#Instead of making a new account/blog/whatever

[pastelaspirations]

....

*Laughs in is too lazy to go through the effort of making a different tumblr blog*

I’ll never forget you babes 😭💔😔🥺

I finally come back to tumblr and t h i s is what I see. That's it, I'm done, I'm uninstalling tumblr. Bye everyone, it's Honey's fault-

[s00ths4yingz0di4c]

mr president a second xenogender has hit the transmasc

[adragonofthings]

Scam blogs (and how to spot them)

Unfortunately, scams do exist on tumblr. That is why it’s key to always try to search around when someone’s sent you a request for mutual aid. Not every account is trying to scam you and for the most part there is legitimate blogs who need your help. Sadly there are also scammers who pretend to be needing mutual aid as well so here is a simple guide to figuring out scams.

How old is the account? The pinned post usually is a good way to tell if the account contacting you is new or old. If you scroll the posts, you should see if they were made around the same time as the account.

How many posts are on the account? Most blogs will have more than just a few posts here and there. After all, a well used blog has thousands of posts for you to look at.

Are there more original posts? Usually someone needing help will have multiple posts of their own instead of a single post that’s pinned. They will also post updates regularly regarding their situation and answer asks clarifying details when necessary.

What does the link on the pinned post say? If it’s a linktree claiming to be a GoFundMe link, that’s something to be suspicious of because it’s likely not. If the link is an actual GoFundMe link that isn’t a linktree link then that usually means the account is legitimate and may have shared posts verifying who they are if you scroll a little.

Is the ask being mass sent to users? While this is done by legitimate accounts too, it’s unfortunately also commonly done by scammers. If you search the ask you got you may find it was sent to multiple accounts across several months and from several different senders with no changes to the overall text itself. Even the formatting errors are not fixed.

Are there any warnings out for the username? Try searching the senders username to see if anyone’s made a post claiming the account is a scam. There should at least be one post about them. If not, it’s likely that they are too new to have been reported yet.

Are you a well known account? How likely is it someone would find you without searching specific tags or posts for users to contact? Think about it. How often does someone send you asks for money that is a relatively new account with only a few reblogs and only one original post? If it’s almost daily, then you should be wary of the asks.

What do you find if you search part of the pinned post in your preferred search engine? If a fundraiser pops up using the same text and doesn’t mention using another mutual aid method, it’s highly likely the blog sending you the ask is impersonating a real person who needs support.

Does the mutual aid post make sense? Some scammers don’t know how medicine works and may list some that don’t work like claimed. They’ll just use whatever sounds ‘right’ without further research. Someone who needs medication will always know what their medicine does they don’t guess because they’ll usually have a doctors paper they go by.

If you have properly recognized a scammer and have fully been able to confirm that their a scammer with enough evidence, please report scam accounts and alert anyone whose shared the scam post.

[bleulikedaylight]

Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mild cursing + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 3.8k | genre: wlw (as always <3), romance, fluff, high school au !! ;p

note: hii !! thank you so much for reading my work. just a quick heads-up—english isn’t my first language, so i’m really sorry in advance for any grammatical errors !! T^T

also, feel free to send messages, asks, requests, or literally whatever—i love hearing from people, and i swear i don’t bite (unless you want me to? jk, i'm so cringe 😔☝️)

anyway, i just noticed i accidentally made a second blog instead of a whole new account… so if you follow me and an account with the username @definitelynotbleu followed you—that's me. that’s my main blog, because apparently, tumblr said “you can’t follow people using your side blog.” like okay. thanks, i guess? ☹️💔💔

i’m lowkey considering just making a whole new account and moving all my fics there because this setup is slowly driving me insane. BUT I’M ALSO KINDA LAZY SO. WE’LL SEE. also i haven’t even made a masterlist yet. i’m cooked. actually beyond cooked. overcooked. burnt. ashes. 🥀🥀🥀

(ALSO I’M SO SORRY FOR VERY LONG AUTHOR NOTES I’M JUST A YAPPER OKAY T^T)

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ‎♡‧₊˚

The next day, you show up to school with a venti coffee, three hours of sleep, and a list of tasks color-coded in pastel highlighters. You’re not thinking about her. You’re not. You have work to do. You have plans. You are a woman of discipline. You are the student council president.

And then she walks into the classroom like she didn’t just emotionally destabilize you twelve hours ago.

She’s in her varsity jacket, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in. One of them falls out as she moves, and you catch the faint sound of Arctic Monkeys. Of course she listens to Arctic Monkeys. You hate that it suits her.

She sees you. She nods. Calm. Collected. Like last night’s heart-attack-inducing flirtation didn’t happen.

You scowl.

She smirks.

Wanda leans over to whisper, “You’re glaring like she stole your planner.”

“She might as well have,” you mutter.

—

You meet after school again, this time in the student council office. She shows up ten minutes early and eats all the jelly beans in your organizer tray. You tell her off. She just shrugs and asks for more.

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Every day for a week, Natasha Romanoff shows up. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with new bruises. Once, with a notebook full of genuinely helpful project notes, written in messy, slanted handwriting. She has surprisingly good insights, you have to admit.

But it’s not just the work. It’s the way she listens. The way she leans back in the chair, arms crossed, watching you with something between curiosity and amusement, like you’re a puzzle she’s enjoying solving.

It’s unsettling.

It’s distracting.

It’s maddening.

Especially when she starts casually touching you. Nothing scandalous—just light taps on the shoulder when you make a joke, her knee brushing yours under the table, taking the pen out of your hand when you’re overthinking the sentence structure.

"Relax, President. You’re not writing the Constitution."

You swat her hand. “I am setting a standard.”

She grins. “Yeah. A very adorable, very high-strung one.”

You want to scream.

And then—she starts drawing on your notes.

Like, full-on doodling hearts on the margins when you’re focused on your laptop.

“You’re vandalizing school property,” you say, eyeing the tiny cartoon of a girl with your hairstyle next to one with her haircut.

“Correction,” she replies without looking up. “I’m customizing history.”

You blink. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Depends. Are you flattered?”

You throw a highlighter at her face. She catches it with one hand. You hate how cool that was.

—

It gets worse when she starts appearing outside of project hours. One morning, she joins you in line at the school caf. Orders black coffee and a muffin. Pays for your iced coffee without asking. When you try to protest, she tilts her head.

“What, you don’t like muffins?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

You don’t answer.

Next time you go to your locker, there’s a sticky note on the inside door.

You stare at it for an absurd amount of time.

Wanda finds you still holding it twenty minutes later.

—

And then there’s the basketball practice.

You don’t normally attend. But your vice president is managing the halftime event and drags you into helping.

So you’re there, clipboard in hand, head spinning with logistics—until the buzzer sounds and Natasha Romanoff is suddenly there, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, hair in a messy ponytail, grinning like she just won the world.

She finds you in the crowd. She winks.

You look away so fast you almost pull a muscle.

Wanda catches the whole thing. “Do not make me be the one to say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’re falling for her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“I can’t stand her.”

“You stood outside for three hours watching her throw a ball into a net.”

“It was for the halftime event.”

“You made the flyer.”

You have no comeback.

—

Then comes Friday.

Project submission day.

You meet in the library to print the final version. Natasha shows up with two drinks—your usual order and something new for you to try. You hate how thoughtful it is.

“So, we’re done,” you say, double-checking the pages.

“We are.”

“No more late-night messages.”

“No more weekly meetings.”

“No more walks home.”

She says nothing.

You look up. Her face is unreadable.

“We’ll go back to being classmates,” you offer, almost as a question.

She nods slowly. “Right. Classmates.”

Why does that feel like a loss?

Before you can say anything else, someone calls her name.

A girl you vaguely recognize—varsity, volleyball, always surrounded by people. She walks over, all smiles and confidence, and hands Natasha a note.

“From me,” she says, touching her arm.

You freeze.

Natasha takes it, unreadable again. “Thanks.”

The girl walks away, not even sparing you a glance.

You stare at the paper. Then at her. You’re not sure what expression you’re making, but Natasha blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Jealous?”

“What?! No!”

She leans in, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Relax, president. It’s just a love letter. Happens all the time.”

You bite your tongue. You’re not jealous. You’re not.

But you go home annoyed.

And when she doesn’t text you that night, you keep checking your phone anyway.

—

—

The next week is chaos.

Event week. Schedules, permissions, venue requests. You bury yourself in work. You avoid the gym wing. You skip the caf. You go out of your way to not see her.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Natasha doesn’t chase you. She doesn’t text. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t want her to. Except you do.

You hate her.

Except you don’t.

And then it’s Thursday.

You’re reviewing final logistics with your committee when the door opens.

Natasha walks in.

Everyone freezes.

You blink. “Can I help you?”

She walks up and hands you a folded paper.

“Coach needed this signed.”

You take it. “Okay.”

She doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you.”

You almost drop the pen.

Wanda chokes on her drink.

Natasha leaves before you can reply.

—

Later, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Because maybe you miss working with her too.

Maybe you were wrong about her. Maybe she’s not a complete walking red flag. Maybe she’s just... complicated. Rough around the edges. Mysterious in a way that makes you want to keep learning more.

Maybe you’re in trouble.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

—

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

Just a message. Just a moment. Just Natasha being… Natasha.

And yet, three days later, you're still re-reading that "i miss working with you" text like it’s a published poem.

It’s embarrassing.

Wanda calls you out during lunch. “You’re staring at your phone like it owes you tuition money.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, stabbing your salad with unnecessary force.

Yelena snorts. “She still hasn’t asked you out, huh?”

“I am not waiting for her to ask me out.”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Would you say yes?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe you would.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon.

Hard. Fast. The kind that floods the quad and knocks down your color-coded event posters. Not metaphorical, poetic rain. Actual, annoying, soak-your-socks rain. You’re standing under the broken awning outside the school gym, binder clutched to your chest, watching your hard work dissolve into paper mush.

You’re in the school grounds, fuming, clipboard soaked, when she finds you.

“Event prep not going well?” she asks, casually offering her umbrella.

You don’t take it.

She holds it over both of you anyway.

“I worked so hard on those signs,” you mutter. “And now they’re dead. Murdered. By the sky.”

Natasha looks at the puddles like she can beat them up for you. “Wanna make new ones?”

You blink at her. “Why would you help me?”

She shrugs. “Because I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You what?”

“I like helping you,” she clarifies, emphasis deliberate. “You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

You sputter. She smirks.

“Also, I brought snacks,” she adds, pulling a plastic bag out of her varsity jacket. “Thought you might forget lunch again.”

You hate how well she knows you. You hate how that makes your heart do a thing.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

She hands you a rice ball. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

You look up at her. Rain falling, your shoes soaked, everything a mess—and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Plan is… save the event. Rewrite everything. Get glitter glue. Hope for divine intervention.”

Natasha grins. “Finally. A mission worthy of my talents.”

—

That night, you work together again. Just like before.

But it’s not just like before.

Now there’s this thing between you. A current, a tension, an almost.

She sits closer. Laughs more easily. Steals your pen, your snacks, your attention.

You tell her to focus.

She tells you to loosen up.

And at one point—when your hand accidentally brushes hers and you both freeze for half a second too long—you think: this might actually be something.

—

By Friday, everyone notices.

Wanda keeps sending you suspicious side-eyes. Yelena openly teases Natasha in front of you. Even the teachers are acting weird, like they’re expecting a plot twist.

You try to ignore it.

But it’s hard when Natasha keeps finding excuses to be near you.

“Forgot my book. Oh look, we have the same one.”

“Need help carrying that? You clearly skipped arm day.”

“You busy later? I found this new café. They have your favorite coffee.”

It’s maddening. It’s sweet. It’s maddeningly sweet.

You are losing your mind.

—

Then comes the night before the event.

You’re in the auditorium, double-checking lights and stage cues. Natasha shows up, of course. She’s holding a flashlight in her mouth and balancing a roll of tape on her head.

“You’re not on the logistics team,” you tell her.

She drops the tape. “Nope. Just here for moral support. And also to see your cute boss voice again.”

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“You’re annoying,” you say.

“I know.”

A pause.

“You’re… kind of important to me,” you say suddenly. Quiet. Unexpected even to yourself.

Natasha looks up. Serious now. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Just… thought you should know.”

She crosses the stage, stops in front of you, eyes soft in the dim lighting.

“You’re important to me too,” she says. “And not just for school projects.”

Your heart flips. Or malfunctions. Or possibly explodes.

She leans in. You panic.

You shove a clipboard between you. “I-I still have to check the mic system!”

Natasha blinks. Then laughs. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Pres."

—

Later that night:

—

And then, the day of the event arrives.

Everything runs perfectly.

The crowd cheers. The booths look amazing. Your team is killing it.

And in the middle of it all—between speeches, music, and chaos—you feel her watching you.

She’s not trying to hide it.

You glance at her.

She grins.

You grin back.

—

The event ends with a bang. A literal bang.

Someone in the STEM booth miscalculates the chemical reaction for their demo volcano. You hear the fizz, you smell the vinegar, and then—

Boom.

Foam everywhere. It explodes so violently it hits half the hallway. Your shoes are soaked. Your socks are crying. Your bangs are sticking to your forehead. And right next to you, Natasha Romanoff looks like she just walked out of a shampoo commercial—except her face is covered in pink foam, and she’s wheezing.

“You’re laughing?! This is your fault—”

“How is it my fault that the Science Club can’t count?!”

“You egged them on!”

“I told them to go big or go home!” she says, wiping foam from her jaw. “They just… went nuclear.”

You glare. She grins. And then she reaches out—

Flick.

Right on the center of your forehead.

“Relax, Miss President. You look like a very angry bubble tea.”

“I swear, Romanoff—”

She brushes foam from your nose. “Still the cutest bubble tea on campus, though.”

You stare at her.

You forget how to speak.

You nearly combust on the spot.

—

Later that night, the chaos finally dies down. You’re still buzzing from the noise, the laughter, the adrenaline of pulling off an entire school event without anyone setting the curtains on fire (the foam doesn't count, okay). You sneak off behind the gym—because it’s quiet there, and because you know she’ll follow.

She does.

Varsity jacket slung over her shoulder. Tired eyes. Twisted smirk. That lazy, confident swagger like she didn’t just help you keep the student body from collapsing into absolute anarchy.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You look up from your clipboard. “You survived the foam-pocalypse.”

“Barely.”

She walks over, sees you shiver, and wordlessly drops her jacket onto your shoulders.

You go still.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She leans against the wall beside you. You're seated on the bench, curled under her jacket like a burrito. She watches you. Quiet. Soft.

“You did good today, Pres.”

You glance at her. “I had help.”

She shrugs. “I just followed orders.”

You roll your eyes. “You literally yelled at a sophomore to stop lighting incense indoors.”

“He was summoning good vibes.”

“He was summoning a fire hazard.”

She laughs. You bite your lip to hide your smile.

“…Can I tell you something?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.

You nod slowly.

She shifts. Leans down slightly, just enough that you can see the way her eyes flicker nervously before she brushes your hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek.

“I like you,” she says. “Not just for school. Not just for events. I like you, Y/N. Like, like-like you.”

Your heart stops. Your entire body goes still.

You stare.

Then—“Took you long enough.”

Natasha blinks. “Wait—what?”

You laugh—light and breathless. “You think I didn’t notice the forehead flicks? The snacks? The weirdly specific coffee orders? The way you walk me home and then pretend it’s not a big deal?”

Natasha looks faintly betrayed. “I was being subtle!”

“You’re literally six-foot-two and smirk at me like a YA love interest. Nothing about you is subtle.”

