#sorry it got out of hand???

[nymphoutofwater]

And why? Cultural norms? Personal schedule? “Cause I’m always late to everything”?

Bonus points: Region and/or ethnicity?

[keymintt]

a comic/zine about coyotes

[fuupan]

penguins

[typingbunny]

I‘m obsessed with this

Him pressing her to the ground

His body covering her entire body bc he's so tall and broad, the feeling of his weight on her

The handholding that functions as pinning her down

His red ears (might be from the cold though)

The hand on her cheeks + kinda holding her chin just bc he can since his hands are so big

This is only a guess but convince me that he's not parting her legs with his resting one leg dangerously close to the warmth he "needs"

On that note: the ice melting during the kiss

His outfit is not only pretty but I bet fun to take off as well-

Warning: this is just smut, pure filth.

If you’re not 18+ this is your cue to leave 🚪

Zayne is the type of boyfriend that makes you ride him while looking into his eyes until you can’t hold yourself up anymore because it’s so intense and he’s reaching so deep.

He loves this view. He may be under you but don’t let it fool you to think you’re in charge. If he wanted to he could just fuck into you from this angle by slightly working his hips towards you and make you see stars. However at this point, how hazy you are already that would be just cruel … wouldn’t it?

This angle allows him a prime view to just watch you as you chase your high by using him as not more than a means to get that release you’re craving.

He’s obsessed with you. He tries to hide how much he really adores you because he doesn’t want to scare you away with how much he actually wants you, needs you, but he is sure you can feel his heart pounding beneath your hands as you straddle him regardless of his attempts to mask it. The heart cannot lie.

He reaches up and cups your perky breasts in his big, surprisingly warm, hands. They are so warm they feel like fire on your skin so much it feels like they are trying to burn themselves onto Zayne’s favourite part of your body. After idly caressing your breasts, Zayne changes up the soothing manner and opts for increasing the roughness of his touch as he alternates between massaging them gently to squeezing them harshly from time to time, a feeling that goes straight to your core.

The look on your face, that cock-drunk expression: mouth slightly agape, eyes struggling to stay focused threatening to roll back and you tearing up because of how good he is making you feel. Zayne has jerked off to your face more times than he wants to admit.

He gently cups your face causing you to ground yourself a little and make eye contact with him. His thumb strokes over your cheek in an adoring manner until it travels down to your lips. They are pink and swollen and for a second he thinks about sinking his cock between them, but not now. Now he wants you to cum for him while he is buried deep inside of you. Deeper than any other man ever was nor would for that matter because that is out of question. No matter the circumstances or consequences, Zayne would hunt down whoever tried to replace him. He could easily make it look like an accident. Sometimes his love for you scares him but that’s a price he is willing to pay.

“Open.“

He doesn’t have to elaborate, you know exactly what he wants as you start sucking on his fingers like a shameless whore. His whore. Only his. Forever. The little velvet box bearing an engagement ring, that has been resting in his part of the closet for a while being a token for that.

“Good girl.“

He takes his wet fingers out of your mouth and swirls them around your nipple and a tiny moan erupts from you. Zayne chuckles and you send him a playful glare. That glare doesn’t hold up long though because drinking in how sinful your boyfriend looks under you, you’re quickly occupied with trying not to cum but rather ingrain that image into your memory so you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.

Black hair pushed back, slightly tousled; most likely a result of your doings earlier when his face was buried between your thighs. His cheeks and ears are red, a telltale sign that he is either embarrassed or aroused. Right now it’s the latter. His forehead is covered in beats of sweat and his eyes are filled with something that can be only described as pure lust.

You’re brought back to planet earth by a cold pinch of your sensitive nipples and another moan escapes you. That crazy motherfucker used his EVOL and it felt good. Make lemonade out of lemons or whatever they say.

This was the last straw to your somewhat composure. Now you are clutching onto his shoulders to hold yourself up as Zayne continues his assault on your nipples.

“Zayne-”

Hearing you moan his name always does it for him. He can feel something in him snap, most likely his self control and his blood practically starts to boil.

“Come here.”

And then, with a swift motion he just scoops you up into his arms pressing your chest against his as he rocks you up and down the whole length of cock like his personal fleshlight. If you weren’t moaning and screaming you’d be in awe of how strong he is as he rocks you up and down hitting deeper than you thought was ever possible, muscles flexing beneath his perfect skin. In an attempt to get even closer to him you bury your face into his neck and let yourself be consumed by Zayne’s smell, that certain smell you call home. God the things you’d do for this man.

Clutching your thighs, his fingertips leave little marks that knowing Zayne, he will profusely apologize for tomorrow. Meanwhile you’re holding onto his shoulders for dear life carelessly leaving little crescent moons on his back.

He once pointed out, how much he actually enjoys you “leaving a mark on him”. First you thought it was a typical Zayne move trying to comfort you so you don’t feel bad about hurting him. But one day when you where looking for pictures on his phone for a little gift you were preparing, a photoalbum for your anniversary, you found an interesting picture.

It was Zayne in front of your bedroom mirror trying to photograph said marks on his back. You contemplated to tease him with the evidence but the mental imagine of big mean Zayne (that’s at least what others who didn’t know him thought of him to be) standing in front of your bedroom mirror trying to get the perfect picture was too adorable. What you don’t know is that once he got it, he just stood there in the middle of the room looking at the picture, 6’1 of lovey-dovey mush with a loopy grin on his face.

