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solarmorrigan · 20 days ago

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Leaf Me Alone

For the @steddie-spooktober day 22 prompt: Leaves Rated: T | Words: 797 | CW: None | Tags: pre-relationship, Eddie Munson is a menace, Steve Harrington has a crush on Eddie Munson, fluff Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Steve has roughly one second of warning, coming in the form of a whoop of laughter, before the pile of leaves in front of him explodes.

“What the fuck–” He jumps back, rake held in two hands like a weapon, poised to strike at whatever threat has materialized in his front yard, only to find when the rain of dead leaves settles that it’s just– “Eddie!”

Heedless of the dangerous level of irritation in Steve’s tone, Eddie only grins back from where he lies in the middle of what had been a neatly raked pile of leaves.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t particularly sound it. “But have you seen the size of this pile? I couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the size of the pile, because I just raked it up. Dick.” Steve kicks one foot out, sending another flutter of leaves up in Eddie’s direction; Eddie bats them away with an unrepentant grin. “Do you even know how long this took me?”

“Oh, at least an hour, I’d imagine,” Eddie says airily, beginning to sweep his arms and legs out like he’s making a snow angel (a leaf angel? Whatever; it’s going to be the imprint of his dead body if he doesn’t get the hell up soon).

“Longer,” Steve snaps. “And you’re gonna help me rake it back up.”

Living on the edge of the woods has its pros and cons. On the one hand, the leaves are pretty in the fall; on the other hand, they’re an absolute pain in the ass to rake up once they drop off the trees. Steve tries not to sound like a spoiled rich kid these days, but why can’t his parents just hire someone to do this? Or, better yet, they could just let the leaves lie; Robin says that’s better for the environment, anyway.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie says, his grin fading into something more contrite. “I’m sorry. Help me up, and I’ll fix the pile, alright?”

Steve sighs, casting the rake aside so he can stand over Eddie and offer him a hand. He realizes a moment too late that he probably should have held onto the tool, however, because when Eddie takes his hand, he doesn’t use it to lever himself up off the ground, but to pull Steve down and tackle him onto the leaf pile.

Steve’s breath whuffs out of his chest as he lands on the carpet of leaves, and it gives Eddie just enough time to straddle him, pinning him down with a triumphant “ha-HA!”, before he grabs two fistfuls of leaves and starts raining them down over Steve.

“Oh, you’re so dead!” Steve declares, grabbing his own handful and tossing it at Eddie’s face, using the momentary distraction to hook a leg over one of Eddie’s and roll them over.

Eddie goes down laughing, and somehow, Steve finds himself joining in, grabbing more leaves to rain down over him.

“See how you like it, huh?” Steve manages on the breathless edge of actual giggles.

When his hands are empty, he pauses to see if Eddie’s had enough of this game, which is when Eddie’s hands snake out and shove up under Steve’s shirt.

“Wait – wait, no, that’s cheating!” Steve shrieks, but any other protest is lost to laughter as Eddie unerringly finds every ticklish spot Steve has.

Steve dives to the side in an attempt to escape and Eddie follows, grinning in a way that could only be described as maniacal.

They spend the next few minutes rolling around on Steve’s front lawn, completely destroying the pile of leaves as they wrestle through it and continue to throw handfuls of them at each other. Steve is pretty sure he’s got leaves in his pants, and there are so many caught in Eddie’s hair that he could pass for a tree.

Still, as Steve falls onto his back, trying to catch his breath, and Eddie leans over him, trying to do the same, there’s something captivating about him. His eyes are bright, his cheeks are flushed, and his smile has softened out into something like delight. As the late afternoon sunshine catches on the curls of his wild hair, Steve realizes – he’s beautiful.

“Steve,” Eddie says, voice gone low as he leans in.

“Yeah?” Steve answers, now feeling breathless in a different way.

They’re nearly chest to chest, and Eddie is so close that Steve can almost taste his smile.

“I need to tell you something.”

Steve makes a questioning sound, eyes flicking between Eddie’s eyes and his lips.

Eddie leans an inch closer, eyes lidded as he murmurs, “I think I swallowed a leaf.”

With a huff, Steve plants his hand on Eddie’s face and shoves him away. Eddie goes, laughing again.

Unfortunately, it’s still a beautiful sound.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie-spooktober #local jock in love with gremlin more at eleven #solar wrote #eddiesteve

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sunlightmurdock · 11 months ago

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Like This Forever | 0.3 | Jake Seresin x Reader

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Synopsis: Chapter Three. The early stages of pregnancy are really taking a toll on you. Jake’s got questions.

Warnings: talks of abortion / anti-abortion ideology. We’re pro-choice over here. This is an accidental pregnancy fic. Lying. Friends to lovers. WC: 3.6k.

…

Snickering had given the two of you away instantly. From the moment that Matthew Seresin had pushed open the door to the room, he had known that something was amiss. The house was uncharacteristically quiet for a Friday evening — those were the nights you stayed for dinner while your mother worked late, and you had spent hours with Matthew’s youngest brother causing nothing but trouble.

“If you’re in my room, I’m going to lock you out with the cows, you little freaks.” The then seventeen-year old had warned, his eyes narrowed warily as he tiptoed across the hardwood of his bedroom floor, aged floorboards creaking under his weight.

With that, a clammy little hand pressed itself firmly over your mouth. When you turned to look, Jake had been staring right at you, his cheeks dimpled with the sheer joy from his grin. A few more heavy steps and Matthew had dropped his old duffel packed full of wrestling gear to the floor.

Your nose had wrinkled at the smell. Disgusting, sweaty teenage boy athletic gear is a scent that doesn’t fade from memory.

“Last chance, you little germs.” Matthew had warned, craning his neck to check out his closet, then to squint at the open door to the bathroom he had Noah had shared.

From under his bed, you knew you were safe for at least a couple more minutes. As the oldest boy, and the messiest at the time, Matty’s room had plenty of hiding spots back then. Especially for two ten year olds who knew this old house inside and out. But, your window of opportunity was closing — there’s a fragile line between being able to scare the life out of Matthew Seresin, and just evoking his wrath. Back then, in all of his teenage hormonalism, the latter was much easier.

