#i promise you bitches are NOT saying that

[lizard-ratt]

NOTE: this is all steam of consciousness, minimal editing and proof reading, not to be taken seriously. Cool, thanks, enjoy.

WC: 2,288

Steve, in all honesty, should have seen this coming. Really, it was staring him right in the face, if he was just brave enough or smart enough to figure it out.

Eddie Munson was his soulmate.

Since he was young, his parents held a particular distaste for his soulmates. Soulmates, plural. Having read every last word scrawled across his skin, they decided the two people he was bound to for eternity were everything they stood against.

For years, they told him that he was to avoid his soulmates at all costs. “They’re just not right for you,” they said. “We’re just looking out for you.” Then they had nothing to say about them at all, too busy with their business trips to France, Germany, Costa Rica, and wherever else they went to.

Steve decided everything they taught him was bullshit anyway.

He met his first soulmate on accident. Robin Buckley. Assigned to a group project with her in Mrs. Click’s class, he couldn’t get a single word out before she just started to talk. He recognized the words immediately. Could’ve recited them in his sleep.

He glanced down at his watch and waited.

Eventually she petered out and the finished the essay tattooed across his chest. He glanced down at his watch again, ran the numbers and spoke.

“Three minutes and forty-two seconds. Impressive.”

Robin’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “No. No way.”

“I’m sorry, do you need more proof. Perhaps the three page thesis you tattooed across my chest?” Snark came naturally. Probably for the best that he wasn’t on his best behavior. Cause then he’d be lying to his soulmate. Robin needed to know her soulmate was a bitch. Cause he was a bitch.

Robin snorted, but it came out a bit forced. “Thesis, big word for you.”

“You’re avoiding the point,” he prodded.

“I need to process.” Steve could understand that. He accepted it with grace and they moved on to their assignment.

Robin, as Steve found out quickly, was fun. Bitchy in the way Steve was bitchy. They traded barbs and poked and prodded at each other like they’d been doing it their whole lives. Neither of them mentioned the whole soulmate thing.

By Robin’s request, they kept their friendship quiet, for the most part. He was well known and brought a lot of attention wherever he went, and Carol and Tommy probably wouldn’t take too kindly to Steve hanging out with a Band Nerd. That was fine with him. In his opinion, they weren’t good enough for Robin anyway.

One month into their friendship, Robin told Steve that she wasn’t ever going to be interested in him romantically. Told him about Tammy Thompson.

It didn’t shock him as much as it probably should have. It wasn’t like he knew, but it just felt right. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Robin wasn’t meant to be his romantic with him. Platonic Soulmates.

“Tammy Thompson’s great and all but she’s a total dud,” he told her.

“She is not!”

“She is! She wants to be a singer. She wants to move to Nashville and shit.”

“She has dreams!”

“She can’t even hold a tune!”

The relief is pouring off of Robin in waves, thick in the air, practically a physical sensation. Robin had looked so scared, like Steve could ever not want Robin in his life.

Later, after they sang Total Eclipse of the Heart together, Robin told him about her other soulmate. Said that she had another one. A simple two words scrawled on her wrist. Robin, right?

“I’ll show you my other soul mark later,” he promised her, in response. “I don’t really feel like taking off my shirt right now.”

About two months into their friendship, Steve showed Robin his other soumark. Lounging in his backyard, he took of his shirt and showed her. First, the giant block of text across his front, her words etched permanently on his skin. Then, he turned around and showed her his back, the other three page thesis tattooed to his body permanently.

“…. Oh. Oh no.”

Steve appreciated the real effort she put into not laughing. It lasted a whole ten seconds before the dam burst and she was in tears.

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up.”

“You are so unlucky!” She got in between wheezes of laughter. “You don’t have any torso left!”

“You think I don’t know this?”

She quieted down, before the laughter started up again. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I just imagined little baby Steve covered front to back with his soulmates’ first words to him.”

“I’m pretty sure I have a picture of myself somewhere…” he trailed off, forcing his grin off his face.

She zeroed in on Steve, like a shark smelling blood in the water. “I have to see it.”

“What’ll you give me for it?” He asked.

“I’ll bake you a cake,” she offered.

“You’re terrible at baking. Try again.”

“I’ll get my mom to make you a cake.” He considered it. Her mother was a fantastic baker.

“Better, but still no.”

“I’ll get Mom to bake you her secret brownies.” That one almost broke him. Those brownies had to have cocaine in them or something, because they were the best thing he’d ever placed on his tongue, but he knew he could still get something better from her.

“Better….”

“I’ll give you my family’s brownie recipe.”

“Sold!” He put on his best impression of an Auctioneer. “You bring me your mother’s Brownie recipe and I will hand over not one but two photos of me as a baby with my Soul Tattoos on display.”

They sealed it with a handshake.

For a few years after that, he didn’t think about soulmates.

He started to date Nancy Wheeler, despite not being each others’ soulmates. They worked, in Steve’s opinion. Then Barb vanished from his house, and he found out that Jonathan Byers took photos not only if the party but of Nancy getting undressed.

He probably should’ve felt guiltier about breaking his camera, but he just didn’t. He told Robin about it, though. She agreed with him that it was creepy, so it eased some of his concern.

Then later, he found Nancy and Jonathan in her bedroom and felt his heart plummet. He ran to Robin as quickly as possible and spent a little bit too long eating ice cream and listening to sad music while crying about how unfair life was, content to break up with Nancy and move on.

Tommy and Carol saw that as the coward’s way out and took it upon themselves to publicly shame Nancy Wheeler.

He ended up in a fist fight with Tommy (got his ass beat) and spent about thirty minutes cleaning off the spray paint from the Movie theater’s Marquee with Robin shouting encouragement.

They later went to apologize for Tommy and Carol’s behavior and all Hell broke loose. He and Robin, he decided, made a pretty good monster hunting team

Things kinda sped up after that.

He and Robin got all their information from Nancy and Jonathan who were, surprise, surprise, soulmates! (They swore up and down the wall that they didn’t do anything and planned to tell Steve, which he believed). They explained the alternate dimension and the monsters inside. A little girl with superpowers who sacrificed herself to kill the Demogorgon.

Steve and Robin went back to his house, laid down, and stayed there for a long time.

For a year, it was just those four. Robin, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan. He didn’t talk to Tommy and Carol, and let his social standing slip away from him. The four of them fit together. They were jumpy and anxious and any flicker of the lights made them all stiffen, waiting for something Other to crawl from the walls.

It never did.

