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dailyadventureprompts · 3 days

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Hi! I’m the asker who sent the thing about grimlocks. I wanted to thank you for answering my ask, since not only have you helped make grimlocks more interesting in my mind to use, but I’ve also had the idea of a mechanically gifted slightly magitech underdark group for a bit, and your idea for grimlock fits that idea perfectly! I offer nothing but respect for what you do here.

Happy to help friend! We were both looking at the same blank space and thinking "hm, something should go here."

#prompt postage

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redrct · 2 years

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ALL OF MY BLOGS ARE RP BLOGS.

PERSONAL ACCOUNTS UNAFFILIATED WITH RP ARE NOT ALLOWED TO LIKE THEM UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE. IF I DON’T KNOW YOU, YOU’RE NOT AN RPER AND YOU’RE LIKING BECAUSE IT HAD A KEYWORD YOU WILL BE BLOCKED. understand that this isn’t because i have a disdain for mains but rather anxiety that comes from being found by people who aren’t in the rpc.

@mereobject - gabriel, ultr.akill

@miscbag - multim.use

@cabalprince - cale.b, blo.od

@silverburghs - meryl silverburgh, metal ge.ar soli.d

@streamgrl - ame-chan, needy stre.amer ove.rload

@mothdate - hazel, mon.ster pr.om

as of this i am in my early 20s, dont worry about me interacting if youre an 18+ blog!

INTEREST CHECKER: X

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seretoningghost · 7 months

Text

Tamaki Amajiki x Male Reader

Warnings : SMUT

This ones more like a imagine, Idk why, I'm between finishing and editing like a douzen of works very close to postage finality.

That and Im a huge simp for Tamaki and dunno what to write with this prompt in mind... So send in dms or comments if y'all have any ideas.. :)

.... .... ....

So imagine, being fuck buds with Tamaki.

Like, Tamaki???? Of all people???? Has a fuck buddy????!????

And imagine he gets banged more than any of his sophomore buds 😵😩😎

But no, listen, its not Y/N askin for it - nah nah. Its TAMAKI.

TAMAKI STARTED THE RELATIONSHIP.

OUT OF THE BLUE EVEN-

Tamaki pulled his kohai aside one day, all shy like, and was talking to Y/N out where no one could overhear or see him.

Looking down at the ground because looking at the tall ass held back a grade male would make him pop a boner so hard, and said " y-you w-wanna um... y-you.. w-wanna f-fuck m-me? " a bit rushed.

Y/N just stares, he would have been audibly freaking out if it was anyone else - but its Tamaki. There's no way this is real.

Y/N would have blushed if it was even a slight possibility his crush meant that.

" what? did you get dared? or... hit on the head during training?" Y/N stepped close, Tamaki gulping and face going red - heart pounding in his ears as Y/N's big shoes came into view.

Y/N gently directed Tamaki's face to look up, Tamaki just blushed harder - horny circuits heating up so much they were fusing.

Y/N simply looked over Tamaki's face - checking his eyes for odd dilation, meanwhile Tamaki could hardly keep himself from falling apart.

He just asked his crush to fuck, and he didn't even ask " is this a prank? ".

" well.... I didn't see you get hurt during training... " Y/N tried to pry for a answer.

" I... I'm b-being s-serious! " Tamaki tried to firmly say - failing miserably..

Y/N's eyes went wide, still unsure, but still taken back by it.

" ..... you sure?... "

Tamaki nodded, fidgeting his leg - the warmth of horny overtaking him.

So here it was..

Tamaki months later. Still getting his ass pounded.

Laying belly down on his bed - shirt slightly unbuttoned, and meerly slid up a bit.

Tie undone, pants and boxers hanging around his left ankle.

Body covered in thin sweat.

Legs spread open - quietly moaning and gasping as Y/N's cock penetrated him deeply and stimulated his hidden pleasure centers.

Whimpering at the fabrics rubbing against his nipples and lewdly wet bellend and shaft.

Spit dribbling down his chin as his back arches - letting out a pathetic louder moan as he clutches his pillow tighter.

Moaning lovingly as he shoves his face back into his pillow.

Tamaki never fucks without a pillow in immediate face covering range.

