#return fic

[oopsitszuli]

"And At Last, I See The Light." -Sanemi Shinazugawa x FEM!Reader.

Authors note: And we're back!! Im so excited to be writing non-work-related content again and I hope this first fic back is an enjoyable one! I love Sanemi and I also love his little detail of having lost his ability to see color and regaining it after the events of the final arc in the manga! So I got to thinking and thought of a scenario where someone else kickstarted his heart once again. Also as always, reposts and likes are GREATLY appreciated!!

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of Sanemi's backstory.

Word Count: 3.3k words.

No mentions of skin tone, hair color, or eye color!

———————————————————————————

Training was always difficult, whether being a Mizunoto or a Hashira, but in recent weeks it seems the world was working against the demon slayer corps. Relentless training was going into every corps member despite the few results they were seeing. Everyone was on edge on top of the training, for they all had no clue when the next sign of upper moon demons would appear before them. Wake up, eat, train, try to unlock a slayer mark, sleep, and do it all again. That was all life seemed to be. Rather, that’s all life was to Sanemi. 

His day was a constant repeat, with no variation and certainly no thrill. Waking up minutes before another greyscale sunrise, ignoring breakfast in favor of squeezing in a lone training session before dealing with his newest group of bratty teenagers, and ending the day at a meeting with the other Hashira where they all continued to complain about being unable to unlock marks.  ‘How did Kamado do it?’ and ‘Maybe Tanjiro, Mitsuri, and Tokito can help unlock other marks!’ These were the only statements made in those hour-long meetings. And Sanemi would be the first to admit that it made him want to stab his eardrums out. The Kamados had some benevolent god in their corner, and the other two were freakishly powerful despite their smaller statures, yet he was the only one who seemed to notice it. 

The wind Hashira let out a disgruntled sigh as he walked down the cobblestone stairs leading to a lone Soba restaurant only a few miles from his estate. It was one of his favorite places to frequent, though he would never utter that sentiment to another being for as long as he lived. Some people liked eating in the company of others, but it seemed he wasn’t born with the right of a friend to have dinner with. He used to love eating with Masachika or Kanae, but the gods didn’t like seeing someone with the last name Shinazugawa being happy, so they took them away. They took everything away. His friends, his family, and his color were no longer his. Instead, they were playthings for a higher being who took pleasure in seeing him miserable. 

Sanemi stiffened as a crisp gust of wind brushed through his spiky hair, drawing the man from his thoughts with little effort. His eyes raised from the ground as he took in the world around him. Age-old ginkgo and wisteria trees surrounded the Hashira, their leaves swaying softly in the breeze, filling his nose with the sweet scent of the flowers belonging to the trees.  He looked to his left, shielding his eyes as he was met with the light of the current setting sun; Sanemi looked away swiftly. He was sure it was a stunning sunset just by how bright it was. Maybe tonight it would be pink, or orange, maybe even purple. But it didn’t matter; to him, it was all grey. Everything was always grey and grim, and it always would be. Sanemi had accepted that fate from the moment his mother lay limp at his feet. He would never see color again, and he would never know the peace he witnessed others gain so simply. That was his burden, and it was one he carried with no argument. 

“Shinazugawa!” A sudden voice called out from behind him, “Shinazugawa, is that you? What are you doing?” Sanemi didn’t need to turn around to know who that voice belonged to. It was a sweet voice, singsongy and perfectly pitched, and it could only belong to the one person in the demon slayer corps Sanemi had come to slightly tolerate. The flower Hashira, (Y/n) (L/n). He didn’t look over his shoulder as he heard her footsteps bounding towards him, and frankly, he couldn’t bring himself to try and shoo her off. He wondered if it was the part of him that still regretted their first meeting and how he had so brashly proclaimed that she would never take Kanae’s place and that if (L/n) knew what was good for her, she would walk into the woods and disappear forever. He was well aware that he had overstepped his lines, and despite his better judgment, he felt the need to go out of his way and allow her to hang around him. 

‘Stop lying to yourself. Give her more credit, asshole,’ He cursed internally, ‘she fought tooth and nail to try and be around me, even after I treated her so cruelly.’ He still saw everything, the first meeting, the argument, everything. He remembered it like it was yesterday. 

“Who do you think you are, trying to replace her? Kanae is the only Flower Hashira, and she always will be. If you know what’s best, you will walk out now and disappear in the woods for the rest of eternity.” Sanemi bellowed as he glared at the woman standing across the yard from him. Despite his harsh words, she stood tall, unfazed by his outburst and only throwing fuel to the fire of Sanemi’s heart. His glare searched rapidly around him for support as an annoyed groan escaped Uzui. Sanemi didn’t understand. Kanae had only died three months ago, the others should be outraged at this blatant replacement, yet none of them made a move. His attention snapped to Shinobu, who only remained kneeling before the master, not an ounce of negative emotion riddling her young face. 

“I think you misunderstand why I’m here.” The woman began, unmoving despite Sanemi’s glare returning to her. “Kanae was a phenomenal Hashira, and her death hurt everyone-"“Don’t act like you knew her!” Sanemi interrupted, his teeth bared. (Y/n) sighed softly, completely calm despite the raging man across from her. He hated it. She stood so sure, completely unaffected by his words, and worse, she wore a gentle smile. A sympathetic smile, like she knew the pain everyone was going through, and as if she knew he had lost another person he cared about. 

“I didn’t know her, and I won’t claim to have known her. But what I do know is that from everything I’ve heard, she was the epitome of goodness. And I can only attempt to follow in her footsteps as the next Flower Hashira.” (Y/n’s) hand reached for her chest, placing itself atop her heart, “I can only begin to hope I leave a legacy as powerful as hers and that my joining is not seen as a rushed replacement.” Her head lowered as she finished her statement. She was bowing. Not to the master or the other Hashira, but to him. To Sanemi. He took a step back, his eyes widening slightly as he attempted to fend off the shock trying to make itself known. 

“Death sticks with us all, Sanemi, but it also allows us the chance to grow.” Oyakata spoke up from the pavilion he rested on. “And in order for us to stay strong, we must grow. I hope you can come to understand this decision.” Sanemi snapped his attention to the Master. Like always, he stood proudly, his smile riddled with a saccharine sympathy. The wind Hashira couldn’t bring himself to argue against the master. If it were anyone else, he’d have a string of words for them, but it had to be the man Sanemi couldn’t bring himself to argue with. 

“I understand, sir. And I apologize for my outburst.” Sanemi rushed before turning on his heel, dismissing himself from the meeting before the master got another word in. He couldn’t believe it, the audacity of that woman, to stand there where Kanae should be and act as though she knew the pain they were feeling. The pain he was feeling. It was insulting, and Sanemi wanted nothing to do with her, for better or worse. 

She apparently had different plans. 

It was less than two hours before Sanemi noticed her intruding on his training. He held back a laugh of disbelief as she walked by him, drawing her sword and quickly beginning her own training regiment. 

“I don’t want to be around you, and I was here first. So, fuck off.” Sanemi argued as he watched her effortlessly destroy a few training dummies the Kakushi had set up. She only laughed at his statement and swung her sword once more. 

“I don’t care! We have to work together, so get used to it.” She claimed, a satisfied smile dawning on her lips as she noticed the rage bubbling up on Sanemi’s face. With another swing of her sword and another destroyed dummy, she turned on her heel to face him, wearing a wide smile. Sanemi seethed at her blatant disregard for his anger. 

“Who do you think you are?” He asked through gritted teeth, his fists clenched and his sword shaking in his hold. She sheathed her katana swiftly before she slowly dragged her eyes over his figure. Her eyes moved slowly as if she were studying him, easily committing every inch of his body to memory. 

“I’m (Y/n) (L/n), the newest Hashira and a demon slayer who has worked my ass off for years to be here. And who are you, other than your miserable jackass persona?” Her question was so simple, yet so irking. Sanemi tossed his Katana to the side, figuring it best not to have a weapon in his hands while his emotions were being tested. His hands ran through his hair as he stole a deep breath from the world around him. His hands fell to his side, returning to fists as he glared at the still-smiling woman. 

“I’m Sanemi Shinazugawa, the wind Hashira.” He declared proudly. He was the wind Hashira, one of the strongest members of the demon slayer corps and someone people feared, and Sanemi reveled in the idea of her finally backing down and acknowledging his strength. Instead, (Y/n) shook her head softly, her arms crossing over her chest as she did. Sanemi felt his glare deepen as he watched her arms fold over each other. 

“No. I don’t think you are.” Another pass of her eyes over his figure, “I think you’re just an angry man. That’s all you are, Isolated anger.” She decided. Sanemi felt his jaw drop with her statement. He stood frozen in place, staring at the woman. Her eyebrow raised under his unwavering gaze.

“What gives you the right to say something like that to me?" He challenged, his voice shaking with rage. She sighed softly, and finally, her smile faltered. 

“Because I’ve been in the same position, and if you ignore your rage, it will kill you. It seems as though it’s already doing a number on you.” She deducted, slowly walking toward the man. Her stride was sure, unwavering with each step. If anything, it made Sanemi a little unsure, despite his flurry of anger. 

“Oh, shut up.” He barked, attempting to seem more sure of himself than he truly was. 

“No. Shun people all you want. It’s not going to keep you from getting hurt. If anything, it will just make it worse.” She challenged, her finger poking at his scarred chest as she leaned close to him. Their eyes met, and Sanemi felt his breath hitch. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, that was expected, but this close, he saw something more. Swirling behind the expanse of colors unknown to Sanemi, there was hope; he knew it was hope. He had seen that look in his eyes one too many times when looking at reflective surfaces. A yearning for something better, for a future free of demons and a life of peace with the family they had remaining, it was the same hope that was continuously torn away from people like them.  

“You don’t know anything about me.” He brushed off the look, pulling away from her before she continued her way out from the training arena. Sanemi watched as she walked off, his eyes glued to her figure. She stopped, turning over her shoulder with a vibrant smile plastered across her face.

“That’s why I am going to do everything in my power to learn about you. Even if you hate it.” She winked at him, giggling softly before completely disappearing. Sanemi stood frozen in place, disbelief at the interaction snaking through his veins. 

He rolled his eyes before going to retrieve his sword. 

“Shinazugawa!” Her voice cut through his thoughts, forcing his feet to stop as he turned over his shoulder. She joined him at his side seconds later, wearing her favorite smile as she came to a halt. She always wore that same smile, even when she was in the midst of arguments. Sanemi swore he had only seen her smile drop twice, and neither time ended well. The better part of him screamed at him to be concerned; someone who wore a smile that pure had to be masking something, especially in this profession. Yet he couldn’t gather the courage to ask, no matter what he did. He could look man-eating demons in the eyes and laugh… But ask her something personal? Sanemi rather feed himself to upper moon one. 

