#and shake the everloving fuck out of them

[droewyn]

Tumblr Meme University: Life Skills 101

This works with any stainless steel object! They actually sell "magic soap" for this purpose, but save yourself the $7 and just grab a piece of flatware from your kitchen drawer. I use serving spoons for the larger surface area.

#tumblr meme university #uncommon “common knowledge” #garlic #this post has been brought to you by the 3 bulbs that are currently being infused into 24 oz of duck fat and ghee #another garlic tip: #to completely peel large quantities of garlic #(say 3 bulbs) #in about a minute #put the bulbs in a large hard-sided container with a lid #and shake the everloving fuck out of them #the cloves will separate and most of them will peel #the ones that don't will still be loosened and very easy to peel by hand

[makethatelevenrings]

Skeletons in the Closet // D. Grayson x gn!reader

Requested? Yep!

Warnings: reader is followed home at night!!! if anyone ever follows you home, you have my consent to beat the everloving shit out of them!!!! your life is far more valuable to a fucking creeps!!!

Summary: While being followed home after work, you get a call from your boyfriend. He sends in some help from a friend. Things are realized.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck fuck.

With your keys clutched tightly between your thumb and palm and your pepper spray poking out from your grip, you hurried down the street with your heart racing faster each step. Another glance over your shoulder confirmed it. You were being followed.

You had to stay late at work because two of your coworkers had the flu and this was the punishment you got for trying to be nice. Fuck this. Fuck capitalism. Fuck the world and having to be scared walking to your fucking apartment.

And just your luck, the red line stop near your apartment was closed for repairs to the platform structure so that meant you had to walk an extra four blocks to get home. Fuck.

Your phone buzzed in your hand and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden jolt to your system. With shaking hands you swiped your thumb across the screen and pressed it against your cheek as you kept walking.

“Hello?” You really hoped that the person on the other line couldn’t hear the pure, visceral fear in your voice but you doubted it.

“Hey. I was just calling because you never texted that you left work or got home.” Oh. Right. Your boyfriend of three months, Dick Grayson, was a perfect gentleman and he always appreciated a text from you when you got home at night, whether it was from work or a night out with friends. He didn’t care if you were out late partying. He just wanted to make sure you were home safe at the end of the night.

“Right, shit. Sorry. I just got out of work a half hour ago and…” You glanced back at the guy following you and dropped your voice. “Someone’s following me. I’m about ten minutes max away from my apartment and I’ve got pepper spray, but you should know that I-”

“Where are you?” His voice had grown frigid in the time you were rambling and you peered up at the street sign you just passed.

“Avalon and Fifth.”

Dick inhaled deeply and then said something away from the phone, as though he was talking to someone in the background. He moved back closer to the phone and started talking quickly.

“Okay, baby, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put my friend on the line and she’s going to keep talking to you, okay? And in the meantime, I have another friend in the area and he’s going to come meet you. Keep walking towards your place. Don’t stop moving. Barbara will talk you through it.”

The line clicked before you could say anything and then a calm, pleasant voice filled your ear. “Hi, I’m Barbara. Dick’s told me a lot about you. Did you know he’s kind of obsessed with you?”

The sudden levity of the question elicited a laugh from you as you hurried down the darkened street. You could hear the footsteps getting closer and it made your throat close with anxiety.

“Hey Barbara, what’s going to happen?” you asked quietly.

“Don’t you worry about that. Just keep walking. You’re doing fine. Why did you stay late at work?”

“My coworkers are sick. Flu season and all that.”

“Hmmm, viruses are a bitch.” There was something in her voice that indicated more to her comment than you knew, but you didn’t have time to pry. The closer you got to an ally, the faster the steps sounded until the guy was full on sprinting towards you.

“Fuck,” you gasped as you turned to watch him barrel at you. Before he could get within three feet of you, a blur of black and blue swung down from seemingly nowhere and then Nightwing was standing over him, escrima sticks clutched tightly in his hands.

“Go,” the vigilante barked. He looked back at you and what a sight you probably made. Shaking, phone pressed to cheek and other hand gripping keys and pepper spray, and what felt like tears streaming down your cheeks, you stared back at the mask covered eyes. His chin dipped and you realized that he was inspecting you for some kind of injury. Nightwing raised his head to stare at you once more and then he jutted his chin out towards you in a silent command. The silvery white scar on his lower jar stood out under the light of the street lamps.

“Go,” he repeated. The man below him tried to sit up and the vigilante snapped one of his bludgeons down onto the man’s arm with a sickening crack, eliciting a scream from the man. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

You didn’t need another prompting and instead you turned, tucked tail, and sprinted the rest of the way home. You nearly forgot that Barbara was on the other end of the phone until you heard her call your name.

“I’m…I’m okay. I think. I…I’m okay.” Your hands shook so hard as you tried to unlock the door to your apartment that your dropped your keys and cursed under your breath. Scooping them up once more, you tried again and flew into your apartment.

“I’m home. Door’s locked. I’m fine. I…fucking hell. What just happened?”

“Hey, hey,” Barbara said. “Breathe with me, okay? That was a scary situation. Breathe. In two, out three. There we go.”

The fragments and pieces of your scattered brain started to knit an image together of what just happened. As the adrenaline receded, you were able to try and come to terms with the events of that night and one thing stood out to you.

The scar on his chin.

Nightwing’s.

The same scar that you pressed a kiss to in thanks for coffee. The same scar you made sure to pepper with kisses when your boyfriend curled around you and fell asleep against your chest. The same scar that you looked up at when he pulled sweet moans out of your lungs.

“I’m going to kill him,” you hissed.

Barbara barked out a laugh. “Please make sure to film it for me.”

“Oh, I will.” You tossed your keys and pepper spray onto the table just as a shadow passed over the window of your living room. “It’s been nice meeting you, Barbara, but I have to go strangle someone.”

“I’m going to put your number in my phone and we will be getting coffee soon.” You gave her a final goodbye and then stalked towards the window. Your phone tumbled onto the plush cushions of the couch as you passed. Yanking open the window, you stuck your head out and glared at the vigilante standing on the far end of your fire escape.

“So this is why you always make an excuse to not stay the night,” you snapped. Anxiety had turned to rage real quick. Nightwing grimaced and raised his gloved hand to run his fingers through his hair. It was then that you saw the fresh blood that mottled his knuckles and you knew exactly where it came from.

“And also why I make sure you get home at night,” he added quietly. You crooked your finger at him and he complied wordlessly. His footsteps were nearly silent on the old fire escape and you took a moment to marvel at how such a muscular man was able to move so quickly and quietly.

“Is this it? Any more skeletons in your closet?” you asked.

“You know about my family, so no. No more skeletons.”

“I’m going to ask Barbara when we go and get coffee,” you breathed against his lips. Dick paled slightly before he cleared his throat.

“That’s fair.”

“Now get in here and get that suit off. I’m still mad at you but I could really do with a hug right now.”

He didn’t protest.

Tag List: @someoneimsure​ @perpetual-fangirl900​ @visagebrise​ @cursedandromedablack​ @alexxavicry​ @the-wayward-daughter​ @raging-trash-of-mind​ @bunny-kawa​ @khaylin27​

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #richard grayson x reader #richard grayson imagine #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hound "baby boy" of Ill Omen for prompts!

first off, thank you for carrying this whole ship on your back. you are our strongest soldier and we appreciate you.

second, even more thanks for sending this my way! I hope this is something like what you had in mind!

if anyone else sees this and would like to toss a little prompt my way, feel free :)

