#tehehehe

[16th-of-a-twigg]

Merlin then proceeded to not run away from the prat for the next 10 years 😭👍 Ko-Fi

[hungharrington]

HEY LOVE :) first of all, congrats on everything omg!!! second, i took a peek at your birthday celebration and have a small request..

im thinking "you know you love me" from list one and "poolside sex after hours of teasing and taunting" from list two, sort of as an evening swim in his backyard pool type of thing and something softer and playful?? take that as you will but im excited to see what you come up with nonetheless!!

if you sent this lovely ask in months n months ago, please accept my humble apology in the form of a 3.2k fic <3 established relationship, fem!reader, p in v, 3.2k, MDNI this entire blog is 18+

The day starts with the sun high in the sky.

It's balmy. A kind of heat in the air that you can't seem to escape, even in the shadows, stuffy warmth that sticks to your skin. The type where only a cold dip can cool you off.

Like, say, taking a swim in Steve Harrington's pool.

It figures you get invitations to such luxuries — his is your boyfriend after.

Just... those invitations also extend to the 13-year-olds he's friends with.

As if on cue, Lucas speeds past you, with an almighty cry of Geronimo! before he cannonballs into Steve's pool, full-force. Mike catches a face full of water. Dustin has already pre-emptively ducked.

You watch it all from your lounger, your mouth twisting back an amused smile.

Your swimsuit is still wet, though rapidly drying beneath the suns rays, and you see the world through the tinted shades of Steve’s ray-bans.

Despite having to share your boyfriend and his backyard, you’re still enjoying yourself.

“Little shits,” Steve’s voice comes from behind you, too dosed with affection to be anything other than fond. “Told ‘em not to run and what do they do? They run.”

You tilt your head back, squinting, lips already quirking into a wider smile.

“Wow,” You drawl as Steve comes into view, stopping just behind your lounger. “Have I told you how hot and bothered I get when you get all motherly?”

You’re joking with him, but also, not really. Steve’s cute when he gets his feathers in a ruffle over the rag-tag group of teenagers he accidentally adopted.

You bite your lip to sell the joke. And also to hide the pulse of desire you feel at the sight of your boyfriend — bare-chested, tanned, a trail of hair down along his tummy, those tiny red shorts.

He’s devious. He knows exactly what the shorts do to you.

“Uh, no, you haven’t,” He chides right back, placing one hand on the lounger above your head and leaning over above you. “Y’say somethin’ about hot and bothered?”

He’s grinning and close enough to kiss — which you take full advantage of, leaning up.

Steve’s lips are warm, like the day, and the kiss is probably too passionate for the audience. You can’t find you care when Steve kisses you like this.

“Hey!”

There’s a splash of water and dozen droplets sprinkle across your legs, giving you a shock. You and Steve jerk back from the kiss, Steve with a particular scowl sent to the splashes origin.

Dustin holds his hand up, ready and threatening to splash again. He narrows his eyes at Steve’s scowl. “No playing hooky!”

“Henderson, that is not even what that means,” Steve grouses. He circles round your lounger to stand beside you, turning to deposit the glass of juice he’d gone inside to fetch for you.

“Here you go, baby,” He says more softly. You take the glass from him and a cold spill of condensation drips over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” You say, already focused on a sip so much that you miss the half-formed pucker Steve makes. He’s used to getting kisses with every thank-you you give. Guess you spoil him too much.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” He says, a bit grumbly when he realises the juice truly has taken your attention.

He sits on the edge of your lounger and pokes at your thigh. “C'mon, budge over.”

You laugh at him, because there’s at least a dozen other seats available other than the one right next to you — but you shuffle over all the same.

His thigh presses against yours, a strong line of muscle. He leans back, head pillowed against the lounger, and raises one arm to curl around behind his head. You peer over your shoulder back at him and have the insane desire to lick up his chest.

Taking another sip of rapidly-warming juice, you remind yourself that children are present — and stuff the desire far, far down.

“Y’gonna go swimming again, honey?”

