#I just think pigeons are swell

[cuttyflammm]

i genuinely don’t know

[tragedy-of-commons]

killjoy

childe x gn!reader | wc: ~1.6k

You catch your boyfriend setting up the cake.

tags/warnings: bday fun, modern & college au, based off of the American College Experience™ sorry, tooth-rotting fluff, teucer is a national treasure, comedy, possibly ooc, reader has hair

notes: for @staarri's 100 followers & bday event <3 trying to write childe was a nightmare but the wheel of doom has spoken. chosen prompt "cruel summer" :)

It has been one hell of a day.

Pop quizzes in two of your classes (that you are now tanking), getting heckled by that same group of protesters, slamming head-first into a glass panel like a pigeon, and then getting splashed by a puddle via a speeding car. 

To give credit where credit is due, you’ve suffered through every incident with class and poise. Despite how you drip with murky street water, the saving grace that is the promise of your warm bed keeps you from inventing new profanities and falling to your knees in the student parking lot.

It’s almost over with, it’s almost over with—

The splintered door of your dorm unit has never looked more welcoming. When your keycard is approved with a click, you heave the barrier between you and uninterrupted sleep wide open. However, what you don’t expect is the little spectacle unfolding in your kitchenette.

Who you belatedly realize is your lovely boyfriend is sticking candles into something - it being quickly shielded from your view as he reacts to your arrival.

“You just had to be early,” he grins, revealing those pearly whites, “Maybe I’ll start calling you ‘Killjoy’.”

“Ajax?” He’s here? Today? But he said— He must notice your sorry state, but he’s wise enough not to mention it. “You really think I’d miss celebrating your birthday in person? Seriously, what kind of partner would I be, just sending you a text? Babe, you gotta start setting some higher standards.”

“Rotten liar,” you mumble, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. 

A small flash of copper peeks around the bedroom-adjoining hallway, hyper. Teucer rushes up in front of his brother, the latter ruffling his hair. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You snort, wondering if anyone else is planning to jump out of the shadows. “My sincerest apologies. I could always leave—”

“No need,” Ajax dismisses the notion with a cavalier wave. “I think we’re all ready, huh Teuce?”

He huffs in agreement, beaming up at you like you hung the moon. “One second!”

Teucer scampers off faster than you can blink, making you bellow a laugh. His energy knows no bounds, necessitating many hours of entertaining his whims. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Happy birthday,” Ajax says softly; wistfully.

You stalk over to him, embracing your boyfriend like he might disappear into thin air without a moment’s notice. “If you broke in, I will be calling campus security.” “You’d never turn me in! Also, we just so happen to still be on the guest card from last week.” You part from his warmth so you can kiss him. He tastes of sugar, the bastard.

“Buttercream?” you place, peering over his shoulder. The sight of a round cake on the counter confirms your suspicions, and your heart swells. He would’ve had to bake and decorate it somewhere else, given that ovens are a luxury you do not possess in college hell. You picture him in his too-nice apartment, piping frosting in the familiar loops of your name. “Yes!” Teucer rushes back in (you note that he’s hiding his hands behind his back), while Ajax pokes your nose. “Big brother spent soooo long on it!”

You snicker deviously. “Really?”

“No reason to lie,” your boyfriend pouts, “Though I’m a bit hurt that you’re both trying to embarrass me, after I went to all this trouble..”

Teucer sticks his tongue out in disgust whenever you console Ajax with another kiss, likely wanting you both to hurry up your gross couple stuff so he can show you his gift. It’s presented to you ceremoniously, and you honor the splendor by pretending not to know that it’s definitely one of his toys. 

Your acting is award-winning, perfectly ignoring the obvious ridges and appendages of a Transformer. After tearing open the paper, you’re told that his name is Mr. Cyclops and you have to take good care of him - your sworn oath.

(Of course, Mr. Cyclops will mysteriously end up back in Teucer’s bedroom if you can count on your partner in crime to help you out. You and Ajax share a Look that hints at conspiracy.)

Speaking of your boyfriend, you don’t think he is governed by even one modicum of shame. During the Happy Birthday song, he performs with his whole chest, much to your chagrin. You think that Ajax lives the most for other people; even if it shines brightest whenever he teases and flusters. His camaraderie is most genuine when he’s this comfortable - when he knows that the present moment is all he needs to focus on. 

When did he start letting his guard down? You find yourself unable to recall among past memories of trudging to the local diner at ungodly hours, cramming for finals at the library, and responsibly talking him down from any antics that would surely get him in trouble.

(Maybe it was when you first held an ice pack over his eye, swollen shut from a punch he shouldn’t have taken just for the thrill of it. Your admonishment must have been jarring, because without any teasing remarks whatsoever, he promised that he’d dial it down. You remember lacing your fingers with his - and promptly threatening to “embalm him with jet fuel” if he ever got hurt again.)

Now your relationship has progressed to the point where spending your first birthday together feels natural. It feels so natural that shitty paper plates stacked high with slices of cake is enough to make you forget that you look like that one damp owl picture. Ajax, as per his boyfriend duties, has to remind you, of course.

“Bad day, huh?” 

You rest your chin on your fist, elbow supported by the armrest of your (comically small) couch. In retrospect, the fleeting illusion of a living room probably wasn’t worth it. Squished into a corner by a dozing Teucer and an awake Ajax, you yawn. “The worst, actually.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” he tips your chin up to meet azure hues, “Maybe my gift will make you feel better.”

You blink. “Gift? You don’t have to, you know. The little guy’s was plenty enough for me.” 

Ajax spares a fond glance at his little brother, whose head is resting in his lap, legs thrown over the opposite armrest. “Nonsense! If you’re worried about me having bought out a whole store—”

“Don’t tell me you—”

“—Then you have nothing to fret over, Killjoy,” he laughs. “It’s pretty small.”

You don’t suppress the smile that breaks out on your face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Hopefully not too hard.” He’s so annoying. You want to kiss him stupid.

From what you assume is from his back pocket, he removes a black silk pouch before dropping it into your awaiting hand. He was right about it being small, that’s for sure. Toying with the material of it for a moment, you pull open the bag delicately. Ajax tenses. “So.. whaddya think?”

Inside is a brass key that fits into your palm nicely. Of course you’ll love anything he gives you, but you’re unsure of what this could mean. Is it symbolic? Literal? You thumb over the grooves, unsure of what they could possibly unlock. Your head swims with a fuzzy feeling that you don’t entirely hate.

“What’s it to?”

“Our place.”

It’s perfect. You turn the object this way and that way, swallowing. “Giving me my own copy? You realize that you’re gonna be stuck with me crashing at yours way more often, right?”

Your boyfriend wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulder. “It’s not there for you to crash, it’s there for you to stay. I want you to move in with me.”

The following awed silence from you is clearly taken as something else, because Ajax backpedals in that flippant way that belies the panic he’s actually feeling. You need to tell him that it’s okay; that it’s more than okay.

“Of course you can say no, but the rest of your birthday plans kinda hinge on the possibility that you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and say yes,” he amends.

You pay no heed to his theatrics, because all you really need is him. Gross. “Duh, idiot. As much as it kills me to say this, I’d want nothing more.” Ajax glows. “Because you’re head over heels in love with me?”

“No, because I won’t have to drag my ass to the laundromat anymore.”

The offended sound he lets out is muffled with your mouth against his once more, and the tears that roll down your cheeks are obviously not because you’re ecstatic to be so involved in his life. What a preposterous idea.

His hands cradle your face, a little awkward because of the position, but he’s so warm. 

“Killjoy, I have something to confess,” he breathes, pulling back enough so you can see the faint constellation of freckles dotting his features. “You need to start packing immediately, or else the flowers will wilt before you’re able to see them.”

You sigh, happy-sniffling. “Flowers? Is a bouquet perhaps part of these ‘birthday plans’?”

Ajax dries one of his hands stained with your tears off onto his shirt before raking it through Teucer’s curls affectionately. He stirs but does not wake. “Try thirty!”

“Ajax..” The horror in your tone barely disguises the admiration.

“I love you too, Killjoy.”

That night, when you’re both alone in his apartment, tangled in each other’s arms, your overnight bag on the floor - you tell him the same. The few tears he sheds into your hair are also definitely not because you’re finally comfortable enough to say it back. Ridiculous.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

[spurbleu]

ohhhh i get it. frankenstien ghoap x scientist reader. the body horror. monster fucking. anyway.

lighthouse town. small minded folk with no where to put their spite. it shores on a grey bank, carving the cliff that shadows the swells. storm rolls in from the east, fat quills of pigeon grey rising from behind the sea.

you avoid looking out window- childish belief that as long as you don’t see it, it’s not there. candle in place of the nightlight you’d lost to nostalgia.

no one visits- generational stagnancy, bred mediocrity. no one and nothing is a stranger.

however.

there is a trail, hastily made to avoid the haunts. leads grief to a large patch of land, moldy greystone looming over six feet, haphazard and unmarked. said to be a gravesite for the unrest- the soldiers that fought for this poor, sullen land.

how disappointed they would be, if they saw it now.

you’d put a hard wall over the woods. swearing to your anxious mother, kneading the dough a little rougher when you picked wildflowers by the treeline, that you would never walk down that trail. that you’d bury them in the cemetery like a good daughter.

you kept one of the promises.

you broke the other three months ago, lantern keeping the soil warm as you fed the woods you plea. let me not die a failure. let me accomplish a life that is larger than my own.

silent. enough to make the swallow of your bread, your mothers last batch, heavy in your throat. weight in your belly. shrivels and molds.

just like the poor bastards you lugged in yarn bags back to your cabin.

and finally, sitting on your iron cot, two pairs of eyes, milked over and sodden, skin grafted and patchwork limbs. unfortunate looking creatures.

your wish, granted. albeit, less alive than you had hoped.

or, so you thought, until one of them fucking speaks.

“think ay got onea yer arms, LT.”

[spindrifters]

In honor of impmas 2024, I present to you good godfather sirius black and the one and only time I will ever write harry, ft. some groupchat crack treated seriously. happy birthday, @impishtubist!

“Where have you been?”

Harry jumps, the uncanny impersonation of Molly Weasley reverberating through the dusty rafters and black lacquer front hall of Grimmauld Place. Sirius smirks, grabs the lanky fifteen year-old by the scruff and pulls him into an all-encompassing hug.

“Didn’t half scare me, Sirius,” Harry grumbles into his chest, and there’s the whisper of an attempt to pull away, but his heart isn’t really in it. In any case, Sirius doesn’t let him go, just buries a grin into that mess of hair. Lemongrass shampoo and London grime.

“Serves you right, sneaking off in the middle of the night.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“No? What time d’you call this, then?”

“A perfectly appropriate time of night to go for a walk,” his godson continues to grouse. “Needed to clear my head.” Only it doesn’t escape his notice that there hasn’t been another attempt to pull away. And he’s not wrong. It’s barely half eleven, only Harry’s at double risk on his own these days. If not Death Eaters or another bloody dementor, then the press who’ll hound him to the ends of the earth should they catch sight of the Boy Who Lied—fucking cunts—alone on walkabout without so much as his friends for a buffer. There’s a reason the Order’s got about ten layers of protocol surrounding his protection at all times. If it were anyone else who’d caught him slipping in through the front door, there’d be hell to pay.

Harry’s not stupid, though. Far from it, Sirius thinks, that old pride swelling in his chest. And he’s got James’s cloak for good measure, clutched in a hand that smells of hot concrete and pigeon shit.

Harry seems to sag against his chest, Sirius’s hand still wrapped around his nape. Summer sweat of a teenage boy on the brink of becoming a man.

“Knut for your thoughts?”

“M’fine.”

Liar.

These are the things, then. The little tells beyond the way Harry strains toward him like a houseplant yearning for the sun. It’s not the same as sniffing out smells—daffodils and murtlap essence and the endless putrid fecal stench of Azkaban—but it’s just as strong. Pheromones or some muggle toss like that, something he might ask Hermione Granger about if he remembers before she heads back off to school.

It’s something Sirius noticed a long time ago, the change that happened in fifth year when his own heightened senses were lent keener by the dog that now lived inside. He remembers that Prongs was bright and coppery like triumph when he stepped off the Quidditch pitch, or cinnamon-fresh like home. He remembers being sixteen, frustrated and hormonal and knowing he’d die on the spot if anyone caught him with his nose buried in Moony’s discarded trousers to see if there was anything there that might even hint he wasn’t alone in this.

And Harry…

Something sour signaling frustration. Harsh metallic that means fear. Beneath that, the sweet damp scent of hurt. Sirius can hardly blame him. Fuck Peter Pettigrew, if he ever gets out of this fucking godforsaken house arrest, Merline Maitland and the rest of her staff at the Prophet are at the very top of his hit list.

“Go to bed,” he tells him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow, one that smells of rubbish bins lining the streets for the morning to come.

Green eyes flick up, half shock. “Thought I’d get it in the neck.”

“Nah,” says Sirius, guiding him up the stairs. “Just let me know next time. Maybe Snuffles can come along, too.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, though they both know he won’t. Sirius doesn’t need to sniff that out to know. He still thinks he has to protect Sirius just as much as Sirius knows it's not his job to do it.

He’s a good boy, Prongs. Too good. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

And.

You’d be so bloody proud.

[impala-dreamer]

Embraceable You

A Story from the MCU

Bucky Barnes x You

970 Words

Pre-War, Young!Bucky, Fluff, Romance, Longing, and the magic of NYC in the fall...

Cozy Drabbles ‘24 Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

There’s nothing like New York in the fall. 

The air is crisp and the wind carries the scents of the city on cool gusts that lift your spirits like nothing else in the world. 

The trees ignite in brilliant golds and oranges, striking a stunning contrast to the gray sidewalks and steel buildings. The city comes alive with color, bustling with an undercurrent of peace that seeps into every citizen, rushed or not. 

Leaves crunch underfoot. Birds sing a little sweeter. The world is beautiful and love is in the air.

Bucky smiles whenever he looks your way and there’s nothing sweeter. He comes off as confident and tough, but when his blue eyes meet yours, he shies away nearly instantly, becoming little more than an adorable young man who wants nothing else but to touch your cheek, hold your hand, kiss your lips.

Perhaps you’re being mean by making him wait, but it’s just so fun to watch his cheeks burn with embarrassment whenever you back away from an obvious advance. He’s too cute when you bat your eyes at him innocently; too handsome when he offers you his arm.

