#god........... that show sure has a lot of fucking bones

[quadrantadvisor]

The Owl House takes place on a corpse. That's clear from the beginning. The people we meet, the fantastical things we see, every part of it is life that comes from death, and it's beautiful. Luz says that, the first time she's far enough away to see the bones. It's beautiful. The Titan was so full of life and magic that what he left behind could be passed on and made anew, and the people who sprung from that, who rely on it, understand that and are grateful. Everything they have is built on the bones of a god.

But what grows from the bones of children? Nothing. Nothing at all.

The Titan hunters killed children. They said they were monsters, but they were children. Children who played games and laughed and from their first conscious moments wanted to be loved and belong. And they hunted them to extinction, and kept their pristine skulls as trophies. An entire room full of them, of tiny skulls that could've become something wonderful and terrible and life-giving but never had the chance. They wear them, as a badge of honor. Look what I've done, look what I destroyed.

Philip Wittebane had been making grimwalkers for hundreds of years, sure, but even knowing that, there's so many of them. How many could've reached 20? There's piles of them, of bones and identical masks, scattered at the bottom of a pit, and god, were they dead, when he threw them down there? It's clear that he doesn't care, that the only thing that matters is disposing of them once they wear out their usefulness, moving on to the new model. Children tossed aside, left to rot and decay, and when we see them the bones are all clean.

#i just watched all 11 episodes of season 2B in one sitting and I'm #having some feelings #the owl house #toh #toh spoilers #just in case #this is why I don't watch shows lol like this shit gave me heart palpitations #how am i even going to survive season 3? the answer is i won't #anyways everytime philip fucking wittebane is on screen i am screaming and crying and throwing up #if i saw him in real life i would strangle him to death with my bare hands. it would be ON SIGHT #he's too real is the problem like the harm he's caused and the way that he talks and the way hunter reacts to him #he gives me the same sick feeling as real life self righteous liars #and you know that this is a person who will never change and never listen and never admit they were wrong #and that the harm they've done will never matter to them because to them they can deny anything and justify anything #ANYWAYS. #idk if anybody'll see this post but i needed to exorcise it from my brain #god........... that show sure has a lot of fucking bones #my rambles

[onlyhuis]

pro bono

member — lawyer!wonwoo x lawyer!reader genre — smut, fwb to ?? word count — 1.1k synopsis — you and your coworker jeon wonwoo have been working on this case for months. now that it's finally over, he shows you that "for the public good" doesn't mean that he can't be good for you, too. aka: lawyer wonwoo fucking coworker reader after winning a case smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, prone bone (the title is a pun hehe), creampie (shocker i know!), spanking, hair pulling, dacryphilia, mirror sex, coworkers fwb!wonu, gratuitous descriptions of how wide wonu's shoulders are just because i can notes — requested by @junhuisms sorry this took so long bff </3 — lots of love to @onlymingyus for proofreading !! — probably some legal inaccuracies bc i know nothing about the law i'm just here to fuck the hot man so go easy on me pls. i really meant for this to be a longer fic but it's been in my docs for almost a year and i've been trying to not pressure myself to write a certain amount so i hope this is still able to live up to your expectations :) i know i've been pretty mia recently but i'm trying to get back into the swing of things so feedback is super super appreciated! hope you enjoy! note #2 — tumbly still hates me and is super finnicky about putting my posts in the tags so i haven't been able to use my regular divider image bc it bugs out :(( i've tried everything i'm sorry but pls lmk how you like this new one!

you’d been working on this case for months, and it had been one to make or break your career. weeks upon weeks of research, reviewing documents and studying laws to make sure your arguments were seamless.

the upside to all this work, however, was that you got to know your coworker wonwoo better, who you’d been assigned to work on the case with. and by “get to know him,” what you really meant was “get railed every night after work”.

and tonight, after the trial had wrapped up and the court’s final decision had ruled in your favor, you found yourself where you’d grown accustomed to spending all your nights: in his penthouse apartment, and more specifically, in his bed.

the floor-length mirror in his room was one of your favorite things, because no matter what position you were in or how you were angled, you could always see wonwoo. see his broad shoulders, see his muscles flexing, see his abs tensing right before he cums; and god, it drives you crazy.

but it drives him even more crazy as he fucks you into his mattress, watching in the mirror’s reflection how your eyes are squeezed shut and tears stream down your cheeks onto his pillowcase. 

it’s one of his favorite positions, as you’ve learned over the past few months, to have you lying flat on your stomach as he fucks you from behind. with your body at this angle, he can get so much deeper into you, you can practically feel it in your stomach, and with only just a handful of thrusts he can make you fall apart on his cock in a matter of seconds. 

tonight, however, it’s taken less than that to make you cum. the pride of winning the case has him on a high, and he barely even needed to get you stretched out first. but he did anyway, his face buried between your thighs for what felt like eternity until you were pushing his head away and begging him to stop teasing.

you yelp as he twists his hand in your hair, yanking your neck back so you can see your reflection in the mirror.

your eyelids droop heavily, jaw hanging open as wonwoo meets your eyes in the mirror. “you see how well i fuck you, baby?” he groans, squeezing your hip with his other hand. “taking it so fucking well… i’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t i?”

all you can manage is a moan as tears begin to form in your eyes from the pleasure. you whimper quietly, noises muffled by the pillow as you struggle to catch your breath in between thrusts. you can already feel the burn of another orgasm in the pit of your stomach, and wonwoo’s hands pushing down on your lower back are making it impossible to hold back.

“my good girl,” he coos and he lets go of his hand in your hair, barely giving you a chance to catch yourself as your head falls forward and back down onto the pillow. “don’t hold back those pretty sounds. let everybody hear how you like to celebrate your wins. you deserve it, baby.”

“just as much a win for you— as it is for me,” you manage to gasp out. you struggle to keep your eyes open but you force yourself to, determined to see the way his face contorts in the mirror. his eyebrows furrow as he adjusts the angle of his hips, staring down at your ass, back arching into him and forcing his cock deeper with every stroke.

he leans down over you, caging your body with his own, his mouth brushing against the back of your neck. “we both know you did most of the work. and this… this is your reward.”

“wonwoo—” you moan out brokenly as his hands knead your ass roughly, grabbing at your skin and spreading you apart so he can push into you with more force. you clench around him and he curses, his hips starting to stutter.

without warning he pulls out, rolling you over onto your back. you whine at the sudden loss and at the ache in your muscles, but wonwoo just leans forward over your body to kiss you and suddenly you forget everything you were thinking about. you’re so caught up in his mouth on yours and his hands sliding over your body that you barely even notice when he pushes his cock back into you, never breaking away from your lips as he starts out a steady rhythm, gradually building back up to his pace from earlier.

finally he pulls away, sitting up to put his hands on the back of your thighs and push your legs up to your chest. your breath catches in your throat with each thrust, your mind reeling as you concentrate on the feeling of him so deep inside you, pressing against that sweet spot over and over again.

his broad chest is the only thing that fills your vision as you cum, and your brain barely registers the words that leave his mouth in that deep, gravelly voice you’ve become accustomed to hearing nearly every night. 

“taking every inch so fucking well,” he grunts, forehead glistening with sweat. “god, you look so good taking my cock.” his movements become more and more desperate as he starts to chase his high, his fingers digging into your skin so roughly to the point that you know you’ll find bruises there in the morning. 

still breathing heavily, you whine out his name one last time, sending him over the edge right behind you in a matter of seconds. he lets out a guttural groan, continuing to snap his hips frantically as your walls squeeze around his throbbing cock.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄

wonwoo chuckles, handing you your purse and helping you shrug your coat on as you attempt to wipe the smudged mascara from your cheeks with your thumbs.

“same time, monday night?” you ask as he walks you down the hall to the elevator, holding the doors open with one hand.

he nods, not even making an attempt to hide the grin on his face. “you keep winning cases like you did today, and you might as well just move in. save you the trouble of calling a taxi every night.”

you laugh, knowing he’s not serious but your heart races at the thought anyway. “you keep fucking me like that, and i might take you up on that offer.”

he hums and raises his eyebrows, but you can tell he’s pleased. “i knew having that mirror installed was a good investment.”

you might not be getting paid for taking on pro bono cases, but just knowing that you’re helping people makes up for it. and of course, the compensation you get from your coworker is more than enough to keep you coming back for more. 

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

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#1k #kvanity #kflixnet #k-labels #caratlibrary #[📌] — june.writes #wonwoo smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo scenarios #svt scenarios #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios

[meanbossart]

Oh boy, VaM is kind of a trial and error experience LOL I couldn't really show you how to use the interface and stuff without a whole video or something, but it's not THAT difficult to get a hang of if you just give yourself a day or two to play around, not to mention the number of tutorials you find out there. Luckily, if you only want to use it as a reference software that makes the process far easier (to this day I have no idea how to animate on that thing, since that's not what I use it for)

As for how I use it, it's pretty self explanatory - if there's a complicated pose I want to draw but I'm either having trouble with it, or just want to double-check angles/anatomy, I will use it as a resource! I use for most of my "proper" pieces (y'know, the nicer looking ones) and every once in a while for my silly comics if I'm having trouble with a pose.

Lets use this drawing for example (the character on top of DU drow belongs to @namespara )

I don't draw a lot of mud-wrestling (shocking, I know) but I had an idea of the kind of pose I wanted them to be in. So the very first thing I did was make a rough sketch of what I was envisioning:

I often do a rough sketch first, even If I know I'm going to be pulling the program up because A) It's less tedious than adjusting the models over and over again until I pick a pose and B) because sometimes I'll decide I don't need the reference, after all, and so that's 30 minutes I'll have spared myself of playing around on the software.

Now, this is a pretty complicated pose! It's in a weird angle and the bodies are making contact in ways I'm not used to depicting, so I did choose to whip out VaM for this one. I went into the program and after some messing around, I flopped my little dolls together like this:

Now something really cool about VaM is that you can completely customize your models, and if you have the patience, I would definitely encourage you to do so! Obviously, you don't have to make picture perfect replicas of every single character you have, but as you can see here I have made a DU drow "decoy" to help me better understand some of his features when I draw him: he has a strong brow, a short nose, a square jawline - these are all going to look a very specific way from certain angles, and I might not always be sure of how to draw it right! So it's useful to have models that bear SOME semblance to the character so you can better understand how different viewpoints will affect their bone structure and mass.

Also thank fucking god for the elf-ear slider. Figuring out how to draw those shits from certain angles was a huge pain in the ass when I started drawing DnD races.

So, with the reference in hand, I go over the sketch again:

Now you may notice that I don't stick to the reference 100%. There's three reasons for this:

posing on VaM is tedious as hell. You can get something incredibly natural looking and picture-perfect to reference from if you wish, but it's going to take you hours to do. So, for the most part I just slap guys together until the results are "close enough" and use that.

In my opinion, you should always aim to ENHANCE your reference material, not replicate it exactly!

While VaM is a PRETTY DANG GOOD source of anatomical reference, it isn't perfect, I often supplement it with further reference from real life resources or make tweaks based on my own knowledge where I catch it falling short (and, antithetical to what I just said, I sometimes fuck the anatomy up further on purpose if I think it looks better that way LOL it's all jazz baby).

Then lines, color, yada yada. I don't have a tutorial on that and I don't think I could make one, because my process is chaotic as hell, but I do at times use Virt-a-mate as loose reference for lighting too when coloring - waaaaayyyy less so however, because that process is even more tedious and I feel like I often get better results by just winging it. It is a feature of the program though, and I'm sure it would be helpful for someone who has a difficult time visualizing lights and shadows. I only started using this program a few months ago, so I happened to already have a pretty good understanding of that kind of thing and just don't personally feel like I get much out of that particular mechanic.

Here's a few other examples of pieces that I made reference for (WARNING: Suggestive)

Now, for the question many of you may want to ask:

"Can I trace this junk?"

And to that, I say: Buddy, you can do whatever the hell you want with the reference material you created.

However,

If your goal is to learn and improve your art, and to recreate realistic proportions and anatomy from memory, tracing won't help you.

Developing your own style, your muscle memory, and personal technique will all be hindered by choosing to trace instead of drawing from observation, so I would encourage against it. Hell - even when tracing is employed as a technique, it's usually by high-skill realism & concept artists who are looking to either cut some corners, save time, or just double-check their own proportions in order to improve further - if you try tracing as a beginner, you will most definitely find the result to still look stiff and "off".

So trust me, there is so much more to be gained from drawing from observation. Make note of tangents, compare proportions, use all the elements of the picture to dictate where and how things should go - it will be a far more rewarding experience.

Hopefully this has been helpful! VaM is a really cheap program (you get it on the guys' patreon for I think 8 dollars, just google it!) and it's definitely been worth my money as an artist since I found it. Learning to use it can be a little intimidating at first glance, but as I said above you only really need a day plus one or two tutorials to get a hang of the interface.

A fair warning though, IT IS A SOFTWARE MADE FOR VIRTUAL SEX/ADULT ANIMATION So when looking it up expect to see a some spicy content.

#Funfact THIS is the post that got me flagged last time so i'm really tempting fate right now LOL #ask #art #tutorial #resource

[katherines-imagines]

“Stupid bitches, be stupid bitches.”

pairings: hazel callahan x reader

warnings: angst, fighting, mean PJ, bad writing

summary: PJ starts yelling at Hazel, but her girlfriends not having it.

A meeting was called for the fight club after their revenge on Jef. As the girls started coming in, each had a mischievous yet proud smile adorning their faces. Y/N walked towards the back where her girlfriend, Hazel, was saving a seat for her. Sitting down, Y/N took Hazel’s hand into her own, playing with her silver rings. When everyone arrived, PJ began to speak.

“Alright, well, some of us clearly have a different definition of egging.” The girls gave each other knowing looks. “But if we keep our mouth shut, stay calm, we’ll be fine,” PJ finished.

“They’re gonna shut us down, aren’t they,” Sylvie asked sadly.

“What,” PJ laughed nervously. “No, we don’t know that. Why-”

“Principal Meyers will believe whatever Jeff and Tim say,” Brittany pointed out. “I don’t really see how we recover from this.” She was right, and all the girls knew it. As much as they could hope that the club would continue, after their little stunt, the club would be shut down.

“Man. Fuck,” Sylvie sad dejectedly.

“It’s been real guys,” Hazel said, looking bittersweetly to the group. Her girlfriend lovingly tracing her hands, nodding in agreement.

“Okay,” PJ interrupted. “Let’s not jump to conclusions with the, goodbyes,” she waved her arms around.

“I’m gonna miss you guys so much,” Hazel said, ignoring PJ. Y/N’s heart felt heavy from the break up for the group. These were her friends. This was her safe space. Now it would end, but she didn’t regret joining at all, and that made it all the more bittersweet.

“I’m like,” Sylvie started while standing up. “At least we went out with a bang,” Sylvie referred to the bomb Hazel made, causing the group to laugh sans PJ and Josie. “I mean, that was fucking insane!” The group laughed louder. “It’s just like, fire, everywhere” she continued, playfully hitting the girls.

“Wait, wh, stop,” PJ stuttered. “We don’t, wait, no, we don’t know that for sure,” PJ tried to deny, but the girls had already accepted it.

“PJ,” Annie stopped her with a sad smile. “Don’t be sad it’s over. Be happy it happened,” she smiled towards the fight club members, them smiling back.

“Alright, can everyone calm the fuck down please,” PJ said exasperatingly. “The club is not over, Josie? Right?” PJ motioned to her best friend, a hand motioning in her direction. Josie kept silent, PJ turning in disbelief at the lack of answer.

“No matter what,” Isabel started. “This club has brought me so much. I feel..” She took a deep breath before continuing. “So much more powerful, and, protected.”

“Me too,” Josie agreed, eyes showing vulnerability like the rest of the girls. PJ let out a sarcastic laugh

“Great,” PJ said. Hazel, tired of her attitude, interrupted her.

“Oh my god PJ, okay,” Hazel stood abruptly, her hand leaving Y/N’s grasp, causing her to jump at the sudden movement. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted out of this group, but I think the rest of us did.” She motioned towards the girls with a smile.

“Oh,” PJ spoke sarcastically. “Good for fucking you Hazel.” Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed, not liking how PJ was speaking to her girlfriend. “I’m glad that you finally wrote one email. Accomplished a lot.”

“I actually did, I practically ran this club for you and Josie,” Hazel said frustratedly. Y/N nodded harshly in support.

“Let’s calm down, maybe,” Josie said, trying to deescalate the situation, but it was too late for that.

“You really think that your the reason that we have this club,” PJ asked rudely.

“The reason? No, but I can tell everyone that if you want,” Hazel shot back. The girls heads snapped to Hazel at the comment, none of them expecting Hazel to have a mean bone in her body. Y/N stood up next to her girlfriend, hand going to the small of her back in support. As much as Y/N wanted to tear PJ a new one, she knew that Hazel had to do this part, at least, by herself.

