#inter-pet

[is-it-cute-gf-au-edition]

Sooo I wanna ask your opinion before doing anything rash!

How about we sign you up for a good ol' pet show competition? I think you have a good shot at winning, plus they sometimes have money prizes! Make the most of the situation and all!

This would be a pretty bad idea. It's usually against show regulations to enter non-pets into these competitions, which includes most sophonts. Maybe there are exceptions for Earth-only shows that haven't bothered to put a rule on the books. This does happen, though, and regularly enough that there is a subsection of the universal ban list for handlers who try to enter sophonts. (The sophont is usually also banned, but there's been at least one case of the sophont who was entered at a young age as a pet coming back later and a handler. The judges decided that he wasn't responsible. I think there was another controversial case where they let the banned sophont back in as a handler after she got out of prison.)

I'm pretty sure Cipher is threatening the admins and sponsors. Even so, they'd probably just delay or cancel the games altogether if he weren't obviously not trying to win.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

uhhhgggggg okay i am making the Responsible decision to not actually push through to finish this embroidery before Veilguard after all... if i had not spent 7 hours yday carving a pumpkin i could probs do it but theres still 10-15 hours left of stitching probably and i simply cannot put off my other stuff anymore instead lmao. consoling myself with the fact that if i wait a week to post it anyway more ppl will see as they leave their veilguard bunkers....... maybe..... but still. SIGH

[lovelybrandt]

The Funny hg.02 Merchandise Inter Milan Printed Animal Football Cartoon Character Cute Like Carpet Floor For Sale.

These Are Stores Available Now On! Etsy And Alibaba AliExpress Wish.

These Are Countries Now On! USA And Canada Europe Asia Australia.

Source: Posts Images From TaoBao.

[littlenim]

actual text exchange between my dad and I because my life is a never-ending pet-centric comedy bit

[harunayuuka2060]

Jack: ...

Jack: How? *looking at MC's test papers*

MC: *scored high in the subjects they could tolerate and failed the rest*

Jack: You could be a top student like Riddle-senpai if you just put in the effort!

MC: ...

MC: *turns their head and sleeps*

Jack: ...

Jack: I'M STILL TALKING TO YOU!

Leona: Not a good idea.

Crowley: *wants MC to participate in the upcoming inter-school quiz bee*

Crowley: Why not? MC is more than qualified.

Leona: You really think they'll be motivated to represent this school? Think again.

Crowley: ...

Crowley: What if I offer them cat treats?

Leona: This bitch-

MC: *is lazily lying inside a box while answering some questions*

Crowley, Professor Trein, and Professor Crewel: ...

Professor Crewel: ...

Professor Crewel: Fortunately, they haven’t made any mistakes so far.

Professor Trein: But still, other schools are watching.

Crowley: ?

Students from other schools: *talking about how MC reminds them of their pet cats*

Crowley: ...

Crowley: *smiles* It seems there's nothing to worry about.

[jellyfish--kisses]

PSA to dog owners:

If someone is visibly scared of your dog, or says they are scared, or asks to be kept away from your dog, don’t explain to them that your dog is friendly, or sweet, or whatever. Just move on!

This doesn’t happen to me too often but it just happened again and I’m so tired of it.

I know you love your pets, and you want other people to love your pets, too.

But to me, and a lot of other people, it doesn't matter how small, quiet, or well-behaved a dog is: we just don't want dogs anyone near us! And we shouldn't have to explain our trauma (or phobia, or sensory problems, or whatever personal reason we have) in order to be taken seriously and left alone.

[rafeyscurtainbangs]

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕊𝕚𝕩: 𝕄𝕪 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

𝙾𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: ward is awful to the reader, pet names, older!rafe, soft!rafe, brief mention of the reader’s late grandpa, and swearing

📖 based off an ask by lhhlver 💕 Hi babesss! Could you do one where like Rafe brings his pogue gf home for Christmas and it’s really awkward for her and she has anxiety but he’s there to comfort her and even stands up to his parents or something cuz they don’t like him dating a pogue? Just a thought 🫶🏼

Masterlist

Rafe’s POV:

Festive lights twinkle in the dim night, candles lit on all the windows. The balmy heat of the North Carolina summers exchanged for the chilly bite of winter.

We roll up the cobblestone drive, my hand resting on her upper thigh; the other twisted around the leather wheel. She hums along with the song, velvety and sweet, trying to distract herself from the inevitable. She looks beautiful, as always, a little more at peace than usual when she stops by my parent's place…

I know why, I'm not stupid… This dress helped, as did the shoes and the jewelry. Just simple gifts— nothing out of the ordinary. I love spoiling her.

Sure, it made her a little uncomfortable at first, but she settled into the fact that this was my love language. I wasn't buying her things to change her. I would never want to change her…

She lifts her hand, resting it in mine, her emerald dress catching the winter wind as she steps out of the car. I smile down at her, wrapping her tight in my arms as we take the last few steps up the walk.

I open the door, stepping inside watching her eyes glimmer, just a sliver of unease lingering that she’s trying her best to shrug away. She didn't come from this side of the island… But she belongs here with me, and that’s all that matters.

“You alright, princess?” I ask as I help her out of her fur coat.

She smiles at me, the kind that doesn't quite reach those pretty eyes of hers as she smoothes out the front of her dress. “Just nervous, baby. You know how I get.”

I lean in, kissing her forehead, lingering as I wrap my arms around her waist. “You got nothin’ to be nervous about, sweetheart.”

And I’m hoping that’s true.

Dinner was set like a scene from a Christmas movie. Their formal dining table’s arranged with crisp white linens and ruby centerpieces; Rose’s fine china is placed perfectly alongside delicate gold-trimmed plates.

I look down at the table, catching my old man's eye. His dark gaze flickers to her as she talks to Rose and Wheezie; the weight of his judgment is heavy, as usual. But even with that weight, conversation flows around him—the hum and laughter of the three women filling the dining room, regardless, somehow making him angrier.

She smiles at me, taking my breath away in a glance; my perfect girl. Graceful, kind, everything I ever wanted, but nothing I deserve. And then…

“So,” I simple word. His first utterance all night. Like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. His tone is smooth, spiked with a familiar edge that I’ve unfortunately become far too accustomed to myself. “Was that a gift?” He asks as he gestures lazily to the Cartier necklace around her throat. “N’that dress too, huh? Stunning.”

The table falls silent, and my stomach drops fast. I feel her hand tense in mine under the table, putting me on edge.

“Yeah, anniversary, I believe…” I smile, recalling the necklace. “And the dress, well, can you blame me? It was made for you, sweetheart,” I lower my voice. Lifting her hand to my lips, kissing the top, feeling her tremble with adrenaline.

Ward chuckles, swirling his Old Fashioned in his rocks glass; his laugh low, condescending. “Thought so. She looks well taken care of.” He drawls, talking about her like she’s not even there… Like she’s some kind of pet.

She bites her cheek, eyes shifting to the plate in front of her, confidence shrinking under Ward’s sharp stare.

“It always interests me when I see a fellow Pogue on this side of the island. Well, former Pogue,” he gestures to himself, giving us that old money laugh before taking a sip. Ward sucks his teeth, the dark liquor burning on it’s way down. “I was once in your shoes… Seems a Pogue turns Kook for two reasons: hard work or, well, what do you call it, sweetheart?”

“Dad,” I level my voice, cold and sharp enough to cut through the tension. “That’s enough. Yeah?”

He cocks an eyebrow in my direction, clearly amused. “Just a question, son.”

“Hmm… Yeah,” I chuckle back, borrowing his tone. “A cruel and classless question. Seems about right for you.”

The table falls deathly quiet, all eyes on her and I. Heat rises in my chest; my pulse pounding in my ears. I glance down at her, the hurt in her eyes all but breaking me.

“She’s here because I love her,” I continue, my voice steady but firm. “Not because of what I can give her. And if you can’t respect that, we’re gone.”

