#I need to chew on him like a twizzler

[ew2yu]

Thank u @stoshasaurus for letting me try to draw ur boy he is a very good boy

[soundleer]

Slatey picks up swears from someone (prolly Raddy) and as soon as the parents find out they're ON THE PERPETRATOR'S ASS

Yes, with claws

Probably having Pinki babysit while they do it so the kiddo isn't exposed to violence

oh joy somebody's gonna catch these claws for the bad influence

violence where? slatey is having fun with pinki, he go nom nom on twizzlers :33

[beesthebees]

i think zenix would taste like twizzlers

[luveline]

hot bombshell bau!reader flirting and winking at spencer every chance she gets and poor spencer just gets hot and bothered very flustered and blushing😋😋

i love you jade i read ur blog like it's the daily newspaper<33

I love you anon, thank you for requesting ♡ fem!reader

"So," says a voice, low and syrupy as warmth spreads up Spencer's side, "how's my favourite agent?" 

Your perfume a subtle fragrance of jasmine and vanilla alike, sweetness that lingers —and Spencer knows, having thought of you every time he walks past the sugar ring donut stand by the Staples Mill Station for weeks— you put a hand on his shoulder and lean in for a one-armed hug. His skin erupts with goosebumps. 

"Y/N," he says, sounding much too much like a wimp for his own liking. He clears his throat. "When did you get back?" 

He's afraid to look at you. He doesn't have a choice. His heart skips a beat at the state of you, which is to say you look stunning in your dark clothes, a tight cut top that borders unprofessional and a pair of thigh hugging pants that pass the border completely. (He's kidding. Mostly. You're dressed fine. He's a loser, is all.) 

"This morning. They couldn't keep me from you if they tried, handsome. You look good." You disengage from his side. Spencer's relieved and regretful at once. "I love the haircut, they take a little more than you were expecting?" 

"Is it too short?" he asks unsurely. 

"It's perfect."

Spencer's taller than you but he never feels it until you're looking up at him, pretty eyes and quirked lips, permanent amusement in your gaze. "I missed you," you say.

"Y/N," Hotch says as he descends the steps to the bullpen. "We talked about this." 

"Pen and Morgan do it every day." Your eyebrows pinch together. 

Hotch doesn't say anything else, an empty coffee mug in hand as he passes. You don't baulk at his disapproving look, the opposite, sitting on the edge of Morgan's desk to kick your kitten heels gently, a slow back and forth that has Spencer's eyeline pulling down your legs. He shakes it off, but not before you've noticed. 

"You don't mind, do you, babe?" you ask. "My flirting?" 

It'll probably kill him sooner rather than later. "No. Don't mind." 

"'Cus I can stop, I promise. But you're the kind of boy that should be flirted with, you know? And the kind of smart that makes you crazy attractive, which is unfair. It's not like you needed help in that particular department." You lean back as you talk, scrounging around Morgan's things.

"Second shelf," Spencer says. 

You stop your searching to grin at him. Pleased, you reach down to the second drawer of Morgan's desk and find what you'd been looking for, a coveted, half-eaten pack of cherry twizzlers. 

"But we're not like Pen and Morgan," you say, bringing a twizzler to your mouth. 

"We're not?" Spencer asks, confused. He may not summon the necessary charisma to flirt back, but he likes what you have. 

"Nope." You take another bite, chew, leaving Spencer in anticipation. Finally, you swallow, lips curving into an even stickier smile. "'Cus Pen and Morgan are never gonna happen. They're better as friends…" 

You slip down off of Morgan's desk, leaving his twizzlers behind. Spencer has enough sense about him to anticipate your approach. He's proud of himself for the composure he maintains as your footsteps slow. He even takes a step back to follow you, to your abject delight. 

"But we're not just friends, are we?" you ask softly. You lift your chin. He can smell the cherry on you. 

"Y/N, enough," Hotch says from somewhere behind. You refuse to look away, and while Spencer fears his chief's tone, he manages to hold your gaze. "HR will mandate another presentation." 

"It's alright, Hotch," Spencer says. His cheeks are flushed and his palms are clammy, but his voice holds up. "I don't mind." 

"I'm sure you don't." 

"This could all be avoided if we took this somewhere a little more private," you murmur. 

"Enough. I won't tell you again, Y/N. Shouldn't you be helping Penelope with her ViCAP recalibration?" Hotch asks pointedly. 

Spencer takes it for what it is; an effort to separate you from each other before it goes too far. You know it too, rolling your eyes at Spencer like you've a shared secret —Can you believe this guy?— clasping his arm loosely in farewell.

"See you later, Spence." You call him handsome, babe, bub, even sweetheart, but Spence is the worst of all of them because of how you say it, your voice entrenched in pure honey. His heart pangs as you go.  

Hotch lingers by Spencer's side, coffee freshly filled and steaming in rings. "You know, you're getting better," he says sympathetically. 

Spencer rubs the bridge of his nose roughly. "Thanks." 

[pseudowho]

Surely mister perfect dad-husband-lover Nanami babywears? I could see him in a big woven wrap, maybe one in the same pattern as his tie?

And once the baby is a toddler, tossing them on his back while they run errands about town?

Bonus: would Higuruma? I haven’t read the manga so I only really know of him and his traits via fandom…

Nanami Kento: He absolutely babywears 👏👏 I think he'd be into the reliability of a structured carrier myself, but would absolutely fall apart if Mrs.Nanami has one made with a bespoke, tie-matching pattern.

I think he'd also have a meticulously organised baby bag with snacks, outfit changes, medicine, etc. Truly, a prepared king. He finds it uniquely frustrating that most baby-change rooms are in women's only bathrooms.

I think he'd have a back carrier for a toddler, but he'd encourage them to walk as much as he could, wearing the carrier just in case. They'd get thrown on his back when he needs to carry stuff though. He'd check they're awake back there by doing the Reach Back and Offer Snack technique...if a little hand comes out to take the snack, they're awake 😌

He'd be talking to people while babywearing, his usual low, stern voice, and would randomly interject every now and then with his sweet dad voice to include the baby: "...so we intercepted the Curse on the second floor, and Ino managed to take it out. But you don't need to know about that, do you, sweetheart? No, nooooo. No scary monsters here, no there aren't..."

Talk too loudly by him while the baby's asleep on him, and you'll be met with a death glare, and a single, raised finger in threat; Mr.Nanami Kento, who can excuse murder, but draws the line at disturbing naps.

Higuruma Hiromi: While I HC Higuruma as child free by choice (I have written just one fic of Dad!Higuruma), I think he'd absolutely babywear through practicality, the guy's too busy to push a buggy. If he has to use a buggy one day, I picture him jogging this baby to daycare (because he's running late) while pushing this buggy. He drops his baby off, gives him a big kiss and hair ruffle...then runs back, because the baby's been holding onto his case notes for him, and he forgot them.

That baby would be his confidante; Higuruma would share case details and ask his baby's opinion ("...so the prosecution, think they've got the evidence they need, but they're clowns. They're clowns, aren't they? Aren't they darling? Yes they are..."), go to client meetings with the baby ("Look...I believe you, but my kid doesn't look convinced. Maybe try something more like..."), and use his baby as an excuse ("Ahhh I'm sorry, I can't make that client lunch actually? Why? Oh, me and my baby hate you I haven't got childcare for the afternoon, today.")

Higuruma's a big oral fixation guy, and a fidgeter (pen chewer, gavel twizzler, tie loosening...) and assumes his baby is too, so has a baby fiddle-clip for when he's babywearing (he likes a wrap sling-- he knows it looks sloppy, but he's a dexterous king and can tie one in 10 seconds flat). He may or may not have had a bespoke fiddle/teething clip made, with a little rubberised gavel on it for chewing.

He's one of those dads who feels sleepy when a baby naps on him. You'd find him, slumped back in his office chair, with a baby napping on his chest, while Hiromi snores away, head back and exhausted, a pen and paperwork still in his hand.

Mr.Haitch is a keen babywearer. I'm very into Strong Man Wears Baby as a thing 💀

-- Haitch xxx

[grlcarcass]

don’t make me wait in the car again - axl rose fic

tags: sfw (for now), fluff ; Part 2 Here!

a/n: if you guys are interested, lmk i can make this a series and include smut!

It was one of those pathetic dusty southern evenings that turned the visible heat patterns golden. The air was thick with gas station neon summer heat, it made everything feel painfully slower. He pulled into the parking lot of a roadside bar that looked like it had been chipping away since ‘63. Tin roof, swinging sign, and sun damaged motorcycles and trucks alike parked out front.

The fledgling Axl Rose, or as she knew him, Bill Bailey, was trying his damn hardest to get a show anywhere he could. Traveling himself to charm his way onto a stage, which usually worked, unlike his car’s AC.

“Wait here,” he said, flicking the car sharply into park. “Won’t be long.”

She blinked hard at him through her recently catalog purchased sunglasses, bare legs crossed on the passenger seat. Her glossy lips slightly parted in disbelief. “You drove me all this way to sit in the damn car?”

She fanned herself with said catalog.

He leaned in smirking to her, hand braced on the window frame like he was posing, trying to charm his way into her graces. “It’s just a chat, bar owner stuff. Need to get into as many places as I can alright? Five minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago when we were still in Tennessee.”

He bit his cheek to keep him from laughing in her face. She was a mouthy girl, attitude and perfume, sitting there with her shoes off and baby hairs flowing in her face. Feet on his dashboard, which he would’ve swatted a groupie out of, she acted like she owned his car. In a way she did, he found himself loving her company on his desperate tries to network his way into fame.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, drumming his fingers on the roof. “You mad at me, girl?”

She looked the other way and let air escape her nostrils, he could feel her bottom lip extend out from the top. Facing the window dramatically. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s like that?” he mused, a smile on his face.

She didn’t answer verbally, but she did glance in his direction from the corner of her winged eye. She was allowing him to see her be annoyed at him, like she was urging him to feel bad. Charmed, even.

