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seelestia · 5 months

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✧ i'll show you (if you'll let me).

⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )

#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }

#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.

#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡

★ 〜 masterlist.

will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.

you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.

and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?

(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)

but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.

(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.

time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?

time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

ticklish.

the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.

there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.

“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.

there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.

“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.

“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”

his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.

you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!

every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.

“mwah, mwah, mwah—”

“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”

(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)

will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.

(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)

the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.

if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.

(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)

veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.

mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”

at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.

looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?

✧ a moment among the stars:

“...yet another headache.”

as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.

you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.

a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.

(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)

veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”

oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.

you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.

“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.

“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.

(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)

“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.

“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”

“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”

(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)

“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”

“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.

“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.

(your heart skips a beat.)

will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.

how mysterious.

but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?

your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.

pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.

(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)

the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.

fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.

(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)

if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.

as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?

(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”

sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.

“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”

you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.

he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”

or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.

(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)

“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”

“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.

most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.

“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”

you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?

(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)

will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?

after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?

but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.

(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)

dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”

(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)

sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.

(it remains persistently.)

when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.

when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.

(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.

but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”

you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”

he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.

“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.

“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.

“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.

dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.

“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.

(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)

“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”

“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.

“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.

(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio x you #sunday x reader #sunday x you #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #hsr fluff #hsr headcanons #hsr imagines #seelestial.inks

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moonikabear · 27 days

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Let's #SaveDeadBoyDetectives!

Hi everyone!

As you’ve probably already seen on Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, or even the articles that are already written about how furious the fandom is right now, we are currently trying to fight for Dead Boy Detectives.

There is A LOT that we can do to make some noise and so much is already being done that it’s all getting very overwhelming to keep track of. So I've made this masterpost listing all (or at least most of) the things people in the fandom are trying to do right now that you can absolutely help with too! Thank you to everyone who’s fighting for the show! <3

DO NOT cancel your Netflix subscription in a fit of rage because of this. Netflix does not care about that. Here’s all the things you can do instead to make some noise to reach the people who worked on the show and hopefully the people at Netflix as well:

Rewatch the show with sound on! You can just connect your headphones and leave it running in the background while doing other stuff.

Interact with the fandom online and share the Hashtags as much as possible! Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, wherever, spread the message as much as you can. The currently used hashtags are ‘save dead boy detectives’, ‘savedeadboydetectives’, ‘renew dead boy detectives’ and ‘revive dead boy detectives’. Try to boost the hashtags that are already used by the fandom but also feel free to create new ones on top of that or just generally tag the show etc.

We have sent out a tweet to Beth Schwartz asking her if there is any possibility of finding a new home or an alternative way of saving the show - if you’re on twitter, share the tweet by retweeting, quote tweeting, adding hashtags and tagging Beth in it! Here’s a link to the tweet: https://x.com/papysanzo/status/1829996492247220319

If you’re not on twitter, you can share the tumblr post about it and tag it using the hashtags mentioned above! Here’s a link to the tumblr post: https://www.tumblr.com/thepopsicle/760364779568300032/the-tweet-is-out-people-were-confused-about-the?source=share

There’s a petition for saving the show - sign it and ideally also share it wherever you can! Here’s the link to the petition: https://chng.it/M8dvDk9BcL

You can fill out the title request form and request Dead Boy Detectives Season 2 three times to let them know we still want it! Here’s the link to the request form: https://t.co/wkLf2DS06j

You can send (anonymous) asks to Netflix’s Tumblr account as long as they’re still open! Tell them how much you love the show and that the fandom wants more of it. Please remember to be polite in the message, rudeness won’t get us anywhere. Here’s the link to Netflix’s Tumblr account: https://www.tumblr.com/netflix

If you want to do more, you can send emails or physical letters to Netflix itself! Please remember to be polite here as well.

Here’s an email address you can write to: [email protected]

And here is the address you can send physical letters to: Netflix, Inc. 121 Albright Way Los Gatos, CA 95032, USA

If you have a subscription, you can also sign into the app and follow these steps: 1. In the lower right, tap “my Netflix” 2. In the upper right, tap the Menu. 3. Tap “Help”. 4. Tap the Call or Chat Button.

We would love to coordinate big watch parties, fandom events and hopefully a big online meetup with as many people as possible! Please feel free to join any DBDA event you see shared online and of course also share the events you know about with others!

And last but certainly not least, keep creating, interacting and sharing the love within the fandom! Even if all this effort leads to nothing in the end, we want to make sure the fandom stays active for as long as possible and that everyone involved can have fun and a good time with it despite the awful news we got. So keep the happy and positive fandom posts going as well as the fight for the show! <3

Please don’t feel bad if you’re not doing every single thing on this list, but know that every little bit helps.

Also, a quick reality check: The chances that Netflix will actually reconsider the cancellation are probably very slim. However, we’re still fighting for any little bit we can get, whether it’s the show being sold to another network, an audio format for season two, some sort of podcast with the cast, getting to read the script, anything. It’s not impossible to get something out of this, even if it isn’t a regular complete second season of the show. We'll keep fighting, even if it's scary, and the odds are bad, and we might die horrifically.

So, on that note - Thanks for reading this ridiculously long post, remember to drink some water, take care of yourself, and have a lovely rest of your day!

#dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency #the dead boy detective agency #dbda #savedeadboydetectives masterpost #savedeadboydetectives #save dead boy detectives #renew dead boy detectives #revive dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency netflix #netflix #charles rowland #edwin payne #crystal palace #niko sasaki #masterpost

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epiphainie · 28 days

Note

i really enjoy your writing and i was curious about what your favourite bucktommy fics are 👀👀

(only if you feel like answering!)

thank you! i feel like i keep reccing the same fics but i adore them a lot sooo... i'll try to mention more this time:

(edit: putting it under read more bc it got really long)

one way trip to the sun by @newtkelly i've read this twice, i adore the writing, the film homages, the nonlinear format. it's made for me

what the agony had been for by @alchemistc honestly, anything by catie but this is one of my fav tommy focused fics and it being by buck's pov is a feature

a promise of forever by @firehose118 i love the flavor of domesticity bucktommy have in this one, it's so comforting

identify me by @kinaaaard i dont know how to explain it but this fic ruined me for some reason

histocompatibility by @rcmclachlan loved it on tumblr, loved it on ao3 again

five ways to fall in love with the man in the mirror by @userautumn i've just read this this morning and it managed to make me cry with its less than 2k words, it's gorgeous

baby, if you think you're able (you need to take this rough medicine) by @dadbodbuck best smut muah

rule four (you were only waiting for this moment to arise) by daisyblaine (idk if they're here) anything with these vibes is made for me honestly, just this liminal piece of character study

an outlier that should not be counted by @dadvans this is a classic to me

old dog new tricks by @watchyourbuck this one makes my brain go brrrrrr age gap smut you will always be famous

mr july by @lazybakerart this is how i aspire to write in buck's pov honestly, his voice is so good here, so buck

jealousy doesn't always come with green eyes by elizabethgee my fav jealousy fic

Versatile by cjr2 (please tag the writers if you know theyre here) i remember this making me laugh out loud

like sun on my skin (so this is love, i know it is) by @buckera im a slut for these types of flash moments on a theme fics and this is so sweet

Awful quiet here since love fell asleep by @cecilyv @liminalmemories21 one thing about me: the first thing i read when i get into a ship is the breakup fics and this is so beautiful my absolute fav

display me by WallabyWhump i think about this all the time, fav smut oneshots top contender

get undressed, leave a mess (worry 'bout it after) by @prettyboybuckley i read this before i watched the show and it changed my brain chemistry, it's so filthy (positive)

#if you know the tumblr @s of the writers lemme know #if anyone wants to be untagged also lemme know #bucktommy #bucktommy fic #fic rec #911 #911 fic #mimi.txt

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sstrwbrryccke · 9 months

Text

uhm... so basically this post was originally an ask but tumblr deleted it...😭 ANYWAYS! the original ask was from @soobinsonly1bf and the prompt was one-sided window sex! (thank u em ur my saviour…)

— exposed | sub choi soobin

tags: window sex, public fondling, lingerie, handjob (soob receiving), amab reader (no pronouns, only genitalia), anal sex, perv soob, exhibitionism

“i’ll be relying on you! thank you!” the faint voice of your friend blares on the other end before you hang up. an overseas venture of one of your good friends had suddenly left you in charge of their clothing store. it was flattering that they thought you were responsible enough to look after their shop, but it also meant you had to take a few days off your calendar just to monitor the store.

first things first, you should check up on the shop and make sure everything’s in place, good thing the store’s closed today, otherwise you might be rushing around already. the clothing store was situated in the middle of a very busy shopping centre, with many bustling shoppers roaming around.

light fixture, check, working ventilation, check, air conditioning, check, needy boyfriend spamming your dms? not check.

you rolled your eyes in amusement as your dms lit up for the fifth time. what a clingy man he was. you text back and you could almost hear his whining from behind the screen.

‘where are you?’

‘my friends store, remember’

‘can i come’

the text flashed up in the dim store and you took a second to consider if it was a good idea or not to bring your oversized baby over to the store. actually whatever, bringing your boyfriend over was always a good idea because he was your boyfriend!

‘im sharing my location’

it doesnt take long until you see the tall figure of your boyfriend peeking out from the locked door, he sticks his face right up to the glass door, his eyes squinting as if trying to see into the dark store. you surprise him by opening the door, causing him to nearly trip forward. thankfully catching himself just before he embarrassed himself not only in front of you but also the other shoppers.

“what are you doing? you’re so goofy.” you close and lock the door again when he comes in, he looks around the store, in awe.

“woah, all the windows are one-sided.”

you shrug, some stores were just like that. you didn’t pay it any mind as you continued to do your check-up on the store. soobin did his mini check-up on the store too, which was really just him roaming around and browsing the racks of clothing.

“they have lingerie.”

his voice rang out from the other side of the store, and at first you just roll your eyes at him. what a pervert, of course the first thing he does is oogle at the store’s extensive collection of sexy clothing.

“what? you wanna try it on?” you just joke without a thought, hands busy setting up a shelf of socks. when there was no reply for a while, you take a concerned glance over his direction, only to see him intensely staring at a white lacy panty. blush on his cheeks.

he didn’t even notice you making your way to his direction, until you were right in front of him, he seems to startle back to life— shoving the panty roughly back into the rack— failing miserably as the clothing misses and falls flat to the floor. he looks guilty and embarrassed, a sheepish smile on his face, eyes wide.

you slowly pick up the item. holding it up and observing it, before your eyes rake up his body and to his eyes.

“put it on.”

his breath hitches at your change of tone, eyes glancing down to the lingerie and then at you. you beckon the item closer until he takes it into his shaky hands, stepping back, towards the changing room—

“no, here. put it on here.”

you stop him, finger pointing at where you stood. he nervously shuffles, glancing repeatedly down at the panty and then at you.

“we’re… in public” he stammers, you turn your head to the large window expanse, just outside was a bustling crowd of shoppers, some taking a look at the closed store. their laughter and chatting muffled.