wc: 934

cw: body horror…kind of? it’s just canonically what the good boy looks like

~~~

Imogen loves Laudna. She does. Quite a lot, in fact.

Because it is a fact. 

It may as well be written in stone. In the stars. Recorded on one of those dusty scrolls in elegant script and stuck on a shelf in some stuffy library for the next bored student who may happen across it and learn of two witches who saved the world.

Laudna, it must be noted, is a woman of many quirks. 

And Imogen, it must be noted, adores her for them. 

They are just as much a part of Laudna as the angle of her nose, the brightness in her eyes. As are her projects, macabre and scrounged as they often are, and so Imogen adores them, too. 

(If it takes her a moment to come around, Laudna must never know. Each new creation, presented to Imogen with all the glee of a child in a sweets shop, will only ever be met with enthusiasm. Laudna, she knows, has spent too long squirreling away the odd parts of herself. Imogen is determined to recover them.)

“Come here, darling,” Laudna calls, and the flesh-and-bone creature that scared the everloving fuck out of Imogen the first time he burst from his maker’s chest trots happily to her side, tongue lolling from a fleshless snout. 

The hound twines between Laudna’s legs, and she lifts her skirts to allow him through. He leans heavily against the inside of her knee, and Laudna beams. She bends at the waist to wrap the creature in spindly arms. His back arches, and Imogen can hear the vertebrae curving, clacking, as Laudna scratches behind his one intact ear. The ichor-tipped remnant of a tail begins to wag, shaking them both with the force of it.

He spots Imogen several paces away, and his green eyes glow, peering at her curiously.

Laudna has stopped her scritches, and the hound tilts his big head. Laudna looks up, meets Imogen’s fond gaze, and her lips split into a wide grin.

“Go on,” she pats the creature’s sides encouragingly, “say hello if you like.”

The hellhound bounds forward, released from his command. 

Imogen recalls the day he learned his tricks.

Laudna had found Imogen lounging beneath a copse of trees one afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to sink, casting the forest in dappled shades of orange and gold. The festering hound loped diligently at her heels. His paws colored the leaf-strewn ground iridescent black in their wake. 

“Look!” Laudna had said, chest puffed. She turned to her newest creation and pointed one finger. “You’ve been so obedient all afternoon. I’ll see about giving you something from my collection if your other mom approves of your skills. I should have a deer leg that will suit you nicely.” She contemplated for a moment. “Ready?” 

The hound stretched into a bow, muscle snapping over exposed bone, yawned, and shook. Drops of blood and ichor spattered the clearing, but Imogen hardly noticed, too caught up in Laudna’s casual statement. 

She had said it nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just gifted Imogen something extraordinarily precious. As if Imogen’s senses hadn’t suddenly gone askew. As if she hadn’t just sent Imogen’s worldview slip-sliding into something new and dangerous and so welcome that it felt like a homecoming. Her mind spun until she was almost giddy with it. She wondered, then, how something said so simply could feel so significant. If Laudna understood what she had done. 

She had appointed Imogen the caretaker of a fragment of her soul. Of a creature that had been born of her, born from her. Crafted from the essence of her with whispered words and a desire to protect. 

“Imogen?” Laudna had said then, “Are you ready?”

And Imogen had glanced between Laudna and her hound, who sat on bleeding haunches and looked expectantly at his mother, and it was all she could do to swallow the creak in her throat.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

Now, as the hound nearly bowls her over, Imogen cannot find it within herself to be mad at him. Not even at the dark stains on her dress. They’ll come out with a prestidigitation or two. She knows from experience. 

She falls back in the grass and stares down twin emeralds. A broad tongue laps the side of her face, and she laughs, trying to dodge a cold, wet nose against her cheek. Her hands come up to cup the sides of his muzzle. 

“Hi, baby boy,” she coos. She rubs at his ears, and he presses harder into her palm, groaning loudly. She can feel the vibration in her chest.

Laudna scolds, “What have I said about knocking people over?” Her hands rest firmly on her hips. “Honestly, Imogen, you could at least discipline him. How will he learn?”

Imogen rolls her eyes, shrugs. “I’m the fun mom. He comes to me because he knows he can’t get away with anything when you’re around.”

Laudna huffs. “I’m sorry that I want our son to be civilized.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” The hound flops to the ground, sprawling over Imogen’s outstretched legs, and she lets out an oomph of surprise. “Are you going to join us down here?” 

Laudna sighs and settles beside Imogen, resting her head on Imogen’s shoulder. She runs her hands over the creature’s exposed belly, avoiding the biggest of the perpetually oozing wounds. His jaw unhinges happily. His tail thumps a steady rhythm against her shin.

Imogen presses a kiss to the top of Laudna’s head, and Laudna relaxes into her.

A soft smile spreads across Imogen’s lips.

#this was written in an hour on the highway so please forgive any mistakes #I adore the baby boy #but for real many thanks for letting me take a stab at this #always honored to see you pop up in my notes :) #hope this works! #prompt fill #my fic #imodna #imodna fanfic #critical role #laudna #imogen temult #hound of ill omen #fic #cr3 #critical role fanfiction #ask #horse-immorality

[ickadori]

Back bc im not okay <///3

Naoya so uptight and clan this and family that- he has no time for sex!!! Him getting a taste of pussy for the first time after you seduce him and you're thinking he's gonna be uptight and vanilla but he gives it to you nasty, spitting on your tits, slapping your pussy, making you suck his balls after he nut in you uhhhhhhh he definitely gets addicted and ur pussy is his now :3 i just know the dirty talk would be immaculate and its literally just him being his asshole self

-chosos loyal and unquestionable everloving bbg anon 🙈 (can u see the brainworms ur last drabble gave meeee)

fully stand behind the fact that naoya is a gross individual in the bedroom.

the man was always busy with something, whether it was killing curses, dealing with necessary clan bullshit, or being his usual cheery self to everyone around him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about getting his dick wet.

it occupied his mind more than he cared to admit - the thought of sinking into something warm, wet, tight, soft, fuck. watching porn was a frequent occurrence, usually in the dead of the night after he finally dragged himself back to the estate after a tiring day.

he’d search for a video that got his skin hot and his tip leaky, too tired to get mad at the fact that the actress starring in it looked damn near identical to you, and shuck his pants down before wrapping a calloused hand around his hardening cock.

porn is always graphic, fucking obviously, but the porn he tends to watch is always a bit more…vulgar. it borders on being too much - too much spit, too much cum, too much squirt, too much noise. it’s messy, how wet those sluts cunts get while a cock is fucking into them (would you get that wet? pussy sticky and drippy just at the sight of him). it’s loud, the way their holes squelch when they’re getting fucked, and that tacky sound that rings out (would you be loud like that? pussy practically singing his praises while he’s making a mess in it).

he’s coming before he knows it, teeth gritted and muscles tensed to bite back a hiss of your name.

after that it’s just a matter of time and proximity. you’re always around - talking, laughing, smiling, existing, and he’s just a man, after all. he has his dick buried in you before he knows it, and he was hooked the moment he pulled your panties off and caught sight of what you were hiding between your thighs.

and he was a virgin, too, but you would have never known it, not with the way he hadn’t seemed the least bit hesitant when he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pushed your head down between his legs and smirked as he told you to ‘suck’. or the way he had pushed your breasts together, slotted his cock between the fleshy mounds, and lubricated you with spit and cum. or the way he had pulled his hand back and slapped at your pussy when you had squeezed him just right and nearly made him cum too early.

naoya is very much nasty. i think that doubles when his partner is shy or just not that experienced bc he likes to overwhelm them with the vulgarity of it all. he thinks it’s funny when he spits in their mouth and they flinch and frown before their eyes gloss over when they realize they like it. or the amazed, slightly horrified look they get when he shakes his cock in their face, a mix of his cum and theirs frothing on the base, and demands that they lick him clean. or the squeals and sobs they let out when he’s sucking his cum out of their hole and making them have a taste.

#++ choso’s bbg anon #naoya x reader #jjk x reader #CONDOLENCES AND LOVE OR HOWEVER IT GOES #AFTER THE RECENT CHAP #🤭🤭 #his dirty talk is filthy i’m certain #but if you know me you know dirty talk is not my forte 🙂‍↔️ #i would never subject yall to that 🙂‍↔️ #ball sucking is smth i m very passionate about #i need to get on that stat

[sn00pism]

"Do you have a heart? Within."

WC! Kunigami Renskue x reader

He was handsome, that you'd give him.

But oh God was he an asshole.

You really hated his guts, at least you thought you did, maybe annoyance was the word for what he made you feel? You couldn't stand rude or mean people, you really didn't get what his problem was.

However, when you asked Chigiri, the Kunigami that Chigiri described was with him in the Blue Lock program was a completely different person than the one you had interacted with the last few weeks in class. Maybe somehing happened to him? You didn't know exactly what but it must have been terrible for him to do 'a complete 180' as Chigiri described. You really wanted to stop paying attention to him, stop interacting with him, yet you couldn't help glancing his way when he entered your shared class.

Something that drew you to him, maybe you were kind of a masochist? Those BL manhwas were starting to get into your head. Daydreaming about this rude guy, built like a brick, mean to everyone but you, traumatised by something terrible. You could fix him. And as much as you wanted to convince yourself you could, it was anything but realistic.

Kunigami looked down on everyone and mostly stayed out of your way when you came over to study with Niko or Chigiri, yet, you found your eyes never leaving his figure when he exited his room, eyes glued to his toned arms and, dare you say, pretty face. Maybe you were delusional, always bringing stuff to share with them and without realising it, getting him something too even if you knew he wouldn't take it. You couldn't help being kind to him even if he proved to be indifferent to you gestures.

Seriously, what the everloving fuck was wrong with you? You'd be better off liking someone like Yoichi from your mandatory sports class or even Yukimiya from english literature, but you had to get your eyes on the rudest, most insufferable guy on campus.

In an effort to completely put distance between you and Rensuke, you stopped studying over to their dorm, opting for going to a small café near campus and changing your seat over to the far back.

As a few weeks passed by, you kind of forgot about your small infatuation with Rensuke. After all, I seemed it was nothing short of a crush.

In this past weeks, you began speaking with a guy in your class, doing some paper on the hero's journey in fiction books, you grew closer quickly and before you knew it, you had a date.

This of course prompted you to talk about it excitedly with your friends, during a break you had from class. And later on, bragging about it to Ryusei, who complained about not scoring a date with Rin's brother of all people.

And as the day came, you found yourself waking up slightly earlier to get ready, your make-up and outfit casual but sweet, nothing too big or flashy.

Once you got there, no one had arrived at the place you were supposed to meet in.

He's probably late, after all you're thirty minutes early. You'll wait.

After twenty minutes had passed from the time you'd agreed on, you began getting anxious, checking your phone for any messages or calls you might have missed from him but none arrived. Deciding to call him up, immediately noticing he had been online a few minutes ago. The call went unanswered, a simple 'sorry, I think we are not a good match.' following up in the message app you had been checking for the last twenty minutes.

Are you serious?

You began to feel stares on you, couples whispering to each other while looking in your direction. Maybe it was your anxiety, but you couldn't shake the sadness that washed over you like a wave, drowning you in self-doubt and insecurities.

Was something wrong with you? Was it that you came on too strong? Were you boring? Weird?

Sighing and preparing to leave, ego bruised and tears of humiliation begining to appear in your lashline, someone sat right in front of you.

A voice you recognized apeaking up over the chatter of the place.

"Hey"

"Come to laugh at me, Rensuke?"you bit you lip, tears threatening to fall. "Really not in the mood now," you looked down, the first tears sliding down your cheeks "Please just go.." you spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper. You seriously felt like just going home and crying while playing a funny Ryan Gosling movie to cheer you up slightly.

"Now why would I do that?" You stared at him dumbfounded, "I'm here to keep you company while I rest." He flagged down a waiter, ordering a piece of your favourite cake and a glass of water, "Besides, really needed some water, forgot mine."

You scoffed softly, although it sounded more like sigh, "You don't eat sweets, what are you really doing?" You looked up at him, drying your cheeks and looking down at you hands. You didn't want to look at him more than necessary, each time you looked at him, your heart began to beat a like faster, but you didn't want to make assumptions that he was here for you, besides, the pain of being rejected and stood up was still fresh in your chest.

Rensuke looked at you, seemingly bored, but never taking his eyes off you.

"Are you done interrogating me?," he thanked the server gruffly, taking a fork and a small piece of the cake. "I was just on my run and happened to see you." he psuhed the fork near you, motioning for you to take the utensil, "Heard you talking to Shidou the other day, weren't you supposed to be on a date?" you took the fork and took the bite, it made you feel a little better.

You looked back at him, immediately noticing that his hair was slightly damp and there was some sweat sliding down his neck and face. "But this place is far from your dorm, you're telling me you went out of your route to get some water?" your heart raced in your ribcage, hoping he had done that romantic thing the main leads do when they realise they like the protagonist and chase after her, but you didn't want to get you hopes up, look where that got you. That was fiction after all, this was real life and the facts are that you got rejected because of whatever reason and Kunigami probably hated you along with ninety percent of the campus population. Your shoulders sagged in dissapointment as another wave of sadness rushed out of nowhere.

"I did, yeah." He looked away, sighing at you defeated state. Maybe this was his fault, maybe he should've said something sooner to avoid this mess. He took a swig of his water.