Then there's Y/N - groaning and moaning - body dripping with sweat, giving Tamaki everything he's got.

Doing everything to Tamaki's liking - aiming for deep sweet spots, thrusting as hard as he can, going as deep as he can, slowing his thrusts occasionally because he's found out Tamaki enjoys it.

But Y/N is doing everything in his power to make his upper classmen happy - and blissed out of his mind.

Not knowing Tamaki was going sex crazy over it - falling deeper and deeper in love with Y/N.

It was like Y/N was hynotizing Tamaki with that huge cock.

But what really turned Tamaki on - was Y/N himself, his hips hitting Tamaki's ass, Y/N loosing balance occasionally...

And having to slide his hands slightly, or grip tighter on Tamaki's hip.

Letting out a excited and shocked girly moan, body tensing at each touch.

He really liked when Y/N got close - because Y/N would shift his hand on Tamaki's hip a lot.

Y/N would get more vocal - swear more, which always sounded so hot.

Having Y/N's big body looming over him, Y/N's thrusts getting a bit sloppy - yet firmer, his large warm hand gripping tighter on Tamaki's small hip - his hot breath fanning on Tamaki's back, neck and hair.

" FUCK..! " Y/N huffed between thrusts, more like a quiet grunt.

It was so hot.

Y/Ns other hand would occasionally shift on the bed, ruffling the sheets, fingers grazing Tamaki's belly.

Tamaki would get close too, body quaking, if getting plowed didn't get his close - Y/N being sexy would.

Then Y/N would crane over, chest almost rubbing against Tamaki, despite the super hot air Tamaki could still feel Y/N's radiating heat.

He almost wanted to beg for Y/N to put his body weight on him and squish him.

But by now Y/N would be groaning and swearing right in Tamaki's ear, Tamaki would be girlishly moaning into his pillow - hoping Y/N didnt notice.

" ah~.. ah~ ah~! "

Which Y/N did, with how much repetitive quick moaning - even the slap of Tamaki's ass with each thrust could distract him.

Tamaki would be rocking back and forth roughly with each thrust, enjoying feeling so small.

Then Y/N and him would cum, the condom Y/N used getting filled.

Tamaki would make a quiet " mmNnhhh- " noise as he shuddered, quietly cumming his sheets.

Soon after a little pant time, Y/N would pull out - looking Tamaki's sexy body over as he marveled in the after glow of Tamaki's sexy body..

His chest raising and lowering with soft pants as he laid there, still holding his pillow.

Y/N always wanted to go again, but felt that since Tamaki never asked for it - he didn't want it.

But Tamaki always kinda fantasized of hearing a second condom rip open while he rested.

Y/N would take off the condom, tie it up - toss it away, clean himself up - and... Well...

Always want to help clean Tamaki up... But...

Y/N tried once - had a warm wash cloth, tried to rub down Tamaki's back - Tamaki jumped, looking over his shoulder bright red.

" w-what are you d-doing..? "

Y/N explained, suddenly blushing too, frozen - and a bit scared by the sudden reaction.

Tamaki gave a small " oh... " and just looked away and didn't move.

Y/N - not wanting to step his boundries again took that as a stop.

And asked if Tamaki would like him to draw a bath.

Tamaki said no - hoping instead that Y/N would continue to clean his body.

Y/N didn't, and Tamaki saw why not - he was holding back and being wary of him.

Seems Tamaki started Y/N.

Tamaki was upset about it, but was too shy to mention anything.

So Y/N never tried again.

After cleaning himself up Y/N would leave, saying goodbye.

Now how did the two even decide when to fuck?

Tamaki would walk over, tug on Y/N's hand and simply utter " u-um... ", and Y/N would follow Tamaki to the dorms.

But imagine the first time Tamaki asked to fuck again?

Y/N thought the very first time was just a one night stand.

So when Tamaki walked up to him 4 days later - tugged on his and and stuttered.

Y/N turned and stared intently, wondering what Tamaki had to say.

It took a while of Tamaki stuttering and vaguely insinuating for Y/N to get the idea.

Y/N was almost instantly erect.

Other than approuching Y/N, Tamaki would occasionally text to meet up in one of their rooms.

Tamaki usually did this late at night when the dreadful horny struck.

