#cash askew

[that-sea-sponge]

Batfam Head Canon

One of my personal head canon's is that Dick Grayson is a contortionist in addition to the acrobatic stuff. He's used this to freak out and get into trouble every one of his siblings, super villians, and Batman that one time.

Riddler: *Pushes Nightwing off a deck*

Nightwing: *lands with limbs horrifyingly askew*

Red Hood: *leaping over the deck* Well, well, well, look who just killed the Bat's favorite son.

Riddler: That was three feet off the ground! That's not physically possible!

Red Hood: I'm not the one you have to explain it to, man. I'm just gonna hold you 'til Batman gets here.

Riddler: NO! What if I tell you my whole plan?

Red Hood: Tell me the whole plan and hand over the money and I might let you leave.

Riddler: *gives up every piece of information he's ever had and his cash*

Red Hood: *Kicks Nightwing in the ribs* I got the stuff, let's get a burger or something.

Nightwing: *Laughs maniacally*. Let's do Two Face Next.

Batman: *watching from the shadows, not sure if he should be impressed or not*

[dollwrites]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!nanny!reader, married!toji ( rich toji too lmao hot take ), age gap, noncon, dacryphilia, virginity loss, heavy breeding kink, bondage, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯 ∣ day twenty-two [ toji fushiguro + breeding ]

you probably should’ve kept your mouth shut. you should’ve bit the bullet and swallowed your pride when Toji said he couldn’t pay you any earlier than Friday for babysitting the kids. no, couldn’t had not been his word of choice. he wouldn’t pay you before Friday. Toji was loaded with cash. you’d never bothered to ask him how he made his living, but you knew that he had plenty and his massive mansion would not be snatched up by the bank if the prick gave you your well earned three hundred and twenty dollars on a Wednesday instead of a Friday.

and you’d told him so.

which had landed you in the position you’re in now.

on a few occasions, Toji or his wife had asked you to tidy up around the house and that included their bedroom. the room was massive and luxurious, with a king size bed in the center of the room. you’d seen plenty of oddities in there— handcuffs here, a flogger there, vibrators in the drawers and even a black, pleather bench with seatbelt-like straps hanging off it in the corner— but you never thought, in all the time you’ve worked for them, that you’d find yourself on your back in nothing but your bra and panties ( which were both pulled askew to expose your breasts and give him access to your core ) against the mattress, with thick, black straps on your ankles that bind them to a long, silver bar. your legs are spread wide for Toji, he has also fastened similar cuffs to each of your wrists to separate notches on the pole. his fist is wrapped around the center of the metal, gripping it tight. he seems to use it as a lever, pulling your entire body to his.

the tears are far from dried on your cheeks, though the majority of the pain from the initial insertion has dissipated, Toji is none too gentle as he ruts into you. your walls flutter about the girth of his manhood as it stretches you to a capacity you’ve never felt before. he was so big, much too big for him to have been your first, and you felt like he was ripping you apart, especially because he had no regard for how deep he was delving into you— each thrust of his hips sent him hilt-deep into a newly devirginized interior. because of this, your face remained twisted into an expression of discomfort, eyes wide with shock.

Toji chuckles through grit teeth, “What’s with the crocodile tears, slut? Wasn’t expecting I’d pop your cherry? Daddy’s cock too big for that itty, bitty belly of yours?” his dark pair coruscate in the dim lighting as his gaze travels over your stomach, pressing his free palm against the lump just below your navel, the size and shape of his cock. you mewl, head rolling about on the mattress, and your teeth sink into your lower lip; the pressure adds to the sensation of being stuffed full. “Ooh, listen to you whine for me,” he croons with faux sympathy, poking out his lower lip. “I’ll bet you’re used to getting exactly what you want with those puppy dog eyes, aren’t you? But, I gotta tell you, baby girl, daddy’s made more girls cry than just you. You really think those little sniffles are gonna work on me? Make me go easier on you?”

his hips grind into yours as he digs as deep as possible without his thick tip bursting through your belly button ( or, at least, that’s what it feels like ), and you cry out, back arching. your fingernails claw at the restraints, arms tensed unable to do much but sting.

“Ah!” it’s more a bestial growl than a sound of pleasure you’d expect anyone to make, his eyes fiery with even more desire at your wriggling. “See, feel that? How your pussy tremors when she’s gripping my cock? You can glare up at me with those cute, puffy eyes and your makeup streaked down your cheeks, but I can tell by the way that little pussy hugs me that you don’t want it gentle. You don’t want me to be nice. You want to be fucked into submission, and daddy’s more than willing to break that bad fuckin’ habit of talking back to me with my cock.”

it was almost impossible to formulate a coherent sentence, batting tears back, but they fall anyways, squirming as if to escape the cocktail of pleasure and pain, and you turn away from him, angling your countenance towards the wall instead. “W—what— what if I t-told your, ah! Your wife about this—“

the most wicked of grins contorts Toji’s lips, and he reaches through the bar and between your arms to grip your face, turning it back to force you to look up at him. “You think she doesn’t know, girl? I’ve only been planning to breed your little body since you started working for us. I just needed a good excuse to break you in, thanks for that.” he pauses, to groan and close his eyes, pace picking up as his hips begin to buck more erratically. “She thinks you’ll make a better baby factory than she ever could, and she’s more than willing to let me keep you here and fuckin’ ruin you until the only thing you want is for me to swell that little tummy with my bastards—“ even as your whimpering escalated into screams, you can hear him. your eyes close, head wanting to angle away from his grip, his palm makes contact with your cheek in a couple, quick slaps. “You can get used to being my little breed-whore, sweet girl. And don’t you worry, you’re gonna get a nice raise every time I knock you up; as long as you learn that your place is wrapped around daddy’s cock, and that pussy is for him to fill with his loads, you’re gonna be a fine new addition to this family.”

[lost-in-fandoms]

This is inspired by my own post. Don't even look at me.

It's a long shot, and Daniel is perfectly aware of it as he rides the elevator up to Max's room, but he refuses to think too hard about it, afraid he will reconsider the sanity of it and turn back.

You see, they used to have this...thing, back in the day. It didn't happen often enough to give a name to it, but when Daniel got pole or won a race, Max would find him and get on his knees for him.

It had started in 2016, Max fresh faced and wide eyed, pulling him into the bathroom of the club they were in. Not in Monaco, not even Max was bold enough for that, but in Malaysia. It had been hot and wet, and Daniel had tangled his fingers in Max's sweaty hair, pulling hard enough to make tears spring in his blue eyes, before coming down his throat.

Their thing had always been one way only. Max had been the one getting on his knees, and Daniel had never offered to get him back. It had been a relief, when Max had started winning more than him, he didn't want to owe blowjobs that often. Not that Max would have hold him to that if Daniel didn't want to, but it would have been a matter of pride, and justice, or whatever.

Daniel has spent a lot of time in the last couple of years thinking about it. Not much about the act itself, even if he has gotten off to the memories of Max's mouth more times than he can count, but about the whole concept of it. He had started wondering if it had been Max's first (debatable, kid had been too sure of himself, but again Max always was), if Max had wanted more (probably, he had seen the looks he would get on his face sometimes), why Max had never tried to talk to him about it. Why Daniel, arguably the more mature of the two, hadn't done it. If Max still thought about it too. If he thought about it as much as Daniel did.

The last time they had done this it had been Monza, in 2021. Max had shoved in his motorhome, flushed and furious, and had sucked Daniel off with such a passionate drive it had felt like maybe he was trying to get Daniel's soul too. Or like maybe he was trying to suck Daniel's P1 out of him through his dick. It had been one of the best blowjobs of his life, had left him dazed and panting on the couch while Max had bit out a congratulations and stormed out again, his shoulders just marginally less stiff.

And now Daniel is in front of Max's door, with a P5 that feels like a P1, feeling like he's going to be taking a step right out of a plane.

He hears shuffling when he finally knocks, and it's only when he hears Max open the door that the uncertainty hits him in full force. He has not thought this through at all. Or well, he has, just not further than this. How do you ask someone "hey it's been almost three years but I would like to cash in a blowjob"??

Max looks...soft. He has a pair of sweats on, one of his white tshirts, hair freshly washed and unstyled. The blank expression and small polite smile he's sporting when he opens the door, as if he was expecting to have to send someone away, immediately morph into a blinding smile when he spots Daniel. It's always been so easy, at least for Daniel, to make Max smile like that.

"Daniel!" he says, eyes crinkling, moving to the side to let Daniel in without having to be asked.

"Hello, Max."

His room is fairly tidy, his luggage open in a corner with a few team shirts spilling out just as it had always been, but the blankets on the bed are all askew, a comfy little nest around Max's open laptop.

"Am I interrupting something?" Daniel asks, motioning towards it. He never knows when Max is working, watching something, or playing with his friends, but he hopes it's nothing important. If it's something important and Max sends him away, Daniel knows he will never find the guts to do this ever again.

"No," Max starts, then turns, smiling more, "well, yes. I was watching Lando's onboards. But they are not important now."

It hits him unexpectedly hard, the casual acknowledgement that Daniel's presence is more important than whatever Max was already planning for his evening. It's nothing new, but it's been a while since Daniel has felt it, the way Max loves him so simply. Since he has felt deserving of it.

Something must show on his face, because Max's smile turns soft as he sits down on the couch near the window, patting the space next to him for Daniel to join him.

"Why are you here?" From anyone else, it would sound rude, but Daniel has been used to Max's bluntness since day one, misses it sometimes these days, now that he's a little more careful with it, so he knows Max only means exactly what he's asking.

Daniel also knows this could be the moment to bring it up, his request, but it feels wrong to just barge in on Max's evening, get an orgasm and leave. Back then he would have done it, but they're both different people now.

"I wanted to see you, Maxy," he says, aiming for joke and hitting fond instead. It's not a lie, but the way Max goes all pink and pleased feels too dangerous for his heart, so Daniel redirects. "P2, yeah?"

It's enough to set Max off, talking about corners and turns and steering and this car. Not my car, Daniel notes. He's not surprised by the difference, but he wonders if Max means to make it so obvious, how he feels about this year's car. Or maybe Daniel is just really versed in Max-speak.

He also notices the tension around his eyes a couple of times, when Max mentions the team, and if it was another night he maybe would have asked; it never took much for Max to tell Daniel things, especially when he was unhappy about something. But today he got P5, and something about the blush growing on Max's cheeks as he gets more and more animated, making his eyes looks even more blue, firmly sets him back on jumping off the plane and send it plans.

He waits for Max to slow down a little, then nudges his calf with his foot, enjoying the way Max immediately reacts by jabbing a finger into Daniel's side, tension disappearing from his face.

"P5 is not P2, but it's still pretty good, right?"

Max's smile is his best one yet, all bright and proud as he nods, reaching for Daniel again to squeeze his shoulder.

"Of course, you have been very good today, Daniel! I am glad you are again feeling the car right."

