#tiny gray menace

[gothroughthelookingglass]

Get away from my nuggies!

#oareo the cat #cats of tumblr #mr.mustachio #tiny gray menace #not the nuggies #going for the frys too

[pencilofawesomeness]

*baps Mystogan on the cheek* I hereby dub thee: a cat person.

Because drawing a happy Mystogan gives me serotonin, here's Myst and his now-half-indoor-cat Shadow, who he has successfully smuggled into the building.

#fairy tail #htryds #mystogan #pencil's art tag #holds cat like a baby #this is exactly how my cat likes to be held #and she's tiny so I can do it one handed just like this #i like to think at least five of the fairy valley residents think the dorm is haunted #because it never occurred to them that somebody had a cat #jet saw yellow eyes in the dark once and things escalated from there #jellal is sworn to secrecy #alzack knows but he's chill and also loves animals #also he's secretly a menace and is perpetuating the ghost rumor #mystogan thinks its hilarious and jellal isn't much better #gray probably finds out later but he would also be on board for #gaslighting the rest of the residents

[murdrdocs]

INTERVIEW 010

with. rafe cameron and jj maybank

includes. ghostface!rafe and jj, DUBCON, fem!reader, knife play, breaking and entering, unprotected p n v sex, mean!rafe and jj (obvi), reader isn't aware of their identities

→ kinktober masterlist

The knife that reflects the low light, pointed directly at you, should cause alarm. It should at least be the cause of the spike in your heart rate, instead of the two masked men who wield it. It should make your mouth dry, instead of increasing saliva production. 

You should be worried about your current position. About your current predicament. 

Kneeled on the carpeted floor of your childhood home, hands politely, and voluntarily, placed in your lap, your entire body lax and complacent even with two imposing figures looming over you, masked and dressed in all black combat gear. 

They stare at you, silent, calculating, eyes invisible beneath the ghost face and the black cloth that covers the oblong eye slits. The last time they spoke to you, – the first barking a hard command of “get on your knees” and the second cooing a condescending praise of “that’s it” when you did as told – you heard their voices through a modulator, designed to disguise possibly the most telling aspect of them. 

The distortion of it shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did. But nothing about this situation should have been as arousing as it is. 

Two masked men, completely unidentifiable, breaking into your home and holding a knife pointed at you with intent to use, shouldn’t be attractive. But between your legs is soaked, gray panties housing a dark gray patch right in the center of them. 

You didn’t have the thought to slip a pair of pants on after your shower earlier, leaving you in a tiny tee and your underwear, no bra to cover your hardening nipples from the perpetrators that stand before you. 

They notice it, you can tell they do, it’s impossible not to notice. Yet they don’t say anything. 

Instead, the one on the left, the taller of the two, leans down and raises a gloved hand. You flinch, but there’s no reason to, his hand raising to your chest instead of your face. His thumb and pointer finger single themselves out, closing around your pert nipple. He squeezes, as if he’s testing you, and you hiss. When his thumb grazes over the area instead of pinching it, you don’t know if it’s a gift, if you’d passed his test or not. 

You’re still unaware of your status when the other circles behind you, hand coming to your front view to cup your chin. You watch the glove come into view, eyes instead going up when he pushes your head back, making it so you look straight at him. The blank stare of the mask menacing, yet you’re not afraid. 

Instead, you shuffle on your knees, rubbing your thighs together in a pathetic attempt to receive some sort of friction. It doesn’t work, but you succeed in getting their attention, two pairs of snickers sounding from either side of you. 

“Give her what she wants,” the one behind you suggests to the other, the words lacking the harshness that an order should. Instead, it’s a simple suggestion, one you hope the other decides to take.

When he does, getting what you want has never felt so good. 

Not even the pain in your knees could dull this feeling, skin scraping along the rough texture of the overpriced rug your parents love so much as you attempt to hold yourself up. One of your hands digs into the black fabric of the denim jeans that one of your assailants wears, the other pressed flat into the harsh fabric beneath you. 

Your hand placements does nothing to steady you, though, not when the masked figure behind you is fucking you like this. Raw, something that only concerned you for an astonishingly brief second before you let your thoughts go in favor of reveling in the pleasure. Pleasure which multiplied once the figure in front of you had his cock down your throat. 

The living room is a mixture of sounds; the deep groans from the one behind you mixed with his insistent praises that degrade you all at the same time, the almost-whimpers from the one in front of you as he holds a hand at the back of your neck to force you to take more and more, and your pathetic garbling as you don’t bother attempting to muffle your own sounds while you take it all in. 

You’ve never been more full, nor have you ever been more fucking aroused. You can hear your own arousal over your slurping, pornographic squelches of bare skin abusing your gummy walls. You can feel it dripping around you, the skin of your inner thighs wet and warm. 

In a risky move, you shakily raise one of your hands to bring it between your legs, running your fingers over your clit with a touch that has your eyes rolling back. 

“Look at her. She’s really getting off to this, huh?” The voice behind you is distant as you start to rub a little faster, tight circles clearly intended to get yourself off. 

“Gonna make yourself cum, sweetheart? Hm? Getting off to two men breaking into your apartment and having their way with you.” He’s mean with it, and you’re sure the words are spoken to put you down, maybe fill you with shame and make you falter a bit. 

Instead, they do the opposite, sending you over the edge in an orgasm that has your legs shaking, body practically collapsing to the floor. 

They follow you to the ground, because although you may be done, it doesn’t mean they are. 

#🕸️ 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐑 #rafetobr! #jjtobr! #rafesworld! #jjsworld! #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #dark!rafe cameron #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank smut #dark!jj maybank

[sunofpandora]

Hii could I ask a request for Lo’ak or Neteyam with a shy Na’vi reader?

𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷/𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓼/ 𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼

Neteyam Sully x Fem!omaticaya! shy!reader.

Y/n was always a shy person. Growing up a war orphan, being raised alongside the sully kids, forging a bond and finding a plantonic soulmate within Lo’ak, a sisterhood rooted with Kiri and Tuk, a somewhat chaotic friendship with spider, She finds herself on a winding path of romance with the eldest sully brother….

Disclaimers:

Mentions of parent death, undiagnosed social anxiety, mentions of fear, panic attacks, nightmares,

Tooth rotting fluff.

Spider and Lo’ak being ‘y/n protectors’ 

Neteyam wanting to strangle them for it. Kiri being a crystal girlie. Tuk being a menace.

(This is not proofread or edited and was written on a phone.)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Trust is a fragile thing. And most protect fragile things.

Sometimes, trust struggles to cross borders where shadows of regret and heartache dwell.

Sometimes we are held back, and our fears lapse until we are nothing more than lingering whispers in oblivion.

Y/n wasn’t a fragile thing.

At least, that’s what Jake convinced himself.

Jake Sully never saw himself as a father. 

Yet again, he never saw himself as 8 ft and blue either.

But I suppose sometimes we don’t find what we are looking for. We find something far deeper.

When Jake had his children, he was able to heal some of the scars of the past, some of history’s cruel rhyme schemes. Lapsing glimpses of the ones he had lost.

Watch a new life grow, vibrant with color from the gray-stained past. 

When Neytiri lost Tsu’tey, one of her closest friends and allies, it was like losing a brother. Sometimes soulmates are siblings, where others saw a replacement, a place holder for the sister she had lost, she saw Tsu’tey. The closest thing to a brother she would ever know.

Tsu’tey’s mate, Säyaron, the sole survivor of the couple, became pregnant a short while after Neytiri. 

Losing the child’s father, a detrimental dent in the woman’s life.

Säyaron was a fierce woman.

Chasing waterfalls and leaping over fire pits for the thrill. 

Everything made of revenge and fire coursing through her veins. Säyaron was a creature of habit. Like Neytiri, an archer. The finest of aim, the deadliest of gazes. A woman with lightning under her skin, her fingertips lingering the softest of touches in which she only reserved for her child.

Säyaron became ill, shortly after Y/N turned 3. 

Recovery was impossible. Säyaron’s daughter was placed in the hands of her people to raise. The omaticaya was entrusted to guide her.

Neytiri and Jake made a promise to themselves that they would honor Tsu’tey, and Säyaron’s legacy and many following, looking after this child as one of their own.

Th3 bravest of warriors deserve honorable epilogues.

☼.⋆｡𖦹 °˖☼.⋆｡𖦹 °˖☼.⋆｡𖦹 °˖☼.⋆｡𖦹 °˖

But have no fear. 

Where an epilogue begins, a second story surely follows.

Y/n was born a few months after Neteyam. 

Raised alongside the Sully children, Y/n was a rather quiet little one.

Y/n often dwelled herself with Norm’s bunch. The war orphaned children he ‘adopted’ soon after the battle of the hallelujah mountains, Spider included.

Although, Y/n wasn’t one for crowds.

Her shyness built herself a barrier from others, and sometimes a rather strong one at that.

She fared well with Lo’ak, Kiri, even Spider. But outside of the small circle of sully’s, her attamepts at socializing seemed to lapse over dead ends, to no avail. 

But she wasn’t fragile.

No. Fragile wasn’t the right word.

Soft?

No. Soft is for objects. 

 Poor thing would even flinch when Jake would drop something, or when little Tuk would start wailing during her infantry years.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Shhhh…ma’prrnen…”

Neytiri cooed, scooping up Tuk from her tiny woven made carrier.

Y/n peaked out from behind the small bow holder, sat perched was a couple hunting spears and the bow that was formerly eytukans. 

Neytiri smiles at the child.

“Y/n, would you like to hold her?”

Neytiri reached her free arm out, motioning the little one over.

Neytiri hadn’t adopted y/n, not to the same degree of officialness as Kiri.

But the little one was still one of her children. Under her care, her love, her guidance.

Y/n froze up. Her tail twitched, her ears pin back, she shook her head and scurried away. Slinking back into the corner hooded by the shadows.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Jake looked after Y/n like a daughter. 

Holding her small hand within his whenever the family traveled, keeping her close, his eyes lingering on her for just a beat longer whenever Lo’ak dragged her off to play some stupid game.

Children aren’t perfect. 

Of course, if there’s one thing Jake has learned from becoming one of the people, it’s that na’vi are significantly better people than humans. Smarter, that’s for one. Their fingertips stained with the brown dirt of the great mother’s skin instead of the oil that rusted off of the RDA machines.

Na’vi may not be human, but they are still people.

Imperfect, flawed creatures at times. 

When he first met Neytiri, he had no knowledge of this. Blinded by the beautiful, towering azure-skinned goddess she appeared as, who fancied herself Cupid, striking an arrow through his heart in all the wrong places.

As he learned, as he grew, he realized that Na’vi weren’t aliens at all.

Children still bickered over toys and petty games, teenagers still gossiped over who wore the feathered top better, or who hunted the most game, who was to be mated first, and last.

Jake’s children were typical examples of this.

“Why should I let you have it?!”

“I had it first!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Lo’ak you liar!”

Jake sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temples, hitting the pressure points Mo’at taught him about, attempting to soothe the headache that brewed.

Ah, the joy of children.

He glanced over at Lo’ak and Kiri, the trouble twins, as Jake called them. 

Lo’ak, the spawn of recklessness in every form.

Boyish as the word comes, you find sensitivity, if you turn him over, backwards and then upside down again, and graze your fingertips over the right edges.

Or in his case, one fingertips too many.

And Kiri, a mysterious creation. Who’s heart beats with the rhythm of eywa’s pulse. Who’s eyes longed for otherness.

Things that grew beyond the edge of her grasp. Beautifully out of place.

He peered down at Y/n, who had perched herself next to him. A feather top covered her chest, similar to the one Kiri wore., handmade by Neytiri.

Her hair, a dark void of charcoaled honey brown, small beads adorned the shoulder length braids. 

Jake sighed, running a hand along her back.

“What are we gonna do with them, babygirl, hm?”

Y/ns ears perked up, looking up from the small flower stems she was braiding.

Y/n was a shadow.

Slipping into backgrounds, the darkness in small corners and shades of trees becoming a sanctuary of silence.

A shell of what Jake was accustomed to. Jake didn’t like silence. Silence was daunting. It’s something that demands attention.

Y/n wasn’t silent. She was quiet. There’s a difference. A paradox of hidden things could only be heard when gently whispered, not pried open.

She fiddles with the woven strands on his armband, he allows her, his voice quiet to not overbear her. 

She treats the flowers like living things.

Gentle, small things with lungs and a heart, just like her. When Lo’ak was 4, y/n 5, he grew a habit of carelessly stomping through the tswakesyul flower bed whenever he and spider raced up the creek, the small noises of nervousness that fell from Y/n’s lips, little hands itching to wilt them up to their right side again.

Where others looked over a tiny, withered voice and shaky hands, stuttering speech and unbraided hair that was known as Y/n, Jake and Neytiri saw a child who cared. Longed for something to protect without the consistency of burdening noise to shake her.

A child who watered the flowers, planted extra seeds, picked more fruit than she could carry because she cared too much.

Jake watches as Y/n carefully braids the flowers. Her fingers weaving between the stems, gently cradling stories.

Stories?

Yes, Stories.

Plants harbor memory. 

Memories that we cannot see.

Well, Jake can’t at least.

Where he saw a leaf, Y/n saw a piece of the great mother that had grown through the seasons, refusing surrender during Great storms, but instead be blown with the wind to find itself placed here, on the ground. Stories of stars and wild skies, such fragile things like flowers spoke to her.

“I HATE YOU!”

“I hate you times Infinity, Lo’ak!

Penis face-!”

“Hey! That’s enough. Don’t make me come over there.”

Jake glared at his two children.

Kiri huffed, her chin tilted up in disapproval of Jake’s intervention.

She was Grace’s child, through and through. Don’t believe me? Grace’s sass still haunts us all.

“She started it!”

Lo’ak protested, snatching the toy away from Kiri who snickered as she whacked him with her tail.

“Ow! Dad-!”

“Enough. Kiri, go over there, Lo’ak, you over there.”

Jake stood up, withdrawing himself from his peaceful spot in the shade with Y/n.

Grabbing Kiri by one arm, Lo’ak by the other.

“No fair. Dad, we wanna play!”

Kiri whines.

“Then play away from one another, please?”

 Lo’ak huffed, like the petty 7 year old he was, 

“Fine. I’m gonna go play with…”

His hands dangled at his sides, eyes flickering for his next victim-

I mean playmate.

“Y/n!”

Before Jake can protest, Lo’ak jogs his way over to Y/n. Roughly grabbing her by her arm and dragging her away towards the shallow creek, Jake sometimes took Neteyam to practice fishing.

A small squeak of surprise leaves Y/n’s lips.

”lo’ak! Gentle for Eywa’ s sake.”

Jake scolded.

Lo’ak waved his dad off, ridding his remark from the Pandora air.

“We’ll be back soon! I promise! We’re gonna go play in the river!”

“Be home by sundown. And be careful!”

Jake sighed, taking Kiri home to go play with baby Tuk and Neteyam.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Spider roared playfully as he chased Y/n and Lo’ak.

Lo’ak, Spider, and Y/n forged themselves into a nest of chaos.

It stunned Jake, to see two na’vi children treat a human like one of their own, helping him re-twist his locs and paint his skin the colors of their culture in hopes it’ll stain itself a new life in its wake.

It scared Jake, in a way. 

To see bonds forged out of something so undeniably dangerous.

The kind of paradox of love that was stitched together out of mismatched pieces.

They fit if you place them in the right position.

The deepest rivers, the vastest of oceans, kindred with the sun, the moon, the stars.

You can’t have 1 without the other 2 tagging behind.

Trust. That’s what the 3 had.

Neytiri and Jake watched from afar, their looming shadows remaining unveiling over their children.

Neytiri saw spider as nothing but a burden.

The type of animal with no hope of survival, but refuses surrender. It clings to life even in the excess of misery.

Neytiri’s anger was a shallow thing.

Yet, it roots itself deeper than Jake could reach. A daughter of the forest, whom dances where other struggle to stand on uneven ground.

When it came to Spider, it awakened A destructive havoc we call distrust, introduced officially as our antagonist.

A costume. An actor. Entertainment in its most pathetic form. A pale child painting their self blue.

Wishing for the type of dream that lets him sleep in longer.

That’s what Neytiri saw.

When jake looked at Spider, he saw an unfinished canvas.

That’s why Spider paints himself.

“He belongs with his own kind.”

Jake looks towards his wife, his eyes glancing a pattern between the trio and his mate.

“He’s just playing.”

Jake adds, the mumble lingered in the pandora air.

Neytiri clicked her tongue, wincing a bit as she watched the boy roughly pull on Y/n’s tail.

Something she would have considered harmless roughhousing, if Spider was a na’vi child.

Neteyam peeked from behind his mothers leg, his tail flicking curiously as he watched his brother, Y/n and spider run around.

“I am the hungry thanator! Coming to eat you all!”

Spider hissed, running to catch up with Lo’ak and Y/n.

“Not with those legs you’re not!!”

Lo’ak jumped into a higher branch, one which spider couldn’t reach.

“Lo’ak! No fair! I can’t reach!”

Spider complained, attempting jumping for a few failed attempts at catching the mischievous na’vi boy.

“No way! I’m not trying to get eaten!”

“I’m still on the ground!” 

Y/n waves her arms around, signaling to spider to come get his free meal.

Y/n wasn’t like Lo’ak. When she played with spider, sparing him the difficulty of things his body wasn’t made for. 

Spider’s eyes lit up and he roared once again, charging at Y/n, feet assaulting the ground beneath him with splashes in the shin-deep water.

Y/n squealed and found herself tackled by the human boy.

“Caught you! Now I will feast!”

Spider laughed.

“I’ll protect you Y/n!”

Lo’ak tackled spider, Neteyam watched as chaos ensued between the three.

“Neteyam, you wanna go join them, bud?”

Jake nudged his eldest lightly.

But teyam shook his head, his feet rooting him close to Neytiri.

Neteyam was jealous. 

No. He wasn’t gonna admit it.

To see y/n with spider and Lo’ak, yelling wildly, as if the two reckless boys barricaded her in a circle of safety in which she could shed her skin and become her true self.

Why couldn’t she have that with neteyam?

Neteyam thought of himself as a nice person.

Neteyam had a fascination with Y/n.

Often found himself trying to climb over the barrier she had built around herself.

Jake called it a ‘puppy crush’.

What’s a puppy? 

Neteyam didn’t know. Nor did he care, really.

At age 8, Neteyam was the kindest soul you’ll ever meet.

Kind, gentle, beloved by all of his friends in the village.

And trust me; teyam had lots.

Quite the popular kid.

There was a time where Neteyam was following his father, bow in hand, his steps unfaltering in speed, skipping over rocks as he trailed behind Jake, whom walked with his head high, ready to take his eldest fishing.

“Alright, bud. Gotta make this one quick. I promised your mom I’d get you home before sundown.”

“Okay dad…”

Neteyam’s words trailed off as he found his steps lacking perfect pace behind the taller na’vi.

A bit beside him, a na’vi girl came into view, quietly poking and picking at the flowers with a steadied gaze.

Stomped on, withered tswakesyul under the fingertips, it only took him a second to realize it was Y/n.

Neteyam’s feet moved before his mind could.

“Y/n?”

She squeaked at the sound of his voice; her eyes widening a bit; and she stared like a deer in headlights.

“Hi teyam.”