Central Park is busting with life as you take your afternoon stroll. Tourists stop to take photos on the Bow Bridge or order hotdogs from the various vendors stationed around the park. Children run around chasing pigeons or escaping balloons. Couples picnic on grassy hills and bicycles fly without care. It’s perfect. 

He’s perfect. 

Bucky kicks at a rock in his way as he talks about his week. He tells stories of his friends and his dreams. He goes on and on, wanting to tell you everything, wanting you to really get to know him. You listen on, wrapped in the warmth of his voice and the enthusiasm with which he speaks. The Brooklyn on his tongue becomes thicker the more excited he gets and it makes you smile as he stumbles over words, dropping Gs and skipping like a stone over a few Rs here and there. You could listen to him for days and never feel the need to say a word. 

When he does close his mouth, it’s somehow more captivating. His lips are wet and plump, his smile so endearing it makes your heart swell. The fact that his gaze is locked on your face makes your stomach flip and your pulse quicken. If it weren’t so improper, you’d sneak behind a tree and let him sneak his big hands down your curves. If it weren’t so obscene, you’d unbutton his shirt and slide your hand down his firm chest. If it weren’t so dangerous, you’d let him know how much you wanted him, how hot you felt whenever he was around. The last few weeks of chaste handholding and walks through the city were just about driving you mad. 

Mother always told you to take it slow. If a boy was worth it, he would wait for you. 

Bucky was worth it. 

Still, it was getting harder and harder to stay a good little girl when he dragged his blue eyes down your body. Harder to stay innocent when he licked his lips so slowly as you spoke. Impossible not to feel that wetness between your thighs when he sat so close, knee and shoulder touching yours. 

The hour was coming to a close and you’d be due back at work soon. Lunch breaks simply weren’t long enough for romance. 

Bucky felt it too. Looking down at his watch, he sighs. 

“Gonna have to be getting back soon.” 

Nodding, you turn to face him. “Me too.” 

There’s a sadness between you but it fades when he tips his head and looks into your eyes. 

Desire trumps lamentation every time. 

“Hope we can go for another stroll soon,” he says, lips turned into a half smile.

You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the afternoon sun and the warmth pushing off of him. “I think that’d be nice.” 

“Or maybe I can take you out… maybe go see a picture?” 

Bottom lip snagged between your teeth, you nod. “I’d really like that. Gimmie a call later, yeah?”

The goodbye is always terrible. Awkward and timid, with a current of want that zings between you, never to be quelled. 

Bucky looks away and clears his throat, trying to calm his ache. 

“Well,” he says, looking back to you, “I guess I’ll see ya later.” 

“I guess so.” 

He starts to turn to leave and something inside of you snaps. Reaching for him, you stop his retreat and set your palm against his smooth cheek. He gasps in surprise before taking the hint. 

Dropping down, he leans close and exhales a breath as his lips finally brush over yours. Your body sings with joy as he presses a bit harder. He cups your face in his warm hands, holding you close and begging with everything he has. 

You let him in and everything explodes in brilliant color when his tongue touches yours. 

The city is ablaze around you, the sky is a brighter blue, and the Earth turns a little bit slower. For a moment, there is nothing but his kiss. 

Reluctantly, he pulls back and stares into your eyes. Young love floods his gaze and you feel every bit of yourself falling harder for him. 

Soon, you know, it will be impossible to walk away. 

Another kiss and you melt against him, your fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt. 

“Been waitin’ too long to do that,” he whispers, backing up just enough to make you lean in and ask for more. 

You grin and sigh. “All good things come to those who wait.” 

Bucky laughs and wraps his arms tight around you, holding you close. “You’re certainly a good thing, Doll…”

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 10

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When Parker gets to spend some more one on one time with Tom, she's left wondering how it's possible that no one else can see him the way she does. Maybe, rose colored glasses aren't so bad after all.

Read the story here: prev / next

Three weeks pass without much fanfare.

Tom, as it turns out, actually does live quite a busy life as an A-list celebrity, and when he's not recording a new paid advertisement or championing photoshoots, he's flying from one state to another to do appearances on various talk shows. It's weird going so long without seeing him—weirder even when Parker thinks about how shortly they've known one another, yet how he's somehow become a part of her routine—and though they share an occasional text message here or there, for the most part she doesn't hear much from him.

She's disappointed, but also understanding, and so rather than sit around moping about the lack of Ryder in her life, Parker uses the time to focus on tackling Melissa's ever growing list of renovations in her bookstore. The last of the shelf liners get pasted, the paint is finished, half of her tacky posters are replaced with thrifted decorations and the other half are spruced up with wooden frames. She adds a coat rack by the door, buys a new welcome mat, and even gives some life back to the tattered reading chair thanks to the cleaning underworld of YouTube.

It's a lot of work, definitely more than she had originally envisioned when propositioned by the teenager, but when it's all said and done...

Well, it's worth it.

Parker has never been so in love with her shop as she is now. She comes in early to straighten her latest arrivals, and hangs around late to sweep underneath the shelves. She's always loved her little shop—it's the only thing in her life that has ever, unequivocally, been hers—but it's better now; now it's something she can take pride in showing off.

And showing off she does. The throng of customers increases throughout the weeks. Not enough to add a couple more employees to her roster, but enough to add a modicum of business to her days. Melissa has somehow enlisted half of her high school to stop through; teeny-boppers hoping to catch glimpses of Tom, and young boys hoping to gawk at the teeny-boppers. Plus, she's been dropping flyers off at Crave Cafe on the daily that seem to be drawing in tourists and retirees alike.

It's not quite success, but it's close.

And damn if it doesn't feel good.

"What are you all smiley about?" her brother asks as if specifically trying to ruin said good feeling. "You look like you're high. Are you high?"

"You look like you're high all the time," she rebuts with a bite of her sandwich.

"That's—I have small eyes, you know that. It just looks like I'm squinty and red when it's too bright," he says in that upsettingly righteous tone of his. It's an excuse she's heard before, and when Parker arches a brow at him, he huffs. "It's—blame Mom! I didn't ask to look like this."

"Aw, Mom doesn't look like an idiot, Colt. That's all you."

His features flatten, deadpan eyes. "Ha, ha, ha. That's hilarious. Soooooo hilarious that I almost forgot to laugh. Almost as hilarious as the first time you made that joke. When was that—the seventh grade?"

She smirks around her straw, and Colt sinks in his chair to cross his arms.

"I was just trying to make conversation," he says, waving his arms around at her. The movement scares off a nearby pigeon, and she watches its flight with languid eyes. "Trying to be nice, see what's new in your life or whatever, but you just had to take it too far."

"That's you being nice?"

"Always have to take it too far," he continues, ignoring her to shove some fries into his mouth. They're sitting at a picnic table outside, a sun umbrella with bright red stripes propped open above their head, the beach in the near distance swelling with the smell of saltwater and taffy, and despite his demeanor, Parker sports a blithe smile. It's a nice day; too nice to be truly bothered by her petulant child of a brother. "Next time, you can buy yourself lunch."

"Oh, hit me where it hurts," she jokes. He shakes his head at her, more fries gone, and all it takes is her offer of an onion ring for Colt to be smiling too. "I'm just happy with how works going. We finished painting, finally, and I think I hit a record for customers this week."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I think most of them still have braces, but I'm not complaining. If I hired Melissa a few months ago I might have been rich by now."

He makes a face at the mention of her employee, and Parker rolls her eyes. Only Colt would have beef with a high schooler.

"I suppose I can pop in after this, give it a look. See if it's up to par."

"I forgot you were an expert. Where'd you go to school again? Was it Carnegie Mellon? Or Pratt?"

Colt shakes his head at her teasing, but there's no love lost between the siblings. They argue about arguing about arguing. It was pretty much a natural response at this point in their lives. And though she was arguably better at it than him—Colt had a real problem with being tongue-tied, wit was certainly not his forte—every once in a while he gave as good as he got.

"Yeah, well, you're successful, I'm successful. I guess it's a family trait. Glad to hear the store is doing well, though. I was worried I'd have to pay your rent for Christmas again this year, and, well... I really didn't want to."

"Magnanimous as ever," she joked with a sip of her soda.

"What? Three years in a row? I'm not Santa Claus. I do have a life, and I've been eyeing this really nice mountain bike lately."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Since when do you mountain bike?"

"Since—well... shut up. Can't a guy have hobbies?"

"Why can't you ever have a normal hobby? One that won't end up with you in the emergency room or on my couch for three weeks."

He rolled his eyes to jab some fries in her direction. "That was once, and it was a hernia. It had nothing to do with my hobbies. Besides, you read for fun. I'm not going to take criticism from someone that can't even walk up the stairs without hurting herself."

"I can!"

"Oh, can you?"

Parker flung an onion ring at him, only to have it backfire when Colt victoriously stuffed it into his mouth. She probably should have seen that one coming. She half considered throwing her phone at him next, but it was at that moment that their waitress stopped by to check on them, and by the time she'd left Parker didn't feel so inclined for violence.

A good thing for her brother considering he quite literally needed his body functioning for work.

Speaking of, "how's work for you going? When's filming start?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Not for a bit, but I've been working on some stunt coordination with Dan and the other guys already. This sci-fi movie is really stepping it up from the last one. I've already had to learn a couple new moves."

"Like what?"

"Rolls, jumps, fighting sequences, jumping out of a moving car. That sort of thing."

Parker considered that, before frowning. Suspiciously, she narrowed her eyes at him. "What exactly is this movie about again?"

"NASA," he said around a bite of his burger, as if that explained anything. It didn't; not in the least, but before she could badger him some more he finished the last of his food with a belch. Any thoughts evaporated at the disgusting display, and she waved the air in front of her a grimace. "Now, I gotta go see a man about a goat."

"That's not the—"

He was gone before she could correct him, and when the door inside fluttered close with a fwap, Parker just settled into her seat with the shake of her head.

"Idiot," she said, stealing a sip of his beer now that he wasn't around to guard it. Colt got like a dog when it came to his food and drinks, and despite him always asking for some of her food, she rarely got the same treatment in return. Thoughtfully, she took another sip, adding, "bastard," just because it felt warranted.

She was almost done her own sandwich when the table shook beneath the buzzing of her phone.

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before...

"Hello?" she mumbles through a mouth full of onion rings, phone tucked into the crevice of her shoulder as she wipes the grease off her fingers.

Only her brother would sniff out the greasiest restaurant on this side of LA for a casual lunch.

"Are you—are you eating?" a judgmental voice asks; as if he can see her slumped at the table, stuffing her face, and sucking down soda like it was nobody's business.

Parker immediately sits up straighter, swallowing the remaining food with a grimace, before lying, "no, of course not. That's rude and gross and, you know, totally not what I'm...."

Subtly, Parker glances around the patio. There's a couple sitting at her left, a family at the table on the far right, but other than that there's not a soul to be seen besides the occasional tourist trying to catch the bus. Certainly no Tom Ryder to be found spying on her from the bushes.

"Er, what's up buttercup?" she says, then immediately cringes at how overly causal that question was. What's up buttercup? she mouths to herself. "You don't—that's—what are you doing?"

The line is quiet for a moment, but she swears she can hear Tom shaking his head at her in the interim. But, when he speaks, he sounds no more scornful than normal. "I just got back from New York. Well, got back this morning, anyways. I just woke up from a nap."

"Oh, right! You were on Fallon last night."

"You watched it?" he asks, and this time, he does sound smugger than normal. Though, she supposes his usual levels of smugness was already more than the normal person. Tom Ryder really did love to brag about himself; even more, he loved when other people bragged about him.

"Don't be ridiculous," she tuts, shaking the ice in her drink as she sips it. She tries her hand at scornful as well, but it comes across teasing and light. "Even I draw the line at late night television. Melissa was talking about it this morning."

"Oh?" he hums. "And what'd she think?"

"That you looked even dreamier than usual. And then something about barking, but, honestly, I was a little too afraid to ask what that meant so do with that what you will. Was it fun?"

"I guess. Fallon isn' t so bad. The time difference is killer, though."

She hums, not having any idea what it would be like to travel back and forth across the country multiple times in a few days, but imagining that it likely did suck. "Kudos to you for being awake at all. I think I would have just slept all day, and then been awake all night, and then the cycle would continue until I died from caffeine overdose."

He laughed, and Parker chewed on her straw to keep a stupid smile from splitting across her face. "Maybe that's a reason why you're not famous."

"Right. The only reason I'm not famous," she teased, and when he snorted, she didn't bother to hide her grin. It's a good thing she wasn't at home or she might be lying on her bed, twirling some hair, and kicking her feet in the air like a lovesick idiot.

Speaking of idiots—she glanced towards the door and sighed in relief when her brother was still nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't be long, now, as he had a habit for bad timing.

Knowing this, she asked, "listen, could I call you back later? I'm out with Colt right now and I swear to god he's like a baby when I'm not paying attention to him. Unless you want to be put on speakerphone, that is."

Tom scoffed. "You ever consider getting him a babysitter?"

"He's not up to date on his vaccinations," she joked with a dramatic sigh. "And the kennel stopped taking him after he bit that other dog."

Tom laughed again, and it felt like a victory. Especially since he had called her, and here she was asking to call back later. The guilt didn't have any time to fester, however, before he was moving on. "Well, listen, I thought maybe since I was back in town that we could, er, get dinner. Have dinner, I mean, at my place."

"Oh," she said, so thrown off by the offer that she didn't really know what else to say. She quite literally hadn't stopped thinking about getting lunch with Tom on set a few weeks back; it had been so nice, so fun, to just hang out with him—no Gail, no Colt, no drunken executives or paintball warfare to distract them—just him that she had already planned on accompanying Colt onto set as often as she could manage in hopes of doing it again. She hoped the fact that he was offering meant he enjoyed it too. "Oh! Yeah, sure! That sounds great."

"Great," he echoed. "My place? After you get off work?"

"Sure," she said, nodding a bit too enthusiastically given the fact that he couldn't see her through the phone. Her thoughts drifted to work, and immediately she wondered if she could close early or talk Melissa into pulling a double. "Do you want me to bring some more books? I know you already got the role and everything, but I could bring some more recommendations for you to talk about tonight. Or you could just explain to me the plot of the movie because I'm honestly so confused about it already. Actually, I think I still have some napkins in my purse..."

