#with lemon pep
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b0tster · 1 year ago
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What do you eat for breakfast?
bagol
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itissadbutitsmy-artblog · 4 months ago
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finns best unkle shirt has been through some biz hes still the best unkle its just a crop top now
anyways. uncle pep
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akheku · 8 months ago
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hey so did you know we really love the lemon/fruit monsters from fnf mods
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deus-ex-mona · 2 months ago
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happy pocky day to chizuutan and chizuutan alone~~
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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 months ago
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16 AFOKOTANAO!!! SPICY!!
16. voyeurism || wc: 600+
a/n: it's not full spice but i'm tagging lemon anyway. send thoughts and prayers to nao for having to accommodate her husband's unspoken daddy issues.
//
Times like these, Nao regrets asking her parents to live with her and Kotarou. They make really good grandparents to Hana! But, well, they hadn’t been in the house when Hana was conceived, and Kotarou’s insistence that they should give Hana a sibling is somewhat tempered by the fact that he too is awkward about being intimate when Nao’s mother and father are sleeping just a floor below.
And she pointedly refuses to pay for a love hotel, or to even step foot in one. It would be one thing if Nao was desperate and horny, but her relationship with Kotarou has never been especially passionate. Even Kotarou’s fiery declaration about being lonely as a single child and wanting a full house withers within the week. 
So she thinks her startled reaction to seeing Kotarou bring home the very businessman he’s been social-drinking and dining with is reasonable. Kotarou doesn’t have to shoot her a look that says, ‘Please be cool about this.’
Nao attempts to be gracious. She wants to be a good hostess, but Kotarou gave her no warning, and now Shigaraki Hisashi is ducking his head like a shy schoolboy as he enters her home in the night. She says, hurried, “Welcome to our home, Shigaraki-san. It’s quite late--”
“Nao,” Kotarou says. He shuts and locks the door behind Shigaraki. “Nao, just hear me out. Shigaraki-senpai has a solution to our noise problem.”
Famous last words. Kotarou takes Nao’s hand and tugs her upstairs to their bedroom, and Shigaraki trails behind them, smiling placidly. He follows them inside like he was invited.
“Kotarou, what--?” she hisses. She sees Shigaraki close the door; she sees him lean against the surface like a guard, arms folding across his chest. An odd whining noise sputters to life in her ears.
“Shigaraki-senpai’s Quirk is like a white noise generator,” Kotarou says. He takes her other hand and holds them, looks into her eyes with all sincerity. There’s a pink flush to his face. Is he drunk, or is he blushing? “It’s a limited range, and he has to focus to make it work, so it’s not like he’s joining us in bed.”
“That’s not the problem…”
“There isn’t a problem,” he insists. “I’m not cheating on you, you’re not cheating on me. You don’t have to look at Shigaraki-senpai if you don’t want to.”
“But you’re okay if he looks at us while we--?!”
Kotarou’s flush deepens. Nao’s mouth drops open of its own accord, because she can certainly connect the dots. Her eyes dart to Shigaraki’s; he lifts a pale eyebrow at her, appearing bemused but tolerant of her husband’s crush.
Then Kotarou leans down to kiss her knuckles, which is something he’s never done before. Nao has to refocus. She nearly squeaks when he clumsily guides their hands to the loosely tied knot of her bathrobe, plucking the sash open and pushing the entire thing off her so she’s just left in a nightgown and underwear. Nao instinctively goes to cover her breasts. Her nipples have hardened, and she’s not wearing a bra, and--
“Go ahead and be as loud as you want,” Shigaraki encourages. He times it right when Kotarou skates his hands down the curve of her body and squeezes her rear, which is something he’s never done before.
“Um--!” Nao stammers, and she clutches Kotarou’s shoulders, torn between shoving him away and using him as a shield against Shigaraki’s watchful gaze. Kotarou pulls her close, enough that she can feel his arousal press against her.
“Nao, please,” says Kotarou. “It’s alright.”
Nao thinks a lot of things in that instant, desire and disquiet warring for priority. She has to weigh their solid, boring, safe marriage against the rekindled light in Kotarou’s eyes and the strange character at their bedroom door. Kotarou wouldn’t leave her if she said no, but--Nao swallows her reproach and manages to eke out, “Yes.”
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eschynite · 1 year ago
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Peanuts are such a luxurious treat
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tinysillylemonman · 1 year ago
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SCREAMING i wish i could show y’all the video (can’t for obvious privacy reasons) but we were SO GOOD!!!! Let’s hope my class won spirit week because after that dance we deserved it
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beperoncin · 6 months ago
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pepckxnsiNOcndoanaocnapdnepeperocnianofnspepeprinsisnsofwopwepwoajdneisnapepwpeoanoansopwpwperoajiipeperoncikdkssowpepeprixnsianwppwperoaoandowkwpwpwpeproaosndoekwp
peperon
poepn
pepdoc
epperocj
the
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lemon-x-peperoncino · 7 months ago
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fun facts with pip!: whenever i have nothing better to do i draw these stupid fucking cookies being GAY to pass the time
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ionlylikemycat · 1 year ago
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i was reading a fic and it made me feel sad about myself and my future personal relationships so i watched the ‘07 eurovision song sensation dancing lasha tumbai and it made it better so moral of the story ukrainian drag queens are magic
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ohcaptains · 1 year ago
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𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐲.
pairing. simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader.
synopsis. simon comes home. he's too tired to fuck you right. eventually, he manages to find the energy.
warnings. 18+ this is sexually explicit, do not read this or interact with my blog if you’re a minor. do not copy or use ai on my shit, i’ll find out. female receiving penetration, blonde simon lol, somnophilia, dry humping, pussy smacking, and crying during sex. i am not responsible for your media consumption.
an. :) life sucked so i found a new animated character to obsess over. please comment & reblog if u enjoyed !