Usually asking if he could sneak over to Y/Ns room.

Since Y/N agreed that he didn't care if anyone knew Y/N was fucking, but they usually fucked when no one else was in the dorm.

Tamaki would sneak over to Y/Ns room - more like just slowly walk over to Y/N's room, if anyone saw him they usually just assumed late night snack or a walk.

But little did they know that was the excited fluttery hearted walk of a man about to get his ass pounded.

Did Y/N's next door dorm-mates notice?

Occasionally they noticed Y/N fucking.

But not often, they assumed he got his cock wet occasionally, but not nearly as much as he actually did.

They were only up occasionally, that or they slept with headphones on.

It was a highschool dorm, someone was usually fucking or masturbating.

No one would have guess it was Tamaki though. Not only cause of the girly moans, just all around Tamaki's mannerism.

Ooh~! What if Tamaki was dragged into a truth or dare with class 1-A!

" c'moooon~! you only have to play threeeeeeeee rounds! " one of them would convince.

So here Tamaki was forced.

And Tamaki is a coward - and well " how bad could their truths really be anyway- "

" soooo... are you a virgin Tamaki? " Mina would ask.

Tamaki went beet red, wanting to lie and chock the blushing up to it being a embarrassing question.

" no. " he would blurt, turning even more red, it was hard to say yes when all he could remember was Y/N fucking him..

" shit... " Tamaki was done for.

He wanted to die. Right then... Right there.

He knew that everyone would take the chance to ridicule him, and bully him into spilling all the details.

Everyone seemed surprised and intrigued.

He tried to insist his 3 rounds were up before someone finally got to him, but everyone kept saying " three rounds of questions directed at you ".

Tamaki tried to refuse, and tried to just walk away - but Mina grabbed his leg and held him back.

Tamaki didn't even look back as he stood still in defeat, staring at the ground.

" ...... let me go....... " he whispered quietly.

" only if you answer one more truth! " she bargained - more like terrorist.

" ...... fine......" he had no other choice.

" who-"

" No. "

Mina had to think up a good one now, when was his last time? (Last night) Where? (Y/Ns room) Ah ha!

" how many times have you done it total? " of course she picked practically the second most personal question..

(Last time done it being the first)

Tamaki paused, actually sweating as he tried to wrack his brain for a answer.

He could just lie - but again Y/N fucked the smarts out of him, and thinking of him had the same effect.

" um.... a-actually.. I-I... I don't I-know...? " Tamaki mumbled.

Everyone's jaws dropped, they were expecting a 1.... Maybe 4.... Max 8?

Nope. Tamaki couldn't. Even. Fathom.

....

Tamaki lifted his leg out of the slack gripped Mina quickly, and sped walk away.

Eventually Y/N and Tamaki would confess their feelings... And begin a relationship - and finally come out a month after starting their official boyfriends relationship.

And Class 1-A would just stare slack jawed..

Neither of them knew why.... Until... Tamaki remembered...

He became insanely red, and said he was gonna get a snack.

So Y/N was left to hang out with his friends.

After a bit they suddenly asked " so... your who fucked Tamaki so many times he couldn't even count them? ".

.... Oh ....

.... .... ....

So Idk, I didn't know what to do at the end.... Like I always do....

But I really liked the scenario - and for a thirst its decent. B]

I have another fic you guys'll get tommorrow, for now have this.

Idk if I'll ever write this out fully? Maybe if someone suggests something good for it? Idk.

#tamaki amajiki #bnha x male reader #male reader smut #mha x male reader #seme male reader #smut #x male reader #tamaki amajiki x male reader #+18 or +adult only #+18 blog #+18 only #+18 content #suneater #yaoi #blyaoi #bhna #mha

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chronically-ghosted · 6 months

Text

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled.

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder.

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.”

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.”

Partner.

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself.

And then he met you and the definition changed again.

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why.

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days.

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions.

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts.

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed.

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here.

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all.

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime.

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath.

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee.

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold.

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.”

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee.

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets.

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night.

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids.

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it.

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since.

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks.

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair.

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation.

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay.

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold.

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love.

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants.

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare.

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him.

“Baby–,”

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall.

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer.

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in.

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut.

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars.

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day.

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is.

