#...which felt oddly apt

[aparticularbandit]

Also still mostly staying off of Tumblr. I let myself check roughly twice a day - yesterday I checked once (ish) more while doing the WIP requests (and may do so later today as I finish them up, if things go according to plan) - but if you're feeling a distinct lack of Bandit presence/interaction here....

That's why.

It's not y'all, btw!

I just. realized I have an unhealthy addiction and am trying to, ah, curb that.

(I've also found that when my mind wants something easy to do, I end up on my phone anyway. I'm trying to train myself not to immediately be on my phone when I'm bored or want something to do with my hands. This isn't going super great. But I'm not checking Tumblr every other minute or getting stuck in a cycle of checking over and over and over, so that's nice!)

[chxrrywines]

₊˚⊹♡ crybaby | sam winchester x reader

inspired by the song crybaby by searows

a/n - soooo i know i said my first fic back would be a smut fic but i’m a big fat liar and i’m posting this instead. i don’t think it’s amazing but it’s super self indulgent and after feeling shitty all week this is the result but the main thing is this is my first fic since november so whoop whoop!!

cws - fem!reader, 1.7k, established relationship, hurt/comfort, post-argument, crying, insecurity, unedited

other fics can be found on my masterlist

The pillow was cold and wet beneath her cheek from her tears. It was oddly comforting against the flush of her cheek. She’d always had obvious tells when she cried, it was something she hated. Her face would go red and her eyes would go puffy and there was simply no hiding it. People either asked what was wrong or pretended not to notice. She struggled to know whether people who didn’t ask did it out of sympathy or something much less kind.

Her red face and her puffy eyes and the glaring neon sign above her head that read crybaby was why she hadn’t left the safety of the bed, curled up under one of the blankets. The thought of Dean or Castiel seeing her so upset made her embarrassed to even think about, made her curl up tighter under the blanket as she blinked through some more tears.

Most of her crying had passed, no longer was she sobbing or shuddering through breaths that didn’t feel deep enough. Just some stray tears that slipped out of the corner of her eye, over the slope of her nose until it either fell on the pillow or it tickled against her skin too much and she wiped it away. Part of her wondered if it looked cinematic enough, that one stray tear. Did it make her look pretty? Movies had a knack of making pain look like art.

Sam knew she’d been crying, of course he did. He was the reason why she was curled up in her tears and misery in the first place. It really wasn’t often that they fought, neither of them could bear it. But she’d been struggling all week, a cloud over her head and a weight in her chest that wouldn’t shift, and Sam really had just been trying to help. But she’d felt smothered and snapped, and he’d gotten defensive, which turned into an argument that ended with him leaving to get some air and her sobbing into her pillow.

Sad didn’t seem like an apt enough word after the culmination of how she’d felt that week and the fight on top of it. It was a wonder she’d managed to stop crying at all.

The door creaked open behind her and she didn’t move, just stared at the wall she was facing as she blinked through another film of tears over her eyes. Sam didn’t like leaving her alone after they fought, how much he cared even when angry with her felt honestly undeserving. It made her want to break down again.

“Hey,” his voice was soft, almost nervous. She didn’t need to look to know he hadn’t moved from the doorway. “Are you asleep honey?”

She debated on pretending to be asleep just to wallow in her own misery for a little more, but she missed his touch and was selfish when it came to his comfort so she breathed out a soft, “No.”

“Can I come in? Or do you want to be left alone for a little while longer?”

The way she sniffled miserably felt like answer enough but she responded anyways. “No, no I don’t. Please come here.”

Embarrassed, she hadn’t turned to face him. Her cheek smushed into the pillow she fought with her trembling lip and watery eyes, hating the way just his presence was enough to set her off again. All of the anger had simmered away and just left guilt behind. It hadn't been his fault that she felt so awful.

“Alright, sweetheart,” his voice was so soft as he spoke. She heard the door click shut and a moment later the mattress dipped behind her, the familiar weight of him settling on it behind her. “You’ve got me, I’m here.” His arm curled around her waist and he pressed himself up against her back. The contact was so soothing that she just sighed as he got settled, flush against her until all she could feel was the comfort of him wrapped around her much more efficiently than her blanket. His hand crept underneath her shirt until his large palm cupped her ribs, rubbing over the skin that was only for his eyes with the pad of his thumb.

The contact was so soothing that tears were building again almost straight away. After a long miserable week the last thing she’d wanted to do was fight with her soulmate, it felt like a blessing that he’d come back to her so quickly. It was such a relief that she supposed that was where the tears had come from. Her hand reached for the one he had against her chest as he held her, and squeezing tightly she breathed out all shuddery. Patient as ever he didn’t say anything, just gave her the room to breathe through her tears, comforting her in silence. What a skill it was for him to know her so dearly.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually murmured into the comfortable silence that they’d built for themselves. “I just… I’ve had such an off week and I shouldn’t have shouted at you I’m really sorry, it’s— the last thing I wanted to do was—”

Her voice started wavering again and he shushed her gently, planting a kiss against the back of her head. “You were overwhelmed,” he murmured softly. “You were overwhelmed and I was smothering you, right?”

