#calm oneshot

[hugsandchaos]

“Okay, little mage, I think it’s time for bed.” Lancelot said as he picked his son up. Galahad made no effort to argue or fight back as long as he got to be carried back.”Goodnight, Papa.” He yawned. A soft breeze flew by them and Lancelot used his chaos powers to pick up his guitar as he helped Galahad wrap his light blue blanket around himself.

Beneath the dimmer shades of light from the stars and moon, his son’s fur almost glowed slightly, while he looked like a walking shadow from a distance. He once wondered if that was why he was named Shadow, but then he learned about the project. Galahad double checked he had his frog plush named Hopper, even though it was in his hands already, and Lancelot began walking. Using his chaos powers, he began to play a tune on his guitar and hummed.

“Days seem sometimes as if they’ll never end...”

Lancelot began to walk back to the cabin he and his son lived in as Galahad smiled, hugging his frog a little tighter and nuzzling against Lancelot’s white patch of fur on his chest.

“Sun digs its heels to taunt you...”

“But after sunlight days, one thing stays the same; Rises the moon...”

“Days fade into a watercolor blur...”

Lancelot thought back to the day the ARK was attacked by G.U.N., the day he lost his first ever friend, along with his “innocence” as the humans called it.

“Memories swim, and haunt you,”

He brought himself back to the present and reminded himself that he’d do anything to protect his new child, especially from G.U.N.

“But look into the lake, shimmering like smoke, Rises the moon...”

Galahad let out a small yawn, barley showing his small teeth, and relaxed as Lancelot continued walking.

“Ooh, close your weary eyes... I promise you that soon the autumn comes to darken fading summer skies...”

“Breathe, breathe, breathe...”

Galahad’s smile started to fade, but not in a frowny-bad way. He was starting to drift off, and Lancelot couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He continued walking through the fields, taking the clearer way back. Yes, he was out in the open, but this way, any threats would also be out in the open and he could take care of it quicker. Not to mention this path was smoother.

As he hummed, Lancelot kept using his chaos energy to carry and play the guitar.

“Days pull you down just like a sinking ship...”

Galahad breathing began to slow down, but not in a way that concerned Lancelot. He knew his son was falling asleep and double checked that the blanket Galahad brought with them was covering him well enough to keep him from feeling the cool breeze.

“Floating is getting harder, but tread the water, child, and know that meanwhile... Rises the moon...”

Speaking of the moon, the light of the crescent made it so that it was bright enough for a normal person to see after a bit of time in the still dark night, yet dark enough for Galahad to fall sleep, which was what was happening.

“Days pull you up just like a daffodil...”

Lancelot saw the cabin he built in the distance and felt a bit relieved. Galahad would soon sleep in his own bed, safe and sound under the covers.

“Uprooted from its garden... They’ll tell you what you owe, but know even so... Rises the moon...”

Lancelot used a bit more chaos energy to open the door, and manipulated it so it wouldn’t produce sound as he walked inside.

“You’ll be visited by sleep...”

The dark hedgehog closed the door behind him and walked upstairs to his son’s bedroom, doing the same thing with his door.

“I promise you that soon the autumn comes to steal away each dream you keep...”

Lancelot slowly and gently set Galahad down on the mattress and got another blanket out from the closet. Autumn was indeed right around the corner, and Galahad got cold much easier than he did. Mostly on account that he was the ultimate life form and that he barley notices as much change in temperature as others, but Lancelot also believed it was because of how little he was. Galahad hugged his frog a bit tighter as Lancelot tucked him under the second blanket.

“Breathe, breathe, breathe...”

He silently backed into the doorway and grabbed the handle. Once the last few notes were played, he used his chaos energy to levitate his guitar out of the room.”Sweet dreams, son.” Lancelot whispered softly.

He closed the door and began making his way to his bedroom, which was opposite side of Galahad. The funny thing is that wether or not he had a good or bad dream, he could always count on Galahad unknowingly waking him up on accident early in the morning or in the middle of the night for cuddles.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.

[asimpforthe80s]

Desperate times

[Blurb?]

:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;

Warnings: fingering, humping, eating pussy, names (baby, darling, mommy, eds), cumming in boxers, aftercare, slightly needy Eddie, nap

It had been about a week since Eddie last saw you. A week without sloppy making out and a week without sex. God, it was a nightmare for him.

So, as soon as you entered that damn trailer door, he grabbed you and hurried you into the bedroom. The look in his eyes was desperate and a deep lust.

He was quick with undressing you, ripping some of your clothes in the process. He pressed sloppy kisses along your jaw and down your chest until he reached what he wanted. You didn't feel it, but you knew he was rock hard inside his tight jeans and boxers.

Quickly ripping off your panties, he immediately started lapping at your cunt. Sticking 2 fingers inside your entrance, he thrusted them inside you until he found that one spongey spot inside you.