“Hazel, uh hey, let’s calm down,” Josie said to Hazel. Y/N glared at Josie. Clearly PJ was the one who needed to calm down, not Hazel.

“You’re really ungrateful,” PJ snapped at her. “You’re so lucky that we even let you be a part of this.” How dare PJ try and glorify herself?

“PJ, your a liar.” A silence followed after Hazel’s retort, eyes turning to PJ for an explanation. PJ scoffed in disbelief.

“Yeah, well,” PJ started. Y/N had a feeling that the next few words that would come out of PJ’s mouth would make Y/N’s patience snap. “You have no friends, and a skank as a mom, so,” PJ smiled maliciously, as Josie looked at her feet. As the girls stared quietly, Y/N yelled at PJ.

“How dare you say that? She has friends, and you have no right so say something so atrocious to her,” Y/N said angrily, while Hazel stared in disbelief at PJ. Before Y/N could continue, Hazel looked at her friends in pain before picking up her stuff. Y/N followed Hazel’s lead, picking up her and her girlfriend’s stuff before following Hazel down the bleachers. Before leaving the gym, Y/N went to PJ’s face and spoke coldly, “If you every say shit like that again, I’ll fuck you up. Don’t you ever, disrespect her.” Shoving PJ with her shoulder, Y/N followed Hazel out the gym. While the rest of the girls watched them leave, Josie calling out for Hazel. When Y/N caught up to Hazel’s fast walking, she stayed quite. After a few minutes of walking quietly, Hazel spoke softly.

“What did you say, hun,” Y/N asked softly, not hearing what Hazel had said.

“Could you please hold my hand,” she shakily asked, quiet tears streaming down her face. Instead of answering, Y/N simply took Hazel’s hand in her own, comfortingly rubbing her thumb across her girlfriend’s hand. They walked in silence before Y/N spoke up.

“She’s a bitch.” Hazel let out a startled laugh of disbelief. “And not even a good one like me,” Y/N added, hesitantly looking at Hazel to see if it was ok to talk. Hazel laughed quietly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Y/N stopped the pair, Hazel looking curiously for the reason why. Y/N dropped their bags and took of her jacket, using the sleeve to wipe Hazel’s tears before putting it on Hazel. When Y/N picked up their bags, she took Hazel’s hand and continued to walk. “Don’t listen to her Haze. You know what they say about girls like her?” Y/N waiting until Hazel hummed in question.

“Stupid bitches, be stupid bitches.”

Hazel laughed loudly, hugging Y/N’s arm to stop her from falling.

“Y/N,” Hazel laughed.

“Hazel,” Y/N responded seriously. Well, semi-seriously. She couldn’t help the small smile growing on her mouth. Sighing gratefully, Hazel tugged on Y/N’s arm to stop.

“Thank you, love,” Hazel said, looking into Y/N’s eyes with love. Y/N swore she could feel her heart melt, warmth filling her up.

“Of course, pretty girl,” Y/N spoke softly, hugging her girlfriend tightly. Y/N was not going to let PJ get away with this.

No one spoke to her girl like that.

a/n: first imagine since I came back! if you have any requests from any fandom, please let me know. if I know the fandom, I will try and do it! Hope you guys like this one as much as I did.

#hazel callahan #hazel callahan x reader #hazel callahan x you #hazel callahan imagine #bottoms movie #bottoms x reader

[bats-and-the-birds]

I like to think about young Dick Grayson a lot, and right now I'm specifically thinking about him from the Justice League's perspective.

Like, imagine you're in the Justice League, maybe you've been there for a few months, maybe for a few years, but either way, you know how it works. Superman's terrifyingly powerful, but you get over the fear factor as soon as you see him cry over a sad cat video, and Wonder Woman's still a bit intimidating, but as long as you're good and truthful, you can trust that she won't crush your head like a grape.

And Batman... well, you've made your peace with the fact that you'll never figure him out. You know literally nothing about him, other than the fact that he claims to be fully human, but you're not even really sure about that, because you're pretty sure he just materializes in the shadows sometimes. The only things that you're 100% sure of is that you're terrified of him, and you're so glad that he's not on someone else's side.

And then, suddenly, he has acquired a child. Just like everything else, you don't find out immediately, because god forbid that man tell his team anything. But you start to hear vague reports of another shadow trailing behind Batman in the night. Superman asks him about it one day, but of course, he doesn't respond, and they all wonder, but it never gets brought up again.

But one day, unexpectedly, that shadow is at a league meeting, and he's not as shadowy as you would have thought. In fact, he's wearing the most vibrant costume you've seen, and you spend all of your time with other heroes in spandex. He's also young. Terrifyingly young. It's his twelfth birthday, actually, he explains to the league, and he pestered 'B' until he agreed to take him to a meeting. You all agree later that he looks younger than twelve. And you worry about him, because why is this child in Batman's care? Can he really be trusted to look after someone so small, so young, so seemingly fragile?

Besides, Robin (Robin, his name is Robin, he's a songbird for christ's sake), is everything that you'd think Batman would hate. He talks everyone's ear off with a giant grin stretched across his entire face. He begs Superman to fly him around and cackles and claps as Wonder Woman demonstrates basic sword maneuvers for him. Before long, the whole team is in a better mood. Meanwhile, Batman stands in the shadows, his face impassive, with no explanation about the little masked boy that walked into the room hiding under his cape.

He leaves just as he came, disappearing under Batman's cape as the two exit the watchtower together, and the whole league is left to wonder how the fuck that child ended up in Batman's care, and whether or not they should intervene, because spending prolonged time in Batman's company cannot be healthy for a child.

But then he starts showing up more and more, popping up in some places that you know from Batman's glare he's not supposed to be. He's teamed up with that speedster boy and the two of them cause havoc, but Robin takes the lecture he gets with a grin and gives a half hearted promise to behave.

You steadily start to realize that he might not be as out of place in Batman's company as you originally thought. You realize that the boy is a performer through and through, and that extends to that grin of his that dazzled the team when they first met him. You get the impression that sometimes its genuine, yes, but you'd never know if it wasn't. His exuberance is a persona held in place as meticulously as Batman's grim seriousness.

And though you'd assumed that Batman's sidekick (partner, the boy insisted, rather intensely, though his smile never faltered) would be well trained, this kid could take down league members, you're sure. You quickly realize that he enjoys fighting, and he fights viciously, giggling and putting on a show, but leaving broken bones in his wake. Your first impression is that Robin was more human than the demon they called the Batman, but you quickly start to question that too. If Batman can materialize in shadows, then Robin can fly. He twists through the air like gravity doesn't affect him and lands with so much grace that you'd think he had hollow bones like his namesake. You're not fully convinced he doesn't, considering he climbs up the bat with no warning, clinging onto his back like he belongs there (you quickly start to think he does), or he'll throw himself through the air with no more warning than a quick 'catch' yelled to his partner. And Batman catches him. Batman always catches him. Everyone keeps an eye on him when he's up high, but there's a part of you that feels like it's impossible that he'd ever fall. Or at least, impossible that Batman would ever let him hit the ground.

And you start to think that Robin's exactly where he's supposed to be; perched on Batman's shoulder, hiding in his cape, or fighting by his side. You still hope there's a normal boy behind the mask, going to school and making friends with someone to tuck him in at night, but you also can't imagine anything normal about Robin, and maybe that's why he needs to be by Batman's side, and maybe that's why Batman needs him too.

#batman #comics #dc comics #dick grayson #justice league #robin #batman and robin #dick grayson robin #dick grayson headcanon #batman headcanon #justice league headcanon #headcanon #sorry this is so long #i had more to say than i thought about tiny dick grayson #and kinda just kept typing #i'll write a fic if people want it

[save-the-villainous-cat]

knife torture in a creepy basement perhabs? maybe a shady mercenary has captured a hero on a supervillain's behalf but wants to have some fun with the hero before they give them up

“I’ve been told that you’re not very easy to capture,” the mercenary said. Their collection of knives was impressive and the hero was, simply put, getting ready for the torture.

They had survived a lot of similiar sessions. Guns, knives, water, fire — by now, the hero could slip into a state of simply enduring it all. No panic, no screaming. Their entire energy was spent on survival and usually, they got away with it just fine.

“Not because of you, but your little guard dog...” The mercenary looked at them intensely and suddenly the hero realised this was about to get more complicated. “Kinda dangerous. Making it that obvious.”

The hero smiled dryly, feeling dread fill their stomach.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. Do you think I’m that dumb?” The mercenary pressed a knife against their thigh and slowly, the sharp end dug into the hero’s skin, splitting layers of skin until it reached muscle. Until it reached bone.

The tears came quickly and the hero’s pathetic moans filled the basement. Their hands were bound behind their back, so they tried not to move at all. The wound would only get bigger.

“Christ,” they hissed, almost shouted. “Fuck—”

There was so much blood. The hero had forgotten how much they could bleed.

“Frankly, I don’t care about your little romance, the only feeling I have for it is somewhere between disgust and annoyance. I mean, who the fuck even cares?” They pressed the knife deeper into the hero’s thigh and scraped their femur terribly. The hero swallowed a scream, tried to maintain their composure but their tears wouldn’t stop and neither did the wheezing.

“What do you want?” the hero asked. For the first time, they were terrified. The mercenary knew about the villain. What if they had caught them? What if the villain was enduring this too right now? The hero couldn’t stomach that.

“Oh, you know…just wanna have some fun. I’m actually retired. Don’t get to do a lot of field work.” They pulled out the knife and the hero gasped in pain, praying that the villain was alright. Maybe the mercenary was simply toying with them? Surely, the villain was clever enough to get away from them. “Ah, shit. I guess you need that so you don’t bleed out? Hmmm. My bad.”

They jammed the knife back into the hero’s thigh, slightly above the first wound.

“Ouch, sorry. Not really good at aiming.” The mercenary shrugged. “Happens. Anyway. Your little lover? Do you think they’ll save you from all this drama?”

“God, please stop.” The hero struggled in their restraints, desperate to escape. They didn’t know what was worse: the knife? Or the psychological toying?

“Do you think anyone is gonna find you? I can tell you already, it’s not that easy. I’m no amateur.”

“You’ll kill me,” the hero whispered. “I’m gonna die here, I’m gonna bleed out, oh God…”

“You’re not the brightest, are you?” the mercenary asked. Again, they pulled out the knife and the hero’s thigh felt scorchingly hot. They didn’t want to know what kind of scars would be left on their thigh after this, how they’d explain it to the villain. “I need you alive. Blood loss is just helping me a little. Makes you dizzy, makes you sleepy. Makes you weak, just like the supervillain wants you.”

“You’ve made a pact with the devil,” the hero said. They leaned their head against the wall, tears still streaming down their face. The villain…they would save them, wouldn’t they?

“Very poetic.” They traced lines down the hero’s thigh, the knife digging into their skin every now and then. “But I don’t care that much about the money. I’m just curious if your lover will show up? People tend to think our lives should revolve around love. So, how much does your dear villain actually love you? Will they show up? Will they save you?”

They laughed and it almost sounded gentle.

“Let’s break all that trust you have in them, hm? At the end of the day, man eats himself. You’re terribly and very sadly, on your own. Just like the rest of us.” They whispered the last words. For the third time, they pressed their knife back into the hero.

The hours passed. And the villain never showed up.

#totally forgot this was in my inbox sorry egg #writing snippet #heroxvillain snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroes and villains #hero #villain #heroxvillain #hero x villain #an answer for an ask #request #whump #mercenary #I guess???

[chaotic-iguana]

how about a five where Javi rejects the reader, so the reader like gets really sad, but one day Javi hears she is going on a date (is not true, Murphy made it up) and he rushed to her apartment and confesses and reader is like ?? What are you talking about, super angsty but super fluffy? Pleaseeee

Out of time | javier peña x f! reader 

summary: javi rejects reader. repents like the idiot he is. (i love him) he is a FOOL in love. fight me. 

wordcount: 2.1k

warnings: rejection, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort basically, happy ending. 

A/N: i got you, anon. this promt is the perfect apology for the last one. repentance fr. love u ALL. let me know what you think. also nothing against “hippies” just giving murphy pov. i do however as an indian have a  bone to pick with fake white yoga gurus. it’s gotta be appropriation. 

masterlist

Javi had never been heartless before. Never been cruel before. Now, as you pointedly hunched over your desk in an effort to ignore the chortles and cheap jokes that kept sounding from the men crowded around his desk as they all stood around a nameless note someone -you- had slipped onto his desk. 

He laughed boisterously with them, before crumpling the paper in his fist and dropping it into the bin next to his chair. You refused to so much as raise your head and look his way, feeling the crushing wave of heartbreak sweeping through you. It wasn’t until you felt a tear on your cheek that you realised that you had started crying, and so you muttered an excuse about getting some coffee before rushing to the bathroom and sobbing in a closed stall. So much for Valentine’s day. 

It wasn’t until the end of the day, when you saw him walking your way in the parking lot, that you met his eyes. And you could see, with the set of his jaw; the arch of his brows, that he knew. Before you could scramble into your car, he was yelling after you. 

“Is your new hobby being extended to everyone or did I win the lucky draw? Cute note.” 

Oh, that bastard. 

You scoffed, looking him straight in the eye. “Call it a moment of weakness, Peña. Thought I felt something for you, and it was Valentine’s day. Pretty sure all I feel now is rage, you asshole.” 

A laugh from him. “Don’t be like that, hermosa. Let me know if you feel something between your legs for me, alright?”

Scowling, you turned from him and got into your car. You could have sworn he looked like a kicked puppy as you pulled out of the parking. These past few weeks, you had caught him looking at you more often. Finding excuses to touch you more often, too. A hand on your back, fingers accidentally grazing yours, his knee pressed against your thigh in Murphy’s backseat. Fucking idiot. You didn’t even know if you were madder at him or yourself. You know him. All of fucking Bogota knows him. God knows how you were foolish enough to think he felt anything except for between his legs. 

A few months go by, excruciatingly slowly. It’s as if time itself has decided to fuck with you. You miss his gaze on you, his hands, his smile, him. You’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Stopped looking at him even when he was in the same room, hardly spoke to him even if it was in the middle of a raid, declined Connie’s many many invitations to parties you knew he’d be at. It was just easier to pretend that February the 14th had been a completely normal day. You’re just tired of all of it. It would have been easier not to have said anything at all. 

What you were completely unaware of, however, was that you had a sneaky little shit for a partner. The fact that he had clocked what was going on immediately was completely unbeknownst to you. Both of you pining silently with what Steve dubbed “moony heart eyes”, the radio silence, and the fact that you had stopped talking to Connie just so you didn’t have to show up to her parties? Something had gone wrong. Initially, Steve thought that maybe Javi had made an unwanted move on you - and had damn near scuffed him to death - until he saw Javi’s eyes the next day. Haunted. It seemed that you had managed to take more out of the man than Escobar had. But you weren’t faring much better, either. Irritated and tired and grumbly all the time, refusing to so much as look in Javi’s direction. But you both were pretty much just staying out of each other’s ways, not causing any trouble, so he let it go. For now. 

But then Steve and Javi had to chase a lead down together, and Javi introduced him to an informant who - with a little imagination - looked like your spitting image. The same hair, terrifying similar voice, and a lopsided grin, just like yours. And it clicked. The day that had started it all, and the “anonymous” note Javi had gotten. The idiocy with which you both had handled the situation made him want to run unarmed into a sicario’s den, but he came up with another idea instead. 

Just before a weekend he knew on good authority that you had no plans except for lounging in bed, he started nudging and hinting to Javi the randomest shit about you. Just to reignite the interest. Almost like, you know - bait. 

“Man, her hair looks good. I wonder if she got it done?”

“Hey Peña, d’ya reckon that’s a new skirt? Connie’d kill me if I didn’t ask where from”

“Javi - look - she got her nails done. Before an op? Doesn’t that get a bit…impractical? Hey, I’m jus’ asking.” 

Each time, Steve was met with an irritated eyeroll, scoff, or just flat-out ignored. But around midnight on Friday, he ‘bust out the big guns’, so to speak, making an offhanded comment while jutting his chin out in the direction of your chair. 

“Good thing she left early. Never woulda made it to the date tomorrow mornin’ otherwise.”

Which, instead of being met with the usual options, was met with Javi’s brain almost short circuiting. The sight of his friend, gaping like a fish as his eyes practically bulged out of his head while he stammered out the easiest one-syllable word in the English language is one Steve can never forget. Or let Javi forget, either. 

“W-wha-what?”

And so, like the most devious matchmaker on the planet, Steve proceeded to make up some utter bullshit about a boy he’d supposedly seen you around with, one that had apparently asked you out tonight to meet him for ‘brunch’ tomorrow. Just to fuck with Javi, he made the guy from LA, and a tourist. And white. And the kinda hippie who did yoga and spoke about his newly-discovered chakras all the time. 