Steve’s voice is a little softer now as he soaks up the sun. The hand not tucked behind his head has moved to sit on your lower back, giving an idle rub. His thumb swatches gently, lovingly.

“Mm,” you think it over. “Maybe. I think if I go in now, I’ll be wrestled into playing a game of chicken. Maybe quite literally.”

“Mhm,” Steve makes a low chuckle in the back of his throat. “Thought you liked it when I got my head between your— hey, ow!”

His sentence derails at the soft slap you deliver to his stomach. He frowns, brows all scrunched together, looking at you with mock annoyance.

“Steven,” you say. “Need I remind you, there are children around—”

“So, I’ll send em’ home,” Steve drawls, his hand moving along your back with more intention now. His smile can only be described as feline.

“Then I can spend some time figuring out this adorable little number…”

His fingers have wiggled their way under the strap of your bikini top, pulling at the elastic almost teasingly.

“You’re insatiable, Harrington.”

He takes his warm hand off your back to clutch at his chest, miming being shot with a dramatic and very unrealistic sound effect.

“Ough, back with the last name. Oh, I’m in the doghouse now, aren’t I?”

He’s insufferable. Insatiable. He’s so good at getting under your skin in a way that makes you want to jump his bones.

In lieu of an answer, you tip his sunglasses further down your nose and peer over him with a faux disappointment.

Steve mimes another gun shot, this time with both hands, then uses them to pull you back up into his chest. He’s too rough with it and your juice splashes a little, a splatter up on your collarbones.

Steve, dotingly, licks it clean for you — kissing the skin after, and receiving an earful of heckling from his children.

Despite his threats, he doesn’t kick the kids out.

They stay for another hour or so, letting the heat of the day pass and tiring themselves out with endless handstand competitions and pool-noodle battles.

When they leave, predictably, there’s a mess around the pool. As Steve gazes over it, he grumbles under his breath, putting the assorted junk away.

You know it’s a half-hearted grumble at best.

He doesn’t like the mess, but he loves the company. You help him, tidying up the space as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. Soon, there is only a linger of the day’s warmth and dappled light dancing over the surface of the pool.

You stand on the edge of it, peering down into the water.

“You know,” Steve begins, wandering up along side you. He stops, just shy of a few inches, one of his hands curling against your waist. He’s smiling at you. “I ever tell you how beautiful you look in the water?”

You frown. “Okay? But I’m not in the water.”

Steve’s smile widens to a grin—then he’s pushing with the hand on your waist, tipping you off balance and sending you straight back into the pool.

It’s not cold—yet you’re not expecting it, so it still gives you a shock.

You push up, splashing about to surface, and are caught halfway between spluttering and cursing, when Steve cannonballs himself in beside you.

Bubbles rush up through the water, reflecting a thousand setting suns.

You’ve barely managed to situate yourself, legs kicking to keep you afloat, when there’s arms around you.

You startle in surprise, but Steve’s expecting it.

There’s one arm around your middle, the other hooked around a thigh and he pulls you easily against him. You flounder for a moment, before finding purchase on his shoulders.

His hair is stuck down flat, sparkles caught in his lashes, hazel eyes fonder than you’ve ever seen them.

He’s smiling, his pink mouth formed into something that could nearly be a smirk.

“You-!” You begin, not letting him get away with that so easily.

Steve grins, then shakes his head side to side, not unlike a dog. You get a spray of water to the face.

“You—” You repeat hotly, only to cut yourself off with a little gasp at the sudden warm, wet heat applied to your neck.

Steve’s begun lazily mouthing up the column on your throat, a low hum vibrating against your skin.

“I, what?” He says when he pulls back. His lips are pinker and his pupils darker now. “I’m sorry, baby, I just had to get you back in the pool again.”

His hands shift, pulling you a little closer. He leans in, aiming for your mouth, and you turn to let his kiss find your cheek.

He makes a little noise that you’d probably classify as a whine.

“Baby,” he whinges. “You know you love me. C'mon, I said I was sorry.” He pulls you ever closer, so much that you’re now flush against his body.

You hold out for all of another minute, face turned up and away, pretending you can’t hear him.