You arched your back as he repeatedly massaged your g-spot, working quickly to make you cum.

As he massaged your spot, he sucked on your clit and groped your tits. He seemed desperate to taste your cum on his tongue.

Luckily for him, his fingers and tongue were both incredibly skilled at making you feel pure bliss and ecstasy.

Though, this time was different. White filled your vision as you went into a state of bliss. Eddie worked you through your orgasm as you went into subspace.

After a few minutes, you came back to reality and noticed Eddie desperately humping your thigh. "Sorry, baby.. you've just.. been gone for WAY too long." He groaned between subby moans and whimpers.

He groaned and whimpered as he picked up his speed, looking like he wasn't too far away from cumming. You understood that you had been away for longer than you thought, so you let him.

He was just like that sometimes. Switching from a dom to a sub after you've come for him. You were pretty used to it by now. And it was so hot to see, too.

What did surprise you was what happened when he came. "Mommy." He moaned as he came inside his boxers, collapsing on top of you and panting heavily.

You snuggled close to him as he came down from his high. The two of you had missed each other like hell, even though it had just been a week. So you just held him close and made sure he was comfortable.

"Love you.. so, so much, Eds." You said, kissing his cheek and running your hands through his long, messy curls. "Love you too, baby. I was going nuts. You know that, right? I missed you so damn much."

You nodded. "Yeah, I know, darling.. sorry I didn't tell you I was gonna come home so late." You murmured, smiling down at him as he laid his head against your chest. "It's okay. Sorry if I seemed needy. The week without you was hell."

You chuckled. "Yeah, I get it.."

"You don't think I'm weird because I'm so attached, do you?" He asked nervously, hoping he didn't bother you with how needy and clingy he was at times. "Of course not.. I love that you're like that." You smiled, kissing his forehead gently.

"You do?" He seemed shocked by this. It was nice to know that his clingy nature wasn't something you found off-putting. "You really like how clingy and needy I sometimes am?"

You nodded. "I love how clingy and needy you are.. especially after sex.. it just shows that you love me." You said. "So my clingyness is seen more as affection rather than some annoying thing?" He asked, hopeful that that's how it was interpreted as. "Yeah." You confirmed, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.

The thought genuinely made him happy. He was scared that all his love might have been overbearing on you. "You have no idea how happy that makes me." He looked up at you, a giant smile on his face.

You smiled right back at him. "Now.. mind taking a nap? And no, you're not leaving his bed. You're gonna cuddle with me." You said, knowing he'd ask to cuddle you as you slept. "Yes, ma'am." He said, not fighting you at all this time. He had the energy taken out of him from how hard he pleasured you. But it didn't bother him at all this time. He actually felt oddly content being so tired afterward. And you know he was loving every second of this. Being the big spoon for you is one of his favorite things to do.

After a minute of him gently spooning you and holding your hand, you drifted off to sleep. One of the things Eddie knew how to do best was aftercare. And he knew it.

He was so used to aftercare. The two of you had done it dozens and dozens of times. It was a very natural part of the routine that followed the sex.

Eddie stayed awake the whole time, just to make sure you were okay and that you didn't mind his touch. Plus, this was one of his favorite positions that you two took during aftercare: him as the big spoon. And he'd always loved it.

-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;-:;

[bonny-kookoo]

"sugar daddy to lover Yoongi x reader" FUCK YES YES YES BONNY. YES. BonNY PLEASE YES. aHHHHHHHH

just to give you a little appetizer:

“I’m a little nervous about the flight.” You worry, and he just smiles faintly. You’ve noticed his face is rather stoic most of the time, not really giving away much.   “First times are always a bit scary. But it’s really not that bad.” He reassures you, pulling into the airport parking lot.   “I mean, I would say ‘hold my hand’ but you said you'll keep your hands to yourself...” You joke, as he parks the car, and looks over to you, an almost mischievous smirk on his lips.  “Well, maybe if you ask nicely I’ll make an exception.” 

[ghosttotheparty]

also on ao3

(cw: tics, bullying)

Eddie started shivering in seventh grade.

Even when it was hot, even when he was sweating and desperately wanted a non-rattly fan or a better air conditioner. They weren't normal shivers. He wasn't cold. But his shoulders would jerk or shake, or he would tremble for a second, and he didn't know what else it could have been. Others didn't question it for a while, because it started in October. Everyone was shivering. But by March, it hadn't stopped, and he had to explain himself when people gave him questioning looks or asked if he was okay. (Back when people cared.)

'S just a shiver, I'm fine.

He wasn't fine. It got worse over time. He got used to it, to the weird feeling that took over his body for a few seconds, got used to telling people he was cold, joking that he must be low on vitamins or iron, joking that in the future, someone is walking over his grave. But other people didn't get used to it. They thought he was weird. That was fine with him. Wayne realised something was wrong before Eddie started the tenth grade, because he wasn't just shivering anymore. His whole body was jerking sharply, suddenly, his shoulders drawing up, fists clenching. Eddie didn't question it. Wayne did.

