#totally not canon *wink*

[mossyflower33]

Not the face.

:(

[apogean-tides]

An educated guess >> I defend my thesis in the tags

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

[h0u-h0u]

wohh first post of the year! 

TW: FOR SLIGHT BODY HORROR ‼️

.

I wasn’t rlly sure if I should put a tw or not but I decided to anyways for good measures.. happy new year y’all!

[asexual-levia-tan]

sxf-type au where prompto's "parents" are two totally unrelated agents whos main purpose were to pretend to be family in order to keep an eye on the recovered MT

but then found family shenanigans

[gloomwitchwrites]

Easy Access

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: explicit sexual content, canon-typical swearing, oral sex (female & male receiving), F/M/M/M/M, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), multiple creampie, multiple orgasms, group sex, praise, restraints/restraining

Word Count: 3.7k

A short dress is your idea of an invitation for a bit of fun.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist

Under the shade of a tree, you inhale deeply, savoring the fresh spring air.

This is a party. A gathering. A break. A reward for a job well done.

But it’s not like you’re the one in the line of fire. That isn’t your job. Your one and only endeavor at work is making sure Kate Laswell has everything she needs while at the office. Field work is not your specialty, and you’re thankful for that.

You make phone calls. You bring Laswell her coffee. You keep her appointments and meetings. It’s office work. Clerical. But it keeps you safe, fed, and paid.

Amongst the crowd are familiar and unfamiliar faces. There has to be at least sixty people here in total, and yet the space doesn’t feel cramped. You were given an address, and this has to be someone’s backyard, but you couldn’t say who. And if anyone knows, they aren’t saying.

To your left is a large wood patio. It expands across almost the entirety of the back of the house. Most of it is covered by two connecting pergolas. Underneath the pergolas is a massive buffet and open bar. People loiter there, talking and laughing. The patio opens up to a large green space with a small pond and garden near the back fence. The majority of the space is open but there are a few tables and chairs set up. Music comes from speakers you can’t see, and lights line the fence.

It’s all very pleasant, but crowds are not your thing.

You scan the crowd but no one is looking in your direction. Bringing your plastic cup up to your lips, you scan the crowd one more time. Your gaze falls on Captain John Price. He’s having a conversation with someone you don’t recognize, and out of uniform, he’s even more handsome.

There is no silly, floppy hat or beanie. No windbreaker or boots. Price wears a button up shirt, the top two undone and slightly open with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He appears so casual and calm, a cool sexiness that instantly sparks heat low in your belly.

Your cup is almost to your lips, pausing as you gaze at him. In this moment—this fleeting second—Price’s gaze finds you. He winks. Smirks. Returns to the conversation.

Your heart drops into your stomach, and you nearly drench the front of your linen dress with red punch.

Glancing away, you only find the rest of Price’s team. Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and Simon Riley loiter near the deck. Kyle and Johnny talk, their faces animated and engaged. Simon stands with his arms crossed, but he’s not listening.

He’s staring at you, those dark eyes of his piercing you down to your marrow.

It’s silly, really, how all four of them make your stomach flip. How they each in turn seem to awaken something dark and primal in your blood.

While it doesn’t shame you in the least, you have flirted with all of them. It’s hard not to. Price is the one you see the most, and always makes an effort to stop by to see you if he has business with Laswell. Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all have to go out of their way to see you, but they do it. Often.

And it’s not just the flirting or sultry glances. You’ve allowed them each a touch or two. Of the four, you gave Johnny permission to kiss you. It was chaste. Quick. Nothing that curls the toes. But it turned his face beet-red.

But being with any of them is just a fantasy. It’s unprofessional. And you don’t need to know what Laswell might think of you for taking any further action with them.

Sighing, you turn away from Simon’s penetrating stare. You knock back the red punch, the alcohol in it hardly registering on your tongue. Removing yourself is the best solution. Perhaps you could hide in the bathroom for a bit. Splash some cold water on your face.

Depositing the empty plastic cup in the nearest trashcan, you head for the patio, passing the buffet and open bar, striding inside through the open kitchen doors. You nod in acknowledgement to a few people there, and they match it, but they immediately return to their conversations, not all that interested in your presence.

The nearest bathroom is just off the kitchen, but you want to hide. You aim for the hallway with the intent of entering the bathroom at the very end. No one is really using it, and it’s the perfect place to catch your breath.

As you reach out for the golden bathroom handle, a large hand shoots out, encasing your wrist, haling all movement. You turn sharply, ready to bite back at the man who decided it’s okay to touch you without your permission, only to freeze.

Your eyes widen as you realize who the hand belongs to.

“John,” you whisper. You didn’t even hear him approach. He completely snuck up on you.

“Where you off to?” he asks softly. He looks a little concerned, but there is something else under all of that.

While you want to answer his question, to give in a bit, you don’t enjoy being grabbed.

“Is that your business?” you reply, arching one eyebrow, chest heaving slightly as your heartrate quickens.

John’s head tilts slightly, his gaze assessing for a moment. The two of you are locked in, and you’re not sure if you’ve completely fumbled the exchange. John releases you from his stare but he doesn’t release your wrist.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder, and you follow the movement. Right there, in the hall, are three familiar people.

Kyle and Johnny casually lean against the wall while Ghost stands in the middle, watching the opening of the hallway.

You’re not frightened. Not afraid. If anything, you’re becoming slick between the thighs. There is a reason they’re here, and you want to explore what it is.

Price’s gaze returns to you and his gaze is soft. “Do you want it to be my business?”

You press in a bit, and Price’s mouth forms into a self-satisfied grin. “Does it include all four of you?” you counter.

“It can.”

His grip tightens slightly. The hold is almost desperately possessive.

What the hell. You should just do it. Have some fucking fun for once. If anything, this will be the one and only time. Get this ridiculous need out of your system all at once and be done with them.

“Then make it your business,” you murmur.

Price’s grip remains firm as he pulls you away from the bathroom door. He spins you around, his free hand reaching out to open the door that’s across the hall from the bathroom. You hear the creak of the hinges as it swings inward, and then you’re walking backward into the room, Price herding you along.

Behind him follows Kyle. And behind Kyle, Johnny. Then, finally, Simon. He’s the last to enter the room and the one that shuts the door, locking it without even glancing at it. He leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

Once the door is shut, you expect Price to release you. But he doesn’t. He keeps hold of your wrist, drawing you against him, pinning your arm to your chest. With his other hand, Price clasps your chin between thumb and forefinger, keeping your face pointed in his direction.

“You want to back out?” he asks. “Just say the word. We’ll stop.”

Do you want to stop? No. Your blood is buzzing, nearly burning beneath your skin. You want to see where this goes, and how much you can take before you’re unable to understand reality.

“Nervous, Captain?”

He laughs, throaty and low before his lips come dangerously close to yours. “No, love. I like that you’re willing to share.”

Someone shifts behind Price’s shoulder. Your gaze starts to drift but he jerks you back to attention.

“You’ve been teasing us with that dress,” murmurs Price.

Releasing your wrist, Price drops his hand to lightly tug on the skirt of the linen dress you wear.

It’s incredibly comfortable. The color an off-white. It stops at about mid-lower thigh, a bit above the knee. The top of the dress is solid fabric back and front except for the straps which are crisscrossed, leaving your shoulders and arms mostly bare.

“Didn’t do it on purpose,” you reply just as softly.

Price makes a sound in his throat that goes straight to your pussy. “Somehow I believe that,” he chuckles, fisting your dress even tighter. It only pulls you closer, and even like this, you feel his hardness.

You’re so focused on Price that when another pair of hands join his, you almost jump. Price eases his hold on you a bit, and your body twists in the direction of these new hands. It’s Johnny. He has one hand on the back of your neck while the other plays with the hem of your dress. It’s just a gentle toying, one you don’t entirely notice until his fingers are slipping under it, brushing against your bare thigh.

“You want this? All of us?” Johnny sounds skeptical.

Your lips part at his question, the very image of them taking you one after the other only making you slicker.

You nod, chest heaving. “Yes.”

Price’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, drawing your attention back to him. There is a pause—a second of breathing—and then he releases you. He walks backward toward the door as Simon moves away from it and Kyle closes in.

Johnny sidesteps, placing himself directly behind you. His hands slide over you, finding new homes. He wraps one around your waist, hand splaying wide over your pelvis. His other reaches down to dip beneath the hem of your dress just shy of your left leg.

You believe that Johnny is going to slide his hand between your clenched thighs. But he doesn’t. His arm hooks under your thigh, pressing up, lifting your foot from the floor. You’re forced to balance on your right foot. You instinctually reach up, grasping the back of Johnny’s neck.

But with Johnny’s support, you don’t topple over. His strength keeps you grounded.

With his hand on your pelvis, Johnny begins to bunch the fabric in his fist, lifting it away from your body. It is slow, almost agonizing in how all of their gazes are fixed on that one point.

You don’t need to see to know when you’re bare. You feel the air against you.

You are open for their inspection, and they do not appear disappointed. If anything, they’re fucking hungry.

“She’s wearing fucking nothing under there,” growls Simon, almost like he’s upset but doesn’t want to be.

