#the first one is domesticated

[aeaeaexxzd]

The tresspassers

[hinamie]

alongside someone like you

[hairmetal666]

"I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he declares to all and sundry (Steve and Robin) in Family Video.

Steve laughs, ducks his head, hair a bountiful cascade that doesn't move an inch. He's blushing but it's not, like, a reaction to the sentiment of marriage. Steve knows Eddie is just like that, flirtatious and over-the-top and incapable of not speaking his thoughts as soon as they enter his head.

Robin roles her eyes, goes back to flipping through her magazine, something about cinema, and Eddie swipes his just rented movies off the counter.

"You think I'm joking," he twists so he's facing them, walking backwards to the door. "But I swear it, oh, beloved purveyor of movies and deleter of late fees."

"Yeah, yeah." Steve's face is pinker than before and Eddie recognizes and immediately forces himself to forget how cute it is. "But get out of here before I change my mind."

And Eddie, he loves to push his luck and also has very little filter between his brain and his mouth, so he says, "aw, don't be that way, Stevie, you love me."

Robin looks up, then, mouth a pursed twist as she tries not to laugh. "Gross, Eddie." She throws a Sour Patch at him. "Keep all that mushy stuff to when you two are alone."

It's his turn to blush, fierce and raging, and Steve whirls, squeaking, to whack Robin with a Twizzler.

Eddie points at her. "Rude, Buckley. You know I love you too."

"Again, gross." She sticks out her tongue, tinged blue from the Sour Patch.

"We really need to work on your ability to accept affection," Steve tells her.

She scowls, kicks him, makes Eddie laugh.

"I think that's my cue to leave, children." He says. He, quite literally, bows out of the store, just missing the barrage of candy thrown his way.

---

Three Months Later

Eddie stumbles into the Harrington house, kicking his boots off by the door. Steve's in the kitchen, fussing around the stove. His hair's askew and he's--

"Harrington, are you wearing an apron?" He ignores the kick in his chest at the sight. "You'll make a sweet little housewife one day."

"Shut-up," Steve says without any heat. "Try this."

He brandishes a spoon filled with red sauce in Eddie's direction, and Eddie--heart always on his sleeve--eagerly leans in to taste. He closes his eyes, savors, and it's good, truly. Perfect fresh acidity with just a burst of sweetness.

"It's amazing, baby," he says without thinking. He opens his eyes right in time to see Steve turning back to the sauce, blush high on his cheekbones.

"Thanks. You're making me nervous though, hovering." Steve hip checks him. "Go sit somewhere."

And Eddie does, jumps onto the island--the Harrington's are the kind of people who have an island--and chatters to Steve about his day, about his new campaign, about the new song he's trying to learn.

All the while, he's watching Steve cook, in his apron, with such care and thoughtfulness, with true command. Maybe it's the domesticity of the scene, maybe his raging crush, but he has this flash of the two of them in the future. In their kitchen, Steve cooking dinner, and Eddie's arms are wrapped around his waist, he's pressing kisses to his temple, complimenting all his hard work and--

Steve feeds him a bite of the finished pasta, and it's so good that he groans, full-throated, unembarrassed, and says--he says, "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington."

He laughs, face pink, batting Eddie's shoulder. "Go sit down, man. It's time to eat."

---

Two Months After That

Eddie's working on a new campaign when the storm rolls in, wind rocking the trailer, thunder and lightning crackling in the sky. The power doesn't go out, but only just barely, the flickers making his heart pound for reasons that have nothing to do with weather.

There's a knock on the trailer door, and he opens it to find Steve Harrington standing on the porch, hair plastered to his head, clothes soaked. Robin's bike is propped against one of the awning supports. Familiar panic snaps to life in his gut.

"God, Steve, are you okay? Did something happen? That's Robin's bike, where's the Beamer? Is it--is it Vecna? Is--" He's blabbering can't stop, so he shoves his palm against his lips.

"It's not--not Upside Down stuff." He runs a hand through his soggy hair. "Can I come in, man? I--I want to tell you something."

This snaps Eddie out of his panic, and he's moving aside, saying, "Oh my god, get in here, you're soaked. Let me get towels. Do you want a change of clothes, I can--"

Steve catches him by the elbow and he full stops at the look in those big hazel eyes, fearful and sad and he doesn't know what, but his anxiety amps back up.

"I was with Robin and we were--we were talking, you know? And I told her that I like somebody, like really like them, but it was unexpected and--and--it's a guy. He's a guy but I still like girls? Robin said--she said that I'm probably bisexual. That I like guys and girls and--and everyone, I think."

It sends shockwaves through him, and he hopes it doesn't show, doesn't think it shows, but he's having trouble processing. Steve is bi and he likes someone and--Eddie stuffs down the jealousy that claws at him, knows it's more important that he's here for his friend.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart." He reaches out, slow in case Steve doesn't want to be hugged, but he launches himself into Eddie's arms.

Eddie holds him tight, heedless of his wet clothes, can feel his shoulders shake, and it tears Eddie's heart in two. All he can do is hold Steve and offer comfort, jealousy be damned.

"You're so brave, honey," he says once the tears taper off.

Steve gives a wet chuckle, face still buried against Eddie's neck. "I don't know about that. I think I got snot in your hair."