“Hello, (L/n). What brings you out this way?” He spoke softly, probably too softly, but he would worry about that later. The woman beside him bounced slightly on her toes, excitement radiating off her every inch. His head tilted slightly to the side as she looked around at their surroundings as if she were making sure no one was listening to them. 

“You’re not going to believe this!" she began, “But my newest batch of students for training are all graduating a week early! They’ve absolutely mastered stealth training! One of them was so good at it that he snuck up on me!” Her hands clapped together excitedly. Sanemi gave an approving ‘hmm’ at her information, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips despite his better judgment. Despite their rocky introduction, he had always appreciated how proud she was of everyone around her. Some people were proud to the point of arrogance, but she had always been a perfect mix of awareness and pride. That fact had been a reason for Sanemi’s eventual reconciliation with her. 

“That is great to hear, (L/n). The sooner we get them through training, the more time they have to practice summoning a mark.” He nodded slightly, his arms crossing over his chest a moment later. 

“You know, you don’t have to call me by my last name.” Her head tilted slightly to the side, a smug smirk dawning across her face. “Or have you forgotten my first name? You are quite forgetful.” She teased, earning an eye roll from Sanemi. 

“I leave my sword at a meeting one time….” He groaned, earning a soft chuckle from her. Sanemi forced back the ever-growing smile fighting its way onto his face. He hated how effortlessly she could make him smile, and he despised the look she gave him every time she succeeded in drawing a smile onto his face. It wasn’t a smug look nor a look of confusion; it was always one resting on the border of adoration. Although, Sanemi knew he would never let himself believe it. Very few people adored him, and he was sure someone as amazing as (Y/n) would never feel that way about him. 

“You were so distracted that day…I still remember the look on your face when I handed you your katana.” She tapped at her lips as her eyebrow raised, “Makes me wonder what had you so distracted.” She leaned forward, silently prompting Sanemi to share his side of the story. The wind Hashira fought back a chuckle at her prodding. He knew full well why he was so distracted and knew further that he would never dare to utter a word about it in her presence. It was embarrassing to him alone and mortifying to think about others knowing. The wind Hashira, the scariest Hashira the corps had to offer, Sanemi Shinazugawa was distracted by her.  He knew she would always capture his attention with her intricate haori and overall eye-catching demeanor. But in recent weeks, no, in recent months, she had become his favorite distraction. Bad day? Talk to (Y/n). Bored before a mission? Exchange Kasugai crow messages with (Y/n). He truly needed no excuse to talk to her, yet he continued to find them, mainly to save his pride. His eyes flickered down to hers as he formulated another excuse to feed her. 

“The idea of dinner was distracting me.” He lied. She rolled her eyes at his statement, seeing through his fib effortlessly. Sanemi knew he couldn’t keep lying to her, but for something like this, he deemed it better than admitting that he could not shake the woman from his thoughts. 

“Speaking of which…Did you already eat dinner?” She asked, her hands clasping as she looked up at Sanemi. He nodded quickly, attempting to avoid the question of being invited to dinner. He couldn’t allow her to eat dinner with him, not after what happened to everyone who had before. 

“I did, but thank you for asking.” He responded, his sentence fading out quickly. Sanemi turned on his heel, beginning to walk away, only to be followed by (Y/n). She took in their surroundings as they walked. 

“Shame, I was going to invite you over for dinner! I’m thinking of making some hiyashi chuka and maybe some ohagi for dessert.” She looked up at Sanemi, who visibly perked up at the mention of his favorite sweet treat. His hand brushed through his hair as he murmured a soft ‘sounds good’ in response, trying to hide his intrigue. Another sigh from (Y/n), and her head tilted back. 

“You’re so difficult, Sanemi.” She lamented, earning a chuckle from the white-haired man. He looked at her, committing her exasperated expression to memory. His hand found itself atop her head as he rustled her hair, drawing a laugh from her. 

“That’s my specialty.” He said through her fit of giggles. Swiftly she swatted his hands away, stepping in front of him and pointing at his chest. Sanemi stopped short, unmoving under her playful gaze. 

“One day, mark my words, we will have dinner together, and you’ll love it.” She promised, her finger digging into his chest as she poked at him. Sanemi prepared to respond, a witty remark waiting desperately on the tip of his tongue, but when his eyes met hers, the wind Hashira froze. Any word he prepared was immediately gone as he noticed the hues of her face shift slowly. Grey’s were replaced without hesitation, giving way to the stunning shades that made up the appearance of (Y/n) (L/n). He stepped back, unable to process the colors flooding his world. Sanemi’s head snapped up, looking at the flowering trees around them. Grey and white were no more in favor of vibrant purples and greens. The sky was a shade of shimmering orange as the sun set, the remaining blue turning darker by the moment. Sanemi returned his sights to (Y/n’s) eyes. They were stunning. Sparkling and shimmering in the evening light, unblinking as they stared at him. His hands found their place on her arms, holding her gently as he stared at her. 

“Sanemi?” Her eyebrow was raised, and her voice laced with concern. Sanemi attempted to stomp out his excitement to no avail. Years of seeing nothing but white, grey, and black were suddenly thrown out of the window. It didn’t make sense, Sanemi had suffered so much, but in this moment, with her, his life was reignited with a sudden vibrancy he didn’t know he had missed. He didn’t know what to say or do. How do you explain to someone that you just regained the ability to see color after years of being colorblind? The world was silent, full of vibrant colors and an overwhelming peace Sanemi didn’t know was possible. He was at a loss for words, so he said the first thing that came to mind. 

“Have I ever told you that your eyes are striking- no, dazzling… no, that’s not enough.” Sanemi thought for a moment, “You are absolutely captivating.” 

Part 2

#sanemi shinazugawa x reader #demon slayer fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny season 3 #sanemi x reader #sanemi shinazugawa #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinaguzawa #demon slayer shinazugawa #return fic #Oopsitszuli #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic

[bibxrbie]

"Luke Skywalker isn’t like the old Jedi. He saves Vader with his attachments!”

Wrong!

Luke Skywalker, at the end of Return of the Jedi, after his confrontation with the Emperor drags Darth Vader through the destructing Death Star. He’s desperate, knuckles white under the heavy weight of his father’s body, a little boy dragging his dad to safety. He sets Vader down for a moment, to catch his breath or maybe to get a better grip. He goes to grab Vader again, but Vader, uncomfortable and in pain, asks Luke to take off the mask. He wants to see Luke through his eyes instead of the eyes Palpatine built for him. Luke refuses, says that removing the mask is a sure way for Vader to die. Luke doesn’t want Vader dead, he wants Vader alive. Not to hold him accountable for his many evil acts, but for the same reason why Luke Skywalker can’t kill Darth Vader; Vader is his father and Luke loves him.

And yet, after a moment, Luke removes Vader’s mask. He doesn’t want to, he hesitates, but he removes the mask with enough slowness to allow Vader to take it back. In that moment, Luke sets aside his desire for Vader in his life, sets aside his desire to see him live, and sets aside his entire mission, the reason he was even on the Death Star in the place. In his compassion for his father, Luke stays with Vader until he dies. It is this moment where we see him be the best damn Jedi he can be. I’d even argue that this moment is the greatest example of non-attached love we see. Because Luke lets Vader go! He lets his father die, and in some ways, by removing the mask, he too kills Vader, he stays with him until his last moment, gives him the kindness of granting his last wish and finally chooses Vader.

And Luke doesn’t have to do this. If Luke Skywalker’s love for his father was an attachment, he would ignore Vader and continue dragging him to the escape pod, put his desire for a father as his central focus and ignore Vader’s wants and discomfort. Maybe he would even save him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Vader dies.

He builds a Jedi burial for his father and watches it burn the remnants of Vader and Anakin Skywalker away. He mourns Vader, he mourns what they could’ve had as father and son, considers what ifs and maybe-if-I-did-this. Vader/ Anakin is released from his mortal body, from his ‘crude matter’ and Luke lets him go. He says one final goodbye to Anakin. Then, he joins Leia, Han, Chewie, Lando, and the rest of the Rebels and celebrates their victory. He lives in the present and celebrates what he has instead of what he lost.

Luke Skywalker is THE Jedi. Everything about Luke Skywalker serves as the foundational cornerstone of the Jedi, everything about the Jedi as a culture and philosophy is reflected in his character. Luke’s desire for the New Jedi Order isn’t to throw away the values of the old Order, but to vitalise them, breathe life back into dying lungs, and rebuild a path that people set out on their way to destroy. (Yes, his Order is different from the Old, but that’s because it has to be. He doesn’t have the resources or the safety of the Old Order.) The philosophies of the Jedi are difficult and they aren’t for everyone, and like the perfect Jedi that Luke is, he struggles and stumbles and sometimes he even rejects it. But, no matter how far he falls, it is a way of life he chooses again and again and again. It is a way of life that welcomes him back each time

#luke skywalker #star wars #pro jedi #jedi positive #luke skywalker meta #luke skywalker loves being a jedi and i'm so tired of people pretending he doesn't #I hate you 'time-travel fics where Luke judges the Order for how they've handled things' #Luke would be the people's padawan actually chasing everyone down to acquire every bit of knowledge that they have #star wars meta #jedi order #the jedi #anakin skywalker #darth vader #the original trilogy #a new hope #empire strikes back #return of the jedi #if I tell you that luke outgrows anakin/vader? if I tell you that Vader is just the start of his Jedi growth and the end of it? then what? #Iong post #it kind of ran away from me

[ravennowithtea]

dedicated to @buhloodweeeave who gifted me [this] fic 🔥

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanart #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #astarion ancunin #bloodweave #a return appearance of that cleric of mystra's dog collar #nsft fic link

[ghosthunterbuck]

beer & apologies

(buddie) (722 words) (7x04 coda)

It’s late, later than any reasonable person would show up on a friend’s doorstep, but Buck’s got this bright, warm feeling in his chest and all he wants to do is apologize so he can share it. For a split second he thinks about knocking, but that feels a little too much like going backwards. Instead, he lets himself in and hangs his key on the hook.

“Eddie,” he calls quietly into the still house.

“Kitchen.” The reply is soft, easy, like Eddie was expecting him.

Buck steps into the room and holds up the beer he brought.

Eddie looks up at him and grins, soft and warm in the glow of the lamplight. “What’s that for?”

“This is ‘sorry for acting like a teenager and spraining your ankle’ beer,” Buck says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Seriously, I’m sorry.”

Eddie sighs and pushes an empty chair back from the table with his foot, gesturing for Buck to sit. “I’m sorry too,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—" Buck starts.

“Yeah, I do,” Eddie interrupts with a wry grin. “You should definitely be sorry-er, though, so I’ll take the beer.”