“Teasing us on purpose,” says Price not to anyone in particular but to reiterate what he said early, that the dress is a tease, and this is just one more thing to add to it.

Simon moves, striding toward you like a predator. Slowly, his hand clasps the front of your neck, and you instinctually arch into Johnny. Kyle sinks to his knees before you.

“Gaz is gonna eat that pretty pussy,” murmurs Johnny in your ear. His breath is a whisper, sending a shiver down your spine. “And then we’re all going to fuck you. One after the other. Fill you with our cum. You want that, love?”

You crave them like a nourishing meal. Accepting won’t hurt. It’ll only fill the gap, satiating the thirst that boils in your blood.

“Yes,” you affirm, putting all the control in their hands now.

“Good girl,” growls Simon, gently squeezing, those dark eyes of his locking in on your parted lips.

Kyle’s hands are on your thighs. They rotate. Squeeze. Slide toward your hip bone.

“Look at that,” he says, absently. Kyle’s fingers lightly brush over your sex. Then, he is parting you with two fingers, and in that glide, you can hear just how wet you are.

“Hardly touched you,” croons Kyle, his mouth dangerously close to what’s aching for him.

He leans in, and goes in for a taste. It’s tentative. Testing. Just a little touch of his tongue against flesh. But it’s enough for your pussy to clench, for you to whimper as if he’s completely pressed his mouth to you.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Johnny. He nuzzles your neck, gaze downward.

You’re watching too. Everyone is. There is no point in hiding anything. You are spread open.

Kyle’s tongue dips again, this time tracing a line between his two fingers. He starts at your entrance, teasing it before moving upward to circle your clit slowly. He is languid about it. Taking his time like there isn’t a party happening just outside the door.

“Oh, you’re sweet, love,” he murmurs before going in fully.

There is no tracing of his tongue. It is only steady strokes and gentle flicks against your clit. Kyle knows what he’s doing. He knows to stick to a specific pace. To not change course. He feasts until your legs shake and it is only Johnny’s strength keeping you aloft.

The clench comes, shuddering outward. Your breathing intensifies, becoming desperate gasps as Kyle continues to work your clit. Simon still holds onto the front of your throat, and he does not let go.

“Look at me,” croons Simon, tilting your head in his direction. “At me. My eyes.”

Johnny murmurs sweet nothings against your throat as he watches Kyle lick and then suck your clit into his mouth.

Your hips buck against Kyle’s mouth as your orgasm consumes, absorbing all your strength, turning your muscles into sticky goo.

There are lips pressing against your inner thigh, and then Kyle’s voice drifts up from between your legs. “She’s ready.”

“But we aren’t,” replies Simon.

Johnny guides your leg down until your foot is flat again. From there, he presses on your shoulders, and you automatically sink to your knees.

“Be good and suck Gaz’s cock,” commands Simon as his hand slides from the front to the back of your neck.

Johnny steps back, his presence evaporating as Kyle undoes the front of his jeans. You are hungry. Feral. Desperate. The moment Kyle’s cock his free from his jeans, you’re reaching for him, sucking him down.

Kyle groans loudly, head tilting back as you throat him to the root.

“Fucking beautiful,” comes Johnny’s voice somewhere behind and to the right of you.

Simon grunts in agreement, his hand still firmly planted on your neck. His fingers dig into your hair, and even though you have some control, Simon has the rest.

He keeps you on your knees and your head still as Kyle thrusts shallowly into your mouth. You are wet between your thighs, the skin there rubbing against itself. Your hands rise to grab the front of Kyle’s jeans, but Johnny tuts, grasping both arms and holding them behind you.

“Breathe through your nose. Good girl. Like that.” These praises are all Simon, and you desperately want to please him.

You’re nearly still as Kyle claims your throat. But he’s careful. Thoughtful. He’s fucking your mouth yet he knows your limit. When your throat contracts, wanting to gag, he retreats until you’ve caught your breath, only to return to his pace from before.

“Fuck,” he mutters, abruptly pulling out of your mouth. You cough, saliva and cum coating your lips and chin. “Bend her over the edge of the bed.”

Johnny releases your arms and Simon is the one that helps you to your feet.

“Look at me,” says Simon, drawing you attention to his face. “You good?”

This can all end if you want it to, but you don’t. You’re not full. Not whimpering. You want them inside.

“I’m good,” and your answer is a bit raspy.

Simon nods and then he’s turning you around, his hands pressing on your back until you’re completely bent.

The bed is a bit high, and you have to go up on your toes. Your hands dig into the comforter, but you don’t feel stable. Not really.

There are hands on your thighs. They drive upward, flipping your dress up to expose your ass to the room. One of those hands comes down on the right cheek. It isn’t hard, just enough to bounce it.

“Open for us,” says Simon. You wiggle your hips, sliding your feet outward slightly. “More, love. Yes. Perfect.”

Simon shifts partially into view, and then he’s grabbing your forearms, holding you down to the bed itself. You have no idea who is behind you, but you feel the head of their cock at your entrance.

There is no condom, and you do not give a fuck. You want to feel each of them in turn, to feel them fill you up, to fuck each other’s cum deeper into you.

The head presses in. Enters. And then you’re being filled, being fed more and more until you’re stuffed. You moan loudly.

“Taking me so well,” groans Johnny as you clamp around him. “Bloody hell you’re tight.”

Johnny squeezes your ass, guiding your hips up slightly as he starts to drive in. The angle is deep, and your feet slide against the floor. He isn’t soft, but he’s not rough either. Johnny is steady, rolling his hips deep enough to hit that sweet spot.

You are soft. Pliant. Smiling against the comforter as Johnny fucks you. His soft grunts become gentle groans. Then his hips stutter, thrust forward, creating a seal. You feel his release flood your pussy, and you purposefully tighten those muscles, encouraging him to stay inside.

And Johnny does, for a moment.

He lightly pats your ass before withdrawing. The loss of him is immediate, and yet there is another ready to take his place. Simon does not move from his spot. You turn your head and find Price still leaning against the door. There is an apparent bulge in the front of his pants.

It is Kyle that settles behind you, and like Johnny, he finds the same rhythm. While Johnny felt girthy, Kyle is absolute perfection. The stretch is good but not too tight, and even though every stroke is pointedly deep, there is nothing but pleasure.

Kyle’s hand slips between the bed and your body. He finds your clit. Toys with it. Plays. You’re still a bit sensitive from your last orgasm, and the next one comes up suddenly. You cry out, squeezing on him as he finishes.

In that blissful state, you don’t notice Simon removing his hands from your forearms. It isn’t until he’s driving inside that you realize it, and you nearly come off the bed. Simon is absurdly large, and your back arches, fingers digging into the comforter as your groan into it.

Simon is not as gentle as them. He fucks their cum into you like he’s made to do so.

And Price is still off to the side. Still watching. Almost indifferent except for that outline in his pants.

Simon’s only tell is a low grunt before he too is finishing inside you.

You are overly stuffed. Full. Simon removes his cock from your pussy as their mixed cum begins to drip out onto your thighs.

You think Price will come. That he will take Simon’s place. Instead, you’re being moved, flipped onto your back. Your legs are brought up, and then Johnny is back, sliding home again. Simon stands to the right of him. He reaches out, runs his hand over your stomach before delving down to find your clit.

Simon circles it as Johnny’s cock pistons in and out of you, his hips smacking against yours sharply with each thrust. It isn’t long before the muscles in your body seize and then relax. Johnny doesn’t find his end until Simon has you clenching a second time.

Johnny steps back, a pleased grin on his face as he stuffs himself back into his pants. Your legs are weak noodles and you’re thankful for the bed beneath you.

Price pushes off from the door. He walks casually, his hands slowly undoing and then removing his belt. You push up onto your elbows, adjusting. Price observes you. His gaze is on your face and then it drops to your pussy.

Reaching out, Price runs his fingers through the mess between your legs.

“Mind if I add to that?” he asks, gaze returning to your face.

You smile and spread your legs wider.

“Good fucking girl,” he croons.

Price grasps your thighs and drags you to the edge of the bed. Shoving his pants down enough to free his cock, he rubs the head over the mess, coating himself in it.

He lines himself up, and then buries himself to the hilt. Your fingers dig into the bed and then reach for him. Price adjusts his grip on your thighs, pressing them up a bit and toward your chest.

You are at his mercy as he drives into you. The only sounds in the room are your breathy moans and the obscene wetness that is your pussy.

All those flirty invitations and teasing smiles has led to this. And you don’t entirely mind if this is all it is. That the five of you are just working it all out of your systems. You’re completely satisfied.

As Price’s thrusts becoming erratic, he lets go of your thigh only to grasp your throat. He leans forward as he brings you up off the bed. You are scrunched, and when his lips meet yours, you come undone just as he does.

You hang. Suspended. And then you’re melting into the soft comforter.

Someone is cleaning you up, wiping away the excess mess. And then you’re brought to your feet. Everything is unsteady as you focus on who it is holding you.

“Good? Or you need a minute?” Price’s palm runs over your hair, smoothing it.

“I need a minute,” you murmur, because it’s true.

Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all start to file out. With the balaclava you can’t discern Simon’s expression. But Kyle is smug. Content. Johnny is almost sheepish, his cheeks slightly flushed as they leave.

It is over. Done.

Price runs his thumb over your bottom lip. “If you ever want this again, you know where to find me.”

He leans forward as if to kiss you but instead brushes his lips against the curve of your cheek. He gives your hand a squeeze. A silent goodbye.

Then he too is gone. The door shut.

You place your hand over your chest and laugh as a trail of cum slips down the inside of your thigh.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @miaraei

@cherryofdeath @sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @haven-1307 @ferns-fics

@spicyspicyliving @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower

@sageyxbabey @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @umno-yeah

@mudisgranapat @ninman82 @blackhawkfanatic @contractedcriteria @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @lxblm @beebeechaos @lifes-project @lulurubberduckie

@lovely-ateez @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @suhmie @jaggersinclair

@dakotakazansky @hantheconqueror @certainlygay @sammysinger04 @iloveslasher

@yawning-grave81 @ash-tarte @azkza @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kayden666 @aykxz98 @soapyreaper @statixx-x

[ellecdc]

pls tell me that ur going to do smth with remus inspired by the werewolf post you reblogged 🙏 p.s I love your work!!!

hahaha I think you're referring to this post, so here's a small little baby blurb for ya <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader who doesn't want her to know too much about Moony [435 words]

CW: non-canon compliant description of werewolf behaviour, swearing [duh]

“Come on, Moons! Time to go!” James shouted as he burst through the portrait hole, officially announcing the end of your quiet cuddle on the three seater sofa with Remus. 

Remus made a defiant sort of grumble as he sank impossibly further into the cushions, essentially dragging you down with him. 

“Awe don’t do that.” Sirius said salaciously, throwing a wink in your direction. “Believe me, I’d rather be up here snuggling with Y/N too, but we’ve got plans for the night.” He explained, motioning with his head towards the sky no one could see through the castle ceilings. 

“Sod off.” Remus muttered; his arms circling you tighter at the insinuation you’d be snuggled up against any other bloke should he vacate the common room. 

James let out a theatrical groan, but his shit eating grin gave way to the fact that it was all for show. “That’s what we’re trying to do, Moons. So let's go! We’re sodding off.”

“Can you explain to me again why you have to go to the shrieking shack for this?” You asked slowly, rubbing the back of Remus’ hands that were locked around your middle in equal parts placation and encouragement to let go. 

Remus never had a chance to respond before Peter piped up. “S’cause Moony’s not housebroken.”

“I am too housebroken.” Remus shot stubbornly, causing Sirius to snort.

“Sure, Moons. I bet that’s why the only thing left of the cushions from the old sofa in there are all the feathers strewn about.” 

“There was something in the cushions!” He insisted. 

“Right, and we totally found whatever it was.” James agreed sarcastically. 

“It’s not only the furniture that’s not safe - he’s scratched the shit out of the walls and floors too.” Peter continued.

“Minnie would not be happy to find the Gryffindor common room in such a state.” Sirius added solemnly. 

“Okay…” Remus relented slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not housebroken.”

The three Marauders stared at Remus with different levels of bemusement. 

“Rem, Moons is so territorial that I’m pretty sure if Y/N joined us, you’d be lifting your leg to-”

“Okay that’s enough!” Remus spat quickly; lifting the entirety of your weight off his lap and placing you back onto the sofa. “Sorry, dove. I’ll see you in the morning.” He murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to your head before turning and shoving Sirius towards the portrait hole.

“Don’t worry,” James insisted as he walked backwards in the direction of his friends. “We’ve been working on him with positive reinforcement, but it’s slow going; he’s really quite dumb as a wolf-”

“PRONGS!”

[mcumorningstar]

Prove It, Cowboy

pairing: dodge mason x reader

summary: after the player's ball, you find yourself without a bed for the night until dodge offers for you to stay at his, but when his mom and sister catch you sneaking in they get the wrong impression.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dry humping, protected sex (p in v), dodge’s mom and sister being kinda invasive about his sex life (?)

a/n: dodge and his mom being so open about her sex life was so funny to me. this is kinda the reverse of a canon conversation... kinda! also i had a dream i went to one of dodge’s rodeos but he was flirting with all the girls so he was my enemy for a few days <3

A midnight sky hung over Carp, Texas when you arrived at Dodge’s house. Dodge put a finger to his lips fruitlessly as the front gate creaked loudly. The curtains of the front room twitched.

A female voice came from inside the house, “Dodge’s brought a girl home!”

Shit.

“That’s Dana,” Dodge sighed, fiddling with his keys and rubbing his forehead with a tight smile. Before he turned the keys in the lock, he turned to you, “Sorry, in advance.”

Your brows screwed together as he guided you inside.

After the player’s ball, Heather disappeared and so you were left without a bed for the night. God forbid you sneak into your own house and face the wrath of your parents.

Dodge came to the rescue.

A sigh fell from his lips at the sight of his mom and sister waiting in the living room doorway with excited smiles and hooded eyes. They behaved more like sisters than mother and daughter. It was sweet.

A dim lamp on the entrance table and the bright colours of the TV cast shadows across the room.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You smiled politely despite two pairs of unfamiliar eyes trained on you.

God they must think you’re here to sleep with him or something.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m Jessica. You want something to drink?” Dodge’s mom raised her glass of red wine, “We’re watching Jeopardy.“

She was a very beautiful woman, cherub cheeks and bright green eyes. Dodge was all hard angles, he must take after his dad.

Dodge ducked into the sea-foam coloured kitchen to grab two waters from the refrigerator.

“I’m Dana!” His sister beamed. She shared an unspoken look with Dodge, who rolled his eyes. Before you could thank her, Dodge rejoined your side.

“She’s locked out and just wants somewhere to sleep,” He quelled their unspoken barrage of questions.

His mom nodded along, as if he was lying, “Okay well there’s spare blankets in the laundry room, condoms in the bathroom...”

“Oh my god,” Dodge cursed under his breath, “We’re going now.”

Jessica and Dana giggled behind their glasses of wine, the right side of drunk, “The book, Dodge.”

She winked with exaggeration, her filter totally gone with the amount she’d drank but she was clearly having a fun night in.

Dodge shook his head with a flustered laugh.

With a hand on your back, Dodge guided you to his bedroom. Your face flushed at the unexpected attention and the suggestive situation.

The two laughed rather loudly, saying how pretty you are and how Dodge will fair with a girl spending the night, for the first time you assumed.

The sound of the women stifling laughter echoed around the house. Dodge closed his bedroom door with a sheepish and apologetic smile.

His room was pretty plain; grey bedsheets, grey walls, rodeo trophies and medals, a bookshelf with framed photos on. It smelt like laundry soap and his cologne.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” He offered, tossing his backpack onto the carpet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t bite,” You teased, as you looked at his collection of trophies and books, “Plus they already think we’re fucking.”

Dodge gave a quick laugh, watching you read the spines on the shelf.

“What book was your mom talking about?” You turned to him and his face flushed.

“You heard that, huh?” He mumbled, “It was a joke really. She thinks she’s funny.”

Even more intrigued by his avoidance, you sized him up with squinted eyes.

Dodge cleared his throat, tidying away a pile of laundry sitting on his bed, “They uh… god this is… They used to worry about me with- with girls. They thought I was a virgin because I never brought girls home to meet them or anything… and so for Secret Santa one year I got a book about… women… My mom insists it wasn’t her and that whoever it was was trying to be funny…”

There was a long pause. Dodge shied away from your eyes, his body turned away from you, despite the little air of embarrassed laughter.

Dodge cleared his throat again, “Super weird, I know. She had kids super young and didn’t want us to make the same mistake. Not that me and Dana are mistakes but it was hard for her. She’s cool about that sorta thing though. Dana’s ex-boyfriend used to stay over all the time and she didn’t care. So if you’re worried, she won’t say anything about you being here or anything.”

Another bout of silence fell between you as Dodge assessed your features, his lips pursed and shoulders tight.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me,” You laughed and Dodge visibly relaxed.

“No, it’s cool. Not cool but, you know, I wish my family were cooler about sex. My dad saw your name in my phone and reached for his shotgun,” You laughed, “Anyway, a book is probably better than drunk hook ups at the lake.”

“Yeah probably,” Dodge nodded, leaning against the bookshelf, and there was a lull in the conversation.

“Oh… did you read it?” You giggled, a flush of red creeping up his neck and ears, “You did!”

“You can’t prove anything,” Dodge shook his head with a half-cocked smile.

“But you could,” You raised your eyebrows and he furrowed his. It was a joke, he knew that, but Dodge steeled his expression and licked his lips.

“Yeah?”

You kept your eyes on his for a long moment before smiling, “Yeah. Prove it.”

You reached out and rested a hand on his stomach. His abs were tight and lean under his button-up shirt.

One by one, you unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, running your hands along the sturdy plane of his stomach and chest.

Conflicting thoughts ran through your head. Heather was like your sister and Natalie had been planning to win Panic for years.

Would fucking Dodge Mason, their competition, be a good idea?

