#but this fic needs to be in this blog

[gaonsguitarpicks]

LOST AND FOUND - GAON

♬ Gaon x gn reader ♬ fluff, Gaon cursing and having a mental breakdown about a lost guitar pick ♬ 1.5k+ words ♬ Summary: “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours forever.” A quote about a guitar pick and the hidden meanings connected to it. ♬ Note: I’m sorry, I had to write about his poor guitar picks, I HAD TO—

It’s been a while since Jiseok felt such an overwhelming sense of panic that all he could think was, “I'm fucked.”

At first it's just a factual judge of his reality, however there's no human who would willingly admit that they're fucked without trying to resist such a terrible fate first. Jiseok is the same, so he keeps repeating this one sentence like the meaning of it would change if he said it enough times. All the while, he's making a mess of his room. 

Not here. 

He proceeds to the living room and repeats his previous frantic searching and cursing. 

Not here either. 

He moves to the kitchen and checks the pantry, double checks the fridge even though it's ridiculous to even imagine that it would be there, but according to his friends, that's also a common place it could be. 

Well, it's not there now. 

He searches the bathroom and takes out every single one of his clothes to check their pockets. 

Nope. 

He looks into the toilet and prays that he didn’t accidentally flush it down. (Also wouldn’t be the first time.) In any case, he can't really confirm it, can he? 

But Jiseok can't give up. This was a present you gave him for his birthday a month after the two of you started dating. He still remembers that you were visibly embarrassed since at that time, you didn’t know each other well yet, so you weren’t sure what to gift him. You wanted it to be meaningful but not too big, and in the end, you gave him a guitar pick that you customized yourself. It had both of your names on it and Jiseok's favorite colors, and he could never forget how happy it made him. It was a very special gift that made him fall completely in love with you, and he thought of it as a charm signaling the beginning of a beautiful relationship. 

Jiseok suddenly stopped in the center of the living room with his feet rooted to the ground. 

Does this mean you will break up with him because he lost the guitar pick??? 

"Um… what’s wrong with you?" Seungmin comes out of his room and the first thing he sees is Jiseok having a full mental breakdown in the middle of the living room so granted, he's a little concerned. 

Jiseok looks at him like he's seeing hope itself, which is also pretty concerning. 

"Have you seen my guitar pick?" 

"Dude," Seungmin starts slowly, so the crushing truth of the reality won't break his friend even more, "I see your picks everywhere."

And Jiseok knows that, because it happened at least a hundred times today that when he was almost happy to find the one he was looking for, it turned out to be a different one. 

"Well, I'm fucked."

Seungmin decides to ignore him and continue his way to the kitchen because he's hungry and this is not his problem. He also knows what pick in particular Jiseok is talking about because he obviously wouldn’t even try looking for any of the others. He doesn’t have much sympathy, though, he’s had it coming. Maybe the shock will teach him to not leave his picks littered everywhere anymore.

He casually takes out an ice cream from the freezer, and because Jiseok hasn't moved at all and he's a good friend, he tries to be a bit more helpful. 

"Didn't you say you keep it in a safe place so you wouldn't lose it?"

"Yeah," Jiseok looks up and stares straight into his eyes, "but it's not there."

"Well, good luck figuring out how to apologize." Seungmin pats his devastated friend on the shoulder and goes back to his room to eat his ice cream in peace. He tried. 

Jiseok keeps standing there, in the middle of the living room, and considers possible scenarios.

The safe place mentioned above is in his room, on his nightstand, so he can always see it and fiddle with it while he’s lying in bed. This way he can also easily pick it up and use it when he feels like it without having to look for it, though he usually only uses it when he misses you or plays especially for you. He’s overly conscious about his bad habit of constantly losing his guitar picks, so he always makes sure to put it back on his nightstand after he’s done using it.

However, there is no guarantee that he didn’t just forget about it one day and took it out somewhere.

His phone buzzes in his hand, shocking him back to reality, and he looks at the death sentence displayed on the screen in the form of a text message.

[ I’ll be there soon 🥰 ]

He frowns, speedrunning his thoughts in his mind to figure out why you would come over at this critical timing. Then he finds that one thought buried between the others: you agreed to go out for lunch today.

This means Jiseok has exactly fifteen minutes to either figure out where the guitar pick is or as Seungmin said, how to apologize for losing it.

One part of him thinks that if he’s being honest with himself, it’s a miracle that he didn’t lose it for this long, so you can’t be too mad at him. The other part is full-on panicking because he feels that what he lost this time isn't a simple guitar pick but a special, heartfelt present from you. What if you think that he doesn’t care about you or that he doesn’t treasure what you give him, and you consider him a bad boyfriend and want to break up with him?

He absolutely cannot let that happen!

In conclusion, he will use the remaining thirteen minutes to collect very valid and convincing points and arguments about how he is the perfect boyfriend that you should never leave.

He still jumps out of his skin when he hears the door open but he’s quick enough to take on a determined expression like it’s do or die now.

“Hey, are you ready to…” you cut yourself off. You immediately notice that something is off because your boyfriend is not breaking off into a smile and attacks you with a hug after seeing you. He’s just standing in front of you, his whole posture looks stiff and his eyes a little frantic. “Is something wrong?”

For a second, Jiseok looks up and mumbles something - probably a prayer - before he promptly falls to his knees.

“I’m so sorry for losing the special guitar pick you gave me for my birthday I’ve looked for it everywhere but I can’t find it I have no idea where I could’ve left it—”

“What?” You try to cut in because you’re very confused about this whole situation but he’s rambling like a speech he memorized by heart and he can’t even hear your voice anymore.

“—I’m so sorry I swear I always put it back to its place and I was so careful not to lose it because you gave it to me and—” 

“Jiseok…” you try again but he just keeps going on.

“—it genuinely made me so happy and I love it and I love you so much I’m so so so sorry please don’t break up with me I—”

“Kwak Jiseok!” You crouch down to him and lightly tap his cheeks with your palms to ground him. You sigh in relief when he finally shuts up and his eyes focus on you. By this time you managed to grasp the situation and all you can do is look at him fondly, feeling a bit sorry. You caress his cheeks with your thumbs to calm him down, and you tell him in a gentle but firm voice, “It’s okay, I’m not mad at you.”

“You aren’t?” He blinks at you like this is a completely unexpected turn of events.

“I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“Actually,” you say, letting go of his face and reaching into your pocket, taking out the guitar pick that was in the center of today’s events, “you left it at my place when you came over last time.”

“Oh.”