Her voice is quiet, a fragile thing.

“Whatcha doing? Is that a flower? It’s pretty. Tswakesyul are mama’s favorites-“

Neteyam pauses mid sentence as he sees Y/n struggle to answer his overwhelming questions.

Her mouth opens and closes, but no words form a grand execution.

Choppy breaths, stuttered scentences.

Neteyam sits patiently, awaiting her voice to flood his ears.

Neteyam was a kind child. Patient like his mother, growing into a noble warrior with dreams of ikran wings and victorious wind races, running through lightning and chasing rainclouds.

To execute these wild fantasies?

He couldn’t. 

It was like a wall he couldn’t climb.

Even at 8 years of age.

To give in, to fall off the edge, it was like a rope constantly pulled him back to safety. To familiarity and warm scents, to comfort and warm touches from dying fire pits, in a way he envied Lo’ak, who ran through wildfires like it’s his life mission.

No cozy fires for him.

Neteyam never saw y/n as a fragile thing.

Not a thing to be studied or observed.

And yet, the girl whom showed a rare generosity towards something as fragile as a flower….

It enraptured his heart.

Neteyam, once 8, is now 19.

Muscles rippling, stance widening, strength conquering.

He was everything.

He was a hunter, stealthy, silent, graceful, like his mother.

He was a warrior, proud, confident, intelligent like his father.

Expectations were heavy things. Tying him down like weights to a shoulder.

Growing as the future chief, the son of Toruk Makto. Neteyam found himself stuck under an un-surrendering shadow.

Neteyam was sunlight. A tyrant of honor, violent with color, sun-streaked glowing flaxen running through his veins. Reminisce in his laugh, it’s bright enough to challenge the sun and the sky. 

 Haunted by the atonement of loneliness, with the unburdened carefree childhood withering away with each year.

The vexatious luminescent deity we claim to be sunlight, provides no sanctuary to a shadow.

He was the dawn that climbed the mountains slowly at first light, he was the sunsets that bleed through the sky, a lingering shield that protected the lands from the thousand eyes that would soon litter the dark sky, withering into a thin strip of horizon.

Neteyam never stood where he couldn’t see. 

The sun that became mere background noise, a shadow of a looming ruler who no longer throned once night fell.

Watching the moon glow, constantly providing, but never falling off the edge.

With the vengeful thief we call time, Y/n grew into an 18 year old.

Y/n Is a shadow. Dwelling under dim fires, glowing under the moonlight. Sometimes Neteyam thought the universe could fall apart in her hands, and she’d whisper to it like one of her flowers.

A kaleidoscope of perfect curves and colors, sunlit eyes and gentle hands.

Y/n yearned for darkness.

The quiet of the night, the whispers of stardust, the heartbeat of the moon.

where she can touch the consolation within isolation. It is not loneliness she desires, but fixations on the introspection of her affection.

Where she can unravel stories in the leaves, the trees, the earth, the petals of a tsawkesyul.

Neteyam fantasies sporadically.

Dreaming is a dangerous thing.

Is it wrong?

That he yearned for her like she yearned for her flowers?

Had dreams of kissing her neck, dragging his nose along her pulsepoint

feeling the curve of her hips beneath his palms?

Feeling her breath, her heartbeat.

To thread his fingers through her braids. To love her. To kiss her from teh perfectly curved cupids bow and down, worshiping her every breath.

Oh Eywa. Let him pretend.

Let him pretend like the day he stood behind his mother’s leg, watching Y/n and his brother. Pretending it was him, pretending he was with her then.

Pretending he was with her now.

Pretending he was hers. Hers to ruin, hers to kiss, to gently drag her fingertips over.

He longs for her laughter. To chase one another while the sun burns out, the sky submerging into a sunset violent and rebellious with color. The last salvageable stretches of sunlight flirting with her eyes, she serenades him with the aubade of her laughter. Proclamations, promises, and monuments fade behind him.

Those unscathed hands cradling her stories. Her flowers. Her sun

He wants to be her sun.

Trust me.

Trust me please.

Look at me.

Can’t you see me?

Neteyam wants to scream it.

Trust me to treat you like one of your flowers.

Neteyam was sunlight.

Y/n was a shadow.

Can we be an eclipse?

⋆｡˚꩜⋆☼.⋆｡𖦹 °.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆｡°✩｡⋆☾☼⋆｡˚꩜⋆☼.⋆｡𖦹 °.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆｡°✩｡⋆

First request finished! this will become a mini series. I’m thinking 3 or 2 parts? The next parts will be WAY less fancy and extra I promise. This was just kinda a build up to Neteyam and Y/n’s blossoming romance. im actually so excited for this work and I had so much fun writing it. writing it was kinda a blur, yk? like I just sat down and thought “shy reader? Okay-“ And then I started typing and I couldn’t stop 😭

taglist꩜⋆☼

@neteyamsoare

luv you bby hope you enjoyed 💙

#avatar the way of water #jake avatar #neteyam x reader #kiri sully #neytiri #avatar fanfiction #neteyam #lo’ak x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam sully

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍.

DAY FOUR OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: artificial intelligence au + "here, you are. you tiny thing."

pairing: ai-enhanced!miguel o’hara x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, sci-fi, enemies to lovers

summary: there are codeborns and codebreakers. In this world ruled by ai and the people who want to keep it that way, codebreakers fight for freedom while the feared codeborns (ai-enchanced humans) do everything to keep the so-called 'peace'. You are one of the codebreakers, hunted by one of the most menacing codeborn yet, miguel o'hara.

word count: 3k

warnings: hunter/prey, chase kink, size kink, power imbalance, fear kink, dancing on the line of dubcon due to the power imbalance, but reader very much wants miguel, hate sex, piv, possessive!miguel, biting (it has a slight aphrodisiac effect because why not), some blood, dystopian, bondage with mechanical arms, double penetration thanks to said mechanical arms, dirty talk, degradation kink if you squint,

a/n: i don't know with this is, it kinda sorta happened and, honestly, i don't hate it.

In a city perpetually cloaked in gray, oppression is an unrelenting weight. Surveillance cameras leer from every corner, tracking your steps and every muttered word.

This city used to thrive, alive with energy. Now, it's stifled by a regime that rules with an iron fist. Holographic banners hang in the air, projecting sanitized slogans that mask the truth. Rain splashes onto pixelated cobblestones, the wet ground echoing the neon lights into your eyes. 

Heart pounding, you dart through the alleyways, every step echoing. You hear them chasing you, the CodeBorns, they were the AI-enhanced sentinels of this world. Their purpose; bring order to the intricate dark web of the city. You scoff as you run, what a load of bullshit. The sentinels are nothing more than mindless robots that have a barely working human heart—and brain—for that matter. 

Very fittingly, you’re part of a group called CodeBreakers, a group of dedicated people trying to dismantle the regime and censorship. You just recently hacked into the cinema, which might seem not like a big deal, but you just had to save those poor people from watching the same damn thing over and over again. 

Making people watch something else that wasn’t handpicked by the goverment might’ve not been a big deal, but breaking into the system certainly was, and something not everyone could do. 

“Shit,” you hiss, accidentally tripping over a loose cobblestone. “Shit shit shit—” 

The worst thing about the CodeBorns is the fact that they can do a lot that regular folk like you can’t. For example, they’re all ridiculously fast, they can see in the dark, they can hear exceptionally well, they have superhuman strength—

You hear a wall shattering behind you and heavy steps grow closer, you’re relieved when you realize it’s only one set of steps, but as you realize who those steps probably belong to, your chest caves. 

Fucking, Miguel O’Hara. 

You hear the familiar creak of mechanical limbs and the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips. Another thing about the AI-enhanced sentinels, they have body upgrades they can take off whenever they want to. 

“You can’t unrun me!” he roars. “You know you can’t!”

He’s right, you can’t run a beast of a man like him. 

You need to be smarter. 

Ducking into another alleyway, you thank whatever god is left in this world overrun by technology for the web of light the neon signs provide. You quickly spot a string of utility boxes, It’s dangerous, but you manage to squeeze yourself between them and the hard stone wall. Heat radiates from the boxes. If Miguel doesn’t lose track of you soon, the damn thing might heat up enough to burn you. 

The clatter of mechanical limbs echoes closer.

And then you see him. 

The neon light reflects off his holographic suit, its dynamic red details reminiscent of flickering pixels. He's a towering figure. Spider-like limbs protrude from his back, their gleaming metal glistening with the moisture of the rain-soaked air. They move slightly as if looking around, trying to sense her. With panic, you hold your breath, the small hairs on the back of your neck standing with attention. 

His brow is slightly furrowed, something you recognize he does when he’s either angry or annoyed—or both.  His lips, however, curve into a faint, almost menacing smile, revealing a glimmer of satisfaction in this pursuit.

The alleyway seems to shrink around you as his steps grow nearer. Your pulse quickens, synchronized with the flickering lights around you. This isn’t your first run-in with Miguel, and you doubt it will be the last. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. The fear you feel poisons you, making your stomach churn and your mouth taste of death. He’s captured you before but never actually handed you in. 

Arousal rears its head among the fear, coating you in a sheer sweat. You can’t help it. It’s a Pavlovian response at this point, you see him and your body starts leaking like a damn faucet. Miguel had captured you twice, and in both of them, you ended up with his cock deep between your legs. 

You just never know with him. He never contacted you outside of this, never acted in a way that would indicate that something had happened between you two. 

All he gave you is this, the chase, the fear, the wondering if this might be the time he throws you in a needlessly futuristic cell—

"Here, you are. You tiny thing."

Shit. 

It’s comical really; the way you look up with wide eyes as his red ones peer down at you. His smirk is non-existent, yet you can still feel his satisfaction in finding you. Your chest heaves painfully, you can move, struck with uncharacteristic fear. He might not be an animal you get the sense that he smells the horror sticking to your skin. 

You’re about to make a run for it when the mechanical arm’s sinewy grace coils around your ankles. Miguel pulls you out of your hiding place. All the blood rushes to your face as you hang upside down. 

“Dammit, Miguel!” you hiss. “Put me down!” 

He raises a sole brow elegantly, his eyes moving up and down your body, his gaze almost predatory. “Rather bold for a criminal,” he answers, voice nonchalant. The limbs tighten around your ankles, just a shy away from being painful. The arm draws you nearer, your breath mingling with his in the dewy air. “I’m starting to think you enjoy getting caught.” 

“Does it look like I have a death wish?” you ask. His lips twitch and you quickly add. “You know what, never mind, don’t answer that.” 

“What if it was one of the others who found you first? Were you going to spread your legs for them too? ” he snarls. “Is that how you’ve been getting away from hacking our systems for this long?” 

This time when the limb squeezes harder around your flesh and bone, you scream. The sound is drowned by the constant buzz of the world. “I should just take you in,” he murmurs. “Be less trouble.” 

Due to the blood gathering in your skull, you might be imagining things but you swear you saw a hint of actual worry instead of anger in those crimson eyes. But that shouldn’t be possible. Codeborns didn’t feel; sure they felt anger, but they were programmed sentinels made not to care about anyone who went into their criminal system. 

“Careful, your emotion is showing.” 

Maybe you do have a death wish, after all. 

“Bitch.” 

His sudden anger chokes the air from out of your lungs. You’re suffocated. The limb around you suddenly scorching hot, his eyes redder than normal, bright enough to match the neon raining from above. He bares his teeth at you, sharp and venomous, when he wants them to be. Miguel leans further into your personal space, his scowl deep—you begin to shake all over, your heart begging for your body to move away but you can’t. All you fear and think is fear. 

Arousal sneaks between the sinews of emotions. You taste it on your tongue, the scent of it searing as you take quick, sharp breaths. 

Miguel’s nose brushes the tender skin right under your ear, the sound of his inhale deafening “Afraid?” he rolls his tongue, his voice nothing but gravel. Before you can answer, a chuckle halts your tongue. His breath dans over your damp skin, goosebumps rising across your skin. “Or aroused? Or perhaps both?” 

You say nothing and it’s not for a lack of trying. You’re stunned into it, your tongue feeling limp and big in your mouth. The sharp edges of his teeth nip at your upside-down cheek, and despite yourself, a whimper escapes. 

“No seas tímida ahora. Where’s all that bite from before? Cat got your tongue?” you joly at the sudden feel of his warm tongue, your nipples hardening under the fabric of your shirt. “Beg for it.” again, a darkness curls around each and every word. 

This situation shouldn’t be getting you this hot and bothered. The want between your legs pulses so bad that it hurts. 

“P—Please, Miguel,” you say barely above a whisper. “I. . . I want it.” 

“Want what?” 

Fucking asshole. “Your cock. I want. . . you to fuck me.” 

His smile does nothing to quell the fear, “Good girl,” he rasps, the words echoing in your ear. 

The rest happens in a blur. 

Suddenly you’re not hovering upside down anymore, instead, you’re shoved up against the hard, cold surface of a wall, your pants being lowered for you. Now it’s your wrists that are bound and pinned above your head, your legs spread from the ankles thanks to the mechanical arms. Miguel’s large presence looms right behind you, his clothed cock flush between the crevice of your ass. 

“Let’s see how wet you are,” he coos, ripping your panties into two. You make a strangled sound of disapproval, but all he does is click his tongue. “Be grateful I didn’t shred your pants.” 

Grateful is the last thing you’re feeling as two fingers spread your folds, the middle one dipping between. Your body speaks for itself. Swiping his fingers up and down, he gatherers your slick around the digit and traces your entrance, pushing in. Your body jumps at the beach, pleasure licking the base of your spine. “So responsive,” he murmurs and you hear the familiar glitching sound of his suit. 

Then you feel the heft of his cock laying right above the curve of your ass, both his hands cradling your asscheeks. The limb around your wrists coils tighter. 

Miguel parts your cheeks, getting a better look. Your cheeks burn in response. The cool air hits your other hole and you hate the way your body clenches at the cold. His thumb traces the rim and a loud exhale of air rips from your lungs. Your legs start to shake, slick dripping down the insides of the tender flesh. 

“Gonna fuck this pretty asshole one day soon,” Miguel gloats. Experimentally,  he pushes his thumb forward, nearly knuckle deep until you start squirming. You’re dripping for him, your asshole fluttering around the digit. The mild pain only makes your pulse race. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t today.” 

You hear his smile in his voice. The smugness that is laced into his every sentence. Your breath hitches when he pulls out, a moment later the warmth of his finger is replaced with something cold and metal. 

You tense as you hear the machine whirring, the hardness of it is replaced with something rounder and softer. “M—Miguel. . . ?” 

His lips touch your ear, “Shhh, don’t worry about it, princesa, just a little something to keep you satisfied while I fuck your pretty little cunt.” 

The arm merely moves over your hole, a feather-like touch that warms your skin. When it gently prods at you, you arch your back instinctively, your ass moving up into the air. 

Miguel only chuckles, the sound dark and low, a faint slap is delivered to your ass. You yelp but he doesn’t say another word. 

He’s big. 

You have no idea if it’s just lucky genetics or due to the ai-enhancement but whatever it is; he’s well-endowed. 

He makes you feel every tantalizing inch as he pushes himself further into your cunt, your walls throbbing while adjusting to his width. Your jaw drops, mouth gaping. He presses deeper and deeper, every centimeter of your cunt claimed by him. Your knees buckle and for the first time, you’re grateful for the robotic tendrils holding you up. He growls into your neck, those same venomous fangs skimming the tenderness of your neck. You feel the sharp bite of his nails digging further into your hip. 

Towards the base, his cock thickens and your eyes roll back as he shoves the last of it deep inside you. Your breasts feel heavy, tingling with pleasure despite being untouched.

Miguel doesn’t wait, he pulls back his hips and snaps them forward. Your stomach clenches with a delightful shiver. While slamming into you, the arm that holds your wrists together starts to pull you back until your back forms the perfect art, a mild discomfort steaming at the base of your spine. The way he’s angling you above his cock coaxes sweet, load moans from you. If possible, he’s even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot you can’t seem to reach when you’re on your own. 

“You like being my little plaything?” he groans, kissing the sweaty skin between your neck and shoulder. You moan again when the rounded tip of the mechanical limb starts pushing into the tight ring. A fresh pulse of wetness soaks you and trickles down his length, leaving your body trembling. “Fuck,” thrust. “So,” thrust. “goddamn,”  thrust. “wet—” 

You attempt to say his name but all you manage is the pathetic repeat of the letter “m”. His lips curl cruelly and the tip of the arm forces itself deeper, fucking you with shallow thrusts. “Pathetic,” he spits. “You’re so fucked out that you can’t even say my name? You can’t help drooling around my cock, can’t you? This is why I think you enjoy getting caught, you tiny thing,” the hard edge of his voice softens as he drags his nose down your neck. “So pathetic.” 

When he nips at your neck for the nth time tonight, you bare yourself to him by tilting your head. You want it. Want him. You need to feel him tear into your flesh, you want to feel the sting of his bite for weeks. 

His movements slow on both ends. “It’ll hurt,” he warns. 

“I don’t care,” you choke out. “P-Please— I–I can’t—” 

You really can’t talk. Your cunt squeezes around him, begging for the hard pound of his hips. Miguel doesn’t make you say it twice. He sinks his teeth into the same pace he kissed not a moment ago, the pain is instant, the trickle of warm blood making you squeamish. He doesn’t suck, only bites, not that you ever thought he would be sucking your blood. You imagine it’s just something he enjoys doing, like a primal need. You feel the soft webs of psychedelic venom seep into your veins. Your body grows limp, your lids growing heavy, he resumes his thrust and the pleasure you feel is tenfold. 

“Oh god,” you gasp, slack-jawed. “Oh my fucking god—Miguel—” 

He pulls out his teeth, kissing the marks he made that were shiny with blood, “I know, I know,” he grinds his hips, the pleasure shooting up your spine like electricity. “The effects won’t last long.” 

His words go through one ear and out the other. However. Your body singing with pleasure and nothing else, the word around you fading into reds and pinks. 

Miguel snapped his hips hard into you, meanwhile, the limb resumed its thrusts, stretching you further with every stroke. Some part of you is reminding you that Miguel, as of right now, can see every part of you, your most intimate parts completely bare. But the soothing venom lurking in your veins whispers words of encouragement. You focus on being stretched further, your hips move in need to meet his thrusts, but having nothing to brace yourself against, you surrender and allow him to take you apart wholly. 

His grunts became louder, Miguel pushed deeper and deeper, both cocks thrusting into you at the same time. Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips. Your mind empties with slack-jawed bliss as both lengths repeatedly strike your sensitive spots, pounding you with pleasure. 

You let out a loud gasp when the limb pulls out of you suddenly and you’re left empty, Miguel’s arms wrap around you, hands sliding under your shirt to cup the heavy weight of your breasts. He presses flush against you, striking your ass, he fucks into you with short, deep thrusts. 

His fingers pinch at your hard nipples, slightly turning them, “Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “Gonna fuck myself deep inside of you so no one will dare touch you.” 

The possessive tone, the brutal pace of his thrusts, the large hands on your tits—all of it pushes you down the edge, your body going rigid before relaxing entirely. You gush around him, wet sounds echoing in the narrow alleyway as he fucks you through it, not slowing down in the slightest. 

However, you do feel the hold around your wrists recoiling along with the ones holding your ankles apart. Miguel holds you close as you fall loosely like a ragdoll, animalistic sounds are grunted into your ear, another burst of arousal awakening on your tongue. 

