#take that with a shaker’s worth of salt

[sega-saturn-arcade]

Last night I got curious over what exactly happened between me and Medkit and why it escalated. I’ll be walking through this in chronological order as MUCH AS I CAN, with of course the gaps of memory of the exact happenings.

This is a long one so i’m going to preface this by saying I am not entirely sure what happened yet and I can’t for sure say “this feels 100% right” which leads me to believe there’s something else to it? It’ll come in time, I am sure

GREEN is CONFIRMED MEMORY.

ORANGE is UNSURE.

PINK is THEORY.

MEMORY GAPS are in [BRACKETS]

Another Important Note is that not all unsurety is entirely true as I misremember details sometimes, and not all theory is false—it is merely speculation upon what might’ve happened. If this makes sense

Memory under the cut. CW/TW for violence and description of eye trauma.

Medkit and I enter the lab that day. Yesterday we might have had a breakthrough on the crystals in some way that showed us that there was something that could change the entire world, that they were more than simply stupid powerful. We decide to sleep on it, and come back the next day to discuss and do whatever we had to in the lab that day. We begin talking about what the crystals can do, both standing bc at our usual station. I start the conversation with wonder. I cannot remember my exact words, but I said something along the lines of how the crystals were amazing and could change the world. He agrees, and I continue.

[There is a gap here of how exactly we got onto this topic as to what was said.] I say something about how the faction’s militaries could utilize the crystals to protect its citizens and fairly have defenses, something of that sort. He disagrees with me and says that he doesn’t trust the governments, and especially Blackrock’s. He wants something better for the world in a way to utilize the crystals, something about the people personally. [I GENUINELY cannot remember what exactly he wanted however I do know it was anything BUT the government.] Maybe he perhaps wanted to keep our work away in some way, MAYBE destroy some of it? Regardless, we started arguing over it. The fight escalates very badly, and I push him and he pushes back, which sets me off and makes me go after him by pushing him again but harder.

[Memory gap, I do not know what exactly happened to get to this point.] I was on top of him, and we were struggling with each other. I clawed out his eye somehow, either with my bare ass fingers or gloves or whatever or a sharp object. I did not cut his eye out meticulously as I was too angry to consider doing that. (also, he was a childhood friend, I think the maximum amount of violence is whatever managed to occur during this fight. I also had morals despite it all.) If anything, the reason i clawed it out was because i was swatting at him with one arm and I managed to get his eye. He then (I would obviously assume) got mad at me for this and [does something to get up and turn the tides in his favor] clawed out my eye the same way? If not, he might have grabbed something sharp like a lab scalpel and specifically sliced at me.

I don’t think we had ever seen each other that mad at each other before. We weren’t thinking straight at all, or at least I wasn’t. I don’t think I ever truly intended the fight to start to begin with.

(Here’s where things start to turn into gaps and bits and pieces. I’ll try to connect them the best I can.)

I think it’s important to note neither of us had our gears—they were left at home.

We punch at each other and throw things [details unremembered and muddled]. At one point, Medkit grabs a scalpel. He slices at me and gets me pretty good in some places. He ends up stabbing me a few times in non fatal places (but they were still deep cuts that hurt—I remember retaining scars on my body from some of those slashes and stabs) This was kind of ignored by me in the long run because of adrenaline, but this fight went on for a long while and I was moving around a lot which I don’t think helped the bleeding.

As I am writing out this memory I remember him with a lab scalpel in his hand, I was on the other side of the lab and I was bleeding, but I know I was not focused in the slightest because adrenaline was doing things to my brain. We’d known each other all our lives, but I have never seen such anger and spite in his eye (this was after he took mine, judging by the conscious realization of a void on my left side of my vision).

It felt like there was only negative emotion in that expression and thought. Someone who had such gentle expression usually and tone had shown a fierce, driven-by-anger expression. I think I would have thought on it more if I wasn’t in the moment of anger myself, but I think a part of me paused to think about that. It wasn’t scary, but there was an emotion I couldn’t and cannot describe to you that was in the back of my mind.

[Memory gap. The fight continued for a while but I don’t remember the details.] Regardless, I started getting weak from the wounds I sustained and the blood loss. I remember feeling tired and a little sick, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. [Memory gap again between that, though this was a bit closer] I know at one point we grabbed each other and with his full body at full force shoved me backwards. I remember slipping on the shattered glass on the floor and falling backwards. There was a cabinet island table thing there, and I remember the adrenaline wearing off at this point. I don’t think I could physically get up. I might’ve blacked out from blood loss and gone into medical shock/hypovolemic shock.

[Large memory gap between then and the time of which I was aware I was in the hospital] I am genuinely unsure how much I faded in and out of consciousness, or if I even did because once again there’s a big memory gap. However I do know that my recovery took longer than I assume Medkit’s did, because when I was able to fully recover he had fled Blackrock entirely. I blamed myself for starting that fight and blamed myself for him fleeing Blackrock for the period of my life that I remember from that point. [Note: Assuming it was critical, it could have taken anywhere up to a week or two, to at max a month. I cannot remember what time period or how long it took.]

That is about as much as I remember of that fight, and while it is still a lot of detail I still have yet to remember it entirely as again there is a TON of missing detail. cool awesome i love memories. Yippee!

[marithlizard]

Oh geez, people have been trying to correct this misinformation since at least 2022? I only saw a debunking post for the first time a few months ago. Lies really can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on, Pratchett was right.

[ID: a tag reading, “#don’t eat citrus if you have any mental health problems #the vitamin C is so bad for you” end ID]

losing my fucking mind over how people will come on here and say just the easiest to disprove absolutely inane lies. for no reason at all

[my-name-is-mine-to-know]

On Common Metaphors and Their Inadequacies

I know that the phrase "double-edged sword" is traditional and all, but I feel like it doesn't convey the concept of "this could serve you, but it could also hurt you" very well.

Perhaps I misunderstand the phrase, but I'm pretty sure a "double-edged sword" is supposed to be, like, a broadsword like this:

You can see that there are, in fact, two sharp edges on that sword.

Now, this doesn't seem like a bad thing that could hurt the user (of course, all weapons can hurt the user, but that's not the point). Both of those edges are pointing away from you and are separated from you via the guard. It doesn't easily harm the user, as the phrase "double-edged sword" would have you believe.

Based on this, I propose that we stop using the phrase "double-edged sword" to refer to such a situation.

Now you may be wondering, "But if not for that most wonderful, traditional, and well-established if inaccurate phrase, how would we convey the emotions and circumstances related to a situation that might as easily harm its user as it would the user's opponent?"

Well, on this momentous and revolutionary day, I, an innovator, a linguist, and a person who's usually correct, propose to you:

Nunchucks.

Yes, that's right, nunchucks.

According to Wikipedia, my brain, and probably yours too depending on who exactly you are, nunchucks, also known as nunchaku, are two sticks, traditionally wooden but often made of other things nowadays, connected by a chain. See:

You may see this and think "wow, that sure seems like a handy and easy-to-use weapon!" You are wrong.

You may not know this, but chains are kinda hard to control, and so are dense, fast-moving things. Now imagine putting those two things together and then putting them right by your hands. It doesn't make a pretty picture.

Obviously any weapon can be used well when one has the training, but I can only imagine it takes significantly more training to use hard-to-control, fast, and volatile weapons than it does use stick-but-sharp-and-heavy.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Men at Work!

Just a note, I know I mix phonetic and Cyrillic spellings of Russian in this. Mostly it's so that people can easily translate the more complex words directly.

Content: Masturbation, very mild protective/possessive behavior

It’s becoming a problem.

You think this from the overstuffed daybed recently purchased for the explicit purpose of feeding into aforementioned problem. Not that the porch is the problem, heavens no. If so much as a nail came loose, there’s a trio of men across the street all too eager to lend their hammers and bulging, glistening muscles to fix it.

Which, conveniently, is the problem.

Their muscles, that is. And how magnanimous they are with them.

Your house is nice. New. It took them three days to fix all the issues you’d been putting off for a day you were non-reclusive enough to schedule a handyman.

Your house is too nice and too new.

You’re feeding a Vegas buffet’s worth of appetites raised on old world sensibilities with no outlet for them to be expressed. There aren’t enough squeaky hinges, crooked cabinets, stuck windows, or leaky faucets in your two-bedroom for all that… chivalry. (Or whatever Krueger has that passes for chivalry’s surly cousin.)

They’ve taken to invading earlier in the evening for busy work before dinner. Cutting vegetables, tenderizing meat, cleaning dishes, setting the goddamn table.

Like, sirs, you’re a single woman with three cats and a sham of a personal life – the last time you saw a centerpiece on a domestic dining table was Christmas at your nana’s.

Until Konig shuffled in with a fistful of sunflowers and zinnias, promising that he double-checked that they’re non-toxic to cats. You didn’t have a vase, so you had to make do with an empty mason jar you were keeping for ostensible aesthetic reasons.

Now you’ve got an ongoing bouquet, kitschy salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like lemons that no one ever uses (as if your seasoning decisions are as good as god) and are contemplating cloth napkins like some kind of… of…

“Socialite?” you muse aloud. You glance at Rasputin. He blinks slowly. “Hostess? Woman of the night?”

You’re pretty sure Agatha didn’t mean that as a compliment when you overheard her gossiping to Margot yesterday. (She should really remember that if she can eavesdrop on you from her backyard, the same is true the other way around.)

You’re toying with an idea for a new series with your last one wrapping up and your solo-novel due for release come fall. Something about a rich young woman with a wild streak and her fantastically wealthy gentlemen callers…

“Scarlet woman,” you murmur aloud, eyes on the reason for your recent porch décor purchase.

Krueger is on the roof, cloth around his head to stave off the summer heat. Doing… something with shingles and a nail gun. Your face flushes with each flex of hard muscle, jump of thick tendons. The grip he has on that thing…

As inspiring as your neighbors are, they are also a huge (in many, many ways) distraction. Hence, they are a Problem.