Buck snorts and sits, setting the six pack on the table between them.

“We didn’t—well, I didn’t…”

“I know,” Buck says. “I was just—”

“I know,” Eddie says softly.

A few, quiet moments pass, and it’s comfortable, exactly what Buck was missing the last couple of days.

“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, sitting up a little straighter, “at least now I know why you always said no to basketball.” He smiles, loose and just a tiny bit mischievous.

Buck splutters. “What? No! I wasn’t that bad,” he protests.

Eddie lifts his injured ankle and raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, well maybe, but—”

“Uh-uh,” Eddie says, “no buts. You haven many talents, Buck, but basketball isn’t one of them.”

Buck ducks his head and grins. “Maybe I��ll get Tommy to teach me, then I can beat you without playing dirty.” Saying Tommy’s name out loud gives birth to a few giddy butterflies in his stomach.

“You two make up?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Buck says. “He uh—texted me.” The butterflies turn to little rocks.

“Good,” Eddie says, “that’s good.” He grabs a beer and twists the top off. “I really think you guys will get along, if you give him a chance.”

“We, um. Yeah. We probably will.” Buck grabs a beer of his own and stares at the label.

He doesn’t—he didn’t mean to lie. It just kind of… came out. Which, it’s Eddie. Buck knows he could tell him exactly what happened, right now, and it’d be fine. It’d be completely fine because it’s Eddie and he knows Eddie would be cool about it, probably even happy for him! But when he goes to open his mouth it just. Doesn’t.

“How’s—uh. How’s Marisol?” he asks instead, tripping over his words.

Eddie shrugs. “She’s fine, same as always. Apparently Christopher got her to play Fortnite, which, according to him, was a disaster.”

Buck laughs, shaking his head. “That kid,” he says softly.

“That kid,” Eddie agrees. He takes another swig of beer and sits back.

“Hey, wait,” Buck says suddenly. He lurches forward and snags the bottle out of Eddie’s hand. “You can’t have this, you’re on pain killers.”

“It’s my apology beer!” Eddie protests.

“Nope, two sips is plenty. I can’t hurt your ankle and your liver on the same day.”

“It’s after midnight, it’s tomorrow,” Eddie pouts. “Give it.” He makes a halfhearted attempt to grab it back, but Buck holds the beer aloft.

“Nuh-uh, absolutely not,” Buck says. “You can drink your apology beer this weekend.”

“My apology beer is going to be flat and stale,” Eddie replies, unimpressed.

Buck rolls his eyes. “I’ll buy you a new apology beer, alright?”

“Promises, promises.”

“I will!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie laughs. “You better. Want to bring it over on Saturday? We can watch the game.”

Buck’s grin falters a little bit, even as that warm feeling bubbles up in his chest all over again. “I uh- can’t, sorry.”

“What, you got a hot date or something?” Eddie asks with a laugh.

Buck takes a long swallow from the beer he stole from Eddie. “Yeah, something,” he says with a hollow laugh.

He feels like a liar.

#i have returned and i come bearing fic #i straight up don't remember my tagging system so #oh well #911 #911 abc #911fic #buddie #buddiefic #911 spoilers #abbie writes #its a coda friends you know what im about #also i'm gonna revive the tag list tomorrow so sorry in advance to anyone who sees this and then gets a crazy late tag!! #or doesn't want them anymore lol

[bcyhoods]

WITH FIREWORKS! STEVE

synopsis : after a date at the carnival, steve gives you your first kiss! (prompt: “was that your first kiss?”)

word count : 1.6k

author’s note : repost from my old blog! i fixed her up a little bit, endured changing past to present tense just for you so….

“Those games were totally rigged,” Steve huffs as he prods at the small teddy bear clutched in his hands.

You’re situated on the hood of his car, smiley lips tinged blue thanks to the half-eaten cone of cotton candy in your hands. Steve stands in between your legs with a pout as his free hand rests beside your thigh, finger itching to graze your skin as it taps the metal of his car. The summer sun has just dipped below the horizon, but his face is illuminated by the multicolored lights of the fair behind you. Even with a sullen attitude, he just looks so pretty.

It was only your third official date — excluding the weekly, hour-long visits to Family Video, which Robin made sure to tease him for — and Steve figured it was time to rattle his feathers, so to speak. He wanted to impress you by showing off his athleticism, and carnival games provided an exemplary opportunity to do just that.

He envisioned your arms full and occupied by the array of giant prizes he won for you. You’d watch with an endearing grin on your face every time he beat a game. The night would end with your arms thrown around his shoulders and the perfect kiss that had you both swooning.

With fireworks in the background, obviously.

But luck had strayed far away from Steve Harrington’s side. Far, far away.

“Oh, they were, were they?”

“Definitely. ‘You can only throw it with an underhand,’” Steve mocks the game attendant with a husky voice — a terrible impression, really, but he knew it’d make you laugh. “That’s a made up rule. For sure. I’ve never heard that rule before. Ridiculous.”

The boy sighs defeatedly, letting you take the bear from his hand before running his fingers through his, now disheveled hair. The brown locks had endured the torment throughout the night as he increasingly became more and more stressed. And he didn’t want to admit he was embarrassed, it felt entirely dramatic and silly. But he was, and the way he avoided your gaze while his teeth worried his bottom lip was enough of a tell.

He laughs meekly at himself and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I was trying so hard to win one of those gigantic bears — too hard.”

You hum as your eyes scan over the stuffie. It was no bigger than the length of your hand. Its body was stiff and straight and a tuft of cotton spilled out from under its right arm due to a couple frayed stitches. The ribbon around its neck was barely being held together with a glob of hot glue.

“I like this one, it’s cute.” At his scoff, you double down, “I’m serious! It’s got a lot of charm to it. It’s perfect.”

You move your attention from the bear to Steve only to find that he’s already looking at you. His gaze is incredibly soft, smile lines decorating the corners of his lips as his tongue is coyly tucked into his cheek. His eyes are brimming with love, you think you might burst the longer they’re on you. He finally lets himself graze the skin of your thighs as a subtle thank you. The attention was all-consuming, it made it hard for you to focus. It was hard to do much of anything really, with him looking at you like that.

Quickly, you clear your throat and look up into the sky in abrupt thought. “I think I’m going to name him…Eve.”

“Eve? Eve the bear?”

“Mmhmm,” you affirm with the wave of the cotton candy, “Eve ‘The Bear’ Bearington.”

A huff resembling a short laugh leaves his mouth as he drops his chin down. Lowly, he mutters, “You’re unbelievable,” before looking up at you again with a doting grin. He moves to shake the bear’s hand gingerly, holding it between his thumb and his index, and bowing his head.

“Nice to meet you, Eve. You’re looking a little rough, bud. Bad hangover?”

You scoff and protectively pull Eve into your chest as if it were a child. The chuckle that reverberates through his chest encourages your heart to dither as heat rises to the tips of your ears. “That was very rude, Harrington,” you reply, feigning shock while trying to fight off the smile creeping onto your lips. It doesn’t work.

“What? No, Eve didn’t think it was rude. I’ve been there before, I’m sure he appreciates my empathy,” Steve argues, eyes momentarily flitting to the cotton candy that sat untouched in your hand for the past few minutes. As he nonchalantly stretches his hand out to pull a piece of the sweet, you move your arm out of his reach.

He glares at you with a tilt of his head. You raise your eyebrows to challenge him.

“Bullies don’t get sweets.”

A small gasp emanates from him before his lips are twisting into an impish lopsided smile. He tsk’s and takes a small step back. “Well, that’s too bad…because it just tastes so,” he looks away innocently, “…much,” he pauses.

”…Better!” He lunges forward earning a yelp from you as one arm wraps around your waist while the other moves to grab at the cotton candy. His fingers curl into your sides, eliciting a fit of laughs and giggles to fall clumsily from your sugar-coated tongue which makes it that much harder to fight against him.

Albeit, you don’t cease, pushing against his shoulder and still trying to stretch your arm as far away from him as possible. But it was no use as he slightly lifted you up off the car for just a moment to pull you flush against him. Your legs reflexively wrap around his hips and once you drop the bear, your unoccupied hand grips a handful of his polo for stability. The action had taken you by surprise, being too distracted to push him away when he ducks his head down to take a bite of the candy floss.

“Yup, just as I thought. Ten times better,” he preaches, letting it dissolve on his tongue to savor the flavor.

You’re sure you look a mess. Your eyes must be glazed over complimented by your lips still parted in shock. Your chest is rising and falling in a quick, inconsistent pattern as you try to collect yourself. Again, Steve has thrown your train of thought completely off course.

“You suck,” you manage to say. It was a lame attempt at an insult. But the words were practically dripping with adoration, all he could do was smile.

“Yeah?”

You nod meekly.

You’re certain he can feel your heart thumping wildly against your ribcage, certain that even through the background carnival noises and both your uneven breaths, he could hear it, as well.

And despite being so sure of your dumbfounded expression, Steve thought you looked so beautiful like this. In disarray, your sweater fell off your shoulders to hang loosely on your arms and your hand is holding his shirt so tightly like it was a lifeline. His eyes dart to your lips to trace over your cupid’s bow before glancing back up to find your eyes.

And you thought he looked just as pretty. His nearness was entirely disorienting. You could smell the saccharine hint of stolen cotton candy mingled with his ever-prized Calvin Klein cologne. His hair had fallen handsomely over his forehead. The moles and freckles scattered across his face are more fascinating than ever as you count them until you reach his lips. How soft and inviting they looked.

You’re so completely enamored, you don’t even register when he leans in, brushing his lips against your own in a feather-light kiss. Your breath hitches in your throat and before you can even bring yourself back down to earth, he begins to pull away.

“Sorry, I thought…”

He moves to step away from you, but your legs tighten around him to keep him in place as your fingers wrap around the wrist on your waist.

“No! I’m sorry, I…it was nice, it’s just I haven’t…I mean, I’ve never…” You swallow down a lump in your throat as you feel your eyes start to water.

The second you glance up to gauge his reaction, you regret it. You watch his eyes widen in realization and feel his grip on your waist go slack. Hiding your face behind clammy hands, you groan and drop your head to his shoulder. Your entire body felt like it was on fire and you wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“Was that your first kiss?”

You nod timidly, dragging your hands down to your lap to wring out your fingers, your gaze immediately following. And Steve is not malicious, he’d never laugh at you, but you feel just a little mortified that you froze up.

“Hey,” he cooed, delicately cupping your cheek and lifting your head. “It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed.” The words are hushed and soft, a sweet reassurance that causes your insides to melt.

“Was it…was it good?” he asks.

The question makes you giggle, “I dunno, I didn’t really get a chance to return the favor.”