When he came back out a blistering 20 minutes later, of course she stayed put. As much as she considered walking home barefoot. Her legs were tucked up, flipping through an old magazine she found in his glove box; among other things. Chewing on the end of a Twizzler she bought three gas station stops ago. He knocked on her window, she didn’t look up.

“Alright lady, I get it, I owe you big.” he said, opening her door anyway.

“No kidding,” she said flatly, turning a page. “Didn’t know that waiting in your crockpot of a car was part of this whole stardom thing, Bill.”

As discouraging as this sounded, Axl knew she believed in him the most. Why else would she be here? States over, humming in the passenger, she clearly knew he’d make it big. But all of those things came after her mouth.

“Cause, I finally landed one for tonight.” he smiled down at her, standing by her legs and leaning into the door, close contact to her cheek with his pointed nose. A lanyard dangling in front of her face. To which she only looked up to with her eyes.

“And why would I wanna see you holler out there for these Randy’s and Gearheads?” she rolled her eyes.

“Cause you love me and you know I’ll spend most of what I make on you anyway.” He leaned closer, flashing his eyes.

She tried so hard not to smile, she never asked him to spoil her. He just saw what she circled in her magazines and surprised her with it. Thanking him endlessly with sweet talk he’d get only behind closed doors.

Of course he caught her little grin, it cracked with a twitch.

He grinned even wider. “You’re already there, you’ll forgive me in about twenty minutes.”

“Your performance better make it fifteen.”

“Ten if you stop pouting like that.” he chuckled.

She rolled her eyes and lazily slid before him out of his car, smoothing the dress she wore, pulling the waist ribbon like she was a gift. He stared at her amused.

The bar was dim and humming, low ceilings and poorly strung up lights, like a poor Christmas. Everything smelled whiskey soaked, including the curtains to the carpet. A country jukebox playing something slow in the corner, if it weren’t for the TV’s playing the game for the rednecks, it’d be the newest tech in the building.

The people in there were expected, freckled flabby arms, red shoulders and cheeks, sweaty, drunk and happy. Their beer was cheaper than their heaviest conversations, clearly the place was well loved.

She walked in with Axl like she owned the whole building, even if she looked way too done up to be there, she knew her boyfriend owed her something, so that gave her the power of a king. His hand hovered lower to her back, making sure the sleeveless bikers or charming homeless don’t even think about it.

They were sat in a sticky booth in the back, red leathered, holes from when young delinquents stuck their toothpick traps into the plush. The table carved with many symbols and numbers.

She slid into the booth, looking like she was way too dressed up to be here. Peeling the label off the soda bottle like she always did. He was fascinated with her.

“So, this is where your big business happens?” she asked softly.

“Mm,” he said, nodding on his knuckles. “It’s nothing exciting.”

“Yeah, I can tell by the smell. Real big stuff happening.”

He chuckled and shook his head, his arm slung over the booth. “You’re getting mouthier and mouthier.”

“You starved me and boiled me for like…ever.” She sipped her drink with a pointed little slurp. “I was five minutes from committing a crime.”

He leaned in from across from her. “You still mad at me beautiful?”

She paused dramatically, chin tilted. “Not if you order me something fried.”

He waved down the bartender and grinned. “I can do that.”

While they waited, she played with the straw wrapper, coiling it, twisting it into shapes.

“You nervous or somethin’?” he asked.

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “No. Just bored.”

“Uh huh.”

He squinted at her a little longer, and then grinned like he’d caught her in the act. “You’re high, ain’t you?”

Her mouth popped open slightly, her cheeks a bit red not from embarrassment, more from the effort of playing it off.

“I am not,” she said, way too quickly. “I’m maintaining composure,” she hissed, hands folded all prim now. “I am in public.”

“You accidentally thanked a customer for your drink five minutes ago.”

She tried not to laugh. “He was polite.”

He laughed, full and messy, the sound turning heads. Then he lowered his voice again, warm like whiskey and heat.

“I love you.” she said trying to divert the conversation.

She wrinkled her nose and looked away, biting her lip to keep from laughing more.

He nudged her foot with his under the table. “You’re alright, y’know that? But no more digging for treasure in my glove box. Look at you now.” Using a curled finger to flick up the underside of her nose.

Part 2

[trashmouth-richie]

masterlist

eddie x fem reader

chapter summary: how sweet it is, to be loved.

series summary: You were desperate for a roommate after Nancy got married and moved out. An ad in the paper goes unanswered until someone comes knocking on the door.

special thanks: to anyone and everyone who read a single chapter or kept up with this series to the end, thank you so much- this story wouldn’t be possible without your support.

author’s note: I can’t believe this is the final chapter for this series, I’m feeling so many emotions right now but mostly just love for Eddie and Tooty and everything in between. Thank you to anyone who has helped me beta ( @sweetsweetjellybean especially!)this story or fan girled with me over upcoming chapters. To any of the very talented artists who have made any art for this series, thank you so very much, each and every piece holds such a special place in my heart. To anyone who is mentioned in this story, thank you so so much, @loveshotzz @chechelia @carolmunson @mopeymopeymouse and everyone else— thank you for allowing me to include you in this series. To everyone who has liked, rb’d left a comment or interacted in any way with this series— THANK YOU. This series has brought such joy & heartache to me, and I’m so lucky to have people enjoy it. 🖤

Cereal

Hotdogs

Bananas

Jelly —grape, not strawberry

Bread

Crackers 

Toothpaste 

Noodles 

Chicken thighs— babe are you making fun of me?

Heartburn medicine

You tap the chewed cap of your pen along the lined paper of a scribble heavy grocery list. Desperately wishing you had x-ray vision to see inside your cabinets and remember what you were in need of, you chew the cap again.

Giggling to yourself every so often at Eddie’s notes on the grocery list. Crossing off items he thought weren’t needed, mostly vegetables he didn’t like. And always making sure you got his favorites. And not, “that healthy bullshit cereal, give me sugar or kill me babe, I will not eat Raisin Bran” 

Peanut butter 

Sunny D

Thyme 

Heavy cream

Basil

Carrots

Onions

Chicken stock

Hey sweetheart can you please get me some candy? I like skittles but you know I love m&ms.. and twizzlers, it’s for the shop. :) 

The lady behind the desk chirps a name again, but you are still racking your brain on what else was needed. The soup you had planned on making tonight would be perfect for the chilly weather rolling in. November was coming in like a lion, ferociously cold and temperatures already dipping below zero. 

Eddie loved your potato soup, so much that he begged you to make it after another long, grisly week at the shop. 

He loved everything you made, even your chili that he doctored up by adding sour cream and Doritos to it. Bon Appetit he would say with a smirk on his lips, a heaping bowl steaming in front of him. 

The clerk behind the desk tutted and huffed, the schedule was getting behind.  

“Tooty Munson! Is there a Tooty Munson here?”

You glance up quickly at the sound of your name, “shit,” you breathe, “here, yes,” you scramble shoving the list and pen into your purse, buried amongst the gum wrappers and a spilled container of tic-tacs. 

The receptionist clicks her papers against the formica counter and holds her nose in the air, as if this job and you were beneath her. 

“He’s ready for you now.”

—-

“…alright, Ed, did ya look o’er those applications yet? ‘Tween you D and Mike I don’t think we are going to be able to keep up everything that we got on the schedule.” 

Wayne’s eyebrows are raised as he looks over the bifocals perched on his nose. He had been scouring over the schedules and the books for the better half of the afternoon since lunch hour—trying to figure out how to swing their overloaded schedule. 

It wasn’t that they couldn’t do the work, they were simply short handed. After Boom closed his doors  in Hawkins, he had recommended to his regulars that they travel to Bridgeport to Master Mechanics to see Eddie and Wayne. Business was booming, and the Munson’s could barely keep up.

Early on, Wayne and Eddie decided they would only be open until noon on Saturday’s but now with the packed schedule, they worked til almost dark every night of the week, including some Sundays.

Wayne rubs his short nails through his scratchy mostly white scruff, “we can’t have these boys workin’ like this, they’ll quit on us before you can slap a tick.”

Eddie was leaning against the doorway, a bottle of Coca Cola held limp in his hand, a greasy rag stuffed in his back pocket. 

“Yeah,” he yawns, stretching out his back, “let’s hire ‘em all, we need the extra hands, or I’m gonna need an extra back.”

Wayne grunts in confirmation. The highlighter squeaks as it’s drug across the phone numbers on the applications, “I’ll call ‘em first thing in the morning,” he straightens up his desk and shoves the papers into a drawer. 

His glasses clink as he folds them up and lays them next to a picture of the newlywed Munson’s. He leans back in his chair, the leather crinkling beneath his worn coveralls, “I’m callin’ it for the day,” he exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, “it’s been one helluva week and I’m shot, tell the boys to go home to their wives.” 

“and you too,” he points, “go take care of your wife, Ed, tell her I hope she starts to feelin’ better.” 

Eddie’s curls bounce as he nods his head, completely drained from the week, shit maybe he was getting sick too? “she went to the doctor today, probably just the flu, Max told her it was going around.” 

“Well then,” Wayne says, standing up and clicking off the table lamp, “take tomorrow off and rest–

both of ya, hear me?” 

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” 

—

Eddie’s tires crunch on the ice and hard packed snow of the driveway, a silent serenity, meaning he is only moments away from holding you in his arms, seconds away from kissing your lips, and if he was lucky, minutes from eating something delicious to fill his grumbling stomach. 

He throws the truck into neutral, killing the engine and tossing the keys around his finger. Tracks from your Jeep tires lead into the garage he had built last spring. A huge project that your friends were paid in beer and a bonfire when it was all finished. 

Thrusting his sore hands into his canvas coat, he ducked his chin into the zipper and braved the asthma inducing gust of wind to the front door as it whipped through his curls. 

The house was oddly quiet, only the hum of the refrigerator making any sort of sound. Usually when he came home you’d be playing the radio, or talking on the phone to Max or Nancy, greeting him with a pop of your head around the wall in the kitchen or from the hallway, the prettiest smile put on your lips. 