And not just for you. On your right, you catch the flutter of curtains from your peripheral. Lisa taking another peek – to be properly scandalized, probably. (You’re not really sure what the neighborhood biddies tell themselves when they decide something is Simply Not Proper.)

“We’ll have to start charging admission,” you muse, sipping a strawberry mojito.

Curled up far too close for the weather, Little Guy chuffs and stretches. You smooth a fingertip up his little nose, between his eyes, and over the crest of his empty head.

“Jezebel,” you mumble. He yawns, tongue curling and pearly fangs gleaming. “Trollop.”

An annoyed grunt pulls your eyes forward again. Nikto is standing halfway up the porch, one foot planted on the last step like a sexy Russian Captain Morgan. His thighs stretch his workpants oh-so-nicely. There’s a smear of white paste across the material – caulking, maybe?

(You could do with a caulking too.)

“Has someone called you these?” he asks. “Who?”

You laugh. What would he even do if someone had?

“No – well, not to my face, anyway.”

He snorts, shoots a withering scowl at Agatha’s property anyway. You spin your pen around your fingers and try not to bite your lip at the way his shirt is clinging from sweat.

“Aren’t you hot?” you fuss. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Nyet, we have been in worse,” he replies, finishing the short journey up the porch. He pauses in front of you, taking in the sight of you and your cats. What does he think, seeing you lounging about all day while he and his friends(?) are working so hard? If it’s something negative, he’s never let on.

“Still,” you insist, “have you been hydrating?”

“Da, the water runs.”

You blink, put together pieces to assume he and the others are chugging tap water (probably right from the faucet) when necessary. Well, that just won’t do now, will it?

“No, no. Hold on. Rasputin, hold him hostage.”

And like the little angel he is, Ras gets up, stretches out, and begins rubbing his face all over Nikto’s pants. With him distracted, you hop to your feet and scurry inside. The house is almost uncomfortably cool after most of your morning spent outside, but you’ll only be a moment.

There’s a large ruby pitcher waiting in the fridge from last night, complete with various berries floating at the top. You use two hands to heft it out, set it on the counter, then flit to your cabinets for the travel cups you invested in for on-the-go wine sipping. Nice and insulated.

You pour a cup for each of them, stow the pitcher away again, and carry all three in triangle-formation back outside. (Maybe you should get a tray? The antique store in town probably has something pretty and lemon-themed to match the salt and pepper shakers…)

Nikto hurries to help as soon as he sees you, plucking the extra cup from your hands.

“I saw this recipe and wanted to try it since it’s been getting hotter.”

He blinks at you, then the juice.

“You don’t have to try it now, I just thought—”

Your voice abandons you as Nikto tugs his filtration mask down. The skin beneath is warped and scarred, discolored in some places. When he raises the edge of the cup to his mouth, the skin of one cheek stretches distressingly thin. You can see the individual indents of his back molars pressing against the flesh as he drinks.

You understand why he’s been hesitant to show you; it’s not easy to look at. Which makes you all the more determined to flick your eyes back to his and ask, eagerly, “What do you think? Too sweet?”

As he swallows, throat clicking, you think you hear him grunt something.

“Hm?”

“Nyet. Not too sweet. Is good, пчела.”

You grin even though you’re not sure what it means. All three of them have some nickname in their mother tongue that you can only hope is complimentary and not because they forgot your actual name.

“Good, then I can bring some to K and K while you help me with lunch. That’s why you came by, right?”

He nods. “Nearly noon.”

“That late already!” you say. Wow, staring at hot, sweaty men really makes time fly. “Alright, I was going to make chicken wraps and latkes. Could you start peeling potatoes? You know where everything is, da?”

“Da.” He clicks his tongue, luring Rasputin in and stirring Guy awake. “Come, малышу, before we leave you out here for vultures.”

“Nikto!” you scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

“I do not threaten. It is what will happen.”

You swat at his arm, but at least Little Guy has been lured into Nikto’s reach – if by nothing else than a hand has been offered and cats are helpless to resist a good sniff. Nikto scoops him up while you turn to flounce down the stairs.

“Make sure Susan doesn’t get out!” you call over your shoulder.

She was roused by your quick turnaround to get the juice cups and will certainly be stalking the door now.

Sure enough, you faintly hear him cursing in Russian as you reach the end of the yard. Luckily, you see him closing the door with all three of your demons inside, so you continue across the street.

Krueger hasn’t noticed your approach, his back to you, so you stop at the edge of the property to watch for a moment. Yep, just as good this close, too.

“Krueger!” you call. He doesn’t turn. You huff and try again. Nothing. Christ, you’re starting to think he’s ignoring you on purpose. “Sebastian!”

His head whips around alarmingly fast and finds you right there on the ground. No need to look around at all – sometimes they remind you of their profession in the oddest ways.

“Ja, ja, no need to shout,” he replies.

You open your mouth to do just that, but he’s already scaling down from the roof. You’re stunned into silence as he slides down to the edge of the roof, catches the edge, and swings down to the ground. Lands with barely more noise than one of your footsteps. It’s quick yet so graceful.

You stare (gawk, more accurately) as he saunters up, pants sinfully low on his narrow hips.

“What did you need, bienchen?” he asks. “It is too early for lunch.”

You stutter for a second before your brain reboots.

“What was that?!” you demand, a little shriller than necessary. If you don’t shriek about this, you’re going to shriek about that gorgeous chest and the tattoos and the everything else, and you absolutely cannot do that. “That was so dangerous! You’re going to break a leg!”

“You worry,” he scoffs. He shakes his head, but there’s a wicked, knowing grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes are far too bright. “That was a little jump.”

“It was not!”

“It only seemed big because you are so little, but it was nothing for me.”

“You’re not that much taller!”

“It is sweet to worry,” he coos, “but it is too hot for it, yes?”

You scrunch your nose at him, not sure if you’re annoyed or turned on or both. (Probably both. It’s annoying how hot he is. And how hot he knows he is.)

“If it’s so hot, then here.”

You all but shove the cup at him. He takes it with a flicker of genuine surprise, sniffs at the liquid, then takes a sip. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest, raises the temperature another few degrees.

“My mother used to make something like this,” he muses, expression softening. You blink, lean in automatically for a peck to your cheek. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte,” you mumble, mouth drier than Reggie’s garden.

His eyes crinkle, mouth hidden by the edge of the cup as he proceeds to chug the rest of it. A droplet slips down his jaw and skips down to his collarbone. You force your eyes away before you’re driven to do something irreparable by thirst.

“Is Konig inside?” you ask. “I have a cup for him, too.”

He grunts confirmation, tongue curling around a blueberry to coax it into his mouth.

Yep, alright, that’s about as much as you can take.

“Scooch, before the punch goes warm.”

“Punch?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow at you.

“That’s what it’s called in English. Punch.”

“That seems like it would cause misunderstanding.” Except he’s grinning as he says it, like he cherishes the idea of someone confusing the two words and starting a fight. Considering how often you catch him and Konig smacking at each other, that’s probably not a stretch.

“Just please don’t swing on anyone, yeah?”

“Only because you ask so nicely,” he croons.

You click your tongue at him. “Wipe off before going in, I don’t want Shithead to stink after crawling on you.”

He barks out his usual sharp laugh and tugs the cloth – his own t-shirt – off his head to mop up his sweat. You make a mental note to tease him about sunburn later as you slip past him.

You can hear Konig singing off-key upstairs when you open the door. The house is sweltering, only mildly cooler than outside with none of the fresh air. You grimace as you pause at the bottom of the stairs; the boys have warned you that it’s dangerous up there and it’s best not to go wandering.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like he’s using power tools at the moment.

“Konig!” you call.

“Is that you, biene?” he calls back.

You grin. “Who else would it be, huh?”

You hear his footsteps right over your head, track his gait until the first heavy boot on the stairs. He meets you at the bottom with his usual ventilator on, but he tugs it down when he sees the cup in your hand.

“Is this for me?” he asks eagerly.

“Yep! Tell me what you think!”

With none of Nikto or Kreuger’s hesitation, he knocks back a big mouthful. Licks his full lips as he lowers it, eyes bright as they land on yours.

“This is perfect,” he chirps, “so refreshing! Thank you, biene!”

You beam right back, flushed with pride that all three of them liked the recipe you “happened to find” when you saw the temperature projections for today.

“There’s more back home,” you offer, “come out of the heat.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “I will wipe off first.”

You hum agreeably, watching him slip back upstairs with great enthusiasm. Konig in a tank top and those tight cargos… summer really is delivering this year.

That evening, you sigh as you recline across your huge bed, naked and cooling off with the night breeze rolling through your window. Ras and Shithead are happily distracted wrestling each other in your forgotten towel, and Little Guy is snoozing on his personal pillow.

You stretch out, feeling a bit decadent and indulgent with moonlight spilling over your body, and let your hands wander. It’s not the high-efficiency sleep-oriented wank you usually rush through, not this time.

You unspool memories of the day with each brush of your fingertips over moisturized skin. You hum as your skin tingles, imagining Konig’s calloused palms in place of yours. He’d be so surprisingly gentle, you’re sure. Big, strong hands but he’d play with you like a precious toy. Plucking your nipples and scratching his blunt nails over the plush of your hips.

As your breathing picks up, you see Krueger’s broad shoulders flexing behind your eyelids. Imagine them bullying between your thighs, hooking your knees over. That bright glint in his eye as he smirks against your cunt. Can practically feel the curl of his tongue around your clit, eating you out messy and mean.

You’re already halfway there when you curl two fingers into your pussy. You’re so wet that your fingers slip and slide, squelch lewdly as you rock your hips, trying to find just the right angle.

You imagine Nikto clicking his tongue at your struggle. Almost hear his low, hoarse voice chiding you for doing his job while he takes over. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, you have to press a third in just to maintain the fantasy.

You want to lean back against his broad chest while he strokes your walls, listen to him and Krueger and Konig talk about you like you’re not even there, debating if you should come. Ignore you as you beg and whimper, big hands pinning you down while they draw it out.