He nods, the beginnings of a wide smile slowly making its way onto his blushing face. “Right…do you maybe, wanna try again?”

You mirror his expression before you’re the one leaning in this time, a kiss that he reciprocates feverishly. His lips slot against your own as his arm tightens around your waist once more. Your fingers dip into hair and he hums against you at the feeling before pulling away.

You giggle at the dazed look on his face and his kiss-bitten lips.

“How was that one?” he asks, eyes shamelessly journeying over your face.

“It was perfect.”

#the return of eve ‘the bear’ bearington!! #ᝰ cece’s scribbles #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve stranger things #stranger things blurb #stranger things fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things #joe keery

[s4lv4tions]

labour of love; nsfw

pairing; nanami kento x reader summary; something is on your husband's mind — nothing that can't be solved with a morning in bed, you're sure. wc; 4.6k cw; smut, largely vanilla, nanami kento is a loving husband etc

You’ve long since grown used to the press of knees against the mattress rousing you from your sleep. The gentle dip of the bed, the steady — if not stilted — breathing, the sudden waft of his cologne as he tries to settle himself beside you without waking you. It doesn’t work most nights, but Kento still tries.

He smells like the cleanliness of shower gel and the spicy goodness of his favourite fragrance, all nutmeg and saffron and warmth. It’s enough to have you rolling over to face him, half-lidded and half-asleep, hooking your leg over his waist and burying your nose into his neck. There’s a rough puff of air as he realises he’s failed to be stealthy — not for the first time, either. But he pulls you closer anyways, hands smoothing up your back as if to memorise the curve of your spine, or to cajole you back to dreamland.

If there was a way to become one with him you would’ve figured it out by now. Some days, in this bed, it feels like you’re close enough to discovery. Perhaps if you press every possible inch of yourself against him, share the same air, let your minds float away to the same place, it'll happen. Alas, you wake as two separate people, forced to peel yourselves apart when the sun rises and he's off to work. It’s always accompanied by disappointment, but for now you revel in the feeling of his firmness beneath you, and the beat of his pulse in your ears.

“Sorry for waking you up.”

He always says it, and you never mind, but you reply anyway. “It’s okay. I like seeing you.”

Kento’s arms tighten around you, and he says nothing back. The shaky breath muffled against your hair is enough to tell you how his day went, but you won’t ask him about it. Not yet, not when it’s still fresh in his mind. It’s enough of a blessing that he was able to return home at all tonight, instead of sleeping at his desk with only his jacket to fend off the cold. Still, even a good night’s sleep won’t solve everything. You can deal with it tomorrow.

“Did you eat?” You mumble, trying to ignore the seductive hands of sleep pulling at your brain. “I left… hamburger steak. In the fridge.”

“Mm.” His lips brush your hair, and you feel yourself slipping away, further and further into dreamland. “Don’t worry, darling. Just sleep.”

“O…kay… Sweet dreams… Kento…”

You always sleep best when you’re with Kento. You know this because, without fail, you end up drooling all over him like a dog. It's something that never happens when you’re bundled up alone, but it’s as if every muscle in your body relaxes something fierce when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing, and gross, but somehow he never minds. Just chuckles and watches you fuss over wiping it all away, teasing you about how deep you must’ve been sleeping. This morning is no different.

You’d woken with the sun. The curtains you’d forgotten to close shed honeyed sunlight across every fold of your blankets, every inch of skin, every tiny piece of dust floating in the still of the air. Hair tousled and mouth dry, you were so warm it almost made you fall right back asleep. Any part of you not covered in a blanket was wrapped, in some way, in Kento’s arms. The perfect morning. No longing looks as he rose to go to work; no cold side of the bed if he’d stayed in the office. Just perfection and warmth and… a drool stain on his arm.

Whether your cheeks are now warmed by the sun or a persisting feeling of embarrassment, you cannot say, but his hands are even warmer where they cup your face. You attempt to ignore him, scrubbing at his skin. “I need to tape my mouth shut.”

His thumb begins to smooth back and forth. If you were a cat you’d be purring. “Dramatic.”

A glare that’s far too soft. You push away the corner of the duvet you’d haphazardly chosen as your rag, cursing yourself for your weakness as you abandon your task and instead lean into him. “Oh, and I suppose you enjoy waking up every morning with a sticky bicep, Kento?”

“Mm.” The way he urges you towards him is not lost on you; it’s not until your noses brush and your lips part that he says: “I love it.”

“You’re gross.” Your smile betrays you, but you can’t help yourself. You let your graze trail over the handsome planes of his face; from his strong, pointed nose to his chiselled cheekbones, his thin, expressive eyes and tousled morning hair.

“Mhm. And you married me regardless.”

"Hm. I guess I did."

It's like two giggling children sharing the silliest inside joke. Your laughter is soft and breathless, still muddled with sleep, and it's natural the way that you fall into each other so easily. Your head falls back against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear; your legs intertwine, and your arms hook under his. Close enough to the point where you don’t know where one of you ends and the other starts. If only every day could start like this one, but you're the sort of person who cherishes rarity. And oh, how rare it is to wake up with him — speaking of which…

"You don't have work today?" You ask, trying (and failing) to keep the hope out of your voice.

"No." There's a little pause, before: "I finished up my latest project, so I took the day off."

You haven't forgotten the pledge you made to yourself yesterday: the promise to ease whatever may ail him, or at least to get to the bottom of it. “Woah. You passed up a chance to make money?”

“I suppose I did.”

"Hm, I don’t mind. I like having you to myself." Breakfast, that goes without saying. Maybe he'd prefer to go out for it, or maybe you could cuddle until brunch. Maybe he'd like to take the rare opportunity to stay in all day — and if you're in all day, you may as well do a little more than cuddle...

“You’ll have to share me with the laundry.”

“Mm.” As if drawn there, bolstered by the knowledge that you essentially have all the time in the world, your lips meet the side of his neck. You feel him swallow as you do, but Kento’s nothing if not poised; even as you dare to scrape your teeth along his skin, there’s no other reaction that’s quite so visceral. “I’m a jealous woman, you know.”

“I know.”

Those hands that had cupped your face start to trail down your back — warm and slightly calloused, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Brushing over the elasticated waistband of your panties, lingering just enough to be suggestive, but no more. You pretend that even the slightest whisper of his touch doesn’t make your stomach twist pleasantly, but you suppose you’re long past coyness, considering you are husband and wife. “And you married me, so you know I can’t share you.”

“Even with the laundry?”

“Oh, especially with the laundry.” You finally lift yourself from nipping at his pulse point, flushed and arching into his hands, and stare at him straight on. His gaze is half-lidded, but his eyes — oh, his eyes. So clear and sharp and fixed on you like he wants to print your image onto his eyelids. And his body is so firm beneath you, broad and muscular (you’ve never questioned how a salaryman who has no time to go to the gym is so incredibly fit, but you aren’t about to start now) — even on top of him you feel almost dwarfed. “But, speaking of laundry — we should probably get our money’s worth from the washing machine, then, shouldn’t we?”

An eyebrow quirks. “Oh?”

“Mhm. If we’re gonna wash the sheets, they may as well be as dirty as they can possibly be. Filthy, even.” No use in playing innocent. It’ll be killing two birds with one stone — multiple birds with one stone, even. You can treat your hardworking Kento to an orgasm or two, comfort him after what was no doubt a long, hard day — all the while you enjoy yourself in his arms, and save time and money with the laundry. Perfect.

You’re practically kneading his biceps at this point. The manicure he pays for bi-weekly digs in just slightly, leaving half-moon dents in his otherwise perfect skin. You don't worry about it too much; if there’s one thing you know about Kento it’s that he treasures those little marks above all else.

“How do you propose we do that?” He says, face purposefully blank.

Groaning, you give his arm a light slap. “C’mon, don’t make me say it, Ken.”

“I was joking, darling.” With a smile that sends your tummy flipping, he threads one hand in your hair, large palm flat against your skull, and urges you closer to him. The other settles itself against your jaw, keeping your head firmly in his hands, and it’s with very little shame that you melt into him. It’s hard not to — and besides, why starve yourself of something you’ve waited so long for? “I’m not that cruel.”

A liar he is not; with little fanfare, his lips meet yours, and it’s like every time before and every time after. His lips are smooth, his nose slanted to press against yours, and every movement is deep. His tongue licks into your mouth, lips moving against yours in such a way that you can’t help but moan. It's interesting to experience first-hand how much your relationship with Kento has changed over the years. When you first met him, he baulked at even the mere idea of tongue — this Kento, though, is some measure of depraved, and takes great pleasure in the way you squirm underneath him when his tongue runs over yours.

It’s the type of kiss that, inevitably, makes you want more. You’ve long since parted your legs to hug either side of his hips, and you whine at the press of his growing bulge against your panty-covered clit. It’s that dull sort of pleasure — not enough, never enough, and you’ll curl and arch and flex yourself until it feels like it might be, grinding down on the shape of him. At some point his hands move from your head to your waist — or are they at your back, your ass, your hips? You’re not keeping track. You only know that they sear the skin that they touch and set your nerves aflame, and that’s all that matters.

You’ve just broken apart to catch your breath, prepared to peel off your panties and have your way with him — but in the blink of an eye you’re weightless, and the world twists and warps and you’re under him, suddenly, with the wind knocked out of you. “Kento!”

“Sorry, love.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, the words are barely out of his mouth before he descends on you again, this time laying the entirety of his body against you. It’s all you can do to desperately follow the movement of his lips, the rocking his hips — and you’re clutching at his arms all the while, mind dizzied and chest heaving. You’re liable to let him have his way with you just like this, with your legs around his waist and your ankles pressing against his ass, but—

“Wait, I—” Panting, your grip on his biceps tightens, and you frown up at him— “I wanted to be on top, y’know. I wanted to give you a break.”

His laugh is gentle, breathy. In the haze of the morning every sharp edge of him is cotton-soft, his hair this honey sort of blonde wherever the light hits it — mind twisting juxtaposition to the red-hot pleasure broiling in the pit of your tummy. “It’s a husband's duty to worship his wife, is it not?”

“I—” His head dips to the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your skin in such a way that you shiver in his grasp. It’s sweet and indulgent and him, all him; his weight atop you, his hands on you, his scent around you. “I… Oh, You’re playing dirty, Kento.”

His answer is a hum that reverberates all throughout you. “Am I?”

You’re not expected to answer, and you doubt you have enough control over your muscles to do so, because just as you open your mouth, his fingers slip underneath your panties and slip over the hot, slick skin of your pussy. He’s always purposeful with you, and this time is no different — he does not fumble and flounder, unsure of where to put his hands. He has learned you well enough to know what brings you pleasure, and oh, does he want to bring you pleasure. He makes a glutton of you; gives you far too much, buys into your every whim. He can’t help himself.