Javier could feel the blind panic clawing at his chest, his heart threatening to burst. He didn’t know exactly why, but he had hated every single second you hadn’t spoken to him. Laughed at his jokes. Flashed him your smile, even the sarcastic one. He missed your quips and the way you groaned and swore at him when he pissed you off. He’d convinced himself he could live with that. But this? A date with some idiot he knew wouldn’t treat you right? He couldn’t understand his own feelings compelling him to pack up in a frenzy, ignore Steve’s pointed laugh, scramble into his car and drive straight to your apartment. He didn’t even stop to smooth his hair back, or fix the wrinkles in his shirt from slumping in it all day. No, all that mattered to him in that moment was you. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he felt the way he did. He’d just been under the illusion that ignoring it would make it go away, but it hadn’t. He had to fix this now. 

Standing on your doorstep, Javi blinked for a second while marveling at how fast that drive had been - he’d barely registered doing anything since he heard the word date come out of Steve’s mouth. Hesitation clamped a hand over his mouth, his body, and he stood frozen, unsure of whether to knock or just turn around. But if not now, never, right? And who knew how long he would live? Wasn’t this a time he should be getting what he wants, spending time with the people he…loves? 

Before he could overthink himself out of doing it, Javi raised his fist and rapped it against your door, twice. And when you opened the door, rubbing your eyes and standing there in your sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, it took a second for his brain to catch up. It wasn’t until you were squinting at him, then stumbling over nothing as your eyes widened that he realised where he was. The hurt on your face in the split second before you moved to close the door had him jamming his foot in the doorframe. 

“Just hear me out, hermosa. I promise if you want me to fuck off after that, I will.” 

After waiting for you to nod and open your door wordlessly, he stalked after you, further into your apartment, stunned by how homely it was. The walls had pictures of you and other people laughing, of art and paintings and sketches that seemed to all have been done by the same person; the sofa was a rich brown leather and the fluffy throw on it just a shade lighter. Everything was carefully coordinated, in color and texture, and he couldn’t help but note the contrast. Some of his stuff was still in boxes. He’d been in Colombia for longer than you, and his stuff was still in boxes. The difference was laughable. 

But when he heard a sniffle from ahead, he found himself walking faster - practically walking into you - before he was planting his hands on your shoulders to turn you around to him, and then gripping the sides of your arms as if they were his salvation. His eyes searched yours, and the heartbreak he found as you tried to look away threatened to make his knees buckle. So he hooked an index finger under your chin to tilt your head up to him, resting his forehead against yours. Moving his thumb to smooth out the furrow in your brow, he huffed at the stubborn frown that refused to budge. 

“I am sorry. I truly am. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to react. I want you, and I did then, too. But I just…didn’t think it was real. I swear I thought you were joking at first. It’s why I let the guys see. Then I saw you in the parking lot, and you were actually sad, and I just panicked. I just don’t think I was ready back then. But I swear to God, I can’t bear another six months of the cold shoulder. I love you, you know. I’ve just been too much of an idiot to realise it.” 

For a whole minute, you just stare at him unblinkingly. Then, suddenly, your face crumples, limbs slackening in his grip. He holds you through it, letting you sob into his chest as he coos reassurances and apologies to you until you pull back from his embrace to look at him questioningly once more. 

“Why now?” Your words make Javi smile, and he cocks a brow at you. 

“You really thought I’d let that idiot take you out before I told you how I feel?” 

You look even more confused now, which is confusing him in turn. 

“Wait, what idiot?” There’s no twinkle in your eye - no smirk tugging at your lips. Not a joke. 

“The one who…asked you out?” Javi cocks his head at you, watching your frown deepen. 

“Who?” The absolute befuddlement on your face is on the verge of making him snigger, and he feels his lips twitching already. 

“The-does Murphy know? That you weren’t busy tonight?” His overworked mind supplies the answer to him, and he has never more in his life wanted to punch and hug his other partner simultaneously. 

“Oh, yeah. He asked cause Connie wanted to know if she could come over? I guess she must have gotten caught- oh. Oh.” Javi gives you a moment to reach the same conclusion he did, and both of you end up bursting out in laughter at the same time. 

But Steve was the one with the biggest grin when, come Monday morning, a bottle of premium whiskey and a brand new watch sat on his desk with a little note: 

Well played, motherfucker. 

What is it they say about couples adopting each other’s habits when they get into a relationship? Javi’d picked up your so-called hobbies within a weekend. 

You ended up spending enough time with each other to pick up everything else, too. Call it cliché, but atleast you weren’t boring. Or, you know, going on dates with imaginary guys that existed only in Steve’s extremely limited imagination. Win-win. 

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore,@millerscoffee, @ nostalxgic, @sscorpiiiio, @pedrosaidsheispunk dividers by @reveriesources

#kali rambles #kali writes #javier peña narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos imagine #narcos #javier pena narcos #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena fluff #javier pena fanfiction #javi peña x reader #javier pena fic #javier pena imagines #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier peña imagine #javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña smut #joel miller x f!reader #javier peña fluff #javier peña x female reader #javi peña x you #javier peña angst #steve murphy #kali is BACK baby

[harrystylesfan2686]

Love You, Always.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: the years you've loved each other, and the ones you've loved him alone.

Warnings: Devlon. Mentions of domestic abuse.

A/N: inspired by Cardigan by Taylor Swift, except in this version he doesn't come back.

Masterlist

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You place the two cups of tea in front of your father and his guest. A female so beautiful, with high cheek bones and a black lips to match her gown. She doesn't have wings and her cloths look far more elegant and richer from the clothes females in illyria were. She's surely from other place.

Your father, Lord Devlon, had instructed you to be on your best behavior today. You knew the rules of what do to when any guest comes, father had taught you even since you could remember living. Just stand back with your head down and be alert for when he requires anything from you.

And you do exactly that. Knowing that not doing would have painful punishments.

The female laughs at whatever your father had said before you came, and your father puts a hand on hers with a disgusting smirk. The lady glaces at your bowed head with an unsure expression you see in your peripheral, to which he responds,"Do not worry about her, she won't understand anything." His fingers swipping at her hand and you almost gag.

"Won't understand, my ass." You want to say but keep quiet and try to block out the teasing smirks they share. You're almost twenty one, of course you understand those revolting looks your shameless father gives females.

-☆-

You get out of the house as soon as your father gives you permission too. Gods, you hate that male, but have to endure his presence if you want to live at a little better life then the other females in your camp.

You ran and go to one place you know will bring you joy. The trianing grounds arent allowed for females to go to, so you stay far enough that no body would notice you seeing them. You look for the only person that makes you happy and doesn't treat you like worthless dolls. You see Azriel, fighting with his brothers, and let go of the breath you didn't know you were holding.

He looks so good.

The evening light making his bare chest glow. His wings flared in the show of dominance as he spars with Cassian. Rhysand watching them from the ground as Azriel expertly defeats Cassian and walks back to Rhysand with a small smile.

Your mind flashes with mammories of the last time you two were together. When father had given you particular blow that left you a line on blood down your cheek for not doing a chore. Azriel had so delicately wiped off the dried blood and took care of you, creeping into your room at night when everyone else lay alseep except you two. He kissed you all the way down your face and neck, showing you the care and love you deserve. Whispering promises of revenge for every scar on your body while loving you with everything he has.

Giggles sound behind you, breaking you moment of daydreaming. And you turn around, startled but settle down your panic when you see a group of three females talking and giggling while staring at the males training.

Thank the Mother, they aren't the very males your all staring at or father would be made. As you think about your better luck, fate seems to say 'fuck you' because just as your getting up, one of the females sees and you both freeze. The female, Nyra you remember, turns and calls the others attention, and your groan at yourself mentally.

Those females are definitely going to tell your father about your whereabouts, exposing there's too in the process which will get all of you in trouble. You were friends when you little but after growing up, when they realized who your father is and just how much power he holds in this camp, they became distent. You've had a lot of friends but never a true one.

You nod at them awkwardly and glance at Azriel once more before turning and leaving.

-☆-

You toss and turn on your so called bed in your room. Your thoughts repeatedly drift off to Nyra and her friends catching you red handed, drooling over training males. You kept glancing at your door, hoping for her or one of her friends to walk through and declare your secret.

What you hadn't excepted, however, was the flaping sound of wings filling the midnight silence. You sit up at the same time azriel lands never your window, having squeezed in his wings due to the size of your small room.

You stand and hug him, he returns the embrace in an instant, breathing in your sweet scent that drives him insane. When he tries to pull back, your hands tighten around him, shaking your head in a silent plea to hold on longer and he complies.

"Are you alright, my love?" His voice so soft and comforting as he whispers. You shake your head and remain as you are. Speaking softly, the words you say to each other, promising yourselves to the other, forever.

"I love you, Az."

"And I love you. Always."

-☆-

Even after five hundred years, you still can't seem to move on. Your thoughts always drifting back to the only person you saw your future with.

After Rhysand became high lord, the years when the trio weren't there were dreadful. Your father only seemed to have became worse. When Rhys got the news of you being promised to an illyrian from the camp, he came to get you. Knowing the history between Azriel and you, he took you to Valeris and introduced you to the inner circle. You finally met the love of your life after being separated for over a decade.

However, it did not go as you thought it would.

Azriel seemed to distanced himself from you, at first you thought maybe it was the fact that you were meeting after so long but as time went, you realized it wasn't his nerves that were the problem but his heart. You started to realize where his feelings seemed to be directed. You realized just how little he felt for you now and how much more for Mor.

You have to admit though, you love Mor. She is beautiful, confident and just amazing. What hurts, is knowing that now he does too.

You always thought the two of you were in it for life, that he was the person you're supposed to spend your life with but you were wrong. You were just kids after all. You were new to the world, exploring and trying new things. You were never supposed to be together, passion having blurred the boundaries and consequences of your actions.

Now, even after five hundred years. Azriel moved on, with different females to bed and Mor or Elain to give his heart too. But you? You're still twenty one, still living in that camp, under your fearful father's roof, still completly and utterly in love with the shadowsinger.

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#acotar #acotar fandom #acotar fanfiction #acotar fluff #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #Spotify

[ikroah]

A girl can get somewhere in spite of stringy hair or even just a bit bowed at the knees if she can show a faultless…personality! —“Personality,” Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers (1946)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #26 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding V

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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

ohhhhh my god why did i make this script so long my hand hurts this took forever aaaaagh

Welcome to the Lucky 38! This is a script that has remained basically the same for a long time but went through COUNTLESS extremely small rewrites over the course of production just to really nail Mr. House's dialogue. He's a long-winded guy, this whole issue is basically just him doing monologues, and I wanted to make sure it was all interesting and non-repetitive. I think I took out at least three uses of "merely" from the first draft.

One of the biggest production decisions of this issue was whether or not to cut the scene with Agnes and Cass and Victor, which immediately follows the end of the previous issue. The reason to include it was because it very necessarily established the change in location from the Vegas Strip to the Lucky 38 penthouse, which would have been jarring otherwise; the reason to exclude it was that it the issue was already extremely long and I thought opening right on Mr. House would have been more impactful. Ultimately, I did keep it, which was a good decision, but only because of the literally issue-saving idea to convey it as closed-circuit television footage instead of actual panels. Every single attempt at overlaying them with the lead-in to Mr. House was way too busy, but that idea really tied the page together like a nice rug.

And lastly, the framing device of the tarantula and the tarantula hawk was actually an extremely late addition to the comic. I had already finished the first three pages when I thought of it. My problem was that Mr. House's constant monologuing and Agnes' sad expressions got pretty repetitive. I needed something to break the action up while adding thematic heft and artistic variety. I've become a real enthusiast for wasps and tarantulas over the last couple months, so this one really was just a stroke of luck. It took only minimal revisions to make room for the framing device, with the most dramatic change being the complete replacement of the last page (which was originally just a splash page of the Lucky 38 in Vegas; bookending the first and last pages is so much better). So you see, the only reason for weaving a scene into this issue of a skittish desert-wanderer getting paralyzed and dragged toward a certain demise by a predator almost perfectly evolved to destroy it was just that I like bugs a lot. That's the only reason, yep.

Original Pencils:

Due to all of the photo-collage in the final version of the comic, there's a lot of panels and details that I (thankfully!) didn't have to draw myself. Sorry that the pencil isn't blue on the last three pages, I've been on the move for the holidays so they got scanned in grayscale by accident.

I did experiment with drawing the tarantula framing device myself, but ultimately went with the photo-collage method because the artistic juxtaposition actually made it much more readable when interspersed with the proceedings in the Lucky 38.

Transcript:

EXT. DESERT OUTSIDE OF NEW VEGAS. The city glitters in the distance, nestled between the shadows of mountains, with the spire of the LUCKY 38 towering above all else.

In the wilderness, a TARANTULA emerges from its burrow.

EXT. THE NEW VEGAS STRIP. On closed-circuit television monitors, a SECURITRON ROBOT approaches AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, saying

VICTOR: Well howdy, partner! Fancy meetin' again here in Vegas!

CASS: What the fuck?

AGNES: Victor?

Unlike the usual police units, VICTOR's robotic "face" is that of a cowboy.

VICTOR: And heck, ya clean up nice! Sure lookin' a lot better now than when I rustled ya outta the bone orchard back in Goodsprings*--

CAP: *As was explained to Agnes way back in IKROAH #2. --Lou

VICTOR: --so how's about ol' Vic skips the rigamarole, huh? 'Fore all my yappin' makes ya want to go back, heh-heh-heh! I'm the welcome wagon, see. I'm to come and collect ya.

CASS: Agnes--

VICTOR: Boss wants t'see you, is what I'm sayin'.

AGNES: Boss?

VICTOR: Only of all of Vegas, friend!

CASS: Agnes.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA crawls beneath the starlight.

VICTOR: So why don't we mosey on over to the Lucky 38? And your good pal can come along, too!

CASS: I need to know what the fuck is going on, right now.

AGNES: I...I don't know.

VICTOR: And y'know, boss ain't ever let a soul inside before, least for not as long as I've been rollin' around on my spurs, so this ain't just an everyday social call, mind...

On the closed-circuit television monitors, VICTOR escorts AGNES and CASS to the entryway of the LUCKY 38.

VICTOR: ...but heck, I reckon ya'll oughta get along like franks on a fire! So come on! Lift's in the lobby here, and up to the top floor--and we can get the formalities out of the way before ya'll get [cut off]

INT. THE LUCKY 38 PENTHOUSE.

AGNES stands awestruck, looking upward, bathed in electronic green light. With horror, she ekes out a single question.

AGNES: ...what are you?

???: A "Hello" would have been preferable, but it'll take more than a crude faux pas to tarnish this moment. Who I am, Agnes--

What AGNES is looking at is a gigantic SUPERCOMPUTER and terminal, flanked by closed-circuit television monitors and guarded on both sides by SECURITRON police units. On the supercomputer's massive screen is the green-lit image of a face. The face

MR. HOUSE: --is ROBERT EDWIN HOUSE. The President, CEO, and sole proprietor of New Vegas--and more to the point, the intended recipient of a long delayed package.

AGNES: Oh, you...you mean the platinum chip?

MR. HOUSE: Correct. It's a...very precious artifact of the old world.

MR. HOUSE: My world, once.

In the back of the room, beyond AGNES, is an oil painting of MR. HOUSE, standing outside in front of what must have been a very large robot.

MR. HOUSE: In that world, I was the founder of RobCo Industries--a titan of innovation. We created a litany of robotic solutions for diverse markets, such as the Securitrons that you see here, and even a line of consumer-grade devices like the wrist-mounted Pip-Boy. But the platinum chip was, more than any other, my design. It was my vision.

MR. HOUSE: But it never left the factory in which it was originally made. Before it could even cool off from its assembly...we had the Great War. An international, thermonuclear bombardment of unimaginable power that annihilated the world in all of two hours.

MR. HOUSE: But not the entire world. Not Vegas. Not my Paradise. From my fortress of the Lucky 38, I saw to that. But as for the rest of the world, and my platinum chip--it took generations.

MR. HOUSE: First for the scarce remnants of humanity to crawl out from under their rocks, and for the world to at least resemble a functioning society again in which to do trade. And then for the work itself--of countless scavengers, treasure-seekers, and the like, all contracted to comb over the wreckage of Sunnyvale. It cost millions of caps, and later, New California dollars. And a not insignificant piece of my pre-war fortune as well. I, quite literally, moved mountains.

MR. HOUSE: I do not believe in providence, Agnes, but I do believe in destiny. How else to explain it? It was pristine when it was found. Neither the bombs nor the passage of time had so much as scuffed its sheen. But still...its value far transcended the mere market price of pure platinum.

MR. HOUSE: Amusingly, despite the discovery, I was still only as close to acquiring the chip as I had been originally in 2077. A final ordeal remained for me: how to ensure the safety of the platinum chip en route to its destination, from Sunnyvale to Vegas, without broadcasting its preciousness to thieves, armies, and raiders--or worse, to heavily armed fetishists for pre-war technology like the Brotherhood of Steel?

