#fluff? ish

[luveline]

𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k] 

fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision. 

You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice. 

You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.

"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick." 

You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?" 

You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?" 

"What?" 

"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.

He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound. 

"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges." 

Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer. 

"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you." 

"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you." 

"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you." 

Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool. 

"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.

"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."

"Not like that." 

Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?" 

Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too. 

"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?" 

His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?" 

"Did you?" 

You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely. 

"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time." 

He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to. 

You've never had one?

"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm. 

"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt." 

The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second. 

"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight. 

You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours. 

"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks. 

Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it. 

He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like." 

You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"It doesn't hurt?" 

"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign." 

You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do. 

The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out. 

"You're gonna have to sit in my lap." 

You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though." 

You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.

He doesn't scare you. 

He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies. 

You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned. 

"Do me a favour?" he asks. 

"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively. 

"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too." 

"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest. 

"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please." 

"I'm really warm." 

"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there. 

You take a deep breath. 

"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone. 

You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls. 

He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side. 

"Look up," he murmurs. 

You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes. 

He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.  

You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake. 

This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair. 

It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore. 

Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight. 

He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters. 

He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face. 

"Why does it feel like that?" you ask. 

He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?" 

You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch. 

"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please." 

He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs. 

When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.

Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?" 

"What for?" 

"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him. 

This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.

When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel. 

"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?" 

"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it. 

"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?" 

"I didn't know they weren't real." 

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up." 

Your mind blanks. 

"Make sure I can hide it," you say. 

You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole. 

"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.

He sees you looking. 

He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return. 

Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't. 

His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.

"Is that really what you want?" he asks.

"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?

It has to be. 

"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?" 

"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light. 

Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens. 

"Was that so hard?" he asks. 

"You knew?"

He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness. 

"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have." 

"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.

"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you." 

He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself. 

"I'm not good?" you ask. 

"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders. 

This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.

You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face. 

You pant. He shushes you gently.

"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks. 

Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped. 

Wiped, but good. Lax. 

"That was nice," you say breathlessly. 

Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile. 

"You're like a dead fish." 

You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over." 

"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started." 

Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth. 

"Are you messing with me?" you ask.

He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug. 

"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked." 

You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.

"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened. 

"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.

"That's a good idea." 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve

[juniper-clan]

Moon 14: Birth of Venus

(AKA the twins!)

PREVIOUS l NEXT

[hanafubukki]

Summary: You never expected your cute bunny costume to elicit this type of reaction from Lilia Vanrouge.

After returning from Deuce’s hometown, you and Silver decided to show off your costumes to Lilia and the others.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the time. Lilia commented how cute the outfits were while taking a bunch of pictures.

But you knew something was off as you spoke to Malleus, seeing those magenta eyes watching your every move.

A shiver went up your spine.

You swore you saw a fanged smirk from the corner of your eye.

Breath in.

Breathe out.

Melodic laughter fill the air as you ran.

You remember how Lilia cornered you right before this game of his.

Hand cupping your face as he leaned into you, “Run, my cute rabbit, run as fast as you can.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You knew he was playing with you.

Could catch you any minute.

The light touch at your back or your ears teased how close he is to you this whole time.

How it was his choice to allow you to run.

But if you turned this corner…

A stream of water came to view.

“Oh?”

You flung yourself into the water as quick as you could.

The air stilled.

Before laughter broke out.

“Clever little prey. I went too easy on you.”

“I caught you~”

Fuck.

You were so close.

Gasps filled the air.

Clawed fingers wipes the tears clinging to your lashes.

Your outfit in tatters around you.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle escape him.

You were such a cunning prey.

And now? Such a delicious one.

He wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

You had his blood pumping during the hunt and he planned on using this extra energy on you.

“Lilia…”

“Hm?”

“Plea- Ah!”

“Not yet Beloved, I’m far from done.”

His hunger was far from satisfied.

Oh Bunny event, how you entice me so with bunnies💞💞💚💚

[fallbhind]

i found obx themed perfumes so umm guess whos on that waitlist for the next drop!!! also for the crybaby thing uhh idk have a stuffed animal get decapitated or smth 💀

CRYBABY.ᐟREADER crying over a stuffed animal . . .

all rafe heard was the sniffles coming from the bedroom, automatically making him think the worse. but no, when he got into the bedroom, it was just a chunky bear with it's head decapitated, and honestly. it was very.. taunting. the beady eyes just staring. "what happened?" he questioned, walking over to you after breathing a breath of relief you weren't hurt. physically, at least.

"i tried washin' my bear 'n when i got it out the fabric caught and the head came off." you cried, letting out a soft whimper. "i didn't mean to." you shook your head as your bottom lip trembled. rafe was no seamstress, but he was sure you could just sew it back. you held the bears body. and it's head.

he patted your back gently, "we can sew it later once your calmed down." he rubbed your back, pulling you in the bed beside him. he messaged your scalp to bring you to a state of relaxation, but carefully enough so he didn't overstimulate you.

[pipwritesoccasionally]

midnight emotions (two little lines pt. 2)

in which your stepson has a bad dream and you feel guilty.

this one has less to do with your pregnancy but it is still relevant!

toji x reader (same stuff from last time applies, technically AFAB because of pregnancy but it's also a world with sorcery so I am not here to stop AMAB people. kept it pretty gender neutral, but let me know if it doesn't seem like it.)

wc: 850

pt. 1 pt.3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the darkness floods your eyes as you blink awake for the second time that night. body aching, you roll over, feet fluffing the carpet of you and toji’s bedroom. your arms reach up, exposing your growing stomach to the cold air. 

as you stand, the bed creaks, and you hear your husband groan. 

“doll?” his voice is low from sleep, and you place your hand on his arm. 

“i’m good. i just have to pee.” 

“again? you went two hours ago,” you’d never think that toji could be so whiny, but it sure was a very cute surprise. 

“babe, a whole human is growing next to my bladder. i’m going to be peeing all the time for the next few months,” you chuckle, and you hear him roll over on the bed. 

“fine. see you soon.” 

with that, you begin your walk to the bathroom, able to navigate the dark hallways perfectly after following this routine for weeks. after doing your business, you walk back down the hall, but this time you find that it’s much easier. 

in fact, there’s a light on in one of the bedrooms, which you quickly discern to be megumi’s. you knock, hearing a little “come in” on the other side. 

“megumi? what are you doing up?” you whisper, seeing him sitting up in bed. he furiously rubs his hands with his face, and the sight brings tears to your eyes. 

“i…had a bad dream.” he says, his little voice full of sadness. you move to kneel next to his bed, hoping to reassure him. 

“what happened? you can talk to me about it, if you want. or i can get your dad if you’d prefer.” he shakes his head, but still seems to hesitate. 

“dad’s not going to…leave us, will he?” worry strikes through you. 

“never. what would make you think that?”

“i don’t know, i guess i just wish we could see him more. he’s always pretty busy and only comes home for dinner.” another tear falls down his little face, and you can feel one mirror on your own. curse your hormones. 

“he’s busy, yes, but it’s because he’s trying to provide for you as best as he can. he just wants you to be happy,” megumi nods, but you can see that there’s still something on his mind. 

“it’s just that…when the baby comes, will he still have time for us?” your heart brakes at his statement, guilt shattering you. 

“of course he will. i promise you that he will always have time for you. he can be gruff, but he loves you.” 

“pinky promise?” he holds his little pinky out, and you immediately hook your much larger one around it. 

“pinky promise. now go back to bed. if you’re tired in the morning, let me know and i’ll call you out of school.” he nods, and you walk to the door, turning his light off. 

