#HE FUCKED UP HIS KIDS FOR SURE BUT LITERALLY HOW WAS HE SUPPOSED TO *NOT* FUCK UP WHEN HE HAS NO CLUE HOW PEOPLE WORK???

[penofwildfire]

Plagued by FSM thoughts tonight

[jrueships]

WHOEVER THE FUCK IS RECOMMENDING MED PPL TO GO INTO RADIOLOGY JUST CUS IF THE MONEY, IM GONNA FUCKING gET YOU

[apocalympdicks]

im venting in the tags

ignore me lmao

[loonylupinblack3]

Period Trouble

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: swearing, nothing else i think?

Summary: you wake up with your period and are forced to go on a mission with Logan of all people

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: literally obsessed with this man rn so ofc i had to write about him. also wolverine has enhanced senses including smell but its like…. barely shown in the movies so i had to search it up to be sure, and some part of me still doubts it but for the purposes of this fic he does have it

You woke up with a groan, immediately curling into a ball. You were early. You were early and you hadn’t emotionally or physically prepared for having your period today, yet the world seemed ready to punish you, burdening you with an early cycle.

You checked the time, cursing every god and deity you knew when you realised you were supposed to have woken up half an hour ago. Wincing, you got up, your body screaming at the movement. Already your stomach was aching, the ghosts of cramps to come caressing your body. 

There was knocking at your door, quiet yet firm. You already knew it was Storm on the other side of the door, no doubt in search of a reason why you failed to get up on time. It was going to be a long day.

You yelled out to Storm, promising to be out in five minutes, and got up, groggily looking for your clothes. When you’d tamed your hair and brushed your teeth, you exited your room to find Storm waiting on the other side, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

She took one look at you and sighed. “What are you wearing?”

You looked down perplexed. “....my clothes?”

She raised her eyebrow. “You’re on a mission today, remember?”

Fuck. You nearly let out a whine. You were not in the mood to go skulking around doing Xavier’s bidding when you had a constant throbbing pain assaulting your stomach, unreasonable mood swings, and exhaustion weighing you down.

Storm sent you a questioning look. “You up for this?”

The mission was nothing big. Professor X needed you to collect some sort of rare herb that had recently been shipped into the nearest city, something he needed to complete a super secret experiment you weren’t privy to. He’d just asked for help and you’d volunteered.

Oh how you regretted that decision now.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you muttered. “Let me just get changed real quick.”

Getting into your previously decided upon outfit, a plain inconspicuous one intended to blend in, you left your room again, this time with no complaint from Storm. Your stomach gave an uncomfortable clench and you sighed, making a mental note to find some nurofen before leaving for the mission.

“Why aren’t you in your outfit?” you asked, just realising Storm wasn’t wearing what you two had agreed upon yesterday.

She winced slightly. “Can’t go. Filling in for some classes.”

Your face soured but you tried not to hold it against her. Storm loved her students, and given the choice of helping them or Xavier with a low level mission, she’d obviously choose her kids. You couldn’t blame her exactly, but it meant you’d have to go on this mission alone, while not impossible by any means it would make it slightly more difficult.

You sighed. “That’s okay. I can go alone.”

When Storm winced even more your eyes narrowed in suspicion, following her with caution. “Storm…..”

She sighed guiltily. “Xavier didn’t want you to go alone. The herb’s too valuable.”

You tilted your head slightly as you entered the house’s foyer. “So who am I going with then?”

Storm’s eyes darted ahead, and you followed her gaze to find Logan Howlett leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He smirked at you, “you’re looking at him sweetheart.”

You resisted the urge to groan, instead sending Storm a dirty look. You didn’t necessarily dislike Logan, but he was a lot to deal with, and you were already tired from your day that had barely begun.

You couldn’t say all that with Logan standing there however, so you muttered a, “lovely,” and walked past the man to the garage.

He followed you silently, no quip or smart ass comment which was strange for him. You’d just entered the garage, heading towards one of the cars, when you glanced back at him and found Logan stopped in the doorway, staring at you with a frown on his face. Or rather, a deeper frown than usual.

“What is it?” you asked him, standing at the hood of the car.

Logan’s eyes roved your body, searching for something. “You’re injured.”

It was your turn to frown. “What? No I’m not.”

He took a step forward, almost as if he was planning on looking for your alleged injury himself. “Don’t bullshit me Y/n, I can smell your blood.”

You made a face. “What are you talking about…..” you trailed off when you realised it, perhaps the most mortifying moment in your life.

Logan could smell your period blood. He thought you were bleeding from an injury. 

You cleared your throat, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

He scoffed, walking towards you until you were face to face. You tried to step back and felt the hood of the car against your legs. “I can smell the fucking blood seeping out of you Y/n. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

You gritted your teeth to stop yourself from snapping at him. “I can assure you, I am not injured.”

You moved to walk past him but he caught your wrist, forcing you back into your position pressed against the car. “If you think I am going on this mission with you while you’re wounded, you’re out of your mind.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot darl? Is that why you’re denying being hurt while I can literally smell it on you-”

You cut him off. “I’m on my period, Logan.”

He paused, staring at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. You waited for him to speak, feeling embarrassed and furious about it. Why should you be embarrassed of your period? He was the one who was pushing you, prodding you, forcing you to tell him the source of the bleeding. If your answer made him uncomfortable, that wasn’t your fault nor your concern.

Eventually he spoke. “Alright then. Get in the car. I’m driving.”

You scowled at him. “Says who?”

He didn’t even bother looking at you, already in the driver’s seat. “Says me.”

You sighed but didn’t argue further, silently getting into the passenger seat. Logan started the car, reversing it out of the garage and driving down the long winding driveway till you got to the street.

“It’s an hour's drive to the city, give or take,” you told Logan, setting the GPS up on the car.

Logan barely glanced at it, eyes on the road, a firm grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t even respond to you. You sighed and turned away, looking out the window as the scenery passed you in flashes.

As the drive continued, you noticed Logan sending you glances every now and then. If you really focused on them, you’d almost say they seemed worried, concerned even, but they were always too quick for you to tell for certain. You were too preoccupied with your cramps that had started up anyway, and the lack of nurofen you’d forgotten to grab.

Finally, you arrived at the city, driving into the hustle and bustle of the crowded area. Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, obviously not a fan of the traffic the city provided. You watched the stream of people through the window as Logan looked for a space to park, muttering under his breath.

You were mildly entertained at the amount of road rage he had, cursing every car that wasn’t at least 10 metres over the speed limit. His jaw was clenched, hand fisting the steering wheel, yet he still looked at you here and there, like you were actually wounded.

When he eventually found a parking spot the two of you got out of the car and you looked at the address Xavier gave you.

“Should be somewhere along this street,” you murmured, eyes flicking from the piece of paper to the busy street.

Logan moved behind you, so close you could feel your back against his chest, and looked at the paper in your hand. He let out a grunt and moved past you, walking forwards. You frowned and hurried your pace, not wanting to lose him amidst the crowd of people.

Luck was certainly not your side, because soon enough you’d lost him, unable to see his black leather jacket in the throng of people. You hesitated, wondering if you should look for him or just go straight to the address, when you felt an arm around your waist.

“Stay close to me,” Logan murmured into your war, his voice gravelly. “Don’t wanna lose you again.”

You glanced at him as he continued walking, not moving his arm from your waist. “How’d you find me?”

He gave you a smirk. “Followed the smell of blood.”

Again you felt your cheeks heat but you glared at him defiantly, refusing to be embarrassed. He smirked at you, flashing his teeth, as you arrived in front of the address, a plain building home to some sort of florist. 

Logan finally took his hand from your waist, walking to the door with you trailing behind him. A bell gave a little jingle as you entered, and you were immediately assaulted with the smell of flowers. Different sorts of plants took up every corner of the room and Logan’s face soured as he looked around, obviously not pleased with the environment.

An old woman sat behind a desk, watering a plant with a mini watering can. You walked up to her, Logan hot on your heels. When you stopped in front of the desk Logan was so close behind you you could actually feel his chest against your back.

“Mrs May?” you asked.

The old woman looked at you with a smile, her eyes crinkling. “That’s me. What can I help you two lovebirds with? Bouquet of roses? Lilies?”

You opened your mouth, surprised, and tried to find something to say. Being mistaken for a couple shouldn’t have affected you so much, especially while on a mission, but you were flustered and could still feel Logan’s chest right against your back, his warmth almost dizzying.

“We’re not here for flowers unfortunately,” Logan spoke, saving you. Except why didn’t he specify you weren’t a couple? Did that not matter to him, what some old lady thought, or did he enjoy the idea of being thought of as your boyfriend?

Oh god. What were you thinking? Stupid period hormones. 

The old lady looked at you two curiously. “Then how can I help you?”

There was a pointed silence and you realised Logan was waiting for you to speak. You cleared your throat and spoke the random sequence of words Xavier had you memorise, that would inform Mrs May just what type of buyers you were.

The woman’s eyes lit up with recognition and she nodded her head slowly. “Ah, yes, let me just go to the storage room quickly, I’ll be back….”

Mrs May tottered around the desk and through a side door, half hidden behind the multitude of plants covering the area, leaving you alone with Logan.

You took a step away from him and turned around to look at him, finding him staring at you with a frown on his face.

You frowned back at him. “What’s up with you today?”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What is up with me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed Darl but you haven’t exactly been up to par yourself.”

You rolled your eyes at his words. “That’s not what I meant, and besides, I’m on my period.”

Logan stared at you, arms crossed. “What did ya mean then?”

“You’ve been acting strange. Less talkative and annoying like usual.”

Logan snorted. “Ever the lady.”

“I’m serious. What’s up with you?”

Logan sighed and took a step forward until he was towering over you and you had to crane your head up to look at him. “You are what’s up. I can constantly smell you bleeding, and I can’t get it out of my mind that it means you’re hurt. You’re driving me crazy sweetheart.”

Well…. That certainly wasn’t what you were expecting. Logan smirked down at you as if he knew that, and enjoyed surprising you. You cleared your throat as your eyes darted to the floor. “Well, that’s hardly my fault.”

Logan chuckled. “Not your fault no, but it is your doing whether you mean to or not.”

You swallowed, looking back up at him. “Well…. Don’t you constantly smell when people are on their periods?”

“It’s different with you. Smelling your blood just drives me crazy, plain and simple. Can’t get the instinct out of my head that blood means injury.”

The way Logan was admitting all of this, with such calm, made you think he’d been wanting to say this for a while. The unspoken confession was there, and it was up to you to decide what to do with it.

“I’m glad you care,” was what you landed on, unsure of what else to say.

Logan chuckled again, one hand snaking to your waist. “I do a lot more than care, Y/n.”

You smiled softly, looking up at him. With his other hand he brushed your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The sound of a door closing brought you out of your little bubble and you took a step back, Logan reluctantly letting go of your waist.

Mrs May, either not having seen you two or graciously deciding to ignore it, passed you a package, informing you the herb and all information involving it was inside, and to handle it with care. You nodded and thanked the old woman before exiting the building, Logan again right on your heels.

As soon as the shop’s door closed behind you Logan’s hand was back around your waist. “Not losing you this time.”

You tried not to smile, though internally you were grinning like a maniac, and let Logan lead the two of you back to the car. You didn’t even get to argue your case of driving this time, Logan already in the driver’s seat. You sighed and got into the passenger seat, resigning yourself to another hour of silence as Logan started driving, when you felt his hand on your thigh.

You looked at him but he didn’t say anything, just gave it a light squeeze as he kept his eyes on the road. You looked away, grinning. So maybe the world didn’t have it out for you after all.

[rqnarok]

ANIMALS | old man!logan x fem!reader

summary: old man!logan catches you trying to finger yourself on his bed...

cws/tags: smut, mdni! literally porn w/o plot. old man!logan. fem!reader. daddy kink. exhibitionsm kink. unspecified age gap. petnames (kid, darlin’, baby, etc). logan calls himself ‘old man’. oral (f receiving). not proofread. wc: 2k

Logan can’t stand you. 

Ever since you enrolled as Charles’ caregiver, you’ve been a little bug crawling on his skin–itching him in bits.

Logan fucking hates how your generation seems to put so much trust in life like it isn’t all absurdity. He despises how you always seem to be bubbly all the time; breathlessly giggling at the unfunniest shit he had ever watched in his life. He loathes your eagerness to make him smile or laugh - he detests you and your youth. 

Or so that’s what he’s been telling himself.

Logan puts all these decoys to bury what he truly feels under the soil–like he always does throughout his life. Tries to hide how his stomach flutters when you tend his wounds, or simply when you get close to him. It suffocates him, you. 

You who cooks the very luscious foods for him and Charles every living day–you who take care of Logan as he has his occurring nightmares–you, who is the life he needed all along. 

You who had him ashamed of himself when he thought of thoughts of you. Visions of your beautiful figure flustering under Logan. He bet you were soft under those clothes, every inch of you. Bet you smelled better if he got nearer. 

So there you have it, false pretense. 

Deep down, he knows he’s doing everything for the sake of you. Including this week, when he has to stay in Texas for a few days just to earn extra pennies–again, for you. That’s why he got your picture patched in the car rear-view mirror, after all. 

Today, because of several reasons he had not expected, Logan went home a day earlier than what he told you. 

When he got home, by home he meant an abandoned smelting plant in Northern Mexico - he thought you were already tucked in your sheets, deep in a slumber. 

Oh, he was wrong because when he gets in front of his own bedroom door, it was slightly open with the sound of sighing now and then. He vaguely creaks the door open to paint a bigger picture of what’s inside as he hears another sigh, no, a moan.

Logan swears his breath got stuck in his throat when he catches the sight of you. Your eyelids shut tightly as your body jerked under the covers, another noise escaping your faintly gaping lips. He also notes the slow bumps and bulges in the sheets, moving in a repeated pattern of up and down–your head thrown back almost hitting the headboard. 

Are you touching yourself in his fuckin’ bed? His nostrils fumed. 

He called your name.

No reaction. 

“Kid.”

Logan enters the dim room and gives the bed a light shake. 

His act makes you yelp and jolt in surprise; sitting as much as you could in the unorganized space - your hair configured messily - cheeks flushed red. Your bottom lip was red and swollen as if you had bitten something fierce. 

With doe-eyes, you devour the sight of the man before you: Logan in his old white tank top, his belt loosened, his graying beard complemented his face so perfectly, and lastly, his deceitful expression. 

