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ch0wen · 1 year

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If you're still taking requests I loooovvveddddd the possessive Tangerine getting in the bar fight if you could do something like that or a continuation of that!!

A/N: Thaaaank you for the love, Meg!!! :) This popped into my head first thing when brainstorming for jealous Tangerine. I'm sorry if it's not quite what you were hoping for but hopefully, it's a fun read...

Tempting the Target | Tangerine x fem!reader

warnings: mention of sexual content, violence, and cursing

You feel the heat. It’s boring through the back of your head. Spreading across the side of your face. Pinking your cheeks. Your skin is getting hotter and hotter. How can one person create this much of a reaction without even touching you?

Maybe because the source of the heatwave is your very attractive and very overprotective partner, Tangerine. You can feel his silent rage but don't want to risk looking over at him to confirm. It's safe to assume his handsome face is scrunched up in irritation because you’re currently flirting with a man named Paul.

"A little green-eyed monster is creeping out," Lemon sing-songs while flipping through his magazine. The Twins are a few rows down out of Paul's sight. Lemon with his back to you and Tangerine opposite to monitor.

Tangerine swipes at his nose causing his brother to guffaw.

“Not a bogey, you git! You're jealous. And that don't make much sense, since you’re the one who suggested she’d be the decoy.”

Tangerine glares at Lemon, “do not put this on me. She was begging to help out and your incessant encouragement that she'd be ‘proper amazing’ or ‘really time you put some trust in her, Tan,’ didn't help at all."

“That’s not what I sound like, right?”

Tangerine’s glare was enough of an answer for Lemon.

“Fuck you. Alls I know is she is doing a good job keeping him distracted and occupied. You’re just possessive as shit.”

Paul, the target, is playfully toying at your ankle which was previously stroking against his calf. You take it as a sign to get closer. He determines your next move before you can by grabbing your hips to tug you forward to straddle his lap. Tangerine is blowing a long expel of air out of his nose while he watches. Fortunately, the noise of frustration is only heard by Lemon. Who pauses his newly begun story to snicker at his brother’s annoyance.

“You’re not listening.”

“Haven’t you said that’s one of my faults?” he grits out.

“Oh! So you do listen?”

One checkpoint in this mission was to figure out how to stun Paul without killing him. The Twins were hired to locate this man and bring him back to Vincenzo, a stereotypical Italian Mafia boss. Apparently, Paul worked alongside him before going AWOL and owes him a lot of money and knows too much. The Twins really dumbed down the explanation of this operation to you while driving to the station. All you knew was that you got a chance to help out your boyfriend and his brother. They’re finally letting you into their world. And it felt amazing.

But their most important focus, since letting you tag along, was that they wanted you to stay safe. So, your task was to seduce Paul into thinking he’s about to have a quick fuck in the train bathroom. Only to be met with one of the Twins who will stun him, out of the public eye, and haul his unconscious body off the train once arriving at Cinque Terre, where they’ll meet with Vincenzo’s goons.

But that was with the impression that you could just use your charm to lure Paul to the bathroom. They underestimated just how shamelessly horny this guy could be. He knows there are at least two other people in this train car with him but here he is sneaking his hands up your dress.

Tangerine's eyes never left you. He was watching. Monitoring. While it was torture to see you get groped by this scumbag, he knew it was all a part of the plan. But the idea of Paul actually believing he could get lucky with you makes his hands grip the armrests even tighter. They’re meant to let this play out but this feels wrong, and he’d be damned if the guy’s fingers creep any further up your leg.

You mask any indication that you’re uncomfortable with Paul’s hands all over you by nervously laughing. To men that just sounds like flirtatious giggles. Good cover. He buries his face into your neck, the way Tangerine does to breathe you in in the mornings when he grants himself a few extra lazy moments to stay in bed. To ignore the disgust in the pit of your stomach, risk ruining the plan, and disappoint the Twins, you’re putting yourself in this recent memory of Tangerine grabbing for you after work. His hands transform into Tan’s, which are now gripping too harshly at your hips. 'His' newly shaved face rubbing against your sensitive skin. 'His' dick pressing against you…-

okay, that’s enough!

He is not Tangerine. You’re realizing you’re truly in over your head thinking you could disconnect enough to assist them in a mission.

From the angle you’re perched on Paul’s lap, you can see over his seat. You steal a glance towards the Twins. Tangerine’s eyes immediately find yours. They were empty. You can’t react fast enough to send him any sign of reassurance. But his look was a confirmation that you needed to stop whatever this was. You pull back to stare down at Paul. Forcing a smile. Hands caress his chest as you climb off of him.

You fake a seductive look before sauntering down the aisle toward the restroom. Your fingers dance over Tangerine's arm as you pass as a form of comfort. It's assumed Paul was too focused on your departure to notice the secret interaction. But Tangerine doesn't miss the way Paul's eyes are glued to your ass, with your dress partially hiked in the back.

"Fuck the plan," he seethes.

He’s up. Slamming Paul's head into the window. Lemon is incoherently scolding Tangerine while lunging out of his seat after him. You freeze in your tracks at the sound of commotion. Once you spin around you’re greeted with Tangerine’s blind frenzy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Your words fall on deaf ears. Tangerine’s fist pounds into Paul’s lip. It’s evident that the initial blow to the window knocked him out immediately. The guy’s limp body shook with Tangerine's beating. His strong thighs pinned him to the ground. Each collision to his face spits out blood that was pooling in his mouth. Some of it splattered on Lemon’s sleeve during his efforts to stop his raging brother.

“Oh, come on. You got blood on me, you twat.”

“Tan, stop it! Lemon. People could come through at any second. Please do something.”

As Tangerine revs his arm back for another swing, Lemon grabs it to harshly stop him. Pinning it down tight against his back. Tangerine squirms to break out of his hold. But Lemon smacks him upside the head in what only can be described as a brotherly fashion.

Tangerine is panting. Paul lays unmoving underneath him. His chest still rising and falling. The only telltale sign that Tangerine didn't kill him.

"I guess I'm on clean-up duty," Lemon huffs as he shoves Tangerine out of the way.

____

You're all sat in silence. Tangerine next to you; face stoic but thigh bouncing through the remaining adrenaline. In the aftermath, he was a second away from dragging you off to the bathroom to rid himself faster of this chemical imbalance. But Lemon was grumbling insults as he tidied up, and Tangerine wanted to avoid the chances of a full-on scolding from Lemon for sneaking off to fuck after wreaking havoc. Your hand rests on his leg; slowing it to a stop.

Lemon is sitting opposite you, next to Paul. His hands are bound with a phone charger below the table to avoid suspicion from a passerby.

“This definitely was one way to subdue the target.”

As he directs that comment toward Tangerine, he places an angry-looking cartoon train on Paul's forehead. The blood on his face makes his skin tacky and the sticker loses its adhesive. Causing it to slowly slide down the bridge of his nose, almost like a real train disembarking out of a station down some winding tracks.

"But it was a bit of an overkill."

"Lem. I'll shove that sticker book so far down your fucking throat."

#tangerine and lemon #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #asks #request #aaron taylor johnson #bullet train 2022 #bullet train #tangerine smut

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stylesuperstar · 7 days

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wip. planymphia mall au. ( inspired by @riseandfallofme )

One day she just… appeared. She worked across the hall from Jane and God was she an eyesore. Highlighter yellow streaks framed her face and stood out against the dim lights and black clothes of Hot Topic. Ugh, her clothes could make eyes bleed. Black Leggings and a t-shirt of some brightly colored character paired with that same highlighter yellow in her leg warmers and fishnet gloves. At least the accessories matched her hair. As if that was on purpose, Jane thought to herself, speaking to herself in a sarcastic tone.

“You’ve been staring at this new girl for like 3 days now.” Ugh, that voice.

“Amanda! I didn’t know you were working today.” Jane whipped her head around and forced a smile, she just couldn’t contain the hatred that seeped into her words.

“Um, we’re understaffed? Both of us are here, like, every day.” Jane had already turned back around before Amanda could finish her sentence. Jane couldn’t place her finger on a good reason to not like Amanda, they’ve always clashed. Well, Jane could point fingers at the way Amanda’s foundation was the wrong shade if she wanted to match her spray tan, but…

“So… What’s your deal with Nymphia?” Jane’s attention went back to her co-worker. She didn’t even realize she was staring again until she heard that name. Amanda’s hand came into Jane’s line of sight, pointing a long finger across the hall.

“Don’t point.” Jane hissed and swatted at her hand. Especially when you have nails with no polish, she wanted to add before Amanda spoke again.

“Sorry, we don't want her to find out about her stalker.” Amanda sneered. “She used to work with Meg. Apparently she’s, like, totally insane.”

Yeah, no shit Amanda.

“What’s with the yellow?”

“No one knows.”

Weird and mysterious? Gross.