Please, please, please…

You clap a hand over your mouth just in time, hips jerking so hard that it makes your wrist ache.

Whoops.

Well, you doubt anyone heard. It’s pretty late, and you’re on the second story anyway.

Already sleepy, you’re too lazy to close the window after a pre-bed stop in the restroom. It’s such a nice night, after all.

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[tuesdayiminlove]

imperfect for you

rockstar!eddie x fem!waitress!reader

summary: it's hard, in the early stages, to grasp who exactly it is you're dating, and if you're worth the time in the end. good thing he doesn't see anything else but you.

author's note: inspired by the ariana grande song. i can't listen to it without thinking of eddie. this is just a small blurb, but lmk if u wanna see more of them and maybe i'll turn this into a mini series :)

word count: 1.6k

Working the closing shift at the diner is a peaceful predicament. 

But one hand, a yawn escapes your lips as the clock ticks by abnormally slow, the large arrow pointing to the number eleven. You lean against the counter, organizing salt and pepper shakers in a deliberate rhythm—making sure not to disrupt the quiet peace you have made in your little bubble. 

On the other hand, it’s nice to watch the sun fall  from the steamy, glass windows from Carly’s Diner, the red and blue hues reflecting from the freshly wiped tabled that still remain sticky after being rubbed clean. When the customers thin out, it gives time for you to rest your feet and sigh in relief once the rush is over. The line cooks in the back even manage to sneak in a burger or two for you to munch on in between taking customers’ orders. 

Every once in a while, you look back out into the dark.

The parking lot is empty except for a few cars of the cooks, Sandra’s beat-up chevy, and Martin’s Bug (who is still nursing a coffee this late into the day). The clock may be ticking more towards the early hours of the day, but your mind persists in waiting for that one specific car to pull quietly into the lot.

You hear your last name get called quietly from the kitchen. You turn to see Jim staring at you. “You’re off the clock,” he adds gruffly, not giving you enough to answer before swinging the door to the kitchen shut to get back to his own work.

A sigh escapes your lips, either in relief or disappointment—you didn’t know. The clock had been ticking for hours, but it’s as if nothing has changed besides your energy levels. You throw one last glance toward the window, the rain tapping faintly against the glass, as if it might somehow bring him in. But the door stays shut, the place still, except for the quiet hum of the freezer full of cake slices and the low radio speakers, playing a song you've heard too many times tonight.

You make your way to the back of the diner, unbuttoning your cotton uniform as you pass through the kitchen, listening to the cooks all conversing over the broken fan (you thank god that you are rarely obligated to be in the back during shifts).

The locker filled with your things swings open. You toss your shirt inside, because you just washed it and didn’t see a need to bring it back home. You put on your hoodie and bring the ends to the tip of your fingertips, shivering at the cold.

“Goodnight, boys,” you call out to the rest of the cooks, they give you their own waves in return, soft smiles adorning their lips before they go back to arguing over the possibilities of installing an AC in Jim’s office (they’ve been discussing this for months—you think they should just bite the paycheck and do it already). You peek out of the window of the kitchen door to see if anyone else had walked in while you were changing.

That’s when you see him.

Sitting on one of the barstools, jet black curls fanning the tops of his forehead closing in on his eyes. You used to be afraid of his smirk, unknowing of whether or not actual feelings laid under the surface of it. But now, you know for sure: under everything is a man who is looking at home.

“I can’t get a free coffee anymore, can I?” he says, gesturing to the hoodie and jeans that you adorn instead of the regular uniform.

You roll your eyes. “It’s too late for coffee,” you say softly, voice small and guarded. Instead of following his initial orders, you reach underneath the counter to pull out a chamomile tea bag, and a white mug. You feel eyes on you as you put a kettle of water on the stove, watching the water flow before it’ll begin to simmer. “I was worried you got held back,” you add. I was worried that I wouldn’t see you tonight. Your eyes flicker to him, but you quickly look away. I miss you. Our lives are too different, do you feel that sometimes? I get sad waiting.

You aren’t sure if Eddie can sense the tension the way you can. It’s hard to stomach that he was just out there, surrounded by people who adore him, living his life while you run around the diner taking orders, waiting for the day to end in hopes of seeing you. Maybe he was late because he didn’t want to show up tonight altogether. Those anxious thoughts are the things that swirl in your mind while you and Eddie coexist in the same universe, but completely different planets. For him to be here tonight feels like some cosmic rearrangement: planets moving out of orbit to ensure that you two are in the same place or not. You don’t know if that should be considered natural or not. 

As if sensing the energy from within you, he leans closer to the counter. “I would’ve come here if this place was completely locked up and you were the only one inside,” he jokes lightheartedly, but something stirs in your stomach at the truthfulness he holds in his tone. “Is that what goes on in that head of yours?”

The kettle whines, giving you an excuse not to answer. You shut off the stove and pour the steaming water into the mug, followed by the tea bag as you use a spoon to begin mixing the contents. You pull sugar from the side of the counter and count two teaspoons, exactly how you knew he liked it. “This’ll help you sleep tonight,” you say, putting it in front of him. “No more coffee past five.”

He smiles, eyes following yours in a desperate attempt to hold your gaze for as long as possible. He always does that; says he’s obsessed with your eyes. You recall the times once or twice where you stared deeply at yourself in the mirror to desperately see what he sees. Maybe his songwriting heart is writing prose upon prose as the seconds pass by, trying to capture a truth that cannot fully be put into words. You watch with a little smile as he takes the cup in between his lips. “Thank you, bug. C’mon,” he motions at the barstool beside him and you follow, leaving your way to the opposite of the counter and taking your spot beside him. He drinks quickly, taking your hand in between his as he takes big gulps as if trying to finish it all at once. “Let’s go, yeah?”

Keeping your hand in his, he stands up and begins walking to the exit, leaving you to trail behind faithfully. The bell above the door rings softly as you both step out of the diner. The cool night air bites at your skin and you find yourself edging closer to Eddie. He trades holding your hand to wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to catch some of his warmth. His footsteps are soft on the sidewalk, and your feet match him at a perfect pace, as if your minds moved in sync with each other. The planets are orbiting as they should.

He stops beside the passenger side car, hands in his pockets, and glances over at you. The neon from the diner’s sign glows faintly on his face, but his eyes are still all warm for you. He pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the car before opening the door for you.

“Ah–shit,” he mutters lowly, peering into his passenger seat. You peer in from behind him to see that his guitar is sat where he gestured you. You watch as he delicately takes the instrument, and lightly passes it off to the backseat. He wipes his hands dramatically, motioning at the now empty seat. “For you, bug.” You giggle. “Thanks.” 

Eddie’s car smells like a mix of vanilla and weed—a combined scent you’ve slowly come to associate with him and the comfort he carried. Who would’ve thought?

You see, dating Eddie is a peaceful predicament.

On one hand, you find it hard to believe that you have to share him with thousands of other people. His profession isn’t a topic of conversation you shy away from, but it isn’t every day you go into an in-depth conversation on how he spends most of his nights onstage, riffing on his guitar as his forehead catches a sweat from the velocity of his words spilling onto a microphone. You don’t talk about the crowd, the endless sea of people who show up to see him—just to watch, just to bask in the glow of his presence, while you get to experience it all for free.

Sometimes (if you were to ask Eddie, it’s more like all the time), you get anxious about how fast his life moves.Fast enough to match the rhythm of his mind, always racing ahead, always chasing the next thing. You, however, were all calculated and anxious, words only slipping after serious consideration.

But on the other hand, no one else holds your hand as they drive down the streetlight-filled roads to your apartment. No one else kisses each fingertip while you recount your draining day that is arguably less fast-paced than his, but he never interjects to say that. He never points out the insecurities she holds for being so different from him; mentally if not physically. Instead, he reassures you without a conversation needing to be had.

You lay your head against the passenger window and stare at his side profile, paying attention to the street though you know that his mind is elsewhere.

(You.) 

[theirishwolfhound]

I do love the idea of an unhinged reader. Not like brutally unhinged but... like the kind that is harmlessly annoying and is just a brat to Task Force 141.

Like the mother fuckers nickname is Menace and they're somehow still alive after everything so they make it everyone's problem.

They're great at what they do, amazing even— but no team wants menaces like Menace, not even the heavens nor the hells want the damn person.

This is the same Menace who wears a devilish half-mask, but only above their mouth so people can see their shit-eating grin (think similar to the ghoul mask above) as they leave small firecrackers under the lids of toilet seats, or so people notice the way their lips curl up in mock disgust when someone is talking.

Menace who only goes through with the SAS training to one up another soldier they despised, enough to have sicked a pack of squirrels on that they personally hand fed a few days after— they even bonded enough with the little fuckers that when they were finally transferred out to be someone else's problem, the squirrels would steal the remaining soldiers foods.

Laswell, whose grand idea of knocking the boys down a peg since she's tired of their shenanigans includes getting this Menace of a person to join 141 with faint threats of blackmail— to which Coporal Menace respects, leading Kate to being the only one who is not subjected to the dumpster fire that is about to happen, but is only encouraged by her wife.

Price, who in his right mind, nearly rejects the idea of this misfit joining because of their turnover rate but gives in when Laswell tells him it would be worth it— that her wife likes them and they're an excellent solider after all.

Immediately upon arrival, Menace lives up to their name— pissing on the side of the building as if to mark their new territory before deciding it would be a good idea to rile up the behemoth of a man by asking Price: "Didn't anyone tell the poor bastard that Halloween was four fuckin' months ago? Look at 'em he looks emo."

It wasn't until then that the poor Captain realized how much of an untamed brat his new corporal was— only to be further set in after the first two weeks on base.

Sure Menace got along with Soap, but they were far too alike for Menace's likings and Gaz, sweet sweet Gaz, gave them a few too man odd glances and playfully snide remarks for their liking— meanwhile Ghost had made them scrub the bathroom from top to bottom with a small sponge, and well they could already see the forming regret in Price's eyes.