You looked at him with a small frown, motioning to his half empty glass, "You're free to go then, won't keep you hostage any longer." Kunigami shook his head, looking out the window next to you, "It's fine, I'll wait for you to finish up."

He turned his head towards you bored, emotionless eyes staring directly into yours. There was something different on his eyes you had never noticed before, did he want to say something?

Kunigami found that he couldn't stop the words from leaving his mouth, the feeling of almost losing you because of this stupid date, the fact that his chest ached when he found you sitting far away from him in class, the way he wouldn't see you in the dorms, studying or watching anime with Niko. Before he knew it, he had to come to accept the fact that he liked you. Every small glimpse he could get of you around campus felt like a breath or air on his strained lungs, he longed to find you waiting for his football practice to finish, looking towards the bleachers hoping to see your figure waving at him, but he never got the courage to even accept these feelings. He wanted to erase them, go back to the machine they had designed him to be, cold-hearted, mean. A wall had erupted between everyone and his feelings, yet you broke through it like it was made of glass, and all it took was a smile. Whenever you went to study, you'd buy them snacks, you got him something everytime, even if he never showed any affection to you. Before he knew it, you had him completely hooked. The old Kunigami resurfacing, soft, firm but gentle.

"I came here, because I was worried.. I just.." He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "You probably hate me, and won't want to hear what I have to say... but please just hear me out, you can tell me to piss off if you want after I finish." You sat looking at him stunned, you had never seen Kunigami act so different, he seemed almost desperate to say whatever he wanted to tell you. You nodded at him to keep going. This was weird.

His eyes softened "I like you." He dropped his head into his hands, the weight of his words and feelings sinking into his heart, thoughts of you leaving him there, rejecting him, distancing yourself from him even more had his chest thightening. He found it hard to breathe. The glass wall broke, his feelings flooded him like a wave, had you created a gap between you and him because you hated him in the first place? Had he said something wrong? Mean? Had he pushed you away the way he pushed his friends away? The thought made hot tears line in his eyes, breath shaky. He swallowed, trying to calm his racing mind and heavy heart, "I'm sorry, I never wanted to be mean or rude to you, I like you so much."

You blinked, you had never seen Kunigami cry. You reached over to grasp his hands buried in his face, gently peeling them away from his cheeks, warm and wet with tears, your heart raced and a small smile made its way into your face. Kunigami looked up at you, misty eyes looking into your softened eyes, waiting for the blow that would make his heart break again.

"I like you too." The words stunned Kunigami and he shook his head, heart stuttering in his chest against his will. "No you don't, I know you don't..." his eyes watered again, looking down to you joined hands as you reached one to cup his face, "Yes, I do" Kunigami looked up at you, seeing the smile in your face, warm, sincere.

"Then why-?" you didn't let him finish his question, shaking your head and looking down. "I was being stupid, should've told you how I felt since the start instead of playing around." You smiled at him, gripping his hand again, "How about we go and watch a movie? I think that'll be a good first date, don't you think?"

Kunigami stared at you for a second before his lips broke out into a slight smile, eyes full of warmth, heart sighing in relief and happiness. How long has it been since he felt this at ease? Always looking to be better, pushing his limits, withdrawing from connecting with others to avoid getting too close, letting them get too close.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

it's been a hot minute since I wrote anything in english, let alone fiction. I'm sorry if the pacing is kind of weird, I'm kind of used to slow burn and I kinda rushed this one, I'm sorry!

Thanks to @pinksodacan for being my beta reader and editor! Eternally grateful bub.

#blue lock #bllk #bllk x y/n #blue lock scenarios #blue lock x reader #bllk kunigami #blue lock kunigami #kunigami x reader #kunigami rensuke #kunigami x you

[jankwritten]

Jasico Bingo Challenge: Boyfriend Sweater

When Nico walks into the dining pavilion wearing a golden yellow sweater, Percy does a double-take. Actually, it’s a triple-take: first, he thought it was a new Apollo kid, then he realized it was Nico, then he realized it was Nico. Wearing a color. 

Is the world ending again? Was there something really wrong with the milk in his cereal? What in the everloving Hades was going on?! 

Nico sits down at table 13, unbothered as ever, and pulls the sleeves of the hoodie up. It’s way too big on him, like Big Bird shed and some poor fucker decided Nico di Angelo needed the empty muppet skin in his wardrobe. 

(Is it Nico? Maybe some changeling creature kidnapped their resident son of Hades and has decided to take his place? Maybe Percy needs to go over there and test him out, y’know, knick him with some iron or something to see if he burns. If it’s an imposter, though, they’re doing a piss-poor job. Is it an intentionally bad job? Gods, it’s barely eight AM on a Tuesday, does he seriously have to go save Nico from somewhere and kill a monster wearing his face? That does not sound like his ideal Tuesday, if he’s really real. He’ll totally do it, but he won’t like it, and maybe he should start planning how to take out a creature like-) 

“I can see the mountain you’re building,” Annabeth says, popping Percy’s strangely detailed daydream of hunting down and killing a weird, half-Nico, half-demon gremlin creature. He blinks the image out of his eyes and looks up at her, her hip resting against the edge of his table. 

She looks amused. He squints. “Nico’s been bodysnatched.” 

“Mm, no,” she says easily, with a shake of her head. “Nico’s wearing a jacket.” 

“A yellow jacket.” Percy looks at the son of Hades again. He just- can’t wrap his head around it. He hasn’t seen Nico willingly wear a color since the guy was ten years old. “A yellow jacket that’s, like, twice his size.” 

“It’s a molehill, seaweed brain. A jacket’s just a jacket.” 

“But it’s yellow.” 

“What was your nightmare about?” 

Percy physically recoils at the non sequitur, tilting back in his seat incredulously. His- what? His nightmare? What does his nightmare have to do with a jacket, anyway, that’s got nothing to do with this. 

He folds his arms on the table and makes a face. “That’s unrelated.” 

Annabeth’s mouth raise at the corners, her eyes watching him like an all-knowing hawk. An owl, three-sixty vision and nothing but questions, who, who? 

She pets through his hair and pushes her weight back up. As she draws her hand back, she taps his cheek, then his chin, and says, “just leave him alone, then.” 

Percy watches her walk back to her table. When she sits, he buries his face in his arms and groans. 

“Jason has also been bodysnatched,” Percy hisses to Annabeth during pottery class. 

“What makes you say that.” She throws her lump of clay at the pedestal in front of her and gives Percy the same look she gave him this morning. 

Percy decides to ignore that look, because that is the look of reason and he is far beyond that now. “He was wearing this black jacket with, like, skulls in hourglasses and weird skeleton butterflies and shit during Latin.” 

“He is related to Thalia, you know,” Annabeth hums. She wets her hands as the plate before her starts to spin. “Maybe he’s going through the family goth phase.” 

Had she not just leaned in to start forming something magical and incredible out of clay, Percy would slouch over Annabeth’s shoulders and plead with her to at least consider that something weird is going on. Maybe it’s not bodysnatchers or changelings, okay, but something is strange! Jason Grace does not just decide to wear emo shit! Jason Grace once had a panic attack because the Aphrodite Cabin stole a pair of his jeans and cut them into shorts! This is a man who has a stricter sense of style than Nico, who, fucking hell, don’t even get Percy started on that. The yellow jacket has remained on all day and it’s haunting him. 

Annabeth dips her thumbs into the top of her clay and does not respond. 

Percy slumps down into the stool beside hers and huffs, more for himself than anything. 

Change is okay. Change is fine. But change like this, with no reason, is the opposite of fine. Change like this is a low-blow stink bomb in an otherwise perfect Capture the Flag game, impossible to get out of his clothes and his skin and his hair. Change like this is how people die. 

He claws his hands up into his hair and listens to the steady whir of the pottery wheel, the sound of wet clay being molded and shaped in different ways. There’s a lull of conversation from other campers in the class, kids from all different cabins, because to them this is any other day. 

Maybe this should be any other day to him, too. No, not maybe. It should be. This should be a regular Tuesday, full of regular classes with his regular friends who are ordinary in whatever ways they can be, but instead, Percy’s brain has to go and mix up everything, make everything feel- out of control. 

HIs next exhale shakes too hard for his liking. His shoulders are too tense. 

Beside him, Annabeth keeps calmly shaping her pot. She dips her hands into the water every so often, probably executing some flawless plan of action she drafted the night before. She’s not always delicate with her hands, with art like this - Percy knows that’s something she’s self conscious about. She never thinks she can be good at finer things. 

That’s normal. That’s normal for her. Ordinary, to think that Annabeth Chase would tackle arts and crafts in the same way she would a war strategy, devising the perfect approach for a flawless result. Executing it flawlessly. 

She pinches too hard pulling up the walls of the pot. It crumples, then swings off the wheel entirely with the force of it’s motion, splattering wetly across Percy’s arms and the other campers at the bench. 

Percy watches Annabeth glare at her failed creation. She sticks her hands in the dirty water to scrub the clay off, wipes her hands off on her shirt, and pulls on Percy’s sleeve. 

“I hate pottery,” she mutters as they rise together. 

Percy grins. “I think it knows that,” he teases, and follows as she stomps toward the exit. 

When the answer slaps Percy in the face, it feels more like a gut punch in the way it makes him breathless and off-balance. 

“You’re…huh?” 

Annabeth clicks her tongue. “You two couldn’t think of a better way to do this?” she gestures between Nico and Jason, standing awkwardly side by side as if they don’t know what to do with themselves. 

They’re still wearing the wrong jackets. Each other’s jackets. 

Percy makes a face, then realizes that might not be the best response to his two friends telling him their dating, so he tries to make a different face. 

The world’s not ending. They’re just…together. Sharing jackets, like couples do. 

“We didn’t want to make it a big deal,” Jason says. He keeps glancing at Nico and chewing on the inside of his lip. Nico, with the golden sleeves of apparently-Jason’s-jacket pulled over his hands once more, looks stubborn. Like he’s ready to fight about something. 

Percy wipes his sweaty hands off on his shirt and gestures, though he’s not sure at what. “But Nico’s wearing a color?” 

He feels more than sees Annabeth’s disapproving glare at the side of his head. Jason draws himself up, then seems to falter. His head cocks to the side and he shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“That’s a big deal,” Percy reiterates. “Nico doesn’t wear colors.” 

“Nico is standing right here, wearing a color,” Nico grumbles. He shoves his hands into the pocket of the sweatshirt and gives Percy a glare that is far more familiar than literally anything else happening right now. “I’m allowed to wear whatever I want to wear, for the record.” 

“But you don’t!” 

“Well I do now. If you have a fucking problem with it-” 

“I never said I had a problem with it,” Percy snaps back, immediately on the defensive. “I was fucking worried about you, you little shit, I thought something was wrong. I thought- I don’t know what I thought! I thought you two were swapped with some other versions of yourself, I thought you’d been- I don’t know- abducted by aliens, or fairies, or something!” He throws his hands up in the air, then drops them back onto his head, staring sort of at the middle point between the two of them. “You can’t do that shit and not expect- I mean, because, come on, guys, you’re you, you two fucking freak out if someone so much as touches your clothes. What were we supposed to think?” 

The hearth crackles. It’s too pleasant a sound for the sick Percy feels. 

Annabeth takes his hand, at least, and squeezes. His face burns with the shame of yelling like this, over this, it just feels so fucking stupid all of a sudden. He feels so stupid. Annabeth tried to tell him it was nothing, and he let it all get away with him, he let that nasty part of his brain win and win and win, and now he’s taking his losses out on them. 

“I’m happy for you two,” he makes himself say, when no one else speaks. “I think I just also need therapy.” 

Finally, Annabeth snorts. It’s a noise Percy knows, one he can ground himself with, same as her palm hot in his, her weight tilting into his side as her head bonks into his chin. 

The stress he’d held bundled up in his spine and his shoulders and his stomach all day releases in an instant. He slouches back in against her and laughs against the top of her head. 

“Jesus Christ,” Nico mutters, when Percy can’t stop himself, dissolving into a fit of hysterics over his own bullshit. “This is why I said we should just tell them. He’s laughing at us.” 

“I think he’s laughing at himself,” Jason says. He sounds uncertain. 

Percy hugs Annabeth tight, and laughs himself hoarse. 

EXTRA 

Nico stares at himself in Jason’s mirror, with the sweater hanging halfway down his thighs, sleeves hanging off his hands, the peak of his collarbone through the freaking collar. He narrows his gaze into a glare. 

“I look like a toddler,” he says derisively. 

Jason, still getting dressed himself, laughs. When he appears in the mirror behind Nico, looking far more proportional in Nico’s sweatshirt (which is frankly fucking unfair), his grin softens into a smile that’s- something. Sweet. 

Nico twitches his nose.  

“I look like I’m six years old,” he says, grabbing the hem of the sweatshirt and yanking down. “Why are we doing this.” 

“‘Cause it’s silly,” Jason says. He presses a kiss against the side of Nico’s head and hugs him loosely from behind. “You don’t look like a baby, either. You just look your age.” 

Nico looks down at himself. Maybe there’s a point there, a point to be made about how he dresses for practicality, dresses to blend in, but never to express himself. Maybe there’s a point to be made about how his discomfort isn’t really for how he feels about this, but how he thinks others will feel about it. 

He tugs at the hem again, and looks back up. Jason’s eyes in the mirror are bright, as if taking in the sight of Nico in his hoodie like this is something to savor. 

Nico likes when Jason looks at him like that. He likes how it feels to be looked at like he’s attractive. He likes how it feels to be wanted. 

“I guess,” Nico concedes, leaning further back into Jason’s chest. Immediately, Jason’s stance is more solid, sturdy, holding them both up as easy as breathing. He holds Nico like it’s a promise that he’ll never let go. 