"It'll wash out." He laughs. "Is now the time to welcome you to the family? Apparently, we're growing exponentially."

"Does the welcome include a cake or something? I could really use cake."

And God, Steve, is so fucking cute, so sweet, so--everything Eddie has always wanted, and he--it's an accident, or at least, thoughtless--he presses a kiss to Steve's temple. More than one.

Steve pulls back fast, and Eddie lets go immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I--that was stupid. You like someone already, and I--"

His words are cut off as Steve kisses him. Steve kisses him? His brain can't process, but he kisses back. Can't not, not with Steve. Like, he doesn't know anything, head empty, but his body is with the program.

They break apart, he's breathing hard. Steve is beautifully flushed, mouth red and swollen. "You like someone," is what Eddie says.

Steve laughs. "I like you, Munson. Fucking crazy about you."

He smiles, so big it hurts, so big it grows into a delight laugh. "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he says.

---

Six Years Later

They're in bed, Saturday morning, rain pattering softly on the window.

Steve places slow kisses against his naked tummy, makes him tremble, shiver with overstimulation.

"Baby," he whines. "Sweetheart."

Steve smiles up at him, something cold pressing against his ribs, then into his hand.

It's a ring, black metal, shiny and iridescent as he turns it in the light. "What--Steve?"

With one last kiss to his hip bone, Steve sits up, slips the ring onto Eddie's finger. "I'm going to marry you one day, Eddie Munson."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Sublime Equine.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[salarymanwaka]

[therapyplacebo]

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚂𝚘 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚎

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62475340

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

Pairing: Zayne x f reader SMUT

Word count: 6,485

Content warning : Smut, shower sex (fingering), unprotected sex, it's your bday but Zayne missed it, apologetic Zayne, slightest bit of angst in the form of self-hatred and doubt

Zayne lets out a defeated sigh as he shoves his hand in the depth of the left pocket of his jacket to retrieve his keys. His shoulders are sunken with exhaustion, and the stabbing pain in his lower back radiates up to the nape of his neck the way it does after an excruciatingly long surgery.

Guilt gnaws at his mind—redundant thoughts swirling in a dangerous pattern he recognizes too well but is too tired to put an end to. The keys in his hand jangle as he pulls them out, staring at the small seal keychain you won for him at the claw machine. It matches the larger plushie he won for you that you keep on a shelf in your office. 

He already knows he missed the party, but somehow, the dimmed lights and empty apartment shatter something inside of him as he shrugs off his coat. There are balloons hanging down from your kitchen cabinets, confetti littering the floor and sticking to his socks. 

As he makes his way to the kitchen, Zayne has to duck under a beautiful handmade banner hanging from the ceiling with your age written on it along with birthday wishes scribbled on it. Wrapping papers stick out of your trash can—hastily shoved inside. There are several glasses of wine lined near your sink where the dirty dishes are neatly piled.

Zayne makes a mental note to put them in the dishwasher tomorrow morning. 

Silence hangs in the air, echoes of another birthday missed haunting him like an earworm he’s forgotten the lyrics of. Just as he’s about to turn on the living room light, he spots you, hunched over the kitchen table, cheek resting on your arms with a ridiculously small cardboard hat on your head. If the sight of it hadn’t instantly made him nauseous with resentment for no one but himself, he would have laughed. 

He drops the gift bag to the ground, walking around the misplaced chairs as he makes his way to you. The floor creaks, and you stir awake, meeting his eyes with a confused expression that melts away into the softer one of relief. With a tired smile, you stretch your arms above your head, letting out a groan. 

“Hey, when did you get here?” You ask him with a yawn, squinting at the lack of light as you take in the sight of him—wearing his best dress shirt and some formal black trousers. “Did you change at work?” Your eyebrow raises itself as you fail to suppress your grin. 

Zayne scoffs at your seemingly unbothered attitude, taking a seat right next to you. “I did. I packed it this morning thinking I would make it in time to…” He trails off, not knowing what to say as he cradles the side of your face and rubs your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. You nuzzle his wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin there. “I’m sorry,” Zayne dejects, his eyes searching yours in hopes they convey the depth of his regret and how much he wishes he could rewind time. 

You click your tongue softly, shaking your head obstinately. “Zayne. It’s fine. I understand work will always be work,” you chuckle in an almost bitter way, grabbing his hand that rests on his leg to squeeze it comfortingly. 

“I really was on my way here when I texted you. There was an emergency, and I had to scrub in,” Zayne insists, looking at the two slices of cake still untouched in their cardboard plates—the candles on one of them have been reduced to a melted mess.  

It reminds him with daunting resemblance of the lonely sight of his own birthdays. 

You lean on the table, resting your chin inside your hand as you glance at the mess around the room. “Tara got really drunk and decided to kiss Greyson, believe it or not,” you laugh, reminiscing about the scene. “I should’ve taken a picture. The face he made was worth a hundred bucks.” 

Zayne forces himself to chuckle with you, but it does not fool you. With a soft sigh, you grab his hand harder this time. “You know what? Technically, you didn’t miss my birthday at all,” you say, glancing at your watch with a knowing smile, trying your best to cheer the dejected man in front of you. “My birthday officially started four hours ago.” 