She shifted through said purse, rattling through a mess of tampons, coins, bobby pins, receipts, and collection of rocks that she thought looked cute but never knew what to do with as Tom cleared his throat across the line.

"You don't need to—" he started, before sighing. As if he there was a bigger picture here that she wasn't quite seeing. Parker, too enthralled in why she had four different buttons in her purse didn't even notice. "I'll just see you later?"

"I'll text you when I get off work."

"Alright," he said. "It's a date."

And then, before Parker could question whether that was just a colloquial saying he used from time to time, a joke, or the reality of what this whole thing was going to be, Tom hung up.

She stared at the buttons in her hand, dial tone buzzing in her ear.

In perfect timing, her brother flopped into the seat across from her, and snatched a onion ring off of her plate. He swept his gaze from her plate to her phone to the buttons in her hand.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Er," she said, wondering the very same thing, before slowly dropping said phone and buttons back into her purse. "Nothing. Just... nothing."

Colt took that in, thought it through, and then pointed to her plate.

"So, uh, are you going to finish that?"

---

Parker doesn't get to give the date versus dinner conundrum much more thought over the next couple of hours due to a constant flow of customers, deliveries, and teenagers. She thinks the sudden business might be penance for taking a long lunch with her brother, made even longer when he insisted on hunting down some iced coffee after their meal, and when she does make it back to the shop Melissa is so relieved that she practically melts on her feet.

And though the teenager does agree to stick around for a double shift, Parker finds that she's too occupied to sneak out early anyway, and by the time she gets a moment to catch her breath she's already running late.

There's no time to fix her hair or grab a change of clothes, just as there's no time to do anything about the smell of old, papery books clinging to her besides drive with the windows down at a speed likely to get her a ticket. That, of course, only seems to frazzle her braids even worse than they started the day with, and by the time she's parking in Tom's driveway, she looks likes she's just finished an eighteen hour shift down at the docks.

Please let him have gone blind, she thinks while hastily taking out her braids with paper-cut laden fingers. It's a mess of tangles and knots due to her driving, however, and by the time it's straightened out she's running even more late than she originally was.

Hoping out of her car, Parker doesn't think of anything as she rushes up the steps, knocks a hasty staccato, rocking on her feet with a wayward glance down at her dirty sneakers that certainly don't belong walking on real wood floors.

Please don't throw up, she thinks next, stomach in her throat.

Please—

Any thoughts are silenced when the door swings open, and Tom Ryder is suddenly there.

She's speechless as she takes him in; dark slacks, a white tee, jean jacket with a gold chain that catches in the light, freshly clean sneakers that put her dirty ones to shame. He looks good in the way that he always does; polished and shiny, Hollywood and new, but his hair is airdried and lacking gel, his beard freshly shaved, sleep lines dotting the skin along his cheeks.

He looks good, but he also looks comfortable and soft. Natural, in a way that she's never seen him look before.

"...hi," she says dumbly.

Tom's gaze, having been taking her in the same way that she was taking him in, snaps back up to her face, and with a characteristic eyeroll and huff, he echoes, "hi. You coming in or...?"

"Oh, right."

Parker flushes but enters, and his house seems so different than the last time she was there that she cranes her neck to gander. Without people flush wall to wall she's able to see the character of the house better, taking in the hues of orange and yellow paint, the shiny brown age spots on the wooden floor, taupe pillows and white fuzzy blankets sprawled messily across the couch. ESPN is playing on mute, music drifting from the kitchen, a mess of protein powders and vitamin bottles scattered across the marble island in addition to dirty pans.

A reminder that he's a person as much as a celebrity, and Parker smiles at the thought.

"Where should I put my shoes?" she asks.

He blinks at her, already halfway back to the kitchen. "What? Just wear them."

Parker glances down at the muddy soles of her sneakers knowing just how many questionable places they've walked through, and with nothing more than a glance at the too white couch she bends to untie them. Tom rolls his eyes a second time, and she scoffs in response. "What? I'm not trying to mess up anything here. I can't even imagine what you're cleaning bill must be like."

"You're not going to mess anything up," he says. "And if you do, it doesn't matter. I have maids for that shit. You really think I clean this whole place myself?"

She tsks, imagining how nice that must be. "Ooh-la-la, look at me, I'm Tom Ryder and I have maids and—" she mimics, only to slip on the first step she takes in her socks. "Okay, that's humbling. It's like an ice skating rink in here. What kind of polish do they use? Pine sol on crack?"

"Do you really think I have the answer to that?"

"Something fancy, I bet," she continues, head on a swivel as she ambles closer. Even the ceiling looks free of cobwebs. "You should give your maids a raise. Very nice, Ryder. Very nice. Consider me impressed and a little scared of their ability."

"I'm glad you're impressed," he drones, clearly not caring in the slightest, but she wiggles her eyebrows at him anyways, and Tom bites back a smile. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good," he nods, pulling a wine glass down for her. "I made paella."

"You made it? I change my mind, I'm not hungry at all, " she teases, accepting the glass from him. It's a hefty pour of red wine—not necessarily her favorite—but Parker doesn't doubt it's expensive and some sort of collector's edition so she keeps that to herself. Tom seems so used to just giving people things instead of asking for their preference that she tries not to be too miffed about it.

He shoots her a deadpan look, betrayed only by the amusement in his eyes. "You think I'm going to poison you?"

"No, I think you're going to force feed me some sort of seaweed, or, like, lemon grass salad under the presumption it's good for me."

"Seaweed is good for you."

"For facials, maybe," she rebuts with a sip of wine. It is good, just dry, and Parker takes reminds herself to drink it slowly. Tom doesn't seem all too amused by her teasing, however, and she reminds herself that food seemed to be a touchy subject with him. Still, her stomach is despairingly empty, and she's thankful for the music just so he wouldn't hear it growling. "Just tell me there's some sort of meat and I'll be happy. And not, like, tofu. I don't care what PETA says that stuff tastes like cardboard."

"Are you so poor that you're eating cardboard now? That's disgusting."

"Tom Ryder thinks poor people are disgusting," she echoes with a smile, and she can tell just from the look he shoots her that he's amused. "Who should I sell that to? TMZ or Perez Hilton?"

He shakes his head at her but moves towards the patio, and with nothing else to do, she follows on socked feet. "Hilton is a tool, you'd get more money if you went to TMZ," he said, playing along. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about that. I'm not eating seaweed on a cheat day, and travel days are always cheat days. Plus, it would just be wasted on you."

It's an playful insult, and even if it wasn't it's not one she would care about, and so Parker sips her wine with an indifferent shrug as he continues.

"Anyway, I made paella. The salad is on the side."

"You made—?"

Her scathing retort comes up empty when they step out onto the patio, and Parker is met with a table flush with food. There's a large steel pan of paella in the middle, a heaping of bruschetta on the side, brussels sprouts and green beans in a beautifully printed dish on one side, a large serving of salad on the other. There are placemats, linen napkins, fancy silverware, and a bottle of chilled water in the middle.

Parker stops short.

Tom, already seated, gives her an odd look. "What?"

She knows there's a more tactful way to frame it, but the first and only thing that comes out of her mouth is a rushed question of, "is this actually a date?"

He blinks at her, before pouring himself some more wine. He's calm, collected in his movements, but his shrug is stiff. "It's dinner."

"A dinner date," she corrects.

"It's dinner," he reiterates, glancing back at her before immediately glancing away. Clearing his throat, Tom shifts in his seat to stretch an arm over the back of his chair; a catalogue worthy pose with the dark sky of LA behind him. "It's a date. What difference does it make? Have you never been on a date before or something?" he asks in a tone she can't quite place.

Teasing, but serious. Cocky, but hesitant.

Yet, Parker is too distraught to think about the paradox that is Tom Ryder, and instead throws her hands up. "Okay," she announces. "I'm leaving."

"Wait—what?" he asks, standing with a screech of his chair as Parker turns on her heel. She makes it two steps before turning back again, head feeling like a nest of squirrels as she tries to put her thoughts in order.

"I can't—Tom—honestly! I'll be back in, like, an hour. Maybe. Probably not. Is there an outlet near here? Oh, they'll all be closed. Okay, maybe two hours then. Or maybe we could just reschedule to, like, Monday night so I have time to—"

"Parker, what the fuck are you going on about?" he interrupts her derailed train of thought. It's an innocent question, well-meaning, but honestly the fact that he doesn't know pisses her off.

She gestures at herself with a wild flap of the arms.

"Look at me! Look at you!" Her jeans are ripped and tattered, cut in places where they weren't originally intended, and faded on the butt from years of use; her sweater was found at a yard sale (five dollars, but she haggled for three) and the tank-top beneath was stretched at all the wrong spots. Even her socks—why did she insist on taking off her shoes?—were mismatch shades of orange. "I can't wear this on a date! Our date! A date with you looking like that! I mean you just got back from New York! How do you look so good?"

Tom let out a sharp breath, color returning to his cheeks. "Jesus, Parker, I thought.... you look fine."

She didn't buy that for a second, and crossed her arms at him haughtily. "You're literally always telling me my outfits are awful. I could have, like, gotten a skirt or worn a dress or something, anything, other than this. Jesus! And I forgot to wash my face this morning—"

"Parker," he said again. "I don't give a fuck. I like what you're wearing."

She raised a brow. "Really? This? You like this?" she challenged, arms thrown out so he could get a better look at her ensemble. Tom's gaze flickered down then up again, and his mouth quirked at the side. She stabbed a finger at him. "Ha! See? I knew it. I look like Chucky. Or, the bride of Chucky, or whatever—I never watched those movies. The doll reminded me a little to much of our cousin, and I didn't feel like trying to unpack that."

He clipped his smile, coughing into his hand. "You look nice."

"Don't patronize me."

"Fuck, you're so annoying sometimes."

"I'm leaving."

"Alright, alright. I think the outfit is awful. You look like a scarecrow. But that's how you're always dressed, so you shouldn't change that just for a date. You could throw a stone in Hollywood and hit somebody with no sense of style. At least you dress like that because it's who you are, and not just an attempt at getting attention. There's not many people around here like that, you know; genuine," he said slowly, and although it was an insult, Parker oddly felt better at hearing it. It was less nice and complimentary and more cocky and rude, more like him. And she wouldn't want him to change that for her either. "Now, are you going to be normal? Or, you know, normal for you. I'd like to eat before the paella gets cold."

She shook her head at him with a sour look. Part of her didn't want to give in to the asshole—not when he was mocking her, and certainly not when he was showing her up on a date—but the other part of her didn't want to leave. She wanted to stick around, eat his food, laugh and talk and joke just like they were doing.

In defeat, she slinked back towards the table. Tom made a show of pulling out her chair with a smirk so cocky it could kill. "I'm not going to get salmonella or something from this am I?"

"Colt told me about how you set the kitchen on fire while trying to bake him a birthday cake," he snarked in that self-righteous way of his, sitting himself. "I'd cool it on the shit talking. You're not exactly Gordon Ramsay yourself."

"Oh my god, that was one time and it was an accident!" she cried in her own self-righteous way. He didn't buy her excuse, however, and when Tom laughed at her, she gave up. Huffing, Parker waved a hand at him impatiently. "Whatever. Just pass me the paella already. I'm starving."

---

Dinner has long since gone cold as they talked, carried inside and stuffed unceremoniously into the fridge upon Parker's worries that the food might spoil. Tom hadn't been all that concerned about it, and she suspected he likely wasn't. She doubted that he had to worry about any sort of household chores living in a place like this, but he had worked too hard on cooking it, and she was too poor to ignore it, and so under her pestering everything had been moved inside when they did. Their first bottle of wine is long forgotten as two more sit on the table between them. There's a few waters there as well; both half-drank, and dripping condensation onto their wooden coasters. They've moved from the outdoor patio to the inside living room—the couch a much more comfortable alternative, though with an arguably worse view of the twinkling LA landscape—and Tom's jacket has been shed along with his sneakers as they volley questions at one another.

Parker's enjoying the activity a little too much; carefully prying into the life that belongs to Tom Ryder, and it seems that Tom, rosy-cheeked and smiling more than she's ever seen before, is in too good of a mood to mind.

He's answered more questions about himself tonight than she thinks he ever has on any of his talk shows, and she's told more stories about her and Colt getting into trouble than is probably appropriate for a date. But neither mind the other, and as the night just gets darker around them, they've yet to get bored.

And they've discussed quite a lot of topics.

"What would it take, then, for you to shave your head for a role?" Parker muses at one point in the night with deviously arched brows. Her head is just starting to feel heavy, a sign that she's teetering past tipsy, and she makes sure not to rush the latest pour of wine he's given her as she swirls it around the glass with careless movements. "Like, you get the role of a lifetime, maybe—oh, maybe a Nicholas Sparks movie, gut-wrenching love story, that type of thing—but your character has to shave his head."

"Shave my head?" he asks, his own head heavy and propped on a crooked elbow as he thinks. "No bald cap, I'd have to shave it."

"Completely."

His head tilts left, then right, before he shakes it. "No way."

"Seriously? Not for a really good role?"

"No. A wig? Sure. Bald cap? Fine, I've done worse for roles. But there's no way in hell I'm shaving my head," he says with a laugh and a shrug. "There's just no way."

"Not even a little? Just a bit. It'll grow back."

"No fucking way! Do you know how many gigs I get just for my hair? I'd have to give up my campaign with Old Spice. I love them."

"You love Old Spice? Seriously?" she echoed, nose scrunching in disbelief, but he either hasn't heard her tone or is ignoring her judgment, and Tom takes another sip of his wine with a confident shake of the head.

"No way, not happening. My hair is everything, you know. Tom Ryder without hair is... that's ridiculous."

Parker tilts her head, squinting one eye as she tries to imagine him bald. But it's too difficult to do, which brings her to the startling realization that he's right. His hair, gorgeous no matter the color, is part of him. It'd be like seeing Taylor Swift without her red lipstick or Dwayne Johnson without his tattoos. One doesn't go without the other. Still, the idea is funny, so she pesters, "what if it was a Spielberg movie?"

That has him pausing, but only for a moment. When he shakes his head, she can't help but laugh at his dedication. "Still not worth."

"That's—Spielberg isn't worth it?" she cries. Parker doesn't pretend to know a lot about the movie industry, but even she knew which directors were worth something and which weren't. Only Tom Ryder would refuse a chance at making history for the sake of his vanity. "You're crazy."

