#if u see a typos no u didnt

[hellion-child]

hey guys do u ever think about how in s1e2 'Let Go' athena says to buck "You know why they make us wear these uniforms, right? For our own good. Because when we take the uniform off at the end of the day it symbolises letting go of all of the sad, crazy, inhumane things we've seen that day."??

and do yous also ever think about s4e4 '9-1-1, What's Your Grievance?' when michael says, "(Athena) always said she left her job behind when she took off the uniform at the end of the day."?

and later may says to bobby, "I get that I need to learn how to let go, take off the uniform and leave the job behind." and bobby replies, "Well, that is certainly how your mother does it. I've never been able to compartmentalise that much."

and while u think about all that do u guys also think about the ending of s3e7 'Athena Begins' when athena comes home at the end of the day and she goes to take off her badge (her uniform) and bobby watches her unclip her badge with shaking hands but before she can put it down hes catching her as she falls, and while shes sobbing in bobbys arms shes still gripping her badge so tightly, she still just cant put it down. after 30 years and the closure of finding his murderer, the grief of emmett's death is the thing athena cant leave behind at work or let go at the end of the day, no matter how hard she tried???

idk yous ever think about that??

[asleepyy]

oopsie!omens pt 6- Rome, 41 AD.

Jophiel is in a bad mood after his chat with the Metatron, meanwhile the demon seems to be the happiest he's been. (spoiler, it doesnt last)

prev chp / kofi / AO3 / next chp

[oh2bloved]

:0

[harbingersglory]

hii could i req an soft dom arlecchino x sub/fem reader?? something w a really needy whiny reader n maybe like a mommy kink or thigh riding IDK tysm for ur time !

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

"Slowly, doll. We're not in a rush." Arlecchino reprimands lightly, squeezing your hips with just enough force to keep you unmoving on her thigh– she was still being gentle, but the subtle warning in her tone spoke to how easily she could push you against the desk and turn you into such a mess that you couldn't even remember your own name..just that you were hers.

But the barest hint of stimulation from her slacks pressed against your throbbing cunt had you twitching, barely able to form words. All you could think about was the scorching, twisting need building in your stomach, desperation for relief slowly climbing until you'd think she was doing this on purpose to drive you mad.

"Please– 'm a good girl, right? I've been good.." You choked out, only to be met with the rough, husky laugh echoing in your ear that made you feel dizzy with a rush of need, her nails gliding along the skin of your hips as she pressed you down even more firmly– you couldn't see her face but it was easy to imagine the crooked smile twisting her lips at the way you inhaled sharply and tried to buck against her thigh.

"Shh. I know, doll. I've got you, just relax." She murmured in that sickly sweet tone that always had your knees buckling, the raspiness of her voice sending shivers down your spine. It was almost impossible to relax with her so close, the notes of metal lingering on her skin despite how well she presents herself– but you trusted her, despite how you know you shouldn't.

"There we go. Good girl." Arlecchino's grip on your hips loosened just enough for you to move if you so wished, and oh did it take every ounce of restraint to not do just that..she hadn't said you were allowed to, and you weren't about to spoil her good mood by being a brat. Not tonight, anyway. "Do you want to cum, doll?"

The fervent nod you offer in place of words draws a laugh from her lips, one that is almost mocking, making your face flush in embarrassment– but the sudden tap against your hip makes your mind go blank to the point you forget it all together, focused only on the feeling of her thigh rubbing against your cunt as you bucked against her thigh, the fabric slick and wet against your inner thighs. You'd have half the heart to be embarrassed about that, too, if not for the sudden brush of her thumb against your aching, neglected clit. Just that small touch has you speeding up your movements, practically drooling as you whimpered like a dog in heat.

"That's more like it, doll. Such a pretty girl." Arlecchino hummed, her other hand trailing up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts and ghosting across your throat before settling on grabbing your jaw in a firm, yet almost tender touch as she tilted your head to the side just enough for her to pull you into a burning kiss. It left you lightheaded, grinding down against her thigh as she claimed your mouth as her own, her thumb still ghosting over your clit sporadically.

She'd spent so long teasing you, constantly touching you but never where you needed her, that you already felt like you were going to snap like a wire. She must've been in a really good mood, then, when she pulled away from the kiss with an almost predatory lick of her lips, yet she settled on pressing kisses to your skin rather then the usual sharp bite of her teeth as they sunk into the curve of your shoulder.

"Are you close? Go on. I want to see your face when you cum– you look the prettiest when you finally break apart, doll." Arlecchino mused idly– as if she wasn't talking to you while you continued to rub your aching cunt against her thigh, chasing your own release through shaky, strained breaths. Her thumb swiped over your lips, brushing strands of hair stuck to your skin from your face– at the same time as she swiped her thumb more firmly against your clit, creating a vicious contrast that had you both melting at the barest hint of almost softness from her and the touch of her hand between your legs, dragging you into an orgasm that leaves you trembling and, had she not shoved her fingers into your mouth, screaming, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

"All done, little doll. Take it easy." She murmured, voice so quiet you almost didn't hear it, thumb swiping across your cheek to wipe away the stray tear, her hands pulling away to settle on your sides. "You did well– good girl. Let me take it from here."

[surelysilly]

SuperPhantom Week 2024, go!

What: A week to celebrate the bestest crossover — Danny Phantom / Supernatural (TV 2005)! Fanfic, fanart, playlists/music, other multimedia or crafts, whatever you want, are all welcome! There are themed prompts for each day, so try to include it and more or as little as you want!

When: September 7th, 2024 - September 13th, 2024

Day 1: Sept. 7th - Divine / Impiety Day 2: Sept. 8th - Strange Day 3: Sept. 9th - Family / Outsider Day 4: Sept. 10th - Song (Fic) Day 5: Sept. 11th - Right / Left Day 6: Sept. 12th - Tools of the Trade Day 7: Sept. 13th - Free

*I will catch up on what I've missed in the following week to the best of my ability, but can't guarantee any swiftness. Submissions may show up the day after their prompt as I queue them up.

Sentence prompt for the week:

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

How: Post your works on Tumblr with the tags #superphantomweek2024 and #superphantom. I’ll reblog them here! Submissions to the week can also be added to this Ao3 Collection!

Just want everyone to have fun with this old little crossover here, so be free and be merry!!! <3

Below are extra details and information for each day.

Honorable mentions for extra brownie points:

Focus on side characters from either show! Last (few) season(s) nonsense Where do ghosts fit in the war between heaven and hell?

Day 1: Sept. 7th - Divine / Impiety

Do you think God lives in Heaven because He, too, lives in fear of what He's created Here on Earth? - Spy Kids 2

Divine: Angelic Presence, Angels, Grace, Holy, God(s), Wings, Pie, Fudge, Resurrection, Prophets

Impiety: Deals, Crossroads, Demon, Betrayal, Curse, Desecration, King of Hell, Abomination, Half-human (Nephilim, Cambion), Halfas (Half Angel & Half Ghost)

Day 2: Sept. 8th - Strange

There's something wrong with those boys... Something off about that house...

Too Many Eyes, Charade, Fleeting Glimpses, Veil, Death Defying, Midwestern Gothic, Limbo/Purgatory, Horror, Biblically Accurate, Ghosts, Weird Age Club

Day 3: Sept. 9th - Family / Outsider

This is about the blood of the covenant and the water of the womb, or neither or.

