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melinoelabs · 3 months ago

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Dear Sirs.

SCP-682's powers are metatextual. He's unkillable because the story says he is nearly unkillable and no solution would be satisfying. His nickname is 'the very hard to destroy reptile' for rigour's sake. You don't have to be Grant Morrison to put this together.

The solution is to alter the narrative so that there is a means of killing him that is satisfying. Unfortunately, only full-on apocalypse scenarios or the use of SCP-682 as a jobber for an even worse threat would fill that criteria.

So unless you want to unleash something even more tiresome, like the Black Moon or the Scarlet King or the Yellow Submarine or whatever other color-coded doomsday monster you have on tap, you're just wasting jumpsuit filling doing anything at all.

The easy alternative is to simply stop trying to kill him.

Just focus on holding him in the most boring, routine ways possible, rendering him increasingly less interesting and thus reducing the time between stories focused on him and thus, the resulting breaches and disasters.

Or you can do what we did. If you aren't chicken.

Ours wasn't a rotted lizard. It was a sort of mummified horse the size of a 1996 Volkswagen Harlequin, and it was a she, but otherwise same deal. Regeneration. Vat of acid. Mass casualties. Violent opposition to the use of breath mints. Endemic to all life. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

We figured out the how it worked, and we speed-ran the whole concept, hurling that vile beast through a veritable plinko-fall of thousands of extermination tests and controlled rampages until there was literally nothing left to do with the 'More-Than-One-Way-to-Fail-to-Kill-a Horse'.

And we trust the populace enough to not lie to them for 'their own good'. Because its funny? Sure. Profitable? Absolutely (don't worry, shareholders!)! But never for 'their own good.'

So we turned those experiments into a 17 season reality television program hosted by Greg Kinnear and force-fed them to a sludge-hungry populace.

There were 'More-Than-One-Way-to-Fail-to-Kill-a Horse' calendars, coffee mugs, t-shirts, two different animated spin-offs running at the same time for some reason, four movies starring Chris Pratt as the voice of the horse, an ongoing sketch on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, 'More-Than-One-Way-to-Fail-to-Kill-a Horse' "acid bath" sour candy flavored yogurt in a tube, a series of increasingly inadequately playtested gameboy cartridges, a 27-issue limited series from Image comics, and adorable plush mummified murder-horse plushes with little suction cups on their red-felt hooves so they can stare balefully out the back of your station wagon at that ASSHOLE Kevin in his souped up Trans AM who does not understand the concept of a safe following distance, and you JUST want to run him off the road with the magno-lifters and recreate the scene from Lost Highway with Robert Loggia, but "you can't use the magno-lifters for revenge" because it's "against OSHA regulations" and "technically assault!"

And once the first shipment of 'More-Than-One-Way-to-Fail-to-Kill-a Horse' Funko Pops hit store shelves, the creature's cultural cache cratered so hard that it became a parody of itself so predictable it's "containment" is now a Universal Studios attraction with two failed executions and a containment breach each night, with double shows on Saturdays.

Now, it was a rocky ride getting there, especially for Utah (projections say you'll get those House seats back in two, maybe three, generations at most, don't you worry!) but we've proven that even if it isn't killable, you can, in fact, beat a dead horse.

Hope this helps.

Humbert, Outreach Liaison Melinoë Laboratories "Hoc non veniet ad nos mordax"

#unreality #short fiction #melinoe labs #melinoe laboratories #an open letter to the #SCP foundation #scp fanfiction #SCP-682 #the very hard to destroy reptile #More-Than-One-Way-to-Fail-to-Kill-a Horse #how not to kill SCP-682 #mad science

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mahalkitamully · 1 month ago

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my good looking boy ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

: insecure ! carl grimes x reader

angst and reverse comfort !!

like my sal fisher one but carl vers </3

ー

carl who tried to seem strong, as if it didn't matter, even though everyone knew it did. after sneaking into negans place, no one could clean his bandages for him. not even michonne.

he'd avoid eye contact and always seemed self conscious- sure it could just be you looking too much into him but something was off. the first week after he was shot sure he was still adjusting but now, it seemed like he'd started over.

one day, you heard rustling in his room when you were visiting and immediately rushed inside, only to see a mess of medical supplies on the floor and a frustrated carl sitting on the edge of his bed.

that day carl tried to push you away as much as he could, but he couldn't fight your stubbornness. his body tensed as your fingers softly applied the ointment, delicately touching his scar. you gently put the bandage around his head, before smiling. "all done," your voice chimed, before carl looking away.