“it’s one-sided, remember. give them a show.”

you smirk at him, and he gulps down his nervousness. slowly, a tenacious hand comes up and he unbuttons his shirt. his eyes keeps shifting up to your gaze, and then the window as he exposed his chest. then came his pants, when he lowered down to his boxers, you whistled. he was hard, precum wetting the fabric and outlining the clear figure of his cock. he shyly kicks his remaining pants off, it takes a little more mental preparation before he makes progress on his boxers. your eyes eat his body up hungrily, devouring the way his lean body shifted, nervous sweat running down his chest. the way his exposed dick twitched as it hit the cool air. he slips on the lacy panty, precum immediately wetting the fabric.

“i’m done.” he nervously mumbled, feeling more exposed with the panty on. you lick your lips habitually, hands coming up to stroke his sides. you take him by the waist, pressing his back to your chest as you walk him up to the window. he immediately freezes, shoulders bunched as his big eyes glance at the faces of each passerby. two high school girls had walked up and started to check themselves out in the window.

you could feel his fear as you fondle him through the fabric, his body was trembling, hands sweaty and stomach stiff. you lick a strip of his nape up to his ear. “look soobin, they’re staring at you.”

a low whimper trembles out from his lips, and his legs nearly give out under him if it werent for you holding him up. you stroke up from his chest down to his stomach and navel, playing with the band of his panty. causing his whole body to shiver.

snap.

he jolts, breath quickening when he realises one of the girls had taken a photo. your hand shoves down into his underwear and grasps his cock, the other hand sliding behind and playing with the rim of his hole, sliding a finger in and you realise he was already loose. he moans out loudly this time, before quickly biting his lips in realisation, they couldn’t see, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear.

“did you already prepare yourself?”

you raise an eyebrow, he nods.

“what a slut. did you come here expecting something?”

he nods again, biting down on his lips. you undo your belt, letting your hard cock slap onto his back. he glances behind to look at you with desperate eyes, your hand slips away from his hole, coming up to move his head back to the front, forcing him to look at the innocent faces of the two girls while he commits this sinful act. another moan slips out when you start to languidly stroke his cock, your thumb and index finger kneading at his pink nipple.

another snap.

this time the two girls aimed it lower, as if they were photographing soobin’s exposed cock. his gaze travels down on his body and the view was downright sinful. your long fingers grasped at his cock, playing with his length while the other tweaked at his nipple. you slip your length into his hole, fitting snugly. he jerks, pressing his ass back into your length, desperately rutting against you. he looks down again and eyes the red head of his cock, contrasting with the white panty, while just above it was two innocent friends enjoying their day out, having no idea what devious act was being committed right in front of their eyes. his breath hitches and his stomach clenches.

without warning you start to thrust in and out of him, he moans as his grip on the glass slips, relying on you to keep him upright. you pull him so his back was flush with your chest, before suddenly hoisting his legs and holding him up by his thighs, his knees leaned on the glass, forcing him to spread wide apart, hard cock flopping up and down with the motion. his crotch was right by the camera of their phone, and he shivers at the thought of the capabilities of the apple camera, if just by chance, the phone captures something out of the ordinary behind the glass. would they recognize him? his abdomen tightens.

“coming! please i’m coming!” he couldn’t help the intensity in his breathy voice and you speed up your pace, your fingers digging into his thighs, and for a moment the only thing you could hear in the store was the wet slapping of skin and the breathy cute moans of soobin. “are you going to come in front of everyone soobin?”

he groans lowly, ass squeezing hard on your cock as he comes onto the window. you come soon after, groaning as the warm substance fills his stomach and encases your dick. the two girls giggle to each other, talking about who knows what before they walked away. he gasps out, legs still trembling at his intense orgasm, mind fucked out as you pull out, dragging him away from the window. his tall figure slumped over yours as you situate him onto a chair. you take some nearby tissues, wiping yourself and him to the best of your ability.

“oh my god…” he breathes out after a bit. you help him slip off the item of lingerie, you’ll apologise to your friend later… for now you’ll buy this underwear, he did look awfully pretty in it. you just chuckle at him, a knowing smile.

“good?”

“amazing.” he looked like he meant it very much.

“great, because you better clean that window up.”

he jumps up, taking a cleaning cloth- “with! your clothes on” you interrupt him, chuckling at his sheepish smile as he quickly step into his pants and shirt.

“what should we do with that panty?”

“wanna put it back on?”

“no!- well, not now!”

“so that’s a maybe?”

he gives you a sneaky look. such a perverted guy, you thought.

“maybe.”

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myfandomrealitea · 3 months

Note

hi! just asking your opinion on RPF, i’m very very new to the proship/fanfic community and really don’t know how to feel abt it. i haven’t heard anyone’s takes on it so far so i’d love to hear your thoughts!

RPF is just another form of fiction. Its no different to any kind of other fictional literature, fandom space, creative action, ect. The people are, essentially, just characters. You're using them to tell a story.

A lot of people's issue with RPF comes into play because of individuals who ignore the proper etiquette behind RPF and ruin it for everyone. The general concern is that unlike fictional characters, real people are capable of seeing what you create and getting upset, offended or angry over it.

This is where its important to remember the following rules regarding RPF:

Never send RPF to the people whom it concerns, people close to them or people in reasonable contact with them. Personally, even if an actor has said they don't mind RPF about themselves, I wouldn't push it on them. Accepting something's existence isn't always the same as wanting to be invested or involved in it.

Similar to above, make sure you're not tagging them or using searches the person is known to frequent. (E.g; if you're posting ship art, don't tag the people involved.)

Where possible, keep RPF to closed-off websites like AO3 and Tumblr where the people involved would actually have to go looking for it in order to be exposed to it. (Sites like X are next to impossible to actually curate and monitor and are awful for this kind of thing.)

Ensure you are properly tagging and marking your content so in the instance it can't fully be prevented from reaching the person/people, they are explicitly aware of what it is. (Another reason why sites like Tumblr and AO3 are simply the best option.)

Anyone who is famous will be aware that there are people who view them and use their image sexually. Every single famous person knows this. In industries like kpop, even, bromances are actively marketed because they know its lucrative and sought after.

Famous people are also more than aware of how to avoid content they don't want to see. They're aware of sites like AO3 and know once they go there its a lawless (albeit well tagged) wasteland of hardcore smut and the unimaginable. They know if they don't want to see certain things they simply have to stay away from certain platforms, tags, key words, ect.

Famous people aren't helpless little ducklings accidentally stumbling upon twisted non-con fanfic of them and their colleagues on an hourly basis like some people assume.

Although RPF is just another form of fiction is does require a bit more respect, conduct and consideration. That's all.

#myfandomrealitea #sephiroth speaks #fandom #proship #reality #proshipping #RPF #real person fiction #shipping real people #profic #profiction #fiction #fanfiction #fanart

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steddieas-shegoes · 6 months

Text

i wanna be a good boy

for @subeddieweek day two with the prompts cockwarming and first times

rated e | 3,319 words | please check ao3 for tags

Day one: ao3 | tumblr

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

One month.

One month was all it took for Eddie to fall entirely down the Steve rabbit hole.

They talked on the phone every night for a week after the school incident, and most of it wasn’t even dirty.

And then Steve showed up at his door, much to the shock and awe of Eddie himself, and they started hanging out. Like friends.

It was weird, even Wayne thought so, but Eddie was gonna keep this going for as long as he could get away with.

One day– a Friday, Eddie would never forget –Steve showed up at nearly ten at night, much later than usual. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d be by at all, even mentioned that he and Robin might hang out after their shift.

But there he was standing at Eddie’s door.

“Not that you’re not welcome, but uh, what are you doing here?” Eddie asked, standing at the door with his sweatpants on, torn up tank top hanging off of him in maybe the most unattractive way possible.

“Sorry, I can go. I just um, I had kind of a bad day? Just needed to-”

“Oh, you wanted weed? I just restocked, actually, even managed to grab a few edibles this time. Those are pretty rare for our neck of the woods, but I’ll slip you one for free if you promise not to tell anyone I pick favorites,” Eddie winked, backing up to let Steve in.

“No, uh, not weed. Is your uncle home? I didn’t see his truck,” Steve still stood at the door awkwardly, hands in his pockets.

“Nope, working a couple night shifts this week to cover for his buddy. They keep talkin’ about switching him to nights permanently, but hopefully he says no. He’s too old for that shit.”

Suddenly, his back met the wall behind him, shaking the mugs hanging up dangerously. The door slammed closed and Steve’s hands were on him again.

“Uh-”

“Remember how we talked about the things we were into? And you said you’d never gotten to try much?” Steve’s breath was hot against Eddie’s face.

Eddie’s dick was twitching in his pants as he nodded.

“Could we try something?”

“What-” Eddie swallowed. “What did you wanna try?”

“You remember when you said you wanted someone to use your mouth?”

Oh fuckin’ Christ.

He thought back to the conversation they’d had only a week before, high out of their minds, talking about their experiences and what they were into, what they thought they’d be into, what they weren’t into at all. It was enlightening, and Eddie had stripped his cock until he was numb after Steve went home.

He admitted to Steve that there was something special about knowing the person who is using you cares about you, that you’ve trusted this person enough to do whatever they want with you knowing that they would never go past your comfort zone on purpose. It wasn’t necessarily about getting off, or even getting the other person off, it was just about knowing he could make someone feel good, be useful, cherish someone in a physical way.

Steve didn’t have much to say to that, but did admit he’d always wondered if he’d be into cockwarming.

Eddie hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I…do remember that, yes,” Eddie’s breath left him as Steve crowded him further against the wall, his arms resting on either side of Eddie’s head, boxing him in.

“You wanna try that with me?”

Yeah, obviously. Eddie dreamed about this, literally for years. Sucking on Steve’s dick until he couldn’t think of anything except the weight of it on his tongue? Sign him the fuck up.

But a small part of his brain still fought him on it, screaming that this was a bad idea, that nothing good could possibly come from being that vulnerable with someone he was pretty sure he was falling in love with.

“You can say no,” Steve backed away an inch or so, gave him room to breathe, to think, goddammit.

Eddie could say no. He could remember that this wasn’t a relationship, and probably never would be. They were friends, and Eddie’s unfortunate pining was not mutual.

Steve even said he’d had a bad day, probably just needed to let off some steam.

Eddie could help with that.

“No, we can do it. Stoplight system?” Eddie asked. God, he was gonna regret this.

“Yeah. One tap for green, two for yellow, three for red.”

Oh, yeah. He wouldn’t be able to talk with Steve’s dick in his mouth. Right.

“Where should we-” Eddie was nervous. His palms were sweaty, which was gross, and his heart was racing, which was probably close to a medical emergency.

“Where are you most comfortable, Eds?” Steve’s hands grasped his, sweat and all, and Eddie felt himself relax against the wall.

“My room.”

Steve’s lips brushed against his, reassuring in their silent strength. He led him down the short hallway to his bedroom, gently closing the door behind them.

Eddie let himself pretend that this was special, that this was only for them, that Steve never shared himself like this with anyone else. He’d feel the pain of the truth tomorrow, when the sun brought it along as it rose and Eddie woke up alone.

For now, he’d be here with Steve, making him feel good.

“On the bed or on your knees?” Steve asked, pushing his hair away from his face and holding his head steady so he couldn’t look away. Somehow, Steve already knew him well enough to know that facing these things head on was a difficult task. He wouldn’t let him run.

“Knees.”

If he was gonna have this, they should go all out.

Steve grabbed a pillow from Eddie’s bed, the one he always used when they were laying in it getting high together, and placed it on the floor. Eddie watched him unbutton his pants, no hint of shame or nerves.

