#but I think the real reason for that is because I thought the stick joke was funny

[quibbs126]

I want a Charcoal Cookie

I mean, you can have activated charcoal in food, like charcoal cheddar, black ice cream, other things I can’t find (without the internet telling me there was some sort of trend about putting it in food, I’m just looking for actual food with it). So I mean, it works if you need the Cookies to be made of something edible

Also, maybe with charcoal being burnt wood, they could have a connection to Millennial Tree Cookie? Like, they were once a part of his forest, or even a branch from his tree, that got burnt into charcoal and then turned into a Cookie? And maybe they hold resentment for it? I dunno, just a neat idea pertaining to it I had

And also I want to make a joke about them eating wood to like, keep their powers active, like they have fire powers and they need to eat wood to keep it burning. But also they just eat sticks. Like yes, they eat other food, but they will just chomp on a twig

Just a random thing

[lovebugism]

Okay soooooooo

How bout something like King Steve picking on shy!reader, then later finding out she has a shitty home life plz

ty for requesting!! this can be read as a prequel to this fic — steve comforts you when he accidentally makes you flinch (enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of abuse, 1.8k)

Sitting alone at the Hellfire table, you feel a little like fishbait. 

Your spot in the very back of the cafeteria is normally full and loud — with Dustin’s bickering, and Eddie’s laughing, and Gareth’s stupid jokes — but they’re not here now. They’re off getting their trays while you sit in wait for them (and the cold fries you’ll ultimately steal from Eddie’s plate). It leaves you perfect prey for circling sharks.

You hear laughter from behind you, over the sounds of the bustling lunch room. You’re certain they’re laughing at you — ‘cause you always think someone’s laughing at you — but you try hard to ignore it. You disregard the subtle pang of anxiety in your chest and stick your nose in your book, eyes flitting across the words without reading any of them.

Someone flumps down at your side then, where Mike usually sits. The overwhelming scent of spiced cologne stings your nostrils. With watering eyes, you look beside you. At Tommy fucking Hagan.

“Hey, Wallflower,” he greets like it’s normal — like he hasn’t spent the past four years pretending you don’t exist. You think he only calls you Wallflower now because his friends have been doing it for so long they don’t remember your real name.

The boy props his elbow on the table and puts his chin in his fist, trying hard to hide his boyish beam and accompanying laughter. He fails.

You cower at his presence, all but shrinking into yourself. “…Hi?” you reply in a tiny voice.

“How’s it hangin’?”

“...Fine?”

“That’s great!” he answers instantly, like he hadn’t heard you at all. “You see, my friend Steve, over there— you know him, right?”

You don’t bother to look where he’s pointing. Of course, you know Steve The Hair Harrington. You don’t think there’s a single person in Hawkins who doesn’t.

You nod in response.

Tommy’s smile widens. “Well, he’s got this massive crush on you,” he confesses, choking back a laugh halfway through. “I mean, he talks about you all the time.”

You know he’s lying. And not just because he’s grinning so hard that his eyes are crinkled and his freckled cheeks are turning pink. You’re almost certain Steve Harrington doesn’t even know who you are. He never had a reason to. Why would the King of Hawkins High ever stoop so low to know someone like you?

You glance at him over your shoulder, a couple tables down from you. He’s almost magnetically pretty. You couldn’t ignore him if you tried — with his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and his pretty smile. His golden cheeks flush as all his friends start poking fun at him. 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs a laugh you can tell is forced from here. He doesn’t think any of this is funny. You can see it on his face. But he isn’t trying to stop it all from happening. You’re just collateral damage, really.

You turn back to Tommy with a disbelieving look in your eye.

He continues to ramble despite it. “He was just a little nervous coming up to you, that’s all. So I thought I’d do him a favor and slip you his number. You know, as his wingman and all.” He tosses a folded-up index card onto the pages of your opened book. “You should call him tonight— It’ll make his day, I swear.”

He pats you a little too hard on the back before he goes. His laugh echoes over all the rest when he sits back down at his table. You watch them over your shoulder as they fall over themselves to crack jokes about you. 

Steve’s the only one not smiling. “Not cool, Tommy,” he mouths.

—————

Locker 148. The one right across from yours. Property of Steve The Hair Harrington. 

You shove the thick card with his number written on it between the slits in the metal. You’d carried it around all day, utterly unsure of what to do with it. You decided ultimately to return it, figuring he might feel a little better if a total stranger didn’t have his phone number.

You struggle to slide it through the thin gap, though. The paper gets caught halfway through, and you try to yank it back out again. The old locker moves with you, like it’s not completely shut but still somehow latched. 

You’re so in your own head you don’t hear the gymnasium door down the hall squeal open and shut again. Steve pants heavily and tries to recover from a ruthless basketball practice. He hunts for a water fountain and finds you instead.

“What are you doing?” he calls as he nears you, not malicious or unkind but genuinely curious.

Your heart lurches into your throat as you all but jump out of your skin.

Steve laughs, a pretty sound in the silent hallway. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you assure with an averted gaze, though your frightened demeanor says otherwise. “I was just— I was trying to give you this.”

You hold the paper out towards him. He takes it with hesitant hands. “What is it?”

“Your number. Tommy gave it to me earlier, and I know it was just a stupid joke, so I… I thought you’d feel more comfortable if I gave it back to you.”

Something in Steve’s chest aches. He doesn’t understand why you would care about what might make him comfortable. It’s not like he ever gave you the time of day — or ever tried to stop his friends from being total assholes. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the last person who should give a shit about him.

“Oh. Right— Yeah… Thanks,” he stammers and shoves the thing into his pocket. “And I’m— I’m sorry about Tommy and everything. He can be a real douchebag sometimes. I didn’t… I didn’t tell him to bother you or anything—”

“I know,” you assure in a mousy voice. “Tommy gave me your number hoping I’d be dumb enough to call while your friends were over so you could all… laugh at me? I guess. He could’ve been a little more original, honestly.”

Steve cracks a smile. He almost laughs, but he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“I’ll talk to him later. Tell him to leave you alone—” He rambles and walks closer to you. You watch him with tentative eyes as he approaches. “—He’s a total dumbass sometimes, but he usually means well. Most of the time, anyway—”

Steve raises his hand suddenly. And, because you’re frightened by everything little thing, you flinch and stumble over yourself in the process. The lockers catch your fall, and you hit the back of your head. Hard.

“Shit— Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you squeak, holding the crown of your hair and squinting as your skull pounds.

Steve rushes to your side, then idles just ahead of you because he doesn’t know if you want him touching you. His brows pinch, chiseled features swimming with concern. His cinnamon eyes glitter with it, too. “I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“It’s okay.”

“—My locker was just jammed. I was going to shut it.”

The metal door is open now, from where it wasn’t shut all the way and where you just smacked your head on it.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” you assure in a tight voice, trying hard to ignore the sharp throbbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine—”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’ll go away—”

“Let me get you an icepack.”

“—I’ll be fine once I get home.”

Steve, feeling purely at fault and aching at how effortlessly you shrug him off, decides to approach you fully. He curls a warm hand around the outside of your elbow. A touch surprisingly gentle. “No. C’mon. Let me help.”

You don’t feel much like you’re in any position to fight him about it. Not with the world still swaying under your feet. 

Steve guides you the short distance to the empty cafeteria. Slow and kind and dreadfully patient. He sits you down, makes sure you’re still okay, and then rushes to fix you a makeshift icepack — a ziplock bag filled to the brim with chipped ice.

He sits at the chair beside yours, slightly askew so his knees bump your thighs. He holds the pack to the crown of your head and gazes at you attentively. You’re not looking back at him to see it.

“Does it still hurt?”

You shrug, eyes flitted to the wringing hands in your lap. “It’s fine. It just feels a little like I have a migraine.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry.”

Your doe eyes peek at him from beneath your lashes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I scared you.”

“Everything scares me.”

It’s a dumb joke. You mean it, but you still expect him to laugh about it. He doesn’t even crack a smile, though. He just keeps looking at you with that puppy-like twist to his features. The worry is evident in his face. 

“Do you wanna, like, talk about it or something?”

“About what?”

“Why you flinched.”

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat. No one’s ever noticed your incessant panic — outside of making jokes about it anyway. No one’s cared enough to ask about it, either. Steve Harrington is the last person you expected any kind of concern from.

You shake your head after a few long moments. “No.”

“You could,” Steve assures, suddenly shy. You didn’t know he could be anything other than totally full of himself. “You know, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t tell anyone—”

You scoff a disbelieving laugh.

Steve’s features swirl with hurt. You hate that it makes your chest ache. You hate most that he hasn’t stopped being soft with you. The hand holding the pack to your head hasn’t yet wavered, even though you know his arm must be tired now.

“I wouldn’t. ‘Cause I— I know what it’s like to… to have a bad home life or whatever,” he confesses, stammering hopelessly. He forces a laugh at himself. “Probably more than most people do, honestly.”

His admission takes you by surprise. It comforts you in a way you didn’t think someone like him could. 

Even still, you shake your head. “I— I can’t—” you murmur, clearing your throat when the words get stuck there. “I can’t talk about it…”

Steve nods, firm and reassuring. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, I was just… I was just saying, you know? I get it.”

You swallow through a tight throat, nodding wordlessly in response.

“Plus, you know, you have my number and everything… If you ever wanted to talk…”

You flash him a timid look and crack a quiet smile. “I gave it back to you, remember?”

“I’ll write it down for you again,” he promises with a shrug and a lopsided grin. It’s easier to ignore his aching arm and the ice stinging his palm when he’s looking at you. “For real this time.”

[littlelamy]

Hiii! :) Reader x Rafe idea..........They have taken some sexy polaroid pictures just being silly one night and Rafe carrys a photo of her in his wallet, which accidently slips out one day when he is with Topper, who sees it. Next time Topper sees Reader with Rafe, he makes some crude joke and she thinks that Rafe has shown his friends her intimate photos and she leaves in tears, with Rafe running after her in pure panic, cue angsty feels.

a/n: hii! :) omg, i absolutely love this request! i was excited to write it. i hope you love how it turns out! thank you so much for sending it in! <3

the night you and rafe took those polaroid pictures was just supposed to be a joke. you were both a little tipsy, laughing, and just messing around in his room. the camera in his hands was just a reason to capture a few silly moments between the two of you—nothing serious. you weren’t planning on anything hot or personal. it was a joke, that’s all. but somewhere between the shots of you sticking your tongue out and rafe making goofy faces, the camera caught you in your underwear, chest all exposed, ass poking out just enough for the picture to be provocative without being obscene. it wasn’t something you thought about afterward—it was just something that happened in the moment.

but apparently, it meant something to rafe. because later, when you both sat down on his bed to sort through the pictures, he picked that one out—the one of you in lace, tits barely covered—and tucked it into his wallet. you thought it was just a silly keepsake for him, something he'll probably use to jerk off to when you leave. you never thought he’d actually keep it, let alone show anyone. it was just something between the two of you.

days passed, and things went back to normal—hanging out, drinking, teasing each other. but then one day, you’re standing with rafe at the bar, waiting for him to grab a drink when topper walks up with his usual smirk.

“hey, y/n, heard rafe’s been keeping a little picture of you in his wallet, huh?” topper says with that cocky grin, eyes trailing over to rafe. “must’ve been a real good shot. looks like you’ve been working on that ass, huh?”

you freeze. something about the way he says it, like it’s a joke but not really a joke, makes your stomach churn. you glance at rafe, looking for any sign of explanation, but he’s already looking away, his jaw clenched tight, and his hands gripping the counter like he’s trying to hold it together.

“what’s he talking about?” you ask, voice a little too sharp, eyes darting between them.

“it’s nothing,” rafe mutters quickly, shaking his head like he’s trying to brush it off. but the way his eyes won’t meet yours has you wondering if it’s really nothing. “it’s just—”

but before he can explain, topper cuts him off, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh, it’s definitely something. nice tits in that picture, huh? I’d keep that one too, rafe. wouldn’t want to forget what you're fucking late at night.”

you feel the blood drain from your face. your breath catches in your throat, and before you can stop it, the words slip out. “did you show them?” you ask, your voice trembling with hurt. “you showed them that picture?”

rafe looks like he’s been punched in the stomach, his hands stilling as he looks up at you, panic in his eyes. “no, y/n,” he says quickly. “I didn’t show anyone. it just—it slipped out of my wallet, and topper saw it by accident. i swear.”

but the damage is already done. topper’s stupid joke, the way he looked at you like he knew, like he had some claim on you—it stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. you try to shake it off, but it’s like a weight on your chest that won’t budge.

“so what, rafe? you just kept it in your wallet on display for everyone, huh? I was just some joke for you and your friends to laugh at?” you can feel the tears start to burn in your eyes, but you hold them back, refusing to let him see how much it hurts.

“no, baby,” rafe says softly, his hand reaching for yours, but you pull it back, not wanting to let him touch you right now. “I didn’t want anyone else to see it. it was just for me, just something private between us. I swear. I didn’t show it to anyone.”

you shake your head, unable to stop the words from slipping out. “why didn’t you tell me about it, then? why didn’t you tell me it was still in your wallet?”

he’s speechless for a moment, like he didn’t think that part through. “i didn’t want you to feel weird about it, y/n. i just... I thought it’d be something private, something just for us, not something anyone else needed to see.”

but topper had already seen it, and you can’t shake the feeling that something so intimate being out in the open now just feels wrong. you back away, shaking your head, the knot in your stomach growing tighter.

“don’t touch me, rafe,” you say, your voice breaking. “don’t touch me right now.”

he doesn’t listen. of course he doesn’t listen. he reaches out for you anyway, his fingers brushing your arm. “please, just—just let me explain. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I swear, I didn’t show it to anyone. it was just—”

you cut him off, your voice rising. “it was just what, rafe? a secret little keepsake for you to keep from your friends to jerk off to? that’s what it is, right?”

he flinches like you’ve slapped him. “no,” he says, his voice desperate. “no, it wasn’t like that. it was just a stupid picture. something stupid we did together. I didn’t think anyone would—”

“then why didn’t you tell me?” you demand, your eyes flashing with anger now. “why didn’t you tell me what you were keeping in your wallet? why didn’t you tell me it was me, looking like that, with my tits out and my ass hanging out for everyone to see?”

he stares at you, his face pale, eyes wide with regret. “I never meant for it to go this far, y/n. I never wanted you to feel like I was treating it like a joke or some... something for my friends to laugh at. it was just for us. just for you and me.”

but you can’t shake the feeling that it’s not just for the two of you anymore. it’s public now, and that’s enough to make your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect. it feels like something has shifted, like a piece of your trust in him has cracked and now everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

“whatever,” you mutter, turning to leave. “I can’t do this right now.”

you don’t wait for him to stop you. you don’t want to hear anything else he has to say. so you walk away, the tears you’ve been holding back finally spilling down your face as you move through the crowd. it’s all too much—too much betrayal, too much confusion.

rafe doesn’t think. he just runs after you, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to catch up. he knows he fucked up. he knows he should’ve told you. should’ve done more. but now it’s too late, and the only thing on his mind is fixing this, somehow. he can’t lose you. not over something so stupid.

“y/n, wait!” he calls, grabbing your arm just as you turn the corner. you yank your arm out of his grip, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

“don’t,” you snap, your voice shaky. “don’t fucking touch me.”