The tip of his tongue dances along the bite marks when he spills into you, his cock deep, just like he promised. 

There’s so much, you feel the heat of it spreading inside of you, some of it spilling around from where his cock stretches you wide. His hips twitch, his arms forcing down the grind of your hips. You let out a whimper, your head falling over his shoulder. 

The two of you remain like that until his cock begins to soften inside of you, Miguel slowly pulls out and lowers you to the ground so you can sit. He finds your pants and throws it towards your lap. 

Sadly for you, your brain registers none of that. The dumb muscle only starts working again when he stands tall in front of you, that same menacing stance returning. 

“Don’t let me catch you again,” he says, voice stern. He looks down at you as he stuffs his cock back in his pants. “If I do, I’ll have to lock you up. This was your last warning.” 

And with that, he leaves. 

A bitter laughter bubbles in your throat as the back of your head hits the hard surface of the wall. Rain begins to drizzle, the first tiny drops landing on your cheeks and sliding down to your neck. 

Among all the people you could’ve fallen for, why did it have to be him?

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x f!reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara au #miguel o'hara smut #atsv fanfiction #oscar isaac characters #across the spiderverse fanfiction #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

[hwangism143]

midnights and kitchen lights

synopsis: you wake up to the smell of brownies and a guilty boyfriend

pairing: non-idol!felix x non-idol!gn reader (ft. the rest of skz and their so)

genre: fluff, established relationship, angst (if you squint reallyyy hard)

warnings: mentions of food and eating. guilty lix and having a different gf/bf as a joke. lowercase intended

word count: 861 words

a/n: a little layout change underway, lol. pls drop ur comments and criticism! i should be studying for my exams... but i'm a menace ;)

"we're dancing 'round the kitchen in the refrigerator light"

the aroma of baked goods wafting about in your apartment when your boyfriend was over was not an unfamiliar sensation. what was odd, however, was the smell of brownies hitting your nose at midnight and a loud enough 'fucking hell' to wake you up from your slumber.

your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness you were in. the past week for you was a blur of love and everything else sweet in this world. you finally had your boyfriend all to yourself after he got a deserved break from his extremely demanding job. being the affectionate little ball of love that he was, felix chose to spend his vacation with you.

although he promised to spend the entire month with you, he was simmering with guilt all day. why? because his close (and extremely stupid) friends had planned a boys day out, booking a laser tag arena for the 5th of may. or so they thought. in reality, jisung, who was in charge of bookings, happened to book the arena for the 5th of april.

the boys all decided that it would be better to just go, since getting a refund or rescheduling was not an option. they all also happened to be in town at the same time, almost as if it was fate, as hyunjin had joked when the boys were over at your apartment a few hours earlier.

felix was extremely excited to spend the day with his friends, but he couldn't help feeling bad about the fact that he would be away from you. he even offered to pay for a last minute ticket, which you politely declined. no matter how many times you had told him that it was fine, he wouldn't listen.

"it's ji's fault, lixie. stop blaming yourself. you know how he can be, a little, erm-"

"absent minded?" sighed felix.

his hands were wrapped around you as your head lay on your shoulder. you were watching seungmin's girlfriend making fun of changbin's cooking skills and the rest of the group bursting into laughter. all except for felix. you looked up at him, taking in the freckles dusting his cheeks and the concentrated look in his eyes.

suddenly, he perked up. "i know," he murmured softly under his breath. judging by the steely expression on his face and the pursed lips, you decided not to ask, shaking your head in amusement instead.

you slowly got up and looked to the depression made in your bed right next to you. you swung your legs over to the side of the bed, soft footsteps making their way to the bedroom door. you were clad in nothing except for your pajama shorts and one of felix's oversized shirts.

you open the door, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed around you chest. you take in the sight before you: felix in shorts and a gray tee, baking brownies while bathed in the warm glow of your tiny kitchen. he's hunched over the tray which he must have just taken out of the oven, carefully cutting the brownies into precise strips.

"hi honey," you ask, rubbing your sleepy eyes. you walk over to him as a turns around in surprise, holding up the knife and looking at you with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

you let out a laugh, "i didn't know you had a late night bokkie brownie craving."

he doesn't say anything and just stares at you, a sheepish smile forming on his face. he set down the knife and leans against the counter. he opens his arms wide as you make your way into his arms. his arms wrap around your shoulders and your around his waist as he rests his chin on your head.

"you're so pretty, i think i just malfunctioned," he mumbles into your hair.

you just hum in response, the sleepiness still not out of your system.

"it was supposed to be a surprise for you for tomorrow," he says softly.

"really? thank you so much lix. you shouldn't have," you whisper in response.

"no, i should have cupcake," he says sleepily, "also, if you're inviting the girls over tomorrow, don't share. these are for you and you only."

you look up at him, warm brown eyes full of love meeting yours. you give him a pout, "but the girls love your brownies so much. and if hyunjin ever finds out that i didn't send him any brownies home with aera, he'll never talk to us again. i can't risk my boyfriend breaking up with his boyfriend."

felix lets out an exasperated sigh, a smile playing on his lips, "for the hundredth time, hyunjin is not my boyfriend. and i don't care. bokkie brownies are reserved just for you, cupcake."

you roll your eyes at him with a grin, "but aera is forever going to be my girlfriend. don't worry babe, i'll hide the brownies somewhere safe. although, you calling me cupcake is very odd when you baked brownies."

felix lets out a devastating laugh, "i love you, brownie."

"i love you too, sunshine," you say as the two of you sway in the kitchen in your private bliss.

#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix imagines #felix x you #felix x y/n #felix fluff #felix fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #-via's fics <3

[scoupsahoy]

leaving like a father, running like water

[crossposted to ao3]

It’s 1991 when Steve finally does what his father’s been telling him his entire life, which is: he grows up. Hawkins is stuck in time, a ticking time bomb, a place that’s never really needed him.

That’s okay. People needed him to stay for a while.

Robin needs him. Stuck to his side, constantly over his house, hardly going back to her own. He hears fighting from the inside for a while before he stops taking her back. Violence and vitriol and venom. And he needs Robin, too, needs her to be by his side, needs her to put him back together after the town splits down the middle.

It’s mainly her.

The kids needed him for a while, but they were always stronger. More magical. He was a piece of shit when he was their age, didn’t understand a single fucking thing, and they just knew. They’d lived entire lives right under his nose. They’d fought and won and lost and lost and lost and won, and they were always smarter than him anyway. More resilient.

And Hawkins can hardly be called a place anymore. It’s gray and rotten and barren, and the kids live there because they grew up on its streets and underneath them, but Steve. Steve has only been beaten down by this place, realizes he has to grow up somewhere else.

His parents give him the house and he sells it immediately. No one’s buying land in Hawkins, but it’s land, the town will take it, they’ll take anything they can get, and so will Steve.

They drive west until they hit Las Vegas and they get hitched at one of those sleazy casinos so people stop asking questions.

Steve dips Robin low and kisses her on the cheek behind a veil and the drunk witnesses don’t notice that her cackle is at the ridiculousness of people ever thinking they could be together. And hopefully in a while she’ll be one of those girls on the news wearing a shirt that says Lavender Menace but she could never have been that girl in Indiana.

And Steve. Well.

Before they really decide to leave, Steve gets drunk and hooks up with a guy he’s never met before and never seen again, a drummer in a little metal band playing just outside Indianapolis when he was convinced he was just testing a theory, and then Alexandria Brown, who had a fucking tongue piercing, just to make sure girls still get him off, and then Ronny Jackson, who was in AP Calc and a huge loud weirdo but otherwise gives him the best orgasm of his life. And he otherwise chases what Robin lovingly calls “the Munson High” until it clicks for him.

He leaves because without the kids to take care of, because he can’t play mother hen forever, Hawkins is nothing but a rotting open grave.

So they drive farther and hit San Francisco with ring pop rings and get a nice two bedroom apartment from a landlord who doesn’t ask questions, and that becomes home.

Steve is twenty four when he decides to grow up.

The problem with growing up is the growing part. Stretching his limbs and pounding at his muscles and working long hours lifting heavy boxes onto wobbly shelves for nine hours a day. He sees ghosts in the grocery store and monsters in dogs on a walk and it’s hard out here pretending this has been his only life. But at least there’s beer.

“Steve,” Robin flies through their front door, crumpled flier in hand, right when Steve cracks the can open. “Put that down.”

“Why?”

“We’re going out tonight. This was in our mailbox. I think it’s a gay club.” She smacks her hand on the counter, spread out over a piece of paper, probably too excited to realize there’s no way Steve would be able to read it.

He puts his beer down anyway before asking what should be an obvious question, because he actually isn’t trying to turn into his father, and because he’s a good friend. “Why would someone slip a flier for a gay club into our mailbox?”

“I think Addie and Rose from down the hall put it in there. Doesn’t matter. Go with me.”

And. Steve stares at his beer and the tiny television they got when they moved in so they wouldn’t die of boredom. They were going to watch Turner Classics or something because that’s what they always do on the weekend.

He looks back at sweet, hopeful Robin and sighs. “One of these days I’ll say no to you.”

“No you won’t,” she says, bright and shiny, runs into her closet of a room to get dressed and shouts through the apartment. “Also, for the record, you need to get laid!”

“Say it louder, I don’t think Addie and Rose heard you.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it, because we both know I will.”

So Steve puts on real clothes, nothing too nice, and runs a comb through his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it was when he was a kid, long enough to give him hat hair at work, short enough that he’s not immediately clocked as a freak.

On the walk there, Steve decides his primary goal is to make sure Robin has a good time. His secondary goal is to make sure neither of them get into too much trouble. And the third, if the first two goals go well, is to get head in the bathroom, or, if he’s really lucky, give head in the bathroom.

They haven’t been in San Francisco for very long, considering how long they stayed in Hawkins, but there are regulars in their neighborhood, people he recognizes from work, people he recognizes from the store. It’s like they’re making a life here, almost.

The bartender is a guy who’s jogging route passes in front of their apartment most mornings on their way to work. His grizzled face breaks into pleasant surprise when he gets his eye on them.

“Oh, I recognize you two,” he says, pointing two fingers at them. His voice has a midwest twang to it. Kind of reminds him of home, not that he needs reminding. “That married couple up by that one deli. You guys lost?”

“We’re not.. really married,” Robin says, in that ridiculously un-subtle way she tends to.

Steve shoots her a look. “We’re legally married.”

“Yes, but as friends,” she emphasizes, shakes her naked ring finger at the bartender before leaning both elbows onto the bar and resting her head on her fists. “Tell me, do women frequent this establishment?”

If anything, despite the anxiety burning Steve’s ears red, the bartender at least seems amused. He nods over to a corner of the club closer to the stage and she’s immediately off in that direction, leaving Steve alone on a barstool with a man who knows way too much about him now.

Most of the rest of the bar is empty. Being a club, most people are on the dance floor or in dark corners or against the stage. Steve’s always been the kind of guy to sit by the sidelines. At least, since he graduated.

“She seems quirky,” the bartender says, no malice in his voice, pouring a drink for another patron and sliding it down the bar.

“Yeah, try living with her.”

He heaves a belly-laugh that makes Steve make real eye contact with him for the first time since getting in. “I’m Ricardo.”

“Steve.” They shake hands, firm and friendly.

“Not lost, then?”

“Nope.”

“Thought so,” Ricardo says, though Steve does a quick check of his hair and his clothes, see if anything gives him away. And he must be tense, because he continues. “Hey, relax, let me make you a drink if you want. We don’t bite.”

That shocks a smile out of him, enough to ask for a rum and coke. And Ricardo nods, and Steve tries to remember how to be social again like he hasn’t spent the last five years exclusively hanging out with teenagers and Robin. “That’s a shame. About the biting.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I could introduce you to a friend. He’ll do anything if you ask nicely enough,” he laughs, handing over the drink.

Steve squashes down how flustered that makes him. Robin’s right. He does need to get laid.

“It’s kind of funny, actually. Thinking about it, you’re exactly the kind of guy he usually goes after.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know. Athletic. Good hair. Very normal looking,” Ricardo makes vague gestures at Steve’s general likeness and he tries not to take it personally. “He usually comes by on Saturdays. In case you were curious.”

“What’s his name?” Steve asks, even though he’ll probably forget, by the amount of rum he can taste in his drink and the way a man with more than one tattoo on his neck looks at him from down the bar.

He does manage to remember, because it’s kind of a weird name. And pretty quickly Steve decides that hooking up with someone in a bathroom isn’t too much trouble to get into at all, and Robin is loud and excitable across the club and he shouldn't worry about her too much anyway. So Jacob with the neck tattoos drags him into the bathroom by the hair at his nape and pushes Steve to his knees and the roughness of it gets him off without even being touched.

And his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised and he thinks about the guy named Winn who usually comes in on Saturdays, who likes guys that look like Steve, who will do anything if Steve asks nicely enough.

On the way out Robin has another girl’s lipstick on her teeth so she can’t say anything too scathing, but she does give him the Munson High stare.

He climbs into her bed that night because he has dreams about monsters and bats and open graves. He thinks about Eddie Munson after five years of him being gone, after only really a few days of knowing him, never knowing what he tasted like and chasing it anyway.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson died.

•

It’s 1991, deep into summer, and Steve sweats through his work uniform every single fucking day, takes twice as many showers as he can probably afford the water for, and sometimes it’s so hot in California that he starts to think he might be seeing things.

Robin tells him he’s been hit in the head too many times, which is objectively true, and if he were more self-preserving he’d probably benefit from going to a doctor about it. His father would call him crazy, he knows that, too.

Sometimes at work he’ll see a new-hire with Dustin’s curly hair, the style he had it in years ago when there was a chance he could grow up normal. And Steve will go home on those days and call the Henderson home phone until someone picks up and tells him he’s safe.

And lately, on Friday afternoons after work, when he goes straight from work to the grocery store to pick up whatever he can for dinner, he swears he catches a glimpse of Eddie. Just for a second. Like he’s a ghost.

And there are things wrong, always, the hair, his style, the walk, it has to be a hallucination.

Eddie’s been dead for five years, dead in a different state, in a different universe. And there’s no one to call when he gets home.

The feeling of it sits in his gut and festers like a poison. He doesn’t know why it’s getting worse since coming here. Chasing the Munson High.

They don’t go back to the club very often. They probably should. Robin needs to get laid just as badly as Steve does, but he’s never been the type to let loose when he felt responsible for someone else, not since Nancy. San Francisco is big and gay and new and it’s not quite home yet, and they’re from smalltown Hawkins, Indiana. He doesn’t know how to let his guard down.

But.

“We’re going out tonight,” Robin tells him, sitting next to Steve on their little couch with a sandwich and swinging her legs across his lap as a table.

“We are?”

She nods, smiles, speaks with a mouth full of food. “Yep. We’re going back to the club. And I’m the designated driver.”

“You don’t drive,” Steve blinks. “And we walk there.”

“Then I’m the designated walker. I’ll cart your little drunk self back home. Unless you go home with someone else, of course.”

“What the hell are you going on about?”

Robin smiles her little Robin smile, the one where she’s clearly feeling pity, which she knows Steve hates, and will not apologize for it.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Your nightmares are back again. You’re worrying too much about me and everyone back home,” back in Hawkins, she means, their old home, “and it’s Saturday night and as your wife, I’m forcing you to go out and get drunk and get laid and stop worrying about other people for once.”

“There’s plenty of things to worry about, Robin,” Steve points out, even though it’s a losing battle.

“I’m a big girl, Steve. The apocalypse isn’t coming to San Francisco, and I’m pretty sure if it did I’d be able to handle it until you sobered up.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right.

Fuck. He knows she’s right.

So he lets Robin eat her sandwich and he gets changed into something that won’t make him die of heatstroke (because if he survived the past eight years and throws it all away in the basement of a club, he’s going to march into hell pissed off). And he makes himself look good and he wonders if Jacob with the neck tattoos is coming tonight, or maybe a drag performer, or maybe Winn who knows Ricardo.

They come up with a game plan on the way, because Steve is nothing without a game plan, basically the only thing that’s kept him alive this long. He’s going to get as plastered as he likes, and Robin is going to hopefully hook up with a drag king, and they are going to check in at midnight. And if Steve goes home with someone, he’s going to let her know before he goes, and he’s going to have a good time (this, she is adamant about), and he’s going to call her if he plans on spending the morning in bed.

Robin tells as much to Ricardo when they get in, orders Steve shots before setting his watch to go off at midnight like he’s fucking Cinderella. She looks Ricardo right in the eyes and demands him, “make sure he gets plastered.”

And get plastered Steve does.

“I was wondering when you’d be back,” Ricardo says. “Not really your scene?”

Steve leans an elbow on the bar. “It’s not that. I like to be careful. I know that this is San Francisco, but still. We’re from Indiana.”

It’s a half-truth, at least. Indiana itself was part of the problem, it always was. Not safe for Robin, not safe for him. Steve always had to pick the safe option. Tonight is really the first time he’s not going to worry about it.

The world is a scary place, even without all the monsters. Ricardo must understand that. Steve takes another shot.

“Illinois.”

The liquor burns down his throat this time, hits him like a punch, “What?”

“I’m from outside Chicago,” Ricardo says, which explains the midwestern accent.

Steve breathes, the buzz starting in his chest. “How long did it take for you to get used to this?”

“Kid, we’re all still getting used to it.”

He takes another shot at that. He thinks about the things he’s getting used to, the new place and the new world and the way the world spins. The way the ground here isn’t cracked and rotten and part of hell. The way he doesn’t have to worry about getting an annual concussion, hopefully, if he watches out, if he follows his rules.

He thinks about Eddie, which is a bit funny, because he doesn’t think he’s tried to think about him in a long time. Sometimes it happens like that. You know about someone for years and then you know them for a few days and then.

Impact.

And if he’s being honest, he’s never going to get laid like this. Sitting miserable at the bar. It’s a club. There are people and performances and men that he doesn’t have to be afraid of.

Steve has to do more than just survive, now. It’s been eight years of surviving and he gets to live.

So he gets plastered. Sloppily so, finds Robin and kisses her wet on her forehead and lifts her up for the girls by the stage and wingmans until she’s giggling and slapping at him and threatening divorce.

He gets bullshit drunk, chases his Munson High, grinds against a man with lots of eyeliner, hair so long he’s pretty. He tells him so against his lips and his hips. Doesn’t learn his name before he’s sitting back at the bar, a moment that hardly sobers him.

He sits for a while and breathes and people-watches and talks to Ricardo, and there’s a man with sunglasses down the bar, staring right at him. His hair is cropped short and he’s covered in tattoos, and Steve flags Ricardo down.

“Am I really drunk or is that guy staring at me?”

Ricardo smiles, response sloshing around in Steve’s brain. “He’s definitely staring. I told you that you were his type.”

“Oh shit,” he says, “that’s Winn?”

Steve doesn’t stick around long enough to hear anything other than the confirmation. And if Winn gets tense, Steve is too drunk to notice. He wants to drink and he wants to make out and he wants this guy to do whatever he wants with him. He wants to flirt and get in his pants and go home with him. And he’s a reckless drunk and he’s okay with it.

“Hey,” he says when he sidles up, rests his elbows on the bar.

