#prompt: synapse

[tangirlisfangirl]

this is very hetalia kin of me to say (never watched it) but there should be some father-son story about america and england that explores the trend of imperialism the struggles of interpersonal relationships between both men and parents/children in general and perpetuating cycles of violence .3.

[emilyrosebug]

Insektober Day 31 - Spooky

"FUNNNNGGUUSSSS!!"

Happy Halloween! It's time for a spooky drawing. Greeb is running from the kruds after they've been turned into fungus zombies.

After that, Insektober has come to a close. I want to thank those who took part during this month. Next year is a big one because it will be the show's 30th anniversary, YAY!

[stupid-elf]

You're in that one Tumblr fable about the woman who traded her firstborn to both a witch and a demon. You're the demon.

Sorry, it's not your weekend, but her familiar broke a wing and the homunculi are recharging. Besides, you've never done a Take Your Child To Work day; what could go wrong?

You’re a demon. One day, you’re summoned into a living room, and an exhausted woman quickly rambles about needing to get to work and being unable to find a sitter before flying out the door. Now, you stand in your summoning circle, a toddler staring wide eyed at you.

[hyruling]

omggggggg 58 + 60 for the intimacy prompts mwah mwah mwah 🥰🥰🥰

60. sitting in their lap

—

“Dude. I know you heard me call seat check.”

Chim shrugs, tucked into Buck’s spot between Eddie and Maddie on the couch, smugly eating the popcorn that Buck and Eddie had been sharing before he got up to pee. “I heard no such thing.”

“You’re blocking the TV,” Ravi complains, but Buck ignores him. 

“Come on, you all heard me. I was only gone for like, three minutes.”

“Wife privilege trumps seat check rules,” Chim argues, tossing popcorn in his mouth with a shit eating grin. He wraps his free arm around Maddie, who’s focused on the movie and studiously ignoring them both. 

“That’s not a thing—”

“It is when it’s our first night out of the house since the baby was born,” Chim argues. “Or I could use the captain card if you prefer.”

“Abuse of power,” Ravi mutters, and Buck points to him excitedly. 

“Yes, exactly, thank you Ravi!”

“I think you should use it though,” Ravi continues to Chim, and Buck gapes while Chim does a stupid fist pump. “We’re missing the climax of the movie dude. Just sit on the floor.”

“Easy for you to say from your high horse in the comfy armchair. The floor is hard on my leg,” Buck says. It’s only half true, but he’ll use whatever excuse he can to win one over on his brother in law. 

“You sit on the floor all the time,” Hen interjects from her spot on the loveseat, curled up cozily with Karen, also ignoring them. 

“Irrelevant,” Buck says with a dismissive gesture. “The point is, I called seat check, and what kind of society are we if we can’t even respect the sanctity of—”

And Eddie, who until now had been silently observing with an amused grin, rolls his eyes and sighs, “Dios, come here.”

He wraps a big hand around Buck’s wrist and tugs until he has nowhere to go but Eddie’s lap. Buck falls limply down, trying not to crush him at the last second by throwing an arm across the back of the couch. Eddie situates him across his legs, his back against the armrest next to Eddie, and if he weren’t struck so dumb by the whole thing he would put his feet in Chim’s face just to be annoying. 

“Happy now?” Eddie mutters in his ear.

“Uh,” Buck says intelligently. 

Eddie’s hand settles on his knee, the other resting behind Buck’s back along the armrest. Everyone’s eyes are on them when Buck looks up, but Eddie’s are on the screen. His cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise he appears normal. 

“Wow,” Chim says after a minute. “An instant Buck-Off button.”

“Shhh,” Eddie hushes him before Buck has a chance. “Some of us are watching the movie.”

Chim shakes his head with a short laugh and finally turns his attention back to the screen, and the rest of the room follows suit.

Buck is, ostensibly, also watching the movie, but he has no idea what’s happening. Gun to his head he couldn’t name a single actor in it, despite having watched the last hour and a half before Eddie rewired his synapses. All he can focus on is Eddie, the feel of his chest rising and falling against his arm, his thumb rubbing unconscious little circles against Buck’s elbow, the heavy weight of his hand on his knee.

“You okay?” Eddie whispers after who knows how long, quiet in Buck’s ear. 

Buck turns. Eddie’s eyes are dark in the dim room, his face much closer than Buck anticipated. He nods and tries to get a grip, though Eddie must be able to feel the way his heart is beating with the arm tucked around his back. 

“Yeah, I’m great,” he answers softly. 

“Sure? I can sit on the floor, if you’d rather not—”

Buck is shaking his head before he can finish the sentence. “No, no, this is — yeah, this is perfect.”

Perfect? He cringes internally, but Eddie isn’t fazed in the slightest. In fact he smiles, soft and pleased and all for Buck, and his heart rate kicks up another notch. 

They finish the movie twenty minutes later. Buck’s had to pee for a good fifteen of that, but he refused to get up — he doesn’t have the kind of luck that will afford him a second chance at this. He doesn’t even get up when everyone else stands to stretch and refill their drinks, perfectly content to stay where he is for as long as Eddie will allow it. 

Similarly, Eddie doesn’t push him off the second it becomes acceptable to do so. In fact he encourages Buck to stretch his legs out on the couch with a silent pat on his thigh.

“Am I crushing you?” Buck asks when they’re the only ones still in the room. 

Eddie shakes his head and gives his knee a squeeze. “Nah. You’re kind of like a weighted blanket.”

Buck flushes and looks away. Feels ridiculous, like he’s fifteen again and being flirted with by Cassie McDaniel in homeroom — except they’re in their thirties, and Eddie isn’t flirting. He’s just being Eddie. The New Eddie, as Buck has coined it in his head; the one that came back from El Paso with a twinkle in his eye that Buck can’t quite parse. He’s the same old Eddie but lighter, somehow — more free with his touches and casual affection in a way that Buck very much enjoys, despite the way it’s slowly driving him insane.

Like now, for instance.

“Your ass is kinda bony though.”

Buck scoffs, affronted, and Eddie laughs. His hand tightens on Buck’s knee when he tries to shift his weight off Eddie’s thighs. “Didn’t say you needed to move.”

“Well I’d hate for my bony ass to dig into your perfect thighs.”

“Perfect, huh?” Eddie teases, and there’s that fucking twinkle again.

“Mediocre. Above average. I know you skip leg day at least once a week.”

“How many times can we have this argument?”

“It’s not an argument, it’s a healthy discussion.”

“Core strength is more important than having huge biceps, and as a firefighter, you should understand that—”

“Well those huge biceps have saved a lot of people, didn’t hear them complaining.”

“I’m definitely not complaining either, but my point is—”

“Are you two gonna cuddle on my couch all night?”

They look up to see Hen standing over them, hands on her hips and brow raised suspiciously. 

“Maybe,” Eddie says before Buck can come up with anything. “You got something to say about it?”

“Only that you have your own house to be weird in,” she says with an eye roll. “And that Buck promised to help clean after the fiasco with the fondue last month.”

“Shit, I did,” Buck says, gingerly getting up so he doesn’t hurt Eddie with his bony ass. Eddie squeezes his hip as he goes though and nearly sends him sprawling. He just blinks innocently up at Buck when he whirls on him, self-satisfied little smile on his face that Buck wants to—

Nope. Not going there. He trails off after Hen and decidedly does not think about it. 

He doesn’t think about it when Eddie comes in to help clean, hip checking him at the sink. Or when they say their goodbyes to everyone at the door, and Eddie presses little smacking kisses to Karen and Hen and Maddie’s cheeks that he pretends he’s not wildly jealous of. Or when Eddie leads him to the truck with a hand on his lower back, and keeps it there until Buck rounds the hood to the drivers seat. He doesn’t think about it on the drive home, Eddie quiet in that way he gets sometimes after one too many drinks, and he definitely doesn’t stare at Eddie’s ‘perfect’ thighs when he changes into his sleep shorts and sinks onto the couch next to Buck. 

“That was fun,” Eddie says, relaxing until his head rests on the back of the couch.

“Yeah. Super fun.”

It’s quiet again, only sound coming from the TV playing on low. Buck keeps his eyes glued to it, though he’s not taking in a single thing Mrs. Brady is saying. 

“You’re thinking pretty loud over there bud,” Eddie says during a commercial break. 

Buck chances a look at him, and it’s a mistake. He looks so soft, relaxed against the cushions, wearing a baggy tank and shorts that ride up well above what Buck would consider an appropriate length. Buck looks quickly away. 

“Hey. I didn’t make you uncomfortable earlier, did I?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Buck answers, and forces himself to make eye contact. Eddie looks a little unsure, and Buck quickly shakes his head. “No, I told you it was fine, I promise, I just. I’m tired, I guess. Karen’s sangria always sneaks up on me.”

Eddie nods. “Yeah I know. Wanna share the bed tonight?” 

Buck flushes, and this time it’s definitely not dark enough for Eddie not to notice. It shouldn’t be a big deal — they’ve shared the bed a few times since Eddie and Chris came home, usually after a particularly grueling shift where their exhaustion ran too deep to tolerate the couch, and it’s been fine.