“please,” he pleads, his chest tight with panic. “please, just listen to me. I swear, i didn’t mean for it to go like this. I didn’t show anyone. it was just—just for us, y/n. please.”

you look at him, tears streaking down your face, the hurt in your eyes making his stomach twist. “I don’t know, rafe. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

he steps closer, his hand reaching for yours, but you take a step back, shaking your head. “i never meant for you to feel like that,” he says, his voice soft now, regret dripping in every word. “i’m sorry. i fucked up. please, just... please don’t leave.”

you stop, just for a second, long enough for him to catch his breath. but then you turn away, shaking your head again. “I don’t know if I can trust you right now.”

rafe feels like he’s dying inside, like he’s losing everything in that one moment. “I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this,” he says, his voice desperate. “I swear. just please don’t leave.”

but you don’t answer him. you just keep walking, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the night as he stands there, helpless, watching you disappear from his sight.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[hughiecampbelle]

Supe Preference: Asking You Out

Requested: hi, idk if you write for the supes, but I will try request anyway :D how would the supes ( the boys series) ask a gn reader out? Ty - anon

A/N: I hope this is okay my love! I tried to stay true to character as much as possible, so I'm not sure how romantic some of them are. I tried writing for new Supes too, at least new for me, so apologies if it's not totally in character! Feedback is always appreciated! 💜💜💜

Homelander doesn't exactly ask you out. Rather, on live TV during an interview or event, he grabs your hand and proclaims that you're in love, that you're a couple. Whether or not you're into him, it still comes as a shock. Afterwards he'll ask you on a date where the public and paparazzi can see and take pictures. It's not as intimate as you'd like, but the date goes well. He takes you to an expensive restaurant where you've gotten rid of your suit for something classy and elegant, but he sticks with his regular attire. It's definitely not how you were expecting to be asked out or how you thought your relationship would progress. Ashley thinks it's great! You are both insanely powerful and, for selfish reasons, she wants Homelander off her back. She appreciates that you'll take some of the attention off her.

The Deep probably makes more than a few inappropriate, crude, raunchy jokes about and around you before he properly introduces himself. It's almost compulsive the way his jokes come out. He just can't help himself. He later apologizes and asks to start fresh. Would you want to go out on a date with him? When you say yes, he instantly tells you about all his ideas. You could go to the aquarium or to dinner or to the amusement park or coffee or whatever you want to do. You stick to coffee. It's pretty cute how excited he is. He wasn't expecting you to say yes, so he really didn't have it planned all the way through. He was expecting, like everyone else in his life, for you to call him stupid and move on without answering.

A-Train and you have been dating forever, but you haven't been out on a date in ages. He's still shy trying to ask you out even now. Of course you say yes, excited you'll get some time alone. You might have to reschedule once or twice because Homelander is on the rampage, but when you do get together, he takes you rollerskating. Despite how fast he is in sneakers, he's awful on wheels. He holds your hand the entire time and definitely drags you down when he falls. He stays pretty casual in his clothes and tries to keep his hood up, but it just falls down. You guys find a roller-rink in the middle of nowhere, so you're pretty safe in being discovered. You make fun of his clumsiness and check him for bruises when he falls, especially hard. He makes the same joke over and over: that he "fell" for you. You think he's an idiot, but this is by far one of your most favorite dates.

Queen Maeve asks you out over text. When you say yes, she shows up in her civilian clothes. She makes sure she isn't followed and that Homelander is distracted the entire day. She takes you to the movies. It's dark and secluded, but she knows you love movie theater popcorn specifically with all the butter and the blue raspberry slushies, and you picked the only movie not funded by or produced by Vought. It's a really terrible comedy, but you two can laugh at it anyway. Maeve even holds your hand during the movie which makes her heart beat out of her chest. Afterwards she makes you stay after to kiss you and tell you she had a really great time. It's the first time in forever where she's felt like a real person whose allowed to do real person things. She wants to get your read on it, but you're both excited for a second date.

Firecracker would ask you on a date to some fast food restaurant where you can get the best greasy food and the thickest milkshakes. She'll definitely be sported because she doesn't go incognito and ends up spending a few minutes at least taking pictures and videos for everyone who wants one. She apologizes for them, but secretly, she loves it. You don't mind. You knew what you were getting into when you said yes to the date. She tells you about her life growing up and her past with Starlight. You tell her about your own life and how you came to New York to follow your dreams. She tells you about joining The Seven and what she really thinks of Vought. It isn't the most magical date, but you're glad you said yes. It made you feel like a teenager again, getting food with your old crush, trying to play it cool when you're actually freaking out.

Soldier Boy doesn't really ask you out on a date. You two *get busy* in bed and afterwards he asks if you'd want to go to a bar. You say yes and find yourself at a local hole in the wall, a place that definitely doesn't see new faces. Most of the patrons are as old as Ben would be if he'd aged. He looks so familiar to them, but they can't figure out where he's from. An old friend? An old co-worker? Regardless, they don't pay attention to the two of you. You and Ben start trying to out drink one another and though his tolerance is astronomically higher than yours, you keep up enough to impress him. You two probably go back to bed and keep drinking, sharing stories about your lives between sweaty sheets and shared sips of whatever booze he has lying around. It's not too official, but you both kind of think of it as a date.

Bonus! Annie asks you to go bowling with her. Like in the show, she plays it off like she's not very good until you point it out to her. That's when she starts kicking your ass. She's really embarrassed and worried that you'll think she's showing off or just trying to make you feel bad, but you love it. You love her strength. You love her showing off and almost breaking the pins with the ball. You get really awful bowling alley food and beers, and it's a really fun night despite all the drama that comes with being Starlight. It's the first time in a long time she's felt normal and safe and excited to be here, excited to be herself. You're not shy about asking for a second date, though you know you're risking a lot by wanting to be with her. She makes that known before anything else.

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[allpiesforourown]

I know people hate “bully/victim” ships so IM SORRY theres just a silly modern au bully bingge idea i’ve been thinking about a lot lately .

cw for the above mentioned dynamic!!

Luo Binghe getting into some exclusive academy after finding out about his family’s inheritance. He immediately hates all these out of touch rich people… all of them except for Shen Yuan. 

They have a basic meet cute. Shen Yuan spills Binghe’s coffee and offers to buy him a new one, giving him a tour of their campus while they’re out. He introduces him to the librarians and the office staff. Binghe is certain this is way too good to be true, and Shen Yuan has got to have some ulterior motive. 

One some base level he knows Shen Yuan is a good person that is being kind for him for no particular reason. He’s seen him do the same for other people. But the idea of him being just one of the many people Shen Yuan is friendly with makes him feel bitter and self-conscious. So he’s like fuck it, I hate Shen Yuan actually he’s gotta be a green tea bitch or something (because if he’s not it will literally shatter his world-view if he finds out not all people are greedy and bad) 

Hear me out . listen. Pushing someone around is something that can be so homoerotic

Bingge picking on Shen Yuan and being super, super aroused the whole time. He’ll dump water on shen yuan as a joke, then ignore everyone else laughing bc shen yuan’s shirt is sticking to his skin and his nipples got hard because the water was cold-

Or he’ll take shen yuan’s glasses and hold it above his head so shen yuan has to stand on his tip toes and come really close to try to grab it back (one time he even tripped and fell against binghe’s chest!!) Because he’s nearsighted, sometimes Shen Yuan will even forget to put distance between their faces and be within kissing range while he argues with Binghe. 

Once he snuck into the changing room and stole shen yuan’s clothes so he would have to walk back to his dorm in his swim trunks. He definitely didn’t take pictures of Shen Yuan’s blushing face walking back to his room half naked and he definitely didn’t keep the clothes and sniff them like a weirdo haha…

It’s an average day for them (Binghe takes shen yuan by the wrists and holds him against the wall and calls him a fragile little princess and taunts him by saying he’s not strong enough to break out of his hold. Prime bullying tactic for someone you’re in love with 1. Binghe gets to see live reaction of sy’s face when he’s pinned down and struggling and can save that image for later use 2. Physical closeness, they’re practically pressed together 3. Shen yuan bruises easily and seeing binghe’s handprints on his wrists for like a week is super satisfying 4. Binghe can call him romantic pet names like princess or wife and shen yuan will just think binghe is calling him effeminate as an insult) 

Luo Binghe even lifts Shen Yuan’s hands above him to catch both wrists with one hand and says, “You can’t even get out if I only use one hand?” It makes Shen YUan flush red from humiliation in suuuch an adorable way. 

So anyway, Binghe is picking on shen yuan in the back room of some office somewhere, doing his whole routine because he’s been hurt too many times in life to be vulnerable with someone again and this is his only way to achieve intimacy with the person he loves. He’s been saving the “are you sure you’re a man? Maybe I should check” card for a long time and he’s so excited to use it. He’ll even say something about Shen Yuan’s dick being so short, he should just wear a skirt and become a real man’s wife, and that’s BULLYING, it’s NOT a kink, binghe does NOT jerk off to the thought of Shen Yuan wearing short dresses and greeting him home, he DOESN’T. (he does) 

Before he can fulfill this amazing plan, Liu Qingge, another man in their year, barges in?? Obviously, they fight and Binghe’s chance to feminize his crush slips through his fingers

The worst thing is ??? Liu Qingge rescued Shen Yuan like some righteous prince saving the damsel in a fairy tale. Shen Yuan is not allowed to have a storybook romance with someone else! He hates Liu Qingge so much it’s unreal

It becomes impossible to corner Shen Yuan and get some time alone. He and that Qingge guy are together more and more often. Liu Qingge is in the library carrying Shen Yuan’s books now? Now they’re always hanging out on the grass having lunch?? They’re discussing what electives they can take together?!?! 

It’s been like a month since he’s gotten to properly tease shen Yuan and he needs it bad. If he doesn’t pull down shen yuan’s pants in public to embarrass him (and see his ass) soon, he might actually die. 

Then he spots him: Shen Yuan walking to class. Unaccompanied.

Luo Binghe is so overcome with exhilarated relief, he doesn’t even think about what he’s gonna do. He just runs over, ignores Shen Yuan’s screaming, throws him over his shoulder like a bag of rice, and carries him away. 

Shen Yuan freaks the hell out because, okay, petty insults and light fighting are one thing, but he’s straight up getting kidnapped?? That’s not bullying anymore, that’s a crime!! 

Binghe knows he only has so much time before Qingge manages to find them. He needs somewhere he can hide – he races back to his room before he can plan any further. He throws Shen Yuan on the bed, locks the door, and sighs in relief. 

Shen Yuan is sure he’s gonna die. He has no idea what he ever did to piss Binghe off so bad. Yes, he spilled his coffee, but he got him another one! 

Binghe takes a seat on the bed as well. He averts his eyes away from him bashfully, but glances back periodically like a maiden trying to play coy. Shen yuan has no idea how to navigate whats happening. He backs up on the bed until he hits the wall and holds up a pillow like a shield, except- there’s something underneath. 

It’s the cucumber patterned gag boxers he got as a joke from airplane. No one in the world would buy them. “Is- is this my underwear?” 

Binghe lunges at him to knocks the evidence out of Shen Yuan’s hand, but instead pushes him onto his back and ends up with his hands on either side of Shen Yuan’s head. 

Shen Yuan is shocked in place. Binghe, on the other hand, is in bullying-cute-boy withdrawl. He sees Shen Yuan's beautiful face flustered by their position, on Binghe's bed, and POUNCES.

Now that Shen Yuan finally understands his feelings, Binghe has permission to torment him! And he does. For hours, with various tools and against every surface. 

[morbidmorbid]

Daryl finally reaching the point of the relationship where he can just surrender to the one he loves. Him, on his knees, face buried in your cunt just because he understands now just how much he loves you and can bare himself to you completely.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ADD TO THIS!!! THAT PERSON HAS SINGLE HANDEDLY LEFT ME FERAL OMG!!!! i need that man, I think we ALL need that man 💳💥💳💥

i got uuuuu and sorryyy i’m so late to this i’m a slow writer plus life but here u go !! um this wasn’t supposed to be.. all of this but i can’t help myself. explodes.

18+

⁀➷

it was challenging to get daryl to sleep sometimes.

eyes peel open, gradual, slow. sleep doesn’t weigh heavy on your lids, hadn’t deemed the chance to for prolonged rest was difficult to come by. still, finding idleness was an almost unfamiliar casual occurring and while slow to get comfortable with, it wasn’t completely unwanted. so when your muscles ache and the death in your face suffocates you, you take the chance of a bed and a falsified home even if it comes to be fleeting.

daryl sits perched on the windowsill, cigarette alight.

his dislike for new or change wasn’t the case now, perhaps it was that constant uneasiness that came with the ignorance of another world. daryl, in this state of the world, didn’t kneel to forged comfort—he’d told you that not with his words but with the emptiness in alexandria where his presence should be. he’s recruiting with aaron, he’s on a run, he’s not here. you understand his reservation and while you often touched convictions with him, this was a bit different, this one felt close enough to right.

you don’t bother maneuvering much, only turning a curious head over in his direction. the tidied sheets beneath you ruffle in contact.

“so that’s why i couldn’t sleep.” you say and it’s light, a quip that gently prods. it’s a joke at him forgoing the spot in bed beside you for hard wood beneath him and smoke in his lungs.

daryl takes a drag and pinches it between fingers. inhale, eyes you, exhale, turns away. “right, sorry.” he apologizes for it in his seriousness, watches your eyebrows scrunch in hilarious disbelief and tips in: “looked pretty damn sleep to me, though.”

he hadn’t bothered to crack a window amidst his smoke and it infiltrates the air. it fills your lungs and keeps you from biting back at him that, yeah, you might’ve been somewhere drowned in a dream—whatever those conjured up to be in this time—and it’s an odd thing. to sleep, to fall in deep enough to become unaware of the real around you, and you stick daryl on that development. perhaps things wouldn’t be that simple or easy, there wouldn’t be the opportunity, the comfortability in letting go for a breath.

if not for him perched right where he sits against the glass and looming around you in your vulnerability, likely ignorant to the umbrella of defense he creates.

the sun is long gone and doesn’t burn against the glass like before you’d dozed, only now the enveloping darkness.

“when did you get back?” you ask. his crossbow leans dirty against the wall near the threshold, arrows bloodied. daryl hasn’t shaken the vest or his shoes, nor the dirt on his hands and wedged beneath his fingernails. you reckon thirty minutes, though daryl surprises you.

another drag. “sun was still shinin’ over ya.” he says. it’s been a long while, then. had he eaten? or had he’d smoked his few stale cigarettes and chewed on his thoughts in the stretch of time and that itself is an upsetting possibility.

you purse your lips and your locked fingers dance against eachother, thoughtful. while he seems as he always is, he isn’t. there’s a reason behind everything, the good and the bad, and this one fell between both. “can you come over here? i’m cold.” daryl was a cautious man with little trust and that was good in this world, but right here his hesitancy to pursue not only this false town but you as well was not as pretty as good reasons go.

but that was selfish thinking and unfair to daryl’s morals.

he watches you and years prior he’d been unreadable, but you’re accustomed and he looks like someone who doesn’t believe your words. “it’s sweatin’ balls in here.” he unnecessarily shoots back. daryl, always running behind with your jokes, or maybe he understands but shies away from what you’re asking. daryl was always someone who’d have to work back into accustoms if detached for a while, always slow to reciprocate—even though he so strongly did—lest you’re persistent.

“well, i’m shivering.” you’re saying as you make to rub two hands together to search for warmth. warmth you didn’t need for it already filled you, but a tactic is a tactic.

daryl scoffs a laugh that’s too quiet to catch, but it’s seen. he stubs out his cigarette then, marks the wood in an ugly manner. when he makes the small walk towards the bed, towards you, you’re meeting him halfway as you walk on knees to the edge.

he stops when you speak up. “you’re not getting in bed with all that shit on, are you?”

“was.” he confirms and shrugs and it’s humorous to see how serious he is, how he doesn’t grasp onto the issue.

“take it off, it seems uncomfortable.”

“i ain’t uncomfortable.”

“daryl.”

daryl could be good with orders—could be, a meticulous sort of arrangement—when he agreed with them. this was a mixed case whereas he seemed pulled between the two; the look in his eyes and the firm stance before you screaming i’m fine, i’m staying put. then the other end of the stick with what he eventually complied with in the form of slouched shoulders, guard down, capable of finding that same comfortability in your ways that strived for his growth that he does in his own ways.

still, he grumbles. “ya killin’ me.” and then his jacket goes, his vest, his worn stitched gloves.

you know that daryl prefers to be prepared no matter the situation, doesn’t like to be bared to the world for not even a breath and his heedfulness is commendable. though right here in the warm box that isn’t your inauthentic bedroom but your presence, you recognize his needs are a broad category and this is one of the many.

daryl needs his own relief to come back to despite the state of the world—everyone else has their own, whether in another or in themselves or in between, and daryl deserved just as much.

when he goes to indulge you, two hands coming down against the mattress, you dodge. “don’t forget your shoes, dar.” and he’s all eye contact before finally crouching down. “no shoes in bed, it’s barbaric.”

