#Thicker lawn

[yardenercom]

Bring Your Lawn to Life with Overseeding: A Guide to a Thicker, Greener Lawn

Overseeding is a common practice in American home lawn care. It involves adding grass seed to an existing lawn to improve its thickness, density, and overall health. Overseeding can be done any time of the year but is typically performed in the fall when the soil is still warm and moist, allowing the grass seed to germinate and establish itself before winter. Whether you're looking to revive a thinning lawn or simply enhance its appearance, overseeding is a simple and effective solution for American homeowners looking to achieve a lush and vibrant lawn.

Read more about Overseeding lawns here

[greenglowinspooks]

consider: danny son of Joker

All Sharp Angles

—

Danny had always known that he was adopted; far before his parents had actually up and told him, anyways.

He’d just never looked like his family.

Where his parents were soft curves, he was all hard angles. He was lean and slender, almost willowy once he got his growth spurt, where his parents were broader and thicker-built.

Where his father’s hair was a warm, light black, like a cup of coffee, his was dark and cold like an oil spill.

Even his eyes were wrong; sure, his father’s eyes were blue too, but his were far darker. Danny’s were as light and frigid as arctic ice; even before he had died, they had never reflected enough light to seem alive.

So, when his parents finally told him the truth once he turned 15, it was honestly more of a relief than anything else. He wasn’t uniquely strange, he just didn’t look like his parents because he wasn’t related to them.

Still, he couldn’t help but be curious as to where he had come from. Sure, he liked his parents’ stories about the Fenton family and their rich (probably false) history, but he had roots branching elsewhere, too.

So, with money he had earned from washing cars and mowing lawns, he had bought a DNA test for 50 dollars, and sent a vial of blood in to whatever shady company he had bought it from.

The results…

He stared at the letter in shock.

He had already crumpled to the ground; luckily, he had been standing on the plush carpet of his room rather than the kitchen tile when he had opened it.

Father - Unknown

Mother - Dr. Harleen Quinzel

Fuck. Fuck.

That couldn’t be right, could it?

He checked the reviews of the company with manic speed; not a single other person had been named as being related to a rogue.

Could it be a prank?

Surely, the actual Harley Quinn never had time to have a child. Or, if she did, she would’ve been made to keep it by the Joker.

He began to google in a daze.

…

After a few minutes, he had his answer.

The longest time that the Joker had ever been in Arkham was for a year and a month.

He had gone in roughly 9 months before Danny was born, which technically gave Harley the time to have a child, put it up for adoption, and lose some of the baby fat before the Joker came back, all without him ever knowing.

Harley had also been mysteriously inactive for most of that time, too, which only gave more credibility to his theory.

What was he supposed to do with this, though?

It’s not like he could tell anyone. It’s not like it really changed anything in his day to day life, aside from his entire worldview.

Obviously he told Sam and Tucker, as well as Jazz after a few days.

Obviously he didn’t tell his parents.

…

In the end, not much came of it.

It was just another fact of life, another thing eating away at Danny’s mind. Another fear to internalize.

He had gotten so good at ignoring it, in fact, that he didn’t even remember where he came from when he was accepted to Gotham U, and drove a whole day to the only university willing to give him a scholarship.

…Well, as long as he keeps his nose out of trouble, it won’t matter much anyways. After all, what are the odds he actually meets anyone who might be able to figure it out?

[sugurizz]

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ── So this was an interesting ask cause it was a big, hard CHALLENGE. Just like Jaekyung's D- *Ahem* Aaanyways Jae and fluff are scientifically opposite terms. So trying to merge the two together feels more difficult than buiding a rocket. But I did it, and tried to keep HIM in character as much as I can, cause let's be honest…he has his tiny fluffy moments too...sometimes, yeah. heh. Anyways enjoy some RARE Jaekyung 'fluff' folkss.

𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐒𝐊.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Just...fluff, Ig?

You stared at a gloomy, greyish sky through the huge bay window. The spacious emptiness of your roommate's apartment hit heavier in his absence. The raindrops trickled down, gradually getting thicker and louder under the thunderblasts of an imminent storm.

You did a few casual chores around the house, train of thoughts constantly derailing towards him…

− He took you in for a rather transactional reason, and you didn't particularly hate it either. You were in times of rut, torn between multiple jobs and restless days. And he needed someone who had it in them to take him, regardless of his temper and turmoil.

He had a professional to help maintain his fighter career by all means, and you had a luxurious roof over your head. And thus was your secret pact with the charming athlete.−

A louder bang shook you out your thoughts again. The storm running fiercer and wilder added to your unease. And the recurring, almost detonation-sounding noises strained your already worried heart.

You liked the rain, it even soothed you at times. But the violent thunderstorms often made you troubled, almost terrified. it brought fear and unrest in you.. some emotions and memories that you didn't like being brought back to the surface. The tall walls of the apartment resounded with louder rumbles. You cried out as you ran away, an inner instinct in you seeking a hideout narrow enough to shelter you…

____

'What are you in the damn closet for? Thought you were away.' He stared at you; curled up and shaky, holding your knees close to you chest as your hands wrapped over your ears.

You flinched at him sliding the closet door open. The chaotic noises outside had you barely notice him coming home, let alone walking on you in your hideout.

You raised your head and opened you mouth, struggling not to burst in tears. watery eyes and choked hiccups trapped in your throat, you took a deep sigh and tried explaining.

'I…got scared. I hate storms and w-was all by myself…I needed to hide somewhere.' You stuttered, face heating up with embarassment.

The timing was anything but convenient, especially with him fresh out the shower, cheeks pinkish and hair still a bit damp and messy with a towel over his shoulders.

'The heck? You a kid or something?' He huffed with a mean smirk, eyeing you down like some stray kitten on his lawn.

'Ugh. Just get out of there. I'm here anyways, the boogeyman won't eat you this time.'

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at you sternly. The storm outside was still pretty audible to your ears, and so were the lightning flashing every now and then.

'I-I said I'm afraid…I'll just get out when I settle down.' You uttered, holding your legs closer to you again.

He didn't take what you said for an answer. Neither was he the type to reason with someone. Rather pulling your arm and caging you between him and the closet door sounded like the easiest way he had in mind.

'Still scared now?' He stared dead into your eyes and raised an eyebrow. You locked eyes on his, mortified, no words ready to leave your mouth.

'You're a grown woman, doc. Ya can't be sobbing because of a damn thunderstrom.'

Your head leaned forward, resting on his chest. The pent-up fear made him almost seem like a safe haven to you, and so did his overly tempting closeness against your body.

The tight muscles on his broad chest felt so warm, despite you only touching him for a couple seconds. It had your silly self almost wishing he would actually hold you tight…or even nuzzle you into his neck...

'Oi doc, let go now would ya?' He huffed with an eyeroll, turning his gaze away.

'Y-yeah…sorry.' You flinched away and shook your head, hoping he wouldn't notice the few warm tears you left on his shirt.

'Quite the scaredy cat you are.' He gave you a faint grin as you wiped your cheek.

'I'm hungry. Don't feel like cooking.' He turned around and walked out, hinting at you as he led the way towards the kitchen...

[wileys-russo]

baby it’s cold outside II g.clinton x reader

first little christmas ficlet! baby it's cold outside II g.clinton x reader

from the moment you awoke you knew exactly what had happened overnight. in fact how could you not when you'd been tracking the weather daily; hoping, praying, wishing for this to happen, and it would appear it had all finally come to fruition.

one minute half asleep and then a beat later wide awake you wiggled out of your girlfriends arms, almost falling out of the bed and taking half the duvet with you earning yourself an annoyed grumble from the blonde who'd been happily wrapped up in it moments ago.

shooting across the room you threw open the curtains again causing the midfielder to groan unhappily and bury herself further into bed. you bounced happily on the balls of your feet as your eyes widened seeing the crispy white carpet covering the front yard and the frost scattered across the window pane.

your nose smooshed against the glass you grinned like an excited child and wrenched your gaze away, racing back over and jumping on top of the blonde tucked up in bed. "gracie! get up!" you shook her harshly as an arm poked out and tried to shove you off.

"babe no it's too fuckin early." she moaned unhappily, accent even thicker in her half asleep state as you tried to wrestle the blankets away from her which were gripped tightly in her fists keeping them drawn over her head.

"it snowed! come on we both have the whole day off and it hasn't snowed in forever!" you whined in annoyance, resorting to smacking and poking the lump which was her body beneath the duvet.

"it snowed last winter ya idiot." was her grumpy response as you finally managed to yank the covers away from her.

"yeah well that feels like forever ago come on you grinch get up!" you ducked down and kissed all over her face, her eyes slowly cracking open as she fought the smile which wanted to curl onto her lips.

"nah ten more minutes love come on." the girl mumbled tiredly, hands balling your hoodie in them and tugging you back down as her limbs wrapped around you tightly. "grace!" you groaned before her hand came to settle across your mouth and a gentle kiss was placed on your cheek. "ten more."

knowing this could be your best option at getting her up before eleven like you knew was her intended plan you gave in. but far too eager you couldn't help but move around restlessly in her arms which meant that your girlfriend could only hold out for another five minutes before she cracked.

you beamed happily as grace let you go and stretched with a grunt, exhaling heavily and rubbing the sleep from the corner of her eyes. you mumbled thanks against her lips as she simply hummed, pinching your cheek and flopping back down into bed.