She hesitated before nodding, a second wave of relief at just how well he knew her head and how her brain worked. It was often the case that Sam managed to rationalise her thoughts before even she could. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmured, a hand lifting to tuck her hair out of the way before he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck. She swore her spine tingled as it travelled through to the bone. “But I also know that you didn’t mean to shout at me, you were just stressed.”

She sniffled again and nodded, rubbing at her eyes before giving his hand another squeeze. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

“I know,” he cooed, voice so soft it felt like a caress against the back of her neck. “I know, honey. I love you, okay? We’re perfectly fine.”

“I love you too.” She whispered, lifting his hand up to her mouth so she could kiss his knuckles, sealing her devotion with the press of her lips.

“There’s my girl,” Sam hummed, a few more kisses pressed to the back of her neck. “Can you turn over for me honey? I miss your pretty face.”

She huffed a breath into the pillow where she leaned a little more into, not moving. “I don’t look pretty right now I look like a crybaby.”

“Hey,” she didn’t have to be looking at him to know that he was frowning, she could hear it dripping off of his tone. “Don’t say that, you always look pretty, you look like my girl.”

Something about the sentiment made her heart flip in her chest and it warmed her enough to give in, sighing as she shuffled enough in his arms to roll over, blinking through any remaining tears to look up at him.

She watched in real time as he took it all in. The puffiness of her eyes, the flush on her skin, the wetness that still cling to her cheeks. Predictably, it didn’t deter him. He just sighed, a large palm cupped the side of her face as he stared. “Oh sweetheart,” he sighed, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead as she nuzzled into the warmth of his hand. “My pretty girl. Can I kiss you?”

Her nod was automatic as she fought more tears. Something about the gentleness and adoration in his tone even when she was like that stirred up a feeling that lodged itself in her throat and made her eyes sting. She wasn’t sure it was possible that anybody had ever been loved as strongly and dearly as Sam loved her.

His thumb swept under her eye and caught some lingering wetness as he leaned in, and the press of his lips to hers was so delicate that it made her breathing shake as she exhaled against his mouth. The kiss was soft, as loving and careful as Sam was in his entirety. There was no lust or desperation lingering beneath the surface, it was simply sweet.

“I love you,” he whispered as he pulled back with one last final peck to her mouth. “You have no idea how dear you are to me.”

“Think I have some idea.” She smiled, earning one in return. She could’ve studied the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as his lashes kissed for hours.

He simply hummed as he stole another kiss. “We’ll go and get something to eat in a little while, okay?” He murmured softly. “But I thought it’d be nice if we read for a while.”

Nothing sounded better than being curled up in his arms and read to so she smiled as she nodded her head. “Sounds perfect to me.” She planted a kiss to the side of his neck just to seal the words in.

“Perfect.” Still smiling, Sam reached for his tattered copy of Frankenstein on his bedside table. It had been their reading pick for the last few days though they’d read it a few times together before, it had actually been the first book he’d read to her so it held a certain amount of sentimentality to it. She got settled against his chest and watched as he opened the book, one hand in her hair and one hand free to hold it up as he started reading. His chest rumbled beneath her ear with every word spoken, his voice and touch so soothing that she had to smile as she settled against him and listened to the story. She wasn’t sure that she could think of a better heaven.

if you’d like to be added to my tag list pls send me an ask letting me know what fics you’d like to be tagged for <3

@samsblades @angelicjackles

[sabrinasopposite]

don’t you want me like i want you?

clark kent x guitarist!reader

don’t you want me

like i want you baby?

sleep tonight but tonights going crazy

meet me at the…. APT.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

For some, music is a companion—a loyal shadow that lingers, a daily necessity. But for others, it’s more. It’s everything. They don’t just hear it; they see it in the shifting hues of the sky, feel it in the vibration of the earth, live it in every heartbeat. For them, music isn’t a sound; it’s a language, a lifeline, a mirror.

For y/n, it was all of that and more. It was a sanctuary, the only way to release the emotions she couldn’t quite speak aloud. Music was her escape—a getaway car racing through uncharted roads. Plug in the headphones, press play, and suddenly, the world became a little softer, a little brighter. It was like being handed a map to a place only she understood.

But sometimes, the search for new music felt like a hunt—a quest for the perfect sound that could stir her soul, rekindle a spark, or provide the soundtrack for a moment she hadn’t yet lived. For y/n, this hunt was eternal, an ache as familiar as the chords of her favorite songs.

She had arrived in Smallville just weeks ago, a town so quiet it seemed like it could have been plucked from the second verse of a Radiohead track—melancholic yet oddly serene, with beauty tucked between its stillness. It was a far cry from the electric heartbeat of New York City, where she’d spent most of her life.

Smallville felt like a genre she’d never chosen—like a punk rocker trying to write country ballads. You either adapted and found the rhythm, or you didn’t. Y/n wasn’t sure yet which way it would go.

New York had been loud, chaotic, a symphony of endless possibility. Smallville was... still. Too still. But in that stillness, y/n found space to think—a fact that scared her more than she cared to admit. Change was like hearing a song for the first time: jarring, unfamiliar. But sometimes, if you gave it a chance, the melody could surprise you.