“Three,” Jake had mouthed to you, his shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes and his nose just a fraction too big for his face back then. “Two…”

The two of you had leapt out from opposite sides of Matthew’s double bed, scaring him so bad that he had lost balance in his gym socks, slipped on the wood and landed flat on his ass. He had been so angry that day — the two of you had slept out in Jake’s treehouse because you were so afraid of what Matty would do if he had gotten his hands on you.

Jake has always been a wriggly sleeper. He always tosses and turns, balls his hands into fists and stretches his arms out as wide as they’ll span. He has thought about joining you in your afternoon nap a couple of times now, as you stretch out along the plush bench opposite the kitchenette, but he won’t. All of his wriggling keeps you up, and he hasn’t ever seen you this tired. Even after the two of you had snuck off to Panama City Beach and spent thirty-six hours straight awake the summer after high school.

The tour has been electric so far, and Jake’s still waiting for the high of it all to wear off. His body feels like it’s vibrating as he plucks absently at the guitar strings, turning his head away from you and looking back out towards the open stretch of road. The first three dates have been everything Jake could ever have imagined. He has signed t-shirts, records, hats and skin and listened to crowds call back his lyrics for three nights consecutively. Currently, is a travel day. Seven hours from New Mexico and into Colorado. He’ll have tonight off and tomorrow, he’ll play his fourth gig in Boulder, CO. His eldest brother is going to be able to see him play.

Matt transports things outside of his work at the ranch. Just off season work to make sure his family can have the nice things he wants them to have. Jake can’t wait to see him.

The road ahead is stretching, flat and open. A couple of minutes back, the bus passed a sign informing them that the closest gas station was four miles away. Jake knows this because his driver, Pete, had announced it and interrupted Jake’s train of thought right in the middle of what could have been the best hook of Jake’s career.

With these roads out here, it’s a fifty-fifty gamble between potholes and cracks in the asphalt and smooth sailing. This road is perfectly smooth. It barely even feels like they’re moving. And yet, something wakes you up. You sit up quickly, trying to swallow through the thick churning feeling in your stomach. Your gaze flickers to the whirring air conditioning at the front of the bus as sweat slickens your forehead.

“Stop the bus!”

Pete turns in his seat, wide-eyed and ready to argue about making it before sunset, until he sees the sudden grey sheen to your skin. He doesn’t bother arguing, but his braking isn’t fast enough either.

“Pete, stop the fucking bus!”

Natasha, curled up on the bench beside you, is startled awake by the commotion. Jake’s face has already twisted into a concerned frown, his fingers stilling against the guitar strings as the bus jolts to a stop. As you leap upwards from the seat, there’s a familiar smell of dust that reminds you of that afternoon huddled under Matthew’s bed. The wild look of excitement in your best friend’s eyes are the furthest thing from your mind as you stumble forwards, two left feet trampling over each other and not enough floor space to accommodate the lack of coordination.

The door to the bus, much like the rest of it, is stiff, old and creaky. Your legs wobble down the two steps and your knees buckle, searching for the afternoon-warmed asphalt until your palms are on it too, your stomach twisting into a painful knot.

With how unceremoniously you threw yourself out of the door, Jake has to struggle to step around you without dropping himself boot-first into your breakfast. He winces, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Same old squeamish Jake. With one hand, he gets to work scooping your hair away from your neck and face and with the other, he puts a halt to the crew trying to exit the bus after you.

“Pete — you think there’s an emergency room anywhere near here?” He calls out, craning his neck to squint around the miles of fields and at the mountains in the distance.

First, you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, and then you sit back on your knees and swat Jake’s hand out of your hair. “I don’t need to go to an emergency room. I just ate something — and all the driving, and… bleh. I’m fine.”

“Yeah and the other day you were just too warm. You’ve been feeling weird for a couple of days, we’re getting you checked out.” With his hand now out of your hair, Jake has it free to rest against your forehead, checking impatiently for some kind of temperature he isn’t going to find. Sitting on your knees, squinting at him through the afternoon sun, finding nothing but that stubborn kind of worry that is only fuelled by love, it makes you feel sick all over again.

As much as you used to bicker and fight, and sometimes you still do, Jake’s light has always matched yours in a way that has been noticeable by everyone for your entire life. You’ve always been a duo, the perfect pair. It doesn’t seem quite right that now you know there’s a part of him that’s fused with you — that your body is reacting like this.

Truthfully, you can’t pretend that carrying Jake’s baby had ever occurred to you. The ‘B’ word, really truthfully, still makes you uncomfortable three days after finding out. But, if you had ever thought about carrying Jake’s baby, you would have assumed that it would just be… easier… than this.

“Sunny, hey, look at me.” Jake frowns down at you, all that worry materialising right in the pools of his green eyes as he squats down. Squeamish Jake who couldn’t even clean the mess up after he got sick last New Years’ Eve, squatting above a puddle of hot puke, just to get a better look at your face. “We’ve got the day off — let’s just see a doctor, get you fixed up. Alright?”

“Map says there’s an urgent care down the street from the motel.” Bob calls from inside the bus, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s all faded denim and rolled up sleeves, a real hometown-comfort looking kind of guy. Not a rockstar by any means, but he and those drums seem to have a special arrangement. You’ve never been more grateful for him than you are right now; he just bought you another four hours.

“I can hang on ‘til then. I’ll take it easy,” You promise Jake, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears and wobbling to your feet. He presents both hands and breathes a sigh of relief as you brace yourself on his forearms. “It’s just a couple of hours — and I don’t see any hospitals around here anyway. Do you?”

Jake lets it go.

He boards the bus once again and sits with his elbows on his knees and watches you sleep for the next four hours. The way you’re moving, you’re going to drive that guy sick with worry — and Jake Seresin does not take kindly to being sick.

It’s got to be a sign, you think to yourself as you try to appear asleep. Your body rattles with the bus and the lack of the seatbelt, soft cushion under your back as you take up just about the only ‘tour bus-like’ commodity thag this old girl has to offer. Jake’s baby — fetus — clump of cells — whatever the fuck is chilling in there and ruining your day; you and that thing just aren’t compatible. It’s as simple as that.