“What ‘re you doin’, huh?”

Gulping down your own spit, you shrank in on yourself, “L-Logan! I-I’m sorry! I cannot sleep… it’s just - your sheets. The- They smelled so nice. Smelled like you.” You find yourself spiraling in this humiliating situation, “You’re h-home.”

Logan’s eyes glance down into your nightgown, then to the bulge in the covers. Your hands, he supposed. 

Fuck it, he thought. Logan is already sure he’s going to hell after all. Why not grab a sweet treat to pile it onto his stack of sins?

“Show me what you were doin’.” His voice is deep as he gives the order, making you shiver in arousal. 

Still, with utter shyness, you kick the covers to reveal your body. You showed the full piece of your sheer nightgown - your white cotton panties shoved down to your thighs - your hands placed on top of your pussy, which was wet and leaking onto his sheets. 

Logan stared at you for a moment then lurked forward. Oh, you could see he was starting to bulge up too. 

“Keep goin’.” 

The high-pitched noise that left you was embarrassing but it did not stop you from doing what you’re told. How can you? When the man you had been crushing on, your employer, is looking down at you as if you’re his last meal. 

You pull your legs up as much as you can, before inserting your finger back into your wet hole, letting your eyes linger on Logan’s face. With his aging lines, he looks more angry and grumpy, brows furrowed and nose wrinkled. Beyond that, he’s focused on where your hand moved. It was so hot—you had never experienced something like this and it felt amazing—but it was not enough. 

“A-ah, please. Help– I need–” You let out a plea as you try to run your thumb over your puffy clit. You moan; pleasure rushed through you like a strike of electricity, gasping and keening.

Logan’s head falls forward, as if surrendering. Really, fuck it. He can’t hold back anymore. 

After a moment, he gets on the bed–making it let out a noise as he gets closer and closer, “Wha’s that, baby? Ya’ need more?” Logan grabs you by the hips and drags you closer to him, “Need Daddy’s fingers, ‘s that it?”’ 

“Y-yeah! Need you, so so bad.” The tips of his fingers rubbing your inner thighs and the ghosting feel of his hot breath make you lose any of your critical thinking. Burning your cheeks even warmer than they already were. 

Logan gets harder as he wonders how many times you have been doing this before. Trying to finger yourself on his bed while he was away—while he was earning money for you.   

A ‘mhm’ is all he grumbled out before his mouth was on your pussy, lapping at your labia and you cry out for the hundredth time.

“Ah!” There you finally understand why everyone was all in a rage about getting eaten out. This is everything, indeed. 

”Dirty fuckin’ girl. Touching herself in an old man’s bed.” Hearing him, you look down to grab a handful of Logan’s turning gray hair and hike up your nightgown even more as Logan’s tongue pushes inside you. Literally, devouring you. 

“L-Logan- ’M gon’ cum! ‘M cumming!”

The older man hums in response, squeezing your plump thighs—feeling like a goddamn animal. Your back arches on the mattress while one of his hands creeps up to fondle your breast, and you explode. 

He could feel your cum drizzling out and even got some of it on his scruffy beard. The world is still spinning around you but he does not give you a chance to rest. Logan shoves your legs higher and places kisses on your sensitive button. “Logan��”

“Not my name, sweet’art.” You cry out when you feel one of his fingers pushing into your hole - how it barely fuckin’ fits makes your body tremble with all the pleasure coursing through your veins.

He chuckles in glory as he glances up at your teary-eyed expression, still pushing his finger into reaching deeper, “Yeah- Your fingers too small?” Logan reads you so easily, “Need Daddy’s fingers to the job, huh?” He murmured, teasing his tongue around where his finger stretched you. 

When he bobs his head up, you can see how his beard is glistening with your slick under the moonlight, “Y’sure you want this, kid?”

“Y-yeah!” You said embarrassingly quickly. But oh, little do you know, this is the best thing in Logan’s life. 

Logan is breathing hard as he gets out of his clothes, nodding and grinning at you, “Been wantin’ do to this f’r a while.” 

You gasp when he climbs after you, spreading himself out above you, “Y-you do?” 

Legs wrapping around him, the both of you slid together against each other and Logan finally kissed you.

His tongue wrestled around your mouth, nipping and licking—ravaging you so sweetly, “Y’ve no idea.” You could feel his fingers probing at your heat. They pressed inside gently, only the tips of it, teasing you. Making you moan into his lips. 

“D-Daddy- Gimme more, please—” He was about to continue teasing you but hearing you say that word so meekly, gives him a whiplash. 

He groans out strings of curse words before easily manhandling you into a position, “F-Fuck. Daddy’s gon’ give it t’ya.” Logan rolls you into facing the wall—himself behind you. 

“Ya’ like this, darlin’?” You could feel his hips circling, his large cock sliding down between your thighs. He continues nipping at your ear as he rains you with praises, “C’mon. Use your big girl words, baby. Let Daddy hear ya’.”

You can’t even breathe right and end up whimpering in response, “Yeayeayeah… Like it a lot!”

Logan hummed, pleased at your reply—his girl being so fuckin’ obedient, “Aight’ breath for me now. Jus’ let Daddy slip right in? Ya’ want that? Wan’ to make your old man happy?”

Your head bobs erratically as your smaller fingers wrap around his; Logan’s gone, he pushes inside of you with a throaty groan. The head slipped inside easily. You can’t believe how good it feels when he stretches you. As he keeps pushing, his large hands palm your chest and pinch hard your peaking nipples. 

“T-Tha’s it, sweet girl. Take Daddy’s cock.” And you’re gone too, your eyes rolled back while Logan ruts into you in short, sharp motions, easing your figure with kisses to your neck and shoulders.

Tears fall down your cheeks in utter bliss, “Feel s’good, Daddy.” Your whole body is slick with sweat, baby hairs sticking on your forehead, and Logan’s chest is glued to your back. 

He fills you up into the brim and it is almost like you’re overflowing with pleasure. He moves you again so that you feel more comfortable, “Gon’ go little faster, that okay, kid?”

You sob into his pillows and nod, “Yeah… Daddy, please, yeah—”

He pulls out far enough that even the head barely remains inside. Then he drives in deep again. Hard and fast, pounds into you, making your skin slap as your bodies meet. He sets a mean, cruel pace. He slips out so, so slowly, only to thrust in as hard and as fast as the very first time. 

“Ah, fuck, baby, feel so fuckin’ good, so tight on Daddy’s cock,” You blush at how Logan grunts, voice hitching at every thrust. 

Logan presses himself up against you, his chest feeling so impossibly wide and thick on your back. His arms wrapped around your body; one hand toys with your nipples, and the other gives your clit rough, hard jerks, ripping even more pleasure out of you.

“Daddy, Daddy, ah—” you plea while turning your head to watch him with hald-lidded eyes.

“Keep sayin’ it, baby, keep sayin’ that,” Logan growls between kisses and latches into you. “Say it. Tell Daddy who’s fuckin’ this pussy open.”

“Daddy!” You whine louder for him. “Daddy, Da- ah!”

Just as you could feel the orgasm being punched out of you for the second time, Logan growls again, snapping his hips for a few last hard thrusts.

You feel how Logan fills you up as deep as he could, his warm cum stuffing you—cock pulsing as the both of you came, hard. 

Logan falls onto you suddenly, putting all his bulky figure on top of you, the man’s whole body going lax in the after-orgasm bliss. 

The older man huffs over and over; you smile at the sight, you don’t mind at all. His weight feels safe and comforting, protecting you from everything else.

Still, you are relieved when he rolls himself off you. More relieved when his lips finds yours in instant, sensually kissing you—making you know how much you mean to him. 

Though, you are not relieved when he comes to the shameful confrontation. 

“Y’do this often? Touching y’rself on my bed, kid?” 

[suiana]

(yandere! zombie x gn! survivor reader) (im such a youtube shorts kid bruh this idea came to me because of a video i watched)

did you know that zombies retain their habits from when they were humans?

well you sure as hell do now, because why is your annoying neighbour still following you around?? he's literally fucking rotting???

"shoo! go away!"

you hiss at him, shooting a rubber band at him before quickly climbing up a tree. phew, you wouldn't be bothered by him from here. it's been like this for a few days now, your undead neighbour following you around as you did your best to survive in this ruined world.

you never really liked him, your neighbour that is. he's always been that one weird guy that keeps annoying you ever since he moved in. constantly knocking on your door and asking to have meals together, to getting to and from work at the same times as you... you're so sure that he was stalking you. how could it ever be a coincidence that he just somehow knew when you were going out and coming back from work?

but now you wouldn't ever know and it's not like you wanted to know anyway. ignorance is bliss after all. oh! he's also very stubborn and it's quite apparent in his zombie form.

"bweh."

"go away!"

the zombie hits at the tree you were sitting down on as he looks up at you with what seemed to be puppydog eyes. you could only grimace at the sight before checking through your supplies. shit, you're running out of stuff.

"ugh... i'll need to scavenge for food-"

"guh!"

you raise an eyebrow at your undead admirer before humming. right, you suppose it isn't that bad that you have him around... he gives you stuff that's useful and scares away other mobs (you think he eats them if they get too close to you). you would've actually coddled him like a dog if he wasn't trying to get into your pants or kiss you every second.

"thanks."

you lean forward and snatch the bad of chips from his rotting hands before stuffing it into your bag. mn, you could probably have that for your lunch and dinner tomorrow.

"let's see... i need to find a good place to sleep tonight."

"bwa! buh beh!"

your zombie immediately starts scratching at the tree bark before jutting his lower lip. huh...

"no, i'm not sleeping in your apartment."

"gah!"

you think you're starting to understand zombie language because why are you holding full on conversations with him??

"don't give me that face. you know our apartment complex is riddled with zombies. i don't want to be turned."

"kh... gur! rh..."

"you think i'm trusting you? i swear i saw our old neighbour lurking around there and he was an olympic sprinter."

you shake your finger at the zombie before sighing softly. why did this apocalypse have to happen? things were going great for you before this. you just had a raise and you were so close to landing a date with your hot boss!

if you didn't know any better you'd have thought that your little zombie admirer was the one who kickstarted this zombie apocalypse because of his jealousy. what did he work as before he turned? a scientist?

"tn... jhn... ngh..."

"don't act all sassy with me right now. it's not like i want to sleep in your place to begin with. you'd probably lock me in there with you and i'd be trapped."

"bah!"

rolling your eyes at the sassy undead man, you rest against the trunk of the tree and shut your eyes. might as well get some rest before setting off again.

"i'm going to rest now. help me keep an eye out."

"kah kah. jah?"

"no, i won't kiss you. and no, i most certainly won't reward you with myself. you're rotting, damnit! how many times do i have to tell you that?"

"ui..."

what in the sassy zombie apocalypse have you gotten yourself into?

[headkiss]

it’s christmas (this is gonna be a nightmare)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve puts a little too much pressure on himself to make this holiday a magical one. or: 4 times steve messes up your first christmas together, +1 time it's perfect.

word count: 7.4k

content: established relationship, one injury (no blood!), some kisses, a lot of steve's thoughts, and a love confession <3 fluff all around!!!

a/n: a full length fic!! it's a christmas miracle!! thank you to the anon who sent the ask that inspired this fic and to all of u for being here. i love u, happy holidays <3

⁺̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇⊛̇̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇

Steve Harrington doesn’t know too much about what exactly a perfect Christmas looks like. He has his parents to thank for that.

What he does know is that this year has to be just that: perfect. Because this year he has you.

Though you went to high school together, you and Steve properly met in the summer. Right at the beginning of it, where the evenings still have a chill of wind but the sun cuts through it with welcomed warmth. Robin convinced him to take her to the flower shop just outside of town, and you’d been behind the counter to greet them.

Robin recognized you, and she chatted your ear off while you helped her pick a bouquet with the sweetest smile Steve had ever seen and he felt like an absolute moron for never having noticed you before at school. But he noticed you then.

He’d forced Robin to wait for him in the car while he stayed back, bought you your own bouquet of flowers from the store as if you weren’t the one who’d made them, and asked you on a date. Steve fumbled the whole way through, pricking himself with a rose thorn and cussing mid-sentence, but you still said yes.

You’ve been together ever since, and Steve feels incredibly lucky for it. Lucky for how kind you are, how well you fit in with his friends, how much the kids (Max, especially, though he won’t call her out on it) like you. Lucky for being allowed to grab your hand, to kiss you whenever he wants.

And, on the nights you stay over that grow more frequent with each month, lucky to have you fill the space in the Harrington home that usually feels so cold and empty.

So, maybe the holidays make him extra sentimental, maybe he cares a little too much about making sure it’s the best damn Christmas you could have. Maybe, for once, he’s actually looking forward to it all.

Robin startles him into the present — leaning on the counter at Family Video — with a stiff poke to the cheek. “Dude, I can literally tell you’re thinking about her by the look on your face. It’s kinda gross.”

He scoffs at her, even though he probably was making a face. “Sounds like jealousy to me, Buckley.”

“Shut up, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know each other! I deserve compensation.”

Steve hangs his head dramatically. Robin is never letting that go. Ever.

“My friendship isn’t enough for you?” Steve says, placing a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”

“You annoy me,” she says, flicking his arm.

“Ow- whatever. You’ll be free of me in like five minutes.”

Steve checks his watch just to be sure. Robin’s closing by herself today, and while Steve would normally just stay and bother her anyways, he’s got plans that involve you and takeout and napping together on his couch.

As if the thought conjures it, you walk through the door, the bell jingling cheerily above your head, Steve’s car keys dangling from your fingertips. (Yes, he lets you drive the BMW.)

“Thank God,” Robin says when she sees it’s you. “Please get rid of him, he’s getting on my nerves.”

You smile and walk towards Steve, who immediately tosses an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in close, stamping a kiss to the side of your head.

You turn your head to the side and look at him, “What did you do?”

Steve gasps, “Me? Honey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

You send him a wink, and Steve grins. He fucking loves having you with him, being able to speak without speaking. Your hand grabbing his and squeezing says I missed you, his squeezing back says me too.

“Okay, please remove your public displays of affection from the store and leave me alone with the overplayed Christmas song radio station, thank you.” Robin announces.

“Don’t miss me too much, Robs. I know it’ll be tough,” Steve says, guiding you forward.

“Good to see you, Robin!” you wave on your way out.

