#writings from the gremlin

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

The lovely @punanenmarli asked for a drabble based on a Bojere kissing hypothetical I yeeted into our chat, and well...

This happened.

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

“Hei. Hei, jäbä, mitä sä– Siel– Awake. You– Wake up. Wake up.”

I'm shamelessly stealing this from twitter, but writers !! Quick, reblog with the last line or two that you wrote, no cheating.

[ghostlysoaps]

Inspiration - @ghcstao3

There's something to be said about the way John "Soap" MacTavish, notorious for his fleeting fancy of any given subject when off an op, hasn't been able to get Simon Riley out of his head. Granted, even before "The Incident" his lieutenant occupied his thoughts frequently. But now, oh, not a minute goes by where his attention doesn't stray, where his eyes aren't drawn to Ghost’s hulking figure, and he wishes they'd been stationed literally anywhere else but the monotone grey of autumnal England.

His sketchbook is filled with pages upon pages of studies. Greens and browns and gold – the myriad of colours hazel can be – despite how none of them feel right. Too saturated, too dark, too light. Too much or too little. Then again... it is near impossible to recreate a work of art after a mere fleeting second of studying the original. La Gioconda del Prado wasn't made with a peripheral glance at Da Vinci's subject – so how is Johnny to do the impossible?

-

"Spar with me."

Ghost pauses with his fork mid-way to his mouth. A mouth Johnny would gladly analyze at length, or map with his own one day, if not for the unhealthy obsession he's taken with Ghost's eyes.

One thing at a time.

His irises are shadowed by the tilt of his head and the presence of eyeblack but there is a subtle difference between them. Johnny is fool enough to think he can see it no matter how shit the lighting. Deluded, even, if his long-suffering best friend is to be believed. They're also dark with question, narrowed with thoughts and opinions kept close at heart.

"Alright," Ghost says and pushes the rest of his dinner away, pausing briefly as if to say something before ultimately deciding against it.

Johnny follows him with a pronounced bounce in his step and speeds through stretching and warming up. It'll be a killer tomorrow but that's a problem for future Johnny. Sore muscles are a small price to pay if it means settling a mystery.

They take their places, circling each other lazily. Johnny, ever the impatient one, lunges first and ends up with Ghost's heavy weight straddling the small of his back a couple minutes later. He grinds his teeth and heaves himself back to his feet. Sweat beads at his temples, his neck, trickling down his spine. Alight with purpose, he throws himself back in the fray.

He sways out of Ghost’s reach, blocking and evading, bouncing on the tips of his toes, throwing punches when it's fitting while he awaits the perfect time to strike. They're both grinning. It's plain as day on his own face, more subtle on Ghost's. The way the corners of his eyes crease gives him away, the shift of his plain balaclava as his lips twitch.

Johnny is focused on them like a bloodhound on a scent and when Ghost tosses his head, tilting it up with a roll of his shoulders, the florescent lights catching them just so.

Oh, is all he can think with the truth of him laid plain to see – how Johnny had been right all along. They differ subtly in darkness but when cast in either sunshine sepia or lightbulb white the contrast between them is stark. One is the deep, dark of pine, a forest green with too many hues to accurately count. It compliments the wooden brown of tree-trunk bark, flecks of whiskey-gold therein framed by pale lashes of nearly the same colour.

A modern day Medusa who stops him dead in his tracks, mesmerised, as Ghost's fist slams into the side of his face with the concentrated power of an eighteen-wheeler barreling into a concrete wall.

-

Ghost's face swims back into view an undetermined amount of time later. Worry etched into the tense way he carries himself. His hands are cupping Johnny’s cheeks, thumbs stroking once under his lower lids before they tilt his head back a fraction. He hovers close, peering into Johnny’s eyes as if they hold the secrets of the universe therein.

"Fuckin' hell Johnny. Anything broken?"

Johnny blinks at him, a dopey smile spreading over his lips like molasses.

Ghost, if anything, looks even more worried.

"Talk to me, Sergeant."

"You've beautiful eyes."

Ghost freezes in place. Gobsmacked, if Johnny were to put an expression to it. He murmurs a string of delightfully innovative curses under his breath, manoeuvring Johnny to sitting upright, and the change in vantage point only makes him a little bit dizzy. The dark spots dancing before his eyes is nothing new, honestly, but they are annoying when they're ruining his view.

"Knocked what little sense you had left right out of your head, huh?" Ghost sounds amused and Soap realises, belatedly, that he might've said all that out loud. "Price'll have a field day with this."

"Take some responsibility an' kiss it better then."

"You're concussed."

"Och aye, an' whose fault is tha'? You and yer bonnie eyes. Could get lost in 'em, y'ken?"

"You're off your head, mate."

"Ahm'nt! An' if you'd jus' stay still for a moment an' lemme look at ye, this wouldn't 'ave been an issue," Johnny grumbles indignantly. Grumbles, because whining is for children and it never works in getting him what he wants anyway. Ghost usually looks at him with the flattest stare imaginable whenever he tries. Horrid man. Johnny kind of wants to kiss him about it.

"Tell you what, Johnny. If you're good–" Ghost slings his arm over his shoulder, kindly ignoring the way his words leave him shivering, "–i'll let you look all you want."

Johnny leans against him when he's levered to his feet, swaying like a branch caught in the wind. "I can be good."

"Mmh. You're gonna listen to the nurses once I drop you off at medical?"

Soap groans and smushes his face deeper into Ghost’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

"I'll take that as a yes."

-

Ghost keeps his promises, it is an irrefutable fact, and Johnny can and will take advantage of that with shameless abandon.

Crawling into Ghost's lap with a shit-eating grin, paints and brushes well-within reach, wobbling precarious on his perch until Ghost takes pity and steadies him with scorching hands on his hips feels like a victory despite the dull throbbing in his temple and purpling bruises lapping up the side of his face. There are no protests when he guides Ghost's head this-way-and-that. No complaints are heard even when the warm glow of his bedside lamp shines at his eyes and their kaleidoscope of colours become present again. Ghost keeps his gaze unwavering focused when Johnny's hands rest on his face in a mirror of the day prior – though his eyelids droop down the fraction of an inch. It's intense and intimate and Johnny, no stranger to selfishness when he can get away with it, can't help but be greedy.

"Can you be good for me now, Simon?"

His lieutenant nods as far as Johnny’s hands allow and though him closing his eyes is the opposite of good, Johnny can't fault him when his own slide shut as he brings their faces together for the first time – a new obsession flaring to life in the wake of lips brushing fabric.

[runraerun]

ao3 • 6.1k • @steddie-spooktober day 30 prompt: “Where did you find that costume?” • beta: @netflixandchilis 🧡🖤

Summary:

“This is not a sex costume.” Steve rolls his eyes, “I swear, I could show up dressed as a clown and you guys would accuse me of—”

Steve doesn’t have time to brace himself before Eddie reaches forward and yanks. The sound of tearing velcro is deafening, and so is the silence that follows afterward.

His entire cop costume is suddenly off of his body and somehow, inexplicably, in the hands of Eddie Munson.

Or, unbeknownst to Steve, he shows up to Eddie’s Halloween party dressed as a stripper.

*Knock knock knock*

Steve steps back from Eddie’s front door, then rocks back on the heels of his boots that he hasn’t fully broken in yet. He knows that technically, he could just stroll into the trailer—he’s done it before after all, but sue him; he’s feeling playful tonight. And if there’s one night a year you’re allowed to embarrass yourself a little in the name of shits and giggles, it’s Halloween, right?

Steve had drawn the short straw between the four of them and was saddled with babysitting duty earlier tonight. As usual, Steve thinks with an amused sort of bitterness. Always the goddamn babysitter…

He’d just finished dropping the kids all off at Henderson’s house for a sleepover, but this was after they had forced him to trail after the lot of them for what felt like an eternity while they filled their pillow cases up with sugary garbage. Steve’s fucking exhausted.

When no one answers the door, Steve steps forward again, delivering three sharp knocks in quick succession.

“Hawkins PD, open up,” he bellows, giving what he considers is a fairly decent Hopper impression.

Steve’s skin prickles against a sudden cool breeze. He hooks his thumbs into his belt and waits on the creaky front porch, trying not to squirm against the wedgie that this outfit seems determined to give him.

Cheap ass costume…

The front door swings open, and Steve is suddenly bathed in the warm, welcoming light of the trailer’s interior. Robin, who has a football helmet on, along with some kind of orange jumpsuit with tubes wrapped around her torso, looks him up and down.

Before she can even say a single word though, Steve cuts her off, playing at arrogance.

“Got a couple of noise complaints, ma’am. Are your folks home? I’m gonna need—”

Robin holds her hands up with barely contained glee, “Wait wait, hold on! Just stay right there.”

The door slams shut in his face, leaving Steve in the darkness of the porch again. Through the door, Steve hears Robin yell for Eddie, but can’t make out much of the muffled voices after that.

Left on the porch with nothing but his thoughts Steve can’t help but wonder if Robin even recognized him. The fake stache wasn’t that convincing… was it?

“Man, c’mon…” Steve sighs, stepping forward and knocking again, this time with more force. He’s very quickly regretting his decision to ham it up as opposed to just walking in, kicking off the uncomfortable boots he’d been wearing all evening, and plopping down on Eddie’s lumpy, yet deceptively comfy sofa.