Only the last time it happened, he woke up to Eddie curled around his back, hand curled possessively in the front pocket of his hoodie. And in his half-conscious state Buck had thought, this is how I want to wake up everyday. He’s avoided sharing ever since. 

“Nah, couch—couch is fine,” Buck stutters. 

“Buck. Come on, talk to me, what’s got you so freaked?”

“I’m not freaked,” Buck lies, and turns back to the TV. “I’m not. Just. Brain is too loud tonight, I guess.”

He sees Eddie nod in his peripheral. “Well, I wasn’t kidding earlier you know.”

“About what?”

“You feeling like a weighted blanket,” Eddie clarifies.��

Buck’s head snaps to the left. Eddie looks serious as a heart attack — which, incidentally, Buck may be currently having. 

“So…”

“So,” Eddie echoes.

He inches closer until their thighs are touching. Buck watches in a weird sort of trance as Eddie twists and swings a leg over, hovering above Buck’s thighs. “This okay?”

Buck unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, “Yeah—yes. Yeah.”

Eddie smiles and sits fully, and then they’re just staring at each other. Buck keeps his hands firmly to himself, while Eddie’s rest comfortably on Buck’s shoulders. 

“See what I mean?”

Buck blinks, remembers the weird metaphor they’re operating under. “Um, sort of. You’re only—I-I mean there’s only weight on my legs.”

“Good point.”

Slowly, as if he’s anticipating Buck to call their game of chicken and push him off, Eddie leans forward and wraps his arms around Buck’s shoulders, pressing their chests together. Buck feels his chin dig sharp into his shoulder before he adjusts and lays his cheek against his collarbone. 

“How’s that?” Eddie asks, slightly muffled. 

Buck inhales, feels Eddie move with him on the exhale, and it’s — well, Eddie wasn’t lying. Eddie lets his full weight press against Buck and it's comforting, to say the least. Electrifying, because it’s Eddie, and yet as the minutes pass he can feel his heart rate slow, his breathing ease. He feels their chests rise and fall together, Eddie’s warm weight settling him in a way nothing has in a long time — maybe ever. His mind goes pleasantly blank, even when one of Eddie’s hands starts to comb through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“It’s nice,” Buck answers belatedly, and Eddie chuckles at the sleepy timbre of his voice. “I see what you mean.”

“Right?” Eddie says, scratching gently at his scalp, and it feels so good he melts even deeper into the couch cushions. “You can touch me too, you know.”

“Oh,” Buck mutters, and picks his hands up from where they’d been resting awkwardly next to Eddie’s thighs. He wraps them tentatively around Eddie’s back; Eddie makes a contented humming sound in response. 

They stay that way for a long time, until the late night rerun ends and another episode begins. Buck’s hands drift after awhile, smoothing up and down Eddie’s back slowly, thumbs rubbing circles against his scapula and vertebrae. 

“Hey Eddie.”

He’s half asleep, and Eddie is so big and warm in his arms, and it makes him reckless. Eddie’s ear is so close to Buck’s mouth he can whisper what he hasn’t dared speak out loud. 

“Yeah Buck?” Eddie says just as softly. 

“I need to tell you something. No – don’t, don’t get up.” He wraps a hand around the back of Eddie’s neck to keep him still. 

Eddie huffs but stays put. “You’re not about to tell me you’re moving, are you?”

There’s such an air of dread and petulance in his tone that Buck laughs. 

“No. Didn’t, uh, know you had such strong feelings about that.”

“Well. I do.”

“It’s not that,” Buck says, and Eddie exhales against his neck. “But you might, uh—you might want me to when I—”

“No I won’t,” Eddie interrupts, leaving no room for argument. “Tell me.” 

Buck swallows, hard enough that Eddie must hear it. But he waits patiently, one of his thumbs tracing figure eights on the back of Buck’s neck, and for some reason that is what finally breaks through his thinly guarded veneer.

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

The figure eight stutters to a stop, but Eddie doesn’t move an inch. If anything, he covers Buck with his weight even more, somehow, and Buck feels his nose brush his clavicle. 

“And you think I want you to move out because of that?” 

“I—well, maybe, I don’t want to make you feel—I don’t know. Actually, can we pretend I didn’t say anything?” 

“No,” Eddie says. And then nothing else. 

“I—Eddie you gotta—you gotta say something. Tell me to fuck off, or that it’ll never happen but you value our friendship anyway, o-or that nothing will change between us—”

“Hmm, no. None of those sound like me.” 

“You literally said that last one. Basically verbatim, less than a year ago.” 

“Yeah, but I was lying then. I don’t want to lie to you again.” 

“Eddie, come on, what does that me—” 

But in one swift move Eddie sits up, catches Buck’s face between his hands, and kisses him. 

It’s a short kiss, a dry brush of slightly chapped lips, but it manages to alter his entire worldview in the five or so seconds it last before Eddie pulls away. Buck gets a brief glimpse of his pink cheeks before he tucks his head back against Buck’s shoulder. 

“There you go sweetheart,” Eddie mumbles, voice drawling the way it does when he’s tired. “My knees have about another five minutes of this before I need to get up, let's not waste them.” 

“Okay,” Buck says in a ragged voice that doesn’t quite sound like his. A voice belonging to a mouth that has kissed Eddie Diaz, and therefore irrevocably changed. 

True to his word, Eddie continues to crush him into the couch for another five minutes, until his racing heart slows again and their eyes are half-lidded and drowsy when Eddie sits up. 

“That was nice,” he says with a smile.

“Y-yeah, it was,” Buck agrees, squeezing Eddie’s thighs. “Same time tomorrow?”

Eddie huffs out a little laugh, and though Buck was half joking, Eddie nods and presses his forehead against Buck’s shoulder. Buck drops a kiss to the crown of his head before he can quite stop himself, and Eddie makes that same happy humming sound Buck wants to chase for the rest of his life. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

—

[starrycloak]

I attended a series of lectures on neuroscience these last few days (well, they were a super basic cliffnotes-esque version of the topic cause medicine/STEM is not my field of work, so apologies for any inaccuracies ahead), and when the lecturer brought up the importance of the frontal lobe, she casually alluded to what happened to Phineas P. Gage and-

wbk but also non-accidental split imagery one more time ^

She also briefly touched upon the 'cuts' of the brain (left and right hemispheres, lobes —and primary functions of each—, gray and white matter) and neural processes like synapsis —communication between neurons by chemical and electrical reactions—, but one of the things that stood out to me the most was the creation and reconfiguration/transformation/plasticity of neural circuits.

A neural circuit is a population of neurons interconnected by synapses to carry out a specific function —i.e. processing specific information and sending signals to other parts of the brain and body — when activated.

definition just for context; the point of bringing this up being what these circuits look like:

^^^this is just a guide alluding to the differences in morphology neurons can have, but they kinda giving-

and-

literally when the lecturer first showed what these cells look like I was like "neat, the tree of life. kinda, sorta. out to deliver trauma to the rest of the nervous system :))"

and (to the right, for comparison: what neuron synapses look like)

and of course, not totally accurate comparison ahead, but I couldn't resist the slight visual graphy coinkidink with the letter-assigned grid:

Additionally, zooming out, multiple neural circuits can interconnect with one another to form large scale brain networks, and the one that stood out to me was the default mode network (DMN):

also known as the medial frontoparietal network, it's a large-scale brain network [...] best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.

Other times that the DMN is active include when the individual is thinking about others, thinking about themselves, remembering the past, and planning for the future. The DMN creates a coherent "internal narrative" control to the construction of a sense of self.

^ smart people, pls do with this info what you must.

the point I think I was trying to make: what if the blue UD we know has blurred the lines between being a representation of will's subconscious mindscape and also a visual abstraction of the biological/neurological state of his brain —as the two, like irl, are so intrinsically connected?

which, fortunately, means hope for will and the UD too (wbk), because by this line of thought/theory of sorts, the capacity neural circuits have to rearrange themselves, even after years and so much pain, can transform the blue UD, will's mind, as we've come to know it (the plasticity I was reffering to at the beginning of the post). However, it's important to note that to learn something new, you have to unlearn other stuff to make room for it.

I'm far from the first to talk about this topic, so check out the following posts! This one by @erikiara80, along the lines of her loop theory, dives into the implications of will's possible injury or death caused by having been hit on the head, particularly the zone closest to the frontal lobe, by a blunt object.

@conflictofthemind also has a great post about the treeflayer (shoutout and tysm to @threemanoperation for telling me about it and for prompting me to post this) with more tree imagery that evokes similar shapes to those of neurons (and it also links to Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan/Neverland parallels).

edit: everyone, please take a look at the additions other users have written on their reblogs! you won't want to miss them!