"It's my brand," he sniffed with a laugh of his own. "It'd be bad marketing to just shave it all off. I'm not just an actor, you know. I'm also a businessman."

She's sure that's true, but Parker doesn't care for the argument, and so she thinks hard for a moment. Snapping her fingers, she tries again. "Okay, what about Tarantino? Pulp Fiction is your favorite—you said that yourself."

He made a face. "Well, yeah, it's my favorite..."

"So...?"

He glanced at her, before a hand snaked up to his head to softly rake through his hair, as if testing the worth of it. He did that a lot, a nervous tick she had noticed, and as they sat together it was messier than she'd ever seen it before; slept on, air-dried, with no gel to perfectly coif the blonde tufts. And yet, she wished he wore it like that more often. "I mean... nah. Still couldn't do it."

His answer didn't surprise her in the least, but it was still so ridiculous, that she tipped her head back to laugh at it, cheeks splitting open for the grin that came. "You're crazy. Actually psychotic, Tom. You wouldn't work with your favorite director if you had to sacrifice your hair."

"I like my hair."

"I do too, but, come on! Tarantino?"

"It's not easy to have nice hair. I've worked on it for years to get it how I like it," he said, and then as if he she was suddenly a suspect, Tom narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. "Do you not like me hair or something?"

Another absolutely ridiculous thing for him to say, and if Parker wasn't aware of how deep his insecurities ran, she would have mocked him. Instead, she gave him a patronizing smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Of course I like your hair."

"Then why are you trying to get me to chop it off?"

"Just trying to see what your limit is," she defended with her palms held up, as if she really was a suspect. He didn't buy it for a moment, but he gave up easily. Parker rolled her eyes at him. "Big baby. I'. just trying to figure out what is crossing the line in Hollywood. You get paid for acting gigs, so where's the line at what you will and won't do for a lot of money if it's required for a role?"

"Easy," he shrugged. "The line exists as shaving my head."

She blew a raspberry at him. "I'm serious!"

"So am I!"

"Well, what if—ha! okay—what if you got to work with Tarantino and made, like, a million dollars."

He blinked at her. "You think a million dollars is a lot?" he deadpanned.

Parker waved her hand at him flippantly, dismissing that comment with a disgruntled eyeroll as she adjusted on the couch. They had started with a full cushion in between them, but over the night, they had both been moving towards one another without meaning to—stars in orbit—and as she pulled her legs up underneath her, Parker's knee pressed against his.

But he didn't mind like she worried he might, and when he stretched an arm over the couch back behind her, Parker continued.

"Alright, thirty million dollars. You would do it for thirty million, wouldn't you? Rich or not rich, thirty million dollars is a lot of money."

His brow lifted higher, and she hesitated.

"...right?"

He laughed at her, bending forward to pour more wine into his glass as she smacked him on the shoulder. "Seriously? Yes, that's a lot of money. I'm not that rich."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Money Bags. So? Would you?"

He hummed, popping the cork off the bottle to pour out the rest of it. She waited impatiently as Tom then took a long swallow of the fresh pour, really dragging it out.

"Tom!" she whined.

"Okay, yes. If I got to work on a movie with Tarantino and got thirty million dollars, yes, I would shave my head," he finally admitted, looking both pleased at her irritation and troubled by the concept. He sat back while lifting a hand to run through his hair. She watched him tug on a few strands as if reminding himself it existed and when he caught her watching, Parker swung a hand up to hide her smile. Rolling his eyes, he tacked on, "but... it'd have to be a really good role. A starring role. You know? Not just some side character, something that is actually worth it."

"Worth more than thirty million dollars?"

"A lot more."

"You really love your hair," she said, then, as if only to be obnoxious, gave a mock gasp as she clutched a hand to her imaginary pearls. Tom spared her a look as if he knew what was about to come, but was amused by it nonetheless. "Oh my god, your hair is your superpower, isn't it? That's where you get all the swagger and rizz from."

"Rizz? You're spending too much time with Melissa," he commented blithely.

But Parker was on a run, and she wasn't about to let his sour commentary stop her, and so she continued with an air of dramatics that Hollywood would appreciate. "All this time I assumed you were a Bruce Wayne—you know, rich, sad, rich—"

"You said rich twice."

"—rude, egotistical, awful with women—"

He sat up. "Hang on a minute, awful with women?" he echoed in bewilderment, but Parker just continued as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"—the type of hero who gets his superpowers just from being, you know, insanely rich. But, really, all this time you've been like Superman. Good looking, obsessed with wearing glasses that you don't actually need, but with a real superpower. Your hair is totally your kryptonite, isn't it?"

She finally glanced at Tom, only to find him shooting her an unimpressed look. "That doesn't make any sense."

"What? Sure it does. It's what makes you so... you know, Tom Ryder."

"Are you saying my hair is the source of my power or my greatest weakness? Because kryptonite is his weakness. You know, the one thing that can kill him," he said as if it was obvious.

"Well—alright, your Achilles' heel or whatever," she threw her hands up with a huff. Of all the times that he didn't know what she was talking about, of course he would be a closeted comic book geek. "I bet if I cut it off, you would just fall over and die."

Tom rolled his eyes, setting his glass down on the table. "Do I need to hide my scissors?" he asked.

"Scared?"

"Of you? Well, yeah, I'm starting to be."

Parker laughed at his deadpan tone, and something smug curled his mouth as he laughed as well. She always knew that he was a bit of an attention whore, liking when other people were praising him and following him around like puppies, but the smug look didn't much feel like that. Instead, she was starting to get the distinct impression that Tom liked making her laugh in the same way she liked making him laugh.

Proud to be able to do it at all.

Parker bit her lip knowing that her face was flushing a deep red, both from his attention and from his jokes, and she took a moment to set aside her wine glass. The last thing she needed to do was spill some red wine on his expensive white couch, and knowing her history of spilling things that shouldn't be spilled, it was a miracle that she hadn't already done some damage.

"Do you want some more?" he asked, mistaking her reasons.

"No, I shouldn't. I still need to drive home," she said. Then, she glanced at the couch with a worried gnaw of her lip. "Besides, you may not care about this couch, but I do, and red wine is just a disaster waiting to happen."

"It's had worse."

"Oh, I'm sure, but not by me."

"You don't have to worry so much about that," Tom told her with a shrug and a gesture around them. "It's just a couch and you already know that I have maids."

"Well, yeah," she hedged. "But... it's still your stuff, and it's nice stuff, and I'm not trying to ruin it just because you can afford to replace it. Maids or not. What kind of logic is that?"

He shrugged again, utterly unconcerned. "This is, like, my third couch this year."

"What?"

"I have people over a lot," he explained as he ran a hand over the smooth material himself. "Shit happens when you're drinking. If it gets fucked up, I just get a new one."

She frowned. "Yeah, but, still... Accidents happen but I'd be furious if my friends ruined three of my couches in a year. That's just... Do you really not care when people wreck your house?"

Tom glanced at said house for a moment, gaze sweeping over the lavish furniture and expensive decorations before returning to her. He looked so innocent as he just said, "it's just stuff. Freddy and my boys are constantly fucking something up. You know how it is when I throw a party; people get drunk. I have an interior designer on speed dial to replace whatever gets ruined. You should have seen this place after my birthday last year."

"Yeah, but..."

"It's just stuff," he reiterated.

And that much was true. It was just stuff.

In one way, that was a good viewpoint of life. Things were just things, and they could easily be replaced. But as Parker sat there on the couch, feeling how comfortable and soft it was, examining the wooden pegs and beautiful details, she couldn't help but feel offended on his behalf. Things were just things, sure, but she would never go over to someone's house and not care about whether or not she ruined their things. Money or not, that was just shitty behavior.

Certainly not the behavior shared between friends. The idea that he would invite people over—friends, supposedly—that would trash his stuff without caring at all was so off baffling that she could only blink.

"I guess," she said after a moment.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Tom nudged her with his elbow, and when she blinked up at him, he was wearing a troublesome smirk. "Besides, women like my stuff."

Parker felt blood rush her face that didn't have anything to do with the wine, and his smirk widened at seeing it. She couldn't let him off that easily, however, and so she feigned disinterest. "Oh, really? They like this stuff? Hm."

"Oh, come on, it's nice. Just admit it."

"Well, I suppose the couch is okay."

He huffed, shaking his head at her. "Yeah, sure, okay. This couch was featured in Vanity Fair."

She stuck her nose up. "Oh? I don't read Vanity Fair, so I'll have to take your word on it," she continued to dig in, satisfied with the way his smirk twitched at the edges by her goading. "But I guess that's supposed to be a big deal, yeah? Not too bad, I guess."

"Not too bad?" he echoed incredulously, his earlier smugness gone, replaced by incredulity. It never ceased to amaze Parker how easy it was to push his buttons. "Come off it. It's a good couch. George Clooney has the same one in his house in Lake Como."

She poked a cushion, pinched the material between her fingers. "Hm. I would have thought he would get something... I don't know, classier."

"Classier?" he deadpanned.

"Like real leather. Or, oh, you know I read on Buzzfeed that some really rich people don't even have couches nowadays. They just stand all the time, and if they really need to sit, they have super big beanbags. Like, giant. Heard they're all the rage."

He huffed. "Fuck off."

"I mean, I'm not sure if they're in Vanity, they're kind of underground, you know," she continued, getting far too much enjoyment out of teasing Tom. He didn't seem all that amused from where he sat next to her, and she leaned closer to pinch the material of his shirt next. "And this? I mean... Tom. Seriously, I don't want to step on your stylists' toes or anything, but a white tee? Are you Kevin Bacon?"

His eyes grew wide as he swatted away her hand. "This is Armani!"

"Are you sure? Fake brands are a thing, you know. You have to check the stitching, the material, the tags. All of that. It's easy to get it wrong nowadays."

"Parker—"

"It's a whole scam. You might not be able to tell, but I have a great eye for detail. Plus, I've been getting scammed my entire life—I mean, the pink tax? What even is that?—so I'm pretty familiar with the concept."

"It's not—I'm not being scammed!" he exclaimed, swatting her other hand away as it tugged on the back of his shirt. He was fully scowling. Clearly, not pleased with her joking, and as she exploded in laughter, he lifted a brow at her crossly. "You think you're funny?"

She poked her teeth with her tongue, giggling. "I think I'm hilarious."

Tom hummed, eyes jumping over every inch of her face, and the moment his mouth curved into a devious smirk, Parker knew that he was up to something.

"Tom—"

She wasn't quick enough to get away, and all it took was for Tom to wrap an arm around her waist before she was being bodily hauled towards him as though she weighed nothing. She shrieked—never having been one for manhandling in all the years Colt forced it upon her—but despite trying to get away from him, she found herself sitting across his lap, an arm barred across her back to prevent her from going anywhere.

The same hand that was previously poking fun at the quality of his clothes was now firmly fisted into the soft material of his shirt.

"You're going to judge my clothes when you're wearing this?" he asked while pinching her sweater with his free hand. On the back patio, it hadn't seemed so out of place, but now that they were inside, surrounded by expensive bottles of wine and his collection of movie props in glass cases along the wall, it was impossible to ignore. "It's awful, Parker."

She swallowed, trying not to seem too flustered by the abrupt decrease in distance. "I got it at a yard sale."

"You should have put it out of its misery."

"Hey!" she cried, a soft punch into the hard muscle of his shoulder. He didn't seem all that surprised, and his smile crooked further as his palm spread wide against her back. "I like this sweater, jerk. It has character."

"That's what they say about ugly things in vintage stores."

She narrowed her eyes, only a hair's breadth away from him now, but refusing to let him win this argument just because he was looking at her like that, holding her, mouth coiled into a damning smile as if he could feel the way her heart was beating faster. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean it shouldn't be loved."

He huffed. "No one actually believes that."

"Well, I do," she corrected him. "And I've had this sweater for five years, and I just so happen to love it."

"You've had the same sweater for five years?"

That's what surprised him? "Of course I have," she blinked, thrown by his surprise. "I can't afford to buy a new one every time I want to. I just... you know, take care of my stuff. Ugly or not. I mean, every once in a while I accidentally shrink something in the wash, but I do my best to make stuff last. Are you going to judge me for that too?"

It was a joke, but Parker didn't need an answer. She could tell just from the soft look in his eyes that he wasn't judging her. Just... looking at her.

The kitchen lights were off, the balcony ones too, and the only light in the room came from the fireplace and the small chandelier over the stairs. It cast glittering lights around them, highlighting everything that shined in the room—glass, picture frames, awards, props, and screens—yet somehow Parker swore that he shone brighter than all those other things; as if he was made to be in the spotlight.

At this distance, she could make out the miscolored flecks in his eyes; not just blue but golden and brown and hints of green that were always absent in his airbrushed ads. She could just make out the tired rings beneath his eyes, the crease of his mouth, the tiny curve of his nose, the wayward tufts of hair that he'd mussed wrong at one point in the night.

All a sign that he was human, he was no different than her.

Not really, anyways. Not in a way that mattered.

He blinked at her, and though Parker would never know for sure, there was something in the depth of his features that made her think he was realizing the exact same thing. And as the thought passed between them, their movements synched, and as she leaned up, he leaned down.

This kiss wasn't like the first one; that one had been hard, knocking the air out of her lungs and the thoughts from her brain in a single fell swoop. It had felt rushed; brought on by a moment of excitement and laughter, but lingering in sloppy kisses as if they were teenagers given only a moment of privacy before they would be found out by the English teacher. An absurd thought, that wasn't actually so absurd when the sound of laughter or chatter would drift up to their little patio from the party happening down below. Maybe that's exactly what they had been, just two kids pretending the rest of the world didn't exist, kissing like there wouldn't be another chance.

But this?

This one started slow. Just the gentleness of his lips on hers, the feeling of his hands slowly tugging her to his chest until there was no room left between them. It was hesitant in how her hand skated up his chest, his shoulders, and into his hair. Featherlight, as if afraid to touch, before becoming more confident. His mouth tasted like wine and rhubarb as she kissed him, the smokey flavor of a stolen cigarette chased by the berry-sweet flavor of her chapstick as he chased the delicate curve of her mouth.