"thank you.." he mumbled before hesitatingly hugging you. it was unexpected, yet you let him hold you tightly, his body melting into your touch. melting as if he finally found comfort for something he believed didn't deserve any.

ー

if I had a penny for every character I've had a crush on with a scarred face and was insecure bout it I'd have 3! (carl, sal, zuko) bvro speaking of zuko I got a zuko Funko pop from PH im so happy also sorry for the lack of stuff i have my AP tests this and next week </3

#x reader #x you #carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #slight angst #angst headcanons #oneshot #angst with a happy ending #angst with comfort #carl grimes x you #mahalkitamully #reverse comfort

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giuseppe-yuki · 10 months ago

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lost child

lewis hamilton x samoyed shapeshifter!reader

w.c: 1.9k

warnings: none :)

part of my shapeshifting!reader series

summary: your natural motherly instinct is put to good use

picture credits from pinterest :)

as one of the older wags in the paddock, you not only knew every nook and cranny by heart, you also became familiar with the criticism and attention associated with being a wag. feeling sympathy for the girlfriends of the younger drivers who were still navigating a life in the spotlight, you developed a type of motherly instinct for them. you often gave them pro tips on subjects like being camera ready to dealing with fans. of course, you would also not hesitate to step in whenever necessary. only a week ago you had saved george’s sweet girlfriend from being absolutely bombarded with reporters. you sometimes even watched out for the younger fans in the paddock too, as part of your motherly instinct.

now, as you walked down the familiar baku paddock, trailing behind your boyfriend who was signing fan merch, you kept an eye on esteban’s girlfriend as she shyly hid behind her boyfriend’s lanky frame. it was one of her rare times in the paddock, and she wasn’t very used to the frenzy of the fans and media. you probably had to talk to her later and give her a few pointers.

lewis, who was in the middle of signing a teenage girl’s mercedes funko pop, suddenly turned around and beckoned you over. you turn away from the alpine driver and his girlfriend, and walk over to where lewis is standing.

when you reach your boyfriend and the absolutely beaming fan, he shoots you a little grin.

“hey baby, this lovely fan over here wants to give a you a friendship bracelet that she made!” lewis says, gesturing to the fan. the girl looks like she is about to pass out from excitement, but she frantically nods along to lewis’ words.

you take the bracelet out of lewis’ outstretched hand and slide it onto your wrist, along with multiple other fan-made bracelets that you’ve received from that weekend.

“why thank you!” you say, giving the fan a nod of appreciation. adjusting the silver and blue plastic pearls of the bracelet and the letter beads spelling out “mother”, you let out a chuckle. it was a nice feeling being appreciated by the fans, especially for your well-known kind acts to everyone.

lewis slowly moves down the busy paddock, signing fan’s items if they came up to him. it was one of the many things that you loved about him- his overwhelming kindness to his fans.

it isn’t until twenty minutes later you reach the mercedes motorhome due to the frequent stopping. like the gentleman he is, lewis opens the door for you and extends his arm in a sweeping motion, gesturing you to lead the way into the building. “welcome in, madam!” he says in a fake butler voice.

“why thank you good sir!” you exclaim, giggling. you skirt past him in your denim miniskirt and corset top, and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “a little tip for holding the door open for me.”

you turn around to see toto wolff sitting on the couches by the door, watching amusedly at you and lewis’ interaction. your cheeks heat up from embarrassment at the team principal witnessing such a silly yet special moment between you two.

toto nods in greeting to you with a teasing smile on his face. you stand there awkwardly as lewis pulls the door to the motorhome close. when lewis spots toto, he greets him kindly like nothing happened, and soon enough strikes up a quick conversation on the weather in baku. you didn’t mind, as it was nice listening to his voice anyways. you gaze at his pretty face, zoning out a little bit, when some motion outside catches your eye. from the tinted windows, you see a little boy barrel out of the fan paddock entrance clutching a lh44 cap that was probably two sizes too big for his tiny little head. he looks back and forth, as if searching for someone, but quickly becomes forlorn and starts walking away from the building. someone that appears to be his mother comes up, and pats his shoulder comfortingly and taking the cap from his hands. you realize that he is probably looking for lewis, judging from the cap that he was holding seconds before. you excuse yourself from the conversation and walk out the motorhome straight to the child. both him and his mother look at you, first in confusion and second in awe once realizing that you were lewis’ coveted girlfriend. you bend down to eye level with the little boy, making sure to smooth down your miniskirt. “hey buddy,” you say in your kindest voice. “i see you have a hamilton cap! you must be a big fan.”

the little boy immediately looks his mother, and once she gives him a nod of encouragement, he turns back to you. “um, yes! i love lewis very, very much,” he says timidly.

