#but legit thank you SO MUCH for doing this

[littlelamy]

Reader request with Rafe. Maybe she breaks down sobbing in the middle of sex and he has no idea why, thinking he hurt her. Her reasons aren’t bad. As someone that has only been with one person personally, and he was such a selfish uncaring lover, I legit think I would start sobbing in bed if someone was loving and caring towards me and treating me like the most precious thing. Love your writing <3

a/n: thank you so much for requesting...hope you like it!!⭐️

the room was drenched in golden light, the low hum of the bedside lamp the only sound as rafe’s hands roamed your body. his palms were warm against your skin, calloused but soft in their touch, tracing a path down your sides like he was discovering you for the first time. his lips followed, pressing kisses that started at your neck and trailed lower, his breath hot and deliberate.

“you okay?” he murmured, the deep rasp of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. his fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt, brushing the bare skin of your stomach as he paused to look at you.

your lips parted, and though you nodded, the tightness in your throat betrayed you. “yeah,” you whispered. “i’m okay.”

rafe studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly before he leaned down to kiss you again. it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate, but slow, sensual, the kind of kiss that set your skin alight. his tongue slid against yours, coaxing a soft moan from your lips as his hand moved lower, slipping between your legs.

“god, you’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and desire. his fingers stroked you gently, building heat that spread through your entire body, but there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. "my baby, so perfect." he almost purred, everything about him was deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second of this—every second of you.

you arched into his touch, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders as he pressed his body closer to yours. his hips rocked against you, his movements careful but firm, and the pressure sent sparks of pleasure through your veins.

but that was the moment it all became too much.

your chest tightened, your breath hitching as the weight of everything crashed down at once. the tenderness, the patience, the care—it was everything you’d never known, everything you thought you didn’t deserve. and suddenly, the tears came.

a sob tore from your throat, raw and unbidden, cutting through the heated silence like a knife.

rafe froze instantly, his body going rigid above you as his eyes snapped to your face. “y/n?” his voice was sharp with concern, his hands pulling back like he was afraid he’d hurt you. “what—did i—did i hurt you?”

you shook your head, tears spilling freely now as you pressed a trembling hand to your face. “no,” you managed, your voice cracking. “no, you didn’t hurt me. i’m sorry, i—”

“hey, hey,” he interrupted, his hands hovering near your arms but not quite touching. his voice softened, though there was still a note of panic in it. “don’t apologize. just tell me what’s wrong. did i do something? did i push too far?”

you shook your head again, harder this time, your tears soaking into the pillow beneath you. “no, rafe. it’s not you. it’s… it’s me.”

his brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face as he searched your eyes for answers. “what do you mean? you’re crying, baby. i don’t know what to do.”

the raw vulnerability in his voice broke something inside you. you forced yourself to take a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you reached up to touch his face. “i’m crying because you’re too good to me,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

rafe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “what?”

“you’re too good to me,” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’ve only ever been with one person before, and he… he didn’t care about me. not really. it was always about him—what he wanted, what he could take. i got used to that, and now… now you’re here, and you’re so kind and patient, and i don’t know how to handle it.”

his expression shifted then, his confusion melting into something softer, though there was an edge of anger in his jaw—anger directed not at you but at the person who had made you feel this way.

“y/n,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “that guy? he didn’t deserve you. not for a second. and i don’t care how long it takes, i’ll spend every moment proving to you that you’re worth everything. do you hear me?”

tears spilled down your cheeks again, but this time they weren’t born of pain. his words wrapped around you like a balm, soothing wounds you hadn’t realized were still bleeding.

“i don’t want to scare you off,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“scare me off?” rafe repeated, his tone incredulous. he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “y/n, you couldn’t scare me off if you tried. i just… i want you to feel safe with me. always.”

“i do,” you said quickly, your voice breaking with urgency. “i do feel safe. that’s why i’m crying, rafe. because i’ve never felt this before. no one’s ever… treated me like this before.”

his lips pressed to your forehead, lingering there as he exhaled deeply. “then we’ll go slow,” he murmured against your skin. “as slow as you need. or we can stop altogether. whatever you want, baby.”

“no,” you said firmly, your hands curling around his wrists to keep him close. “i don’t want to stop. i just… needed to tell you. needed you to know why i’m like this.”

his eyes searched yours for a long moment before he nodded, his lips curving into the softest smile. “okay,” he said simply. “but promise me, if you ever need to stop, you’ll tell me. no matter what.”

“i promise,” you whispered, your voice steadier now.

he kissed you again, but this time it was different. there was still care in the way his lips moved against yours, but now there was something deeper, something hungrier. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as his hips rolled forward, the friction sending a gasp spilling from your lips.

“you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his breath warm against your neck as he pressed wet kisses to your skin. his body moved against yours in slow, deliberate thrusts, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t get enough.

and this time, you let yourself feel it. you let yourself drown in the way he touched you, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. because for the first time in a long time, you believed that maybe—just maybe—you were.

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

[foodtruckery]

I've been having crazy Stancest brain rot thinking about an AU where they don't have the portal incident and instead have crazy marathon hate sex instead (Inspired by some amazing art by @CoreArde on Twitter) and I thought it'd be fun to share that with you.

They start off arguing in the lab and then oops they're fucking on the lab floor, and they really should be thinking this through but nope now they're upstairs fucking on the kitchen table and okay maybe now they'll finally talk about it nah, they're fucking in Ford's bed now.

It starts off as rough hate sex getting out years of frustration, but by the time they make it to the kitchen its become insanely desperate and cloying because they missed each other, and their bodies fit so well together, and GOD how could they have not been doing this all time? They're going at it so long that they basically end up passed out in Ford's bed by the end, and Stan's not going to be sitting down for a while after this. He's probably just happy to be sleeping in a bed, but Ford is trying to figure out how he got so far from the initial plan.

Even better if the two of them have been harboring feelings for years and never acted on it, because they get the one-two punch of all the weight of their time apart and processing the fact that OH GOD I JUST FUCKED MY BROTHER (which of course they both wanted to do but still).

I have no idea what would happen after that, but both of them waking up sore, sweat soaked, sticky with cum (some still inside Stan because of course Ford didn't use a condom this wasn't supposed to happen) after having gone at each other like rabbits in heat despite never having expressed their attraction to each other before is a hilarious and hot idea to me. What do you think?

HI THERE ANON. i am so fucking sorry that i left you waiting for so long about this, but i need you to know it's because i was FUCKING OBSESSED with this. like just absolutely beside myself over it, and i refused to respond until i had a chance to sit down and respond PROPERLY.

cause uh YEAH FRIEND i know the exact fucking piece of art (explicit) you're talking about, because it's INCREDIBLE. and in case you didn't know, the artist is over here too and shares some fucking fantastic writing and headcanons also! (seriously, go check out @/cartoonsinthemorning if you haven't. and cart, i hope you don't mind that anon and i both kinda lost our minds about your art over here! i genuinely have no idea what tag etiquette is on this site and didn't wanna bombard you, but you did this. again.)

i'll be honest, anon, this kinda got away from me (fucking shocker) and i am too tired to do any legit editing of it right now, so please forgive any typos or weirdness! i'll try and clean it up before it eventually goes up on ao3. but thank you for such a LOVELY ask because this was so hot, and so inspiring, and i hope i did a little justice to your idea and cart's gorgeous art!