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When Simon comes back, he’s dog-tired.
As soon as his feet touch the welcome mat of your quaint little apartment, he feels all of his muscles relax – as if they’re unpinning themselves from his bones – and he has to give himself a pep talk to muster the energy to drag his hand up to ring the bell.
But he doesn’t have to, because you’re ripping the door open – shining like the sun – and pulling him into your body, rendering all 6,4 ft and 240 pounds of the super soldier to complete mush.
For five minutes, you don’t speak. Just hold him, as you gently rub the corner of his jaw, and brush your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. He clutches you to him.
His fat, paw-like hands hold your upper back, and you hold him with the same vigour. His body – wrapped in his black compression shirt and army pants – is rock solid.
It’s a weaving of muscles that have been tensed for the last two months. It’s going to take a minute for them all to soften, but like he always does when he’s been away, Simon lets out a deep and resolute sigh.
The breath warms your neck, causing it to tingle, and you grasp him tighter, your body waking up.
It’s been a long two months.
He manages to push your intertwined bodies through the doorway, using his boot to kick the door shut. His house smells like home -- funny how you can’t smell it until you’ve been gone a while.
Vanilla and a citrus fruit, mixed with the savoury scent of his favourite meal. He hums again, and you scratch the back of his head, sending shivers down his locked spine.
He knows the route to your bedroom like the back of his hand, and he maneuvers the pair of you inside.
The curtains are closed and the bed is made. You know him. You know him so well.
You let him push you back onto the bed – a blur of familiar limbs and hair – and he settles lower, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Immediately, you drag your legs up and cross them over the curve of his ass.
You’re all warm and soft and pliable. Dressed in a pair of simple cotton shorts and a vest top, he wants to grab fistfuls of you and remind himself of how you feel in his palms. Wants to drag his lips over your skin, bully his way between your legs and remind himself of how you taste.
Fuck, he wants you, in a carnal, almost primal sort of way, and you the same. He can smell it. A sweet but sweaty longing that melts from you and causes his senses to wake.
But he’s so God damn tired.
You know. Know this routine. Know that he has to settle back in.
In the meantime, you’ll just have to wait.
You fiddle with his hair. “There’s dinner if you want it,” you whisper into the dark bedroom, looping the strands between your fingers, committing the soft feel to memory.
Simon shuffles just an inch on top of you, but still, the slight movement of his clothes and hard, clenched body against yours makes you take your bottom lip between your teeth.
It’ll be chewed raw by the time he has enough energy to take you. He grunts something into your skin, and after a second, you gather it’s, tired.
His scent clouds you.
When Simon comes back, he always smells the same.
The soap at the barracks is pine scented – shampoo a strict lemon.
But there’s always a leftover grit to him. A hidden layer the soap can’t clean off, and it makes you delirious. Makes you flex your ass up – just an inch, a sweet, gentle inch that has you feeling the hard lines of his thighs and the metal of his zipper, and Simon’s breathing hitches.
You freeze. With your hips pushed tight against his, you stare at the ceiling, hoping that your worn-out soldier hasn’t felt you move.
Simon stays quiet. His breathing settles. You go to apologise, but Simon doesn’t grumble or make a sly comment. Listening closer to his breathing, you gather that he’s asleep.
Jesus, you think, that’s a record. Barely in the door and he’s asleep, he must be burnt out. Figuring that you won’t be able to crawl from under his weight, you decide it’s your bedtime too.
Sleep comes fast.
Hours later, you blearily blink awake. Not much has changed – the room is still dark, Simon is still heavy on top of you, yet now, you’re sticking to him with sweat.
He’s usually a human furnace, but this is different.
Your skin prickles, vibrating at a frequency that has nothing to do with heat. No, this is��you feel a pulsating between your thighs, and wiggle, feeling your slick coating your underwear.
Fuck, why are you so wet? You clench, and the resulting ache forces you to hiss and push your head back against the pillows. What did you dream about? Thinking back, you come up short. Then why--
Simon shuffles on top of you. It’s a slight movement, but it continues, and all at once, your heart clenches.
Holy fuck, he’s—
“Simon?” you whisper, and your boyfriend whines into your neck.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, the words wet and desperate. The puzzle pieces lock into place.
He knocks his hips into your crotch once more, and you gasp, clenching, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Simon’s apology comes out again, except this time, it’s christened with a “s-shit – fuck.”
Blinking at the ceiling, you huff and try and glance down, and in the dark, you just about manage to see the outline of his burly body grinding into yours.
You take stock of the situation.
Feel his fat palm around your hip, and squinting, see that he’s got your shorts pulled down around your thighs, and has the band of your underwear looped around his fingers.
Jesus Christ. You fall back into the pillows. “How long have you?” you whisper. “Five – fuck – minutes,” Simon grunts, continuing to roll his thick hips against you. His bulge knocks the edge of your throbbing clit, causing you to gasp again. There’s been no build-up to your want, it’s just there, humming electric, and spread tight over your thighs.
Simon meshes his wet mouth against your chest. He’s tugged your vest top down, too, and his lips close around the skin of your breast. Jesus. He was undressing you as you slept.
“Thought about fuckin’ you, but couldn’t get my pants down, so – shit -- tired. Jus’ woke up and you were just so fuckin’ soft. And wet, Christ, felt you through my trousers.”
Your whole body goes numb. “You were gonna fuck me as I slept?” you whisper, belly flipping. You’d told him – ages ago – that he could, but he hasn’t been here. You’d forgotten.
The image of him pulling your underwear down as you slept streaks across your mind. Imagine waking up with him inside of you, so full and wet and just on the precipice of coming.
