#patrick in fishnets

[kaithefirst0127]

random art dump cuz,, its been aday or so. will post more 2night

[itssjanedoe]

[lovertm]

character keychains, part 2 by winterrkatt

[bootswiththefur565]

How is it spongebob is a well known queer character from the 2000s, and I never see ONE spongebob mascot at Pride Parades sigh

I’d like to see Patrick in fishnets at one

[wyn-n-tonic]

People need to stop reaching so damn far to be offended about something or feel like they have the moral high ground or something. Like... baby... does your back not hurt?

[fobnsfwdoodles]

Happy October y'all, everyone get to work manifesting Rocky Horror Picture Show for the Halloween show!

[candyheartedchy]

Your art of Scratch’s legs reminded me of Patrick! :p

Good! >:D

[pyjamasbartholomew]

i forgot my bf has a spongebob tattoo of disco spongebob at the end of the spongebob movie NAKWMDJANNS

[lilitophidian]

"Oh heeeeey, bitch~" Why is he almost eye to eye with her? She's not going to notice the platform heel boots under his robe. Definitely not.

The century's greatest staredown.

GET READY TO RUMBLE OOOH!

Her eyebrows knitted together as she regarded him from head to toe as he acknowledged her on the same level. As though he were translucent, her gaze passed right through him.

" Did your little girlfriend lend you those? Are they as high as the thigh? Messing around in the lust district for a few pennies to cover your addiction to greasy meals? "

How forward. Why use pleasantries with Adam? As if he would follow suit. Little shit monkey.

" What do you want? I don't have time for you, and I never did frankly. "

[kaiko127]

This chicken was commissioned by Mr Pyro

If you’d like your own, check out my Twitch! (link in pinned post)

[a-lil-strawberry]

I had a vision that must be expelled from me via drawing. Even if the drawing turns out terrible. I thought, in demon slayer, what if Tengen took it in a different direction when dressing the boys for entertainment district arc? What if.... What if Inosuke with patrick star style boots and fishnets?

[zo1nkss]

Does anyone else live with the constant unending desire to see Giant Sexy Patrick but with Pink Diamond's legs ship instead of the fishnets and boots? I feel like I can't be alone in this. Where are my people.

[pittsick]

scenemo! patrick fucking scenemo! reader at a ptv concert in the bathroom cause he’s just so hyped up😈

summary: what happens when patrick, your boyfriend, gets a bit too hyped up during a pierce the veil concert? too much sweat, too much heat and the both of you ends up in the grimy venue bathroom for a quickie? teasing turns into mirror sex. it's messy, mean, and drenched in eyeliner and spit.

pairing: scenemo!patrick x scenemo!afab girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.2k words. semi-public sex. unprotected piv. fingering. mirror sex. degrading and name calling. dumbification. dacryphilia. drooling. messy makeout. impact play (thighs and cunt slapping). humiliation. implied choking. dubiously clean setting.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover (to be added)

The air inside the venue is hot and choking. The bass is vibrating through the soles of your creepers, and the pit's sweat clings to your fishnets like glue. Bodies crash into each other like waves, but none of it feels real. Not when Patrick’s hand is pressed tight to your lower back, guiding you through the chaos like he owns you. (It feels like he does).

He’s wild tonight. His hair’s freshly dyed black with streaks of blood red, sticking to his damp forehead, and his eyeliner’s already smeared from sweat, cheeks red from how hard he was screaming lyrics during Bulls in the Bronx.

His shirt’s a shredded Pierce the Veil tank, barely hanging off one shoulder, and cropped, showing the bat tattoos across his pelvis and the sweat glistening on his chest. You’d only meant to find him near the barricade—but the second your eyes met, you knew he was not going to behave tonight.

He pulls you close in the shadows of the venue bathroom hallway, the door marked Staff Only swinging open without hesitation. “Get the fuck in,” he mutters, voice rough and low from yelling over the music. He’s not smiling, but his eyes—lined and blown wide—are drinking you in like you’re something worth worshipping and destroying.

The lock clicks behind you, and your back hits the sink.

“Couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore,” he growls, body already crowding yours. “You, pressed up against me in the pit—lookin’ like you wanted me to ruin you right there.”