“Hey.”

His voice is gruff and deep, surprisingly so. And he looks out into the crowd for a bit, so Steve can peek behind his sunglasses to see what they’re hiding. “I was wondering if you were planning on buying me a drink.”

Winn smiles, and it’s bright, even if it isn’t huge. It looks shocked, unused, awkward in the lips like they’ll crack open. Steve wants to get bloody on them.

“Now why would I do that?”

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” Steve says, even if he doesn’t know that it’s true. It’s true enough. “And Ricardo told me that I’m just your type. Was wondering if you’d ever make a move.”

“Wow. And you couldn’t make a move of your own?” His voice wavers a bit, a teasing jolt, something familiar, weirdly.

Steve drags his eyes down Winn’s body, his plain black shirt, and dark wash jeans, and the lean muscle that sits underneath. “What do you think I came over here for?”

“You’ve got me there. But I don’t think I was staring at you.”

“I’m pretty sure you were.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m wearing sunglasses, so I could have been staring at anything,” Winn says, turns his shoulders towards Steve’s, like they’re closing in on each other.

“You’re looking at me now, at least.”

“That’s true.”

“Any chance you’ll be looking away any time soon?”

It’s fun. Their back and forth. He can tell Winn likes it too, cheeks red, even when the lights change to flash yellow and blue and green. His voice cracks higher for a half second. “None.”

There it is.

“Good,” Steve says, curls his fist into the front of his shirt and pulls Winn down to him. He can feel the snag of chest hair in his hand, swallows the little groan he lets out into his mouth. He wants to get drunk on that, too.

He knows how drunk he must be, out in the open like this. He knows how selfish this must be, and he couldn't give less of a shit about it. Steve wants.

Winn hesitates for a fraction of a second, the kind of second that drags on when you’re drunk, and then kisses back the kind of kiss that empties your entire mind. His tongue is hot, licks into his mouth like fire, and he doesn’t taste like liquor. It’s just cigarettes and sweat and Steve wants to drown in it.

It turns out that Winn is the take control type. The do whatever you want if you ask nicely enough type, if he’s remembering correctly. He’s solid and bone-crushing and not nearly close enough. Steve is desperate and hungry in a way he hasn’t let himself be in years, doesn’t care about the consequences, wants Winn to make a mark on him that won’t go away.

And Winn gets them both drinks, gets Steve just what he likes, takes his own shots like they’re nothing. He downs them like water and Steve stares at his throat like he wants to build a home inside of it.

There’s a little bit of talking, but mainly making out, and a lot of touching hip bones and exposed biceps and the tender skin at the juncture of Winn’s neck, and ordering drinks and feeling reckless and not giving a shit.

And then his hands are in Steve’s hair, pulling, kissing him again and again, and his knees nearly collapse right there.

“Take me home,” Steve finds himself saying. “Your home. Take me to your place.”

Winn laughs, a sharp sound, “You’re a little drunk, buddy.”

“Sober me up then,” Steve says, slides his free hand up Winn’s leg. He tests a theory. “Please?”

And that does something.

He is pretty drunk, and otherwise his blood isn’t particularly focused on his brain function as much as his dick, honestly. But still, Winn makes Steve dizzy with it, with want and need.

It’s quick and reckless. Steve tells Robin he’s going home with Winn, that he’ll call a cab in the morning, and she salutes him on his way out.

The air outside is just as stale and hot as the club, and Steve leans into Winn’s arm while they walk.

“I hate how hot it is here.”

“You might have come to the wrong place, big boy,” Eddie says. Or, well, Winn says it, but Steve stops short in his tracks, feeling like a tape getting rewound, cranked slowly. It’s five years ago all of a sudden, just for a second, and Winn catches Steve by the bicep and if Steve were feeling more like himself he might have flexed or flirted or something. “You alright?”

And he’s back in the present, skipped ahead with a scratch. “Yeah.”

“Don’t die of heatstroke on me. I have water at my apartment. It’s not far.”

It really isn’t far. Winn keeps his sunglasses on even though Steve can hardly see a foot in front of him as it is. He wonders for a second if Winn has real eyes, or if he sees through his lenses like screens. Or maybe he can’t see at all. That seems unlikely.

He wonders if Winn has Eddie’s eyes, too. Big and brown like he’d never seen before or seen since. The real Munson High: not a guy with long hair and rings and tattoos and weird interests, but a guy who looks at him like that, like Eddie did. Intense and sure and determined and unafraid.

“You remind me of someone,” Steve says, sloshed, uninhibited.

For all accounts, he should keep his mouth shut. Steve is actually trying to sleep with this guy, and he can’t imagine that comparing him to his admittedly life-changing but violently dead friend from five years ago is going to be appealing.

And this guy is cool, Steve tells him so. His style and his walk and his demeanor and how he tastes like cigarettes, the kind you roll yourself.

He thinks, maybe, keeping it lighthearted will be best. If this is the final destination of the Munson High, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Or scary the way seeing the ghost of him in his grocery store is.

Winn keeps him talking, though. “Someone nice?”

“Oh,” Steve blinks. He isn’t quite sure, which seems unfair, but he doubts Eddie thought Steve was all that nice either. “Maybe. He was nicer than me, maybe. He was good, I know that. We had a lot going on back when I knew him, but you have the same kind of smile. And manner of speaking. All that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Steve is too drunk really to read into the way Winn’s posture changes, maybe it has something to do with the fact that they’re at Winn’s apartment already. It’s not far at all. In fact, Steve could probably make it back home in fifteen minutes if he wasn’t so far gone.

His apartment is small and a bit messy, and it’s quiet and a little impersonal. Not much on the walls, no pictures of family around. And sometimes it’s like that here, he’s learned. Not everyone has a Robin. But at least Winn has a Ricardo.

The entry space isn’t too warm. It’s actually nice and cool. Cooler than the club, certainly cooler than the outside. Like, Winn must have good air conditioning. “Jesus Christ, are you rich or something?”

“I can’t believe that you of all people would ask that,” Winn says. Steve doesn’t bother asking what that means but he wonders. He looks for hints in Winn’s sunglasses or the familiar weight of his hands.

“I feel like I can breathe,” Steve takes a deep breath and spins, almost topples over, and Winn catches him by the shoulders. Firm hands. Familiar. They’re familiar. “Woah, thank you.”

“Not a problem, dude.”

There it is again. That tone of voice. Steve has got to be fucking hallucinating, honestly, all of a sudden overcome by this pulling in his chest.

“Is dude really an appropriate thing to call someone you’re trying to sleep with?” He flirts, the only cylinder in his brain that’s firing like this. Everything else is fighting drunken confusion and Eddie and trauma. And it’s not fair that this is happening now.

Winn’s sunglasses are still on. “You’d be surprised, Stevie.”

He stumbles and trips over a cable and it feels like 1986 again and 1985 and 1984, and it’s a black and slimy vine, something that will slither around his neck and ankles and choke him out. And the next few hours are a confusing haze, because he collapses in Winn’s arms. He gets taken to the couch, a fucking ugly thing, and he can’t breathe and it’s humiliating.

It’s been a while since an episode like this. The first few weeks in San Francisco were like that, peeking around every corner, distrustful of every shadow. And the feeling of being back there mainly sticks to nightmares, something he can blame on his dreams.

But he got used to it. He got used to San Francisco and normal problems like being broke and hating your parents.

Steve knows what’s real and what isn’t. He’s smart. He hasn’t gone insane. He’s not crazy, except, he definitely looks crazy to this guy. This poor guy. Not-Eddie. Eddie’s not real. Or, not anymore.

He never should have come here. He should be with Robin. She knows what’s real too. She can talk him down. She’s good at it.

He can’t see for what feels like an hour or what he knows is realistically only a couple of minutes, and then he can, because Eddie or not-Eddie rubs circles into his back and puts a glass of ice water in his hands and tells him how cold it is. He narrates the droplets of condensation that track down his skin and into his watch, which still hasn’t gone off yet.

This is the longest night of his fucking life and that’s saying something, it’s saying too much.

“You’re okay, man,” Eddie or not-Eddie says, calm like he’s used to this feeling, when nobody could be. Nobody but the group of them who fought monsters in alternate dimensions, who were nearly killed off and then paid off by government organizations. It’s why Steve and Robin came here in the first place. To get away from it. Somewhere where no one would know. So they wouldn’t have to see the effects of it every day and breathe the awful polluted air.

A chill runs up his spine. The air conditioning whirrs. A thought comes to his mind: he likes it cold.

And he thinks he’s hyperventilating again, he must be, because Winn is concerned and takes off his sunglasses and Steve gets a good look at his eyes and they’re Eddie’s. Like he took them from him. Like the world is fucking with him, like they never won at all and this is Steve’s fucking ticking clock. Like the last five years weren’t real, like nothing is real.

By some grace of God, that’s too much for his brain to handle, and he passes out right there on Eddie’s couch in Eddie’s arms in San Francisco in 1991.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson almost died.

•

It’s 1991, and Steve wakes up hungover in a room he’s never been in before. It’s dark still, and his head is pounding, and he’s sure it’s from the alcohol. But it centers around his eyes like he’d been crying, something he doesn’t let himself do all that often, and it floods back.

His eyes barely adjust and there’s an old Metallica poster on the wall and a stack of books in the corner of the room and a guitar pick necklace hanging from the corner of a mirror and nothing else.

Nothing else recognizable, at least. Nothing else personal, not that Steve can really say he knew Eddie personally. It’s nothing like Eddie’s room at home five years ago, the one he had to clean out because Wayne and Dustin were too heartbroken to do it themselves. With his guitars and posters and fliers and lyrics and chord progressions. With his drugs that they threw back into Rick’s house. That he and Nancy made sure to keep far away from the kids, because God fucking forbid they touch them.

It’s too dark to tell if this is the Upside Down or one of those clock hallucinations or if it’s just night.

There’s no reason Eddie Munson should be alive.

There’s no reason, really, that Steve should have been thinking about him for so long, anyway. For thinking of Eddie as this special thing to him, a high he’s chased for years, a person he recognizes pieces of in strangers on the street. That must be what this is. Punishing him for not letting him go. When he hardly fucking knew the guy.

But that’s not right, either.

He’s shaking, and the bed creaks with it, and the door opens slowly, and he holds his breath until Eddie walks through.

Because Eddie walks through. His hair is cropped and his neck is scarred and his face is older. There aren’t rings or patches or buttons on leather and denim. He looks different and exactly the same, and the light from the other room floods from behind him like a halo, like he’s a ghost.

Steve knows that this can’t be his imagination, though, can’t be the effect of some spell or hypnotism or post-traumatic stress, because he’d never imagine Eddie like this. Barren.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Eddie says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like this is a normal thing to do, and Steve kind of wants to kill him again.

The light flickers on, bathes the room in an ugly yellow. “What did you do?”

“What?” Eddie stops short. Water spills over the rim of a glass Steve didn’t notice he was holding. “You had a panic attack and passed out. I brought you to a bed.”

Steve shakes his head. “You died! You died five years ago! What did you do? Did you make a deal with Vecna? With the guys at the lab?”

“Jesus, no!” Eddie steps forward and Steve tenses. His eyes flash, and they’re just as big and swirling as Steve remembers, but they’re dark, and he holds his other hand out, placating. Is he a vampire? Is Vecna even dead?

“Was any of it real? Is any of it over?”

Exdie crouches, and he takes off his shirt, and Steve must still be a little drunk because he stares at his chest and the curls of hair scattered around. But behind that, more clear now than it was in the club, is scarred, discolored patches of skin, poorly stitched together, healed but slowly. Painfully. The scratches and scars run lightly up his arms and his chest, up into deep pinks and reds at the base of his neck.

“I didn’t die,” Eddie says, patient, practiced, like he’d been prepared to be found out. Which begs the question: what was the fucking point? “I nearly died. I thought I died. But I didn’t.”

Steve fumes and he tries to follow and he stares at Eddie’s skin, thinks about all the people he couldn’t protect.

“We mourned you. Dustin was,” Jesus Christ, it hurts to think about, “torn in half. You let us all think you died, but you let him think you died. We would have helped you.”

Eddie stares like he’s brokenhearted, and Steve is done talking. His throat hurts and his head hurts and he’s too fucking old for this. He dares Eddie to explain himself.

•

It was 1986. Eddie Munson didn’t die.

He really did think he was going to. He’d already accepted it, and if Dustin got to live, he would have done it over and over again indefinitely. He would have relived the pain forever, and he knew it even when it was excruciating and he tasted blood and venom and whatever else.

The only thing he wouldn’t relive was Dustin’s face, dirty and tear-tracked and sobbing.

Eddie faded out and faded back in. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he heard the others come back, heard them tear Dustin off of him, heard the rumbling of thunder and the splitting of earth.

One thing Eddie learned when he was young, when his dad put his mom in the hospital, was that hearing goes last. The last moments wrapped up in loud silence.

He didn’t know if he believed in heaven, but the screams and the cracking and the laughter from Vecna sounded a lot like hell, especially when it didn’t stop. When it kept going. When he thought he was dead.

But hell seemed to spit him back out.

Didn’t want him. Go figure.

He was hardly alive, though. Alive in the sense that he was sometimes conscious and his heart was chugging, pushing blood around his body.

And eventually, in Hawkins, real Hawkins, he crawled until he ended up in the Hendersons’ backyard. He’d heard a story once, right before he died, that Dustin had taken in a little monster until it could live on its own.

It was a long shot, but he was hoping the kid would be willing to do it again.

He was.

Eddie bled sludge onto the concrete of Dustin’s cellar, and Dustin stole antiseptic and gauze and painkillers from where they were keeping Max in the hospital and from the donation drives and wherever else, Eddie never knew. He soaked needles and string in hydrogen peroxide and sewed him up in the really gnarly gashes that wouldn’t scab over, placating Eddie with whatever was in his mother’s liquor cabinet.

And it was fucking hell.

He will never remember most of it.

But as soon as he could stand upright he cut his hair short and hitchhiked to Indianappolis and took a one-way bus to California and didn’t look back.

There was no way he could. Every step was a miracle. He was a man on the run.

But nobody except his uncle knew that his name was Edwin, that his mother’s maiden name was Langley. Nobody except Rick, who’d made him a fake ID before he got sent to prison so he could run off to San Francisco after he graduated, or after Wayne got sick of him, or after shit got really bad.

And well.

It killed the poor kid, he knew it, but he hoped that knowing he was alive would lessen the blow. Even if he swore him to secrecy. The kid was loyal. Could keep a secret.

Dustin is nothing if not stubborn. Packed Eddie’s bag with a note with his home phone number and a radio frequency and a threat, a promise, to tell the police exactly where he was if he didn’t confirm proof of life at least once a month.

An extremely charming scribbled note on a piece of paper he would keep in his bedside table that read: I WILL MAKE ELEVEN FIND YOU. LIVE.

So Eddie Munson – if you asked his ID, Edwin Langley – if you asked anyone else, Winn the Mechanic – didn’t die in Upside Down Hawkins, Indiana in 1986. He laid low for five years in San Francisco, a place where people run to all the fucking time and don’t ask questions, didn’t make too much money, didn’t make too many waves.

He got rid of anything that would identify him. That was the hard part. All Eddie Munson had was his identity. Was his band and his music and his club and his loud personality. And he’d never held himself back for anyone.

He figured, though, if he was going to hold himself back for something, it would be for the teenagers who fought monsters. Maybe, he thought, this way he’ll win. There’s no other way for them to win.

Eddie knew his odds. Every day was a stealth check. And for five years he rolled high enough. It helped staying mainly sober and playing the new performance of being mysterious and quiet. Like that was a new game in itself.

And then, one day, a drunk and traumatized Steve Harrington rolled high enough on investigation to crumble the whole thing down.

•

It’s 1991. And Eddie Munson didn’t die.

He was alive when Wayne and Steve organized a pathetic little funeral for him with sticks and pins and guitar picks buried into the ground on the right-side-up of where he got attacked by the bats. He was alive when Steve and Lucas spent nights in Dustin’s room, giving them a break from the hospital room and making sure they were doing okay.

For Christ sake, he held Dustin while they mourned.

Eddie was alive when Steve sort of pieced together why he was so heartbroken. When Robin asked why he kept Eddie’s jean jacket hung on the back of his desk chair, why he didn’t bury it or give it to Wayne. He was alive when Steve was confused and tired and drove out to Indianapolis and went down on some drummer with long hair and big eyes who called him baby and pretty and gave him a warning before coming down his throat.

When Robin coined the term Munson High.

And Jesus Christ, Steve is exhausted. He’s nauseous and dizzy and hungover and his mouth tastes like shit. He’s only pretty sure this whole thing isn’t an elaborate mind game.

“I don't understand, dude,” Steve says, running the palm of his hand flat down his face.

“What don’t you understand?”

Steve kind of wants to kill him again. “Why did you have to be dead? Why didn’t you tell the rest of us? Why didn’t you tell me? We were friends!” He clears his throat. “And why the fuck did you take me home tonight knowing damn well who I was?”

Eddie counts the questions off on his fingers, formulating his thoughts, and it’s infuriating to watch. Knowing that Eddie has had five years to think about this, and Steve is falling over on himself like a fucking idiot. Blindsided.

He speaks, and for some reason it sounds the exact same as it has in Steve’s memory, and it hurts. “The town wanted me dead, man. There were people coming after me with pitchforks, no questions asked, there was no saving me. Not after Jason died. Not after it broke national news. I couldn’t be missing or sent to jail or any of that shit. I had to be dead or they would kill me. And if they couldn’t kill me, they’d kill you guys for keeping me alive.”

Steve clenches his jaw and it sends the violent sting of a migraine into his eye. “We would have done it. We needed you–”

“That’s why you guys couldn’t know. You would try to fix it. If you knew I lived, you would patch me up and take me to your magical girl’s friends with the government and they would wave their wands, but I would be public enemy number one, and that was never going to change or get better,” Eddie says, a crack in his voice like he’s frustrated, like he has a right to be. “I’ve been public enemy number one since the kids in Hawkins found out who my dad was. It never fucking changes.

“I told Dustin because I knew he wouldn’t ask me to stay after I’d already made up my mind. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would. You would have asked me to stay and I would have done anything for you back then. And now, too. I just can’t say no to you, Stevie.

“But,” he finishes, “you needed to focus on the bigger picture. If you thought there was any shot I would make it, you would have taken it, and you would have gotten yourself killed.”

Steve breathes. He can’t do much to argue with that, but the parts of it that were personal, that made Steve feel like stained glass or the open mouth of a cave, like he was something Eddie could really see, those parts are hard to swallow.

“And?”

“And,” Eddie says. “I haven’t seen you in five years and I never got to kiss you back then, I never even thought of it as a possibility. And my cover was broken and I was drinking even though I don’t do that anymore, and you asked to go home with me, Steve. I already said I can’t say no to you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Eddie relaxes into a position more familiar, barely. The ghost of a posture Steve recognizes from five years ago. He wonders if he’s still the same or different in Eddie’s eyes. “And I wouldn’t have slept with you under false pretenses, I just figured you’d rather not be in a dark little gay club when you realized I was Eddie.”

He’s a little too tired for this. A little too broken. It’s a little too much.

Steve wonders if he would feel his heart stop if it did. Or if it would just feel like the same dull ache he’s been feeling for five years. More than that. Since his world turned upside down.

