#mild humor

[lowlydogs]

Sub!Konig headcanons.

GN reader. Reader can be read as penetrating/not.

Konig has a very, very conflicted relationship with submission.

Independence is not exclusive from wanting structures to obey. It's why he's snug and relaxed in the military hierarchy: He has a clear place and name, while still having a figure to follow and report to.

The biggest thing that impeded Konig from trying a game of mounting with you was his frail pride. Oh, his pride. The man has the nasty ego of a nerd-turned-frat. Convincing him alone took a month of carefully placed hints and suggestive words to have him skeptically consider the idea.

So, out of goodwill and (mainly) to ensure he doesn't stomp away flustered mid-session, you opted to treat him gently. Make it feel like a situation he can partake in with dignity, not have it ripped off of him.

The first time it happened, to anyone of less experience, Konig might've looked unimpressed and at worst, constipated. You never had him this quiet, nothing but his piercing, consuming eyes observing every move. For the first time in your life, as you prepared yourself and squeezed lube into your hands, you felt daunted by him.

However, eventually, you realize a thing after the initial suspense passes. In solid 5 minutes, Konig has done absolutely nothing but lay supine, legs just silently spread.

The ruthless sniper of Kortac is a pillow princess.

But you're a soldier of your words. Stripping him naked all except the mask on his face and his socks, holding his leg open, you planted kisses on his neck and sunk in. That is when he stops being quiet, as the lewd sound of wet plops and whines (whines) fills the room. Konig came barely minutes later, his leg tensing and his head thrown back. You take him only on a second round, feel this goliath of a man arch his back and palm at you until too shortly, he comes again. You lay down against him and softly caressed his back as he shakingly breathed in and out. That’s how it was. Brief and soft.

Outside the power trip of fucking a man taller than a door and the tantalizing sight of his fucked-out eyes, it was... pretty disappointing sex. You could admit that.

Short and sweet, certain, but you had to jack yourself off afterward and you were certain this was the only time Konig would bottom to you again.

That is, until two days later, you nearly killed Konig flinging a cup of water at him when you found him casually sitting on your barrack bed in complete darkness.

Jesus christ, you're more than open to dom him once more, but couldn't he found any more normal way to ask that?

However, that complaint perished quick on your tongue as Konig tugged at your wrist and reticently pressed it down against his abdomen, pulling you into his open legs. You felt the outline of his abs, his fuzzy happy trail, a shy little bulge in his boxers. God bless his soul, he lasted just a bit longer and held on just stronger. The bed mildly shook as you roughened your pace. He shed tears and wheezed like a particularly pathetic animal, burying his face in the crane of your neck, squeezing your back. He lasted three rounds this time: For that little tenacity, you rewarded him with a good boy. Shivers ran down his spine like he climaxed again. Satisfaction warmly swelled in you as you gently flipped and big spooned him that night, pleasantly spent and exhausted.

That is until you found him in your barracks again next evening. You pushed him out, told him you had patrol tomorrow. Then he was there the next evening. Then the evening after that.

Something in your dynamics irreversibly changed after what happened, that was assured and guaranteed. The package of "Fucking your coworker till he cries" came with a warning label, loud and clear. Hell, you even calculated for it and wrote down all scenarios, of everything that could possibly branch and happen. Maybe he’d be respectful of it, have some maturity, or he’d avoid the topic entirely. The most annoying it'll get is he’d distance himself, or worse, antagonize you. All you expected and didn’t particularly care for, outside of professional reasons. But out of everything, Konig turning up every night hands politely set in his lap is the thing that shakes you off your feet. The sniper had become disturbingly benign, acting more like an awkward teenager than the self-assured bastard he once was.

He was different. He didn’t call you every synonym of an imbecile when you missed a shot. Offered to take your night shift when you bitched about begin too tired for it. Weird backhanded words of admiration that both praised and called you a bitch. In one of the nights he arrived, he had lit candles. Not just any candles. The sexy, rose-scented, red valentine candles. It was getting weird.

You finally fully realized the gravity of the situation on Pizza day. At lunch, he silently shared a piece of his pizza with you. You looked at him agape with horrified eyes.

His pizza.

Did you just fuck Konig into sainthood?

[2ndtimesacharm]

Mental Health Advocate, Tommy Shriggly (2024)

[steviewashere]

Discombobulated by The Disembodied

Rating: Teen and Up (May Change)CW: Graphic Depictions of Violence/Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Blood & GoreCharacters: Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Vecna, Other Characters to Be AddedTags: Canon Re-write, Canon Divergence, Season 4, Vecna's Curse, Steve Harrington Gets Vecna'd, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington's Friendship, Steve Harrington Has Nightmares, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Mild Humor, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Worried Robin Buckley, Mentions of Steve's Bad Parents, Other Tags To Be Added WC: 4,177

Season four rewrite where Steve gets targeted instead of Max. More to be added eventually, but here's chapter one! Enjoy! <3

Or, read it on AO3 Over Here!

🪦—————🪦 A bloody nose isn’t good for business. Not when it drips down onto the case he’s holding. Staining the pristine white edge with a rich pool of his warm blood. He’s never done well at the sight of it. And knows damn well she won’t allow him to just walk around Family Video with a wad of toilet paper up his nostril. “Robin,” he calls out towards the back room.

“What d’ya want Steve? I’m on break!” She shouts. Her mouth is full of something. Probably fries, if the smell of grease in the air says anything.

“Um—I—Don’t freak out!”

“You know that as soon as you say something like that, I’m going to do it regardless. Now, what’s wrong?! Use your big boy words!”

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. Finger laying flat against his nostrils, head tilted towards the ceiling. The flow won’t stop. He pinches. Voice high pitched and embarrassingly similar to Kermit the Frog, “I’ve got a bloody nose! I’ll go to the bathroom and clean it up, already half way there. Just need somebody to watch the counter.” And since he’s honest, he’s in the men’s restroom before she has the chance to even open the break room door.

It’s a mess. His hand is coated in his own blood, already drying between his fingers, caught in the life lines. A faint ring of red on the edge of his right nostril. Damp spot above his lip, caught in the little bit of mustache hair he’s got, tacky. It’s on the tip of his tongue when he catches a little bead between his lips. He wets a paper towel and dabs at the stains on his face. The white paper turning hideously pink. Almost salmon. Wrings it out under the steady stream of warm water from the tap, watching as the blood washes away in little swirls. This has to be the most inconvenient time to get a nose bleed. But every single time has been inconvenient. Is there convenience in blood on his face?

He sighs when he’s finally clean. And takes a good look at himself in the mirror. Dark circles and oily skin. Shaking hands. Dark pink lips—stained. “Get it together,” he mutters, “rent’s due in a few days. Need all the money you can get.” He runs his hand over his face, grimacing at the flakes of blood that come away from his sweaty palm. “Fuck.”

When he’s back on the sales floor, he has to force the annoyed sigh back down his throat. Robin’s already looking at him. Wide eyed and reaching out. “I’m fine,” he automatically says. She’s got questions, he knows this. Will he answer? Most likely not.

“There’s no way you’re fine, Steve!” She says in return, exasperated. It’s her signature catchphrase. “That’s the fifth nose bleed in the last like…four days? You should really—“

“Get it checked out. I know, Robbie. I can’t do that and you know that.”

She grumbles some sort of profanity under her breath, missed by Steve’s slow shuffling towards the counter. “Steve, I’ll literally…give you my paycheck for the rest of your rent if it means you’ll get checked out by a doctor,” she attempts to bargain.

“I’m not taking your money, you need that, too,” he rebuttals. “And I’m not going to a doctor. I don’t have insurance. It’ll get better, I’m sure. We have nothing to worry about.” Though when he looks down at the cases on the counter, stretching to take one, his hands are shaking. Of course he’s worried. He’s had concussions and enough doctor visits in the last three years, it’s enough to finally make his parents tut and coo over him. He’s heard all about brain damage and risks and all the other garbage. What’s nose bleeds on top of that? Just a minor setback. But also, maybe it does mean something. Maybe he’ll die in his sleep, too much blood on his pillow. He’s not sure. The doctor would prescribe him something, probably. Though, doctors aren’t his forte. Not after last summer.