Your fingers curl into the faded fabric of his shirt, and he kisses you like he’s mad—like this has been building all night. It’s messy. Sloppy. Tongues clashing, teeth clacking, his lip ring dragging across yours. You can taste energy drink and smoke and Patrick, sharp and hot and fucking addictive.

His hand slides up under your skirt—black mesh layered over red plaid—and he groans when he feels the heat of you. “Already wet?” he mocks, licking a stripe up your neck, biting down just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “You such a little concert slut, baby. Got off just from me singin’ next to you?”

You whimper, but that only makes him grin. “Aw. Don’t go dumb on me yet.”

Patrick spins you around to face the mirror. His body’s heat stays pressed to your back, and his hand snakes around to cup you between the thighs. You meet his eyes in the cracked glass—his eyeliner running, his pupils wide, and his smile mean.

“You see that?” he murmurs into your ear. “That’s what I do to you. Look how fuckin’ ruined you already are, and I haven’t done anything yet.”

His fingers tug your panties to the side—black lace soaked through—and then he’s sliding one finger in without any type of warning, slow and deep, until your hips jerk forward from the sudden pressure.

“Shit—Patrick…”

“Nuh uh. No talking. Just watch.” He curls the finger, and your mouth drops open as your thighs shake from being on your feet during this. “There we go. You’re already fallin’ apart. I should’ve done this hours ago.” As if he thought about doing this in the pit, while everyone was screaming and having fun.

You try to grind back against his hand, chasing more friction, but he pulls back with a tut.

“Desperate little girl. What, you think I’m gonna let you get off that easy?” You feel yourself clenching at his words, like degradation makes you all wet and he knows it.

He slide two fingers this time—slipping in slick and smooth—and his palm grinds against your clit as he starts pumping, slow and controlled. Every wet sound is amplified in the tiled room, and you can’t even pretend not to be enjoying it. Drool drips from your lip, and Patrick lets out a breathless laugh.

“God, you’re such a fuckin’ mess,” he whispers, mouthing at your neck. “Look at yourself. Whimperin’ in the mirror like a dumb little toy. You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?”

You nod—pathetic and eager—and your mascara’s already smudging from the heat and the tears gathering in your lashes. A whimper escape past your lips and Patrick smirks, like he knows what that means. Like he knows how much you fucking love this.

“I knew it,” he growls. “You love being used, don’t you? Love gettin’ fucked up against a goddamn sink while a thousand people are outside.”

He curls his fingers again, hitting that spongy spot with each thrusts of his fingers, and your legs nearly give out at the feeling. He catches you by the hips, holding you up easily, his hard cock grinding against your ass through his skinny jeans.

Then he pulls away. You whine at the loss, but he’s already undoing his belt—quick, clumsy, desperate—and shoving his jeans just far enough down to free himself. His cock is hard and you wonder how long it had been before he had enough and dragged you here. It’s leaking pre-cum, red at the tip and so appetizing.

He strokes once, twice, eyes fixed on your reflection. It’s depraved, disgusting.

“You want it raw, don’t you?” he pants. “Want to feel me fill you up with everything I have, uh?”

A strangled noise get pass your lips and you nod your head at him—his eyes wide as he watches you in the reflection of the mirror. “Please, Patrick, I need you.”

That gets him. His jaw clenches, and he slams into you with a filthy growl, burying himself to the hilt in one long, slick thrust. You cry out, head snapping forward against the mirror, but he grabs your chin and forces you to look. To see how filthy you are for being fucked here; in this grimy bathroom, with so many people outside.

“No hiding,” he spits. “Watch yourself while I fuck you like the filthy girl you are.”

He sets a rhythm—fast and punishing, hips slapping against your ass with every stroke—and the sound echoes around the tiny bathroom like music. His nails dig into your thighs, and he starts slapping them, rough and rhythmic, until your moans turn to sobs.

“That’s it. Cry for me, baby.”

The mirror fogs with your breath, with sweat, with heat. Your mascara runs in twin tracks down your cheeks, tears falling freely now, and he loves it. You can feel how hard he gets just from seeing you break, his cock twitching inside you, brushing against your walls with every thrusts of his hips.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he coos, voice cruel and amused. “Just stuffed full of cock and droolin’. You’re pathetic.” His voice echo in your ears, and you feel humiliated but God, how good it feels.