It wasn't normal. But nothing about Eddie was normal. Wayne took him to see a doctor. The doctor make him do things, walk in a line, hold his arms out and push the doctor's hands away as hard as he could, follow a flashlight with his eyes without moving his head. It was all weird. It kind of scared Eddie. The doctor kept writing things in a notebook, and Eddie couldn't tell if he was doing well or not. But Wayne was there, watching and listening intently.

The doctor said he had tics. It sounded funny to Eddie, but then it wasn't funny, because the doctor didn't give him anything for it. He just said there wasn't anything really wrong with him. His brain just worked a little differently. (Which Eddie was already used to hearing.) That his tics could get better or go away as he got older, or they could get worse.

They got worse.

By the end of that summer, his arms were moving, flying over his head suddenly, randomly, and his head was jerking back so sharply it hurt. Wayne was worried about him getting whiplash. Eddie was worried about going to school.

That year, he became the freak.

At first, he tried to explain it to people. The movements were involuntary, he couldn't control them. Wayne contacted all his teachers, who mostly got it, but still preferred to make him sit in the hallway so he didn't distract the class. But the other students thought he was possessed, faking it for attention, and everything in between. They'd throw things at him, and complain to the teachers that he was distracting even when he wasn't moving, just to get him out of the room. They would mimic him, make fun of him, and by September, he learned that the tics get worse when he's upset. He could hear them all snickering and giggling as he shoved his hands under his legs and tucked his chin to his chest or held his shirt over his face, as he held his limbs tense so they wouldn't move, so tense he was exhausted and sore all the time, and then he'd go home and cry because he couldn't control his own body.

He'd have to sit on the sofa so when his head threw itself back, it would hit the back of the sofa instead of the wall, and Wayne would just wait, watching with that fucking sadness in his eyes that made Eddie ache even more. When it finally stopped, sometimes after a few minutes, sometimes after an hour or two, he was so exhausted he'd fall asleep right there on the sofa. He couldn't do his homework. His grades dropped even more, but he managed to keep himself afloat. He did the best he could, doing his homework early in the morning before school or in detention. (Some of his teachers thought he was faking. Mr Peterson was in charge of detention, and he was nice. Considerate. Eddie counted him as one of his few blessings.)

His tics got worse.

In December of his junior year, he started making noises. Short screams, grunts, quiet vocalizations. It scared him. He didn't want to go back to school, but he did. The laughter around him got louder, and he was sent out to the hallways more. He started skipping classes. He knew he'd be forced to leave anyway. So he'd sit in the boys' room, on top of a lidded toiler, his feet up on the stall door, and he'd leave cigarette burns on the walls.

Not everyone was awful. Some kids were just curious about him, asked why he acted the way he did, and he did his best to calmly explain it all. I can't help it, actually. It's just my brain works different. That turned into Eddie's brain's fucked. It's broken. He's a fucking--

So he used it. Eddie the Freak. Attention-seeking, desperate for people to notice him. So he started making devil horns, yelling from tabletops, making himself The Freak so no one could use it against him.

No one, not even Wayne, saw him cry at night, because the attention he got was never the attention he wanted. Because he was tired. So fucking tired. His limbs were sore and his voice was rough, and his neck hurt, and he was sick of being laughed at. But that was all he got.

He kept counting his blessings. Mr Peterson, who never minded Eddie's noises or the way his fists would bang against the table loudly in the silent room, who scolded the other detention-goers when they tried to tease. The Hellfire guys, who got used to his tics fairly quickly, and knew when to pause whatever they were doing if Eddie couldn't hear them over a scream or was distracted by his own body. That nice girl, Chrissy Cunningham, who would slip notes from the classes he missed or skipped into his locker or backpack with sweet smiles. (If Eddie wasn't gay, he would have fallen in love with her.) The other few students that ignored him when his tics acted up, just glancing and moving on. Wayne, bless his soul, who would come to the school to confront Eddie's teachers and complain to the principal about Eddie being mistreated by the staff.

And, oddly enough, Steve Harrington.

Eddie never saw it coming. It was a particularly bad day. He was at his locker, trying to line his books up, but a tic threw his hands up, and some books fell from his locker to the floor. He watched helplessly as papers scattered across the floor, as most students stepped around them, ignoring them, as some jocks trampled over them, over Chrissy's neat handwriting, his fists clenched at his sides. When they passed, he kneeled, picking up the books, and when he looked up, Steve Harrington was kneeling too, gathering the crumpled papers and carefully straightening them out.

He gave them to Eddie with a smile, and Eddie thought he might be dying, in some weird, upside-down dimension where Steve Harrington smiles at Eddie Munson. Eddie took them hesitantly, said thank you, and then he hit him.