“well,” you remark, “since you’re such a big fan, i think that it’s only fair you get a special signature from him! if you hand me your hat, i think i can get him to sign it for you.”

the little kid’s eyes grow wide with excitement. he yanks the hat out of his mother's hands and shoves it into your lap, jumping up and down excitedly. the shyness has erased completely from his body. “yes! yes! yes! thank you so much!” he exclaims, giving you a small hug.

clutching the cap in your hands, you walk back into the motorhome where lewis and toto’s conversation has now somehow shifted into how to make pumpernickel. as politely as you can, you interrupt toto’s spiel on the specific measurements on rye flour in the bread.

“i’m really sorry to interrupt, but there’s a little boy outside that would really like to have his cap signed,” you say, gesturing the cap in your hands.

toto breaks out into a grin. “always looking out for the young fans. i can see why lewis and so many other people love you.” he takes out a sharpie from his pocket and hands it to lewis, who has a proud look on his face. “yes, i love my girlfriend," he states.

after scrawling his signature on the cap, your boyfriend hands the sharpie back to toto, who also signs the brim of the cap. you shoot a quick thank-you to the both of them, and rush out the door. that little boy will probably be so excited that not only lewis hamilton, the seven-time wdc, had signed the cap, but the mercedes tp toto wolff as well.

in the time between fp3 and quali, you and lewis find yourselves at the mercedes motorhome again, but this time in the outside seating area.

“do you want a drink, baby?” asks lewis, watching you sit down on the plush motorhome chairs.

“sure,” you say nodding. “thanks, lew!” before he goes, you blow him an air kiss, which he reciprocates.

he comes back with two glasses, filled to the brim with a clearish-yellow liquid with a few ice cubes. taking a sip, you immediately clock it as almave, lewis’ signature non-alcoholic spirit. he takes a seat on the stool next to you, taking a sip from his glass as well. drink in hand, you lean your head back and relax in the azerbaijan sun, the rays warming your face. all feels well, with your boyfriend next to you, the sun is shining, and a nice cold drink is in your hand.

suddenly, you hear someone yell your name from the gate separating the mercedes outside area from the inside of the paddock. lewis turns his head towards the sound, alert. he sets his drink on the table and slowly towards the sound, but relaxes once he realizes it’s a little girl.

“hey there,” you hear him say. “do you want my signature?”

the little girl furiously shakes her head no. “no thank you, mr. hamilton. i want your girlfriend’s signature. last time i was here, she gave me a pretty bracelet, so i like her better than you.”

you stand up from your seat, laughing from the girl's blunt words, and walk over to her. “hey there, nice to see you again!” you say, holding out your hand for a high five. you honestly don’t remember giving her a bracelet, but you play along just to see the stunned look on lewis’ face from the little girl’s words.

the little girl high fives your hand, a grin splitting her face so wide that you can see her missing a tooth on the bottom row of her teeth. “i love you!” she exclaims, handing you a glittery notebook and pom-pom pen for you to sign.

lewis’ shocked face morphs into one of amusement. he pulls you close to him, and presses a kiss to your temple. “i second that. i love my girlfriend too!”

with half an hour left until quali, you hurried towards the mercedes garage. lewis was already in there, having got there earlier to get everything ready. you were already a little late, because you had to help esteban’s girlfriend find the alpine garage after finding her lost near the vcarb motorhomes. it was not until you reached the door to the motorhome when your realized you left your black ysl tote at the merc motorhome from when you were drinking with lewis. you had to get there fast- you were late enough already.

fuck it, you thought, as you shifted into your samoyed form. it wasn’t often you shifted- you usually only did so in order to protect someone or if you didn’t want to be recognized. to be fair, it did allow you to travel fast too though.

you take off running towards the merc motorhome, weaving through surprised fans that are filing towards the grandstands for the incoming quali. around 3 meters away from the merc motorhome, your ears perk up. you hear the sound of a child crying through the noise of the paddock. you pad carefully towards the child, when you spot a familiar mercedes cap on his head. it’s way too big for his head, the brim probably obstructing half of his view, and two prominent signatures stand out on the rim of the cap. circling the child, you glance around for his mother.

the boy stops crying as soon as he sees you circling him. he sniffles as he reaches his hand out, petting your soft white fur. you gingerly bite down on the corner of his mercedes kids team kit, encouraging him to follow you as you lead him towards the mercedes garage, completely disregarding your task to get your tote. he follows with little to none resistance, only stopping once or twice, but quickly moves on once you nudge him with your nose.