Always so sweet and earnest. If he hadn't already teared up a little before press, face hidden in Blake's shoulder, Daniel would have probably done it now. As it is, he just smiles back, lets Max talk through his lap, quietly pleased by the knowledge that Max had obviously watched his onboard already, before Lando's. Maybe, if he dares to hope it, even before George's.

It's probably that, feeling like he's still important to Max, what gives him the confidence to throw things into motion.

"Feels like a P1, mate."

For a split second, he doesn't know what to expect. Will Max understand what he means? Maybe Max has not been thinking about their past times together, maybe saying P1 will mean nothing to him, maybe he will just go on another rant on how different P1 is of course from P5. Or maybe he will understand Daniel, and he will just slide off the couch and onto his knees, and Daniel won't have to say anything else.

Max, obviously, because he's Max, does neither thing.

His expression changes, something focused and pinched, as he tilts his head a little and stares at Daniel, lips slightly pursed.

"You want to feel like P1?" he asks. To someone else it would sound like a perfectly normal question, but Daniel knows that Max has understood, because somehow Max always gets him, even now. He also knows that he will not get out of this without talking about it at least a little. They're both different people, he has to remind himself. He's not the only one who's changed.

He nods, because he's not one to go back on his steps when he's already decided to send it, but he doesn't say anything else.

Max still looks deep in thought.

"We..." he starts, then immediately changes trajectory, "I can. If that is what you want."

As if Daniel might have walked all the way over without wanting this, without wanting Max. He nods again, watches as Max shifts a little, eyes flicking down to Daniel's lap, then to his own hands. His ears are red.

"Why now?" he blurts out, fingers twisting together. "You have of course got P5 before, but you have never come to me."

For a second, Daniel feels breathless with the knowledge that this whole time, Max would have been willing. This whole time, he could have asked and Max would have said yes, even after all these years, even after his championships, even after 2022.

"It didn't feel the same," he answers, before adding in a whisper, a belated confession, "I missed you."

He sees the way Max's shoulders jolt, his head snapping up again, eyes wide and surprised. Daniel doesn't get it, they have said it before, but he doesn't get time to dwell on it before Max is smiling again, grabbing a pillow and gracelessly following it on the floor.

Suddenly, just from seeing Max on his knees, Daniel is half hard. No wanking memory could hold a light to the real thing, to Max, broad and solid and real.

He lets Max get his hands on his legs, spreading them gently and shuffling forward, fingers sliding up to his thighs. It's hard to swallow now, the air in the room suddenly heavy with anticipation.

"I have missed you," Max rasps, kneading at Daniel's legs, not even reaching for his waistband yet. "I have missed doing this for you."

Daniel closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, but he regrets it immediately when he realizes it means not looking at Max anymore. Max, who's now looking up at him, pupils blown and lips red. For a moment, Daniel wishes things were different, wishes this thing was one where they kissed too, where he got to drag Max in his lap and get to touch him, feel all the way he's different now.

"Up," is all Max says, breaking his dangerous train of thought, and Daniel just obeys, lifting his hips and letting Max take down his pants, leaving them pooled at his ankles.

He's sure he's imagining the sigh Max lets out, the way his fingers are trembling a little when they reach just barely inside his underwear, grazing the top of his thigh.

And then Max leans forward and licks over one of Daniel's tattoos.

The sound Daniel lets out is a mix of a yelp and a moan. He can feel the little shit smiling against his skin, right before he does it again, adding a bite at the end, followed by an apology kiss, and this too is different from how they used to do it, quick and dirty, straight to the prize. Daniel is not going to complain.

Max takes his time, kissing and licking his way up his tattoos, until his nose hits the side of Daniel's clothed dick, now well on its way to fully hard.

"Hello," Max whispers, like a nerd, flashing a cheeky smile up at Daniel, who's tempted to swat at him until Max opens his mouth and wraps his lips around the head of his cock, underwear and all.

Daniel barely has time to squeak out a curse, hips bucking up in surprise, before Max steps back, smile gone. When he looks up again, he looks so intensely hungry Daniel struggles to swallow, and for his next revelation of the day, he understands that the gangly and overenthusiastic teenager who had drooled all over his dick in a club in Malaysia must have gained quite a lot of experience since then.

He refuses to analyze how that makes him feel, at least for now.

Max doesn't waste any more time, luckily, since Daniel is now hot and straining, making quick work of Daniel's boxers and of putting his mouth on him. For a second, with Max's lips around his tip, Daniel gets thrown back in time, and maybe things are not so different after all. Then Max takes a breath and sinks all the way down.

"What the...shit!" Daniel swears, scrambling for something to hold onto and finding Max's shoulders, as his brain goes completely blank, fuzzy with static and pleasure.

Yes, Max has definitely gotten more experience, because what the fuck is this. He's still enthusiastic, moaning and drooling around Daniel, tongue swirling as if his dick is some sort of delicacy, but the technique is different now. It's like he graduated in cock sucking or something, like he's trying to prove he's not only a racing champion, but a sex champion, or maybe like he's trying to kill Daniel. Or all three together.

Daniel knows he's being loud, moans and swears tumbling from his lips without hope of being restrained, but it seems to only spur Max on, as he fucking deepthroats him again with no sign of gagging. What the fuck.

"Max, Maxy, babe," Daniel tugs at Max's hair, struggling to string enough words together to let him know that, embarrassingly, he's already close, but all that does is make Max moan, the vibration of it feeling like sparks up Daniel's back.

Luckily, Max seems to still get the message though, because he lets up a little, gently suckling at Daniel's tip, pressing a kiss to it before pulling back completely to look up at Daniel.

He's like a vision, cheeks red and eyes bright, mouth spit slicked and a bit swollen, hair falling on his forehead, and Daniel's desire to kiss him comes back in full force. Again, almost as if he was reading it on Daniel's face, Max stops that particular train of though.

"Can I swallow?" Max asks, voice rough, as if it is a totally normal question and not a way to make Daniel feel like he's going to die on the spot.

"Do you want to?" Somehow, Daniel's voice is worse than Max's, all breathy and fucked up, and he can see Max being pleased about it. Menace.

"I always want to."

Max always used to, even back then, but Daniel had never questioned if it was because he thought that was how it was supposed to be or because he wanted to. Having the answer now is devastating. He groans, letting his head fall back and nodding weakly, hoping Max will just have mercy on him and finally kill him, but it doesn't seem good enough for the other, who reaches up to grab Daniel's chin, gently but firmly pulling his head back down.

"Yes?"

Daniel is acutely aware he had never explicitly asked for consent before, and neither had Max.

Things are different now.

"Yes."

It doesn't take long after that, Max throwing himself back into it like a man starved, and Daniel falling apart under him, unable to control his hands, his hips or the volume of his voice. He swears Max moans when Daniel finally comes down his throat, shaking and twitching as Max sucks him through it. He's still dazed and out of it while Max helps him back into his clothes, fondly patting his dick before tucking it in, and he can only watch as Max hauls himself to his feet again, wincing slightly, and dropping back on the couch next to Daniel.

"Good?" Max asks, because he's a nerd and a little shit.

Daniel limply hits him with his eyes still closed, feeling himself smile in response to Max's laugh.

This is different too, he distantly thinks. Usually it was Max coming to him, and he would always leave immediately after, never hanging out for Daniel's comedown. Now, when he finally opens his eyes, Max is curled up next to him, still looking flushed and happy. Still obviously hard.

Things are different now, Daniel reminds himself, checking with himself for a second as he reaches forward to tap on Max's knee.

"Want help with that?"

[ornii]

Do you still do requests?

Can you please do Wednesday Addams X reader who has abilities, powers, and a backstory similar to John Constantine? Thank you.

Black Rum

A little short and sweet.

Nevermore really didn’t change much after the attack, and overall some things never truly did change. But what did was the relationship between (Y/n) and Wednesday, she was cold and standoffish towards him in the beginning. Slowly he melted her icy demeanor and made himself home in her heart. Whether she wanted to admit it or not; she loved him. While continuing their studies, the two participate in… extracurricular activities together.

(Y/n) stood in an old Church, dark magic swirling around him as a magic pentagram was drawn around him. He stood calmly in the tornado of darkness as from that black mist, a demon made purely of shadows reaches out, calling his name with his ethereal voice. “(Y/n)… your soul, is mine…” the ethereal voice called out to him, its arm elongated and askew of humanity. Its bony fingers ready to tear his soul apart.

“Any time now love..” he grumbled, ready for a fight to the death. Standing upon the scaffolding of the interior. Wednesday drew an arrow, dipped in Silver. Her eye focused on the demon, ready to reveal itself. Its body began to open up like a cage of bones, darkness emitting like smoke. What was there was a black heart, beating so callously.

“Dammit Wednesday..” was his final thoughts, until the arrow let loose. It flew though the air and it struck true. Nailing the monster right in the heart, Wednesday began to descend the scaffolding, the beast reels in pain. Screaming as the silver sears his heart and thematically seals him to this world temporarily. The monster collapsed down, writhing in pain. (Y/n) sighs with relief, as the monster spirals in pain. Wednesday stands next to (Y/n) as they look over the monsters body.

“I..I will have my revenge!” It calls out, (Y/n) raises his hand.

“Sure lad, you try that, back to where you came from.” He said, the monster growls.

“W-wait! Fine, perhaps we can, strike a bargain?” He said.. (Y/n) scoffs and shook his head.

“Heard that Wednesday?” He said.

“A god begging for mercy.. pitiful.” She said, the demon reaches out but (Y/n) raised his hands to seal his spell.

“Attiuaiasis Qutendo Beneesta Sulpus Accuule!” He chanted, the spell holding the demon in this world was shattered. And once more he was dragged back to the pits of hell. The two stand there and (Y/n) kicks some of the salt, breaking the spell circle and putting an end to it all. Their peace was interrupted by a priest slowly opening the door, he peers in to see the two standing there. (Y/n) casually motions the priest to follow, the middle aged man looked around to see books everywhere, paper, and the unnerving sense of evil.

“Alright Bishop, your Church is free of the vicar curse.” He said, The priest blesses them.

“May god bless you both a thousand times over. We had no way to deal with this dark energy alone.” He explains, and Wednesday wasn’t the one for chit chat.

“We take our payment in cash and check.” She said flatly. (Y/n) glares at her, before the priest nods and hands them said check.

“Of course, like the Bible says; ‘You shall not muzzle an ox when it treads out the grain,’ and, ‘The laborer deserves his wages.’” He said, Wednesday takes it and departs, (Y/n) sighs and shakes the priests hand.

“If you require any other services or know anyone who does, give us a ring.” He said and catches up to Wednesday. She looks at the check but it’s suddenly pulled away from her and flies back, she watches it fall into the hand of (Y/n). The two begin to walk together along a barren plain like trail.

“You could at least say goodbye to the old man.” He says.

“Why?”

“Because we’re in Kansas and I highly doubt we’ll come back. Plus clientele.”

“I don’t see the point of pleasantries, we came to do a job, simple as that.” She says, (Y/n) shakes his head and they reach a building, but they didn’t need the building just the wall. Reaching into his pocket the reveals chalk, he draws a door on it.