He was mortified, almost dropping the papers again, jumping back as his whole body flushed with heat, staring at Steve's shoulder where his hand had just landed heavily, and he burst with a Fuck, I'm so sorry, oh my god--

But Steve had just laughed. Amazingly, it was a kind laugh, with sparkling eyes, and soft cheeks, and he said It's okay.

And then he was gone. Down the hall, after his friends, and Eddie realised his hands were trembling.

Steve kept smiling at him. Even when his friends were making fun of Eddie's Satanic cult, and of the way he couldn't keep still, and of his sad, broken brain. Even when Eddie's brain made him flip Steve off across the cafeteria, Steve saw how Eddie pulled his hand down sharply, and Steve just... laughed. Eddie fell in love with his laugh. It was kind, and it made Eddie feel better, even when he wanted to cry.

Steve graduated the next year. But he didn't leave Eddie alone. Eddie couldn't stop thinking about him, and his kind laugh, and his pretty eyes, and then the sheep Eddie adopted told him all about how cool and brave Steve was, and Eddie fell harder without even seeing him.

The world went to shit. But Eddie got to see Steve again.

Steve was still kind, even though the world was ending, and even during serious discussions, plan-making, how-to-save-the-world conversations, Eddie's tics kept going. His body jerked and shivered, and his head threw back, and his fists hit his own chest and shoulders, and he had to sit down. And Eddie found out that there are more kind people than he thought. When his tics slowed, Nancy wordlessly got him an ice pack to hold to his chest, and when he flung it across the room, Robin caught it with a casual oops, and brought it back to him. No one questioned him, or stared, or laughed, even though he knew how annoying he was.

When he woke up in the hospital, he hurt so badly he couldn't move. He just cried. Steve sat by his bed and held onto his hand. He was crying too. When Eddie stopped crying, Steve carefully slid his rings, clean of blood, onto his fingers.

This one goes here, right?

Yeah.

On the second day, his brain didn't care that he hurt. As Steve was telling him about what was going on with the others (Max was staying with the Sinclairs, Dustin's leg was almost healed), Eddie's hand smacked him across the face sharply, the sting of his rings bringing tears to his eyes before he even processed what happened. Steve wordlessly crawled onto the bed, carefully pulled Eddie against himself, and set a pillow over Eddie's lap for when his fists started hitting his legs. He'd just murmured those words, the first words he'd said to Eddie years ago.

It's okay. It's okay.

And he waited until Eddie's body fell lax against him before he carefully found Eddie's hand, laced their fingers, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Eddie was released from the hospital a few weeks later. He stayed in the Wheelers' basement for a few days until Steve's parents left town, for good this time, and then he moved into the Harrington house.

He likes it there. Steve is still kind. Always. He lets Eddie lay his head in his lap when his body hurts or won't stop moving, and he drags his fingers through his hair or holds a joint to his lips for him, and he smiles. (Eddie would go through the end of the world all over again for that smile.) When Eddie's head hits the wall while they're in the waiting room of the hospital for a checkup, Steve just shifts to face him and holds a hand up to the back of his head so his hand hits the wall instead, saying quietly that Eddie isn't allowed to beat his record number of concussions. He drives Eddie to Wayne's even though Eddie doesn't tic when he drives except for a few facial or vocal ones.

When Eddie whistles one night, Steve just smiles at him and says Was that a tic or are you hitting on me? and Eddie freezes, his face burning. Which would you prefer, pretty boy?

Steve kisses him.

And then Steve starts holding his hand even when he isn't having tics, even when they're with the Party. Eddie moves into Steve's room. (They always slept better when they accidentally fell asleep on the sofa together anyway.) Steve holds him when his tics are bad, and Eddie holds him during his migraines, pressing kisses as softly as he can to his forehead and his temples. Steve takes his hand when it moves to hit Eddie's face or chest. Eddie stands steady and holds Steve's hand to himself when he gets dizzy. Steve keeps ready-made ice packs in the freezer to hold to Eddie's chest and legs when they bruise from his fists. Eddie keeps his handwriting as neat as possible when he writes notes in case Steve forgets anything. When they wake up at night, breathless and sweaty and crying, the other is there, arms open, lips waiting.

One night Eddie says very softly, You know, they used to say my brain was broken.

Steve just says, Mine too.

[lostinsaltburn]

Just watched Calm with Horses because I am obsessed with Barry's acting and also just him in general. Not gonna lie !

So many fic ideas, that I had to keep pausing and writing them down. Mostly one shots - Dympna and exploring more of his internal feelings, how he feels about his life, where it's heading and of course, filthy filthy smut.

I love that my brain 🧠 comes up with these things but I equally hate it because I have so many WIP's fics to work on.

Should I make an original character to pair him with, make it a cross over with Ollie (I'm thinking they met prior to Saltburn and that's where Ollie got some of that 'lying to get what you want' attitude from) or try my hand at my first x reader fic ?

