

There's also a beautiful yard w/a tennis court.

1.29 Acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/423-N-Belaire-St-Monett-MO-65708/126120067_zpid/

[luveline]

Hi jade! I’ve been so enjoying your shy!reader fridays. if you are down for another req- Eddie and reader are at a party and she gets overstimulated/overwhelmed from the noise and he takes care of her someplace quiet? 🥺

hi, thank you for requesting!! I really think Eddie would give the best hugs when you're feeling down ♡ —Eddie reassures you after things get too much at a party. fluff, hurt/comfort. fem!reader, 1.6k

Sticky floor, cigarette smoke in the air. Every step you take pulls and every breath is sharp. Eddie smokes a cigarette by the open back door but there's no need, tens of hands hosting cigarettes held aloft across the room. The music is loud enough to cover the sound of dragging inhales, embers burning like little red lanterns in the dim light. 

Someone smashes a bottle across the room. There's a raucous round of applause, to which the smashee bends at the waist for a low rolling bow. You want to smile at the joke but your ears are ringing, this odd feeling like a humming between your ears too much to deal with. You wore shoes that were tight at the toes because you wanted to wear the jeans Eddie likes and they were the only shoes that looked good, and that thought process alone had been exhausting, the hot stress of taking off and putting on in a rush. 

When Eddie picked you up, he said, Hey, you look frazzled, babe. Which wasn't really the reaction you wanted. Not his fault. Not great either way. 

Eddie meets your eye over the shoulder of some Jean jacket talking to him and gives you a send help sort of look. You laugh for show, awkward being so far away from him, probably on the brink of a mini meltdown. You need to not be in this room for a minute. 

Your shoes hurt and stick to the floor as you stand. You cringe across the living room through a game of poker with Magic cards for chips, taking a right down the hall away from the noise to the front door. Morose, you pass it and climb the stairs. There's a blissfully empty bathroom waiting for you at the top. 

You close the door and breathe a sigh of relief. You feel nauseous, like you need to lay down, but you settle for resting your weight on the cold porcelain of the sink basin, hands braced, flinching as the sink touches the small of your back. You're fed up with hot and cold and loud and sticky and messy. 

Tracing the nooks and crannies of the bathroom, you wonder if it would be rude to smell their shower gels or rifle through the medicine cabinet. Definitely rude, you decide, but perhaps a necessary evil. You need a distraction or something. What you really want is to open the window and bail out now before you catch fire, but you don't trust your legs to not break. 

A knock sounds against the door. 

You cover your face in your hands, allowing yourself the drama of it as your favourite voice speaks, "Y/N? You in there?" 

Eddie's voice is rough tonight from the smokes, and it tends to hover low when he's relaxed. There's a gritty quality to it that gives you shivers when he uses it against your skin, similar in a way to his hands. Callused, bitten nails, hard ridges of bones, but always gentle when they touch you. Or, usually. He's a stickler for rough-housing. 

You wait too long to answer and panic. You could flush the toilet and feign calm, but then it drags too long, and Eddie says, "Hello?" 

"Yeah," you say, hating yourself desperately for sounding strangled. You push down the handle and open the door. 

Eddie stands in the slit of the door with a smile. He's always smiling when he sees you like you're something worth smiling about. It doesn't make much sense, but Eddie Munson doesn't make sense. Black clothes with rips and chains and beads, on his torso a bleach stained mess that was once a Metallica tour shirt, his legs a pair of jeans he had to sew back together when the side seam on his thigh split. You professed to liking that look, to his delight, and he promised to show you his thighs more often after that. One of the bracelets you made him months ago hangs from his wrist, too big, the embroidery thread you'd twisted into wonky hearts a sodden grey colour from his refusal to take it off in the shower. 

"What are we doing in here?" he asks, raising a dark eyebrow. 

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

Eddie gives a performative look behind you and, upon seeing no suitors nor snacks, shrugs. "Whole lot of nothing, by the look. Where's your boyfriend?" 

You squint at him playfully, "Off bothering some poor lark, I'm sure." 

Eddie eases the door open to step into the bathroom with you. He sniffs unhappily at the strong bleach smell but quickly loses whatever qualm he has when his hands find your waist. "Don't call my girl a lark. What's that even mean?"

He kisses you with little fanfare in place of Hello. "You okay?" he asks, his hand sliding between the layers of your shirt and your jacket. It moves like it has a mind of its own, roving and rolling against the slope of your back. "I looked away for five seconds to stub out my smoke and you were gone. Kind of sick." 

"Sorry," you say, "wanted to loot Ben's grandma. She has a treasure trove of pound cream in there that's gotta be worth like, sixty dollars." 

"I don't believe for a second you looked in their medicine cabinet," Eddie says, though he untangles his arms from your waist to look anyway. The only thing in the cabinet is an extra tube of toothpaste under a layer of dust.  "You liar." 

"I know. I just wanted some quiet." 

Eddie closes the cabinet, arm braced against the side of it as he sets his concern on you. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… it was loud, and the smoke was getting in my eyes, and… Sorry, I know that's dumb." 

His head dips slightly toward one shoulder. "That's not dumb. You get overwhelmed a lot." He gestures to you with his hand, the flat surface of a silver ring skating across the back of your arm where you've brought them to your stomach. "I don't care. Like, it doesn't matter, I didn't mean it like that." 

"I don't mean to," you say quietly. 

"Baby. Baby, I know," he says. 

He opens his hands and offers them, giving you the option of more or less touch. You give him your hand, and while you aren't sure at first that you want it, his squeezing hold helps release some of the cruel tension twisted between your shoulders. 

"It's loud, huh?" you ask, the floor beneath your feet vibrating in time to the drums. 

"It's really loud. It's a lot." His thumb smooths over the back of your hand, more love in that one touch than some people have shown you your whole life. Eddie's always been like this, even when you weren't dating, dropping love at your feet like it didn't cost a thing. "You can come over, you know? Even if I look like I'm doing something I'm just waiting for you to come over. If you're not feeling it, I wanna be the first to know." 

"I don't think I'm feeling it," you admit. 

"You want a hug?" he asks. 

You hug in the same way, hands vying for the other's waist, though his arms go over yours. You rest your cheek in the curve of his neck and breathe in a relieved sigh, his smell washing over you in a rosemary wave. He wears this rosemary and patchouli cologne religiously like Hendrix did. If it's good enough for him, he says. Eddie likes to spritz you with it if you're standing close enough to share the magic. 

"You smell nice," you murmur.

"It's not too much, is it?" he asks, putting his head on yours.

"No. It's nice." 

"Try to relax," he says, fingers massaging gently into the dip of your back like he can feel the tension. "We'll leave in a bit. I don't wanna drag you back into the pit if you're not feeling up to it today." 

"I wore my bad shoes." 

"I thought you did," he says. He rubs his nose into your forehead. "Why would you do that? You know they don't fit." 

"Look nice with the jeans." 

"I do love the jeans," Eddie confesses. 

"I know you do." 

"Oh, yeah? Don't tell me you wore your nice jeans for lil ole me. Sweetheart, I'm flattered." 

You pinch him in warning. 

He drops the salacious act in favour of a softer hug, holding his breath for a handful of long, languid seconds. "Aw, I love you," he says on the exhale. "You'll feel better in a minute, I promise. Soon as we get out of here, you can take your shoes off in the van and we'll go get dive bar curly fries to eat in silence." 

"That sounds amazing," you say sheepishly. 

Eddie encourages your head back to kiss the tip of your nose. "I know. I know you, babe. But I can't read your mind, so you need to tell me when you're overwhelmed. I can help you deal with it." 

"Love you," you murmur. 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb before both hands move down. He dusts off your shoulders, straightening your jacket. 

"Ready to get out of here?" he asks.

You mirror his genial smile as he takes your hand to lead you back downstairs. 

[meizze-art]

SEBASTIAN SALLOW'S FELDCROFT HOUSE TOUR

These screens could be useful for HL Fic Writers' and Artists' inspiration / fantasies 😉

GENERAL:

- Right: Kitchen

- Left: Bedroom, Bath/Potions and Library Area

- Front: Living room (those hanging pots on the ceiling are lovely)

KITCHEN:

They have a fire pit on the left and keep all cooking pots in that open counter on the right. They also have some barrels and a cabinet to store some plates, cutlery, cloths and a tea set.