“Point is love, we want this “Black Rum: Occult Detectives” thing to work out, we have to actually be like able.. well I have to be. You just be cute dark and broody.” He said, he then turns to the chalk drawing and spoke. “Ecrumis Queeyela Various.” He then blangs on the wall and it crumbled and behind the chalk outline was a door. (Y/n) walks on as Wednesday grumbles “I’m not Broody.” She said, they walk in and suddenly appear back at Nevermores Quad, (Y/n) closes the door and it crumbed to dust.

“So, why don’t we cash this in and ..Spend some quality time together?” He said raising an eyebrow.

“Fine, I suppose your company wouldn’t be an entire bore.” She walks off as the Magician follows. Chucking to himself.

[andkisses]

♡ just about anything | jay ♡

late nights, when really, both of you should have been asleep a long time ago, but who knew this game of monopoly would last so long?

♡ jay x gn!reader | wc. 1.5k ♡ genres/tropes: domestic, competitive couple that won’t quit, staying up way too late ♡ mentions of/warnings: pet names, food, lmk if there’s anything else! <3 ♡ a/n: a repost and revamp of one of my very first writings from YEARS ago </3 (from that blog i accidentally deleted <///333) 

♡ masterlist ♡

With the rest of the lights in the apartment off, the lone one above the kitchen table casts a warm glow into the darkness. The light illuminates the board, littered with green houses, red hotels, and Cheez-Its—you ran out of hotels about an hour ago (but who’s to say?) and needed something to represent a double-hotel on the board. There’s a notebook on the table that keeps getting passed back and forth, covered in numbers and tallies in two different handwritings. It’s currently functioning as a paper bank account, since the game has escalated far beyond the cash given  in a standard Monopoly box.

Your eyes are tired, nearly burning with ache; it’s been too long, and it’s very much past your bedtime. But the both of you are stubborn, and horrifically competitive–especially when it’s just the two of you. He seems just as drained, eyes dropping and his head propped up on a closed fist. The loose hoodie slides down his arm, pooling around the elbow, and he uses the sleeve of the other to wipe at his eyes. Just seeing him sleepy makes you sleepy, and your head is bobbing up and down. It would be so much better to be curled up in his arms right now. The game is one of chance at this point, all up to the dice roll. The only safe spots on the board are your own; everything else is meaningless to you. You know you want to land on your properties and not his, for those Cheez-Its are threatening and—

“Did you just eat some of the board?” you ask, the dice still caught between your hands. 

Jay looks up at you and blinks slowly, still chewing on the stolen Cheez-It. He swallows and takes a sip of his nearly empty glass of water before answering. “No.”

You shake your head, tilting it to one side. “No what?”

“No, I didn’t eat the board. I took it from the bowl, like a civilized person.” He points with his free hand lazily at the blue plastic bowl the Cheez-Its had been poured into when the demand for new hotels had arisen. How long ago had that been? Half an hour? An hour? Hours, plural? You couldn’t tell anymore. This game felt decades long yet you know you started it today. Or, was it really yesterday?

You reach forward and draw the bowl towards you, eliciting a tired pout from your boyfriend. “Well, you shouldn’t eat these either. We may need them.”

“And how could we do that, love?" Jay reaches to pick up the notebook and it flaps under its own weight as he lifts it into the air. “We’d need more money to upgrade any house or non-Cheez-It hotels, and we’ve already borrowed from an imaginary bank three times. Inflation is running rampant throughout this town. We’ve ruined the economy. We’re monsters.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jay shrugs, placing the paper bank back on the table before sniffling and wiping at his eyes again, this time with both hands. The ball cap he wears now sits askew on his head, and you, out of habit, reach forward to fix it, leaning against the table to help span the distance. Your fingers brush against the edge of the board, and the more you lean to reach across the table, the more you end up on top of the board. You’re out of your seat now, feet pressing on toes to get the height and length you need to reach to fix the hat.

And before you know it, you’re face to face and practically on the table. Jay leans forward and bumps his nose against yours while you adjust his hat. “We should stop,” he says plainly.

“Why? So you can win?” you mutter, half grumbling. One hand fixes his hat while the other acts as a brace against the table.

“No, so we can stop,” he says again, one hand reaching to rub simple patterns into the top of your hand. “The Cheez-Its will still be there in the morning. If we need it, Jake can bring his copy so we can have more actual cash to use.”

A quick hah escapes your lips. “You just want to win.”

“No, love, I just want to sleep.”

With his hat now fixed, you carefully lean back, peeling yourself off the table and into your seat. You’re silently thankful for the still intact Cheez-Its. Had they been crushed, you’re sure you’d given up, now feeling more tired than you were before your hat-fixing expedition—and that was already fairly tired. You’re about to refute his case, saying that the two of you should stick it out until the end, that surely it can’t be too much longer, when Jay takes his hat off—the one you so painfully just fixed—to run his hand through his hair before putting it back on, slightly crooked.

“Jay... I just... fixed... that.” You bite your lip, too tired to be angry out right but too tired to realize it also doesn’t matter.

“I know you did,” he replies, yawning into his sleeve. He begs again, a hint of desperation growing into his voice. “Can we please stop?”

You lean forward, resting your chin on the edge of the table and staring up at him from across the board. “Does this mean I win?”

“If you want to, love,” he says, scooting away from the table to stand, silently hoping his movement away from the game will pull you away as well. “If it means we can stop.”

A smile graces your lips as he walks around the table to your side. You take the hand he offers to help you up, holding tight. You pull his arm toward you, hugging it as you both shuffle forward into the darkness, the Monopoly board abandoned. “Thank you,” you say, stretching to place a kiss on his cheek.

“If it makes you happy, love,” Jay begins, his voice soft and tired, “I’d do just about anything.”

“Just about?” you tease, crawling up onto the bed and beneath the covers. “Meaning there’s things you wouldn’t do, hm?”

“Yes, just about,” he replies, mimicking your actions. Even half asleep, he still makes sure you’re tucked safely against his side, with his arm curled around your waist and your head resting on his chest. You hear his heartbeat, smooth and steady.  You wrap your arms around his own waist, a soft smile against your lips.

He continues, murmuring sleepily into your hair after a kiss to your temple. “Just about, because if you had asked me to continue playing with you I would have fallen asleep at that table.”

“And what’s so bad about that?” you whisper back, titling your head up to see him. Moonlight streams around the edge of your curtains, providing just enough light to see.

“I really wasn’t looking forward to waking up with Cheez-Its ingrained into my forehead,” he replies with a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think the look’s for me.”

You laugh, snuggling in closer against his hoodie, and he laughs too. “I think you would have looked great,” you say against his collarbone, eyes finally lulling shut.

“Do you now, love?”

“Yeah, orange is really your color.”

You feel his arm leave your waist and a single finger place itself beneath your chin. You allow Jay to tilt your head up before you open your eyes. He levels you a stare long enough for you to think you’ve done something seriously wrong before a laugh makes its way out, and before you know it, he’s placing happy, smiley kisses across your cheeks, your nose. He stops before your lips. His eyes, even tired, are still starry and glittering. His voice has reverence when he speaks. “You know I love you with every fiber of my being, right?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

Jay bumps into your nose, hand playfully squeezing back at your waist. “That’s where you’re supposed to say I love you, too.”

You shake your head, fake-frowning. “But you haven’t kissed me yet?”

“Is that a suggestion or a demand?” he asks.

You shrug. “You choose.”

He leans forward, giving you the slightest, softest peck before pulling back.

You pout, chin tilting down. “You call that a kiss?”

“No,” he laughs, kissing the side of your cheek right beside your lips. “I just love your pout. I love everything about you.”

As he kisses the other cheek, just as close to your lips, you sigh. “I love you, too, Jay.”

And this time, he really does kiss you, although chaste and sleepy, but an honest kiss regardless. He tucks you back under his chin, wraps his arms around you so he knows you're safe. You’re nearly asleep when he finally replies, his own voice laced with sleep, and it’s enough to make you smile. Enough to know that he really would do just about anything for you. It makes you wrap your around him just a little tighter, make you smile just a little wider.

“I love you too.” That’s what you’d said. He says, in the darkness and honesty of your room, “I know.”

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 3.1

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve.

On tumblr: Part one Part two or search #thefreakinthepenthouse

On AO3

3.1 Cracks in the plasterwork

Eddie was vegging out front of the TV, watching a rerun of Star Trek, when a knock sounded. Shit, shit, SHIT! He was literally naked and he’d not ordered anything on room service.

Not till later, at any rate. Eddie glanced at the clock. Only four pm.

He grabbed a bathrobe. Despite Steve’s brutal early wakeup call, Eddie had gotten more energy than in an age. Life really did feel less of a gloom-fest today.

Even if his self-loathing still throbbed like a bitch.

A voice sounded from the corridor. “Uh, Mister M… I mean, Eddie? You there?”

It was Steve! Already? Eddie threw both the doors wide. “Greetings and salutations. You’re mega-early.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Can’t stay. The main elevator guy’s off sick. I’m stuck there all day.”

Eddie was seriously cracking up. In his bellboy hat with its little strap under his chin, Steve was ridiculous levels of adorable. And fuckable. Which was all kinds of wrong.

“No sweat, Stevie.” He reined in his giggles. “I’m up for a quickie in your elevator, if that’s all that’s on offer.”

It was a joke. Steve sighed. He looked exhausted, kinda shadowy around the eyes. “I finish at eight. I’ll be here as soon as I can. Listen, I’m really sorry. I think I dropped something here last night. Can I, erm… have a peep, see if I can find it?”

“Sure.” Eddie stepped aside.

Steve rushed first into the bedroom, throwing himself flat to look under the bed. “The chambermaid’s been and gone,” said Eddie. He already felt like a total a-hole for laughing at Steve, who seemed genuinely stressed out. “Don’t think she picked anything up that wasn’t my usual trash. What did you lose?”

“Oh, nothing.” Steve hurried back across the lounge area and into the restroom. “Well, actually, it’s kind of important. It belongs to a friend… Oh, thank God.”

Eddie arrived at the restroom door in time to receive an epic view of Steve’s butt in his deadly-tight uniform pants. He was crawling to retrieve something from under the spacious clawfoot washtub. “Christ, I was going outta my mind! I keep this safe for my friend, Robin—she’s a junior sous chef, and, uh, yeah, she’d totally lose her head if it wasn’t attached. Anyway, she put it in my bag without telling me yesterday, apparently. What a flake!”

Steve shoved the cause of his anguish—which turned out to be one of those blue asthma inhalers that Eddie had seen kids use at grade school—into his back pocket. His breakneck monologue seemed a bit odd, but he was all smiles now, which made Eddie relax again too. Especially as a glint of that irresistible come-hither returned to Steve’s big brown eyes.

He’s pretending, Eddie reminded himself. He’s good. This guy’s reeeeeally good at this. Unfortunately for Eddie, Steve already backed toward the doors.

“Hey, I heard rumors there’s a plunge pool in the other restroom,” said Steve. “That true?”