He looks at the pair of them in the mirror, a cohesive unit rather than two separate halves. Jason in black is definitely something Nico wants to see more of, especially with the way Nico’s clothes fit snug over him, just a little tight at the biceps and chest. He looks good, not that he doesn’t look good otherwise. Different. 

With Nico his contrast in yellow…maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe he likes being the counterbalance, even. 

Jason squeezes him again. Those damn eyes in the mirror are making Nico too warm, like his stomach is full of hot jell-o. 

“Okay, fine, let’s do this,” he huffs. The difference in his tone must be audible, though, because Jason perks up and grins, his eyebrows up, face aglow. Nico can’t look at him for too long. It’s still strange knowing he can make someone feel like that. He doesn’t know what to do when Jason turns the full puppy-love thing on. “And stop looking at me like that, you’re going to give me cavities.” 

“Okay,” Jason says in a voice identical to his expression. 

Nico grabs his hand and squeezes it twice. 

Jason squeezes back, so tight it aches. Nico’s heart swells with bright affection. 

Alright. Maybe yellow isn’t so bad, actually. 

#jasicobingochallenge2024 #boyfriend sweater #fanfiction #okay so this is mostly actually about Percy and Annabeth BUT BUT BUT. it's the Jasico that matters. #Jasico is the heart of it the crux of it. #so it still counts #I think Percy has a lot of trouble dealing with things that he doesn't perceive as normal from his friends #I think the switch really fucked with him in that regard #He feels like if all of a sudden the people he knows aren't doing the things he knows them to do then maybe he's losing his memory again #maybe something fucked up has happened and he hasn't realized it yet #maybe nico wearing yellow signifies he's grieving because the last time Nico's style drastically changed overnight was when his sister died #i think percy is also WAY too attuned to Nico in general when it comes to his own mental health #I think he immediately jumps the gun on ANYTHING NIco is involved with (hence him immediately arguing when Nico assumes wrong) #I think he and Nico have a fucked up weird friendship where they both hate that they need to know each other the way they do #idk. Annabeth and Jason are holding Percy and Nico's leashes while letting them meet in the most controlled of dog parks #Percy bites first but Nico bites harder kinda deal #ANYWAY #pjo #jason grace #nico di angelo #percy jackson #annabeth chase #jasico #percabeth #hoo

[inkblot22]

Can You Keep A Little Secret? 2

Dreamworks films have no right having such good soundtracks. The whole time I wrote this I listened to this and this. The second one isn't a Dreamworks song, but Scary Bitches is such a good band and I want more people to know about them tbh. The first song also is not about me, as I am neither big nor chunky, but hey, who doesn't love someone who is big and chunky? I'm sure everyone can relate to that song as either the person singing or the person being sung to. Dividers made by @/cafekitsune.

Similarly to the last part, this fic is aimed at sort of anyone, but the reader's physical body has afab features. It's not really mentioned in this chapter, but it will come into serious play later.

TW for: lots of confusion, semi-shy reader, MORE creep behavior, a lot of introspection in this chapter, one (1) weird middle-aged man, reincarnation. These warnings will get worse, and this takes place when all characters are 18+.

Part 1 here!

Monday comes with the regular stress. You slept like a newborn and your new mom came over to congratulate you. She’s sweet, but her excitement was not contagious. If anything, it just stressed you out more. At least she made dinner when she came over. Always excellent when you don’t have to do that on your own. 

On Sunday, you make a night of getting ready for your doom tomorrow. Your agent sent you an email on Friday, including the shot location. 

Monday morning, you call up your new father, who apparently wakes up every morning at four to relax before he has to be productive, and he sends over Devin and a car to take you to the set. Devin, as it turns out, is an elderly man with cataracts and your father’s trusted chauffeur. You aren’t convinced as he takes turns way too hard, your cupcake-shaped backpack sliding on the back seat. When he drops you off, he hands you a hard candy and wishes you a good day before he takes off speeding. The candy looks like it’s older than you. You slip it in your pocket.

You imagine you’re lucky, since when you walk up to the tents, you don’t see Epel. You’re not ready for the rollercoaster of emotions he inspires in you. Instead is a group of three people around your age- college kids- and a grouchy-looking middle-aged man. You take a nervous seat on one of the nearby stools.

You were certain you’d been silent, but as soon as you’re settled, the whole groups’ heads snap to stare at you. A woman with ocean-green hair walks over and holds out her hand.

“My name isn’t important right now, ohmygod it’s so nice to meet you!” She squeals, shaking the everloving fuck out of your arm, “Oh, who am I kidding? My name is Belle!”

“Uh… nice to meet you, Belle?” You say, smiling awkwardly.

“Ahhh! You’re not mean at all! Those tabloids don’t know what they’re talking about. Who believes that greasy, gossipy shlock anyway, huh?” She talks a mile a minute.

Another woman with dark hair walks over, smiling somewhat awkwardly, “Belle, you’re scaring the poor thing. I’m Argon. Yes, like the gas. No, I don’t have IBS.”

You’re not sure why she decided to clarify that, but it’s not your problem. The third person and the middle-aged man stroll over. 

“I’m Starlo. You’ll be in these meaty paws today.” The middle aged man says. It’s not a pleasant introduction, and if anything, it makes you want to turn tail and run.

You nod along regardless, and the other man jabs out his hand, “Pepper.”

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” You say politely.

Belle drags you out of the stool and towards a trailer, the only one on the lot. She shoves you in and you feel the want to leave grow stronger.

She’s so bubbly. She talks fast and she talks with her hands, “This is you and Epel’s dressing room! I know it’s not ideal, so that’s why it’s got a divider. He’s a gentleman anyway, so it doesn’t matter, I’m sure. Starlo will be in shortly to do some makeup tests, and then once Epel gets here, we’ll go over the script and the visions we have, and then that’s all for today. I’m so excited to work with you guys. Oh! That’s right! We were gonna go to that traditional Scalding Sands place after we’re done here. I don’t have your contacts, but if you wanted to come along, that would be amazing. You seem so sweet.”

You’re legitimately unsure how to respond to any of that. She also seems very sweet, and you really don’t want to get stuck in a coffee shop with Epel afterwards. Unfortunately, as she was speaking, the devil himself showed up. You didn’t notice him at first, but you felt your skin crawl when he did. He's got his silky lavender hair pulled off of his shoulders in a little tail at the nape of his neck. You open your mouth to say that you’d love to get shawarma with this motley crew, but he beats you to it.

His pretty blue eyes never leave yours, “Oh, you’re just a peach for offering, but we’ve already got plans.”

Belle spins around to face him, screams, and swoons. You manage to stumble forward and catch her, and Epel’s smile drops as he slinks across the room, spins one of the crappy foldable chairs around, and plops himself into it, elegantly resting his ankle on his knee. For all of two minutes, he just stares at you as you lay Belle down, stuffing some fabrics under her feet, and fanning her face. 

When Belle comes to, his smile is back. She jumps to her feet and begins fawning over him, shaking his hand just as excitedly.

“Hi! I’m Belle! Oh, my god, you’re even prettier in person, and ooh, you smell so nice too.”

Epel laughs, but it doesn’t hit your ears right. Belle eats it up and you glance at the door. She’s got him distracted. It would be so easy just to leave, to feign an illness and walk to the nearest cornerstore so you could call a taxi or a rideshare.

You’re not lucky, though, as Starlo strolls in just as you’re about to go for the door, “Belle, what the hell are you doing? Argon and Pepper are waiting for you.”

She literally squeaks like a mouse and waves a quick goodbye. Starlo grabs you by the arm and deposits you in the other foldable metal chair, clearing his throat repeatedly as he pulls over a stool and drags out an industrial size makeup kit. 

The first makeup that he swatches both tingles and is way too light a color for your skin tone. You blink rapidly, unsure if you should say anything.

“You gonna get the same thing you always do?” Epel asks.

“What?” You turn your head to look at him.

He’s wearing a patient expression, but like always, it feels artificial. “From that bagel place.”

“Uh… I-I’m sorry?”

“I know you didn’t forget. I’m taking you to brunch after all this.”

“Uh… haha, yeah.” You don’t know what you always get from the bagel place.

Starlo daubs something else on your arm. It’s cold, but it looks really pretty on your skin.

The “you” that everyone has been expecting sounds like an outspoken, opinionated person who was consistently late or absent from various responsibilities, and if your new mom is anything to go by, neglecting their own health. You almost wish you had a bit more to go off so you could start acting like this you, but you’re not too keen on speaking your mind with people you don’t know. Your entire life has been hit with a cosmic “reset from most recent save” button, and if you dare to mention it to anyone, you’re in for a whole new set of problems.

Whatever Starlo just put on your arm burns. You yelp and jerk away, and he grabs your wrist. You think it’s instinctive, but his grip is nothing to sneeze at.

“What’s the matter?” Starlo asks.

“I- You’re crushing my wrist.” You mumble, “And I don’t know what that last one was, but it burned.”

“It burned?” He pulls out a bottle of the wrong shade of foundation and looks at it, “Huh. No wonder. Damn thing is expired.”

“Why are you even using that one?” Epel asks. Although his tone sounds innocent, the question is outright confrontational, “It’s way too dark.”

“Are you the makeup artist here, son?” Starlo shoots back.

“I usually do my own makeup. I know it’s not the same, but anyone with eyes can see that you’re going about your business the wrong way.”

You keep your lips sealed. What are you even supposed to say here? Other than that last product, he’s been fine. His hand on your wrist feels crushingly uncomfortable, of course, but he’s not doing any of this on purpose. You skimmed the script, but you’re not really sure what the story is about. It’s all of your jobs to try to make it come together, and if that means that you’re going to be wearing a foundation two shades too dark for you, then perhaps that’s what art is. As you were thinking, Starlo let go of your wrist in favor of getting in Epel’s face. 

“-no two-bit, fucking stuck up little prick like you is gonna tell me how to do my damn job. You understand?”

Epel is smiling sweetly even as the older man’s spittle is spraying him in the face. He stands up, and Starlo steps back, as though expecting Epel to start swinging. Instead, he walks over to you, grabs your hand ever so delicately. The contact makes your skin crawl as he yanks you to your feet.

“You should apologize before the two of us walk off set right now.” He said, still smiling.

You can’t just walk off set. You don’t think you can, at least. Your agent was so excited for the positive PR this would create, and this is genuinely not a big deal, “Wait-”

Starlo’s eyes narrow, and it hits you that maybe he sees what you see when you look at Epel. A two-faced creature masquerading as a man. You’ve seen one of his sides clearly, but you’re certain you haven’t seen all of the other one, even when he called you on Thursday. It’s like seeing someone standing at the end of a hallway with their back to you: the sight is enough to give you chills, but you aren’t able to see the knife that the person is holding in front of them. That sort of thing. You’re aware of the danger, but can’t comprehend the depth of it.

Despite all, Starlo acquiesces, showing his palms and shaking his head, “Yeah, I’m sorry. Doctor says I gotta work on my temper.”

“You do.” Epel responds flatly, releasing your hand and reclaiming his seat.

The rest of the test is short. Starlo is pretty competent, and he makes it quick and sweet.

That seems to be the theme for the rest of the day. Starlo remains in the trailer to dispose of a few expired things and note down what you had reactions to, while you and Epel meet up with Belle, Argon, and Pepper to talk about the short film.

It’s going to be a story of lovers, unfortunately, but you get to play the part of the dead one. The story goes that your and Epel’s characters came out here to camp, but you froze to death in the night. Epel returns to the campsite every year in your memory, and you return from the land of the dead in his. On the night shown in the film, you finally bump into each other, and through the emotional reunion, you spend one final night camping together.

Epel smiles and nods along with what the three film students say, all too eager to whisk you away as soon as the first shooting date is scheduled and you have an extra copy of the script in your sweaty hands. 

He drags you towards a very cute little compact car in candy apple red and opens the door for you. You don’t want to get in, but you also don’t want to call Devin. You take a seat and he closes the door. As you’re buckling up, he gets in the driver and starts the car, just sitting there for a second before he buckles and backs out of the lot, his arm on the back of your seat.

You look out the window and Epel grunts, his voice no longer sweet and charming and fake, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

You turn your head sharply, “What?”

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the wheel as he blinks. You wonder if he’ll leave it at that until later, and then he says, “You’ve been acting real weird. You been talking to someone?”

“What are you talking about?”

He narrows his eyes in a glance at you, and then he swerves the car in a wrong turn. “I think you know. People don’t change overnight. Where were you that week no one could get ahold of you?”

“I was… in my apartment?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You’re in the city by now, the sun reflecting off of the skyscrapers’ windows in an aggressive manner, “And over the course of that week you decided you didn’t like being a bitch no more?”

“I don’t-”

“Every time I saw you, for years, it was the same thing.” He turns again, going in a circle around the block, “Same shit. Every day. Making fun of my upbringing, like I didn’t know you barely had one, calling me everything out of my name, and now suddenly you’re…”

His voice trails off. You contemplate throwing the door on your side open and jumping out of the car. You absolutely do not need this. You’re already stressed out.

“Well… suppose I shouldn’t complain. I do like you better this way.” He mutters. “But way back when, when you pulled shit like this, it was because you were plotting something. That your game now? You-”

“I… I’m sorry for being so mean to you in the past.” You’re not apologizing for anything you did, but you’re grasping aimlessly trying to de-escalate this one-sided conversation. He’s driving. If you don’t do something, he could decide to swerve off the road and kill you both, “There was no reason for it.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, “That… means a lot. I already forgave you. Told myself I wouldn’t quit trying to be friends. Guess it paid off, huh? I’m sorry for getting angry when we talked, Thursday before last.”

