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highways-are-liminal-spaces · 1 year

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Mottled stars at low tide

May 2, 2023

#sea stars #mottled star #echinoderms #tide pooling #beaches #juneau #southeast alaska #my photos #fpotd

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ronon-dex · 6 months

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I love when seven of nine fucks up social interactions. I love when she does something weird or off-putting or talks too precisely about something unpleasant. I love that she observes tom and b'elanna like lab mice in order to understand how to touch someone with loving intent. I love that she is sharp and disrespectful to janeway when she is passionate about something and can't contain herself like the real officers. I love that she's best friends with the only child on voyager and she is allowed to be curious and indulgent with her and her alone, a child the same age she was when her personhood was taken away. I love that she's shy about singing. I love that she desires perfection, an unattainable and impossible dream.

I wish she'd been represented as a cybernetic cobbled-together scarred creature that has to integrate with a ship that is also held together by scar tissue and hard work. that her healing was shown on her body and her mind, and that it was hideous and terrible and amazing.

#having thoughts abt our girl this eve #seven of nine #st voy #star trek #star trek: voyager #st voyager #voyager #i just. i know budget and it was the 90s and they needed sex appeal but.#imagining a seven who keeps her mottled skin and has a metal spine and rebar for ribs and half a skull #and she still tries to rejoin humanity. still tries dating. still has a beautiful voice.#still a genius.#this is not to knock jeri ryan at all. her acting is impeccable #the aesthetic of the female monster is just sooo appealing to me in a voyager context #they try to do it w b'elanna and it just has racist undertones #but seven. seven is a not entirely human anymore. the struggle of that...#of being this object of fascination for the maquis and starfleet who hate and obsess over the borg #of being stared at and leered at and not understanding why #yet still being righteous. loyal. proud.#they could have done some incredible stuff with her.

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dawnmist-designs · 2 years

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Mottled Gray She-Cat (Place of No Stars)

(2022 version)

#mottled gray she-cat #unnamed #Place of No Stars #dark forest #2022

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shotmrmiller · 2 months

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retired pornstar!Ghost who can't seem to ever keep his hands to himself whenever you're around, even when about to film.

f!reader, 18+ smut. unedited.

If you're standing at a table making coffee, he'll sneak up from behind and wrap his arms around you, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

Hi, Ghost.

G'mornin', love.

If you're walking out of Price's office with a script in hand, he's by your side in mere moments, throwing an arm over your shoulder.

"New script?"

"You should know, you're my co-star. Again."

"Lucky me, pet."

He's leading you toward his office, perches you on his desk and cups his hand over your core.

"Gonna let me eat this pretty pussy?"

"I dunno, Ghost. Gonna fuck me here too?" you smirk at him.

"Whatever you want from me," he breathes.

You stumble out hours later with swollen lips, love bites mottled over your neck and collarbone, and his warm spend trickling down your legs because Ghost pocketed your knickers.

The day of, he's texting you if you'd like a ride to the studio.

Sure thing. Get me in 15.

Yes ma'am.

He doesn't ask for your address, and you don't question why he knows where you live either. Ghost, forever the gentleman, opens the passenger door for you, and gently helps you get in. The entire drive over, his hand rested on your bare thigh, his small finger occasionally grazing your clothed cunt. By the time you arrive, your knickers are damp with your arousal.

"Somethin' wrong, love?"

You snort at his feigned innocence. "Cute. Is mercilessly teasing me fun to you?"

"Sorry 'bout tha.'" Ghost doesn't sound all that apologetic.

He brings you in tight, wrapping his arm around you firmly.

"Lemme make it up t'you in my dressin' room", he purrs.

You click your tongue. "Price'll have your head if he catches me in there, especially when we're about to make a vid."

"Be sure to keep quiet, then. Would absolutely hate to get caught."

With his smart fingers and expert tongue, you're brought to peak 3 times.

Price rolls his eyes when he spots you both walking in at the same time 15 minutes before the shoot.

"Always cheek by jowl, eh Simon?"

His piercing eyes cut to Price's. "Not a crime, last I checked."

Price lifts his hands up, palms outward in mock surrender. "Easy, Ghost. Only teasin'." He turns away, gesturing the crew to get in their places.

Ghost taps your chin with his pointer finger, drawing your attention. "Showtime, baby."

The wolfish grin on your face mirrors his.

"Showtime," you echo.

Ghost turns sex into art. He moves with discipline; every languid roll of his hips deliberate. Like a skilled painter, he transformed you into a living masterpiece, using each drag of his cock as a brush stroke on the canvas of your very being.

It's otherworldly.

He watches your face intently as he changes the angle, bites his bottom lip when he changes the pace, grunting into your ear as your walls begin to flutter— the telltale sign of 'his favorite part', as he loves to say.

"Gonna come f'me? Lemme hear that sweet, little voice of yours, pet." Almost as if following his command, you're digging your nails into his biceps, and closing your eyes in bliss as you climax. A loud, drawn-out moan escapes your lips as your cunt rhythmically pulses around Ghost's heavy length. Your soft thighs quiver around his broad waist as he works you through the aftershocks with slow, firm thrusts.

"Look at tha'. Came when I told ya to, like a good girl." Your mind is blank from your orgasm, tongue too heavy and thick in your mouth for you to even try to articulate a response.

"Creamed all over my cock, can ya hear it?" Hard not to when the wet sounds of your pussy squelching every time he bottoms out fills the room.

"You're so fuckin' tight. Cunt's squeezin' me like it doesn't want me to pull out."

His filthy words send a jolt straight to your throbbing core. "Felt tha'. What, you got a breedin' kink?"

Another jolt, so sharp it almost hurts.

"Want me to fill ya with my come? Is tha' it?" His husky voice dripping with desire. With want.

yes. yesyesyessss—

"Tell me you want me. Fuck, tell me you want me to come in you." The words fall from your spit-slick lips like a faucet.

"Come in me, oh my god, come in me. Fill my pussy up."

His thrusts lose some of their rhythm, but still not sloppy enough like when he's on the very brink.

Ghost's jaw in clenched, as if digging his heels in to hold off his climax. Well, that's simply unacceptable.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, giving him a slight tug to have his lips hover over yours.

"I want you come in me, Simon."

The change is instantaneous. His eyes widen a fraction before stealing your very breath with a searing kiss and fucks you. He puts his weight behind each snap of his hips. The tip of his cock pressing into the plug of your womb, making your eyes prickle with tears.

It's too much, he's too much, you think you've gone and bitten off more than you can chew with him when he mercifully stills with a groan you swallow— cock twitching as it pains your insides white.

He breaks away, gasping for air, sweat that beaded on his forehead dripping onto your heated skin.

Cut.

DaVinci and his muse.

Later, when he threads his fingers into your damp hair, you ask him why he doesn't record with others.

"'Cause I don't want to."

Oh?

"Besides, you and I have fantastic chemistry, dont'cha think?" He tugs on a lock of hair. "The fans love seeing us together, just as much as I love seeing my cock disappear into your sweet pussy."

He chuckles when he takes in your flustered expression. "Don't ask questions you aren't prepared to hear, then."

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x you #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader

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static-radio-ao3 · 3 months

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@jegulus-microfic // february 7 // prompt: star // words: 1,416 // cw: referenced sexual content // part 1 + part 3

“So let me get this straight,” Barty says, pacing in front of the couch where Regulus is sitting with his back straight and his hands tucked between his knees. “You sucked off your ex in the bathroom, picked a fight with him because he wanted to return the favor, ended up hooking up with him and staying the night, and now you’re telling me he texted you?”

Barty ticked off every point he made, a full five fingers now held up in front of Regulus' face. Five offenses. Regulus fights to maintain eye contact but his resolve crumbles under Barty's unyielding stare. Barty Crouch Junior, a force of nature. If only he'd use his powers for good.

“That would be correct,” Regulus says after a moment of silence.

“And his name in your phone is do not fucking respond.”

“That would also be correct.”

“And what did you do?”

“I responded.” Regulus at least has the decency to hang his head in shame. He remembers how long it took his friends to piece him back together in the aftermath of Hurricane James.

Barty sighs, bone-deep and long-suffering. He pinches the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand and turning to face Regulus again. “Follow-up question: were you dropped on your head as an infant?”

Regulus perks up at that, because “Well—”

“Don’t answer that,” Barty says, voice clipped. “God, Regulus. Gold star for being a fucking idiot.”

“In my defense,” Regulus starts. He doesn't continue though. Lets the silence stretch until there is no give anymore. Barty cocks an impatient eyebrow. “He looked really good,” Regulus finishes lamely. A red flush crawls up his neck and Regulus is sure it makes the mottled bites and bruises on his skin stand out even more.

Barty stops pacing to shoot Regulus an incredulous look. “That’s such a bad excuse? He always looks good? If you’re gonna be dropping to your knees as soon as he's within a two-mile radius, just— don’t.”

“But—”

And really, Regulus isn’t sure why he’s about to argue. He absolutely should be kept away from James at all times and he’d been so good at it for a while, but then. Well. Before he gets a chance to argue though, Barty cuts him off again.

“Don't make me call Pandora. She will bring the list.”

That does shut Regulus up. A huge file with an annotated bibliography and an itemized list of why Regulus should stay away from James. They had used it against him before and it worked every time. This time though, he didn’t want his weaknesses pointed out to him just yet.

“Fine. I won't talk to James anymore.”

---

“And then you have the fucking audacity to text me?” Regulus asks, incredulity bleeding into his voice. James seems unbothered by it though, hip cocked against the kitchen counter and arms crossed over his chest.

“Would you rather I call you?” He asks.

Regulus whirls on him. “No! I'd rather you not reach out to me at all!”

“See, once again, I am finding that hard to believe.” James pushes himself off the counter and steps closer to Regulus. “Did celibacy make a liar out of you? Or did I fuck you so good you forgot all the things you said last night?” He keeps his voice low as he says it, but Regulus hears it loud and clear. He shifts under James’ sharp gaze. Eyes lazily tracking the way Regulus moves.

“I'm not fucking lying. Last night was a mistake,” Regulus lies. Because that’s what he does now. Apparently.

“Technically two,” James says. He bites his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyes stuck on one of the many bruises littering Regulus’ neck.

Regulus doesn’t need the reminder, he can feel the bites and bruises sting with every turn of his head. Hands pressed palm to palm and the two of them chest to chest. A leg between Regulus’ own and his voice so wrecked he didn’t realize it was his at first. James, softened by the low light in the room, all his sharp edges blurring into pleasure. The hum of a moan into the heated skin of his neck.

“Technically three,” Regulus murmurs, eyes getting hazy, but he catches himself a second later, straightening. “But that's not what we're talking about!”

“Isn’t it?” James cocks his head. A lazy smirk pulls at James’ lips. The sight makes something simmer hot in Regulus’ gut. “We seem awful good at making mistakes. Maybe they're not mistakes at all.”

“All of this was a mistake! From the beginning! We shouldn't have hooked up and we shouldn't have dated and none of this should've fucking happened. Not last night, not last year, none of it.” Regulus takes a heaving breath. Considers saying more, but then James cuts in with:

“Are you done?”

“What?”

“I asked if you were done.”

“I— Yeah. I guess.”

James takes a step closer again, boxing Regulus in against the table. He presses his palms down on the flat surface, one on each side of Regulus’ hips. He has to look up a bit to be able to look James in the eye when they’re this close. He always liked it.

“You know what, that would've hurt my feelings if I believed you. Although I guess I do think this was a mistake. In a way.”

The feeling of James’ breath hitting the side of his neck makes Regulus shiver. James dips down for the barest, briefest moment and drags his lips along the column of Regulus’ neck, tracing the path he laid out the night before. It takes Regulus a second to realize what James just said, too caught up in his closeness to register the words. He isn't prepared for the way that statement makes him feel, a sharp pang in his chest and a dull ache all the way down his fingertips. He curls them into fists, keeps them resolutely in his lap. But before he has a chance to react, James continues.

