#also this was written on my phone

[flamingpudding]

Jail Buddies

Once a month, Jason makes an effort to meet Dick on purpose. Sometimes even more. After all, he was a good little brother checking in with his brother. Though he had a rather uncontroversial way of doing so. One that involved getting led into a jail cell of your local police department and loudly demanding to speak to Officer Grayson.

Okay, maybe it wasn't like that it was an effort to check on his brother and just one of his many listed dumb moments of recklessness he got caught for. And he was maybe using his brother to get out without having to call Cass, Steph, Duke, Tim, Damian, Alfred or Bruce, in that order depending who was willing to bail him out every time Dick had his 'Little Wing you won't learn if I keep bailing you out.'-Phases again. Or if Dick was being petty because of a recent prank war.

Either way, while Jason was waiting for Dick to make his entrance in his cell he noticed the teen boy sharing the cell with him staring at him wide eyed. He arched an eyebrow, and decided on a whim to make friendly conversation.

"So what got you here kid?"

The teen blinked as if just realizing Jason had addressed him before grinning a bit feral, his blue eyes having an unnatural glow. "Vandalism."

Jason's eyebrow rose again, but the teen continued.

"Trashed mu place and gave my guardian's car a pretty paint job and some other stuff."

"You vandalized your own place? And got arrested."

"Fruitloop decided an overnight stay was a better punishment then leaving me unattended."

The teen shrugged and Jason couldn't help but feel like he just had heard a red flag. He opened his mouth to question the kid more but than his brother finally made his entrance.

"Little Wing! What did you do this time!?" Jason could see that Dick was out to start a rant but changed tunes when he noticed the teen.

"Danny or Dan? You are here again? When did they bring you in? Trouble at home?" Dick asked, and Jason clearly saw the telltale signs of information fishing bat style.

"Danny and the usual." Danny, as Jason now learned the kid's name was, shrugged nonchalantly like this wasn't the first time he and Dick had had that exchange.

"Seriously buddy? I had a rebellious phase as teen too but to regularly trash your home to the point that someone calls the police or vandalize your guardian's cars, buildings, advertisements or anything that has to do with him is not a solution kid." Jason arched an eyebrow at Dicks tone, feeling slightly reminded of whenever Dick lectured one of them.

"Oh I know. But it's a nice stress reliever, plus you guys are nice here. I get pizza as dinner whenever I stay the night." The kid grinned and Jason couldn't help the snort that earned him a little glare from Dick.

Instead of arguing further his brother let out a suffering sigh and let Jason out of the cell, waving him towards the exit and following him shortly after giving the kid one more look that looked like a mix between stern and pleading to stop being a rebellious teen.

Once out of earshot, Jason then chose to ask. "So what's the kid's deal?"

"Nothing, just a rebellious teen reminds me of Damian when he first appeared. He has a twin and a little sister as far as I know, both of them also known here. Their guardian is an upstanding man, though." Jason heard the hidden but.

"Did someone look into it?" He hummed more as a cover.

"Higher ups don't know, but i am running an investigation." Translation Bruce is unaware, but Dick was using Bat resources for looking into the kid's residence.

"Nice kid, didn't think he was a regular." He only commented.

"Nice and polite, you wouldn't think he did some of the things he was brought in for. Distrustful though, despite his friendly nature."

Jason nodded as Dick went through the papers to bail him out, a thought popping up in his head. Clearly, something was up with the kid that had his brother worried, and it looked like he was stuck on just doing his investigation. So, being the thoughtful little brother he was, Jason decided to help his brother.

In his uncontroversial ways, of course.

"Yo Danny, also here?" Jason grinned as he was led into the same cell the teen was in a week later.

[moondirti]

there’s something so erotic about a man who grabs your jaw when you keep avoiding his gaze so he can force your eyes on his

featuring: SOAP, afab reader, oral, spitting, mild dubcon (i.e. boundary crossing)

soap has always been intense. a bullet shot off in a steel room, bound to ricochet until it makes contact with something that can absorb its impact. you're in the right place at the right time: a bar, the gym he frequents, perhaps even a football game he'd been anticipating for weeks. it doesn't really matter what context he first spots you in – all that energy, that orderless enthusiasm he seems to prescribe to everything, sharpens to focus solely on you. bonnie wee thing that keeps sliding him wily looks, instilling in him a mission he knows he won't back down from.

at first it's how to approach you. easy enough; you like him too, that much he can tell. so when you eventually agree to a farmers market date (where he intends to spoil you rotten with food from every stall), it becomes about opening you up. figuratively at first, you have a hard time keeping up with him without getting overwhelmed. startled at how forthcoming he is, stunned at the manner in which he treats you. like he's known you for years, a childhood best friend you only met last tuesday. he calls right after your first date, asks you to accompany him for coffee before his morning run. shows up at your door unannounced, carrying tools to fix the fan you briefly complained wasn't working. is bold enough to sneak his hand on your thigh while you're watching a movie later that evening, gradually moving higher as your breath begins to falter.

he spares no effort once things get sexual, either. if you expect him to go easy for your first time, you'll come to sorely regret the mistake. quick to slip out of his too-tight shirt, even quicker to spread your legs out on your couch. manages to get your joggers off but opts to merely shift your panties to the side, fingers hooked in the thin material (which he will pocket later). when he envelops your entire cunt with his mouth, his tongue digs into every fold, every hole if it means he can swallow down the smallest part of you.

taste s’good hen, bloody mad wae it

only you’re not looking at him. instead, you’ve thrown your head back, too lost in the pleasure to pay attention to the show he’s putting on for you. why exactly, he's not sure. he’s being good, isn’t he? giving you everything you need? his heart races a mile per minute and something needy, something dark twists within him. he laves his tongue over your hole once more, collecting the juices that pour for him and gathering it behind his teeth alongside a hefty glob of saliva.

when he moves up your body, he tucks your chin in his palm, pulling your head down to face him.

it's too much. too much. he doesn't seem to realise it, but you're breathing is still inconsistent and shallow, and you're about to cry from overstimulation. now he's forcing eye contact, nose kissing yours, and pressing down on either side of your jaw so you're forced to open your mouth wide. you know what's coming, see it from the way his cheeks move. it's all you can do to brace yourself for the inevitable, unable to voice your aversion to the kink. fisting your hands, tensing your throat. but it's as you close your eyes that his self-restraint snaps.

so, he spits. it's thick and messy and heady with the smell of your sex. he doesn't even aim it properly. a significant amount of it lands on your lip, some even on your nose. your tongue gets the brunt of it though, the new weight of fluid causing you to gag. yet his pupils are blown so wide they're barely blue anymore, a cerulean ring around bottomless black, fixated on the sloppy state of your mouth, and it's hard to deny him anything that boils him down to such a state. like a puppy. over-eager and exhilarated when you indulge him so.

you never learn to like it, though it becomes a routine thing.

