#but I still haven’t parsed it all out

[tempestgnostic]

it’s almost 5am you know what that means. time to put my filthy sinner homestuck hands all over this blog

#talk tag #it’s literally all just terezi lmao it’s all just that one hearttype #hearttype? is that the word? #after nearly a decade i still haven’t parsed out whether it’s an ‘identify with’ or an ‘identify as’ situation #who fucking knows

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @camberdraws

Hello! My name is Camber (any pronouns), and I’m a mixed media illustrator located in the southwestern United States. I love drawing everything, but I have a special interest in depicting strange creatures and environments, often accompanied by abstract imagery and mark-making. Professionally, I’ve worked creating concept art and 2D assets for museum exhibits, but currently, I am engaged full-time as a software developer and make standalone illustrations in my free time. I’ve been posting art on Tumblr since I was a teenager, and the site has been very welcoming towards my work to this very day!

Check out Camber’s interview below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I’ve had an interest in drawing since I was barely sentient, but at thirteen years old I decided to become “serious” about art. I was all about reading tutorials and doing a ton of studies. I would tote my heavy instructional art books to school every single day (my poor back!) Despite all this, I decided to forgo art school in favor of a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science at my local college. Alongside my major, I received a minor in Art Studio with a specialization in fine art, which totally changed my views on creating artwork and drastically changed my style.

How has your style developed over the years?

As mentioned previously, my style did a 180 after I studied under some very skilled fine art professors! As a kid, my drawings were very realism-heavy and inspired by video game concept art. I mostly worked digitally, too. During college, I was thrown for a loop when we were instructed to do strange things like, for example, make a bunch of marks on paper using pastel, WITHOUT looking, and then turn said marks into a finished piece of art! I quickly and deeply fell in love with abstract work, and especially appreciated images that are not easily parsed by the viewer. Since then, I’ve made it my goal to combine abstract mark-making with more representational subject matter.

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Hmmm, one habit I really enjoy as an artist is strictly tracking the amount of time I spend drawing! I currently work a full-time job wholly unrelated to art, so I have to be careful with my time if I want to spend enough hours drawing each week. I created a spreadsheet that allows you to enter the amount of minutes you’ve drawn each day and calculate how much drawing time you still need to reach your weekly goal (I aim for 20 hours a week.) Having such a clear, numbers-based objective keeps me motivated to work like nothing else!

Over the years as an artist, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?

I know this is a common inspiration, but Hayao Miyazaki’s work has been rewiring my neurons since I was a child. Seemingly all of my artistic interests can be summed up by the movie Princess Mononoke: it has strange/abstract creature designs, a strong focus on nature and environmental storytelling, and a mix of dark and hopeful themes. Additionally, I’ve been deeply inspired by video game series such as Zelda, Okami, Pikmin, and Dark Souls. But arguably, none of these have influenced me more than Pokemon! I’ve been drawing Pokemon since I could barely hold a pencil, and I haven’t stopped since! I believe my love of designing creatures originated with my endless deluge of Pokemon fanart during my childhood.

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

I’ve always been fascinated by 3D mediums and am so tempted to try them out! Whether that’s 3D models created digitally or sculptures made from clay, I profoundly admire artists who have this skill. Oftentimes, it feels like I don’t have time to delve into a totally different artistic paradigm. However, I feel very strongly that learning new skills can enrich your current work. I should take that advice and someday give 3D mediums a shot!

What is a recent creative project that you are proud of?

I am in the process of creating an art book (a dream of mine!) and have been executing smaller drawings of concepts I find interesting from both a visual and storytelling standpoint. A recent drawing for said book is that of a snail made of ink with an ink bottle as a shell, and it went absolutely viral! I’ve never had an experience like this as an artist before and it has been spectacular! I was able to open a shop using my newly acquired art printer and sell many prints of my snail. Creating something original, directly stemming from my interests, and having that resonate with so many people has been unreal. I couldn’t ask for more as an artist!

What advice would you give to younger you about making art that’s personal or truthful to your own experiences?

I would tell my younger self to chill out and experiment more! I was so caught up in the idea that I needed to have a realistic style to be considered “good.” I also believed that technical skill was the only measure of how worthy my art was. That’s not to say technical skill doesn’t matter, but I now firmly believe the creativity and voice of your ideas far outweigh the skill of execution in terms of importance. Technical skills should elevate ideas, not the other way around. Once I began to revel in strange ideas and stories for my work, depicted oftentimes in odd styles or mediums, I truly found my voice as an artist.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

My peers here on Tumblr inspire me more than anything! Sharing my work with contemporaries and giving each other support brings me joy like no other, and keeps me motivated to continue creating. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them! @beetlestench, @theogm-art, @trustyalt, @ratwednesday, @phantom-nisnow, @svltart, @mintsdraws, @mothhh-hh, @jupiterweathers, @thesewispsofsmoke, @picoffee, @fetchiko, @kaisei-ink, and @pine-niidles just to name only a few!

Thanks for stopping by, Camber! If you haven’t seen their Meet the Artist piece, check it out here. For more of Camber’s work, follow their Tumblr, @camberdraws!

#creator spotlight #artists on tumblr #camberdraws

[jimerlins]

Translated the alphabet used in STRAY

https://imgur.com/a/edxEpIc

NOTE: Mild Spoilers for STRAY. This album contains the chapter headings, so while it's not super-spoilery, it's still going to reveal some details if you haven't played it to that point yet!

My kid and I have been enjoying Stray thoroughly since it came out, and one of the things we both found fascinating is the language of the society in the game- you see it everywhere, in neon signs, in graffiti, and it really adds to the depth and mystery of this universe.

Both my kid and I are language geeks, me being a narrator and them just enjoying languages in general, so after I casually mentioned that I thought the in-game alphabet for the robots was probably an Aurabesh (Star Wars)-like letter-for-letter replacement of a Latin alphabet, we went to town on trying to figure it out. They mentioned they realized it was a replacement cipher when they saw the opening screen for the "Dead City" chapter.

Turns out that we were... mostly right. But not 100%. There IS an alphabet that's consistent. It's in the first image you see in this album. However, while we did find a lot of signs that were simply English, there were some that were Latin, and we think there might be a few in French (which would make sense, given that the developers are French).

But it gets a bit weirder. There's a bunch of symbols we simply don't understand because we don't have a good key for them. We started off with this one by taking screenshots of the chapter headings, which were subtitled in English, using those to get a few characters, then figuring out other characters from context. We've got nearly the entire alphabet solved now, but there's some signs with words using characters that don't have any correspondence at all to the ones we've deciphered.

However, nearly all of these are in the "dead" parts of the city, where there's signs in English, which could mean these are in Chinese or some language we don't understand, or maybe they're intended to be an earlier version of the language the robots in the city now use.

There's also some "cursive"-like versions of many letters which are more difficult to understand, so some of the signs are much harder to translate. There's even some where they mash ideograms together to combine them, which is also interesting.

So here's the alphabet key, along with a few images we've provided some captions for. Our working theory is that many of the posters are written in Latin (including some Lorem Ipsum!), then translated to the robot alphabet, but it's possible they're in other languages also. Because many of the textures have "damage" on them, it's frequently difficult to parse all the words, and it's also often hard to tell where spaces go.

But we figure if we put this out there, others can come along and improve on and add to it!

NB: The alphabet key is not totally complete; the letters X and Z are missing, as we still aren't certain of those ones. (Updated: Z and X are found, and image key updated!) Also, there's some variations on some letters, and it's possible we made some mistakes. But it works for translating many of the signs and posters. For the translations we used Google Translate, which is probably awful, but better than nothing.

NB Also: The chapter headings sometimes differed from the subtitle in yellow. Where it does, the deciphered text is in white. Where it does not, there's no white text.

If anyone can offer more accurate translations of the Latin passages, please do!

#stray #stray game #cat #bluetwelve studio #bluetwelve #stray 2022 #stray lore

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I think Crowley falls into two of the classic pitfalls of people who see that the problems are systemic long before anyone else around them does: impatience and despair.

(Yes yes I know, “Crowley was an optimist.” Book Crowley is an optimist. I don’t think that line is particularly useful for analyzing TV Crowley. Stay with me here.)

Let it be said that 95% of the time, Crowley has the patience of a fucking saint (ssh don’t tell him) around Aziraphale. He knows that Aziraphale needs to build his little plausible deniability rationales in order to do something that they both know he wants to do (because it’s right or simply because he would enjoy it) but Heaven wouldn’t approve of. And most of the time, Crowley is happy to help Aziraphale get there, asking the questions Aziraphale is afraid to ask, offering excuses and justifications until Aziraphale finds one he can accept. He does a lot of work of parsing out when “no” means “you haven’t convinced me yet, keep trying” and pushing through all the “I’m an angel, you’re a demon, we’re on opposite sides and mine is the good one” talk that Aziraphale gets up to all the way through s1. Because he knows that Aziraphale doesn’t really believe that stuff, right? He just needs some time to talk himself around his own cognitive dissonance, and most of the time Crowley is not only happy to facilitate that but sees it as part of his role in their relationship.

But then when the chips are down and Aziraphale is still dithering, that’s when he gets frustrated, because HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE what’s been blindingly obvious to Crowley for millennia, that Heaven is just as cruel as Hell and no one is going to step in and fix it because the system is working as intended. And that’s when he says things like “how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” Which is a surefire way not to convince the person you’re arguing with of anything.

And then there’s the despair. I really think the running away thing is not about cowardice or selfishness or some kind of unhealthy level of avoidance of hard or scary things, but about hopelessness. They’ve spent their lives avoiding very very real danger, and of the two of them Crowley is much more constantly aware of the danger that they are in from both sides. Yes he’s hypervigilant but he is also almost always right about the amount of danger they are in. Trying to get as far away from danger as possible is not an irrational response, even if it’s not always the correct one for a given situation.

When you feel like you’re the only person who sees how rotten the system is, how it needs to be dismantled entirely, but you are also VERY aware of how strong the people in power are and how ruthless they are about crushing dissent because you experienced it personally…well that gets fucking depressing after a while. Because even if you think the whole system needs to go, that feels like a completely unattainable goal when it seems like no one else even sees the problem, or if they see it, they are too afraid to do anything about it. And can you blame them? You know exactly what happens to people who speak up.

So it’s very easy for your goals to shrink from systemic change to just taking yourself and the people you love and finding somewhere for them to be as safe as possible, for as long as the system will let you exist. Because reforming the system is a fool’s errand, and dismantling it entirely seems impossible. I think this is where Crowley is at. Even if on some level he knows it’s an imperfect solution, because both of them have enough compassion that they would feel guilty abandoning Earth and humans to save themselves, and because Heaven and Hell really can find them anywhere in the universe. He just doesn’t see another option.

And look, I think Aziraphale is 100% wrong that Heaven can be reformed. But he is not wrong to want to stay and fight to make things better, even if it means sacrificing the Earthly comforts he loves so much, and even if it means doing it without Crowley by his side.

Ultimately they both need each other. Aziraphale needs Crowley for his willingness to ask questions and to see the scale of the problem, even if it’s terrifying. But Crowley needs Aziraphale for his hope, his stubborn determination to believe things can and should be better, and to fight for that. In the right hands, hope is an enormously powerful weapon.

#good omens #good omens s2 #crowley #my good omens meta

[loveinhawkins]

Steve doesn’t notice the answering machine for several weeks.

His time is split between the hospital and donating food and clothes; and when he’s not doing that, he’s helping put up missing posters for people’s loved ones.

It’s only when both Max and Eddie are discharged that he has a moment to even catch his breath—when, half-dozing on his feet, waiting for a microwave ready meal to heat up, he notices the blinking red light in the hallway.

He feels like he’s still in a dream when he presses ‘play’, hears his mother’s voice. There’s people talking in the background, the echoing, constant chatter of a hotel lobby. She’s laughing at something someone must have said before the answering machine kicked in.

She sounds… happy.

“Steve? Steve?” The rustle of the receiver getting briefly pressed to her blouse, a muffled, “Just a minute, hon, he might still pick up.” Then, clearer: “No, you must be out. All right, Steve, it was just to let you know that we’ll be home a little sooner than we—yes, I’m telling him, what do you think I’m doing?”