“Princess?” he called out in endearment as he untied his boots and put them on the shoe rack. His coatwas already hanging on its hook, usually next to your purse but your purse was thrown onto the arm chair, and your shoes were in the hallway like you had walked right out of them. 

He undid the buttons of his work blues, letting them hang at his waist like a mechanic cape. Socked feet trudge down the carpeted hallway, you must not be feeling any better, probably too exhausted to make it out of bed.

But Eddie was wrong.

You were perched on top of the comforter, coat still on but unzipped staring at the door waiting for his arrival, fuzzy socks on your wiggling toes. 

“Hey, handsome,” you said, trying to keep your pitch even. 

“There’s my girl,” his velvet voice wrapping around you like a hug as he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for your left hand and kissing the finger that adorned the prettiest ring he’d ever bought, “how’s my beautiful wife?” 

It had been five months since you said I do. A June wedding in your own backyard, filled with friends who had served as family for years, gathered by your sides. 

“I forgot the potatoes,” you say blankly, a weird little smile on your face. 

Eddie sits down next to you, rubbing your thigh back and forth and letting out an exhausted yawn, “That’s alright, I can make us some grilled cheese if you’re up for—”

“I was looking at my grocery list, and couldn’t remember what I’d forgot.”

Eddie’s confused, but wants to reassure you that its no big deal, he’s a grown man he can certainly make supper for himself and his wife. “Sweetheart it’s okay, don’t beat yours—“

“Can’t make potato soup without potatoes.” And this time you laugh, kind of whimsically and in disbelief. 

His brows turn inward, still he just keeps reassuring you that everything is fine, “It’s okay Tooty, seriously. Let me go make you some—”

And for the third time tonight, you interrupted him, “doctor said that’s normal.”

He’s exhausted and is honestly more confused than he would like to admit, “what? The flu?” 

“No, no. “ you say, a twisted little smirk on your face, “forgetting things, throwing up in the morning, being exhausted… totally normal.” 

“Babe?” He moves to touch the back of his hand to your head, wincing when he realizes that he’s probably freezing.

“I was so scared the last time,” you whisper, teary eyed, “terrified.. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but now—.”

Eddie reaches for your cheeks, holding them softly, his eyes searching yours, desperate to figure out what the hell is going on, “what am I missing here? It’s normal to have… the flu?” 

“No, it’s not the flu,” you finally admit, looking up at him and rubbing the back of his hands with your thumbs, 

“Eddie, I’m pregnant.”

— 

You could fill an empty pool up from the tears that sprung from Eddie’s eyes that night. He was overjoyed, holding you tight while he wept into your hair. Kissing your belly and whispering to the baby. Small streaks of tears flowing down your swollen skin and the faded scar across your lower belly. 

Each month that ticked by, Eddie’s worry only doubled. 

The day after you had found out, he woke early. Watching as your chest rose and fell as you slept soundly in the original mock up of his hellfire shirt.

It was threadbare, cotton worn so thin it was practically see through— but you claimed it as your own back in the early days of your new relationship, hands on your hips and the infamous pout on your lip as you playfully argued with him about how it was now yours. 

Dusk painted the diamond covered ground from the fresh snow over night. Falling as delicately as his lips allover your skin. Soaking up the dainty noises from your throat when he carefully slid into you, tears spilling from both of your eyelashes, love filling the room more sweetly than it ever had before. 

The soft cotton of the blankets hugged your curves, and he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he gazed down at his beautiful— now pregnant— wife. 

His sweet Tooty, carrying a gift more precious than gold. 

Kissing your cheek—he dressed quietly, scribbling a note on the bedside table about going into town for a bit, but to just relax in bed until he got home. 

-

You were having a dreamless sleep, not even sugarplums could dance in your head with the overwhelming exhaustion that your body was trying desperately to catch up from. 

Something cold then silky smooth brushed against your cheek, and a velvet voice sang a little good morning greeting into your ear. Your loving husband. Pressing sweet angel kisses behind your ear and on your eyelids. 

Your bedroom was lit with the glow of a warm sun in the afternoon light. Playing a yellowed hue of warmth across your comforter, pulling the caramel color from Eddie’s curls and making his eyes look like a dreamy cup of coffee swirling with creamer. 

His lips hug yours, both smiling into one another. Heart swelling more than your toes would in the months to come. 

C’mon, got a surprise for you, princess. 

The spare bedroom that was once a room for band equipment, then Max’s bedroom for almost a year before she eventually moved in with Gareth and Will, now held storage, was completely organized, and held a wide array of items. 

A crib, brand new and still in the box, a pack n play, a swing, every box of diapers ranging from size 1 - 5, baby gates, outlet covers, fancy locks for cabinets and drawers, rubber bumpers for sharp corners and edges of tables. 

A bookshelf full of baby books, how to’s for new parents, nursery rhymes by mother goose, books suggesting baby names and their meanings, and a guide on how to quit smoking. 

Tucked into the corner of the room by the bookshelf and near the window, was a rocking chair. 

 “Eddie,” you gasp, running sleep from your eyes, “wh-what is all of this?” 

He’s smiling ear to ear, trying to curb his enthusiasm a tiny bit. “I might have gotten a little carried away.” 

Turning towards the shelf you see a plastic sack, full of candy and bubble gum, and mints. “Edward Joseph Munson.” 

“Don’t scold me, mama,” he jokes, grabbing onto your hips and kissing your hairline, “I’m just spoiling our baby.”

God you loved this man, he’d break his neck to give you the world. He was the most loving husband, and now you got to see him step into a new role. One completely foreign to you both, only have shared the idea for a few moments before it was ripped away. 

You lean into him, holding him tight and working your nose into the crook of his neck. “You’re gonna be the best dad, Eddie.”

He doesn’t hide the tear that slips down his cheek, just lets it slide and collect under his chin, his voice is quiet when he asks, “you really think so?”

“I know it.”

—

Wayne and Karen followed behind the new family in his pickup all the way home from the hospital. They were going to stay for a few days, help you both get adjusted to life as parents.

Karen and Nancy had filled your freezer with casseroles, soups and fresh bread. It was a hot July day when you were scheduled for the c section, and when it was all said and done four days in the hospital was more than enough and you were ready to be at home, snuggled up with your new family. 

It was a battle of which Munson man could shed the most tears. Eddie and Wayne were both wiping away tears for hours. Overjoyed with emotions that everyone was healthy. 

“No you don’t,” Wayne said as you reached for the back door to grab the diaper bag, “you go right inside and get comfy, get them legs up!”

You do as your told, leaving Wayne, Eddie and Karen to carry the load in. The hospital stay was overwhelmingly sweet, but you knew Eddie was itching to get back to normalcy, still not liking the way he felt cooped up in the hospital even though it had been years since you both had the horrifying visit. 

Bags and suitcases are carried in and set into your master bedroom to be unpacked later, bottles and diapers are stacked and put into their respectable places. Karen starts warming up the chicken casserole she had prepared earlier that day. Wayne fussed around with the new dishwasher that he and Eddie had installed the month prior. 

Throughout the commotion you had fallen asleep, legs propped up in the recliner, but you woke to the sound of the front door closing, and there he was.

Eddie was holding them both, large hands cocooned around their swaddled little bodies, crooked into each of his arms. Something he was nervous about but slowly getting the hang of, the nurses told him he was a natural, and Wayne wept into Karen’s shoulder when Eddie introduced the twins to their grandpa. 

His normal obnoxious voice was murmuring low and quiet like a soft lullaby so as not to stir awake the sleeping little babies. 

He looked at them both, adoration and tears springing into his eyes. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. How he could have helped make something so small and delicate, he wouldn’t understand. But, he didn’t need to. 

A boy, born first— with his dark eyes and brown hair, and later the little girl, almost identical to his Tooty, and just as stubborn, both already wrapped around his fingers.

He murmured their names, and caught your eye as he said it, a smile so wide on his face that you were sure new dimples would bust through his cheeks, and you only heard the end of what he was saying. 

If you would have told yourself five years ago that you would one day own a home, get married to and have twins with Eddie Munson, you would have laughed on the spot. That loud mouth jackass of a guy you had once regretted letting move into your home, had moved right into your heart and never left. 

The demons inside you both were finally at bay, finding solace in one another in more ways than you had thought possible. Being loved by Eddie was everything you had thought love should be like. 

And you pinch yourself to make sure it's real, and each and every time, it is. 

“…babies,” he says, a smile on his lips and tears in his eyes as he looks over at you, his family, “we’re home.” 

The end

♡tag list: @dashingdeb16 @emxxblog @pretendthisnameisclever @mommybaby-witch @eddies-acousticguitar @tlclick73 @figmentofquinn @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @whenshelanded @micheledawn1975 @3rd-conchord * @leelei1980 @browneyes8288 @emilyslutface @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @eddiesxangel @elegantkoalapaper * @str4ngergirlw0rld * @corrodedcoffincumslut @nailbatanddungeon @crybabyddl @zenathebeautiful @astela17 @taintedcigs @bettyfrommars @munsonsuccubus @munson-blurbs @hollandweather @serasvictoria @steviesgrl @curiositydooropened @ashyyboyy @urlbitchin @sllooney @lame0o @ali-r3n @bangaveragewhitewine @b-irock @enam3l @luxaeterna13 @manda-panda-monium @elthreetimes @joejoequinnquinn

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: A New World {4}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: The 2023 season can't all be sunshine and rainbows, not when the Red Bull team look impossible to beat. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst, smut WC: 2.7k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five

notaverstappen Miami

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 78,283 others

notaverstappen: I'd hit that (the volleyball of course) view all comments

Miami Grand Prix “Holy shit, those fuckers are fast.” 

Lando barely looked up from where he lay on the bed with his head hanging off the end. He wasn’t interested in what you were doing, he was in a world of his own and wallowing with a bag of rainbow Twizzlers. Charles’ mood wasn’t much better after his 7th place finish, thanks to another famous Ferrari strategy, but he did turn away from his phone for a second to see what you were looking at on your laptop.