Hesitant became familiar as the kiss evolved, nervous became excited as they realized they weren't going to be interrupted or chased away. The kiss turned harder as he shifted their bodies on the couch, pillows knocked to the floor as they became a jumble of laughter, and just as her skin had started to feel like it was on fire, hands nothing but a jumbled mess of firing neurons as they skated around the back of his neck, catching on his gold chain, before a gentle tug on his locks as all thoughts ceased to make sense—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get home before the...

Thoughts came back, and the pair froze with matching looks of horror.

Tom blinked at her with wide blown eyes. "Is that your phone?"

Parker glanced over her shoulder finding said phone face up on the table, vibrating a steady rhythm on his glass table as the song played aloud for them to hear.

Of course it was her brother's fucking face flashing across the screen.

"...I'm actually going to kill him this time."

"Colt?"

"Colt," she repeated irritably. Tom blinked at the ceiling as Parker glared at the phone, willing it to stop entirely, but neither wanting to move in fear of shattering the moment entirely. "It'll stop eventually," she said awkwardly.

What if I'm late? Gotta big date...

"What the fuck is your ringtone?" he asked, breath tickling her skin.

Parker flushed for more reasons than one, and cleared her throat. "Harry Nilsson," she said, but that didn't seem like an adequate answer, and as the stanzas continued, she added with a nervous chuckle, "uh, it's from a Netlix show. It's not the theme song, but there's a scene where Nadia—er, the main character—she keeps dying, you know—like an endless loop sort of thing—and this is always the song that's playing when—oh, it stopped."

They blinked at the phone screen, and together the pair let out the breath they had been holding when it finally went black.

Parker turned back to Tom, somehow more nervous than she had been before. "So—"

He kissed her before she could ramble, a good thing for them both considering just how much she could ramble, and as if they hadn't stopped at all, her entire body melted back into goo beneath his touch. It wasn't hard to pick up where they had left off, not when he held her so close, when his chest was burning hot as she skated across it with timid hands, when his owns hands skimmed beneath her sweater to leave tingling trails down her spine, or when he ducked closer, sealing away any last inch of—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before the morning...

She winced, and Tom glared at the phone so sharply she thought it might shatter. Too cowardly to look herself, she let her head fall against his chest as she asked, "is it...?"

"Colt? Yeah."

She groaned.

"Can't you just turn the fucking thing off?" he asked, and though it was a logical next step, the thought of what if had her hesitating. He noticed immediately. "What?"

"Well, I am his emergency contact." That logic didn't seem to matter to Tom at all, and Parker let out a great huff as she stretched for the phone. "He could be, like, dead or something! What kind of emergency contact would I be if I didn't pick up?"

The hand that had been under her sweater fell against her thigh with a thud. "If he's already dead, then there's nothing you can do about it," he snarked.

"Dying, then," she corrected tartly. When that didn't earn her any compassion, she tried puppy dog eyes. "Just thirty seconds."

Tom flopped against the cushion behind him with a sour look, and she rolled her eyes at his petulance. "Honestly, I can only handle one child at a time," she muttered, much to his annoyance, but he wisely didn't respond as she lifted the phone to her ear, hitting the green talk button. "Hello? This is Parker."

"What—of course it's Parker. Who else would it be?" Colt said, and the fact that it was Colt and not some hospital administrator had Parker relaxing.

Just as quickly she tensed in annoyance when she realized that this was very likely not an emergency. "Colt, is, uh, something wrong?"

"Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"

"Because... you just called me twice in a row. That's, like, something is wrong textbook 101."

"Oh," he said as if that had never occurred to him. And considering the fact that she had never had to call him in the middle of the night for a medical emergency was probably to blame for his ignorance to the situation. "Well, no, nothing's wrong. What are you doing?"

"Er, just, you know," Parker hedged, glancing anywhere but at Tom. "Just... hanging out. Drinking some wine."

"Nice. You want to go to the movies?"

Parker's eyes rounded. "W—what?"

"The movies! I feel like it has been forever since we went to the movies, just the two of us. You know, for something that wasn't a premiere, anyway, and I still haven't seen the new Alex Garland movie, so I figured we could go together."

Parker, baffled, grabbed Tom's wrist and twisted it until she could read the very expensive Rolex sitting on his wrist. He looked perturbed by her manhandling of him, but Parker didn't even notice as she huffed, "it's—it's late! What movie theater is even still open right now?"

"The one on Beumont Ave. I'll swing by your place, and we'll be just in time for—"

"No!" she said, louder and more forcefully than necessary. The line went silent as she blinked, and as Tom arched his brows at her, Parker waved her free hand around in the air in a vague gesture that he clearly wasn't able to interpret. When he opened his mouth to make what likely would have been a scathing comment about her ability to stay calm under pressure, she clapped the hand over his mouth instead. "I, uh, can't. Not tonight. Sorry. I actually have to, uh... I just can't."

"What? You just said you weren't doing anything."

"Well, technically, I'm not doing anything."

"Then, what's the problem? I'm like fifteen minutes away from your place. Just wear sweats, or whatever."

"Colt—"

"Jody can't make it, though, so it'll just be us."

"Colt—"

"That's cool, though, you know, I don't have to do everything with Jody. We used to hit the movies all the time, just the two of us, before, and I already bought some gummies from the gas station, so make sure you bring a purse so we can sneak them in. I'm definitely feeling popcorn. Maybe some—"

"Colt, I'm not going to the movies with you!" she blurted out, and the second she did so, Parker's shoulder sank in disbelief at her tactlessness. But—to be fair—she was a little overwhelmed in the moment, tipsy on expensive wine, with Tom Ryder staring up at her like that. Not to mention the fact that the moment he kissed her, her brain elected to take the rest of the night off. As if he knew he was the problem, his mouth curved into a wolfish grin. She shot him a glare. "Don't even start with me."

That caught her brother's attention.

"Are you—are you with someone?"

Tom rolled his eyes at the question, clearly put up with Colt's needling, and he tried to grab the phone from her. But Parker was quicker than he was, and in a better position to evade, and so she stretched onto her knees as high as she could as his hand tangled in her hair. "I'm, stop that! I mean, technically, yes."

"Well—what the hell, Park? Who are you with?"

"...that's none of your business," she said whilst swatting Tom in the chest when he tried to make another grab for the phone.

"Just hang up already!" he hissed at her.

"I will! I am! Just—give me a second!" she hissed back, as her brother's voice droned across the line. "I really can't talk right now, Colt."

"Oh. Oh. Sure, of course you can't, since you're all so busy having secrets now apparently. I mean, I thought we shared all our business with one another, but fine. Be that way," he groused, clearly hurt by her evasion, and as Parker twisted out of Tom's reach once more she prayed for a meteorite to come crashing through his ceiling. "But, just for the record, when I go on dates, I tell you about them."

"Yes, and I've told you before that I really wish you didn't do that."

He huffed, then huffed again. "Well, sorry."

"Can I just call you back tomorrow?"

Another huff, then a scoff. "Sure. Fine, Parker. Whatever."

"Colt—"

"No, no, it's fine! Go have your date, have fun or whatever. I mean, I go on plenty of dates that I don't tell you about, too. So, yeah, I guess we both do have secrets."

"Colt—"

"Just, you know, don't do anything you don't want to do and if he asks—"

"Oh my god!" she shrieked, misery at an all time high. "I'm hanging up now!"

"But—!"

The dial tone echoed in the empty room around the pair, and only when Parker felt like the humiliation of it all had faded enough for her to operate normally again did she dare a peak towards Tom.

"Did he just totally kill the—?"

"Yup," Tom said. "Killed it, stomped it out, and threw it in the river. I hate your fucking brother."

"Yeah," she groaned, letting her head tip all the way to the side until she was flopping off of his lap and onto the empty cushion. She brushed some hair out of her face with a grimace. Tom didn't look much better, and she watched him sink deeper into the couch with a miserable frown of his own.

Silence sat between them, thick and suffocating.

He fiddled with his watch as she counted seconds in her head, and when she got to thirty, Parker gave up entirely. "Do you... want to watch some tv?" she asked.

Tom looked surprised by the suggestion, and his gaze flickered over Parker; as if assessing how serious she was. "You don't want to leave?"

"Why would I leave?"

He didn't answer that, and his refusal to say anything was answer enough. Parker considered the course of events this evening; the food, the wine, the flirting before moving onto the couch, the kissing...

She suspected this was usually how dates went for him, just like she had a strong suspicion that his dates probably treated him in the same way his friends treated his things; without respect, and with a single purpose in mind. But she saw more in Tom than a single purpose, and so the thought of leaving hadn't even crossed her mind. Clearly, though, that wasn't a reaction he was expecting, and she fiddled with her hair timidly.

"Do you... want me to leave? Because, I was thinking I'd hang around a little longer."

Something flickered across his features as he stared at her, and as if he hadn't even thought he had a say in the matter, when Tom relaxed into the couch, he had a small smile curling his lips. "Do you watch House of the Dragon? I'm a couple weeks behind."

"I watched Game of Thrones, but haven't seen any of it yet."

"Want to watch it now?"

"You don't have to start over," she said, watching the little box drift back to episode 1 with each click of the remote. "Just tell me who is fucking who, and I'm sure I'll catch up."

But Tom wasn't having that excuse, and as he gathered up some pillows and a blanket, he tutted at her. "May as well just rewatch it. I've missed half of this season, anyway, so it won't hurt to go back and refresh a little."

"You don't mind?"

He tsk-ed, rolling his eyes in that judgmental way that he did—as if he couldn't believe she would ask something so stupid—and for some unbeknown reason to her, Parker didn't mind one bit. He wasn't acting like she was stupid, just the idea that he wouldn't want to do something as simple as rewatch a tv show for her was. And when he lifted an arm with an expectant look allowing her to snuggle against the warm plane of his side and wrap her legs with his, Parker accepted that maybe it was a stupid question.

After all, she's starting to think that there's very little she wouldn't do for Tom.

It was nice to know that he might feel the same about her.

And when she woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming in through the windows, wrapped up in Tom, surrounded in every way by his essence, to find the celebrity A-lister drooling on his white Armani shirt...

Well, Parker couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Superman was a little more human than people realized.

[toxicanonymity]

Hiii how’s Ezra and his menace of a reader?? I hope he’s still fraught with guilt bc damn that’s hot

No pressure to write or whatever I just think about them half the day (the other half is for nw)

Ezra drabble 3

700, Ezra x f!reader

Last one: Ezra pt. 2, you baited/tricked him into somnophiling you

WARNINGS: I8+ AU where you can be briefly exposed outside. Degradation. Manhandling. Outdoors. Dubcon P in V. References to somnophilia. I feel like you or an anon asked what would happen if he found out but I can't find the msg sry. Unedited!

Ezra’s quiet the next day. You let him sweat it out for hours, making comments about how you’re tired, sore, asking him if anything happened. The tortured look on his face makes you tingle. He wants to confess. You can’t believe he fell for it, after all your involvement and encouragement during . . .the act. He really thinks you were talking in your sleep.

Finally, you put him out of his misery and degrade him about it. You're standing in the shade of a mossy tree when you chide, “So, Ez. . ." You lower your brow and cock your head at him. He swallows and looks at you with big eyes, and you ask, "Are you man enough to give it to me when I'm awake?"

His face changes as he grabs the fabric of your jumpsuit by the chest and shoves you up against the tree. You add, “or is the sleep what gets you off—ohhh shit, ohhhh”

He tightens his grip on your jumpsuit and slams you back against the tree. “I fear I thought too much of you, little bird. You're nothing but a common pigeon.” His nostrils flare. “And all your cooing is growing tiresome.” His eyes darken with the intent to intimidate, but you see his animal lust through the gaping black holes of his pupils. He’s right up against you. You reach down to grab his crotch. His cock is warm and semi-hard. You tingle and your panties moisten, already wet from torturing him.

You press your palm into his arousal between each word: "you. . .absolute. . .creep." He glares at you as he swells harder against your palm and you cradle your fingers around the growing bulge.

His jaw clenches, he snarls, and he shakes his head in anger. He releases the front of your jumpsuit only to forcibly remove your helmet, then unzip your suit and feverishly tears it down along with your underwear as you smirk in satisfaction. He takes off his helmet, too. He leaves it all at your feet then turns you around and shoves you chest first against the tree, the moss cushioning the harsh bark on only one side of your body. He’s pinning you there with an elbow as he unzips himself.

He presses his exposed mouth up against the nape of your neck and his breath is humid in your hair. “How sad to beg me like the filthiest fowl for a scrap of cock,” he bites as he frees his stiff manhood from his underwear. He presses his body all the way up against yours. He knees your legs apart, his jumpsuit still on, just unzipped, in contrast to yours pooled fully at your feet. Without his helmet on, you can hear every little sound he makes. He grunts as he lines himself up and as soon as he’s notched at your entrance he stuffs himself inside you with a weak groan. As your body adjusts, he pulls back his cock and says “Take your scrap, little bird.” Then he shoves the whole length into you and says, “No, take it all,” then bottoms out with a grunt. He rails you mercilessly against the tree, breathing heavily, moaning like it pains him every time he buries his stiff cock in your tight little hole.

"I suspect you would take anything," he pants. "Anywhere." He thrusts into you harder. Every word, Every moan, brings you closer until you're whimpering. "Oh Lord," Ezra breathes. "Look at you," he exhales an ill humored laugh. "Already fallin' apart between me and this bark." He braces his hand on the tree as he fucks you harder, sweating, stinking up the air.

He brings his mouth to your ear and shudders with a deep thrust. His next breath sends you over the edge. You whine as you cum on his cock. "Ezra," you moan, "god," you pant, "what the hell." You flutter around him, getting exactly what you wanted.

He slams his cock into you harder than ever and rasps, "now you'll take this seed, pigeon," plunges to the hilt again and erupts with a groan. He moans and whimpers and slowly thrusts as he empties his load into you.

As you catch your breath, you say, "you fucking creep."