You’re wet enough that he can slip a finger in with little difficulty — embarrassingly little difficulty, and you squeak as he slides it all in at one go. His fingers are thick, that goes without saying, but what makes Kento especially dangerous is his skill. He’s too attentive — watches everything, notes every shiver, the pitch of your voice when you whimper his name. He knows just what he needs to do to make you lose your mind — at that, as if he’s read your mind, another finger joins the first, jutting upwards to grind against that spongy spot that makes your legs jerk.

“O—oh,” you breathe, “That’s — okay, that’s good.”

“Is it?” Kento sounds far too amused for your liking, but you’re hardly in a position to scold him, not with your legs spread and your hips rolling up into his hand. “You're like wet velvet.”

“Don’t say things like that!” You whine, slapping a hand over your face. Your cheeks are red-hot, and it only adds to the overwhelming overstimulation — the sheets and Kento against your skin, the coolness of the pillows beneath your neck, the sounds that leave nothing to the imagination.

Sometimes you can’t believe your luck. Almost every partner before him was his complete and utter opposite, caring little for your pleasure and simply using you as a means to an end, but — with Kento, it’s so different. He centres you in everything. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, especially when he wants only for you to lay there and do nothing. It’s hard not to feel a bit lazy, like you have to offer something in return — he says you’ve already given him everything he wants, and it’s enough to make you scream. You suppose you have little to complain about, though, considering you’re regularly being fucked through the mattress.

When you gain enough lucidity to unscrew your eyes, he’s already watching you — like you knew he would be. Somewhere along the way Kento had migrated from on top of you to beside you; he propped himself above you on one elbow, cradling your head. If you were to only glance at him, you’d think him wholly unaffected by your whining, squirming self — but you allow yourself a stare, and are pleased to find the tips of his ears pink and flushed.

“I wanted to take my time,” says Kento, as if reading your mind. “But I’m too impatient when it comes to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you say — breathe — adding: “We have the whole day. You can fuck me slow later.”

It’s as if he was waiting for you to say it. Almost as soon as the words leave your mouth he’s pushing himself up, gently slipping his fingers out of you. You mourn their loss, but you know you won’t be untended for long. Sure enough, he pulls off the sweatpants and briefs that hang low at his hips, and settles himself between your legs once more. His cock is hot and heavy against you, pressed right between your lips, and you shiver as it’s nudged right against your swollen clit — but nothing more. Not yet.

Kento has endless patience — or so it may seem. His impatience, though rare, manifests itself only in his accidental roughness — as if he doesn't know his own strength. Your legs parted with strong hands, your body tugged further down the bed before you can even register the movement... Still, despite such impatience, he takes the time to rest the tips of his fingers against the shiny plushness of your bottom lip. He watches with sharpened eyes as your mouth opens and accepts them in, your tongue all too eager to lave over them, licking over the tanginess of your own juices. His voice is laboured — almost hoarse — when he breathes: “You’re vulgar.”

With a pop, his fingers are removed, glossy and wet and slimy. He wipes them on the blanket as you huff: “You put them there.”

His large hands grasp the back of your knees and push your legs up, until they hook high up on his waist and around him. “Because I knew you were vulgar enough to take them in your mouth.”

“Touché. But—”

Kento’s lips silence any half-baked argument that was about to leave you — this kiss is gentle, almost innocent. Somehow it’s enough to make your cheeks heat up more than any other racy gesture he’s shown you thus far. It’s made even worse when he reaches across your chest to intertwine your fingers — both hands housing a wedding ring.

(And it’s not surprising how romantic he is. Perhaps when you first started dating you were convinced that his blunt mannerisms and professionalism would extend to every facet of his life — and in many ways, it does. He’s the perfect gentleman in public, hands never straying too low, words rarely crossing the boundaries of polite-speak. But here, in your marriage bed, with more than a measly three hours of sleep and the sun casting shadows across your bodies, Kento is softened. Whatever exists outside your room that scares him so much no longer has any place in his mind.)

“I’m going to make love to you now,” he says. It’s just above a whisper, heated and heady against your lips. The gravel in his voice that had attracted you from the moment he’d opened his mouth is enough to make your knees turn to jelly — lucky, then, that they’re kept compacted by the barrel of his torso. “Is that okay?”

Your brain short circuits. Any smart comment or cheeky quip you could respond with is lost, and you’re left staring up at him, wide-eyed and willing. “Yes, please.”

His lips twitch upwards, the ghost of a smile, but he doesn’t attempt to tease — simply connects your lips again, and guides himself to your entrance with that free hand of his. The blunt head of his cock is silky smooth and slippery with your arousal, and barely catches on you before it presses in — the stretch dull and only slightly uncomfortable, but entirely familiar. It’s like stepping into a warm shower after a cold day — not just sexual, not just to scratch an itch or a means to an end — it’s this. Feeling the heat of him inside you; the way his breath catches in his throat as you squeeze around him. Knowing that you’re the only person in the world who has the privilege of having him like this.

It’s with a breathless sigh that he bottoms out inside you, hips flush against yours. On either side of your head, his arms bulge with the weight of his own body, muscles hardened and tensed — and as his hips begin to move, that neatly trimmed patch of hair around his cock grinding against his clit, you can’t help but reach out, anchoring yourself to them. There’s little else you can do except lay there and take it, shuddering all the while, mouth agape in wonder.

“Is this — okay?” Kento asks. His voice is strained, and you try to hide the smug smile it elicits in the bulk of his arm — there’s no point. He’s far too focused on staring at where he splits you open, anyways, watching how your lips split around him, crested by the sweet little pearl of your clit. And he calls you vulgar.

“Mhm. You can — you can go faster, if you want.”

A laugh. “If I want, hm?”

“Please, Kento,” you whine, humping up towards him. It’s embarrassing how much he makes you want him. It should be, at least, though you find you’ve gotten a little shameless as of late — shameless enough to press your feet hard against his ass, pulling him in deeper. “Don’t make me wait.”

Never let anyone proclaim he doesn’t treat you right, because at your request, he does just that. His pace quickens, pulling out to the tip and slamming all the way back in — the rhythm straightens out quickly, and that’ll be your downfall. If it isn’t enough that his hips grind down against your clit with every thrust, Kento (predictably) knows how to use his cock. The mushroom shaped head bullies against your g-spot in that dizzying rhythm — back, forth, back, forth, building you up until you’re gasping for air.

You wonder if it’s like this for everyone. You wonder if everyone in the world is lucky enough to find someone who fits them this perfectly, who listens to them this intently, who isn’t afraid to show such unerring devotion. You wonder if you will ever feel safer, more loved, than you do when you’re in his arms — if you will ever feel such deep, persistent pleasure at the hands of another. Then again, what good does wondering do? When you have all you need at your disposal, there’s little need for wondering. When you’re taken care of so thoroughly, there’s little need for anything else. And God, are you being taken care of.

“Oh — fuck, Ken, I’m—” Words escape you. All that matters is that building heat, the involuntary trembles of your walls around him, the electricity zipping from neuron to neuron; his eyes on you, the furrow of his brow, the comforting weight of him pressing you down. It’s all so much. You could lose your mind. You are losing your mind. “I’m—”

You can’t even finish the sentence. All you know is that your toes curl and your back arches and you squeeze his arms a little too hard but you can’t control it, you can’t control anything, not the way you’re squeezing him in a vice grip, not the way you’re dripping down around his cock, wet and sticky and messy—

“That’s it,” Kento urges, voice ragged as he fucks you through it. Through hazy eyes you see him — strands of hair hanging low over his face, his skin dewy with sweat. Ruined. “Good, that’s it. There you go — damn it—”

When he cums, he very nearly collapses on you, breathing heavily and sweat dripping from his brow. He presses himself to the hilt — of course he does, he can’t help himself — panting lowly as he thrusts with every wave of his orgasm. You can feel him against your cervix, that once-strange sensation of being filled.

In the midst of his pleasure, and fortified by his fatigue, his movements begin to slow. It’s that inevitable syrupy slowness that comes after an orgasm, where desperation is eventually traded for an easy languidness. His head bows to place a sloppy, messy kiss on your mouth, one he’d normally eschew, and you accept it with all the eagerness of a woman in love. One, two, three — another one to your cheek, then, and then to your brow.

That frantic, charged energy finally slips away. Kento holds you tightly to him — he always does, when all is said and done — but something about the way he’s hunched over you makes your stomach twist. You don’t know what is — some sixth sense, perhaps, that blooms into a sense of dread in your chest. The supernatural powers of a wife to know when there’s something wrong with her husband, and coupled with his demeanour the previous night...

“Kento,” you whisper, petting your hands over your head. “Is everything alright?”

“Mm.” A beat of silence, before he pushes himself up again, and — with some difficulty — pulls himself out of you. He kisses your forehead and sits himself up, sheets pooled around the hard lines of his abdomen. With worried eyes you watch as he reaches for his glasses, and then the wristwatch he’d left on the bedside table last night (almost 800,000 yen, one of the few things he’s splurged on himself) and deftly begins to clip it on. He's still avoiding your eyes when, at last, he says: “I… I was thinking of changing jobs.”

You shoot up — or sit up, rather, with what little energy you have left. “Hm? Oh, Kento, that’s wonderful!”

“Mm. It is.” But something’s bothering him. He doesn’t sound as elated as he should, considering he despises the job that he currently has. “It’s a smaller agency. An old… friend of mine runs it. The work is hard, but I won’t have to work much overtime, and… well, it’s better work, I suppose.”

You run a comforting hand over his covered thigh. “But?”

Kento exhales, slow and tired. “But I thought I left that work behind a long time ago.”

You shift, humming to yourself thoughtfully. “The work is hard, you say?”

He nods. “But… rewarding.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t know too much about finance, but I think that as long as it gives you purpose, it’s good, right?”

His head falls back against the headboard, and tired eyes trail over you. “It’s so simple for you.”

“Well, one of us has to simplify stuff, and I doubt it’ll be you. Look — you hate your job now, don’t you?”

“...Mm.”

“Then change it,” you say, rolling over on your side to face him. Your features soften at the sight of him — uncharacteristically unsure of himself, staring at his hands with furrowed brows. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so deeply torn, but then again, you know how hard he’s worked for this job. His career — especially before you met him — was of the utmost importance to him. Money, money, and more money. That’s what he’d told you. He was obsessive. He slept even less than he does now, barely used the fancy apartment he paid extortionate rent for... How do you turn your back on years and years of commitment, of obsession?

You reach a hand up and take his hand in yours once more. The silver of your rings glint and glimmer in the morning light, the garnet stone in the centre of yours a bloody red.