“guessin’ i oughta get my underwear off, right?” he smiles a small one, sarcastic. “beat ya to the punch.”

you shrug for the joke and he scoffs at it. he bends at the knees nevertheless, lightly hitting the floor and fingers reaching to shove themselves in the heel of his shoe. one goes and joins the pile, but before he can twin the other foot, you’re bringing a hand to his hair. he’s a bit sweaty there, strands darkened in consequence and instead of grimacing, your chest swells with pride, gratitude; daryl’s a fighter and it shows even in the smallest things.

“thank you, by the way. really.” you say when you notice he’s halted his movements. he doesn’t budge even when you move from strand to strand, fixing him, watching his forehead come into view. his brows and shoulders remain lax which is good, encourages you. had it been before he would’ve been a quick hand on your forearm with alarm, unfamiliar in the intimacy, hesitant.

he doesn’t look up yet. “thankin’ me for?” and against your palm he leans.

“i don’t know, everything—for fighting.” you elaborate and it’s then that he’s lifting his head, squinted eyes sharp.

daryl was always shy eyes when commended. he holds your gaze in increments now and you take the moment to let your hands travel. they’re slow and deliberate where they land along the expanse of his jaw and against the hairs on his face. daryl moves with you in whichever direction you think to turn him, and while it’s cute and certainly heavy intimate development on his part, you don’t call him out on it for he embarrasses easily and having him shy away now was not a good call.

“ain’t just me.” he finally says and since he doesn’t like spotlight, “it’s you, michonne, rick—“

“i know.” you cut in. daryl reads into your simple response almost immediately if the expression he holds is telling; a bit taken aback, slightly flustered, understanding. there’s something in your chest that screams pride when daryl comes to realize when you’re making things about him, when you’re specifically singling him out, when you’re picking out all of his goods and positives and displaying them before himself.

daryl preens under your touch. the touch of yours that continues to travel, dancing in his hair, brushing against the skin of his face, running knuckles over cheekbones and forehead wrinkles. every crevice, every bump different. it’s distracting for daryl, you learned prior, lures his mind to a standstill, tugs the words back down his throat. he’s typically left with little to say to you when you’re on him like this, instead speaks with his eyes of a solace he finds between the both of you.

“your hands.” he eventually comments.

“my hands?” although now under scrutiny, they don’t pause their exploration.

“warm. said you were freezin’.”

your lips purse then at his delayed reckoning, laughter at the tip of your tongue. it slips despite your efforts, low and loose, makes daryl squint in situational ignorance. at the prison, daryl had once complimented your laugh under and against the metal of the cell beds, had thrown a ‘nevermind’ in quickly after you’d cooed at him for it.

“well, of course they’re warm now.” you bring them to his neck now, tip of your thumbs caressing his ears. “still cold all over, though.”

and instead of questioning you further, instead of coming up to engulf you in a hug, daryl brings his face into your abdomen. it’s not a punch of air that you lose, but your ability to form coherent thoughts. it’s him not exactly nuzzling, but breathing steadily into the cloth of your shirt, soft inhale, soft exhale. this means something because it always means something.

daryl hides the sudden salacious fervor on his face in the shield that your body creates. it’s obvious, so obvious, because he’s strong and unmoving where you attempt to lift his head.

while it is sudden, the dots seem to connect—daryl, with his lack of space to ever position himself to submit, does so openly right now because there is an opening for it. while he so genuinely kneeled for his shoes, you picked up on the way his pupils dilated when he did find your eyes—ever so brief during those three second variables. it was then that you knew.

“everything okay?” you ask lightly. everything is okay, daryl is so evidently okay which is why he pursues this. you ask anyway, though. daryl says he likes verbal confirmation and reassurance from you and he’d be a hypocrite to not like for you to reciprocate.

“mhm.” it’s muffled against your body which begins to gradually curl around him, between your legs which have swamped him in. “just ain’t comfortable down here.”

“really? you aching already?” you retort with a low laugh.

daryl doesn’t say anything else, nor does he make to stand.

“dick’s hard.” is what he comes up with and it’s so sudden and not at all vague.

you’ve thought it to be the case, so it doesn’t surprise you much. it was apparent the moment he hide himself in what you’d call shame. shame that looked to only follow him in the structure of built up carnal strain that’d been canned inside of him. daryl behaved like he didn’t have a clue that he had it or how to exactly deal with it. when the relationship had sprouted into a much more personal manner, it was always you who’d ‘handle’ daryl even when he struggled finding it in himself to.

he’s bringing hands up and they’re situating themselves on your waist. his hold isn’t suffocating, but it’s tight, fidgeting where he tries to keep his energy levels even.

“if you want something, daryl..” you begin slowly, anticipating where this will take you both. where your hands still sit in daryl’s hair, you pull again and he finally gives way and holy shit.

“ask ya for it.” he finishes, and before you can ponder too long why he already looks so fucking out of it, he’s already beating you to it. “think i busted.” he grunts around the words, fingers twitching against you and he forgoes his hold to wipe the back of his hand against his lips. it looks to be a habit that has budded from his nerves which he strives to conceal.

“did you?..”

daryl curls his lips inwards, another habit, adjusts his knees on the floor. “well, it ain’t piss.“

“oh. you wanna clean up and come up here? we can just—“ daryl was weird with embarrassment, and while it was fun to poke and prod, he’d probably string himself dry thinking back on this, so you try to move it along—not mention it for a moment longer.

“nah.” i’ll stay here is what he says with his actions, bringing his face back to your abdomen, kisses through the shirt. despite his own interference daryl is still there; he shows that he still feels the sensual crave all within himself with the way he simply picks back up regardless of the mess in his pants.

admittedly, it brings a slight tremble down into the pit of your stomach.

you’re whispering out a light okay as he proceeds, hands at your waist shifting and bringing your shirt upwards, tidbits of flesh now exposed. it seems purposeful because he’s then all dry lips and scratchy facial hair against your skin, drinking you in, dirty hands squeezing where they can.

you’re calling out his name to which he responds to with a stronger aggression in action; oddly firm presses of his lips evolving into these tiny nips of teeth, pushing against you enough to send you back onto your palms.

rare were the moments that daryl’s usually subdued needs make such a sudden head. when he’s functioning one moment, high off plenty cigarettes in his normal, and the next he’s chasing you lewdly like he’s just always been without fornication—and he has.

daryl advances south, hands still at your waist, breath fanning over your pants. they’re of comfort with no zipper or buttons to act as a task to undo, so daryl gets to you easily. his hands shake a little as he hooks fingers in the waistband of your pants, not all nervousness but moreso an eagerness that it seems he struggles keeping at bay.

though despite this, he handles you with a certain gentleness and allows himself this moment of vulnerability, of exploration in a way that leaves you both bare in every sense.

your bottoms pull down and you help to kick them off and away.

“gentle.” you say when he stuffs a sweaty face directly into you, hands cupping your legs from beneath, spreading them enough to fit himself comfortably between. “i’m not as flexible as i used to be.”

“can’t tell.” he shoots back in his playfulness that is typically delivered dryly.

he shifts on his knees again, but doesn’t seem entirely too bothered, instead doesn’t spend another second without a tongue pressed wetly against you through the fabric of your garment. he laps at the cloth, grunts incoherencies, presses thumbs into your under thigh, tries to hide the not so subtle clenching in his abdomen. he’s hard again, straining and obvious, at the mercy of his body’s natural instinct to relieve the pressure by humping, rutting, fucking up into anything, searching for something.

“daryl, daryl.” you hiss when he tries to get his mouth on you whole down there, not stalling for anything. “shit, you—let’s take it slow.”

and you know in his current state it’s absurd to ask, he’s already gone.

but still, he hears you because he’s reluctantly pulling away, obedient.

“alright, now take them off, please.” you order, bringing a hand to his hair again. it creates a sort of stability for yourself, whilst for daryl it only tips him more towards the edge.

and since daryl runs on orders, he’s quick to move again with hands sliding you out of the underwear and down your legs. you assist with kicking them off and away, and daryl doesn’t give you a breath in between because he’s a wet tongue on you in an instant.

it’s like something shifts in him—like something breaks, gives way to a heavily chased after relief—seeing the way his shoulders slack. you gasp, feeling the pleasure ripple up your spine, sit hotly in your gut.

“look at you, oh my god.” you begin to taunt and it’s s bit broken off, but still holds its weight. “you look so right down there.”

daryl gives a groan in return, fingers squeezing in protest, but you know he believes it, too.

your chest fills with a breath when he pops off, and it’s beautiful how concentrated he seems with the task. for once, his cheeks tint an airbrush of pink, featherlight and detailing to you just how aroused he is.

to use emphasis, in his still state, you use the opportunity to reel him back in at the hair. it elicits something loud and ruined out of him—a moan, a whine almost. he breathes through his nose when he’s tongue and teeth and cheeks all over you again, and it makes your back arch. the sounds he produces alongside the wetness that you are has you bringing ankles to his backside, locking him in and daryl’s moans are muffled and slightly garbled in reaction.

“you’re gonna—“ cracked. “you’re so good for me, you’re gonna make me cum.”

at that, he pursues you heavier now. like he’s eager to taste you, like he wouldn’t miss it for the world, daryl brings a hand up to rub what he can’t get. it’s wet and nasty and lewdly noisy, and your moans alike. with him using two times the pleasure, it sends you over just as fast.

your eyes squeeze tight as your body racks with the aftershocks, and daryl is ragged breaths somewhere in the void and you’re not sure if it’s him coming as well or the hand deep in his strands has him that strung out.

the wound up muscles in your body release as does your hold on him, and you’re falling to your back against the mattress.

it’s a while before your eyes are peeling open again, head lulled a bit. daryl stands to his feet again at the foot of the bed, cracked bones and all.

“hey.” he starts quietly, haphazardly wipes his mouth. he hovers over you laid out on the bed, arms encasing your head and body heat transferring. “we alrigh’?” his concern etches outside of his tone and into his hot hand that now covers your cheek and ear. his thumb runs over your moist cheekbones and his eyes stick to yours like syrup.

you nod. “yeah.” you assure and watch his expression ease up. “i’m definitely alright. are you?”

he mimics your nod. “mhm.”

“don’t.” you say when he attempts to embrace you entirely. “shower. both of us.” and when he doesn’t respond—“shower. you came twice in your pants.”

daryl shoves his face in the crook of your neck then, ears red.

when the water eventually does come down on you both, it’s shameless in its lack of purity. daryl, despite the night, used a handjob from you underneath the stream before he’d grown shaky in the shoulders and grumpy in the tone, apprehensive in his age. (“ain’t built for another, you’re killin’ me.”)

and he would know himself best because he’s droopy eyes and clean hair against the pillows afterwards, sleep weighing him down. he’s still like he doesn’t feel your gaze, but squints open an eye when you speak.

“i lied about being cold. wanted you in bed.” you smile to contain laughter.

daryl scoffs. “mhm, well .. shit worked.”

[secriden]

I thought I was done talking about Style in THK's episode 2, but jokes on me, no I'm not.

I keep thinking about Style and Bison's first interaction and how pure and sweet it was. In the middle of the mess that is this 4-way whirlwind of lies and deception, it felt like a refreshingly honest conversation between two people who are only accidentally lying to each other.

Style seems incredibly earnest when he tells Bison that Kant is "down bad" for him. It doesn't feel like Style is 'wingmanning' Kant here; or if he is, it isn't meant to be malicious or to mislead Bison. It feels like someone being friendly with his bff's crush and hoping that they can get along because he thinks this one's going to stick around.

Similarly, when Bison tells Style to go for Fadel for real, it feels very honest and earnest. Setting aside whatever games Bison is playing with Kant, Bison seems to genuinely want someone for his big brother, and not just so he can date who he wants or as a distraction.

It's also interesting how Style's protest is that he can't see himself actually gaining feelings for Fadel because in a way there's nothing to recommend Fadel to Style at this point. As far as Style is concerned, Fadel is arrogant and condescending, rude and ungrateful (after all, he did replace a bunch of parts in Fadel's car for free), a stick in the mud about his brother dating, and can't seem to take a joke.

We see the polite, pleasant and reasonable Fadel, but Style doesn't.

Which is why I've been obsessing over Style's expressions immediately after the conversation with Bison. Bison's parting insight is "He's rough on the outside, and on the inside," and I think he accidentally piqued Style's curiosity with that line. Because why does Bison still want his brother to have a "real" relationship, then? What makes Fadel worth loving, despite (what Style thinks is) nothing to recommend him?

Ugh I wish I knew how to make gifs because BLESS @airenyah FOR MAKING THESE GIFS!!! Dunk goes through a whole sequence of expressions here that suggests a shift happens in the way he's thinking of Fadel. There's a pensive and thoughtful look and then almost like, "Oh what the hell, might as well see where this goes" kind of amusement at the end. And I think the reason he has this shift is because he's realised that Bison clearly loves his brother and that must mean that there's more to Fadel then his initial impression of the man.

It's interesting that his next attempt at messing with Fadel actually invites Fadel to play along with it. It's so much tamer and more private than the previous attempts because he isn't actively trying to humiliate Fadel this time. And it works?? Fadel engages in the roleplay, indulges Style's ridiculousness, actually chops faster (whilst the most hysterical series of minute expressions play over Fadel's face <3). Perhaps this was Style testing the waters: can Fadel engage with something playful and not take everything way too seriously? Huh, turns out, he can!

The next time Style shows up around Fadel, he's circled back to that playful over-the-top flirting that characterised the garage scene. This is the first time in this episode that Style is actually flirting. Every other time was just to frustrate/humiliate Fadel but notice how he's actively trying to look attractive to Fadel now? He's putting all his best (ahem) assets on display, and poor Fadel has no real protection against this. And, oh, Style is loving this! He's gleefully lapping up every single time Fadel fails to completely hide that he's affected by him.

This, though. THIS precisely is the point I think Style decides that he really does want Fadel for himself. There's so much playing out over Style's face: the determination to push things further, the delighted surprise to see Fadel so rattled, the razor sharp focus, and then desire. Style has finally broken through Fadel's "roughness" and he loves it.

If that uncle hadn't walked in, I'm convinced Fadel would have let Style do anything he wanted, and I think Style knew that.

It's the first time Style immediately chases after Fadel when he walks away from him, and he's absolutely delighted when Fadel all but chokes him against the lockers because that means he still has Fadel within reach.

The whole conversation about "love at first sight" is breathtaking because it feels like Style is discovering what's going to make Fadel crack as he says it and realising just how much he wants this. And no, I don't think he's in love with Fadel yet (not by a LONG shot), but I think he realises that he wants Fadel to fall in love with him. This is such a shift from what he expressed in the diner to Bison. In the diner, there was no hope, no chance for this.

The kisses catch Style by surprise too: you can see that he's just reacting, pushing to see where Fadel will finally draw the line. Because Fadel kisses back in the first kiss and actually fails to push Style away for quite some time in the 2nd kiss (the camera purposely lingers on the way Fadel's hands hover over Style's waist without shoving him back). The third kiss is the point Fadel finally starts fighting, and in the immidate aftermath you can see Style watching so carefully again. And Fadel nearly kisses him again, you see the way Fadel's eyes drop to Style's lips, the way they both freeze and linger in the moment for that one second. The way Style registers that moment and it leaves Style shaken himself.

It's so interesting that this is how we leave Style in this episode (we only see Fadel's fantasy version of Style after this point). I've got two possible interpretations for this line:

Style possibly catches on that Fadel is more dangerous than he seems. Maybe just from vibes, maybe from something in the way Fadel threatened him that kicks off some kind of fearful instinct. This could be what makes Style start questioning if Kant told him the full story and lead to whatever scene it is where Style demands answers in the episode 3 preview.