Steve’s thoroughly grateful that he’s listening to a message, and no response is required—can only stand there, jaw slack, at just how light his mother’s voice is.

“A couple of work things fell through,” she continues with a breeziness that probably means several major ‘things’ went disastrously wrong, work related or otherwise. But it doesn’t sound like she cares all that much; if anything, she sounds excited.

“So I thought we could—well, I don’t know how late we’ll be, but if you’re not too hungry, we could just order some pizza, lazy dinner? Plain cheese for you, right?” The distant ring of a bell on a counter. “Steve, darling, I know we haven’t been—” She cuts herself off with a sigh that’s gone too quickly for Steve to parse.

He hasn’t ordered a plain cheese pizza since he was 12 years old. But she’s trying, he thinks. She’s trying.

“Oh, we’re just checking out. What? No, I thought you had that bag. Oh, well, just—sorry, Steve, see you tonight. Love y—”

The message ends.

In a daze, Steve replays it once, twice—it’s on the third re-listen that he hears the mechanical voice intone what date the message was left.

See you tonight.

He inhales sharply just as the microwave beeps, and then he’s out the door, leaving the food to congeal.

-

He knows the route they would have taken. Plays it backwards in his head as he drives. Can see them in his mind’s eye taking the exit that leads into Hawkins—his mom berating his dad for not using his turn signal.

He finds the road. Stops. Gets out and presses his hand to the tarmac. He can feel it under his palm, like a scar.

The gates spread, at the end.

There’s no proof, nothing he can point to and say there, that’s what happened to them. Not a trace.

But he knows.

He knows.

-

“Okay, what’s up?” Eddie asks him three days later.

It’s almost funny, how little things have changed. Steve keeps waiting for a knock at the door, a just kidding! There’s no harried phone calls from their work, so they must have taken extended leave or—he doesn’t know.

He’s never going to know.

“Nothing,” Steve shrugs. “Just thinking if the kids want popcorn now or later.”

Eddie’s suspicion melts away with a snort; it’s too easy. “Stupid question—the answer is always now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Second cupboard on your left, Munson, knock yourself out.”

“What am I, the maid?” But Eddie’s already reaching for the popcorn, opening the microwave door with a clunk, and then there’s an abrupt silence.

Steve realises why a second too late. “Shit, I—sorry, lemme just—”

He picks up the plastic tray full of mouldy pasta and throws it in the trash—feels a prickle of shame as he does so.

It’s stupid that this is the thing that makes his breathing catch. So fucking—senseless.

“Steve,” Eddie says haltingly, like he somehow knows this isn’t just about being absent-minded.

“Don’t,” Steve says.

He knows that’s practically a signed confession already. But Eddie nods and even cleans the damn microwave without a word of complaint. Because the popcorn still needs to be done, and the kids are waiting, and they’re pretending, Steve thinks.

They’re all just pretending.

-

He loses himself in washing up, makes the water run hot and doesn’t wear gloves, lets his skin scald. They’d all ordered pizza, and Steve had hidden every slice he’d taken, torn them all up and stuffed them into a napkin.

He stops when he comes to a large plate with a floral trim.

Would she have picked this one? he wonders. The pizza would’ve looked pretty, served up on that.

And then, as quickly as that thought came, another takes its place. How dare she? How dare she think that a fucking lazy dinner would fix everything? Did she think he’d just forgive her, forgive them both, just like that?

But she never got the chance. He’ll never get the chance to—

A sharp, stabbing pain. Steve turns off the faucet automatically, sees that the plate has smashed in the sink. A shard of china in his palm.

Eddie’s voice echoes in the hallway. “Um, I called Wheeler? Uh, Nancy. She—she took them all home.”

“Cool,” Steve says, voice tight.

He knows that Eddie has entered the kitchen when he hears a shocked hiss. “Dude, what the fuck? You’re bleeding, wait there, just—”

It’s not a deep cut, Steve thinks numbly. He doesn’t know why Eddie is worried. But he lets him fuss, lets him gently pry the remnants of the plate away, lets him wrap a bandage tightly.

“Hey,” Eddie says. His voice is soft. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, ‘kay?”

Steve can’t look at him. Clenches his jaw.

“We will, you hear me, Harrington? I promise.”

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t fix—” he gets out before his throat closes up, and when he glances back, Eddie’s eyes are wide and fearful.

“What?” he says sharply, and he looks almost nauseous, like he suspects he’s about to be told that the monsters are back, that they have never even left. “What the fuck do you mean? You’ve got to tell me, man, just—”

Steve makes an anguished noise that feels like it comes from somewhere in his chest, and Eddie freezes. He considers Steve for a long moment.

“Okay,” he says, a wary placation. “Can you… um. Can you show me instead?”

Steve blinks. He flexes his hand, uncaring of the cut, and jerks his head to the hallway.

Eddie stares. Frowns. Then leaves.

He figures it out, of course he does. Steve just stands there, hears the click of the answering machine. He closes his eyes.

This is all that’s left; these are his scraps. A sigh he’ll never understand. An aborted, “I love you.” It had never come easily to her, but it had left her freely then.

Why?

A hand on his shoulder. Steve opens his eyes.

Eddie looks stricken. “Steve,” he whispers, then stops like he doesn’t have the words.

Steve can’t blame him. Neither does he.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” Eddie says. “Steve, I didn’t—”

“They were coming home,” Steve says stupidly, feels a bit like he’s twelve years old. “They were—Eddie. They were gonna come home.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, and it leaves him all in one breath. “Oh, Steve. C’mere.”

Steve falls against him, muffles something that’s half a cry, half a scream against his shoulder—and mourns the loss of a conversation he will never have.

#steve and his parents #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington’s parents #steve and his mom #steve harrington’s mom #steddie

[glitter-epoch]

Hiii, always love to see people obsessing over love and deepspace (bc I'm addicted too), can I please request zayne fic about his hands and fingers? Can be suggestive, can be pure smut, up to you lol, ok thanks byee

HIII yes i can!!! i can't believe my first request is a zayne's hands request this feels like a gift. thank you for requesting i hope you like!!!

[ there’s a part 2 now :) ] ☄. *. ⋆ gn! reader | 2.8k words | suggestive, not smut | zayne gives reader stitches but it's deliberately not described in detail/no mentions of needles/blood

“my lunch break ends in fifteen minutes,” zayne had said, staring past your head in thought. “it would be a waste of time to check you in.” 

you stood there in the bustling lobby of akso hospital, one paper-towel-bound hand pressed to the sliced skin over your hipbone, and waited. surely he wasn’t telling you to just leave. you were only friends, so it’s not like he had an obligation to you; but he was your primary care doctor, and...

and. there was, is, an and. you’re not sure what exactly to call it, and zayne is so adonis-like you’re embarrassed to even suggest he might like you.  

“i’m sorry,” you said in earnest, a little surprised by his usual coldness that you’d arrogantly assumed would thaw upon seeing your injury. “i didn’t mean for you to drop everything for me. i should have gone to an urgent care, or something, i just thought since you’re here...” 

zayne looked down from the spot over your head, clearly removed from his pensive mood. his intention to argue with you was clear, but he held his tongue stonily until you finished your rambling. 

“no,” he replied. “you should never go to another doctor. i was just thinking.” 

you blushed like an idiot. “ever?” you mocked. 

“mm,” he murmured, back to thinking again. he brought his forearm to circle the small of your back, not touching, and motioned you forward. “come with me.” 

and now, here you are: sitting on the grey sofa in front of the wall-length window, early afternoon light bleeding white all over zayne’s office. for a few moments, he’s left you alone to gather materials, and you relish in what feels like a small victory. 

i’ve been personally invited to the office.  

not like it’s the first time, though.  

zayne returns with a small kit swallowed by the size of his pale hands; the sleeves of his button-down pinned up to his elbows. you shift, balancing your weight unnaturally on one leg. His eyes snag on you as he grabs his glasses from his desk (far taller than the tabletop, he must lean down to grab those, too). 

“lay down,” zayne commands.  

you blink, glancing around to try to figure out the most convenient position to get into for him to work. by the time he’s come over and sat down on the glass table in front of you, you’re still sitting up. 

“you can put your head on the armrest and your feet that way,” he nods, not a hint of impatience in his deep voice. “i can see you squirming. when you sit up like you are, you’re putting pressure on the wound. it must hurt.” 

“i haven’t even shown you the wound,” you retort, not sure why you’re arguing so much- and swallowing a wince as you turn to prop your head up on the side of the sofa.  

“i see your handywork,” zayne replies. he pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves and they snap quietly against his wrists. he’s clearly careful not to let the noise be too loud. “hm.” 

you frown in place of a (shameful) gulp at the sight of the gloves hugging his hands.  

“is this bad?” you ask. “i’m sorry. i tried not to mess with it too much.” 

zayne pieces through the small kit on the table beside him. even his rummaging is succinct; long fingers deftly parsing through the stack of metal utensils inside. he comes up with two sets of narrow pliers and a cotton round.  

he passes the pliers through his fingers like pencils, balancing them between his knuckles, and pours a solvent that looks like lens cleaner onto the cotton pad. 

“not bad,” he says, eyes on the pliers as he polishes them. “the paper towel is fine. but you got it wet beforehand.” 

“and that’s bad?” 

“you’ll be alright,” he murmurs- or maybe he always sounds like that- and discards the cotton round. the corners of his lips just barely curl. “you won’t die, i suppose.” 

“well, i’d hope not. it’s just a cut.” 

“and what did you do this time?” zayne demands softly, fishing in the kit for what you now realize will be sutures.  

“i had an assignment with xavier and failed to climb a fence.” 

“you impaled yourself, then,” he remarks coldly. “and xavier.” 

he sets a roll of sterile surgical threads on a wider cotton pad and turns his eyes to your midriff, which is still mostly covered by your shirt; wound hiding beneath it.  

“xavier, yeah,” you inhale deeply, mentally preparing for the stitches. “my partner. i’ve mentioned him, i think.” 

“yes, you have,” zayne says. his voice is strained. then he inhales, a whole breath through his nose, mouth closed in stoic secrecy; and nods to your hips. “lift your shirt, please.” 

you’re grateful that he’s given you a task and you don’t have to look him in his eyes after that tiny display of disdain (for your partner? for your hips? hopefully the former?). But as you lift your shirt, the paper towel comes loose. 

“ouch,” you hiss. 

you realize you’re probably stressing him out.  

“it’s not bad,” you add, uncharacteristically hoarse. 

“it’s not,” zayne agrees softly, eyeing the wound with his usual cold stare. his eyes refuse to flicker above or below the cut, which rests just over the shallow ridge of your hipbone, right above the line of your trousers. “but it hurts, i'm sure.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

“sure,” he repeats, almost as if to mock you, almost as if he’s just making sure he heard you right.  

zayne busies himself preparing a cotton round of saline, and in the middle of this, says, 

“you’ll have to unbutton your pants. can you fold the waistband over?” 

your neck is suddenly clammy. “oh. yeah, sure.” 

“if you can’t fold them down far enough, you’ll have to take them off.” 

your eyes blow out like glass. 

zayne, whom you suspected might have been deliberately extending the length of his cotton-round-preparing, is surprisingly the one to smile first. almost wickedly. “i would get you a cover, of course.” 

“oh, how nice of you.” 

he laughs barely, an exhale from his nose. you unbutton your trousers, fabric shifting against metal.  

he inhales at the sound. 

the blue latex over his knuckles catches light from the windows. you watch moments later as he threads the sutures, fascinated by how efficient his hands are. they’re longer than they are wide, and slender, not bear-like; but big nonetheless. and yet his fingers move like knitting needles, never missing a beat, never shaking. “would you like to do it yourself?” zayne asks suddenly. 

his voice is like a hum, always vibrating in his chest. 

you bristle. “god, no.” 