-------

thank you for reading 🙏

Ezra Tags: @littlegreendove @sp00kymulderr @bearsbeetsbeskar @ezras--moon @kyloispunk

[gojo-mochi]

🍬 for Kaku from One piece please? If you aren't comfortable writing for him then Law is fine as well and by all means NSFW it up uwu

Hello! Happy Halloweenie! This is my first Kaku writing! Hope he's to your liking!~

“Kuku~!” You jumped up on the back of your boyfriend, wrapping your arms around his neck and legs around his waist. His own arms quickly went back to grab hold of your ass, for safety, of course. “Well Hello there, little fawn. Already hyped up on candy are we?” He lightly teased out, squeezing your ass a bit as he talked. You swat at his shoulder in retort. “Not my fault that Kalifa brought so much, and beside Blueno stole way more than I did.” You squeezed in closer to Kaku, nuzzling in the crook of his neck, his warmth spreading throughout your body in the chilly night air. 

Kaku had a small mission he left to go on during the morning, now that he was back and by your side. You weren’t letting him go, Kaku smiled at your clinginess, enjoying your presence. “Did you leave enough candies for the rest of us? Or should we go trick or treating ourselves to get some more?” He tilted his head over just a bit to look at your face, planting a small kiss on the swell of your cheek. “I think we can throw together a costume last minute. Or we could you could wear that Zookeeper outfit and I’ll go out in my Giraffe form~” 

A heat started rising from your core and onto your face, you pulled at Kaku’s earlobe. “I don’t think I should wear those out in public… considering what we did the last time I wore them.” Kaku looked back at you once more, giving you a wide toothy grin; “That’s exactly why I want to see you in it again, little fawn~” The blush on your face spread down even further on your body, lighting up your ears as you whined softly to Kaku. “Can you not say that in public, what if Lucci listening in again?” 

You groan, as you remembered the last time Lucci walked in on you and Kaku “doing business” together. You couldn't even look at Hattori in the eyes for weeks after that. “Besides, I grabbed enough candies for the both of us. I even have a special treat for you~ But I’ll only show you when we’re alone.” That lit a fire under Kaku’s feet, as he started sprinting, his long legs galloping him to a secluded dark alleyway. Placing you down on your feet, and towering over you as he pushes you back against the cold brick walls.

“We’re alone now~ Do I get my treat now? Or do I have to trick you to get it?” HIs eyes glinted with a devious emotion, his hands placed on either side of you to prevent an escape. You look around for any signs of a white pigeon or anyone nearby that could be walking by. Spotting nothing, with your heart thumping wildly in your chest, you pressed on forward. Batting your eyelashes up at Kaku, your hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, slowly bringing it up under Kaku’s sharp gaze. The autumn’s air whipped at your skin, sending shockwaves of goosebumps on it but Kaku’s hands gripping on your bare hips was enough to make you feel like you were melting. 

You bring your shirt up all the way, bunching it up at the top to reveal your ‘treat’, one of those tacky candy-string bras. The lines of colorful candies barely cover your hardened nubs and chest, leaving no room for the imagination. Kaku lets out a mixture of a groan and a growl as he leans down to bite at one of the lines, pulling it a bit away and letting it snap back on your skin. Making you yelp in the process, “Kaku!” You hiss at him when he chuckled. “Sorry, Little fawn, Couldn't help myself, now stay still alright? I want to savor my treat~” His hands grip on to your waist to stop you from squirming too much as his long tongue slowly starts to lap at the candies, ever so often poking through to nudge at your nipples. 

Halloween Night just began and Kaku intended to lick away any piece of candy on the string no matter how long it may take or how much you whine….

[quintessencewrites]

Heavy is the Head Queen Ramonda x Wakandan!reader

The nonchalant shrug makes a return. "She said I'm not a doll."

Your hands raked through her tight curls, expertly. "You're my doll."

Warnings: honestly, none. fluff. implied sad ending.

Word Count: 2.3k+

Tag List: @percsane @zestgodtj @k3nn3dyxo @mlmilani @letitias-fav @doms-fav @sweetalittleselfish-honey @g4yforu @widowmakker @becauseimswagman1 @zayswriting @inmyheadimobsessed @laurensmabel1 @malltake12 @msudaku @faeriah-thv @fetchyourlife @mbakuetshurisprincess @sinsikoxo @honey-teaaaaaaaa @rxcently @pinkcorns @takeyaki @yamsthoughts @thethickerside @0hshoot1tsl4ni @shurisbathwater @shurismainbxtch @luvrzhearts @sadfreakx @shuri-my-love @justariellove @heartsforjojo @blackgirlfariy @tuesdaylovesu @chocoflagcutii @taiiunknown @zhanylai @ziayamikaelson @verachii @taiiunknown @beautybyfire @soearthquakequeen @remwritess @pinkwright @jenlouvre @letitiasleftfoot @6-noir

Requested by anonymous forever ago.

I really like your hair! Your beads are so pretty!-Ramonda

The tiny girl bounced on her toes, eyes grazing the ground. The square of paper she held out to you almost blew away in the light breeze.

She couldn't have imagined the smile her words would bring forth from you.

The sound of your beads knocking together was like music to her ears. She loved how the wind blew the smell of your cocoa butter and tea tree oil-scented plaits straight to her nostrils.

"Thank you!" your voice ringing out made her heart swell. "I did them myself."

Her bright, cocoa-colored eyes grew three sizes. "You did them yourself? All by yourself?"

"All by myself," you giggled a wonderful-sounding melody. "I could do yours too! We can match!"

She nodded hard, beadless braids recoiling with each bob of her head. "You wouldn't mind? I would love that!"

"I wouldn't mind." Your hand outstretched, grabbing hold of hers and squeezing tight. "I'm y/n."

Her smile was so gleaming, the missing two front teeth not taking away from her dazzling grin. "Ramonda."

Hi y/n. My mama said you can't play in my hair anymore. -Ramonda

"This didn't have to be a note, Ramonda."

She shrugged, taking her place between your knees and sitting back. "Notes have kind of become our thing."

"We don't have a thing, Mondie. And why did umama say that?"

The nonchalant shrug makes a return. "She said I'm not a doll."

Your hands raked through her tight curls, expertly. "You're my doll."

Ramonda blushed, settling into your touch and laying her head back to allow you better access.

"Do you want me to stop doing your hair?"

She didn't even have to think before she responded. "No. You're not playing in my hair if I ask you to do it."

Hey y/n. Mom pressed my hair, but she bumped the ends. Can you fix it? -Ramonda

Usually, Ramonda loved the sound of your laughter. The joyous sound pulled her from her darkest moments and she especially loved it when she was the one who made you laugh.

Except for right now. Right now, you were laughing at her instead of with her. "Y-you look like that-that American singer, J-James, something... Oh! James Brown!"

If looks could kill... Ramonda wouldn't go that far, but the glare she was giving you right now was something serious.

She stomped over to you, curls bouncing with each step. "Just fix it, y/n/n. And shut up."

Her defeated figure sunk into her usual spot between your legs and your hands gravitated towards her scalp like a magnet.

"I got you, Mondie."

Y/n! I am tired of walking around with this matted mess on my head. Come braid it for me. -Ramonda

"I could have been over here sooner if you hadn't sent a note via carrier pigeon."

"My brother is not a carrier pigeon," Ramonda chuckled as you walked through the door.

She sat on the floor, awaiting your arrival. Seeing you walk into her room always brought a smile to her face and this time was no different.

The two of you settled into your habitual positions and your skilled and gentle hands flew to work.

"I'm glad you called for me though, Mondie."

Ramonda's heart melted at the affection. "You are?"

"I have to talk to you about something."

Anxiety pooled through her veins. She didn't know what you would say, but she hoped, prayed, and longed that it would be what she wanted to hear.

"I'm leaving, Mondie."

That wasn't what she wanted to hear...

"Y-you're leaving?"

"Yes..."

"O-okay," she stuttered. "W-where to? Why?"

"I'm going to the States, Mondie. Cosmetology school."

The States. Seas away. An ocean away. Hundreds of thousands of miles away.

"W-why so f-far away?"

"I just want to venture out. I got accepted into a school over there, so why not go?"

Ramonda's heart could name a thousand reasons why. A million. Because Wakanda was home. Because she was here. Because she loved you.

She loved you... She'd never said it... She hadn't even been so sure of it herself... Until today.

A young Ramonda wanted you to stay. She knew you would if she confessed. Then you could stay in Wakanda. You could stay there, with her. You two could build together; be together...

She didn't though. She didn't say any of that. Instead, she told you what she knew you wanted to hear.

"That's awesome, y/n/n. You're going to do so amazingly over there."

I think I'm ready for a change, y/n. I tried to do it myself because you are away, but my parts aren't straight and everything is sticking up all around my head. Will you start my locs? -Ramonda

"Our thing has upgraded from notes to letters?" You stepped into Ramonda's home, arms wide open. She was beyond happy to sink into your touch.

"Well, how am I supposed to use a carrier pigeon when you're still in America?"

Ramonda had missed you dearly. Days were too long to go without you, but months? Years?

"You really want me to loc your hair, Mondie? That's a big commitment."

Nothing had changed between two old friends and it was evident when Ramonda took place between your legs.

"It's a commitment I'm ready to make with you."

Hello y/n, my bestest friend. It's been a while. I... I'm betrothed to T'Chaka. I need a wedding 'do from the best and my maid of honor by my side. -Ramonda

"You're getting married?"

"How is that your first hello after several years?"

Ramonda's joy upon seeing you hadn't faded. Just as every time before, her heart swelled at your presence.

Her breath caught in her chest when you stepped closer, grabbing her hands and pulling her face-to-face.

It was all Ramonda needed to know her feelings hadn't diminished.

"You're getting married, Mondie?" You asked voice barely a whisper.

"I'm getting married, y/n/n/."

T'Chaka was a gentleman, he was kind, and he was infatuated with her. He was everything her family wanted for Ramonda and more.

She loved him, but she wasn't in love with him.

"Mondie... You're gonna be queen?"

"I-I'm gonna be Queen..."

I am pregnant, y/n! And it's a boy! Thank Bast. I can keep his hair cut short and it'll be so easy to style. Come! I want you by my side when he enters the world. -Ramonda

The small boy was barely the size of your forearm. He rested so peacefully, so gently in your hold.

Ramonda rested, watching you with slitted lids. It was a sight she'd always dreamt of, one she would have never imagined she'd actually see.

She just wished it were true.

"What will you call him?"

Your question shook the queen. "You knew I was awake?"

"I know you, Mondie."

She hummed at the affectionate name, the one you'd adorned her with back in your childhood.

"His name is T'Challa."

"Hi little T'Challa," you cooed at the boy. "You're my baby, now."

Now it was Ramonda's melodic laughter that chimes in your ears. "You are not taking my child back to the States."

"Then I'll come home, Mondie."

Ramonda couldn't believe her ears. Tears flowed from her mocha orbs. She'd been praying for you to return home, to return to her, for years.

"Will you? Really, y/n? You'll come home?"

"I'm coming home."

They lied to me, y/n. T'Challa's hair is just as high maintenance. -Ramonda

"You don't think it's too soon, y/n?" Ramonda was anxiously leaning over your shoulder, eyes glued to her baby boy and the scissors in your hand.

"Are you going to comb, wash, braid, or twist his hair, Mondie?"

Silence washed over her. She was considering it. For whatever reason, cutting T'Challa's hair felt like cutting a string of her heart.

Ramonda tried, she really had. She tried to comb and wash the matted 'fro, but his little lungs held a lot of power, and combined with his shrill voice, she left with ringing ears.

Her attempt at braiding and twisting became a chunky, tangled mess. So she gave up.

"Cut it. But be gentle..."

Y/n, Bast has a vendetta against me. A baby girl... Is it acceptable for me to shave her hair as well? -Ramonda

"I will break your fingers if you shave any of this big, beautiful hair!"

A small Shuri squirmed in your lap, trying really hard to escape your hold on her head.

"She won't let me do it, y/n!" Ramonda was beyond frustrated with her young daughter. Shuri's hair had gone undone for far too long and her poor mother was seconds away from grabbing the clippers.

"Would you even know what to do with it if she did let you?"

"No, I wouldn't... That's why I have you, y/n/n."

"That's why you have me, Mondie."

Y/n, my old friend. Shuri no longer wants beads and bows. What do I do with her hair now? -Ramonda

"Ma! Umama is trying to make me wear these giant bows in my hair. I'm too old for that!"

You barely had time to step through the door before Shuri approached you, her mama hot on her heels.

Your existence normally brought Ramonda peace, but right now, it wasn't working. Her heart was broken; her little girl didn't want to be her little girl anymore.

"Mondie," you addressed your first favorite girl just as your second favorite girl bombarded you with a hug. "She's too old for the bows and the beads."

Ramonda stopped in her tracks. Of course, it would take your words to finally get through to her. "Sh-she is?"

"She is."

"I am, mother."

Shuri is asking for box braids, y/n. I am not even going to attempt it. -Ramonda

Ramonda was always amazed by how your fingers flew when you worked, and how the focus was etched across your face so beautifully.

"I can feel you staring at me, Mondie."

Blush rose to her cheeks. "I am just admiring your work."

"Get a room, you two," Shuri's light voice rang out from under your touch.

The deja-vu was clear to both you and Ramonda. The same hands that always worked so tenderly on her own scalp were now showing the same love to her daughter.

Ramonda wasn't lost on that. And somehow, she loved you even more for it.

Yn... I need you, my dear. My T'Challa... Please, my y/n... Make Bast bring him back... -Ramonda

The shears were heavy in your hands. Ramonda sat between your legs, head resting on your thighs and arms engulfing your calf in a tense hug.

Shuri sat in the corner, knees pulled to her chest, silent. She hadn't spoken since you'd arrived, just pulling you in for a hug and crying into your chest as you offered up some solitude.

Ramonda fell into your touch, sighing at the hand that ran through her frizzy locs.

"Are you sure, Mondie?"

Your old friend, your best friend, nodded slowly. Her heartbreak was mirrored in your own. Bast knows you just wanted to hold her and take the pain away. But Bast had also just taken away everything Ramonda lived for...

Tears rolled down your face when you finally raised the blade to snip that first loc. It fell to the ground in an eerie silence.

Then the second and third loc. Before long, it was her whole head. You ran your fingers through Ramonda's short curls. They hadn't been that short since you two were children.

Your mind wandered to your first meeting. The shy girl who approached you transformed into this broken monarch.

All you could do was lift her head and place a gentle kiss on her forehead as your tears ran down her face. "I love you, Mondie."

It was finally the words she'd wanted to hear, after all these years. But now, it couldn't mend her shattered heart.

"Shuri," you called softly to the princess trying to hide behind her own shadow. "It's your turn, my love."