She gasps. “Are you comparing me to a Wattpad boy?”

“I shouldn’t, but yes.”

Natasha groans into her hands. “This is the worst confession ever—”

You reach up, grab her hands, and pull them down gently.

“I like you too, Delinquent.”

She goes silent.

Then she flicks your forehead again. “I knew it.”

“Ow?!”

“Deserved.”

You grab her collar before she can pull back and lean your forehead against hers, still giggling.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

You kiss her cheek. She actually short-circuits.

—

—

You barely sleep that night.

Too giddy. Too electrified. Too busy replaying every second of her smile, her laugh, the way she short-circuited when you kissed her cheek.

The group chat keeps blowing up—Wanda’s in full meltdown mode, Yelena’s already planning the wedding, and you… you’re floating.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your crush finally confessed.

The next day arrives fast. Loud. Demanding.

And before you know it—

The interschool basketball match begins.

You shouldn’t even be in the gym.

You’ve got student council paperwork spilling out of your arms, a working list of urgent tasks highlighted in pastel chaos, and three missed calls from your VP asking where the sign-up forms are. Your planner is a warzone, your phone is blowing up, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.

But you’re here.

Sitting beside Wanda, Yelena, and Kate in the front row of bleachers, legs crossed, hands clenched in your lap, trying very hard not to watch the court.

You tell yourself it’s just for school spirit. You're here to support the school. Support the team.

It’s not about her.

It’s never about her.

Except it’s absolutely about her.

Because Natasha Romanoff is on the court, and for the first time ever, she’s… off.

Her passes are sloppy. She misses two layups in a row. Her defense is late. Her rhythm? Gone. There’s a visible crack in her composure—she’s snapping at teammates, cursing under her breath, yanking at the hem of her jersey like she can pull herself together through sheer will.

“She’s spiraling,” Kate says quietly.

Yelena’s brows furrow. “She doesn’t play like this. Ever.”

“She looks—nervous?” Wanda says, watching closely. “She keeps glancing at the bleachers.”

You force yourself not to move.

Not to flinch.

Not to let the burn in your chest show.

Because she is glancing. Over and over again. Her eyes are scanning the stands, sharp and desperate, like she's looking for something—or someone—and not finding them. Each time she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her face hardens. Her jaw tightens.

“She’s looking for you,” Yelena murmurs, like she’s just realized.

You press your lips into a thin line.

“She thought you wouldn’t come,” Wanda whispers.

And for a moment, you almost don’t.

But then—

Then she misses another shot. The crowd groans. She slaps her hands against her thighs, furious.

And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“God,” you mutter, already standing, “if I get suspended for this—”

You cup your hands around your mouth and yell across the court before your brain can catch up.

“ROMANOFF! PLAY LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

The whole gym stops.

Like, actually stops.

Every head turns. The air shifts. Even the referee pauses.

And Natasha?

She freezes.

Her eyes snap to you instantly—like she’d been waiting for that voice all game.

And when she finds you?

Her whole expression changes. Like she can breathe again.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A breathless laugh escapes her. Her shoulders roll back. Then—

She moves.

Sharp. Precise. Lethal.

The Natasha everyone knows is back.

She steals the ball from the opposing point guard like it’s nothing, darts down the court, and scores with a clean, perfect shot that wipes out the tension from the past ten minutes.

From that moment on, the game shifts. Momentum tilts.

Natasha becomes unstoppable.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer sounds—Natasha’s team winning by two points. The crowd explodes into cheers.

You clap automatically. Just once. Then grab your things, ready to disappear before anyone processes what just happened—

But she doesn’t go to her team.

She doesn’t wait for the trophy, or the coach’s speech, or the photos.

She runs.

Straight. To. You.

Through her teammates, through the crowd, ignoring her coach yelling her name and the players trying to high-five her.

You blink as she stops in front of you—sweaty, panting, eyes burning with something so raw it makes your chest ache.

“Hi,” she breathes, like the world’s been holding its breath without you.

You stare. “Hi?”

“You came,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I thought—” she shakes her head, words failing. “You weren’t there. I looked and you weren’t—”

“I was late,” you admit softly. “I had council stuff—”

“I thought I ruined everything,” she whispers.

You frown. “Romanoff—”

“I couldn’t see you,” she continues, like it’s been sitting in her throat the whole game. “I kept looking and you weren’t—God, I thought I lost you.”

You blink fast, something thick in your throat. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, not a tease this time. Just desperate. Just honest. “I—I need to know this is real.”

Your heart is pounding.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You can.”

She kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the gym. In front of literally everyone.

It’s messy. Breathless. Charged with too much feeling and not enough time. Her hands slide into your hair, holding on like she’s still scared you’ll vanish.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Wanda screams. Kate chokes. Yelena straight-up punches the air.

And when Natasha finally pulls back, she leans her forehead against yours and breathes, “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, dazed.

“Disappear,” she says. “Make me play like a rookie. Make me lose my mind.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were that bad?”

She scoffs. “I nearly fouled out looking for you.”

You try to look smug. “Guess you need me around, huh?”

Natasha leans in, brushing her nose against yours.

“Guess I do, President.”

The crowd is still roaring. Someone’s taking photos. The coach is yelling in the distance.

But all you feel is her.

And for the first time in weeks, everything finally makes sense again.

You sigh, dramatic and hopeless. “I’m so doomed.”

She kisses you again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” she murmurs against your lips. “But at least now you’re doomed with me.”

—

The next morning, Natasha walks up to you in the middle of the hallway.

She’s in her varsity jacket.

You’re in her hoodie from last night.

Everyone sees.

She stops in front of you. Smirks.

You squint. “Why do you look like you’re about to say something embarrassing?”

“Because I am.” She flicks your forehead again. “Hi, baby.”

Your entire soul leaves your body.

Wanda SCREAMS from across the hallway.

Yelena fist-pumps.

Natasha leans in, lips near your ear.

“Now everyone knows you’re mine, Pres.”

You elbow her. Lightly.

She catches your hand.

Doesn’t let go.

Then threads her fingers through yours like it’s always been that easy.

And maybe it is.

Because from the way your heart leaps, the way her thumb brushes yours—

You realize you’ve been hers all along.

[jadegrey711]

Please I love your Wally smut

What about like giving Wally head for the first time as he watched you already before you died

And either a first time blow job or Wally fingering you for the first time (ifykyk) whatever you feel like writing moreee

Thank you for the compliment Dear Anon. Enjoy.

If you like my stories you can check out my sideblog @jadegreywriting​ to see all of them and my masterlist without filtering through my main blog.

Not my gif

I own all rights to this story and do not give permission for my stories to be published, translated or reposted anywhere else. The only places I have published my stories is here on Tumblr and on my AO3 account (LadyAuthor711)

This story is for 18+ ONLY. It contains sexual themes that are not suited for younger audiences so if you’re under 18 my blog and this story is not for you. Please make sure to read at your own discretion and remember that you are solely responsible for your content intake.

Wally had watched you for the longest time. He'd love watching your meets as you would dive gracefully into the pool. As an athlete himself he was in awe of how fast you were once you hit the water. He didn't know if the Olympics were your dream but he knew you could make it if you wanted too. But that wasn't in the cards for you, instead it was a drunk driver, who pulled out of the school too fast and didn't see you as you were walking out to your car after a game.

You couldn't understand what was happening as you watched the ambulance pull away from the school, kids huddled together and crying.

Wally watched as you tried to get anyones attention. But no one could hear or see you. He was nervous as he first approached you, putting his hands up like you were a wild animal and he was trying to keep you calm.

At first you were relieved someone was talking to you, but then he broke the news. You had been hit and you were already dead when the ambulance pulled away from the school.

You were in denial for a long while, and Wally watched as you would just sit on the curb for hours, watching as everyone pulled away from the parking lot. Watching as the flowers that were laid down on your school parking spot, slowly rotted and blew away.

Wally would spend those days, sitting right next to you, and he waited. Waited until you were ready to talk, and when you finally did, you felt the damn break loose. You told Wally everything you were feeling, how sad you were, how angry you were at how unfair this all was. You told him about your life that he didn't get to see outside of school. How much you loved to read, how going to the lake every summer felt like a recharge for the rest of the year, when you first knew you loved swimming.

And in kind Wally told you about his life, what kind of music he listened to, how he wanted to travel when he got out of highschool and that he wasn't a big reader when he was alive; which made you chuckle.

After that day, you and Wally felt inseparable, being with him felt like the sun. Warm and comforting, he always made you laugh and you did the same to him; surprising him with how funny you were, he didn't know that about you.

You still like going to Group; Mr. Martin was a bit creepy and you always had issues with authority figures. But Wally liked coming to the group so you sat there and participated here and there. You never shared anything personal with the group, well anything that was real. You saved that for your time with Wally.

Which often felt like this one, where you would go into the pool and do laps, or float on the surface of the water, while Wally watched on the edge of the pool. He loved watching you do flip turns, amazed at how fast you were, how fast you could cut through the water.

You came up from under the water and smiled at Wally, who was floating in the pool next to you, watching as you would flip and do handstands in the shallow end of the water. When you came up again, you saw Wally had made his way over to the steps of the pool, he sat there and watched you. His smile was contagious as he watched you.

"What are you looking at, Clark?" You asked, flicking water towards him.

"I think it's some kind of pool nymph." He teased.

"A pool nymph?" You chuckled.

"Yeah, and she's mesmerizing."

"Mesmerizing huh?" You asked, as you swam closer to him.

"Oh yeah. Just one of the many adjectives I'd use to describe her."

"Oh? And what are these other adjectives that you'd use? I know you're not a big reader, so this will be fun to see how many you actually know."

"Hey! I think my vocabulary has increased immensely since I met you."

"Thank goodness for that! I don't think I could handle you saying "Rad" for the rest of eternity."

"As if, "Cool beans" is any better!" He huffed before flicking his fingers in the water, splashing you in the face. 

"Hey!" You scowled, grabbing his bare thighs and bringing your face close to his, but stopped inches in front of his face.

Wally tilted his head, his brown eyes holding yours. "Hey what?" He smiled. His eyes moved to your lips.

"I-" You stuttered, feeling your cheeks heat as you remembered where your hands were. “I don’t actually remember what I was going to say.” You chuckled, before leaning in and gave Wally a quick kiss on the lips, intending to give him a quick kiss and then swim away. But Wally had other ideas on the matter, before you could turn your body away he grabbed your hips and placed you so you were sitting on his lap. His large hands wrapped themselves around your waist bringing you back in for another kiss. 

“I wasn’t done telling you about the beautiful pool nymph I saw.” He smiled against your lips.

This wasn’t the first time you and Wally kissed, not by a long shot, there were so many times where the two of you would sneak off when Wally was supposed to be in Group, kissing in the locker room. Sometimes you two would get really hot and heavy, but before anything could happen there was always something that had you two breaking apart. Whether it was Charley or Rhonda catching you two in the heat of the moment or someone else barging in, sometimes it was really hard to get a moment alone with your hot boyfriend in your own afterlife. 

But, you had a feeling that this time would be different. 

You let out a small little moan as you felt Wally’s tongue dance with yours. His large hands roaming down to your backside and giving you a little squeeze. You pulled away from the kiss, earning a groan from Wally. “You didn’t finish describing this pool nymph to me.” You grinned. 

“Well I told you that she was mesmerizing and beautiful. I would dare say graceful as well.” 

“Graceful huh?” You smiled leaning in to brush a kiss to the edge of Wally’s soft lips, before pressing another one to his jawline earning a low moan from him. You made sure to pocket that reaction for that spot in particular for later. 

“Y-Yeah graceful.”

“What else Wally?” You teased, sucking on that spot at his jawline, before moving down to his neck, placing a soft kiss to his carotid, before sucking on the spot where his pulse point would be. You chuckled as you heard Wally stutter, losing his words and losing them fast as you sucked and kissed your way down his neck. 

“Breathtaking.” He moaned out.

As you kissed Wally, making sure to pay attention to the other side of his neck like you did the first, you could feel him grow hard underneath you. “What else Wally?”

“Baby. Please.” 

“Please what Wally?”

“Stop torturing me.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just listening to all the ways that you’re describing this beautiful pool nymph.” you mumbled against his skin, taking your tongue and dipping it into his collarbone, before taking that golden chain necklace into your mouth and sucking on the pendant there. 

You looked up at Wally’s face and smiled. He looked so tense, his hands were gripping noticeably harder on your ass as he looked down at you. 

“Unless you want me to stop?” You asked, placing a quick kiss to the center of his chest. “Do you want me to stop Wally?” You asked and placed another kiss on his chest. 

“No.” He ground out. 

You gave him a wolfish smile. “I didn’t think so.” You purred, leaning your head back down so you can trace your tongue around his nipples. Wally leaned back, letting out a low groan. 

“You’re so sweet to me Wally.” You said softly against his skin as you traced your tongue down his stomach, and dipped in his belly button, earning another deep moan from Wally. You looked back up to him, your body now on the step just below him, your hands poised on top of the waistband of his boxers. “Can I be sweet to you?” You asked him innocently. 

Wally’s eyes went wide. “Baby.” He said his voice came out breathy before he let out a small cough to clear his throat. “Baby, are you sure?” He asked his hand coming out to brush a small piece of hair out of your face. 

“Yes Wally. I want to do this for you.” 

Wally let out a breath that seemed to be a mix of desperation and relief. His hands were reaching for the waistband of his boxers and you took that as your sign that he wanted this as bad as you did. You helped him pull his boxers off and let them float off in the pool, before leaning back down to Wally. Running your tongue down the soft “V” on each side of his hips, earning a low whimper from Wally. 

You looked up at Wally, as you ran your hands up and down his thighs, while taking in how hard he was for you and you smiled up at him. “All this for me?” you teased. 

“Yeah baby.” He said breathily. “Only for you.” 

You were in control in this situation but you grew wet at Wally’s words, surprising yourself at how just those simple words of admiration had you growing slick in between your legs. “Only for me huh?” You said reaching for him, giving his cock a slow pump with your hand, earning a stuttering lift of Wally’s hips for you. 

You smirked, biting your lip. “So sensitive.” Leaning down to run your tongue around the head of his cock. Wally let out a low moan, as you took him deeper into your mouth letting your tongue trace around the head of his cock, and relaxing as he slid deeper for a moment before having your hand join the efforts of your mouth. 

“I love it when you make those little moans, Wally.” You whispered, before continuing to pump his cock with your hand as you took him back into your mouth. 

You didn’t have a lot of experience doing this, but you were an avid reader and Wally seemed to love it when your tongue did this particular motion. You smiled to yourself as you felt Wally’s hands find their way into your wet hair, gathering the wet strands in a messy clump and fisting it in his hand. You felt Wally’s hips jerk every now and again as he fought the urge to pump his hips and thrust his cock deeper into your hot little mouth. 

You hummed in satisfaction against his cock, and that seemed to have Wally taking a ragged breath. 

“Baby.” He breathed. “I’m really trying here.” 

You hummed again, the vibrations seeming to send Wally closer to the edge. You popped your mouth off of his cock and looked up at him, taking in the tensed way he pulled his eyebrows together and how he bit down on his bottom lip, making it a darker pink. 

“Trying to do what?” You asked innocently, as you rested your head against his strong thigh, your hand still pumping his cock. 

“Trying to not, fuck your mouth.” He breathed out. “I know you haven’t really done this before and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You hummed again, he really was the sweetest boy you’d ever met. You’d never thought you actually like sucking dick, but with Wally, as he whined and moaned above you, letting you bring him closer and closer to orgasm. You didn’t think you could actually get enough of this, of him being this vulnerable for you, you felt drunk off of the way his puppy eyes looked down at you, awestruck. 