“Fuck, yeah,” said Eddie. “Big enough to swim in. How about we take a dip later?” Steve responded with an Oscar-winning grin and flutter of his lashes. “Oh, wait a sec.” Eddie dived to retrieve his wallet from beside a vase of fake orchids. “Here’s your one-fifty. Plus, two hundred bucks in advance for tonight.”

“Wow. Thank you.” Steve’s voice trembled strangely as he took the cash, while Eddie found himself beaming like an idiot. Steve had knocked his hat askew crawling under the bath, and now Eddie reached out and straightened it. Steve flushed slightly, suddenly unable to meet Eddie’s eye: 

“Look, you treated me real nice yesterday, Eddie. Sorry if I come across grouchy. Or pushy. I know I can be like that. They’re brutal traits, in my line of work.”

“Not a problem,” said Eddie, not quite believing how badly he didn’t want Steve to leave. 

Steve reached the doors, lightly touched the handle and glanced back. “I mean, I’m sure I can do any weird kinks for somebody as nice as you.”

“Did I tell you I had a weird kink for fucking guys in bellboy outfits?” It wasn’t true at all, but Eddie couldn’t help it.

“Yeah, right. That’s a surefire way to experience my weird kink for punching annoying clients in the face.”

Ooookay. For some reason, Eddie grinned about that for the next hour.

The silence that followed Steve’s departure was still too much for Eddie to handle. For the first time in weeks, he put on a CD—Guns n’ Roses’ ‘You could be mine’ simmering on low volume. He picked up the phone and called Dustin.

“I’m gonna go through your notes this afternoon,” Eddie told him. “Will try and get some ideas going, but no promises. Oh, and don’t you dare call this evening. I got a date.”

Eddie’s whispering demons about the half-lie were drowned out by Dustin’s screams: “Aaaaaaaagh! That’s awesome, Eddie. Hey, how about you and your date double up with Suzie and me. There’s this cool new pizza joint on Rodeo Drive—”

“No way in hell,” said Eddie. He didn’t hang up on Dustin this time. At least, not until he’d gotten a promise from his bud to send a fresh batch of decent weed over.

…

Steve reached Eddie’s suite, slightly out of breath, at seven minutes past eight. He still wore his uniform, minus the hat. He really couldn’t risk another night rushing around dressed like a hooker.

Kline had already swiped fifty dollars off him—a ‘cancellation fee’ that he’d demanded Steve charge Eddie. If the slimy son-of-a-bitch discovered Eddie hadn’t chickened out and that Steve had taken the ‘job’ himself, Steve would be out in the gutter.

On the other hand, thanks to Eddie, Steve had been able to put in an order for his prevention meds. That would take the pressure off his rescue inhaler. He already craved that cool, fresh feeling in his lungs, as those expensive pills did their thing, opening up his airways. He’d put the rest aside to pay off a little more of last winter’s hospital debt. 

Shame about lying to Eddie earlier, but hey, who’d wanna hire an asthmatic call-boy? And last night had gone fine, so why worry now?

Eddie opened the door with a megawatt grin. Damn, Eddie was stupid levels of adorable when he smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey there.”

Fortunately, Eddie no longer wore that hideous Hugh Hefner bathrobe. Instead, he wore a pair of black silk boxers and nothing else. He slouched against the door frame, and indicated with his head that Steve should enter. Steve snapped his mouth shut before he drooled.

“The plunge pool is getting hot and steamy,” said Eddie.

“Great.” Steve stepped into the room, tugging apart his collar, stripping his shirt off. “Sorry about the uniform, I uh—”

“Gotta confess,” said Eddie, “I miss the eye-liner… Woah!”  

Steve had peeled down his pants to reveal a teeny pair of denim hotpants. He kicked his clothes across the room, rolled his shoulders back and shimmied his hips… in sync to a very faint beat.

“You’re red-hot, Baby.” Eddie moved close, slid his hands to clasp Steve’s butt, where the super-tiny shorts cut off half-way up Steve’s butt cheeks. They also cut in like cheese wire, particularly now Steve started to grind the bulge around the front of them into Eddie.

“You broke your no-music rule,” he murmured into Eddie’s ear, arms looping up around Eddie’s neck as they swayed to the unfamiliar rock song.

“My penthouse," whispered Eddie. "My rules.”

...

Part 3.2

(Likes reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕)

On tumblr: Part one Part two or search #thefreakinthepenthouse

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[yiiyiiwrites]

More JJ and burnt out overchieving kook please, anything...

Ok ok, add on from this prompt I intended for it to be a smaller fic but here you go:

The temporary ban on the country club seemed to fall away quickly, JJ eyeing her up across the decking. There’s an added confidence to her walk, short skirt fluttering around her thighs, giving him a brief view of the cotton floral underwear he watched her put back on this morning.

She fit in her natural habitat, slight smile stretching her lips as she greets one of her sister’s friends. Beside them though, nothing compares. There’s an edge to her that they don’t quite have. She might be dripping in cash, but it’s the subtle acknowledgement to the waiter and the clear thank you for their service.

Bidding the girls around the table goodbye, she raised her oversized sunnies on top of her head. Her gaze tracing up JJ’s form, pausing at the white shirt folded up to his elbows. Smiling she walked up to him and wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead, her signature silk handkerchief going back to her small handbag.

The small opening where the servers dip in and out giving them enough privacy to interact. Part of him wishing she’d do the same out on the restaurant floor for all to witness. As if reading his mind, she plucked his red tie in her hands and twirled it around in her palm pulling him down closer to her. Nose to nose, lips parting.

“You look so cute in this,” she whispered, nose nudging to his before her lips trace the shell of his ear. “Wear this later for me?” She released the tie and pushed him back as if she hadn’t said anything.

For once JJ is scrambling, head racing at her boldness. Dimples setting his cheeks as he just nodded his head.

“When you said you wanted to make the most of your membership. I didn’t think you meant this.” He said leaning into her, palm steadying him against the wall as he dipped to meet her gaze.

She side stepped him, spinning round to catch his wandering gaze. “That’s a bonus.”

He swatted the hem of her skirt, “for you or me?” He smirked, not needing an answer. “I finish my shift in a couple hours, you want to leave with me?”

“Sure.”

The persistent ringing bell behind them, interrupted the small moment. The one she couldn’t help, but play along with. Good girl, bad boy and from the wrong side. Her stepmother Gloria, had warned her regularly not to hang around on the cut or the unsavoury people that lived there. The dragon had no idea how much alike she was to a parent on the cut, but used her money and status for manipulation.

“Hey, I gotta get back.” JJ said pulling her out of her of head, his palms smoothing down her arms. The action calming her, he had a knack of breaking through to her.

She watched JJ disappear through the restaurant and out onto the deck outside. Pushing her self off the wall, she followed suit and searched for her father. His table vacant, nothing but empty coffee mugs piled upon it. Turning, she collided with another body.

The sunglasses on her head askew, the apology on her lips stopping short when she came face to face with her ex boyfriend.

He rights himself, pressing his palm against his chest to smooth the wrinkle from his blue shirt. “Well good to see that there’s nothing in your hands this time,” he chuckled, the crooked grin plastered on his face telling more of him having the upper hand now.

“Don’t tempt me.” She poked the jug of water at the table, thought wandering to dumping it on him. She tried to avoid his path as she made a move to escape, but his hand circled her wrist.

“Now I get it,” he leaned down, voice lowering. “You’ve got it hard, hell everyone knows you don’t get it at home. So you have to demand it elsewhere.” He shrugged, fingers digging into her wrist making sure she stayed to listen.

She didn’t need to say anything, one warning left before she’s banned for good and kicked out. This was the one place she could escape her family, but still keep up appearances, even if she did hate everything about it.

“But, who would have thought you’d be slumming it with Maybank over there.”

Heart thumping in her chest, she glanced to the side and JJ, his movements stilling for a second a few tables away. The tightness around her wrist disappeared, fingers tapping to her cheek and reverting her attention the Kook in front of her. She just hoped JJ hadn’t overhead the conversation.

“Wonder what Gloria would say?” He hummed, the thinly laced threat encouraging him to step closer. “I mean least you’ll get some attention at home.” He shoved his hands in his chino pockets, oversized watch hanging over the edge.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, the burning bubble of anger stung the back of her throat. She wanted to scream in his face, push him just like he had. Too much talk, status crushing her like every other thing in the figure eight.

Not like JJ though. He let her breathe.

So she took a breath, “did I not give you enough attention?” She tilted her head, bottom lip jutting out in faux concern. “I mean there’s no excuse to cheat on your girlfriend. But then again I should have known, you cheat on all your school tests.”

The smile dropped from his face, back straightening as he tried to make himself taller. The stare down to her wavering in the wake of knife she dealt him. She too could afflict pain with words just like him. Two can play that game.

It amazed her how the people around them turned a blind eye. Not that she expected anyone to step in. In this scenario she’s seen as the bad girl, the one who treated her boyfriend wrong and not the girl who was hurt by the boy. Maybe she’s not entirely good though, she knows she has a place and part to play. Not good enough for her family and too much for anyone else.

She glanced to the side once more, tall blonde nowhere to be seen.

Looking back to her ex boyfriend, the rose tint faded. The mask dropped for her, his flared nostrils and clenched fists enough to get her to flee. She pushed her way through the late lunch crowd waiting for a table and threw herself out the door.

She couldn’t help but laugh, a sick flicker of Deja vu welcoming her in the name of JJ Maybank. Joint between his fingers and a cloud of smoke curling out from his lips.

The boldness of this morning slipping away. "Ready Maybank?" She asked shaking her car key in her hand.

**

JJ scanned the landscaped driveway, large house coming into view. He’d been there many times before, but had only came from the dock at the back of the house. His odd gardening jobs leaving him strictly to the back lawn and pool.

“What about your parents?”

She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the garage door to roll up. There’s a split door to the right side reserved for her car. “Dad’s playing golf and then going to the office. Step moms at the spa.” She stole a glance to JJ, there’s an odd distance between them and it wasn’t their status.

JJ’s been staring out the window for most of the drive, jaw clenched and legs facing the door. She’s convinced he heard her ex and she's wondering why he agreed to come home with her. The knot in her stomach tightening at the thought of disappointing him.

Climbing out her seat, JJ’s brows furrowed as the garage door rolls to a shut. She grabbed his hand, not bothering to turn the light on as she moved in muscle memory to the door.

“I never go in the front way, I have a side door through the garage,” she said over her shoulder, his hand still clasped in hers as she guided him up the steps.

A heavier door appeared at the top of the stairs, she unlocked it and kicked her shoes off on the welcome mat.

The open plan room didn't showcase much of her status. The space might be big, but the double bed in one corner and a sofa in the other makes it look vacant. The walk in wardrobe is half full, a desk on one side for her studies and the bathroom beside it. There’s an upright piano collecting dust, she hasn’t played since she broke her hand years ago.

“Huh, not what I was expecting.” His eyes roam the open plan room, there’s not much to look at, but it’s a far cry from his own home.