“C’mon, open up, Hawkins Police.” Steve calls again, trying to keep his exhaustion out of his voice.

In a blink, the door swings open again. Steve makes the extra effort to push his shoulders back and puff out his chest. This time, instead of Robin being the one haloed in the dingy light illuminating the trailer, it’s Eddie. A very confused, shockingly pale, cape-wearing Eddie.

Steve tilts his head back and peers down through his dark aviators at his friend, trying to maintain a stern, authoritative demeanor. His lip itches from underneath the stupid fake facial hair he’s got taped to his face. He can’t wait to rip the damn thing off.

Eddie grips the edge of the doorway, apparently stunned into silence.

“Sir, did you or anyone in this household place a call to 911 this evening?” Steve barks, trying his best to lean into his power-tripping asshole persona he’s decided to adopt.

“What the–” Eddie starts, but doesn’t seem to have any words to follow. His wide, dark eyes roam over the uniform and his twitching smile says enough.

Steve’s putting on a good show, it seems.

“Because it’s a criminal offense to prank call an emergency hotline, sir.” Steve leans forward, hoping for intimidation, “I could have you arrested.”

Steve suddenly becomes aware of Nancy and Robin both snickering in the background, watching the interaction with seemingly great interest. Eddie, for the most part, appears frozen at the door. It’s an odd bunch of reactions if Steve is being honest—he’s just dicking around, after all. Was he really being that out of pocket?

“Shteve, where in the fresh hell…?” A bewildered looking Eddie begins, his words slightly slurred, almost as if he has a lisp. Then Steve spots them; the sharp toothed plastic tray of vampire teeth that Eddie’s got stuffed into his mouth, making his lips pucker out just a bit. He looks ridiculous. If anyone should be laughing, it should be Steve. But instead of waiting for everyone to get their shit together, Steve forges on. He makes a show of sniffing the air. He slowly pulls the aviators down his nose to shoot Eddie a look. “Is that marijuana I smell, son? You kids smoking the devil’s lettuce in there?”

Robin sounds like she’s choking on something, Nancy’s all but retreated back into the trailer, unable to contain herself. Was it really that funny? Steve knows he can get the girls laughing on occasion, but he’s not like, a comedian or anything. And this cop bit he’s doing wasn’t even all that funny, even he can admit that. It’s just dorky fun. But Eddie’s shoulders are shaking and he’s giggling hard enough that he’s gone all quiet. Steve briefly wonders if he has something on his face…? Besides the stache, of course.

A particularly cool breeze hits his side, and he can physically feel himself break character as he brings his shoulders up to his ears in an attempt to brace against it. This cheap fucking costume does absolutely dick all to keep the cold out.

“Alright alright, jokes over, just let me in already.” But when Steve takes a step to pass through the door, Eddie quickly holds a hand to Steve’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. With his other free hand, he noisily pulls the vampire teeth from his mouth, a string of spit connecting the two until Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Slow your roll, Sargent Cinnamon,” Eddie exclaims, barely able to contain his laughter to get the words out, “Jesus Christ, Steve, you’re gonna get the actual cops called on us.”

Sargent Cinnamon?

Steve takes off his aviators, perplexed. “What? Why?”

“Just—just turn around for me for a minute.” Eddie says. His hand falls from Steve’s chest as Steve begrudgingly takes a step back.

“Yeah, give us a spin, Steve.” Robin calls from the kitchenette, and Eddie gives a noisy laugh through his nose in what looks like a failed attempt to withhold a full on fucking belly laugh from escaping.

“Why?” Steve makes a face as he asks again, defenses up.

“We just have to confirm something.” Eddie says, playing coy.

Now that Steve’s really looking at him, he can see Eddie’s clearly dressed as a vampire. He’s all in black, though most of him is covered up by the long, heavy looking cape that’s tied around his shoulders and draping down his back. The collar of it looks stiff, its points reach damn near up to his cheekbones. His eyes are rimmed with dark makeup, making them pop even more than they usually do. Most striking of all though, is the white makeup that’s smeared all over his face, down his neck, and even over his mouth. It makes for a shock when he speaks or laughs, the deep red of the inside of his mouth contrasting sharply with the undead paleness of the rest of his face.

He looks… good. Spooky, but good. Especially now that those chunky fake fangs are out. Maybe Steve should have dressed as something spooky too…

“C’mon, just let me in. I don’t wanna spin.” Steve frowns. He does not pout. His lip may or may not jut out the tiniest of amounts. But Steve Harrington does not pout.

Eddie’s brows pinch together in mock sympathy, “oh, I’m so sorry Officer, but in that case, we’re gonna need you to come back with a warrant.”

Steve sighs. He’s cold, annoyed, and he’s pretty sure there’s two big watery blisters on the backs of his heels that’ll need patching up before the night is out. “Dude–”

Eddie holds out a finger, silencing Steve, “ah ah ah. You don’t get to show up here dressed like that and not put on a show.”

Steve’s brain stutters to a halt. “...I’m just dressed as a cop. What’s the big deal? Why’re you guys acting so weird?”

“Less yapping, more spinning, Deputy.” Eddie smiles wide, tilting his head. Despite being a total shithead at the moment, that smile never seems to fail at making Eddie look strangely endearing. It’s like a trap—one Steve always seems to be tumbling into as of late.

He gives a noisy groan of frustration to show exactly how ridiculous he thinks this whole thing is, before he complies and slowly turns around on the spot. Steve puts out his arms in defeat, suppressing yet another urge to dig at the wedgie now firmly up his ass. “There. Happy? Any more questions or demands?”

“Yeah, just the one,” Eddie says, seeming no less entertained than if Steve had just burped the whole alphabet backwards while simultaneously juggling a set of kitchen knives. “Where did you find that costume?”

Steve feels his neck go red, then his ears. He stuffs his hands under his armpits to try and warm them up, then shrugs defensively, not fully knowing why he is so embarrassed, only that he is. “Just a regular costume store.”

“What store exactly?” Robin calls from behind Eddie while she nurses a beer, “was there, oh, I don’t know, lingerie in the window of this costume store?”

And with that, there’s simply no helping it; Steve’s face goes scarlet. “No! It was just that pop-up Halloween store—the one next to Family Video. Robin, you went there too, what’s the big deal?”

“Did you happen to have crossed a beaded doorway in order to get to this costume by any chance?” Eddie asks in mock curiosity, barely withholding more of his obnoxiously loud laughter.

Steve opens his mouth to deny the downright weird accusation but… thinking back on it, he may have hit some beads at a certain point while he was in that shop.

Oh God…

“There’s that lightbulb,” Eddie gives a smarmy type of smile, “knew it would turn on eventually.”

Steve casts a glare between Eddie and Robin. They’re just poking fun at him, surely. If he’s being honest, he’s sort of sick of them ganging up on him lately. It’s like, all of the sudden, Eddie and Robin had just decided to become besties. They were always whispering and sharing these weird, heated looks between the two of them, ones Steve could never interpret. Like they suddenly had a whole slew of inside jokes that they refused to let Steve in on. It was infuriating!

If he didn’t know for a fact that there was no possibility of a romance between the two of them he would think they were hooking up. But no, apparently they’ve just bonded over their shared love of torturing ex-jocks. It’s like fucking Revenge of the Nerds out here.

“This is not a sex costume.” he growls, bunching his shoulders up just a little in an attempt to keep the breeze away from his neck.

“Steve,” Eddie’s voice goes soft, as if he’s opting to break the news to Steve gently, “you’re dressed as a stripper, man.”

“No, I’m not!” Steve shouts before he thinks better of it. He reels it in, but only a little, “It’s just… I’m just a cop. Okay, maybe it’s a sexy cop, but it’s just a stupid joke costume! It’s not my fault the outfit looks good on me, alright? That doesn’t make it a stripper outfit.”

Eddie nods empathetically, “right right, sure.”

“It’s true!”

“Totally, yeah.”

“I’m being serious!”

“Oh, I know you are.”

“It’s just a little tight is all.”

“I’ll say.”

Steve huffs, “I swear, I could show up dressed as a goddamn clown and you guys would accuse me of–”

Steve doesn’t have time to brace himself before Eddie reaches forward and yanks. The sound of tearing velcro is deafening, and so is the silence that follows directly afterward.

The entire front of his cop costume is off of his body and somehow, inexplicably, in the hands of Eddie Munson. And without the support of the front piece, Steve feels the entire back half of his costume follow suit, slipping down and off of his shoulders. Humiliatingly, the only reason it doesn’t hit the ground altogether is because the fabric is so securely lodged in between Steve’s ass cheeks.

Either way, he’s standing there, on the Munson’s front porch, in front of Eddie, in nothing more than his bright red boxers that he put on this morning, his uncomfortable fucking boots, his fake stache, and the octagonal police cap he’s got resting atop his head.

Eddie takes a deep breath, not even bothering to try and hide the way he’s basking in Steve’s utter humiliation. “Well well well. Looks like Christmas came early this year, huh?”

Robin at least has done him the good favor of collapsing somewhere in the living room, shrieking in laughter.