I think the short style is growing on me. -Forever yours, Ramonda

"The short curls suit you, Mondie."

Again, she was seated between your legs while your hands ran through her gray 'fro. This time, however, you weren't styling her hair. You were just sitting, enjoying each other's company, just taking up space together.

"It's grown out quite a bit since you cut it. Do you like it?" The queen's question threw you off guard.

"Of course I like it. I did it," the joke fell from your lips, bringing a smile to Ramonda's. "Why did you write me a note to tell me that you like your hair?"

"I've always told you, y/n/n. Notes are our thing."

"I guess they are, Mondie."

Ramonda turned to face you, eyes glistening. "You're finally admitting it?"

You brought your face closer to hers, so close that you could feel her warm breath and her intoxicating scent mixing, pulling you in further.

"I love you, Ramonda. I'm finally admitting that. Not the notes thing. We've been doing it for years, I thought you'd outgrown it decades ago.”

The Queen felt as though her heart would burst. She was finally hearing it. The words she'd prayed to hear so, so many years ago. After decades, Ramonda confessed.

"I love you, y/n."

"It's about time you said it, Mondie."

"You knew?"

Your hands ran a comforting touch down Ramonda's back. "I knew. I'm just annoyed that you would finally say it before I have to leave for the States for a few."

"I know, I know. Y/n/n, the big shot. Going back to America to teach the rookies how it's done. Leaving me behind."

Ramonda froze when your face inched closer to hers, so close your noses were touching.

"I'll never leave you behind, Mondie."

[omgkatherine01]

Creatures of the Night: Chapter 6 - DeKappel

Series Masterlist

Chapter 5, Chapter 7

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x female reader

Please comment, like and share ❤

The next day, at the evening, Jesper and you were playing at the card table where he was teaching you to play with the other men.

"I don't think Kaz would be happy to see you here," you told him when you leaned closer to his ear.

Jesper smirked at you, "You gonna tell on me?"

"Maybe," you said, smirking at him back, "What is it for me if I won't?"

"What would you want?" he asked in a flirting voice, making you chuckle and shake your head. You've grown used to his flirting looks and words, and unlike with the rest of the men, you didn't punch him or gave him dirty looks.

You found Jesper's antics amusing rather than bothersome, a breath of fresh air amidst the tension that often hung thick in Ketterdam. "Maybe I just want to know if you have any secrets worth keeping," you teased back, leaning back in your chair as you watched him shuffle the cards with flair.

Jesper raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge glimmering in his eyes. "Secrets? Oh, darling, I'm an open book. Just ask me about my many escapades. For example, did I tell you about the time I won a bet against Kaz at poker but had to pretend to lose so he wouldn't kill me?"

You laughed, shaking your head at his dramatic reenactment of the supposed event. "You mean to say you bent the truth for your life? Shocking," you said with mock seriousness.

"There's the pretty girl!" You looked over to see a fat older man walked over, laughing and drinking, looking at you with a smile, "My lucky charm!"

You gave a small smile and turned back to the table as he walked closer. He looked at the dealer, "Hey, you take Zemeni coin, yes?"

He threw the pouch to the dealer which he caught and started to open it. Jesper raised an eyebrow, "Let me see that."

The dealer immediately handed a coin to him. Jesper looked at you, "Watch and learn," he muttered before quickly looking at the man as he narrowed his eyes, "The Lucky Nine casino up the block has had trouble with counterfeit coin lately. Heavy, but brittle."

"Oh, come on, now," the man said, "I've been here for hours. My money is good, no?"

"Zemeni coin can take a bullet," Jesper said, "But the knockoff..." He flipped the coin in the air and shot it. As it landed on the table, you all saw the hole in the middle of it. "Busted," he said, swinging his gun back into its holster with a self-satisfied grin.

"What does that prove?" the man asked angrily. You raised an eyebrow and watched as two men walked closer and grabbed him, dragging him away.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, a mix of satisfaction and amusement swelling within you as the man spluttered protests. Jesper had a flair for the dramatic, but every now and then, his skills turned out to be more useful than entertaining.

"Well done," you said, smirking as you took a sip from your drink. "I take it that’s why Kaz keeps you around."

Jesper leaned closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Honestly? I think he just enjoys having someone to keep him on his toes. Plus, I’m just charming enough to distract people when necessary."

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head at him. Jesper’s reckless flair was a stark contrast to Kaz’s cold precision, yet somehow, it balanced out in ways you were only beginning to understand.

Jesper nudged your arm before quickly reaching forward on the table for the money, until a cane smacked down right in front of his hand. Everyone were silent at Kaz's appearance. Kaz stared down at Jesper, giving him a warning look, "No loud noises at the table, Jesper. You'll scare off the pigeons."

Jesper nodded slowly, clearing his throat, "Wouldn't want that, boss."

"Shouldn't you be on the door?"

"Yeah, right away, boss."

Kaz shook his head slowly as he gave him one last look before his eyes darted to you. He moved his cane away from the table and he started to walk away.

You stood and followed him, amused while everyone went back to their business. "Early for action, innit, Kaz?" you glanced over your shoulder to see a man you met a few times, Rotty, walked up to them. "Hello there, y/n, looking beautiful as ever."

You smiled softly at him, "Thank you."

"What do you want, Rotty?" Kaz asked.

"Someone stole a DeKappel from a merch's private residence last night," Rotty said and you frowned.

Kaz glanced at you and then away as you walked to the stair case, "Is that so?"

"It's a painting," Rotty said, "A landscape of Ravka. The Fold. Oil on parchment."

You stopped and turned to the two men, tilting your head. "Really?" you asked as you glanced at Kaz with suspicion.

Kaz rolled his eyes, turning to Rotty, "I know who DeKappel is."

"Well, he don't do nudes, so I never heard of him," Rotty said, and made a face

"Get to it, Rotty," Kaz said.

Rotty reached into his coat pocket and swiped up a piece of paper and unfolded its crumpled edges, showing it to you and Kaz. You raised an eyebrow as you recognized it.

There was a rolling field of lime green grass, hints of white at the tips where the sun hit the blades and bounced from dew-drops. A gravel path tore through and trailed up a hill where a tall birch tree stood. The sun was slipping and the sky had a golden hue to it.

That was the same as the painting on your wall.

You looked at Kaz and raised an eyebrow, fighting an amused smile as you noticed he kept staring at the picture instead glancing at you, and you knew he could feel your gaze at him.

"Worth something like 10,000 kruge," Rotty said. "The thief had to get past four roving guards, high fences, padlocked doors, and a security system designed by one of them Grisha witches."

"Fabrikator," Kaz said, noticing your tensed shoulders.

"Whatever," Rotty said, "The point is, either it was a group effort or a ghost."

Kaz's eyes moved to him and he raised an eyebrow, "Why does this concern me?"

"I've got a buyer lined up," Rotty said, "Legit money. So, uh if you hear a whisper..." He clicked his tongue and winked at you.

You frowned, blinking. Did he really just winked at me? you thought.

Kaz took one step toward him, and asked quietly, "Who can hear a whisper here?" He raised an eyebrow before leaning back. He turned around, and walked past you, "Let's go."

You gave Rotty a small smile before turning and following Kaz to the stair case. You walked up the stairs and went into the door to the second floor living room.

"You know, it's funny, that painting Rotty was talking about..." you started, smiling with amusement as Kaz stiffed and turned to you with a look. "That looks a lot like the one you gave me last night."

"I didn't give you anything," he denied.

You nodded, "Oh, so it must have been Jesper," you said as you stared at his face. "Or maybe Inej."

He clenched his jaw, "Must be," he muttered as he turned and walked to the office.

You followed him inside and noticed the darker walls around the room. "You seem to be getting better at it." Your eyes moved to Kaz as he sat down behind his desk. "Controlling the shadows."

You smiled softly, "I guess so," you muttered as Kaz moved to next door where his room was. You moved into the room and were surprised when he started to take off his coat.

You blinked as you didn't knew what to do as he started to take off his gloves. Should I leave or stay? you thought, Does he want me to stay or was he expecting me to leave already?

You felt the chilling cold from outside and looked to the side to see that the window was opened. You glanced to the walls at the darkness and smiled softly.

Inej was back.

"Hello, Inej," Kaz spoke without turning.

Inej stepped out from the shadows and greeted you with a soft smile as she removed her cloth from her mouth. "What information do you have for me tonight?" Kaz asked.

Inej looked at him, "A lead on a job. A big one. Enough money to change lives."

Kaz shook his head lightly, "It doesn't take much to change someone's life in the Barrel."

"A million kruge?"

Kaz paused for a moment, "What's the name?"

"Dreesen," Inej answered. "A wealthy merchant."

Kaz nodded slightly, "Dreesen. I've heard of him. He could afford it. The question is, what's worth a million kruge to him?"

"He's looking for a crew willing to cross the Fold into East Ravka and bring back something," Inej said.

Kaz turned to her, "The Fold? Well, of course, certain death pays a million. He didn't say what he wants nicked?"

"No," Inej answered. "But he's taking meetings tonight, starting at midnight."

"Tell me you followed him," Kaz said.

You had to scoff on that, and smirked softly when you caught their attention, "Of course she did, she's Inej."

Inej smirked at the compliment and nodded lightly before she looked at Kaz, "He brought someone in from a ship. Took a way back to his house in the Garden District to avoid attention. I would have followed him inside, but Dreesen's hired some private security. I would have had to use my knives to get closer."

Kaz nodded as he thought, "Private security... Anyone we know?"

"A Zemeni man," Inej said, "I think his name is Tendo. You know him?"

"Yeah," he answered, "He gambles at one of Pekka's clubs. So I won't have leverage on him. But Pekka will." He grabbed his cane and walked past you and Inej to the office.

You both turned to him when he walked around his desk. "Kaz, I got this lead from one of the girls at the Menagerie," Inej said and you frowned.

"What's that?" you couldn't help but ask.

"It's where--" Inej started but Kaz cut her off, "Nothing."

"That doesn't seem like nothing," you said as you noticed how they exchanged a look.

"It's a place you need to stay clear from," Inej finally said, "Trust me." She looked back at Kaz, "The girls there, they tell me things in case you'd buy them out, like you did with me."

Oh, you thought sadly, Now, you know what it mean. It's a whore house...

"I didn't buy you, I'm paying off your indenture," Kaz said.

"You know what I mean," Inej said, "This one girl, Kesh, she has skill. She's like me."

"I only invest in the one of a kind," he said, "She isn't like you. No one is."

Inej looked frustrated and you placed a hand gently on her arm, to keep her calm. Luckily it did. She took a deep breath before speaking again, "So? What's our move now?"

"You're the one of us who believes in a higher power," Kaz said, "If we're going to survive a round trip through the Fold, we'll need a miracle or two."

Inej rolled her eyes as she turned away and you frowned, hearing his mocking tone in his voice. Kaz looked at her, "Get Jesper, the four of us will be heading out soon."

"The four of us?" you repeated.

"You're coming with us."

-

Taglist:

@lyria-skyfall, @myheartfollower, @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @mjlock, @clairewinchester14, @losteroops, @venomsvl, @yvxcy, @wickedlovely121, @supergaybish101, @woowwwee, @zeeader, @twlegit

[delopsia]

hi! hello! happy birthday, lovely! may this year bring you peace, contentment, and fun adventures!

the vase i'm choosing is harrison

my flower is dahlia 🌸

and the method i'm sending my flower is pigeon post

title: Ass-et Audit

Aaaa thank you, lovely :D Join my Birthday Bouquet Event! 💐

"This is demeaning on so many levels."

"And who's fault is that?" You sputter, heels digging into the cheap carpet, hot in the face, panting for breath as you lean back and pull. 

No dice.

"Listen," that thick material stretches in Harrison's hands as he gives it another tug, but even as you suck in another gasp and pull with him, it doesn't fucking move. "I didn't intentionally put my weight there. Take it up with my genetics!"

You give up just as your knees crumble out from under you, falling onto the changing room bench without an ounce of notice. No amount of manpower will get that damn wetsuit past the curve of his ass. And if by some miracle it does squeeze past, some poor minimum wage employee is gonna have to find scissors to cut it off. 

And yet Harrison is entirely unphased, twisting in the mirror to get a better look at himself. "I still think a medium will fit me," he muses as if the entirety of the suit isn't snug against the thick, meaty swell of him, red and chafed from the amount of squeezing you've put it through.

Your hand darts out, grabbing a greedy handful, mesmerized by how it jiggles. "Baby, you've got too much ass for a medium."

Even with the suit bunched up at his front, you can see the way his cock jerks. 

"It's not that big," he grumbles, daring enough to let his lips fall into a pout. As if having an ass the size of Texas is some kind of curse. 

Maybe it is because you can't keep your hands off of it. Squeezing it with both hands now, deliberately kneading your weary fingers into the fatty flesh there. It's hard not to become entranced by it. How his hips try to jerk forward at first, then hesitantly swivel back into you, a little too eager for more. 

Daring, one hand slips down, peeling the suit away from his thighs, the tips of your fingers venturing to trace the soft area just behind his balls. The spot that always makes him rise up onto his tiptoes with a shaky little whine.

"So I'm...you think..." his eyes fall shut, pushing backward all of a sudden, "...large?" 

The corner of your lip rises, already beginning to curl your arm past his hip, slipping past that coarse nest of curls to wrap your hand around—

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific, Knott."

In this poorly closed-off changing room, with its half-walls and God knows how many people around, Harrison tilts his head back with a silent groan.

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 5: Pigeon

Having to play a little catch up due to a birthday celebration Saturday night! Enjoy my "Dream loves birds as much as I do" agenda.

Find my @fluffbruary ficlet collection on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

When Hob wakes, the other side of the bed is cold. He panics, just for a moment, then sits up, blinking blearily at the rays of sun shining into his eyes. Planting his feet on the ground, he stands and walks toward the living room.

“Dream?” he groans, “Where’d you go, love? Want some tea?” He looks around, husband nowhere to be found in the tiny flat above the New Inn. As Hob crosses to the kitchen, busying himself with preparing the tea, he feels a breeze from the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. He turns the kettle on and goes to poke his head out the door.