Eddie felt like he was vibrating out of his skin, but Steve just seemed calm.

“I’m gonna sit here so we can find where it’s comfortable, okay?” Steve asked as he sat on the edge of Eddie’s bed, now naked from the waist down.

Eddie nodded, suddenly feeling shy. When had he ever been shy before?

“You’ve gotta use words, okay?”

“Sorry, yeah. That’s fine.”

“‘S fine.” Steve spread his legs so Eddie could kneel on the pillow between them. “Look at me.”

Fuck.

Eddie had sucked a dick before. On his knees even. But it was nothing like this, no one like Steve.

Steve was staring down at him with something similar to awe, and Eddie couldn’t handle it.

What right did Steve have to look at him like that, from his place above, ready to be worshiped by a person who never learned how to look up at a god for guidance? How could he look down at Eddie on his knees and see anything worthy?

He wouldn’t ask him, but he wondered.

He wondered how he’d crash back to earth after.

His cock was already hard, but there was no sense of urgency in the way Steve’s fingers scratched at his scalp. He wasn’t tugging him closer, wasn’t telling him to do anything.

He just watched and waited.

Eddie scooted in closer, not tearing his eyes from Steve’s, not wanting to lose this feeling yet.

He leaned in, bent over just enough at the waist to brush his lips against the tip of his cock, eyes still locked with Steve.

“You can taste, baby.”

Fuck, again.

The whimper that escaped him was muffled by his lips closing around the tip, tongue pressing against the precum trying to drip down his length.

He’d heard that Steve was confident, saw it firsthand in the school halls. He had no fucking clue that Steve could do this.

His hand in Eddie’s hair tightened, but he still didn’t tug or push him further down on his cock. His eyes closed for a moment as he moaned.

Eddie wanted to drink that sound, find a way to swallow it with his cum, make it a part of him a ls a reminder that he made Steve sound like that. Steve’s eyes blinked open, pupils blown and cheeks flushed a soft pink.

“Your mouth is perfect. So lucky you’re letting me have this,” Steve muttered, sounding damn near delusional.

Eddie knew he was pretty good at this, but he’d barely even gotten Steve in his mouth. He knew Steve had a bit of a dry spell recently, but this was being a little dramatic.

But he let the praise wash over him anyways, settling into the warmth spreading through his chest and stomach at the words.

“Take what you can but don’t suck. Just get used to it.” Steve was breathless as Eddie sunk further down.

He was big, but Eddie was already feeling a little cloudy, and he’d practiced on a lot of bananas back in the day, so he didn’t stop until his nose was nestled against his pubes.

Steve’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his hand flexing against the bedsheet to keep from flexing in his hair.

Eddie swallowed. Steve groaned.

“Fuck, you’re so warm. Feel so good,” Steve looked down at him and smiled encouragingly. “You good? Need to move?”

Eddie tapped once on Steve’s thigh.

“Good. You’re doing so good. Just relax. I got you, baby,” Steve was barely speaking louder than a whisper, but the words sent vibrations through Eddie’s entire body.

He finally let his eyes close and let the thoughts fly away.

The only thing he could hear was the occasional intake of breath when Eddie swallowed around Steve’s cock. He didn’t do it as often as he probably should, but it was hard to remember to do it until the spit was dripping from his mouth and making a mess.

Steve kept a hand in his hair the entire time, sometimes just a calm reminder that he was there paying attention and sometimes to dig his nails in and remind him where he was. Despite how he felt, he was still on the floor of his bedroom, making sure Steve’s cock stayed hard and warm in his mouth.

He sometimes found the energy to swirl his tongue around the sides, cataloging the whines that left Steve’s lips when he did.

The world didn’t exist beyond the feeling of Steve’s cock on his tongue and the sounds Steve let out. Eddie slowly let his head fall to the side, resting on Steve’s thigh, only managing to keep half of Steve’s length inside when he did.

But Steve just pet his hair, traced his cheeks and lips, whispered that he was doing good.

Eddie drifted far, but Steve knew exactly when to pull him back.

“Hey, Eds,” he said softly. “Let’s give your mouth a rest, okay?”

Steve’s hand gently pulled Eddie’s head away, a quiet popping noise making it obvious when Steve’s cock fell from his lips.

He whined and pushed forward, trying to get it back in his mouth. He didn’t wanna be done. He liked floating here with Steve.

“I know, baby. You did so good. But it’s time to take a break.” Steve’s thumb rubbed against his cheek, pausing at the corner of his mouth before pushing in. Eddie moaned, sucking it further in so he didn’t feel so empty. “If you’re good, I’ll fuck your face and come in your mouth.”

Well, Eddie could be good if that was the reward.

Steve pulled his thumb from his mouth and rested his hand against his cheek.

He watched as Eddie slowly came back to himself, to the world around them, to Steve.

“Hey, Eds,” soft, fond, too much for Eddie.

“Hey, Stevie,” too in love, too infatuated, too obsessed.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.” Steve’s smile was distracting, and Eddie couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. An explosion could happen behind him and he’d still only have eyes for Steve. “Can I get my mouth on you?”

Wait.

What?

Steve wanted…he…what?

“It’s okay to say no, Eddie. It just looks like you could use it,” Steve glanced down at Eddie’s lap. Eddie lifted his head from Steve’s thigh to see what he meant and was actually surprised to see his own cock tenting his pants, a dark wet spot making it very obvious how much he’d been leaking. “I can take care of you. You earned it, Eds.”

See, the thing is, no one had ever sucked Eddie’s dick. Not a single person he’d fooled around with had returned the favor because they were “in a rush” or it “wasn’t the dom’s job.” Eddie wasn’t stupid; He knew those were just excuses for them to get off and run.

But Steve Harrington of all people offering to suck him off. What fucking universe was he living in?

“No, I-” Eddie was gonna just have to admit it. “No one’s ever done that for me. So it may be over quick.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “No one? But you said- you’ve done some of this stuff before.”

“Yeah, yeah. But like, only giving, never receiving? I mean one handjob in a bathroom stall once, but the guy didn’t even spit in his hand first. I like pain, but that was…not the best.” Eddie scrunched up his nose at the reminder of the sensitivity he felt for two days after that. Hopefully the guy learned some basic manners for the next poor guy he got his hand on. “I don’t wanna disappoint you.”

The floating sensation he’d had was mostly gone now, replaced with nerves and an overwhelming need to please Steve.

“You wouldn’t. The only thing that would disappoint me is if I didn’t make you feel good.” Steve turned Eddie’s face back up towards him. “I don’t care if it takes five seconds or five hours. I wanna make you come.”

Eddie should actually say no. This would be the final nail in the coffin, he could tell. If Steve got his mouth on him, no one else would ever live up to it, and since he could never keep Steve permanently, he should say no.

“Okay.”

Steve’s face lights up, his grin contagious as Eddie smiles back at him.

“Get on the bed,” Steve orders, though the smile stops him from sounding demanding. “Make yourself comfy.”

Of all the times Eddie had pictured Steve in his bed, it was not like this. He’d always pictured himself being thrown around, fucked until he was begging to stop from oversensitivity, riding Steve until his legs were shaking too much to keep going. He’d pictured waking up to Steve entering his still stretched hole, after hours of being fucked the night before.

He’d never pictured having Steve’s mouth on him, hadn’t dared to.

Eddie did what Steve asked, keeping himself near the center of the bed so Steve had plenty of room.

Steve leaned over him, covering his entire body, his chest hair brushing against Eddie’s and making goosebumps appear across his skin. It was already too much, even without pressure on his cock.

Lips against his neck, teeth biting into his skin with just enough pressure to leave marks. Hands sliding down his sides and pulling his sweats off his hips. A groan as Steve took in Eddie’s length as it twitched against his stomach.

“You’re perfect.”

The words sunk deep into Eddie’s brain, making a home there for him to find comfort during the times when he forgot that he was good.

Steve’s lips trailed down his chest. He didn’t move slowly, probably could guess that Eddie was too close for teasing or taking his time with him.

“You can come whenever you want, okay? Don’t wait for permission. This is your permission.”

God, this was gonna be so embarrassing. Hopefully, Steve meant what he said.

And if he didn’t, hopefully he at least had the decency to not make fun of him.

Steve nipped at his hip, pressing small kisses across his stomach before licking at his tip.

Eddie’s thighs tensed and his hands gripped the sheets under him.

Just breathe.

Steve’s hands pushed his legs further apart, as far as they would go with his sweats still half on.

Eddie knew he was good at giving head. There were few things he was confident about, but that was one of them. That, and his guitar playing.

But Steve was incredible.

He was born for this.

He knew exactly how to swirl his tongue, exactly how much to suck before taking more.

When he moaned with Eddie halfway down his throat, it was over.

It was a damn shame, too. Eddie wanted to experience hours of this.

But it felt too good and Steve did tell him to come as soon as he needed to.

Steve didn’t even choke when he came down his throat, just moaned again and swallowed it.

Eddie did his best not to buck his hips up, but he was only human, and Steve was still sucking well past the point of his orgasm being over. He was sensitive, okay?

Finally, when Eddie managed to get a hand in Steve’s hair and tug gently, he let Eddie’s softening cock fall from his mouth as he looked up grinning.

“Was that okay?” he had the audacity to ask, as if he hadn’t just sucked the soul out of Eddie’s cock.

“No, it sucked,” Eddie deadpanned, surprisingly breathless still.

“Ha.” Steve moved back up his body, covering him. “But seriously. Was it good?”

“Stevie, I have absolutely nothing to compare it to except fantasies and you outdid those. So yeah. I’d say it was good,” Eddie closed his eyes, smiling to himself as he felt Steve’s weight press on him from above.

Lips brushed against his forehead and then Steve’s weight was gone.

“No, come back,” Eddie opened his eyes and reached his hands out, searching for Steve’s skin.

“I’m just grabbing you a drink, Eds.”

A drink? Eddie didn’t need a drink.

Well, maybe he did. His throat was a little scratchy, and he felt a bit lightheaded.

Steve was back before he could do a full evaluation on his body’s needs, glass of water in hand.

He couldn’t help the ogling, and he wouldn’t deny that’s what he was doing if asked.

Steve was still hard, cock straining against his underwear. Eddie should do something about that.

“Will you fuck my face?” He asked before he even took a sip of the water Steve handed him.

“Maybe if you drink all of that water,” Steve slid into bed next to him, turning on his side as he watched Eddie take a few sips. “Don’t want you to drop.”

“I won’t. I’m good,” Eddie was not too good for begging, especially not when he still felt tingles up and down his spine as Steve kept his eyes on him.

“I know you’re good, but doing too much at once can hurt you so we’re gonna take a minute.”

He knew Steve was right, but he felt better than ever. He was ready.

He still didn’t argue, knew better than to risk Steve saying no altogether.

Steve held the water as Eddie settled further into the sheets, moving the pillow so his head was resting against it, but still sitting up enough to avoid falling asleep.

Or so he thought.

The moment his head hit the pillow, his eyes felt heavy.

Steve’s voice was distant as he asked if he was okay.

“Jus’ restin’ my eyes,” Eddie mumbled.

“Sounds good, baby.”

If Eddie were more awake, he probably would have heard the smirk in Steve’s tone, maybe would’ve realized that Steve was aware he was losing a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting.