Unfortunately for you, Steve takes the opportunity to begin peppering kisses along your neck, up to your jaw, insistent and unfairly good at softening you.

You relent when his kisses reach your lips. You let your hands slide forward, looping around his neck and you kiss him deeply.

He tastes like summer, cherry chapstick, and a hint of chlorine.

Steve loves kissing. He’s told you that a dozen times, most of the time said as a dreamy sigh, when he’s all heart-eyed and fuzzy from a make out.

But now, your legs finding their place twined around his waist, his mouth kissing yours, the firmness of him through his shorts betrays his other motivations.

You pull back and be upfront, “Steve, I’m not sleeping with you in the pool.”

Your boyfriend at least has the decency to look a little sheepish at being so easily figured out.

He grins guiltily, then kisses the edge of your mouth, “Not even a little?”

Slipping your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, you scratch gently. You smile your sweetest, honey-iest smile, and say “No.”

Steve groans, his hand sliding up along the line of your outer thigh. His head tips back. It’s obviously not the answer he was hoping for.

“Baby, you’ve been driving me crazy all day,” He bemoans. “What am I supposed to do?”

Using your hand in his hair, you nudge his head back up, crowding in close. There’s a surprise in his eyes that delights you, hazel hopeful.

“I said,” you say with emphasis. “Not in the pool.”

Realisation dawns and within a moment, Steve’s putting his strong swimmer body to use. The water cuts around you, sending ripples out all around.

In a minute, he’s got you both at the edge of the shallow end.

“C'mon, lemme help you up,” He’s talking more to himself, feet planted, hands already around your waist to help lift you up onto the tiles.

Water drips off you, little splatters on tile, as you're hoisted up and out of the pool. A little pleased thrum runs through at the strength your boyfriend displays, his hands still lingering on your hips.

The tiles feel cool beneath your thighs. You feel anything but.

Steve takes a moment to appreciate the angle. He gazes up at you, a mixture of reverence and hunger in his eyes.

The insistence urge to jump his bones rears up stronger. You pat yourself on the back for only giving him one, long kiss, leant over him in the water, before beginning to hunt for your towel.

It’s not like it’s much help.

Droplets get dried up, just to be replaced by the wetness of Steve’s swim shorts. He crowds you against the lounger from earlier, his chest to your back, all eager hands and nippy kisses.

“I know I’m being pushy,” He says, a little sweeter now. “If you don’t want to, you know I don’t mind. We can just take a shower, order some pizza…”

His hands, which had been crawling over your hips, meeting at your navel, come to stop. He’s making sure you aren’t distracted.

It’s an easy decision. You twist in his grip and let yourself fall back on the lounger, landing with a little oof!

Steve sees it for what it is. He’s on you quickly, large hands planting on either side of your hips.

“God, m’so lucky,” He murmurs, fingers curling into the side of your swimsuit bottoms. A flame blisters deep in your gut.

The cushions still somehow feel warmed by the sun as you lay back on them.

You’re still that kind of sticky-wet from the pool, but there’s enough heat in the air to dry your skin. Or maybe that’s you, growing warmer and warmer as Steve deftly undoes the ties keeping your suit together.

“C’mere, handsome,” You say, hand finding his jaw and directing his focus up to your face.

Steve follows eagerly, grinning when he realises you want a kiss — and gifting you one without hesitation.

“Okay?” He murmurs against your lips. “Gonna warm you up a bit, yeah?”

You’re nodding easily, the slight nerves of being outside, even in Steve’s sheltered backyard, mixing with the anticipation.

The flame deep in your tummy burns a little hotter at the sight of Steve’s fingers disappearing into his pink mouth — coming out slicked with spit.

Then, they disappear between your thighs and you rediscover them in a sigh of pleasure, pulled from your lips.

Steve’s good with his fingers. Good with his hands. Good at almost every part of this.

You let him rub little circles of delirium through your clit until you’re welled with wetness, flushed through your body, and ready. Finger, tongue, cock—anything. You want something.