So right now you are basically clawing at his back amping up the scratches the more he moans and curses under his breath.

Once he can’t take it anymore and the only thing on his mind is breeding you as he cums over and over again deep inside of you filling you up until you beg him to stop, he embraces you tightly and flips both of you so he is on top. Your legs are wrapped around his waist and he feels your wetness all over him. Immediately his hands find yours, interlacing your fingers. What looks like romantically holding hands is his gateway to restrain you, holding them tightly pinned over your head so your tits are completely exposed.

His lips find one sensitive nub and he starts devouring you while looking up at you through his lashes, and you swear if he keeps that up you’re going to reach your high from this alone.

“Zayne please-

M-Move!”

He detaches from his favourite toy, his personal little make her dumb button so to speak, to look at you, a twinkle in his eye. For a second he imagines what it would be like to make you suffer a little bit and make you beg for it. Because he knows you would beg for him. Just like you have many times.

You’re so fucked out and desperate for him it turns him on so much it almost hurts and though he swears couldn’t possibly be any harder he feels another wave of desire wash over him, threatening to drown him. Not only does he accept his fate, the thought weirdly enough makes him beyond happy and he struggles to hide the smirk creeping up on the corner of his by now swollen lips as he goes in for a kiss and you can’t help but surrender yourself to.

“ Whatever you want my love.”

He leans down whispering in your ear, voice laced with desire, and something slightly … sadistic?

“Just remember, you asked for it.”

From that point on, only the gods above can help you and the bed frame …

I don’t know why but I picture Zayne to be less of a butt guy and rather a boobie guy maybe because of cardio lmao … 💭

[monobmp]

Thought about that tid bit of Bill mentioning that he can delete memories

[laniidae-passerine]

don’t get how you can watch iwtv and be a sincere diehard lestat hater. like the world’s biggest lestat hater is louis and that man can’t even commit to it for more than five minutes before literally hallucinating lestat wearing a wedding ring and talking pretty to him. this show is about louis and every road leads back to lestat for that man

[seefasterdraws]

hug! that! captain!

[anbaisai]

Happy belated birthday Jamil! I hope you know just how loved you are ❤🐍

[isjasz]

The Promised Neverland manga spoilers!

[Day 201]

Everyone blame cherrysherin2 (go check out this art that made me absolutely lose it) I take no responsibility

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 2

🤍🌷 read part 1 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie

This is not happening. None of this is happening, he’s… He’s dreaming. He’s high. High as a kite somewhere where reality doesn’t matter, where it can’t fucking reach him and he’s— He’s not panicking behind the wheel with Steve Fucking Harrington bleeding against the passenger side window. 

It’s not happening. 

Because if it were happening, Eddie would simply throw up. He’d leave his van on the side of the road and run the fuck away. Away from Harrington and his trouble, away from his rattling breath that’s so loud and unsteady, Eddie doesn’t even dare to turn on any sort of music, even though he’s itching for it, his hands clenching and unclenching around the wheel until his knuckles go white. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles under his breath, barely aware of his surroundings at all, his eyes flitting from Harrington to the red stain against the window, back to the road and then down to the white-knuckled grip and the speckles of dried blood that is decidedly not his. 

Lost in his panic and disbelief, Eddie almost runs a red light. 

It’s harsh, the way he hits the brakes, and the sound Harrington makes is pathetic enough that Eddie feels like maybe this might actually be happening. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, his voice no better than Steve’s — and he’s not the one with a concussion, a broken rib, and that… fucking fear. Of something. Or someone. 

Who’s hurting you, Steve? 

Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t wanna know. All he wants is for Harrington to stop fucking bleeding, to keep his eyes wide open and— 

“Ed,” the boy says, wheezes, and it sounds like he wanted to say his full name, but had to swallow first. Blood, Eddie thinks. Don’t let it be blood. “Think I’m… ‘M gonna throw up.” 

“Please don’t throw up,” Eddie says before he can stop himself, hating how small his voice sounds, how urgent — like that’s the thing to be urgent about. God, he’s such an ass, but he… If Harrington throws up, Eddie will lose it. He knows he will. 

He chances a glance over at Steve, who has somehow managed to get his right arm tangled with the handle at the door, keeping himself upright and safe from Eddie’s rather frantic driving style. His head is drooping, moving this way and that against the red-stained glass, and he blinks unseeingly as blood begins to trickle down from his nose and temple again. 

He’s making himself small, and Eddie wants to pull him upright and tell him to stay like that, tell him to stop looking so terrible, so horrible, so… 

So much like Eddie’s fucking problem. 

He hates it. Hates everything about that vision. Boys like Harrington shouldn’t look like this, shouldn’t hold themselves like this, shouldn’t… Shouldn’t have no one but Eddie to take them somewhere safe. 

It’s just not tight. 

“Don’ wanna throw up,” Steve says at last, the pause too long for Eddie’s liking, and he sounds so solemn about it, yet so helpless, and Eddie kinda wants to scream. Wants Harrington to scream. Anything to stay awake and maybe not ruin his car. Anything to not fucking die in it. 

