#purple is her least favorite color

[eggs-can-draw]

What. What if. Wh. What if they were childhood frens….

#eggs can art #shuichi saihara #kaede akamatsu #you can tag as ship I don’t care #it wasn’t intended but I can understand if that can be interpreted #also #mikan tsumiki #their friendship started on the first day of the first grade #Kaede made eye contact and instantly adopted Shuichi as her best friend #because I fucking said so #if you’re seeing this then hell week starts soon #on Tuesday to be exact lol #I’m making these in advance this is egg from Friday #this is my first one and I’m gonna try and include at least one colored doodle in each one #because coloring is my favorite part of making art :) #also no idea if you can tell but Shuichi’s hair isn’t blue or black here #it’s a really dark purple #he gets it from grandpa Jin #danganronpa #drv3 #ndrv3 #the v3 poll tw ends soon and I’m really excited! #I have no idea how the tides are going and I won’t know until the poll ends since I don’t wanna taint the results #if it lands on watch a play through I’m gonna do so on my laptop with it on full screen while holding a ps4 controller #it’s a coping mechanism ok #also also Mikan as a school nurse is kinda really cute to me #I don’t know #the thought of her getting to heal and go on to help others means a lot to me yknow #art #artists on tumblr

[constantvariations]

More color meddling for our titular team! I might need an intervention lol

OG Pic below

#rwde #not sure why rubys dulled in the og pic but by the time i realized it i was too deep in to change the pic #rubys was def the hardest for that reason and also what do you do w a fuckton of black? #blake at least has that purple undertone that can be brought out in the highlights #weiss and yang are my favorites ngl #yang gets to be v bright and colorful. her w warm dark skin is just *chefs kiss* #i tried to replicate ice reflecting light for weiss. bright pastels seem to work for her #fun fact: purple is the best color ever bc it goes so well w all their designs if you know where to put it #gave rubys hair the slightest purple tint to differ it from the cloak #anyway i gotta get to bed hope yall enjoy it

[ent-maiden]

Arabella Bishop from Captain Blood

I don't really know why a lot of people apparently don't like her. She is one of my favorite female characters and I really relate to her. I feel like in her position I would do a lot of the same things. I think we have very similar personalities. Yes, she was mean, but she made a lot of misjudgements. And she was misjudged. Like Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice, lol.

ANYWAY HERE IS THE COUPLE WITH SERIOUS COMMUNICATION ISSUES

now kiss

#i gave her a little cross necklace thingy because I saw it on some fan art and thought it was a nice touch #purple is my favorite color so I had to draw the lavender dress #unfortunately there just isn't as much beautiful contrast in this picture compared to Blood but at least it's not the white dress #sorry that this is also #not remotely tolkien related #i vow to do better in the future #but I firmly believe the captain blood fandom needs more content #so my two tolkien followers have to suffer with me #my art #arabella bishop #captain blood #rafael sabatini #captain peter blood #ent tag

[sophisticatedswifts]

After the concert, my mom randomly asked me “Is Taylor’s favorite color purple?” I asked her why she was asking and she said she noticed an overwhelming use of the color purple at the concert. She even said that she knew Taylor had the song Lavender Haze but it wasn’t just for that. She didn’t name specific instances, but she just said that she noticed a lot of purple.

#is my mom picking up on Speak Now tv easter eggs that I missed #I know Taylor’s favorite color is purple or at least used to be but that’s besides the point #what did my mom notice? #whatever it was stood out enough for her to question it

[dynamic-power]

Steve is walking down the hallway towards his math class when it happens.

Someone bumps into him, a girl he only vaguely recognizes, and she reaches out and grabs his hand to steady herself.

His vision explodes with what he knows must be color. Bright shades assault his eyes, shades he doesn't even have names for. His classmates' clothes, the tiles beneath his feet, the homecoming sign above him. Even the lights have taken on a new hue, washing Steve's entire world in something completely alien.

The girl looks as shocked as steve feels. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth drooped open as she spins in a slow circle. She's pretty, he thinks. Short hair, soft features, an unusual sense of style. She's clutching an instrument case, and he thinks that's why he recognizes her.

"Uh," he says, catching her attention. "Hi."

Her mouth opens, closes, opens once more, and then she dashes away from him, disappearing into the throng of students.

He spends the rest of the day cataloging colors. By the time he's climbing into his car (which is a color he still can't name, but has decided he likes) he's found at least a dozen different shades, and he wonders how they all fit into the seven colors he's been told are in the rainbow.

He tells his mom when he gets home that day. She is ecstatic. When Steve admits he doesn't have anything to tell about the girl herself, his mom turns her attention on naming colors for him.

It becomes quickly apparent that something isn't quite right. He'd been so focused on everything that was new that he hadn't realized what was the same. He still sees a lot of grays. Blues, purples, greens,and violets are all still lost on him.

That doesn't make what he can see any less spectacular, though. Oranges, reds, pinks, yellows. The yellows are his favorite.

He'll meet his other soulmate, his mother assures him, as they sit in the backyard, admiring the rich golds and reds of the trees that he can now see, standing out against the gray of the sky he knows should be blue.

He does, about two years later. He's picking Henderson up from school one afternoon, but instead of Dustin climbing into the front seat like usual, the back door swings open violently and not one but two figures scramble into the back seat.

"Henderson, what the fuck?!?"

"Drive!" Henderson screeches, his head popping up between the seats. "Go, go, go!" A hand, not Dustin's, reaches out as the stranger tries to sit himself up and fingers graze his temple as he's peeling away from the curb.

"Motherfucking assmunch-" Dustin is saying, "thinking he can get away with that shit-"

But Steve isn't paying attention, because the trees are green and the sky is blue and the world is suddenly right.

Steve looks into the rearview mirror and meets the gaze of a shocked-looking Eddie Munson.

#dyno writes #stranger things #stobin #platonic stobin #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #dustin henderson

[bookwyrminspiration]

being an older sibling is like. you've never known a life without me. mom yelled at me and it taught her she never wanted to yell at you. I painted my room purple and grey and then you did too. we live in the same house but I haven't spoken to you in months. I don't know your favorite color. I saw it was going to rain so I picked you up from school on my way home so your books wouldn't get wet. i was so worried when you woke up sick when you were three. you don't remember being sick. mom and dad made their worst mistakes with me and I'm glad they didn't make them with you. I'm doing everything for the first time so you won't be in the dark. I don't know any of your friend's names anymore. I used to know them all. if something happens to mom and dad you won't have to worry because everything will fall to me. you don't like to be home alone but even if you don't see me just knowing I'm there makes you feel better. at least that's what mom told me. you still give me jars to open for you because you can't quite get them. I only see you during dinner. i'd never even think about missing one of your concerts. I stand at the counter when I eat and now you do, too. when offered a selection of books you picked the same one I did when i was your age. I'm terrified you compare yourself to me. I love you. I don't know if you like me. I want you to. mom says dinner's ready

#quil's unholy underworld #siblings #sibling relationship #older sibling #eldest sibling #listen. #does any of this make sense #this has all been just circulating in my heard forever and I had to put the words somewhere #so now the words are on tumblr #do you get what I'm saying #i don't know who my sister is but like. we're right next to each other. she's just down the hall #something something it's already a poem just look at it it's on the ceiling #but instead it's we're a poem just feel it we're standing right here

[sagesskies]

been reading a lot of qt bl recently, and this idea struck me:

imagine you've just transmigrated into a world where you're the second male lead's best friend, when him and the fl enter a rough patch in their relationship because seriously, that guy flirts with way too many girls despite being in a committed relationship, and this time the fl has had enough and breaks up with him.

the 2nd male lead just has a downward spiral, because he was super dependent on the fl, and you, doing your job as his best friend, give him words of encouragement, as you were instructed by the system. but when he, unexpectedly, asks you to do more than give him advice, and instead help him in the direct process of fixing their relationship, you can't exactly say no when he's asking you so pitifully with tears in his eyes.

so, you help him, concocting schemes to win the fl over, sabotage the 1st male lead, and the like. this is way more than the original best friend did, where he just said some encouraging words and then proceeded to dip out of the plot till the emotional climax where he gets hit by a car and the female lead and 2nd male lead supposedly "make up" and "date again" at least, till the 1st male lead wins her back over.

you're able to actually get closer to him as well, past the shallow mask that all humans don, and get to know him as more than just 'a playboy with unhealthy attachment issues'

you learn that he likes to play the guitar and sing, that he cries when watching romance movies, that his favorite color is purple, that he dreams of making a career out of his music, and that nobody ever believes he can.

but when you place your arm around his shoulder, and look deep into eyes and tell him that you do, you believe in him, you see the way that his eyes widen in surprise, and how tears start to well up in his eyes, but completely miss the way his cheeks start to redden.

you actually miss a lot of things. how he always remembers your coffee order, how he knows the way you like your eggs made, how he remembers your favorite show and movie, and knows your handwriting by how you write your m's.

you also miss how he wraps his arm around your waist, drapes his jacket over you when you get cold, and likes to loop his arms around your shoulders and cling to you like a koala does to a tree.

what you do notice is how he's stopped talking about the female lead as much, how he only asks you how you're doing, invites you out not to plan something but to instead just hang like friends would, and when you bring up how the female lead has started dating the 1st ml he just blinks, and then says "Okay, good for them," like he wasn't bemoaning how close they were only three months ago.

and what you are forced to see is that the only person he's feeling possessive over is you. he's always texting you, asking where you are, who you're with, and what you're doing. he's glaring at anybody who even breathes in your direction, and one time your friends told you he threatened them to leave you alone.

slowly, you start to distance yourself from him. you decline his offers to hang out, you avoid him on campus, and have even gone so far as to mute his notifications because he's been sending you so many messages.

the system is alerting you of his unnatural behavior, and you tell it that you're very aware, and trying your best to get the story back on track. but by god, is he making this so hard.

it all comes to a head when you hear pounding at your front door, the sound muffled by the heavy downpour of rain, and when you open it you're, sadly, not surprised to see that it's the 2nd male lead, clothes soaked and sobbing, he's telling you he misses you. that he doesn't know why you're avoiding him, but whatever he did he's sorry for it.

"Just don't ignore me, please [Name]," he whines, "If you do, I might die!"

how will you get yourself out of this mess now?

#tell me if you guys want me to do more of this pathetic little man #yandere male x reader #yandere x reader #male reader #x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere male x male reader #yandere male #yandere oc

[tarjapearce]

Old Friend

Summary: You meet an old friend in your shopping trip with the family.

Nothing but a slice of life, fluff, bit of angst and a jealous Miguel ~

Whenever it was restock day, Costco or Walmart would be the main places to go.

You'd get the list, Miguel would secure Rosie to his chest, as Benjamin would get inside your cart. Gabi would walk alongside you or her beloved Papa, pushing his cart.

Each would take separate ways, you'd get the meats and veggies, as Miguel would get the rest, powder detergent, cleansing products, and snacks.

"Mama, can I have these?" Benjamin swayed his feet pointing at the  colorful packaging of dinosaur shaped nuggets.