at the mercedes garage, lewis is the first one that spots you and the kid standing in the doorway. he throws the balaclava that was in his hand onto the counter, and rushes over to you. gesturing to the boy with your nose, you try to send a mental message with your mind to lewis, telling him to get someone to find the boy’s mother immediately. as if understanding right away, lewis fetches an engineer to announce the lost boy to security services.

after making sure they are looking for the boy’s mother, you pad away back towards the mercedes motorhome and fetch your tote bag, biting down hard on the straps to keep it from slipping out of your mouth. once in the doorway back at the garage, you quickly shift back, and stroll inside with your tote in your hand. you walk in to find the boy, who is being absolutely smothered by his hysterical mother, look at you with big eyes, that is filled with amazement more than fear. the engineers gather around in a semicircle around the woman, who is profusely thanking everyone for ‘saving her son.’

the little boy, now being held by his mother, who has her back to you, points at you, then whispers, “doggy?”

you put a finger to your mouth in a shushing gesture and wink.

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso @my0hmary @mbappebby @rakshatos @heartsforleclerc @papaya-twinks @madkohi

#f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x y/n #lh44 x reader #lh44 x you #📝

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krfttin · 3 months ago

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loser!vi who is in LOVE with ur tits. since you guys met she was weirdly into ur tits, at first it was just glances..not wanting to make it weird since u guys were just starting off. but when she saw ur tits for the first time she acted like it was the first pair of racks she’s ever seen, she looked like a 13 year old boy finding his dad’s playboy magazine

loser!vi who needs to be touching you at any time, laying down and watching a movie in bed? you bet her head is on ur chest, or vise versa. at the bar with some friends? yeah her hand is holding onto your slimmer, most softer one, or her hand’s on your thigh. just marking it place there.

loser!vi who gets so horny so fast it’s kind of embarrassing. you have a low cut top on that shows off ur cleavage just a liiiitle bit too much? yeah her boxers are already soaked. you guys are cuddling and your being just a little bit too touchy? well her clit was already throbbing just by ur presence

loser!vi who loves video games, especially story games. she was stuck on life is strange for a hot MINUTE, she cried at the ending of the first game but she would rather die then admit that.

loser!vi who is a loser but not a lot of people can tell, she has a good amount of friends and plays sports, she goes to the gym almost everyday and you would think she is some badass tatted up dyke. yeah no she spent half of her money on star wars funko pops just the other night.

loser!vi who absolutely goes batshit crazy when you bring up one of her interests, or anyone perhaps. she can go on and on and on about the walking dead (game and show) and she can tell you anything about boxing and its history,

loser!vi who works at a boxing gym and helps young kids and women work on their self esteem and defense skills. she absolutely loves working there. one time you tagged along at her work and absolutely melted at seeing her help a little girl in her boxing stance. oh geez.

loser!vi who loves reading, she does. she can spend hours at barns and nobles just looking for books, she learns a lot from them (and has read a bunch of the star wars franchise. nd of course watched the movies)

loser!vi who also loves documentaries, true crime, sports, cooking (yeah homegirl CAN cook) netflix is like her life.

loser!vi who loves cooking, she will be laying in bed with you and randomly think about some sort of concoction she can cook up (no pun intended) then run to the kitchen to go make it. and even though it’s a little weird it is always so bomb

loser!vi who loves getting you gifts, saw something at the mall you like? yeah she’s already at the cash register and swiping her card. and she has also bought your shein cart numerous times (always leaving her broke but she loves seeing ur smile)

loser!vi who isn’t really super possessive but she doesn’t take kindly to people looking at what’s hers. she can fuck a bitch up (clearly) there has been a few times where she had to teach a few men who were looking a bit to hard (of course without you around)

loser!vi who loves sleeping on your chest, specially on ur tits. she HAS to have her face smushed between ur cleavage to actually be comfortable and fall asleep. on night you had gotten mad at her about some silly argument and wouldn’t let her rest her face between your tits. “babe, cmon you literally can’t do this to me. this is torture” after her begging and whining like a child of course you finally gave in, like always.