“You too!” And just before the door closes behind you, Robin’s voice rings out; “You’re my favourite half of the relationship!”

Your smile widens. Steve is the best thing that’s happened to you, and his friends becoming yours is one of the greatest bonuses you could ask for. It’s like his life made room for you as simply as the ocean’s tide pulls in and out. Gentle and certain.

He catches the keys when you toss them to him, and Steve’s mood just seems to lift and lift on the drive back to his place with you in the passenger seat, Christmas lights lining the streets glowing on your cheeks.

Yeah, he thinks, this Christmas is going to be perfect.

-

1.

That weekend Steve calls you and tells you to be ready by noon and to dress warmly. He doesn’t tell you much else besides his usual ‘see you soon, honey’ or ‘miss you’ murmured sweetly through the phone.

As instructed, you’re dressed in a pair of jeans and one of your favourite knitted sweaters, your brown leather jacket overtop and socked feet stuffed into your Doc Martens. Though you feel plenty warm, Steve will probably fuss over you and hold you close for body heat anyways. And, well, you’d never be opposed to that.

Steve’s BMW rolls into your driveway exactly one minute past twelve, and by the time you walk outside to meet him, he’s already standing on the passenger side of the car waiting to open the door for you.

“Always a gentleman,” you say, kissing him quickly on the cheek.

You slide into the seat that’s become yours for the most part, and Steve ducks down to kiss you properly on the mouth before pulling back, “Mm maybe not always.”

He closes your door and you laugh lightly, your face a little warm even though he’s been your boyfriend for months now. You don’t think you’ll ever be unaffected by Steve Harrington’s charm, ever be used to it being aimed at you.

Of course, you knew of him in school, but knowing the real thing, the kind, caring boy who’d been buried under King Steve back then, is probably the greatest gift you’ve ever had.

Steve drives with one hand just above your knee, his thumb running back and forth over the stitching in your jeans. Still, he doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you, his only hint was to “pay attention to the radio station.”

It’s playing Christmas music. Like that narrows things down a whole bunch.

You chat the entire way. Steve asks you how the flower shop is doing (“Poinsettias are flying off the shelves”), you ask him who he got for the group’s secret Santa this year (“Max. I’m going to need your assistance”). It’s so easy to talk to him, to laugh and joke and not have to worry about what you say or how you come off.

You never knew being with someone could be so easy until Steve.

Eventually, he pulls into the long driveway of a farm. A Christmas tree farm, to be exact, if the wooden arch you drive through is to be trusted.

“What are you planning, Harrington?”

He shrugs, his hand squeezing your knee, “Thought we could pick out a tree together. Put it up at the house. My parents aren’t gonna be around — shocker, I know — I figured we’d do it together. Make it our own.”

Steve pats your leg before letting it go and putting the car in park, his palms dragging over his thighs like he’s suddenly nervous.

“Our first Christmas tree,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, a smile creeping onto your face. He really is sweet. “I love it. Let’s go adopt a tree, Stevie.”

He flashes you a smile before getting out and jogging around the hood to open your door for you. You’ve learned to wait for him to do it since you’ve been together. The last time you tried to open your own door he made you close it again just so he could be the one to open it.

Before, you’d never really cared about that sort of thing, but Steve has single-handedly raised your expectations.

He grabs your hand and leads you towards the classic red and white barn, following the signs painted simply with a tree and an arrow pointing you in that direction.

When you turn the corner and see the selection of trees, however, Steve pauses.

There are maybe seven trees left, none of which are very impressive upon first glance. Their branches are skinny and the pine needles leave a lot of space to see through them. It’s safe to say these aren’t the Christmas trees Steve was hoping to surprise you with.

He was sure there’d be something better left, at least. And he’d been wrong. Minus a point on that perfect Christmas, he supposes.

Still, he walks you to the selection, the farm’s employee greeting the two of you as you walk up; “Hey y’all. Good afternoon!”

“Hey man,” Steve starts, “you wouldn’t happen to have any more trees left, would you?”

“Sorry folks, this is all we’ve got. Most people like to get ‘em early.”

Steve’s hope dwindles, and you can see him deflate a little bit.

You, however, don’t mind one bit. You tug on his arm to get his attention, and Steve turns to look at you, brown eyes shining like honey in the sunlight. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “Even the little trees need homes, right?”

He shakes his head with a small smile. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you tend to talk about plants as if they have feelings. You do it when you tell him about the flowers you sell, too.

“Right as usual, honey,” he decides. “Pick your favorites.”

So, you wind up with two small Christmas trees rather than one full one, and there’s a small victory in it when you and Steve strap them both to the top of the BMW without too much of a struggle.

Another victory when you sing along to ‘Last Christmas’ and hold out your fist as if there’s a microphone in your grip to get him to join you. Admittedly, it isn’t a very good rendition, but Steve loves it all the same.

You have a way of turning things around for him, even without knowing it.

When you get back to Steve’s, he brings both of the trees inside and sets them up before bringing down the bins of ornaments and lights from the attic. He only shouted once when a spider crawled over his hand.

Having two trees makes it easy to turn decorating into a lighthearted competition. You both claim one as your own and decorate them with string lights and tinsel and ornaments. Steve’s mom would probably have an aneurysm seeing them used so haphazardly.

Though by the end, your tree is definitely prettier, Steve still feels like he’s won something as you lean your back against his chest and his arms cross over your own, keeping you there.

As a kid, he wasn’t even allowed to do the decorating. Mrs. Harrington had to make everything look picture perfect, and Steve’s hands didn’t help with that. Not according to her.

Today couldn’t feel more different from those memories of his childhood.

“Yours is better,” he tells you, chin perched on your shoulder, his voice low in your ear.

Objectively, it probably is better (your prior experience with arranging plants was an advantage), but you don’t actually care about that.

Today felt like a little glimpse into the future you and Steve could have. It’s easy to picture it: your own apartment, buying decorations you both actually like, setting it all up together every year.

“I think they’re both brilliant,” you say.

And while today wasn’t what he was picturing, wasn’t what he’d hoped for with his ideal holiday in mind, Steve finds that he can certainly live with that. Your adorable little clap when you’d finished decorating was enough to cement it.

It’s only one thing. He’s got plenty of chances to be perfect later, he guesses.

Steve dips his head and kisses the top of your shoulder over your sweater.

-

2.

You stay over at Steve’s that weekend. You’re both off work, and you find yourself spending your days (and nights) off with Steve more and more.

In the morning, you blink your eyes open slowly, naturally. No alarm set, your boy wrapped around you. It’s how you’ll spend every morning someday.

The sunlight sneaks through a crack in the curtains, cutting a line across Steve’s blue bedding. You squint at it, shifting onto your back gently. Steve’s arm remains slung over your waist as you move, his knee against your leg. You roll your head to the side to look at him, a smile creeping over your mouth at the way his cheek is smushed into the pillow, his lips pouting and hair a mess over his forehead.

Mornings have easily become your favorite time to spend with Steve. He’s cuddling you in some way every single time without fail, even when he wakes up. His voice is all low and gravelly from sleep and it feels like an honor to get to be the one to hear it like that. Usually, you spend an hour in bed with him after waking up. Laying together, talking, kissing. Sometimes (often) more.

You’d stay put right now if you didn’t have to pee so bad.

Slipping out of bed without Steve noticing proves a challenge, his arm tightens over you in his sleep, his brows scrunching. You whisper a soft “I’ll be right back.” He mumbles something incoherent, but his arm relaxes and you’re able to sneak away.

On your way back from the bathroom, you pause and take a peek out the window. You gasp happily at what you see: snow. A bright, white layer blanketing the ground sparkling in the sunlight.

You turn back to the bed and let yourself fall to it with a bounce, earning another grumbled protest from Steve, but there’s no way you’re going back to sleep now. You trail a hand up his arm to his shoulder, giving it a small shake, “Stevie, wake up.”

“Hm?” his eyes scrunch before opening. “What happened, honey?”

“It snowed!”

“Yeah?” he huffs a laugh at your excitement, his hand searching for yours in the sheets.

“Yeah, and it’s so pretty. We should go out before it melts.”

“It’s winter, sweetheart. Not gonna melt that fast.”

“Steve.”

“Okay, okay,” his hand leaves yours in favor of wrapping itself around you again, and he uses it to tug you close again. “Just five more minutes.”

His nose is pressed to the top of your head, and he breathes you in, smiling to himself. Mornings are Steve’s favorite, too. Only when they’re spent with you.

Secretly, he’s also happy about the snow. He was hoping mother nature would be on his side so that he could check yet another holiday item off his list with you. Hopefully one that will turn out nicer than the tiny trees you’d ended up with.

It’s definitely more than five minutes by the time you get Steve to get up and out of bed. You attempt to get him outside right away. He stops you with a: “No snow-related activities on an empty stomach!”

So, it’s a rushed breakfast of bagels and coffee provided by Steve, and then you’re gearing up and heading into the back yard.

The cold bites at your cheeks, and the tip of Steve’s nose is pink within minutes, but you love it.

There’s a snowman built together, snow angels made that get ruined when Steve rolls himself on top of you and steals a kiss or five. Naturally, all there is left to do is have a snowball fight.

You start it when you’re still on the ground, a hand sneaking into the snow to grab a handful and pressing it to the back of Steve’s head. He gasps, and you take the opportunity to push him to the side and get up.

“No fair!” he calls. “I was distracted and you went for the hair.”

“Your fault for not wearing a hat, babe,” you laugh.

“Oh, you won’t be laughing for long, honey. You’re in for it.”

And just like that, you’re running around like kids in a schoolyard, hiding behind trees, slugging snowballs at each other and cheering when you manage to not miss.

Steve silently thanks mother nature or the universe or whatever made it snow for the wide smile on your face, your eyes shining with mirth.

At one point, you’re suddenly distracted by something in the trees, and the snowball is out of Steve’s hand before he sees you start to look towards him again.

It hits you square in the face.

A quick “Ow” comes out of your mouth, though it really doesn’t hurt that bad. Your first reaction is just to let it slip, but Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“Shit, honey.” He runs over to you and cups your face in his hands, his mittens soft against your skin as he brushes the snow from your face. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to get you in the face.”

Minus another point, for sure. Perfect Christmas: -2.

“I know, don’t worry,” you tell him, because he clearly is worrying.

“You okay?” he checks. He literally winces when you sniffle, frowns when he sees the way your eyes water. “Honey. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, Steve, I’m fine,” you reach up and grab his wrists, squeezing them over his jacket. “I’m only crying ‘cause it got my nose. It doesn’t actually hurt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you assure him. “Didn’t you used to play sports in school? Thought athletes had better aim.”

“I was a swimmer, baby. No projectiles involved.” He smiles softly when you laugh, but he can’t stop himself from asking one more time. “You’re really not hurt?”

“It’s just a bit of snow, Stevie.”

His eyes run over your face anyway before he nods. Then, he dips forwards and lightly kisses your cheek, the other, the tip of your nose, and your mouth.

“Well now I’m certainly all better,” you say against his lips.

Steve pulls back but doesn’t go far. “I think this snowball fight is over.”

“Buzzkill,” you tease.

He bends down and picks up a handful of snow before shoving it in his own face.

“Steve!” you laugh.

“There, now we’re even,” he says, snowflakes clinging to his lashes.

You let him lead you inside after that, his arm draping over your shoulders, yours hugging his middle as you walk across the yard.

Once you’ve both shed your layers of coats and boots and hats and mittens, Steve takes you upstairs and runs you a bath to warm you up. He apologizes another two times when he looks at your face for too long, and you have to kiss him to stop him uttering another ‘sorry.’

Hell, if it’s gonna make him this sweet on you, you’d probably take a snowball to the face any day.

Eventually, when the bathtub is full, a layer of bubbles over the surface, you coax Steve into joining you. He leans against the side with you between his knees, back settling into its home against his chest, his chin resting atop your head.

Steve runs his hands over your shoulders, presses kisses into your hair. All along he’s reminding himself that the next thing will go right. He won’t be throwing anything, at least.

-

3.

The next weekend Steve calls you again. He asks you to be ready in the evening this time, but still keeps things vague other than the fact that you’ll be outside and need thick socks.

You have a pretty good idea of what he has in mind, but he’d called it a ‘redemption date’ over the phone and even though you truly don’t think he has anything to redeem himself for, you don’t want to spoil his plans, so you play along.

He comes to the front door when he picks you up this time, knocking gently as if you hadn’t been waiting for him by the windows.

“Hi, honey,” he drops a quick kiss to your lips, “had to come and approve your outfit. Don’t want you getting cold and stealing my jacket again.”

He’s lying, really. Steve fucking loves draping his own jacket over your shoulders and seeing you pull it tighter around you. When that happens, he braves the cold, but he figures that probably won’t be smart for spending hours outside.

“Aww, but yours is so much warmer than mine,” you pout jokingly.

Steve simply grabs your thickest jacket from a hook by the door and holds it out for you to slip your arms into.

As suspected, he drives you to a skating rink. He chose one a town over from Hawkins, where they have twinkle lights strung above the rink and rainbow Christmas lights lining the boards. Steve smiles when you gasp lightly in delight at the sight of it. The brightness cutting through the already dark night sky.

Steve guides you over to the skate rental booth first, bumping his hip into yours when you attempt to pay for the rentals. “As if. My idea, my wallet.”

“You don’t even let me pay when it’s my idea, either.”

“Well, that’s just chivalry, babe.”

You roll your eyes at him and thank the man behind the booth when he hands you both your skates. As you walk towards the lockers and cubbies set up nearby, you lean up and kiss Steve’s cheek, his light stubble scratching your lips.

“Thank you for this,” you say.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he tells you. “Though I should warn you that I’m not very good at this.”

“What? You, not good at something? Please.”

“No, seriously. I’m like bambi on ice.”

You laugh and shove his shoulder weakly, “Don’t worry. I’m probably even worse.”

Steve grins. So far, so good. This one will be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be considering his skating skills.

You sit on one of the benches and Steve puts both of your shoes in one of the cubbies. He ties his own skates first before kneeling in front of you to help you with yours. He knows how to tie them, at the very least.

He helps you slip your feet into the skates first, then tightens the laces on one before peering up at you and checking, “Feel okay? Not too tight?”

“It’s good, Steve. I feel like Cinderella.”

“A perfect fit! She must be the one!”

“Dork.”

“That’s prince dork to you.”

Steve finishes up with your skates, squeezing your ankle before setting your foot down and standing back up.