You don’t like that at all. It sort of feels like he’s not saying everything, like you should know what he’s talking about. You don’t. You weren’t living in this body Thursday before last. You nod and look out the window, “Uh… I appreciate it.”

You don’t actually care, but you’re a good actor. You’ve already decided that you’re going to just go along with Epel’s brunch and then you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist outside of work. Frankly you’re unsure why the person who used to live in this body had his number or interacted with him for years, evidently.

Epel parks and you have a minor crisis as you try to figure out what you typically get from this bagel shop. It doesn’t matter anyway, since he orders you a large caramel iced coffee and a blueberry bagel with cream cheese. That’s such a basic order, but it’s simple enough to be good. You sit quietly and eat, not interested in making conversation.

Epel clears his throat. He’s quiet, but he’s talking in that schooled version of his voice again, “You ever hear back from that breeder?”

“Uh… the what?” You narrow your eyes.

Epel is leaning on his hand, a sweet little smile on his lips as he looks at you. Seven, you want him to look away, “The sphynx cats. You said you sent them an email a while ago during that meeting we had with Mirelle after our big public argument.”

“Oh. I haven’t checked.” You didn’t know you should have. You take a sip of the iced coffee and look out the window.

Epel hums and a stranger walks over, grinning, “Oh my goodness! It’s actually you! Can I have your autograph, Mr. Felmier?”

“Oh, just Epel is fine. Sure!” He’s all smiles as he interacts with the fan, but as soon as they’re gone, his face falls and he nudges your hand, “C’mon, I’ll walk you home.”

“O-oh, no, that’s alright-”

“You want to make another big scene?”

You force a smile and grab your iced coffee, following after Epel. He nudges your hand with his own, but you pull your hand away, covering it up with adjusting your clothes and holding your nearly empty coffee cup with both hands. Your hands are slick with more than just condensation.

You’re all too aware of your surroundings, especially the way that he somehow knows the key code to the door of your apartment building to get you in without a fob. You pause in the lobby.

“Thanks so much for walking me back, Epel. See you tomorrow.” You smile and turn to walk towards the stairs.

Epel grabs the back of your shirt and tugs you back a bit. You stumble against him and he frowns at you.

His expression should tug at your heartstrings, and yet… “You’re not gonna invite me up?”

This poses a dilemma. There are a few people watching this interaction. You can’t afford to make any type of scene, but you absolutely do not want to be alone with him. While you don’t know him well, your body does. Something also tells you that he’s a bit of a danger to be around in general. Call it a gut instinct.

“Uh… Well, maybe you could walk me to my door?” You have no intention of letting him in your apartment.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he smiles regardless, and loops his hand through your sweaty one, strolling confidently towards the stairs.

About as soon as he lets go of your hand to ascend the stairs, you bolt up the stairs, your palms slapping against the dirty concrete to keep you from bashing your face. You’re glad you didn’t wear pumps today as you get to the third floor, careening down the hallway and fumbling your keys as you shakily unlock the door. You lock it behind you, slumping to the floor.

Tomorrow is gonna suck absolute ass for you.

#twisted wonderland #tw: dark content #disney twst #tw: dark themes #tw: yandere #yandere #twst #anon answered #yandere epel x reader #epel felmier #twst epel #twisted wonderland epel #yandere epel felmier #epel felmier x reader #tw reincarnation #tw confusion #tw creepy #reincarnation

[disniq]

i havent read all of the comics post urban legends to gotham war with jason, but as far as i remember between them jason didn't really kill anyone? tfz is on my mind (he tried to kill 'bane' but didn't). i suppose he couldve been murdering off screen as well but i also have no idea if that's hinted at

anyway with tmwsl and the beast war stuff having him kill it means:

urban legends -> stops killing

gotham war -> is brainfuckedup by bruce. cant do shit

tmwsl -> joker unbrainfuckedups him, he proceeds to go ham and kill some goons/tries to kill the jokers

beast world -> still killing in larger amounts

so if bruce had left his ass alone would he still be in a holding pattern with the bats? way to fuck it bruce (though im happy. so.)

obviously the doyalist explanation is they probably realized jason was in a bit of a limbo atm and decided to shake it up again. but watsonian is soooo funny to me. good job b

Thank you for bearing with me anon, I'm finally free from work and mostly compos mentis at the moment, so!

My initial instinct when I got this ask was to disagree, because I didn't read Jason's behaviour in the last issue of MWSL as any more or less violent than he was in the earlier issues, I don't think he ever actually killed anybody in that run (though do correct me if I'm wrong on that), and I'm extremely reluctant to take the Beast World characterisation into account because it's a, uh... reductive view of Jason, at best.

But.

BUT!

As I was turning this over in my head, I realised why it was pinging at my brain.

It's because this exact thing *has happened*, back in RHatOs Rebirth.

Pre-rhato 25 my beloathed, Jason had been consistently using less-lethal methods in exchange for Bruce's implicit approval and regular interaction with the batfam. He specifically says this on panel in The Trial of Batwoman, this is a choice he chooses to make against his own beliefs;

Detective Comics #975

This holds until six months later, when Jason shoots Penguin. And then Bruce famously snaps and beats the everloving shit out of him in a brutal and notably one-sided fight.

After which, Jason changes up his outfit, swaps the guns for a crowbar and a katana, and becomes significantly more lethal again.

RHatO (2016) #25, RHatO (2016) #26

And when I thought about it, well. I think you could argue that each of Jason's more lethal spells are proceeded by an altercation with Bruce.

Brothers in Blood, where Jason plays a murderous, knife-wielding Nightwing to annoy Dick, is the first Jason story after the infamous Under the Hood showdown wherein Bruce chooses to cut Jason's throat instead of... doing literally anything else instead.

Batman: Under the Red Hood, Nightwing (1996) #118

And after working relatively civilly with others throughout Countdown, Jason goes full murder gunbats in Battle for the Cowl after Bruce's delightful little "you're broken and you'll never be fixed" hologram speech.

Battle for the Cowl #3 , Battle for the Cowl #1

Now, I absolutely do not want to come across like I'm saying Bruce is responsible for all Jason's more extreme actions at all, because I'm not about that lack of agency shizzle at all. Obviously Jason was already very much down to kill prior to his final confrontation with Bruce in UtRH, and I think he does genuinely believe some people deserve to die.

But I think this pattern of Jason reacting to Bruce's outright and often violent rejections by escalating the very behaviour that has Bruce repeatedly rejecting him is super interesting as a facet of their continuous cycle of abuse.

So regardless of Beast World, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Jason does lilt more lethal for a hot minute before he inevitably makes consessions to get back into Batman's good books.

#asked and answered #jason todd #bruce wayne critical #my meta

[windvexer]

How do I strip the everloving fuck out of your home's energetic microbiome. do I just put big salt on everything?

We are in reference to this post.

> Engage in the help of Allies who are already known to have good ability in Cleansing (once again have to champion my bud Bay Leaf) > Instead of asking them for normal help ("let no ill-intention last!") ask them for Big Help ("sterilize this room from all energies to the point where it's a horrifying deadzone that even my pets will avoid!") > Take necessary magical actions to apply your intent and permission to the operation (steps of enchantment, etc) > Expect that this operation will be more draining for you than any typical cleansing

I find it easier to work in a good deal of enchantment over something infusing or simmering, because you've got the repeated shaking or stirring motions. So if you have trouble packing a big wallop of magical energy, try making a simmer pot or a vinegar infusion.

But even so, it should only take you an afternoon to absolutely ruin your house's vibes.

Since we're on about fucking with your own environment in pursuit of finding out, try way over-doing it in one specific room only, and performing a normal gentle cleansing on a second room, and then leaving the rest of the home untouched. Compare and contrast, take notes, etc.

Hey! This post is talking about intentionally making a space uncomfortable to be in, and in my experience, it can take days for the sterilized space to return to normal. Please don't do this if you actively rely on your space's current vibes for necessary comfort and relaxation.

#answered

[stevethehairington]

From the prompt list you just reblogged (absolutely no pressure btw, I just love ur writing!)

“I’ll still be here when you’re ready.” + Steddie

hellooo!! thank you for sending this in!! (and ahh thank youu!! 🥺💕)

okay i had SO much fun writing this one omg, i hope you like it.

79. "I'll still be here when you're ready"

“Eddie, come on, please. Cut a deal with me,” Steve just about begs for the third time since Eddie has snatched up Pennsylvania Avenue — the last green property and the only one left Steve needs to collect before he can start loading them up with houses and hotels and fining the everloving shit out of everyone. “If you give me your green card I won’t make you pay if you land on any of the rest of my green. If you land on any of all my properties. You’ll get full immunity.”

“You can’t do that!” Dustin cries out from across the floor, throwing his hands up. “That’s against the rules! No one gets full immunity!”

“No one gets any kind of immunity!” Mike chimes in vehemently.

Steve ignores them both, and the rest of the gremlins who kick up a fuss too, in favor of drifting into Eddie’s space. He pushes his lower lip out at him and widens his eyes, batting his lashes a couple of times for good measure. Eddie’s always been ruthless with his own puppy dog eyes, but Steve can give as good as he gets, too. He knows he can break him.

Except Eddie doesn’t even falter. He just laughs, this deep, amused chuckle, and tries to shake Steve off of his arm. “No fucking way, Harrington,” he says. “I’m not giving it up.”

“I’ll pay you for it,” Steve adds to the pitch, desperate now. He hopes that the lure of even more fake money will make his offer that much more enticing, that much more lucrative, and he reaches for a couple of the orangey-yellow hundreds from his small stack to wave Eddie’s way.

It does not have the desired effect. Instead, Eddie snorts. “What is that? Two hundred bucks? I paid more than that to buy the damn thing.”

Steve pouts for a moment, before he lights up with the idea for a new tactic. Leaning in closer, he turns on the bedroom eyes and drops his voice lower. “If you give me your green card,” he whispers slowly, making sure to brush his lips against the shell of Eddie’s ear, “I’ll give you a blowjob later.”

This time Eddie’s attention seems well and truly captured, and Steve internally pats himself on the back for that. It may be a bit of a questionable move, to sink so low as to promise sexual favors in return for help to win a family game, but all is fair in love and war. Especially with this bunch.

And this? This is war.

Eddie looks up from the board, where he’d been carefully watching Max move her tiny silver dog piece forward six spaces, to meet Steve’s eyes. “A blowjob, eh?” He repeats quietly, the corners of his lips curling up lasciviously.

Across the board, Robin scrunches her nose up at their not-so-subtle exchange. She can’t hear them — at least Steve hopes she can’t — but he has no doubt that she knows him well enough to make an educated guess as to what, exactly, his proposal here is. Ergo, nose scrunching. 

Eddie hums out a considering noise. “Mm, that does sound nice,” he says, and Steve thinks he’s done it. Thinks he’s finally sold Eddie on the trade.

He smiles proudly and stretches his hand out, palm up, so that Eddie can pass the property over to its rightful new owner.

Eddie starts to pull his hand from where it’s splayed against the floor, propping himself up, presumably to snatch up the coveted card. Except instead of reaching for it, Eddie’s hand floats right past it and settles into Steve’s instead. He curls his fingers around Steve’s, then draws his knuckles to his lips, where he kisses them softly.

Steve’s heart flutters at the display, but he reigns himself in. He can’t get distracted. Not when he hasn’t secured the switch yet. That’s exactly what Eddie would want.

Eddie meets Steve’s eyes again over the top of their hands. “But I’m still not giving you my card, sweetheart,” he says, oh-so-smugly, grin turning sharlike as he shatters Steve’s glee.

Around the circle, the kids cheer out triumphantly, thrilled that Eddie actually stuck to the game rules this time, and didn’t give in to his boyfriend, as he is so often apt to do, much to their chagrin. Steve had been banned from Hellfire campaigns for exactly that reason.

“Sorry, Stevie,” Eddie says with a helpless shrug, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. 

“You’re gonna wish you didn’t say no, Munson,” Steve replies, taking his hand from Eddie’s so he can point a finger right at him. He shakes his head, then bumps his shoulder into Eddie’s. “But lucky for you, I’m a good guy, so I’ll still be here when you’re ready. When you come crawling back. The offer will still be on the table.”

The game goes on, and the offer still stands. But Eddie doesn’t cash in on it.

He continues to do fairly decent, plucking along mostly unscathed. Occasionally he lands on Max’s Water Works or Lucas’ Electric Company, and he has to fork over those fees, but they’re not too bad considering neither one of them managed to snag both of the utilities — the perks of playing with eight.

And then somehow, some fucking how, Steve manages to land on both Park Place and the Boardwalk. He wastes no time shelling out the $750 it costs to own them. After a few more rounds collecting rent on all his properties, he gets enough money to add houses, and eventually to trade those houses in for hotels.

The tension in the game has been slowly building up over the last half hour or so, but what happens next — it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Eddie rolls a god damn fucking five and his little silver boot piece hops its way right onto Steve’s god damn fucking Boardwalk.

He loses his shit.

“Two thousand? No fucking way, no way!” Eddie shouts, eyes wide after Steve hits him with the magic number he owes. “That’s all my fucking money, you asshole! I’m not gonna have anything left after that! What the fuck!”

Steve just throws his head back and cackles, rubbing his hands together like the sneaky little bastard he knows he’s being. “Them’s the rules, Munson,” he says. “Pay your fucking debt, babe.” 

He holds his hand out and wiggles his fingers at Eddie.

Eddie tries to smack his hand away, but Steve catches his arm with his other hand and holds Eddie back, grinning the whole way through.

“I don’t know how, but you did this shit on purpose,” Eddie says, shaking his head.

“I did not!” Steve cries, still laughing. “You landed on my property fair and square! Pay up!”