LIVING ROOM:

There's a RUM BUTTER jar and pints in the living room cabinet 😜

BEDROOM:

I guess Anne's bed is the green one because she has a shelf on top with her meds/potions and some books ( for some reason, the bottle hidden behind is actually a good quality whisky! 👀)

BATH / POTIONS AREA:

Here is the bathtub beneath the table and some potion shelves.

BOOKCASE / DOCUMENTS AREA:

They also have a humble library. I don't know why they keep some horns on that counter though...

HALL / WAY OUT / WC? 🥲:

(their toilet area must be outside among some bushes?)

[smellslikechahnspirit]

Can you pwetty pwease write a fanfic where reader finds out they are pregnant but is scared to tell Chan???????? And but like, Felix helps bc it’s taking a toll on them and it’s really stressful

Oh. And they find out it’s triplets later on?

Hah…

Pwetty pwease with a poinapple on top?

Itd be good for the economy 👆

Chaos - part 1

[You found out you're pregnant, but are too scared to tell him]

BangChan x Reader

🕸🤍 read guide lines in Masterlist!

THIS IS (OBVIOUSLY) ALL FICTION AND IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY! THIS IS MY PERCEPTION OF HOW I THINK SKZ WOULD BEHAVE IN SITUATIONS LIKE THIS AKA, NOT REAL.

02:56 PM

You sat down on the toilet with the pregnancy test still in your hand. Fuck. You coulnd´t believe you were actually pregnant. This wasn´t the right time...you thought to yourself. How was I gonna tell him this? Your boyfriend has had such a stressfull few weeks already. Not only the comeback, but also the move. He had just moved dorms again and now lived with his maknae alone in a dorm. Due to the moving, he had been sleeping at your house a lot. And due to his stress, you gave him some extra quality time during these last few weeks. You wanted to make things a bit easier for him. You cooked all of his meals, you did his laundry and at night you would always give him a bit more attention then he could give you in return. He was exhausted. When it came to intimate stuff, you wanted it to be easier too and then you remembered...you two were unsafe a lot of those times. You tought it wouldn´t matter too much since you keep very close track of your ovulation...guess not. You decided to text Felix. You couldn´t face Chris right now. Not yet.

03:15 PM

You heard the front door open. As you walked out of the bathroom Felix dropped his bag in the hall and walked towards you with a concerned look on his face. What´s going on y/n? You gave him a tight hug. He hugged you back but after 2 seconds he pulled away from you, only to make you look at him. Tell me, honey. You hesitated for a few seconds, but realised you had to tell someone very soon anyways, might as well be him. I uhm, know that I should be telling this to Chris first. But I can´t. Not now with everything going on. Something uhm, happened. He grabbed your arms soflty and stroked them up and down. Tell me, please I´m getting worried now. You should be, you thought to yourself. Well, it is....just that....I kinda....just found out...that I´m pregnant. You spoke and hid your face in your hands. He stared at you like a deer in highlights. He was shocked. You being serious? You nodded and started to cry. Still hiding your face and plopping down on the couch. It took him a second to really take it in, but then quickly he sat down next to you, comforting you by holding you close and saying sweet nothings. After what felt like 10 minutes he finally spoke. You realise you have to tell him eventually right? You nodded slighlty. But not yet! I can´t have him have even more fucking stress. Not now. Maybe now is the perfect time honey. Perfect time for what? Chris suddenly walked into the room. Nothing! Hey baby how was your day, you´re a bit early arent ya? He looked at you with a slight surprised look. You´re excited today aren´t ya? He hung up his jacket, still looking at you, who now had jumped off the couch ready to meet his embrace, while he had his arms wide open for you to hug him. Hi love, what´s going on, why is Felix here? We were just chatting for a bit. He nodded, not showing too much curiosity at this point. He walked over to the fridge grabbing a drink. Opening the can and walking back into the living room. He and Felix talked for a bit while you just sat there fidgiting with your fingers and laughing along with them, looking slighlty nervous. He noticed ofcourse, but not wanting to put you on the spot, he didn´t comment on it. Imma go pee real quick be right back. He got up walking towards the bathroom. Suddenly you realised you had let the pregnancy test on the counter in there. Wait! I need to go first, please! You said while running past him very quick and closing the door behind you. He looked surprised at your sudden protest. What´s up with her, she has been acting weird... Felix hated being caught in the middle between you two. I can´t say anything. Then you walked back into the room with them, hiding the test in your sleeve. You looked at Felix with big eyes, angry. Not say anything? About what? What´s going on y/n? Nothing he´s being weird. Should we go for that walk now, Felix? You made up a lie, so you could get out of here fast. But Felix knew how you played these kinda games. He figured this wasn´t smart, espescially about these kind of important big things. But in the end it was your decision on how to tell Chris. No, and I´m going home. I love you y/n, but this isn´t up to me. He wanted to leave but also had to pee real quick first, so he went into the batroom that seemed to be ocupied a lot today. Up to me? What is baby? I don´t like being left out. Chris got a bit frustrated now. Crossing his arms while looking at you. Well? At first you got angry. What? I can´t have secrets now? Chris looked surprised, not understanding your sudden change in attidude. Babe wha-. Then you got sad. Not that I ever want to keep secrets from you ofcourse, but that´s not the point. He noticed you pacing around looking at the ground. Instead of frustration he now felt concern. Baby calm down, all I want is for you to be honest with me. He walked closer to you, wanting to hold you, but you refused. No, no. I don´t need to calm down. I need you to mind your own fucking buisness. He was so confused by the way your moods were swinging. This whole situation was so stressfull and it made him have a whiplash.

Part 2

...Masterlist...

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

© 2022-2024, smellslikechahnspirit • No posting on other sites or platforms, rewrites, or translations

[duckymcdoorknob]

Would Kurama go into a relationship a human or a yokai or someone from Reikai? If so, what would those relationships look like? (Would he be protective, consider them equal, manipulate them..anything that comes to your mind)

Thanks.

@giggly-squiggily *cough to summon fellow simp*

Anon you’re so beautiful for this ask 🧎‍♀️

I think that Kurama wouldn’t care who or what his partner was. He just wants them to love him as unconditionally as he does them.

I think he’s a very domestic partner. He doesn’t care about classic “gender roles”—quite frankly, he thinks they’re absolute bullshit.— so they can expect him to tackle most of the chores in the home.

He’s a fantastic cook, and cleaning soothes his soul. They will come home to an absolutely spotless living space, and a warm dinner on the table every single night. If they beg him to take a night off, he’d simply smile and ask: “why would I do such a thing?” He’s 100% an acts of service partner.

He’s also a quality time partner. He LOOOOVES to just spend time with his partner for the littlest things. His partner is in the shower? If they’re up to conversation, he’ll sit on the toilet with the lid shut (or outside the door to respect their privacy.) if they’d rather be alone, he’s waiting on the bed for them to be ready for conversation.

Partner who does their makeup? He’s sitting on the counter and kicking his legs as he talks to them (please don’t let him do their eyeliner, he accidentally pokes their eye every time and he gets SO upset)

Partner who works from home? He’ll sit on the other end of the table/couch/bed and hold their hand whenever they let him.

He’ll watch tv, play board games, do crafts, goof around at any time, etc.

Dad!Kurama Hcs because yes:

He always gets up in the night time when his child cries for his parents. He lets his partner rest and sleep every time without fail. When asked why, he’ll lie and say something like “I’m a youkai, darling. I don’t need the sleep.” Knowing fully well he’s still in a human body-

He likes to carry their child everywhere. The little baby strappy thing? Good luck trying to get it from him. His partner will have to pry their child out of his arms (he just loves his little kit Y’know?)

He loves doing family activities, and he has family portraits hung up ALL OVER their home. He likes to take the super cheesy pictures with like the weird 80s poses (like everyone laying on top of each other)

Their little one commonly finds themself sleeping in papa and (parent title)’s bed. Why? They had a scary dream, they missed their parents, they were cold, they saw a spider, there’s a monster in their closet, they needed water, their bed was too small, their blanket was too warm and too cold at the same time, Uncle Hiei told them to. (which with his telepathy, it may be a truthful statement)

Kurama was over the moon to become a father, and when his little one called him “daddy” for the first time, he knew that all of the bad decisions he’d ever made weren’t worth a thing anymore…

[slytherizz]

A Different Kind of Wager - Sebastian Sallow x Female!MC/Reader

Summary: Sebastian makes a wager with his girlfriend that will make the outcome of their final Crossed Wands duel before their graduation far more interesting.