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head.

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful.

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you.

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you.

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees.

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now.

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it.

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch.

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart.

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips.

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs.

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes.

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it.

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford.

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair.

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.”

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole.

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh.

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty.

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible.

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean.

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face.

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine.

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point.

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now.

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level.

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls.

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest.

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table.

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock.

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?”

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich.

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.”

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.”

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork.

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist.

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain.

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.”

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.”

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it.

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done.

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.”

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him.

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow.

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy.

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire.

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust.

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again.

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm.

“B-baby, please–,”

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer.

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.”

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.”

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name.

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep.

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again.

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more.

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst.

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs.

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet.

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling.

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor.

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull.

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face.

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.”

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest.

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.”

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips.

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all.

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed.

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you.

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.”

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.”

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

#frankie morales #fransisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader

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formulaforza · 3 months

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Haiiiiii could i request Logan Sargeant and the prompt “I brought you flowers.” ”for what reason?” “There has to be a reason?” Love your writing keep it up!!

"Lo!?" You called from the apartment kitchen, letting your keys and your bags and your water bottle clatter down against the countertop. "Are you home, babe?"

You flip through the mail while you wait for a response, sort between the very few important pieces of postage and the rest of the useless kindling that had filled your mailbox.

You move around the kitchen peninsula to the trash can, dropping the junk mail into the bag, and that's when you see the clippings--green stems, probably two dozen at least, and even more leaves in the bottom of the trash, along with two plastic wrappings.

You hear Logan before you see him, his feet moving heavily, wood floors creaking under his every step as he emerges from the hallway. "Hi," you greet, looking up to meet his eyes.

You instantly frown at the sight in front of you. Logan, in a pair of sweats and no t-shirt, stands at the entrance to the living room. His hair shoots out in every direction, and he groggily rubs sleep from his eyes when he returns the greeting. "Hey," he says with a soft, sleepy smile.

"Why is there flower clippings in the trash?"

"I bought you flowers," he yawns, moving through the living room, around the kitchen peninsula--leaving a kiss on your shoulder as he passes--and properly into the kitchen.

He unscrews the top of your water bottle and takes a drink. "For what reason?" You ask.

He laughs into the bottle, "there needs to be a reason?" and his voice echoes off the metal before he takes another drink.

grab a bite (sized fic)

#grab a bite!#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant imagine #f1 x reader #first Logan fic lol #just talked to user vinvantae about how strange it was for a multitude of reasons

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afewproblems · 3 months

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For the angst prompts ;

"You look like hell." "I feel like it."

Famous Eddie showing up on Steve’s doorstep years after Eddie left

Oooo love this idea, thank you very much for sending it Nonny! I hope you enjoy!

***

"So, he's back in town," Robin says instead of a greeting into the receiver, a leading lilt in her voice.

Steve sighs and knocks his head into the wall beside the mounted hand set, "yeah".

She hums, the sound crackles over the line like static in Steve's ear.

"You want me to come over?" Robin asks carefully, as though dismantling a bomb, picking through what to say as gently as she can, hoping it's right.

And Steve hates it.

He hates that even after all these years, Eddie Munson can get right under his skin like this.

It should have ended back in '88, when Eddie had left them all behind to 'make it big'.

Or at least, that's what the note had said.

The one in hastily scribbled blue ink, dropped on the cold and empty side of the bed that Eddie had left. Steve had awoken alone, with only the note and the smell of weed and cigarettes and sex on his sheets.

He had tried calling the trailer, only for Wayne to pick up and explain that Eddie had been planning this for weeks, 'didn't Ed tell you?'

Eddie had left for New York along with Gareth, Jeff, and Grant, bound for city lights and a better music scene.

No, Eddie hadn't told him, but Steve didn't say that. How could he?

Instead, he thanked Wayne, his voice hoarse, and hummed something close to a yes when Wayne asked if Steve would make sure to drop by when he had time, the Pacers season had started after all.

"Steve?"

Robin's voice breezes through the phone again, jolting him back to the present.

"Sorry Birdy," he sighs, shaking the last memories of the Munson's from his mind, "don't worry about me, really".