“Steve, c’mon,” you pant, torn between watching the bulge of his bicep or his own captivated face, mouth open slightly, hazel eyes fixed on his hand between your legs.

“Yeah?” He says a little breathlessly, eyes finding yours.

You make a little uh-huh that Steve thinks is beyond cute, while also sending a throb to his cock. Double threat.

All of you is a quadruple threat to Steve, he thinks.

It’s less than pleasant to try pull off half-dried swimming trunks, the fabric stuck to his skin, so Steve’s settles for a halfway. It’s a bit crude, red shorts pulled halfway down his ass — but you’re half dressed, so he is too.

Nudging one thigh up gently, he smooths over your calf tenderly, eyes still checking your expression.

Finding nothing but the glint of love in your hungry eyes, Steve bites back his groan and begins to sink into you, slow.

It’s torture. It’s heaven. You’re warm and wet and so goddamn pretty beneath him.

He starts slow, hips rocking in and out at a tantalising pace. The urge that’s been itching all day finally begins to feel relief.

“That it?” He whispers, his hand sliding up from your calf to hold the underside of your thigh. “This what you wanted, huh? Making you feel good?”

You make a pretty-sounding sigh that manages to send even more blood south, which Steve hadn’t thought possible. His head spins a bit.

You’re nodding, brows creased in a beautiful agony, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. God, you’re a dream. God, he’s so lucky.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, lashes fluttering as he ruts in slowly. “Feels so good, baby.”

For a long moment, it’s just that.

Easy, soft, slow thrusts that get stickier and stickier. You keen and sigh, hands gripping the fabric of the lounger beneath you as you fight to keep your eyes open. And when that’s not enough, you latch onto Steve’s shoulders.

It’s mutually beneficial.

The muscles shift beneath your fingertips, the exertion of his movements, the slow drill into you, sending fire down your spine.

The delightful pain of your fingernails, pressing half moons into his skin, when he finds just the angle you like.

As always, Steve can’t stop talking. His face is buried in your neck, his hand flexing where it holds your shaky leg up, and his mouth going a million miles an hour.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? God, you’re so wet- so fuckin’ perfect for me. Oh, my baby is so pretty when she’s fucked, isn’t she?”

It’s murmured against your skin and you can hear every word. The response you make isn’t exactly voluntary. A high-pitched moan staggers out your throat before you can think to capture it.

It only urges Steve on. He starts fucking you with an inch more force— all the way in, all the way out.

“Christ, just listen to you,” He breathes, pure lust threaded in the words. “You’re so perfect. Every noise is— ngh— oh fuck.”

There’s a stutter in his breathing. Your back arches off the lounger, instinctively trying to get closer, closer, you’re not close enough.

“Baby, baby, you can’t squeeze me like that, can’t- can’t expect me to- oh my god, shit, listen to you, listen to— fuck, you’re so wet.”

The pooling of heat in your stomach rolls with pleasure in and over you, like waves on a shore, each one bigger than the last. Your breath hitches. You cling tighter to Steve’s shoulders.

His name punches out of you, more whimper than word, “St— Steve,”

“I know, I know, baby,” He coos, hips still rolling into yours. There’s a spot within you, one that makes you wail, that he keeps tapping with the tip of his cock. “Will you let me have it? C'mon, baby—fuck— can you give it to me? So perfect, so pretty when you squeeze my cock like this.”

He knows just what to say.

Knows just what you need to turn the building coil in your tummy tighter, turn it hotter.

You’re nodding fervently, eyes scrunched closed, a jumbled string of uh-huhs and yeahs pouring from your mouth.

Steve pulls back to watch, transfixed, because fuck, you’re so pretty like this. There’s sweat at his hairline. He presses your thigh an inch higher, rocking in, and then drags his thumb over your clit—over and over.

It’s a chain reaction; the hitch of your breath, the turn of your face, the whine in your throat. You tip over the edge gloriously.