There’s no personal touches, no colour to the walls. Half unfinished brick, plastered walls left unpainted. Rugs overlap the tiled floor, the only warmth other than the sun shining through the large windows that look out to the back garden.

“Ahh yes,” she nodded. “After my little blow up at the country club. I’ve been banished to here, out of sight out of mind right.” She rattled the door closest to her bed, giving up when the lock keeps it in place. She doesn’t tell him how it’s the only way to the main house and it’s locked most of the time to keep her out of the way.

She opened the small fridge, beer bottles clinking in her hands. JJ doesn’t waste anytime necking the cool beer. There’s an uncomfortable silence between them, normally they’re crashing lips and tangling limbs, no need to speak. JJ loosened his tie, buttons tearing open as he leant back on his elbows.

He brings the bottle back to his lips, chasing the last drops of beer.

Sitting back on the bed, she turned her body to face him. "Look what happened at the..."

JJ silenced her, lips crashing into hers. Fingers working on the buttons of her blouse. "Stop overthinking it." He said between kisses.

She doesn't make a move to shred him of his clothes, her hand tugging the red tie and yanking him to hover over her.

He smirked down at her, “you really must like slumming it," he whispered in her ear.

There you go! If you have any more requests or prompts send them in - Yiiyii

[hippolotamus]

(Way more than) Seven Sentence Sunday

Thanks for the tags @jesuisici33 @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @tizniz @spotsandsocks @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @wildlife4life @indestructibleheart @steadfastsaturnsrings @elvensorceress @honestlydarkprincess @spaceprincessem I haven’t gotten to all of your snippets but I will and already know they’re amazing and everyone should check them out 💖

Mirrorball (aka pole dancer Buck) won the poll yesterday so here are some sentences from that (prev snippet here) Unsurprisingly, he is producing as many feels (if not more) as I expected. So, uh, sorry about that (but also not sorry at all).

The pole – warmed by the house lights, previous performers, and heat from the three hundred something bodies legally allowed by the fire marshal – presses through his black mesh shirt, around the vegan leather chest harness, finally grazing his spine. He applies more pressure, allowing it to bear more of his weight, raising his arms and caressing the brushed stainless steel like a lover. A gentle touch he’s never experienced but aches with longing for anyway.

Just after the first musical bridge, a series of twangy guitar riffs and soulful keyboard notes, a member of the bachelorette party – maid of honor according to her hot pink sash – approaches the stage. There’s a bit of a wobble to her gait, but she’s still holding her own as she confidently struts forward to offer some bills she not so subtly clenches in her teeth.

If Buck was interested in her, he would make a show of crawling on all fours and take the proffered cash between his lips. But he’s not, so he holds onto the pole as he swings around, dipping low to pluck it from her with his fingers, giving her a wink as he does.

It’s possible she’s familiar with his act because she pouts a bit at that, even as the rest of her group cheers and wolf whistles, tugging up her cutoff short shorts to further reveal the swell of her ass as she flounces back to her seat. As if she’s daring him to reconsider lest he miss out. And maybe he will, if the offer’s still there at the end of his shift and he’s feeling lonely enough.

Buck tucks the money into a hidden pocket between the waistband of his royal blue hotpants and his dance belt. The stuff is loaded with enough germs, he’s not particularly interested in having it touch his sweat beaded skin before redistributing it out in the world.

When he resumes his routine, letting his gaze drift to the back of the room, he works to quickly recover as his breath catches in his throat. Dark eyes suddenly look impossibly darker – hungry and possessive – as lips wrap around the mouth of a beer. It’s tilted back in such a way that they never break eye contact. Maybe it should scare Buck, make him consider asking Bosko or Williams from security to see him to his jeep. But, strangely, it doesn’t.

The opportunity to let that process or sink in passes when his music ends and he begins collecting stray cash that’s been tossed on stage. In the time it takes him to stand back up, and throw a flirty kiss to the audience, he realizes the back table is empty save for a bottle and a chair sitting askew as if the occupant left in a hurry.

No pressure tagging @lizzie-bennetdarcy @disasterbuckdiaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @shortsighted-owl @stereopticons @911onabc @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buddierights @chaosandwolves @eowon @fionaswhvre @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @loserdiaz @messyhairdiaz @monsterrae1 @rmd-writes @statueinthestone @singlethread @the-likesofus @thekristen999 @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @underwater-ninja-13 @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @welcometololaland @weewootruck @your-catfish-friend and anyone else who wants to share 😘

[catapparently]

~The Glass Ballerina's Reputation~

CHAPTER 1- ...Ready for it?

Masterlist • Chapter 2

averyjameson!mafia AU After Avery's mother's death, she is left with many questions. What happened to her mother's family? Who were they? Why did her mother never talk about them? Why did Jameson Winchester Hawthorne appear in her life? ...What is her mother's secret?

When Avery was a kid, her mom was constantly inventing games. Not your average games like Hide-And-Seek or Tag. They were always small tests, a competition. Once they’d played the Who-Can-Stack-The-Most-Pancakes or Who-Could-Build-The-Tallest-Tower-of-Cards. There was always something to find, something to figure out- something to fix or something to take apart. A challenge. The rush of excitement and the thrill that came with success is what made Avery feel alive.

The last game her mother had made for her was the Don’t-You-Dare-Miss-Me game, where she sent Avery on a challenge to find a mysterious item. It was the longest game yet, suspiciously so. When her mom gave her such complicated games, like that one time she made Avery an escape room, she’d leave little clues that would confirm she was on the right track. Yet this game had been completely devoid of all that. All she was told was to find “where the heart feels whole”.

There was only one possible answer to that. Home. Not their little apartment, no. The antique shop her mother owned, right under where they lived. That’s where they felt at home. Each of the little trinkets they received from donations or found had a story behind them. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, Avery would sneak downstairs to the antique shop and try to guess the object’s history. Once they’d received one of those old vintage desks, the ones that had even more shelves on top of the tabletop itself, and a bunch of hidden compartments everywhere. It even had its very own built in gas lamp. She could vividly imagine the original owner sitting at it, working with a quill and a pot of ink, furrowing his brow in concentration or struggle. It was objects like these that had a meaning, that were valued and cherished. They had stories.

When she’d entered the shop, she didn’t find any clue to indicate she was on the right track. The place had felt strange without her mother there ever since she’d been hospitalized.

Avery searched high and low. Nothing. Finally, she went to a relatively small room behind the counter and pushed open the door. There was a fireplace. It had been there ever since her mom had rented this place, but it didn’t work. Sometimes they’d bring chairs and sit around it, pretending it worked. Their home. That’s when her mom told her stories about who she was before she had Avery. About  Ricky. About a secret lover. Not once did she ever mention her family.

For Avery, home was where her mom was. Family.

She immediately noticed that one of the wood planks of the flooring was askew. She slipped her fingers beneath it, blindly feeling around for something. Sure enough, she felt it. A paper with a phone number. Libby Grambs, it read, above the string of numbers.

By the time Avery made it back to the hospital, the heart monitor wasn’t beeping with that annoying yet reassuring ding. The bleak room was even more uneasily silent, devoid of life.

It was at that moment that Avery decided to never play again.

“I thought you promised to stay away from him, Lib.”

Avery was tired of watching Libby dust the antique shop over and over again, hobbling around with her black eye and bumping into everything. There were two things Libby always did when she had something on her mind- she either bakes a bunch of cupcakes that Avery would have no choice but stuff herself with later or dusts the antique shop until even the antiques themselves looked brand new.

“I couldn’t help it, Ave. He… he called me and said sorry and that he wanted to meet up.”

Avery rolled her eyes and tapped on the cash register in anger, though holding back from crushing the keys. They definitely couldn’t afford another one unless one of them suddenly married some rich man.

It was always the same story. Libby did or said something Drake didn’t like. Then he’d hit her. Only once, but it was already too much. Then he’d apologize and do his usual speech, and Libby would forgive him.

“This is the seventh time you’ve broken up with him,” she spat at her sister. “Make it be the last.”

Libby nearly knocked over another vintage jewelry box. “I can’t help it.” She ducked down to steady the box, probably already thinking about what types of cupcakes she was going to bake this time.

“How about you go and flip the OPEN sign outside? We should close up. I doubt we’re going to get any more customers at this hour.”

Libby nodded and went to the front door. Just as she was going out, she slammed straight into a man who had just opened the door to come inside.

“Oh my gosh I am so sorry I didn’t mean to–”

Avery glanced over while her sister started rambling away. A man with ashy brown hair and a cowboy hat was helping her sister up in a gentlemanly manner. He had matching cowboy boots, too. He looked… quite odd, honestly. Dressed as both a cowboy and in a fancy way at once. She couldn’t tell if he was some rich guy mocking cowboys or just a desperate wannabe. His skin glowed a beautiful tan, though Avery was skeptical as to whether it was real or not. These days bronzing drops were all the rage.

“Be careful, darlin’,” the handsome stranger said to her sister, whose blush seemed very visible because of her pale skin, looking at him as though he was a heaven-sent messenger offering tickets to paradise. She was so red even her blue roots seemed to be turning purplish.

Libby shyly thanks him and practically runs out the door, red-faced. The stranger’s gaze follows her curiously, and then he picked up an item that had fallen off a nearby shelf when he’d bumped into her. He then turned around and headed for the counter.

“The name’s Nash.” He glanced out at the sign Libby was flipping outside that now read ‘CLOSED’. “Well, mind if I take a look around even though you seem to be closing up? I promise I won’t take long.”

Avery nodded, watching him as he wandered around the little shop, his boots clicking rhythmically. He stopped at a particular shelf and picked up a knife, flipping it over in his large palm. It had patterns engraved onto the blade and a gem encrusted hilt, one of the more expensive items the shop had to sell lately.

“I’ll buy it,” he said, looking back up. The strange cowboy came and placed it on the counter, pulling out a shiny black card.

“Is that your sister?” he asked as she rummaged around, trying to find the magnetic stripe reader. Customers didn’t usually arrive waving around a fancy card.

“Yeah.” Avery paused, looking at him suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

Nash raised an eyebrow playfully. “Ever heard of genuine, well intentioned romantic interest, kid?” he said, a slight southern accent dragging out some vowels and adding an atypical rhythm to his speech. Was that real, too? “What’s her name?”

“Libby. And stay far, far away from her,” she warned as she handed him the receipt and the knife. ‘Nash’ gave her a grin.

“Farewell, little miss. I’ll make sure to come around again, and maybe I’ll have my brothers tag along next time.” With that, he tipped his cowboy hat at her and winked, then turned around to walk out. Avery glared at him through the store’s glass door as he chatted away with Libby outside.

Her fists tightened on the edges of the countertop; fragments of their yapping being heard through the open window. Libby did not need another act to her tragic love life. Drake was already more than enough.

Sure, this guy looked nicer, but you could never know for sure. Drake had looked handsome and calm at first, too.

Avery rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the already forming headache as Libby burst back into the store, blabbing away.