On the ice, neither of you are very graceful. You hold onto the boards most of the time, and Steve stumbles and nearly falls every few strides, but you’re laughing and having fun, so who cares?

So what if you get lapped by multiple people on the rink, including children? So what if you get some side eyes for being too slow or in the way? Neither of you can bring yourselves to be bothered.

Best of all, Steve keeps a hold on your hand the entire time. He literally saves you from falling with his grip on your hand squeezing and pulling you up straight.

However, your hands being clasped also means that, inevitably, when one of you goes down, you both do.

It happens after a decent amount of laps; your toe pick catches on a dip in the ice and it’s all it takes for you to lose your balance. Steve somehow twists himself to catch the brunt of your fall.

He expected that to come with some pain, a couple bruises, maybe. Instead, his wrist twists painfully against the ice as he falls, as if he’d tried to catch himself with it, and he can’t help the hiss of pain that comes out when he lands.

“You okay, honey?” he asks you.

“Of course I am. I landed on you, Stevie. Are you okay?”

He tests his wrist out by flexing it, wiggling his fingers, and he tries to hide it but he winces when he does, a sharp pain shooting up his arm. “M’fine.”

“Bullshit, I saw that wince, Harrington.” You manage to get back up on your feet and hold out a hand for him to grab, “Up, I’m taking you to the ER.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

“Steve.”

“Baby.”

“Come on, you don’t want to make it worse, do you?” you urge him. “Plus, I’ll only keep worrying and bugging you about it until you let me take you to the doctor. Your wrist is already swelling, babe.”

Mostly because he doesn’t like the thought of you worrying about him, Steve agrees.

When both of your skates are off (your doing, this time) and given back to the booth, you reach into Steve’s coat pocket and grab the keys to the BMW. He doesn’t protest, and that alone tells you he must be hurting more than he’s letting on. You even manage to open your own door for once.

Steve’s quiet on the drive to the hospital, his hand resting limply on his leg. His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezing shut every so often when a burst of pain comes. You do your best to avoid any pot holes or bumps along the way.

Once there, you make him sit in one of the waiting room chairs, “I’ll get the check in forms and everything. Stay put, yeah?”

“Your wish is my command,” he says, trying to joke. His voice wobbles a tiny bit, though.

It’s at least an hour of waiting before someone can see him (and that’s including your many pesterings to the front desk). You don’t mean to be a bother, but you’ve never seen Steve injured in any serious capacity, and it’s messing with your head.

He took the weight of that fall to make sure you wouldn’t get hurt. The way he pays attention to things like that is one of the many reasons you love him.

You love him. You haven’t said the words to each other yet, but you’ve felt them for a long time already. It’s hard not to love Steve Harrington.

Finally, the doctor takes him back, and you follow. After an x-ray and some prodding, he determines that it’s a sprained wrist and that he should keep it wrapped for a few weeks to make sure it heals. They give him a prescription for some mild painkillers, too, for the first couple of days.

You breathe a sigh of relief knowing it isn’t broken, but Steve’s shoulders are still slumped.

He’s in pain, sure, his wrist now wrapped up in a tensor bandage, but really he feels defeated at messing yet another thing up. Third strike.

Steve lets you guide him back to the car and drive back to his place. You’ve decided you’re staying the night to take care of him, and as much as he hates looking weak or feeling useless, he’s glad to have you around.

You dote on him back at home, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer after making sure he’s settled on the couch, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, bringing him meds and water.

“Honey, it’s just a sprain. Please stop fussing and sit with me.”

His brown eyes shine a little, and you could never say no to him when he looks at you like that.

You sit beside him and he drops his head to your shoulder, your hand coming up to play with the strands at the nape of his neck, scratching his scalp gently. His uninjured hand rests on your thigh and squeezes.

“Best painkiller ever,” he says.

-

4.

Steve has convinced himself that nothing could possibly go wrong this time around.

His plans for today involve staying at home, just you and him, no outside forces to deal with or avoid. So much less potential for failure. That’s what he thinks, at least.

Steve knows nearly every piece of you, so, obviously he knows you like to bake. You’d made him a cake for his birthday, and every so often you bring him other treats from home. Naturally, that meant that there was no way he was leaving out Christmas baking.

He’d considered doing gingerbread houses, and then remembered that the last time he tried that in a competition with the kids, his house was nothing more than a messy pile of gingerbread slabs. One with a bite taken out of it.

So, considering his past failures this holiday season, he’d settled on something that he thinks — hopes — is really hard to mess up: sugar cookies.

His mother’s collection of cookbooks had never been used for more than decoration until now. Steve searched through them until he found a recipe, wrote down the ingredients, and bought them at the grocery store to make sure he had everything.

In school, he never did much studying, but he reread the hell out of that recipe in order to get at least this one thing right.

The tensor bandage is still wrapped around his wrist, which is fucking annoying, really. He has to adjust it every day, and it’s hard to do with a single hand. He much prefers when you do it for him, sealing it with a featherlight kiss.

Worse, the thing still hurts, and you refused to let him drive and put more strain on it than necessary, so you took the bus and walked the rest of the way to his house.

He’s got all of the ingredients and tools laid out on the island when you ring the doorbell. “Hurry up, Harrington, it’s freezing!”

Hurry he does. He lets you in and helps you unwrap yourself from your bundle of a scarf and hat and mittens and jacket. Steve dips in to kiss your cheek, your skin cold against his lips. “Wouldn’t have to freeze if you let me come get you.”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself for no reason, I’m fine,” you grab his uninjured hand and kiss the pads of his fingers, “and I like these hands.”

He smiles at your words, smug, “Yeah, I know you do, honey.”

You shake your head at him, but you’re smiling all the same, “I take it back. Your ego is getting too big.”

“Nooo, it’s just the right size,” he winks.

“Don’t you have plans, Steve?” you ask, changing the subject. “Getting a little off track, aren’t we?”

“Later, then,” he says, taking your hand with his good one and leading you to the kitchen.

You pause at the entryway of the kitchen, scanning over the things on the island, two aprons Steve must’ve dug up from somewhere hanging from the knobs of the cabinets.

“Tada,” he says, “we’re making cookies.”

“This might be my favourite one yet, Stevie.” You walk over and grab one of the aprons, leaving the other (a pink floral number) for Steve. “I’m in charge, though.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says, taking the other apron without a complaint. “This is your kitchen today, chef.”

“Mm. That has a nice ring to it.”

“Chef honey,” he says, planting a kiss where your neck meets your shoulder, breath warm even through your shirt.

You get started after that. Predictably, you make a mess with flour on the island and mixing bowls strewn about the surface. You get distracted with a bit of a flour war somewhere in there, Steve smudging it onto your cheek, you onto the tip of his nose.

When it’s time to roll out the dough and cut out the cookies, Steve grabs a handful of cookie cutters from one of the drawers, setting them onto the counter with a small clang. They’re all holiday themed. Candy canes and snowmen and Christmas trees.

“Someone’s prepared,” you say, bumping your hip against his.

“I run a serious establishment here, baby.”

“I thought I was in charge.”

Soon enough, after sneaking bites of raw cookie dough and cutting out as many cookies as you could manage, they’re placed into the oven, the timer set.

You end up in the living room, a random channel playing on the TV while the cookies bake. It starts innocently enough, just sitting next to each other, shoulders and thighs pressed together.

Then, Steve’s good hand wanders, starting above your knee and moving up and up until he’s squeezing the top of your thigh, tracing patterns with his thumb. When he speaks a husky, “Come closer?” how could you ever say no?

So, somehow, you’ve ended up straddling Steve’s lap, his injured hand resting loosely on your waist, the other pressed in between your shoulder blades to keep you close. Yours are in his hair, running through the strands, tugging even.

It grows heated fast, and all of a sudden you’re making out like a pair of teenagers, Steve urging you to press further down in his lap, to writhe there while his mouth works yours until it’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

The room feels warmer, Steve’s jeans tighter over his lap, your chest bumping against his, hearts racing. Even just kissing him feels better than anything you’ve ever had in the past.

He kisses you like he’s starved everytime, sometimes a ravenous hunger, like now, or, when he’s gentler, something tender and soft. A sweet tooth.

The cookies are long forgotten. The timer sounds and nobody hears it. You would keep going forever, if you could. But then there’s the smell that hits your nostrils. The smell of something burning.

“Steve?” you say against his mouth.

“Uh-huh?” he breathes.

“Do you smell that?”

He pulls back, and it’s immediately after you say the words that the alarm goes off, piercing through the air, killing the mood, much to your dismay. Even more to Steve’s.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You’re both rushing to the kitchen then. You, fumbling off his lap, him beating you to the kitchen and frantically taking the baking sheet out of the oven and turning the thing off. You grab a towel from the counter and start fanning beneath the alarm to get it to go off, and when the cookies are dealt with, Steve joins the efforts.

Eventually the thing stops beeping, and you both rest your arms. The room still looks a little cloudy, the cookies black at the edges.

Steve doesn’t say anything, only rests his elbows on the island and slumps his head, defeated.

He’s so frustrated with himself. Not for kissing you. No, he could never be mad at that, but at the outcome of his final attempt at a holiday date going south again.

You frown at him, walking over and placing a hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “Steve? You okay?”

“I just- I messed it up again.”

“Hey, I’m as much to blame as you are. It takes two to tango, as they say.”

He huffs a weak laugh, picking his head up and twisting to look at you. Your pretty face, eyes nothing but kind. Fuck, he loves you, and he just wanted to show you that. To make Christmas as magical as it's supposed to be.

“I really wanted it to go well, you know?”

You realize then that he’s not only talking about today. That he’s been putting this pressure on himself all month to make plans and something has happened every time. You don’t blame him for that, if anything, it makes your heart ache with adoration.

“Steve, it doesn’t matter to me. Things happen, it’s okay,” you kiss his bicep lightly. “I’d rather things go a bit wrong with you than to have them go right with someone else. You are the best part.”

“I-” love you, he almost says. But he doesn’t want the first time to be like this, in a room that still stinks. “You’re the best part for me too, honey.”

You decide that next time, it’s your turn to do something for him.

-

+1

Steve comes home from work on Christmas Eve, eyes tired and feet hurting despite having worn relatively comfortable shoes today.

He’d tried to get the day off, tried to be able to spend it with you in bed for hours and hours and not getting up until the afternoon. Keith had other plans for him.

He even tried to dramatize his wrist injury. Still, he was forced to go in.

Walking up the driveway, Steve sees the glow of lights inside filtering through the curtains. He’s fairly certain he hadn’t left any on, but he also knows he’s often wrong about these things, so he shrugs it off and goes inside.

There’s noise coming from the living room. Crackling of the fireplace that he barely ever uses, music playing quietly, and then he hears you humming along.

“Honey?”

“Yup, it’s me!”

You know where the spare key is, Steve’s the one who told you the information and encouraged you to use it, but you’ve often been too nervous to do so. Not today, it seems.

While Steve was at work, you’d set up your plan for him.

He follows the sound of your voice without much of a thought, a moth drawn to a flame. When he turns into the living room, he stills.

There are strings of warm white Christmas lights hung about, the fireplace is actually housing a fire, and in front of it is a fort made up of red and green and white blankets and pillows. Some plaid, some with snowflakes, all Christmas themed.

“Did you do all of this?” he asks, walking slowly to where you stand by the fort.

“Figured it was my turn to organize a date, don’t you think?”

“Baby. This is all really sweet, but wha-”

You cut him off, “Uh-uh. Let me explain.” You reach for Steve’s hands, and he meets you in the middle willingly. Suddenly nervous, you shift your weight on your feet. “I thought we could do presents a little early.”

His brows scrunch, “But Christmas is tomorrow.”

“Please?” you ask, squeezing his hands once.

And, really, Steve would never say no to you. Especially not when you’re saying ‘please’ all sweet and delicate like that.

“Okay,” he says. “Yours is in my room. I’ll go grab it. And change; I smell like Family Video.”

“‘Kay, Stevie.”

You kiss his cheek before he goes for good measure.

Steve is confused the entire time, wondering what it could be that you’re up to, but he does as he said he would. You’d been wearing a set of pyjamas (one he loves on you; a soft baby blue pair of shorts with a matching sweater), so he goes for one of his pairs of plaid pants and a plain t shirt before grabbing your messily wrapped gift bag from where he’d hidden it under his bed.

Back in the living room, he finds you now settled on the ground of the fort, which you’d lined with fuzzy blankets and the biggest of the pillows. His gift is sat beside you, a gift box wrapped in a lovely bow. Your skills of wrapping bouquets are transferable, he’s learned.

He joins you, sitting across from you, but close enough that your legs tangle and knees bump.

“You go first,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he scratches the back of his neck, handing you the gift bag. “Let me explain it before you say anything.”

That grabs your attention, but your plans aren’t about his present to you, really, and you know you’ll love it no matter what because Steve knows you better than anyone.

You lift out tissue paper first, uncovering multiple different things inside the bag, also wrapped. It pieces together as you go. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, your entire skincare routine, a couple of pyjama and underwear sets.

“It’s so you don’t have to bring an overnight bag every time you stay over now. I, um, cleared out a couple of drawers in my dresser and the bathroom.”

“Steve,” you look at him, heart squeezing. It’s so thoughtful, so him, and you surge forward you wrap your arms around his neck and breathe into his skin, “I love it. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Perfect.

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you sit back into your spot. “You know I hate carrying things.”

“I never let you carry anything, honey.”

“Exactly,” you nod. Now, you hold out his gift for him to take, “Your turn.”

You watch Steve’s hands as he tugs the bow undone, then lifts the lid of the box.

Nestled inside are four delicate ornaments. A Christmas tree, a snowman, an ice skate, and a plate of cookies. One for every date he’d planned for you.

Steve frowns at them, not because he doesn’t like them, but because he doesn’t quite understand where you’re going with this.

“I thought it was time we started collecting our own ornaments. For our place, one day,” you tell him.

“They’re lovely, but honey you- you really wanna remember these things?“ he shakes his head, more at himself than you. “I messed ‘em all up.”

“There’s one more thing in there,” you say quietly.

The thing you're nervous about. A thing you’ve never said out loud before.

Steve finds it beneath one of the ornaments, a small piece of paper folded up. When he opens that, his heart stutters in his chest. Written in your handwriting are three words: I love you.