Jiseok goes a little cross-eyed as he looks at the guitar pick, there’s a moment of silence before his face lights up and he starts laughing. His laughter sounds a little like his soul and his sanity escaped his body but at this point, you can understand it.

Then he suddenly grabs your hands still holding the guitar pick and declares with such a pure, innocent joy that you can’t help but smile with him, “It came back to me!”

You don’t know this but you bringing back the guitar pick to him meant so much more than you simply forgiving him for losing it. It was a new beginning, a second chance, something that made him even more sure that you’re the one for him. He had a feeling that no matter what happens in the future, no matter what difficulties force distance between the two of you, you would come back to him, just like this guitar pick.

[stoopidstapler]

SO IVE BEEN GOIN INSANE SINCE THIS TRAILER DROPPED. JUST. SIMON. SIMON. SIMON.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

unexpected consequences

words: 700

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, p in v sex, condoms breaking, pregnancy/breeding talk, unprotected p in v sex, established relationship, mention of marriage

“oh fuck, yeah.” you moan out, fingers gripping rafes shoulders. “right-right there.”

your moans are extra loud today, having been apart from rafe for nearly a week after he had business out of the country. rafe is just as pent up as you, thrusting harshly into your cunt to the chorus of his grunts.

“close.” rafe warns, but you could tell anyways by the swelling of his cock that he wouldn’t last long.

“oh my god, yes.” you moan out, back arching off the bed as your release pushes through your body, cumming with a final shout of your boyfriends name.

rafe drops his head into your neck as he cums inside of you, pushing as deeply as he can as your cunt pulses around him. you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press soft kisses to his head while rafe pants through his orgasm, until you shift slightly and feel it inside of you.

“rafe, pull out.” you shove at his shoulder, causing him to look up in concern, but he slips his softening cock out.

“what is it baby?” rafe asks. you look down at the condom he always wears, where theres always a bit of white cum gathered at the tip, but this time it looks practically empty, like he just rolled it on.

“rafe.” you hit his shoulder, causing him to flinch and look down.

“wha-” rafe suddenly realizes the issue, rolling himself off the bed as he walks into the bathroom, no doubt to inspect the condom and tell you what you already know is true.

“it broke.” rafe says when he comes out a moment later.

“i know.” you admit, shifting your hips from side to side again. “i can tell.”

“im so sorry baby.” rafe says with a sigh, laying on the bed next to you but not pulling you into his arms, not sure if you want to be touched.

“its okay.” you hum softly, mind still reeling. “you didn’t know.”

“what are we gonna do?” rafe asks, knowing you’re not on birth control due to affecting other medication you’re on.

“well, i can take a plan b in the morning…” you say quietly. 

“or.” rafe encourages you to continue, able to tell that you aren’t finished.

“or we could wait and see. i mean i probably won’t get pregnant just from one time, right?” you shrug.

“what about if it does take? and you’re pregnant?” rafe asks, looking at your tummy.

as if you’re thinking the same thing, you lay your hand over your stomach, knowing that even if you are pregnant there is nothing in there yet, but the thought alone has you rubbing gently over your skin. “i don’t know.” you admit.

“i want to keep it.” rafe blurts out. “if-if you are pregnant.” rafe can’t take not touching you any longer, pulling you close to him and tangling your limbs together.

“are you sure?” you raise your eyebrows. you think rafe would be an amazing father, knowing how protective he is of you, and how he strives every day to take even better care of you. “we are so young.”

“i love you. i want to be with you, i want a family with you. why not start now?” rafe questions. he won’t admit it to you yet, but he’s been thinking about taking the next step, having even gone ring shopping to see his options. “besides-” rafe smiles, “why are you trying to talk me out of it? you’ve always wanted kids.”

you grin back at him. “i know.” you let a giggle free, feeling giddy about the possibility. you’ve always wanted to become a mom, especially because you have so many younger siblings. “so, are we doing this?”

“yes.” rafe says definitively, pulling you in for a kiss, a comforting one that you truly need.

“oh my god, im so excited.” you break the kiss to mumble against his lips.

rafe nods in agreement, lowering a hand between your bodies to touch your stomach. “probably too early to start talking to your tummy, huh?” 

“definitely. i mean, we don’t even know if i’m pregnant, it may take a couple tries…” you trail off, hoping rafe gets your intention.

“well, i will just have to keep cumming inside you.” rafe shrugs. “in fact, we shouldn’t take any chances and i should fill you up again right now.”

rafes hand lowers from your stomach to your thigh as he grabs your flesh and pulls your leg over his hip, spreading your thighs for him as your cunt rubs up against his quickly hardening cock.

“rafe!” you shout with a laugh, but don’t stop him as he begins to grind his cock into your core.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @emma77645 @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart

[sadderdaazee]

“Daddy’s Best Friend”

♡︎> toji fushiguro (listen to florida kilos by lana del rey or the playlist linked) <♡︎

it felt odd. a little exciting. a little impish. with teetering silence brimming in your throat, your eyes drool against him.

on a sad, sad, fortunate evening, when your father was out on an unplanned business meeting to algeria, his best-friend of two years finds you alone in the house.

he had plans with your father, to play shoji with him and sip on some extra expensive wine, but fate has different plans for him.

and while you see the man standing by your doorway, a little arch pulling his right brow up, you're composed.

so, so composed.

that's what you tell yourself when you invite him inside the house.

and oh, he knows. he definitely knows. if he didn't, why would he walk in anyway?

"sir," so you say, voice low in a purr. its so low, so graveling, so seductive.

because in the twenty-two years of your life, you've never wanted a man to fuck you as bad as when you met toji.

it was a beautiful nocturne, moon's eloquent rays peeking by the expensive restaurant's window. a family dinner. and it was also your twentieth birthday, with your daddy's rich shenanigans to spoil you perfectly, he hosted a family dinner. a family dinner where your father also introduced his new friend, which so happened to be toji. when his eyes met yours, you knew this toji would be the death of your sanity.

now, your distance with your daddy's best friend is close. almost unfamiliarly close. a kind of close where you can smell his cologne but not enough to feel his searing skin.

then he sits by the sofa, and you sit right next to him. so close, your bare thighs touch his own.

"tryna seduce me, l/n?" he replies, voice as sultry as yours.

this isn't unfamiliar to him. he's grown. known. he can read people. women. their intentions. and he can clearly read yours. well, he has been reading yours since he first met you.

his elbows are by his knees in a confident way, fingers entwined among each other.

he doesn't know why he stays, what he waits for. but he stays. his chin is by his shoulder and his eyes are on you.