Simon grunts. He tugs at the band of your underwear, “I’ll fuck you right, at some point. Just –”
In your delirious state, you manage to finish his sentence, “Tired, I know – I know baby.”
You kiss the crown of his head and whimper into his hair. “Just use me until you’re ready.”
Simon groans out deep and loud. It rumbles against your chest. Echoes through your heart, and you’re so turned on that you begin fidgeting.
You try and squirm away from the stifling ache of your pussy, but Simon’s built like a brick shithouse, so you can’t run from it, just gotta take it and take it and take it, until you can’t anymore, and you break.
You’re so fucked that you don’t even announce that you’re coming, but Simon knows, shit, and as your pussy clenches up tight, he growls low and hard, mumbling, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, until his movements go sloppy, and his breathing goes laboured, and he’s coming into his pants and mewling your name.
When he finally does manage to get inside of you, he doesn’t last long. No, he pushes all the way to the hilt, and you tighten up.
“Stay” you gasp, clenching your pussy around his shaft, and Simon grunts deep and long into your throat.
“S-Stay there,” you moan, then, in case he didn’t hear you, “Stay,” you whisper, and push the ball of your palm into his thick, scarred shoulder. 
You were teetering on a knives edge.
You’ve come once since Simon was home, and your second orgasm of his return was right there.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Simon groans into the shallow of your throat, “Did we do enough prep?” 
“Yes,” you immediately whisper, not wanting him to pull out. 
He’s thick and pulsing inside of you, hard and heavy on top, and God, he kisses at your throat — soft and gentle. You try to swallow down the ball that has swelled in your throat, but tears prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill. 
No no no no, you think. Not now. Not now not now. You try to stifle the tears, but you unconsciously sniff, and despite Simon being perfectly still, he still manages to freeze.
“Sweetheart?”
You inhale, “Yeah?” 
Simon looks up; and seeing tears on your cheeks, his face falls, “Did I hurt you?”
You furiously wipe the tears away, shaking your head.
“M’just overwhelmed,” you whisper, and he presses his forehead against yours, going to kiss you, but the movement causes his hips to flex against you, nudging his cock, and you whine, immediately gripping onto the back of his dirty blonde locks. 
Simon drops his face into your chest and lets out a pained rasp, “Tightening around me, kid.” 
You unclench, “m’sorry.” 
“Gonna come quick.” 
“S’okay.” 
“I’ll fuck you right, just gotta…” he trails off and grabs fist fulls of your hips.
“Fuck,” he huffs wistfully, “This pussy. Missed this fucking pussy.”
You go dizzy with need. Shake your head, and bend to kiss him, tasting his wet and swollen lips. Gently, you knock your hips up into his, and when he lets out a surprised grumble, you flex your hips higher, trying to stuff his cock deeper, further – till you can see it pressing into your belly.
Catching onto your plan, Simon grunts and pushes your hips with his fat palms, pinning your ass to the mattress. 
“Stop,” he orders, and the demand goes straight to your cunt. Jesus. He hasn’t been very dominant since his return, and that little instruction has you chomping on the bit.
“Want you, Si.”
“One stroke and I’ll be fucked.” 
“Just gotta practice.” 
He chokes on a laugh, muttering, “Practice.” 
You try another tactic. Clench around his cock and pout, “Want you to come inside me.”
“Fuck,” Simon cuts. You curl your legs back his back and push your foot into the dense muscle of his ass, at the same time rocking your hips up. Simon lets you. Let’s you try and fuck yourself on his cock. With wet lips, you push your mouth into the shell of his ear, shakily uttering his name.
“Gonna fill me up, Si?”
“Fuckin’ filthy, you know that?”
Simon pulls back, and your heart stutters.
You think he’s going to pull out, until he uses your hips to pull you tight against his cock -- your ass nearly sitting on his thighs. His thick, scarred chest is puffed up.
Cheeks red, and he’s got that animal glint in his pretty eyes.
It knocks you for six.
“Where you want it?” he asks, and you’re confused, until he presses the heel of his palm into the middle of your tummy.
“Shoot my load here, huh?”
Your body goes numb. Eyes white out. It happens so suddenly that it scares you, and you’re a mixture of turned on and frightened, but the fear turns you on even more.
All you can do is blearily look up at him as he slides his paw to the other side of your tummy, “or shoot it here. Fuck it so deep that you can taste it.”
He pretends to think about it. Even hums, before he drags his palm up and stuffs his thumb into your mouth. “Or just directly here, huh?” He snarls a smile, “know you like it when your mouth is full.”
You suck at his thumb, and tighten your cunt around his cock, causing his mouth to open, and eyes to flutter, and just like that, you’ve won.
He comes in record time.
But Simon keeps his promises.
A couple of days later – on the seventh day he’s back -- he fucks you so good, that when you wake up the next morning, you get shy just thinking about it. 
Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling – your boyfriend fast asleep on your chest -- remembering the debauchery you’d gotten up to the night before. 
The pair of you are a little tipsy, drunk on beer and wine, but all it’s done is heighten your senses, and made you fully aware of your desires, so much so, that they pulsate behind your eyelids like a migraine.
Simons got you face down, ass up, and as he pushes you face first into the mattress, he presses his thumb against the tight, fluttering hole of your pussy.  
“Gonna let me inside, baby?”
You sink into your thighs and spread yourself wider for him, humming into your crossed arms. Simon watches your pussy spread further, and he can’t help himself, he has to slide his thumb deeper.
He presses, just barely pushing the tip of his thumb into your wet hole, and you gasp, trying to chase the feeling by inching back against his fat palm.  He laughs at you. “Look at your pussy sucking my thumb in, baby. Wish you could see what I’m seeing. So fuckin’ sexy.”
You hum, the words making you wetter – dripping over his thumb.