Alternatively, perhaps Fadel is starting to become real to Style in ways he wasn't before. Fadel was almost a caricature of a man, one which Style didn't like very much before, and that made it easier to fool around with him. But this? This almost tortured man who clearly wants Style but can't seem to give into that desire? Something is going on and Style isn't sure it's worth the game to either of them anymore. Because maybe Style recognises that he's more affected than he should be. And that has implications that Style was not ready for.

[happy74827]

The Demon With A Heart

[Crowley x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When Crowley saves your life, you can't help but think it was a little more than self-interest.

WC: 1858

Category: 99.9% Sexual Tension (lmfao), 0.01% Fluff + Angst? {TW: Mentions of Demons (obvi), Murder}

Crowley is too iconic not to have fics. I said what I said.

『••✎••』

You didn’t know how to react. It was as if your tongue was taken away, and you couldn’t talk, no matter how much you wanted to thank the man.

No, the demon.

You stood there with wide eyes, staring at the King of Hell, Crowley. He looked the same as before: a clean suit, a snarky comment, and a look of disgust on his face. But, instead of being on the opposite side, he was wiping the blood off of the angel blade he used to kill the angel that jumped you.

He just saved you—The King of Hell.

The very man who told Sam and Dean countless times that he doesn't do anything for free and doesn’t help people without getting something out of it. Yet, here he was, standing in front of you, not asking for a single thing.

The thought was a bit unsettling.

"Purely out of self-interest, darling," He says, breaking the silence and putting the stolen blade into his jacket. "Call it a favor that I plan to collect in the future."

He was about to leave, but you couldn’t let him go. Not without a thank you, at least. You didn't want him to think you didn’t appreciate what he did.

"Crowley."

The man turns back around, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you."

The corner of his mouth turned upward, forming a small smirk. He didn’t say anything but rather kept his eyes on you for a second longer. He then disappeared, leaving you in the dark.

And it did leave you in the dark. For days, weeks, months. He never came for that favor, and he never brought up what happened. In fact, he barely talked to you at all. It was always towards the Winchesters.

You began to believe it was nothing but a dream. That Crowley somehow didn't save you. The angel was a fake, and this was all some sick joke. It felt like gaslighting.

But you knew what happened was real. You remembered the blood splatter and the dead corpse. The way his face contorted when he pierced the angel's heart.

It was all too real.

So, why was he ignoring you? Why did he pretend that it never happened? Was he going to hold it over your head? Or was it just the fact that the King of Hell did something nice for a human?

Was it because he… cared?

One night, you got your answer. It was a quiet night filled with books, tea, and soft music. At least, it was before those idiotic brothers decided to tear down the bunker in search of some book.

You couldn’t remember the exact reason they needed it, but you were too tired to argue. So, you stayed in your room and tried to fall asleep.

That is until the lights went out and the emergency lights kicked on. Okay, now you were annoyed. You got up, slipped on your shoes and a coat, and walked out of your room.

"Alright, what did you two-"

You paused mid-sentence, eyes falling onto the figure in the library. The man was facing the opposite way, but you knew exactly who it was. The familiar black suit and hair gave it away.

"Crowley…"

"Hello, Darling,” he replied, turning around and smiling at you. It was almost unnerving. He didn’t have a malicious aura or even an evil one. Just... a smile.

You looked behind him and noticed… well, nothing. You were expecting the Winchesters to be with him, and yet, it was just him.

"Where are the boys?"

"Moose and Squirrel? Ah, they're off somewhere, doing... well, you know. Something heroic, I suppose. Figured I’d stick around… enjoy the scenery."

That’s when you looked up and understood what he meant. He was stuck, quite literally. Those devil traps they put everywhere finally did something good.

You half-expected him to bring up that 'favor' he was talking about or maybe even just demand to get out of there, but he did neither. Instead, he looked at the ground and sighed.

At the moment, the King of Hell looked just like a caged puppy, sad and alone. If he wasn’t such a… demon, you might have even felt bad for him.

But, you left him in there, strolling along to the kitchen to find some kind of light. You were not giving up your two hours of reading due to power loss.

As you shuffled through the cabinets, looking for any form of match or lighter, the lights flickered back on.

So that’s where the Winchesters were.

You shrugged and turned back to your room but stopped at the entrance to the library. Crowley was still there, but this time, his face was twisted. He was clearly pissed.

"Why did you do it?" The burning question you wanted answered for months finally came out. Crowley stopped his little fit and turned towards you, a confused expression on his face.

He looked like he had no idea what you were talking about.

"I do a lot of things, Chipmunk. You'll have to be more specific."

You walked towards him, resting down the candles and book on a nearby table. You didn’t know why, but the need to confront him was growing.

"Save me all those months ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You were getting closer, now only a few feet from him. Crowley, however, didn’t back away. Instead, he watched as you moved, his expression unchanging.

"That angel could’ve killed me, yet you came out of nowhere and stabbed him. I know you don't do anything out of kindness, so why did you do it? What do I offer that no one else does?"

Crowley stayed silent for a while, not giving any indication of answering your questions.

You thought it was just a lost cause until his expression changed. It was subtle, but you caught it. The corner of his mouth turned down, and his eyes widened, then narrowed.

He almost looked ashamed.

"It's just like I said. Self-interest." He spat out, his voice sounding like venom. You almost took a step back. It still sounded like the same old Crowley, but his tone was different.

You decided to call his bluff.

"I don't believe you."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, a smirk coming across his face. He was amused by the sudden attitude, but it didn’t last long.

"And what makes you say that?"

"I saw the way you looked at me after you saved me. Hesitancy, almost. Like you were unsure. As if..."

The King of Hell stared at you, waiting for the last part of your statement. He was eager but not for the answer. No, he knew what you were going to say.

He was just waiting to hear it come out of your mouth.

"You care."

Those words hung in the air, both of you processing it. Crowley continued to stare at you, the smirk disappearing, leaving his face neutral. He had a blank expression.

A silence grew, the atmosphere turning awkward. It wasn't until the demon let out a loud sigh and looked to the side that it was broken.

"You’re really pulling on the heartstrings, Chipmunk,” he muttered, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "If I had one, I'd say it was aching."

"Do you?"

You knew what you were implying. Crowley was the King of Hell, the ruler of the damned. He was the furthest thing from human, yet he could walk among them and, sometimes, be mistaken for one.

Was it possible for him to be human or even have emotions?

Crowley looked at you and frowned, clearly not liking the topic. But he didn't deny it. It was a strange sight—the King of Hell, frowning and silent.

It was almost adorable.

"I'm not asking for anything. I just… want an honest answer."

"Well, I am a demon, love,” He stated, his tone changing to a more playful one. “Honesty isn’t quite in the job description."

"Crowley."

You were starting to get impatient, and it showed. Your voice was firm, and your posture was tense. You wanted an answer, and you were determined to get it.

The demon in question let out another sigh and looked at the ceiling as if praying for a quick escape.

"You're a pain, you know that? It's exhausting." He grumbled, rolling his eyes. "But, I suppose, since you asked nicely..."

The man looked at you, his lips pursed. He was still hesitating, which only made you more curious.

"Yes, I care. About you. Happy?"

You blinked a few times, processing the information. Did the King of Hell, the person known for not giving a shit, just admit he cares?

"I-" You started, not knowing what to say. It was a surprise but not an unwelcome one. Crowley wasn't exactly a bad guy, well, a demon.

"Do you actually mean that?"

"Now that…" Crowley started, his voice low and deep. He leaned towards you, making you back up, but the wall soon prevented you from going any further.

He was inches away, his breath hitting your face. You could see his eyes staring into yours—a pretty brown, like a mocha latte.

"…Is the kind of question that will get you in trouble, love."

You weren’t sure what he was planning, but you didn't care. The way his eyes were looking at you, the smirk on his face, the closeness...

He was probably expecting you to back away, but he was wrong. You were an avid reader, obsessive even. This scene wasn't new, nor was it shocking.

The only shocking part was the fact that you were the one in it. And, well, the fact that you didn’t mind it.

"Unlike you,” you whispered, a small smirk on your face. "I don’t care."

Your response made him pause for a moment, squinting his eyes and giving you a confused look. It only lasted a few seconds, though. Soon, he understood, and a chuckle escaped his lips.

"Touché"

You truly believed you were about to lose your chance with the man upstairs, but loud footsteps interrupted you.

"Crowley, you slimy son of a bitch! If you’re not here, we are going to-"

Dean stopped talking as he rounded the corner, seeing you and Crowley close. His expression was shocked, almost comical.

"The hell is going on here?"

You and Crowley both turned to look at Dean, a look of annoyance on the King of Hell's face. Sam came around the corner as well, sharing the same look of confusion.

Crowley gave you one last glance, a bit of disappointment in his eyes, before taking a step back. His attention moved on to the two hunters, his usual smile returning.

And despite the annoyance in the air and the confusion, the only thing that came across your mind was another question that you were sure would take control of your sleep schedule once again.

"Hello, boys," He purred, his arms moving to his side. He was back to his old self, not showing a single sign of what happened moments ago.

Had the beauty thawed the beast?

[silverzoomies]

Angels

peter maximoff x reader

warnings: peter being a goober, he watches porn for like half a second, it's highkey a stranger things crossover, my dialogue is goofy as hell

word count: 5,240

a/n: had a lot of fun with this one !! a while back, my buddy @quickandsilvers (now deactivated, and i can't find their new acc) requested a fic where he works in a video store and makes a fool of himself. i think i strayed from their prompt a lot, but i hope they don't mind. sorry about the stranger things crossover !! it happened naturally while writing it, and i couldn't stop thinking about steve and peter interacting. lol

Like a responsible adult, Peter spent the span of an entire month “studying” for his GED final. His rapid fire attention span made focusing a tough feat, even past his years of high school age hyperactivity. Which was the very reason he had to study so friggin hard for his GED in the first place. Peter never graduated high school. And because he never graduated high school, he didn’t really know what real studying was. “Studying” for him mostly entailed speed reading, once or twice over. Before he called it quits and bolted away to do…Peter stuff.

He was honestly really proud of himself for sticking it out, though. Much to his mother’s most pleasant surprise. Peter carried a perfect attendance streak through all his classes. A wildly stark contrast to his self proclaimed, unmatched ditch streak back in high school. In hindsight, that wasn’t something worth boasting about.

But all his hard work and bonafide effort proved supremely disappointing…when he flunked the final anyway.

Peter’s chest ached, as though someone tore his heart out, stomped on it, then double tapped for good measure. In a fit of unbridled frustration, Peter raced across the entire planet to burn out his rage. His blood boiled hot in his veins. After circling the globe about a gajillion times, he finally skidded to a stop. Somewhere in Indiana.

His clothes were all tattered and covered in holes. Burned from supersonic force. The soles of his favorite shoes turned to ash, crying smoke like a bonfire. Painful blisters littered his feet. But in his defeated haze, he couldn’t find the energy to care. Barefoot and blistered, Peter walked to the nearest payphone, his head tipped back in shame.

He could only imagine how devastated his mom would be.

It broke Peter’s heart, knowing he’d have to call her and ruin her day. After she promised to take him and his sisters out for a celebratory dinner. All you can eat Chinese! - she said. Being on the receiving end of bad news was one thing. But delivering said news to one’s mother - after an entire lifetime spent letting her down? That sucked unimaginably more.

At the payphone - after tossing his desecrated shoes in the trash - Peter hesitantly brought the handset to his ear. Deep breath in. Now, breathe out. He leaned against the glass of the phone booth. Over the line, his mother’s voice lost all liveliness. And a moment later, Wanda took over instead, sounding majorly peeved off. She threw all kinds of accusations at him - Did you even try, Piet? I thought you were taking this seriously! You said you studied! You totally dashed mom’s hopes!

Peter rolled his finger through one of the holes in his Queen shirt. Mannnn. Friggin sucks. He got that one from the totally sick Hot Space Tour. He even took Wanda with him, and they had the most righteous time. With her so disappointed on the phone like this, it hurt to recall any fond memories. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried cracking a half-assed joke to lighten the mood.

“Soooooo…no Chinese tonight then?”

Yeah, nah. Sis didn’t take to that one too well. Peter hated arguing with her, but the two spat back and forth for about five minutes. Peter bumped his head against the glass as his stress ran up to mach ten. Gathering whatever patience he had left - a microscopic amount, at this point - he apologized, told his sister he loved her, and hung up. Once he stepped outside of the phone booth, he heaved a long groan.

Peter’s fingers twitched at his sides. Taking a quick glance upward, he noticed a nearby video store. A Family Video, nestled in a strip mall next to an arcade. Narrowing his eyes, Peter chewed his lip in contemplation.

And he made a supremely stupid move.

A millenia passed since Peter gave into his klepto compulsions. Maybe old habits die hard, as they say.

At the Hawkins PD, the chief lingered nearby in a rickety, metal chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The night seemed to drag for eons, as Peter paced barefoot in restless circles…within the confines of a lonesome jail cell. Since Hawkins was such a small town, hardly any of the feds were familiar with the X-Men. Mutants were a rare commodity. They sooner thought Peter was a hobo the chief picked up off the street.

Come next morning, Peter got an earful from Chuck. Thankfully, the generous prof forgave Peter for his colossal fuck-ups. He even paid Peter’s bail. And while the speedster felt even more sick with guilt because of it; he was grateful he wouldn’t have to spend another second in nowhere town Indiana.

Tormentous boredom aside; for some reason, the place gave Peter the creeps.

Falling victim to his own compulsions proved a major setback on all fronts. After Chuck chewed Peter out over the phone, he broke even more bad news. Apparently, the Family Video manager made a major stink about Peter’s thievery. Even called in a complaint to Xavier’s school. The guy went so far as to blame mutants for their “dishonesty.” A completely baseless generalization. All because of some dumb knucklehead’s reckless behavior.

Chuck convinced the asshole to let Peter off the hook. Only if the speedster made up for it by working a summer’s job at Family Video. A short-term punishment. At least until Autumn, when Peter got another shot at his GED. The professor basically grounded Peter from X-Men stuff. Awesome. Heck, technically, he grounded him from the mansion altogether. Cool beans. Thumbs up. Hunky dory.

Hell no. Peter was an adult. Not a teenager who needed to be disciplined after disobeying papa’s orders. He didn’t even really have a papa. In fact, papa disappeared off the face of the planet just a few years back.

Peter digressed. Whatever, right? Grown men messed up all the time. So what if he made a few minor missteps on the road to personal development?

And he would’ve argued these points, had something in Chuck’s honest voice not guilted him into silence.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to wear a stupid vest or anything.

The sweltering hot month of June.

Quicksilver should be out kicking ass, causing trouble, stealing hearts (playing video games, tampering with tech, being a total nerd).

Instead, he found himself leaning on the counter of a Family Video register in Indiana.

Peter had never worked an everyman’s retail job in his life. And holy smokes, was it slow. The days ran slower than a sloth in cement shoes. At any given moment, Peter swore he was nanoseconds away from dying of boredom. Literally. Call him melodramatic, but the monotony of day-to-day living sucked the speedy soul out of him. Only a few weeks passed since he “joined the Family Video team.” But all he ever did was idle behind the counter like a chud, gorging on snacks and watching MTV.

Whenever the news reported another X-Men victory, achieved without the help of the team’s one and only speedster; Peter felt the urge to run around the globe again. All he wanted was to shake off his temperament until his legs gave out. But alas. His feet stayed planted on freshly mopped linoleum, in the confines of VHS rental hell.

On the flip side, at least his new shoes were still intact.

Peter spent his days doing mind-numbing activities like reorganizing shelves, sorting movies by genre, and mopping floors. Playing with the label maker was kinda fun. Totally not even a little boring. Nope. Peter never daydreamed some psycho might rob the place, just so he’d have an excuse to be Quicksilver again.