“What if it’s cancer?” Robin oh-so helpfully supplies.

“It’s not cancer,” Steve drones.

“What about a brain bleed?”

“Think I’d know if that was happening.”

“What about—“

“Robin,” Steve interrupts firmly. “Your little diagnostics are not helping. And I wish you’d stop for the sake of my own sanity. I’ll get it figured out eventually. Now’s just not the time.”

He grabs the tape he had before, wiping at its edges with a sanitary wipe. The cloth is pink in his hand. Just like it’d been in the bathroom. He knows that she’s right. She always is, or at least mostly to some degree. But he can’t miss work. Not when he’s got groceries to buy and bills to pay and rent to cover. Not when he’s on his own, no longer covered by his parents.

“When will be the right time? Because at this rate, Steve, it’ll be when you’re covered in your own blood and dead on the floor.” She moves behind him. Standing all too close to his back. He moves away. Her hand falling back down to hit the side of her thigh. “Why won’t you just let me worry? Let me in, y’know. I’m your best friend, you can trust me.” He hates how wounded she sounds. A strain in the back of his throat. The lurching in the pit of his stomach.

“I do,” he weakly murmurs. “I’m just fine with handling this kind of stuff. Not like I haven’t done it before.”

“But you have your own place. You have independence. You’ve got your friends,” Robin lists. Voice rising in urgency and volume. “They want to help you. They want to give you what your parents couldn’t, Steve! That’s part of my purpose! To just be there!”

He sighs. Bends himself in half over the counter, forehead resting on his open palm. The aching tinge of a migraine settling uneasily behind his eyebrows. They’re getting more frequent, too. He’s already out of his prescription medication for this bullshit. Now reliant on Tylenol, and ibuprofen, and weed from Eddie Munson. It’s been weeks since he’s been able to just go about his day, normally and at peace. Haunting nightmares. Whispered voices in cold silences. Getting high just to cover up the pain that doesn’t even recede when he’s finally out of his mind. It’s bad that he’s got Robin yelling at him. Bad that he wants to cave, give in. Knows that he can’t, though. It’s all such bullshit. “I’d ask for your help,” he grits, “But it wouldn’t do much good.”

She exhales sharply over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to fucking mean?” Her voice bites.

“It means,” he drags on, voice going weaker and weaker by the second, “means that I’ve tried everything. And nothing you could do is going to help me right now. That’s all I meant. I’m not—You know I’m not that guy anymore.” A part of him wants to cry. Grovel at her feet. Chomp down on the side of the counter and sob into the surface, sounds muffled by the formica. But he stays bent over his own hands. Knees forward and ready to crouch down. His hair flops into his eyes. It’s almost laughable how he keeps forgoing his normal hair care routine, but knows that it’s cause for concern, too. What the hell happened to me, a small part of him wonders. The rest of him is just caught up in Robin. What she thinks of him. Why she sticks around for somebody like him.

Steve stands from his stupor. To look back. Her eyes are forlorn towards the doors. Body tight and still. “I don’t know how you can help,” he mutters. “I’d ask if—“

“I know,” she quickly interrupts. “Doesn’t mean you have to be alone, though. I—I’m gonna head back to the break room. Have the rest of my lunch. Take yours in fifteen minutes, alright?” Her eyes find him. And for once, her eyes that are normally excited and curious and welcoming, are dull and closed off. “I want you to eat today. Bounce back. Be yourself.”

He nods once. A finality to it. “Right. Yeah, I’ll take my lunch soon. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be normal.”

“Then don’t be normal. Just be Steve. Be the guy I’m friends with. Not some…Some self conscious jerk who won’t let his best friend worry. Because she does. Do that. A lot. But only because she loves you and doesn’t like the idea of you being dead. So don’t do that. Don’t die because you’re being an ignorant moron.” He laughs, loud and belly forward. Something in him sparkles, glinting gold and honey-like when she smiles at him. Even as she tries to hide it from his sight. She chuckles herself and walks by him, but not without throwing a fake-out punch to his arm. “Fries are calling my name, Steve-O. Practically screeching for me to eat them.”

“Go eat, you dork,” he chokes out through his fit of giggles. Stomach clenching with the words. “I’ll still be here, you know that.”

“You better be, Steve Harrington. Or I’ll find you and kill you myself.”

“Not unless somebody gets to me first,” he fires at her back, already half way through the break room door.

She flips him off. Good natured. Chipped nail polish gleaming in the Family Video light. Her voice is muffled by the swinging door. “Don’t be a stranger! Maybe close up! Come chow down! I’ve got your stupid burger with yellow mustard, you freak!” Before he can dignify that with a response, the bell above the front doors chimes. He schools himself.

His headache festers. And he swears, for a moment, that somebody whispers his name.

——— Before he sleeps, he pops three Tylenol. Technically, he’s not supposed to. But he’s also out of weed. And what he’d normally take for migraines. This goddamned headache won’t leave him. It went from a dull ache within the last four days to a throbbing, pulsing mass at the back of his head. And, sure, maybe he should go to a doctor. Not now. Not with what his brain will surely create for him tonight.

He’s tried just not sleeping. But then he’s too groggy in the morning. Running off of tepid cups of coffee and whatever candy he grabs from the rack in Family Video. While it’s not ideal, the suffering in his sleep, he knows that he’ll have to shut his eyes. Sweat through his clothes. Get caught in the blankets like a mouse in a trap.

It takes a while. The all encompassing brownish-black behind his eyelids to swallow him whole. But it does. Sucking him in, tying him down to the mattress, shoving him further and further into the indent his body makes.

———— He can hear them screaming through the large metal door. The separation growing farther and farther as he sits. Strapped to the chair. Eyes pointed and unblinking at the door. Nauseous and off-kilter, but so damn afraid. Terrified as another screech breaks through the underside of the door.

They shouldn’t have come down here. No matter how enticing this secret code was. No matter if he knew where the music was coming from. He knew that it was stupid. That all of this was a bad and awful idea. And now he’s got two basically brand new people roped into his and Dustin’s bullshit.

The screams fade. Walls crumbling around him. He’s stuck to the chair.

Trapped. His labored and panicked breathing echoing between the floor and the endless abyss that cages him in on all four sides. Beyond where the door was, he sees them.

He tries. Tries really hard to look away. To find a corner or a stain by his shoe or a stray ice cream cone crumb on his uniform, but to no avail. His eyes remain glued to where the door should still be. Where it should be shielding him from this gnarly, unsightly, gruesome view.

Robin Buckley is a tangle of broken limbs and matted blonde hair, smeared lipstick and plucked black fingernails. Her sneakers are soaked in red, covering the doodles he’s seen before, smearing whatever ink was previously there. The white on her uniform is unmistakably pink. Her face…Steve doesn’t recognize it. Features smashed in, bloodied, or missing. Eyes no longer blue. Just two black holes. Suggestions for where eyeballs should go. And he veers his line of sight just to the left of her slumped body, all crooked and messy on the bench they’ve thrown her on. There, on the ground by her rolled over left foot, is her eyeballs. Piercing blue and retina tailed.

Dustin Henderson is also more broken bones than put together human. His curls are frizzy, stained with red, sticking tacky to his forehead. A bloodied pile of teeth lay rotting next to his corpse. His hat is too far away for him to reach. Hands tied behind his back and strained, rubbed red raw on his wrists. T-shirt worn from camp instead ripped and jumbled, stained with crimson, and sticky to his body.

Erica Sinclair. She’s only twelve years old. He can’t look any longer. At what he couldn’t prevent. What he should’ve been able to save. They’re all kids, a part of him realizes. He’s the only one there who’s an adult, who’s had the chance to graduate high school, who’s alive.

A presence lingers behind him. He dares not turn his head.

But a disembodied voice accompanies the lingering shadow towering over his soon-to-be corpse.

“Steve Harrington…Your time is up.” ————

He startles awake in his bedroom. It’s dark. The black inkiness undefinable in the space around him. Filled with the white noise of silence. His clothes are wet with sweat. Limbs locked straight and stiff at his sides. Eyes centered to the foot of his bed.