You babble something incoherent, and that makes him laugh again—low and dark.

“God, I love you like this.”

His hand sneaks back between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight circles before his hand slaps onto your bud of nerves. Not once, not twice but thrice—slaps harsh enough to make you whine and moan. You arch into him, legs shaking, but he holds you in place with a hand on the back of your neck. The other keeps rubbing, fast and merciless.

“Gonna cum?” he taunts. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

You nod, sobbing, thighs quivering.

“Then cum. Be good for me.”

Your orgasm hits hard as soon as the words escape his mouth—white hot and dizzying—and you scream against the mirror, hips jerking back into his as he rides you through it. His fingers don’t stop. Neither does his cock. He keeps thrusting, keeps mocking you, keeps slapping your pussy and thighs until you’re cumming again—too fast, too much, too overstimulated.

You’re gasping, crying, drooling down your chin as he fucks you straight through it, your head hitting the mirror gently with each movement.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, voice cracking now. “So fuckin’ deep you’ll feel me for days. You want that? Want me to cum in you, no condom, like a filthy little whore?” Once again, the humiliation makes you clench around his cock and you hear a hiss coming from his mouth. You squeeze him so good.

“Yes—please—Patrick—”

He slams in deep, one final thrust, and groans against your shoulder as he cums, cock twitching inside you, hips jerking in uneven spurts. You can feel his semen filling you, mixing with your own release, close to dripping down your thighs.

For a moment, all you can hear is your breath and the distant throb of music outside. The sink is cold against your lower stomach. Your thighs are trembling, almost giving up under your weight. Patrick is still buried inside you, panting against your neck, arms tight around your waist.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

You hum, too dazed to speak.

He pulls out gently, letting you sag against the sink, and catches a glimpse of the mirror—your tear-streaked face, your ruined makeup, your dazed little smile. He leans forward and kisses your shoulder, still breathless. One of his hands lifts up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, before he press a kiss to your jaw.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly, and he chuckles, kissing your cheek this time.

“Cool. Wanna get back to the concert? They are playing King For A Day now. It’s your favorite song.”

[isaqlare]

art donaldonson x whimsical!

reader headcanons

art donaldson was the exact opposite of you but yet he loved you, he loved your funky outfits, your funky tights, and overall your personality. You weren’t like any of the other girls he’d been with. Lustful and dangerous, you were sweet and yet crazy in the most amazing way. The differences make you, you. And he loved that.

🍎 — Funky Tights Are Your Signature. Checkerboard, sparkly, fishnet, floral, star-patterned. you own tights in every print and texture imaginable. You even have ones with tiny frogs. You layer them under miniskirts, oversized sweaters, or petticoats like a fashion fever dream. Art calls them your “magic legs.” but he loved them, he loves your funky style.

🍎 — he does admit it, when he first met you..him and a Patrick had a bad habit of laughing at the things you wore or what you did but now he loves you and your crazy style.

🍎 — Art doesn’t know how to flirt with someone so unlike him, so he just starts showing up to your art show, your poetry reading, even the morning farmer’s market. He buys you a ridiculous gourd just because “you seem like someone who would love a gourd.” Eventually he asks you out in the dumbest way. “Wanna get food that isn’t, like… leaves?”

“You mean, non-fermented plant-based nourishment?” you replied, earning a groan from him. “Jesus Christ. Just say yes.”(You do.)

🍎 — You start drawing on his arms with glitter pens before parties. At first, it’s funny. Then he starts requesting it. “Give me that moon thing you do. The silver one.” He keeps a flower you pressed for him inside his wallet, doesn’t tell anyone. But he looks at it before exams. He thinks you might actually be magic.

🍎 — Art starts reading the weird little books you leave at his place. You catch him skimming “Astrology for Lovers” and pretend not to see. He insists he’s a Capricorn, but you’re like, “No, Art. You’re a Leo rising. That’s why you’re so loud.” He’s never dated someone who lives like you do. full of softness and strangeness. Sometimes he just watches you make tea and wonders how he ended up in a fairytale.