He slipped into unconsciousness with Steve’s fingers in his hair and his warmth in his bed.

Day three: ao3 | tumblr

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #subeddieweek #sub eddie munson #dom steve harrington

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motherofagony · 1 year

Text

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 1

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 5.6k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: life goes on after raiders infiltrate a routine patrol. you're a shut-in, and jackson residents tiptoe around your trauma. joel found you after the accident, but you don't know what to make of it. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, mentions of trauma (no s/a, i promise), blood, bodily injuries, death, shitty men, dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension if you close one eye, the softest enemies to lovers you've ever seen vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: longtime listener, first time caller. yes, there will be smut — in due time. probably a slower burn than you're used to on tumblr dot com, but there will be porn galore, i promise. heavy on the hurt + comfort trope in this one. thank you for reading, i hope you enjoy.

“Get the fuck up!”

The boot connects with your side again, the rounded toe slamming into ribs you’re sure are already broken. You’re trying to play dead, but it doesn’t exactly work when yelps are being kicked out of you. Old Yeller, of all fucking things, comes to mind.

But you’re not sick, not infected. Just wrong time, wrong place.

Blood pools sticky under your head. Voices are filtering in like an untuned radio, gathering static and making you nauseous. Like it’s all one bad hangover or a lucid dream in a realm too far.

“Where are the others?”

Someone else asks the question that you’ve been concentrating on. The knob turns, clearing the radio fuzz just so. You strain to hear, but you don’t dare open your eyes.

“Dead. Not shit on ‘em that was worth stealin’. We gotta fuckin’ go — just leave her.”

A vague twang of Boston wraps around his words. You’d forgotten what it sounded like, how the rs get caught in the back of the tongue and dropped. How the voweled aws are spit at you, the shell of your ear growing numb against the icy concrete.

Yes, you think. Fucking leave me.

The raider that’s been torturing you for what feels like hours groans as if it’s an inconvenience, an interruption to something he was thoroughly enjoying. Whatever he would’ve done, continued doing, taunts the crevices of your mind. He digs through your bag one last time, and you don’t know what he’s looking for or if there would have been anything at all that would have satisfied him the first time.

You remember a sliver of skin where his sleeve had bunched, revealing a shitty coupling of star tattoos on his wrist. You can feel your icepick heartbeat behind your eyes, and you wonder if it was a dare over a few beers. A matching tattoo with a lover. The thought lifts you up and out of the crushing burden of pushing air into clenched lungs, only for a moment. It’s no name to grab hold of, but it’s an identifier if you can make it out alive.

He’d crept up behind you while you were clearing a warehouse that you swore you’d be fine doing by yourself, pushing the cold barrel of something painfully familiar into the back of your head. He was tall, unflinching, unworried, too practiced. He helped you slip the straps of your backpack off your shoulders but staggeringly violent and unkind. Feeling you up for weapons with a disgusting leisure. As if you’d be hiding something gun-sized in your small back pocket.

You’d heard panic and screams outside, and you already knew. Voices outnumbered your friends, and it was almost – almost – funny to think that Tommy said the three of you would be one too many for patrol.

So, when exactly two gunshots hit their targets, it only took you seconds to figure out the score.

Something significant cracked in you then. Started in your chest and splintered to your heart, head, down to the tips of your toes. There was no fighting back, and you were next.

Now — fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, bloodied face, broken wrist, and one concussion later, here you find yourself. The tall one has a thick mustache, something sinister and villainous that seems too stereotypical even for this. At some point there had been a shift, and what started as a robbery now felt like killing for sport.

“Fine. Think she’s dead anyway.”

He kicks you one more time for the cinematic pleasure of it all.

This time you don’t wince, don’t feel a jerk or twitch betray you. The muscle in your jaw is so tense, the teeth grinding so hard into one another that you expect to open your mouth to a cloud of dust.

An agony you’ve only ever seen in movies is wringing every cell dry. It’s seizing, unrelenting, almost an exorcism in the tensing and writhing of it all. But you keep it beneath the surface, barely clinging to the little control you have.

You try to count the footsteps that are finally retreating, to breathe around the blood in your nose both dried and fresh. It feels like measuring the closeness of thunder and lightning, some kind of correlation with the distance of a storm.

The group trails outside, and heavier footsteps of your stolen horses lead them away. Onto the next. Breath idles in your chest, and the clarity that you think will come when you finally unstick your eyelids doesn’t. Everything feels swollen, scorched, raw. Nerve endings clipped and lapped up by the unrelenting lick of wind. A scream climbs up your throat, but the pain isn’t worth the exhale. And you don’t want them to come back for round two.

You drag the dead weight of your limbs out to inspect what you know to be true, and it’s nothing but bloody snow angels and twisted, awkward angles of your friends. You can’t even look at them, turning your head and squeezing your swollen eyes shut when you check for pulses that aren’t there.

Snowflakes collect on your lashes and drip pink down your face.

—

Daylight wanes, languid and impatient. It’s been hours trying to retrace your steps back to Jackson, the blood loss slowing you to a stop every five dizzying minutes. Your feet trick you into standing, only for your knees to buckle and bring you down into the snow. Teetering on the cliff of willfully alive and mercifully dead. There isn’t pain anymore, not really, and you’re grateful for the numbing cold, but you can feel your body threatening to cave in on itself.

Tears don’t come as much as you beg for them, for any type of release that’ll ground you. Enough time has ticked by that someone has to notice an absence of three, but you can’t be sure that you’re even on the right path anymore to meet them in the middle.

When they find you, if they ever find you, at least they’ll know you tried.

There’s a comfort in that, a warmth that reaches out and grabs you and folds you in like a blanket. It’s safe here, it says. Just lie down for a minute. And you don’t fight it.

Someone’s calling your name now, and it’s a gentle tug back into consciousness. There are frantic hands on your face, delicate and urgent when they take inventory of your wounds. When they say death greets you, maybe it’s this.

But there’s a Texas drawl that’s murmuring you’re okay, I’ve got you and I know, I know it hurts and shouting instructions to someone else that’s lifting you up, up, up.

Your fingertips scrape a stubbled jaw when you’re pulled away. The light dims like a blown-out candle. And you’re falling, grasping at anything, everything, nothing.

You forget the rest.

—

Ten months pass, dripping into spring, then summer, and meeting autumn at its doorstep.

Everything has healed, down to the last scratch. That day feels hazy, and you’d assume it was a hallucination if not for the two friends that didn’t come back with you. The recovery was just as strange, trauma shielding you from the gory parts but not the guilt. Never the guilt.

Sometimes, you test the memory, prod at it, but nothing new comes to the surface. No recollection of who they were, where they were going, if they were anything more than nameless thieves. It’s probably better this way, but there’s no way of knowing if that’s true.

Fistfuls of flowers collected on your porch, and they seemed to appear out of thin air because no one ever came with them. Anonymous condolences that didn’t want to be seen, and it was an easy guess as to why. You heard rumors, retellings of what happened without much accuracy, but there was nothing to say to correct them. Some of them were angry, and you let them be. Call it penance, undeserved or not.

Ellie would visit occasionally, sometimes Tommy. You let her play guitar without saying a word, let him bring you books to keep you occupied. Everyone else dodged you, and you didn’t know if it was discomfort or because you were the only one left alive to blame. Probably both.

Since then, they’d kept you busy elsewhere. Projects that hadn’t been projects before suddenly popped up. More hands in the stables for getting horses ready for patrol. Planting vegetables and flowers for food and morale. Playing doctor when the patrols would come back with minor injuries from staving off infected. Being underfoot at the Tipsy Bison, picking up shifts when there was a movie night or some string-lit illuminated get-together.

Slinking into the shadows and being the ambient background noise in everyone else’s conversations.

You didn’t have the heart to tell them that you had the farthest thing from a green thumb, that you couldn’t bartend for shit, that the most nurse-like thing you’d ever done was slap a band-aid on a skinned knee.

An otherness that weighed so heavy you thought it would be better to crush you. Poison that bloomed in the belly of a tight-knit community that didn’t know what shelf to put you on. Who felt like collective trauma was part of the deal, and this was just yours.

But it softened the blow of your abrupt uselessness. You let it happen. Becoming competent was better than peeking out from drawn curtains. Better than sleeping with your eyes open, watching everyone around you move on while you couldn’t.

While nightmares claw their way up your chest at night and leave you in a cold sweat, flicking on every light that’ll burn to make sure you’re really, truly alone.

The roar of laughter snaps you out of the trance, breaks the eye contact you were making with your fireplace. You wonder absently if you’d tuned out the rest or if everyone had finally huddled together in front of the projector down the road for tonight’s showing of whatever DVD was looted during this week’s patrol. You didn’t usually mind — sometimes even joined when Ellie had enough of your sulking and all but kicked your door in — but tonight feels like an organized, cruel punishment.

You pry yourself from your couch, knocking over the stack of books on your way to the coat rack. Anaïs Nin pierces you with a glare, rotting where you left her. You slip each arm into a heavy coat, tucking one of the books into your bag with a lone cigarette as a makeshift bookmark. It’s cold as fuck tonight, but maybe you’ll linger a little longer after closing down the bar. Maybe you’ll wait until the crowd outside dies down to sneak back into your house, light another fire, and count down the hours until your shift at the stables.

Bartending tonight should be quiet, hopefully only encountering a few regulars that usually kept to themselves and tipped you for doing the same.

You steal one more warm moment before opening the door and stepping into the flinching cold, taking note of the way words stutter and lose traction when your face registers with the nearby crowd. There always seems to be a vacancy of pleasantries. And you don’t exactly invite them.

Tommy gives you a sympathetic look, tipping his chin up in a half-nod. Ellie lifts a few fingers in a wave, knowing you don’t want the pity but hate the suffocation of nothing at all. You will the corners of your mouth to quirk in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and force your legs into a normal pace, almost locking your knees so you don’t break into a run. The debt of an overdue visit with them burrows in your chest.

The Jaws theme song hums ominously, and you think it’s only fitting.

A few people litter the bar when you meet the cozy blanket of peanut-shelled air of the Tipsy Bison. A pool cue cracks against a ball and sends it clattering into a group of others, a low crackle of some country something crooning out of the jukebox. You shed your coat and your bag in the back, washing your hands under scorching water to shake some feeling back into your bones.

“Just a few tonight. Been slow – you’ll probably be out early. What’s playin’?”

You smile at the thick, syrupy Southern mama accent by your side. Cheryl is no-nonsense, usually slips you a little extra at the end of your shifts, and feigns ignorance of anything about the ugly parts of your past. All she cares about is that you’re eating. There is an undying gratitude for Cheryl.

“Ah. Jaws, I think.”

She seems to read your mind with a laugh, patting your shoulder affectionately like only a mother can.

“Maybe I’ll go join the sharks. Joel just got here, wants a whiskey ‘fore I head out. You know him,” Cheryl tuts, almost rolling her eyes but you know she likes the caretaker role if you’re any indication.

And you do. You do know him.

Joel keeps to himself almost as much as you do, maybe a little less when it comes to Ellie and Tommy. He’s sort of your catty-cornered neighbor, but not the sugar-asking kind. More like the kind that glances in your direction, holds your stare for a beat too long, and abruptly looks away before anything discernible can appear.