“Wally.” You said breathily. “I have your cock in my mouth and I am so fucking wet for you right now. And if I’m uncomfortable, I’ll just give you a little nip.” You chuckled and leaned back down and licked up the shaft of his cock before taking his head back into your mouth. 

His hands, delved deeper into your hair, and his hold felt a little tighter, as he bucked his hips to your mouth still holding back, but not as much as he was before. 

“Oh baby.” He moaned. “God you look so pretty like this. Your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. I wish I could take a picture of you right now.” 

You moaned, at his words, feeling yourself grow wetter between your legs, and started to pump him faster, your mouth and hand working in time together to bring Wally closer to release. 

“God damn it, baby.” Wally groaned, his hips increasing their speed, just enough that you started to feel water in your eyes, but you didn’t want to stop not when Wally was so close. 

“Fuck, baby. I’m not going to last much longer if you keep that up.” 

That was your cue, you squeezed Wally’s cock harder with your hand before sucking him down again and felt him come inside your mouth. You pulled away, unable to fully swallow Wally’s release, and continued to pump him through his orgasm. You watched his hips shake as he finished coming, Wally’s moans were audible enough for anyone who was walking past the double doors of the indoor pool could definitely hear him. 

You dropped your hand away from him and looked up at the totally ruined expression on Wally’s face. His hair that was usually so well kept, was sticking up in places he ran his hands through and some of it still stuck to his forehead from when he was swimming with you. 

“Such a good and sweet boy.” You smiled, pulling yourself up by his thighs and giving him a kiss. Wally seemed to preen at the compliment and deepened the kiss; tasting himself on your lips, earning a low satisfied moan from the both of you. 

[billiewena]

THREE YEARS SINCE NOV 5TH, 2020 as summed up by Supernatural (sequel to this and this)

image ID & context below:

[image ID: screenshots of Supernatural paired with screenshots of various tweets, news headlines and Tumblr posts.

A screenshot of Ed and Harry in SPN 3x13 Ghostfacers saying "You gotta be gay for that poor dead intern" with a screenshot of Misha Collins at the SPNNJ 2023 convention saying "I got a call from Warner Bros and they were like hey uh...is there any world you just let it go?" This is in reference to an incident in 2022 where Misha accidentally made headlines after a comment that seemed to be referring to his sexuality. His comments at this year's panel imply that the studio in fact did not want him to retract the comment and make the apology that he posted, but to instead just roll with it.

A screenshot of Bobby saying "Time travel?" and Dean saying "Yeah" in SPN 6x18 with a headline that says "Jensen Ackles' Explains The Winchester's Multiverse Twist & Supernatural Connection." This is about the series finale of Jensen's Supernatural spinoff "The Winchesters", in which it is revealed Dean and the Impala somehow traveled the multiverse to the alternate timeline the show takes place in.

A screenshot of Dean in SPN 15x08 saying "He's back, and he's out of control" with a screenshot of Misha Collin's first Tumblr post in seven years, a video with him and his brother being a public nuisance on public transportation. Also included are screenshots of various Tumblr users reacting with tags from various tumblr users. becauseofthebowties: "mishacollinsofficial tumblr account back from the dead???" myboobsarentsentientbeings: "this is the first thing he posts? after nearly 7 years???" casismybestfriend: "RED FUCKING ALERT MISHA IS BACK ON TUMBLR" cannabiscasgate: "who the fuck gave you back your password"

A screenshot of two news anchors in SPN 14x20, with one (named Jack) telling his co-host "I love you" and her replying "Jack?" with screenshots of the Destiel/Supernatural Confession meme trending multiple times this year with other current events topics like Russia, Titanic, etc. There is also a screenshot of a post by saintedcastiel that says "I cannot believe that since we started using the destiel meme as a breaking news alert that there hasn't been ONE destiel news anchor AU fic where they're co-anchors on the morning news. cas confessed on accident while they're on air and dean doesn't know how to respond so he just reads the next thing on the teleprompter."

A screenshot of Dean in SPN 5x14 as Cupid says "I-I was just following orders" with a screenshot of an anonymous Tumblr ask to user luxshine. The ask says "Hey! I was wondering if you have any updates on the LATAM dub situation and if you were/will able to contact the dub director". luxshine says "Hi! Well I could get the translator (you know, our dear rogue translator) and he told me that while he doesn't remember it completely (because he translates a lot of series) if Dean said "And I you" it's because the script he got said "And" I you" and the video he saw said "And I you" because he doesn't add stuff." This is in reference to a change in Spanish LATAM dub of Castiel's confession SPN 15x18, which added a line where Dean reciprocates, which was previously suspected to be a change added by the LATAM dubbing director or translator

A screenshot of a detective from SPN 8x08 saying, "[Chuckles] Whatever you say Scully" with a screenshot of the tumble blr blog ao3topshipsbracket's poll "AO3 Top Relationships Bracket - Round 2 Side 1" with Fox Mulder/Dana Scully (The X-Files) vs. Castiel/Dean Winchester (Supernatural.) In the final results from 51,514 votes, Mulder/Scully won by 53% and Castiel/Dean won by 47%. In early 2023, Tumblr added a polls feature which has led to numerous content, debates, and bracket polls similar to this.

A screenshot from SPN 11x15 where Dean says "No money, no glory" with a headline that says "Supernatural creator Eric Kripke gets 'zero' residuals from Netflix"

A screenshot of Dean rising from his grave in SPN 4x01 with a screenshot of a post from the official CW Supernatural Instagram with a clip from the pilot episode and the caption "And the story continues..." and a comment from a user that says "THE STORY CONTINUES?? WTF ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL US?? I HAVE ANXIETY YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME." For context, no one is sure if the post was supposed to reference new content from Supernatural or not but it has led to speculation.

A screenshot of SPN 8x01, with the onscreen lyric "Another year has passed me by."

[gilverrwrites]

for some reason, I've been thinking on the aftercare of some of the guys.

like with roman, I feel like aftercare fully depends on your relationship with him. a difference between a sugar baby and a partner, y'know?

but with dick—dick, in my opinion, KING of aftercare, you know he would treat you right. and bruce, bruce absolutely would.

it's where roy, jason, tim I'm a little stumped on. cause I feel like, I know they would be good with aftercare. I'm just trying to think of what they would do. thoughts?

I feel like w so many nsfw stuff, I was thinking about the potential fluff afterwards.

🩷

I rarely use this blog to educate unless asked (you’re always free to ask me anything), but I feel a need to remind people that aftercare, just like any other stage of sex, is something that is different for all couples. No two people are the same and you should be discussing with your partners what you want/need/expect to feel loved and cared for in the same way you would discuss kinks and what not.

Tim specifically is a talk it out kind of guy. Like, not before you started sleeping together, but in the aftermath of your first tryst he lay beside you, panting, enjoying the afterglow for a few minutes until he asks “What now?”

Without guidance he airs on caution. He’ll clean you up, offer to fetch you food and drink, you can use his shower, or borrow his clothes. He’ll want to check on any potential abrasions (biting, spanking etc), and instead of asking you if want to be held he’ll just sort of lounge beside you with his arms open, like an open invitation.

He's dutiful, so ultimately whatever you ask him for he will provide, and he's very open about telling you what he expects in return.

Until you’ve talked about it, and I mean ‘you can trust me, I wont judge, I want you to be comfortable, you deserve to be looked after too’-talked, Jason is the one that needs to be nudged into aftercare. He doesn’t want to force anything on you, he doesn’t know how to talk about it anyway, and he really doesn’t want to seem needy by asking you to look after him. So, he just sort of lingers.

“You ok? Yeah? Good, good. Me? Yeah, I’m fine. No, I don’t need anything. Cool. Stay? No, yeah, I can stay if you want me too.”

He’ll let you cuddle up to him, he’ll watch your shows or read your book with you, but he’s like a deer, if you acknowledge him, he’ll run.

At least until he’s comfortable with you, until you've done the talking and have created a mutually trusting relationship. Until he’s in love with you. Then he’s got you and your aftercare needs committed to memory, move over Dick, there’s a new king in town.

Roy's ideal aftercare is more quality time than anything. He likes to know that you want to be around him, that it’s not just sex, but his own mind wanders. Roy likes to be tucked up, cuddled in bed with you while you’re both doing your own thing, scrolling your phones, reading, gaming, whatever.

However, if you need something more attentive, if you need to talk, or be pampered etc he’ll make every effort to account for that, just be prepared to have to remind him every now and again. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he's just easily distracted.

[itsquakey]

After a long while of reuploading posts and not really being online a whole lot I finally can kinda come forward with a few things and new art-think of this as kind of a reboot after a pretty long "break".

First of all, thanks for 3,500 followers! Originally this new art was for 3,000 (nearing 3,500) followers, but while I was working on it I zoomed past 3,500. So thank you all for your support and art for 4,000 followers will happen if I reach such a goal in the future.

I wanted to compile all my follower celebration art together for this-and the newest art is based off my heavy usage of pencil brushes for my current college semester (So no, this style won't come back unless I want to use it as color/shading for my actual style which has evolved a tad but stayed the same overall).

And now that that's over an explanation for all the hectic stuff that has happened and why this blog did what it did below since I feel an explanation is owed, as well as what will occur in the future:

I believe around the very start of 2024, the whole AI fiasco happened within Tumblr, which was also in-between the realization that my childhood was not normal and instead something I don't wish upon anyone plus me finally getting a schizoaffecitve disorder diagnosis. So all these things kinda coming together was the nail in the coffin and I overreacted by scrubbing my tumblr of everything, originally not wanting to repost and instead move stuff to other more safer sites. But instead I chose to use AI poisoning materials to bring my art back at the unfortunate price of the art quality. If I was in a better headspace I would have left the art as it was and maybe just took an extended break. So I apologize for all the wait and craziness.

Now I'm aware there's still a lot of old art that has not been reposted, and they will not be or they are being saved for reposting next year for specific dates. If there is art that has not been reposted you would like to have reposted, please leave an ask in my askbox and I will respond to the ask with the art in question.

What will be in store for the future? I have about a year and a half of college left, meaning this account has a year and a half of being the main focus of me account-wise. There are many projects that need finished, including Birth of a Wish, Revenge of Pike Knight, and multiple other comics that are wips sitting in my procreate app. These comics will be worked on over the time left, as well as a second (for fun) AU in the process of being made and whatever else fanart I wish to make, Kirby or otherwise. These piece will NOT be posted on a real schedule, I will upload them when they are ready. This blog is and was for fun and so I will not force myself to crunch. The only part of it I will have a schedule for is commissions for obvious reasons.

While I will try and interact with the fandom, I do not have the time I used to. I however am still friendly to approach for conversation, advice, and to ask me to be involved in art collabs like the anniversary art collab I was in this year.

That being said, I will also dabble in original concepts in my other blog, including ocs that were seen before like Malifer (now renamed as Nobody) and a comic series in the process of slowly being produced.

That is all for now, see ya!

Itsquakey/Chickenhoops.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 11: Westchester]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/hospital stuff, a Targ family gathering!

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

In the darkness of your nightscape bedroom—plumes of neon and incandescence floating beyond the window like man-made stars—you read Becca’s Instagram posts and blog entries about how brave Aegon has been in the wake of his diagnosis, and between the lines of course is her courage too: the caretaker, the self-sacrificial curator, the saintly hands his demise has been entrusted into, his long slow disintegration until only the bones are left, no memories, no dreams, no future and no past.

The last weeks of August float away like a balloon, carried high and quick into a sky that is dizzyingly hot and so bright it stings the eyes. On sidewalks, you hide under the shade of palm trees. On lunch dates with Chloe—running lines, trying perplexing new foods like escargot and sea urchin, giggling over celebrity gossip—you ask for tables inside or under the refuge of patio umbrellas. Each night in your apartment that Aegon now pays your half of the rent for, religiously deposited in your bank account by Brandon at a least one full week before it’s due, you lie in the bathtub reading the movie script or books on the Gilded Age until the water turns lukewarm and steam glistens on your skin; and into these infinitesimal black-ink worlds you disappear, a new name, a distant time, a different man who has stitched himself to you with dissolving threads.

Now you are in Chinatown with Aegon, and the ember-colored oscars are murderous and darting back and forth as he skims his fingers across the top of the tank, and you have devoured your moo goo gai pan but Aegon has barely touched his boneless spare ribs. His is listless and distracted. Strands of sandy blonde hair are falling out of their gel to rest across his forehead. There are dark shadows like smudges of ash under his eyes. Your own eyes are adorned with shimmering dusty rose powder to match your sundress, three shades blended together, all by Urban Decay: Liar, Stolen, Right Time.

“I really think you should see a doctor,” you tell Aegon, not for the first time.

“I might,” he says absently, still tormenting the oscars.

“It can only help at this point. They could confirm the diagnosis and get you on a treatment plan. I’ve been researching it and there are drugs that suppress tremors, and physical therapy, and antidepressants...and oh, these things called ‘dopamine agonists’ that are good for motor functions...and they even have Huntington’s support groups!”

Aegon sighs.

“If you make an appointment, I’ll go with you,” you say. “Any day, any time, I don’t care, I’ll go. I’ll reschedule whatever else I have on my calendar.” Workouts with your personal trainer, meetings with your dialect coach, calls with Dusty or Santi or anyone else from the film, outings with Chloe, a life that is growing abundant and bright like a full moon.

“Maybe.” Then Aegon studies his Chinese zodiac calendar, an attempt to change the subject. And you’ll let him; you don’t want to spend the time you have left arguing. “What year were you born?” he asks, as if you’ve never had this conversation before. “Which animals is yours?”

And instead of being offended, frustrated, startled, you just force a smile and hold up your hands in the shape of claws. “I’m a dragon, Aegon.”

He leans in close to read the description: You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Then he laughs. “Oh yeah, of course you are. Sounds just like you.”

“And you’re a horse.”

“Do you like horses?”

“I like one,” you say, and Aegon grins and offers you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs, dripping viscous red sauce like bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, August 30th, and the wedding is exactly one week away. The Targaryens are throwing a bon voyage party for Aegon at their Malibu beach house, something planned a month in advance, although it has a certain somberness to it now. Alicent keeps dabbing at her large dark eyes with a green handkerchief, collecting herself, crumpling into tears again. Guests are murmuring gravely about their vague, archaic memories of Viserys: Saw him in a wheelchair a few times...then he just disappeared...never really asked...a Hollywood legend like that...wanted to respect his privacy...such a lovely family...how awful they’re going through this all over again.

Aegon has dispatched Becca to ready the new house in Houston, a project that she is posting about on Instagram with great frequency and euphoric triumph; she has been given a vital task. If she suspects his true motivations for wanting her two time zones and 1,500 miles away, she gives no indications of it. In Becca’s absence—and much to your own surprise—you are Aegon’s plus one on this hot, golden afternoon as salt-smelling wind blows in off the Pacific Ocean and children splash in the pool.

As your floral yellow sundress billows and the breeze tangles your hair, you smile and chat with the series of guests that Aegon introduces you to, distant relatives, industry people, the new agent he keeps trying to offload you onto, a bookish young woman named Kristen who is perfectly polite and surely very knowledgeable and yet not the one you want. Kristen didn’t agree to sign you when no one else would. Kristen didn’t put her knuckles into the wall of a Beverly Hills mansion for you.