“For better or for worse, Kento,” you say quietly. “That’s what we promised. Whatever you choose to do, I’ll be here with you through it all.”

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that one smile of his — the small, wistful, sad one. The one that hints at a far more tragic past than he’s let on, one of misfortune and melancholy. That’s okay. He doesn’t have to tell you, and you would never press him to. In much the same way, you pretend not to see the glassiness of his eyes when he raises your joined hands to his lips, and pretend not to hear the lump in his throat when he tells you he loves you — dearly, more than life itself.

"Yeah, yeah," you say, smiling. "Just don't forget about that retirement to Malaysia, okay? I want a beach house."

He huffs a laugh, and the cast of despondency shatters. Then, a thoughtful hum. "Mm. A beach house... that sounds good."

#nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #nanami kento fic #anime x reader #smut x reader #i dont think we focus enough on how hard it was for nanami to return to jujutsu tee bee haytch #i want to hold his hand etc etc #cheeky little mention of malaysia of course couldnt help myself x #my fics

[mortem0]

everyone when ao3 is down for more than a minute:

#ao3 my love return to me #i am nothing without you #oh how i miss your comforting embrace #sing me your sweet song so that i may partake in my much needed slumber #since i can’t read my fics i’m going to post things #ao3 #ao3 down

[tiredcowboyy]

can someone write/find a fic where merlin finds out hes the druid king and that across albion it is still recognised as a king so either king arthur or prince arthur and king uther have to just accept that the idiot servant is suddenly at an equal rank to them and therefore they have to treat him w nothing but respect.

Like I just want merlin to be like ‘wait so im the king? does that matter outside of the druids or…?’ and him find out that yes he is equal to the pendragons and just let him turn to arthur with the biggest shit eating grin

#bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin emrys #merlin fic #merlin incorrect quotes #merlin bbc #merthur #merthur fic #incorrect merthur quotes #arthur pendragon will return #sir gwaine #sir leon #princess morgana

[weaponizedducks]

*when he finally floats out of the fucking lake*

Bystanders: What the fuck Jesus Christ

Arthur, probably: no im king arthur

#he's just so fucking dumb #i love him #based on that one scene #you must be courage #no im king arthur #merthur #merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #arthur pendragon returns #modern au #someone write a fic pls

[t0yac1d]

Sweet Dreams (JJ.Maybank x F!Reader)

Warnings: thigh fucking & grinding/dry humping

Word Count: 532

It's late in the night, a cool summer night. You and JJ were fast asleep on John B's couch, Kei and Pope on the floor, and Sarah with John B in his room. The group hung out for the day and ended it at the Routledge residence. The house was quiet, nothing making a noise besides the occasional snore coming from Pope.

JJ was having trouble sleeping though, you looked so pretty today and the swimsuit you wore made the blood from his brain rush to his dick. For the entire day he's been sporting a hard on, not ever getting a chance to relieve himself. 

So there he was, wide awake trying his hardest to fall asleep and trying his best to not grind his painfully hard dick against your ass. The same ass that's been nudging against him for the past hour. "It wouldn't be wrong, right? Just for a little.." he thought to himself.

He lightly grabbed onto your hips and moved his against your ass. "S-shit.." he sighed, the slight friction easing some of the pain. He moved again, pressing into you a little harder, letting out a shaky moan and burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

The slow movements gradually got faster, the slow grinding turned into him rutting against you, like a dog in heat. All of this movement caused you stir, halting JJ's movements. Making sure you were still asleep, he started moving his hips again, slowly.

The friction wasn't enough though, he wanted more, he needed more. He pulled his pants and boxers down, or at least enough for his dick to spring out and breathe. 

The cold air hit his tip causing him to shiver and stifle a moan. Pulling you close and stroking himself, spreading his pre-cum, he pushed himself between your thighs. He knew it was weird, to grind and hump on you while you were sleeping, but fully fucking you didn't make him feel better, your thighs will suffice for this one time. 

Thrusting his hips he let out a moan,a little too loud making everyone in the room stir and mumble, he bit his lip trying to silence himself. Dipping his head in the crook of your neck he let out an airy breath and kissed your shoulders, hips thrusting faster and balls slapping against the back of his thighs. 

Whining and huffing in your ear, kissing and nipping at your neck, he was getting closer and closer to cumming all over your thighs. JJ grabbed your thighs, squeezing them tightly, tight enough it might even leave a mark. His hips began to stutter and his hands gripped your thighs and hip while he bit his lip, hard enough to cause it to bleed and pushing his head further into your neck. 

His dick twitched and his cum shot out, covering your thighs and some of the couch. Panting, he slid himself from between you and started getting up to get something to clean you up and to clean the couch off when he heard shuffling. "I'll meet you in the bathroom, only fair if I get something too. Right?" You smiled, catching JJ off guard.

#smut smut fic #smut smut smut #smutty #smut #outer banks smut #outer banks jj #outer banks x reader #obx smut #obx #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank smut #dogtooth #fem reader #birthday sex #she could ride my face I don't want nothing in return

[prettyboykatsuki]

oliver talking his partner through it and calling him d**** god your brain is so huge my stomach hurts thinking about this. he’ll never tell you he loves you to your face and tries to fuck you more like he hates you because he doesn’t want to get too attached but as you’re getting close he’s all in your face and your neck, teasing you, biting your ear and softly begging you to tell him how you feel, how it’ll be better for him if you tell d**** just how close you are and how much you need him. takes you over the crest so sweetly, and continues rolling into you, chasing his own. his kisses are nonstop and so overwhelming, and he knows they are but he just really needs to connect with you like this. never the first to say “i love you” but unfortunately (in his opinion) he expresses it in so many other ways. sorry.

but i crumble completely when you cry | a. oliver

✮ tags ; DADDY KINK, afab + fem!reader, situationship!oliver, hooking up, unresolved romantic tension, p in v, praise, soft sex, it gets emotionally strange, riding, creampies, unprotected sex, under-negotiated kink in a sense though oliver is very careful

✮ wc ; 2.2k (i dont want to talk about it)

✮ a/n ; anon im going to haunt your dreams for putting this absurd image into my head when i dont even go here im crying screaming throwing up ive been thinking about it for hours. hours of my life wasted on this guys dick. upsetting!!!!!

also i do not write this often and do not plan too again any time soon so if ur seeing this and thinking about following me for content like it i would not recommend!!!

✮ synopsis ; you don't trust oliver with your heart or your feelings. nor do you expect anything from him.

but it's hard not to lean into him when he decides to cradle you so gently.

Your relationship with Oliver is both very ambiguous and very clear.

There's a line drawn, and you both steer clear of crossing it in your interactions. Oliver is fun. He's attractive and charming, a massive flirt but just genuine enough to be interesting.

It helps that he's hot. Physically, he's got an unreal build.

He's an athlete, so he's big. Wide chest and strong arms, thick thighs and the height to top it off. He's 6'3, and he's sexy (and his dick is huge) - and you sleep with him because of that. You don't date him explicitly because he's a womanizer. If you'd met when you were a little younger, a little more naive - you might've tried to dog-train him into being your boyfriend.

Because on top of the immaculate dick, he's fun to be around. He's funny, he drinks well, he's not a scumbag in the ways that turn you off.

You're old enough to know better. You have a career. You're too busy, and too jaded about love to try and fix whatever weird shit he has going on. So even if the two of you harbor some sort of emotional or romantic feelings for each other, you're smart enough to not get invested in those feelings and smart enough to have no expectations.

Oliver is your fun. He's your sneaky link, your weekend off. You come to him to blow off steam. You have rough, fast sex and it's good. Sometimes you chill afterwards, and you'll indulge each other in some physical affection but other times you take your shower and leave. It's a good time, and you know well enough not to ever ask him for any of your emotional needs. You have your therapist and girl friends for that.

Normally, when you're having a rough week - it's prime time to go to him. He'll fuck you a little harder than usual, and sometimes he's nice enough to kiss it better. But it's still, very distinctly, never crossing that boundary.

But some weeks, like this week - shit is bad. Not just stressful bad, but everything in the fucking world that could go wrong, is going wrong bad. It's not the kind of thing you can get over by compartmentalizing and even when you try to do your usual thing it doesn't really work.

You're trying right now - to get over the fucked up week you had. And you're turned on, but somehow - it's still not enough to get you completely out of it.

Oliver pauses mid stroke, in missionary - hetero-chromatic eyes staring you down as your thoughts are somewhere else completely. You don't notice the first time he stops, or the first time he calls you.

And he only gets your attention by cupping your face and making you look at him. You startle as you cast your glance his way.

"What's with you?" He asks, though he's not pissed or anything "Not feelin' it? Want me to stop?"

"No, you don't have too."

"Not what I asked," He chastises, letting go of your face "Not having your full attention is making me go soft,"

This makes you laugh, and Oliver cracks a smile seeing the tension melt off your face if only slightly.

"I'm cool with stopping." He assures. You let your hand reach up to his shoulder.

"It's not like I want to stop, necessarily? Like I wanna do something to get my mind off it and sex feels like the best option, but you know how it goes sometimes," You say, trying your best to avoid the emotional baggage of your words "We can stop though. I'll pay you for your wasted time," You tack the joke on at the end to ease the tension.

You're expecting him to pull out and stop, or maybe challenge himself into fucking you so good that you forget. Something more quintessentially Oliver than what he does do.

He gives you a blank look first, than a laugh that is a touch too sincere for you to be comfortable "That bad of a week?"

You're suddenly in dangerous territory. Somehow, this strange intimacy makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You swallow thickly, the emotions coming over you so quick you end up looking away.

"Yeah. You know. It's fine, but you know."

"Mm," He says. He leans into your space. His breath is warm and his stubble tickles your skin as he whispers in your ear. You feel your breath hitch. And the air feels heavy "Wanna try somethin' else?"

"Like what?"

"A surprise," He says first, and find your stomach tightening. A hollowness in your nerves "Gotta trust me."

"You're scaring me." You joke.

"I'm a sex expert, you know?" Oliver says, humming against your skin "If I can't remedy your little problem with my dick, it's bad for my street cred. My yelp reviews will tank."

"You're such a dumbass."

"Do you trust me?"

You don't know how to answer. Yes, for the most part. Not with everything, but with your pleasure at least. Whatever this is, it doesn't feel the same. But you say yes, anyways. Oliver kisses your jaw in reply, then he pulls out.

He flips position easily. He ends up on his back, then he grabs you to rest on top of him. You're not sure what you're expecting. He holds you by your hips as your sex hovers over his cock. His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin as he sinks you down slowly onto him.

You only stare at him, mouth opening as you feel him stretch you open for a second time.