Her first days in Smallville were spent wandering its streets, letting herself get lost, hoping to stumble upon something—a spark, a rhythm, a new favorite lyric in this quiet album of a town. High school loomed on the horizon, another challenge she wasn’t ready to face. Her only solace was her family: her parents and her older brother, Theodore.

Theodore was her opposite in some ways but her twin in one crucial aspect—music. While she craved the melancholic poetry of The Smiths and the atmospheric pull of Fleetwood Mac, Theodore was all raw energy. His heroes were The Clash and the Sex Pistols, their messy rebellion plastered all over his bedroom walls.

Their playlists were mismatched, but their shared passion for sound connected them like two strings on the same guitar.

“You listen to sad music,” Theodore teased one night as she scribbled lyrics in her worn notebook.


“And you listen to angry music,” she shot back, smirking.


“Anger gets things done. What does sadness do?”
“It makes you feel,” she replied simply, her words trailing into the hum of a record spinning in the background.

It was during one of her aimless walks through Smallville that y/n saw it—a poster taped to a lamppost, its bold letters practically leaping off the page:

“LIVE MUSIC! TALON EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT!”

Her heart skipped, the words striking a chord in her chest. She’d passed the Talon a few times—a cozy coffee shop with an unassuming exterior—but now, it gleamed with possibility.

A smile crept across her face, bright and mischievous like the neon ink on the poster. Maybe this is it, she thought. A way to feel like herself again. To stop feeling like a background instrument in her own life.

She ran her fingers over the strap of her guitar case later that night, her mind racing. She hadn’t performed since New York—a string of open mics where she poured her heart out to strangers in dark rooms. But this felt different. This felt like the start of a new setlist.

Theodore didn’t take much convincing. Over dinner, she pitched the idea “Live music at this place called the Talon. Friday night. Let’s go.”


“You mean you should go,” he replied with a smirk. “With your brooding Smiths covers.”


“And you can bring your chaotic drum solos,” she countered, grinning. “Fine. But I get to pick one song,” theodore said, his grin mirroring hers.

🖤

As the days rolled by, the night of the Talon finally awrrived. y/n had been counting down to it, her excitement mingling with nervous energy.

The Talon wasn’t just any coffee shop—it was the place to be in Smallville. By day, it was a cozy corner where locals sipped lattes and caught up on homework. By night, it transformed into a buzzing hub for the town’s younger crowd, especially students from Smallville High.

Lana Lang, a fellow student, was the mastermind behind it all. Running the Talon was more than just a job for Lana—it was her dream, a vision she’d nurtured into reality. She’d given the shop a unique vibe, blending vintage cinema posters and retro lighting with warm, earthy tones that made it feel timeless. The Talon was Lana’s way of shaping the world around her, just like music shaped y/n’s.

For y/n, tonight was about sharing her heart through her guitar. But for Clark Kent, tonight was about surviving his friends’ enthusiasm.

Clark hadn’t planned on going. Events like this weren’t his thing—too loud, too crowded, and not exactly farm-boy friendly. But Chloe and Pete had been relentless.

“Come on, Clark!” Chloe said, practically dragging him along Main Street. “You can’t spend every Friday night doing farm stuff or staring at your ceiling. Live a little!” Yeah, man,” Pete added. “The Talon’s where it’s at. Music, coffee, and a crowd that’s actually, you know, alive. It’s way better than your barn.”

Clark sighed, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “I don’t even like these kinds of events. You guys know that.”

“That’s because you’ve never given them a chance,” Chloe said with a knowing smile. “And besides, Lana’s worked really hard to put this together. The least you can do is show up and support her.”

Clark glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “So this is about Lana.”

“No,” Chloe replied quickly—too quickly. “It’s about live music. Supporting local talent. Being a good friend. And, okay, maybe it wouldn’t kill you to, you know, talk to her while you’re there.”

Pete laughed. “Clark Kent, master of subtlety. I bet he stands in the corner all night, sipping coffee and avoiding eye contact.”

Clark shook his head but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Fine. I’ll go. But only for a little while.” Chloe and Pete exchanged victorious looks as they stepped into the Talon.

The place was already packed, the buzz of conversation and laughter filling the air. Y/n and Theodore arrived early, her guitar slung over her shoulder and his drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. Theodore had been grumbling about being dragged out of the house, but Y/n could see the glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Clark, on the other hand, stuck close to Chloe and Pete, scanning the room. The warmth of the fairy lights and the smell of coffee filled the air, and despite himself, he felt a bit more at ease.

“See?” Chloe said, nudging him. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

Clark shrugged but stayed quiet. His eyes wandered to the small stage at the far end of the shop, where musicians were setting up. He didn’t recognize anyone, but something about the electric energy in the air made him pause.

🖤

Meanwhile, Y/n was standing offstage, tuning her guitar and stealing glances at the growing crowd. Her nerves were starting to show, but Theodore gave her a reassuring nudge. “You’ve got this,” he said, tapping his drumsticks against his leg.

“Thanks,” she replied, trying to steady her breathing. This was it—the start of something new, in a place she was still trying to call home. And as the first chords echoed through the Talon, the crowd quieted, and all eyes turned to the stage.

y/n stood at the center of the small stage, her white guitar resting comfortably in her arms, as if it had always been there. Her outfit—a mix of rockstar glam and effortless charm—caught the light just enough to make her seem larger than life.