He blinks away from the paper to look at you, though his thumb continues to trace the words absentmindedly. “Honey-”

“I love you, Steve. Okay?” You shift closer, kneeling at his side, your hands coming up to frame his jaw, your fingers kind against his skin. “I don’t care that things didn’t go how you planned. I mean, I would rather you didn’t require an ER visit, but the point is that I don’t need things to be perfect. And I know you’ve been hard on yourself trying to make them so.”

He lets go of the paper and reaches up to grasp your wrists, his thumb finding your racing pulse. His uninjured hand holds on tighter than the other.

“Thank you for trying for me,” you continue, “for caring. But no matter what happens, things are perfect for me. Because I get to do them with you. Got that, Harrington? You’re perfect, and I love you, and-”

He shuts you up with a kiss. It’s a simple but firm press of his lips against yours, but it says enough.

“I fucking love you too, honey,” he says, his forehead against yours, lips only a breath apart. “You saying all of that it means — you mean a lot to me.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

“I know you did,” he nods. Steve pulls back the tiniest bit to be able to see your face fully, his sweet brown eyes locked on yours. “I wanted our first Christmas to be perfect, and I didn’t wanna let you down, but you’re right. They were perfect, because you’re here. And I love you for bein’ here.”

“As long as you’ll have me,” you say. You push his hair off his forehead before letting go of his face and sitting back, “Why don’t you give those ornaments a try?”

“On those trees?” he asks, eyebrows lifted, voice joking.

“Steve.”

”Okay, okay.”

He picks up the skate first. Surprising, considering that one had ended in a physical injury for him, but you say nothing and watch him walk over to your little trees by the window. You join him, sitting on the arm of the couch nearby while he scans over the tree.

“Pick a spot, handsome,” you encourage. “There’s really no wrong answer here.”

He goes to hang the first ornament, hand wavering before setting on a branch.

“Well, maybe not-” Steve tackles you onto the couch before you can finish. You dissolve into giggles as he pokes at your ribs, his head on your chest.

Steve’s done keeping score.

Perfect Christmas. That’s it.

⁺̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇⊛̇̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇

thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed please please consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog and letting me know what you thought! it would mean a bunch of<3

[captain-hawks]

OVERRATED // matsukawa issei x f!reader

You’re convinced that getting fingered is overrated. Your roommate shows you otherwise, since you’ve clearly never been with someone who knows what they’re doing.

2.6k — 18+, roommates to lovers, fingering, mattsun and those goddamn hands

A woman sits in a dark booth in the back corner of a restaurant, lower lip tucked between her teeth, fingers digging into the edges of her seat as she tries not to make it obvious that the man beside her has his hand up her skirt. 

“There’s no way it feels that good for her,” you scoff, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as you stare judgmentally at the television screen. 

Matsukawa looks from you, to the movie, and back again. “Getting fingered?”

Your eyes flit over to where your roommate’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, one brow raised as he lifts a can of soda to his lips.

The woman on the television screen moans.

(This isn’t porn, for the record.)

“Yeah? I mean this is like, false advertising.”

Matsukawa blinks. “I literally do not think I’ve ever met a girl who doesn’t enjoy being fingered.”

A sudden surge of heat licks at the back of your neck at his words, and you force your attention back to the screen. “And just how many girls have you—actually, you know what. Nevermind. Don’t answer that.”

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, and the two of you are silent for another five minutes or so before he speaks up again.

“So you’ve never had an orgasm just from being fingered then.”

Matsukawa says it bluntly, plainly, like he’s completely unbothered by the prospect of casually discussing sex with you on your couch on a Friday night. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis.

He’s not looking at you when he replies, “That’s a shame.”

—

Your phone lights up with a notification for a text message from Matsukawa on Sunday morning while you’re still in bed. You’re pretty sure he left the apartment early to get breakfast with Hanamaki, and he’s yet to return.

Mattsun: can you text makki and tell him you think getting fingered is overrated Mattsun: he doesn’t believe me >>: …. >>: so like >>: sometimes makki can just maybe not know things Mattsun: you spent twenty minutes last week telling both of us about your last date who couldn’t get it up Mattsun: in detail Mattsun: with a donut and >>: OKAY YEAH YEAH Mattsun: :)

Collapsing back against your pillows, you groan before opening your text thread with Hanamaki.

>>: getting fingered is overrated, makki Hanamaki: wow he wasn’t kidding  Hanamaki: wild >>: now can you make sure he brings me home a coffee Hanamaki: k Hanamaki: u act like he would ever forget something u asked for >>: what’s that supposed to mean Hanamaki: also though Hanamaki: when are u guys going to fuck

You drop your phone on the mattress, looking around the room as if Hanamaki himself is sitting in the corner snickering at you. 

>>: i’m sorry what >>: who >>: how did we get here Hanamaki: at least ask HIM to finger u  Hanamaki: because this shit is DEpressing >>: i’m blocking your number Hanamaki: u’ve seen his hands right >>: bye Hanamaki: cool i’ll email u xo

Groaning, you bury your face under the covers. 

—

“I had an idea. A really dumb idea, actually. It’s kind of Makki’s fault, but—“

Matsukawa looks up from where he’s pouring a glass of water, brows furrowing. 

“—and honestly just feel free to say no and forget this ever happened—“

He blinks, putting down the cup and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms as he waits for you to fumble through this never ending lead up to a question that’s been eating at the back of your mind all week. 

“Can you uh…could you maybe…”

Matsukawa moves a little closer to you, leaning in, as if his proximity is going to help encourage you to drag the rest of the words from where they’re clinging to the backs of your teeth. 

“CouldyoufingermeinaplatonicwaysoIcanfigureoutifI’mjustbrokenorsomething.”

You say it all in a single breath. 

Matsukawa chokes. 

“You think you’re the problem?” he asks, taken aback. 

“I mean, yeah? If it’s supposed to feel good, and it doesn’t for me, then maybe I—“

“Go put on something that makes you feel sexy,” he interrupts you calmly.

Your heart lurches in your chest. “What? Right now!?” you squeak. 

Matsukawa walks over to the kitchen sink, glancing back at you over his shoulder as he slowly presses down the pump on the foaming soap and thoroughly washes his hands. 

You’re not sure how or why that sight alone already leaves your throat dry. 

He nods. “Put on whatever makes you feel good. It doesn’t matter what it looks like. We’re not going anywhere. And then go in my bedroom, lay down in my bed, and text me when you’re ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself on your stomach in Matsukawa’s bed, legs idly kicking in the air to expel the nervous energy simmering in your gut. 

And while it was borderline mortifying trying to pick out something “sexy” to wear before tiptoeing into his bedroom, you realize why he said it now as you hit send on a message that simply reads “Ready.”

Because now that you’re lying here in a short, pleated skirt that’s lived in the back of your closet for years, thigh high socks, a delicate, lacy bralette that you’ve yet to find a reason to wear, and a thong with a little pink bow nestled just above your ass—

Now that you’re wrapped up in the familiar scent of Matsukawa’s body wash in a way that’s far more intimate than stealing his clothes or falling asleep on his shoulder on the couch—

Now that you know he’s seconds away from seeing you like this in his bed, from slipping his fingers beneath your skirt—

Well, you can already feel it—the slick, sticky arousal soaking its way into your panties. 

“Wow,” Matsukawa murmurs as he walks in, striding over to the foot of the bed. “Nice socks.”

You go to roll over, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, and he shakes his head. “No, stay like that.”

Turning back onto your stomach, you push your phone aside, hugging one of his pillows to your face—though you almost regret it when you subsequently end up burying your nose in the warm and admittedly dizzying scent of him once more. Meanwhile, you feel the mattress dip as he climbs atop it. 

“If at any point you want me to stop, let me know, okay?”

You nod, and he slowly starts to run his hands up the backs of your thighs, stopping just shy of the hem of your skirt. 

“Didn’t you wear this to that costume party at Oikawa’s a few years ago?”

The first and only time you wore it, given how its meager length leaves almost nothing to the imagination. 

“Yeah,” you laugh, though it’s a little weak, given the way he’s now rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs against the inside of your thighs. 

Unintentionally, you spread your legs somewhat for him at the sensation, toes curling. He chuckles quietly. 

Matsukawa’s fingers finally slide up your skirt, his large hands resting on either of your ass cheeks. You try to fight the sudden urge to arch your spine into his touch. 

“Is this still okay?”

You nod, and he squeezes. 

A moan slips out past your lips before you can stop it. 

“Oh,” you breathe out, fingers grasping his silky dark green sheets for purchase as he begins to massage the globes of your ass. 

“Does that feel good?” he asks. 

He squeezes a little harder, and there’s a euphoric release of tension that seeps through your muscles.

“So good,” you mumble, face pressed sideways against his pillow. Which you may or may not have drooled on. 

Cool air licks and settles against your backside as Matsukawa grasps your skirt and pushes it out of the way. Your thong tightens against your skin with tension for a moment, snapping back lightly once he lets it go.

Sliding his palm down the center of your ass, he brings his hand back to your thighs and stretches his fingers outward, effectively spreading your legs further. You inhale, toes pressing down into the mattress at the foot of the bed. 

“Oh, do you want me to take these off?” he pauses, idly toying with the string of your thong. 

And while it would certainly be easier, there’s something about the evidence of your arousal soaking into the material, something about the way the lace tugs against your skin—

You shake your head. 

“Good, the bow is cute.”

He runs a finger over the delicate piece of ribbon, and you’re thankful he can’t see the embarrassing way you swallow in response. 

“Is flattery a part of the process?” you ask. 

You can almost hear the grin on his face as he slowly feathers a finger against the wet spot on your panties and replies, “Is it not working?”

“You’re terrible,” you laugh, despite the shiver that runs through you. 

“Save your breath.”

You turn slightly to look back at him, brows furrowed. “For wha—“

Your words are cut off by the moan that crawls up your throat without warning as the pad of Matsukawa’s middle finger suddenly slides down the length of your creamy slit. 

It catches you off guard, how good that little bit of contact feels. How sensitive you are for him. How—

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re wet,” he murmurs, one digit now circling around the rim of your puffy, fluttering entrance while another long finger draws through your folds once more. 

He’s hardly doing anything, and it already sounds obscene. 

Your chest burns, and your heart thunders in your chest as you find yourself arching your ass up off of the bed. The skirt flops back down over your backside in the process, and Matsukawa’s quick to push it back out of the way, his large hand pressing into the small of your back. 

The pillow case grows more damp against your cheek as you quietly pant against it. 

“Matsukawa,” you whine, hips pressing backward again as he ghosts a finger over your swollen clit before dragging two digits back through your folds. Your cunt aches. 

“You have to tell me if you don’t like how it feels, okay?”

He runs his thumb across your dripping hole. 

“Matsukawa,” you gasp again, one hand tightly grasping the top edge of the mattress. 

“Just tell me to stop, and I will,” he promises, slipping the tip of a finger into your entrance. Barely past the fingernail. 

“Issei, please,” you nearly sob, spreading your legs even further for him. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

He lets out a noisy, rough exhale. One that’s a stark contrast to his easy, syrupy tone. 

But you can hardly hear it as he slides his finger into your cunt, not stopping until he’s at the last knuckle. 

You can hardly hear it over the desperate, needy moan that he drags out of you on one finger alone. 

Matsukawa takes his time exploring your tight inner walls, alternating between pumping his finger in and out while you keen for him and keeping it lodged inside as he curls and strokes your wet channel. 

It’s never felt like this. 

Not with anyone. 

Not even with your own fingers. 

But this—

It feels like you’re burning from the inside out, like your nerves are on the verge of going up in flames. 

It’s just one long, deft finger sliding in and out of the eager, needy grip of your pussy. Your tight, soaking wet pussy that’s nowhere near full enough yet still pulsing and dripping with pleasure all the same. 

It’s just a single finger, and yet your voice is going hoarse from the moans tumbling from your lips, the repeated whimpers of Matsukawa’s name as your sticky arousal slides down the palm of his hand. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasps, voice a little rougher than it was before. 

“I’m probably making a mess all over your bed,” you mutter against the pillow. 

“Good,” you swear you hear him breathe out before he asks, “Still overrated?” His free hand slides beneath the waistband of your thong,  wrapping around your hip bone. 

“It’s never, I’ve never—“ you gasp. 

“Because you sleep with guys who do it for themselves, who see it as a necessity to getting their dick inside of you,” Matsukawa replies in a calm tone that’s a stark contrast to the way you’re unravelling beneath him. “I just want you to feel good. This isn’t about me.”

And you’ve also never been fingered like this—face down, prone. With your pebbled nipples rubbing against your lace bralette and a too-short skirt rucked up around your waist. In a sopping wet thong that keeps rubbing against your clit every time Matsukawa nudges it out of the way, with thigh high socks that continue to slip down lower and lower as you writhe in pleasure against the mattress. 

You’ve never been fingered by Matsukawa Issei. Your roommate and your best friend who’s a little too handsome for his own good. Who you’ve had more wet dreams about than you can count. 

Matsukawa Issei and his stupidly long, dexterous fingers. Two of which are now stuffed in your tight hole, massaging your inner walls while you drool on his pillow like it’s his cock that’s stuffed inside of you instead. 

Matsukawa Issei, who’s somehow on the verge of making you forget every dick you’ve ever had inside of you by fucking you with his fingers and his fingers alone. 

“Don’t flatter me that much yet, not till I make you come,” he murmurs, stroking your throbbing clit. 

And oh—you fucking said that last bit out loud. 

Not that you can bring yourself to care when the coil of heat in your gut is wrapped so tight you can hardly breathe. Every muscle in your body tenses under the liquid pleasure that sears its way down your spine with a bite that has you trembling, sheets slipping beneath the feeble grasp of your shaking hands. 

You end up pushing yourself onto your knees as Matsukawa purposely slows his pace, like he’s not ready for you to come yet. Like he wants to edge you until the whole goddamn mattress is soaked.

“Issei,” you whimper in a small, breathless voice that you can hardly believe is your own. 

And suddenly you find yourself being tugged backwards into his lap, your legs spread, your back to his chest. You barely have time to marvel over the feeling of his hard cock pressing into your ass through his pants, not when his lips ghost against the shell of your ear before he rests his chin against your shoulder. 

Matsukawa slides his fingers back inside of you, and you moan at the angle, at the way his mouth ends up tucked into the crook of your neck when you roll your hips into his touch. His lips are hot against your skin as he traces the column of your neck, cunt squelching wetly while your pussy greedily takes in the stretch of his digits over and over. 