“Wh–Why would you do that!?” Steve clumsily grabs for the cap atop his head before holding it to his crotch in a flimsy attempt to preserve at least some of his dignity.

“Honestly? Because I don’t have a lot of impulse control,” Eddie admits truthfully, “but mostly I did it to prove to you that you did, in fact, show up to my party dressed as a stripper.”

Steve’s had enough. He grumbles out every single curse word he knows and shoulders his way into the trailer, yanking the remainder of the costume off of his body and out of his ass as he goes. If Steve was cold before, he’s freezing now. His nipples could cut fucking glass.

“Don’t tell me you took the kids out trick or treating in this.” Eddie says, motioning towards him with the bundle of thin fabric that had been, up until a few seconds ago, Steve’s costume.

Steve snatches the dark blue remains of his outfit, suddenly furious. He’s sure his face matches the red of his boxers at this point. Boxers that are now on display for all to see, apparently!

He reaches up to angrily tear off the mustache from his upper lip, and has to bite back an honest to god scream as it tears away, taking some of his actual lip hair with it. It was like a fucking wax strip!

“You did.” Eddie gasps, all but clutching his damn pearls, utterly scandalized. “You really went around and gave the good folks of Hawkin’s a free fucking show tonight, huh? Jesus Christ, Harrington, you probably sent some poor fucker out there into cardiac arrest!”

“No, I–” Steve sputters, “well, yes, I wore the cop costume while I took the kids around a couple of neighborhoods, but there wasn’t any kind of show.”

“Were the mothers especially kind to you, Stevie?” Robin asks from her position on the sofa beside Nancy, one sandy brown brow arched. “Did they give you extra candy?”

“One, I didn’t go trick-or-treating, so I didn’t get any candy at all,” Steve says, suddenly reluctant about taking his boots off, wary of losing any more of his clothing. As he speaks, he shuffles behind the countertop in the kitchen area instead, hiding at least his lower half from further attention. Everyone had already seen his hairy chest plenty of times, but still. It was the indignity of it all! “And two, I didn’t know it was a stripper costume. And three, screw all of you.”

Thank Christ the kids seemed oblivious to that sort of thing still. Steve’s as relieved at preserving their innocence as he is grateful they didn’t bear witness to his great blunder.

“Didn’t it feel weird when you had to velcro the sides shut..?” Nancy asks, sheer amusement playing across her features.

“Well, in hindsight… yes.” Steve has to stop speaking because all three of his so-called friends dissolve in further fits of laughter. He has to shout to be heard over their cackling, “but I just thought it was because the costume was cheap!”

“Oh, Steve.” Nancy shakes her head, still giggling. She sounded a little drunk.

“Sweet, naive Dingus.” Robin adds, as if she were finishing her girlfriend's thoughts.

So now Nancy and Robin were ganging up on him too. And after Steve gave Robin his blessing to date his ex-girlfriend! Traitors, all of ‘em, Steve thinks haughtily as he crosses his arms and glares.

“C’mon big boy, you can borrow something of mine.” Eddie says, finally deciding to take pity on Steve. “Unless, of course, you want me to help velcro your ass back into that little number..?”

That’s the absolute last thing he wants. So, with an angry grumble, Steve accepts Eddie’s offer for clothes and follows him down the narrow hallway, into his bedroom. Steve all but collapses on the end of Eddie’s unmade bed, snatching a pillow and holding it to his lap as he watches Eddie dig around his dresser drawers.

Steve notices that Eddie’s oddly quiet now that they’re alone.

Steve was sort of used to Eddie’s constant prattling on when they were together—so much so, that the lack of it seems unnatural in its own sort of way. It’s damn near unsettling to be near Eddie and not have him chewing his ear off.

Eddie pulls some soft, gray clothing from his drawers, attempts to discreetly give it the cautionary sniff test, then turns to offer them up to Steve. “Here, these, uh, they should fit you. Elastic waistband.”

“Thanks.” Steve mumbles, still a little pissed at Eddie for the whole tearing him out of his clothes thing. To be fair, Steve would have probably returned the favor if the roles had been reversed and would have laughed just as hard. Maybe harder.

He shoves the shirt on, then discards the pillow in order to stand and attempt to rid himself of the godforsaken boots from hell... Steve is unnervingly aware that the red of his underwear stands out like a fucking fire engine.

Eddie turns his painted face away, suddenly very interested in the various posters on his wall.

“Oh, sure, now you’re shy.” Steve snorts, but when he steps on the backs of his heels in an effort to toe off his boots, he sucks in a sharp breath and wobbles back onto the bed, cursing. The sharp stinging pain from the blisters is enough to cut his breath. “Shit, shit, shit–”

“What is it? What happened?” Eddie’s full attention is back on Steve, and Steve’s insides squirm a little at the intensity of it. He kind of loves that about Eddie; how he can be flighty and erratic one minute, but wholly and completely laser focused on something the next.

And Steve is man enough to admit that he sort of likes it when that undivided attention lands on him. Admittedly, he likes it when anyone pays attention to him, but… it’s different with Eddie. Even Steve’s not entirely sure why. It just makes him feel… seen, maybe. Special. Understood?

Steve doesn’t fucking know. He gives his head a shake.

“It’s just these stupid boots. I’ve only worn them a few times and they always give me blisters. I shouldn’t have worn them tonight but I just thought they went good with the outfit...” Steve explains, as if it’s a confession. The price of vanity, he thinks bitterly. Steve lifts one of his feet until it’s propped up his opposite knee and begins working the boot off, flinching as he goes, “they’re just stinging a little, it’s fine.”

“I’ll get some band-aids.” Eddie mutters as he darts out of the room, nearly tripping over something in his haste. Steve can hear him digging through the cupboard in the bathroom through the paper-thin walls of the trailer. Eddie sounds like a goddamn tornado. But hey, what’s new? Dude is tornado incarnate.

By the time Eddie’s back, armed with a battered box of band-aids and a tube of Neosporin, Steve’s already managed to work off a boot and peel away one of his socks. He’s poking the painful, fluid-filled blister with a grimace.

“Here.” Eddie awkwardly passes both of the items to Steve. He practically shoves them into his hands. Steve accepts them all with a quick thanks and gets to work. He half expects Eddie to go and just leave Steve to it, but he doesn’t. Instead, Eddie just stands there, hovering in the middle of his bedroom, staring like a weirdo.

Which sounds harsh even in Steve’s own mind, but there really was no mistaking it; Eddie most definitely is a full-blown, bonafide, one-of-a-kind weirdo. But as time’s gone on, and the further Steve’s gotten away from high school, the more he’s realized that his favorite people in the whole world—the ones he’d lay down his life for any day of the fucking week—are all freaks and weirdos. And maybe that made him a weirdo freak right alongside them. And hey, if all the best people were weird, shouldn’t he be proud to be counted among them?

Steve finds he doesn’t entirely hate the concept.

“You must think I’m a moron, huh?” Steve mutters as he smears some of the antiseptic cream over the blister, then a band-aid overtop, flinching the whole way through.

“For getting a blister? Or for accidentally cosplaying as a sex worker?” Eddie asks, grinning. Knows he’s being a cheeky little shit.

Steve just scoffs and rolls his eyes, “it could’ve happened to anyone, y’know. The costume thing, I mean.”

He settles his bare foot on the ground and starts on his next boot.

“Maybe. But it’s funny because it happened to you.” Eddie aims a set of finger guns at him. Steve, despite himself, chuckles a little under his breath. It was sort of funny.

“I don’t, though, by the way.” The couple of words tumble out of Eddie’s mouth. Steve knows by now that when he isn’t following Eddie, all he usually needs to do is wait a few seconds. Eddie never seems to mind taking the time to further explain himself to Steve, unlike most other people. So, Steve just spares him a glance and waits. “Think you’re a moron, I mean. You’re just… more of a do first, think later kinda guy. It doesn’t make you dumb. Maybe a little foolhardy, is all.”

“Foolhardy?” Steve’s hands stop what they’re doing as he looks up at Eddie. Steve’s pretty sure he knows what it means, but who the hell throws around digs like that?

Well, come to think of it, Eddie Munson would. Between writing his own songs and making up those D&D campaigns, Eddie’s inner voice probably speaks to him in sonnets and soliloquies.

“It’s a good thing—well, it is when I say it…” Eddie rushes to explain, but seems to abandon a few trains of thoughts before shaking his head, “whatever, nevermind, forget I said anything.”

“I know what foolhardy means I just–” Steve doesn’t have any fight in him though, too focused on how fucking painful this blister is compared to the last. The sharp sting was enough to make his eyes embarrassingly prickle. “Fuuuuuck…” he groans as he pulls.

���Stop, stop, just–” Eddie kneels, taking a knee, before he grabs Steve’s boot.

“No no, Eddie, don’t–!” Steve shrieks, suddenly terrified of Eddie’s jumpy, erratic movements he’s known for. His foot can’t fucking take it…

“Calm down, I’ll pull it off slow. I’ll even give you a countdown. You just–just relax, alright?” Eddie says, looking downright ridiculous in his costume. And yet, despite how crazy he looks, Munson seems sincere. He liked to poke fun at Steve, sure, but Eddie wouldn’t hurt him. Steve knows that. And when Eddie’s fingers curl around the back of his calf, the touch is gentle. Steve’s skin heats underneath Eddie’s hold. It’s enough to make his head go a little fuzzy.