The closest you ever come to saying anything of substance to each other is when you ready his horse for patrols and intercept it when he’s back safe and sound. You try not to let him catch your gaze shifting to that shiny scar on his head, and you stifle down the question that’s none of your business.

Maybe he does the same for you.

And maybe he was there and saved you that day, but neither one of you has ever mentioned it since. You don’t know how, and there’s a brick wall around the subject that won’t let you. Enough time has passed that you figure he’d have said something if he gave a shit.

Yet, there’s a deep yearning for his approval, his attention. It’s a mystery even to you, when you think about how savagely indifferent you are to anyone else’s. But you think it’s the magnetism of having him as a witness. The way he could vindicate you and give you an alibi, a heroic complex, but he doesn’t.

So, the idea that he’s one of the patrons that you can count on one hand tonight… you can’t put a name to what it’s doing to you.

Cheryl makes sure that you’re okay, but she doesn’t linger. She packs up her things with haste, jogging through the cold to join her wife in front of the bonfire.

No one really pays you any mind as you start your closing duties early, and it’s doubtful that the seats will fill any more than they are as the party picks up outside.

Joel sits at the corner of the bar that faces you, and he’s down to a knuckle’s length of whiskey. If he were anyone else, you might wonder why he’s not at the bonfire — but it’s Joel. Social anythings are like a second plague to him.

The thought of having to refill his drink vibrates in the back of your mind, and lead fills your stomach. Small talk that you never quite have with him. It dissipates just as quickly, when you see the way he’s fixed on the sweat gathering on his glass instead of anything else, and when a gust of wind comes in as the door opens.

Max. Anxiety snaps in your rib cage like a rubber band. Something acrid hits the back of your throat and you think it might be blood the way your teeth connect with the soft tissue of your cheek.

Max had been a recurring character in your bed once. Before. It was never more than convenience, and the way you fucked wasn’t love, not even close. Liberating to think that you never neared the edge of feeling anything except his hand pressing your face into a pillow, performing orgasms that never came.

There’s no carcass of affection left, so devoid of emotion for him that it feels like a severed limb.

He’s all ego and athletic strength, sauntering up to the bar with a gait that reeks of hours of pregaming. There’s a permanent sneer when he addresses you, a coldness that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Tequila. Two doubles.”

He’s the type to twist the knife of your tragedy in even deeper, making sure to hit all vital organs. The first to question what more you could have done to save his friends, blaming you for leaving them there to die as if they weren’t dead the moment raiders showed up. As if you weren’t almost dead. Anything you’ve said in defense is inconceivable, an excuse, an admission of guilt. He mourns at your expense and often.

Jackson trudges forward, but Max forces you to stay in grief and remember.

“I think you’ve had your fill this week. Drank through your ration on Tuesday, remember?” you say coolly, but a twinge of fatigue colors your tone, giving you away. You aren’t in the mood, and Max finds it easy to light flame to your resolve as-is.

Maria spends hours of careful inventory, and there’s been more than one occasion where you’ve been instructed to cut off a greedy drunk. The vice, the urge to drink in an apocalypse doesn’t really align with the limited stock, unfortunately.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly see Maria around, do you?” A jeer at face value, but you decide in the beat of silence that follows that rule enforcement isn’t worth it tonight. “Sounds like you’ll think of something. And you fuckin’ owe me one, don’t you? Or would you prefer I collect on that another time?”

It’s not worth it. You’re dropping your glare, squaring your jaw, lining up two glasses so that the rims clink. But the way your skin prickles, there’s an unwelcome visitor in his stare, an x-ray vision that you wished Max didn’t have.

Somewhere down the bar, glass slams against wood and something you know to be amber-colored sloshes.

You try to steady the angry tremble that overcomes your hands as you upturn the liquor bottle. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.

He holds the ration card to you, taunting you by pulling back when you reach for it, only to smirk and flick it toward you, uncaring of where it lands. You shove it into the mouth of the register with the violence you wish you were brave enough for.

“You can leave now.”

“That so? Mouthy now that you have an audience?” Max gestures cruelly to the grand total of four patrons, five if you counted Johnny Cash.

It stings, but dully. You’ve heard worse – even if not to your face – and it’s all kind of anti-climatic if you considered the low-budget production they always try to make out of you. The words eventually all sound the same, nothing punches quite the way they intend. Still, your cheeks burn as if on cue, and —

“She told you to get the fuck out.”

A low timbre erupts, easily mistaken as pure venom. There’s a sway in the way your senses glitch and then still, and reality swirls at the edge of your periphery. Pool balls stop their roll, murmured chatter ceases, and even the fucking jukebox settles on an instrumental to lean in and listen.

You dare to look over at Joel, whose demeanor looks more akin to statuesque and threatening than his curved slouch when you first clocked in. He’s standing, flexing his fists so hard that you think they might shatter.

Max backs off but subtly – you can see the way his puffed chest deflates even though his glare doesn’t. He finishes off one tequila before backing up with the other dangling in his fingers, both hands turned palm-out in mock surrender.

A deep annoyance plucks at his brow, but he knows he’s flirting with a black eye.

Max flashes a middle finger, lets his grip relax after downing the glass in his hand, and it crashes to the floor with a wincing shatter. He’s gone before you can string together any curses, and would it have mattered anyway?

Then, there’s scattering, the bar flies wordlessly agreeing that anywhere is better than the awkwardness of being here. Cards thrown down, beers drained, and there’s an uneasiness with the way they shuffle outside towards the rest of the group. A dance around the broken glass that isn’t their problem. You pretend not to notice, though you try to hide the redness that stains your cheeks as you bring a dust pan over to the mess.

You feel eyes on you and, all too suddenly, you realize that Joel didn’t follow them.

“Careful. Here, lemme do that.”

He’s kneeling, taking the pan from you. Knuckles brush yours a little too long and electrify, zapping you. You mutter something like thanks and it’s too ungrateful, too tired. A woodsy scent fills your nose, and you’re hard-pressed not to lean into his collar and bookmark it.

Glass slips into the trash with a tinkling, shimmering sound. You’re already back behind the bar, hands busying with something else, tidying up the already-tidy. Letting him slip outside with the crowd, heavy with satisfaction that he came to your rescue yet again.

But he’s sat back down, watching you with an odd intensity. He’s never assessed you like this, at least not that you’ve seen. A different sort of undressing than what Max gives you. You meet his eyeline warily. Vulnerable, waiting for your predator’s jaw to unhinge and devour you whole.

“He always talk to you that way?”

A quiet, lethal question hangs in the air, so quiet that you could’ve chalked it up to your imagination. But evidenced by the white-knuckled grip Joel has on his glass, the measured way he brings it to his lips, it was real. Controlled, scary even. But real.

Your mouth opens to answer, then closes. You consider in a beat’s time how it would sound to laugh it off, then stop yourself. It would be too forced, too desperate of a sound to be convincing. You’ve never been the unfeeling, unaffected type.

It’s clear that he knows the answer, has probably seen it with his own eyes, but it’s like he wants a green light to set his sights on some other more sinister and deserving prey.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s been through a lot,” you say, half to yourself. It’s easier this way.

“Does matter. So’ve you,” Joel says, even quieter, like he’s trying to contain an angry edge that threatens to bleed out. The calm is almost worse. In a way, you wish he would loosen the leash on his rage. Or break something to satisfy the urge in you that wants to do the same – you’d give him permission to do that. This is too unreadable and ambiguous, too much room left for agonizing interpretation in how he grits his teeth and pulses that muscle in his taut jaw. You want to yell, let out what’s long pent-up. Yes! Yes, it does fucking matter!

But you don’t. You keep the rag tight on the lip of the pint glass in your hand, rotating it past the point of needing to be cleaned. The rub of the microfiber cloth makes you itch, and your teeth scrape again at the inside of your cheek.

It leaves your mouth before you can catch it and shove it back down.

“Why do you care?”

Joel looks up at you now and you think that you’ve already overstepped during your first, real fucking conversation. He finishes off the whiskey and puts it back down carefully. He stands up, each slow step over to you spiking your blood pressure, your breath shifting into neutral.

It’s the way he’s fixated on you, a litmus test for any sarcasm. The way a chill creeps into the base of your spine and slithers up each vertebrae despite the warmth you feel below your waist. And when he comes behind the bar, reaches for the glass in your hand and puts it down gently, you wonder if that tug has always been there.

Fuck.

“You think I don’t care?”

Tiny hairs at your nape stand at attention in a near-salute. The web of intrusive thoughts tangles between you, and you’re acutely aware that this is the closest you’ve ever been to Joel Miller – that you’ve been conscious for. That feeling rushes back and bursts in your chest, the comforting honey in his voice that’s been haunting you since he found you crumpled in the snow.

The omnipresent, sharp tang of whiskey sticks to the slightly graying stubble that you want to reach out and touch. That you want to feel the scrape of in places that makes heat pool deep in your belly. His flannel is unbuttoned at the top, the column of his throat ridged and tense.

Focus.

“Why are you saying this now?” you say, and you want to hold your ground but his admission is akin to mesmerizing.

He thinks for a minute, his eyes smoothing over every angle in your face. They look past you, just over your shoulder, like he’s asking himself the same thing.

“Knew you could handle it. ‘Til you couldn’t anymore.”

There it is. You let it sink in, clicking that last piece into place. Always observing you from a safe distance, the buzz of something unsaid ringing in your ears when he’s around. How he listens to your interactions, but never too closely. Watching for weak spots. And tonight was the weakest of them all, letting yourself be humiliated by the only person that knew where to bite just right.

You feel laid bare, too seen. Pissed that he can witness your struggling, thrashing, drowning with outstretched arms and kicking feet and decide when and if he’ll pity you.

And this time, a laugh does slip out – humorless and breathy.

“The same way you can handle whatever’s making you drink alone on a Friday night? Don’t act so holier than thou, Joel. I’m the wrong one.”

“Watch it.”

You don’t mean it. Not really. But you’re so angry, a wasps’ nest that’s been taunted and poked at after being left to its own devices for too long. Sometimes violence feels more intimate. Safer.

And he’s using that gravelly, terse tone with you of all people, and you want to fucking lose your mind.

When he doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you and waits, they leave their home in a wave. Burying stingers where you know they’ll hurt. Once more, with feeling.

“Are you looking for a ‘thank you’?”

Joel’s mouth quirks, but it isn’t a smile. It only stokes the fire, and you know what he’s doing. Letting you win, begrudgingly because you’re being an ass. But you haven’t had a win in the last ten months, only loss after devastating loss. He’s throwing you a raft.

“No. Just tryin’ to help, ‘s all.”

Your nostrils are flaring in sharp inhales that you can’t control, and you physically jab at him, your own tightly wound chest dragging in the hive for a final, practiced nosedive. “I don’t fucking need your help, Joel.”

He’s snatching your wrist, holding it in a vise, but there’s a flinch in his expression. Joel hardens, sliding that cool armor back into place. Sizing you up one more time, committing you to memory. A curt nod, plucking that chord of roughness in his tone that makes you ache.

There’s a glare you’ve never seen from him, like disappointment and disdain wrapped up neatly in one package. Delivered with a dagger straight to your heart.

“We’ll see. Not s’good at that, are you?”

And it’s a KO you allow, one you’ll lay with. But he’s leaning in, invading your space. You move to retreat and cower, the way you’re accustomed to, but Joel’s grabbing a fistful of your shirt and fastening you in place. His mouth’s at your ear as if he’s telling you a secret.