“Been dreaming of fucking you right, gonna take you whenever I want.”
“Okay,” you whisper, so delirious that you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to. Simon raises a brow,
“Yeah?” he asks, tone breathless. Thought he’d get some pushback on that one, but for a second, he forgot that you said the nastiest shit with his dick inside of you.
You nod into your crossed arms, and Simon laughs again, “Free use pussy,” he sounds, then lightly smacks your sodden folds, causing you to flinch, bucking forward. 
“Oh fuck,” you choke, eyes rolling back. Heat ricochets through your crotch and swamps your belly, before settling back in your aching pussy. Once you manage to collect yourself – and it takes a second -- you huff. “Bein’ mean.”
Simon snorts, grabs your hips, then rams the underside of his cock against your pussy, grinning so big that his scars stretch, “don’t know the half of it, babe.” 
You sob, real tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Your desire is visceral, enough for you to taste it on your tongue. Simon pulls back, and your slick coats the length of his dick, earning yourself another light smack to your cunt.
“Soakin’ me,” he grunts, and you sob into the sheets. “Please,” you whisper, then, please please please, and Simon hears your breathing hitch. 
This time, instead of checking up on you, he chuckles, “Crying again, baby?”
You sniff and wipe your eyes on your wrist, face heating.
“No,” you mumble, and Simon sighs.
He reads you like a book. Always has. Always will.
“Lying to me,” he grumbles, then he steers the uncut head of his cock between your folds, whispering, “Lie to me again, and I’ll give you something to cry about,” before bottoming out in one thrust.
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itissadbutitsmy-artblog · 1 year ago
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lemongrab (Starts vibrating so hard i explode)
i do think pb is calm now but i dont think she likes wizards. i dont know. i dont know. and i saw how she treated lemongrab, she didn't really like him either. like. you all saw that. peps didnt want to see that he didnt want to think about it at the time, how they were treating the actual literal heir to the throne and also just how they were treating this man, he didn't realize. he didn't. and now. and . dont .get me talking about lemongrab. or i will talk. for ever
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pep: you ate your brother lg: lg: you won't have that problem pep: i could eat you lg: try it
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itneverendshere · 3 months ago
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hii i love your writing !! so i saw your comment on said it a million times, only stay with you one more night where you said that rafe is catching feelings only to fuck it up all over when he ignores her in public and i was wondering if you could write a second part where that happens ?
hiiii! thank you sm for the compliment and for the request 🫂 Hope you enjoy ❤️
been busy digging out her grave - r.c
pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe
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working at lila’s restaurant was something you usually tried to avoid, but since she was short-staffed today and needed your help, you figured why not? it wasn’t like you had anything better to do. plus, you owed her a favor. so, there you were, tying your apron on in front of the mirror in the back, trying to pep talk yourself into surviving a day dealing with kooks and tourists.
the air inside always smelt of fried food and coffee, the kind that clung to your clothes no matter how many showers you’d take. you slid out from the back, letting the swing door creak behind you as you moved to the counter, mentally preparing yourself to smile at whatever entitled ass came through the door.
it wasn’t until about halfway through your shift, wiping down the counter and refilling coffee cups, that you noticed them. and by them, you mean him. rafe.
you stopped dead in your tracks for a second, the plates hot in your hands. your breath caught in your throat like you’d swallowed an entire lemon. he strolled in with his pack of kook friends like they owned the place—probably felt like they did too. topper, kelce, and a couple of girls whose names you couldn’t be bothered to remember followed him, laughing loudly, taking up space in that obnoxious way only people like them could.
he didn’t even glance in your direction as they settled into one of the corner booths. not even a look of recognition, but you’d told him you were working here for the day.
just last night, he had you pinned against his bed again, telling you, again, how much he wanted you to stay, whispering that shit in your ear.
now? he acted like you were invisible. un-fucking-believable. one minute he was texting you at 2 a.m., asking you to come over, and the next, he was pretending like you didn’t exist. all because he didn’t want his perfect little kook world knowing he was messing around with a pogue. and that was okay before. until he started asking you to stay, and you did.
apparently, you were a fucking idiot because here you were, pissed off that he couldn’t even look you in the eye.
you grabbed the menus, biting back the urge to roll your eyes, and walked over to their table. “here are your menus,” you said flatly, shoving one in each of their faces without the fake cheer you’d reserved for the tourists.
the girls barely acknowledged you, too busy giggling at something topper said. kelce glanced up briefly, offering a half-assed smirk, while rafe kept his eyes locked on the table, fingers playing with the edge of his napkin like he hadn’t spent the last few nights wrapped up in you.
you caught one of the girls whispering something under her breath. “didn’t know they let just anyone work here.”
her name was sloan or something equally forgettable, always draped on topper’s arm like a chanel bag. she didn’t know you, but she knew enough about you to judge. she was wearing sunglasses indoors, for fuck’s sake. the other girl snorted, and you felt your fingers tighten around the pen.
breathe. 
you had half a mind to snap back. if you were outside, on the street or at a party, you would’ve ripped into them without hesitation. you’d read them for filth in a way they wouldn’t forget. but here? in the middle of the restaurant? lila didn’t need you starting shit, and you didn’t need to lose a good payment over some entitled brats.
rafe said nothing. just sat there, tapping his fingers on the table as if you weren’t even standing right there.
you forced a smile. "you guys ready to order?"
and there it was.
he finally looked at you, but it wasn’t how you wanted him to. his eyes slid over you like you were a stranger — not like the girl he’d kissed breathless hours ago, or the one he had been whispering 'stay' to. he looked at you like you were just…some waitress. 
“coffee. black.” his tone was curt, clipped, like he couldn’t stand to speak to you.
you fought the urge to throw the fucking pot at his head.
