#roller drying machine

[taintandviolent]

Bitchin' ; Peter Maximoff x rollerskater!reader

summary: You always wear your silver rollerskates. But, when Peter Maximoff decides to check out the roller rink's arcade, and spots you... It's fate. At least, Peter thinks so. word count: 4.2K words! w a r n i n g s: brief use of Y/N, shameless smut, smut without plot, public fingering, public handjobs, dry humping, kissing, neck kissing. a/n: requested - I lost the original ask but the anon wanted a rollerskating reader who Peter was obsessed with! Honestly, this is my very first Peter fic so if there's anything that isn't in character or canon please mind your business and pretend you do not see it.

full fic & taglist under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! /

The disco ball twirled above, casting little squares of light over all the skaters like pieces of confetti. You grooved to the music while carefully maintaining your balance. The rink was buzzing with celebration; at least three birthdays amongst other parties were being held there.To you, it was merely another Saturday night. Skating had become more or less a therapeutic activity for you; it was a way to unwind after the day. The stresses floated away behind you as you circled the rink. Thankfully, it was also aerobic in nature, so you were getting your daily exercise in as you decompressed. Not to mention, it was funner than hell.

So, this wasn’t Peter’s usual hangout. But, the rink had a Centipede and a Dig Dug machine, so why not? The light from the machines blinked, reflecting off his eyes. New highscores were easily beaten when the bar was set so low. Come on! Did they even try!? 

To his right, he heard a cacophony of giggles and chattering as a cluster of young girls sped his way, their hands full of drinks. To avoid a collision, Peter was forced to turn around, making way for the girls as they passed. And as he did, two flashes of silver caught his eye. 

Those same two flashes of silver zipped around the rink, catching the neon lights from above. Peter’s dark eyes followed them as they circled and eventually, trailed up the shapely legs that they were attached to. You had a bangin’ body, that much was evident. He watched you as you skated around and around, your legs weaving in and out of each other with skill. You weren’t hugging the perimeter, scared like some of the other girls. You were confident, and in your own, bodacious skating world.

Nah, he thought. No way. But… What if fate is totally intervening, dude? What are the chances that I clock a girl with silver roller skates if it wasn’t meant to be? C’mon… 

As his thoughts raced, you veered off from the throngs of skaters, heading towards the wall near the tables. Chalking it up to destiny, Peter couldn’t argue with himself any further. It was now or never. The moment to strike, the moment to make his move…was right now. 

Your skates hit the wall with a thunk-thunk. Your drink was right where you left it, and still cold enough to sweat. As you sipped, you spotted a guy on a mission, making his way in your direction, maneuvering through people as they passed him. Silver hair? Silver… everything, really. Interesting coincidence. You turned around, unsure, but nobody else was seemingly aware of him. So, you weren’t mistaken, he was headed straight for you. 

Once he got to you, he said two words. Two words.

“Bitchin’ skates.” 

That same dorky smile that he wore as he made his way over to you was still plastered on his face as he stood in front of you now. The same one that, contrary to his probable assumption, you weren’t turned off by. Quite the opposite; you thought it was adorable, endearing even. 

“Uhh…” You brought the plastic straw to your lips, buying yourself time. You sucked in a mouthful of soda, raising your eyebrows at him and he raised his back, grinning inwardly. Something about you had clearly caught his attention; he wasn’t leaving. Unfortunately for him, you were ten kinds of anxious and fourteen kinds of nervous when it came to talking to guys. You leaned over the wall, looking at his feet; a pair of silver shoes. You gulped down more soda, and pulled the straw from your lips.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, babe. Just cause I’m not skatin’ doesn’t mean I’m uncool.” 

You sniggered, rocking back and forth on your skates. You set the soda down on the same table you retrieved it from and gave him your undivided attention. Even though you hadn’t really thanked him for the compliment, it didn’t matter, he wasn’t deterred. “So uh…” He leaned in, angling his face towards yours. Your gaze flitted to his lips for a nano-second, before you darted back up to his eyes. “My name’s Peter.” 

He’d clearly expected you to tell him your name, but you remained silent, clamming up at the very heavy flirtation that he was laying on you. Had you really just forgotten your own name? Clearing his throat, Peter inched closer still, now practically leaning over the wall that separated the rink from the dining area. 

“You come here often, nameless cutie?” Okay… that was cheesy. Too fast for you to notice, he rolled his eyes, silently chastising himself. Much to his delight though, you didn’t skate off, laughing hysterically, shucking him off like some idiot on the school yard. You stuck around and gave him a cutesy, coy little nod that went straight between his legs. 

“Yeah… I do. Every Saturday night. Um… My name’s Y/N.” 

“Guess I need to start comin’ around on Saturday nights…” 

“Why’s that?” You questioned, pumping the straw in and out of the lid, the plastic creaking with the action. You knew the answer. You were willingly lining him up for a compliment that you’d let land real nicely. “Hm?” 

“Well…” He shifted his weight, leaning his elbow on the railing. “Clearly all the babes come through on Saturday nights. Case in point.” He gestured to you with a nod of his head. 

“Thanks,” you muttered to the floor. Some people scooted around you, bracing themselves on the wall. New skater, obviously. Peter paid them no attention; his gaze was iron-locked on you. 

“For the compliment on your skates or that absolutely bogus pick-up line I just tried?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a blush crawling up your neck. “Both… actually. Silver has always been my favourite colour.”

Now Peter was the one blushing. “Was that a… compliment? Or uh…” 

“Could be.” 

“Could be?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What do I gotta’ do to make it one?” 

You considered this. Really, he didn’t have to do anything more than what he’d already done. He was silvery and ultra-cute, and the way his lips curved up into a smile every time he looked at you had your knees turning to Jell-o. Plus, he was wearing a RUSH shirt. RUSH was cool. 

“Skate with me.” 

Say less, he thought. Before you had a chance to process it, Peter raced over to the rental counter, coming to a halt just before the swinging door. The girl behind it was too involved in a fashion magazine to attend to him - and if he was polite enough to wait, the speed at which she was gonna’ move would’ve been excruciating. Peter snatched a pair of skates in his size, tucked his shoes in one of the empty cubby holes and took off back towards you. You had just barely finished blinking by the time he was sitting at your table, arms folded on the railing.

When you opened your eyes, he was sitting instead of standing. You furrowed your brows and peeked over the wall. He was laced up, ready to go.

“How did you…” 

You knew. Even though he hadn’t disclosed it and you hadn’t really seen him move, you knew. You’d heard about mutants, but the thought never captivated you enough to look too deeply into it. To you, they were just regular people – well, not regular people – but people all the same. People with lives, people with feelings. 

But this guy… this guy was really cool.

“Well, come o–” 

Again, before you’d even finished blinking, he was in front of you, cheesing. “You were saying?”

You weren’t sure how else to acknowledge his power, so you’d do it honestly. You nodded once and said: “Bitchin’.” 

“Bitchin’,” he affirmed. “Bitchin’.” 

You dipped forward, reaching for his fingers. His large hand was warm and inviting, and immediately enveloped yours. For a moment, the two of you didn’t move. The second he laced his fingers in between yours, your arm went numb, buzzing with electricity. You weren’t sure whether or not that was a part of his mutantness, or just… your own body responding to this very cute guy touching you. Probably the latter, but you weren’t about to sever the connection to discuss it. 

Peter looked flushed, but masked it with a charming smile and a quirked silver eyebrow.

“Oh, we’re holdin’ hands now?” 

“Well, yeah,” you started, dismissing it as though it was the most normal thing in the world. You beamed, flashing him a smile before pulling him into the flow of skaters. It was hard to imagine that you, with your utterly awkward sense of self, had suddenly taken the lead and were now in control of the situation. “You know how to skate?” 

“Uh… sorta.”

“Well, here.” You spun around, now skating backwards. You held out your free hand, wiggling your fingers towards his. Peter did a double-take – was he really going to be holding both your hands? No questions asked? His already-fast heart thudded in his chest. This was too easy. Fate, man. It’s fate. 

“Come on, don’t be shy. You had enough confidence to come up to me earlier… don’t back out now.” 

“Wha-?! I’m so not!” He looked offended. You couldn’t help but laugh at that, and grabbed his hand at the wrist, pulling him closer to your body. You then noticed that his knees were locked in true beginner form. He looked stiff and slightly unsure. 

“Relax, baby…” You cooed, coaxing him through the motions. “Just move with the groove…”

Slowly, Peter’s dilated eyes crawled up from his skates to yours, and up your divine lookin’ legs. They made their way up your torso before finally coming to a stop on your face. Inside, his heart was hammering against his ribs. Had you just called him baby? Baby? Hoh’ boy… 

Peter composed himself from the impromptu melting you’d caused, he straightened up, relaxing his knees to push into the skates. As the two of you had abruptly picked up speed, you glanced behind you to make sure you weren’t going to run into anyone. Thankfully, he seemed to be navigating pretty masterfully. Peter had his bearings. In fact, thanks to his quick reflexes, he’d gotten his bearings approximately seventeen seconds ago, but you didn’t need to know that. That might’ve prevented the absolutely stellar physical contact he was experiencing now. 

“Yeaaaaaahaaah, Peter! Just like that.” You cheered him on, happy to see that he was loosening up and moving in a much more natural way. For Peter, your smooth voice was doing wonders… but in the wrong way. Or the right way. No. Right way for the wrong situation. Okay, so what? Your syrupy, praising voice was going straight to his crotch. 

“Hey, can we uh… Can we go faster?” He asked. You nodded, preparing yourself to take the lead, but before you could make the necessary changes in speed, Peter spun you around, snaking his arms around you from behind, hands resting gingerly on your abdomen, just above your hips. It was a risky move, he knew it, but it just felt so right to do… and after a few seconds, waiting on bated breath, no protests fell from your lips.You weren’t about to shoo him off, not with the way his grip was sending shivers up and down your spine.  

“Ready?”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. He continued moving his feet, skating them back and forth. With a quick motion that pressed his chest into your back, Peter took off, narrowly avoiding some dude in neon dolphin shorts. He pushed you, navigating both your bodies around the rink at record breaking speeds, speeds so fast that nobody else even registered you two moving. Around you, people were still moving, but slowly. So slowly. You were nothing but fluffs of air as you passed them. It was terrifying; you’d never moved that fast on roller skates in your life. 

After a few laps, you gripped his veiny forearms pressing them tight against your hips. “Okay! Okay!” 

Peter tipped his toes, letting the stops drag against the polished linoleum floors. You two slowed down abruptly until you were back in sync with the rest of the rink’s patrons. Your hair was wind-blown, tousled locks fluttering back into place. 

“You okay?”

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “That was…” 

“Wicked?” 

“Y-yeah.” You swallowed, wetting your throat. You had some other choice words, but you weren’t about to crush his spirit. His toned chest was rising and falling into your back, and for a second, you leaned your head backwards onto his shoulder. You caught yourself in that embarrassing moment of weakness and jerked your head forward again. “S-sor–”

As quickly as you two had stopped, Peter pivoted you on your skates, and crushed his lips against yours, pressing into them tightly. His lips were warm and melted into yours, but the shock of the kiss had you frozen. After a few painstaking seconds, he pulled away, a look of terror plastered on his face. His eyes searched yours, desperately. 

“Shoot… Did I totally misread that?” 

You licked the remnants of him off your lips, humming in satisfaction. “No… no you didn’t.” 

Peter bounced on his heels, nodded, and glanced at your lips again, wanting so desperately to be back against them, but he’d play it cool, and wait for you to make the next move. 

“Peter, I um… think you’re really cute. But next time… can you give me a warning when we’re gonna’ go hyperspeed?” 

“Next time?” He chuckled low, rubbing the back of his neck. He liked the implications that there’d be a next time. “Y-yeah, sure, babe.”

Silence fell between you two, and while neither of you spoke, a lot was being said. The way he gazed into your eyes, the way that you gazed back… that was the thing about chemistry. It found its way in, no matter how quiet you were. Your heart fluttered in your chest, your stomach muscles tightening instinctively as you looked at him. Peter’s strong hand flexed on yours, gripping your fingers and yanking them towards him. The stops on your skates bumped into his, knocking him backwards slightly. 

“Peter...” you started, nervously chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

“Yeah?” Bless him. The eager, almost desperate look in his dark brown eyes told you he was ready for whatever you were gonna’ throw his way. Preferably, another heated kiss. 

You wanted to, desperately, but swallowed that fiery urge, suddenly hyper-aware of the people zipping around you. At  present, no one was tossing insults your way, but if you two lingered on the rink any longer without skating, you suspected they would. Nervously, you chewed your lip. “We should probably um - get off the rink...”

He agreed with an excited but wordless nod, and towed you in the direction of the opening. Adjusting to the feeling of carpet beneath your feet, you moved behind him, thankful for his hand.

As you passed the video games, both of you stopped in front of one of the party rooms. This one, unlike the others, was off to the side, and dark. Inside, there was nothing but a table with some chairs, and a few leftover party decorations pinned to the walls. Both you and Peter stared at the empty room.

“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” 

“I dunno. Just what exactly are you thinkin, Peter?” 

He smirked.

By the time you’d exhaled, Peter had twisted the handle, tugged you inside, and pressed your back gently against the door, shutting it. He hovered over you, face inches from yours, looking down at you with a wanton, heated gaze. With one hand flattened against the wall by your head, Peter flexed the muscles in his forearm, showing off just slightly. 

“Hey,” you said, gazing up into his dark, inky pools. 

“Hey back.”

You wasted no time in kissing him. This time though, you went at him with parted lips, exhaling over his lips. Peter moaned softly into your mouth, overcome by your scent and taste. Everything about you was unreal; from the way that you tilted your head to get close to him to the way that your fingers clawed at the front of his jeans, desperately hooking into his belt loops to pull him closer to your own hips. Coming up to you was the best decision he’d made in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe even friggin’ years. 

Peter’s tongue swirled around yours, pausing to pepper softer kisses on your plush lips every few seconds. “Mmmm-hm…” Another eager kiss. “Babe, you’re totally…”

“What, bitchin’?” You finished for him, teasing.That had been the word of the night, seemingly. 

In response, Peter kissed you again, pulling you in at the waist. He rutted his hips against you desperately, grinding his half-hard cock into your groin, hungrily seeking out friction. At the whisper of his powerful thrust, you paused, flattening both hands on his chest. 

“Wait, lemme take off my skates,” you started. “I don’t want to fall…”

“If you do, I’ll catch ya’. Promise.” 

The confident lilt in his voice was enough to make you trust him, or maybe it was the way that he completely wiped your stream of consciousness by brushing the bridge of his nose against the nape of your neck, peppering tiny kisses along the feverish flesh. 

Peter bucked his hips against you again, forcing himself against your fingertips, pressing them into the denim. You took his enthusiastic dry humping as a green light, and unbuttoned his pants. You followed with the zipper, and you heard Peter mutter something under his breath. Whatever it was, it sounded massively excited. 

“What was that?” You asked, coyly.

You wrestled with his jeans, fingers exploring deeper, slipping through a bush of silver and  ventured further down, stopping only to take hold of his cock at the base. It was hot to the touch, and now, rock hard. Really…. You thought, smirking to yourself. His interest in you wasn’t superficial, this dude really wanted you. You gripped a little harder, watching intently as the muscles in his jaw feathered and clenched. 