[valyrfia]

HAND OVER THE FF LESTAPPEN

alright, check it out

Charles blames the Instagram algorithm, when one day she’s scrolling aimlessly only to come across pictures of Max Verstappen in a bikini. 

Max lounging on her stomach across a sunbed under the European sun next to a cerulean sea, the band of her dark blue bikini riding up, sitting snug across her muscular shoulders peppered with moles and the unmistakable shape of a fading wine-coloured mark high up on the curve of her shoulder that makes something in Charles's throat curdle and sets something strange and deep in her core alight.

She sends it to Pierre immediately, because of course she does. 

Charles Look at this shit. She probably called the paps on herself. 

And that’s the odd feeling deep in her stomach, it’s anger, the fact that Max can be snapped near naked on a strange foreign beach without consequence and Charles has to be careful that the knee-length skirt she wears on errands in Monaco doesn’t get blown up, lest she gets another embarrassing lecture from Mattia on her public image. Be careful Charletta, he would say, Santina is a better nickname than Puttana. Puttana, a fitting word to describe Max’s recent endeavours, really. Charles’s socials have been pushing her the pictures all week. Max outside bars, hanging onto tall men who make more in a year than Charles would care to mention, their young pretty wives off to the side with them, seemingly resigned to the fate of what’s happening. After all, who could compete with Max Verstappen, champion of the world?

[soaps-mohawk]

Ask answer Thursday!!woooo🎉🎉🥳🥳🎉🥳x let’s get these answers going! So great to see your series get the views they deserve. As much as I’ll love to stick around I’ve been going between toilets and toilets all morning and last night but nothing stopping me from reading your fics! Their too good to give up

-🦕

Yesss today is the day!!! I've got...62 in my inbox 😂 I might spread some between today and tomorrow but yes!! I'm going to get as many answered as possible

Not you having the tummy troubles 😭 I've written some bangers while dying on a toilet before. There's a few parts of chapters of CRCB that were written in the bathroom

[leyyvi]

debating on whether or not i want to post this gojo piece or if it's gonna attract a weird crowd bc jjk crowd is just so big rn.................

[iksvolforb]

Omg haiii!! I’d love to see a one shot with Kyle kind of getting jealous with creek? not in a “I want to be with him” way but more of the “I’m so single” way, and then realising that most of the stuff that him and Stan do together is super weirdly close to the stuff creek do? Sorry if this is not making any sense!! You can change it however you want I hope it just gives you a cool idea! Or just jealous Kyle in general ����🥺🥺 I would die !!

South Park oneshot prompt #1 DONESKI!!! Pls all go and enjoy jealous hot-head Kyle you deserve it 😭❤

If you have a prompt send it thruuu and i'll have a look at it! (eventually! pls be patient unlike our boi kyle over here on god i beg of you)

ILY HAVE A NICE DAY STAY HYDRATED

[sugarwithsarcasm]

Even without the influence of nationalistic propaganda that always left a slightly sour yet not wholly unpleasant taste in his mouth, Kuro loved every single bit of Japan; equally loving the dark, shadowy parts of Japan as well as the new, innovative side that the government was all too willing to gleefully showcase. And for the longest time, Kuro told himself his love for his country was enough to keep him sane – in fact, enough to thrive in spite of it all. And for the longest time, it was. But then he had to go and meet you.

---

Kuro Honda often prided himself on his self-discipline and restraint, flaunting his honorable and prideful demeanor in front of his impulsive fellow nations, silently mocking them in a manner only Zao and Luciano ever seemed to pick up on. 

Truthfully, he couldn’t credit the entirety of his restraint to his natural temperament, not unless he was trying to blend in among the mortal humans he served. In truth, restraint was intimately intertwined with his own immortality in a way that not just Kuro, but even his impulsive fellow nations he loved so much to mock, fervently hated. Kuro had never held any particularly strong belief in a specific higher power, but if he did then he would happily waltz into Hell and mock the devil themself, for nothing could compare to the torture of the loss of mortality and with it, the loss of true autonomy over his life, an autonomy that the mortal humans that he so loyally and enviously served couldn’t begin to comprehend. 

He didn’t like to dwell on such dark thoughts however. Viktor and Francois had obsessed over such questions several centuries ago and all it got them was a hollowness in their eyes and a dependency on alcohol. Instead, Kuro simply shuffled along the endless stream of time, allowing himself to believe that he should be grateful as it is a most honorable and important duty to represent one’s motherland. Even without the influence of nationalistic propaganda that always left a slightly sour yet not wholly unpleasant taste in his mouth, Kuro loved every single bit of Japan; equally loving the dark, shadowy parts of Japan as well as the new, innovative side that the government was all too willing to gleefully showcase. And for the longest time, Kuro told himself his love for his country was enough to keep him sane – in fact, enough to thrive in spite of it all. And for the longest time, it was. 

But then he had to go and meet you. 