My dad finishes the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass on the table. Rose goes to speak, but I’m already pushing my chair back, helping her to her feet. I don't care about the gifts waiting under the tree or Rose’s carefully planned evening. None of this shit matters if she feels unwelcome.

“We’re goin’,” I say sharply, leaving it all behind.

The two of us leave, pulling out of the driveway faster than we came; her cheek shifted slightly to avoid my gaze. She doesn’t want to talk about it. I know her… She’s overwhelmed —her emotion boiling, threatening to spill over if I even utter the words, ‘Are you okay.’ She’s not… How could she be? She needs a minute. She just needs me to be close. I reach down, resting my hand on top of hers.

She looks down at the contact between us, the tears building on her waterline falling on her dress.

“Thank you, baby,” she mumbles hastily, like the words had been on the tip of her tongue for too long. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Of course I did, princess. Are you joking?” I ask as I steal a quick glance. “Nobody talks bad about my girl. Alright? No expectations,” I assure. “My dad… My dad’s an asshole. He’s got to understand that it’s a privilege to be around you.”

Her pretty lips tug to the side, fighting back more tears. “I don't care if he’s family or not, sweetheart. You're the most important thing to me. Okay?”

She looks up at me, eyes glassy. “I love you, Rafe,” she whispers as he lifts my hand, kissing my fingers one by one.

”I love you too, princess.”

“Where are we going?” She smiles softy at me from the passenger's seat as we pass our road, headed north.

“Change of plans. I just wanna go for a ride, princess. That alright?” I ask as I squeeze her thigh. She nods, turning up the music before relaxing into her seat.

She smiles as we roll into The Cut, gliding into a familiar parking lot. “Shells Diner?” She beams brightly, basking in the nostalgia of it all.

“Mhmm…” I hum as I lean over the center council. She grabs my cheeks, kissing me gently. “Met the prettiest little waitress here…” I whisper against her lips, feeling her smile against mine.

I trot around the car, helping her out just like I had at Tanneyhill, looking down at her beautiful eyes, that sliver of unease long gone.

The diner is a staple— nothing fancy, just a cozy, hole-in-the-wall place with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign. But it’s special.

The diner glows with a warm retro charm. It’s the kind of place that never changes; the scent of coffee and griddle-cooked meals clings to the walls. Christmas lights dangle messily along the ceiling. Dusty garland frames the windows; its shelf, cluttered with decorations.

The booths are well-worn, their red vinyl cushions cracked but familiar. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner by the jukebox, its ornaments mismatched but lovingly placed. The faint hum of holiday music filters through the speakers, blending with the occasional clatter of dishes from the back and the people scattered around.

Eyes shift nervously in my direction as they always do. My girl sees the good in me and might be the only one. I don’t blame the old waitresses for looking at me uneasily from time to time. But, when I’m with her, their judgment seems to fade away… If she’s happy, they're happy. And that’s the way it should be.

They greet her like they haven’t seen her in years, eyes wide as they take in her beauty, making her give them a little twirl in her fancy dress, chuckling about how they wanna hug her, but they’re afraid they’ll get her all dirty.

When we slide into the booth, she leans back, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watches me, and I’m hit with the most beautiful deja vu of the first time I saw her… The only thing that changed is that she’s mine.

I throw my coat off my shoulders, rolling up my sleeves, adjusting my Breitling watch, getting a taste for how out of place she must have felt tonight. Not even scratching the surface.

The waitress sets down our coffees and pie, the two of us alternating bites, our hands occasionally brushing ‘til I'm shifting out of the table, nestling myself next to her.

She cuddles into me as I feed her and myself, and she feeds me, the two of us chuckling every time our forks clash. The waitress comes over, drawing two fresh cups of coffee, steaming curling together.

After a while, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small wrapped box from her bag. Her hand is a little shaky as she slides it over to me with a nervous smile. “Merry Christmas, baby,” she whispers.

“You didn't have to, sweetheart,” I smile as my heart swells.

Inside is a pendant—simple but elegant. The band was made from her late grandfather’s gold bracelet, and I recognized the ruby right away. The name embossed on the velvet box lets me know it’s custom. She shaped into something timeless for me… something she knew I’d love. The metal glows softly in the diner’s dim light. I flip over the pendant, our initials looped in cursive, perfectly intertwined.

I stare at it for a moment, my fingers running over the smooth surface. “This—this is perfect, baby,” I breathe. “Thank you. I love it.”

“I’m glad... I love you,” she whispers, and I feel that in every fiber of my being.

“I love you too, princess.”

“Can you help me?” I smiles as I reach around my neck, fiddling awkwardly with the gold clasp, battling against my blunt nails. I turn slightly, the tight booth making it impossible for me to twist.

“Come here, baby,” she coos as she moves out of the booth. I push out and stand up, smiling down at her before turning around. She unclasps it easily, sliding on the pendant before clipping it again.

Her fingers run across my chest, my heart banging underneath, and I drop on one knee— the ring burning a hole in my pocket all night, lifting a weight off my chest when I show it to her.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment…” My lips spread in a trembling, awkward smile. “I told you it’s a privilege to be around you. And I meant that. I want you to know that I’ve always known how lucky I got with you, princess. You have shown me love for the first time—real love. I want to take care of you like you take care of me. I hope you need me just a fraction of how much I need you. So, sweetheart, will you let me spend the rest of my life showin’ you just how much you mean to me?”

She smiles and nods happily as her hand meets mine, sniffling and holding back tears.

“Will you marry me?”

I slip the ring on her finger, and before I know it, her lips are on mine, pulling me closer, and everything and everyone else fades away.

tags: @hippiegoth97 @loserboysandlithium @rafesthroatbaby @kisses4angels @watchmerora @babygorewhore @buckybarnessweetheart @anamiad00msday @littlelamy @namelesslosers @cades-outsider @romaescapes @starkeysprincess @oxpogues4lifexo @unrealmirrorball @sleepiibunniiii @gri959 @rafesgiirl @daryldixon83 @akobx @hyperfixationgirl @lhhlver @rrafeswhore @slut-4-gojo @blair-bears-blog @loveesiren

[eddiesxangel]

Eddie’s Gift | E.M x Reader

Summery: you surprise Eddie with something sexy to wear. Oral (f receiving) p in v, unprotected sex, Eddie calls reader some names( pet, princess, baby)

1.3k words

There he was in all his glory; his legs spread wide, commanding the room, this was his territory and you were begging to be let in. His thick thighs, taunt you, making you wish you were the guitar that was between them at the moment.

You stood in the doorway, the music was softer than usual as he was focused on a new chord he was trying to perfect. You didn’t mean to interrupt, really, however you were too excited when you had gotten home.

He heard you come in, a quick hello from the hallway, some shuffling around then a small click he assumed from the bathroom door, and he gotten lost as he tuned back in on the song. Some time had passed, he wasn’t sure how much but when you cleared your throat his head shot up because he hasn’t seen his girl all day.

“Do you like it?” you giggle nervously. “I got it just for you.” Your hands trail the sleek black fabric that hugged your waist. 

You saw it in the window of a lingerie store while out shopping with the girls, and you knew you had to get it, even if it was a bit out of budget.

Eddie downt speak as he puts his precious guitar down and really soaks you in.

“Let me get a good look at you.” Eddie motions for you to twirl, taking in the black lacy garter belt that wrapped around your waist and down your legs to the sheer black thigh-high stockings. As you twirl, your stomach bursts in a crescendo of butterflies as your nerves penetrate your every pore. He only bites his lip as you turn your back to him, he can see your bottom is outlined perfectly by the thong you adorned, matching the shiny corset that had your tits so pushed up that his mouth watered instantly. 

When you turned back to face him fully, his face showed no emotion. “Come here.” He rubs his thigh as he beckons you closer. 