[fuctacles]

someone (thank you) has paid for my bday cake before i could share the link, but if you want, you can pitch in for new headphones for me as a gift ofc no pressure, you being here is a gift enough <3

<< ten | 😺 | twelve >>

To say Eddie is nervous would be an understatement of the century. His soul is one bump in the road away from skipping out of his body, leaving him alone to deal with whatever is happening inside his brain. Which is a lot on a regular day, but today, all his synapses and wires and whatever the fuck are screaming at him, you kissed Steph oh my gods, this is real, this is happening, oh no, Wayne is gonna be so smug about this!!!

No party hook up or any of his short-term girlfriends has made him this nervous. Because no offense to them, but they were young and simple and easy to understand. Steph, he might get to some extent—trans woman rejected by her family, feeling alone despite having a group of devoted friends, all of them scattered through states—but what she wants from life is surely different from finishing college and going on a summer trip. Right?

"Would you want to do it again?" he asks, hands shifting on the wheel. It's a good place to start.

"Your hair?" She gives him a fleeting glance. "Of course, it's nice to work with."

Eddie purses his lips. 

"Kiss. I meant the kiss," he clarifies. "Well, and anything that... might come with it." He winces at his own wording.

Steph murmurs something that sounds like "oh god" under her breath.

"Listen..." She drums her fingers against the bag in her lap. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Anything that involved you has been a good idea so far," he counters lightly. When she turns to look at him, he gives her a soft smile.

She nods slowly. 

"Okay, and how do you imagine that? You fuck me and then we awkwardly pass each other on the stairs? How do I look Wayne in the eye?"

Eddie winces. In his ideal fantasy, Wayne doesn't know until the wedding invitations get send out. 

"Well, unless I do something mortally embarrassing, I can't imagine an outcome where I wouldn't want to at least stay friendly and talk to you." He finally turns into their parking lot and goes silent as he looks for an empty space. Once parked, he kills the engine and turns to properly look at Steph. "What are you really worried about?"

She sighs, and when she looks up, her eyes are big and open, striking him right into his heart. 

"So many things," she admits.

"Tell me one of them," Eddie prompts. 

Steph quickly opens her mouth, almost aggressively, but clamps it shut just as fast. Her thoughtful frown tells him she's looking for something different to share. 

"I don't want to be a conquest, a one night stand. I don't do that, I don't do hook ups, to be honest I haven't had—" she cuts herself off abruptly, and her cheeks turn pink. 

Eddie tries to push down the sympathy from showing on his face, but it's hard to do. In his perfect world, he'd give her all the orgasms she deserves and then some. 

"And I don't want to be someone you can fuck whenever you visit Hawkins," she adds abruptly, rushing it out of her mouth like another forbidden thought. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

"Do you think I'm so swarmed with opportunities in Indy that I can't pause my libido for a week?" he asks, almost amused by the idea.

"I don't know, Eddie!" She throws her hands up angrily. "I don't know you! And you don't know me."

"I know some of you," he insists. "I know your cats are Garfield, Dart, and Arwen. Your best friend is a lesbian named Robin, I know you're still friends with nerds you used to babysit, and that you like Star Wars. I know what kind of beer you buy, and that your couch is ridiculously soft. I know that you want to give your salon to Joyce and open a new one in Indy," he lists off. "And I'd like to know more." 

"No you don't."

Eddie holds himself back from throwing hands up in frustration as well. Maybe he didn't kiss her hard enough. 

"Well, you don't know me, so how would you know?" He never means to get irritated by her, but she's just so—ugh.

Steph presses her mouth into a thin line. 

"Let's just go in," she says, opening her door to leave the van.

Eddie curses under his breath, scrambling to gather his things and follow her. They don't talk, ruminating in their conversation (argument?), but she walks the stairs slowly, so his smoker lungs and barely used joints can keep up. It gives him hope that she's not really mad, and he could kiss her again in the near future. 

She stops on his floor, where they are meant to part.

"Do you want that conditioner?" she asks. 

For a second, his brain struggles to catch up, but he's nodding before it even clicks. Anything to keep her coming back. 

"Yeah, that would be great, thank you." He smiles, only slightly embarrassed by how out of breath he sounds. 

Steph nods, turning to the next flight of stairs, leading up towards her floor. 

"I'll call you when I find it. Thank you for today." And she smiles, finally, even if it's not as joyful as he'd like. 

"Thank you." He smiles more freely, fighting the instinct to nonchalantly lean against the handrail. It's not an ending of a date, after all. "And I was being serious, earlier. With—"

"I know," she interrupts him. "I know." She puts her feet on the first step, not looking at him. "I'll see you later."

"Will you think about it?" he asks before she can disappear, her pace much faster now that she doesn't have an Eddie-shaped ball chained to her ankle. Damn jock blood. 

Steph stops mid-way, turning to him with a slightly pitying smile that makes his insides churn. 

"Oh, Eddie," she sighs. "I think about it all the time."

For a while longer, he stays rooted to the spot, in the middle of his landing. Hopeful, turned on, but most of all, confused, listening to her steps fade out. 

When he finally turns back into their apartment, Wayne must sense something, because for once he doesn't bother him with questions and teasing remarks. Instead, he does something much, much worse, while he's pulling on the soft ends of Eddie's conditioned hair.

"You're going back next week, right?"

Because Eddie kind of forgot about that. That it's not some liminal time vacuum when he's just his uncle's kid again, driving through familiar streets, seeing faces that have known him since he was a young teen. He tends to do that, whenever visiting Wayne. Life in Indianapolis is great, but it's fast, loud and busy, so the contrast always make him feel like he's in a hazy dream. Like his life is on pause. 

Wayne is heartless in reminding him about the, so called, real life. Eddie sighs. 

"When is the appointment again? Wednesday?" He looks at the calendar on the fridge.

"Thursday," Wayne corrects him. "At 11." 

Eddie nods slowly, humming to himself. 

"We should stock up on the way back. So you don't have to strain your leg while I'm not here." He pats his uncle's knee, swiftly avoiding a kick with the cast after he does it. "How long until you can go back to work?"

"Two weeks, probably." Wayne shrugs. "Depends on what the doctor says. But I'm so ready to leave the house," he groans. "I'm bored out of my mind. Is this how you feel all the time?"

Eddie laughs. 

"Pretty much," he grins. "Should we grab some movies before I leave, too?"

"Please."

It's hours before the phone rings, and he's put it out of his mind, assuming Steph would want a break from him. But as soon as he hears it, he's up and walking towards the kitchen.

"Ed!" his uncle calls from the couch.

"On it!" he yells back before picking up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, I found the conditioner. Do you want to come up or should I drop it on my way to work tomorrow?" Steph sounds normal, like nothing weird has happened between them. He's not sure is a good or bad sign for him. 

"I'll come up, no problem," he answers quickly. "Is right now okay?"

"Yeah, I'm not doing anything."

"Okay, see you in ten."

When he puts down the phone, he can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He turns to the mirror hanging in the dark corridor and fixes what he can see, any stray hair or weirdly shifted clothes. But upon further consideration, he goes to the bathroom, where he can check his face and teeth under better light.

"I'm going out," he informs his uncle as he slides on his shoes. 

Wayne shifts to look at him, eyebrows raised curiously.  

"To where?"

"Steph's, I need to pick something up. I'll be back in fifteen minutes, don't trip until then."

"Come closer so I can hit you with the crutch," Wayne glowers at him. "I'll handle a walk to the bathroom, you keep the lady some company." He waves him off, turning back to the TV. "Before she goes mad talking to her cats all the time."

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"Well, in that case, I'll be back when I'm back." He grins. "Later! And goodnight, possibly. Maybe, I don't know." Eddie loses steam by the end of it, but his uncle believes in him. The kid always had a talent for being charming when he wanted to. 

He settles comfortably in his seat. 

"Goodnight, lover boy," he chuckles.

tagsies:

@wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94

@tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman

@madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson

@hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets

@bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore @icecat

[renlyslittlerose]

prompt: force ghost obikins first kiss <3

Thank you~ 💗

---

Anakin was drifting, twirling, swirling; endlessly spiraling through the tendrils of creation, merging before departing, ever far but not quite near. Incorporeal and yet, for the first time, connected in a way he’d never been. He could feel his heart through it no longer moved, feel his blood though it no longer flowed, tense and relax his muscles, grip and grasp and then release, though the synapses no longer fired.

He was one with the Force. Finally.

This was what being a creature of the Force was. This was how it should have always been. Peace and serenity - a certainty of one’s own being. There were no questions, no heartache, nothing to mislead or hurt or strain. Anakin was himself in all the ways he’d been missing.

But there was still things to be mended. A soulmate to find. An apology to be made.

He found him somewhere in the ether, a fractured image of memory and forgery, both young and old, both remembered and forgotten. But when he felt Anakin’s presence - when their energies merged and their souls were bound - a smile reached his lips that was felt more than seen.

‘I didn’t think I would ever find you again…’ Anakin spoke into the Force. The sound of his own flesh and blood voice was both thrilling and torturous to hear, like the voice of a ghost.

The irony.

Obi-Wan continued to smile. Wrinkles that Anakin didn’t get to see develop deep and earned spread from the corners of his eyes, and a voice still proud but tinged with the hollowness of age spread across Anakin. ‘I trusted in the Force to guide you back to me.’