"Course you can, mi niño. Which one you want?"

"I tried the red one last time, I'll get the purple"

Benji's boyish voice echoed around you as you stopped on the frozen meals section.

"Alright, purple it is."

You picked the purple package, a triceratops and a T-Rex on the cover. Then, filled the cart with different sort of meats, Miguel's favorite cuts, hams and of course, lots of canned jalapeños. Orange, pineapple, and cranberry juice, a couple of sodas and finally you got to go to the cereal and coffee aisle.

Miguel was running out of coffee in his office, and back at home you only had a couple of packages. It reminded you the time Miguel nearly had an anxiety attack when he found out he had ran out of the black liquid gold, even in his secret stash.

For some reason the brand he always bought was put on the top shelves. With a huff you looked around to see if there was any ladder, but upon finding none, You stepped on the bottom shelf, trying to get the six pack in the edge, but obviously, you couldn't reach it.

Benjamin giggled when you missed, as revenge you smothered his face in kisses, earning you a loud and bubbling squeal.

"Here, let me." A deep voice rumbled behind you. Your eyes widened at the all too familiar face before you. Reaching effortlessly for the coffee packaging.

"Richard" you mumbled while taking the package, to then put it on the cart.

"Hey" His hand waved softly. Clad in a hoodie, bermudas and sneakers. A little gold band hugging his ring finger. Dull, as his overall aura.

Despite the years coming through, he hadn't lost his kind green eyes. Some wrinkles adorned his matured face. Ricky was only two years older than you, and still had some white hairs poking out here and there.

He sported a short and well trimmed beard, hair parted and neatly arranged to a side. His eyes darted to the boy that undoubtedly resembled alot like you, except for his curious big and round red-ish eyes.

"Whose this little champ?" The smile on his face was coy, but genuine.

"It's my boy, Benjamin."

A proud beam stretched on your face as your hand caressed Benjamin's head, some of his curls trapping your fingers.

"Nice to meet you, champ." Ricky stretched his hands towards him and Benjamin shook it, a tad nervous.

"He definitely has your curls."

You smiled, eyes diverting behind him, ready to meet his partner but, there was none, just his half cart full of car appliances, some diary products and snacks.

"My goodness, you have a beard now."

Ricky chuckled and scratched it. He was a handsome man, undoubtedly. Good and well worked physique. Lean muscles, athletic and healthy looking. Green eyes a shade darker than green apples, pretty lips you liked biting and a healthy tan on his skin, despite him being a pale guy. A couple of freckles adorned his nose.

"And you've got a kid now." there was a bit of disbelief in his tone.

"Three actually. Funny how we ended up doing the things we always said we wouldn't do right away."

Richard gave a soft laugh.

"At least we look good. And I'm sure you're a great mom. How long has it been?"

"I don't know, I suck at math. But I do know it's more than ten years." You pushed the cart to get the cereals and naturally he helped you to get them. Eyes looking for Miguel in every chance you had.

"How have you been?" He tensed a bit at the question, not expecting your openness to talking so casually, specially when your finger shone with a golden band. He graduated college and never saw you again, until now. Gentle and caring as always. You hadn't changed, and he was glad.

"As usual. Existing, trying to keep myself afloat after, uh... my divorce." His mouth pressed in a tight line, green eyes looked away for a second, unable to meet your stare. Ashamed.

Your eyes blinked at his reply. Clearly surprised by such thing. Face falling with worry. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Richard shook his head, and gave a nonchalant shrug.

"Things happen. It's one of those situations that get your eyes open for good." Ricky rubbed his neck awkwardly and you offered a little reassure with a hand on his shoulder, patting it softly.

"Hey, you've got this. I know it's been a while, but I'm sure your problem solving skills are still top notch."

Hw chuckled, almost sympathetic at himself, "I don't even know anymore, if I'm honest. But if you say so."

The voices in the aisles kept indistinct, each in their own world, mingling with the upbeat background music.

"Also... I'm sorry." His eyes remained on yours. Something he'd always do when speaking truthfully.

Your brow quirked, "Whatever for?"

Ricky's hands squeezed the insides of his pockets as he spoke.

"For breaking up with you. Specially like that. It was a d-" He caught his tongue before continuing with the french before Benjamin, "It was wrong of me."

You could only stare at him, and he recoiled further in his spot, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor.

"If something's worth saying, I... divorced cause my mom also ruined it for me."

You frowned, confused and he shook his head.

"So I cut ties, went to therapy and yeah." He reached out for a three pack of granola for himself, and another for you after you pointed at the brand.

"I'm sorry, I'm kind of confused as to why would you think I'd be happy to know something awful happened to you, Richard?"

Richard's brow puckered. You really hadn't changed at all. Even after he dumped you a few days before Christmas eve.

"I... don't know? Thought you'd hold a grudge for what I did."

"A grudge?" You tittered and this threw him off guard, "Not to sound mean or anything, but I didn't even remember what had happened until now. You know I'm forgetful."

You both chuckled as he nodded.

"Yeah, kinda wondered if you'd lose your head too if it wasn't attached to your body."

You gasped while mocking offense, "That was rude."

You grabbed a couple of cereal boxes Benjamin pointed at.

"But true. In all seriousness, I'm glad that at least something great came after me. Is he a good man?, wait..." He shook his head softly, "Stupid question Of course he is, you married him."

You beamed and this made his chest swell in a mix of happiness and pride. You deserved it after all he also put you through.

"You'll find someone, I know so." It always made him wondered why he was stupid like that to allow his mother come in between.

"I'll give myself a couple of years to heal first. Wanna make sure I don't repeat things over."

It was your turn to get that pride sensation in your chest. Knowing he was making a good progress out of his mother's shadow also made you happy. You out of everyone knew how hard it was like.

"Hope they're ready to listen country music nonstop in your car." He rolled his eyes.

"I know you hated the genre, that's why I always played them"

Your lips pursed with faked anger as he tittered, however, Ricky cleared his throat off the laughing upon watching a behemoth of a man, approaching from behind. Red eyes set on him. A shudder crawled on his skin as he gulped. The baby on his chest did little to appease the intimidating aura around him.

"Mama!" Gabi came to you with an excited face as she showed you her new acquisition. A purple and glittery cover for her phone.

"Qué lindo! Do they have it in blue too?" (How cute!)

"Nah, it was the last one, Papa said this would match with my room too."

Said Papa hugged you from behind, and kissed your temple, red eyes never left him. Ricky gave Miguel a polite smile as he backed away a few steps. Miguel's strong features only turned sharper. It would be a lie to say if Ricky wasn't surprised and intimidated.

Surprised cause you hugged Miguel's narrow waist, a pleased and proud purr emanated from his chest. Loud enough for only you to hear it.

The man before him screamed danger a mile ago. But also, explained lots of things. Like Benjamin's eyes.

"Richard, this is my husband. Miguel O'Hara."

Ricky hesitated for a second, but stretched his hands towards him, big tan hands easily enveloped his in a firm shake.

"Nice to meet you." His nervous smile was like fuel to your husband's ego.

Miguel acknowledged him with a brief nod, eyes not tearing away from him. A quiet She's mine in his eyes.

"Richard and I used to go at the same college. Oh! This is my eldest daughter, Gabriella. And my youngest baby, Rosie."

Gabi smiled politely while holding onto Miguel's hips.

"You have a beautiful family." His green eyes stared at an ever curious Rosie that gazed back at him. Miguel's shoulder's tensed when Rosie gave Ricky a smile.

"Thanks, You'll be fine though. Things take time, but, It all comes together somehow. Just be patient. I'm glad you're doing good on your own." Again, you patted his shoulder, he just gave you a small but genuine smile. Miguel's guts churned as his jaw clenched.

Ricky left after saying his goodbyes, not wanting to impose his presence any further.

"Gabibi, mi amor, can you get the food cart to the line, please?"

"Okay. Don't take too long, please?"

Gabriella took the cart as Benjamin showed her his nuggets, leaving you and Miguel with Rosie alone.

"Alright, interrogation can start now." You chuckled and Miguel pulled you by your waist towards him, ebbing you to walk a few steps before giving a firm slap on your rear.

"Miguel!" you hushed, flustered while looking around to see of there were people and he smirked.

"Wanted to do that before that guy, but that wouldn't be too polite of me, wouldn't it?"

You kissed his cheek, but he quickly corrected the place and pecked your lips.

"That's better. Who was he anyway?"

"My ex from college."

He just hummed and it was your turn to return the squeeze, he chuckled, "Relax. He just got divorced and obviously not having a good time."

"Too bad." He shrugged, a bit nonchalant and you deadpanned.

"Don't be mean. You were scaring him on purpose."

"Obvio. Still, forgot to thank him." (Obviously)

You chuckled as you approached to the line, Gabi waved at you both.

"Thank him?"

"Well, he let you go, and I wouldn't have met you in the first place. So thanks to that."

"Well, he's there on the other line, go tell him."

You teased, but to your surprise Miguel stepped away from the beeline and was walking towards Richard.

"W-Wait! Miguel!" You had skip a few steps to catch him and pull him back to spot, he smirked while pulling you tighter towards him.

"Don't tempt me, mi reina."

"God, I swear. You're-"

"Your husband, mi amor." He smirked, satisfied at his own title in your life.

"A jealous one."

He leaned to your ear and whispered, "Espérate que lleguemos a casa. No te la vas a acabar conmigo, mi reina." (Wait till we get home. You'll see what's up.)

Gabriella rolled her eyes at the flirty atmosphere around you and covered Benjamin's eyes.

"You're too young to see that."

#t writes✨ #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #soccer family ⚽🕷️ #atsv miguel #gabi o'hara #miguel o'hara fluff #benjamin o'hara #rosie o'hara

[pinkberrytea]

Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion.

Memento mori—Remember you must die. Enveloped in memories of her death, the Vampire Ascendant watches his darling consort as she slumbers, lost in dreams of blood and mist. Life is short, and shortly it will end; death comes quickly and respects no one. To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

An exploration of Astarion's character and his relationship with his Dark Consort following the ascension, from a softer perspective.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 6.2k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this is my first time dabbling in creative writing, and of course my first attempt at smut fiction, but still, I hope it is at least somewhat enjoyable. I would like to dedicate this work to the lovely @locallegume, who was a huge source of inspiration, and also to hismostbelovedspawn over on reddit, for being always so incredibly kind and supportive. I love you guys!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; mildly dubious consent; creampie; fluff & angst; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior

The beginning of the morning twilight is Astarion’s favorite time of the day, for it feels at once ephemeral and infinite. The wistful silence, broken only by the still timid chirping of the waking birds; the royal blue-colored sky, tinged with specks of the purples and violets of the dawn; the chilly morning breeze, gently rustling the flowers in the garden, pushing the still forming dewdrops off their petals and onto the ground; you, slumbering beside him, pale skin reflecting the dim light of the fading moon, rosy lips slightly parted. Sleeping peacefully like this, you look like a life-sized porcelain doll, he thinks—your unmoving chest betrays your otherwise healthy likeness, as does the unnaturally blanched color of your skin. Your nightgown hangs lazily off your shoulder, exposing one of your breasts, and your undergarments lay discarded on the floor, on the exact same spot where he had tossed them earlier that night. He adores this version of you—so vulnerable, so defenseless, laid open for him, and him only.