Your judgement was clouded by the heat radiating from his skin and the smattering of hair on his chest. His dual coloured eyes watched your face as you stood before him, admiring him.

“I saw you like this at the jump but not up close,” You rested your hands on his shoulders, biting your lip, “Thank you, saddle bronc.”

Dodge couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his cheeks, as a sputtered laugh escaped his lips.

In one movement, Dodge threw you over his shoulder and deposited you on his bed, kneeling over you.

A soft line of kisses traced along your arm to your shoulder. With every press of his lips, you itched to feel them against yours, whining at the wait.

Pink and plump, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back to look down at you, stilling hovering over you.

Taking his head in your hands, you craned your neck to kiss him. Each press of his lips had you sighing contently and the swipe of his tongue had you moaning.

Dodge licked into your mouth with fervour, tongue and lips colliding with no precision, only desire.

You hooked your leg over his hips and rolled him onto his back beneath you, straddling his hips.

Dodge instinctively gripped your hips and watched with kiss-bitten lips and doe eyes as you discarded your dress onto his bedroom floor.

“You gonna give me some tips, cowboy?”

Dodge groaned, your hands pressing against his chest, as he slowly guided the rocking of your hips against his.

With every roll of your hips, your tits bounced in the lacy cups of your bra. His eyes flickered between your chest and your pink panties, rubbing against his bulge.

Dodge groaned, tightening his grip on your hips, “Lean forward.”

Following his instructions, a loud moan escaped you at the change in pressure against your clit.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good,” He rumbled, rutting his hips against yours in a perfect rhythm. Warmth bloomed in your chest at his praise.

Thank you, saddle bronc.

His muscles rippled and bulged underneath your hands as the slick between your legs dampened the skin of your inner thighs.

Cupping a hand at the nape of your neck, Dodge guided your mouth to his, kissing you with pinched brows and deep groans. Pulling away from the heated make out and pressing a deep kiss to his lips, you sat up and unbuttoned his jeans.

Dodge lay back, stroking your thighs and watching you with bated breath. Pulling him from his trance, you hooked a finger into the elastic waistband of his boxers, twanging the material against his alabaster skin.

A smile twitched at his lips as he slowly sat up and kissed you softly, rolling you onto your back. Dodge pushed his jeans off and lay between your legs, the hard length of his cock pressing into your inner thigh.

Settling your hands on each other's heated skin, Dodge kissed you deeply and nipped at your bottom lip playfully. His strong arms wrapped around you, his hand palming at the globe of your ass.

Warm and plump lips mouthed at your neck, teeth tugging the strap of your bra from your shoulder and kissing at the newly bare skin. He unhooked your bra, tossing it onto the floor and laving his tongue at your pebbled nipples.

"Please, need you," You whined, clawing at his shoulders. Dodge pressed a final kiss to your chest before sitting on his haunches and pulling your panties down your legs.

With firm hands on your inner thighs, Dodge parted your legs and bit his lip, staring at your dripping sex. You squirmed under his undivided attention, hooking your calf around his waist and pulling him on top of you.

Kissing him deeply, you pushed his boxer briefs down his hips, dragging your nails across his back once his erection sprung free. The wet tip smacked against your heated skin.

Dodge kicked his boxers off and reached into his nightstand, tearing the foil of a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his cock.

Caressing his biceps, you watched as he hovered over you and lined himself against your entrance. You hooked a leg around his hip, gasping into his open mouth as he slowly thrust into you.

Dodge's eyes fluttered shut as his hips pressed flush against yours. A ragged breath escaped his lips, tickling the skin of your neck. Dropping his head to your shoulder, Dodge sighed shakily.

"C'mon cowboy," You rolled your hips, "Buck."

Dodge let out a mix of a soft groan and a laugh into your neck, "You feel really good."

A small giggle fell from you, scratching your fingers through his hair. You bucked your hips again and Dodge clamped a hand on your hip, pulling back and rolling his hips against you.

Picking up the pace, Dodge fucked his thick cock against the sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Sloppy wet sounds echoed around the room with each buck of his hips.

Sweat beaded on your skin as the coil within the pit of your stomach tightened. Your nails clawed at the rippling muscles of Dodge's back, his skin slapping against yours.

Groans tumbled from his lips, pressing heated kisses to your skin, silencing your loud moans with his tongue in your mouth.

Digging your heels into his ass, you tightened your legs around his hips, letting him push one against your chest and his cock sinked deeper into you.

A broken gasp escaped you before his hand clamped over your mouth and his hips stopped, pressing his weight onto you.

The sound of footsteps outside his door and the subsequent flicking of light switches and closing doors alerted Dodge to the presence of his mom going to bed.

Dodge met your eyes, willing you to be quiet, as he continued to fuck you. Your brows pinched together as your interrupted pleasure began to build again, noises muffled by his strong hand.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Dodge slowed his pace and you took the opportunity to turn him onto his back, keeping his cock nestled in your cunt.

A surprised grunt tumbled from his chest and his hands groped at your body, holding you against him. You wasted no time before raising your hips and bouncing on his cock.

Dodge moaned and his eyes rolled back, covering his own mouth. A sheen of sweat on his skin glistened in the limited light. Leaning forward, your clit caught against his pubes, igniting a hotter flame within you.

"Good," Dodge praised, brushing your hair out of your face and watching your tits bounce in his face, "Such a good cowgirl."

He tipped his head back further into his plush pillow and his knees bent off the bed, fucking into you, his body pulling taut at the impending release.

"Gonna cum," Dodge rasped, panting and licking his dry lips.

You couldn't form words, only nodding, meeting his eyes and rocking your hips with the uncoordinated buck of his. The band within you was one thread away from snapping before Dodge gripped your jaw and pulled you into a heated kiss.

White hot bliss coursed through your body as you moaned into his mouth. Dodge mouthed at your unresponsive mouth, too preoccupied with moans of pleasure to reciprocate his kisses.

Dodge pulled back to watch your orgasm wash over you before he hit his peak, white ropes of cum filling the condom as he groaned deeply.

Sinking into the mattress, you lay on his sweaty chest, both trying to catch your breath. Dodge discarded the condom in the trash by his bed and pulled you into his side.

His cheeks and neck were rosy with exertion and he ran a hand up and down your back, "You should try saddle bronc."

Fucked out, you laughed into his sweaty chest, "You should keep that book."

Slowly you drifted into a blissful sleep, bodies entwined and satiated.

[urhoneycombwitch]

heated touch

foreword: “but Lulu it’s not even summer yet how come you wrote a pool fic” okay first of all global warming. it’s absolutely summer rn. hush up and eat up. 👼

cw: R wears bikini top + skirt, Eddie is Down Bad™️, and is also touchstarved, brief use of the awkward miscommunication trope, R’s baby hairs mentioned but no color or texture, weed mention (Robin is a stoner canon change my mind u can’t), R uses sunscreen (no skin color mentioned), implied plus-sized reader

wc: 3.4k

___

It’s the first real, normal, non-apocalyptic summer that anyone can remember having in a long, long time. 

With the heat index at a sizzling 97 today, various members of the Party have taken over Steve’s half-shaded, half-pool extravaganza of a backyard. The kids are jumping in and out of the bright blue water, splashing and cackling, while you and Robin stretch out like house cats in a sunny patch of grass nearby.

You, mere yards away, in a swim top and sweet little pleated tennis skirt. All that lovely skin on display, glistening in the light. 

And Eddie is sulking, indoors, frozen with lovesickness. There’s condensation dripping from the forgotten can of beer in his left hand; through the window above the kitchen sink, Eddie observes the scene in mournful silence.

“Christ, you really are a pussy.”

Eddie whips around with a glare that would level a normal human being, shushing Steve with a panicked fierceness that only makes the guy chuckle harder at Eddie’s expense. 

“Y’know,” Steve continues with the insults, dipping into the fridge and reappearing with a Fanta and a shit-eating grin- “You might want to try leering like a creep from the garage window. That way no will hear you jack off-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Harrington.” Eddie interrupts with a grade-A scoff and eye roll combo, rivaling Steve’s own bitchiness. “Wasn’t your last successful date back in high school, like, six years ago when you had better hair?”

Steve doesn’t even flinch. With condescending sympathy, he sighs and shakes his head of (beautiful-even-when-wet, damn him) hair, snapping the soda can tab with a flourish. “Might wanna hurry up and make a move. Can’t suppress my charm forever just ‘cuz you’re too chicken to man up- it’s not natural to keep all of this hidden away.”

Steve gestures to the broad expanse of his golden chest, dark thicket of hair sitting proud, the scars that he seems to have no qualms over showing off criss-cross along the flex of muscle at his sides. 

Realistically, Eddie knows Steve wouldn’t go after you, not even as a joke. It would defy the honorable and unmentioned Bro Code they’ve lived by ever since Eddie almost died in an alternate hell dimension and Steve valiantly pulled him back topside. 

Teasing, though? It’s Harrington’s godgiven right- especially since Eddie’s so hopelessly in love. It’s almost too easy to get him riled up, to light a fire under his ass to maybe finally get the situation some forward movement. 