“You’re stuck with me, now. You got that?”

Eddie smiles, and it’s something so massive and heart stopping and sickening that Steve worries if it’s real at all. It’s just different enough. Five years older. Relieved and real.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, waterlogged and broken and also whole.

Steve would hate to break this, but he glances at the clock and feels a tension about a fifteen minute walk away. “You’re going to have to deal with Robin, though. And Dustin is going to have to deal with me”

•

In 1996 there’s a wedding in Hawkins, Indiana.

•

It’s 1991. Steve unlocks his apartment, cramped and kind of ugly, and full of life.

“Hey Rob?”

Robin calls from her little closet room. “No honey I’m home? Where has our love gone, Stevie?”

“Uh,” he shifts by the door. “I ran into someone last night.”

“I thought you went home with that Winn guy. Did he fuck your brains out? I should have told him about your history of concussions before I let you leave…” Robin trails off when she turns one of the snug corners of their apartment and makes eye contact with them.

And Steve can only imagine how they look to her, considering everything. Steve bringing home a man who looks more like Eddie Munson than is probably healthy for him. Looking exhausted, his eyes are chapped and red from last night. And Eddie looks kind of terrified, which he should. It’s a blessing that Nancy is on the other side of the country, because Eddie would be dirt in the fucking ground, probably.

“Hi,” Robin looks Eddie up and down with so much intensity that Steve can feel the heat of it. “I’m sorry. I’m Robin. I need to steal Steve away for just one minute.”

“Robin,” Steve manages. She looks away from Eddie and gives Steve a scathing Munson High stare. It quiets him.

Eddie speaks, though. That same old voice. “Robin.”

It’s pleading, almost. And it works. Steve and Robin joke about being able to read each others’ minds, but it’s like something really happens then. Exactly how he thought she’d react: confused, and then suspicious, and then almost angry.

“What is this?”

She doesn’t give either of them a chance to respond, just walks up to Eddie and pulls on the collar of his shirt. Steve looks too: the smattering of scars, years healed over but still gnarly, raised, skin crawling over itself like veins.

There’s this little quirk in the scars on Steve’s stomach, marks that never faded, speckles of black, like shards of venom from the bats stuck inside him. They play just underneath the pale scars on Eddie’s neck. And Robin’s face breaks.

“What the hell is this?

“I’m–” Steve thinks there’s going to be an apology from Eddie, half-formed, scared and desperate in a way that tears Steve’s heart in half even though it’s only just been mended. But Robin launches forward, unsteady on her feet, wraps both arms around his neck.

“You were gone,” Robin croaks into his skin. “I saw it.”

Eddie rubs her back, and Steve’s heart lurches at the memory of her and her brave face when they found Dustin hovering over his body.

“I’m sorry.”

“How are you here? Did they–” the government, the Lab, the Russians, the creatures, “did they take you away? Are you under witness protection? Who’s Winn?”

Eddie’s voice shakes while he explains it again, and Steve shakes while he hears it again, and Robin watches and listens with her usual intensity, careful and horrified and spinning cogs in her brain while she puts the pieces together. She’s always loved a mystery. A puzzle. She asks the right questions, gets the right answers.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?”

Steve watches Eddie’s face. This beautiful thing. It crumples the tiniest bit, and Steve’s always been attuned to these non-verbal signs, these warnings. So for a second, there’s a wet anguish in his eyes, and Robin’s fingers curl hard into his shirt like a threat, and Steve worries that whatever comes out of his mouth will be a lie.

It’s too much like 1986 and Eddie’s smiling at him, curly and beautiful, promising that he’s not a hero. Like it’s 1987 and Dustin is sitting at Eddie’s grave like he doesn’t know where he is. Like it’s 1988 and Steve on the phone with his parents, telling them things are fine. It’s 1989 and Steve is telling Robin that he’s fine. 1990: this town isn’t sucking the soul out of him, he can stay for the kids, he deserves one more year as a kid himself, he still has something to offer.

It’s 1991, and Steve knows how to lie, and he’s never been afraid of being lied to. He’s only ever been afraid of the truth.

–

In 1996 there’s a wedding in Hawkins, Indiana. There’s no big white spectacle event at the town’s once-gaudy now-dilapidated church, no priests or preachers. The bride never believed in all of that, and the rest of them haven’t bought into it for at least a decade.

It’s a small ceremony. Steve walks Max down the aisle. He whispers to her that Lucas started crying the moment he saw her, Max says she knew he would, and Steve laughs, delighted.

He drops her off and falls back into Lucas’ groomsmen line, punching him in the shoulder on the way, lands his hands on Dustin’s shoulders and squeezes.

He catches Robin’s eye on the other side of the aisle. She’s still wearing their wedding ring, but she’s playing with the lace on Nancy’s shoulder, and Nancy’s smiling in a way Steve’s never seen from her.

It’s been a decade free of evil in this town, and Steve doesn’t often come back, but it’s moments like this where Steve remembers that this was his home, once. There aren’t towns like this in California, smattered with woods, filled with people who have always known him, who he doesn’t have anything to lie about to.

Eddie’s there. He hasn’t been to Indiana since he crawled out ten years ago. He’s sitting, playing with hair he’s been growing back out for five years.

There’s a tattoo on his ring finger, now, black and sprawling.

Steve stares at it the entire time.

–

It’s 1991, and Steve is back in Eddie’s apartment. There’s a nice radio in the closet, and the two of them sit on the cool ground in front of it.

Steve hasn’t taken his eyes off of Eddie in hours, what’s felt like years. He edges closer, like Eddie is a stray, like he’ll scamper away. And Eddie at least seems to understand. Press back, knowing there’s fear that he won’t.

He’s warm. That’s one of the most jarring things.

He still remembers how cold he felt, years ago, bleeding through his clothes, through Steve’s hands.

And now he’s warm and alive and Steve wants to be burned by him. Seared. He wants Eddie so close he leaves a mark.

Eddie turns to look at him, raises an eyebrow, “ready?” And he waits for Steve to nod before he turns on the radio and plays with the frequency.

“Obi-Wan to Luke checking in…” His eyes flicker up to Steve’s. “Over.”

Steve smiles. Of course Dustin is Luke. He’s almost surprised he isn’t Han.

It takes a few seconds for Dustin to respond, undeniably him, attempting to hide his excitement in the way he’s never been able to pull off. “Luke to Obi-Wan, confirming check-in. Is everything alright? We just spoke last week. Over.”

“Just peachy, young Skywalker. Though I do have a visitor. Over.”

“Are you compromised?” Dustin’s voice crackles with his natural intense panic. “Over.”

“No,” Steve leans into the microphone, keeping all points of contact with Eddie like he’ll float away. “But you are. Over.”

There’s a bit of amusement that Steve can see in Eddie’s eye, a smile that he can’t look away from. It makes this whole thing feel less massive. Everything’s felt massive for almost ten years, and Eddie just dissipates the whole thing. Like magic. Eddie’s fucking Houdini.

“Shit.”

“You didn’t say over. Over,” Eddie says, voice light.

It’s ridiculous, all of a sudden. Easy. Even though everything is an awful disaster, it’s easy.

“Shit… Over.”

–

In 1996 they stay at the Motel 6 on Cornwallis after the reception. They slow dance in the little space next to the bed, entirely sober, both of them. Drunk off each other, almost.

They don’t sleep, because they fuck like rabbits, and because Hawkins is still a little too haunted to get real rest, and because the Motel 6 is still a piece of shit even after rebuilding it in the 90’s.

The sun rises and it stays there.

#steddie fic #steddie #stranger things #stranger things fic #tumblr fic

[leiawritesstories]

Sweater

for @throneofglassmicrofics prompt: "sweater," Elide x Lorcan

word count: 623

warnings: minor swearing

oopsies, it definitely isn't March yet, but this basically wrote itself while i was TRYING to read stuff for my capstone. so...enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Li, where's my socks?" Lorcan's yell echoed down the hallway.

Elide rolled her eyes as she pulled on her short boots. "In the dryer where your laundry still is, babe!"

"Dammit!" With a bout of muffled cursing and a series of thumps and grunts--her boyfriend was many things, but graceful was not one of them--Lorcan jogged down the hall and through the living room, stopping to openly admire his girlfriend's outfit before he ducked into the laundry room.

"You look amazing, shortcake."

"Don't call me that, you giraffe," she laughed, but the complaint was teasing. "Hurry up and get a shirt on, and we can go."

He nodded and went into the laundry room. The dryer door clanged open, he ruffled around for a moment, and there was a moment of quiet before he cracked open the door, scowling.

"Babe?" Elide went over to the laundry room. "Everything okay?"

"Fuck no," Lorcan grumbled.

She raised a brow. "You gonna tell me what's wrong, or are you gonna keep sulking like a kid?"

Slowly--very slowly--he pushed open the door. The scowl etched into his face would have made anyone else pee themself, but Elide knew her grumpy boyfriend too well to be dissuaded. She glanced over at him.

Then she looked for a good long minute, using all of her self-control not to burst out cackling.

"That's 100% wool, isn't it?" she managed to ask.

"Yeah." Lorcan's dark-gray sweater, which Elide loved to steal, clung to his wide shoulders and muscled arms, the fabric stretched nearly to its limit, and stopped just barely past his ribs, exposing the tattoos inked onto his side. "It is."

"Babe...you know you can ask me if you're not sure what to do with your clothes..."

"I didn't want to sound like an idiot," he admitted, his words muffled from him hiding his face in his hands. "And you can laugh, Li. I know you want to."

Elide wrapped her arms around Lorcan's firm, bare stomach and dissolved into laughter, her petite frame shaking against his much larger one. "I was trying not to, but oh my god."

He let loose a dry chuckle. "I know."

"If I had my phone on me, you'd never hear the end of this." She flashed him a wicked little smirk.

"God, no," he groaned. "Aelin is not fuckin' allowed to know about this."

"Don't worry, babe." Elide ran her fingers up her boyfriend's chest. "She won't." She grabbed the hem of Lorcan's horribly shrunken sweater. "C'mon, you still have to change."

Lorcan pulled off the sweater, tossing it to the floor, and pulled a thankfully still normal-sized shirt over his head. "You might as well take it," he said, "it's your size now, shortcake."

"Don't call me that," Elide retorted, her nose crinkling.

"Why not? You're tiny and cute, like a shortcake."

"And you're a big old softie." She winked at him as she reached down, picked up his sweater, and changed into it right in front of him. "It fits perfectly!" she exclaimed, doing a little spin.

"On second thought..." Lorcan's appreciative gaze lingered on the sight of Elide in his clothes.

"Oh no." She shook her finger in his face, trying to be as menacing as possible while pushing aside the way she wanted to climb into that look in his eyes. "We are not putting off this lunch; we haven't seen our whole friend group in months."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just don't say anything about my sweater, Li."

"I would never," she promised, rising onto her tiptoes and tugging his head down to steal a kiss. "Love you, grouchy."