[vincentbriggs]

Dear person on the bus this morning with the Dracula quote tattoo whose phone was open to my youtube channel, sorry I pretended not to notice and also was too shy to say hello

[applestorms]

thinking about how near refers to light at the end of the series— not really as light yagami, not even really as kira, and not quite as L, but rather an amalgamation of titles: L-KIRA, a twisted mix of two personas, masks on top of masks. no longer a person but a series of letters, a filtered voice through a screen. a man who has built his entire life in the space between lies, who cannot let himself stop for a second without the weight of his own guilt, his sins, crushing him. regrets repressed because this is the only way it could ever be, it has to be worth it, it has to, it has to, because you can’t even bring yourself to consider what it all means otherwise.

i am a firm believer that light yagami, the son, the student, the average human person, dies at the same time that L does. at least at the beginning of the series he has some semblance of normalcy to hold himself to, the Serious Student persona that keeps him walking to and from school and talking to people and eating dinner with his family at home. how many times do we really see him going outside, post-L death? how often do we see him outside of some L-based police HQ, talking to people he isn’t trying to manipulate? really, it’s no wonder he falls so far, alienated as he is from the rest of humanity. when was the last time he breathed long enough to remember what the sky looks like? hugged his mom, laughed with his sister? did he ever visit his father’s grave? does he remember what the breeze smells like? was he ever really happy? did he deny himself his only chance?

at least in the case of L and near the isolation feels intentional, a preferable choice, carefully and logically considered for all the pros and cons. light never asked for the position he fell into, that fell upon him, that he created for himself. he denies the death note being a curse, but it’s not like he could ever admit it if it was.

light’s story arc in death note really feels like a tragedy to me, specifically in the sense that he never really gets the chance to change. on a plot level this is true, much of the second half of the story post-L death is light utilizing the exact same strategies as before (taking away his ownership of the DN to Strategize, romancing a woman he doesn’t care for to use her, fighting a snarky troll of a super genius hiding behind a letter whose real name & face he cannot find), but it’s true on an emotional level too. light never really gets to grow up, he never gets the chance to truly question his ideals or goals without the world he’s built by himself crashing down around him.

i keep thinking back to the significance of matsuda asking him about his dad, how he could drag him to his death for the sake of all of this. light’s response, so truthful in its desperation, really sums it all up: he died for a reason. KIRA has to win, or his dad died for nothing. he cannot face the idea that he caused his own father’s death, so KIRA must be justice. there is no other alternative. KIRA is god, or light yagami killed his own father for a fairytale.

really, it’s so fitting that his name uses the kanji for moon. moonlight— not originating from the moon itself but a reflection, of something brighter, greater, more powerful than he could ever be. light dies the same way as every other criminal he passed his judgement upon, on his knees and desperate, pathetic, begging for life even as he knows he is doomed to the same fate of nothingness that he granted to everybody else. godhood denied. he said it himself, that he could never be anything more than a human, but somewhere in the fog he lost track of the person he once was. and it’s near’s cruelest observation that stands out the most to me in that final scene— that he never really had to be this. he could’ve stopped at any point, felt his guilt, paid his regrets, and moved on with his humanity still intact. light has spent far too long repressing and denying to ever consider that an option anymore— but there was still room for sympathy for the 17 year old kid who killed without thinking, long before he built up such a dedicated palace of lies to justify his actions and hide away his guilt.

L-KIRA dies on the floor of a dirty, abandoned building, surrounded by the people he spent years manipulating and lying to and betraying. light yagami dies in a helicopter, locked and chained to his only closest equal, holding a notebook that he would use to sound the death knell of his own fate and wearing his father’s gifted watch.

[bright-and-burning]

Slow kiss, whatever pairing you want! — wiz

Oscar giggles, thready and high, and leans into Lando’s space to grab the joint back from his hands. He takes a breath to steady himself first, pull it together so he won’t choke on the inhale and embarrass himself, and settles into his spot, twisting to sit sideways.

Lando lowers his hand and sinks back into the couch they’re sharing. Oscar can’t look away, stuck on the spread of Lando’s fingers across the pristine fabric. He’s drawing designs in the fuzz with his index finger, everything else held stationary, like the only tendons connected to his brain are concentrated there.

Lando pokes Oscar’s side.

“D’you forget how to smoke?”

His voice is slurred, low and slow. Oscar drags his eyes back up to Lando’s face.

“Noooooo,” Oscar draws it out, reveling in the shape of his mouth around the letters.

He forces his limbs to cooperate. Draws his hand up, and pauses, thoughts loading in from far away.

“You ever-“

He stops.

Lando blinks, lids slow to lower and even slower to raise.

“Yeah?”

It’s more an exhale than a word, but Oscar sees the green light that it is.

“Y’ever shotgun?”

Lando’s finger pauses, halfway through writing Oscar’s name in the cushion. His nose scrunches up. Oscar wants to lick it.

“Fuckin’- what?”

“When you, like,” Oscar takes a hit, sits with it in his lungs for a moment. “And then you, y’know. Blow it in somebody’s mouth.”

Smoke escapes as he speaks, words made hazy and real.

Lando shifts forward, back into his usual state of perpetual motion.

“You mean blowbacks?“

“What the fuck. You just made that up.”

Lando twists to face him, faster than his eyes can track.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh!”

Lando rolls his eyes, giving in. Shocker, honestly. Oscar’d expected them to go on forever. The silence sits on his limbs like a weighted blanket.

Lando clears his throat.

“Nah.”

“Huh?”

Oscar’s head is heavy. He lets it slide to the side, leans his shoulder further into the couch.

“Never-“ Lando pauses, clearly searching for words. Oscar’s more interested in finding out what the sheen of sweat on Lando’s collarbone tastes like than predicting what he’s trying to say next. “Shotgunned, or whatever.”

Oscar stops calculating how weird it would be to lean over and lick Lando.

“You- never?”

“No?”

Lando sounds confused. Bemused, maybe.

Oscar hums. He wiggles his toes, testing his control of his limbs. Looks at the joint, cherry burning up, getting hot in his fingers, and makes a decision.

“Hold still.”

“Wha-“

Oscar swings his leg over Lando’s lap, faster than he thought he was capable of, and drags the rest of his body into center.

“Wanna try?”

Lando swallows and nods, head tipping back to keep Oscar in sight.

The joint’s nearly burnt down. Oscar shakes off a pang of guilt at the waste, and takes a hit, inhaling deep, making his chest tight with it.

He weaves a hand into the crown of Lando’s hair, and tugs until his mouth drops open.