“coming right up,” you chirped, giving them your best fake grin before spinning away and stalking back to the counter.
you busied yourself with the coffee, pouring it so forcefully you nearly overflowed the cup. unreal. he had the nerve to sit here, in your space, with his little kook posse, pretending like he wasn’t the same guy begging you to stay wrapped up in his sheets. and for what? to keep up his dumb little façade?
you used to be able to ignore it, pretend it didn’t matter because you didn’t care. you were just having fun, right? it was never supposed to be more than that. except, somewhere along the line, it did become more. he’d made it more, pulling you in deeper with every touch, every late-night call. and now, standing here in this sticky-ass diner, staring at his stupid, perfect face as he chatted up some girl who probably didn’t even know your name? it made you want to set the entire place on fire while they were still inside.
you slammed the coffee cup down a little harder than necessary when you returned to their table. “anything else?” you asked sweetly, practically daring him to say something. but of course, he didn’t. just took the cup without even looking at you. typical.
“uh, yeah, can we get some pancakes?” kelce piped up, completely oblivious to the tension radiating off you. “and bacon. like, extra crispy?”
“sure,” you bit out, scribbling it down before turning away. you made your way back behind the counter, slamming the order slip onto the kitchen window with a little more force than needed.
“everything okay, sweetheart?” lila, the owner, called from the back. she was probably picking up on your mood from the way you were practically shaking in irritation. “you look like you’re about to spit in someone’s food.”
you glanced back at the corner booth where rafe sat, laughing now at something topper said. “nope,” you lied through gritted teeth. “just having a great time.”
“mm-hmm,” lila hummed, giving you a skeptical look before disappearing into the back.
you busied yourself by wiping down the counter—again. anything to keep yourself from glaring over there and blowing your cover. because he wasn’t worth it, right? he wasn’t worth losing your cool over in front of a bunch of stuck-up kooks. he was just some guy.
except, some guy didn’t have you falling asleep in his arms one night, then acting like you were nothing the next. ugh. you clenched the rag tighter, scrubbing hard at a nonexistent stain on the counter, gritting your teeth as his laugh rang out again. 
he knew exactly what he was doing. sitting there, ignoring you, acting like you didn’t matter—like you hadn’t been sprawled out on his bed while he kissed his name into your skin.
“girl, you’re gonna break the counter.”
the sound of a familiar voice snapped you out of your spiraling.
you looked up to see your friend phoebe leaning against the entrance, one eyebrow raised. she must’ve popped in on her break or something. great timing. you shot her a look.
“don’t even start,” you muttered, tossing the rag down with a little too much force.
she peeked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, a scoff escaping her lips. “oh, them,” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “what, rafe can’t keep it in his pants for a whole day?”
“he can’t keep his ego in check.” you crossed your arms, eyes moving over to the corner before you could stop yourself. he still wasn’t looking at you. the way he leaned back in the booth, one arm slung over the backrest, talking to the girl next to him—like he didn’t have a care in the world. like you didn’t exist.
phoebe followed your gaze, her expression turning incredulous. “are you serious right now?” she asked, lowering her voice. “what happened to just hooking up for fun? ‘don’t care what he does when ’m not around,’” she mocked lightly, using your own words against you.
“yeah, well, that was before he started acting like a complete dick,” you shot back, cheeks flushing.
“started?” she snorted, “he’s always been a dick. so have you. you gonna be okay, or am i about to see you dump coffee in his lap?”
the thought was tempting. really tempting. but you forced yourself to shake your head. “’m fine. he’s just… being rafe.” you hated how flat the words sounded. like an excuse. like you were giving him a free pass to treat you like this.
phoebe didn’t look convinced. “uh-huh. well, if you need a distraction, ’m here. want me to spill something on topper’s head? just say the word.”
god, you needed her right now. “as tempting as that sounds, lila would probably kill me. then i’d really owe her more than a shift.”
she shrugged. “worth it. but fine, i’ll behave.” she straightened, sending you a knowing look. “but seriously, babe. don’t let him get to you. rafe cameron’s just a bored little rich boy playing games.”
you knew she was right. of course she was right. but that didn’t stop that feeling from creeping up in your chest. like you’d expected better, even though you knew you shouldn’t have. because this was still rafe. and rafe was never going to be anything but a complication.
“i just…thought maybe…” you trailed off, words sticking in your throat. thought maybe what? that he’d change? that he’d stop being a total asshole just because you were starting to want more?
“yeah, well, stop thinking,” phoebe said bluntly. “he’s not worth it and he’s sucking the personality out of’ya.”
you swallowed hard, nodding. she was right. he wasn’t. and you needed to remember that. but just as you were about to say something, movement caught your eye.
rafe was standing now, making his way to the counter, his long stride unhurried as if he had all the time in the world. 
phoebe stiffened beside you, “you want me to stay?”
“no.” you forced the word out, squaring your shoulders. “i got this.”
“okay.” she gave you one last look before slipping out the door, leaving you alone behind the counter just as rafe stopped in front of you. he stood there, all six feet of arrogance staring down at you with that expression that made your skin crawl.
“can i help you?” you asked, voice dripping with forced politeness. you met his eyes, refusing to back down, even as your heart hammered against your ribs.
he moved, leaning forward just enough to close some of the distance between you. “need the bill,” he said flatly, like he wasn’t currently tearing your already frayed nerves to shreds.
that’s it? the bill?
you’re just the waitress now. wow. this was rafe. rafe, who couldn’t even look at you, who couldn’t acknowledge what the hell was happening between you beyond those late-night calls and tangled sheets.