My main fic has been sucking the life out of me with the angst and suffering. So here is some shameless smut I've been working on!

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit sexual content, duelling as a questionable form of foreplay, Lucan Brattleby runs an illegal gambling operation

You can find all the tags on Ao3 :)

She nibbled idly on the end of her quill her brows drawn together in that cute little frown as it always graced her features when she was deep in concentration. With their NEWT’s closing in fast Sebastian felt like he’d barely seen anywhere but the inside of his dormitory and the dusty shelves of this library for weeks. 

Not that he was getting much work done. 

The blazing summer sun pouring through the windows made even the normally cool library stiflingly hot. Her tie was pulled loose where it hung around her neck, the top buttons of her blouse undone exposing the heat and blossoming beads of sweat on her clavicle were more than a bit distracting.

Over the last few weeks, Sebastian barely had enough time to sleep around his revision let alone spend any quality time with her outside of the library. Which had left him more than a bit frustrated that even a glimpse of skin was enough to have his thoughts so far from his own Potion’s essay.

So, he’d settled himself into the comfortable position of twirling her hair around one of his fingers whilst staring directly down her shirt. Sebastian hoped if he kept this up for long enough she’d eventually snap at his annoying prodding. If he got her wound up enough it would more often than not end in a frustrated fumble and if he got her seething which with how badly her history of magic revision seemed to be going was likely he’d work her up enough that she’d let him fuck her in the restricted section to release the tension.

A loud bang rang out echoing through the library as the heavy oak doors slammed pulling Sebastian abruptly from his fantasies. Sebastian cringed internally for the poor sod who had surely invoked Scribner’s wrath. He heard muffled apologies answer Scribner’s shrill scolding which rang through the echoing library like a bell. He’d been on the receiving end of one of the aged librarians foul moods more times than he cared to remember and did not envy the recipient.

Flushed with embarrassment, Lucan Brattleby scouted sheepishly once Scribner was satisfied he’d had an earful and moved her attentions elsewhere. Although taller now the fifth year was no less baby faced the scarlet of his robes accentuating the flush in his cheeks. As he spotted them from the far side of the library and hurried towards the back table where they’d sequestered themselves away.

“Ah, there you both are! Been looking all over the bloody castle for you.”

“Seventh-year Lucan,” she sighed rolling up her parchment with a smile “If we’re not in the library we’re crying in the toilets.”

“Not too busy for tonight I hope,” he smiled nervously, eyes wide in a pleading stare. 

Sebastian had forgotten, between preparation for NEWT’s and spending the week desperately trying to get his girlfriend alone a final match of the Crossed Wands was far from the top on his list of priorities.

“Don’t you worry we’ll be there,” she smiled before Sebastian could disagree with more than a few ideas of what he'd rather do with her in his free time.

Lucan breathed a sigh of relief “Good that would throw the entire betting pool out of sorts. Not that I can let you two in on the fun I’m afraid. Can’t have one of you throwing a match and making off with the pot,” he grinned, brown eyes alight with mischief “I have some class as to not allow insider betting…that and the Ravenclaws would have my head.”  

“Surely you can spare a kickback for old friends?” Sebastian quirked.

“You do it for the glory Sallow and you know it,” she grinned at him.

“Touché.”

“Slight change of plans for tonight,” added Lucan blushing clearly seeing it painted across Sebastian’s face exactly what he’d rather be doing tonight. “We’re in the Astronomy Tower. Too many close calls with Professor Weasley in the Clocktower Courtyard.”   

“Don’t you worry we’ll be there. One last hurrah before exams completely destroy our social lives,” she sighed.

“I’ll see you both tonight!” Lucan clapped his hands together with glee looking between them conspiratorially before hurrying off.

If Sebastian was frustrated with their lack of time for each other now, he realised that would only get worse with exams looming over them edging closer. Sebastian leaned back in his chair and sighed dramatically, and he swore he saw her roll her eyes.

“It’s been ages since we duelled. It’ll be nice to do something apart from our usual verbal sparring,” she encouraged. But Sebastian’s thoughts were far from duelling when the idea struck him.

“Shame to let Lucan have all the fun," he said slowly leaning in close enough so his breath could disturb the loose hairs around her face "Care to make this more interesting?”

“I know that look. What are you plotting?”

“How about a little wager?”

“What kind of wager?” she narrowed her eyes at him.

Sebastian's eyes flicked around the room, as Lucan slammed the door a second time sending Scribner once again on the warpath. Directing her spitting rage towards some poor Gryffindor second-years who had tried to smuggle pumpkin pasties into the library and had gotten crumbs and oily fingerprints all over their books.

Satisfied they were secluded away from any prying eyes he hooked his finger under the hem of her long skirt where it had ridden up over her crossed legs. His hand stroked purposefully up the bare skin underneath, ghosting up the inside of her thighs teasing the soft skin with a gentle scratch of his fingernails that sent a shiver through her.

She looked at him half amused, but he could see how her pupils had been blown wide from the lightest touch that promised everything.

“I have some ideas.”

***

Even Sebastian was baffled at the sheer number of students who’d managed to sneak out of their common rooms to make the long trek to the Astronomy tower that night. Whoever had done the imperturbable charm had done an impressive job not a sound could be heard from outside of the classroom, despite the deafening din inside. There had to be at least fifty students crammed into the observation deck. They clang to the railings hitching themselves up high to get the best view.

“Last call to get your bets in. Come on don’t be shy!” Lucan shouted over the hectic crowd that had surrounded him. Students jostled each other as they attempted to push forward to get closer to the board. “I’ve got some 20:1 odds-on Prewitt - put your money on the Underdog and you could walk away with half the pot.”

Lucan was truly in his element. His left fist clutched full of betting slips, he scratched frantically with his chalk at the betting pool he’d meticulously crafted on the blackboard he must have nicked from the arithmancy classroom and lugged up to the tallest point of the castle. Students inspected the match-ups before shoving galleons into his waiting hands.

Sebastian really did admire his entrepreneurial spirit. Taking over an unsanctioned duelling club in your third year was one thing but making a profit off of it was a stroke of genius. He’d begun his enterprise last year started in with a few well-meaning bets and had now spiralled to a size where even students who’d never participated in the duelling themselves would attend every match just for a piece of the action.

Sebastian cast his eyes over the crowded room, a couple of overeager fourth years were stretching relishing that they’d made it this far in the tournament at all. A few Slytherin second-years in their pyjamas who looked very pleased with themselves for having managed to sneak out of the common room to watch the show were whispering huddled in the corner.

His eyes connected with hers across the far side of the room. She was leaning against the rickety balcony he suspected was only still standing due to magic embedded in the castle. She was smiling at him, the moon high in the sky illuminating her features bathing her in an ethereal glow. Despite the commotion in the tower, the nerves of competitors were so palpable Sebastian felt he could cut the tension with a knife she looked beautiful and serene. For a moment he considered doing away with the tournament and their wager all together and dragging her off to her secret hideaway opposite the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy.

Sebastian battled against the grain of the crowd towards her. Weasley tried to grab his attention and pull him into a conversation about some combat-enhancing potions he was brewing but Sebastian patted the redhead on the shoulder placatingly never letting his eyes leave hers.

She smiled up at him a devilish glint in her eye as he came to lean against the banister beside her.

“You know if you want to back out of the bet I’ve thought of some creative forfeits,” he nudged her arm. She rolled her eyes; at the smug look he knew was plastered over his face. But he liked the way the small smile played on her lips. Lips that if he had his way wrapped around his cock before the night was up.

“Not scared of losing are you, Sallow?”

“Oh, not at all,” he leaned in closer, wrapping a strand of her hair around his finger to push it behind her ear. The smell of mallowsweet that always clung to her hair and clothes invaded his senses only making him more impatient to have that scent coating his skin “Just giving you the chance to save your knees while you still can.” He whispered into her ear low enough that only she could hear, relishing in the way she licked her lips instinctively at the thought. Despite the cool night breeze that came in through the open sides of the tower Sebastian could feel the heat creeping up his neck. Just as he’d decided to sack off the duels entirely and drag her away Lucan’s voice sounded over the muddle of raised voices.