MR. HOUSE: Misdirection. Through a network of anonymous liaisons, I contracted the Mojave Express for a batch of deliveries, all superficially similar knick-knacks, to various intermediaries of myself. All but one of the orders were totally worthless decoys. But your identity as the carrier of the one genuine item was somehow compromised, leading to you getting attacked, and to the second disappearance of the chip.

MR. HOUSE: But look around you. Look where you are. You've made it, haven't you?

AGNES, still staring up at the visage of MR. HOUSE on-screen, doesn't respond. She frowns, nervous. The SECURITRONS guarding MR. HOUSE observe her stoically.

MR. HOUSE: Let me clarify: I had nothing to do with Benny's ambush. Heavens no! It goes completely against my interests. It would have been a perfectly quotidian day's work for you if not for his, and I stress, unexpected involvement. The platinum chip...belies its significance. For Benny to have not only discovered its delivery route but possibly enough of that significance to motivate such an act, this constituted a very troubling breach of my security. And I had been looking into it...but in a way, the issue seems to have resolved itself. Hm?

MR. HOUSE: A wild card. Now removed from the deck.

AGNES' gaze sinks to the floor.

MEANWHILE, a small shadow blots out the starlight in the desert outside of Vegas. It flies over the exploring TARANTULA.

AGNES looks back up at MR. HOUSE.

AGNES: I killed him.

HOUSE: So you did. I only wish that we could have spoken before you went rogue on my former protégé: if this story breaks, I can grant you amnesty, but not without controversy. And your infamy as an assassin could make our further arrangements quite difficult.

AGNES: Um...I didn't think there would be more to it than delivering the--

MR. HOUSE: Oh! Of course, of course! My apologies. Two hundred years of anticipation and yet I'm still getting ahead of myself. Well--would you mind? I've been waiting a long time for my mail.

The SECURITRON closest to AGNES wheels forward with its claw outstretched. AGNES reaches her fingers into a pocket beneath the belt of her dress to produce it: the PLATINUM CHIP. She holds it in her hand for a brief moment.

MEANWHILE, the shadow descends; the TARANTULA HAWK engages the TARANTULA.

AGNES relinquishes the PLATINUM CHIP to the SECURITRON.

MR. HOUSE: Thank you--it's a relief to pay for this chip for the final time.

The SECURITRON inserts the PLATINUM CHIP into a slot in MR. HOUSE'S supercomputer, feeding it into the drive with a CLIK.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA is fighting the TARANTULA HAWK.

From behind AGNES, another SECURITRON presents her with a stack of NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC DOLLARS, which she gingerly takes in her hand and looks over.

MR. HOUSE: And I trust that you're satisfied with the agreed-upon compensation from the delivery contract, yes?

AGNES: Yeah, it's...it's fine...I'll be going now. Thanks.

MR. HOUSE: Oh? But you've only just arrived. I insist that you make yourself at home.

SFX: KZZSZZZTTT

The faces on the screens of the SECURITRONS in MR. HOUSE'S penthouse suddenly change from policemen to soldiers. AGNES recoils and tries to step away.

AGNES: H-hey, uh--

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK pierces the underbelly of the TARANTULA with its stinger.

SECURITRONS surround AGNES.

MR. HOUSE: You are the first guest ever through the doors of the Lucky 38, you know. Nobody has so much as checked a coat inside since the war, so this meeting confers you a significant level of privilege...and inevitable celebrity. The people of Vegas have always gossiped, after all. Many have even clawed at the door desperately with dreams of being where you now stand. Surely you can comprehend how this compulsion to leave after such a deliberate and remarkable invitation risks considerable insult--to both myself and my citizenry? And very deliberate this invitation was. Don't you realize: if handing off my package was all for which you were needed, why wouldn't I have just had Victor relieve you of the chip outside? No, no, you see, as necessary as its acquisition was, the chip is ultimately just a key, for unlocking a new frontier...of possibilities.

MR. HOUSE: Possibilities for prosperity, peace, and technological advancement that haven't been seen in two hundred years. Possibilities greater than anything the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion could dream of, let alone achieve, by playing pretend in the clothes of their forebearers and convincing everyone else that it's statecraft. Possibilities--which if they key is turned by human hands--become certainties.

AGNES (a whisper): Are you not human?

MR. HOUSE: Don't let the video screens and computer terminals fool you: I am a living human. No less so than you. I just live with a particular set of, well...handicaps.

AGNES: You said you'd waited hundreds of years to--

MR. HOUSE: One could argue that the world has been waiting hundreds of years for this moment. Waiting for me. For the chip. For the long-dormant doors of the Lucky 38 to finally open, to a single and specially ordained individual: you, Agnes. And there are tremendous things waiting for us, waiting for us to accomplish them, together. I certainly couldn't do them with Benny. What do you say?

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA has become completely paralyzed by the TARANTULA HAWK'S venom. The TARANTULA HAWK seizes its prey.

AGNES: ...no.

MR. HOUSE: I'm sorry--"No?"

AGNES: Yes--I mean, no. No! I don't want to help you! I...

Tears well in AGNES' eye.

AGNES: ...I just want to go back home.

MR. HOUSE: ...I see. Hmm.

MR. HOUSE: How do I put this in a way you'll understand?

MR. HOUSE: The die is cast.

AGNES, crying, looks up at MR. HOUSE again. Fear bulges on her face.

MR. HOUSE: Throughout the long delivery of this chip, several precise plans and fortuitous coincidences have aligned in just such a way as to make you, you specifically at this exact juncture, an irreplaceable asset in the ongoing endeavor of this wounded world's recovery from otherwise hopeless ruin.

MR. HOUSE: Your cooperation going forward is not merely crucial to this endeavor's success, but it's utterly non-negotiable. Should you entertain the moral issue of what's at stake, it's obligatory, even. It's why your refusal comes as such a...genuine surprise. Can't you see?

MR. HOUSE: I'm not a fascist, Agnes--I would never force you. But given the circumstances, I'm entitled, wouldn't you agree, to at least a brief demonstration of my vision? The vision that the platinum chip promises? Victor has surely seen your companion to the presidential suite by now--my other Securitrons can escort you to the basement, where I'm sure you can make a...properly informed decision.

The SECURITRONS close in on AGNES, who screams in protest.

AGNES: No! I said no! I already delivered your chip, I--I killed Benny! I-- I-- ...what do you want with me!?

MR. HOUSE: Haven't you been listening? I want what's best for you--for us. I know it's a lot, but bear with me for one moment longer, and I can assure you--that this is the beginning of something very incredible.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK has dragged the paralyzed TARANTULA back to the entrance of its own burrow.

The TARANTULA HAWK shoves its helpless prey into the hole, and then crawls in after it.

The TARANTULA is not seen again.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #courier six #rose of sharon cassidy #victor #mr. house #agnes sands #ikroah archive #volume 02 #26

[ghost-proofbaby]

TEN MINUTES (a barista!eddie x barista!reader au)

summary: eddie has a bad day, until you show up on your day off. after that, all it takes is ten minutes and the promise of a bagel to make it all better.

warnings: fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns), eddie is being a pessimistic hater (just like me fr), quite a lot of siren vocabulary here ('peak' references the morning rush, 'drive' references the position where you take orders on the drive thru, and 'customer support' is the person who just restocks everything and keeps the store as clean as possible. in simplified terms.)

wc: 4.2k+

the full menu

If anybody asked Eddie, he’d lie through his teeth and say that hate is a strong word. That he isn’t capable of hating anyone; that he only really, strongly dislikes a select few. But no one is really asking Eddie about that right now. So, he can be a hater all he pleases.

There’s nothing wrong with the people he’s opening with. It’s what he tells himself from the moment he wakes up, as he brushes his teeth, as he forces his curls into a half-assed bun and during the entire drive into work. There’s nothing really wrong with the two people. They’re not you — that’s not a crime. 

But he was being a pessimist. Sue him.

“What would you rather open?” Corey, the other barista he was opening with, asks him as they walk into the store. Eddie isn’t even clocked in yet and he’s counting down the hours.

If you were here, there’d already be an unspoken rule that he’d open food and you’d open drive. “Either one.” 

“Cool,” except it’s very much not cool as Corey says, “I’ll open food, then.” 

Fuck me. 

Eddie struggles through the tasks you normally fly through with half lidded eyes and an ache in his bones that he tells himself is just fatigue, but he knows is really him missing you. It’s been there since that day the two of you took the nap in his van, since he’d had the privilege of curling up and unwinding with you. He’s pretty sure the blankets in the back still smell like you, sweet perfume clinging to the material with a vengeance. 

Peak isn’t any better.

Too many people, too many tasks, too many drinks, too many expectations. And not nearly enough clandestine smiles or subtle inside jokes. Not a single bump of a shoulder against his or an adorable little snort when he messes up rather than the well-deserved glare. He’s in a constant frazzled state, opening with the store manager rather than just another shift. Terrified he’s going to fuck up. Terrified that he’s one wrong move away from being fired. Terrified that he’s one ill-timed joke away from being scolded. He hates it; he hates spending his morning so tense and on edge when he’s grown so accustomed to spending them with you. 

He’s in the back doing dishes with his headset beginning to slip off, just after peak when he’d been awarded the mercy of being reassigned to customer support, when he finally heard it — his sweet relief, the first ray of sunshine to break through the stormy clouds of the day.

“Hello, hello!” the annoyingly chipper voice of Corey greets the newest car in the drive thru, “How’s it going this morning?” 

The only person he can stand being so positive is you. Anyone else, and he’s nauseated enough that he has to take actual, dramatic, deep breaths.

“I’m good, how are you?” 

He knows that voice. God, he knows the voice that replies. He’d recognize it anywhere — in sleep, in life, in death. Stronger than any shot of espresso. 

Nicole had just come in, taking over for the store manager. She didn’t even glance up from where she was writing in the books at the back desk as she heard the clatter of the dishes Eddie was holding echo through the backroom, only smiling to herself as she listened to him take off for the window and she says over the headset, “Metalhead incoming.” 

He nearly falls on his ass twice, and scares the shit out of Corey, but it’s worth it when he peers into that small corner of the screen and sees you in your Jeep. Relaxed, smiling knowingly, as if you’re just waiting for him. 

Corey seemingly knows better than to get between Eddie and answering this call, immediately backing off.

He has to catch his breath before he plays it off cool, “You know, most people don’t come to their place of work on their days off.” 

“What can I say? I’m a caffeine fiend.” 

You recognize his voice, too. It had been the one you’d prayed for as you drove up — you’re glad your sore disappointment didn’t last long.

“Yeah? Going into withdrawals not even, what, twenty hours after your last shift?” he teases with the dumbest grin, until the ache in his chest turns to an ache in his cheeks. There’s no room for him to even be embarrassed about how quickly his mood has turned around at your appearance. 

You threw back your head in laughter, and he watched through the camera, “Maybe I just missed you guys.” 

Maybe I just missed you. 

He has to bite back an echo of the sentiment, still smiling wildly as he begins to type in your usual before even asking, “You want your usual?”

“Aw, you know my order, Munson?” your teasing has him blushing. Has something blooming deep within the pit of his stomach that he cherishes, “Cute.” 

He doesn’t reply, only spins on his heels and begins to queue up your shots on the bar that’s closest to the drive thru corner. The current bar partner watches in confusion — he really doesn’t care. He’s not trusting anyone else with your drink. As if he has to make a point to everyone that he’s your friend, that you're his, even outside of these four walls (technically more than four, but Eddie hates technicalities). 

He pauses halfway through pumping your ridiculous choice of syrups you always get, “You pullin’ up or what?” 

Your laughter is cut short as you abide by his request he chose to politely poise as a casual question. The drive thru is in the rare state of empty, and you appear outside of that window rather than merely on the screen immediately, smile still gleaming in the late morning light. 

Just like that, all the hate leaves Eddie’s body.

The automatic window slides open at the motion of Eddie stepping up to it, haphazardly popping the lid onto your drink as he glances up through his lashes, trying to force nonchalance rather than reveal just how giddy he is in your presence. It’s nice. A full breath of relief after the most suffocating of mornings.

“You makin’ me pay or what?” you ask, leaning ever so slightly out your window, voice pitched to clearly mimic Eddie’s. 

With your head leaning out like that, the sun catches your nose ring just right, turning it into a blinding weapon as it blinks at Eddie. It makes your entire face look like it’s sparkling. It kind of reminds him of Twilight.

He kind of hates it. Kind of makes his stomach sick. Kind of makes his chest feel like a fizzy soda can, ready to burst at your command.

“It’s Nicole’s floor,” he shrugs, passing you the cup. Your fingertips brush his, and he tries to pretend like it doesn’t light a fire right through his core, “You already know she’d throw a fit if I made you pay.” 

“And corporate would throw a fit if they knew that-“

“You wanna pay?” Eddie interrupts, squinting at you, picking up the card reader as he threateningly shoves it your way, “Because, by all means, I can take your card right now. Be warned, though. There’ll be a twenty percent tip added automatically.” 

You whistle lowly, setting the cup aside somewhere in your car’s center console before you prop your chin up on your window to stare up at him, “Twenty percent? Have you earned that much today, old man?” 

He promptly points to the mocha splattering his apron, “Absolutely, Sunshine. These coffees don’t drip themselves.” 

You laugh at his nonsense, and he swears he can’t remember what reasons he even had to be in such a sour mood that morning. All his grumbles, all his woes, evaporate at the sound of it. Like a bandaid, like a balm, like an elixir — just under a minute with you, and all his problems have been solved.

Corey runs off to do other tasks, or maybe sit on their phone, Eddie isn’t sure. He doesn’t pay attention as the two of you somehow run off track into a conversation of the errands you spent the morning running. Washing your car, doing laundry (specifically washing your aprons), making a grocery list. He doesn’t get how all those mundane and trivial things can incite such exciting conversation between the two of you, but it does. He loves it — he loves hearing about your day. All your complaints and all the stupid things that get you excited. When you end up on some tangent about how you have never and will never separate your clothes by color because you haven’t ended up with any pink shirts yet, he can only imagine how terribly boring it would all sound to any eavesdroppers. When he laughs a little too loud at your recount of how you struggled to make your own coffee at home this morning, he knows he looks insane. It truly wasn’t that funny; but it was you, and when you started giggling to yourself halfway through the story, it was just infectious.

He spends so long draped halfway out that window, watching your fluttering lashes and pinching his eyes half shut at the reflection of the rising sun bouncing off your vehicle, that his ribs grow sore. A little indent appears on your chin, skin wearing a visible mark from leaning it against your open window all that time. And yet, neither of you make any move to end the conversation, to carry on with your day.

By the time another car pulls up, the window times are atrocious. Downright ridiculous. Probably bad enough to warrant a visit from corporate. 

“I’m not insulting your baking skills, I’m insulting the fact that you just said oatmeal raisin is your favori-”

Eddie is cut off mid-tirade against your comment on your favorite cookie by the shrill ding that signals a car has pulled up to the order box, Corey’s voice following not long after.

“Hello, hello! What can I get started for you today?”

Eddie’s face twists up in disgust he can’t be bothered with hiding, and you bite your lip from bursting into laughter at his reaction. He didn’t like Corey. He didn’t have a good reason to hate them, but he didn’t have a good reason to like them. You always compared him to a feline when he’d explain it, poking fun at his pickiness when it came to which coworkers he would tolerate at best. 

There was a reason that his nickname wasn’t Sunshine. 

A hand comes down on Eddie’s shoulder just as your playful smile falters, and Nicole is practically dragging him out of the window.

 “Okay. I’ve let you two ruin my drive times long enough,” she pauses, still holding back Eddie as though he might leap back into the window when she lets go of him. Her eyes narrow on you, “And you. I love you, but please, get the Hell out of my drive thru.” 

A snort leaves you, “Fair enough. What are the times looking like?”

“Bad,” Nicole says flatly, “Very, very bad. So please, for the love of God, go.” 

Eddie sneaks a glance up at the screen displaying the stats, and his eyes bulge immediately. You’d been sitting at the window for ten goddamn minutes. It wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, the two of you had wasted far more time when on the floor together, but most people would spend less than two minutes there. 

Nicole was going to kill him.

But it was worth it. He doesn’t care, isn’t worried about the lectures from Nicole or the shady comments that will surely be made by management regarding times and this random jump in the recap. All that matters to him is that the weight in his chest is a little lighter, that the noise in his head has gone a little quieter. 

Nicole glances back at him and then you, and only sighs deeply, resembling a disappointed parent, “He literally gets off in five minutes. Just go park and wait for him if you really want to spend an unreasonable amount of time debating cookies.” 

Your eyebrows lift, and you look right past the most relaxed of the shift leads to stare right at him. Eyes gleaming, smile brightening. 

Yeah, the weight in his chest didn’t even exist now. 

“See you in five,” is all you say before your car jerks forward, and is quickly replaced by an actual customer. 

He doesn’t believe you’ll be waiting. Spends his final five minutes offering to help Nicole however he can, which she just scoffs at and waves him off, giving him the pity task of ‘wiping down everything’ before he clocks out. There’s a shocking lack of a lecture, and he doesn’t notice it, but everyone continues to side glance at him as he walks with a little pep in his step. 