“of course,” you said sweetly, forcing a smile even though you wanted to scream. “i’ll be right back.” you turned away without another word, fighting the urge to hurl the fucking notepad at his head. you busied yourself at the register, punching in numbers with way more strength than necessary, imagining it was his face.
once you were done, you looked up to see his back was to you as he fished out his wallet, sliding his card into the reader. you kept your face neutral, biting back the million things you wanted to scream at him. the receipt printed out, and he leaned down, scribbling something quickly before straightening up.
and just as you thought he’d turn and leave like nothing had happened; he did something that made you freeze in place. he dropped a couple of crisp bills onto the counter—more than a couple, actually—and then slid the check over to your side without a word.
what the hell?
you blinked, staring at the pile of cash. that was way more than the standard 20%. fuck, it was enough to cover your rent for the next month, let alone one meal’s worth of shitty coffee and bacon. 
“what the fuck is this, country club?” you blurted out. he stilled, eyes snapping up to yours, that mask of indifference slipping just the tiniest bit. “what, trying to buy me off now? think i’ll just smile and say ‘thank you, sir’ because you threw a couple hundred my way?”
“stop,” he muttered, eyes darting around like he was worried someone might hear. “it’s just—”
“no, you don’t get to ‘just’ me,” you hissed over the counter, “you don’t get to pull this shit like you’re being generous.” you shoved the bills back toward him, nostrils flaring. “take your fucking money. i don’t want it.”
but he didn’t move. just stood there, jaw clenched, blue eyes boring into yours. “it’s not—” he cut himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face, looking almost frustrated. “it’s not like that. ’m just trying to—”
“trying to what?” you shot back, “make yourself feel better? or make me shut up and go along with this bullshit like a good little pogue?” the last word dripped with contempt.
he flinched, the reaction so quick you almost missed it. almost. “’m just giving you a tip. it’s what you want, right?” his tone turned biting, “for your work, I mean.”
your mouth dropped open, stunned. “wow. you’re such an asshole, you know that?” you shoved the wad of cash back at him with a force that sent the bills scattering across the counter. “keep it. use it to buy yourself some decency, because clearly, you’re running low.”
his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t try to pick up the money. just stood there, jaw ticking, like he couldn’t decide whether to fight back or walk away. it made you want to scream. you wanted to claw at that cold, emotionless shell of his until something—anything—broke through.
“you’re overreacting,” he muttered. and that was it. just those three stupid, dismissive words.
overreacting? after everything?
“get out,” you said flatly, hands shaking. “get the hell out.”
without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the restaurant, leaving the crumpled bills scattered across the counter like the mess of your emotions. the door swung shut behind him, the bell chiming softly. you stood there, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your chest right open. and for a second, you almost reached out, almost scooped up the cash just to throw it at his retreating back. but you didn’t.
instead, you swiped the bills off the counter, crumpling them up into a tight fist and then, with a furious exhale, you chucked the whole wad into the trash can.
because if rafe thought he could buy your silence, your compliance, you, with a handful of cash, then he didn’t know a fucking thing about you at all.
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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago
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Between the whole “clone trying to kill her original version” thing and the whole “trying to find herself after being freed from the millionaire fruit loop halfa” thing, Danielle “Ellie” Phantom figured that she’d fit right in with Gotham.
They’ve got shades, a concerning amount of undead, and the people there seem to have traumatic backstories galore. Perfect.
Danny might die again if she told him where she’s staying, though. So she won’t tell him!
Ellie touched down in an alley near the first bus stop into Gotham, returning to the visible spectrum and returning her intangibility. She wanted to explore everything, and where better to start than the entrance of Gotham?
She slips out of the alley, walking past the terrified looking tourists. Ellie ignores the smell of soot they gave off, attributing correctly that it came from the explosion she heard before she approached Gotham. The city, like any other major city, was littered with trash and odd bits of metal. There’s graffiti too, but less so than the sunnier cities. The clouds- and smog, because Ellie could smell it miles away from the city- that obscured the sky left the city in a chilling atmosphere. Hazy. Like, a graveyard at dawn. Perfect for someone like Ellie.
It’s so different from Amity, stone where she dreaded plaster, gloom and doom where she dreaded seeing sunshine she couldn’t reach. 
Ellie wandered, under bridges, and in between paths. She danced through shootouts, glides past brawls, laughs when pick pockets find their hands empty after bumping into her.
She gets a coffee and one of those delicious lemon bars, with Vlad’s money. Hers, now that Tucker’s gotten his hands on Vlad’s inner systems. The barista gives her a suspicious look, but she brings out her strongest midwestern accent and the look melts into exasperation. And pity, but Ellie doesn’t really care about that. She “ooh’s and ahh’s” at the grimy stone, the gothic inspired architecture that Sam would kill to experience, goggles at the boarded up buildings. There’s a cathedral or two or five, she doesn’t remember, but the pretty glass seems to be broken at most of them. She wonders what happened. Then she remembers that there are vigilantes here, and concludes that she has to remember to look up more often. A giant clock-tower. A district with less people and fancier homes. A university! She might apply after she’s done traveling around and have gotten her GED.
Her shoes pound the pavement, something about the effort it takes to take a step burns in her soul. Yes, this is what it means to be free. She kicks the knees of two would be robbers in as she passes them on her way to purchasing three bars of the best chocolates she’s had in her short existence.
The cashier looks at her like she’s odd. Oh, well.
And then night falls. Ancients, does the city truly come alive. There are screams and sirens and surges in ectoplasm that balances her essence of being out. Ellie, with a new pep in her step, follows the trail of ectoplasm right into an area called “Crime Alley.”
“It feels almost like… a haunt…?”
Ellie hums and keeps walking. Maybe this is the territory of one of the undead Gothamites…?
She’s got a bit of Danny’s saving people thing after all, because the three bars of candy on her is gone in minutes to children with hollow cheek and dead eyes. 