It’s bringing you to your knees three days in. You haven’t slept, anything you eat won’t stay down, and your nerves are shot with the idea that you created a lifeform in the filthy back room of the Darkstar.

It’s not like you’re a teenager. You’re a grown up who is old enough to be moved out, old enough to be married. Hell, old enough to be a parent. By the standards of Driftwood, Texas, it’s about time you hitched a ride on the baby making bandwagon. Though, even in this more progressive times, the folks back home wouldn’t be too happy to hear that you just let any old guy knock you up.

That idea plays on your mind a lot at night now. The thought of walking down Main Street, all big and round in a pretty little dress, radiant and ready to be a mother. No husband waiting for you at home, no men in line to get down on one knee either. This clump of cells, or whatever, without a father. Poor thing. Well — that would make things even worse. It wouldn’t take long for people to figure out that your little mistake was a Seresin.

You hope that when they figured it out, they would understand. They would take one look at the photographs of you with Jake — all of those summers, and winters, and nights that weren’t captured by a lens, and know that you’re not just easy. Though — you are, you suppose. Jake hadn’t ever had to even ask. You’d agreed to it wordlessly before, or asked him expressly yourself. But that’s Jake. You hope they all know that’s what makes it different.

But you could save yourself all that explaining, all that hoping. With a small gulp, you know how easy it would be. You’re not that far along. All this sickness, and weakness and exhaustion would be gone in no time. You could just say you had a bug. Jake wouldn’t ever know, and his career would become everything he has ever wanted. You would get to remain part of it.

Maybe some day, you could do it the right way. Intentionally. That would feel better. You’d be prepared, the baby would be loved. This… baby — you’re not sure you could ever love something that threatens to rip away everything you and Jake have worked so hard for. Something insignificant that you hadn’t ever wanted, much less intended.

“How you feeling?” Natasha asks, crouched at your side with a glass of water and two ibuprofen in hand. Breaking into the hangover stash to ease your symptoms now. Not a good sign. You blink through the light, glancing over her head at Jake watching you through the rear view mirror, pretending to pluck at his guitar.

“I need someone to distract Jake when we get to the motel. You’ll take me to urgent care, right?” You ask her, dropping the two pills into your mouth and downing them with a strained gulp of water. Her soft brows draw together just slightly as she squeezes at your knee.

“Of course.”

Tbe plan, of course, was never to go to urgent care. While Jake’s stuck on the phone with his mother in a dingy motel room after a carefully timed ambush from Mickey, you’re across the town of Boulder, Colorado, sitting in the waiting area of a Planned Parenthood. The worst part is — Natasha doesn’t even know why it’s so important to keep Jake distracted.

As far as she knows, it’s because your best friend is over protective and because you’ve already got too much on your mind to deal with all the questions. It’s not entirely a lie.

The pen trembles between your fingers. A dotted line has never appeared to be quite so looming before today. All it asks for is your name, and you’re stumped. Outside, routine chanting presses on. Screeching, more like. They had caught you on the way in. People who looked far too similar to those from home, looking into your eyes, knowing exactly what you wanted so desperately to hide.

Baby. Baby. Baby. Your baby can feel already. Your baby has fingernails. Eyelashes. Heartbeat. The entire concept makes you shudder. All the times you’ve laid your head on Jake’s chest and steadied your breathing to the strong thrum of his steady heartbeat. You wonder if it sounds similar.

“It’s just a consultation.” You whisper. It isn’t until Natasha lifts her head and turns to look at you with those big, brown eyes that you realise you’ve said it outloud. One of her hands curls softly around your knee and squeezes softly. She nods. Not to you in particular.

It is just a consultation. Confirmation that you’re pregnant, a couple of questions about your permanent doctor. Whether you’ve ever been pregnant before. The doctor can see it on your face that this is uncharted territory for you. Talk about your vaccinations, your medical history.

“Okay, and is this pregnancy something that you’re looking to go through with?” You suppose there is no easy way to ask that question, and she doesn’t do it any better or worse than you would have expected. Still, it renders you totally silent. “It’s okay if the answer is no.”

“Will I be able to get pregnant again?” Your voice trembled. It’s a strange thing, finding yourself worry for something you had taken for granted until this point. The answer does nothing to reassure you.

“That’s not a very straightforward question. From the exam, I can’t see any reason why not, but things can change and age will be a factor in that.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m only twenty-six.”

It’s so casual. With a shrug, the doctor hums. “Just in the future. Something to be mindful of.”

You pick at your cuticles, staring towards the ground. “Do I have to decide today?”

“No. But I should advise you, it’s best to perform a termination as early as possible for safety and success.”

Without any of the answers you had been hoping for, you leave the office feeling substantially worse. You’ve been told that the entire crew are going out to a bar in town tonight. Your decision to lay in bed and wallow is both to ease Jake’s nerves and also, so that you don’t have to see his face. That doesn’t work out too well.

It’s just after six when he lets himself into your motel room and locks the door behind him. His smell fills the room, the sound of his boots tap softly against the floor. You squeeze your eyes shut as the bed dips with his weight.

“How ya feelin’, champ?”

A tired smile creeps across your face, even as you try to fight it. Jake worms his way into your bed until his face is opposite yours. Freckles on the bridge of his nose and a glint in his eye. A fond smile on his lips.

“Fine, like I told you.” You answer him. He doesn’t reach for you, but he wants to. He wants to grab both your cheeks in his hands and demand that you tell him everything the doctor told you. If you need more rest, or a certain vitamin, or if you’re allergic to the sun now or something.

As kids, you often discussed which superpower you would pick if you could have them. Right now, Jake has never wanted to be a mindreader more.

“Oh. So you don’t want the get-well treats that I got you, then?” There’s a faint rustling of a plastic bag at the bottom of his bed, purposely knocked by his leg to pique your interest.

“Depends what you got.” You both know exactly what he would have gotten you. It’s exactly what you would have gotten for yourself. Jake smiles as he sits up and pulls the bag between the two of you, setting it open to reveal the contents.