A year passed in a blur of anxiety and paranoia. He and Robin spent most of their time in each other’s back pockets, never too far from each other. Too worried that it wasn’t as over as everyone claimed.

Then, Jonathan and Nancy vanished with no warning. They had been shifty for a little bit prior to their sudden departure. Going quiet when certain topics came up, giving each other meaningful looks.

He and Robin went to the Wheeler house already positive they weren’t there.

They ran into Dustin Henderson instead.

If asked, later, what happened, exactly, he wouldn’t be able to tell you any specific details. Robin would be his go to whenever he had questions about everything, as she seemed to remember everything in high definition. What he did know is that he threw himself in front of a whole bunch of middle schoolers (and Robin) not once, not twice, but three times. In the process he got himself concussed and nearly mauled by a bunch of Demodogs, while wrapping himself around little Dustin Henderson.

After that, Dustin attached himself to Steve’s side like a barnacle and brought his friends (Lucas, Will, Mike, Max, and El) with him. Steve was okay with that.

He helped Dustin with his hair and gave him a ride to the Snow Ball. He gave the kids rides everywhere and hosted sleepovers and filled the silence with their noise. It settled something that Steve wasn’t even aware needed settling.

He graduated and when his parents didn’t show up, everyone else did. Nancy and Jonathan and the Party, and Mrs. Byers and Hopper. And Robin, playing with the band.

He didn’t make it into college, not that he tried all that hard. Officially, he got cut off, not that it mattered to him all that much. He saved up, stowing away cash whenever he could. Saving the Hush money, and allowance money, and lifeguard money. He was, for a while at least, fine. He still got a job, and Robin was right there with him, applying to Scoops Ahoy.

Dustin left before he could see their uniforms, and he expressed great disappointment in this. Steve promised him free ice cream for when he got back.

The Uniform was… ridiculous. They looked stupid and felt it, too. It got them money and kept them busy, and it was all fine. Even as he got covered in melted ice cream, and cleaned up kids vomit and got yelled at by kids parents, it was all fine because he had Robin.

The Party visited often, taking full advantage of his employee discount and the hall behind scoops that led direct to the theater. At least one of them thanked him each time (Will. Will never forgot his manners).

Then Dustin came home and shit hit the fan again.

Russian Code, hidden Bunker, child endangerment, and more!

More that he didn’t want to talk about let alone think about. More, like the questions, demanding he tell them what they wanted to hear. More, like the fists, like the broken bones and blood and pain. More, like the pleading, begging for mercy. Screaming. Crying. More, like everything that came after.

If Robin and him were inseparable before, they were practically conjoined twins after. After the mall blew sky high and Hopper died, and half of their group left to move to California. They had each other, and that would have to be enough.

Dustin Henderson first mentioned Eddie Munson about two days after his first day of Senior Year and already, Steve was regretting the fact that he still had most of his hearing on his right side. He was able to make his first joke about it, a few hours later. ("Do you think if I ask the Russian's nicely, they'll take away the rest of my hearing so I don't have to listen to Dustin's hero worship of Eddie Munson?") The look Robin gave him was a mixture of so many emotions, he nearly apologized before she burst out into hysterical laughter.

It didn't stop there. It only got louder and louder, the more Dustin got to know the guy.

From all the stories, it should have clicked in his mind, then, that the words tattooed across his back could come from none other than the 'Best Dungeon Master in Indiana'.

He first spoke to Eddie on a random Hellfire night, when he was picking up Mike, Dustin, and Lucas. In a near perfect repeat of the first words he traded with Robin, Eddie spoke before Steve could.

"If it isn't King Steve," he began. Steve stole a quick glance at his watch and he waited for the theatrical monologue to play out before him. Some things of note in the monologue included: scathing critiques of capitalism, scathing critiques of putting people into boxes, comments about the 'Little Sheep' that Eddie had taken under his wing and their supposed hero worship of Steve.

It was strange, listening to him talk. Like puzzle pieces falling into place. One of the first mysteries of Steve's life, and it was all coming together before him. Context finally provided for some, frankly, insane sentences.

Finally, Eddie wore himself out and stared at Steve expectantly. Steve stole a glance at his watch, did the metal calculations, and announced loudly, "You spoke at me for four minutes and two seconds. That is impressive."

Eddie's eyes bugged out of his skull, as did the other members of Hellfire that Steve could never remember the names of.

"There is no way..." one of them muttered. The one with the halo of curly hair in the flannel.

Steve turned and lifted his shirt to show the veritable wall of text tattooed to his back. Shoulder to shoulder, neck to hip, he was covered. He heard a sharp inhale of breath, before he dropped the shirt and turned back.

"Surprise?"

Steddie soulmate first words are fun and all but Eddie Munson will forever be a dramatic motherfucker, Steve has a full 3 page essay scrawled over his back about the dangers of capitalism and his dad hates it, you think Eddie would get the chance to speak to the Steve Harrington and wouldn't milk it for the most Shakespeare worthy performance you've ever seen in your goddamn life

Bonus points, Robin is his platonic soulmate and she'll ramble till the sun goes down so steve just has no space left on his body by the time those two are finished

[cameronsprincess]

you ever think about getting slapped around by rafe when he’s pissed and wants to fuck his anger out on you, mocked and laughed at when you start crying, then slapped around again when your crying starts to piss him off again 🤧

I LOVE WHEN A MAN SLAPS YA AROUND (i promise i’m okay.. maybe…)

CW: smut! 18+ only! mean!rafe, degrading, slapping, unprotected piv sex.

masterlists.

“Goddamnit!”

The sound of Rafe shouting as he storms through the front door, slamming it shut behind him has you startling awake. You sit up in your shared bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you listen to his heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs.

You’re not sure what was wrong, but you knew you were about to find out.

Rafe storms into your bedroom, slamming the door behind him, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily, nostrils flaring and his fists clenching by his sides. You quickly shove the comforter off your body, crawling to the end of the bed, your eyes softening as you watch him pace the room.

“Rafe.. What’s wrong, baby?” you ask him softly, not wanting to upset him any further, but needing to know what you can do to help.

Rafe stops his pacing, his gaze fixed on you now. His blue eyes are burning with anger, and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but it doesn’t work.

He steps towards the bed, reaching you in seconds. His large hand reaches out, gripping the back of your hair so hard you let out a small scream. He yanks your head back, forcing your eyes on his.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” He asks.

Your brow furrows, confused on why he’s asking you this. Of course you don’t think he’s stupid. He’s probably one of the smartest people you know, though, he won’t always show it.

“N-no… Why.. Why are you asking me this?”