loser!vi who knows she is attractive, and does have a few girls come up to her and ask for her number in public, she always declines. all she wants is you and you only. she even walks around with a picture of you in her wallet. awhhh what a dork

loser!vi who loves when u trace her tattoos, its so cute and she absolutely loves it. sometimes she ask you to trace her tattoos since it tickles her in such a good way

loser!vi who freaks out when you wear a skirt, especially mini skirts. oh my fuck she goes crazy. she can’t help but stare at ur ass when you walk in front of her, catching just a glimpse of your cute little pink cotten panties, and it gets her GOINGGGG

loser!vi who has the most craziest strap game ever, homegirl has the stamina of a fucking cheetah. but can also be the whiniest little sub ever. (she asks for head almost 3 times a week)

loser!vi who loves you so so so much and can’t believe you actually ended up with her. and truly believes you are the one she’s gonna marry and start a family with (she has been browsing for wedding rings lately without you knowing)

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

a/n- made this at like 4am again I am so tired. lowercase intended, got a little bit caught up and if u see any typos no you didn’t. changed my user btw (previously crochetspanners), kay love yall goodnight

#lesbian #wlw post #new writers on tumblr #arcane #vi arcane #vi #vi fanfic #drabble #loser vi #loser girl

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dxrlingluv · 17 days ago

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Hermes x Modern Reader pls! Gn is fine but can reader be like totally Gen Z coded?

If I’m stuck here with you

A/N : Oh well. Hermes getting the view of what the future would be like with the help of the Reader? Count me in. Hermes art is from Zieru!

WARNING : Mordern!Reader, Hermes doesn’t know how to get back to his own time. Generally Platonic.

Word Count : 2k

The first sign that your Tuesday was about to go completely off the rails wasn't the ominous rumble of thunder from a cloudless sky (you lived in a city, weird weather was basically a bi-weekly subscription). No, it was the fact that there was a dude. In your living room. A dude who definitely did not have a key, and whose fashion sense screamed "lost my way to a Renaissance Faire, but make it ✨divine✨."

You were mid-scroll on TikTok, a half-eaten bag of spicy chips balanced precariously on your chest, your brain pleasantly numb from a curated stream of capybara videos and questionable life hacks. One minute, it was a golden retriever struggling with a lime, the next, a faint shimmer of gold light near your IKEA Kallax shelf, and then him.

He was tall, lean, and exuded an aura of someone who probably thought "running errands" meant literally running. His chiton (you vaguely remembered the term from a history class you mostly slept through) was an impractical shade of white, edged with gold, and he had these little winged sandals. Like, actual wings. On his shoes. And a staff thingy – a caduceus, your brain helpfully supplied, probably from the same dusty mental archive as "chiton."

You blinked. The capybara video was still playing silently on your phone.

"Uh," you started, eloquently. "Did my landlord finally decide to hire a really extra singing telegram to tell me my rent's overdue? 'Cause my guy, the gold lamé is a choice, but the message could've been an email."

The man turned, his movements fluid and impossibly fast, like a hummingbird on an espresso bender. His eyes, a startling shade of gold, widened slightly as they took in your state: pajama pants with a questionable stain, an oversized band t-shirt, and the aforementioned chip situation.

"A... singing telegram?" he repeated, his voice smooth and melodic, like wind chimes but with more bass. He had a slight accent you couldn't quite place, but it definitely wasn't from around here. "I am Hermes, messenger of the gods, son of Zeus, herald of Olympus!" He struck a pose, staff held aloft. It would have been impressive if he wasn't standing next to your wilting houseplant, Bartholomew.

You slowly sat up, chips cascading onto your duvet. "Okay, werk. And I'm Y/N, purveyor of lukewarm takes and existential dread, child of... well, my parents. We good?" You paused. "Wait, Hermes? Like, the Hermes? Greek mythology Hermes? Bro, are you for real?"

He frowned, a slight furrow appearing between his perfectly sculpted brows. "You address a god, mortal. And yes, the Hermes. Though I confess, this realm is... unfamiliar. One moment, I was delivering a decree to Hades—a rather tedious affair, he’s been so broody since Persephone started her ‘self-care season’ topside—and the next, a blinding flash, and… this." He gestured vaguely at your collection of Funko Pops. "Is this a new wing of the Underworld? It's surprisingly... cluttered. And smells faintly of artificial cheese."

"Rude," you muttered, brushing chip dust off your shirt. "This is my humble abode. My crib. My legally-distinct-from-a-cardboard-box apartment. And you're telling me you, like, actually yeeted yourself from ancient Greece into my living room?"

Hermes tilted his head. "Yeeted?"

"Teleported. Poofed. Arrived unannounced like my Aunt Carol when she smells free food."