Oscar leans in close, close enough for Lando’s breath to be a gentle puff against his skin, just far enough not to touch, and closes his eyes.

He exhales. Lando inhales, audibly shaky, and Oscar opens his eyes to meet Lando’s, pupils blown wide. Oscar’s skin feels lit up, electricity arcing across the paper-thin distance between their lips.

“Again?” Lando croaks. He’s looking up at Oscar like he wants to eat him. Or be eaten by him. Oscar can’t tell.

Oscar takes a quick glance at the joint and nods. He takes one final hit, a too-large inhale, and leans back to put the roach in the tray on the coffee table.

The air feels like molasses around him. Syrupy, thick and sweet. Just a little too warm to be comfortable.

Sweat prickles at the backs of his knees where they’re bent.

Oscar looks down at Lando, mouth ajar and eyes half-lidded, and feels like he’s swallowed the sun.

He leans in again, and exhales into Lando’s waiting mouth. Eyes wide open to watch him inhale and hold it.

Lando’s exhale lights Oscar up, like he’s blown on the embers in the pit of his stomach to start a bonfire instead of into his face.

Oscar closes the distance, suddenly desperate to touch, and kisses Lando.

Lando inhales sharply and wraps his arms around Oscar’s waist to pull him closer, hands hot like a brand even through Oscar’s shirt.

Oscar slides his tongue into Lando’s mouth, mapping all the places his breath has been that he hasn’t, and slows. The desperation cools, replaced with low-burning need, both too high for finesse or speed.

The world outside of Lando’s body below him and mouth on his disappears, narrowed down to nothing more than wet heat and the press of fabric against his knees.

It’s sloppy; lazily licking into each others’ mouths, breathing against each other.

Oscar could spend hours like this.

[basslinegrave]

whatchu thinking about. nothing? just the changes to garys design and his character evolution and growth and everything. 24/7. you know. and the fact that even if he changed, hes still the same at his core!

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

First - Next?>>

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 179

first // prev // next

[lollytea]

Imagine if Willow sprinkles Hunter with pixie dust, and she's about to explain he needs to think happy thoughts to fly, only to see he's already floating off the ground.

"Whoa, what happy thought were you thinking?"

"Well, nothing really, I was just listening to you."

Her just being there is his happy thought.

[Now on AO3]

"It doesn't work on me," He claims, like the Know-It-All he is.

Willow is already coaxing a daisy into existence as he says it. It pokes through the forest floor, unusually exuberant for dusk hours, dimly illuminated by a fairy's magic touch.

"Are you calling my dust faulty?" She scoffs, plucking the flower out of the ground and twirling it teasingly beneath her chin. "How presumptuous."

"No," Answers the pirate. If you could even call him that right now. He's shed his immaculate gold coat and that large and ridiculous (but oh, so funny) hat of his.

He's taken every measure to be as inconspicuous as possible. Nobody aboard that ship can know about his little late night rendezvous with a fairy. Especially not if he doesn't intend to bring her back in a jar.

He has long since retired that ambition.

"It's no different than any other fairy's dust," He says, slow and cautious. "The crew has....obtained it a few times in the past...."

Willow doesn't say anything but her presence still makes him squirm. She already knows what becomes of fairies that pirates get their hands on.

"And it doesn't work on me...." He concludes.

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

He's a liar, among other things.

Willow opts to not mention how transparent he is in his longing to get tangled up in the stars, to test the feel of foamy cloudstuff in his hands, to soar the way the Lost Boys do.

He's so enraptured with winged creatures, she notices.

This boy wants to fly. This boy wants to become Lost in a way that matters on this island. And the only thing stopping him is his own stupid heart.

He's my uncle, he had whispered the last time she begged.

"I refuse to believe you're immune to dust," Declares Willow. "You are no different from any Lost Boy."

She means that in more ways than one. He even looks like one tonight. Young and sloppily dressed, his bare hairless face spotlighted by the fat silvery moon hanging overhead.

It bothers him that it's so difficult to grow a beard. It makes her heart sink a little every time he laments how impatient he is to grow up.

"I'm nothing like a Lost Boy," He retorts for the billionth time.

If she felt a little more argumentative, she'd ask him to state their exact coordinates on the map. And he'd flounder for an answer, because he's never been in this part of the island before. Willow led him into the depths of the forest by the hand in the dead of night.

He's a boy.

He's lost.

It would make him all mad and huffy if she pulled that on him. Which would be funny. But she doesn't want to make him mad and huffy right now.

Willow shimmies closer, rustling the leaves underneath her. "I think you just never learned the trick of dust. It's not like fairies to give the secret away to just anyone."

He's not looking in her direction. Which is annoying. She could get drunk on how it feels to have his eyes poring over the sight of her.

It was once an impish sort of delight. A delicious satisfaction that he found her such an irksome creature yet he was unwillingly attracted to her shape, to her smile, to her eyes.

It's different now. Less unwilling on his part. And at some point or another, she found herself blooming pink roses beneath the skin of her cheeks when he looks at her like that.

She likes being looked at. But she now understands that she likes being looked at by him. She wishes to hear the thoughts in his head as his eyes hang off her bare shoulders.

"So..." Willow croons, her fingers finding the sharp bend of his jaw. She brushes the skin, gingerly avoiding the sensitive edges of his scars.

"How about...." her palm connects to his cheek and she still marvels over how perfectly fitted her hand is for cupping his face. She guides his gaze towards hers. The eyes that she finds pretty to settle on the face that those eyes find pretty.

"You trust me on this...." Her soft spoken utterance is emphasized with an affectionate rub of her index finger on the sweet spot behind his ear.

He likes being touched there. She found out back when he was trying very hard to not like her.

Once his eyes are set on hers, confused but hopelessly soft, Willow lifts the daisy to her lips and blows.

A string of glowing pollen rises from the buttery pistil and drifts in his direction. It's as though it already knows tonight's assignment is proving a Know-It-All wrong. It's the only way to needle a big pretty smile outta him.

Willow is gonna get that smile, whether he likes it or not. She's a rascal like that.

Dust clings to his cheeks, spilling down his neck and sinking under skin.

"I promise you're not immune to dust," Says Willow, because she won't allow him to be. If he wants to fly, he'll fly.

He's staring at her with wild eyes now, every blink an agonizing interruption of his beholding.

She hasn't realized until now just how close their faces are. Nose to nose.

Feeling the tickly heat of his breath makes her smile.

"All you have to do is..."

He gasps.

Willow gasps.

They are no longer nose to nose because he is jerkily rising off the ground.

Amusingly, once he's a few inches into the air, he awkwardly tips forward and his feet continue to ascend. He's floating upside-down now, startled and confused yelps erupting from his throat. Willow stands up, trying to swallow her giggles as he desperately stretches his arms out to claw at the ground for some sort of anchor.