"at least make us a coffee before ya drag me out there to freeze babe."

~

"ya alright?" you nodded in confirmation as you fixed the beanie on your girlfriends head, pecking her lips appreciatively teasing how she tasted like coffee causing a smile to appear.

"baby! gloves." the blonde grabbed your hand before you could throw open the door, both of you wearing about five layers as she slipped your gloves on and followed with her own.

"go on then." the taller girl chuckled, allowing herself to be dragged toward the front door and thrust outside as you practically ripped her arm off in your haste.

your grip on her dissapeared as you dropped her hand and jumped down the steps, causing grace to yell out warnings about not slipping before ironically slipping down the stairs herself.

"sorry baby, what was that?" you teased, jogging back over and helping her up, kissing her freezing cold cheek with a grin. "race ya to the edge of the lawn?" your girlfriend challenged, pushing you over onto your ass before sprinting away causing you to yell out after her.

but you couldn't help but let out a laugh as you got to your feet and watched grace all but swan dive into the thick layer of snow at the edge of your front yard, already furiously waving her limbs in an attempt at a snow angel.

racing over you were quick to join her, ignoring the way your body locked up from the freezing temperature too fueled by caffeine and adrenaline to even pay it a thought. "i win!" your girlfriend announced, jumping to her feet with a happy grin.

"only because you cheated!" you accused with a laugh, following suit and moving to stand beside her. "thats just loser talk babe." the taller girl teased, kissing your cheek and throwing an arm across your shoulders, tucking you tightly into her side.

"look they're holdin hands!" grace pointed out excitedly, bumping her hip against yours as you laughed and pulled her into a kiss. "mm warm us up then love." the blonde grabbed your hips with a smirk, deepening the kiss a little.

the moment was rapidly ruined however as something cold and wet smashed into the side of her head, the cheeky grin on your face and the wet patch on your glove all she needed to know to connect the dots.

"ohh babe ya gonna regret that."

from then on a full on war ensued, the two of you racing around your front yard lobbing snowballs at one another giggling like children. eventually you changed locations, ending up in the backyard where you had a little more privacy and room to run around.

focused on packing together a tight snowball the grin dropped from your face as you raised your arm to throw and found your target had dissapeared. "gracie? baby?" you called out, slowly lowering your arm as your eyes scanned the backyard.

big mistake.

you heard her before you saw her, a snowball smashed into the back of your head and a flash of blonde hair darting at you with a war cry as you were tackled down into the snow, your girlfriend hovering over you with a wolfish grin.

"grace!" you yelled as she smashed another snowball into your forehead, wiggling as the ice cold droplets trailed down the back of your neck and her laughter filled the air around you.

"told ya you was gonna regret that babe." she sang out happily, kissing all over your face before standing and helping you up. "snowman time." you ordered, the two of you sharing a look and a nod before you raced inside and she raced back out the front.

both of you returning you held up two carrots as she held up four sticks and you shared a loving kiss in a silent thanks, busying yourselves with forming the bodies, chattering away to one another as you went.

"look! holding hands." grace beamed, wiggling happily as she jammed in the arms. "seems to be a common theme baby." you teased, hugging her tightly as the two of you looked down fondly on your creation.

"oh!" you pulled away from her and squatted down, tracing a love heart around them and writing both of your initials. "perfect." grace whistled in approval as you stood and melted back into her, craning your head up to kiss her jaw.

"okay i love ya babe but i'm fuckin freezin." grace admitted after a few minutes of comfortable silence, grinning sheepishly as you nodded your agreement, reaching up to pull down her beanie a little.

"better get you nice and warm then rudolph." you teased, kissing her bright red nose as she laughed sarcastically and tugged your own beanie down to cover your eyes. "grace!" you yelled as suddenly she hoisted you up and over her shoulder, carrying you up the back steps.

"boots!" you warned as she took one step inside, sighing and placing you back down on your feet as the two of you stepped out of your shoes, leaving them by the back door and sighing in relief once you were inside.

stripping off a few layers you raced one another upstairs, abandoning the rest of your wet clothes in the laundry and jumping into the shower together to defrost your frozen limbs.

"oi!" your girlfriend laughed as you spat a mouthful of water at her, dunking your head under the stream as you slapped her shoulders, the two of you sharing a few lazy kisses before washing properly and stepping out, bundled up in fluffy towels.

"okay here's what im thinking." you started once the two of you were changed into matching candy cane tracksuits, which had been bought at your girlfriends request much to your amusement.

"we make hot chocolate. we order pizza. we watch the home alone movies. we take a nap. we go and see some christmas lights. we make dinner. we watch elf!" you ticked things off on your fingers as grace sighed happily, flopping down onto the lounge and pulling you on top of her.

"god i love it when ya talk dirty to us baby."

[fire-lizard-ro]

Poly JingRen x Reader I guess

NSFW ahead:

Daily fantasy is either being squished between these two or having one of them in the middle.

Like oml just imagining one of them having his way with you and the other one slides up behind him like "looks like you two are having fun" only to decide that since the other one is using your hole that he might as well use hIS OFISJOIE-

Like oml this is very unlikely to work??? But what always has me screaming in my mind is the idea of you being folded like a lawn chair by one of them with his hips pressed flush to yours so he's grinding against your clit/cock. AND THEN- The other slides inside him from behind and it causes a bump in his lower belly so it presses against your clit/dick through his skin. (Someone save me I'm a horny degenerate. :''''))) )

Also I've not specified because I can see them both being in either position???????

Alternatively seeing them kiss over you while spit roasting you or taking you please fojsoejge- Two pretty boys kissing. OTL

Just- For those with a singular hole to be used or for those who have two but just like a challenge.... Good fucking luck because I 100% agree with the hcs that those two have big dick energy for a reason. In my head, Jing Yuan and Blade are both big- About the same size, but Blade is a little longer while Jing Yuan is a little thicker. Not toooooo much of a difference but enough that you can feel it, methinks.

But also those two are also tall in my mind and they got the weight to press you down into the sheets. ...or whatever other surface they have you on. I think they might be around the same height in my head. Blade has a more lean figure, though, while Jing Yuan is a bit more... stocky??? (Does any of this make sense oml-)

I was going on about sub Gepard in my last post (I can see him domming too but I was in a m o o d), but these two??? I think they could pull off dom or sub depending on their moods/the collective mood of the three of you.

Like I can see Jing Yuan being in a sleepy, lazy mood so you and Blade have to take over. Or maybe Blade needs some reassurance so y'all take care of him (I don't care if it's OOC or not I will die on this mFIN' HILL-). There's also perhaps a need in them to mess the other two up until they're covered in cum and unable to walk the next day. Maybe someone pissed the other two off. In my mind everyone takes turns topping/bottoming dom/sub whatever man it's an all you can eat menu with lots of options and combos. <333

I swear these will eventually be more structured. Maybe. I like rambling about them. :'''''''))

But this also might get deleted so we'll see.

[the-kr8tor]

Cowboy hobie request you say? How about we say yes. We both need a cowboy hobie with a new reader to the town/community and him helping them out 💳💥

Cowboy hobie also definitely has a fully black gorgeous horse

*squeals* cowboy! Hobie!!! Thank you for requesting 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), cowboy AU, Western AU, crush at first sight for the reader. FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The sun bares down on you, The air is thicker, humid, almost choking you whenever you step outside. Heavy luggages waits for you out in your new lawn, a good twelve feet away from your front door. Maybe you should've paid extra for the movers to help you.

Wiping the sweat off your brow, you heave a bag in your arms, the contents clinking together as you lift it up. You could do with some help right about now.

“Need help?”

As if some sort of divine intervention, a deep voice asks behind you, an unmistakable whinny of a horse echoes out in the barren space. At first you thought it would be an outlaw after your stuff but the genuine concern in the stranger's voice fills you with ease.

Turning around, you're greeted by a large black stallion, its silver saddle glinting in the sun, the horse's coat shining like black pearls. Flicking your eyes upwards, you see a leather clad cowboy, his eyes hidden behind the brim of his cherry red ten-gallon hat. The smile on his face makes you want to take his offer.

“You got sand in your ears?” he continued, grimacing when his choice of wording was a bit too harsh for a stranger.

“D’you need my help?” he asks softer and kinder this time. Maybe he should go out more often, his social skills are shot like a bottle in a shooting range.

“I–” you look back at the numerous bags at your feet. “I don't know– I mean thank you but I can handle it.” Based on his accent, he's not from this side of the world, someone who wanted a fresh start, just like you.

You've got a good reason to be apprehensive, you're situated in the middle of nowhere, if this man is actually an outlaw then there's no one who would come to your rescue, with only the buffaloes as your witness. Despite his handsome smile, you see his six shooter strapped on his belt, the sight alone makes you nervous to accept his help.

“That's bare of bags.” With one swift movement, he gets off his horse, spurs clinking, boots thudding on the dusty ground. He takes off his hat to properly greet you.