Zayne scoffs softly—a true chuckle this time. “Nice try.” You roll your eyes playfully, pushing towards him the slice of cake you reserved. You know he’s always famished whenever he comes out of surgery and the adrenaline wears off. 

Relief floods you when he begrudgingly accepts the bribe and picks at the almond-flavoured cake before shoving a forkful in his mouth. “You like it? I had it made with extra frosting for you.” 

The grin on your face warms his heart instantly, but the sugary taste sours in his mouth as your mask slips a little and he notices with surgical accuracy the sadness in your gaze. “It’s good. Is it from that bakery near the hospital?”

You nod enthusiastically, picking at his slice with your fork—your own cake ruined by colourful wax. Your lipstick is smudged on your cheek, but Zayne makes no mention of it. 

“Did you make a wish?” He finally asks, gesturing to the candles. You fold your index in front of your mouth, mumbling something with your mouth full as you swallow your bite. 

His furrowed eyebrows are enough for you to repeat yourself. “I didn’t. I was waiting for you.” Zayne stands up without another word, walking the short distance to your kitchen where he knows you keep the lighter—third drawer to the left. There’s an already lit candle from your previous birthday last year. The number is one year too little, but he grabs it regardless. 

“This is all I could find,” he states, sitting back on the edge of the chair, his knees touching yours. “I should’ve brought some.” 

You make a noise of disagreement, taking a quick bite of the frosting on the side before grabbing the lighter from his hands. “Nonsense. This is perfectly fine. It’s like I’m aging backwards; this is great,” you ramble as you light the candle with shaking fingers after placing it on top of your untouched slice.

An uncomfortable quietness falls, and the two of you sit, watching the mesmerizing way the flame dances in the darkness of the room. You glance at Zayne, admiring the warm highlights that the fire casts on his face and the seemingly serene expression he bears. 

Much to your surprise, Zayne starts to hum Happy Birthday under his breath. You laugh out loud, unbridled glee shining in your gaze, which makes him blush up to the top of his ears. The intimacy of your kitchen hits you all at once. Zayne’s soft, raspy voice echoes off the walls, his coat hung by the door and his shoes lined up with yours by the entryway. 

You already know what wish to make before he even finishes slightly off-key but so endearing singing. 

“Do you also want to make a wish?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Zayne frowns, staring at you dubiously. “I don’t mind sharing.” It doesn’t seem to be enough to convince him.

He shakes his head, glancing down at the flickering flame before his green eyes meet yours once more—fleeting heartache tinting them one shade darker. “Hurry before the flame goes out.” 

Glancing at him sideways, you softly blow out the candles—making the same wish as last year and the one before that. The scent of burnt wax tickles your nostrils and almost makes you sneeze. Zayne's soft breathing reaches your ears. Linkon is asleep at this hour; the streetlights illuminate deserted streets, and only the occasional car breaks the silence with the dulled hum of their engine as they drive down your street. “What did you wish for?”

You smirk, turning your head towards him with a tired expression. “I am not falling for it this time. I want it to come true this year.” Zayne smiles softly, recalling last year when you had been tricked by Tara into admitting your birthday wish—your lips loosened by alcohol. 

“Alright then. May I get a clue, then?” Part of him wishes for you to be angrier at him, for you to not fall so easily for meagre apologies and soft looks. It makes overlooking his neglect a bit too easy for his liking. You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes glinting with mischief and affection—his heart stutters in his chest. 

Your soft sigh graces the heated skin of his cheek as you press a chaste kiss against it. His eyes flutter close, his breathing stilling as if scared that a single movement could render him undeserving of such tenderness. The hand resting on his knee instinctively reaches out to your bare leg, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin of your inner thigh.

“Is that a new dress?” His raspy tone falls flat, though his eyes convey what his voice cannot carry. You nod, your cheeks flushing the shade of a ripe pomegranate as you play with the light green fabric of the garment that you bought specifically for the occasion. “You look beautiful,” Zayne then adds, letting his eyes run over the rosy glow on your lips, the way your hair is pinned back to the sides, and the delicate bracelet he bought you that dangles from your left wrist. The briefest wave of possessiveness carries his next movements as he grabs your chin and slots his lips against yours, swiping his tongue on your bottom lip as he kisses you hungrily. 

It sends your heartbeat in a frenzy—a stark comparison with the slow and torturous crescendo that Zayne is setting up. The gentle tug of his fingers as they pull your hair loose from the pins, the unhurried glide of his hands down your arms, the steady yet shuddering breathing that fills the gap between your lips as he rests his forehead against yours—it’s all so overwhelmingly sickening, the way with which he unravels you thread by thread.

Darkened eyes meet yours, and the first genuine smile appears on his lips as he wipes the smudged lipstick mark from your cheek. “Happy birthday,” Zayne huffs, gliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen lip. Your grin spreads to your eyes—the skin at their corners wrinkling as you chuckle softly. 

A small, light blue gift bag catches your attention by his feet. You raise an eyebrow and watch the way his cheeks change colour. “Zayne,” you drag his name out. “I told you I didn't need anything.” He picks up the bag and sets it on your lap—the tissue paper sticking out has little snowflakes embossed on it, and the sight of it warms your chest.