He's wobbling further and further away from her now and with a flutter of wings, she rises to meet him by the heads of the trees.

"Hiiiiiii~" She singsongs in an imitation of something he said to her so very long ago when things were so very different.

His flipped body has caused his shirt to hitch. It hangs in a baggy pool at his armpits.

Willow cannot help herself. She pokes his bare belly with a silly sounding "boop!" making him squeak ("Willow!") and scrabble to yank the fabric back over his figure. His legs are kicking erratically, attempting to put himself to right.

She doesn't indulge in the antics for much longer, instead opting to take pity on him. Lost Boys are like this sometimes too. But only in those first few minutes before they realize that they're perfectly safe, just a little inexperienced.

"Don't you worry," Says Willow, taking him by the waist and flipping him rightside-up. "You just haven't got your sky legs yet,"

She lets go of him once his position has been righted but he is not having it. Willow lets out an embarrassing noise herself as a pair of arms awkwardly throw themselves around her. His breathing rattles in her ear, his heartbeat a thick pound against hers.

Willow blurts out the first thing she can think to say. "First time?"

"Obviously!" He snaps, though there's a tremor to his tone.

She laughs to hide her brain's stubborn fixation on how defined the arms around her are.

"Hey now, I gotcha," She says comfortingly. With a bit of effort, she manages to rearrange their entangled bodies so it's not so...so much.

They now float at the respectful distance of any two teenagers having their first dance, complete with his arms loosely looped around her neck and Willow's hands rested against his hips.

Hm. Well. It's no longer so much but...

Now it's not enough.

To right that wrong this instant, Willow hums mischievously. "After all...."

Those respectful hands slide up his sides,

"I finally got my diabolical little fairy hands on a pirate."

They linger on his ribs.

His breath gets caught.

"I'm not gonna let him go."

They travel back down to his hips.

He's frozen in the way he tends to freeze, but it doesn't deter the heat. It blotches his face, his ears, even seeping down his neck.

He used to slap her touch away when she got playfully handsy with him. That stopped a lot time ago.

Instead, his grip around her tightens, though his gaze falls bashfully.

Willow grins.

He liiiiiiiiiikes it.

"How does flying work?" Asks the pirate.

"Well, it basically means not being on the ground," Answers Willow intelligently.

"No. I mean....why am I flying right now?"

Oh.

Right.

She had forgotten that he went blasting off before she could even explain the trick of it.

He looks troubled, a little bit on the scrunched up side. She expects that the reality of his situation will sink in sooner or later but...he needs answers first.

He's wanted this. He's wanted to fly. But it isn't like him to be satisfied without knowing the How and Why.

"Well," Says Willow. "What were you thinking? Before you began to fly?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "I-I wasn't thinking anything specific."

He's out of his depth and it's making him panic.

"Why? What was I supposed to be thinking?"

She smiles. "Your happiest thought."

"Oh...."

"Why?" She asks, leaning into his space. "What were you thinking?"

His brain is bizarrely shaped and she's obsessed with the idea of rummaging around in it.

She likes it when he allows the makings of the contraption to sputter out through his lips.

What are your happy thoughts, pirate?

But he never gives her an answer.

He doesn't need to.

What that boy does instead is give her a look. It's a strangely quiet look for such a loud face.

She can't gather together the words to describe that look because it feels too much like a secret. What she will say is that it's hers. It's all hers.

Her secret pirate.

His secret fairy.

"Oh..." She doesn't like how her voice shakes but what can she do?

He makes her feel so very fragile sometimes.

It's happening.

Aw thorns, it's happening.

Willow's wings speed up without her say-so and the two bodies shoot higher into the sky, the pirate howling in surprise.

She laughs. What else can she do but laugh?

But now that she's laughing, it's very difficult to stop. It's getting to the point of hysteria.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

And you know what? He might be hers too.

The sudden lift has made him lose his grip on her and he's now paddling through the sky, reaching out his hand to hers.

Willow takes it.

And while she's at it, she takes his other hand and gives him a giddy twirl.

He's accustomed enough to the weightlessness by now that he doesn't react with horror. But rather, it surprises a giggle out of him.

Terribly encouraged by the bubbling sound, she spins him again and he laughs harder.

He makes those dumb snorty noises.

She's going to spin him unconscious if he keeps doing this to her.

It's in his eyes now, she can see it. Something is beginning to kindle, the realization that this is it.

He can fly.

He can fly.

He can fly.

His smile is gold.

She never would have taken the air above the forest for a dance floor but there's nothing conventional about anything she does with this boy.

Their bodies rotate across the stars, like the little dancers in that music box she found once.

They try to imitate the grown-ups in those books he likes to show her. It's his idea.

Two hands, one small and round with short fingers and a cushiony palm, and one long and narrow, fingers all lean and knobbly. They find each other and the mismatched fingers intertwine.

Willow's other hand is on his shoulder while his is on her waist. It's loose, no longer fearing his life up here.

He can't dance while standing on the ground, so he certainly has no footing in the sky. But that's alright, floating and touching is enough.

He tells her stories.

She listens.

She flirts and she jokes.

He blushes.

Sometimes he responds with something just as immaculately phrased.

She blushes.

Her cheek is resting against his chest when she utters the words. "Guess what..."

"What?"

"There was a fairy ball tonight."

She wasn't supposed to tell him that.

The subsequent silence leaves her to wonder why she told him that.

"So why are you here?" He asks, which is even worse.

Willow doesn't give him an answer.

She doesn't need to.

It's her lips buttoned in an pointed 'You know why' sort of way that spells it all out. As wrung tight with nerves as she is, her lips quirk up with amusement as that heart of his begins to riot against his ribcage.

"Oh..." He says.

"Oh..." Willow responds.

The night dances on. The stars observe with indifference.

Neverland itself doesn't care if a fairy waltzes with a pirate.

Its only those with a pulse that take issue.

He doesn't say the words. Not exactly.

Instead, he says "Willow. I think...I think there might be a problem...."

The warmth of his body is soaking into her. It's making her sleepy.

"And what's that?" Willow asks, looking up.

After a moment of contemplation, she adds "Hunter,"

The pirate's name is Hunter.

She likes that his name is something that's allowed on her tongue.

She feels his shoulder stiffen beneath her hand at the mention of that name. It seems to tangle up the words he already had on the tip of his tongue.

She squeezes the spot she's holding, hoping to relieve a little of the tension.

"I..." The hand holding hers is damp. She can feel it tremble. "I don't think I can get down,"

"Is that so?" She teases with a tilt of her head.

Like she's forgotten. He's her happy though. It's so cute she almost wants to let loose an undignified squeal.