You were busy reading the data from the race and watching the replay, trying to find any room for improvement, but it wasn’t looking promising. Your pencil could attest to that as it began falling to pieces from where you chewed on the end of it and you weren’t going to be able to make many more notes with it.

Pausing the video, you grabbed your phone and called Max. “What the hell kind of rocket did Newey build?”

“Hello Max, how are you? I’m great, thanks for asking,” Max huffed, making you roll your eyes.

“I drove perfectly today, and I couldn’t get within 25 seconds of you. I just don’t understand it. Can you send me your data?”

You clenched your teeth at the scoff he made. “You know I can’t do that. And don’t even try the whole ‘but I’m your sister’.”

“But I am your sister, and it’s so humiliating to go from racing for first place to just racing for the bottom step of the podium.” Your hand tightened around your phone and your eyes burned even after screwing them closed. “Please, Max.”

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “But…if you visit P on Wednesday while I’m at the factory the sim might be left in the race set up.”

Charles jumped at the squeal you gave. “Thank you, thank you. You’re my favourite brother again.”

You hung up the phone after a quick goodbye but your smile disappeared at the shake of Lando’s head. “What?”

“Humiliated with third place,” he muttered as he looked to Charles for back up. “Is she serious?”

“I think so, but you know what Max is like when he doesn't win.”

“He throws a tantrum, I’m not throwing a tantrum - I just want to know how to do better. I need to show Red Bull that it should be me in that seat.”

“Okay, and then what? What happens if they offer it to you? You know how toxic that place was, you know how bad it was for your health - how can you want that again?” Lando took your phone and dropped it on the bedside drawer as he knelt beside you. “Answer me.”

“I don’t want the seat,” you corrected him, kneeling so you were eye to eye. “I just want to prove the point.”

“What point is that? Everyone already knows you are the best driver, you’re the World Champion.”

You felt your hands turn to fists at your side as they began to tremble and you were unable to control the outburst that followed. “That it wasn’t the fucking car, Lando! You think I don’t hear them all talking behind my back, saying anyone could have won if they had my car.”

“Woah, let’s just cool down,” Charles interjected with a hand on each of your shoulders. 

“No, Char, I am going out of my mind here. I have had to sit through interviews and read news articles getting absolutely slated by reporters telling me I’m nothing without the Red Bull seat.” You fell back on the pillows and bundled one to your chest as you turned away from your boyfriends. “I know third place is something to celebrate, but this is about more than winning.”

Charles’ hand came to rest on your hip and he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come on, mamor, let’s go get you some chocolate.”

“I’m not on my period,” you grunted as you shook his hand off you. “Are you trying to be condescending or is this just coming naturally?”

“I was trying to be nice, but you want to act like a spoiled child. Lando, coming?”

You felt them both climb off the bed and felt their absence like a punch to the gut. You clenched the pillow tighter to your chest as silence filled the hotel suite but it didn’t replace them. 

“Fuck,” you swore as you threw the pillow across the room, launching them all one after another as waves of emotions crashed over you. They didn’t like losing either so surely they could understand why you felt the way you did - but obviously they did not. Exhausted from the race, and argument, you collapsed in the middle of the bed and bundled yourself into the blankets, wrapping them tightly around you. Within seconds you were fast asleep, but it wasn’t a restful sleep - not when you were alone.

You felt even more exhausted when you woke to the pre-dawn light filtering through the gap in the curtains. Soft snores sounded beside you and you found Lando and Charles cuddled for warmth since you were still wrapped tighter than a burrito in the blankets. The fact they had returned to you and not one of the other beds in the suite eased something strange in your chest and you knew you had to make it up to them. You didn’t know what came over you, but you had been a bitch to Charles especially.

You carefully laid the blankets over them and closed the door behind you. 

The streets were busy for the early hour and as the sun broke the horizon you wandered aimlessly until a scent caught your attention. You followed the saliva-inducing smell until you reached a large square with a market setting up in the centre of it. Key Lime pies and Cuban sandwiches made your stomach grumble while the fresh fish and stone crabs had the opposite effect.

Shopping bags dug into your wrist as you tried to carry them and balance the extra large pie, but you managed to make it back to the hotel suite without dropping either. Charles was in front of the coffee machine that was warming up with a whirring noise but he moved the instant he saw you walk in.

“Where have you been, chérie?” he asked as he took the Key Lime pie and placed it on the table before helping take the bags of fresh fruit and hot sandwiches too. “I was worried when you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Sorry, I had my hands full.” 

“What is all this?”

You looked at your feet as you shrugged. “This is my ‘I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry’ apology. I was a bitch and if you want you can totally pie my face.”

“It’s been a long few weeks, you can be forgiven for snapping,” he said softly as he pulled you into his arms, and wiped a dollop of meringue across your cheek. You gasped at the sticky smear running down your cheek and Charles smirked before dipping his head down and licking the sweet topping off. “Now go wake up Lando before there’s no pie left.”

Monaco Grand Prix The cancellation of Imola’s race made for a nice, albeit unexpected, break and you had made the most of it after helping with the clean up. Yuki started it and convinced Pierre to help, who convinced Charles, who convinced Lando. You would have rather slept the rainy week away but it had been quite a heartwarming event in the end - until the silt and mud mess began to reek and you were happy it was time to leave.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much did you stick to your training schedule over the break?” Kristian asked as he keyed data into his iPad.

“Negative three, if I had to guess,” you said with a laugh. “I mean, you shovel dirt for 12 hours a day and survive on a salad. I had carbs, dude, but I would have burned it off too, so relax.”

“But you haven’t and that was two weeks ago,” he frowned, turning the iPad around to show the graph slowly climbing. “What have you been doing since?”

“I went skiing with Charles in Austria and cycled the Pyrenees with Lando so lay off my ass. Fucks sake, man.” 

It was almost time for qualifying to begin but you weren’t able to focus properly as you stormed your way down the line of motorhomes to McLaren. You could hear his music playing before you reached his room and it spilled out into the hall when you opened the door. 

“Hey baby,” he greeted with a smile that dimmed as he saw your mood and he turned the music down, “what’s wrong?”

“Kristian, with a K, pissed me off.” You dropped onto his couch and stretched out before lifting your feet up so Lando could sit down too. He slipped your racing boots off before laying your feet across his lap and pushed the legs of your race suit up your calves so he could give you a little massage. “He practically called me a lazy bitch.”

“I doubt that,” Lando said with a roll of his eyes. “If he actually did, we wouldn't be here talking about it, we’d be getting ice for Charles fist.”

“Okay, wise guy, I might have been paraphrasing…”

He chuckled at the admission and you yawned as the massage began to relax you enough to doze off.

“Sorry, love, it’s time to go,” Lando woke you with a kiss to your cheek and you found you had curled up into a ball while you slept. “We can have a proper nap after quali.”

You ignored Kristian’s presence as you entered the garage and shrugged your race suit up over your shoulders on the walk over to your race engineer. “How’s everything looking?”

“We are running with the setup from FP3 but we will still monitor the rear braking temperatures,” Chris said as he gathered his notebook to take to the pit wall. “It doesn’t look like there should be an issue again.”

You nodded before pulling on your balaclava then helmet and climbing into the car that had been warming up.

“And that will be P2, that is another front row start for tomorrow. Nicely done.”

You grinned inside your helmet as you waved to some of the fans while you finished your cool down lap and asked, “How did Charles and Lando do?”

“Leclerc is P3 and Norris is P10.”

“10? He was doing faster sectors than I was,” you muttered as you remembered seeing the times on the big screens around the track. 

By the time you pulled into the pits you had found out that Charles had impeded Lando on his final flying lap, resulting in the poor time. You knew he wouldn’t have done it on purpose but your stomach sank when you went to Ferrari only to find Charles on his way to the stewards - his forlorn face knowing he was going to get a grid penalty at his home race.

There was hardly any talk around the table that night when you got home. Lando was picking at each single grain of rice with his chopsticks and Charles just stared at his bowl before sighing and pushing it away. 

You silently rose from the table and felt their curious eyes follow you as you disappeared into the bedroom and changed into a racy set of lingerie that still had the tags on. You had bought it as a surprise but never had the chance to wear it, so what better time to test it out then when both men were clearly in need of a distraction. 

You knelt in the middle of the bed after you sent a message to the group chat and waited patiently. There was a quiet vibration of their phones on the table, the scrape of the chair legs over the tile floor, the padding of bare feet through the apartment, and the soft gasps of air they inhaled at the sight.

“Fuck me,” Lando whispered before he drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Moi aussi.”

“That is the plan,” you teased, drawing your fingers over the lace trim on your thighs. “But only if you can play nicely with each other. Hmm? I think you should kiss and make up.”

You held out a hand to each one and gave them a tug onto the bed and into each other's path. Their quick reactions stabilised them before they could crash and they shared a chuckle as they settled face to face.

“I’m sorry, amor,” Charles murmured, reaching for the curl that always flopped over Lando’s forehead. “I didn’t mean to ruin your shot.”

“I know, I’m sorry too,” Lando said, equally as soft before he caught Charles open hand and kissed his palm. With apologies over, their eyes turned to you. “Now, baby, where have you been hiding this?”

You winked as you made yourself comfortable on the pillows at the headboard and parted your legs. Their chests filled with a big breath in and a grin grew on their faces until both their dimples showed. “You like them?”

Lando’s head bobbed with his quick nods and he fell onto his forearms as he settled between your legs, his fingers teasing the line of your slit through the crotchless panties. “I like them a lot.”

You snapped your legs closed as he started to inch forward and he looked up with a pout as you warned him. “I said kiss and make up. A proper kiss.” It hurt to deny him, your body screaming at you for denying you both the pleasure of his touch, but you were quickly rewarded when their hands tangled in each other’s hair and their tongues fought for dominance.