Saying he's handsome is an understatement. His face is chiseled, a jaw that can cut a rock, irises as green as the grass and the finest jade. Silver piercings and studs add an edge to his handsome face. You can't believe you're ogling a stranger.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he gestures around the empty space with your little farm situated in the middle of nothing but grass and dirt. “Name's Hobie, Hobie Brown”

Hobie, you test his name in your mind, repeating it so you could memorize it. “Mr. Brown, I–”

“Just Hobie's fine.” He chuckles, mindlessly twirling the hat in his gloved hands.

“Hobie, what exactly did you say about the neighborhood? Or the lack of it” you look around the field.

“I live down over there.” he points to the left, you follow it with your eyes, squinting, you see a black dot in the distance. You guess that's his house.

“That's incredibly far” you turn back towards him, fixing your hold on the bag.

“Ain't that far with my old boy,” he twists around, patting the horse on his snout. “Right, Velvet?” Velvet shoves Hobie lightly.

You smile as the horse snorts, his exhale hits Hobie right on his face. He pushes Velvet’s face away, the stallion nods like he's laughing after making fun of his rider in front of you.

“I swear this horse,” Hobie shakes his head with a smile. “So now you know me ma’am, may I help you with your bags?”

The bag almost falls from your arms when he calls you ma’am. “Oh you don't need to call me that,” the warmth in your cheeks isn't from the summer sun. “Just Y/N is fine.”

“Y/N” your name rolls off his tongue smoothly. Hobie grins, “I promise I don't bite. Velvet on the other hand.” Said horse whinnies like he's offended by what Hobie said.

“Alright, good sir.” You internally cringe, Hobie laughs, the sound sending butterflies in your stomach. “Y-you can help me with my bags as long as you stay after for some lemonade?” You take your chance with the handsome cowboy.

“Lemonde? I haven't had that in a while.” you think you've made a fool of yourself. “Sure, Let me have this then.” he takes your heavy bag from you, carrying it effortlessly. With his boot, he loops it around the strap of a bag on the floor, kicking it up in the air before catching it in his arm all suave.

Hobie has no idea the effect he has on you.

You're sweating like a sinner in church, blouse sticking to your skin like glue on paper. Maybe you shouldn't have asked him to stay after because you have no idea how to survive the day without melting whenever he smiles at you.

You get a whiff of leather and sandalwood as he passes by. He looks over his shoulder, “You comin'?”

“Y-yes” oh you know you're already smitten.

[fatphobiabusters]

I explained to a fatphobe today the documented fact that has been known for decades of how there is no scientifically-proven way to lose weight long-term and that dieting doesn't work. His response was to tell me that I need to try for "longer than a week."

I did. I tried for years, probably longer than he ever managed to keep a single friend around to listen to his assholery. The only time I ever had any "success" had also been due to me dieting for longer than a week. Two weeks to be exact. Where I lost 20 pounds.

That's over 9 kilograms, if you measure weight that way.

I lost the same amount of weight as a watermelon. A car tire. A lawn mower. An office chair. The weight of an entire patio table.

In two weeks.

If you want more numbers, that was 2 and a half hours of exercising on exercise equipment at levels dangerous for my body. Every day.

14 days of a self-imposed famine. A salad here or there when I couldn't take the pain in my stomach anymore. And then, of course, going right back to starving.

My mom who had helped teach me to hate my body for not being the width of a pencil had even managed to notice how much weight I lost and how fast. She forcibly weighed me, not that weighing me accomplished anything. She didn't know my previous weight.

I saw my childhood friend for the first time in quite a while after losing the weight of two newborn babies in half a month. The first thing I asked her is if she noticed I was thinner. I had always compared myself to her growing up. She was naturally thin, needed no effort at all to stay barely thicker than her bones. She would only eat a few bites of food, slowly, and only if it was to her taste. For many years as a kid, she was the single person I knew who ate baloney, let alone as one of the handful of foods she was willing to consume. I grew up thinking thin people ate nothing more than a bowl of steamed broccoli for dinner because nothing I did ever made me as small as her.

When she told me she noticed, I smiled. I was proud that I had so severely abused my body, that I had lost an extremely alarming amount of weight in such a short amount of time.

The only time. The one instance I had ever managed to lose a noticeable amount of my body. My fat genetics and PCOS don't really help in that regard.

I'm now nearly double the weight I had starved to as a teenager. My story follows the research studies to a T.

By the end of high school, I had already gained back the whole 20 pounds. And after high school, I gained that "and then some" so many people experience. 95% of people who try to lose weight end up gaining the weight back within 3-5 years, most becoming bigger than the weight they started with. I didn't "willpower enough" into that 5% success rate. Abusing my body those two weeks so I could be an entire shopping cart lighter and then obsessing about my weight throughout my high school years wasn't enough "willpower" it seems.

I gained more weight afterwards due to medicine, mental disability, untreated PCOS, a pandemic, more attempts at starvation, being bedridden in a tent for two years, and my body, like many bodies, wanting to grow into those fat genetics of mine now that I was no longer a teenager.

I did, in fact, try longer than a week. Now it's time to reciprocate and try treating fat people like human beings for a mere seven days. Here's an app for you to log all of the fat people you didn't tell to die, and make sure you use all your willpower. I have a neighbor whose sister's boss managed to not tell fat people to die for two whole years! They're still refraining from doing so today. All her boss needed to do was stop drinking sodas and have the willpower to succeed.

Have you tried that?

-Mod Worthy

[dragonnan]

Eavesdropping

May Prompts 2024

May 13

Here is another one from the archives - it actually has two instances of eavesdropping so it was an excellent fit for the prompt!

Beware the Jabberwock, My Son

Warnings: Child Abuse, Abuse of a Minor

Forty-five minutes. Not the first time he'd been left to linger in the blazing sun while his brother cavorted with some random dignitary in need of a good pandering. Mummy and Daddy had been in Prague for the past week, and weren't due back for another three days, so Sherlock's fate, then, rested with his lazy git of an older brother to collect him at the end of term. Of all the luck.

Sherlock held back on the urge to kick at the untidy scatter of gravel that had been strewn across the pavement, with the exodus of students, not long ago. It had been a hit to his dignity, being the last student remaining after everyone had gone. It wasn't so much his outcast status; he rather preferred it to the humiliating and, at times, painful treatment he'd received during his brief stint at Winchester. That didn't mean, though, that he wanted to wander the grounds indefinitely like some wraith from a Dickens novel.

Stomping down the zig zagging steps to the small courtyard below, Sherlock tugged the stiff collar of his starched shirt away from his throat – the loathsome tie already wadded and crammed in the pocket of his dark blue blazer, which hung askew from one slender arm. Mummy would have a fit at the state of his neckwear but he could barely tolerate it most days and tended to rip it free the first chance he got. Cutting across the manicured lawn, he worked his way round the side of the complex where large trees offered an amount of shade. His overnight bag dragging behind him, leaving a small groove in the verdant grass, Sherlock was nearly to the wide spreading oak near the dormitories when he heard a clipped whine.

Shoving his bag up against the peeling tree bark, blazer thrown aside and landing atop the bag more by luck than design, he scuttled to the outer wall of the raised courtyard in order to gain an unimpeded view. The trees were thicker, here, towards the back. Too early for the groundskeeper, the litter from an impromptu rugby game, among the older boys, still lay scattered about. Sherlock toed aside a paper serviette, stained with grease, before gracefully climbing into the branches of one of the smaller beech trees. Hidden amongst the aubergine leaves, he leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around a branch smoothed by many a young man's grip, to peer out at the scene below.

There were two figures – one significantly larger than the other – about 10 yards further on and close to the treeline. The large man Sherlock didn't recognize; though it wasn't difficult to surmise the relationship. The boy was someone Sherlock knew more by nature of a shared disdain, cast upon them by the greater student body, than due to any sort of interaction. Intelligent, gentle, and possessing a sort of oddness that set him apart, Lucas Peacock had even less in common with the rank and file of Harrow than Sherlock did. At 16 he was two years Sherlock's senior. However he was one of the few students whom Sherlock had felt any sort of affinity; though their interactions had started and ended with Lucas offering the rare smile and Sherlock giving Lucas his lunch on exactly one occasion. It had been beans and franks; appalling, bland, and of an unidentifiable protein source. Not the first meal he'd foregone – there were limits, after all. Lucas hadn't minded one bit – gangly as he was and somewhat concave he'd wolfed down the meal and nearly licked the plate.

Now, he frowned as the large man; father, going by the similar features, gave Lucas a vigorous shake before slapping him across the cheek.

Slipping from his perch, Sherlock darted across the manicured green, quickly drawing dual attention.

Mr. Peacock scowled at his approach. “Run along, boy!”

Thin arms folded over his chest, Sherlock took in the darkening bruise on Lucas's cheek as well as the swelling of his lower lip.

“The grounds are off limits to anyone not a student and are restricted to students and faculty only. You aren't supposed to be back here.” Not entirely true, in fact, though it was unlikely the brutish man would be aware of school policies.

“Aren't you a bit young to be attending this school? Where are your parents?” Peacock looked about himself with a trace of unease.

