#A FUCKIN' MONTH

[incredubious]

MODERN AU ACESAN !!!! first impressions with a guy who barely passes the No Shoes No Shirt No Service rule

[saintaviator]

something something gman tommy something something gordon in stasis. you know how it is.

[yuwuta]

roommate katsuki lore time: 

your job isn’t as physically demanding as that of a pro-hero, but it is equally, if not more time intensive. your friends often comment you seem dead on your feet way more often than they do, and you have to agree. so when you decide to scrounge up some extra money and hire a private chef, you think it’s the best decision you’ve made in a while. 

your friends would seem to agree—and some tease that maybe you should ask your guy if he can cater to izuku, too. except for katsuki, who seems appalled, betrayed, and disgruntled. it takes all but one week about you gushing over the meals your chef has prepped for you for katsuki to show up to your apartment in the middle of the day, while you’re at work, and the chef is in your kitchen, kindly ask him to leave forever, and get to work himself. when you come home, you’re confused and pissed when you realize katsuki has fired your saving grace, but the anger falls flat on your tongue when you’re interrupted by the blonde spoon-feeding you the most delicious bite of steak that you’ve ever had in your entire life. he’s way too smug watching you physically melt about the food, and ordering you to sit down and have a proper meal. 

he tries not to be endeared by your stuffed cheeks, but there’s a satisfaction brewing in him that he can’t quite place. all he knows is it won’t be taken away from him again; that’s why he flicks your forehead, throws a dish towel over his shoulder, and says, “make room for my shit here by the end of the week. and don’t complain when i put all your spoons together in one drawer,” before heading over to the sink to wash up. 

you don’t even get until the end of the week before katsuki is barreling into your apartment with boxes and clothes and, “this is what we call a stainless steel pan in the wild. ever seen one before?” prompting you to reach up and pinch his ear even as he cackles all the way to the kitchen. you suppose, in the end you can’t complain. you get to live with your best friend, you get free catering, free cleaning, and it takes you two months of living together to find out katsuki’s paid off your rent for the rest of the year, too. you know, what friends are for. 

[cassette--punk]

[spotsupstuff]

day 16

without plants and equipment's skill issue version below:

[paper-cities]

Kurapika knows what you are

[jacenotjason]

OC BLAST AUGH

so a little while ago i wanted to remake my Spooky Month ocs refs to be Better and it took me way longer than i thought BUT I FINALLY FINISHED THEM

TADAA!!

I do need to update Toyhouse now ehehh

[crustyfloor]

IVAN'S A FUCKING FUCKER FOR NOT EVEN CHOKING TILL PROPERLY HE WAS GENTLY HOLDING HIM IN PLACE

(it kills me because Till probably thought ivan was gonna give him one last out or something hence why he closed his eyes in what i feel like is acceptance)

[ghost-proofbaby]

when you know, you know. (e.m.)

summary: air hockey has never been so romantic.

warnings: it's alluded to that reader is wearing red lipstick. not edited.

pairing: eddie munson x reader

wc: 1.8k+

a/n: a very late valentine's day gift for you all (and eddie). also, the fact i've never written proper mechanic eddie... what a shame.

“Yes!” 

If any of the nearby children flinched, you didn’t notice. You were too wrapped up in your victory, going as far as to partake in a terribly embarrassing dance on your end of the air hockey table as Eddie shakes his head slowly. 

“You definitely cheated,” he deadpans, a twitch of a smile nearly giving him away as he leans down to pick the puck out of the slot below on his end, “There’s no way you’re about to beat me in under five minutes, again.” 

You smile, lips painted red under the lowlights of the arcade as you lean over the table and taunt him, “Or maybe it’s just a skill issue. I wouldn’t keep beating you if you were actually a professional in air hockey like you’d claimed, Munson.” 

Three dates – tonight makes four – and you still hadn’t quite worked out how you’d managed to capture the attention of the boy before you. When he’d originally asked you out to coffee, you’d swallowed down all your excessive excitement just to answer him. The local mechanic that you’d been making heart eyes at every few months when you’d go in for an oil check, the one who hadn’t allowed the others at the shop to oversell you on a damn thing when you’d get your tires rotated. Who always smiled shyly as he’d bring you back your keys.

You’d figured the coffee date would last an hour if you were lucky. The two of you would spend more than five minutes in the same room together, he’d realize how overbearing you were, and that would be the end of it. Ridiculous crush effectively squashed. 

But it hadn’t. 

It had lasted hours, plural. Coffees finished and second lattes nursed until they’d gone cold, the outcome had been the exact opposite of your expectations. Your conversation had flowed effortlessly, common ground and common interests found with ease, and suddenly, Eddie was more than just some cute mechanic for your friends to tease you over. 