“I said uh, um… it was… Hoh’, babe…” You started stroking and Peter’s head lolled back between his shoulders, a broken moan hitching in his throat. “Hoh’ my god…” 

You kept stroking him, your thumb massaging the veiny underside of his swollen cock. Every pass of your fingers brought another breathy whimper from deep within his throat, and your core tightened further. He was putty in your hands, desperate, whining and begging for more. 

“Just like that, babe…” He bucked his hips rhythmically and brought his other hand to the door, bracing himself. 

“Want me to go faster?” 

He looked at you, quirking a brow as if to say, “Really?”

So you did. It took all of three seconds for Peter to start quivering above you, almost vibrating. Peter dropped one hand, his thick fingers dragging across the ruched elastic of your shorts, pads fluidly slipping over the satin fabric. 

“Can I…” He paused, clearing his throat. “Can I touch her?” 

You loved that he called her her. Cute. You exhaled a moan through your nose and bit down on the corner of your lip. Meeting his gaze again, you nodded excitedly. Peter’s hand pressed against your stomach and dove downwards, slipping over the front of your shorts. At first, he stroked her from the outside, feeling the warmth that radiated from between your folds. But he moved fast, in all ways, and soon, he craved a different sensation. Quickly finding the waistband of your shorts again, he dipped inside to find the hem of your underwear, pausing only to run his finger along it, before slipping past it.

“Ohhhh…” He groaned, feeling the blistering heat of your cunt, and the beginnings of the pre-cum that had made its way up to your folds. “Oh, okay. Silver really is your favourite color.” 

You laughed into his neck, walking your feet out slightly to spread your cunt for him. His fingers grazed your clit, circling it delicately a few times before he moved to your slit, manipulating the wetness that greeted him and coated his fingers. Peter inserted his middle finger, pumping it in and out carefully a few times. You moaned through closed lips, a weak attempt at muffling the sounds, should anyone hear.

“Wanna’ see something cool?” 

You, breathless and starting to sweat, nodded. 

“Fffuck, you’re so wet… uh, sorry - okay. Prepare to be wowed.” He hoped. At least, he was fairly certain that you’d never experienced what he was about to do. 

Half a second passed. Then Peter’s finger slid in and out of you so fast it almost felt mechanical, drilling into you at inhuman speeds. Your jaw dropped, pupils dilating. He wasn’t joking – but maybe selling himself short. You were a little more than wowed.

Abruptly, you pressed your ass against the door, pulling his slippery fingers from you. “St-stop, I’m gonna’ c-cum if you keep doing that.” Shocked at your honesty, you felt your face flush. 

“Oh?” He slipped another finger in, murmuring happily at the way your slick walls clenched around them. Peter brought his thumb forward so that with every pump of his fingers, the pad of his thumb bumped into your puffy, tender clit. You couldn’t help but whine then, the dual-stimulation overwhelming your senses. 

He continued, winding the coil in your tummy tighter and tighter. You moved into him just a little bit closer, plunging him in just a little bit deeper and wrapped your free arm around his broad shoulders, desperate to bring your bodies tighter together. Although his hand enveloped your pussy, you could feel the repeated grind of your own hand as you jacked him off. 

Peter continued, mercilessly, delighted that he had you coming undone in front of him. Sweat streamed down your neck, winding its way down into your cleavage – which, by the way, he was absolutely devastated he couldn’t see. His gaze was locked on your tits then, watching as they rose and fell with each laboured breath you took. Suddenly, your hand went slack around his dick. You focused on nothing in particular as white hot flashes darted across your vision. Peter groaned into your neck as you came around his fingers, warm, wet… 

Your knees buckled, the wheels of your skates rolling forward. Just as he promised, Peter caught you strongly with his free arm, and pinned you against the door with a soft thud. You gasped, gripping him hard, pleasuring him with a new found fervour. You stroked his cock with long, deliberate strokes, paying special attention to his reddened head. Pre-cum, lots of it, leaked from the slit, and you eagerly spread it until his whole cock was slippery. Peter squirmed against your body, his fingers still slipping in and out of you at high-speed. 

“I’m gonna’... I’m gonna’....” 

“Oh, so you cum fast too?” 

Your teasing was all it took for Peter to lose it. Every muscle in his body clenched, his eyes rolled back as his dick spurted sticky, white ropes over your hand and into the fibres of his jeans. You loosened your grip, letting the natural throb of his cock bump into your stomach, leaking against your skin.  

Knock. Knock. 

In a nanosecond, Peter had both of your appearances returned to normal as though a mutual jerk-off session hadn’t just happened. But ohhhhhh, it had. It definitely had. Even though the boner had totally faded, his cock still felt like it was throbbing. He laced his fingers with yours, and threw open the door, pretending to search for the light switch.

“Hey, this room is off-limits…” The girl said, looking slightly annoyed. Peter recognized her; the same one from the rental booth. Guess she finally had to make her rounds. 

“We were just – “ you stammered, trying to find a feasible excuse. 

“Checking out the room for a party.” Peter interjected. “Is food provided?” 

The girl seemed taken aback by such a simple question. “Uh… y-yeah. We do pizza or hot dogs.” 

“Sick, thanks.” 

With that, Peter yanked you from the room, skating back towards the arcade machines. You looked out towards the rink; it had slowed down substantially, and likely, would close soon. Time had flown while you were in there with him. 

Once you two had stopped, you turned to him, running a single finger down the front of his shirt. It was still damp and warm with his sweat. A small smile curled its way onto your pink lips. 

“You got a pen?” 

Thwip. Thwip. He was back, fingers wrapped around a blue pen, which he held out to you proudly. With a satisfied smile, you took his hand, flipped it over, and wrote your number on the inside of his palm, near the meat of his thumb.

“Call me?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Not maybe. He was for sure gonna’ call you. He’d call you the second he got home – well, no. Maybe not because he’d get home way before you. But. He shook his head slightly, dislodging the distraction.

If Peter had his way, he’d bust his next nut inside of you.

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @garykingz / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @tatesdisasterofalover / @thewolveswithin / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @enchanting-evan / @yesdevineruler / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @demxnicprxncess / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @babygorewhore / @quickandsilvers / @tatelangdonsweater / @ifeeltoofuckingmuch / @howtobesasha / @randominstake / @throwinginmythai / @slvt4jamesmarch / @poltoreveur / @feefymo / @evpeters87 / @lacucarachapisser

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[garfieldblunt]

RIP VDL Gang y’all would have loved pt. 2

Dutch- GoFundMe, Cruises

Arthur- Ford F150s, art classes

Hosea- Podcasts, Audio Books

John- Monster Trucks, Pro wrestling

Javier- fruit flavored tequila, concerts

Abigail- Baby Monitors, AirTags

Jack- Pokémon Go, Minecraft

Uncle- Massage chairs at the mall

Micah- 4Chan, Rage Bait

Kieran- Starstabel online, webkins

Sadie- Rage Rooms

Josiah- monopoly, being an America's got Talent Judge

Swanson- Dry Bars, mocktails

Pearson- Iron Chef, Air Fryers

Grimshaw- Lint rollers, sewing Machines

Molly- Get Ready With Me tiktoks

Tilly- Crochet, Debate Club

Mary Beth- Character A.I.

Charles- animal shelters, animal documentaries

Bill- a small, white, little yappy dog, he named Bella

Lenny- doulingo or anything that could teach him a new language

Sean- wet tshirt contests

Karen- Improve Classes, Victoria Secret Perfumes

[actualbird]

hi zak, my luke plush got a bit dirty and dusty.... do you happen to have a guide on how to wash (and care) for your luke plush properly?? thanks ueuueue ;;-;;

hi hi chika!!! i see youve finally gotten to the quintessential luke plush owner milestone of having to give your boy his First Bath!!!

i wouldnt say i know the textbook Proper way to wash luke plushie, because when i got my luke plushie i lost the official hyv tag he came with so i never got to read the wash/care instructions (if there were any) BUT i can tell you how ive been washing my luke plushie because it seems to have worked so far!!

without further ado

step 1: pre-wash

youre first gonna wanna remove his clothes, luke plush is a lot easier to wash when hes naked, and it's also easier to wash the clothes fully when theyre off of his body

(pictured: the plushie family and clothes, separated)

i'd also suggest using a lint roller at this stage to get some of the surface dirt off, just so washing him is easier once hes in the water

once hes naked and lint-rolled, its off to the bath!!

step 2: bath time

we're going to be hand washing him, not machine washing because machine washing a plushie is scary to me. theyre all alone in there.....

anyhoo, fill a basin with cold water and drown your luke plushie in there. make sure there's enough water to fully submerge your boy.

once hes all wet, add gentle detergent, the gentlest you have

both the water temp and detergent kind is to prevent any color fading. very much avoid any harsh chemicals like bleach and whatnot.

this is not part of the washing process but now is the perfect time to pause and take a picture because luke plushie will look like hes in a bathtub

(pictured: bubble bath time for luke plushie)

anyhoo, once youre done taking a pic, gently GENTLYYYYY scrub at any portions that have dirt or grime on them. gently GENTLLLYYY rub everywhere else that doesnt have any visible dirt.

repeat with the clothes, and take extra care because ive found that his clothes are very fragile.

dunk luke plushie's head under the water and gently GENTLYYY squeeze, so his stuffings and braincells also get washed.

do this for a few minutes until youre satisfied or until the visible dirt has been removed

once done, set luke plushie and clothes aside, dump the sudsy water out, and fill the basin again with clean cold water. dunk luke plushie and clothes in the cold water to rinse them off, swishing luke plushie and clothes around under the water.

after some swishing, you can run luke plushie and his clothes under a running faucet or hose to further rinse him out.

keep rinsing until the water no longer comes out with sudsy bubbles. you may have to squeeze his head GENTLY GENTLYYYY a few times in between this process to get all the suds out of his cranium, so just be patient

once the water is no longer sudsy, it's time to dry him!!

step 3: drying

since the clothes are thin, you can hang those up right away to air dry. for luke plushie, however, his head is huge and currently filled with water which makes him very heavy at first.

to get some of that water out, place him on a towel, fold the towel over him, and press down on his head gently or roll him around in the towel. do this a few times to get as much of the water in his head Out so he isnt so heavy when you hang him

once his skull has been drained of most of the water, hang luke plushie on a hanger by his legs, since it's easiest for clothespins to clip onto that

(pictured: just hanging out)

if luke plushie's head is still too heavy from the water to be hung from his legs, another alternative is tying a ribbon around his neck and hanging him from the ribbon instead. i just dont do this myself because it VERY MUCH EMOTIONALLY DISTRESSES ME to see him choking like that, but objectively it's a good workaround

IMPORTANT NOTE: if youre air drying them outside, place them away from direct sunlight. this is, once again, to prevent color fading.

i find that leaving them to hang out for one full day is enough to dry him completely!!

and thats it!! once everything is dry, you can clothe luke plushie once more and he'll be all clean and fresh

oh one last note. if your luke plushie had slight blushies on his cheeks (like it was sprayed on), you might notice that thats faded a bit after the first wash. this is normal and unavoidable (at least in my experience), but you can add his blushies back with makeup, if you have any

also, i'd highly suggest getting a lint roller for when luke plush gets dusty but isnt dirty enough to warrant a full bath!! just gently give him a bunch of rolls like so to keep him dust free :D

i hope this helps!!! i wish you the best on your luke plush washing adventures!!

[dr-spectre]

a thought i keep stumbling on while trying to work out Splatoon's world, how fairly "utopian" splatoon seems to be compared to our own, and i'm wondering just how far that goes, socially and economically

the primary activity for inkfish is an all-inclusive, free to play social sport where you literally get paid for playing, the only barrier to entry being a weapon, of any kind, even a scavenged up Splattershot Jr. (which may even be freely given?)

GrizzCo, evil as it is, seems to take full advantage of inkfish respawning (the helicopter does not leave even when the Triumvirate shows up in an enclosed space like Undertow, fucking insane pilot), so no one ever seems to actually die on the job? with actually pretty decent pay alongside it (if you get lucky lmao)

there is/this is way WAY too much to type in somebody's askbox but GRAAHHHH SPLATOON LORE

I'm going to be honest, i haven't given much thought on the social and economic status of the Splatoon world LMAO! My knowledge of Splatoon lore only goes to the Idols, the timeline and the hidden stuff in the games. Trying to figure out how money works in Splatoon and the conversion of it to real world dollars is just as headache inducing as figuring out how the fuck does the Inkling and Octoling hair work.

Like look at this chocolate cereal for example, in our dollars, would it be 38 bucks? 3 dollars and 80 cents? Or is it based on Japanese Yen? Because Inkopolis is definitely inspired by Tokyo and other cities in Japan, just take a look at the architecture.

Inkopolis and Splatsville for sure seem very utopian and you don't hear much about crimes or any real issues aside from giant electric fishes being stolen every once in a while, and maybe an Idol goes missing and comes back like a few days later (you know who I'm talking about.)

To me it's basically Japan but more advanced and has sea creatures running the place instead of hairy fleshy humans like us lol. And they have a popular sport anyone can join and get paid for. Turf War is like THE THING in their society and they wanna encourage everyone to play it, so they give out money. Or at least that's why i think Inklings and Octolings get paid when participating in Turf War. Hell it makes sense for Inklings and Octolings to get paid for ranked battles because it's more serious and competitive, like the competitive sports we have in our world.

Also i wanna say something too which is semi off topic, Inklings and Octolings are kinda fucking insane strength wise, they are able to carry large rollers, fire giant gatling guns, survive from nearly any height as they seem to slow down in the air and land just fine. They have no bones and can stand perfectly fine with just muscles alone. And as long as there's a respawn machine, they can never die, and if there isn't a respawn machine then they'll stay as floating little ghosts until they find a machine.

Like Callie and Marie for example, are not some cute little defenseless girls, HELL NO! They will MURDER you easily if given the opportunity. If a creep were to go onto their stages or if someone tried to grab them, they would easily grab them by the neck and throw them into the atmosphere! Their bodies are just pure muscle and ink. (And they have military training too technically.) And that's one of the reasons why i like em so much... They strong... We all love physically strong girls that can carry us or fucking destroy us... Don't lie to me...

The only thing that can truly kill them is age and even then, they age MUCH slower than us. Cuttlefish and Octavio are over 130 years old and they act like they are around 70 to 80 years old in human years. And you can probably extend their lifespan by giving them more ink as when they age they slowly dry out, so all you gotta do is keep giving them ink and they might be able to survive for much longer.

There is also water, however it only seems like large bodies of water make them explode and i'm sure you can't just spray a hose at them to kill them lmao.

It's no wonder Mr. Grizz uses these cephalopods to collect eggs, Inklings and Octolings are insanely strong.

[lamaenthel]

Winner Takes All

[read on a03]

"It's a dangerous thing, poking your nose in other people's business." Boba sauntered forward slowly—dick first, like always—until he was only a foot away. He tilted Cal's chin up with the tip of his silver blaster. "You can get hurt asking the wrong person that kind of question, cuntling." And just like that, Cal was as hard as a karking rock. He flicked his eyes down with a smirk; so was Boba, he'd bet his saberstaff on it. He licked his dry lips. "Are you gonna hurt me?" Boba chuckled, dark and wicked. "Would you like me to?"

When Cal offers to help out an old friend of Greez get her ship back in a high stakes sabacc game, the last person he expected to show up joins the game and raises the stakes.