He snarls. “Because my bitch of a stepmother thinks I am. She thinks that I don’t know what my dad left behind for me,” He pauses, breathing in deep through his nose before letting it out slowly through his mouth. “She thinks.. She thinks she’s gonna keep all his fucking money? She thinks, that I— That I’m a fucking idiot and didn’t have his will pulled up when I found out he was fucking dead?”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You knew Rafe had been doing his research on what his dad did and didn’t leave him since he got the call that Ward had died… It’s been tough on him, but he’s been handling it as well as he could. But now with Rose trying to pull a fast one on him… You knew things weren’t going to be easy around here until he got what was his.

Slowly, he releases your hair, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, head hung low. You slowly lift up onto your knees, hesitantly reaching out and pressing a hand into his chest. Rafe’s eyes pop open, staring blankly at your hand on him.

“What can I do? How can I make you feel better right now?”

His eyes darken— more than they already were — and you swallow thickly. Rafe presses a hand onto your forehead, pushing you back onto the mattress before he’s toeing off his shoes and climbing into the bed on top of you, the weight of his body pressing into yours.

“You wanna know how you can help me, princess?” he breathes out, his right hand already possessively gripping your hip.

You nod your head slowly. “Yeah.. Anything. Whatever you need, baby.”

He chuckles, a dark smile taking over his face.

“Mmm.. Careful what you say baby. I might just think you’re serious.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Rafe dips his head down, smashing his lips with yours in a heated, angry kiss. Your hands fly around his neck, pulling him further into you, your tongue flicking against his bottom lip. Rafe groans, slipping his tongue into your mouth as his hands slide up your sides. He toys with the hem of your tank top, sliding it slowly up your body, breaking his lips from yours so he can shove it over your head and toss it to the floor.

Your bare breasts smash against Rafe’s t-shirt covered chest, the fabric of his shirt brushing against your nipples has them hardening instantly, a low moan escaping you. Rafe kisses at your lips softly, trailing kisses down your jaw and to your neck. You yelp when his teeth nip gently at your skin, his hands now tugging at your silk sleep shorts. He slowly tugs them down your legs, letting them pool at your ankles and you kick them off.

Rafe pushes up on the mattress, his fingers making quick work of his belt, then moving to pop the button of his jeans before sliding the zipper down. He harshly tugs them down his legs, his boxers going with them. Your eyes flit down, staring at his long, thick cock bobbing in the air. Rafe’s right hand reaches up, smacking you across the face, the impact knocking your head to the side.

Tears fill your eyes, but you quickly blink them down. Rafe was always aggressive when he was in a bad mood, and you didn’t mind it, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt sometimes.

“You gonna fuckin’ cry this time, or are you gonna take it like I know you can?”

You sniffle, letting your eyes meet his again. “G-Gonna take it.. Promise, it’s okay. Take it out on me, baby.”

Rafe chuckles darkly, his hand harshly smacking at your cheek again. You squeal from the impact, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“What I thought, you love when I’m fucking rough on you, but you can’t help but fuckin’ cry every time.”

You lift your hand, quickly wiping away the tear you’d let fall before finding Rafe’s eyes again. He smirks at you, a dark expression on his face as he grips his thick cock in his hand, slowly running his tip through your slick folds.

“So fuckin’ wet already. God, you’re such a pathetic little thing aren’t you? Soakin’ yourself because I slapped your pretty little face twice.”

Your lips part, opening to respond but the words die, a gasp escaping you instead when Rafe shoves himself inside you. His cock stretches you, splitting you in two. He slowly pulls out to the tip, his hand coming up to cup your face before he’s smacking you again, his hips thrusting forward at the same time.

He quickly sets a rough and fast pace, his hips slamming against yours as he brutally fucks himself into you. He continues to slap at your face with each thrust, every slap followed by a degrading remark.

“You fuckin’ cryin’ again?” Slap. “God you’re such a fuckin’ crybaby, can’t even fuckin’ take my dick,” Slap. “Or a slap.” Thrust. “Stop.” Slap. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Crying!” Slap.

Tears are falling uncontrollably down your face now, but your pleasure outweighs the pain you feel in your cheeks and the pain Rafe’s brutal thrusts are causing.

“‘M s-sorry… It hu-rts…” you choke out.

“I-It h-hurts,” Rafe mocks, his cock slowly dragging out of your soaked pussy. He pulls out to the tip, slamming forward and pulling a small whine from you. “You gotta learn to toughen up, princess.” He says, slowly pulling out again before he’s roughly thrusting back in.

His hand slaps at your face again, your cheek now stinging from how hard and how many times he’s slapped you. You try and swallow down the sob wanting to escape you, but his hand making contact with your red and raw cheek has you letting the sob escape. He rolls his eyes, pulling out of you before gripping your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. His hands slip under your hips, lifting your ass into the air. He slams himself inside you again, brutally fucking into you as he continues his assault on your ass.

His free hand reaches out, gripping the back of your head and pressing your face into the mattress, muffling your sobs and whines. “So fuckin’ annoying,” he says, a hint of irritation in his tone. He slaps harshly at your ass again, the sting combined by his brutal thrusts has your pussy clamping down around his cock, squeezing him so tightly he groans from the feeling. “Stop fuckin’ crying! You wanna be fuckin’ good f’me? Make me feel better? Then cum on my cock, and dry your goddamn tears.”

You whimper, your pussy clenching uncontrollably around him as he continues to pound into you. You fist the sheets below you, your toes curling when the tip of his cock hits at that sweet spot inside you. Rafe slaps at your ass three more times, his cock pulsing inside you when you squeeze around him again, your body shaking as you come undone around him.

“Fffffuck, that’s it, princess.” Rafe groans.

His dick twitches inside you, his hips shoving forward one final time before he’s swelling and coming deep inside you in long, slow spurts. Rafe gently rubs at the fat of your ass, soothing the welted handprints he’d left behind. Your body falls limp on the mattress, his hand releasing the back of your head as he falls down on top of you.

Your quiet sniffles fill the room, pulling at Rafe’s chest slightly. He knows you don’t mind him fucking his anger out on you, and you don’t mind when he slaps you around a little, but once it’s all said and done, and the highs are over, he can’t help but feel bad about it. He slowly pulls out of you, rolling to his side and pulling you tightly into his arms, kissing the top of your head. Your big, puffy and teary eyes meet his. He smiles at you, a soft, loving smile as he cups your face, leaning in to kiss your lips softly.

“Hey.. ‘M sorry, baby. ‘M sorry, I love you.”