“then why are you staring?”  

you’re hoping he won’t finish on that very word, but he does, and he looks at you with his usual resolve of steel. you decide that no answer is the only good answer, and instead say, 

“okay. good luck. don’t mess up, please.” 

he chuckles and leans over you, the breadth of his sharp shoulders blocking the sun. “i never mess up.”   

the words ‘mess’ and ‘up,’ are foreign on his tongue, like he’d never refer to a mistake so casually, like he’s never made one in his life. he probably hasn’t, you think. 

zayne lifts up the cotton round, which is practically the size of a pea in his hand. “i’m going to clean around it. the solution may sting, but not much. it will be over fast.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

he chuckles again. “sure,” he hums, and then, before he presses down, “here.” 

he swipes the cotton round over your hipbone, startlingly light. goosebumps rise instantly on your flesh. his fingers are icy, even through the gloves; they radiate cold like a lamp radiates heat.  

zayne is kind enough not to mention your instant squirming and moves quickly to start the sutures. 

“this will be fast, too,” he says, looking unwaveringly into your eyes. like he’s trying to will the fear out of you. “not as fast as that, but faster than you’d imagine.” 

you nod. “sure.” 

“there it is again,” he smiles. “sure.” 

you grin incredulously. “i don’t know what else to say. you’re about to stab me.” 

his smile is thin and almost prideful as he grabs his glasses and slips them on. he leans over your hips, then looks up at you; pushing them up the bridge of his nose. 

“aren’t you glad it’s me, at least, and not some stranger?” 

you’re busy inhaling and exhaling like a horse, trying to calm down. “i am glad it’s you, yes.” 

your desperation throws him and his jaw sets like a stone, adam’s-apple bobbing.  

“alright,” zayne says, nearly whispering. “now.” 

he begins the sutures. you gasp, instantly, at first through your nose and then through your mouth; which pops open unwittingly. it’s nearly a whine. 

“i know,” zayne murmurs, leaning back a tiny bit as he works; so his face is visible to you. “i’m sorry.” 

“it’s okay.” 

you bite down hard and screw your eyes shut, but all you do is flinch each time his fingers move. he stops almost instantaneously, like pulling the plug on a treadmill. 

“look at me,” zayne says, deep voice rumbling against your thigh.  

you peel one eye open and then the other. 

“i know it hurts,” he says gently. “but you can’t move. i could seriously hurt you.” 

“sorry, sorry,” you nod. “i know.” 

the pools of his eyes are clear. he’s resolute in his instructions as he speaks, every word confident. 

“breathe the entire time, through every suture. i can work while your stomach moves; i can’t work if you’re flinching away.” 

“okay.” 

his brows lift. “okay?” 

again, you nod. “okay. i’m sorry.” 

“no apologies,” zayne says. 

he presses his hand flat to the side of your belly that’s unharmed, the tips of his long fingers just barely curling around the slope of your waist. you inhale slowly at that, blinking rapidly. his hand is cool as glass.  

you panic, as if he can somehow feel the coil that winds up in your stomach; watching his fingers splayed across your navel.  

“i’m going to try again,” he says. you can feel the words all the way down to his fingertips. then his thumb moves, caressing the skin just over your waistband. “breathe.” 

well, i can’t now. 

“got it,” you grind out. 

“good,” zayne hums. “three, two, one...” 

and it starts again. you bite down, tongue taut to the roof of your mouth. 

“don’t,” zayne warns, stern as ever, but his fingers keep working. “breathe. i can see whether you’re doing it.” 

the coil in your stomach tightens. you peel your eyes open and watch him work, knuckles grazing over the soft, thin flesh that’s been revealed from behind the waistband of your trousers.  

his eyes flash away from your navel as you start to watch. moments later, you’re stunned to see how laser-focused he is, pupils never moving from your cut.  

“do you ever get nervous doing this?” you ask, apt to make the time pass faster by talking. like your mouth isn’t wet just watching him do his job. “are you nervous?” 

“no.” his reply is instant. “i’ve done this hundreds of times.” 

you’re stunned. “i would be nervous.” 

“you are nervous,” zayne murmurs. “close your eyes.” 

the ball of his wrist presses into the juncture of your hipbone.  

“no,” you gasp. too fast. 

zayne’s fingers slow, utensils suspended. he looks up at you, somehow feeling taller still. “no?” 

you shake your head. “i-i don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do next.” 

oh, sure.  

he’s stopped working at this point, watching you like a hawk. “then i’ll tell you what i’m going to do before i do it.” 

“that’s okay,” you exhale. i’m dying. 

zayne’s eyes rove over yours, not unkind, but uncaring about how visible his assessment of you is. clinical, even still. the corners of his lips curl up.  

you’re not sure how it’s possible for your stomach to drop while laying flat on your back, but it does; your ears hot as irons.  

he goes back to work without another word. you’re so embarrassed, you finally shut your eyes and let your head weigh on the armrest until he’s done. 

“alright,” zayne says. “that’s it. don’t move.” 

you keep your eyes shut, nodding. “i really can’t thank you enough, i-” 

“watch.” 

for a moment, you lay there. then you open your eyes, peering down at him, too uncertain to be shocked yet. “what?” 

zayne takes his small kit from the table and places it on your lap. you startle, blink, as he sifts through the contents of it. gloves still on.  

“this is another cleanser,” he hums, his voice uncharacteristically musical. “i’m going to clean around the sutures.” 

you stare incredulously at him. “...okay.” 

he’s not fooled by your aloofness. zayne’s right hand works slow circles with a cotton round around your cut; the other comes down flat to keep the waistband of your trousers from getting in his way. both are cold to the touch; never quite warming.  

your jaws come apart and you barely manage to stop your mouth from falling open as discards the cotton round and takes the corner of your waistband into his hand. 

he buttons your trousers; pulls the zipper up. 

you watch like a fool. then, when he’s done, and you think you’ll have to admit to what you’re thinking, he furrows his brows at your face.  

“did you cut yourself here, too?” he murmurs. 

“where?” you croak. 

zayne shakes his head and slowly peels off the gloves; letting them slide slowly off his fingers. “mm. here.” 

he reaches forward and spreads fingers to cup your temples. one thumb glides over your browbone, low enough that you can see it; four or five times before removing his kit from your hips and leaning back.  

you exhale harshly and move to sit up, wondering if you’ll be able to somehow flee the office without another word. 

“not yet,” zayne says. “lay back again. you don’t have to put your head back; just lean back.” 

and you do it, instantly, because...well, because.  

zayne pulls a rectangular gauze pad with an adhesive border from the small kit. then he leans forward- he'd be positioned between your legs, if you opened them- and pulls your shirt up once more. 

as he presses the bandage over your sutured wound, it seems like even he can’t look at you. but his usually statuesque expression is lifted with amusement, plus something more sinister.  

“you like to watch me work,” he hums. 

his fingers dip under your waistband to smooth the bandage over. 

“shut up,” you bite. 

he leans back and watches you with no further offerings- words or otherwise medically dubious practices- and looks quite pleased. his breath is ragged, though; chest lifting and caving. 

“thank you,” you exhale. your tongue darts out over your lips.  

his pupils are swollen. “sure.” 

you grin, caught off guard by the joke. it sounds ridiculous in his voice.  

“my break will be ending,” zayne says, stony as ever once again as he walks to his desk.  

you stand, smoothing your hair down like something far more scandalous just occurred than stitches. 

“what do i owe you?” you ask. this earns a genuine, icy glare. 

“nothing,” zayne replies, pulling on his white jacket and grabbing his things. “but go to the front desk before you leave. i’m going to call in a prescription ointment for you.” 

you blink at him, thrice. a little dizzy. “oh, wow. thank you.” 

as zayne strides to the door, you think he might genuinely leave you there without another word. but he takes the door handle, and, almost shy, turns over his shoulder and says, 

“i’d like to stay with you, but i can’t. i’ll be working until dinner.” 

“no, no,” you rush, stepping to meet him at the door. “i’m fine. thank you so much, for doing this. i was just thinking.” 

he still can’t look at you, but at that; zayne grins. 

“i’ll call you when i get home,” he says. then, “is that okay?” 

you swallow. “of course.” 

“i want to know how the sutures feel in a couple of hours,” he adds. 

“oh, sure,” you tease. 

his eyes darken, like darts. you’re almost afraid.  

zayne opens the door for you and waits for you to pass by, eyes full of mirth as he looks down at you. “i’m glad i could be of service.” 

he raps his fingers on a clipboard until you look away. you blush feverishly all the way down the hall at how he says ‘service.’ 

☄. *. ⋆

this is not how you do stitches nor how you sterilize utensils. anyways FIRST POST. lol. anon if you or anyone else wants a part 2 of this (nsfw) i wiiiiiill do it lmk

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace fluff #love and deep space x reader #l&ds zayne #l&ds x reader #l&ds #l&ds zayne x reader #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #l&ds fic #l&ds smut

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Something I’m thinking about is Tav telling (confessing to?) astarion they like him and hes adorably confused about it? Not just that they love him but they genuinely like him as a person, his company, etc. also just because you feel romantically or special about someone doesn’t mean the friendship is over, it’s not a ladder, friendship isn’t a rung to be surpassed, you know? It’s still an important thing to build between you the friendship bits. Hope this makes sense and you vibe with it :)

Honestly I love this!

Just at some point after Astarion has confessed his “simple plan” and they’re actually properly together, Tav tells him that he’s their best friend.

Astarion genuinely doesn’t know how to react. Some part of him thinks that maybe he did something wrong? They haven’t been having sex so do they think that they’re just friend now? They’ve still been kissing and Astarion has gotten a better handle on casual touches. Do they not want to be lovers?

Astarion asks them if they’re sure and Tav says they’re positive and gives him a light kiss which only confuses him more. Tav picks up on this and asks what’s wrong and Astarion confesses that he’s not sure what they are. Is he their friend or their lover?

Tav answers that he can easily be both and Astarion can’t help but counter that it hasn’t been his experience.

Tav then turns the question on him and asks if he thinks of them as a friend.

This causes Astarion to blue screen as he tries to parse out the real, tangible differences between lover and friend, at least how he’s experienced it with Tav. He knows he adores them, but even more strange, he likes them too. The place they hold in his heart is not more or less, it’s just different. Admittedly though if they held anymore he could not rightfully call it his own.

He doesn’t say all of that. Even he can see that’s a bit much. He just tells them that when they put it that way, he supposes that they’re his best friend too.

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion ancunin #astarion headcanons

[ceilidho]

sneak peek at the possessive best friend Soap fic:

Where to even begin with all of this?

Your friends can’t even begin to parse out your friendship with Johnny. Half the time, they’re convinced that the two of you are secretly dating. The other half, they’re asking you for his number (“it’s not a big deal, right? If he’s single”), which you hand out with some degree of reluctance or make excuses about, telling them not to put you in the middle, that they’re grown women and can ask a man out on their own.

So what’s it mean that you hope they won’t?

You’re well into the second decade of your friendship with Johnny. These days, you think you know everything there is to know about the man. You know the way he likes his eggs, at what point the pinched expression on his face goes from mildly pissed to possibly violent when he’s arguing with another guy, his preference for coffee over tea, the particular way he sighs when he’s tired to the bone, the distinct feel of his fingertips, the texture of his hair, the way he’ll clear his throat after a drink of water—

The point being, you know this man. 

You’re not sure when the line gets crossed. It feels abrupt and somehow, entirely natural. Like you should’ve seen it coming, should’ve heard it on the telly or sirens blaring through town, but instead you sat inside with your ears plugged up. 

It comes out when the two of you drink a bit too much on a night out, huddled at a table at the back of the bar with Johnny’s arm stretched behind you like usual. You blurt it out in between two other thoughts, when your eyes are drawn to another couple sitting towards the back of the bar, pressed so closely together that their noses almost touch.

“God, I need that,” you sigh, the words coming out unbidden. 

The noise in the bar is just loud enough that he asks you to repeat yourself and you do, a decibel louder, nose wrinkling when you do. Just tipsy enough to lose most of your shame. He arches a brow, taking another sip of his beer. 

“Need what?” Johnny asks, leaning in closer to you, probably to make sure that he can hear you this time.

“To get laid.” It falls out of you like an aside, but that’s because you hardly hear yourself saying it. Your eyes are still locked on the couple across the room, envy making your stomach clench. Feeling it in your guts. 

You only frown when you realize you haven’t heard Johnny say anything in a while. When you turn back, you find him staring down at you with a peculiar intensity. Eyes bluer than you’ve ever seen before, more alert. 