She scoffs and Steve can almost picture the way she's certainly rolling her eyes, "I always worry about you Dingus, that's what I'm here for".

"I know".

They talk for a little longer, speculating on how much longer Clinton will last in office now that the truth has come out and which of them would host the finale of Seinfeld --'it deserves a special night Steve, we are taping it, getting as many snacks as we can, and indulging in some good old misanthropic comedy'.

He tells her goodnight after another half hour, and insists that he'll be okay.

And he will, of course he will.

It's been ten years since Eddie Munson set foot in Hawkins, and there was absolutely no reason for them to run into one another.

Well, sure, he still kept in touch with Wayne over the years --how could he not when the old man seemed to pull excuses to see him out of thin air.

Robin had always cautioned Steve on his continued relationship with Wayne, questioning why he insisted on maintaining contact with Steve.

But it was nice to have someone to watch the game with over a beer, the occasional barbecue in the summer and hell, Steve had even celebrated a Thanksgiving or two or three with Wayne Munson.

With Steve cutting off his own parents years back, it was nice to feel like he had still had someone looking out for him.

And really, there was no reason for Eddie and Steve to run into one another.

Steve would be fine.

***

It's almost a week after his call with Robin that the doorbell rings and Steve's world comes to a stop.

He's putting away the small grocery trip, and to call it that was a bit ridiculous considering the snack to fruit ratio, but Robin had been very specific about their Seinfeld watch party slated for the coming weekend.

Steve opens the fridge door to pop the milk in, tossing a, "coming!" over his shoulder as the bell rings a second time.

Steve hopes it isn't his neighbor again as he makes his way to the front hall of his small home. It would be her third time angrily telling him that the tree in his backyard had shed even more crabapples over the fence and into her yard.

And considering their postage stamp lots, where else was the poor tree going to do it?

"Look Mrs. Patterson," he says wearily as he flips on the porch light and opens the front door, "I'm going to do something about the branches this weekend--"

But it isn't Mrs. Patterson standing on his front porch.

It's Eddie Munson.

Steve blinks, feeling as though part of himself has been wrenched from his own body to watch from above. His palms are sweaty all of a sudden and there's a tightness in his chest that grips his lungs, he can't breathe.

Eddie tries for a half wave and a smile, but the effect is lost as Steve continues to stand in shocked silence.

He's thin; Eddie had always been on the lanky side but his shoulders were still broad and he was strong enough to lug his band equipment around. He's almost gaunt now, with deep set bags under his brown eyes. His curly hair hangs somewhat limp over his shoulders and he reeks of stale cigarettes.

But it's undeniably Eddie Munson standing at his front door.

There are so many questions, and Steve wants nothing more than to demand answers if he can manage to get the words out without yelling.

What are you doing here? Why are you here now? How did you know where I live?

How could you leave like that?

"You look like hell," Steve says instead, his grip tightens on the door frame as Eddie drops his head in a nod.

"I feel it".

His voice is slightly deeper, more gravely in tone now than it was ten years back.

But perhaps that's what screaming into a microphone and partying in New York for ten years will get you.

"How did you know where I live?" Steve asks after another beat of strained silence.

"Uh, Wayne, I ask him about you a lot and about half the time he'll give me an answer when he's not calling me a dumbass and telling me to call you myself".

"Wayne has been telling you about me" Steve says faintly, feeling as though he might be sick on Eddie's shoes.

Wayne, someone that Steve had been looking up to, getting advice from, and spending so much time with, had been doing so just for Eddie.

All this time.

Robin had been right to tell him to be careful.

"Leave," Steve whispers suddenly, making Eddie step back in surprise, "I don't want to see you, either of you, again".

"Wha--no, Steve, wait!"

But the door is already closing, slammed against Eddie's hands that knock and knock, pleading with him to open the door, to just hear him out.

But how can he?

It wasn't just Eddie showing up after all these years, but on top of that, everything that he thought he had with Wayne had all been some ploy to help his nephew keep tabs on him.

He'd let himself be hurt again, by another fucking Munson, one he thought he could trust.

Steve locks the door and flips off the porch light, uncaring of the muffled curse from the other side of the wood.

He doesn't want to hear what Eddie has to say, after all, Eddie hadn't cared enough to stick around all those years ago.