“Avery, isn’t he so dreamy? I never liked cowboys but…”

Someone kill me now.

~~~

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future chapters!

[whereonceiwasfire]

I saw @theshadowrealmitself's post the other day about what if a supervillain outed their secret identity becuase they infodumped to the cashier (who happens to be the hero) and you know I had to do a DP oneshot for it. It's a few different kinds of AU, so you just have to roll with me here.

Without further ado:

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT (EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AN EGOMANIACAL SUPERVILLAIN)

Automatic doors slide apart with a woosh as Danny bursts through the entrance of Hattie's Haunted Hardware Emporium, unzipped backpack barely caught in the crook of his elbow, one arm stuffed through the armhole of the gaudy yellow vest of his uniform. 

He's out of breath as he scrambles past the customer service desk, gives a frantic, “I'm here, I'm here!” to the startled employee behind the computer as hops the counter. He’s sprinting past stacked boxes of returns for the door with a STAFF ONLY sign slapped askew across the chipping green paint when a voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Danny Fenton.” The words drip cool disapproval, and Danny's shoulders immediately hunch toward his ears, his fingers uncurling from around the door handle. 

So close. 

“Y-yes?” He slowly turns around, his expression sheepish as he comes to face Hattie herself. 

She stands, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, a MANAGER tag pinned to the chest of her tucked in shirt. The polo is the same hideous yellow as Danny's vest but has the Hattie's Hardware logo—a floating hammer surrounded by a ghostly glow—sewn onto the breast pocket. A funny gag, no doubt, when the place decided to open in the heart of haunted AF Amity Park. Less funny, probably, now that the store room is in disarray every other day because some low-level specter keeps casting stock haphazardly about and flinging empty boxes everywhere.

“You're late,” manager Hattie says, expression pinching. “Again.” 

“Aha. Yeah. About that.” Danny scrubs the back of his neck with a palm, teeth bared on something that's more a grimace than a smile. “The bus was behind schedule?” 

She doesn't look particularly like she believes him, which is entirely valid, since it's a bald-faced lie. But what is he supposed to say? That he got sidetracked by his new archnemesis, that freaking Plasmius ghost, because the guy somehow managed to compel an entire doggie daycare to do his bidding? What that crackpot needed a canine army for, Danny didn't even want to know, but he wasn't about to just let it go down. Stopping ghosts is kind of his whole shtick as town hero, after all. 

He’s just lucky the whole thing didn’t take that long—once Danny managed to snap his fluffy foes out of their trance, they kind of took care of Plasmius for him. Guess they weren't too happy about being mind controlled. Go figure.

But again, Danny can’t exactly just come out and tell his manager, well, any of this. As far as everyone knows, Danny Fenton is a very normal, very human kid—one who maybe isn’t great at the whole being punctual thing and has a penchant for running to the bathroom when ghosts show up—but otherwise exhibits no symptoms of being undead. He’s hoping to keep it that way.  

Manager Hattie’s eyes narrow, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, but she just gives a curt jerk of her chin in the direction of the staff room. 

“Don’t let it happen again,” she says, and he gives an overzealous nod of assent as he lets out the breath trapped in his chest. 

“You got it, boss!” he says, giving her a two-fingered salute and throwing himself into the back before she can change her mind. 

***

“That’ll be eight twenty-two. How will you be paying for that?” It comes out a bored drawl as Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’ll be cash—just—give me a sec. I know I had change in here somewhere.” 

“Sure, no problem.” 

Danny crosses his arms over the chest of his garish vest and tips his gaze toward the industrial ceiling, trying to find literally anywhere to look so he’s not the overly intense cashier staring at the woman across the counter as she rummages through her oversized, bubblegum purse for a couple of nickels.  

He hadn’t even wanted to get a job—staying on top of school, protecting the town from ghosts, and keeping his secret identity from everyone in his life was enough of a struggle, nevermind trying to fit his weekend sentences at Hattie’s Hardware into the mix. But turns out if you break your phone (in a ghost fight), lose a couple of backpacks (after dumping them in an alley so you can go stop a bank robbery), mysteriously misplace articles of clothing (AKA, throw them away because ectoplasm apparently doesn’t come out in the wash), or otherwise ask your parents to replace your crap enough times without a decent explanation, they’ll stop paying for it.

So, as much as he’d love to not be watching stacks of nickels, pennies, and dimes grow on his counter—the bottle-blonde slapping each coin down with a decisive clack before thrusting her arm back into the depths of her bag—he really can’t get fired. Not only does he desperately need a new pair of shoes after stepping in a suspicious puddle Cujo left behind (please just let it have been radioactive drool), but he has to prove to his parents that he’s responsible, even if he’s going through a bit of a “destructive phase” with his belongings.

“Eight twenty-two!” the woman declares proudly, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder and beaming down at the skyscraper diorama of coins piled up on his counter. “I told you I had change.” 

“Yes. You did,” Danny says with a defeated breath, scooping the first stack of nickels into his hand, and spreading them out across his palm. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“It’s eight twenty-two. Trust me.” 

“Sorry, policy. I have to double check,” Danny says with his best apologetic grimace before turning his gaze back down to the coins in his hand. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“Well, that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think? Isn’t the customer always right?” 

“Right, of course.” 

Twenty, twenty-five, thirty…     

“This is a bad look. It makes it feel like you don’t trust your clientele.” 

Danny gives a half-hearted shrug, not lifting his eyes from the coins. “Sorry. Not my policy.” 

Thirty-five, forty, forty-five…

“Well, I never.” 

Danny makes the mistake of looking up as the woman tsks, gripping the strap of her bag and giving him a scandalized glower.

“Sorry,” he says again, shoulders slumping as he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling back to the mess of nickels in his hand.

Five, ten, fifteen…

***

Danny’s fellow cashier heads up for their lunch during the mid-afternoon lull, leaving Danny up front alone, standing at his till, pretending to be busy in case Hattie wanders past. He types random SKU numbers into the computer to see if it’ll bring up anything, he flips through the binder of faded lumber codes, he sprays his counter down with a bottle of something that smells like death and wipes it away with paper towels that come away gray with grime, he sorts the air fresheners that hang on a display beside his counter. And after all that is done, he’s managed to kill about seven minutes. 

It’s almost a relief when a customer finally wanders up to his till. Almost. 

The man wordlessly plops a length of cord, a roll of duct tape, and a box of garbage bags down on the counter—doesn’t even bother to glance up at Danny, just rolls up the cuff of his dark suit jacket and checks his watch as though the point five seconds he’s been waiting is already too long. 

Danny manages to plaster on his best customer-service smile, hoping his eyes don’t give away the “not this asshole again”  that he’s thinking. 

Nearly once a week, buddy here shows up—way overdressed, with his smarmy ponytail and his suit—acts put out that he has to breathe the same air as the rest of Amity Park’s peons, then proceeds to purchase some of the sketchiest shit Hattie’s Hardware has to offer. Danny’s always left wondering if he should be calling the police instead of ringing up the serial killer’s checklist of supplies on his counter.

But, honestly, he does not get paid enough to keep tabs on Hannibal Lector over there, so he lets it slide. 

“Find everything you were looking for today?” Danny asks as he tips the garbage bags on their side and scans the code on the bottom with a beep.

The man gives the vaguest grunt of acknowledgement, and just before his sleeve falls back in place over the face of his Rolex, Danny notices the fresh scratches marking the man’s pale forearm. 

His brow furrows, but instead of prying, he just plucks up the duct tape and cracks a friendly joke as he twists the roll to find the barcode. “Already got the shovel and axe at home, hunh? Good for you.”

The beep is the only thing to split the silence, and when Danny glances up, it’s to find the man’s dark gaze pinned on him, lips pursed on a thin line. He is very much not laughing.

“Just ah—a joke.” Danny blanches as he gestures weakly at the items on the counter. “Because uhm. You know. If you had a shovel and axe, this would look kind of like you were, ah…”

“I get it,” the man answers frostily.

“Okay,” Danny answers, chastened as he drops his head and picks up the rope. 

Immediately, he can tell Sketchy McBillionaire completely ignored the sign in the hardware aisle asking customers to get an employee’s assistance with the custom lengths of cord—there’s absolutely no SKU or length written anywhere, but Danny makes a show of turning the rope in his hand anyway. 

“Shoot. It looks like your label must have fallen off?” he says, doing his very best not to sound too accusatory, just in case the guy really isn’t above murder. 

“I’m sorry?” the man asks pointedly, brow arching, and it is so very clearly not an apology. 

“Uhm. Well. Since you grabbed a custom length of rope instead of a pre-measured spool, there should be a tag on here somewhere. I need that to ring you up,” Danny tries, gesturing uselessly at the cord.

“Are you serious?” the man asks, teeth gritting. “This is just what I need right now.” 

“I can, uh, page someone from hardware to get us the number?” 

“No need. I’ll go get a pre-measure spool.” The words drip with derision, as if this is somehow Danny’s fault, as the man snaps up the rope and twists on his heel. 

“Actually—” Danny cuts in, withering under the man’s icy gaze as he snaps his head back around. Sheepishly, he continues, “Once the length has been cut, we can’t really keep it…” 

The man’s shoulders heave with a deep breath, his grip curling tight around the cord between his fingers.

“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the looped rope back onto the counter with a thud. “But make it quick. I’ve already been significantly delayed today.” 

Danny gives a curt nod, picking up the receiver beside his register and paging for a hardware employee, his crackly, amplified voice sounding weak as it reverberates through the store. Which is so stupid. He’s a literal superhero—can punch a ghost three ways into next Thursday—so why is he cowed by some guy strutting around the hardware store in a suit?

Maybe because he knows punching this dude isn't an option unless he wants to get fired.

Ugh, why do bad things always happen to him?

Danny tries to play nice—determining not to piss the guy off or lose his job—and schools his features into an affable smile. 

“It’ll just be a couple minutes,” he says.

The man gives a tight “hmmm,” crossing his arms over his chest, brows dropped low over cold blue eyes.

As the silence stretches between them, Danny awkwardly drumming his fingers against the metal till top, the urge to claw out of his skin grows unbearable. Against all better judgment, he finally blurts, “how’s your day going so far?”

“You want to know how my day is going?” The man’s tone drips vitriol, teeth bared as he steps in closer to the till. There’s something hysteric in the twist of the words as he repeats himself. “You want to know how my day is going?”

Danny tries to backpedal, jerkily shakes his head no, but it’s too late. The man gives a laugh somewhere just left of unhinged (why does it almost sound familiar?) and is off on a tangent before Danny can stop him.  

“My day started with a very unwelcome intrusion, weeks of hard work thrown out the window because of some insolent boy and his need to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. My day found me bitter and behind schedule, interrupted at a crucial moment because someone has decided to treat my work like some blasted video game. My day”—the man’s eyes dart to the nametag on Danny’s vest, heedless of the way he’s stiffened, heart beating hard in his throat—“Daniel, has left me thwarted, again, an extension of a dismal several months in this wretched town, a string of one disappointment after another. And now I’m delayed once more, stuck waiting here with you, for someone to perform a menial task on my behalf since you can’t identify a length of rope. So tell me, boy. How do you think my day has been going?”