“See, I think we never should've broken up. Mistake number one.” James takes the smallest of steps backward just to be able to raise his pointer finger. Regulus misses the heat instantly. “And I think you shouldn't have left this morning. Mistake number two.” He raises a second finger. “And you know what they say about mistakes.”

He glances at Regulus thoughtfully, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

“Don't fucking make them?” Regulus asks.

“All good mistakes come in threes,” James corrects, a third finger now being held up.

“No one says that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“No, James,” Regulus shakes his head and leans back, putting some distance between himself and James. Or trying to, at least. “This is a bad idea and we both know it.”

James just leans into him more. Regulus goes a little cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact. His focus is drawn to James’ lips instead. He remembers them pink and bitten. Stretched wide, spit clicking the corners.

“Come on, baby,” James hedges. “No more mistakes. Just me and you. And I'll be so good for you, good to you, I swear.”

His voice is molten honey, hot and sweet, and it sticks to Regulus’ skin like a physical thing.

And Regulus only has so much resolve. He unclenches his fists, allowing himself to reach out and touch. But the smooth fabric of James’ sweater is a poor substitute for the thing he really craves. It buzzes in his veins, a steady hum that's getting increasingly harder to ignore. There is no alcohol in his system to blur the lines he'd once drawn, he steps over them with his eyes wide open.

“You're addicting, you know that?” Regulus murmurs, mouth a few scant inches from James’. “Just can't fucking quit you. You and your Jamesness.”

Before James can reply, Regulus curls a hand over James’ throat and tugs him into a kiss. The buzzing in his veins quiets immediately, satisfaction rushing through them instead. It’s heady, kissing James again, even though it’s only been a couple of hours since their last kiss. James really is addicting. And Regulus is a weak, weak man.

---

is that a phone in your pocket or are you happy to see me [group • 4 members]

reg: hey guys....

evan: you're an embarrassment

barty: @panda send the fuckinf list

pandora: reasons why regulus should keep his dick in his pants and out of his ex [file type: PDF • 53 pages]

#messy exes jegulus: even messier #idk why they broke up but pls lmk if you have ideas #barty said regulus protection squad #james just said whore.#anyways!! for kara bc i probably would've let it be if she hadn't been so excited about the snippy <33 #i hope you enjoy <33 #i know it's a few days behind the 6th but!! i liked star #regulus black #james potter #starchaser #sunseeker #james x regulus #jegulus #jegulus microfic #mil's microfics #mil's writing #my writing

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macfrog · 7 months

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soaked

started replaying tlou1. can't get qz joel out of my head. inspired by this work of art by the insanely talented @thefriendlypigeon !!!

summary: boston qz. the days are slow, the nights are long. joel wakes up alone with a problem that needs fixing. enter: his shower (literally)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) joel jacks off in the shower. that's p much it

word count: 1.5k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💙

His fist locks tight around it; gives one long, slow jerk. The sensitive skin moves with his fingers. His hips shift forward, body asking him for more – and he obliges. He glides through his curved hand, halting when his fingers reach the dark hair at his hilt, slowly soaking under the messy spray from overhead.

He hasn’t slept all night. Not a wink.

It isn’t anything new. He rarely sleeps anymore; prefers to let himself drift in and out, teetering against the edge of slumber and then pulling himself back again. Staying in this life, instead of being dragged into a past one. Stops the nightmares. Stops the memories.

Usually, he can let himself rest, though. Let his eyes close over, let his ears deafen to the sounds of the world around him. Heavy footsteps fade into a numb knocking on the walls, the steady heartbeat sound of the QZ. Roars and yells from the street below are the blood twisting violently through the veins of the place.

But tonight – fucking hell, tonight. Tonight, he lies and stares at the distorted rectangle of amber light on the wall opposite his bed. When he closes his eyes, it’s still there. He can still see the peels of torn wallpaper, the way the harsh glow from the streetlight outside licks at the faded pattern like a flame, dousing his apartment in some ugly shade of nauseating orange. Like he’s living inside a fucking pill bottle.

Tonight, he teeters nowhere. He looks up at the pale ceiling – rotten paint slowly succumbing to the claim of the brown stain of damp. He looks at the apartment door – considers how easy it would be to kick down, how little effort it’d take against the rusted lock and molded wood. And he looks out of the window – to the inky black sky canvasing a jungle of buildings and power lines, lit by the moonlight of watchtowers.

Eventually, morning comes. The first break of day replaces that harsh, dirty glow with something softer, fresher. He runs his palms down his face, digs the heels into his eye sockets until he sees stars. His fingers swipe through his beard. His lashes flutter open.

It can’t be later than six. The sun’s only just clawing herself over the horizon. Peering over the ledge of his window, shooting like a bullet through the bottle he left on the table last night, rays refracting all over his kitchen.

When he pulls the mottled white sheets from his body and shifts to the side of the bed, there’s a tightness between his legs. A stiffness. It beckons his chin lower, draws his puffy eyes to the swelling in his boxers. The outline of himself, rock solid through the worn cotton. He curses under his breath and pushes from the mattress, groaning at the ache of his back and the throb of his cock.

The water only runs warm when no one in the surrounding apartments is using it. His only neighbor spends every night on the streets – Joel doesn’t bother to question why. He would’ve heard, though, if the guy had already hammered back into his own apartment; if he’d slammed the door shut, hinges rattling; if he’d sank into squealing bed springs. Joel would know.

So he hauls the curtain back, cranks the metal knob in a white-knuckle fist. The shower coughs up some pathetic spatter of freezing cold water, soaking the ends of his graying hair; and then, right before he yanks if off again with a sigh of contempt, it surrenders a burst of stronger, warmer water.

He holds an open palm under it for a few seconds. Turns his hand over, lets the water break across his wide knuckles. He feels a strain beneath his underwear. He tugs the fabric down and steps beneath the stream.

His cock slaps against the trail of rough, dark hair dappling his groin as he moves. He growls as the water cascades down his chest, running over the curve of his stomach and teasing tiny, pattering kisses along the wide base.

He glances down at himself. Spits into the palm of his hand, then uses it to cup his heavy shaft, running the pad of his thumb up the vein pulling at the surface of his skin. He shivers when he reaches the head, red and raw and angry, and swipes at the precome beaded there. He drags it back down, spreading it gently around, the skin glistening with saliva and sweat and arousal.

The direct stream of water is broken by the arch of his shoulders, splashing against the nape of his neck. The droplets of water race down his spine, sinking between the valleys on his back where his body slopes and swells with muscle. As he tightens his grip with his right hand, his left jumps up, palm smacking heavily against the grimy tiled wall.

His head dips, eyes full with the sight of his cock fucking his hand. At fifty, living in a wasteland with little companions outside of those he nudges past in the hallway on his way to the ration line, he forgot how it felt to fucking do this. He feels like a damn teenager – all hormones and chasing. Chasing a high, chasing a release. He doesn’t even remember the last time he felt himself this hard in his own hand.

It feels fucking good. Feels sweet. He smirks, letting his eyes slowly close, and imagines it isn’t his own hand wrapped around himself. Imagines the gentler, nimbler grip of someone else. The touch of another person, the warmth. The intimate feel of them around him, giving him what he needs, listening to the sounds he lets fall from his lips, responding to them. Doing what he asks for. Doing what he begs for.

He thinks of the last woman he had wrapped around him. Her pussy – warm, wet, velvet soft – squeezing him until he came. He was careful then – pulled out in time to coat her belly and the inside of her thigh with his come.

Right now, in the shower, with his eyes closed and his fist beating furiously up and down his length – he doesn’t pull out. He fills her deep with his seed. Fucks her so good until she draws in around him, pulling the orgasm from his body, taking everything he gives her. Every last fucking drop.

His wrist jacks. He whimpers, breathless and weak. It’s drowned by the time it hits the flow of water. She’s such a good girl. Takin’ it so good. Lettin’ me fill her up so nice. Prettiest pussy I ever felt, sweetest sounds I ever heard.

He’s close. His hips start to falter. Belly sucks in, tightening around the coil he’s desperate to let snap. Harder, faster, tighter. His finger curls around the top of his shaft, squeezing with his thumb to tug just below his tip. Harder. Faster. Fuckin’ – tighter.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, and he realizes his entire body weight is being held up by his one hand, splayed out on the slippery wall in front of him. “Fuck, darlin’…”

His left hand drops to cup his balls, kneading slowly as his right focuses hard on nailing the arrow in the center of the target. The bullseye. He thrusts into his fist. His head falls back as it approaches. Mouth agape, filthy moans scratching from the bottom of his throat to the ceiling. The shower pours onto his chest, water trickles down his hairy torso. It’s following the rush, fleeing southward. Thundering through his body as his lungs start to freeze up, breath solidifies in his throat. His back begins to arch. Knees bend a little. And then –

His head snaps back down with a grunt to watch his release; thick, white ropes spurting from the tip of his cock and coating the tile, running down the wall towards the drain. The moans and curses which slip from his tongue follow at its heels, the water rushing them off to the shower floor and ushering them down the steel pipe. He groans, the noise reverberating against the shower walls, the echo of his own depraved sounds relaying in his ears only spurring him on more.

He's panting, hand slowing as he works his way through his climax. White heat floods over his body, crashing like tidal waves on his shoulders. His breath slowly returns, chest rising and falling again as his lungs restart, regain function. He feels dizzy. He feels shaky. His hand pulls up to the tile again, and his arm tenses as he leans forward, cock still dripping with come.

When he feels empty, satisfied, his hand stops. Holds his soft dick steady at the base, fingers gently massaging his balls. He’s still regaining composure, breath still finding a rhythm again. His entire body feels alive, thrumming and pulsating with energy and blood and the aftermath of his orgasm.

The water chokes in the shower head. The flow disappears, and then returns a second later, weaker and colder. The neighbor.

When he can feel his knees again, when his head feels like it’s back on his neck, body whole again – his weak fist twists the valve off.

----------

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#joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller smut #tlou #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller

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peridots-pixiwolf · 2 months

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[Start ID. A redraw of the official icons of the ten named slugcats from Rain World, arranged in two rows: Survivor, Monk, Hunter, Nightcat, and Gourmand in the first, Artificer, Rivulet, Spearmaster, Saint and Enot/Inv in the second. Each is drawn in roughly the same pose as in the original art and fitted with speculative interpretations of their biology, and the second image is a “dead” version of this. For example, all ten have slug-like rhinophores in place of ears, cuttlefish-like colorful eyes with strangely-shaped pupils, cephalopod-like beak "teeth", expressive barbels or oral tentacles at the corners of mouths, spiny radulas, and the frilly mantle fringes of sea slugs, though otherwise their faces are squishy, simple and mammalian-shaped.

Cream-colored Survivor and yellow Monk both share triangular, bicolored spots matching their eyes (which are tan and brown, and two shades of blue, respectively), small, bumpy fringes, and relatively neutral looks on their faces. Defensive-looking Hunter is mostly a dull orange-pink, though their blobby fringe is a more violent red and their back is purple and marred with lumps. Nightcat is navy blue and flecked with dots of yellow and teal, their rolled rhinophores are a lighter blue, and their shading fractures into stars in some places. Gourmand is almost uniformly tan, their wide, very ruffly white mantle fringe bordered by a spray of white spots, and their beak sticks out from either corner of their smile. Primarily red Artificer, snarling, has yellow markings of multiple sorts, a prominent yellow dewlap and their characteristic dark scar taking out a chunk of its face. Rivulet is a darker blue than usual, with long barbels, red gills and rings, countershading, and a cheerful expression, sticking out their radula. Spearmaster is purple with orange accents, eyes and spots, a large fringe and spines down their back. Saint’s green caryophyllidia are marked by small, yellow diamonds, and their long, thin radula extends far below them. Enot is decorated with mottled red stripes, blue patches, yellow stars, and an uneven and almost cartoonish imitation of blush, though generally the same deep blue as Nightcat, a passive or almost slightly smug look on their face and their rolled rhinophores out to either side.