“Thaaat’s it,” Steve fucks into the snugness of your cunt, a whine threaded in his moans, the coil in his stomach blazing warm and ready to snap. “Shit, fuck, that’s it. That’s my fucking girl— god, that’s- uh- fuck—“

Thrusts losing their patient rhythm, overstimulation glitters at your edges as Steve ruts once, twice, then pulls out with a grunt to finish on the lounger beneath you both.

You’re still fringed with pleasure, chest still heaving, when he flops down, still half on you.

You’re so lax you don’t even mind his weight — instead, your hands come up, skating along the planes of his shoulders to bury in his hair. There’s sweat along the nape of his neck. You scratch at his scalp lovingly.

It’s darker now, but not all light is gone. It’s the later stage of dusk. You feel blazing warm, especially pressed against Steve, but you know it won’t stay like that for long.

For now though,

“Mmmmm,” Steve hums drowsily, even as he’s still catching his breath. “S’fucking nice to me.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder half-heartedly. What he lacks in enthusiasm, he makes up for with slobber.

You’re so enamoured or perhaps so well-fucked — or maybe even both — that you only love him more for it.

[jonahmagnus]

The roaring knight

[polinsated]

colin bridgerton: always a gentleman right after getting freaky

[deadlysoupy]

don't judge i did this in 30 minutes before my internet could die

[birdsandbeetlesandmoths]

For Flambert February - Day 17: Rain

Robert stays late at the office. He doesn’t mean to. He loses track of time as he’s shuffling through a mountain of paperwork and files that he decided to start organizing and couldn’t bring himself to stop.

It takes Beef whimpering and nuzzling against his pant leg and scratching him through the fabric to break him out of the reverie.

“Sorry, buddy.” He rubs his knuckles on the dog’s head and under his chin as an apology. He switches off the desk lamp.

The late afternoon showers had turned into a full blown thunderstorm. The skies had darkened and they were threatening a worse downpour than what was already pattering against the windows.

Robert packs up quickly, hoping to catch it before the real rain starts. But he can hear the growing crescendo and knows it’s hopeless.

Even worse that he didn’t bring an umbrella.

He digs his spare jacket out of his bag. It’s got bold decals on it, a recent part of the new Z-Team merch shipping. He had pieces from everyone’s collections: A pair of dazzling earrings from Alice’s, a vivid colored track jacket from Herm’s, a pair of jagged but sleek hair clips from Janelle’s. Many things he would never find the occasion to wear, but items he loved to have because he loved them.

However, the jacket, bomber style and faux leather (the latter fact making the man whose collection it belonged to tsk and grumble about SDN being cheap as fuck with him), was something that was beginning to find its way into his weekly closet.

It helped that at least the jacket style was one he wore often. The brightness of the flourished detailing was eye-catching, and he liked how it looked.

He might be so forward as to say it was his favorite piece. Though that might have to do with who it reminded him of than him explicitly loving the clothing.

So he shrugs it on and scoops Beef up and hopes that the leather isn’t so cheap that the rain could damage it.

He makes his way through the darkening office, listening to the noise of the weather’s effects. The wind hissing against the walls, making the building creak in places, and the deep shhhh of the rain blanketing the world.

Honestly, he could fall asleep to this. The held, powerful lull beyond the cover of his shelter.

The noise brightens when he steps outside, the metal awning making erratic, almost melodic tinking. Beef yaps at it. Robert soothes his hand over the little guy’s tummy.

He looks up at the cloud cover. Yeah. Not an end in sight. He judges the distance from the lobby door to his car.

He’s about to suck it up and let himself get soaked when he hears and sees the side door open in his periphery, along with a muttered string of swears.

Flambae shoulders his duffel bag, stepping into the rain before speed-walking to duck under the awning a foot from Robert. He narrows his bright eyes at the rain like it’s personally targeted him today.

Notably, he’s wearing a loose jacket too. Robert recognizes the exact shade of faded teal and the subtle outline of the stylized M on the back. It tugs a smirk onto his face.

“Didn’t know you were staying late.” Robert muses.

He hears a grumble from his companion. “Working out. This place has decent facilities. Why pay for a membership.”

Robert hums his assent. Beef yips in his hands again, desperate to get going.