Family: Children, Childhood, Siblings, Old Friend, Blood, Fluff, Teamwork, Bonds

Outsider: Accidental Meeting, Secret, Outside POV, Found Footage, Ghost Facers, Wrongfully Accused, Strange Bedfellows, Incorrect Assumptions

Day 4: Sept. 10th - Song (Fic)

We've got a long road ahead of us... can't just sit in silence! Or can we...?

Mixtape, CD burn, Radio, Voice, Enochian, Ghost Speak, Silence, Lullaby

Day 5: Sept. 11th - Right / Left

The usual canon divergence, even canon compliance... or something even further removed!

Right: Time Travel, Pre-canon, The End AU, It's a Terrible Life AU

Left: Roleswap, Fantasy AU, Sci-fi, Multi-Crossover

Day 6: Sept. 12th - Tools of the Trade

These vary by profession. What are yours?

Overshadowing, Shot gun, Blade, Salt Circle, Trap, Ghost Portal, Ectoplasm, Impala, Feton AV, Cold Iron, Disguise, Fire, Possession, Wail, Monster of the Week, Summoning

Day 7: Sept. 13th - (Team) Free (Will)

New beginnings. Final endings. Let's do it all over again, it's only just getting started. Or is it?

Friday the 13th, Unlucky, Carry On My Wayward Son, Thrill, whatever you want!

*Take what you like, leave what you don't; these are all just extra suggestions for each day to help get the brain wrinkling up! Send any questions my way~

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 3 ]

{☆} characters neuvillette, wriothesley, furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.9k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

Wriothesley was not a man of superstition. He did not kneel at the altars until his knees bled, he did not pray until his voice gave out– he did not, contrary to popular belief, suffer divine punishment for his apparent lack of respect.

After all, what Divine would look so deep beneath the waves just for a glimpse of the sinners that inhabit it?

Not them, evidently.

He hadn't slept in the past four days, though. There was a heavy air of something where ever he walked– it followed him like a thick fog, lingering and choking him until it dragged him to his knees like a chain. His thoughts inevitably linger on the striking, extravagant letter so conveniently adorning his desk at the fortress– the broken wax seal, the letter tucked into his pocket.

He'd recognize the seal of the Iudex any day. Wasn't often he spoke to him– but the shaky, distorted words hastily etched into the paper made him pause. Neuvillette always had a steady hand– elegant, flowing script that him of flowing water.

It had kept him up for days.

The implications were..haunting. He'd poured over the letter for hours, illuminated only by faint light of his desk lamp. Yet no matter how many times he tries to see what must be hidden beneath the ink, the paper itself even, he finds nothing but the shaky script of a request that sends a bolt of pure frost through his veins.

He noticed, of course, the odd goings on of Fontaine. He'd heard vague whispers of the Divine's hunt for the imposter– he'd heard, too, of the ceaseless rain pelting Fontaine until even he wondered if the nation would finally sink beneath the waves.

It didn't, though. And that only made it all the more odd. Days of constant rain, just for it to stop suddenly..he tugged his coat tighter around him, throwing up the hood of the cloak clasped even tighter over it with a grunt as he leaned around the corner of the alleyway.

He didn't believe in superstition, but this was too hard to ignore as a simple weather anomaly.

Maybe that was why he ignored his gut– he knew that this was probably a trap, at the very least it was suspicious. But damn it, he couldn't ignore the instinct to follow the only lead he had.

His boots clicked against the rain stricken streets as he stalked through the shadows, mindful of the clinking of machine patrols just a few streets away. Yet every step felt heavier then the last as he took a long, good look at the Palais Mermonia. He almost considered bringing out his gauntlets, but he thought better of it– if it came down to it, he needed information. And he would need whoever was waiting for him alive for that– the dead don't speak and all that.

The letter's directions led him in a..rather roundabout entrance to a secluded room, evidently, as he lifted his hand and quietly knocked against the door. Two rapid knocks, pause, another knock, pause, four knocks. It doesn't take long until he hears the latch of the door unlock.

The leather of his gloves creaks as he clenches his fists, adjusting his stance. He's ready for a fight, if he must, but as the door quietly slides open he feel the weight on his shoulders relax slightly– the familiar, sharp features of Neuvillette meets him. He almost reflexively smiles at the way his pupils turn into thin slits, a momentary surprise that he quickly hides well behind a cough and the creak of the door as he pulls it open fully.

"Wriothesley. I see my letter has found you well. Please, come in." Polite as ever, Neuvillette steps aside to let him in, but he can see the exhaustion lining his features– the bags under his eyes aren't as well hidden as he thinks, at least to him. "Bit odd to be inviting me all the way out here in the middle of the night, don't you think?"

His tone is smooth as he steps into the room, brushing down his hood and glancing at Neuvillette over his shoulder, watching as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

"I apologize for the..less then ideal circumstances, but I'm certain you will understand when you see for yourself." He wants to retort, but the Iudex beats him to it, vaguely motioning to the room behind him. An invitation– but he wonders if it's worth taking.

His gut says no, but he's feeling a little risky today, he supposes.

He turns back slowly, barely able to make out the two figures he'd missed on the first glance on the other side of the room– though it's hard to mistake the flourish of the Hydro Archon, even in the dark. It's the other figure that makes the breath hitch in his throat, though.

Or maybe, more accurately, it freezes. So does his blood, his whole body even, locked in stasis for a long, tense moment– he can't see them clearly, but his instincts are going haywire. He can feel his vision almost rattle where it rests against his left shoulder, cold leaking through the layers of clothes and into his skin until he has to fight to suppress a shiver.

He'd always fancied himself the hunter– he was the one who dealt with unsavory folks, in the end. But he felt like a rabbit pinned beneath the crosshairs of a gun this time. He could almost feel the teeth of the bear trap snapping shut around him, crushing bone and flesh beneath cold metal.

For a long moment he thinks he feels fear.

And with a sharp click and a burst of light, it's gone and he takes a raspy, choked breath as he blinks away the blurriness in his vision, taking in the room illuminated by the lamp.

He's not sure what he sees is better, though.

Because his body knows that their Divinity is as real as the blood running through his veins.

So why do they remind him so much of himself? Why does he see the look of the boy who died in a pool of blood not his own in them?

It is a sick, cruel kind of familiar.

Wriothesley didn't believe in superstition– but that was born of the unknown. He knew, now. He could reach out and touch the truth with his own two hands.

The throne of the world was a lie.

The thing sitting on it bled red. And if it bled, it could die.

He clenched his fists tighter– and released, letting his shoulders slump with a huff and a half hearted chuckle. "I wasn't expecting you to be in possession of a wanted criminal when you sent me that letter." He could see the gears whirring in their heads, the subtle dampness in the air reminding him just how delicate a situation it truly was.

He wasn't particularly inclined to getting blasted by a jet of water today.

"Relax, I'm not going to spill to anyone else. Seriously– don't get my jacket wet. It's expensive and a nightmare to dry." His lips quirk into a half smile, but it twists into something almost genuine at the laugh covered up by a cough he hears from the Divine. Bingo.