“Why?” His tone is hard, insistent. “You looking around or something?” 

It catches you off-guard, the sudden interrogation. The tension rolling off him. 

“No—I—” Your mouth opens and closes, words only holding their form for a handful of seconds. His stare makes you reconsider them. “I, just…”

He must finally notice where your eyes keep being drawn to because he looks over. His shoulders relax when he spots the couple, the two seated at the back of the bar still tangled up in each other. He hums like he gets it. 

You can feel the heat burning under your cheeks. “Just forget I said anything. It’s really—this is so weird, I’m sorry.” You shut yourself up by taking a drink, looking anywhere but at your best friend’s no doubt taunting face. 

When you happen to glance up though, you find Johnny’s pupils dilated. “Y’know, I could help you with that.”

The offer makes you pause, the rim of your glass pressed to your lip where you were just about to sip. 

“Help me with what?”

“You feeling hot and bothered? I’d be happy to lend my services, kitty cat.”

You frown. “Oh my god. Please don’t say it like that.”

“Y’can call it whatever you want, bonnie. Just know I wouldn’y pass up the chance to get you naked. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it.”

The hand holding your glass shakes a bit so you put it down. “You have?” 

You wouldn’t normally keep the conversation going, but you’ve had one too many gin and tonics. There’s just enough liquid courage in you to delicately lay the question there like a snare looking for a compliment. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than that. Johnny’s your oldest friend, sure, but he’s also a red-blooded man with corded muscle, strong shoulders, and a jawline that could cut glass. Your blood practically sings when his eyes travel over you like he can see underneath your clothes.

“Yeah, kitty,” he breathes, scooching a bit closer to you. “Think about it all the fucking time actually. Can’t remember the last time it wasn’y top of mind.”

It’s incredible that the world still seems right-side up. Everything might as well be upside down for you. “That’s—are you serious, Johnny?”

“Deadly. You need proof?” The proof feels self-evident. It’s his tight, bunched up muscles and the eager look in his eyes, the hint of teeth when he speaks. You do not, under any circumstances, look down at his lap.

“No, I don’t need proof, oh my god.” You glance around in case anyone nearby overheard, but no one pays a lick of attention to the two of you. From an outsider’s perspective, you probably look just like the other couple, Johnny’s fingers twirling around the ends of your hair, his head angled towards you intimately. 

A smile breaks across his face and it’s like suddenly looking up into the sun. Blinding. “We don’t have to do anything about it yet, kitty. Just think on it, okay?” With his free hand, he nudges your glass closer to you, and you notice now the cuts and scrapes on his hands. How rough they look next to yours, more conspicuous when his knuckles brush up against your hand gripped tight around the glass. “Drink up. I’ll take you home after this one.”

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod x reader #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap x you #soap x reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Pretty Petals 25

Warnings: this fic will include dark content including rape/noncon, kidnapping, violence, sexual acts (fingering, oral, anal, dp), coercion, bondage, and more tags to be added as the series progresses. PREPARE YOUR PANTIES, HOES.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You go on a self-improvement retreat, but not all is as it seems.

Girls and Flower Name List HERE!

Characters: Ransom Drysdale, Lloyd Hansen, Lee Bodecker, Curtis Everett, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Loki, Andy Barber, Hela, and multiple OFCs

Note: I am like in dread of work so here it is lolll

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all like birds love to appear everytime you are near. Take care. 💖

Zinnia’s screams haunt your prison. That’s what it is. Not a cabin. Not a house. Not even a fortress. No, you are all trapped here. 

Her first night there is shrill and horrifying and endless. Not just for her but all of you. The rare night spent alone but only knowing that she suffers for it. None of you are so foolish to think these men would show pity for her inexperience.

You hear Azalea through the wall, sobbing. A few times, you find yourself awash in a flow of grief. Swollen eyes succumb to drowsiness and you wade through the night in painful sleep, waking now and again to the throbbing ache behind your brow.

The last time you rouse, you’re not alone. The weight in the bed next to your grumbles and shoves you back down as you try to sit up. Ransom rolls over as you lay flat on your back. He tweaks your nipple through the thin layer of your camisole and pats your chest.

“Good girl, Lily,” he closes his eyes and is just as quickly snoring again.

Is it starting all over again? Back to the basics. You and Ransom. You hate to admit it even in your head but his return is almost comforting. You know what to expect when it’s just the two of you.

You don’t sleep again. You can’t. You just lay staring up at the ceiling, watching the morning slowly spread across the plaster. It’s a startling calm that undermines your reality starkly. A reminder that this tiny corner of the world is forgotten and hopeless in a vast world that keeps turning.

You shift onto your side and hide your face in the pillow. You keep your back to Ransom as you rattle with suppressed sobs. It would be so much easier if you could just stop thinking.

You sniffle and try to tamp down your tears. You miss your apartment. After how long of cursing that cramped box, of wanting to be anywhere else, you would kill just to see your ratty couch again. Just to sleep on your lumpy futon or stare into your scant fridge. 

Freedom isn’t what you thought it was. Freedom is waking up to an alarm every day and going to a job you hate so you can make a few dimes of your own. Freedom is parsing out that measly check in a desperate struggle to survive. Freedom is that sliver of choice you get in doing so. It’s surviving, all the same, but on your own terms. Not on theirs.

You want to give up, so badly. You should. It only hurts to fight but you won’t. You can’t. Dahlia is right. You can still have that freedom, in that you can choose your end.

You wipe clean your face and sigh. You glance over at Ransom and carefully fold back the blanket from over you. You sit up, jostling as little as you can as you shimmy out of your camisole and panties. 

You ease yourself back on your elbow and turn onto your side. Your reach beneath the crumple edge of the duvet and feel around blindly. You wrap your fingers around his dick. He’s soft but not for long as you stroke him slowly, fondling his limpness until he’s hard and groaning.

“Lily pad…” Ransom breathes and pets your temple, “what–”

You hush him as you drag your hand up his stomach. You plant your palm on his chest and lift yourself up. You shove the blanket away from his body and hook your leg over him. You reach beneath yourself and angle his tip along your cunt. You straddle him, inching onto him as you let out a hum.

He’s stunned by his awakening. In that moment, you have power. You have something you can use. You sink to your limit and moan, twitching around him as your nails dig into his firm muscle. His hands crawl up and down your sides as he admires your body.

He shudders and lets out shallow breaths as you rock. You feel the tension knot in his stomach as you trail down. You sense the vulnerability in that moment. You see yourself smashing his jaw in with your fist or bringing your hands to his throat and squeezing until he’s gagging.

You resist that fatal urge and buck fast, the noise of your bodies clapping in the early morning hue. The bed shakes as you huff out your effort, closing your eyes as you cling to the vision of your liberation. The fantasy of violence driving you onward.

Too soon, you know it. Wait, watch, calculate. Don’t strike too soon. Not alone.

“Lily,” Ransom frames your hips as he pulls you down harder and harder, “fuck, what are you–”

“Shhh,” you smother his mouth and fuck him harder, leaning over him as you flick your lashes open, “I missed you.”

He watches you as you hover over him. You poke your fingers between his lips and delve into his mouth. He bites on your knuckles as you keep your hips tilting. He babbles around them as he quakes beneath you. Almost there.

“You going to cum inside me,” you hold back your disgust at the words, “hmm, I want you too–”

He gurgles and his eyes roll back as he spasms. You feel the heat burst inside of you and push yourself up. You lean back and ride out his climax. You stop only as he’s breathless and prone. Then. You could do it then. You could hurt him. You could murder him.

You sit paralysed, horrified at what you’ve done and what you think of doing. They made you a monster too. They’ve filled you with a rage that will never leave you. You will never escape the fractures they’ve rented into you. You can never fix yourself but you don’t care about that. You only want to break them.

💐

The morning brightens through the curtains, rousing Ransom as he sits up with an effort not to disturb you. His caution is uncharacteristic and confounding. You’re already awake but you don’t let him know. You just watch his back as he rubs his eyes and combs his fingers back through his hair.

He yawns and stands, his naked ass greeting you unceremoniously. You squeeze your eyes shut and listen to him move around the room. A low growl in his throat but no words. He dresses in silence and to your surprise, does not try to touch you. He leaves you confounded, hidden beneath your eyelids as you try to figure out what ploy is at hand.

You stay buried in dread, waiting. For his return. For some disturbance from outside; for screams, for thumps, for the eruption of chaos that comes every day. It doesn’t come. You only hear the deliberate movement of bodies trying not to be heard.

You get up and near the door. You grasp the handle and turn it, slowly, easing it around until the mechanism stops. You’re locked in. Fuck. It’s not a surprise but you want to know what’s going on out there.

You lean against the door, cupping your ear with your hand as you try to hear. Who is it? How many? What are they up to? It’s just a shuffle that you can’t make sense of, capped by the final and jarring snap of the front door. You can tell which it is by the weight of it, by the subtle creak of wood beneath several pairs of feet.

You retreat back to bed and sit, thinking. Ransom’s scent lingers along with the dread. They must be plotting something new. Another chase, another game, another humiliation. There’s a new girl so that means you all must suffer. That’s how it works. Their fun is your punishment.

You go into the bathroom and crank on the tub. It’s a small relief amidst the oppression of this place. You ease into the water and recline against the porcelain. There is no sense in letting them taint what little time you’re afforded to yourself. Those tiny moments when you can try to retrieve your sanity.

You think of the night before. You feel weak as the heat of the water seeps into you but there remains that sliver of anger, fueled by the memory of Dahlia’s words. Of the fury laced in her voice. You can’t do this for yourself but when you think of the other girls, you find it hard to admit defeat.

You don’t emerge until the water is cold. You pull the stopper and go through the usual. The routine that’s become second nature. To keep yourself moisturised and pretty for these tormentors. It brings a sardonic chuckle to your throat. You do it nonetheless, there is something soothing in the simple tasks.

You put on a white dress; a simple short baby doll. You go to the window and look out at the back deck, the pool sparkling in the morning light. Leaves sway above reflecting in the water and birds flit from branch to branch.

The soft click of the lock beneath your door handle jolts you. You turn to face the door as it opens and you repress a tide of fury as Hela smiles at you. She’s back in a flowing caftan, patterned with geometrical bands and edged with a crochet scallop. She looks ridiculous.

“Breakfast is served, Lily Flower,” she declares, “won’t you come join us?”

You don’t say a word. You come forward but she doesn’t move from your path. She watches you with a placid smile.

“Lily, do you forget all I’ve taught you already?” She challenges.

“No, Gaia, I am coming,” you assure her flatly. “I remember… I remember it all.”

She looks down at you and her lips curl further. She hums into a laugh, “you are still my favourite. I always knew you were the prettiest of my flowers.”

You try not to show your distaste. She is condescending. You see it now. Those nights you sat at your computer in those nonsense seminars, she was conditioning you, all of you.

She leans in and you fight not to recoil. She tilts your chin up with her long fingers and kisses your lips. You let her and she parts with a sultry breath.

“So sweet,” she whispers and gives a final stroke to your cheek.

She spins, her caftan fluttering and leads you through to the dining room. You take your seat among the several other girls already arranged around the long table. Azalea stares dead ahead, Zinnia’s head hangs low behind her hands, and Violet traces her fingertips over the table as if drawing a picture.

The others are brought in, one by one; Dahlia claims the seat beside you, Marigold emerges with her black hair in tangles, wearing the same outfit as days ago, Daisy enters without expression or reaction, and Rose looks around with an almost cloudy look in her eyes.

Hela floats in and out. She sets a dish of fruit before each of you, along with a cup of greek yogurt, and some yellowish tea with a pungent smell. You all just sit without reaction, glancing at each other in uncertainty.

“Please, dig in, girls, we have a day planned for all of us. We will take yoga on the deck. You recall our first days. And we will have some trust building activities. This is about rejuvenation. As the season comes to an end, we must all welcome new beginnings–”

“What?” Dahlia growls.

Azalea pops her head up, “is it… fall?”

Violet glances out the sliding doors, “the night comes earlier…”

There’s a lull as you all realise it’s been so long since your arrival. So long that you hadn’t noticed the changes all around you. You can smell it in the air, the slow transition is coming, you see it in the sky.