She looked like the kind of girl people might describe as a "rockstar’s girlfriend," but there was no mistaking her presence. She wasn’t anyone’s shadow; she was the main event. A free spirit with fire in her veins and a guitar that held all the words she couldn’t speak aloud.

Her style might have turned heads, but it was her eyes that truly shone under the purplish lights. They sparkled with the energy of someone who had something to say and wasn’t afraid to let the music do the talking.

The room buzzed softly with conversation as she stepped up to the mic. She leaned in, her lips curling into a playful grin. “Hi, everyone,” she began, her voice warm but laced with the sharpness of her New Yorker accent. “Hope you guys are ready for something a little... rocky tonight.” She chuckled, the sound carrying through the room like the first strum of a chord.

y/n scanned the small crowd of the Talon, her heart pounding. The faces staring back weren’t familiar, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t performing for recognition. This was her way of speaking to the world, of sharing her stories—even if some of those stories were ones she’d only imagined.

Love, for instance. It wasn’t something she’d experienced firsthand, but it was a world she often visited in her mind. She’d written countless poems about it, pouring her thoughts into metaphors and melodies.

Tonight, she was ready to turn those words into something real, even if it was just for three minutes under the Talon’s lights. She glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with Theodore. His drumsticks were poised in his hands, his posture relaxed but ready. She gave him a small nod, a signal to drop the bass and let the rhythm take over.

With that, Theodore struck the first note, a deep, vibrating pulse that seemed to ripple through the room. y/n felt the vibration in her chest, grounding her, reminding her why she loved this. The noise of the crowd softened as the music began to build, pulling everyone’s attention toward the siblings on stage.

y/n closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling the weight of the guitar in her hands. Then she opened them, her fingers finding the strings instinctively. The first chord rang out clear and strong, cutting through the hum of the room like a declaration.

The song they were playing was called APT, a fun, energetic piece she had written inspired by a drinking game her friend from downtown, NYC had introduced her to.

It was a game called Apteu, and although it was just a silly tradition, it had given y/n the perfect material for a lighthearted, upbeat song. The track was full of energy and rhythm, designed to get people moving and feeling good—just the kind of vibe she wanted to set in this crowded room tonight.

She started to sing, her voice rising and falling with the melody, effortlessly weaving through the rhythm. Her eyes sparkled with passion, each word she sang carrying the weight of emotions she often kept hidden. When y/n sang, it was like she wasn’t just performing; she was living inside the song, letting every note and lyric become part of her. She embodied it, lost in the world of the music, letting it carry her to places she could only dream about.

Her voice was a perfect blend of sweetness and edge, like honey with a kick of spice.

“Don't you want me like I want you, baby?

Don’t you want me like I need you now?

Sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. All you gotta do is just meet me at the…”

Her voice echoed through the Talon, drawing the crowd into her spell.

Clark, who had been standing in the back, arms folded and quietly observing, found himself completely captivated. His eyes followed y/n as she moved, completely lost in the song, and suddenly, he realized he was too. It wasn’t just the music—it was the way she poured herself into every note, the way she made it feel like her voice was something raw and real, like it had never been rehearsed, only lived.

His friends, Chloe and Pete, were watching him, but Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away. The entire room seemed to pulse with the beat, and y/n was at the center of it, effortlessly drawing everyone into her orbit. He wasn’t sure if it was the way the song felt so alive, or the way y/n seemed so in tune with every word she sang, but there was something about it—something about her—that hit him harder than he expected.

“She’s good,” Chloe whispered, nudging him. ,,Better than good, actually.”

Pete grinned. “I told you. This is way better than farm chores.”

Clark barely heard them. His focus was entirely on y/n, who was lost in the music. Her eyes glinted with emotion, her whole body swaying in time with the rhythm, and Clark felt that strange spark again, like the first crack of lightning on a stormy night. He was drawn to her in a way he didn’t understand, but the more she sang, the more he couldn’t look away.

y/n smiled briefly as she sang, her gaze briefly meeting Clark’s across the room. It was a fleeting moment, just long enough for him to feel something—a connection he couldn’t name, but he couldn’t ignore.

As she finished the song with a flourish, the crowd cheered, and y/n’s face lit up, glowing with the warmth of the applause. But for a brief second, Clark was still caught in the aftershocks of that look, a smile that was just for him—or at least, that’s how it felt.

The crowd cheered, some shouting their praise while others lingered at the edge of the stage, chatting and laughing. y/n was swarmed by a few people who complimented her performance, but she stayed humble, thanking them with a bright smile and an easy laugh. Theodore hung back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a quiet pride.

As the buzz of conversation filled the air, y/n and her brother moved off the stage, standing near the side of the room to catch their breath. Clark, still lost in the aftershock of her performance, was snapped back to reality when Chloe grabbed his arm, pulling him forward.

“Come on, Clark, let’s go say hi! You can't just stand there looking like you’re stuck in a trance,” she teased, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Pete followed, still grinning. “Yeah, man. She’s great, huh? Let’s go talk to her.”