There’s nobody there, which he wants to believe. But Steve swears, in this torturous moment, a figure stands over him. Tangled in its own flesh. A singular white eye. Dangling claw-like hand brushing the comforter tucked insecurely at his feet. It’s mouth remains still and closed and absent of lips. He swears it. He hears it. “Steve Harrington,” the figure seems to whisper. Voice deep and rumbling. Disembodied from all sides.

He swears it comes from the figure. He knows it does. It has to. But the next time he blinks.

Eyelids squelching with the tears he couldn’t sense.

The figure is gone. Dissipated. He knows he won’t sleep again. Searching the room, eyes going right towards his night stand, the alarm clock reads 3am. It was worth a try. Managed a good five hours somehow. It’s something.

It’s enough as he peels himself from bed and stumbles to the bathroom. It’s enough when he reemerges in a towel with sopping wet hair. It’s enough when he idles in his car outside of the shitty apartment complex he’s managed for himself.

It’s enough to wonder if what he foresaw was just a figment of his imagination.

For now, however, he pulls out of the parking lot. Riding slow and careful to Robin’s house. Today’s the day of the championship game. And he’ll be damned if he misses it.

——— “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Robin drawls. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that it’s the truth. Her eyeball is practically pressed against the passenger’s visor mirror. Applying her mascara with fingers prying the eye open, tongue squished between her teeth, nostrils flared in concentration.

Steve scoffs. “It’s just early, man. Not that weird.” He rolls his shoulders as much as he can with his hands extended to his steering wheel. Sometimes he wishes she weren’t so perceptive. Or that she only noticed him when he was down on his luck about his dating pool, not his existence. He blinks sluggishly, the road blurring for a brief moment. He should’ve had more coffee or something this morning. Being alert is important. Being aware. Being ready, especially after what he saw last night.

“It is a little,” she mutters, still hyper-focused on her makeup. “I mean—Usually, you’d be melting my ears off with some discussion about your dating life. How much it sucks. What you’re looking for. Your success in bed the night before.” Finally, she pulls herself away from the visor, open mascara tube in hand, and stares long at his profile. “Did you even go on your date yesterday? That girl…What was her name…From the other day? Thought you scored a movie with her or something.”

He shakes his head. Eyes vigilant to the road. “Heidi. Her name is Heidi, first of all.”

“Okay, Heidi. Her name is Heidi. Did you go on a date with her? Or are you going to tell me how she isn’t the right person? Because you aren’t eager to. Which means one of many things: she’s going out of state for school, she’s more interested in your douchebag dad, she thought that you could get her a word in with Tommy the Horrid, or she almost bit your dick off while giving you a blow-ie and now you’re too afraid of a girl with a little bite to her bark.”

“Hey! The girl that almost bit my dick off had serious teeth to her, dude! I have every right to be afraid of somebody making a snack outta my dick,” he objects. “Besides, I wouldn’t know about Heidi because I didn’t even call her!”

Robin sucks in between her teeth. “Low blow, Steve-O.”

“I forgot!”

She groans. “That’s even worse, Steve,” she bemoans. “It’s like objectively terrible to forget to call the girl that you asked out. If anything, I should’a called her and taken her up on the movie.”

“Oh, come off it,” Steve shoots. “God forbid a guy forgets every once in a while.”

“God forbid a girl accidentally bites your dick,” Robin mumbles under her breath. She leans forward before Steve can refute and turns up the music on the radio. Her nose crinkles immediately. “Tears For Fears…Again? It’s the exact same tape as yesterday!”

Steve just shrugs in response. Sure, it is the same tape. But also, it’s keeping that lingering whisper at bay. He’s made almost a science out of it. Whenever he prickles with a floundering sense that he’s being watched, he plays the first few seconds of their song, “Watch Me Bleed”. It works, though. Brain zeroing in on just the voices emanating from the tape’s delicate nature. He plays it in his Walkman at work. During his break. From the stereo in his car. The sound system he stole from his parents. Wherever he can fit the music like caulk between tiles, that’s where the whispers don’t reach him.

She sighs at his non response. “Alright, what’s going on with you?” She finally asks. “We’ve been in this car for like fifteen minutes. You won’t talk to me about girls. You won’t ask me why I’m getting all dolled up or whatever. And now you’re listening to, admittedly, the most heart wrenching Tears For Fears album I have ever heard. At least so far.”

“Does there have to be something wrong with me to listen to Tears For Fears?”

“Yes. When it’s depressing, there absolutely needs to be something going on with you. Talk to me,” she eggs, slapping the back of her left hand on his bicep. He winces at the sound. “Let me in Steve or I’m gonna ban you from picking movies at work.”

He gasps, offended. “You wouldn’t!”

“I’ll turn on The Apartment everyday I work with you this week. Swear on it, I will. Let me in or there will be dire consequences.”

He shifts in his seat. And for the first time in the whole drive, he pulls his line of sight over to Robin. She stares back. But he can’t actually bring himself to look. Not at her eyes or where her lipstick might be smudged. Or at her fingernails, no matter the color they’re painted right now. He finds a freckle between her eyebrows instead. “Okay, fine,” he mutters. “I’ve been having nightmares, that’s all.” And then he’s back at the road. The long and stretching road. An uneasy silence around all aspects of his car. It’s not usually this vacant. But something is changing, shifting. Lurking, he can sense it.

“Just nightmares? Or does this have to do with the bloody noses and chronic headaches you’ve been getting, too?” Of course she knows what to ask. The exact questions he doesn’t like answering.

He shrugs once more. “I don’t know, Robbie. Maybe. Probably doesn’t help my headaches when I get less sleep than needed. The nose bleeds are their own issue, I think.”

“See, this is why you should be going to a doctor. They’d actually know, y’know? Instead of speculating all this garbage.”

“Robin—“

“I’ll drop it. For your sanity. But, come on, it’s not weird to you? Not at all. All these things suddenly happening in your life. Practically mingling and making out in the corners. There has to be—“

He can’t listen to this any longer. To her paranoid ramblings. The what ifs and possibilities. At the next red light, he slams harder than necessary on the breaks. Hands squeezing the steering wheel tightly. Pointedly looking at his white knuckle grip. Tears simmer in his eyes. But he can’t. Can’t do this. The next swallow of spit he takes is harsh and agitating on his throat. “Why are you putting on so much makeup? Nobody has ever cared that much about a pep rally. Why do you suddenly care about this pep rally?” He interrogates.

Except, while he’d been expecting a long and agitated ramble that turned all too sappy, there’s silence. An odd and tense type of silence. Drawn with charcoal and engulfed in flames. His chest drops inwards, stomach swooping towards his throat, and his breath grows choked and distant from himself. He doesn’t move his eyes. For fear that the tangled flesh of that unidentifiable late night visitor will be wearing Robin’s scent. Doused in her perfume, but wickedly tall and bent. He doesn’t look. Not even when the recognizable drag of claws grows sharp and mean on the back of his right hand. Even as they curl into the cuff of his jacket. Even as the fabric bunches with the movement. Crinkling like plastic. And for a moment, it’s like he’s ground beef stowed behind plastic wrap on a grocery store shelf. Awaiting some fate. A fate somehow like death. Death after death.

“Steve,” it whispers. Definitely not Robin. Deep and masculine and vibrating. He swears the voice echoes in his chest. In his head. But he favors the steering wheel. Doesn’t want to confirm something he made up. He’s making this up. He has to be.

“Steve,” it tries again. The claws on his hand press firmer. He winces. But doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Even if it could take him at any moment. Even if it could diffuse his suffering. Even if it would rid him of the crawling under his skin that he’s tried to lock away for the last three years.

The next time, “Steve,” is said again, it’s Robin. Shaking his hand. Firmly pushing into his skin. Panicked and sharp and loud by his ear. He blinks, shifting, whipping his head to see her. Her piercing blue eyes perfectly placed in their sockets, fitted by black mascara and her lips a shiny pink, freckles, shaking voice, meticulously styled bob. “Steve, hello? What the hell—Where’d you just go?”

He flits over his surroundings. Pulled to the side of the road. Idling with the engine on. The tape done and over. How long have I been out of it, he has to wonder, and how did I get over here from the road? “I—I don’t know what that was,” he musters. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

“Is your head up your own ass or something? Made me have to pull over and emergency brake, you asshole.”