You exhale and peek over at Dahlia. She looks back at you from the corner of her eye as she picks up the bamboo spoon and examines it. A new safeguard. Can’t do much damage with that. She scoops up the yogurt as the other girls languish in their dissonance.

“I can’t believe we’ve come this far,” Dahlia declares.

You grab your spoon and mirror her, the other girls doing the same, going around the table until you’re all choking down the flavourless yogurt in a silent accord. You will play along. The season is not the only change coming.

💐

A day passes, then two. With no hint of the men. It’s strange but ominous. Almost as if knowing the men are around is comforting. Then at least, you know what to expect.

You have another morning yoga session, on your color-coded mats, by the pool. Each of you follow Hela’s direction; making the moves, taking each breath long and low. After, you laze around the pool in a communal daze.

You’re unnerved by the languidity that’s settled over the house. It echoes those early days when this was only a retreat, when it was fun, when it felt like summer camp. When you still wore your own name.

There’s something coming. There has to be. 

Dahlia lays beneath a pair of square sunglasses, as black as her string bikini. Her muscles shine with sweat as the sun kisses her skin. You see the strength corded around her petite frame.

Hela looms not far away, on one of the longers as she has Violet sit near her. They speak in hushed tones. Each of you has your turn, beckoned to ingratiate yourself to the mighty Gaia. You roll over and put your chin in your hand.

Your eyes settle on Zinnia. She sits alone, heading hanging, hugging her knees. You can’t imagine how alone she must feel. The rest of you came here together, you went through each step with a sense of camaraderie, but she was introduced to you all as another set of abusers. Your guilt bubbles over and you stand, leaving Dahlia by herself.

You near Zinnia, almost shyly, and stop before her. She doesn’t look up, she only cowers in your shadow. 

“Can I sit?” You ask.

She doesn’t answer, just shrugs. You lower yourself across from her and cross your legs. You don’t know what to say, you just felt like you had to come over.

“I’m Lily.”

She sniffs and picks her thumbnail. You take a breath and glance over. Hela watches you. You don’t doubt she’ll be curious but what else are you supposed to do? You’re all just sitting around, waiting.

“I know I can’t apologise because what happened happened. I’d hate all of us too. I could point out that we’re just the same but that won’t change how you feel. I’m not trying to absolve myself. I’m just trying to say you’re not alone so… if you ever need anything, I can do my best and I can speak for the rest that they will too.”

She blinks at the ground then slowly raises her head. She meets your eye and you wince. Her cheek ticks and her eyes gleam.

“I remember you,” she murmurs, “in the meetings. We were in the same breakout group.”

Your lips part and you gape at her. She is familiar. Oh, god. She’s just another dupe.

“Corrine,” you remember and she nods, her tears flowing out. “It’s a beautiful name but you can’t use it here.”

She gulps and wipes her cheeks, “I know. He told me—” she turns her head away, “he taught me my name.”

You shake your head and aver your eyes in turn. You don’t know what to do or say. She puts her legs down and leans forward, touching your arm gently, “I’m not mad at any of you. I’m scared.”

“We all are,” you assure her, “and you do need to be mad. At them. The men.”

#ransom drysdale #lee bodecker #lloyd hansen #loki #steve rogers #bucky barnes #curtis everett #andy barber #pretty petals #au #multifandom #knives out #the devil all the time #the gray man #mcu #marvel #captain america #thor #hela #avengers #winter soldier #defending jacob #snowpiercer #series #dark fic #dark!fic #fic

[bottomtim]

steddie a/b/o au part 2! (part 1 here) | rated M, 2.9k words, now on ao3

Steve walks up to the door of the Munson trailer, blankets now situated in a laundry sack for easy transport, and goes to pull it open, only to find it locked. 

Knocking is a courtesy that, lately, Steve only really extends when Wayne is there, but his car is nowhere to be seen. He does usually call first, and when he doesn’t, Eddie grumbles about how he needs to start locking the doors if Steve is going to barge in like he owns the place. But that’s just good natured teasing, or else Eddie would have locked the doors before today. (And do you know who shows up at your place uninvited, who you keep the doors unlocked for, who you keep that boundary open with? Pack mates.)

Steve’s mind is still so hyper focused on pack mates and what it means to be pack mates that when he goes for the door and it doesn’t budge, his mind doesn’t really comprehend it at first, thinks maybe he’s just not turning the knob far enough. But he goes to open the door again, and, nope, still won’t budge. So he knocks.

His initial knock goes unanswered, so he knocks again, harder. When there’s still no answer, Steve yells, “Ed, it’s me! I know you’re in there, open up!” And when Eddie still doesn’t answer, he decides knocking incessantly and calling Eddie’s name will get his attention eventually, will break through whatever barrier that is currently being provided by sleeping, or reading, or writing music. Steve’s about to go knock directly on Eddie’s window when he finally hears, “Jesus Christ, Harrington, shut up, I’m coming.”

When he hears the knob jiggle, Steve lifts his laundry sack of blankets into view, ready to explain to Eddie that he’s here for his scent. But when Eddie opens the door, he looks, well… Awful.

His hair is flatter and duller than normal, he’s pale but his cheeks are red, he’s looking sweaty, and Steve can see the exhaustion all over his face. Steve would’ve assumed Eddie was sick and had a fever if the smell didn’t hit him next.

“Holy shit, Munson, are you in heat? You’re in heat! Why didn’t you say anything? Oh my god.” Steve pushes Eddie back inside, and firmly shuts the door.

“Steve, why are you here?” Usually Eddie seemed pretty happy to see Steve, or, at least, not upset. But right now he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than in his living room with Steve.

“Came to get your scent for the movie night nest, but, heat scent is definitely not what we’re going for.”

“My scent? Why…?”

“For the nest? The pack nest? The one that we set up every movie night…?” Then Steve waves his hands, going back to the more pressing matter. “Why didn’t you tell us about your heat, Munson? You need nesting materials with our scents, you need, like, snacks and water, you need someone to be here for you, like holy shit, why are you here alone right now?!”

“I’m here alone because I didn’t think my uncle needed to hear me jerk off for the next three days. Don’t sweat it, Stevie, I can handle my heat just fine.”

“You don’t look like you’re handling it, you look like you’re about to keel over.” And, as if on cue, Eddie starts swaying and Steve has to steady him by the arm and lead him to the couch before he actually does keel over. Steve sets the laundry sack down and focuses his full attention on the omega in heat in front of him.

Eddie takes a deep breath, then says, tiredly, “Steve. Why are you still here?”

“Why—? Eddie, because you’re apparently in heat and you shouldn’t be alone! Why do you think we would leave you alone during your heat?”

And then the lightbulb goes off in Steve’s mind. His brain supplies the answer to his question before Eddie can.

Because the girls were—ugh—right.

Because Eddie doesn’t know he’s pack.

Eddie sighs, exasperated. “Why would you think I want you to be here for my heat?”

“Eddie,” Steve begins, hesitantly. “Why do you think I came to get your scent for the pack nest?”

“Still haven’t parsed that one out yet. Kinda too busy trying not to whip my dick out in front of you, right now.” 

“Okay, um.” Shit. Shit. Steve has to approach this carefully. Asking someone to join your pack when they’re in the throes of heat isn’t ideal, but Steve can maybe use this opportunity to ease him into it gently. “How does this sound. How would you like some things that smell like… Us… for your heat nest.”

“‘Us’ being?”

“Well, the pack. At least Robin or Nancy’s, or, um. Mine.” He could probably get Eddie to agree to stuff from the kids, too, but he thinks just the 3 of them might be less overwhelming.

Eddie whimpers, probably involuntarily. “Not gonna lie, that sounds, uh. Nice.”

“Ok! Ok, good! Let’s start there. I’ll get some stuff for your nest. Do you want to lay down? You look like you need to lay down.”

Eddie nods hard, eyes glassy as Steve helps him lay down on the couch. Eddie lets out a whined, “Smell so good,” before Steve heads over to the telephone. Christ.

Nancy picks up on the third ring. He doesn’t even let her say a greeting before he goes, “You were right.” 

“Of course I was.”

“We’ve got a bigger situation.”

“Okay?”

“He’s in heat.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah ‘oh.’ Uh, can you bring some stuff over? Some painkillers, snacks, he likes those gummy bears and that Earl Grey tea, and something for his nest?”

“Yes,” Nancy answers quickly, no hint of hesitancy in her voice. Nancy is a very good alpha, and whether Eddie has been officially invited into the pack or not, Steve knows she still sees him as one of hers.

“Are you sure you want stuff for his nest if he doesn’t even know he’s pack? Will he be okay with it?” 

“Yep, he’s fine with it. Maybe just stick with stuff from you, me, or Robin for now.”

“Got it. Robin and I will be there in 20.”

“You don’t need to bring Robin.” Steve hears Eddie whine again from the couch. Probably the idea of having any alpha near him sounds appealing, just for the company and comfort alone. But the idea of two alphas being in Eddie’s space makes Steve nervous on his behalf. He knows neither Robin nor Nancy would ever do anything to intentionally hurt Eddie, but he’s vulnerable and could easily be overwhelmed. It took Steve a while to be okay with having the both of them around for his own heats; though it’s still usually just Robin keeping him company, Nancy will still stop by to check on him because she is, as previously stated, a very good alpha.

“Don’t worry about it. See ya soon!” She hangs up before Steve has a chance to say anything further.

Right. Okay.

Steve hangs up Eddie’s phone and turns back to see Eddie laying on the couch with his arm thrown over his eyes, taking deep controlled breaths. “How ya doin’ over there, buddy?

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” Eddie starts. “I’m trying really hard not to grind into my couch cushions right in front of you right now.”

“Right, got it.” Steve’s been there. He’s felt the uncontrollable urge to rub himself on every available surface, to put anything even vaguely phalic shaped inside of himself just to quell the incessant desire screaming at him, the quiet the little voice in his head telling him he needs to be filled. “Do you want to go to your room and take care of it?”

Eddie moves his arm to peek at Steve with a big, surprised eye when Steve realizes how that must sound. “Can’t even ask me to dinner first, Harrington?”

“By yourself, I mean!” Steve corrects, hastily. “Obviously.”

Eddie grimaces, face turning sour. “Yeah. Obviously.” The smell of hurt and disappointment hit Steve like a truck, and shit. Steve mentally asks himself why he’s being so stupid today.

“Eddie, that’s not what I mean, I just mean, that, well, y’know… We’re not… We’ve never…” Steve’s at a loss for what to say. They’ve never done anything, not really, and have never said anything. Eddie doesn’t even think he’s part of the pack. And, sure, Steve sometimes feels butterflies when Eddie sleepily scents him when they lay on the couch, or when they’re in the pack nest and Eddie chooses to sit next to him over everyone else. But that’s all that’s ever happened. Steve chooses not to look too far into it. Eddie’s never said if he would be interested in another man, or even if he’d be interested in another omega, so it’s hard to say if Steve just wants to see more than there is or if there’s really something there. So he ignores it. 

Eddie sighs, still smells a bit unhappy, but says “No, I know. It’s just… Heat Brain making me sensitive. Sorry.” 

“Yeah, no worries. I shouldn’t have said it like that.” 

“I am tempted to, uh, go take care of it. But from what I could hear of your conversation, I should be expecting company.” 

“Yeah, just Rob and Nance. They’re gonna drop some things off for you.” 

Eddie lets out a choked little noise, probably trying to hold back another whine before he says, “Gotta be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been around any alphas for my heat. Wayne’s a beta, mom was an omega, Dad was a beta, too. And I’ve never, uh, been with any alphas, either.” 

“I get it, man. Nancy’s a good alpha. So is Rob. Hell, Robin spends every heat with me, just making sure I don’t, like, get dehydrated. Or die. And Nancy always checks in, too.”

“And you guys don’t… Do anything?” Eddie asks, hesitantly.

“Nah. You know about Robin. And Nancy and I tried when we were together, and it was fine, but it just… I don’t know. Wasn’t really either of our things.”

“Mine neither,” Eddie admits softly. “Not the… The alphas or the-” He’s cut off by a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it. Are you okay if they want to come in? I can just take the stuff and tell them to scram. They won’t be offended, I promise.” 