Astarion finds it curious, how you seem to completely lose yourself in your dreams, yet he is also greatly perturbed by the notion that there is a part of you that he is still unable to access, to dominate. It feels unnatural, not to be able to control this elusive slice of your essence, but having ever only tranced, it also mystifies him that you’d voluntarily give up your consciousness each night. You were after all ever the trusting fool—from the moment you met, he had lied to you, manipulated you countless times, and each time you fell for it, standing by his side even when the world screamed at you not to. And even now, you give yourself to him, unquestioningly, unconditionally. In all the long years of his existence, there had been none like you, and there never will be again. None as trusting, none as kind, and he both hates and loves you for it. The very notion of you extending your kindness to anyone other than him is infuriating, and makes him want to take it for himself, put it in a glass dome and hide it away in a place where only he can bask in its warmth. He thinks he is owed that, at least; yours was the only hand that ever reached out to him, so he is justified in not wanting to share.

You shift slightly in your sleep, and a lock of your hair that had been trapped underneath one of your arms falls onto your chest. After eyeing it for a moment, Astarion reaches out for the tresses and grasps them between his fingers. Bringing them close to his nose, he takes in your scent, that is now also his. It smells comforting, familiar—it smells like home. The corner of his lips curl into an almost imperceptible smile, and he closes his eyes, letting out a contented sigh. The hushed shroud of the early hours acts as a cloak, under which he is granted a brief respite, a rare chance to let himself be gentle, be kind. Just as you become entirely vulnerable before him in your slumber, he too exposes the soft underbelly of his feelings for you; that chaotic, intoxicating brew, a messy blend of passion, guilt, hurt, longing, and love, endless and unrelenting love.

He brings his elegant fingers close to your face, and ever so gently glides their soft pads across the cold, velvety smooth skin of your cheek. Your long lashes flutter slightly, tickling the sensitive area under your eyes as he lowers the digits to brush the plump of your lips. He admires you for a short moment, taking in your image—his pretty consort, so beautiful, so frail, so foolishly devoted to him. Oh how lucky he is, to have you who would do anything for him by his side; his most precious treasure, the reason why his long dead heart beats inside his chest once more. He grasps your chin, delicately tilting your head upward to face him, and tenderly presses his lips to yours. His other hand moves to your chest, fingers softly caressing the pebbled peak of your exposed breast, his touch so faint that his skin barely comes into contact with yours. As much as Astarion enjoys asserting his dominance over you, making you kneel before him, seeing the dejected yet submissive expression on your pretty face whenever he decides to make a show of his power, it is these moments he values the most. In your intimacy, he may treat you gently, tenderly, and in your state of unconsciousness, by morning his loving touches will be but a hazy memory, securing your place below, but close beside him, from where you shall never leave for as long as he draws breath—which he can now only do thanks to you.

His fingers on your nipple leave it alone for a moment to close around your breast, giving it a soft, gentle squeeze. Moving quietly so as not to wake you, he slides his right leg under yours and presses it against the back of your knee, creating a space between your thighs as he pushes them apart, where he then nests himself, climbing on top of you.

“Astarion…” when you softly whisper his name, his half-smile widens into a grin; how reassuring it is, to know you belong to him even in your dreams. He lowers his head to plant a kiss on the delicate skin of the curve of your neck, and his lips brush against the two small indentations disrupting the otherwise pristine smoothness of your flesh. Instinctively, he brings his hand to the back of your right shoulder, his long fingers blindly searching for the matching set of bite marks. The last of the three pairs adorns your left wrist, for which reason he will ever so often take your hand in his, only to lovingly kiss it and turn it around so he can admire the evidence of his proudest feat—having sired you.

“Oh my love, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Astarion coos, holding your head gently against his bare chest, fingers tangled in your hair as you writhe and squirm in his arms, empty and glassy eyes lost in a hollow stare, seeing nothing but darkness, endless darkness. The expression on your face is at once delirious and vacant—mouth agape and fists clenched, pupils blown wide, eyelashes wet with tears and a thin string of drool coming out from the corner of your lip and trickling down your chin. At least for tonight, you are lost to him, and as he winces at the still foreign sensation of the loud, vigorous throbbing in his head, your own fading heartbeat softens, dying down into nothingness. And right as it is about to fall perpetually silent, he lets his fangs pierce his own tongue, drawing droplets of now living blood; bringing your face close to his, he presses his thumb to your lower lip, and covers your mouth with his.

He loses himself in the memory for a moment, as he so often does. Your peaceful, serene expression stands in stark contrast to the one that had been etched on your face on that fateful night. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet still he remembers the pain, the agony, the relentless fear building up in his stomach as your body contorted and tears glistened in your vacant eyes. Never had Astarion been more afraid of anything than he’d been of losing you, and by his hand no less. Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion. You only ever questioned him about what had happened on the evening of your turning once, but it mattered not how many times you asked, for he would never fully disclose the raw truth—how he had cradled you in his arms and whispered sweet nothings in your ears, kissing away your tears; how he had picked you up as you lost consciousness and carried you to your bed, where he would then tuck you in so very tenderly, so very gently, softly patting your hair and holding your hand, sharing his warmth with you as you lost your own; how he would patiently wait by your side, watching as the color slowly drained from your face, his stomach sinking at the thought of you never waking again—only for you to then slowly open your eyes, their hue now a rich crimson, much like his own. No, he would never again allow himself to be so weak, for he was supposed to be your warden, your liege. This pathetic side of him was to be ever hidden from you, only rearing its ugly head during the brief, sleepy moments preceding the crack of dawn.

With his lips still pressed against your skin, Astarion starts peppering kisses down your neck, on the hollows of your collarbone and across your sternum, his hand on your breast fondling it gently, the other still tracing the bite marks on your shoulder. His still clothed hips start lazily, almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth, lightly grinding against your naked thighs; thinking back to the night when he made you his almost inevitably causes blood to rush to his groin, and his body starts unconsciously seeking the sweet relief of the friction between his hardening erection and your supple skin. He moves his hand on your breast to grasp your nipple between his fingers, lightly squeezing it. You involuntarily buck your hips in response, which amuses him greatly as he continues playing with the tender nub. A soft moan escapes your lips, encouraging and emboldening his attentions as they drift away from your clavicle towards your chest. He plants gentle kisses on the plump of your bosom, using his teeth to pull at your nightgown and drag it down, exposing your clothed breast to the chilly morning air. You shiver, and he smiles against your skin, pressing his lips to the valleys of your ribs, the softness of your lower belly, and finally to your bare crotch. With his face so close to your swollen sex, the sweet scent of your essence now intoxicates his senses. He stands back for a moment to admire how it glistens in the faint glow of the moonlight, so deliciously inviting, as your juices start building up and collecting in-between your folds.

Feeling his breath caressing the sensitive skin of your core, you finally start to slowly regain consciousness. Once his arousals were returned to him, Astarion would make a habit of waking up during the night at various times to bury his cock in you, so it takes you but a moment to gather your bearings. Either out of mischievousness or curiosity, you play coy at first, pretending to be asleep still. His soft lips briefly come into contact with your engorged bud, sending shock waves through your body, and you are barely able to keep yourself from letting out a yelp, although you can’t prevent your skin from becoming covered with goosebumps. When his tongue pokes out of his mouth to give it a tentative lick, you know you won’t be able to keep up the charade for much longer. He feels your body tense up, and slightly raises his head to look at you from his position between your legs with half-lidded, lascivious eyes, dilated pupils partially covering the ruby hue of his irises. You’re unsure if he has already caught on to your little ruse, so you try staying as still as possible, which proves difficult with his face so close to your cunt.

After what seems like an eternity he decides to continue, lapping at your clit again and then sliding his tongue downwards, burying it between your folds. He presses it against the outer edge of your entrance, squeezing slick out of you, and as he savors your essence, he can’t help but think that while its sweet tanginess does not compare to the coppery, velvety richness of the crimson in your veins—nothing ever will, for his is the blood that courses through them—it may well be the second best thing he has ever tasted. Gliding his tongue upwards once more, he uses it to gently massage the raw bundle of nerves atop your slit, leaving a trail of saliva mixed with your fluids between it and your twitching cunt, which then dribbles down onto your thighs. Placing a hand on each side of your hips, he pulls you closer to him, and the shift causes his fangs to graze the sensitive skin of your folds, in response to which your eyes water and you clutch the silk sheets under you both. Taking no notice of your desperate reaction, he continues swirling his tongue up and down your wetness, gently suckling on the tender skin, eagerly eating you up as if you were a full-course meal served especially for him, just begging to be ravished.

You feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen, and at this rate it won’t be long before you are brought to the edge. Momentarily forgetting the fact that you are supposed to be pretending to be asleep as you lose yourself in the crescendo of your release, you arch your back, leaning on your elbows to support your weight, and as soon as you do, he mercilessly pulls away from you, leaving your dripping core empty and aching. Eyes closed still, you let out a soft mewl in protest, which you regret as soon it leaves your lips, for once Astarion notices your desperation, you are done for. Still unsure if he has already perceived your awakened state or if he believes your body to be involuntarily reacting to his touch, you dare not produce any further sounds. Having cruelly left your throbbing mound unattended, his tongue now glides its way up your stomach, leaving a glistening wet mess in its wake. Upon reaching your chest, his lips latch onto your left breast, your perked nub fitting perfectly inside his mouth. He sucks on it ever so tenderly, teasing it with a pointed tongue and lightly scraping the squishy surrounding flesh with his fangs. One of his hands leaves its place on your hip and finds its way between your legs, and you let out a sigh of relief when you feel a long, elegant finger ghosting over your clit. The other hand slides further down to the curve of your ass, and his blunt nails dig into your soft skin, giving it a firm squeeze.

The pad of the wandering digit finally presses down onto the engorged flesh of your reddened knot, massaging it leisurely in circular patterns, and another finger suddenly slides between your folds, parting them gently. Unable to contain yourself, you roll your hips into his hand, which you soon learn is a grave mistake as he tightens his grip on your ass, applying such pressure that come morning, bruises are certain to form on the pale skin, which he will then tenderly kiss better while looking apologetically at you from under thick lashes; and you will forgive him, as you always do. Lifting his head up from your now rouged, swollen nipple, he readjusts his position above you, using his body weight to pin you down and hold you in place. He lets go of your ass, firmly grasping at your jaw with his newly freed hand, and even from behind closed eyes you can feel the intensity of his gaze. This does not bode well, and try as you might you cannot ignore the sickening pinch in the pit of your stomach as his eyes scrutinize every inch of your face—has he noticed? Is a punishment in order? Will he deny you your release?