You smile, burying yourself in his chest as you breathe in his scent. “It’s okay… As long as you feel better,” You pause, kissing his chest. “Let’s nap, and then when we wake up, we’ll work on how we’re going to get you what you’re owed. Rose won’t fuck you over, baby. I promise.”

tagging some moots: @starkeysbabygirl @nemesyaaa @rafesthroatbaby @rafesheaven @rafesangelita @sarahsangelicdoll @rafescvntyclubgf @hauntedfawnn @dementedkittenribbon @rafesbabygirlx

[luvfae]

INFINITY LOOP

summary: you’re in a toxic relationship with thanos but you can’t get enough.

parings: thanos/choi su-bong x f!reader

warnings: toxic relationship, mention of cheating, swearing, smut, p in v, absolutely no foreplay or aftercare involved, unprotected sex (wrap it, don’t be a dummy), choking

The door slammed shut with the force of a collapsing star. Again.

You didn’t flinch. You were used to it by now—the way Thanos had a flair for dramatic exits. You stared at the dent his last punch had left in the drywall. Add it to the collection.

Five minutes. That’s how long it usually took.

You lit a cigarette. The ritual helped. Inhale. Exhale. Pretend you weren’t waiting to hear his footsteps stomping back up the stairs like some vengeful god who’d just realized he left his phone behind.

Seven minutes.

Okay, maybe he was serious this time.

The thing with Thanos was—he was always serious. Until he wasn’t. His promises shattered faster than the cheap glass ashtrays you kept buying because he’d break them during your arguments. And you’d break his heart right back, not that either of you had one worth saving.

Your phone buzzed. Incoming call: Thanos.

You smirked, didn’t answer. Let him sweat. Three more missed calls, and then:

“Open the door.”

No apology. Not even a please.

You opened the door anyway.

There he was—stormy eyes, bruised knuckles, breath heavy like he’d been running. Maybe from whoever he’d been with before he came crawling back to you. Again. His jaw clenched, like he had something to say, like this time would be different.

It wasn’t.

You grabbed him by the collar, pulling him inside. His lips crashed against yours like you were the last planet left to conquer. His hands roamed like they forgot all the reasons he was supposed to hate you, tracing old scars—some emotional, some not. You bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. He liked that.

“I fucking hate you,” Thanos growled, his breath hot against your lips.

You smirked, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pushing him hard until his back hit the wall with a satisfying thud. “Yeah, right,” you whispered, eyes dark with defiance. “You fucking love me.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he might say something—something real. But words were never your language. Violence was. Lust was. The sharp edges of affection carved into bruises and bite marks.

Thanos grabbed you like he was trying to prove something, hands rough, unforgiving. He spun you around, shoving you down onto the couch, tugging at your pants with a growl that rumbled from deep in his chest. No patience. No pretense. Just desperation.

Good. You liked it desperate.

His fingers dug into your hips, pinning you in place as he drove into you without warning. The sharp stretch stole a gasp from your throat, head falling back against the cushions, eyes fluttering shut.

But Thanos wasn’t about to let you escape into the pleasure. No, he wanted you here, wanted you present—wanted to see every flicker of satisfaction and spite warring on your face. His hand wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he hissed, his other hand slipping between your thighs, fingers ruthless against your clit.

You laughed, breathless, the sound sharp and bitter. “Shut up,” you spat, hips bucking into his touch. “Make me come and shut the fuck up.”

His eyes darkened, something savage flickering behind them. “Whore,” he snarled, thrusting harder, each movement punctuated by the venom in his voice.

“Cheater,” you shot back, nails raking down his forearm, leaving angry red trails in your wake.

His hips stuttered for a second—just a second—because you both knew it was true. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was how you punished each other, how you forgave each other, all in the same breathless, broken rhythm.

“Like you can talk,” he muttered, his pace brutal now, like he was trying to erase every memory of someone else’s hands on your skin. His face hovered close to yours, breath ragged. “Ain’t no pussy as good as this one, though.”

Your smile was feral, a wicked curl of lips that tasted like victory. “No dick compares to yours,” you whispered, voice trembling with the edge of an orgasm. “But you always fuck me better after I’ve been with someone else.”

That hurt him.

His hand clamped over your mouth, silencing your smug words, and his hips snapped forward with reckless abandon. You moaned against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate, your climax hitting you like a freight train—sharp, all-consuming, leaving you breathless and trembling.

The way your body clenched around him dragged him over the edge, a guttural curse spilling from his lips as he came, hips jerking, breath hot against your temple.

For a moment, there was silence. Just the sound of your ragged breaths tangled together in the stale air.

Then he pulled out, standing up without a word, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he walked out that door again.

Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Later, tangled in sheets that still smelled like his cologne and someone else’s perfume, he lit one of your cigarettes.

“You’re toxic,” he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the cracked ceiling.

You laughed, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shiver. “Takes one to know one.”

By morning, he’d be gone again. Maybe with someone new. Maybe with the same regret he always carried but never unpacked. You’d break up, block his number, swear this was the last time.

Until next week.

Until the next fight.

Until the next call.

The infinity loop. Your favorite kind of hell.

[shadow211e]

Justin at been watching her from the shadows as she waited for him to arrive. She was so nervous, but already noticing how guys were starting to glance at her as they walked by. Justin had given her the earrings to wear for their date. He was smirking at how her body looked now. The earrings had given her a hot slutty body, the dress she picked out was showing off her tits and thighs, she clearly didn't even really realize what she was picking for herself. The simple girl was so boring before but now she was going to be his. "Izzy, so glad you decided to come." "Thanks, look you promised one date and you'd stop harassing my boyfriend." "Of course." "You look stunning." "Thanks," she said not knowing with the magic earring he gave her changed into a hot slutty one. The attention from guys was getting her horny.

He walked to her and she stood up, he leaned in to hug her and then went to plant a kiss on her cheek, she turned her head and he felt her lips push against his. She blushed as she pulled back. "Oh god I'm sorry," he said. She giggled "no that was my fault. I thought you were going to kiss me and I moved, and I guess that caused the kiss." "Well it was really nice." "Thanks," she blushed.

The date was going nicely, Justin was admiring how much Izzy was changing right in front of him.