Eddie turns to lay on his side and looks up at Steve with glassy eyes, contemplating. Steve can tell every fiber of his omega being wants the presence of an alpha but he’s internally debating on if he thinks he should, probably heard too many horror stories of alphas and omegas not being able control themselves around each other during a cycle.

Steve can’t help but reach out and card his fingers through Eddie’s hair. “I promise, if you want to see them, nothing will happen. I’ll make sure of it, if you’re worried. And if you don’t, that’s fine, too.”

Eddie thinks a moment longer, the girls (probably more likely Robin) are continuously knocking on the door now, much like Steve was earlier.  Eddie nods and Steve gives him a reassuring smile before he gets up to answer the door.

As he approaches, he hears Robin call through the door, “You guys better not be having s-!” and she stops when Steve opens the door and flashes an overly wide smile at him. “We come bearing gifts,” she says, instead.

Robin shoves the pile of clothes and blankets she brought into Steve’s arms and makes a beeline straight for Eddie on the couch. Steve follows close on her heels– Look he knows, okay, he knows, it’s just Robin and nothing is going to happen, he doesn’t need to be protective of Eddie, but… Something about Omega-In-Heat Pheromones make it a little hard for Steve to think straight. He’s anxious. He feels an arm squeeze his shoulder and turns to see Nancy, who just deposited some grocery bags on the kitchen counter, looking up at him. “You need to relax,” she says, giving him a reassuring smile. “Deep breaths.” He can smell Nancy releasing a calming scent and it does help a little.

“Oh, Eddie,” Robin tuts, holding his fevered face in her hands. “I’m sorry you thought you had to do this alone. We should have talked about this sooner.” 

Eddie groans, taking in a deep breath of alpha scent and melting into a puddle in the couch immediately. “Smell sooooo good,” he says, hazily. 

“I know, buddy, I smell like a dream,” She laughs, easily. It helps Steve relax, seeing her smile, seeing her dote. He knows this is how it goes.

“Ugh, yeah,” Eddie says, openly scenting her wrist. She smiles wide up at Steve like in a Do you see this happening?! Kind of way. They can tell Eddie is losing more of his focus the more time he’s around the alphas’ scents, plus there already seemed to be another wave coming on not long after Steve got there. 

“How are you feeling, Eddie?” Nancy asks. Her face is concerned and her grip on Steve’s arm is still tight, but she still smells calm as ever. 

“Betterrrrr,” Eddie slurs, the word turning into a purr in the latter half.

“Good! Good. We brought stuff for your nest,” She says.

“Nest!”

“Yes. Nest. Do you want to put some stuff in your nest?”

Eddie nods, clumsily sits up. Robin and Nancy are all over him in seconds, helping him stand, leading him to his room. Steve really wishes Robin hadn’t shoved all of the nesting materials in his arms right about now. 

They make it into the bedroom and Eddie plops down onto his bed, which already has Eddie’s regular blankets, both throws from the living room, and a couple of Wayne’s work shirts scattered about. Steve sets the nesting materials next to him and watches as Eddie takes his time to sniff each piece. When he gets to one of Steve’s shirts, he nearly moans and says Steve’s name, holding the fabric tight and rubbing his own scent on it, mixing their smells together. Robin gives Steve’s shoulder a not so subtle shove, a shit-eating I-told-you-so grin on her face while Nancy giggles behind her hand. 

They watch as Eddie takes his time, laying out each piece–Shirts from Robin and Nancy, the blanket Steve recognizes from Robin’s room, but also a big blanket they save for pack nights. Eddie purrs when he smells  that one, and Nancy leans to whisper in Steve’s ear, “I had the kids scent that one. I know… I know you said just us, but… I don’t know. Felt right.” She shrugs, eyes locked on Eddie watching him fuss with each piece.

After a while, Eddie has all the materials placed, and he looks up to Steve and the alphas, almost for approval. 

Robin is the first to say, “It looks so great Eddie! So comfy! Any omega would be lucky to have a lovely nest like that.” This is what Steve loves about Robin as an alpha, as a pack member, as a person. Robin will be the first to say she talks too much, that she rambles, that she doesn’t know when to shut up, but Robin says the right things with the right tone. She knows how to comfort you, how to make you laugh, and how to knock some sense into you when you need it. When she compliments Eddie’s nest, his face lights up and he purrs again. He’s so happy, the smell fills the room. 

Nancy smiles at Eddie, tells him, “It looks so comfy, Eddie. I bet you’re going to take a good nap in that nest, huh?”

Eddie flops back into the nest, rolls around a bit, then curls up into a ball like… Like a puppy… He’s so cute Steve could die. He nods to them, glassy eyes getting heavy. Steve can tell from where he’s standing Eddie’s still warm, probably gotten even warmer since he started working on the nest.

“Alright, well, you go ahead and nap, Eddie. We’re going to go,” Nancy says, turning to leave, the others following suit, when Eddie whines. 

“No,” he says, pouting up at them from his nest. 

“Do… You want us to come in your nest?” Robin asks.

“No,” Eddie says very adamantly.

The three of them share a look, not sure what to do. Then Nancy asks, “Do you want Steve in your nest?”

“Yessssss,” Eddie says, stretching out like a cat then reaching his hand to Steve.

Ok, it’s honestly kind of a big deal that Eddie wants Steve in his nest. Steve wouldn’t let Robin in his nest for the first cycle they spent together, and even after that, his mood on whether or not he wanted her there was fickle. Now he needs her there like he needs the water she makes him drink so he doesn’t get dehydrated, but it wasn’t an immediate thing. So Steve’s kind of shocked that Eddie wants him in his nest.

But he’s also deeply pleased, a primal part of his brain preening at being chosen.

Steve stands still frozen for a moment before Robin shoves him towards the bed (Robin again with the shoving!). He fumbles a bit, almost falling into the bed, but he catches himself on his hands, face to face with Eddie. “Are you sure he asks?”

And Eddie, hazy and warm, gives him the softest smile (really, Steve is going to die), and says, “Yes. Very.”

Robin and Nancy are waving goodbye and just like that, Steve is in Eddie Munson’s nest with a warm omega koala-gripping his front and jamming his nose into Steve’s scent gland. Steve softly laughs. It tickles.

They fall asleep smiling.

#steddie #steddie fanfic #omega eddie munson #omega steve harrington #stranger things fic #katpost #my writing #we love omega x omega in this house

[sintiva]

HOUSEHUSBAND!NANAMI (hc’s and regular text format)

contents: established relationship, gn!reader, fem!bodied reader, nanami’s a baker essentially, oral sex (r!receiving), hair pulling….. i wrote this in like 15 minutes so bate with me 🥹 and i haven’t wrote for nanami in forever 😭

૮ • ﻌ - ა

and here we are…

househusband!nanami is the type of man who comes to rub your feet after you’ve been on them all day. he just got finished putting a homemade kneaded loaf of rosemary parm flour in the oven (it’s your absolute favorite). it’s friday and he makes sure he puts it in the oven at 3:45 pm on the dot. by the time it’s finished your pulling into the driveway and further stepping in through the garage door.

househusband!nanami greets you with a hug and warm kiss to the cheek. he can tell you had a rough day when you slouch and whine as you hang your jacket on the coat rack. “rough day?” he’ll ask with his hands cupping your waist, and a bit of flour of on his arms. “you could say that.” you sigh and get on your tippy toes to wrap your arms over his shoulders. he’d give you a loving kiss and hoist you up on his body. you wrap your legs around his waist and nestle your face into the crook of his neck

househusband!nanami walks you into the kitchen and places you on the island; in perfect view of the freshly baked bread. your eyes light up immediately, but it’s no suprise you’ve grown accustom to this routine, but it still makes your heart ache with love and admiration. “what did i do deserve you?” you hum in delight and dangle your feet as you watch him cut you a slice. it’s so fresh the steam floats up from the precise cut he made, he opens the fridge and pulls out his tub of homemade butter; parsely, garlic and gouda have all somehow been manipulated together to make the spread. he spreads it across the bread with a shiny butter knife and walks over to feed it to you.

househusband!nanami who views it as a ritual, he makes you do absolutely no work when you get home from doing work. you nearly moan at the way the bread and butter melt into your mouth, and you offer many words of praise to nanami’s baking skills. “it taste so good, babe. how do you manage to make it better and better each time.”

“you know if you had just proposed to me with bread i would’ve said yes.”

“i bet you would’ve.” he chuckles and feeds you another piece and you can’t grasp how it taste so good. your eyes roll back into your head, it’s almost — almost better than sex, and that quite happens to be another thing househusband!nanami is good at. when you finish eating every bit he’s given you, you plead for more. “just one more slice, ken, please.” and he’s smiling giving himself a mental pat on the back, “just one more, honey?”

househusband!nanami didn’t even need you to beg for more because he was gonna give it to you one way or the other. not only because it makes him feel good when you like his treats, but it’s a turn on. a massive one. your words of praise and how you enjoy the bread turn him on more than it should, and he’s instantly dropping to his knees as he guides your calves over his shoulders. you’re used to it honestly, whenever ken gets like this he’s persistent.

househusband!nanami loves the way you enjoy his bread so much that your moans and praises of approval towards it; gets his dick hard. so hard that he’s pulling you to the edge of the counter and positioning your hips to hang off the edge so he can pull your panties off with ease. he’s so greedy he doesn’t even pay mind to the way it hooks around your ankle. he has his eyes set on one thing, and he’ll get it.

househusband!nanami gets embarrassed so easily, and you think that’s why he decides on eating you out as much as possible. it hides the blush on his cheeks and he gets to slurp and lap at your pussy without being embarrassed about it. he holds onto you tight, basically hoisting his arms over your thighs so you can’t snap ‘em shut. he’d lick and lick until his jaw grew numb and locked. but feeling you tremble from his tongue pleased him.

househusband!nanami is such a pleaser that he doesn’t mind when you start to rock your hips against his face and tighten your fingers in the blonde strands of his hair; it just makes his dick incredibly harder. you can’t even be upset because househusband nanami is such a pleasure dom. he’ll do anything, and i mean anything in his power to see you happy, stress free and feeling good, and all he needs is you cumming all over his face.

househusband!nanami twirls and nips at your clit eith his tongue and mouth, and soon enough thr breads long forgotten, and it’s nanami who’s enjoying his home fed meal. feeling your cunt throb and gush around his tongue is elating, tasting how good you are is even better. he’ll lick and take as much as you give him, and sometimes he’ll use his fingers to get a little bit more on his tongue.

#sin writes ೃ #nanami x reader #nanami x reader smut #nanami x you #nanami x black!reader #nanami fluff #nanami smut

[crownofstardustandbone]

 Of Hopeless Hearts and Falling Stars

Sequel to "Of Second Chances and Small Joys", "Of Wedding Dances and Gravity" and “Of Wildfires and Dandelions”. Full series can be found on AO3, "Stop the World in This Moment"

Buck shakes off his nerves as he uses the key that Tommy had given him for his place to get inside, the thrill of being in a place in their relationship where they’ve exchanged keys making a grin cross his face as he shuts the door behind him. Setting the bags of groceries on the counter, he first sets up his phone to charge and play music and then unpacks everything and gets out all the things he’ll need to make dinner before washing his hands and getting to work.

He nervous as hell for tonight, not least because it’s their six month anniversary, but because he knows now for sure that he loves Tommy and is ready—more than—to say it out loud. They haven’t said it to each other yet, but Buck has been feeling it for a long time now, keeping the words locked behind his teeth because he didn’t want to say it too soon and scare Tommy away.

He’s always been a little too much for people, or maybe not enough…all of his exes and one night stands prove that much, he knows.

But now, with Tommy, he doesn’t feel like he’s not enough or too much. He feels like he’s found someone who gets him, who sees him and all his flaws and loves all of him, even the parts that are messy and a little broken.

And he in turn loves Tommy and all his messy flawed parts—the parts that are still hurt from a bad break-up years ago, or the parts that are always surprised when Buck wants to cook him dinner and take care of him, and even the part that drives Buck crazy with how he squeezes from the middle of the toothpaste tube.