--- Ford isn't entirely sure how it had started. His memory, his perception of time, his ability to follow a linear order of events -- all if it is less than reliable at the moment, so he can't entirely blame himself for losing track of things here and there. But the jump between trying to wrestle his journal out of Stan's hands to trying to wrestle Stan out of his dingey jeans is a jarring transition to lose in the dull static that's been edging around his awareness for weeks now. 

Not jarring enough to stop him, though. 

He thinks, vaguely, while he's blindly tugging at Stan's denim, that there's a concerningly high likelihood that he's hallucinating. His head is swimming in so much caffeine and adrenaline that he doesn't even feel the rough concrete of the lab floor under his knees -- maybe that isn't where he is? Maybe he'd nodded off without realizing. Maybe he's going to come to with another lapful of polaroids and a new humiliating tattoo. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe -- he can reckon with a probability model later. For the first time in what feels like months, the stability of his perceived reality is not actually at the forefront of Ford's mind.

Pressing in on him harder than the doubt, harder than the disassociation from his physical body, and harder than the threat of the creature lingering in the depths of his subconscious is anger. It feels like a beacon in the muddled, fuzzy mess inside his head, something bright and real and his. It's searing through him, slicing away all the frayed edges of his paranoia and doubt like a hot blade through so much butter. 

Ford clings to the sharp edges of that anger and feels more alert than he has in weeks. 

He can't remember how their bickering had taken this particular turn, but if he's liable to lose his eyes and his life in the next few days, Ford will be fucking damned if he squanders the opportunity. He knows he's made a mess of things, that he's made the sorts of mistakes that can't and frankly shouldn't be forgiven. 

But he also knows with blinding, white hot certainty that he's only here, now, because of Stan's mistakes.

Ford may not deserve absolution, but he does deserves this. 

Laughter cuts through the lab, rough and mocking, and Ford's attention finally falls, properly, on Stan. He has a bruise blooming on his cheek and a snide smirk twisting his lips. He's also on his back, his jeans and a threadbare pair of boxers bunched in Ford's fists and pulled so low he can see the tight curls of his pubic hair and the root of his cock. 

"What's wrong, Poindexter?" Stan asks, mocking, and it's only then that Ford realizes he's paused halfway through stripping his twin's lower half. The bite of the cold concrete under his knees still feels far away, but the rough material in his palms, and the heat of Stan's body so close to him are sharp, clear details. "No hands on experience with a dick that ain't your own? Afraid you might actually be bad at somethin' for once?" 

Ford narrows his eyes, feeling the hot point of anger cutting through him, steadying him, and he jerks Stan's clothes hard enough that he gets the material past his knees in one tug. Stan laughs at him again, but it stutters into a little 'oof!' when Ford flips him onto his stomach. 

He doesn't care that Stan's pants are still caught around his calves and his boots. He doesn't care that Stan hisses something that sounds like pain when he's yanked onto his knees and dragged backwards several inches across the concrete. He doesn't even care that, once upon a time, he'd dreamed of this, of crossing this line with the only person he'd ever really loved in any way that mattered, and it's nothing like the softer, sweeter picture he used to imagine. 

Stan's hips are soft, and the skin gives easily under the iron grip Ford has on them, holding him in place as he grinds against his ass. Even through his slacks, the heat of Stan's body is intense, addictive, and he grinds forward again, harder, watching the friction rub a pink  patch against his skin. 

Stan, shameless and selfish as always, pushes eagerly back against him. Ford has barely done anything beyond rocking the outline of his cock against his hole, but he can hear Stan panting against the ground, can see his hands curling into fists. He remembers how many times Stan had called Carla McCorkle "easy" in high school and thinks, now, that the easy one had been his brother. 

"You gonna keep humpin' me, or are you gonna fuck me?" Stan demands, rocking as firmly back as he can with the bruising grip Ford has on him. 

"What makes you think you deserve that?" Ford bites out. It would serve Stan right, he thinks, if he got himself off exactly like this, no different than grinding against a particularly firm couch pillow. Just a conveniently warm object for Ford to release some tension with. 

Stan looks back over his shoulder and flashes teeth at him. It isn't a smile. "Oh, I get it. Cold feet? Well, we can just chalk it up to one more thing ya promised and then backed out of as soon as you actually had to make a choice. Good to know some things never change, Stanford."

He's being goaded, and Ford knows that. But the anger boils in his chest, and he thinks, why should he care about what Stan does or doesn't deserve from him? This is about what Ford deserves.

And what Ford deserves is to have his dick so far up Stan's ass he'll be able to feel it in the back of his throat. 

"Do you ever shut up?" he snaps while he releases one of Stan's hips to yank his slacks open. The bruise of his fingerprints already forming against Stan's skin thrills him, almost to distraction, if it weren't for Stan laughing again. 

"'Course not," he says, shifting his center of balance to dig into the pocket of his dirty red coat. The little packet he tosses over his shoulder bounces off his own ass to land by Ford's knee, the word LUBE printed in large, bold letters across the front. He should be surprised to see it, and part of him is. The word "easy" comes to mind again. 

Ford rips the packet open with his teeth. 

"F-Fuck!" Stan curses, turning his forehead against the ground when Ford presses his slick cock into him a moment later without warning. 

Ford grabs him roughly by the waist when he twitches forward and yanks Stan back until his ass hits the open fly of his slacks. He makes a choked sound at that and turns his face into the crook of his own arm when Ford pulls back and rocks hard back into him. 

"What's wrong, Stanley?" he parrots. He pistons his hips at a punishing pace, watching his cock pumping in and out of the greedy, grasping ring of Stan's hole. "Nothing to say?" 

Stan makes a noise that's too muffled by the sleeve of his coat to understand, so Ford reaches down to take a fistful of his stupid mullet instead. The hitching gasp that escapes his twin when his head is forcefully jerked up makes him groan. "What was that? Come on, Stanley, use your words." 

"F-Fuck off," Stan says, his voice strained, almost whining. 

"I see you haven't gotten anymore eloquent since you left," Ford scoffs around the breathlessness in his own voice, feeling the anger and pleasure coiling harder in his gut. "What was it you said? Good to know some things never change." 

When he pulls Stan's hair again, just because he can, Stan moans. And when he shifts his hips, driving in just as hard at the new angle, Stan shouts. With his own knees bracketed on either side of his, Ford can feel the way his thighs tremble when he clenches around his cock, and he can feel the sweat beading up under his palm where he's digging darker bruises into Stan's side. 

Ford feels like he's on the edge of delirium again, consumed by every sound Stan makes, every twitch of his hips, every ounce of his heat. He thinks, a bit wildly, that Stan may have been made for this, made to take his cock, for how well he does. 

It isn't until Stan jerks under him, going hot and tight around his cock and making a strangled noise in the back of his throat, that Ford realizes he may have said part of that out loud. That Stan came over it. 

He groans low in his throat and thrusts half a dozen more times into Stan's clenching hole before he comes as well. 

It's quiet for a few minutes other than their ragged panting, but it's Stan who eventually reaches back and swats at Ford's hand until he lets go of his hair. He takes the hint and pulls out, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as his come trickles down Stan's thighs. It strikes him suddenly that he wants to follow the wet trail back up with his tongue. It's enough to make his cock give a feeble, appreciative twitch. 

He isn't sure if he's just terribly distracted or if he loses time again, because when Ford next lifts his head, Stan is on his feet, pants pulled up around his waist but still open, and he has his journal in hand. This might be more jarring than the last transition he'd lost. 