“Right that it - Bets are closed. Sallow. Prewitt. Duellists take your marks for preliminaries!”

“See you in the final,” she winked and pushed him towards the middle of the tower. The red-head was already waiting looking insufferably smug as ever. Despite Sebastian’s general disdain for Prewitt, he did often find it amusing how even though he’d never once bested him in a duel he could delude himself into thinking this time could be any different.  

“This is my year, Sallow,” he called across from him taking an offensive stance.

“Sorry Prewitt, I have too much on the line to go easy on you tonight,” Sebastian replied not meeting the Gryffindor’s eyes instead turning slightly to wink at her.  

***

It wasn’t fate that landed her opposite him in the final duel that night. Sebastian had been quietly confident when he’d made his wager with her that it would always come down to the two of them. As much as Lucan insisted that his matchups were done completely at random, and he’d never sully his reputation with such cheap tricks. Lucan also knew people liked a show of seeing their two best duellers face off against each other. Having them knock each other out in the first round, well that would be bad for business.

Sebastian was certain he could live a hundred lifetimes and still remember the way she moved. As if it was seared into his brain that first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. She was like a raging storm, and he was a lost ship being pulled out to sea. That ancient magic in her veins practically glowing like an azure snake crackled amongst her fingertips like the poised lightning of a vengeful god ready to send his sails and crew to a watery grave.  

Their dance began. She still duelled as if she was some untamed wind whirling reactively and unrefined. Her wand lashing out from her fast like a whip, she cast with her whole body. The wand was not just a tool but a very extension of herself. Never one for fancy charms she sent a confringo towards him that singed the edges of his cloak and sent the crowd quickly leaping from their view around the railings as the curse hurtled towards them. She’d leave her left side fully exposed and just as fast as he’d send a curse flying in her direction, she’d pivot so quickly the vulnerability was lost in a flurry of robes and hair. He parried and struck with his wand missing his mark again and again as she moved like a knife through butter. As they twirled around the moving iron plates marked with stars, they used this new terrain to their advantage. Taking cover when the discs shifted blocking their opponent and their spells from view only to spring from the other side with curses of their own. Sweat glistened faintly on her brow, and a wide grin spread across her face that he knew was mirrored on his own.

His eyes met her across the devilish glint in her eyes practically stopping his heart for a moment. The rest of the world, the crowds slipped away and there was only her. Her fire, her perfect storm.

It took his brain a moment to right itself and realised he’d been hit, and he was now meeting her piercing gaze with his arse firmly on the floor. Her brow gleamed with sweat, hair tangled and wild, blazing with victory. A goddess of war, triumphant. And she was his.

As suddenly as they disappeared the crowds seemed to come flooding back in a riotous cheer as they surrounded her. Weasley slapped her on the back his face broken into a wide toothy grin. He peeled off from the crowd hand outstretched to assist Sebastian to his feet. He gratefully took it dusting himself off, chuckling to himself.

“Tough luck mate,” he smiled placatingly. “I would say there’s always next time but that was your last shot. I’m afraid you’re out of the history books now. I lost eight sickles betting on you as well.” He ran his fingers through his ginger hair frowning to himself stewing over his lost winnings.

Sebastian smiled at him apologetically despite the fact he couldn’t give two shits about Weasley’s shrapnel not when he had a debt of his own, one that he was eager to pay.

Sebastian leaned against the railings in wait for her. The crowd swarmed around her dragging her this way and that, chattering over each other each eager to get her ear. Some cheered some muttering reluctant congratulations looking away enviously as Lucan handed those who had bet on her their winnings. Not nearly as much as the house would take however as Lucan lined his pockets.

Sebastian was beginning to grow impatient, it felt like an eternity as he waited for the crowds to finally disperse. This earned him a few smirking looks, everyone thought he was embarrassed, and Hogwarts' self-proclaimed ‘best dueller’ had been bested yet again. He played the part of the good sport despite his growing frustration, laughing off the snide little barbs from the likes of the insatiably competitive Imelda and most shockingly even a mocking glare from old Puffskein Dunkein. The audacity of a man afraid of puffskein to look at him like that Sebastian almost laughed out loud.

When at last a pair of gushing fourth-year Hufflepuffs girls had finally left her side whispering and giggling as they left the tower to follow the rest of the crowd. Sebastian slipped up behind clearing his throat as she turned to him eyes bright with triumph.

“So…what was all that about saving my knees?”

“No need to show off, pet. It doesn’t suit you,” he grinned slowly encroaching in on her. The once deafening tower was now quiet and still. The only lights left were the soft moonlight and glowing stars. Sebastian thought if he listened hard enough, he could hear her heartbeat increase with every step he took towards her.

She released a loud undignified snort of laughter “That’s rich coming from you.”

Sebastian silenced her pressing his lips hard against hers in a desperate kiss that ignited a fire in his bones. With the pressure of NEWTs, he hadn’t realised how starving he was for her touch. He nipped at her bottom lip and she gasped parting her lips just enough so he could slip his tongue between them to tangle with her own. His hands ghosted down her sides wrapping around her so he could pull her flush against him. He knew she’d already be able to feel his already hardening length exposing exactly where his thoughts were as they pressed into her. He pulled away from her a little breathless, freckled hands coming up to clasp her cheeks.

“A debt is owed, pet. Ready to collect?”

“What now? Here?”

“Did I not mention it’s a time-sensitive offer?”

She huffed out a surprised laugh as she met his eyes. But he noticed that telltale way she bit down on the inside of her cheek, noted how even in the low light her pupils were blown wide as saucers. He kissed her again more passionately this time, edging her towards the small table in the corner covered in ripped-up betting slips from sore losers and broken astronomy equipment.

In his haste, Sebastian swept the papers and objects littering the table a telescope clattered to the floor with a loud metallic clang. He gripped her hips forcefully and lifted her to plant her on the edge of the desk. He kissed up the column of her throat savouring every rasping vibration against his lips as her breathing caught in her throat.

“You were excellent, darling. Thought you might actually finish me off,” he murmured against her skin as he loosened her tie around her neck as he had done his own. He could already see a flush creeping up her clavicle as he worked the buttons exposing more of the stained flesh beneath. Her skin was salty on his tongue but after a week of nothing but longing looks and stolen kisses it tasted like ambrosia. He pulled the offending garment from around her shoulders throwing it unceremoniously to the floor. He pulled at the ribbons letting her stays flutter open before pulling the thin silky chamise over her head. Her nipples pebbled fully exposed as the night air swept in through the tower, mussing her hair. He brought the crown between his teeth tongue flicking out to tease the flesh and she groaned. Her hand came to settle on her neglected left breast pinching the twin between her own fingers. Wickedly gorgeous a movement that he knew meant she ached as much for him this last week as he did her. He released her from his teeth and kissed her quickly. Grinning Sebastian ran his hands up her thighs fingers pressing hard into those sinfully tight trousers she wore.

He hooked his fingers into her waistband as she lifted her hips assisting him as he peels her trousers and knickers off of her legs. She wriggled her feet out of the bottom and Sebastian discarded them next to her shirt in a pile on the floor. Bare and laid out before him he cursed himself for ever letting her wear clothes at all.

Dropping to his knees Sebastian coaxed her legs apart by peppering kisses along the inside of her thighs. Pausing momentarily to nip and suck small bruises on the tender flesh as he worked up towards the apex of her thighs. He bent her knees up to rest them on either side of his shoulders, he pulled her hips sharply forward spreading her out before him like his last meal.

“Did you like seeing me on my back as much as you do between your thighs?” he goaded. Her lips parted to reply but all that came out was a low whine as Sebastian flicked his tongue across her bundle of nerves. Her hips jolted forward in search of reprieve. More pleasure only he could give to her. A pleasure he now owed her.

He dragged his tongue across her clit more purposefully this time. Her hands shot down to knot almost painfully in his hair, as he kept him close to her aching heat demanding the payment that was due. Sebastian was a lot of things; ruthless at worst, an insufferable show-off at best but he was not a sore loser. He sealed his mouth over her aching heat, burying her tongue in her folds.