"brilliant job trying to guess, mr. toji. but you're wrong." you sip into his eyes.

his eyebrows raise, an almost cocky curve tugging by his smirk. you lean a little till your hands find his shoulder.

"i can read your eyes, l/n. read that look. i'm older, less naïve." he says, eyes running through yours to your lips.

"what look, sir?"

"really, sweetheart?" a smirk again. "you wanna play it this way, hmm?"

"think you know that well, sir." your eyes linger by his lips, a coquettish drag of desire falling against them.

he sighs.

"your father is my friend," agitation drapes his voice when he feels your breath pool on his lips.

"such a saint." your eyes meet his in a sarcastic manner, and for a moment, he's holding back. hating himself for even getting in this situation.

but he's not a man of morals, and definitely not someone who lets opportunities burn.

"fuck," he whimpers. "c'mere," so his lips are on yours. the crave for his hands and the ache of him finally slowly burning, his spark embedding with your inflammable desire.

his lips love to kiss your neck, and his hands find your body like a lost lamb. they trace. draw. paint. an eager hold of his searing palms under your loose shirt, as he's pulling it up.

you're wearing nothing underneath. and he's shocked. toji never knew he was friends with the father of a slut.

his fingers pinch your nipples, palms grope your tits. his lips write their soliloquies against yours, much more desperate than yours.

"what've you done t'me," his lips find your neck again, and he pulls your shirt up till your collar. his kisses drip between your tits, over the supple flesh of them and finally against the perky nubs. he sucks with fervor, eyes drawn lazy with lust as they waltz by your face. you're laying on your back on the sofa, his knee between your legs and other on the ground. "so fucking beautiful."

"not worried about d-mmh-dad anymore, hmm?" you coo mockingly as his lips trail down and lower.

"what can i do when y'such a dirty little whore, hmm?" he says, head trailed between your thighs.

his scorching breath loiters by your groin, a shiver sprinting across your bones and settling somewhere in your core.

"gonna take this off," he's breathless as his fingers hook and slide off your panties, your fingers desperately lacing among his strands of hair. you softly mutter a moan in response, an ethereal gesture dripping like honey through his ears. and toji never knew someone's voice could unravel such thoughts in him. he wants to devour you and make you sing his favorite chorus of moans.

his lips softly kiss your inner thigh, palms groping the supple flesh of your outer thigh as you let out a breath of desperation.

for once, he just stares at your pussy, like a man thanking the heavens above.

then his lips are slowly finding their way by your lower lips. he softly kisses your slit without hesitation and you swear all the breath among your lungs had vanished when he did.

his kisses are gentle, soft, dripping like honey against your slit as he furtively looks up.

"fuck, toji," you caress his hair between your fingers as he slowly kisses his way up your pussy.

the kiss he plants by your clit is a little harder than the rest, and he smirks. smirks when he feels how sensitive you are as your thighs involuntarily close around his head.

"keep your legs open for me," he breathes, spreading apart your legs. "good, y'doing so good for me." his voice is a purr as his thumb meets your slick slit, spreading it out to gain more access to you. he kisses again, a little harsher than before than has you breathing heavily.

he's waited wayyy to damn long to have this.

he pushes his tongue out, not being able to resist the urge to feel and taste you on his tongue any longer. and if he had been addicted to something before, it'd be nothing compared to the taste of you. he's addicted.

your arousal slips on his tongue, and he has to lick again. and again. and again, till he's pushing his tongue inside your pussy while you're gripping on his hair and messing all over his face. your back is slightly arching, trembling when his lips wrap around your clit.

"that's it toji," you pull on his hair and for a moment, his eyes close, relishing within your taste. "fuuck..."

but he's more of a grunter. grunting into your pussy and moaning like that's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.

he's silent, tongue speaking the loudest words of pleasure at your cunt, lips hard sucking at your clit. his fingers find their way, from drooling by your thighs from keeping your legs spread to falling by your slit.

he loves it. your moans. your taste. and fuck, he wishes he'd fucked you the day he met you because shit. he's fucked by your taste.

your honey leaks by his lips and he has to pull back for a breath, finger still massaging your folds up and down.

"fuckin' filthy," he licks his lips and drinks you all. his fingers move and slither into your pussy with ease. it has you gasping. trembling for air because although you've fingered yourself on many instances before, the stretch of his big fingers were just something different. "n' tight. startin' to think you're not as much of a whore as i thought."

"why, don't you like running your mouth a whole lot," you sneer through your fluster. your eyes meet his and he chuckles, taking his finger out of your cunt.

the ache of his touch rattles among your hips as you find a small whine falling by your lips. before you get to whine and mourn the lost feeling, his hand meets your pussy in a spank.

"oh my— shit," you moan, and find that his he had added two more fingers into your vagina. he's fingering you with three of his fingers ruthlessly, lips wrapped tight around your clit and tongue relentlessly flicking it. you're a mess, but he likes it messy.

he likes you messy.

he curls his fingers upwards as the tip of them meets your sweet spot.

and oh, how he's proved how much he loves to run his mouth on you.

you're closing to your climax, fingers threaded into his melting strands of hair that feel like silk under your touch. and he keeps ravaging like a man starved, the greed for you finally relenting when you chant his name and feel his fingers go in and out at a pace.

"cum for me, let me taste you." he must've said but you're melting like a wax with no coherence, deaf to your surroundings as your orgasm approaches. and it approaches intensely. his fingers don't stop their motion, fingering you faster as you finally reach the point.

you moan when you orgasm, and you feel it so, so deeply within your bones and nerves. with your heart erratically thundering beneath your ribs and your ears ringing, you still feel his touch even when he's kissing your lips through your ecstasy.

"there, there," he kisses you more and then goes down on you again. not to ravage but to drink everything you've elicited from your pussy. "you're doing so good for me sweetheart." he licks everything up as every swipe of his tongue gathers your sensitivity.

his words soothe you through your orgasm as your breaths fall heavy.

"fuck," and when you're finally back to reality, you sit up. "never knew you would've been so good at this..."

your gaze drags from his chuckle to his crotch, his hard erection threatening to poke through the fabric of his clothes. so you fall to your knees, your shirt falling and covering your body.

but that's not what he wants.

"no, sugar. think that's enough for today." his finger meets your chin, making you look up at him from between his legs. and your eyes, fuck, they're the most beautiful ocean of flaming fire he's ever decided to burn himself upon. and he was hard. so achingly hard that he has to question if he's ever been this aroused before.