"It's fine, Neuvillette. Let him go." Their voice is like honey dripping from their lips, and he has to close his jaw with his hand before they can see the way it dropped in his surprise. "Of course, most Divine. My apologies." He relaxes at the sharp click of his heels as he joins them on the bed, his posture far more relaxed then he's ever seen. The Hydro Archon, much to his confusion and amusement, is far too invested in playing with their hair to pay much attention to him now that things have calmed, evidently.

Huh.

They seemed pretty cozy about it, he noted. He guesses they three of them had some time to get acquainted.

"So..who's going to explain what the hell is going on?" He probed, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the three carefully– they all looked tired, but even through the exhaustion neither seemed inclined to stray too far from the Divine. "And what exactly your plan is? You can't keep hiding them here forever. Someone will sniff them out sooner or later."

"We are aware," Neuvillette interjects, lips pursed into a thin line and his thin brows furrowed. "But as I'm sure you've noticed, the hunt for the..forgive me, most Divine, but the hunt for the alleged imposter is still at it's peak."

He grumbles in acknowledgment, hanging up his cloak by the door and sliding out of his heavy coat, resting it over the back of a nearby chair. "Hm. Suppose that's why the patrols are so common now a days."

"I'm afraid so. As you can imagine, we cannot simply ask them to..stop the search. It would draw unwanted attention and suspicion. The Divine would be found immediately if we tried to bring them out of the city at the moment." Neuvillette added, looking proper and elegant, despite the circumstances– even in the face of the Divine and the Archon turning on him and tugging his hair into intricate braids. "So I hope you understand that it was a great risk to send you that letter."

He rubs his chin, huffing in amusement– a solid plan, maybe, but his power didn't extend too far out of the Fortress. He had his connections, sure, but what use were they when he had to get the, uh, "imposter" out of Fontaine? Smuggling them out wouldn't be easy, and then there's the point of where to take them they'd have to contend with.

"Yeah, yeah– I get it. But it's not like I can just smuggle them out or keep them in the fortress. Even if we got them out of the city, we'd have to find somewhere to bunker down, and if someone spots any of us lingering there.." Archons, what a mess he'd gotten himself into. He was really looking forward to the next time he could kick his feet up with a cup of tea.

"I understand. I have already made plans, in fact." Neuvillette hesitates, and he can feel the temperature drops a few degrees. "I..cannot share them in full at the moment, but it is not for a lack of trust." Neuvillette reasoned, hands folded neatly in his lap– not that it hid the way they shook slightly. He wanted to ask, but he thought better of it.

"Eh, I don't hold it against you. The walls have ears, even up here." He deflected, running a hand through his hair. He really hoped Sigewinne wouldn't ask too much when he gets back. "I trust your judgment." He hesitates for a long moment, pulling out a simple, neatly folded letter of his own.

"Memorize the code words, then burn it. I'll be waiting for your next letter." He murmurs, plucking his coat and cloak and tugging them back on one after another, shuffling back over to the latched door. He hesitates again, his hand lingering on the door.

"I just hope your plan is worth the risk, Neuvillette."

He leaves before he can respond, the harsh click of the door ringing in his ears even as he steps back into the shadows of the night.

[velarisdusk]

Held by a Whisper

Tamlin x Reader

word count: 1k content: [ character death, blood, mention of war, lethal injuries ] summary: In his final moments, Tamlin grapples with pain and regret as you desperately try to save him. He faces the inevitable with a heart full of unspoken words. author’s note: this came to me in a dream and i woke up in tears so here you go. originally meant to be a drabble but as per usual i got carried away teehee ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The pain was unbearable, a relentless wave that crashed over him with every labored breath, threatening to drown him. Blood poured from the gaping wound at his side, warm and thick, soaking into the ground beneath him. Tamlin had fought hard—too hard, maybe. The battle had been chaos, a blur of swords and claws, blood and dirt. He remembered the clash of steel, the bone-deep exhaustion, and then… then nothing but the white-hot pain of the blade that had nearly split him in two.

Now, everything was hazy, the world around him fading in and out of focus. But you — gods, you — were there, kneeling beside him, your hands trembling as you pressed a bloodied cloth to the wound that gaped at his side. It was a mess — a brutal strike that had nearly gutted him during the battle. The battle… It was a blur now, a frenzied chaos of swords and claws and blood. But your touch was soft, and gods, how could he even focus on the pain when all he could think about was you? The way your brows knitted in concentration, the way your lips trembled as you whispered his name, trying to keep him awake.

“Tamlin, stay with me,” your voice cracked, and he could hear the desperation beneath it. “You have to stay with me.”

He tried to speak, to reassure you, but words stuck in his throat, caught behind the blood and exhaustion. All he managed was a broken groan, but he forced himself to focus on you. Your face, pale with shock but beautiful, hovered above him, and despite the agony, despite the fact that he knew how bad this was, all he could think about was how radiant you looked. Even now, your eyes glistening with unshed tears, with his blood staining your hands and clothes, you were breathtaking — the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He wanted to tell you that, but his chest felt too heavy, his body too broken to form the words. 

“I’m here,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”

He knew that wasn’t true. He could feel the life draining out of him with every beat of his heart. But he caught himself reaching for you, his fingers trembling as they brushed weakly against your arm. He wanted to hold you, to anchor himself in your presence, but he didn’t have the strength. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he croaked, his voice a rasping whisper, barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing.

Your hands faltered for just a moment, your eyes flickering to his in surprise, before you pressed harder on the wound. “Tamlin, don’t—save your strength,” you whispered, your voice thick with worry.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let this moment pass without telling you. “Don’t know… how you do it,” he slurred, the words coming slower now. “You’re too good… for me.”

“Stop it,” you snapped gently, though your voice trembled. “This isn’t the time for that.”

But it was. He knew it was. He wasn’t going to make it. Not this time. “I mean it,” he whispered. “I’m… sorry. For everything. Should’ve been better… for you”

“Don’t,” you choked out, blinking back tears. Your lips trembled as you worked, your fingers slipping against his blood-soaked skin, pressing harder against the wound as if you could will him to stay alive. But he saw the fear in your eyes — the understanding that there was nothing you could do. “Don’t talk like that. Just stay with me, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

His heart clenched at the sound of your voice breaking, and it hurt more than any wound ever could. He wanted to stay, wanted to be here with you, but his body was heavy, the world fading faster than he could fight it. “I tried…” he breathed, his voice barely audible now. “Tried to… protect you.”

“You did,” you said, your voice thick. He forced his eyes open, just for a moment, just to see you one last time. His chest felt tight, each breath more difficult than the last, but as he looked up at you, your face blurred by tears, he managed a faint, broken smile. “You did, Tamlin. You saved us. But you have to stay. You have to–”

“I’ll always love you,” he rasped, his voice nothing more than a fragile thread of sound, the words a desperate, broken thing he should’ve said long ago, but now… now was the only time left. 

“I love you too,” you said, your voice shaking, but it felt so distant now. Tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto his skin as you leaned closer, cradling his face in your hands. “Tamlin, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. “Please. Stay with me.”

Tamlin blinked slowly, his vision blurring again. The world was slipping away. All he could feel was the warmth of your touch, the press of your hands against his skin. It was a cruel thing, to finally have you here like this, so close, when he was so far from you. 