“If this doesn’t make you feel better, I think it’s time to call it. You had a good run, twenty-six isn’t a bad age.” He teases, already digging his hand through your bag of goodies to present you with the crème de le crème of gas station snacks. A warm, almost feverish, grin spreads across your lips as he hands you the chocolate bar.

Once it’s in your hands, Jake props himself up on his side and watches you take a bite. He studies you, slow and methodical, looking for any kind of discrepancy. Pain, fear — anything that will give him answers.

“You want a bite?” You offer him through a mouthful. Wordlessly, he leans in with that smirk plastered all over his face once again, and takes a bite from the top of the chocolate bar, then pulls back. Inches from your face, you watch him watching you.

“Haven’t lost your appetite. You’re warm but you don’t have a fever. Dizziness and nausea. You’d tell me if you were gonna die on me, right, Sunny girl?” With that, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Maybe he needs the full picture to study your face better. You scoff, swallowing down a bite of the chocolate.

“I’m not dying.” It’s not the answer he’s looking for; you know you’re just inviting him to pester you more.

You think back to Matthew. You were twelve when he had to sit down his entire family and tell them that he had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant. He was nineteen at the time. They had been together a long time, but it had seemed like such a bombshell. You remember how upset Jake’s parents were originally.

Matthew’s engagement was short. He married Isabelle before she was even in her second trimester. He works on the ranch through the year and picks up trucking jobs in the off season, now with three kids total. As much as Jake loves his oldest brother — you know that Matthew was his warning sign. Even now, Matt’s a sign to Jake of what he would have to give in to if he wasn’t careful.

Jake stares across at you, “Did they figure out what’s the matter with you?”

“Yeah.” You tell him, watching your hands pluck off a piece of the chocolate and place it into your mouth. Jake’s brows knit together as he watches you fight so calmly to avoid his gaze. He’s starting to look a lot like his big brother.

“Well? — Is it curable? — You’re freaking me out here.” He prompts you, just about ready to snatch the chocolate back out of your hands if it will get him an answer. You scoff quietly. Curable. Sure — to an extent.

You inhale deeply and hold it there. All of your secrets have always also been Jake’s. He’s waiting for an answer, trying not to panic.

“I’m pregnant.”

And there it is. Lingering in the air between you, you stare across at your best friend and watch those two words change absolutely everything. All at once, his face changes and his hands are reaching out for you. His hands curl around your waist, thumbs reaching towards the middle of your stomach. Jake hasn’t ever looked quite so much like his big brother.

In a split-second decision, you rush out a remedy. “It’s not yours.”

His hands still against your middle. The greens of his eyes are pale, empty, searching. He presses his lips into a line. “How can you know that?”

“The doctor said I’m ten weeks along already,” Your lie doesn’t feel good. As it’s leaving your lips, it feels hot and uncomfortable. It doesn’t change the look on Jake’s face at all. “It was before we even hooked up.”

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#Jake Seresin #Jake hangman Seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #Jake hangman Seresin x reader #Jake hangman Seresin x y/n #Glen powell #top gun: maverick #like this forever #countrysinger!jake

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shdo-xplosion · 1 year ago

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SLIMEBALL!AIZAWA X READER

Warnings: dubcon, explicit content, aizawa wrestles with his conscience but his dick wins, aloe vera as lube, talk of when reader was his student, almost somnophilia, fingering, p in v, creampie, cum play, fem-bodied reader, reader is white-coded, described as turning pink/red from sunburn

Word Count: 2.1k

Notes: my contribution to the Wet Hot Slimeball Summer collab! thank you to @bastardblvd for letting me join! i’ve been wanting to write aizawa for a little while now and this just possessed me. hope everyone has fun with it, and make sure to check out the masterlist for more slimy content!

He should wake you up, give you a nudge where you lay in your beach towel, but Shouta can’t bring himself to. Not when he has such a perfect view of your body, the arch of your back, the curve of your ass, the way your tits squish out from beneath you, your skimpy top barely doing anything to cover them.

Fuck, he should wake you up. Your skin is already turning pink. You’re going to have painful burn lines that will peel and turn into sexy tan lines, and Shouta has to shake his head to get the image out of his mind.

His sick mind. There must be something wrong with him. You were his student for fuck’s sake, and sure, you haven’t been for a few years now. Now you’re a big shot pro, one of the top 10, but he can still remember you sitting in the back row of his classroom, mouthy, obnoxious, still learning to control your quirk.

He remembers having to tell you to shut your mouth every single day, a mouth that he finds himself staring at more and more, lips parted and pouty, and Shouta wants to slide his fingers between them, feel your tongue on his fingerprints.

But he refrains, just bites the inside of his cheek and looks out at the waves.

The beach houses are nice, other pros having rented a few out for a nice little getaway. There are still heroes in the city to protect civilians, nothing to worry about. All Shouta has to do is relax.

He’s in a house with Hizashi, All Might, Snipe, and you, and his patience is running thin. Between Toshinori’s loud ass voice and Hizashi forgetting to turn on his hearing aids, Shouta is beginning to think that maybe he does deserve a little treat. Maybe he should indulge.

No. No. Ex-student. And the media would have a field day if anything ever got leaked. Not worth it. Definitely not worth it.

But hours later finds everyone back in their respective houses, resting after a long day in the sun. Hizashi and Toshinori are passed out and Snipe has retired to his room, probably also sleeping, leaving Shouta tired but awake, listening to you hiss every time you move.

“Jesus, I haven’t had a sunburn like this since I was a kid,” you whine.

“Should’ve put on more sunscreen,” Shouta replies. Or he could’ve just woken you up. Been an actual good person instead of perving on you in your bikini.

“I meant to! But the sun felt nice, and the waves were so soothing, and I just…”

“Dozed off. Just let all those UV rays cook you.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t need a lecture, Aizawa Sensei,” you scoff, and the way the old title makes Shouta’s dick twitch in his sweatpants. Fuck.

“You’re right, you’re right. How about I go pick up some aloe vera, then?” he offers. He needs to put some space between the two of you.

“What, I’ll stop whining?”

“Maybe,” he smirks.

Once he pulls on a shirt Shouta leaves and makes his way down to the little shop at the end of the street. All it sells is beach stuff, but lucky him, that’s all he needs.