“sleep tight kiddo.” the door closes with a soft click!, and you immediately head back to your shared bedroom. your face feels wet, and you realize belatedly that you’d been crying. 

the bed is comforting, but you feel your breaths come out shakily. 

“doll? what’s wrong?” you jump, not realizing your husband’s still awake, and scoot in closer. 

“megumi’s worried that you won’t have time for him once the baby comes, and i feel so guilty. i didn’t even think about how this would affect them.” you’re hiccuping now, and his large hand comes to rest on your back. 

“you didn’t do anything wrong, i should be here more for them.” he whispers, and you shake your head. 

“no, you’re just doing what you can to help us.” he sighs, and you place your head on his chest. 

“yeah, but maybe it’s not enough. i’ll try to cut back on how many jobs i take weekly so i can be here more. we make more than enough money between the two of us anyways.” 

you hum, remembering exactly why you fell in love with him all those years ago. he isn’t exactly the most open person, but he does love his kids in his own way. 

“you need to stop being so cute. this isn’t good for my blood pressure,” he snorts, squeezing you lightly. 

“cute, huh? never thought someone would call me cute,” you laugh at him, wrapping your arms around his body. 

“why wouldn’t they? you just ooze cuteness, from your thick biceps and rippling abs-” 

“i’m starting to think you might be in love with me.” you can just hear the grin in his voice, and you move to roll away before one of his strong arms stops you. 

“ah-ah,” he tuts, “need my doll next to me so i can protect her.” 

“you sure you’re not the one in love with me?” his chest is firm as you run your fingers across it. 

“you wish,” he presses a kiss against your temple, and your body heats up. you huff, feigning annoyance, and his hand comes to cup your face. 

“fine. i might be in love with you. just a little bit."

[rinnstars]

(cherish) my love!

treasuring how youre always there for him

itoshi rin x reader: sugary-sweet fluff, slight insecurity on his part, rins pov, not proofread + likes n reblogs r appreciated! <3

maybe, he’s getting to used to this - your hands brushing through his hair as he lies on your chest humming to the rhythm of your heartbeat that syncs with him, his bed that no longer fits just him with a dent reminding him of your constant presence in his life as you constantly orbit around his world, his bag that changed from a plain black bag to one that featured silly keychains that hung your favourite character’s plushie and whatnot that matched perfectly with yours.

sure, he can barely remember the days you weren’t here, having being friends with him since you two were kids with you having been assigned as the so-called “good kid” to deal with him who was deemed the “troublemaker”. sitting with you during playtime felt natural, chatting about strange topics as you smile and laughed at his weird phrasings that soon transitioned to sitting right beside him again for years straight in school, and now right beside him on his bed - it must be fate he thinks. the world has dictated you to be with him for the rest of yours and his life, he thinks, the one good thing that has came out of this life. you were here when those kids at the playground shunned him and outcasted him for being a little (very) destructive to their toys choosing to sit down and chat with him at the swings, you were there in his room during that winter where he could barely look at you through his swollen and red eyes as you visit him everyday without fail despite the heavy snow that flooded his windows, you were there when he lost to isagi in that match as tears streamed down that shined underneath the moonlight into the milk tea you bought him as you two walked back home slowly with yours and his playlist in the background that strangely calmed him. youre the only constant in his life, even more than his brother that he swore would be a permanent in his life with a naive pinkie promise, even more than his parents that seem to come home less and less as each competition passes by, even more than his teammates that whispers about him behind his back that he pretends to ignore as he leaves to meet you at the bus stop.

he doesn’t know what he would do if you one day leave - whether that is leaving japan to go overseas to study that he knows logically would be beneficial to you, whether that is by time and distance that people say is inevitable and unpreventable, or worst simply because you fell out of love with him. hes selfish, but not stupid - he knows hes not exactly the best boyfriend, sometimes he gets too engrossed in his passion and loses touch with reality and neglect you even with your head on his shoulder, he knows hes not exactly the best at expressing himself even despite you being here since the very beginning, and he knows you can do better than him.

but for now, he thinks he’ll treasure every sign of presence of you. he’ll keep those silly trinkets you pass to him, each a sign of love that he cherishes no matter how small - paper hearts and rings you fold right next to him during class whenever you get bored of listening as he sits beside you playing another game underneath his desk, keychains you and him get from claw machines or as rewards from the arcade that he puts in a special little box placed right on his table that is his real treasure, sweets that you introduced to him that got him addicted to the flavourful and sugary-sweet burst as he can’t help but bite into it every time that resemble the burst of butterflies in his stomach and burst in his heart whenever he sees you at the bus stop every morning. he’ll treasure every single non-physical sign of love too - playlist on spotify that he downloaded and play every day in his ear piece that he is practically addicted to, kisses that he can still feel the touch of your lips on his every morning that leaves a invisible mark on his lips and his heart, time you take out of your life to be with him, lunch with him in class rather than with your other friends, waiting for him to finish football practice that could have been used to sleep soundly in your room rather than the old seats in the school that leaves your back sore. he’ll memorise every single moment with you - your first kiss right at the bus stop you still meet at every morning at the place he religiously stands at as he waits for you to reach running as you “woke up late again”, every lunch break with you right beside him eating food you and him respectively brought from home from biscuits to packed bento boxes or just a sweet treat of sugary buttery bread respectively talking about everything and anything that he feels like his true self, every date no matter where: arcade as you two play game whilst he tries his best to impress, in his or your room just basking in your presence, at the playground with convenience store food, cafes that you somehow know, library as he stare at your focused face whilst studying as he resist the urge to kiss you again. and he’ll keep you in his heart for the rest of eternity - each bite and kiss on his neck and lips transfer right onto his secretly glass-like heart that yearns for a little more, each merging of hands that gets his heart pumping at how your hands fit perfectly with his like two puzzle piece matching, and each time your heart syncs with him as he listens to your heart whether in class or right in his room where no one else is here but you and him.

the future is uncertain - glancing at the suitcase that is still messy and open from his recent visit back home from blue lock with his pxg jersey right on you that fits you strangely well he thinks with bright red ears and cheeks, glancing at your changing self with different hair and glasses than the last time he saw you that he wished to experience with you, but he hopes no matter what, that necklace you share with him with a heart, no, his very own heart hanging right onto your neck will stay there forever.

and now, all he can do is to show you back the same dedication, to stay right beside you, to be yours until the end of time as you had always been. he’ll be your supporting figure in your life - staying right beside you until late in the library and walk you right back home, helping you carry groceries and your school bag as you go wherever, walk with you until the end of the earth if you simply asked him to without asking why. he’ll show it to the best he can - wearing and hanging every single gift you give him: keychains, silly bracelets, and every kiss that litters on him that leaves a purple blue mark. and he’ll tell it to you - through love letters in sticky notes or right on the school foolscap paper that reads the words hes too shy and afraid to say that translates his deep unspoken devotion and love to you, through compliments and i love yous that he promises doesn’t reveal the true extent of his feelings for you either seeming too shallow and superficial to underscore the grip you have on his heart and lungs, with his actions: dropping to his knees to tie your shoe lace, letting you do whatever to him from hair clips in his hair to painting his nails to piggy back rides he doesn’t want to admit sends him practically into cardiac arrest. he might not be perfect, far from it in his insecurity mind that creeps and bites away at every sweet moment, criticising his every move - but for you, he’ll keep trying as much as he does for football to be the only one for you. he’ll memorise every bit of you - your favourite food and orders at shops you frequent with him kept in the notes app in his phone that is underneath a layer of password, the exact shape and mould of your body that he melts his hand right into on afternoons like this where you’re within arms range as he embraces you, each and every of your small quirk - from the way your voice leaves your mouth so sweetly and perfectly as though youre carved and made y god himself, from the way you move that has him hypnotised, from the way you look at him that dries his mouth and practically sends him right into heaven. he’ll serve you as a knight would - carry all your things without hesitation as you two walk out of class on top of the strangely heavy school bag on his shoulder, shield you with an umbrella from the cold and harsh rain that leaves the other him completely drenched as you reach completely dry, hell, he’ll ride his bicycle. with you right beside him hugging him that practically could leave his nose bleeding.