An achy throb grew between your legs as they were pushed open by Lando’s shoulders as he fell back beneath Charles’ body. Lando looked quite pleased with himself as he bared his neck for the sloppy kisses Charles was leaving and his eyes rolled up to watch you enjoying the scene yourself. A pained curse tumbled from his lips when you reached for the thin material covering your breasts and pulled them aside to palm them as your hips rocked beneath Lando’s heavy body. 

“Okay, you two are good now,” you breathed as you rolled your nipples between your thumb and forefinger. “I want my kiss.”

Charles peeked up from where he pinned Lando beneath him, the pressure pushing Lando’s nape over your clit and eliciting a moan from you. “I don’t know, ma petite, I kind of like this show you are giving us.”

You teased them further as they shifted to get a better view. Lando turned to watch you too and Charles sat behind him, his hands trailing down Lando’s front as delicately as he played the piano. You waited until his palm rode over the erection tenting his shorts before you grew impatient. 

Two pairs of eyes, one blue and one green, followed your hand intently as you raised it to your lips and swirled your tongue around two digits and they moaned, knowing the feel of your tongue doing the same to their cocks. Their eyes fixated on your fingers as you spread your legs and touched yourself for them, the pleasure quickly spreading as you watched Charles stroking Lando’s length in time to your ministrations.

“Look how wet she is for us, mon cher,” Charles purred as he teased a thumb over Lando’s sensitive tip until he shuddered. “Don’t you want a taste?”

Lando’s lips parted to agree but a needy whine escaped and the sound went straight to your core, your back arching in delight. 

“Please,” you begged your boyfriends, their eyes almost black with lust. “I need more than my fingers.”

Lando whimpered as Charles fist unfurled from his cock but the loss was only momentary when the Monegasque whispered in his ear. “Go on, give her what she needs.”

“What about y-?” Lando asked over his shoulder after he sent his shorts flying off the bed and pressed his erection to your dripping entrance. The words died as he saw Charles eyes following the curve of his spine before settling on the swell of his ass. “Oh.”

Charles chuckled and sent a wink back. “I’ll get what I need.”

Click here for the next part.

[theladycarpathia]

Think I'm just squeaking it in for @harringrovewinterbingo, so I'll post as many of my multi-chapter fic as I have finished. (note to future self - do not decide to do this two weeks before deadline again) Chapter 1/6 Pairing: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove Rating: Explicit Tags: College AU, no upside-down AU, enemies to lovers, road trip, explicit sex, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of child abuse, mentions of homophobia, modern au Summary: People shouldn't be allowed to volunteer you for favors. Especially not when it involves giving Billy Hargrove a lift back to Hawkins for the winter break. Sitting in a car with him for hours seems bad enough, and only gets worse when it begins to snow.

Free Square - home for the holidays

It was technically his mother’s fault. 

“Is she serious?” Robin asks, lounging with her feet on Steve’s bed. He’s actually too incensed to scold her for once, throwing things he might need for the winter break into his bag. He’d meant to pack last night but he got invited to a party and woke up this morning in a frat house with a sock plastered to his forehead. “Is she insane?”

“She exists to torture me,” Steve mutters, because right now it feels like it. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to volunteer you for stuff without your consent. And his head is still thumping because it goes to show that you should never drink anything that Jason Carver gives you. 

“Has she met Billy Hargrove?” Robin asks, dropping her head back against his pillow. Steve snorts and snatches his phone charger from the drawer.

“Probably not,” he says. “It wouldn’t matter if she had. You never saw Billy meeting Nancy’s mom. God, it was gross.”

Robin nods, tugging a Twizzler out of the packet. Against Steve’s better judgement, somehow she’s taken over one of his drawers with her stash. “He’s deceptively good at acting like a normal human being.”

“Besides, it was Billy’s mom who mentioned that Billy didn’t have a way to get back to Hawkins,” Steve says, digging in a drawer for his favorite hoodie. “His car’s in for repairs or something…so my mom offered my services.”

“Without asking,” Robin repeats dutifully, because this is all Steve has been able to say for several days. 

“Without asking,” Steve agrees, because he’s been pissed with his mom for three whole days, from right about the time she called and said ‘hey, you don’t mind giving someone a lift home for the holidays, do you?’

And he hadn’t. Until she said she’d run into Billy’s mother at the supermarket and had told Abigail Hargrove that her son would only be too happy to do it. Especially as they lived in the same halls, on the same floor! As though this was some fortunate piece of fate designed by Steve himself rather than the bad luck of being assigned by the college. 

“It just makes sense,” his mom had said crossly. “You don’t even have to go out of your way.”

It’s easy for her to say that. She doesn’t have to spend several hours trapped in a car with Billy Hargrove. 

“He’s a tool,” Robin says, chewing on the end of her Twizzler. “He’s friends with Heather, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve says shortly. He has ten minutes before he’s due to leave and the fact that Billy will arrive in the doorway of his room any minute now is putting him on edge. Billy might just live down the hall but it’s not like they interact. Not willingly anyway. Every time Steve goes to a party, he finds Billy’s bare chest in front of him, challenging him to beer pong or shots or dives into the pool. Billy was at the same high school, one year behind Steve, and he’d gotten in Steve’s face the moment he got to college back in the fall.

“They hang out,” Robin continues, with obvious disgust. “Billy’s been in my room.”

“How would you know?” Steve asks, a little bit thrown. “You’re never in your room.”

“I am sometimes in my room,” Robin protests, as though she doesn’t have a sleeping bag stashed in Steve’s cupboard. Thank God Steve has a single, or his roommate might have an issue with Robin appearing most nights to sleep on Steve’s floor. 

Steve gets roommate issues. But Robin’s severe aversion to her room and Heather makes him think that something else is going on. He’s met Heather at parties and she’s pretty cool. Definitely nothing worth avoiding the hell out of the place you pay to sleep. 

“And when I am there, Billy’s sometimes there,” Robin says sulkily, fingers deep in the Twizzlers packet again. She appears to be toying with them, never pulling one out and Steve wonders a little if she even gets why the strangely familiar motion she’s making with her fingers may hint at some sort of underlying reason. 

“Doing what?” Steve asks curiously. He can’t quite imagine Billy doing anything other than being a dick in the most low cut shirt known to man. He sees him elsewhere sometimes - on the quad, at games, in the showers…but these are all places where Billy isn’t exactly at ease. 

“Watching horror movies with Heather,” Robin says vaguely. “Eating doughnuts…not a lot.”

“Are they dating?” Steve asks curiously, because he can’t imagine Billy doing anything in a girl’s room that doesn’t require a sock on the door. And predictably, Robin reacts, scrunching up her face in disgust. 

“Ew. God, I hope not,” she says vehemently and Steve turns so she can’t see his smirk. 

“Heather must date,” he says casually. “She looks like the kind of girl who might have dated the pretty jock type in school. Wasn’t she a cheerleader?”

“She was,” Robin says, as Steve shoves socks into his duffel. He probably has socks at home but he’s never sure. He still half thinks that his mom took him going to college as an opportunity to clear out whatever she thought was too old, too tatty or too stained. Which is probably most of what he left behind when he packed up his car to come here. 

“There you go then,” Steve says, shrugging. His duffel won’t do up so he presses the contents down as far as they will go and then yanks the zipper. “Cheerleaders date jocks. Trust me, I have experience with this.”

“So I heard,” Robin says and bites down with a little more aggression than perhaps a Twizzler requires. 

“What are you doing anyway?” Steve asks, because Robin’s normally his passenger back to Hawkins for the holidays. “You know you can’t stay here for the holidays, right?”

“I don’t have to go home either,” Robin says pointedly. “One of the girls from my film club invited a bunch of us to her dad’s cabin for Christmas. It’s got to be better than my great-aunt making comments about those kinds of people over my mom’s cabbage.”

“Queer girls refuge,” Steve says and nods. He’s not thrilled about going home either, even less so without his partner in crime there. But he gets why it’s even worse for Robin. His family dinners are often stiff, counted down by how many times his dad checks his tablet, but at least no one makes pointed jabs about his life. 

Not many anyway. 

“Don’t think there’ll be much by way of a proper dinner,” Robin says, scrunching up her nose. Knowing what college kids' version of food is like, their dinner will be off-brand ramen and more Twizzlers, but it’s the price you pay for freedom. “But it’ll be fun. Vickie’s gonna drive a few of us later.”

“Have a good time,” Steve says, throwing a few final items into his bag and struggling to do up the zip. He’s not even sure why he’s trying - he’ll end up wearing either what his mom has conveniently slipped into his closet while he’s been gone, or the same pair of sweats all day when his parents are out of the house. “Send me updates.”

“You too,” Robin says, rolling over on his bed. “Let me know whether you survived Hargrove.” Steve snorts and finally gets the zip closed, chucking the bag and his hoodie on his desk chair. 

“Debatable,” he says disdainfully. “I’ll text you.”

The sharp thump at the door is the only warning they get, before the door swings open. Billy hangs in the doorway, like a vampire waiting for an invitation. Steve feels vaguely violated just by the mere presence of Hargrove in his space. 

“Harrington,” Billy says curtly and then catches sight of Robin scowling at him from the bed. “Buckley.”

“Hargrove,” Steve says in return, and looks around his room. If he hasn’t packed something, he can deal. It’s only two weeks. “Can you lock up?”

“Sure,” Robin says, because as expected, she has no intent of returning to her room. She’d packed late last night, while Heather was out, and won’t return until she’s sure her roommate has gone for the break. 

Honestly. What some people will do to avoid facing their feelings. 

“Got everything?” Steve asks and Billy jerks his head. 

“Got enough,” he says, raising the battered duffel in his hand. “It’s fucking turkey and Hallmark movies with my mom, I don’t need much.”

Steve doesn’t comment on the Hallmark movies. It feels too much like a trap. 

“Let’s get on the road then,” he says reluctantly. The sooner they leave, the sooner he can drop Hargrove at home and not see him again for two weeks. 