They can all see it. Even if he can’t, even if you can’t, they can. 

The end of his shift arrives, the counters are clean, and Eddie nearly launches the wet rag he was using to wipe everything across the store into the bucket of sanitizer. Tosses it hard enough to splash some of that murky water that desperately needs to be changed anew onto Nicole’s sneakers, gets a joking glare from her out of it. It doesn’t phase him; he’s got one thing on his mind, and it’s you. You, who he really hopes is still waiting outside the store for him. You, who he is begging the Universe to have stayed around and parked your car so he could have ten more minutes. 

Ten more minutes. If anyone in Hawkins knew he’d been reduced to begging for ten more measly minutes with some coworker at a coffee shop gig he claimed to hate, they’d mock him endlessly. 

“Don’t trip over yourself on your way out,” Nicole teases him as he stumbles up to the counter and begins to clock out on the iPad, fumbling with typing his employee numbers in correctly twice before the screen that lets him finally free himself of his shift pops up.

“Ha, ha,” he monotonously replies, brows furrowed deeply until the virtual time card officially reads that his shift has properly ended. He doesn’t even glance up at Nicole. His mind can’t register her words or poking fun. 

Just you. You, who made the weight of his existence something bearable. You, who could make ten minutes feel like ten seconds.  

You, who’s standing in the parking lot, leaning against the driver’s door of your car, arms crossed and lips fighting their widest grin yet.

“Took you long enough,” you comment as he crosses the asphalt in record time, feet beating against the ground beneath him in a pace just shy of breaking into a jog.

“It took forever for the iPad to load,” he tries to excuse himself, chest heaving not from his speed but the anticipation of being close to you again, “I think Nicole rigged it as revenge.” 

“Ah, yes, the sweet revenge of a whole two extra minutes-”

Your sarcasm is cut short by him reaching out and yanking you towards him. You collide roughly with his torso as he squeezes his arms around you, nose instantly burrowed into soft hair that still smells like your shampoo. It took even him by surprise; to be so careless, so driven by touch that he wasn’t even sure you’d accept.

But you do. You accept it, pressing your temple against his sternum without missing a beat, arms struggling to release from where he’d trapped them in front of your own chest so that they could wrap around his waist to return the tight squeeze. You all but melt into his embrace, and he’s glad he didn’t overthink it this time. 

He had missed this. Ever since that afternoon in his van, with the rain and the unspoken words, he had missed you. 

“Rough day?” you mumble against the fabric of his work shirt, still reeking of coffee and probably a bit of sweat. 

He tries to ignore any embarrassment at the thought of smelling gross as he nods, “So rough. I hate when Corey is on drive. Too positive.”

“Yet you love when I’m on drive?” your laugh echoes, vibrating against his bones, “They are not that bad.”

“They’re fucking terrible. I hate how cheery they are. Also, it’s so annoying when they try to joke how we’re busy, or just joke in general-”

“Edward Munson, you are the world’s most pessimistic barista.” 

He loves the sound of his name on your tongue. He’s never heard those syllables pronounced so beautifully, so lovingly. Every restless component of his body settles, and when you finally start to peel away from him, he nearly holds you tighter. 

He should hug you more often. 

“I can’t help that people are annoying. Maybe if they weren’t, I’d be less pessimistic,” he mutters, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. 

Home. You were starting to feel like home, and he couldn’t begin to understand it. Miles away from the trailer, from Wayne and his ridiculous mug collection, from the sanctuary of his bedroom, and he managed to feel more at peace than he’d felt in years. 

You’re shaking your head, blissfully unaware of the effect you had, “You say that about everyone.”

“Everyone but you.” 

It was true. Everyone – classmates he’d left in the dust after graduation, his loyal friends, his passionate bandmates – found a way to annoy him at some point. It was fine; he could live with the little habits of others that irked him when he loved them enough. A fair trade off if it meant filling his life full of people that made it something worthwhile. But there was no trade, no catch, when it came to you. He was still sort of waiting for that other shoe to drop. 

“Is that a challenge?” you take a step back, and he almost follows, like a lost puppy, “Because I can totally start trying to find ways to annoy you. I’ve just been playing nice these last few months.” 

Funny how the months had flown by like mere weeks, and still managed to feel like years. It almost feels as though he’s known you since he was a child, like you were a residual comfort of his youth he’d managed to carry with him into adulthood. 

He can’t say that, though. He can’t risk scaring you off, or scaring himself away. Maybe he would tell you all the ways his soul has started to yearn for you, all the ways you bring a tranquility in his life he’d spent far too long seeking out, only to find it in the most unexpected and inconvenient circumstances. Maybe those words will just tumble out some day. On a sunny day, or a stormy one. Hell, it might even be the day he finally calls Mordor as you had done days before. 

“Try all you want,” he shrugs, shoving his hands into his jean pockets, avoiding fumbling with them like some foreign objects, “But I’m pretty sure that’ll be impossible.” 

You tsk, “No, see, this is the part where you tease me about how if that was me playing nice, you’d hate to see my mean, or some dumb shit. I didn’t wait a full seven minutes for you to not know our script, Munson.” 

“Sorry, some of us didn’t take a class on quick wit,” he rolls his eyes, but his cheeks still ache where his dimples rest. Ever present indents when he was around you, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” 

He’s being brave. Sticking his neck out and handing you a knife. You could cut him down, tell him you’ve got too many errands to run still to spend any more time with him as he was implying. Or, you could do the opposite.

It should be predictable at this point, but it isn’t.

Your eyes widen as you tilt his head curiously at him, “I… Nothing important. Why?” 

You’re gonna make him say it. Force him to ask for your time outright. 

“I don’t know, I was just thinking…” he sheepishly starts, simultaneously lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck as he nods to your empty passenger seat, “Maybe you’d… I mean, you might want some company? If not, I totally get it, but errands can get lonely and-”

“Yes.”

“-I know it’s just nice to-” he stops mid sentence, looking up at your sunny disposition as he processes what you’ve just said, “Wait, did you just say yes?”

“Yes,” you repeat, “I would love for you to join me for my boring errands, Eddie,” The excitement nearly consumes him, the realization that the two of you were finally going to hang out away from work. Something he’s worked towards for months, daydreamed about for more nights than he will ever admit. All those long mornings are coming to fruition. Ten more minutes, and then some. “On two conditions.”

“Oh?” he asks, voice squeaking the tiniest bit. If it were anyone else, he might have been ashamed of that stupid crack in his dialect, “Do tell me these conditions.”

“One,” you hold up a stern finger, putting on the most serious face you could muster, “I pick the music.”

He pretends to ponder it, but he already knows his answer. “I suppose I can allow it. What’s the other one?” 

Your hand falls slowly, dropping all your serious demeanor inch by inch. You were smiling with your eyes – he hadn’t thought that was possible until he met you, and fell in infatuation with those ever present creases at the corners of yours. The way they lift your cheeks, the way they make your irises sparkle. He thinks the term was actually invented for you and only you. 

“You buy me a bagel.”

Your face is full of mischief, but your tone is dead serious. It doesn’t matter, because you don’t have to sell him on the idea. He’s done pretending he’s not desperate for your time, for ten more minutes. 

“Done,” he says, “As a matter of fact, I’ll buy you twenty bagels to save me from my boredom.” 

“Slow down there, passenger princess,” you shake your head, “I only need one. You’re absolutely welcome to order yourself nineteen, though. But you’ve gotta vacuum up any crumbs you leave in my ca-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stops you, waving his hand, “Got it. You choose the music, I buy you a bagel, I don’t leave behind any crumbs. Let’s go.”

You raise your hand, beginning to jingle your keys jokingly between the two of you, but Eddie is already rounding the front of your Jeep to get to the passenger door. “I didn’t even say where we’re going, old man!”

“Didn’t need to, Sunshine,” he calls out, grabbing at the still locked handle and tugging for emphasis. It earns a glare from you that makes all his insides twist in bliss, “Unlock this obnoxious ass yellow death trap on wheels so we can make it to the nearest bagel shop while they’re still fresh.” 

“It is not a deathtrap,” you argue as you unlock your door first, hopping in and having to lean over to manually unlock his door. The moment it swings open, you’re still leaning over, settling your gaze on him, “And I happen to like the yellow, thank you very much.” 

He’d never tell you, but he does too. It’s the most migraine-inducing shade he’s ever laid eyes on. He would never even consider buying a car for himself in the same color, and would mock any other driver on the road for it. But it was you – bright, vibrant, impossible to miss. 

“You’ve got bad taste,” he says just for the sake of watching your faux annoyance, “Yellow’s the ugliest color.” 

“And metal’s the most annoying genre.” 

You’re both lying through your teeth. It doesn’t matter. 

Because then he’s in your passenger seat, buckling up as you turn your key in the ignition, whatever upbeat songs you’d been listening to before begin to trickle out of the speakers, and everything just feels right. His shitty morning is forgotten entirely. As if it never happened. As if Corey hadn’t given him the worst headache of his life before you’d arrived. 

When you turn your head to look at him, moving to turn down the music, you ask, “The nearest bagel shop is about ten minutes away. Is that okay?” 

More than okay. It meant he gets more than just ten minutes. It means he gets more of your time than he’s deserving of, gets to watch you sing along to at least two songs he’s never heard of and would have no desire listening to when not with you, gets to feel a little more weightless a little bit longer. 

Thank you, Universe, he mentally whispers at his wish of ten more minutes being granted, and then some. 

“Perfect.” 

You turn the music back up, lurch the car forward, and Eddie smiles when the sun catches that damn nose ring in a blinding manner yet again. 

Perfect, indeed.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @@loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills

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#ghost's writing #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #barista eddie munson #eddie munson fic #coffee shop blues

[wannab-urs]

Eat You Whole

Pairing: Dave York x F!Reader

Summary: An interplay between violence and love OR Dave shows up at your door looking half dead. WC: ~1400

Image disclaimer: The header is not meant to represent reader in any physical way. It’s more about the whole idea of dipping your tongue into a blood red fruit that has been cracked wide open. 

Content/Warnings: Love as violence; smidge of love as consumption; technically minor offscreen character death – not described in the slightest; Dave is severely injured and the injuries are described; aggressive kissing, blood, oral m!receiving (facefucking), hair pulling (reader has hair), pain kink, crying, spit/drool, rough sex, dom!dave kinda, no prep for reader, unprotected PIV (do better), creampie, reader and dave hit each other (but like sexually), marking, treatment of injuries. No use of Y/N. 

A/N: I really am blown away by the response to Ouroboros and was very inspired to continue the story due to your lovely comments! Technically can be a standalone. See endnotes for timeline explanation. Thanks to @beskarandblasters, @atinylittlepain, @idolatrybarbie, @theywhowriteandknowthings, and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for letting me bounce ideas off you and sorry Kel, you got outvoted <3

Dave York Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

If you must die, I’ll envy even the earth that wraps your body –Albert Camus

I even wanted to bruise him, so that he would not be able to forget me –Françoise Sagan

You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it. Kiss me hard enough to invert me –Yves Olade

He’s at the door. You know it’s him though it’s been 9 days since the last. Skin mottled more yellow than purple, torn flesh knitted back together, barely anything left of him on you now. 

He’s a lot worse off than you’d done to him. A bandage haphazardly wrapped around his head, covering his left eye and what you can see of his face swollen and bruised beyond recognition. 

You dance fingertips over his cheek bone where vibrant fuschia and buttercup yellow marr normally golden skin. He flinches away from you. Split lip, swollen, still a shine of deep red in the cut, curling into a snarl. 

You pull him inside by his shirt collar, kick the door shut. You’re furious. Sure hands sliding under his shirt, he grits his teeth as you pull it over his head. Now shaking hands trace the edges of a soaked gauze strip taped to wine stained ribs and he whimpers. Winces and trembles in a way you’ve never been privy to. He’s always taken stinging palms, digging claws, sinking teeth with little more than a growl. He’s never shown you his pain this blatantly before. 

And it terrifies you. His job has always existed as an abstract concept, something that maybe explains his bent toward brutality, but not something you talked about. The battered state of the man in front of you rips whatever wool had covered your eyes away and it is devastating. 

You could lose him. Nearly did. And you’d never have known what happened. This man who is both everything and nothing to you could be swept away with the ocean tide and you’d be left adrift. Wondering. 

You press a kiss to his collarbone. Soft. Maybe softer than you have ever touched him before. Certainly with more care. His breath is shuddering as he wraps his arms around you, cradling you to his chest. You’re afraid to lean into him for fear of breaking him – this man you thought invincible not two minutes ago. 

“Touch me, god damnit,” his voice rough as though he’d been screaming. Maybe he had. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, David.” You say it into his chest. Forehead just barely grazing the skin there. 

“Since when?” He grips you tighter, pulls you into him. His breath leaves his mouth in a huff like you gut punched him, but you feel his cock twitch against you. 

Sick fuck. You unbuckle his belt and stuff your hand down his pants. He’s achingly hard, leaking into his boxers. He fists your hair in both hands and drags your mouth to his. You taste iron as you lick into his mouth, bite down on his already split lip. 

You swallow his groans, you want to swallow him whole so that he can never come so close to leaving you again. Your fingertips dig in between his ribs reclaiming the flesh there. He is yours to tear apart, to put back together, and to dismantle all over again. Yours. 

Your lips drag down sucking your claim into his neck, his shoulder, his chest. You sink to the floor, drag his pants down with you so his cock springs out. You have to have him in your mouth. It’s a desperation bordering on delirium. You take him down to the very root.

Hands still fisted in your hair, he drags you off him only to thrust back in. No care for your need to breathe or the bruises he batters into your soft palate and no care for your teeth clipping his cock. Tears stream down your face unchecked meeting drool spilling from the corners of your lips and settling in the hollow of your throat. 

You think you could come like this, with him taking your throat and your hands wrapped around his thighs egging him on. He jerks you off of him with a guttural, almost primal yell, throwing you to the floor. He drops to his knees in front of your sprawled form.

“Take your clothes off.” Dominant even in such a supplicant pose, even when his features are etched with pain, his shoulders hunched as if to ward it off. You tear your shirt off, shorts and utterly soaked panties quickly following. 

He surges forward, sheathes himself inside you, and oh it hurts. He has torn you open and spilled your guts on the floor. Your wetness does little to ease the feeling of being split open like this. You bring your hands to his face, press your thumbs into his purpling cheek bones in retaliation. 

The snarl he lets out is feral, animal, but he crashes his lips into yours. He snaps his hips into you again and again, your moans and his broken, strangled cries mingling on your tongues. You drive a knee into his ribcage and he screams, rears back and slaps you across the face. You come instantly, writhing beneath him on the floor as your cunt seizes around him. His hips stutter to a stop as he comes deep inside you. He falls into you, covering and filling you completely. 

After an eternity or only a moment he slides off of you, not recoiling in his usual manner. His body still touches yours, legs tangled, his arm across your torso. He must have bled through the bandage on his ribs, your skin smeared red below his arm. 

“What happened to you, Dave?” Now he recoils. Rolls completely away from you and sits up, his back to you. You have to know. It’s burning you up inside. The fear. You crawl to him on your hands and knees. Tentatively, for fear of him running away, you reach out. Let your hand rest on his shoulder. When he doesn’t flinch away you run your fingers up his neck, into his hair, onto the bandage. 

You start to unwind it and he sits, statuesque, facing away. The fabric falls to the floor and he turns to look at you. There’s an empty space where his left eye should be. Crusted blood like smeared mascara below the gaping wound of his eye socket. 

“Fuck.” You whisper it before you can stop yourself. It’s grotesque. Brutalist.  

He jerks his head back around to face the wall, but you grip his chin and pull him back to you. You press the barest kiss to his left brow. “Will this happen again?” He shakes his head minutely. Whatever threat caused this has been dealt with. You feel like you can breathe for the first time since he showed up at your door.

Another gentle kiss. You’ve never been gentle with him or he with you. It puts a crack through your chest, the way his one brown eye clouds with something like longing.

You let go of his face and he drops his head into his hands. You stand and go to your bathroom. You do not stop to take stock of your marked skin in the mirror this time. Instead, you collect gauze, medical tape, bandages, rubbing alcohol, a needle and thread. 

This is not the first time you’ve needed it. Not when the darkest parts of you slither out to meet the darkest parts of Dave and you rend flesh from each other’s bodies. And this is not the first time Dave has shown up with the remnants of a job still on him. 

You kneel between his bent knees, peel the ruined bandage from his skin. You brush your lips down his chest and over the gaping chasm between his ribs.  His breath hitches in his throat. He slips a hand into your hair and pulls your mouth to his. Licks blood you for once did not draw yourself off your lips. No teeth clacking, biting, tearing – soft and plush lips pressed firm over yours. 

You clean the blood from his wounds. Rewrap his eye. Stitch the skin of his ribs while he grinds his teeth, a whimper falling out from behind closed lips. Another press of lips over new gauze.