Several of the party guests recognize you from the Maroon 5 music video and congratulate you on your starring role in your upcoming indie movie, which has just been publicly announced. Each time the conversation drifts towards Aegon—his misfortunate diagnosis, his exodus to Texas—he steers it back to you. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, of course, or his situation, or the fate that awaits him in Houston, and that’s part of it; but he’s also proud of you. He’s taking full advantage of one of his last chances to advocate for you. He’s going down swinging.

Now Aegon is eating hors d’oeuvres with his other recent clients, Steve, Fatima, and Angus, all of whom have found new agents with Aegon’s assistance, and you are sitting on the ledge of the swimming pool with the hem of your dress tucked under your thighs and your legs submerged to the knees. Helaena has children, which isn’t something Aegon ever mentioned before; there are four of them, wreaking havoc in the pool as they play volleyball with their friends, hurling a beach ball back and forth over a miniature net. You are keeping score for them and serving as the cheerleader, which is much preferrable to making small talk with self-important industry executives or listening to people sigh over how selfless Becca is for assuming this burden.

Aemond wanders over to you, dressed in his version of casual: a full suit, but beige instead of black or navy. He doesn’t say anything. He observes the kids playing for a while, though you have the sense he isn’t really seeing them. You peek covertly at the scar that cuts down the left side of his grim face, and you remember what Aegon told you about Viserys: He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye.

“You’ll watch out for him, right?” you say anxiously to Aemond. “Even when he’s in Texas?”

He gives you an impatient look, like you’re stupid for asking. “I’ll always make sure he’s taken care of. There’s nowhere he could run that would be far enough to keep me away.”

You are relieved. “Good.” You glance over at Aegon to check on him; he is still mingling with his former clients, and he seems happy. Then you find Alicent in the crowd. She is ever-encircled by Helaena and Daeron, who appear to be trying to distract her. The beach house is besieged by blue balloons. A DJ is playing artists that you recognize from Aegon’s extensive Spotify playlist: Alanis Morissette, Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I really wish he’d see a doctor,” Aemond says after a while, his voice low to be discrete. “We have great specialists here at Cedars-Sinai.”

“He has an appointment on Wednesday morning. I finally got him to make one.”

Aemond stares down at you, mystified, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m a client.”

“Yes, I know that,” Aemond says; again, like you might be a little slow. “Why do you always know what he’s up to? Why does he care what you think? He doesn’t care what anybody thinks.”

You aren’t sure how to answer. You avoid the question by lobbing away the beach ball when a child’s spike sends it hurtling at you.

“He talks about you a lot,” Aemond says. “He insists that you’re a good actress. He asks me to help you. And then he forgets that he asked, and he asks again.”

“I don’t know why he cares what I think.”

“Sure you don’t.” Aemond’s brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed: one real, one eternally unseeing. “Are you going with him on Wednesday?”

“I am,” you admit.

“Give me your phone.”

You comply immediately, digging it out of your floral Patricia Nash purse. Aemond Targaryen is not an easy man to refuse. He types something quickly as he stands beside the pool. One of the children giggles as they swim up to the edge and splash him with chlorinated water, wetting his beige suit and brown leather Gucci shoes. Aemond sighs irritably.

“I put myself in as a contact,” Aemond says when he returns your phone. “After his appointment, call me and tell me everything the doctor said.”

“Okay.” Aegon probably wouldn’t approve of that, but it’s good for him.

Then Aemond does something unexpected. He reaches out to you, and for a second you instinctively flinch away, but his hand is gentle; Aemond’s palm settles on the back of your neck, and you blink up at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry you’re losing him too,” Aemond says, soft and strangely tender. Then he swipes something off his right cheek and leaves, weaving through the crowd to join his mother, who is pretending to fret over a rapidly melting ice sculpture—a Texas Longhorn—so she won’t have to think about Aegon instead.

A child is tugging at you, grappling for your hand with slippery, dripping fingers and then trying to drag you into the pool. “Come swimming!” a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is crowing with a missing-baby-teeth grin. “We’re going to play Marco Polo. You can be the person who shouts Marco! and tries to find us.”

You laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit. I didn’t know this was a pool party.” Aegon neglected to mention that part.

“Please?” she begs, and now the other children are joining in, a chorus of reckless encouragement. You have the impression they aren’t often able to cajole the adults into playing with them. And the little girl looks so much like Aegon—same eyes, same hair—that you find yourself thinking: When he’s gone, will there really be nothing left of him? Is that possible?

“Alright, I’m coming in!” you announce, and the kids cheer. You shove your purse far enough away from the pool that your phone should be safe, and then you slide off the ledge and into the water: brisk blue currents that thrash as the children flee away from you, giggling as they hug the curved cement corners, poised to bolt again if you venture towards them.

“Now close your eyes,” the little girl demands, and you cover them with your palms. You feel her shoving you and it takes you a few seconds to realize what she wants: for you to spin around. You do this as quickly as you can until you are completely disoriented, stumbling, blind, laughing as you reach out with your eyes squeezed shut, your yellow sundress flowing around you in the cool water like the fanlike fins of a koi fish.

“Marco,” you say.

“Polo!” the children yell, and then squeal as you lunge for them. Waves swell through the pool, water droplets from their kicking feet spray across your face. There’s sun on your bare shoulders as your legs traverse the rough concrete floor in slow motion, your steps heavy and silent. You can hear adults muttering in scandalized disapproval: Who is that? What’s wrong with her?

“Marco?” you call out again.

“Polo!” a gaggle of children hurl back, too many; the voices seem to come from everywhere. You can’t pinpoint a direction, so you choose one at random and dive.

“Marco!” you shout, then yelp as you bump into the side of the pool and stun yourself.

Someone grabs your outstretched hands. “Polo,” Aegon says, and you open your eyes to see him kneeling at the edge of the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, but he’s smiling; he helps you scramble back up onto the ledge of the pool.

“They wanted me to play with them.”

“You could have said no.”

“I can never say no to kids. They walk all over me.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Though it doesn’t sound so much like a criticism when Aegon says it. He sits down beside you on the ledge of the pool and lets his legs dangle in the water; he has kicked off his flip-flops to rest haphazardly beside your tan wedges. He is wearing white cargo shorts and a powder blue short-sleeve Oxford that is at least a size too big for him. He’s losing weight, you think, forlorn. He’s disappearing.

Helaena arrives with a towel—very thick and soft, doubtlessly expensive—and gives it to you. She is one of the few party guests who do not seem horrified by your antics; instead, she titters and tells the children not to entrap you again, that you’ll play with them later. They resume their game of Marco Polo with a new blind explorer. As you wrap the towel around your shoulders, Aegon takes a corner and uses it to dry your face. Then he gazes out over the patio towards the Pacific Ocean, ignoring the children. He never really interacts with kids, you’ve noticed; even when he watches them with a transfixed sort of wonder, he keeps an expanse of space between them like an alcoholic trying to stay away from the drink.

“You could have done IVF,” you say, and Aegon looks at you, eyebrows raised, a how did you know what I was thinking? sort of expression. “They can screen the embryos for chromosomal defects and only implant the ones that are healthy. So you’d know the baby wouldn’t have Huntington’s.”

Aegon shrugs, kicking his feet beneath the rippling crystalline line of the water. “I think that takes a lot of trust, you know?”

You aren’t sure what he means. “To do IVF?”

“To leave a kid with someone,” he clarifies. “If I’m going to be out of the picture in a few years, I’d have to feel really confident that the mother would be the kind of person I’d trust to raise the child the right way. Not use them as a prop or something. Not raise them to be fucked up like I am.” Or like Becca is, he leaves unsaid.

And although it is ludicrous and forbidden and impossible, instantly you are doing math in your head: I’ll be done filming by winter, we could start trying in the spring. You always envisioned doing it the other way around, chasing dreams in your twenties, settling down in your thirties, but if Aegon doesn’t have much time left...

You turn to him, searching. But Aegon is in his own world, oblivious to your uninvited machinations. Of course he wouldn’t expect any discussions of the two of you staying together. You’ve already offered. He’s already declined. Now the song on the stereo is Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me, and Aegon’s oceanic blue eyes begin to glisten. Everyone is crying today, you think.

“This was your dad’s favorite song,” you say gently.

Aegon nods. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

He chuckles bleakly. “Fuck, I don’t even remember.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of one hand, and you wish you could touch him; but everyone at this party knows he’s getting married in a week, and to a woman who definitely isn’t you. “When I was really young, my dad was always telling us: You are Targaryens. You have to be extraordinary. You have to be extraordinary. And to me, that meant inhuman, or unnatural, or something else that I would always be incapable of. What about the real people? What about all the people like me, we were just supposed to vanish into cubicles somewhere, or hate ourselves enough to change our bodies, our faces, our souls? No, I couldn’t stomach that. Then my dad got sick, and for the first time he tried to understand us, and we had a few good years. Then he was gone again. But it was so goddamn slow.”

You are desperate to touch him, to console him. “Just because Viserys became a monster doesn’t mean you will. Just because he was a curse to your family doesn’t mean that’s how I’d feel about you.”

Aegon swipes at his eyes again, then brightens. He pretends he hasn’t heard you. “You’re coming to the wedding, right? I told Brando to send you money for the plane ticket.”

You spent it on eyeshadow palettes and books about the Gilded Age. “I don’t think so.”

“I really want you to be there.”

“You want me to watch you standing at the end of the aisle, and then Becca frolicking to meet you in her perfect Instagram-worthy dress, and then you exchanging adorable vows and kissing while people whistle and applaud, and then I’ll endure a whole night of celebrating your wedded bliss on the beach, all so you can get a glimpse of me in the crowd and maybe talk to me for five minutes before I fly back here alone, devastated that I’ll never get to see you again?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says.

“That’s an insane idea.”

Aegon throws his arms wide, exasperated. “It might be! I have a brain disease!”

“And why would I do that?” you demand. “Because I’m so happy for you and Becca?”

“No, because I’m doing you a favor,” he hisses, sudden hushed vitriol. “Because I am sparing you from everything that will happen next.”

I want to be there. I want it to be me. You shake your head, your throat burning. “I can’t watch you marry her.”

“Okay,” Aegon relents. “It’s fine. Sunshine, it’s fine. I don’t want to fight with you.” What he means is: I don’t want to waste the time we have left.

And for a moment he rests his head on your shoulder—your pulse thudding hot and red and feverish, pool water dripping from your hair—not caring who sees.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to be here,” he says.

“I know, Aegon.” The exam room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills is sunlit but cold, curtains drawn back from the glass walls, frigid air conditioning gusting through the vents. Your eyeshadow is a dark blue to match your sundress: Equilibrium by Natasha Denona, Madness by Urban Decay. You take Aegon’s hand and hold it tightly. He is perched restlessly on the edge of the exam table; you are standing beside him, too anxious to sit in the requisite chair for a spouse or a parent, and of course you are neither of these things.

The doctor returns, knocking politely before opening the door. He closes it behind him as he enters the room. He’s in his early-fifties, pudgy, receding reddish hair and pale skin that has been turned pink by too much time spent in the sun. He is a family man—he’s already mentioned his wife and kids several times, you imagine the desk in his office must be adorned with their ever-smiling photographs—and an unassuming, slightly nervous disposition. He’s one of the best neurologists on the West Coast. When he heard Aegon’s last name, he fit him in immediately.

Dr. Gallagher turns the computer screen towards you and brings up images from the MRI scan. He takes his pen out of the pocket of his white coat and uses it to point at the bluish specter of Aegon’s brain. His voice is soothing, sympathetic, practiced in delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, what we’re seeing here is consistent with what I would expect to find in a patient with Huntington’s disease that has progressed to the moderate stage.” His pen leaps between pertinent locations. “There is already some striatal atrophy visible, and slight frontal horn dilatation as the brain matter around it shrinks. A lot of the time, we can’t even see that on scans in people who’ve been recently diagnosed. But you...” He looks at Aegon, gives him a soft subtle nod, casual catastrophic confirmation. “You’ve had symptoms for a while, as we discussed.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says quietly. You’re still clasping his hand, like he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’m very sorry,” Dr. Gallagher tells him.

“Not your fault, doc.”

“But there is some good news,” Dr. Gallagher says. “Now that you’re in treatment, we can get you set up with a regimen that will alleviate your symptoms as much as possible. There are prescriptions—and I’ll go over each of those with you, so you understand what they are and the possible side effects—and also excellent therapists who have experience working with patients like you, Aegon. We want to keep your quality of life intact for as long as we possibly can.”

“I’m moving to Houston,” Aegon replies, and for some reason every time he says this you feel the loss of it all over again, as if you don’t already know, as if he’s not almost gone.

“Texas, huh?” Dr. Gallagher says, like he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their final years there but is determined not to be judgmental about it. “Well, best wishes to you! I have some very capable colleagues at Houston Methodist, I’ll reach out to them and transfer your records over so you won’t have to worry about any of that once you get settled in.”

“Thank you,” Aegon says, quiet, distant. Dr. Gallagher glances at you curiously; he keeps doing that. Aegon didn’t introduce you. You didn’t introduce yourself. What are you supposed to say? You aren’t his wife. You aren’t even his fiancée or his girlfriend. You’re a mistress, and soon you’ll be nobody. Better to let the gaps remain unfilled. “How long?” Aegon asks after a while. “I mean, I know it can be unpredictable, but...”

Dr. Gallagher sighs and contemplates the MRI results again. “It really is impossible to say for sure. You said your father passed away at fifty-five?”

Aegon nods. “Ten years after he was diagnosed. And he must have gotten it from his dad. My grandmother lived to be really old and was healthy up until the last few months, but my grandfather died in a car accident, and that would have been before any symptoms were obvious.”

Dr. Gallagher considers this. “So we have multiple generations of the gene being passed down patrilineally, which does exacerbate anticipation. And with these MRI results and the symptoms you’re already experiencing...memory loss, involuntary movements, difficulty working and driving, problems with sleep, loss of appetite...” He shrugs, an acknowledgement of fate’s unknowable design. Then he looks at Aegon with eyes that are deeply apologetic. “I do suspect it will be relatively quick. You’ll probably have another year or two that are decent. And then...”

“And then,” Aegon echoes bitterly, not a question but an agreement. No one knows this better than he does.

“I think you’ll see forty.” Dr. Gallagher steals another glimpse of the MRI results. “But not much beyond that.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, trying to be stoic. And then, gingerly but very deliberately, he untangles his hand from yours.

At an In-N-Out Burger down the street, Aegon pays in cash, a habit he got into not just so Becca can’t track where he is; it’s so that if she asks where he’s been and he can’t remember, she won’t think he’s purposefully lying when he tells her the wrong places. You sit together in a quiet corner booth slurping your Cherry Cokes and picking at your burgers and Animal-Style fries, the silence both heavy and weak, anemic, listless, immovable. Aegon is typing around on his phone. You are trying to imagine what the world will feel like without him in it.

“Forty is good,” Aegon says abruptly. “You know, Becca will still be in her thirties. She’ll definitely be able to marry some other guy and have kids.”

“Aegon,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I wouldn’t want to waste away for a long time anyway. I hope I don’t make it past forty.”

“Aegon,” you plead. “The doctor said you could have a few good years left, so shouldn’t you spend those here with your family?” And with me?

Aegon stands up and slides his iPhone into the pocket of his shorts. “My Uber is outside.”

“Your what?” You are alarmed. “I can drive you back to your office, it’s not that out of the way for me—”

“No, I should go.” He gathers up his barely-touched food and stuffs it in a trashcan.

“Aegon...”