Eddie groans and gathers up his money, giving it a quick count through before he holds it out for Steve. Steve’s hand only just closes around it when Eddie freezes, grip tightening.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Wait, wait, wait. Your offer, from earlier — you said it still stands.” A slow grin spreads across his face. Loophole.

Steve barks out a laugh, though. “I… I did say that, but it’s kind of a little late for that now, don’t you think?” He asks. “I don’t know if I can give you that.”

“You can’t! You can’t! No immunity!” Dustin shouts, waving his hands in the air.

Again, neither Steve nor Eddie pay his outburst any mind.

Eddie shakes his head at Steve. “Come on,” he pleads, “throw me a bone.” He bats his eyes, folds his hands together and holds them over his heart. “I’m at your mercy, sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

The counteroffer there stands between them, unspoken but very much obvious.

“Oh boy,” Steve hears Robin mutter across the way.

And oh boy is right. The way Eddie’s looking at Steve, the way he’s casually managed to spread his legs where he sits, the way he’s chewing on his lip, letting it pop out from between his teeth all shiny and glistening.

Fuuuuuck.

Steve is just a man. An incredibly, ridiculously, embarrassingly weak man.

Still, he tries to make it look like his decision isn’t already made. Tries to pretend like he has to mull it over. Like he has to debate the choices here.

But in the end, he gives in. Of course he does.

“Well,” he starts, and a delicious grin starts to spread slowly across Eddie’s face while the rest of the party erupts into groans and shouts and utter chaos over this injustice. “I did make a promise. That wouldn’t be very fair of me to go back on it.”

“No. No, it certainly wouldn’t,” Eddie agrees, already inching closer to Steve.

Steve hands him back his money, and Eddie accepts it gratefully, dropping it carelessly to the side before he tugs on the front of Steve’s shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. He keeps it chaste in their present company, but the promise of what’s to come sits heavy against his tongue.

“Thanks, Stevie,” Eddie says sweetly.

“Anything for you,” Steve says back.

And if in the process of “getting more comfortable” for the remainder of the game, Eddie “accidentally” kicks his foot out and knocks the board clean off the table, thus ending the game and giving them an excuse to escape, that’s nobody’s business but his and Steve’s.

100 ways to say i love you prompts

#asks #momotonescreaming #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #robin buckley #mack writes #macks ficlets

[transingthoseformers]

Oh not ALL of the relationships in the tfp au are super pda-ey. Wavewave is after all a non-romantic related built upon mutual needs and understandings. Ratchet and Pharma's love language is bickering and whatever the opposite of a backhanded compliment is (an endearing insult?) June and Arcee aren't quite ones for the P in pda from what I see. Bumblebee and Blades imo are in the same situation (although I can see them getting more and more serious in their relationship and eventually moving onto more pda?) And as I've mentioned Ratchet and Soundwave are entirely platonic with each other, and Shockers and Pharma acknowledge that they're somewhat connected but somewhat not.

On the other hand... Megatron and Optimus seem super duper physically affectionate with each other and it seems like a relationship trait that is because of the war. When they were Orion and 'Tronus, it was kinda a secret, but now? Now they've fought each other bloody and panting on the battlefield, and they are far more bold than the younglings they used to be. Knockout and Breakdown are also big on pda and it's partially to fuck with other mecha's processors sure but also because their marriage is just like that ^w^. Bulkhead and Wheeljack remind me of how some comets only come near earth every once in a while, and it's a "I (hope) will see you again" situation. They make the absolute most of the time they are together, just in case. Starscream used to be suuuuper touchy with her trine, those three were super willing to pick each other up or lay on each other or shake the everloving hell out of each other. Starscream misses this, but he knows he will never have it back— and he has come to terms with this.

#maccadam #transformers #tfp au #tfp soundwave #not tagging everyone lol #juncee #ratchma #megop #bulkjack #bumbleblades #kobd #wavewave #mmmm a little angst at the end there

[kedreeva]

Guy on facebook posts a video of him standing basically on top of a male Pavo muticus bird who is standing upright and giving warning shakes of his head and making the warning growl, you know, the one that says "I WILL beat the everloving shit out of you if you do not stop doing whatever you're doing that is annoying me."

Video ends in this guy shoving the camera down practically into the bird, who warns him up until the last second and then proceeds to kick the shit out of this guy. as predicted.

"why did this happen, someone said if they shake their heads then they won't attack, this bird is so aggressive"

one of the most knowledgeable muticus breeders/field biologists who has studied them for decades, Friedrich Esser, responds basically "he's not aggressive, if he was aggressive you wouldn't have gotten into the pen, he waited a long time to attack you. you did something wrong."

Guy responds with "but he's shaking his head"

Friedrich goes, like "yeah if they shake their heads near the ground, it generally means they like you" (but also you have to understand, the courting head shake is accompanied by a courtship bump on the back of their necks and the courtship bow looks different than them lowering their heads as they get ready to kick the shit out of you, for one they face you head on instead of from the side and this bird was definitely putting his fighting side up)

Guy responds with "but he shakes his head near the ground and still attacks"

I step in with, like buddy, in this video, he's giving you SEVERAL body language and vocal warnings, which you blatantly ignored and got into his space anyway. I'd kick you too.

Guy responds: "That noise is a chainsaw"

You think I cannot tell the difference between the chainsaw in the background and the growl the bird is making..... like no, he warned you, and I'm willing to bet you have been ignoring his warnings for a long time and he's fed up with you. I agree with Friedrich, you done fucked up. Don't blame this on the bird, the bird did nothing wrong.

#peafowl #pavo muticus #wank for ts

[tropes-and-tales]

You’re the Mark

Day 3:  Glove Kink (Ray Merrimen x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW:  Light angst (neglectful relationship); smut (fingering; shades of dominance).  18+ only.

Word Count:  3435

Requested by anonymous!

You aren’t subtle at all, and the guys notice it almost immediately.

Strike that:  most of the guys notice it almost immediately.  Bosco, Levoux.  They get back from a heist, this time at a poorly-guarded nightclub.  They immediately set into motion like clockwork:  start unpacking the money, dousing it for dye packs, microwaving it, counting it out.  They are still in their tactical gear, close-fitting black clothing, heavy boots, gloves.  

And most of them notice.  The guys watch you as you stare at Ray, the desire blatant in your expression.  You run the cash through the counting machine, but your eyes track Ray around the room while you do.

Bosco, Levoux—they notice.  

Ray does not.

No one would ever accuse Ray Merrimen of being a great boyfriend.  He’s not even a very good one:  his first love has always been the high of planning and executing a heist, and any woman has always been a distant second.  He’s a closed-off man; his stint in the Marines and then in prison has left him with little ability to grow connections beyond the fraternal ones with his MARSOC and heist buddies.

Somehow you wriggled your way into his life.  You have the everloving patience of a saint, always overlooking the benign neglect, overlooking when you come in a distant second to a new score.

Levoux and Bosco love Ray like a brother, so they help him out as best they can.  They both have families, loved ones.  They both know that having someone to go home to each night can help keep the demons at bay.

They also both know that even a woman like you, patient to a fault, will eventually grow weary and leave—so they help him out.

It’s Bosco who sidles over to Ray.  Ray is lost in his usual post-score audit, when he mentally walks through each step after the fact, looks for slip-ups or unforeseen snags.  It’s overkill.  It’s more work than is necessary, especially when there are better things to do.

“Hey,” Bosco says, his voice low.  “Why don’t you leave it?  We’re almost done here.”

Ray shakes his head.  “The diagrams were off.  They had HVAC work done that changed the schematics of the back office.”

“Doesn’t matter.  We got away clean.”

Ray opens his mouth to argue, but Bosco reaches past him, rolls up the diagrams of the club.  “Leave it, man.  Don’t you have better things to do?”

Ray shakes his head.  Bosco snorts in disgust, and he jerks his chin in your direction.

“C’mon, Ray.  Your girl has been eye-fucking you for the past half hour.  She came here all dolled up in that cute little dress, waiting for you.”  

Ray turns and glances over at you, catches your eye.  You gift him with a smile, then turn and run a new stack of money through the counter.

“When was the last time you spent any time with her, huh?” Bosco continues, quiet so you don’t hear him.  “We’re nearly done here.  Why don’t we roll out and let you have some alone time?”

*****

Ray knows he’s a shitty boyfriend.  He has analyzed it from all angles and has no fucking clue why you stick around.

In theory, he wants to be better.  In theory, he knows that you’re the best thing to happen to him I a long time, maybe in his whole life.  Levoux once pulled him aside at a cookout, gave him a speech about how rare a loyal woman was, how a guy had to hold onto a steadfast woman with both hands when he found her.

In practice, he has no experience in this sort of shit.  He’s had girlfriends, obviously.  He just always kept them at arm’s length, and it never hurt when they finally got tired and broke up with him.  Ray Merrimen keeps his inner self walled off from everyone, and that never was an issue until now.

For the first time, he thinks it might hurt.  If you got tired of his shitty boyfriend behavior and broke up to him, it might actually hurt him.

He keeps his inner self walled off, but you’ve breeched his defenses anyway.

He knows he absolutely has to do better.

The guys clear out, and it’s only you and Ray left in the garage.  You’re running through the final few bundles of cash.  He walks over to you, tosses his black beanie, his black leather gloves onto the table beside you.  You look up at him with that sunny smile of yours.  As if he hasn’t been neglecting you for weeks and weeks so that he could focus on this heist.

These stupid heists.  For the first time, Ray Merriment starts to think maybe there’s something beyond planning and executing perfect robberies.  

“You did really well,” you tell him.  You glance down at the running tally you’ve been keeping.  “Looks like you’ll come out to almost a half million, all told.  Seems like a lot for a night club.”

“We targeted that club because they were running drugs too.”

You laugh.  “Criminals stealing from criminals.  Doesn’t that cancel out the crime, like multiplying two negative numbers?”

“I don’t feel bad about it, stealing from those assholes.”

He watches as you finish up, as you bundle up the last batch of bills.  Bosco’s earlier comment is at the forefront of his mind, and Ray doesn’t miss the shy glances you give him out of the corner of your eye.  Shy glances, but laced with obvious heat—the way you catch your lower lip between your teeth as you watch him.

You finish, put the final bundles of cash in the non-descript toolbox that will be loaded into the work truck and transported to the guy who launders it for them.  Then you turn and fix him with that same smile.

“Ready to go?” you ask.

He shakes his head and stares back at you.  “I’ve been a shitty boyfriend, haven’t I?”

You sputter when you reply that no, he’s been fine…no, he’s been great, and Ray knows you’re being nice and lying to him.

“You can tell me the truth, you know.  I want you to.”

You shrug, embarrassed.  “I know you’ve been busy.  Preoccupied.  It’s fine.”

He shakes his head again.  “It’s not fine.  You deserve better.”

“I’m happy where I am, Ray.”

“You like waiting around on a career criminal who always puts you second?”  He stares at you hard, half-wants you to wise up right in front of him.  Dump him then and there and move on.  You do deserve so much better:  you are young and sunny and sweet and loyal, and anyone would be lucky to have you.

You cross your arms, and Ray is reminded that you are stubborn too—sweetly so.  

“I’m happy where I am, Ray,” you repeat.  “And I don’t mind waiting around for my career criminal boyfriend.”  You tilt your head, sweep your gaze up him:  from his combat boots to his short-cropped hair.  “I like the way you look in your tactical gear.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in his version of a smile.  “That so?”

“Yup.”

“You know, I’m a shitty boyfriend,” he says conversationally, and he turns back to the table where he tossed his gloves.  “But I’m a fucking great criminal.”

You hum in interest, and Ray glances at you as he picks up his leather gloves.  He pulls them on deliberately, one at a time.  

Bosco was right:  the lust in your expression is blatant.  Your eyes get a heavy-lidded quality, and instead of biting your lip as you did before, your lips are parted as your breathing quickens.  You watch his every move, watch his hands with obvious interest.

“The key to being a great criminal is intention.”  He keeps the casual tone, but he stalks around the table towards you with purpose.  Fixes you in his stare, and your breath hitches.

“It’s having a plan,” he adds.  He stops and stands inches from you:  he’s a full head taller, and he bends his head to look down at you.  “It’s having a clear vision of what you want to do and then executing it.”

“What…”  You stop, swallow audibly.  “What do you want to do?”

He chuckles, reaches out one gloved hand and lays it gently along the side of your neck.  “I can’t tell you.  You’re the mark in this situation.”

“Oh.”

“You just have to wait until I do it.”

“O-okay.”

“All you have to do, baby, is tell me if it’s too much.”  He lays his other hand on your waist.  “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop, got it?”

“Got it.”  Your voice is tight, strained.  Even through the glove, he swears he can feel your hammering pulse in the side of your neck.

He dips his head lower, murmurs low in your ear.  “Only problem is, I don’t have the schematics on you.  You gonna take what I give you like a good girl?  Or are you gonna be a problem?”

You breathe out unsteady, and he feels you shift against his light hold.  “I’ll be good,” you whisper, and this is all new—the two of you have never played at anything like this, but Ray falls into this dominant persona too easily…and the want is shimmering off of you like heat off of asphalt.  Being submissive must affect you similarly.

“What if it’s too much?”

“I’ll tell you to stop,” you answer.

“See?”  He bends his head to you, nips lightly at the side of your neck.  “Already doing so good for me.”

He moves the hand from your neck and puts it on your waist too, and then he turns you, walks you backwards until you bump into the table.  He taps your hip, signals for you to hop up, and he guides you to sit on the edge of the table.