"but i haven't even—"

"no, you listen to me." anew sort of agitation drapes his voice. a kind you know that he's aching to not hold back. "we can't continue this. your da—"

"please," your desperate words twist something within his gut, and fuuck his cock. it aches to be touched. touched by you. his carnal gaze drinks upon your sultry words melting into the way you seem so vulnerable to him.

he looks down, and your pleading features wrecks his conscience. shatters till the shards are seeping and slicing into his skin. because suddenly, he's pulling you so harshly against his lips, hands sliding beneath your ribs and circling around your limbs.

your eyes widen, and in a whim, you're kissing him back, hands on either sides of his thighs.

you kiss deeply. so deeply, you think your lips might swell.

and toji has never been so lost in a kiss before as he is now. with such passion, he has to question his own sanity.

his fervor entwines with your own in soliloquies. he loves it. you love it.

your hands are trembling by his jaw and neck, carving your desires by his lips. you can almost taste yourself on his lips.

"why can't you understand," he says among breathless kisses, "i will ruin you. this will ruin us.

"ruin me then," your replies steep under the cries of pleas. you want this. and you want this so badly, "ruin us, toji."

he pulls you up from your knees till you're sitting on his lap, kissing intensely.

"god... y/n," he breathes in a swoon of agitation, trailing his kisses to your jaw as you arch in his warm hold. "you're making this so hard for me."

"once," your pleas, your eyes, the look on your face — he just can't fucking resist it. resist the way you're furtively grinding your bare pussy on his clothed cock with that gaze, with that desperation. "please."

and if you knew how his own desperation pars your own, you'd be surprised.

you're intoxicating. and he's a drunkard.

so he says fuck it to his conscience.

his grip on the curve of your waist grows taut, a small stifled moan leaving your lips as you continue to grind on him.

after all, he too is a man who sins.

he kisses the side of your neck in a manner of subtle affection and in a swift motion, he takes off your top, kisses between your breasts with such fervent breaths, you're sure that's gonna leave a bruise.

he pulls away for a second, panting against your lips as he tilts his face, eyes desperately drooling against your lips, "speak of this to anyone and i'll—"

"i won't." you say as if swearing upon your life. he chuckles, falling into your chest again. his eyes are sultry, half lidded as if so drunk.

he licks, sucks your breasts with greedy licks and kisses them more. your hands are falling to his belt, and he moans softly, voice rumbling beneath your bones and heart.

his head falls by your shoulder, eyes meeting where your hands unbuckle his belt.

"you seem so inexperienced," he chuckles, kissing your shoulder to whisper within your ear, "sure you can handle me?"

you fluster upon his words, taking in a breath to flush it out. "wanna help me find out." a smirk kisses your expression, and he loves it.

by now, you can feel his cock. its rigid. warm. heavy. your touch against his length sears his skin, and he lets out an agitated impatient gasp.

and you're surprised.

it falls by your stomach, and your pussy clenches.

his touch is sultry, even when he's slowly lifting you by your hips, eyes on yours with such intensity, you almost float by his gaze.

"take it," he breathes, and you nod. he rubs his tip over your lower lips, back and forth till he's generously sinking into your pussy inch by inch.

the stretch just by his tip is delicious, albeit painful. and he knows it would be painful, so despite his licentious urges, he lets you take him in slowly.

by when you're fully sheathed atop his cock and he's bottomed out fully into your tight, tight walls, you're breathing in unison, bodies almost one together. toji's eyes meet yours again.

something's so oddly sensual about you, that he can't help but fall into your ludicrous antics. something so dreamy about you, he just can't help but moan into your feeling.

"y'so fucking tight," his head falls back on the headrest of the sofa, eyes closed as his hands grip your hips.

"you're too fucking huge," you grunt in both pleasure and pain, trying to move against his cock, but his grip on your hips cease your movements.

"stay like this for a moment, please." he's whimpering.

you flinch, and so does your pussy. so deliciously that toji has to take a moment to catch his breath .

then he's lifting you up by your hips, and harshly slamming you onto his cock. it hurts so good that you almost urge to cum against him then and there itself.

"s'tight but still swallowing my cock," he grunts as you fall into a fit of moans. "aren't you a pretty girl."

and before you know it, he's laying you on your back, placing one leg over his shoulder, pushing and pulling out of your pussy. so harshly, it tickles your lower abdomen.

"fuuck baby," he moans, "takin' me so, so well. my cock's fucking stretching you out but you're just takin' it."

"yes, fuck, fuck, yes right there-" you gasp, feeling his tip graze a certain spot that has a vaguely familiar sensation stirring into your abdomen.

"makin' me feel sooo good," he moans, his hands falling by your face and tucking the wayward strands of your hair behind your ear, taking your chin between his fingers, "look at me, fuck, look at me, pretty."

"yes, fuuck, i'm so fucking close toji, fuck, fuck," his pace is animalistic as he goes raw on you, thrusting so deeply that his tip kisses your cervix.

“fuck baby, gonna cum. gonna pump you full." but before he can even say another word, you clench around him so impossibly, it's almost hard for him to thrust deeper.

you hit your orgasm as you pull him in and kiss his neck to soothe the flinches and stutters coming with the orgasm, the electricity running across your spine and rattling every bone within your body.

his arms circle around your waist as he groans, finally letting himself go. his cock stutters and swells into your walls, till he's filling your pussy with his cum. his thumb slowly strokes your cheek, slowing his pace as he groans and lets him fall through his own high.

then he pulls out, watching his tip pop out of your puffy slit. his cum trickles out of your pussy, dripping on the sofa as you sigh, settling within the breaths among your ribs.

"y/n? are you home, honey?" fuck. your dad.

[stevebabey]

no one asked but this is the post that inspired this! thank u immensely for the luv <3 number 1 comment was wondering what steve’s bids were & from his pov, so without further ado...enjoy — part one here!

—

Begrudgingly, Eddie has to admit that Robin might be right.

It’s impossible not to be looking for the bids since he brought them up to her. Even though Eddie was fully expecting to tell Robin to suck it, maybe even wager what little money he had against this working out, Eddie can’t help but watch for them in every interaction. And fuck, she’s right.

They’re little, but they’re there.

The first one Eddie would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. Actually, that’s a lie; Eddie does miss it, until Robin points it out, the nosy bitch. It’s minuscule and honestly, it just seems like Steve asking his opinion — which friends do all the time! It’s why Eddie brushes right over it.

“Okay, be honest,“ Steve had said, walking and talking as he entered the living room where Robin and Eddie were sprawled across the couches. They were both waiting on him, the three of them set on heading out to the drive-in to catch a film.