he may not be the best boyfriend, but he’ll do whatever it takes to be the only one you’ll ever have - your name practically tattooed right inside his heart and brain with not a single spot for anyone else in his life that he built a wall sky high to protect his heart, the key to his world given right to you and several others just in case you lose it, and your face in his mind every single second on the field with only a wish to do it for you with every step and every kick that lands right into the goalpost. now that he knows what loneliness is like, the days in blue lock where he can only see you through photos you so kindly send him, he doesn’t ever want this to change no matter how selfish it is - he thinks he might simply die from heartbreak alone with you being his real heart compared to his biological one, he thinks he’ll practically be left a shell of his previous ambitious self practically wasting his life away in his room listening to that playlist as he lies right with his own blood pooling around him with his guts and organs strewn a haphazardly around him as though hes back on that field that winter, he’ll no longer be itoshi rin, anyone but his true self that he can be only with you.

but for now, he’ll bury his head right into your chest, your hands still ruffling with his hair, ignoring the thoughts in his mind in favour of your heartbeat that still syncs up with his, melting right into this moment.

[mcdynamite]

When everything settles down after Vecnapocalypse, Steve gets a call from the athletic director at Hawkins High School, and a day later, he accepts a part-time position as the assistant coach of the Hawkins High varsity basketball team.

Lucas is obviously stoked, and the other kids concede (after a few minutes of bemoaning Steve's return to the Dark Side) that it's a perfect job for him. Robin screeches with delight, and Nancy tells him she's proud of him, and Jonathan thumps him on the back with a quiet, "Congrats, man," and Eddie?

Well, Eddie just rolls his eyes and makes a joke about the Return of the King that goes right over Steve's head (but has the kids and, wouldn't ya know it, Nancy, grinning) and doesn't say much else.

It's probably stupid, but Eddie has actually (horrifyingly) grown to like hanging out with Steve. Sure, he knows next to nothing about D&D or Lord of the Rings or metal music, but that doesn't seem to matter all that much. He still listens to Eddie rant about all of those aforementioned interests and does his best to understand, even if he doesn't particularly care about the content of Eddie's latest campaign. He lets Eddie play Dio and Metallica and Black Sabbath for him, and even though Eddie can tell he's not really into most of their music, at the end of his "Musication" he gives Eddie a list of the songs he actually liked, so they have some stuff to listen to when they hang out that won't make one of them want to puncture their own eardrums.

He even looks genuinely apologetic (and, dare Eddie say, disappointed?) when he tells Eddie that it's not that he doesn't want to read Lord of the Rings. It's just that he can't, because reading is really fucking hard when the letters won't stop jumping all over the damn place.

The point is: Eddie likes Steve. He likes Steve's sarcastic quips and his attentiveness, and his hilarious but well-meaning and frighteningly successful mothering of the teenagers they apparently co-parent. Eddie likes Steve, and he likes being his friend, and he's afraid that this stupid Assistant Coach job will end up dragging Steve headfirst back into his King Steve days, and Steve will forget all about being friends with Eddie "The Freak" Munson.

It's so, so stupid, because while Eddie likes Steve, he also knows Steve, and he knows that Steve isn't the guy who used to hang around the Tommy Hagans of the world anymore. But the fear is there, and it's still there by the time the school year starts and Steve starts getting busy "prepping" for his new job, which... what? The basketball season doesn't start until January, so what the hell kind of prep would Steve be starting in August?

Eddie wonders, but he doesn't ask. He just anxiously waits to see if Steve will eventually decide to ditch him, and he continues to be quietly delighted when Steve always, always makes time for the two of them to hang out.

The thought of Steve going back into jock-mode still makes him kinda sick, but he'll never tell Steve that. Steve is way too excited for the start of the basketball season, and Eddie is gonna support him the same way Steve supports Eddie at his Corroded Coffin concerts: with begrudging interest and genuine pride, so help him God.

It goes on like this until one day, Eddie's begrudging interest suddenly becomes a little more genuine, when he accidentally stumbles upon what Steve meant for the last three months whenever he said he was "prepping for the season." 

He's got plans to hang out with Steve that afternoon, pulling up in his van fifteen minutes late because time management has never been one of his strong suits. Only, when he gets to Casa Harrington, he notices something strange. The garage is open.

The thing is, Steve always parks the Beemer in the driveway. He never uses the garage. Actually, Eddie didn't even realize Steve had a garage at all, until now, but he hears some clanging coming from inside and goes to investigate. He walks past the Beemer (parked in the driveway where it always is) and peers inside, expecting to maybe find Steve... repairing something? Reorganizing? Honestly, he has no clue what he thinks he'll find in there.

What he definitely doesn't expect to find is Steve Harrington in the middle of what appears to be a pretty fucking intense workout – hair and tank top damp with sweat, wearing frankly indecently short shorts, and breathing steadily as he does fucking pull-ups on the bar in his garage, which has apparently been converted into a whole goddamn home gym.

Eddie stops in his tracks and stares, affording himself a moment or two to have a teeny, tiny (enormous) crisis over it.

Steve hasn't noticed him yet, and Eddie can't tear his stupid eyes away from the way Steve's arms tremble from the exertion as he pulls himself up, face pinched into a concentrated frown. Eddie can see him gritting his teeth, can see the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining a little bit. Even worse, every time Steve lowers himself down, his stupid tank top rides up just enough to expose the (not at all soft, apparently) plains of his stomach, glistening with sweat, and God, Eddie wants to lick Steve fucking Harrington's abs like a-

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck no.

Oh, Jesus H. Christ, fucking shit, NO.

Listen... It's not like Eddie hasn't already known for years that he's gay. He's been fully aware of that since middle school. It's the reason his dad kicked him out and sent him to live with Wayne, for fuck's sake. It's just that Eddie has put a lot of effort into pretending his thoughts about Steve Harrington were totally, completely, 100% platonic up until this point, and now he can feel all of that hard work going down the metaphorical drain.

He stands there, stock still with his jaw hinged open, and stares while his brain melts out of his ears and his thoughts begin to race. God, those fucking arms. Eddie's not weak, but he's definitely weaker than Steve, which means Steve could definitely pin Eddie down if he wanted to. In a bed. Against the wall. On the hood of a car. Fuck, on the goddamn floor – Eddie's not picky! All he knows is that he wants Steve to leave the workout for later so Eddie can lick the sweat off of him, which... gross. But also hot. But also-

"Eddie?"

Oh, fuck. How does one talk to the sun?

Steve has noticed him standing there, obviously, which sort of makes Eddie wonder how long he's been staring. Time stopped in Eddie's world the moment a sweaty Steve Harrington entered his field of vision, so he truly has no idea how bad his staring got.

Christ, this is going to be so bad.

So, so bad.

"Eds?" Steve says, his face pinching into a frown. "You okay?"

Oh my god, you moron, say something! Eddie's brain screams at him.

"What?" Smooth. "Uh, yeah! Totally fine. Just, y'know, like, lost in thought, or whatever. Plotting my next demonic attempt at world domination. The usual."