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, “must be more tired than I thought.” His hands go back to the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under his sweaty grip. It’s solid where he touches. The only thing he can hear are his hands and her breath. He sighs with exhausted relief. “So,” he chirps, “getting ready for Vickie, right?” He deflects. “She definitely likes boobies. And you like boobies. Match made in heaven.”

For a moment, Robin’s eyes flash with something like grievance. A worry. But she schools her expression and scoffs. A tight, tight laugh. “Don’t call them that!” She squawks.

If he continues to egg her on, he can pretend like there isn’t something breathing down his neck. Can pretend, too, that he doesn’t feel the need to be ready. For danger. For imminent peril. For his death.

🪦—————🪦 More to come later, but take this for now. Basically throwing you a bone. Whoops. Chew on this for a bit while I think about how to keep the narrative going.

[insane-control-room]

(Throws Tablet)

In which Evans lets Elise see some of Doug's texts to him, because this time he's gone too far.

a friend sent me this incorrect quote; made a fic. https://www.tumblr.com/darkdeception-incoquotes/705849624478597120/elise-throws-phone-at-the-wall-in-a-fit-of incorrect quote from: @darkdeception-incoquotes my requests are open btw :3 also this isnt canon to most of my stories i just lost my mind at 1am

Rated: G (Implied suggestive content) Warnings: referenced/implied cheating ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47867194

(Fic under cut)

“That cheating prick!” Elise growled, gripping the tablet hard enough to make slight white spots appear under her press. She stared at the pictures, face white with rage. “That lying, cheating prick!” 

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Evans sighed, trying to be as gentle as he could with her. Normally, Evans simply pleaded with Doug not to cheat on Elise, tried to get him to change his ways and go home instead of ‘working’ late in his office. This time, though, Doug had the audacity to text him some pictures snapped during his illicit exploit. Evans had threatened Doug that if he ever dared do such a thing, he would show the images to Elise, and, well, now he was making due on that very remark. He hated watching Elise’s rage at the confirmation of her suspicions. Even if Doug never denied her accusations of him cheating, she never had any proof, and it was enough for her to cling to. But now…. “I’m sorry, Elise.” 

“No. Thank you, Evans,” Elise shook her head. She took in a deep breath, and looked back at the pictures. “I needed this. Goddamnit, I needed this.” 

Evans shifted, slightly uncomfortable, as she began to scroll through his and Doug’s text history. He bit his lip to keep from protesting. She had a right to see, even if he hated sharing any glimpse of his private life with anyone. She laughed incredulously, venomously. 

“He even tried to get into your pants!” she scoffed, pausing in her scroll. Evans’ cheeks heated significantly while he recalled the several soliciting, salacious texts Doug had sent him. “Good on you for shutting him down! God, that backstabbing, crass, disgusting shit!” 

Evans tried to calm her down, but he was a moment too late. The enraged woman threw the tablet against the wall. Evans winced as it shattered.

“Um, Elise?” Evans quietly remarked, his hands shifting to hold each other in his meekness. “That was mine.”

Elise stared at the broken device for a moment before a soft pink blush colored her cheeks. 

“Oh,” she replied, sounding surprised. She pursed her lips for a second before commenting, “I’ll pay for it.” 

“You don’t have-”

“I’m going to use Doug’s card.”

“Oh. I see,” Evans nodded. Fair enough. “I’d appreciate it.”

“You know what I would appreciate, Detective?” Elise asked, looking at him through her lashes. He swallowed down a blush, shrugging. “If you’d be a sweetheart and cuffed Dougie onto a chair.” 

“Seems like a mild punishment,” Evans dryly remarked. 

“It’s so he could watch me go down on you,” Elise explained, dancing her fingers over his chest. 

Evans felt all of his blood rush to his face, and he choked on air, gaping at the coquettish woman before him. 

“I have to go,” he stammered.

“See you around, Detective,” Elise grinned, and winked. She called after him. “I think it would be a great way to keep him from cheating!”

“Not listening!” Evans answered, still blushing. 

[lgbtqtext]

[aventurineswife]

“I'd do whatever I could do”

Summary: Aventurine undergoes a bizarre transformation, reverting to his child form due to an inexplicable force. In this new, vulnerable state, he is found by Boothill, and you, who instinctively offers comfort and protection. Together, you three form an unlikely family, as Kakavasha, now a child, grapples with his new reality, experiencing innocence and care for the first time. Amid the chaos of the universe, they find brief solace in their newfound bond.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader x Boothill, Platonic, Transformation, Family, Unexpected Bonds, Comfort, Childlike Innocence, Humor, Surreal, Reader is called Mother but not implied female. @lavenderlovekakavasha

Warnings: Transformation (age regression), confusion, mild existential themes, emotional tension.

A/N: I'm half asleep while writing this so plz ignore any mistakes 😪

The warm glow of the sunset outside the IPC headquarters bathed the sterile interior in a soft, amber light. Aventurine leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the edges of the holographic charts laid out before him. The evening had been unusually quiet—until the unexpected wave of dizziness hit him.

"Not again..." Aventurine muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples as his vision blurred momentarily. He had always been one to trust his luck, but this felt… different. A strange sensation, something he couldn’t place, rolled through him like a tide. His body stiffened, a soft jolt running through his spine.

Before he could even register what was happening, the world around him began to warp. The walls seemed to shift, colors blending, and the floor seemed to fall away from beneath him. He gasped, feeling an overwhelming pull, and in a split second, his adult form began to shrink, his limbs dwindling down to a child’s size. His once confident stance faltered, replaced by a wobbly, unsteady posture.

Aventurine, now no longer the calculated and sophisticated man he had been moments ago, stood frozen in the middle of the room. His attire—elegant, composed—hung awkwardly around his much smaller frame, the fine materials pooling like a blanket on the floor. His golden-rimmed glasses fell from his face, and his typically calm and collected features now bore the unguarded innocence of a child.

The air was thick with confusion. Aventurine’s eyes—now large and wide—darted around in panic. His small hands trembled as he reached up to touch his now-short(?) hair. “What…?” he squeaked in a voice that was much higher than he had ever remembered it being.

Before he could further process what had happened, the door to his office slammed open, and in strode Boothill. The cyborg cowboy, tall and imposing, paused at the threshold when he saw what was unfolding before him. His mechanical eye whirred, analyzing the situation, his black pupils narrowing in confusion.

"Well, ain’t this somethin’," Boothill muttered, taking a step forward. His usual bravado faltered just a little as he looked down at the small, confused child now standing where Aventurine had once been. "Ain't no way I’m seein’ things right now..."

Aventurine—no, Baby Kakavasha—looked up at the towering cowboy. The child’s eyes were wide with fear, but there was also a glimmer of recognition. His lips parted as he searched for words, but none came.

Boothill stared at him for a long moment, his gloved hands hovering near his holstered guns as if unsure what to do next. “What in the galaxy is goin’ on here, kid?”

The air felt thick with tension. Baby Kakavasha took a hesitant step forward, his small voice trembling. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered, struggling with the unfamiliarity of his child’s body. “I didn’t do this. It wasn’t me.”

Boothill scratched his head, his mechanical parts creaking as he did so. “Kid, I ain't got the faintest clue what’s happenin', but one thing’s clear—you ain't lookin' like yourself. You a shape-shifter, or is this some kinda joke?”

“Please,” Kakavasha’s voice was softer now, more fragile than the usual sharp tone he carried as Aventurine. “Can you help me?”

Boothill exhaled slowly, his harsh features softening just a fraction. He wasn’t the sentimental type, but seeing this child—this version of Kakavasha—made his heart tug with an unfamiliar feeling. He took a step forward, crouching down to meet the small child’s gaze. “Alright, kid,” he said with a sigh. “Guess I’m gonna have to step up. I ain't got no clue how this happened, but you're not alone in this.”

Just then, the door to the room slid open again, and you stepped in. Your instincts kicked in immediately, and your brow furrowed at the sight before you. Aventurine, or rather, Baby Kakavasha, looked up at you with wide, uncertain eyes, his small body trembling in confusion.