“Open up, darling. Your mouth.” The commanding tone with which Astarion vocalizes the otherwise unassuming words is all it takes to placate your erratic thoughts, and obeying is for you as natural as breathing—or it would be, if you were still alive. Once you do as he says, you feel his thumb pressing on your lower lip, forcing it further down. He slides the digit inside your mouth, gagging you slightly, and your lips instinctively close around it. “Good girl,” he purrs, and encouraged by the tenderness of his praise, you start lightly sucking on it, coating it with saliva. For a short moment, he becomes entranced by the feeling of your wet tongue massaging his skin, and his mind wanders to the thought of your plump lips wrapped tightly around his cock. This prompts him to once again start bucking his hips, rubbing the now obvious bulge underneath his pants against your stomach, but this time his rhythm is much more frantic, more desperate.

Relief washes over you as you feel the fingers still in your slit resume their fondling, the one on your clit now applying greater pressure, handling it much less gently, yet just as skillfully, his knowledge of all the ins and outs of your body having always been something he prided himself on. The other makes its way down from its place between your folds, plunging into you as soon as it reaches your entrance. Your body jerks in response, and your moan is muffled by his thumb in your mouth—when he then plunges another, stretching you open without giving you time to adjust, you involuntarily bite down on the digit gagging you, sinking your fangs into his flesh. He grimaces, and you can tell you have hit an artery, because the flow of the thick, hot blood running down your throat is alarmingly heavy. However, rather than pulling away, he lets you drink, curling his fingers inside you and massaging the tight walls of your cunt with his knuckles. The rich taste of his crimson lingering in your tongue and spreading inside your body, mixing with yours within your veins and making them pulsate with life—pure, raw, vibrating life—works as a powerful aphrodisiac, heightening all your senses, and the feeling of him fucking you with his fingers is all it takes for you to come undone on his hand, muscles spasming and clenching around the digits, coating them in the sweet nectar of your release.

Just as you reach your climax, Astarion’s own teeth sink into the indentations marking the otherwise smooth skin of your neck. You instinctively cock your head to the side to grant him more access, letting him feed on you as you bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, sucking on his thumb still. His blood flows from him to you and then back to him, and the sheer intimacy of it brings you so close together that it’s as if you have merged into one single being. You can no longer tell where you end and he begins, as your minds touch and mesh and then untangle again, in a sensual, chaotic dance, where you both sway to the rhythm of his heartbeat. And while the connection lasts, his emotions rush through you and yours through him, rendering words meaningless as the everlasting adoration, the inebriating, all-consuming love you share, no matter how tainted, is laid bare before you, in all its wickedness and allure.

“Fear not: you are mine.”

You finally open your eyes, letting go of his thumb, and as the fog from the afterglow subsides you notice his fingers remain inside you still, gliding effortlessly up and down your twitching walls, which are now lubricated with slick and come; your skin tingles from the overstimulation, but the sensation is not unwelcome. With the hand you have just freed, he holds your head in place while he continues to feed, and you both stay like this for a while, his fingers buried inside your cunt and his fangs in your neck, where they rightfully belong. His little grunts as he drinks from you and the feeling of his hardened cock pressed flush against your stomach rekindle the ache between your legs, causing the living blood now coursing through your veins to flow to your tender core.

Having drank to his heart’s content, Astarion pulls away from you, making you wince at the sudden emptiness as both his fangs and fingers leave your body. No longer plagued by the perpetual, agonizing hollowness of vampiric hunger, his only reason for feeding on you still is the invigorating thrill of your taste on his tongue and your blood pulsating in his arteries; you were his first, after all, having offered him the greatest gift of them all when you had no good reason to. Killing you on the evening he first revealed his true nature had never been out of the question, and it puzzles him still why you would willingly surrender this sanguine gift to a vampire stalking you in the night—a pitiful creature, hiding in the shadows, with murderous intent and offering you nothing but pain and misery. He is reminded of your foolishness and naïveté every time he sinks his fangs in your soft flesh, and the familiarity of it is oddly comforting to him.

Not bothering to wipe the red smear on his chin, he brings his hand up to your mouth once more, only this time his digits are covered in your juices. A single look into his crimson eyes, clouded with lust, tells you all you need to know, and you eagerly obey the silent order, wrapping your lips around his fingers.

“Ever so obedient, aren’t you, my sweet?” His honeyed words and impish smile send shivers down your spine, and unable to talk as your tongue flicks and swirls, lapping at your own sticky essence, you look up at him through your lashes with coquettish demureness; his pretty little spawn, always so good to him, so docile, so devoted. The very sight of you makes his cock twitch with desire. “It does so amuse me when you play your darling little games. Mostly because you are awful at them. You did know I was aware the entire time, didn’t you?,” although his smile widens, there is a hint of danger in his voice, “That you were awake.”

As his blood within you rushes to your cheeks, spreading to the tips of your ears, Astarion’s expression darkens for a moment, and the lust in his eyes grows wilder, more desperate. There is something endlessly enticing about how bashful and girlish you look when your face is hot and flushed with his crimson, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, and it makes him want to devour you whole. He abruptly slides his fingers out of your mouth, and the glistening string of your fluids that forms between your lips and his digits breaks off as he uses that same hand to grab your neck and bring your face close to his. Once you are mere inches apart, he stops for a moment, locking eyes with you, and the proximity between you is such that you can feel his long lashes brushing against your skin and see the flecks in different shades of red swimming in his irises. The stillness in the air makes you acutely aware of the sound of his heartbeat, and it paradoxically both comforts and torments you. Such is the nature of your relationship; yearning and sorrow, worship and regret, lust and greed. The duality of it is not lost to you, but you’re past the point of coming up with justifications, for it is far too late for redemption. You made your choice, he made his, and now his burden is yours to bear. It matters not if outsiders looking in cannot make sense of it, as the bond between you was never meant to be understood by anyone else—however ugly and twisted it may be perceived by those around you, it is undeniably a bond of love, one you are willing to protect even if it costs you everything.

“Until the world falls down.”

When he finally closes the distance between you and crashes his mouth into yours, your mind is wiped clean of any semblance of coherent thought and your senses are filled with nothing but him—his scent, his warmth, his taste. He hungrily parts your lips with his tongue as soon as your skin touches his, your teeth clicking in his desperation, and his grip on your neck tightens. You feel tears well up in your eyes, some spilling through your lashes and rolling down your cheeks, your repressed emotions overflowing as you lose yourself in the fierce intensity of his kiss. You want him, you need him, you hate him; you love him, oh how dearly you love him, more than life itself. He explores the inside of your mouth, wantonly, passionately, only stopping to suck on your bottom lip, nipping it with his fangs and lapping at the droplets of blood blooming from the punctured flesh. Once he pulls away, gasping for air, you are both a disheveled mess, lips swollen and bruised and red. Not yet letting go of you, his fingers wrapped around your throat still, he guides your head back down, laying it on the soft feather pillow, only to then straighten up his torso, hand on your neck holding you in place and darkened eyes looking down upon you. From your position below him, he looks ethereal, almost godly, as the moon casts a pale halo around his frame, shining its light on the naked skin of his upper body.

He holds this position for a while, silently studying your face, and as he does, his intense gaze seems to gradually soften, mellowing out into almost tenderness. You feel the pressure of his fingers on your skin lessen, and then cease completely as he frees you, raising his hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces the trail of dried tears, and you lean into his soothing touch, eyes wettening once more. Taking notice of this, he leans back down and brushes his lips against the teardrops threatening to escape from your lashes, drying them before they fall.

“Shh, my darling, hush.” The softness in Astarion’s voice and the gentleness of his caresses as he runs his fingers through your hair are all you ever yearned for, all you ever needed, and yet with every touch your chest tightens and you feel a pang of loneliness and guilt tugging at your unbeating heart, for this is what you want, but not what you deserve. You have failed him, just as he has failed others, and your regrets bind you together for eternity as the thread of your fate entangles with his in a constricting embrace—so is it too greedy, to let yourself be selfish and indulge in his warmth before the sun rises? Is even someone as broken and wicked as you allowed a moment of reprieve, however brief? You know not the answer to these questions, nor do you think you ever will. All you know is that there’s nowhere else you want to be but in his arms, no matter how much it hurts, for you’ll endure the pain as long as you are by his side.

“Kiss me,” you quietly plead, your supplication barely a whisper, prompting him to pull away slightly to look into your eyes. He takes a moment to try and read your expression, his gaze sharp, inquisitive, stripping you off all your defenses and laying you bare before him. A short time passes, and without saying a word, he lowers his head down again, lips brushing against yours, their pillowy softness and the taste of your blood still lingering on his skin shrouding your mind in a white fog. You raise both of your arms and wrap them around his neck, bringing him closer as your mouth matches his movements, the desperation of before now manifesting more tenderly, more lovingly, but just as intensely. One of his hands remains on your cheek as he kisses you, and with the other, he finally unlaces his pants, freeing his neglected erection, which by now is slick from the precome leaking from its engorged head. The color of the sky outside slowly begins to brighten, now a beautiful blend of periwinkle and cyan, and as the twilight peaks and starts to reach its end, Astarion decides he has waited long enough—he will take you here and now, before the merciless, harsh light of the sun engulfs you both.

Feeling his hardness against your thigh, you readily comply, spreading your legs apart. You need this just as much as he does; to be one with him, carnally, for your souls have long merged, and there is no you without him just as there is no him without you. As he lines up with your entrance, his lips leave yours and he presses your foreheads together, staring into your eyes with reassuring tenderness. You feel the tip of his cockhead flush against your dripping sex—the reddened, puffed up skin feels warm, and thinking of how it is swollen from his blood in your veins is all it takes for him to finally snap and give into his desires. He slides inside of you in a single thrust, the wetness from your juices facilitating his entry as he stretches your walls to accommodate his large size. You try to bite back a whimper, your eyes once again tingling and prickling with the promise of tears as one of your hands finds its way to the back of his head and your fingers become entangled in his silvery curls. Not moving immediately, he waits a while, giving you time to adjust. You revel in the familiar feeling of his cock stuffed inside your core, the pain and warmth of it, and you wonder if he too can find comfort nowhere else but in your flesh, as it is only when filled with him that you are able to hold together the broken pieces of your descended mind.

The hand that had been cupping your cheek now rests on your waist as he moves his head to nuzzle the curve of your neck, taking in your scent. Ever so slowly he starts rolling his hips back and forth, planting gentle kisses on the delicate skin where his fangs had been buried just moments ago, now stained with patches of dried blood. You close your eyes, still trying to hold back the tears, hugging him as tightly as you can, or as tightly as he’ll let you. His pace is at first languid, sensual, allowing you to feel the entirety of him as he massages your aching, tender walls, still sensitive and spasming from your orgasm. He grunts in your ear, prompting you to start undulating your own hips, doing your best to match his rhythm. Emboldened by this, he moves his hands down to grab your ass, tilting your pelvis up and pulling you closer to him. Just as desperate to feel him as deeply as physically possible, you wrap your legs around his midriff, allowing him to reach the innermost parts of your throbbing cunt. When the tip of his cock brushes against the spongy skin of your cervix, your gut tightens and you cry out for him, unable to contain yourself.