Steve looks at him like he's grown a second head, which... is fair. But Eddie's fumbling attempt at speech is at least embarrassing enough to take precedence over the cacophonous sound of whatever Ode to Abs his mind was attempting to compose, and Eddie feels like he can think a little more clearly.

"Ah, fuck," Eddie mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs and looks at Steve apologetically. "I'm sorry, dude. I swear I'm fine. It's just been a weird day."

Steve cocks his head to the side like a particularly inquisitive puppy, and oh God, it's adorable. Eddie loathes how adorable it is. "Good weird?" Steve asks. "Or bad weird?"

Eddie ponders his answer for a moment, then replies with, "Weird weird."

That's enough to startle a laugh out of Steve, who shakes his head and wraps a towel around his neck. "Fair enough, man. Sorry about all of this, by the way." He gestures vaguely towards the home gym in his garage and shrugs sheepishly. "I was gonna be done before you got here but I sorta... lost track of time, I guess." He's got an unreadable look on his stupidly beautiful face, and Eddie doesn't like that at all. He doesn't like that one bit.

But he decides not to overthink it and brushes Steve's apology off with a wave of his hand. "It's whatever, dude. Might wanna shower, though." The ‘otherwise I might take it upon my gay little self to lick you clean’ is left blessedly unsaid.

Steve laughs again, and just like that, things start to feel a bit less earth-shattering. They banter for a bit longer, then Steve really does go to take a quick shower, and they spend the rest of the night lying on the floor of Steve's living room, listening to the metal mix tape they made together and bitching about their brood of teenagers.

Weirdly, though, after that day, Steve seems to be working out a lot more frequently. As in almost every single time he and Eddie have plans. Day after day, Eddie is treated to the sight of Steve Harrington looking like a goddamn Greek god, and day after day, Steve catches his eye and smiles before abandoning his equipment and acting like Eddie's world hasn't been completely turned on its head.

It's starting to drive him kind of insane, honestly, and his pining has gotten so bad that even Gareth and Jeff know.

"He's just so pretty!" Eddie whines for what feels like the thousandth time.

His band mates simply exchange a long-suffering look and let him ramble.

It all comes to a head in November, just before Thanksgiving, when Eddie shows up and once again finds Steve finishing a workout. Just like always, Steve shoots him a good-natured grin and greets him before heading inside for a quick shower, and just like always, Eddie waits downstairs.

NOT like always, however, this time Steve comes jogging down the stairs with wet hair, wearing a pair of joggers and... absolutely nothing else.

It's been a long time since Eddie last saw Steve without a shirt on (since the day at Lover's Lake when they found watergate, to be precise), and suddenly Eddie is remembering why he'd immediately pulled out a cigarette to calm down that day. Only this time it's even worse, because Steve has really been putting effort into these workouts, and it shows.

His chest is toned and covered in coarse hair that Eddie kind of wants to tug on, just to see what sort of sounds Steve would make if he did. He's got the makings of an honest-to-God six pack just barely visible on his abdomen, partially obscured by scars Eddie recognizes from looking at his own in the mirror. Steve's are slightly smaller and not as deep, but they clearly came from the same sets of tiny jaws, and Eddie finds them weirdly comforting, these matching scars that they share. Steve's look pale in contrast against his skin, and God, Eddie just wants to kiss them. He wants to worship them and every other inch of the man who bears them.

The man who definitely just said something Eddie didn't hear because he was too busy trying not to pass out from mere proximity to something so beautiful.

"Sorry, what?" Eddie asks, shaking his head violently in an attempt to dispel his traitorous thoughts.

Steve smirks, but Eddie can see the soft fondness in his eyes when he cocks his head to the side and repeats the words Eddie missed the first time. "I asked if you see something you like, Munson," Steve teases, one hand carding wet hair out of his face, and Eddie just blinks at him.

Play it off, play it off, play it off, his brain supplies helpfully. He can totally play this off. Dudes stare at their friends’ chests all the time, right?

"What?" he practically squeaks. "I- well... no, wait, um... ah, fuck."

So much for plausible deniability.

He's just beginning to feel vaguely panicky when Steve seems to catch on, and he's right in front of Eddie in an instant, concerned, hazel eyes gazing down at Eddie's grimacing face.

"Hey," Steve says, reaching out like he wants to touch Eddie but thinks better of it. "It's okay, man. You're okay. I'm just messing with you."

The impact of his words is instant, and Eddie can feel his face heating up. Of course Steve was joking. God, Eddie is such an idiot.

"Right," Eddie says, voice strained. He rubs his face with both hands, shaking his head lightly. "Duh. Obviously you were teasing." His voice sounds strange even to his own ears, and he's got a weird feeling of anticipation in his stomach that tells him that he's already shown too many of his cards.

"I mean, yeah..." Steve says, seeming nervous for the first time since Eddie got here. His hands flit from the back of his neck to his hair to his waist, like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Teasing is, like, flirting 101, so..."

Eddie freezes.

"Oh my God, wait..." he says slowly, finally daring to meet Steve's confused eyes. "Flirting?"

Steve looks utterly perplexed now, and he does that thing where he cocks his head to the side in confusion. 

It's still adorable. Fuck, why is it so adorable? 

"Um... yes?" He studies Eddie, seems to register the shock on his face, and then matches it with shock of his own. "Wait, you didn't know? I thought you knew!"

"I most certainly did not!" Eddie counters, feeling a bit like he's having an out-of-body experience.

"Oh my God," Steve says. "Oh my God, Eddie, I've been flirting with you for, like, months!"

"Months?!" Eddie's voice has officially reached the stratosphere.

"Yes!" Steve yelps. He looks torn between laughing and crying, though Eddie thinks it'll be mildly hilarious no matter what choice he makes. "Jesus, dude, I winked at you while I was doing pull-ups last week! What did you think that was?"

"A hallucination!" Eddie says immediately. "You're straight, Harrington!"

At that, Steve snorts, then shakes his head.

Eddie's pretty sure his brain is melting by now.

"Yeah, um, no," Steve says firmly. "I'm definitely not straight."

"You... I... What? Since when?"

"Well..." Steve begins, briefly glancing away. "Since forever, technically. Probably. But officially, since that time I made out with Tommy H. after we got wasted at a party sophomore year. And if that wasn't enough proof, I think the amount of time I’ve spent staring at your ass lately definitely is."

Eddie stares at him. "Am I dead?" he asks dumbly. "Is this Heaven? Am I having a fucking stroke?"

Steve's laughter is bright when it rings through his living room, and Eddie is grateful when Steve carefully raises a hand to cup his cheek, because the soft touch is grounding in the best way. 

"Definitely not dead, Eds," Steve says. "And shit, I hope you're not having a stroke. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Eddie just blinks at him, because Steve has one hand on Eddie's cheek and the other on Eddie's arm, and he's definitely not holding up any fingers. "Zero, Harrington, what the fuck?" he says weakly.

Steve laughs – no, scratch that, he giggles. He fucking giggles. 

If Eddie isn't dead yet, he's about to be. 

"Good. See?" Steve says. "Not having a stroke."

"I don't think that's how strokes work, dude," Eddie says weakly.

"No?" Steve asks, though he's still smiling, and he looks wholly unbothered by Eddie's doubting of his medical prowess.

Eddie shakes his head, eyes wide as Steve huffs out a laugh and slips an arm around his waist to pull him closer. They're practically chest to chest now, and Eddie is suddenly reminded of how very shirtless Steve currently is. He's mildly horrified by the way his hands tremble slightly when he rests them flat against the center of Steve's chest, but it's not like anyone can blame him! He's only ever kissed a couple of people before, and now he's somehow found himself in the arms of a half naked Steve Harrington. So, yeah, he's feeling a little jittery. Sue him.