Oh shit. Is he going to have to bring Billy back to school too? He never even thought to ask, and it feels like something his mom might conveniently bring up in the new year, right before he’s due to drive back. 

“Home for the holidays,” Billy quips, with a toothy grin. “If shitty Hawkins counts.”

“You moved there,” Steve bites out. But Billy’s mouth just twists into an expression that he’s not used to seeing on Hargrove. 

“I didn’t have much say in the matter,” Billy mutters in such a tone that Steve just drops it. Conversations with Billy feel all too often like a minefield, for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

“Nice ride,” Billy says admiringly, when they reach Steve’s car. Steve pops the trunk and chucks his stuff in, gesturing for Billy to do the same. 

“Seriously?” Steve asks, a little surprised. He’s seen Billy’s car and he’d be lying if he hadn’t fucking salivated over it. “I mean, I thought you wouldn’t be into something like this. I’ve seen your car.”

“I can appreciate modern cars too,” Billy says loftily and throws himself into the passenger seat. “Does this have heated seats?”

“Perhaps,” Steve says grudgingly and takes one last look up at the sky. It’s a heavy gray, and something about the color of it is making him uneasy. Snow hadn’t been a certain thing, but Steve’s lived through enough winters to recognise the signs. 

“We’d better get moving,” he says shortly. “Maybe we can get ahead of the snow.”

Billy cranes his neck to look out the windscreen, as Steve climbs in. He’d planned to stop a few times, get snacks, take a piss, but he’s already thinking about how to reduce those stops just in case. The weather may clear, but he’s not going to take a risk if he doesn’t have to. 

“The forecast didn’t say it was going to snow,” Billy says, looking doubtful and Steve remembers all too late that he’s originally from California. His mom only moved to Hawkins a few years ago, God knows why. 

“The forecast is occasionally full of bullshit,” Steve says, programming his GPS and pressing various buttons. Billy’s old Camaro probably doesn’t have a dashboard that looks like a spaceship, but sometimes Steve’s pretty glad for modern technology. They need the quickest route, any way that’s going to bypass the holiday traffic.

“Is that safe?” Billy asks and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that he looks worried. 

“We should be fine,” Steve says firmly. “If there was going to be a blizzard, they would have seen that. But even so, I don’t really want to drive in snow.”

“Okay,” Billy says and sits back, even though he looks no more reassured. “You got music in here?”

Steve sighs and reluctantly hands over his phone. Perusing his Spotify keeps Billy quiet long enough for them to pull out of campus. 

“You have some shit in here,” Billy mutters and then wriggles delightedly in his seat. “Fuck, you do have heated seats!”

“Yep,” Steve says. He figures this might be the best way to cope for the next few hours - pretending Billy is white noise. But Billy just chews his lip and then nods. 

“Nice,” he says and goes back to Steve’s phone. He finally picks something to play, apparently having found a playlist of Steve’s that he doesn’t find too offensive. Then he stares out of the window at the passing scenery and Steve lets himself relax a little. Billy doesn’t seem too interested in small talk. Maybe they’ll make it through this trip with minimal trauma. 

It’s quiet for approximately two minutes. 

“Is my ass going to get hot?” Billy complains and rubs his butt across the leather seat. “Harrington! Seriously, is this shit going to melt my ass?”

[quarterlifekitty]

Please god you’ve gotten a chokehold on me with Nikolai. Him pampering his lover is so deeply imbedded into his being I need to chew on him like a twizzler.

The carnival post truly got people acting unwise

[betty-fran]

#my fanfiction recommendation column

a passage that sings by dorkorific

part 1 / part 2

Okay, so I never actually read fanfics about real people (let alone write about them), that's my rule because, hey, these are real guys who have nothing to do with the characters they play, and they have a right to respect for their personal space. But there are three important reasons for this rare exception to the rule.

This is really well written. It's a bit of literary snobbery, a play on words, but also a bit of American dissidence, good literary taste, it reminds me of my summers on the beach with a Kerouac paperback, Vanity of Duluoz, his latest, where he switches from topic to topic in a completely nonsensical order, and do you think how much port he had to drink to do that? But I love it with all my heart. So damn, yeah, it's pretty well written.

Maybe it's a little bit of vindictive feelings towards Zachary Quinto's interview, where he bluntly states that there's something wrong with people who see K/S relationships as anything other than friendship, because “I think both Kirk and Spock, and definitely me and Chris, are only good friends. Any suggestion otherwise has more to say about the person making that suggestion than it does about the character's lives.” And I’m like, damn, how can you be so homophobic? Like, no shit man, we love the things we love, just because it's what resonates with us, helps us feel whole, because it makes us happy, but as long as it's not ruining someone's life, why is it a problem? No one criticizes you for choosing a book to read before bed or a partner to greet the morning with. So yes, I can read a fanfic once that violates my ideas about a real person's personal space, just as his words violated my ideas about a fan's personal space, so it's fair. Besides, it was still a typical K/S.

I just wanted to use this young Chris Pine's photo somewhere. He's such a nerd here. It's so cute and reminds me of my primary school. My best friend had the same glasses, I had the same cap, and we would hide from the teachers in the closet, arguing about who was cooler, Magneto or Professor Xavier.

So, like, this was my bedtime book, and it was good. A few (almost non-spoiler) quotes to give you an idea of ​​how good it is:

Then he laughed, a little helplessly. "You know what's weird? For some reason I thought you were the person to talk to about...this stuff. You know. Feelings." "Uh," Zach said. "Have you met me?" "I know," Chris said. "I know! Obviously I was temporarily insane. You can't even talk about talking about feelings.

"Well, it's – okay, two things, actually. Since when don't you hate the people you sleep with?" "I mean," Zach says. "I'm trying not to. It's a work in progress. Mostly I still hate them except now I feel guilty about it."

"Is it?" Chris says, raising both eyebrows now. "You're a mess, dude, are you aware? Sexually. Emotionally. You need therapists for your therapists."

"What do you want," Chris says with some irritation, "an affidavit, in triplicate? I like you, asshole. You've known that for years." "You like a lot of things. Twizzlers. Clogs. Crank, and also the sequel to Crank. Phil Collins. Your taste is questionable."

The pizza has spinach and peppers and fresh basil and whatever other nonsense Chris insisted on. They eat it sprawled naked across Zach's sheets and watch infomercials and later Chris says "O-kay then" in a businesslike way and clicks off the TV and rolls Zach over and then over again, and Zach pins Chris between his elbows and just looks at him for a minute, helplessly. Then Chris kisses him and his mouth tastes like chewed tomato sauce, gross, and Zach knows probably he's been this happy before but, anyway, he can't imagine when.

And after all, it's a good time to read Carver, isn't it?

[blackstarmylove]

Type of Candy

Warning: You may crave sugar after reading this. 😋

Prompt: What type of candy/chocolate would he be?

A/N: Happy Halloween!

———————————————

Ran

Acid Skull Drops Extreme. 

The glitter pink skull-shaped candy is sweet with a sour fizz in the center but with a pleasantly sweet finish. 

It looks like a deathly candy that comes in a black bag with a horned skull on it. But the candy is not as deadly as it’s marketed. 

While Ran is sweet, he has a darker side to him. However, at the end of the day, he is a cheerful man. Oh, and the pink skulls with glitter add a sparkly idol finish to it.

Sinju

An assorted pack of gummy bears. 

Colorful, fun, sweet, and squishy. Need I say anything more?

Takami

Toe of Satan.

At first glance, it looks like a weirdly shaped cherry lollipop. But then you get a horrifying surprise as it is one of the hottest candies in the world. 

Takami comes off as a nice man, especially when he offers to help anyone in Starless. Then, you realize he’s only doing that to keep an eye on everyone and everything. He may have information that could destroy almost anyone he wants. On top of that, he is a master manipulator. So, that cherry lollipop might just be something more than you’re expecting.

Gui

Twizzlers. 

The super sweet strawberry flavor is sweet and all, but the amount of chewing may tire your mouth and give you a sore jaw.

While Gui is sweet, his cluelessness might exhaust your mind. Ask Ginsei for more advice. 

Hari

Noka Vintages Collection by Noka Chocolates.

The chocolates are made from rare cocoa beans sourced from Ecuador, Trinidad, and Venezuela farms. It costs $854 per pound. (A pound of Hershey chocolate costs about $14.3.)

He is from a wealthy family, so nothing but the best for him (even if he doesn’t want it, courtesy of his dad).

Gui’s Master

Indy Dedos Spicy and Sour Mexican Candy. 

I mean, this man pulled a gun on Haseyama and kidnapped MC to test her security. 

➣ For the rest, visit: Type of Candy

———————————————

➣ For the full masterlists, please visit my website. 

[hannahhook7744]

A Cat-Tastrophe;

Summary: How the son of a dog-hater and a cat-abandoner went on to have eight cats and three dogs as pets. 

Series: The Badun Detective Agency Rewrite and The Badun Detective Agency. 

Trigger Warnings: animal abuse, animal abandonment, violence towards animals, swearing, mention of Cruella’s mistreatment of animals, manipulation, near animal death, etc. 

Co-written with @igetthedisneybox .

------------------------------------------------------------

The Badun detective Agency (or most of them anyway) were all in the Badun cousins’ treehouse, doing the rare thing they did between missions and cases: relaxing.

Harry was in his hammock, dozing. Jace and Reza were reading, and Hermie and Yzla were talking. All was calm and quiet.

The BDA’s mascot, Mystery the Nunchuck Wielding Turtle, was relaxing in the limited sunlight that was pouring in through the window— if you could call the glimpses of the sun they got through the clouds in the barrier sunlight. 

Yzla’s pet cat (a white Persian), Stardust, was chasing after her bored (but not distressed) looking pet crow, Mayhem, who kept dodging just out of reach from her. 

Hermie’s mice were scattered about the space. Peanut was in her hair, Caramel and Cotton Candy were on her shoulders, Funnel Cake was in the rafters, Corndog was chasing after Stardust and Mayhem, Twizzler was tugging on Reza’s shoelace—trying to get his attention, and Popcorn was cuddling up against Harry. 