"Ah. Then yes, I suppose I 'yeeted'." A faint smile played on his lips, and you had to admit, even if he was completely delulu, the guy had charisma. Like, an unhealthy amount of it. The kind of rizz that could convince you to invest in beachfront property on Mars.

"No cap?" you pressed, narrowing your eyes.

"Have you not seen my cap, mortal?" Hermes said, looking genuinely confused while tapping his winged cap. “Though I have seen some... interesting headwear in my travels through the ages.”

"It means 'no lie,' my dude. For real?"

"For real," he confirmed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I am as bewildered as you are, perhaps more so. This… technology." He gestured to your phone, which was now showing a makeup tutorial. "It glows. Does it contain an oracle?"

"Nah, fam," you said, picking up your phone. "It contains crippling social anxiety, cat videos, and the definitely not useless knowledge of humanity, mostly used for arguing with strangers. Same diff as an oracle, basically." You swiped away the tutorial. "So, you're a god. A literal, actual god. From the myths. Currently chilling in my less-than-mythical apartment."

Hermes nodded, his golden eyes scanning your room with a mixture of curiosity and faint disdain. "Precisely. And you, Y/N, are my first point of contact in this… vibrant, yet perplexing era."

"Vibrant is one word for it," you snorted. "So, what's the tea, Hermes? Why are you here? Did Zeus get lost on his way to another 'swan-related incident' and send you to find him?"

Hermes winced. "Father's… avian escapades are a subject best avoided. As for my presence, I believe it to be an accident. A magical mishap, perhaps. Or maybe Loki’s pranking me across pantheons again. That guy owes me big time."

You processed this. A god. In your apartment. Because of a magical oopsie. Your Tuesday was officially off the leash and running wild in a field of pure, unadulterated chaos. And honestly? Low-key, you were kind of living for it.

"Okay, so, Mr. Messenger God," you began, swinging your legs off the bed. "First things first: wardrobe. No offense, but the chiton and winged kicks are a bit… much for a trip to the bodega. You're gonna get so many weird looks. People will think you're doing some avant-garde performance art."

Hermes looked down at his attire. "Is it not… fashionable?"

"Buddy, it's iconic, it's a serve, it's giving 'legendary artifact chic.' But for blending in? Not so much. Unless you're trying to start a new trend, in which case, go off, king." You rummaged through your closet, which was a chaotic explosion of band tees, thrift store finds, and at least three hoodies you'd "borrowed" indefinitely. "Right, let's see. You look like a medium? Or are gods, like, universally sized?"

He watched, bemused, as you pulled out a pair of dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. "These… simple garments?"

"Trust the process," you said, handing them over. "The bathroom's over there. Try not to smite my rubber ducky, he's emotionally fragile."

While Hermes was wrestling with the concept of denim, you frantically tidied up, shoving stray socks under the couch and stacking dirty mugs in the sink. If a god was going to be your unexpected roommate, even temporarily, the least you could do was make the place look less like a goblin's nest.

He emerged a few minutes later, looking… surprisingly normal. The modern clothes fit him well, though he looked slightly uncomfortable, tugging at the hem of the t-shirt. The winged sandals were still on, though. Baby steps.

"Okay, not bad," you said, circling him. "The shoes are still a statement piece, but we can work on that. You clean up nice, Speedy Gonzales."

"Speedy Gonzales?"

"Never mind. Pop culture reference. You'll pick it up. Or not. It's fine." You grabbed your keys. "Right, mission one: acquire sustenance that isn't artificially cheese-flavored. And maybe figure out how to un-yeet you back to Olympus before Zeus starts blaming me for his missing messenger."

The trip to the local grocery store was an experience. Hermes was fascinated by everything. Automatic doors: "Sorcery!", the sheer variety of packaged foods: "So many choices! Do mortals truly consume these brightly colored squares?", and the self-checkout: “A mechanical servant that demands tribute! Astounding!". You had to physically restrain him from trying to "liberate" a pineapple he claimed was "too majestic to be confined."

"Dude, chill," you hissed, pulling him towards the cereal aisle. "You can't just 'liberate' produce. That's called shoplifting. And trust me, the mortals who run this place? Way scarier than Hades on a bad day when it comes to their five-finger discount policy."

He looked genuinely contrite. "My apologies. Old habits. On Olympus, if one desires a golden apple, one simply… acquires it."

"Yeah, well, here, acquiring gets you a talking-to from a guy named Kevin who peaked in high school and takes his job way too seriously. Now, do you want Froot Loops or existential dread in a box, aka Raisin Bran?"

Back in your apartment, Hermes watched, captivated, as you made instant ramen. "You boil water… with lightning trapped in a metal box?" he asked, peering at your electric kettle.