Sherlock sniffed. “I'm nearly sixteen.” Well, sixteen being relative; he was roughly thirteen months shy of sixteen, not that this thundering oaf would know the difference anyhow. “Aren't you a bit old to be beating up children?”

Drawing himself up tall, the man shook Lucas by the grip on the boy's collar. “What I choose to do with my son is no concern of yours, boy! Now run along! This is no affair of yours.”

Instead, Sherlock crowded closer – sneering at Peacock's unkempt clothes – the spot of gravy on his collar – the untucked shirttails – the overall slovenly manner with which he carried himself. “Perhaps not but I'm betting the school administrators would take an interest in what you're doing.”

The congealed rage was barely a warning as Lucas was abruptly thrust towards the grass, his shoulders impacting hard enough to knock the wind from his chest, as Peacock turned fully towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was suddenly, vibrantly, aware of two things. The size of the man he'd elected to confront, and the absolute absence of any other human life, outside of their tiny drama.

He realized that a wise option, hinted in his brother's bored tones, would be to turn heel and run for the main building and the promise of adult support. He was light on his feet and very fast and knew he could easily outpace the stumbling drunkard at barely half his normal speed. However that option also came with a cost. By the time he was able to reach the headmaster's office, navigate the throng of staff demanding he explain what he was doing indoors “without a parent or guardian”, locate an adult willing to actually listen, and then prod, wheedle, and harry said adult back out onto the grounds, Peacock would be long gone and Sherlock would very likely be presumed of either a wild imagination or outright lying.

So, instead, he spread his stance; feet slipping a bit in the damp grass, and subtly turned himself to the side. Instructions unfolded in his mind – those long afternoons in a light cotton gi, the pants of which were always slightly too long.

At his movement, Peacock first grinned; then laughed. “And what is it you intend to do with those tiny fists, boy? Box my kneecaps for me?” He laughed again – making a mock lunge. With practiced ease, Sherlock twisted to the side, spun on one foot, and slammed his heel in Peacock's groin – hard.

The large man howled – cupping between his legs and nearly going down on one knee.

And that was where Sherlock made his devastating mistake. Intent on ending things, quickly, he darted around the broad figure, elbow poised to bury in a kidney, when a shattering blow impacted the side of his head and threw him five feet back into the solid ground.

His shoulders twitched as he tried to remember how to lift his arms. There was a reason he needed to stand, and quickly, but he couldn't seem to order his thoughts enough to remember why. And then pain tore at his scalp as heavy fingers twisted into his hair and pulled; forcing him to his knees. Peacock shook him violently and Sherlock was certain he was going to vomit. A bright halo surrounded the man that Sherlock knew meant Bad Things. But before he could consider that information Peacock was spitting something furious at him – similar to the hate-filled words directed at his son. Sherlock was finally able to lift one hand and lace his fingers around the man's wrist.

“Get your hands off me you little shit!” Peacock released his hair just as he backhanded Sherlock across the cheek.

He was on the ground again – stomach heaving acidic bile when the hands grabbed him for a third time. Sherlock couldn't help it, he whimpered, arms raising to cover his face. And Peacock laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and then his open hand struck the side of Sherlock's head; once, twice, and on the third slap Peacock let him drop.

“Stay away from my family or there'll be more of that! And worse!” Sherlock heard him spit; and then there followed a hazy period – the vague sense of footsteps retreating and time slipping by in some fashion.

Shadows passed over him but he couldn't imagine moving – between the halos and throbbing shapes and tinnitus if he so much as lifted his head he would vomit. So he stayed on the ground and counted his breaths and tried his damndest to block the misfiring signals-PaIn-nAuseA-bleEdiNg-DizZy-hammering at the soft tissue inside his skull.

He had no idea how long he lie there.

He'd been cringing at the piercing screedch of cicadas when the cacophony of mating insects was broken by the rapidly building thunder of steps pounding through the grass.

Peacock coming back for more, just as he promised! The moment hands touched him Sherlock bellowed – swinging blind and feeling his left hand rake along flesh; the satisfaction of a pained grunt immediately lost as his wrists were caught and soft words made headway through his panic.

“Easy. You're safe. Focus on my voice.” Repeating cadence as slowly he was released – the hands staying well away and allowing him space to breathe – to regroup.

Then, eyes still tightly shut, he sniffled and turned his head. “Mycroft?” He hated the tiny warble but couldn't help the relief when his brother responded.

“I'm here. Are you able to move? Is anything broken?”

Sherlock flexed his hands; his arms. But when he braced against the ground and tried to push up he gasped – subsiding again as sharp pain ballooned through his skull and shrieked through his ribs. “It's... I can't...”

A firm hand pressed solid against his leg. “I'll fetch the matron...”

“No!” Sherlock snatched outward and managed to catch a sleeve by pure luck. “Please, My just... I want to go home... please...”

A sigh followed. Then... “Very well. However I will need to carry you. Do you need time...?”

“I...” Fingers dug in the grass, Sherlock curled into himself. So Mycroft waited while Sherlock steadied himself – taking the steps needed to prepare for what would certainly be both painful and grating. Deep breaths – fingers playing against the earth. Then, finally, he nodded – even that small movement crashing a tsunami of stomach rolling agony through his head.

Mycroft was careful but there was no avoiding the turmoil caused by hefting his brother in his arms. It was brutal. Sherlock gagged; longer fingers clinging to Mycroft's jacket as he used every technique he knew to hold himself together. It seemed an age before, sweet blessed relief, they reached the car and Mycroft helped ease him onto the back seat – covering his face with his jacket to block out the throbbing rays of sunlight.

He sank against the cool leather and knew little more until, an undetermined time later, his brother's voice intruded once more.

“We're home. Just a short distance to the house, if you can manage it?”

He could – though he had to cling tight to his brother the entire time and depend upon his guidance to avoid stumbling as Sherlock still couldn't manage vision without a sickening swoop through his belly.

And then he was laid on the couch – both of them agreeing that navigating the stairs to his bedroom was too daunting a prospect. What followed was yet another exercise in misery. For half an hour Mycroft held him steady as he repeatedly heaved into a bowl. Attempts to stifle the flow with medication led only to repeating bouts to the point he was sweaty and shaking by the time it abated. In between gagging up his organs, Mycroft dabbed a wet flannel at his various wounds – primarily the seeping split that cut a line through both his upper and lower lip – courtesy of the ostentatious emerald on Peacock's ring.

Eventually, though, the bloodied rags were gathered and the bowl rinsed and left on the floor near his head. Mycroft insisted on pain medication and a few tentative sips of juice. Afterward Sherlock was left alone. It was only a short time later that sleep finally pulled him under.

It was dark when Sherlock woke. His head still hurt but not in that violent way from earlier. He was able to open his eyes and, best of all, the sickening halos were gone. But other aches had now asserted themselves. His ribs and right hip were nearly immobile after repeated impacts against the ground. There were bruises and small cuts on the back of his hands from trying to block the blows Peacock had rained on him – the gemstone in his ring leaving narrow gouges behind – and his shoulders felt half twisted from the sockets. As for his face it was a network of throbbing hurts.

Grunting, he stiffly pushed upright – wobbling as he struggled to regain his balance. From the kitchen, he heard a small sound, and then Mycroft stepped into the room. His face gave away little but his eyes flicked up and down Sherlock's form in an evaluating fashion.

Sherlock noted, however, that Mycroft's hands were in fists at his sides.

“You've been asleep for three hours. How is your pain?”

Both arms wrapped around his middle, Sherlock groaned. “Painful.” He squinted as he regarded his older brother. “I see you capitalized on the opportunity to invade the icebox.”

Eyes losing some of their softness, Mycroft snorted. “Quite. The devastation was incalculable.” Stepping forward he braced a hand against Sherlock's back. “I prepared dinner, you insufferable brat.”

Swatting away the probing fingers, Sherlock was, nonetheless, grateful at the proffered ice pack – which he held against his tender scalp. He briefly considered an entire tub of ice water – surely every bit of him could benefit from the soothing cold.

While he was busy with the ice, Mycroft returned to the kitchen; only to reemerge minutes later with a bowl and glass of water.

“Lentil Bolognese.”

Sherlock regarded the heavy soup; inhaling the rich scent and wary of his sensitive stomach. However there was no indication of further upset so, gathering some broth on his spoon, he sipped delicately. In short order he'd eaten more than half before setting aside his utensil. Dinner was followed by a decadent slice of tarte tatin supplied generously with a heap of thick créme fraîche. Sherlock ate every crumb and watched enviously while his wretched brother followed suit without so much as offering a single bite from his share.

After the plates were cleared away, Sherlock settled back against a heap of pillows and sighed. When Mycroft took the chair across from him, however, Sherlock clenched his fingers and stared towards the fireplace.

“This cannot be avoided, brother mine. I need to know.”

Still looking away, Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “What for? There's nothing to tell. I picked a fight and lost. Certainly that wouldn't be the first time I came out the wrong end in a scrap.”

“No, but you also are not one who typically initiates a fight. So why now? And with an opponent of clearly larger size, going by the shape of those bruises.”