And then he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, biting and sucking at the sensitive spot while your cunt throbs, as you shake with a full-body shiver, as the damn of pleasure inside of you snaps and overflows with an orgasm that leaves tears in your eyes as you sob his name. 

Matsukawa tilts your chin and finds your mouth with his, claiming your lips in a messy, spit-soaked kiss as you ride out your climax. 

It’s only once you stop shuddering in pleasure that you remember how hard he felt beneath you, and you go to slip a hand between your bodies—

“It’s okay,” he exhales, sounding just as out of breath as you feel.

“You don’t want me to—“ You try not to sound as disappointed as you feel over his sudden rejection.

His eyes go a little wide. “No, no. No, it’s that. I just…uh…I already…”

You blink at him. “I didn’t think that was actually a thing that happens.”

Did he really just come in his—

Matsukawa rubs the back of his neck, biting his bottom lip. “It’s never happened to me before, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh?”

For some reason, you feel more than a little smug at these words.

“First time for everything I guess,” he grins.

“Overrated?” you ask coyly, warmth swelling in your chest.

Matsukawa shakes his head, lips brushing against yours when he leans in and murmurs against your mouth, “Definitely not.”

[munsster]

dull domestication

A/N: s4 steve is WAY too babygirl like what am i supposed to do. he is literally begging to be domesticated. (gif creds: @emziess)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!AFAB!Reader

Summary: You and a sleepy Steve have a very domestic conversation about the future. 0.9k words

Warnings: domestic fluff, talk of pregnancy/children, cuddling, pet names (daddy /j, baby, honey), cursing

Steve's hair is mussed when he reenters the living room from the kitchen. You're not sure what exactly he got up to in there besides dishes, but you're sure he looks even more tired than when he left. And now, he's a heat seeking missile for your lap.

"Tired, honey?" you whisper just to see him nod and close his eyes halfway to the couch. And when he finally reaches you, he spreads his body weight completely atop yours, ear pressed to your heart and cheek smushed against your sternum.

He hums with your lithe fingers sweetly combing through his hair.

"Fuckin' exhausted. Don't even get me started on my shift," he grumbles.

"What happened on your shift?"

He sighs long and hard, rumbling your chest. It takes everything in you not to laugh at how it even shakes the couch a little.

"Robin ditched halfway through to go on a date with Vickie"—he mocks—"and I forgot my lunch."

"Aw, baby, you know I would've brought it to you."

"Don't feel bad, I only didn't call because I worked through my entire break because no one was there to remind me that I even had a break. Stupid. If I hadn't just gotten a raise, I fuckin' swear."

With every second, he seems to sink further into your embrace, bones becoming goo the longer he crushes you into the cushions. Even with the air running and the night chill cooling the house, he stills runs hot like an oven. If you held your breath, you could probably hear his veins humming to produce all that heat.

"I knew I should've visited today. I had a feeling," you say, fingertips soft on the back of his neck. He hums, pushing his hands up your sides and taking your top with them.

"I like when you visit me, baby," he says, "makes me happy. And way more productive."

"Except for the twenty minutes we spend doing nothing."

"Hey, we don't do nothing."

"Oh, sorry, the twenty minutes we spend staring into each others eyes and making out. How could I forget?"

"Dunno," he shrugs, hands now snug up underneath your shoulder blades. "You ever think about kids?"

"Like how loud and obnoxious they are? Yeah, sometimes."

"Yeah, that." But you know that's not all because his brow furrows, his face taut against your chest. He takes a deep breath and shivers when you dip your fingers into the neck of his shirt. "But also about how cute ours would be."

Fuck. For all the shit running through his mind, you're shocked that's all he let out. How cute your kids would be. You and Steve. Cute kids? No doubt. Have you seen his eyes? Of course they'd be cute. You just can't beleive he said it out loud. Like the though of getting older and settling down never crossed his mind as a kind of threat. Like that's the natural course of action for two young adult lovers. You've talked about marriage, sure, but children is a whole new ballpark.

"Honey?" he coos, lifting his head to meet your eyes. "Did I scare you?"

"No. No, no. Just... hadn't really thought of it.

But I agree. Our kids would be cute. Loud and obnoxious and cute."

Your heart gives you away, pounding hard against his cheek and against your will. It makes him blush to hear you say it. Makes him a little embarrassed he said anything at all. But, they'd be pretty cute, wouldn't they?

"We don't have to talk about it," he whispers. You look down at him, pushing all of his hair up past his hairline and covering it up until he looks hairless and then letting it all flop down in his face.

"It's okay, we can talk about it," you whisper, leaning in to kiss his forehead and pull away with a smile. 

"I hope they have your eyes," he says.

"No way, you've got stunners. They better have yours, daddy," you say, grinning wickedly.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, daddio, better get used to it if you want to father our annoying yet gorgeous children."

He goes bug-eyed, staring you down in the dark, and then squinting when you cover your face to laugh.

"Not funny."

"I'm sorry! You should've seen your face, baby. Just a teensy weensy bit funny."

"You're my number one enemy right now."

"Fine, no babies for you."

Steve rucks up your shirt with haste, swiping his hand over your tummy before pressing his wet lips to the hot skin. And blowing a raspberry onto it.

"Steven! Get off of me!" you shout. He takes a very minor beating to his upper back before he laughs and wipes his mouth on his sleeve and settling his head back on your chest. You rub circles over the muscle you had attacked, whispering an apology and rolling your eyes. 

"Okay, I hope they have your nose."

"I do have a great nose," you tease.

"Yes, you do," he says.

"I hope they all get a good mix of everything. Little franken-babies."

"I hope so, too. All six of them."

"Six??"

"Sorry, did you want more?"

"More???" you gasp. He chuckles.

"I'm kidding," he teases, plucking at the edge of your tee. "Six is the perfect number." You'd definitely be discussing that number later on.

stranger things masterlist

[fallbhind]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓, 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝚰𝐋𝐅

ਏਓ WARNINGS: angst, smut, unprotected sex, make up sex(?), p in v, crying, arguments, chris gets pissed, reader get’s dragged by chris, DILF!CHRIS x CRYBABY!READER ✹

the last thing you expected was to be a dilf’s sneaky link. well—not sneaky link, but secret hook ups. god, it was every single dilf trope, except you wouldn’t admit, but you were such a crybaby brat. you didn’t get the exact louie vuttion bag you wanted, tears that could make the new niagara falls. you didn’t get your way, tears. if you got even a little bit hurt, tears.

who was to blame for all this crybaby behavior? your deadbeat dad, who to keep you happy, gave you everything you want. almost like it was a trade for being a terrible dad. then you moved with your mom, and next door was that hot divorced dilf that all the single moms, married moms, and any mom in between drooled on. even your mom talked about him with a vulgar meaning behind it. but kitty did she know—her pretty daughter was the reason he rejected every single mom who tried to get him to go on a date with them.

this week was your lucky week. though you did miss his daughter (who was often the excuse for you to go over and see him). she was back in chicago with her mom.

you laid sprawled out on his bed, whinging about how college was way to hard for you. which was something you did on a daily either way. no matter how much chris wanted to each over and pop your mouth. he nodded to your constant complain, scrolling on his phone.

then—you decided to whine about chris not paying you enough attention. “and don’t even get me started on how you’re always so busy scrolling on your phone when anne isn’t here.” you huffed frustratedly. of course, he somewhat understood were you were coming from but it was so hard to understand we’re a literal college student is coming from. “it’s not fair!” you shouted, even then, when you were complaining about him, he still didn’t give you enough attention.

“you know what isn’t fair?” chris hissed, grabbing ahold of your chin, “that i have to put up with a whiny fucking crybaby who does nothing but complain about everything because she’s a brat!” he shouted in your face. the tears ebbed at your waterline as you forcefully shoved chris away, heading for the door.

“fuck—baby ‘m sorry—” he stumbled over his words. now he was the bad guy. “—come back kid, i didn’t mean it.” his hand grasped at your wrist, a hold that you once went into, you tore away from. but these tears, they weren’t your regular crybaby tears, god, he made you cry-cry. he was actually the asshole.

you didn’t seem to care people would have seen you walking out of chris’ house in tears, knowing the speculations it would start, but he did. he was scared that his single-dad reputation would be tarnished because of a college student. now that, that was scary.

and your reputation would be just as bad, the dilf whore. sure that’s what you were—but it was supposed to be kept on the down low. as you reached for the doorknobs, the color in chris’ face drained. he grabbed ahold of the scruff of your neck, pulling you back, his free hand closing the door. it wasn’t like he was going hold you hostage or anything, he was just going make you take the route you usually go. out the back, over the fence.

“i know, i know.” he soothed, leading you towards the back door. he felt like he was caring for a child. a bratty one. he opened the door, pushing you out. he looked at your sunken, tear filled eyes, like waiting for you to decide whether you were gonna stay or go.

you looked at him, sniffing softly before answering the look. “i think we should take a break.” no matter the amount of begging or pleading he did, he knew you wouldn’t change your mind.

throughout that week of not seeing you, he became utterly miserable. then his little girl came home. and he wasn’t as miserable, pretty much like before you moved, just him and anne. then one day, you showed up with cookies at his door. he was so happy, trigger happy, almost. “kid, i missed you so much.” you ignored him, like you should, shoving the plate of cookies in his hand, immediately turning to walk away.

“wait—please.” he begged, “let’s talk.”

his fingers gripped onto your shoulder like you were his life support. “come in?” at first, you were going to reply with a stark remark, but like normal, tears overcame that. you looked at him with a soft nodded, making your way in. chris did not miss those tears.

his shoulders slumped. “anne had a sugar crash. should be out for an hour.” he muttered as he sat the cookies on the table before guiding you back to his room. you stood awkwardly, ditto with chris. he stared at you. “look— i’m sorry about last week, i was just frustrated and you, you just kept complaining and i snapped. it won’t happen again—just, take me back?” he begged, almost pathetically. you nodded softly, not needing any more explanation. why should you? you were a college crybaby brat. and chris, chris loved you, maybe?

there, it that room solidified the new mark in your and chris’ relationship. his hands tender, pushed your hips into his, whispering softly. “we have fifteen minutes.” aka, twenty minutes for make up sex.

you nodded softly as he gently pushed you down onto the bed, tenderly pressing kisses against your neck, nipping at your throat. you let out a soft gasp of surprise from the sudden contact of his teeth. he pushed his pirate girl tee off, your glossy lips pressing kisses up against his chest. drawing out a long guttural groan from his chest.

he slowly unbuttoned your jeans, pulling the zipper down, whispering soft praises about how you looked oh so good underneath him. “i love you baby.” chris whispered softly, pushing the pair of jeans down. then he got to your underwear, it was lace—god, you were asking for more then you you handle. as he tugged the pair of pink lace underwear, showed the stringy line connecting to your hole, all the way to the damp spot on your underwear, bunching them up before shoving it he pair in your pockets.

then he thrusted his sweats down with a thrust of his hand, following his boxers. you let out a soft whine, as if to say he wasn’t going fast enough. “i know—just wait.” he grunted through his teeth, observing your body, pushing off your shirt. “function better with less on.” he stated, with that little of a reason on why he did what he did, he decided to get started.

chris aligned your hole with his cock, thrusting himself into you. you gasped, feeling cock in your gummy walls, your nails already attacking his back. “fuck, ma—” he grunted, “—try to keep the scratching to a minimum.” said chris airlessly. gosh, chris had barely moved in you, and your walls were all ready straining his cock. goes to show how desperate you really get without being dicked down every other week.

he started off with slow, paced strokes. going as gentle as possible—but man did he just want to devour the shit out of your tight cunt.

after he started to go off with faster strokes, his body moving with it, letting out soft grunts as you let out futile soft moans. your back arched off the bed, one of chris’ hand gripping onto your hips, readjusting as needed over time, the other settled on his forearm above your head to keep balance.

soon, tears ebbed at your waterline—what was wrong now?

you writhed against the thrusts chris delivered, your back arching further off the bed, your arms moving to wrap around the back of his neck. “sorry—it jus’, it jus’ feels s’good!” you cried out. his shoulder visibly relaxed when you admitted to it feeling good.

“i know.” he said cockily, deepening his thrust til he hit your g spot. you let out a moan that was a little to loud for his comfort, the hand resting on your hip, going to cover your mouth as he bullied your gummy walls. squelching filled the noise that was once your moans of sheer pleasure. your body tensed against chris’, coming on his cock, chris following not to long after you did.

[fancyfeathers]

Okay thinking about DC yanderes with baby trapping, I’ll probably do a part two with other Justice League members

With Hal Jordan, he would not exactly plan on it, but he certainly won’t turn down the opportunity. His vision he had in his mind went from just him and his darling to a family. The idea of that perfect sort of family took root, his darling making dinner in the kitchen with his arms around her waist and children playing in the living room, like those perfect families from American television. It’s like a dream that has been lingering in the back of his mind for as long as he could remember and now it’s finally coming true.

But his dream is his darling’s dread.

He just won’t shut up about the baby, clothing, the nursery, the last ultrasound. He practically keeps a hand on her baby bump at all times, cuddling, going for a car ride with the other hand on the steering wheel.

But life is harder on his darling than he thinks it is, when the baby comes and he is off on mission she does not have his help to take care of their child. She has to wake up in the middle of the night when she is staying at the watchtower when their baby starts crying, feeding time on her own, diapers, baths, god she’s doesn’t know how many hours she’s slept. There is help sometimes when other members of the Justice League are around or their darlings, but she is pissed when Hal finally gets back and makes him take care of the baby while she rests and Hal really doesn’t complain about getting to spend time with his little baby who he’s missed more than anything… well besides his darling of course.

He also definitely has a bunch of baby photos in his wallet that he shows everyone in the Justice League and Green Lantern Corps.

Clark Kent will not even hide the fact that children are something he desperately wants. Like in the middle of dinner he will just ask his darling how many kids she wants, maybe three, oh but one might feel lonely so maybe four. Or what if something happens and it’s not safe for her to have kids, it’s better for them to have them sooner than later. The worst part is that he knows she is pregnant way before she does, he could hear that second heartbeat as soon as it has one, though he doesn’t tell his darling because oh he wants her to find out on her own and tell him like it’s a surprise-

Oh god she’s crying in the bathroom…

No, no, no, no, no, this is supposed to be happy, they are staring their lives together, oh don’t cry.