When you’re finished you stand and tug his hair til he stands too. You kiss him softly before crossing the room and crawling into bed. 

He looks up at the ceiling and takes two deep breaths, taps his fingers on his thigh, and then he joins you. 

–------

Timeline notes: I’ve done some timeline fuckery. In Ouroboros, Robert has already loaded up Carol and the kids and taken them off to some safe house a few months before. Dave meets reader after that. This installment takes place after what is his SPOILER [Death Scene] in the movie, but he wins the fight. Barely. Robert meets the same fate that Dave did in the movie. 

Tagging people who seemed to like the first one! 

@pr0ximamidnight @gasolinerainbowpuddles @bonezone44 @catchallfangirl @heareball @cool-iguana @youmeand5bucks @morallyinept @janaispunk @ireallyreallylikeyourwriting @sin-djarin @toxicanonymity @rootytootyvoodooty @blackfemalenerd @axshadows @heavennumber2 @pedrostories

#Dave York #Dave York fics #Dave York fanfiction #Dave York x reader #Dave York x f!reader #Dave York x you #Equalizer 2 #Equalizer 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[viviseawrites]

you know those words you read but never hear so you make up the way they sound based on how you read them? (for instance, stobin, apparently.) have a pre-season 4 pre-relationship steddie thread about one such word:

steve and eddie don’t exactly hang out, but they get along for the kids’ sake. steve waves from his car when he picks the boys up after hellfire; eddie gives steve a nod when he passes in front of family video to meet dustin at the arcade.

slowly, they graduate to the bare bones of conversation:

“hey.”

“how’s it going?”

“can’t complain. you?”

“same here.”

“yeah. alright, see ya around.”

it changes when dustin invites both of them to his birthday party. steve shows up with robin, and eddie shows up alone, intending to say his hellos and bail. but they get trapped at the snack table by mrs. henderson.

claudia thanks them both profusely for watching out for the kids. they side-eye each other, both embarrassed and simultaneously proud, both a little skeptical even as they try to placate her.

“it’s nothing, mrs. henderson. he’s a good kid.”

“yeah, of course, claudia. it’s not a big deal.”

“no, no, you’ve both done so much!” she insists, pulling them each into a warm hug.

she toddles off after a while to take pictures, and they awkwardly glance at each other until finally eddie breaks the silence. “so, what’s she so grateful to you for?”

steve shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “dustin’s been through some stuff. honestly, i was just kinda there for most of it, but she refuses to believe that.”

“hmm,” eddie says. they fall quiet again, but eddie’s still thinking about it, his plans for leaving forgotten in favor of curiosity. because that feels like a half-truth. “i mean,” he says, catching steve’s eye, “henderson talks you up a lot himself.”

steve looks startled, a flush rising in his cheeks. he scrubs his fingers through his hair, glancing away. “oh.”

“yeah. soooo… what gives? what did steeeeve harrington do to impress the dorkiest, nerdiest kid i’ve ever known?”

steve snorts, then realizes he can’t actually explain. “uh.” he scans the room for robin, hoping she can bail him out, but she and max are kicking a soccer ball at the boys while they yell about it. fuck. hopefully dustin catches onto the lie if eddie ever asks him about it. “a couple years ago, i tried to help dustin find his missing cat, and we got cornered by a… pack of… uh, feral dogs? and—”

eddie snorts and quickly covers his mouth with his hand. steve stares at him. eddie flails a little, helpless, and finally says, “sorry, it’s just. did you say FEARAL?”

steve blinks. “yeah, like wild?”

“it’s feral,” eddie says.

steve thinks about it, then shakes his head. he’s pretty sure about it. “nah, because they’re so crazy they strike fear into you, right? so it sounds like fearal?”

now eddie has to think about it, because that kind of makes sense in a weird way. but no. “yeah, dude, it’s feral, like the fair. so, feral dogs.”

“huh.” he considers this, then shakes his head and crosses his arms like he’s disappointed. “well, that’s stupid,” steve mutters. “fearal sounds better than fairal.”

eddie feels a flash of fondness, against his will. he grins and hides it behind a strand of hair. god, is steve harrington, a douchey but hot ex-jock babysitter, actually cute? the world is so unfair.

he decides then and there to start having real conversations with steve whenever he can, just to see what other adorable slip-ups he might make. because ohhh yeah. eddie is screwed.

#vivisea writes #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #i definitely don't pronounce it fearal. anymore. #fun fact: my mom once said penelope as 'pen-eh-lope' #as in rhyming with cantaloupe #so it runs in the family i guess #stranger things #originally a twitter thread

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!Eddie (part 3)

part 1 here | part 2 here | ao3 link here | the temp is up on this one so like... dni if under 18 pls

Eddie is a superstitious person, always has been. Avoids cracks in the sidewalk, refuses to walk under ladders. Says ‘bless you’ despite his lack of goddamn faith (well… scratch the god, keep the damn). That’s why, when Eddie wakes up at 11:11 that morning, he takes it as a sign. A good one too.

Okay yeah, it’s a little gross that he didn’t wake up until now. But he spent most of the night tossing and turning. A thirstfest visual loop of Steve Harrington jerking it to him. Or just his voice. Maybe both, but Eddie would be a conceited fuck if he were to ask for clarity on Steve’s preferred fantasies.

Look, he makes a lot of digs about his appearance because it’s harmless fun. In reality, Eddie is aware that he’s not an un-attractive person. Could he put a little more effort into his skincare routine so that it doesn’t peel off of him anytime he’s in direct sunlight? Sure. But his features are decent enough to get him matches on that dating app he used for exactly four days before deleting. 

Steve, though… Steve is something conjured up by a young adult novelist - creating the dreamiest boytoy for the angsty yet endearing protagonist. Steve is that. He’s something from a fictional world of hotness. And somehow, he exists beyond coffee-stained manuscripts and bestseller lists.

He’s real. And Eddie Munson has a fucking date with him in exactly eight hours.

Holy shit.

It takes two hours for Eddie to decide on an outfit. He facetimes his audio engineer/closest friend after the first hour, because his room is starting to look like an M. Night Shyamalan adaptation of Grey Gardens. 

“Show me the jean options again.” Chrissy’s tone is all business, staring intently on the other side of the phone screen. 

They met at an escape room right outside of the city. After setting a record-breaking time at that location, they got to chatting and quickly discovered they were both in the audio production business. 

Each of them lives the freelance lifestyle now. Highly ideal for their competitive escape room fixation.

Eddie holds up the three pairs of jeans. One pair is his favorite, well-worn and loose around his thighs, just how he likes them. The other two, are pairs that Chrissy bought for him last Christmas.

Lets just say… he only wears those when she’s offering to pay for dinner on their weekly hangouts. 

She hums for a while, twisting her mouth side to side before speaking again. “The dark blue with the gray crew neck. Final answer.”

“These?” Eddie holds the skinny jeans up to his hip bones. He tugs on the waistband to show how very little movement will be possible in these pants. “My dick cannot breathe in these, Chris. It’s like you want me to embarrass myself on this date.”

“I’m doing you a favor.” She shrugs, concealing a smirk behind her water bottle as she takes a sip. “Those pants are so snug, he’ll have no choice but to get you out of them as soon as possible.”

“Are you insinuating that I put out on the first date?

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

“I’m insinuating you put it in on the first date.”

“How dare you.” Eddie points at his phone screen. Sucks in his laughter because yeah. Props. That was a good one. He can’t admit that though because no part of him wants to wear these boa constrictor jeans.

“You were just telling me how you fucked him with your words last night.”

“Fair. But I also explained that I was clearly possessed by the spirit of Blanche Devereaux.” Eddie slips out of his lounge tee, pulls over the one Chrissy picked out for him instead. “I swear, that woman had quite the knack for dirty lingo.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes and gives Eddie a halfhearted salute. “And that’s my exit cue.”

“What? Why?”

“Because anytime you bring up Golden Girls, we start arguing over who would play them in the gender-swapped remake.”

Wrong. Totally false. There’s absolutely no argument to be had. Eddie knows exactly who he’d cast right off the top of his head. Joe Pesci, Michael Caine…

Chrissy must see the gears turning in Eddie’s head because she hangs up before he can launch into his well-rehearsed presentation. Which isn’t a joke, he has a PowerPoint on this particular topic (with cited sources and fancy transitions).

Eddie does one last glance in the mirror before heading out. The pants make his waist look slender, nice. His skin is being squeezed in too many areas, but that’s kind of the point. At least the shirt is loose, albeit a little short. Reveals a patch of his lower tattoos every time he lifts his shoulders.

Okay damn, Chrissy probably knew that too. Maybe she’s the one possessed by the horny spirit of Blanche Devereaux. 

Spiritual possession or not, Eddie ruffles out his bangs one last time. Heads out feeling much more confident than he did after his initial interaction with Steve Harrington.

Eddie agrees to pick Steve up at his last photoshoot of the day. It’s close to his side of town, which means he doesn’t have to fight his way through LA traffic. 

A good sign sent from his lucky wake-up time, no doubt.

He doesn’t expect the photoshoot to be at an amphitheater, but it is. A small one, probably only used for local productions. There’re cameras lining the outer rim of the stage, shuttering and flashing like headlights on a highway. Eddie can hear the director and photographers spewing directions from his car. There’s an audience of producers and crew members, seems like a big fucking deal by the looks of it.

The set is, well, breathtaking - way better than that knockoff fantasy shit from the cologne ad. It’s full of greenery. Trees swaying with the breeze and ivy carpeting the stage floor. A forest that’s almost too beautiful to be synthetic. Eddie wonders if any of the plants are real or if the props department was just that damn good at finding fake ones.

After a few minutes, he checks the time. The shoot is running long. No biggie - Eddie is enjoying the view anyways. Especially, when he finally spots Steve. The view is exceptionally priceless now.

Steve perched on top of a tree trunk, feeding some other model grapes. The dark and stupidly jealous part of Eddie hopes they choke on those grapes. 

His costume almost blends in with the backdrop, dark hues of green. Subtle shades of browns. Perfectly camouflaged by nature. There are vines wrapped around his bare arms, leaves tucked into his tousled hair. 

Honestly, he looks a lot like a wood nymph that Eddie would selfishly design for a DnD campaign. Better, actually. Eddie should take notes. Steal the designer's sketches when nobody's looking.

He’s positively itching to get out of his car, get a closer look at Steve in all his botanical glory. But that might come across as too impatient. Or worse, too presumptuous. So Eddie picks one of his lengthier playlists and settles into his seat.

There’s a tap on Eddie’s window, startling him out of his nap. He must’ve dozed off about twenty minutes ago because the last song he remembers listening to was from the mid-90s section of the playlist. Now, they’ve moved into early 2000s territory.

Seriously, math is way easier when music is leading the equation.

Steve is right there, peering in, still tapping incessantly. His eyes are wide, concerned maybe. Which, yeah. Concern makes sense, considering his date is yawning before the date has even started. Fucking yikes.

Eddie rolls down the window, gives Steve a toothy grin as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Heya, FernGully.”

Steve doesn’t acknowledge Eddie’s costuming reference. Probably missed out on that era of cult classic cartoons. “Up late?” He leans against the car and smiles, far more dazzling than the sun setting behind him.

“You would know.”

Oh, and that earns Eddie a wink from Steve. The nun-converting wink he saw months ago and still thinks about.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Steve reaches into the empty space, pushes the latch down to unlock the front door. “Come on.”

“Uh-”

“I’ve gotta change before we head out.” Steve swings the door open before Eddie can protest.  “Unless you want to have dinner with me dressed like this.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

If there were a Renaissance Festival in town or a Medieval Dinner Show still in business, Eddie would definitely trick his way into getting Steve to go dressed like that. But he tucks the idea away for now, walks down the hill with Steve to the amphitheater. Does his best impression of a civilized human.

“So… what are you supposed to be exactly?”

Steve points to the body glitter on his cheeks. “A fairy.”

Yup. A new file of woodland fantasies starring Steve Fairyington have downloaded into Eddie’s mind. If voice acting didn’t pay so well, he could make an impressive career out of his whimsical porn concepts.

So he deflects. Humor is the only solution to keep the conversation PG-rated. “Just because you’re into guys doesn’t mean you’ve gotta use outdated terms like that.”

“You know what I mean.” Steve knocks an elbow into Eddie’s arm. “I’m a literal fairy.”

“Are you implying that literal fairies exist?” Eddie teases.

“No.”

“Seems like it.”

“Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”

“I can tone it down.”

Steve stops walking, places a hand in the center of Eddie’s chest to stop him too. His playful energy fucking warps into something new. Savory and seductive. Bewitching.

“Don’t even think about it.” He answers, slipping his hand down a little, almost between Eddie’s ribs. The motion sends static through Eddie’s core, up his spine. Raises the hairs on his arm and the back of his neck.

It shouldn’t be alarming that Steve’s touch is powerful. Look at him. 

Eddie has a hard time focusing on the conversation after that. Luckily, the timing works out for him to get his shit together, as Steve heads into the trailer that's parked next to the stage.

He tells Eddie he can take a closer look at the set that he suddenly can’t seem to shut up about. It really is stunning. The size, the details, the color choices. Eddie is fairly certain this is the closest he’ll ever be to experiencing Endor in real life.

Most of the crew members are gone, a few still packing up equipment while Eddie observes a variety of plants used for decorating the wooden platforms. Learns that some plants are real and some are fake, which is actually genius. The mixture of the two distract from the plastic-y finish on some of the vines.

“This is for a special-edition cover of some Shakespeare script.” Steve says, joining Eddie at his side. His outfit is rather colorful. It checks out that he's one of the few people that can pull off a purposeful athleisure aesthetic (Eddie hates that he knows what that style looks like, ugh). “Hence the fairies and forests and shit.”

“Wait.” A lightbulb goes off in Eddie’s head. “Is this for A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“That’s the one.”

Eddie does a sharp turn, starts shaking Steve by his shoulders. Absolutely bursting with excitement. “Steve literal fairy Harrington, this is ridiculously cool! Like… the history-making kind of cool!”

“If you say so.” Steve agrees calmly.

“How the hell are you not more jazzed about this?”

“You sound just like my manager.” Steve mumbles. “Truth be told, the only Shakespeare play I’ve ever read is Macbeth.”

Eddie gasps, sucks in enough air to fill an inflatable kiddie pool. “We’re on a stage, you can’t just blurt out the Scottish Play like that.”

This is not good. Horrible, even. Not a damn chance that Eddie can be mellow about this. Superstitious person, believer of traditions, blah blah blah. 

And while hiding that piece of his personality should be a simple task, he cannot blatantly ignore such a major fuckup on Steve’s part. No matter how accidental of a fuckup it might have been.

“Okay, what are you talking about?” Steve asks. Still calm. 

“It’s bad luck.” Eddie explains. “The closest thing to cursing a theatrical production.”

“Well, good thing this isn’t a theatrical production then.”

And as Steve laughs off the thoughtless joke, a loud thud is heard at the back of the stage. 

There it is. A warning of impending doom in the form of a loose stage light, hanging by a few loose wires. 

Almost everyone is gone, only two crew members remain on the sidelines. One of them gets on their walkie talkie, mumbles something about a safety hazard incident.

Pfft, not just an incident. A fucking threat from the ghost of theater, that’s what it is.

“See?” Eddie waves both arms at the light structure swinging upstage. “You’ve pissed off Thespis with your loose lips.”

“Who?”

“Oh my god, you’re so-” 

A high-pitched scream cries out from a nearby street. Both Steve and Eddie jump at the sound. It’s a long, frightening scream. Something straight out of a slasher film, which is a likely possibility, for sure. Things are filmed out on the streets of Los Angeles quite a bit.

But the fear ringing out from this particular scream sounds real. Gritty and hoarse.

Fucking terrifying. 

Once the screaming stops, no sign of returning, they share a look. It’s not an ‘I’m gonna jump your bones’ look either. It’s awkward. A fine line between guilt and ‘I told you so.’

“That was just a coincidence.” Steve waves off the scream like it’s just a daily occurrence. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Curses aren’t real.”

Eddie doesn’t want to shout ‘you’re wrong’ from his metaphorical megaphone. Not on a first date, at least. Outright dogmatic behavior shouldn’t come into play until like… the end of the third date.

All he can do is shrug, swallow back the urge to correct this beautiful person standing beside him.

He’s so rigid now, almost timid from the lingering anxiety that more freaky shit is about to happen. 

“Come here.” Steve motions his head to the side, peering softly at Eddie’s expression. His shoulders are relaxed, arms reaching out for Eddie to follow. Join him.

Which he does. Can’t help it. Fully dazed by Steve’s patience, legs moving without a chance to reconsider.

“Wanna get out of here?” Steve thumbs over Eddie’s cheek, skims his nail against the scratchy bits of stubble along Eddie’s jaw. His movements are slow, precise. Only a smidge of pity in his smile. 

Yup. That’s what this must be - Steve probably thinks Eddie is being dramatic. Must assume he can smooth over Eddie’s knotted nerves by just touching him. Tracing hypnotic patterns over his skin.