“Tell me something,” he says then, because he knows he has to keep Harrington awake and speaking. Just for another ten, fifteen minutes, he tells himself. “Anything, yeah? Tell me anything. Gotta keep you awake there, you hear me? Sounds great, right, staying awake?” 

He’s rambling and he knows it, desperation shining through his words and the god-awful way his voice breaks a little. This is not about him, he knows it isn’t, but still he wants to punch himself, wants to pinch himself and stay fucking calm. 

But who could stay calm in a situation like this? The silence is filled with the horrible wheezing and rattling of Harrington’s breath barely audible over the engine, and Eddie has to look over several times to make sure he’s still there, still with him, still alive. His panic spikes each time. 

He’s just about to reach over and shake him a little, snap in front of his face to get him back, when—

“I don’t know what.” 

It’s quiet, that voice, breathy and tiny and almost invisible, and Eddie wants to scream again. 

Tell me why you’re so scared. Tell me why your old buddy did this to you. Hagan would never touch you, so why did he now? Tell me what happened to Hargrove. Tell me why you sound so fucking small. 

“Tell me about your…” He fumbles for a moment, taking a sharp left and pretending not to hear the choked-off whimper. Focusing on good things. On normal things. “Your favourite person.” 

Eddie cringes at himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Your favourite person? Really, Munson? He scrambles to find something better, something cooler, or maybe something easier like asking his favourite fucking colour, but the overthinking really doesn’t mix well with the already panicked state of his mind. And Eddie just blanks. 

Beside him, though, Harrington sits up a little straighter, smearing more blood against his window in the process that Eddie pretends not to feel nauseous about. 

God, he never did like blood. 

“You wan’ me to tell you ‘bout Rob?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Eddie says, a little too loud, a little too shrill, actually running a red light this time because he doesn’t want to brake again and hurt the boy some more. There’s no one around anyway. This is Hawkins. Fucking dead-end of a town. It doesn’t need red lights, or boys who look like Harrington. “Rob. Tell me ‘bout him, what’s he like? Favourite colour, all that shit.” 

“Her.” 

Eddie blinks, looking over to find Harrington looking at him — or trying to, his eyes still drooping and empty. But it’s a good sign. People don’t die when they look at you, right? 

“What?” 

“Her,” Harrington says again. “An’ blue. Deep ‘n’ dark blue. She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.”

Eddie doesn’t really listen, doesn’t really process what Steve is saying, already thinking of the next question just to keep him talking. But then he continues on his own. 

“Mornin’ blue dep— de… makes her sad, though. So only dark blue. Says it’s why we’re friends. You’re so blue, Stevie. Got half’a my clothes, still, she does. All the blues.” 

That's... really fucking endearing, actually. 

And he says it with a half-smile, too, bloody and pathetic as it is. Like it’s a secret that only the two of them are in on, only Steve and Robin. It’s kind of sweet. 

Not for the first time today does Eddie find himself wondering, Who the hell are you, Steve Harrington?

He exhales through his nose, ignoring the way he’s started to shake with all that panic that’s been sitting inside him for a little too long now with no way to let it out. 

“Not much longer,” he mumbles under his breath again, or maybe he just thinks very hard. Maybe he doesn’t know where he is at all. It’s like he blanks every few seconds, too busy thinking and trying not to.

Before he can tell Harrington to talk some more about that girlfriend of his, there’s a pained, confused little whine that forcefully tears Eddie’s eyes from the street for a moment only to meet hazel eyes widened in confusion. 

“Wh— Where… Where’re we going?” 

Oh no. 

“Why’m I in y—“ 

“You’re safe,” Eddie interrupts him, speaking slowly because suddenly his tongue is too big for his mouth, and not entirely sure if he’s reassuring Harrington or himself. “You’re hurt, okay? It’s bad, but it wasn’t me. I’m taking you to… to someone. My uncle Wayne, he’s— He knows about that kinda stuff. You were telling me about Rob. Remember her, Blue? How about you tell me some more, hm?” 

Eddie’s voice is unsteady with worry and fear and panic, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding it. The thing is, he’s going to cry. He’s actually, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it going to scream and cry and punch a fucking hole into something when this day is over, when his van is no longer bloody, and when Steve Harrington won’t have reason to look at him any longer. 

Oh, how he wants to skip forward. Past the nausea, past the fear, past everything that’s happening right now. Maybe past the insomnia that will come with a day like this, too. 

Past all of it. 

Or better yet, travel back in time and never get to that fucking boat house. 

But he can’t. So he breathes. 

At first, through the ringing in his ears and the racing of his own heart so loud and so forceful he’s shaking with it, he worries that Steve’s gone silent again, that he’s gonna ask again, ask what happened, ask where he is, ask all the questions that make Eddie feel like he’s been doused in ice water because they’re questions that only get asked in stupid movies where terrible things happen to people. 

But then he hears him mumbling something. Numbers. 

“What’cha mumbling there, Blue?” 

“‘S her number,” Steve says, his voice slurring again, worse than before, and Eddie hits the gas a little harder. “‘S jus’ her number. Robbie’s number.” 

And he mumbles again. Over and over and over, until Eddie couldn’t forget it if he wanted to, ingrained into the frayed edges of his mind now. 

He lets him ramble, lets him repeat the number until the words slur together and he can’t separate a four from a nine anymore. Each time Harrington hesitates, each time he stumbles over the words or forgets a digit, Eddie wants to punch the wheel. 