But the lines of Hunter's face only tighten. Every worry etched into his features is naked underneath the moon's glow.

"I don't think I can ever get down again," He states, simple and soft.

His eyes are on her and they burn like always. She doesn't know what kind of fire Hunter was born in but his eyes never stop burning.

Willow's mischievous smile dips as his words pierce her through with the viciousness of a dagger, yet her stomach doesn't fill with blood, but warm liquid gold.

You don't fall in love in Neverland.

You don't fall at all.

You fly.

[mammonsfeatheraccessories]

possession

summary: a demon has come to visit you in the middle of the night. how lucky are you?

pairing: lucifer/gender-neutral, AFAB reader

genre: smut

cw: consensual fear play, mild degradation, religious undertones in some places, lucifer’s demonic features (including tongue/genitalia) and mentions of the blood/violence demons are capable of (but not toward reader), oral sex (reader receiving)

***

the lights blink, more than they flicker.

slow and deliberate, staring down at you as if you had, in some unknown, grave way, disappointed them.

the air was colder, too. it yoked the warmth from your flesh and left you too chilled to properly shiver. your pillows, your blanket, the soft loving nest of your bed were suddenly suffocating, scratchy and tight and you wondered how you’d ever been able to sleep there. you untangled yourself from them, gasping for air that turned to ice in your lungs:

the lamps gave you one final, lengthy glare, before the light was snuffed out, and not even the moon could reach in to guide you.

footsteps replaced the rhythm of the lights; they clicked despite the carpet beneath them. they were meant to be heard. you were meant to be frightened.

they stopped at the edge of your bed. suddenly, the ring you wore on your left hand glowed a harsh and striking blue. it sought permission, or perhaps even approval, it’s brilliance puffing like peacock feathers in the black night.

the quick, assuring jerk of your chin was all that he needed.

“didn’t anyone ever tell you?” cold fingers danced over your exposed ankle, before forming a tight and painful coil. a rough tug yanked you to the edge of your bed. “uncovered limbs invite the monsters into your bed.”

now that he wanted to be seen, he gave off a gentle glow, almost angelic in the way he lit up the room. how strange it was to see him handle you so roughly; his strong hands were built to be clasped in prayer. how awful that his eyes sliced you to pieces under his knowing gaze; they were so beautiful when gazing at the heavenly skies.

his beauty almost soothed you. he was meant to be looked at. created to be adored, but then broken down to be feared. his crimson eyes were framed by his thick, dark lashes. they were the color of fresh blood. his lips, stern-set but sweetly pink, were parted by the sharp points of his fangs. his face. his lovely, perfect face, marked only by the diamond etched onto his forehead — how was it possible for it to twist with such fury, the way it did now?

but that was where it ended, his similarity to the angels.

for next there was the curve of his onyx horns. from experience you knew the tips were sharp as needles. they would draw blood, even on accident. they were not meant to protect the demon — they were meant to gore. to gut. to hunt.

the feathers of his wings were said to contain an immense power, bringing an exacting savagery to any hex or curse or potion even the weakest sorcerer might conjure. but you couldn’t imagine him letting a single feather fall without consequence.

spread before you now, the span of his wings enveloped your vision, the frame to the exquisite portrait of his nude body. once divine and entirely wicked, your eyes could not help but wander from the prideful lift of his chin to the gleaming expanse of his chest. his skin looked so soft. so soft, even stretched over tight muscles, cold blood and eons of unveiled rage.

he must have kept all that in his dick. it demanded respect, swinging heavy between his thick thighs, the bulbous tip shining a pretty metallic teal, darkening indigo to black as it reached the base. the underside was scaled. it looked smooth, oddly vulnerable. the valley of bumps that formed over his shaft were fun to traverse with your tongue. he was already erect, impatiently so, and it was the one tell in the whole scene, the crack in the facade of your mock corruption; damn it, how he had missed you.

your hands trembled, sought creature comfort in the sheets bunched in between your fingers. he tugged you even closer to the edge of the bed and spread your legs wide.

his nostrils flared, his pupils constricted. your cheeks warmed up in shame, already knowing where this was heading. “this excites you. i can smell it.” he clicked his tongue. “humans are vile. predictable. and worst of all, they are weak.”

and so he went to prove it.

you were wearing shorts to bed. you were pretty sure you’d worn panties, too. now they were gone. you hadn’t heard them tear, you hadn’t felt the slide of them down your legs, nor had you lifted your arms for the removal of your shirt, but you were exposed, needy, and utterly humiliated in a matter of seconds.

“congratulations,” he spoke, eyes to roaming over your form almost distractedly, petting your thigh before sinking to his knees. he slipped his fingers between your legs, coating them in your juices. “you have one of the most powerful beings in all three realms kneeling before you.” a smirk overtook his features as you watched him play with the mess you made, eyes catching yours to mock you. “aren’t you proud of yourself?”

you couldn’t speak. his skilled fingers found your clit and coaxed it to come out and say hello. “so cute,” he sighed, circling it with his thumb. “i hope your pussy is as obedient as you are.”

shit. your legs tried to close, flames licking a little too hot in the pit of your stomach. he’d be pissed if you came this early, not when he’d traveled such a long way.

but you couldn’t move at all. he’d paralyzed you — when? you hadn’t heard him cast any spell. you could only watch him, wide-eyed and nervous when he let his tongue unfurl before you.

you considered it the most demonic thing about him, both in its appearance and what he made it do. it was long, navy and pointed, slick where he’d allowed saliva to pool and drip over your pussy.

he was every bit the monster in your closet, coming out to devour you whole, his fangs glinting brilliant and evil as he teased you with their proximity to your most vulnerable place. he turned his face, reaching under you to pull you closer to him, legs draped over his shoulders. the tops of his teeth gently grazed the inside of your thigh, a simple reminder: he could kill you from here, kneeled between your legs like a supplicant.

but then his tongue soothed over the spot, even though he hadn’t bitten down. he sucked kisses into your skin that were maybe a bit too reverent for a demon trying to steal your soul. he caught himself and firmly corrected it, sinking his nails into the fat of your thighs. they were more like claws, and you gasped at piercing sensation. it made you so much wetter, and him so much cockier, the fragility of a useless, desperate human making his mouth water.

“look at me,” he demanded, and your body complied without thought. so you could move, as long as he willed it, similar to the way you could control him under your pact. how odd. how freeing. “you’re mine,” he said, eyes flashing something ancient and primal. “i don’t kneel for just anyone. you understand that, don’t you? nod. let me see that you understand.”

you nodded.