You take a few feline-like steps toward him, and he reaches out, gripping your hips once you’re close enough. 

“What did I do to deserve all this?” He pulled you in so close you had to bend your body over his shoulder. 

You feel his large hands trail down your waist. “Oh baby,” he moans as he gripped a hand on each cheek, kneading your ass before giving you a little spank. 

“I think my little pet deserves a reward.” 

His hands scoop from the bottom of your cheeks to your inter thigh, grazing your already wet pussy. 

“Crotchless?” he smirks up at you, you don’t dare break eye contact as he glides his fingers through your wet folds and up to his lips. 

You watch as he sucks his pointer finger clean before guiding it up to your parted lips. 

Your tongue swirls his finger, teasing him as you hum with satisfaction. 

“Good girl.” his voice is low, and your pussy flutters at the praise. 

“Come.” He pushes you back a little so he can stand up, he wants to take you to the bed so he can worship you properly. 

He guides you to your shared bed and instructs you to lie down, but not before kissing you so good it leaves you breathless. 

Eddie props up a pillow for you to lay your head on, and you sink back, still a bit nervous about how you're dressed. You’ve been naked in front of one another numerous times you’ve lost track, but never have you felt so exposed to him. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, Princess.” His hands cupped your knees, slowly pushing them apart as you let him. Eddie let out a soft moan once your pussy was exposed to him, you looked like a present embroidered with lace and he saw that your pussy was already slick just from the anticipation. 

“Can’t believe you’re all mine.” He half whispered, and your heart soared. 

You watched as his fingers traced the stocking from your ankle to knee, then down, lower and lower, until you lost them as they met the crease of your hip. 

“Eddie,” you whine. 

“What, you don’t want to be played with?” He gives a fake pout, jutting his bottom lip. 

“Y-yes,” you stutter when you feel his fingers graze your pussy lips. 

He didn’t say another word as he dipped down and nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving small bruises in his wake. Lower and lower, his teeth grazed your flesh until his soft lips made contact with where you needed him the most. 

He did not dare use his teeth on you there… yet. He warmed you up with his skilled tongue as he buried his face inside of your core. 

You sang his praises as the feeling of your orgasm built. Your hips danced in sync with his tongue; his strong hand had to hold you down as he used the other to enter your slick hole. 

“Don’t get greedy now.” He looks you in the eye as he pumps in and out of you. You bite your lip from talking back to him. You know better than to, or else he will stop, and you are so close. 

“Sorry,” you coo. Eddie watches your chest rise and fall deeply; he knows you’re close. 

He can’t take his eyes off your tits. He can’t believe he has neglected them thus far. He crawls up your body, his hand still massaging your inner walls, but his mouth connects to the top of your breast. He nips and sucks at the skin, it’s so soft and plump he can’t help but to sink his teeth into your delicious flesh. He leaves another dark bruise, but you don’t mind, as his mouth moves on to the other one, then kisses a trail up your neck, only making you clench down on his fingers. 

“There she is.” He pulls always from your neck but he doesn’t stop, his gaze is locked on you, and you know better than to close your eyes while cuming. 

A look of pride is plastered on his face as he takes on your body, quivering for him. 

He pulls out, and you sink further into the bed. You hear the fabric shuffling above you, and you sit up to see Eddie in all of his glory. 

“Like what you see” He smirks as he observes you taking him in. 

You reach for him, desperately, as if he didn’t just make you cum. It wasn’t enough; you needed to feel him, all of him. 

“What did I say about being greedy?” 

“I deserve to be greedy.” You sit up on your knees and pull him in for a kiss. 

He lets you take the lead; you can taste yourself as you glide your tongue inside the contours of his mouth. His soft tongue dares to take over, but he submits as you press your body to his. He can feel your tits against his chest, his cock brushing to the soft material of your corest, staining it with his precum.  

“I want you,” you mumble into his mouth, your hand slipping between your two bodies, finding his hard cock, as his hands rest on your ass.

“So take me,” he mumbles back. 

Limbs intertwined, teeth clashed, and moans of desire filled the room as your bodies fell together. 

Eddie was sat against the headboard as your hips ground down on his cock. The squeak of the mattress and your breath were hard not to detect as Eddie guided you. His eyes glazed over with lust, seeing your body wrapped up in the garment made his head spin. 

“Your pussy, keeps on suckin’ me in so good, she doesn’t want to let go.” 

“N-nuh-uh,” you agree with him. She is greedy; she wants it so deep within her. “Fill me,” your legs burn so good as you take all of him to the hilt. 

Eddie takes you in, really looks at you. Your head thrown back- showing off all the love bites he’s marked on you, your tits bouncing in that glorious corset, the way your body’s connect and disappear into on another. Eddie’s hips thrust up into you so hard, matching your strokes, your bodies becoming one. 

The feeling was too good, your body felt electric as that familiar feeling within your core started to tighten and suddenly you were falling. Your pussy floods Eddie’s lap as he continues to hit that spot so deep within you, you’re crying out his name as a prayer you hardly notice Eddie let himself release inside you. 

You cling onto Eddie by the neck, refusing to defuse your bodies as you both catch your breaths. 

Eddie peppers your neck with small pecks before you find the strength to lift off his lap, your legs feeling like noodles and yo colapse beside him with a giggle. 

“Tell me you got this in every colour,” he snaps the waistband of your thong. 

“Give me $600 and your wish is my command,” you tease. 

“What?!” Eddies eyes blow wide open.

“Worth every penny” 

Tags: @jamdoughnutmagician @mrsjellymunson @ali-r3n @thepurplelovewitch @andieinchains @candice-1983 @fairylights-throughthemist @tvserie-s-world @1-800-bxrnes

[dunmeshi-darlings]

Hdgigufufyfifudhcjf!!!! 😭🥰

Laios my Darling Himbo!!! That piece where he falls asleep on top of reader like a big lovable puppy dog?!?!? GLORIOUS!!!

If it’s okay, can I request a part two? Where this time Laios wakes up to find reader all cuddled up on his chest??

Laois is incredibly dog boy coded, this is known.

After the last incident you and laios have made a conscious effort to go to sleep at the same time so that way if he starts to lay on you then you can move him off of you and its worked out so far.

This time laios was the one to wake up early, you had a particularly rough day yesterday and so by the time the two of you laid down you were struggling to keep your eyes open and passed out in seconds.

Laios had perhaps the best sleep of his life that night, he hadnt slept so well in years. Last time he did was back when he was younger and the dogs would sleep with him on his bed. He had honestly been not sleeping the best ever since he and the rest of the group went to rescue falin.

Laios opened his eyes and went to get up, however he felt a weight on him as he looked down, seeing you laying on top of him fast asleep. Laios couldnt help but smile softly at this, the irony of it stood out since what had happened before.

Laios smiled as he simply pet your back, letting you sleep on him as he pet your back in your sleep. He knows yesterday was stressful for you. Plus he had to admit it felt comfortable with you laying on top of him.

Chilchuck noticed the situation, asking why laios if he needs help moving you. "nah let Y/N rest, they worked hard yesterday and earned some rest. Plus i dont mind it."

Chilchuck rolled his eyes and commented about inter group relationships and go back to his morning routine, but chilchuck was going to listen to laios on this one.