The first date had only ended due to his shift at the shop that afternoon. 

The subsequent sushi dinner date, and then the movie night the next week, had also lasted hours. 

“For someone who works on cars, you should be a lot better with your hands,” you poke gentle fun at him as he makes the first hit against the puck this time, far more careful than you had been when serving. 

“Or maybe I’m just determined to keep letting my pretty date win.” 

“And why would you ever do that?” 

Another hit from your mallet, the sharp tapping of your aggressive push ringing out over the sound of nearby machines. You don’t dare to glance in the direction of the ruckus, but you’re pretty sure someone has just won an exciting amount of tickets based on the squeals of glee. 

“I dunno,” Eddie pauses to shrug after he hits the puck once more, his guard dropping. You’re ruthless as you take the opportunity to shoot the puck straight into ‘goal’ on his side of the table. A straight shot, far too easy for your liking, but you still celebrate the victory with another embarrassing dance, “Maybe it’s because I’m into that ridiculous dance they keep doing whenever they score.” 

You immediately stop your little jumps, eyes widening, a rush of embarrassment heating you up from the inside out as Eddie’s eyes stay glued on you. The table powers down as he makes his way around it, feet bringing him right to you. 

You’d always thought Eddie would find you weird, or odd, or unappealing after that coffee date, but the outcome had been better than you could have possibly conceived.

He was an absolute weirdo as well. 

Fondness overtakes his features just like it had on that coffee date when you’d accidentally snorted at one of his jokes, and your heart flutters eagerly. You can’t believe there had been a time you’d only watch him from behind glass, trying to not get caught as you would blatantly stare at him as he’d work on your car. A time when you’d only see his curls up in loose buns rather than framing his face as they were now, a time when you couldn’t even shake his hand due to it being covered in oil. 

That had all only been a month ago, but you already couldn’t imagine your life without Eddie Munson in it. 

“Don’t go shy on me now,” he chuckles as he stops in front of you, smirk deepening the dimples you’d only noticed on your second date with him. He’d been too bashful the first date, ducking whenever his grin would grow too wide on you, biting his tongue on half the flirtatious remarks you wished he would have said. “You won, fair and square, so what’s your prize gonna be, valentine?” 

He also waited until the second date to kiss you. That had nearly killed you. 

“It’s not very fair if you let me win,” you whisper, unable to look away from his eyes. They’re a soft brown, a smooth honey, a nice sight for sore eyes. You kind of like the crinkles beside them, too. Kind of wonder what it would be like to wake up beside him, roll over, and kiss them – all before the sun ever rose. 

He reaches out and gingerly grabs your hand, calloused fingertips brushing your knuckles before he entangles your fingers with his. “Psh, who said I let you win? Maybe I just really suck at air hockey.”

“You just-”

You never get to finish your argument. He’s quick to swoop down, capturing your lips in his. The rudest of interruptions, and it still manages to weaken your knees. 

Each kiss only grows sweeter. And more confident, more sure. The first one had been timid, exchanged on your doorstep with boyish hesitation and meek desperation. But now, several kisses experienced since that night, all apprehension has melted. He lets his lips meld to yours, captures your bottom lip just tightly enough to give it a brief tug when he pulls away. Still soft, ever so sweet, and leaving you wanting for more. 

Four dates. All it took was four dates for him to make you a goner. 

“Now, that wasn’t fair,” you breathe out, betrayed by the smile that you wear. Your chest feels shaken up, impending explosion of mushiness and flowers and hearts and every single cliche the love songs on the radio could squeeze out.

“It was your prize.”

“I never said I wanted a kiss for my prize.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he puts a dramatic hand up to his chest, leaning back so dramatically that your hand instinctively reaches out to loop a finger in his jean pocket to keep him upright, “Would you like me to take it back, my fair maiden?” 

Four dates, and he makes it impossible to not imagine a future of this. Of silly banter, of gentle mornings spent kissing away crows feet, of cutting one another off with the most infuriating of methods. You’re starting to believe you’re just a hopeless romantic, and he’d spotted that from a mile away – he knew every single button to press to have you putty in his hands, and he was taking full advantage of it. 

You giggle, an honest to God giggle, as you say, “Hm, I’m not sure. I heard the return policies on those are a bit wonky.” 

If your friends thought you were insufferable when he was some stranger you just had a crush on, they would be vomiting at the sight of this. 

He leans into your space, close enough to smell his faint cologne and mint on his breath, “Are they? Well, lucky for you, I’m friends with the shop owner. Can definitely accept the return without a receipt. It won’t be a problem, ma’am. I swear it.”