He had seen many beautiful features on humans throughout his time as an immortal, but after a while he supposed it all seemed the same. There was a certain monotony to humankind physically wise that left Kuro quickly bored with beauty after his first three centuries alive. Yes, occasionally some pretty little thing would come around and catch a bit of his attention, but he hadn’t felt such a raw, carnal attraction since he had been young and naive enough to sacrifice his mortality. He hadn’t even realized just how powerful and addictive the feeling was until he had laid eyes on you on that fateful evening.

Kuro had been enjoying the sunset in a beautiful Japanese garden in Tokyo, his loyal companion’s reincarnate, Mochi, happily observing the Koi fish in the pond. It was a weekly routine the two had shared for half a century at this point, one Kuro was convinced he’d never tire of. The occasional person (or even worse, a couple) would walk past the bench where Kuro sat, sending him pitiful looks, but Kuro rarely even noticed them. Until you nervously cleared your throat Kuro, who’s eyes had been closed in an attempt to meditate, he hadn’t even realized he was in someone else’s presence. His eyes quickly blinked with an irritation that melted away as quickly as it came. It was at that moment upon gazing at your breathtakingly beautiful frame and features, that Kuro was finally convinced that there must be some form of a higher power for there was no way one person could be crafted so perfectly in a godless world.

He straightened his posture, Mochi strutting to sit down next him, his head tilting in confusion for never once in the thousands of lifetimes he spent next to his owner’s side had he allowed his cold facade to drop so quickly. Kuro blinked twice, not wholly trusting that you were truly there and not his eyes and imagination playing a cruel trick on him with the shadows. Just as Kuro adjusted to the initial shock of your beauty, a flush covered your face and you shyly fidgeted with your hands. You had lost your phone earlier, you had told him, and wondered if it was left on the bench. Kuro hesitated in his response to you, not out of disrespect but out of amazement at the sound of your soft, smooth voice that could put a siren to shame. Your phone hadn’t been there, and the defeated look of your face created an internal emotional rollercoaster within Kuro. When you began muttering apologies and thanking him, moving away, panic arose within Kuro. Even then, when he barely knew you, Kuro knew he couldn’t lose you, restraint be damned. 

“Please,” Kuro stood up from the bench, a calm demeanor on his face despite the desperation within him, “Allow me to help you search for your phone. It will be dark soon and it is dangerous to wander the streets alone. I insist.” 

Your beautiful eyes widened in surprise, before happily agreeing to the relief of Kuro. How strange, he remembered thinking as he listened to your list where you might’ve left your phone, I’ve always been happy to protect from the shadows and yet something about you lured him into the light, into taking an active role as opposed to a silent, easily forgotten one. 

When you found your phone, you had luckily been the one to suggest exchanging numbers. Kuro relished your enthusiasm and relief upon discovering your phone at a local sweets shop, your eyes lit up. Oh how he secretly yearned for your eyes to light up like that at the sight of him one day. 

Not only had your physical attributes taken had left him breathless, your personality had him in utter awe. He quickly learned that you communicated better through texts and messages, as you were still a bit shy around him, but through online you felt a sense of excitement at having a new friend. You were bubbly online, happily chattering about your various interests as well as questioning Kuro on his. Your intelligence was also particularly impressive, although you seemed dead set on remaining modest, aggressively denying the sparse compliments Kuro would offer you about your company, often returning with some self-deprecating joke that tugged on Kuro’s heartstrings. 

But Kuro reminded himself that he ought to remain restrained. He tried to bury the thoughts of your kind, gentle reassurances you had instinctively offered him when he offhandedly mentioned how his coworker Luciano was becoming increasingly volatile at work or your polite shyness when you met again in person to walk Mochi together. Why did you have to be a mortal human? Why couldn’t he be lucky like Luciano and Lutz and have the potential love of his immortal life be someone sharing the same fate as him? Had he done something wrong? 

Kuro had initially solemnly swore to merely act as a silent protector for you, you didn’t deserve to be dragged down with Kuro and face the hurdles of a romantic relationship with a never aging immortal after all. But one sake-fueled drunk night with Zao had changed his perspective. Despite Zao’s overall stupidity, he had to admit that his drunken reminiscence of the regret he had for not chasing after similar mortal flames he had in the past made Kuro think twice about dismissing you as a potential romantic partner forever. After all, he could just break up with you after some time right? At least he’d get to experience the fullest, most vulnerable version of you he could get, in the little time he had left. 

So he had organized for the two of you to meet up again at that bench where you had first met, about two years after your first meeting. The same one close to the Koi pond Mochi loved to play with. You looked so beautiful in the sunset, sitting on the bench beside him, a warm smile on your face as you both watched the sunset in a comfortable silence. When the sun was halfway towards dipping under the horizon, he had turned to admire you for a quiet second, before quietly saying your name to get your attention. 