“First thing any good criminal does is get the lay of the land,” he says.  “Learns the landscape.”  He lays a gloved hand on your bare knee, places the other hand on your other knee.  He presses on them, spreads your thighs and then slots himself between them.  

He shifts one hand to cup the back of your neck, bending over as he towers over you.  He steadies you, and he feels the barest bit of resistance against his hold.  He turns the hand on your knee inward, strokes along the apex of your knee with the supple leather.

“Still okay?” he asks.  He keeps his voice low, quiet.  It’s his heist-voice, the same one he uses once the situation is under control and he needs people to pay attention to what he’s saying.  “You gotta talk to me, baby.”

“Still okay.”  You nod against his hand.  

“You’ll tell me if you aren’t?”

“Yes.”

He wonders how it feels to you, the gloves touching you instead of his bare hands.  It’s a curious sensation for him:  desensitized to not feeling your soft skin, Ray is able to focus more on you.  He takes in the way your breathing picks up, but you seem to be trying to hide it, seem to be concentrating on keeping calm.

He alternates:  he skates his fingertips inch by inch against the inside of your thighs, switches from one leg to the other.  When your breath starts to get a ragged quality to it, when he gets close to the sweet spot, he pulls away and starts over, this time with a firmer pressure.  Then again, a third time, palming along your thighs, cupping the curves of your legs, letting you feel the seams of the leather.

“Seems like I’m taking too long, right?” he asks, still using his low heist-voice.  “Criminals who get caught don’t take their time.  They rush it.  They get sloppy and miss some important point.”

You reach up, hook a hand around his elbow of the arm holding the back of your neck.  “And you’ve not missed anything important?”

He hums in agreement.  “Learned a lot of valuable intel.”

“Like what?”

“Like that it tickles when I use my fingertips really lightly.  You want to jerk away but you stop yourself, because you are listening so well and being so good for me.  But when I put my whole hand on you, when I grip your thigh with my entire hand, you press into it.  You like that best.  Being manhandled.”

To demonstrate, Ray does that—spreads his fingers wide, grips the inside of your thigh firmly.  Presses that leg open wider, and he’s rewarded with your own fingers digging into his arm as you bite back a soft moan.

“Now, usually, I tell my marks to keep quiet.”  He glances down at you, but your head is bent.  He takes in the way your chest rises and falls, how hard you’re trying to keep your breathing even.  

“But here, I think I’d rather hear you,” he continues.  “Don’t you dare stop yourself from making noise.  I wanna hear you.”

“Ray—”

“Don’t hold back for me.  Got it?”

A beat, and he swears he can feel the heat rising from your face.  “I got it.”

He lets his hand drift higher and higher, and even through the leather of the glove, he can feel the heat of you.  He strokes you gently, the pad of his gloved hand rubbing you through the thin fabric of your panties as he cups your mound.  You moan again, and you don’t try to stifle the sound this time.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.  “You listen so well.”

He goes slow, leisurely.  Takes his time.  He owes you his time—this bit here and so much more—but this is where he can start.  After all the nights you went to bed alone, all the moments he missed because he was laser-focused on the club heist…he owes it to you, with interest.

Your other hand snakes out, lightly grips the bicep of the arm touching you so carefully.  He can feel your fingers circling him, the surprising strength in your grip.  A reminder that you’re soft and pretty and can play at these submissive games, but there’s a force hidden away in you, a secret reserve of strength that he rarely sees because he’s rarely around.

You’re also selfless to a fault.  Even now, neglected as you’ve been, you squeeze his bicep and whisper, voice ragged and hoarse, “what about you, Ray?”

“I don’t share details with the mark,” he replies with a smile.  “But you’ve been so good…I guess I can tell you.  You don’t worry about me at all.  You worry about yourself, okay?”

“But—”

“I’m running the show here, so you kinda have to listen,” he interrupts.

“Okay, but—”

He tsks in mock disappointment.  “And you were doing so well.”  A beat.  “I’m taking care of you right now.  I’m gonna make a mess of you, then I’m gonna take you home and clean you up.  And if you’re very, very good, I’ll make a mess of you again.”

You drop your head at that, breathe out a shaky sigh as you press your forehead to his chest.  He chuckles again, drops a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“Still with me?”

“….yes.”

He shifts his hand between your legs.  He pushes the fabric of your panties aside, and he strokes his gloved finger through your folds, drawing a shaky groan from you.  He can feel your heat through the leather, but he can’t feel if you’re wet—but he can guess that you are, judging by how easily his fingertip slides against you.  

The thought of you soaking the black leather of his glove, your scent mingling with the faint smell of the cured leather…it makes him grow harder, his cock pressing against his pants.  Already his glove is rendered useless for future heists, covered in your DNA, and the thought of repurposing them for these sorts of games makes his own breathing quicken.

Already he can thinks of other things to repurpose.  An outfit of all black, the tactical gear that made you ogle him so openly.  Maybe a length of rope to bind your wrists….

Ray twists his hand and pushes his index finger into you, steady, until it’s buried in you.

“Oh, god,” you groan and you aren’t quiet at all.  Just as he told you.

He kisses the top of your head again.  He pulls his finger out, plunges it back into you.  Again and again, over and over.  

“Like that?  Fuck, I can hear how wet you are.  You like getting finger-fucked on my gloves?  Like soaking them?  Ruining them?”

He adds a second finger, pushes both into you.  He can feel how the gloves add the barest bit of girth to his fingers, make him just a shade bigger.  He can feel the stretch of your pussy accommodating him.  He stills for a moment, lets you adjust to him.  To the size of his fingers and the seams along the gloves, the unique sensation of something other than his bare skin inside you.

When your tight grip on his bicep loosens a little, he curls his fingers inside you.  It always takes him a moment, so he presses carefully, slowly.  Presses against the inner walls of your pussy, and he waits until he hears the sharp intake of breath, hears the whimper as you cry out, “right there, f-fuck, Ray, right there.”

“Knew I’d find it,” he smirks as he presses firmer, rubs you there.  “Even with the glove on.”

He can’t feel you the way he usually would.  Every other sense heightening in its absence:  the scent of your arousal, the sight of your head pressed against his chest.  He can hear how wet you are, but he can also hear the way you whine out his name, the little moans you give when he presses his thumb against your clit.  The way your breathing gets harsh, catching in your throat as he draws you closer and closer.

He can still feel some things, though.  He can feel your hands gripping his arms, can feel your feet when you lock your ankles around his legs.  He can also feel the subtle way you rock against the table, pushing back against his hand the barest little bit.  You stay in the submissive role mostly, but your hips move almost unconsciously, chasing his plunging fingers.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, and his own voice is hoarse now.  “You gonna ruin these gloves for good?  Make such a mess that I have to clean you up with my mouth when we get home?”

“S-so close,” you pant out.  “Feels so g-good, Ray.”

He presses his thumb against your clit, hard, and it pushes you over the edge.  His sensation is dulled by the leather of the glove, but he can feel your orgasm still:  the way your pussy grips him, ripples along the length of his fingers.  He swears he can feel the rush of your cum, feel it soaking through the seam of the well-made gloves, can feel the barest bit of your arousal against his skin.  

He releases his hold on the back of your neck and winds his arm around you.  He pulls you close as you tremble through your orgasm; he mutters against the top of your head how fucking good you’ve been, how hot you are, letting him fuck you with his gloved fingers.

You finally calm.  You unlock your ankles, you release his arms.  Ray slips his fingers out of you, and he bites back his own groan to see the mess you’ve made:  the black leather slick and shiny with your cum.  

But he puts his other hand on your shoulder, and he pushes you away from him enough to finally see your face:  it’s similarly wrecked—your eyes glassy, your lower lip shiny with spit where you’ve been worrying at it.  He smiles to see it, and he dips his head to kiss you.  

He tries to keep any heat out of it.  He tries to make it sweet.

You grin up at him when he breaks away.  “Good heist, Merrimen?”

“Got the goods, got away with it,” he replies, deadpan.  “Pretty good heist.”

“You are one of the best.”  You crane your head for another kiss, and he obliges, and he feels the heat behind it…

“But I believe you promised to clean up the mess you made,” you reply when you break away.  “So…”

“Home?” he asks.

“Home,” you agree.

#tropes-and-tales #tppkinktober2022 #ray merrimen #ray merrimen x reader #ray merrimen imagine #den of thieves

[rebel-walnut]

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

Steddie Season 3 time travel fic, Part 6

Ao3, Pt. 1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt.5

Steve answers the door on Eddie's second knock still adorned in his sailor costume, and if Eddie wasn't running on pure shock-ridden survival instincts he'd make a comment about it. As it stands, Eddie barely even remembers the drive over. 

Eddie had woken up to no air in his lungs, clawing at the fraying couch cushions he'd collapsed onto mere seconds after getting into his trailer. He didn't have time to think before he was shakily punching out the numbers smeared in red over his forearm, Steve answering with "come over," in that oddly commanding and seductive tone of his that he seems to get during Armageddon, and then Eddie was replying with "on my way," and suddenly the line was dead. Eddie's lucky he remembered how to get to a house he'd only ever been parked in the driveway of to sell overpriced drugs to underaged teens.

Now, Steve seems to be wearing a similar distressed expression to Eddie's, complimenting his rumpled costume. Steve peers through the crack of the slightly open door into the woods surrounding the house before tugging Eddie inside and latching the door behind him. Steve's fingers stay anchored to the light denim of Eddie's vest over his shoulder, the tremor in them almost hidden by the weight of the fabric. Out of instinct Eddie covers Steve's hand with his own, their shaking syncing for a second before finding their own polyrhythm. Neither says anything for a moment, anxiously content to match each other's panicked breathing and catch the worry in the other's eyes. Then Eddie makes the mistake of looking down to Steve's right hand.

"Why in the everloving fuck do you have a nail bat, Harrington?" 

Steve's small laugh cuts through some of the anxiety in the air, and he gives it a small spin in his hand as he lets go of Eddie's vest.

"I feel like I shouldn't need to answer that, given what we just went through- er I guess go through in a year? Besides, Jonathon made it, I just stole it in '83 and never gave it back."

Eddie tries not to let his jaw hit the floor as he reaches for the handle of the bat, fingers slightly brushing Steve's. He lets Eddie take it.

"Byers made this apocalyptic instrument of insanely metal destruction? Who knew he had it in him," Steve snorts while Eddie inspects the bat, though not daring to give it a swing lest Mrs. Harrington materializes right in front of him to personally murder Eddie for slashing up her Roman drapes and turning her vases to dust. 

"I feel like I should've known he had it in him," Steve quirks his lips into a crooked smirk and gestures to the left side of his face. "He's the one who kicked off the thrilling saga of me getting my face caved in," Steve's tone is light and teasing, but there's an underlying tightness to it. "Plus, it wasn't nearly as bad as the year after when fucking Hargrove smashed a plate over my head-"

Eddie had heard the rumors about who tried to curb stomp King Steve back in '84, whether Steve deserved it or not, had it worse or not. He opens his mouth to ask, because really? Hargrove smashed a fucking plate over his head? That's a story Eddie needs to hear, cause fuck Hargrove and his god complex, racism, questionably closeted homophobia, and just general douchebaggery, that guy's the worst. Eddie would continue his train of thought -and probably turn it into a whole tangent- if the way Steve cuts himself off mid-sentence while the color drains away from his face wasn't extremely concerning.

"Steve? What-"

"Hargrove."

Steve's eyes grow impossibly wider as he reaches to dig his fingers into both sides of Eddie's vest. He's not shaking anymore, but Eddie wouldn't call paralyzed with fear a win either. Eddie balances the bat against the door and mirrors Steve, resting his hands on Steve's shoulders in a hopefully comforting weight.

"Hargrove gets flayed- the mindflayer gets him," Steve's eyes start to narrow a touch, the panic giving way to compartmentalized strategy that Steve must have learned from the world ending every year for the last four years. "He gets flayed, and then tries to kill Nance, and I hit him with, well, a really wicked car-"

"You hit Hargrove with your car?!" Eddie's voice squeaks and Steve drops his hands, rushing down the hallway with Eddie behind in tow. 

"Well not my car -I wish I could have kept the Todd Father-"

"Todd father?" Eddie whispers to himself more than anyone, watching Steve grab a magnetic note pad off his fridge and rip the grocery list off the front before scrounging through a drawer for a pen.

"-Robin would have been relentless about it though, despite the fact that I drive her and the gremlins everywhere for free-" Steve's rambling feels like a habit he picked up from Robin, Eddie thinks. His rant tapers off into small mumbles and hums as Steve scribbles chicken scratch all over the notepad in a mess of dates and question marks, finally tearing it off the pad and sliding it across the island towards Eddie.

“Now, I was trapped in a Russian bunker for like three days so most of my information is coming from what everyone else told me-” What the fuck? “-but from what I remember, El and the rest of the kids find out for sure that Hargrove is flayed on Tuesday. Same day that me, Robin, Dustin, and Erica get stuck in the elevator. He must have been flayed before Tuesday though -I think El mentioned something about seeing him the day before and thinking he was off- since he was already showing enough signs that he was flayed,” Steve pokes at the paper with the butt of the pen, tapping where he underlined Sunday the 30th (today) - Tuesday the 2nd (TWO DAYS!!!). Underneath, he wrote Hargrove trapped in the sauna on 2nd, possibly already flayed, and ASK EL!!!!!

Steve’s gross overuse of exclamation marks aside, they still have almost no information on how to fix this. Even before adding Hargrove to the mix, their plan seemed to consist of ‘lure spooky evil Russians away from the gate and see if we can use their portal,’ and ‘ask a magical pre-teen to blast them forward in time somehow, even though she might not even be able to do it.’

“Steve, I’m gonna be totally and truly honest with you here. I do not give even half a fuck about Hargrove, and I’m not sure why you do, but I think maybe we have bigger problems than the biggest douche-weasel we know getting what he deserves,” Eddie watches Steve’s gaze darken, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrowing at the center.