If Steve notices the jitters, though, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he gives Eddie a soft, disarming smile that makes Eddie feel pathetically weak at the knees. "So..." Steve says, cheeks turning a pretty pink color. "Hi."

A slightly manic bark of laughter bursts from Eddie's lungs, but it only seems to make Steve smile wider. "Yeah, hi, Stevie," Eddie breathes. 

And then he nearly stops breathing completely when Steve's thumb drags gently across his cheek. It's such a sweet gesture that Eddie thinks he might melt right into the floorboards.

"So..." Steve murmurs again, gaze not leaving Eddie's. "It has recently been brought to my attention that you didn't realize I was flirting with you this whole time."

Eddie doesn't need a mirror to know that his face flushes bright red at Steve's words.

"But I have been," Steve continues. He bites his lip, almost like he's nervous, which is ridiculous because what the fuck is there about Eddie that could be making Steve Harrington nervous right now? "Like, I've been doing it constantly, because you're funny, and sweet, and sort of adorable, but also kinda hot? Y'know, because you have the tattoos and stuff, and you're all dramatic all the time, and it's hot, but then sometimes you do that thing where you hide your face behind your hair, and it's so fucking cute, Eddie, I mean..."

Steve trails off, cheeks growing even pinker after seemingly realizing that he's been rambling, and Eddie feels like he's going insane.

"Anyway," Steve says, clearing his throat. "I like you, Eddie. Like, a lot. And I've sort of been dying to kiss you for, like, months, so-"

Eddie never lets Steve finish his sentence, because the moment the word kiss leaves his mouth, Eddie is leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a soft, fleeting kiss that's over far too fast.

So fast, in fact, that it takes a moment for reality to catch up to Eddie afterwards. He's already pulling away by the time it hits him: he just kissed Steve Harrington.

He, Eddie fucking Munson, just kissed Steve fucking Harrington.

"Holy shit," Eddie mutters, gaze flitting back and forth between Steve's wide eyes. "Holy shit."

There's a brief pause, and then Steve starts to laugh.

It starts as a soft chuckle and slowly transforms into bright, elated laughter that echoes off the walls and bathes the whole room in sunlight, never mind the rainy day outside. It's light and happy and beautiful, and Eddie unfreezes after a moment to add his own laughter to the mix. He drops his head onto Steve's shoulder, a shiver running down his spine when Steve's arms come around him automatically, like they were made to fit together like this.

Eddie wonders if maybe they were.

When their laughter finally dies down, Steve carefully pulls back just enough to meet Eddie's eyes again, and Eddie smiles shyly up at him.

"Sorry," Eddie says without a hint of guilt in his voice. "You said the word kiss and I panicked."

Steve just shakes his head and grins. "See? Like I said - adorable." One of his hands raises to cradle Eddie's cheek again, and Eddie doesn't hesitate before leaning into the touch. "But if it's okay with you," Steve says softly, “I'd really like to give you a proper kiss, now."

And yep, it's official. Steve Harrington is going to be the death of him.

Eddie can't fucking wait.

He nods and lets his gaze flit down to Steve's lips for a fraction of a second before Steve is closing the distance between them, and oh... this is so much better than the quick, vaguely frantic press of lips they exchanged only a few moments ago. Eddie takes back every judgemental comment he's ever made about the girls who were obsessed with Steve Harrington in high school, because he gets it now.

Oh, God, he gets it.

Because Steve kisses him, soft and sure, like Eddie is the only thing that matters in all the world. It's gentle and sweet and perfect – not an ounce of hesitation in the way Steve slots their lips together. And then Steve just... stays there, like he's giving Eddie a moment to catch up, to process what's happening.

He's so goddamn patient – so fucking kind – and Christ, Eddie adores him for it.

Steve pulls back just enough to break the kiss, and Eddie doesn't whine. He doesn't. But it's okay, because Steve doesn't leave him hanging for long, threading his fingers through Eddie's curls and using them as leverage to tug him even closer into a kiss that turns Eddie's legs to jelly. Steve's tongue slides against Eddie's so beautifully, and his hands are so strong, and he smells like lemony soap and minty toothpaste (did Steve brush his teeth after showering? God, he's ridiculous. He’s perfect.) and Eddie can feel the muscles in Steve's chest shift whenever they move, and, and, and...

And yeah, this time when Steve pulls away, breath coming quicker and eyes shining with happiness, Eddie does whine. Or maybe it's a whimper. Maybe it's both. Christ, Eddie doesn't care. He'll keep making that noise forever if Steve keeps looking at him like this.

"Fuck," Eddie breathes. He knows he probably looks embarrassingly awestruck, but he can't find it in himself to care. "How are you so fucking hot, Steve? What the fuck?" His face is on fire, but Steve just laughs – nope, there's that giggle again – and kisses Eddie's forehead.

Eddie's pretty sure he's melting, but honestly? Worth it.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Steve teases, "but I've actually been working out a lot lately..."

Not even Eddie's lovesickness could protect Steve from the playful smack he gets for that.

"Did I notice?" Eddie huffs. "You're the worst, Harrington."

Steve just smiles and kisses him again.

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[cupids-chamber]

Y/N: I love murder mysteries!

Floyd, trying to impress them: I've been a suspect in four murder cases.

[r-vera]

Trust me

Summary- Benedict has been acting weird because of an incident involving one of his muses (she attempted to sa him). Reader tried to gently coax him out of his ‘bubble’ though it was no use until she tried to touch him, earning her a jolt.

Rating- Mature (16+)

Paring- Benedict Bridgerton x female!reader

Warnings- Angst, talks of se***l assault, fluff, slight language, established relationship, happy ending (hopefully that’s all)

Words- 1,841

“Daph, may I ask you something?” you quipped quite unexpectedly. Both you and Daphne were basking in this season’s summer heat from inside Clyvedon Castle’s drawing room, enjoying a rather nice cup of tea. Daphne had decided her time being a Duchess was well-earned for now and was in desperate need of her family’s boastful laughs and silly jests—not to mention their hectic dinners—to indulge her once again. You were especially excited for her visit, not only because you had a chance to see Daph’s little bundle of joy, but because you and she were very close, even before the Duke himself. Childhood friends. You remember all those years ago when you tried to encourage her relationship with the Duke, supporting him over the charming but ‘bland’ prince. She reciprocated her feelings, knowing your deep affection for her big brother, Benedict, and desperately tried to get both of you to admit your stubborn feelings for each other. Her efforts successfully paid off, resulting in the love-bird couple getting married two weeks after their confessions.

It was almost the reason you set up a little date with your friend. Your relationship with Benedict had somehow…shifted? You didn’t want to jump to conclusions before talking with your husband; you knew he preferred some space at times, especially if an idea popped into his creative brain and he wanted to sketch or paint it out before the thought could disappear as soon as it came. But this time…this time felt off. Your first hint was waking up to a cold and empty bed, though you passed it off as a little accident from him staying up late painting (it’s usually when he feels most creative), but then those cold mornings became continuous. You felt it was best to leave it as it was, for now—not exactly avoiding the situation but analyzing it for a deeper reasoning. In the afternoon, when the family mostly had time to take a break from important activities, you would greet your husband with a simple “Hello love” or “Have a wonderful evening, Ben,” but it only resulted in brief nods and odd grunts he never let out before. It was a breaking point when he stayed out the whole evening, never coming back until early morning, only making eye contact with you for the first time at breakfast. You never wanted to jump to conclusions with him, but there was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that whatever was troubling him could not be good and would only be revealed if you gently guided him to confess.