“Just… stay,” he whispered, his voice fading.

You held him tighter, your tears falling faster now, and he wished he could reach up and wipe them away. But his body wouldn’t respond. His limbs felt heavy, his eyelids even heavier.

“Please,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’ll try,” he mumbled. But it was too late.

The last thing he saw before everything went dark was you, your bloodied and tear-stricken face, and gods, even then, you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

[ghcstpyre]

tom ludlow x f!reader x jack traven

cw: jealous!tom, rookie!reader, cis female reader, implied age gap, alcohol consumption, one sided pining (or is it? oooo), nicknames for reader (rookie, kid), slight horniness, SFW.

word count: 3.6k

anon: Do you take requests? If yes, may I request a jealous Tom Ludlow drabble?

a/n: thank you so much for the request! I hope you don't mind that I made this a crossover, I couldn't resist including the other LAPD dreamboat 🤤 I know next to nothing about the way american police systems work so sorry for any mistakes or inaccuracies!

Tom's eyes were glued to you as you chatted away with a young man at the bar, perched daintily atop one of the rickety looking barstools. He was vaguely aware that Captain Briggs to his right was talking to him, something about a lethal cocktail he tried in a seedy bar during his holiday to Europe, but only half of his attention was paid to his colleague.

The bar was fairly crowded with groups of friends engulfing the tables, playing pool and sitting at the bar. The dim lights washed the room in a warm glow, the sound of blues music and laughter filled the space between the bodies and the faint smell of cigarettes could be smelled lightly wafting in from the entrance whenever anyone left or entered.

A few of the officers were out to celebrate the birthday of one of the guys from the bomb squad - Jake or Jace or something like that. Tom never really went out of his way to get friendly with the adrenaline junkies. Since his already weary heart was torn in two by Wander, he hadn't gone out of his way to get friendly with anyone.

Briggs being one of the exceptions of course. The scrawny, smug asshole was the only thing that stood between him and a lifetime of hell behind bars after his blood-soaked hunt for the monster behind Washington’s murder. Turns out that glueing your life back together after it crumbled around you in rapid succession really puts a spin on how you feel about a guy.

The only other exception was you. You, with your sparkling eyes, perfect smile, sunny disposition and pure, uncorrupted sense of justice. 

When the Captain introduced you as Tom's new partner, he wasn't so sure. You were young, fresh from the academy with the same childlike wonder shining in your eyes that he had when he was a rookie himself. He was old and tired and quite frankly he didn't have the patience for training the newbie. But you'd very quickly exceeded his insultingly low expectations, and if Tom was completely honest with himself, the two of you actually made a good team.

You were competent in the field, able to hold your own but also smart enough to know when to seek assistance. You listened to him, but also questioned him when you thought it necessary. Easily the biggest bonus was the fact you didn't mind the piles of paperwork that came after a bust; more than once Tom had been more than happy to slip away to get some real work done while you buried your pretty face into those dreaded stacks of dead tree. You threw yourself into it, much like you did with everything else that came with the job. 

And yet, even after witnessing some of the horrors that came with being a detective, still you shone brightly like a beacon of innocence and hope amongst the jaded and corrupt.

That is why Tom Ludlow began to fall for you. And god he hoped that light didn't burn out like his had done all those years ago.

“...om? Tom? Oi, Ludlow!”

One of Briggs’ boney hands waved in front of Tom's face, drawing the detective's attention away from you. Tom took a sip of his drink - whiskey, neat since he didn't have to try and cover up the stench of booze for once - and turned his head to look at Briggs who looked less than impressed.

“You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?” Briggs deadpanned.

Tom scoffed. “Sure I did. Something about cocktails and your titillating discovery of European prostitutes?”

The captain rolled his beady eyes. “Ha ha. Y'know, I think I prefer Vodka-Tom. He might be a sad sack, but at least he doesn't think himself a comedian.”

Tom barked out a short laugh. “Unfortunately for me there ain't a single version of you I like, James.”

Briggs grinned and the two men clinked their glasses together, enjoying their little bubble of solitude tucked away on a table in the corner while the younger officers joined in with the joyous din of the bar. A small reprieve from his longing for your attention, albeit brief. The Captain eventually excused himself to use the restroom and although Tom had tried to force his gaze to wander over the groups of people scattered around the bar, it always eventually ended up landing on you again. 

The little black dress you wore flattered you in all the right places and the black heels on your feet sent a thrill through his body. Your hair fell over your shoulders, washed and blow-dried to perfection and when he caught the rouge on your lips he swore his heart skipped a beat. He'd only ever seen you during work hours with your hair nearly pulled back, bare faced and donning your uniform. Always professional, always put together.

Tonight he was seeing you in a whole new light. While he was only watching you from afar, Tom could tell that you were a little tipsy and all smiles for the man sat on the barstool next to you. He watched, his jaw clenched as you laughed at something the man said, twirling your straw around in your glass before bringing the thin tube of plastic to your plush red lips to take a sip of your drink.

Tom couldn't get a good look at the man, but he could see that he was tall, broad and sporting a buzzcut and a badge hooked to his belt. Part of the bomb squad, Tom deduced, if his stature was anything to go by. A puff of air left Tom in a quiet huff and he shifted in his seat, sipping from his drink again while he tried to get a better look at you and the man he’d already decided he didn't like.

The detective had only decided to show his face tonight because you'd mentioned you were going. He didn't know how you knew the birthday boy, but he'd be damned if he missed an opportunity to see you and spend time with you outside the precinct. Obviously he'd dragged Briggs along as his plus one; there was no way in hell he was suffering through any sort of bomb squad party without a friend there to kill time with.

Besides, it was an open invitation party which was as good an excuse as any to bump into you.

Mr Buzzcut eventually left to meander his way through the crowd over to the retro jukebox off to the side of the bar, leaving you sitting pretty on that shit barstool by yourself. Tom threw back the rest of his drink, wiped his mouth and decided to talk to you while Buzzcut wasn't hanging around.

As Tom weaved his way through the groups of drunken partygoers, he kept reminding himself that there was nothing wrong with an officer making conversation with his subordinate off duty. He might've been older than you - by quite the margin - but there was nothing out of the ordinary about two coworkers having a casual chat and a drink.

“Rookie.” Tom greeted you gruffly as he stepped up to the bar next to where you were perched.

You turned your head and looked up at him, still having to tilt your head up to meet his gaze despite being sat on a tall barstool. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and you immediately sat up straighter upon realising who it was.

“Detective Ludlow! I didn't know you were here.” You half yelled, doing your best to be heard over the din of the bar and not slur your words at the same time. “If I had I would've found you sooner to say hello, Sir.”

Tom huffed in amusement and waved one of his large hands dismissively, his other arm resting atop the bar from his elbow. “Don't worry about it. And we're off duty, no need to be so formal, kid.”

You smiled and he noticed the way the tension in your shoulders began to unwind, no longer sitting straight as an arrow. “Alright then, Tom, what are you doing here?” You asked, angling your body to fully face him and cross one long leg over the other. It took all of Tom's strength to not follow the movement of your leg with his eyes. Hearing you call him by his name did things to him that certainly weren't appropriate for the relationship he had with you. “Didn't think you were that fond of the bomb squad.”