Eddie can’t fathom why Steve felt the need to change his outfit for it, but when he returns, he gets it. It’s not quite the usual polo Eddie had grown to like on Steve, this one hanging a little looser, the colour a bit darker than Steve’s usual choice, the sleeves a little shorter — almost midway to a muscle tee.

Steve’s fingers fiddle with the distressed collar of the shirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles and fussing over nothing. He swishes back his floppy hair with a flick of his head. “It’s a new shirt, I know it’s a little different - but what do we think?”

He says we but he’s looking at Eddie.

Eddie, who has taken to trying to reel in his gawp because what the fuck Steve? It’s like he’s well aware of what drives Eddie insane and has specifically leaned into it. Some evil goblin in Eddie’s brain whispers think how good he’d look in your shirt and he squashes it, giving a visible twitch to shut down that train of thought.

From the other couch, Robin clears her throat loudly and smiles sweetly at her best friend. “It looks great, Steve.”

It’s sincere and Steve’s mouth tugs up, nearly a smile but his gaze fast-tracks back to Eddie. Eddie nods in agreement, a bit sluggish from his distracting thoughts and god dammit, the extra exposed skin of Steve’s arms are so not helping. “Yeah, looks... looks good, man.”

Steve smiles, lips pressed together but his shoulders curl in just a bit, deflating just a tad. From where Steve can’t see her, Robin waves her hands wildly and catches Eddie’s attention. He watches as she gestures wildly and it takes a moment to realise what’s she mouthing — ‘A bid! That’s a bid, you idiot!’

Oh fuck, Eddie thinks. Cos it totally was; the question, the focus on Eddie. He doesn’t even think about the logistics of it, of the fact Robin was right, just jumps right into picking up the bid.

“You trying a new style?” Eddie asks and then thanks whatever god invented the whole fake-it-to-you-make-it schtick because he’s feeling so far from casual or confident. “Going metal on me, big boy?”

Eddie just manages to catch the grin that breaks across Steve’s face as he turns away, giving a scoff — it comes out too soft though, giving away his complete lack of annoyance. He pulls that usual Steve Harrington pose, hands sliding onto his hips, and screws his face into some melted smiley-grimace. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie grins and goads on the blush that’s beginning on Steve’s neck, a glorious tinged pink colour. “If this shirt is any indication, you’d pull it off just fine.”

Eddie watches the blush climb higher as Steve ignores the comment, his smile still giving him away. He grabs his coat and pats down his jeans — ridiculous tight acid wash jeans that Eddie hates he’s somehow become attracted to — ensuring he has his keys and wallet. Once assured, he looks up at his two friends again, brows raised, and says, “Ready to rock and roll?”

That comment alone has Eddie seriously reconsidering his type in men.

There’s only a brief moment to talk about it when Eddie and Robin cajole Steve into going and getting them both popcorn to get a moment alone. Steve had scoffed, face twitching in the way it did whenever he tried to hold back a bitchy comment, but he still stomped off in the direction of the snack stand.

The moment he’s out of earshot, both voices explode in the back of Eddie’s van.

“What did I say—”

“Jesus H Christ, you were right—”

“Literally how many times do I have—”

“Oh my god, you were right—”

“ —before you realise I’m always—”

“Robin.” He cuts her off, hands landing on her shoulders. Robin eyes them warily, lips still parted from how her rant had been cut off. “Robin, I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” Robin’s nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you—”

“Oh Christ, I can’t believe- how long have you noticed those bids?” Eddie’s aware he sounds a bit estranged, eyes probably wide and it doesn’t help when he softly shakes Robin back and forth. She lets herself be shaken, hair flying back in forth. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You are such a bad gay friend!”

Robin smacks his hands off her shoulders with a frown, her freckly face perturbed at Eddie’s outburst. “Dude, it’s not my fault! May I remind you that until very very recently you were seeing someone else? What difference would it have made?”

Eddie waves his hand, disregarding the point with a shake of his head. His unkempt curls cover his face and Eddie sweeps them back in one motion, “What difference would it have made? Oh my, Jesus—“

Whatever long-winded sentence Eddie was about to spit out is lost by the sound of Steve’s approaching footsteps, effectively shutting both of them up.

Eddie flings himself to the other side of the van, putting an unusual amount of distance between Robin and him like they were being caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Robin frowns at him and gestures wildly with her hands in a way that means what the fuck man? Eddie gestures back, though he’s not entirely sure what his fast hand motions are supposed to mean when Steve rounds the door.

He’s got two buckets of popcorn tucked under each arm and Eddie quickly crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits like his stupid hand motions will somehow give him away. 

Steve looks up, stopping just a way from the edge of the van, and looks at the pair of them. His eyes track from Robin still sitting on one of the old cushions and looking two seconds from burying her face in her hands, across to Eddie. He huffs a laugh and kneels on the edge of the van.

“I know he’s gross Robin,” He begins, tone light, as he holds out one of the buckets for Robin to take. “But c’mon, is the distance really necessary?”

Robin snickers as Eddie makes an appalled noise, both of which make Steve smirk. He holds out the other for Eddie to take and Eddie snatches it, glaring at him over the buttery rim for his comment. Then takes a handful and shovels it in because he can’t think of a witty comment to retaliate. Steve crawls into the van and plops himself between them with a content sigh.

“See? Gross.” He teases, shoving his hand into Eddie’s popcorn bucket to grab a handful. Eddie scowls and chews a little faster when the flavour on his tongue seems to register in his brain.

His eyes stare at the popcorn bucket as he chews, then swallows — up the front of the van, the radio that’s tuned into the correct frequency begins playing the opening credits song as the screen changes. Silence sweeps across the drive-in but despite the sudden hush, Eddie has no qualms about breaking it.

“Sweet n’ salty flavour?” He asks Steve, only half attempting a whisper. Robin shushes him instantly, her focus already on the movie that’s beginning. Steve smiles, looking a bit sheepish beneath the glow of the drive-in screen, but he nods.

“I know you like it.” He whispers with a small shrug of his shoulders. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Fuck, Eddie thinks again and hastily feeds himself another handful of popcorn before he says anything majorly stupid in response to that, like: Oh, amazing- have you noticed the big fat crush I have on you as well?

He doesn’t even need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling, smug as ever.

—

Steve, God bless his oblivious little heart, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

Steve likes Eddie. Eddie is— god, Eddie is different but he’s good.

He’s this strange amalgamation of traits that Steve can’t comprehend how they fit together in one body or how Eddie manages to pull it all off completely charmingly.