You're more aware of it this way. He's so thick, and so intrusive - and normally, you're feeling that in hard strokes. Fast and rough, like something knocking into your cervix. But like this, he's hitting a deep angle. You can feel every curve, every inch, as you come down slowly.

He keeps you there. For longer than you'd expect. Just keeps you, settles you, holds you gently. You stare at him as he grabs your hand, locking your fingers. Your first instinct is to panic, or crack a joke - but there's an intense look in his eye that shuts you up.

Uncharacteristically gentle, you find yourself frightened. Oliver's hands reach for you again. They hold your waist and slide up the planes of your body. He holds your tits in his palms and squeezes.

He does this a lot, but there's not usually this much touching. This much foreplay. It's grabby, a deeper pressure. He doesn't...feel you, in the way he is now. You stare at him, and he looks back at you so fondly you feel a strange urge to pretend it never happened.

"Play with your clit," He says, though there's no urgency in his voice.

Deep and smooth, the timbre in it has you shaking. You listen, on auto-pilot as you play with yourself clumsily and build a slow pressure. He just watches.

"C'mere, baby. And don't stop touching yourself."

Another pause. It's not the first time he's called you that. He likes to call you all sorts of things when you're fucking, and baby is one of the few. But not like that. Not like this. He gives you a lazy, self satisfied smile and encourages you by placing a hand on where he can reach on your low back.

You lean down, and Oliver tucks you into his chest. He's warm, and strong - and smells so good, like musk and cologne. Your free hand is on his chest, as he grips your hips and fucks up into you.

"That's it," His voice is pleasant to your ears. It feels funny to you "Just gotta listen to me."

He starts fucking you slowly. It's a familiar feeling, a pleasant stretch that dulls into a euphoric fullness. But it's never been this slow before. Each thrust is slow, and punctual, and so deep you feel yourself gasping. It's not enough to push you over the edge, but it's enough to make your mind feel a little numb.

You think he's going to keep at you like this, maybe edge you to take you out of it. But he doesn't. He keeps his pace.

"Had a hard time this week, didn't you, tough girl?" He mumbles, so low it doesn't feel real. You feel your heart start to race. You feel your throat start to close around something, choking "Did a good job and came to me. Gonna let me take care of it?"

You stumble. You aren't sure what to say, you nod and hope he feels it. He laughs a little. You can't be sure if you're fucking Oliver or not.

You know it's him but he's never been like this. Not once. Not ever.

"Gonna let daddy take care of you?" He says, though it's tentative. Your breath hitches. Something strange overwhelms your senses "Tell me, baby."

"Uhm," Your first reaction is a sense of resistance, an immediate pull away. Not that you hate it but you aren't sure how to adjust. You squirm, but you don't tell him no. You feel like you can't in this state "Uh-uh,"

He keeps surprising you, pressing his lips to yours where you hover over him, tender as he ups the pace of his thrusts.

"That's what I like to hear," He almost sounds proud "You'll hurt your head if you think too much. And I'd be a bad daddy, letting that happen, yeah?"

A vulnerable, foreign sensation drives you to speak "You're not bad in that way."

He laughs "Just in other ways, right?"

You giggle "Uh-huh."

"But not in this one," He repeats, very carefully. He fucks into you harder now, pays extra special attention to you. It's all for you, is what he's saying in a language completely foreign yet somehow so known. One only the two of you will ever know fully, confined in the four walls of this room "Daddy is good at taking care of you like this, so you should let him do just that. Tough girls always need their daddies, hm?"

It's what ends up tipping you up over the edge. You cling to him, succumbing to whatever weird space the two of you have fallen into you. Suspended in this odd sense of comfort that Oliver has thrust you in unannounced.

You don't trust Oliver with a lot, and this is more than what you should ever find yourself giving. In the back of your head you think you should pull away.

But he's comforting. It feels good, and strangely feels safe - and even for all the ways he's awful, you trust he'd never do anything bad to you. Even if it's a blip in the timeline, for now it's what you need. A blurry cross into your emotional needs that translate into your physical ones. Too much and so overwhelming, you hug closer to him and take a deep breath.

"Mm," You let yourself lean into him. Just this once, you promise yourself. "I wanna cum."

"Want it a little harder?"

"Mhm,"

"Then Daddy will give it to you a little harder, yeah? Anything for you." He says, and you try not to think to deeply on what that really means. Because even in this state you know it's not nothing, but you should never pry "Daddy can give you anything you want."

"Yeah?"

He chuckles a little as he fucks into you hard. Fucks into you how you need. You're wet enough, and wondering if you were always so into being doted on. Or if it's just the fact that it's Oliver. Another thing you decide to overlook as you zero in on the sensation of being pistoned from underneath. You're soaking. The room noisy with the sticky noise of Olivers cock penetrating you over and over, skin hitting skin as his hips press against your ass. His grip is bruising but not intentionally, his chest huffed in pleasure.

He's just as close as you are, you know all of his cues. You play with your clit faster, sensitive bud throbbing hard as all the blood rushes south. Your mouth has fallen open as the slow, thick desire coiling and culminating into something cosmic. Something big and heavy, but not too fast. Not a crash landing like you're used to.

But a single weight, the force of a star dropping to Earth. You figure Oliver is the gravity in your universe, holding you down so you don't float too far. You want to cling onto him for much longer.

And somehow, you're inclined to think he would let you.

"Oliver," You say his name as it builds, then decide on something else "Daddy,"

"I'm here, baby," He says back, like it's all he has to say for everything to make sense when nothing about this does "I'm right here. Let go."

So you do. You cum hard, and it comes in long never ending waves. Too much. It makes you collapse in Olivers arms, both arms coming around his neck as he continues to fuck you through the aftermath.

"Gonna," He voices, rasping as his thrusts become sloppy "Shit. Cumming, shit."

He cums with you, cums deep inside like usual and you mewl at the feeling of being filled with hot, sticky seed.

When it's over, you're almost afraid to look at him. When the tensions settled, and his chest goes back to it's steady breaths - you wonder whats going to happen next.

"Wanna stay like this for a while?"

You nod.

"Mm. Sleepy."

"Stay like this, then. I'll wake you in a little."

"So you can kick me out?" You joke, trying to pretend nothing is different. He pauses.

"Just to shower," He whispers, hand resting on your lower back "Sleep."

There's too much to think about. Tomorrow will be strange. You let yourself succumb to your own exhaustion.

"Okay."

#return to sender #daddy kink cw #oliver x reader #oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku smut #bllk x reader #bllk smut #writing tag #this wouldve become a 10k fic if i was not so fucking careful

[prettyboybuckley]

teach me how to dance with you by goodboybuck (prettyboybuckley)

8.95k | 1/1 | Explicit | No Warnings Apply | Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard

9-1-1 said "here's bi buck" and I said "that's exactly what I needed to get through my writer's block!" and proceeded to write this.

Summary:

"Hey, no, we don't have to rush into anything you're not ready for, okay?" Tommy says. "There's no hurry, it might be good to take it a bit slow, actually."

Buck nods. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

"How about we have a beer, and we talk some more, and maybe we can make out a bit more on the couch?"

Tommy points over his shoulder towards Buck's living room, his expression one big, playful question mark, definitely a bit hopeful as well, and Buck can't help but smile and nod.

"Yeah," he says, grabbing the other bottle of beer left on the counter, "yeah, that sounds like a great plan."

OR: Buck explores the wonders of gay sex (slowly, with a really patient, sweet Tommy guiding the way and while having a lot of fun)

Read on ao3

#i return from war (chronic illness and writers block) with some fun smutty smut #911 fic #tommy kinard #evan buckley #gary writes fic #911fic #bucktommy #what other shipnames are there? #kinkley #buck x tommy #userisha #tuserksn #tuserjw

[took-hold-of-nothing]

#I made this set bc I want to have quick visual reference when reading fics #superbat #superman #batman #bruce wayne #clark kent #ben affleck #henry cavill #robert pattinson #Brandon Routh #Christian Bale #Batfleck #battinson #man of steel #superman returns #the dark knight #batman v supeman: dawn of justice #the batman #batwoman #arrowverse #dc #edit

[strangersteddierthings]

Pumpkin Carving (A Halloween One Shot)

Pumpkin carving and a sleepover. An excuse for everyone to gather together on Halloween now that the Party has decided they're too old to trick-or-treat.

A pumpkin carving station has been set up in the Harrington's giant three car garage. Steve did debate setting it all up in the yard, less cleanup of the pumpkin insides that way, but it was pretty chilly, and Steve wasn't sure how long they'd all take to do the actual carving.

Does pumpkin carving take long?

Steve's never carved a pumpkin so he wouldn't know. There is no universe in which his mother would have allowed a pumpkin in her house, much less under the circumstance of then cutting it open and freeing it of its insides. While Steve has never participated in the act of carving a pumpkin, he knows how it goes. Hypothetically.

He'd needed to know enough to gather all the supplies after all, so a quick call to Robin (along with some gentle teasing and mocking) and he was set.

Eddie arrives first, having been volunteered to go get the pumpkins from the patch. It's not that Steve is scared of the pumpkin patch, or anything, it's just that Eddie's van would be better for transporting them.

Steve tried to offer to unload them, insisting it was only fair since Eddie had to load them, but Eddie just rolls his eyes and gets to work. It's not that pumpkins are extra heavy, but they aren't exactly light. And Steve knows that Eddie thinks Steve doesn't want his help because of how long it took Eddie to heal, but that's not the reason. Steve just...

Steve's just drawn to watching instead of helping when Eddie grabs a pumpkin under each arm, muscles flexing as he tightens his hold enough to keep them trapped between his arms and his sides and now Steve's left wishing, wistfully and not for the first time, that it was his thighs Eddie was wrapping those arms around. That it was him Eddie was hoisting up, perhaps holding against a wall and-

"Am I going to do all the loading and unloading?" Eddie bursts his thoughts by knocking their shoulders together as he passes by, already on his second round of pumpkin unloading.

"What, no, sorry," Steve turns to grab two pumpkins of his own. It's quick work with the two of them, then, to unload, and a short wait for everyone to start showing up.

Some biked, others dropped off by parents. Steve walks out to each car to chat and confirm that yes, of course they can stay the night; they won't be a bother and I'll keep them out of trouble.

Soon enough the garage is full of people, pumpkins, and noise. Lucas and Max have migrated to the corner of the garage closest to the door leading inside to whisper together as Lucas guts two pumpkins while Max describes what she wants on hers. Will and Mike have also set themselves apart to work out whatever it is they plan to carve on their own pumpkins. Dustin, El, Erica, and Eddie have plopped down in the center and just got to work. They aren't coordinating their pumpkins like the couples seem to be doing. They do seem to be taking it the most serious, though, with the absolute silence from all of them, concentration faces fully on.