Why would he? When he could play with that sweet label maker.

Yawn.

Thankfully, he wasn’t completely alone. Not that he minded much either way. Solitude and Peter went together like Han Solo and Chewy. But another guy worked the same shift as Peter. Some dude named Steve, with great hair and a metric fuckton of pins all over his vest. He swore up and down, his friend Robin insisted he cover himself head to toe in them. Because something something “chicks totally dig a guy with accessories.”

Peter never met Robin, since her hours were all jacked up. But judging by the Rainbow Brite, Care Bear, and Garbage Pail Kids pins all over Steve’s vest; Peter knew she had to be pulling her pal’s leg.

Which…alright. Cool. He could respect that.

Steve was a decent enough guy and super chill to talk to. He got along great with the group of hellions who always came in, looking for nerdy flicks like Clash of the Titans. Peter once spent a whole afternoon debating Star Wars logistics with them; arguing whether or not Ewoks had any justifiable place in Return of the Jedi. But, come on, those fuzzballs were kinda cool.

And Peter refused to admit he had a few Ewok figures in his collection back in Westchester.

Neither Steve, nor his munchkins seemed to have any qualms about mutants. The only thing he ever bitched about was Peter’s effortless ability to stay in tip-top shape.

“It’s so bullshit, man.” He blatantly complained, “You can pig out on Twinkies all day and still look like that. What does your metabolism run on? Jet fuel?”

Peter’s beady eyes darted swiftly back and forth, across the pages of Lord of the Rings. One of Steve’s little minions gave the speedster a used copy. Worn at the edges. Barely held together by the spine. Peter hadn’t read a real book by choice since middle school. As he skimmed through it at a remarkable pace, he spoke through a creamy bite of Twinkie.

“Flux Capacitor.”

Shame. Sucks for Steve. The dude was obviously good looking. But he somehow fumbled his attempts at flirting with cute chicks. Not to mention, his opportunities came so few and far in between, with Peter there to steal the show. And while some small-town ladies had a tendency to scrunch their noses and sneer at the presence of a mutant - others recognized him as a hero. One of the X-Men. On the rare chance a cutie walked in with her besties following along; they sometimes whispered amongst each other.

"Isn’t he with the X-Men?” “Oh my god, he is!” “Which one is he?” “I think he’s the fast one.” “How fast is he though?” “Oh, he’s, like, so mega fast. Like a speeding bullet on legs.” “Whoa. He’s kinda cute.” “What do you think his calves look like?” “I like his hair.” “What’s he doing here in Hawkins?” “Do you think he’s undercover?” “He looks so ripped.”

Chewing his gum and secretly listening in, Peter cheesed a grin from ear to ear like a doofus. And he soon fell into a shameless habit, letting awestruck girls cop a feel of real, superhero muscles and speedster calves. Hard as vibranium, vascular like Commodore 64 wiring.

What?? Give him a break! Back in Westchester, girls never gave him a second glance.

The endless quiet and steady pace of everyday living drove Peter up a freaking wall after a while. A month in, he felt himself going stir crazy. Peter continuously thought about zipping out for a quick run. One whole second tops. Just to make a break for a slushie at the gas station down the street. Steve even swore he wouldn’t rat Peter out if he bailed and came back. Cuz, like, seriously…who would notice?

But in the back of his mind somewhere, Peter heard Chuck’s voice. A guilty reminder to slow his roll. Stop and smell the roses. The speedster had his impulses, sure. But he wasn’t so weak willed. Peter knew, deep in his heart, he could do better. Hell, he was better. A true master of self control. No problem-o.

Except…he totally wasn’t.

Hand to god, Peter was, and would always be a colossal jackass.

He affirmed this brutally honest fact with himself the first time he met you.

That night, the store seemed like a barren ghost town. Not a customer in sight. Most of the town’s locals were out having fun at a traveling carnival. Steve even took the day off to chaperone his hobbit posse. He stopped by just to give Peter his pin-covered vest, and left his esteemed colleague to stew in his own boredom. Wasting away behind the counter, restless as ever; Peter dreamed of carnival funnel cake.

And why not sneak away for a quick sec? Just to grab himself something sweet. He liked to think he earned it.

Peter zipped to the carnival, paid for some funnel cake, tied Steve’s shoelaces together, and returned to the store in a flash. Leaning comfortably back on a metal stool; he stuffed his gullet with fried delights. Sweet, doughy goodness. Powdered sugar coated his fingers and dusted the corners of his mouth. Peter kept his legs hiked up, dirty sneakers crossed on the countertop. Whatevs. He’d wipe ‘em down before he closed up shop in two hours.

His lidded eyes gaped lazily at one of theTVs hanging from the ceiling. Peter shamelessly watched a wildly inappropriate porno. A filthy flick he snatched from the restricted section and popped in. Partly out of boredom. Mostly out of morbid curiosity. Angels of Passion. Peter sat through an hour of hilariously raunchy scenes - all featuring steamy, angel hanky panky. Talk about divine intervention. He snickered to himself as heat pooled in his cheeks.

A blonde bombshell gyrated her hips in some dude’s lap, rolling her bush, bouncing to the beat of a catchy, unidentifiable song. Her explicit moans echoed lewdly over that earworm of a tune. Jesus, she was really going for it. Looked like she, uh…liked it, actually. Blood in Peter’s cheeks rushed south at warp speed. He felt a familiar tightening in his groin. With funnel cake crammed between his powdery lips, he adjusted himself in his jeans. Smearing powdered sugar carelessly over his crotch.

And he nearly choked to death when a voice he didn’t recognize called his name.

“Wow. Quicksilver? Is that you? Whatcha watchin?”

Oh. Oh, it wasn’t just his name name. But his hero name. Peter whipped his head around, his dark eyes widening as he met yours. Brows raised. Gazing humorously at him as though he were a bozo. Just his luck. A random customer - a very cute customer - picked the most optimal time to walk in. And there he was, the X-Men’s famous speedster; covered in powdered sugar, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, Care Bear and Rainbow Brite pins all over his vest, a stiffy in his jeans, a nasty porno playing in the background.

What a huge lamebrain, you probably thought.

Peter blinked, and so did you. Time seemed to stretch in a long, awkward moment. Someone should honestly just shoot him and be done with it. From his perspective, an hour passed before he got his shit together. But from your perspective, he was there in a second. Leaning casually over the counter on his elbow, his other hand on his hip. The TV blared reruns of MTV music videos, with Madonna singin’ loud. The very same TV you caught him watching dirty movies on - just for the hell of it. Purely for entertainment’s sake, mind you.

And bizarrely enough, your expression held no judgment.

Furrowing his mercury brows, Peter wiped the last trace of powdered sugar from his lips. He cleared his throat and gave you a careless nod of his head. Stay cool. Stay collected. It wasn’t like his mom caught him with his pants down or something. He put on his best customer service smile. A grin so fake, his dimples vanished into hiding. Time to get the ball rolling before he lost whatever dignity he had left.

Peter hated Indiana. Like, really hated it.

He spoke fast, the words tumbling past his lips at the speed of light.

“That?Thatwasnothing.” Peter blurted out, his mouth running a hundred miles an hour. His fingers tapped anxiously on the countertop. Your curious gaze flicked down to them, before looking into his coke-brown eyes again. His face erupted in flames as he kept rambling, punctuating each sentence with an uneasy laugh, “I wasn’t watching anything. Just some lame religious documentary. Y’know. A real snore fest. I swear, I was this close to takin’ a nap.”

You laughed.

No lie, he wasn’t expecting you to laugh like that. The sound sliced through the tension in the air, catching him off guard. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His forced smile curled up involuntarily, revealing his dimples for real this time.

“Yeah? Huh. For some lame documentary, you looked pretty into it. I’m surprised you heard me at all.”

“Eh, you’re not wrong. Puts a whole new meaning to goin’ heels to Jesus, doesn’t it?”

You let out another laugh, and your voice cracked. Blush creeped over your face from the neck up. A surge of shyness overtook Peter. Running a hand up through his hair, he searched for any words to say. And then he remembered he had a job to do.

“Anyway. Sorry. Can I help you with something?” Peter smoothed out his (Steve’s) vest, brushing powdered sugar from it like pesky snow.

“No biggie, dude. Just wondering where your horror section is.”

Peter arched his brow, “Horror, huh?”

With a cheeky smirk, he disappeared, leaving a swift gust of wind in his wake. You gasped a small peep. Pressing your hands to the counter, you leaned forward as though you were looking for him. He took the opportunity to admire your ass from where he stood between the aisles. Politely, of course.

“They’re over here.” The speedster called from his spot, keeping himself nonchalantly propped against a stand of horror mags. Your gaze flitted down to the Walkman hanging at his hip. His easy going stance made you laugh yet again - man, you made him feel like the king of comedy. You made your way to the horror section. Peter kept his eyes on you while you glanced over the tapes, “You lookin’ for anything in particular, orrrrr…”

“Nope, just looking.”

“Just looking. Got it.” Peter clicked his tongue, nodding, “Cool. Well, if you need any recs…I mean, I’m kind of a movie aficionado, so…”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

Aw, you actually humored him.

“Pfffbbt. Yeah. My twin sis is, like, super into sitcoms and stuff. But I’m the movie guy of the family.”

“And what kinda movies do you like?”

Peter didn’t miss a beat, “Star Wars, definitely. But I like Bladerunner too. ET. Robocop. Alien. Oh! Rocky’s awesome too. Scarface. I can do a crazy good Tony Montana impression. Clint Eastwood movies are cool. Conan the Barbarian. Can’t get enough of Arnold. And I’m not sayin’ Flash Gordon’s my favorite, but-”

You gaped at Peter like you saw him get hit by a car or something. He stopped himself short, pausing as he named off movies on his fingers.

“What? Not a fan?”

“Not a fan of wh-”

“Flash Gordon?”

“Is that what you said? I didn’t understand a single word of that, dude!”

Oh. Guess he got a little too amped up. The apples of Peter’s cheeks turned pink. Scratching the back of his neck, he sheepishly laughed.

“Sorry, uh…lemme start over…I like Star Wars.”

“So do I! I love Star Wa-”

Peter raised his head, fixing you with a squinty eyed, analytical look - mostly playful. He quickly cut you off again.

“What about Ewoks?”

“They’re like little teddy bears! What’s not to love?”

Points for you, cute, mystery babe.

“Oh, bitchin’. Yeah, uh-”

And like a huge doofus, Peter leaned a little too hard against the magazine stand. It tumbled to the floor as he knocked it over unintentionally. Catching himself, he flashed his teeth in a humiliated smile.

“Uh…I totally meant for that to happen.” He clarified.

Even though you laughed yet again - and sounded so, unfairly cute too - Peter vanished to the restroom to smack himself in the face a few times. Returning only to clean up the fallen magazines. Another microsecond later, he appeared behind the counter. At the register again. His summer hellscape. Purgatory.

And for now, after making such an ass of himself, he’d leave you be. Let you come to him.

You eventually did.

“Just these.” You muttered bashfully, sliding a few tapes across the counter.

Peter glanced up to look at you every few beats. Tapping away at the keypad, his agile fingers danced across the keys with finesse. And despite the speed at which he normally worked, there was an unmistakable lag in his movements. Almost deliberate. He took special care as he typed your information and logged your rentals. It was as if he prolonged the interaction on purpose, drawing out everything at a leisurely pace.

Very unlike Quicksilver.

You eyed the pins all over his (Steve's) vest.

"Nice pins." You said.

"Thanks. Care Bears are the shit."

You held back another giggle, covering your mouth to conceal it.

“Say, uhm…forgive me if I’m being too nosy. But what are you doing all the way out here in Indiana, Quicksil-” You paused, tilting your head innocently to the side. Your eyes squinted into thin slits as you read his nametag, “Peeeter? Peter, yeah.”

Peter flashed a lazy, cat-like grin, snapping his fingers and throwing a finger gun your way.

“Bingo, you got it. But, yeah, everyone else calls me Quicksilver. Except for the oldies who have no clue who I am. It’s insane being recognized sometimes. Cuz I’m just a glorified track-and-field star who ended up a wage monkey, I guess. The job sucks ass, honestly.” He chuckled, leaning against the counter, resting his weight on an elbow, “As for what I’m doin’ here? It’s top secret X-Men business.”

“Ooooh! What, like…some kinda covert op-”

“Covert operation? Yeeeeeaaaaaahhh…nah, I’m totally messin’. Let’s just say I got into some trouble and this is my punishment.” Peter chuckled softly, glancing at the films you picked out. His eyes widened as he scanned the titles, letting out a low whistle, “H’oooh. Some pretty gritty stuff here. These are brutal. Blood, guts, limbs flyin’ all over the place. You tryin’ to give yourself nightmares?”

“Eh, it’s all fake anyway. Just cheesy, dumb fun.” You giggled, taking the horror flicks from him. A jolt of electricity shot through him as your fingers brushed his own. The contact was brief, but it left a flutter in his stomach he couldn’t shake. Parting your pretty lips, you teased, “They’re way more interesting than any lame, religious documentaries.”

Peter raised a brow and gave you a bemused look, your playful comment catching him by surprise. He crossed his strong arms, restlessly tapping his finger against his bicep.

“Mhm. But that “documentary” had some pretty hot angels, not gonna lie.” He joked. Peter smirked, his eyes flickering up and down, giving you a quick once-over. He snapped his fingers again, keeping his tone casual, “Hey, speaking of, are you gonna be wingin’ it back to the pearly gates anytime soon? Or are you stickin’ around for a while?”

Aha! So, you weren’t immune to his natural charm. Your eyes shot open, your blush sending a righteous wave of satisfaction buzzing through him. Peter pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and wiggled his brows. His confidence soared beyond the stars. Shrugging off any remnants of awkwardness, he eased himself back into a state of carelessness. You broke into another cute giggle fit.

You scratched the back of your neck, looking bashfully down at your shoes.

“Nice save. I think that one actually made me blush.”

Peter blinked laxly, drawing out a satisfied hum. 

“Oh, yeah, it did for sure. Looks cute on you. What can I say? I aim to please.”

A warm smile graced his face as he slid you the last tape.

“Flash Gordon?” He asked.

If you blushed any more, you’d probably explode.

“I couldn’t keep up with the way you were talking…but you mentioned that one. You said it was one of your favorites, right?”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat.

The banter between the two of you seemed to flow so naturally. Time lost all meaning. And as the minutes passed and you said your goodbyes, moving towards the doors; Peter’s foot tapped at a frenzied pace. A powerful urge to chase after you swarmed him like a pack of angry bees. He knew he wouldn’t be staying in Indiana for much longer. Only a month more, at the most. But, man…there was something about you.

Ah, screw it. Act now, face the consequences later.

A fwip, and Peter materialized before you at the doors. You stumbled back and erupted in another surprised squeal. His hands instinctively reached out, grabbing your shoulders to steady you before you fell.

“Sorry! Sorry. Uh, any chance you’d wanna stick around for a while longer? It’s just so dead here tonight. We could kick it back, chill, and hang. And fingers crossed, I promise I won’t make you watch any weird, religious docs or nothin’.”

Miraculously, you agreed. Peter couldn’t believe his luck. And he spent the remaining few minutes of his shift, along with the rest of that night, hanging out with some cutie he met on a whim.

Maybe Robin was right. It was the vest, wasn't it? Chicks were totally into guys with accessories.

The impossibly hotter month of July.

Some might call Peter a little irresponsible. And true to form, he was. But you were legit the most fun thing to happen to him in months. Up there with the bitchin’ funnel cake he swiped from the carnival, the same night he met you. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. Both you, and the funnel cake.

Carpe diem or whatever.

In the cramped shadows of a video store supply closet, Peter pulled you oh-so-close against his body. Hot as hellfire. His heartbeat ran on bubbly fumes of anticipation. Peter’s chapped lips confidently claimed yours, a moment after you gave him a bashful peck and confessed the cutest thing ever-

“Pleaaaase don’t go back to Westchester!! I really really like you. I think you totally rock. I’m gonna miss you too much if you leave.”