#rolls on the floor

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clarks-letterman · 5 months

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angelift | goalie!renato lyra x reader

a/n — inspired by the deadly games collection! soccer!au where the survivors all play soccer in their own teams

summary — I'd write one but nothing can top those stellar item descriptions in DBD... right? Anyways, goalie rivals settle their feuds in the locker room.

warnings — horribly translated Brazilian Portuguese, face fucking, mischaracterizing a character who doesn't speak/has no personality besides the fact that his whimpering sounds nice <3, white woman jumpscare (meg)

words — 3.4k

~~~

“How does he do it?”

Your eyes scour across the large field to the Brazilian swinging his arms over his chest, raising the other arm in a perpendicular fashion and pressing it to the elbow of his polar arm while keeping it stiff. It’s a specific motion that he does as he sauntered to his other teammates.

Meg turned to look at you as you stretched, taking the same stance as him. Warm-ups, a much-needed thing when exposed to the brisk air.

“Do what?” She asked.

“Look so… confident. You know, they barely qualified to go against us.” What you said may have been a lie, but you wished for it to be true. Knowing their team was statistically worse than yours would have made their popularity around the world feel less intimidating.

Her brows furrowed like they were trying to dive into the turf she stood on. “You made that up. That’s something everyone knows.”

“It’s easy to see it.” You told her. “The team is more focused on their image rather than their skill. My money’s on the fact that most of them are here for the fame.”

Renato had to be showing off since you got to the stadium, whether it was to you or the eager fans arriving early, you couldn’t tell. Not every position was beneficial for stretching out his best assets, but maybe he cared too much about looking his best in the game.

While the other team likely talked shit about your worst mistakes behind your back, you found comfort in talking about their motivations. They could relish in every slip-up, fumble, and game-costing play that you made, but it made all of that sting a little less when you imagined them as not taking the game seriously. Hell, Renato made that pretty easy with his presence in the marketing world. He wasn’t just some player, he was a brand to sell stadium seats.

The countless interviews online were all about him. Renato, the “fire keeper” as everyone called him. It was only after one of his gloves caught a ball that had some sort of tactile material that, when gliding across the material of his glove at a rapid speed, could cause smoke and burn marks. By the end of that match, it looked like he had held fire in his hand and walked away from the game with a reputation.

Then you saw his stupid face in a commercial for a cream that he used to help with muscle pain in his thighs, now being endorsed by the company that made it. Damn you, Deep Heat. Though, the one shot of his thigh that they used for demonstration stuck out in your head—it was practically burned into your TV screen! Crisp, white illuminated his toned leg as he propped it up on a futuristic cube that was equally as shining as the backdrop. All of the lathering, his hands slowly gliding over his thigh to show how fast the cream disappeared and worked to alleviate pain. Closing in on such an intimate part of himself—one that was usually hidden by his shorts, a cross between blue and purple over his tanned legs—was for all of the public to see.

Being a goalie yourself, the algorithm online had basically fed you every iteration of that advert to the point that you could recite them by heart in the same, stupid voice he used. His face was on all the boxes, and you had to reluctantly buy some after getting a cramp after a match. Your team had a manager, and one overheard conversation sent your dislike of the player across the arena into a full-out feeling of disdain. Supposedly, you would have gotten that endorsement if it weren’t for one game where you failed to catch one too many balls, and they went to Renato shortly after.

…And, damn it, he had already won the rivalry. You were at a loss for anything else to say about him.

You would have never called him your “rival,” because that would imply that Renato possessed a skill set high enough to match yours, and the feeling that he could outplay you today was the last thing you needed to be thinking about. That was the internet’s idea. On some screen far, far away, someone had noticed the small glare you gave him a while back at a fundraiser for charity. This one glance let thousands of people on the internet concoct this fantasy of, at the least, being friends, and at its worst, being lovers. Every detail of your social presence—from an intentionally “equivocating” Instagram caption to the outright mention of his name—was enough for fans of both teams to come together in a new type of supporter.

Maybe what they did, and what he did, worked to some extent. Just the sight of him warming up for this match brought on a spur of emotion that could only be described as a resonating bridle. Something that pushed the edge of an immovable barrier. Where the wall began as the public eye and ended in insecurity didn’t seem discernible. Sometimes, you fantasized about meeting Renato while taking a tour of Brazil. Someplace quiet in the moors, where he’s all alone, kicking a ball around, waiting for anyone else to join him. The dream of which sat on his shoulders as he fed fuel to the fire, he had to be the one making any accusation about the two of you being any sort of ‘thing.’

But all he managed to do was run laps around your mind. In front of you, he was doing the complete opposite. His weight pressed down on the faux grass. But he was not facing you, no. He isn’t looking in your direction with a smirk as he reaches the tips of his digits to the toe of his cleat. He’s facing away, a sign of weakness. He’s leaning forward, stretching his back and, from what you can make out from your shared distance, running his hands over his legs until he reaches his ankles. The elastic band of his shorts dipped as they could only cover so much, and the purple ends of his jersey rode up. Too far away to see the details, you turned away and expected it to be that way for the rest of the night.

That was, until, the final handshake. The game came to a close at fourteen to twelve. Scattered players blocked your view of him as you paced back and forth in your little salt circle—or a sharply shaped rectangle with repelling edges—on the field for the entire match. There was a slow building of dread as you shook hand after hand, being on the very end of the lineup as your team shuffled to the left and the other team did the same, but in the opposite direction. Renato was the last as well, meaning that you two ended the ritualistic commemoration. A way to celebrate your loss, and a way for Brazil to continue to be home to another asshole in the world.

Each bare hand meeting your own built-up friction, but it elicits nothing as a base is needed to react with other bases. You had your reasons for disliking Renato, but there was never a specific moment where you could say it to him. There was no ignition beyond your want to do it. But, as you looked into his eyes once he stepped into view, the choice to do it grew stronger. You slotted your hand into his without looking, grasping it firmly. The sudden realization that he still had his gloves on and you were shaking the hand with the yellow dorsal side of his glove. The white part enveloped your hand and he shook it with a smirk on his face.

“Good job out there. Anyone can miss two catches.”

“Not you, though, right?” Being the last in line meant that there was no rush to break away from the man touching your hand. The only thing running through your mind was the Deep Heat on it, numbing his hand and yours.

“Not at all,” he said.

“I guess you’d know how to catch balls, though.” Thanks, internet.

He pulled you closer, “You know, a rumor might arise tonight about how you’re missing two balls.”

The teams were dismissed before you could reply. Just a second longer and this would’ve been more flammable evidence to turn to ashes in the dirt. But Renato pulled his hand away and strode across the field. You did the same since the seats encircling the stadium were still full of people slowly finding their way out.

In an attempt to find a resolution to your conflict, you circled the stadium and to the opposing team’s locker room. Inside, the walls were lined with green lockers and sea-blue tiles mixed with the occasional white accents. The showers and bathroom stalls were colored in the same way. Because they were the ‘away’ team, they got the color scheme opposite to your team’s pink jerseys.

His earthy tones of brown hair and tanned upper chest stuck out like a sore thumb as you searched for him in each locker dwelling. They were all squarely U-shaped and very much empty, except for one. Renato was facing away from you, digging around in the locker where he temporarily stored all of his little things. As he shifted around in the same spot, your eyes wandered down to the bench. Neatly folded clothes rested on the polished plank of wood. A possibly lucky, beaded necklace dangled from his balled fist as he shoved it into his duffle bag. When he bent over to stuff it in, you noticed that he was only in his underwear, not just shirtless.

“Hey, listen.” He was still turned away, “You weren’t the one starting all those rumors, right? Of us?”

He turned around, shutting the locker. His hands clasped the clothes and he stood erect while facing you head-on. “I have to hit the showers, care to join?”

The perfect thing to clear the air was to steam it up. With grace and without the slightest falter, his thumbs hooked into his underwear and he pushed them down over his cheeks, then they shifted to the front and he did the same. It was done all in one swift motion, lifting a leg from each cuff and stepping out of his underwear without breaking his pace toward the box-room showers. He stayed in front of you, keeping silent. The only sound he made was the soft puttering of his footsteps against the ceramic tile, a reminder of how he could do something so effortlessly and unintentionally human. Your eyes had their instinct to wander to places they had never seen and glance over his ass and thick thighs while they weren’t wrapped in colorful polyester. They were almost so thick, it made seeing his swinging dick impossible to see as if you were peering through the slit of a doorframe where light shone through. You can tell there’s something there, but it’s indiscernible without being on the other side.