Why should Steve?

#steve harrington #eddie munson #hurt steve harrington #wayne munson #famous rockstar eddie #but make it almost as angsty as my cheating!eddie au #afewproblems writes #afewproblems answers #oof baboof these get sadder with every prompt i write yall #hurt no comfort #please read with caution #this is a sad one #hurt/no comfort

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 months

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With your interests in redesigning monsters and in 3.5e specifically, I’m surprised you haven’t talked about Eberron. It seems right up your alley with more universally gray morality, un-stereotyping monstrous groups, and it’s vague uncertainty with its gods.

Honestly one of the reasons I don't talk more about Eberron is that there's not as much to "fix" about it compared to the ossified institution that is that is "default" d&d lore. It's someone's home setting that just so happened to be canonized, and while there's bits and pieces of it that I don't 100% vibe with (Nearly all the aberrations being spawned by the delkyr, all the references to khyber crystals) those are mostly matters of personal taste.

My only real complaint is that there should be MORE settings like Eberron, but because Wotc is as terrified of making new IP as any other multi-billion dollar company they haven't been brave enough to make any of their own settings for what seems like most of my adult life. Instead we're going to be stuck with puddle-shallow versions of MTG planes and whatever trickles down from the liveplay space for the foreseeable future, and I absolutely hate that.

#prompt postage #eberron

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netherworldpost · 6 months

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TRICK OR TREAT

A small box, purple and ribboned green. Inside are things, pleasant yet not yet seen.

Dreams, maybe, of places yet visited -- or places visited yet not yet returned to, in quite some time.

Wrapped in woodsmoke, that pleasant, and a leaf -- no, two -- it has been a good year, let us celebrate this success with harmless excess.

rambling ->

This will (probably) be the only trick or treat I respond to this year. You're the first! That's the bad news, that I'll probably only write one of these this year.

The good news (in active progress all season) is that I'm working on a whole system of them.

<- rambling / making sense ->

In 2014, I ran a promo on Evil Supply Co. where folks were invited to write in "trick or treat" and I would come up with a unique ramble (as above) for them.

Just for them. A gift of text. No duplicates. Each wildly different. How was that so long ago question mark exclamation mark.

I peaked into whatever information they provided to write something specifically customized for them using all of my powers of deduction (i.e. reading + skill as a storyteller) TO WRITE A TINY ***CUSTOM MYTH*** FOR THEM

(see above) (for yours) (enjoy!)

Answered LOTS.

It ended up being dozens. I don't think it was actually 364, but I do believe I ended up doing a few hundred, but. Y'know. Gif. Can't pass it up.

Tons of fun.

Tons of work!

Tons of fun though.

"I think you might have said something about a plan?" you might be wondering.

I don't know you and I don't know how familiar you are with my work and I'm guessing this is just a fun ask without prompting.

However.

I never let a chance to ramble go to waste.

Netherworld Post Office is being built as "an independent media company".

Fancy words.

Means we do lots of stuff.

Right now we're making myths for back office clients.

We're building a front office shop. Cards and stickers and zines.

That's two of the "lots of stuff."

A third of the "lots of stuff" is a continual "trick or treat" blog.

I'll run through some logistics quickly. You didn't ask for any of this part but this is the trick to the treat.

The Trick or Treat blog will be a public archive. Some things I'll just write because the blog'll need some stuff to get going and keep going.

But sometimes there will be a "trick or treat!" shop entry. Limited quantity. Available until sold out. One per customer. Working out the details. Randomly during the year it'll come back in stock until it's out of stock again.

If you snag one, it is $0.00 with $0.00 shipping and handling. Anywhere in the world. Trick or treats are free!

I'll write a tiny myth like the above.

It'll get printed on a card.

We cover the printing and the postage.

It'll get mailed to you. Wherever you are in the world!

Tiny postcard print.

Written just for you.

Mailed to just to you. For free! Anywhere in the world!

Trick or treat!

Via the mail!

You caught me in a late night business session and I had a solid amount of sleep today for the first time in weeks and so I Am Full of Energy.

Enjoy your treat!

I've carved off the launch date because (uncomfortable laughter) the problems we thought we had solved were solved but they weren't the only problems lurking.

It's fine.