He’s loud, he says rude things, he’s fucking dorky, and far too sweet on the kids — he likes to tease Steve, and yet somehow, when Eddie calls him ‘pretty boy’, Steve knows he’s not actually making fun of him.

Steve likes Eddie, likes his boyishly endearing charm, likes his touchiness towards Steve that no other boy his age is like, likes his messy curls and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude about metal music even though Steve doesn’t get it, like at all. And fuck, Steve really wants Eddie to like him.

It reminds him faintly of when he first started working alongside Robin at Scoops. That thought tickles in the back of his mind, something along the lines of how he had wanted Robin to like him for other reasons, but he doesn’t delve into it.

To Steve, it’s simple: he just wants Eddie to like him.

After the night at the drive-in, between Eddie acting strangely skittish and Robin giving more amused snorts than usual, Steve knows something is up.

He knows they must have discussed something when they sent him on popcorn duty, the bastards. He tries his best to not feel left out; god knows Robin and he have more than a dozen secrets they’ve sworn not to tell anyone but each other.

Besides, Steve trusts Robin to come and tell him if he really needs to know, even if it does worry him a bit. He bites down his anxious thoughts, even trying for a moment to see if there’s a pattern he’s been missing.

That train of thought gets derailed when Steve recalls instead Eddie’s delightful reaction to his new shirt — that Steve definitely hadn’t bought for that specific reason.

Even though Robin had given him that look when he’d first shown it to her — her bright eyes had narrowed, her smile turning a little more coy, and Steve had felt his ears get a little hotter. She hadn’t said anything though, just suggested that he should wear it tomorrow night when they were going out with Eddie.

God, he was glad she suggested it.

Rewinding over Eddie’s parted lips, the way his brown eyes had drank in the details as they trailed up his body and lingered on his arms— Steve had the sudden thought to flex the muscle, just to elicit some reaction, but it had gone out the window at Eddie’s original dismal reaction.

‘Yeah, looks... looks good, man’. Said all aloof, like he hadn’t really thought it. It was like bursting a balloon hidden behind Steve’s ribs, one he wasn’t even aware was there until it was deflating pathetically, making his shoulders sag.

Then— ‘You trying a new style? Going metal on me, big boy?’ And dammit, it’s like Eddie had clocked exactly what calling him ‘big boy’ had done the first time in the Winnebago.

Eddie had then grinned, done another once over of the new shirt, even as Steve pretended to search for his keys and wallet while saying something snarky to try to cover up the heat crawling up his neck. Yet, Steve found himself smiling too because, fuck yes, Eddie liked it too.

But, apparently, whatever Eddie and Robin had discussed wasn’t considered important enough because Robin never brought it up.

The thought and worry about it melt away in Steve’s mind until the memory of that night is about Eddie’s compliment, about his cat-like grin over the popcorn bucket, and how he had leaned over to whisper every bad joke into Steve’s ear all through the movie.

Some of them had been down-right filthy jokes which Eddie only seemed to enjoy more when Steve screwed his face up and nudged Eddie in the ribs, yet unable to hide his smile.

After the third vulgar joke and subsequent nudge, Steve had chided ‘dude’ with a poorly hidden grin. Eddie, smile all cheeky, had nudged him back with a ‘dude’ of his own.

Which, of course, ensued a nudge competition til Robin had given a shush that librarians all over the world would be jealous of. But Steve didn’t even care because he and Eddie were arm to arm, pressed close together and Eddie…didn’t move. Stayed close, like he wanted the closeness the same way Steve did.

Steve only remembers the strange drive-in moment when Robin brings it up finally, on one interesting Saturday night.

It’s not the usual routine; it’s not very often that the whole group gets together to share drinks and get rowdy.

But it was for Robin’s birthday and she’d been persuasive enough to get even the introverts, like Jonathan, to come along. Though, she was aware he’d probably spend the night on a pool lounger, stoned to high heaven. Whatever floats your boat, she’d said, happy for the company in any form.

There’s enough of them there that it almost resembles some sort of party— and makes Steve try not to think about the last small party he threw here. He can tell Nancy notices it too, eyeing the pool a bit too long in a way he’s very familiar with, then taking a swig of beer.

So, Steve heckles them inside — doing a fantastic mothering impression as he waves the group indoors with a promise of pizza, and that has both Jonathan and Argyle perking up and beginning a fast discussion on the best pizza toppings.

Eddie makes a fuss, because of course he does, and moans terribly when Steve tries to roll him off the pool lounger he’s on. He’s had a bit of a joint and some beer, and Steve’s learned that he gets adorably stubborn after some substances.

“Stevie, this is mean,” he had pouted, gripping the edges of the lounger and staring up at Steve with those big brown eyes. “You telling me I did all that bonding with you for nothing? Can’t even lounge by the pool! I’ve got a couch at homeeeee.”

Steve had sent him an amused look of disbelief, hands on his hips after his first round of flicks against Eddie’s arm were apparently fruitless to get him to move. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a gold-digger, Eds.”

Eddie had snorted at that, one hand coming to slap over his mouth. Steve couldn’t quite hear what he had said but the words pegging and anytime slipped through and Steve thinks he could get the gist of that.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm. He didn’t know how Eddie could be such a menace— or why he enjoyed it so much when he was. Steve waved a hand in the direction of the doors, ignoring Eddie’s delighted snickering. “If you go inside now, you can be on music, alright?”

And that had finally got them all indoors, Eddie whooping and skedaddling through the doors in an instant, with a call of ‘no take backsies!’ echoing behind him.

Inside was much cozier, the whole group a little more connected when squished up on the couches together. Eddie had taken Steve’s word and was jamming a cassette into one of the speakers when Steve made it back inside after scouting around the pool for leftover cans and butts to throw out.

He’s just been thinking about what playful jab he could make at Eddie’s music, like Eddie always did to him when Robin hollered at him from the kitchen.

“Steve!” She’d yelled excitedly and he come to find her quick, brows raised as he entered the kitchen. She was grinning, already a bit jumpy as she got when she had a bit of liquor — but apparently not enough because when Steve saw what she’d called him in for, she’d announced, “Tequila shots!”

Which lead to now. A hazy combination of beer, tequila, and a bit of weed, and Steve is feeling good. Robin had managed to hijack the music not too long ago, with a hiccup of ‘it’s my birthday’ that had Eddie surrendering with a pout.

She’d since put on a bit of everything: some Blondie for Nance, Talking Heads for Jonathan, and some Bowie, just so she and Steve could dance along to ‘Magic Dance’ and she could do all the silly little goblin voices that made them both cackle.