"What are you doing?" he demands, shoving himself back onto his own feet. He doesn't bother to tuck his cock back in, and he spots the moment Stan's eyes flick down. It's brief, but he'd seen it. 

"What does it fucking look like I'm doing? I'm taking your stupid diary and disappearing like you begged me to," Stan says. His voice is still a little raw, and Ford has a moment to realize how much he likes that, before the words catch up. 

He scoffs. "Oh! So now you want to actually help?! Is it always this easy to fuck the sense into you?" 

Stan's expression does a few things Ford doesn't understand before his brows ultimately slam down and he turns his back, storming towards the door with Ford's journal still in hand, and Ford himself hot on his heels. "You're fucking unbelievable, Stanford, you know that?!" 

"Me?! You're the one who came all over my lab floor and then decided he was ready to be reasonable!" 

Stan jams his thumb against the call button for the elevator several times in quick succession, despite the car already being on their floor and the gate sliding open. "Most people would just say thank you when someone agreed to help them out, but not you! What does Stanford Pines have to be grateful for? We're all just fucking lucky to get a task from ya, huh?" 

Ford crowds into the elevator with him before Stan can try to pull the gate or call the doors shut behind him. He punches the button to take them up himself, before making a grab for the journal, snarling when Stan leans back and holds it up above his head. 

"You're the one who threatened to destroy my work twenty minutes ago, Stanley! Why would I trust you with it now? Hell, I can't figure out why I trusted you enough to bring you here in the first place!" 

"Oh really? You can't?" Stan sneers, leaning in close. And when Ford takes a step back, Stan follows, backing him into a corner of the car. "I don't think you fuckin' trusted me to do shit, Stanford. I think you were all outta options cause nobody else could stand to put up with you anymore." 

Stan doesn't so much as hit a nerve as he takes a sledgehammer to it, and as soon as the elevator dings, Ford shoves him as hard as he can out into the study. Stan yelps when he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and it's only knocking into a cluttered desk that keeps him from falling on his ass. 

Ford doesn't give him any time to right himself, storming in after him and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. Stan flinches, like he'ex expecting a punch, but Ford yanks him in and crushes his mouth against his instead. 

There's a dull thump that Ford only realizes was the journal being dropped when he feels both of Stan's hands on his shoulders. They curl briefly, grasping at him, and Ford feels his mouth starting to go soft and slack. But as soon as he presses in, runs his tongue along that loosening seam, he's suddenly being shoved backwards. 

If he weren't so damn confused, Ford would probably appreciate the picture Stan makes, lips slick and pants open, leaning back against one of Ford's desks. 

"What are you doing?!" Stan demands, like he's the one who doesn't know what day it is, and keeps losing track of events. 

"I would think even you could figure that out after what happened downstairs, Stanley."

Stan flushes, visible even in the low light of the study, though Ford isn't sure if it's embarrassment or anger. The scowl on his face doesn't help clear things up, either, though the fact that he isn't actually looking at Ford is...telling.  

"That ain't happening again," Stan states, and there isn't anything convincing about the way he says it at all. But when Ford steps forward, Stan sidesteps him and the desk. He makes a wrong turn in the dark, in a house he isn't familiar with, and flinches when Ford flips on the light in the kitchen he's walked into.

"I don't know how you expect to leave and hide my journal after leaving it in the study," he points out, frowning at the back of Stan's head. 

He isn't surprised when Stan whirls on him. He is, however, stunned still when he realizes Stan's eyes are wet. 

"What the fuck do you want from me, Stanford?!" Stan shouts, his voice cracking over his name, and it makes something feel like it's cracking inside his chest. 

Ford has to wet his lips when he finds them and his throat dry. "...I told you what I wanted," he says.

"Yeah, you did! And when I finally agreed to do it, you threw a fucking fit about it! And now you're pissy because I'm not?! What do you want?" 

The anger sparks sharply inside him again, and Ford grasps at it like a lifeline, willing to bloody his hands for that bite of stability. 

"You tried to burn it! My life's work! And you only decided you would help me after we--"

Stan cuts him off, looking towards the cabinets while he raises his voice and waves his hands. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry about the fucking lighter, all right?!"

Ford frowns. He takes a step forward and, still without looking at him, Stan takes a step back. It's the elevator all over again, but this time Ford is pressing in, backing Stan into the cabinets. He grabs the counter on either side of his hips when he tries to side step him again. 

"Stanley, look at me," he demands, frowning harder when Stan sets his jaw and stars determinedly at his shoulder. "Stanley--"

"What do you want, Ford? Just...just fucking tell me and I'll leave, all right?" Stan says, his voice tired and soft as he reaches up to rub a hand over his own face.

He wants a lot, honestly. And hasn't that always been the problem? He's always wanted -- to be normal, to be respected, to be the best, to be special. 

To be wanted. 

To be enough.

To fix things. 

"You," he realizes, watching Stan jerk his head up. His lashes are still wet, and Ford can't stop himself from reaching up and pressing his palm to Stan's cheek, skimming his thumb gently under one of his eyes. 

When he leans in to kiss him again, Stan makes a small, wounded little noise under his mouth, but he parts his lips for Ford's tongue this time. Stan's lips are chapped and he tastes vaguely of stale cigarettes, but Ford is still struck by how soft and sweet he is. 

More than anything else that had happened that evening, this is the moment that Ford knows he should suspect most of all. The way Stan relaxes between him and the counter, the almost tentative way he lifts his tongue to meet his, the careful fingertips touching the edge of Ford's coat and brushing against his loose tie. It's tender in a way Ford didn't think either of them were capable of, and it should be setting off warning bells and red flags in every part of his mind. 

It isn't. 

Ford is more certain of  the reality of this single moment, the gentle slip of Stan's lips against his own, than he's been of anything in a long time. 

And then Stan sighs between them and murmurs, warm and hopeful, "Ford," against his lips, and he's done for. 

It doesn't matter that they just fucked, that Ford's come is probably still drying between Stan's thighs -- he can't keep his hands off of him. Ford is suddenly frantic and desperate in a way that he hadn't been downstairs. He needs to relearn the new, wider shape of Stan's shoulders and pecs. He needs to feel out every new scar and take stock of all the old ones he remembers Stan collecting for him as kids. He needs to be surrounded by him again, soaking in the warmth of him. 

Ford doesn't deserve absolution, but he thinks he may be able to find something close to it in the low, shaky way Stan moans his name. 

And there's familiarity in the way Stan grabs at him in turn, tugging at his jacket and tie and surging into another, harder kiss. Ford thinks he may not be the only one looking for expiation. 

Then Stan drops to his knees between him and the cabinet, and Ford stops thinking so much. His cock is still out, and Stan wastes no time in getting his fist around the shaft and his lips around the head. He suckles and swirls his tongue, and Ford shoves the beanie off of his head to get his hands in his hair. 

"Stanley," he gasps, stroking his fingers along his scalp and fisting the strands between them. 

Stan moans around him and shuffles closer, sliding the seal of his lips further down the length of Ford's cock. All he can do is groan and try to keep from rocking his hips as more of him is greeted by the warmth of his mouth and the wickedness of his tongue. 

He keeps waiting for Stan to reach his limit, to back off and give himself room to breathe. He doesn't. He keeps leaning in, keeps taking him, and then Ford feels his cockhead slip into Stan's throat, sees his lashes are wet again, and he has to put one hand on the counter to keep himself steady. "Fuck, Stanley, you're so good at this."