One bottle of overpriced aloe vera and a meaningless chat with the cashier, and Shouta is on his way back to the house. He wonders if you’ll lather it on in front of him. Maybe you’ll even ask him to help.

The lightweight shirt you had put on earlier must be too much for your raw skin because you’ve gotten rid of it, walking around in a t-shirt bra and little shorts. Have you gotten even redder?

“Oh, thank god.”

“Let me throw it in the freezer for a few minutes,” Shouta says, pulling the bottle out of your reach when you practically lunge for it. “It’ll feel better cold.”

“But Aizawaaa,” you pout, sounding a lot like a petulant child, crossing your arms only to whimper and drop them back to your hips.

“It’ll be worth it. I promise.” Without giving it much thought he hooks a finger under your chin, thumb flicking your pushed-out bottom lip. When you don’t recoil from the touch, he fights to keep from pulling you closer.

Unfortunately, you don’t ask him for help when you apply the cold cream to your skin, but Shouta is granted a look at your hardened nipples through the material covering them, the icy aloe making you break out in goosebumps.

“Thank you for getting this,” you say genuinely. “It’s gonna make my nap so much easier.”

Shouta has always been good at hiding his emotions, so you aren’t able to see the disappointment he feels as he watches you retreat to your room, the green bottle in hand.

It’s fine though because an hour later he finds himself creeping in after you, eyes locked on your sleeping form. You’re lying on your stomach, likely to avoid the burn on your back that you weren’t able to reach. No blankets are covering you, the heat from your skin keeping you well warmed.

The bottle of aloe is on the nightstand, and Shouta reaches for it—room temperature now, and squirts some in his hand.

He’s doing you a favor, he reasons with himself. Your back is an ugly (beautiful) red, and he wants to help soothe you.

His hands on you don’t wake you immediately, just make you sigh and snuggle further into your pillow. Shouta gently rubs the remedy over you, as careful as possible. You feel so nice under his palms, so warm and smooth, the dip of your back calling to him. He could make you arch further, make your hips roll and buck. Your shorts ride low, waistband just above the swell of your ass, and Shouta wants nothing more than to rip them off, but he resists. Instead, he rubs up your sides, slowly and purposefully, fingers barely dipping beneath the elastic of your bra so that he grazes the sides of your tits.

That makes you stir, eyes slowly opening as tired little noises make their way out of your throat.

“”zawa?” you ask quietly, and his self-control breaks.

“Shh, just relax,” he tells you in a low voice. “It’s okay, m’just taking care of you.”

He sees your eyebrows furrow, and you try to roll over, but his strong hand presses against the small of your back to keep you from turning.

He unclasps your bra, squirts a generous amount of aloe between your shoulder blades, and begins working again. At first he thinks you believe that his actions truly are innocent. You can’t see or feel how hard he is in his sweats, how precum is already beading at his tip.

That belief is shattered when he moves his hands upward again, this time sliding under you to cup your tits.

“Aizawa!” You push yourself so that you’re sitting up awkwardly, but all it does is make it easier for him to grope you and press his lips to your shoulder.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t want this,” he drawls, smirking into your skin. “I haven’t forgotten about your little schoolgirl crush.” Because as much as you may have annoyed him in class, you still looked at him with hearts in your eyes. It was easy for him to deduce that all your smartass comments were just to get his attention.

“That doesn’t mean…” You trail off when he pinches both of your nipples, pulling a quiet moan from you.

“Just once, sweetheart. You owe me after teasing me the last few days.”

“I wasn’t…”

“Walking around in your short little dresses, prancing around with these pretty tits falling out of your bikini tops.” He gives you a tight squeeze before letting go of the plump flesh in order to trail his hands down further. “Let me have you just once.”

You only resist a little when he pushes you back down on the bed, face down again. You’ve lost your bra, and Shouta is quick to pull your cotton shorts down your legs, revealing that you’re wearing nothing underneath them.

He groans, groping your ass, bouncing your cheeks before spreading them to show your folds.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he growls, running a finger down your slit as far as he can. You’re already wet for him—such a good girl—but he still wants to get you slicked up and messy.

Shouta grabs the bottle of aloe vera once again, covering his fingers with it then slowly pushing two of them inside of you.

“Ahh, fuck, ‘zawa,” you gasp. With your cheek against the pillows, Shouta can see the way your mouth opens, eyes wide as they flick around to whatever you can see. Your body is tense, but you aren’t fighting him, thighs parting a little more.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he purrs. You don’t respond, just bite your bottom lip. Doesn’t matter. As long as you let him touch you he’ll be a happy man.

Pumping his fingers, Shouta stares at your reddened skin and gets the idea to mark you, presses his fingertips into your flesh then pulls them away, admiring the light circles they leave behind. Mesmerized, he grips your ass with one hand, squeezing to create those same marks just under the curve.

“Fuck, you’re sexy.” He punctuates it with a spank that makes you jolt, but you quickly melt when he curls his fingers a certain way. “You ready for my cock, baby? I’ll be gentle. I know you’re sore.”

A lie. He slicks himself up with more aloe then thrusts into your heat all at once, stretching you on his fat cock and holding you in place when you squirm.

“Y-you said… nnfuck.”

“I know what I said, but your pussy is just too—” he snaps his hips back and forth, eyes rolling in his head. “Too sweet. Can’t help it.”

Shouta tugs you up so that you’re on your knees, back pressed to him, and he knows the friction is hurting you, the coarse hair on his chest chafing your raw skin, but at this angle he can reach in front of you to play with your neglected clit, massaging it with two fingers.

“‘zawa let me… at least let me ride you,” you plead.

It’s a tempting thought, but… “you feel so good like this, though. So warm, taking my cock so well.”

He presses a hand low on your tummy, swears he can feel his dick moving, but he gets distracted when you let your head hang back to rest on his shoulder. Opportunity presents itself with your neck so open, and Shouta wraps his fingers around your throat, just barely squeezing.

He’s so deep inside you, cockhead nudging your cervix. Ohh, he wants to fuck you so full of his cum, wants to see you sprawled on the mattress dripping with him, wants to see you ruined.

Words stick in your throat, but your lips are moving like you want to say something. Shouta pants in your ear, “what is it, baby? What do you want?”