“good human,” he grunted, then finally lowered his face.

ah. ahh. the lights came on again when he tasted you the first time, then shut off with a bang. his tongue dipped inside of you and moved, unnervingly dexterous and all-knowing, dragging your slick juices to your clit to suck it the way he knew you liked best.

lucifer was a methodical demon. he knew nothing other than to give his very best. which was why it was so hot that he sometimes lost himself in you, dragging down by your hips to bury his face in your cunt when he was supposed to be teasing you. it was hotter still that he’d turn around and blame you for it — he could do no wrong, after all — clearly you needed to be punished — clearly you’d have to try again, and don’t cum this time, be good for him —

his tongue could reach places even his talented fingers couldn’t. it was your downfall every single time you did this. by now you’d learned that in this act alone, lucifer would purposely set you up to fail because he liked it when you did. you’d know the moment he’d grown too frustrated at not being inside you, because suddenly his vicious tongue would lash out with such ferocity it made your very atoms submit to him, twisting, and curling inside you as he lapped at your g-spot, how the fuck-

maybe he’d lost too much focus or your own power had broken through the barrier, but your hips flew up when your orgasm finally crashed through you, painting his clever tongue as your walls pulsed around the wiggling muscle. you clutched his horns and rode his face until it was too much, and it wasn’t until you caught your breath that you realized you’d both failed this roleplay, but it was going to be your problem.

for he was still kneeling between your legs, glaring at you, annoyed.

“i see you have yet to learn your place,” he chided, drawing himself to his full height. now he towered before you, monstrous cock bobbing in front of your swollen mouth.

“i think it’s time you kneel for me.”

[alienaiver]

"that's it. i'm removing you from the roster until you've stopped by the doctor."

you look at midoriya in disbelief. unable to keep yourself poised at his final decision, your shoulders slump and the exhaustion washes over you like a wave. he's seen through you.

it's been a year since your near-death experience with an all-too-powerful villain and while shinsou took great care of you during your recovery, something's been off ever since - you haven't been able to put a finger on it, though, so you decided to do what every self-sacrificing hero does: you powered through. until there was no power left to muscle your way out of it. and now it's become visible to others too. you have a feeling shinsou might've ratted you out, but you don't blame him. you'd done the same if it were him.

you get home in a daze and fall face first onto the bed. you don't wake up until you feel the weight shift and the warmth of shinsou's lips touches your cheek. but you don't have the energy to react with more than a hum. your eyelids are so heavy. there's a ringing in your ears but it's so constant that it just feels like a persistent buzz. shinsou says something as he settles behind you, arms wrapping themselves around you. for a while, you think there's silence but he says your name sternly in a voice he only uses when he knows you're not entirely listening to him. huh. you're mostly used to hearing it on the battlefield.

"i'm worried about you."

you sigh and hum, pushing yourself weakly back onto him, "'ve got a doc's appointment..... tomorrow."

he kisses the crown of your head, "okay... okay, good."

he's drawing soft circles into your arm and you drift away again. he wakes you when there's dinner and you perk up again slightly, but not enough to make him stop worrying his lip between his teeth. you fall asleep fifteen minutes into a movie later that night.

you put on your shoes and lock the door behind you, putting the keys in your pocket as you turn for the stairs at the end of the hall. you really wish there'd been an elevator in your building right now. as you walk down the steps, your feet feels heavier but you chalk it up to be your shoes. it's the sneakers you don't wear that often, but it's too cold for sandals today. you shrug it off and just concentrate more on walking.

the doctor goes through your symptoms with you but there's hardly any, you reassure her. you're just so exhausted no matter how many hours you sleep. she warns you that you may be sleeping too much. you agree with a laugh - you don't remember ever sleeping so many hours, having been an insomniac your entire youth. she does some blood tests and sends you home, saying you'll be called in when the answers are back.

the days that pass are all a blur. without your shifts at the agency, time becomes fuzzy around the edges. you don't have to get up, so you just stay in bed, since you've been told you need to rest anyways. on the third day you wake up to several notes on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror and the kitchen counter and fridge from shinsou with various reminders about eating and drinking properly and where he's stocked some snacks and prepped some food for you to reheat easily. you chuckle and shake your head at his antics. you're just tired, is all. the headaches comes with the job, you remind yourself as you try to gently massage out the tension in your neck to relieve your pounding head. he might be right about the water intake - you grab the cold bottle he's put in the fridge for you and brings it with you to the bed.

"i think you should call and ask if they've gotten the answers yet." shinsou says matter-of-factly and you nod, "yeah, it has been a few days. but it's the weekend, right? i'll call on monday." and that ends the conversation.

monday comes but you forget to call, even if you've been determined to do so. by the time you remember, the office is closed for the day. you sigh heavily and fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. you prepare the apology for shinsou on your tongue before you drift off.

tuesday morning your phone rings - several times. you finally reach out and pick up, thinking it's shinsou.

"i do apologize for the wait. the doctor unfortunately had to take some time off last week, but we have your results. will you be able to come in today?"

you agree, dragging yourself up. there's more energy in you today, but it should've been way more given the intense rest you've been having. you put on one of shinsou's hoodies and a pair of sweats before you drag yourself to the kitchen to grab a bite.

turns out, you suffer from anemia. an intense, prolonged form and need medication as soon as possible. shinsou's livid when he comes home and gets the news, angry that it has been missed when the agency periodically keeps an eye on their heroes' health. you sit on the chair with your hands folded like a child being scolded and try to laugh it off, "come on now, hito. i just need to take some medication and i'll be fine. the usual blood tests the past year haven't covered that - even if they should, i know," you hurry to add, "but i'll be fine, i promise."

shinsou sighs and his whole body slumps, leaning against the table you're sitting by. you take his hand, "i'm okay."

he visibly relaxes but there's something he's holding back. you've been together since high school, so you can read him like a book. you squeeze his hand, "open up."

he clicks his tongue with furrowed brows before he opens his mouth, "you've had these symptoms for months. why didn't you tell me?"

you look at the ground, guilt written on your face. mostly, because you don't have a proper answer to give him. you don't know why you didn't - the symptoms had all been sneaking up on you, snaking their way into your body quietly and suddenly it'd just become so chronic that you'd normalized it. you let out an apology and he squeeze your hand back, "it's okay to not have an answer. but please, can we be mindful of things like this in the future?"

you smile at him, "only if you continue to make the little post-it notes. they're adorable - especially your small doodles of dogs."

shinsou hides his face in his hands with a groan, "they were cats."