Eddie is mildly irritated that it’s working. If he can’t find the strength to look away from Steve’s sunny-tinted eyes soon, he’ll float away. Slip through the air as particles. Dust. Nothing but his slutty wishes will remain.

“Not yet.” Eddie gulps.

“No?”

He can’t in good conscience let this theater stay plagued by Steve’s words. This place is on verge of being the location for a Final Destination sequel.

So Eddie removes Steve's hand from his face, squeezes once before returning it back to Steve’s side. “Gotta reverse the fuck out this bad omen first.”

“There’s no such thing as-”

“Don’t.” He pleads. “Put my superstitious mind at ease. Can you do that for me?”

Steve at least has the decency to look away while he rolls his eyes. Pretty and considerate. “Fine. How do I break the curse?”

Eddie has spent enough time in theaters to know there’s a few variations on this process. Changes from director to director. The most common one is going outside and spinning in a circle three times, then knocking on the door till someone lets you back inside.

But that’s where the problem comes in. They’re already outside and there’s no door to knock on, while pleading for forgiveness.

Hmm…

It’s a good thing Eddie remembers a few adjustments to the protocol. It’s an even better thing that he was captain of his improv troupe for three years back in college. Thinking of solutions on the spur of the moment? Adapting for the sake of the scene? Eddie lives for that shit. Comedy fucking chameleon, that’s him.

And what’s better than all of that? His leftover luck from waking up at 11:11am.

Guess it pays off to be a superstitious person. Sometimes.

Eddie clears his throat, delivers the instructions with a southern drawl. Fucks around with it because he can. “So first, you have to walk around the theater three times.”

“Okay.”

“Backwards.” That’s definitely not part of the procedure, but oh well. Steve doesn’t have to know that.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fuck that.”

“Sorry. I don’t make the rules, gorgeous.”

Except he does make the rules. Currently having way too much fun watching Steve squirm at the stupidity of it all. He’s quickly learning how easy it is to push Steve’s buttons. That shouldn’t be so thrilling for him but whoops. It is.

“Whatever.” Steve kicks a piece of gravel off the stage and sighs. “Then what?”

So he wants more? Eddie can do that. “You have spit on the ground to show your remorse.” 

“This is a bunch of shit.”

“I said spit, not shit.” Eddie leans into Steve’s ear, uses his studio voice, watches as Steve turns pink all over. He lowers the volume down to a whisper. “Try to keep up.”

“Asshole.” But there’s a grin plastered all over Steve’s face as he grumbles. Eddie’s chest is fizzing, total carbonated��joy inside him knowing that Steve is a vicious little monster, just like him.

He shoos Steve off to complete the reversal process. Sits on the edge of the stage, legs dangling over the rim, fingers fidgeting with a thread on his jeans.

He’s so smug, watching the prettiest boy on the planet become the grumpiest goofball. Steve might look like an angel, but he has the aura of a full-bred Pomeranian left in the rain.

“I’m making a new rule!” Steve shouts from the back of the theater. 

“How ambitious of you!”

Eddie swears he can hear Steve growling in response, which fuck, that shouldn’t be such an adorably hot combo. But Eddie pictures the curve of Steve’s upper lip as he snarls and the zigzag of his arched eyebrows, and that’s exactly what it is. Hot. Adorable. Sensational.

Steve Harrington is a game of Mad Libs. Every adjective, every word that invokes head rushes and heart flutters, they’re all about him.

“As I was saying before you rudely mocked me,” Steve is in Eddie’s peripherals now, still stepping backwards. Toe to heel, hands loosely in his pants pockets. Not fair that he can make walking backwards look slick and cool. The nerve, the gall. “My new rule is that I get to ask you a question each time I get to the front.”

Eddie pulls one knee up to his chest, lets his chin rest over top of it. “Well then... ask away, o’ cursed one.”

Steve stops at the front of the stage. He doesn’t turn all the way around or start walking forward again. He turns just enough to look at Eddie. Focusing on him.

The sudden attention to Eddie’s face gets him all stuffy. He tries to hide the color that’s surely settled on his cheeks by digging one side of his face into his kneecap. It’s a dopey move. Too bashful, even for him.

“Alright.” Steve says. “How do you know so much about theater?”

An easy question with an easy answer. Relief surges through Eddie. “Most voice actors start out as stage actors. Not always, but a lot of us do. Gotta start somewhere, ya know?”

“Yeah. I know.” Steve nods, and continues with his second lap.

Once his footsteps are far away enough for Eddie to think properly, it dawns on him - they’re getting to know each other. Like authentic people would do.

Like… an actual date.

Shit, it’s been so long since someone in this artificial fucktown has wanted to know things about Eddie beyond hookups and screenames. A genuine moment was right in front of him, and he almost missed it.

That sobers him up. Eddie shoves away his need to Cause Chaos and accepts the sincerity. Gives it right back to Steve. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How did the modeling gig start?”

“Agents found my instagram again.” Steve replies. “Liked my pictures enough to offer me some shitty jobs to build up my resume. The usual story these days.”

“Right.” 

Eddie can’t fathom being that attractive. So attractive that people seek him out. 

Different worlds is an understatement. Different realms is more like it.

“Next question.” Steve says, arriving to the front again. “Would you rather visit the beach or the mountains?”

Eddie has to think about that one for a minute. He doesn’t take many vacations, can’t afford to on a single artist’s income.

But he remembers a trip to Colorado that he took as a teenager. Vaguely recalls not appreciating any of the landscapes because he was too busy texting his new girlfriend during the whole damn trip.

“The mountains.” Eddie answers, just as Steve begins to walk again. “The Rockies and I have some… unfinished business, if you will.”

Steve chuckles. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe I’ll get to hear it sometime.”

“If you want.” Eddie says, beaming at the implication. 

Steve’s footsteps stop. “Like I said on the phone, Eddie. Hearing you talk is...” The Earth feels silent. But the tension in Eddie’s ears is audible. “Well… I'm into it, I guess.”

Eddie has to switch knees to ease the thump in his dick. “And is Steve Harrington a mountain man or a beach bum?” 

“Depends on the season.”

“Such a diplomatic answer.” Such a vague answer too, Eddie thinks. 

“Okay. Last question.” Steve arrives at the front, shorter of breath than he was the first two laps. He hesitates for a second, then takes a couple of steps towards Eddie. “All those tattoos you have… did getting them done hurt?”

“Like a bitch.” Eddie bunches up his shirt to show off the sleeve of ink he has on his left arm. Took years for it to look this intricate. This complete. He’ll never get tired of staring at it. “Why? Itching to get one or something?”

“Nah. Never got the appeal of putting yourself through hours of pain or whatever.”

“It’s all about the art. The memories. The stories.” Eddie stretches out his bent knee. Lets it drop back down, relaxing into his explanation. “All of those things stitched into designs that I get to admire every damn day for the rest of my life.”

“Art, huh?” Steve takes a few steps closer, close enough to touch.

“What can I say?” Eddie is shamelessly studying the specks in Steve’s eyes. How all the colors blend and separate the closer he gets. Can hear himself grinning as he speaks. “I’m a big fan of gazing at pretty things.”

He’s so tempted to reach out, pull Steve in. Have him straddle his waist while they taste each other for hours.

But he’s still mooning over those eyes - the ones that deserve myths and legends to be told about them for ages. Centuries. Whichever is longer.

“Um.” Steve’s voice snaps Eddie out of his spell. “So… spit?”

“Sorry what?”

“The curse.” Steve says. “I’m supposed to spit on the ground, yeah?”

“Right, yeah. Uh huh.”  Eddie rambles, still internally choking on the fact that Steve just said spit to him. In public.

Steve backs away, puts some space between them. He begins making this nasty, gravelly side with his mouth. His jaw sags slightly as he does it, the lump in his throat bobbing the whole time. 

Eddie gawks, fully unable to look away while Steve swishes the spit around. Filling one cheek, then the other. He’s getting harder with every noise, every swish.

All at once, Steve forcefully hocks the stream of spit onto the ground. It goes diagonally, lands way closer to Eddie than he was expecting. Gets some goddamn distance, which makes Eddie’s eyes roll back. He’s pretty sure he lets out a wobbly ‘fuck’ at how obscene it all looks.

Steve wanders back over, avoids stepping in the wet mess he made on the ground. He places a hand on Eddie’s knee, works his way up the rough edges of denim.

Eddie’s vision is still spotty from what he just witnessed, so he decides to talk until everything clears up. Steve is into that right? The talking bullshit?

“There’s one more step to complete this.” Eddie watches the blurry outline of Steve’s hand rubbing his thigh, slowly blinking the image into full focus.

“And what’s that?” Steve’s voice is low, eyes fixed on Eddie’s mouth.

“You gotta…” Eddie licks his lip. Places a hand over top of Steve’s. Moving where it moves. Going where it goes. Buys himself some time to get the words straightened out. “You gotta kiss the nearest sewer rat loser.”

“And if I don’t do that?” Steve leans in till their noses touch. “Then what? The curse won’t be broken?”

Eddie nods. Only able to give a thin ‘mhmm’ in reply. He wraps two fingers around Steve’s wrist, the hand that's still trailing heat along his thigh. Needs to press against the pulse there, feel it jump. Spike.

Steve is so quiet. So controlled compared to his pulse. “Can’t have that then, can we?”

His lips part, hovering over Eddie’s mouth. The kiss starts out like that. Lips treading, only meeting between breaths. Neither of them pushing for more than seconds of warm contact, brief and sweet. 

That is until Steve’s free hand starts twisting into Eddie’s shirt, tugging him along by the soft fabric. Eddie sinks forward, dives fully into the kiss. He holds his breath or maybe it just gets caught in his lungs from how good it all feels. How Steve touches him like he's captured. How Steve kisses him like he’s dessert.

Eddie can't help but smush their lips together, forcing their faces closer than faces can scientifically be. He hears the wet smack of their tongues echoing underneath the amphitheater, waking his lungs the fuck up. Lets out the weakest sigh, hopes most of the sound gets trapped between Steve’s lips. 

Oh god, his lips. They’re fuller than Eddie’s, puffier now from kissing this hard. He wants to squish them around with his fingers, push them into pout so he can suck on them. Turn them nice and red. Eddie gets his hands tangled in Steve’s hair, knots them up enough to resist the lip-squishing temptation that’s burning him up inside.

“Here.” Steve exhales, hooks one of Eddie’s legs around his waist. 

That… okay, fuck. That’s so hot, so unexpectedly assertive and right. Eddie takes the hint, wraps his other leg around Steve. The heel of his scuffed boots is digging into Steve’s ass, not too hard, but enough to earn a dirty whine out of Steve. He pushes them together, clothes rubbing back and forth, scratching loudly. Muffles their mouth noises though.

“Can we…” Eddie wants to move this elsewhere, anywhere less public. He’s so fucking selfish for that. Needs to swallow every sound Steve makes, secure every expression with a lock. Nobody else should be allowed to see Steve like this besides Eddie.

He lets one hand unravel from Steve’s hair, glides down to the collar of Steve’s tank top. He yanks the material lower, presses his lips against the new area of exposed skin. Sips and sucks over that spot, claims it like he could extract a piece of Steve’s soul if he sucks hard enough.

“Yeah, fuck yeah.” Steve responds, whimpering into the top of Eddie’s hair. Not entirely clear if he’s saying that out of pleasure, or agreeing with Eddie that they should relocate, but whatever. It's all too good to overthink the meaning.

Eddie unhooks his legs and kisses the deep purple mark he just made. Too fucking proud how easily the color spreads into reddish tones around the edges. 

His vision goes fuzzy again as he stands upright, has to blink away all the white specks of dizzy lust. Eddie offers a hand to Steve, but there’s no damn point for that. Steve is already hopping up onto the stage, makes it look effortless. Cool as shit.

“Follow me.” Steve grabs the crook of Eddie’s forearm, pulling him into the forested scenery.

As if there were any need for Steve to request that. Eddie Munson would follow Steve into the sketchiest alleyway of Hell, if it meant they could kiss like that some more.

They duck underneath a few tree limbs, weave through the maze of green. A few leaves get into Eddie’s mouth, but he hardly notices anything besides the dent that Steve’s fingernail is leaving in his arm. It would make the sickest crescent moon tattoo, inked and perfectly shaped. 

Damnit, Eddie’s thoughts are getting more fucked the deeper they hide. Steve slams Eddie against the trunk of a large tree. He realizes with the thud on his back that it’s plywood, not tree bark. Doesn’t care one bit if his shirt tears from the nails jutting out. Cares even less if he gets splinters from the slow grinding of their hips, hitching his shirt up further with every thrust.

“These are sexy.” Steve tugs at Eddie’s empty belt loop. Didn’t need an actual belt with how suffocating they are. “But they’ve gotta go. If that’s cool.”

“Get them the hell out of here.” Eddie is subconsciously thanking Chrissy for suggesting these stupid pants. She’ll be insufferable when he tells her about the jean's success rate. But right now? Worth it.

Anything seems worth it to have Steve popping the button out, ripping the zipper down. He’s so focused on getting these pants off that his forehead wrinkles, little beads of sweat gathering on his temples. 

Eddie can’t resist any longer, not after seeing Steve equally covered in desperation. He palms the front of Steve’s pants, wants to give him some relief for this valiant jean-removing effort.

“Steve.” Eddie huffs, brushes his lips over Steve’s ear. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” He bites over the skin, nibbling carefully with the tip of his teeth.

It must tickle because Steve laughs while shrugging the jeans lower, boxers going with them. 

“So tell me then.” He kisses Eddie. It’s harsh, mostly panting into his mouth. Steve sinks to the floor and looks up. “Keep talking.”

This. This goddamn view. Eddie wasn’t expecting to get a view of Steve on his knees tonight. Wasn’t expecting his head to go limp, looking up at Eddie the way he eyefucked the camera on the day they first met. 

Only difference is, Steve’s not acting - not pretending to be needy.

He just is. He’s all of those coy and sinful things, exclusively for Eddie this time.

“Spit in my hand.” Steve stretches his hand up towards Eddie’s chin - gives him those big, midnight eyes that could make dormant volcanoes erupt instantly. Defy physics, end climate change. 

Eddie doesn’t use brain cells anymore, just does what he’s told. He gathers enough spit in his mouth, then watches it trickle out. Pooling in the center of Steve’s hand. It’s gross, sure. But also, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever done. 

Gross and hot. Those sensations are fucking synonymous right now.

“Tell me, Eddie.” Steve gets his fingers around Eddie’s cock, the warm wetness makes it twitch in his hold. Apparently, no part of Eddie’s anatomy can believe this is really happening, not even his dick.

“Uh-”

“You said you’ve thought about it.”

“Lots.”

“So tell me while I get you off.”

“Oh.. god, okay.” And Eddie is good at that. Talking nonstop. Revealing all of his filthy secrets when asked so politely. He did it last night, slipped into his darker persona with ease so Steve could feel good.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Eddie would say a flurry of fuckery for Steve Harrington’s approval. Get him to come until he shakes because Eddie wants that. Wants Steve to feel like liquid gold dripping between his fingers. Wants Steve to bend and break under his words and touch.

Talking dirty to get himself off is new territory. Eddie is a perpetual giver, loves being that way most of the time. Especially for someone as spectacular as Steve.

“Go ahead, babe.” Steve urges, licks the muscle of Eddie’s inner thigh till it tightens.

Right, he can do this. Even if he is short of breath. Eddie can be as confident as he was last night while Steve strokes him. “Thought about you since the commercial production.”

It’s a start. He bites his lip and keeps going. “All I could think about was… fuck. Opening you up. Leaving my fingerprints on your hips.”

“What else?” Steve purrs, working Eddie roughly with his spit-slick fingers. Sounds just as ruined as Eddie does.

“Wanted to fuck you in my lap.” Eddie pauses to moan, chest falling hard. He gets another glimpse of Steve’s hand on him, picking up the pace. A tempo so delicious that it shuts off Eddie’s judgment skills. His mouth running wild. “Let you ride me just like that. Use me till your legs go weak.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. His grip gets a little firmer, loosening up between strokes. Makes a fucking pattern out of it, has Eddie craving it. Needs more.

“And what if I wanted to fuck you, huh?” Steve’s question hits his ears like a whip. Cracking every nerve in Eddie’s body.

“I’d let you.” And it’s true, so very true. Eddie’s mouth is still going rogue, uttering truths like he’s on trial. Ready to testify all his desires to Steve. Sign his name on the dotted fucking line. “You could wreck me any way you want, sweetheart.”

Eddie seems to have found the secret words to Steve’s wild side. He’s taking Eddie down his throat, almost too fast. So fast that drool forms at the corners of his stretched lips, mouth gurgling already.

Eddie is swearing, not even real words half the time - just moans that sound explicit enough to get bleeped out on public access television. One hand goes over his own mouth while the other keeps combing through Steve’s hair.

It’s so damp now, sticking out erratically at the sides. Eddie curls a few strands over his thumb, watches the color drain from his finger. So demented, so good.