“Oh yeah? What gave it away?” He grinned, a curious eyebrow raised.

You tapped your index finger against your chin in mock thought and cocked your head to the side. “Hmm I don't know, maybe the constant grumbling whenever any of them enter our office? The sarcastic comments? The general hostility?” Your pretty face scrunched into a comical scowl and you puffed out your chest in an attempt to impersonate him. If it was anyone else Tom would tell them to fuck off, but coming from you it was just downright adorable.

The corners of Tom's brown eyes crinkled into crow’s feet  as he smiled and laughed, a deep baritone sound rumbling from his chest. He shifted his stance, inching a little closer to you and leaning his weight onto one hip. You could smell the notes of his cologne drifting towards you and maybe it was because you were a little drunk, but you couldn't help but notice how good he smelled – and how good he looked.

He wasn't wearing anything fancy, just a black t-shirt, dark blue jeans and a pair of brown ankle boots. But his t-shirt was tight enough that it stretched across his broad chest and strained around his thick biceps. The heavy silver buckle on his belt did things to your insides (you'd already seen the way Tom could handle a belt once before and the fire it lit beneath your skin had you wanting to see him do it again) and his denim jeans hugged his long legs in all the right places. The Cuban-esque heels on his boots were the cherry on the cake; he looked absolutely delicious.

You were definitely drunk, you told yourself, because you found yourself wanting to get closer to Tom so you could get a whiff of that cologne at least once more. After sucking up the last of your drink through the straw in your glass you hopped down off the rickety barstool to stand next to Tom.

As your heels touched the wooden floorboards you wobbled drunkenly and stumbled forward, right into Tom. He seemed to anticipate it however, and reacted quick enough to catch you before you face planted right into his chest – not that he would've minded it if you had done. The arm that wasn't resting on the bar wrapped around your waist to hold you firmly against his body while you regained your footing.

“Easy there, rookie.” Tom murmured, his voice a deep, pleasant rumble.

It was the first time you'd been this physically close to eachother in a situation that didn't involve any sort of danger. You felt secure in his strong hold and as you looked up to meet his gaze from beneath your lashes, you couldn't quite place the look on his face. 

You could feel heat rising to your cheeks. Before you could say anything, Tom exhaled and let his arm loosen around you. His hand, however, stayed resting protectively - almost possessively - on your lower back as you took a small step back, still staying close enough to smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body.

“S-sorry,” Though you were apologising your lips still curved up into a smile. “I turn into a clutz when I've had a few.”

Tom returned your smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling once more. “It would seem so. Better be careful or you'll end up clinging to your superior officer all night.”

You could've sworn there was a suggestive tinge to his voice, but you chalked it up to the booze swimming throughout your system. Tom's smile only widened when you didn't blanche or recoil away and instead inched closer to him, close enough that you were practically tucked against his side.

“Oh no,” You faked a swoon, dramatically pressing the back of your hand against your forehead and leaning your full weight against him. “I’d get a big strong man looking after me and you'd get a hot young woman on your arm all night – what a predicament!”

Tom barked out another laugh, the rare sound flooding your chest with warmth.

Big strong man, huh? He thought.

“Jesus kid, you are drunk. Think you've got room for another?” The hand that rested on your lower back slid upwards to curl around your bare shoulder and give it an affectionate squeeze.

It was difficult for him to ignore just how soft your skin felt beneath his rough, calloused hand, and how perfectly you slotted against his side. Tom was already committing the curves of your body to memory.

“Hell yeah I do.” You grinned up at him and he signalled to the bartender with his free hand to order drinks for the two of you.

Once Tom had paid for your drinks you perched yourself on the barstool again with him relinquishing his hold on you and following suit. You scooted your seat closer to him under the guise of wanting to hear him better over the noisy patrons as you chatted and sipped on your booze. If he saw through the lie he said nothing, though you didn't miss the way his pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown hue of his irises when your ankle rubbed against his leg as you crossed one over the other.

The rest of the bar seemed to fade away, all of your attention on the man in front of you. It was as if all of the voices, laughter and music around you had been turned down to volume 0 and the visuals shifted out of focus until they blurred. You didn't even realise the music change from a bluesy number to ABBA. How had you never noticed how handsome, how charming Tom was before? 

You weren't even sure you could blame it on the beer goggles anymore.

It was someone else's hand on the small of your back that pulled you back to reality. You watched as Tom's eyes narrowed at whoever had interrupted the two of you and for a moment you thought it was some creep trying to cop a feel. But when you turned your head to look at the owner of said hand, you immediately relaxed.

“Jack!” The upbeat notes of ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ finally reached your ears. “Welcome back birthday boy. Did you put this one on?”

Jack flashed you a dazzling grin of pride, seemingly completely unaware of Tom's existence on the stool next to you despite the glare being shot his way. “Hell yeah I did. Do I get the star detective’s seal of approval?”

The sleeves of his loose-fitting faded flannel shirt were rolled up to the elbow, showing off his toned, bronzed forearms and he'd neglected to button up the first two buttons at the top, exposing just enough of his chest to make you want to rip open the rest. His light blue jeans and white sneakers had him sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the blacks and browns of the other patrons.

Your ankle retracted from Tom's leg and you laughed. That sweet sound would've been music to Tom's ears had it been directed at anyone other than that cocky prick. The grip he had on his drink tightened, enough that his knuckles began to turn white.

“Absolutely you do, I love this song!” 

You were all smiles and rosy cheeks for this guy and it was taking all of Tom's willpower not to butt in and put this boy in his place. He'd had a few run-ins with Jack Traven in the past when their cases crossed over and needless to say, the two of them did not get along. Tom respected Jack for his heroics on that bus with the bomb; it was rare to find someone else with the balls and grit to say fuck it to the endless red tape and just get shit done, but that was where his like for Traven began and ended.

“Really?” Tom piped up, casually sipping on his drink, reclaiming your attention and gaining Traven’s. “You like this kinda stuff?”

Tom's gaze dropped to your lips as you playfully rolled your eyes and stuck your tongue out at him. He knew for a fact he'd be thinking about the cute shade of pink of your tongue while he laid in bed later in the night, trying not to think of you at all.

“Tom, this is Jack from the SWAT team. Jack, this is Tom, my partner in crime. Or law? I guess?” You said, not clocking the obvious tension between the two men either side of you.

The attractive, charming SWAT member who flirted with you whenever he needed to stop by your office, and your hot, older superior officer who smelled amazing and made you think extremely inappropriate thoughts. You just knew you were going to have some very interesting dreams about this later.

“Yeah, we've met.” Jack's voice didn't hold as much charm now that it was directed at Tom and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The detective simply nodded in acknowledgement. “How's Briggs doing? You still keeping his desk piled high with paperwork thanks to your…heroics?”

You raised a freshly plucked brow at Jack, then turned to Tom. The older man’s poker face didn't crack, completely unphased by Jack's obvious passive aggression. “How's Annie?”

You could feel Jack's hand on your lower back stiffen.

“You guys were pretty loved up after that train popped up from the ground. Must be an intense kinda girl.” Tom continued, bringing his glass to his lips once again, nonchalant to the core.