[rinsoap]

THEM AS YOUR BOYFRIEND!

includes : ken ryuguji and baji keisuke. they are in their late teens/early 20s.

note : UR WELCOME TO THE FOURTEEN REQS IN MY INBOX BEGGING FOR BAJI CONTENT! i was gonna write mitsuya and mikey but i got tired lol

ken ryuguji as your boyfriend.

he loves taking you out on his bike. he likes how you hold him so tightly, and he likes the feeling of your cheek pressed against his back. when you first asked him, he was a little wary at first because he was kind of scared you might get hurt, but who was he to say no to his girl?

the girls at the brothel fucking love you. you exchange makeup tips and self care remedies, they pinch your cheek and tell you how cute you are. "hi love, what are you doing here looking so pretty!? ain't she pretty, kenny? yeahh he thinks so, look at him, he's blushing" "'course i think she's pretty, i'm the one dating her" oh and they love to give you life advice too; men, money, independance, all of it. draken is embarassed by how they act, but you think it's sweet.

he hates being posted to your socials. he's cool with it if his face isn't in the picture, but he values his privacy. his own social media presence is practically nonexistent, other than one highlight with one story from your birthday of you holding flowers he got you. the song he posted to you is my girl by the temptations.

though he likes his privacy, he does like pda. not intense pda, it's not like y'all have your tongues down each other's throats in public or anything, but he likes a lil kiss here n there. his arm around your waist, or your fingers intertwined with his. a kiss on your shoulder, and always one on your lips before you part. and while he doesn’t typically like to make a scene, when he misses you its a whole different story. he loves when you run to him when you see him after being away from each other for far too long, throwing your arms around his shoulders and his wrap around your waist to spin you around, peppering the side of your face with kisses as you tell him how much you missed him through giggles. "missed you too, angel," a kiss on your jaw. "i'm sorry i've been so busy lately," a kiss on your cheek "'m gonna make it up to you though, i promise." a kiss on your lips. yeah, it's that kind of pda.

he will call you so many pet names, it's not even funny. they're out of his mouth before he even realizes it. it's not like he hides his loving side exactly, it's just that with you, he gets to be a whole other type of gushy. his friends make fun of him whenever they get a glimpse of his softer side when he speaks to you, but he does not care!!! he'll never stop calling you his pretty princess or kissing your cheek or holding all your bags when you go shopping just because his friends think he's whipped. he would happily admit that they're right!!

baji keisuke as your boyfriend.

he may come across as cold, but make no mistake, physical touch is his love language. he always finds himself gravitating to touching you, even in public. whether he's holding your hand or resting his head on your shoulder or tracing hearts and stars into the skin of your thigh, he just wants to touch you!!! in private, it is so much more egregious. he'll be on top of you, attacking you with kisses, hands roaming over your skin. he loves when you sleep over because then he can extend his time to cuddle with you. he likes little spoon and big spoon equally, he just wants SOMEONE to be held!!!

he has and will fight someone for you, absolutely no question. he doesn't exactly get jealous, you express how much you love him enough for him to have interalized it, but he does let a threat or two slip out when a man's flirting with you right in front of him. when someone is being creepy to you, yes, he has been known to throw a couple punches. he'll stop when you ask!! its not like he's batshit!!!! when he's finished, you tend to his wounds. muttering about how stupid he is but giving him a kiss to his temple.

he knows how obsessed you are with his hair. he watches you from the corner of his eye, staring lip tucked between your teeth as he puts it up. he complains, but he secretly loves it. "man you treat me like some slut" "true i'm just using you for your hair. one day you'll wake up bald and i'll be half way across the country with a ziploc bag full of your beautiful hair" "i hate you" he loves lying on top of you, cheek pressed against your chest as you run your fingers through your hair. he always ends up mumbling how much he loves you when your fingers find their way into his hair. he also lets you play around with different hairstyles too! his favourite will always be a half up half down moment :p

he calls you bro more than actual pet names tbh. generally, he doesn't use a lot of pet names because he'd rather call you by your name, but when he's being extra sweet or when he's tired, he'll use them. you love how cute he is when he's about to fall asleep, he starts going on and on about how much he loves his pretty girl. "soo sweet to me, love you soo much... my lovely girl... my love" he'll whisper into your neck, not even knowing exactly what he's saying himself as his eyes slowly flutter shut. when he's in a good mood he'll greet you with a lil "hey baby" or "hello perfect beautiful girlfriend" bc he's annoying like that 😞

he can ALWAYS tell when something is wrong. a clench of your jaw or a slight falter in your eyes, he immediately knows. he'll ask about it as soon as he picks up on it. he's surprisingly very good at comforting. he'll listen as long as you need him to, he'll give you a temple kiss, a gesture that quickly became a sign of love and understanding in your relationship. he'll kiss you on one, then the other, and add "to ease your mind." and you laugh because it's corny, and he rolls his eyes and claims he's never doing a nice thing for you again, but he grabs your hand to take you out to eat because he knows food is the best comfort.

[rninies]

LOVE ft wise — wise has been working nonstop lately, and it's your mission to make him take a break.

wc: 0.5k ノcw + tw: gn!reader, pet names (baby), fluff, overworked wise, might be ooc wise im not sure though, title is love by wavetoearth hehe

“wise?” your voice calls out for your boyfriend who has been working nonstop since he got home. you see him sitting in front of the HDD, clicking away, and you can’t help but sigh. though you can’t see his face, you can tell how exhausted he is, judging by the way he’s sitting down (looks a bit uncomfortable, too). “wise, baby.”

wise practically jumps from his seat, not quite expecting anyone to be awake at this hour. “y/n, you scared me.” he sighs and sits back down on the chair as soon as he sees that it is just you. “why are you still awake at this time?” he gestures you to come closer, to which you obliged.

“couldn’t sleep,” you mumble, softly caressing wise’s hair. “what about you? you haven’t been sleeping well ever since your inter-knot level reached… what was it?”

“50.”

you hum. “yeah, 50. i know you’re a trustable proxy, but what will happen if everyone’s favorite proxy falls sick? with your sleeping schedule, i doubt you’ll be able to function tomorrow.”

wise closes his aching eyes, leaning his head forward to rest on your stomach. “i know, but i can’t just abandon everyone’s help. the messages i receive every day and the payments they’ll be giving. we need that for our store’s bills.”

“it won’t hurt to take the day off.” you softly say. gently, you cup wise’s cheeks, almost cooing when you see the dark circles under his eyes. “look at you: dark circles and a barely functioning body. come on, take the day off tomorrow, yeah? no scratch that, take the whole weekend off.”

“what-”

“no complaints.” you huff, fingers turning off the computer in front of you and the room grows dark. “besides, we haven’t spent time together in a long time. i miss my boyfriend.” you pout, and wise laughs. “stop laughing!”

“i’m sorry,” wise wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. “i miss you too. i’ll post a message on the inter-knot that i’ll take the weekend off, yeah? does that sound good to you?”

even though wise can’t see you very well in the dark, he can imagine how your eyes lit up as he says that. “really? that means we can spend the day rotting in bed tomorrow!”

“well, it’s basically today, but yes, we’ll do just that.” wise shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his lips. he stands up from the chair and does a big stretch. “right. let’s head back to bed, shall we? lots of sleep i need to catch up on.” he intertwines his fingers with yours, leading the way back to his bedroom.

wise immediately pulls you onto the bed, arms wrapped around your body tightly. “i miss this.”

you hum. “i miss this even more.” you fiddle with the hem of wise’s shirt, feeling more at home now that he’s here with you. “hey, wise?”

“hm?” you can hear the sleep laced in his voice.

“i love you,” you say quietly, but enough for wise to hear.

“i love you more.” wise replies, a smile appearing on his face.

(the next day, wise makes a quick post on his inter-knot account that he was taking a break and the comments flooded with how happy people are that he’s taking a break; comments wise was not expecting to get).

[shy-writer-999]

Slow Burn (Part 1): Sexually frustrated Zoro touches himself at night while thinking about you.

Warnings: MDNI AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. THIS IS NSFW CONTENT.

Summary: Zoro only lets himself fantasize about you at night. CW: Afab reader, gendered pet names ("good girl"), P in V.

Slow Burn, pt. 1: Sexually frustrated Zoro touches himself at night while thinking about you.