Pairing: Boba Fett/Cal Kestis

Wordcount: 10,093

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI

Warnings: Public Sex, Harassment, Discussion of sex as payment, humiliation/degradation (consensual) (it's their thing)

The glittering facade of the capital city of Cantonica was like a membrane barely holding back a tidal wave of shit; Cal couldn't even take his gloves off, every surface of the gambler's haven stained with a psychometric echo of someone losing their life savings, the deed to their home, their last chance at buying their child from the bonds of slavery. And to think, all he could ever think about as a kid was how cool it would be to see the racing fathiers of Canto Bight up close.

"You are sure I don't look ridiculous?" The florescent lights of the elevator made the light green tint of Merrin's cheeks look striking as she smoothed the front of her new black dress down with a nervous hand. It was short and silky and clung to every curve, one silver shoulder left bare. Her golden talisman was striking and looked like an expensive statement piece rather than a handcrafted artifact of a Dathomiri Nightsister. She had her silver hair hanging loose around her face; it made her look younger.

"You look beautiful," Cal assured her, and he meant it. Besides the clothing, she was practically glowing. He could tell she was genuinely having fun; the last thing he'd expected was for a Nightsister to get excited about playing dress-up at a high-end hotel casino, but she never failed to surprise him. "If anyone looks ridiculous, it's me in this thing." He tugged at the lapels of his Chandrilan kimono. It was the cheapest thing that met the dress code for the casino floor that the hotel had available for purchase. He'd slicked his hair back—it was in the most annoying stage of growing out and poofed out stupidly from the sides of his head in the seaside air, giving him no other option—and combined with the scar across his nose and his stubble, he looked more like a chauffeur who drove a luxury speeder for an employer that didn't ask too many questions than a high roller. He already missed the weight of BD on his shoulder, but there was an ironclad rule about droids on the casino floor.

Merrin smiled and tugged at her short hem again. "At least your clothing fits you," she said teasingly.

"You were the one who picked it out," Cal reminded her. 

Merrin sniffed. "It did look bigger on the hanger."

Cal gave her an appreciative once-over out of the corner of his eye. The dress did some sort of complicated fold-pleat thing in the middle that made her waist look tiny. "Well, in my opinion, I think it's exactly the right size." 

Her cheeks went almost jade. "I think you look nice, too," she mumbled. 

The elevator door opened and they both were hit by a gravity wave of overstimulation; the casino floor was louder than a skonk concert with its ocean of slot machines bellowing, spinning and sporadically ringing with paltry winnings. T'bac smoke hovered thick over the top of the machines, hanging like an eerie cloud over the neon lights. Beautiful, jewel-toned servers in skimpy, sequined dresses that barely covered their bottoms and dangerously high heels darted around the giant room holding trays of colorful drinks on their shoulders, following paths between the slots like fish being dragged along an ocean current. Cal led Merrin down a short flight of stairs and onto the obnoxiously patterned carpet, holding onto her arm tightly so she didn't fall in her high heels. "Greez said to meet his contact at the bar," he said loudly in her ear.

Merrin shrank into Cal's side, avoiding a procession of Chagrians waddling past and taking up almost all of the walking space. He could tell by the way her mouth pinched at their rudeness that she was debating whether or not to just rematerialize on the other side of the room. He squeezed her bicep and shook his head. "I was only thinking it," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, well, the only thing that Canto Bight has more of than money and idiots with too much of it are guns for hire, so don't get too fancy in plain sight." Cal spotted their contact—a dark-skinned woman in a turquoise dress, with a set of thick locs twisted into a bun above her head and golden hoop earrings dangling all the way to her shoulders—sitting on a stool at the end of the onyx bar, nursing a pink cocktail. He made a beeline for her through the machines, never letting go of Merrin's hand. He tapped the woman on the shoulder. "Phee Genoa?" he asked loudly over the racket.

The woman nodded with a grin and put her cocktail down. She held out a hand for him to shake. "You must be Greez's friend," she said pleasantly, giving him a friendly once-over. "Nice outfit."

"Thanks." Cal got the sudden feeling as though he was being watched; he turned and scanned the room. It's not him. Stop expecting it to be him.

"What's the matter?" Merrin squinted, trying to see what was bothering him.

"Nothing." Cal turned back to Phee. "So, how did a pirate get ahold of—"

"Let me stop you right there, Red." Phee held up a dark finger adorned with a sapphire atop a shining gold band. "I'm no pirate. I work in salvage."

"Fine. Salvage." Cal rolled his eyes. "Where are you docked?"

"Straight to the point, hmm?" Phee threw back the last of her cocktail, patted the stool beside her. "Sit. Have a drink with me. We have a few things to discuss first."

Cal and Merrin exchanged wary looks, then took a seat on either side of her wordlessly. Phee cackled and motioned for the droid barkeep to wheel over. She flashed her bright white teeth at them. "I'm in a generous mood. I'll buy."

Merrin eyed the empty cocktail. "I will have that," she said, nodding at it.

"A Corellian Sunrise. Excellent choice." Phee turned to Cal. "How about you, Red?"

It probably wasn't a good idea for him to drink when he needed to keep his wits about him, but he rarely was in a place with access to good alcohol; not to mention his sudden craving for something in particular for a reason that made his chest go tight if he thought about it too hard. The feeling of being watched intensified. "Tihaar," he said finally.

"Interesting." Phee slid the credits over to the bartender then swirled her new pink drink. "So. About the… cargo." 

Greez had said that she had a cargo bay full of holocrons that she had pulled off a derelict liner floating near Ossus. "Go on," Cal said, arching a brow.

"I'd like to begin by pointing out that the events that have transpired here are not technically my fault," Phee said.

"You gambled your ship away, didn't you?" Merrin asked bluntly.

"No!" Phee looked offended. "There was a misunderstanding when it came to my docking fee."

"You didn't pay your docking fee?" Cal asked.

"I was sixty seconds late in paying my docking fee. That didn't stop them from impounding the damn thing and demanding ten grand to let it out." Phee scowled at her drink. "And it's building interest. Every day it's in impound, it's another five grand."

"So how much to get it released?"

"We're up to forty thousand." Phee ignored their gasps and took a drink. "That's not actually the worst part."

Cal's heart sank. "Please tell me you didn't try to win the money to get it back," he said a little desperately.

Phee bared her teeth in more of a grimace than a grin. "Well, since you already know everything, I guess I don't have to say it."

"Kriff." Cal threw back his tihaar. Warmth bloomed in his belly and spread out through his body. "How deep in the hole are you?"

"Well, if I don't pay the gentleman back his five hundred thousand by the end of the night—"

Merrin choked on her drink. "Five hundred thousand?" she squeaked.

"Listen, kids, if you want that cargo you've got to give me a hand here. Five hundred thousand gets my ship out of impound, back in my name, and Eyo Kekura's boys off my back."

"Eyo Kekura?"

"Pantoran fellow, a high roller who lives in the penthouse of the Hexavent Hotel. Owns half of a fathier stable. Fancies himself quite the professional sabacc player." Phee rolled her eyes. "He's not in the business of forgiving debts, so if I want to make it to tomorrow, I need you to help win me that five hundred 'kay."

Cal narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did Greez tell you about me?" he asked sharply. "You seem a little too sure that I can win."

Phee's hand shot out unexpectedly and clamped onto his outer thigh with a vice grip, right over where he had his saberstaff strapped. "He didn't tell me much," she said with a smirk. "But I'm a very observant person. It's saved my skin more than once." Phee let go of his thigh, laughing.

Cal felt the air go staticky, like lightning was about to strike, then the feeling disappeared almost as soon as it began. He shook it away.

"Don't worry, kid, your secret's safe with me. I happen to be… sympathetic to your cause." She grinned again, but Cal saw the sadness underneath. "You can trust me. I've got a whole ship full of goodies for you, remember?"

And they would be all his for the cool price of half a million credits. 

Cal signaled the droid for another shot of tihaar. "So what did you have in mind?" He eyed the ocean of slot machines over his shoulder. With a little luck—and the Force guiding him to the machines closest to a big payout—he could swing it. They'd be the least suspicious method of gambling, given that their fully autonomous nature made it difficult for any pit boss to argue he'd cheated. There was a treasure chest like out of an old crèchetale overflowing with golden credit bars on the far side of the room, perched on an alcove above the cashier's cage.

"Top prize for slots is a million, but don't get your hopes up." Phee snorted. "Slots are for idiots on vacation, not big spenders. These machines are programmed to never pay out more than ten grand without managerial approval."

"That seems unfair," Merrin said, wrinkling her nose.

"This is Canto Bight, sweetcheeks. No such thing as fair play." Phee's smile was starting to look forced. "I should have known better."

"You said Kekura fancies himself a professional sabacc player," Cal said, trying to remember the rules. Commander Ferrik had favored Corellian Spike and taught him the game in their off hours on the condition that he not use the Force to sense where the good cards were. "I haven't played sabacc in years. Not since Bracca, at least."

Cal caught Merrin for the fifth time. The carpet on the stairs leading up to the VIP section seemed bound and determined to murder her by catching her high heels. "Thank you," Merrin said again, her cheeks warm and dark green with a blush.

"Well, if you want that cargo, start remembering." Phee's smile thinned to a pinched line. "No pressure, but my life kind of depends on it."

"Walk on your tiptoes," Phee advised her. She led them down a narrow walkway to a small vestibule with a frosted glass door guarded by two Pantoran men that stood a whole head-and-shoulders above him. "I'm here to finish my game with Mr. Kekura," she informed them.

"And who are they?" The guard on the right asked in a deep, accented voice.

"My proxy. This is my friend Cal and his girlfriend Merrin. He's agreed to play for me." Phee flashed her brightest smile. The guards rolled their eyes but let them pass. Inside the VIP room it was dark and loud, lit primarily by a laser show that flashed above the dance floor, dozens of shadowy figures writhing to a bass-heavy beat. In the center of the crowd was a raised dais where a naked blue Twi-lek swung around a pole. The bar lined the length of the opposite wall, vibrant-skinned servers in black sparkly dresses hurrying back and forth behind it. Phee led them around the dance floor and to a small room in the back that was kept private by a beaded curtain. 

She pushed it aside to reveal a large, circular table with a cutout in the center to accommodate the dealer-droid. A Pantoran man with light-blue skin, a long, silky pink braid, and a white suit that exposed his chest sat at the furthest side, flanked by an obese Togruta man and an elderly green Twi'lek woman whose bust was so large that she was using the table to support it. "Phee," the Pantoran man said, his face going sharp with a predator's grin. "You've returned with my money?"

"I've returned with a friend." Phee elbowed Cal. "This is my old buddy, Cal. He's agreed to play in my stead. Cal, this is Eyo Kekura, the owner of this fine establishment."

"Interesting." Kekura leaned forward, steepling long blue fingers. Cal didn't like the eerie way the Force rippled around him.

"He's continuing my pot," Phee said quickly. "So he doesn't need a buy-in."

"You're half a million down, Phee," Kekura said, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Yep." Phee took a seat on the small, plush sofa on the left side of the round room, dragging Merrin with her. 

"Your name is Cal?" Kekura's yellow eyes dragged up and down Cal's body like a pair of banana slugs. 

Cal felt dirty just being in the man's presence; just what had possessed Phee to get involved with a man like this in the first place? "That's me," he said, taking a random seat. A green Mirialan server in sparkling black fishnets and nothing else put a crystal glass in front of him. "Just water, please," Cal said quickly, covering the glass before she could fill it with amber liquor. The Mirialan nodded and darted away like a colorful fish.

"You understand just what kind of mess you're stepping into, don't you?" Kekura looked like he wanted to eat him. Lust pulsed around him in the Force, causing it to slide around him like slick, hot slime.

Cal fought the urge to put a hand on his saberstaff and nodded tightly. "I do."

"Very well. You have" —Kekura checked his gem-encrusted chronometer— "approximately two hours to win Miss Genoa's debt back for her. You believe you can do that?"

The Mirialan server darted back and filled Cal's glass with ice-cold sparkling water. "I can," Cal said with a confidence he didn't feel.

The elderly Twi'lek scoffed. "It isn't fair. Why is she—"

"This is my house. I make the rules." Kekura's eyes hardened. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, Mr. Kekura," she whispered, chastened. 

"Good. Then, Cal, welcome to the party. Go ahead and deal us—" The sounds of a panicking crowd—screaming and shouting and stampeding feet—echoed in the room beyond the curtain, followed by two very recognizable blaster bolts. Cal's heart skipped a beat. "Guards," Kekura said sharply, his hand dipping below the table and coming up with a dual-triggered blaster pistol. 

"Were you expecting company?" Cal asked. He shoved back from the table and held a hand out to Merrin, yanking her protectively to his side.

Kekura's blue lip curled up in a snarl. "No." 

The curtain was dragged open, revealing the downed body of one of Kekura's guards just beyond it. Boba Fett stepped over the corpse, casually entering the room with his WESTAR still smoking in his right hand. "Kekura," he said calmly. "Been a while." He didn't look at Cal.

"Boba Fett," Kekura replied, keeping his voice even. Cal ignored Merrin's sharp inhale. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Neither man holstered their blaster.

"Are you afraid it's your face on this puck?" Boba withdrew a bounty puck from his thigh plate and activated the hologram. Kekura sagged with relief. "Phee Genoa, you're coming with me."

The blood drained out of Phee's dark face, leaving her ashen. "What?" she asked, her voice jumping three octaves.

"What for?" Cal blurted out. 

Boba's head tilted. Cal felt like he was being hunted by a tarentarek. "And what's it to you, stranger?" Boba asked, stepping forward.

Stranger? Cal just knew Boba was smirking under his helmet. He wanted nothing more than to rip it off his stupid head and kiss him, demand to know what he was doing here, ask why the kriff he hadn't heard from him in half a year. "I'm a friend of Phee's, and I'm curious. So what's it for?" 

"It's a dangerous thing, poking your nose in other people's business." Boba sauntered forward slowly—dick first, like always—until he was only a foot away. He tilted Cal's chin up with the tip of his silver blaster. "You can get hurt asking the wrong person that kind of question, cuntling."

And just like that, Cal was as hard as a karking rock. He flicked his eyes down with a smirk; so was Boba, he'd bet his saberstaff on it. He licked his dry lips. "Are you gonna hurt me?"

Boba chuckled, dark and wicked. "Would you like me to?" Oh, but the things that chuckle promised. Cal could almost see the vulgar thoughts flying through Boba's imagination; Cal on his knees with his lips wrapped around Boba's cock, tears streaming from his big green eyes as he forces it deeper down his throat, fumbling to get his hand under his kimono to touch himself—

Kekura cleared his throat irritably behind the two, reminding them that they weren't alone. "Unfortunately…" he put a long-fingered blue hand on Cal's shoulder and moved him aside. "Sorry, Boba, but Miss Genoa owes me quite a few credits. Almost definitely more than whatever her bounty is worth."

"Not my problem." Boba turned his blaster onto the Pantoran, triggering the guards to draw on him. He moved his head a fraction to the side; Cal knew he had everyone in the room counted and clocked, his HUD granting him a full three-sixty view of his surroundings. "Tell you what." To Cal's shock, he holstered his weapon, pulled off his helmet, and flashed Kekura a grin. His hair was getting long again. Cal wanted to run his fingers through it. "I'll play you for her."

Kekura laughed. "I like it. Name your terms." 

"One round of Corellian Spike. Winner takes all." Boba eyed the table, flush with at least a million in chips. "All." 

Kekura raised a manicured brow. "That was the plan. What exactly do I benefit from this arrangement?" 