So Menace did what they did best.

It started out simple: silently attaching balloons on strings to the back of their clothes without them noticing, flipping all of the furniture upside down during the middle of the night, purposefully mocking every single move of one of the operators for a full day, sugar in the salt shaker or salt in the sugar dish, you name it they did it.

Glitterbomb the captain? Oh yeah, and there's still glitter in his mustache.

Tied the two sergeants' doors together so that neither could open it? Done and done, they were locked in their rooms for a good hour until someone cut the rope.

Move the lieutenant’s furniture two inches to the right so that he would constantly stub his toe? Yeah, you can practically see him fuming after every trip to his office.

And what irked the lads the most? Menace kept getting away without being caught— managing to even out sneak Ghost, which the only reason for it is: Menace knowing they don't know what they look like without that mask. So obviously they take it off and blend in with the many other people on base.

They made a fool of their sergeants, their lieutenant, and their captain and it was time to get back at the cunning prankster— but Menace grew suspicious. Usually they would have been booted out by a normal team by then, but what Menace came to realize a bit too late was that Task Force 141 was not normal.

And reality came to a head when Menace was called to Price's office to collect something— only for that something to be a bucket of ice cold water falling onto their head and for the captain to tell their now soaking wet and cold Coporal: "Game's on, brat."

PT 1 | PT 2

[lemoncrushh]

Fratboy Harry - Part 1

Summary: Harry Styles was a boy with a reputation, one that you couldn't care less about. Yet one night at a frat party changed everything.

Warnings: Smut, drinking, angst, a very cocky Harry. 18+ ONLY!!

Part 1 Word Count: 1434

STORY PAGE

Harry Styles was a cocky asshole. You knew it, everyone within your circle of friends knew it. Hell, everyone on campus probably knew it. He had a reputation, and although you wouldn't say you knew him well, you'd run into him enough to make your own assumptions.

So why in God's name you had allowed yourself to be alone with him for a few minutes, you'd never know. There was no arguing that he was attractive. You would even go as far as to say he was incredibly hot and sexy, and most likely amazing in bed. But you'd been warned too many times at various parties to stay away from him because he was bad news and would only break your heart.

But tonight you didn't care. Your heart had been broken and patched up so many times, you doubted it even beat the same. You knew the difference between love and sex, and right now love was the last thing on your mind.

You'd decided to take your drink with you outside on the back porch, feeling the need for some fresh air. The party inside had gotten loud and obnoxious to say the least. Your friends were chatting up some guys, trying to divvy them up between them, but you were less than interested.

Leaning against the deck railing, looking out into the back yard, you heard a voice behind you.

"Nice night, isn't it?"

You craned your neck to see him standing two feet behind you, plaid shirt halfway unbuttoned and beer in his hand. He wore that cocky smirk on his face as he stared at you, waiting for a response. Rolling your eyes, you turned back around.

Oblivious to your contempt, Harry stepped up beside you, resting his forearms on the railing. You didn't dare look at him, though your body buzzed with the energy that his gave off.

"Supposed to be a full moon tonight," he commented. "Not sure if we could see it from here."

When you merely responded with a nod, Harry shifted to face you.

"Do you not talk?" he inquired.

"Of course I talk," you scoffed. "If there's someone worth talking to."

"Ouch," Harry placed his hand over his heart, feigning offense.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle a giggle. Finally you looked up at him. "Sorry," you muttered. "That was rude."

Harry shrugged, "Can't say it's the rudest thing anyone's said to me. But I accept your apology."

You gave him a soft smile which he returned. Your stomach did a flip and you just knew the color was rising to your cheeks, so you quickly lifted your glass to your mouth.

"What are you drinking?" Harry pointed.

You swallowed. "No idea," you chuckled, suddenly realizing it yourself. "Probably has rum in it."

Harry leaned forward, taking a whiff of your drink, a fruity concoction that someone had made in the kitchen.

"Yeah, smells like it," he grimaced.

"It's not bad," you shrugged before taking another sip.

"I got a better idea," he said, grabbing your hand. Before you could argue, he pulled you toward the door and back into the house.

Normally you didn't give two shits about how others felt about you. But walking into the kitchen with Harry, you suddenly felt self-conscious, like all eyes were on you. You weren't particularly shy, but not the most popular girl either. Someone like Harry Styles was not usually the kind of company you kept and...well...let's just say he kept a lot of females company.

A few people greeted him, giving him high fives or fist bumps. Trying not to feel out of place, you leaned back against the counter, taking the last sips of your rum cocktail, setting the empty glass on the counter.

"I think it's time for some shots," declared Harry, grabbing the bottle of Jose Cuervo. "Who's got a shot glass?"

With a cheer of agreement, Harry was quickly handed a shot glass and a salt shaker. Your eyes nearly popped out of your head when he took hold of your hand, brought his other thumb to his mouth to wet it, and swiped it across your wrist. You were sure your jaw was wide open when he then shook salt over the wet sliver of skin. Your hand still in his, he lifted it to his mouth and swiped his tongue across the salt. His eyes focused on you, Harry lifted the glass now filled with the tequila, and shot it back in one gulp. You barely noticed someone hand him a wedge of lime until it was sucking on it.

Your entire body shook. That was the most erotic thing you'd ever witnessed, and you were sure this time Harry noticed you blushing.

"Your turn, Y/N."

Wait, what? He knew your name? Being who he was, of course you knew his name, but he knew yours? Holy hell!

"Um..." you stammered. "I...don't know."

Before you could argue any further, Harry licked his thumb just like he had before, only this time he tilted his head and swiped it across his neck, just under his perfect jaw line. Dammit.

"You don't like tequila?" he asked, lightly shaking salt on himself.

"Uh...no...it's not that, I-"

Someone you didn't know handed you a shot glass then, the yellow liquor filled to the rim. Looking between it and Harry, you froze.

"Lick my neck, love," Harry insisted, taking the tequila from you.

"Um..." you hesitated. "I..."

"Oh, come on! One lick won't kill you."

What on earth had just happened? Suddenly, you remembered who you were with, and why his reputation preceded him. You should have walked away right then and there, but instead you found your tongue on his salty skin, taking a lick. Then you took the shot glass back from Harry, throwing it back and emptying it in one large swallow.

Your throat burned as you looked at him again, a lime wedge between his teeth. Giving you that cocky smirk once more, he beckoned you closer, wanting you to take it from him.

Closing your mouth around it, your lips met his. You'd never feel so loose and uninhibited in your life. It was as though the warm liquid had seeped down to your toes and you were no longer afraid of any consequences. You faintly heard the sounds of hoots and hollers around you, but you didn't care. It was just a show for them, and you were the girl of the moment. No doubt Harry had done this a number of times with a number of other girls. This was no different, and you had no reason to think you were anything special.

You felt Harry's hands on your waist as you pulled away from him, the taste of lime, salt and tequila on your tongue. Tossing the lime wedge in a nearby trash can, Harry continued to grin at you.

"Another, yeah?"

You quickly shook your head before you could change your mid. "No, I'm...I'm good."

"You sure?"

You nodded with a smile. Harry still had a hand on you as you felt his other reach behind and pull you closer. Your lips met once again as he placed a tender kiss on your mouth, gently sliding his tongue inside. The heat that ran throughout your body, pumping the blood through your veins couldn't be ignored. But you knew that you couldn't let it continue. You ran your hands up his chest and down his arms before unwrapping them from you.

"What's wrong?" he asked in a low voice, his face dropping.

"Nothing," you replied. "I should probably go. Have fun, Harry."

"What?" he quirked his brows in confusion. "Where are you going?"

"To find my friends," you gestured toward the living room.

"I'll go with you," he offered.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "It's okay. This..." you looked around the kitchen, "this is your entourage. Your scene. You hardly know me."

"I wanna get to know you, Y/N."

You rolled your eyes. "How do you even know my name?"

Harry glared at you until the corners of his mouth began to curl up. "I asked somebody before I followed you outside," he shrugged.

You shook your head again, though you couldn't really say you were surprised, nor were you really mad. You supposed you should be flattered that he asked about you, but still, you knew you were just another conquest to him, another notch in his belt.

"See ya, Harry," you said with a wave as you turned and left the room.

If you enjoyed, please like, comment, reblog or send me a msg!

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[slippinmickeys]

Got a sort-of prompt on Twitter, and went with it:

“Daddy, what is war like?”

Mulder looks at his son across the Formica table. There are action figures standing at the ready amongst the silverware, salt and pepper shaker stand-ins for Bad Guys. It is just the two of them, Emily and Scully off shopping for back-to-school clothes.

“War is loud,” he says to his son. “And scary.”

The waitress comes by with their order, chipper and smiling, clanking down a short stack of pancakes in front of William, and an order of sausage Mulder will insist he eat for the protein. A Denver omelet for the gent and a refill of hot coffee, so thin and weak that Mulder is pretty sure it’s on its second trip through the filter—barely worth the $1.50 he’ll pay for it.

Mulder reaches forward to cut the pancakes for the first grader, reminds his son to lay the paper napkin over his lap. The boy pours far too much syrup onto the plate in front of him and it spreads over the side and onto the tabletop, leaving a quarter-sized circle of brown liquid goop that his father eyes warily. They will both be sticky by the time they return to their car.

“Did you kill people?”

Mulder is taken aback by the question and the forward way his son asks it.

“William?”

“Mommy says you shot people.”

Mulder breathes out, a little relieved. He takes a bite of his breakfast, chews.

“‘Shooting’ is another way of saying I take pictures,” he explains. “I never hurt anyone. I…I documented what happened during the war.”

“What’s ‘documented’ mean?”

His son takes a huge bite of pancake, and the raw, animal part of Mulder’s brain waits to see if the child will choke.

“It means I photographed things that happened. So that people remember how bad it was.”