“Good luck bein’ a fuckin’ martyr.”

The pressure loosens, as does his grip, dissipating like some ghostly presence. He leaves without another word, and something inside you snags and unspools.

—

You don’t see Joel for days.

Three days to be exact, torturous and fluid days that feel like trickling sand, but blend together in an indistinguishable slideshow when you zoom out. You time your breaks perfectly at the stables so you don’t run into him, and you ask Cheryl to cover for you on Tuesday, ignoring the strange look she gives you – the resident workaholic.

It’s a sort of avoidance that you don’t want to acknowledge or look directly in the eye. If you did, it would mean that Joel affected you more than you want to admit. Or that he’d sized you up in an expert way that a categorical stranger shouldn’t be able to.

You should be livid, and you are… in a way. But mainly you want to shrug your skin off, your unease for being so dissected by him. Just unzip it all and let it pool at your feet, stepping out of the pile one leg at a time. The pinch, the untethering of you and the man that could read you without translation.

And when it’s 9 o’clock and you’re making tea as you trudge through a book without really reading anything, you glance outside at the house across the street and it’s so dark that you think it may have swallowed him whole.

Or he’s hiding from you, too.

—

It’s finally Thursday, and you can’t put it off any longer. You’re running out of food, you promised Tommy you’d lend a hand with feeding the horses – and there’s a dull itch to see Joel again. You don’t even know what you’d say, if he even wants to bother with you after the other night. Part of you hopes that you fall backwards into the acquaintance of saying nothing, that you have permission to rewind past whatever this nagging feeling is.

It’s quiet outside – a lazy day. The snow on the ground is melting, patchy in spots where sunlight or kid-feet caught it at just the right angle. The greenhouses are so fogged and frosted over that you’re grateful you can’t see the death-rot inside. It’s not quite growing season yet, but close, and you long for the added distraction in your day if this is the alternative.

Anything to pass the time and not think about Joel and his hands touching yours. The fabric of your shirt oozing between his knuckles when he forced you chest-to-chest.

When you make it over to the barn, his horse is gone and there’s almost – almost – a twinge of relief. You’ll be done before he gets back from patrol. You won’t have a chance to swallow the apology that will rise in your throat like bile, but maybe it’s for the best.

You’re elbow deep in feed when there’s a yelling that cracks in the air. You freeze, waiting to hear a suffix of children’s laughter, but it doesn’t come. There’s a confused sort of shouting, and the gate at the border of Jackson slams and rattles like you’ve never heard before.

Shaky hands wipe at your pants, and you step out, a hand shielding your eyes from the glare of the sun.

Joel is slumped atop his horse, upright but hardly. There’s a cut somewhere on his head that streams a blurry red, and the horse whines when Tommy sprints to meet it.

“It’s Joel! I need some fuckin’ help here!”

And without fully connecting the dots or measuring the severity, you just run. Colliding with the crowd that’s formed, shoving elbows and shoulders as if in a trance. Like something’s pressing you from behind, throwing all its weight into pushing you forward.

You blink and you’re helping Joel down, Ellie’s tattooed forearm somewhere in the jumble of limbs. Tommy’s jean jacket stiff from the cold.

You don’t have to look in a mirror to know that you’re pale as a ghost. The moisture strips from your mouth, joints moving as if by marionette. Blood is already drying and caking in the creases of your hands. Knowing it isn’t yours makes you feel sick.

“‘M fine, Jesus Christ,” Joel coughs, a jagged edge in his throat that sounds anything but. There’s something underneath his coat that’s soaking through, blossoming a dark stain on the front.

Images keep shifting every time you blink, like you’re losing time in between and someone’s slamming the fast-forward button until it jams. Joel groaning on a makeshift stretcher. Ellie’s frenzied feet following as they take him to his house.

The tall one on top of you, squeezing your windpipe.

Your head cracking against the pavement.

Two gunshots firing.

Snow in your bloodied, matted hair.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you. I know, I know it hurts.”

Ringing grows loud and shrill in your ears. Tommy’s in front of you, calling your name. Shaking your shoulders.

“– need you to go fix him up –”

And you’re falling back into the present, vision shifting back into focus. You’re nodding, clinical now. You’ve seen worse, and strangely, that’s comforting.

“– whatever supplies you need, I trust you –”

The weight of Tommy’s confidence steadies you, tying up the loose ends that have untwined deep inside. You run through the mental checklist of what’s in your medical bag at home – stashed in your closet on the very top shelf. Bandages, antibiotics, sutures. But if you’re dealing with a bite…

“I got it. Promise. Keep everyone out, alright? I’ll let you know.”

He pauses, catching up with the subliminal thing that waits in the air between you. Wariness paints his gaze, and you know he knows what you’re afraid to say.

Tommy nods, but you’re already running.

#my writing #a heart for eating #ahfe #outbreak!joel #jackson!joel #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfiction #motherofagony

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halogalopaghost · 3 months

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Okay so. I just saw someone had straight up posted all 8 pages of the ROTTMNT 40th anniversary comic and like...yo ho and all that, pirating is good and fine...but this is not the time. I have two points:

1: if you want more ROTTMNT, Nickelodeon only measures ONE FUCKING METRIC and it's MONEY. Reading the comic on tumblr, raving about it or trending the tag or engaging with the creators on twitter, none of that matters to them. They don't go on tumblr, engagement isn't actionable and more importantly it means jack diddly squat to board members and investors, who are the REAL target audience of literally everything. If you want more ROTTMNT, you HAVE to buy the fucking comic with your actual money

2: the publishing industry, both of comics and books, works a whole lot differently than the movie and TV industry. Pirating comics and books

a: directly takes money from the hands of artists and authors in the form of royalties,

b: lowers chances of landing on bestsellers lists, and

c: means you are less likely to see more of it because the industry measures success in money!!!!

That goes for all of you who want to see the 2003 series get the Saturday Morning Adventures treatment. You have to show up with cash in hand.

In summary: if you want to pirate the comics because you can't afford it or whatever, that's okay. I'm not making moral judgements here. But you should do it quietly, and wait a few weeks at least. I cannot even imagine being the artist who worked for weeks on that comic to see it on tumblr in full the day of release, that's just fucking awful. Be respectful and remember that if you want more of something, you DO have to pay for it.

#tmnt #tmnt 40th anniversary #teenage mutant ninja turtles #i opened tumblr and between spoilers and the gall of posting the whole fucking comic im just. exhausted now fucks sake #ffs!!#PLEASE REBLOG

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sunnywiththestars · 5 months

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Hi! Do you have any BuckTommy fic recs?

yes!! here you go!!!

I tried to tag anyone's tumblr that i could find but there were a few i couldn't so it's only straight to the fic on ao3

you keep his shirt, he keeps his word by perfectlysunny @perfectlysunny02

"Evan, baby, you okay? It’s late. I thought Chimney’s party was tonight.” “Tommy,” Buck gasps, almost dropping his phone in his excitement . “You’re here. See that, Eds, magic is real. He’s here.” “Sweetheart, you called me, remember,” Tommy says. “Evan, baby, are you drunk?”

A (Not So) New Hoodie by littlebipolarsunshine

In which Buck doesn't look very closely when putting on a hoodie before going to work.

Pancakes, kisses, and a little bit of TLC by theotherlucifer @theotherbuckley

“Evan?” Tommy asks, his voice deep and gravelly. If it were any other day, Buck would find that incredibly attractive. Unfortunately, he isn’t able to enjoy it. Now that he’s aware of the pain in his leg, it only seems to get worse. His leg throbs; it feels like his bones are trying to bully their way out of his flesh. He clenches his eyes shut as he wills the wildfire that burns through his limb to calm down. “‘M fine,” he gets out through a clenched jaw. Tommy squints at him, tilting his head to the side. “Evan,” he repeats in a way that Buck knows means he doesn’t believe him for a second. (or Buck wakes up with a chronic pain flare-up the morning after, and Tommy takes care of him)

Hold me on my bad day by disasterbuckdiaz @bidisasterevankinard

Tommy had a bad day, has an awful morning he starts as blanket burrito, but his boyfriend's cuddles make it better

the universe is screaming (are you listening?) by pigalle

Buck, still running on frantic panic of being late, stops short. When he looks down at himself, he sees that he is indeed wearing one of Tommy’s LAFD Air Operations t-shirts. “Uh,” Buck says, ever so eloquently. “Why are you wearing Tommy’s shirt?” Chimney asks, and really, that’s a valid question. Or, 5 times the universe conspires to reveal Buck and Tommy’s relationship, plus 1 time it’s quite obvious

come and save me from it by devirnis @devirnis

“Dinner and a show,” Evan comments, his eyes zeroed in on where Tommy’s sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. “Maybe I should get sick more often.” Tommy flicks a small piece of ginger at him. “If you wanted me to cook for you, all you had to do was bat those pretty eyelashes of yours.” It happens so quickly. One second Evan is grinning exhaustedly at him, and the next thing Tommy knows, Evan’s eyes go wide as what little colour he has left drains from his face. Tommy makes an aborted move towards him, but Evan shoves his chair back from the island and bolts for the bathroom.

Right In Front of Me by Princessfbi @princessfbi

Tommy’s brows knitted together as his mouth turned down with worry. “Evan,” he said and Buck wanted to hear him call his name so many more times. “What happened? Did someone choke you?” “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Buck said, clearing his throat again when his voice gave an embarrassing squeak.

Like a Music That's Been Transposed by Faillen @faillen

“Hey there, stunner,” Tommy murmured against his mouth once they’d pulled away. “Stunner?” Evan asked, smile bunching up his cheeks. “That’s a new one.” “Mhmm,” Tommy said, pressing a kiss to one of those lovely red cheeks. “You like it?” Evan ducked his head, “Yeah, that one’s uh. That’s pretty good.” His eyes cut back to Tommy and his mouth twisted into a thoughtful moue. “I don’t really have any for you.” “Eh,” Tommy said. “I’m not a big endearment guy.” Or: Tommy grows into his name.

do you mind? im pining by tinygiantsam @watchyourbuck

He slammed his glass onto the table, sitting upright as he coughed into his hand. His eyes watered, but he couldn’t tear them away from the scene before him. He hadn’t imagined it. They were holding hands. OR: 7x05 spec fic. Buck and Tommy have their first date. Eddie is jealous about it. (Includes Buck and Tommy making out at the loft + Eddie dealing with complicated feelings towards his best friend).

those hands pulled me from the earth by star_shot (throw one of my own in there-)

Tommy’s eyebrows were raised as he stood and waited for an explanation. “I believe that I promised you a dance tonight.” Buck says, a softer smile graces his lips. “It is 4 o’clock in the morning.” -- OR - after the disaster of the day, Buck still finds a way to fulfill his promise to Tommy.

a lovely collection of fics, happy reading!!

and anyone else please feel free to add on another other bucktommy recs you have or even your own works!

#911 abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy #911 fanfic #tevan #kinley #fic rec #sunny answers asks

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dangerpronebuddie · 3 months

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Ooh!! I love your wip, please do 😭📋📋📋🥵🥵🥵💙💙😎😎😎 thanks 🥰🥰

Hi darling thank you!!! 🥰🥰 So sorry I'm answering this like three weeks late, the words have not been wording. Scrolled through my asks last night and saw this one and wrote a lot more than I was expecting to. Thank you!