Justin was driving her home, when he passed his house, he pointed it out "anytime you wanna come over and hang out, that's my place." She looked "why not now, we don't have to rush me home right?" "Of course not," he smirked knowing she was becoming his. He pulled into the driveway and led her into the house. It wasn't too much longer for the two of them to end up in his room. Her hands were all over his. He looked at her "what about your boyfriend?" "Why is he here? Are you going to tell him?" "Never." "So stop worrying," she said as she pulled off her top, exposing her round tits. They started going at it, ending up fucking until like 3 or 4 in the morning. She put on a simple black top and some of his sweats as he dropped her off at her house. She kissed him deeply, "can't wait for the next time." "Oh?" "If you don't wanna that's fine." "Nah babe, but how about you stick with the loser, I love fucking a cheating slut like you." "God that's fucking hot, I didn't even think about that, I was gonna end it, but your idea is fire." "See you soon babe."

No one at school really noticed the change in Izzy, the magic of the earrings helped with that. They all always talked about how she was so hot and kind of slutty but always was seen "dating" one of the nerdiest guys in school. She would make a show about loving him so much but a few people wondered. Only a very small select group of friends, girls she never talked to before she was changed but now who she thought were her closest bitches, knew the secret relationship she was having with Justin. None told anyone out of fear. Izzy was known from being a bit of a ruthless bitch. Hot and ruthless and feared at school. She sat passenger princess in her boyfriend's car, looking out at Justin getting into his truck. She smirked and her boyfriend asked what was up. She looked at him "Look at that asshole trying to compensate with that lifted truck." "Yeah well, he hasn't been tormenting me for the last few months so I could care less what he has been up to." "That's good," she said as all she could think about was the text she had sent to Justin and how tonight she would be bouncing on his cock in the bed of the truck. The plans were she would excuse herself to the bathroom at her anniversary date with her boyfriend and go fuck him in the parking lot, and come back to the date saying her stomach was bothering her to be brought home by her boyfriend let Justin's cum leak all over his car seat by time she got home. Justin would show up later to fuck her the rest of the night after ruining the nice dinner plans her loser boyfriend had. The thought excited her a lot.

[nuttersincorporated]

Scarecrow: So let me get this straight: a natural disaster carried you and your dog across the uncrossable desert. You and your house fell on top of Nessarose – one of the only independent leaders outside the wizard’s control – and now she’s dead. The people rejoiced because she’d become an intolerant religious extremist.

Dorothy: Yes. I feel really bad though. I didn’t mean to kill anyone!

Scarecrow: You didn’t kill anyone. She died because of the natural disaster. You were just there at the time. Anyway, then my ex-fiancée came down from the sky in a bubble.

Dorthy: You mean Glinda?

Scarecrow: Yes

Dorthy: Then yes. I didn’t know she used to be engaged to a scarecrow.

Scarecrow: I was actually a Winky Prince when we were engaged.

Dorthy: Oh

Scarecrow: Anyway, my ex implied that you might be evil because you aren’t beautiful enough to be obviously good. Then she put Nessarose’s shoes on your feet, told you not to take them off and sent you – on foot – to ask the wizard for help!?

Dorothy: Yes, that about covers it.

Scarecrow: -screaming internally-

Dorothy: Are you okay?

Scarecrow: Me!? I’m just fine! Why do you ask!? You know what? Maybe I should come with you so that you don’t die. Would that be okay!?

Later

The Tin Woodmen: So, you’re saying that the cripple I asked out – to impress Glinda – is dead and Glinda sent you to find the wizard?

Dorothy: I killed a disabled person!?

Scarecrow: Dorthy, we’ve been over this, you didn’t kill anyone. I promise none of this is your fault.

The Tin Woodmen: Who cares about that? Ding dong the bitch is dead! I might finally have a chance with Glinda! Dorthy, I’m coming with you!

Later still

Lion: I am terrified of everything but you say you’re going to see the wizard?

Dorothy: Yes

Lion: Talking animals used to be treated as equal citizens in Oz but now we have no rights at all. As I cub, I was taken from my mother, placed in a cage and kept away from other talking animals. They hoped it would stop me from learning to talk. I was rescued and set free but I grew up alone and without sort of socialisation or education.

Scarecrow: …

Lion: Anyway, I’m sure that if everyone says the wizard is good, then he must be. The mistreatment of animals is probably just a big misunderstanding. If I can have courage and talk to the wizard, I’m sure this whole thing will be sorted out.

Dorothy: Can we just stop for a minute? Will someone please, explain what’s going on? I feel like I’m missing a whole lot of contexts here.

Toto: Just so you know: in later books, in the official original L. Frank Baum Oz series, it will be reveal that all animals in Oz can talk. I just didn’t feel like talking in the first book.

While the Wicked book by Gregory Maguire covers a lot of interesting, important and deep topics; it was unrelentingly depressing and the narration showed little to no sympathy for the women who suffer horrible things.

The L. Frank Baum books – though by no means perfect – have a far more progressive Land of Oz than the one Gregory Maguire wrote about. If fact, Gregory Maguire took a world that had women in most of the important positions of power and turned it into a sexist, racist and patriarchal world.

I prefer Wicked the musical to Wicked the book because the musical brought the fun back.

Dorothy: Did you say something Toto?

Toto: Woof no woof, woof

I’ve seen so many people joke about Glinda being exhausted having to cope with plucky little Dorothy Gale doing her little song while the entirety of act ii of Wicked is occurring in the background. Like the crushing weight of her complicity in an evil system is dragging her to hell and also her fiancé is now a scarecrow and has run off with her situationship. But the act ii context is actually exponentially crazier for Dorothy? Like imagine you are a fifteen year old whose admittedly unambitious dreams of just leaving the farm are already rendered impossible because you are staring down the double barrel of unprecedented rural poverty and climate crisis. You get caught out in a natural disaster and accidentally kill someone and end up straight in the middle of the craziest six-way divorce anyone has ever heard of that is currently actively melting down. No one tells you this. And they’re all taking it out on you. Free her!!!!!!

[higuchisora]

Rocking up to an incredibly small fandom with literally no fics for it with a million sketches/fic ideas

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O2

“𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟕𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑”

"Stepping into the facility, you don’t know what sounds more ominous. The 7th Hour—its own moniker—or the fact there’s actually a 25th hour."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 2,5k

content: underground facilities shenanigans, meeting the team (aka the members), jimin being an iconic sassy bitch, everyone betting on yoongi’s sexual demise

— author’s note

aggressively slams laptop open

Y'ALL. I know chapter one just dropped like… squints at clock honestly who even knows anymore? Time's getting weird in my reality too (maybe CHRONOS got me 👀). But I literally couldn't wait to share more because dystopian AUs are my WEAKNESS and I've been DYING to write one that isn't just YA tropes???