“Astarion…”

The sound of his name in your lips, so very eager, so very sweet, is all the encouragement he needs, and the once languid movements give way to more vigorous pounding, the lewd sound of smacking flesh echoing in the otherwise quiet room as he snaps his hips and buries himself deeper inside your aching core. Your body rocks in rhythm with his thrusts, the tears in your eyes finally escaping your lashes and running down your face, a chaotic culmination of all the pleasure, all the hurt, all the desire and all the devotion brewing deep inside your heart as your raging feelings come to a boil. No one can understand, no one will understand—and yet, as he fucks you senseless in the early hours, pumping his cock in and out of you with lascivious abandon, none of it matters. You hold him even closer, pressing your squishy breasts flush against the sweaty, glistening skin of his chest. He moans at the sensation, intensifying his pace and using his hands on your ass to tilt your pelvis higher, pushing your folded legs, which are still wrapped around him, as close to your upper body as your flexibility will allow it. You feel the muscles in your thighs stretching and burning, but this only excites you further, and the soft whimpers leaving your lips escalate in frequency and loudness alike.

As he continues pounding into you, Astarion’s kisses on your neck become more passionate, more heated, going from pecks, to licking, to sucking, until eventually he gives in and once again sinks his fangs in the bruised flesh. You mewl faintly and your grip on his hair tightens, in response to which he bites down on you harder, nails raking across the skin of your ass as his thrusts grow fiercer, more violent. The message immediately gets through to you—the cheeky little spawn must know her place—so you obediently let go of his curls, although your digits remain entangled in them still; yet he does not slow down his pace, ramming into you with such force that you are afraid you will have trouble walking once he is finished. Be that as it may, one of his hands leaves its place on your ass to hover above your swollen clit, which twitches desperately as his cock resurfaces and then disappears again inside your cunt. He grasps it between two deft fingers, massaging the engorged bundle of nerves as a reward for your obedience, and that is all it takes for tension to again start building up in your groin.

“You have given me everything.”

His digits on your tender bud; your blood running down his throat; his cock slamming into you, stretching open your tight walls—you are so very close to climaxing again, and yet you don’t want the moment to end; you don’t want morning to come, breaking the spell and robbing your lover from you, as it always so cruelly does. The tragic inevitability of it is however unaffected by the infinitude of your existence, a gift that was also bequeathed to you by him, and enveloped by the ice-cold embrace of the memories of your death, your body comes alive as you are pushed over the edge, your twitching cunt fluttering and contracting around him, creaming and squirting your sweet juices all over his length.

As you slump back and go limp is his arms, Astarion unlatches his mouth from your neck and props up his torso to marvel at your image as you bask in the glory of your release—so maddeningly beautiful, cheeks and plump lips flushed bright pink with what remains of his lifeblood within you; his consort, his spawn, his to use as he pleases, his and nobody else’s. While he continues fucking you through your orgasm, all you can hear are his low moans and grunts and the squelching sounds of your wetness as he ruts into you with ever increasing furor. You can tell he is also close by the way he holds your hips with both of his hands, pushing his own against them with almost vicious ferocity while you remain slumped on the headboard, tits bouncing cutely with every thrust. The daylight seeping through the curtains now brightens up the room, and as you look up at him with half-lidded eyes, you notice how handsome he looks illuminated by the gentle glow of the rising sun, sweat beading his temple and dripping down his chin and nose.

“Gods…” he groans, voice raspy with lust, and with one final push he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim with his seed, which feels thick and warm flooding your tender walls. Still panting and sucking in sharp breaths, he falls on top of you, not bothering to pull his cock out of your still spasming cunt, chest flush against yours and head burrowed in the crook of your neck. Spillover runs down your thighs and soaks into the wrinkled sheets, but neither of you bother cleaning it up, the resulting stain surely to give the maids good reason to blush later.

You bring a hand up to his silky curls once more, gently running your fingers through them as you feel the calming thumping of his slowing heartbeat vibrating against your cold skin. As the dawn finally breaks over the still sleeping city, signaling the beginning of a new day in your undead life—for better or for worse—you find comfort in the warmth of his flesh and the sound of his ragged breathing as it gradually steadies. All your suffering, all your pain; if even your death is required to bring him to life, then so be it. He will live for the both of you, and you will love him for it. Forever—for good.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

#personal #astarion x tav #bg3 #bg3 fic #ascended astarion #lord astarion #astarion #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #fic: death and his maiden #my fics

[theatrebooknerd56]

It started with getting a yellow bandana and a yellow beanie and wearing them all the time

And now it has escalated and my color is just yellow now

Not bright yellow though, more toned down darker yellow

Yellows not even my favorite color. My favorite color is #a3ffd9

This all started because i liked the idea of asexuals wearing a yellow hat. So I got a yellow beanie like todd

What has become of my life. How did I get to this point

#my old favorite color was purple #idk how i managed to get away from it #at least i look good in yellow #it might be because it washed my sister out #and i got her hand me downs #yellow #favorite colors

[toychest321]

Sorry for being late to post about Ramadan (school's been hell recently), but I thought I could take the opportunity to highlight some Muslim dolls! While there aren't many, one of my favorites is Fulla! For those unaware, Fulla was made by the company NewBoy FZCO and has been running since 2003! (MASSIVE thanks to Dollect for most of the information on her, at least throughout her early run in the 2000s) According to Dollect, some of the first dolls released of her with a hijab was in 2005 from the "Fulla with Abaya" sets, which apparently had embroidery on the sleeves! I love the long skirts, they give me Flower Power Barbie vibes!

There were also apparently "Outdoor Fashion" dolls with a surprise element where beneath their Abaya they'd be wearing an outfit of a specific color out of purple, pink, and green. They were MILES ahead of the surprise toy gimmick of the 2010s.

However, I can't find exactly what their outdoor outfits looked like? There aren't any images of them on Dollect, though I suppose these might be them? No confirmation of such, of course, but I found the pink one labelled for 2004 on another website.

It seems to check out with the description of having purple and pink variants in the outfit, but the beige and black leads me to believe these might be another release entirely... regardless I adore the detail in these coats! Anyway, I'll be posting about these more soon, but for now I better get back to that homework I just got distracted from lol. If you guys know of any other Muslim dolls you'd like me to post about feel free to send an ask!

Ramadan Kareem!

(Edit: Y'all thank you so much for the traction but please check out my reblogged edits to this post, I lowkey fumbled the info on the mystery outfits the first time around 😭)

#dolls #dollblr #fulla dolls #muslim dolls

[yenqa]

ADVANTAGES

in which…

on jay’s live, fans point out a stuffed animal on his bed, one that seems to be the other piece to your notorious missing pair. as imaginary pieces start to connect for fans, the viewers beg for some kind of interaction. and though you and jay have never met before, why not use this situation to your advantage?

warnings : crying, panic attacks, depression is depicted but isnt really said, lots of bad self talk, food/eating, having no appetite, just lots of bad mental health talk and depictions, hurt/comfort, god this chapter is PACKED

wc: 1829

i’m sorry that i couldnt be your teenage dream.

not proofread!

☆

It had been a week and a half since you had seen anyone.

Well other than the cashiers at the local grocery store but that made you look even more pathetic. 

You haven’t been well, at all.

It was a horrible sight, honestly you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror without cringy. You had no productivity and had planned to do nothing for as long as possible. 

You were surprised your body hasn't exploded yet, since all you had ate was instant ramen or the three meals you could cook total. 

Today was one of the worse-r days. Three hours into the new day but your mind couldn’t seem to sleep one bit.

You had zero appetite, your room was a mess, it was worse that you couldn’t even sleep away the days even though you were so tired. Your eyes were glued shut at night but your body couldn’t stop fighting the feeling of sleep. 

So here you were, eye bags almost able to give the color purple a run for its money, and so puffy it felt like a balloon was stuck in there. But your eyes hadn’t shed any tears, instead you felt like nothing. Like you were just floating around with no purpose or any feeling at all.

The empty feeling in your head made you unable to do anything but scroll on your phone, letting hours after hours pass by rewatching your favorite show at least a billion times. It seemed like the world had gone gray, like the world was ending and you were the only one feeling it.

A part of you screamed at yourself to get a grip, to stop being so dramatic and realize there are still good things in life. 

You tried to get better, you really did. You had researched on how to get over this drought but you never could. So every night you would lay in your bed, trying to figure out what was wrong with you.

Mornings have always been your least favorite part of the day. But it seemed to get worse with every second that passed. 

Realizing you still had a whole day ahead of you seemed utterly impossible to finish, but still you would reach your hand out to the finish line, only to miss every time.

You had six hours until it was the appropriate time to wake up. You couldn’t call anyone for help, you couldn’t text anyone in the middle of the night. It was your burden, so you had to keep it to yourself and hope and pray it washes away over time.

Your phone has been your only sense of livelihood during your dull days. If you had been wasting hours after hours at least you had been doing something. 

Before you could think of the consequences, you had thought of searching yourself on the internet, just for fun. You clicked on the first source, hoping that someone would see your side of the story.

No it was not fun–you wish you could warn yourself because the title of the article read; “All you need to know about Y/niora and why she’s trending”

We’ve all seen the names “Y/n” or “Y/niora” trending on X, who is she? Some might wonder. In this article I’ll be going over everything she’s done wrong, and why fans hate her for it.

Y/n is a popular streamer on twitch, known for her funny commentary and her boyfriend Jay, but recently she’s shown a darker side to her.

Her boyfriend, Jay, is also a twitch streamer, a much more popular one at that. He’s known for his good looks and his random reactions that have us crying with laughter, but why would he date a nobody like her? 

If you’ve seen Y/niora’s X account, you can see that she posts provocative photos of herself, things that only lead to temptations of male fans. Fans speculate this is the reason they met, saying that she seduced him and used him for money, fame, and views.

If you know anything about streaming, you know BlueJay and his friends. Who stole the internet's hearts with their looks and cute personalities. But things start picking up between Jay and Y/n when she posts their matching stuffed animals, officially presenting their relationship to the world.

This seems to be a bad move on Y/n’s part, as her facade starts slipping through and we get to see her for the calloused person she is. 

She continuously shows her disinterest in anything he’s saying. Making him repeat everything he’s said to her. This strikes up the question, does she really care about him or her fans?

Arguments of this exact topic have been trending among fans, some saying

You closed your phone before you could read anything else. Flipping your body over you could feel tears start to form in your eyes, your vision goes blurry and your breath starts hiccuping. 

Wiping your wet cheeks, you start to panic when you feel like your throat is closing up, placing your hand on your chest to try to calm yourself down. 

That clearly doesn’t work. As you swear you can feel the walls closing in beside you. In a last effort to stop your ugly sobs, you open your phone once more, your breath quickens when you open the phone app, calling the person that you need the most right now.

The ringing on your phone shakes you more, “Please answer, please answer, please answer.” You croak out desperately, glancing at your window to realize it’s the middle of the night, and he’s probably getting the nice sleep he deserves. 