🍎 — You steal his hoodies and paint on them. stars, vines, tiny cats. He pretends to be annoyed but never washes them, even though they smell like patchouli and lavender. He gives you his old baseball hats. You wear them sideways or with butterfly clips. He texts you things like “idk what this moon thing means but it’s orange rn. thought you’d care.”

🍎 — You show up to his matches wearing leg warmers, fingerless gloves, and star stickers on your face. The other players’ girlfriends wear tennis skirts and polos. You look like a character from a children’s book and he loves it. He waves to you from the court every time. You wave back like you’re at a royal parade.

🍎 — His dorm was all tennis gear and protein powder before you. Now there are windchimes, mushroom-shaped lamps, and a poster that says “Kiss More Frogs.” he didn’t admit it but he enjoyed drinking your homemade rose tea from a mug shaped like a cat. He starts collecting things for you: pressed flowers, weird postcards, a rock that “kinda looks like a heart.”

🍎 — He starts letting you dress him. Not all the time — but enough that you’ll catch him at a party wearing a neon beanie and a vintage sweatshirt you picked out with pride. One time you draw a constellation on his jeans in silver Sharpie. He goes out in them. He wins that tournament. He asks you to do it again every finals week.

🍎 — You make him keychains with his initials in bead letters. He actually uses them. One has a tiny rubber duck on it. You sew patches onto his practice bag: mushrooms, smiley faces, one that says “TENNIS IS PUNK ROCK.”

🍎 — He doesn’t get fashion. But he gets you. And to him, your outfits are the language of your soul. You dress like dreams, like memories, like folklore and color and softness. And he loves watching you get dressed like it’s a performance just for him. His favorite thing is helping you zip up a velvet dress or clasping a necklace around your neck before a party. It makes him feel like the lucky boy in the fairy tale who got chosen by the whimsical witch princess.

[ghostgirl-22]

Stanford era: Tashi invites Art over for some reason but they start drinking and it ends in him trying on her skirts, dresses and lingerie. Modern au so she can take pics. Which are of course sent to Patrick who starts checking the door calendar to figure out when he can visit Stanford asap (after he wanks to the photos of course)

Oh i thank you for this prompt anon!

CW: 18 + NSFW everything in the prompt and phone sex (sorta).

—-

It’s all because of Dr. Gedack’s insane Organic Chemistry exam. That’s how she ends up stretched out on the floor of her dorm room with Art Donaldson, both of them drunk on shots of jagermeister. The only liquor she had, it’d been in the freezer since her German teammate brought back a bottle on her last trip home.  

Neither she nor Art are used to failing at anything ever, despite the school wide reputation for the course and especially its first exam. Everyone fails it, they say. But Tashi has never known everyone to include her. 

It starts out innocently enough. They’re commiserating about the exam taking turns downing shots. “I don’t even wanna fucking talk about him or that stupid class anymore,” she says.

”Oh I agree,” he says. Of course he agrees. He still looks at her all starry eyed which she secretly loves. He’s actually an adorable drunk, gets this pretty flush that spreads from his cheeks across the bridge of his nose. Almost like he deliberately applied it there. Kinda beautiful, like a girl.  She knows she needs to quit playing with him… that he’s real and has very real feelings but she can’t help herself. 

“You should try on my dress,” she hiccups, looking at the dress she wore to the Beyoncé concert last month, still hanging up on the back of her closet door. She expects him to laugh, to say fuck off but he just follows her gaze. “Really?” He asks. 

She grins. “Yeah why not? I wanna see it on you.”

He gets up, a little dizzy and grabs at it. The fabric is light, buttery. It’s doesn’t take long for him to step out of the bathroom, in the red,  sleeveless dress, fabric somewhat longer with a high slit up the thigh. He’s got one leg exposed, smooth all the way up his thighs. She can even see the outline of his dick, the dress doesn’t really hide anything. “Are you not wearing underwear?” Tashi giggles. 

He grips at the sides of the dress, head down to hide his flush. “Sorry it—it was too bulky in my boxers.” 

“Mm,” She bites her lip, gazing at him. Such a little dork to care about how it’d look with his boxers on. “I have an idea.” 

She gets up and digs into her drawer, pulling out a fancy pair of panties. The kind she’d put on if she knew she was about to get laid. 

She makes him put on lace black panties. It doesn’t make a difference, his cock is still visible, even a little more prominent. He’s turned on and apparently he’s a grower.  She squeezes her thighs together. 