Stan makes a horribly sweet sound around the girth of Ford's cock and reaches up to hold his hips as he swallows, and Ford is suddenly afraid he's going to embarass himself.  His hips twitch despite his best efforts to keep them still, but Stan simply relaxes his jaw and his throat and tugs a little to encourage him to do it again. He does, of course, how could he not? 

Despite the heat clawing its way through him and the pleasure mounting dangerously high, Ford almost feels outside of himself again. The picture Stan makes, with his eyes damp and heavy lidded, his lips wet and stretched around Ford's cock, his hair fisted in Ford's fingers and his own clinging to Ford's hips -- it's lewd, debauched, and so horribly sweet that it makes Ford's chest hurt. 

Stan gasps raggedly when Ford pulls him off. "I was go-gonna...I mean you can--"

Ford kneels down to kiss him, tasting stale cigarettes and himself, cock throbbing over the rough state of Stan's voice. "Not done yet," he manages, before tugging Stan onto his feet. 

They lose clothes and time on the journey upstairs, tripping over the steps and Ford's discarded pants, and stumbling into his wreck of a room. If Stan notices the state of things, he doesn't comment, mouth latched onto Ford's shoulder and hands all over his back and hips. 

The back of Ford's legs hit the bed and he sits hard on the mattress. Stan doesn't hesitate to crawl up into his lap. He'd lost his boots in the kitchen and his jeans and boxers somewhere on the way to the stairs, giving him ample opportunity to rub his bare cock against Ford's. 

Cursing, Ford rolls his hips and only belatedly remembers to reach up and tug the hideous red coat off of Stan's shoulders. 

"Oh, fuck, hold on. I think I have another one," Stan says, panting softly as he digs into the pockets of his coat. Ford takes the opportunity to run his hands across Stan's thighs and ass, squeezing whatever skin he can until Stan makes a triumphant sound and pulls another little packet of lube free. 

Only then does he let Ford toss his jacket aside and tug him further up the bed with him. He doesn't protest when Ford takes the packet from him, lowering his head to work open mouth kisses up Ford's throat instead, and he rolls his hips distractingly while Ford fights to get the damnable thing open. He ignores the snickering against his skin in the process. 

It stops anyway, hitching into something warm and startled when Ford sinks two slick fingers into him. 

"Oh, fuck," Stan breaths, reaching up to grab Ford by the shoulder, holding himself steady. "Y-You know you don't have to do that, right? Pretty loosened up already."

He is, to be fair. His hole is still soft and loose and fucked open. But Ford enjoys petting his fingers against the tender muscle and stroking them inside anyway. He likes watching Stan bite his lip and push himself back onto his hand. When he slides a third in after the first two, Stan's thighs tremble on either side of his own, and he makes a low, throaty sound. 

When Ford curls his fingers just right, Stan yells and grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt, and it makes warm satisfaction curl in his middle. So he does it a few more times, alternating between spreading his fingers and rubbing the tips against Stan's prostate until he's squirming in his lap. 

"I-I'm gonna come if you don't knock that sh-shit off," he gasps, slumping a bit when Ford chuckles and slides his fingers out. 

"I think I'd like that," Ford says, squeezing his slick fingers against Stan's thigh. 

He snorts and straightens back up, finding the discarded lube packet to squirt the remainder onto Ford's cock. "Yeah, I bet you fucking would," Stan agrees, but there's no malice in his voice, just warm amusement. 

His fist is warm and wonderful when it curls around Ford's cock, spreading lube, and then Ford is being held steady, Stan adjusts himself on his scuffed knees, and there's nothing else to do but hold on as Stan lowers himself into his lap. 

It feels as good as it had earlier to be inside of him, and Ford squeezes the thigh under his hand tightly, fighting against the need to buck his hips. Stan is panting softly, his head tilted back and a pretty, pink color is crawling up from under his t-shirt to flood his neck and face. 

Ford groans and leans forward, finding a nipple through his thin shirt to get his teeth and tongue against.

"F-Ford!" Stan gasps, fumbling the hand not clawing at his shoulder up into his hair, and Ford sucks hard on the firm nub,  rubbing spit-soaked cotton against it with his tongue until Stan rocks in his lap. 

Fuck, he likes that, the way his name sounds in Stan's voice, especially warm and rough after fucking his throat earlier. 

He squeezes Stan's thigh and his hip, giving him a little tug, and that's all the encouragement Stan needs before he's bouncing on his cock. Ford has that thought again -- that Stan was meant to be filled by him, that they're a perfectly matched set. But it isn't just feeling good and hot while Stan fucks himself in his lap. It's feeling like he's been missing something and he finally has it, like he's finally complete again. 

He's missed this, Ford realizes. 

Not the fucking his brother part. He'd fantasized about that for years but it still feels like a dream that it's happening, like something that's too good to be true. 

But being able to put his arms around him? To be this close to him again? 

Ford rocks his hips up, hard, and Stan says his name. He wraps his fingers around Stan's cock, and he gasps his name. He bites the same swollen, pink nipple through his shirt, and Stan shouts his name. 

He snaps his hips up to meet him a few more times and rubs the sensitive glans under the head of Stan's cock, and then there are teeth digging into his other shoulder and his fist and stomach are being striped in Stan's come while he shudders and jerks overtop of him. 

Stan goes easily when Ford rolls them over and pins one of his wrists to the bed. And despite the way he squirms and how his spent cock twitches and leaks, blatantly overstimulated, he hooks his ankles behind Ford's back and urges him on. 

"C-C'mon, give it to me. Fuck, just like that, Sixer!" 

The nickname hits him with all the subtlety of a truck and all the heat of a volcanic eruption. 

He doesn't even remember coming so much as he remembers every synapses in his brain trying to fire at once. Coming back down to reality is a little clearer, with his head spinning and pulse racing as he flops onto his back, but it still takes several long minutes before he feels fully cognizant again. 

Something makes the bed shift, and he looks over to see that Stan has rolled onto his stomach. Ford wonders if he looks half as fucked out as Stan does, with bruises blossoming across his body, his shirt rucked halfway up his stomach, and come staining his ass and thighs. Ford realizes Stan still has his socks on, and he can't figure out why that makes something twinge, hot but exhausted and halfhearted, in his gut. 

"Gonna...gonna get up in a minute," Stan says, his voice slurring and his eyes already closed. Ford watches him rub his cheek against one of Ford's pillows, and the soft sound of snoring follows soon after. 

The reality of the situation starts to settle in shortly after that, and Ford stares wide eyed up at the ceiling as if he'll find some sort of answers there. Unsurprisingly, there are no secrets etched overhead for how to reckon with the fact that he had just fucked his brother, twice, while the fate of the world was still very much hanging in the balance between his fraying sanity and Bill's looming threat. 

".....Fuck," Ford murmurs.

When the adrenaline finishes seeping out of his system, Ford expects to crash. The exhaustion certainly climbs back into his bones, but he's surprised to find himself still clear headed. Focused. 

The sound of Stan sleeping soundly beside him is as soothing as it is mocking, but he doesn't want to separate himself from it even though he knows he needs to get up. There's soft, gray light starting to creep in through the windows, and distant birdsong calling for the start of the day. He needs to readjust, to come up with a new plan, find some way to explain to Stan what's going on so they can buy themselves a little more time. 