“You have been a wonderful friend to me, I hope you know how much I truly adore simply being in your presence,” Your face reddened as Kuro spoke, causing him to softly smile, “however I am afraid that you’ve unknowingly captured my heart and my mind, leaving me wishing for a more intimate relationship with you.” You gasped, your eyes growing wide. Kuro tried his best to restrain his nerves, however the small stumbles in his vocal tone as well as the slightly faster than normal speed of his voice betrayed him. Nevertheless, he nervously carried on. “If you do not return my feelings, tell me now and I will never bother you with this again. We will go on with our lives and I will be silent in my affections and yearning for you, simply wishing you the best in all that you do and remain content with a platonic friendship should you remain comfortable with that.” 

“Kuro..” You started, your voice trailing off, losing its way. Kuro felt a bit worried at your lack of any obvious signs of mutual interest, yet still froze for a second, not continuing until it was clear you had no intention of speaking again immediately.

“Should you, however, return these feelings, simply utter the word and I will become forever yours. I love you so strongly and so recklessly, that despite whatever uncertainty that may lie ahead, you can be certain that I will love you through it all. I must confess I am selfish in my wants, my desires to not only walk by your side throughout whatever life we may go through, but to hold your hand through it all and to kiss you tenderly in the turbulent patches of our life.” Kuro’s voice became uncharacteristically low and soft, his eyes meeting yours as darkness began to envelop the night sky. 

Your hand covered your mouth, your eyes still wide in shock. Kuro sat waiting for a reaction from you, trying his best to appear patient yet couldn’t help his cool and calm facade crumble into a solemn, devastated look with each silent second that passed. “Kuro,” you whispered. Kuro perked up, trying desperately to decipher any emotions hidden in your eyes. He had given you the power to destroy him, to reduce him to become a man with hollow eyes and an alcohol dependency. Whether you accepted or didn’t, Kuro knew it would all end the same. But at that moment, Kuro didn’t care. Mortality was nothing more than just a word to him. “...I love you too.” 

Kuro’s eye’s lit up, overwhelmed with relief and happiness. A loving yet gentle smile betrayed his feelings, as he quietly thanked whatever higher power there may be for the sweet torture of your reciprocated love. You laughed at his uncharacteristically emotional reaction, a warmth blooming in Kuro’s chest spreading slowly to the rest of his body at the sound of your laughter and your love. 

“I’m sorry,” Kuro mumbled, “I hadn’t anticipated this to be as stressful as it was.” 

You smiled, the two of you both equally as flustered. Kuro was smiling as if he had won the world, not even hearing when you spoke the first time, “Kuro!” He snapped out of his dream state, gazing at you with such tenderness you were worried you might break right there, in front of him. “Can you, uhm,” your face began to burn in embarrassment, “Kiss me?” 

Kuro chuckled, raising hand to cradle your face. “Of course my love. I was worried you’d have me waiting forever.” 

He moved to sit down closer to each other so your knees were touching. You felt your breath hitch as you saw him in front of you. His normally apathetic yet beautiful red eyes fluttered close as he leaned towards you placing one hand firmly on your waist and the other one on your jaw, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he leaned towards you. He tilted his head slightly and leaned forward, hesitating for a moment in front of your lips. You could feel his ragged breath on your lips and closed your eyes, intending on closing the gap between your lips but being beaten to it by Kuro. 

His lips were delightfully soft and pressed gently against your lips, your heart going from stopped to erratically beating with every careful movement of his lips. The way he kissed you so tenderly and sweetly, as if you were a fragile item that he was greatly fearful of losing made your heart feel dizzy. He began to kiss you deeper, his lips massaging yours, somehow finding the most perfect spot in your mouth. He moved a bit down and kissed your bottom lip before teasingly dragging it across your now quivering bottom lip. Your mouth parted, practically begging him to kiss you deeper, for you to drown in each other. He happily obliged, repositioning himself so he was above you, one hand remaining on your cheek, the other sliding down your waist to your thigh. You heard him hum in what you hoped was pleasure, delighted by the buzzing sensation on your lips. He kept on with his tantalizingly slow pace, drawing out every bite of the lip and roll of the tongue. It made you mad with both love and pleasure, the way he drawled out kissing you, as if you were a delicacy that needed to be savored. You felt a bit let down when he bit your bottom lip one last time and pulled away, but then quickly shook your head, a dopey smile on your face. What was the rush anyways? The two of you had all the time in the world. 

Kuro chuckled at your panting, red, smiling face. You seemed so pleased and happy, he smirked as he thought of how you’d react when he’d show you what real pleasure’s like. He grabbed your hand and interlaced them, happiness overflowing him. All of his restraint had melted away as he kissed you and every part of his body was screaming for him to hold you close. For the first time in a thousand years, he felt his heart beat erratically, his throat buzzing a bit with soreness as he too panted for breath, his mouth turned up in an uncontrollably delighted smile. With your kiss you had brought him back to life, out of his slumberous immortality. You had shown him what it was like to be human with even the smallest acts of your love and he was absolutely addicted. The rational side of his brain tried to argue against his recklessness, reminding him that you wouldn’t last forever and would soon wither away at the blink of an eye, maybe even killed by enemies when they learned of your affiliation with a man like Kuro, however that side had been uncharacteristically drowned out, his mind instead racing with fantasies of a pure, loving romance, the kind filled with affection and love he didn’t know he so desperately craved. Fantasies of living together, marriage and even children overflowed Kuro, blinding him from reality. 