He’s weird. He’s goofier than you could have imagined, snarkier than you could have dreamed, and more romantic than you had yet to uncover. He’s kind of perfect, but you wouldn’t dare say that to his face. Not yet, at least. 

You’re glad you had said yes when he’d asked days prior for you to be his Valentine. And you’re glad he hadn’t gone the boring route, showing up with just chocolates and flowers and calling it a day, but had instead dragged you out to this arcade for a night of adventures as he claimed. 

“And how would one go about returning a kiss, kind sir?” 

He answers wordlessly, bringing up a finger to tap on his lips. He goes as far as pouting them dramatically. 

He wants you to kiss him. 

Lucky for him, you want to kiss him, too. 

Your kiss is more chaste. Teasing as you lift up onto your tippy toes and only press your lips to his for a brief second before falling back. You leave him wanting more – it’s written all over his face, along with a blush that races right over the bridge of his nose. 

He’s cute. He’s cute, and he’s weird, and you really fucking like him. 

“Now that that’s over with,” you have to change the topic, move right along before your heart truly bursts from your chest, “I know what I want my prize to be.” 

He takes a moment to recover, pupils almost resembling hearts as he stares down at you. Eventually he pulls himself from your trance, shaking his head as he asks, “And what would that be?”

You’re the one taking his hand this time. If he gave you the time, you’d like to learn each callous and scar by heart. Trace over them in the middle of night, when it’s just you and him in the darkness beneath your sheets. Memorize the way they feel as he explores every curvature of your body and figure out which of the roughest patches would brush against your most sensitive bits in a way that would make you arch your back right into him. 

The two of you haven’t even discussed if that’s where the night might lead, but you’re sort of hoping the luck in the air doesn’t run out. 

“There’s an awfully pretty ring in the case up at the ticket counter,” you muse, knowing damn well the ring was the ugliest thing either of you had ever seen in your lives, “Think you’ve got the tickets to spare?” 

His hand gives you a squeeze. Something not too tight, something perfectly comfortable. It’s only the fourth date, it’s only the first month – it’s only the beginning. 

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, more earnestly than you’d expected, as he steals another kiss. 

You let him. You have this aching feeling in your chest that you’ll probably let him steal an endless amount from you for the rest of your life. 

When you know, you know. Or whatever the poets say.

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

join my taglist!

[kalamity-jayne]

DON'T BE A BITCH ASS COP!!!

[mostlyghostlyy]

"I think..... I miss my wife" but it's me talking about a 60y/o man named Dale

[batfossil-fr]

in one of the absolute worst breeding projects I've ever had, after 207 failures and countless one-offs, I finally. FINALLY. have this pair

[ducotte-real]

more uh. more uh brainrot um. erm um go read Doctor, the Problem's In My Chest please

[third-king-of-salmonids]

SCREW ANARCHY SPLATCAST WE GOT OUR OWN THING

READY FOR A XTRA AIRWAVE? ITS TIME FOR

🐟 TRIUMVIRATE TV 🐟

WELCOME TO THE COOLER AND SWAGGIER ANNOUCEMENTS TV SHOW! ANYWAY, CURRENTLY IN ROTATION IS THAT BASTARD BOA-WAIT WHAT!? WE’RE GETTING A TRANSMISSION!!

WOAH!! ITS THE VOICE FROM THE DEPTHS!! IT WENT DING!! YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS-

OH YEAH NOW WE’RE COOKING >:V

UH THAT SAID WE SPENT ALL OUR MONEY ON SNACKS SO WE DONT HAVE ANY LEFT FOR MORE DIALOG SO UHHHH PICKATEAMBELOWOKAYBYEEE

[lemon-russ]

Look. I just........ you can't judge me. What were YOU doing at the devils sacrament?

Mortarion X F!Reader (Pt. 1?)

Next (technically prequel)

CW: imprisonment, dehumanization, human pet, oral sex, general debauchery

TAGS: @moodymisty

Look I dunno if you guys signed up for this but uhhh: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk

“Shhhh, there, there, pet.”

Mortarion reaches through the bars of your cage to stroke your hair. You blink away sleep from your eyes as you orient yourself in the plush prison. Master is home? You scramble out of your little bed- nothing more than a large dogs bed but layered in pillows and blankets- and eagerly press yourself to the bars.

You lean into his palm, grasping his wrist to urge his hand to your cheek and nuzzle into his massive hand.

The primarch chuckles a raspy sound out. “That's a good girl, so happy to see me…” he cooes, kneeling, with some effort and popping joints, to sit beside your prison.