Smiling fondly as he stirs more wine into the risotto Bobby had taught him to make, he shakes his head at the thought of their constant bickering over the stupid toothpaste tube or the way that Tommy will throw Buck’s dirty socks in his face when he doesn’t put them in the laundry, chest so full of joy that it feels a little hard to breathe.

He times everything perfectly so that when Tommy opens his door and steps inside Buck is pouring wine into their glasses out on the balcony, their food steaming hot. He savors the look of surprise on Tommy’s face before it transforms into a huge grin as he tosses his duffle bag aside and strides out to intercept Buck in a hungry kiss that has him melting into Tommy and smiling.

Tommy pulls back a little and looks over the table, some strong emotion on his face that Buck can’t quite parse, “All this for me?” he asks and Buck nods, fingers flexing against Tommy’s ribs when Tommy dives back in for another searing kiss that leaves him breathless when Tommy pulls away to smile at him. “You are the best Evan Buckley,” he says before kissing Buck firm and quick and then moving to sit, his smile wide and so happy it makes Buck’s insides turn soft and warm.

“Nah, you are,” Buck says, ducking his head and blushing as he sits.

A big hand covers his and he looks up to find Tommy smiling softly at him, his thumb sweeping over Buck’s wrist. “Thank you for this sweetheart,” he murmurs quietly and Buck’s hear turns over in his chest the way it always does when Tommy calls him that.

“I-I just wanted to do something nice for our anniversary,” he manages to stammer out, nervous that maybe Tommy has forgotten and he’s going to look like a fool for making such a big deal out of this.

“Well you certainly outdid yourself,” Tommy praises, free hand reaching for his fork, his expression melting into bliss when he eats a bite of the mushroom risotto. “God Ev, this is perfect,” he gushes, squeezing Buck’s hand before letting it go so he can reach for his wine and take a sip.

Blushing, Buck shoves food into his mouth so he doesn’t just blurt out I love you—he has a plan and he’s going to stick to it.

“I’m glad you like it,” he finally manages, and Tommy nods enthusiastically, mouth too full to respond and Buck huffs out a fond laugh, aware that he’s probably got proverbial heart eyes, but he just can’t help it.

They chat idly over dinner, switching between stories of work, baseball scores, upcoming plans, and soft comfortable silences that are accompanied by warm smiles and kisses they have to stretch across the table to give each other but are so worth it.

After dinner they clean up together while soft music plays, until Tommy pulls him away from the sink with damp hands that tangle in his shirt and drag him in so Tommy can kiss him while they sway to the music. He never thought he’d be one to do stuff like this—he thought it was just for the movies, that people weren’t really like this in their relationships, and then Tommy had come into his life and opened his eyes to all the things he’d been missing and Buck aches with how happy he is now.

Slipping his arms around Tommy’s shoulders, he kisses him slow and deep like he knows Tommy loves, smiling into it when eventually, Tommy pushes him up against the counter and their bodies are pressed tightly together. He can feel Tommy’s growing arousal and moans softly, rolling his hips forward so his boyfriend can feel how much he’s enjoying this too, how much he wants Tommy, always.

Tommy’s hands are firm on his waist, slipping under his shirt to press to his skin and Buck moans softly, fingers burrowing into Tommy’s hair and tugging on it lightly in the way he knows will make Tommy’s cock twitch, his responding groan making Buck’s whole body go hot in a flash of heat that has him panting against Tommy’s mouth.

They push and pull at each other, hands hungry and demanding as the kiss deepens, both of them laughing softly when Tommy struggles to get Buck’s shirt off and then tossing it carelessly aside so he can bend Buck back and set his tongue and teeth and lips to the expanse of his throat, both of them moaning at the sensation. Buck thinks dimly that he’ll definitely have a hickey there tomorrow morning that Chim will tease him relentlessly about and Maddie will wrinkle her nose over, but he can’t really care when Tommy’s hips are rolling into his and he’s gasping for air.

Eventually though he manages to twist free and pull Tommy’s shirt off and toss it aside next to his before he’s kissing his way down Tommy’s impressive chest, hungry as always to get his hands and mouth on all that skin that’s his. Tommy groans softly and pushes a hand through Buck’s hair, cupping the back of his head as he mouths at first one nipple and then the other before he’s slipping to his knees and gazing up at Tommy as he undoes his jeans and pushes them down enough that he can work Tommy’s thick cock out and into his mouth.

Groaning, Tommy’s head falls back as he heaves out a breath, a large hand coming to cup the back of Buck’s head before he straightens and turns his gaze down to Buck, eyes so dark with lust that it sends a shiver over his skin and has his own cock throbbing in his jeans. He takes his time, doing all the things he knows Tommy loves while teasing him with barely there touches and licks, so that by the time Buck can no longer think straight Tommy’s thighs are trembling and he’s gasping loudly for air like he just ran a 10k.

Head spinning when Tommy drags him to his feet, Buck gasps into his mouth when Tommy gropes at his cock through his jeans for a moment in what seems like retaliation for all the teasing before he manhandles Buck back to the bedroom, hands fumbling as they shed their clothes along the way and trade sloppy kisses that leave them laughing and grinning into each other’s mouths.

They’re naked by the time they fall into bed together, limbs twining together, and Buck gasps when their cocks align just right so that when he rolls his hips they grind wetly against each other, ripping a long moan out of he and Tommy both. They kiss messily as they grind against each other, and Buck moans when Tommy’s big hands wrap around his wrists and push them up above his head, holding him in place so Tommy can kiss him how he likes and grind their bodies together.

Eventually though he makes a pleading noise and pushes against Tommy’s hands—“I want to touch you,” he pants against Tommy’s mouth and is rewarded when he curses softly and nods, letting go immediately so Buck can run his hands over strong biceps, and then over the rippling muscle of his back, one hand lingering there as the other reaches down to grab a handful of Tommy’s ass.

Groaning against Buck’s mouth, Tommy grinds down into him and grins breathlessly, “You wanna fuck me sweetheart?” he asks and Buck bites his lip in retaliation, both of them moaning and kissing each other frantically.

Buck shakes his head though, because as much as he loves that, it’s not what he has planned for tonight. “Going to ride you,” he pants out and then curses when Tommy bites at his collarbone, heat surging through him so fiercely it makes his cock throb and leak. Tangling his fingers in Tommy’s hair he tugs at it and keeps talking, “Want to feel it tomorrow, all through my shift,” he pants out and Tommy groans loudly, biting at him again before he pulls back and looks over the marks he’s left with what Buck is pretty sure is pride.

Buck takes the opportunity to push Tommy over onto his back and then climbing into his lap after Tommy has propped himself up against the headboard. Big hands slide around his hips and Buck’s eyes flutter shut at how good it feels to be touched, how soft Tommy’s lips are against his throat in comparison to the bites he had just been leaving, and how safe and adored he always feels when they’re intimate like this.

“I’ve got you sweetheart,” Tommy murmurs against his skin and Buck nods, because he knows it—he’s known it for a long time actually, and the urge to say I love you is so strong for a moment that he has to bite his tongue.

Opening his eyes, he pulls back a little and smiles down at Tommy, heart in his throat for a moment before he leans in for a long, hungry kiss.

When they start grinding into each other again, Buck breathes out unsteadily at the way Tommy’s thick cock presses into his ass, hard and slick and so good he aches to have it inside him already.

“Lube,” he pants against Tommy’s mouth, grinning as his boyfriend pats around in the sheets to find the bottle that’s never far from hand when they’re together.

Eventually Tommy finds it and somehow manages to slick up a couple of fingers while Buck kisses him relentlessly, both of them moaning when Tommy presses two fingers into him. They had worked their way up to this type of sex slowly in those first few months, Tommy slow and patient through each new sex act that they had tried, teaching Buck what he liked and in turn learning what made Buck gasp and moan and come so hard he blacked out a little.

Now though, they do this enough that Tommy can push two fingers into him and Buck moans at the stretch and faint sting, cock throbbing and leaking against his belly as Tommy pushes them deeper and crooks them against his prostate. It sends heat lightning over his skin as it always does and Buck shudders, moaning Tommy’s name and rocking into the touch, hungry for more.

“I got you sweetheart,” Tommy pants against his mouth, pulling his fingers out to slick up again, and then pushing back in with a third finger that Buck doesn’t really need but loves the stretch of—it’s nothing compared to Tommy’s cock, but it’s a good teaser and it makes sweat break out on the small of his back and his cock leak against his stomach.

He lets Tommy finger him for a few minutes before he reaches back and shoves his hand away, eliciting a breathless laugh from Tommy. “Impatient,” he teases as he strokes his cock with the remaining lube and nips at Buck’s jaw, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat on his skin and send a shiver down his spine.

“I want you,” Buck answers breathlessly, enjoying the way it makes Tommy’s eyes go hot with arousal, as it does anytime Buck says it to him. He likes to whisper it in Tommy’s ear when they’re out in public, a little thrill going through him when he sees the promise in Tommy’s glance, knowing that when they get back to either one of their places he’s going to get fucked through the mattress—or the floor, or the wall, or anywhere that Tommy pins him to really.

When Tommy pushes into him, Buck whines loudly, head falling back as he gasps for air like he’s just run a race, the pressure and heat so intense he feels like he’ll shatter apart. Big hands hold onto his hip and rub up and down his back, soothing and gentle as Buck sinks down, thighs shaking with desire already.

“Fuck sweetheart,” Tommy pants against his throat, teeth nipping gently at the already bruised skin so that Buck shivers and clenches around his cock.

Swallowing hard, Buck braces his hands on Tommy’s shoulders and then drops his head back down so he can meet Tommy’s gaze as he rolls his hips up, until the head of Tommy’s cock is the only thing inside him and he’s just hovering there, clenching around it while his thighs shake and Tommy groans.

“Tommy,” he pants, waiting till he has his undivided attention, those dark eyes looking up at him with a question he’s ready to answer.

“I love you,” he breathes out and then sinks down, crying out loudly as he’s filled and stretched so well he sees stars.

“Fuck! Ev, fuck, I-I, fuck, love you too,” Tommy gasps out as Buck sets a brutal pace, clenching each time he rolls his hips back down, both of them groaning loudly as they kiss desperately.

Buck wraps his arms around Tommy’s neck and smiles against his mouth as he rides him, overjoyed that Tommy has said it back, that he feels it too, that they’re in this together.

“I love you,” he pants against Tommy’s mouth again, and then again and again as they move together frenetically, both of their moans loud as the bed creaks beneath them, neither of them giving a damn about the neighbors or how loud their being. There’s nothing else in this moment but them and Buck savors every second of this bliss, clinging to Tommy as he grips Buck’s hips harder and starts thrusting up into him, hard and deep so that with each thrust Buck is crying out and sure that he’s going to feel this for a week.

“God Ev, I love you,” Tommy says, voice sounding wrecked before he smashes their mouths together for a kiss that’s inelegant and hard and perfect.

Buck can feel himself getting closer to release, pressure and heat building in his belly with each moment that passes, thighs shaking as he continues his desperate pace, hips aching from how tightly Tommy is clutching at him and yet hungry for more.

Furrowing his fingers into Tommy’s hair, he tilts his boyfriend’s head back enough that their gazes can meet and slows his pace, clenching as hard as he can with each roll of his hips down, watching as Tommy pants open mouthed, amazement in his eyes as he stares up at Buck, like he’s never seen anything so incredible.

“Sweetheart,” Tommy whispers, voice broken and tender and Buck touches his face reverently, heart tripping in his chest when Tommy turns and kisses his fingers, eyes dark and wide as he looks up at Buck.

“Touch me Tommy, please,” Buck breathes out, gasping when Tommy complies immediately, big hand closing around his cock and stroking hard and fast, their pace picking up again as they both tilt towards release.

Crying out, Buck tilts back and pulls Tommy’s face into his chest as the heat and pressure inside him snaps, cock twitching and spilling over Tommy’s fingers as Tommy continues to thrust into him, both of them chasing sensation even as they both shudder and gasp for air, overcome.