Jack removed his hand from you and stood up to his full height. He couldn't have been much shorter than Tom, maybe by a couple of inches. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and while the two men were busy doing their best to be subtle about their peacocking in front of you, you were slurping your drink through your straw and trying to process the possibility of Jack already having a girlfriend.

“We broke up. Thanks for opening up that wound, old man.” 

Old man. Tom grinned and huffed in amusement, knowing he'd hit a nerve. “Ah c'mon champ, the wound can't be that bad. I could've sworn I saw you in here with a different girl not too long ago. Y'know, curly hair? Hoop earrings?”

Jack's thick eyebrows pulled down in a frown and he puffed out his chest beneath his folded arms. “Are you jealous? What's your problem?”

“I just don't want a womaniser like you sniffing around my rookie. So why don't you be a good SWAT hound and sniff somewhere else?” 

Tom spoke in a possessive growl. If you weren't several drinks deep you'd be embarrassed by the heat pooling between your thighs at the detective calling you his. You were about to pipe up and attempt some drunken damage control, but Jack was stepping around you and up to Tom before you could say anything.

The detective slid off his chair to stand to his full height the moment Jack was close enough for the toes of their shoes to touch. He leered over the younger man, eyes narrowed in fury, daring him to try it.

“You wanna say that again old man?” Jack spat, his words dripping from his tongue like venom. “Why’re you acting like some jealous boyfriend over a girl half your age anyway?”

Tom's fists were balled up so tight his knuckles had turned white. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene right in front of you – he was older and knew better – but goddamn if he wasn't tempted to clock this insufferable prick right in his jaw to teach him a lesson and shut him the hell up.

“She's your subordinate too, right? Maybe I should pay Briggs a visit, I'm sure he'd love to hear about this little abuse of power.”

“Okay!” You put your now-empty glass down on the bar with a forceful clunk and hopped down from your perch to grab the sleeve of Jack's flannel shirt and pull him back so you could stand between the two peacocking men. Luckily for you, Jack allowed you to move him, the tension building up within his muscles immediately easing off at your touch.

The fact that you'd gone for Jack and not him only riled Tom up further. But, for your sake, he inhaled deeply and let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, forcing himself to simmer down as he watched you turn to the younger man and place those dainty little hands of yours on his chest.

“You, birthday boy, are missing out on Dancing Queen and still owe me a dance, and you–” You removed a hand from Jack to jab a finger into Tom's chest. “--Sir, need to rescue Captain Briggs from that very drunk woman over there.”

Tom's intense gaze flicked down to where your finger lingered on him a little too long, then to your pretty eyes before finally turning around to see that, yup, his friend had been cornered by an extremely inebriated woman on his way out of the bathroom. She was practically hanging off him with her arms around his neck whilst the much skinnier man desperately tried to point out the wedding ring on his boney finger.

Both you and Jack had to do your best not to laugh, stifling your giggles behind your hands as Tom deflated like a balloon in front of your eyes. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” He groaned, his altercation with Traven immediately forgotten as he stomped over to rescue Briggs. Your gaze lingered on the older man as his long legs ate up the space between him and the Captain, leaving you with Jack who was already taking your hand in his and tugging you towards the dancefloor.

With a roll of your eyes you allowed yourself to be dragged away by the handsome young man, despite the urge to follow after Tom like a little lost lamb. Jack held both of your hands as the two of you began to move and sway enthusiastically along to the upbeat tune of ABBA.

When Tom had finally managed to untangle the drunken woman from Briggs without flashing his badge, he couldn't help the way his heart sank in his chest at the sight of you cosied up to Traven on the dancefloor. If he thought about it hard enough he could still feel the curves of your body pressed against his side, all soft and supple and goddamn delicious to the point where he almost ached with the desire to map out those dips and swells with his hands, lips and tongue.

“Let's get outta here.” He grunted, forcing himself to look away from you before the urge to start drinking vodka crept up on him.

“Already? You still owe me a drink.” Briggs complained.

Tom didn't bother replying, already making a beeline for the exit, his eyes focused straight ahead on the squeaky double doors to avoid seeing the way Jack's hands moved to your hips to pull you against him.

What he didn't see was your pretty head turning to watch him leave.

[garbageboy-stinkman]

Excited to share that I finally decided to write and post an incredibly self-indulgent Zosan AU I've been working on for a while now!

Summary:

After leaving the security of Momoiro Island and reuniting with her friends at Sabaody, Sanji still hadn't found the confidence to come out. Instead, she's been snatching any time she can get to herself whenever the Sunny docked to be just an anonymous woman in the crowd. Following the events at Whole Cake and Wano, however that wasn't enough anymore; Sanji wanted to share this part of herself with the people she loved most.

And she really did plan to tell the crew, but when she finds herself accidentally dating Zoro, things start getting complicated.

[powderblueblood]

GETTING TO KNOW YOUR EDDIE

— the 411 on the loser playboy of the midwestern world

Tagged by @jo-harrington & @deathbecomesthem who got this stunning prompt on the road, love this love youse

let’s talk MUNSON!

What story is he from? What kind of story is it (Fix-it fic, Older!Eddie, Rockstar!Eddie etc)? The Eddie darling that takes up prime real estate in my brain is of course Hellfire & Ice Eddie, which is a teen romantic-dramadey with sprinkles of crime capers on top. We meet him at 18 years of age, drug dealin’, Dungeon wheelin’, at the absolute top of his bottom of the food chain game. He’s all raw nerve and engine sputter, our consummate not ready for prime time player. He is brassy, ballsy, funny, terrified.

What inspired you to write this Eddie? Flight of Icarus, actually! It reignited my initial love for him by basically confirming what I had already known to be true—he’s a little bitch that’ll take any opportunity to be struck down lovesick and he’s doomed by his bloodline.

What are your favorite headcanons about him/share something you never shared in your story? Eddie runs on a full tank of defiance, just burning rubber against what’s expected of kids his age—but to zoom in? Eddie sometimes wonders what it would be like if he was different. Tried harder. Cut his hair, joined the basketball team, really pulled himself up by his bootstraps and divorced himself from his stain of a last name. Folded in and blended, made all the right moves. Why couldn’t I do that? he thinks, Just pretend. I’m good at making shit up. But that’s selling out. And Eddie Munson is no sell out—rap sheet or no, his life is his own.

What does he wear on a casual day? On a dressier day? What does he wear to bed? Casual day, it’s your cartoon character stock costume of insert band t-shirt here, ripped jeans there, doubled up battle vest and leather cut to top it all off. There might be a variant in jean shade but that’s it. He likes to stick to a look. The dressiest he’ll go (he does not own dressy clothes) is a black cable knit sweater, very old, with the thumb holes worried through the cuffs. To bed, preferably nothing, but boxers of absolutely necessary and a very old, ratty pair of flannel PJ bottoms and an old t-shirt or a faded sweatshirt of Wayne’s if it’s freezing.

Favorite foods? This FUCK loves a pizza with the most fuckass toppings. Anchovy, black olive, pepperoni, sweetcorn (for the vitamins!), pineapple (for the jizz thing!) all on the one pie. But he can cook, to an extent, and we unfortunately have to hand this to ex-line cook Al who taught him how to grill a cheese and make a bitchin’ spaghetti with honeyed tomato gravy and lots of oregano. Eddie also loves a snack he can gesticulate with, see: Twizzler, corn dog, ice pop. Bordering on phallic foods.