The sight of her above him he doubted there was a more perfect sight in this world. She was bare and spread out like a nymph from some Greek tragedy and he was a mere disciple who had come to pray at her altar. He chased her sounds, swirling his tongue around her nub lapping up every drop she offered to him. He dragged his tongue across her weeping entrance, a broad stroke with the flat part of his tongue. From the way her legs had already begun to tremble, he knew she had been aching for this, for his touch just as much as he had. He always marvelled at how quickly she came undone when he used his tongue, but with how much he’d been driven practically mad with need all week he wanted to savour this. Every flash of skin, the sway of her hips, when she leaned in too close, and her scent seeped into his mind had him as pent up as he had been before they were together and all thought of her had been a mere albeit all-consuming fantasy. So, he wanted to take his time with her, use that control he had over her and bring her to the brink and back until she was a crumpled mess.

She writhed sinful curses and breathy moans slipping from her lips as she ground her hips forward seeking relief on the flat part of his tongue. He was teasing her he knew. Edging her closer and closer towards that summit of bliss and that wasn’t part of their deal. But after a week of nothing but stolen kisses and fumbles above their clothes in quiet classrooms and hidden alcoves, he wanted her to come crashing down when she was near breaking and begging for release.

Just as he felt her legs begin to clamp together practically suffocating him between her thighs he ceased his ministrations of his tongue, sucking small bruises on the inside of her thighs. Not that Sebastian thought suffocating between her thighs was a particularly bad way to go out. He released her clit switching between sinking his teeth into her soft skin before swiping the marks with his tongue.

“Seb- what the fuck?” she groaned in protest, she bucked her hips towards him practically at breaking point in need of her release. Her fingers smoothing his mop of chestnut hair he guessed now looked even more tangled and wild than usual as she desperately tried to pull him back towards her aching heat.

Sebastian released his grip on her thighs, skimming his fingers along the inside of her thighs leaving goosebumps in his wake before he slid his fingers into her tight heat. Her eyelashes fluttered as he teased her open with two freckled fingers. He crooked his fingers and grinned as her light panting transformed into keening mewls as he hit that sweet spot inside of her that made her crumble from the inside out. He knew it was cruel to make her wait, she had earnt her prize fair and square, but he’d been starving for her for all week, and he wanted to feel her come undone harder than he ever had. Even if it took all night. He pumped his digits slowly coaxing her towards the brink again with each purposeful thrust. She was practically vibrating, so dangerously close to the edge Sebastian thought he saw the ghosts of tears in her eyes as she writhed desperately.  

“Sebastian, please. I can’t- Fuck,” she groaned desperately. Sebastian sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked - devouring the quivering nub.

The combination of sensations must practically set fire to all her nerves. Even if no one had heard the unsanctioned duelling tournament he still wouldn’t be surprised if they heard her now. The loud unabashed cry that she released as her earth shattered even her legs clamped around his ears did little to muffle her glorious sounds. Despite his own need twitching almost painfully in his trousers at the sight of her shuddering release; all Sebastian cared about was prolonging her bliss. He lapped purposefully at her swollen flesh as she rode his fingers forcing her hips down onto them. Each thrust is more forceful than the last. He’d gladly let her wake the whole castle with her strangled cries. Let them all hear the pretty sounds the Hero of Hogwarts only made for him.

Her legs at last went boneless panting hard as she collapsed back on her elbows. Her head lolled helplessly to the side as she gazed at him through hooded eyes of admiration and desire. She looked practically drunk at the sight of him still buried between her legs.

“My congratulations to the victor,” he said smugly. Licking the residual wetness that still coated his lips as he at last removed his fingers from her tight heat. His tongue laved at the bruises he sucked on the inside of her thighs soothing their ache. He travelled up her pausing only to run his nose through the sparse hairs at the apex of her thighs which made her groan again as his heated breath tickled her still-sensitive nub. Impatient at his torturous pursuit up her body her hands clasped his freckled cheeks to pull him towards her. She claimed his lips not caring to wipe his mouth. She nipped greedily at his bottom lip her tongue flicking out to meet his won as she tasted the need her body had for him still sweet on his lips.

Her hands ghosted across his hipbones that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The scratch of her fingernails had Sebastian’s hips instinctively jerked towards her. Chasing his own need for release rutting forward his still-clothed member twitching against her exposed heat. She captured the grunt he released with her lips her deft fingers frantically working the buckle of his belt. He encircled her wrists with a large hand stopping her pursuit.

“Ah- Ah. You won fair and square. No need for that,” he grinned. He could practically feel his own body cursing the part of his mind that wasn’t completely overcome with desire for the witch spread out before him and was still capable of rational thought. He focused on the need his cock had to claim her into his lips fastening his teeth over her fluttering pulse.

“Don’t make me beg,” she groaned. With the little room she had to move her hands in his grip she pulled him forward by his belt loops more forcefully until his hips were flushed against her. Even through his trousers, he could feel the heat from between her thighs that made his cock twitch demandingly.

“But I so love it when you do.” His hands buried into her hair in a possessive grip to pepper kissed along her jaw.

“Shut up and fuck me already,” she practically growled, palming his cock through the fabric. Sebastian knew he would grant any request from her lips. Taking her hips in a bruising grip she yelped as her backside was pulled sharply over the edge of the rickety table. He didn’t let her fall instead letting her weight pass to him flipping her around so she could take a firm hold of the table and steady herself. She turned to look at him, her eyes hooded pupils blown wide biting so hard on her bottom lip he thought she might draw blood. To the world, she was a triumphant warrior, a heroine forged in fire and bloodshed but for him and only him in secret moments stolen under darkness and moonlight, she would shed that armour. And give herself to being his to claim and conquer.

Sebastian shucked his trousers down forcefully kicking them off from around his ankles. His cock sprang free of its prison, arching proudly in front of him. Sebastian swiped his fingers through her still soaking folds coating his fingers in her slick and his spit.

“Please Sebastian-” she whimpered at the contact, desperate to feel more than just his fingers inside her. He teased her kiss-swollen bottom lip down, pushing his digits roughly into her mouth. She closed her mouth greedily around his fingers languidly dragging her tongue to clean them off. Her pupils were blown wide as black as the night sky; he almost came completely undone just at the lusty look she was giving him. He could wait any longer to be inside her and feel her around him. Sebastian angled his hips and breached her walls with a strong deliberate thrust. She released a strangled cry her head lolled against her shoulder her desperation to finally be filled by him satiated.

“Fuck-” Sebastian hissed. He didn’t wait for her to adjust to him as he took her hip in a bruising grip thrusting his hips forward. Still tender and swollen from how he’d already made her quake her oversensitive walls fluttered around his cock as she took the entirety of him. As he rocked his hips into her Sebastian thought he could rename every star in the sky with the speed with which filthy moans and praise to him and everything he made her feel tumbled from her lips. Each is more wonderous than the last.

He hastily undid the remaining buttons on his shirt to admire his incessant plunges into her warmth. Only caring about how she practically swallowed him whole.  

“Taking me so well,” he grunted, rough and low. Her spine curved at his praise drawing him in deeper. The head of his cock teased that sweet spot inside her. The more of her weight shifted backwards the more she arched towards him until she was flushed against him and rutting her hips back frantically in search of more friction. He slowed his pace to draw himself almost fully out of her before filling her again with a languid thrust. “Tell me how it feels darling.”

“Incredible. Fuck- I’ve needed you all week- inside me. Please Seb more,” she whimpered.

He wondered how many students dreamt of having her and how even they in all their wildest fantasies couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to take her under the stars.

He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, wrapping his arm around her to settle on the curve of her stomach. Holding her in place so he could increase his tempo slamming home hard. Each thrust into her tight heat drew keening mewls as he edged her closer towards her second climax.

Sebastian could feel that coil inside him tightening threatening to snap. He wanted to feel her crash down around him. He didn’t just crave it. He needed it. Like a man lost in the desert and she was his oasis gulping down water greedily until he was sick with it. Sebastian curled his hand around her throat, squeezing just enough that a choked whine could still escape from her lips as her head began to spin. Each finger that pressed around her delicate neck said the words his sex-addled mind couldn’t make his mouth form.

Only I can make you feel like this. You are mine. I am yours. I love you.

He pulled her backwards harder onto his cock by her throat, spearing her with brutal efficiency. Curling his fingers tighter his other hand slipped down the planes of her stomach to apply soft pressure to her hooded bundle of nerves sending a shock through her like a burst of electricity. He could feel her body begin to clench and tremble around him in a way that was maddening. Whatever words she tried to speak came out as little more than a garbled cry over the grip around her delicate neck.