He doesn’t. He only grips it tighter and counts down the turns he takes, the streets he passes, the fucking trees that are familiar, before, finally, the trailer park comes into view. 

The sob Eddie lets out when, with shaking, trembling hands he pulls up to his home to find his uncle having a smoke outside is deafening to his ears after the quiet weakness of Harrington’s voice. 

It startles him, makes him stop his rambles and sit up straighter when Eddie finally kills the engine. For a moment, without the steady, rolling hum, the car is filled with the small, tiny whines Steve makes on each exhale. Like it hurts to even breathe. 

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks, but Eddie can’t really hear him. Can’t turn to him, can’t— “Eddie?” 

He’s out of the car before he can take hold of another thought, stumbling out of his open door on legs that feel numb and heavy. The urge to cry is back again, the burning in his eyes only getting worse when Wayne takes in the dried blood on his clothes and hands with careful, calculated worry.

“Ed?” 

“I didn’t know what— where—- I’m… Wayne, I’m sorry.” 

“Slow down, kid,” Wayne says, raising his hands as if to calm a spooked deer. Like Eddie is the one who needs his help. And he is. He really, really is, and he shouldn’t be, because this isn’t about him, but—

Wayne grabs him by the shoulders to keep him still, and only now does Eddie realise he’s shaking again, restlessly moving his weight from one leg to the other. His uncle steadies him, gently pressing down on his shoulders to ground him, and Eddie nearly sobs again. 

“Ed. Are you in trouble?” 

“No,” Eddie scrambles to say, becoming aware of what this looks like, hiding his hands behind his back on instinct, like that’ll make Harrington’s blood disappear. “‘S not my blood, I didn’t do anything, I swear! I swear. It’s, uh. I just found him. In the boathouse, I found him, and he was… God, he looked so bad, okay, but he didn’t want the hospital, and he was, like, so scared of something, and we don’t even talk, we don’t even look at each other, but I just… I didn’t know what to do, and you know something about concussions and people who were beat to shit and, again, I’m—“ 

“Eddie,” Wayne says, his voice so calm but so assertive that Eddie shuts up immediately, gladly handing over to controls to his uncle now. “Who’s the kid?” 

He nods towards Eddie’s van, where Harrington looks to be halfway unbuckled, but his eyes are closed and his face smushed against the door again, like he just gave up.  

“Shit,” Eddie says, adrenaline and panic slowly falling from him with Wayne’s hand on his shoulder. He sags into his uncle and rubs at his face. “It’s Steve. Uh, Steve Harrington, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Wayne says, and he’s so calm. So calm. Eddie feels like he’s about to fall apart, and Wayne is the only one keeping him together, with that’d steady, warm hand on his shoulder. “And you promise me he didn’t give you trouble? Or anyone else who’ll come finish what they started?” 

Eddie shakes his head profusely, getting a little dizzy with it. “I promise I’m not in trouble. He said Hagan did this to him, was alone when I found him. No trouble, Wayne, I swear, I’m not like that, you know I’m not.”

“Okay,” Wayne says again, and Eddie wants to weep. “I know you’re not like that, but some people are, y’know? You did good, son. You did good. Now help me get him out of that car.” 

It takes his uncle tugging him towards the van for Eddie to kick back into motion, nearly falling over his feet turning back around. It’s only Wayne’s “Easy” murmured under his breath that keeps the ground from opening up and swallowing him whole. 

He climbs in on the driver’s side while Wayne rounds the car and gets to Harrington’s side. 

“Hey there, Blue,” Eddie says, his voice shaking and the nickname slipping again — but it’s easier to call him that than his real name, it’s easier to pretend it’s literally anyone else in here with him, bleeding against his door. 

It’s easier to pretend it’s not Harrington’s breath rattling the way it does, easier to pretend those pained groans so high in their cadence they can only count as whines don’t come from Hawkins High’s Golden Boy who graduated a few months ago and was supposed to be done with bullshit like this. 

“Come on, up you get,” he tells him, not daring to raise his voice too much. 

He looks so frail. Like he’s already broken. Or like he’s trying not to. Like he’s holding on. 

Eddie pretends not to think that the hand he places on Steve’s cheek to gently pry him from the window is not the only thing keeping that boy together right now. 

Harrington groans, whines, wheezes, but opens his eyes to meet Eddie’s. Jesus, we’re they this blown before? Or this swollen?

“Hey,” Eddie says, just to say something. Just so he won’t have to hold the boy’s face in silence, just so he won’t have to focus on all the blood. Just so he won’t have to hear more questions that people aren’t supposed to ask. 

Steve opens his mouth, his breath coming out a little sharper, like he wants to say Hi rather than Where am I? or When will it stop hurting? Like he wants to say How can I help you help me? 

Somehow, Eddie manages a smile. 

Wayne chooses that moment to open the door — just unclicking it, not pulling yet; giving Eddie enough time to support Harrington, make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Careful,” he whispers, though whether it’s for Wayne, for Steve, or for himself, he can’t quite tell. Maybe it’s a plea to the rest of the world, and to anyone else who will listen. 