[cathalbravecog]

the twins being twins

(and cassie debut..? her design may change but I've been stuck on her for a year and I finally have a result im fairly happy with ^^)

[moondirti]

anal on the beach w/ gaz. a spiritual continuation of that one cbf! dry humping blurb i wrote but can be read separately

kinda dubcon. anal (obviously). manipulation. semi-public sex (no one catches you). gn! reader

he texts you that he’s got an extra ticket to fiji. the message is brief, spontaneous like he tends to be. pack your bags. eta 1420. you planned on rotting home all weekend, already in your pyjamas and hair care, looking every bit a wreck as you feel. it isn’t exactly the opportune time for him to come by; though you know mentioning it won’t do anything to change the fact that he will.

frankly, the whole thing reeks of that kyle-specific class of manoeuvring you’ve come to know in recent. catching you off guard with something you can’t say no to, and using it to push you past what you’re comfortable with. you’re tempted to refuse. it’s too short a notice. pick someone else. but a week long beach trip sounds nice, actually. work has been killing you. your personal life’s a mess. every date you’ve managed to snag in the past month has ghosted you. and to top it all off, you miss your best friend – his odd quirks and all.

so your body’s way of protesting is to slip off the couch, refocusing on the effort it takes to haul your luggage out of storage rather than your several woes. by the time kyle comes by, you’re in a sweatsuit and sneakers, bag stuffed with all the swimsuits you’ve owned since high school; you doubt you’ll have time to wash one between swims.

and it’s nice. you sit next to one another on the plane, syncing your movies by counting down to three. yours is always a few seconds behind, but he waits for your reactions before delving into a spiel about how realistic it is to drive a knife into someone’s throat with just your teeth, à la dev patel. you listen, swinging off every word he says into your own conversations, and it goes that way until the old lady two rows back shushes you. you, specifically, seeing as kyle charmed her into deference when he helped her lift her bags in the overhead compartments. always so considerate.

still, you’re concerned about falling asleep next to him, lest you wake to find a hand kneading your inner thigh.

nothing weird happens, though. you touch down in fiji and check into a lagoon resort (we managed to find you that king room, mr. garrick – the receptionist adds with a smile, eclipsing the weary way you regard sharing one bed. but you’ve had your fair share of cramped family vacations, and are well-versed in the subtle art of pillow walls to keep his side and yours separate.) that first night, he gives you an hour to dress up for dinner reservations while he fetches snacks for the room. make it pretty, yeah? we’re meeting a few distant cousins f’mine. i told them we’re dating to keep the work questions off my back.

nothing weird happens. until—

you take a boat out to Fulaga after citing it as one of the least populous islands. with wisps of white sand, like baker’s flour beneath your feet, and limestone islets across electric blue waters, it’s hard to see why.

no matter to either of you. you lay your towel on flat patch of sand, smothering yourself in sunscreen to play a game of chicken and waves. a vain endeavour, of course. he’s always willing swim out further than you, diving under quivering waters to arch amongst sea turtles and ulavi.

eventually, you grow bored of watching him from the shore, ambling back to your set-up to make use of the oils you bought for an exorbitant price. they lacquer over your skin, the places you can reach, to reflect the light overhead. you recall a quote you read in uni as you slather – something about people broiling themselves as though they were nothing but cuts of meat – and falter for just a moment. it had seemed crude at the time, particularly in the context in which it read, but as you prep yourself for the sun, you can’t help but feel exposed. vulnerable. like predatory eyes are tuned in all around you, peeking from the foliage, the waves, and honed on your slippery flesh.

you tell yourself you’re being silly, and spread yourself back on your towel. the heat licks away at your worries, making good work of laving the salty stress off your neck. you measure time in how long it takes for the sand to flake off your feet, drying as the rest of you does.

when the soft stretch of your stomach starts to burn, you turn yourself over and bury your cheek into the fibres cradling you. sun-drunk, chafed, bruised a little from the choppy waters, you welcome sleep when it inches on your conscious.

“and what are you doing exactly?” kyle huffs, encroaching on your sanctuary. you can’t see him, though you can almost hear the water vaporising off his dark skin. sizzling. the heat sinks into your side once he flops down onto his own towel.

“sunbathing.” you mumble, reluctant to give more than a words response lest it shakes you out of languor.

“the water’s great. you’re missing out.”

“mm. later.”

“and what am i supposed to do?” he all but whines, tugging at the complicated strings that tie your bottoms up on your hips. it doesn’t feel as suggestive as it might be. all you can manage, in the wake of your scoured unease, is annoyance.

“read. dig. sleep.”

he doesn’t take to your advice, shuffling until his knee presses into your arm. “you missed a spot on your back.”

“get it, then.”

“where’s the lube?”

your head snaps up, eyes narrowed both to adjust to the brightness and in admonishment. “oil.”

“same difference.” his grin is wicked, white and impossible to upbraid. rolling your eyes, you settle back down, face turned the other way around to keep an eye on him.

“in my bag.”

he shuffles through your stuff until he comes up with the hot pink bottle, making no stop for confirmation before he squirts the contents over his hands. they feel every bit as big as they look when they press into your back, right below your nape. rough, barnacled with callouses, but softened a bit by the ointment so it doesn’t hurt when his thumbs run circles around your shoulder blades. you sound an appreciative moan.

“say, if you’re short on something to do, y’can always massage me.”

“yeah, yeah. doubt you’ll return the favour.”

“i would... later.”

he laughs. “whatever. isn’t what i want, anyway.”

“and what do you want?” you ask. not because you’re curious – but so long as entertaining him keeps his efforts on your sore muscles, you’ll keep at it.

“oh, y’know.” kyle hums. ambiguous. you don’t know, not really. not until one caress strays lower than it should, conforming to the rounded shape of your ass. your cheeks clench with the sudden touch. he takes it as confirmation that you must want the same thing, too. “these bottoms aren’t leaving much to the imagination, mate.”

“th-they’re old.”

“this pert thing is practically eating them. can’t see fabric anymore.” he squeezes the fat there, shaking it in a vice grip that doesn’t so much as allow you to sit up, to knock his assault off. “want me to look for it?”

“kyle–”

“kyle.” he mocks, snickering. your hesitation does nothing to dissuade him. instead, he rocks up to straddle your legs, hands moving away from your back to settle below the curve of your ass. you don’t know what’s hotter – the damp, sun-bleached sand cushioning you, or the way he spreads either cheek apart, groaning when your swim-suit slips to expose the tight rim under it. “fuck. you been hiding this from me?”

“i- i don’t… please don’t be w-weird about this.”

“dunno what you mean by that.” he says, then promptly proceeds to be weird about it as his knuckle grazes your hole. you’re stiff, printing an indelible mark on beach. “never had it touched before?”

“no. i’m not a freak.”