Without hesitation, you approached him, kneeling beside the child. There was no explanation for why, but an overwhelming urge to protect him, to care for him, surged through you.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, extending your arms to comfort him. “You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

Boothill, watching the scene unfold, couldn't help but feel a sense of protectiveness welling up in his chest. “Guess that makes me your dad then,” he remarked dryly, scratching his head. “Ain't no way this is normal, but looks like we’re a family now.”

Kakavasha blinked at Boothill, still overwhelmed by the bizarre circumstances. “Father?” he echoed, testing the word on his lips. His expression was a mix of confusion and surprise, but also... curiosity. “You’re... my dad?”

“Yeah, you heard me right. I’m your old man now,” Boothill said with a smirk, though there was a softness in his voice that he didn’t usually show. "Ain't that somethin’, kid?"

Kakavasha took a moment to absorb the idea, his little mind scrambling to make sense of the situation. His usual sharp wit was clouded by the childlike innocence that had taken over his demeanor. “So, uh... does this mean I can have cookies for breakfast now?” he asked, his small voice high-pitched but filled with a strange, hopeful tone.

Boothill blinked. "Well, uh... sure, kid. Why not?" He shook his head in bemusement. "You're supposed to be some kinda stone-cold strategist, and now you're askin' about cookies."

Kakavasha grinned widely, the simplicity of the question almost making the chaos around them feel a little more manageable. “Maybe... maybe we can even get ice cream after dinner!” he added, his face lighting up at the thought.

Boothill snorted, leaning back on his heels. “This whole thing’s a mess, kid, but sure. Ice cream it is.” He shot a glance at you. “You’re okay with that, right? I mean, we're a family now... I think?”

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of it all. "Sure, ice cream sounds good. After all, you’ve got to ease into being a kid again, right?"

Kakavasha looked up at both of you, his expression shifting from bewilderment to something softer, warmer. Despite the situation being entirely out of his control, there was a sense of comfort slowly building in him. Maybe, just maybe, this odd, unexpected family would be able to piece together a bit of stability, even if only for a moment.

“Thank you,” Kakavasha whispered, his voice now tinged with gratitude. “I... I don’t know what happened, but... I feel like I’m not alone anymore.”

Boothill’s face softened, just a little, as he placed a hand on Kakavasha’s small shoulder. “You’re not alone, kid. No matter what happens, we’ve got each other.”

The improbable new family stood there for a moment, in the midst of the swirling chaos, unsure of how or why this all came to be. But for now, Kakavasha was no longer a vengeful adult filled with hatred. He was simply a child, embraced by a new, unlikely mother and a cyborg cowboy who, in this strange turn of fate, had somehow become his father.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, the chaos of the universe outside seemed to fade away as they stood together, a family of three, with Kakavasha’s small hand resting gently in Boothill’s rough palm. The game of life had thrown them a curveball, but for now, they would face it as one.

The dawn would come for them eventually. But for now, they had each other. And cookies. And ice cream.

Very lazily written and not edited lol

Art by @Senlly_2507 on X

[an-albino-pinetree]

Happy (early) Valentines!

[fairybonesandstardust]

gege’s ending the series so quickly because he’s running out of characters to to kill

[wangxianficrecs]

coop d'état by wolfsan11

coop d'état

by wolfsan11 (@wolfsan11)

G, 4k, Wangxian

Summary: “Lan Zhan?!” Wei Wuxian asked in some strange smear of horror and delight. Never let it be said that he wouldn’t approve of his husband’s rule-breaking, but it wasn’t often that Lan Zhan did it so blatantly. Last he’d checked, No pets allowed in the Cloud Recesses was still a valid rule amongst the 4000 or so carved on the wall by the entrance. Lan Wangji remained silent until they were right up against the low wooden fencing that seemed to have sprung up there overnight. “I have not stolen these ones,” said Lan Wangji, which was at least a little reassuring considering the last chicken gifts, fair enough, but still did not really explain the situation! Or, Wei Wuxian finds himself the proud of owner of five chickens, while Lan Wangji defies the government (his uncle). Kay's comments: Came for a cute post-canon story where Lan Wangji got Wei Wuxian some chickens stayed when I realised that the chickens were actually therapy. This story really gets you about half-way through and I absolutely love it. Very cute and thoughtful! Also, I think Wei Wuxian should get some pets too and the chickens really fit him well and I love how they become part of making the Cloud Recesses more of a home for him Excerpt: “I was told they are an agreeable breed. Very accustomed to loud noises,” Lan Zhan said finally. Taken off guard by the teasing, Wei Wuxian burst into laughter. None of the chickens made a single sound of alarm at his cackles though, too busy in their search for bugs. Perhaps they were too used to the hustle and bustle of human life to be bothered by the Cloud Recesses’ dead silence. If anything, the silence must unsettle them more. Wei Wuxian leaned forward to appraise them, resting his chin atop his arms on the wooden fencing. “What will your shufu say, bringing pets into the Cloud Recesses?” he asked. “Are farm animals and pets the same?” Lan Zhan said, dodging his question with one of his own. Then, quieter, “Regardless, shufu will not say anything. Refusing a gift would be rude and rudeness is not allowed in the Cloud Recesses.” Wei Wuxian had to grab his husband to keep from falling over. “Lan Zhan, your uncle really has no idea what kind of rebel he’s raised,” he managed through a wheeze. Lan Wangji’s smooth jade face indicated nothing of the smugness radiating within him, but Wei Wuxian could read it all the same. Neither of them spoke on why such a gift was made at all.

pov wei wuxian, post-canon, fluff and humor, established relationship, married lan wangji/wei wuxian, mild hurt/comfort, chickens, wei wuxian gets therapy, in the form of chickens, pets, caring lan wangji, good significant other lan wangji

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[nando161mando]

[gothic-mothic]

Doodles from past few months

[steviewashere]

If Found, Return to Me

Rating: General CW: Implied Sex (Mild), Mild Panic Attacks Tags: Post Canon, Post Season 4, Established Relationship, Humor and Hijinks, Eddie Munson is a Little Shit, Steve Harrington is a Little Shit, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Panic Attacks, Dork Eddie Munson, Dork Steve Harrington, 3+1

Okay, the idea was going to be a 5+1, but I couldn't get past three ideas without feeling the crawl of burn-out, so I lowered it to three. But this is based on This Post from @apomaro-mellow

👕—————👕 1. He grips the hem of his shirt and tugs. Chin tucked into his neck so that he can read the text, which is bold and black and dark on the white background. ‘If found, return to Steve.’ Eddie groans. “Do we seriously have to wear these?” He whines.

Steve stands in front of him. Hands on his hips. One foot cocked. “Yes, Eddie,” he answers emphatically. Even a little annoyed. Which, sue Eddie for having to ask over and over, but it’s sort of embarrassing. Especially when his boyfriend is wearing a similar shirt that just reads: ‘I’m Steve’. Makes Eddie look sort of childish, if you were to ask him. “If I’m taking you out of town, to a place I’ve never been before for a convention—something I’d probably never even go to—you absolutely have to wear that shirt. Knowing you, you’ll see some action figure stand and I’ll be abandoned by the comic books.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Or, y’know, we can just link arms and walk around the convention center?” Steve only widens his eyes and raises an eyebrow. He groans again. “Okay, fine! We’ll wear these stupid t-shirts.” His head tilts back, eyes to the ceiling of their hotel. Huffs through his nose. “I don’t even know how you got these,” he grumbles, “I’d rather not know.”

Sure, Eddie’s prone to running off. He gets excited, okay? Especially when it’s something he knows a lot about, or something he’s been hunting down for literal years, or if it’s a thing he can surprise the people around him with. Thinking of the last time he wandered off and Steve had to practically scruff him, it’d been while he was purchasing a dice set for Dustin’s birthday. So maybe Steve has a point. And maybe it’s sort of a genius idea. Eddie just wants to be stubborn about this, it’d save him the humiliation.