“I’ve been really selfish,” he says hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get it out now he might not ever. “I’ve been holding on to you because you make me feel better, and because I didn’t want it to be over, but I...now I have to do the right thing. And this is definitely the right thing.”

“You don’t have to go yet—”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Aegon says. “The people working on your movie...they’re legit. They’re trustworthy. And you can always call Brando or Aemond, they know they’re supposed to take care of you, they’ll get you anything you need, money, a place to live, help navigating the industry, whatever. And Kristen will be your new agent.”

“I don’t want another agent.”

“I set you up as well as I possibly could have,” Aegon tells you, curt, clinical. “And now it’s September, and I’m leaving Los Angeles. That was the deal. I never promised you more than that. I explicitly warned you there would never be more than that.”

“But...” But I didn’t love you then.

“Don’t make this any harder. Say goodbye and move on.”

“Goodbye, Aegon,” you reply, unconvincingly, not meaning it. But it must be enough; he walks out of the In-N-Out Burger, and through the clear glass of the windows you watch him climb into a stranger’s car, and you think numbly, because it seems so impossible: I’ll never see him again?

You stay in the booth for a long time, sipping your Cherry Coke as tears well up in your eyes and spill over, ceaseless rivulets you dab away with napkins that your eyeshadow turns from pure white to a smudged watery blue. Then when you leave and start your shimmering gold Honda Accord, you call Aemond. He listens intently, asks a number of highly technical medical questions you can’t answer, and gets impatient. You apologize, your voice breaking. Aemond sighs, says he’s sorry, tells you with a strangled tension in his own words that he has to go and will call back in a few days to check on you. You’re his new pet, after all; Aegon has assigned you to a different Targaryen, a new agent, a life still orbiting his gravity even in his absence.

At home, your apartment is empty. Jace is at one of his PhD classes. You don’t turn the tv on, you don’t listen to any music. You lie down on the living room couch as afternoon light slants in through the windows and the muffled sounds of Harbor Gateway bleed in through the walls: car horns, shrieking sirens, pedestrians’ shouts, revving engines, stereos and their rumbling bass beats. You can’t stand this, the knowledge that life continues on uninterrupted for everyone else. Becca will get to keep Aegon for years. His family can fly east to Houston to visit him. He is only dead to you.

You pick up your phone and call him. Aegon answers after a few rings; he is startled, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from you again, like something bad must have happened: your car broke down and you’re stranded on the side of the freeway, you got heat sickness and are trapped in a store somewhere. He says: “Hey, are you alright?”

“I miss you so much and you’re not even gone yet.”

There’s a pause that feels much longer than it is. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a quivering whisper.

“Okay,” Aegon says, gentle, warm, like you’re friends again and always will be. Due north in his office in Elysian Park where there is no more work left to be done, you can hear his chair scrape against the scuffed hardwood floor as he pushes it out from his desk. “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Okay. Bye.” You hang up, mop the tears from your face, and begin getting ready.

When Aegon knocks, you answer the door in your pajamas, no illusions of propriety: just a L.A. Dodgers t-shirt, black sweatpants, and nothing underneath. Aegon does not pretend to be any more noble. He is through the doorway—swiftly, soundlessly, like a shadow—and then he’s here in the sunlit living room lifting away your shirt and kissing you, deep and wordless, as you stumble together towards your bedroom, you staggering out of your sweatpants as he yanks them down to the floor, you fumbling with the buttons of his green short-sleeve Oxford shirt, and you wonder: Did Becca fasten these buttons this morning? Is that why he didn’t miss one?

“Oh, thank God,” Aegon sighs when he knows he’ll be able to do it, that his body is not yet a stranger to him entirely, and as you sink into the mattress his weight settles on top of you, opening you, filling you, not disappeared yet, not long-lost like a childhood dream that turns to cynicism, only warm and sweet and real. And just like the times before, when you believe you won’t be able to finish with him, you’re wrong. Your eyes brim with tears, like Aegon knows happens when it’s good, and as he whisks them away he murmurs: “Find somebody who does this for you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“Find somebody you love.”

“I love you, Aegon.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” he moans, like he knows it’s hopeless, like he’s already lost the same war.

Not just once, but twice, and then you are exhausted—your muscles unraveled from your bones, your resistance crumbling like eons-old earth—and the world is quiet and fading, used condoms in the trashcan beside your nightstand, the sheets damp with sweat, and you’ll never have him like this again. You’ll never have anything like this again. Daylight, weakening from yellow to gold to amber to blood, pours in through the window and cascades across your bed.

“Remember me like this, okay?” Aegon whispers, kissing you one last time: lips, forehead, the apple of your cheek. “Now look away.”

You turn to the window where sunlight beckons, leaving him in darkness. You hear the bedroom door click shut as he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, September 6th, the wedding day. You have nothing planned. This is a mistake, although it isn’t exactly your fault; filming starts on Monday so everyone has this weekend off as one last respite, Chloe’s parents are in town for a visit, Baela is wrapping up the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie in Paris. You wake up ridiculously early, groggy and miserable. You wander aimlessly around the apartment. You glower at the red-ink note in the box on the calendar: Aegon’s wedding. You stare at the vase of dried sunflowers and feel like crying.

You open Instagram and scroll blindly; the blue-white glow hurts your bloodshot eyes. Becca has posted numerous stories in the past twenty-four hours, which is typical: Pinterest-worthy plates of food, teasing glimpses of her dress and shoes, selfies with her friends and family. There is a wheezing Pekingese in the background of one of her videos from the luxurious hotel suite, and you think, rather disparagingly: She flew her dogs to the Caribbean?

What’s not-so-typical is that Aegon has posted an Instagram story too, something he doesn’t do often. After several minutes of deliberation, and against your better judgment, you click on superstargaryen’s story. It’s 4 a.m. here, so 7 a.m. on Turks and Caicos. The sun has already risen there. And Aegon’s story is a simple photo of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, as if taken from a balcony. There is no caption and no frivolous emojis: a ring, a bouquet, toasting champagne glasses, a cartoonish yellow couple. Instead, there is only a song added, a fifteen-second snippet that plays on a loop each time you re-watch the story, which you do about ten times. The song is Hard To Concentrate by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And instantly, you are there again, the night after you shot the music video in Beverly Hills, the night after Aegon saved you: flying in his convertible southbound on the 110, streetlights and headlights and neon that cut through the indigo ink of the world, Aegon’s hair flying, his right hand on the steering wheel, bruises on his knuckles, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he keeps looking over at you, as if he’s feeling the same things you are: This is right, this is real, I want this forever.

I have to be there, you realize abruptly, like a lightning strike or the jolt of an earthquake. I have to try to change his mind.

You close Instagram, open Google, search for flights from LAX to Turks and Caicos. You find one with two seats left, both in First Class. My parents are going to kill me, you think, and then put them on your credit card. You get Jace’s full name and date of birth from the driver’s license in his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter.

You go to Baela’s bedroom and shake Jace awake. He glares at you blearily from beneath chaotic dark curls. “What do you want?” he groans.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah...?”

“I have to fly to Turks and Caicos.”

“What? Where...?”

“It’s for a wedding. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”

You wait for him to say no. Instead, Jace mulls it over and then drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Turks and Caicos...that’s in the Caribbean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a long flight. When are you leaving?”

“In twenty minutes. I already called the Uber.”

Jace blinks a few times, then stands up. “Island vibes,” he mutters in a Jamaican accent as he shuffles off towards the bathroom.

You throw some essentials in a carry-on bag: toiletries, makeup, clothes, TOMS wedges. The only wedding-appropriate dress you have that’s clean is the electric yellow gown you wore to the Maroon 5 music video red carpet premiere. You yank it off the hanger and stuff it in your suitcase. Jace rolls his luggage into the living room just as the Uber is pulling up outside. You urge the driver to hurry as you glide northwest on the 405 towards Westchester, home to Los Angeles International Airport. It’s early enough that traffic is thin, and the lines are short at the TSA security checkpoint. Jace is momentarily stopped for further inspection; he accidentally left a vape pen in his pocket.

Will we make it there before the wedding starts?

At the gate, passengers are already lining up to board the plane. You check the time on your phone and do some quick math. It’s currently 5:30 a.m. here in California. If your flight leaves on time, you’ll be in the air at 6:00. Turks and Caicos is three hours ahead in Eastern Standard Time, so that would be 9:00 a.m. The flight is almost nine hours long, including a brief layover in Atlanta, which means—if everything goes perfectly—you’ll touch down at Providenciales International Airport shortly before 6:00 p.m. The wedding ceremony begins at 6:30, sunset on the beach, very romantic.

“It’s going to be close,” you tell Jace as he slurps on a venti-sized Lavender Crème Frappuccino from an airport Starbucks.

It’s going to be very close.

[hbyrde36]

Night Terrors & Daydreams Pt. 2 of 2

For @penny00dreadful 🖤

Happy Birthday again my beautiful bestie! Belated this time, but I hope it was worth the wait! 😈

Steddie | Explicit | WC: 4341 | AO3

Steve knew he should fear it, the mysterious being that lurked in his bedroom each night while he slept.

Truth be told, he had been afraid that first night, when he awoke to find an ominous presence hovering above him like a dark cloud as heavy rain thundered down outside. He’d tried to scream, but found his lips refused to part and his vocal chords completely frozen. Sitting up was equally impossible, as if every muscle in his body, both large and small, had suddenly turned to stone. He might have assumed it was only another nightmare, the feeling of being trapped in his lonely, miserable, dead-end life bleeding over into his already grim dreamscape, but the rapid beating of his heart, nearly painful as it slammed against the delicate walls of his chest, told him that whatever was happening to him was frightfully real.

It was undeniably claustrophobic, being caged inside the prison of his own body, unable to do anything more than watch the black fog undulating overhead. He waited on a knife’s edge for something, anything to happen, his panic rising with every second that passed in this standoff with some unknown apparition.

Until… poof!

It was gone. 

Vanished in the blink of an eye as if it had never been there at all, leaving Steve’s body loose and free to move once more.

Someone more mentally stable would have probably chalked the whole episode up to some combination of an overactive imagination and indigestion, and—apart from possibly making themselves a useless doctor’s appointment—moved on with their lives. But Steve couldn’t stop thinking about it. In the light of day, having survived the blood-chilling encounter, he was less afraid and more intrigued, curious about the nature of this thing that had so easily been able to overpower a full grown man in his own home. A being who, instead of harming him when he was at his most vulnerable, had simply observed and left.

The very next day Steve dove head-first into the world of the supernatural. From seeking out old episodes of ghost hunting shows on YouTube, to reading long forgotten personal blogs, and more recent posts on the r/paranormal subreddit, he shirked his usual 9-to-5 responsibilities in favor of hunkering down in his cubicle to watch every video and read every article he could find that might explain what had happened to him. 

Some answers came quick and easy. 

The internet seemed to agree on the what of his unusual experience, namely: sleep paralysis, but it was distinctly divided on the why. After hours of research, and dissecting a particularly creepy first hand account from a mother of two in Sheboygan—a real city and not someplace made up for TV Steve was surprised to find out—he was convinced his late night guest had been a sleep paralysis demon.

After a lackluster dinner for one, eaten only out of habit while he mindlessly watched some new reality show on Netflix, Steve went to bed feeling an odd mixture of unease and cautious anticipation. 

But his demonic visitor didn't return that night. 

Or the next.

He was strangely disappointed about that, but took solace in the fact that he’d managed two straight nights of pure dreamless sleep. A rare and unfortunately short lived treat that he paid for with interest before his streak could extend to a trio. 

From the moment he dropped off to sleep that third night, he found himself on the run from one horror of his past to the next. 

Curled in a ball on the floor of the High School gym during basketball practice, Steve looked up at the contorted faces of boys he’d once called friends, looming over him as they took turns beating him to a pulp. Tommy had outed him to the whole team in retaliation for Steve putting his foot down and telling his best friend that he didn’t want to be his experiment anymore. 

In the moment, the real one, Steve had been too busy protecting himself to think about it, but it occurred to him later, as he stood in the bathroom cleaning the dried blood from his face, that no one had questioned Tommy on how he even knew Steve liked to suck dick. 

In his dream, he forced himself to his feet and raced for the doors at the end of the court, pushing through them only to run straight into the dining room of his childhood home.

In the space of a breath he went from standing there, dripping water and blood on his mother’s beloved cream shag carpet, to sitting in one of the hard high-back dining chairs, cowering in the shadow of his father as Richard Harrington stood over and berated him, screaming about how he’d never live up to his potential if he was determined to choose the life of a ‘morally bankrupt degenerate’. A ‘selfish, deviant, pervert’ who ‘denied god and nature’ and was ‘contributing to the destruction of this country and the good christian values it was founded on.’ 

The longer he shouted, the bigger Steve’s father grew until the walls began to crack and the roof buckled, separating from the structure, and the entire room filled with angry spittle and a fog of hot, burning hatred.

Somehow, Steve got himself away from the monster his father had become, and made his way to the crumbling staircase, his pounding footsteps climbing them two at a time until he reached his bedroom, his safe haven, and shouldered the door open. 

However, the sight that greeted him beyond the door was not the atrocity of plaid-on-plaid that he’d grown up with, instead he was stumbling in, drunk and confused, to his old college dorm.

It was a week to spring break and if he’d only stayed at the party an hour longer he never would have known, or at least he might have delayed the inevitable heartbreak of being cheated on a little longer. Ricky, his roommate and first serious boyfriend, was in his bed with someone else.

Steve was beyond devastated. He’d gone to college chasing goals that weren't his own, still seeking the approval of a man who’d disowned him the moment he turned 18. Now he’d lost the one good thing he’d found in that place, and all he had left at the end of four miserable years was massive debt and a borderline useless degree.

Steve woke with a jolt, sobbing, his heart aching as though the betrayals he’d been forced to relive had happened only yesterday and not many years in his past. He tried to reach for the covers, intending to fling them off and jump from the bed, knowing he was done with sleep for the night, maybe for the week, but his arms refused to cooperate. Only then did his eyes focus on the black nebulous shape above him, on the two red points of light set within it like unblinking eyes, on the curling tendril of smoke that so softly stroked his damp cheek.

Hush.

It was less of a word and more of a feeling that reverberated through Steve’s mind as he stared into those otherworldly eyes, and found within them the most amazing sense of calm.

From that night on he  was visited regularly, often being woken from his nightmares by that same sense of peace and gentle, almost loving touch.

Even knowing he was being fed on, he began to look forward to the times when the demon, his very own dark angel, did show, those blood red eyes floating in the middle of its smoky figure, shining like twin beacons in the night, lighting up his otherwise dull and bleak world. 

Maybe it was twisted. 

Okay, it definitely was, but his need to be cared for, to be wanted, to be loved, far outweighed his common sense. 

And any discernible survival instincts, it seemed. 

At any rate, Steve was as happy as he’d ever been, filling his waking hours with daydreams about his demon, imagining what he might look like if he were human, what he might say to Steve if he could talk, what it would feel like to hold his hand. 

But at night was when he felt most alive.

The first time his visitor took on human form, Steve thought he’d died and gone to heaven. His sweet Angel was gorgeous, quite literally the man of his dreams. The whole look was so close to what Steve himself had envisioned, that there was no way the guise hadn’t come directly from his brain. He took it as a sign that the demon wanted to know him, really know him, that he wasn’t crazy for falling in love with a creature that fed on him every evening. That there actually was something between them beyond the monster-victim relationship.