William considers his answer thoughtfully. His hair is the same color as Scully’s but more wiry and thick. It grows out of the crown of his head like a copper helmet. It takes everything Mulder has not to constantly run his fingers through it.

“Will we go to war?” William asks matter-of-factly.

“No,” Mulder answers quickly. “No, bud, that won’t happen here.”

The green pepper in his food is crunchy and cut a little too big. He fishes a piece out from the pocket of his lower jaw with his tongue.

“Can you take a bite of sausage, please?” he instructs.

William makes a face, but complies.

“Emily says she wasn’t your first baby. That it died. Because of what happened in the war in Africa,” the boy says with his mouth full.

The bite of the omelet gets stuck in Mulder’s throat.

“Was it my brother or my sister?” William presses, blithely unaware of the emotional impropriety of his question.

Mulder is too stunned to speak for a moment. He had honestly never before considered the child he and Scully conceived in Africa as a sibling to his children, though of course it was.

“I don’t…we never…we don’t know.”

William has no idea the earthquake he has caused in his father, the tectonic plates that have shifted under the hardened crust of Mulder’s memory, of his heart.

“I think it was a boy like me,” William says innocently. He takes a drink of orange juice which leaves a watery mustache above his lip. The boy sets the plastic cup down on the table with conviction. “And I think war is bad.”

Mulder can only nod his agreement.

“If I finish my sausage, can we get ice cream later?” The child has already moved on though his words have left rippling eddies of feeling sloshing through his father’s pneuma, his declaration like a rock thrown into a pond.

Mulder’s eyes wander over the table, land on the kids menu which is smeared with the blue wax of a cheaply made crayon; a connect-the-dots dinosaur, an abandoned game of tic-tac-toe.

He finally finds his voice. “Yeah, we can get ice cream.”

William brightens, happily stuffs an entire link of sausage into his mouth.

The waitress swings by to check on them, tops off Mulder’s coffee without asking. Her apron has faded to the same eggshell white of the walls of 1055. There is a smear of berry jam on it that looks to Mulder, for a very long moment, like blood.

[anistarrose]

If you have a lot of dietary restrictions and/or perpetually low spoons that interfere with cooking, then I can't overstate the return on your investment from figuring what spices and seasonings you can eat, and keeping them on hand.

Physical and mental health issues, let alone in combination, can feel like they're consigning us to a depressing, monotonous experience of the same unexciting foods over and over and over again. But giving yourself the tools to be creative, with very little actual effort — just a shake of a shaker — is actually a lifesaver in terms of preserving the joy you get out of eating.

Rehydrated mashed potatoes from the box are usually the platonic ideal of "meh," but if you just put some garlic powder, rosemary, and/or [spice of your choice] on them, they're suddenly a tasty treat. On the other hand, you can sprinkle some cinnamon on fruit, if that makes eating fruit easier — you can even do so after you directly take a bite out of an apple or peach or pear, if you're not able to cut it up.

The same goes for applesauce, instant oatmeal, and the like — you can always kick it up a notch if it's getting monotonous. If by some coincidence, you're exactly like me and you're allergic to every snack food sold in the universe except plain old depressing rice cereal, microwave that bitch with some oil, salt, garlic, and paprika. It's like 10% more effort than the last few things in this post but so worth it.

Anyways, I bring this up now because I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about spices (and spice racks) being a great things to ask for as a gift, whether over the holidays or otherwise — and especially if you can't think of anything else. As long as it's not a super expensive brand, a couple small jars are in a pretty reasonable price range for gifts, and they can go a long way.

Salt, garlic, rosemary, paprika, cinnamon, and allspice are my mainstays. (Just beware allium or nightshade allergies and similar, if applicable.) It takes experimentation to figure out what you like and what works for you, but it's worth it to make those depression meals a little bit less depressing.

[sparxwrites]

The Body Shots Incident

A prequel-ish to this nonsense, aka "the origin story of the Hermitcraft server party tequila ban". cw for lots of alcohol consumption and excessive innuendo [ao3]

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mumbo, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s trying to delay the inevitable – primarily, being shirtless in front of a lot of people with Scar ‘Godlike Abs’ Goodtimes right next to him for comparison. It’s not working very well. “Just, I can think of, off the top of my head, oh, sixteen ways this could go wrong. At least three of them end with us respawning. At least.”

“Oh, no!” Scar, already reclining across a table in a distinctly louche manner, is nude from the waist up and looking distinctly self-satisfied about it. If anybody present knew who Jeff Goldblum was, multiple comparisons would have already been made. “It’s a terrible idea, and it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Scar, unlike Mumbo, had taken his shirt off with precisely zero shame and absolutely maximum enthusiasm as soon as the whole concept had been suggested. It had taken three people – Bdubs included, remarkably – to stop him from removing his belt and pants as well.

Mumbo’s unclear whether the nearly-double-digits-worth of brightly coloured cocktails are to blame for Scar’s enthusiastic stripping, or whether this is just a Scar Thing. Probably just a Scar Thing, if he’s being honest. The man’s shredded. If Mumbo had pecs and abs like that, he’d take his shirt off all the time too.

“Okay, both of you, lie down,” says Pearl, officiously. Or as officious as one can be, after multiple bottles of Prosecco and a round of Jaeger bombs – which is frankly not very. She’s wielding a salt shaker in one hand, like it’s a hand grenade; two lime slices in the other, like– some other kind of weapon. Or something. Mumbo’s not exactly sober right now, either. Similes are a little beyond him at this point.

Scar, already draped elegantly across his own table, gestures to Mumbo with a raised eyebrow.

Mumbo, very reluctantly, sheds his shirt.

Grian, loitering next to Impulse, wolf-whistles in what Mumbo assumes is supposed to be a supportive sort of way. It doesn’t feel very supportive. Doesn’t do much to actually support him, either. Mostly, it just makes him go bright red – brighter red than he’d already gone, anyways, at having so much skin exposed in a room full of people.

Though admittedly not that many people, realistically. There’s him and Grian, as a team; Scar and Bdubs, as the opposing team; and Impulse, the judge of this ill-conceived competition. And Pearl, of course, as his self-proclaimed beautiful assistant. But pretty much every other Hermit is on the other side of the room, busy getting drunk and being noisy. Usual server party stuff.

It’s only them over here, with the two tables in the room not currently covered in alcohol and cups, because Grian and Bdubs had had a stupid argument, and decided that clearly the best way to solve it was a body shots competition, of all things. Which, yeah, sure, tracks as far as drunk Bdubs and Grian logic goes, but– Mumbo’s not even sure how you score a body shots competition.

That’s what they have Impulse for, though. Impulse knows how to judge a body shots competition. Probably.

So there’s not that many people watching, by the grace of any god paying attention. It’s just that, well. Mumbo has his shirt off. Right next to Scar Goodtimes, abs god extraordinaire. And Mumbo’s got no abs, and skin pale enough a vampire would flinch from it, and a soft little belly, and enough body hair it probably technically counts as thermal insulation.

And, to put the icing on the misery cake, pert little nipples. It’s not his fault it’s bloody cold with his shirt off but, for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anyone from commenting on their pertness.

“Nice nips, Mumbo,” says Grian, as though he’d read Mumbo’s mind in the worst, most malicious way possible. He cackles when Mumbo turns self-consciously pink. “Hey! That was a compliment!”

Impulse clears his throat. “No– no commenting on competitors’ nipples without their explicit consent. Well-established rule of body shots competitions that I definitely didn’t just make up. I mean. Preferably no commenting on nipples at all but–”

“Don’t worry, Grian,” interjects Scar, cheerfully. “You can comment on my nipples all you like.”

“Thanks, Scar. That’s great. I appreciate the offer.” Grian does not, under any possible stretch of the imagination, sound like he appreciates the offer.

“Hey!” snaps Bdubs, immediately, outraged on a reflex. “No commenting on my competition partner’s nipples, okay?! Get your own!”

Grian, moderately drunk and visibly bewildered, flounders. “Get… my own nipples…?”

“Yeah! Get your own nipples, Mister!”

“Anyway,” says Impulse, loudly, clapping his hands together. Several Hermits look over. A few drift over for a closer look. Mumbo’s insides curl up like a dying spider. “If we could, uh, get things started…? Pearl–?”

Pearl crosses her arms.

“–sorry, my beautiful assistant, Pearl, could you do the salt, if our contestants want to lie down…?”

“On it!” says Pearl, with entirely too much glee. She approaches, menacing, salt shaker and lime slices in hand.

Both Scar and Mumbo, rather hurriedly, scramble to arrange themselves appropriately for their salting, and then endeavour to lie very, very still. They get a lime slice placed besides their head for their troubles.

Mumbo is chosen as the first victim for salting. He holds himself frozen on the table – deer-in-the-headlights frozen, even – as Pearl, tongue between her teeth in concentration, begins to tip salt in a line down his chest, right between his pecs. It’s a pretty wobbly line. Mumbo blames the Jaeger bombs.

“This is ridiculous,” mutters Grian, watching his half-naked best friend get salted like a slug by a drunk Australian. This, Mumbo feels, is a bit rich coming from the man who enthusiastically agreed to the idea when Bdubs proposed it.

Bdubs glowers at him by way of reply. Impulse just looks tired.

When Mumbo has had the appropriate salt applied, Pearl moves onto Scar. She wields the salt shaker like a loaded gun, and is doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Those in her way move out of the way, very quickly, as she heads to Scar’s table.

“Do not get that on my nipples, by the way, Pearl,” says Scar, firmly, craning his head up as she approaches to watch the proceedings. “I don’t want any chafing!”

Pearl, already struggling to keep anything so much as approaching a straight face, barely manages to set the salt down before she doubles over in hysterics. “Im– Impulse–” she manages, wheezing, her grip on the edge of the table the only thing keeping her upright. “Gonna– tagging– tagging you in, mate, oh, oh my–”

Impulse, with an apologetic twist of the mouth in both Mumbo and Scar’s directions, takes up the salt.