Zoro couldn't help how much attention he paid to you. He tried to shrug it off and talk himself out of what was quickly becoming a problem for him—his growing crush on you. He couldn't help but notice how you giggled the loudest when Sanji called him mosshead, how you would go out of your way to spend a few moments chatting and smiling with him every day, and how your peculiarly intense gaze seemed to linger just a second too long when you locked eyes. No matter how much he tried to deny it or rationalize it away, those split seconds of eye contact made his stomach flip, in other words, you gave him butterflies. He would tell himself that inter-crew romance was wrong, that he shouldn't waste his time pining after women, that the only reason he was feeling these things was because he hadn't been with someone in ages. He told himself that he only felt this way because he was basically forced to be around you and that it was only natural for a man like him to find you attractive, therefore he could ignore those butterflies and write the feelings off as a harmless fancy, unimportant and meaningless.

But the issue was that no matter how much rationalizing he attempted, his feelings for you had far surpassed these natural impulses and made-up excuses. That's just what he had—feelings. Complicated feelings that made themselves apparent when he watched you, out of the corner of his eye, put your hair up in a ponytail. He would notice the feminine and soft curve of your neck, the wisps of hair that you gathered up with your pretty fingers, and a thought would jump out at him: I bet the back of her neck smells good. Then he would pause and self-reprimand: Where the fuck did that come from? Get a grip man. And he would shift his eyes away.

One day you brushed arms. The hallways of the ship got crowded if more than a couple people were trying pass through, and in this instance, you were exiting the kitchen after dinner when Luffy barreled past you with Zoro close behind him. Luffy practically shoved you out of the way, shouting something about meat, and his shove past you pushed you towards Zoro. Your skin met for maybe a second or less as you bumped into each other. He muttered out a "sorry about that" and then immediately he walked away, shouting at Luffy to pay more attention to where he was going.

Zoro tried to be nonchalant and play it off to himself that he was not feeling any sort of way about touching your skin (even if it was only your arm). But he was lying to himself. His stomach flipped and as he followed Luffy into the kitchen all he could think about was your skin and how warm and soft it was. His mind trailed off… would other parts of your body feel like that too?  He shook his head attempting to get the thoughts out. If you're going to think about it, at least save it for later dumbass, he said to himself.

He knew he was screwed when he started musing about you yourself, not your body, but who you actually are. It was as basic as him wondering what is her favorite food? What is her favorite sort of music? and yet these musings could get as complicated as What does she dream about at night? What does she want from her life? and most importantly, What does she think of me?

He would only let himself get this deep in thought as he settled in for bed. These were nighttime thoughts and became completely irrelevant during the day (or so he told himself). He also told himself it was just normal to wonder these things about his shipmates—after all, you were all close friends and spent lots of time together. But at his core he knew this wasn't the case. How he felt towards you was different. Little did you know, but he was actually in agony any time you were around. He started inadvertently blushing, hyper-vigilantly watching you from his peripherals, and he even would go so far as to smile at you with a bit more sweetness than was normal for him. No one else could tell that he smiled at you different, but he knew it and so did you. You could see it in the way his lips curled ever so slightly more, and you could see a special softness in his eyes that you had quickly learned to recognize. Little did he know, you felt the same way.

The night you brushed arms he was so pent up he had to get out of bed and spend some time alone in the bathroom. This was becoming a habit for him. When he indulged in his fantasies and finally let that part of him run wild, he imagined the dirtiest scenarios. So dirty that he felt guilty about them the next day. It started out pretty tame, though. First, he thought about how he wanted to fuck you everywhere on the ship. Missionary in the crow's nest, doggy style in the galley with you bent over the counter, reverse cowgirl on the deck in the middle of the day, you straddling him in the tub—you name it.

He would start his sessions in the bathroom by breathing deeply and palming his painfully hard cock in his boxer briefs, running his other hand over his taught chest and arm muscles. He would grind his cock harder and harder with his palm, thinking about how you would look straddling him, pulling your top off and leaning over him so your hair cascaded down on his face and your eyes and lips were centimeters apart. He imagined how it would feel to take handfuls of your breasts, massaging and sucking on them, how you would let out a little whine when he played with your nipples, how you would yelp when he smacked your ass so hard it would leave a bruise.

At this point he would fully take his cock out of his briefs and start shamelessly stroking himself, trying to contain the groans and grunts that slipped from his lips. The precum leaked out when he imagined how good you would feel grinding his cock inside of you, how he would grip the soft skin on your hips so roughly, how you would use him to get off. That's one of the thoughts that got him riled up the most—the idea of you feeling good with his cock. Even more, he loved the idea of you feeling so good that you would cream on his cock, your walls constricting as you let out your own moans of pleasure. And of course, he loved the idea of cumming inside you, too. He would imagine the sight of his cum leaking out of you, and if he wasn't lucky enough to cum inside you, he would be happy to cum anywhere you'd let him, like your pretty mouth. He would start to moan your name as quietly as he could, throwing his head back and shaking with pleasure.

The really dirty thoughts happened when he got closer to orgasm. As he got more desperate and more feral at the thought of you, touch starved and drunk off of the pleasure of fisting his own cock furiously, he would start to think of pulling your hair, sloppily spitting in your mouth, finger fucking you almost to completion then making you beg for it, he would even think of calling you names like "pretty girl" or "good girl," depending on the day. On really thirsty days he would imagine you calling him daddy, telling him to stop (role play, of course, with a safe word), he would imagine calling you "bad girl" or "nasty girl" and he would spank you then top it all off by fucking you in the ass as "punishment". Some days he would imagine you calling him a “good boy” and giving him praise, or the opposite. The nastier and, honestly, weirder it got, he stroked himself harder and faster. "Fuck," he would hiss out between his teeth, shaking. He would moan as quietly as he could, mouthing your name, finally cumming hot white ropes all over his hand. He would let out a deep sigh, clean himself up, and go to bed finally. The next day he would go about his business like nothing happened, and indeed, he would be fine without his nightly bathroom session as long as he stayed away from you.

During the day, Zoro would get back to rationalizing and compartmentalizing his feelings about you, anything to stop falling for you. He simply ignored the guilt he felt inside from thinking such nasty sexual thoughts about you. But Zoro got to a point where that just wasn't possible anymore. Between his almost-nightly bathroom sessions, feeling depraved and crazy, and your lingering smiles and occasional bouts of intense eye contact, he could feel himself crumbling. But of course, Zoro was prideful to a fault and even more than that, he was shy. No one would expect it from the swordsman, but he really was awkward, sensitive, and shy under all those layers of strength and stoicism. So he could never bring himself to confess to you, and he kept navigating life on the ship in close proximity to you, balancing your friendship and company with how insanely horny and needy he was for no one else but you. Zoro could only keep up this balancing act for so long. He would reach a breaking point eventually. His self-control was being exerted to the absolute maximum, and he spent so much time pining after you that it was actually starting to get in the way of his training. But he told himself it would be fine, that these thoughts would settle down eventually, and that he had to pay them no mind. He started to think of new ways to handle all his pent-up energy, and he landed on the idea of simply distancing himself from you ever so slightly. Less time in your presence would mean less time that his brain would be disposed to go wild with fantasies. He decided that that was his only option, and slowly started shifting how he moved near you. It was initially a minuscule change, but you noticed immediately that something was off.

Part 2: Zoro's been acting pretty weird and rude. What's his problem?

Part 3: More smut!

See my masterlist if you're interested.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three

Dustin looks squirrely, which is as weird as it is nerve wracking for Steve. When Dustin looks squirrely it’s usually shit like he’s keeping a baby fucking demo dog as a pet.

Which Steve just...doesn’t want to deal with it any more. He’s had enough. He needs Dustin to have normal kid shit problems, not apocalyptic ones.

So Steve is, silently, praying to whoever will listen that Dustin wants, like, the sex talk or something, and not that there’s an inter-dimensional creature with a taste for nougat in Hawkins.

“Eddie says he’s okay.”