Except, he’s still wearing the shirt (Steve in his matching one) when they finally get through the doors of the convention center. There’s people in costumes all around them: Spock and Kirk, Marty McFly, Indiana Jones, Predator, and a few kids with their dads all dressed like those ponies that Erica likes. Something in Eddie trills. And he’s already a few steps ahead of Steve before he knows it. Steve trails behind him, wonder and awe shining in his own eyes, trying to keep up with Eddie’s frantic nature.

But then they’re not even close to each other. They buy lunch a couple hours in. Steve gets a large lemonade and downs it like he’s never had something to drink before. And then Eddie’s being told, “Please wait here by the bathrooms. Don’t go do anything stupid.”

He’s leaning against the wall that reads: ‘Restrooms’. Arms intertwined over his chest. Legs crossed on one another. In the distance, his eyes lock onto a Dungeons & Dragons booth. There’s tall shelves stocked with every mini figure he could ever pray for. A few long tables that showcase various maps, dungeon master screens, and little trays for dice. However, there’s an odd rack in the booth. A hat stand. And on it, he spots the perfect thing for Steve. It’s probably expensive, Eddie debates with himself, but it’s Indiana Jones’ hat. His feet are moving before he registers the people walking past him.

And then he’s there. Holding a classic fedora hat between his hands. Turning it around in his hold. Thumbing at the material; marveling at how smooth and buttery soft the fabric is. He spots the price tag, ‘$8.00’. It’s not a terrible price. Isn’t damaged in any way. So he keeps it in his left hand, grabs a paladin mini figure in his right, and purchases both items. Bag in hand, he moves to leave the booth, but is stopped by a gentle hand tapping on his right shoulder.

He turns and is met with a girl. She’s level with his chest, eyes wide and calculating, hand retreating back to her side. “Hi—um—you don’t know me at all, but I found somebody named Steve looking for you,” she states, “I saw your shirt and figured you were the guy he was talking about.”

Eddie slumps. A part of him can’t believe the stupid shirt even worked. “Yeah, it’s probably me that he’s looking for,” he sighs. “Take me to him.”

She’s hard to follow in the crowd of people. Shorter than most and extremely quick. But she links his arm with hers and practically drags him back towards the bathrooms. And there he is, Steve Harrington with his hands on his hips, a furrow to his brow, mouth thin-lined. “Eddie,” Steve greets. He smiles, though it’s not all that sweet, but kind enough for this stranger that had to shepherd Eddie. The girl leaves them. And Steve steps closer to Eddie, crosses his arms over his chest, and then has the gall to snort. He raises a hand and plucks at Eddie’s t-shirt, directly on the word: ‘Found’. “Looks like my stupid t-shirt worked,” he snarks. The sass to this guy is unbelievable.

“Yeah, har har, laugh it up,” Eddie says dryly. “Maybe you don’t want the little gift I got for you.”

Steve perks up. Eyes glowing with curiosity. “What’d you get?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and smirks. Digs into his bag and flaunts the hat. “Saw it at a D&D booth, surprisingly. Probably would’ve been something we walked by, had I not…wandered.” He steps a little closer into Steve’s space, sets the hat on top of his head, and nods in approval. “Think that this purchase was a success. You look dashing, Mr. Jones.”

In a flurry of movement, Steve snatches the hat from off the top of his head. Gaping at it. “Eds,” he breathes, “this is so fucking cool.” He places it back where it was, pulling it tight to his hairline, and grins brightly. “Thank you, but also please don’t leave me alone here,” he says, “I got worried.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs sheepishly. “Just thought about how excited you’d be about the hat and couldn’t resist. Won’t happen again, promise.”

Steve chuckles. “I know it will, but that’s what the stupid shirts are for. Anyway…Can we go look at the Lego set-up that we passed by in hall E? I think I saw a spaceship and—“

“Lead the way, Indy.” He might have to buy his own shirts with how Steve bounds away from him.

——— 2. “If…Lost?!” Eddie exclaims. “Steve, what the fuck? Why—How—Where the hell are you getting these t-shirts?” He asks. They’re at Steve’s house, getting ready for a day trip in Chicago. And, sure, Eddie’s never been in his life. Doesn’t know the streets of Chicago like the back of his hand. Maybe Steve does know more about where they’re going, but that doesn’t change just how ridiculous this shirt is. How it glares at him in the bathroom mirror.

Steve sidles up next to him. His t-shirt the same as the one from the convention. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist. Rests his head on his shoulder. “I have my ways,” he states ominously. “And, again, I know you. Your sense of direction is practically non-existent. You can’t deny that, baby. The only reason you found Skull Rock is because you stumbled upon it.”

“I was on the run, couldn’t exactly look at a map,” he grumbles. “But do we have to—“

“Yes,” Steve sighs. “Now, can you come out to the car with me? I’m ready to go.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but does as he’s asked. Sits in the passenger seat. Shuffles through the radio stations. Teases Steve for his taste in tapes. But then they’re parking, getting out, walking around the city.

He follows Steve…for a while. Into a record shop. In the back of a diner, playing footsie under the table. Then he goes down a side street. Following a guy in a white t-shirt, hair high on his head, Adidas sneakers on his feet. However, the guy turns slightly. And…that’s not Steve. Eddie’s not sure how long he’s been following this stranger, or when he started, or from where he started from. Tries to rake through his brain to the last time he heard Steve talk about the street they were originally on, but there’s nothing. The words and names escape him.

He’s stranded in a city he’s never been to. Down a street he should’ve never come across. Wearing the most humiliating t-shirt known to mankind. Somewhere, again he’s not sure, behind him Steve is probably standing by some shop entrance, hands on his hips and a scowl perfectly framed on his face. And Eddie can’t help but panic. Standing with his back against the nearest wall. Breathing through his mouth like he’s about to beef it on the sidewalk. Eyes darting over and under and left and right. Trying to find semblance of normal, any little speckle of Steve. Something.

It’s not until he’s nearly sick to his stomach, churning and flipping and knotting, that a different stranger makes their presence known. They gently invade his space. Voice soft as they notice his panic. “Hey man, are you Eddie?” They ask. He nods way too quick, but sidelines the blur to his vision because talking to this stranger seems hopeful. Especially since they know his name. “Okay, cool,” the stranger mutters, “I ran into your…friend. Steve was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when I spotted him, said he couldn’t find you, but didn’t know where to look. So I volunteered to find you. And—well—judging by your shirt, I can gladly and safely reunite you guys. If you…If you wanna follow me.”

“Please,” Eddie murmurs, “I don’t know where I am.”

The trip back to Steve is arduous. Through crowds of people and past noisy cars. Bustling shops and the waft of various seasonings from a number of restaurants. But sure enough, Steve is on some precipice. His hair a mess and face pinched nervously. Then, he spots Eddie. Eyes lighting, clearing and glistening. A look of ‘I want to touch, but know I can’t.’

When he sidles up next to Steve after the stranger leaves, he carefully joins their hands. “I followed a complete stranger for probably thirty minutes,” Eddie admits, whispering. “His hair looked similar. And he was also wearing a white t-shirt. I got so scared, Steve.”

“Well, at least our stupid shirts worked again, right?” Steve asks, breathless and still verging breakdown.

Eddie squeezes their hands. “Can we go home, please? This is gonna sound crazy, but I think I prefer middle of nowhere Hawkins. At least I know where everything is.”

Steve nods rapidly. “I need to touch you in ways I can’t right now. Let’s go.” And then he tugs their hands, pulling them along sidewalks and through groups of people, down a couple side streets. It’s partially worth it, in the end. Definitely with the way Eddie’s skin is now decorated with Steve’s love, sticky and warm with it, too.

——— 3. The shirts end up following them to the Indiana State Fair.

Steve stops them at the front entrance, right after the ticket booth, and makes Eddie face him. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, voice low and near demanding. “If I turn my back for a second and you are gone, I will lose my absolute shit. Got it? Do not make me have to keep a rope tied to your belt loop.”

Eddie groans. “I get it, Steve. Can we at least try and enjoy ourselves?”

And they do for the most part. Steve plays at a few game stalls. Eddie carries the prizes. Their legs interlock underneath a picnic table, sharing greasy funnel cake and way too sour lemonade freezes. They watch a few performers, pet some fair animals, judge prized pigs like they know what they’re doing.