“I wanna picture,” she says softly. 

“Oh okay, just… just don’t show anyone,” he says anxiously. 

“Don’t worry,” she smiles. She snaps a picture of him. Standing there in her dress, it actually comes out kinda nice. You can see the blush, pretty blond curls, the outline of the panties and his half hard dick. She quietly sends it to her boyfriend. “You look so pretty…wanna try on my skirt?” 

It gets to be a little bit of a fashion show and he’s clearly enjoying it. He’s playful, asking if he looks pretty while she snaps his picture and secretly sends them to Patrick. He stuffs his feet into her heels. He can’t walk in them so he sits on the bed and poses for her.  He rolls up her fishnet tights over his long pale legs in a little short puffy skirt. She helps him snap on a garter belt to connect tights to panties in her lingerie.  His dick very blatantly hard. Both of them dizzy drunk and turned on. 

Her phone starts to buzz. 

She grabs it, in need of a distraction. It’s Patrick.

”Hi,” she says, only mildly worried that he’s gonna be upset with her.

”Tashi what the fuck?” 

“What?” She asks, innocently. 

“What are these fucking pictures?” 

“You like them?” 

“Oh fuck, are you with him right now or something? How did you—” 

Tashi pulls the phone away from her ear and puts it on speaker.

“Baby I just fucking jerked it in the locker room. I couldn’t even wait I needed to nut so fucking bad. Do you have anymore pictures of him in that purple skirt…” Patrick’s voice fills the room. It’s clear he has no idea he’s on speaker.

Art looks up from where he’s spread out on the bed, eyes suddenly wide. She puts her finger to her lips to get him to keep quiet. He nods slowly.

Tashi smiles, “I sent you everything I had. But he’s lying on my bed in my corset and panties.” Art squirms a little.

“Oh fuck,” Patrick groans all breathy. “Fuck baby, shit. That’s so fucking hot. Send it to me.” It’s very clear that he’s touching himself. The blush on Art’s skin is deepening.

“Yeah, it’s kinda hot,” Tashi agrees, she sends the picture and climbs on the bed, straddling Art’s lap. Art looks up at her irreverently, so happy to have her there that he’s probably already forgiven her for sharing the photos. 

“Mm i need to book a flight.” Patrick moans, breathing heavy into the phone. 

“Flight?” Tashi asks. “What about the tour?” 

“I lost so I got at least 48 hours and this is fucking urgent. Oh baby…fuck. I’m looking at the corset. Holy shit.”

Tashi settles on Art’s lap, wiggling, grinding along his length and he moans softly. 

“Oh god. Are you fucking him Tash?” Patrick breathes. “Are you on the phone with me while you’re fucking him baby?”

Tashi laughs a little breathless. “Mm almost… but maybe we can wait for you.” 

“Fuck yes,” Patrick says. “Yes… shit… I’m gonna look at tickets. Hold on. Lemme finish…tell him I’m gonna rip a hole in those fucking tights as soon as I get there.”  

Art whines again and Tashi teases her fingers into his mouth. He sighs contentedly while she rolls her hips. Shivering at the way the friction of his dick along with the fabric of their clothes glides over her clit. The whole time they can hear Patrick panting into the phone.  

”Mmmm,” Art groans loudly around her fingers and she can feel the warmth of him coming in the panties he’s wearing. It’s been barely a minute. “I’m sorry… sorry I don’t usually…” he whispers breathlessly, shame in his eyes.

God. He wants her that bad. It’s the hottest fucking thing. “Mm I think I hear him whining…” Patrick moans, “oh baby this is crazy.”  

She keeps grinding against him and he starts letting out this soft… “oh oh oh…” It’s not five minutes before she’s gasping, tugging at his hair and moaning into his ear. Her already soaked panties getting wetter as the intense rush of orgasm pulses through her.

“Fuck, oh fuck… what is going on?” Patrick calls out in a sing song voice. 

“You want me to tell him you came all messy in my panties?” Tashi asks Art softly, her voice a little hoarse. While Art all overstimulated, tries to catch his breath.  

”God… I need pictures.” Patrick huffs. “‘mabout to fucking blow my load again… shit ohfuck fuck fuck yes…” Patrick’s groaning makes Art shiver. Makes her pussy clench. She curls her fingers gently into Art’s hair. 