"It's called electricity, my divine dude. Kind of our version of Zeus's party trick, but less likely to incinerate you." You handed him a bowl. "Slurp carefully. It's hotter than Hephaestus's forge."

He took a tentative bite, his eyes widening. "Remarkable! Such complex flavors from a desiccated brick and powder!"

"That's the magic of MSG, baby."

As the day wore on, you found yourself in the bizarre position of explaining modern life to an ancient god. You showed him how to use your laptop: "This glowing tablet… it shows me the world! And so many cats!", introduced him to the concept of memes: "So, these are… illustrated jokes? Often self-deprecating? Mortals are a curious species.", and even tried to explain TikTok trends, which mostly resulted in him looking utterly bewildered but gamely attempting a few dance moves with a grace that was frankly unfair.

"Your 'vibes'," he said at one point, after you'd used the term for the fifth time, "are they a form of emotional aura?"

"Basically, yeah. Like, your vibe right now is 'ancient deity trying to understand a modern gremlin.' It's a whole mood."

He chuckled, a genuine, warm sound. "And your vibe, Y/N, is… surprisingly patient and amusingly irreverent."

You felt a weird warmth spread through your chest. "Hey, someone's gotta keep the gods humble, right? Can't have you all thinking you're the main characters all the time." Though, you had to admit, Hermes had some serious main character energy.

Later, as dusk settled, painting your small apartment in hues of orange and purple, a comfortable silence fell between you. Hermes was staring out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"This world is… loud," he said softly. "And fast. And filled with so many fleeting things. Yet, there's a certain… tenacity to it. To your kind."

"We're stubborn little weirdos, that's for sure," you agreed, leaning against the doorframe. "We make a lot of noise, collect too much stuff, and spend way too much time looking at glowing rectangles. But, y'know, we try."

He turned to you, a soft smile on his lips. "You, Y/N, are more than just 'trying.' You navigate this chaos with a strange sort of… grace. And an unending supply of peculiar phrases."

"It's a gift," you said with a shrug, though your cheeks felt a little warm. "So, any closer to figuring out how to get you back to your regularly scheduled god-duties? Or are you stuck being my platonic, mythological roommate for the foreseeable future?"

Hermes sighed, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair (how did he do that?). "I confess, the way back eludes me. The energies here are… different. Scrambled. It's like trying to find a specific whisper in a hurricane." He looked at you, his golden eyes surprisingly earnest. "But, if I am to be… stranded, for a time… I cannot think of a more… entertainingly perplexing guide than you."

You grinned. "Aw, Hermes, you old softie. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Or we'll just teach you how to play Mario Kart and order pizza. Either way, it's gonna be an adventure." You paused. "Just, uh, try not to accidentally smite anyone, okay? The paperwork would be a nightmare."

He laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly in your small living room. "I shall endeavor to restrain my divine impulses, [Y/N]. For now, at least."

Maybe having a god crash on your couch wasn't the worst thing that could happen on a Tuesday. It was definitely going to make your next "what I did this summer" story a lot more interesting. And who knew? Maybe you'd even get him to ditch the winged sandals eventually. Or, better yet, get a matching pair. That would be a lewk.

No cap.

#epic the musical #epic x reader #epic fanfic #fluff #dxrlingluv #epic hermes #hermes x reader #hermes #epic the musical x reader #i love hermes marry me #zieru hermes

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idrawweirdstuffnominors · 1 month ago

Note

Bill x chubby reader?

( I got chu!<3 SMUT WARNING AHEAD)

Title: "Overpriced Garbage and You"

The con floor had closed, but Bill’s attitude hadn’t. Still hunched in his booth like some troll under a bridge, snapping at cosplayers and glaring at Funko Pops like they personally offended him.

You? You’d walked by again, because you liked watching him squirm. Big tits, thick thighs, mean smile — the kind of girl who’d laugh in his face while he tried to neg you. But this time, you didn’t just laugh. You challenged him.

One sarcastic insult and a mocking wink later, you were in the backseat of his shitty van, your skirt rucked up, panties shoved aside, and Bill Dickey — bitter, cruel, loudmouth Bill — balls-deep and panting.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he gritted out, thrusting hard, his hands greedy on your hips. “Knew it. Mouthy fat girls always have the best pussy. Knew you’d be dripping for me—”

But something was off. His rhythm — too careful, like he was following a script. His breathing — ragged, but not in control. His moans — too real.

You stilled your hips.