Boba grinned. "I tell you which one of your rivals has been poisoning all your studs to kill their sperm count. Didn't you wonder why only two of your girls are in foal when you bred nine?"

A muscle in Kekura's perfectly straight jaw twitched. "You have a deal," he said without any further argument, shaking Boba's hand. The guards slowly put their blasters away and stood against the wall in stony silence.

"Now see here," the portly Togruta began, pushing back from the table with a scowl. "I haven't played for the last hour just to—"

Boba had his WESTAR drawn and aimed before Cal could even blink. "No one asked you, puss," he said mildly. "Take your winnings and leave." He waved his blaster at the Twi'lek. "You too, doll." 

Kekura bristled. "They're down."

"Watch your tone, shabuir, or I might forget how to be civilized." Boba bared his teeth in a grin and shit he was hot like this, sweaty and smelling like salt and blaster oil and t'bac and pink-cheeked from being under his helmet— damn it, Cal's dick was starting to hurt. He took a deep breath in and out, easing the blood away from his swollen member in a light meditative trance. He hoped that Master Jaro wouldn't judge him too harshly for reapplying his lesson for soothing injured muscles to this situation. "Put the chips back and don't leave town," Boba amended to the two players. "Better?"

"Much, thank you," Kekura said primly. He fixed the two with a glare. "Don't think your debts are forgiven. The two of you have earned a rare reprieve tonight. Return tomorrow. Leave, and I'll hire this man here to hunt you down. Trust me when I say that once Boba Fett has your scent, there is nowhere you'll be able to hide."

Unless he's got your frequency and just doesn't care about using it. Cal was trying not to be bitter. He was losing that fight to the alcohol.

The two players faces' crumbled as they started putting chips back, then they pushed their way past Cal and disappeared beyond the curtain.

"Now, where were we?" Boba plopped into Cal's vacated chair like it was the end of a long day of work. He snapped his fingers at the Mirialan server. "Tihaar, love. Neat." 

Cal pulled the chair out next to him. "Deal me in."

"I don't recall inviting you," Boba said mildly. He planted a kiss on the cheek of the server as she put his glass of tihaar down. Cal clamped his mouth shut before he said something stupid, like are you kriffing kidding me? or why haven't you tried to call me for the better half of a year? or maybe even shoot this bastard already and kiss me, you stupid ass. Cal wanted to smack him, grab a fistful of his soft curls and wrench his neck back while he bit down on his pulse and watch the bounty hunter come apart in his arms.

The Force moved thick around Boba, slow and pulsing with reciprocated desire. "Kekura, what do you think?" he drawled.

"I think we should hear what his terms are." Kekura folded his long, spidery fingers below his chin and regarded Cal curiously. 

"If I win, Phee gets her bounty cleared, her debt forgiven, and her ship out of impound." Cal didn't jump when Boba's warm hand found his thigh under the table. He was actually a little surprised it had taken him that long to start feeling him up. He spread his legs in a shameless invitation. 

"And if you lose?" Kekura asked, tilting his head. He reminded Cal of a nexu with his wide mouth and narrow, predator's eyes.

"Yes—Cal, was it? What's in it for us?" Boba rubbed a warm circle on his thigh, trailing upward. 

Cal eyed Boba's crystal glass of tihaar—in for a credit—he stole the glass and tossed it back in a single swallow. "Well, Mr. Kekura, I saw the way you looked at me when I walked in. I'm sure we can work something out." He slammed the empty glass down and winked at his suddenly stone-faced lover. Cal would cut his dick off before letting it anywhere near Kekura, of course, but if Boba couldn't be bothered to even message him...

"Interesting." Kekura leaned forward, grinning lecherously. "You're easy on the eyes, Cal, there's no doubt about that, but I'm not sure that a night with you is worth five hundred grand." 

Cal sensed that Boba didn't like where the conversation was going. His theory was confirmed a second later when a wide hand grabbed his balls through his robe and squeezed. "Whore," Boba said with a dark, humorless laugh that didn't reach his eyes. 

"Cal, a word?" Merrin dragged his chair back and wrenched him out of it, dragging him towards the curtain. "Have you lost your mind completely?" she hissed.

"I knew he was going to say no," Cal whispered, rubbing his arm with a wince. 

"You can't just—just offer yourself like that!" Merrin whispered back furiously. "What has gotten into you? You—"

Cal wrenched her close and put his lips directly against her ear, hyper aware of the eyes on them. "Trust me," he murmured, mouthing the words almost more than speaking them. "I've got a plan." And he did, kind of, even though it was still more of a wispy idea that was still coalescing. He reached through the slit in his pocket, popped open the upper emitter chamber on his saberstaff, and withdrew the kyber crystal. 

"I do trust you. I do not trust him." Merrin eyed the table with a sour look.

Cal had a feeling she wasn't just talking about Kekura. "I've got it under control. Just stay ready."

Merrin nodded, unhappy but temporarily placated. She allowed Cal to lead her back to the sofa and Phee, but she didn't take her eyes away from Boba after Cal rejoined the table.

"Your lady doesn't agree with your method of payment, I assume?" Kekura asked, swirling his vibrant blue drink with a smug expression. 

"No. But it's not her call." Cal ignored the daggers he felt Merrin staring into his back. "I do have an alternative you may be interested in." He put his kyber on the table.

Boba went deadly still; Kekura leaned forward, eyes wide. "Now where did you get that?" he asked, staring hungrily at the green crystal.

"Found a derelict full of dead Padawans floating around an iceball a few years back." Cal forced his voice to stay even. Even alluding to the Purge still felt like scratching an infected wound with salted, jagged fingernails sometimes, and he'd had too much liquor to stay completely unemotional. "Pure kyber this size is worth around a million."

Kekura laughed. "Half that at best, my friend."

"Maybe that was true when the Jedi were still around, but now the Empire has a monopoly on kyber." Cal forced a grin. "And I've got more. I've already got a buyer, but I'm willing to take a better offer."

"Really?" Kekura's mind was racing, Cal could sense it. "You have them with you?"

"No. They're in a safe place."

"Hmm." Kekura pursed his wide mouth. "I don't suppose that has anything to do with why you're so eager to help Miss Genoa get her ship back?"

Cal threw his head back and laughed. "You think I'd trust her to hold onto my kyber when she can't even hold onto her own ship?" he asked, wheezing. He sensed Phee scowling at his back. "Hell no. I happen to owe her a favor, that's all."

"Must be a big favor if you're willing to risk a kyber crystal," Boba said flatly. 

"It is."  

"Very well. I agree." Kekura toasted him. "Boba?" 

"I'm more interested in your initial offer," Boba said roughly. Under the table, he shamelessly slipped his hand between Cal's thighs and thumbed the tip of his quickly-hardening length. "I win, and I fuck you through this table. Those are my terms."

Cal was starting to sweat. "The table?" he teased, and if he sounded a little breathless than normal then who could blame him? "Can't even be bothered to rent us a room?" 

"I prefer to collect my payment immediately." Boba stroked him through the fabric then started feeling for the opening of his robes.

Cal wrenched Boba's talented hand away from his crotch. The ass was half a second away from actually jerking him off, and if he didn't stop him now then he wouldn't have the willpower to.

"I'd like to amend my terms to watching him fuck you through the table if either of us win," Kekura said flippantly, swirling his drink.

"I've no objections," Boba said, leering at Cal. "I imagine that a whore like you would enjoy that." Boba's imagination was going wild and he made no attempt to shield his thoughts, Cal face down on the sabacc table with his robes pulled up above his bare ass, Boba's cock pounding him into the table until he's screaming with ecstasy, Kekura sitting and watching and unable to touch, he'll never touch, fucking cunt thought he could take what's mine, he's mine he's shabla mine kaysh'ner, gar ne'ente chaku ner jetii—

Cal didn't recognize the words but the meaning was clear enough. Boba was a hothead. He wasn't showing it in front of Kekura, but Cal's cheeky offer had him pissed. He had only wanted to mess with him a little bit by offering to sleep with Kekura, but he had forgotten just how bad of a temper Boba had. 

Stang, but he'd missed him. Cal cleared his throat and raised his water in a toast. "Deal."

"What the hell kind of kinky shit is going on here?" Phee whispered behind them.

"What are you waiting for?" Kekura waved his hand at the droid. "Deal us in."

Cal refused to look at Boba, and in return he was being ignored; under the table, Boba found his cockhead and pinched it like the mean little shithead that he was. Boba had the unfair disadvantage of a codpiece, so instead of feeling up the bounty hunter Cal projected the mental image of him riding Boba like a rancor in the middle of the table while everyone watched silently. He could have sworn he heard a little ting! come from inside Boba's beskar ball-bubble.

The droid finished his elaborate shuffling routine and flipped them each two cards. Cal wrenched himself away from the fantasy and tipped them up; one green three-of-spheres, one red three-of-pyramids. Green was positive and red was negative, and the goal of Corellian Spike was to end the round with a score as close to zero as possible. It was a great start, one of those hands that Ferrik would have called beginner's luck no matter how many times Cal had played.

"Since this is a winner-takes-all round, I think we can skip the betting phase," Kekura said airily. "Deal the spike." 

Cal didn't jump at the return of Boba's hand between his legs. Instead, he clamped his knees shut and pinned his questing fingers in place. His spike card landed face-down in front of him. He peeked at it; perfect. It was a sylop, a zero-point card, only two of which existed in the deck. In case of a tie, whoever had the lowest, positive-value spike card would win. The dealer-droid rolled the pair of six-sided spikedice; rolling double spikes would mean that the players would have to discard all their cards and start anew. Cal made sure that didn't happen. 

"Draw," he said once the dice had come to a stop on a two and five, squeezing Boba's hand between his knees until his felt the knuckles pop. He accepted the green one-of-cubes and added it to his cards, already plotting out his next two rounds. Switch out his green three-of-spheres in favor of the sylop on the next round—Boba's hand squeezing his throat in just the right spot to cut off circulation to his brain—swap it with the one-of-cubes on the final round to reunite his pair of threes—gagging on the rock-hard length shoved all the way down his throat—combine the pair with the sylop, which gave him a sabacc—Boba chanting his name as he fucks him so hard from behind that the table starts to crack—and boom, victory.

"Draw," Boba said—Spit trails streaming from the corners of his lips—as he picked up his card with his left hand—Boba watching the bulge his cock makes as it thrusts down Cal's whore throat—if he had even registered what his card was then it was far from his mind, too focused on the incredibly detailed fantasy playing in his mind—his stupid girlfriend watching him use Cal's mouth like his own personal fucktoy—

Cal almost choked on his water. Boba was jealous of Merrin? He and Merrin were… Well they were close, obviously, and while Cal couldn't lie and say that their relationship was strictly platonic, they certainly weren't doing anything to warrant that level of burning jealousy. They hadn't even kissed.

"Draw." Kekura accepted his card with a simpering smile and snapped his fingers at the Mirialan girl. "Not like you to walk away from a million for a piece of ass, Fett." He accepted the lit cigarra and blew smoke across the table, right into Boba's face.

Boba smirked through the smoke. If it bothered him, Cal couldn't tell. "I prefer to not deal in jetii osik if I don't have to. Bastards are more trouble than they're worth." Boba squeezed Cal's nuts until he unclamped his knees. 

The dealer-droid rolled again. "Swap," Cal said—Boba moaning his name in his ear—and switched his sylop spike with the three-of-spheres.

"Not even for a million?" Kekura's mood had shifted. Cal sensed suspicion growing in him and cursed inwardly. Was he really about to blow his shot at getting Phee's ship back—Boba blowing his back out as he pulls him up on his knees—because his stupid, horny not-boyfriend showed up unexpectedly and Cal couldn't help but taunt him? 

"I'm a bounty hunter. I prefer to deal in bodies, not antiquities. Draw." Boba accepted the new card and shook his near-empty glass. 

"Mmhm. Swap." Kekura's lip curled.

The dealer-droid rolled his dice. Cal nudged the second die just enough to ensure it didn't land on a spike. "Swap," he said quickly, reclaiming his three-of-spheres. He relaxed his tense shoulders and schooled his face into a calm, bored expression. He had the winning hand, and he didn't even need to cheat and sense Kekura's cards to do it.

"Draw." Boba was horny, not stupid. He'd recognized his misstep and now he was recalculating. Cal felt the desire that pulsed around Boba in the Force go still and turn thin as he shifted back into business mode. 

"Draw." Kekura accepted his last card and smirked. "Why don't we make this a little more interesting?"

"It's plenty interesting already," Cal said quickly. His anxiety was growing by the second. He missed the comforting weight of BD on his shoulder. 

"Just you and I, Fett." Kekura licked his lips. "Fold, and I will let you take Miss Genoa without further argument. My only stipulation is that you perform a job for me first."

Boba raised an eyebrow. "I've a solid hand," he said lightly.

"So you say." Kekura tapped on his unrevealed cards, his grin getting toothier by the minute. "I simply wish to propose a way for both of us to win."

"Is your hand that bad?" Boba asked, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Aren't you going to ask me what the job is?" Kekura tilted his head.

Boba's eyes flicked to Cal then faced forward again. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, if you were to retrieve the kyber crystal collection of sweet Cal here for me and kill him, I will broker them and split the profits with you fifty-fifty. No worrying about jetii osik, as you said, as I do all of the paperwork."

"How dare you!" Merrin snarled, lunging for Kekura. Cal stood and caught her before she made it across the table and caught a bolt to the face. His guards stepped forward with their blasters drawn and pressed them against their heads.

"Wait just a minute," Cal protested, keeping Merrin contained in a wampa hug. "What kind of game is this? Do you normally take a hit out on players you think you might lose to?"

"Only when I have a monumentally shit hand." Kekura's guards pushed Cal and Merrin apart. One shoved him into his chair, and the other held his blaster to Merrin's head until she sat down beside Phee. She bared her teeth at him and hissed; Cal suddenly remembered that Zabraks were carnivores.

"So why should I accept your offer when I've already won?" Boba asked calmly over the chaos.

Kekura shrugged. "Cards haven't been revealed yet. Maybe he wins. Still up to you."

Boba sipped his tihaar—Cal couldn't help but wonder if he was actually considering it—but then made a face and shook his head. "Seems a bit unsportsmanlike, doesn't it?" Boba finally replied. 

Kekura's eyes sharpened. "Mmhmm."

"I don't like your tone, Kekura." Boba's voice took on a deathly chill. "Say what you want to say."

"I find it curious that you have turned down two separate opportunities to earn millions of credits, bounty hunter."

Boba's presence in the Force tightened like a coil about to snap, and Cal's stomach clenched with a cold knot of fear. He eyed his kyber crystal sitting vulnerable on the table and wondered if he'd be able to put it back in before the blaster bolts began to fly.

Boba broke the tension with a barking laugh. "And I find it curious that you never thought to ask if I had more than one bounty puck with me tonight." Boba squeezed his left fist twice. A small compartment on his wrist slid open, and from it sprang a half-dozen tiny, whistling projectiles that buried themselves into the heads of Kekura and his guards before they could so much as cry out. Six men fell to the obnoxiously-patterned carpet, instantly dead.

"What the fu—" Phee went silent with Boba's WESTAR pressed to her forehead. "H-Hey now, I—"

"Calm down. You're wanted alive, there's no payment if you're dead." Boba holstered his weapon and finished off his tihaar with a chuckle.

Cal shook his head and reached for a napkin to wipe the blood spatter out of his eyes. "What the hell did you just do?" he asked, shocked.