Unlike you who only makes things worse, and can’t even get a wink of sleep at night.

You sob harder after the fifth ring, realizing that he’s not going to answer. And you have to do this on your own–

“Y/n? Are you okay?” His voice brings relief to your ears, that’s until you realize the state you’re in. 

“Jay I’m so–so so sorry for calling you this late.” You rasp out, “I just don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t stop shaking and crying, I just–fuck” Bringing your hand up, you grab a fist of your hair, not knowing what to do or say.

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, I am.” You choke through, words barely coherent.

“I’m coming. Stay there, okay?”

“Okay.” 

His tone is so soft it scares you. How could he be talking to you so sweetly knowing the mess you made? How could he be talking to you so sweetly knowing that you are burdening him at such a late hour?

Your throat tries its best to keep your hammering heart inside your chest, but it closes up, your breath is so uneven you're not even sure you’re breathing at all. 

That is until you let out a soft apology into your phone, but it’s covered by your staggered breathing, and the sound of you stuffing up your snot back into your nose.

The silence coming from him is apparently meant to drive you insane. Because the nausea of it all starts to get to you, your condition is crippling so you can’t even move from your curled up position on your bed.

You can hear your door slam open, eliciting a strong flinch from you. 

Your heart seems to be racing too fast for your liking, almost like it’s fighting to get out of your chest. “Jay?” You mutter, as you can see his dark silhouette standing through the doorway. 

Before you can actually decipher if the man is actually Jay or just some random burglar who found your spare key, you feel his arms wrap around your body, tucking your head into the space between his neck and shoulder. 

You conclude that it’s Jay’s warmth you’re feeling right now.

For a second you feel safe, for a second you feel like he’s just hugging you, not because you are literally having a panic attack. 

That snaps you back into reality. God were you really having a panic attack over an article? That you chose to read? 

Feeling your chest tighten and your eyes water up, you tuck your head impossibly deeper, letting your tears and snot get all over his shirt. 

It’s grossing you out how you can physically feel his shirt dampen with your tears, but you’re too focused on figuring out how to breathe rather than the mess you made on his shirt.

“You can let it out, or you can just cry, I don’t mind.”

You sob even harder than you were before.

He’s so warm. He’s so warm. And you have no idea why it’s the perfect descriptor for him. 

“Jay,” You mutter, being muffled by his shoulder, “I’ve ruined everything.”

His arm rubs your back gently, “You haven’t ruined anything, pretty.” He whispers, talking like if he speaks any louder you’ll crack into hundreds of pieces (you actually might but that’s not the point).

“I have! You can’t even deny it without lying,” You hiccup, “I mean—I’m trying so hard, but I can’t do anything right.” You pull your head back to look up at him.

He stays silent, letting his hand cup your face, wiping away any tears that fall down.

“And I’m so tired. I’m so tired of doing everything I can but still being hated for not doing enough. I mean who wouldn’t? I can’t even cook a proper meal, it just goes to show how hopeless I am.”

“Y/n you can’t possibly think about yourself.”

“I can because it’s the truth.”

He tucks your head back into his shoulder, “Y/n, not being able to cook a proper meal is okay. Some people never learn how to cook an egg.”

Your breathing calms down slightly, you let out a small chuckle, trying to stay forever in his warmth.

“I’m sorry for calling you here so late, I know you’re tired from streaming or something.”

“I could never stay away from you for too long, even if it’s in the middle of the night.”

Letting out a breathy smile, you look back at his face, a small smile spreads through his face looking at you.

Your eyes were tired, for the first time in a week your body was tired. “I’m going to go to sleep. Thank you, Jay, seriously.”

He gets up from your position, you feel the absence of his warmth even though he just got up, he’s about to walk out the door when you build up the courage to ask, “Can you stay? Just for tonight?”

Looking back, there's a smile on his face as he replies “Always.”

Walking back to you, he lays himself under your blanket, tucking you in before wrapping his arm around you, he pulls you into his chest.

And for the first time in what felt like forever. You fall asleep, in Jay’s arms.

☆

back masterlist next

yenqa > um title is reference to teenage dream by olivia rodrigo! umm hope u enjoyed while i ripped my heart out and put it in my writing… thanks!

taglist (CLOSED): @yeokii @hanniluvi @euncsace @jongsiemain @mrchweeee @fakeuwus @ashy1um @rikisly @filmofhybe @nwjws @yizhoutv @soov @tocupid @tzke1ta @yannew @manooffline @mars101 @haechansbbg @enhaz1 @teddywonss @en-happiness @kim2005bomi @be0mlvr @luvswonyoung @flwoie @lilriswife4life @nicholasluvbot @ikeusol @lylovw @alwayswook @astrae4 @choi-beomgyulvr @aishigrey @infpistj @jiawji @planethyuka @mari-oclock @222brainrot @jakevascaino @rory-cant-sleep @hyehae @vixensss @hearts4hanni @kgneptun @tongtongie @www-jungwon @lovejunz @fluerz @jiyeons-closet @nyuzip @leehanist @heerinnie @eneiyri

yenqa © please do not copy, steal or translate.

#kflixnet #enhablr #k-labels #k-films #advantages — yenqa 🎀 #enhypen x reader #enhypen x yn #enhypen smau #enhypen jay #enhypen angst #enhypen au #enhypen reactions #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen jay x reader #jay x reader #jay smau #jay x you #jay x y/n #jay texts #jay angst #jay scenarios #jay fluff #enhypen jay smau #jay fic #jay au #jay drabble #jay fanfiction #jay fics #jay fanfic

[haechansdoll]

pamper - lee haechan x reader [smut]

Pairing : Lee Haechan x f!Reader

Description: It's just an innocent bath and massage from Haechan to his wife, Y/n along with some sexy action between them ;)

Warnings : sex.

Haechan knows that their anniversary isn’t for another few months, but if he can’t pamper the fuck out y/n whenever, then what is even the point of being in a relationship. He takes his title very seriously. ‘Husband” Married to a beautiful woman, meaning she deserves everything in the world. On a random Friday, he gathers a bouquet and y/n’s favorite takeout. The little things make their relationship ever-growing and get better by the day. Haechan loves to see the beaming smiles that grow on y/n’s beautiful face and the soft kisses on his lips when she comes into his arms for a long and meaningful hug.

So it’s no guess when Haechan decides that he wants to pamper y/n again but in a better way than ever before. Haechan is brilliant; he listens to y/n when she talks about things she has been thinking about for at least a few months. “A massage; maybe I should just set up an appointment.” Haechan then offers to do it for her, saying, “How about I call? You don’t have to worry about it any longer.” y/n is always surprised at the kind-hearted things her husband says to her. Haechan doesn’t schedule a massage for y/n. Instead, he takes the opportunity to fill the bathtub with hot water, but a few drops of lavender oil and a bath bomb for an extra measure into the mix. When he returns from the kitchen with a bottle of wine, the bath water has changed from clear to a gorgeous purple color with specks of sparkle everywhere.

He hears the door open with ease, and the recognizable heel sounds echo against the apartment walls. “Honey?” Haechan hears y/n shout, “Where are you?” Usually, Haechan greets his beautiful wife at the door, but instead, this time, he’s hidden away in the lavender-scented bathroom. Candles burn away as Haechan quickly gets up and finds his wife. “There you are. You are not going to believe the day I had,” y/n says to Haechan. “I bet I won’t, but how about you tell me when you get in the tub.” y/n isn’t sure what her husband said but follows his sweet guiding hand to their bathroom.

What awaits y/n has her almost automatically in tears. A hard day’s work washed away from the scent of lavender, and candle wicks burned in the air. “Oh, Haechan!” It comes out as a moan, a sigh of the day being over. “I’m glad you like it,” Haechan says softly while wrapping his arms around the front of her stomach, pulling her back flat against his chest. He presses soft and gentle kisses to her neck and cheek. Breathing in the sweet aroma in the air eases the both of them. “How about we get you undressed?” Haechan’s voice is soft and quiet, keeping the intimate nature of the room intact.

Haechan helps y/n unbutton the white blouse, gently sliding it down her arms as it lands in a small pile on the floor. Haechan falls to his knees next, searching for the small zipper at the back of y/n’s black pencil skirt. The material falls with ease down her hips and falls to her feet. y/n steps out and waits for her husband to undress the rest of her. Her panties and bra land in a different pile because y/n has taught her husband one thing: ‘Some clothes are delicate and can’t be washed with harsh materials like your jeans and jackets, Haechan.’

“Check the water and see if it’s warm enough, baby,” Haechan says to y/n and she dips her bare toes into the warm soothing water. She had no qualms with the temperature, so she stepped into the Tub and gracefully sat down into the relaxing hot steamy water.

The quiet of the bathroom and the little sounds of the sloshing water surrounding her are soothing. At first, Haechan doesn’t want to disturb the silence or comfort in the room, but he promises he’s listening to y/n’s day. “So you said something about your day, love?” His words are soft. y/n hums and then fills the room with her voice. She talks about her day, about that coworker who keeps piling her work onto y/n’s table. “Maybe it’s because I’m the head researcher, but I’m getting tired of taking this women’s shit.” Haechan does his best to calm his wife, rubbing gentle circles into her arms or pressing a few kisses into her ear.

Not until Haechan grabs the bottle of shampoo and starts to massage the roots of y/n’s hair does her fast words and frustration seem to ease away. Her head falls back, and her eyes flutter. y/n is in complete heaven. Haechan’s fingers move with great purpose over the scalp of his wife; every move he makes pushes y/n further into comfort. She doesn’t even notice the water dripping over her scalp to remove the shampoo or the silky feeling of Haechan’s condition-covered fingers falling into her hair. It’s not long after that when the water goes from warm to cold, way too cold for her to be comfortable.

So Haechan helps y/n out, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around y/n’s body. The soft, fluffy towel engulfs y/n in warmth. Little words are spoken because, well, honestly, they don’t need words. Nothing will ever truly express how Haechans’s heart thumps faster whenever y/n is in his arms or how y/n’s eyes twinkle when she’s looking up at him.

Then Haechan went down the hallway towards their bedroom with y/n following after him. Her Bare Feet padded across the Hardwood floor making soft slapping sounds as she elegantly strutted her way to the Bedroom.

When she arrives in the Bedroom y/n’s heart skips a beat, because Haechan has placed more candles in the bedroom and another soft towel on the bed. “I know you were talking about getting a massage, but I was thinking, how about you let me do that for you?” Haechan says. y/n is in complete and utter shock, a suitable type of shock that it takes her a few minutes to understand what Haechan has just said. “y/n?” The silence isn’t a bad sign to Haechan, but he wants to make sure he’s doing good so far. “It’s perfect.” y/n’s voice is quiet and timid. It’s almost as if she’s scared to tell Haechan that she loves all the nice things he does for her. A smile grows on Haechans’s face, and he guides her to the bed.