Steve is still staring at him. That’s probably not a good sign. He leans back a little, turning Steve’s head to make him follow him. Slowly, of course. Gently. Eddie can’t remember ever having touched something like it was going to break if only he looked at it wrong, but somehow he’s hyper-aware of it now. 

Because Harrington is staring at him. Entirely too still, like he has no strength, no coordination to do anything but stare. And yet Eddie is the one who, now that the adrenaline has fallen from him, now that he can let someone else take over, now that Harrington doesn’t need him anymore, finds himself unable to look away. 

Because Steve is just a boy. And so is Eddie, who can feel Steve’s breath against his wrist. And maybe, out of the two of them, Eddie is the fragile one. The one about to break. 

“Blue, you with me?”

Steve nods. Doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t move. Eddie swallows, briefly looking back down at Wayne to see if he’s ready. His uncle nods, ready to catch Harrington should he go down, and Eddie turns back to the boy who’s smeared with his own blood.

“I’m gonna take off your seatbelt now, yeah?” he tells him, not entirely recognising his voice anymore. “That man out there, that is Wayne. My uncle. He’s safe. He’ll take care of you, okay?” 

“Safe,” Steve breathes, and that shouldn’t be the one thing he focuses on. It shouldn’t sound so unsure. So insecure. So hopeful, so relieved, so— Fucking earnest. 

Swallowing all these thoughts, all this desperation and all those questions, Eddie reaches over Steve, one hand still supporting his head and feeling the overheated skin of Harrington’s cheek against his palm, the hint of stubble and the crust of dried blood. As if in slow motion, not daring to make a wrong move and hurt him more than he already does, Eddie frees him the rest of the way, letting the seatbelt slide into its hold behind his shoulder. 

“Careful,” he says again, just to say anything, but he is careful, and his hold on Steve is steady. 

“‘M careful. Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know.” But maybe I will. 

“Good. ‘Cause… Don’ wanna break.” 

Eddie smiles, despite everything. “You’re not gonna break, Blue. Wayne’ll catch you.” 

Harrington loses his focus then, his eyes glazing over, but the small smile on his lips widens. “Blue. ‘S nice.” 

Yeah, Eddie thinks. He kinda is. 

Somehow, miraculously, they get Harrington out of the van and into the trailer. He throws up halfway to the doorstep, and Eddie curses under his breath while Wayne talks quietly, asking him yes and no questions that Eddie can’t really hear through the ringing in his ears — a strange mix of fear and relief, a panic not quite over, but soothed by his uncle’s familiar voice; even if it’s not directed at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, the next rain’ll take care of that. Stop apologising.” 

It throws him then, rather suddenly and violently, watching Wayne supporting Harrington, watching the blood smeared boy with the swelling, angry red bruises in his face. Somehow it’s different, seeing him in his home. 

This was always a safe space. Always void of everything terrible. 

And now there’s a broken boy on his doorstep who’s not Eddie. 

He remembers the fear, the panic, the plea for no hospital, Eddie. Can’t go there.

Why not? You need a doctor—

Monsters. Only monsters there.

It paralyses him and he stays where he is, holding the door with an arm that’s heavy like lead, standing on legs that begin to go numb again. He watches, but not really, as Wayne sits Harrington down on the living room couch, between magazines and brochures and some of Eddie’s calculus notes from last night that he was searching for a sketch of a monster he was so certain he’d drawn in the margins a few weeks back. 

Now there’s blood on his calculus notes. And Eddie is helplessly keeping the door open as though he’s going to run away any second now. Letting in more trouble to join Harrington on his couch. 

He should… He should close the door. Help. Run. Disappear. 

“Ed,” Wayne calls, snapping him out of his stupor. “The first aid kit, please. A bottle of water. A clean, wet cloth. A blanket, too.” 

Wayne talks him through it, takes it one step at a time, has Eddie bring him one after the other like he knows how much he’s keeping his nephew together by keeping him on the brink of usefulness.

Soon, Wayne has everything he needs, taking care of Harrington and his wounds, keeping him awake and talking so much better than Eddie did, even making him smile here and there, hiding his wince when the motion pulls on his split lip or the huffed breath sends a jolt of pain through his rib that Eddie is absolutely certain must be broken with the way he holds himself — with the way he lets Wayne hold him up. 

Wayne is doing his thing and Eddie is hiding, gripping the kitchen counter like a vice, staring both unseeingly and hyper-vigilantly as exhaustion washes over him, dragging him under and draining him of more than adrenaline. He slumps against the cupboard behind him, rubbing at his face like that’ll make it all go away. 

It’s not right. It’s not. This is Eddie’s home, it’s supposed to be safe, it’s not… 

He breaks away, ripping his hands from the counter and all but stumbling outside, heaving a deep breath and giving in to the urge to cry. Tears spring to his eyes and he wipes them away angrily, because it’s dumb, it’s so stupid, it’s absolutely fucking insane that he should be so worked up when Harrington talked about dying earlier. 

These things don’t happen. They don’t! 

“Stop fucking crying,” Eddie grumbles, sniffling and wiping away more tears as he closes his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Get a grip, Munson, Jesus Christ, there’s no reason to cry you big fuckin’ baby.” 

Nobody’s there to contradict him. Nobody’s there to make it worse. So he lets his eyes sting for a while, lets his lips wobble, his jaw clenched shut, the balls of his hands pressing into his eyes, breathing deliberately. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

He doesn’t even scream. Doesn’t punch the still bloody side of his van, doesn’t run into the woods and disappear into the void. 