Which, Steve just kind of shrugs, because it’s the same message Dustin’s been bringing back for months. Nancy and Robin have stopped to listen too. John and Argyle have gone on a snack run and the rest of the kids are outside; so this feels kind of worryingly tactical on Dustin’s part that he’s telling a very select group this information.

“I’m pretty sure he isn’t, though.”

“Okkkayyyy...tell us what’s going on,” Robin leans against the counter, and Steve is so glad Dustin chose to do this with the girls here.

“Well,” and Dustin looks squirrely again and Steve figures he...he thinks he must be betraying Eddie, or something, “I thought he was, at first, you know? He was planning campaigns and writing music and just seemed to be...you know. Normal.”

“But…”

“Well he...the last few times I’ve been there he...he hasn’t gotten out of bed and,” Dustin wrinkles his nose, ready for the big betrayal, “there’s always a lot of empty like, beer cans and stuff and...he smells kind of. Bad.”

The girls looks at each other before Nancy finally says, “we will go and see him, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

Steve watches as Dustin relaxes, and realizes for the first time that this was, probably, way over Dustin’s pay grade, emotionally speaking. They are the adults, and dealing with someone who...well, it’s got to be depression, right? Eddie was never okay, he was faking to start with. Even Steve can figure that out from what Dustin’s just said. Just because they’ve dealt with alternate dimensions and world ending monsters, it doesn’t mean that Dustin is equipped to deal with shit like this – yeah, definitely heavy stuff for a kid. And Eddie, would Eddie have been able to fake it if say the girls, or Steve, had gone over? Would they have noticed a problem that Dustin just, didn’t? Because for all they’ve been through, they’re still just kids. Dustin might not have noticed that Eddie was dragging himself out of bed and cleaning up just for the one or two hours a week that Dustin was stopping by.

But Robin would have...and Nancy definitely would have.

And now Eddie doesn’t have the energy to just...fake it any more, simple as.

This is heavy shit, too heavy for Dustin to have to deal with.

And that’s how Steve ends up ferrying the girls to the brand new Munson trailer, right at the other end of the park from where the old one was. Nancy’s in full investigative reporter mode, Steve can sense it. Luckily, Robin goes first, " we shouldn't have left him this long."

Nancy hums in agreement.

The doors not locked and no one answers, so they all end up spilling unceremoniously into the bedroom.

Dustin was being kind; it reeks of stale cigarettes and sweat. He was being nice about the beer cans too; it’s not just beer cans, worryingly there’s also empty vodka bottles and even a couple of wine bottles in the mix.

This is not something that has happened recently; this has been going on for months.

The place is a mess. Like a can’t even see the floor kind of mess.

In the middle of his visibly dirty bedding, Eddie snores on, oblivious.

“Steve, you get him in the shower, Robin and I will clean this up.”

Steve’s dubious, but he shakes Eddie’s shoulder gently. Nothing.

He tries again, firmer this time, and Eddie comes awake with an undignified snort and hands flapping at Steve’s, trying to get the movement to stop.

Steve can hear the girls rummaging out in the kitchen, looking for trash bags and rubber gloves, maybe a box for the bottles.

Maybe two boxes.

Steve shakes him again, “Eddie come on.”

Eddie does blink up at him then, clearly groggy and confused, but he smiles. Smiles so big and happy, he grasps one of Steve’s hands now, rather than trying to push it away, still smiling, he pulls it up to his mouth and kisses Steve’s knuckles softly.

Steve doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Eddie’s frowning, something like realization dawns on Eddie’s face, and then throwing Steve’s hand away like it’s burning him. Eddie moves quick, scrambling to the edge of the bed and leaning over it, and Steve realizes what’s about to happen a second too late; Eddie starts to throw up just as Steve moves, so his sneakers do get splattered a little bit.

Which...Steve’s probably trudged through worse, realistically speaking. There’s not really anything Steve can do about it now, so he gingerly sidesteps the splatter of vomit and, briefly, feels really sorry for the girls, “come on Munson, up.”

Eddie grumbles nonsensically, but does allow Steve to heave him up, his head lolling, still clearly very drunk. Eddie doesn’t put up much of a fight when Steve strips him; made easy by the fact that he’s wearing a stained tee shirt and dirty boxers that Steve abandons in a smelly pile on the bathroom floor.

He’s too thin; far too thin. Barely any weight at all on Steve’s arm, ribs all knobbly and skin stretched strangely over his joints.

Eddie slides to the floor under the warm water and Steve, not wanting to get any damper, makes no effort to stop him. At least sitting on the floor he’s safe; he can’t fall any further. Steve vaguely recalls something about little kids being able to drown in an inch of water, and keeps half an eye on Eddie as he digs around for toiletries.

He finds a sad bar of soap and shudders, but it’ll do. Steve gives Eddie the most perfunctory scrub down ever, doing his best not to look at or be aware of any part of Eddie’s body as he flicks the cloth over it.

The towel that’s hanging up looks dubious, but better than nothing.

Eddie’s showing no sign of rousing; Steve has no idea if he’s just...really really drunk still, or if he’s hiding. Steve’s brain prods at what he saw; Eddie’s reaction to him.

There’s one logical conclusion that he’s trying his best to avoid. Unfortunately, no matter how he angles it...his conclusion remains the same. There’s one obvious answer. Eddie looks like a sad drowned rat under the water, and Steve shuts it off, covering him with the one sad towel.

Eddie shivers without the heat of the water, and Steve tries not to feel guilty. This isn’t his fault. He’s not...if Eddie had a Steve, he’s not him. He didn’t, die, or anything. It’s a bit of a headfuck, and thankfully Robin interrupts by shoving the door open far enough to press through a bundle of clothes; black sleep pants and a hoodie, but better than nothing, “there’s no clean clothes, it’s the best we could find,” she whispers.

Which, okay, they’re kind of musty, but at least not obviously dirty.

Eddie huffs through Steve pulling his clothes on, standing awkwardly as Steve pulls his pants up like you would with a little kid.

Steve dumps him on the couch; immediately feeling bad about the whole thing. Guilt, maybe, but he pushes that away harshly because this isn’t Steve’s fault. It’s no one’s fault.

Well, except for the labs and then One. But there’s no one here to blame and it’s...ridiculous that Steve would feel bad about it.

This isn’t the time. Eddie’s passed out again, so Steve gets a glass of water from the kitchen, leaving it on the table where Eddie will find it, before he goes to help the girls.

“We absolutely cannot leave him here.”

“No, agreed, being alone is not good for him.”

“He’s not alone,” Steve protests, “Wayne’s here.”

“And Wayne works twelve hour nights six days a week and has done nothing about this so far,” Nancy replies, brooking no argument, “we’ll take him to yours, he needs to dry out.”

“Mine?” Steve squeaks, “look, uhm, maybe not mine-”

“Why not yours?” Robin cuts him off, “you have the space, and no one else around. I can come and stay, help you keep an eye on him.”

And although all of that is true, Steve doesn’t know how to tell them what he’s just figured out, and having Eddie in his house feels...awkward as fuck.

Eddie’s like a zombie out of one of his games. He has to be encouraged out of bed, Robin putting herself to the task, and that takes a good hour on the really bad days. He picks at toast. He picks at eggs. He picks at whatever's put in front of him.

He doesn’t fight it when they take the spirits away, he doesn’t fight it when he’s allocated three beers a day; he never looks for more. He doesn’t fight anything. He’s broken. So broken Steve has no idea what to do about it. The kids come and go, maintaining conversation around Eddie that Eddie will vaguely engage with whenever one of the kids addresses him directly.

Otherwise he sits there, inert. The kids talk about school and their nerd games and all that normal stuff, and then they leave again.

Sometimes it’s just Eddie and Steve in the house, and that's enough to make Steve want to throw himself into the lake; Eddie’s presence is uncomfortable, and Steve immediately feels guilt every time he feels like that.