He looked at you, confused, almost panicked. “What? What now?”

You narrowed your eyes. Then smirked. “Oh my god. You’re a virgin.”

Bill’s face twisted — shame, anger, horniness, all bubbling over. “Shut the fuck up—”

“No,” you purred, flipping him fast, straddling his lap and taking his cock back inside you. His eyes rolled.

“Oh fuck—”

You ground down slow, tightening around him with practiced ease. “Big talk, Bill. But you don’t even know how to fuck.”

He whined — whined — grabbing at your waist like he could slow you down, but you rode him harder. The wet, obscene sounds of skin on skin filled the van. You leaned in close, breath hot against his ear.

“Say it.”

“Nngh—say what?”

“Say you like big girls.”

His lips trembled, brows drawn, chest rising fast. “I—shit—fuck—I like big girls, okay?!”

You clenched down. “Say it better.”

“I like—God—I love thick girls,” he sobbed, voice breaking as his hips jerked helplessly under yours. “Big tits, soft thighs—fucking obsessed—I hate it—”

“Bet you jerked off to girls like me in secret, huh?” you teased, kissing his jaw. “Too scared to admit it.”

He nodded, a pathetic mess now — red-faced, moaning, writhing under you.

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, and whispered, “Good boy.”

He came with a strangled cry, burying his face in your chest like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. You milked every twitch of his cock, slow grinding until he was gasping, wrecked, whimpering little curses into your skin.

And afterward — when the windows were fogged and his glasses were crooked — you saw it. That flicker of softness in his eyes as he stared up at you like you were both his ruin and salvation.

“…You’re still a bitch,” he muttered weakly, voice hoarse.

You just smiled, tugging his shirt up to rest your cheek on his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But you moan like a bitch."

---

You didn’t expect to hear from him again.

Figured it was a one-time thing — a weird, angry fuck with a bitter virgin in a con parking lot. But three days later, he texted you a blurry photo of a beat-up comic cover.

> “This elf chick has thighs like yours. You’d probably like it. She gets kidnapped.”

That was Bill Dickey’s version of flirting.

And it didn’t stop.

You got more texts. More comics shoved into your hands with grunts and muttered, “S’not bad or anything, just figured you’d bitch less if you read real stuff.” He even bought you snacks once. Didn’t look you in the eye when he did it — just shoved the chips at you like they’d caught fire.

Every time you saw him, he acted like your presence pissed him off. Like you had done something to him.

But his hands? Always found their way to your hips.

And when you sent him a selfie — just something casual, cleavagey, no caption — he left you on read for hours… then sent a single word at 2:47 a.m.

> “fuck.”

You knew what that meant. So you called him.

He didn’t say hello. Just, “…You do that on purpose?”

You smiled, slow. “What if I did?”

The silence on the other end was obscene. You could hear his ragged breathing. You knew exactly what he was doing — probably half-dressed, hunched in his chair, fist tight around his cock with your photo open on his desktop like it was porn.

“…I hate you,” he muttered, desperate. “I fucking hate how good you look.”

You sighed into the receiver. “Then stop jerking off to me.”

He whimpered. Whimpered. “I can’t.”

---

Weeks passed. The sex stayed filthy — degrading, intense, full of teeth and grip marks — but his walls cracked in small, awful ways.

He lingered after. Held you too long.

Called you “fuckin’ stupid” for liking him, then tucked your hair behind your ear.

One night, post-fuck, you lay on your stomach while he rubbed lazy circles on your lower back like he didn’t know he was doing it.

“You’re the first person who’s ever…” He stopped. Growled. “Never mind.”

You turned your head, eyes catching his. “Ever what?”

He stared at you. For a long time. Then looked away.

“…Made me feel like I matter.”

You blinked. The weight of it settled on your chest.

“Oh, Bill.”

“Don’t—” He looked panicked, furious with himself. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“I won’t.”

He didn’t sleep that night. You could feel him, watching you in the dark, like he didn’t know how to touch someone without breaking them.

---

He doesn’t say he loves you. Not outright. But he buys you comics with fat girls on the covers. Lets you see the notebooks full of angry scribbles and sad fanfiction he wrote in ‘04. Shaves before you come over, but pretends he didn’t.

And once — only once — when you called yourself gross in front of a mirror, he grabbed your face and kissed you like he was drowning.

“Don’t fucking talk about yourself like that,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re the only thing that doesn’t feel fake."

#the eltingville club #eltingville fanart #eltingville epilogue #epilogue bill #bill dickey #welcome to eltingville #eltingville bill #eltingville writing

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