BANG. 

BANG. 

Bang. 

BANG!

Someone was kicking the door. 

Hermie and Yzla's chatter ceased, Jace dropped his book, and the animals all went scattering off in opposite directions—except for Mystery who glared briefly at the door before retreating back into his shell. 

Harry jerked awake, blindly reaching for his gun before realizing Jace had it, and then rolled over in his hammock. “Not it.”

Reza rolled his eyes and got up to open the door, muttering “Lazy.” Under his breath.

BANG. 

BANG. 

Bang. 

BANG!

Reza wrenched open the door, ready to punch whoever was on the other side—friend or foe—when he saw who was there.

It was Edmund. 

Sleep deprived, bruise-like bags under his eyes and calluses on his hands, and big mouthed Edmund ‘Eddie’ Seraiah Balthazar. Arms full of dogs—three of them—and kittens—at least seven of them—crawling all over him. 

One of the kittens was crawling on his face. Over his eyes. 

It was a wonder he'd managed to climb up the ladder to the stairs without falling or dropping any of the squirmy animals.

“Edmund, what the hell?” Reza deadpanned.

“Auradon needs to burn.” Eddie grumbled loudly, pushing past the shorter boy—causing the dogs to growl and cats to meow in protest. 

Hermie, being the first to see him right after Reza, squealed loudly. “KITTENS!”

Harry groaned, pulling a pillow over his head.

Yzla got up and took a couple of the dogs out of Eddie's arms. “Re, shut the door so we can set them down.”

Reza did. “Do I even want to know where all those came from?”

“I told you they came from Auradon. Like Mystery.”

It took a moment for the meaning of those words to fully register.

Reza blinked. “You found them on the barrage?”

“Well, not exactly—I was planning on finding something to eat for my parents and I when I saw one of the goblins throw a couple of bags over the edge of the barrage. They—” he nodded to the dogs who were now cowering in Yzla’s arms (aside from the basset hound, who was chewing on her pants’ leg) and gesturing towards the kittens, “—were inside them. Their tags read ‘Auradon Shelter’. They don't have any names. I had to fish them out of the water.”

That explained why all of them, Eddie included, were wet. 

Jace grimaced.

Hermie's eyes watered. 

And Harry gave up on all semblance of sleep as Eddie started trying to put the kittens down. Trying being the keyword because every time he put one down it would start climbing back up his leg. 

“Poor things.” Yzla said, still holding onto the dogs.

“I can't believe there are so many people like that in Auradon.” Eddie didn't even try to hide his disgust.

“The degeneracy of humans has no bounds.” Reza shook his head, scowling. One of the kittens mewled at him. It was the black and white one that resembled Lucifer quite a bit.

“Animals are better than people.” 

“What are we supposed to do with them?” Jace asked, frowning. Sending a paranoid glance out the window towards Hell Hall. 

Yzla looked at him like he was crazy. “Keep them. Duh.”

“Did you forget exactly what Cruella de Vil likes to do to kittens and what she almost did to the fucking dalmatians?” 

One of the three dogs Eddie had saved—the oldest one with long floppy ears—was a dalmatian. One with very prominent spots. The exact kind of dalmatian that Cruella would just love to get her hands on. 

Yzla flinched. “We can hide them…she won’t find them.”

One of the cats meowed loudly. 

Proving that that wouldn't work. 

“Calm down. I already thought of that and they aren't staying here—they’re coming home with me.”

Reza raised an eyebrow. “And your parents will be fine with that?”

“I’m the one taking care of the house and if they argue I'll just wide my eyes a bit till they're watery, and start trembling my lip. Trust me, it'll work.” Eddie hated being manipulative, especially towards his parents, but he was good at it when he needed to be—he had to be. His friends needed someone who was good at being sneaky and manipulative and neutral. Someone who was capable of not being caught up in anyone else's orbit.

Jace and Harry who lived in a treehouse needed someone who could manipulate someone into letting the two of them stay in their house during storms and harsh cold winters. Yzla needed someone who could get her a free hairdo or a free milkshake or that nail polish she likes when she’s sad and being overlooked. Hermie needed someone who can protect her from the meaner kids on the isle who’d mock her colorful clothing. Reza needed someone who could hide him from his bio dad when his adoptive parents and siblings weren’t home. Their proteges needed someone who could get them in and out of situations. 

And Eddie would be that person for them, for these defenseless little animals who would have died if he hadn’t been there to fish them out of the waters, even if it made him feel gross at times. 

“If you think it will…” Yzla scratched one of the dogs behind the ears.

“It will.” The brunette reaffirmed, before clapping his hands. “Now—what should we name them?”

------------------------------------------------------------

They ended up naming the sassy but clingy basset hound 'Beauregard’ at Reza’s insistence—Beau for short, since the rest of them didn’t feel like calling him all that everytime they wanted his attention. 

The sweet, playful, and friendly dalmatian with the long ears they not so cleverly named ‘Ears’, because Hermie thought it’d be cute and refused to consider any other name. 

The not-quite-a-puppy-but-not-yet-a-full-grown-dog with the gray hair, brown nose, and mischievous, playful, and friendly personality they ended up naming Chuck. Harry was the one to name him after the poor misfortune dog had gotten ill on the ugly carpet none of them had been all that attached to to begin with. 

The kitten that was clearly older than the rest by a couple of months (if they had to guess) and resembled Lucifer the Tremaine cat quite a bit decided that it’s name was to be Marcello ,or Cello for short, after Reza suggested it and absolutely refused to respond to anything else. Batting at anyone who dared tried to suggest anything else as his name until the seven of them gave up and moved on to naming the seven other kittens. 

A cuddly white kitten with green eyes, covered in soot was deemed ‘Flea’ by Jace after he discovered fleas on him. 

A jumpy light orange and white kitten with grey eyes was bestowed the title of ‘Belch’ after burping in a now grimacing Yzla’s face (none of them even knew a cat could burp).

The clean white kitten with blue eyes ended up getting named snot after trying to stick her paw in Eddie’s nose. 

The last white cat with black spots around her ears and black eyes was named ‘Mange’ due to its messy fur and the last of the animals—a white and darker orange kitten with blue eyes and a weird looking worm in its mouth—ended up being named ‘Tapeworm’ by Eddie.

(“This feels like animal abuse.” Reza grimaced once they were done naming the cats.

“They don’t know what their names are.” Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Before an argument could break out, Harry chimed in as he climbed back into his hammock looking uninterested. “Whether or not they’re sentient doesn’t matter. IF they didn’t like their names, they would have let us know like Marcello did.”

It was a fair point. One that got everyone to shut up long enough for Harry to finish his nap). 

------------------------------------------------------------

And that is the story of how Eddie Balthazar found himself the not-so-reluctant proud owner of three dogs and eight cats despite his parents’ history.

[snkts]

26. what is their favorite snack food?

RANDOM HEADCANON QUESTIONS || ACCEPTING

He's not picky, but if he had to pick his favourites:

Beef Jerky - especially McSweeney's brand, and ESPECIALLY the cracked black pepper, hot terriyaki, and Montreal steak spice flavours. He also likes pepperoni sticks, though he prefers the jerky. Jerky is meaty, relatively shelf-stable, travels well, and gives him a good chew. He usually has some on him - or at least stashed in his room, near his cigars.

Roasted seaweed snacks - especially Paldo or Uta Premium brand, depending on how fancy he's feeling; he really likes the original and sesame flavoured ones. Again, they travel well, and they're good for you, salty, and he just likes the taste.

Marrow bones - I don't know if this counts to most people, but it does to Logan. Set 'em in a fire for a bit and then let him crack them open, either with his hands or his teeth. Sometimes he just needs something to gnaw on.

Soda - I'm counting this as a food, shut up. Again, he'll drink just about anything, but his favourite is Dr. Pepper. Barring that, any brown cola is going to be his first choice.

Chips - he really likes all-dressed! Lays are superior. He also loves hickory sticks. He considers both very good Stanley Cup watching foods.

Rice balls - of course, home-made onigiri is best, but he's not above Family Mart or whatever else he can find at 7-11 if he's too lazy or otherwise preoccupied. There's a store near Amiko's temple that sells an egg yolk and ground beef onigiri and that's far and away his favourite. Barring that, Salmon is best, then tuna and mayo, then whatever else he can get his hands on. Umeboshi is somewhere closer to the bottom of the list.

Twizzlers - yes he's a retched licorice eater. He likes how chewy they are. He doesn't like the 'nibs' because he doesn't get the feeling of ripping the strings apart.

Chocolates - Oh Henry, Reese's, and Coffee Crisp are his top three, in no particular order.

Gum - spearmint. He's recently gotten on the 5 Gum train, but spearmint any brand is his favourite.

Cotton Candy - it reminds him of carnivals and fairs. Barring his time in the freak show - which can still give him flashbacks - he likes going to fairs. He likes roller coasters and Ferris wheels and all that. Cotton Candy reminds him of that. Oh, and roasted peanuts and funnel cakes.

He also really likes Sour Patch Kids.

[spiralinghours]

“I’ll Be Seeing You” (2/?)

Fandom: Saw franchise

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm

Rating: still PG-13 I think?

Tags/Warnings: middle aged men using rude and crass language with each other, internalized homophobia typical for the 90’s/early 00’s, chubby chaser Strahm (still), mentions of Angelina

Summary: Stakeouts then and now.

Author’s Notes: Wrapped up this part in kind of a hurry because I liked what I have so far but also there will be more on these stakeouts. I was just getting impatient. Hope it’s still okay. Drunk editing so apologies for any errors.

MAY 1992

“God, who’s the rent-a-cop stripper over there?”

Peter cut a smarmy look in Mark’s direction. Officer Hoffman, rather, as Diane at the front desk had dreamily pointed out. She may as well have been twirling her hair around a finger and sighing.