His hips sway like it’s an intentional beckoning. It’s one that you’re already wordlessly following, but he reinstates it every time his legs strut. Still uncontrollable, still real. Still a dick.

He stopped and turned before passing through the hole in the wall carved out to enter the showers. You saw his thighs halt and twirl, and you stopped just short of bumping into him, “Are you coming in? You should, you look like a muddied dog in an all-white house.”

“What?”

“You reek of losing.” He tried to sound clearer, unsure if he had accidentally used a mix of his native language and English in his invitation.

You looked down, everything down to your cleats were still on and clinging to you from working up a sweat. Footprints of your odd pathing, of following Renato around like a puppy dog, were tracked around on the tile. “Oh, yeah.”

Stripped of your outward identity, your team, and the morals associated with it, you joined him right as the water had gotten nice and warm. Renato’s skin was bolstered by sweat along his neck and face, since he was careful—and inane in reiteration—to keep his hair dry, but glistened all the same when his chest was under the shower head’s stream. The water trickled down his body, over every curve and ridge. It was a regular sight for his teammates, who were used to the full sight of a meal with steaming freshness, but this made you crave him and his taste. You joined him under his shower head, not even bothering to start up a second one.

Some of it flowed down his abs like a stream with rocks breaking the current and only then did it fall toward the drain once they ventured down his long peninsula. He molded the earth in his hands, the precipitating water, the salt of the sweat, and the warmth of his core. All of it, all under his control, while you could barely keep him out of your thoughts and a hand out of your pants for him.

He seemed to know everything—have everything. “I think you play the wrong sport. You’d be better at pitching over anything else.”

“Yeah? How are you so good at everything you do?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘good.’ And not at everything.”

“And what would you call it?”

“I don’t know, but… I want to know,” he paused. “What word makes you bark… without biting?”

“Are you asking me to shut up?”

He took a step closer, cocking his head. The curls in his hair moved with him, slightly falling in his face. “Do I need to tell you?”

“No,” you gave in to him almost immediately.

His eyes flicked down to the wet tile then back up to you. You tried to read his expression, study his perfect face and all the things he refrained from saying. But there was nothing, it was no use. He still looked stunning under the flow of steaming water and all of your jealousy surfaced from the clear pores he had. Renato’s perfect skin wasn’t secluded to his face, it spanned his whole body. You got to see it up close when you did as his eyes directed, kneeling before him and feeling the water fall off his body and hit you, none of it coming directly from the head of the shower. He controlled the flow.

All he had to do was mutter the words, ‘Help me unwind,’ and you were��he was—letting your hands scale his upper thighs like it was the climb up a peaking mountain. Near the peak, the air was thinning. The only thing filling each breath was steam and him.

His cock dangled down, falling somewhere between the middle of his thighs and his knees. It moved when your fingers encircled the base and that’s when you knew that even his big size could get much bigger. How did you never see this thing packed away in his shorts? The better question was: how did he jump to catch balls in the air with all of this extra weight?

There was a small moment where you cupped all of him in your hands, enjoying it as what it was and not what it needed to be. Still, he managed to fair better to the touch than you ever could. Receptive and cool to the touch in a room full of steam he remains. He was at his hardest, but not at his neediest.

But your mouth felt empty at the sight of this, knowing that it could stretch and fill you any way it’s taken. You let one hand drop and the other wrap around his shaft to point his cock at you directly. Inching closer to it, his bare palm lightly smacked the side of your face, shunning you away. He chides with it, “Ah-ah.”

It’s wordless, but his actions suggest that he wants his goods handled carefully. Not by some second-place goalie who can’t catch a big soccer ball, let alone handle him.

"Você não tem que me chupar, eu tenho que comer sua linda boquinha,” he explained, but you struggled to understand a lick of it. Good thing your tongue wouldn’t be used much to speak. “You look stupid, pretty boy. I’ll show you, ninfeta.”

A hand of his runs through your soaking hair and the other held onto his cock. Quickly, and without warning, he jabbed it against your lips. The soft head speared its way in for entrance. His hips rocked back and forth until you got the obvious sign to let him through and into his own pocket of pleasure.

With his feet firmly planted on the tiled floor, he loomed with stability. He was able to bring you off your knees and down to the base of his cock in one slow pull. He reeled you off of him smoothly only to ram it all back in with the force of his weight. His core flexed and tightened, thighs stuttering from the soreness of the match and the fact that he was on his feet at the moment.

The feeling of your tongue on the underside of his sensitive cock and how your throat fought his presence with each deep thrust into you, the hand in your hair tightening each time, sent his eyes rolling back. So far so, he could have rolled back and slipped on the feeling of euphoria.

You were sure your nose was red from how many times his pubic bone and clean-shaven pubes brushed against it, lightly scratching it every time he smushed the two together. The two collisions—your nose to his pubes and his dick stretching your throat—felt like he was trying to fit a square block in a circular hole. One would be made to fit, and he had already shown which.

Carnally, he thrust with the force of an animal getting its fix. His legs grew less tense by the minute, all moving to the pit of his stomach. Water ran over his dick, spilling into your mouth as his thumbs curled into your lips to stretch them wide. Plap, plap, plap… the noises echoed off the wall. A mix of water and spit spilled over your chin, the amount of it being saliva was unknown to you, but it was obviously a lot since you could feel him pulling more out each time he backed himself up only to slam it all back in.

“Puta vadia,” he whined, leaning his head back, and in short, jagged swings of his hips, he stutters you along his cock. Quickly, glug, glug, glugs flew out.

You hardly even noticed that he had come in those final thrusts until he slowed and stopped. His thumbs unhooked themselves, but as your lips formed a ring around him again, you could feel him twitching and pulsing over your tongue. The water going into your mouth slowed and was back to flowing over your face and body, but his release still dribbled out. It felt like a spoonful of honey pouring down the back of your throat, slowly.

After a moment of heavy breathing and recuperating himself, Renato found himself placing his hands in your hair again, reeling you back until your mouth was empty. He let go of his hold and offered out the same hand to you, “You… make me bad at controlling myself, gostoso.”

You took it and stood up, rebalancing yourself on the wet tile with the help of his shoulders. Once you were steady, you didn’t bother to move them, keeping them slung over him. You wanted to ask him a question, debating whether or not to use your abused throat. “Does that Deep Heat stuff work on your jaw?”

#renato lyra #renato lyra x reader #renato lyra x male reader #fanfic #x male reader #x reader #dbd x reader #dbd x you #dbd x małe reader #dead by daylight au #dead by daylight x you #dead by daylight x male reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight #game x reader #renato lyra x you #x y/n #x you

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glimmerglanger · 2 years

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It's so hot here and you know what that means. Oh yes. That's right. Swim instructor codywan au.

Wherein Cody knows that Jango is, once again, parentifying him by dropping taking care of Boba's and Omega's swim lessons in his lap. He knows he should care, but, as soon as they walk into the pool for the first lesson - on opening weekend! - he doesn't.

Because that's when he sees their swim teacher. He was picturing, for some reason, some granny type with purple hair and a deep tan. But no.

No.

Obi-Wan, as he introduces himself, is one of the lifeguards and he's about Cody's age and his shoulders are unfairly broad and there's some reddish hair on his stomach and he must go through a HELL of a lot of sunscreen, that pale and working as a LIFEGUARD and also Cody is in love with him.

So much so that, after the lessons, when the kids drag Obi-Wan over to talk and he says how well they did and the Cody must be very proud and other things in his delightful accent, Cody says he's really impressed because he never learned to swim as well as he'd like.

HE NEVER LEARNED. TO SWIM. AS WELL AS HE'D LIKE.

(Technically, he reassures himself, thinking about the awards he won for the under 18 triathalon back home, before they moved across country, this is not a lie. He'd wanted to be Olympic level and he never got there. )

From another point of view, it is DEFINITELY a lie. One that makes Obi-Wan look at him and make a sweet, understanding face, and say he helps adult swimmers, too! (Cody glows a little more at that. He's not quite graduated but he's felt like an adult since his mom died.)

He waits for either Boba or Meg to call him on it as he sets up a time to come "improve his stroke" (God, he's going to be working on his stroke AS SOON AS HE GETS HOME) but they don't. Just watching him.

He distrusts this display of familial solidarity, its not how things work in the Fett house, and with good reason. He realizes as soon as they go properly to the pool, and everyone else goes to dive in the deep end, right in front of one Obi-Wan Kenobi, that he has screwed himself.

Because Obi-Wan thinks he can't swim. And Obi-Wan is at the pool *all the time*. And when he isn't, Cody still can't risk it, because what if one of the other lifeguards *tell him*.

Boba and Meg are laughing at him. Every time.

Still, going to the pool is not without benefits. Obi-Wan is always around, giving Cody plenty of time to admire his....back and to wish his bright red shorts would slip just a little lower.