At the continued silence Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I suppose I shall have to speak with the Administration as well as members of the staff. Surely one of them will have seen...”

“It was Mr. Peacock.” The admission came out in a soft murmur – Sherlock's throat flushing with heat.

Mycroft stared at him, openly aghast. “Bradford Peacock did this to you?”

Finally lifting his head, glaring, Sherlock jutted his chin. “I believe I told you that I started it.”

“Yes, you did. However, you failed to mention that your opponent was an adult man with at least ten stone on you.”

Sherlock's thumb dug into his index finger while pondering the stability of his limbs. At least in his own room he could conceivably lock Mycroft out. Not that his brother wasn't capable of entry if he so chose – locks were more of a suggestion for the both of them, much to the dismay of their parents.

“He has a young son, as I recall. A boy close to your age. Lucius.”

“Lucas.” Sherlock's eyes had returned to the fire but he could feel Mycroft's heavy gaze bearing on him.

“He was abusing him.” There was no question in the statement. Sherlock didn't reply but his teeth tightened together. Mycroft's voice fell softer still; dangerous. “And when you attempted to stop him... he beat you.”

“Beat me. He hardly-”

“You have two cracked ribs, a concussion, and there was blood in your vomit!” The fury in his brother's tone snapped Sherlock's jaw shut like a vise. His fingers twisted and pulled at the legs of his trousers until he noticed and forced his hands still.

Twice his mouth opened with a retort at the ready and twice he swallowed it back. His tongue dragged across his broken lip and he flinched. His fingers resumed their movement so he tucked them beneath his arms. Voice a dull rasp, he finally managed to get something past his teeth.

“I did what I had to do.”

Across from him, breathing out heavily, Mycroft nodded. “As will I.”

It was a week later; Sherlock's bruises mutated to a sickly green and yellow, that he was crouching in his favorite listening spot at the top of the stairs behind the top pillar. An unrepentant eavesdropper he had his head tilted back and both feet braced on the opposite wall. Below, his mother was preparing breakfast while his father and Mycroft sat at the table sharing the paper. Since his parent's return he'd been expecting some sort of outrage with regards to his injuries. Though he'd been able to mask the pain to his ribs he couldn't hide the variegated hues on his face. Yet, upon their arrival home, collected by Mycroft in Father's old sedan, Mummy had merely tsked; brushing the hair from his forehead with worried eyes before sighing. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Whatever fantasy Mycroft had spun, it had clearly been good enough for his parents. No doubt painting Sherlock in a less than favorable light.

Still, the truth would have been worse, with consequences that didn't bear consideration.

The scent of his mother's scones began to waft up the stairway. Sherlock breathed in appreciatively – eyes closed and lifted towards the warm morning light, when his mother's voice, and a familiar name, suddenly cut across his musings.

“I heard Bradford Peacock was arrested.”

Sherlock stilled – a cool weight heavy in his belly. After a beat his father hummed; likely swallowing a sip of coffee. “I hate to speak ill of anyone but I have always felt there was something not quite right about him.”

Mellie made a sound before her voice rose again. “It seems he was discovered behind a pub in the village.”

Mycroft's voiced filled in when Mummy trailed off. “As I read it he had apparently been beaten. Severely. In fact, both hands were broken and several teeth were knocked out. Given how he had been treating his son it was the least he was due.”

“You needn't sound so delighted, Myc! Atrocious business.”

Sherlock barely held himself back from peering around the corner and giving himself away – though he had no doubt that his brother knew he was there.

“No, what was atrocious is the reason why he was arrested in the first place. And I will delight in any punishment delivered to a man for hurting a child.”

In that moment Sherlock was certain Mycroft was not, entirely, thinking of Lucas. It left an odd heat behind his eyes.

There was a familiar clunk of the oven door and the rattle of a tray setting down on the counter. “No. I suppose I cannot fault how you feel. In truth, when I read how he'd been abusing that precious child I wanted to race to the constabulary and personally tear out his eyes.”

Father chuckled. “I would have driven you there, my love.”

Nose wrinkling, Sherlock let himself slump back against the bannister.

“Still, I feel for that poor boy. It destroys me to think of him taken into care.”

Mycroft's voice interceded again; deeply pleased with himself, no doubt. “You needn't fear, Mummy. I understand he will be taken in by his maternal grandmother. From what Sherlock has told me, she cares for him a great deal.”

Sherlock had told him no such thing; though he didn't doubt it was true. Not that he appreciated being made an accessory to his brother's schemes. Still, he could admit to being... content... with the outcome of Mycroft's intervention.

Conversation soon drifted to less interesting topics and Sherlock entertained himself with his own thoughts – roaming the fields in his mind until-

“Alright, young man, enough lurking! Breakfast is on! But do wash up before coming down here; no doubt you've collected several pathogens on those hands.”

Silently, Sherlock stood and crept back from the stairway. Mummy may suspect him of listening in but as yet could not prove fact without eyes on. On cat's feet he eased his way back to his room and up onto his bed – waiting several beats before loudly allowing his heels to thud against the floorboards. Shuffling to the door, he cracked it open – letting the hinges squeak, before calling down in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Did you call, Mummy?”

Her less than convinced snort carried easily from below. “Oh, you heard me. Hurry, now, before your eggs go cold.”

Grinning, Sherlock made his way to the washroom.

No doubt he would owe Mycroft for his illicit use of manpower on a less than sanctioned mission. His brother always did collect on his debts. Still... Sherlock couldn't deny that the results had been worth it. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to procure a booking photo of Mr. Peacock.

Fingers clean enough and somewhat dried, Sherlock pressed his arm against his side and headed for the stairs.

It appeared it was going to be a fantastic day.

Comment of AO3

@sgam76 @totallysilvergirl @sevdrag @helloliriels @calaisreno

[rogdona]

I have a headcanon

Sponge's aback kinda reminds me of a lawn.

So {if there is sponge is a species}, what if the other they get, the longer they become and more saturated the back gets, since sponges tend to do that with age, but with more of a nature effect, like maybe a the green parts get thicker or higher with age

I LIKE THATTTTTTTT!!!!! i also think the green part would start looking more disheveled bc it does get all messed up w use, and also they loose a little bit of color bc it tends to get washed out!!!

LOVING THE SPONGE LORE

[paradimeshifts7]

𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙩𝙪𝙗 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙚 🛁💦💙

The rain comes slowly, then all at once, catching Eddie off guard on his way home from the shop.

At first, he basks in it, tilts his chin up to the sky and opens his face for what the clouds will bestow. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and the flowers that Steve had planted so carefully in the window boxes have bowed their heads, mournful for spring moisture.

Eddie stands in the yard and lets earth’s bounty wet his skin, dampen his hair, wash away the worries of the day. He toes his shoes off, walks through the damp grass and feels the ground give beneath his feet.

It’s been a long week — a long life — and if not for moments like these, or people like Steve, Eddie’s not altogether convinced he would’ve made it this far. His demons are fast, but Steve was faster. In so many ways, he was right on time.

Steve’s here now. Eddie can feel him, in ways that feel intangible, like the ghost of an extra beat behind his ribs. He can see him, too, in the shirts that they trade back and forth like oxygen. In the warm glow that pulses like a heartbeat from the windows of their shitty two bedroom house. Steve is usually home before him. Usually has something rich and savory simmering on the stove, a tv show playing in the background to cut the quiet. Steve has never been one for silence.

Eddie takes a lap around their little home, notes the places that need repainting, the plants that need pruned back. They’ll have work to do this weekend, but Steve won’t mind. He never does where care is involved. Anyway, Eddie wouldn’t mind seeing him in those little shorts again — the ones he always dons to mow the lawn, faded and threadbare and far too tiny to constitute any sort of cover. Eddie’s obsessed with them. And it’s those shorts he’s thinking about as he shivers, the rain running thick on his skin.

Finally, he quits his surveilling, walks barefooted up the cement and slips inside. He’s welcomed instantly by the sweet scent of rosemary and red wine, hears something bubbling on the stove as he drips on the rug.

“Eddie?” Steve calls from somewhere in the house — the bathroom, maybe — the familiar sound of his voice ringing like the bells to the only church Eddie’s ever been interested in. The only altar he’ll worship at. Steve, and his good cooking, and the love they share.

Eddie follows the call, finds Steve stretched out in the bathtub, bubbles painting a tantalizing picture of skin. Eddie is shivering in earnest now as the chill works loose from his bones, and Steve stretched out a hand, smiles like summer.

“Come here.”

Eddie leaves his clothes in a sopping heap by the tub, climbs in with Steve where it’s warm. He’s still shivering, and Steve turns on the hand held, eases Eddie back against his chest and runs hot water through his curls until he settles down and the cold leaves completely.

“Better?” Steve asks into the water-warmed skin of Eddie’s shoulder, the hand held shut off. Eddie hums in response, pulls Steve’s arms tighter around his torso and nestles back into the known heat of the man he loves.

Steve breathes, and Eddie breathes, and the faucet drips like it always does. Outside, the rain grows thicker, pelting the small window above the tub with rattling sound until a clap of thunder punctuates the storm.