In the second image, nine of the slugcats’ eyes are crossed out, indicating that these are death icons. They look fairly the same, with mostly expression differences. Survivor is caught in the beginning of a threat display, a karma flower sprouts from Monk’s side, Hunter is burdened with overgrowing, purple and blue rot, Nightcat’s rhinophores are pinned back, and Gourmand looks mildly disheartened. For the final row, Artificer bites its radula between small plumes of smoke, Rivulet drops their expression, Spearmaster looks very startled, Saint looks almost entirely the same besides half-open eyes and their markings greater in number, and Enot grins confusedly. End ID]

If you'll excuse the unusually lengthy ID: the arena meme introduced by @pansear-doodles at long last after a nearly year-long wip status (or, rather, finished a month ago today to honor my own first time playing it!)

Design notes and shout-outs under cut! :]

The following people are some of those who’ve inspired my designs most since I started this eight months ago (or just inspired me to get a little weirder with slugcat biology), among many others for sure, and I thank them for it–but this is simply to bring attention to artists I find cool, and in no way an obligation to interact or anything :]

> @saturncoyote , @carpsoup , @charseraph , @gallusgalluss , @bitsbug , @dopscratch , and @0hmanit (and a special mention to dddeerbo and hunterlonglegs, who’ve since deactivated)!

Survivor: Surprisingly the hardest to pin down the colors for, since nothing with its sibling's palette seemed to match up right (I did have to add in a little blue somewhere for Monk, the beginning of making it clear how much I’m simply going based off of vibes for the colors of scug innards). I consider them, Monk and Gourmand to be part of the same gene pool of slugcats, and even possibly the same colony even if the latter isn't really related, so took a bit of Gourmand's coloring and fit them in with their inspiration: Goniobranchus verrieri. They serve as a bit of an introduction to my ideas of scug traits (i find it really fun how many people have thought to add so many silly sluglike fixtures of biology completely independent of me, buuut here I’m mostly talking about species variation), and like in-game they’re pretty average! They, Monk and Hunter have a couple scars sourced from a piece of Joar's concept art that I'm failing to find, those across the bridge of the nose, under the eyes, and across the rhinophores, respectively, and my Survivor interpretation features many on the back of the neck, as a result of survived lizard bites.

Monk: Their coloring is primarily based off the fact that I associate them with blue fruits, honestly, a bit because I was compelled to establish a familiarity with Rivulet, and lastly inspired by the spots of Goniobranchus kuniei (and geminus, less important to me as one of my characters is a kuniei instead, but more fitting). Between the yellow + blue and the circular marking in the center of their face, they’re meant to bear a little resemblance to an iterator that shares similarities with the characterization I’ve given them, and similar coding of her sibling can be seen on Survivor’s markings around the eyes. As both a “default” slugcat and one whose campaign I haven’t played, though, I can’t say I have much more to point out about em.

Hunter: The whole rot thing made for a really fun time drawing them, and while the color change on their back is a result of this, it’s also an excuse to relate them to Babakina festiva, arguably my favorite sea slug (mostly for sentimental purposes). And to Spearmaster, a fellow messenger slugcat, and it serves as a gradient between Hunter’s pink and the “traditional” color of Rot seen in the DLLs. Aside from their affliction, they’d actually be the plainest in terms of design, as they don’t have any patterns or quirks of body type, just the red + purple and strange lumps + possible malnutrition. I can’t remember if NSH had created them in particular or just...caught + released or something, but it probably wouldn’t be strange for a lab-grown slugcat to be simple like that.

Gourmand: Like the two above, they’re rather plain in terms of coloring and adaptation, and like the two above, I find that fun. I decided it would be nice to avert the “all slugcats being of the same body type, and Gourmand’s out of place as the exception” thing by just...adding more fat to all of them, really. I did want to emphasize their sheer bulk even so, both fat and muscular (not like I couldn’t have still gone further with it, of course, but slugcat anatomy can be a little obfuscating sometimes, and they were intended to look rather plush considering personal size headcanons and therefore the lack of proper gravity), and the thick and flounced mantle looked like a good addition, as per their sea slug Glossodoris hikuerensis. Unlike Survivor and Monk, I didn’t attempt to hold their resemblance to any particular other character (which means a little less to balance out the “default gene pool” thing), so those are all the design notes I have for em.

Artificer: The second slugcat I’ve ever played, or finished the campaign of, my favorite for at least a long time, and the first thing I did was give them yellow accents, the shape of which have troubled me slightly (not quite like the spots or stripes of the others). They’re both a little more appealing and more explosive-looking to me, and considering how early on I played Arti, actually present in some of my older art. It does give them a little resemblance to Saint (completely intentional, two slugcats with strange relations to karma), as well as the fact that its radula is green for familiarity with one of its children (at some point it was going to have all-green markings, even!). I’m generous with their scars, partly because it was fun to overemphasize the one on their face and partly because it does seem like a reckless slugcat, on top of the dangers of its explosive abilities–I’ll probably just keep adding more forever. Mostly-red sea slugs aren’t too common, but Hexabranchus sanguineus works for sure. The ridged, yellow dewlap can expand for combustion purposes, or something along those lines. Arti’s where I began experimenting with a lot of the mildly-offkilter features seen in my interpretation of slugcats, as they’ve once again been a favorite from the start.

Rivulet: I've obviously given other slugcats spots, deeply enjoy the bubbly-soda markings of other peoples' slugcats, and thought seal riv would be cute. Despite not too closely resembling it, they've been government-assigned Hypselodoris bennetti, for color reasons and for a couple sentimental ones. Originally, the colors of every scug were meant to match up with the custom colors I gave them at the beginning of their campaigns, (though Arti, Gourm and Spearmy are the only three who actually apply here, since I've only played through half the slugcats: I gave arti the yellow as mentioned above, gourm brown eyes and spearmy light pink spears, furthered by the outskirts pearl accompanying me and that palette all the way to moon. Tolerance training for eternity in hell cause I already knew about the maroon pearl quest). I initially gave them the colors of the bi flag for fun... but with the limited palette of this image, I was left without pink for a while and decided to see how they'd look in red. I then realized how they now wonderfully matched Moon, and besides, red's a sort of camouflage in deep water! As a side-note, the difference between their eyes and those of others always bothered me a little for anatomical purposes, and the cephalopod eyes were probably influenced by this!

Spearmaster: Inspired as much as possible by @notyourfunnyman ’s wonderful spearmy: designed in a way that helps it fit in with scavengers, at least between the long sensory tentacles, big ruff, back spines and slightly thin/distended anatomy, a form of defensive mimicry. I always had annulate rhinophores in mind, for a little diversity sure, but mostly because the shape reminds me of radio antennae and communication towers (seems fitting for the comms array and being a messenger slugcat)! I started searching for a real-life slug to give them just by looking up their rhinophore shape...and was met immediately and coincidentally with annulate-topped nudibranchs that fit them more perfectly than I could've imagined: Flabellina and surrounding clades, I think Paraflabellina ischitana works very nicely. The orange was completely unplanned, but there wasn’t a place for light pink among the other slugcats’ palettes, and importantly it likens them to both Hunter and Seven Red Suns a little more.

Saint: I am very much a non-furred slugcat enjoyer, with respect to those who aren’t, so figuring out the only visibly furred slugcat was an interesting challenge. I’ve decided that they likely have other, milder adaptations for help in the cold, mainly just more efficient fat storage, and what looks vaguely like fur is instead a bunch of tubercles (called caryophillia, for the second reminder out of three). Their inspiration doesn’t have these, however, Miamira sinuata’s numerous yellow and blue spots (not to mention...whatever’s going on with that shape) and general effect of being the only really green nudibranch I could find were probably perfect for a strange green echo. Not pictured, but their beak-teeth are tiny and flat to make a surface for grinding soft food against with the lack of a functioning radula, which is tipped with a specialized spiny “grapple-hook” for better traction/grip (not to mention the numerous little teeth running down the whole thing).

(Best part of hiding this under a readmore means edits will be seen by all reblogs, I'm mostly sure, because I completely forgot to mention! The spots on their forehead are simple eyes. Their camera eyes appear closed in-game, I like to believe their complex eyesight is rather poor anyways or otherwise reason that they aren't seeing out of those, and while this was far from her REASON for attunement with the world, it does help compensate for mainly viewing it through a canvas of simple light and dark. This, and the fact that their swapped-out "fur" is not only to commit to a lack of hairs but contributes to sensory input!)

Nightcat/Enot: I guess you could say I found the “these two are technically the same person” compelling. (E.g. similar colors, both very strange and enigmatic, and Enot/Inv/Sofanthiel’s remark during the dating sim about getting removed from Arena Mode.) I doubt they’re the only two slugcats in their body, considering humans with DID tend to have more than a few (and I find it very funny that a slugcat bearing resemblance to Nightcat appears in Gourmand’s ending. They’re allowed in the colony and Enot isn’t </3), and I have to credit @faelingdraws ’s art for being what convinced me on it! Their design inspirations come down to trying to balance a few different ideas: making the patterns and palettes of both look oddly similar (special mention to the stars, since those are fun to draw), basing them off of Felimare sechurana and juliae respectively, using blocks of color with the same placement as in Enot’s official art, and specifically making Enot look...biologically reasonable and imperfect, whilst also clearly trying to imitate human displays of emotion (what with...the eyes and blush on that one piece of official art).

Lastly, here’s just a lineup with notes on body shape and size. Most of the nicknames (existing to give a little more space, that’s all) are obvious, and while I can’t remember why I shortened Nightcat to Nox, it is in honor of my friend by the same nickname :]

#survivor rain world #monk rain world #hunter rain world #nightcat rain world #gourmand rain world #artificer rain world #rivulet rain world #spearmaster rain world #saint rain world #enot rain world #slugcat rain world #rain world #peridots-art #< feels like too long since that last tag's been used. i can say with certainty that the majority of the reason i haven't been just as #active here (not to mention not drawing as often since that's relevant) is just due to my life getting busier with a new school year but i #do miss putting my stuff here! and would like to reblog more on top of that.... so forgive not remembering exactly how to tag everything #(and how to write everything up there but to be fair it's not like long textposts were a staple of mine. i mostly just rambled and it was #fun hehehe.....some of those notes (parts of riv/spears mostly) were written around the beginning of the drawing itself)#OH i messed something up with the drafting and really did not mean to post it while tags were in progress! but regardless. i would've liked #to post it tomorrow to mirror how i was going to post it on JAN 29 a month ago......but it's not like i'm unhappy with this outcome :]#to sum it up really though it's been strange working on this for so long.....unfortunate to not get a chance to let it be seen and keep #experimenting with odd biology much earlier but i'm just glad it's out now cause i am proud of these!! it's been a lot of fun and slugcats #are still my go-to doodles :] if i had to end this off promptly though what's up with that secret pipeyard shelter as gourm that's not on #the maps. connected to vs_a04. doesn't appear on the miraheze or interactive maps for anyone strangely but i've only been there as gourmand #anyway! i'm sure there's a lot i could've said in the rush but goodbye dear reader anyway :]#i forgot spearmy initially. i'm so sorry

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dailyfrostpaw · 5 months

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Day Eight

[Image ID: a Frostpaw from warrior cats made from paintwater-stained paper towels and news paper. Her body is made from white paper towel while her limbs, ears and face are made of news paper and mottled blue-gray papertowel. She is floating, front paws curled in front of her, belly exposed. She has flattened ears and a sad eyes, no mouth. To her left is a leaf cut in the shape of a star, surrounded by words cut out from the newspaper. Top to bottom, left to right, they read, "home" "are you ready?" "a guardian to make decisions for you?" "we are here to help." "A" "leader" "crowned" "your choice" "unity".]