Eddie saved their lives. Eddie fought off actual mind control and took out One like it was nothing. Eddie saved the world, at great fucking sacrifice to himself, and Steve feels like a total dipshit every time he has to remind himself of it.

He has to do something for Eddie. He has to try and get through to him somehow.

He has an idea, and when he tells Robin he’s going out for a bit, she doesn’t question it.

Steve delivers Wayne an update when he picks up Eddie’s records. Wayne seems like a good guy, even though he’s completely out of his depth with Eddie, he seems to be able to roll with the punches. He believes the kids want what’s best for Eddie, and that seems to be enough for him for now.

Eddie’s lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

Steve picks one of his records at random, ‘Holy Diver. Dio,’ and puts it on the record player on low. He has Eddie’s guitar too, his notebooks, the rule books from his dumb game. Steve brings it all in in bits and pieces and leaves it on the coffee table. He leans Eddie’s guitar against the end of the couch.

By the time he’s finished, Eddie seems more alert; is actually watching Steve. Steve gives him a nod, and leaves him to it.

It changes something. Something undefinable. Eddie seems to be...making an effort. Robin says she thinks he’s coming around; remembering how to be a person. She thinks he’s making a good first step. He still drinks three beers a day, but they’re pretty much the weakest ones available and Steve thinks he’s doing it more out of habit than anything. There’s no other alcohol in the house.

What Steve thinks he knows has been gnawing at him too. Bothering his insides. He understands the girls logic; this is probably the best place for Eddie to be, but given what Steve thinks he’s figured out, this might also be the absolute worst place for Eddie to be.

He feels like he’s haunting him; the dead love of Eddie’s life, following him around every single day. Steve can’t even imagine what that’s like; Eddie even just having to look at him must hurt. Other questions always follow, like, why Steve? Was it random? Eddie must be gay, right?

Was Steve just the easiest one for Eddie’s brain to summon up in the moment? Or was there something else there, feelings that were easy to manipulate? Was there a reason it was Steve, or not?

He could spend hours chasing the thoughts if he let himself. Instead he makes himself and Eddie something to eat, a couple of sandwiches, and then takes them through. He sits, eating his own, and watching as Eddie nibbles on his. Things have moved; even as Steve watches, Eddie puts down the sandwich and scribbles in his notebook.

Steve’s just getting up to leave when he stops at the sound of Eddie clearing his throat, he still won’t look at Steve when he speaks, “thanks, uhm, for getting my stuff.”

It’s been a while since Eddie has spoken to Steve directly, and Steve hesitates a second, feeling like this is his chance to try and...he doesn’t know. Say something meaningful. Fix Eddie, somehow, say the exact right thing to make it better, eventually he just says, “no problem, man.”

Eddie nods, Steve waits in case there's more, but there doesn’t seem to be. He makes it to the kitchen door before Eddie speaks again, “you guys, you’ve probably saved my life.”

He is looking up as Steve now, chewing on the end of his pencil nervously, “you saved ours first,” Steve tells him.

Eddie huffs out the smallest, driest laugh, “didn’t realize it was a competition, Harrington.”

Steve leaves him to it, it’s not much, but it’s a start.

“You had a kid, right? Tell me about them?” It’s a push Steve knows. Their brief conversations turning into the occasional ten minutes on the deck when they both go out for a cigarette might have become regular, but they’re by no means secure. Steve might be about to bring the whole fragile thing down, but he needs to know. It’s eating him alive.

Eddie just shakes his head, ‘no.’ and sips at the beer he has. A beer Steve is pretty sure Eddie should not have, even if it is only a psychological thing, at this point, but Robin continues to be adamant that Eddie going completely cold turkey would be a really bad idea, so Eddie continues to have an allowance.

‘Well, fuck it,’ Steve thinks, ‘might as well try it,’ “come on, they were ours, right?”

Eddie snorts, “she was always more like you than-” he stops, cutting himself off. But it’s all the confirmation Steve needs.

Eddie looks at him then, horrified, before scrambling up.

“Eddie, stop, it’s okay-” Steve tries.

“Fuck you Harrington,” Eddie growls at him with more emotion than Steve's seen in Eddie since the whole thing happened, and then throws the beer bottle, not at Steve, exactly, but close enough that broken glass scatters around his shoe, beer smattering the patio slabs and the smell of it rising to fill Steve’s nose almost immediately.

Eddie stomps into the house, and Steve can hear Robin asking what happened, clearly concerned; she must have heard the bottle smash, “I cannot stay here with him,” Eddie spits, before the moment passes.

Robin comes out a moment later, “Nancy’s with him, what the fuck just happened?”

Steve’s a little stunned by the confirmation and then the close run in with the beer bottle, but regardless he wouldn’t hide this from Robin, “it was me, Robs. The...Eddie’s wife? I guess, not a wife, me.”

@autumncrocusandladybug @duckyreads @neonfruitbowl @slv-333 @starlight-archer @skys-archive @justdreamersdream @moomkin77 @prazinos @dragonmama76 @lingeringmirth @darkwitchoferie @weirdandabsurd42 @zoeweee @thennic @xiaq @tinyplanet95 @steddieyourself @chrystal-lovee @futuristicunknown86 @grtwdsmwhr @mugloversonly @wonderland-girl143-blog @a-little-unsteddie @marvel-ous-m @ajeff855 @gutterflower77 @thedragonsaunt @xxbottlecapx @hairdryerducks @catateme9 @gleek4twd @jaytriesstrangerthings @rovia2323 @carlajim98 @stevesbipanic @steddiecameraroll @thermofisherscientific @ninjapirateunicorns @whenindoubtb72 @dreamwatch @spectrum-spectre @eddiethehunted @sticknpokelightningbolt @kittycatcrackhead @hawkinshighflunkee @plasticcrotches @metalmunson @rosered93 @p0lybl4nkk @bluexvelvet @nicememerino @semi-precious-stoner @persnicketysquares @bj-freeplay @practicallybegging @yesdangerpls @cryptid-system @nadineseaday @platinum-sunset @bookworm0690 @clockworkballerina

[devilmademewriteit]

Ultraviolence

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.

warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).

word count: 4k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.

love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)

-em<3

—

The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.

You didn’t.

After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.

In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.

“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”

There were more hounds around… waiting.

Always waiting.

They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.

They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.

When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:

“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”

But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.

This is real.

And you bear witness to his carnage.

He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.

His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.

Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.

“Put it on.”

You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.

He’s dead; you get his coat.

A fair exchange.

He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.

The man straightens up.

Tall.

“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”

Texan.

Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.

“Walk.”

Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.

Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.

There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.

Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.

Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.

Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.

The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.

A raise of his eyebrows.

“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”

But… you don’t.

“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.

That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”

“No.”

“So get movin’, then.”

That left little room for debate.

So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.

He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.

Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.

“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”

Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”

Joel.

As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.

And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.

Who hunted together.

And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.

Fuck.

Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”

Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.

“Gonna have to test her out first.”

A few snickers.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.

Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.

So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.

To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.

Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”

Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.

“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.

And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.

No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.

You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.

The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.

“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?

You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”

He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.

So much for fighting.

There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”

You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.

Then, you nod, wordlessly.

“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.

Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“Five.” Breathless.

“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”

A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”

He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.

It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.

It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.

“No, please, no.”

He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.

“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”

You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.

“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”

He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.

Still, the raider ignores your trembling.

“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”

His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”

You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.

As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.

A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.

Déjà vù.

Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.

Leaving his mark.

It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”

A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”

You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”

His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.

But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.

“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.

Because…

Because—fuck.

It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”

He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.

“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.

“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”

A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.

And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”

His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.

Hot.

“It hurts.”

He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.

“Cry about it.”

And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.

You hate yourself for it.

But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.

God, no—I am not enjoying this.

He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”

When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.

A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”

The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.

You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.

“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.

“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.