Like don't get me wrong, I love YA, but sometimes you want your dystopia with a side of wiggles eyebrows spicier content. YES I'M TALKING ABOUT SMUT. The plot is thicc but so are other things if you know what I mean 😈

AND CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS TEAM??? Because Jimin in this universe is literally living rent free in my head???? Usually I write him all soft and sweet but this time I was like "you know what? PEAK BITCH ENERGY" and I'm honestly living for it. The way he just gestures vaguely exists and chooses violence every single time???

ALSO HOSEOK BEING THE ONLY ONE WITH EMOTIONAL STABILITY IN THIS CHAOS???? A CONCEPT. And my babies Taekook being all mysterious and quiet (for now 👀). Don't even get me started on Namjoon looking like he needs about 47 cups of coffee just to deal with everyone's temporal nonsense 😭

THE WAY JIN JUST YEET'S HIMSELF OUT OF ANY CONVERSATION WITH YOONGI ABOUT WORK RESPONSIBILITIES SENDS ME. 😭😭

I know there's a lot of science-y temporal jargon happening but I promise it'll start making sense! If my nerdy Star Trek watching ass can figure it out while writing this, you can too! (Matrix trilogy brainrot finally paying off???)

Anyway, enough rambling—enjoy this mess of temporal panic and existential dread! 💜

yeets self back into writing cave​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

— read on

AO3

WATTPAD

The temporal interference patterns in subway station 415 shouldn't exist.

7 minutes and 36 seconds of descent through frozen tunnels, and your analytical mind is still trying to process the impossibilities. Agent Min's grip hasn't wavered from your wrist—maintaining exactly 2.7 newtons of pressure, his skin temperature a consistent 2.3 degrees above normal. You should pull away. Protocol 47.3 explicitly prohibits prolonged temporal contact.

You don't.

His pace through the tunnels is precise. Each step he takes covers exactly 0.76 meters, never varying despite the irregular terrain. He hasn't looked back once, but his thumb shifts against your pulse point every 43 seconds, like he's checking a measurement only he can read.

Time: 01:59:00 AM. Still frozen.

Location: 27.4 meters below street level.

Ambient temperature: 19.7°C and dropping.

The interference patterns manifest as a ripple in the far wall—a visual distortion that shouldn't be possible during temporal stasis. The effect resembles quantum tunneling, but the energy requirements for that scale of temporal manipulation would be...

Agent Min finally turns, his eyes meeting yours for precisely 1.2 seconds. Something flickers in his expression—disappointment? Resignation?—before he faces the anomaly again.

"Don't analyze it," he says, voice clipped. "Just follow."

He steps through the ripple like he's done it thousands of times before. The temporal distortion bends around him, leaving those faint golden traces that make your head pound.

Your body moves before your mind can calculate the risks. The passage through the interference feels like static electricity against your skin, like time itself is trying to reject your presence.

The facility that materializes around you defies temporal physics.

Vast underground chambers stretch out in geometric patterns. Holographic displays float, showing temporal data streams that make your eyes hurt. You note the architecture—steel and concrete.

Movement catches your eye—people navigating the space. Their temporal signatures are wrong—out of sync with standard time in ways that should be fatal. Some of them pause mid-motion when they see you, recognition seemingly flickering before they quickly look away. One woman whips her head around so fast it's almost comical, her eyes wide with something between shock and... pity?

"Where are we?" The question comes out steady despite the way your head spins with temporal vertigo. Your free hand reaches for your tablet to log the anomalies, but you haven't brought it. 

You haven't been issued one yet. 

You know exactly which model you prefer.

"The 7th Hour," Agent Min answers. “Underground resistance base. Temporal blind spot."

Your mind automatically starts calculating the energy requirements for maintaining a temporal blind spot of this size. The numbers don't add up—unless...

"This facility exists partially outside normal spacetime," you say, realization dawning upon you. "The geometric configurations suggest—"

"Stop." Agent Min's voice carries that strange mix of frustration and familiarity. "Your temporal signature spikes when you start theorizing. Makes you easier to track."

A tall man in a pristine lab coat passes nearby. His eyes lock onto you with startling intensity before shifting to Agent Min with a subtle nod. Something about his measured movements triggers another memory fragment:

«Different lighting. Same facility. A voice you don't recognize: "She's remembering faster this time. The temporal resonance patterns indicate—"»

The memory cuts off as your nose starts bleeding again. Agent Min's hand twitches toward you before he forces it back to his side.

"27 minutes," he says instead of acknowledging your condition. "We need to find the others. They'll want to see you."

"Others?"

"The team." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "They're... expecting you."

The way he says it makes time feel heavy around you, like the words carry more weight than they should. Like they've been said before.

Agent Min's grip on your wrist tightens—precision in his movements as he adjusts the fabric of your sleeve. You notice the deliberate care he takes to avoid any direct skin contact—shifting the material, maintaining a barrier. 

It's too purposeful to be coincidence. You catalog this detail for further examination.

The facility stretches deeper than initial calculations suggested. Grey walls curve at mathematically improbable angles, housing equipment that makes your inner compliance officer twitch. Black market calibration tools line makeshift workstations. Devices you've never seen before display readings in formats that shouldn't exist.

He leads you through a final doorway into what appears to be a lounge area. Black sofas and mismatched chairs scatter the space in a casual disarray that feels... familiar. Your eyes fix on one particular sofa—dark leather, slightly worn on the left armrest. Your heart rate inexplicably accelerates by 7 beats per minute.

Agent Min's lips press together for exactly 0.4 seconds.

You're about to question this when—

"Oh yay, she's back again." The voice is sarcastic. A man with pink hair lounges in a bean bag, looking supremely unimpressed. "Let me guess—no memories, lots of questions, and probably about to start quoting protocols at us?"

Before you can respond, another man practically bounces up from his seat beside Pink Hair. He crosses the room in three quick steps and—without any regard for personal space or basic social protocols—ruffles your hair like you're an old friend.

"Welcome home, Noma!" His grin is bright enough to be disorienting.

"My name is not Noma." You step back, automatically reaching to fix your hair.

He just shrugs, unbothered. "You'll get used to it."

"She always says that," Pink Hair mutters, examining his nails. "Right before the temporal physics lecture starts. Anyone want to take bets on how long before she breaks out the equations?"

Two more figures appear in the doorway, freezing mid-step when they see you. The taller one's hand tightens on the doorframe. The younger one's eyes widen slightly. They exchange a loaded look that you cannot fathom.

"A-735," Agent Min says, his grip adjusting on your wrist. "Meet the team."

"We've met," Pink Hair drawls. "Me personally, around seven times now. But who's counting?"

The one who ruffled your hair drops into a chair, still grinning. "Ignore Jimin, he's just cranky because you forgot his coffee order. Again."