“ouch, darl.” but he’s already spurting a hefty amount of oil onto you, working it in with a thick thumb. effectively makes good on his stupid name for it; lubes you up, nice and slick, so the only pain that arises at his intrusion is the virgin stretch. “promise it feels good.”

and you hate to admit it, but it does. once you get over the foreign sensation of his finger pistoning where you’ve never been fucked before, it stirs a tumultuous heat in your belly. part of it, you think, isn’t so much the physical sensation as it is the taboo of it all. despite the beach being virtually empty, void of any life but hermit crabs and the two debauched humans at its centre, there’s a delicious thrill that curls with the risk of being caught. not only being conventionally raunchy, but having your ass gaped by your best friend. what a sight you must make, pinned to the ground, having your sense pared off you in slow, painstaking layers.

one finger becomes two, and two soon turns to three.

the sound is so lewd, borderline disgusting when set against the natural ambience. you squelch and suck around him, lube smacking between your nates. and you lament it in slow, drawn-out breaths. embarrassed, wailing, soughing with the briny wind. kyle’s determined to get you ready for something much bigger, it seems, because four digits cram into your hole and scissor apart.

“is that re- really necessary?” you pick your sand- dusted face off the towel to huff into the thick air.

you feel him jostle atop your legs. shrugging, likely, in that deferent way he does when he realises acquiescence will better serve his purpose.

“whatever you want, mate.” there’s the sound of wet fabric scratching against itself, his trunks shucked down to rest mid-thigh. “i was getting impatient, anyway.”

if the excitement in his tone isn’t enough of a forewarning, he soon makes you regret saying anything at all when he notches his cock against you. it’s fat even at the end, the head too hefty to fit between your spread cheeks. it slips as it searches for purchase, rubbing against the excess lube he pours for aid, before pushing in. not in one fell swoop, but with five short, strong thrusts to finally anchor into your asshole.

you squeal, grasping behind you, onto his wrists for stability. you feel capsized, heeled over, thrown off kilter. shells and sparkling horizons dot the backs of your eyelids, liquid pleasure coursing through your veins. nothing about it is romantic, momentous like firsts should be. rather, you liken it to soap scum. spume. salt crusted hair. natural conclusions to things you overlook.

“s’fuckin’ tight, soft. can’t breath when you squee-eeze me like th-that. loosen up… up, mate.”

“k-kyle. fuck. ah! i c-can’t, you’re so… yersobig.”

“tried, didn’t i? b’you wanted to complain. next time i’ll make you t-take it dry… teach you how to count your, your blessings.”

and that turn of phrase – next time – is what sticks as he thrusts into you. not the implication that it’ll be painful, or that he intends to punish you for whatever it is you did wrong – but that this isn’t the last incident of its kind.

you had excused his homecoming – that first time he rushed you with a hug and came in his pants – as incidental, weeks of pent up energy. you try to excuse this – this, taking your ass on a vacation he probably booked precisely for the two of you – even while it unfolds, searching for justification in the distance between here and home.

but you’re not stupid. what becomes increasingly clear, as kyle fixes your waist in place and cants your hips higher, balls slapping your greased thighs, tightening with his looming orgasm, is that this was never meant to be a one time thing.

(won’t be, if he has any say in it.)

you resolve to think about it later. later; the coil in your stomach ripping a blinding release.

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

there’s just one who could make me stay.

i hear it in your voice, you’re smoking with your boys. i touch my phone as if it’s your face. i didn’t choose this town, i dream of getting out. there’s just one who could make me stay all my days.

Steve and Robin dream of leaving Hawkins behind. Since graduation, they’ve imagined life outside the Midwest, somewhere far away, a city where no one knows them and no one cares. They tell each other tales of their future, laying on the floor of Steve’s room, legs entwined as their stories get more and more fantastical.

Halfway through the summer after Robin’s senior year, she starts to worry about their plans. Steve’s started getting close to Eddie Munson, resident drug dealer turned alleged and then acquitted murderer. Robin knows that it starts as some misdirected guilt about dragging her into the Upside Down, knows that Steve wants to be some kind of mentor in regards to the otherworldly shit they’ve all had to live through. She knows that Steve has a self-sacrificial streak about a mile wide.

But then it turns into something different. Steve starts staying around the Munson trailer later and later. He shows up to work with stars in his eyes and a blush on his cheeks, dopey love-sick smile plastered to his lips. Robin knows the signs, she’s seen it all before, when he’d been mooning over Nancy or Heidi or even, for just a few days over a year ago, her. Steve Harrington is in love.

They’re still talking about leaving, about what LA or NY or even Seattle will be like when they get there, but it’s all hypotheticals and what-ifs, no concrete plans. Halfway through August, Steve’s parents offer Steve enough money for a security deposit and first and last month’s rent. Robin is excited; Steve only slightly less so.

They begin to talk about it a lot more seriously, late into the night, sharing a joint that Robin doesn’t ask about. All through their conversations, the Eddie Munson of it all hangs over their heads like the blade of a guillotine. Robin can sense Steve’s reluctance, can tell that Eddie’s got some pull on Steve. Robin doesn’t want to bring it up, doesn’t even want to put the idea in Steve’s head, but they can’t tiptoe around it forever.

One night, close to September, she finally asks the question. “What about Eddie?” She says, eyes shifting nervously to the side.

Steve scratches at his neck, moves so he can look out the window, down at his pool. “What about him?” is all he says.

Robin doesn’t want to push. She wants to leave this place behind, to forget about small-minded Indiana and move on and she wants Steve with her when she does it. She wants all the things they’ve talked about, she wants the future they’ve dreamed up here in Steve’s room. But she’s not sure that’s fair to Steve, not when he’s so in love.

She lets it drop. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t bring it up. Over the next month, she notices as the stars in Steve’s eyes start to disappear. The blushes are gone and Steve’s smiles seem more forced. They’ve picked a city, put a deposit on a two bedroom apartment. Robin’s ready for her life to start.

When they finally pull out of Steve’s driveway for the last time, a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back, it’s only the kids and Robin’s parents who show up to wave goodbye. But Robin doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes search the empty road as goodbye hugs are exchanged. She doesn’t miss the way Steve turns every time a car pulls onto the street in front of his house.

Eddie doesn’t show up. Steve stares into the rear view mirror for miles even after they’ve left Hawkins city limits.

@t-oriand gave me “there’s just one who could make me stay” :)

[uitzinnigmp3]

family dinner

Sokka had been so excited for today, and he was convinced everything would be fine. But it was not fine. Actually, it was horrible. And the worst part was that it wasn’t even that bad. No, Sokka realised, his father and his boyfriend were just extremely stupid.

or, zuko thinks hakoda hates him. hakoda thinks zuko hates him. sokka is so tired.

[read on ao3]

written for @zukkaweek day one: modern au | family drama

[eeblouissant]

was reminded of the story sophia tells about Dorothy’s first day of school, & how she thought that she had made friends with a girl that stuck gum in her hair 😭 anyway I had to doodle because ahhh that dress sounded so sweet :’) I see why Phil hid it away lmao