After a lifetime of dealing with monsters of the human variety, he was unafraid to trust this monster, his beautiful and gentle demon, with his heart. 

As luck would have it, it didn’t take long for Steve to have his hopes confirmed.

🖤

The nightmare faded quickly under a warm touch to his brow. 

Steve hadn’t dreamt of his father in a while but he shouldn’t have been surprised at the relapse, it was the man’s birthday after all. Try as he had to forget the date, it was just one of those things that was lodged permanently in his brain.

“Sorry I'm late, sweetheart,” a voice above Steve said softly as he slowly blinked awake. “And I'm sorry I couldn’t stop the other bad things from claiming you tonight.”

Angel.

Steve smiled internally, the invisible ropes that bound his body already in place, the feel of it no longer uncomfortable or frightening, but a familiar comforting embrace.

But that was where the familiarity ended. Tonight, it seemed, the demon had other plans, and he thanked his lucky stars that he’d decided on a whim to forego pajamas when he’d gotten into bed earlier that evening.

No one had ever touched him the way his devoted watcher touched him then, as if he were worshipping at the altar of his body and Steve could have wept for how beautiful, and desired, and cared for he felt. It was everything he’d been wanting and more, and when the demon finally took his achingly hard, dripping cock into his mouth, it was all Steve could do not to come instantly, saved only by the fact that he couldn’t move his head to see it happening.

Still, he was relieved when his angel moved on, climbing up to straddle his hips, kissing up his chest and neck to whisper right in his ear.

“You may speak now, my love, but I’d advise you not to scream. Lest some well-meaning neighbor come investigating and interrupt us.”

My love.

If everything that had happened up ‘til now hadn’t already been enough to send Steve’s heart skipping a beat or two, those words would have done the job entirely on their own.

“Please,” Steve begged, unsure of what he was even asking for. Not that it mattered, he would take whatever he was given and fall to his knees in thanks for it.

“Please what, pet?” The demon asked, a curious quirk to his smile.

So long had Steve wanted to know the feel of those pillowy lips against his own, making it an easy choice to finally ask, “Kiss me?” 

“What did you say?” the demon asked through a gasping breath.

“Please,” Steve whined, feeling like he might lose his mind if he never got to know the feel of the tempting mouth he’d been studying for so many nights now. “Kiss me, my Angel.”

His second request was granted instantly, with the demon leaning down to press their mouths together softly. It was a sweet, almost chaste thing, despite the fact that Steve could taste his own pre-cum on the demon’s lips, and the tenderness made his chest ache, all the pent-up longing he felt bubbling to the surface as it ended far too soon.

“I’ve been accused of many things in my time, but this is certainly a first.” The demon pulled back, shaking his head sadly. “I fear you have mistaken me, beloved. I am no angel.”

“I know,” Steve said, nodding as best as he could and suppressing a giggle. Of course he knew. “That’s just what I've been calling you in my head.”

“Eddie,” The demon chirped nonsensically, looking so suddenly and incredibly human as he awkwardly sat back on Steve’s stomach and cleared his throat. “I-I like to be called Eddie.”

It was adorable, and Steve fell a little more in love just for that. 

“Kiss me again, Eddie?”

The use of his name seemed to renew the demon’s spark, or perhaps it was the way Steve’s voice had cracked with desire on the word. Whatever the cause, Eddie surged forward to claim Steve’s mouth again with his own, this kiss decidedly not chaste, and Steve soon found his lips being forced open wide by a tongue that felt just a bit longer than was probably normal, tasting, exploring.

“Is this real?” Eddie asked, breaking the kiss, again much too soon for Steve’s liking, and rested his forehead against Steve’s own. “Or are you just trying to placate me so I'll remove my hold over you and you can escape?”

“I would never run from you,” Steve said without hesitation. “But I don’t mind staying, um… tied up until you're satisfied that I'm telling the truth.”

Eddie sat back up abruptly, flashing a wide mischievous grin as he began to grind the cleft of his ass against Steve’s still hard length. “And if I'm never satisfied?”

“Then I will happily die underneath you in this bed.”

Eddie seemed to take him at his word, though he didn’t unfreeze him any further just yet, simply leaning in for one more quick taste of his mouth before pushing himself up into a low squat, hovering over Steve’s hips and taking his cock in hand once more, lining the tip up with his hole. 

Steve started to protest. Didn’t Eddie need a bit of prepping? Lube at the very least? The thought of condoms drifted in and quickly out of his brain without giving it much attention. When you were about to be ridden by a supernatural being, STDs weren’t exactly top of the list of concerns, and it’s not like he could get Eddie pregnant, or vice versa.

He was reasonably sure anyway.

But he didn’t want Eddie to hurt himself.

Steve didn’t get two words out before the rest of them were ripped from his throat, stolen by his own moan as Eddie began to slowly sink down his length. The clutch of him was impossibly warm and incredibly tight, but the way was so smooth that Steve had to assume there was some sort of magic involved and quickly gave up any efforts he might have expended in getting Eddie to stop.

He fought the urge to throw his head back and revel in the pure ecstasy of that snug heat closing over and around him, afraid to miss even one second of their limited time together.

Eddie’s face above was blissed out, his plush mouth hanging open as he pierced himself on Steve’s cock an inch at a time. His eyes, usually a dim smoldering ember when he was dressed up like a human, flashed with a new scorching fire, blazing a bright ruby red that was nearly blinding when he was fully seated.

“Beautiful,” Steve breathed in awe, wondering how he’d come to deserve having such a divine creature want him like this. He was also trying his damndest again not to come before they’d properly fucked.

“You flatter me, sweetheart.” Eddie smirked, scoffing lightly as he started to raise and lower his hips at an easy pace. “But we both know it is you who wears the proverbial face that launched a thousand ships.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, surely Eddie was mistaken or had never seen himself in a mirror, in any of his forms, but then the demon’s ringed hand came down to caress his cheek, cutting him off by sliding a thick thumb between his lips. 

His mouth closed around the digit automatically, sucking on it lightly while running his tongue along the tip.

Eddie shivered, his eyes locked on Steve’s as the movement of his hips quickened. “Your beauty was my undoing, rare thing. And I fear the touch of your soul has changed me forever.”

Steve too felt irrevocably changed, had since almost the first moment he laid eyes on the creature made from smoke and air and magic, whose sole purpose was to feed from his life-force. 

Eddie could have it. 

Steve would give it all if he had to, just for the chance to touch him now.

As though Eddie had read his mind, and for all Steve knew maybe he had, all the muscles from his waist up were released at once. From head to groin he was free to move and he quickly took advantage of it, sitting up as Eddie continued to ride him faster and deeper, his hands sliding around the demon’s back, holding him close and helping him dance.

Steve’s mouth went to work mapping out the black and gray markings on Eddie’s chest with lips and tongue, tracing the swirling tattoos that he hadn’t gotten to see properly till now.

Something else caught his attention too, as he fought to keep the pleasure building in his core from spilling over, something cool and hard prodding him in the stomach. He’d avoided looking down so far on purpose, knowing the sight of Eddie’s cock bobbing there would make lasting even more impossible. A single glance told him he’d been right to worry. 

“Oh, fuck.”

Eddie was perfect, long and thick, and so hard that the head of him had turned a shade of red fit to match his eyes, but that wasn’t what had Steve cursing and clawing at the demon’s back.

A shiny, wide gauged ring hung heavy from the end of Eddie’s cock, piercing it right through the slit.

Steve sucked air through his teeth, choking back a whine as he looked back up into Eddie’s eyes.

Why was that so hot?

“Fuck-fuck-fuck, i’m gonna come.” He’d wanted this for so long, and now it would be over almost as soon as it’d begun. 

Eddie tossed his head back, letting out a deep chuckle. “As long as you do it inside me, you may come whenever you like, sweetheart.”

Steve’s hips bucked up at the thought, and only then did he realize he could move his legs again, that at some point Eddie had set him free and he’d been too distracted to notice.

In one swift motion he hoisted Eddie up and rolled them over until the demon was flat on his back, managing, with the well-timed aid of Eddie’s legs wrapping around his waist, to make the move without ever pulling out. 

He forced Eddie’s legs back as he began to pound into him with abandon, practically folding the demon in half so he could crush their mouths together in a wet and messy open-mouthed kiss.

Eddie clawed at the sheets surrounding them, groping for purchase as little punched out groans were forced from his pale, slender throat. 

Steve reached for him then, wishing he could drag things out but knowing he was only hanging by a thread, he took Eddie's cock in hand and began working him over in time with the roll of his hips.

Thankfully, his Angel was balancing as close to the edge as he was, and it only took a few strokes to have Eddie keening below him, the first hot spurt of his release painting them both just as Steve lost control. With one final, powerful thrust Steve was coming too, filling Eddie up with his spend the way he’d been filling him with life for weeks, and for a perfect moment they writhed in ecstasy as one. 

When both of their chests ceased heaving and Steve had softened enough to slip from the clutch of Eddie’s hole, he willingly collapsed into the mess between them, uncaring that it would most certainly dry to a tacky paste and leave his chest hair matted in the morning. It was worth it to feel Eddie's arms wind around him as he continued to come down, the powerful embrace grounding him back to the earth.

🖤

“Who is he?” Eddie asked a while later, into the peaceful silence they’d fallen into.  

“Hmm?” Steve hummed, half in a daze, now lying beside the demon with an  arm thrown over his waist. he wasn’t sure what Eddie meant or if he’d even heard the question right

“I shaped this body after the man in your dreams. Granted I took some artistic license.” Eddie pulled back enough to trail his fingers down the length of his own body, drawing Steve’s gaze down to where he took his softened cock in hand, brushing his thumb roughly over the head of it and the thick ring that hung there that Steve so adored.

Steve shuddered, imagining the taste of the metal, and wondering over the way it might warm in his mouth as it dragged over his tongue. God he hoped he’d get the chance to find out one night. But for now, he needed to focus. 

“Eddie… I don’t understand?

Eddie released himself with a barely audible huff, rolling over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, crossing his ankles. He was clearly upset about something, but just as clearly trying to act as if he weren't. Yet another thing Steve couldn't help but find endearing in the demon. 

“Do you love this human? Is that why you gave in to me so easily?” Eddie asked after a brief pause, his usually strong, husky voice sounding soft and unsure.

“It’s you.”

Eddie turned back to face him with a comically furrowed brow.

Steve smiled fondly, stifling a laugh while he reached out to twirl a bit of Eddie’s hair around his finger. “Wild black hair like a dark storm cloud,” he muttered softly. “It’s what I imagined you looking like if you were human. There is no one else, it’s you I fell in love with even before you came to me in this body.”

Eddie’s answering smile was blinding, and when he pushed Steve back and pressed him down into the mattress, crushing their mouths together in a deep, consuming kiss, he knew it meant the demon, his Angel, truly was in love with him too.

They kissed until Steve’s lips were sore and a yawn forced them to separate, then cuddled on top of the sheets as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, the weight of the day and the excitement of the night inevitably becoming too much to overcome. His last waking thought was the desperate hope that his day tomorrow would pass quickly, and that his lover would return the following evening.

As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to wait until nightfall to see Eddie again. 

The next thing Steve knew he was blinking awake into the soft light of morning, a few warm rays of sun shining in through a gap in the curtains to lay in a crisp beam over the bed and the two bodies lying entwined on top of it.

Somehow, Eddie was still there.

Steve hadn’t thought demons needed to sleep, or even could, but the proof was snoring softly beside him with a little wrinkle between his eyes that was begging to be smoothed away with a kiss. Unsure if it would last, or if Eddie would simply disappear between one blink and the next, Steve held himself still, studying the details of his lover’s face in the light while he had the chance. 

Eventually Eddie began to stir, looking as confused as Steve felt when he finally cracked his eyes open. Eyes that had seemingly changed with the sunrise.

“Your eyes,” Steve gasped, reaching out to cup Eddie’s cheek. “They’re brown—deep brown. I’ve always loved your red eyes but these really suit you too.”

Eddie leapt from the bed, ass bare and unsteady on his feet as he toddled over to the dresser and its large mirror. He stared at himself, blinking rapidly, leaning in close before abruptly freezing in place, his gaze pulled down to something sitting on the dresser’s polished top.

Steve quickly slid out of bed, padding across the room to join him and see what had distracted him from his own reflection, and saw a strange envelope with Eddie’s name written in old script above an honest-to-god wax seal.

With a trembling hand Eddie picked it up, passing it to Steve with wide, frightened eyes.

“Read it for me?”

Edward, Never in my years have I heard of a Demon falling in love with his victim, rarer still, I assume, it is for that human to fall in love with his demon too. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you were always one to deviate from the norm. Take this gift of humanity and be well. Enjoy it, human lives are so fleeting after all, and I imagine one way or another you’ll be back in Hell with us in due time.

Eddie was silent through his short narration, and Steve paused for a moment when he was done, bracing himself for disappointment before asking the question.

“Does this mean you’ll stay here with me?”

“Of course. There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” Eddie said quickly, the surety of his tone leaving no room for doubt, regardless of his lingering frown and nervous set of his shoulders. “But… I don’t know how to be human.”

Steve took the former demon, his heart and soul made manifest, into his arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry, Angel, I’ll teach you.”

Many thanks to @pearynice for the amazing beta work and for always being the best, loudest cheerleader! 💕

Permanent taglist (open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @sidekick-hero @firefly-party

@bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog  @goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1

@rocknrollsalad @eternal-sunflowers @cringe-culture-is-dead-99 @estrellami-1

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART III

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 3,008

cw: simon simps, self-conscious!reader, implied sexual content (thoughts, not actions)

♡

Simon watches from the arched doorway that separates the foyer from his study. The movers glide across the marble floor with precision, weightlessly and without making a sound. They appear and disappear with no rhyme or reason, but the gravity of their presence is felt. It’s almost phantasmagoric. And how fitting it is that he not be the only specter in a home already so full of ghosts.

But like true eidola, he isn’t looking at them - no, no, he’s looking through. In the sea of boxes and dollies, he’s looking at you. You flit about between the manes, trying your hardest to communicate with them. You ask how you can help, what you can do, what they need, and it all goes unanswered. A residual haunting of sorts, milling about like they don’t even know you’re there, keeping strictly to the task at hand. He’d toss you a planchette, but it won’t do any good. The movers are under unflinching orders - Mrs. Riley is not to lift a finger to move her things into her new home.

The frustration is written all over your face. Your brows are furrowed, arms folded across your chest, pretty mouth set into a discontented frown. He sees you let out a sulky huff, almost petulant in nature. Quietly, he chuckles.

He understands that you’re not happy with the situation. Frankly, he can’t imagine what a whirlwind the last few months has been for you. Finding out that your father is not, in fact, an accountant, but rather one of the world’s largest arms dealers is a nasty enough shock on its own; but having a surprise marriage to an absolute stranger sprung on you adds another, more complicated layer. He doesn’t fault your displeasure in the slightest. Maybe you’ll soften up to the changes over time.

Still, your lack of beguile does nothing to temper his cruel amusement. It’s cute, the way you glare at the passers-by who won’t acknowledge you; hell, he half expected you to stick your tongue out at one of them by now. And the way you huff and roll your eyes? You’re like a child on the receiving end of a scalding scolding, temper ticking like a timebomb, and it’s absolutely adorable.

Your eyes lock with his across the room, and Simon gives you a nod of acknowledgement, well aware that you likely aren’t in the mood to chat just yet. At that, your already perturbed expression sours further. He sees a muscle in your jaw tick tighter. The tips of your fingers curl into your palm firmly. Your clenched fists remain at your sides as you storm towards him unflinchingly. The movers part accordingly.