‘I’ve been gone for so long.’

‘I’m a patient man.’

Hands both solid and distant cupped his cheeks; warm despite the void of the ether; callused despite the ease of their existence. Sliding into Obi-Wan's orbit, Anakin let out a soft sigh that rattled through his bones as their lips met. The simple gesture, so achingly intimate, so deeply needed, was like nothing Anakin had ever experienced. It was solace made manifest.

As though nothing had changed they continued to embrace, as if all had been forgotten. Wounds that once cut deep into the bone and marrow were mended, the branding of their souls repaired with a simple look, a simple touch, a simple reminder.

They were Anakin and Obi-Wan, bonded even now, even after everything.

Still, after everything.

[drunkeninlovesailor]

You Let Me

{I don't know. I haven't even read the IDW comics. I just know this fragger exists and that I like him. So here we go. have my first fanfic since last March. Blame @revelboo for getting me hooked on Sunder } TW: Mentions of blood, cannibalism, gore, body horror, mind break to a degree, nsfw, 18+, AFAB reader, Sunder being Sunder

I broke apart my insides // (Help me) I've got no soul to sell

So, it became routine. He’d find a way to sneak into the minds of his jailers, surgical precision worthy of his fame - and later on, his infamy. Then, he’d coax them into lowering his security just enough for you to reach him undisturbed. 

“Come find me”, he’d whisper. A thought in the back of your mind, bypassing the thalamus, going straight for the limbic system and prompting you to leave all you were doing to run to him. No time to piece the thought together, call the remainants of your common sense and stop you in your tracks. 

The truth is, Sunder shouldn’t be, isn’t really able to exert such an influence on your organic synapses. Not in the way those of his kind crumbled under him. No, that whisper, that eerie voice, it is simply a way to encourage the desire already burning within your spark. (Heart? Prefrontal cortex?)

“I missed you”, he’d smile with those crooked teeth. You feel him then, knocking at your door and begging for entrance.

“Of course you did, I’m your only source of entertainment”. You open that door and he begins to rummage around, delighted in being your guest again. A wanted guest, despite how cumbersome his presence can be. In your mind he’s sitting, hugging your figure as he reviews your latest memories with the interest of an avid cinephile. 

“Not entertainment. You are never just entertainment to me”, he muses as he takes a sip of the mojito you had this weekend. You picture a seat for him at the human pub that smelled like beer and sweat and that you’ll probably never visit again, but you’d thought about bringing him there, so here he is. He likes this place, of course. You made sure to embellish it in your imagination, but that ecstatic wonder of his, that wasn’t of your doing. It was entirely his.

“You are everything I have left”. 

You had taken pity in the way he wallowed miserably without a soul to entertain his whims, and once you two had found out he could hang around peacefully in your mind without disrupting whichever was inside, it became a common occurrence to you. He especially loved to mingle in your dreams. 

[There was a time you forgot to get back to your quarters before curfew, and all security systems had already been strengthened for nighttime. You were trapped there with him, and temperatures had begun to drop everywhere beside human habsuites - all humans were supposed to be in their berths after curfew, and cutting heating in areas no longer attended by humans meant saving a considerable amount of energy. 

However amusing it was to see the workings of your hypothalamus to face the freezing cold, the idea (your idea, it was your idea) to climb on top of him and use his body as a heated mattress was too scrumptious to let slide.

You knew it was your only choice of survival, and you also knew that once your brain waves would shift from alpha to the alternating beta and delta which characterizes the human sleeping pattern, all your doors would be unlocked and he would be granted full access.

This, however, didn’t deter you. He could rummage all he wanted, but he couldn’t hurt you. Couldn’t break you like he did his kind. Somehow, this intrigued him more. 

“Listen up”, you had told him as you stretched across his abdomen, “when my thoughts start getting weird, don’t you dare talk or make any movements. And stay like that until I tell you otherwise”. 

“Anything you ask”, he had purred. Pleased at your embarrassment, and the way you’d try to find a comfortable spot on his panels.

That night he learned so many things about you, thoughts hidden, some perverse. He found an image of himself in there, too. He found many more, some more depraved than others. And whenever your subconscious processes spilled into debauchery - oh, - he could feel himself stir behind his interface panel.]

“Why are you staring at me like that?”, you ask, eyes moving from the book you were reading (hallucinating vividly) to Sunder. He closes a thought to you, and it makes you suspicious. 

“Oh, it’s nothing, sweetspark. Please continue”. 

“That grin of yours tells me you’re up to no good”. 

“How can I be ‘up’ if I’m chained to my berth?”. 

He’s messing with you. He knows and he loves the way you scowl at him when he begins to snicker. 

Then his whole body stirs, and he licks his lips. “You’re so cute when you make that face”, he sneaks past another gate, “I could just eat you up”. 

He felt that.

He knows your eyes went to his lips. He knows what you’ve imagined. He knows about the machinations of your human Id. And with that, he knows what thought went from your central nervous system, down your spine, and right into your-

“Fuck you”, you spit. 

But you can’t deny the truth when he’s already face to face with the darkest, deepest recesses of your mind. And he loves what he sees.

“I feared you’d never ask”. 

And he spills your thoughts into you. You push him back with a snarl. Your refusal only makes him needier. 

“There’s no one but us. They’ll be away for joors”, he begs, “Please, let me see. I want to see-”, he’s struggling beneath the chains, clawing at your door and whining like a lost animal, “Please”.

“Shut up”. The clawing quiets down, but your door creaks open. 

He swallows a lump of lubricant and his lips part. 

Another thought. He catches it and his eyes light up. Dares to slip a thought of his into you. That he’ll be so good to you, if you let him. He needs it. Please. 

“You can’t keep quiet, can you?”, you talk down to him. 

‘I know what can shut you up’. You’re not fast enough to stop yourself, and his answer floods you in return.

Humans are sexual animals. They breed to survive, their minds cater to the debauchery despite centuries of learned mannerisms. And you can’t keep yourself guarded, not with him stalking your mind like a famished beast. 

Your instincts will always betray you. And when you slip, he’ll be ready to pounce. 

When you picture his face between your legs and his tongue against your slit, a groan escapes him. 

It only takes a whisper, and he tips you off the edge. 

It was your idea, after all. 

You discard your lower garments and climb onto his berth. You hear the chains rattle and his engines flare and you know he can barely contain himself. ‘So good’, he whispers, ‘I’ll be so good for you, just a taste, please’. The part of him that spills reveals that it won’t be, it can’t be, just a taste. But right now it sounds more like a promise than a threat. 

You press yourself against his lips with a shaky moan, and he groans and begins to drag his tongue along your folds. He whispers more, praising you, pleading you, as you start to move against his tongue, riding his face. 

There’s something of the divine in the way his precision becomes worship. His gaze, the way his vents rumble, the hypnotic movement of his tongue and the words he whispers into your mind. All praise. All worship. 

His blue optics gleam and he knows you’re close. ‘So good, yes, there, there!’, he knows where you want him, and you don’t even have to speak a word. He knows exactly how you want to be pleasured, he knows your thighs will tremble if he runs his tongue across- yes, of course he’ll do it. 

His teeth clamp down on your mound and his tongue tunnels inside you, and the moan that leaves you is very much real and not just a shared thought between the two of you. And he keeps biting, everywhere you want him as your orgasm washes over him. Not just your thoughts but also your moans and whimpers telling him he’s doing a wonderful job. His taste receptors can’t pick out just how sweet you truly are, but he knows. Oh, how lovely it is to know. 

Lost in the haze, your gates are down. The images in your mind take a darker turn as you picture his tongue extending and enter you deep, past your anatomical barriers, piercing and filling. He’d taste blood then. And he’d wrap that tongue around your organs one by one and pull them from you to gulp them down. He can taste your blood because you know its taste, even if on his tongue he can only feel your slick. He doesn’t know the taste of your flesh, but he knows it’d be delicious.

Somehow, this image doesn’t disturb you.

Another thought and this time you don’t know from whom it came from. You move from his mouth - yes, there’s no blood. Only your juices - and crawl down. He grins. He knows. He begs you to do it while his teeth bite into nothing. 

A thought he gives you like an offering, and you know where to apply pressure to release his interface panel manually. His spike stirs to life, begging to be touched. You know that if he doesn’t sink into you this very instant, he’ll self-destruct. ‘Please, please, I need you so badly, please’, echoes all around your brain. You pity that lamb-like face and forget there’s a predator beneath. 

“Soon, be patient”, you coo with real words as you rub your slit along the length of his spike, feeling the hard metal and his biolights pulsate rhythmically to entice you. He hopes it’s working. 

You engulf him. His vents stop and pick up again. And the image of you splayed on top of him, sinking to the hilt, hits you and becomes the only thing he (you) can think about. And then it morphs. He urges you to move, please, and you do, delighted in having the upper hand, leaving all doors open because who cares really? He’s chained, and he can’t hurt you. He’s all yours to take. 