His attempt at setting up a line of salt down Scar’s chest goes significantly better than Pearl’s did with Mumbo, primarily because he’s not a bottle and a half of prosecco down and sloppy drunk with it – just a few beers tipsy, instead. In short order, the pair of them are salted, with a lime slice ready to go in their mouths when the competition begins. Then he heads off to fill shot glasses of tequila, with the tongue-between-teeth concentration and unsteady hand of the moderately inebriated.

Bdubs and Grian take the opportunity to approach and examine their victims.

“Cute,” says Grian, and pokes Mumbo in the bellybutton.

Mumbo yelps, raising a hand to swat at him, before freezing when he remembers the salt. “Hey! No– no. I am sensitive. No poking.”

“Ooh,” interrupts Bdubs, peering nosily over at the competition. At Mumbo’s chest, specifically, and the thick fuzz of dark body hair growing across it. Much of the salt has ended up across it – or, rather, beneath it, within it, and amongst it. Mumbo’s not looking forward to tomorrow’s shower. “Look at that. Very nice. Lucky you!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Lucky?” he asks, disbelievingly. “I– look, no offence, Mumbo, I’ve got nothing against a good bit of chest hair, but… I’m just not convinced licking it is going to be the best sensation in the world.”

“Lucky,” repeats Bdubs, firmly.

“You want to swap…?” Grian is once more visibly bewildered. Though, admittedly, that’s not an uncommon expression to find people around Bdubs wearing. “Because that’s fine, I don’t mind–”

“I do not want you two to swap,” mutters Mumbo, nervously.

He’s concertedly ignored by everyone involved.

“Aha!” Bdubs grabs Grian by the front of his jumper with both hands. “So it is true. You are trying to steal Scar from me, and you do want to lick his– Scar! Stop laughing, you’ll ruin your salt.”

Scar manages to muffle himself down to stifled sniggers, with what looks like a Herculean effort of drunken willpower. “C’mon, Bdubs. Leave poor Grian alone. We can discuss him licking me when I don’t have salt, uh, perilously close to my delicate nipples.”

“How’re you managing pel– perir– pelirousy after nine cocktails?” demands Mumbo. “You can’t even bloody say that sober!”

He is, once again, ignored.

“I don’t want to discuss him licking you! I want him to not lick you! That’s not his job.” Bdubs sounds aggrieved. He does, however, obediently release the front of Grian’s jumper, stepping back to give the other man the stink eye. “He’s not Deputy Mayor, now, is he.”

Bdubs is, technically speaking, not Deputy Mayor either. It’s several months and an entire world since he was Deputy Mayor. But everyone present is aware that, for Bdubs at least, Deputy Mayor is less a job title and more an eternal-obsessive-crony-to-Mister-Scar-Goodtimes state of mind.

“Since when has licking the Mayor been part of the Deputy Mayor’s job?” asks Mumbo, of no one in particular, though he suspects the answer is since Bdubs got the job.

“I do not want to lick Scar,” says Grian, firmly. “I’d just, you know, prefer not to lick Mumbo’s chest hair. No offence, Mumbo.”

“Some taken, mate, I’m not gonna lie.”

Scar pouts. “You don’t want to lick my–?”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and uh, sentient mosses,” says Impulse, returning with the shot glasses. Pearl has given up on proceedings entirely, sinking down to sit against one of the table legs and looking distinctly out of it. Not out of it enough, however, to have surrendered the prosecco bottle she has in a death-grip. “If we could maybe get back on track with the competition…?”

“How’re we scoring this?” asks Grian, because of course he does. Grian plays to win, after all.

“Uhhh.” Impulse, preoccupied with setting the slightly precarious shot glasses down on Mumbo and Scar’s belly without spilling them, flounders. “I was thinking maybe, like, speed, and style, and… Spanish-ness…?”

“Tequila’s from Mexico, idiot,” interjects Bdubs, helpfully.

“Mexican-ness, then.”

“None of us are from Mexico, though,” Grian points out. “Or Spain. Or anywhere in South America or Europe, actually.”

“Fine! Fine, speed and style, fine, can we just– god, I need a drink. Can we get this over with so I can get a drink?” Impulse’s voice has picked up the whining desperation of a man powerfully regretting several recent life choices.

“Yes,” agrees Bdubs, emphatically. “I would really like to get started, oh yes.” He’s looking at Scar, laid out on the table, as though he’s a slab of particularly well-cooked steak. Scar – somewhat worryingly – preens beneath his hungry gaze.

Mumbo’s relieved when Grian, deciding for reasons known only to himself to be reasonable for once in his life, tosses Impulse a casual salute by way of agreement.

“Alright.” Impulse inhales, and exhales, as though to centre himself. Or perhaps brace himself. Either way, it adds an unexpected gravity to the situation which Mumbo could really do without. Bad enough he’s shirtless on a table covered in salt, without it feeling like some big deal. “Ready, everyone? Right. Lime slices in your mouths, Scar and Mumbo. Bdubs and Grian– On your marks. Get set. Go!”

Grian goes for speed. He’s done the shot, licked the salt, and bitten the lime out of Mumbo’s mouth before Mumbo even really knows what’s happened. He’s kind of grateful for it, honestly – like ripping a bandaid off.

Bdubs, of course, goes for style.

The noise Scar makes as Bdubs drags a tongue up his belly is positively pornographic. Bdubs is flushed red-cheeked from the shot, and Scar is flushed red from a tongue dragged across sensitive skin and taut muscle. By the time Bdubs cranes his head up to take the lime from Scar’s mouth, it’s more of a lewd, open-mouthed kiss than anything else. It’s like watching a train wreck. None of them can look away.

“…Well.” Impulse clears his throat, awkwardly. His nose looks a little pink. Even odds on whether it’s from the alcohol, or the display he’s just witnessed. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna have to call that one for Scar and Bdubs, guys? Um.”

Scar whoops, gleeful. “Yes! Bdubs, it’s official. We’re the best.”

“I,” announces Bdubs, with the smug delight of a man who’s just licked a line of salt off of Scar Goodtimes’s abs and gotten an award about it, “am going to find us some more tequila. To celebrate.”

He’s gone before any of them have the time – let alone the inclination or recovered cognitive faculties – to point out that that’s probably a bad idea.

There’s a long moment of silence, as they all slowly come to terms with what they’ve just done.

“Oh, god,” says Grian, miserably, breaking the quiet. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, and comes back with something dark and wiry clutched between them. “I’ve got bloody– Mumbo hair, in my mouth–”

Mumbo is not looking at Grian. Mumbo is busy staring at Scar, still laid out across the table and looking quite pleased with himself. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I think the rather more pressing issue is that Scar’s got–”

“Absolutely no need to comment on that,” says Scar, cheerfully, finally sitting up. There’s still a little salt clinging to his abs, shimmering and crystalline. It draws the eye to it, and then encourages the eye to move further down, to his happy trail, and then on to his– “Perfectly natural reaction to getting your stomach licked. You wouldn’t shame a man for his natural reactions, now, would you, Mumbo?”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact with Scar, Mumbo averts his gaze. As he does, he mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “Bloody well would.”

He is, once again, ignored.

Scar is saved from having to discuss the particulars of his natural reactions by a loud crash from the opposite side of the room. Grian, sensing trouble occurring that he’s not yet involved with, whips his head around with velociraptor-like enthusiasm and speed.

“Bdubs, please, I just really think you don’t need any more–”

“I won!” Bdubs is yelling, holding the bottle of half-full tequila above his head as high as he can – which, given his height, is not very. Somehow, despite being far taller and significantly more sober, Xisuma’s attempts at grabbing it are going exceedingly poorly indeed. “I won, I licked Mayor Scar so, so good and I won, which means I get to celebrate, okay? With tequila.”

“No– no, Bdubs, you– come on, please, that’s very– you know what you get like when you drink too much of that, please, I really don’t–”

“Let him drink!” yells Keralis, from the sidelines, with both his characteristic lasciviousness and the motivated enthusiasm of a man who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. “It’s a democracy, Shishwammy. Let Bubbles drink! Or at least let us vote on whether he can drink. I vote yes.”

If it goes to a vote, Mumbo knows, Xisuma will lose. Keralis is not the only person who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. Far from it, in fact.

“Bdubs–” wails Xisuma, now weeping openly. Bdubs is stanced for combat, knees bent and arms wide like a sumo wrestler, the neck of the tequila bottle gripped in one fist. His moss hoodie and undershirt, somewhere in the proceedings, have vanished from his body. A circle of interested Hermits, sensing the evening’s entertainment, is beginning to gather around the scene.

Scar, Grian, and Mumbo watch from the other side of the room in companionable silence for a long moment – soaking up the general chaos, and attempting to process what’s just happened, respectively.

Then Scar swings his legs off the table, and stands up, with an admirable amount of grace and balance for a man nine cocktails down and counting. It’s an ongoing, server-wide mystery that Scar somehow becomes more coordinated and better with his words when drunk, and it’s always struck Mumbo as deeply unfair. “…Do you think we should go help?” he asks, mildly, watching Xisuma make yet another failed grab for the tequila.

“Absolutely not,” says Mumbo, immediately and very firmly.

As he watches, Bdubs downs two large mouthfuls of the tequila without flinching, and manages to duck Xisuma’s lunge with the poise of a ballet dancer. Xisuma, regrettably helmetless, lunges head-first into a table full of bottles instead. The resulting crash shakes the floorboards. “I do not want to get mixed up in that, thank you.”

“I think we should go and make it worse, actually,” says Grian, brightly. He is, Mumbo notices, holding a prosecco bottle – prised from Pearl’s now-empty hands where she’s slumped half-snoring beneath the table. He takes a sip, directly from the bottle, and hums appreciatively.

“Why,” says Mumbo, weakly.

“‘Cos it’ll be funny. Duh.” Grian offers the bottle to Mumbo, and wrinkles his nose when Mumbo doesn’t take it.