Tell Us About His Family/Friends: Immediately in the gene pool—Al, the absent and up-to-no-good father who somehow still has a knife in Eddie’s side and will twist it with the simple words, “C’mon, that’s my boy!” Wayne, uncle and father figure, silent but loving and the only real pillar Eddie could ever lean against, and he feels like such a burden for it sometimes. Elizabeth, mommy dearest and dead, canonised like a saint in Eddie’s mind, and might have been but also might not have been. The root of his love of music and his need to tell stories to survive. The found-by-the-hand-of fate family— Ronnie Ecker, the Stalter to his Waldorf, the Bonham to his Page, the only person he’d ever follow into battle because you wouldn’t think it but Ronnie, who is secretly rage akimbo, would accidentally lead that charge. He loves her like a sister, she loves him like a dog. Just kidding. Maybe. He wants to be Ronnie Ecker when he grows up. Granny Ecker comes as part of this deal, one of the people credited with whooping Eddie into shape. We don’t quite know what shape yet, it’s Picassoan in nature. Then, the extension again that is the great Corroded Coffin/Hellfire crossover event—Jeff, Cyrus, Dougie and Gareth. He’s not quite as close with the boys, but they’re good boys. They love and fear him, except for Cyrus who is a true enigma which pisses Eddie off because he’s supposed to be the fucking enigma here, dammit.

Yeah Yeah, he's a Metalhead. Tell Us MORE About His Taste in Music in your story: We are working off Flight of Icarus rules so he’s got a taste in the mouth for Howlin’ Wolf style blues, real down and dirty Detroit shit. He also loves a sleazeball, so enter Tom Waits and when he’s feeling REALLY sentimental, Leonard Cohen. Eddie loves to bite a thumb so he has some punk spinning too—Richard Hell, MC5, The Cramps, and reluctantly Iggy and the Stooges. They’re Al’s favourite so kind of tainted. Last but not least, I think that Johnny Cash’s Live From Folsom Prison album gets a lot of play. Particularly Cocaine Blues and Dark in the Dungeon, which he’s definitely incorporated into some campaign. He does NOT listen to CHICK MUSIC because he’s a loser boy (Wayne has a Linda Ronstadt record that makes him cry).

What are his views on romance? On sex? Eddie Munson falls in love fourteen times a day because at the be all and end all, he’s an artist and he’s sensitive as shit. Let’s get one thing straight—he can flirt to beat the band, once anyone gives him the time of day. Which they don’t. But in his mind? He’s a silver tongued Casanova. It’s just easier to use on people he hates. Once he has a crush, he has an obsession, even if he’s oftentimes too chickenshit to act on it. Cue pulling pigtails in the playground routine. He wants so badly to worship someone and be worshipped in return, okay, it’s reciprocal worshipping—give him mutual pathological obsession or give him DEATH. He wants to build a shrine, and will, to the right person. He’ll preoccupy his mind with every detail about them to the point where, yeah, it is borderline kind of stalkery but he’s still 18 years old. Speaking of, sex? Yeah, he’s done it. Badly. He’s like to do it again, goodly. He’d like to do it with someone that wasn’t treating it like an experiment, someone who’d let him slobber all over them and rut and keen and whine like the hound in heat he fucking feels like. He has no goddamn control! He experiences pleasure in a total headrush, never been able to stay cool and sexy and commanding a day in his life. He just wants, wants, wants and he burns so hot. Eddie wants so clumsily that it comes out at the most inappropriate times, like the nurse’s office after he gets his fist busted. He’s not some sex god, just some dick with an overeager cock. But he sure is willing to put in the work.

Is he optimistic or pessimistic? Pessimistic on the surface, the life is shit and then you die so might as well do some whippits poster boy but so so secretly, Eddie holds the tiniest flame of hope that someday, somehow, things will get better. At the very least easier. That he’ll grow into his bones somehow, or someone will help soothe him into them. That he’ll feel some kind of belonging. Because he does want that, really. Some soft place to land.

Where or with whom is he most comfortable? Those pockets of alchemy at Hellfire Club when he’s got a rapt audience. With Ronnie, sitting on the sagging couch outside his trailer. Playing chauffeur to a certain princess across-the-way.

What are his views of his future? What are his hopes/dreams? Pie in the sky? Cover of Circus with his cheeks out, duh. A Grammy or two, his own metal club, a published fantasy author, shit. He’s not askin’ for the world, here! But honestly, Eddie’s view of his future is 18 year old misanthropist bleak. He hasn’t even considered college as an option, not that he’d get there with his grades. He figures he might just start selling full time for Rick once (if) he graduates then hopefully have the good enough sense to take his money and split to Chicago or someplace. Might hit it lucky when he’s played in a couple more iterations of Corroded Coffin and con someone into letting him be a session guitarist—which wouldn’t be the cover of Circus, but would still be a huge deal! But as much as an ego game as he likes to talk, he’s got this terrible, looming feeling that he’ll never leave Hawkins alive.

What do you imagine his future looks like? (If your story is incomplete or if this would be a spoiler you're not willing to share, you can skip this question.) I’ll give you a couple details, because I am writing a sequel about this. Picture a brief stint in Indianapolis. Meaner, grizzlier, bartender-ier, going on a decade of heartbreak, performing at his sexual best but nearing burnout and about to turn 30 with some side dealings at home that are edging out of the side and into the forefront. Heavy is the hand that wears the ring. You look so much like your father!

Anything else you'd like us to know about your Eddie/your story? He is so full of love and piss and vinegar. He is going to end up cherished. Like, violently so.

Optional Vulnerable Question: Why do you write fics for Eddie Munson? I love a tragedy touched smartass who folds at the first sign of affection. I want to nourish him and eat him up like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. Or have Lacy do it for me, whatever.

tagging: YOU. READING THIS. Not KIDDING IF YOURE READING THIS GET TO WORK

[smallz-o]

this came to me in a dream last night and I don't even fucking write

"Pa! look, Pop Slimes' here!", Sunny grinned. 

"Charlie?" Tubbo had absolutely no fucking clue why or even how Slime had gotten here in the first place. He hadn't seen him in months, hell, he was pretty sure he got crushed to death when the island reset. There was no logical explanation on how he was even alive, let alone here playing with his daughter. "Yeah, how's it going man? It's been a while." the man stretched his arms casually, resting them behind his head. 

"Poppet, is it alright if I borrow your Pop for a moment? I need to talk to him in private," he managed through gritted teeth. Sunny pouted but obliged anyway, walking off to her room to entertain herself. 

Once he was certain the child was out of earshot he turned to Slime with a scowl, pupils in slits. "What in the everloving fuck do you think you're trying to do here?" the man seethed, grabbing the other by the collar of his shirt.  

"I'm spending time with my kid, what does it look like I'm doing?" the slime replied, nervous but attempting to play it off.

"You can't just dissapear for months, only to decide 'oh hey, I'm going to spend time with my kid', and expect everything to be dandy," his grip tightens, "do you have any idea how much fucking child support you owe me?!" 