But the image of you keeps morphing, and somehow there’s blood spilling from the spot where you two are connected, and something in him is fixated on penetration and fully believes he has the right to apply it to all of you.

His intake is on your chest (weren’t there chains before?) and then he bites down, swallowing a lump of flesh as the metallic taste fills his senses. His digits find their way to your abdomen and press, tearing the skin apart and plunging into the soft mesh of muscle beneath. Spike still inside you, thrusting up into you. He brings you closer to him, gorging himself on the mess of flesh and fluids and you keep moaning, begging him to continue, to take you, all of you. Consume you. 

Open mouthed kisses and bites, and he’s closer to your heart now - it’s pulsing, it’s enticing. He doesn’t know how it tastes, but he has seen it, from your memories yes, from the movies you’ve watched and the medical texts you’ve read, and oh, how lovely of you humans to attribute it such importance, give it a role in governing your emotions the same way your amygdala does. So naive of you humans to make a spark of a lump of flesh. He bites down, and blood spills all over him. 

You scream now, but not of pleasure - somehow, this arouses him further. His spike tears you apart and his teeth grind your bones and cut your vessels. Yet you don’t push him away, you hold him closer. 

He overloads with a whine and everything turns black. Then, he retreats into his own mind, too tired to own yours. 

Your body is perfectly intact. 

You move and he slips out of you, then you make sure that his interface panel is back on in case his jailers come back and find him in such a state. Oh, and you’ll have to clean up all the transfluid. That’s entirely on you. 

His vents are on a higher setting and he can’t stop smiling, pleased with you and himself. “That was amazing”, he says, his voicebox glitching a little. He doesn’t have the strength to say much else. 

“Don’t make a habit out of it”.

“Why? Didn’t you like it?”

“You know I did”, you try to collect that little bit of professionalism left in you. “But you also know we’re risking enough as it is, so I’d like to keep control of my thoughts when I’m stuck with you, thank you very much”. 

He nods. “Of course, I’ll keep my servos to myself”. 

You know he won’t.

Somehow, that doesn’t bother you. 

There’s something in the back of your mind saying that you should run and never come back, but you have forgotten what you’ve seen. He took everything with him when he withdrew from you. All the images and your suspicions, leaving just your pity. That will serve him well. Will keep you coming. 

“Till next time?”, he smiles. 

And deep down you know, what commands him is not tenderness, but hunger.

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: m that feels over cautious but i'd rather be that then under cw: making out with strangers, drinking tags: rockstar!eddie, waiter!steve, no upside down au, eddie has game, I'm not sure how to tag this one word count: 843

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "midnight"

-

“C’mon, in here.”

Steve is shoved into a dark room, it smells like an attic, an old lady’s house, or a thrift store. It’s enough to make Steve give a couple of coughs but he doesn’t have time for anything else. The other guy is pushing Steve to the back of what he assumes is a closet, kicking the door closed so the thud of Steve’s body and the latch of the door hit at the same time.

His shift drink isn’t enough to have his head spinning like this. Steve grips at the wall to find balance and bring himself back to earth.

It takes seconds to get the stupid bow tie on the ground, Steve helps the other unbutton his crisp, white dress shirt and tries not to regret the choice to wear an undershirt. Usually, his tips are better without but Steve was told this party was a big deal.

The guy was famous or some shit. Steve didn’t know him or the band he sang for. Which made running into him that much weirder. Thankfully someone, somewhere along the line told Steve whose house they were at because he’d really hate to be whimpering the wrong name right about now.

“Eddie…”

The sound made Eddie press against Steve, trapping him against the wall. “Thought you didn’t know who I was, gorgeous.”

All Steve could do was sigh. The comeback would hit hours later but, in this state, his brain couldn’t supply his address let alone witty retorts. Instead, Steve slid his hand up the ragged, ripped band tee Eddie wore and held on tight.

Moving like this was something he did with every waiter, Eddie firmly planted his leg between Steve’s. He licked along Steve’s collarbone and made Steve’s hand grip tighter, a desperate move to not show everything that did to him.

This was a level of desperation Steve wanted to feel ashamed about but instead, he wanted to rip his clothes off…then Eddie’s. Of all the casting couches Steve was warned about, he didn’t expect to want to get on his knees for some metal band singer and the promise of nothing in return.

Eddie laughed; it was the most devilish thing Seve had ever heard come out of another human. His hand easily wrapped around Steve’s neck and he didn’t apply any pressure but patiently gauged the reaction. In the dark, he couldn’t see the challenging stare but Steve kept his breathing even and waited to see what came next.

With a graceful move, Eddie’s hand slid up until his index finger rested under Steve’s chin, tipping it up, and dark or not, Steve could feel Eddie’s eyes on him. Not watched or appreciated but consumed. It was a warning of what was to come. Or a promise.

After a long second, Eddie moved in for a kiss. The hunger behind it took Steve’s breath away. He writhed against the wall and against Eddie’s knee. Every wire and synapse fired, rushing in this beautiful overwhelmed feeling that Steve could get addicted to.

His arms wrapped around Eddie’s shoulders, holding on and desperately trying to get them those last centimeters closer.

“So needy,” Eddie panted.

Steve’s cheeks flushed for being called out but who could care in a moment like this? The guy was gorgeous and the way he’d argued with Steve out in the dining room was better than any foreplay Steve had ever experienced. He both hated and loved the guy.

However, the hatred slipped some as Eddie seemed hellbent on turning Steve into a puddle of goo, unable to do anything other than moan. Something Steve was usually doing to others.

“Fuck you,” Steve muttered, no bite and barely saying the words without stuttering.

Again, that delightfully evil laugh followed and Steve knew he'd lost. No one would ever compare to this guy.

As if dishing out torture, Eddie slowed down and kissed Steve. There was a passion behind it that matched what Steve was feeling, a devotion and request for this to happen for the rest of time. More than that, it was a reprieve, Steve was able to catch his breath. If only slightly.

Together they moved, making out like kids who’d been pushed into the closet at some basement party. Something Steve felt a little more familiar with. Desperately trying to please rockstars was new but seven minutes in heaven was old news.

Eddie pulled his shirt off and Steve took advantage of that pause to let his shirt fall to the floor. Before they could pick back up, “Happy New Year” came from every voice in the other room. Followed quickly by a chorus of noisemakers and tiny explosions.

There was a silent, still beat in the room as Eddie and Steve tried to process the information. Eddie leaned forward after a second and kissed Steve again, something quick as he pulled back and said “Happy New Year.”

All Steve could do was laugh.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, and a dry chuckle came around the word. “Fuck that. Let’s have some fun.”

[comesatimecomesashadow]

frayed synapses *ೃ༄

ׂ╰┈➤ . . . you're reading part v.

pairing *ೃ༄ simon "ghost" riley / fem therapist reader

fic type *ೃ༄ angst, fluff, pining

cw *ೃ༄ simon and reader self-sabotaging themselves (we love conflict), self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of absent parents (reader), depictions of PTSD (simon), workaholism, let me know if i missed anything

summary *ೃ༄ with the burden of job-related stress weighing on your back, you decide to unwind at a local pub. yet instead of relaxation, you find out that your neighbor is none other than Simon RIley, a member of the military. after making the decision to clumsily ask him to have tea with you after an embarrassing first impression, you find that underneath Simon Riley's hardened, stone-cold façade, is a man who desperately seeks an end to the turmoil that plagues him.

note *ೃ༄ sorry this came out so late , i was busy graduating HS & dodging ICE, anyway i hope you enjoy!

masterlist | series masterlist | prev . . next

Simon Riley is many things. 

His skills of observation surpass that of a normal person, even most soldiers in his field; He’s compassionate in his own, solemn ways and he’s practical with the actions he takes. One thing he isn’t, is stupid. Sure, he’s closed off from the world like an iron door sealed shut, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know when someone is actively avoiding him like the plague. 

That someone being you. 

Simon’s resigned himself to gluing himself to the railing of his balcony, the one neighboring yours,  as he silently observes you pretending that he isn’t there. Prior to two weeks ago, you would have spared him a kind glance, struck up a lively conversation with him about something mundane, something simple. And now? Now he was subject to the wistful expression etched onto your visage while you stared off into the distance with that familiar toothpick in between your slightly-chapped lips, as if you wanted to take the clouds out of the sky itself and craft it into something else. 

He would have asked you about what prompted the sudden distance if the thought of confronting you about it didn’t make him feel as if his throat would close up the moment he uttered your name. Acknowledging this newfound distance between the two of you would imply that there was a sort of closeness between the two of you, that the pair of you had become more than just mere neighbors; More than just acquaintances by proximity. 

The howling wind bit at his skin, relentless in reminding him how cold he was on the Friday nights that were starved of your presence. Even in the weeks leading up to the suffocating silence, Simon could tell you were slowly withdrawing from him, as if to ease the eventual and dull pain that his absence would undoubtedly cause you. Simon knew you better than you thought he would have because of the simple fact that you mirrored his self-sabotaging behaviors. He knew all too well that you mourned the connection before it had even been cut off by your very hand; That your silent feelings for him were a burden on you, one you couldn’t afford to tend to. 