Once, Cody happens to be sitting in the perfect position as Obi-Wan climbs out of the pool after doing laps, the water PLASTERING his shorts to his body, and it would be bad enough that Cody goes "Nghh" at the sight, except some blond girl his age who he's never met before goes "Cheers to that, my man, best part of summer," and Cody wants to DIE.

(This is BEFORE he "improves" enough to get involved in a game of chicken while Obi-Wan is off duty and, for the first time in his life, gets to be the partner sitting ON the other person's shoulders. He once again nearly perishes!)

#Codywan #Pool au #Idk im not going anywhere with this #The idea just makes me giggle

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kumeko · 2 months

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A/N: For the Unbounded zine! I’m glad I don’t have to choose between “UST with ex” and “angsty bf” and can just have both.

…

Megaera couldn’t stop Zagreus.

Not that it stopped her from trying. As he stepped into her arena once more, bruised and bloodied from his relentless journey through the underworld, she gripped her whip tightly and stepped into the center of the room. Despite herself, she had to admit there was something appealing about his bedraggled state, his torn clothes revealing just enough skin to entice.

“Zagreus,” she greeted firmly, pushing her feelings aside. Megaera was a professional in all the ways that mattered. There was a reason Lord Hades entrusted her with this position.

“Oh, it’s you again.” Oblivious, Zagreus waved tiredly. His tunic shifted, revealing tanned skin and lean muscles, old scars and bloody bruises. The fight to her stadium must have been brutal, he looked more exhausted than normal. “Hiya, Meg.”

She should reprimand him for the nickname. It was utterly improper at work. Yet, pity or something like it stayed her tongue. Instead, she merely raised a brow and gestured at him. “Were the monsters that strong or are you just that weak?”

“Ouch. I see you haven’t lost your thorns.” Zagreus sighed, rolling back his shoulders. A particularly tantalizing string of bruises on his collarbone disappeared under his tunic as he stretched. It reminded her of another, steamier night when her teeth had left her mark. “Have you considered how tiring it is to get here?”

“You weren’t this beat-up last time.” Immediately, she clamped her jaw shut. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. Though it was true. It had only been weeks since he’d first made it to her post, but he had improved steadily throughout that time. Last time, he had barely a scratch when he’d knocked on her door.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll think you care.” Zagreus chuckled as he leaned against a pillar on the right side of the room. His legs wobbled and he slid down. “Say, Meg, can I have a moment to catch my breath? You wouldn’t want to beat a tired man, right? I doubt it’ll be any fun.”

She shouldn’t agree. Megaera took care of her work properly, keeping work and personal matters separate. Unlike her sisters, she always knew exactly where she was, who she was facing, and what she had to do.

“It wouldn’t be sporting. New weapon?” she asked, quietly sitting down next to him. Their shoulders bumped but she didn’t pull away. Maybe she was getting soft and sentimental with age. She’d have to beat it out later.

He closed his eyes, too tired to be surprised. It wouldn’t take much to send him back to the House of Hades, even a gentle tap would be enough. “Mmm. I can’t quite get the hang of it.”

“That’s surprising. Your only good trait is how fast you learn.” Megaera watched him from the corner of her eyes. She had known this profile for eons. One of these days, he’d actually make it to the top, and then what? Would he return? Would Lord Hades allow him to?

One of these days, he’d breeze through everything and the spot next to her would be empty.

“All thorns today, huh?” Zagreus chuckled. His shoulders relaxed and he was utterly unguarded. He shouldn’t trust her so much. “Did something happen?”

You. But that wasn’t a professional answer and this wasn’t a personal space. Megaera had never been one to talk about her feelings either way. She only knew how to dodge and pivot around such questions. “What’ll you do after you find your mother?”

“That…” Zagreus opened his eyes now, his voice faltering. He bit his lip as he considered her words. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. I mean, I can’t even make it past my father yet.”

“Lord Hades is very strong,” Megaera agreed. There was a reason he was the ruler down here, a reason why the gods on Olympus didn’t dare even cross the threshold into this domain. Yet, even then, she was certain that Zagreus would beat him. Even if it was just once.

“Annoyingly so. I think he just likes beating me up.” Zagreus huffed, irritated. He crossed his arms and scowled like a petulant child. “He almost smiled last time.”

“Smiled?” Megaera couldn’t imagine it. Maybe back when Persephone had resided down here, though her memories of that time had faded long ago.

“I know.” Zagreus sighed and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up further. “Well, I’ve kept you waiting long enough, haven’t I?” He glanced at her, eyes crinkling slightly. “I don’t suppose you’d go easy on me, just this once?”

“Never,” she replied immediately.

“No hesitation. Thought so.” Zagreus laughed, though he didn’t sound put out. Slowly, he rose to his feet. “Then the hard way it is.”

It was impetuous. Megaera was many things, but she would never have called herself impulsive. Yet, before she could think about it, she abruptly grabbed his hand and yanked him back to the ground. His back hit the dirt and his head narrowly missed the pillar. There was probably a new bruise on him, one that would fade again once he died and returned to the house.

Zagreus groaned, rubbing his head. “What’s with the cheapshot?” he complained, wincing. When she didn’t answer, he turned his head and studied her. “Meg?”

Her nickname. One day, he’d disappear though those doors and she wouldn’t hear it again. One of these days, he might just not return.

Megaera was not a sentimental fool—that was Thanatos’s job—but she climbed on top of Zagreus, her fingers already shoving his tunic away. Not that there was much to move at this point, his clothing was like scraps barely held together. When he opened his mouth, she glared and barked, “Don’t ask.”

“Don’t ask—” Zagreus flinched as her cold fingers brushed his collarbone, as she slowly lowered her head, her long hair draping over his chest. Her breath warmed his skin and he shuddered. “Wait, what—here?”

“I said don’t.” For once, she wished he was like he used to be, back when he had been an idiotic, callous godling who’d just shut up when she told him to. She wouldn’t have missed that Zagreus. She kissed his neck, her teeth grazing his skin.

Mine, she didn’t say.

Stop, she didn’t beg.

The hickey was dark. If by the time he found his mother, if he was still searching for a reason to come back, she hoped he’d see it and remember just who was left behind.

-x-

Thanatos couldn’t make Zagreus stay.

He wasn’t enough. He had never been enough. Thanatos had known this for centuries now. They had been brothers once, were lovers now, and yet none of these bonds were strong enough to convince Zagreus to stay. None of these bonds were better than that with a mother Zagreus had never met.

Instead, here he was in Elysium once more, making his way to the surface as relentlessly as Zeus or Apollo chased women. For once, Zagreus looked in good shape, with minimal injuries. The monsters weren’t doing their jobs properly. Maybe this time he’d finally make it to the surface.

A dull ache spread at the thought, but Thanatos was used to that feeling. He glanced around the open area. For once, paradise was empty, filled only with shallow pools of healing water and benches to rest on. Nothing that required Thanatos’s special skills, nothing that he had to help with.

He should leave.

“Than!” Zagreus called out, his voice anchoring Thanatos as firmly as a hand. “Fancy bumping into you here.”

It irritated him just how much of a hold Zagreus had on him. Even the godling’s voice was like a chain, keeping Thanatos tethered. Megaera had always been better at keeping a distance. With a sigh, he turned around and faced his partner. “Zag.”

Zagreus wiped the sweat from his brow. He smirked cockily, his arrogance always appearing in the worst ways. It was unfortunately extremely appealing. “Came to help again?”

Part of him wanted to shatter the sheer confidence that lay in that question, in the way that Zagreus smiled at him, in the way his lover’s hands were already brushing his skin. But he was weak, he had always been weak to Zagreus, and the best he could muster was a cold, “Obviously not.”

Not buying it, Zagreus laughed and patted him on the back. “Sure, whatever you say mate. Still, I suppose we got lucky this time. There’s nothing here.”

“With how you’ve handled your weapons lately, I suppose you’ll need the break,” Thanatos scoffed, though he didn’t shrug away Zagreus’s hand. It burned him as deeply as a brand.

“First Meg, now you,” Zagreus grumbled, crossing his arms as he glared at Thanatos. His expression was more playful than frustrated. “Admit it, you both just like talking down to me.”

“Talking down?” Thanatos rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stop himself from continuing their little charade. “We are merely pointing out reality.”

“Right. Sure. I’m the one who has to fight my way up, unlike you two. And I’m barely even injured this time.” Zagreus gestured at his body, as thought that proved anything. Thanatos knew of the healing aid Zagreus received during his journey.

“Then I won’t have to carry your body down?” Thanatos asked lightly, faking nonchalance.

“It’s not like I plan to die.” Zagreus snorted. He bumped his shoulder against Thanatos’s and smirked. “Better you than Charon, though. His grip is always so cold.”

He wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or annoyed. “I could do without the extra work.”

“Again, it’s not like I want to die.” Zagreus sighed. Scratching his head, he scanned their surroundings. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about that happening here. It’s been a while since I found a healing fountain.” He smirked. “Since there’s nothing to fight—”

Thanatos could read between the lines. He pulled his hood over his head. “I’ll leave.”

“What?” Zagreus lunged for his hand, stopping him in his tracks. Panicked, he blurted, “That’s not what I meant. I just thought we could take a breather here. Together.”