But then the ferris wheel comes up and Eddie sees an opportunity already forming. Like dots connecting or the stars aligning. He wants to drag Steve through the line and sit with him in one of the seats, wait for the wheel to stop at just the right height, and kiss him as the lights dim low and the darkness of the sky envelops them. Though, because he always misses a few steps in his plans, he doesn’t tell Steve that they’re going to the ferris wheel. Just starts walking. Shoving past other couples and accidentally sidelining a couple kids. He sneaks around large families. Maybe bribes a few people to let up on the ride’s queue.

Then, Eddie turns to his left. Where Steve is.

Or…Where Steve should have been.

“Shit,” Eddie spits. “Steve?” He calls over his shoulder. Frantically, he whips around in line. Eyes wide over people’s heads. Shoving them out of the way, albeit a little rough. Spreads the line into two little rows. But he comes up unsuccessful.

Until, right on cue, a stranger is tapping on his shoulder. Instead of letting them go into their whole spiel, he just sighs defeated, “Take me to him.”

There are no words exchanged. Not when Eddie follows behind, head bowed to the ground, dragging his feet like a petulant child. And then he stops where he sees Steve’s shoes, the bright blue Adidas sneakers he’d recognize anywhere.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Thought you were with me.”

Steve just sighs. Something kind of disappointed that shrivels Eddie slightly. “Where’d you even go?” Steve calmly asks.

Eddie finally looks to him, his eyes pleading. “The ferris wheel, but…But! In my defense, I thought you were with me. And I was going to get us a seat on the ride. Was gonna wait until it got up to the highest point and do something cheesy like kiss you…or blow you, whatever. But I—“

“Why didn’t you just ask me, Eds?” Steve laughs with his full body, deep from within his stomach. “We can do that, babe. All you gotta do is ask, y’know?”

“I didn’t think—“

“I know you didn’t,” Steve teases. “Seems like my stupid t-shirt idea worked again. That’s three times, you dork.” Eddie can only groan. He knows that he has a bad habit of wandering, doesn’t mean that the idea is any less annoying or dumb. “Come on, Eds. Stop throwing a fit. Let’s do your thing.”

“You sure?”

“Eddie, if you don’t kiss or blow me on that ferris wheel, I’m banning D&D at my place for a month. Let’s go.”

When they get off and start walking back to the car, Steve tugs on the back of Eddie’s jeans. He yelps, startled, but quickly shuts his mouth when he’s faced with a stern look. “You know what I just remembered?” Steve asks him. There’s mirth in his eyes. Eddie doesn’t trust this at all. “Earlier, when I was telling you about wandering, I mentioned maybe tethering you to a rope. I might have to do that. Since you can’t behave.”

Eddie heats from the inside out. A coil tightens in his stomach. “You couldn’t even if you tried,” he bites back.

Later, he finds out, Steve is exceptional with rope. What a fucking boy scout.

——— +1 The Mall of America didn’t earn its title for nothing. The place was huge, that much Eddie could discern. Which made perfect sense when buying the new and improved: ‘If found, return to…’ shirts. However, this time, it was Steve with ‘If Found’ t-shirt.

At first, Steve didn’t know how to feel about the new shirts. Simply because he didn’t seem to see a reason for why he’d get lost or wander or be found in any capacity. But given the surprise Eddie had for him, the reason definitely fit the bill.

What Steve didn’t know, that Eddie one hundred percent knew, was that a Lego store was opening up at the mall. Or, has been opened at the mall. It was the perfect time for a little road trip. A little Fall of 1992 trip to Minnesota. Driving by trees and such. Parking in the Mall of America’s lot. Figuring out what stores to hit first, what food they wanted to eat, where the bathrooms were located. Typical day out sort of things.

However, one moment Steve was with him and the next…Eddie was scouring the food court for his fiancé. Trying not to throw up the meager lunch he just had. Swallowing down panic after panic after panic that rose in his chest like tsunami waves. This place was too big for either of them to wander or get lost or have a mind of their own. Not with the way they impulsively purchases things, an awful habit they both exuded—today is the worst day to do just that.

Which leads him to tapping on the shoulder of a guy around his age. Who’s carrying two large yellow Lego bags. Just sitting back in one of the food court chairs, minding his own business. Until, he whips around to find Eddie startled and red faced. “Uh…Can I help you, man?” The stranger greets.

“Sorry, hi,” Eddie says. “I just—You look like somebody who can maybe help me. I’m looking for my…friend, his name is Steve. Uh—White, around my height, dirty blonde hair. He’s wearing a pair of near skin tight Levi jeans, light wash and a white t-shirt that matches mine. Except, his says ‘If found, return to Eddie’. I’m Eddie, by the way. Anyway—Uh, you probably just came from the Lego store, yeah?”

“Sure,” the guy says, completely unsure of this interaction. “Why do you need to know—“

“So you can like lead me there? I’ve never been there. And like he’s really obsessed with those damn sets and like that’s really cool or whatever, but I need to know where he is because we’re from out of town and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing in this mall or where to—“

“Alright, dude, calm down,” guy placates. “We’ll find your friend. Just…That store is pretty fucking busy. Really popular, you know? I’ll take you there, but with how panicked you are, it would be best if you waited by the entrance of the store. Is that…”

“That’s perfectly fine to me!” Eddie nearly shouts. 

He follows on this person’s heels. Bobbing and weaving through crowds of other over-consumers. Maybe shoving a few of them out of the way just so he can stay with that guy. But eventually, they make it to the outside of the rather precarious Lego store. Its yellow storefront nauseating to Eddie. Almost—Genuinely frustrating him beyond belief. And he sees Steve. Standing near the back of the store. Staring up at one of the shelves, but he lets the stranger he found grab Steve for him. Because no way in hell is Eddie going to survive being swallowed up by the awfully large crowd swamping the store.

Steve emerges from the crowd, a bit offended and a lot upended. But then has the gall to appear sheepish when he’s led directly to Eddie. With a nod and a tight smile, Eddie waves the stranger off. Almost wants to run back and get his name, send him a thank you card from the Hallmark store he saw on their way there.

He turns to face Steve, though. Leans them into the wall. “Jesus, Steve,” Eddie groans. “Is this what you put up with?”

“Is what—“

“The fucking panic? The—The whirling around and checking in the weird obscure places? Tapping on stranger’s shoulders only to see if they have a single goddamn idea where anything is…ever? Like—“ He sighs. “I thought that I’d never find you, Steve! You could’a at least told me you were going to go somewhere on your own. Maybe give me an idea of where you’re going?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh, so now that’s important to you?” He petulantly mutters. “Can’t go off and have fun without being pestered—“

“I’m not pestering, Steve!” Eddie grits. “I’m being concerned! I’m—You scared me,” he admits quietly. “And you ruined my surprise.”

“Ruined?” Steve echoes, confused. “What do you…oh. Oh. I—“ Then, Steve looks down to the floor. Eyes ashamed and arms tight to his body. “I didn’t…I was just excited, I’m sorry. The store was on the directory when we first came in and I like—“ He chuckles a little bit, loosening up. “—I fucking memorized where to go. What path to take. Because I just really wanted to look in there. They’ve got—Eddie, they have this one set in there, it’s a freaking spaceship and it’s called the…The Galactic Meditator or something? I can’t—That doesn’t matter,” he rambles. Takes a deep breath and pushes himself tighter into Eddie’s space. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Eddie gives a single nod. Closes his eyes and staves off the rest of his panic and anger. He’d be a hypocrite if he lashed out right now. He knows that. And, honestly, seeing Steve geek out about toys…of all things…is kind of endearing. Maybe even doing something for Eddie.

He puts on his best smile, something genuine and pulled from within him. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I—I should’ve known that you were going to come over here.”

“I mean, you did a little bit, right? Had to find somebody that led you here?”

“You got me,” Eddie breathes. “Y’know all my tricks.”

Steve hums beside him. “I’m actually sorry, though, that I ruined the surprise you had in mind. This is a pretty cool thing.”

Eddie smirks. “Steve Harrington admitting to a geek thing being cool…When did the tables turn?” He teases. “Seems like God has heard my prayers,” he jests. With a quick sneaky look around, he grabs Steve’s hand. Squeezes firmly and exhales the last bit of his panicked nerves. “Does my fiancé want to…Oh, I don’t know…Get a Lego set?”