D’awww. You were all soft on him. Your pouty lips and innocent eyes made his chest warm and tingly. Peter never imagined someone could win him over so easily. But after the front doors chimed, and you walked into the store wearing a Grace Under Pressure shirt - of which you told him you wore only because he got you into Rush; Peter thought he heard wedding bells. But, oh…wait. No. The doors chimed again.

Peter felt his resolve instantly weaken around you. Whatever aloof front of speedster confidence he held onto seemed to melt away. Mostly. Partially.

In the closet, he grinned into the kiss, tasting your giggles on his tongue as he coaxed you into something deeper. You were such an undeniable sweetheart. A ray of sunshine, casting light on the most boring summer of his life. Clinging bashfully to his intense kisses, you followed the motion of his tongue. Your own tongue raveled delicate threads with his. Overzealous, he tangled those threads in frantic knots. Peter breathed the softest groan, running strong hands down your back and just above-

Passionate rock songs rang out love ballad riffs in his head, and the music halted to a disappointing stop when - all at once, a veil of blinding light washed over you both. Moment ruined. What asshole would even dare? You pulled away from his kiss, but an eager Peter chased your lips. He only stopped himself once he noticed a figure looming in the closet doorway. Steve looked unamused, holding a broom and dustpan in hand.

“Can I help you?” Peter sarcastically quipped.

“Really, man? Really?” Steve scoffed, cheeks pinkening. Clearing his throat, his dark eyes shifted. Away from the couple getting a little too cozy. He stated in a matter-of-fact way, “FYI, you’re still on the clock, yanno? Jesus.”

“Jesus? I’m flattered, Harrington, but you can just call me Peter.”

A soft snicker erupted from your swollen lips. Your small hands curled shamefully into Peter’s work vest, narrowly avoiding the band pins stuck in the fabric. Ultimately, you failed to keep your giggles at bay. Peter always had a way of making you laugh til you cried. His own hands rested just above your booty, a centimeter away from some spicy grab action. Damn you, Steve. Damn you. Teasing an indignant sigh, Peter reached out to lazily snag the door handle.

“Ever heard of knocking?” He joked before easing the door closed, sealing your cute chuckles inside.

The icy cold, freeze-your-balls-off month of January. Post New Years.

Bundled up in a warm, turtleneck sweater and matching, black jeans; Peter cozied up next to you on the sofa. At his mom’s place, Wanda was perched comfortably on the floor. She kept her back against the foot of the couch close to Peter. In one of the loveseats, Lorna sat with her legs tucked under her. A blanket draped over her small frame. The faint hum of infomercials in the background went ignored, as Peter fell into a long winded info dump about the Lord of the Rings.

Peter’s mother padded into the room from the kitchen. A hand-made shawl covered her shoulders, knitted by Wanda and given to Magda as a gift. Carrying several glass bottle sodas, she passed one out to each of her kids before delivering the last one to you. Magda breathed a chuckle. She noticed the way you narrowed your eyes, as you struggled to follow Peter’s speedy rambling. His family seemed to have no problem keeping up. They understood every word, without asking him to stop and reiterate.

Lorna rolled her eyes affectionately. Wanda gazed up at her brother like he held all the secrets of the universe - and she wanted the details on every single one.

When Peter’s rambling eventually ceased, his mother asked him if he had any plans for the future. He poked inside his empty box of chow mein with a pair of chopsticks. A bit embarrassed, Peter grinned. Now that he finally scored his GED - he knew exactly what he wanted to do. He just hadn’t told anyone aside from Wanda yet. She patted Peter on the knee. A gesture of encouragement, pushing him to open up. With a timid sigh, he confessed - he wanted to teach at Xavier’s.

He got a big ol’ hug from mom for that one.

When she left for work, Peter snuggled up on the couch with you and his sisters. You were all crammed in like warm penguins on a chilly night. Until Peter randomly pushed himself out of the pile. He stumbled forward, checking his watch. Waving his soda in your face, he winked.

“Babe, hold this for me? I almost forgot I wanted to do something.”

Before you could ask, he zipped away and returned in a nanosecond. Peter threw himself into the cuddle puddle.

“Where’d you even go?” You asked, scooting aside to give him more room.

Peter snatched his soda and shrugged, lazily smirking.

“Dropped by Family Video. Tied Steve’s shoelaces together.”

[livlaughloveluke]

NSFW ALPHABET WITH LUKE CASTELLAN…

warning! this fic contains- a lot of nsfw headcannons, all varying. soft!dom!luke. afab reader.

18+ mdni !

(also keep submitting your guys nasty thoughts i love reading them lowkey & do you guys want dark luke version?)

A = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

luke’s all over you after sex, holding you in his arms and asking dozens of questions to make sure you liked it and aren’t hurting. he massages your plump skin, trying to soothe any future soreness and because he likes to touch you in a non-sexual way. unless you want it be, of course.

B = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite part of himself would have to be his hands. he loves to make you writhe and squirm on his fingers, curling and pumping them inside your wet heat. it’s also so easy for him to grab and manhandle you as he pleases with the size of them.

as for you, he loves your thighs. he doesn’t care about the size or any scars, he’s just completely obsessed with squeezing the flesh. it could be while he’s sitting next to you at the bonfire or while he’s eating you out, but he is always groping them somehow.

C = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

at camp half-blood, there’s a low supply of condoms and birth control is only given out for medical reasons, so he’s usually forced to pull out. most of the time he likes to cum in your mouth, and occasionally on your tits. although, there was this one time you let him cum inside, on the promise that he bought some plan b from the dionysus kids, who snuck out into the city every so often and stole a bunch of shit.

D = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he likes to be dominated. it started one night when you felt frisky and rode him, whispering praises into his ear while bouncing carelessly. something snapped inside his brain that day, and he developed a new desire to be under your control. but he has a reputation to uphold, so it’s rare he let’s you take charge.

E = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he’s definitely not inexperienced. luke’s a good looking guy, so it’s no surprise that he’s had a few girlfriends before you. he grew to be decent in bed, knowing how to get a girl off while still pleasing himself. with that being said, he still had a lot to learn while dating you. there’s no real porn in camp besides some old playboy magazines his brothers stole, so he just had to go off what he heard girls liked.

F = favorite position (this goes without saying)

luke likes to stick with the classic missionary, mainly to see your face and your tits, but also because of his lack of knowledge to other positions. if he’s had a bad day and feeling rough, he’ll try doggy, although it usually ends in him flipping you around and fucking you on your back.

G = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

typically he’s pretty serious, too busy spewing out mindless praises to crack a stupid joke. every once in a while he’ll softly laugh at something dumb, but that’s mainly him just being pussy drunk and happy at everything.

H = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

not clean shaved, but well trimmed. he’s got a little bit of a bush, but nothing dramatic or anything that would irritate your skin.

I = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he grew up treating women with uttermost respect, and thinks sex is only for real relationships. in other words, he’s not a believer in hook up culture. luke’s only interesting in fucking if there’s strings attached, mainly because there’s a strong chance of him falling in love after getting intimate with someone.

J = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

the hermes cabin is packed, so there’s not a lot of places for him to jack off. if he can’t see you and is really desperate, he’ll do it quietly and quickly in the shower, but overall, he doesn’t feel the need to that often. i mean, why use his own hand if he can use yours?

K = kink (one or more of their kinks)

he’s typically a vanilla person, besides the whole secret sub kink. unless we’re talking about post tlt dark!luke, in which case that’s a whole other story. (would you guys want a different alphabet based on that?) but anyways, he’s got a huge thing for praise. complimenting you helps him get off on it’s own, but when you turn the tables and start telling him how good he’s doing, that’s when he really starts feeling it.

L = location (favorite places to do the do)

basically any private places around, whether that be one of the empty cabins or a secluded spot in the woods. with no other alternatives, he’ll find a way to make anywhere work.

M = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

literally just you. he’s fascinated with anything you do, even something as simple as brushing your teeth or waking up all disheveled and groggy in the morning. that doesn’t mean he sees everything as sexual, but there’s nothing more of a turn on at night than you.

N = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

not really into anal, just prefers just good old p in v. if you asked he would be willing to try, but he wouldn’t never suggest it. he knows it can be really painful, and he wouldn’t want to hurt you for his own pleasure. this includes pegging, mainly because it sounds like it would hurt him.

O = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he loves loves LOVES giving head. there’s nothing hotter to him than eating you out, and sometimes you have to pull him away because he’s still going after your second orgasm. and he’s so good at it, too. he knows every every spot that makes your moan like the back of his hand.

he’s into receiving head, too. the innocent look you send up while on your knees and kitten licking the tip makes him go fucking insane.

P = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

like mentioned before, he’s a believer in intimacy. it usually includes slow and hard thrusts and him taking his time with you. although sometimes at the end, he speeds up, eagerly chasing both of your highs.

Q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

not really big on quickies, but with such a busy schedule, it tends to happen more often than not. again, he’s big on taking it steady, so a quick fuck behind the shed isn’t ideal.

R = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

if you’re cool with it, he’s most likely cool with it, or at the very least he’ll try. he’s down for some risk, as long as it’s not hurting anyone. sometimes you’ll fuck in semi-public places just for the risk of getting caught, although no where near any kids.

S = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

he’s good at lasting a while, but not at multiple rounds. if you’re just going straight at it, he could last for a maybe twelve minutes, depending on the situation. but he can also make himself finish quicker if needed. as for rounds, usually it’s just one or two.

T = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

honestly, i don’t think owns any toys. it’s hard to his hands on get condoms alone, so he can’t even imagine trying to get any sort of toys. (he would find a way if you asked, though) he prefers it plain and simple, just using his body to help you climax.

U = unfair (how much they like to tease)

surprisingly, he’s always down for some teasing. nothing painfully time consuming, but just a minute of running his dick through your folds before sticking it in. although he hates when you tease him, and won’t hesitate to take what he wants if you’re acting up.

V = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he groans a little, but in most situations you two are forced to be somewhat quiet. if you’re on top, he’ll occasionally just moan and whimper.

W = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he’s gotten off untouched while eating you out before. you were in an empty cabin, eyes rolled back and letting a few hushed moans slip, and he couldn’t stop himself from cumming in his pants as you climaxed.

X = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

more length than girth, but he’s definitely got something. about 6inches, maybe 7 inches while hard?

Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

decent, but not anything crazy. he’ll do as much as you like, or as little. anything to keep you happy.

Z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

he’s out almost immediately once he’s checked up on you and cleaned you up. he doesn’t mean too, but how can he help it when your cradled in his arms?

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

cat got your tongue - Cole Caufield

Word Count - 3k

Requested - Yes a mutual dared me weeks ago to write a entire fic only about Cole Caufield's tongue.

Author's Note - thank you as always for reading. 💞🫶🏻 This literally took me forever to write because writers block is very real even when you love an idea, also I got this request back in the middle of July before anyone wants to come into my asks. I'm not sure if I like this ending, but that might just be me being my biggest critic.

Warnings - oral receiving but I think that's kind of obvious given the title of this fic. 🤣

Summary - Cole finally convinces you to come to one of his games, but what happens when all you can focus on is the way he sticks his tongue out during a celly.

Tonight was the first time that Cole has finally convinced you to come to one of his games. To be fair you did just meet the guy a month ago in a bar. Unlike Cole, you did not know everything when it came to hockey which could have been one of the reasons that you weren’t pressed on going as soon as Cole brought up the idea. But his constant insisting that turned into begging which was kind of hot finally got you here. In the back of a shared Uber with your friend who actually knows hockey and said she would tag along to explain what the fuck everyone is doing on the ice. At the end of the day trying to learn all the rules of a sport you never even watched was hard. 

Just to mess with Cole a little, you did purchase one of his jerseys which granted a lot of money. But your friend who came along with you to the game, insisted to “do it for the plot.” So here you both are, you in his jersey, entering the arena. Due to the amount of time it took to get through security, you weren’t able to be in your seat until after warm ups had already started. Your seat was center ice but a few rows back purely because you told Cole if he thought your ass was sitting front row at your first ever NHL game, you would simply walk out because you didn’t wanna accidentally end up caught on TV looking like someone who had no idea what was happening around her. 

As soon as Cole saw you, he skated over to the bench although you couldn’t see what he was doing talking to one of the trainers you assumed. He then skated over and started bouncing what looked like the nearest puck on his stick as many times as he could and then passing it over the glass. A fan tried to take it, but he shook his head no and pointed at you. Then he threw another one over for the little boy who was a couple seats down from you, before skating off continuing on with warmups. 

“Why was that kind of hot?” you whispered to your friend. 

“Wow who knew a basic white boy would have you down this bad?” she teased.

“Bitch shut up.” you said before you finally looked down at the puck. Cole must have asked the trainer for a marker and signed the puck before coming over. 

You look hot with my name on you. Meet me in the tunnels after the game. 

Deciding not to tell your friend about the message you look up to see Cole sitting on the bench now making direct eye contact with you as he watches you read his message. Nodding your head yes and mouthing ‘okay’, even from the other side of the arena the smile that spreads across his face is seen clearly from your seat. 

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

Cole was literally playing like his life depended on it tonight. Now granted you might not understand all the little detailed rules when it comes to hockey. But you knew an assist was a good thing, in period one alone Cole had 2 assists and something about the way that he got one knee skating for a celly with his tongue slightly sticking out. Something that is so simple, made you feel your stomach drop, getting more and more turned the second time he did it. 

During intermission, you and your friend went to the bathroom and maybe it was the 3 beers you consumed but somehow you both started joking around about what your friend calls “your new fetish Cole’s tongue.” Jokingly you stuck your tongue out ever so slightly. Not realizing in that millisecond your friend took a mirror selfie, your side to the mirror the famous ‘22’ on display with Caulfeild, sticking your tongue out ever so slightly with your butt teasingly pushed up. Honestly, you kind of looked hot in the picture and made a mental note to ask your friend to send the picture to you later. 

As the first intermission was about to end you just made it back to your seat. Cole was able to pull off another assist during the second period. Your friend who has been a fan of the Hubs her entire life told you that you're never allowed to miss a game again because if this was how the rest of the season was gonna go they might make it to the playoffs. All you could do was chuckle at her superstitious behavior. But stopped when the fans around her were agreeing with her when she told them this was your first ever game, Cole invited you and this is how he was playing. 

“Oh my god please stop. I don’t want my life to end on twitter. Y/B/F/N.” you begged, taking your hand and covering her mouth. She drunkenly agreed to stop and both of you turned your attention back to the game. Even when he wasn’t on the ice, your eyes couldn’t leave Cole. Every once in a while he would catch you staring at him and making a teasing face back at you, pecking his lips, or sticking his tongue out extra far in order to get an air sip of his water. Every time he did all you could think about was his tongue wrapping around the clit or lapping your pussy like it was on display right now for thousands to see. Every time he was on the bench and went to lick his lips you found yourself squirming in your seat. All your friend could do was roll her eyes at your behavior. 

Somehow you made it to the third period, but that’s when Cole scored a goal. You swear it was just to tease you, he skated past your section sticking his tongue out and wiggling it. “Fuck” you mumble to yourself. 

“Y/N there are children around. Stop ya nasty!” your friend says as she can’t help the laugh that escapes her. Your mind couldn’t stop thinking about sitting on top of Cole’s face or him on his knees with one of your legs over his shoulders. As you rolled your hips against his tongue dragged. - 

Suddenly your brain was brought back to real time as the final buzzer went off. Everyone around you cheered as the HUBS won a shutout - which your friend just told you is what it’s called when the other team doesn’t score a single goal during a game. But to be perfectly honest you weren’t really paying attention to your friend explaining any more slang hockey terms, your eyes focused on Cole as he skated around the ice with his teammates celebrating. The crowd was going crazy as it was the only shutout in what seemed like a lifetime, you could feel the energy of the crowd as you felt your body slightly move with all the jumping fans around you. Cole finally looked over at you from center ice and smiled. He titled his head towards the tunnels slightly reminding you of the puck and the note written on it, you nodded your head yes as you felt your cheeks heat up slightly from anticipation. 