Which. Like. Okay. Peter could kind of see why. This guy had a crystalline, doe-eyed softness to him—friendly enough, but sort of quiet. It was all very soft focus, romance novel cover, glamour shots-centric. Not that he would know anything about all that.

At the same time, Mark was dumbly chewing on a Twizzler, mouth slightly agape like a cow as he squinted at fold of newspaper in his grip. From what Peter could peek at, the puzzled and concerned look was over something in the horoscope section.

This man was an idiot. What even was his job around the station? Who gave him a badge?

Peter realized he was letting his harsh judgments run away with him for no reason. ‘Don’t be that way,’ he had to remind himself.

“Excuse me, but where is Detective Halloran?” Peter inquired, leaning over the edge of Diane’s desk. “I was told to get in touch with him. I’m supposed to work with the team going out to case the Smith warehouse.”

“Oh right,” Diane nodded along, “you won’t actually be joining Halloran—he got pulled into some other business. He’s partnering you up with another officer.”

“Oh. Did he say who?”

Peter should have known, by the grace of the universe, like some big joke, that he was going to get paired up with him: the guy he had been mentally razzing since he arrived, the guy who was currently walking towards him, as if he could hear his thoughts…

“Hey,” he extended a hand, “Mark Hoffman.”

Peter’s glare clung and drifted from Mark’s hand, up his arm, to his chin, his lips, the little gap between his teeth… Such a genuine smile. He almost felt bad for being a prick about him.

“Special Agent Peter Strahm,” he mumbled, trying to avert his stare.

“Good to meet you. Ready to go?”

“Uh, sure.”

2006

Agent Erickson stood by the superior officers in the middle of the conference room, hands folded in front of him, face stoic. It was a debriefing for all agents and officers on the case, now that everyone assigned had arrived.

Strahm couldn’t focus with Hoffman sat directly in his line of sight, resembling a tired, overfed cat on the brink of falling asleep. One thing to note was that Mark barely smiled, looking miserable, maybe only giving one little polite grin to Perez when he was showing her around the station. Peter wished he could see what that toothy smile looked like on Mark’s softer features, instead of having to face a constant vacant pout.

He noticed a lot of the audience was starting to thin out, apparently dismissed and ready to get to task.

“Peter,” Erickson called, making a small “come here” gesture. “You and Hoffman are going to scout out this location here.” He passed forward a sticky note with an address. “We think this might be a location for an upcoming game set up by one of Jigsaw’s accomplices.”

“What about Perez,” Peter protested almost petulantly, “she—”

“She has her assignment, Peter,” Erickson finished. “I specifically need an agent out there patrolling with Detective Hoffman.”

Mark, having tuned in from across the room somehow, had strutted over after Erickson had walked off.

“Like old times, huh?” he teased, voice low as he leaned in over Peter’s shoulder.

MAY 1992

“So, uh, what do you do outside of work?” Peter bumbled. “Like, to stay sharp.” ‘Christ, you might as well tell him he has a nice body, fuck,’ he cringed to himself.

The connotations were lost on Mark, who seemed distracted by his own loosely-strung thoughts. “Oh, uh, I mean I work out in the facilities when I can… Used to play soccer…”

“Oh, nice. I would’ve assumed you played football or something. Got the shoulders for it.” ‘No, was that too queer?’ Peter scolded himself. He had to wonder, either way—for a guy with such a medium frame, Mark’s shoulders and chest were pretty prominent. Meaty, even, if he was being candid.

Peter wanted to slap himself for letting his eyes linger at Mark’s chest too long.

Despite the internal panic, Mark had no idea, innocently chewing on one fry after another, nodding along to whatever Strahm had to say as they waited in his patrol car.

The evening’s task was to case one of the many potential neighborhoods the suspect could have been planning to hit next. It was cookie cutter suburban and exactly the same as the previous two neighborhoods they had staked out in the past two weeks, right down to the beige slat siding and the white front doors. Even if Peter sounded foolish, he was glad to have some form of conversation to distract him from the stillness and boredom.

“Want one?” Mark held out the fast food bag with loose fries rolling around within. He had ordered two large fries and dumped them into one bag, grazing on those and a few burgers the whole evening.

“No thanks,” Peter declined. “My last girlfriend complained I wasn’t eating enough greenery and then the habit just kinda stuck. I think I’d get heartburn if I even sniffed one of those.”

Mark chuckled softly, still chewing. “I get it. I overdo it sometimes but I just go on a run or whatever and sweat out the salt. Can’t help it though. I eat when I’m nervous. And bored.”

“You nervous about this?”

“Heh, no. Not really. It’s something else.”

“Well, what?”

“It’s my little sister. She finally started college. I’m just worried about her being out livin’ on her own. It’s stupid.” Mark tried distracting the thoughts with more fries.

“I’m sure your parents are even more worried. But that’s natural.”

“I wouldn’t know. They’re dead. I think. I dunno, probably haven’t seen my parents since I was a kid. Angie and I were in the system for a while, and then I sorta just took care of her myself.”

“Oh.”

Peter felt a little bad for constantly taking jabs at the guy, even if they were only mental and one-sided. But only a little.

2006

Mark’s eyes curved around in a little J path, dropping down before trailing up Peter’s chest and settling on his face. God, he was so boxy and angular everywhere, like he was drawn in a fit of rage. Mark considered the sharp point of his nose, the light scowl that lived perpetually on his lips, the creases sprawling from his cheekbones. He was a stiffened, colder caricature of the twenty-something Strahm he had known once.

Softly opening a bag of chips, Mark’s eyes stayed fixed, wondering if Peter would notice what he was doing—if he was going to get curious and watch.

“Hungry already?” Peter sniffed, looking Mark up and down. “Just bored?”

“Why do you care?”

“Doesn’t seem like you’ve been going on those runs anymore.” Peter cringed at himself. Why was he being like that? The logical part of his mind wanted to know, but the bitter, excitable vapors starting to flood the recesses of his brain were tapping at something so secretive, guilty, and bothered.

“Oh, another way of calling me fat. You’re so mean.” Hoffman lazily rolled his eyes and bit into a burrito that had seemed to manifest from a bottomless bag of “supplies”. “Again, dunno why you care so much… Unless it… does something for you?” There it was. A cunning smile started to bloom across his thick lips, still chewing thoughtfully.

There was the obvious fact that visually couldn’t be denied: Hoffman’s plush lower belly did rub up against the steering wheel, whereas back in the early 90’s (and however many pounds ago) his athletically thick though trim-enough torso had no such reach. Back then, the black fabric of his uniform had give, one side buttoning cleanly over the other. Now, his blueish-gray shirt was pulled taut, a slight separation of fabric just above his belt where the shirt would no longer tuck in all the way.

“Don’t be disgusting. I’m not a pervert like you.”

“Uh huhhhhh.” Mark set the burrito down on the dashboard in a pause. “You know, I remember. The last time we did this you kept staring. I bet you wanted to watch me get fat, you freak. Well now that you’re gracing me with your presence you can enjoy the view, I guess.” He huffed, grabbing the foil-wrapped monstrosity and biting in hurriedly.

“First of all,” Peter finally grunted, incensed, “You’re the one that didn’t want anything to do with me. Had to be sauced and secretive about it—but I knew. We both know. More than three ‘accidental, drunken’ kisses isn’t an accident.”

“Maybe I didn’t want anyone knowing because I liked keeping my job!” Mark grumbled around a huge mouthful, trying his best to not let that hamper his seriousness. “It was different then!”

“Secondly,” Peter pushed on, ignoring his words, “yeah, I was checking you out. Yeah, maybe the age and that gut looks good on you now. Maybe I also just liked looking at you back then. Back then, now—doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, wow, way to get Brokeback Mountain on me.” Mark tried lowering his husky voice, but his jab only came out like a bratty teenage girl barb.

Peter lunged across the center console, bundling a fist into Mark’s shirt fabric, hasty and heated. “I don’t get you, you smug fatfuck.” His pointed nose was close to grazing Mark’s cheek as he breathed in heavily, angrily.

“I’m sorry for how I was, okay?” He sounded genuinely apologetic for the first time since their reunion. “Things are… complicated. They have been.”

Peter had a begrudging understanding. He wanted something that he wouldn’t know what to do anything with… didn’t know how to interact with it. And what about Mark? It had been so long, and there he was, facing him, unaware of where his life even was. What was he ready for? Interested in?

It was asking a lot.

[chaewberry]

hii chaewberry! I hope you're doing well and I might sound annoying for being repetitive, but I just reread "kiss and forgive? forgive and kiss?" and I think I need to say THANK YOU FOR THE GOOD FOOD <3 singlehandedly helped me stay sane despite feeling a little bit (too much) crazy about how you write shisui, like:

engraving all these on my brain, putting my head on my hands, rolling on the ground. I (once again) am so in love with your shisui characterization; he's so silly and whimsy and crazy. something about him makes me want to just chew his cheeks and hold his ribs on a deathgrip. he wants to k himself and forever change the trajectory of my life? ok king. he wants to shove his hands underneath my ribs? what the heck, sure. he's so weird and he brings me joy like that. sending infinite kisses to you and to authors who write him sooo silly xoxo. please know that you saved a life frfr

also not to sound weird but let me just say that seeing you on my timeline makes me happy <3 I hope you're having a great day

BELOVED MOOT, ENCHANTING CIRCINUUS!!!!

You sound neither annoying nor do I find you repetitive! I am so glad that silly little fic kept you fed and sane hehehe 💞 idk what possessed me in the middle of writing it - i think it was because i was two energy drinks in and the need to chew on shisui's tendons like they're those red twizzler licorice candies. also, i had read richard siken the previous day and i was sick with yearning and want! ("Shisui felt too much like a little beast" = little beast is actually a richard siken poem heheheheh i DEF recommend reading crush!!!!!)

And likewise, seeing you in my timeline make me happy as well! your fic lay outs are so fucking, insanely beautiful, I literally could never! i can really tell you put effort in them, and it shows just how much you care and love your writing!