Trying to follow Eddie’s instruction, Steve hesitantly leans back on the heels of his hands, allowing his leg to go slack in Eddie’s grip. “Relax. Right. Okay.”

“Alright. My safe word’s Ronald Reagan, but you can borrow it for tonight if you want me to stop, cool?” Eddie looks up at him through his lashes. The liner around his eyes was really something else… And his hair looked especially poofy tonight. Like Steve’s hands could get lost in there. Were those plastic spiders in his hair? God, Steve hoped they were plastic spiders…

A beat passes before Steve’s brain catches up with him. “Why the hell is Ronald Reagan your safe word?”

“Because nothing kills my boner faster than thinking about that dickwad. Duh.” Eddie explains, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was, but Steve wasn’t exactly experienced with things like safe words and… well, the things that normally go along with safe words.

He feels himself shift anxiously at the idea. He wondered if Eddie was just making a joke or if he actually…

“Ready?” Eddie interrupts and utterly derails that particular train of thought. He’s cradling Steve’s booted foot, one hand low on Steve’s calf, the other gripping the bottom of the boot. Real comforting like.

Steve takes a quick breath before giving a sharp nod. “Ready.”

“3, 2, 1, deep breaths everyone!” Eddie says, and true to his word, he pulls off slowly, trying to angle the boot away from Steve’s heel as best he can. Steve clenches his teeth through the whole thing, determined not to utter the president's name. “Aaaaand we’re done!” Eddie says triumphantly.

Steve sighs, and lets himself fall onto the bed in relief. He’s built up a bit of a tolerance for pain over the past few years (purely out of necessity), but he still fucking hates it. Even if it’s something small like this. Call him a pussy for it, whatever. Steve doesn’t care.

When he feels Eddie begin peeling off his sock though, Steve bolts upright, returning to his seated position. “Y-you don’t gotta do that part–”

Eddie shrugs nonchalantly and continues peeling away the sock. “It’s okay, I wanna help.”

“My feet probably fucking reek, dude. I’ve been wearing those all day.” Steve wrinkles his nose. The idea that Eddie could possibly be repulsed by him in some way just doesn’t sit right with Steve. “You don’t–... I-I can do this part.”

“I told you, I don’t care.” Eddie says as he peels away Steve’s sweaty, ripe sock before sticking it into the no doubt equally sweaty, ripe boot.

Eddie's now kneeling in front of a pantless and sockless Steve—to say he felt exposed would be an understatement. He watches as Eddie takes the tube of Neosporin in hand and squeezes out a glob onto his finger and lines it up with Steve’s heel.

“Unless,” Eddie halts, as if an idea had just occurred to him, “unless you don’t want me to.”

The two of them just stare at one another for a few seconds, as if they’re both just realizing that they don’t really know the limits of their friendship yet. Both of them seem to be asking the other for permission to cross some kind of a line that they don’t know even exists or not. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t. It’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but… exciting, in a weird way.

Steve swallows, “no, I want you to. I mean, if you want to, of course. I—”

I like it when you touch me.

The thought hits Steve with such a sudden and sharp clarity that for a second he’s not sure if he’s said it out loud or not.

But if Eddie somehow heard it, he doesn’t let on.

Instead, the sides of his mouth twitch into a tentative grin, but then Eddie ducks his head before Steve can watch it blossom fully into a smile, though he can tell by the way his cheeks rise near his eyes that it indeed does.

Eddie smears the antiseptic cream on Steve’s blister with guitar string scarred fingers, with more care than most people bother using when they reach for Steve. Then he wipes his hands on his own bed sheets before unpeeling a bandaid from its wrapping and laying it overtop of everything. He smooths a finger overtop of it, once, then twice for good measure. Why Eddie runs his finger over the band-aid a third time, Steve hasn’t got a clue.

There’s something about the way Eddie so can flip the switch from being a loud, boisterous, all out terror of a human being, to this sincere, gentle… almost sweet person. It’s hard for Steve to wrap his head around. Especially since Eddie doesn’t show the second side nearly as often as the first–and only to a lucky handful of people. Steve’s one of those happy few.

It’s like a secret Eddie.

Steve briefly wonders if there’s a secret Steve, but if there is, not even he knows about him. Steve has a feeling he’s more of a ‘what you see is what you get’ kinda guy. Hopefully, that doesn’t mean he’s shallow.

And just when Steve thinks Eddie’s done with him, the guy spins around and rummages in his top drawer for a few seconds before turning back with a rolled up set of fresh socks for Steve. Without a word, he kneels and begins putting them on Steve’s foot for him.

Which…

Honestly, Steve doesn’t know how to feel about it. Good, obviously. That much, at least, is crystal fucking clear. But there’s more. Like the fluttery sort of warmth that comes specifically when someone brings you a bowl of hot soup when you’re sick, or cares enough to hold your hair back for you while you puke your guts out after drinking too much. It’s that same sort of feeling. Only more.

“Thanks, man.” Steve says, utterly relieved his voice comes out sounding steadier than he’s feeling. Because… Well, because no one takes care of Steve, except Steve. It’s been that way since he was old enough to tie his own shoes. He’s always on his own. Self-sufficient. Steve takes a sort of pride in it.

But here’s Eddie, on his knees, tending to him, even though Steve can do it perfectly fine on his own. He’s still doing it for Steve, and for the hell of him, Steve can’t wrap his head around why. And all of it over some stupid blisters. It makes Steve’s chest ache, fixing to burst.

“No problem, Officer. Just doing my civic duty.” Eddie’s tone is soft when he flicks his eyes up briefly, paired with a grin. He finishes putting the fresh set of socks on Steve’s feet, careful to avoid the blisters. The socks are pilled, and scratchy, as if neither Wayne nor Eddie bothers with fabric softener, but they’re comfortable enough and blissfully warm.

“Well the city of Hawkins thanks you too, Mr. Munson.” Steve replies with a two fingers salute, attempting to match Eddie’s energy, but the words sound so deeply stupid when they’re strung together like that, that it has them both chuckling.

“Christ, you’re cute.” Eddie mutters, dragging a knuckle under his eye to clear away the stray tear that had formed from all of the laughing he’s done tonight. Then Steve watches as that easy smile that he had just been so admiring quickly fall away as Eddie seems to realize what he’d just said.

Eddie thinks he’s cute?

The question of what kind of cute he was referring to bombards Steve's brain. Cute could mean a hell of a lot of things—from puppies with big wet eyes to Michelle Pfeiffer in a skin tight leotard. Or maybe Eddie didn’t mean to say cute at all. Yeah, maybe it just slipped out. Hell, maybe Eddie’s just high. He does get a little extra tactile and emotional when he’s high. And Eddie definitely smells like weed, but—well, Eddie always smells like weed.

“Here’s your–” Eddie suddenly stands, cape fluttering behind him, and tosses the sweatpants from earlier back at Steve who catches it with ease, despite the newly unmoored feeling he’s got in his gut. Steve suspects Eddie’s blushing by the way he’s holding himself, but because of all the makeup, Steve can’t be sure. Eddie anxiously twists his rings around his fingers muttering a quiet, “sorry, man.”

It’s said so timidly that Steve almost misses the tacked-on apology entirely. Now, timid isn’t usually something that Steve would associate with Eddie Munson but, well, there it is. And despite their playful back and forth with one another, Steve can tell this is wholly different. He doesn’t—can’t leave Eddie standing there with egg on his face.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not—it’s whatever, dude.” Steve says, forever baffled at how the English language, the only language he even knows and is apparently fluent in, still manages to sound like knotted garbage when it comes out of his mouth. He shoves his legs through the sweatpants, yanking them up to his waist.

Eddie seems to get it though, thankfully. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Steve says, quick, casual-like.

Eddie chews on his lip. “I didn’t make it weird?”

At this, Steve barks out a laugh. Because, yeah but… well, if Eddie started going around apologizing every time he did something weird the guy would never stop apologizing.

And Steve likes Eddie’s flavor of weird anyway.

“Hey, I’m the one who showed up to your house dressed as a stripper, didn’t I? If anyone’s made it weird tonight, it’s me.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, briefly concerned about how the stupid hat probably left an embarrassing indent where it was sitting.

Eddie’s wide smile is back, the one that lines his face and makes his eyes do that starlight thing. “That’s true.” He chuckles.

“I like your costume though.” Steve grins, feeling that fluttery feeling in his chest when he gets Eddie smiling like that. “Vampire, right?”

If possible, Eddie’s eyes widen further, giving him a manic look. He hastily pats his various pockets before finding his fake fangs and shoving them into his mouth. They look terrible, but admittedly, they sort of complete the overall look.

“That’s Count Dracula to you, foolish mortal.” Eddie says with a truly terrible Transylvanian accent as he dramatically swishes his cape over one of his arms, then positions it underneath his kohl-rimmed eyes.

Steve pretends to cower, but he’s always been kind of a shitty actor so he just ends up snorting and shaking his head. “Terrifying. If you hadn’t torn it off me earlier, I’m sure I would have shivered right out of my uniform.”