Steve realised at some point that Robin was playing their mixtape, the one she’d made for driving in the morning, and nearly tripped stumbling over to her in his excitement. He grabbed her shoulders, not too hard, and squeezed.

“Is it- is this our mixtape?” Steve asked, words slurring only a bit. Robin gleamed, hair bouncing with her excited nod.

“Yes!” She was already dancing, even though the tape was between songs — because she knew what song was coming. “It’s Springsteen time, Steve!”

Right as the drums to Born to Run filtered out the speaker.

And oh, Steve loves Robin so much. He loves having a best friend that knows his favourite song and gets jittery and excited because she knows it’s about to play— that she put it on this mix for him.

“You’re my best friend!” Steve says, the words bursting out like he can’t control them. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed, just happy, just drunk, and overwhelming happy to be able to have this.

And even though Robin knows this, she still beams, feet dancing along and just begins to sing along with the song, “In the days, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

It’s a brazen drunken performance from the both of them. Steve’s chest is heaving after just one chorus that he’s pretty sure he put his whole soul into and he’s so fucking happy —and it feels like pure instinct to seek out Eddie, his eyes scouring the room for him.

Eddie’s leaned up against the wall, hiding his smile behind a can and Steve doesn’t think twice about it— doesn’t think about why he’s so drawn to Eddie, why he wants to include him in this happiness — just extends his hand out and grins.

Eddie sees the bid coming this time.

Part Three.

— 

yes i saw all ur lovely tags and MAYBE cried about it. but thats none of ur business.

@orangeandthefairroadkill @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sadcanadianwinter @phantypurple @omg-elledubs-things @henderdads @farfaras @mixsethaddams @prismandblue @kerlypride @bushbees @legitcookie @temporalcoffin @callmesirkay @beautifully-useless @millyditty @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @ninjapirateunicorns @darkwitchoferie @vi-the-best-you-can @psychosnowfox @desert-fern @scarletzgo @cr0w-culture @softpink-candlelight @livingforfictionalcharacters @makewavesandwar @kozuuji @rhapsodyinalto @eddiethesexy @cassaloopa @lightwoodbanethings @qu33rcommunist @moonlitkilljoy @starkdusk @theysherobinbuckley @sanguineterrain @loganwright @sillysparrow @hotcocoaharrington @eddie-munson-is-my-wife @she-is-tim @steddiehearts @sideblogofthcentury @sidebarre @corrodedcoughin @stevieclaus

[batsycline69]

A Cure for What Ails You

Summary: You heal Link's wounds after a battle with a lynel

Pairing: botw!Link x healer!reader (gn)

Words: 1,127

Warnings: brief mentions of injuries, barely edited (I'm just vibing and waiting for midnight)

A/N: This is just a fun little oneshot I wrote up tonight because man oh man am I jazzed for TOK.

“You really didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Your voice cuts the silence between the two of you as you mend the deep scratches across his forearm. The bleeding has slowed, but you still wear the concern on your face.

Link watches you, unblinking. When you first met, you would have said his expression never changes. Now you know better. His bright eyes have a little flicker of indignation. You quirk an eyebrow up at him, a small smirk flashing across your face.

"I appreciate it, though," you continue, turning your eyes to the wound on his arm. If he's in pain, he'd never tell, but his back is stiffer than it's been around you as of late, and his silence feels more pressing.

Today hadn't marked your first life threatening experience since you began your journeys with the Princess and her knight, but you believed it to be your closest to grave harm. Link had stepped in just as you were about to be a lynel's prize.

You'd stumbled into the beast's territory foraging ingredients for tonight's dinner. Luckily, you'd found enough ingredients to whip up some healing potions and a salve as well. Your thankful that Zelda had stayed at the stable, unaware of the whole ordeal.

Link's guarded gaze is still fixed on you, like he's trying to tell you something that you can't quite make out. Though you've learned his little tells, there's still so much of himself he hides when he chooses to. You wonder what he's hiding around you.

"It would have killed you," Link says finally. His voice doesn't convey the seriousness of the sentiment.

You laugh quietly though that's not quite appropriate for the situation either. "It could have killed you, too."

"Probably not."

His bluntness catches you off guard, and you can't help but laugh. Link's expression softens just a smidge, like your laughter is the medicine he's needed for his wounds all along.

"I guess you're right," you say, a hint of startled laughter still in your voice.

Once your pleased with how clean his scrapes are, you wrap them up as you begin to get to work on the salve. He sits still, and though your back is to him, you can feel him observing, always so alert to everything going on around him.

"How did you know to come?" you ask after a moment of quiet. The question weighed on your mind. You'd gone off all on your own. When the lynel made its first yell, you were certain that you'd seen him and the Princess for the last time. And suddenly, out of nowhere, Link was there, just before you, fighting off the lynel before it even had the chance to touch you.

You hesitate before turning to face him, a sudden creeping awareness of him. Your duties were elsewhere on your travels, but within your company, you couldn't help but have...noticed Link was handsome.

It started out innocently enough, admiring the way his light caught his hair, the way their nightly campfires lit his face, how extraordinarily kind he was to his horse. Your not sure when the change happened, but the casual admiration morphed into something less easy to shake off.

You and Link spent very little time alone because he was often fulfilling his duties of protecting Zelda. It'd been easier to keep the feelings at bay then. But Zelda's absence was incredibly noted. Now it was just the two of you, his eyes following you as you prepared a salve for him.

When you finally find the courage, you turn to face him, your hands over a small slimy mixture in a small glass. He sat on a stump, one leg straight out, the elbow of his injured arm resting upon the knee of his bent leg.

Sure enough, he's watching you.

"Thought there might be monsters," he replies.

You breathe a laugh, though the breath is hard to find quite suddenly. You bend down and remove the cloth wrapped around his forearm, your fingers barely grazing his skin as you apply the salve. You tell yourself its so you won't hurt him, but you know perfectly well that as soon as the salve is on, the pain will disappear entirely.

You fall back into silence as you make quick work of healing him. One hand lightly grips his forearm to keep him steady, the other coating his wounds. His skin is warm underneath your fingertips. You try to push the thought back with all your might, though you find it hard to resist.

Link ever so softly sighs in relief. You feel the tension in his muscles ease as the pain fades away and smile gently.

"Is that better?" you ask. Your grip on his arm lingers.

He nods. For a moment, you think he'll pull his arm away, but he doesn't. His bright eyes are on you, and you can't look away. You're caught in his gaze, stuck on the spot.