"I shot them. Wasn't that obvious?" Boba looked at him patronizingly. "I swear to the fucking Manda, you're a moron. I tell you to stop whipping out your lightsaber—"

"I have!" Cal interrupted.

" —and to stop telling people your real name—"

"I didn't!" 

"So you whip your fucking kyber out in public and use your first name only, what a brilliant compromise. It's like you're trying to get killed!"

"Hey, why are you making this about me when you could have just done that—whatever that just was—the whole time! Why did I have to sweat through a sabacc match when—"

"For fun? You know that's the point of sabacc, right?"

"Not when people's lives are on the line!"

"Can you argue about this later?" Merrin snapped. She lowered the bloody napkin she had been wiping her face off with and scowled at the two of them. "How long do you think we have before the guards outside this room realizes you just killed their boss?"

"Don't worry, little witch, I shot the guards and the civvies all fucked off already. We've got all the time we need." Boba rifled through the dead Kekura's pockets and pulled out a small datapad. He tapped a few times, swiped, then tossed it to Merrin. "Genoa's ship is officially out of impound. You take it and whatever's on it that's so important that you'd let your boyfriend whore himself out for it." Merrin's face twisted in outrage as Boba turned away. "Cal, you come with me and the quarry." He jerked his head at Phee.

"You don't get to just kill everyone and then order me around!" Cal said stubbornly. He snatched his kyber off the table and retrieved his saberstaff to reassemble it. "Besides, I have to go back to our room to get BD."

"Yes I do." Boba put his helmet back on. "And I already took BD out of your room. He's on my ship."

Cal snapped his saberstaff casing closed harder than he intended to. "You what? You can't just—Boba!" 

"Sure I can. If you want him back…" Boba trailed off, laughing under his breath. "You know the drill."

"Do I get a say in this?" Phee asked, raising her hand.

"No." Boba pulled a pair of binders from his belt and twirled them on one finger. "Are you going to be a good girl, or a bad girl?"

Phee looked at Cal desperately. "Come on, Red, do something!" she begged him.

Cal threw his hands up in disgust. He couldn't decide if he wanted to punch Boba or kiss him. "What do you expect me to do? I can't even stop him from stealing my karking droid!"

Phee eyed the binders with a disgruntled expression. "I'll be a good girl," she said with a deep sigh, pouting.

"Smart choice." Boba motioned at the curtain. "Witches first."

Merrin kicked her heels off and stomped furiously through the curtain, glaring daggers at Boba—and Cal—over her shoulder.

"And just for the record, cuntling—" Boba flipped Cal's cards over, then his own. Cal's eyes widened at the hand that Ferrik used to call a dual power coupling. "I would have won."

"Would you have followed through?" Cal couldn't help but ask.

"I'm not getting in there," Phee said flatly. She crossed her arms and glared. "You're gonna have to stun me."

Boba snickered through his vocabulator. "I'm a man of my word, you know that," he said softly, and chuffed Cal under the chin. "Now move your ass."

"Alright." Boba shrugged and fiddled with the settings on his blaster.

"Okay, just wait a damn second." Cal put himself in between Phee and the carbonite chamber. "Boba, you're not freezing her."

"Yes I am." 

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am." Boba tossed his helmet across the hangar and grinned fiercely. "Come on, Cal. You know better than to try and order me around." He stalked closer, getting right in Cal's face. "I've got a job to do. Let me do it, then we can relax." He took Cal by the chin and kissed him hard and deep, like they were alone. His hands roamed over Cal's chest, his back, down to his ass where he took a double handful and squeezed. Boba put his leg between Cal's legs and pressed up, extracting a low whine.

He finally found the strength to pull away from the clone, breathless. "Who took out the bounty on her?" Cal redirected Boba, herding him in the opposite direction of the carbonite chamber while he distracted him with soft kisses. "Come on, baby, you can tell me."

Boba snorted. "I'm not one to snitch on my employers, baby." He spun Cal around, shoved him up against the wall face-first and ground his beskar bulge directly against his ass. "So you stay here—" 

Cal heard a soft click. He stared at his binder-encased hands—which Boba had somehow locked to the hangar ladder without him noticing—completely dumbfounded. "Boba…" he said warningly.

Boba laughed as he pulled away. "Problem?" he asked teasingly. His thoughts were as loud as his voice: We both know you could get out of those binders in a heartbeat if you really wanted to. 

"Boba, wait!" Cal turned in place so he could see what was happening.

"She'll be fine, baby." Boba winked at him one last time before pushing the shaking Phee towards the freezing chamber. "I already said that I don't get paid if she dies."

"Now you wait just a minute—" Phee started, her voice shaking.

"I'm done waiting." Boba hit the controls, and with a hiss and an avalanche of fumes, Phee was frozen solid, her mouth hanging open in outrage. "And now…" Boba turned and slowly pulled off his gloves.

Cal suddenly knew what it felt like to be a clawmouse spotted by a hawk-bat. He opened his mouth to protest, a thousand petty complaints rising to the surface of his brain to fight over who would be thrown out first—why didn't you call me, did you even miss me, am I anything more than just a hole to you—and found that they all slipped away the second that Boba's mouth found his again. He moaned helplessly, too damn relieved to be kissing him again to hold onto his anger.

"The fuck are you wearing?" Boba murmured, smiling against Cal's mouth. He untied Cal's belt with a flourish, exposing him to the chilly cargo bay. He chased the goosebumps that sprang up with his wide, warm hands. 

"It was the cheapest thing the hotel had that fit the dress code," Cal mumbled, his cheeks going hot. 

"Chandrilan looks good on you." Boba sucked his tongue into his mouth and bit down. "Looks better on my floor, though."

Cal laughed. "How did I know you were going to say something cheesy like that?" 

"Jetii osik, obviously." Boba bit and licked his way down his spine. "You smell good."

"Yeah?" Cal twitched under the hands that trailed down his spine, his asscheeks, back up his thighs and then finally, finally his throbbing member, where the pressure was the most intense. 

"My poor little whore," Boba cooed in his ear. He thumbed the tip of his aching length and spread Cal's precome up and down. "You've been hurting for this, haven't you? My sweet little slut."

Damn it. Cal let his head rest heavy against the wall. He wanted to give in and just let Boba do whatever he wanted to him—to be his whore, to be whatever he wanted him to be just as long as he kept touching him—but that ember of outrage still burned hot. "Been hurting for months." Cal jerked in his bonds and pinned Boba's hand between his thighs. If he spun with enough force, he'd snap Boba's wrist clean in half. "Why haven't you contacted me?" Cal demanded. "I've sent you hundreds of messages, but you haven't even tried."

Boba went quiet. He stroked Cal's back with his free hand, a soothing touch instead of sensual. "Would you believe me if I told you I've been busy?"

"Too busy to let me know that you were alive?" Cal squeezed his thighs together even tighter until he was hurting them both.

"Didn't have a commlink in Imperial prison, cuntling." Boba wrapped his fingers around Cal's throat and gave him a warning squeeze.

"Prison?" Cal ignored the hand around his throat, released Boba's trapped wrist and turned in place, horrified. "Where? Why? How?"

Boba smiled, and there was something inscrutable behind his eyes. "Don't worry about that." He kissed Cal's jaw. 

"I'm worrying about it." Cal jerked away angrily. "Tell me!"

Boba hummed against his neck. "No."

"Boba…" Cal said warningly.

"Shut up." Boba dropped to his knees, grinning. "Why do you want me to talk about banthashit when my mouth could be put to much better use?"

"Because…" Cal threw his head back and groaned as Boba licked the tip of his cock. "Because I care about more than just what your mouth can do for me, you big jerk."

"Jerk?" Boba gasped in mock offense. "I'm on my knees sucking your cock and I'm a jerk?" He sucked Cal's cockhead into his mouth and flicked his tongue against the tip. 

Cal fought down a moan. "Yes!" he insisted breathlessly.

"Ungrateful." Boba hummed and took him deeper into his throat, stroking whatever his mouth left exposed. It felt amazing, better than what he had dreamed of in his bunk for all those months alone.

Alone. And now Boba wouldn't even tell him what had happened to him. "Cocksucking little bitch," Cal said in a low voice.

Boba's hand came to a dead stop. He let Cal's dick fall out of his mouth and slowly got to his feet. "The fuck did you just call me?" Boba's voice was a silky whisper. His hand clamped around Cal's throat again. "The fuck did you just say to me, whore?"

"I called you a cocksucking little bitch." Cal watched Boba's eyes narrow with a sick sense of satisfaction.

Boba squeezed his hand and held the pressure until Cal's vision started to sparkle and go black around his edges. "I could fucking kill you," Boba murmured, close as a kiss. "I could snap your stupid little whore neck in an instant." He let off the pressure just long enough for Cal to suck in one shaky breath before pressing down again. His knee came up and ground against his dick. "Maybe I'll send you to the Imperials. How much do you think I'd get for your Jedi hide?"

"Twenty five 'kay," Cal gasped once he had the breath for it. Or at least that's what his bounty was the last time he had checked it.

"Think they'd take off a cleaning fee if I turned you in freshly fucked?" Boba turned Cal around roughly, pressed him against the wall like he was trying to squeeze the air out of him. "Send you in bound, hogtied, ass gaping open with my jizz leaking out." Boba fingered Cal's cleft, pushed threateningly against his hole. "Maybe the stormtroopers would take turns fucking you before they sent you on to the Inquisitors."

Cal cried out, thrusting helplessly against the cold wall. He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him to be so turned on. The fantasy was disgusting, humiliating, dehumanizing, and it somehow had him ready to shoot off any second. "Would you?" Cal whimpered. "Would you let them fuck me?"

"I'd hold your fucking legs open," Boba whispered. He spat down Cal's crack and used the slickness to ease one finger inside him. "What's the matter? I thought you liked being a whore."

"Your whore," Cal whispered, caught between self-loathing and desire. "I'm your whore."

"Then why'd you offer yourself up to that prick?" Boba growled, adding a second finger. The spit wasn't enough, it burned, but Cal liked the way it hurt. "You offered to fuck a gangster for credits, ner jet'ika."

"I wanted to piss you off!" Cal cried out. A feeling like boiling water shot up and down his spine, a coil at the base winding tighter and tighter and ready to burst as he was impaled on his lover's fingers.

Boba laughed and sped his thrusting up to a brutal pace. "It worked." He crooked his fingers up just right, and Cal saw stars. The coil snapped, and Cal came with a sharp cry, making a mess of his bare chest and the hangar wall. Boba withdrew his wide fingers and slapped Cal's ass with a sharp crack. "Stay there."

Cal leaned against the ladder, weary and weak-kneed. "I'm still cuffed, jackass, I can't go anywhere," he called after him.

Boba yanked his medkit off the wall, cackling loudly, and tossed everything out except for the lube. "You're in a real fucking mood tonight, aren't you?" Boba took a rough hold of Cal's chin and forced eye contact. "Yeah. You went unfucked for five months, of course you're in a mood." He ripped his armor pieces off, leaving them to scatter loudly across the floor. His dove-gray flight suit followed, then his compression shorts and finally, finally his cock was out and on display. 

Cal licked his lips hungrily and dropped to his knees. "No." Boba yanked him back up and flipped him around. 

"Hey!" Cal protested. "I want to—"

"I don't give a shit. You're a fucking brat, Kestis. You don't get what you want." Boba cracked him hard on the ass again, a hard sting that he just knew was going to leave a bruise. "I should have just shown my cards. I wanted to fuck you in front of that bastard so badly." Boba emptied out the tube and rubbed his stretched-out hole with slippery fingers. "And you wanted me to do it. I could feel it." He positioned his cockhead at Cal's tight ring. "Even with your little witch watching, you would have let me. Wouldn't you?" Boba thrust deep and sent Cal flying into the wall with the strength of it. He threaded his finger's through Cal's red strands and yanked his head back. "Tell me, whore. Tell me you would have let her watch."

"I…" Fuck, he could barely breathe with the sensation of Boba bottoming out in him. "I would've… I would've fucked you while she watched us." He was going to have to meditate before seeing Merrin again or he'd never emotionally recover.

"Because you're my whore, aren't you?"

"I'm your whore." Cal almost screamed as Boba reached around and started jerking his painfully sensitive length with a rough hand. "Ah! Fuck, Boba, Boba please, please please—"

"Please what, baby?" Boba sped up. The obscene sound of wet flesh smacking together echoed in the cargo bay. 

"Don't…" Cal gasped. "Don't do that to me again. Don't go dark."

Boba's hips lost their rhythm. He slipped out and spun Cal, hoisted him up into his arms like he was a sack of tatos and slung his legs over his shoulders. Boba crushed his mouth to Cal's, reentering him the same moment, and swallowed his cry. His hips jacked up in a frantic, unsteady rhythm, hitting that sweet spot with every forward thrust. "You missed me that bad, did you baby?" Boba murmured into his mouth. "You didn't let anyone else fuck you, did you?"

"No!" Cal was going to scream, he was on the brink once again, his pulsing length trapped between their sweat-slickened bodies.

"That's 'cause you're mine." Cal was practically delirious, but it sounded like Boba was talking to himself. "Nobody else gets to fuck you. This ass is mine." He squeezed his cheeks. "Mine. Only mine."

"Only yours." Cal's eyes rolled back in his head as he reached his peak again. His legs tightened and pulled Boba against him, trapping his length deep inside. Cal painted their fronts with jets of spunk, and Boba let out a shout and snapped his hips up as far as they would go. Cal felt heat filling him up and spreading deep within.

Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute, though Boba did let Cal's legs drop and let him stand on his own. "I missed you," Cal finally said, then kissed him.

"Sorry for going dark." Boba buried his face in Cal's neck and took a deep breath. "It wasn't on purpose."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Cal asked quietly.

"Not right now." Boba kissed him one last time and withdrew from Cal's cuffed embrace. "I'm going to run diagnostics. I hear a humming I don't like coming from my backup hyperdrive." He climbed up the ladder buck naked.

"Hey, uncuff me first!" Cal protested, holding up his hands.

"You're a fucking Jedi, uncuff yourself." Boba opened the hatch with a snicker and disappeared.

Boba set his ship down on a cold, desolate, rocky planet that only had a series of numbers, not even a name. Cal leaned forward, peering out the viewport. "Weird place for an exchange," he said. BD-1 crawled into place on his shoulder and beeped in agreement.

Cal let his head hit the wall with a clunk. Boba was such an asshole. Somehow, it made Cal love him even more.

"Nah. I've definitely done weirder meetups." Boba eased the engine into low-power mode. "I see your witch on my sensors. She's entering the atmosphere now."

Cal watched Phee's ship, piloted by Merrin, come to a rough stop. He winced. She was… well, she was still learning. Hopefully Phee wouldn't be too upset about her landing gear. "Are you finally going to tell me who paid you to take Phee?" he asked, following Boba out of the cockpit. 

"You'll meet them when I do." 

Cal slid down the ladder after him. "What do you mean? You don't even know who hired you?"

"How do you think this whole guild thing works?" Boba smashed a button on the side of the cargo hatch and put his helmet on. "People post jobs to the guild. Guild posts jobs for the hunters. I get a name, a face, a general location and a drop-off point. I don't even know who I'm working for half the time, let alone a detailed background."

"But that means you could be working for anyone!" Cal exclaimed.

"Yeah, and? Credits spend the same no matter who puts them up." Boba fiddled with the frame of Phee's frozen carbonite chamber. 

"That seems risky. What if you end up working for some lunatic?"