And again, it’s enough for Eddie to break character and bark out a laugh around his plastic fangs. He recovers quickly though, a smile still pulling at the sides of his mouth.

“C’mon, the girlsh have probably put the movie on without ush.” Eddie says with a very distinct lisp. It’s sort of adorable.

It’s profoundly less adorable after Steve hears how Eddie needs to suck back the spit trapped between his teeth and the tray so he doesn't drool all over himself.

Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t end up wearing the fake fangs for the whole movie, especially not after Nancy demands their removal after two or three noisy, spit-retrieving sucks. There’s some petty back and forth that lasts a couple of seconds, but it’s settled quickly and amicably, as most of their squabbles are.

Steve and Eddie spend the majority of the horror flick pressed up against one another, from shoulder to knee. Steve’s not entirely sure what the hell is happening between them, but whatever it is… it’s nice.

And when there’s a particularly scary bit that makes Steve nearly jump out of his skin, Eddie teases him and slaps a patronizing hand to his knee just to further torment him, but it’s the damnedest thing. Even after the joke’s over, and their collective focus is back (in theory) on the movie, Eddie just… doesn’t take his hand back. Neither one of them seems keen on addressing it either, afraid to spook whatever it is away.

They stay that way for the rest of the movie. He doesn’t risk putting his hand over top of Eddie’s—he can’t. Not yet, at least. But Steve will think about little else besides the feeling of Eddie’s warm hand curled around the top of his knee, searing into him like a brand, for many nights to come.

It’s hands down the most embarrassing Halloween Steve’s ever had—but it’s also kinda the best, thanks to Eddie.

[myokk]

Her kisses were all-consuming and he felt his heart surrendering to her with every gentle nip, losing himself in the feeling of her. Her soft body pressing tightly against him, her breathy moans, the soft hair at the nape of her neck, her taste.

When Eloise finally pulled away from him, breathing heavily as their foreheads pressed together and their eyes locked, Sebastian was dazed and content and...happy. Merlin, he was so happy. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her lips were swollen and red and smiling up at him. His breath caught in his throat - he didn't think he had ever seen anything so beautiful as Eloise in that moment. Sebastian knew that he was grinning like a fool but he didn't care.

Happiness was bubbling up in his body and he was leaning down to kiss her again because it would never be enough and -

She started coughing.

Eloise abruptly pulled away from him, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she doubled over. A terrible, horrible, familiar wracking cough that Sebastian never thought he would hear again.

When she pulled her sleeve away from her mouth, there were little flecks of blood.

They both looked at each other in horror.

"Eloise..." he started, his voice cracking. The balloon of happiness that had filled him burst and he felt himself crashing back to the grim reality that had been his life for too long. Arms hanging limply at his sides. When his voice came out again, it was a whisper. He could barely choke the words out.

"...what did you do?"

their first kiss😇😇😇

[fromtheseventhhell]

I love how people are only ever interested in defending Arya's right to be weird-looking. It's never defending her intelligence from people who claim she's incapable of thinking for herself, highlighting her importance to the plot and refusing to see her as just a prop, acknowledging how much of her story gets stolen and given to other characters, talking about her trauma or how often it gets erased and overlooked, seeing her as more than just an attack dog/bodyguard, etc. Nope. It's just a "why can't people let Arya be ugly/unconventional looking? :(" post every other week because people are, for whatever reason, obsessed with how Arya is visually perceived. One of the most misinterpreted characters yet the issue is only ever with her being portrayed as "too pretty" or the wrong "type" of pretty. This fandom will entirely rewrite a character's motivations, values, and role in the story to the point that they consider references to canon "hate" but! The true injustice to canon is we acknowledge that she is described as pretty several times. Arya simply existing as her pretty, important, and non-conforming self is too complex and confusing for people to comprehend 😔.

[last-starry-sky]

kinktober day 9 - praise kink

soap x f!reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 900 words, established relationship, praise kink, dryhumping/kissing/touching but no actual sex.]

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!): @slut-lmao, @mishaglass

You’ve had a hunch about your boyfriend for a while. Not that you thought he would hide anything from you. You just think that even he doesn’t know about it. 

It first piqued in your mind the day you and Johnny moved in together. He had (thankfully) roped his army buddies into coming over to help the two of you. While you spent the day moving boxes into the correct rooms and getting a jump on unpacking, him and the three other big strong men had focused on the worst part: furniture. 

With a little swearing, most of the bigger pieces had made it out of the truck and up the stairs. It was his massive sofa that had given them the most trouble. What started with just him and Kyle trying to figure out how to geometrically even fit the pieces of the large sectional around the tight curves of the stairwell and through the tiny doorways, ended with the big guy with the mask - Simon, you believe - and Johnny doing the lifting and moving basically blind while John and Kyle formed a chain of choreographers to guide them home.

When the last piece was finally dropped in the living room, the guys gathered to give one another a quick, brotherly congratulations. You, however, had snuck up behind your boyfriend to wrap him a squeezing hug. You ignored the sweat pouring off of him, and any potential embarrassment with praising him in front of his guy friends to loudly tell him, “Wow, baby! You did it, and such a good job! I’m so proud.”

That had pulled a chuckle from the three other exhausted men. They had given him a little bit of grief with small comments about “happy wife, happy life” and the like. You didn’t give your poor boyfriend time to respond, peeling away to pull some refreshments out of the fridge now that their work was done. Maybe you should have, because by the time you returned, the blush hadn’t fallen from Johnny’s face and the gaze that followed you was positively predatory. 

It was smaller incidents after that. You would come home to the dishes or laundry done. Without even thinking you would peck a kiss on his cheek and drop a small bit of praise. “Good job, honey.” “Thanks, baby.” “Looks amazing!” It was never over the top, and you don’t remember using it all that much. When you did, though, he absolutely acted different afterward. If you praised him for washing the dishes, you never came home to so much as a dirty fork again. Everything was washed, dried, and in military order. He even scrubbed down the sink. 

Weird, you thought at the time, but nothing out of the ordinary. It always took a while for couples to adjust to living together, finding out who was better suited to which chores and what-not. Johnny tended to have more time on his hands than you anyway, especially when on leave. 

No, what made you double take was how he seemed to come to expect it. You nearly ran into him while rushing out of the bathroom. You were just trying to get to work on time, but your beloved Johnny had stopped you, catching your attention to ask if you had noticed how clean the tiles in the shower were. 

“Yes, Johnny,” you had said, subconsciously pulling him down to your level with a wrap of your arms around his shoulders, your lips already pursed in a kiss. “Very clean. You did a good job.”

It was the groan that rumbled in his chest that caught you off guard. Sure, he was like that when you two were intimate, but just thanking him for doing chores? It wormed into your brain as you pulled away, giving a quick excuse that you had to leave for work. You thought about it your whole commute, all day long, and even on your ride home. As you slipped into bed next to his sleeping form, the thought you wrestled over all day had fully taken root, blooming into a terrible, terrible idea. 

Maybe you could use his desires to your advantage.

It didn’t take long for an opportunity to present itself. Johnny woke you up the next morning with a whine and roll of his hips, erection jutting into your ass. Instead of shooing him away and insisting you needed to at least brush your teeth like you usually did, you let him continue. He turned you on your back, warm hands running up your ribs while kissing your neck. A smile spread across your face. Oh, you did like that. 

“Baby,” you moaned, arching into his kisses, “Feels so good.”

You weren’t sure what to expect. If, maybe, it wouldn’t be enough praise or his brain wasn’t fully awake for you to take advantage. He answered your question with a groan and another roll of his hips, mouth opening to nip at your pulse. His fingers itching upward had you sighing out to him again.

“Make me feel so good,” you whined. And, like he was expecting it, as soon as the words left your lips he was rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tearing a sudden, “Johnny!” from you.

“Drive me wild with that shit,” he huffed, pressing a muscled thigh between your legs, giving you something to rut against while rolling up against your hip. 

“Talking?” you asked in a fucked-out drawl. Your brain was melting all too quickly into pleasure, not even having to play stupid.

“Tellin’ me what you like. When I do good,” he said breaking away from your neck to spread sloppy kisses across your jaw to your lips. The fingers on your nipple rolled and pinched, sending a spike of pleasure through you that had you shouting and shaking. “Keep going,” he sighed against your lips. “Please?”

[lord-squiggletits]

Reread/skimmed my oldest Pharma apologism posts (mainly the ones about Pharma not being a functionist) and it just occurred to me that possibly another reason the fandom saddled Pharma with the "functionist bigot" label is because his introduction by First Aid says that everyone hates Decepticons, but Pharma really really hates Decepticons. Mix that with the portion of the fanbase that lionizes and whitewashes the Decepticons, and I can easily see it entering common fanon that "Pharma hates Decepticons -> the Decepticons are freedom fighters wrongly maligned by the Autobots/the franchise -> Pharma must be a bigoted functionist since he hates Decepticons who represent freedom."

The simpler explanation is just that Pharma is an antagonist and therefore gets the "everything about him must be evil and wrong" black-and-white analysis so common in fandoms in general, but given some of the bizarre Decepticon takes I've seen I can also easily see Pharma's Decepticon hatred being taken as a sign of him being bigoted and evil.