And it shouldn’t have caused him this much ache in his being to see your expressionless face in the morning when he was coming back up to his flat after a short run around the block; Shouldn’t have felt like his heart was being yanked from his chest cavity when you offered no more than a one-second glance his way. 

But it did. 

In fact, it hurt more because he knew he wouldn’t stop you from withdrawing from him completely. The fear of commitment was a beast that could eat him alive if he let it, which he did; Skin, bones and all- this monster had taken it. Simon had an inkling that you let this same beast mangle you in the same exact way. In this shell of a man, there was nothing he could offer to make you want to stay. There was nothing he would do to make you speak to him, after all, it was only casual conversation. 

It was casual when he listened attentively to you telling him old stories about your childhood. Stories which revealed the turbulent and yet endearing relationship you had with your mother, stories that included the absent father you felt so much for. You were an open book and he was willing to read everything on your pages, carefully turning them with the utmost delicacy as if they’d wrinkle under his grip. 

He was sure that you could read him too. 

You knew that his subtle touches ー the way his fingers seemed to linger on yours whenever he handed a cup of coffee to you, the way he gazed at you as if you’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky, the way he often tenderly pulled you by your waist to the opposite side of the sidewalk when he noticed you were on the street side — meant something. You wouldn’t have withdrawn from him out of your fear if you hadn’t known that his warm skin-to-skin contact carried whispers of something more than platonic love. 

It ached to be so close to you and yet still so far. 

The calming sounds of soulful jazz that leaked through the thin walls of the apartment were enough for him. They had to be. So, as Simon lay in his uncomfortable and empty mattress, he listened intently to the sounds of you existing. Your small laughs while you watched a show he didn’t yet hear about or your not-so-quiet humming that put his anxieties to rest — they were enough. 

Friday nights for you had returned to their old routine. 

Records playing in your living room while you made yourself some dinner and relaxed after the stressful week you’d had. Things at work were normal; there were no more injuries inflicted on you by clients since the facility you worked for decided to take extra measures to ensure the incident wouldn’t happen again. You had been relentlessly drowning in work, having to catch up on patient files and notes from sessions, but you loved it. 

Sure, you didn’t have much time to catch up on your social life outside of work, but that was for the best. Your social life consisted of trips to the pub with some of your college mates or seeing Simon on those late-night walks and you’d rather not entangle yourself further with him. He wasn’t a bad man by any means, in fact he was respectful of you and kept his distance — only getting close to you after you’d opened up — but he wasn’t the reason you withdrew. 

You left subtly because of you. 

The moment you felt yourself looking forward to those walks, felt your heart leaping at the rare sight of him without the black surgical mask, noticed that you were thinking about him more than usual; That was when you decided to put a stop to it. You couldn’t- no, wouldn’t allow yourself to love him. You got up to wash your plate, the music oozing from the grooves filling the silence in your flat. The wind was stale and the moon hid behind pale clouds in the night sky, it was awfully quiet despite the sounds reverberating softly off of the thin walls — as if the night wanted you to examine the reason for which you denied yourself a potential relationship. 

As the cold water doused your already-freezing hands, you let out a sigh. Butterflies flew rampantly through your stomach as the thought of potentially being with Simon entered your mind. The feeling sank quickly when you were reminded why exactly you’d chosen to stay away. You weren’t at all capable of receiving nor giving love. You’d never been in a serious relationship because of your workaholic tendencies; Preferring work or school over complex relationships with other people was your default mindset. 

It didn’t help that you didn’t exactly grow up with an exemplary father. Being a psychologist, you knew the exact qualities that made a healthy relationship but you were at a total loss when it came to your own personal relationships; Choosing to avoid them instead of taking a risk and going out of your comfort zone. The glass plate clattered against the sink as you placed it in the rack. You were about to go and change the record, noticing that it was about to stop, but muffled screams from the other side of the wall shook your very being. 

You knew that voice. 

It was Simon. 

In a heartbeat, you rushed out of your door, hastily unlocking it before knocking on Simon’s door. You made sure to keep the knocks at a calm pace, not wanting to alarm him or make him panic. After about ten minutes of you knocking relentlessly and listening to his screaming, Simon emerged from his door, his eyes sunken and tired than when you last saw them clearly. You often heard his mumblings —  sometimes it was pleading you would hear — through the unbearably weak walls that surrounded your flat. You guessed that he most likely suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a fairly common mental illness in soldiers. 

He opened his mouth to say something but you beat him to it. “Are you okay? Is everything fine?” you were concerned for him. Simon’s eyes widened a little at the notion, frankly he thought it was a neighbor complaining about the noise again. His nightmares weren’t exactly forgiving. 

“I.. er, yeah. Everything's fine.” he scratched the back of his neck anxiously. The sweat on his brow glistened underneath the dim orange-yellow light of the hallway. 

“Nightmare?” you asked him calmly. You weren’t about to take his word for it, he’d made you too worried to act like it was nothing now. Simon only nodded and avoided your gaze, his eyes were glassy but his jaw was tense. “.. Do you want to spend the night at mine instead?” you offered without hesitation. The only thing you could think about was the way he seemed so shaken — so used to dealing with it alone — and how much you wanted to help him in any way that you could. “Just so, you know, you don’t have to be alone. It’s fine if you don’t want to, I'm just, um- you know.. Offering..” 

He would’ve chuckled deeply at the way you scrambled to justify your words if he wasn’t so shaken up at the moment. He’d dreamt about Tommy- About his family and the last time he saw them. Images flashed behind his eyelids every time he closed them. He thought he was getting better but it seemed that he still had a long way to go. It crushed him, but you were right. 

He didn’t want to spend it in his cold and empty flat by himself. 

He didn’t want to be alone anymore. 

As much as he had made his solitude a staple in his life — an unshakable pillar — he couldn’t bear to go it alone anymore. Just as you tore your walls down for him once upon a time, it was now his turn to reciprocate and despite the short time the two of you spent apart, he received your concern with open arms. Didn’t push you away like he normally would have anyone else. 

Instead, Simon allowed you to look at him with that warm, worried gaze of yours and lead him into your flat. He let you hold his hand (which emitted vastly more warmth than yours) as you opened your door for him for the first time since the two of you had become acquainted. 

For the first time, he let you let him in. 

It was new land to him but he was willing to let you guide him through the valleys of your life and perhaps.. maybe even through the vibrant meadow of your love. 

taglist *ೃ༄ . . . @dwkfan . . @savannahsomething . . @thatghostlykid . .

© 2025 comesatimecomesashadow

[emilyrosebug]

Chromaverse Daily Challenge - Day 5: Prank

Flynn and Wasabi pull up their Dare Box and their latest dare or sort of a prank is to replace the shampoo with hair dye, Verdi Green hair dye. Which was the right time as Synapse was about to enter the shower before he started his routine. They take out the shampoo and replace it. As Synapse started showering, his blue hair started to turn green and by the time he dried his hair, his reaction was quite shocking and disappointed. Now he was spending the entire day with green hair.

Full Story

The green hair was based on Synapse's animation error from the episode, FrogbuKket where he had unfinished textures.

[eighttens]

Elevatorcrush!Yunho x reader

Synapses: so… maybe you’re kind of a stalker, but who wouldnt be over a guy like that?!

Note: inspired heavily by Yunho‘s forehead, lord praise the stylists for letting it breathe this comeback!!!! I love it so much he looks too good im not normal about him at all. Hope you enjoy, please dont be a silent reader- share your thoughts and if you have ideas PLEASE REQUEST MY INBOX IS OPEN!!!!

You had a confession to make. You took the elevator in your apartment complex every chance you could get. Not for any medical or physical needs, not because you were too lazy to take the stairs, not because your bag is heavy, no. None of that. It’s all because of him.

The first few times you saw he didn’t really register in your brain. You only took in his towering height and slender form before focusing on whatever else was on your mind again. Probably because the first few times you really were always too tired to climb the seven flights to your floor.

You’ve taken notice of him again and again since then though. He looked to be a few years, three or four at most, older than you, and judging by the briefcase you thought he worked in some higher profession. The business casual style also doesnt stop your fantasizing, quite the opposite actually. You wont lie, you’ve imagined once or twice what he works as; a doctor? A lawyer? Dare you imagine, a professor? The thought alone makes your head swirl, so you’re quick to dismiss it every time.

Since you started paying more attention to the people (person) on the elevator with you, you may or may not have started to synch up your routines with a certain man your eyes find time and time again. You didnt know much about him, other than that he always got on and off the fourth floor, and the times he came and went.

It started with a simple coincidence. You left a few minutes earlier than usual because you had a project at Uni that required a lot of materials, prompting you to take the elevator for convenience. Lo and behold, there he was again, stepping into the elevator as it made a stop on the fourth floor. You nodded at one another, and he sent you a small, seemingly sympathetic smile as he eyed all the materials you were carrying. Since then you knew that he left for work at 7:15 sharp, and since then you’ve subconsciously started your morning 15 minutes earlier too, to match schedules, but he didnt have to know that.