#this is not exactly how i wanted it but im still proud because Fuck You #i put. 4 hours into this. i desire pride. and main tags #frostpaw #warrior cats #please let me know if i can improve the image description i found this sort of hard to describe

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beansprean · 7 months

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A repressed semen-stealing witch memo from @sorryitsinadmissible’s fic "Necromancer's Guide to Seed Extraction (4th Edition)", which I’m obsessed with fjdjdjd

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Full body of Guillermo as a witch on a mottled purple background. He is dressed in pointy purple and white button boots, dark green velvet pants, and a velvet double breasted purple waistcoat with black lapels and gold buttons over a sparkly black shirt with sleeves rolled to his biceps. He also has a gold crucifix around his neck, leather gloves, and black witch's hat on his head with a few charms dangling from the brim including a gold star, a clutch of red berries, and a small corked vial full of white fluid. Guillermo is smiling at the viewer, right hand raised by his head and snapping, throwing gold sparks. His left arm is clutching a very old looking book with tarnished gold detailing to his chest. Text above him points to his head and says "Thinkin penis thoughts". 1b. Bust of Guillermo on a mottled teal background in a purple shirt with rolled sleeves. He is concentrating on pulling a glove onto his left hand, cheeks pink, hiding his fluster under a stern brow as he declares, "I take no pleasure in this (I swear)." 1c. Waist up of Nandor laying on his back against an upright surface, arms raised above his head and pinned by writhing purplish-black vines. He frowns, eyes large and pleading as he whines back, "Not even a little?" /end ID

#wwdits #nandermo #mlm #witch guillermo #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #fic rec

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chernabogs · 3 months

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The Moon

Inc: Malleus, briefly Prefect Warnings: Some spoilers for the platinum jacket bday vignette. The laundry... LMAO WC: 2.5k Summary: 4 firsts that Malleus had under the watchful gaze of his oldest friend. First moments, first shop, first wash, first friend.

1—First Moments.

There is an envy of the moon that rots through his heart as a plague does the flesh.

The moon was his friend for the longest time in his youth; people would pass like a breeze—tutors, courtiers, servants, —leaving him stagnant, alone. But the moon would always return. She’d look down at where he leaned out the window, his small hands grasping the stones to steady himself, and her silver light would bath over him like the gentle touch of a mother—at least, how he imagined that touch to be. He’d whittle away hours admiring her mottled surface, and she’d whittle away hours gazing back, until she would eventually vanish with the night as the inky black sky faded to a twilight blue.

The envy existed because she always had the opportunity to come and go. Malleus was confined to a box for much of his life. Never once did he need to lift a finger, even if he desired to;

your highness is not meant to do that. Your highness is not meant to toil, and labour, and break the earth as we must. Hot sun should not kiss your fragile skin, sweat should not touch your brow. You must always remain above and away. Let us harvest for your needs; let us serve.

No one ever worked for the moon. She controlled the tides, made the Valley livable, and in return was worshipped for her trials among those denizens. One does not tell the moon you are not meant to do that. You are not meant to toil, and labour, and wrestle the tides for our needs. That was preposterous to think. So, should he not, too, work alongside the rest to make the Valley a better place? Would that not make the most sense?

For a while he resented it. He would turn to his side to face away from the window as night came, grasping his sheets with his hands and glaring into the darkness as though the moon would feel sad in his absence. That’s a silly thought. A floating rock in space cannot fathom the emotions burdened by fae and man alike. But in his childish mind—packed with tales of birds that talk and trees that walk—it was perfectly reasonable. Sometimes, it still is.

The resentment only lasted a few weeks before guilt began to eat him. That’s a silly thought, too. To feel guilty over ignoring a rock. Yet the next night he did find himself leaning on that window ledge once more, looking up at her with wide eyes as her silver light brushed across his cheeks. I’m sorry, he had whispered, knowing she could not hear but imagining she did.

The sun may not see his skin, but the moon certainly did, and she kissed it goodnight every evening before he went to rest. Lilia once told him his mother was a star, but Malleus wagered she’s far more than that. A star cannot contain the love and power he learned her to have.

No, looking up to the silver light above, he knew precisely what she had joined in those celestial skies.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

2—First Shop.

The opportunity for growth first came when he was invited to NRC. There is a first time for everything, and Malleus was quick to experience many in those early weeks of his initial year.

The first time shopping alone. Most experience this when they become adults, or they get a taste in their teenage years when their parent allows them to embark to a mall, or a place with companions. Malleus faced a trial by fire when he needed to purchase snacks for himself in his off time—he did have an appetite.

The cart broke, and that’s precisely when he knew this had been a dire mistake. Actually, he knew that when Lilia told him he was unable to go into town with Malleus. The discount store was the best place to get food for cheap and so Lilia had guided him here, and now the wheel was bent in a strange way and when he pushed it, it squeaked, or it didn’t move at all, and god this was awful, this was not how he planned—

Until an employee came. A single glance and a kick to the wheel fixed all his errors and so the crown prince of Briar Valley, with a charming flush of embarrassment to his cheeks, shoved the cart through the automatic doors after a mumbled word of gratitude. He’d get better at thanking people later. Gifts, for example, would be granted quite freely.

The second trial of shopping came in acquiring the items. Malleus was intelligent. Incredibly so, in fact. Many of his tutors had not been able to keep up with his leaps and strides in the academic field (if one ignores how he threw tantrums and caused a majority to quit in the first place). However, ill-equipped was he for the trials of price vs quality comparison, and so he found himself in a stand still at many points with two boxes in his hand, trying to rationalize which one had the better ingredients and was it really worth the additional 5 madol?

The experience took a grand total of two hours. Lilia called once—only to make sure Malleus did not become lost between the store and the school. A quick call became a long ordeal when Malleus barraged the man with questions regarding if it’s worth investing in carbonated water or not. He settled for whatever was in the taps at NRC, and he paid cash for it all. Because Lilia did, at least, inform him that paying with jewels was probably not an acceptable currency in the discount grocery outlet.

At the end of it all, when he was digging through the box of granola bars on his desk at a late hour, and the moons silver light was greeting him for the first time in an entirely new land, a sense of confidence in his ability to handle any trial ahead caused a smirk to curl on Malleus’ lips.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

3— First Wash.

That is until he met the machine.

He was a night owl. What he didn’t realize was that most teenage boys are night owls as well. He had not the faintest idea where the laundry room even was and deemed that 2 am in the kitchen was the best time to compensate for this. So enraptured in his scrubbing was he that he failed to hear the student until he heard an awkwardly spoken, “Um?” over his shoulder.

What a sight he must have been. Wide, green eyes glowing in the dark as he was hunched over the sink, a sock in one hand and a brush in the other. Perhaps his hair was disarrayed from the furious scrubbing to remove any dirt, perhaps his fangs were shown in his frustration of soap suds getting everywhere. Either way, the poor boy who had wandered into the kitchen for a midnight snack and encountered this was quite shocked. Malleus had straightened up, and a lingering silence had ensued until the boy had spoken once more in a frail, cracking voice.

“Housewarden? Why are you washing your clothes in the kitchen sink?”

Why, indeed? Malleus had the choice to take the prideful route and say that he wanted to, and so he did. Spare himself the embarrassment. Or he could own up to reality and admit a slight bit of vulnerability to the student. He wanted to form camaraderie and friendship—so perhaps vulnerability was the right way to go.

“I could not find the laundry room.” He had replied, a bit blunt in his words. The student stared at him for a moment longer before slowly blinking as the prince’s words registered to him. His mouth opened slightly, and he half turned to look out the kitchen door.

“Oh, I just use magic.” The student had then pointed to the stairs where the dorms were. “But you can probably just have someone take your load next time.”

Malleus knew his expression soured at the comment because the student’s face had dropped to worry. Let us harvest for your needs; let us serve.; this echoed in his mind as his hand had tightened around the sock. “No, I can do it myself.”

The words were cold to the point of cutting. Silence, once more, before the student had cleared his throat again. “... I am overdue for a load myself. Do you want me to show you the room?”

A simple question had been enough to ease any tension. Malleus’ expression had softened, and within twenty minutes, two boys were embarking in the dark with soapy laundry and baskets to scour the laundry room on their expansive campus. Malleus had looked to the moon as they passed and imagined her laughing at his plight.

Many tales regale of brave knights who encounter ferocious beasts in their endeavours, with voices that sound of a thousand cries and mouths that spew a volley of ash upon their polished armor. The knights inevitably slay the beast and parade its head proudly for all the adoring villagers to see.

Malleus’ beast had a body of stainless steel, and a mouth that chewed and swished clothing around with great fury. The first time he saw it, he had set his basket down and looked at the boy with an expression of; are you kidding me? Technology and the prince were not friends. Two phones burned within the first 48 hours of getting them had demonstrated that so far. But the boy exhibited a patience unseen as he had loaded his wash and walked the prince through the process of putting the laundry pod in, hitting the timer, and then hitting ‘start.’

The rumble of the wash had signified success. When Malleus repeated the steps with his own load and a second rumble had filled the wide, otherwise empty room, he felt quite akin to those knights slaying the beast.

The two of them had sat in the benches of that laundry room together until the load was done and the boy could show him the dryer. They had never really spoken again after that encounter, but the memory of the boy's compassion (a rarity for NRC students) in aiding the prince was not lost on him. When the boy was suddenly hit with a streak of uncanny luck, and he had asked himself why, perhaps he had a lingering idea of why this was—but he would say nothing, nor would the prince.

Only the moon knew the answer to that question.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

4—First Friend.

They had seemed utterly, completely, unequivocally normal when he first met them. Oh, he had heard about them—after all, one doesn’t just burst out of a coffin without the entire school knowing within the hour—but he had not met them, and when he finally did, he found himself to be quite underwhelmed. They were shorter than him, but just as quiet, and he had yet to know that those lingering awkward moments outside of Ramshackle would uproot his life in the most wondrous of ways.

The moon knew. But she couldn’t say anything; she just kept smiling down with her silvery grin from the skies above.

He hadn’t meant to return to them, but in time he did, until eventually the student from Ramshackle ingrained themself in his routine in a way that baffled him completely. Sometimes he would look down at them on their walks and wonder to himself now, where did you appear from?, as though the night would whisper the answer in his ear and he’d go, ah yes, that makes perfect sense.

The night is where they convalesce the most. In the beginning the student did not sleep often and Malleus, still ever the night owl, took advantage of this. He would abscond with them in the night (oh, he could imagine his Senate wailing how scandalous! in their flickering forms) and they would walk a familiar loop around campus until returning to the steps of Ramshackle once more.

Sometimes they talked the entire way. Other times they would simply move in silence, an unspoken understanding between them of two people in a routine they were both quite comfortable with. When an overblot had happened, the student would tell Malleus about the event, and he would nod in grave understanding—not knowing what they felt, since he never experienced it himself, but empathizing with them all the same.

It would also allow him to make a mental note to reach out to the affected party later. Just to check in.

Winter break had been a time of upset for him because it had disrupted the routine he was used to. Back in the box, back in his room, with servants attending every need. The freedom he had become accustomed to being robbed from him made him feel like a mad dog in a cage and the absence of those now familiar night walks had him glaring at the sky. The moon was still there—so one member of their party was present—but the student was back at NRC, and it created a sort of them shaped void in his chest that made him restless.

They didn’t reply to his holiday card. Maybe he had overstepped, or maybe they were like him and lost track of time on occasion. He liked to imagine it was the latter. He liked to try and find more things similar between them both beyond a love for the night and the moon.

When he had returned and they had given him the VDC tickets, another sense of joy had sparked in his chest as he had held those tickets tight. A warmth flooding throughout his body, something he hadn’t quite felt before beyond when he looked at his family, and he wondered in that moment if this is what it felt like to be a part of something. He had always imagined having those experiences—being invited to parties, creating mischief in the night, sharing secrets and laughter under the stars. The student was granting these to him, despite both parties not knowing so yet.

The moon knew, though. She kept smiling down at them as they would whisper on their walks, hands close enough to brush but not touching each other because that felt too far just yet. She would observe the way Malleus would watch the student until they re-entered Ramshackle to ensure that they made it inside safe, and the faint smile on his lips as he walked away.

She knew, even when they did not.

For now, however, Malleus was comfortable calling the student friend. They were someone who did not walk before him in guidance, or behind him in subservience. They walked comfortably by his side as an equal, and for that, they held more significance than he cared to admit.