“Didn’t think you were much of a fan of my alter ego either.”

Flambae’s broad shoulders twitch. He spins around, mouth already twisting into place for a scathing retort or scalding insult, but he seems to stumble when he catches sight of what Robert is wearing.

“Where— what—” Robert is trying his very hardest to hold back from snickering at Flambae’s flustered stuttering.

He doesn’t succeed very well. He does a little turn, showing off just to tease him even more. “Got it from the sample merch collections. It fits pretty nicely, don’t you think?”

The prompting only makes Flambae’s jaw grit tight and he has to blink hard multiple times for him to snap out of it.

“Why the fuck are you wearing that.”

Robert feigns innocence. “Forecast called for rain.” He gestures with his free hand at the torrential downpour. “I didn’t expect this much. But still.”

Flambae’s cheeks are aflame, licks of fire appearing then extinguishing just as fast. He sighs heavily to put them out for good, then steps toward Robert. Easily, he reaches for the jacket’s collar, and Robert is entirely prepared for him to haul him close and kiss him senseless.

Instead, Flambae tugs it tighter around Robert’s neck, muttering about the terrible choice that he’s made in jackets and the bad fabric quality and how of course he got the short end of the stick when it came to merch designs and how he’s rather design his own merch he already has patterns and sketches for everything.

Robert likes the pleasant flush that steals over him from the attention and the hyperfocused way that his boyfriend fusses over him.

“Even fucking Mecha Dick’s jacket is more comfortable and higher quality. How is that fair at all?” Flambae spits under his breath, his hands lingering at Robert’s nape to adjust the stiffer back of the collar.

Robert’s smile gets a wry edge. He tilts into the touch. “Is my new merch a hit then? Are the fans satisfied.”

“Fuck no.” Flambae snarls with none of the vitriol is needed. “Alice gave it to me. I didn’t want it, but I’m not wasting a perfectly well-designed jacket.”

“So you wear it to work. Where you know I am. Because it means nothing.” Robert outlines with a growing smug grin.

Flambae jabs him evilly, avoiding the doggo in Robert’s arms. “I could say the same shit about you. You’re so fucking obsessed with me, it’s creepy, get a life, Bob-Bob.”

It’s impossible to miss the way Robert’s smile grows fond in two milliseconds flat.

“Yeah, I kind of am.”

That fiery blush returns with new kindling. “Kind of?” Flambae looks him up and down skeptically.

“Okay, Chad, my boyfriend who wears my merch out and definitely didn’t wait for me before finally leaving the building despite the obvious thunderstorm,”

Robert tugs on the lapels of the jacket in question, bringing Flambae down to his level and whispering into the shell of his ear. “I’m the one who’s obsessed.”

His boyfriend’s hands, feverish, steady themselves on his waist, finding their way under the vivid fire-detailed hem on instinct, before he pulls away abruptly.

He’s not gone for long, as he swiftly wraps his arm around Robert, shielding his head and the creature in his arms with the wide, branded jacket.

“I’m kidnapping you now. I’m getting payback for this bullshit.” Flambae says and he starts dragging his boyfriend across the parking lot quickly, beelining for Robert’s car. The rain steams up when it hits Flambae’s skin, and the makeshift shelter of his arm actually proves to protect Robert from the worst of the slanted assault.

He gets to the driver’s side and crowds Robert against the door, a likely excuse being to shield him from the weather. The warm press of his body is more than a bit of a distraction.

“I’m gonna assume I’m still driving.” Robert raises a brow up at him.

Flambae grins toothily and cranes down to press a kiss to the side of Robert’s mouth. “Part of the repayment.”

“And when my debt is paid?” Robert chases after his mouth, beautifully hot in the wet chill. Flambae, starting to be surrounded by steam, gives him what he wants, licking into his mouth and nearly scalding Robert’s tongue. He pulls back with a smirk.

“Then I’ll warm you up even more when we get home.”

[thebones-ofmymind]

[cookie-crumbz]

Weiner dog weiner dog, how did u get so looong

Weiner dog weiner dog, come listen to my sooooong