Ellie startles backwards as a body slams onto the pavement in front of her, barely missing the risen steps of the building they were in front of.
“Oh.” She says. Because this is one of the Undead. And he’s Red Hood. Danny is going to flip.
“Run- run, kid.”
Ellie tilts her head. “And why would I do that?”
“You’re gonna get hurt, brat!” The man barks, and winces as his ribs shuttered. The red helmet’s tinny voice doesn’t intimidate her nor does it hide the concern and fear bleeding into the guy’s body language.
“Not really?”
And with that, Ellie slams her elbow into Goon 1, knocking him straight into another building. Goon 2 tries to grab her and she phases out of his reach, floating upwards and slamming her fist into his face. He joins Goon 1 in decorating that building’s new mural, called the two dumbasses that picked a fight with a wandering Ellie.
Hood watches her, cradling his ribs.
“You a meta?” He grumbled at her, wheezing as she crouched down and poked his sides. He smacks her hand away.
Ellie, who has clearly spent too much time near Danny, replies, “Being dead is a medical condition.” without missing a single beat.
Hood, on the other hand, misses several beats.
“What?”
Ellie barrels on, amused at his fumble. “Did you know you died?”
Hood looks at her and Ellie swears she can see the dumbfounded expression.
Ellie laughs, free and sharp. Yes, Gotham is nothing like Amity.
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pizzabox-box · 2 months ago
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Okay, so we know F. Pep is intolerant to lemons, but what about other citrus fruits ? Like oranges, grapefruits and tangerines ? Or just other kinds of fruits, grapes, apples, pears or hehe… kiwis ? Or what about completely different things like spicy food, is he tolerant with spicy food ?
Fake Peppino’s intolerance to lemons comes from the fact that he can taste through his skin and being highly sensitive to acids.
His diet mostly consists of things like: his own pizza, which is essentially just his own pseudough topped with various "toppings", other clones, whatever Noisette happens to cook up, and occasionally an entire pig. Suffice to say he doesn't get the daily recommended fruit and veggie intake. But if he was offered one he wouldn't hesitate to try.
He wouldn't have much issue with most fruit and veggies, unless they are too sour or spicy. Then he wouldn't be a big fan of them. So sweet oranges, grapefruits apples, grapes are fine as long as they're not unbearably sour! And kiwi's well...depends if we are talking about the bird or the fruit. He wouldn't go out of his way to get a tangy fruit but same cannot be said about chickens distant relative.. (If you're a kiwi, for your own safety don't aproach him without supervision)
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He wouldn't take spicy food very well neither. They burn him. Menthol makes him shiver, too. And you definitely don’t want him drinking coffee or alcohol. Even a little sip of either will get a strong reaction out of him. (why? thats a yap session for another time)
(Who would gave known that the silly lemon comic would turn into an important lore piece down the line lol)
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solarmorrigan · 1 year ago
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If you’re still taking prompts, could I ask for “please come get me” with Steddie?
I’ve read over all your other angst prompts and just about died this morning, you’re so good at the pain!!
Hello! :D Thank you for the prompt! I'm afraid this one is a little heavier on the comfort than the hurt, so perhaps not as much pain, but if you've been binging what I've written so far, maybe that's a good thing?? But anyway, I hope this is alright!
[Warning for implied child neglect/emotional abuse. Nothing really happens in the fic, but just as a heads up]
Angsty-ish Prompt List
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Eddie shouldn’t be hearing this. This isn’t a conversation meant for spectators.
“I know you just got back from a trip, I just–” Harrington says into the receiver of the payphone, clinging to the handset as he practically wilts against the useless ‘privacy wall’ next to it. “I’m sorry, I was just hoping you could give me a ride home.”
All Eddie had wanted to do was cut the pep rally like any self-respecting social outcast would, except he couldn’t just ditch and go home; it’s Friday, and he has Hellfire after this. But the last thing he’d expected while loitering around outside, waiting for the pep rally to end, had been to stumble across Steve Harrington on the phone, practically begging someone for a ride home.
“No, I drove myself here today, I’m just not sure I can drive home.” Harrington pauses, then sighs. “No, Dad, this is a pep rally, I haven’t been drinking.” Whatever comes down the line next makes his posture snap straight almost immediately, before he hunches back in on himself with a wince and a hand pressed to his forehead. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
This is weird. This is so weird. Harrington is meant to be cocky – confident and in-charge and at ease, not curled around a payphone in the same way a kicked puppy tries to protect itself even as it asks someone for more attention.
Someone who is apparently his dad.
It’s just – weird. It’s like how you know a lemon is a citrus fruit, just the same as an orange, but the second you peel off the rind, you feel like you’ve seen something forbidden. Lemons aren’t meant to be peeled that way, and Harrington isn’t meant to look close to tears while trying to get someone to drive him home.
“I – I’m sick. I mean, it’s – I have a migraine,” Harrington explains haltingly. “No, it’s not just – yeah, my head hurts, but if it was just that, I swear I wouldn’t bother you, I just – I’m dizzy, and my vision’s all blurry, so I’m not sure I can drive, and I don’t…”
Shit, that sounds kind of fucked up. Eddie frowns, leaning against the wall he’s been peering around, now definitely intentionally eavesdropping. Harrington is frowning, too, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face.
“Tommy and I don’t hang out anymore, we haven’t in over a year,” Harrington says, then carries on a little more quietly, a little more subdued, “and there isn’t really anyone else here I can catch a ride with, either.”
Eddie will admit he hasn’t been paying a whole lot of attention, but anyone who doesn’t live under a rock knows that Harrington’s popularity had taken a bit of a hit last year, when he’d ditched Hagan and Perkins and decided to be a bit less of a dick. And then this year – well, even if Hargrove hadn’t crowed enough about the fight between the two of them, the state of Harrington’s face back in November had spoken volumes. Still, Eddie hadn’t been aware the condition of Harrington’s social life was so dire.