If only he had never met you. 

Kuro sighed as he ran a hand through his greasy hair. His bloodshot, hollow eyes scanning the photo album you two had once shared, his hand shaking over the last one; a newspaper clipping. Brutal Murder of an innocent bystander to a Yakuza robbery; a robbery of wealth and dignity. 

Anger built up on him. Yakuza his ass, he seethed. Zao, fucking Zao of all people had the audacity to think ‘your whore knew too much anyways’ and tortured you to death while high because he wanted to ‘feel in control again’ after being the best man at your fucking wedding six years ago. He wanted to laugh, you had been right at that at least, Luciano would’ve been a better fit. He didn’t care for the stupid excuses he gave of being on drugs way stronger than he anticipated or that he hadn’t even shot her, one of his dumbass ‘friends’ was the one. He’d hunt him down and kill him over and over again for the rest of eternity. 

Kuro rested his head on the half empty bed, his arms sprawled out where you used to lay. He missed your warmth, your laugh and your love. It left him broken when he learned of your death, it devastated him. How could the world be so cruel to him yet so forgiving to people like Lutz and Luciano? He hoped that Oliver would be able to find those ingredients for necromancy and would be able to bring you back home to him. He didn’t care for whatever the price would be, if he had to set the world on fire to get you back he would smile for the first time as it all burned. 

“Kuro….” your voice rang out, starling him. He shot up, desperately calling out your name. He thought he saw you in his peripheral vision and shot out of bed, jumping towards the corner of his room only to find nothing there. Just a trick of the shadow damnit, the cruelest trick known to man. 

[donde-el-diablo-parquea-la-moto]

It doesn't count as metagaming if it's between us, right?

Something happened this morning, more in the tags...

[jils-things]

i wanna go back to playing oneshot again... and just. enjoying myself in the oneshot universe

[mikachi-chu]

The door creaked. A loud thud emitted from the aged wood, millennia etched into the fine rings of the material. Birds chirping, water flowing, strewn along the well hidden behind the tree. Fog clearing up, fireflies dancing across the quiet grass.

The heavenly melody of angels had guided him, feet swiftly gliding across the maze of broken stone, plastered with fine moss.

His chest heaved, heavy breaths escaping his body, sweat pearling down his temples. Armour clung tight to his skin, the rough sound of fabric brushing against his calloused fingers as he let go of the handle behind him, standing still, in awe. At last, he had found her. A figure, tender, as if it was handcrafted by god himself. Glowing skin, she radiated pure innocence. She couldn't possibly be Hylian. A quick glance at the ears hidden behind her flowing locks proved him otherwise. Pointy. She had to be. As if woken up from a thousand-year trance, she sat upright, no longer leaning and sat against the tree behind her. Her eyes flickered open slowly, a colour so iridescent, so discerning that it cannot be described. A shade of violet, contrasting the night sky above the temple. Sacred satin flowing from her limbs, bound and held together by the emblem of the goddess herself. Drawn, drawn like it was fate, he stepped towards her. Down the thousand year old steps. Across the soft grass beneath his torn gear. In front of her, and knelt. Knelt, as if it was the only thing he could do. Head hung low, he would not dare to look at her from any other position. She reached out, holding her hand out towards him, the other on top of her heart. The warrior doing the same, utter devotion emanating from his soul. Brave warrior, you must fight no more. For this is your final resting place. Close your eyes. So he did, falling into her gentle embrace. Soothing him, her holy hands brushing against his hair ridden with the blood of thousands. He took his final breath, vanishing from the true world, the light of sin leaving his eyes. Once and for all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not dead i swear!! School has really been keeping me busy, so enjoy this small drabble I made!!<3 Not proofread, just posted for your enjoyment. <3 Inspired by this track: Forest Temple - Immersive Version (youtube.com)

[kalpasio]

hello kalpasio tumblr. im alive again. kalpas and reader as that one meme that goes "me and my girl dont argue she tell me to shut up and i do". -pianist anon ( reanimated from the grave )

HE FUCKING WOULD THOUGH

Kalpas is all fire and brimstone and murder until reader says "no" and then he's done. fire gone. dead bodies? where?

thinking about the post where someone said "everyone's going on about 'i could fix him' Jane Austen said 'If he knows what's good for him he'll fix himself '" and I just need that so bad

[zincbot]

THE MONSTER HAS BEEN WEEKED

they sang wonderwall to save the day