“Of course, dear sister,” she said with adoration. “What has been on your mind?” You played with the embroidery on your dress, encouraging yourself to say what had been on your mind for the past week.

“Has Benedict been acting a bit…strange around me?” You could tell your husband had no problems with his family; in fact, you noticed he’d been engaging with them more than he used to. It only added more slight hurt and suspicion to your heart, knowing the problem was most likely you. Your friend only added more salt to the wound when a poorly concealed look of guilt was etched onto her face. Shaking your head, you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to pour from your burning eyes. So it is you. You’re the reason he’s been acting this way; you're the reason he can’t so much as look you in the eye with adoration and instead, uncomfortablene-

“Now, now, I didn’t say I know the reason why he has been acting this way…just that I have noticed,” she said, placing a gloved hand on top of your fidgeting bare ones.

“Have I done something wrong, Daph? Did I disrespect him in any way? Could it be the time I accidentally took the last blueberry tart that one day? I swear I didn’t know that was the last of them!” You remembered his frustration when he found out who ate his favorite dessert that only came seasonally, but he told you it was perfectly fine, blaming himself for not getting to them fast enough. Daphne only smiled at your silly accusation; this was a serious matter, of course, but it was nice to see you deeply care for her brother and his feelings, even going as far as to think of the tiniest times something conflicting had happened between you two.

“It couldn’t possibly be because of something so little and, dare I say, pointless,” Daphne moved closer to you, grabbing both of your hands in the process. “Tell me, when was the last time he acted normal towards you?” You tried to recall, surfing past a week of old memories until focusing on a time when he told you quite happily about a new art project that consisted of a new muse he met at one of the diversified functions he (now rarely) went to. You knew where Benedict’s heart lay and had no problem with who he used for his artistic designs whatsoever, so using another woman for his professional acts never triggered you.

“Well, he was boasting to me about finding a new muse for some artwork before going to bed, and then after his first encounter with the woman, that was when he started to act strange.” Daphne hummed, understanding your words carefully.

“Now, I don’t want to worry you, but maybe his actions have something to do with this muse.” You tried to ignore the deep pang of nervousness within your chest. No. Ben is never the type of person to commit such a vile act.

“I won’t jump to conclusions, but somehow I need to talk with him.” Your dear friend only nodded in agreement.

“It is all you can do, sister. Benedict can have some trouble confessing things that do not relate to others, but with a gentle push, he’ll pour everything he’s tried to conceal out like a waterfall, so don’t try to drown.” She teased with a slight squeeze of your hands, trying to lighten the dark conversation.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

It was now late evening. Most Bridgertons had called it a night, preparing for the next activities that awaited them the next day; meanwhile, you awaited your husband in your shared chambers, sitting on the foot of the bed in your cream nightgown, one of Ben’s favorites. Your husband awkwardly met with you after another time at the bar with Anthony. He stood in front of the entryway, tugging on the collar of his suit as if a hand was wrapped around his throat, stubbornly staying there. You immediately arose from your position, too nervous to say anything that would get him to abruptly leave like other times.

“Ben…” you whispered softly, unintentionally reaching out a delicate hand in the hope he’d grab it and hug you like he never had before and all would be well, but instead, you received a firm nod and a fast-paced walk toward the water closet. “Benedict!” you demanded more firmly, grabbing his hand in the process, but he instantly removed it from your grasp like it was the hottest thing in the world. Benedict stumbled back, wide-eyed with unstable breaths, heart pounding from the touch. You stood where you were, not knowing what to do. Never had he purposely removed your touch; never so quickly and with a face of horror. “What have I done?” you mumbled more to yourself.

Benedict hesitantly said your name but was quickly cut off by your pained voice. “What did you do that day in your art room with that…woman?” you cautiously crept closer to your husband, too afraid he would jerk away once again. Benedict looked as if he was on the verge of vomiting, cringing when you mentioned ‘woman.’

“N-Nothing, love.” Love. The kind and adoring word felt forced and bland coming from him. It only made you inwardly cry once more.

“Benedict, you must tell me. Whatever it is; I won’t get mad. I swear it.” It was like a wave of guilt, hurt, and resentment came crashing out of a dam he tried so desperately to hold back. His eyes were now red and irritated with tears threatening to spill. It was as if his knees had a mind of their own and felt the need to give out, and before he came crashing down, you were there to hold him and gently place yourselves on the carpeted ground. You cradled him, caressed him, gently whispered comforting nothings in his ear—anything and everything to ensure he was alright and safe.

“I-I never meant to hurt you, angel,” he croaked out through his sobs. You shook your head, almost on the verge of tears yourself.

“You can never truly hurt me, Ben; who did this to you? Was it the woman? What did she do?” you questioned wholeheartedly. Benedict cleared his throat while lifting his head to meet your eyes, your slight nod encouraging him to release the burden that had been locked up within his soul for the past week.

“She…She touched me.”

“Touched you?” you repeated, knowing exactly what he implied. You couldn’t bear the culpability to engross your body. You selfishly thought, though very little, that whatever was going on between him and the muse was…intimate, but in true reality, your husband had been assaulted. Your hold on Ben tightened, silently apologizing to his heart over and over again.

“I tried to tell her to stop…I tried to yell, scream, shout ‘stop,’ but every time the word formed in my mouth, it…it melted. I was scared, only thinking about how you would feel if I,” he paused, “if I told you what she tried to do to me. My mother knocked on the door before anything further happened, and I never felt more grateful in my entire life.” You speechlessly cradled your hands on either side of his face, connecting your heads as one.

“Don’t ever be afraid to come to me when you need help, my heart,” you soothed. “I’m sorry for trying to touch you, and I respect it if you would like more space. I’ll find a guest chamber tonight if I have to,” you said before releasing your hold from Benedict, though he grabbed one of your hands and rested it on top of his.

“There's no need. I think I’m alright now, a little jittery but okay. I need you by my side more than ever now.”

“And I’ll be there every step, Ben.” Your smile slowly turned down at the thought of that imbecile of a woman. “I will kill her even if the whole ton watches. Fuck society, fuck Whistledown,” you seethed. Benedict breathed out a chuckle at your antics.

“Though I would have loved to see that, it’s already dealt with.” You ‘awed’ in partial defeat, making your husband laugh more.

“I love you, Benedict. Never forget that,” you demanded sincerely with every nerve and fiber in your body.

“I love you. Never forget it either.”

Authors note: Hey guys! This is my very first complete oneshot and I’m pretty proud of it. It might have some flaws in there but hopefully, I can learn about them and get better. Please tell me if there are any errors or actions that don’t align with the character's personalities and I’ll fix them as soon as possible! Thank you!

Ps, I don’t really know Benedict’s feelings when sad/hurt since he’s kind of a genuine, playful, and overall comfort character in the show so hopefully I got that down but like I said please let me know if anything’s wrong with the short story!!

[localcanadiancreature62]

My Thoughts on Fiddlestan

Okay you people are literally all or nothing with these mfs,like it's either all gut wretching angst or all tooth rotting fluff. So i raise you,"what if it was both?" aka i made them have a good time but they also have Issues ✨. @misteria247 you might wanna see this one cuz i know you love Fiddlestan lol.

So first things first,their first meeting. They would meet soon after the portal incident when Fidds' sanity is slowly starting to slip from the first several usages of the memory gun and he ends up going to Ford's house after having a vague familiarity with the place as well as a desire to make amends with his friend while he still remembers him,only for him to see Stan at the door. A man wearing his best friend's face. Stan lets the guy in while still keeping the ruse of pretending to be his brother after he just faked his death,trying his hardest to pretend that he knows what Fidds is talking about regarding the portal and Ford's time in college.