“I want a divorce,” you announce militantly, planting yourself in front of him with a steely stare.

Simon can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head as he says, “Not an option, love.”

“Why not? It’s an option for everyone else.”

You’re remarkably even-tempered in confrontation, he’ll give you that. Even if the edges of your facade crack beneath the weight of your voice.

“Not for us.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t give me that shit! You’ve fulfilled whatever fucking weird obligation this is, and I’d like to get back to my own life.”

Despite the snarling, teeth bared like a rabid dog ready to rip him to pieces, you must not have inherited your father’s penchant for petulance. You’ve yet to stamp your foot, throw yourself on the cold floor, or start screaming bloody murder until you get your way. You’ve yet to even shed a tear, despite the waves of obvious fury coursing through you. He can see the watery waves forming in your lash line, but you’re trying your damnedest not to show any signs of weakness. Simon respects that.

When you speak again, you’re quieter, calmer. The heave of your chest subsides, a storm of rage quelled with honey instead of vinegar.

“Look, I don’t know what sort of dirt my dad has on you to force you into this, but I promise I can keep him quiet, okay? I’ll take all the blame for it; I’ll tell him you fought tooth and nail against it. I’ll - “

“He didn’t force me,” Simon responds straight away. It’s appalling, the thought that you would just assume this was entirely involuntary, like you were somehow unworthy or undeserving. He figured that your father would’ve at least told you that he chose you.

A look of bewilderment crosses your sweet face just briefly.

“What?”

“Look at me, love; you really think anyone’s going to force me to do anythin’ I don’t wanna?”

You shrink back a hair, shoulders falling from their tense, raised position.

“No, I-I suppose not…” You blink, suddenly avoidant of looking him in the eye. Anxious and notably bothered, you wrap your arms around yourself. Simon swears he can see the pieces of the puzzle slotting together behind your eyes. Gently, he tugs at the sleeve of your cardigan, jerking his head down the hall as he turns on his heel.

“C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You sound surprised.

“What, you thought I’d make you share my bed? M’not a monster, sweetheart. You’re welcome to crawl in with me any time you like, but I’m sure you’d prefer your own space for now, yeah?”

Simon swears he can feel the heat radiating off your face from behind him. You stutter out a response he doesn’t quite catch, but the way your words catch has him biting the inside of his cheek to disguise his levity. Still, a lopsided little smirk sneaks through.

You tag along at his heel, following him silently until he guides you up a flight of stairs and stops outside a closed door. He can feel your eyes burning a hole in the side of his skull. The tips of his fingers close around the knob, metal not uttering even a hint of displeasure under his grip, and he pushes the door open before stepping aside. Gesturing you forward, he waits until you’ve crossed the threshold to accompany you.

It’s one of his favorite rooms, he’ll admit. What once sat as an unused auxiliary office for the boys has been gutted, morphed into a dream. The walls went from boring beige to a deep, rich green. High ceilings were scraped of their texture and plated with antique bronze tiles, the vague tinge of oxidation complementing the hardware fixed to every piece of furniture. An espresso stained dresser matches the vanity, the latter of which has an ornate mirror affixed - one Simon prays you’ll use to learn to worship yourself the same way he intends to when you’re ready to allow him. Headboard secured to the wall with the utmost caution, a king-sized mattress sits atop a sturdy sable frame, its four ornately-carved posts hosting a silken mesh canopy. The way it hangs reminds him of the house robe he purchased for you, the very one hanging inside the closet right now. He won’t tell you it’s there, though; he’ll leave it for you to find.

The weeks worth of research and hard work that went into making the room perfect for you were well-spent, based on the look of absolute wonderment on your face.

God, you’re fucking precious. Simon wants to spit out the words on the tip of his tongue and drink down your speechlessness. You’re absolutely fucking darling in the way you take in every inch of the space, awestruck and silently appreciating his efforts as your eyes rove the intricate crown molding, fingers skating across the black satin drapes that match your sheets, sweet mouth falling open in a gasp as you find the first of many surprises he’s left for you - a large vase filled with bat orchids and black baccara roses.

“Thank you, Mr. Riley,” you say softly, a little wobble in your voice. You’re not teary-eyed, but certainly overwhelmed with an emotion he can’t identify on sound alone.

“Just Simon, love.” He hopes the correction will prompt you to repeat it. He wants to know what it sounds like when you say his name.

Instead, you offer a soft, bittersweet smile, nodding.

“Bathroom’s right through that door there.” He gestures towards the stunning en suite that affords you sufficient privacy, far more than you’d receive if you were to share his. 

Clearly that aspect was not thought through entirely; the mental image of you joining him for a shower, dripping wet in more ways than one, flashes behind his eyes. Your hair clinging to your face, pillars of steam shifting and swirling with your every forced exhale, the way your pleas and whimpers would echo through the cavernous space - it’s enough to make him start to chub up in his slacks.

He shakes his head a little and clears his throat.

“Dinner’ll be ready at 6:00 sharp. Got some work things to handle before then, so you’ll have some time to yourself. Rest, unpack, do whatever you want; we’ll go over the rules after dinner, and I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

“Rules?” That caught your attention.

“Yeah.” You prod him with a questioning look, but he doesn’t bend. He doesn’t elaborate, reiterating that he’ll answer any questions you have after dinner. When you don’t press him further, he explains that his office is just down the stairs. If you need him, come get him. Doesn’t matter what for, whether it’s something as simple as asking a question or help with moving a heavy box. Otherwise, the dining room is just off the foyer, and he’ll meet you there in a few hours.

He turns to leave, but your soft voice asking him to wait a moment draws him back.

“What is it, dove?”

You’re silent, but you look like you want to say something, teeth worrying your lower lip as you wring your hands. He cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing with a look of implore. You sigh.

“I… I’m sorry, Simon, about earlier. This is a lot, and I’m still trying to make sense of all of it. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

He waves you off, shaking his head. 

“Nothin’ to apologize for,” he answers. “Lot to process, take the time to sort it out, yeah?”

You nod, a little sheepish, and he slips out the door, broad shoulders hiding the fact that he’s palming himself as he walks away.

♡

He’s just finishing his meticulous plating of dinner when you come around the corner. It’s 5:59, the clock ticking over to exactly 6:00 the moment he places the second plate on the table top.

Your tired eyes find his mid-yawn and stretch, and Simon is reduced to a puddle of a man as he takes you in.

An oversized sleep shirt hangs off one of your shoulders - one big enough to be his - obscuring your comely curves in a way that ought to be outlawed. Your tiny shorts barely peek out beneath the hem, the width of your delectable thighs concealing more fabric than exposed. He imagines your socks were pulled up past your knees when you put them on, but they’ve managed to slouch just below, an egregious error of gravity that he’d gladly get on his own knees to correct.

It’s nauseating, the way his granite form crumbles at your feet. Bones of iron melt pliable and his alkaline blood turns to liquid magma. His mouth runs dry like the Sahara, begging for a taste of you to quench the savage thirst. 

Simon is not a soft man, and yet, you’ve created a crater in his chest the size of your palm. Touch him; your fingers will slot just so in the impression. Dig a little deeper, and you’ll find a hollow cavity. The heart that couldn’t flourish there sprouted roots, planting itself in your hands. He barely knows you, but every fiber of his being reaches for you, like vines of ivy climbing towards the sun. He’s content to allow it as long as your warmth stays near.

“What’s all this?” you ask softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Cacio e pepe, chicken instead of pasta, with a nice pecorino romano risotto,” he replies coolly, gesturing to the empty seat in front of you. “Your mum told me you love Italian, so I thought it’d be a nice welcome meal.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Simon; thank you.” Your voice wobbles a little, thick with emotion. Hesitance takes hold of your hands as they wrap around the back of the chair. The muscles in your forearms twitch. Simon can see your gears turning, a battling raging on behind your eyes.

Patiently, he watches, waiting to see which side will win. Hell, he’d like to know who’s fighting to begin with.

“Oh, I-I should really go change,” you finally whisper, doubt clouding your downcast eyes. “I’m not dressed appropriately. You made such a nice dinner, and I look - ”

“Nothin’ wrong with what you’re wearing now.” It’s a challenge, daring you to argue. His expression is titanium.

With a frantic, trembling hand, you wipe a stray tear off your cheek. You look like you’re on the verge of a break, cracking under a pressure that Simon isn’t applying. He shifts around the edge of the table, moving in behind you like a mirage in the blink of an eye. His fingers curl around yours, gently prying your hands from the chair. A shudder runs through your body. The hiccup that follows gives you away. It’s a sob. And he’ll be damned if he isn’t the kintsugi to the fractures in your psyche.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, squeezing your hands. You shake your head, sniffling. “C’mon, sweetheart, look at me, yeah? Lemme see those pretty eyes.”

You make a half-turn, and Simon’s quick to release your far hand, instead settling his palm against your back to rub little circles.

“Atta girl; good job…” Soothing. Calm. “Just breathe, alright? Everything’s okay.”

That’s not what he wants to say. He wants to say that you’re safe, that he’ll fix your fragile pieces and make you whole again, that he’ll cut the tongue out of anyone who ever tries to make his wife feel inferior again. But he can’t say any of that right now, so he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, pulling a hand free to swipe at your cheeks with the back of it. “I promise I’m not always like this. I’m just tired; I wasn’t thinking about my clothes, I - “

“Stop.” Firm. Gentle. “I don’t care what you wear. If you’re comfortable, you don’t need to change. Dinner together ain’t a big formal event. You haven’t eaten all day, so let’s eat before the food gets cold, yeah?”

You stare at him for a moment, face blank and eyes vacant. Unshed tears are blinked back.

“Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

But you don’t move. You don’t shy away from the way his fingertips graze your spine in spirals. You don’t look away from him, eyes locked on molten honey. His tongue twitches behind his teeth, a vicious need to devour settling into his jaw.

God, he wants to eat you alive, swallow you whole. A bright-eyed little rabbit caught in the maw of an anaconda. You’d taste so sweet, wouldn’t you? The mess between your thighs would match the shimmery streaks on your cheeks, and Simon would do nothing but make it worse. He’d not rest until you’re dripping against his open mouth, face slick with your arousal, legs shaking as they frame his head. You’d have to beg him to stop, too overwhelmed to speak properly, throat screamed raw and gripping the sheets with enough force to tear. That’s the only time he ever wants to see you cry.

Gently, Simon guides your hands from the back of the chair. He pulls it out for you to sit, and you do so unceremoniously with a whispered gratitude.

He settles across the table, unhesitant to dig into his plate. It’s better this way; keeps his mouth occupied so he doesn’t continue to salivate over his darling little wife. You take your first bite shortly after and make a noise that does nothing for his growing erection.

“Simon, this is really fucking good.” Your hand covers your mouth as you speak. It’s hushed and meek, but your sincerity is written in the delicately creasing threads at the corners of your eyes.

“Thank you,” he answers, amused. “Good to know someone appreciates my hard work.”

“You made this yourself?” You sound surprised, and Simon chuckles.

“That I did. Quite enjoy cooking for special occasions.”

“Is this a special occasion?”

He nods.

“‘Course it is.”

You’re quiet for a moment, a thoughtful expression present. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. When your eyes meet his, though, you break contact immediately, looking back down at your plate to spear another bite with that same soft grin.

“Color me surprised,” you murmur. “I thought for sure you’d have a chef.”

Simon hums.

“Bold assumption.”

“Oh, come on! Look at your house! Is that so unreasonable?” You titter, faux exasperation lacing your tone.

“Our house,” he corrects. “And we do have a chef. I gave him the night off.”

You fall silent at that, face morphing into something unreadable, no discernable direction of affect. It worries Simon just briefly, like he’s said the wrong thing. But he’s not wrong, not really. Everything of his is yours now, too - his home, his money, his empire, his heart. It’s all yours. Truthfully, there’s nothing in this world that he wouldn’t give to you. He’s your husband now; that sort of apathy would be a dereliction of his duties.

“Our house,” you parrot, mulling over the taste. That saccharine little simper returns, and you draw your lower lip between your teeth, trying to hide a degree of mirth.

Maybe you’ll come around to all of this sooner than he thought.

Maybe you’ll fall just as hard just as fast.

part iv

[ask-rain-world-characters]

Hello everyone, and welcome!

We are the denizens of the wondrous world we all know and love. And we have all gathered here to speak with you! Got anything you desire to say, ask, or send our way? Do it anytime you wish, and we shall respond - through our voices! - We are voice acting enthusiasts, some of whom, you may have already heard in some Rain World fan projects. You can send anything at a character - images, art, questions, ideas, videos, whatever you wish! And the character shall react - just like in any other askblog. But the difference is not just that we use voiceovers to answer (instead of art), but that the process is fully collaborative. As the VAs of the characters all have full creative control over what they say, instead of following the standard practice of one person writing/deciding everything.

Important things to note (please read before submitting):

Watcher spoilers are allowed, but will be tagged appropriately, mainly to account for the heavily delayed console release. (The creatures/characters of the DLC are also available to be played by VAs, though none of them have been taken yet. This post will be updated with spoiler tags if/when that happens)

When you send us something, make it abundantly clear which character you're addressing. You're allowed to address multiple, or even the entire cast.

NSFW submissions are not allowed. Mildly suggestive ones are fine, but they will not get a response, if the character you're addressing has a minor as its VA, or an adult that would be uncomfortable with it.

This project is fully non-canon. VAs are allowed to use headcanons and personal interpretations when answering. It's also not really meant to be serious, so feel free to send us silly stuff :3

You should only submit things for characters that actually have VAs, as you wouldn't be able to get a response otherwise.

List of available characters, that you can currently send stuff to:

Survivor - @oliverwritesnow

Monk - @isnt-a-blog-blog (Spooky ARK is currently taking a break from the role)

Hunter - @astur-x

Watcher - @areon103

Gourmand - @fadebolt

Artificer - @arti-draws

Rivulet - @daikonical

Spearmaster- @dysfunctionalcore

Saint - @planetnohpyrg

Inv/Enot - @isnt-a-blog-blog

Looks to the Moon - @mewguca

Five Pebbles - @cctv-catgirl

No Significant Harassment - @beez-n-crackers

Seven Red Suns - @meggomoth

Sliver of Straw - @spellboundjava

Unparalleled Innocence - @bigtimefreq

Gazing Stars - @torra-does-stuff

Chieftain Scavenger - @wildbilldoo (backing up for @unrealwasas)

Lizards: Green, Pink, Blue, Red, Caramel - (used to be @asdasdasdasd1840, but the role is now open, due to their disappearance)

More Lizards: White, Salamander, Cyan - @astur-x

Black Lizard - @beez-n-crackers (backing up for @urealwasas)

Yellow Lizard - MrBob (backing up for @unrealwasas)

Eel Lizard - @oliverwritesnow

Train Lizard - @wildbilldoo

Scavenger - @areon103 (backing up for @unrealwasas)

Yeek - @meggomoth (backing up for @asdasdasdasd1840)

Other creatures: Squidcada, Lantern Mouse and Pole Plant - (used to be @asdasdasdasd1840, but the roles are now open, due to their disappearance)

Atlas (OC of @solarshaku) - @dysfunctionalcore

For images, refs and pieces of information regarding the OCs of our blog, you can check up on our Google Doc, which will be updated if we get new characters, or the VAs/owners want to change something.