The door is only open a crack but what Hob sees makes him pause. He finds Dream, but he also finds a truly absurd number of pigeons alongside him. There are birds everywhere. Sitting on the railing, flitting around on the concrete of the balcony, digging through the seed bucket Dream has unsurprisingly forgotten to close. And only once Hob has taken in the dozens of pigeons on the balcony does he look at his husband. Dream is sitting with his eyes closed, both palms out and filled with millet. There are two pigeons perched on each hand, picking over the tiny seeds. Another bird is perched atop Dream’s head, preening his eternally messy hair. Four are set upon his thighs, in various states of sleepiness.

Hob’s heart swells at the scene. Dream had confessed that he used to feed the pigeons when he wanted to mope, finding some joy in feeding them crumbs from a baguette. Hob had taken that evidence into consideration along with his messenger ravens and set up a bird feeding station at their flat. Even more feeders were hung in front of the various windows of the New Inn, bringing in lots of feathered friends to the delight of the daytime patrons. In fact, the inn had gotten a bit of a reputation with bird lovers, who would stop in after a long morning of chasing birds across London. Hob had invested way too much money into the venture, just to make his Dream happy. He didn’t care how much money he had to spend to help Dream cope with life, it was just a lucky strike that the birds were a hit. Hob smiled, taking in the sight of his Dream, finally content in this moment.

He heard the kettle shut off, interrupting his admiration of his love. He turns from the door and pours the hot water into their mugs. Dream’s has a drawing of a pigeon wearing sunglasses with text below reading, “Stay Coo” and his own reading, “World’s Okayest Professor,” a gift from one of his PhD students. He takes in the scent of the tea, growing richer every second it steeps. He adds sugar to each mug, pouring in three spoonfuls for Dream, then opens the fridge to produce the cream. Again, he adds a heavy dollop to his husband’s mug.

Who would’ve thought such a broody man would have such a sweet tooth? He thinks, shaking his head and smiling. Grabbing both of the mugs, he heads back toward the door. Sliding it open as slow as he can as to not disturb the birds, he slips out and shoos the birds from his chair. He sets the mugs down on the small table between the two chairs. Dream cracks an eye open, birds still pecking away at the seeds.

“Hello, Hob,”

“Good morning love,” Hob leans toward Dream to plant a kiss on his cheek. The birds are unbothered by this behavior, used to Hob’s need to shower his husband with kisses and touches. All of Dream’s regulars have names, though Hob still has a hard time telling them all apart. “Didn’t expect you’d be out with the birds this early.”

“I found myself in need of some peace and did not desire to wake you.”

“You know you can wake me any time, duck. No matter what,” Hob takes a sip of his tea. “But I’m glad the birds help too.”

“Indeed. Thank you for the tea, my love.” Dream lowers one hand, pigeons fluttering back to the railing. He reaches for the tea and takes a long draught. “Perfect as usual. I would not expect anything less.” Dream turns his head and smiles the smile only Hob has the privilege to see, his lips turning up slightly higher on the right. Hob just smiles and shakes his head.

“I love you, you know that?”

“Yes. As do I. Thank you for caring for me as you do.”

“Of course, dove, all I want is for you to be happy.” Hob reaches out to grab Dream’s hand and squeezes.

Dream looks around at the pigeons, then into Hob’s eyes.

“I am. And I know that if I am not, I will be again.” He leans in to press a kiss to Hob’s lips, scaring the pigeons still left on his head and legs off to the railing. “Let us go inside for breakfast.”

Hob rises, grabbing their mugs before Dream can, smiling all the way back to the table.

[the-ipre]

hey hey hey tell the people more about dbd smbts au :3

hello i will be using this to give a broad overview and then go more in depth with another ask >:3c

so! sore must be the storm is a magical girls ttrpg i ran that lives forever in my brain, and the gist of it is that a gaggle of teens have been chosen to become Magical Heroes to fight against the Gunge, a massive force of despair that has been bubbling up around the edges of reality and turning folks into magical villains by preying on their emotional vulnerabilities! dont you want to give in? dont you want to be angry? dont you want to stop fighting to be Good all the time? the gunge whispers in your head and takes over when you accept, puppeting you to act on your worst impulses, because whats the point of holding back!

although they do not know at first (and are quite thrown off by their magical companion being a weird pigeon with cartoon physics), the source of their powers is Hope and its the opposite Elemental Force to the gunge. hope itself cant defeat all the despair that swells in the world, but it can give you the courage to fight back against it!

in the dead boy detectives au, our heroes are charles, edwin, crystal, and niko, who all attend the same boarding school. the cat king is their magical companion, who more often than not is in cat mode, providing terrible advice and encouraging bad decisions <3 niko, still caught in her grief, refuses the call at first and ends up Gunged (dandelion sprite arc!). crystal, edwin, and charles all team up, transform, and fight to save her! she realizes she is not alone, and agrees to join the team! she has always wanted to be a magical girl, after all-

esther finch is the big bad who has found the spigot from which the gunge flows into our world and has broken it open. despair is good for business, after all, because people who have given up hope wont put up a fight <3 fun fact in the original story the big bad was the manager of an amazon warehouse (peter andora aka p. andora, open up the box of his warehouse and what is left!) and i think esther can be the absolute worst boss, so <3 she ends up making monty as a construct out of gunge, ripping a chunk off of this vast elemental force of Despair and giving him form as a boy to go spy on those strange magical heroes and see who is throwing a wrench in her plans!!!

these are broad strokes but know there is So much there. tragic mick is the english teacher and was previously a magical companion before Things Went Bad. the cat king can cartoon-physics splort into smaller cats. jenny is the dorm mom. edwin and charles are roommates who bonded last year when they remained on campus over the break. crystal just transferred from a different school and is trying to reinvent herself. kingham and litty are there as small gunge constructs. monty, the cat king, and tragic mick are all various points on a timeline of similar entities. there is Lots Going On Here please ask more-

[rustbeltjessie]

7 Snippets 7 People

Thanks to @blind-the-winds for tagging me!

The idea for this is to share seven out-of-context snippets of your own writing, and tag seven other people to do the same. Unfortunately, my brain is fried right now, and I can't even think of seven writer-mutuals (even though I'm positive I have many, many more than seven) to tag. So just know that if you're seeing this, and you're a writer and want to share, please consider yourself tagged; and tag me when you share, because I'd love to read it!

Since I'm not supposed to give context, I won't. All I'll say is there's some poetry and some prose (and some prose poetry!), some fiction and some non.

I ask if I can flip through the 45s and pick the next tune. "Sure," she says, and I do, slow and casual, like I don't know what I'm looking for, until I find it. Tobi Legend—"Time Will Pass You By." I want to tell you everything about this song and where I first heard it. About Wigan Casino in the early '70s, the "3 before 8," those songs they played every morning after we'd danced all night. How it was my inside joke with myself, doing the soul glide—slide one foot, swivel the other, I wish I could show you those moves right now—to those songs about time passing. Tobi's was my favorite. The passion rending her voice. The jumping beat paired with the swell of the strings. The lyrics—those bleary mornings, I always wondered if they meant as much to anyone else in the club as they did to me. But I can't tell you any of that.

—

You are a fried egg sandwich. On a winter day in Philadelphia when I'm down to my last three dollars & I'm hungry & cold. I mean you are, specifically, the sandwich I ate that day, just before Christmas, when I'd been wandering the wet streets of Philadelphia for hours, that day I watched the lights sparkle off tinsel & wrapping in store windows, displays of presents & mistletoe,

—

Lento, I say now. Lento, though the music of those years was fast and harsh. Slow it down. Keep us here, just a while longer.

Here, this pause between everything which came before and everything that would come after. Here, saying our last goodbyes to the star-doomed lovers; here, in a blood-red car, on a Baltimore-bound highway. My rock’n’roll sister and I in that burning room, where we slammed like boys, then batted girl-lashes to tempt the boys into buying us beer. The gold foam of it, the distorted fuzz of amplifiers. The night’s black eye.

—

It was weird, right. The five of us had been friends since we were babies, practically; we were inseparable as sisters and hung around at each other's houses so much you could hardly say who lived where. But I guess even sisters have their quarrels. I guess we've all got some ugly shit in us and we're most likely to take it out on the people we're closest to. And of course, it was summer, and the sticky heat made us mean. It was summer, and we were 12, and we were bored, and there was fuck-all to do in Mound City, Illinois.

—

Q: What do you call it when dead girls fuck? A: Two coffins bangin' together.

—

Blue as the churchbells ringing six times in the blue hour. Blue as an hour’s three twilights: civil, nautical, astronomical. Blue as sex, as sin. Blue, also, as the astronomical heavenblue of the Virgin’s robes. Blue as Mater Dolorosa; her punctured, burning heart, her seven sacred sorrows. Blue as a claddagh ring worn on a right hand with the heart’s point facing out towards the fingertips; blue as a claddagh that will never be turned in. Blue as a pigeon, dead in the gutter. Blue as the gutter we lay in, drunk, and the nightblue heaven of stars we wished on. Blue as a wish that can’t come true.

—

And thank you hum of nighttime, my sleepless lullaby—the air filter in the hallway, the nearby airport's machinations, and the trains (always the trains). And (thank you) the voice of a favorite singer, the whiskeyed gravel, the Midwest desperation, the loneliness, the smoke. And thank you the rain bringing toadstools to my garden, and the autumn.

[blackjackkent]

Aight, I've only got a couple hours before GW2 raids tonight but I THINK that I am pretty much done with exploring the Rivington area, at least for now. Which is good, because the last chunk was just a lot of wandering around that didn't give me a lot to hang character stuff/drabbles off of (although I tried).

Looking at my quest journal, everything still on hand seems like it needs to be followed up on inside the city proper. So onwards we go! (Although for some reason, the "Steal a Githyanki Egg" quest from the creche didn't get closed with all the other Act 1 stuff. :P Odd.)

A few last exploration things crop up as we start heading towards the gate to the city, starting with this:

This pinged a perception check from someone (Karlach, I think), so I guess we're supposed to climb down. This leads us to what would be a rather pretty little area if it weren't for the dead refugee.

I wandered around here but there didn't seem to be anything to find except more dead refugees, most of whom were carrying pot lids for no immediately obvious reason. There was also a stone door at the far end but I couldn't figure out how to open it.

Back above ground, we overhear a town crier shouting about Duke Stelmane being killed. The Emperor chimed in, hearing about the death of his old business partner: "Stelmane is dead? This does not bode well."

"With Stelmane murdered," Jaheira comments, "the Council has an open seat. How timely."

We actually heard about this earlier but I guess the Emperor wasn't paying attention at the time.

Everyone is shouting in this area - mostly Baldurians arguing with refugees and being real dicks about it. There's also a poster up for Gortash:

Uh oh.

"Gortash is being named Archduke?" Hector says, sounding very worried. "Time to pay Wyrm's Rock a visit."

Before that, though, a quick peek inside the last building in Rivington that we haven't explored, "Sword Coast Couriers".

"Welcome to Sword Coast Couriers - to Send and to Serve," the man at the desk says brightly. "Delivery not guaranteed."

"Wait, delivery not guaranteed?" Hector asks, befuddled yet again by the strangeness of city life.

"Well, we've had to change the policy. Hard to send letters by road when there's a rampaging army of fanatics bearing down on you. I'll tell you - it's left me in a right pickle. I've sent what I can by pigeon, but now something's attacking them and all! 'Become a postmaster, Danzo. It'll be easy.' Nobody mentions having to spend your evenings hunting for pigeon carcasses, do they?"

Aha. This explains those letters we picked up from the tressym's nest on the roof of the monastery. Hector puts a hand on them in his pack, but squints at the postmaster uncertainly. The content of those letters was not entirely savory - one was harmless enough, but one was about starting a war, and one was about the Zhentarim black market.

"I'd be happy to take a look," he finally says slowly.

The postmaster looks pleased. "Well, er... if it's not too much trouble, I'd be much obliged. Any letters you find, bring them back to me - unopened, of course - and there's some gold in it for you."

Well, the ship has definitely already sailed on the "unopened" part. Hector sighs. No point in trying to be subtle about it - not that he's any good at hiding things anyway. "I found the letter intended for the Zhentarim," he says pointedly. "It made for very interesting reading."

The dwarf pales. "You-- you read it?" Then he swells with indignation.

"Technically that's interfering with someone else's property! I should report you to the nearest manip!"

Hector just looks at him steadily. It only takes a moment for him to back down. The contents of the letter are far more illegal than Hector's behavior, and he knows it. "Tell you what," he goes on, more ingratiatingly. "Give it here, and we'll say no more about it. I'll give you a nice little bonus as well. A finder's fee. What do you say?"

Hector shrugs, withdrawing his hand from his pack - without the letter. His earlier conversation with Karlach - about not letting himself get swept up in the criminal machinations of the city, not compromising his morals - is still fresh in his head, and while reporting this man is not high on his to-do list, he's not going to facilitate whatever business he's trying to pull off under the table.

"No, thanks," he says, deliberately mild. "I'm keeping the letter."

"You bloody arse-rat!" For a moment, Hector thinks the shorter man might take a swing at him - but the postmaster looks him up and down, then looks at Karlach and the others, and seems to think better of it. "Fine," he spits. "Keep it. Much good it'll do you. Go on - get out of my post house. We're closed."

[karokawwo]

little vent ahahahahaha

recently mocho (one of my puppies) got an infection in his eye. We thought it would be cured in like a week or so if we followed the vet's prescription, and it did, until he started having an allergic reaction to it and we had to stop.

When his eye started swelling again we took him to the vet and came out with a new prescription. my mom does not trust the vet's prescription and has been refusing to follow it. she made this weird concoction with some flower and has been rubbing it around his eye, she looked up other medicines, but she doesn't want to follow the prescription.

Yesterday his eye got worse, it was red and blurry and it bulged out of his head. my mom got this medicine that works for nearly any animal with any injury (she used it on one of our big dogs and some pigeons), but it has yet to do anything.

my dad told her she NEEDS to go to the vet again and HOPEFULLY she will because i checked him this morning and his eye has somehow gotten bigger. for some reason she thinks she can solve this by throwing shit at the wall and never even ask for the vet's approval (which i've been telling her to do, but she doesn't listen to me)

i just want him to get better :( he's been so tired he doesn't want to eat, he can't play with his brother, and his eye must hurt so much. i hope it's still salvageable but if we can't i won't oppose. my mom has been messing around with it too much and i wouldn't be surprised the vet told us we fucked up