“Excellent point, Grian.” Scar swipes the bottle instead, tilting it up and taking a hearty chug – because that’s the part of the evening they’ve gotten to, apparently. Chugging prosecco from a bottle. “See! This is why you’re the brains of the operation. However, consider– you could also go make out in the bathroom.”

“With who?”

Scar strikes a pose, arms out, abs flexed. “With me, of course!”

“Eww. No,” says Grian, as though he hasn’t made out with Scar at nine out of the last ten server parties. Mumbo should know. He’s been keeping track. For the Boatem Pool, of course. It’s important to have those kinds of numbers to crunch, when you’re trying to work out how and when your best friend and your other best friend are going to have sex for the first time. Which is, of course, a perfectly normal thing to be trying to work out, thank you very much.

“I just want you both know,” Mumbo interrupts, “that I want no part in this.”

Grian turns to look at him, and Mumbo quails beneath the intensity of the mischief in his gaze. “What,” he says, “not even the bathroom makeouts?” as though he hadn’t been objecting to said makeouts mere moments ago.

Mumbo is just a heartbeat too slow in his denial.

“Mumbo. Mumbo!” says Scar, brightly. He’s grinning at him, a salesman’s smile, a snake’s smile, all teeth and smirk. “If you want the rewards of bathroom makeouts, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of doing crimes with us! You should know that by now.”

“What does that mean?!” Mumbo’s beginning to wish he’d taken the prosecco when it was offered.

“It means you should come with me and we can both take our pants off in front of Xisuma,” whispers Scar, secretively. “As a distraction. So Grian can do crimes, while everyone’s distracted by our ahmayzin’, uhhh– underwear.”

Scar’s natural reaction, Mumbo cannot help but notice, has not quite subsided yet. And, despite his trousers sitting low on his hips, there’s not so much as hint of underwear peeking out above the waistband.

“Underwear,” Mumbo repeats, slowly. “Right.”

“Absolutely not,” says Grian, but Scar is already gone, sprinting towards the Hermits ringing Xisuma and Bdubs’ ongoing tequila battle. “No! Scar–! Keep your damn pants on!” And then he’s gone, too, chasing after Scar. Or the promise of chaos.

Or, more realistically, both.

In their aftermath, Mumbo sinks – miserable, shirtless, belly hair still faintly damp from being licked – to the floor. Consumed by his own bewilderment, it takes him a moment to realise there’s a hand on his head. Pearl, apparently awake again, is petting his hair gently.

“There, there, mate,” she says, sympathetically. Her eyes are bleary, but her hands are remarkably steady as she pulls a fresh bottle of prosecco from god-knows-where and uncorks it with her teeth in a manoeuvre that leaves Mumbo staring, impressed. “Prosecco?”

“…Yeah, actually,” says Mumbo, as the noises of tequila-based disaster from the other side of the room increase, abruptly, in volume. “Yeah. You know what? Why not.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfolding. Xisuma is on the floor, weeping. Bdubs is shirtless, teeth bared, wielding a now mostly-empty bottle of tequila. Scar is invisible through the throng of other hermits now watching, heckling, egging them on – but Grian is yelling, “Scar! Put your trousers back on!”, which gives them a pretty clear mental picture.

“They’re going to have sex in that bathroom, aren’t they?” says Mumbo, absently, after a while. The prosecco has settled, warm and fizzy, in bottom of his already thoroughly alcohol-lined stomach. A pair of trousers just flew out of the middle of the Hermit huddle, which is rapidly looking less like a circle and more like an active, good-natured brawl.

“Yeah. Probably.” Pearl pauses, thoughtfully, and makes grabby hands at the prosecco bottle. Mumbo obediently passes it over. “That is, if they don’t just give up and fuck right in the middle of the party.”

Mumbo ignores that last bit, because if he starts thinking about that then he’s a bit concerned he’s going to have a natural reaction of his own. Across the room, Bdubs has begun wailing in misery, in the way only Bdubs can. “I should probably be there,” he says. “If they are. For Boatem Pool purposes, you know?”

“Boatem Pool purposes,” repeats Pearl, solemnly. “Totally.”

She passes the prosecco back, and fist-bumps the bottle in solidarity when he takes it. And then they sit there, in silence, sharing the rest of the drink between them as the sounds of tequila-based disaster fill the rest of the room.

[sweet-honey-tears]

🍃Gifts To and From🔥

Shoto Todoroki x GN!Reader FLUFF

Izuku Midoriya x GN!Reader FLUFF

Hello everyone! I'm super happy with this post -specifically for Shoto’s. IDK I just really love it! Thank you all for the support and as always feel free to leave a request🤍 If you want to see the last post to this series(?), click here for Part 4

INFO: Characters are aged up unless specifically mentioned they are not. This is not canon and is just for fun, I do not mean to anger or offend people.

❄️Shoto Todoroki🔥

When the reporters found out it was your birthday: shit got crazy.

—>“What did he get you?”

—> “How much did he spend?”

—>“How many diamonds?”

—> “Was it something for the bed-“

“Enough! He got me breakfast.”

—> “Like from France- oh was it covered in gold leaf”

“No, it was a drink from Starbucks and (enter whatever ya like)”

—> “Wait, he didn’t get you anything?”

People ask you why he’s so cheap.

—>“He has all that money, doesn’t he?! Why won’t he actually buy you something for your birthday?”

You shoot back- “he’s not a damn bank! He’s my boyfriend. He doesn’t need some fancy golden diamond whatever to show he loves me!”

Takes a long time to actually engrave that in Shoto’s brain -that he doesn’t need to buy you the world.

On your first date when you both were in the U.A. He tried to buy you a golden, diamond, thingy - yeah no.

He’s currently a pro hero now, and you both graduated around 5 years ago. He doesn’t buy you jewelry, or cars, or anything like that. He gets you stuff for cooking. Since you like to cook/bake for the two of you.

You say you made the soup with love, NO IT’S NOT BOTTLE YOU CAN BUY

The first time you told him that, the boy looked confused- like is that possible? But then he eats it and he’s like ‘oh. Oh, are you sure that isn't an ingredient?’

Will come behind you and hug you while you cook, lips pressed to your shoulder blade, and ask :

“making it with love?”

“Of course Sho” you laugh

He did end up getting you a necklace for your 3rd anniversary. (It was after the notion of not needing to buy you stuff was engraved into his head.) It's a pretty silver necklace. A thin silver chain with a little salt shaker charm on it, like the ones you’d find in dinner, with the words ‘made with love’ engraved on the back.

You hugged him so tight the day he got you that. He had just come home from patrol and had this flat little teal box. He understood jewelry more than anything after that- it’s supposed to be meaningful.

He'll rest his forehead on your collarbones, his nose touching the little charm that hangs from your neck as his arms wrap around you.

“Sho what are you doing?” You laugh, staring down at the pro hero who just got out of work.

“Just refilling on love”

Oh! At one gala you wore the necklace because screw Endeavor- “

“Not fancy my ass I’ll show him how fancy my love can be.” Sho just smiled. His cufflinks match your necklace.

His home screen is a picture of you mid-fall. The noodle dish you made, coming apart in the mid-air. You look like you’re about to topple over any second, balancing on one leg as the bowl is only in contact with your fingertips. You had asked him earlier to get a picture of you turn with the dish, thinking it would be funny. Or cute. You don’t know- it was meant to be fun. What you didn’t anticipate was Marshy(your cat) sprinting in front of you.

▪️Izuku Midoriya▪️

Izuku never realized how soft his hair could be until you bought him this certain brand of conditioner.

Hair is like a cloud after you taught him how to take care of it. And his hair looks so… tamed? Like each curl is defined and shiny.

“It- it looks so good!”

He feels more confident and even looks more confident in the photos published by reporters.

He turned pale the first time he saw the price tag of the products you bought him for his hair but you just said.

“You're worth it ZooZoo. Plus it feels nice, right?”

He couldn't stop running his fingers through it- you couldn’t either.

Izuku has a thing for shoes- and it’s not like Kirishima with crocs-

He likes to buy you shoes.

And if you have feet or leg issues(from past injuries or pressure sensitivity etc) he spends so much time researching and sifting through reviews to ensure you’re comfortable.

His heart melted when you came home wearing these nice (pretty) green and black sneakers that match his hero uniform.

They're pictures on the web fans made which show pictures of you wearing your sneakers(a little bit creepy ngl) and pictures of his hero costume and pointing out all the similarities.

The fans fricken LOVE that you both match. To a point, they will send both of you matching sweatshirts, shirts, and pants(or he’ll get a pair of pants and you’ll get a skirt with a similar pattern to his pants if that's what you prefer).

The man picked you up and spun you around when he SEES YOU WEARING ALL MIGHT PLATFORM SNEAKERS(or just ALL MIGHT sneakers if you are not into platforms.)

You both have a lot of matching shoes- converse, sneakers, and his dress shoes are red to match your red heels and/or dress shoes.

He totally had a pair of sneakers that have blues prints of hero costumes as well as a pair of white sneakers that just say ‘shoes’

Izuku ends up giving you your favorite pair of sneakers for your birthday. He hand-painted them, swirls of your favorite colors skillfully and painstakingly done. The words “I love you” are written on the side of the shoes in his handwriting. You love them. And wear that everywhere.

His Lock Screen looks like this:

[throneofsapphics]

Hii, I love your writing 🫶🏻

Could you write something about lidia cervos X reader once you finish the crescent city series plss?? ( she’s in the second book).

It’s impossible to find stories with her

cruel kindness  

Summary: You and Lidia are in a secret relationship. 

Warnings: maybe angst-ish

A/N: sorry this took months, here’s a drabble! I’m a bit nervous about this but excited to write more with her! especially after the third comes out

You were her safety. Her salvation. Her light in the darkness. You knew exactly what she was, and stayed. Lidia could never understand why. It haunted her mind at night - she should tell you you’re wrong for her, leave you for her own safety. Selfish, she’d told herself multiple times and visited with the intention of leaving permanently but the pure joy radiating from you each time you met … Lidia couldn’t bring herself to break that. To shatter your heart. It was a different kind of cruelty. 