🖤

They walked toward the area where Y/N and Theodore stood, and for a moment, Clark hesitated. His heart was still pounding, and his mind was a little lost in the world he’d just experienced. It was just a song, just a girl—yet, something about the way she’d sung had gotten under his skin. But as they got closer, he found himself caught in the whirl of people milling around, all eager to meet the new musician, all laughing and talking.

“Hey, I just wanted to say you did an amazing job,” Chloe said, reaching Y/N and flashing her a wide smile.

Y/N returned her smile, her eyes still alight from the performance. “Thanks! Glad you liked it. It’s always a little nerve-wracking to play for people you’ve never met.”

“Well, you nailed it,” Pete chimed in. “You’ve got a real gift. And that song—APT—man, that was infectious. You had everyone in here dancing with you.”

Y/N laughed, her voice warm and sincere. “I’m just glad it got people vibing. It’s one of those silly songs, you know? You gotta embrace the fun in it.”

Theodore stood silently beside her, occasionally nodding when someone complimented his drumming, but for the most part, he seemed content to watch his sister shine in the spotlight.

Clark hung back, not sure if he should join the conversation. His mind was still racing with thoughts of Y/N, of how she seemed so at ease on stage, and how her smile had made him feel like they were the only two people in the room. But he didn’t speak up. Instead, he found himself standing just out of reach, watching quietly, unsure of what to say.

After a few moments, the conversation began to drift away from the music, and people started to break off into smaller groups, chatting about other things. Clark felt the opportunity slipping away.

“I guess we should get going,” Chloe said after a while, her tone casual, but there was a hint of something in her voice, like she could tell Clark was still lost in the night’s events. “It’s getting late, and we don’t want to leave our fearless leader to fend for himself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete agreed, giving Clark a playful nudge.

Y/N’s eyes caught Clark’s again as they turned to leave. Their gazes met, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world paused. But before Clark could say anything—before he could find the courage to step forward and introduce himself—she turned back to talk to someone else, lost in the group.

Clark hesitated, and the moment passed.

“Well, that was… interesting,” Pete said with a grin as they headed toward the door. “You seemed like you were a million miles away, man. You’re telling me you didn’t feel that? She’s something else, huh?”

Chloe gave him a teasing look. “Clark’s not the type to swoon over a girl in a coffee shop, Pete. Let him off the hook.”

Clark didn’t answer. His thoughts were elsewhere, stuck on the look they’d shared. He thought, maybe, there could have been something. But as they walked out of the Talon and into the cool night air, the excitement of the night began to fade, and he couldn’t help but think—he’d probably never see her again.

Y/N looked behind, her gaze following Clark as he walked out of the shop. Her eyes lingered on his tall figure and dark hair—he looked like a soft song, something out of Fleetwood Mac's Dreams or maybe Tears for Fears' Head Over Heels.

Her heart was pounding, maybe from the adrenaline still coursing through her after the performance. Or maybe it was the memory of those ocean-blue eyes.

🖤

The weekend passed, and Monday arrived all too quickly. For some students, it was just another Monday. Clark hadn’t expected to see Y/N again. Hell, he didn’t even know her name or who she was, but a part of him felt like he’d known her forever. Maybe it was the music that surrounded her—the way it made her seem like someone whose story everyone somehow already knew.

He’d thought about her all weekend.

Her song was stuck in his head, just like the memory of those purple lights that seemed to reflect her presence.

But another thought kept creeping in—he’d probably never see her again. She sounded like she came from New York; maybe it had been just a visit. What kind of girl like that would live in Smallville? She seemed like she belonged in a vinyl shop, or in some city where she was constantly surrounded by music.

Yet, as he walked down the hallway of Smallville High, he saw her.

Y/N was leaning against a locker, laughing and talking with Theodore. Her bright smile seemed to light up the entire hallway, and for a moment, Clark felt the world slow down.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Sure, he’d been shy around Lana earlier that school year, but this was different. He didn’t even know Y/N—he’d only met her eyes across a crowded room. And yet, here he was, feeling… weird.

When their eyes met again, Y/N smiled, a mix of recognition and curiosity. She nudged Theodore and pointed in Clark’s direction.

“That’s the guy from the other two people who congratulated us—Friday night!” she said.

Theodore glanced over his shoulder, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Sis, a lot of people talked to us that night. I barely even remember the girl who gave me her number.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and walked away from her brother, heading straight toward Clark. His steps slowed, but his heart raced faster with every second.

“Hey, aren’t you the guy from the Talon—Friday night?” she asked with a warm smile as she approached him.

Clark blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Clark. Clark Kent.”

“Y/N,” she said, extending her hand. Her handshake was firm, confident. “So, do you go to every show, or was Friday just a lucky coincidence?”

“I don’t usually go to shows,” he admitted, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But maybe… I’ll consider going to more.”

Y/N grinned, her expression easy and relaxed. Something about her grounded him, helping him find his footing. She was tilting her head slightly as if studying him. “You don’t seem like the ‘crowded coffee shop’ type. What pulled you in? Was it the music, or did someone drag you there?”

Clark chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Chloe and Pete—they kind of insisted. Said I needed to ‘get out more.’”