In terms of the time of return, you didnt have to change much (not that you were changing anything in the first place, you told yourself). You simply had to get home a tad bit faster, and then take the elevator. There, you and him would shuffle into the small space and share a moment of silence before he would step off, leaving you to ascend further on your own.

Today was a day like most other, you made it though all your classes managed to hand in the work that was looming over your head, and your timing was right on the money to see a certain someone. You might be a little very exited to see him, you admit, but you allowed yourself the unsolicited giddiness that spread through your body at the thought of him.

Youre glad you were wearing a bit of a nicer outfit that day, because by some high heavens grace, something in his appearance had changed. You felt stalker-ish for noticing the change, but you couldn’t stop yourself from gushing over it. His forehead. Where normally the black bangs would lie against his skin, kissing his eyebrows, his hair was pushed back for a change.

Your reaction was very normal. Yes, you were feeling extremely normal about this change. Nothing like a man from the middle-ages seeing ankles for the first time, no, nothing like that at all.

You stood a little stiff in the elevator next to him, heels pressed against one another to keep you grounded as you practically buzzed where you stood. Oh my gosh girl get a grip! You wanted to curse yourself, but before any of the self deprivation could really start, the silence in the elevator broke.

He cleared his throat, hand coming up to shield his mouth as he coughed into his fist. Your head whipped over to his and you could see him glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. Never in a million years would you have expected to hear a noise from him, but you would have to thank the heavens later for the cold-seasons. You were content now, happy to have heard his voice.

He really threw you for a loop when he spoke again however, leaning down to match your height, probably make you a little more comfortable. „This might be a little out of nowhere, and i hope i dont sounds really weird and creepy but your perfume is really nice.“ his voice was low, as not to disturb the silence in the apartment complex.

Before you have time to soak in his words, even less to think of a response, the elevator has already reached the fourth floor. He‘s swift in his exit, leaving you reaching out for him dumbly, scrambling to think up some words. No success, so you just watch his leaving form with an open mouth.

Once his words sink in though, your face starts warming, your stomach spinning and your knees becoming embarrassingly weak. „Thanks…“ you say to no one in particular as the doors open again: on the seventh floor this time. You float to your apartment, unlocking the door with a wide smile on your face. What was the chance of something like this happening? Slim to none at all, you think as your smile widens again (if that’s even possible).

Was this the start of something? Only time could tell… well, ten hours and nineteen minutes, but you weren’t counting…

[bullet-prooflove]

A Little Encouragement: Travis Wheatley x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @yousigned-upforthis @gatefleet @pansexualhailstorm

Companion piece to:

Broken - Travis recieves a phone call from Rip regarding you and Malcom Beck.

Maui - Travis adds some extra security measures to your new place.

Colt 45 - Travis doesn't mess around when it comes to your saftey.

Ride - Travis lifts your mood by taking you for a ride.

Wet - You and Travis discuss something you've been avoiding.

Broken Glass - You think Travis is cheating on you.

You’re touching Travis, really touching him.

You have your hand wrapped around his cock for the first time in months and he’s gritting his teeth trying not to blow his load like a teenager on prom night. He isn’t sure what prompted it only that you’ve been getting bolder recently, those light kisses you sprinkle on his lips have been turning into make out sessions on the couch, ones he has to take a cold shower after because you work him up so much his dick is practically rubbing itself raw on his jeans.

Your lips brush over his jugular, soft, heated and he whines at the sensation because it’s been so long since you’ve wanted him like this and he can’t express how good it feels.

“Honey.” He warns you, his head tipping back onto the couch as you keep that slow, deviant pace. “I’m close.”

“Oh baby,” You whisper into his ear and it sends a shot of molten heat rushing through his synapses as he feels your smile against his skin. “Are you gonna be a good boy and come all over my hand?”

That’s all it takes, a little encouragement and he’s erupting, spurting white streaks across your fist as he lets out the filthiest fucking noise you’ve ever heard.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He mumbles as you clean him up in the aftermath because he’s too fucked out to move. “I feel like you just stole my soul right out of my dick.”

You laugh then and it’s just the prettiest damn sound in the entire world. Travis can’t help but smile as he wraps his arm around your waist, drawing you against him, tucking you close against his side.

“I’m proud of you.” He murmurs, his nose tracing over yours. “I know it ain’t easy…”

“It’s getting easier.” You tell him as your palm smooths over the space where his heart resides. “With your patience and your kindness, you have no idea how much it helps.”

His hand comes to rest on yours, holding it place.

“We go at your pace honey.” He tells you earnestly. “You can have as little or as much of me as you need.”

Love Travis? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[mmmichyyy]

if you’re still taking prompts, 53+94?

#53. "take off your shirt."

(1.6k words of ian being a lovable dumb idiot and mickey going along with it)

it was a spur of the moment decision. one minute ian's getting off his shift, the next he's pushing open the door to the tattoo studio he passes by every day just around the corner from his apartment, a sign blaring MILK in bright neon lights welcoming him.

"hey," ian greets the overly-pierced girl sitting at the front desk. "do you take walk-ins?"

the girl snaps her gum. looks him up and down. "are you looking to get pierced or inked?"

"uh, inked." ian fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. "something small, on my arm, maybe. i don't know what i want, though. i haven't really... thought it through."

"well, all our artists are busy right now," she says, unbothered, handing him an album and a clipboard. "so if you don't mind waiting, flip through our flash book and see what kind of design you want, then fill out the consent form when you're ready."

ian nods. "should i wait here or..."

she points down the hallway. "room three is empty right now. i'll send one of our artists over in a bit for a consultation."

to ian's relief, the studio isn't like the grimy tattoo shop he went to a couple years ago. from what he can see, the place is kept clean and sterile, everything neatly organized and spotless. he settles into the leather-cushioned chair and aimlessly flips through the album, eyes glossing over page after page of designs.

honestly, he has no idea what he wants. he doesn't even know why he's doing this; why he wants a tattoo memorializing someone who was barely a fleeting presence for his entire life. how do you sum up a whirlwind and a hurricane? how do you solve a problem like monica? he and his siblings always jokingly asked each other.

but there was always a hint of despair, an unsaid sliver of yearning every time monica was brought up, because... how? how?

which is the very reason why he can't talk to his siblings about any of it - everyone has their own complicated relationship with monica, but no one wants to acknowledge them out loud. their mom is dead and all she left behind are faded memories, paper cuts on their hearts, and a couple kilos of meth.

...and now ian is getting a tattoo for her. go figure.

the longer he sits, however, the more his self-doubt starts to creep in. he starts to wonder if it's too late for him to back out.

"you my seven o'clock?"

ian looks up and finds a man staring at him curiously. a man with dark slicked-back hair and pale skin and a single silver bar piercing above his right brow, framing clear blue eyes. swirling intricate designs run down his arms and disappear underneath a tight black t-shirt - one side all colour, the other black ink only.

shit. this guy is fucking hot.

immediately ian's mind goes blank.

"uh... yes?"

"cool." the man closes the door. "name's mickey. did you fill out the consent form yet?"

mickey. the synapses in ian's brain short-circuits. "not yet...?"

mickey nods, as he heads towards the sink in the corner of the room. "you can fill it out while i set everything up. is this your first time?"

"no." ian lets out a breath and picks up the pen attached to the clipboard. "i've done it before."

"really." mickey surveys him up and down. "i don't see any."

ian winces, glad mickey can't see the patriotic eagle under his shirt. one of his many regrets, unfortunately. "it's um... hidden."

mickey's brows furrow for a moment, before his eyes light up. "ah. gotcha, man."

ian's not sure what to make of mickey's reaction - but he doesn't trust his mind to not say something dumb to who just might be the hottest guy he's ever seen standing in front of him, so he keeps his trap shut and quickly fills out the form before handing the clipboard over.

"so," mickey looks down at the form, "ian. do you know which side you want it on?"

ian blinks. "side?"

mickey blinks back at him. "right or left?"

ah. which arm. "left. i need the right one for work tomorrow," ian jokes.

mickey gives him a strange look. "sure."

ian watches as mickey snaps on a pair of black disposable gloves, then sets out some needles in sealed packages on a silver tray. he didn't think mickey would be a stick and poke kind of artist instead of using a tattoo gun, but at this point ian could care less the method in which he gets inked.

"you nervous?" mickey asks, noticing ian's fidgeting fingers in his lap.

ian lets out a breath.

"kind of," he admits. "my mom... she died recently, and i wanted to get something small to remind me of her."

"you..." mickey pauses. "you're doing this for your mom?"

"why?" ian asks, getting a bit self-conscious now. maybe mickey has seen a lot of his clients regret getting tattoos for their parents. "you think i shouldn't?"

"it's your choice," mickey replies slowly. "if you want something to really remember someone by, then this will do it."

ian lets out a breath. "yeah," he nods. "let's do this."