An odd, ticklish feeling coiled in his chest. Thanatos looked away. “Some of us have jobs, Zag.”

“You can still take a break. Charon can handle the load, and so can Her—” Zagreus paled and cut himself off. Scratching his cheek, he weakly chuckled. “I mean, you have Charon. You can take shifts or something.”

Thanatos studied him. That was definitely not what he was about to say. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to push it. They had enough falling apart between them without exposing yet another secret. “We don’t have the exact same job.”

“Close enough.” Tugging his hand lightly, Zagreus guided him to a bench. “Come on. Just a few minutes.”

He should say no. As it was, he was backlogged, the expanding mortal world filled with more and more lost souls he had to ferry to Hades’ domain. Yet Zagreus’s hand was warm in his, his grip firm, his eyes beguiling.

Despite himself, he let his lover pull him onto the seat.

Despite himself, he stayed, their hands clasped, their feet skimming the fountain water. The cuts on Zagreus healed and his bruises faded. Thanatos smiled softly. That was better—he hated finding Zagreus injured.

Forcing a neutral expression, he gestured at Zagreus’s singed tunic. It was easy to tell what he’d gone through just by the burns and cuts in his clothing. “Lava again?”

“Asphodel is hot,” Zagreus defended himself. His shoulders hunched as he sulked. He trailed a toe through the water. “Sometimes it splashes. There should be guardrails down there.”

“Not everyone is as clumsy as you,” Thanatos chided, allowing himself to relax just a little. There was no one to witness this. There was nothing to fight. It had been too long since it had been just the two of them. He smirked, feeling slightly playful. “I’ve never had to pull anyone out of lava before.”

“That was one time and that was an accident.” Zagreus’s shoulder bump was less affectionate this time.

“That’s still one more time than anyone else.” Thanatos shook his head. “How’s the Hydra?”

Zagreus grimaced. “The usual. It’s not that bad, though the heads are a little too much. Still, I’d rather fight a dozen Hydras than have to deal with Theseus again. He’s so smug. And annoying. A smug and annoying bastard.”

Thanatos couldn’t resist the easy jab. “I could say that about someone else.”

Idly, Zagreus played with Thanatos’s hand. His fingers traced nonsensical patterns on his palm. “I’m not that bad. There are levels. He breaks the scale.”

“No…I suppose you are better than him.” They were falling into old patterns, old banter. It felt familiar. It felt safe. It felt like they were back in Nyx’s quarters, curled up together in bed. Thanatos had always felt most comfortable next to Zagreus, and however much their relationship had changed, that hadn’t.

“Oh, a rare compliment.” Zagreus’s touch grew more sensual and he smirked as Thanatos shuddered. He leaned closer, their eyes meeting. “And look, it didn’t kill you to give it.”

Thanatos couldn’t look away. “It could have killed you to get it.”

“Mmm, well, then you would just have to carry me home.” Zagreus merely leaned even closer, his breath ghosting Thanatos’s lips. His other hand cupped Thanatos’ cheek. “I was just thinking I wanted more alone time with you.”

Liar. If he really wanted that, he’d just stay put.

If he really felt that, he wouldn’t try to leave.

But Thanatos didn’t argue, didn’t do anything but close his eyes. Trapped in Zagreus’s embrace, he could only lean into his lover’s hand as they kissed. He couldn’t make Zagreus stay and he couldn’t leave with him. Wanting anything more than this moment was greedy, and that desire would only lead to heartbreak in the future.

In this moment, in this present, there was only this kiss, this touch, and Thanatos didn’t have the strength to leave.

-x-

Zagreus was afraid he would never want to leave.

It was easy to say otherwise. Especially in front of his father, with his deriding taunts and angry threats. Especially in front of Nyx, with her gentle guidance and constant worry. Whether it was hate or love, Zagreus knew how to put on a brave front. There was no reason to turn back.

It was much harder to say that lying in bed, entangled in Megaera and Thanatos. They surrounded him, their warmth enveloping him as they slept. There was an arm on his waist, another around his shoulders, and their legs were tangled like the Gordian knot. Someone’s breath tickled his shoulder. Hair brushed his ear. His hand was on something soft.

Like a butterfly under the glass, his lovers pinned him in place.

For all that he rebelled against his father, Zagreus didn’t mind the Underworld. He even liked it.

Which was a problem. Cocooned between his lovers’ bodies, Zagreus didn’t want to get off the bed. He didn’t want to go to the surface, he didn’t want to find his mother, he didn’t really want to do anything but lie here while Thanatos and Megaera clung to him. And for the two most standoffish people he’d ever met, they’d been clinging to him more and more these days, in the oddest of ways. Their kisses tasted of desperation, their voices trembled with untold regret, and an unknown fear burned bright in their eyes.

No, not unknown. He had the same fear when he looked in the mirror. Perhaps that was the worst part—there was nothing he could do or say to ease their worries. He couldn’t promise he’d return, he couldn’t swear to stop, and those were the only things that would reassure the pair.

Everything had changed the moment he learned the truth. And everything would change again when he found his mother. For better, for worse, only the Fates knew, but change it would. Even their feelings could change, though he didn’t like to think of that.

Zagreus huffed, blowing a stray bang away from his eyes. Megaera stirred slightly—she’d always been a light sleeper—before nestling into his arms once more. Thanatos snored softly, his expression entirely unguarded for once. For a moment, everything was peaceful.

He tightened his grip on them, burrowing deeper into their embrace. For a moment, he would pretend that it was before, that Nyx was still his mother, that he didn’t have a purpose, that he was just the clumsy son who couldn’t handle his father’s affairs.

That he didn’t have a reason to leave, and two more to stay.

Just for tonight, he would pretend that he only belonged here, to them.

#thanmegzag #hades game #zagreus #megaera #thanatos #hades #fanfic #five billion years late to the fandom with a starbucks

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keltonwrites · 8 months

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dog days of summer

This is edition 101 of Shangrilogs.

God September is a romance, huh? Will they, won’t they, the crisp breeze swinging into the party, only there long enough to lock eyes and leave. Just another night of humidity without reprieve. You’re in the unrelenting sun when it creeps up your spine like cool breath. “Fall is coming,” everyone says, blessed with the premonition of a cold morning. “I can feel it.”

It’s such a relief when summer caves in on itself, when the expectations lower and the season of routine sets in. The season of When Harry Met Sally and Practical Magic, of notebooks and soup. Maybe it’s the old memories of it, of losing summer to the coming chill. No longer did you have to judge whether or not you were adequately tan or adequately fun. All the lives you weaseled in and out of burrowed back into the ground, another season’s ghosts. And in their absence, this uncanny version of yourself, same as ever but with so much potential — so much potential in fact it made me throw up every first morning of the new school year. Absolutely gagged with options.

Now, fall means I can sleep. The sun angle changes, slinking away from my bedroom to peer into someone else’s window. The air cools and the logs shrink, letting the tendrils of night reach into the gaps of my bedspread, searching for bare ankles to twist around and beckon to the floor.

But not yet.

September is merely the promise of fall. You can put on your sharpest sweater, play only Bon Iver and Joni Mitchell, and summer will still rule the party in a slip dress and an aperol spritz. Save your Meg Ryan and Manhattans for October. How can one even stomach pumpkin on a seventy degree day? If only to be dragged by the senses one month forward and countless years back to color-coded folders and the clank of lockers and corn stalks tied with twine to the porch.

The sun is setting at dinner time, though, shutting the blinds on a full stomach. At least she gets it. No more 9pms on the asphalt, still warm under foot. She’s as eager for fall as we are — she’s got to bring spring somewhere else. Her absence makes space for brooding. The longer nights lead to longer longings. Summer loses her grip when the stars come out. She might have the blistering of the high sun, but the green of the leaves has lost its luster and fall sneaks in at night. You can stand in the creeping wind of the evening and wrap your arms a little tighter, shove your pockets a little deeper, and breathe. Summer’s not watching at night. You can embrace fall like a lover.

The embrace is brief, though. Too risky to let it linger. You would find a way to leave summer behind, but she always leaves first. She packs her bags while you’re eyeing a farmstand of peaches and tomatoes. She gives it her all, sweat shimmering on her collarbone, but the party always turns on her — she’s never the It Girl for long. Every conversation diverts from backyard BBQs to back to school, sunscreen to sweatshirts, and she’s left standing there with an emptying glass while the menu changes behind her back. She’s meaner now, hot headed and cruel. Too many years of people buying too many things in an effort to drown her out. They love her, they adore her, they forget her. Fall never overstays their welcome, they don't know how. They take their cues from the leaves, gone before you had a chance to say how you felt.

But not yet.

For now, fall’s lovers simply practice their speeches in the mirror, shoulders still bare, summer just out of ear shot. “I’ve been thinking about you,” they would say. Something where the heft is in the hands of the receiver, where they can always back down with, “as a friend, of course.” But fall knows.

The hot drink on a hot day, sweater tied around the waist, a sudden interest in the occult. A crush on fall is obvious if you’re looking. And who hasn’t dreamed of what they can’t have. Summer has an ever dripping affair so long as you’ll land between her latitudes. And those who find themselves cunning enough to play winter’s games can spend all year in her bed. But fall never stays, you would merely chase them around the world, just another leaf on the wind.