The two of you were lucky if you could meet three or four times a year, and she cherished every minute. You’d asked of him, of what she had to sacrifice. The Hind didn’t harbor many fears, but your discovery was one. If anyone somehow figured out what you were to her, the fallout might be the thing that broke her. You were so dangerous for her, for what she worked her entire life for, but she couldn’t stay away. 

She rolled over in your bed, a plush and soft mattress, assorted blankets piled over both of you to take the chill off. You were splayed on your stomach, soft lips parted and hair covering half of your face. 

She carefully pushed a few strands from your face, brushing her thumb across the soft skin of your cheek. Her amber eyes softened, lips curving into a gentle smile - one you may be the only living person to witness. 

You wrapped your arms around her, squeezing tightly. A bright smile shone on your face, so full of love and joy. Weight lifted from your shoulders as she tucked you back in. You didn’t comment on the stray tear dripping down your shoulder. Seven months, the longest you’d been apart so far and only eighteen hours together this time. Lidia had set a timer on her watch for the moment she needed to leave and swore she wouldn’t look at it. 

You dragged her inside. New decorations - assorted paintings and different pillows lining the couch. Her eyes swept the room and you let out a low laugh. “You never miss a thing,” you teased her. Her mouth curved into a smile and she pulled you close to her again, breathing in your nutmeg and honey scent. 

Dawn rays peeked through the curtains casting a warm glow over the room. You didn’t stir at the small buzzing of her watch and her eyes shuttered closed. A slow breath later, she slipped out of the room - feet silent and steady despite the pain in her chest. A note pinned under the salt shaker, and Lidia shifted. 

-

You blinked your eyes open, still heavy with sleep and frowned at the empty half of your bed. She warned you she would be gone when you woke, but you still hated it. 

Twenty five years of secrecy wore you down but Lidia was worth it. There had never been a doubt in your mind. This love was cruel, a teasing example of what life could be like in a different world. You took a few breaths.  What was a few decades compared to centuries? Lidia had promised you’d be free together one day and she’d never broken a promise to you. Whatever she did to make that happen, you never asked. Like you never asked about her … work. The Lidia you knew was different and you prayed you’d never meet the time. Of course, you didn’t hate what she did to survive, but seeing the cold and bored look in her eyes - the casual cruelty, might make you do something drastic and stupid. 

[zesticky]

i'm absolutely gobsmacked every time i attempt to do a video edit of ava and deborah's relationship because like-

the amount of layers and parallels that the writers have given to them in three seasons is just insane

below is a list of all the parallels i'm trying to fit in

"the last thing on earth i want to do is move to the desert to write some lame jokes for an old hack." "i was right the day i met you, you are a fucking hack." "a hack is someone who does the same thing, over and over. deborah is the opposite. she keeps evolving and getting better."

"you have to scratch and claw and it never gets better. it just gets harder." this parallel between 01x02 and 03x01 is insane!!!

the salt and pepper shakers

"you can make it funny. you can make anything funny."

they speak their own little private language and make each other better

"you're just like me." deborah has said this twice on different occasions to ava

ava finds the package from kathy in the bin at deborah's place and gifts it to deborah at her show taping, with kathy THEN seeing the same poster at deborah's house for christmas and couldn't believe she saw it, with ava repyling with "she did, it made her really happy." when in fact, ava! gave! that! to! her!)

"don't leave me. [you got it.]" "don't-don't leave me. [okay, i won't.]"

deborah lets ava go so she can seek better job opportunities to advance her career

ava wants to be wherever deborah is, her wants and needs are ava's needs

deborah pushes ava away because she's afraid, and will do whatever it takes to make the show bulletproof, even if she thinks losing the people she loves is worth the sacrifice (and ultimately doesn't realise that would lead to her downfall in s4)

the subject of loneliness - deborah lost frank and kathy as a result, kathy leaves deborah because she can't stand the idea of deborah choosing her career over her personal life

"i know you. you're already making decisions out of fear and you'll keep doing it!" yet ava still stays with her in the end by deborah's own making... being a shark

[user-without-a-cool-acronym]

Yet another Theory

Buckle up everyone, this gonna be a long one.

So let‘s start with the facts and theorize:

One of the march sets for dragons rising season 2 is a bigger and likely older Riyu.

Ras‘s Wolf-clan with their current designs is scheduled to appear only in the first half of the year and likely the season.

There are a number of items, that could transform Ras‘s warriors, those being the source dragon energy he got from Jordana, the gong and mallet of shattering, which is confirmed to power them somehow and the weird bloodmoon, seen in some of the box arts.

A relatively common theory from what i‘ve seen is, that the moon and the Wolf imagery are a possible indication of Ras‘s army having some werewolf-esque abilities.

And lastly there is this picture, from the background of the Egalt the master dragon set:

Judging by how the structure in the background of Kai‘s mech is likely the shadow dojo releasing in march, the structure in the background of this one might be part of the dragonstone-temple, also releasing in march. If this is correct, then that is at least a little strange, as it looks to be pretty wide and walled off for a temple. In fact it might actually be more of a fort or stronghold.

So here is my theory for the plot of dragons rising season 2:

The first half is mostly the ninja trying to foil Ras‘s evil plan in a few episodes, that introduce us to the plot and then a finale for the first part, that spans over a couple episodes, like the imperium ones in season 1 part 1. However this time, instead of the ninja being victorious, it is Ras who succeeds and maybe transforms or upgrades his army with one of the previously mentioned possible methods. In this way it would be a little like SoG and Hunted, with one season ending with the villains winning and then the next one being the heroes fighting back, only this time condensed into two parts of one season. So Ras wins and the ninja are left fighting for the fate of the world alone. So instead of being split up and banished, this time they retreat, hiding in a well fortified temple, that looks to be in the mountains, where they are harder to reach, so they can plan their next moves. Then there might come a significant time skip, during which they repell Ras‘s attacks and Riyu grows, as he is still in his season 1 size in the mech shorts, which are confirmed canon and probably happen sometime before the end of part 1.

In the second half the ninja then might take back the merged realms, maybe embarking on a quest to find the fire-source dragons from one of the Summer sets and manage to sabe the world from Ras in the end.

I definitely don‘t really expect any of this to happen, but it would be cool to habe a season again, where the ninja actually lose an important battle and have to deal with the consequences. Anyway, this theory is built on very little information and a lot of speculation, so take it with a few shakers worth of salt.

[karaszi]

okay. on god I've been thinking after this splatfest. yes we know they're all broken. and I'm really just throwing ideas at the wall here, so take me with a grain of salt. or maybe an entire salt shaker. idk I'm not a game developer here I just like ideas.

but I like the idea of:

bringing back shifty stations and having them replace pro. on god having pro and open battles be the exact same thing is getting really boring. and especially since they're worth the same amount of points it feels counterintuitive. so my thoughts for this one is essentially shifty stations just become a 2v2v2. no defending or attacking. just straight up ffa. or maybe 3v3v3 to make it the Splatoon 3 number. this would allow for a true “anarchy” experience since it'd just be teams against teams. Essentially just have them replace pro battles.

MINIGAMES. like I'm surprised they didn't do it considering the festival theming of Splatoon. there's tons of small games at festivals! like I'm not meaning they'll contribute to the overall point total but like. it's a festival! let's do festival things! like maybe bring back squid beatz and have like a reward for getting a high score on splatfest songs. shit like that. it's a festival goddamit!!!!! I want festival things! like maybe have a tableturf splatfest. that'd be funny I think.

acknowledge the people playing salmon run!!! add a dumb cosmetic category called “most fish caught” for the team with the highest salmon run scores. idk I like salmon run.

add an option to toggle mirror matches. I know a lot of us would rather wait much longer to play a normal match than to just be thrown in mirror matches the whole time. but for those of us who just wanna play? we can play.

don't stop counting conch shells after the sneak peak??? girl it's a sneak peak not the end all be all of categories.

I'm not a game balancer or anything. but on god my issues aren't ones that can be balanced away. I like the theming of Splatoon having three idols. I like the three splatfest options. I think maybe just a little sandpapering could be done. Splatoon 3 just feels like it's going through like. a puberty that most online games go through y'know? though the fact that they say they're only gonna update for 2 years makes it feel kinda just hopeless. but ideas. I got em. Nintendo hire me.

also side note. I think people are seriously overestimating shiver stans here. this is all just a combination of issues like splatfest regions restricting gameplay meaning mirror matches and stuff like that, and unequal balancing. like. on god shiver is not the enemy!!!

[handsome-john]

🎂 The next time Clef cooks, Gears insists on being there when he cooks so he can test everything before he eats it, to make sure he’s not being drugged. Clef decides to milk this for all its worth, and decides “you know what? I’m going to make a full fucking multi course dinner, something that’ll take hours to make,” because there’s no way that Gears will stay at his house for the whole time, right? He’s not that paranoid.

Gears takes a sample of everything while Clef cooks it, and even searches his cabinets for the possible drug. Clef gets annoyed about an hour in and tells Gears he can either help him or get out of the kitchen. Gears agrees to help, passing Clef ingredients and stirring for him, tasting things when asked. Clef says he’s a “very good helper” and it makes Gears look a little flushed.

By the time dinner’s ready (idk what Clef would make, roasted chicken maybe, or stew, with a few other little things), Gears has tested everything— every bottle of seasoning Clef used, every salt shaker, even the tap water. All of it came up negative. He was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t get drugged tonight, and that he wouldn’t fall asleep!

Cut to an hour later. Gears is sprawled out on the couch with his head in Clef’s chest, fast asleep. He drools a little on Clef’s shirt. Clef can’t even be mad— Gears is adorable like this, the deep wrinkles in his face softened with sleep.

Gears helping him cook. So many sensory experiences he didn't think he'd like because he's never really had food made with such love. Everything smells really nice and he's all cozy and full.

Gears gaining weight because he keeps insisting on examining Clef and eating all his food. I think he should be fat okay