He simply breathes. Tries not to think about boys dying in mall fires, and even less so about boys beaten and abandoned in boat houses.

Doesn’t think about fucking Hawkins in Bumfuck-Indiana and the cursed way it has, driving its people mad. 

Doesn’t think about, They said my brain is hurt, Eddie. Doesn’t think about the Monsters Harrington mentioned. Doesn’t think about Blue, doesn’t think about I’m tired, Eddie. Don’t wanna hurt anymore. 

Doesn’t think about blue, blue, blue. 

He’s shaking when he comes back inside. He’s shaking when Harrington meets his eyes, looking a little clearer now, the blood washed away and everything bandaged a lot better than Eddie managed. He’a bundled in Eddie’s blanket. It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. 

Eddie can’t move, and neither does Steve. 

“Steve,” Wayne says, waiting until those eyes tear themselves away from Eddie and back to him, though Eddie sees them fill with such trepidation, he almost asks what’s wrong. “I won’t hear a no on this, and I won’t let you go home. I’m taking you to the hospital. Especially if you tell me your head was hurt like this before, more times than one.” 

“Three,” Blue breathes, a little dazed still. Not magically healed, not even from Wayne. Another thing that doesn’t feel right. 

“Three times,” Wayne says, nodding, like he’s encouraging Steve to continue. 

“But I don’t want a hospital.” Again with that tiny fucking voice. Like the Monsters are hiding under hospital beds. 

“I know, son,” Wayne sighs, tugging the blanket a little tighter around Steve, and Eddie’s eyes begin to sting again when he notices the tone Wayne uses. When he realises. When he remembers. 

”I want my mom.“ 

”I know, son. But she’s not coming. Your mama is gone, Ed, and this is your home now. Think we can make that work, hm? You and I?” 

Eddie had never felt so lost as he did then, clutching his blanket to his chest, burying his face in the wet fabric even as this man — his uncle — tugs it tighter around him. Like he is fine with Eddie wanting to hide as long as he doesn’t run away. 

He had shrugged, then, even though we wanted to shake his head, tell him no, tell him he wanted his mama. 

”I’m scared, uncle Wayne.” 

And Wayne had smiled a little, and nodded. “Then we do it scared, Eddie.”

Actually, Eddie feels like he never stopped doing it scared. 

And now there is Steve, who Eddie never believed knew what being scared felt like. It’s dumb, of course, because even Harrington is just a boy, but he was always untouchable to Eddie. They never talked. They never existed in the same space together, not in a good way and not in a bad way. Their worlds just never aligned, never collided, never coexisted. 

And now… 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, okay? There’s a doctor, Doctor Clarke. Like— Yeah, like your science teacher, remember him? ‘S got a brother who’s just as much of a genius, and just as kind. He’ll take a look at you, yeah? Make sure your brain isn’t too hurt, clean your wounds, give you something for the pain. He won’t, uh. He won’t hurt you, kid. Whatever’s got you so scared, Dr Clarke will be nice to you. Especially when I’m there with ya, I’m an old pal of his. And I will be. Won’t let you outta my sight until you’re well enough to run away from me, you hear me, kid?” 

Eddie’s hands are hurting, his fingertips raw from where he’s been biting his nails while Wayne talks Blue through what’s going to happen — and he wonders, with the way Steve’s eyes are glued to Wayne, if he ever had anyone talking him through shit like this. 

“Okay,” Harrington breathes at last, still sounding way too small. “But. I’m…” 

“Scared anyway?” Wayne offers. Steve nods. You’re so blue, Stevie. “Then we do it scared anyway.”

And they do. Wayne goes to get the car so Steve won’t have to walk too far, leaving Eddie alone with him for a brief moment. 

He watches, from his place in the kitchen, how Steve’s face falls into a look of utter exhaustion and tiredness; the adrenaline washing from him just the same. Eddie wants to reach out. Wants to say something, break the spell of tension and silence and I know we don’t talk, but I’m glad you’re doing a little better. I’m glad you’ll go see a doctor. I’m glad you haven’t died, I guess. Do you really think you will? Are you really so scared of that? 

But Eddie keeps biting his nails, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, blanket around his shoulders. And they don’t talk. 

“Thank you.” 

Eddie perks up, not entirely sure he didn’t imagine the words — but Harrington moved slightly, his eyes still closed but his face now turned towards Eddie. 

“For, uh. This.” 

“I didn’t do shit, Blue,” Eddie says. “That was all Wayne. All I did was freak out, I promise.” 

Harrington shakes his head, though, slowly. “Mh-mm.” 

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, because there is no room for discussion here. They don’t talk. And he doesn’t want the bubble to burst with insecurity and sourness. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and he sounds final about it. It makes Eddie wonder what he’s like, really like, when he doesn’t consist of pain and nausea and disorientation. 

He has a feeling that, despite everything, despite Monsters under hospital beds and torture in boathouses and mall fires that kill teenagers, Blue Harrington might be someone good to talk to. Compassionate as shit, even when all he wants to do is pass out. 

“You’re welcome,” Eddie rasps, pretending that his eyes don’t sting.

He wraps his arms around his chest like he’s hugging himself, or like he’s holding himself back. From reaching out, from asking, from telling, from talking. 