Flames lick at the kindling. Steve walks backwards, shooting Eddie one last finger gun and wink before rejoining the boisterous outdoors crowd. Through the crack Steve’s left in the sliding glass door, Eddie can hear that asshole’s cheery voice ring out- “Lookin’ good, ladies!”- and your subsequent peal of laughter. 

Eddie can feel the heat through the black denim at his ass, sweat rushing to prickle at his pits underneath the light layer of tanktop- the one with a high-necked collar and sides long enough to conceal most of his scars. 

Not that he’s trying to hide ‘em, perse... they’re just sensitive to the sun. Plus his black jeans have holes in them, so they totally count as summer attire. He’s basically wearing shorts right now. Steve can suck it.

“Suck it, Steve,” Eddie grits out to no one for good measure, before taking a steadying gulp of beer and stepping bravely out beyond the glass doors. 

It’s shockingly bright, sun bouncing off the surface of the pool and rendering Eddie momentarily blind; he shields his eyes with his free hand in time to catch the tail end of Sinclair’s mid-air somersault.

“Five,” Max calls out, lounging safely out of the splash zone, waves from Lucas’s cannonball lapping at her pink donut pool float. Thick black prescription sunglasses take up half her face, expression unmoved even as her boyfriend splutters in the deep end.

“Are you kidding?” Lucas is indignant as he huffs and treads water. “Gimme at least an eight. Did you even see the flip?” 

“I saw it.” Unimpressed, Max shrugs a freckled shoulder. While Lucas devolves into swearing out his complaints (already with one elbow planted on the concrete to get out and make another attempt at a higher score), Max zeros in on Eddie, one brow arched high in searing appraisal. “You gonna swim with your boots on, too?”

“I’m- shut up, Red. Nice donut.”

Max’s triumphant smirk confirms what Eddie already knows (he totally bombed that comeback), but if there’s one thing in the world Eddie’s good at, it’s Pretending. A trait forged and perfected over the years of being reigning Dungeon Master; it’s served him well during D&D sessions, and when running from the law. 

And it’s coming in handy now, too, as Eddie walks past Steve (half-snoozing in a lounger) and the table of Baby Byers and Wheeler Jr. (playing an intense game of Slapjack), pretending to be totally Normal and Chill as he approaches you and Robin, a ways off from the bustling pool.

Go with what you know, Eddie tells himself, because if he focuses for more than two seconds on the fact that you’re stretched prone, sunlight filtering through the big tree overhead and illuminating the soft curves of your thighs just visible under the Spandex hem of your skirt, he’s gonna have a pressing issue that will be anything but pretend.

Robin’s lying on her back on the beach towel next to yours, a tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice held up close, obscuring her field of vision. Using this to his advantage, Eddie crouches on his haunches, then leans in to press his cold can of beer to the tender arch of Robin’s bare foot.

She yelps, kicking out on instinct (which Eddie was expecting). He manages to take the brunt of the hit with a forearm block, but doesn’t see the paperback coming until it’s hitting the side of his face.

“Ow, christ, Buckley,” he moans, slumping to sit on Robin’s towel, hamming up the victim act for your sake and sympathy while Robin snatches up her book and gives him another solid thwack, pages fluttering.

At the commotion, you’d lifted your head from your arms, leaning into them now with the weight of your upper half. Eddie tries really, really valiantly to not stare at your swimsuit top (practically a bra), and instead distracts himself with the fact that you were giggling. At him. 

Give the boy an inch and he’ll take a mile, Wayne is wont to say of his nephew. Never been truer than now, as Eddie gets drunk off your attention and humors, crowding familiarly and rudely into Robin’s space just to piss her off more and to keep your twinkling-eyed focus.

“Yech.” Robin gags. “I’m not gonna sit here and watch you two flirt up close. I just ate lunch.”

Eddie’s worried that comment will embarrass you into pulling away but apparently, you’re not shying from the accusations of his affection anymore. 

A snort and a sardonic eye roll is what you dish back, and Eddie latches on, delighted to have a Shit Starter in Crime, pushing an honest hand to his chest in faux-shock- “Flirting? Me? I’d never. What an accusation. You’re getting crazier by the day, Buckley.”

The peal of laughter that ripples from you is like a song, vibrating the frequencies between Eddie’s ears, scrambling all the channels with its aching beauty.

Goddamn addictive, he thinks, as the white-out of his hearing fades back to normal. A light, warm wind rustles through the big oak overhead, leaves shushing together; allowing himself a glance at your stretched form, Eddie’s (un)luckily close enough to see the smattering of goosebumps rise on the skin of your arms. 

To observe the way sweat curls the baby hairs near your temple, at the nape of your neck. To see the little creases near the corner of your eyes as you close them, turning your face into the wind, a quiet expression of summer bliss on your face.

Eddie could sit here for hours like a (happy) creep just taking in every minute detail, but Robin starts bitching at him about the weed he still owes her from ages ago, poking her cold toes into the holes of his jeans, mischievous and irritating.

Eddie smacks at her ankles until she pulls them back, matching her argument point for point; it’s not about the weed, of which he’d gladly give- it’s about keeping that smile on your face even as you sit up to start digging through your nearby tote bag.

“And plus,” Robin’s saying, sticking a finger into the dimple of Eddie’s left cheek like the obnoxious little sister he never asked for, “You scratched the everliving hell out of my bike last month when you insisted you were sober enough to ride it home.”

“What’d you want me to do, drink and drive? Not very Just Say No Club of you.” Eddie is operating on autopilot with his responses, absorbed in the way your delicate fingers move inside the canvas of the bag. 

“I wanted the same thing that I currently. Want.” Two more ice-cold prods of her toes into the same spot of his exposed knee. “Three grams, pre-rolled, plus an apology.”

Eddie is about to give in with the promise of the rest of his sizable stash and a bike waxing regimine with his own spit thrown into the mix to get Robin off his case, when the sound of your voice cuts through the bickering. 

In your hand, held aloft and out between the three of you, is a bottle of sun lotion. Your focus is fixed on shaking displaced items back into your bag, not looking as you make a request:

“Babe, would you do my back?”

Eddie moves on instinct before he even has time to process the ask, reaching out towards the palm tree-printed plastic- but for some reason, Robin’s hand collides with his mid-air. Goddammit, Buckley. 

His annoyance at Robin quickly gives way to confusion, then roiling embarrassment as two sets of eyes whip to him, your mouth slightly parted in an o shape and Robin making a squeak of awkward alarm.

You were talking to Robin. Obviously, you were talking to your girl friend to rub you down with lotion. 

Jesus christ, Munson, get a grip.

Eddie lets go at the same time Robin and you draw back, the three of you stammering half-sentences over the thunk of the bottle hitting the ground.

“I meant- sorry, god, sorry, I meant Robin-”

“Fucking- jesus, of course you meant Robin, I’m sorry-”

“Oh god! I can do it! It’s fine!”

There’s a brief pause where all of you stare down at the bottle, as if it holds some great mystery of the world. Or is perhaps concealing a time-bending device that will let Eddie go back twenty seconds to kick himself in the head.

He’s just about to make some lame excuse to fuck off forever when Robin beats him to it, jumping up with a spastic, nervous energy. “Um. Steve’s calling me. So I gotta… see what that dingus wants. You’re good?”

This last part, directed at you; with a quick, reassuring nod, you say “I’m good.” 

Seemingly recouped from the whole debacle, you squint up at Robin- “Eddie’s got it,” and then fixing Eddie with a disarmingly beatific smile- “Right?”

It’s like looking into the sun. Eddie is pretty sure his neurons haven’t been firing properly ever since he caught a glimpse of your thighs earlier. By some miracle, he manages coherence- “Uh-huh. Yep. Right.”

“O-o-kay.” Robin lets the word expand, then gives a dorky two-finger salute and makes for the empty pool lounger next to a snoring Steve.

Then it’s just you and Eddie, blinking at each other from your seats on opposing towels, until you lean to pick up the bottle, this time handing it directly to him. 

An invitation, paired with a smile that still pulls at the corners of your mouth.

Someone jumps noisily into the pool, a few scattered cheers accompanying the crashing water. Red’s distant “Nine-five!” echoes through the backyard and this, of all things, spurs Eddie into unfreezing.

He takes the proffered lotion, shifting to kneel in the strip of grass not covered by either of your towels, waiting and watching for your approval. 

Like something out of a dream, you lower yourself face-down again, hands tucking themselves sweetly into the space between the hollows of your shoulders and the ground. Eyes half-lidded as Eddie scooches closer.

“Just on your back?” He asks, soft, like you’re a deer about to spook (although based on the way his hands are trembling, Eddie’s the more likely candidate for chickening out and running for the hills).

“Mhm. Please.”

Fumbling under your sidelong gaze, Eddie wiggles all the rings from his fingers, stuffing them into his pocket. 

“Too cold,” he explains, feeling fidgety from your eye contact, rubbing his hands together briskly to bring out the warmth and give them something to do other than shake.

Eddie pines for a cigarette, a quick burst of nicotine to steel his nerves. Instead, he picks up the sunscreen, squeezes a quarter-sized puddle into his left hand, and shifts to kneel close as he can without actually bumping his knees into your side.