The hand in his tightens with a harsh, unbelieving amount of strength. He almost winces. “Really?” Steve asks, perking up. If he had a tail, it would most definitely be wagging. “Can we actually? I really want that one that I found in there, the uh…Galactic whatever it was called. I’m bad at the names, which is weird because I’ve been building these sets for a while, but I always seem to get the names wrong and I—“ Eddie interrupts with a squeeze to his hand again, a smile bright and plastered to his face. “Sorry,” Steve sheepishly says, “Let’s go in there. I can show you and maybe…you can get one of your own?”

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against Steve’s cheek, leaving a very chaste but all the same kiss there.

The panic was worth it in the end. Because watching Steve in his element, nerd-ing over toys and how to best put them together, really makes Eddie’s chest warm. In a way that tells him he’d put up with wandering all his life, if only to get Steve to smile the way he does when proudly displaying his new spaceship.

👕—————👕

[hayweerc]

"Bound by Chaos" Sonic AU Chapter 2-part one

The beginning of the trios adventure.

Pages 1-8 / 16

⚠️🩸 blood/mild gore /hemocraft / cartoon violence /death

[lgbtqtext]

[aventurineswife]

Thanks for answering my ask about comedic nudity!

So I ended up forgetting about the og idea I wanted to send because I didn’t write it down. 🙂‍↕️

But I do have another idea that involves Reader being a freak for art! If you’ve ever played (or watched someone play) Persona 5, Reader is a little bit like Yusuke, they love to draw and paint and all that fun stuff. They’re also a bit of a simp and have pages in their sketchbooks dedicated to drawing people they fancy.

So, not really nudity here, but one day while drinking, Reader gets so drunk off of their ass they finally dare to ask the question that’s been gnawing at the back of their mind:

“Hey, [muse]…D’ya wanna model naked for me?”

Bonus points if they’re trying to ask it to their muse in question, but they’re so drunk they don’t realize they’re facing someone else entirely.

Like, their muse could be Sunday and they’re trying to ask Sunday to model naked for them, but they’re facing Robin.

It can also be other combos!

Like, Muse:the person Reader is actually facing

So—

Gepard:Serval

Blade:Firefly

Dan Heng:Sushang

Lingsha:Yunli

Jing Yuan:Yanqing

These are just examples off the top of my head but basically pick any one or think of another pair yourself and make it as chaotic as you possible can. 🤣

If you make the title “Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls” istg—

Portraits of Desire

Tags: Sunday x Reader x Robin, Aventurine x Reader x Topaz, Artist!Reader, Fluff and Humor, Alcohol-Induced Shenanigans, Artistic Obsession, Mild Suggestive Themes, Confessions in Chaos, Playful Banter.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption and intoxication, Light innuendo, Embarrassing humorous situations.

A/N: sadly i already named a previous fic that, so I can't name this one the same title 😕💔

(Credits to @kakyoriya on Twitter/X)

The Charmony Festival's afterparty had always been a lively affair, filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. You, an artist swept into the chaos of Penacony’s surreal world, found yourself seated at a circular table with Sunday and Robin. Despite your initial plans to observe the Halovian pair discreetly, the generous flow of Halovian wine had turned those plans into a swirling mess.

Your sketchbook lay open on the table, pages flipping as a gust of laughter erupted around you. The pages showcased the delicate strokes of your pencil—portraits of Sunday, Robin, and various festival moments. They were all expertly rendered, but your fascination with Sunday was painfully obvious. His eyes seemed to pierce through the pages, and even his halo was meticulously detailed.

Robin chuckled softly, her hair shimmering under the festival lights. “You’ve truly captured his essence.” she remarked, pointing at one of your sketches.

You hiccupped, the wine adding a rosy hue to your cheeks. “Well, it’s ‘cause he’s so damn… inspiring!” you slurred.

Sunday, ever dignified, raised a brow but allowed a faint smile to curl his lips. “I see. I suppose I should thank you for the flattery.”

The room swayed as you turned, your intoxicated mind suddenly consumed by a thought you’d never dared voice. You reached out, grabbing Sunday’s gloved hand—or at least you thought it was Sunday’s.

“Hey… hey, you!” you stammered, squinting up at Robin instead. She tilted her head, bemused.

“Yes?” Robin replied, her voice lilting like a melody.

“I’ve been… thinking,” you began, leaning closer to her. “You’re… perfect. Your symmetry, your aura—it’s breathtaking!”

Robin’s brows knitted in surprise, her cheeks flushing faintly. Sunday, watching from across the table, cleared his throat. “They mean to ask me, Robin. I’ve noticed their fixation.”

But you, oblivious and unbothered, barreled forward. “Model for me. Naked. Just once!”

Robin sputtered, her elegance momentarily faltering. “I beg your pardon?”

Sunday, his eyes narrowing slightly, stepped in to steady you. “I believe you’re mistaking your audience.” he said, his tone carrying both humor and restraint.

You blinked, your intoxicated brain struggling to process the situation. Then, your gaze shifted, landing on Sunday’s halo. “Oh, right!” you exclaimed, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You! I meant you!”

Robin burst into laughter, her melodic voice echoing through the room. “Oh, this is priceless.”

Sunday, maintaining his composure, leaned down to meet your gaze. “While I appreciate your artistic passion,” he said smoothly, “I fear your request might be better suited for sober conversation.”

The IPC gala was a hub of high-stakes networking, dazzling lights, and endless champagne. You, an artist with an eye for detail, found yourself amidst the extravagance, clutching your sketchbook like a lifeline. Aventurine and Topaz had invited you along, each promising you’d find inspiration among the elite.

You had taken them at their word, sketching furiously as your muses moved through the crowd. Aventurine, with his flamboyant overcoat and peacock feather earring, exuded charisma that demanded attention. Topaz, on the other hand, carried herself with a composed confidence, her hair catching the gala’s light.

Hours later, you were drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed—drunk. Your sketchbook was open to a page filled with Aventurine’s smirk and Topaz’s sharp gaze. The champagne had loosened your inhibitions, and you found yourself staring at Aventurine’s eyes.

“You’re like… a painting.” you slurred, pointing at him.

Aventurine, ever the gambler, leaned forward with an amused grin. “Am I now? Flatter me more.”

Topaz rolled her eyes, sipping her wine. “They’re drunk. Don’t encourage them.”

But you were already gesturing wildly. “I gotta ask. It’s important. Life-changing, even!” You turned—or at least thought you turned—to Aventurine, but your gaze locked on Topaz instead.

“Will you model naked for me?” you blurted.

Topaz choked on her drink, glaring at you with wide eyes. “Excuse me?!”

Aventurine burst into laughter, clapping a hand to his chest. “Oh, this is rich. I think they meant me, darling.”

You blinked, confused, before swiveling toward Aventurine. “Wait, yeah! You! You’re, like… perfection. I need to capture it!”

Topaz shook her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

Aventurine leaned closer, tilting your chin up with a gloved finger. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he purred. “But we’ll discuss terms when you’re sober.”

Topaz snorted. “You’re both ridiculous.”

And in your drunken haze, you could only laugh, thrilled by the chaotic charm of your muses.

[repurposedmeatlocker]

On one hand, I agree that there should be a more diverse field of subject matter utilized in "adult animation". Not all "adult animation" should be used as an excuse to revolve around shock content and gratuitous potty humor. At this point in time, stuff like this being seen on prime-time television is no longer out of the ordinary. And, from my observation, is done well even less frequently. There should be more films that treat themselves seriously and explore an array of topics rather than just comedy with a middle-school idea of mature subject matter.

ON THE OTHER HAND. I don't think there is ANYTHING wrong with animated movies and shows with lots of drugs and boobies and sex and gross jokes. I think cartoon characters having freaky sex is funny af. Both have the right to exist together. Art should not be pigeon-holed through a lens of "respectability" in order to be taken seriously. Demanding adult animation be "palatable" for an "adult" audience ultimately strips it completely of what makes it a unique medium for expression in the first place.