Steve is taking his cock so damn well, so Eddie tells him. Truly, all that he’s capable of is sex-drunk praise. Letting Steve know how gorgeous he is, how bruised his throat will be from sucking this much cock, how swollen and sore his lips look at this angle.

Eddie can’t stop because every phrase makes Steve get messier. Whining and whimpering each time he pulls off. Looking up at Eddie before taking him in again. Getting louder. Loud enough that sidewalk pedestrians definitely could hear him if they linger nearby for too long.

Eddie's knees buckle as he gets close. Doesn't have the energy to straighten back out, let alone warn Steve that he’s about to come. None of that seems to matter though. Steve nods twice, still bobbing around Eddie, like he just knows. Knows Eddie is there and is fucking willing to work him through it.

“Holy fuck, Steve.” Which yeah, Eddie gets it. Uttering someone’s name while he comes in their mouth is a little tacky and cliche. But saying it is involuntary, totally out of his control. Truthfully, Eddie relinquished all control to Steve hours ago.

Steve swallows, cleans Eddie with a few swipes of his overworked tongue like it’s nothing. No problamo. Like that’s the only way to handle the aftermath of an orgasm. In the most delightful way, or whatever musical shit Mary Poppins sings about. 

He gives the laziest, dreamiest grin as Eddie collapses down to his level. Both of them heaving, kissing with aching lungs. 

“Fucking fantastic.” Eddie whispers, brushes his knuckles over Steve’s pink-stained cheeks. Hopes his rings don’t hurt too much, absently forgetting how chunky they are.

Steve leans into the small touch. “Glad to hear it.”

“You’re fantastic.” Eddie clarifies. Means it more than any superstition he’s ever heard in his life.

He’s more than ready to get his hands all over Steve, make him come until he faints. But Steve is adamant that he’s chills with waiting. Says he actually enjoys the buildup from staying horny for hours and hours. Mentions something about that being a new discovery that he wants to explore. 

With Eddie. 

Steve fucking Harrington wants to explore new sides of himself with Eddie. That sends him reeling. Smitten and spiraling.

“Are sure?” Eddie paws at Steve’s hard-on, ready to jump in and save the day via orgasm.

“Very sure.” He lifts Eddie's hand away, snickering as he lays a quick kiss on each finger.  “I like being around you. That’s not gonna change overnight.”

“Like being around you too, Steve.” He takes Steve’s face into his hands, smushes it back and forth until Steve smiles. “Crazy about it, actually.”

The sun is low, barely any light left in the sky. But as Eddie holds Steve’s face, watching him smile, he notices that Steve is glowing. Not beaming, actually glowing. Even through the dimness of sky and the shadows formed by tree limbs, Eddie can see all of Steve’s features.

How is that possible?

They each look up and see it. Taking it in, this mysterious glow.

“Wow.” They say in unison, almost matching pitch. Matching levels of disbelief too.

Between the branches and leaves, they are tiny lights. Floating, orb-like lights. The brightness shining off of them is warm, soft on the eyes. They’re scattered high over the forested backdrop, orange and yellow hues twinkling against rich greens. 

Enchanting is the only word to describe this new addition. Incredibly and unbelievably enchanting.

“Set designer really popped off with this cover shoot, I guess.” Steve throws the theory out there, barely sounds like he believes it himself.

Eddie rubs his eyes. His voice comes out hushed, doesn’t really mean for it to but it does anyways. “Steve… those aren’t attached to anything. No strings, no wires. They’re just-”

“Floating?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Be serious, dude.”

And Eddie is. Completely serious. No jokes or snarky replies in his system right now. He points to the nearest light, then back at Steve. “You broke the curse, right?”

“Apparently.” Steve shrugs.

“So maybe Thespis is showing his forgiveness.”

“Who the hell is Thespis?” Steve pinches the skin between his eyes and groans - acting like Eddie’s hypothesis is giving him a migraine. Honestly, it might be. Wouldn’t be the first time Eddie worked someone up to the point of desperately needing tylenol.

He switches tactics, nuzzles into Steve’s shoulder with his nose. Attempts to lighten the mood with at least one joke in these trying times of bad luck and headaches. “Or he’s giving us his blessing for copulating on his holy grounds.”

The lights answer, flaring out all around them. They pulsate for a minute, maybe two, before returning back to their normal glow. Eddie tucks in a grin because Steve’s gorgeous little head looks like it’s about to detonate off of his gorgeous little body. So if he smiles right now, Steve will undoubtedly explode on this very flammable set piece.

Which would be a wicked awesome way to die. Post-orgasm, then up in flames. But alas, they have dinner reservations. It would be rude not to show up.

Really, it’s no surprise to Eddie that the ghost of theater is into partial voyeurism, signaling his approval with twinkling lights. Semi-public sex probably classifies as its own unique strand of performing art in Ancient Greece.

Or the dead dude is just into taboo stuff. 

If so, good for him. You do you, Thespis.

“Look.” Steve says, standing up. “Maybe it’s… an optical illusion.”

“Or magic.”

Steve lets out a deep sigh and offers his hand to Eddie. Pulls him up in one swift motion. Doesn’t let go of his hand afterward either. “How about we drop it and go get some dinner?”

Typically, Eddie is all about a verbal bloodbath. But Steve laces their fingers together, connects them in a way that has Eddie forgetting all about his need to be right. 

“Consider it dropped.”

The lights flicker out as they walk further away from the stage. And as they get into Eddie’s car, they go out entirely. Steve flicks on the radio, defaults to the classic rock station, which is playing “Magic” by The Cars.

“It’s a sign.” Eddie sings to the tune, poking a finger at Steve.

“Just drive, you big dork.” Steve swats him away, placing a hand on Eddie’s thigh while he drives. He turns up the volume, surprisingly knows every lyric by heart. Belts them out. Full on screams the parts he likes best.

Which Eddie totally can relate to. He wants to scream about all the parts he likes best about Steve. About their date that’s not even finished yet.

On their way to dinner, Eddie avoids the cracks on the sidewalk. On the drive home, he taps the roof of his car whenever he makes it through a yellow light at an intersection.

And when he drops Steve off at his apartment precisely at 11:11pm, he doesn’t say a damn word. Keeps his mouth shut, only opens it to kiss Steve goodbye (with tongue, obviously).

Sure, it’s just a dumb superstition, Eddie can admit that to himself.

But tonight… it feels like more than that.

More than a coincidence.

More than a good omen.

He sends a ‘got home safely’ text to Steve as he pulls into his designated parking spot. Totally obsessed with how fast Steve texts him back, it’s too fucking cute.

Steve: glad :) had a great time btw

Eddie: really?

Steve: yes *really*

Eddie: i had a great time too

He quickly taps the voice-record button before Steve can respond:

“Actually,” Eddie sneers. Uses the voice that Steve goes crazy for. “I had a magical time.”

Steve: ugh

Eddie: ;)

#steddie #steddie fic #this is inspired by the unhinged ao3 tag generator #thank you all for reading along on this series! #ao3 has alllll the tags if you're curious before reading #have a lovely day! xx

[bg-brainrot]

I don't have Astarion curse too often in my fics, except in his head/when he thinks he's alone. And, as much as I made that choice because of how few 'fucks' he says in game, I was thinking about why he has so few (gods know he has tons of reasons to curse).

Sure, he might just want to sound proper (thinking of the 'oh oh dear' when the Avatar of Myrkul shows up), but it might also just be ingrained behavior from the past 200 years.

Living under Cazador's thumb, having to be polite to targets (no matter how abhorrent they were), and ultimately also living in fear of his siblings, he probably had to watch his language. A lot.

When you encounter Araj in Moonrise, he stays incredibly civil in his language. At most, he sounds frustrated, only bringing out his real feelings when whispering to you on the side.

When speaking to the Gur, as much as it's contentious and his politeness is over-the-top, he's still (mostly) on his best behavior.

Another example is the circus! Where he says, outwardly, oh what fun! And to you, one of his rare 'fucks' -- "I'm going to fucking kill you" under his breath.

The few times the politeness-facade cracks are upon seeing his siblings, Godey, and Cazador, all of whom took part in his past 200 years of pure shit.

I think that's why when he finally gets to face Cazador, finally gets to say, "Fuck you and fuck everything you've ever done to me" I get so emotional. Like I feel that 'fuck' down to my bones.

#astarion #astarion thoughts #dont mind me #continuing to use this vampire man to process my own trauma #and relationship with cursing #astarion bg3

[red-might-be-dead]

hello hi here to force strange thoughts into your brain once again, this time about jrwi (wow who could’ve guessed)

been thinking about this for a little but it’s basically what i think some campaigns would be if not podcasts, i haven’t listened to some of the older ones so i’m sorry they’re not on here :(( if you have any ideas feel free to add them btw :DD

RIPTIDE!!!!! - really long animated series

not an anime though, no matter how much grizzly wants it, it would be an animation style where the characters could have very clearly different nose, face and body shapes, really pushing my riptide nose agenda here sorry, each episode would be like 20-40 minutes long and instead of coming out in seasons there would be massive gaps in between episodes, from 2-6 months long, to leave time for writers and animators to get stuff done (massive team of animators btw, i feel like it would be pretty successful)

PRIME DEFENDERS!! - comics

literally nothing else they could be, just really well made, well performing comics (i’ve already talked about this before you can stalk my talk tag if you really want to find it lmao), the comic company making them would be keeping well away from movies n shit btw

APOTHEOSIS!!! - i wasn’t really sure about this one to be honest

i had to ask my friend and she said anime which i don’t agree with but i can see it, i think maybe a short book series where each book is 150 - 300 pages and is about a different god they have to kill/a different episode, i think that works but if anyone has any better ideas please tell me :D!!

BLOOD IN THE BAYOU!!! - i hate to say it, i really do…

bitb would be a really long really good 80s horror book with strong homoerotic undertones, a satisfied fanbase and lots of active members in the community making fan comics, films, writing, theories and art ect… until well after the book came out……….. and then it would be made into the most egregious and awful live action movie you have ever seen, the most awful casting (like chris pratt as officer dudes….. throws up) and even worse sfx, oh yeah and the characters would be ruined and the story would become so butchered it wouldn’t make sense, they would do some shit like cut out becky so kian just kisses some random lady (removing both a really good and well written character and a layer of kian’s character that i think is super important) and make rolan really be an evil bug spy the whole time so rand has to kill him to save the town also add in a whole new sub plot that never existed like the rand family is secretly a long line of bug alien hunters or something fucking stupid like that and the entire fanbase would murder whoever thought re-writing the story was a good idea (ahaha can you tell ive been through something like this before ahahaha, character morals and motives being removed and whatnot ahahahhahahaha.)

anyways………

THE SUCKENING!!! - live action series

it would be well made though, unlike the bitb movie it would be its own original thing, have great makeup and effects also be well casted and well shot, well written, ect ect, it would bloody and gory and not suitable for people who can’t handle showing bones and organs all over everywhere, lots of shitty rip off merch would be made though and the fandom would be 99% gay little freaks (normal suckening enjoyers) and 1% homophobic straight white men who get mad whenever they see soda and emizel having gay sex on screen or whatever fag shit that biting thing was

again feel free to add your thoughts and ideas and shit in the reblogs it would be nice to read them :DD!!

#red rambles relentlessly #jrwi show #jrwi pd #the suckening #jrwi riptide #jrwi apotheosis #jrwi bitb #jrwi spoilers #jrwi the suckening #jrwi prime defenders #bitb spoilers #suckening spoilers #i think i wrote some shit that could be considered spoilers in those two sections #definitely the bitb one #which i definitely didn’t base around a certain netflix adaptation of one of my old favourite books cough cough #I HATE THAT FILM SO MUCH WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO SOPHIES CHARACTER SHE IS SUPPOSED TO BE A BITCH STOP TRYING TO MAKE HER NICE #anyways like maybe one person who sees this post will know what that’s referencing #and i will admit the books weren’t perfect but at least the characterisation made sense

[threadsun]

Anonymous Asks: "If ya get the time for it, I really wanna see some pet play stuff with the SDJ boys. More specifically, with us being the pet and the guys being the masters.

(Also, due to Nick's profession, I feel like he'd be WAY better at this than anyone lol)"

Content: petplay, tail plugs, gags,

Jack:

He doesn't have an animal preference, but he will default to you being a dog if it's left up to him

He wants you done up all cute, with ears and a tail plug and everything! He wants the fur to match your hair colour as well, so you look like a proper little puppy for him

He'll have you sit by his feet with your head in his lap, petting you slowly while he tells you all the dirty things he wants to do to you

He'll ramp it up slowly, first a collar and a bone gag, then telling you to fetch things or lay down or roll over, and finally fucking you doggy style as he pulls your tail to hear you howl for him

You'd better not be planning to say a word to him all night. Good puppies don't talk, after all! He'll only respond to barking~

Ian:

Doesn't matter what animal you are, he's treating you like you're the softest and most delicate thing in the world

He won't even think to collar you unless you ask. But he'll spend plenty on high quality ears and a tail for you! Even some cute little paw gloves and socks if you want

If you do want a collar, it'll end up being soft and comfortable and have a little tag with his name on it

Honestly, as much as he'll get horny and fuck you when you're in pet mode, he'll always want to start with cuddles and snuggles. He just wants a loving pet!

He usually goes into it intending for it to be nonsexual petplay, but his dick gets the better of him every time

Shaun:

Please be a cat please be a cat please be a cat! He'll accept any animal, but god does he want you to be a cat

If you're going into pet play with him, you'd best be ready for him to go all the way. A leather animal mask, leather mitts, tying your ankles to your thighs. You'll be on all fours the whole night

Look, he'll go soft petplay if you ask him to, but for him the appeal is making you as animalistic as possible

He'll have you eat from his hand. He'll talk to you like you're really just a pet. He'll show you how to go down on him or get ready for him to fuck you like it's your first time

He gets fully into the role of being your owner. You're his pet, and he'll love you and use you as he sees fit

Nick:

He's pretty experienced with petplay, and he doesn't really have an animal preference, though he likes rarer ones

He's all about the experience. Both making it a good one for both of you, and making it an interesting one for himself. He likes trying new things, so ask him for whatever you want

Everything takes a lot of negotiation with him. It's one of his favourite parts of sex! So be prepared to tell him what you want

You want a collar? He's got it! Ears and a tail? Check! Leash? Absolutely! Seriously, anything you could possibly want to use, he's got about ten of for you to choose from

Once you're actually in the scene, he's fully into the role of your owner and you as his pet

Joseph:

Joseph has a soft spot for puppies. He'll do petplay with you as any animal, of course, but puppies are his choice

He likes the way you look so happy just to be with him! The way you come to him when he pats his knees and the way you wiggle on your back when he rubs your belly

Seriously, the unconditional love and joy of a pet is something he desperately needs, so he cherishes it

He'll fuck you if that's what you want, but honestly he's just as happy to sit with you on the couch and cuddle while you're in petspace. It's soothing for him

If you do want him to fuck you, he'll be gentle and slow about it, making sure his sweet pet is happy~

Jean:

He may be soft with his actual pet, but he's not gonna be soft with you, no matter what animal you are

Seriously, he takes great delight in punishing you for everything. From trying to sit on the furniture to talking back to him to anything else he deems "unacceptable for a pet"

He'll impose harsh rules on you and any slight deviance from those rules will have him spanking your ass raw

He loves to fuck you right after a punishment when you're physically and emotionally bruised and off-balance. He'll tell you what a bad pet you are while pounding into you

He lives for the psychological and physical sadism of being your owner. You'd better be prepared...

Rory:

Any sort of pet is good for him! He's not very high energy, though, so don't expect him to do much active playing

More than anything, he wants a sweet pet who'll curl up with him and shyly grind against him because they're just so needy, and he can urge them under the covers

His favourite thing is watching his sweet little pet go down on him. Something about it drives him wild

Whenever he doesn't need his hands for anything else, he'll pet you. He loves petting you and praising you and letting you know you're the best thing he could ever have!

Seriously, he's horny and sweet with you the whole time! He loves you and wants you so much

Barry:

It doesn't matter if you're into petplay or not, Barry will eventually decide to turn you into his cow

You don't have a choice in the matter. He's getting you cow print lingerie, a cow bell, some ears and a tail. If it goes far enough, he'll even end up branding you

This is happening during work hours, as well. It's your new uniform, have fun! You're now required to moo in greeting too

Seriously, he gets such a kick out of your discomfort. He'll strap you up to a milking machine, put you on display, and charge people to fuck you if he can get away with it

He might branch out to other animals, but cow is generally his go-to because it's so humiliating for most people

#sunshine #swwsdj #something's wrong with sunny day jack #sdj jack #sdj ian #sdj shaun #sdj nick #sdj joseph #sdj jean #sdj rory #barryposting #sunny day jack x reader #ian duff x reader #shaun durand cofer x reader #nick herraras x reader #joseph haberdae x reader #jean laurent x reader #rory rainberry x reader #Barry the Manager x reader