“You’re okay staying naked like this for me?” Haechan asks. y/n eagerly nods while waiting for her husband to guide her onto the plush bed. “Good, now come lay down on your stomach,” Haechan murmurs to y/n, and she follows his words. With that, y/n let her towel drop to the floor and got situated on the bed, her stomach lying flat on the towel and her arms crossed under her chin to support her head, but Haechan quickly adjusted her arms, setting them down to her sides instead.

y/n couldn’t see anything besides the bedside table and the front of the headboard, so she stuck to relying on her other senses. The sound of shuffling feet tells her that Haechan is no longer at her side but somewhere behind her. The next sound that has her skin lighting up with goosebumps is the recognizable sound of the top of a lid snapping open, and then the liquid is poured all over her legs. It starts at just the bend on her knee. The oil pooled and dripped down her skin, “I’m starting with your feet.” Haechan says quietly, “Always on them, workin’ yourself to death over those damn research projects. I think my girl just needs to relax once in a while.’ Haechan murmurs as his hand comes around one of y/n’s feet. His hands are covered in oil, making them slip over the curves and edges of y/n’s feet. He’s got a whole process, taking care of each foot with care and ease. He rubs delicate circles into the arches of her feet, and then his large thumb rubs mini circles into her soles. “Those heels are makin’ a mess of your pretty feet, y/n.” He says to her, but y/n isn’t listening anymore. She focuses on not giggling or cringing away from the touch due to how soft and feathery it is.

The feeling only gets worse when Haechan moves away from the soles of her feet to her tiny little toes. Get toes gets its attention. Her big to first, which is easy enough, but when Haechan manages to get to her last toe, y/n can’t help but burst out with little giggles. Haechan smiles with joy as he knows that this is what y/n has needed for a long time. A night where she doesn’t have to be on her feet and she’s being cared for by her wonderful, caring husband. Haechan kissed Both of her feet then his hands floated up, slipping over her feet and calves. He works with ease on each leg. Pressing his thick fingers into her skin, he works out the thigh muscles before moving on to another section. It isn’t long before he’s worked his calves to her thighs, where he can see the slight jiggle of her flesh at every pass of his large hand on her skin.

The oil runs out after he’s completed both of her thighs, so the clicking of the bottle brings y/n back to life. She’s been so at peace she’s pretty sure that at one point, she even fell asleep, which was sort of the whole point. Regardless, the oil pours down her spine, pooling at the base of her hips. y/n’s skin glistens under the candlelight as Haechan gets his hand oily again and works on y/n’s ass. Playing and teasing with the plush skin. “Haechan…” y/ns moans out with a sigh of contentment. Haechan only hums, moving on and up y/n’s spine. Meanwhile, Haechan is sitting on the top of y/n’s ass as he rubs the heel of his palm into a tough muscle in her back. With every hard squeeze of Haechans's hand on y/n's back, a moan or sigh falls from her lips, to which Haechan asks, “Did that feel good?” or  “I should do that again?” He never gets an actual answer, just another hum from y/ns' lips.

Haechan slides back down y/n’s frame, sitting back on her ankles. “y/n baby, you gotta roll over for me.” y/n’s motion is slowed down tenfold; she doesn’t move gracefully; instead, she moves over groggily. y/n may still be naked, but that didn’t mean Haechan wanted to make her uncomfortable. y/ns eyes are open now, looking up at her handsome husband. “Well, hello, beautiful,” Haechan mutters, a soft smile on her features. “Hello, handsome.” She replies, biting her bottom lip between her teeth. “Can I touch you, y/n?” He asks, and she nods. “You can touch me anywhere.” She says softly as his hands come up to grab at her hips.

Haechan bends down to slip one of y/ns’ tits into his large hand, squeezing and massaging at the supple skin. Her nipples are tight and stiff as his thumb grazes over the flesh. It’s not until Haechan’s mouth rounds, the skin of her tit, her moans start to fall from her lush lips. Her moans don’t fall on deaf ears; instead, he sucks harder, licking his tongue over the nipple, encouraging her to be louder for him. He sucks until y/n is nearly pulling him off of her tit, and then he takes the other in his mouth, giving just as much attention to it. y/n’s hands fall to Haechan’s hair as she pulls him in for rough teeth, a gnashing kiss. “I love you,” y/n whispers against Haechans’s lips before he descends her body and her legs open up for him. Her legs lay over his shoulders as he pressed sweet kisses into her flesh. Kisses are stringed against her stomach, then her thighs and inner thighs, before a soft and gentle kiss is laid atop her clit; from there, it’s like being in heaven.

Haechan starts to suck and give kitten licks to her clit as his two longer fingers probe at her entrance. Nudging at her spongy walls, warm and wet for him. He never once looked away from y/n, their eyes on each other as y/n sat up on her elbows to keep her eyes on Haechan and where they met. Her mouth falls open as his thickest fingers press into her womb, pumping in and out to massage her gummy walls. Haechan’s fingers are covered with her wetness, and y/n’s clit is swollen and red from the attack of his lips and tongue. Her wetness and Haechans’s droll cover his chin when he comes up for air. y/n’s moans fill the air around the two of them, her hands finding his scalp and pulling him back down to continue his attack on her sensitive clit, waiting, yearning to reach her orgasms.

The quick thrusts of Haechans’s fingers and the fast licks on his tongue on her clit push her over the edge as her fingers grab at the short hair of his scalp, and she screams out with pleasure. “FUck! Haechan,” Her walls squeeze him tightly as she gushes over them. As she rides her high Haechans licks are gentle, and the pumps of his fingers are softer, letting her ride out her orgasms longer. “Such a messy girl,” Haechan says into her skin as he slips his fingers out of her cunt; he doesn’t take his eyes off of her as he brings them up to his lips and sucks them. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath. Haechan falls next to her, and they lay there trying to catch their breath before y/n rolls over her hips, falling over Haechan, and she pulls him up for a passionate long kiss.

Nothing rough in the kiss, but her lips are soft, and so are Haechans as they meddle together in each other embrace. Haechan grips her tightly in his arms, keeping her there when their lips fall apart. When y/n rolls her hips, and her wet cunt rolls over Haechan’s impressive hard-on, he stops her. “Not tonight, y/n. Let’s just go to sleep.” y/n tries to argue with him, “But I wanna make you feel good, Haechan.” He smiles and presses his forehead against hers. “You do. Now go to bed, and you can treat me to something in the morning.” Haechan says as a yawn falls from his lips, squeezing y/n tighter to his chest, keeping her in his forever-tight grip.

[[ hiiiiiiiii, It's been a while - how have you been??]]

#nct smut #nct dream smut #nct imagines #nct haechan #haechan smut #haechan imagines #haechan scenarios #kpop smut #nct dream #kpop #nct #haechan x reader #donghyuck #lee donghyuck #lee donghyuk x reader

[or0ch1maru]

akatsukis kinks and turn offs?

18+, full blown smut, kinks, and more smut

•

Omg omg omg, I had wayyyy too much fun writing these. Also! If anyone wants a one shot of a specific character with the kinks I’ve listed, pleaseeeeee let me know and I’d be more than happy to write it, especially for Tobi, Hidan, or Zetsu🫶🏻

I feel like Hidan has done everything at least once, and if there’s something he hasn’t done, he’s more than willing to try. This man is KINKY. I imagine his favorites are period play(or anything involving blood), s&m, fucking outside with the thrill of getting caught, knife play, and threesomes. I believe his turn off’s would be the “I don’t use safe words” thing. Hidan is intense when it comes to sex, and he won’t do it with just anybody either. He must have a safe word for his sessions and if you refuse to use one, just know you won’t be getting in his pants.

Kakuzu is similar to Hidan, has done everything at least once and isn’t close minded about trying new things. I know for a fact his tendrils would definitely come into play, whether it’s him tying you up, or toying with your clit. He’s definitely partnered up with Hidan for three ways, and just like him, also requires a safe word. I imagine Kakuzu enjoying a daddy kink as well, would lose his composure the second the word slips from your lips four orgasms in. Big into brat taming, but when it comes to turn off’s, just like with Hidan, if you have the no safe word mindset, he won’t be down.

I’ve mentioned this before but I truly believe Konan is into Shibari. Has a whole collection of ropes, of all different colors too. Mostly pastels; pinks, blue’s, and purple’s. I see her as being a passionate lover, with intense sessions time to time. Loves bringing toys into the bedroom, and her favorite to use on you would be her Hitachi. I can imagine Konan being into impact play as well, using only her hand or her paddle, likes seeing little pink marks on your ass or thighs. Would primarily be the top with you and unless she has stated it otherwise, WILL NOT be down to be topped. She needs absolute trust in her partner before allowing them access to her that way. If you try to top her during sex, it’ll turn her off.

Sessions with Pain can last relatively long, only because he loves to draw it out. Mixing pleasure with pain, but it’s never done to hurt you, wants you to experience pleasure in all aspects. I believe he’s into piercing play, also known as recreational acupuncture, or needle play. Aftercare is a very important thing to Pain, especially with the minor wounds that were inflicted during your session. I think his only turn off would be if you thought aftercare was stupid or unnecessary. Especially the times when he requires aftercare too.

Our sweet explosive loving babe. I feel like Deidara hasn’t experimented much with kinks, and the few he has tried, he wasn’t crazy about. How some people are into riding their partners fingers, you’d be riding his hand. Could cum just from watching you ride the appendage that sits between the lips on his palm. As stated in the show, Deidara isn’t into s&m. I feel like he tried it once but the thought of inflicting pain on his partner was too much for him and visa versa. Even though he loves bombs and explosions, I feel like he’s more of a gentle partner.

I can see Sasori absolutely loving when his partner sits on his face. Is the type to get upset if you don’t sit your entire body weight down on him, would grab hold of your thighs, pulling you down onto him and holding you there. Loves looking up and seeing your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your face as you continuously cum on his tongue. Bonus points if you end up squirting. Apart from that, I can imagine him using his chakra threads on you, whether it’s holding you still when you start to squirm, or when you start faltering when riding his cock, his threads would help keep you balanced. I don’t think he’s be into food play. Since Sasori doesn’t need to eat like others do, he sees no use for it, in or outside of the bedroom.

Breeding kink, I repeat, BREEDING KINK. With Uchiha’s, they form deep bonds, and love the hardest. So naturally, that would be reflected during sex. Itachi loves filling you up, and then watching as you go about your business throughout the compound full of him. I think he also enjoys when you ride his thighs. If he’s busy working on something at his desk, best believe one hand will be holding your lower back, helping you keep your rhythm. I personally think Itachi’s turn off would be Dacryphilia. Only because he doesn’t like seeing you cry. He strives for his partner’s happiness.

Just like Hidan, I feel like Kisa enjoys period sex. Has a container under his bed full of towels specifically for that time of the month. Apart from that, I imagine he likes choking, Dacryphilia, and rough sex in general. Loves seeing the scratches you leave on his back or the bite marks left on him. When he has you in doggy or bent over any hard surface, best believe his large hand will have a fistful of your hair. Now for turn offs, I don’t think he’d do anything risky where he could get caught. Just like a lot of his comrades, he’s protective over his partner and doesn’t want anyone seeing what’s his. Especially in such a vulnerable state.