A few weeks pass,and Fidds get the slight suspicion that he's not actually talking to Ford as "Ford" brushes off his science-y ramblings with "I don't understand" or "I'm too tired to hear about it maybe later",when he knew that the real Ford would know exactly what he's talking about regarding his ideas for modern computers or Schrodinger's cat as well as gladly ramble along with him even if it's 2am at the time instead of ignoring it. He also realizes that "Ford" surprisingly knows nothing about anomalies and either tries to shoo creatures away or just beats the hell out of them rather than studying them whenever they have an encounter with gnomes or something,plus the fact that he gets jumpy whenever an eye-bat appears. Fidds is still sane enough to notice these "tells" and so he confronts the man about it despite Stan already being nervous about not being able to keep up the act. Stan decides to come clean after the southern man literally backed him into a corner while interrogating him about who he is and where the real Stanford is,he explains the truth about Ford's disappearance and that he's trying to fix the portal while having no idea about how his brother's science mumbo jumbo works. Fidds' expression of anger and fear changes into guilt sympathy and even intrigue as he regrets trying to aggressively gouge the man for answers,when the grifter turned out to care about Ford all along instead of selfishly stealing his life for success. He wondered about Stan's relation to Ford and the man explains that he's Ford's twin brother and that they had a rough patch in their brotherly relationship which lead to this whole mess. Fidds then offers to help fix the portal since he's the one who co built it and Stan couldn't be more than happy,although with the condition of no more lies as that impersonation fiasco genuinely scared him which Stan agrees to. They didn't get along at first with Stan's stubborn personality and tendency to tease others at random while Fidds was just really tired and he wanted to get Ford back so that he can get out of this whole mess,but they managed.

Throughout the building of the portal,the two begin to bond regarding their history with Ford and how the man inadvertently screwed them over with his ego. Then talking about how they always felt inferior in comparison to everyone else (Stan with Ford,Fidds with his rough and tumble ranch family who roughhoused constantly while he was a scrawny nerd),discovering that they weren't so different as they thought. Stan ends up taking his partnership with Fiddleford more seriously as he soon realizes that they only have each other,while Fidds starts to humor Stan's teasing and occasional goofing off since he doesn't have anyone else to turn to with Emma may and Tate still refusing contact from him ever since the divorce (just so that Fidds wouldn't yknow. cheat on his wife). They soon become friends who often look out for each other with Stan trying to stop Fidds from overworking himself while Fidds teaches Stan about quantum physics as he tries really hard to understand despite being the "dumb" twin.

Fidds' use of the memory gun becomes less frequent as he didn't have a reason to blast himself with it anymore due to finally having someone that understands his troubles with Ford and the darn triangle feller,no longer feeling as though he had to forget everything as he had someone to talk to about all of this (i mean in canon he wouldn't never went insane if Ford fucking talked to him and explained why he's still going through with the portal with his desperate desire for approval). Stan sees his steadfast love and support be appreciated by someone besides his ungrateful brother,while Fidds sees his unwavering loyalty and handmade gifts be cherished by someone who cares rather than ignored by his egotistical friend.

The fact that the two found someone who cared even when they have their own troubles means a lot to them,this steadfast love and concern was what made Fidds and Stan slowly fall for each other. Stan finally found someone who appreciates him and sees him as worthy even with his many mistakes or occasional stupidity while Fidds finally found someone who won't waste his loyalty and kindness in favor of their own selfish wishes (*cough* Ford *cough*). They're finally happy,after dealing with so much pain. They had their happy ending,or did they? 😏.

While they WERE in a healthy and loving relationship,things weren't all sunshine and rainbows. Stan outright refuses to talk about his problems in fear of being a burden to his nerd plus the emotional walls he put up were too strong even when he tries to be open toward the southern man which always ends in him not wanting to talk about it,meanwhile Fidds opts to metaphorically run away from his issues by using the memory gun to forget every argument and misunderstanding he had with the drifter (which were mostly caused by the memory gun in the first place). Whenever they have a problem with something that the other does that isn't related to the portal,they don't set boundaries they don't talk about it they don't confront the other about it,they do NOTHING.

Fidds slowly starts to go insane again as he starts forgetting about Stan at times with his use of the memory gun whenever they have an argument which is a LOT of arguments as every couple doesn't always agree with each other,he lashes out and has a paranoia episode over either imagining Stan being a stranger that wants to hurt him or him being Ford that wants to take revenge on him for quitting the project which obviously upsets the drifter but he doesn't do anything about it as he cannot afford to lose the one thing he has left because of his dumb problems (little does he know,is that he's already doing it. he's already losing Fidds cuz of his issues). Stan on the other hand,starts treating Fiddleford with the same codependency that he gave Ford with him expecting the hillbilly to always be there for him and always put HIS interests at heart despite the man having his own wants and needs with his Mcgucket Labs project. Thus Fidds is being taken for granted again while Stan is confused and angry over why this hick is ignoring him and trying to abandon him like Ford did (Stanley your brother issues are showing).

It only gets worse in the moments culminating to Fidds' insanity,where Stan doesn't even know who his hillbilly partner anymore while Fidds is completely unaware of the torment he's putting Stan through with his erratic behavior and amnesiac ramblings. Stan was there for the tapes,he was behind the camera with every transition as the southern man told him it was a little experiment regarding the memory gun and he believed that at first only to soon realize that Fidds was literally frying his own brain with that gun after reading his notes about the electricity that erases the memories plus the side effects of prolonged use. By the time Fidds had that car crash,he quit the project again and stopped seeing Stan as he left the drifter alone to fix the portal by himself albeit with more knowledge of how it works due to the various quantum mechanics lessons the man drilled into him. He just needed to figure out the elaborate codes to actually activate it. Stan missed Fidds as he was guilty about their last interaction being an argument about the memory gun and even encountered him but with a new red robe while the man went on and on about some memory cult,but he knew that the man is too far gone for him to make amends with.

Stan then ended up using Fidds' Mcgucket Labs money to support himself but then he realized that it won't be enough as that business was just a start up gig that didn't had the chance to become successful due to the portal and the memory gun,so he had to come up with another way to survive all alone. Then he went to the Dusk 2 Dawn convenience store and saw that everyone was interested in Ford's weird mad scientist house,taking everyone there as he saw that people's interest in the freaky things in that house would make great revenue for him. The Mystery Shack (originally the Murder Hut) was born,and Stan had finally left his life of being a miserable grifter behind. However.. he still saw his Fiddleford rummage in the trash or make killer robots in the news sometimes. He yearns for what could've been yet he shakes his head as he knew what he had with the nerd was currently unsalvageable in his current insane state.

[rillils]

🌸 wakanda stucky + rich

His mother was the first to warn him, back when Steve was knee-high to a grasshopper: sometimes, things simply don’t go the way you had planned them, or wanted them to go.

If he could have had it his way, he would have laid the world’s weight in gold on Bucky’s lap. But life has a wicked sense of humor, and so Steve comes to him just as he once was: with no home, no shield, nor a penny to his name. In fact, with nothing but the name itself, and a bad reputation attached to it.

Bucky has seen him like this before, Steve knows; it’s no more and no less than Steve had for most of their lives. He won’t scorn Steve for it.

This doesn’t stop Steve’s hands from shaking when he sits with Bucky by the hearth, late in the afternoon, with dirt from the garden under his fingernails, and the smallest of three tabby kittens waging a vicious war against the toe of his boot.