Their cool hands will graze your skin, wrapping you in blankets, lighting candles of sandalwood and musk, and they’ll curl up next to you to watch as the leaves begin to blush, embarrassed they were ever so green, and they’ll press a hand to your cheek as they do every year, if only to remind you that however brief, the romance was real.

But not yet.

“There are some things though I know for certain: always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder, keep rosemary by your garden gate, plant lavender for luck, and fall in love whenever you can.” - Practical Magic

Subscribe to Shangrilogs for more essays like this.

#autumn #fall vibes #falling in love #sweater season

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operafantomet · 1 year

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Hi Anéa, I hope you're well! I've been taking a look at Meg's final lair outfit as an easier way to get into Broadway costuming. Are there any specific patterns/fabrics you recommend for the vest? It looks like the breeches are corduroy fabric, and I planned to hunt for a close enough dress shirt to modify lol. Thank you so much for your time and being such an incredible resource all these years 💖💖

First of all, thank you so much for your very kind words. I have gotten some amazinly kind messages around the Broadway closing, I feel like the POTO grandma (in a good way).

As for Meg's Final Lair costume, I am tempted to show you the variety in vest patters and fabrics, so you can choose your preferred style. Note too that the pattern of the shirt + eventual contrasting details in the collar tends to vary quite a bit. So Meg's Final Lair costume is basically choosing a red/brown/greyish/black palette, with a playful combination of patterns. Textures seems to be the goal, to work in the fairly dim scene. And interestingly, most costumes seen on stage to an opposite colour combo than seen in Maria Bjørnson's design. She suggests a golden vest and red breeches, but it's more common to see golden, brown or grey/black breeches and reddish vest.

So OK, Janet Devenish in the original West End production 1986-1987. Alas a b/w photo, but comparing to smaller curtain call photos we are talking a reddish/golden vest, brownish velvet breeches and a fairly plain light blue shirt:

Her second costume in 1988 feature many of the same details, but the shirt now has cuff and collar, and the vest is darker with a rose pattern. At this point she had alo gone from a red wig to a blonde wig:

Broadway look, with red brocade vest, black trims, black breeches and a stripy tan shirt:

A rarer colour combo from Toronto, with greenish small-patterned vest with cream collar, orange/brown velvet breeches and a greyish checkered shirt:

Hillay Reiter could be seen wearing a big-patterned paisley red vest with black brocade collar and pockets, brown corduroy breeches and plain light blue shirt in the last World Tour. The vest was previously used in Brazil, Argentina and Mexico:

A vest pattern seen in many different productions (hereunder West End, Copenhagen, the World Tour and South Korea) is the burgundy one with vertical floral stripes. But the exact execution and combos varies. First photo shows Cho Ha Rin in the current South Korean production, where the vest has a stripy red/yellow collar in West End style, a remarkably patterned shirt, and dark brown velvet breeches.

A different take on the same vest pattern, but here with a collar made of the main fabric, and combined with a dotty cream shirt and brown corduroy breeches. This costume was worn by Amelia Palmiro in the last World Tour:

A general look in many European productions in recent years has been reddish paisley vests and velvet breeches. Here's Lindsey Wise in West End wearing a reddish paisley vest, brown velvet breeches and a stripy/floral tan shirt:

A last variation for now is Brianne Kelly Morgan's fairly brown costume in Las Vegas. She wore a brocaded brown/grey (?) vest, stripy brown/black velvet breeches and a plain light shirt:

This is not a complete lit of different vest patterns and their respective combos. But it gives a sense of a fair deal of liberty when you want to put together your own costume. Breeches are usually of velvet and dark, but can be black, grey, darker brown or more golden, and also both plain or corduroy/stripy. Vests are often of reddish brocades, but black, green and golden versions can also be seen. And the shirt comes in different light colours, with dots, stripes, a combination of patterns, or they are plain.

In addition to this meg usually wears thick knitted stockings, black lace books and a knitted cap to hide her hair when she first enters the lair. And of course massive harness underneath, but this is rarely if ever seen and also maybe not something you would have to reproduce for a cosplay, heh!

Best of luck with your costume adventures!

#meg mask #final lair #meg giry #maria bjørnson #phantom of the opera

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birdstooth · 9 months

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POTO DOODLES

APRIL - AUGUST 2023

AUGUST 2023

ASMR

Discord collab

Breakfast for the boys

César salad and Ayesha loaf

The little Vicomte that couldn’t

Ask next time…

You’ve got a friend in me 👯‍♂️

Doodleverse x muppetverse

Masquerade Meg

Live Ayesha reaction

Exit thru the gift shop

Club kid Raoul

Smug goat energy

What kind of sleeves are these

Caterik

Bebe Ayesha

😾😺😺😽

Cone of shame solidarity

Moodboard

Honourary doodle: Erik vs Adam

New meme format

JULY 2023

Nope

Troublesome Erik - colourized

Here I bring the finished score

Pizza Pocket: (2 endings)

Plummage Intensifies

Now Kiss

Movie Night

Peas affection

Hungry Opera Ghost

One ticket pls...

Hiding Spot

Other mask

Shoulder Demons

Conspiracy Christine

Bakery POV

It's YOU!!

César's Choice

Catgirl Christine

Magical Girl

Tondroom Extended Universe: Truth or Dare

JUNE 2023

Idiot Sandwich

Let him eat cake: pt 1, pt 2

Troublesome Erik

Bark bark bark

Tan lines

Biblically Accurate Angel

Realization

Gamer girl Carlotta

Mean Girls

Meddling Meg

Mastercard

Shoo, Phantom!

Quick Poll

Stranger than you dreamt it / I remember that differently

Me irl

1st Time - BLOOPER REEL

Unloved/Loved

Flower Crown

Carousel

Lonely Man Cuts Hem of his Cape

Slay by my side

Fidget Spinner

Don YAWN (honourary doodle lol)

POTO x Heathers

Call the waaaambulance

Daroga being a dad

Composer's assistant

MAY 2023

Box 5

Top notch security

J'accuse

Best of Toadlotta

Wrong documents

Misheard lyrics

Spiderman meme

It came with the lair...

Studies show

The real diva

Double Date

She's everything, he's just Raoul

Poof

Cause of death: Embarrassment

All of the above

Post Credits Scene

Cry Baby

Hostage POV

History Lesson

Overheard

The architects are talking

Destroy it!!

Practice Kissing Mannequin

The Siren

Sing Louder

Taller

Carlotta in her Marie Antoinette era

Carlotta Merch

Pay me what you owe me

APRIL 2023

Say anything

Meanwhile, underground...

dividers by @firefly-graphics

#poto #the phantom of the opera #poto doodles #comics and doodles #masterlist

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fuckedprophet-arch · 10 months

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tag 10 (or more) people your muse(s) want to get to know better.

favorite color(s): oh, oh listen if there is one thing about Dallas McMeen that there is to know it is that this man loves warm tones. I mean the whole spectrum of them appeal to him so deeply. Cool tones don't bother him and he does think most of them are nice, there is just something about crimson, blush, or peach that really scratches the back of his brain. He wears primarily black but he has more browns and tans and creams in his wardrobe that he lets on. He has so many band tees that are in reds and pinks and corals. song stuck in their head: thot shit by meg stallion (if modern), 9-5 dolly parton (main verse so 90-00s), bohemiem rhapsody (if fear street 78) last song they listened to: Duhast Rammstein 3 favorite foods: a classic bbq burger ( all beef patty, bacon, fried onion rings, swiss cheese, homemade bbq sauce, add lettuce and extra pickle ), spaghetti ( prefers angel hair pasta, homemade sauce that he makes, meatballs made with pork sausage mixed into the ground beef, fresh mozzarella he melts on top), a banana split ( two nearly green bananas, chocolate / strawberry / butter pecan ice cream, caramel sauce instead of chocolate, and whip cream outta a can). dream trip: Antarctica. Its a dream trip for a reason, but he so wants to visit the outposts that have been abandoned there. He's so intrigued by how mere cold over took man even in their structures they built to protect them. anything your muse want right now: he wants a rebound set of JRR Tolkien books that've been custom rebound and hand painted. He wants them.

tagged by: @fleuramor my HEART <3 tagging: @notladylikes, @elenaes, @medicnal, @medicbled, @freezeher, @americanedpsycho, @divineate, @deigrxtia, @shellcrack, @ripjulie, @r4chelamber, @cahroline AND YOU RANDOM CITIZEN

#//. about #//. headcanons #//. dash games

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clatterbane · 2 years

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"The BLÅHAJ Between Us" (with apologies to @dinosandcomics for the 'shop)

[with original comic link in comments there]

Who has been sneaking into our bedroom?! 😂 This is legit our bed for the past few months, since Mr. C adopted a Haj on one IKEA trip.

(He also dragged in that fugly tan bottom sheet at some point, but it works. I guess. 😒)

My side contains the giant shambles of a pillow nest. His snuggle buddy Meg(-alodon) lives on his side, though they keep coming over to visit. Usually trying to smother me in the middle of the night. 😅

Good thing we did make sure to have plenty of bed real estate, originally more with living animals in mind. But, it still feels nearly as crowded sometimes as with a decent-sized kicky dog in the middle. What can you do? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Looks like he's been basically using the Buggy Shark to help support his own wonky shoulders too. Lifestyles of the hypermobile and middle aged! 🙄 But, it is honestly kinda cute.

#i didn't bring any of the plushie family into the bed tbqh #but if it makes him happy #personal #silly #plushies #the plushie family #blåhaj

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toacollabevent · 2 years

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A Shopping Trip With The Sunflower Siblings

By @kit-kat-bard

Based on @txny-dragon’s sunflower Meg fanart! https://txny-draws.tumblr.com/post/685532332419072000/sunflower-meg-aesthetic-more-likely-then-you