NRC had brought many firsts to Malleus’ life, and as each moment passed, he felt that envy of the moon fade away. For in the end, to be envious of his oldest friend was a pointless thing.

#malleus draconia #twst #twst fanfiction #malleus x reader #somewhat... more platonic but w those lil hinty hints yk #hehe his bday vignette rotating in my brain <3 this man #also wow look MORE dia... ;;

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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Steve Harrington x fem!reader [9.7K] late nights, poolside, getting high and wondering why the boy next door is always sporting a black eye. smut.

Summer at two am smelled like chlorine and smoke, like boys aftershave and the coconut sunscreen you hadn’t reapplied since that afternoon. It was pool lights underwater, the warm glow of a patio pit fire, the buzz of faraway cicadas. It felt rosy, hazy, like the sky wasn’t dark and the sun still lingered, even amongst the stars.

Summer at two am brought out the boy next door, cuts and bruises and all, a freshly rolled joint in his hand as he leaned over the garden fence and asked, “got a light?”

That’s how it started, this thing, this friendship, with Steve Harrington. You just didn’t expect it to lead to what it did.

The first night, June had barely started and Steve was just another boy you’d known from school, a pretty boy with a bruised up face and he appeared at your shared fence, hazy behind the steam that came off of the heated pool. He was lit up in shades of blue, from the water, the reflections, the marks around his eyes and cheek, hanging over the wooden slats, looking like he didn’t care anymore.

About anything. Anything at all.

He watched the way you brought your own roll up to your lips, the end burning amber, almost smoked down to the roach. You were sitting at your pool, bare legs in the water and the too big shirt you wore only held together by a few buttons. The big, expensive house behind you lying as empty as the Harrington’s and when Steve asked if he could borrow the lighter that sat on the patio tiles beside you, you’d nodded.

But you hadn’t expected him to jump the fence so effortlessly, trainers crunching gravel under their soles and he walked towards you like it was no big deal, like you were more than just two people who had nodded at each other in the hallway, who got off at the same bus stop every day before Steve got a car and drove by you instead.

Sometimes you’d see him in his own yard, lying out bare chested in the afternoon heat, a can of soda and a pair of headphones for company. And when his parents were home from whatever business trip they’d been on, you only saw the boy through his bedroom window, adjacent to yours, an accidental TV screen to what King Steve got up to when he was alone.

You knew by default that that meant he could see into your room too, with the buttercup yellow walls and pinned polaroids. You knew he’d caught a glance or two of you in a state of undress, underwear on show, sleep shirt too short and riding up past your thighs.

You’d burned before you remembered to close the curtains, telling yourself that you did care.

But he was the boy that was once popular, pretty face, kind eyes, never home and running around with a new crowd that didn’t seem to be accepting new memberships. You heard his car leave his driveway and not come back for a full day, sometimes not until the next. And from through the gap in your curtains, you always expected the boy to stumble into his house with a girl in tow, maybe a boy, maybe both. Attached at the lips like in the movies, hands groping, eyes closed, in the throes of something heated. But if Steve wasn’t alone, he was only ever with friends.

And then, at nights, by the pool with you.

You didn’t ask him where the bruises came from, you didn’t pry, and Steve liked that. It’s why he sat down next to you after he’d lit his own joint, cotton shorts pulled across his thighs as he let his legs drop into the warm water beside your own.

You watched him take a long drag, head tipped back so he could look at the stars as he held the smoke in his lungs and when he blew it all out, it sounded like the world’s heaviest sigh. Steve looked tired, he looked sore and the lavender colour bruises along his cheekbone looked mottled and dark.

His fingers brushed yours when he handed back the zippo, heavy and silver with a curling sticker on the front, a pastel coloured peach that you’d drawn eyes and a smile on.

“Thanks,” he’d said, taking a few more puffs before offering the joint to you, and you’d accept, ‘cause it was only polite, right?

You were already past the point of feeling lighter, floaty, airy. And Steve was quick to join you there, on a pool water coloured cloud above your yard, ankles dipped in the warmth, head resting in the sky.

Well, that’s what it felt like, lying on your backs side by side, the dampness of the grass pressed to your backs and it was strange, the way you could speak to Steve a little easier when you were both staring at the sky.

You whispered into the night with him, stayed up until the sun broke the blackness and started colouring the clouds tangerine and pink, a cotton candy sky appearing on the horizon and you missed the stars, the way Steve’s words seemed to get stolen by the moon, ‘cause there was nothing out there but you two.

But the sun came up and the high wore off, the joint smoked to a stub. The air only grew warmer as a new day began and you heard the tell tale sound of six am sprinklers, Mr and Mrs Sibbald’s garden hose coming to life.

You’d watched as Steve sat up and stretched, blinking in the red morning light and he’d looked over at you as if he wasn’t all that sure if you were real, if you were a dream, if you were supposed to have disappeared with the stars. You weren’t sure what you’d spent four hours talking about, if you were totally honest, the joint had been passed and finished an hour in, the rest of the night taken up by shared secrets that neither of you could remember, small laughs and bright smiles, the kind that made Steve’s eyes turn into honey.

He hopped back over the fence like it was nothing, as if he’d never even been there to begin with. The only evidence he left was wet footprints across the patio, leading from you to the edge of your yard and you thought that that was it, a one off, one night, a Thing never to be spoken about again.

But the week after, when Friday night was leaking into Saturday morning, a small pebble narrowly missed your knee and plopped into the pool instead. You tried to hide the smoking joint behind your back on instinct, heart rattling your ribcage at the thought of your parents returning home early.

You looked up from where you sat, legs back in the water, a book by your thigh and an ex-boyfriend's hoodie covering your bikini from the summer night breeze. It wasn’t your dad though, or your mom. No disappointed gazes, furrowed brows or downturned lips. No, none of that.

Steve stood by the fence instead, forearms leaning against the ledge, another rock held between finger and thumb. He dropped it when your gaze found his, no need for any other projectiles now he had your attention. There was an unlit joint tucked behind his ear and the bruises from last week were fading. But he had glasses on this time, thin, gold rimmed ones that made him look prettier than ever, a disarmingly kind of charming. His hair was messy, his t-shirt soft looking and threadbare and he didn’t saything to you this time, just raised his brows and smiled.

You tried to hide your own, the way it wanted to stretch across your lips too big and too bright, too excited. ‘Cause the night had settled in and the town was too quiet, like you and Steve Harrington were the only ones left awake. You nodded, kicked a leg through the water and you didn’t need to look to know that Steve saw.

The boy hopped the fence.

He was warm and solid as he sat down beside you, almost too close too soon but you didn’t find that minded all that much. He smelled nice, like aftershave and boy and a little line mint and the forest, sharp and clean. He was showing off too much skin again, old gym shorts hiked up his thighs as he sat with his legs in the water, the collar of his shirt thin and stretched out, like he wore it for comfort not style.

You didn’t let Steve bother lighting his own smoke, handing him your own joint instead of your zippo and you noted the flicker of surprise on his face. But he didn’t say protest, just took it carefully from your fingers and slipped it between his lips, murmuring a soft ‘thanks’ as he did.

It took one puff, one pass, two puffs, three, before anyone spoke again and you were surprised to find it was Steve who did it first. You were still a couple of drags away from finding the courage, that warm, slow feeling that would let you look the boy in the eye without burning up.

“Where’re your folks?” He asked quietly.

You peered up at him, wondering if he’d really noticed these things the way you noticed him. “Uh, country club? I think? Or a dinner at a friend's place, I can’t remember.”

“They’re not around a whole lot, huh?” Steve posed it like a question but you knew it wasn’t. ‘Cause he kept talking, didn’t wait for an answer that he already knew. “Neither are mine.”

You nodded, not trying to pretend that you didn’t know that either. ‘Cause there was only ever Steve’s car in the driveway and when Mr and Mrs Harrington did return, their son was always out, making a point of leaving early and coming home too late.

“Gets lonely right?” You whispered to the pool, that floaty, hazy feeling you wanted finally settling over your head. The pool glittered in response. “In those big houses, when it’s just you.”

Steve hummed, agreeing and you were brave enough then, high enough then, to look over at him. He was shades of blue, all indigo shadows and aquamarine highlights, reflections from the pool lights on his skin. And that’s all it took, that shared gaze, the shared joint, the feeling of knowing that someone felt the same way you did.

After that, you and the boy created some sort of routine. That wasn’t to say you saw every night, or every Saturday. In fact, some weeks you didn’t see him at all. Those days were lonely, stretched out on a neon pink pool float, your shirt wet as you lazed around the edges of the pool until the sun came up and your parents realised you weren’t in your bed.

You’d see Steve during the gaps in the day, maybe a glimpse of him through the gap in his curtains, shirtless and half asleep, lying on his bed with a new bruise on his side. Sometimes out the window when a van pulled up on the street, Eddie Munson waiting in the front for Steve to jump in and you’d stare as they drove off, wondering why they looked so worried.

It was the nights after these stretches of loneliness that were the best. When you left the backyard lights on for Steve to see, sitting out by the pool half dressed, the summer air suffocating, smoke and steam from your lips and the water filling the night sky.

A familiar dance.

Two o’clock, stars out, the buzz of the pool filter, the heat from the water and the leftover July sun. The smell of chlorine and weed, the sunscreen you’d rubbed into your skin earlier that day and this… this thing… with Steve?

It had been happening so often that now he didn’t ask, didn’t seek out permission to join you. You just waited for the slide of his back door, the soft sigh he gave out when he spotted you and god, it made your heart rattle.

You weren’t sure he even knew that he made that little noise. But sometimes, after the sun came up, and you went to bed alone, you would dream about it.

He’d jump the fence, as always, effortless and easy. A joint held out in offering, sometimes refused ‘cause you’d already lit one in anticipation of his company. He sat too close, he always did. Bare skin on bare skin, arms brushing, shoulders bumping, knees pressed up against the others as you both sunk your feet into the water.

You knew the colour of his eyes then, all the shades of brown and gold and caramel. You knew the way he laughed, how his lashes met in the corners when he really, really smiled at you. You knew that he was touchy, almost flirty, all soft words despite the way he was all sharp lines.

“M’gonna owe you a whole greenhouse by the time summer's up,” Steve commented mildly, but he took your offered joint all the same.

The water trickled, lapped around the edges of both of your legs and you grinned at the boy, shrugging ‘cause you really didn’t mind sharing. Not with Steve.

“You took forever to come out,” you complained without heat. “I got bored.”

Steve snorted, nudging his shoulder to yours. “No, you’re just impatient.”

You didn’t reply to that, didn’t really need to because the boy was right and it had only been one month but he could read you like a book already. And what an odd thing to realise, considering you didn’t let many people into your pages.

Instead, you let your gaze settle on his cheek, the edges of an old bruise still blooming blue, mottled green and yellow as it started to heal. It covered the slant of his cheek bone, narrowly missing his eye. More often than not, Steve Harrington was a watercolour of injuries, and after watching him lead the basketball team in high school, you had a feeling it wasn’t due to clumsiness.

“Does that still hurt?”

You never asked why, you never asked how or who or what. That was one of Steve’s favourite things about you. You knew his favourite colour, his favourite movie. You asked him about his job and his day and his friends and how he was feeling.

But on the nights he spent with you in your backyard, when he was cut and bruised and with an eye swollen shut, you never pried.

This was as close as you’d ever got to acknowledging it.

So Steve took a long drag as he thought what to say, because he knew he owed you that much. And you asked it so sweetly, in a small, soft voice that Steve didn’t hear from you all that much ‘cause you were brave and unapologetic and sometimes a little mean to him but he loved the way you teased.

He blew the smoke to the sky, counted the stars that he could see amongst the glow of the streetlights and then turned back to you. He passed the joint, smiled a little tiredly but then he shook his head.

“Nah,” he told you softly, his voice a little rough with emotion and god, he wasn’t supposed to feel the way he felt when he looked at you. That wasn’t the plan. “Nah, s’okay now.”