Now, you can get either Tobi, or Obito, it truly depends on his mood, or situation. Our sweet gentle Tobi loves seeing his partner in cute little outfits, especially a maid outfit. I see Tobi as more of a sub honestly and if he acts out, and you want to punish him for it, his all time favorite is edging. If you happen to act like a brat, just know Obito won’t hesitate to grip you by the hair and walk you back to your shared room. Rough sex, double penetration, and surprisingly exhibitionism. As long as others don’t see his face/scarring, he will fuck you senseless in front of others/doesn’t care if someone walks in during. Will even hold a conversation with said person while he fucks you. Even when alone, loves fingering you with his gloves on. Tobi wouldn’t want to see you cry, just like Itachi, he doesn’t like seeing his partner upset. With Obito, I don’t think he’d like sensory deprivation. Doesn’t enjoy having any of his senses taken away, wants to be able to hear, and see every reaction he pulls from you.

Just like Tobi, you can get either Black or white Zetsu. All depends on their mood & said situation. White Zetsu loves nothing more than praising you, especially when his cock is buried deep in your throat, with tears threatening to fall, black Zetsu is all for degrading you. Will mush your face into a wall, a desk, the mattress, and take you from behind, whispering dirty words as you take him fully. I also fully believe Zetsu is into having sex outside, and orgasm control/denial. Enjoys hearing you beg to cum, bucking your hips into him or the toy just to get yourself off when you can’t take it. As well as quickie’s. Won’t hesitate to pull you into a bathroom and fuck you silly before walking about like he didn’t do anything. I think his only turn off would be being bitten. For some reason I imagine Zetsu being really sensitive and doesn’t like the blunt pain one can inflict by digging their teeth into him.

•

#akatsuki #akatsuki members #konan headcanons #zetsu x reader #kakuzu headcanons #sasori akatsuki #hidan headcanon #itachi uchiha smut #itachi headcanons #kisame headcanons #obito smut #pain akatsuki #deidara smut #akatsuki smut #hidan smut #sasori smut

[lovebugism]

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

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

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

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

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

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

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a good kind of trapped, though. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want Steve. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t woken up yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

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

A smile pulls slow at your lips. 

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

“Yeah?” you mutter.

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

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

He only grumbles in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel pretty. 

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

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it. 

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

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

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

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

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

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

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

But now he’s got you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t argue, only nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve winces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a little,” you quip.

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he hums back.

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

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

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

“Right… there.”

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

“Wanna give me the short version?”

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

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

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

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he winces.

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

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

“I think it’s sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?” you echo quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The exact same way he looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

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

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

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

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

But Steve could. 

Steve could be yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

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

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

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like me better out of them?”

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

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

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

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

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

It never comes, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe. 

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

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

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

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

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

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

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

That nearly does him in right then.

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

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes. 

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

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

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

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

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of his little reactions spur you forward. 

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

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

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

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

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like bunks?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod wordlessly in reply.

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot like that, actually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

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

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But sex is different when you’re an adult. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

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

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

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

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

His brows raise. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

That shuts him up real quick.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stevie oneshot #st oneshots #punchy x steve

[vanteguccir]

Daddy's favorite girl | Matt Sturniolo

Matt Sturniolo x reader | Dad!Matt Sturniolo x Daughter!Eloise

Summary: Where Matt realizes that his daughter, Eloise, has him tied up in her pinkie.

Warning: None.

Requested?: No.

Author's note: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

PS.: Just a little thing that I wrote today after I went to the market and saw a cute little scene between a father and daughter! (I've posted this earlier, but I deleted it accidentally and just realized it)

PS. 2: I'm already working on a Matt x reader based on today's video of Sam and Colby ft Sturniolo Triplets, so stay tuned!! I'm probably going to post it tomorrow 🩷

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"Matt!" Y/N called from the kitchen, lifting her chin so that her voice echoed better throughout the house, turning her attention back to the items in front of her as she began preparations for lunch.

"Daddy!" Eloise's thin, excited voice echoed through the kitchen, catching Y/N's attention, who momentarily turned back, her eyes finding her daughter.

Eloise sat cross-legged on her fluffy pink carpet, scattered around her were barbies while her little fingers held a mini pink pan and a mini purple spoon. In front of her, almost on top of her white sock-clad feet, she had a mini board with fake vegetables of all colors. The little girl had asked that her mother give her her kitchen toys, wanting to imitate her.

Eloise had an area with toys in each room of the house, and in the kitchen it was between the refrigerator and the counter, with a child-sized stove and refrigerator in neutral colors, full of plastic kitchen items in all colors, and a pink carpet on the front.

"Hi, my little dove." Matt replied, having entered the kitchen seconds after his wife called him.

The man went to his daughter, bending down momentarily and kissing her head covered in curly brown hair - exactly like his -, tied with a pink bow. The smell of children's shampoo and neutral perfume filled Matt's nostrils, making his heart warm from the scent he loved so much.

Matt stood up seconds later, walking over to his wife - who had returned her attention to the vegetables in front of her. His arms wrapped around her baby blue apron covered waist, resting his large hands on her very much pregnant belly while his head rested on Y/N's covered shoulder, kissing the area gently.

"Hi, mama. You look so beautiful today." Matt's voice was low and husky. Y/N felt her face heat up, as if this wasn't the tenth time he'd said that to her that day alone.

The effects that his pregnant wife had on Matt were enormous, he felt his legs getting weak and his heart racing every time he looked at her, besides the arousal, which had increased at least twice as much. Y/N joked that he was worse than her when it came to hormones, and she was the one carrying his second baby.

"I need you to go to the market for me, please. We're out of tomatoes and peppers, and I'm going to use them in the vegetable gratin I'm making." Y/N asked, smiling sideways with Matt's hot breath so close to her as kisses were planted on her shoulder.

"Okay, I'm going to the grocery store around the corner." He informed, earning a nod from Y/N.

Matt and Y/N lived in a house situated in a very homely neighborhood, which had everything nearby: grocery store, butcher's shop, school, pharmacy, etc., which made the couple's day-to-day life easier, reducing the need for use as much car as they needed when they lived in downtown LA.

"Daddy, where are you going?" Eloise asked, raising her big blue eyes, which were now looking intently at her father who was about to walk through the kitchen door with their house keys and his wallet in hand, which he took from the counter.

"Daddy's going to the market, baby." Matt turned around, giving his daughter his full attention as he answered her.

"I want to come along! Mommy, can I go with daddy, please?" The little girl asked, getting up carefully so as not to fall - as had happened several times before because of her haste -, standing on top of her carpet and looking at her mother, her little hands holding the skirt of her pink dress with white ruffles.

Y/N turned to her daughter, pressing her lips in a thin line when she saw the girl's expression, eyes wide and lips in a pout, holding herself back from laughing at the similarity between her and her husband.

"Okay, you can go. But promise me you will be a good girl and listen and obey your father, remember what mommy taught you." Y/N spoke with a soft expression on her face, but serious voice. "And when you come back, be prepared to put away your toys, missy."

Eloise nodded her head repeatedly, smiling big and taking careful steps off the carpet, afraid of steping on her toys. Seeing that she was out of reach of the barbies and pans, she quickly walked towards her father, raising her arms and waiting to be picked up.

Matt, who observed the interaction between his wife and daughter, smiled a smile identical to Eloise's, bending down and picking her up with ease, arranging his arms so that the skirt of his daughter's dress was straight and wouldn't ride up with her movements.

"Her shoes are next to the door. Go carefully, I love you." Y/N spoke from the kitchen, turning her attention to the sink in front of her with a soft smile on her face after hearing her husband and daughter shouting "I love you" back.

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"Come on honey, give your hand to daddy." Matt asked after passing the market entrance, placing Eloise on the floor and taking her small hand, which seemed even smaller when compared to his own. "Let's see what your mom needs."

Matt fished his phone out of his jeans pocket and opened the messaging app, clicking straight to chat with his wife and reading the small list she sent.

The man decided that a basket would be enough, opting not to take a cart. Two of his hands were busy with his daughter and the basket, something he had already gotten used to after repeating this same routine since Eloise learned to walk.

Eloise loved accompanying her father in everything he did, seeing him as her inspiration.

Matt still worked on YouTube with his brothers - of course with fewer videos, since each one had their own family and personal life; but Eloise always made a point of accompanying her father on filming, even though she never appeared in the videos, her baby voice and loud laughs always sounded in the background of each of them.

When Matt was playing video games, Eloise would sit on his lap and watch her father type quickly, often falling asleep even with the loud sounds coming from his headphones.

Even when her father went out with his friends and brothers to play lacrosse or hockey, Eloise begged to accompany him, always being spoiled by the adults and cheering loudly for her father.

Eloise was a true daddy's girl.

"Daddy, can I get some ice cream?" The little girl asked as they passed the ice cream fridge. A big smile graced her face, showing her gums with some missing teeth.

Matt paused for a few seconds, knowing that if Y/N found out that Eloise ate something sweet before lunch, she would fight him. But who said he would be able to resist his daughter's smile and her big blue eyes?

"Alright, dove, but you have to promise to keep it a secret between the two of us." The man asked, crouching down to Eloise's height, raising his pinkie.

And that brings us to the current moment, with Matt already in the checkout line, the basket in his left hand, and Eloise at his right side, holding the ice cream with both hands and a smile still on her face, waiting patiently to being able to eat her treat.

After paying for all the items, Matt thanked the cashier and balanced the bags in his arms, taking his daughter's hand and leaving the store.

On the way home, Eloise squeezed Matt's index finger hard - with her little strength -, getting his attention. The man stopped his steps, looking at Eloise, who was already looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Yes, honey?" He asked, waiting for his daughter to verbalize what she wanted, just like he and Y/N taught her.

"Daddy, I want my ice cream. Please." The little girl asked, remembering to add the magic word at the end.

Matt smiled softly, bending down again and opening one of the bags, keeping Eloise close to him. His right hand reached through the vegetables, pulling out the ice cream covered in pink plastic.

Eloise raised her hands, waiting for her father to give her the treat, but the man lowered her little hands with his left one.

"Let daddy open it first." He spoke, using his two hands to open the plastic, being careful not to tear it, arranging it so that the ice cream melted only inside the packaging, avoiding a bigger mess.

"Here, baby. Hold it with both hands and eat it carefully." Matt asked, handing her the wrapped ice cream and arranging her smaller hands so she could hold it properly.

The man straightened up, arranging all the bags in his right hand and placing his left hand on his daughter's shoulder, keeping her close to him, guiding her carefully so she didn't trip over something or hit somewhere, her eyes too entertained by the pink treat in front of her.

Unfortunately, the promise made between father and daughter did not prevail, Y/N having discovered the treat due to Eloise's hands and mouth being covered in a sticky pink substance and a larger than normal smile adorning her face.

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My asks are always open. Feel free to send requests or anything at all! 🩷💋

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