"I'm almost always working for some lunatic, Cal." Boba activated a set of small repulsors and guided the frame out of the cargo bay.

Cal gave Boba a look. "We'll talk about this later." He opened his arms in anticipation. 

Merrin disappeared from her docking ramp with a flash of green light and rematerialized in his arms. "You're alright?" she asked tearily, threading her fingers through his hair. "That beast didn't hurt you, did he?" 

"Beast?" Cal felt bad for laughing. "He's not a beast, Mer."

"Did she just call me a fucking beast?" Boba asked. 

"I am simply naming what I see in front of me." Merrin's eyes glowed green for a few seconds.

Boba laughed, dark and wicked. "Easy there, little witch. I'm not one you want to mess with."

"You think I am afraid of you?" Merrin raised her hand and bared her teeth.

"You call those needles fangs?" Boba scoffed.

"Don't start." Cal pinned her arms to her sides before she could do something he would regret. "Merrin, please. Just don't."

"I do not understand what you see in this creature." Merrin shrugged him off with an irritated scowl.  

"Eyes up, chakaare." Boba nodded at ship rapidly descending from the dark, star-studded sky.

"Are we really going to just let him give Phee away?" Merrin whispered.

Normally Cal would have immediately assured her no, of course not, but he had an odd feeling tingling at the back of his neck, ordering him wait and see. "I want to see who paid for her before I make a decision." 

"Anything you cunts are planning, don't expect me to help," Boba called over. "Once I hand her over and get my money I'm walking. I'm a professional."

"Good to know." Cal had his saberstaff and Merrin. He could almost definitely handle whatever came out of that ship.

The T6 swooped down at an unnecessarily fast speed, cranked hard to the right, and swerved into a landing spot. Cal and Merrin both exchanged smirks. "And I thought I was a bad pilot," Merrin said with a snicker.

The docking ramp extended with a hiss and puff of pressurized gasses. The figure that walked out of it was tall and slight, and as it got closer Cal could see it was humanoid, presumably female. She wore a full array of oddly mishmashed armor—black-painted pieces that almost looked like recycled plastoid from the clone wars—and had a small golden device strapped to her back. A red scarf was looped around her neck, as were a pair of goggles. Cal saw an indentation in her helmet that appeared as though it was made for the goggles to fit over. "Boba Fett?" she called. Her accent was strangely familiar.

"That's me." Boba stood casually beside the frozen-solid Phee, one hip cocked and a hand on his blaster. "You've got my credits, I assume."

"Only if she's unharmed."

"Not a scratch on her. You have my word."

"So you say." The woman turned to Cal and Merrin, tilted her helmeted head. "And you two?" 

"My passengers. Don't wory about them, they're getting off here. They're not involved in this." Boba's tone was lighthearted, friendly even; Cal watched the Force thrum around him, tense like a quetarra string. "Now where're my credits?"

The woman typed in a command on her commlink, then tossed a bag forward. A droid covered in sleek white plastoid descended from her ship and tooled up to the carbonite-encased Phee. "Vitals are steady and normal for one in hibernation, Mistress," the droid announced politely.

"Go ahead and put her on the ship, AZ." The woman waited until the droid had disappeared with the carbonite frame to turn back to Boba.

"Looks like it's all here. Our business is concluded." Boba turned and started to stride back to the Slave I.

"Not quite." The woman took off her helmet, revealing a braided crown of pale blonde hair. 

Cal swiveled his head back and forth between her and Boba like a Shilian mithoo, stunned. Those eyes, that nose, that jaw; female or not, there was no mistaking who—what—she was.

"What kind of game is this?" Boba stood frozen in place, too shocked to move.

"Sorry Alpha, no game." The woman grinned a very, very familiar grin. "I'm Omega. I think you and I need to chat."

[16woodsequ]

Sunday Steve - Day Ten

Things that would be new or unfamiliar to Steve in the 21st century, either due to the time period he grew up in, or his social-economic status and other such factors.

Day Ten: Laundry — Washer and Dryers

Washing Machine

1920s ad for a Thor brand washing machine. One of the first electric washing machines. Note the exposed motor underneath that could shock users when wet. (Imagine Steve associating Thor with washing machines 😆).

Laundry machines have a long history. The first washing machines were invented in the late 1800s. There were mechanical, hand powered machines, consisting of drums full of water and handles to agitate the laundry and turn the rollers to squeeze water from washed clothes.

However, these devices were most common in middle class families. Poor families who could not afford the machines and rich families who did not have to worry about the labour of laundry likely did not have these machines.

Laundry was a laborious task and families who could afford it had hired help to do their laundry or they sent out their laundry to be cleaned and returned.

Here is an account of laundry days in the 1920s for a family who had a scullery. They used a 'washing copper' tub that was built into the floor and had a space for a fire underneath. It is interesting how it describes typical washing without a washing machine, but Steve and Sarah likely lived in a tenement apartment building and did not have these facilities available to them.

We will get into what Sarah probably did when Steve was growing up. But one last laundry innovation to talk about in the 20s was the electric washer. The first electrical washer appeared in the US before the first World War thanks to the invention of the small electric motor (Link).

This blog page gives a good overview of how a domestic electric washing machine worked in 1927. The metal drum was manually filled with water (if you didn't have a hose, lifting and pouring water into the drum was your fate). Pre-prepared soap was added then pre-soaked clothes could be washed. The machines could handle about ten pounds, so clothes had to be regularly transferred in and out. After the wash, clothes were wrung out and put in scalding rinse water to remove soap. Clothes were then wrung out again (maybe rinsed a few more times), starched, and hung to dry. Some families had heated dryer cupboards to hang their clothes.

Domestic washing machines inside the home were not common before the 50s. They were growing in popularity in the 30s, but I doubt Steve every used any type of washing machine in his own home. Depending on how well off you feel the Barneses were they may have had one, but I still feel this wasn't very likely.

In 1920 only 8% of US families owned a washing machine. And by 1941 "only 52% of U.S. families owned or had interior access to an electric washing machine—almost half of families were still hand rubbing or hand cranking laundry or using commercial services" (Link).

Tenement Laundry Days

Reproduction of 1928-1935 tenement house.

Reproduction of 1890s era tenement apartment.

Wash days were usually on Monday. Sarah probably did these steps: Soaking the laundry, scrubbing, boiling, wringing, rinsing, wringing agin, and finally, hanging to dry. (Link)

In the second picture above a scrub board can be seen in the deep sink. The sink was likely used for soaking, scrubbing and rinsing. Scrub boards were used well into the 20th century.

While indoor plumping for tenements was becoming common in the 20s (especially for toilets), if they didn't have running water Sarah would have to trek up and down flights of stairs to fill her tub from the tap in the yard. (Link) This would most likely only be the case if Steve and Sarah lived in a pre-1905 tenement building as laws about tenements changed around that time. However, many tenements were cold water flats, so water would be boiled on the stove.

In the picture above you can see a large oblong metal tub on the stove. This is likely what was used for boiling.

After soaking (usually started Sunday night) clothes that were still soiled would be scrubbed, then the laundry was boiled. Clothes were boiled in water for an hour and stirred with a rod or wooden stick. They would then be removed with a fork or a rod, wrung out, rinsed (to remove soap) and wrung out again.

If Sarah (or Winifred) was able to afford it she may have a mangle to squeeze the water from washed clothes ($5.95-8.00 for a basic one in 1920). These two wooden rollers were dangerous because women could get their fingers or hair caught in them. They also sometimes damaged or broke off buttons. If she didn't have one, she'd wring them out by hand.

The spin cycle was developed to wring out clothes, and some electric washers had this feature going into the 30s. (Link)

Once wrung out, the clothes were hung to dry. In the winter clothes could be hung in front of the fireplace or stove (on a clothes horse for those who had one) if there was space, but they could also be hung outside to freeze and brought in before nightfall.

Tenement buildings commonly had clotheslines strung between buildings. "The advantage of living on a low floor (with fewer flights of stairs to climb) became a disadvantage on wash day, because when hanging your laundry out to dry, ‘someone else might put out a red wash or a blue wash over it, and it drips down and makes you do your wash all over again." (Link)

Berenice Abbott (1898-1991). Court of the First Model Tenements in New York City. March 16, 1936. Museum of the City of New York. (Link, many other examples of tenement clotheslines here. I think this is multiple days of laundry lines in one picture).

Abbott documented this space as a communal laundry line: ropes with pulleys led from apartments to five-story poles imbedded in concrete. Abbott made two exposures, with the laundry and poles forming different abstract configurations. She later recalled that winter day the laundry frozen stiff and the children huddled together, too cold to move.

If you didn't have a clothesline near your window you could dry your clothes on the roof. This required climbing more stairs and keeping an eye out for thieves. (Link)

Tuesdays were ironing days. There were electric irons in the 20s but people also still used multiple irons that had to be heated on the stove. Clothes needed to be damp and sprinkled with water while ironing. That is until steam irons were introduced in the 30s. (Link)

However:

What did Steve do after Sarah died? The same thing the Rogers would have done if Sarah had no time to do laundry, which is likely because she worked full time and laundry was an long chore. If Sarah did do her own laundry as well as worked, she would have worked very long hours trying to stay on top of everything.

For those who couldn't do laundry they would send out their laundry. The peak of the commercial laundry industry was in the 1920s. Many laundries were owned by Chinese immigrants and these laundries catered to single men. (Link) These laundries were cheaper than white-owned steam laundries, which generally catered to large institutions like hotels and hospitals, although they advertised to women as well. Here is a picture of a large commercial laundry.

Sending out laundry may have been a necessary expense on Sarah and Steve's part that they had to budget for. This recounting of a Chinese laundry has the clothes dried and ironed by the workers.

Women, especially black women, took laundry into their home. It is possible Sarah and Steve sent out their laundry to washerwomen, perhaps even one who lived in their own tenement. (Link)

If Sarah did not have the time, nor could afford to send out laundry (especially in the 30s), Steve may have had to deal with the shame of going to school in dirty clothes. Cleanliness was a point of pride and I'm certain Sarah would have made every effort to keep him clean but it may not have always been possible.

Laundry soap

Here is what was most typically used as laundry soap. It was also common, especially for rural families, to make their own soap out of lye and grate or cut up that as laundry soap. (Link)

(Link) Laundry soap options in 1927. They included purchasing flakes, chips, or powder; liquifying your soap ahead of time (right); and (left) grating your own laundry soap from a bar. Fels Naptha soap, which came in a big bar, was rubbed on difficult stains and rings around the collar.

Laundromats

The first laundromat or 'washateria' was opened in Texas in 1934. (Link) Laundromats grew in popularity and spread across the country. These early laundromats had rentable electric washing machines like the ones already mentioned in this post. Clothes were taken home damp to be ironed.

In the 40s the name laundromat became common to describe self-serve laundry. This name actually comes from a brand of automatic washing machine. (Link) Laundromats helps familiarize consumers with washing machines and grow their trust in them, thus ushering in the domestic washing machine age in the 50s and 60s and the decline of commercial laundry services.

Steve may have used a washateria or laundromat in the late 30s or early 40s but the machines would be different. They may have looked something like this:

Toploading washing machine bought in 1939 (Link) It has a motorized mangle.

This blog also has many 1940s ads to show other styles of washing machines. I think our modern washings machines would be somewhat recognizable if Steve saw these ads, but in general washing machines now look very different from the ones he probably saw.

Dryers

If one didn't hang their clothes to dry they were probably wealthy enough to have air dryers which became available in the early 1920s. These were rooms or cupboards. "These dryers could be powered by electricity, gas, or kerosene. In a good dryer, heated air circulated around the clothing so that the clothes did not bake and yellow. The hot air was pulled out of the cabinet and up a chimney" (Link).

Richer folks could also have their clothes dry in sunlit or steam-heated rooms at the top of their mansion or townhouse. (Link).

A sailor getting a uniform out of a clothes dryer in 1943 (link)

The first electric dryer was manufactured in 1938. (Link) Here's a picture of a 1940s dryer, it looks a bit like an oven.

Automatic dryers were slower to arrive. Launderettes had dryers after the war and this helped facilitate the arrival of dryers in the home.

Before dryers became common in laundromats clothes were taken back damp and ironed. This was more or less ideal anyways since clothes needed to be damp to be ironed if you didn't have a steam iron (which was still a luxury).

Dryers would be very new or completely foreign for Steve. I doubt he used one.

Army Laundry Days

This post is already long (I know), so quick coverage of what I found here.

Army training camps had laundries. The army developed laundry trucks (Quarter Master Laundry Units) to service medical units and troops in the field.

When the trucks couldn't keep up with the front (although they did their best) soldiers made arrangements with local laundries or cleaned their clothes themselves.

Clothing exchange was sometime done instead of cleaning and returning the same clothes to speed up the process. This was done most often with front line troops, often in conjunction with showers.

Steve specialised uniform (really, all of the commandos' uniforms) would probably complicate this process which is really interesting to think about. This wash trucks wouldn't be able to just bring standard uniforms to switch out since they were all wearing different uniforms from different armies. If it could be arranged beforehand they might be able to bring a new uniform for Steve, but I wonder if he wore regular fatigues most of the time and only switched into his Captain America suit during active missions to make things easier.

The mobile laundries also organized clothing repair.

This post got really long! I didn't get into the detailed steps of laundry before modern technologies really took off. But needless to say there's still a lot that could be said.

I have a housekeeping book from 1952 that goes into detail how to wash clothes. If anyone is interested in a post about that, you can let me know. I also have a catalogue reproduction showing laundry machines and prices from the early 20th century if anyone is interested,

Sunday Steve Masterpost

[indigo-corvus]

In honor of the Banana Splits' 55th anniversary, may I Humbly present...

Banana Splits Headcanons!

⭐ 🍌 🐶 🍌 🦁 🍌 🐵 🍌 🐘 🍌 ⭐

(These HC apply to all versions of the Splits, unless otherwise specified)

Bingo:

- Helps Snorky groom/dry himself after baths

- Will wake up in the middle of the night to record drum riffs he dreams up

- CONSTANT DAD JOKES

- Is the kind of roomie that leaves dishes piled in the sink forever

-Has big Chad energy

- Is prone to use jazz lingo ("Cats and Kittens, Groovy, Hot, Wild, Man, etc)

- Gets on all fours when he wants to move quickly or is really excited

- Occasionally gets the Zoomies

Snorky:

- A sensitive, whimsical, dreamer type

- A poetic lyricist (structures songs similar to Sean Lennon)

- Kinda Gender Non-Conforming, Possibly Gender fluid. (Magic Machine flash)

- Doesn't get angry often, but will explode when upset.

- Loves taking walks in the park to observe the nature and flowers.

- Is fluent in ASL

- Social Media Microinfluencer (Jellystone!)

- Is an artist (Jellystone!)

- Uses texts, Emojis, Signs, and white boards to talk occasionally, but all the other band members can understand him no problem.

Drooper:

- Actually a little vain (Jellystone!)

-Takes forever to groom self. He has a certain way he washes, brushes, and dries his hair. He uses multiple products in his mane.

- Loves to join in on Bingo's pranks on Fleegle

- Loves his large muzzle and nose. He thinks it makes his profile very distinguished.

- Wears colored prescription sunglasses

- Is the most athletic member of the group (OG)

- Uses rollers and a bonnet at night

- Big himbo energy

- Usually the last person to get the joke

Fleegle:

- Loves being the one to answer the door

- ADHD like a MF

- Will occasionally do dog stuff, like bark at stuff he hears outside and chase small animals

- Hates baths, but never wants to get out once he's in there

- Closest with Drooper

- Has other members pick him up to appear taller and more threatening (Jellystone!)