“Meg, you need some more clothes.”

Meg looked up from the daffodil she had been tending with a scowl.

“Why?” she pouted, shoving her sliding glasses up the bridge of her nose while glaring at Apollo.

“Because you have been wearing that unicorn shirt for the past three weeks and this is getting ridiculous!” He said, draping himself dramatically over the mossy garden wall he was perched upon.

“I think it’s nice,” she humphed, fiddling with the compost smeared sequins.

“Meg, it looks like you lost a fight with an industrial-sized cheese grater, and after all, most normal people have more than one outfit.” Her glare darkened. “Alright, alright!” Apollo raised his hands placatingly, “At least think about it. Besides, you can still wear that shirt sometimes even when you have multiple outfits.”

Meg humphed but started to waver when Apollo turned his masterful puppy dog eyes on her.

“Idiot,” she smirked, but rose to her feet and brushed off her knees, though only succeeding in smearing the dirt more thoroughly into her jeans. “We can go but only if we stop at the burrito place for lunch.”

“Sue thing! Apollo beamed, popping up from the wall, the keys to his sports car appearing in his hand. “Come on! Shopping trips are fun!”

“This is not fun,” Meg groaned, flopping her head against the passenger window.

“I think it’s been great!” Apollo chirped, bobbing his head in time to the music blaring from the speakers. Meg glanced back at the overflowing pile of shopping bags in the back seat and groaned again.

“I’m not going to wear any of those!” she huffed. “Why not? I thought that magenta pantsuit looked lovely on you!”

The glare Meg sent his way would have wilted garlic, but Apollo didn’t notice.

“And I tried to pick some complementary colors so you can mix and match the different tops and leggings and things. I also got some hats to go with those, you spend so much time in your gardens that you’re going to get sunburned without them! Trust me, as god of the sun and medicine I know how much mortal skin needs protection. Tans might look nice but skin cancer is a real problem-”

“Apollo!” Meg had her face smashed up against the window, staring at a county fair set up in the adjoining field. “We need to go!”

“Well…” Apollo hesitated, finger drumming the steering wheel until Meg turned to him with a pleading expression.

“Pleeease?”

“Oh alright,” he conceded, flicking on the turn signal.

They spent the next half hour wandering between the stalls, Meg gazing in awe at the assorted fruits and vegetables and Apollo being dragged along, rolling his eyes but smiling at Meg’s excitement. Eventually they came to the end of a row that had been mostly made up of candle and soap peddlers when Meg stopped at the final stall. It was tended by a little silver-haired lady who looked up from her knitting to greet them.

“Hello there, would either of you like a sweater?”

“Why yes we would!” Apollo said, eyes gleaming at the opportunity to continue clothes shopping.

She gestured to the ones laid on the table in front of them.

“I have these designs here, and a few different sizes under here,” she motioned behind the draping tablecloth.

“These are beautiful!” Apollo exclaimed, running his fingers over one of the sweaters. “Would you like a checkered one, Meg?” She shook her head and started sifting through a pile on the corner, a look of over-shopped resignation on her face.

“Hmm,” the woman passed a scrutinizing eye over Meg. “With autumn about to begin and all, I’ve almost sold out of this sort, but I think I might have one left in just your size. Let me look,” she bent down behind the table and emerged with a yellow sweater in hand. “What do you think of that one?”

Meg took it, eyes brightening when she saw the sunflower pattern. She unfolded it, rubbing the fluffy weave between her fingers as she held it up to herself.

“It fits!” Apollo cheered. Meg rolled her eyes and the woman gave him an amused glance.

“Would you like one too? I have one more.”

“Oh yes please!” he gushed, and she ducked back down again.

“Copycat,” Meg smirked.

“We can be twins!” He grinned. “And these sweaters are so wonderful I might buy another… What do you think of this dog one?” He held up a fluffy pink sweater with the word “Pawsome!” knitted over a smiling puppy face in the center. Meg snorted. “I shall take that as a yes,” Apollo declared as the woman resurfaced with the second sunflower sweater. “All three of these please!” he said as he dug in his pocket for his wallet.

“See? I told you shopping trips were fun!” Apollo said as they pulled into the drive through of their favorite burrito place.

“Uh huh,” Meg said, side-eyeing him from the passenger seat.

“Even that fair was better than I thought it would be! I didn’t expect to find clothes there,” he glanced at Meg, who had already pulled her new sweater over her t-shirt. “I’m glad you like the sweater.”

“Yup. At least I got one new shirt.”

“What do you mean? What about all the others?” Apollo gestured to the massive pile of clothes.

“Nope.”

“What do you mean nope?” he cried, waving his hands around in exasperation.” I spent so much time picking the perfect color pallets and everything!”

“Are you going to order?” Meg asked. Apollo turned sheepishly to the concerned looking employee.

“Oh. Uh, two large burritos with extra hot sauce on one and guacamole on the other, and an orange fanta and an lemon ice tea for the drinks please.”

“Sure thing,” replied the teen and Apollo pulled forward in line.

“Well what are you going to do with all these extra unwanted clothes then?” he pouted.

“I dunno, maybe they’ll fit one of my siblings. Lucius is looking for a new style.”

“Well I hope that he’s at least grateful for them. Maybe one other person around here has a sense of fashion.” He grumbled as he took the paper bag full of burritos from the server at the window. “Do you want to eat these at the park?”

“Sure!”

And so the crazy day of shopping experiments ended. Matching sweaters were worn, the sunset was watched, burritos were munched, and hot sauce was spilled. All in all a good day and a satisfactory ending to such an adventure.

“Meg?!? All over my new sweater? Hot sauce stains never come out!”

“Don’t be dramatic, just…. Oops.”

“Argh! That is so much worse!!!”

#submission #toacollabevent2022 #trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #meg mccaffery #pjo apollo #kit-kat-bard #txny-dragon

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ao3feed-destiel-02 · 8 months

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be the one ill always know

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/1rjv3nG by peachyaslans A man emerges from a lake, naked and confused, with no recollection of who or where he is. The only things he has of his own, is an empty void in his chest and a memory of bright green eyes, the same shade as the Garden of Eden. Words: 5778, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Daphne Allen, Emmanuel (Supernatural), Meg | Demon Possessing Meg Masters, Sam Winchester Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Post-Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity (Supernatural), Coda, Amnesia, Mutual Pining, Dean Winchester Prays to Castiel, more like longs for him lmao, Castiel's Tan Trenchcoat as a symbol of love, Love Confessions, Getting Together read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/1rjv3nG

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #(your tags here)

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octoberobserver · 2 years

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There's Something About Eddie

(Read on ao3)

"Hey Rich, what time are we—holy shit.”

Richie Tozier slammed his laptop lid closed, bug-eyed, mouth hung open wide enough to catch flies.

“I wasn’t—it isn’t—it’s porn!”

“Really?” Eddie Kaspbrak asked with a wry smirk, arms folding across his chest as he shuffled further into the kitchen clad in his boxers and one of Richie’s sleep-shirts, “‘Cause it looked like Love, Actually.”

A flush spread from Richie’s chest up to dot along his cheeks as his eyes trailed slowly up Eddie's body, drinking him in.

“It’s...research.”

Eddie blinked.

“Research.”

Richie pushed himself away from the table and darted towards the coffee machine.

“Y-Yeah, y’know,” he cleared his throat, “it’s...it’s our first Valentine’s Day and—”

“Love, Actually is a Christmas movie though,” Eddie couldn’t help but interject, enjoying his boyfriend’s noticeable embarrassment way too much, “And kinda sad and depressing sometimes.”

Richie whirled around, his 'You’re a Dick, but you’re my Dick' mug in hand.

“Love, Actually taught me everything I ever needed to know about love, Eds. I mean,” he waved his free hand, “is it technically a Christmas movie? Sure. Does it have a creepy stalker storyline where Rick from The Walking Dead wants to bang his BFF’s way-younger wife? Definitely. But, god, when Emma Thompson opens that Joni Mitchell CD? That’s poetic cinema, Eds. ACTING!”

Eddie tilted his head.

"And what has that taught you exactly? That Joni Mitchell is the perfect gift when you wanna cheat? Should I expect a gift-wrapped copy of—”

Richie gave an indignant squawk, sloshing coffee all over the counter and his hand.

"Shit, shit, fuck," he grumbled, grabbing paper-towels and wincing over his shoulder.

"Absolutely not the point I was trying to make, Spagheds. Like I would ever cheat on your sexy, little ass after pining over it for thirty years.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, grabbing the surface-cleaner from under the sink and spraying it over the coffee stain.

"Damn straight."

Richie hip checks him.

"Nothing we do is straight, Kaspbrak."

Eddie tutted, taking the mug from Richie, putting it down on the counter and clasping his hands, leading him over to the sink.

"I can't believe Trashmouth Tozier is a closet rom-com fan."

Richie snorted, watching transfixed as water cascaded down their joined hands, his skin an angry red in contrast to Eddie's dusty tan.

"I was a closet lot-of-things, Eds. Can you blame me for loving a happy ending?"

Eddie turned his hands over, their fingers brushing under the water.

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you wanna make the obvious joke?"

"Solid 9.5."

Eddie shut off the water, grabbing the hand towel off the rack to dry his own hands, before flinging it at Richie's face.

"I've never liked rom-coms. They're unrealistic."

Richie pulled the towel off his head, snorting.

"You don't watch When Harry Met Sally for the realism, Eds. That's like watching Magic Mike for the intricate exploration of dance."

"So why watch it then?"

"Channing Tatum's abs."

"I meant When Harry Met Sally, dickwad."

"Billy Crystal's abs."