It’s how he spits the word boy, the cadence of the diatribe, the implication behind the words.

Danny just stares at the man, wide-eyed, any kind of response at all sticking in his throat as his palms brace against the back of the till.

It's then the employee from hardware comes bounding over, her cheery, freckled face split on a smile, oblivious to the weighted silence. “How can I help y'all?” 

“I need a price on this.” The man practically snarls the words, snatching the cord and thrusting it at Poppy or Penny or…Genevieve?

Crap. Danny has got to get better at remembering his coworkers’ names.

“O-oh,” she stammers.

“The SKU actually,” Danny manages, and her expression softens with relief—that that’s all he needs, that she doesn't have to put up with this nightmare of a man before them.

She pulls free a small notebook from a pocket in her ugly vest. Thwipping through the pages, she drops a glance to the rope in her hands, flips a little further, then reads off some digits from her hand-scrawled notes. Danny taps them in obediently as Poppy/Penny/Genevieve turns the rope forward and back. 

“Probably about twelve feet,” she guesstimates. 

“Awesome, thank you,” Danny says, the price coming up on screen as he taps in a one-two and thumbs enter.

The man has barely moved, his expression all hard, sharp, unimpressed lines as he stands back and watches them with crossed arms. Poppy/Penny/Genevieve flickers a glance in his direction, then away. 

“Noproblemhereyougotalktoyoulater,” she says, the sentence coming out in one hurried breath as she drops the cord on Danny's counter and bolts. 

With her gone, it's just Danny, the silver-haired man, and the suffocating tension between them once again. 

Danny knows he should focus on getting the purchase rung through and getting the guy out of here, but can't help the beat too long he stares at the man.

He's about the right height, the same goatee, the graying stripe parting his long hair. 

“I don’t have all day.”

“Right!” Danny starts, shifting his attention back to his till’s screen, his pulse fluttering in his chest. Could it be? “Uhm. That comes to—” 

“Yes, yes, it’ll be on credit,” the man interrupts, thrusting a black card at him. 

Danny catches the card against his chest, holds it there as he mashes the man’s total into the debit machine. Before swiping the card, he turns a glance down to the plastic in his hand, his eyes roving past the long string of numbers and the expiration date to find the raised silver lettering beneath.

Vlad Masters. 

His gaze lifts, and he finds the man—Vlad—watching him impatiently. Danny jerks his eyes away as he swipes the card, hands it back, places the printed receipt on the counter to be signed. 

Vlad huffs—doesn't say a word as he fishes a pen from his inside pocket and scrawls a quick, jagged signature.

The arch of his brow, the condescending weight of his gaze, the impatient snap of his movements...

As the man gathers up his supplies, scowling, and pushes through the exit, Danny picks up the merchant copy of the receipt left on his counter. His gaze fixes on the V. Masters on the till paper, his lips twisted on a frown. 

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he thinks that man—Vlad Masters—is his archrival. 

Which means…Plasmius is a half-ghost?

[aelinschild]

Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 1st: Morning

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

SYNOPSIS: Storms often come after the sun. WORDCOUNT: 620 WARNINGS: none!

Huge thank you to @throneofglassmicrofics for organizing! Make sure to check out other works over on their account!

There was a lulling of delayed movement, calm strokes repeated endlessly. 

Just outside of the rolled-down window, wind passing by in a gentle caress. Twisting and twining her hair, braiding it together by the hand of nature. Glaring off the water and reflected in burnished irises. The sun had only begun its slow trek across the sky.

Great strokes of pinks and oranges, bright as a summer garden. Weaving in, out, around clouds heavy from a misty evening. 

Her fingers tapped a unconscious beat on the steering wheel, gold heirloom rings clicking gently. Warmed from the heat of the blood pulsing under fair skin; soaking up the dregs of sunlight as it passes through her car. 

Aelin was less nervous now than she was at the beginning of her trip. Setting off before her sleeping city rose, closing doors and locking them with a finality that shook her hands. Counting steps, breaths, blinks. Everything that she was, left on the cold pavement. Watching in acquiescence, cool indifference behind it. 

The heat of the now rising sun warmed the piece of her she had forgotten of. 

From her last stop on the great stretch of highway, she could estimate the time to her destination. Minutes, now. A map highlighted with cherished stationary sat beside her, a companion in spirit. Alongside the rest of her worldly possessions, sprawling from the small space of the boot. 

Time was passing differently, like shedding the weight of a clocks hand, replacing it with a shadow. Flowing naturally, unhurried in all aspects. There was no urge to choke the seconds out, to pause the current to admire the sea. Aelin felt the change in her bones, just as the scene from her fantasies appeared.

A cottage by the sea. 

Two weeks ago, there was an explicit end. She had to be out, out, out. Her small apartment in the city was no longer hers, the lease trickling away, exchanging her for someone new. She had nowhere to go. That was until she found Rowan. 

The advert was… unfortunate. Lacked the geniality one would assume came with a seaside cottage. Each picture was slightly askew, just a fraction off its axis. Snapped like an afterthought. Described in clinical terms; two bedroom, two bathroom, small kitchen, and good outdoor space. 

The woman – Rowan – was kind enough. The rent was shockingly economical. A deal far too good to be true, Aelin had thought. No chance this was really an opportunity that had just… appeared for her. So, she had sought out the catch. 

But, there was none.

Rowan had been straightforward in her communication, expectations, and dealings. And days later Aelin had boxed her life away, tucked into a rusting car. Enough cash for the first few months of rent, and a box of pastries and some wildflowers as a thank-you gift. 

Stood before the seafoam coloured front door, surrounded by a weather worn wrap-around porch, her mind wandered. Imagining herself out here, sat under the sky as it danced through its emotive number. Scribbling away in notebooks, listening to the ruffle of the grass. Living in step with a mighty beast, watching its crawl up the surf. Following its retreat.

Too good to be true. 

She had knocked, had texted an hour ago that she would be on the final leg of the journey. Hand clasped soundly around the wildflowers, the smell of jam scones. The pitter-patter of footsteps rose. They sounded… heavier? 

Just as Aelin had moved to peer into the open window, curtains pushed back, seafoam shifted to cotton, shifted to a man. 

“Aelin,” He spoke, voice like a storm crashing on the rocks of a forsaken shore, “You’re earlier than I had expected. Come in.”

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @goddess-aelin

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist!

[reality-inflicted]

This is a photo with more personal than artistic value (not saying that any of my photography has any of the former, but one can on the rare occasion hope that someone likes what I like). Somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee there is a little park. That park has, or at least it did about ten years ago, a little stage. On that little stage was the most askew little bench I've ever seen. And I loved it. I've never read a book about photography. I started out with a cheap ass little PoS-camera – i aimed it in the general direction of what I liked and I pressed the button. The camera did the rest.

After about a year or so i took money that I really didn't have and bought a small camera that I would bring with me on a trip to China. The plan was to write an article on the trip and to get it published and at least get some of the money back. I did actually manage to sell the articles (there were two of them), but the photos weren't taken with the new camera that I'd bought. On the second day of trip I got absolutely shit-faced in a drinking contest with a retired Major in the Chinese army and consequently lost the camera somewhere in a dark alley. Not a great success. I eventually bought a new camera for more money that I did not have. The last time I saw that it popped up was in a random plastic bag, a forgotten memento of forgotten times. I'd somehow managed to keep the camera though, which was a bit of a step forward I guess. As I geared up to go on my trip to the US, during which this photo was taken, i bought yet another camera I couldn't really afford. True to form I got shitfaced yet again on my second night, this time in San Francisco – a city notoriously unforgiving for drunken tourists. The camera, together with my headphones and some cash vanished. Luckily I'd managed to transfer the photos I'd taken previously onto an external hard drive (now sadly defunct and the photos – again – lost to time). I still had to buy another camera that I couldn't afford to document the remainder of my trip.

I have since lost that camera as well due to being shitfaced. As can be deducted I've had a very long and not very glamorous relationship with alcohol, however I am happy to report that I haven't lost anything to being shitfaced for quite some time now, which is always a bonus. I'd been toying with the idea of cutting down on the drinking before I went on the trip to the US (it will be ten years come December next year) but it would take about four or five more years before I finally felt shitty enough to go through with it. Alcoholism takes many forms – I was in no way drinking every day. But when I did it was always difficult to contain oneself to "just a few beers" resulting in increasingly self-destructive behaviour. What finally pushed me over the edge was the realization that I'd become that which I despise the most – my father. When he got drunk he turned into an absolute asshole and I started to see the same tendencies in myself or, rather, I came to accept that I showed those tendencies and I. Really. Did. Not. Like. That. One. Bit.

So I quit. I didn't drink a drop of alcohol for almost three years. Not that it did any good for my inherent ability to loose things. I still forgot headphones and laptops, but – increasingly – I noticed that I could find them again. In the hangover is a quiet despair, a disgusting apathy, that prevent you from handling even the easiest of tasks.

Today I have the occasional beer. Or a glass of wine with dinner once in a while. I can handle that – I know that some people can't and I place no judgement in that. I like to think, however, that I am at least a little bit of a better, albeit a bit more lonesome person. But that is ok. I like being alone. Like the bench above, all crooked like.

[butyoumakemesohot]

finally... my secret santa fic! thank you endlessly to kb @softsnzstuff for putting this together, and thank you to @annieherondale (hey girl hey - i was your secret santa!) for being so patient! i hope you enjoy this!!!

pairing: platonic st/eve + ro/bin, pre-s3 word count: 1k summary: when steve shows up to work displaying all the usual symptoms of his "allergies," robin can't help but feel a little annoyed (i mean they work in a restaurant for fuck's sake)

After about a month into the world's worst summer job, Robin inadvertently develops a list in her mind - an inventory of facts and analyses about none other than Steve Harrington:

He hates his parents.

He loves his friends, all of whom inexplicably consist of children no older than fourteen.

He’s really good at stacking scoops of ice cream. His record is seven on a single cone.

He has horrible allergies.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t find the last one kind of hilarious. Part of her has been searching for ways to chip away at his ego since high school, and while they’re technically friends now, teasing him about it is still pretty fun.

It’s noon on a rainy Tuesday in June, and Starcourt is practically desolate. Naturally, Steve rolls in a few minutes late for his shift, his dampened shoes squeaking against the tile Robin just spent half an hour cleaning. But she digresses.

“Hey there, Harrington,” she greets, not bothering to look up from the book she’s been assigned for summer reading.