Slime doesn't meet his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. Tubbo groans, letting go of the fabric of Charlie's shirt in favor of pressing his palms into his eyes. 

"You can't keep doing this man." He sighs. "You can't just- you can't just keep showing up if you're just going to leave again."

"I know I-" the slime starts.

"No you don't, that girl-" he gestures to the direction of Sunny's room, "looks at you like you hung the sky. And it crushes them, everytime their Pop Slime leaves them behind, makes her think that she wasn't good enough to make him stay." Tubbo glenches his fist in a white knuckled grip.

 "So I think that Pop Slime needs to either get his shit together and be there for our daughter, or he needs to fuck off for good and stop getting our hopes up." 

And with that Tubbo walked off.

[soloavengers]

I CAUGHT THE MEME FLU…

ft. @wokestone’s Rhea & Beckett, @arisenreborn’s babygirl Emrys <3 oh I couldn’t help myself with Raghnall

[kindred-spirit-93]

right so, summer term is in less than a week and in the words of another tumblr post, this is for the wiggles; i need to get this out of my system before i implode. enjoy :)

greetings yall. this is essentially a list of my current ocs that live their own lives in their respective universes in the back of my mind. ill start out with a list and expand elsewhere later to avoid overwhelmingness

i will update this with links to individual oc fact files and posts in the future inshallah

･ﾟ*.･ﾟ✧ .･ﾟ*･ﾟ

✧ le fandoms and their respective established characters as of writing:

harry potter: anisa (tbc)

percy jackson: Hilal

the apothecary diaries: Maymuna

demon slayer: Siham

my hero academia: yamama (tbc)

✧ fandoms ive dabbled in that dont have established characters (yet):

spy x family

bungo stray dogs

hunter x hunter

the anne shirley serires

detective conan

inuyasha

the addams family

more that ive temporarily forgotten lol

✧ fandoms that dont get ocs for various reasons :

hamilton and other musicals

real life people (i find it weird)

childhood favourites like movies, shows, etc. (like tmnt, coraline, disney princesses, spacetoon classics like romeos blue skies...)

please kindly note that the way my hyperfixations work in terms of fandoms is that when i come across said fandom, i obsessively read every wiki page in existence and watch compilations and scour the interwebs for memes and sometimes fics, and proceed to avoid (for reasons unbeknownst to me) actually consuming the media itself (original books or its adapted versions). i believe its because i dont have the capacity to be emotionally attached to new characters and suffer, but whos to say :P

also note that these characters are in many ways inspired from my own experiences and i occasionally draw from people and places im familiar with, so in instances where things 'wouldnt work' for whatever reason, (firstly im aware, hence their existence) remember that these are works of fiction, and that with the right writing (mostly) anything works. and creative liberties mwahahaha >:)

this is one of the reasons this blog exists; for me to dump the contents of my mind to make way for other (hopefully more useful) stuff, so if u stumble on here feel free to partake (as per the guidelines stated in the pinned post), otherwise move on. this before anything else is for me and my amusement, i wont be catering to anyones interests.

this post and its contents is sponsored and made possible by maladaptive daydreaming and my other less than healthy coping mechanisms :)

me @ this post

[harbingersglory]

can i req some arlecchino kink headcanons? no pressure to answer! there's just a lack of new knave content lately ahhh.. (￣ヘ￣)

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes drabble, hc's, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

{☆} dacryphilia

arlecchino is a sucker for crying. doesn't matter if you cry easily or not– either she sees it as a challenge to make you cry in the first place or to see how much you can cry before you have to tap out. her absolute favorite way to make you cry is straight up overstimulating (or understimulating you, depending on her mood) until you're practically sobbing. if you cry prettily enough maybe she'll take pity on you.

{☆} temp play

arlecchino has a pyro vision and she is absolutely going to use it. especially prominent if you're both in snezhnaya– it provides prime opportunities for her to slip her hands under your clothes when you least expect it just to see you squirm beneath her hands. she'd never actually do anything too scandalous in public, but if you're a bit more hidden away she'll have no qualms playing with your chest. if you complain about the cold you're just giving her an excuse to "warm you up" and see you tremble like a lamb.

{☆} face sitting

nothing prettier to her then seeing you above her with her face between your legs. her tongue is just as warm as any other part of her, and she knows how to use it, too. she'll hook her arms around your thighs just to hold you down until you've doubled over from the intensity of it– if you start crying, oh, she just gets worse. absolutely ravenous. she won't stop even if her jaw starts to ache. if you don't want her to stop, she could go for hours without a break.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

"You'll never drown if you keep swimming.." very nice words to hear after the stressful ordeal of making a deal with the devil! I REALLY LOVE JAY FERIN. when shes not carrying the team in battle shes very much carrying more emotional luggage than others seem to give her credit for. im cheering for her! go girl, go get the team together!

[quinnverse]

mini tldr bios for the girlies, a slow wip 👉👉

emma is from boston and the only child of john dunster, a semi-wealthy businessman who owns and runs a shipping company. emma dreams of running the company one day, much to her father's chagrin. the year of her twentieth birthday, she was sent to london by her father to stay with her aunt and cousins for the duration of the social season in the hopes that she’ll find someone to marry--and make her forget her dreams of taking over the family business. she's a spitfire and often outspoken and feisty, but she's warmhearted and loyal to a fault.

iris is the fourth child of six. her and her sisters are sometimes (lovingly) referred to as the Smythe-Smith Bouquet, due to their names (Rose, Marigold, Lavender, Iris, Daisy). she has a form of leucism that makes her hair and skin lack melanin and she is often described as "strikingly pale". her hair is blonde and her eyelashes are very light, but not quite white, making her almost ghostly at times. she is also closeted bisexual. both of these only prove to make her feel like an outcast among her own family. she despises performing for the smythe-smith musicales but hates the idea of marrying a man she doesn't know even more. she's shy and closed off, but she has a big heart and bigger ideas.

relations: sarah pleinsworth (cousin), honoria smythe-smith (cousin)

sarah is the eldest of the four pleinsworth daughters and cousin to the smythe-smith family. she is confident and witty but often comes across as selfish and brash. she is caring and passionate once her walls are breached, but one has to brave through the thickets of her outer exterior (and the muddy waters of her siblings) to get to know the real sarah. she is utterly devoted to her family and sees familial loyalty as the most important thing, next to always being right.

relations: honoria smythe-smith (cousin, best friend), iris smythe-smith (cousin). verse dependent: hugh prentice (husband)

honoria is the younger sister of daniel smythe-smith, the earl of winstead, baron touchton of stoke, and viscount streathermore. her brother was chased out of the country after a duel went wrong and honoria longs for the day her brother is allowed to return home. in his stead, daniel's best friend marcus, the earl of chatteris, is given the duty of watching over honoria. marucs, however, doesn't think any suitor is good enough for honoria and often pays the men to give up or threatens them, leaving honoria unmarried and frustrated with life. she is fiercely loyal to her family and would do anything to protect them. she is very close with her cousins, specifically sarah with whom she shares everything with.

relations: iris smythe-smith (cousin), sarah pleinsworth (cousin). verse dependent: marcus holroyd (husband), anne wynter (sister-in-law)