It’s then that Eddie turns in Steve’s grasp, finds his lips and sighs into the sensation of coming home. Steve’s hands are sure on his sides, his back, his legs — staying solid as Eddie climbs into his lap. As Eddie grinds slow, sinful circles and draws creeping heat between their bodies.

Eddie is warm, so warm, but he shivers when Steve spreads him apart. When he eases two fingers up and in, curls them because he’s kind. Eddie shivers, and he shudders when Steve slips slowly inside, inch by inch until they’re locked in a tangle — the world’s simplest knot.

Because being with Steve, welcoming him inside and holding him deep, is the easiest thing Eddie’s body knows how to do. Like breathing, or sleeping, or healing what hurts. Steve rocks slowly, a gentle rhythm that disturbs the surface of the water.

Eddie clings and sighs, listens to the collective rapture that rings off the bathroom walls and melts against Steve’s chest. He loves it when Steve holds him down. When Steve loves him hard and fast and frantic — cleaves him open, body and soul, and makes him beg.

But he likes it like this, too: sweet, and slow, and so achingly thorough. Steve slides down a few inches, tilts his hips to sweeten the angle, and Eddie scrabbles for purchase on slippery porcelain, his dick heavy and hard where it slaps against the surface of the water.

Each sloppy thrust disrupts suds and sends water over the edge, making a wet mess of the tile floor. Eddie watches Steve, locks on tight to burning hazel and surrenders all else, his jaw loosening around sounds of pleasure that vibrate low and lazy in his chest.

Steve’s lips part as if to swallow each declaration of pleasure, eyebrows pinched as he rolls his hips roughly, slowing only to grind in deep and groan — long and loud and cut through as Eddie plants hands on Steve’s chest and takes control.

Pushes up on his knees only to sit back down, burying Steve where he belongs and creating waves that splash and spill like the building ecstasy in his bones. They stare unflinchingly, drunk on eye contact, rolling like the rain wetting the earth outside.

“Touch me,” Eddie whispers, pleads, and Steve nods, makes a tight circle with his fist and pulls Eddie to his peak with startling speed, groaning in approval as the purpled head slips easily within the clutch of his fingers.

Eddie’s throat tightens around impending pleasure, groans squeezing thin and thready as his back arches. As he fills himself, and fucks himself, and comes utterly undone in Steve’s lap — makes a mess of their bathroom and spoils himself for anyone else. Because Steve is it for him, always has been, the water weight of their love as heavy and necessary as a spring shower, the spiked flora of old hurts, and misunderstandings, and things that go bump in the night bending under the torrential rush of what feels true.

It’s them. Always will be. Just them.

Steve surges up from the water, brings Eddie close, strokes him where he’s begging for release between their stomachs and keeps him anchored with a hand splayed on his lower back. He squeezes and circles, and Eddie wants to come, wants it like oxygen.

Steve noses below his ear, asks it of him, and the coil-spring searing hot in Eddie’s stomach cuts its tension, tips him into an orgasm that has him clenching his toes in the shallow bathwater. Steve swears softly, holds tightly onto Eddie softening dick and grinds up in slow, firm circles until he stutters to a stop, his whole body trembling as he sings a filthy, desperate song against Eddie’s throat.

Steve’s hair is a mess when he draws back to meet Eddie’s eyes, and Eddie makes it worse. Drags wet fingers through the frazzled strands and kisses Steve softly, tongues dipping out to taste.

When Eddie shivers again, what’s left of the bathwater having gone cold around them, Steve reaches for the tap, turns the hot water on and lies back. Eddie goes with him, hums and maps the edges of Steve’s scars with the tips of his fingers. Steve softens and slips out at some point, but Eddie barely notices. He’s too busy drifting, relishing the sound of Steve breathing and the quiet sense of ease that comes with each gentle brush of Steve’s hands down the length of his spine.

“Better?” Steve asks after a while, when the hot water has worked its magic once again.

“Better,” Eddie says. And with Steve, it always is.

Steve Harrington came slowly into Eddie’s life, then all at once, catching Eddie off guard at the end of the world.

But there’s warm water in the bathtub. There’s something simmering in the stove. And there’s Steve — always will be.

Eddie gives his weight over to Steve’s embrace, and basks in it.

[justalildumpling]

chapter 7: her nike zoom pegasus

wc: 1k

“Ok i can already cross out at least half the girls on this list because genuinely, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them wear sneakers before.” 

Donghyuck leant back against the trunk of the big oak tree in the quad, as the rest of the group crowded around Jeno’s laptop. Jeno could only let out a tired sigh, as he couldn’t exactly pinpoint when or how he had ended up in this position.

It was a normal Wednesday afternoon, cherishing his rare days off by lazing around his home. He remembered sitting at the base of his couch, flipping through the endless catalogue of movies on Netflix before a thunderous set of knocks sounded at his door.

That’s weird, he thought. He didn’t recall ordering any packages or food during the span of the morning. Maybe it was one of the street cats he would feed every once in a while? 

No, he immediately scrapped the thought. Cats most definitely do not knock on doors like that, if at all.

With his curiosity burning in his mind, Jeno shuffled his feet to the door. Flimsily fiddling with the doorknob with one hand and attempting to cover his tousled bed hair with another, he eventually pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head; and with a click, he pulled the door towards him to face his… friends?

Jeno couldn’t exactly recall the events that followed the initial confrontation as each of his friends grabbed a part of his arm, stuffed him into Mark’s car and set off to the university campus.

And now here he was, sitting crosslegged on the soft grassy lawns of the quadrangle watching his ambushers figure out the solution to his complicated love life (aka mostly Donghyuck, crossing out name after name with the red highlight tool of google docs)

“Not gonna lie to you guys,” Jeno spoke up, catching the attention of his group, “I don’t remember any of these people on the list.”

Jaemin slapped the side of his arm lightly, “Cause you were black out drunk, idiot.” 

Renjun snickered softly from the opposite end of the circle with his head buried in his own device. He remained disengaged for most of their conversations, which in turn made Jeno believe that the devil’s incarnate called Lee Donghyuck had also forcefully brought the poor film student along for his own entertainment.

“Y/N L/N?” Donghyuck stated, breaking Jeno’s train of thought.

The boy paused his scrolling to stare at your name in thought for a couple of seconds, “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Wasn’t that the girl Hyunjae was crushing on last year?” Renjun replied nonchalantly, though his attention never left his major work.

A murmur of what seemed like mutual agreement filled the atmosphere with a few other remarks and unconfirmed rumours half hazardly thrown into the mix. The once heated conversation revolving around his love life or lack there of, dulled down into a mellower one about the girl in question.

“Speak of the devil,” Mark butted in, his eyes peering towards the stone pathway to his right.

Jeno alongside the rest of his friends followed the Canadian’s gaze to spot you. For an average human’s attention to detail, they would’ve stared for a couple of seconds, thought not much of it and returned their focus back to their original task at hand. But, not Jeno. 

His eyes zeroed in on your shoes, Black Nike Zoom Pegasus. One of the models of footwear he wore for training back in his high school days. It was a comfortable fit, with the cushion of the sole being slightly ‌thicker than the previous models, it made it a perfect shoe for long distance cardio or just everyday life.

The white sole of your shoes was tinted a light brown; most probably dirtied from walking around the campus grounds in the rain and the Nike symbol slightly rubbed off, showing the much love the shoes had received over the years.

As his eyes trailed up to your pale blue cardigan draped on your shoulders, it felt as if sirens were going off in his brain. He could hear the squabbles of his friends in the background as he stood up from the park bench, taking cautionary steps towards your figure on the path. 

Jeno could feel the beating of his heart crescendoing the closer in proximity the two of you got, his hands clenching the cuffs of his jacket, before mustering out, “Hey! You’re Y/N right?”

You slowly swivelled around, eyes wide open and your eyebrows raised by the unexpected interaction.

“Uh yeah? Jeno right?” You answered with a curious smile, “What’s up?”

Jeno didn’t exactly know what he was trying to achieve with this conversation, maybe he was trying to introduce himself to you. But obviously that failed because you already knew who he was, and of course you did. You were best friends with Park Sunghoon, his occasional gym buddy and seatmate in that god forbidden exercise physiology class he had barely passed last semester.

Maybe he wanted to ask you about last night, if you had willingly kissed him let alone actually remembered anything at all. But that would be weird, what was he meant to say?

“Hey, I’m pretty sure we made out last night but I don’t exactly remember if it’s you but you’re wearing the same exact running shoes as the girl so I’d like to think that it’s you.”

No. Over his dead body.

It was then Jeno realised that he had stayed silent for longer than socially acceptable as you started scrunching your eyebrows in confusion, tapping your fingers against the base of your laptop patiently for him to reply to your so called simple question.