“Yeah?” You blinked at him, joint forgotten about as you gazed at him, wide eyed.

Christ, you were too sweet.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he smiled, blinding and pretty, and Steve tucked his chin to his chest to hide it.

And then: “It’s not… it’s not your dad, right?”

You were almost positive it wasn’t. Steve bloomed fresh bruises when his dad was out of town, out of state. But sometimes you heard the yelling when the older man was home and there was often the sound of a fist hitting a wall, a table, maybe something else.

Steve’s smile faltered, just for a second, and you watched him look back to you, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. You thought he’d maybe be offended, shocked at the idea of you thinking such a thing. But he looked at you and he knew what you knew, what you’d heard, what you understood.

His foot touched yours underwater, feeling much warmer than it should’ve been, ‘cause the brush of his skin over yours felt so, so intimate.

Steve shook his head, held your stare so you’d see the truth there.

“It’s not, no,” he told you. “Promise.”

Maybe you were too high, maybe you were feeling brave in the dark, with nothing but the lights on the water. You reached up, slow and careful, giving the boy time to pull away if he wanted to.

He didn’t.

You brushed the tips of your fingers over the faded bruise, over the slant of Steve’s cheekbone and your breath hitched at the way he leaned into your touch. You traced the colours there, the freckle that was hidden amongst the blue and lavender.

Steve blinked, pretty eyes all heavy and sleepy, pupils blown wide from the weed, maybe from you.

The air stilled, maybe time stopped, but the whole town was quiet and it was like some kind of spell, a slow motion love potion, a pretty kind of magic shared between you and the boy next door. Your touch made his lashes flutter, the brown of his eyes turn softer, impossibly so. Did you lean in first? Did Steve? Were you imagining this?

And then--

The kitchen light snapped on, flooding the backyard in more light than you were used to, illuminating the pair of you by the poolside. You gasped, a sharp, shocked noise and you were turning, staring wide eyed as your parents appeared through the window, lit up by the refrigerator door.

Steve swore, eyes set on the early intrusion and when you turned back to him, your noses brushed and Jesus Christ, you were so close to him. The joint was still burning, the air still sticky sweet and Steve was sitting beside you as if he was still waiting for a kiss.

The patio door slid open, a slow roll, a warning noise and if it weren’t for the hydrangea’s, your late night secret would’ve been spotted almost immediately. You heard your father, voice only coloured with a little concern, call out your name into the dark.

“Honey? Are you out here?”

You stubbed the joint out on the patio tiles, frantic and Steve’s getaway route was blocked, his side of the fence closer to where your father now stood. So you cursed under your breath and stared at the boy, grimacing in what felt like an apologetic smile.

“Deep breath,” you managed to warn him and then, you were pushing yourself off of the ledge of the pool, tumbling into the warm water and taking Steve with you.

The water rushed and bubbled around you both, Steve’s fingers wrapped around your wrists in surprise, his hair floating up in a messy halo around his face. The chlorine fizzed around you both, clothes sticking to skin, wrapped around legs and waists and you pushed yourself up to break the surface, watching as your dad stopped a couple of feet away, arms held out in question.

“What?” the man asked you, brows raised. “What’re you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

You sucked in a breath, blinking away the water that clung to your lashes and you pushed your arms to the edge of the pool, leaning on the still sunwarmed tiles. Your joint was still smoking, burning red ash only a few inches to your right.

“Hey, dad,” you grinned, pushed your back from your forehead and tried to act casual. “What’s up?”

Under the water, Steve was clinging to your waist, his hands pushed to your wet shirt, slipping over the bare skin there, trying his best to hold himself under the surface. His forehead brushed against the swell of your stomach, hair tickling your hip bone, nose bumping against your navel as he tried to keep himself hidden.

You could feel him everywhere.

“Why on earth are you in the pool?” Your dad questioned, and despite it being a reasonable thing to ask, you scrunched your nose, acting offended, fingers curling around the ledge so you could slip further into the water.

Steve pressed closer, bubbles sneaking out from his lips, his hands wide and warm on your hips as he moved himself into the space between your body and the pool wall, holding himself there. His face was level with your stomach, nose nudging at the space under your breasts, t-shirt riding up with the flow of the water. You knew he could see your underwear, bright green, a wicked emerald colour and you squeaked when he plucked a lace edge, taunting, teasing.

“What? Can’t I indulge in a late night swim?” You frowned, acting hurt. “S’not like you and mom are here to keep me company.”

The man sighed and you could see how he backed off, edging back to the patio doors, back to safety where he didn’t need to deal with his twenty something daughter and her attitude problem.

“As long as that’s all you’re indulging in.”

It must have only been a minute, tops, but as soon as the patio door rolled shut and the pool faded back to a deep blue, Steve burst to the surface, gasping. You grinned and rolled your eyes, not that he could see, but it was all full of affection and you noted the way he still hadn’t let go of you, one hand still on your waist as he swept his wet hair out of his eyes. He looked awfully pretty, glittering with water under the moon and the pool lights, droplets clinging to his lashes, rolling over the curve of his lip, t-shirt stuck to him.

“Are you under the impression I have gills, or somethin’?” Steve coughed out, grinning at you despite his words. “They’re back early, no?”

“Very early,” you agreed, peering over the pool edge as you watched your parents through the glass doors, making their way up the stairs.

“Maybe your daddy could sense that his little girl was gettin’ up to no good,” Steve whispered, and god, he was still so close, lips almost at the shell of your ear as you both kicked your legs to stay afloat.

You shivered despite the heat from the water, lazy tendrils of vapour rolling off of your skin, rolling into the night air. You turned to face the boy, biting away a smile, bottom lip tucked between teeth and you tilted your head at him.

“Are you talking about the weed? Or you?”

Your palm grazed Steve’s stomach, felt bare skin and a trail of hair from where his shirt and rucked up, wet and stuck across his ribs. The muscles in his abdomen clenched, tightening under your brief touch but neither of you pulled back. Treading water made it easier to hold each other, hands grabbing and brushing up against the other, the water pushing and pulling you away, over and over until it settled around you and the night fell quiet again.

Maybe it was supposed to be a hint from inside the house, your mother or your fathers silent suggestion that you needed to get out of the damn pool and into your own bed, or maybe it was just very, very good timing. The pool lights went out, the water and the garden going dark, all navy and indigo, the shadows of the trees inky, the house bathed in complete darkness.

It was only the moon that was left to reflect off of the surface of the pool, a warm glow that made the boy look like he was carved from marble. All strong lines, his jaw, his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the point of his brows.

Steve swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing and he shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips that could’ve been a smirk if he didn’t look so fucking pretty. But that confidence was there, that self assured air that had been growing and building since the first shared smoke, eyes that wandered and lingered, hands that were kept to yourselves.

It reminded you of the boy you watched in high school, the same flirt and boyish charm, just without the arrogance. Steve had grown into himself, had learned how to hold your gaze and really smile, like it was a present just for you. He knew that you liked it when he pressed his side into yours, shoulder to shoulder, noticed how you always held your breath at the first contact, how you liked to play pretend with him and act like it didn’t affect you.

So he’d grin and bite back when you snarked at him, rolled your eyes all fond and acted like nothing he did affected you. And Steve would play the same game until the joint was all but gone and the air smelled sweeter and you both forgot that your hands had been resting on the other’s knee for too, too long.

Like now, perhaps.

‘Cause Steve’s knee was nudging between your bare legs, his hands on your hips, wide and warm, fingers splayed over your waist, thumbs pushed to your tummy and he was practically holding you afloat in the water, chest to chest.

“Me, maybe,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to look at your lips, sighing a little at the way your tongue swept over your bottom one. “But I have a feeling you get up to all sorts of trouble on your own.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, bravery pushing through your nerves at all the flirtatious words, the way Steve was looking at you, all parted lips and through the dark line of his lashes. Your hands slipped over his shoulders, broad and strong, fingers curling over his wet shirt, holding on as he moved you easily around the water, pushing your back against the pool wall and caging you against him.

“Says the boy who sneaks over at night to get high with me,” you whispered back and god, the pool was heated, but you were overly warm, skin burning where Steve touched, cheeks flushing at the sight of him smiling for you. “If anything, you’re the bad influence here, Harrington.”

It was sinful, the way Steve grinned, boyish and all charm, big, brown eyes glittering in the low light. He leaned in, careful, still so hesitant despite the way you were both clinging to each other. His nose bumped against your own, head tilted so the line of it ran along yours. Your eyes fluttered, lashes casting shadow on your cheeks when they closed.

Steve’s breath stuttered and it caught in his chest, an audible gasp and sigh that made you push your chest into his more, hands wrapping around his neck as you waited waited waited--

“Can I--?” Steve whispered and his top lip was already brushing against your own.

“Is this just ‘cause we’re high?” You asked softly, the question breathed against the boy’s mouth. You briefly wondered what you’d do if he said ��yes’, if you’d still lean in just so you could say you’d tasted him, just so you’d be able to think of the feel of him when you lay in bed at night, shirt pushed up around your ribs and your hand shoved into the front of your soaked underwear. “Do you really wanna do this?”

“Do I really wanna kiss you?” Steve asked, and he had his eyes closed too, the both of you up to your shoulders in the pool, hands wrapped around wet bodies and chlorine soaked clothes, foreheads touching as you both waited.

Your hand came to cup his face, too small to really catch most of it but your fingers splayed along the sharp edge of his jaw and your thumb found the corner of his mouth, pulling at the edge of his bottom lip in anticipation and Steve let out a low groan.

“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, “yeah I wanna kiss you. M’high, we both are. But I wanna kiss you when I’m sober too.”

“Yeah?” You asked, breathless, legs tightening around Steves, where he was using one knee to keep you up and level with him.

He nodded, water splashing quietly as he moved into you more, a hand dropping from your waist to catch your thigh, hand curling around the dough there to hitch it to his hip. He squeezed, an overly soft and affectionate gesture and it made your heartbeat clap against your ribs.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out, nose pushing more to your cheek, lips touching yours as he spoke. “Fuck, yeah, sweetheart, I really do.”

So you kissed him, a soft, sweet push of your mouth to Steve’s catching the soft moan he gave you, giving him one back in return. He could’ve pulled you underwater for all you cared, you would’ve just kept kissing him, chlorine and the taste of Steve and smoke all you needed.

It was all slow motion, that same kind of love potion, a magic pull that made your toes curl, made you keen a little needily and open your mouth for the boy. He licked into you, soft and sure, like he knew how to kiss you, like he’d been doing it all along. Steve tilted his head just right, matched the angle you gave him and pushed a hand up your shirt, dragged his palm along your ribs and kept it PG, holding you there as he tried to display every piece of gentlemanly restraint he had and not rock himself into you.

It didn’t help that you were tugging at his hair a little, your hands wandering too, sinking your fingers into the damp curls at the nape of his neck and pulling when his tongue stroked over your own, a surefire way to tell him you liked everything he was doing.

You weren’t sure how far it would’ve gone, how much you would’ve let happen, but somewhere over the fence, a car alarm went off and the Wilkinson’s family dog started barking.

And that was it. A first kiss, stolen behind your parents back, wet and pushed up against the wall of the pool, all chlorine coated with a boy that tasted like summer and smoke.

That was it, for now.

—————

It wasn’t even a week later when you saw Steve again and he was already waiting by the pool when you came out. He turned at the sound of you opening the patio doors, pyjama shorts high on your thighs, a tiny tank top that didn’t do much against the still too warm night air.

He was bruised again, a stain around his cheekbone that was threatening to turn black and blue soon. You knew you weren’t supposed to ask questions, he’d told you before that it wasn’t what you thought, that he couldn’t really explain it.

But it made your heart hurt for him and before you could open your mouth to ask if he was okay, Steve kissed the words away, lips slanting over yours in greeting. It was a little urgent, a little desperate for just a kiss hello and when you both pulled back, you could see the stress knotted between his brows, the dark pull at the corners of his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping.

And neither of you had, no really. That’s why you were both outside at one in the morning.