You pull out a photo album; the cover is decorated with stickers, and a picture you thought lost to time. The corners have been flattened back into place after being folded for years, and the colours have faded considerably. 

A disbelieving chuckle slips out. “What—where did you get this?” Zayne smiles softly. 

“My parents cleaned their attic recently and mailed it back to me.” You glide your index on the protective layer on the album, marvelling at the photobooth strip that dates back from well over a decade ago. Zayne looks out of place; his pose is awkwardly static, and his expression is pinched in contrast to your carefree one. “There’s more inside.”

You cast him a glance, opening the front page with a shaky hand from the anticipation. One by one, you flip through the pages with pure shock written all over your face. 

Pictures of the two of you, coffee date receipts, movie tickets, and other memorabilia that Zayne kept. His terrible handwriting accompanies each memory, a brief description scribbled along each one. There’s a picture of your grandmother standing with Zayne’s parents at his eleventh birthday—Zayne stands by your side, matching to the best of his ability your crooked grin. Tears blur your vision, but you wipe them away unceremoniously with the back of your hand, not wanting to miss a single detail. 

He clears his throat, not too sure what to say. “I left some pages empty, so you can add the new ones we take at the photobooth.” You hurriedly flip to the last pages, fingers hovering over the empty spots in the shape of photo strips. 

“You made this? When did you even get the time?” you say incredulously, a chuckle coming out to join your words. You know Zayne’s schedule; he is either working or spending time with you. How he managed to pour this amount of effort into a gift is beyond comprehension. You tighten your grip on the album, pressing it against your chest. 

Zayne rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been working on it for a while,” is all he says. “I take it you like it?” he asks you, having the nerve to sound uncertain. You instantly frown at him.

“Do I like it? Zayne, this is….” Words escape you, your brain scrambling to find a word that adequately conveys the meaning this gift holds.

Since the explosion, every single memory of the past was taken away from you—picture books, old sentimental letters, drawings. Nothing remained, and it left a gap that you struggled to reconcile with. You never finish the sentence, but Zayne does not need you to. His hand grips yours with a reassuring strength, and you pull him in for a hug, tucking your face in the collar of his shirt. 

He smells of the soap he uses at the hospital—it’s slightly citrusy with a lingering sterile and chemical scent.

“Did you shower?” You ask him, leaning back in the chair as you straighten the fabric of your dress where his hands had bunched it up. Zayne nods curtly, his eyes still on you when your shoulders sag in disappointment. He shakes his head in amusement, standing up before offering you a hand.

“C’mon, let’s get you in the shower.” Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, but you follow him to the confines of your bathroom regardless. The space should feel much more crowded with him standing right behind you, but it only soothes the nerves frayed by waiting for him all night.

If you close your eyes long enough, you can picture the sympathetic looks from your friends—the intensity of them growing with each passing hour. You’re used to it—Zayne’s schedule is always hectic, and the long hours mean that the time spent together is as sparse as it is precious. Whenever he is on the night shift, it can be weeks before the two of you can finally spend a night together. The reunions are always bittersweet, honeyed professions and apologies hushed against bare skin whenever Zayne finally gets his hands on you. 

You can tell the distance and time spent apart wounds him, his impatience and neediness always coming through with the way he calls out your name in the early hours of the morning.

Which is why there is lingering culpability whenever a bud of resentment inevitably sprouts inside you—whenever he misses an important event because of an emergency. The rational side of you knows that there is no malicious intent in the way he consistently misses a date, a birthday, or a ceremony. However, insecurity’s roots run deep, and their grip persists stubbornly for weeks following. 

“Are you alright?” Zayne’s voice almost startles you as you turn to him. He’s holding two clean towels against his hip. The worry etched on his face mirrors your own. You nod, swallowing the lump that peskily lingers in the back of your throat. You turn your back to him, pretending to be absorbed with the ties of your dress so he doesn’t notice the tears welling down your lash line.

Zayne comes forward to rest his chin in the crook of your neck, putting down the towels before wrapping his arms around your waist. “I’m really sorry for missing your birthday.” His tone is strained with regret, heavied by the burden you know plagues him daily—it only furthers your anguish.

You feel ridiculous as tears escape and roll down the side of your cheek. You sniff loudly, the sound of it echoing off the tiles, and you feel Zayne tense up against your back. He sighs your name tenderly—another apology. A chuckle breaks its way past your lips, muffled by a strangled sob that overtakes it. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m fine. It’s so stupid that—” Zayne grabs you by the shoulder, spinning you around so you face him. 

You almost flinch, tempted to hide your face in the crook of your elbow to spare him the sight of your loss of temper. His eyes search for yours, visibly pained by your tears. “I know you can’t help it and that it’s work—you’re saving lives for fuck’s sake, and I’m here crying over a birthday dinner,” you bitterly let out, laughing at yourself for even being this upset about it in the first place. 

Zayne’s chest feels tight; the feeling spreads to his throat as he softens his gaze at you. “Are you done talking?” You nod, tucking your trembling lip between your teeth and biting down until it leaves indents on the plush skin. Zayne opens his mouth, carefully weighing his words. “I know how important this dinner was to you, and I still missed it. What you’re feeling is only the natural reaction to my actions.” You’re about to protest, but his stern expression has you immediately shut your mouth. “Let me apologize properly. Let me make it up to you, please.”