Maybe he should’ve replied with “Were you at Sunwoo’s party last night because I swear I saw you around the beer pong area” or “Sorry, I blanked out there, have you seen Sunghoon around?” But life doesn’t work that simply, nor does his hungover state of a fried brain so instead came:

“If you’re free right now, let me take you on a date.”

masterlist || previous | next

pairing: jeno x fem! reader

synopsis: it wasn’t often jeno showed emotions of love and affection, let alone kissing a stranger at a party that he doesn’t even remember?! determined to find his nameless cinderella, he began searching the campus far and wide but as hidden secrets started surfacing, he started to wonder whether the midnight spark was meant to be pursued after all.

genre: social media au, college au, strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, crack

warnings: mentions of alcohol

note: ... hehe. bet u didn't see that coming (also i was running on like 3hrs of sleep when writing this so pls forgive me)

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[ilguna]

☼ beard (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; knowing that you've been at home sick, Finnick tries to cheer you up when he comes back.

warnings; swearing,

wc; 1.4k

–

When Finnick left, he told you not to miss him too much while he was gone, and to be careful because there wasn’t going to be anyone to help you. At the time, you thought he was trying to be cheeky, because he knows how you feel about being with him all hours of the day. If you can be, you’re attached at the hip from sun up to sun down. You like his company.

He was mocking you, and trying to be sweet after to make up for it and to distract you from thinking about it. You caught it, of course, and halfway laughed at his stupid joke to make him feel better so he wouldn’t be hung up on your silence for the entirety of his trip.

It didn’t matter, anyway, because you were confident in your ability to entertain yourself for a couple weeks while he mentored in the Capitol. He hasn’t done that without you in a few years, it was weird watching Mags get taken away by that train again. You guys really thought she was going to retire for good.

While you had to figure out a way to keep yourself busy, you had to be mindful about your healing body, which was gravely sick a few days before he said goodbye. If it was up to him, he would’ve sent one of the other guy victors to the Capitol for him so that he would’ve been able to stay with you. He knew better than to do that, though, because Coriolanus would’ve been pissed.

He was genuinely worried before he left, and you did all you could to reassure him that you’d be just fine.

That first week wasn’t so bad, you did some cleaning around the house, being careful about inhaling cleaning chemicals so that you wouldn’t pass out. You dusted, wiped down everything starting with the top and moving down to the bottom. And once the house was cleaned, you took a breather for a few days.

You read a book, a small one that you finished the same day. And then you started a thicker one, and finished it the following day. You decided after that you wanted to be more productive with your free time, because you don’t get much of it often. 

So, you went ahead and went back to cleaning. You cleared out some of the junk from the pantry and most of what was in the closets, which has given you a lot more space to work with. You know that Finnick won’t notice any of those shirts are missing, much less the pants he wears when there’s nothing else clean that he would prefer over them.

You washed all the sheets, blankets and pillow covers in the house, which does include the guest bedroom. You hated the smell, that led you to lighting several candles, hoping to make the house smell good, and you blew them all out when the flame was getting dangerously tall.

When you were done with that, you bought fresh flowers to put around the house to brighten up the space. That same night, you went to stargaze outside, which was underwhelming and incredibly boring. You did, however, enjoy laying on the front lawn and feeling the warmth of the breeze on your skin.

You did this all within the first week and a half of him being gone. They were all tasks that you’d been putting off for months because you didn’t have the energy to go and do it all. And you managed to knock it out in a week and a half because you had to find something to do.

Since, you’ve done nothing but sit around the house and cook for yourself when you’re hungry. There really is fuck all to do when Finnick’s not here. You’re so used to following him around from place to place, talking to him about whatever comes to your mind, or listening to him babble about his latest project.

You thought that you’d never say this, but you might like mentoring a lot more than you thought you did. Solely because there’s so much to do in such a short time span. You’ve had your schedule so jam-packed at times, that you don’t have time to eat, much less take bathroom breaks because you’re so behind.

It hurts to send teenagers inside of an arena, of course, but there’s nothing like pulling every string available to help the tribute inside. And when that’s exhausted, there’s plenty to do in the city itself. It doesn’t have to be with just Finnick, either. You go out with the stylists and your fellow mentors all the time when Finnick’s too busy to go, or his night is occupied by someone else.

The day’s never the same without him here, though. Today’s the day he finally comes back from the Capitol. While other mentors get sent home as soon as their tributes die, he’s forced to stay until the Games are over to make sure that all of Coriolanus’ clients are fulfilled the way he wants them to be.

He makes you sick.

“(Y/n)!” You can hear your name shouted from downstairs. 

With your eyes closed, you can picture Finnick coming in the front door, back from his trip. He has a habit of setting his bag on the couch, and he likes to wear his favorite shirt and pair of jeans that he makes sure are clean for his trip every year. Like clockwork.

“I’m up here!” You shout back.

You don’t move from where you lay in the middle of the bed, on top of the blankets. You were about to take a nap in the patch of sunlight streaming through the window, since the warmth was enough. If he’s here though, then the extra sleep will have to wait until you’ve caught up.

You can hear his shoes hitting the hardwood flooring on the way up the stairs. You open your eyes now, rolling your head to the side so that you can see Finnick when he comes through the door. You have the door open slightly, because there’s no point in shutting it all the way anymore.

You can see him appear through the crack, standing outside of it for a second.

“Are your eyes open?” He asks.

“Yup.” You squint, trying to see him better. He’s standing in the shadow perfectly, it’s blocking out his face.

“Are you ready for this?”

“Ready for what?” You ask, face twisting, “Why are you being weird?”

He pushes the door open, it creaks the entire time. He’s still hidden behind the doorway, you can’t see him very well. You watch as he moves over, coming through so that you can see him better.

“Oh my god.” You laugh, struggling to push yourself to sit upright, “What the fuck is on your face?”

Your wonderful husband, who never breaks his habits unless he’s forced to, or it’s a dare that he can’t say no to, is showing you something that you thought that you’d never get to see in your life.

He’s grown a beard.

“Holy shit.” You laugh, sliding out of bed, “You grew this while you were gone?”

“No, I was working on it before I left, remember? I said I was going to shave later on the train?” He laughs, running his fingers through it.

You vaguely recall that conversation. You’ve seen him with stubble plenty of times, he’s lazy when it comes to shaving it, but he’s never gone this far before.

You reach to touch it, cupping his face. The hairs tickle at your palms and your wrists, curling around your fingers slightly. “You hate the feeling of having a beard.”

“I know.” He grabs your wrists, rubbing his thumbs over your arms, “I just thought that you’d like to see it.”

“It’s not going to last long so I’ve got to enjoy it while I have it.” You sputter out another laugh, “At least kiss me so I can know how it feels against my face.”

Finnick shakes his head, “You’re clearly feeling better.”

“Now that you’re here.” You kiss him.

[elrieldreamer]

Elain walked swiftly through the large, manicured lawn, past the carefully planned and maintained flower garden, and into the line of trees that delineated the extent of the River House property. She could hear the gentle sounds of the Sidra flowing past the far edge of the woods, and for a fleeting moment Elain considered turning down the worn path that led to its banks.

But shining water and a gentle breeze wasn’t what she needed this afternoon. She’d politely dismissed herself from afternoon tea, hoping to avoid additional conversation after Rhys had announced Lucien’s imminent arrival in the Night Court. Apparently, he was due to provide a report regarding Vassa’s current status, and by extension, any developments with Koschei.

“We will host him for supper following business, Elain. He asked after your welfare, and I offered him a chance to find for himself that you are well,” Rhys had said, with a sidelong glance, surreptitiously judging her reaction.

The trees gradually grew thicker, and Elain finally reached the deeply shadowed area she had set out for. In addition to the towering oaks, this particular space was occupied by a dense blackberry bramble. When the bush was heavy with fruit, she and the twins often collected berries for pies and crumbles, arriving back at the kitchen breathless with giggles and covered in purple stains. When her heart was particularly heavy with sorrow, she came here alone.

Lowering herself to her knees, Elain reached both hands forward and gingerly grasped a thick, woody cane at the base of the bramble. Biting back a sudden rush of emotion, she slowly tightened her grip until thorn after thorn pierced the scarred skin of her palms. Breathing deeply, Elain closed her eyes and imagined the ache being pushed from her heart, each beat propelling it further along her veins until it found release, flowing out of her body as it spilled to the forest floor.

Elain remained there for some time, head bowed reverently as if in prayer. Slowly, as she found that she was once again numb, she loosened her grip. Opening her eyes, she blinked several times as they readjusted to her surroundings, movement catching her attention as a lithe shadow separated itself from an area of thick darkness. Elain’s heart thundered as it darted towards her, circled the blood stained ground at her feet, and then swiftly disappeared into the ether. She’d been caught.

Azriel prided himself on his punctuality. He had arrived at the River House well in advance of his scheduled meeting with Rhys and Lucien, so he headed to the kitchens under the guise of connecting with Nuala and Cerridwen. In truth, he simply wished for a glimpse of Elain. It had been seven months since the disaster that was Solstice, and still his need for her hadn’t ebbed. If anything, it had grown more acute with the distance he’d maintained. The small mercies of fleeting glances in her direction were all that he had of her now, and he held them close.

Azriel had nearly reached his destination when the shadow that he’d sent ahead to find her reappeared, whispering in his ear.

The lady’s lifeblood waters wild blackberries, Shadowsinger.

Azriel stilled, momentarily incapacitated by the unexpected message. Her… lifeblood? Oh, Cauldron.

Take me to her. Now. He responded, melting into shadow.