That's business.

I'm smart and I've added even smarter folks helping me figure out the complex problems.

netherworldpost.com has the mailing list if you're thinking "huh I like the idea of receiving a launch email sometime when this all sets up."

I've overstayed my welcome in answering this ask, so I'll see myself out after a big "Happy Halloween!" to everyone

(or small I guess, text size is structured for reading)

(and we're in a small text section)

(...wrapping up...)

Thanks for this space.

The Trick or Treat blog is in active idea-ation-stage-ization because it is October and the October Energy is Rampant so we're grabbing it while we can to figure out this very October thing.

This gif selection is reminding me I am due for a witch hair appointment

Paying that bill requires cash (fair and good and fine)

And remembering "oh stones, money exists"

means remembering "oh bones, I gotta market this machine lest it devolve into An Ungodly Expensive Hobby"

that URL for email signup

one last time

netherworldpost.com

(I am actively reducing coffee intake and increasing sleep intake and my schedule has coincided with "tonight is a coffee night" + "today was a heavy sleep day" and your ask came in on "I am planning a big project")

(let this be a joyous warning to folks who ask me things)

(I MAY ANSWER) (IT WILL BE LONG) (IT MIGHT NOT MAKE SENSE)

#october 31 #autumn blog #october #halloween #snail mail #autumn blogs #autumn snail mail #halloween snail mail

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contemplatingoutlander · 3 months

Text

Our true feelings about race and identity are revealed in six words

This is a poignant article about a project that Michele Norris started that tapped into people's thoughts about race in a profound way--using only six words. This is a gift🎁link, so anyone can read the full interactive article, even if they don't subscribe to The Washington Post. Below are some excerpts from the article:

I have always cringed when the accusations fly about someone allegedly “playing the race card.” It’s usually a proxy for “You’re making me uncomfortable, so please stop talking.” Or a diversionary tactic used to avoid having to speak about race with any kind of precision or specificity. A shorthand for “Just shut up.” And so, in 2010, I flipped the script, turning that accusatory phrase into a prompt to spark conversation. I printed 200 black postcards at my local FedEx Kinko’s on upper Wisconsin Avenue asking people to condense their thoughts on race or cultural identity into one sentence of six words. The front of the cards simply read:

Race. Your thoughts. 6 words. Please send.

I left the cards everywhere I traveled: in bookstores, in restaurants, at the information kiosks in airports, on the writing desks at all my hotels. Sometimes I snuck them inside airline in-flight magazines or left them at the sugar station at Starbucks. I hoped a few of those postcards would come back, thinking it would be worth the trouble if even a dozen people responded. Much to my surprise, strangers who stumbled on the cards would follow the instructions and use postage stamps to mail their six-word stories back to me in D.C. Since my parents were both postal workers, this gave me an extra thrill. Here I was, doing my part to support the Postal Service. Who says snail mail is dead? Half a dozen cards arrived within a week, then 12, then 20. Over time, that trickle became a tide. I have received more than 500,000 of these stories — and more arrive every day, though the vast majority of submissions now arrive through a website portal online. They have come from all 50 states and more than 100 countries. Though limited to six words, the stories are often shocking in their candor and intimacy. They reveal fear, disappointment, regret and resentment. Some are kissed by grace or triumph. A surprising number arrive in the form of a question, which suggests that many people hunger not just for answers but for permission to speak their truths. It was amazing what people could pack into such a small package:

Reason I ended a sweet relationship

Too Black for Black men’s love

Urban living has made me racist

Took 21 years to be Latina

Was considered White until after 9/11

Gay, but at least I’m White

I’m only Asian when it’s convenient

To keep the conversation going, I created a complementary website for the Race Card Project, where people could submit their six-word stories online. Over time we added two words to the submission form: “Anything else?” That changed everything. People sent in poems, essays, memos and historical documents to explain why they chose their six words. The archive came alive. It became an international forum where people could share their own stories but also learn much about life, as if it were lived by someone else.

I highly recommend reading the entire article, using the above gift link. As an olive-skinned Italian American, with curly hair, I have often felt like I am a walking Rorschach test for race. Even though I'm classified as "white" in the U.S., I've had people ask me if I'm a Latina, a Native American, Black, Egyptian, Jewish, and even a South Pacific Islander. Given my history, here are my six words on race.