He casts you a heated look, hungry eyes landing on your bitten mouth—a gaze so intense that it sends a shiver down your spine. It takes you a second, but you find the strength to move, to nod at him.

Without wasting a second, Zayne’s fingers reach for the zipper on the side of your dress without taking his eyes off your face. He intently watches the small, anticipating crease in your brows and the way with which your lips part when his cold fingers finally touch the bare skin of your ribs. “Did I tell you you looked beautiful?” He speaks, lowering his lips to your collarbone as he peels down one of the sleeves. 

You let out a nervous chuckle as he traces a path from your neck to your ear. “You might have mentioned it.” Your last words are lost to him as he lets the dress fall to the tiled floor. You take it upon yourself to unbutton his shirt, focusing on the task at hand even though you feel the intensity of his gaze on your face. 

It’s a slow race—both too tired to rush but pushed by a sense of urgency to lay claim on one another. Zayne kisses you deeper as he pushes you towards the shower—he still tastes like the sugary frosting. He sighs in relief against your mouth like one does when slipping into a warm bath in the dead of winter. You let your underwear fall to the ground—Zayne’s following suit right after. 

The water is too warm—it makes his frigid touch sting, but the pain soothes something rotten inside of you, so you make no mention of it to him. Pressed against the wall with nowhere to run, you watch affectionately as he steps forward, trapping you between his arms. You’re the one reaching out this time, pulling him down for another lazy kiss, swiping your tongue on his bottom lip just the way he likes. A soft moan leaves his mouth as his breathing grows more laboured. Rivulets of water trickle a path down your sternum, and Zayne’s hand follows—it lands on your waist, where he uses the leverage to pull you impossibly closer.

His knee slots between your legs, and he swallows your whine with a satisfied grin. The friction is just enough to make your mind cloudy but not overwhelming enough to pull you away from the syrupy words that Zayne lets drip out of his mouth.

“I really tried,” he utters as his hands grip your hips, haunching you further on his thigh as it makes direct contact with your core. You mumble his name as a praise. “I even went out to that bookstore you like during a lunch break. The one where they sell the terrible birthday cards with the puns that you somehow find hilarious.”

You frown. “They are hilarious.” Your falsely offended tone visibly amuses him, but he makes no further comment. He instead chooses to kiss you, effectively shutting you up. Your hand slips between your bodies, finding his hardened length pressed against his stomach. Zayne groans softly, a shuddering moan falling from his mouth as you run your hand along, keeping the pressure light enough—just to tease him. 

“Let me take care of you first,” he insists, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to pull your hand away. You know better than to argue with him, so you simply nod—wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with the longer tufts of hair where his nape is. 

With one hand between your legs and the other resting right above your breast, Zayne wastes no time. He knows you better than anyone—which spot makes you sigh, which one makes you moan. His thumb finds your clit as he slowly dips his index and middle fingers inside of you—a small satisfied noise building at the back of his throat. You tense up at the intrusion, your back arching as a reaction. You did not expect to be so sensitive, but the slow-paced circles he rubs against your bundle of nerves send warmth in waves down to your toes—it’s addicting and mind-numbing as pleasure runs its course.

“You’re so warm,” Zayne mumbles against the skin of your neck—biting lovingly at the wet skin. Your reply starts with a pleasured gasp as he curls his finger inside of you. 

“I think your hands are just abnormally cold,” you reply nonchalantly, meeting his eyes only to laugh at him quietly at the slightly puzzled expression that he gives you. His gestures pause for a second as he processes the information.

“All the time?” The surprise in his tone makes your heart throb with affection. Pursing your lips to the side, you debate whether to lie or not. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned it before?” Looking down at his still hand, you greedily urge him to continue his ministrations with your own hand. And while he resumes, earning a soft moan from you, he keeps his inquisitive gaze on you. 

“It’s not a bad thing. I like it,” you admit, cradling the side of his face, admiring the abyssal shade of black his hair turns into once it’s wet. “It feels like you.” Zayne lets out a small hum, seemingly satisfied, as he then picks up the pace of the fingers slipping in and out of you. The sudden change makes you clench around him, and a hiccup breaches past your lips as your head thuds against the wall behind you. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Zayne asks, letting his free hand wander down your breasts, where he watches as his fingers sink into the supple flesh. You nod, eyes screwed shut as the pressure in your lower stomach keeps building up, tightening its hold on your limbs until your toes feel numb. “It’s alright. I got you.”

The soft reassurance he so freely gives you is all it takes. The knot finally snaps, and your back arches off the wall—your chest now pressed firmly against his own. Zayne diligently works you through the waves of pleasure, his fingers knowing exactly what to do as you come down from your high. He pulls them out, letting the warm water wash on the remnants of you on his hand. 

Boneless and tired, you lean against the wall as Zayne gently puts you down—legs wobbling as your feet touch the tiled floor. “Can you stand while I clean you up?” You nod, brainlessly agreeing as Zayne grabs your soap and a washcloth. The soft raspberry and vanilla scent fills the air—it purposefully smells like his favourite dessert. With his surgical precision, he quickly washes you off, limb by limb, as he kneels to the ground to clean your legs. 