“I don’t have any shit left,” he told you quietly. “I don’t wanna keep smoking your stash either. I just— I just wanted to see you.”

Steve said it like it wasn’t allowed, as if that wasn’t a part of the agreement, like it was breaking the rules of this… thing you both had going.

You nodded, let your fingers trail down his forearm until your hand found his. He let you tangle your fingers with his own, too close together under the patio light. You could see how tired he looked, how tension clawed at his body and you let out a sigh.

“I smoked the last of mine last night,” you murmured, “or else you know I would’ve shared.”

You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand, kept your eyes off of the bruise on his cheek and tried to smile. It was hard to, the boy didn’t look like himself, like this bruise was different, like this had been one hit too many and he finally felt a little defeated.

With the chaos of the town, the murders, the missing people, you’d watched Steve and his friends disappear each day, only coming home when sleep was needed.

You didn’t ask questions, didn’t want to, didn’t feel like you could. But the boy looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and it had finally splintered the bones in his back.

“You look like you need something to help you chill out, Harrington,” you whispered to him, “you’re all tense.”

You ran your other hand up his chest, a brave move considering you hadn’t seen or spoken to him since you both kissed in the pool, under your sleeping parents bedroom window. But he’d greeted you with a kiss, one that tasted a lot like need and want. Your hand cup the nape of his neck, squeezing gently before your fingers slid into his hair.

You tugged a little at the soft strands, lips parting when his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned onto you, pliable and soft, a small moan leaving his lips at your touch.

“Are you okay?”

Steve hummed, eyes barely opening to look at you fondly. The summer air was heavy, the tension between the two of you palpable. But he smiled, an easy grin taking over his pretty face and he nodded.

“Yeah, m’okay sweetheart.” He sighed, leaned into you more, head falling forward so your nails could scratch at his neck. “Just tired.”

“You should go to bed,” you told him, all mock admonishment ‘cause you knew as well as Steve did that sleep didn’t always come easily.

“You should come with me,” he quipped and his words fell from his mouth without much thought and god, he sounded serious about it, no teasing to be found.

You watched him watch you, hand still curled into his hair, one of his holding your side to keep you close and you watched him swallow, the air thicker than ever. Jesus, were you even breathing? Was Steve?

But you licked at your lip, a nervous habit, noticed how Steve followed the movement with heavy, dark eyes and you nodded, breath catching in your throat before blowing it out shakily.

“Yeah,” you told him, and then as if it were the most casual thing in the world: “alright.”

Steve blinked, “yeah?”

You smiled, ducked your head to try and hide it, letting your hands fall away from him in the hopes that he’d take the initiative and lead you back to his.

“Yeah,” you told him, “we’ve gotta make you relax one way or another, right?”

Steve gulped audibly, lips parting and moving over words he couldn’t quite find yet, staring at you silently. But his eyes were hooded and a darker colour than normal, all burnt sugar and heat.

He nodded, fumbling for the response. His hand found yours and he started to back up towards his house, eyes trained on yours, fingers curling around your own.

“Right,” he agreed, “of course, yeah.” He was breathing a little faster.

“And I can help,” you nodded, following him to his side of the fence, waiting until his back was against it to bring your face to his, noses brushing, eyes falling closed.

“S’real sweet of you,” he huffed out, voice strained because you were so close to kissing him but still so far away from his bed.

“I’m a really good friend,” you murmured and despite the insinuation behind it, Steve really smiled at your words, ‘cause god, a month or two had passed with nights like these and you were his friend.

“The best,” he agreed.

—————

Steve’s room was all shades of blue and violet, the streetlights glowing warm through his closed curtains, the navy plaid bedspread matching the wallpaper. There wasn’t much out of place, everything there that a typical boys room should have.

The mess of clothes on a desk chair, cassette tapes piled high by a stereo, some old basketball trophies on a shelf, a few pinned Polaroids of friends above his desktop and— and a baseball bat, topped with nails sitting against the wall in a corner.

You didn’t ask.

You perched yourself on the edge of the bed, peering up at the boy from underneath your lashes, watching as he moved to stand between your legs. You spread them for him, shivered when he brushed your hair back from your face, a sweet touch of his fingers curling around your ear.

“You look pretty tired too,” Steve whispered, hand cupping the back of your neck like you had done to him, fingers twisting slightly on your hair and he gave a gentle tug, making your head fall back for him, eyes wide as you looked up and met his gaze. “Little tense, huh?”

You nodded, lips tucked between your teeth because Jesus, god, fuck, the anticipation was electric.

“So tense,” you agreed and you reached out, hands grabbing at the front of Steve’s shirt, fingers pulling at the hem so he’d lean down for you. He did. “And nothing to smoke to fix it.”

It was an empty complaint, you knew that, the boy knew that. ‘Cause his lips were ghosting over yours and you could feel his smile, less than shy now he knew what you liked, how you wanted to be kissed, learning quickly after hearing you moan for him in the pool a few nights before.

So he was on you, pushing you back onto the bed, his knee coming up to slot between your thighs as he held himself above you, lips connecting easily, groaning when your mouth parted for him almost instantly.

The window was open and you could still hear the buzz of the cicadas in the woods out back, the drone of the pool heaters, the trickle of the water from that one broken jet in yours.

It wasn’t that much cooler in Steve’s room than it was outside, but maybe that was just the way you’d pressed yourself into each other, sleep clothes shifting easily out of the way for wandering hands, a slow soft drag of fingers across ribs, seeking out new places to touch.

And without the smoke, the week, you could really feel it all, a sudden burn and a live wire touch, no haze to numb the sensation of Steve dragging the rough flat of his palm over the soft of your stomach.

He tasted like spearmint this time, like leftover toothpaste and when his tongue brushed over yours, you groaned, back arching for him.

There it was again, that slow motion feeling, present even without the weed, like memories on a film camera, stuttering over grain and dust. Magic, a spell, a live potion, sticky sweet and tinting everything pink and rosy.

It was dizzying, to kiss Steve like this, to be kissed like this. Slow and lazy, open mouthed and tongues pressing, nose pushed to each other's cheeks, breath coming in huffs and short pants, noises swallowed by the other.

And when Steve pulled back, just a little, just an inch, his pupils were blown wide and god, you thought, maybe he didn’t need to smoke at all to feel like this - a different kind of high.

The boy blew out a stuttering breath as he looked down at you, eyes glittering in the low light, shifting so he lay in the cradle of your hips, groaning a little softly when you gasped out at the feel of him.

“This okay?” He whispered, smoothing the hair back from your forehead, leaning into you to press his lips against your cheek, trailing across your jawline.

His hand stayed safe at your hip, tucked under the cotton of your sleep shirt, thumb smoothing over the soft skin there and you nodded, chest burning at the way Steve was looking at you.

Like you were made of gold, like you were some sort of magic.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Steve,” you gasped out, bringing one knee up to cage him in, thigh pressed to his side and you tried not to get ahead of yourself, tried not to tilt your hips up into his.

Your hands got too desperate though, grabbed at his face to pull him back to your lips, kissing a little needier than before, the pace quickening, the solid weight of him pressing you into his pillows. Everything smelled like Steve, like cologne and mint and boy.

It went on like that, hands shaking as you slipped off shorts and shirts and sweatpants, thumbing over the edges of underwear, cotton and lace. It was easy to flip you both over, Steve letting you do what you wanted with him, lying back and pretending that he couldn’t take the control back off of you if he really wanted to.

Instead, he lay back in the pillows, hand gripping your sides, fingers pushing into the dough there, lips parted and eyes hooded as he stared up at you. He was panting, gaze flickering from your chest to the soft of your stomach, splayed thighs, the way your underwear was hitched high on your hips.

He couldn’t help but stutter out a moan when you rolled your hips over his, the wet spot on your underwear pressed into his, your cunt pressed over the length of his cock, separated only by his boxers and lace.

Steve’s face was a pretty riot, eyes wide, hair wild, lips parted and pouty, his cheeks all flushed. It was hard to stay away, too easy to dip back down, your bra scratching softly against his bare chest, lips finding his again in a kiss that made you both lightheaded.

You pulled away only to whisper to him, lips brushing against his, cupids bows touching, eyes closed.

“Can I make you feel good?” Your voice was impossibly soft and it made Steve’s chest ache. “Will you let me help you relax?”

The boy couldn’t remember a time he’d felt more pent up, heart racing, too warm. He was far from relaxed, too eager to watch you on top of him, all mismatched cotton and lace hiding the parts of you he wanted to see, if you deemed him lucky enough.

But he nodded anyway, greedy for your touch, for anything you might give him. The girl next door, too pretty and too sweet, all coconut sunscreen and chlorine scent skin.

“Christ,” he groaned, “yeah, yeah, please.”

He didn’t know what he was asking for, begging for. He just knew that if you were giving it, he wanted it. You moved slow, a whisper against him, lips trailing sweetly over his jaw, his chin, dipping lower and lower until you were kissing his Adam’s apple and mouthing across his chest, your hair tickling his stomach and he felt you grin against him when his muscles flexed, tensing at your touch.

Your hands smoothed over the front of his boxers, sucking in a breath when his cock twitched under the material, hot and hard and thick. You looked up to see Steve fighting with himself, struggling between throwing his head back into the pillows - jaw slack and eyes slammed shut - and keeping his gaze trained on everything you were doing.

You repeated his words back to him, eyes on his as you tucked your fingers into the band of his underwear. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve groaned out. “I think you’re gonna kill me, but yeah, it’s okay,” and he laughed a little here you did, a huff of warm air over his navel as you grinned up at him.

He shivered at every touch, swore out loud when you dragged the band of his underwear down and let his cock spring free, the weight of it slapping up against his stomach.

Another pretty noise when you wrapped your hand around him, thick and warm in your palm and you watched as Steve’s jaw clenched. You soothed him with a soft tsk, lips pressed to the tops of his thigh but the boy was a mess.

“Sensitive?” You whispered, your hand pumping him slowly, twisting your wrist when you got to his head, the tip of him already slick and sliding into your palm.

It took a while for Steve to reply, to contain the boyish whines he was trying not to let out, but he eventually sucked in a breath and pushed himself to his elbows to stare down his body at you, rosy cheeked and in awe.

“Just, fuck— just been a while, since…” he trailed off, gone for you, entranced by the way you were kissing so close to the base of him, lips teasing at his hipbone, trialing across his thighs.

“Since?” You squeezed him, hand dragging up and down his length, hiding your smile when his cock jumped for you.

“Fu-uck, since anyone…” Steve broke off with a groan, deep and dirty. “Since anyone touched me, done this, shit.”

You were sweet with it, moving to lie between his spread legs, free hand rubbing soft circles on his thigh and he was quivering, eyes glazed over as he watched you press a kiss to the side of his cock, keening high at the sight.

“I’ll go slow then, yeah?” You told him, starting a lazy pump up and down his shaft, “we can take it real easy.”

Steve nodded and looked like he was close to losing it already, unable to form a full sentence. He dragged a hand through your hair, keeping it back from your face so he could cup at your cheek, thumb pulling a little at your bottom lip, letting you suck on it as you kept moving your hand over him.

“Fucking Christ,” he moaned out, “you look so pretty— too pretty. Think ‘bout you all the damn time, it’s ridiculous.”

You preened at that piece of information, eyes locked onto his before you licked a slow stripe along his cock, getting him slick for you. The boy tensed up, a gutteral sound coming from his lips and it was too hot, too filthy. His hand stayed on your cheek, fingers splayed over your jaw whilst the other one sank into the sheets, gripping them tightly.

“Holy shit.”

“All the time?” You asked softly, “really?” Steve could only nod, brown eyes wide and doe like as he watched you, lips parted and still swollen from your kisses. He was a pretty, pretty picture. “Tell me.”

He whined, head lolling backwards as you slid your hand over him, up and down, up and down, up and down, soft pants coming from his chest as he tried to speak.