- Has Big Golden Retriever Energy (OG)

- Always the one to get hurt in slapstick gag stuff (Jellystone!)

- Easily embarrassed, gets tomato red in an instant

- Helps create a lot of the bridges of their songs

- Never not working on Splits' club business.

[dwellordream]

“By 1900, the domestic role of women was already beginning to reflect the long-term effects of social and technological changes that had been taking place since the Civil War. Most significantly, women’s marital and maternal roles were different from the ones that their grandmothers had experienced in 1850. Marriages themselves were not as permanent as they had been in the past. By 1900, the divorce rate had risen to one in twelve couples; by 1915 the rate was one in nine. Two-thirds of divorces were sought by women, a clear indication that a growing number of women were unwilling to accept unsatisfactory marriages and that, increasingly, they had the courage and the means to obtain their independence.

The proportion of women choosing never to marry at all had risen from 6 percent (where it had been throughout the 19th century) to 10 percent in the 1890s. Within this new group of women who never married were many educated professionals and others who felt that they could find satisfactory lives, work, and companionship without husbands and children. Among married white women of childbearing age, the birthrate had dropped 50 percent in the course of a century; it had gone from seven children for each woman in 1800 to three to four children in 1900. Among African-American women, the birth rate began to decline dramatically after 1900. By the 1920s about half of all married black women in northern cities were remaining childless, compared to only one-fourth of married white women. The birthrate of immigrant groups also decreased as they became more assimilated into American culture.

…As a rule, innovation happened more quickly in cities than in rural areas, and new technology was available to the well-to-do many years before it reached the homes of working people. Few of the new home utilities and labor-saving machines were ready for mass consumption before 1920. Between 1890 and 1920, for example, most American women were still washing household clothing and linen by hand in tubs with corrugated scrubbing boards. In a series of separate operations, each of which required fresh hot water, they boiled the clothes on the stove, rinsed them, blued the whites, and starched nearly everything except work clothes. Every item was wrung out through a hand-cranked roller mangle and hung to dry, outdoors or indoors, depending on the weather. The next day almost everything, including sheets, had to be ironed, using heavy flatirons that were heated on the stove and reheated as they cooled.

All but the wealthiest housewives did some laundry themselves, or assisted their domestic servants with the backbreaking labor. Any family who could afford it hired a laundress to come in by the day or take clothing to her own home to wash. By 1910, commercial steam laundries--staffed mostly by women workers--had become big business in cities and large towns, easing the chores of wash day for housewives. In later decades, automatic washing machines would return laundry to the home, making it, once again, the responsibility of the housewife.

…In 1900, nearly all American homes had cast-iron stoves, which had replaced fireplace cooking and heating in all but the most primitive houses. Stoves made cooking much easier and used fuel economically, and their temperature could be more or less controlled through the manipulation of a set of dampers. Many kitchen stoves had attached water-heating and storage reservoirs, which made dish washing and laundry easier than they had been in the days when all water had to be hauled and heated in kettles over the fire.

Most Americans used coal for heating and cooking, though families burned wood in parts of the country where trees were still abundant. Coal and wood smoke left a thin film of grime on furniture and windowsills and embedded itself in carpets and curtains, making housecleaning a repetitive and thankless task. Coal-fired furnaces and central heating systems, which burned more clearly than small stoves and had been available for decades, were still so expensive in the 1890s that they were found only in the urban homes of affluent people.

…Ironically, the opportunity to improve housekeeping with new sources of energy and new appliances would actually make housework more complex, multiplying some tasks while relieving the burdens of others. The presence in the home of hot running water meant washing and cleaning were easier, but also suggested the need to take more baths or to mop the floor more often. Washing machines made it possible to wash the same clothes more frequently than before. Easily regulated gas or electric ovens meant the housewife could attempt more elaborate cooking and baking than her mother had been able to produce in her day.

Despite its heavily advertised promises, the new domestic technology did not actually liberate women from housework. Rather, it served to intensify the personal importance of the home and the woman’s role in it by suggesting that her housework could be scientifically perfected. All the domestic experts and professional home economists promoted scientific housekeeping and the consumption of new appliances and energy sources. In magazines and books, on the lecture circuit, and in secondary schools, where domestic science became part of the required curriculum for girls, these authorities encouraged homemakers and potential homemakers to time their tasks, to break household jobs into segments, and to follow strict sanitary guidelines, especially in cleaning bathrooms and kitchens, potential sources of infectious disease.”

- Karen Manners Smith, “Women at Home.” in New Paths to Power: American Women, 1890-1920

[mctreeleth]

Does Miku Mimaki use toner? And how do you change those bottles without making a giant mess?

Mimi (did I say in the post that we call her Mimi? Her name's Mimi) uses UV ink, so no toner, just a very bright light on her print head. This means we can print on any flat-ish surface, and any more importantly any sticker stock - I work for a company that makes wine labels, and some of the label stock is plastic or metal or wood, and regular inks wouldn't adhere or dry.

The bottles hold a litre of ink each, and there's a special lid that you put on them before you put them into place on the machine that has a little roller ball that blocks the ink from coming out until the bottle is engaged in the machine.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Chapter 4

There’s no set pattern, he learns, as they stroll alongside the billowing bed linen strung up on the line to dry.

“One minute she’s condemning Bush’s war. Or telling Little Ollie how I jammed a shell up my nose when I was six.” Elio adjusts his sunglasses, wiping the fine sheen of sweat from his temple. “And the next she’s crying uncontrollably. Dismayed we haven’t paid the knife-grinder ‘cause it’s Wednesday afternoon, and she can’t hear the grate of his whetstone over the pasta machine’s rollers.”

Nodding gravely, Oliver dodges a cobalt beetle flitting by the honeysuckle. “It’s curious,” he says. “The sights and sounds on which we grow dependent.” 

We are all products of our subconscious, mon cœur, his invisible Elio pipes up.

Some more than others, Oliver acknowledges, closing the orchard gate behind them. “I keep listening out for Anchise’s hammer,” he says aloud, skirting a patch of ruby-red poppies. “The snip of his pruning shears as he goes about his grafts.”

Elio chuckles: sunshine after a hurricane. “The endless quarrels with Manfredi over dowsing his tomatoes…” Changing direction, he strides through the tawny rye grass. “We lost him to cancer, too, poor man. I used to think he was so old, but he wasn’t even fifty.”

“Mortality is no respecter of age,” Oliver says, longing for a glimpse of Vimini’s sombrero amongst the heavily-laden trees. “I had a Humanities colleague who’d argue it’s the breadth of one’s life that’s paramount. Not the length.”

Elio smirks in his peripheral. “Is that a euphemism?” he asks, and Oliver shakes his head as he plucks a glossy cherry from the bough. 

“Goose.”

They’d begun their jaunt with a brief inspection of Samuel’s former office: Oliver cradling his first-edition Heraclitus as a Compaq laptop and dial-up modem whirred gratingly where Pro’s clunky typewriter once sat. From there, they’d ventured to the living room - past conversations rising up like dybbuks when Elio whisked a glissando upon the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys - but the notable absence of the Perlman patriarch soon drew them to the gardens outside.

“I had no idea he was so sick…” 

“Very few did,” Elio’d revealed, standing shiva by the metre-high oak whose roots sheltered his father’s ashes. “There’s nothing Homeric in dying, mio figlio.” His impression had been uncanny. “So why set the cat amongst someone else’s pigeons?” 

“These walls aren’t meant for silence,” Oliver tells him now. “Micol and the boys… they welcomed the leisurely pace that weekend. Lazing by the pool. Eating their fill of Mafalda’s bomboloni. But without you plunking Bach as Busoni or Liszt -” Without his barbs. His wit. His challenging disposition. “It all seemed false. Tarnished.” Something that saw him weeping in Sami’s arms during his late-night meltdown. “I couldn’t get past it,” Oliver confesses over the chirping cicadas. “The double standards. The disloyalty. The life we’d had to sacrifice to bring my traviamento about…”

Elio pauses by a thicket of brambles. “All forms of obligation entail some measure of submission,” he replies carefully. “Mankind is flawed; in that, we’re all the same. The mandate pressure to conform. To appease. To be liked and esteemed... that’s the modus vivendi. It’s how society works.”

Oliver appreciates the tact, but: “That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Elio replies, chewing slowly. “It doesn’t.”

“And to see your family dote on mine as if they were - oi!” Oliver baulks when a squidgy projectile ricochets off his forehead. “Did you just throw a berry?”

“Technically it’s an aggregate.”

“Pardon me?”

“Single flower: multiple ovaries,” Elio says with deliberate insouciance, calmly partaking of a second. “You need to stop torturing yourself, mio amico. We aren't made for looking back; not with all that lies before us. What’s done is done.” 

If only it were that clear-cut. “I’d still hear you,” Oliver mumbles, snapping the cherry’s spindly stalk. “Talk to you - in my mind, that is…”

Elio’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “In your mind?”

“Sometimes out loud.” Oliver scrunches his face. “Like a wise-cracking Jiminy Cricket,” he says, earning a baleful glare, and the raucous scuffle that ensues sees them howling in fits of wild abandon.

“This stuff is like gold dust in New England,” Oliver explains, smacking his lips as he smears the condensation on his bottled Peroni. “I lucked out in Manhattan - mom-and-pop trattoria near the dry-cleaners - but Hanover’s liquor stores are… well…”

“Scraping the barrel?” Elio suggests, snickering into the dregs of his sparkling Negroni. “I had a similar problem my freshman year at Julliard. Got so homesick for melanzane alla parmigiana, Mafalda had to teach me some recipes over the winter break.”

They’re seated underneath the tricolore parasol of the Pirozi’s open-air café. The exact same venue they’d loitered at the day Elio presented him a dedicated copy of Stendahl’s Armance. A mid-week market lays claim to the piazzetta, yet the grand, Baroque architecture draws Oliver’s gaze to the residential balconies above: where the same moss-riddled window boxes spill forth a scarlet cascade of geraniums; the petals of which create an arbour over the same slatted door by which their younger-selves would’ve kissed if they could. 

It’s about there, however, that the likenesses end, because the Zanetti’s bookshop has been replaced by a trendy wine bar, la osteria bears all the hallmarks of a pizza parlour, and the chalkboards advertising the traders’ wares tout the prices in euros, rather than lira. All in all, it should be jarring, but 1983 is another country, so Oliver revels in the casual brush of knees below the cast iron table, instead. The cathartic freedom that comes from such simple displays of affection.

“My roommates could barely make toast without setting off the smoke detectors,” Elio tells him then, wrinkling his nose at the exhaust fumes when a wheezing shuttle-bus pulls up by the Piave memorial. “We got by on takeaway menus and instant noodles for weeks.” A snort. “That all changed when I introduced them to torta barozzi and homemade ribollita.”

“I bet it did.” Oliver spies a cassocked priest disembarking the idling vehicle. “You’ll have to tutor me on ziti alla norma. Lord knows how Mafalda dices the eggplant that thinly.”

“Lo farò.” Elio leers. “It’s all in the wrist action.” 

“Reprobate.”

“You love it,” Elio says, taking an economic sip, and the bob of his throat makes Oliver’s mouth water for a delicacy more alluring than the deep-fried arancini they’d devoured earlier.

Because he does. 

He does love it. 

Loves him. 

And hard as it is to credit? Elio loves him, too.

“Do you know what else I couldn’t find in the States?” 

The other man tilts back in his chair. “Besides me, you mean?”

It’s coy to the point of transparency. “Yes, you miscreant. Besides you.” 

“Illuminami.” Elio swirls the melting ice cubes in the bottom of his glass. “What else couldn’t you find?”

“That.” Oliver nods at the harlequin awning of the gelateria. “The genuine article, at any rate. How about it, huh? A scoop of something cold before we hit the road?”

The tips of Elio’s ears rouge pink. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“And what if I am?”

“And what if I am, he says…” Elio bites his lower lip. “In that case, I’m ordering the stracciatella.” A beat. “Chocolate sauce, too.” 

“Chocolate sauce?” Oliver’s outright giddy; something he hasn’t experienced in a long, long while. “What are you? Twelve?”

Elio winks. “When in Rome…”

“Desecrate a fountain? Vomit in a trash can?” 

The gentle weight of a sneaker butts his canvas toe-cap, and Oliver grins indulgently as Elio hums a couple lines of Fenesta Ca Lucive. “Perhaps if I ask her nicely,” he says, low and teasing. “…Sofia might sprinkle on some peas…”

“A worthwhile goal is like a strenuous exercise, my boy: you must exert yourself to achieve it!”

That’s the mantra his zayde used to preach, giving his six-year-old self that extra boost when his stubby fingers couldn’t reach the rugelach cooling on his bakery counter. Solid advice, indeed - a motto that’s seen him through school and vocation, alike - so it’s no surprise that Oliver repeats it verbatim until the quad-aching moment he finally scrambles to the summit of San Giacomo’s spiralling belfry. 

They’d forgone their bikes at the base of the hiking trail; entrusted them to a crumbling cenotaph whose granite Neptune stood valiantly despite an encroaching veneer of bougainvillaea and silver lichen. Within minutes, Elio’d shunned the drab, wooden markers - their arrows so worn as to be almost indecipherable - and grabbing Oliver’s hand he’d leapfrogged a petering brook, steps brisk and undaunted on the cumbersome terrain.

“You know what?” Oliver says, bow-taut and gasping. “I stand by my previous assertion. I am too old for this kind of schlep.”

Both their shirts are dotted with perspiration, and Elio’s scoff bounces off the seventeenth century stonework as he doubles over; hip-checking him lightly. “Don’t be so defeatist. You’ve hardly aged a day.”

“Tell that to my joints,” Oliver grouches, rubbing his left patella. “Though I’d like to think I’ve gained some modicum of wisdom.” 

“You’ve always liked to think that.”

“Brat,” Oliver grunts, drunk on the build. 

They’re four-hundred metres above sea-level - if his sketchy interpretation of the bacheca informativa holds true - and when a balmy wind ruffles his hair Oliver leans into it. Leans atop the parapet, also; inhaling raggedly as he takes in the view. 

The vivid tapestry of poplars and cyprī woven into the verdant landscape.

The two-masted schooner where sky meets ocean.

The swarm of American sightseers clogging the tapered path, whose overbearing hubbub precipitated them taking Elio’s shortcut in the first place.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” 

“Bellissimo,” Oliver replies, sidling closer to where Elio’s propped his forearms on the rusty railings. “To-die-for,” he adds, evoking the parochial nickname. “It’s just a shame we’re not -”

“Da questa parte, signore e signori!” 

Oliver groans at the shrill interloper marshalling her troops in the flagstone courtyard below.  

“Riuniti in stretta. This way, please!” the tour guide continues, launching into a pre-prepared spiel on the history of the Franciscan watchtower. 

Elio sniggers when she starts in on the legends of the six copper bells - muttering his own annotations whenever she fudges - and Oliver’s forced to stifle a guffaw when the peeved woman glances up mid-flow; her entire entourage following suit like a mob of reproachful meerkats.