“Wanna—wanna cum,” you whimper, and now Shouta knows that you’ve fully accepted him. You’re not mad at him for fucking you, no. You want this. You want him.

“Cum, then,” he growls, nipping your earlobe. “Cum on my cock, I wanna feel your pussy—”

Your back arches painfully, sensitive skin pulling taut as you cry out and cream all over him. Feeling your cunt contract around him, Shouta fucks into you harder and deeper, using you like a rag doll as he gets lost in your climax, climbing to his own.

He’s not sure he’s ever cum so hard in his life, thick lines shooting from his dick and coating your guts. Shouta bites into your shoulder hard enough for you to yelp and try to slap him away, but all of his muscles are so tight that even his jaw is locked. His hips stutter as strings of white keep shooting into you, your used cunt so full of him that it starts leaking back out of you.

When he pulls out, Shouta scoops some of his cum out of you, dazed as he smears it down the pink of your spine.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask breathlessly, falling forward onto the mattress and glaring.

Shouta shrugs his shoulders. “Aloe works just as good as lube. Maybe cum’ll work well as aloe.”

“That’s disgusting.”

So is he. But at least he finally learned to relax on his vacation.

2023©️shdo-xplosion. please do not plagiarize or repost my work to any other platforms.

#aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #tw dubcon

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heysawbones · 2 months ago

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Many of us have backgrounds that we feel alienate us from others. The result of that alienation is often a protectiveness of the thing which alienated us in the first place; a sort of Stockholm Syndrome attachment to the pain that shapes us. We draw identity and, if we need it, pride from that suffering.

Me, I’m uncomfortable when NPR - an outlet I’m very attached to - discusses poverty. In an effort to be transparent and equitable, statements are often prefaced with an admission that the speaker hasn’t been poor, and hasn’t known anybody who is or was. We’re trying, is what they’re saying. We know that we’re outsiders, but we take this seriously and we mean well. They know that it’s important that their peers, their audience, keep the poor in mind. They go on to express their concerns in terms that make it clear that they do not expect any poor people - past or present - to be listening. In a broad, entirely unintentional sense, people like me don’t exist to the people who make the informative content that I like best.

Despite their good intentions, listening to an NPR bit on poverty makes me feel worse about where I came from, instead of glad that someone is paying attention. It almost feels exploitative of them, and it’s hard to put a finger on exactly why this is.

---

I was active duty Army for four years, and in the Reserves for three. The corpus of Army uniforms mean something specific to me, because of the context in which they entered my life. Desert boots. Digital camo. TA-50 belts. These are purely functional in my mind - you wear them because you have to. The tasks you’ve been assigned necessitate these items. It just so happens that these tasks are often difficult - not intellectually, but spiritually. Physically. They try your patience, your faith in humanity. They dominate your life. As an enlisted person, it’s not uncommon to be treated as something less than a human being. Military service is often a hardship. You control very little, and you form a strong bond with your peers over the experience of, and the gallows humor generated by, said lack of control.

I don’t like it when I see civilians in paramilitary get-ups that pull from actual military supplies. ACU pants, regulation (or near regulation) desert boots, random bits and pieces of gear they picked up from the Army surplus to look tough. There’s a guy I see walking around my neighborhood sometimes who wears ACU pants, boots, and carries a fucking rucksack, you know, a real one. One of the old ones. He’s got it tied around his torso and everything. And he’ll have a t-shirt tucked into his pants with all that. He looks like a real jackass, and every time I see him, I want to chew him up and spit him out.

People who idolize the “glory” of being a cop or in the military are unique among wannabes, in the sense that they could actually just go be a cop or join the military. If one is able-bodied and has not done it, but insists on looking like they are obsessed with doing so, I dislike them a lot. I am 99% sure they are pathetic and possibly even dangerous, because it’s honestly hard not to get into the military if you are able-bodied and try at all. You’ve got to have done something pretty ridiculous. Come suffer if you want to wear this shit. You don’t want to suffer, don’t fucking wear military gear.

Once, I chewed a guy out at an anime convention for cosplaying a contemporary Soldier and not tucking his boot laces in.

---

I watched professional wrestling as a kid. It was popular in my house. The thing about my house, is that we were poor. More than being poor, we were white trash in the middle of a majority Latinx neighborhood. We were garbage. Pro wrestling wasn’t something other kids were into, where I grew up. It was, in fact, actively held in disdain. It’s not hard to understand why I grew up under the impression that pro wrestling was largely something that white trash sustained, like NASCAR, but for even less tasteful people. The rising popularity of pro wrestling has been strange for me. I can’t describe it very well. Is it the lack of acknowledgement? I have a friend who is going to school to become a pro wrestler, and it’s not like I have a problem with wrestling itself. I still enjoy it. I still think Ric Flair is hilarious. At least people haven’t all spontaneously decided that they love destruction derbies, but still really hate white trash.

---

The common thread that runs through these is that they are, in the most crass sense, personal problems. On some level they strike me as... appropriative? I loathe to use the word, less for the definition and more for the baggage. NPR talks about the plight of the poor because they care, sure, but also because they have a reputation of Serious Talk about Uncomfortable Issues to maintain. Discussing poverty is, in its way, credibility. People in military gear without military backgrounds are quite literally exploiting cultural capital given to people who have presumably done very hard things, while pointedly refusing to do the hard thing. Hearing podcasters talk about pro wrestling storylines is jarring, sort of like hearing Bob Garfield from On The Media say “4chan” twice in an episode. Seeing it on twitter coming from the kinds of people who would’ve reeled in disbelief at the way I grew up feels a little like spotting tourists.

#I have a thing to finish writing but it’s hard so have some drafts #blah blah blah #it’s old actually

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clubmega · 1 year ago

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https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/397611-you-people-black-text

#wrestling #comics #sci-fi #shirt #occult #club megatrip #demon #devil #teepublic #tee #t-shirt #pro wrestling

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wrestlingarsenal · 7 months ago

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Here we see Greg Valentine (the cute British Greg Valentine, not our American brute) getting his arse kicked by a nasty Heel in black tights, t-shirt, and boots: Lucky Gordon.