Against all odds and his better judgment, there's a tiny, optimistic voice in the back of his head reminding him that there's strength in numbers. He isn't surprised that it sounds like Stan.

[eerna]

I love vi so much that I’m so sad this happened to her. Like they “probably” wanted to convey that she’s gonna stick with Cait for a while by calling her a dirt under her nails but even writing that line rn is breaking my heart idk how everyone behnd that was just “yep that’s cool and so in character” this was the girl who said this city’s gonna respect to us someday and having a whole mental breakdown in front of Cait for how desperate her hometown place is in the “oil and water” scene. Im all here for caitvi but she loved jinx MORE THAN ANYTHING she’d die and kill for this girl why did the vice versa happen suddenly? Why did the writers discarded the legit CORE of her character, the one that was making her our vi, just to make her an extension of caitlyn. Not to say she’s probably still drinking as we see in the last scene why do they forced us to believe she’s gonna be ok cause she’s got Cait? Didn’t arcane prove us the whole time that love alone isn’t enough to make one healthy?

THANK YOU FOR MENTIONING THE GLASS IN THE FINAL SCENE BECAUSE I TOO WAS LIKE "WAIT IS SHE DRINKING AGAIN, CAN WE ELABORATE ON THAT" DBSBAJKBASKJ... I don't really have anything against her arc being that she needs to learn how to let people who don't want her to hold onto them go. Really, it's super unhealthy to keep obsessing over those who have left you behind, and I do think that the only way Vi could be happy is if she learned that lesson. Then, Jinx choosing to return to her would be all the more powerful. But the way we got to that point is just. Just really sad and not very good.

I saw the shippers complaining about the criticism of the final line and the jail scene by saying the critics just don't wanna see lesbians happy, but to me it's the opposite. I love Vi so much, she is my favorite character, and I absolutely wanted to see her happy, but I simply can't ignore what the story is telling me. Vi ISN'T happy. She is a prisoner in a system that treats her like shit, and she has made peace with it. She is humming a lullaby whose meaning is literally "Zaunites should be happy with Piltover's runoff and never ask for more", she is drinking, she is demeaning herself. The show tries to tell me she is happy, but that is not the emotion I am getting at ALL, because all the subtext points to the opposite.

[itsrlymine]

So you are telling me it’s just as easy as deciding you have something…I don’t have to visualize/affirm 24/7 unless I want to. I feel so stupid your whole blog is like a slap in the face. I CAN HAVE WHATEVER I WANT BY JUST DECIDING “oh yeah I legit have 5k in the bank right neow” and just standing firm and believing I do e.i if I feel like going back to the old story because something triggered me I can just go “what is she going on about I Iegit have that 5k 🙄🙄” OR I can just visualize 5k in the bank (either way it doesn’t matter because it’s me who decides). I NEEDED YOUR BLOG THANK YOU SO MUCH, it feels so out of this world but it’s so simple like manifesting isn’t hard I was just over complicating it in my head and my making that assumption, so in turn of course it would be “hard” BC YOU ASSUMED BACK THEN IT WOULD BE HARD DUMBASS (@past me)

YES LITERALLY, IT'S JUST AS EASY AS OPENING YOUR EYES AND YOU DON'T THINK TWICE ABOUT THAT DO YOU?????? Don't worry babe, we all have our own stories about how we used to view manifesting but yes, it's easy and there is nothing to it. Like at all let's collectively bc so fr!

[ssentimentals]

hellooo!!! can i request prompt #12 with wonwoo, i think by now we’ve all seen how crazy wonwoo’s bed hair is😭 i wonder how he’d feel letting reader see it for the first time or just what they think of it in general!!

hellooo! ahahah yeah, that suits wonwoo very well!! makes me happy when prompts are very certain member coded :) thank you for requesting! 💜 hopefully you will like it!

fluff prompt: 'i love your bedhead.'

wonwoo is not dramatic. at least he likes to think that he's not; but even he can admit that right now he's being a little - just a little! - dramatic over this thing. but it's important - he wants to maintain certain image around you. every single voice in wonwoo's head screams at him that you will like him regardless of how he looks, but there is one tiny doubt he has and that tiny doubt is the reason why he's stuck in the bathroom for the past ten minutes now.

'woo?' you call out. 'is everything okay?'

a very legit question to ask, but wonwoo still cringes: 'ugh- yeah.'

'that did not come out very confident,' you point out and then he can hear shuffling and next time yuo open your mouth, your voice sounds much closer like you're leaning on the door: 'baby, is everything okay? do you need something?'

wonwoo thinks he has the best, sweetest girlfriend. he also thinks that he is being unnecessarily dramatic over staying at yours for the night for the first time ever. 'no, it's all good, love. i'm just doing my hair. you can come in, by the way.'

the door creaks and you enter with puzzled expression on your face. 'what's wrong with your hair?'

wonwoo is too focused on you looking incredibly cute in your christmas themed pjs that he doesn't catch the question at first; he blinks back to you, when you step very close, brushing his hand with yours. 'so what's up with your hair? i didn't know you had some night routine thing.'

he doesn't. he never did but you can't possibly see him with his bedhead in the morning because then you will run away and fall out of love with him. yeah, maybe he is being dramatic. 'i'm just thinking of ways how to comb my hair so in the morning it won't scare you away.'

he hopes it sounds like a joke but judging by your raised eyebrow and no smile, he didn't really land it correctly. 'i love your bedhead,' you say surely, which is cute, it really is, but-

'you've never seen my bedhead.' wonwoo points out rightfully.

you shrug. 'and? i will love it anyway.' you lean in, smiling at him sweetly. 'woo, don't overthink it. it's you, okay? i'll love your bedhead, i promise.'

that tiny doubt which used to lead his brain into this stupid predicament slowly melts away, disappears under the weight of your assureness. and he can tell that you're sincere, which makes everything even better. so he takes a deep breath and smiles: 'okay. let's go to bed then?'

you perk up, nodding. 'yes! left side is mine!'

left side is also his, but wonwoo only nods, eager to let you always take his favorite side of the bed as long as you'll have him. which he hopes is forever.

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

[animalistic0]

Okay…okay! I have so much to say and I need to get everything that I am feeling and thinking out because OMG

Pregnancy reveal/post by Sarah and John B?!? OMG YESSSSS. Also Pope in the comments being like; “this is why he keeps canceling boys night.” I can’t with them. I love them all, love all the little details and all the little dynamics.

POPE FINALLY GETTING ON COOKING WITH CLEO🥳🗣️🥳🗣️ yesssss it’s happening. I was with my mans waiting for this. Also FOUR YEARS?!? Cleo wrong for that lmao and then dedicating it to the reader. I love our wife fr. She’s the best. Another detail I love is how close we are to Cleo and Pope. Love our besties, love our husband and wife💙🩵🫶 Also John B and Cleo in the comments, fucking dead. Him not knowing the difference between a salt and pepper shaker. Brother what? Cleo please never but please do bring him in the kitchen 😂 a beautiful disaster, waiting to happen.

Readers post about seasonal depression…too real 😂 and all her little comments right after I can’t. Had me laughing harder and harder because it was so relatable. Then JJ coming to save the day….STAWP😍

The instagram post. Calling JJ our knight in shining armor 😩 him flirting in the comments with us. Also RAFE liking the post?!? I saw that. I saw that shit. I don’t know who to like more or who I’m rooting for. At this point neither, I can’t choose. I WANT BOTH. “Both. Both is good.”