Though AGAIN in this case it would still be singling Pharma out as a bigot for crimes/flaws that multiple other Autobots are guilty of like.

Oh, Pharma hates Decepticons? Well a lot of other Autobots hate Decepticons too, First Aid's narration about Pharma even says "we all hate Decepticons"; for that matter, there are a lot of Decepticons who hate Autobots. It's a massive civil war that's lasted for a lifetime causing two groups of people to be stuck in a near-permanent blood feud, you can't assume that every Autobot who hates Decepticons (and vice versa) hates them because they're a bigot. Maybe there's been a war where both sides have been building an ever-increasing mountain of reasons to hate each other, so hating the opposite faction is a social problem caused by war and politics rather than a sign of individual moral failing.

Pharma worked at the New Institute so that means he must be evil/bigoted? Chromedome and Brainstorm also worked at the New Institute, but there's no widespread fandom shunning of them or headcanoning them as bigots.

Hell, even the very premise of assuming Pharma is a functionist bigot for hating Decepticons is ignoring the very premise of Pharma's motives, which are, uh... being blackmailed by the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, who represents the ultimate form of Decepticon ideals to the point of literally wearing their symbol as his mask? So how were we jumping straight to "oh Pharma hates Decepticons bc he's a posh bigoted functionist" when there was a far more immediate interpretation/headcanon of "Pharma hates Decepticons because he's being tortured and blackmailed by one."

That's not to say that Pharma couldn't have hated Decepticons before Delphi, and I think you could make interesting headcanons/extrapolations based on either idea. But still. It kinda feels like people saw Pharma and just wanted to make him the Token Evil Autobot who's the opposite of our Good Heroic Autobots regardless of whether evidence from canon supported it or not.

Good riddance to bigoted functionist Pharma fanon, I'm so glad that the majority of Pharma fanon these days actually gives him a chance and puts him on equal footing as other Autobots.

[allastoredeer]

The Egg Bois have no one to take orders from after Sir Pentious dies. Then they see Lucifer and immediately follow him around and unlike Alastor who didn't like being tailed by the annoying yappy yokes, Lucifer is enthralled by them because they are like little ducklings forming a line as if Lucifer is their mother

One egg boi, Frank, is the only one that stuck to Alastor, and Al makes it clear he wants him to go away but Frank stays with him. One time when Al was cooking, Frank asked if he could help and Al thought for a moment, grinned, picked up the egg, and plopped him in the boiling pot. Unfortunately, Frank did not hard boil, in fact, he enjoyed the hot bath, and the rest of the egg bois ran inside as Lucifer entered the kitchen and screamed in horror at the display but the rest of the eggs hopped around Al's feet, pulling at his trousers asking to join the bubble bath.

FRANK STAYING WITH ALASTOR IS SO CUTE MY HEART JUST EXLODED

Alastor trying to boil Frank is just fogjwenweln 🤣 I can see that. The fact that it's not working AND Frank's enjoying himself AND the other eggbois want to join in makes it all so much better.

Also, the other eggbois following Lucifer around like ducklings 🥺 that's adorable.

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

Surprise, people. Me and the idiots are back.

[flowerakatsuka]

i can't remember if i ever mentioned this tidbit about them before — since their dad is an art teacher and encouraged all his kids to be creative from an early age, kuroba eventually picked up drawing as a hobby. they don't it as much as they used to, but it still comes in pretty handy sometimes with their job, ( especially when they're bored and need something to do with their hands. ) i imagine their style to be kinda like a simplified version of seizo watase's work.

[elizakai]

chat i’m thinking about getting back into writing and maybe posting some fics _^_

i have a lot of stories and concepts in mind, i’m rusty af but it’ll be fun and i’d like to bring them to fruition💫

any suggestions or ideas i’ll take into consideration, maybe i’ll even write some one shots to get a move on if anyone wants 💀

also i wanted to see if anyone had preference on whether i post on ao3 or here as well??? anyone who would want some reading material that is (3

(cough cough has yet to ao3 post)

[sylverstorms]

Daniela x Maiden ---- Hunted Ch.10

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9

As the fading sunlight casts its amber glow upon the towering spires of Castle Dimitrescu, an air of anticipation swirls within its ancient halls.

Because duchess Alcina is going away for a few days on a business trip. And that leaves her daughters in charge of the castle and its inhabitants. Naturally… 

Nobody can tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

The staff is divided. One one hand, the consensus among maids and cooks alike is that Bela will have the general command and things will run more or less the same as they do with her mother. On the other… Bela’s word ranges from meaning little to meaning jack when it comes to her sisters. And that’s where the first domino threatens to fall and take all others with it. 

The fact Alexia didn’t meet your eyes when you asked her what to expect for the following days is something you choose not to think about. 

You are lighting the candles in one corner of the main hall when you hear the telltale thunderous steps of the Lady descend the grand staircase, followed by her daughters. You tense a little, your breath growing a tad uneven, but you continue your task diligently, a safe distance from the massive doorway not to be noticed. You catch a few of the things they say, like Alcina’s instructions on how to answer the phone if Miranda calls and what temperature the wine cellar should be kept at. 

“Cassandra, Daniela, I need not remind you that we are understaffed.” she emphasizes. “I do not want to see that the maids’ number has dropped in my absence.” 

“Yes, mother.” they nod in unison, with one looking like she’s agreeing for the sake of getting this over with and the other gazing up at the statuesque woman like a puppy. A puppy straight out of the most chaotic pit of hell. 

“Bela, I want you to personally supervise the shipment from Duke tomorrow.” she continues, adjusting the chic fur cloak around her massive form. 

“Don’t worry, mother. I will see to it that everything is in order.” the blonde replies. 

You watch as Alcina’s key is slid into the lock and the heavy gates are opened with a mere light push of her gloved hands. Then, she turns to cast one last fond look upon her daughters. Despite all the oddities of this family, the things you know about them and how they came to be… this simple gesture gets to you. It hits your most vulnerable cord and the image gets burned into your brain. You will never unsee this. 

“Safe travels.” Bela bids. 

“We’ll miss you!” Daniela exclaims. It’s sweet, save for the fact that is not the tune she was singing yesterday, when she was jumping on her bed –and on you– going ‘yeeesssss, bless these business trips!’

The doors close behind Lady Dimitrescu. 

You count exactly five beats that pass in silence. 

“Slow and steady wins the race, mother!” Cassandra is the first to break character.

“Don’t worry about aaaanything~” Daniela sing-songs and at this point you have to feel at least a little sorry for Bela. 

Then you remind yourself the asshole stopped your escape and nearly broke your back on a table not that long ago. Every bit of suffering she endures from her sisters these days is a well-deserved slap straight from karma. You’re already feeling the score being settled as they giggle and cackle around her and all she can do is control her breathing and bring two fingers to the bridge of her nose. 

You shake your head and go about lighting the rest of the candles around. 

Or, more accurately, you try to. 

Because a wild buzzing later, you find yourself knocked forward as a familiar weight crashes onto your back. Daniela’s arms wrap around your neck and she practically demands a piggyback ride, painted lips hovering by your ear;

“How are you doing, Knight~?” 

Yeah, you sigh. It’s going to be a rough couple of days…  

–

–

On the second day, your early-evening nap is interrupted by a maid nearly breaking down your door to tell you the daughters summon you to the armory, asap. You actually have to ask for instructions as to where that even is, and your muscles grow more and more tense along the way. 

The door is left open, as if whoever is inside is waiting for you. Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you strain your ears to get an idea of what is happening on the other side, until you hear the distinct sound of Rhiannon’s and Daniela’s voices. Releasing the breath you weren’t aware you had been holding the entire walk to the armory, you rap your knuckles against the open door just to be polite, then step past the threshold. 

Alexia and Rhiannon are the first ones to catch your eye, standing next to Bela and Daniela respectively, while Cassandra examines the weapons mounted on the wall. You note that the sisters are dressed in their heavy winter gear, complete with scarfs and everything. Then you glance at the practical clothes the other humans in the room are wearing. 

“Um. Are we… going to war?” you squint. 

“I wish.” Cassandra huffs from the weapon racks. 

“We’re going hunting.” Alexia replies. 

“Who’s ‘we’?” your eyes widen, because you have a very bad feeling this includes you and– 

“We.” Daniela beams at you, gesturing around with her finger. “The temperature is at ten degrees tonight!”

“Nine.” Bela corrects under her breath. 

“Which is practically ten.” the redhead rolls her eyes dramatically. 

“Think fast.” Cassandra interjects, throwing you a hunting spear so fast you basically stop it from knocking you down rather than actually catch it mid-air. Your breathing quickens again. You just can’t catch a break with this family. 

She goes far easier on Rhiannon when she sends a crossbow and bolts her way. Lastly, she personally walks over to Alexia and hands her a leg sheath filled with throwing knives. The hazel-eyed beauty fastens them on like she’s done this a couple of times before. All the weapons are in excellent condition, sharpened and lethal.

“Alright, listen up.” the brunette begins, as if a captain emphasizing key mission points to her squad. “We will be traveling together at first, but we are still split into three teams. Our prey is a mutated coyote. You’ll know it when you see it by its crimson fur and two heads.” she explains. “My sisters and I can only chase it and hoard it to openings for you to kill, but we can’t land the final blow ourselves. That would be too easy. Your weapons have been selected based on your hunting experience to even the odds. Whoever’s girlfriend gets the kill wins and the victor picks our meals until mother returns.” 