“This is the greatest birthday gift ever,” you wearily mumble, a dumb smile on your face. Zayne scoffs softly as he washes your hair, noticing the way you sag against him at the head massage. 

“Want me to help you?” You offer him, opening one eye only as he grabs the bottle of shower gel that he leaves permanently at your place. He seems amused by your offer but shakes his head softly. 

“I’m not too sure that I trust the reliability of your services right now,” he jokes, though his tone remains dry. You chuckle as Zayne rinses out the conditioner, making sure to work through the knots with his fingers. 

“You can always file a complaint,” you deject, stepping foot out of the shower and reaching for the towels he laid out earlier. The steam inside the bathroom fogs up the mirror, and you have to reach over and wipe it to witness the extent of Zayne’s markings on your neck. Unable to suppress the roll of the eye that follows, you part your hair for it to hide most of it before roughly towel drying it.

Zayne shuts the water off, wiping most of the water from the glass door—something you never do yourself, but he diligently does whenever he uses your shower. You hand him the towel, admiring the way the light casts soft shadows on the ridges of his back as he dries himself—the freckles and scars highlighting the planes of his muscles like starlight on the night sky.

The two of you brush your teeth in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and catch glimpses of each other through the mirror—it makes him blush deep red up to the tip of his ears. 

You’ve never felt this at ease, and the domestic feeling grips you by the throat but finds you to be a willing victim. 

You shiver as you open the door, the colder air slipping inside as you walk on your tiptoes to your bedroom. The curtains flail open in the chill of the breeze, and the first rays of timid sunlight tint the sky a deep magenta that fades into a lighter orange over the lilac expanse of the Linkon skyline. The sight takes your breath away.

Zayne enters the bedroom, his towel loosely wrapped around his waist—his gaze instantly finds yours even through the low light of the dusk that seeps into your bedroom. It casts in his eyes both the longing of yesterday and the exciting promise of tomorrow. 

He stops right behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist and pulling your towel to the ground. It falls with a faint thud, and the air makes your warm skin pebble as Zayne runs his palms up and down your arms.

“Do you want to sleep?” He asks you, voice low and raw—there’s an underlying question that makes you smile.

“Did you have any other plans?” The grin in your voice is contagious—Zayne chuckles. 

He presses a tender peck to the side of your neck, softly breathing in the sweetened scent of your skin—he almost salivates. “I had an idea or two in mind. The night is still young.” You turn around to face him with a mirthful expression.

“The sun is rising as we speak.” Zayne’s mouth remains a straight line, but you notice the shift in his gaze.

“Pay no attention to it,” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to pull you down with him on the bed. The two of you fall in the tangled mess that is your bedsheet—you never find the time in the morning to make it. Zayne always silently judges you for it but goes out of his way to clean up your room whenever he comes over. 

Naked limbs tangled together, Zayne settles between your thighs, taking his time to litter your chest with kisses. Your breath gets stuck in your throat—half plea, half whine. It’s delirious, the ease with which his hands know their way around the curves of your body. As if entirely mapped out inside his head, tucked away under the knowledge he always surprises you with. 

The fear of the missed days always lurks in the back of your mind—plaguing you with stubborn grief over things that haven’t happened. That each time he cancels a date, each time he gets held back at the hospital—it’s time that you’ll never recover. It’s greedy and selfish; you are aware of that at least, but it doesn’t ease the burning betrayal you feel as the days pass by, never to be seen again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Zayne asks, raising himself on his arms to take a good look at you—he’s visibly worried, and you flash him a reassuring smile.

“I just love you, that’s all.” Zayne looks momentarily stunned by your words; his breathing stops, and you wonder if you delivered the final blow. His eyes roam over your face, retracing soft contours of it with uncurbed endearment. He seems to be thinking for a split second before he captures your lips between his.

You kiss him back devotedly, pouring all of what you cannot say into a reciprocal chase of the lips that has Zayne groan against your panting mouth. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he reverently admits, pulling your hips against his in a needy motion to feel your heat pressed against his hardening length.

Your retort dies in your throat, a soft whine that sounds like his name leaving your lips instead.

Hurried words are hushed in your ear, his breath mingling with your own as he kisses you from an awkward angle—too impatient to be parted from your mouth for more than a few seconds. “You think you can take me like this? Or do you want me to go down on you?” 

You shake your head, mind heady with both need and exhaustion that threatens to send it all tumbling down. “I’m good. You’re good.” Zayne gives you one last look, scanning your face.

He lines himself up to your entrance before pressing in, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss as he moans softly. The needy sound he makes sets your skin on fire as he sinks to the hilt—the fullness steals your breath away. Time stops, and you brush away a few humid strands that are falling in front of Zayne’s eyes. 

“I need a moment,” he mutters, voice strained as he grips the sheets next to your head. You let him take all the time he wants, letting your hand wander down his neck, tracing invisible paths on the skin of his chest. There are small ice crystals forming down his forearms, but you smooth them over with your heated hands, the water pebbling down in his skin onto your bedsheets. When Zayne finally reopens his eyes, the evident need in them should feel overwhelming, but it serves to quench the reciprocal feeling that wrecks through you whenever he is nearby.