“Can’t help it,” he mumbled, “would sit out all night and smoke with you and shit, you always look so fucking pretty and you smell so good. Always waitin’ on me with hardly any clothes and oh god — yeah, just like that, fuck — I’d have to go home and jerk off in the shower, always so hard just from thinking ‘bout the things I wanted to do to you.”

It was indecent, the way Steve spoke, breathy and gasping, little moans interrupting every other word and he held your gaze the entire time, completely unabashed. It was hotter than it should’ve been and you could feel the way your eyes drooped, lip tucked between your teeth as you held in your own sounds.

“Yeah? Like what? I wanna know,” you coaxed him. You leaned in once more, finally wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, lazily licking and sucking at him.

His hips almost shot off the bed and you hummed in appreciation around him, watching with dark eyes as Steve threw his head back into the pillow, neck taught and pulse thrumming. His hands were both in your hair, doing his best to gently smooth it back instead of yanking on it the way his body was telling him to.

The boy was speechless. But it only made you pull off of him, the tip of his cock resting against your lips as you kissed at it sweetly, tongue peeking out to press against it. Steve looked like he was about to lose his shit.

“Tell me,” you urged softly, “tell me what you want to do to me, Harrington. Maybe I’ll let you.”

“Oh, fucking hell, baby.”

Baby. It was a dirty groan, all affection, a heady dose of sticky sweetness as he stared down at you like you were his own personal wet dream.

He gasped out as you took more of him into your mouth, inch by inch until you had to admit defeat — he was too big.

“I, uh, god, I think about you… on top of me, how insane you’d look riding me,” Steve hissed at the way you ran your tongue along the underside of him, pulling off with a wet ‘pop’. “Under me, on your hands and knees, against the tiles in m’shower — fucking everywhere, sweetheart.”

He was quick to catch you as you made your way back up his body, legs a little shaky with anticipation, cunt throbbing as you tried your best not to launch yourself at the boy. You settled yourself back on his lap, Steve’s warm hands clutching tight at your waist.

“You don’t want much, huh?” You teased quietly, reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra.

It fell forward, down your arms and Steve reached to pull it off, sighing at the sight of you. He pushed his hands to your chest, cupping your tits as he ran a thumb over each nipple, smiling when it pebbled under his touch.

“Just you,” he answered honestly. “In any way you’ll let me.”

You whimpered at that, wondering if you should give up the control right then, pass it back to the boy and let him manhandle you about his bed, hands hot and greedy. But you looked down, saw the way he looked blissed out, his cock hard and throbbing for you between your legs, twitching against the soaked centre of your underwear.

“Just me?” You said instead, smiling prettily as you ran your hands across Steve’s chest, appreciating the muscles that tensed there, broad shoulders flexing as he did the same, hands wandering over your navel, fingers flicking against the band of your underwear. “Aren’t you the sweetest?” You cooed.

It might have been your voice, or maybe the words you said, but either wait, Steve gave in and let his hips thrust up, all semblance of control slipping through his fingers and he was reaching for you, fingers slipping underneath lace to find what he wanted. You both groaned out at his touch, the boy’s eyes rolling as he found you soaked and slick for him.

“You make me feel desperate,” Steve stuttered out, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard, dragging you with him to keep you sat on his lap. “D’you know that? D’you feel what you do to me?”

He rolled his hips into you for effect, as if you couldn’t already feel his hard cock pressed against your ass, flush with your cunt, twitching with need for you.

You could only moan, a stuttering sound that made your chest ache and you were reaching for him, suddenly wanting to feel his lips on yours more than anything. “Steve.”

“Ah, ah,” Steve stopped you, pushed a hand to your sternum, fingers splayed over your throat as he pushed you back into place, sitting pretty across his hips. “Stay there for me, hmm?” A sharp tap to your thigh, soothed by a warm palm. “Spread your legs wider, pretty, there’s a girl.”

It turned out, you didn’t really need to let Steve roll you underneath him to gain back control.

You did as you were told, splaying your legs apart as far as you could, knees digging into the mattress as you leaned back a little, hands finding purchase on the tops of Steve’s thighs for support.

It was easy for him like this, much too easy for him to make you fall apart. Fingers hooked into the lace of your underwear, dragging to the side a little dirty, leaving you exposed for him. The boy groaned, a pretty sigh and a soft coo when he slid one thick finger inside of you, barely letting you get used to the stretch before adding another.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he whispered to you, smiling when you feel forward, forehead touching his, panting against his mouth, eyes closed. “So soft, feel perfect.”

Steve held his hand there for you, two fingers curled inside your cunt and he moaned out encouragingly as you rocked over them, taking back a little bit of the control as you set the pace, fucking yourself over him. He was panting, pupils blown wide until his eyes were just black, cheeks all flushed pink for you.

He was mumbling, a steady stream of almost nonsense and praise, mouthing over your throat and jaw, lips kissing at your cheeks and chin as he spoke, telling you how good you were, how pretty, how much he’d thought about this.

And when his thumb pressed to your clit, you mewled, hands grabbing at his hair, the hook in your stomach pulling, a white hot burn, a slow motion explosion, a lick of heat over your navel.

“M’gonna come, Steve,” you told him, breathless, panting. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah? Yeah, aww shit, come for me, pretty thing,” Steve gasped out. “Wanna feel you, can you do that, yeah? Let me feel how tight you get for me, Jesus fucking Christ, babe.”

You did, lips parted against Steve’s as you cried out, a barely there kiss, nails leaving half moons on his shoulders, fingers seeking out messy hair that you could pull at.

And Steve barely had any time to marvel over the sight of you, the feel of you, ‘cause you were still whimpering as you lifted yourself off of him, only to wrap a hand around his cock and line him up with your entrance, the top of him pressed against where you were most wet.

“Oh my god,” Steve groaned, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m on the pill,” you offered, eyes hooded and lips parted, messy in the prettiest way for him, underwear still stretched to the side. “I haven’t— there hasn’t been anyone in a while.”

Steve nodded helplessly, wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you down and onto him, inch by inch, a tight, warm fit as you still rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm, clenching around him immediately.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck,” you gasped at the stretch, the feeling of being so full, fingers knitting into his hair to pull him to you, kissing away his sounds, his pretty moans and sighs.

Steve’s hands stilled you, his breath coming out in short, warm bursts over your lips, his forehead pressed to yours as he tried to gather himself.

“I need, uh, shit, you need to gimme a minute here, babe, I’m gonna lose it.” Steve’s eyes searched yourself, wide and filled with a stupid amount of fondness, a sweet, sticky kind of wonderment, like he thought you were made of magic. “You feel too good.”

“I want you to lose it,” you told him and god, you sounded wrecked, and it would’ve been embarrassing if Steve didn’t sound the same when he moaned at your words. “Wanna make you feel good too, can I? Steve, please?”

It didn’t take much to coax him backwards, body slumping onto the pillows, head resting against them as he looked up at you through messy hair. His hands soothed over your thighs, knuckles brushing over the soft of your tummy before he gripped your hips and readied himself.

He nodded, staring down the line of your body, groaning out something filthy when you lifted yourself from him, starting a slow, hot drag of your cunt on his cock, almost letting him slip out before dropping yourself back down.

You planted your hands on his chest, grinning as you let him grab at your ass, your thighs, your hips, kneading the skin there as he tried to stave off his own orgasm, nose scrunched cutely, lips pressed together to keep his noises in.

“There you go,” you murmured, catching his chin in one hand as he panted out, lips parting at your touch, biting down softly on your thumb as you pushed it to his mouth. “Look so pretty like this, Stevie. Wanna see you come for me.”

He fell apart for you like that, your thumb tugging on his bottom lip as his jaw fell slack, moaning out your name, hands bruising your hips as he spilled inside of you. Steve’s hips stuttered, legs shaking as you fell into him, his cock still buried inside of you, lips pressed together in a kiss that was just as good as the first one.

You lay like that for a while, chests pressed together, kissing lazy and soft in the blue light, the air smelling like summer and sex and Steve. He only moved to grab you a warm washcloth, soothing you when you whined as he swiped it between your legs. And when he crawled back into bed with you, sweats hung low on his hips, he gathered you easily, crushed you to his chest and buried his face in your hair.

Neither of you smelled like smoke, or even of chlorine or the summer night air, that sticky, heavy scent that only came with spending the night outside. And despite that, it was the first time in a while where Steve was asleep before the clock hit four.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff

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fernclans · 2 months

Text

MOON 09.

Starring: Dashpaw (BuddingClan), Cliffstripe (BuddingClan), Amberpaw (BuddingClan), Flippaw (BuddingClan), Cougarkit (BuddingClan), Cowkit (BuddingClan), Pinekit (BuddingClan)

“May all cats of BuddingClan gather beneath the Echoed Stones for a clan meeting!”

The words were more familiar now, not feeling so much like a kit playing pretend. Cliffstripe sat confidently atop the towers of stone, reminding himself of how unstable he was the last time he called to the clan.

Amberpaw and Dashpaw were the first to arrive; they offered for Flippaw to stay in the den recovering, still unable to put weight on her injured leg, but she insisted that she’d be there. The sound of kittenspeak alerted the group to the final apprentice’s arrival, an apologetic grin crossing her face as the trio of kittens stumble their way into the clearing.

“Sorry guys, I couldn’t stop them from following me.” She meows, carefully limping to a spot besides Amberpaw.

Pinekit is quick to start pawing at Amberpaw’s cheek fur, looking up at her with large, kitten-blue eyes. “Where been?” She squeaks, sniffing deeply into Amberpaw’s chest. “Smelly.” The kitten backs away, her mouth agape and filled with the new scent.

“Checking the borders.” Amberpaw meows simply, bending down to lick Pinekit’s forehead. “Come here, you can sit in my tail while Cliffstripe talks.” The mottled brown and white she-kit seems to think about the offer for a moment before tottling over and disappearing behind Amberpaw’s abundant fur.

Cougarkit remains by Flippaw’s side as she settles down, Cowkit preoccupied by the apprentice’s waving tail. “Now you guys promised you’d be quiet, right?” The first of the two nods quickly, placing a paw over his mouth in acknowledgement -- the latter remains quiet, focused on Flippaw’s tail.

“If Cowkit causes you trouble, send her over and I can sit on her.” Dashpaw teases, making eye-contact with the kit who shrinks somewhat before moving to sit on Flippaw’s other side.

“Well, no worries, Flippaw. It’s hard when there’s no one else who can watch them.” Cliffstripe speaks up, seeing everyone finally settle. “Without further ado…”

The ginger tom nods to Dashpaw, who raises when Cliffstripe begins.

“Dashpaw, you have trained diligently and have far proven yourself ready for your warrior name. I call down upon our ancestors to look down upon you, and commend you as a full-fledged warrior of BuddingClan. Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and defend this clan with your life?”

Uncharacteristically serious, Dashpaw nods. “I do.”

“Then, from this day forward you will be known as Dashrabbit; BuddingClan honors your charisma and ability to think fast in dire situations.” Cliffstripe would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous; was naming in honor of Rabbitsnow the right thing? Was that insensitive? He steals a glance at Dashrabbit, who seemed to be gazing upward, eyes brimming with pride.

“Amberpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and defend this clan even at the cost of your life?”

“I do.” Though she remains seated, Amberpaw’s chest is puffed out, back straight.

“From today, you will be known as Amberhare. BuddingClan welcomes you as a full warrior and honors you for your drive to help others.”

Flippaw is the first to erupt with cheer, to be met by a confused and startled Cougarkit, who thought they needed to be quiet. Before long, Cowkit and Pinekit join in the merrimaking, cheering the new names even if they didn’t fully understand what all of this meant. Cliffstripe descends from the stones, bumping roughly into Dashrabbit’s shoulder, and then slightly less roughly into Amberhare’s. “Congratulations. I know you'll do great."

#clangen #clan generator #clan gen art #dashpaw #amberpaw #flippaw #cliffstripe #cougarkit #cowkit #pinekit #moon 9 #buddingclan #buddingclangen #amberhare #dashrabbit #i LOVED that dashrabbit won bc... it made him and amberhare match <33

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