Verbal Abuse fic:

“Christopher said you're seeing a therapist again,” Helena says, her mouth a thin line. Eddie never bothered telling her about therapy. She doesn't believe it helps. “Yeah,” Eddie nods. “Have been for months.” “Pity you didn't start before you traumatized your son into running away,” she says, casual as anything.

Clipboard Buck fic (oh look, Maggie's projecting):

Eddie works his jaw in thought. He wracks his brain, trying to think of his first serious crush. That friend from highschool comes to mind, but he immediately skips over him to Shannon. Before her, there really wasn't anyone. He remembers his friends fawning over Leticia Montes in third grade. He didn't understand the draw. They didn't know her very well; she was in fourth grade. Eddie didn't know a thing about her. He supposes her dark curls and blue eyes were pretty, but there wasn't anything beyond that. There was a boy in sixth grade his friend Mary was practically in love with that, objectively speaking, was attractive. Eddie still didn't get it. Whenever his friends asked him who he liked, he'd think up the most well known heartthrob as his answer. Unfortunately, he had more than a few friends who would proceed to try and set them up. The refusals became degrading after a while. Eventually, he just stopped answering them. He lost those friends, but he didn't feel all that bad about it.

Sub Eddie fic (it's less than 3 lines but it's all my brain would allow me):

“Relax,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh. He doesn't say it out loud, but Eddie hears it all the same. The promise they've kept to each other for years: I'll take care of you, and I trust you to take care of me.

Tanis' fic:

“Fuck, you're beautiful,” Buck says in an awed whisper. For a moment, Eddie thinks he should shy away from the attention. But he doesn't want to. This is Buck. Buck hovers over him, bracketing his head with his forearms. Eddie tips his chin up for a kiss and Buck grins as he leans down. Heat engulfs whatever softness remained from moments before. Buck nips at his lips and licks deep into his mouth, rocking down hard against him as Eddie pulls him closer, closer, closer.

Big Damn Hero (I couldn't not include this moment):

“Yeah, or you know you could… you could have mine,” Buck stammers like an idiot. Eddie does that adorable snort and shakes his hand. “Deal.” Oh, Buck was in trouble. So. Much. Trouble.

Also using this as my WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @tizniz and @daffi-990 who both shared AMAZING stuff y'all should show some love!! 💚🩵 (p.s. I'm sorry if I haven't interacted with some tags I've gotten recently. Life's been... life, and some days even tumblr is overwhelming. Love y'all and thank you for continuing to tag me 🩷)

Tagging:

@lover-of-mine @loveyouanyway @kitteneddiediaz

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @exhuastedpigeon @hippolotamus @diazsdimples

@thekristen999 @monsterrae1 @actuallyitsellie @diazheartsbuckley @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley

@rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @lunarspark-cos @idealuk @shipperqueen6 @slowlyfoggydestiny

@misshiss727 @lin27 @jshadow01 @orangeboxfox92

@thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22

@lady-elaine @buckley-diaz-rules @buddiedaydreamer911 @monroemary @pirate-hunter

@nonspeakingkiku @eddiedisasterdiaz @drunkandsupportiveeddie @traumabuddies @epicbuddieficrecs @elvensorceress @disasterbuck

@tofanasmuse @gnoeltop @keynb @cassi-brooks @-syrup-sue @punkrock00 @shannonhutchins @lasagnatheory

#darkrose6578 🩷#Maggie answers #Maggie writes #911 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 abc #fanfic #9-1-1 #verbal abuse fic #clipboard Buck fic #fic: what a mental fire alarm #sub Eddie fic #Tanis' fic #<- does it need a different title? im so used to calling it that lol #fic: Big Damn Hero #wip wednesday

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lhazaar · 6 months

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hey. i'm turning my chair around and sitting in it backwards now because i want to speak specifically to people with ocd. this is a targeted post and is not meant to apply to the userbase of this website at large or to serve as a policy decision.

hi. do you know what scrupulosity means? it is a strong, intense, often painful concern about morality or religion. it's very common for religious people with ocd, actually—the fear that you've sinned, that you will sin, that your thoughts themselves are sinful. you're afraid of being an evil person. every thought and feeling you have is scrutinized to exhaustion in case it's proof that you're evil. this also happens for non-religious people with ocd, it's just that ours will look different; it's often a preoccupation with social justice issues. you care a lot about being a good person, right! most people do. you want to be a good person, you want to be kind to others and to dismantle oppressive systems where you can. i'm making some assumptions here, but they're based on my specific audience base.

so, there's this thing that happens online, especially on tumblr and twitter—not because bluh bluh platforms bad, but because of the ways in which information is propagated on here. people used to tag for these posts sporadically but don't do so as much anymore. you know posts that exhort you, the reader, specifically, to take action? they tell you not to look away, not to bury your head in the sand. they tell you to give and to agitate and to donate time, money, resources.

those posts used to make me intensely, deeply anxious. i don't mean mild agitation, i mean life-ruining, day-occupying panic that seizes your entire body, and thoughts that don't leave your brain. guilt that paralzyes you because you, personally, cannot go kill the politicians responsible. you don't have enough money to do more than donate a few dollars, and sometimes you don't even have that. but because of where you live, because of the fact that you have internet access and you're literate enough to read these posts, you know that you have a level of privilege that most people never will. you're aware of that privilege because you're reasonably in-tune with social justice movements and you've probably spent some time dissecting your own privilege to examine your biases. (that's not a bad thing; i'm not here to condemn that. stay with me, if you can.)

there's a thing that can happen if you've lived with ocd like this for a long time where you become kind of incapable of telling what's addressed to you personally and what isn't. everything feels like a personal exhortation. you have trouble saying no, or knowing when you're overextended, because other people have it worse. how dare you enjoy relative comfort when people are being bombed or drowning in a climate change -induced flood or being crushed to death in a crowd panic. how dare you not be aware of it at all times, always, constantly. how dare you look away. don't look away.

i want to tell you about something i went through, if that's okay. a lot of people who follow me will already know this, but i haven't talked about this aspect of it very much publicly. in 2020, while visiting my partner in southern oregon, we had to evacuate from wildfires twice in under 24 hours. that was a really, really bad fire season, caused and perpetuated by a combination of global climate change and colonialization practices that destroyed traditional indigenous fire management strategies across the west coast of north america. fires stretched from bc to california. we wound up fleeing south, and then had to flee back north again, hemmed in on three sides. i flew back home to bc shortly afterwards, and i have this vivid, awful memory of seeing my home mountain range, the cascades, choked out with smoke from the window of an airplane. the woman in front of me sobbed the entire time until we touched down.

i remember thinking at that time that it was insane the entire world wasn't stopping. what i was experiencing was apocalyptic in scale—the fire we ran from the first time was part of a complex that chewed up entire towns. it wasn't the first fire season, nor the worst for the continent, nor the world. but all i could think in the moment was why aren't we doing anything, this is going to be all of us in a decade, why are people looking away.

if i had gone online and posted that, it would not have been morally wrong of me. there's no ascribing morality to a reaction like that. i mean, if i'd gone to someone who suffered in the years prior in australia or california and told them that ours was So Much Worse, that would have made me an asshole, but i didn't do that. i made some upset facebook posts targeted at the trump voters in my family, but i had no way to express at the time the sort of clawing panic of WHY AREN'T PEOPLE DOING ANYTHING??

the answer to that, which you probably know, is: what would they have done? we were sheltered by friends we evacuated with, but what power did a mutual in new york or wales or singapore have to affect a wildfire in oregon?

so, come back to the present day with me again, if you will. i said above that posts worded like this used to make me really, really anxious. in the span of time after the fire, i developed ptsd, and my ocd ruined my life. i took an extra year to graduate after i'd finished all my coursework because i could not send in the forms required. i was too busy spending 10-16 hours a day rearranging furniture in my room, or lying in bed, full-body tense, until it felt like my teeth would crack from the pressure. i'm medicated now. i'm grateful for it. i have more tolerance for these posts because i've been there. i know the op isn't doing anything wrong, because they're not wrong. why isn't the world stopping to look at a natural disaster, or a genocide? the world should not be like this.

you are not the world. you are someone with a brain that will torture you to death given the chance. you know how learning to reckon with your privileges, whatever they may be, requires you to not try and escape them? you need to be able to hold in your head that yes, you benefit from something that isn't fair; yes, other people should have that benefit, and that they don't is unjust. but you need to, for example, not try and weasel your way out of being white because you're uncomfortable with the guilt that it produces. you need to not go online and say well not ALL americans because you can't sit with the idea of being complicit in american imperialism. if you have ocd, you need to apply that to your own brain, too. you need to apply it to every post that you see. you need to know that people are not speaking directly to you, they are crying out in pain and fear. they are not doing anything wrong. they are scared and hurting.

they do not benefit from you taking on all the guilt of that fear and pain. i am not saying this to absolve you of the guilt. i am saying that you need to be able to exist with that level of guilt without allowing it to paralyze and destroy you. if you can't do that right now, i'm not here to cast judgement on you. blacklist phrases. i had "wildfire" blacklisted for a long time. i'm sure i missed aid posts because of it. the alternative was me being nonfunctional. for a long time, i had donation posts blacklisted across the board, because the way my ocd worked meant that i was neurologically incapable of knowing where my own limits were, and i would give money i did not have. if you need to do that, this is me giving you permission. doing this does not make you evil. it does not make you morally bankrupt. it makes you someone whose brain is trying to fucking kill them, and the world needs you to not let that happen.

this is not a post about how you're exempt from caring about the world if you're mentally ill, it's about how you cannot apply that care to anything useful if you're having massive panic spirals every other day about the guilt that you feel. your guilt should not rule your life. if it does, i say this kindly, but you very likely need medication. i'm sorry if you don't have access to that right now. you cannot think your way out of ocd. you cannot think your way into stopping neural activity. you cannot guilt your way into being a good person; you have to be able to exist with the guilt and not let it rule you in order to do that. nobody benefits from your brain trying to martyr you in the name of solving the world's suffering.

you need to be able to function, free of crushing and paralyzing guilt, before you can help anyone. you are not an effective ally like this just because your brain tells you that it's necessary.

#bark bark #ocd tag #actually ocd #also i want to say this now: if you do not experience ocd i do not want your 'well actually' takes on this.#again. this is not a site-wide thing i think everyone should do #do not mistake this for me saying that it's ~okay~ to be wilfully ignorant about genocide or climate disaster #i am speaking to a very specific clinical population whose brains do not work in a way that people outside of that population understand #the guilt you experience with ocd is not the same guilt that everyone has just turned up #it warps your entire personality. it warps your sense of right and wrong #you will deal with it for your entire life unfortunately #(even medicated i still absolutely have Intense White Guilt episodes lol #i just try not to make them my loved ones' problem #because part of handling pathological guilt has to be responsibility without overresponsibility)

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keysorsomething · 11 months

Text

The Shape

2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Just a little fluff fic I wrote a couple days ago :) I compulsively check the Nikto tag so maybe I can make someone else who does that happy! And it mighttt have a pt. 2 in the works ! Also sorry if the format is weird I was never a tumblr girl

Cross-posted on Ao3

Nikto was hardly a man. Hardly a person. Hardly alive. He was just a shape. Just a thing. All he did was kill who he was told to. But, you didn’t think that. You didn’t believe that. He was a person to you. And you treated him as one.