Patrick’s panting breathless into the phone. “God. Just… don’t fucking go anywhere. I’m gonna be there first thing tomorrow, okay?”

Tashi smirks. “Okay then, maybe tomorrow he can try on my tennis skirt.” 

Patrick immediately starts looking for a red eye so he can get in tonight instead.

(i hope this is okay anon— apologies if these are a bit of a mess but omg im actually making a dent in January!!)

[artiststarme]

Dead or Alive

After Spring Break, no one could find Eddie Munson dead or alive. His Uncle Wayne, the angry mob, even the police couldn’t locate him so everyone assumed he was dead. Some grieved his loss but most celebrated his apparent demise believing it to be what he deserved after killing Chrissy, Fred, Patrick, and Jason and hurting poor Max Mayfield.

Once the town recovered enough, Wayne bought a headstone for an empty grave and dutifully washed off the new graffiti that appeared each day. The kids of the Party mourned the loss of their idealistic Dungeon Master and disbanded Hellfire Club out of respect to him. And Robin and Steve disappeared to Steve’s empty house to grieve the loss of a friend (or so it seemed).

Because while everyone thought they were grieving and finding support in each other, they were actually caring for Eddie’s wounds and watching gay movies on Steve’s couch. They are junk food, cuddled in front of the TV, and appreciated being alive.

Steve couldn’t be around the party because he was supposed to be broken-hearted but it was the opposite. While he left the Upside Down the most recent time with more scars, both mental and physical, it also gave him everything he’d ever wanted. It took him away from the job he hated, gave him more time to spend with Robin, and it gave him a prospective boyfriend.

He felt bad keeping Eddie a secret away from the kids and his uncle but he had no other choice. Until he and Robin could brainstorm a logical explanation for his innocence and return from the dead, it’d be the three of them in hiding. Which to him, wasn’t a bad thing. Between the love of Robin and Eddie, his house felt less like a crypt and more like a home.

After a few weeks, they’d all gotten used to their solitary. Imagine their surprise when someone walks in on the three of them watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show right on the scene of Rocky showing off his fishnet clad calves. Imagine Officer Phil Callahan’s horror when his eyes landed on an injured homicidal maniac sitting half on his brother’s lap while drooling over Tim Curry. And imagine Steve’s mortification when his brother stood unmoving in the doorway of the living room with one hand on his hip and the other held over his open mouth in shock.

“WHAT IN THE FUCK IS EDWARD MUNSON DOING IN OUR PARENT’S LIVING ROOM?!” Phil shrieked, his face going red in barely concealed rage.

Steve, Eddie, and Robin all spoke at once.

“Is he? Oh my goodness, I didn’t notice. Steve, Eddie is in your house!”

“It’s just Eddie, you piece of shit.”

“Ok technically, I can explain.”

Phil just looked at them like all three of them were insane. “HE’S A KILLER!”

“No he’s not. He’s just a metalhead, Phil.”

“What is that supposed to do with anything, Steve?! I don’t care that he’s a metalhead, I care that he murdered at least three people in a week!”

Steve shot up from his seat so he was nearly eye-level with Phil. “Woah, he did not! I was with him the entire week and neither of us killed anyone.”

Phil just shook his head in confused exhaustion. “Is he dangerous?”

Steve looked him directly in the eye, “no! He didn’t do anything and he’s one of my best friends now.”

“Fine. I’m not dealing with this shit tonight. You,” he pointed at Eddie, “don’t kill anyone. And Steve, do not wake me up before ten AM unless someone is getting killed. Jesus Christ.”

He stomped up the stairs, grumbling under his breath the entire way. Meanwhile, Steve sat back down next to Eddie and gave him a small smile. “Well, that went better than expected.”

Eddie looked at him in disbelief, “did it Steve? Did it?”

(It, in fact, did not. The next morning, Steve had to tackle Phil away from the phone when he tried to call the chief and then had to hold him down while Robin rambled the entire story in an impressive four minutes. He only gave up once Steve threatened to disappear himself and Eddie (and Robin) forever without ever contacting Phil again.)

Should I make this into a longer fic? Let me know in the comments please!