“Whatever you do, don’t let Daniela win.” Bela huffs under her breath, as if to herself. 

“Hey, I heard that!” the youngest growls.

“Question; what happens if we don’t want to kill an innocent animal?” Rhiannon asks. 

“We knew you’d say that, so we picked this coyote for a reason. So far, it has killed over a dozen sheep!” Daniela says this like it’s a tragedy. Then, she carelessly adds “Oh, and one villager. Or was it a tourist…?” 

Rhiannon nods. “Sympathy is now depleted. We can go.”

You test the spear’s weight in your hand. Its balance is great, yet it’s also one of the heavier ones and sure as hell won’t be easy to throw. You’re used to hunting with a recurve bow, so this thing is definitely going to be a challenge for you. Alexia still has the hardest projectile to land, but you suppose she must have some experience, on top of being paired with the huntress of the family. 

“Is there any chance that thing, like… attacks us?” Rhiannon asks Bela, who smirks. 

“Try not to think about it.” she speaks, but her eyes say something closer to ‘don’t worry, I won’t let anything harm you’.

“If push comes to shove, I’ll just let Knight rescue me.” Daniela smiles dreamily. You really want to argue that it should be the other way around.

“Oh, God. How do I get into team Cassandra…?” you joke. 

“Seren!” the redhead gasps, slapping your arm lightly. 

“I like her!” the brunette laughs, ever at the expense of her sister. 

What a crazy family, you muse, watching them interact. Whatever higher power paired the people in this castle together… it had a deep sense of humor for sure. 

With a fond shake of your head, you exit the castle behind them.

–

–

The skies are filled with clouds tonight. Moonlight comes and goes in soft waves, washing over the forest cradling the village one moment and vanishing soon after. 

The remnants of winter's grip linger, with patches of snow clinging desperately to the forest floor like white freckles. A canopy of trees spans far and wide before you that seems to come alive with whispers and shadows. Being here would petrify you, if you were alone. 

But you’re not alone. You’re surrounded by the giggles and comments of the most problematic group that’s ever grown on you in your entire life. Unfortunately, you happen to be their subject of interest at this particular time. 

“Honestly, Seren, I have to hand it to you. I never thought you’d be alive under Dani’s care for more than a week.” Bela comments. 

“‘Under’ Dani’s care.” Cassandra snickers, earning a growling glare from her younger sibling. You have to admit, the brunette contests with Bela for who can be the biggest bitch at times, but you are starting to see the sexy in that. 

“I can keep my teeth out of a human if I choose to, you jerk!” the redhead snaps. 

“No, I mean it’s a wonder she hasn’t offed herself after dealing with you for more than a month.” Bela’s lip twitches upwards, as if she’s trying –and failing– to keep a straight face.

“She tried, remember? You stopped her.” Cassandra adds more fuel to the fire. 

“I definitely remember.” you interject, eyeing Bela. 

“What? I was careful not to break any of your bones.” she says. 

“Oh, that was you being careful…” you grimace.

“In all honesty, if you’re here still that means she probably was.” Rhiannon adds. 

“You didn’t feel what I felt, Rhiannon.” you shake your head. 

“Unfortunately.” she and Alexia both say simultaneously. 

You roll your eyes at them, full circle. “Maybe it sounds good on paper but there’s no way you guys would have enjoyed that.”

“You don’t know Alexia very well.” Cassandra chuckles. 

The barrage of comments continues, shifting back to bullying Daniela. The sisters push and prod at each other like lion cubs, until they end up a few ways ahead of you, three dark silhouettes atop the hill your calf muscles are protesting to climb. Life must be a lot easier when you have superhuman stamina and levitate. You think. 

Bela turns around and flashes to Rhiannon’s side to help her up, but Daniela and Cassandra are too busy throwing remarks at each other’s face to care about Alexia and you. 

The spear in your hand feels weightier now than it did before. You stop for a moment to glance at the distance you’ve covered over your shoulder… and that is when a thought strikes you. 

If I were to start running now… could I escape?

Do I even have a chance...?

You have a map of the city and its underbelly in your mind thanks to Daniela. You will no longer be running blindly. Within seconds, an entire plan forms at the forefront of your mind. With a little luck, it’s doable. You know the Dimitrescus’ shared weakness now and you know of the nitrogen conducts leading to the factory from beneath the ground. Your eyes fall to the weapon in your hand. It’s both heavy and sturdy enough to pierce through. 

All you have to do… is use Daniela’s greatest vulnerability against her. All you have to do is show her how right she was to have zero faith in humanity. 

Your fingers have gone white around the hunting spear. 

Until Alexia’s hand comes to rest over one of your own. Torn, you look into her eyes for guidance and see her subtly shaking her head no. But she doesn’t know what it means for all of you if you stay. 

You don’t have long now. The melting snow all around you is a painful reminder of that. 

“Babe, hurry it up!” Cassandra’s voice calls from atop the hill. With one last lingering look, Alexia takes a step back from you, continuing her hike. 

Seconds pass –or perhaps minutes– pass, yet you feel frozen in time. A faint buzzing is what brings you back to reality, and by the time you turn around, Daniela is landing soundlessly a few steps ahead of you. Her bi-tone eyes fix on yours for a tense moment. 

“Knight? …All good?” she asks before she extends a hand towards you.

“Yeah.” you lie with a smile as you take it. 

–

–

For the rest of the trudge through the forest, you feel numb. 

The conversation around you flies right over your head and you only actively take part in it when you absolutely have to, in order to upkeep the pretense that everything is fine. But you’re not fine. 

You didn’t run when you had the chance to. You just let it go. 

An older you wouldn’t have missed the opportunity, no matter how slim it may have looked. But the fact remains; you hesitated. Your heart wasn’t in tune with your brain, not even close. And that disparity is what gets to you the most. Because above all the reasons why you need to go, why you want to leave, at the forefront of your mind was… 

Her.

Suddenly, the Dimitrescus bristle like panthers catching the scent of blood. Sniffing the air, you see their eyes shift into a darker, primal gold. Daniela, eager and impulsive, smirks and makes to dash forward, but her sisters’ hands descending on either shoulder grab her and nail her feet to the ground before she takes off. 

“One by one. Wait your turn.” Bela reminds her, voice deep with authority. Then she grabs Rhiannon’s hand and vanishes into the darkness first. 

The other two are barely holding themselves back from going in, but, albeit seething with anticipation, they do wait for the first pair’s attempt. In calculated grace, the blonde leaves her partner at a vantage point and half-slides, half-flies down the slope, forcing the coyote to back, growling, into a moonlit patch of the uneven ground. 

Rhiannon aims… and takes her shot. 

The arrowhead flies well over a meter above the beast’s two heads, embedding itself into a tree bark. The redhead struggles to pull back the string to reload, while Bela flashes behind the coyote so it doesn’t escape. The second shot is much closer, but the creature twists to the side with uncanny agility. It’s a good thing Bela does the same.

“Nice one! That almost killed Bela!” Daniela cackles.

The prey manages to slip away into the woods and Cassandra’s seizes the opportunity to pursue. You hear only a sharp “Let’s go!” and watch as she leaps high into the trees while Alexia runs after her. 

Their paths split for a moment, long enough for one to obscure herself while the other lands powerfully in front of the creature, freezing it in its tracks. The spot isn’t as ideal as Bela made it out to be light-wise, but Alexia’s coordination with Cassandra is something to marvel at. It only takes her a split second to jump out of her hiding position, casting a knife at the coyote’s neck. Unfortunately, the beast lowers itself the slightest fraction in the nick of time and the knife grazes its ear instead. 

Black blood drips onto the soil.

A powerful, enraged roar escapes the beast, at a volume that leaves you stunned in your spot.    

Daniela, however, grabs your hand and zooms towards the next opening. If you had eaten dinner, you’re certain it wouldn’t be sitting in your stomach for much longer. 

Still, you shake yourself out of the daze and take control of the adrenaline, calculating the weight of the spear versus your own strength. Without warning, the redhead lets go of you and you immediately duck into a roll to recover from the shift in momentum. The second you’re back on your feet you draw back the spear and aim, waiting for her to back the feral animal to a place you can see. It’s not as easy as it was with her sisters. The thing is now wild from being wounded, twisting about in erratic motions. 

Hold steady. You remember what your father taught you as a little girl, when he took you to your first hunting trip. Hold your breath as you line your throw… and..

The coyote jumps towards her, foaming jaws snapping. You feel something inside you click. 

The next second, your spear cuts through the air, straight into the animal’s neck. 

Its end is instant. Soundless. No twitching, not even a whimper. Its terrifying body simply collapses onto the dirt like no more than a ragdoll and you’re left there, staring, with your heart pounding in your ears, your muscles shaking. 

Something so horrific, so deadly, felled by a single spear. Felled by you. 

What an empowering thought. Suddenly, endorphins rush you and you’re lighter than you’ve been all night. You’re grinning when Daniela beams at you and leaps all over the place like an overexcited bunny, flies buzzing in every direction, poking fun at the sour expressions her siblings are wearing. 