Readers tweets about the Cooking with Cleo video is FANTASTIC. Let’s be honest though, all three of us know we ALREADY married. Lmao. We all together, legit love the friendship with Pope and Cleo so much I can’t get enough and can’t express it enough. Pope saying fake news when we say he loves us, that man just can’t admit or say I love you. But it’s okay, he’s our bestie and our wife’s husband.

READERS TEXTS WITH RAFE. don’t get me started….Im started. Him so clearly nervous and scared to scare us off😭 and then us just fucking diving right in. The begging on the knees, I know he’s definitely gonna take that and RUN WITH IT. And I can’t wait. I can’t wait to see what he does with that. The whole conversation had be giggling and kicking my feet.

JJ AND THE READERS😮‍💨🤭 now that DELIVERED!!!! He’s so down bad, omg and I love it. I love him. LIKE I SAID. BOTH. You can’t make us chose, you can’t make reader chose. Damn😭 his; “breathing near you is the highlight of my day. I don’t ever really care about what we are doing.” LIKE OMG, this is so beautiful and sweet and this had me blushing and giggling and kicking my feet. Then him outing himself☠️ 13yrs damn poor man, and that’s a good question about his game 😂 that or we just blind asf.

THE SOS POST; the last post. This post. This Post. THIS. WAS. THE. POST. I was cackling so loud, giggling, everything!!!!! I reread it a million times because it was just beautiful. I have said it and I’ll say it again and forever and forever. POPE AND CLEO ARE THE BEST. I LOVE OUR BESTIES, OUR WIFEY AND HUSBAND. In actuality forget JJ and Rafe. GIVE ME CLEO AND POPE🙏 No, but Cleo springing over and leaving Pope in the dust is so funny I can’t. And poor Pope being so confused until Cleo is like, “Piping tea babe.” AND THEN HIS GIF/MEME OF RUNNING??? Absolutely dead, had me cackling even louder. I can’t explain how much I love Pope and Cleo, especially in this and as our besties. I can’t get over this one, legit my favorite (slide? Picture? Story post? Idk) it’s legit my favorite and was absolutely amazing.

Thank you for not only sharing this but creating this. It’s so amazing, and such a great and entertaining story. I love all the small little details you add to every part and all the little side stories and relationships that are involved in this. For example; John B jumping in the fight and helping defend not only his team but the reader. Topper seemingly always there and confused when reader and Rafe interact 😂 Rafe really needs to update this man on what’s happening fr 😂 it’s all just beautiful. Also Rafe and JJ getting along just for reader and everyone literally being like, okay readerrrrr we see you and your power. My point is this is stunning and I’m in love with it so much. Thank you 🫶💙🥰

Kildare University- Sophomore Year: 8

Synopsis: A Social Media AU in which you find yourself at Kildare University along with your friends. Starting over at a new school shouldn't be difficult. Well, except for the fact that your ex-boyfriend is the quarterback, and you are the drum major. Add in a little bit of drama, a lot of friendship, an ex who can't seem to let you go, and a best friend who has been in love with you since you were kids and well? Welcome to KU!

Pairings: Past!Rafe x Reader, JJ x Reader, Rafe x Reader

Masterlist

Taglist:

@akobx @onelonelybitch @the-universe-and-karma @beeskisses @frankoceanluvr11 @ivy-34 @rafecameronsloverrrrr @k-k0129 @asyouwish-fromcabin3 @xoxo-ada @aariahnaa @strawberryforks @urbrunettebombshell @whatisoutside @spenceatiny18

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

Please stop platforming the spam gofundme asks - there are so many scams and usually I would agree with "if one legit person in need is among them I should help them all" but these scammers are taking money and aid from genuine Palestinian victims and often spoofing links that seem to go to gofundme or similar but are actually going to steal your credit card info. Yes even the "vetted ones" - the tumblr "vetting" blogs have had proven scams marked as legit and some of them are set up just to "vet" scams and add legitimacy to them. I will not say to not help at all. Instead, please promote known charities. esims for Gaza are providing connectivity, and the Palestine childrens relief fund has been operating for years to get food and medical help where it is most needed. Doctors without borders are right in the thick of things and always need more supplies. There are many more, including sites that accumulate donations for families and can put your money to better use than sending to one person even if you manage to find a real one. This is very much like donating money to a food bank rather than choosing goods yourself - it might not feel as personal but it can do a lot more good.

I'm not even surprised by the depths of human depravity anymore

I really had no idea how to tell which were scams and I also didn't know how to tell if the vetting was legit and I didn't even know where to begin looking for legitimate sources to find out because everything is so easily faked now

I get them pm'ing me really heavy guilt trips too like jfc I'm getting these messages every damn day and I didn't know what to do and I felt terrible ignoring them because I haven't been able to donate anything myself because even if I DID know who was legit I don't have nearly enough money to donate to that many people anyway, fucking hell I'm so sick of this why are people like this

thank you for the info I'll stop posting them

[yah-suko]

"Hi Yah! Just here to let you know I am thinking about you and miss you. Not that I'm impatient or anything.. But you are taking care of yourself right? Drink enough, sleep enough, eat enough! Keep an eye on yourself whenever I don't get the chance to, just like you keep an eye on me, too. "

- The Collector

Hiii Collie~!

Sorry it's taken me a while to reply, I got sick T_T I'm getting better now, and I promise I'm taking good care of myself~!

Love you <3

[lucabyte]

Yeah, that about sums it up.

[dragonpyre]

First responder batfam au??

Any headcannons ur willing to serve up yet??

I'm so glad you asked.

Ok, SO!

Basically, it starts cuz Jason realizes he wants to be legally alive again, and struggles to think of a job he'd do well at and actually enjoy. Decides on firefighting cuz that way he can still help people and not do the long form corporate desk bullshit Tim does. So he signs up and gets in.

Firefighter calendar time rolls around and he's SO excited. Except because of his extensive scarring he's not allowed to participate. Steph goes "skill issue" and signs up JUST so she can be in the calendar while Jason can't. He is endlessly bitter about this.

Cass enlists because I don't think she actually has a job??? Just living on Wayne family money and ass kicking. She and Jason are paired together as heavy weight rescue while Steph is paramedic.

Meanwhile Tim is like "actually corporate work sucks ass" and joins the call center. He also makes a back door for the bats to listen in on all the calls. Yes Oracle already did this, but this takes up less ram space.

And Dick is still a cop.

[hyperfixationtimego]

if you didn’t like season 5 then I think you just hate gay people

[usercelestial]

i would like to hear your thoughts ❤️

gahhhh okay no one throw rocks at me, this is buck x oc

adam has been a nurse for a long time. he's dealt with trauma after trauma, met so many firefighters and paramedics but none with a bigger heart than evan buckley. he's seen him around a few times, the station 118 is pretty well known in their hospital for being a bit a problem station. people are constantly getting stabbed and struck by lightning, evan buckley in particular seems like maybe he pissed off god personally. they exchanged a few words here and there, laughed at a few of the others jokes, but every time they lock eyes, buck makes quick work to look away and bite the inside of his cheek. adam specializes in hurt and believe him, buck seems... hurt.

it isn't until they bring in a young kid, probably 16 or 17, with bruises and cuts all over his body. he was beaten until- well, until it was pretty touch and go for a minute there. two of them hang back in particular, hen and buck. he's talked to hen before, back when she was going through med school, she told him about her wife and kids, how hard she was fighting for them, how draining it was. adam joked about that sounding familiar, he remembers med school well enough when he was single, he couldn't imagine it with a partner and a kid.

the two of them were standing together, watching the kid be carted away, both biting their cheeks and clenching their fists. hen whispered something to buck and patted his back.