“Come for me, darling. Please- I can’t hold back any longer. I need to feel you come undone all over my cock,” Sebastian groaned into the shell of her ear as he began to tease furious circles over her still-swollen clit.

Sebastian doubted there was a more beautiful sight than the witch he loved unravelling under the full force of his fingers and his cock. Her walls clenched around him. Spasming and contracting as they sucked him in impossibly deeper into her cunt as she let out a shriek. With a final uneven snap of his hips that coil inside him snapped and his own release spilling inside her. His hips spluttered, pumping it deeper into her, her name and filthy praise erupting from his lips in a sound he could only liken to a primal whine.

Her body was flushed with a thin sheen of sweat that coated her glittering under the moonlight. His forehead came to rest between her shoulder blades he released his hold on her throat to wrap his arms around her as she struggled to stay upright on weakened trembling legs. He peppered soft apologetic kisses across the small bruises that were beginning to bloom around her throat. Still buried deep inside her his thumb stroking her nub gently, she whined and bucked her hips to try and shake off the overstimulation. She chuckled against her skin, and at last, releasing the small bundle of nerves she sighed with relief.

He removed himself from her aching core and she groaned at the loss of him inside her. As if she only felt whole when he was filling her completely. On shaking legs, he guided her over to rest gently on the edge of the desk again. He kissed her more gently now and she hummed against his lips. A pleasureful little sound that even despite being completely spent had him wondering if he could muster up the energy to take her again as his tongue flicked lazily out tangling with her own.

“I love you,” he smiled and she practically glowed. To him, she was brighter and more beautiful than any star that any astronomer could find in the farther reaches of the cosmos.

“You let me win, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mused, pushing her hair behind her ears absentmindedly. 

“Either way the result was the same. You’ve been looking up at me from your back since you were fifteen,” she smiled slyly, her eyes twinkling with mirth. She bent down to scoop up her trousers before shimmying back into the tight material that he still had no idea how she got away with wearing the wildly inappropriate attire on the school grounds.

“Oh- You want a rematch? I’d be more than happy to take my winnings.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would be.”

“Care to make it more interesting?”

“I’m listening,” she grinned. His little witch had always been a thrill seeker, but their rematch was a contest he wasn’t willing to lose. He didn’t just want her mouth. He wanted her hand.

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 9: Sin

Contents | Part 8 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: The night in the rectory continues.

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, religious imagery, explicit sexual content. Smut: oral sex (receiving), touching/groping, penetrative sex/unprotected sex. Readers must be 18+

A/N: Apologies for the extremely long wait for this chapter. So much has happened since the last upload that has prevented me from being able to sit down and write. Consequentially, this chapter isn't where I want it to be in terms of quality & length, but not posting is driving me crazy so I've decided to just… post it. I really hope you guys like it (and aren't too mad at me for making you wait so long).

Rain fell over the rectory, thrumming on glass and stone like the applause of a crowd. Your head rested on Father Benedict's chest, face turned towards the window as you watched the droplets pattering against the panes, the sky beyond so black they could be mistaken for stars. There was a flash of light, followed soon after by a deep rumble of thunder. But it was soothing; how you were just out of reach, safe and tucked away while the world outside fell victim to a storm.

You hadn't moved from his lap in what felt like forever, thighs still straddling him as you rested against his body, listening to his breath rise and fall as he stroked the hair by your temple with his thumb. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck, meandering towards the hollow at the base of his throat. You touched it with the tip of your finger, drawing the rest of its path with a featherlight touch. 

"Does anyone know you're here?" he asked quietly. 

You shook your head. "Don't worry, your secret's safe."

He exhaled a slight laugh through his nose, the air tickling the top of your head. "That's not what I meant." 

You raised your chin to look up at him. 

"I just wanted to know how long we have," he said, his voice pensive, almost mournful in its low, dulcet tone. 

You returned your gaze to the window, snuggling your head back into his chest. "As long as you want."

The room fell back into a comfortable silence, tempered by the sound of the rain lashing against the building, another clatter of thunder. 

"You're cold," he said, before pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over your naked body. 

You relaxed beneath the warmth of the soft wool, hands slipping into his open shirt to hug him closer.

"Are you tired?" he asked. 

"No. Just comfy." 

"Oh.” He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. “Good.” 

"Are you tired?" you asked. 

"No." 

He was soft beneath you, content and satiated, the feeling of skin on skin no longer a blaze but a comfortable warmth. You raised your head slightly and placed a kiss on his neck, listening as the salty skin vibrated with a gentle sigh, the afterglow of your connection threatening to catch light again. 

You squirmed slightly, the evidence of him between your legs growing harder to ignore. He'd came inside you - recklessly, eagerly - as though he hadn't wanted to part from you until he'd given every last piece of himself completely. You usually hated the feeling that followed; the slick coating your centre and running down your inner thighs, the overwhelming need to wash it all away the second it was over. It still bothered you, but the idea of leaving his embrace a moment too soon had bothered you even more. 

"Do you mind if I run to the bathroom?" you finally asked.

He shifted his arms without a word, allowing you to rise to your feet. 

The blanket fell as you stood up, revealing your body to him as you bent down to the clothes on the floor. He watched you intensely from his seat on the couch, eyes trailing hungrily over the curve of your breasts, the dips in your waist. You pulled the jumper back on and looked down at him with a slight smirk, unable to disguise the pride that came with feeling so wanted, so irresistible. 

You sat on the toilet long after you'd finished peeing, elbows resting on your thighs as you listened to the storm whirring beyond the small window. The aftermath of your coition had left you in a stupor, unable to think clearly but too content to care; every movement slow and sedated, eyelids heavy as you picked out patterns in the marbled tiles on the wall.

When you finally stood up, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. Your appearance perfectly portrayed how you felt; spent, satisfied, mussed hair and swollen, kissed lips. You ran the tap and cleaned yourself up, washing away the last traces of him before swilling your mouth with water and digging out the mascara gathered in the corners of your eyes. 

Your legs felt weak and unsteady as you moved; thigh muscles aching, orgasm still echoing in your bones as you turned off the bathroom light and made your way onto the landing. You stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, bare feet sinking into the carpet, your weight making the floorboards creak beneath the underlay. 

You could hear Father Benedict downstairs, footsteps shuffling and doors closing, a gentle cough to clear his throat. You thought about calling down to him, but the silence felt too sacred to break. So instead you wandered into his bedroom, turning on a small lamp in the corner that barely illuminated the space.

The bedroom was starker than the rest of the house; no garish wallpapers or dated furnishings, no clutter or overflowing shelves. Just a bed, side table and wardrobe, a set of dark green chequered curtains framing another flash of lightning through the window. 

Before long, you found yourself standing at the foot of the bed, staring up at a crucifix hanging on the wall above the headboard. A small figure of Christ hung from the wooden cross, its arms splayed, head stooped solemnly as it gazed down at the sheets below. You glared up at it with your arms folded in defiance, like an imp trespassing on holy ground; half-dressed, indecent, and entirely unwelcome. 

The door opened behind you soon after. You turned your head slightly, listening as Father Benedict approached. You felt him before you saw him, a finger trailing delicately from the bottom of your back to the space between your shoulder blades, a breath on your neck followed by a soft kiss. A shiver rolled through you, reigniting the tired fervour deep in your stomach.

"I wasn't snooping," you said quietly. 

"I know," he replied, bringing his lips to the side of your jaw. 

You closed your eyes as his kisses moved to your ear. "What were you doing downstairs?" you asked.

"Locking up."

"Oh. I thought you'd be praying or something." 

A soft laugh warmed your skin, his hands sliding up your arms. "I'm afraid I'm past that now," he said. 

You inhaled a deep, slow breath, a blend of guilt and relief swelling in your chest.

He reached for the hem of your jumper and began lifting it up your torso. You raised your arms, allowing him to strip it from you completely, his mouth returning to the curve between your neck and shoulder as it fell to the ground. You tipped your head back against his chest, letting his hands roam slowly over your body. His fingers pinched at your nipples, palms kneading the rounds of your breasts. 

You turned your head as he trailed kisses to your cheek. "Again?" you whispered teasingly, leaning back against his returning erection. 