“The truth is,” he confesses softly, because after all he’s done, after all he’s seen in this ever fickle world of theirs, he’d rather swallow his pride now than waste another day waiting for the right time, and risk missing his chance all over again. “I’ve got nothing to offer you. Except for. Except for myself.”

Surprisingly, Bucky laughs. It’s not scornful, though: it’s a soft, a tender sound.

He sets his mending aside, and slips his hands into Steve’s own.

The palm of his flesh hand is rough and warm, and against his skin, Steve feels the calloused fingers of a man who’s been tending to soil and cattle day after day; a man who’s been spending his evenings whittling clumsily shaped animal figurines for the neighbors’ children out of scraps of firewood, just to watch them laugh in shrill delight at his misshapen dogs, at the oddly rectangular horse he attempted last week, and the chunky little block that was supposed to be a cat, but turned out bearing a remarkable resemblance to a piglet instead.

“You think that’s nothing,” Bucky rumbles, rubbing gentle circles on Steve’s knuckle with the pad of his thumb, “but it’s everything to me.” He finds Steve’s eyes, love written openly in each crease and dimple of his features, and the heart of the heart beating in Steve’s chest clenches with the sweetest pain of all. “You’re everything to me.”

The world, Steve wishes he had enough voice to whisper now, The whole world, the sun, the stars, I’d give it all to you.

He curls his fingers around Bucky’s, slipping to the edge of his seat to rest their foreheads together.

Here he was thinking his hands were empty, and yet – they’ve never felt so full before.

[vinaxxo]

~ I LIKE YOU

Ais x reader | TOUCHSTARVED

♡ Morning after with Ais. 70% cute, 30% ….something! This was originally requested by an anon, but tumblr blew up my response to the ask.. unless it turns up on my blog later..

Tangled in dark turquoise sheets, you stirred in your sleep, feeling warm breath fan over the back of your neck. Your grogginess faded when you realized where you were and what you did last night. And at that realization, you felt your legs and back throb.

In an attempt to distance yourself from the demon, his big arm pulls your body back to his.

“Where do you think you’re going, sparrow? Are you tired of me already?” Ais whispered, voice deep with morning raspiness.

Your cheeks turned hot. Ais was even closer than before, allowing his fingers to run up your stomach. They stopped just before your chest.

“Yes.” you said casually and falsely, putting your bandaged hand over his, feeling the ridges of metal rings.

“That’s too bad. I wanna keep you here.”

I like you too much. Ais thought, absentmindedly nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your familiar smell, careful that his horns don’t collide with your face.

Both of your heartbeats synced with one another after a while. Ais could feel his deep fondness of you consuming his mind. He wanted to be by your side forever, and he wasn’t sure that you felt the same until you lifted his tattooed hand to your mouth, leaving a feather kiss.

He had the slight impulse to push his fingers into your mouth— a vivid, lewd fantasy flashing before his eyes before your grip on his hand tightened slightly, snapping him back to reality.

You were scared to lose Ais to the cruel world of Eridia, but even more so to your curse. And yet, he was never afraid to touch you. He never hesitated to lay his large hands where he could, his faith in your bandages unshakable.

“I like you a lot, Sparrow.” Ais smiled, enclosing your hand with his fingers. You allowed his fingers to lace into yours, your bodies fitting together like a perfect puzzle. Everything was right.

“I like you a lot, too...” You replied quietly, catching the dim red glow of Ais’ eyes to your side. You felt him staring up at you from beside your body, a slight chill slipping down your spine. He stayed like that, staring, for an eerie amount of time before grinning.

“I’m glad the feeling’s mutual.” Ais mused, somehow pulling you even closer than before, as if your body was able to sink into his, the line of friend and lover between you and the demon blurred.

Though Ais was an honest guy, you had an inkling of doubt about the good he could do for your curse. He hasn’t harmed you thus far, was it so bad to just give in to him?

[xxlady-lunaxx]

??? sanemi still having a picture of his family all together (he cut out kyogo) and like. keeping it in his house. and genya coming over because gyomei forced sanemi to make them bond and sanemi leaving for, like, two seconds to find a wooden katana to beat genya up with only to find genya practically sobbing over the picture (he didn’t have any and it’s the first time he’s seen his family in years and there’s young sanemi hugging genya and—)… sanemi def kicked him out, snatching the picture back protectively and slamming the door on him

[uhhlifeig]

Soul - October 26 - word count: 290 - @wolfstarmicrofic

“Moony,” Sirius declared one Saturday morning at breakfast, “I’ve been thinking. You’re my soulmate.”

Remus glanced up, brow raised, while James choked with laughter.

“Oh, here we go,” the deer animagus muttered, wiping milk off his chin.

“Yes,” Sirius continued, ignoring James completely, “you, Remus John Lupin, are my one true soulmate.”

The werewolf looked skeptical, hiding a smile. “Oh? Is that so? And why’s that, exactly?”

“Because!” the dog animagus said dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “You take my wooly socks, you eat my biscuits, and yet I still feel this pull. This… connection that transcends mortality.” 

He put a hand over his heart and closed his eyes. “We have been bound together in every universe.”

James snorted. “Is this about the fact that Remus lent you his sweater?”

“No. Well… alright, maybe partially. But that’s not the point!”

Remus raised his eyebrows, amused. “So, you feel cosmically tied to me because we share snacks and borrow each other’s clothes?”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, nodding. “I’d be adrift, a sad, snackless shell of a man without you.” He clasped Remus’s hand, his expression dead serious. “With you, I am whole. Complete. Fulfilled.”

“Oh, please,” James interrupted, cackling. “This is rich. Soul bond, my foot.”

The older boy scowled at him. “You wouldn’t understand, Prongs. This is deep stuff. Cosmic.”

“Right,” James said, smirking. “You might want to tell that to Peter, then, because he just swiped the last toast from your plate.”

Sirius whipped around as Wormtail bolted away, toast clamped in his teeth. 

“TRAITOR!” the noiret bellowed, charging out of the Great Hall after him, turning quite a few heads in the process.

“Are you sure you want to be bound to him, Moony?”

“Still considering, Prongs.”

[heartlesscorpse]

JASON VOORHEES 🪓🌲🩸

IS JASON VOORHEES, IT’S HE, LOOK AT HE— yeah so Jason Voorhees decided to take up the half of my brain for some days now so I thought why not post some head canons of the tall man??? Who tf doesn’t love this guy?????? Yet another slasher to add on my masterlist, more to come of this man some time soon. >:))

Given to his experiences during childhood while staying at Crystal Lake, it’s still remains clear that Jason absolutely hates these camp counsellors, irresponsible brats just doing whatever the hell they want and not even bothering to do their actual jobs around the campground.

His opinions on them were never swayed and stayed the same, until he met you.

You IMMENSELY changed his outlook on how he regularly saw the other camp counsellors in Crystal Lake, you actually did your job rather than fool around, helped out the kids and were pretty much the only responsible one from the bunch. And you were too fucking sweet for him to handle.

Long story short he pretty much grew an unhealthy obsession towards you. <33

He kept his distance however, because he didn’t want to scare you, assuming you’d pose the same reactions as everybody else does whenever they encounter him.

Of course he’ll help get rid of whatever scum are being nasty and fucking rude to you, you’re his and his alone after all.

Jason has the big no-no on sex but does the occasional dirty thought drift about? Yes.

Man hopelessly fantasizes he could hold you in his arms, but maybe someday then it’ll come true. Right now he’ll just stick to the background and watch you from afar. No matter how painful it is :’)

Someday, god knows when, you’ll finally meet him and Jason will no longer have to deal with hiding around you. And he’s hoping you’d grow to love him too.

⋆♱✮♱⋆🔪 🩸