Steve is off on his own, too. He's taken a seat about five feet from Eddie but he's the furthest from the door. He frowns down at his pumpkin, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He's not sure how to start. What to do.

He looks up from his pumpkin and over to Eddie. He's using a knife to saw around the stem of the pumpkin. Which, duh. Steve should have put that together. There has to be some way to remove the insides easily, so removing the top made sense.

Without trying to overthink it all, Steve stabs into the top of his pumpkin and starts sawing his own circle around the top. It's. Well, it's something. He wouldn't say sawing a circle is fun but it's not tedious and soon enough his knife returns to the starting point and... Hmm. He watches as the bit he just cut around sags into his pumpkin. Eddie's didn't do that.

Steve frowns down at it for a moment before grabbing the stem and pulling the top off. His face wrinkles in disgust at the stringy clump of pumpkin insides that hang from the top and he sets that down to the side quickly. He's realizing now why everyone else chose to wear short sleeves even though it's cold outside as he looks around the garage and sees everyone shoving their hands into the pumpkin, pulling stringy, seedy, strands of pumpkin out.

With a sigh, Steve rolls a sleeve up and plunges his own hand into the holes he's made and almost instantly rips his hand back out. Ew. No. Gross! Wrong! The feeling of the strands breaking under the pressure of his hand, the slightly moist feeling of the inside, the unexpected slipperiness of the seeds, all of it sends a shiver of revulsion up Steve's spine. He makes a soft gagging noise against his own will.

"You gonna be sick?" Eddie asks almost immediately.

"Uh. Oh, yeah," Steve says as he feels his face heat with an embarrassed blush. He can see that all eyes are on him now, which adds to his embarrassment on top of realizing the question he was asked and what he answered. "Wait, I mean no. I'm not going to be sick."

Eddie looks from Steve to his pumpkin, and back up. "Don't like the feeling of pumpkin guts?"

"It was just unexpected is all," Steve defends, even as the thought of sticking his hands back into the pumpkin sends another shiver through him.

"Unexpected," Dustin repeats back. Steve tenses but nothing else follows that. He looks over and Dustin seems to be having a silent conversation with Eddie judging by the stare down.

"Maybe I am gonna be sick," Steve lies, standing quickly and fleeing the garage.

God fucking dammit. Why is he so embarrassed about this? Why is he... he's hiding the fact he's never done this before, and he doesn't know why. They aren't going to mock him for it. Well. Maybe a little, but in the same way Robin did. Tease him because they love him. They wouldn't really be making fun of him. Except maybe Mike but Steve doesn't really care about his opinion anyway. Gave up on that a while ago.

He goes to the kitchen sink on autopilot, scrubbing the gross, now dried and tacky feeling from his hand. He's in the process of drying his hands when a voice startles him.

"Hey man. You okay?"

It's Eddie. Of course, it's Eddie they would send after him.

"Yeah," he turns so his back is to the sink, leaning back against it to look at Eddie.

"You never have to scoop out a pumpkin before? Did someone else do it for you?"

If anyone else had asked, Steve would think it was condescending. Someone mockingly asking after nannies or servants who would do the gross part of pumpkin carving for the little rich kid. But it's Eddie, and he's just curious and sincere. So, Steve says, "nah, man. Just never done this before."

Eddie's browse crinkle in confusion and Steve thinks he's so fucking cute. He wants to kiss the confusion from his brow. "You've never carved a pumpkin before?"

Steve just gives a shake of his head before shrugging. He wants to cross his arms, close in on himself, but it's Eddie. He's trying to not shy away from the people he cares about. He's trying to let them take care of him, too.

(It's been a process, since the defeat of Vecna. Learning to let people care about him. He's better at it these days. Robin said so and if anyone is an expert on him, it's her. He can't always trust his own opinion to be unbiased.)

"I'll scoop out your pumpkin if you still want to give pumpkin carving a try," Eddie offers, a soft, lopsided smile on his face that Steve adores. The bats took a good chunk of his left cheek, and the scarring is heavy, the muscles non-responsive, so every smile is lopsided, but Steve loves them all.

"Okay," Steve says, offering a soft smile in return but doesn't push off the sink. Not until Eddie approaches, taking Steve's wrist and tugging him along.

No one says anything when they return to the garage, nor when Eddie blows past his own pumpkin to sit next to Steve and grab up his pumpkin. Eddie looks down at the hole Steve's carved, a calculated look on his face. It's cleared away soon enough when he smiles as wide as his scarred cheek allows before he gets to work on the pumpkin. He cleans it out thoroughly before handing it back to Steve, then crawls across the floor to retrieve his own abandoned pumpkin, rolling it across the floor as he crawls back.

"Oh, wait. Can you go get me a marker?" Eddie asks, as Steve is examining his pumpkin, trying to imagine a face to go on it.

"Yeah," Steve says, glad to have a moment more to think about the face as he fetches a marker from his father's office.

He returns to most of the kids having already finished their own pumpkins. Unsurprising, considering how much time Steve spent just thinking about carving before he even started.

"Marker," Steve offers it out after he's sat down again, close enough that his knee is touching Eddie's this time.

"Thanks," Eddie takes the marker and adjusts so more of his leg is pressing against Steve's. "So, you can freehand the face if you want, or I could draw you a face to cut out? If you want."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure," Steve says, shoving his pumpkin towards Eddie who looks delighted by Steve's answer. It doesn't take him long to draw on a face. Triangle eyes, a little rectangle nose, and a wide mouth filled with jagged teeth.

Steve and Eddie carve in quiet, while Steve basks in the warmth of Eddie's leg next to his, touching his. He's never been sure if Eddie likes him back, not enough to announce his own crush, but sometimes... There are times like this that fill him with hope.

Steve doesn't even realize they've been abandoned to the garage until Eddie finishes his pumpkin, which is three bats carved artistically into the side. Steve is impressed, and when he turns to ask if anyone else is, there isn't anyone there.

"Oh. I didn't even hear them leave."

Eddie plops the top of his pumpkin back on, which reminds Steve he needs to do the same. He reaches for his top but Eddie beats him to it, craving the gross mass of sides that was stuck to it off before handing it over it.

Steve sets the top back on the pumpkin, and it immediately drops into the pumpkin. "What. Why did it-?"

"You gotta cut the top into an odd shape or at an angle. Otherwise, that happens. But it's okay. You didn't know, and I know how to fix it. You got some toothpicks in your house?" Eddie says, assuring Steve before he even has time to overthink it.

Can Steve be any more in love with him at this point?

"What?" Eddie whispers, eyes wide and face slowly turning red.

"What?"

"You just... you, uhh. Did you not mean to say that out loud?"

"Say wha- oh God," Steve registers what he'd thought, or apparently, what he said and now he and Eddie are just staring at each other, wide-eyed and unmoving.

"I'm not going to question if you meant it," Eddie starts slowly, clearly the more brave one of the two, "just. I need to know if you mean it, like, romantically."

"I did. Do. I-" Steve can be brave, too. He can. "I do love you. Romantically."

"Holy shit. I want to pull you in and kiss you so bad but my hands are covered in pumpkin guts and-"

Steve does it for him, both hands grabbing at his face and pulling him in.

His first time carving a pumpkin ends up being fantastic, even counting the kids flooding back into the garage to scream 'finally' at them.

-

@i-less-than-three-you @nburkhardt @afewproblems

#steddie #my fic #if this were real like and eddied gone to a pumpkin patch the morning of halloween for a pumpkin he would return empty handed #but this is fanfic and he got great carving pumpkins ok. suspension of disbelief #steve is pining so hard to eddie #a lil hint of other couples up in here with the kids #mildly edited

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Tom: I can't love anyone more than I love myself.

Harry, exists: ...

Tom: What a relief that the Horcrux in you is a convenient loophole.

#tomarry #harrymort #tomarrymort #someone take the post button away from me #yes i am implying that tom would possibly fall for harry without the horcrux and is using it as an excuse that marks harry as an exception #please let me have this #i will return to finishing up my halloween fic now #hopefully

[princessbrunette]

babydaddy!rafe I’ve been summoned 🤭

how would he be if it was the other way around ? getting back out there after you guys split, but he has none of it. you’re his. and he would absolutely NOT let another man take care of his girls !!

okay now that’s a little different. thats not allowed at all in his books 😭

˗ˏˋ🐇 ೀ🍡꒱ ˎˊ˗

he hears some guy from the club is taking you out on saturday, so what does rafe do? he shows up on your doorstep and tells you that he’s taking you out on saturday, no ifs or buts.

“its important for us to bond, okay — we have a kid together.” he argues, shifting on his feet impatiently.

“i have plans on saturday!” you laugh incredulously at his audacity. his eyes threaten to roll, fluttering irritably.

“yeah, i know — it’s not happening, telling you that right now.”

“oh really? suddenly you want to hang out with me now you know i’m in demand?” you glare, leaning against the door frame and he sighs, unable to stay still on his feet.

“you— you’re not listening, alright— you can’t just be letting anyone around our baby, or — or around you. i have a duty to protect what’s mine okay, and what— that makes me the bad guy? for protecting my family?” he points to himself clearly distressed.

“what do i need protecting from, rafe? i can handle myself!” you argue back, and he holds out a hand, shaking his head.

“no, no okay — you…” he sighs, closing in on you. “you know what he was goin’ round telling people? what… he was calling you, at the club?” he squints. you back down a little then, eyeing him silently as you wait for him to tell you. “the milf. like… like you didn’t have a name. you really want a guy like that around you? around our girl? huh?”

you shrink down, upset and discouraged. “seriously?” you ask quietly and he backs up, holding his hands up as if to say ‘it’s not my fault’.

“these are the suckers you’re dealing with, right and… i put a stop to it. look, we’ll have a good time together on saturday. me n’you.” he pities you a little, not wanting to upset you with what he’d shared, but it was necessary.

“fine.” you look down at your hands, embarrassed about the whole thing.

“yeah?” he steps closer, taking your hand so you look up at him but you avoid his gaze. “the guys got a black eye now anyway. you uh, wouldn’t wanna date that.”

you look up at him now, a small smile spreading on your face. his own lips curl up slightly. “did you do that rafe?”

“i was provoked. trust me, would have killed the guy but i didn’t wanna sacrifice my club membership, ‘kay?” he teases and you grin. he scratches his cheek, looking around before backing up off your doorstep. “saturday. alright? be ready, i’ll uh— i’ll text you.” he completes before walking off and not looking back. classic rafe.

˗ˏˋ🐇 ೀ🍡꒱ ˎˊ˗

#anon #rafe cameron prompt #babydaddy!rafe #he’s being so soft in all of these uhhhh dw guys mean rafe will return in my usual fics