Tommy sobs out his name and then teeth are closing on his chest and Buck is coming even harder, everything around him going white as they move against each other, chasing every last bit of pleasure until they’re both shaking and breathing in huge heaving gasps, too worn out to give more. Buck has tears in his eyes as he slumps against Tommy, fingers petting weakly through his thick curls, feeling it against the hot, bruised skin of his chest the way that Tommy’s breath is coming in wet hitching gasps that tell him that he’s just as overcome as Buck is.

When they’re both limp and breathing a little more steadily, Tommy rolls them so Buck is on his back and he’s able to pull out gently, both of them shivering a little at the sensation. Buck lays there as Tommy looks him over with awe in his eyes, fingers tracing the marks he’s left on Buck’s skin, before eventually he looks up to meet Buck’s sleepy gaze and smiles brokenly, emotion making his mouth tremble for a moment before he’s surging forward to kiss Buck.

“I love you,” he whispers again, “I love you so much Ev.”

Smiling against Tommy’s mouth, he murmurs back, “I love you too,” and tucks a strand of Tommy’s curly hair back behind his ear, fingers trailing gently down his jaw and then tucking two under it to pull him in for another kiss.

When Tommy gets up to get a washcloth, his thighs tremble and Buck grins, pleased that he’s so thoroughly wrecked his boyfriend, watching through heavily lidded eyes as he walks away. His eyes are fully closed when Tommy comes back and cleans him up, and they barely flutter when he tugs Tommy into his arms for a well deserved nap, pressing his lips to Tommy’s damp hair and murmuring another I love you before they both fall asleep.

BREAK

It’s well after midnight when Tommy finds him out on the balcony, shirtless and in Tommy’s sweatpants, staring up at the sky. Tommy plasters himself to Buck’s back and presses his lips to the nape of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks softly.

Buck hums softly and nods, tilting his head to the side so Tommy can mouth gently at his neck.

“Look,” he murmurs, pointing up to the sky where stars are shooting across the sky.

“Woah,” Tommy murmurs in surprise, “they’re so bright.”

“Mmhm, the city encouraged folks to turn off their lights and look, everyone has,” Buck says, pointing at the dimmed city before them, pleased that so many people have come together so that the stars can shine brightly above them.

“Should we make a wish?” Tommy asks, words brushing against Buck’s skin and sending a pleasant shiver over his body.

“What would you wish for?” Buck asks softly.

Tommy hums and kisses Buck’s neck, “I dunno, I’m healthy, have a good job, and I’ve got you. World peace maybe?” he jokes, and Buck laughs, but it warms his heart to hear that Tommy counts him in the things that he would otherwise wish for if he didn’t have it. “What about you?” Tommy asks.

“Hmm,” Buck says noncommittally, because while everything Tommy said is also true for Buck, there’s more still that he wishes for them—moving in together, and maybe, in a few years, matching rings. Heart skipping a beat at the thought, he looks up to the sky and watches as more stars fall through the sky before he speaks. “I’m hopelessly in love with you Tommy,” he murmurs, feeling it when Tommy’s breath catches behind him before he melts further into Buck, his weight warm and comforting against Buck’s bare skin. “I guess I don’t need too much more,” he says, “except for you to keep coming home safe to me.”

Tommy makes a soft sound of agreement. “You too sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You keep comin’ home to me and I’ll do the same, always.”

Buck likes the sound of that, always, of the idea of them coming home to each other, and maybe someday in the not too distant future it’ll be an actual home that they share, but for now home is in each other’s arms, and he can’t find anything wrong with that.

Twisting around, he smiles up at Tommy and runs his hands up strong arms, twines his arms around broad shoulders and runs his fingers through the thick curls he loves so much.

“Always,” he murmurs, smiling as Tommy leans in to kiss him again, tender and sweet and utterly heartbreaking.

Before his eyes close, a star streaks across the sky and he makes a wish for always.

#buck x tommy #bucktommy #911 abc #my fic

[lakesbian]

Hey there you’ve broadened my understanding of alec greatly through your posts. I kind of skimmed over his stuff previously cause he didn’t seem like a deep character but he is!

Anyways, I’m going to ask a question to wash down the praise. I’d like to see if I can get any more alec stuff out of you by telling you what I used to think (I say I, maybe this take has come up before, but I haven’t seen).

Basically I used to think that alec really was emotionless, unless he was controlling other people. But he only knew what negative emotion was like because the people he controlled weren’t exactly willing participants until Aisha. Through controlling hwr consensually he experienced positive feelings and this is want inspired his “passing taylor on the opposite track of the morality rail” and his eventual sacrifice for Aisha. Thoughts?

he's a shallow puddle but he's My favorite shallow puddle and there are actually 5 inches of water in the puddle when most people only think there is 1 inch.

anyway yeah that's basically not correct, alec's power is about (among other things) intense dissociation/literally only being able to feel emotions from a distance. presuming him to be 'emotionless' (<- this is kind of a vague term that seems like it comes with loaded connotations) is simply not correct because his entire thing is that he's had to cope/psychologically protect himself from his trauma by completely shutting down his ability to notice/'feel' or interpret his own emotions. all that hurt he felt as a smaller kid got packed into a box and chained up and tossed into the basement of his mind, because he just literally could not process it without completely crashing and becoming unable to keep himself alive. and he's still not in a safe place to start unpacking any of it, so he still remains almost completely oblivious to when he's, e.g., upset or nervous.

the other thing about his power is that it's got the irony of meaning that he can force people to protect him or act like they care about him, but he can never make them actually care about him. it speaks 2 the deep deep loneliness he felt as a kid and the way he was coerced into a cycle of abuse centered in large part around the notion that he would never receive love or physical affection or emotional intimacy or respect or anything unless he violently took it. so he can Pretend people want to be with him using his power, but he knows it's an act, and he can feel their palpable hatred the entire time. (<- the way his power enables incredibly deep and intimate understanding of other ppls emotions is also deeply indicative of what he's desperate for.)

with aisha, using his power consensually, it's letting him understand the first friend he's ever had in the closest way possible. he's actively Feeling that she cares about him & trusts him & wants to be close to him, and gaining a mental map for powerful emotions that have been rare in his life until then. it's not the first time he's ever Had Any Positive Feelings but it Is the first time he's ever had a connection like this. and it Is something he's been desperate for since he was very small and little. a lot of his worst behavior is driven by anger and hurt over being lonely & traumatized that he has no understanding of how to parse or vent appropriately, so i do think having a second person to bounce off of helps him sort himself out in a way that lowers the chances of him having another joker moment. so you could say his friendship w aisha contributes a bit to his improved moral compass. but we also do see that he's overall making slow upwards progress either way, and his joker moment is more of a backslide due to varying factors than his Usual.

the part where it's literally the only positive close connection he's ever had in his entire ass fucking life is why he kills himself for her though yeah. he has very little to live for other than Little Treats and the vague idea of being better than/getting revenge on his father prior 2 meeting aisha, and he ultimately realizes that her friendship is so meaningful to him that his life would just feel worthless without her in it, and he would rather die for the chance that the best person he's ever met will get to keep going. it's sad as hell. guy who gets one (1) friendship in his entire life and just genuinely does not have much of anything to live for outside of it. my alec essays tag isnt perfectly up to date but it gets into the explanations for a lot of this if you havent read it all already

#ask #worm spoilers

[catboymoments]

how the fuck do you answer "apparently" when someone asked if the person you called out for daring to be in public at a con was dead or not when many thought they killed themself? i lost all respect for you & everyone who defends you

. Are you seriously gonna parse my words here? I cannot stress enough how little I know about lunasol, their past drama, the discourse or what happened in the past. I just know them from this tweet as a proshipper who got talked about a bit ago, that’s literally it.

The person in my replies said “they’re still alive?” And me, not knowing ANYTHING about them or the fact that they might’ve attempted in the past, read that as “they’re still around/active online?” You know, like someone who immediately doesn’t think of death. And I said “apparently?” Because that’s just the response I had. Apparently they’re still around and being a creator! Looks to me like here they are! The fact that people are trying to make this look like I wished death on them or that I celebrated their attempt is absolutely sickening. You can look up their username on my accounts, I haven’t talked about them ONCE before this week. Leave me alone.

[silverjirachi]

I cannot express to you enough how much like. Even though I know I am a pretty recognized and respected writer in the little corners of my communities, every single day I ask myself “Wow, are people still really reading this?” and get the same giddy excitement when someone engages with my posts or reaches out to me with comments or art as I did the first time it ever happened. And I think a lot of your favorite online artists are like this. Especially here on tumblr, we are not influencers. We are people who make art who want to share it with you. We are geeky and annoying fans of the thing just like you, and we feel just as shy and awkward reaching out to our own faves. There are still artists on here I actively have not commented on posts of or spoken to because I’m shy and worried they will think I’m annoying and won’t have time for me.

I don’t know why, but for some reason talent gets equated with no time. It gets equated with a lack of friendliness or willingness to talk to others. It gets equated with better things to do and a need to be left alone away from the masses so they can produce More Masterpieces™ without disruption from their fans. I have no idea why this phenomenon occurs, but I see it again and again on the internet and also in real life. Maybe it has something to do with the culture we have fostered around celebrities and fame? I’m unsure. But I definitely feel it when I shyly reach out to artists I admire and have been on the other end of it myself.

I guess what I’m trying to say is like. Not only are artists just people, they are also very likely shy people, just like how you might feel talking to them. And every time writers and artists beg you to leave comments or reblog art it’s because we’re shy too. We’re nervous people aren’t listening. And even if the artist has conquered that hurdle and is pretty sure of themselves every time they post, I think you still probably make their day when you reblog or comment.

I don’t know. It’s weird. I haven’t exactly parsed it all out in my mind but it’s something I think about every time I post and write.

#current mood #my writing #writing

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

*gets you talking about education* so in what way is education Fucked Up that the public doesn't get right?

i’ve been thinking about this ask for months trying to come up with an answer that is not just me complaining incoherently for 3000000 words and while i could go a lot of places with this, the one i personally think the most about is that the public mostly thinks that teachers have received training on the best ways to teach things, and they haven’t. source: my bullshit ass master’s degree in general and special education, which taught me in particular so little about any actual disabilities that the fact that i could legally teach a special ed class after receiving it is like, horrifying to me. my degree was a lot of talking about feelings and diversity and naming ideas of things you could potentially do in the classroom, and no actual instruction in what we know about the best way to teach particular subjects or even about how to evaluate potentially relevant resources. one time we read an article that said kids with ADHD do best in traditional classroom set-ups with desks in rows and no “centers” where kids have to move around, and in my small group devoted to designing a classroom for kids with ADHD a classmate of mine was like, “i didn’t do the reading but what about [the opposite of what the reading said]?” and in ed school disagreeing with someone is basically akin to setting them on fire physically so i didn’t say anything and then the professor - you know, the one who assigned this reading - was just like, “great! :)” zero accountability for learning any content at basically any point in my degree. almost zero actual content taught. like it’s so bad. the public tends to view teachers as either highly trained professionals or lazy sociopaths who don’t care but my experience is that the vast majority of teachers in public and private schools alike are hard-working and caring people doing their best with a difficult task they have been given no meaningful high quality training for - but unfortunately since they do have master’s degrees they do tend to think they have a certain degree of expertise.

in particular the public assumes that elementary school teachers have been themselves taught how to teach kids how to read, and not only have they not been taught how to teach kids how to read, they have often been taught ideas about reading that stand in total contradiction to our best scientifically derived hypotheses about how children learn how to read. for the millionth time i recommend checking out the podcast (with high quality transcripts available) sold a story. emily hanford’s reporting has taught me more about reading than the degree i am still paying for ever did and i have considered seeking therapy to process how angry i am about that.

anyway, i’m posting this now because i saw another fucking post that was like “actually they do teach all the skills you want them to teach, it’s called high school english class” which makes me insane because test prep tutoring high school kids has really hammered home that teachers in rich private schools reliably fail to pick up on the fact that a lot of teenagers struggle with any degree of textual complexity to a degree that in any text from the nineteenth century even individual sentences pose problems. the most expensive high schools in the country are graduating kids who can’t independently parse five paragraphs of an abraham lincoln speech and their faculty members don’t even know it. but sure english teachers are routinely and successfully teaching critical thinking if only those damn 15 year olds weren’t too fucking lazy to pay attention. “lol.”

#askbox