He is there at his darling’s side during whenever he has a free moment, hell he always is listening in on her to make sure she is okay, what if she slips in the shower? What if she falls own the stairs? What if-

For the most part she is fine, but if she needs anything she literally just needs to say Clark’s name and he is there.

But then the fact that their kids may inherit their father’s powers come up, and they do, and it is a fucking headache for his darling. Clark does train them to be able to properly control their powers and what not, but she has to deal with the misuse of them around the house.

“No flying in the house!”

“Do not use your cold breath or whatever it is, I have the heating on!”

“Please put down the car before you drop it and damage it.”

[wonderjanga]

Code-Switching

Billy code-switches every now and then and doesn’t even realize it.

Marvel: *talking in his normal voice to Mary*

Reporter: *pops out of nowhere with a camera man behind her* “Captain Marvel we’d like to discuss with you today about the recent incident with Sivana.”

Marvel: *almost immediately switches to a transatlantic accent* “Of course!”

Reporter: *almost gets whiplash from how fast he switched* “Right, well could you fill us in on the details?”

Marvel: “Sure I can.” *starts talking with the accent and even using old-timey lingo*

Reporter: *walked away from the interview only knowing barely half of what happened cause she could barely understand half of the things he said*

Fawcitizens: “Ah yes. I see.” *understood perfectly*

The reporter wasn’t originally from Fawcett and came after to time bubble so she could get the latest scoops on Marvel.

or

Marvel: *comforting an abused kid with the absolute kindest and most compassionate look on his face*

Abused Kid: *crying*

Marvel: *picks kid up and gives them to their mom and heads over to the Abusive Dad*

Abusive Dad: “What’re you looking at, asshole?!”

Marvel: *kind ahh smile immediately fades and proceeds to promise to do the most torturous and gruesome things to the man*

Police: *look away like the aren’t hearing a thing*

Marvel: *looks back to the kid and is smiling again. Gives the kid a little wave*

or

He was under the effects of a magic spell that was supposed to mimic the effect of being drugged.

Marvel: *nearly passed out on the floor, family guy style*

Flash: “Oh my god!” *rushes over and leans down, shaking Marvel a lot* “Cap, are you okay?!”

Marvel: *thinks Wally is Freddy and frog blinks at him, annoyance crossing his face at being shaken* “Freddy, get the fuck offa me.” *literally puts his hand on Flash’s face and pushes it away*

Flash: *a little gobsmacked cause he’s never heard Marvel curse before* “Wha-”

Marvel: “Now, get outta here. Or I’ll beat you.” *shakes his fist at him before making a dismissive gesture with his hand* “Shoo shoo.” *promptly passes out*

Flash: *doesn't know how to feel about the friendliest guy he knows telling him he’ll beat him* “Alright buddy.” *helps him up and makes the long trek to a zeta tube so he can get Marvel to the medbay*

When Marvel woke up…

Flash: “Cap, you’re awake! Are you feeling better now?”

Marvel: *sits up in the cot he’s in* “Uh… yeah I’m fine.”

Flash: “You sure…? Cause, I mean, you were saying some pretty interesting stuff back there.”

Marvel: “What stuff? Did I say something weird?” *praying to the gods that he didn’t accidentally reveal his identity*

Flash: “Kinda?”

*silence*

Flash: “Yousaidyou’dbeatme.” *says super fast*

Marvel: “WHAT?” *sounds horrified* “Oh my Gods, I’m so sorry?!”

Flash: “It’s fine! It’s fine! It’s just who in the world is Freddy? And what did he do to warrant you telling him that you’d beat him for stopping you from trying to sleep??”

Marvel: “Uh…” *doesn’t really have much of an excuse other than that’s just how Freddy and him talk to each other*

Billy spent the rest of the day avoiding Flash’s questions.

[bats-and-the-birds]

I like to think about young Dick Grayson a lot, and right now I'm specifically thinking about him from the Justice League's perspective.

Like, imagine you're in the Justice League, maybe you've been there for a few months, maybe for a few years, but either way, you know how it works. Superman's terrifyingly powerful, but you get over the fear factor as soon as you see him cry over a sad cat video, and Wonder Woman's still a bit intimidating, but as long as you're good and truthful, you can trust that she won't crush your head like a grape.

And Batman... well, you've made your peace with the fact that you'll never figure him out. You know literally nothing about him, other than the fact that he claims to be fully human, but you're not even really sure about that, because you're pretty sure he just materializes in the shadows sometimes. The only things that you're 100% sure of is that you're terrified of him, and you're so glad that he's not on someone else's side.

And then, suddenly, he has acquired a child. Just like everything else, you don't find out immediately, because god forbid that man tell his team anything. But you start to hear vague reports of another shadow trailing behind Batman in the night. Superman asks him about it one day, but of course, he doesn't respond, and they all wonder, but it never gets brought up again.

But one day, unexpectedly, that shadow is at a league meeting, and he's not as shadowy as you would have thought. In fact, he's wearing the most vibrant costume you've seen, and you spend all of your time with other heroes in spandex. He's also young. Terrifyingly young. It's his twelfth birthday, actually, he explains to the league, and he pestered 'B' until he agreed to take him to a meeting. You all agree later that he looks younger than twelve. And you worry about him, because why is this child in Batman's care? Can he really be trusted to look after someone so small, so young, so seemingly fragile?

Besides, Robin (Robin, his name is Robin, he's a songbird for christ's sake), is everything that you'd think Batman would hate. He talks everyone's ear off with a giant grin stretched across his entire face. He begs Superman to fly him around and cackles and claps as Wonder Woman demonstrates basic sword maneuvers for him. Before long, the whole team is in a better mood. Meanwhile, Batman stands in the shadows, his face impassive, with no explanation about the little masked boy that walked into the room hiding under his cape.

He leaves just as he came, disappearing under Batman's cape as the two exit the watchtower together, and the whole league is left to wonder how the fuck that child ended up in Batman's care, and whether or not they should intervene, because spending prolonged time in Batman's company cannot be healthy for a child.

But then he starts showing up more and more, popping up in some places that you know from Batman's glare he's not supposed to be. He's teamed up with that speedster boy and the two of them cause havoc, but Robin takes the lecture he gets with a grin and gives a half hearted promise to behave.

You steadily start to realize that he might not be as out of place in Batman's company as you originally thought. You realize that the boy is a performer through and through, and that extends to that grin of his that dazzled the team when they first met him. You get the impression that sometimes its genuine, yes, but you'd never know if it wasn't. His exuberance is a persona held in place as meticulously as Batman's grim seriousness.

And though you'd assumed that Batman's sidekick (partner, the boy insisted, rather intensely, though his smile never faltered) would be well trained, this kid could take down league members, you're sure. You quickly realize that he enjoys fighting, and he fights viciously, giggling and putting on a show, but leaving broken bones in his wake. Your first impression is that Robin was more human than the demon they called the Batman, but you quickly start to question that too. If Batman can materialize in shadows, then Robin can fly. He twists through the air like gravity doesn't affect him and lands with so much grace that you'd think he had hollow bones like his namesake. You're not fully convinced he doesn't, considering he climbs up the bat with no warning, clinging onto his back like he belongs there (you quickly start to think he does), or he'll throw himself through the air with no more warning than a quick 'catch' yelled to his partner. And Batman catches him. Batman always catches him. Everyone keeps an eye on him when he's up high, but there's a part of you that feels like it's impossible that he'd ever fall. Or at least, impossible that Batman would ever let him hit the ground.

And you start to think that Robin's exactly where he's supposed to be; perched on Batman's shoulder, hiding in his cape, or fighting by his side. You still hope there's a normal boy behind the mask, going to school and making friends with someone to tuck him in at night, but you also can't imagine anything normal about Robin, and maybe that's why he needs to be by Batman's side, and maybe that's why Batman needs him too.

[deadsetobsessions]

Jason cursed. This is on par for most of his evenings, as it was rare that he ever got a peaceful night. However, this? This takes the goddamn cake and smashes it on his face.

Red Hood stood, with a portable wet vacuum in his halo bed hands, cursing everything in the world as he cleaned and followed the small puddles of Lazarus water. The people in the streets give him a wide berth, having long learned the intricacies of Red101: if the Red Hood is doing weird shit but there’s no gun in his hand, you make sure you’re not the reason he’ll have a gun in his hand.

“O, you there?”

“Copy.”

“Mark this priority, would you?” His voice is tense, pissed. “Some bastard’s dripping Lazarus water all over my territory.”

A pause.

Oracle’s calm voice flowed through his helmet, “Then we’ll have to watch out for League influence. I’ll let the others know. Red Robin?”

Red Robin chimed in, “Yeah, already on it. It’s weird though, Ra’s isn’t supposed to be here for another two and a half weeks.”

“And how would you know about my grandfather’s movements?”

“Careful, Robin, I might become your grandma!” Red Robin chirped sadistically, before clicking off his comms, snickering at Robin’s spluttering.

“Jesus fuck. I’ll try to hunt down the bastard from the ground. O?”

“Can’t help you. The cameras around your area has been scrambled for the last half an hour.”

“Shit.” Red Hood tensed, one hand going for his pistol as the street’s current inhabitants wisely vacated the area.

“Hood. Don’t go in alone. It could be a trap.”

“Whatever, B, you’re not the boss of me.”

“Give me three minutes. I’m close by. Do not go in without back up, little wing.” Nightwing piped in, and Red Hood could hear the faint whooshing noises of a quiet grapple.

“Cass and I are close by as well. Staking out a place but we could be on standby if needed.”

Two taps. Cass’ tacit agreement.

“Got it.”

When Nightwing gets there, they follow the trail into a dead end with no sign of any scaling of the wall or secret passages.

“Fuck! What the fuck are we chasing, a ghost?”

“Don’t even joke like that-” Nightwing said. “You’ll set Red off again.”

Jason kicked at the wall.

“Fuck!”

——

On the other side of the wall, thirty minutes earlier:

“Life is like a hurricane, here in Duckberg…” Danny mumbled as he stumbled away. He’d saved his alley kids from a pretty serious mugging that ended with a stabbing that Danny foolishly allowed to touch him because he wanted to keep the wicked looking knife. Normally, he’d be able to brush this off, but with his recent injuries, mental stress, and the lack of food that is the hallmark of a homeless teenager, Danny barely kept himself conscious as he stumbled into a particularly dense in ectoplasm dead end.

“Napping place… napping place…” Danny mumbled before eyeing the brick wall. Yeah, okay, he’s slept in weirder places. He could sleep in the dumpster, but… he’d smell and Danny could not handle an infection. So, he went intangible, invisible, and pulled the knife out of his body. As he settled in (quite literally into) the stone wall for his nap, Danny manages to mold his ectoplasm to hold his cut up stomach together.

Danny allows sleep to take him, blissfully unaware of the glowing green puddles of ghost blood he’d left behind.

——

Jason, terrified: he’s in the walls!! He’s in the fucking walls!

Danny, quoting vines and tiktoks while napping in walls for that back support option: thanks for checking in! I’m still a piece of GaRBaGe.

[jasvtsc]

dean winchester x angel!reader — family feud.

warnings! mentions of drugs, violence, abuse, bad parenting, neglect, john winchester, mary winchester, implied prostitution, fem!reader

word count! 1.5k

you didn’t hate.

sure, you disliked some things more than the others. but hate? that was a strong word.

however, when it came to john and mary winchester?

you fucking despised these two to the point it made you want to hurl.

and that’s a lot, coming from an angel. leaves some space to think about things, y’know?

anyway.

john and mary ‘the worst parents of the century’ winchester.

you could write the whole bible on their parental mistakes and how they both neglected their children, basically scarring them with lifelong traumas—especially dean.

of course, you didn’t want to belittle sam and his trauma, since he got the fair share of john’s bullshit himself. but dean was the one who had to step up and be both a father and a mother while only being a kid. and that’s not fair—for both of them.

dean was the one starving himself, so sammy had food, since john forgot about his kids or took too long on some hunt. he was the one who earned money in ways that were more shameful than one could’ve imagined. he was the one getting roofied and…

yeah, you were livid.

and you didn’t even get that from the brothers themselves. before coming to earth you got a solid debrief of what you were getting into. and that meant knowing about the shit they went through from a to z. that was probably the main reason why you were so nice to them instead of acting like a complete jackass like most of your feathery siblings.

you had compassion that some of them massively lacked. you were the literal example of an angel supposed to help humanity and heal troubled souls. you were the epitome of purity and goodness.

but to older winchesters? yeah, you were a little bitch.

ever since they came back to life—a family thing apparently—trying to redeem their mistakes and be this happy and loving family, there wouldn’t be a minute without you sending daggers with your glare or scoffing at every word that left their mouths.

not only did they break the rules of the living and undead (sam and dean didn’t count), but they acted as if they didn’t do anything wrong. as if they could make up for their mistakes. well, too fucking late for that.

you simply couldn’t watch them together nor could you understand why they forgave them so easily. why did dean forgive them. you were baffled, but for the first time, you didn’t feel like asking questions.

no, you were having too much pent-up anger that you began slowly turning into castiel. not that it was bad, but considering your usually bubbly and happy personality now so doom and stern? yeah, it was concerning. especially for dean.

but when he tried to confront you, you brushed it off and disappeared. just like cas. and you were disappearing more often, without telling anyone and god knows where. and dean began to think what had he done to upset you to the point where you couldn’t even stand being in the same room as he was. cause he was always ready to blame himself first.

he sighed, sitting in the library, sipping a beer while mindlessly staring at the wall. he was debating whether to start praying so you’d come, but then his father entered the room, startling him out of his thoughts. john put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump up in his seat and visibly tense up—a response that a true soldier should have. what a fucking bullshit, just another trauma response.

“come on, son. stop brooding over that angel. you know how they are. they don’t give a shit. we’re just humans for them. toys they can play with and then dispose of as soon as we’re old and cranky and without much use. they’re immortal. they’re getting bored quickly,” john sighed with a small chuckle, patting his son’s shoulder, which only made him flinch more.

“you don’t know her. she’s not like that,” dean muttered, rubbing his chin. you weren’t like that…right?

of course you weren’t. why did he even think that? you were his whole world, and he pretty much thought that he was yours. you weren’t like other angels—you were actually angelic and pure and all the other schmancy shit. but yeah, no, you weren’t like that, and his dad was fucking wrong.