Slowly the crowd started leaving once the boys were leaving the ice, finally there was enough room for you and your friend to make your way to the steps. 

“Hey thanks for coming by the way.” as you stop at the top of the steps. 

“It was fun. Are you ready to go?” 

“Actually Cole told me to meet him in the tunnels after the game.” you admit a light blush still painting your cheeks. 

“ooo okay have fun girly. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Text me when you get back to his place.” As she wraps her arms around you to hug you goodbye quickly. 

A laugh escapes your lips at your friend's words. “What do you mean ‘his place'?” Making a quotation sign with your hand. 

“Well we both know you aren’t going home tonight. You know you'll be busy with him, I’ll just check your location.” 

Before you could open your mouth she turned around and was gone. All you could do is laugh as you stood there and watched her walk away. Quickly you turned around and started walking towards the other side of the arena where the tunnels were. Somehow managing to find your way around, you pulled your phone out to text Cole that you were waiting outside of the locker room for him after being stopped by security, but thankfully the pass Cole gave you just in case came in handy. Standing against the wall scrolling Twitter while you waited for Cole to be done. 

Somehow the fan girls work faster than you could have ever imagined because someone made a gif of Cole’s tongue sticking out as he skated against the glass during his celly earlier tonight. Watching the gif over and over your breath caught in your throat as all your thoughts form earlier tonight just wanting to want Cole sink to his knees in front of you and eat you out came flooding back. Imagining your hand in his hair helping his face grind against using his tongue for nothing else except your own pleasure. Your mind was wandering and you could feel yourself dripping at the thought of making Cole sink to his knees, you refusing to pull his hair at first as punishment for teasing you all night. 

Lost in your own thoughts you didn’t even hear Cole leaving the locker room or coming up to you. Cole knew you were lost in your own world and decided to scare you by running up to you from behind wrapping his arms around you and leaving a wet kiss on your cheek. All that could be heard in the mostly quiet hallway now since he was one of the last players out was his laugh as you squirmed in his arms. “Ew Cole let me down.” you shirked in a high pitch voice he laughed in response spinning you around one more time before setting you down. 

“So how did you like watching me play?” he asked, finally facing you, still trying to hold you as close as possible. 

“It was good. It was actually kind of hot watching you play.” you admit with a smirk on your lips. 

Cole gives you a puzzling look as he questions, “oh yeah?” in a teasing tone. 

All you do is flash him a cheeky grin as you admit, “yeah watching you do your little celly on the ice was so hot, but I just kept watching you stick your tongue out all night.” Leaning up to his ear despite no one being around you whispered, “all I could think about was getting you to sink to your knees so I could ride your face, one leg over your shoulder, my back against the wall and not let you touch yourself as punishment for teasing me all night. My hands in your hair pulling and tugging as much as I wanted. All while your tongue is busy, so you can’t even beg me to let you touch yourself to give your hard cock some relief.” 

As you lean back only far away enough to see his face, his mouth is ajar in shock at your words. It’s as if he’s processing your words and for the first time in his life he’s quiet for more than a minute, you decide to further tease him while he stands there frozen. “What’s the matter baby boy, cat got your tongue?” A smirk on your lips as you watch him blink, as if his brain has finally caught up to the world around him. 

“No, not yet.” His voice is an octave deeper than before filled with lust. Suddenly he’s pulling you down the hallway towards the parking garage. “But it will be.” 

But just as you were about to exit the stadium to enter the connected parking garage, Cole made a sharp left turn down a separate hallway. “Where are we going?” you ask. 

“Oh, we're making your words reality mamas.” As he opens a door and suddenly you find yourself in some type of equipment storage closet. In the corner is an extra medical bed, and there are sticks everywhere along another wall. But you don’t have too much time to examine the room before you feel Cole behind you after he locks the door. “ Kissing down your neck, blowing air into your ear and all you can do is compliment him by sighing at the feeling. 

Quickly you regain your composure and turn around in his arms, finding his lips and kissing him hard. Fighting for dominance, and smirking when you slip your tongue into his mouth, he moans as a response and you can feel your underwear being damp from the sound he makes. Pushing him off of yourself quickly. You take a step back, you're against the wall now as you unbuckle your jeans. He says to you “have I told you how pretty you look with my name on your back.” 

Holding your hand up against his chest to stop him from getting any closer to you.”naw ah ah. Let’s put that tongue to good use, less yapping yeah?” Even though you phrase it as a question, your tone is stern and demanding. Taking your left hand that wasn’t on Cole’s chest you move it to his shoulder slightly pushing him down so he’s on his knees. The way he glances up to you with his now darker blue eyes could have made you come right there. Trying to take a breath without showing him how much control he really does have over you at the moment. Pulling your jeans down the rest of the way and stepping out of them, slipping your shoes so you can slip your skinny jeans off the rest of the way. 

Looking down at Cole in a full suit, suddenly deciding he’s in too much clothing as he kisses your exposed thighs in front of you. “Take. Off. Your. jacket.” 

“Yes Momas.” he says, taking his suit jacket, refusing to lose eye contact with you. He tosses the jacket somewhere behind him joining your jeans. He sticks his tongue out to tease you more as you throw your right leg over his shoulder. 

“Don’t even think about teasing Cole.” you grunt. He moves your underwear to the side swiping up and down your cunt in quick motions. “You wanna be a good boy right?” you ask as you tug slightly on his hair. 

“Hmm.” he moans as a yes on your clit, closing your eyes at the taste. Taking your hands you tug hard on his hair. 

“No, gotta keep your eyes open. I wanna see you while I grind on your face.” As you start to lightly roll your hips, Cole’s hands find the flesh of your ass and back of your thighs. He pulls you closer and starts kneading the soft flesh looking directly up to you as he moves his tongue down to your hole. Pushing in and out teasingly as his nose bumps his nose against your clit. “Fuck Cole.” you moan as you push your shoulders against the door, throwing your head back, closing your eyes at the feeling. Your hands go under the jersey finding your boobs squeezing them through your bra trying to play with your nipples. And then you feel Cole move his head so slightly causing a new angle as you roll your hips against his face even harder. “Fuck right there baby. Don’t stop.” you whine. So much for being in control but right now you couldn’t give a fuck with how good Cole was making you feel. 

Cole goes back up with his tongue to do circles over your clit driving so crazy. You don’t even realize one of his hands leaves your ass and his fingers find your hole abusing it even more than his tongue was a minute ago. “Fuck Cole I’m close.” you warn and that’s all you have time to grunt out before your vision blurs and you feel your legs shake, if it hadn’t been for Cole holding you upright you would have fell. He continues to eat you lapping up all your juices until your legs stop shaking and your breathing isn’t so ragged. 

Gently he removes his face from your pussy, careful to keep a steady grip on your legs so you stay up right. He slowly makes his way up to you, pulling you into a kiss so you can taste yourself and all you can do is moan in response. “Usually it takes more than a guy eating you out to feel this tired but holy shit Cole.” you mumble leaning your head on his shoulder closing your thighs. 

“Come on, let's get you dressed.” he says, reaching down for your jeans that were thrown away earlier. 

“No.” you whine. “ I’m not leaving you with this.” As you gently take one of your hands to slightly cup his bulge in his suit pants. He hisses in response. “See your in pain.” you complain.

“I’ll be fine. You just said your tired baby.” he argues. Looking back over at the medical examination bed in the corner of the room you get an idea. Slowly taking one of his hands you turn and walk backwards towards the bed guiding Cole with you. Letting go of his hand, you slip your underwear off the rest of the way and throw in his direction. He catches it on reflex sucking in a breath as feel the medical table behind you. Slowly you climb on and scoot all the way back. 

“I’m not too tired for you. Take what you need. Be good for me, make me cum again baby boy.” you beg as you lay down and spread your legs for Cole to have a perfect few of your still dripping pussy from your first orgasim. 

“Fuck. how did I get so lucky to get you.” he mumbles to himself as you watch him undress and make his way over to you.

[alchemistc]

Seeing all the saltommy headcanons floating around here and I'm obsessed with all of them but consider:

Unrequited saltommy but Sal's the one with feelings. Tommy considers him a good friend and a close confidant and Sal's the only one who Knows about Tommy, so they have their own shorthand and all their in-jokes and Sal plays up the bro thing because he realized five years in that he sort of maybe definitely wants Tommy to bone him and then press a kiss to his forehead and he needs Tommy to stick around for that so Gerrard can never know

Which. Tommy's never thought about it. Given the opportunity, maybe he would have. But Sal never says a word. Sal represses the feeling and dates around and through it all he's in love with his work buddy. They hang out when they're off shift and he listens to Tommy talk about the guys he's seeing casually and how they hate the job, hate that he's in the closet, hate that every time they're out in public he's tense and staring around the room like someone is about to pop out and call him every name in the book. He listens, and he knocks his knee against Tommy's, and they turn on the fights so Tommy has a distraction. And Sal loves him.

And it doesn't matter.

And then Gerrard is out, and they're finally in a place where Sal thinks - maybe. Maybe I could tell him. Maybe we could be something.

And Tommy comes over one night a few months into their revolving door of Captains and he's giddy, he can't stop smiling, he's nursing his beer and picking at the label and

He's met someone. They've been seeing each other and Tommy didn't want to say anything because it felt different than usual. Felt real. This guy understands the secrecy, he understands why Tommy has concerns about being out. He's sweet, and kind, and a bit of a freak in bed, sorry, you don't want to hear about that, and Sal absolutely doesn't but not for the reason Tommy thinks. It's serious. And Tommy had realized he wanted his best friend to know.

So. Sal tells him to bring the guy around, and he can never find a reason not to like him, because he's great. He's great for Tommy, he's fun to hang out with, he doesn't begrudge Tommy keeping the private part of their lives private. He can turn the lovey-dovey look off in a moment, play at being buddies when they're out and about and never seems upset about it. And in privacy, he's pressing a hand to the small of Tommy's back and pressing his lips to the bolt of Tommy's jaw and he always, always drinks Tommy's shitty beer even though Sal can tell he'd prefer a simple Bud Light. He makes Tommy happy.

So Sal lashes out at work instead. He presses, and he pushes, and he calls out captains left and right and does stupid shit for the hell of it. And eventually it bites him in the ass.

Sal loses his house, but for a while there he doesn't lose Tommy. He's there when the relationship with the guy implodes, and there's just never a good opportunity to bring up how he feels. So he doesn't.

They drift. Without the impetus of working together they inevitably just don't spend as much time together.

Sal meets a woman. He likes her. Her laugh is ridiculous. She smiles with her whole face. She's delicate and soft and when she tucks her face under his chin and curls her arms around him she can barely wrap her fingers together behind his back.

He introduces her to Tommy six months in and Tommy is happy for him, Tommy congratulates him, Tommy slaps a big hand to his shoulder and Sal soaks in the warmth and puts it away.

He marries the girl and Tommy orbits his life but they're never as close again. He has a couple kids, and they love uncle Tommy, and he watches Tommy move stations and stop hiding himself and he meets a few of the guys Tommy dates and they never feel right. They're never enough. They don't treat him the way Sal thinks he should be treated. He welcomes them into his home and hates the way they roll their eyes at Uncle Tommy stuffing his big long legs under the kids table so he can paint a butterfly with his daughter, the way they watch him with Sal's son balanced on his shoulders. He hates the way they get quiet when he and Sal are comparing scars and stories about the job. He hates the way they just don't love him enough.

They drift, and swing back together for random nights out or the kids birthdays, see each other less and less as the years pass.

And then he hears in passing that Tommy's reconnected with some of the 118, that he's spending time with all of them again, and he shoots him a text to catch up because you flew into a hurricane to rescue the guy who fired me but mostly he's just curious to know how he managed not to get fired.

Tommy invites him out for drinks. They settle in a corner booth and shoot the shit and Tommy tells him about how Hen is doing, how Howie is doing, about his new buddy Eddie and all the drama surrounding the 118. He keeps eyeing his phone, and Sal doesn't think much of it until Tommy's smile lines start to dimple and he tips his head up and grins, wide and happy as he waves at the guy who'd just stepped in.

Sal's pretty sure he recognizes him. One of the 118, maybe even the guy who'd filled the spot Sal had left open there. His grin is wide and his eyes are bright and Tommy shifts out of the booth to hug him and they linger in it, Tommy's face pressed into his neck and the guys hands drifting low across Tommy's waist, and when Tommy turns to introduce him as Buck the guys face scrunches up like that's a strange way to introduce him but he shakes Sal's hand and he slips right into the booth and he's rattling off a million questions like he's heard a hundred and two stories he wants Sal to confirm.

And Sal - he doesn't remember ever enjoying time with Tommy's boyfriends, doesn't remember seeing Tommy's gaze so focused and intent, so heavy. But this Buck guy keeps a hand on Tommy's knee, or his neck, not in a possessive way really, just like he can't quite stop reminding himself that Tommy is there with him, and Tommy is playing it cool but he's soaking it up, rolling his eyes at Buck's praise but ducking his head when Buck's not looking, darting gazes through his eyelashes and desperately fighting grins and giving the same energy back and no one, no one has ever treated Tommy so delicately, so carefully, no one has ever shot Tommy bedroom eyes with quite so much unadulterated adoration.

Buck goes to buy another round and Tommy's eyes flit to Sal's.

"He's a lot," Sal says, because he's not quite sure how to encapsulate "I know you guys said this was still fairly new but I'm already planning out the bachelor party where you get drunk and soppy and tell me you wish he was here with you."

"I should have mentioned he might come," Tommy tells him, and Sal narrows in on that.

"Why didn't you?"

Tommy shifts. His shoulders curl in. He chews on the inside of his cheek. "I figured some things out, after I started at Harbor. Took a long look at my life up to that point. The way you always hated every guy I introduced you to percolated long enough for me to understand it."

It's Sal's turn to feel like a jackass. "You thought I'd hate him too."

"I hoped you wouldn't."

Sal sighs. Catches sight of Buck tilting sideways at the bartop so he can send an eager grin in Tommy's direction. If he had a tail he'd be wagging it, Sal thinks, and then he thinks a little harder. About the easy way Tommy grins back, about the way he eyes Buck up and down, leering a little for his audience of one, and the way Buck bites his lip and his gaze goes dark and heady and the way he has to fucking blink himself out of it when the bartender hands him their drinks.

Sal knocks his knuckles on the table. "He fucks it up I'm reserving the right to show up unannounced at his job to make him fix it," Sal tells him, and Tommy's gaze is a little misty when it meets Sal's.

Buck slides in next to Tommy and passes out drinks and when he leans back and starts on a tirade about the travesty of shot pours he'd just witnessed, his hand lands a lot higher up Tommy's leg than it has all night. Tommy takes a heavy pull off his beer and grins at Buck like he's never been more enchanted by another living soul.

Sal's incensed when Tommy refuses to have a bachelor party unless both grooms are involved.

[cbrownjc]

image credit: c2299cLance on Twitter

The above image is from the Episode 2x05 insider. And boy oh boy do I (did I?) have a question about this.

Because if that really is the book being published in the present day . . . then that pretty much upends the format of the show. Because the book being published means there is absolutely no reason for Daniel to stick around Dubai anymore IMO. Because why would he? His job is done.

And truth be told, I've long thought the interview would be finished in episode 2x08. That Daniel would finish it, and talk about heading home to being writing and editing it.

However, I never really thought he would actually leave. Because Daniel's character basically does leave the story at the end of Interview with the Vampire. And we don't see him again until Queen of the Damned, during the chase. (And we already know Season 3 is The Vampire Lestat).

But I really couldn't work out how the show could ever have that happen -- because that basically means Daniel's character leaving the show for a time. Possibly a long time, as time jumps just to account for the book being published would have to happen. And that, well . . .