You didn’t force anything. You didn’t push, pull, twist. You let him do what he wanted. He wasn't sure why. For as long as he could remember, where the memories of childhood - memories before him - become fuzzy, he was never treated like that. No one asked his opinion. Even if it was for something simple, like what was for dinner.

You were always so gentle with him. It was almost nauseating. With you, it was always “Aw, hey, Nikto! How are you?” or “What's the word for that in Russian?” He didn't understand it. You were not friends. He did not reciprocate your politeness. Maybe that was just normal where you're from. But, his current running theory was that you must have some form of brain damage. Perhaps you were dropped as a baby.

He stood in the doorway of the armory, head slowly leaning to the side as he studied you. His bright blue eyes broke through the dim lighting as if they were backlit by two LED bulbs in his skull.

You sigh. You really weren't in the mood for it at the moment. You've had a really sucky day and were just trying to clean your gun before you put it up for the night. His gaze burning through your skin as he studies you like a zoo animal is not what you need at the moment. But, you know him enough. You’ve learned a few things from your interactions with him. You know asking nicely, or even demanding won't do much for him in this state. He doesn't mean anything by it - at least you're pretty sure it's just harmless curiosity. Still, you just aren't in the headspace for it. So you have to shoo him off. And luckily, you know just how. You place your gun on the table, rising up.

He doesn't back away as you approach, instead turning his head more. Slowly, you reach out. He’ll snap out of it if you move to touch him. He'll jump back, then growl and stalk off. You're sure of it, that's how it is anytime anyone tries to touch him.

So when the tips of your fingers meet his chest plate, you're the one to flinch. His eyes look wider from under the mask, but he doesn't move or even open his mouth to speak. He simply blinks at you, one eye closing and then the other. Like a frog.

Okay, he's staying when you touch him. That is completely out of the ordinary. Maybe you could weird him out enough for him to leave you be..? You raise your eyes to meet his, and something about the way they shine down on you is… unusual. You can't tell if he's staring at you affectionately, or with the look of a girl in a horror movie that stumbled upon a dead body. Or perhaps both.

Still, you swallow down your confusion, any reservations you have, and shame. Slowly, while maintaining as intense eye contact as you can, you drag two fingers down his chest, like petting a stingray at an aquarium. Before you go lower than his peck, you pick your fingers up and place them back at the top - where his chestplate covers his neck.

He blinks again, looming over you, his shoulders are squared. He's clearly tense. He'll back away soon. You repeat the action several times over, becoming more confused and frustrated the more he doesn't back away. Eventually, his hand raises, and he places two of his fingers on the squishy part of your neck, where it meets your chest. Your breath hitches, fear creeping into the back of your mind that he was trying to kill you.

Slowly, and with a lot more pressure than you were doing on him, he drags his fingers down your chest. He was mimicking you. You tense up, watching as he drags his finger down your chest before circling back to start at the top of your neck again. His hand is almost suffocating, even if he’s only putting two fingers on your neck. And you’re sure he could put so much more weight into it. He could snap your neck, pin you to the wall and strangle you. He’d probably cock his head to the side as he did it. Like fucking Micheal Meyers.

You shiver, closing your eyes. But the violence never comes. He’s very gentle with you, as gentle as a man of his… caliber in his profession can be. He does take his other hand to yours, dragging your hand down and circling back up. He was trying to get you to do it again. You crack your eye open, meeting his piercing blue stare, like hot water down the back of your shirt.

Slowly, you start to move your hand again. You stand there for a moment, your fingers starting at the peak of his neck guard and sliding down his chest as he mimics you. You look at his eyes, as he looks at yours. It was a strange, somber moment between the two of you. You watch his shoulders fall, relaxing under your touch and gaze. He's breathing heavily, like someone hyperventilating after being jumped out at. Your own hands are shaking, still unsure if this is a vulnerable moment or a trap. And his hand is going to flatten against your neck. And then it was going to be lights out. You swallow thickly, but you don't move your eyes from his. His pupils keep dilating and constricting, which you're not too sure is healthy. You hope this doesn't kill him.

All at once, he pulls away. His hand from your neck, his neck from your hand. His eyes narrow at you. He holds his hand at his chest as if it were covered in some form of filth. He looks down at it like it betrayed him before his eyes turn back to you.

“Спасибо,” He growls out before his dark form melts into the shadows of KorTac base after dark. Once more just a shape, he stalks off, leaving you standing in the doorway of the armory, shock running through your body. His footsteps fade into nothing as he leaves you all alone, frozen in shock.

You just touched him. He just touched you. And then he thanked you? You stare off into the dark, now bare walls. They are an uncomforting grey. You look down at your own hand, turning it over in your sight. You... pet Nikto. On the chest. With two fingers. Like a stingray, in the pet pool at the fucking Aquarium of the Pacific.

…How do you even process the moment you just had? Would you ever have another one? Was that a one-time thing, or would he creep to you at night like this, for the most barebones form of touch like that? You close your fingers, rubbing them against each other, before you turned around, slipping back into the armory to put your gun up. Still in some odd trance, eyes distant and foggy as you focus on the various thoughts floating through your head. You don't know if you can call it a fantasy.

But, that doesn't mean the thoughts are unpleasant.

#nikto cod #nikto x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod mw2019 #mw2 #call of duty #kortac

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greetings-inferiors · 1 year

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Don’t worry, you’re safe here. What’s happening to your website is awful, and hey, maybe you’ll even learn to love this hellsite more (I recommend it)

Just remember one thing: reblog reblog reblog!!! You will be blocked if you don’t reblog or make some post, so make haste! Search a few things you like, reblog it, follow some people, then just sit and let tumblr take over! I’m sure most people won’t mind if you start talking across reblogs (use the tags to talk on the down low!), and maybe you can even become mutuals (best friends for life???)!!!

#text post #Reddit #reddit blackout #new to tumblr #tumblr guide #tumblr #hellsite #you’ll get the culture quickly #and most of all #have fun!!!!#welcome to the Wild West of the internet!#randyposting

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slytherinshua · 6 months

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idk if this counts as a soft thought but ... imagine a dk who used to be short when he was like 12 and used to be really nice to you then when you graduated from elementary school he vaguely told you he liked you and you went :0

and then fast fwd 4 years later, you're going to the same high school as him and he says hi and ure like shit. he grew taller. tanner, his voice is deeper (you'd always thought it'd already broken in elementary sch but turns out it didn't)

just 🫠🫠 childhood friends to lovers dk !!

first of all ty for sending smth in kimchi cause istg i was dying earlier like my tumblr is so DRY and ur the only person who indulged my boredom yayay!! also this is LITERALLY making my head spin like crazy cause just think abt it skjdks

warnings: fem!reader. mention of seokmin getting bullied both in elementary and middle school, and he gets taller, tanner, hotter, and has straighter teeth and a deeper voice by the time he's in high school. not proofread and written on tumblr which i never do so it might be ATROCIOUS but its soft thoughts anyway so it doesn't have to be perfect <3

wc: ~1.1k.

ofc you loved to spend time with seokmin when you were in elementary— like you two were practically inseparable. and you first met him when you saw him getting bullied by some jerks in the same year as you. ofc you told them to go away (might've punched one of them just to get your point across, but you and seokmin swore that you would never speak of that detail again). they were so scared of you after you threw the punch that it actually worked and they never bothered him again. and little seokmin was practically in awe of you since that very moment and ofc he develops a small large crush on you </3

but you two end up getting cruelly separated when seokmin tells you that because of the need to move for his parents' work, he's going to be put an all-boys middle school while you're still going to the regular mixed one that most of the kids from that same elementary were going to. during your middle school years, seokmin doesn't cross your mind a lot. it's only when you get a confession from a boy in your class that you're reminded of him and that last day of 5th grade.

you could’ve sworn you heard the words “I like you” fall from his lips except it was so quiet and murmured that you’re not quite sure if it actually happened or if your brain wanted it to so bad that you hallucinated it into existence. and since you're not positive that he did actually confess to you (or that he would still hold the same feelings he did at 10 as a 15 year old), you don't hope for anything else concerning seokmin. much to your 10 year old self's disappointment, because of course you had already imagined a whole life together with your best friend. you don't remember it having any distinction as to whether seokmin was still your best friend or if he was your boyfriend, but it didn't matter to you as long as he was still in your life.

but the first day at your new high school you realize that you’re so fucking screwed it’s not even funny. because as you’re looking at the list of students and what class their first period is you recognize a very familiar name and your brain practically goes blank.

lee seokmin.

and god damnit he has science as his first period just like you. so as you walk into the class you’re frantic to scan the room for any short boy with milky skin, crooked teeth, and a high pitched slightly squeaky voice that you absolutely adored at the age of 10. but he’s not there; well, at least, not fitting that description of him that you remember.

the boy who you quickly see waving excitedly to you is in fact the lee seokmin— you can tell from his name tag— but god had he changed. he had grown at least 20 cm from the last time you saw him because even sitting in his desk he looked lanky. not only his height had changed, but he had also gotten tanner. and he must’ve had braces at some point in middle school because his teeth looked straighter. and his voice. god his voice alone had your heart racing. you could’ve sworn it had deepened two octaves at least.

and it was hot.

the boy who you could only label as your adorable, nerdy, loser best friend who cowered behind you in the face of bullies was hot.

this turn of events rendered him almost unrecognizable. and you were sure you wouldn’t have been able to recognize him if it weren’t for his smile, which was as bright and beautiful as always, with or without the crooked teeth.

and maybe it was that smile that made you just a little relieved that he hadn't changed as much as his appearance had. so you gathered some confidence and walked over to the desk he was sitting in and slid into the seat next to him. you returned his 'hi' that he had shot you from across the room, and as soon as you did, you were practically tackled in a hug.

and it felt the same as his old hugs, which was a relief to your mind but not to your heart, which doubled its speed at least. before your class started, you somehow managed to get up to speed with all of seokmin's middle school years (you were so glad that he was still as talkative and unserious as you remember).

"you don't know how worried i was walking in 30 minutes ago. the school is so big and none of my old classmates go here— though maybe i should be thankful for that. but as soon as i saw your name on the student list, for some reason, i knew it would all be okay. you're here— you're actually here. so they can't touch me."

he said all of this with the biggest smile on his face and you were sure your eyes had actual hearts in them as you listened to him explain everything animatedly.

you and seokmin talked and talked and talked. he would walk you to your class just to keep the conversation going before the second bell rang and he had to race off to his next period on the other side of the building. but he didn't mind being late every time if it meant getting to hear you laugh for 3 minutes longer.

you were back to being best friends with seokmin, and neither of you could be happier. what was most relieving was how it all fit back into place without any struggle. as if seokmin was a puzzle piece that had been temporarily dropped on the floor and had just been picked up again and put back where he belonged (by your side).

you never got the courage to ask seokmin about that last day of 5th grade until your 3rd year of high school together when you had gotten a little tired of seeing a certain classmate of yours which you despised talk so openly about her crush on seokmin— even in front of him and you. so even though your throat got all tangled up as you brought up the topic, you forced yourself to at least ask him the question.

"did you like me when we were younger?"

and his answer came so easily and naturally that you had to double-take.

"of course i did. wasn't it obvious?"

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