My only complaint against Brit Pro style is the politeness and rule obedience of most performers. Sometimes they just wrestle a perfectly clean "scientific" bout (so boring!) If anyone bends a rule, the ever-vigilant referee is there to give a Public Warning or two, which restores law and order (booo!).

I suppose British audiences are more polite and refined than us American rabble, so they don't tolerate tomfoolery in their sports. But gimme that sleazy Southern-fried rasslin every time!! I get off on all the biting, eye-gouging, rope-choking and other unfair tactics behind the clueless ref's back! Especially if the victim is beautiful like young Greg Valentine here!

Unlike most Brit Pro, this match does deliver the vicious assaults and nastiness I enjoy, thanks to Lucky Gordon's rough tactics. He repeatedly pulls his opponent's hair, then hurls the youngster across the ring, then stomps him, or drives a stiff Head-Butt into his spine before the youngster gets up. I like the cruel appearance of those skull strikes -- our poor shirtless Greggy Valentine is in trouble now, wrestling fans!

#brit pro #world of sport wrestling #greg valentine #hunk in trunks #babyface in peril #cheating heel

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new-berry · 2 months ago

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A getting to know you meme? Quiz? Interview?

I’ve smooshed a few together. Mostly from memory so I might have mis remembered.

Sweet/salty/sour /spicy:

Not sour. Not spicy. I don’t mind food with flavour I just don’t want eating to be an endurance event.

Go to snack. Cheese and crackers If I ever say “I don’t like cheese” I have been kidnapped and it is a cry for help. Call the police.

Next celebration:

it’s been nearly a year since pixel the wonder dog came into our lives so we are having an anniversary party this weekend.

Favourite holiday:

I like Christmas. It’s sunny and since I often cook it I get all my favourite foods. If I’m catering I do not give a fuck.

Last year we had lasagne and a roast meal because I wanted lasagne but not to eat it for a week.

The year before that we had all different kinds of meat balls (including spicy Asian for my sister in law that were very spicy and Asian inspired and not made from an Asian person. ) we had turkey and pork and falafels purely because it is what I wanted.

My dad had his nose out of a joint a bit but genuinely that makes it more fun.

Christmas is great. We have a sensible tree and a reasonable number of gifts and a week off work.

Favourite movie: I love Fantasia. I am a bad movie watcher. I have to go to the cinema or I will think of something else to do.

Favourite sport: I do equally love netball, football, pro wrestling and ice hockey.

Last thing you cooked:

We had minestrone soup (homemade!) garlic bread (shop made) with bacon (home… fried?) . And I made cupcakes because the oven was on. I made 11 cupcakes. There are four cupcakes left. On the one hand aww they were good! On the other hand I have yet to have one and there are only four people in the house.

Last thing you wore. Jeans and a Winnie the Pooh t-shirt. (It’s pink! ) right now I have pj’s on. They have spoons and tiny love hearts on them I don’t know why. They are from one of those fly by night shops at the mall and are soooooo soft. Lucky they don’t have random swear words.

(An aside I don’t remember reading Winnie the Pooh as a kid but my partner insisted we needed a copy when we had kids so I’ve read it but as an adult. I like it. I approve.)

Last song listened to: And she was (talking heads) it’s my Iris Law song. I listen to it when I’m writing glitter because it puts me in the right head space for that fic. Then I just let Apple pick similar music and every three or four songs I listen to And she was again.

Dumb thing that makes me laugh. When writing is just like not happening I’ll play it a lot because I get annoyed look at my music list. When it’s going well it’s like“and she was” was six songs again and I have no recollection of what I was listening to. I’ll like look up blinking and release for some reason it playing like Seafret and I’ll have no idea how I got there.

Not that anyway asked but the Ivan /Thomas song is in fact Guns of Brixton. Gonna think it every time I write Ivan’s name anyway. The Clash and then Jimmy Cliff for my favourite versions. There are a surprisingly large number of covers. Arcade Fire excellent. Nouvelle Vague doesn’t do it for me.

Might call the fic “the money seems good”.

Star sign Aquarius. (Not adjusted) am I an Aquarius? It’s summer in January here :).

Favourite colour: pink with a side of purple. But really pink.

Tea /coffee. Yea please. Too much of it in lieu of water. I have my tea stewed and cold or hot and too weak. I have coffee with fluffy milk. No sugar.

Quirk. Ummm I have trained myself out of saying “bless you” when people sneeze.

One thing you would change (about you) I am an extremely impatient driver. Sometime I pretend to be singing along with music and start chair dancing when I realise I have been non stop swearing and maybe people can see I’m me in their rear vision mirror. If you mean like a physical thing? I would like to be taller. Or to not need glasses.

One thing you’re proud of? I don’t look externally for validation. I’m happy. I love those things.

Next plans (these were the writing ones I just did a WIP so..)

Going to finish Ivan/Thomas, then either going to finish glitter or re do the one I started with Jude as not a demon making (maybe) Trent not a demon because I have a different Jude one and I don’t want to write him that much. Or getting to the point of ever again.

I want to finish the last part of tidal. Which is stubbornly half / a third done because I have not added words to it. Which seems vastly unfair.

The last thing I wrote lol if you could see me I’d be laughing. I literally wrote Virgil going down on Iris while Trent holds her up. It’s like a lot of athletic flexible rich people sex. You can wait for the fic. It would sound bizzare out of context.

Pondering /fic adjacent something like that: Having an Ivan/Thomas hmmmmm. Have a tricky moment I’m trying to navigate. And also trying to thinking I tag age gap? There are 22 years between them but Ivan is 28.

What won’t you write: hahahahahhahhaa. Friends I wrote royal family incest porn. I wrote Orlando Bloom with a little person as a birthday present. I have written non con domestic violence and I’m actually really pleased with Ivan/Thomas I think some of the lines are beautiful and it’s interesting and meaty and no one will read it lol.

And I don’t care! I love getting older. I’ll cater what I want to eat and if you don’t want it you can have potatoes with my dad.

Not even being aggressive! I also make excellent roast potatoes! Just I don’t have much time to write (she says writing a bloody essay here) so I have to write what grabs me.