“Now, were you a good pet today? Quiet? Played nicely with your toys?” He murmurs, running a calloused thumb over your lips. “I don’t want to have to make excuses again if you made noise and alerted my sons.”

You smile wide, nodding eagerly. You know better than to speak without being asked. Your master prefers you use your body over words to express your appreciation. You had been playing nice and quiet all day, drawing on your parchments and playing with the “toys” he leaves you for when he is gone for an extended time.

He smiles, the skin of his dry lips straining with cracks, unused to the expression. He withdraws his hand, and the comforting clammy cool with it. You resist clinging.

Your cage clicks open, and you temper your excitement. Mortarion is letting you out? That only ever means good things for his treasured pet. Is it bath time? Or does he want you to warm his bed? Will he finally take you out and show you off?

Your excitement must be showing on your face, because Mortarion lets out another weak chuckle before rasping out a few harsh coughs.

“There's a good pet, so eager to please. It's been a few days since you came out, hasn't it?” He says as he latches your favorite collar to your neck. A rich green, with his name emblazened in bronze. His fingers trace over your throat as he admires the band, sending shivers down your spine and rasing goosebumps on your skin.

He moves aside to let you crawl out. Your cage is large, but short. Not enough to stand in, so it is a special treat when you get to stretch your legs and spine out in your masters bedroom.

Your body protests the sudden change of position as you stretch. It feels more and more unnatural to stand like this, or even leave the safety of your plush cage. Soon you return to your hands and knees at the Primarch’s feet.

He reaches down to run a hand through your hair again, before clipping a matching leash to your neck. A tug tightens your collar, drawing a squeak of surprise from your throat.

“Are you going to be a good pet?” He asks, pulling you by the lead to the edge of the bed. He sits, pulling you forward with him.

You nod quickly, crawling across the hard metal floor to kneel between his knees.

He tugs your leash sharper. “Say it.” He rasps. His pale eyes grow heavy as he eyes you, in your proper place.

“I’ll be good.” You croak, voice thick with disuse.

He smiles again, reaching down to run a hand under your chin. He brings his face close enough that his breath tickles your cheeks.

“Good girl.”

He leans back, spreading his legs and tugging you forward again, your collar biting into the soft skin of your neck. You don’t need to be told twice, and start undoing the ties holding his loose pants up. There are still splatters of old blood and the remnants of harsh chemicals from the battlefield staining his clothes, and you assume he must have come straight to you after getting home from a fight. The idea makes you puff up a little with pride. Master came straight to you…

You tug apart the knots and look up at him for permission to continue. He answers by caressing a hand to your face, then snapping the leash with his other hand, making you yelp.

You quickly return to your task, releasing Mortarion’s half ready cock from his pants at last.

The sight of his pale flesh makes you stop and admire. Every time your master uses you, you’re still astounded by the sheer size of it. Mortarion chuckles at your wide eyed stare, brushing back hair from your flushed face.

“You like it, pet?” He croons, chest rattling with his deepening breaths.

You nod, fixated still on the rising organ. He smiles, running his hand behind your head to take a fistful of your hair. He pushes your head closer, pressing the head of his cock to your lips.

“Go on then, show me how much.” He demands softly, twitching his hips forward and parting your lips with the tip.

You happily comply, sucking what you can of him into your mouth. The salty taste hit your tongue, and the primearch’s grip on your head burrows him deeper into your throat.

His groaning is cut by a rattling cough, but when you try to stop to look up at him he pushes your head back down on his cock. His next moan is less labored, so you figure it best to keep trying to fit him in your mouth, stretching your aching jaw with his thrusts.

After what feels like an eternity focusing on relaxing your throat and jaw, a sharp snap of your leash snaps you back into the moment.

“That’s it, good girl-” he growls deeply, “swallow it little pet-” his voice hitches as he grabs your head and nearly gags you. He hooks a finger under your collar and yanks, briefly cutting off your already scarce air supply as he fills your throat.

With an airy, raspy whimper, you feel his cock start pumping down your throat. After a couple hitching bucks of his hips, he pulls you off of him by the hair, leaving you gasping and your jaw radiating with sore use.

He falls back onto the bed, wheezing and trembling, and pulls you up to him by your leash. You crawl up to him in a daze and collapse next to him, catching your breath as he tried to control his own.

Finally he lolled his head to look at you, cupping your chin to make you meet his cloudy eyes.

“Good pet.”

[pondslime]

What do you want from me? What have I done? I'm just a word processor, for Christ sake!

Griffin Dunne as Paul Hackett AFTER HOURS (1985) dir. Martin Scorsese