“Ha! Bow down in the face of superiority, you two!” she points. 

“Don’t you mean the face of stupidity?” Bela crosses her arms. 

“What was that?!” Cassandra snaps at Alexia, smacking her arm in a slap that may as well be a caress with how she measures her strength. “Getting its ear like that, were you trying to pet it from a distance?!”   

“I couldn’t see shit back there!” the other woman says while rubbing her bicep. exasperated. 

“Thank you, thank you Seren! We’re having liver for the next few days~” Daniela laughs in a way that lights up her entire face, gluing herself to your side. 

For some strange reason, although you’ve done so much more than this together, the act makes your cheeks redden. You stare at her pretty face for a brief moment and realize that her joy is infectious. Her dimples and cleft chin and her mannerisms in general… she’s probably the cutest redhead in Romania. 

Meanwhile, Bela and Cassandra share a look and a miserable sigh. 

–

–

In the early hours of the morning, you’re in Daniela’s bed, keeping her company –and keeping the bed warm– until she falls asleep. The temperature wasn’t low enough to hurt her tonight, but the humidity has crept under her skin, bringing a certain level of discomfort it always takes her a while to completely shake off.

She’s nestled against you, hugging a monster teddy to her chest, her chin resting atop its head as she reads the novel lying on your lap atop the covers. You glance down upon it a few times, cautious of its contents. Thankfully, the scenes you happen to skim through are all suspense and romantic undertones. No smut. Yet. 

Then she turns the page to the next chapter, titled; Soulmates.

The word catches your eye. It seems to hold her attention, as well, and she draws in a small, unnecessary breath. 

“What a concept, no? Two people ideally suited to one another. Meant to be.” Daniela comments in a low voice. She seems the type of soul to be enamored by the idea, but the way she spoke the words, her aura in this moment… there is a certain weight to it all. 

“I don’t know if I believe it.” But it’s much more accurate to say you don’t know if you want to. Because being your soulmate… doesn’t that automatically condemn another person to a lifetime of hurt?

“I didn’t know if I did, either. Until I saw Cassandra and Alexia together.” she replies. “There’s no other person in this world that could match my sister like she does. She just gets her, in a way not even Bela and I can, at times.” 

You can’t argue with that. You’ve seen them, around the castle and especially earlier, how seamlessly they flow. Two seemingly polar opposites that connect like magnets. 

“And it was instantaneous, too. Before Alexia was brought to the castle, Cassandra and I saw her at the village, on our way back from a hunt. I think she was chopping wood for her house or something. My sister stared for half a minute. I never saw her look that way at a human before.” she reminisces. 

“And Bela?” you ask. 

“Bela is different. Thinks differently, functions differently. No amount of beauty would ever spark her interest and make her show favoritism.” Daniela explains. “The first time she heard Rhiannon sing to the wounded in the dungeons, she told Cassandra and I not to touch the ‘songbird’, though still, it was more along the lines of owning a pet than anything else.” she says. “But the way Rhiannon protected her family later on, it shattered Bela’s defenses. She was forced to see her then and everything else was a slippery slope from there.”

Through impossible circumstances, it seems her siblings really did find their perfect matches. Hearing of how their stories unfolded, you begin to think that maybe the notion of soulmates isn’t quite so farfetched, after all. Which inadvertently makes you wonder about Daniela and yourself. 

You are aware that in almost a hundred years she hasn’t felt genuine attraction towards anyone, no matter how she may have wished to experience it. She has been open about finally feeling that spark with you, and the way her body reacts to you can’t lie, but you don’t know if there’s anything deeper than that for her. 

And you’re alarmed by the fact you want to know.

Your heart beats quicker and you’re certain she can hear it. The pages of the book in your lap aren’t turning anymore, but her eyes are still focused on it. You wonder what she’s thinking, what world she’s lost in inside her head and what your place there is, if one exists at all. 

You wonder if she considers the two of you soulmates. Fated. 

“What about us?” you question, unable to bear the weight of leaving the question unasked. Still, you voice it as casually as possible, not wanting to add to the tension already building in the air. 

Daniela shifts slightly against you. “It’s scary to define us.” she speaks lightly, but the emotion locked behind the words is anything but. 

“Why?” But you already know the answer; It’s because of you. 

“Because whatever word comes to mind… may only be true for me.” she replies and you can’t explain why it’s like a stab to the gut. 

Daniela is extremely perceptive. When she saw you hesitate tonight, you have no doubt she saw your thoughts written all over your eyes. In fact, you’re sure she has always been aware of your pressing need to leave, your plans and calculations on how to, even if the real reason why eludes her. Yet she still took you on tours around the village when you asked. She showed you all the escape routes, walked you right over the nitrogen pipelines despite knowing they could one day be used against her.  

Now it’s clear to you why.

“And if I finally settle on ‘love’...” she says, voice low, “I’ll have to hold the door open for you.”

[writerblue275]

HAPPY ONE YEAR SINCE THE REVEAL OF HEARTSTEEL 🩵💚💜💛🧡❤️(and 🩷 BECAUSE WE LOVE ALUNE ON THIS BLOG). 🥳🎉🍾🎊

[onmyo-jin]

Kiss: 46 Yuanyi

Thank you for the prompt anon! I'm still taking prompts! You can find the full list here, or feel free to make up a fun addition to the list~

It reminds him of that afternoon that seems so long ago now, when Wen Xiao sat on her swing– back when he didn't realize the roiling mess inside his gut was not hatred, but a different feeling altogether.

It is an ugly beast, those feelings, and every so often it rears its ugly head inside Zhou Yichen. It takes his thoughts without asking, and twists them into things he will barely recognize as his own afterwards. In the moment they still feel like his own thoughts, and the jealousy of not being the one receiving Zhao Yuanzhou's attention eats him up. All of that seems ridiculous, when they fall in bed later, fall asleep side by side later, wake up together when the sun has poked her rays far enough into the bedroom to wake even Zhao Yuanzhou.

He walked away from dinner angry, angry for no reason, angry to see Zhao Yuanzhou sharing the tastiest bits of food with Wen Xiao, with Pei-daren, with everyone except with Yichen. Now, sitting down in the night-quiet garden behind the hall, Yichen feels ridiculous. They are his friends! But something inside him hisses, and whispers that Zhao Yuanzhou should be his, should only look at him–

"If you keep frowning like that your face will stay that way," a demonic voice lilts next to his ear, and Zhou Yichen jumps near out of his skin.

"I wasn't frowning," he frowns, denial falling easily from his lips.

"No?" Zhao Yuanzhou pokes a long finger at his forehead, and drapes himself over Yichen's shoulders. "Then what do humans call this?"

"I was…"

"Yes?"

How can he explain it to a demon, when he can barely explain it to himself? It makes no sense, and now and every previous time he sees that afterwards, but he has not yet found a way to stop the beast in his chest from wanting to keep the beast lounging against his back to himself.

Instead of looking for words he doesn't know, he twists towards Zhao Yuanzhou, a hand on his neck to keep the demon while his human perch shifts. The kiss he bites against that infernal smirk is not a nice one, teeth first and tongue second, taking no time to sooth the stings. Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't even try to keep his balance, but lets himself fall forward until he is practically lying in Zhou Yichen's lap. Annoyingly, this makes it hard to kiss him properly– amazingly, this lets Zhou Yichen admire the way his lips have swollen under the assault, red and glistening and abused. Zhao Yuanzhou's tongue darts out to feel at a particularly tender spot, and then glances up at Yichen like he doesn't know exactly what he is doing.

"Your friends were concerned for you, Xiao Zhuo-daren," the demon smirks up at him. He cannot be comfortable like this, but he makes no attempt to move away.

"That's very kind of them," he looks away from the sight before him. The words sound angry even to his own ears, but he means them quite earnestly: it is kind of them, and Zhou Yichen is not so sure he deserves their kindness just now.

Zhao Yuanzhou reaches out, and turns Zhou Yichen's face back towards himself: "I was concerned." Yichen clamps his mouth shut, stopping himself from saying something scathing like 'were you?' or 'no need'. The great demon seems to read the words behind his eyes anyway, and Yichen quickly averts his eyes.

"I was," the demon hums.  He lets his hand fall to Yichen's robe, adjusting the already perfect outer layer, running his hand distractingly across the fabric that covers his chest. "You left before I could give you anything." It takes Zhou Yichen several moments to remember what he might be talking about. Right, dinner! Why did that seem so important before? It feels ridiculous now.

"So I came here to bring you your treat," a beatific smile lights up Zhao Yuanzhou's face, and underneath the suspicion that he is up to something (and when is he not), Yichen is moved. The demon came all the way back here, leaving the others and his own dinner, just to bring Yichen his… A surprisingly touching gesture from someone whose reputation for evil is quite ancient.

Zhou Yichen looks around to where presumably Zhao Yuanzhou has left his dinner, only to see nothing. Too late he notices the errant fingers have started undoing the buttons on his outer robe, the demons other hand tugging at his belt, and he looks down at the down to ask– but the question dies on his lips when he sees the demon's smirk, lips still red from earlier, and he knows exactly what kind of treat Zhao Yuanzhou meant.