“snff! Hey, Robid.”

He breezes past her so he can clock in, emerging from the back a few moments later. Robin dog ears her book, hoisting herself up onto the counter before Steve can claim it.

“Should be pretty slow today,” she notes, eyes skirting across the empty food court.

“Yeah - snrf! - the roads were pretty mbuch embpty. It’s like a fucki’d hurricade out there.”

Robin clocks another congested sniffle, her eyes narrowing as she takes in Steve’s appearance. His nose is a bright pink, his wet hair slicked back beneath his uniform hat, which is uncharacteristically askew on top of his head. He’s panting, too, out of breath from what was surely a miserable dash across the parking lot.

“What, King Steve can’t afford an umbrella?” she quips, her eyes trailing over the rest of his drenched uniform.

“Ha,” Steve deadpans, sluggishly wiping his nose against the heel of his hand. “I could’ve sword I - SNF! - had ode id mby ca'hhhr but I guess ode of the kids took it.”

“My money’s on Mike.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, mbe too… hah-! hhaHH’ESSCHH!” He whips into his cupped hands just in time, grimacing slightly at the sight of his palms. “Ugh, excuse mbe.”

He wipes pathetically at his nose again, shivering beneath the mall’s air conditioning and his cold, wet uniform. Robin can’t help but feel a bit bad for him.

“You know…” she begins slowly, a teasing lilt to her voice, “rain is known to exacerbate allergy symptoms.”

Steve rolls his eyes, reaching for a few napkins from the dispenser next to the cash register. He wipes the mess off his hands before giving a thick, gurgling blow into the thin paper, still sniffling in the aftermath.

“I dod’t have allergies,” he has the absolute gall to say.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s just - snnf! - ‘cause I got caught id the ra'hhid - huhhh… ha’hhTCHHH! ISSSHHhiew!” Steve groans dramatically, roughly pinching away the wetness clinging to his nostrils before grabbing another handful of napkins.

Robin goes back to reading her book, sounding rather amused. “Bless you. Also, I’m pretty sure you're breaking like, seven different health code violations right now.”

“Whatever,” he brushes off. “It’s dot like - snF! - adyode’s here, ahhhdyways. snffsnrrf… heh-! hHH’ESSCHHH!”

Another violent sneeze before he’s burying the lower half of his face in the fresh bundle of napkins, blowing his nose with an unrestrained honk that Robin is almost positive the people who work at the Orange Julius on the other side of the food court can hear.

“Jesus, Harrington, could you at least try to be a little less… vocal?” she asks, cringing.

“I kndow, I kndow - snnnrf! - I soud really gross right dow.” He tosses the soiled napkins in the trash before pulling out a few more in anticipation, glancing at her apologetically. “I would’ve stayed hombe but I really deed the modey.”

“We all need money, dingus. It isn’t worth killing yourself over.”

“‘Dingus’?” he repeats, smiling slightly. “That’s a dew ode… ehh’SSCHHHIEW! God, fuck, sorry. snrrk!” Steve searches for a clean spot on the napkins to fruitlessly wipe his nose, another shiver visibly running down his spine.

Robin sighs. “Have you ever considered taking an allergy pill?”

“It’s dot allergies,” he insists, sounding a bit more perturbed this time.

As much as Robin hates to admit it, Steve may be right this time; judging by the thick stuffiness in his voice, accompanied by the deep flush in his cheeks, it may not be allergies. It may be something more.

Before she can bring it up, however, a couple that Robin vaguely recognizes from school comes in to order some ice cream. She nudges Steve in the direction of the cash register so that she can handle preparing the food, moving quickly when Steve’s incessant sniffling starts to sound more and more unpleasant. She presents the cones with a plastered-on smile, managing to slide in front of Steve right when his breath starts to hitch, blocking him from the view of the customers.

“Thanks for visiting -”

“hahh���AAESSCHH!”

“- Scoops Ahoy! Please have a -”

“ESSCHHHEW! snnxf! hh’IRRSHHH’uhh!”

“- voyagetastic day!”

One more horrendously loud sneeze from Steve makes the couple hightail it out of there, nearly forgetting to accept their ice cream in the process. Robin smirks a little as she watches them go.

“Now we really aren’t gonna have any customers,” she muses. Steve, meanwhile, seems to still be fighting for his his life.

“huh’KGGSCHH!” He sniffles thickly, his nose still buried in the now soaked bundle of napkins. “God, does it ever fuckihhh’g stop? hhhhh - hih-! ihh’SSCHHH’uh!”

He finally manages to blow his nose again, which seems to aid in quelling the itch in his sinuses, but does little to actually clear any of his congestion. He tosses the napkins in the trash when he’s done, taking in a few deep, steadying breaths through his mouth.

“Uh…” Robin says. “You good?”

“For dow, yeah. snnfg!” He pinches the bridge of his nose, which has now deepened to a nearly comical shade of red.

“Steve, I think you have -”

“Allergies?”

“Actually, no,” She smirks again, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was gonna say you might have a cold.”

“... Oh.” Steve sniffles thickly, dragging his index finger beneath his nose. “Yeah, that would mbake sedse, too’hh… hhh’ISSCHHhiew!”

Robin laughs; Steve’s eyes brighten proudly at that, even if it’s at his expense. As she ushers him back to the break room, managing to find a dry uniform for him to change into, she mentally replaces item number four in her list with the following: Steve Harrington either has allergies or a shit immune system. Either way, that makes him a huge dork.

[bagazo]

CSM 132 thoughts...

Talked about this on my previous post but I'll be more specific on what bothers me with people's reactions to the new chapter and its last scene, so this is a continuation...

People are being shocked that the same guy who from a very young age has been dirt poor, been abused, been told to sell his body (or do anything) in order to get some cash and survive, is the same guy who at a moment of fear and desperation offers to do a sexual favor if it means saving the people and beings that matter the most to him.

I always thought it was pretty obvious from the start that Denji had to do ANYTHING and everything in his life to get by. (That's actully what happens when you're poor and homeless.) It's clear that when he said the lines in the second page, it particularly implies that he has done this before and although he hates it, he will be willing to do anything that it takes. Denji is brave and he is smart, and even if he might be kind of socially inept due to all the isolation that he has gone through in his life, he would KNOW that a person like Yoshida doesn't have pure intentions with him. Like.... that second page is Denji openly saying that he knows Yoshida wants him and even though he despises the thought of being with another man, he would comply to him if it means that Yoshida will help him out.

And it also makes me scratch my head in thought that... Theres people who have thought of yoshiden as something honestly just silly goofy? The guy has had red flags all over him from the beginning, their whole dynamic is that Yoshida stalks Denji and is super weird in how he acts. Even back then when the chapter at the cafe happened, the possibilities of Yoshida's intentions were: 1)he's completely psychotic, or 2)he's disgustingly weird, or even 3) he's a liar and a manipulator. Did anyone really expect something wholesome coming out from him?

Just to finish this, it would completely make sense if Denji was a CSA survivor since his character has been so obsessed with sex and at the same time so terrified of it. People will react to trauma in different ways, will cope with trauma in different ways, but SA can completely modify your brain into obsessing over it. If you happened to suffer from it at a very young and formative age, your understanding of intimacy would be completely askewed and disturb your motivations, actions and reactions. IT IS a very heavy topic to touch, but when someone touches a topic like this IT DOES NOT EQUAL to making fun of it or romantisizing it. The entirety of part 1 moves around Denji's trauma and him redifining what it means to be ALIVE. Learning what it feels like to be valued and cherished and trusted.

Fujimoto has said that he doesn't like to over explain his work because that would be insulting to the reader and their intelligence, but it also would be insulting to the author if we didn't trust their ability to create characters with so many flaws and hardships and how they navigate in a crazy world (such as the one in CSM), and maybe... even how they overcome all of that.

[thenixkat]

CLIPPING - Nothing Is Safe

[Verse 1] Everyone safe and sound; this how family do Only homies around, everyone here is crew Somethin' foul in the air, somethin' feelin' askew Wind is in the pipes, is that whistle callin' for you? Don't holler; it's cool Windows boarded and sealed, doors are bolted and locked Product cookin' on pace, weaponry fully stocked Bodies sleepin' in shifts, other bodies keep watch Bullets are for anybody caught runnin' up in the spot, the pop, the pop Drop the lights, so drop low, something shot from the trees Went straight through the front door, homie drop to his knees Blood seepin' from his neck, as he struggle to breathe Wooden floors stained wet, gets soft the more that he bleeds, he leaves, believe

[Pre-Chorus] Didn't no one summon what was comin' But it creepin' on a come up Now it's right up in your face Face it, let it resonate up in your bone a minute When you shiver, make a sliver Big enough for it to have a space Ripped life slipping away Maybe you can make it out with just a little bit of grace But it truly doesn't give a fuck about the fear you feelin' It is here to make you understand that nothing is safe

[Chorus] Nothing is, nothing is safe Nothing is sacred Nothing is safe, nothing to pray for, nothing is safe, nothing is Nothing is

[Verse 2] Cut the light and stay low; all is quiet and still Peerin' through the window, starin' over the field Scent of death in the air, nothing out there looks real Close the homie's eyes, now is not the time to be feelin', really load up Furniture to the walls, barricade you inside Lose the lights in the hallways, everyone gon' be fine Phone that no one should call starts to ringin' one time All the homies' eyes slide to it then the walls split from the outside The air rushes in; it's cold as fuck, bullets slappin' like hail, more homies struck down The mission has failed; the wood is split, splintered chandelier falls and smashes hard Glass and steel everywhere in every throat, screams in protest You all are dyin', and really will anyone care? Truth, like death, comes for everyone

[Pre-Chorus] Barely had to summon what was comin' It was creepin' on a come up Now it's right up in your face Face it, let it resonate up in your bone a minute When you shiver, make a sliver Big enough for it to have a space Ripped life slipping away Maybe you can make it out with just a little bit of grace But it truly doesn't give a fuck about the fear you feelin' It is here to make you understand that nothing is safe

[Chorus] Nothing is, nothing is safe Nothing is sacred Nothing is safe, nothing to pray for, nothing is safe Nothing is Nothing is

[Verse 3] Death is comin' for you, but you already knew that Thought the clique up brought you some safety up in this pack But that didn't add up, back up, stand up, strike a pose With your gat up, that's what they like, you suppose They gon' rack up, stack up that stuff that you stole But the fact of status wrapped up in black cold Caskets cannot be ignored; runnin' so fast should had an award Homies got gassed for cash from that score Y'all could have made a dash just after one more So your foot up on the gas and smash 'round the corner Only one man was sent to the coroner Wasn't part of the plan, but damn, the fast foreign Whip was too quick to flip and fast-forward The past smashed every wall, pillar and floorboard Ashes to ashes, dust in the lung Fire now on everything, gasoline been poured Last piece of action 'fore you succumb Just catch a glance of what could have done this Somethin' 'bout how he walks remind you of someone You look and see a gun, a man with no face A golden halo that could be the sun

[Pre-Chorus] Long ago, you summoned what was comin' It was creepin' on a come up Now it's right up in your face Face it, let it resonate up in your bone a minute When you shiver, make a sliver Big enough for it to have a space Ripped life slipping away Maybe you can make it out with just a little bit of grace But it truly doesn't give a fuck about the fear you feelin' It is here to make you understand that nothing is safe

[Chorus] Nothing is, nothing is safe Nothing is sacred Nothing is safe, nothing to pray for, nothing is safe, nothing is Nothing is