The sunscreen is already warmed from being out in the heat of the day, so Eddie starts on your left shoulder. Dips his fingers into the puddle, spreads a thin layer on the blade of your shoulder, and rubs it in. 

At first, his touch is gentle and apprehensive, but when your eyes drift shut on the second pass of his fingers, Eddie gets a bit bolder. On your right shoulder, another layer of suncream goes on, but this time, Eddie lets his thumb slip into the grooves under your shoulder blade. 

He runs his thumb along the stripe of muscle next to your scapula, still with pressure light enough to feign keeping to his task, thrilled when you make a soft noise of satisfaction.

“I would’ve asked you, y’know.” 

Eddie pauses, hand resting at the top of your spine, the skin of your neck freshly glistening and tacky from his work. “Asked me what?”

“To do this.” You shrug a shoulder, pointing in a roundabout way at your back. “I just… I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Why the hell would I say no to this?” The words are out before Eddie can bite them back and find a much more cool and normal thing to say. He can feel your chuckle, the vibrations of it, the way it causes the muscles in your upper back to move.

Eddie tries to cover his lameness by refocusing on the mission he’s been given, like a heroic knight bestowed with a great honor by a fair maiden… on second thought, he’s got to cut out the fantasy metaphors. This situation is wild and tempting enough as-is without adding a potentially very horny layer to the mix.

“You can get under my top, if you want,” you murmur, lashes dark against your cheek in profile, voice all honeyed and fair-maiden-like. 

Eddie swallows hard. Distributes the rest of the lotion between two palms, rests them just below the black fabric, and then slides up. Underneath the top, your skin is the same- smooth and pliant and sweet. 

“Feels nice,” you whisper, eyes still closed in reverie, sounding sleepy and relaxed.

Eddie is entranced with the way your muscles move under his touch. He applies a bit more pressure to the mid-back area of your spine, dragging his thumbs down on either side. You make another noise, this one closer to a moan, and Eddie’s really glad he’s practiced at the skill of Boner Killer On Command because he wouldn’t dare sully the atmosphere with ill-timed arousal (though his limits are certainly being tested today).

“Sorry about the callouses,” he says, a bit of self-deprecation to fill the air because he’s gotta focus on something other than the way his hand fits perfectly in the center of your low back.

“S’okay. I like them, actually. You’re good with your hands.”

Not for the first time, Eddie is relieved that you’re not looking at him- his ears are burning, on their way to bright pink. Same with his cheeks. “Cool, yeah. That’s good. Um. I play guitar, y’know so… I get around.”

After cringing at himself, Eddie watches the apple of your cheek round upwards with a smile, a sharp flash of your teeth as you say, “I can tell.”

There’s an amiable quiet that falls over the two of you; in the background, splashes and chattering from the pool group float in the air, muted by the warm winds shushing through overhead branches. 

At one point, Eddie realizes he’s covered your whole back in sunscreen and is now just trailing his fingertips over the notches of your spine, starting low and ending near your neck, following the path down again in a loop. If you mind, you don’t say anything, seemingly sated by his touch. 

There’s an aching behind Eddie’s ribs. It squeezes at his heart, makes his next breath pinch- he wants to touch you like this all the time. He’s already hooked. 

All too soon, you’re peeling yourself from the blanket, sitting up with a sheepish smile. Eddie can’t tell if you’re getting shy on him from the touch alone, or if it’s the fact that he’s the one that’s been touching. 

Either way, if Eddie could find a more chill way to say “I’d like to do that every minute for the rest of my life if you’ll let me,” he’d say it to appease any worries you may have. 

Bare knees pulled to your chest, you gesture at the bottle still in Eddie’s hand. “I could… do you, if you wanted?”

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, through the heated curtain of curls. “Nah, that’s okay. My abs won’t be ready to debut until the end of summer. 1993.”

He’s expecting at least a chuckle out of you, but instead, he’s fixed with a kind, all-knowing look. 

The two of you are face to face, your shin close enough to brush Eddie’s ribs as you state, “Not a fan of the heat, are you.”

“What gave it away?” Eddie gestures animatedly at the humidity-fed frizz of his hair, then shakes his head like a wet dog. 

When you catch one of his curls between two fingers he freezes, heart slamming to a pause as you loop it around a knuckle.

“I have some deep conditioner at my place. Could help you out if you wanna come by some time.”

Mere inches from his cheek as you lean in, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, trying to memorize how you smell- coconutty from the lotion, a bit sweaty, a faint hint of deodorant and the vanilla perfume you spray in the mornings. 

He’s never been this close before. 

He feels electric. Or more accurately, like he’s been electrocuted, and he’s waiting for you to restart his heart. 

“Does that sound good, Eddie? You, me, some hair care… maybe a movie? I can steal some from Family Video. I know a guy.”

At his ear now, your voice is low as you wrap a hand around the inside of Eddie’s arm- it’s his turn to break into goosebumps. “Oh yeah? Willing to steal for me already?”

This earns him a stellar laugh, head tipped back to show the curve of your perfect neck. You shove at him playfully, and he’s about to snap up your hand to bite as payback when your name is yelled from across the yard.

“Come on, we need another unbiased judge!” Max waves urgently from the pool as Lucas and Dustin get into an increasingly loud argument over the Olympic grading system. 

“Goddamn kids.” This comes out much more growly than Eddie intended; you just chuckle and squeeze his arm before pulling away to stand.

Eddie mourns the loss of your body heat until you extend a hand towards him, saying, “Let’s go humor our goddamn kids, and we can talk about dinner afterwards.”

It’s like your hand is made to fit inside Eddie’s. He follows close on your heels, heart thudding a steady, overjoyed rhythm once more. 

[vidavalor]

Hey, so...

Have you all noticed *how* Crowley and Aziraphale are drinking in 1941? And by this I mean... that they barely are? <wink>

Crowley has been drinking for millennia by this point. He gets drunk as Bildad the Shuite in 2500 B.C.. Aziraphale has been drinking since sometime prior to the scene in Rome, which is also when we see them drink together for the first time. *This* scene is 1941 so countless years and meet ups between Crowley and Aziraphale have taken place since and considering how these two drink together in other situations-- like how completely wasted they were in the "eleven years ago" scene in S1-- this one here in 1941 is *interesting.* Why?

Because friends, that is *one bottle of wine* on the table beside Aziraphale and I can still see wine in it above the label, which means what's currently in their glasses is less than the first half of the bottle... which means the glasses they are sharing now that Aziraphale just poured are their first drinks of the evening... and neither of them are really drinking much of it. That signals an intent not to drink very much at all-- the open bottle probably being plenty for the two of them. They're going slowly, without an intention to get drunk, but not really just to savor together a particularly interesting vintage. They don't seem to be noticing or tasting the wine at all. Aziraphale poured them both a good amount but not overkill but both of them so far in this scene just take cautious, *small* sips of the wine... and they don't need to conserve it, ok?

It's not the war. It's canon that Aziraphale has a case of Chateauneuf-de-Pape that he picked up in the 1920s sitting in the back of this shop at this very minute that he doesn't bust open until "Eleven Years Ago" in the future of S1 and Crowley is a bootlegger in this moment in history lol and also they're both literally magic. They could miracle wine from halfway around the world if they wanted to. There's wine to drink if they want to get drunk...

...and they both have silently agreed that they don't want to.

It is the *only* time that they drink together in a scene that we've seen where they have a mutual agreement to not drink that much. Even when Aziraphale *didn't drink*, he still got *food* drunk while Crowley was drinking in the Job minisode.

But when they're having a drink together in 1941, both of them are very clearly, by a kind of unspoken agreement from the vibes in the room, *not really drinking.* Just a little. A few sips that will lead to a glass or two a piece total, at most-- that bottle split between them would be a lot from the air of and the pace of them in this scene.

And I mean... forgetting for a moment that Aziraphale will get drunk without issue in other scenes, we all know Crowley, right? This Crowley...

In S1, part of *God's narration* lol includes that Crowley and Aziraphale had been drinking for six straight hours in the bookshop together in "Eleven Years Ago." Rome is one thing because they had just had just met up so we don't know how sloshed they got over oysters at Petronius' new restaurant (and would seem likely that they did) but in every other scene when they drink together, basically, they drink quite a bit and both of them usually wind up drunk, especially Crowley.

So why is 1941 different?

Because they're drinking like people who both want to mess around, that's why.

Yeah, people mess around while drunk and I'm sure the same can be said for any of the few Effort-curious angels and demons outside of these two but Crowley and Aziraphale are not a casual hookup to one another-- they're in love, they're best friends, and they haven't been together before after literal millennia of pining and yearning for it. It's not something that's happening while they're drunk. They want to be sober and for it to be special and the evening here in 1941 has really got everything lining up for a perfectly romantic night, if they want it to be. All the rescuing one another and little glances and now Aziraphale's asked Crowley back to the bookshop for a late night drink and they're both drinking like they want it to be tonight.

They're both silently telling one another they want something to happen by the fact that they're drinking with no intention to get drunk. They want to be present. They want to remember. They want each other's explicit consent so they're barely drinking the wine so that it's evident that if things get intimate, it's not because either or both of them are drunk, and no one has to stop over concern over that.