"Well if I'm going to hell I might as well make it worth it." He placed a finger under your chin, raising your lips to his. 

You kissed him deeply, trembling as his nails grazed softly over your stomach. "You don't really think you're going to hell, do you?" you asked. 

"Honestly? I’m not sure I believe in hell." 

You breathed out a laugh. "What about heaven?"

"I believe in heaven." 

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back again, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on you. "I wish I believed there was something more than all of this." 

He slipped a hand between your legs, sliding a finger through your folds and making contact with your clit. "This is pretty heavenly as it is, don't you think?" 

A heavy breath fell from your parted lips. You rolled your hips instinctively, welcoming the warm ripple of pleasure spilling through your core. You raised an arm and cupped the back of his head, the other hand gripping his wrist as he moved his finger back and forth along the seam of your pussy, each firm stroke over the sensitive bud putting the lightning outside to shame. 

"Divine," you sighed. 

He dipped the finger inside you, just once, coating himself in your returning arousal and spreading it over your centre in an agonisingly slow glide. The penetration was shallow, so brief it left you aching for more, knees buckling as you leaned back against him. 

A hum rattled in his throat, the sound resonating in your bones, making them buzz with pleasure. He continued to caress the heat between your legs, taking his time to learn the spots that made your muscles tense, the right pressure to draw sounds from the depths of your soul. 

You'd always wondered what lay beneath the chaste exterior. For months you sat at the back of the chapel during his services, musing over a moment just like this one; would he be hesitant, gentle, tender? Or was there an animal caged within him, just waiting for a prey to let it free?

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his deep, rich voice pouring directly into your ear. 

God, you can devour me,  you thought. Pick me clean, swallow me whole. 

"You can do whatever you want with me," you replied.

And it was true. Tonight, you belonged to him - every inch of flesh, every corner of your mind - all his. There was no world beyond the walls of this room, no sensation that wasn't fostered by his touch. 

The cool air of the bedroom brushed over your bare skin as he released you from his hold. You climbed onto the bed and turned around, hugging your knees tight to your chest as you watched him begin to undress. 

You'd seen him in parts; the sliver of porcelain beneath his open shirt, the long fingers and prominent veins of his hands. You'd felt the size of him as he slid inside you, kissed the exposed skin near his unbuttoned collar. But you'd never seen all of him at once. Until now.

He stripped away the shirt and bent down to take off his shoes and socks. You tipped your head slightly, eyeing the slender muscles in his shoulders, how they rippled and stretched as he moved his arms, the lightly freckled skin taut over every tendon and sinew. 

He stood up straight and brushed the hair out of his face, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths; hard then soft, broad then lean. His stomach tensed and released as he moved, shadows forming in the ridges of his ribs, soft rolls and pockets of muscle taking shape in the thick trunk of his torso. You'd never met anyone so manly yet delicate before; a body capable of ruining you and indulging you, somehow all at once. 

Your gaze followed his hands to the waistband of his trousers. He worked slowly, unhurriedly, watching you watch him as he unbuttoned his fly, as though the mere sight of you was enough to satisfy him. When you absentmindedly licked your lips, a subtle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Your cheeks warmed when you realised what you'd done, chin dropping to rest on your knees as your eyes fell to the bed. 

But the sound of his trousers hitting the floor made you look back up at him, taking him in for the first time in his raw, unclad state. His cock stood proud and firm, rising above the pillars of his thighs with an impressive vigour - you'd gathered from the feel of him that he was blessed, but actually seeing it unrestrained in all its glory made your mouth turn embarrassingly dry. 

He kicked away the heap of clothes at his feet and stepped towards you. The bed frame creaked as he pressed his knee to the mattress, making your heart thud in anticipation. Your skin pricked as his hands made contact with you, fingers sliding between your thighs to gently prise them open. You parted them willingly, letting yourself fall back as he crawled up your body, nestling himself between your legs. 

His face hovered above yours for a moment, gaze darting between eyes and lips. You tilted your chin, catching his mouth in a kiss - something that already felt so familiar, like the taste of him belonged on your tongue, the pressure of his lips a comforting and harmonious sensation.

The heat of his breath spread through you like a deluge, flooding you from the inside out with molten lust. He pressed himself against you, returning the kiss with equal fervour, his rigid length pinned between you. When he tore himself away, it felt too soon, leaving you needy and aching beneath him, arching your head forward to watch as he journeyed leisurely down your body. 

You shivered as he pecked and nipped a trail from chest to inner thigh, his gaze meeting yours as he positioned himself near the bottom of the bed, searing blue eyes staring up at you hungrily. He ran his hands over the peaks and valleys of your body, worshipping it, savouring you like a bounty sent to him by God himself. 

"You are... so beautiful," he whispered. 

You inhaled a quiet gasp as he took hold of your thighs, parting them wider with an eager yet gentle shove. His touch was warm, the span of his fingers so large it was as if they were everywhere at once. 

"You think so?" you replied, your voice barely making a sound.

He shook his head and breathed out a slight laugh, like he couldn't believe you even had to ask. 

Your stomach tensed in anticipation as he lowered his head, closing the distance between his face and the most intimate part of you. The sight of him there was so incongruous to the man you'd come to know; the soft spoken, virtuous man, the man who would apologise for letting a swear word slip, who would trip over his sermons if you held his gaze for too long. But there was no uncertainty here, no nervousness or saintly restraint.

He didn't hesitate, dragging his tongue over you and pressing his mouth to your pussy. He sucked gently on your clit, kissing and licking with a pressure that ignited all ten thousand nerves in perfect unison, making them dance inside their delicate bundle. 

You'd never been so grateful for a storm; the thrashing of rain and rumbles of thunder disguising the moan that escaped you. You let your head fall back against the mattress, eyelids so heavy you couldn’t keep them open, as if every speck of energy was being drawn to the sensation between your legs. 

He groaned as he worked his mouth over you, the vibration of his voice making you squirm. There was something so glorious in the sound, like he was revelling in it, enjoying it even more than you. But with that, your mind began to wander; questioning how many times he'd done this, how many women's pleasure he'd feasted on before yours. You hated imagining someone else in your place, another temptation too delicious to resist. But the ease with which he found the spots that made you arch and shiver, the ministrations that pulled the loudest moans to the surface, made it clear this wasn't his first time. 

You ran a hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grip the railing of the headboard. "God," you whispered.

He responded with a gentle groan, fingers wrapping around your thighs to hold you in place. 

You'd always wondered why people called out to deities in the height of passion, why the lord's name would come as easy as a sigh, even to the most ardent nonbelievers. Maybe it was gratitude. Or perhaps spite.

You opened your eyes to find the cross above the bed looming over you like an admonition, watching in silent judgement as you squirmed and groaned beneath it, pushing yourself harder against Father Benedict's mouth with complete abandon. You'd never thought yourself a spiteful person before, but there was something undeniably wicked in all of this, something so wrong, so devilishly sinful that made it all the more delicious. 

He moved his tongue with serpentine precision; dipping and dragging, flicking and swirling, every lap working to unravel another piece of you until you were ready to fall apart. You tightened your fist in his hair, hips rising off the bed to keep his mouth exactly where you needed it, like you wouldn't be satisfied until he'd consumed you completely.

Your mouth fell open as you came, partly in bliss; the orgasm flooding your core and washing over you with a glorious warmth until your limbs turned flimsy and weak. But mostly, it was shock; shock that you’d actually reached climax like this, with nothing but a mouth and a tongue and barely five minutes. You thought you couldn’t, that you were just one of those women. But here you were, and it turned out that all you’d ever needed was one of those men. This man. 

"Where did you learn to do that?" you asked breathlessly, stroking his hair away from his eyes. 

He glanced up at you beneath a heavy brow, a hint of amusement in the shadows of his face. "Somewhere between uni and seminary school." 

You giggled at the nonchalance of his reply as he placed a kiss on your inner thigh, crawling up to meet you and bringing you face to face once more. You hummed contently as he let his full weight rest on top of you; elbows unlocking, chest pressing flush against yours. You brought your hands up to weave into his hair, holding it in fistfuls, scared he'd somehow vanish if you loosened your grip. 

His kiss tasted of you; lips slick with the proof of your rapture, tongue sweeping and swirling with the same skill and attention he'd given your pussy. You wondered how you were ever supposed to watch him talk or preach or guide his congregation in prayer ever again without picturing his face buried between your thighs. 