"We..." Your voice is thin. You clear your throat and finally tear your eyes from his. "We should get back. We don't want the Princess to worry."

You rise to your feet, beginning to walk away, but something holds you back. A glance down shows Link's hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

"Wait," he says. And for the first time, you can so clearly read everything he's trying to tell you without saying more than a single word. His eyes are so open, as if he's giving you permission to understand him, know what goes on in his mind.

Your breath catches in your throat. There's longing, fear, concern all swimming in his eyes. He's letting you see it.

Link rises to his feet, only a few inches from where you stand. He smells like leather and warm days, fresh breeze and soil.

"It could have killed you," Link says again. This time, his voice is heavy, thick with everything he's feeling. Everything he's showing to you openly, or at least as openly as he can.

You nod, temporarily at a loss for words until you're able to choke out, "Yes."

"I did have to do that," he says firmly. For a moment, it takes a moment for you to understand what he's trying to say. When you do, your lips part to speak, but he frees your wrist and pulls his sleeve down over his healed wound. "We should get back."

The sky has turned vibrant orange. Night soon follows, and you know just as well as Link what you could meet in the night.

"Right," you say softly, and note that for once, he's the one with much more to say. If you weren't still so stunned, you'd think it was funny.

As you walk back to the stable, Link walks behind you, just like he does with Zelda.

[croszukis]

nick: smile arber: 😁

[eywaseclipse]

Mmmhmm. Now that’s what I’m talkin bout

[mamawasatesttube]

when people think kon is a playboy im just out here shaking my head like. youve fundamentally misunderstood the assignment. he is a flirt, but he never actually follows through on that flirting with any actions. it's all just talk!! he's even told a girl who was interested in him (serling roquette) that he couldn't handle a relationship with her because he was just mentally not in the place for it, and wanted to be her friend instead. the guy has had all of three canonical relationships, and two of them were with adults who groomed him when he was 15-16. the flirtatious attitude is all bluster!! he is literally just this tweet

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

[access-point]

Everyone thinks that Qrow is the one likes to collect rocks, trinkets, and shiny things. Mostly because of how often he's seen doing it, and slightly because of the running joke that crows do the exact same thing.

But the fact of the matter is: Clover is the one with a four-leaf clover charm, a horshoe, and a rabbit's foot. That's not one, not two, but three different trinkets right there. Who's to say he doesn't have more good luck objects? Who's to say he doesn't have a pair of special, lucky dice? Maybe a shiny gold coin that he secretly carries around in his pocket? Maybe even a piece of decoration or jewlery (a ring, perhaps?) that's encrusted with a jade, a gemstone believed to bring good luck?

TLDR: Clover is the one who collects trinkets, not Qrow. Qrow is just the one to find them for him, because everytime he sees something like that, Clover is all he can think about, so he takes it to bring back to him.

[wttcsms]

horribly short summary of what im trying to accomplish here, but if you were to read a fic featuring character, a soldier honorably discharged and is officially off the battlefield and yet he can’t seem to shake off the war from clinging to his body, and he’s basically a bit of a mess and feels incapable of returning to ordinary life and there’s you, the sweetest thing in the whole world, and he keeps trying to tell you he’s no good and you’re there to help him with everything (and it kills him a bit, to see you wasting your time to help him, and it kills him because he feels like he shouldn’t be the type of person who needs help) and !! just slowburn and falling in love and just read the tags for the vibe ok, who would it be for

[tenisperfection]

There’s something that’s not been sitting well with me regarding reactions to this episode, and that’s the barrage of anons and people asking queer people who are really excited about this storyline about Buddie. It’s the way they all expect us to insist and placate them that we still believe that Buck’s endgame is Eddie. Feel what you feel and all that but to be honest, while I love Buddie and nothing about my belief in their relationship has wavered, I want to celebrate this storyline on its own merit. This is Buck’s story and it belongs to no one else. Not Eddie, not even Tommy, though they play roles in it and I’m sure will continue to do so. Similarly, Bucktommy is a relationship that deserves to be celebrated and talked about on its own without needing to bring Buddie into it. I trust that the creators will take this storyline forward and bring it justice and I do believe it will align with what a lot of people in the fandom want, but meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of Buck going on this journey of love and self discovery and pleasure and joy as a queer man in his thirties, and I’m very glad it’s with someone like Tommy.

[buckybarnesss]

woke up thinking about how derek hale rebuilt stiles's jeep. like that wouldn't be a cheap endeavor. he spent a small fortune probably on getting the right parts and poured in a lot of time into doing the work.

he had "complicated" feelings about that jeep.

a metaphor for derek working on himself? a metaphor for his feelings for stiles?

doesn't matter.

it was a love letter.

because one doesn't go through all that effort and not love a person.

[eywaseclipse]

Random stuff that made me smile today.

[unma]

I feel the urge to talk about how often Underverse's 'big bad', XGaster, is called out for not being as big or bad as he seems. Even with all the power he has, he is constantly said to be hiding behind his creations.

Despite all the power he has, and how easily he could dispatch some Sanses (as seen in the 0.4 ending), he continues to hid behind his creations. The ability to overwrite is not the end all be all, which XGaster has learnt from his near death experience during the XTale series.

At the end of it all, Gaster is right. XGaster is scared. Scared of what he doesn't know, what he can't expect. It's why he almost kills Cross in a last ditch effort to keep Fatal away from himself. Why he overwrites all his creation's wills and why he wants Chara and Cross under his control. He's a control freak, and that's been really well established, but I love how each episode further highlights just how little control he has compared to what he implies, and how much fear is accompanied with that.

At the end of the day, he silences Gaster and ignores Fatal. He refuses to respond to either of them. Because Gaster is right, and Fatal is in fact a threat.

I'm in love with the way XGaster is portrayed. He never really changed his methods between Season 1 and 2, always hiding behind someone or something to do his bidding.

It's also interesting how Geno addresses XGaster here. I'm pretty sure how Isolation might have affected XGaster is obvious, but the lines "there are many ways to break free. watch out for which version of yourself will get the job done." is still a bit of a mystery to me.

It's obvious how that applies to Geno, given that 3 versions of him show up in this episode: His normal Aftertale self, Error (who only shows up in flashes in this part of 0.7, but is fully present in part 1) and Fatal Error. All three versions have 'broken free' of something in their own way, be it the isolation and ensuing madness Geno went through, Error going through the same again or Fatal becoming an even bigger glitch after escaping Error.

All in all, can't wait for 0.8. Really enjoying where this is going so far, and now I have the urge to draw Fatal (even though that would be far too much of a pain and quite difficult given my skill rn).