Eddie gave a pained chuckle, lightly shoving Richie.

Richie took that opportunity to grab his hand, pulling him gently against him, wrapping his arms around his waist as he stared down at him with a small, private smile.

"I used to watch rom-coms to remind me that love does exist. That...that anyone can find love. Even the quirky, career-woman that is on a first-name basis with her takeout place.”

‘And lonely comedians down on their luck’ went unsaid, but still heard by both men.

Eddie quirked an eyebrow.

“So basically Meg Ryan in everything.”

“Exactly.”

Richie leaned down as Eddie leaned up, nibbling on his bottom lip. The latter hummed into the kiss, running his hands up to rest on Richie’s shoulders, squeezing tightly, Eddie’s own ‘I’m allergic 2 mornings’ t-shirt (that Richie had snatched up off the floor where it had been discarded during some sleepy sex the night before) stretching under his fists.

“But now...” Richie breathed out as the kiss broke, his eyes still closed, “I watch rom-coms to remind myself just how much better I have it than Meg Ryan, Sandy Bullock or Katherine Heigl.”

Eddie swept his thumb across Richie’s face, pressing their foreheads together, before cupping Richie’s neck and pulling him back down.

They both stumbled against the kitchen counter as Eddie’s tongue traced Richie's bottom lip. The taller man groaned, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss, sliding his hands down Eddie’s bare thighs and hoisting him up to sit beside the sink.

“Un...sanitary,” Eddie gasped in weak protest before diving back in, still clutching the hairs at the nape of his neck tightly in his hand and wrenching him closer.

Richie slammed his palms onto the counter, either side of Eddie’s thighs as he broke the kiss, sucking and biting along his boyfriend’s throat.

“No hickeys, Rich,” Eddie warned before letting out a groan, tipping his head back to give him better access despite his words, “no way I’m letting...Stan point them out in front of everybody.”

Richie hummed, the vibration making Eddie shudder as he lapped along the skin that was marred by fresh goosebumps.

“Remind me again why we're...spending our first Valentine's Day as a couple with the Losers?”

Eddie’s head thumped back against the kitchen cabinet, his breath hitching as Richie’s teeth lightly scraped against his collarbone that was exposed from underneath the too-large shirt.

“B-Because five of seven of us are in town, as well as Don and Adrian, and that never happens,” he struggled to reply as Richie’s hand trailed just above the waistband of his boxers, his fingers brushing against the line of hair above his navel.

“Rich, we have to leave in like an hour,” he lightly scolded, mostly for show as he hooked his ankles around the back of his boyfriend’s thighs, pulling him even closer, winding his fingers around more of his hair and tugging.

Richie gasped.

“Q-Quickie it is, then,” he murmured against Eddie’s mouth, cupping him through the material.

“Fuck,” Eddie hissed, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach as Richie gave him a firm squeeze.

“Later, Spagheds, we have to leave in like an hour,” Richie parroted, sounding far too smug, “and I'll need a hell of a lot longer to take you apar—”

Eddie tugged him into a bruising kiss, cutting off his smarmy response.

“S-Shit, Eds,” Richie gasped, his glasses askew from Eddie’s ministrations, holding his arms up for him to pull off his T-shirt and fling it across the room. Before he could remark on the ‘mess’ Eddie was making, Richie moaned, loudly, as his boyfriend’s mouth latched onto his nipple, running his tongue along the risened nub.

“So what...would our rom-com be called then?” Eddie mumbled, lifting off one nipple to lavish attention on the other as Richie arched his back, “‘When Richie Met Eddie?’ ‘Richie Tozier’s Diary?’”

Richie snorted, “More like, ‘Eds and Richie Make A Porno.’ Or, ‘Forgetting and then Remembering Eddie Kaspbrak.’ Or, ‘The 41-Year-Old Vir—oh wait, no. That doesn’t apply anymore.”

Eddie bit a little harder than usual on Richie’s left nipple (knowing it to be the most sensitive), causing him to hiss in a mixture of both pleasure and pain, his preferred ‘sweet-spot.’

Eddie leaned back, catching his eye, “Ha, ha. Hilarious. I did sleep with other people before you, you know.”

A grand total of two. But that didn’t need mentioning.

Richie quirked an eyebrow, “Sure, Eds. But I mean, it’s not like your magic number will be rising any time soon, so it’s—”

“Until I get you a Joni Mitchell CD for Christmas, of course.”

Richie’s mouth dropped open.

“And Eddie gets off a good one! Ow! Right in the heart!”

He pressed a hand to his chest as if he had been shot.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but teasingly rubbed his thumb right over the nipple he had been just nibbling on, Richie jumping in response.

“Only we could joke about cheating in the middle of foolin’ around on what is supposed to be the most romantic day of the year,” he chuckled, leaning forward to pepper Richie’s jaw with kisses in silent apology.

Richie brushed the front of his boxers tantalizingly soft one last time before gripping his waist and lifting him off the counter, planting him firmly on the floor and pressing himself against him, eyes fond.

“We’re weirdos, Eddie. Losers. Always have been. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’re a sap.”

Richie pressed harder, their erections lining up, hard and hot through their clothes.

“Yeah. But you like me anyway.”

Eddie bit his lip, stifling a moan. Reaching out blindly, he rummaged in the drawer to his left before emerging victorious with a familiar little bottle.

Richie tilted his head, eyeing the travel-sized lube.

“What?” Eddie asked, eyebrows raised, “Kitchen sex has apparently become a thing, Tozier. Despite my many, many arguments about hygiene. So...I’m just coming prepared.”

“Hmm. And soon you’ll be just coming,” Richie winked.

A wrinkle formed in between Eddie’s eyebrows.

“Not a day goes by where I’m not amazed that you’re a professional comedian.”

Richie merely shrugged, snatching the bottle from him and squeezing a healthy amount into his palm, smirking, “I know, it’s baffling. And I’ll admit, I can’t argue with your logic, Eds.”

Without another word, he quickly tugged Eddie’s boxers down and wrapped his hand around his boyfriend’s dick, squeezing.

“F-Fuck, Rich,” Eddie gasped, his head falling forward, onto Richie’s shoulder.

“Again, maybe later, we’re on a time crunch here,” Richie grinned, brushing his thumb across the head, gathering the beads of precum already beginning to pool there.

“Nngh,” Eddie grumbled unintelligently, scrambling at Richie’s sweatpants, tugging at the drawstring.

“Off, off, want to...feel you.”

Richie, always so ready to give Eddie anything his heart desired, hurriedly helped him shove down the two layers of offending clothing, his hard cock soon freed to bob up towards his stomach.

Eddie, (who had used that time to slather his own hand in lube,) reached for it eagerly, closing his fingers around the base and edging it closer to Richie’s pumping fist.

“Together.”

Their eyes met, Richie rolling his lip between his teeth as he opened up his large palm, closing it over Eddie’s hand on his own cock. They both let out a groan as their skin slid together. They set a brutal pace, pumping their fists rhymically in between snatched, frantic kisses.

The countertop dug into Eddie’s back as Richie crowded him against it, licking into his mouth, his free hand clutching his hip tightly as nothing but the sound of slapping skin and their labored breaths filled the kitchen.

“Eds, Eds I...I’m gonna—” Richie croaked into the half-inch between their lips, as he felt his orgasm starting to build, bubbling hot in his abdomen.

“Me too,” Eddie gasped in reply, they both picking up speed and Richie adding in a slight twist to his wrist, just like they both liked that proved to be their undoing.

“Fuck!”

“Shit!”

They sagged back against the kitchen counter as they came within seconds of one another, their come mixing and painting their fingers in a way that had Eddie’s nose scrunching.

Richie blindingly reached out with his clean hand and nabbed the towel that he had thrown down, hastily wiping them off.

“Rich, not the hand towel, there’s wipes in the—Jesus!” Eddie scolded far too late as the slightly coarse material ran over his sensitive cock gently.

“It’s my turn to do laundry, Eddie, I got it.”

With that, Richie gave the towel a half-hearted throw towards the laundry room.

They both watched as it landed with a heavy splat on the tiled, kitchen floor.

Richie cringed, slowly turning back to look at Eddie who was gaping at him, eyes glinting.

“You’re absolutely disgusting, Trashmouth. I honestly cannot believe I love you, sometimes.”

“Trust me, Eds. I can’t believe it either,” he murmured, tone laced with raw honesty, taking it upon himself to pull Eddie’s boxers back up before fixing himself.

Eddie rolled his eyes, pecking his lips before plodding over and picking up the soiled towel between his thumb and index finger with disgust.

Richie watched him go, a familiar warmth flooding his chest.

“Hey, hey, Spagheds...I got it. I know what the title of our rom-com is,” he called after him.

“Please tell me it’s different to our sex tape,” Eddie’s voice wafted in from the laundry room, “‘cause I’m pretty sure ‘Eddie Got Fingered’ isn’t romantic, even if it is acc—”

“There’s Something About Eddie.”

A beat of silence followed his words.

Two beats.

Eddie’s head appeared from around the door.

“Really? The jizz in the hair movie?”

“Yep.”

Eddie frowned.

“And what is there about me, exactly?”

Richie smiled.

“Something. Everything. I've never quite figured out what and I like it that way. Love it, even."

Their eyes met.

“And I love you, Richie, even if you do throw jizz-covered towels all over the house,” Eddie replied quietly as he walked back into the room, blush flushing his cheeks, he still not quite used to saying the words out loud, even though he had expressed them in a myriad of different ways every single day for the last six months.

And twenty-nine years.

Richie grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently.

“I love you, Eddie Spaghetti. And you know what they say about true love—it lasts a lifetime.”

Eddie squinted up at him.

“Why do I have a feeling that’s a line from a movie?”

Richie winked.

“Gotta represent my girl Emma Thompson on Valentine’s Day, Eduardo.”

“It’s a fucking Christmas movie, Richard!”

(More Reddie fics here)

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #smut #it 2019 #it chapter 2 #my fanfiction #posting my reddie stuff here #hi lol

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