But then again, you weren't sure you’d be invited back after this. 

“I wish I’d known you then,” you whispered.

“When?”

“Back then, before you were… this.”

He smiled, speaking softly against your lips. “Are you saying I seem out of practice?”

You exhaled a laugh, the sound more akin to a sigh as it left you. “No. I just… I wonder what this would be like if it didn’t all feel so… sinful.”

He paused for a moment, looking into your eyes as another stroke of lightning illuminated the room. 

“Trust me, Ellis,” he said, raising an arm to grip the headboard above you. “The things I want to do to you… They’d have been just as sinful back then as they are now.” 

You suddenly felt so small beneath him, so wide-eyed and virginal within the confines of his strong, dominant frame; the span of his arms, the weight of his body on yours, the intensity of his stare. And now those words, the testimonies of lust pouring out of him in a voice as rich as molten chocolate.

You let your hands slowly glide down the sides of his torso, fingers tickling, nails grazing ever so slightly. His skin pricked with goosebumps, the tension in his body tangible beneath your touch. You wanted to make him feel good, watch him melt with pleasure and revel in the fact that it came from you. You wanted to make him thankful for storms, to let out moans that rivalled thunder, to burn hotter than lightning.

“And here’s me thinking it was me who led you astray,” you whispered, your breath turning heavy as it melded with his. “Turns out you were already there.”

A quiet growl rumbled in the base of his throat, his eyes darkening as his knuckles blanched around the headboard. He slid his other hand down between you, gripping his cock and aligning it with your entrance, his impatience bubbling in the air between you. You shivered as the tip of his length brushed over your clit; the slightest touch like an echo of the pleasure he’d already given you. 

He pushed into you with a groan, and your body welcomed him with ease; moulding to his shape, his size, hugging every ridge and curve until there was nothing left of him to give. You exhaled a heavy breath, as though emptying your lungs would somehow give him more space to fill, more parts of you to pervade. 

But no amount of him would ever be enough. You were certain of that now; with every hot breath, every growl, every press of his fingertips and ram of his hips, it became clearer that your need for him would never be satiated. You were ruined.

You quite liked it.

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi

*If you would like to be tagged in the next part, please comment below, or feel free to add yourself to the tag list here

[spidergutz-writes]

He can handle it

Nah because you can’t look me in the eyes and tell me that Alejandro wouldn’t die happy between your thighs, no matter your gender.

he’ll eat you like a starved man dining on some fine cuisine.

and he gets SLOPPY with it too, like—

3<3 face riding, smut, non gendered reader, terrible Spanish because I used google translate <3<3

He groans, shoving you fully down on his face “mi vida, I asked you to sit, not hover”

he wouldn’t fully listen to your concerns, always shushing you with a quick kiss to the forehead. Now, your basically rutting against his face like a bitch in heat, while he devours you, savoring your delicious taste, committing it to memory.

He has his arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place so you can’t escape, repeatedly pushing you towards that euphoric high that crashes down on you.

it’s starting to cross the line of overstimulation, as he brings you to another mind numbing orgasm, your whole body quivering as you grip his hair, pleading for a break, “ ‘s too much baby!”

he didn’t listen, the only thing on that man’s mind was your taste coating his tongue. He could have you everyday and never get tired.

with enough begging and tears staining your face, Alejandro finally relents, a cocky grin plastered on his face. His chin covered in your slick and his saliva.

“See? I told you I could handle it” a chuckle bubbling in his throat as he looks up at you, completely fucked out by just his tongue.

attempting to roll off him, your legs stay locked in place, a groan escapes your lips as you look down at Alejandro with pleading eyes.

“…need help Al..”

His smile seems to widen as he slowly sits up, lowering you down on his lap, allowing you a moment to wrap your arms around him.

standing up with you in his arms, he takes you to your shared bathroom. Starting a bath, he sets you down on the toilet seat, his aftercare always top quality.

“Cómo fue, mi amor?”

“..intense and, wonderful, mi esposo.”

[a-s-levynn]

How i draw hands

under the cut, sorry for the wait, love you all

OKAY so it has been a while i did one of these. I have a vague memory of @ghost-raven-7 you asking for hands.

I also have a foggy memory of @takemetoasgard you mentioning mouths, so if you want, i could do one for that as well? I'm kinda enjoying doing these. In all fairness, these also help me to figure out how i do stuff actually.

So HANDS

Mind you, i am still neither a proper artist not particularly good at what i'm doing. It is just what i'm using or looking out for currently.

Also there is a lot of text, sorry about that.

As always references references references. With hands it is nice, because you have ready made reference package a ttached to your body. But you still gotta find what helps you understand how it works in 3D.

As always i have to preface, that if you know anatomically how your hand works and looks will help. I mean if you know where are the larger muscle groups or the tendons, etc. We all love cool lines on a back of a hand drawing, but it is more satisfying to look at if the line indicating the tendon is actually at the correct place. So i can only recommend to look at at least some anatomy illustrations.

But beyond that, what helped me a lot, was to simplify the hand to 2D shapes and figure it out from there. But how i do that?

Take pictures. It makes it so much easier, than just simply holding my hand in a certain position. I can do that as well, but if i take a picture it usully helps more with the "understand it in 2D" thing.

I segment it roughly like this, but others do it differently. It doesn't really matter as long as you are consistent with it, and you understand why you put a segment where you did.

Usually the segment edges are at joint lines of your hand. For one, because the natural lines of the hand can guide it. Secondly, joints are the movement points. It is where the parts of the hand will bend.

And simplifying a pose and trying to make it work on paper, at least for me, is much easier when i moving 2D panes around the space, instead of a complex 3D object. At least this is how i understand it. But how that works in practicality?

Let's have an other picture of my hand. Excuse the quality. Also the lack of ST bracelets, but i need you to kinda see the lines of my otherwise amorph upper appendage.

So using the same blocking, this is roughly how the segments go. This is a tricky one, because of the the bending pinky and the general angle of the hand. But most prominently, the yellow pane folds in on itself, as if you are curling one corner of a piece of paper in front of itself.

You may notice that the blocking's edges are not as straight anymore, more curved. It is because of the perspective. If you want, you can think of your hand as a series of cylinders or tubes attached to each other. If you are not looking at it dead on, but from an angle, it is going to look curved.

Imagine a roll of toilet paper with a straight line running across it horizontally. From a very specific angle, it looks like a rectangle with a line. From any other perspective, you see that it is actually curved, amd the line won't be straight anymore. Also the top or bottom of it going to have a circe and all that. No more 90° angles. Same goes for the hand.

But with your hand, it is helped by the fact that your hand comes with build in lines, to guide you, and help you sell the 3D feel.

So have the above photo as a reference and do a step by step. Excuse me for not scanning or making a video, i am not on top of my game right now, but i'm trying.

Also watch me throw on my cord bracelet on there, to sell the illusion of curviture even further. I am not above cheap tricks to make it more believeable.

Of course if you throw some shading at it, it is going to further the illusion of the curves and 3D nature of a hand. It helps if you pick a proper lightsource not like me, but still. In general, if you shade the recesses and creases darker, then you can't miss too hard.

These are just the basics, you can refine or stylize it from here as much as you feel like it really.

Also, nails. I don't really like them, for me it messes up my anatomy more than i'd like to admit it, because i am way too lazy with them, but i know people who actually find adding them super helpful. So experiment!

And i think that's it for hands? If there is anything i should add, or needs more clrification on, please let me know and i'll either edit this, or add it in a reblog. And again, i apologize for taking this long.

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

--------

Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

[sflow-er]

Have you ever returned to work after a couple of days off, only to be smacked in the face with the reality that your work, while "greatly valued" for its high quality, is about to become obsolete because it's cheaper to just use AI and/or a lower-quality human supplier? And you knew that already, right, but it hits differently now because it's your best client suddenly joining the choir?

Just me?

I'm so tired of the translation industry, and so anxious I can barely even look at my current projects, and so worried about how stressful and economically unsustainable it will be to study something new on top of everything else going on in my life, because the only other thing I currently know how to do is writing (which offers no "career prospects"), and I live in a country where a Master's degree is fucking toilet paper unless it's in the exact field you want to work in.

Fuck this week all the way to next year.