A book is not it's cover.

I welcome people adding to this post their own 6 words on race.

#race #six words #feelings about race and identity #martin luther king day #michele norris #the washington post #gift link

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winterscaptain · 2 years

Note

tali hello!! one thousand forehead kisses for you for taking top gun prompts it literally made my entire night!

could I ask you to do a hangman x reader? bonus points for jake acting like hot shit in front of his coworkers at the hard deck and then like… completely folding in front of reader and getting ragged on by the dagger squad bc he’s finally gotten locked down <3

much love, 🌻

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Gender Neutral Reader a top gun maverick fic

a/n: i hope it’s what you wanted my love!! let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see and i’d be happy to make it happen for you <3

words: 412 content advisories: language, alcohol use, alcohol mention

summary: i’m down bad.

masterlist | requests are open

It’s way too easy to be close to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. His fingers curl loosely around the beer bottle in his hand while his other hand rests just as loosely on your hip, one finger hooked into your belt loop. You started off simply leaning against his chair, but now that you’ve landed across his lap, you’re not inclined to move.

Natasha said something funny, you’re sure, but it’s hard to hear anything over the rush of blood in your ears, the nearly-embarrassing skip your heart made in your chest when you hear his laugh. Jake’s smile, you think - the real one, not the bullshit snarky one - should be an unofficial wonder of the world, or at least recognized by the US government as a national treasure.

Put this man on a postage stamp.

“Well,” he says, likely in reply to something you missed, “you know what they say about big feet.”

Coyote looks at you with raised eyebrows. You wink at him. He smiles.

Rooster answers promptly. “Bad dancer.”

“You said that with an awful lot of authority,” Phoenix says with a smile.

Rooster shrugs. “I don’t have big feet, so I wouldn’t know.”

The entire group, at once, looks under and around the table to look at Rooster’s feet, firmly hidden in his sneakers. Jake rolls his eyes and you turn your head.

“Nothing you have to worry about. Trust me.”

He tries to hide his smile with a soft kiss to your cheek, but he’s caught out by the high color on his cheeks.

“Uh oh,” Payback says with a smile. “Someone’s got Hangman blushing.”

“I don’t blush,” he assures them. “I glow.”

“Really?” Phoenix asks. “Then what’s that?” She reaches across the table and pokes his forehead, also dusted with an undeniable rosiness. Her fingerprint bounces pale for a moment, the color returning almost instantly.

Jake swallows, looking far more dignified than any man in his mid-thirties with a flush down to his collar should, and replies, “My glow. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

“Mm,” she replies. “I can’t hear you when you’re full of shit. We’ve been over this.”

He’s dug himself into a hole he can’t quite escape, especially given his position. To double down, you kiss his cheek. Unfortunately, he falls for it, leaning into you and closing his eyes a little too long to pass it off as a blink.

Rooster and Phoenix share a look. He’s fucked.

#top gun maverick fic #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun maverick #tali writes fanfiction #jake seresin fluff #tali writes top gun #🌻 anon #anon reply #tali answers stuff

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quackquackcey · 1 year

Text

‘I love you’

Stiles reunites with Derek after a few months of studying abroad.~ 💌 (AO3).

For @sterekdrabbles 4/19/23 prompt: ‘bird, attack, stage.’ 100 words. Rated G. Tags: reunion, snail mail, awkward!Derek.

‘He’s just been busy with the recent attacks,’ Erica had told him.

Stiles hoped so. He’d mailed Derek many letters while studying abroad the past few months, even considering carrier birds at some point, because maybe none of them had delivered?

But Derek seemed quiet and all stilted words, and Stiles’ heart broke until he saw his postage stamp on the kitchen counter.

Multiple. His letters sorted by month, with a few posted on the fridge. Derek’s responses, half-written, crumpled in balls.

Stiles opened one before Derek could stop him.

Tears filled his eyes, and he kissed Derek.

“Me, too.”

#sterekdrabbles #sterek #100 words #omf writes #sterekdrabbles: bird attack stage #stiles stilinski #derek hale #eternal sterek #derek/stiles #derek x stiles #stiles/derek #stiles x derek

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