“If it was just him that this concerned, I wouldn’t give a shit. But he’s Max’s brother,” Eddie’s eyebrows shoot upwards and he tries to suppress the drop in his chest. “The guilt over not being able to save him is what gets her cursed next year,” Steve’s breath is shuddering, his intense stare breaking just a little. “I can’t let her go through that again, man. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s just a kid- one of my kids- and I didn’t even see it. I barely even noticed something was wrong with her, just let it happen right underneath me,” His voice cracks as he stares into Eddie, eyes wide and hollow. Eddie lets his heart break from the haunted look on Steve’s face alone.

“Fuck- you should’ve seen her when she handed me that fucking letter- so resigned to her own death, and she’s barely even a teenager, just accepting it like she thinks she deserves it-” Steve breaks and his head drops into his hands, quiet sobs wracking his body against the counter. “And I don’t even know if she made it- we let her go after him alone-”

Eddie moves in an instant rounding the island to pull Steve against his chest and tucking Steve’s head under his chin, just letting the other curl in on himself. Steve’s breaths heave against both of them, Eddie drawing his in slow and pronounced in an effort to get Steve to match his breathing. 

He didn’t know Hargrove was Red’s brother. He knew them separately; Hargrove being the asswipe that liked to terrorize his friends in highschool, calling them every applicable slur under the sun. Red was just the quiet yet slightly off putting girl that lived across from him, that he only got to know at the end of the world. He barely even knew why she was cursed in the first place, spending most of his energy running from murderous jocks. But fuck, that girl stole his heart the minute she pulled out the Myers mask. So, fine. Anything for Red.

Steve’s still shaking against Eddie’s chest, but it’s at least slightly slower now. Eddie’s rubbing small circles into Steve’s shoulder, trying to give some sort of grounding pattern and pressure as Steve slows his breaths in between shudders. 

“We’re gonna figure it out,” Eddie whispers against Steve’s hair, his breath tousling it just a touch. “Red’s gonna be okay. We know now, we can fix it,” Steve sniffles against Eddie’s shoulder and leans into Eddie’s hold around him. After a moment when Steve’s breathing is back to normal, he straightens up but doesn’t quite lean out of Eddie’s space. His eyes are tinged red from tears to match the flush of red in his nose and cheeks from crying. The pink is striking against the deepness of his eyes and the gold of his freckles, and Eddie thinks it’s a cruel joke from the universe that Steve still looks like an Adonis after a breakdown, meanwhile Eddie ends up looking like a rat that got left out too long in the sun. 

Steve lowers his hands from where they were tucked around himself and gently rests them against Eddie’s arms, his thumbs tracing light patterns under the crease of where Eddie’s elbow bends. Steve’s staring holes into where their skin is touching -both of them just lightly holding each other and neither daring to move- before he gives a small cough and a shake of his head that dislodges a few perfectly-styled waves.

“Thank you,” Steve says in the smallest voice Eddie’s ever heard from him. It’s the sort of voice Eddie used around Wayne during the first few months of them living together. The kind that says I’m scared, and I’m vulnerable, and don’t judge me, and please give me a chance before deciding you don’t want me. Or maybe that last one’s just for Eddie. 

“You don’t need to thank me. It happens,” Eddie tries to match Steve’s lightness, the moment too fragile for his usual buzz. “Besides, I meant what I said. Even if it’s too late to save Hargrove, we can help Max,” Eddie pulls on Steve’s arms a little for emphasis, and Steve sways into his space with a tentative smile. “I don’t know what consequences we have here -whether this timeline gets erased or what- but we should try, right?” Eddie flits his eyes between Steve’s, relishing in the light that’s slowly coming back. He wants to bask in it. 

“Right,” Steve says with more of his usual lightness, looking back down at their tangled arms. Steve runs his fingers across Eddie’s skin again, both of them just staring down together. Steve’s fingers dig in a little bit. “I know we just got past the dark shit, but we should probably talk about the whole reason you came over in the first place before I decided to hijack your freakout.”

Eddie laughs despite the dryness in his mouth at the memory of the dream, jerking his head a little to get rid of the phantom press of hell-tentacles around his neck. He’d bleach the dream from his memory if he could. The endless dark of whatever extra-terrestrial ocean he was in, the slick sounds of the vines moving against each other. The suffocating press of them. The hissing voice that was thick enough to breathe in like air. Eddie’s still trying to figure out where to start when Steve takes a step back to wrap his arms around himself. 

“Any chance it had to do with a void and vines from the upside down?” Eddie’s blood is cold in his fingertips and buzzing against his skull. Fuck. No. Eddie forces down a breath and tries not to taste the lingering scum from the upside down.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.”

“So it wasn’t just a standard PTSD dream? You had the same thing?!” Steve gives a solemn nod. Eddie’s pacing now, every ounce of calm that he’d mustered up for Steve a few minutes ago now defenestrated and set on fire. His hands are pulling through his curls in his usual nervous habit with Steve standing oddly stoic across from him, save for the heavy indents his fingernails are making in his arms. “Goddammit, I was really hoping I was just overreacting.”

“Did, um. Did a voice? Say anything to you?” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and tries to push down the physical memory brought on by Steve’s words. The voice ‘saying’ something feels underwhelming. The way Eddie heard it, it was more of a force of nature than anything. Tearing between his cells and slithering between his ears, the hissing suffocating and killing any air he tried to breathe. Pungent and thick like smoke, less of a voice and more of a weapon. Eddie tries to talk about it anyways.

“Told me I don’t belong here, but I can be used. Used for an army, I think, I don’t know- I was sort of choking on vines at that point,” Eddie stops his pacing to face Steve and bite at his nail instead, Steve’s eyes immediately snapping to his.

“So the other figure was you…” He says it more to himself than to Eddie even though Steve’s gaze is still intensely trained on him. “Do you think-” Steve cuts himself off with a harsh swallow and Eddie knows he’s feeling the phantom grit from the vines in his throat. “Do you think it’s him? Creel?” Steve’s eyes are blown wide and his nails are digging deeper and deeper into the sides of his arms. They live in the silence between them for an infinite amount of seconds before Eddie has to break it.

“Has to be,” It’s quiet and unsure when he says it, but the unspoken fact is sure; Vecna knows they’re here. And he’s going to make them pay for it.

“Fuck, okay. God, this would be so much easier with Nance, she’s always the logical one with the strategy,” Steve huffs out a breath and finally releases his death grip around his biceps, electing instead to scrub his hands down his face before resting them on his hips. Were Eddie not currently in the middle of an existential crisis, he probably would’ve had to bite back a comment about Steve looking like an exasperated housewife. “Do you feel any different? When Will got possessed he said he could sense it, like a presence or something, was always touching the back of his neck. I don’t know, I never really understood it. But anything like that?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Eddie runs his fingers across the nape of his neck- in search of what exactly, he has no clue. Maybe for him to turn into the upside down version of Medusa with vines sprouting from his head. The thought makes him want to gag. “Maybe we woke up early enough that it didn’t like, mark us or whatever?” 

“Maybe…”

It’s naive and they both know it, but neither say anything to contradict it. Steve gives a small thoughtful nod with his eyebrows back in their usual furrowed state. Eddie’s ready to drop it until tomorrow anyways, having had enough threats to his wellbeing for one day. 

“Okay. Well there’s no way you’re going back home tonight. We can camp out in the living room and take turns sleeping to make sure nothing else happens,” Steve says with a clap of his hands and is back in what Eddie has dubbed his Babysitter Mode ™. Eddie chooses to ignore the plasticity in Steve’s smile as he’s shooed into the living room to flip through Steve’s frankly massive collection of VHS tapes. He’d blame it on Steve working at a video rental store, but that hasn’t even happened yet. 

The whirring of the microwave combined with light popping is muffled from the kitchen, Eddie still fidgeting at the entrance to the living room. It’s a slightly surreal experience being at the literal King of High School's house for a sleepover movie night, and being casually told to go pick from dozens of movies. Sure, it was brought on by interdimensional time travel, but that feels slightly less relevant when faced with being invited into Steve Harrington’s mansion that could fit Eddie’s whole trailer in the foyer (What kind of house has a spacious enough hallway to be considered a foyer? ridiculous).

Eddie’s still debating just withering away in the entrance when he notices a slightly crumpled beer can by the foot of the couch. The spill is sticky with age and dark around the edges, almost black at the farthest points. It’s absolutely disgusting. It also happens to be just human enough to break the perfect mansion illusion and let Eddie over the threshold. Turns out even the Steve Harrington of ‘85 has his bad habits, if you can call leaving a spilled beer out for months on hardwood floors that probably cost more than Eddie’s whole life a bad habit. He kicks the can lightly with the toe of his sneaker and is surprised to find it not glued to the floor, but rather moving freely. 

He crouches down next to the spill and picks up the can to find it still half full of liquid. On closer inspection the edges of the puddle seem almost gooey, the black reflecting blue and green in the light. Maybe not grosser than anything Eddie’s ever found in the corners of his room, but still gross enough that he wrinkles his nose when he touches a finger to the black and it comes back gelatinous.

“Harrington! I’m gonna need a hazmat suit and some paper towel in here-” Eddie gasps at the sharp prick of pain in his finger and blinks a few times at the way the goo seems to be- moving. It forms an all too familiar pattern as the goo starts to create tendrils that twist up from the spill and slide against each other. Eddie stumbles back, but the tendrils are quick to follow. They latch onto his hand again, pulling and sucking at the skin, sending shocks of pain up his arm. He tries to shake them free, wipe them off on the floor, nothing. 

The tension in the goo is building fast, the tendrils too strong to the point that Eddie cant get away. He watches as the tips of his fingers start to turn white and pale, an ache behind his eyes and temples growing. There’s a buzzing in his ears blocking out any other sound, and Eddie just catches the sight of his veins turning thick and black with poison before his vision starts to tunnel. He thinks he sees a mop of golden brown curls come into view. Maybe they call his name. Someone is, he thinks. There’s a hiss in his throat and under his skin and in his veins, and all Eddie can think is that he forgot to pick out a movie for Steve.

_____

TAG LIST (reply to be added): @estrellami-1 @melodymeddler @songbird-garden @gregre369 @croatoan-like-its-hot @messrs-weasley @bestwifehaver @mediguro @goodolefashionedloverboi @huniiibee @rhyswritesreadsandcries @i-have-three-feelings @mightbeasleep @grtwdsmwhr @hirikka @starlight-archer @clumsiluni @celestialrebel1 @quarble @woolley-socks

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #steddie fic #st #st fic #time warp #shovel writes

[fulltimehabibti]

asking me to denounce hamas or even bringing them up is so disingenuous. it tells me everything i need to know about you. it tells me that you have never given a flying fuck about atrocities committed against innocent people. that you have never cared about a single palestinian life. that you have never had to sit shaking at 3am wondering if your friends are going to be alive tomorrow bc israel decided to bomb the everloving shit out if gaza, not because of hamas, not because of anything their population did, but because they will not stop until all palestinian hope for freedom dies. that the amount of palestinian people being brutalized, raped, killed, imprisoned right now, for the past 75 years, have always far outweighed those of israelis. people at the airport right now who stole a house and called it their rightful home are going back to their actual homes. you want me to condemn an internationally recognized terrorist organization? is that what you want me to do? you want me to take a break from all the calls for palestinian eradication to say "violence bad!". where has that energy been from any of y'all for the past 15 years? where were the post condemning what israel did to peaceful protestors, CHILDREN, during the great march of return?

foh

[pristine-rose]

I usually read your stuff and drool but all these fatui thirsts got me acting up what the fuck.

Unpopular opinion but of all the fatui, my deranged brain latched onto the electro skirmisher because those fucking voice lines get me everytime.

being a shitty lil brat all day, digging your grave as deep as it'll go. Hearing "Stay. Right. There." and knowing that no matter how fast you run, it'll never be fast enough.

Holding your hips down with one muscular arm as the other abuses your clit and cunt with his fingers and thumb. You're bucking your hips, shaking your head, kicking your feet as he makes you cum over and over again.

Babbling that you'll be good, you won't do it again, you'll listen, lying through your fucking teeth and you both know it because you're in heaven, absolute ecstasy. He's murmuring about how much of a pain in his ass you've been, and how maybe this will teach you to behave, maybe you'll remember losing your everloving mind on his fingers the next time you want to act out. (you both know that's not gonna fucking happen because this is exactly what you wanted to happen, expect the exact same behavior once the oversensitivity fades away)

(first time thirster, reveling in the fatui love)

“FIRST TIME THIRSTER” HELLO . . .

fem bodied reader + me thirsting for the fatui pyroslinger + gun-fucking mentions lolol

oh the ELECTRO SKIRMISHER ?? BIG MAN, I SEE . . .

oh he’ll definitely hold you down, no problem. you’re practically a flimsy hair pin in his large hands. his fingers are so big :(( only one of them already stuffs you so full, and his thumb is so so rough rubbing against your clit. perhaps he doesn’t even know how hard he’s being; because of his size, and his mere fingers alone practically tearing you open 🥺

this is definitely a popular opinion with the fatui enemies, but god, the pyroslinger is the one that makes me fall to my knees. maybe a part of it is because of nsfw art celestial fang on twt once did of him, but ugh. just imagining him sliding the cylinder his firearm up and down your clit, your wetness sliding all over the metal

#💌 : lovemail #🎐 : long ask #fatui x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #long post