“Sounds like good friends,” she said with a laugh. “It were the two that I talked to— right?”

“Yeah—- they loved it seriously,” Clark admitted. “And I… well, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” His words came out more honest than he’d intended, and he quickly added, “The music, I mean. You were amazing up there.”

Her expression softened, a touch of surprise flickering in her eyes. “Thanks. That means a lot.” She paused, glancing at him curiously. “So, what do you do? Besides getting dragged to coffee shops by your friends, I mean.”

“Mostly farm stuff,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of shyness. “My family has a farm just outside of town.”

“That explains the whole ‘rugged, mysterious’ thing you’ve got going on,” Y/N teased, crossing her arms as she leaned against a nearby locker.

Clark laughed, a little flustered. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me mysterious before.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything,” she said with a playful shrug. Then her tone shifted, becoming more sincere.

Clark smiled and looks at her. ,,And— the guy with the drums was your boyfriend or..?” he said curiously— of course he didn’t want to build up some hopes but, why not asking right?

Her smile widened, and she glanced back toward Theodore, who was still leaning against the lockers, pretending not to listen.

“Well— definitely not. His name is Theodore and he is my older brother. He shares the same passion like me— he is more into sex pistols and I am more into the smiths. But music’s always been my thing. It’s… kind of like home, no matter where I am.” she started to ramble— she was quite a talker.

Clark nodded and found that adorable of how she got into a conversation flow. “That makes sense. You looked like you belonged up there.”

Y/N looked at him for a moment, her gaze softening. “Thanks, Clark. Really.” Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added, “So, are you going to stick with the ‘guy who never goes to shows’ routine, or are you thinking about breaking that streak?”

He smiled, shifting his weight slightly. “I guess that depends. Are you playing again soon?”

“Maybe,” she said, clearly enjoying the game. “Guess you’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Clark nodded, his shyness melting away as her energy pulled him in. “I’ll do that.”

“Good,” she said with a soft smile. “See you around, Clark Kent.”

And with that, she turned back to Theodore, leaving Clark standing in the middle of the hallway, feeling like the world had shifted just slightly under his feet.

As he watched her walk away, Pete and Chloe appeared at his side, both smirking.

“Smooth, Clark,” Pete teased. “Real smooth.”

Chloe grinned. “So, is this where we start dragging you to more coffee shop gigs?”

Clark didn’t answer. His gaze was still fixed on Y/N, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Maybe you should.”

🖤 i hope u guys enjoyed! and stream APT by my girl rosé

[wchswift]

hiii, it's me again 😭 oh God i'm sorry, i feel a bit pathetic here 😭 but i have another request :3

can you do modern day leopold (HE'S SO BAE I LOVE HIM SM) picking out flowers for his s/o cause he noticed his s/o is a bit down lately? (i took this idea from your prompt!) hope you don't minddd hehe

Petals for a Heavy Heart

Pairing: Leopold Mountbatten x Reader Summary: When Leopold notices that you haven't been looking well lately, he decides to pick out a bouquet of flowers to make you feel better and loved. Content: established relationship, feeling down, comfort, fluff, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 932 notes: hello!! whatt no need to apologize I'm glad you sent me another request! And omg I'm so so happy it's for Leopold, I've been wanting to write something for him so much :3 I loved that you choosed the idea of the prompts, I ended up following your request more than the prompt itself, I hope I wrote it as you expected <3

The delicate chime of the flower shop bell rang as Leopold Mountbatten pushed open the glass door. A faint blush of winter lingered in the air outside, but the shop was warm, bathed in sunlight streaming through the large windows, illuminating rows upon rows of vibrant blooms. The soft fragrance of roses, daisies, and lavender mingled together, wrapping around Leopold like a comforting embrace.

His brows furrowed slightly as he scanned the room. He hadn’t stepped into a flower shop since his days of royal ceremonies—occasions when arrangements were chosen for him, not by him. But this time was different. This time, it was for you.

You’d been quieter than usual the past few days. The sparkle in your eyes had dimmed, and your usual wit had softened into something wistful. Leopold had noticed—how could he not? And while he wasn’t the type to smother with concern, he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

Flowers, he thought. Flowers could bring a little light back into your day.

“Good morning,” a cheery voice broke through his thoughts. A petite florist with a warm smile stood behind the counter, hands dusted with pollen. “Looking for something special?”

Leopold adjusted the collar of his cashmere coat. “Yes, actually. For… someone important to me.” He paused, feeling oddly self-conscious. “They’ve been feeling a bit down lately.”

The florist’s smile softened knowingly. “Ah, I see. Let’s find something that speaks to them. Do they have a favorite flower?”

Leopold’s lips curved into a small smile. “Orchids, I think. They’ve always had a fondness for them. Which symbolize purity, prosperity, and good health… So I guess might be appropriate.”

Her eyes lit up. “You know your flowers.”

Leopold’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I do. They’ve always been a subject of interest." Stepping closer to the flowers, he added smoothly, "We could also add some peonies. Symbolic of healing and happiness., an apt choice for the occasion.”

“Good choice,” the florist said, leading him toward a vibrant display of blush-pink blooms. “How about colors? Warm tones are uplifting, while softer hues can be calming.”