The person primarily running this project and blog is me, @fadebolt. If you wish to voice act a character yourself, shoot me a DM, either here, or in Discord (my name is also 'fadebolt' there, and I'm in the main RW server, so finding me should be easy). There's absolutely no limit with the characters you could ask to VA. Slugcats (including Nightcat, as a separate character from Watcher), iterators, ancients, echoes, scavengers, any other species... they're all available! We also aren't limiting ourselves to just the base game. Characters from Downpour, characters from mods, OCs, and non-canon characters in general are also available (though if you're planning to VA a character owned by someone else, then make sure to consult them first). Recently, the VA of a few creatures, Asd, has disappeared without a trace. And as such, we're looking for new people to fill in their roles. Meaning that they're now fully open for taking! Those roles are the following: Green Lizard, Pink Lizard, Blue Lizard, Red Lizard, Caramel Lizard, Lantern Mouse, Squidcada, Pole Plant and Yeek. Just... don't ask for characters who are already taken. Asking to be a backup is fine (in fact, backup VAs would be more than welcome), but we're not stripping anyone of their role, just because someone else asked for it as well. This post will be regularly updated, with the list of all the taken characters, and their VAs. Characters who are not on the list do not have VAs, and are fully open.

Submit your OCs, to be featured on the blog:

If you're looking for some elaboration on the OC thing, you can find it within this post.

[callsignfate]

HELLO HELLO! Happy New Year! From 1 to 10, how would you rate 2023? (10 being the BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE and 1 being the worst year)

It's not my first time reading your work (which is amazing), but it's my first time making a request in your blog. I don't see one of those posts with the rules and boundaries to make a request soooo I hope this isn't disrespecting any of your rules.

Valeria Garza could have any woman she wants by her side. But not her personal assistant (reader). Reader always kindly reject valeria every time she invites her on a date or for a drink. Valeria never understand why but respect her decision.

One day valeria finds out reader is a single mother!!

Reader rejects valeria not because she's not interested but because she thinks when valeria finds out she has a kid, she would change her mind.

Take your time and take care 🫶

Valeria x Single mother

A/N: This is lightly edited as most posts might be for a bit, I'm just finishing all the drafts I left hanging and editing them as much as I can for the night. Thank you Anon for this idea and I have some fluff one-shots for this idea I might post as well. As for my 2023, it was rough so I would say 2 or 3 for most of it but it did have some nice times. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

TW: Mentions torture and hints to murder, child is gn! but referred to as beautiful.

Loving a woman who runs Las Almas would be a mistake, a huge mistake you always told yourself. Moving here to Las Almas to get away from the man who threatened everything you loved was one thing but to fall in love with a woman who was more dangerous than him was something you cursed at yourself for even thinking about it mentally every day.

The day you caved and took her offer to become some sort of secretary was one that you wish you could regret, but you often didn’t. The pay was great, giving you the chance to give you and your child something you dreamed of the day you had them. Stability. All you did was show people to her office and answer calls that weren’t the dangerous kind. Sometimes you’d keep track of whatever accounts she trusted you with and make sure nothing was coming in or out unexpectedly, easy enough.

You worked efficiently while you thought of the thing that usually plagued your mind, why you? She must have had hundreds of not thousands of people at her disposal, so why you? You didn’t let yourself think too deeply about it as the fear of losing the comfortable life you had made for you and your child over the now two years you worked for her.

You rarely missed days, only taking a few when your kid was sick or needed you, often saying instead that you were sick, she didn’t question it and never told you off for taking a day or two, only eyeing you slightly when you arrived back.

Valeria was always impressed with your work, she didn’t at first need a secretary, rather using it as an excuse to get closer to the woman who ran through her thoughts often when she first heard of a beautiful outsider's arrival to Las Almas, nothing came up that made her worry, and the few things she trusted you with at first always stayed in her inner circle so you were trustworthy, even if the things she told you at first were false, tests to see if the info would end up anywhere else.

As the months went on things got more comfortable, as she hoped they would. Hoping her little flirtatious comments would get through, they did most of the time, not that you weren’t quick to offer a small smile but quickly get back to the point of the conversation. The gifts she gave were met with endless thank you’s and a small smile before she'd find the items worth of money back into one of her accounts soon after.

Valeria was getting slightly impatient and confused, She could have anyone she wanted as most were at her feet, willing to receive gifts of her wealth that she rarely personally used on anything but well-made clothes or the standard needs for herself. Why weren’t you cracking? Why were you evading her efforts so well? Why were you so unwilling to take a gift, other than a holiday bonus? Many others have asked for this and tried to get close to El Sin Nombre for the same treatment you received.

The weekend rolled around again and like always she walked by your empty desk where you had always left a reminder sticky note for her, something that needed to be done over the weekend when you couldn't remind her yourself. She huffed and kept walking, taking a stroll through the streets of her empire for something to do wasn’t the worst idea, you told her many times to try it, and this once she did.

At first, Valeria walked with her men trailing her far back, looking as if they were too just strolling the bustling streets in the crowds. The store windows and many street vendors had nothing she could think of getting you that you wouldn’t return or pay her back for anyway. Valeria’s eyes scanned the street, and the people, many times over, until she spotted you being pulled around by a child who looked strikingly similar to you, you had an exhausted smile as you followed the kid seemingly pulling your arm off as you nodded and watched as the kid pointed to some toy a vendor was selling, she walked through the small crowds as she got closer to hear you talking, you were asking if they were sure if that's what they wanted, the kid nodded quickly, your back was to her but she could already tell that was you, and that was your child that held on tightly to your clothes with a tight fist, anxiously.

Before you could get out the money for the toy Valeria already paid for it, you looked over to her with a smile that fell into shock, the one secret you had desperately held on to, the one thing you had feared her finding out was now indisputable, there was nothing you could say to sway her otherwise. You stood there frozen before clearing your throat and trying to think of something, anything to say.

“Thank.. You.” You finally mumbled out before you looked down to see the toy already in their hands as they moved it around in the air, some dragon toy they had asked for many times, a toy they had only seen a few times because you didn’t want Valeria’s men to see you and possibly report back to her, you were so careful, your head felt like it was building with pressure, the soft thrumming your blood pumping through your veins filled your ears as you assumed they, like your face, were bright red.

Valeria noticed the shock and fear immediately, she wasn't a stranger to people looking at her like this, yet until now you hadn’t. You always had a polite smile and kind words to offer, even small talk when you both had the chance. Valeria was perfect at keeping her emotions hidden, yet this time she struggled to not react in any way to the fear that was so prevalent on your face that it looked like she had tied you to the chair and was getting ready to torture you.

Your mind was racing with anything to say or to do, but you felt paralyzed. She wouldn’t harm you but would she stop talking to you? Offering you small compliments and the job if she found out you were taking sick days for your child instead? You knew Valeria had a soft spot in her somewhere but were you in it?

“They’re beautiful, they look just like you,” Valeria said before offering them a piece of candy from the vendor, which she quickly paid for. Of course, they took it excitedly, with a small thank you before putting it in their mouth.

“Thank you… Again. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just didn’t want you to worry I wouldn’t be there or that I.. single mothers are somewhat frowned upon sometimes and I-” You rambled on filled with anxiety that felt like the world around you was louder and brighter than before.

Valeria saw this quickly, how anxious you were, how you pulled your child behind you and pressed them against you, for a moment she wished she had a mother who was willing to stand in front of someone deadly and still put themselves between it all. She offered her normal smile and a laugh, hoping to ease your worries.

“I’m not worried, I’m guessing this is why you always told me no to my many advances,” Valeria said with an amused tone, finally realizing it wasn’t that you weren’t interested, but rather you were worried she’d perceive you differently. Valeria was happy to know that her killing that man who ended up putting hits out on you and hunting you down wasn’t a terrible Idea. She could see the smallest resemblance to the father's in the child's face.

“I don’t want anyone in my life that isn't supportive or willing to help me take care of my child, they are my priority, always.” You said as the confidence slowly filled your town, the protectiveness Valeria could see in your eyes.

Before Valeria could say another word, she watched as your child begged to be picked up which you obliged, struggling to carry the bags with everything else. Valeria sighed and clicked her tongue in disagreement while shaking her head before she slid the bags off of your shoulders and tilted her head for you to lead the way to wherever else you were headed.

[noemilivv]

hi! once I saw ur account I knew that I had to request something!

sooo I was hoping to request some head cannons, or a one shot w vox from hazbin hotel!

maybe about him with a model!fem! reader? maybe reader works for velvette! also i’d prefer a one shot,but if head cannons work better for you,all the power to you babe!

don’t worry about getting to this request,your blog has gotten soo popular recently and I don’t want to drown you with another request <3

if it’s ok could I go by 🎀anon? I have a feeling i’ll be sticking around!

oh don’t worry about it!! and yes, ofc you can be 🎀 anon, i might call you bowie on occasion if that’s chill XD so yeah, fs!! here ya go!!

honestly i’m not really sure where i’d go with this for a oneshot so i’m doing hcs instead😭😭

Vox x Model!Reader

Romantic Headcanons

Vox thoroughly enjoys being there there for most, if not all your shoots, if he can’t be there for whatever reason — best believe he’s watching through cameras

You and Velvette are literally best friends, and you go to her for relationship advice all the time, so best believe she’s gonna rip Vox a new asshole if he ever fucked up

To be honest, Vox was never too into fashion trends, but the moment you two started dating he would be heavily invested in helping Velvette in the outfit creation department

He makes sure Velvette gives you the best of the best, and nothing less than that, not that he thinks she’ll let either of you down anytime soon

[littlebvtterfly]

While it is not yet Winter, it's close enough. So instead of making a Holiday exchange like last year, I'm just gonna pull it up a bit. I've been looking for something to do and am somewhat out of inspiration for my own creations currently. Let's be real here, you guys aren't knew to this, I know my regulars, you know how this goes by now. Just a reminder that I will not post a gift for you until you have for me!

But I'm excited to do this. I know we're all having new creations currently but even if it's an OC you've had for years, send them in. Come all, come merrily, or whatever the saying is.

The Rules and regulations are simple, but they exist nonetheless, so here they are:

The exchange, for now, is open until early December of 2024. May extend it if people are interested.

You may make 1-2 requests but I will probably reblog it saying you can ask for more if I'm still bored.

Please reblog this post to spread some awareness, please. You can like for remembrance but just a like doesn't count (you already know this, I know my 5 regulars who come here every time)!

As aforementioned, this is open to my regular drunks and new patrons alike, so please do not be shy. Think of me as I think of birds, I am more scared of you than you are of me.

Fill out the form linked below and find the password in the form!

Please only send me faceclaims with good quality and plenty of material to use. Also, no cartoon characters. Video game characters are all right if it's motion capture. I'm not trying to discriminate, it can just be really tough for me to find material for cartoons, animes, video games, etc. as I edit by making little video clips first blah blah blah. However, if you slide in my DMs we might be able to discuss some stuff.

Please, please, please fill out all the columns I need and choose at least two gift options. It makes it infinitely easier for me to make something for you. Just remember I can't read minds and it's worse when I can't find anything in your blogs.

Remember the pleases and thank you's, pleases and thank you's make my heart grow fond.

I don't do Harry Potter OCs or Stranger Things OCs and while I don't have a specific list of FCs I don't use, I ask that you do not request anything for overtly problematic actors, thank you!

I accept pretty much any gift in return, it can even be story reviews or playlists for people who don't/can't edit themselves. If it's a story review, please let me know in the form so I know you did as I don't check my accounts every day.

I'm fine with gifts for any of my OCs - my master list as well as the link to my Pinterest is in my pinned post.

FOR ANY OTHER QUESTIONS OR CONCERNS FEEL FREE TO SEND ME A MESSAGE AND I WILL TRY TO CLEAR EVERYTHING UP!

SEND ME SOME WINTERY FUN HERE, HERE IS THE LINK TO THAT FORM I MENTIONED, MERRY NOVEMBER

TAGGING: @eddysocs @foxesandmagic @ocs-supporting-ocs @veetlegeuse @decennia @hiddenqveendom @arrthurpendragon @luucypevensie @nikosasaki @noratilney @wordspin-shares @oneirataxia-girl @endless-oc-creations @stelstellakidd @andromedalestrange @far-shores @daughter-of-melpomene @bibaybe

[dollypopup]

so, there's been way too much infighting happening, and frankly a lot of disrespect in general in this fandom, and considering a lot of it is coming from either faceless anon blogs, burner accounts, or what I suspect are new people coming in to tumblr, here's the benefit of the doubt post:

how to tag: Luke, Nic, Polin, Colin, Lukola, Jakola, and Pen edition

tumblr is NOT like other social media platforms. cross tagging things that do not apply to your post generally just makes people upset. there's a very good reason for this: fandoms are communities, and for most people, tags are the community spaces. imagine you're going to the local library (for some people, your only library) and you're looking for a book on dinosaurs. you walk into the section and huh, strange, it's all about meteors? go to the front desk, has the dino section been changed? they take you back to the meteors. not what you're looking for. how about chickens? all well and good, but you want dinosaurs. okay, well, how about the ice age? no, you JUST want a book on dinosaurs. well, they say defensively, they're related. and what are you, anyway? the tag police?

well, first of all, ACAB, so jot that down real fast. but second of all, the outcome of this is that you leave without a book on dinosaurs. . .again. and again. and again.

at a certain point, you will either find that library useless, or you'll get upset.

so, here's the quick guide:

Nicola is in the picture or post? Awesome! Tag Nicola. No Luke? Don't tag Luke. It's just Nicola? Don't tag Polin, or Penelope, or Bridgerton, or Lukola, or whatever have you. It's just Nicola. Nicola and Jake? Tag Nicola and Jake. Tag Jakola. Done.

Nicola is there, but she's in Penelope costume. Cool! Tag Penelope. Tag Nicola. Bridgerton. Season 3. Shondaland. Sure, all justifiable. No Luke? No Luke tag. No Colin tag. No Colin? No Polin tag.

Pen and her and Colin's baby? Yes, tag Polin! No baby, just Pen? No baby, just Colin? Don't tag Polin.

Only Luke in the picture or post? Great! Tag Luke. No Nicola? Don't tag Nicola. Don't tag Lukola. Don't tag Bridgerton unless it pertains to Bridgerton. Don't tag Jakola.

The rule of thumb is- unless it is discussed or pictured, don't tag it. If it isn't there, leave it out of your tags. Otherwise, you're being kind of a jerk.

CAVEAT: If something or someone is discussed negatively. USUALLY, the courtesy is not to tag. Use an anti tag instead. Most people in a community do not go to that community to get dunked on. No, it's not discussion. Yes, it's rude. If you're talking about how much you hate apples? Just go to the anti apple tag. You get a community of people who also dislike apples, and if people DO like apples and go to that tag, they know what they're getting themselves into.

Basically, this is the 'don't get invited to a party and then shit in the pool' clause. Unless that party is a shitting in the pool party. In which case, have at it, and leave it in a tag that warns others

I think there would be a lot less issues in this fanbase if people just. . .stayed in their own lanes. This is where most of the tension is coming from. In the Polin days, it was from people making Pen/OC fics and tagging them Polin, obviously looking for eyes and attention from the larger tag, but ultimately upsetting people there for Polin, and now it's people tagging anything and anyONE that has to do with anything in the general cloud of Bridgerton (actors, love lives, etc.) all at once. Lukola and Jakola are different. Luke is not automatically Colin. Nicola in a picture does not warrant a Luke tag. If they're not there, leave them out of it.

Fandom is a community effort. Please have some respect for your fellow fan and tag accordingly. It's common courtesy, it's good practice, and it'll save a lot of headaches in the end.