"Love you too, shortcake." He linked his fingers through hers as they walked out the door. "Especially in my clothes."

~~~ TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added or removed!

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

#my writing #throne of glass #throne of glass microfics #elorcan #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elide x lorcan #elorcan fanfic #elorcan fanfiction #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #answered prompt #oops it definitely isn't march lol #here's an early prompt fill though!!

[sun-stricken]

More protective dragon slayers please? 🙏

Gray watching the slayers hang out and go on jobs together: :(

Gray after being ‘adopted’: :| (secretly loving it)

Sting considering putting a gps chip on Gray only to find Juvia’s one already there and getting mad.

Sting: How dare she!

Gray: how dare you!

Wendy being the most protective.

Slayers getting jealous of Gray hanging out with Lyon. (Just wait until Natsu tells them about Galuna island).

Rogue uses Frosch to trick Gray into therapy

Someone comments on Gray’s nudity/makes suggestive comments and Wendy gets mad. Wendy: He’s too young!

My personal headcannon is that memento mori made Gray more demon so he’s got a bit of a taste for blood. He was going to keep it secret but after defeating Avatar one of the members were like ‘they’ll never accept you. You’re a monster!’.

Also that Avatar messed Gray up. He just casually mentions his initiation (ie torture) or Briar and Jerome being a bit too friendly, or not being able to get out a blood stain. And everyone is just wtf?

Sorry for the ramble! It’s just nice to get these ideas out

don’t apologize! i love seeing other peoples hcs!

i refer to the dragon slayers dragon as it or they bc i classify it as kind of a separate entity? same with grays demon

More dragon slayers beinng protective of gray for the soul! (these are more just them and gray hcs i have, but the protectiveness is implied)

TW IMPLIED SEXUAL HARRASSMENT

its a lot so vv

Gray gets sick a lot, and its never just a simple cold or small fever, its always smth vaguely serious

and the dragons absolutely despise it, they also despise that its not something they can just destroy

Every time Gray gets sick all their inner dragons are immediately running in circles with the need to make him feel better

He sniffles once or gets a tiny scrape and theres a multitude of crashes and yelling to find blankets, med kits, and trying to find the best spot for him to sit down at

Wendy is extra feral and protective during these times

(which is saying a lot bc her dragon is definitely the most protective normally, whether bc its young or bc theyre a healer so thats their job to protect doesnt matter, it just is)

she has bitten people for getting too close (ie. within 40 ft) to them, even if theyre in a public place

Shes also forgotten shes a healer multiple times bc her dragon was so hellbent on the good old fashioned hands on approach

During one of the times he was bedridden at home, they found an book with Isvan style recipes in it, then proceeded to try and make something from it

they failed, they are complicated recipes and they probably wouldve failed home ec

but its the thought that counts and count it did bc Gray practically threw himself at them in a hug when they told him what they tried to do

GOING OFF THE HC OF DEVIL SLAYERS SLEEPING A LOT THING LIKE CATS (ty @bluneko91 for the idea) i think Gray in general has always been the type to sleep anywhere and everywhere

but now he can actually easily get to those hard to reach places and nap, and hes a menace with it

a weekly occurrence at the Fairy Tail guild is half the dragon slayers frantically searching for their demon slayer, looking in his past usual haunts (at the bar, on a table, under a table, makarovs office, on the stairs somewhere, the more random the more likely)

only for him to be found on the rafters 100 ft off the ground

when they find him they have about a good 7 seconds of peace before they verge yet another cardiac event bc holy shit oh god hes gonna fall!!

another common scene is Gray sleeping (in less dangerous places) and having various token dragon slayer clothes covering him

The dragons asking Gray if he wants to go on a job with them, only for him to (reluctantly) decline bc Lyon is in town and they have plans

then proceeding to sulk the whole job

Natsu was sulking the most, and spilt what happened on Galuna

and suddenly Lyon and Gray had 5 fuming dragons following them

(and if Lyon got graphic threats if he ever fucked up again he never said anything)

Gray is a hit of a wanderer, not in a ‘getting lost/bad at directions’ way, but in a ‘likes to see the scenery/has a feeling and doesnt voice it, just goes with it’ kinda way

Hes done this enough times and is quiet enough about it the others dont realize till hes gone

On one of the jobs he took with Rogue & Sting they half jokingly and half seriously threaten him with a tracker

and Gray says that Juvia probably already has one of him

Rogue and Sting not having a whole lot of context on that asks what he means, and then gets a disturbing account of some of the things shes done

Lets just say the feelings they harbor for her and for the people who let it continue are neither kind nor pretty

they probably ripped the other slayers a new one when they got back

Contrary to popular belief, ice mages can get cold, it takes a hell of a lot more than an average person but it does happen.

Gray probs mentioned this once and now when it rains or snows-

Laxus throws his coat at Gray, Natsu offers to share his scarf and using his fire to warm him up, Rogue drapes his cloak around him

its a very soft image and i needed to share it

Gray starting to push the other slayers away bc hes struggling with his demon instincts and because hes scared hes going to become a monster and hurt them

them not taking any of that shit

reassuring him that he would never become something cruel and evil

hes becoming a demon, hes not a monster, not a murderer

Ppl are frequently gross about Grays stripping habit

its one of the only things that made him genuinely try to stop

People tend to think since hes so obviously confident in his body that its okay to touch him whenever and however they want

the dragon slayers are inclined to disagree

Gajeel breaking some guys arm after he wouldnt keep his hands to himself

Laxus spilling water on someone whose personal dictionary didnt include ‘No’ then repeatedly shocked them until they werent in reach

Wendy having to be (reluctantly, they just dont want her to get in trouble tbh) held back when someone keeps making comments on his body after he told them to fuck off

that did not stop her from giving them the worst insults and threats anybody has ever heard

[if she went back to find them again nobody would know, i mean, and they were perfectly intact! not a scratch on them! and who was gonna believe that a sweet girl like her would harm anybody?:)]

Gray has been threatened with being wrapped in bubble wrap after being injured so many times, which is crazy considering its Natsu of all people who says it

They have gotten really comfortable with eachother

and i mentioned once smth abt the slayers having little private hang outs (jobs or normal get together or ‘meeting’ type things at guilds)

during one of these he casually mentioned what he had to endure to be accepted into Avatar

“yeah, they locked me in a kiln like room for hours every couple days”

jaw drops galore

“i beg your fucking pardon.”

“oh yeah, dw tho, it usually overlapped with the deprivations days so i wasnt fully aware of what was going on, didnt even hurt”

“THE FUCKING WHAT”

*increasing volume of worried and angry sounds*

I think Natsu is also a total cat magnet, so when Gray is having an off day he’ll go in search for a cat

when they approach him, he picks them up and drops them in Grays lap and waits

it always helps him feel better

im trying to imagine Gray getting a date and them all trying to discreetly spy on it

“Gaj, the pole doesnt exactly hide y—“

“SSHH THEYLL HEAR YOU—!”

OH MY GOD IMAGINE THE SHOVEL TALKS

sorry this took a minute!! i have a lot to say but not enough words

#fairy tail #gray fullbuster #natsu dragneel #gajeel redfox #wendy marvell #sting eucliffe #rogue cheney #lyon is there too for like two bullets #juvia too but its kinda bashing #fairy tail slayers #dragon slayers #me: genuinely tweaking when i think abt them #demon slayer gray #fairy tail headcanons #theyre his simps ur honor #or smth #i cant get over them #anon ask #sun stricken answers #sun strickens ft

[anexperimentallife]

Are You There? Are You Safe? Is The Flock Safe?

(I'm posting the full text of some stories I've sold, but for which the rights have reverted to me. This is the second story I ever sold--an 800 word flash piece I wrote for Daily Science Fiction--and they bought it just in time for me to buy a needed prescription. It's not my usual style, but I'm proud of it, especially since none other than Cat Rambo said it made her cry.)

--

Even this close to the desert, the sun finds enough cloud on which to paint its retirement colors. Turner Bray sits beside an almost-dry stream under a Joshua tree while the oranges and yellows and reds and pinks fade into one another, and listens to the birds.

They are not Original birds, of course; the stores of avian DNA were among the many things damaged on the voyage here, centuries ago. They might look like Original birds, and hatch from eggs like Original birds, but they are partly carbon filament and nanotubes, and they grow tiny processors in their brains to guide them--with varying degrees of success--toward Original bird behavior.

This flock--Turner's flock--comprises both parakeets and cockatiels, as well as a mated pair of African Grays and an elderly Amazonian Parrot. Original Birds did not mix like this in the wild, and that is part of why Turner is here; to learn more about how these birds differ in behavior from Originals so that new designs can take into account the failures of the past.

As the light fades, the birds start up the evening chatter that binds them as a flock in much the same way it must have for Original birds. They speak in chirrups and sweels and little squawks that ask, "Are you there? Are you safe? Is The Flock safe?" And they answer each other, "I am here. I am safe. The Flock is safe."

To pass the days and weeks, Turner teaches himself to imitate the bird calls, becoming fluent enough to engage in their daily reassurances. Sometimes he spreads crumbled rations on the ground and calls out in their language, "Food! Food! There is food here!" After a while, most will eat tidbits directly from his hand, and after a longer while they seem to accept as one of them this wingless giant who speaks the language of the flock.

The birds have names for each other. They give Turner a name, as well--a simple, trailing squawk--and even contact-call to him when he moves out of sight. "Where are you? We can't see you! Are you safe?"

On the day of the snake attack, Turner is recording. Although he should simply observe, his first reaction is to raise the alarm. "Snake! Snake! Protect the chicks!" The snake is menacing the Grays' nest, but it is a little cockatiel--his real name is a lilting whistle, but Turner has dubbed him Geronimo for his bravery--who throws himself at the snake's eyes, protecting the chicks for the scant second it takes the rest of the flock to descend in a fury of beaks and claws and battering wings.

When the battle is done, Geronimo lays on his side on the ground flapping one wing and peeping feebly. The lump in Turner's throat surprises him, but more so the reaction of the flock. Original birds would have left Geronimo to die or--depending on the species--finished him off. But these birds form a protective circle around their fallen hero, and several of the smaller ones line up to press their beaks to Geronimo's to feed him the snake meat they've consumed.

They are not just different from Original birds, Turner thinks, but--as blasphemous as the idea may be in a world where terraforming has become a religion--better than Original birds. Yet, because they are not enough like Original birds, they will be phased out and replaced over the next five years.

For the first time since he was a small child, Turner weeps openly.

Years pass. Turner is an old man, now; too old for field research, many say, but he manages to acquire a grant, even so. His new study will take him to the edge of a different desert, far from the intentionally terraformed parts of the world, but to a place where Terran life has, nonetheless, taken hold. Most importantly, it will take him far away from the "civilization" he no longer wants to be a part of. The one that saw fit to destroy something beautiful simply because it was not what they had imagined it should be.

After setting up camp, he wheels the heavy cryogenic sample cases out of the back of his vehicle. Most biologists carry empty cases to the field and return with full ones, but Turner is doing the opposite. By the time anyone discovers what he has stolen it will be too late.

The first chicks hatch after a couple of weeks, and Turner speaks to them in the language of birds. "We are here. We are safe. The Flock is safe."

(Also, my health is failing, and I need to get back to the US where I can use my medical benefits if I'm going to live to see my daughter grow up. If you'd like to help, please see this post.)

#rob writes #writing #my writing #daily science fiction #science fiction

[drizztdohurtin]

I've always said that babies + toddlers are just living, breathing suicide attempts. It seems like they're try to end their lives at every opportunity. Also, it's a common phenomenon that second-born children are crazier than the first. So, I can see Rolan's firstborn son being a little angel. Sweet, docile, never getting into any danger or trouble, always wanting to be near his parents. His very nature is what convinced Rolan that a second child would be a grand idea.

But that second-born daughter? Rolan is convinced she exists to humble him. Absolute menace to society, even at a very early age. I feel like Rolan has half a head of gray hair by the time his second child is two years old.

Rolan looked away for five seconds? The girl is wobbling on unsteady, chubby little legs on top of the dining room table.

Rolan and his wife stopped to say a quick "hello" (literally all they get out is "hello") to someone in the market? The adorable little terror is haphazardly sprinting toward some horses & already fifteen feet away. (Rolan questions how the hells that's even possible, because at a walking pace, the girl is wobbly, yet if she's running, she's fast as can be.)

Rolan is busy making dinner while the tot wanders around the kitchen? When he turns around, his little princess is standing on the handle of a drawer to reach higher, aaalmost wrapping a fat little fist around a gigantic knife atop the counter.

The amount of times Rolan has had to use mage hand to catch his darling daughter from falling, doing something dangerous, or running into danger is positively astronomical before she's even three.

But she's also SO FUCKING CUTE. Chubby cheeks, big eyes, light brown hair in little pigtails, and executes all her chaos in big, frilly, pastel dresses. She has Rolan wrapped around her finger without even trying. (As does his firstborn, of course.)

As a secondborn child, yes!

(you unknowingly just ordered a large yappuccino)

Summary: baby #1 is what makes Rolan realize how badly he wants more kids and baby #2 is what makes him consider getting a vasectomy. if there is a baby #3, they either came about on accident or after you succeeded a DC 25 persuasion check

Baby number one, a beautiful boy whose appearance mirrors his father's, is just an angel. He never cries except when he's hungry or uncomfortable, he always wants to be held by his dad, and he never gets into trouble - even in his terrible twos. He always wants to be close to his dad, and is very interested in everything he watches Rolan do. Once he gets a little older and can understand language, he always asks Rolan to read to him, tell him stories, or teach him about anything that comes to mind.

As his son gets older, despite how he very much still clings to his father when he's being put to bed for the night or how he asks him to hold him while he cooks dinner for the family, Rolan still misses the times when his son was tiny. The times when he got to hold his infant on his chest and feel him cuddle against him, his tiny tail wrapping around his wrist. So he asks his wife for a second child.

Then baby number two arrives, and I could absolutely see this one being either a boy or a girl (I think my brain normally leans toward a boy). Another beautiful red baby with features from both their mother and father - and boy are they a lot of work. They give Rolan a run for his money, but he would never dream about having it any other way.

They're a colicky baby, spending much of their first year alive crying for hours in the night as their father does everything in his power to comfort them. He often becomes discouraged when nothing works, feeling horrible when they're only able to sleep because they exhausted themselves by crying for so long.

Once they're old enough to move around on their own, Rolan becomes quite dejected when he realizes they don't want to be held and cuddled like his first did. It would take him time to get used to how independent they were, wanting to explore without him and not paying much attention when he spoke to them.

Baby number 2 makes up for baby number one's lack of terrible two's - and it's exactly how you described. They're quite happy during the day, just running around, exploring, and always getting into trouble. I think Rolan would learn pretty fast how to keep them safe, but they still always had him on his toes. He'd allow them to explore near him, keeping the end of his tail wrapped around their waist in case he needed to keep them from falling or sprinting off.

Eventually, he learns how to do all of these things with them in a way that doesn't discourage them from being independent, that way he can still keep them safe as they play and explore their surroundings. I think they'd remind him a lot of Lia when she was little, and it would be incredibly endearing to him, despite how often they give him a heart attack.

Other imagery with baby number two:

rolan always having to fish gross crap out of their mouth bc this baby's favorite thing to do is put things in their mouth

which includes their tail, his tail, their older brother's tail, and absolutely anything they find on the floor

literally always climbing on shit

baby is a hilarious sleeper - always in goofy positions or with their mouth hanging wide open, drool going everywhere (Rolan doesn't even care if they drool all over him if that's the price he has to pay to be able to hold them)

they were a colicky baby but once they get a bit older, they rarely cry - even when they're in pain, which is a little worrying to Rolan

they think literally everything is funny, and is extremely ticklish

they're one of those babies that's always in just their diaper and a shirt because they get dirty so often or they are so hard to change that you just kinda have to let it happen

Literally is the messiest eater on the planet and while it's kind of adorable it still nearly sends Rolan into orbit

#I'm so glad I got to get this all out HADSHAHAH #I need to write more about rolan and his colicky newborn #papa rolan #baby boy #ask #raxie #rax-writes #my writing #my hcs #serena the yap-atron 3000 #bg3 #rolan #headcanons #holy rolan empire #brainrot #rolan posting

[smolgloves]

The Blood and The Heart

A/n: We were all thinking of it, so lets get some baulder's gate 3 G/t 💅

Tw: descriptions of blood, fearplay, mentions of death/murder attempted crushing, and dehumanizing language.

Food had grown scarce during this time, between the goblins that hunted travelers on the road and the town being inflicted with an unnatural plague; borrowers who lived on the outskirts of town could barely find enough resources to last a week. But Freya dared to be braver than most of her kind, she ventured further out past the border and collected berries. It was dangerous but it was enough for the borrower to survive better than others back home, and if she was lucky she could find the occasional traveler who would make camp nearby, that's when Freya would hit the jackpot! And today was her lucky day as a large group had set up camp tonight. It was a more diverse group, with humans, elves, a halfling, a tiefling, and even a githyanki traveling together. They all gathered together by the fire and shared stories together, some were enjoying the company more than others but all still enjoying the night together. 

~~~ 

It was the dead of night when Freya had decided to strike. She had crept around the campsite while everyone was sleeping in their tents picking up scraps that had been discarded, however, she noticed one tent remained empty; an elf had wandered out and ventured into the woods halfway through the night, he had not returned yet, Freya wondered if something happened to him but no one else seemed to be concerned. So she took the opportunity to sneak into his tent. She was greeted with a cozy area filled with satin pillows and stacks of books but a metallic stench lingered inside. As the golden haired borrower ventured further she saw a couple bottles of red wine…. But no food in sight. Strange, most travelers carried a personal stash of rations on them, where was this guy's stash? 

The sound of footsteps rumbled just outside the tent, Freya gasped and quickly dove behind a dark red pillow that laid on the ground. 

The elf had strolled back into his tent with the stench of death lingering behind him. Freya had to swallow a gag in order to keep quiet, she had to get out of here now! Peeking out from her hiding spot, she noticed him sitting on the bedroll with his back to her rummaging through a sack that reeked; that must have explained the rotting stench. Perfect time to escape! 

Freya held her breath as she tiptoed out in the open, she glanced over at the elf and saw him still preoccupied with his bag, she took another few steps and another just to test his perception before she broke out in a sprint, she was about halfway across the tent before a blood stained dagger cut down directly in her path. 

"Well well, looks like I have a pest in my tent." The Elf spoke with a cold tone. 

Dread formed inside the borrower as she dared to look up, her gray eyes widened as she stared at a pale elf with curly silver hair that tucked behind his pointed ears, intense red eyes locked onto her with a menacing glare, blood was splattered across his face, with a little bit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, but the most terrifying thing was when he parted his lips to show pointed fangs that were sharp enough to impale Freya. 

"Vampire…" Ice coursed through her veins. 

"So the pest can speak." A cruel smile twisted upon his lips as his spender hand loomed over Freya. "I'm sure your explanation will be good." 

Adrenaline forced the tiny woman to break out in a sprint, she ducked from the ghastly fingers, twisting and turning from the maze of books that almost seem to be conspiring against her!

"I love a good hunt." He said with a purr, causing a sick knot to twist in Freya's gut. Her life was a game to this monster, if Freya didn't get out of this tent, she was as good as dead! Like a stalking cat, the vampire moved with agility, each time Freya thought she was free, he blocked her way to safety, her energy slowly drained until he had her right where he wanted her, cornered like a helpless mouse. 

"Aww, no more fight?" He clicked his tongue. "And here I thought this would be more fun."

Before Freya could even react, a swift hand came and snatched her up. She let out a shriek, long fingers curled around her body, pinning her arms to her sides. "Unhand me!" The borrower shouted as she squirmed in his grip.

"Not until you explain why you're in my tent." He spoke in a cold voice, red eyes glaring down at her. 

"I was just looking for something to eat!" Freya exclaimed. "I wasn't going to take much, I swear!" 

The pale man narrowed his eyes. "Stealing food from a vampire's tent? That doesn't seem smart for a multitude of reasons." 

"Had I known you were a vampire I wouldn't have come in, trust me." She snapped back. "Now let me go!"

"You know, we've been dealing with a lot of attacks lately," He spoke in a low tone. "And I can't shake the feeling that they always seem to figure out exactly where we are…" 

"You can't seriously think I have something to do with it?" Freya's eyes shot daggers at the vampire. 

The man scoffed. "Bounty hunters  have been after me and suddenly a borrower shows up in my tent?!" His grip shifted to where Freya laid in an open palm but his thumb pinned her down, pressing firmly on her sternum. "Little convenient, don't you think?" 

Freya gasped as he pressed down on her chest, forcing the air to slowly leave her lungs. "I have… nothing to do… with that!" 

"It wouldn't be hard, you know." A coy smile appeared on his face, his thumb pressing harder into the borrower. "To make you choke on your own blood, just a little more pressure and you'll be nothing more than a bloody mess in my hand." He pulled her in closer, a hungry look flickering in his eyes. "I suggest you start talking." 

"Please!" Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she tried using her strength to push his thumb off, but it only made him exert more. "I'm not a part of... whatever you're… dealing with!" 

"You're really going to keep this up?" He let out a sigh, as if this was some game he was growing bored with. 

Breaths became more shallow for the borrower, she looked up at him with pleading eyes as if that was her only hope to get through to him.

"Astarion?" 

Both Freya and the vampire snapped their heads over to the source of the voice. There was a halfling standing at the opening of the tent. Choppy black hair that reached their shoulders and tanned skin, they were dressed in a casual white shirt, similar to the one the vampire- or Astarion was wearing.

"Tav?" Astarion said in a much softer tone. "What are you doing here?" 

"I wanted to make sure you came back to camp safely, is that a borrower?" They asked as they walked closer to the vampire like it was no big deal. Their eyes were a bright shade of green as they looked at the captive Freya in awe. 

"More like a spy." Astarion grumbled. "Found her sneaking around my tent." 

"I'm not a fucking spy!" Freya shouted through her shallow breaths. 

"Shut up!" Astarion hissed. "You're not leaving until you tell me who sent you!"

"Astarion, I don't think she's with the bounty hunters." Tav spoke in a soft voice.

"That's what she wants you to think." Astarion said, anger lacing his voice. "I know she's with them." 

Tav stared at Astarion for a moment, as if they were reading them like a book. "You're scared of who's sending the bounty hunters…" 

"Get out of my head, Tav!" He snapped back. "You know he's the one behind this." 

"Maybe so, but…" The halfling put a hand on his wrist, giving a soft squeeze. "She's not the reason we keep finding trouble." 

Freya watched as Astarion's face twisted, as if he was debating what to do with the borrower in hand. "How can you be so sure she's not with them?" 

Tav gave a smug look and looked down at Freya. "Earlier this evening, you were hiding in the trees, watching us as we ate, right?"

Freya's eyes widened as Tav spoke, how did they know? She debated whether or not admitting that would be better for her survival.

"I spotted you earlier and thought about offering you a plate." Tav let out a chuckle before turning to the vampire. "You weren't around when I spotted her, don't you think she would have followed you into the forest when you were alone instead of waiting for all of us to go to bed?" 

It felt like an eternity, as Astarion stared at Freya, his crimson eyes froze her in place, until she was suddenly shoved into the hands of the Halfling. "Take the wretched girl." 

Pressure was finally released from Freya's sternum and she took deep breaths to make up the amount of air that was stolen from her. "You're bloody insane!" Freya choked out between breaths. 

"Bold words from someone who was trembling in my hand a second ago." He gave her a smug smile.

"Play nice." Tav warned, unlike Astarion; the halfling kept Freya cupped in their open hands, their fingers slightly curled around the borrower as if to provide a shield from the vampire. That small gesture didn't go unnoticed.

“Please, just let me go and I promise you'll never see me again.” Freya stared up at Tav, hoping her pleas could sway the more reasonable one. 

“The little one steals our food and begs to be released?” A chuckle slipped from Astarion as he stared daggers at Freya. “Not without a price, darling.” 

A panic threatened to take hold of Freya once more, her throat closed off before words could form. Then a sigh from behind broke her from her thoughts, she turned back to Tav who couldn't contain the annoyance on their face.

“Let's talk privately.” Tav said with a sweet smile. They began walking towards the exit but paused for a moment to turn their head to Astarion. “I will speak with you later.” 

The cool breeze hit Freya's skin as she was carried off to the dying embers of the campfire.

“Sorry about that,” They set Freya down on a stone. “Astarion can be a little… much sometimes.” 

“A little?!” Freya hissed out. “He nearly killed me!” 

Tav let out a chuckle. “Don't take it personally, he put a knife to my throat when we first met.” 

“And you kept him around?!” 

“Believe it or not, he's actually a good companion.” Tav gave a soft smile and glanced over at the vampire's tent. “But… he's been through a lot.”

Freya noticed Tav's gave lingered at the tent, sympathy glazed over their green eyes. It was hard to believe that such a monster would warrant sympathy from a much kinder person, if Freya didn't still feel the aches from her chest, she might have been inclined to forgive him. But vampires are always out for blood, she just hopes that Tav doesn't forget that.

Tav snapped their attention back to Freya. “Sorry, I was lost in thought, but how about I give you something to eat.” 

“I uh… already got food.” Freya spoke softly, clutching the strap of her bag. 

“Yeah, but I imagine you just grabbed some scraps off the ground.” They moved over to a supply pack on the ground. “I can get you something more fresh and filling.” 

Pride took hold of the borrower, bad enough that she had to be caught and rescued, she didn't need help being fed. “I don't need your charity.” 

Tav just flashed a grin. “Don't think of it as a charity, think of it as… compensation for dealing with Astarion.” 

Freya couldn't help but let a soft chuckle slip out, making Tav's smile broaden. 

“I knew that would ease you up.” they rummaged around their bag and pulled out some dried meat to offer it to her. 

Freya gingerly took the food with both hands and took a small nibble of it. Her eyes widened as the spices that peppered the meat danced on her tongue, it had been a while since she had something this good.

“There's more of that if you'd like.” Tav said. “Would you mind telling me your name?” 

“My name is Freya.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Freya. I'm Tav and that was Astarion back there.” Tav sat back, still keeping their gaze on Freya. “I have to ask, what is a borrower doing all the way out here? Your kind usually stays closer to civilization.” 

“Well… the town I live near is dealing with a plague and goblins.” Freya explained. “Not many merchants are wanting to go down to Skaars Hollow, so I venture out a little further.” 

“What a coincidence, we were just heading down that way!” Tav exclaimed. “We're going to be taking care of that little goblin problem, but I must say, I wasn't aware there was a plague there.” 

“I'm not surprised, it just came out of nowhere one day.” The air seemed to grow colder as Freya talked about the plague. “There's rumors that this plague is actually a curse.” 

Tav's eyes widened. “You wouldn't happen to know more about that, would you?” 

“I'm not sure how true it all is.” Freya pondered. “I overheard it while I was borrowing at our Tavern one night. This could all be drunken banter.” 

“Maybe so, but it's definitely something I'd like to look into.” Tav lost themselves in a deep thought, letting the silence hang in the air. Then they glanced back at Freya, green eyes looking her up and down. “Are you going to head back to the village soon?” 

“That was the plan.” 

Tav shot a wearily look towards the borrower. “It's awfully late to be walking back there, might I recommend you stay the night at camp and we can all head to Skaars Hollow together.” 

Freya mirrored Tav's uncertainty. “I don't think that's a good idea.” 

“I understand you borrowers don't normally seek aid from larger folks but heading back to your village at your height must be dangerous, I don't think I could live with myself if you got hurt.” Tav said softly. They weren't wrong, the road to Skaars Hollow is a rather long walk through the forest where owls stalk the night, if Freya left now she probably wouldn't get back to her colony until morning, yet pride still took hold of her. “I can handle myself!” 