He considered this, his gaze lingering on the rich reds and delicate whites. He thought of how your laughter once filled their apartment, how it now felt like something fragile and fleeting. “Something warm but soft,” he decided, pointing toward the pink and coral-colored peonies. “They’re understated but still… hopeful.”

As the florist began assembling the bouquet, Leopold found himself wandering through the aisles, his fingers grazing petals and leaves. Each bloom seemed to hold its own personality—vibrant sunflowers, gentle baby’s breath, elegant lilies. He plucked a sprig of lavender from a nearby basket, its scent reminding him of the evenings you spent curled up on the couch, a lavender-scented candle flickering nearby. Lavender is also for tranquility. He hummed and added it to the mix.

Back at the counter, the florist held up the arrangement. “What do you think?”

It was perfect—beautiful orchids with peonies in soft shades of coral and blush, accented with sprigs of lavender and tiny white asters. The bouquet was cheerful yet gentle, a reflection of everything he wanted to say without words.

Leopold nodded. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

As he handed over his card to pay, the florist wrapped the bouquet in delicate paper and tied it with a ribbon. “I hope they feel better soon,” she said warmly.

Leopold smiled faintly. “I think this will help.”

When he arrived home, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders. The soft glow of the afternoon sun painted your features, but your eyes were distant, lost in thought.

“Darling,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. You glanced up, a flicker of surprise crossing your face as you noticed the bouquet in his hands.

“What’s this?” you asked, sitting up as he approached.

“For you,” he said simply, handing you the flowers. “I noticed you’ve been feeling… off. I thought these might help.”

Your eyes widened as you took the bouquet, fingers brushing over the soft petals. The fragrance enveloped you, a gentle blend of peony and lavender. A smile, small but genuine, tugged at your lips. “Leopold, this is… really thoughtful.”

He sat down beside you, his posture casual, but his eyes intent on your face. “I'm not the best at expressing what I want through words,” he admitted. “But I wanted you to know I’m here. Whatever’s on your mind, you don't have to go through it alone.”

Your gaze softened, and for the first time in days, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter. “Thank you,” you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

He smirked, Leopold’s hand rested lightly on yours, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin. “It’s hardly a grand gesture,” he said, his tone lightly self-deprecating. “But if it brings even a fraction of your smile back, then it has served its purpose.”

But as he felt you relax beside him, your breath evening out, he knew it wasn’t about being amazing. It was about being there for you—in every small, quiet way that mattered.

And at that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the afternoon and the delicate fragrance of flowers, he was content with the room feeling a little warmer, a little brighter—a reflection of the unspoken love between you.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[the--highlanders]

i'd love to hear your thoughts on jamie's relationship with gender

anon you just activated my unskippable cutscene

in terms of jamie's gender. the first thing we have to look at is where he's coming from, contextually. and where he's coming from is a culture with a language that makes no distinction between the words for man and husband, or woman and wife. you're a boy or a girl, and then you get married and you're a man or a woman. if you look at the dictionary entry for 'balach', the word for boy, you also get 'bachelor of any age'. jamie in the highlanders is 22 years old, but he's still excluded from his cultural definition of manhood by virtue of not having a wife.

I also want to point to gèidh / gàidhealach by mark spencer-turner here. while it's more looking at modern gaelic constructions of gender than historic ones, I think its idea if the gaelic man as a gaelic speaker + who has a wife + who participates in specific social/cultural behaviours and situations is something that can be back-projected. and the modern-day rigidity of excluding men somewhat from full access to manhood if they, say, work an office job rather than a more traditional job also feels relevant. traditional constructions of gender - in any culture, but specifically here in gaelic culture - are built on so many small building blocks of participating in the 'right' social behaviours.

and then we've got jamie. he's a good enough piper to be compared to his father. clearly an apt enough fighter, and not willing to back down from a fight, either. presumably did all the right things and was seen in all the right places for a teenage boy to be, growing up. in that sense, he's not particularly non-conforming. and yet, crucially, he's queer, which throws a big wrench into the whole 'heterosexual marriage is key to access to manhood' thing. I don't think jamie necessarily had a good grasp on his queerness growing up, but I /do/ think the idea of growing up and getting married felt Wrong to him - and from there you end up with a general alienation from the idea of being A Man, too. he doesn't want to be A Husband, so he doesn't want to be A Man, because they're sort of the same thing. he's more comfortable with the idea of being balach, a boy, a bachelor of any age.

now as always the phantom piper does a lotttt of heavy lifting here for me, just by being so Interesting about jamie's family dynamics. on-screen, his father is his only named relative, the man who others compare him to and contextualise him against, the piper who taught and raised him - but it's his mother's pride he remembers, when he's finally fully qualified as a piper himself. his father doesn't get a look in, here. as a child, he idolises his grandfather - his father's father - and wants to be just like him. as the oldest son, he probably bears his grandfather's name. in the highlanders, he's called /wee jamie/, which I tend to think of as a translation of his descriptive name - seumadh beag, little jamie, as opposed to his grandfather. but somewhere along the lines, that idolisation breaks, and as an adult he doesn't describe his grandfather in particularly glowing terms. it's his grandmother he wants to be like, and whose words he turns into a core part of himself. everyone he knows sees him in light of his father and grandfather, sees him as the inheritor of their legacies - but in himself, he's much more comfortable with the women in his family, and wants to be more closely connected to them. his closest icons for masculinity are distant from him, somehow, or actively distasteful.