"take off your shirt, then," mickey says, and ian's brain once again goes offline because of course it does. "i'll sterilize the area first and then we'll get started."

in hindsight, if mickey was just some average-looking guy or literally any other person at all, maybe ian would've caught on earlier. do his due diligence and change the fire alarm batteries in his head, instead of letting the warning bells beep incessantly. he might've thought to himself hey, that's weird, why do i need to be shirtless if i'm getting a tattoo on my arm? and before i confirmed what design i want? when i don't even know what i'm getting? hm? hello?????

but alas, because clearly all rational thoughts have been thrown out of his head (did he have any to begin with?), he quickly unbuttons his emt uniform shirt and tosses it over the side of the chair. subtly yet not so subtly flexes his arms a bit, because hey, why the fuck not? he works out. he's fit. sue him for wanting to show off a bit.

except nothing, absolutely nothing, could've prepared him when mickey wipes a cool, stinging alcohol wipe across his left nipple.

ian yelps. practically falls out of the chair and almost lands on his ass. mickey just stares at him, gloved hand still held up.

"i– uhhhhh– look, there must be some misunderstanding–" ian sputters, feeling his cheeks heat up. "i'm getting a tattoo on my arm, not my, uh...."

"nipple?" mickey supplies, the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards.

ian wants to die.

blames himself for thinking with his dick. or rather, not using his brain at all.

either way, he wishes he could pass away on the spot. cut the brakes. burst into flames. end it all, right there and then.

before he can say any parting words and then forever perish from the mortal realm, he feels something drape over his shoulders. looks up to mickey a mere breath's distance away, covering his shivering back with his shirt.

is that a smile on mickey's face? or is ian being delusional once again?

delusional. definitely delusional.

"sooo,” mickey drags out the word, “i guess you're not my seven o'clock nipple piercing appointment?"

ian shakes his head as he hastily buttons up his shirt, ignoring the heat filling his cheeks. "i guess there was some kind of mix-up, the girl out front told me to go wait in room three."

mickey rolls his eyes. "i swear sandy messes up on purpose just to fuck with me. how hard is it to keep track of three rooms?"

"you didn't think it was weird someone would need their right nipple for work? or that they want to get something pierced for their mom?" ian asks, a little incredulous.

mickey, ever full of indifference, merely shrugs. "hey, i don't know your life, man."

there's an awkward lull in the air. ian's eyes dart towards the door, hoping he can make a quick exit and then, perhaps, find a cliff and walk off it. "well, i'll just go then..."

"come back tomorrow night," mickey cuts him off, to ian's surprise. "you said you wanted something small, right? mandy's the best at doing fine line shit, she can help you design whatever you're thinking of."

"sandy, mandy, mickey. what, are you all related?" ian jokes weakly.

"cousin and sister," mickey shrugs. "it's a whole family affair up in here."

"okay," ian nods slowly, watching mickey turn on the tap to wash his hands. guess he’ll postpone his cliff walk for another day. "i'll come back tomorrow then."

just as ian’s about to bolt out the door, he hears a soft hey call out to him. when he turns around, he almost gasps when mickey’s standing directly behind him, and quite nearly has an aneurism when mickey reaches out his fingertips to straighten out his collar, blue eyes directly staring into his soul.

"don't take off your shirt for her though," mickey says, and ian's breath hitches. "bitch doesn't deserve a free show."

before his brain could stop his mouth from running (seems to be a common occurrence today), ian asks, "you liked what you saw, then?"

mickey pats ian's cheek twice, then steps back. "i don't hook up with clients, as a general rule."

"well," ian can't keep the hopeful tone out of his voice. "maybe after tomorrow then, when i’m not a client anymore?"

this time, ian knows he's not being delusional.

mickey's lips are definitely curved into a smile.

“guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”

[wisteriagoesvroom]

For the trope mashup thing whatever: arranged marriage and neighbors 👀 - CX

again not one i would've picked but thank you for prompting it !! this also uh, got longer than i thought.

(from the prompts mash up - still taking submissions)

--------

“What do you mean your visa’s running out?” Lando asks.

“I’m Australian. Not a magician. Commonwealth only gets you so far.” 

“I thought you were here on a scholarship.”

“Well. Yeah. But scholarships stop. Once you graduate.” 

Lando toes the doorway rug. It feels weird to be talking about this in the middle of the hallway, though the only other person who would be listening might be Mrs. Kapoor, and half the time it’s only because she sticks her head out to ask if Lando or Oscar would take one of her mystery vegan curries. Lando is neither a huge fan of vegan food nor curry, and he trusts Oscar’s word for it that it’s good because they eat it while playing Gran Turismo at Lando’s place. But Lando always accepts the curries nonetheless, because his parents raised him to be polite, and he wasn’t raised in a barn. (Even if he technically grew up in converted farmhouse in the countryside, but that was besides the point.)  Either way, this is slipping away from him much quicker than he’d anticipated. Late night hangouts, dropping mail and post-it notes, text messages about the community garden. The most inane smalltalk about things big and small from the origins of moths to whether aliens were out there or just chose to ignore the +44 area code. Oscar always laughing in the right places when Lando regales him about tales of his terrible online dating stories, Oscar always picking the pickles out of the roast beef bagels before he passes one to Lando. The corner of Lando’s sofa that Lando has started to think of as Oscar’s because he’s there so often, reading one of his books or trying to speedread a JSTOR article about the lifecycle of urban pathogens while Lando worked on artwork for his upcoming store launch. 

Lando’s synapses are firing too fast. His brain did that most days, and that was what made him exceedingly good at his job, and today in particular - it doesn’t feel like there’s any logical way out. 

Lando remembers that movie they watched once though. As a joke. The one they both pretended not to enjoy, with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds in Alaska. The one they watched when Oscar sat next to Lando on the sofa, and they both pretended the entire night that their knees weren’t touching. 

His therapist said he had a tendency to get ahead of himself when under stress. But it’s a joke, it’s not serious, there’s no way—

“We could just like, get married.”

Lando shoves his hands in his pockets. That came out way more calm and cooler than he thought it actually would.  And to his credit, Oscar doesn’t drop his mug of tea. Lando knows that’s his favourite one, because Lando got it for him, and it says Science is my superpower. Oscar does, however, slightly shift his grip on the mug.

“I feel like it’d be complicated to explain to my mum why I randomly married my upstairs neighbour?” 

“But it’s not a no.”

Oscar tilts his head. There’s a glimmer of something focused, maybe even hungry in his eyes. Oscar gets like that when his mind turns, when he’s working on an especially difficult thesis, when the pieces are forming and he can lock into the crucial details.

Lando is a little alarmed at how much he already recognises it, and how much more often he’d like to draw that reaction out. 

“If the facts don’t fit the theory, then reexamine the facts. Right?” Oscar says.

And Lando is there, in the doorway. Conscious that Mrs Kapoor might’ve heard everything, but all the more conscious that there’s a hammering in his heart that he can’t tell is nervousness, or anticipation. 

What’s the stress limit for a joke you’re probably already pushing too far? Lando thinks.

He isn’t sure.

But maybe it’s a thesis worth testing out.  

-------------

(and ok maybe i cheated a little on arranged marriage but i think this is the closest i could get with the contemporary context. thank you @cx-boxbox for the prompt <3)

[itsnotjustgibberish]

The Anthology.

My HMSonas! I’m not really sure how to start with articulating their lore storyline-wise, but here’s some character info for now. Also PLEASE feel free to send asks or prompt discussion [as long as it’s not like literally psychoanalyzing me lmbo) and the sort I’d love to share [: ]]

The Heart: Harp. A being of stagnation, but consistency. They have held the hands of the host and led them along for years; that repetition has led Harp to undermine the true level of agony they and the other thirds have experienced. The normalization of pain makes it difficult for them to verbalize it, whether current or remnants. Comfortable, but overwhelming.

The Mind: Muse. A being of unpredictability, but potential. They not only keep the host moving forward, but allow them to reach greatness; they work impressively hard at the cost of neither taking breaks nor giving perceived failures grace. They thrive in self-directed apathy, and are an easy victim of sunk cost fallacy and perfectionism. Motivating, but exhausting.

The Soul: Zinn. A being of contradiction. Full of hope, and a source of relapse. Suffering through constant inner turmoil as they grieve the past self that was ignored and berated, while going silent as the current thirds suffer. Desperate to move forward and consistently love themself{/selves}, but the draw of enmity is such a tempting call as synapses fall ill again and again. They find it easier to be kind to the others while in a state of depersonalization {they would never treat another the way they treat themself}.

D3ar: Also known as c!Dear. Characterized for lore, not to be confused with my other oc Dear. A personification of mental illness, and self deprecating/hurtful ideation. They are not their own person, if you can call it a person at all. Not something to be sympathized with, but it is not inherently malicious; it exists to fulfill a psychological niche, but grew to an overwhelming degree. Exists in a separate segment of the psyche that is isolated from HMZ… at least, they did until Zinn wandered too far, and ended up indefinitely separated from their other thirds. Harp and Muse are not aware of D3ar’s existence, and—initially—Zinn wasn’t either.