“I'm sure you can but I would just feel better if I escorted you back there.” They replied. “And after tonight, I think you deserve it.”

The borrower folded her arms. “Your companion wouldn't agree, and I don't think I want to meet the rest of your group if they're anything like your vampire friend.”

“I can promise you that most of the group is nothing like Astarion.” Tav laughed. “But if it makes you feel better, I won't force you to meet the rest of the group unless you wish too.” 

“You'd do that for me?” Freya whispered, she stared at Tav as if she was expecting them to burst out laughing and reveal it to be a trick, but Tav just flashed a warm smile that made her heart flutter. 

“Of course, I understand that being around larger folks is not something you're used to, I won't reveal you to anyone you don't feel comfortable with.” The halfling said softly. “Besides, we shortys must stick together, right?” 

Freya let out a hearty chuckle, something about Tav made it so easy for her to drop her guard. “Would you mind sparing some materials for me then? Nothing much, just maybe some rags, sewing needles, scraps of food?” 

“It would be my pleasure, Freya.” They smiled.

“Alright, deal.” Freya felt her cheeks grow pink as she stared into Tav's eyes, but she quickly shied away before it became noticeable.“I will accompany you to the tavern but that's where we need to split.” 

Tav rested a hand over their heart. “Then I shall cherish the moments we will spend together.” 

#giant tiny #giant/tiny #g/t #g/t community #borrowers #writing #mine #food aesthetic #giant #tiny #giant male #tiny female #giant nb #baulders gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #baulders gate astarion #bg3 g/t #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #enemies to lovers #gt #g/t writing #g/t angst #g/t fearplay #g/t fluff #g/t fandom #gianttiny #i guess this was more Tav than Astarion but thats ok #i hope more are to come

[rhoorl]

Week in Review | Dec. 17

Hi, how are you? It was another busy week around these parts both on and off Tumblr, so I’ll get right to the week in review:

Fics I read this week:

Frankie Morales

Gift Wrapped by @linzels-blog - As if the gray sweatpants weren’t enough, we get some dad!Frankie, competency kink, and a return to two characters I am really fond of!

Joel Miller

A Baker's Dozen - Three by @avastrasposts - If you haven't been keeping up with Mel's baking series, I suggest you change that. This entry with Joel made me swoon. 🫠

Nourish by @goodwithcheese - Fluffy Joel plus an Ellie appearance equals a cute fun, read.

Under the Stars by @undercoverpena - This captured post-outbreak life so beautifully!

Dieter Bravo

Give To Me by @sp00kymulderr - If you've read Working Title then you know I have a particular fondness for Dieter, especially when he's sweet and sensitive. This fluffy one-shot hit me in all my Dieter feels.

White Christmas by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin - This had all of the elements I love about Dieter rolled up into one. A sweet, chaotic man who is an absolute menace…all wrapped up in a tiny Santa hat 😉

Giflets

I had a few of these amazing giflets from @morallyinept built up on my TBR

Bad Acting Dieter 💋

Periscope Dave York 🧐

Domestic Spice Marcus Moreno 🌶️

Current Compulsory Series:

These are the series I am keeping up with at the moment.

12 Days of XxxMas (Various) by @morallyinept - I haven’t read these yet but I will this week…I’m not ready.

Holiday Prompts (Various) by @trulybetty - I’ve loved these!! I’m behind on some but I’m excited to see what else is in store for the month.

Delta Palms Tropical Resort (Frankie) by @linzels-blog 

Destiny & Deliverance (Dieter) by @mysterious-moonstruck-musings 

Paranoid Heat (Javi P) by @goodwithcheese I 

Undercover (Tim Rockford) by @secretelephanttattoo 

It’s Never Too Late (Javi P) by @javierpena-inatacvest - 

OTHER CHARACTERS

Pete Dunham

This section is usually reserved for a Garrett character (mostly Benny), but this week I caught up on the Like My Dreams series from @laurfilijames which followed Pete Dunham from Green Street Hooligans. Younger Jess was very obsessed with that movie and Pete and it’s been a fun trip down memory lane to rewatch that movie and then devour this delicious fic!

Posts from the week:

Anyone else lose their minds when they saw this clip/article about Charlie Hunnam signing on as a potential producer for Triple Fronter 2? This has to happen right? Please? I’ll happily take on any role in the production crew.

These “Spot the Difference” posts from @mysterious-moonstruck-musings have been cracking me up.

Where are you sitting in this cafeteria? Me? Oh I’m happily at table 4.

In case you missed it @perotovar and @beskarandblasters put together a list highlighting some awesome writers (and I was so excited to see so many I call friends on the list!)! It was split up into two masterlists: Masterlist 1 | Masterlist 2

We had the return of Professor @legendary-pink-dot and the Catfish Pond PhD Degree Program.

I received a fun holiday-themed Delta Landscaping ask from @trulybetty.

Another plug for the Pickled Peña writing challenge. I actually have something written for this and I kind of like it?! I think it's funny...but that may also be me amused by my 4 a.m. ramblings.

Feral corner:

The Miller Brothers reunited and seeing both Charlie and Garrett in a suit gave me so many thots. Garrett going and making smoking look hot again … I don’t even know where to look here - the bun, the shoulders, the back.

This photo is so Working TItle Dieter coded I can’t even deal! Speaking of Dieter…here’s more of my boo. Actually, I’m not done, here’s another gifset.

Javi P is getting jealous so let’s get some Javi with messy hair in here. Oh what’s that? Some post-outbreak denim shirt-wearing Joel? I got you. But then Young Joel gets jealous so here’s some photos of his arms. And I can’t forget about my favorite pilot.

Things I watched:

Last Sunday I went to the movies and saw Wish. I thought it was a really cute movie and as a Disney fan I loved al of the little Easter eggs hidden throughout. I thought the songs were really cute too, it was a fun time and I can’t wait to show Baby Rhoorl this movie.

I was up late plotting and thotting one night and was flipping through the channels for some background noise and came across Troy and saw Baby Garrett. Seeing him next to Brad Pitt was quite a sight - they play cousins in the movie if you haven’t seen it. 

Personal Stuff

There’s been a lot happening at work this month and it’s derailed a bit of the progress I’ve been making on my health journey but I’m doing the best I can. I ran a few days this week, which was good! Mr Rhoorl and I had a date night and enjoyed a baby-free dinner out at a restaurant. 

Fic updates:

I put out a new episode of Delta Landscaping this week. Here’s a moodboard I made for it!

Benny Miller brain rot has settled into my brain and he’s all I can think about at the moment. As a result, I have a holiday-themed one-shot planned for tomorrow. Hoping to get an entry in one of my other series done this week, but we’ll see. 

I hope you have a great week! Drink some water and find something that makes you smile.

Masterlist

Working Title (Dieter, series, ongoing) | AO3 

Delta Landscaping (Triple Frontier, series, ongoing) | AO3

Turbulence (Frankie, one-shot) | AO3

Are You on Mute? (Benny Miller, one-shot) | AO3

Are You on Mute? Part Two

Are You Alone

#rhoorl week in review #rhoorl fic rec #pedro pascal characters fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[soleilnomoon]

Hhhhhhhooooooowwwww am I only just now seeing this???????? Like, holy shit, congratulations on reaching 500, oh my god that’s a lot! 👏👏👏👏👏🎊🎊🎊🎉🥳

I’d love to put in an order please, I would like a topping of whipped cream and caramel, from the menu options can I please have 1, 4, 8 and 44 and from the secret menu can I get 1 (Eustass Kid I’ve been soft yet feral for this man lately and there’s not enough fluffy smut of him to sustain me)

And again, congratulations!

hiiii (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤ thank you so much omg it's pretty wild i still can't believe it myself lmaooo i am so glad you asked for kid i love him, he's so grumpy 😭🥰️ also i'm terrible at fluff so hopefully this was fluffy enough for you 😊 (also ty for being patient!! 💛)

1.9k words, fem reader, nsfw, 18+, mdni; there's fluff if you ignore all the nonsense he does towards the end, a pinch of angst (i'm a sucker, i can't help it) but nothing wild, kid is bad with feelings, and reader isn't any better 💛; feat. a bit of brattiness, a bit of bruising, kid's a menace & a tiny bit mean, but nothing reader can't handle (obvy). (if u see spelling/grammar mistakes no u didn't 😌)

“whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” — emily brontë

gray, puffy clouds float aimlessly across the sky, blotting out the faint orange and yellow light surrounding the slow-moving sun. the air is sticky and moist from the storm last night. with the way the wind is blowing — furious, as if it has a point to prove — coercing the already jaded sea to beat against the victoria punk mercilessly; its waves are persistent, heavy fists that are seemingly more ferocious than they really are.

eustass kid ignores all of that; he ignores the ominous and foreboding winds, ignores the incredulous look you give him when he insists on continuing with his meal, and ignores your protests when you squeal after he pulls the thick blanket off of you.

slinging your arms around his neck, you try to siphon some of the warmth radiating from his body. “you’re impossible,” you murmur in between sleepy kisses, your lips moving against his softly and tenderly, while also somehow manages to give him a burst of energy.

“i thought you were ‘fearless’,” he says mockingly, lips twisting into a sly grin, one that drives you to smack his chest playfully as you roll your eyes. “you can’t tap out now, i’m hungry.”

if you had the energy to fight him, you really would; but kid has a tendency to take all of your snark and sharp words as foreplay, which is exactly how you ended up in his bed last night. an unnecessary argument over a spilled drink and a broken plate — one where he kept goading and baiting, where you fell into his trap without question — that resulted in heated kisses, hurried hands tugging on your clothes clumsily until kid got fed up and ripped them in half. with a flushed face and heaving chest, you called him a beast; he laughed in response, his voice low and husky, as he bent you over his bed and fucked you.

“incredible. absolutely unbelievable.” your words don’t phase him — not that you need them to, you just want him to know that that’s how you feel. “you should probably see a doctor for your condition, y’know.” you sit up and eye him warily, your gaze drifting lower as you take in his erection. “all that vitality can’t be healthy.” it’s a joke that you throw at him from time to time, but sometimes you do wonder how a man like him has that much stamina.

“like i said before,” he reminds you as patiently as he can, his hand grabbing your face to pull you close again, “i’m hungry.” except this sort of hunger has kept him up late at night, where all he can do is angrily fist his cock to keep himself from waking you up again.

you squirm a bit, face heating at  his unspoken words — ones that sit heavily between you — goosebumps crawling down your arms as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip. he tugs on your lip playfully, eyelids lowering, voice terribly hypnotic when he speaks again.

“open your mouth.”

it’s not so much of a command as it is a friendly suggestion — but you know better. you let out a soft sigh when your lips finally part and he slides two fingers in your mouth; instinctively, you begin to suck, tongue running flat against their length before you take them in deeper. he’s always very impressed with your skill, with the way you treat his fingers with the same way you handle his cock — graceful movements, soft lips, a very willing mouth and tongue. if he died now, he certainly would do so with a stupid grin on his face.

he hates it, so fucking much.

“enough,” he manages to let out as he reluctantly plucks his fingers away from your beguiling mouth. you look at him curiously even as you hitch your leg around his hip, rubbing against his cock greedily.

“hurry up then.” it’s not in your nature to be openly needy, but lately he’s had you under a spell of sorts, one that coils itself around your body, suffocating any logic that dares to enter your mind. kid lets out a quiet groan when you roll on top of him and grind your hips against his; eager, greedy, but he likes it. even says as much when he slaps your ass and tells you to move faster.

whatever fatigue that cloaked itself around you earlier has disappeared entirely; all you can think about is having him inside you all over again. your pussy glides along his length with ease, your arousal dripping onto him as he bucks his hips up against yours.

“kid,” you whine hopelessly, pausing your movements to look at him — so pretty and so pitiful — blinking as you bite down on your lip. if his pride didn’t continuously get in the way, he’d tell you that you look cute like that, face flushed, lips swollen from kissing him repeatedly. “help me out,” you say softly, nails gently raking down his skin.

you know he’s only doing this to tease you, but you really can’t handle any of that right now. “please,” you add in the end, annoyed with the smug look he’s sporting as he places a hand on your hip.

“now you want my help? i’m touched.” he’s going to milk this for as long as he can, especially when he rubs the thick head of his cock against your folds, earning him a series of soft whimpers from you. “i like seeing you like this,” he says for the fourth time in twenty-four hours; what he means is, he likes when you have to rely on him, likes when you’re so hopelessly drawn to his body, likes when you’re as obsessed with him as he is with you.

telling him off is the last thing on your mind when you finally sink down onto his cock, his girth every bit as imposing as it was hours ago. his grip tightens, more than likely you’ll bruise later on, but it doesn’t matter. you’re too focused on regulating your breathing as you relax, not wanting to overwhelm yourself before anything can happen. similarly, he’s also telling himself to relax, to not act as crudely as his impulses are telling him to act. he lets you take the lead, tucking an arm behind his head, as he watches you ride him.

you move your hips slowly, rolling and grinding until you find a pace you’re comfortable with. your thighs tremble and you breathe shallowly, an ache building in your abdomen, encouraging you to increase your pace. it’s his fault, but you’re the one doing the work; that smug attitude never leaves him, he enjoys seeing you struggle to take him, each roll of your hips more labored than the last.

“c’mon,” he says, orange eyes — sharp and wolfish — landing on yours, making you swallow back whatever retort you had for him. “i know you can do better than that.”

it’s not for lack of trying on your part, you’re just tired and he knows that, but that’s a you problem in his book. and, because you’re feeling bratty, you clench around his hardened length, enjoying the way his face contorts as he fights back a moan. it’s precisely that bratty attitude that he wants to fuck out of you.

your pussy is warm and tight, much more captivating than his hand could ever be, when his grip on your hip tightens, hips snapping upward as he plunges his cock into you deeply.

“don’t complain,” he says in warning, but he knows you won’t, not when he’s rolling so you’re beneath him, pulling out just so he can slam back into you again.

normally, you’d be a little more mindful about keeping your voice down, but you can’t do that when kid gives you brutal strokes like that, your cunt squeezing around him tight enough to put him into a frenzy.  his lips are on your neck as soon as you wrap your legs around him, holding him close; he bites you several times over, licking and kissing each spot as he powers into you relentlessly. he’d meant to take it easy, to let you have your way, but you were taking too damn long, and he knows that eventually the rest of the crew will wake, and he doesn’t want to deal with their incessant comments about how in love he is with you.

they’re liars, that’s what he tells himself; it’s what he keeps telling himself when you sigh in pleasure, breasts bouncing as you gladly take his rough thrusts, enjoying the way his cock fills your pussy and the way his balls slap against your ass.

his name falls off of your lips in a chant that increases in tempo and pitch, voice strained as his hips jerks against yours. he’s annoyed with how much he likes seeing your flushed skin — soft and supple, neck and chest littered with marks courtesy of one insatiable eustass kid — and how much he enjoys the way you arch into him when he leans down to kiss you.

your heart is at capacity, you fear — especially because he takes his time kissing you, tongue gliding into your mouth without prompting, sloppily swallowing your gasps and moans, hips knocking against yours as his strokes get shorter and harder. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging on the strands roughly as he chuckles against your lips, the vibrations rippling down your body as a tremor takes over.

because he’s such a generous and kind person, he grabs onto your legs and drapes them over his shoulders as he leans forward, his cock reaching a spot so deep that you start telling him irresponsible things like, i love you and don’t stop, don’t ever stop. it messes with his head, so he tries not to think about it — tries not to think about the way you look at him, as if you actually mean those words. a traitorous flush crawls onto his cheeks and ears; he ignores that too.

instead, kid focuses on the lewd noises that your pussy makes each time he pounds into you; it echoes around the room, the headrest bumping against the wall as kid fucks you remorselessly. again, he marvels at your tenacity, at your soft smiles and breathy moans, finding himself more and more entranced the longer his cock stays inside of you.

kid, quite literally, fucks you senseless; so much that when your orgasm approaches, you hardly see it coming. as your pussy clamps down mercilessly around his cock, you buck your hips wildly, a few tears spilling onto your cheeks, ones that he licks away before kissing you again, his own orgasm finding him shortly after. while he likes pulling out and cumming on various parts of your body, he doesn’t this time; he’s not sure what compels him — although, he’ll somehow find a way to blame it on the gloomy weather — but as his hips slow, as both of you attempt to catch your breaths, you drop your legs, and he brushes some of your hair off your face.

your yawn is contagious, and he finds himself yawning too, reluctantly pulling out but not straying far from you when he lays back down on the bed. you curl up against him, fingers tracing shapes on the palm of his hand; he wants to ask why you do that, why you never seem apprehensive about him or about any of this. but if he ever found that courage to ask, you wouldn’t have an answer for him. it just feels… natural to do so, nothing more, nothing less.

you’re completely at ease, and even though he’d rather die than admit any of this, he feels at home whenever you’re by his side.

#fic request #finally done omg but here it is #milestone event #500+ followers event #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece fluff #one piece angst #one piece smut #eustass kid #eustass kid smut #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid x y/n #kidd x reader #kidd x y/n #‘i can change him’ 🥴 #(yeah right who am i kidding) #🍭✨🍨sticky & sweet event🧁✨🍭 #i had fun w. this one #thegrandlinesimp

[beyoursbb]

€uro Tra$h Series: Dipped in $ugar (Part 2)

Pairing: Billy Butcher x You (Reader) || Rating: Explicit || Word Count: 3.3k || Link to Part 1 and Link to Part 3 - final (Timeline for this work is Season 1 btw)

Summary: Billy comes back from work with The Boys. He can't say what he was up to, but makes sure your wait for him is worth it. 

Author’s Note: Really happy to post this sequel as I appreciated the love and feedback Part 1 got. Would like to know how this work compares to Part 1 (I feel like I let this one go more lol, tried to make the smut a little hotter, and be intentional with pacing the story) and hear any writing advice in general. I’m excited and enjoying getting back into it!

Warnings: same as before — sugar daddy / daddy kink (use of the name daddy 2 times), age gap (implied, not specified), swearing, protected p in v, tiny bit of choking and degrading reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke up startled. The sound of several deep, booming male voices arguing outside the room reverberated through the door. You hardly had time to blink the sleepiness out of your eyes before the latch unlocked and Billy came striding in followed noisily by three other men all talking at once. You lifted your head and instinctively covered your arms around your frontside even though you were completely clothed. 

“Jesus, fuck!” one of the men exclaimed, just as startled. “Butcher, who the hell—”

The sound of a heavy, blunt metal object clattering onto the table cut off the question and made you flinch as Billy stared at your rigid figure laying on the bed. 

“ ‘m sorry, sweetheart, thought you would’ve left by now,” he said.

Your eyes flitted between him, the group of strangers frozen in place on the motel’s sage green carpet, and the large semi-automatic rifle laying next to your half eaten dinner. You forced yourself to take a shaky breath as you noticed Butcher’s battered physique — in fact — you realized all of them were in pretty bad shape: clothes tattered, arms cut and bruised, faces caked in sweat, grime, and dried blood. Each had at least one handgun tucked into the waistband of his pants. 