"i know, it's just- god, that was brutal." buck wipes his face.

"that's why we look out for each other." hen squeezes his arm and walks away.

"does he have anyone to look out for him?" buck says to himself

interesting, he doesn't know the full story- just that that kid looked like he was in a hell of a lot of pain. and judging by the rainbow bracelet around his wrist, he's guessing he knows why.

he's about to work himself up to go talk to him. there's something about his eyes, wide and sad and so deep in thought he wonders how he pulls himself out.

they lock eyes again. adam gives him a tiny wave and an awkward smile. buck looks like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and returns the nicety before bolting out the door. hen notices and looks back, processing something in her head. she smiles but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

then buck shows up at the hospital later in his civvies, rubbing his hands together.

"hey!" adam says just a little too loudly, cringing.

buck jumps a little, like a scared deer, adam absolutely does not think it's the cutest thing in the world.

"uh, h-hi." buck is still whining his hands together.

"adam! sorry, i don't know if i ever gave you my name or if you remember-"

"i do." buck smiles, "yeah, i remember."

"good." and then he just stands like an idiot for reasons he cannot grasp before remembering he should probably speak now, "are you visiting someone?"

"do you remember that kid from earlier? the one had the um-"

"the kid that got hate-crimed? yeah i remember. he's stable now. he had a rough night, but he'll pull through."

buck visibly releases a weight off himself, "oh, good. i just wanted to check in on him. i don't know, it was a rough call, it was driving me crazy not knowing."

adam put down his clipboard, nodding, "yeah, i mean, that stuff definitely hits home for me, for sure."

"it doesn't for me," buck says and oh, shit, i guess he's not queer, fuck did i read this wrong, "i mean! like- when i came out, i had so many people that cared about me. my sister, my-well- my dad, my best friend, my boyf-" buck cuts himself off and deflates again, "sorry. i just hated the idea that he didn't have that, you know?"

"no, i get it, don't apologize. that's-thats really sweet. visiting hours are almost over but i can see if he's up for it, okay?"

bucks nods, and maybe adam is a fool with a dumb little crush but he swears he blushes a little. he feels his heart bursting a little about it. he came back to this kid, felt the need to check in and ask about him, because he didn't have something that he did.

"pull it together," he whispers to himself as he walks away.

buck keeps coming back, too. visiting the kid as often as possible, playing cards, and giving him fun facts from some documentaries he's watched. adam perks up whenever he hears one that he's watched. he lets it slip that he watched the same one, went on the same wikipedia binge. buck does that smile softly and look away like you're about to throw thing he does. adam occasionally joins in on the conversation whenever he gets a free moment. and then eventually, the kid gets discharged and buck is there to see him off. it turns out he has an aunt out in texas that's far more accepting than his folks here. he swears he sees buck tear up a little as he walks out the door, waving back at both of them.

and adam fully expects buck to go back to being a first responder he sees a few times a week and exchanging awkward, stolen glances.

but he doesn't stop coming. buck shows up the next day with two coffees in his hand. adam waves at him and buck breathes like he's psyching himself up and walks over.

"you said you liked chai lattes, so, um, i figured-i figured you would-"

"thanks!" adam decides to put him out of his misery, "are you visiting someone?"

buck ducks his head and scratches his neck, his smile looking less tortured, "hopefully, if you were free, you."

"i was about to go on my first break, if you wanted to go for a bit of a walk." adam suggests.

"that sounds great." buck clears his throat.

"great, gimme just a second, alright?" he walks away and hears buck mutter what he thinks, "i used to be better at this."

a few weeks pass by like that. buck hovering just on the outskirts of his life, very careful not to step too far in, but still present in a way that drives him crazy. he can't stop thinking about him but he only gets him for fifteen minutes now.

"do you wanna go out for dinner sometime?" adam asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

buck gasps, like audibly, like a woman fainting after meeting the beatles, "i-uh, i should probably get back, sorry."

oh, he watches him go. and then stop in his tracks. and then turn back around, "can i get your number actually? or instagram or something?"

trying to contain his excitement, he nods, because of course he nods. when a hot, sweet as fuck, puppy dog eyed firefighter offers you their phone number, it's a crime to say no.

eventually, they do end up on a date- or at least he thinks it's a date. he can't be sure. the wine certainly feels date-eske but he really can't be sure because buck is barely looking at him in the eyes. he picked his very best "possibly a date" outfit and went in with low expectations for anything other than a really pleasant, really awkward evening. he decides though that if he gets to spend it with buck, it feels worth the awkward tension. especially because sometimes, he can coax him out of it and he looks so- vulnerable, an open wound. he's like a starry sky that hides behind a cloudy night.

adam doesn't remember what he says but eventually they start talking about things that should probably be save for the 40th date, not the maybe, jury's still out first.

but adam definitely knows he says, "you seem like you've been hurt." because the moment he does, he wants to punch himself in the face after buck gets this horrified expression like adam just said he likes kicking dogs in his spare time.

then, the moment passes, and he clicks his tongue, "i used to be better at hiding it."

"it seems like maybe it's a good thing you don't."

buck shakes his head, "i also used to be better at this," he gestures between them, "dating, flirting, having a crush," which does get buck to smile and adam gets to see that twinkle in his eyes again.

"oh okay, so this is a date, noted. and- you're not terrible at it, it's pretty adorable, actually. and i'm hardly one to judge. i'm very familiar with hurt."

buck keeps smiling, "well, my hurt is a 40 year old firefighter-pilot who broke up with me a year ago, so- i don't know how familiar you are with that kind of hurt."

"oh, i am all too familiar with that kind of hurt. does this hurt have a name?"

buck sucks in a breath, adam gets the sense that he hasn't said it in a while, "tommy. tommy kinard."

adam feels like buck is cracked open right now, "are you not ready to move on yet? cause, i'm okay with just being friends!"

"i really don't want to."

"be friends? damn, okay-"

buck puts on a hand on his for a second and adam's heart flutters, "no, i don't want to be just friends. tommy was- well, i loved him. i mean, i-"

"still do?"

"god, i'm really cursed to fuck up first dates, aren't i?"

"it's okay. i mean, i like you. i've liked you for a while, you know? and i've had my own tommy, the one that got away, one i'll never stop loving. i think-" it hurts to think about but he knows it would hurt more to forget about it, "i think what our tommys have in common is that we never let them go, or stop loving them, but we-" he sighs, thinking about his own heartbreak, his own first love, his own missed connection, "we take the love we have for them and we can let it grow into love for others too."

bucks bites his cheek. adam briefly wonders if the inside of his mouth is scarred of all the biting, "i guess i'm scared of giving him up. like if i stop thinking about it or if i like someone else, he'll disappear and everything we had will just- vanish," he chokes out.

adam hums, "it won't. that's the great thing about tommys, right? they stay with you, you never stop feeling that love. you just- build on it and give it to the next person."

buck has tears in his eyes now, adam thinks he might too, but god he's looking at such a beautiful man, with such a big heart and he can't help but thank whoever tommy is for giving him so much love that he's overflowing with it.