“Are you alright?” It’s your turn to express concern, and as per usual, Zayne brushes you off before the last syllable. He cradles your face, his irises almost entirely obscured by his dilated pupils. You swallow audibly, leaning into his palm to press a kiss on it.

Without much warning, Zayne moves his hip, snapping them forward with a soft grunt. The burn from the stretch is pleasurable—a constant reminder. Urging him, you slide back before arching your back so his length slides in. Getting the message, Zayne sets the pace—deep thrusts making your breath stutter. He drags his nose along the length of your neck to mumble your name along with a soft praise.

“You feel so good. I missed you all week, my pretty girl.” Zayne uncharacteristically blabs out of guilt, his words muffled by the delicate skin of your neck that he sucks into his mouth. His rhythm picks up as the muscles of his abdomen flex. One of his hands tightly grips your calf and brings your left leg over his shoulder. You whine—both at his honeyed words and the deeper angle at which he slams his hips into you.

“Fuck, ah—Zayne,” you pant out, clinging to his broad shoulders until your nails leave crimson streaks on his alabaster skin. 

His heavy-lidded gaze is the only thing betraying his exhaustion as he keeps up a brutal pace, taking out his week’s frustrations on you. His hands are everywhere, on your breasts, wrapping loosely around your neck as he captures your lips into a searing kiss—drinking in your sweet, soft pleas that warm him up from the inside like mulled wine. 

Each of his movements is deliberate, imbued with such care and devotion that a sob threatens its way up your throat. It’s a game of give and take in which neither feels deserving to be the winner. The both of you pour as much as you can in the hopes that as much of it can stick to the other—mending broken parts together. 

It heals old scars and soothes any bitterness that remains from the distance that creeps between the two of you whenever apart. It melts away like the frost on a cold autumn morning when the sunlight grazes the shimmering grass blades. 

Zayne’s fingers slip between your bodies and find with ease what he searches—dipping to where his cock is buried inside your heat before dragging them upward to your clit. Pleasure surges forward, and your world suddenly narrows to the rhythm of his touch, the scent of him, and the soft noises he lets out as he nips your earlobe to distract himself. 

Your breath catches—rising and falling in desperate, unsteady gasps as the pressure builds and builds. A wildfire catching ablaze and running its course through your bloodstream with an urgency that makes your head spin. Zayne follows close behind, his movements getting more erratic and less consistent as he rapidly feels the thread fraying.

He forces himself to open his eyes, struck with pure awe at the blissed-out expression on your face, at the otherworldly glow with which your skin catches the early light—a pearlescent sheen that mesmerizes him. Zayne mutters your name brokenly—a prayer, a praise, a plea for forgiveness that he earned lifetimes ago. 

For a moment, you forget everything but the warmth, the pressure, the overwhelming rush of him—of this—and when it finally breaks. Zayne is quick to notice; it’s a quiet surrender, a shiver that hums through every nerve, but he’s fluent in the tells of your body. A tremor runs through your every limb as he slows his pace down, savouring the way you clench impossibly tight around him. 

There’s a raw vulnerability in your gaze—a sudden outpouring of emotions that seeps into his skin like spilled ink on parchment. It chokes him up as the voices in the back of his head echo words he knows by heart by now. A tale as old as time that paints him as undeserving of this. Undeserving of you. You touch his cheek, and he blinks, momentarily stunned and brought back to the moment. The tender and loving grazing of your fingers against his forehead as you push his hair away from where it falls in front of his eyes.

It’s enough for him to ignore the pesky thoughts—at least for tonight. 

With a deeper thrust, burying his head into the crook of your neck where he unapologetically bites your shoulder, Zayne spills into you with a soft grunt. His hips stutter, slowing down until he is completely static and lets out the most delectable grunt that ends in a low whine that makes you acutely aware of how much he needed this. 

He collapses to your side—bone-deep exhaustion finally setting in. You wince as he pulls out of you, but he wastes no time cleaning the mess he left between your legs with your towel laying further on the bed. Sweat clings to your heated skin, but the gentle breeze cools it down almost immediately. 

“We should have showered after,” you flatly comment, and Zayne laughs—a strikingly loud and out-of-character laugh that takes you by surprise. He must be delirious with fatigue, but you tuck the sound of it away in your mind as you join him until your ribs hurt.

He exhales loudly, tracing circles on your arm. “I made a reservation at your favourite cafe tomorrow,” Zayne says, flipping on his side to look at you tenderly. He is absentmindedly playing with some unruly hair strands down your neck, his face still red. “I believe it’s in 5 hours. I can cancel if you want to sleep in.”

You huff softly, grabbing a pillow that fell to the floor and tucking it under your arm. “It’s alright. I’ll set an alarm.”

He looks at you unconvinced. “Is the alarm intended to wake me up? You’re not known to be easily awakened,” Zayne comments, an eyebrow inquisitively raised as he taunts you.

You wait a few seconds before answering, weighing your options. “What if I say it is?” As expected, Zayne rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest further. With one quick gesture, he drags the bed covers over the two of you and pulls you tightly against him. Though his breathing has returned to normal, his heartbeat betrays his seemingly calm state. 