“she’s an angel. a supernatural creature. that says enough. they shouldn’t be here anyway. their place is up there where they can be all high and mighty with those pretentious stares.”

“she’s not like that,” dean said more sternly this time, his voice strong and leaving no place for a discussion. you were his little birdie, and he wouldn’t let anyone badmouth you. not even his own father.

“you’re defending her now?” john scoffed in amusement, looking at his son in disbelief. “you’ve gotten soft,” he hummed.

“and? is it so bad now? i’m sorry to disappoint you. again,” dean stood up, ready to leave, when his father grabbed his arm and looked at him with those eyes that dean knew too well—those eyes that meant he was about to get his ass beat.

“don’t be a brat now. show your father some respect. i don’t think i taught you to run your mouth—" dean swallowed thickly, preparing himself to get a blow to his face or at least try to dodge it, perhaps.

however, before john could finish, suddenly his hand on dean’s arm was yanked away and painfully bent backwards as if it was going to break any moment, the angel blade pressed dangerously to an artery in his throat.

“touch him again and i’ll make sure to drag your ass to hell myself, you fucking deadbeat,” you hissed with so much venom and hatred in your voice that it honestly made dean speechless.

you had the deadliest expression dean had ever seen on your face. he felt goosebumps on the back of his neck, suddenly feeling as if he was frozen in place. to be honest, you looked pretty scary and intimidating for such a small and inconspicuous creature.

“oh, look who’s back from heaven,” john chuckled darkly, clearly pissed off by your presence. “tell her to back off,” he almost growled while shifting his eyes from you back to his son.

dean stood still. honestly? he didn’t want to help. he wanted to let you do your thing. he wanted you to protect him.

but it was his father. and he felt that he couldn’t just let him be treated by you like that.

“birdie, come on. drop it,” he sighed, coming closer and wrapping his arms around you, gently pulling you back. he knew you wouldn’t protest, and you knew that as well—you’d never hurt dean or even try to do something that would possibly hurt him. you’d probably cut your own wings off if he got even the smallest bruise because of you. “relax, okay. don’t do anything stupid, birdie,” he rubbed your arm, trying to calm you down.

with a huff, you turned around and looked at dean. “i don’t like him. and i don’t like your mother. these people are weird and had hurt you and i don’t trust them,” you hissed, keeping your voice a whisper so john wouldn’t hear as he tried to scramble himself up from the floor.

“birdie, they’re my parents. i—” but he cut off and raised his brow. “how do you even know what happened? i never tol—”

“angel stuff. doesn’t matter. i just don’t like it when you’re hurt and upset and feeling sad. and these two make you upset, sad and hurt!“ you tried to resonate. “i just want you to be happy. i can’t give you your childhood back nor i can undid every awful thing that happened to you. but i can try my best to make it better and give you what you missed out on. if you want to feel childish for a minute, we can do that together. i’m already considered to be one apparently,” you huffed with a small eye-roll.

and dean was speechless. he looked at you in disbelief, and all the other feelings that he couldn’t quite name. he felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest, tears gathering up in his eyes. he tried to say something, to think of something, when john’s mocking chuckle echoed through the walls.

“are you kidding me? crying? what kind of soldier—” before he got a chance to finish, you sent him on the floor with a solid sucker punch to his face. john groaned and blinked hazily before losing consciousness.

you shook your hand with a small huff and then looked at wide-eyed dean.

“i’m not going to apologize for that,” you said in that direct and indifferent tone, pointing at john’s unresponsive body.

dean just blinked and then looked at you, his expression slowly softening. he smiled at you and pulled you closer.

“honestly? i don’t want you to. thanks birdie,” he hummed and kissed your temple, letting his lips stay on your skin for a moment, while you leaned into his invitingly warm touch. “i love you so much, my little angel.”

“i love you, too, deano.”

god, he was so glad to have you.

a/n: i’ll drop the drabble tomorrow cause i didn’t think i’d finish this shot faster lol😭

༄♡ tags: @frosttbitessam @beausling @deanswidow @titsout4nicholas @a1ecmcdowell @aileenunfiltered @figthoughts @fitxgrld @angelicp0etry @hrtsoldierboy @deansbite @artyandink @10ava01 @abellmunsonmovie

[moongothic]

Crocodad AU where immidiately after having left Dragon and his baby boy Crocodile finds an 11 year old Robin. And while he's 100% only recruiting her so they can make a beeline for the Poneglyph and Pluton in Alabasta by the two of them... Crocodile accidentally sorta kinda adopts Robin.

At this point Robin's been running for her life from the Government for three years so her deep trust issues and fear of betrayal are starting to take root in her little heart. Like perhaps they haven't taken fully over yet, and being still a child I'm sure Robin might've still had that genuine hope that she could find a safe place to stay in. But I'm sure the though of "what'll he'll do with me once he gets what he wants?" would be nagging at her at the back of her mind. Meanwhile Crocodile's struggling between the pain and hurt he's already gone through and given him his trademark trust issues, as well as the aftermath of The Dragodile Divorce. But he also has his Fresh Paternal Instincts and probably misses his baby. So when given a small, scared child who is running for her life, being chased by the very same Government that'll want his son dead if they ever find out about him... Yeah that might fuck with your brain a little

You know this post was supposed to be just that first paragraph and just a few footnotes from the following two paragraphs. And then I kept on Having Thoughts. And I kept on writing them down. And oh no what happened when did this post get so long (Look I was going to either kept on writing my Additional Thoughts in the tags or I just put them in the actual fucking post)

Like considder this: based on this one SBS, we can kinda tell that if Crocodile was given a chance to raise a child, that child would be a spoiled little shit, right

So in this scenario, where Crocodile's looking after lil Robin, would he be kind of torn? Unsure how to feel about her?

Because on one hand, this strange child would have the potential to not only ruin his plans, strip him of his Shichibukai Privileges by outing him and his plans to the World Government, but also put his son in grave danger by extension (if she found out about him having been involved with the Revolutionaries and/or having a child). But on the other hand, his paternal instincts could make him want to spoil this poor little girl rotten. But only because he needs to (perhaps literally) buy her trust so she'll behave. No other reason, he doesn't feel sorry for her one bit, no sirree. (But maybe he did feel sorry for her, since his son could very well end up exactly like her. Poor little thing) (Which is why he needs to nuke Marijoa out of orbit as soon as possible, no matter the cost, and this child can't get in the way of Crocodile protecting his son) (But also this is a child. Like how bad could she be. Besides all he really needs to do to win her trust is be nice and make her feel safe, right?)

Of course, while I'm suggesting Crocodile could have some parental instincts, realistically, he hasn't actually spent any time being, you know, a father to a child (looking after his newborn for an unknown though short amount of time aside), so it's possible he wouldn't even know how to parent Robin even if he wanted to, would he? (Like taking care of a newborn and an 11 year old kid aren't the same either) So if he was kind of just emotionally flipflopping between No Trusting Ever and It's Just A Kid for God's Sake, Crocodile trying to be nice to Robin to make her feel safe and then telling himself to stop being so soft and vunerable... Yeah that would make for an absolute mess of a relationship. (Not to mention, let's be real, dude's a scary motherfucker too, and a bloody giant compared to itty bitty baby Robin. He could keep on accidentally scaring the shit out of Robin (who would be On Fucking Edge To Begin With) by just Being Himself. Like for example, can you fucking imagine if he caught Robin trying to cheer herself up with a little "dereshishishi" only to tell her to stop because "it was stupid"? 'Cause I can imagine him doing that, and boy howdy would that make Robin feel bad)

Or who knows, maybe Crocodile was just Born To Be A Dad, maybe he just Fucking Gets It. Like Crocodile is canonically pretty good at manipulating people to do what he wants them to do (see: how he played Vivi like a fiddle), so knowing Robin's position and understanding how she feels, maybe he COULD completely nail how she needed to be treated. Not being too familiar but still making her feel safe and happy, knowing exactly when to be stern and when to spoil her, etc. Dude just goes off and wins the Dad of the Year Award while being a deadbeat dad himself. The only thing Crocodile would have to worry about then would be making sure HE doesn't get too fond of her. And certainly that could never happen, he's so in-touch with his own feelings and so grounded, he's not a softie, get outta here. Or maybe he does but never realizes until it's too late and good luck backpedalling on those emotions now dumbass

Alright so, the reason I went on that whole rmble is just that like. I'm so interested in the relationship Robin and Crocodile already have in canon. I'm so facinated and curious about how the two feel about each other, considdering they did spend 4 whole years of their lives together as criminal business partners, though neither ever trusted the other. A partnership that was only ended because Robin betrayed Crocodile, out of her own trauma. (God, I want to see these two "reunite" so bad, I want to know how they feel about each other now after the timeskip and Robin joining the idiot in flipflops who foiled Croc's plans)

My question here is just that... if they had met 13 years earlier, would things have been different? Especially if Crocodad Real? Because as I mentioned in the begining, Robin would've been on the run for only 3 years by this point, as opposed to 16 years before running into Crocodile. Simultaneously, this would be before Crocodile went onto spend an entire decade all alone, slowly losing his marbles in his emotional solitude. They'd both be emotionally traumatized, yes, but would it have been as bad in this scenario? Like I did start this post kind of joking about Crocodile adopting Robin, and for clarity's sake I don't think they'd have like a father-daughter relationship nececarily. But it would be a strange relationship still, because we'd have two broken people, both struggling to trust anyone. One who had lost her mother and her only friends, leaving her all alone and afraid while running for her life. The other a father who had just given up his son whom he probably missed dearly. Both having these holes in their hearts from loss of family, holes that could not be filled with replacements. But could they find comfort in each other anyway, because they still as people occupy similar roles to their respective loved ones? If they both could just get over those trust issues?

Okay I've been going off on the Emotional Side Of Things for this AU Concept, THERE'S PLOT TOO

So if Crocodile did pick Robin up like 19 years ago, that should be before he set up base in Alabasta, long before he had built is homebase and financial empire etc.

Now the thing is, while we don't know when, where and how Crocodile learned about the Ancient Weapons, Pluton specifically and how the lead on it would be in Alabasta... Considdering Crocodile did once upon a time aim to become Pirate King, it would make perfect sense if he had learned about Poneglyphs during his past adventures, as he would have needed to get the Road Poneglyphs to find One Piece. And while the World Government did bury the truth about why Ohara had been burned down and why Robin had been given her bounty (remember, the WG claimed it was because she had sunken a fleet of battleships, which she had not, it was because she could read the Poneglyphs), considdering this is a Crocodad AU specifically, you could totally make an argument Crocodile could've learned about what actually happened to Ohara from Dragon and co. So, just to make this AU work, you could just assume Crocodile learned about the concept of the Ancient Weapons from Dragon. And who knows, maybe he overheard the truth about why Robin had been given her bounty from Dragon too (maybe Dragon was able to get intel from Garp in secret) or while going to Marijoa himself to attend a Shichibukai meeting or something IDK.

Maybe he learned about Pluton being in Alabasta before finding Robin by accident, and maybe they made a beeline for Alabasta the second Croc recruited Robin. Travelling takes time and the guy would've most likely had to find an Eternal Pose to Alabasta just to get there (also canonically Robin didn't enter the Grand Line until her 20s so they should've met in West Blue probably, since that's where Ohara was) Or maybe Crocodile had to haul Robin around for a few months while looking for That Missing Piece of Information that would lead him to Alabasta. (Imagine the two travelling from like island to island, library to library, Crocodile trying to find that leads while Robin's just so excited about ALL THESE BOOKS (she's helping too with the research) (but to her, research is playtime, so she's just having the time of her life) (Also, notice how Crocodile's Theoretical Child is a fucking loser ass nerd? Yeah Crocodile would encourage Robin reading and studying, surely. And that would be fucking cute))

But like, once they set sail to Alabasta...

Sure, Crocodile could try to do it The Slow Way that we know he tried in canon, building trust and creating his little empire etc. But also, in canon, Crocodile couldn't have jumped into action head first because without Robin, even if he had found the Poneglyph he couldn't have read it and found the location of Pluton. Crocodile choosing to do it the slow way may have been partially because he didn't have much of a choise and it could've felt like the smarter move long-term.

But in this scenario, he already has Robin. Yes, he could do it the slow, secure way.

But what'd be there stopping him from infiltrating Cobra's palace and kidnapping him (in the night, when nobody suspects a thing), demanding Cobra to spill the beans lest Crocodile kills him and/or his pregnant wife* (*Vivi was born 10 months after Luffy so depending on how long it's been between Crocodad leaving Luffy behind and this scenario... Yeah either the wife is there, still pregnant, or there's a newborn Baby Vivi)

Like it'd be a risky move but depending on how ballsy Croc's feeling and how confident he feels in being able to kidnap the king without being noticed... Yeah he could probably do it. And I'm sure he'd have no problem killing Cobra either, if anything it'd be required if he didn't want the Government to find out he was out to find Pluton, and god knows Cobra would tell on Crocodile if left alive. I could see Crocodad being maybe a little iffy about killing Baby Vivi though (it's not like the newborn baby could report him to the WG anyways), but if nothing else, he just needs to be able to pull off the bluff of his life to convince Cobra to do as he's told. And we all know Crocodile's good at convincing people.

The only question is, how would Robin take that?

Watching Crocodile go into Full Murder Mode, hearing him say he'd kill a pregnant woman/a newborn baby if he didn't get what he wanted? Like yeah, I'm sure 11 year old Robin would be fine with that, that wouldn't make any alarm bells go off in her head at all, it'd be fiiiine. IT WOULD NOT BE FINE, SHE'D BE SCARED SHITLESS. That fear of "what will he do with me when he gets what he wants"? Well, Robin may not have found the answer to that question in particular, but she certainly found the answer to the opposite question, and it's not good

So say Cobra, kidnapped (perhaps with Baby Vivi) by Crocodile in the night, guides the two to the Poneglyph under the tombs. Crocodile puts Cobra out of his misery because he's not needed anymore. And he asks Robin to read the Poneglyph for him.

Robin, who has spent the last little while, be it weeks or months with Crocodile, him having become her "guardian", the thing keeping her safe. Crocodile, who has now shown how cold blooded and cruel he can be. Robin, who might be scared out of her mind. Of him.

And the Poneglyph says Pluton, the thing Crocodile wants, isn't there. It's in Wano.

What's she going to do?

EDIT: I wrote a sequel post, enjoy