"sorry-"

"don't apologize, this got heavy really quick and we're only half way through the bottle of wine," they both laugh into their glasses.

"i guess i'm a little- hurt, like you said."

"i'm a nurse, buck, i kind of specialize in hurt. and if you're willing to try, i'd like another date, one that i actually know is a date beforehand."

buck really does blush this time, "i can do that."

buck leans in and kisses him on the cheek on the way out, oh god, he's a gentleman too, i'm so screwed.

down the line, when they're celebrating their engagement in the same park they used to walk through on adam's breaks, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, oh, tommy kinard, wherever you are, whoever you're with, thank you for loving our man, and thank you for letting me love him just as much.

[chickenbyday]

Number 5 on that drabble list pls *bats my eyelashes innocently*

*bats my eyelashes back* This is basically under 1k...

You didn't specify, so I made it andreil bc artistic liberty and also my desire to give Neil the h/c he deserves. Enjoy!!

Andrew wakes with a jolt, the blankets being ripped off of him, and it takes him three seconds of wild breathing and harsh swinging in the dark to realize that he's the only one in the bed, and that that's the reason for his sudden exposure. 

Three seconds too long, because Neil is still thrashing from where he rolled off the bed, taking the covers with him and, if he's lucky, softening the fall. 

Andrew doesn't know why he deludes himself. Neil is anything but lucky. 

He peers over the edge of the bed at him, still twisting in his fleecy prison, caught up in the throughs of whatever night terror his brain has decided to fuck him over with.

"Neil." 

On the floor, Neil flinches, a pained sort of whimper escaping his lungs in a way that sounds like it shredded his esophagus to get out. 

"Neil." 

He fights harder against the blankets, still cocooned against escape, although Andrew thinks that might be the only thing that's stopping him from bashing his head in or breaking a flailing arm. The panic is the reason Andrew can't shake him awake, they discovered last month. Two black eyes in as many weeks is a bitch, especially when you throw in the fact that neither of them were sleeping for more than three hours at a clip.

"Abram." 

Neil's eyes snap open, a shock of blue that Andrew breathes out a sigh of relief to see, even as Neil is coughing on his shuddering in-pulls of  breath. Now that he's awake, Andrew can climb down and help into a position that resembles sitting, and he does, hand heavy on the back of his neck and forcing Neil forward enough that he can actually begin to take in oxygen with his still-quick gasps. 

Andrew breathes in, deep and slow and loud in the quiet room, trying to get Neil to copy him, and after a few minutes of Andrew being able to do nothing but watch Neil panic, he does. He lists sideways and ends up half in Andrew's lap, and he's not crying exactly, but his shoulders still have a fluttery shakiness about them that makes Andrew's blood run hot, but it's useless. This anger helps no one, least of all Neil. He shoves it down. Andrew wraps his arm around Neil and slides the hand on his neck up to his hair, holding on tight. Neil turns to bury his face into the crook of Andrew's neck, his slowing humid breath a sort of balm to Andrew's worry. 

When Neil begins to calm down, he tenses, a barely there clenching of muscles that Andrew only notices because of how close they're pressed together. Neil pulls away, red tinge resting high on his cheeks, and Andrew lets him go. 

"I'll just...." Neil mumbles to the floor, scrambling to standing and making a vague gesture towards the door. Andrew nods even though Neil is looking everywhere but him, and Neil goes, closing the door behind him and leaving Andrew in the dark bedroom, empty and alone. 

Andrew breathes in deeply through his nose as slow as he can before expelling all his air with a huff. Neil has always been an odd sort of sheepish after the particular disruptive nightmares, and Andrew has yet to convince him that he doesn't care. It's a point of contention, and not a battle that he's winning tonight with Neil still on edge, but is one that Andrew needs to win soon. 

Andrew picks himself up off of the floor and shuffles down the stairs, making his way to the kitchen. He pulls down two mugs and fills the coffee maker to the sound of the sink turning off up stairs. Andrew left the stairwell light on to make sure that Neil knew where he was, but that doesn't grantee that Neil will follow. 

Andrew fills both mugs anyway when the coffee is done, and when he turns around Neil is standing in the door way, discomfort still clinging to his skin like water droplets. Andrew holds out one of the mugs, and Neil takes it from him and gets the milk out of the fridge while Andrew finds the sugar they bought three weeks ago in the pantry. 

Coffee done, there's nothing either of them can do to distract each other from the elephant in the room. 

"Are we talking about it?" Andrew asks, a careful phrasing. They never want to talk about it, and there isn't anything to be done to help it other than being different people. People who don't have nightmare routines, who don't have systems for waking people up without getting a fist to the face. 

Neil shakes his head. Fair enough.

They sip their coffees in silence, and after an eternity of the only sound being the settling of the house and Kevin's snores from the down the hall, Neil speaks. 

"I'm sorry." 

Andrew reaches up to smack him on the shoulder. 

"Hey," Neil complains weakly, rubbing his arm. 

"I don't care if you're sorry," Andrew says, as flat as he can manage. This anger helps no one. Least of all Neil. If he repeats it enough times, maybe one day he won't feel the urge to bring people long dead back just to murder them himself, slow and drawn out and painful. 

"That doesn't change that I am," Neil answers. Andrew doesn't have anything to say to that, so he settles for glaring at him. Neil doesn't flinch under his gaze. "I don't know why it's getting worse. I'm sorry I'm dragging you down with me." 

A martyr till the end. Andrew hates him, and almost tells him so, but there's something about the set of his shoulders that makes Andrew unsure if it would be taken the way Andrew means it right now. 

“You’re safe now," Andrew says instead. 

Neil rakes a hand through his head, frustrated. "I know. This shouldn't be happening anymore. They're all dead. That should be the end of it." 

Andrew catches him by the back of his neck, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Not what I meant. You're safe now. You're allowed to be fucked up about it. No one's going to hurt you." Andrew hopes he hears the promised, I won't let them. 

"Andrew–" Neil says tiredly, but Andrew shakes his head. 

"This self flagellation shit isn't cute." At that, Neil almost smiles, and Andrew counts it as a win. 

They'll have more to discuss in the morning, but for right now, when the hand on Neil's neck drifts up to his hair in question, Neil answers with his lips against Andrew's, bringing warmth and a safety Andrew doesn't ever want to leave. 

I'm using this prompt list if you want to send me a number and/or paring!

[mono-lee-mmxxii]

I have been meaning to draw fanart for @/somerandomdudelmao's au for a long time, and finally sat down the other day and got this done!

The lyrics are from the song Found in Steven Universe: The Movie. It came on while I was doing concept sketches and it was all over but the crying and the sad songs /pos

Edit because I forgot to say this and meant to: drawing Donnie sick vs fresh out of the mutant juice really makes that arc hit even harder, major kudos to the author

[kate-m-art]

ajsjkf guess it's my choice tonight then, have some apocalypse au cause why not TvT

I was super happy with how these turned out sjdjf story beats are more Arins thing than mine but like love drawing everyone together, little group of survivors trying their best to keep living

More sketches below (this isn't even everything but sjdjfkfk)

[angelnumber27]

*he spilled my cup of paint water all over everything idk why I said he spilled watercolors I just woke up girls

I literally walked away for two minutes tops to make coffee and came back to his ass sitting on this water color palette and my painting open after spilling my watercolor water all over it

Look at that face. He knows he did something wrong hahahha