“I’m going to get us another room,” the tall, skinny man announced awkwardly. “Come with me, Frenchie.” The shortest man nodded, took a moment to shift his gaze between you and Billy, then back to meet your eyes in a gentle glance as if he wanted to say something, but instead, he darted out quickly. 

“Un-fucking-believable. This where you  been fucking off to, Butcher?” the man who was left asked, glaring at Billy. “How fucking old is she, by the way?”

“She’s a fucking consenting adult so mind your fucking business,” Billy shot back.

“I would, if your business, like maybe the fucking plan tonight, didn’t always end up fucked up.”

Billy had been staring off at the far end of the room, but now turned toward his associate. He took one, slow, menacing step forward, squaring up chest to chest with the man, who was honestly built like a truck. Billy was obviously huge, but this guy’s biceps alone were bigger than your head. Billy’s gray eyes were piercing and stone cold, which you’d never seen before. They never broke contact with the pair of brown eyes across from him. You held your breath waiting for the first swing that never came. 

Billy’s voice was low and sounded angry, yet also eerily calm when he spoke. 

“You lot are the ones who called me for help. The fucking plan tonight was me doing my fucking best to clean up your mess. So I can fuck off where ever I want with whoever I want because I’m not the one who needs a fucking babysitter. Next time you get in trouble when you go off on your own, MM, call Janine’s nanny.”

The man’s jaw was clenched so tight as he glared at Billy, you thought it would pop. After the longest silent minute you ever had to sit through passed, he shook his head, turning to you. “I’m sorry we scared you. I’m just pissed at this asshole.” With a final angry scowl thrown in Billy’s direction, the last mystery guy pivoted to exit. 

As abruptly as the room had been filled, it had emptied. The distance between Billy and you felt like miles in that small, cramped room, alone. You checked the time on the digital clock on the nightstand and did the mental math of how many hours you’d been asleep. You didn’t even remember falling asleep, but from your estimate, you calculated Billy had been gone for five hours. Whether you wanted to find out what happened in those five hours, you weren't sure. 

You didn’t move a muscle, and neither did he as he sat against the table, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his bearded chin. His body was tense, his face hardened and unreadable. His eyes stared out in front of him, deep in thought. The silence hung heavy like the humid summer air in a New York City alleyway.

You felt confused, but mostly scared. Your heart was pounding in your ears from shock, your breathing was shallow and uneven as if you were recovering from a run, and the tension held throughout your body, culminating in your chest, was almost painful. Yet you couldn’t tell if you were scared of him or for him. It leaned toward the latter.

“That was work?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.

Billy straightened up slowly, making eye contact with you for the first time since he’d returned. 

“ ‘Fraid so, luv.” 

That already sounded like the end of the conversation. 

Billy moved to sit at the foot of the bed and started undressing, kicking off his shoes first. You scooted up so you were sitting against the pillows again and hugged your knees into your chest. It was cold because the air conditioning had been running when you accidentally fell asleep, but you didn’t want to get under the covers in case that crossed a line. 

You didn’t normally stay the night and sleep with Billy; actually, it had only happened once, when he hit you up on such a whim, you both arrived at the hotel at the same time. The front desk staff only gave a couple weird looks when you two checked in, but Billy being his usual, completely unfazed self helped you ignore any awkwardness you felt. He had appeared a bit disheveled that night, but it was nothing compared to how he seemed right now. You didn’t even have sex; all he did was sleep next to you, one arm wrapped around your waist. He stirred slightly every time you reached for the TV remote or shifted to a more comfortable position, but in the morning when he unceremoniously handed you your payment, he mentioned it was the best sleep he’d gotten in a long while. 

“How’d you get here?” Billy asked as he took the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head. 

Your voice was a little stronger, but still quiet. “I drove.”

He nodded absentmindedly. “Offer still stands. You don’t needa stay.”

“It’s okay. It’s late. I’d rather not drive at this time.” 

He stood to remove his jeans. 

“Unless you rather I go,” you added, quickly. Maybe he wanted to be alone after whatever the hell he went through with his coworkers. 

“Don’t matter to me,” he replied plainly, shrugging and bending his arms at the elbow, palms facing up as he walked to the bathroom. 

This time, Billy stayed in there longer, which made you feel like the amount of time spent waiting with your fifty burning questions you assumed he wouldn’t answer anyways was more than twenty minutes. He went straight for the bed when he came out and untucked the covers on his side to crawl under right next to you. The mattress springs creaked under his weight as he sank in slowly on his back, trying not to wince. After his second shower of the night, he had patched himself up with several bandaids and medical tape wrapped around a couple fingers and his left wrist.

Before you had the chance to stand and wash up in the bathroom yourself, Billy rested his hand against your thigh down by your knee. You immediately relaxed the muscles you didn’t notice were still tense. 

“I know you probably have a million questions. I can’t answer ‘em.”

You looked at him understandingly, as if it was totally acceptable to be kept in the dark in regards to the whereabouts of a man whose BFG-50 was still pointing in your general direction, but at least he was straightforward. 

“You were never meant to know,” he added. 

Now that made you furrow your brows. Know what? You literally didn’t know anything about his life because he’s never told you anything. You and Billy were not close. Your irregular meetings meant you didn’t have a connection built with him like you did with other sugar daddies you saw frequently. Sure, you were madly attracted to him, borderline obsessed, but you were far from friends sharing secrets. The nature of your arrangement was always business, and said business was the epitome of “get that bread, get that head, then leave.” It was work you enjoyed, but the opportunity for meaningful conversation was severely limited. 

Billy’s hand slid up your leg and you stiffened again. He slowed, but kept traveling up past your hip to the middle of your back, turning his body onto his side closer to you, his other hand wrapping around your stomach, until you realized he was simply pulling you into a hug. You tucked yourself under his bearded chin and inhaled his scent off his bare chest, his fuzzy hairs tickling your nose.

Now that his adrenaline levels were down, his naturally rough voice was a tad softer. “You shouldn’t be scared of me.”

He spoke in a way that made you think he was not saying to stop your emotions, but externally processing the full realization of how the guys’ surprise entrance and his argument with his buddy affected you.

“Not scared of you,” you explained. “I was concerned for you.”

Billy’s chest rumbled with a chuckle. “Earlier you thought MM might’ve killed me right then and there? Not a chance, darlin’.”

You shook your head. Being witness to angry men sizing each other up can be terrifying, yes, but you hesitated telling him the truth about how you were still unsettled by their bounty-hunters-who-got-badly-beat look. 

“You're stiff as a board, luv,” he commented, gently separating you both and bringing one hand to lift your chin to look at him. It was true, you still hadn’t fully relaxed at any point since he’d been back.

Except at this moment — when his lips connected to yours. And you melted. 

It was probably the most tender kiss Billy had ever given you, but it didn’t stay that way for long. His tongue started it first, slowly going deeper into your mouth every time he took a breath, but it was your hands that gripped him tighter until your legs became tangled and your hips grinded together. You loved a makeout session that forced you to lose all your senses to where you could only handle hearing, taste, and touch. With your eyes closed, your sight disappears, and since your nose has to concentrate on helping your lungs obtain oxygen, you’re not really focused on smelling. But the sound, taste, and feeling of Billy in your arms is enough to overwhelm you. The longer you go at it, the heavier both of your breathing becomes, interspersed with short gasps and moans, the sloppier your taste buds get in exploring every centimeter of the other’s mouth, and the more desperate your hands are to tug, squeeze, and mold to the shape of your partner’s best assets. 

You didn’t usually take your time kissing either, maybe because you typically met on a time crunch, or you were just extremely horny around each other, so you tended to skip to the main event pretty quickly. But you got the sense that because of the night’s earlier situation, Billy wanted to slow down to make sure your head was in an okay space before proceeding, or not. You appreciated that; it was a gentlemanly move. You made sure he knew you were ready for more by rolling on top of him, straddling his hips, and grinding down against his hardening cock, all while keeping your fingers interlocked behind his neck and your lips mashed onto his. Billy responded eagerly, his fingertips gliding across the soft, smooth skin of your back, and creeping underneath your shirt to unhook your bra. He didn’t even bother to remove any of your top layers before feeling up your chest. You refrained from any wanton noises while he kneaded your breasts, but you did bite his lower lip a little extra hard when he teased your nipples. 

When you finally separated, the shift of your bodies made you well aware of the wetness in your underwear, and you were practically panting, your hands still roaming his torso because they couldn't decide whether to grip his muscular back, shoulders, or arms. 

“The other offer from earlier,” Billy said, his hands sliding down to your ass, giving it a squeeze, “also still stands.”

Catching your breath, you were so nervous of sounding utterly gone already without even being naked, all you could do was nod.

“That a yes? Want me to fuck you ‘til you’re screaming my name, princess?”

“God yes,” you almost moaned. “Please, Daddy.” 

You were pretty sure he could hear the urgency in your voice, but you made it crystal clear how badly you needed him by cupping the imprint of his dick through his boxers. Billy grunted in response, and in less than two seconds, he flipped you both over and discarded your leggings and panties carelessly out of the way. Now you were both playing with each other — you stroking his length while any number of his fingers rubbed your clit and teased your folds. 

“It’s more than wet down here, luv; you’re soaked,” he chuckled against your neck, his hot breath hitting your ear. 

It made you shiver, but at the same time, you were burning up, so you whipped off your shirt and bra. He wasted no time diving in to suck one of your nipples to a hardened peak. When he did the same to its twin, you finally gave in to the loud moan that had been gathering in your throat. Billy released his mouth with a pop and gazed down at you. 

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he said, his eyes hungrily raking over your nude figure before he stood to finally take off his one article of clothing and retrieve a condom.

“That cock block of a call was bloody inconvenient,” Billy muttered as he rolled on the latex and lined himself up to your entrance. “Can’t wait to feel this sweet fucking pussy.”

His last word was punctuated by him sliding in fast and deep. Even though you watched him disappear inside you, you were still caught by surprise, evident in your eyes rolling back into your skull while your mouth formed a silent “O.”

Billy was so goddamn huge and he knew it. 

“Somethin’ tells me your other daddies ain’t cuttin’ it,” he smirked. He didn’t give you any time to adjust, just grabbed your hips and set the tenacious tempo he wanted.

“They don’t fuck me like this,” you admitted through heavy breaths, reaching to bring him closer. Your hands settled on his lower back and he leaned forward, his arms moving to either side of your head to prop himself up above you. 

“Like what?” 

You knew what he wanted you to say. Like I’m a slut. But you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction so soon, even if it was true and you loved it. Your ability to form a coherent response was waning rapidly from his hips pounding into you anyways. The rhythmic slapping of his skin against yours made your brain go numb. 

“Like what, darlin’?” Billy repeated. His right thumb swiped against your lower lip, ready to press into your mouth, while he pulled out and stopped, barely leaving his tip in you. The sudden emptiness brought you out of your daze. You opened your half lidded eyes to find his dark pupils peering down at you. 

“Like—like you use me.”

“‘Course I do; what else are ya for?” he snarled. 

His hand trailed down, fingers surrounding your neck, squeezing it just enough to hold you down to resume his relentless pace, sinking in deeper and deeper with every thrust. 

All your sugar daddies “used” you so to speak, and you obviously used them for money. But with Billy, it never felt like you were fulfilling an obligation to the bit. It was almost natural to sink into the mindset of being nothing but a tool for his pleasure. It was easy because there was something so, so hot about laying spread open for him, allowing him to fuck you any way he wanted, and not caring how rough he was. Knowing you would be left to find bruises and deal with sore legs for the next few days after taking his cock excited you in the most feral, animalistic way. 

You let your body go limp and closed your eyes to focus on the sensation of Billy’s dick continuing to stretch you out while he growled more filth disguised as praise in your ear. You were so distracted by his voice urging you to be a good little slut and let your wet cunt come all over his cock because you sounded so pretty moaning his name, you didn’t notice him lick two of his fingers and send them down between your bodies. If you weren't already laying down, the zap of pleasure that shot straight through your stomach from him circling your clit would have made your knees buckle. You were almost embarrassed at how fast your pussy clenched, though you knew it was just a compliment to Billy. 

“Don’t be shy, luv,” he chided, as if he was reading your mind. 

You gasped as your climax continued to build with each delicious stroke of his hips. The friction was like fire against your nerves, so close to setting your whole body ablaze. Billy was breathing hard now too, sweat beading at his brow. The thumping of the bed against the wall had long been ignored, but now was completely drowned out by Billy’s grunts and groans of how good you felt around him. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Like your cunt was made to fit my cock.”

That elicited a loud, unrestrained moan from you. “Daddy,” you whimpered. It was futile to try to hold out longer. Your body craved release. “I’m gona—fuck.” 

Your body seized and your mind went blank as pure ecstasy washed over you. The chant of his name filled the space and you wrapped your legs around his waist, sending him impossibly deeper. Billy groaned feeling your pussy contract around him, his climax following close behind. With a last couple thrusts, he shuddered to a stop as he milked himself dry. 

Chest to chest, with Billy’s head resting next to yours on the pillow, you slowly came down from your high, unintentionally clenching his softening length as your breathing steadied. 

He gave your sweaty forehead a quick peck as he rose up, removing his hand from your throat. You had honestly forgotten it was there, so engrossed in how your lower half had been responding to him. Billy carefully slipped out of you and took care of the condom while you adjusted the bed sheets.

Then he approached you with his wallet and held out two bills. “For staying the night,” he offered. 

You shook your head while waving them off with a flip of your hand, not even looking at the number on them. You hadn’t checked the original amount he left in the envelope on the nightstand, but you figured he probably already paid more than what would be equivalent to the actual amount of hours you spent interacting. 

“Special deal; cuddles are free, tonight only,” you smiled softly. 

Billy returned a small, amused smile. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Oh, I’m very comfortable,” you sighed, opening up the blankets to let him under, and settling into the crook of his arm. 

“Good, darlin’,” he replied with a yawn, his warm body pressed against yours, lulling you to sleep.

#billy butcher #billy butcher smut #billy butcher x you #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher fanfic #the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys smut #the boys tv #amazon the boys #karl urban #beyoursbbfic

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is a joint effort by myself and @thewitchofbooks who I reached out to after falling for her beautiful art. A gifted creator and a super Gilbert fan? Perfect 💜

The title of this fic comes from the well-known Robert Frost poem

Gilbert x female Reader

Holiday / winter fluff

Word Count: 1068

Obsidian is the opposite of Rhodolite. If your home country is soft, velvet roses and rolling green hills and trees staggering under the weight of the fruit they bear, then Obsidian is bushes with sharp, hungry thorns, dusty, cracked earth and trees that look utilitarian at best and menacing at worst. But Mother Nature has a secret, a way to equalize them both: snow. Snow covers the idyllic hills and small villages and gardens the same way it does stone houses, empty fields and barren trees. Snow brings beauty to even the harshest of places.

When you had stopped at the tall, arched windows and seen the blanket of white laid out before you, gleaming despite a wan sunlight muted by voluminous, gray velvet clouds, there was only one person you wanted to rush outside and experience it with.

He agreed readily, setting aside the day’s papers and letters and worries for something just as important, something vital to giving him the strength to continue with all those papers and letters and worries. Time with you.

Now you walk, arm in arm, over the soft snow, following the path that runs along the meager grain fields behind the palace. To your left looms the forest, black-barked trees with bare, spindly arms reaching for the heavens, bedecked in layers of sparkling white.

Gilbert is quiet, his red eye taking in the landscape, black boots ringed with clingy snow. You tighten your grip on his arm. If you were a snowflake, you would cling to him too, this man born of winter, whose skin is as pale and soft as the world around you. And as cold. However you know that under those layers of heavy black fabric and ornate gold and leather is a winter landscape that has trembled at your touch, melted under the heat of your mouth, and flushed at the movement of skin against skin. 

“This way,” he says, breaking the silence. “There’s something I want to show you.” Your arms unlock but his hand finds you, threading his leather-gloved fingers through yours. He leads you onto a small, narrow path that turns left, weaving its way through the trees. At first sight they loomed ominously, a vague sense of foreboding radiating from their bare branches. But now, walking through them, hand in hand, there is something that feels more akin to safety, as if the forest was sheltering you instead of warning you. 

He stops walking, raising one arm to point upwards. “There. This is what I wanted to show you.” You follow the long line of his arm up until you spot them. Nestled within the bare branches of the trees are bright green bushels of leaves dotted with tiny white berries. There is something almost whimsical about it, the vivid green amongst the dark, empty branches against the gray sky. 

“Do you recognize it?” Gilbert walks around, stopping behind you in order to wrap his arms around your middle, holding you against him. You lean back, tilting your head until it rests against his shoulder, gaze still admiring the view. There is something familiar about those plants. That vibrant green with its small bright white pearls. While you are thinking things over, racking your brain to place them, he lowers his head, his cheek pressed against yours. You can feel the smile on his face. “Really, Häschen? I thought you would know it immediately. After all….” He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “It is one of your favorite holiday traditions.”

Those words suddenly take the vague ideas swimming around in your mind and sharpen them, lock them in place to create something recognizable.

“That’s mistletoe!” Wonder fills you as you look at the beautiful green gifting the gray landscape with vibrant color. “I’ve never seen it in the wild before.”

“Mm hm.” He’s decided your gaze has been up in the trees long enough. He wants those luminous eyes on him. Sliding his hands to your waist, he turns you until you’re facing him, lips curved artfully. “And what did you explain to me one does under mistletoe?”

Something warm blooms inside you, a joy at the sultry, teasing note in his voice, a thrill at the way his hands are holding you tightly against him. You thought the green of the mistletoe leaves was beautiful within the panorama of gray and white surrounding you, but now, the jeweled red of his eye, glinting with the promise of something inciting, is the most exquisite color in sight.

“We are surrounded by an awful lot of mistletoe, my love” you murmur even as his hands leave your side to cup your face, the feel of those soft leather gloves as dear and familiar to you as his skin. The gesture, though gentle, still sings of his possessive nature. You wrap your fingers slowly around his wrists, holding him. You can be possessive too. He leans down slowly, his gaze still on you, your lips only a breath away from his. He smiles and you feel it, the power it has, the way it fills your heart and the space between heart beats. He is as essential to you as air under a bird’s wing or water to the creatures of the deep. 

“Then I suppose,” he says softly, “that one kiss will not be enough.” His voice pours molten gold into your ears and sends a ripple of warmth across your skin. 

“Probably not,” you whisper in answer. And then your lips touch, a metamagnetic force pulling you together, irresistible and inescapable. His lips are soft and cool against the warmth of your kiss. You feel the way he melts under the movement of your mouth, like snowflakes when they fall on flushed skin. Gilbert is cool starlight over a snow-covered field, the glimmer of frost when it kisses the petal’s edge. The air around you may be chilled, but the point of contact where your mouths meet is a warm spring from which love and lust are reborn, over and over again, with each and every kiss.

Wrapped up in each other, neither of you notices the soft fall of snowflakes as they begin tumbling from the smoky clouds, small, cold, feathery flakes that land on your clothes, your hair, adorning you and all that surrounds you in soft, heavenly white. 

A benediction. 

A blessing.

Artwork by the incredible @thewitchofbooks 💜 Thank you for working with me, Nadia. I am so grateful you had the time and so in awe of your talent.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri #ikepri gilbert #ikemen gilbert #gilbert x reader #fluff fic #christmas fic #christmas fluff #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfic #thewitchofbooks #violettwrites