[thepromptswhisperer]

Hair Prompts

1. Cut hair.

2. Hair carving.

3. Shave head.

4. Bleach/Dye hair.

5. Try out new haircut/-style/wig/etc.

6. React to new haircut/-style/wig/etc.

7. First grey hair.

8. Grow out grey hair.

9. Grow out hair./Let hair grow long.

10. Notice first changes in hair growth due to (gender-affirming) hormone treatments.

11. Wear a wig.

12. Wear a hijab.

13. Wear a toupee.

14. Wear a cap/hat/etc.

15. Wear a bonnet./Wrap hair in silk scarf.

16. Wear a shower/swimming cap.

17. Wrap hair in towel.

18. Bedhead.

19. Bad hair day.

20. Static hair.

21. Hair transplant.

22. Wash hair.

23. Blow dry.

24. Use hair products.

25. Do hair care routine.

26. Brush/comb hair.

27. Braid/style hair.

28. Hair rollers.

29. Make hair look presentable (again).

30. Remove bobby pins/hijab/etc. (e.g. at the end of the day).

31. Face hidden behind hair.

32. Couple hidden behind curtain of hair.

33. “Mustache” face by using long hair and holding it under the nose.

34. Hair tickles.

35. Bury nose in hair.

36. Smell hair.

37. Twirl hair.

38. Flip hair.

39. Fluff out hair.

40. Throw hair back.

41. Curl hair around finger.

42. Play with hair.

43. Gently pull on strand of hair before it jumps back into place.

44. Run hand through/over hair.

45. Move (a strand of) hair to the side/out of the way.

46. Blow strand of hair out of face/the way.

47. Tuck hair behind ear.

48. Ruffle hair.

49. Kiss on hair/bald head.

50. Caress bald head.

51. Kiss balding spot/receding hairline.

52. Donate hair.

53. Examine hair.

54. Lose hair.

55. Check for lice.

56. Shake out wet hair.

57. Send hair “flying”. (e.g. headbanging, shaking head)

58. Untangle knot.

59. Hair stuck in earring/piercing/button/etc.

60. Hair stuck to lip balm/etc.

61. Chew on hair.

62. Hold hair (back).

63. Pull hair.

64. Pull out hair.

65. Remove something from hair. (e.g. a spider)

66. Put/Stick something in/into hair. (e.g. a flower)

67. Try to not get hair wet.

68. Grow a beard/mustache/etc.

69. Shave off (facial/body) hair.

70. Trim beard/mustache.

71. Compete over who has the best beard/mustache.

72. Comb mustache/beard.

73. Style beard/mustache.

74. Beard/Mustache care routine.

75. Run fingers through beard.

76. Stroke beard.

77. Twirl mustache.

78. Mustache/Beard/Stubbles rub(s) against skin.

79. Beard/Mustache tickles.

80. Pluck/Thread/Shave eyebrows.

81. Run finger(s) through/over eyebrows.

82. Raise eyebrow.

83. Furrow brows.

84. Long eyelashes.

85. Flutter one’s eyelashes.

86. Wet lashes.

87. Make a wish on an eyelash.

88. Nose hair.

89. Pluck chin hair.

90. Wax/Use epilator/etc.

91. Arm hair stuck in watch/bracelet.

92. Play with chest hair.

93. Follow the happy trail.

94. Pubic hair.

95. Hair in mouth.

96. Find hair everywhere. (clothes, cushion etc.)

97. Hair on shower wall.

98. Get hair out of drain.

99. Wind/Wind machine in hair.

100. Hair stands on end.

101. Harm a hair on one’s head.

102. Tear one’s hair out.

103. Let one’s hair down.

[miximagic256]

Points of Interest 4

Hi friends! This POI has been overdue for months I'm so sorry! One thing you may have noticed is there's a number attached to the title now. This titling scheme will follow for every POI post from here on out because it's honestly way more convenient especially with how some months there's little I want to type about while other months have lots I want to type about (although if you're really curious what's below occurred from January - February, I wasn't kidding when I said this was well overdue!)

But enough of the foreword, let's get into it!

Portal 2

So interesting thing, I got Portal 2 around 2013 when I first got my PS3, I never played the first Portal game as I didn’t have Steam and I never played The Orange Box which is where Portal debuted in 2007. Portal 2 was a game I played because I remember at the time hearing about how good the game was and while I did play it I never actually finished it.

Late last year I remembered I never finished the game so I started again from the beginning and finally beat it in January, and I can safely say that over a decade after the game’s release that Portal 2 is a fantastic experience from beginning to end and deserves all the praise people give it.

There is so much I could gush about with the characters, worldbuilding, storytelling, etc. But as a first for this series of mine I won’t go into detail because Portal 2 is one of those games that’s best to be played with as little knowledge as possible (in my case there were some things I knew about prior unfortunately, but luckily a lot of what I experienced was new to me).

One thing I will do though is share a link to this playlist of Portal 2 animations by Harry101UK which look, sound and feel so close to the game that you'd be amazed Valve had nothing to do with them! In particular I absolutely love his remake of his first ever Portal animation based on the song This Is Halloween from The Nightmare Before Christmas, you have no idea how many times I've listened to it! (Don't worry there's no spoilers for the game so if you've not played it you can still watch his videos without worry of that)

If you’re like me and have never played Portal 2 after all this time I highly recommend you do so if you get the chance (in fact you can even skip the first Portal game since outside of some backstory it doesn’t affect the sequel much), you won’t regret it!

The Repair That Never Was

I realise that with all the talk I’ve done about appliances and fixing things that it may give the impression that this is something I normally do, but in reality this is very rare and it’s a big coincidence that two appliance fiascos happened close together (although pre-teen me would have been ecstatic at the knowledge they’d eventually get to do something they always wanted - fixing a broken appliance).

So context, back in 2016 we brought a second-hand tumble dryer, it worked fine but some years ago I started to suspect that something was off because there would be rumbling noises every so often (bear in mind the type of noise a dryer can make can point to different types of faults like bad roller bearings, bad rear bearings, etc.) So after trying to figure out what type of noise it was I thought it was a result of a bad dryer fan (which is what takes the air from the drum through the vent and out the back) As sometimes they can “warp” due to the heat and not spin evenly causing it to be noisy when in use.

I was so confident that this was the issue I brought the part for it in advance for the time where there would be a good opportunity to open the machine up (although buying the part online was tricky as the dryer was made in the late 90s and sometimes machines that old can be hard to find parts for). Cut to January where one day it’s drying as normal only for me to notice that at some point the machine was running but the drum wasn’t turning, which suggested one thing, the belt had snapped (what sits around the motor that causes the drum to turn).

Now that the dryer was broken I took the opportunity I had been waiting for and opened it up, but I discovered that the rumbling noise wasn’t actually caused by a warped dryer fan at all but rather a loose jockey wheel (the part that’s on the end of the motor which the belt fits on) what a plot twist! Honestly considering it was loose for goodness knows how long it’s no wonder that eventually caused the belt to snap, not only that but I have an unopened dryer fan part on my desk I can't do anything with so it makes some pretty unconventional decoration hehe.

Because of this and the fact it was deemed easier to just get a new dryer, the old one was sent to its final resting place in the scrapyard (which considering it was at least 25 years old, I’d say it did its job well). But it doesn’t end there. I felt the best thing to do was to buy a washer dryer (because it would be more convenient for my small kitchen) which meant it would also replace our washing machine at the same time which I wrote about replacing the door seal a year ago, so despite me doing that repair it ended up being too little too late ironically.

One final thing to note: The washer dryer bought was the same manufacture as the one before our machine which I repaired, of which the former machine lasted 13-14 years. No Pressure!

Video Game Museum Trip Feat. @Klonoamiyumi

Video game museums are somewhat uncommon throughout the world but in recent times more and more have been opening up, and a year or two ago I discovered one myself but it was a far away from where I’m located so I never visited it. As my birthday was approaching and there was a holiday I was going to go on soon I decided just before that would happen that I would finally visit the museum alongside two IRL friends (including @klonoamiyumi!).

Due to the distance I decided for us to get there by train which was honestly nerve wracking as I normally don’t take the train (not only that but add on to the fact I was taking the train while organising the trip in the first place), but outside of one slip up (which I’ll get into later) we all got our tickets and away we went!

On the train itself we sat together and talked about our video game history along with some general topics as well, bear in mind the three of us up to this point hadn’t met up much together so it was an interesting experience being able to talk among ourselves. After around an hour on the train we arrived at our destination and stepped out, I had researched directions on where to go to the museum beforehand however actually exploring around the city was tricky because I had never been to that location before, luckily I was able to rely on Google Maps to figure out where to go and after accidentally going in a circle (oops!) We did eventually find the building we were looking for: The National Video Game Museum!

For most of the year this specific museum is only open Thursday – Sunday except for the UK summer holidays where it’s open everyday, there were a wide array of both arcade machines and video game consoles to play on, anecdotes from past and present video game developers (including a small tribute to the late Masayuki Uemura who supported the museum), signs describing various bits of history along with glass cases including important related material, etc. Despite not being the largest of museums for what’s there it should satisfy the curiosity of any video game fan of any era not only because of what’s on display but also because there’s so many things to interact with and discover that there's bound to be something you didn't know of beforehand, plus because it's not that large of a museum there's no worry of getting lost or overwhelmed but it doesn't feel underwhelming either. The place is ideal for a day out even if it was just yourself going there.

There was another thing that happened as well while we were there, by complete chance an online friend of both @klonoamiyumi and I (who has her own Tumblr blog @janeypoodle) was at the event, not only was this meetup not planned at all but they were planning to go to the museum the day before but couldn’t as the train got cancelled. What a plot twist! Janey is someone me and Klonoamiyumi have known about for a long time and while a potential visit did sometimes cross our minds for one reason or another it never took off. So to actually meet them in an unexpected place was such a wonderful surprise and a bonus to add to our day out, we all talked for a while and then we took a photo of us three to remember :>

Throughout the museum for the most part we all split up when going around what video games were available, but just before the museum closed Klonoamiyumi wanted me and our other IRL friend to play a game with him called Buzz! Junior: Jungle Party as it served a particular importance, he recalls this game was one of the only video games he played with family and not just by himself (which I can relate because I myself had Buzz! Junior: Rino Rumble which plays identically to Jungle Party, and that was a game I played with my family as well).

After that session together we quickly looked at the shop section and then left the museum, we decided to have food since it was late in the afternoon by that point (we went to McDonald’s specifically) and then we went back to the train station, however… Remember when I said there was one slip up that happened? Well while we managed to get back to train station, we narrowly missed our train (it was late in the evening as well), so I had to think quick and look up another train to the same destination on my phone and after some wondering around and last minute changes (because the train we needed to take ended up being on a different platform then announced). We got on and despite it being late in the evening we all got home safe and sound!

This trip was notable not just because of where we went but also because I've never organised anything like this before, but now that I have I can arrange a meetup of any kind again because starting something is always the hardest part, after that you start to get the hang of what you're doing and you get better every time! I think I speak for all of us when we all had a great experience!

Topic End: Epilogue

Again I'm really sorry for how overdue this is, I think you can tell the most significant thing included in this post hehe. I will say though this might be the last Points of Interest post for a while due to things that aren't really appropriate for this series, such as:

Events that are too negative to include (I intend this series to be positive and I don't want to bring myself or other people down reading the post)

Events that are positive but are too personal to include, this one is important to mention because truth be told I didn't really want to include topics relating to IRL events with family (like the cruise ship holiday) because while this series is a semi-dairy of sorts at the same time I only want to talk about things I'm comfortable being public online.

With that said, I hope you all enjoyed this POI and I'll see you next time!

[number1spongebobfan]

Can you do a headcannon of bob the builder please

Headcanons for the Can-Do-Crew

Scoop

He carries both a big shovel and a small shovel.

He's hardworking. He's not afraid to get his overalls dirty.

He was Bob the Builder's first machine. The people at the factory built, clothed and styled him with earnest love and care.

He likes to make sandcastles.

He's good at climbing trees.

He plays with action figures and reads comic books. He a bit of a nerd.

He's eager and excitable.

Muck

She's a tomboy.

She likes to play in the mud. That's how she got her name; she was mucking about.

She likes to play rugby.

She carries a backpack. She dumps material from her backpack onto the construction site.

She's the tallest and strongest of the Can-Do-Crew. She can lift things easily.

She's kind of like Applejack from My Little Pony.

She and Dizzy have some squabbles due to their differences, but they are besties nonetheless.

Dizzy!

She's a girly girl. She has a fondness for jewelry and frilly dresses.

She carries wet cement in her backpack and pours it on the ground for it to dry.

She has to keep her hair in a ponytail, because the cement tangles it.

She's basically me if I were a construction vehicle. lol

She likes the smell of oranges. She carries an orange charm around her neck.

She has strong emotions. She's so happy and hyper most of the time but when she's sad, it's intense.

Lofty

He is nervous and gets frightened easily.

He has low self-esteem.

Though when he's not scared, he generally cool and laid-back.

He likes when things go smoothly. When they don't, it can give him a hard time.

He listens to Blues music. He's good at playing the harmonica.

He's an artist. He likes to sketch in his notepad.

Roley

He's very loud. Spud finds him irritating.

He listens to hard rock. He's good at playing the drums.

He's flashy and outgoing. He's quick to pick up new friends.

He's upbeat. He often hums to himself while roller-paving.

He rocks back and forth while thinking deeply about something. Bob finds it creepy and tells him to stop, but he doesn't know why he does it in the first place.

(the last one is me irl. i don't know why i do that)

He likes to drink soda. Especially root beer.

[taavisplushies]

How do you clean thrifted plushies? Is there a process or product you recommend? Thanks!

hi i made a detailed post about cleaning plushies here!!

but a basic TLDR: hand wash the plush in the sink or bathtub UNLESS it can’t get wet for some reason. let it air dry for a day or so. NEVER PUT THE PLUSH IN THE DRYER.

for recommended products:

1. dawn dish soap is GREAT at getting most stains out

2. vinegar can help with tougher stains and also getting the fur to be softer! just make sure you dilute it with water. this may cause the plush to smell bad tho, so i recommend washing with soap afterwards

3. a good lint roller is also recommended, but not required! it’s nice to roll it over the plush before you wash them, just to get any extra hair or fuzz off them

4. a dog brush or a fine tooth comb. brushing/combing your plush’s fur is always a good idea after they’ve been washed and dried!

NOT recommended products:

1. fabric softener. i’ve never used it before, but i’ve heard from plushie pros that it can leave behind residue and eventually make the fabric less gross.

2. DRYER. not really a product, more like a machine, but still important. putting a plush in the dryer can cause damage to the fur. sometimes putting them in the washing machine is fine tho, depending on what their tags say!

[dollsonmain]

Ugh. Washing the boy’s sheets has turned into a huge undertaking, not just with needing to clean up the nosebleed drops on the carpet.

I still cant get him to do it himself. He knows how, he’s not afraid of the machines, he does his own laundry every Sunday morning no problem. I tried to get him to do his sheets on Saturday or also on Sunday and he just will not.

They’re bad. It took two washes. There is hair EVERYWHERE. I had to take a lint roller sheet off the roller and pick up the handful of hair stuck to the bottom of the machine.

I haven’t even started my sheets, yet. I’m going to shake his out partway through drying and put them back in so there’s more of a chance the dryer can take some of that hair off.

Being annoyed about the sheets has led to me being annoyed that the water the plants alarm just went off, and that Son will be home in an hour for a long weekend.

ANNOYED.

Tumblr failing to load and chewing up my CPU usage doesn’t help. I wonder if that’s about the new features they were talking about, or if they’re having some other sort of server issue.

I’m going to be mostly mobile until that is resolved, I guess.