Unwittingly, even with his eyes closed, Steve mirrors him, and Eddie wonders if he, too, it holding himself back, or just curling in on himself some more even though it must hurt, feeling so small. 

Maybe that’s what fear of death does to a nineteen year-old. It’s so fucked up. Eddie wants to scream again. 

Outside, he hears a car door fall shut just before Wayne reappears in the door, giving Eddie some kind of meaningful look that he wouldn’t mind deciphering on any other day, but today he fears he needs words. 

“I don’t know how long this’ll take. Will you be okay, Ed?” 

“Will I be— Yes! I’m not the one with the concussion, man, of course I’ll be—“ 

It’s a bluff, comes too fast, and Wayne sees right through it before Eddie even realises it, and he steps closer. A warm hand on his shoulder. His eyes stinging again. 

“You did good, kid. Everything will be fine. But it might take a while. It’s fine if you need to go somewhere, just… Don’t drive. Call Jeff if you need someone, just. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get behind the wheel. Deal?” 

Eddie swallows hard, hit by another desperate, aching wave of I wanna go back in time and skip this day. A wave of tired exhaustion and wondering, aimlessly, just who the fuck Steve Harrington really is. 

“Deal,” he says, and Wayne pulls him into a hug. 

Eddie follows them outside then, trailing behind them like a lost little puppy, helping Harrington into Wayne’s car. His movements are still slugged and a little disoriented, so Eddie decides to lean in again and fasten his seatbelt. 

“Careful,” he mumbles, allowing the boy a moment’s warning, a moment to adjust before the weight settles on his chest. 

Dejá-vù hits him and makes him pause, with Harrington staring at him again. 

“I’m careful,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a little smile.

More lucid than earlier, and Eddie thinks it that which takes his breath away for a moment. 

“Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know,” he says, still not moving back, instead reaching up to tighten the blanket around his shoulders even though the seatbelt is already there to hold it in place. “You’re not gonna break, Blue.” 

The smile on those lips is genuine now, gentle enough to not be ruined by the blood crusting them. 

“Thanks. Again.” And then, when Eddie finally pulls away to close the door and tell Wayne to drive safely, “I really do like that name.”

It soothes the urge to scream.

Eddie closes the door as gently as he can — which isn’t much, because the car is old and not exactly smooth. 

“I’ll see you later,” he tells Wayne. Promises. To stay out of trouble, to stick around, to not run away for a while again, to stay out of his car. 

Wayne nods, a faint smile on his lips. 

“Later, Ed.” 

And then they’re gone, and Eddie is untethered again. Wonders, for a few seconds every now and then if it really happened, if this is real. 

But it did. And it is. 

And after sitting on the steps for a while, having a smoke and staring at where Wayne’s car disappeared ten, twenty, forty minutes ago, Eddie heads inside. 

He has a phone call to make.

🤍🌷 tagging: @theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 (a thousand percent sure i missed some but oh well such is the 3am disease)

addendum 22 jan 24: onwards to part 3

[omaano]

Echo with his tooka best buddy (and an extra) for @phantasm-echo 's DTIYS 🩵💙❤️

[hg-aneh]

I think it was about time I introduced tumblr to my book Crowley... who eventually became a walking love letter to Latino culture lmao

(You can think of him as a Book Crowley who spent way too much time in south america)

Language wise, he's an amalgamation of all latin american spanish dialects (+pt-br) so,, have fun translating some of the things he's saying

[starry-bi-sky]

i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.

He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.

And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.

And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.

Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.

Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."

There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.

It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.

Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.

At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.

"Do you like to do anything?"

Nothing. Just silence.

Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.

Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.

Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.

And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.

He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.

Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.

So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.

"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"

"Don't."

He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.

Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"

"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."

It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"

The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."

Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."

And they fall back into silence.

Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."

He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.

(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)

At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.

Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.

("Tucker told me once--") ("Tucker?") ("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")

(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)

(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)

It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."

The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."

The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.

When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.

Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.

"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."

When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.

Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.

[omega-e123]

Warning: Suggestive (nsfw)

Based by: “I wanna be your slave” by Måneskin

I love you since this morning, not just for aesthetic. I wanna touch your body, so fucking electric. I know you're scared of me, you say that I'm too eccentric I'm crying all my tears and that's fucking pathetic

Every time you and Shadow get heated up, he backs off. It never gets past a make out session. Once it feels like he’s gone too far, he pulls apart and apologizes. Opting to distract himself from you.

You thought that maybe there was something wrong with you. That’s not right. The theory was easily written off seeing as Shadow has chosen to stay with you all this time. He’s blunt. Most of the time, you don’t need to ask what’s wrong because he’ll straight up tell you. It’s what you love about him. No need to walk on eggshells or play the guessing game.

So why… is it when it comes to this, he’s dodging the situation like he’s in the matrix?

It came up again. You two were on the couch, supposed to be watching a show. One thing led to another and now here you are, straddling his lap. Bare hands graze along your spine. Lips connected in an intimate tango.

He wants to pull you closer. Tighter. Shadow needs to feel more of you. An animalistic growl escapes him. Your touch is a drug he’s horrendously addicted to. You are his lifeline. Separated, he’s nothing. Yet..