“What do you want, Thomas?” Ivan asks. The air con is blasting in the car but the sun still forcing itself on them. A dazzle off the outward facing windows, a raw flinch every few metres.

What is something no one else will notice but it’s important to you. I can’t remember exactly how this was phrased! I have written coach/player fic before and normally I make a point of mentioning that power imbalance by having the player refer to them as the boss or the gaffer or the mister. But in this Ivan always calls Thomas by his name.

Share a recently enjoyed fic: oh I have so many tabs open. I caught up. Nearly.

Trent is a vampire.

Joe Willock /Alex Isak. The wanting man. The wanting gets you.

#this got stupid long #I probably missed a few #thank you to the people who tagged me in the various

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artbydanilodealmeida · 9 months ago

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Get your 'Cody Rhodes' t-shirt at TeePublic by clicking here Art print (in multiple sizes) available at INPRNT: inprnt.com/cody-rhodes/

#cody rhodes #american nightmare #wwe #wwe fanart #wweedit #wrestlemania #wwe raw #wrestling #pro wrestling #t shirt #bootleg merch #bootleg shirt

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ticklishraspberries · 2 years ago

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It’s the Sweetest Thing, Remembering (Hermione/Ron)

Summary: Being married to your childhood best friend comes with some interesting consequences, like how he remembers all your embarrassing crushes, as well as all of your ticklish spots. (Happy holidays!! This is my Squealing Santa fic for...drumroll...@misssassyrox!! Thank you to our lovely host, @hypahticklish as well!! I hope the holiday season is lovely for you all, no matter what you celebrate!!)

Being married to her childhood best friend had its pros and cons, Hermione had realized. Of course, eleven-year-old Hermione had no way of knowing that the redhead boy sitting across from her on the Hogwarts Express would one day be her husband, and would probably have turned up her nose at the idea of it.

The pros of it included the familiarity, the existing bond between them, as well as the bonds with one another’s families, the mutual friends, the inside jokes, and having someone to understand the nightmares. The biggest con in her opinion was that Ron seemed to remember every embarrassing thing she had ever done, and loved to bring up those moments.

The teasing moments included Ron mentioning her past crushes on the likes of Viktor Krum and Professor Lockhart, or her know-it-all attitude (which had only faded slightly as she’d aged) or how terrible she’d been in flying lessons.

She teased back, of course. She’d shoot back with mentions of Fleur (who had since become his sister-in-law, only adding humor to the situation) or the arachnophobia he still carried.

Although Hermione was normally a no-nonsense type of person, Rob brought out the joking, playful manner within her. She still liked to pretend that she was above it all, but he always got her smiling in the end.

Which was precisely how they’d ended up with Hermione gently pinned to their sofa, giggling like mad. She had shot back to one of Ron’s quips with the memory of Fred and George tickling him to tears on more than one occasion. Her final comment had been something along the lines of: “At least I’m not as ridiculously ticklish as you are.”

Ron’s eyebrows had raised, although his freckled cheeks had turned a soft shade of pink. “Oh, you’re not ticklish? I remember differently…”

“I never said that,” she replied, voice wavering ever-so-slightly at the dangerous glint in his eyes. “I just said I’m not as bad as you.”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” he said.

She took off down the hallway, but it was impossible to escape his long arms and quick strides. Soon, he grabbed her around the waist and wrestled her to the cushions of their sitting room couch and, well, the rest was history.

Long fingers danced from her hip to her armpit and back down, playing her sensitive spots like a harp, making undignified giggles pour from her lips.

“This is silly!” she managed to cry out between those aforementioned giggles.

Ron gasped in mock offense. “I thought you of all people, my little nerd, would find testing a theory silly. Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” he asked, bending his head to press a quick kiss to her neck. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his stubble against her skin only made her laugh more, scrunching up her shoulder to protect herself.

But his hold on her was too generous, giving her enough room to gain full use of her hands and strike back, going for his belly, short nails scrabbling over the fabric of his thin t-shirt. His shocked gasp of laughter was music to her ears.

“It would be a faulty test if we didn’t consider the other alternative,” she said, grinning like a cat that had caught the canary.

Ron was still hovering over her, careful to not go crashing down on top of her, though the ticklish sensation was slowly turning his limbs to jelly. One arm kept himself upright by grasping the back of the couch, while the other moved to pinch at the horribly ticklish spot on her inner thigh, drawing a shriek from her.

When Ron had first found out that Hermione was ticklish, he was thrilled. It was the summer before their third year when he’d been pulling a stray leaf out of her hair and brushed against her neck, making her giggle. And while he usually went after Harry more often, Hermione often found herself giggling at his hand quite a bit. She, of course, had known he was ticklish almost from the beginning, not that it was something she would have considered if she hadn’t witnessed it first hand. Tickling was a common event in the Weasley household, whereas Hermione’s parents had stopped tickling her by the time she was ten-years-old.

Their tickle fights hadn’t been extremely common, but a few stuck out: The first time, after the leaf incident, which Hermione had lost without much of a winning chance; the battle over the last of Mrs. Weasley’s oatmeal cookies that had left Ron with a bloody nose when he went for her feet; the first time Hermione ever won, when she discovered how he crumpled when his ribs were tickled.

And, of course, the most recent one, the experiment that they were conducting as a newly-wed couple. No mercy was shown; Hermione went for his ribs while he squeezed at her thighs, and their laughter mixed like elements to a beautiful song until Ron cried out for a truce.

There was a small part of Hermione that didn’t want to settle for a truce, but her throat was growing dry and her belly ached from all the giggling, so she nodded her head vigorously and both of them slowed their tickling hands to a stop.

“I guess we are pretty even when it comes to ticklishness,” Ron said, still slightly breathless.

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head fondly. “I guess so,” she replied. “What an important discovery.”

Ron grinned, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Of course it is! Absolutely vital information.”

“Just some more blackmail that we have on one another,” Hermione added.

“Oh, definitely. My beautiful wife, with her ticklish thighs and big, fat crush on Gilderoy Lock—”

A quick attack to his neck had Ron stuttering an apology through a fit of giggles. Perhaps the pros of marrying her childhood best friend far outweighed the cons.

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