"I don't even drink coffee," you say automatically.

"No, but you will," Jimin responds cryptically. "Around hour twenty-three of trying to calculate temporal resonance patterns." He sighs dramatically, gesturing around the room. "Might as well get the introductions over with. I'm Jimin, that's Hoseok—he's the one with no concept of personal space, if you couldn't tell. The quiet duo over there are Taehyung and Jungkook."

The two at the doorway remain still, but you catch the slight shift in Taehyung's stance at his name. Something about their silence feels deliberate rather than awkward. Jungkook's eyes haven't left your face, like he's memorizing details for later analysis.

Your head starts throbbing again. Agent Min's thumb presses into your wrist—a warning?

"And of course you've met our illustrious leader," Jimin continues, nodding toward Agent Min with exaggerated deference. "Though Namjoon will want to see you too, once he's done with whatever temporal calculations he's obsessing over now."

"Namjoon?" The name triggers something—a fragment of memory that slips away before you can grasp it.

"Second-longest running member of our little temporal rebellion," Jimin explains, examining his nails again. "After Min here. You two have some fascinating conversations about quantum mechanics. Or you will. Or you did. Tenses get so complicated with you."

"23 minutes," Agent Min announces. His tone carries a warning that makes even Jimin straighten slightly. "Where's Namjoon?"

"Lab three, probably still trying to map out her latest temporal signature variations." Jimin stretches lazily. "You know how he gets when she starts remembering faster than projected."

Your nose threatens to start bleeding again. Agent Min's grip tightens fractionally.

"I haven't calculated any temporal signatures," you protest, but even as you say it, equations start forming in your mind—familiar patterns you shouldn't know.

"Not yet," Hoseok grins. "But you will. The walls of lab three have seen more of your equations than the Temporal Monitoring Center's databases."

In the doorway, Taehyung shifts slightly, drawing your attention. His eyes meet yours for exactly 1.3 seconds before sliding to where Agent Min's hand meets your sleeve. 

Jungkook, beside him, hasn't moved. But you notice how his fingers tap against his leg in a pattern that matches the static charge building in the air.

"22 minutes," Agent Min says. "We need to move."

"Right, right." Hoseok bounces up. "Time to see what Namjoon's figured out about your temporal resonance this time around."

"If anyone says 'this time' or 'again' one more time," Jimin mutters, finally climbing out of his bean bag, "I'm going to lose it. Again."

You follow Agent Min toward the door, past Taehyung and Jungkook who step aside in perfect synchronization. You don’t question it. 

"Why won't any of you give me straight answers?" you finally ask, trailing behind mint hair and dark clothes.

"Because," Hoseok calls after you, "we can’t force memories onto you."

“Even if some of us want to.” Jimin drawls. 

Your watch reads 01:59:00 AM.

You're running out of time.

You have a sinking feeling you’re always running out of time.

The lab's antiseptic smell hits you first—sharp and clinical, at odds with the underground facility's general atmosphere. 

Agent Min's grip on your wrist hasn't wavered.

A man looks up from a complex array of equipment, dark eyes widening behind round glasses. 

“She's here already? But the temporal indicators suggested—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. "Yoongi, the duration parameters were explicitly calculated—"

"She woke up, Namjoon." Agent Min's voice is weary. "What exactly did you expect me to do?"

"Follow the established protocol. You know premature contact risks—”

"Don't." Agent Min's temperature rises 0.4 degrees. "Don't pretend you'd expect me to just—”

"Stand by while she orients to temporal displacement naturally? Yes, actually, that's exactly what you were supposed to do."

"The moment I sensed her temporal signature activate—"

"You should have waited."

"You know I fucking can't."

The exchange carries layers of meaning you can't decode, but your body reacts to Agent Min's tone—heart rate increasing 5 beats per minute, skin temperature raising 0.3 degrees.

A new figure enters, carrying equipment you've never seen in any approved catalog. The devices emit readings that pique your curiosity.

"Jin," Agent Min says immediately. "Tell me you have her memory backups ready."

The man—Jin—makes an exaggerated show of turning toward the door.

"Seokjin." Agent Min's voice holds warning.

Jin sighs, adjusting something on one of his devices. "The quantum resonance patterns aren't stabilizing properly. You know it never works with her. I need more time to—"

"We don't have time!" The words burst out of Agent Min with unexpected force. His grip on your wrist tightens fractionally before he catches himself.

"Just try it," Jimin's voice comes from behind you, dripping with sarcasm. "Again."

There's a distinct sound of Hoseok elbowing him.

"The temporal variance is all wrong," Namjoon says, checking readings that shouldn't be possible. "Her cognitive patterns are already showing resistance to—"

"I'm right here," you interrupt, your patience wearing thin. "And I'd appreciate if you'd stop talking about me like I'm a temporal anomaly to be solved."

The room goes quiet. Agent Min's thumb stills against your pulse point.

"But you are," Jimin mutters from the doorway. "That's kind of the whole point."

"Explain." Your voice shifts into what Agent Min would later term your 'analyst mode’—precise, demanding data.

"No. Jimin. Shut it.” Agent Min's tone carries enough weight to bend time.

You whip toward him, finally attempting to pull your wrist free. His grip remains steady—not painful, but immovable. Like gravity. Like time itself.

"Why are you constantly holding onto me? Let go."

"He really shouldn't," Jimin sings from his corner, head peeking over Jin’s temporal readings with exaggerated interest. "Not unless you want this little reunion cut short."

You frown, glancing between them. The careful way Agent Min maintains fabric contact. The knowing looks. The temporal readings that keep spiking on Namjoon's screens.

"Yeah, unless you want CHRONOS' cleanup crew finding our cozy little hideout, you should probably let him keep playing temporal stabilizer for a bit," Hoseok explains, grinning. "At least until your signature stops broadcasting 'newly awakened Outlier' to every monitoring station in Boston. Think of it as holding hands for survival. Very romantic, if you ignore the whole 'people trying to erase you' thing."

"My temporal signature isn't—" you start, but the numbers are already forming in your mind. Frequency patterns. Resonance calculations. The way time bends around Agent Min's touch, creating a dampening field that... 

"Oh."

"And there she goes," Jimin narrates. "Cue the physics lecture in three, two—”

"The temporal interference pattern," you say, mind racing. "You're using your own temporal frequency to mask mine. But that would require—"

"Don't." Agent Min's is concerned, but still commanding. "Your signature spikes when you start analyzing the mechanics."

"But the energy requirements for sustained temporal dampening would be astronomical unless..." Your eyes narrow. "What exactly are you?"