Aziraphale is looking at Crowley looking all dashing, unusually quiet for him, maybe a bit nervous and still hiding a little behind his glasses-- Hell's biggest lush taking the world's smallest, barely-there sip of that wine lol-- and is like how many more tiny sips do we need to take before I can crawl onto his lap...?

Aziraphale's like omg, the sex is going to be amazing... thank God I don't yet know in this moment that something-- like some Zombie Nazis, probably-- will stop us and we'll still be on trying to kiss one another 80 years from now...

[coatl-cuddles]

I have many thoughts about Alef's success in the trials cause like??????

When did he figure out he was the one the prophecy was talking about?

How many kids died before him?

Did he WANT to do the trials? Or did he just have no one else who would take him in since he was an orphan?

Did he get a long with the prophecy guide?

I'm on my hands and knees begging for tgc to focus a good portion of his episodes time around this, because idk if yall have done trials recently but to do all 4 in a row without falling/dying once is DIFFICULT.

I really hope we find out he succeeded by figuring out skips or tricks. I think it would be a good nod to the player base, and explain why the others failed before him. It wasn't about skill, it was about approach. I think that'd be cool.

Anyways NO MORE YAPPING have some drawpile doodles ft. Some prophecy kids who absolutely died before Alef succeeded. Ones that are from memories wink wink nudge nudge

ItsTheShatteringKids

IThinkTheShatteringKidsWereActualKidsAndNotJustManifestationsOfLightCreatures

Or at least thats what I head canon anyways

Anyways yeah those kids are totally dead

[moondirti]

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face. 

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.” 

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design. 

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you. 

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t. 

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ. 

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is. 

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first. 

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory. 

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition. 

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology. 

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far. 

“Oye,” 

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him. 

“I need your day pass.” 

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches. 

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.” 

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond? 

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant. 

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind. 

He is asking. 

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do. 

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.  

But, oh. 

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself. 

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.” 

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now. 

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you. 

Can’t get it up? 

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you. 

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be. 

And… Christ– 

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous. 

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago. 

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara. 

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger. 

“Where is it?” 

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin. 

“Where’s the fucking day pass?” 

Your satisfaction is short-lived. 

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point. 

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees. 

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth. 

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–” 

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.” 

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become. 

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure. 

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing. 

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this. 

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.) 

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die. 

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask. 

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?” 

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears. 

What the fuck, indeed. 

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake. 

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation. 

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed. 

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost. 

chapter five →

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be alerted of future updates!

[azrakaban]

Theodore nott fluffy dating head canons please 🥺🥺🥺🥺

AGH YES YIPPEE I LOVE WRITING THESE I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS

Theodore Nott Headcanons <3

Let's get right into it with some basic Theo headcanons, and then some dating ones too!

- Deffo has a Bernese Mountain dog back at home tbh, his mum loved them and got one before she died, and he loves that dog because it's all he really has left of her presence in his home

- Besties with Mattheo since they were both really little

- His mum died when he was eight, in childbirth, when giving birth to his little sister.

- his family is the Slytherin equivalent of the Weasleys, but reversed. He has four older sisters, and two younger sisters.

- Forces Mattheo to help him babysit his sisters

- Lapses into Italian when he gets tired

- Deffo sleeptalks in Italian, and when you first started dating you probably got so confused 😭

- He's really irritating when teaching you Italian, he'll throw in a word into his sentence and then make you look it up in a dictionary

- For sure loves dancing, whether or not you're good, if you're alone and there's music, call yourself Ginger Rogers

- Big fan of hand holding, he likes the feeling of having you that close.

- Hilarious when drunk, drunk words sober thoughts fr. He'll insult Draco's bleach, but then look at you and be like "Amore mio! guarda Matteo, guarda com'è bella! Aspetta, cosa stai facendo? Smettila di guardare la mia ragazza!" (My love! Look Mattheo, look how beautiful she is! Wait, stop looking at my girl!)

- Definitely a cat person besides his Bernese, and would adopt a black cat ASAP

- Would totally be an animagus, probably a black cat or a wolf

- If wolf, he'd maybe let you ride on his back. Only if he was in a good mood though.

- His music taste: Classical, specifically Beethoven, chase Atlantic, Coldplay. Guilty pleasure is Ariana Grande.

- Love language? Teaching you Italian for sure. Although does give presents randomly if he feels like it, but not too often.

- Definitely ambidextrous, and will help you write your homework. He learns how to mimic your handwriting so that if you don't feel good, he can do your homework for you

- convinced he sleeps with so many blankets that trying to find him in that MESS of a bed is impossible 😭

- actually apologises to your teddies if they fall of your bed

- reads poetry to calm down and will write it about you (you'll never see it though)

- definitely the designated driver most of the time 😭

- he's got snacks stashed all over the castle incase you two get hungry but you'll never know where he's hiding them 😭

- he has a resting bitch face until you're in the room

- queen of accidental photo bombs and there is not a single cute picture of you two no matter how

- pookie CANNOT swim. Don't even get him to try 🤡

- he's an ambivert, so mainly introverted with people he doesn't know, but is actually the clown of the group (him and Mattheo)

- He can play cello and double bass, but only plays for you if you ask

- actually the biggest hopeless romantic, Mr Darcy type shit

- Insanely good singer, and will sing to you in Italian

- good at herbology, took it for OWLS and NEWTs and became friends with Neville through it, they partner every day

- his favourite colour is navy

- Will speak Italian to Mattheo, who can speak it too, just to be funny. Like he'll be glaring at Draco and saying to Mattheo:

"So you think firewhiskey is worse than Muggle tequila?"

"Uh yeah, why are we glaring at Draco?"

"I want him to think we're shit talking him. So do you eat crackers when you drink or not?"

"No, gross. Nutella pancakes."

"Sounds... surprisingly good."

- He cannot wink, so he'll pass you a note in class and try but it looks like he's got something in his eye because both his eyes start twitching 😭

- He thinks pick up lines are shit, and won't use them. He will however ask you out politely and take you on a date or a few before he asks you to be his partner.

Hope this is what you were looking for! Love and thanks for the request <3

[clockwayswrites]

A bitty bit and a poll... cw: post canon typical violence, blood, offer of smuttiness ship: Danny/Jason

“Danny.”

“Hood,” Danny said, pushing his hair back as he turned Jason’s way. His thumb ran over the shaved side of his head. A streak of blood trailed behind by the motion.

“What did they want?” Jason asked. He kicked at the side of one of the groaning thugs for emphasis as he strode over to Danny.

Danny just shrugged. “The usual.”

“Not supposed to be the usual in my territory,” Jason growled.

“Yeah, well,” Danny said with that crooked grin of his. There was something all the more feral about the grin that night between the blood and the way the harsh magenta neon that adorned the outside of Danny’s shop broke through the light rain. “I’m in that grey zone; not in one place or the other.”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re my mechanic so you’re my territory.”

Danny’s grin widened and he had the audacity to wink. “Kinky.”

“What did I say about shutting up?” Jason asked as he started to look Danny over for injuries.

Danny pliantly, and almost with amusement, let Jason check him over. When Jason found a cut on the other’s arm, he huffed, tossed the bloodied tire iron Danny was holding away, and started to roll up the sleeve of the black over shirt.

“It’s fine Hood, it’s nothing,” Danny said as he peered around Jason.

Without letting go of Danny’s arm, Jason pulled out a gun and twisted enough to point it at the thug who was helping the one Jason had kicked off the ground.

“This street is off limits.”

“Ain’t Crime Alley!” the one said, spitting blood. “Old Gotham is—”

“Right over there. This street? It’s mine,” Jason said. He cocked his gun for emphasis.

“It ain’t—”

“It ain’t worth dying over! Leave it!” the other thug hissed and tried to pull them away. “If fucking Red Hood says it’s his then it’s his! Now come on.”

“Make sure you take the rest with you,” Jason ordered. He kept his gun trained on them until they were long out of sight.

“Do I still have to shut up?” Danny asked cheekily into the silence. “Because I can think of some fun ways for you to make me.”

Jason turned slowly to look at Danny. “What.”

It wasn’t exactly a question. Jason knew what Danny was implying, but what?

Danny just shrugged, still with that smile. “Can’t a man thank his knight in leather armor? I mean, totally feel free to turn me down. I’m not going to pressure someone into that sort of thing, but I figured it didn’t hurt to offer. You seem like you’re a little tense—”

As if they weren’t just in a fight.

“—and could use the release. I’m not going to pretend that I would mind being between those thighs. So what do you say, wanna let me blow you?”

Danny might as well have hit Jason with that tire iron for how his thoughts scrambled at that offer. Who the fuck did that? Danny had no reason to. Jason already made clear that Danny was under his protection. Jason had also been ramping up the amount of work he gave to Danny versus handling himself. It wasn’t like the guy needed to offer sexual favors.

Jason shook his head, as if that would clear his confusion. “Next time or something. I’ve got work.”

“Sure, wouldn’t want to keep you,” Danny said and took a step back.