But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”

Joel smiles when you sob.

It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.

And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”

“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”

The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.

This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.

You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”

And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.

“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”

He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.

“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.

Christ, it feels so good.

You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—

A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.

You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).

Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.

He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.

“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.

When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.

Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”

Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”

Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.

You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.

And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.

But Joel pays you no mind.

Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.

Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.

All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:

“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”

And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.

—

He used to call me DN

That stood for deadly nightshade

'Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminding me of when we were kids

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

He used to call me poison

Like I was poison ivy

I could've died right then

'Cause he was right beside me

Jim raised me up

He hurt me but it felt like true love

Jim taught me that

Loving him was never enough

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

We can go back to New York

Loving you was really hard

We could go back to Woodstock

Where they don't know who we are

Heaven is on earth

I would do anything for you, babe

Blessed is this union

Crying tears of gold, like lemonade

I love you the first time

I love you the last time

Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines

'Cause I'm your jazz singer

And you're my cult leader

I love you forever

I love you forever

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

—

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TAGS WILL CONTINUE IN A REBLOG (there are simply too many of you & I don’t want this post to crash <3)

[moonbaetarot]

Pick a pile

General message

1. 2. 3.

Pile 1

Pink and yellow flowers may be significant. Your going through change some type of purification and cleansing. Stepping into a new version of you. You may be seening a lot of angle numbers and signs. your losing your soft spot or care for someone or a situation you don’t really care what happens your just going to let it be. Your stepping into a more softer and care free energy. You could love taking pictures and videos or spend a lot of time on social media for some you do like editing of some sort. You may also be into dancing or ballet. You look really good in like pastel pink or a light green. You may also really love sweet treats and candy.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 2

You may be dealing with someone’s dishonesty or lying and there mind games. You need to leave this person in the past this may have been someone’s karma I’m getting a lot of uncomfortable energy that they make you feel or they give you the “ick”. do your research on this situation I’m hearing “ask more questions be nosy”. You may be down or feeling sad listening to sad songs staying up late I feel like this keeps you up at night. You may not like change so the situation and silence from this person drive you insane but you also know it’s time to let go. This doesn’t have to be a person this could be a situation take it as it resonates.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 3

Your winning in life or your about to be you feel like your money is good your life’s good very high and upbeat. For some you may have been struggling or stressed out about money but you are no longer going to feel this way. You may love fruit or pina colada maybe ice cream or sorbet. You’re being told to look around there’s something around you that is there and you don’t even realize it. I’m hearing you have options. Spend time by yourself do some reflecting you may be stepping into your inter child as well doing things that you would’ve loved to do but you didn’t get to. You could have a dog or puppy I’m seeing a brown dog. Im also seeing a childhood stuffed animal or a childhood pet that could be Significant.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

[stupidlittlespirit]

Do you have a list of smut headcanons you have for Ford? Including what his… size and width is under the belt lmao

So, I don't really put much stock into dick sizes and stuff, I don't like to think about them too closely bc I think they're a bit gross LMAO.

but for general smut hcs?

oh boy do i........

I'd just say 'the right size for you' and let you do the imagining. i know it's big though on god i know it is

Here's an ask I already answered about this and it still stands, though I'll repeat myself here because it's fun.

These all apply to my fanon version of post portal!Ford because he's my favourite. They aren't really comprehensive nor are they exhaustive but hey ho:

I think we've all established as a group that praise is big for him. Any kind, provided it's genuine, gets him all warm and toasty inside. He's driven (compelled, really) to earn more of it and will go about doing so as 'subtly' as he can.... As subtle as a sledgehammer to the knee is, anyway. He fold for it immediately and he likes to hear and know that he's doing well and is liked, which makes him generous with the attention he gives. Likes to hear that he's smart/the best etc.

Virgin. Don't care what anyone says. That motherfucker is a virgin. Maybe he's held hands and kissed someone behind the bike sheds at school, but not much more. He's shy about it but he's an inquisitive, quick learner and he strives to do his best, so it makes for a nice combo once he does lose it.

Because he's new to all this, he wants to practise. He wants his partner to teach him. He'll still get overconfident and try to act like he knows what he's doing after one or two tries, but he ultimately enjoys getting to be taken along for the ride (heh).

It would take him time to get comfortable enough to pursue sexual and romantic contact. New forms and layers of trust have to be built and that kind of stuff takes time. Sex makes you vulnerable and he's not the kind of person that generally allows himself to be vulnerable, so I think he'd probably be quite nervous about it all. He'd feel very powerless and out of his depth so a partner would have to hold his hand through it (literally, too).

Adding onto that scary element, I think he'd be a switch with a preference for subbing and service, and being submissive requires a lot of trust. He's been taken advantage of over and over again, and he'd be frightened of it happening again. A partner would have to work hard to ease that fear.

Bi/pan. No one traverses inter-dimensionally and stays straight, whether you're fucking your way across the multiverse like Rick Sanchez or you're pure as untouched snow. He likes men, women, all the in-between genders, the interspecies aliens and fuck it, cryptids too.

Is romantically driven before anything else. Falls with feelings over physical attraction.

Cums quickly (virgin, duh) but knows that'll be the case, so spends more time performing on his partner before he gets his turn. He'll do literal experiments later on (with or without his partner) to up his resistance and delay himself.

He's also sixty-something, which means that once he's done, he's done. He can work on his refractory period and fuck it, maybe even find some/make some stuff that will help improve that for a special occasion, but he's still human. I get a good giggle when he's portrayed as a fuck machine (same with Stan) because trust me on this: old men are not! That!

I think he'd start out trying to be very efficient: like okay, I make you cum and then I cum and then that's it, until his partner reassures him that he doesn't have to do that at all and actually if he takes a breath, he'll enjoy it more.

Which then gives way to him taking that advice to heart and discovering long, drawn out, messy make out/ heavy petting sessions. The guy has a lot of time to make up for and he never got to do them in college so he’s going to enjoy them to their fullest now. These last for a while and then often lead into…..

Painfully drawn out, slow sex. Ford finds out that he is a thorough Love Maker, not a fucker. As I linked above, I think he could switch up styles and be adventurous with it, but he prefers taking his time and really bonding through the experience. He’ll get so involved with the sensations and the sights and the sounds that he’ll just forget that there’s technically an ‘end goal’ with sex and will drag things on for an age because he’s enjoying himself and the attention.

If it isn't obvious, I think he likes to take his time. He isn't on the run anymore and once he's reminded that he has the luxury of slowing down now, he'll stomp the breaks and use intimacy to really remind himself of that safety. Not a fan of quickies unless they're risky. Despite being shy, he likes the risk of being caught (by adults only, please, not anyone else) and I think he probably enjoys outdoor sex because he likes being outdoors! It's always the quiet ones....

Somewhat of a mommy/parental/authority kink.

Big fan of edging until he can't talk.

I think he's also a bit of a pervert. It mostly comes from a curious place, but he likes to check out the person he's into ("am I really into them or am I just imagining my attraction?...") and he definitely thinks about them in unholy ways in his private time. I'm drafting a fic where he makes a janky JOI programme on an old PC in the lab with Reader's voice because I think he's a little weirdo sometimes and he likes being bad because he thinks he's too smart to get caught for it. Spoiler: he is not.

Experimentation kink.

I think he's also very shy about it all. Like, really shy. Charmingly so. He definitely holds himself back initially because of noble reasons (his trauma, his age, lack of confidence etc) but even once he's got the go ahead he's still awkward with it. He'll have a brave moment every now and then, though.

Although I think he is predominantly a shy, submissive type in this kind of scenario, I do think he's prone to outbursts (the BPD brothers, helloooo), so every now and then if he's pissed off or excited or whatever, he might be inclined to toss his partner over a nearby surface and have at it. In this kind of scenario, he's probably a lot more demanding for the praise and stuff.

Anyway I'll shut up now :)