“I’m not – I’m not making this up, the doctor talked to you about this, he– I’m not trying to talk back, I just– Dad, please, can you just – please, come get me,” Harrington stutters through what sounds very much like a losing argument before going silent altogether, pressing one hand over his eyes as he lets his head hang, the other still holding the handset near his ear. “I understand,” he says dully after a minute. “I’m sorry. I’ll – I’ll figure it out… Yes, sir.”
It doesn’t seem like there’s much left to say after that. Harrington hangs up the phone and leans up against the adjacent wall before sliding down and sitting himself right there on the ground, knees drawn up and face in his hands.
Shit.
Eddie ducks back around the corner, gnawing on his lip, caught in indecision. He shouldn’t have overheard any of that, intentionally or otherwise, but now that he has, he can’t just – not do something.
Can he?
He tries to tell himself it’s not his problem, that Harrington’s certainly never done him any favors, even if he’d never been a dick to Eddie specifically, but it doesn’t work. All Eddie can see is the defeated slump of Harrington’s shoulders, the helpless way he’d just sort of dropped to the ground, the way he’d quietly admitted there’s no one else he can ask for a ride – Eddie’s always had a soft spot for the lonely ones.
But when he rounds the corner, prepared to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why he’s out here and willing to drive Harrington home, he finds that Harrington is – gone.
Eddie glances around, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Poof, vanished while Eddie had been too busy trying to decide what to do.
Well, damn.
Distantly hoping that Harrington had, indeed, figured something out, Eddie tries to put the incident out of his mind. The pep rally will be over soon, and that means Hellfire will begin, and he needs to get his head in the game.
He has no real reason to think on the incident after that, and he’s fairly successful at shoving it somewhere into the back of his mind until nearly two years later, in a setting so far removed from that spring day at the school that it might as well be in another life.
Eddie has to extricate himself from a few fans (actual fans; apparently, rumors of Satanism and returning form the dead will do wonders for the reputation of your metal band) in order to get up from the table settled near the back of The Hideout. Gareth, Jeff, and Oliver are all accounted for, enjoying their drinks and chatting with whoever’s descended upon them after their set, but Steve had disappeared ten minutes ago and has yet to make a reappearance.
Ten minutes isn’t all that long, Eddie knows logically, but after last year, after everything, it still feels a little too long. If he finds Steve and Steve tells him he’s fine, then that’s great, Eddie will leave him be. But he just wants to check.
The bathroom is a bust, empty but for one drunk swaying precariously in front of a urinal, so Eddie heads outside, where, around the side of the building, settled on the ground in a triangle of sodium-glow orange thrown off by a nearby streetlight, he finds his quarry.
Steve is sitting with his back to the rough wood façade of the bar, his knees drawn up in front of him and his head leaned back against the wall behind him. His eyes are closed, but there’s a little pinch of tension between his brows, and Eddie is abruptly reminded of that day, eons ago and not really that long ago at all, when all Steve had wanted was for someone to care enough to give him a ride home when he’d been sick.
Eddie finds his ass on the concrete right next to Steve before he even has the conscious thought to go over and sit down.
“Doing okay, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, picking up one of Steve’s hands from where it’s resting on his own knee (it’s safe enough right here, Eddie knows; someone would have to actively be looking for them to spot them where they’re tucked away).
If Steve is surprised to find Eddie beside him, he doesn’t show it. He turns to look at Eddie in the low light, offering him a fond little smile.
“I’m good. It was just getting to be a little much in there, so I came out here for a break,” he says.
Things like excessive noise and heat—say, the likes of which might be experienced at a concert in a crowded bar (or maybe a high school pep rally)—tend to be migraine triggers for Steve, so why he continues attending shows at The Hideout is beyond Eddie. He’s tried telling him that he doesn’t have to come, but Steve still insists he wants to make it to every performance that he can.
Eddie squeezes Steve’s hand. “You wanna head out?”
Steve shakes his head. “You’re having a good time. I don’t want to take you away from that.”
“I’m not going to be having a good time if you’re miserable.” Eddie reaches up and cups Steve’s cheek in his hand, keeping him facing in Eddie’s direction. “You’re a priority for me, you know that, right? Say the word, and we’ll go home.”
It doesn’t seem like Steve has anything to say to that; instead, he just stares at Eddie with something like wonder, as if Eddie’s just done anything more amazing than promise Steve that he’ll never have to beg for basic consideration.
“Besides,” Eddie goes on, if for no other reason than to shift the sudden weight of Steve’s reverence, “it’s not like it would be a hardship.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to Steve’s willing mouth before he continues, speaking so close that their lips are brushing. “Getting to take you home, take you to bed, lie there in the dark, just the two of us…”
Steve presses in for another kiss, long and lingering, before pulling away.
“Let’s stay a little longer,” he says. “Jeff owes me a beer, anyway.”
“Y’know,” Eddie pauses with a grunt of effort as Steve stands and uses their joined hands to pull Eddie up after him, “the only reason you knew the movie he was referencing—and, thus, the only reason he owes you a beer—is because I made you watch it.”
“And? What do you want, a medal?” Steve snarks.
“Well,” Eddie drawls, glancing Steve up and down, “some token of appreciation wouldn’t be remiss.”
Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Eddie. “It would be if we did it in the alley next to a bar.”
“Wow, Harrington, mind in the gutter much? I only meant a beer,” Eddie sniffs, all exaggerated offense.
“Sure you did,” Steve says. “Now c’mon; one more beer, and then… home?”
“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie says, offering one more quick kiss in hopes of putting any hesitation out of Steve’s mind. “One more beer, and then home.”
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