“Wrap that arm.”

“What arm?”

“Danny.”

Danny laughed and tucked his hands into his pockets as he backed up into his shop. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll wrap it. Go out there and take on the big bad night, hero.”

“I’m not a fucking hero,” Jason called after him. “And lock your damn door!”

Danny gave a cheeky salute before disappearing into the shop.

Brat.

---

AN: NOW, you all know by now, I'm sure, that I love playing around with how balanced Danny is as a half and his hair color and things like that. This is the new idea I was whining about earlier. It's going to be about as pwp as I'm able to get and supposedly a one shot. Danny is very, very forward, Jason is very, very confused (and later very, very satisfied). So all that said...

[starbeltconstellation]

Ahh, and THERE it is… 🙃🙃

I have kept my opinions mostly to myself about The Acolyte, because I wasn’t planning on watching it until seeing where it went with the Jedi. Almost everything in SW media has an element of Jedi criticism (sadly 🙄), so I knew that would be a given with this show, so I was holding off on any total judgment until the end.

One thing I KNEW I would despise and would make me not ever watch it is if they actually made canon that the Jedi brutally murdered an entire coven of witches and COVERED UP A MASSACRE (wtf on that part, because they would NOT cover it up, even if they’d made a mistake). Apparently, it is not as bad as I feared, and they don’t destroy the Jedi Order’s characterization entirely.

But THIS line. 🥶🤢

With THIS line that is apparently written in the newest episode—that’s it. You’ve lost me.

Because THIS line is just straight up genocide apologia.

Ohhh, of course they don’t come outright and SAY, “Loool, those space wizards deserved what they got! 🤪🤪✊”, but the implication is pretty clear, all the same.

From the very beginning, I knew the showrunner of The Acolyte didn’t like the Jedi or their culture, and said that her show “wouldn’t be kind to them.”

And I could’ve lived with just the stupid vagueness of portraying the Jedi as a pompous bureaucracy (because it’s just an infectious opinion that’s spread through most of the fandom), without FULLY condemning The Acolyte and declaring the show a terrible portrayal of the Jedi and their morality and culture, along with the CANON aspects of the Dark Side being a cancer in The Force that does nothing but make people miserable and cause imbalance in The Force.

But with THIS LINE that is SO clearly a wink and a nudge to the SW fans who believe the Jedi ‘deserved what they got’… 🙄🤢… I’m sorry, but they’ve officially lost me. 😬🤷‍♀️

There are things that I’d probably like, if I ever can make myself stomach getting through the show: seeing how different cultures view The Force, seeing more of the Jedi Order/culture/Temple/how they teach their students, the characters Sol and Jecki and Yord and Osha—even seeing Jedi fighting style being so different and more defensive while trying to not use their lightsaber unless necessary, since they are in a time of peace.

But for the most part?

With THIS frankly DISGUSTING line, I can say with absolute certainty that The Acolyte is a show that I would never enjoy, and that is frankly not a welcome addition to the SW universe to me.

I appreciate the diversity inclusion, and I find myself relating to that meme that says something like: “When you hate a show, but then realize the other people that hate it are mostly bigots, 🙃🙃” because—unlike THOSE moronic dudebros—my criticism is for the story itself.

It’s a genuine shame. It’s such an interesting premise, getting to see the Jedi in the High Republic Era. But with this… I now know that The Acolyte is a show not worth my—or ANY OTHER pro Jedi fan’s time. 💔😔🤷‍♀️😬

Only thing I’ll say in defense of it: Mr. Sith (?) IS hot. 🔥❤️‍🔥

And that’s the only other praise I can give. 🤷‍♀️

Loool, sorry for the rant. I’m just so pissed off. 😭🤷‍♀️😂

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 49

part 1 | part 48 | ao3

cw: angst, canon-typical violence

It's a totally normal Tuesday the day it all starts going to shit.

Eddie's got a show at The Hideout, and Wayne's got a rare night off, so Steve's at his boyfriend's place without him catching a basketball game with Wayne and Ernie. He did try to go to the show, to be fair; wanted to, but Eddie took one look at the way he was cradling the side of his head and winked at him to "sit this one out, big boy," so here he is: drinking beer with two old men and watching the most frustrating game he's seen all season.

"Oh, what the hell was that?" he begs the tiny screen, jumping out of his seat to pace a tight circle and rake his hands over his scalp hard enough to pluck a few strands. Beside him, Ernie shakes his head and mutters "goddamn disgraceful, that's what" and in the kitchen Wayne munches happily on a fresh plate of nachos, taps his bald head with a half-eaten chip and warns, "Quit tuggin' at your hair 'fore you wind up lookin' like this."

"Whatever, old man." Steve rolls his eyes, but he loosens his grip. Drags his hands down his face instead. "Don't act like you're not loving this."

Wayne laughs, a broad, smug smile that's pure Munson mischief. "Never claimed otherwise," he says, then he pops a cigarette in his mouth and tells them to get their wallets ready.

Bastard. His team's doing fine tonight. (And sure, the bet was only five dollars, but it's a point of pride, damn it.)

Steve turns his attention back to the game, where the ref is making yet another call that's so laughably bad Steve's not sure how he isn't getting decked for it. A stray elbow to the face, at least. Fucking something.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles; still pacing, arms crossed. "If they don't fire this idiot, I swear..."

He turns to Ernie for back up; remembers that Ernie's got a lapful of Misty the cat right now and quickly looks away. Creepy little thing still freaks Steve out (even if Ernie's stroking her fur like she's a harmless stress toy and not the razor-clawed, rat-chomping demon she really is.) He still can't look at her. Gets queasy just thinking about all the "presents" she's left him since he moved in.

Ernie catches the way his shoulders tense. "Didn't think you'd be afraid of a little pussy," he teases, scratching the cat behind her ears.

Misty gives a low rumble of approval.

Steve's stomach flips. "Whatever," he scoffs, looking anywhere but at them. "That thing's bad luck. No wonder we're losing."

He settles back into his seat, and the game goes on — and on, and on, until the score gets so embarrassing that Steve considers just getting up and yanking the TV plug out of the wall, or maybe storming out of the place in protest — and he's about to beg Wayne for mercy, ask him to change the station to anything else, when the front door opens so softly it sets off alarm bells in his head.

Steve whips around at the lack of sound. Knows immediately that something is wrong, because Eddie Munson doesn't do quiet. Eddie Munson comes home like fireworks going off: Crack! Whizz! Bang! He's always a burst of noise and energy; he's a fucking racket; Wayne's said so a million times — muttered it angrily when Eddie's music keeps him up, grumbled it fondly over breakfast while he tries to stop himself from falling asleep face-first in a plate of eggs.

Tonight Eddie comes home quiet as a thief. A mouse trying to evade the clutch of Misty's claws. His head's hung low as he shucks off his boots, his face obscured by frizzy hair.

Steve's across the room in a heartbeat.

"Baby?" he whispers, trying to peak behind the curtain. Eddie won't look at him, but his breathing sounds off; labored and whistling, and his hair is matted with something dark. "You okay?"

"Fine," Eddie croaks.

They both know it's a lie.

Steve lifts a hand to gently tip his chin up, but the moment his fingers graze skin Eddie winces and tugs away. "Okay," he says, pulling his hand back. "Okay, I'm sorry, just— can you look at me? Please?" He softens his voice, tries to coax Eddie out. You're safe here; you can trust me.

When Eddie finally looks up, Steve's heart lodges in his throat.

His face is ruined. Caked in dried blood, the skin below his left eye like an overripe eggplant: deep purple and threatening to split down the middle, to spill rotten juices all over the floor. There's a cut above his brow, another nick between his eyes, and— fuck.

His nose is broken.

Steve's gonna kill someone.

"Who did this to you?" he asks, deadly quiet. Whoever it is, they're not living to the morning. Steve's got a car and a nail bat and a boy with a broken nose, and he's going to kill whoever did this to him. "Eddie." He grips his biceps; shakes him a little. Insists. "Eddie, tell me who did this!"

Eddie hiccups a weak sob. Lips shiny with blood and tears, and Steve lets go; feels horrible for making it worse, for letting his anger get the best of him. He wraps Eddie up a gentle hug, cradles him against his chest and doesn't care if Ernie sees. He doesn't give a damn.

"Fucking—" Eddie grunts against Steve's shirt, his teeth chattering around the word. His throat clicks when he swallows. Sticky with blood and phlegm.

Hospital, Steve thinks. Blood loss; sepsis; shock.

Eddie gulps a ragged breath and tries again. "Fucking assholes," he gets out, "they took our- t-took our—" The words cut off with a pained whimper, and he breaks down and just cries. Cries and cries until the heaving subsides, until it lessens to muted trembling in Steve's arms. There's fresh blood on his shirt.

Eddie's blood is on his shirt.

He looks up, eyes wet and wide, and then Wayne's there; two strong, weathered hands firm on Eddie's shaking shoulders. "Is it bad?" he asks Steve. No nonsense; demanding answers. Decorated veteran.

Steve nods without a word.

"C'mon, kid," Wayne soothes. "Let's get you cleaned up."

—

part 50

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