Azriel’s eyes searched wildly for her the moment that the swirling penumbra deposited him in a thicket of trees and bramble. And, finally, there she was. He quickly ran his gaze over her, desperate to find her wound; to make and execute a plan of care.

Elain stood stiffly, hands clasped behind her back. Face averted, she remained silent. Withdrawn, but seemingly whole, he decided. But she was bleeding. He could scent the metallic tang of iron clouding the heady perfume of jasmine as he inhaled.

The Seer feels shame for seeking comfort in pain.

Comfort in … pain? It was at that moment that his mind seemed to grasp what was happening in that wood. Elain was hurting herself. Because the wound that truly needed tending to was inside of her.

She was hurting herself, and the knowledge broke him.

“Elain,” he rasped, slowly stepping towards her, one palm extended. “May I … may I help you?”

With her hands. With her heart? She remained frozen in place, but her eyes jumped to his. Oh, Elain.

Azriel slowly pulled his undershirt up from the waist of his trousers, ripping a length of soft, black cotton from the bottom hem. Reaching out, he asked again, “Please let me help you with your hands?”

Keeping her gaze low, Elain slowly brought her hands from behind her back, exposing her palms to him. Much of the blood had begun to dry, but deep cuts remained weeping in the fleshy curves beneath her thumbs. Silently, Azriel removed the distance remaining between them, and began the process of cleaning her up.

“Lucien is coming for supper,” she finally said, tone flat.

“Is that the reason for … this?” he asked, raising her hand gently from his lap, where he continued to staunch the flow of blood.

“They want me to choose him. To accept what they think is inevitable. What is most convenient for them.”

He knew that he shouldn’t be here, having this conversation with her. Knew that Rhys would be livid if he found out that they were alone and that Azriel was talking to her and touching her. But she needed him, and tending to her need was more important than Rhys and his Cauldron-damned orders. Keeping his head down and eyes focused on his task, Azriel asked, “And what do you want, Elain?”

“To forge my own destiny. To follow my own heart,” she whispered, “I want to choose.”

Azriel’s heart galloped as he dropped the soiled cotton into a shadow. Holding her scarred hands in his own, he took one swift glance back over his shoulder to where the River House waited, before steeling himself and facing her once more.

“I will always help you defend your right to choose, Elain,” he said. “Let me help you.”

[harrison-abbott]

The wind went through the trees and the sound

Made you wish that you weren’t yourself and that

You were somebody else with a bit of steadiness

In their life.

The wind whooshed through the boughs, bare of

Leaves and yet in the February barrenness there

Was still a swishing magic noise that came off

The branches and twigs of the old mini forest

At the forgotten part of the city that you always

Loved. And, though you still had the grace

To witness the magic, at night and in the heart

Of solitude, you wondered what it would be like

To be elsewhere and void of the memories

That plague you in such moments.

Or, perhaps, to be one of the owls that make those

Distant hoots on anonymous parts of the trees,

Or the foxes that have equally hidden dens somewhere

On the floors underneath … to be another creature

Without the laced irony of the human mind.

And, yet, it’s a warm February, warmest you

Can remember. Spring already feels near and

Yet it’s still winter … and the rains are thick

And often and the wild garlic shoots have

Already carpeted the lawns below the trees.

You feel like you’re stuck between different

Segments of time and that although you’ve lived

Here for most of your life, the scenery is far

Different now, and many of the mightiest trees

In yon woodland are destroyed by recent storms.

There were storms in the past; but they never

Lopped the ancient trees … or so it seemed back then.

It helps to write. To send out words to folks you’ve

Never met before: as a means to try and rid yourself

Of loneliness and despair. The mini bouts of sleep,

Puffed up with erratic dreams, or historical dreams

You can’t get rid of. … You go to sleep afraid of

Waking up and when you wake up you’re almost

Surprised to still be here.

And despite all these notions there is a luckiness

To appreciate, living on the edge of the woods;

That place which remains your favourite in the world.

And a plague to anybody who should ever meddle

With it or look to tear it down completely.

The storms are allowed to rock the trees because

They have no human aspect. And there are still many

Of them upright, still, having been alive for over

A century. Proud and lofty still.

And the ivy sheets are also ancient and emerald

And nothing seems capable of shredding them up.

And they are far thicker than as I recall when a child.

[astersoul]

a joongdok ghost au where they only get to meet on the last night of october

yjh is on his finest suit, his hair styled for once, his best perfume settling nicely on his collar

a lovely bouquet in one hand, a candle in the other

while people walk past white fences and well-kept lawns to meet their lover, yjh is on a trail of dried leaves covering an uneven pavement while rows and rows of stones surround him from both sides

there he stops at a small statue of an angel, watching over the place where his lover slept

his eyes trace up the ivy that clung unto it, its length a mark of its own for the years it had been since his slumber

yjh kneels down to light the candle he places in front of the stone, the wick thicker this time

'ghosts need warmth too!' was what the pouting squid had told him

yjh smiles at the memory, he had lost count of the times he was still able to reach out and pinch those cheeks

a hushed whisper of the wind leaves a cold kiss on his cheek and yjh closes his eyes as he felt arms slowly wrap around him

the presence behind him emits an icy chill yet it did not bother yjh one bit

"hello, my hyukie"

his lover is finally here

[nerdraging4point0]

Ok so, for backup boyfriend Ryan. It's a well known fact that he games a lot while he's touring. Any time off he has he gets on. What isn't known is that he's gaming with you. AND that when you are having a bad day he will specifically let you win games together. (you don't even know this) he's super sweet and everyone thinks you two are couple goals.

That's the sweet side of things.

Dirty side of things. He is a daddy in the bedroom. That is the only thing you are allowed to refer to him as. And he is very good to his baby girl. He loves tying you up but he prefers silk. He loves blindfolding you. He loves the little gasps and whimpers that escape your mouth when you are doing sensory play. Your satisfaction is what is most important to him.

That is all

Vicious fits you well, baby girl.

@signs-of-ill-portent @throwingmetothelions and @familiarscarsxelectrichearts

Because there was a significant lack of Ryan on my page. She asked. I delivered (to the best of my ability)

TW: PIV, Oral female receiving, Oral Male receiving, language. (Other shit possibly.)

Tag Team: @ladyveronikawrites, @dominuslunae @ghost-hosts @thesazzb @synthetic-wasp-570 @letmeadoreyoux @witchyweeb34 @ghost-hosts @jay02bo @asilentsiren @cncohshit, @thebadchic, @kingdomof-omens @shaydayhere @jellybean181 @beaker1636

Daddy Ry Ry….

Solid soft daddy when doing couple things. He likes to see you win just because of the smile and excited way you clap at your own victory. He’s easy going about a lot of things, but at all times, regardless of what the situation is, bottom line. He is daddy.

You know it’s not just a bedroom thing. He knows just how to get you.

He’ll be sitting casually in his chair, on the couch on the bus, lawn chair while the crew barbeques. Doesn’t matter. You’ll walk up to him ready to slide in on the arm of the chair or right next to him and cuddle, but no. He has other plans.

He slides right down so he is a little slumped in the chair legs parted, takes his big, tattooed hand and pats his thigh. The silent “right here baby.”

He’s not shy about shit in front of his bandmates. He hears the squeak you make as you move over to him. Sitting on his thigh slowly while the bandmates watch, trying to carry on with conversation.

Ryan at this point is deaf to the conversation, doesn’t really care to know where it’s going either. The angle you’re sitting on him he’s looking at the way your ass curves, how your hair falls down your back. Reminded of the times he’s had you ride him backwards, smacking that ass to get you to bounce harder.

“Come on baby girl, you know what daddy likes. You wanna be a good girl for me don’t cha?”

He’s a man that isn’t afraid to ask you to sit on his face either. The way his tight grip gets a hold of your thighs and brings you to his face. The grip he has on you rolling your hips on his tongue, every bit of the juice coating his face from his nose to his chin. He’s messy about it. He loves it messy.

Messy is just want he wants to see when you’ve got a face full of his cock. Tears, make up, sweat, saliva, all the things smeared over your face. Your hair has become a rat’s nest because of how many times he’s had to pet it back and gather it in his hands just so he can see that pretty face of yours. Pupils blown, cheeks hollowed out, your ability to breath through your nose becoming less of a possibility because he is deep throating you so hard your tears can’t come out your eyes face enough, so they start leaking out your nose.

When he finally decides to take you he’s got you bent over the bed or on your hands and knees. Hands have either got a grip on your hair or both on your shoulders. His thicker than the guys in the band but in all the good ways. Snapping his hips into you hard, your body barely able to produce noise as it’s not sure whether to feel pleasure or pain.

“Who’s your daddy? Huh baby girl. Say it for me.”

“Fuck. Daddy. Feels so good.” Just that is all you can manage your brain is far beyond capable of forming sentences or solid thoughts. He’d come without warning. But once he came down from the high and realized you hadn’t finished yet, he’d pull out give you a swift smack on the ass before sliding two of his fingers inside you. Fucking you with his fingers so hard you can hear the bracelets on his wrist sliding around from the momentum. He’d find that soft spongy spot inside you and bear down on it till your on your tip toes legs shaking as you come all over his hand.

Thank you for consideration.