The room goes quiet again. Even Jimin's perpetual commentary stops.

Agent Min's thumb shifts against your pulse. "That's not the right question."

"Then what is?"

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you swear they flicker gold.

"The question, A-735, is what are you?"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Your eyes dart between his pupils, searching for... something. You're not sure what. He just sighs, the sound carrying centuries.

"As long as you don't know that yourself, I can't answer that question. You don't have the baseline knowledge for it yet." 

The words sound rehearsed, like lines he's delivered too many times.

The tension in the room dissipates slightly. You notice how everyone seems to exhale at once, like they've passed some sort of checkpoint.

Agent Min looks at Jin. "Memories?"

"Not going to work, Yoongi." Jin adjusts settings on equipment that defies classification. "Would be surprising if it did this time around."

"I've witnessed enough statistical impossibilities that surprise lost meaning approximately seven timelines ago." 

Jimin lets out a sharp laugh. "That's what you said last time."

Agent Min ignores him, already guiding you toward another room. As you pass through the doorway, snippets of conversation drift from behind you:

"How long you think until Yoongi snaps this time?" You detect Jimin’s voice, uncharacteristically suggestive.

"Twenty credits says faster than last reset." Hoseok, followed by the sound of something being thrown at him.

"He said it would be different this time," Namjoon responds. 

"Please." You can hear Jimin's eye-roll. "He's already tweaking, and they haven't even made skin contact. He darted there—"

"15 minutes," Agent Min announces, cutting off the discussion in the adjoined room. His temperature has risen another 0.3 degrees. "Focus on stabilizing her temporal signature before speculating about—"

"About what?" you ask, analyzing the spike in his vital signs.

"About why you keep calculating my exact body temperature." 

His voice comes out raspy.

You hadn't realized you were doing that.

"20 credits says he breaks protocol before she even remembers." Jimin's voice floats from the other room.

Protocol 47.3 explicitly prohibits skin-to-skin temporal contact.

You find yourself wondering why.

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[philtatosbuck]

is there a reason you don't ship them besides them being brothers? because if you'd ship them if they weren't brothers, i've got some bad news for ya

i hate sam

[benevolenterrancy]

Scholarly peak is catching up on recent literature

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Track list for Fig and the Cig Figs independently published Junior Year album (officially named “Infaethable”)

Teenage Rebellion

Night Yorb (a heavy metal banger)

Summer Scaries

Devils Nectar

Time Quangle (a love song about Ayda)

Multiclass (Gorgug sings on this!)

The Ballad Of Lucy Frostblade (Kristen was the one who convinced Fig to write this)

So Late, So Tactical

Do You Have A Fucking Warrant

Cassandra (Can You Hear Me)

Hall Of Mirrors

President Applebees (written entirely in the night after Kristen gets elected by a drunk Fig with extremely drunk notes by Kristen)

Raging For Love (inspired by Gorgug, of course)

The Elven Oracle (Has A Day Job) (So Stop Bothering Her)

Maximum Legend

Fury Of The Ball

Cursed

Infaethable

The Bad Kids

[vigilskeep]

just remembered once again that illario canonically got completely wasted at lucanis’ wake and made viago drag him up stairs then knock him out so he would shut up

[npdkondraki]

listen to me. you are going to buy prepackaged / premade fajita strips. you are going to get some pre-cut veggies (green and/or red peppers. you are going to put chicken strips in a pan on medium with a lid over them for 6-7 minutes. you are going to take some seasoning (garlic powder, onion powder, pepper, seasoning salt) and go over the chicken TWICE (or once if you dont like a lot of seasoning) (this step is optional in its entirety this is just how i make them bc i like a lot of seasoning). you are going to flip the chicken and leave it to sit for 6-7 minutes again. WHILE the chicken is cooking you are going to put the veggies in a pan, ON LOW, and put the lid over them. flip after 3 minutes. THEN. you are going to PUT ALL OF THE INGREDIENCE onto a TORTILLA. and you are going to DEVOUR THAT SHIT like you are a STARVED MAN.

[izzysbeans]

honestly anyone who is sending hate of any kind towards anyone who works on 9-1-1, or anyone who is in the fandom, for any reason, is a fucking asshole who needs to get a life and go touch some grass. you can ship whoever you like, I really don't care. i hate posts that are like "it's this side that's doing it!" or "this side is doing it more than the other side" there are no sides when it comes to hating on real people, you lost the right to a side when you started being racist and homophobic and sending death threats. you are not on the side of that ship, you are on another separate side, the side of assholes who suck and need to leave because they're awful. fandom is a game and y'all are the loosers. i will block you relentlessly i don't care who you ship.

[youling-the-ghost]

sfth fandom appreciation post (aka me yapping about my personal experiences with this fandom for an entire post)

I know I talk a lot about how great the sfth fandom is, but genuinely, y'all are some of the loveliest people i've met on the internet. Like, ever.

I've been on the internet for a good portion of my life, but I've always been scared to join new spaces and fandoms. Amongst the fandoms that I do join, most end up becoming toxic which just adds to the anxiety. This basically means that while I've been familiar with fandom culture for quite a while, there are very few fandoms that I'd say I'm actively a part of.

I'm gonna be honest, I was incredibly scared when I first joined the fandom a couple weeks ago because the community felt so tight-knit that it felt like I was intruding on a private gathering. Nonetheless, I tried stepping out of my comfort zone and all I can say is that it was so worth it. Y'all are so sweet and talented and some of the most welcoming people ever, and that really means a lot for someone like me who's entering a new fandom.

All of that is to say, being in the sfth fandom has eroded just a little bit of that fear of stepping out of my comfort zone. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all :]

[rotisseries]

rick riordan dickriders on here will be like "why are you complaining about the pjo tv show, go watch the movies and see what a bad adaptation really looks like" ok well listen to the musical watch it on youtube and see what a good adaptation looks like bitch. it can be done. as a fucking stage musical. what did that 15 million per episode do for disney that chris mccarell couldn't

[lunar-years]

“How the fuck does Taylor Swift know about my kebab place?” Roy said angrily, kicking the front door closed behind him with gusto. “That’ll be another pound, Uncle Roy,” Phoebe chirped, not bothering to look up from her bracelet making.

Taylor Swift is in town for The Eras Tour. Phoebe and Jamie and Keeley and seemingly all of greater fucking London all desperately want to attend. These facts together combine to make for Roy's worst nightmare, but also, quite possibly, for a rare moment of warmest sun right when he needs it the most.

Roy/Jamie/Keeley