Shadows fingers twitch, feeling the need to claw up your back. To mark you so everyone knows you’re his. Fuck, he wants to sink his nails and fangs into you so bad.

Abruptly he stops. Eyes snap open and his hands rest on either of your shoulders, pushing you away. Breathing synchronized, panting, slowing down into a steady rhythm.

Your dumbfounded expression twists into a worried face. It’s your chance to ask what’s wrong. This time you will get an answer. Shadow is not allowed to leave until he spills.

His gaze goes everywhere but you. He can’t bear to look at you. It’s almost as if he’s.. ashamed? No. Under careful observation, the look on his face appears more afraid.

Once confident hands now tremble. Shadow’s head hanging low as his forehead rests on your chest.

Quiet as a mouse, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Clarify. Please. Those words sound awful all on their own. There are a million different things that sentence could mean.

'Cause I'm the devil who's searching for redemption. And I'm a lawyer who's searching for redemption. And I'm a killer who's searching for redemption. A motherfucking monster who's searching for redemption

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I hurt you. Physically,” Shadow adds, finally making eye contact. A stray tear or two has found its way down his cheek.

“Trust me, I do want you..” Fangs sink into his bottom lip, drawing blood. He sighs, admitting, “I’ve never— done.. with anyone.”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to chuckle. Not when he’s in this state. Cupping his face, you wipe the tears with your thumbs, giving Shadow a reassuring smile. There's no need to rush things. Take it slow, take it easy. You're perfectly content with waiting however long. Silence follows after pecking his forehead.

Chaos, he doesn’t deserve you. Every fiber of his body screams at him, ‘he doesn’t.’ After all he’s done in the past, what he’s been through. Shadow is so lucky to have you. It’s a wonder how you could love a ‘monster’..

That’s not who or what he is. Not to you.

Shadow the hedgehog.

The ultimate life form.

For you he’s… your partner. Your lover.

A friend. A rock.

The one who has been by your side no matter what.

To him, you are a beacon of light. One he should protect. Another reason for him to keep existing. He’d follow you to the ends of the earth.. Like a.. Well a shadow, of course.

I wanna be your sex toy, I wanna be your teacher

I wanna be your slave, I wanna be your master. I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters

“Teach me,” Shadow speaks up.

Tilting his head, he leans in towards so that it rests on your shoulder, breath hitting your neck. The urge to bite and suck on your neck is overwhelming.

Shadow tentatively licks your throat before placing a kiss.

“Teach me how to make you feel good.”

[bebagerie]

i fell in love with a war

[ddejavvu]

Do you think you could do Sirius Black with the “I hate everyone but you.” Personality.

James is immediately alerted to your glum mood when you sit down without so much as a greeting, and he leans across the table with narrowed eyes.

"What's'a matter, Y/L/N?"

"Sirius is mad at me." You reveal drearily, wrapping your hand around the fork set at your place even if you don't feel like eating.

"Oh," James's brow scrunches, "Don't take it personal, babe. He's having a shit day, he heard from his mum. Nothing nice, I bet. Wouldn't let me see it. Just- he's grouchy with everyone today, don't let it bother you."

"But he told me to come back tomorrow," You recount, "Like he can't stand seeing me for the entire day! What am I supposed to do, James, we're set to study in the library at three. And- and I could help him! I could be there for him, but he's pushing me away instead."

James's brows raise, and a pitying smile works its way over his face, "Love. You're the kind of person that wants to be around people all the time. You seek comfort out when you're sad; Sirius doesn't. If you love him, y'gotta let him sulk for a bit. Then he'll come to you. And-" His nose scrunches, his brows wrinkled, "And all he said was 'come back tomorrow'? That's nothing. He told me to get my bespectacled arse out of the room before he shut the window on my head."

Your face contorts in horror, "James! James, that's so mean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, darling." He snickers, "That's what I mean, that's just what Sirius does."

"Not to me he doesn't," You frown, "That's not okay, James, he should treat you better than that."

"He's having a rough time," James shrugs, "Doesn't bother me. He's all talk, he'd never do any of it. Just needs to blow off steam, y'know? And I think we both know why he tones it down for you, Y/N."

"I'm not special," You snap, reigniting the age-old argument between you and James that Sirius totally does not have feelings for you, not one bit.

"Right," James gives you an overexaggerated roll of his eyes, curls bouncing as he does so, "That's why he threatened to behead me and all he did to you was kindly shoo you away."

"Maybe you just piss him off more than me," You stick your tongue out at him, and turn to Remus for support as the boy sits down beside you.

"Morning," James takes the lead, shooting you a smirk out of the corner of his eye, "Talk to Sirius today, Moony?"

"Little shit told me if I didn't stop talking to him - which I only tried once, by the way," Remus groans, "- he'd 'mess me up' so hard my transformations felt like reprieve."

James's eyes widen and he tries tamping down a snort, tucking into his breakfast instead. Remus turns to you and your once-more incredulous gaze, scoffing lightly, "And I suppose he just told you to come back tomorrow?"

"That's exactly it!" James slams a fist on the table, a chunk of egg flying from his mouth that Remus shakes off of his hand with a grimace, "Moony, tell her she's special."

"I'm not special," You desperately try deluding yourself, shoveling your own forkful of food into your mouth as soon as you're done speaking, so that you don't have to answer to their protests, "He just hates you both."