He presses a kiss to the crown of your hair. “Happy birthday.” You hum, smiling as you tilt your head up to press a kiss on the top of his nose. “Get some sleep, doctor’s order,” he immediately adds with his usual sternness. You’re about to snarkily reply but stop yourself, knowing better than to argue with him when he uses such a tone. 

You settle against him, lulled to sleep by the steadying beat of his heart and the soft tickle of his breathing against your temple as the sun starts pouring its warm golden light in the quietude of your bedroom.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

How would you redesign Headmaster Magneto? Just out pf curiousity because while he served it didn’t feel like… Erik.

i have to keep it 100 i have no idea without just. rerunning his original design but with a palette swap LOL but we try around here

[eggplantgifs]

Nobunari Oda: Farewell to Nationals // 2013 → 2024

[superfallingstars]

Snapetober Day 16: Tangle

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

I was wondering, does Fiddleford still have a wife in your Halloween au? And if yes, does she know about him being a vampire?

I've been sitting on this ask for a bit, but I think I should finally answer.

In my AU, Fidds is actually pretty old-- not like ancient or anything, but surely a few centuries?

Anyway, so way back, when he was human, he did have a wife and a kid!! But when he got bit and became a vampire, he actually outlived them :(

He tries to think about them often, but it's definitely one of the things he chooses to erase when he creates the memory gun

[sadfishkid]

zzs pokemon evolution

[ricky-mortis]

I have a lot of thoughts about Tinky fucking Ted up- have some doodles about it

[fbfh]

did you know that Dean wakes up one morning and realizes he has a fucking bombshell of a wife/husband/spouse, a cozy (slightly rural) suburban house, and not one but three fucking daughters???? Did you know that he woke up one morning to toddler giggles and little kid bickering and baby babbling????? and your girls come charging in hushing their little giggles so they don't wake up mommy and daddy and so OBVIOUSLY he has to pretend to be asleep so he doesn't foil their plan. he focuses all his energy on keeping his face and body relaxed, keeping his breathing even. they're whispering and babbling and Dean peeks an eye open and looks at the love of his life and these three angels with their daddy's attitude and their mama's heart. they have your eyes and his smile. they're... the best parts of both of you, and there's something entirely new and beautiful in each of them too.

Bobby Dean is your oldest, and her 4th birthday is just around the corner. She's 3 and 3/4 right now, and won't let anyone forget it.

Your second is Jodi John, or JJ informally. She's fought her way half way through the terrible twos and is already getting a head start on the whole 3 going on 13 thing.

Mary Cass, or Cassie, is your youngest. She's just over a year old, and wants to do everything her big sisters do.

And Dean is looking at your little girls, and at you. He sees the way the morning sunlight dapples in through the window and illuminates their tangled hair and disney princess nightgowns. Your face is all puffy from sleep, and you still smell like the apple pie you made yesterday.

it's real, he realizes. that pipe dream that apple pie life.

you gave that to him. you did that. you turned his deepest, most unspoken desires into a reality like it was nothing. and every ounce of joy and love and peace he feels every moment of every day, he owes it all to you. You try to tell him on occasion when he gets all sentimental on you, he deserves it. he deserves every good thing he feels, and he's so great with the girls, he's a natural dad and you couldn't possibly dream of a better husband to do it with.

Because at his heart, Dean is a family man. He's your family man.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 4: Deranged Bedfellows

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.5)

[dunmeshistash]

I was rereading dunmeshi and was reminded of the dryad lifecycle and I just. The amount of things in this manga that makes complete sense but also none at all. Keeps me awake at night tbh. Can’t get enough. What’s ur fav complete bonkers fact from the series?

No joke the first thing I remember questioning in dungeon meshi is the explanation for Falin always having her eyes closed, I was like "what do you mean she's always squinting cause shes near sighted, where's her glasses" meanwhile I was squinting at my screen without my glasses on.

Anyway, I think my favorite bonkers monster explanation is the Red Dragon, they click their tongues to ignite fuel, eat their prey whole so they produce pellets and use that for ignition too, all the dragons tbh, I had a major dragon phase when I was a teen so it's really satisfying seeing more animal-like Dragons that just make so much sense (even tho they're also absurd, as dragons are)

[wishchip106]

i wonder if the rest of these guys ever caught onto what charles and erik do in their free time

they both looking at eachother like they hung the moon and the stars 🤨

if it wasn’t the sixties and gayness wasn’t ILLEGAL they would be all over each other times ten

rubbing it in everyones faces

they would unofficially get married

“Husband! would you kindly get me some more sugar?”

“Of course, Husband”

while staring sickeningly in love at the other

they would do this regardless of the time period

the other xmen are sick of them, they gotta deal with that every waking moment

don’t even get me started on their extracurricular activities 🤨

the kitchen, the bedroom, the floor, the wall, the bathroom, the shower, the kitchen counter, outside, inside, on the roof (how tf did they get up there)

anyway you get me, they fucking like rabbits (switches cherik truther right here)

they would be in the honeymoon phase straight to beach divorce

god imagine being hank having to deal with the aftermath of that thoughts and prayers forreal (i’m not even religious why am i praying)

one thing thats gets me about cherik is no matter what they still love eachother deeply and unwaveringly

“sorry i blew up that factory do you still wanna play chess? 🥺”

bro these guys are insane gonna throw them in the oven