See, I very much noticed how much Daniel's Parkinson's was making him shake this episode (2x05). And I in no way think Armand and Daniel are doing the Devil's Minion chase in the current day with Daniel having Parkinson's during a pandemic (which is still going on in the show's timeline). Sorry, no, not happening IMO. Because there is no damn reason for Armand to chase Daniel now, IMO. The reason Armand even did so in the first place was because he found Daniel fascinating/interesting. And well, as we just saw in episode 2x05 that already happened. It makes no sense that Armand would wait 50 freakin' years to follow up on that with a chase around the world.

So the book being published at the end of the interview always meant, to me, that it would mean bye-bye to Eric from the show. Which, I was NOT looking forward to. Because I honestly couldn't see any reason for Daniel's character to stick around, at least in Dubai, never mind the next part of the story. Especially if Lestat isn't going to be in Dubai and we might have to start doing freakin' time jumps to account for the publication of books.

And, once again, Daniel has a degenerative disease. That, once again, I noticed very well how much he was shaking from. So unless Devil's Minion really didn't happen in the past, there really was no way for Daniel to enter or be part of the story going forward. Because yes, I very much think Armand is going to be prepared to let Daniel leave Dubai and not stop him. Right now, Armand is very focused on keeping his life as it is in Dubai, and I think part of that is due to him not thinking Daniel would ever really remember anything of the past anyway.

So yeah, if that prop is for the book actually being published in the modern-day, I was already beginning to mourn Daniel leaving the show. Because from how I looked at it, I couldn't figure out any reason why his character would stay in Dubai, around these vampires anymore. Right now, if Daniel leaves Dubai, he leaves the show IMO. And probably for a good long while, given where the story is going. (With maybe Armand coming to see Daniel later at some point when he's dying to turn him or something, IDK).

And then, I was reminded -- by @nalyra-dreaming -- of this picture that Eric posted on Twitter a few months back:

And it all began to click.

Because for a real time there, for a few weeks at least after Eric first posted this, I seriously thought that Daniel's character was going to, well die.

Between the posting of this picture by Eric as well as a few other things, no joke, I was getting a real vibe about it, that Daniel was going to die this season . . . but not stay dead of course. I just held back on talking about it because it felt so damn early, story-wise, for it to happen.

And then something during the lead-up to the more recent press events made me stop thinking Daniel would die. And that Daniel's turning still wouldn't happen for a few more seasons yet.

But now . . . if the book really is going to be published . . .

I think it's going to be published posthumously. Or, at least, posthumously to the human world.

Because why would Daniel stick around in Dubai if the book is published? As we saw in the preview for next week, he's already saying to Justin Kirk he wants to get out of this alive. The minute he's done with the interview he's leaving, make no mistake about that. So why would Daniel stay?

Well, becoming an undead vampire would do it.

So everyone who wanted Eric's Daniel to become a vampire? You might actually be getting your wish this season. Because if those books above really are real and Daniel really is publishing it in the modern-day . . . then the only reason I can think of for him to not only stay in Dubai/on the show but not visibly age -- or get sicker like Daniel very much would wrt such time jumps that would require not only a publication of such a book but for Lestat to see it, read it, etc -- is this. Daniel becomes a vampire at the end of this season.

Because otherwise, IMO? There is no other reason for his character to stick around. Not from anything else I've thought of so far at least that would make any type of sense.

And what is going to force Armand's hand into turning Daniel? (Because yes, I do still think it's going to be Armand who does it) Well, very likely this . . .

gif credit: @hermit-frog

I already thought Daniel was going to get hurt when it came to this happening. But now I think Daniel getting hurt will be the least of it . . .

[gegengestalt]

131 useless or often forgotten facts in The Brothers Karamazov!

This 27 of April is the second anniversary of the day I finished this book for the first time. To do something special, I reread it over the last 20 days and as I did it, I compiled little things that are easy to forget in these 1000 pages filled with food for thought. Let's go!

1. Mitya fought in a duel, though it's most likely that nobody died in it.

2. Ivan's journalist pseudonym is "Eyewitness".

3. Alyosha, in his own words, came back to Skotoprigonyevsk to visit his mother's grave.

4. Fyodor Pavlovich owns several taverns in the district.

5. Grigory was the one who gave Sofia Ivanovna a proper gravestone.

6. Alyosha is one deduction away from becoming a communist.

7. The Brothers Karamazov begins in late August.

8. Kalganov is supposedly Alyosha's friend. This is never mentioned ever again.

9. Kalganov gave one coin to some beggars and told them to divide it among themselves.

10. There is a rumour that the previous elder beat people with sticks. This is false.

11. Alyosha is the only person in the monastery who knows that Rakitin is an atheist, and keeps his secret.

12. Four years ago, Pyotr Miusov divulged a fake story about a saint making out with his own decapitated head. Fyodor never forgot.

13. Madame Khokhlakov is only 33 years old. She has been a widow for 5 years, meaning Lise lost her father at age 9.

14. Zosima's serenity in front of the woman who confesses to a murder may foreshadow his later recollection of having a murder confessed to before.

15. Zosima likes to make jokes.

16. Lise and Alyosha last saw each other two years before.

17. Reminder that Grushenka met Mitya because Fyodor wanted her help to throw Mitya into a debtors' prison.

18. Kuzma Samsonov is the mayor of Skotoprigonyevsk.

19. Ivan rambled to Dmitri and Katerina about how he thinks Rakitin will be a failed journalist turned landlord.

20. Fyodor Pavlovich's house is filled with rats.

21. The Miusov family had their own private theatre.

22. Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya was a bit over 142cm/4'7 tall.

23. In 1842 there was a runaway convict called Karp commiting crimes in Skotoprigonyevsk.

24. Marya Kondratievna's mother is missing a leg.

25. Mitya ghosted a girl in real life.

26. Katerina's mother died when she was young.

27. Mitya had a fever for two weeks once because of a spider bite.

28.Mitya thought Grushenka was "nothing striking" the first time he saw her.

29. Mitya was squatting in his neighbour's rented room.

30. Fyodor Pavlovich has a portrait of the former provincial governor in his house.

31. Fyodor Pavlovich goes to sleep at 3- 4AM, like Dostoyevsky himself.

32. Sofia Ivanovna was being courted by a rich man called Beliavsky while she was married.

33. Who was the woman coming from the alley that Mitya mistook for Grushenka? I still wonder.

34. A cheap glass jar was destroyed during Mitya's frenzied break- in.

35. Katerina sends two detailed reports a week to her surrogate mother figure who lives in Moscow.

36. Katerina has an aquarium.

37. Alyosha sleeps using his monk habit as a blanket.

38. Father Ferapont survives eating nothing more than 1,6kg of bread a week.

39. Ivan had told his father about his feelings for Katerina, for some reason.

40. When Alyosha kissed his father, he had the impression that Alyosha was thinking that it was their last conversation.

41. Madame Khokhlakova owns three houses as property.

42. Madame Khokhlakova and Katerina Ivanovna are supposedly great friends.

43. Ivan reads Schiller when nobody is looking.

44. One of Snegiryov's daughters, Varvara, is invested in feminism.

45. Captain Snegiryov's childhood friend is a lawyer.

46. Mitya spilled cognac over the table of the summerhouse.

47. Smerdyakov sings in falsetto.

48. Marya Kondratievna is the only one who ever calls Smerdyakov 'Pavel Fyodorovich'.

49. Ivan uses Smerdyakov as a messenger.

50. Dmitri and Katerina had been engaged for around six months.

51. Ivan's right shoulder looks lower than the left one when he walks.

52. Smerdyakov often moves the tip of his right foot from side to side when he stands (adorable).

53. Dmitri's favourite death threats are "pounding in a mortar" and "breaking legs".

54. Grigory suffers from paralysis three times a year.

55. The real name of 'Lyagavy' is Gorstkin.

56. Zosima's real name is "Zinovy".

57. There was actually another old German doctor before Herzenstube and he was named Eisenschmidt.

58. Zosima has known Brother Anfim for forty years.

59. The Bible is thrown once.

60. Madame Khokhlakova asked Rakitin to go to the funeral as her eye.

61. Alyosha was hiding behind the grave of starets Iov, who lived 105 years.

62. Zosima was harshly criticized for telling a monk hallucinating to take his meds if praying doesn't work.

63. Both Grushenka and Rakitin are children of deacons.

64. Samsonov is the only person that Grushenka seems to be completely and clearly sincere with.

65. Likewise, Samsonov only trusts her when it comes to counting money.

66. Samsonov has the entire first floor of his house for himself.

67. Mitya tells many of his secrets to his landlords, who are fond of him.

68. Alongside eggs and bread, Mitya grabbed and ate a piece of sausage that he "found".

69. Mitya and Perkhotin first met at the Metropolis tavern.

70. Mitya's dueling pistols are his "most prized possessions".

71. Madame Khokhlakova apparently borrows money from Miusov.

72. The brass pestle was 17 centimetres long.

73. Mitya spent exactly 300 rubles in food and alcohol in Mokroye, and it would have been 400 if Perkhotin didn't help.

74. Mitya gave a glass of champagne to a kid.

75. The owner of Plotnikov's shop is called Varvara Alexeievna.

76. Two thousand villagers live in Mokroye.

77. Trifon Borissovich makes his younger daughters clean up the messes of every guest of the inn.

78. Pan Wroblewski is 190cm / 6'2 tall.

79. Madame Khokhlakova gets a migraine whenever she has to talk to Mitya.

80. The ispravnik's elder granddaughter is called Olga, and the night of the murder was her birthday.

81. The prosecutor's wife seems very interested in sending for Mitya often, for reasons he doesn't know.

82. Mitya does not know that the epidermis is the outer layer of the skin.

83. Nikolay Parfenovich is the only person in the world who trusts Ippolit Kirillovich.

84. Mitya often dreams that a person that he fears is chasing him and searching for him.

85. Nikolay Parfenovich wears a smoky topaz ring on his middle finger.

86. Pan Wroblewski is a dentist without a license.

87. Kalganov had visited Grushenka once before, but she seemed to dislike him for some reason.

88. Kolya's father died when he was a little baby.

89. There was a plot going on in the background about the doctor's maid having a child out of wedlock.

90. Rakitin often talks with Kolya. Seems like the only person who takes his ideas seriously is a literal child.

91. Smerdyakov and Ilyusha met and talked to each other.

92. Alyosha rarely gets colds.

93. Katerina befriended Snegiryov's sick wife.

94. Kolya was taken to a judge for teaching a guy how to efficiently crack the neck of a goose.

95. Kolya is against women's rights.

96. Mitya and Grushenka spent five weeks secluded and away from each other after the arrest.

97. Grushenka went to see Grigory to try to convince him that the door wasn't open.

98. Rakitin made up in an article that Madame Khokhlakova offered Mitya 3k rubles to run away with her.

99. Madame Khokhlakova doesn't remember Rakitin's patronymic, and calls him "Ivanovich" instead of "Osipovich".

100. Madame Khokhlakova didn't know of the judicial system reform until two days before the trial.

101. Lise sent chocolates to Mitya in jail, even though there's no reference to them ever interacting before.

102. Alyosha has had the same dream about the devils that Lise has.

103. Alyosha is friends with the jail inspector, who often discusses the gospels with him.

104. Mitya spent two entire nights awake since he discovered ethics.

105. Ivan cleans his own room.

106. Smerdyakov shared a hospital room with an agonizing dropsy patient.

107. Mitya's letter had the bill on the other side.

108. Smerdyakov uses garters with his stockings.

109. There is an apple tree in Fyodor's garden.

110. One of Ivan's "most stupid" thoughts is being the fat wife of a merchant.

111. Ivan had a friend named Korovkin when he was 17, the one he told the story of the quadrillion kilometres to.

112. Ivan has another poem named Geological Cataclysm.

113. Alyosha was the first person the distraught Marya Kondratievna ran to.

114. Ivan is mistaken for "the eldest son" twice in the trial.

115. Grigory did not remember he was in 1866.

116. Rakitin knows "every detail" of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovich and all the Karamazovs.

117. Grushenka's surname, Svetlova, means "light".

118. Mitya once dropped 100 rubles while he was drunk.

119. Ivan saw not just the Devil, but people who had died while he walked in the street.

120. Ippolit Kirillovich died nine months after the trial, the first and last day he received applauses.

121. Marfa is dismissed as a suspect simply because they can't imagine her killing.

122. There is a partition wall in Mitya's lodgings.

123. Mitya mostly stopped staring at the floor during the prosecutor's speech whenever Grushenka was mentioned.

124. Fetyukovich bends forward in an unnerving manner when he speaks.

125. An 18 year old street vendor committed axe murder earlier that year.

126. The verdict was given past 1AM, making the trial last almost 16 hours.

127. Katerina kept the sick Ivan in her house knowing it could possibly be harmful to her reputation.

128. Rakitin tried to sneak in to see Mitya in the hospital twice.

129. Lise sent the flowers that adorn Ilyusha's coffin, and Katerina paid for the grave.

130. Snegiryov cries seeing his late son's little boots the same way one of the women at the monastery in the beginning of the book did.

131. At the end, Alyosha mentions "leaving the city for a long time" soon. Where to? We don't know.

If you read this far down, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing all of these down.

[msbunnat]

(Before I say anything this isn’t meant to be hate this is just my thoughts)

I think the reasoning on why people are thinking you are romanticizing Ganymede and Zeus’s story is because you’re making it look like instead of making Ganymede scared of Zeus, it looks like Ganymede is proud to have been kidnapped by Zeus and that he wears a badge of being SA by Zeus. For example, in one of your drawings you said how Ganymede would react to one of Zeus's kids wanting to fight him to where Ganymede said that he had sex with their father, Zeus, making it sound like he was proud and not that affected by Zeus’s actions.

(Again, this is not hate; I'm just explaining what might have caused people to think you're romanticizing Zeus's and Ganymede's relationship.)

No worries, I actually sometimes dont understand when someone is being hateful, so I would read it as just normal.

SO! Again, dosent matter how Ganymede is portrayed, people will think it shouldnt even exist any discussion of him (like, there was an artist that literaly make Zeus as a vile abuser of Ganymede and Hebe was consoling him - EVEN THIS SITUATION THAT SHOW EXPLICIT HOW BROKEN GANYMEDE WAS, PEOPLE HAVE COMPLAINED AS ROMANTIZATION ;w;). So just dont try to look for a reason, there are a lot and none depending sole on who is interpreting my drawings.

This specifc drawing you mentioned, I did way after this recent wave of hate and was just a joke. This case dosent have so much meaning behind the joke, but like, you can have your interpretation as him coping, or he feel for Zeus, or he just want to mess with other gods as he is the only 'mortal' and use Zeus as a shield so he can just be lying... LET YOUR IMAGINATION FLY.

Look... my very firsts drawings and tiktok of Ganimedes was him mad... He literaly mad cry... Even before any nsfw I have done or more nuansed art... and yet people also thougth as romantization... So really, dosent matter what I do, to some people just because of my style or because Zeus is hot its equal to be ok with anything he does (as if abusers cant be attractive... its good those people never meet someone like this, but still makes me worry about them). Ah! There re two expections: some eagle interactions re sweet because its before any harm; and Ganimedes smiling one time on a tiktok video (I though people would be intriged and make questions, but nope, they stick to Ganimedes liking being abused I guess - welp the fetish exists, but I know they mean as me saying 'abuse is ok because he liked it').

I dont know where people think that just because Ganimedes its not suffering in every single second means he is ok to all harm and struggle he will pass... I want to make him suffer as an OC, but like, let him have happy moments... and this also means happy moments with Zeus... and all of this dont erase any bad things... this binary way to see stories its just so not my thing -w-

Oh! and its not because you have intimacy with someone you also love them (like, rage f*cking is a thing and I want to explore it, maybe outside the comic, idk yet u.u). I also have some cannibalism drawings Gani x Zeus, cause imagine eating a god!! So exciting!

OK now for real, I will not answer anymore romantization discustion for some time. I'm tired of this, I will do my things and hope people have patience before stating something that its still in progress. Aske me about it in two months maybe...