(he also has a male best friend who dies in his arms, so. negative points for the heterosexuality once again)

I don't think jamie ever really labels his gender, or that it would occur to him that he might want to do so. it probably sits oddly with him if someone calls him a man, but he shrugs it off. travelling in the tardis is incredibly freeing in that sense, because he's free from the weight of social expectations - nobody sees him as the successor to his father and his grandfather, just as himself. and he's ultimately able to explore his queerness, embrace that part of himself, and not live with the expectation that he'll have to follow the same pattern of life as everyone else, no matter how much he dislikes the idea. after a certain point, he probably just stops thinking about his gender entirely, so he winds up a bit apathetic to the whole thing. there's other things about him which are far more important. but I think there's always something of a wound inside him from 22 years of struggling with everyone's expectations that he'll grow into something he's not, thriving in some areas and absolutely failing in others - and I think if he was ever in a situation where he got to introduce himself with a descriptive name, it wouldn't be seumaidh beag. he's not a younger version of his grandfather. he's not seumaidh dòmhnall, either, jamie son of donald, son of his father. if he had the choice, I think he'd probably be seumaidh mairead, jamie son of mairead, son of his mother.

[lxmelle]

JJK0: Gojo’s secret words and Chapter 236: A Satirical translation Geto’s “……”

Gojo: "I love everyone, so I'm not lonely anymore..."

Geto: ........... (Another love confession? Srsly - translations in edit were my own, lol)

Give him a break Gege 😂 how many times does he have to witness people telling him that they love someone else?

Yuta: From here onwards, let’s really be together forever. I love you Rika. (愛してる used; a more traditional “embarrassing” way to profess a romantic love).

Rika: “daidaidaidaidaidaidai daisuki da yo!!” (Uh, it’s like “so so so so so so so- I love you SO much!!!")

Riko: Kuroi, I love you! From now, and until forever!

Kuroi: me too...!! I love you...

No wonder love is like a curse - people seem to die if they get confessed to.

People loved Geto and I think it's not a stretch to imagine that when love was directed to him, it might not have been voiced out. Geto witnessed confessions made to other people. If they loved him, he probably never got told because this isn't really a part of the Japanese culture.

The twins: love, love, love.

It is interesting to note that they don’t actually say they love him. Just 「大好き」 which literally translates to “big liking/affection”. It is implied through.

But the panels above and below refers to Gojo (above, Geto: “my best friend” in the past tense, “there was a fight and that was that.” And below, MimiNana: “we couldn’t forgive the Gojo Satoru who killed our Geto-sama, but we were willing to let it be...” it is cut off in my screenshot, but it goes onto say because Gojo was Geto’s one and only best friend).

One could also stretch the interpretation and say that because they recognised the love Geto has for Gojo, they were be willing to let it be. Just like Yuta recognised the love Gojo has for Geto and sought to slay Kenjaku so he didn’t have to do it again.

Larue and Miguel again noting in their exchange that they all loved Geto, and they cared for each other like family. There was another time where they referred to being familial, but loving wasn’t mentioned, so I left it out on purpose. But it was implied. Geto had a set of scrolls hanging behind him at the temple that said, “Death to the foolish, Punishment for the weak, Love for the strong.” I guess he felt all those things were true. But when it was his end, he only wanted Gojo Satoru there. I’m glad he got to choose who killed him I guess. And his family escaped.

So with Gege’s love for foreshadowing, maybe all of those scenes of confession-witnessing and love implications parallel with this moment:

Ha.

It really would make so much more sense if Gojo’s last words were, in fact, 「大好きだよ、僕の親友」 (“I love you, my best friend.” - in fact, it makes more sense than simply, “you’re my one and only best friend.” It is pure headcanon though (´∀���)

As I mentioned earlier: The phrase 「大好き」 and usage of it doesn’t necessarily mean romantic love, but rather “to like a lot”. I’ll hold my hand up and say I’m not native speaker though, so please accept my apologies if I’m wrong and please correct me if I am! My understanding is that the context matters a lot. The English VA said it was three words in the English language - “my best friend” sounds weird conversationally. “You did well” seems oddly placed and may not illicit a blushing smile. “I love you” seems more apt. Personally, anyway.

I don’t think the same word-limit is imposed in the Japanese version. So again, I think it’s a phrase like “I love you my best friend”. Because it was also apparently embarrassing and said before within jjk0 (could be anyone’s words) but never between them.

So the criteria is met as Gojo is likely to use Rika’s version of “I love you” (daisuki da yo) over Yuta’s “I love you” (aishiteru). Not likely said between them in their friendship.

Also, because he has used it in chapter 236 to refer to the students - so! It is not a stretch for him to say that to Geto. It also explains why Geto goes, “…..” as the phrase of affection may have been familiar to him. He may be thinking about how Gojo has grown and reflected on how distant they felt - when the line was drawn. He notices that Gojo recognised the shift in him. Or, it could be that he “overthinked” that he was replaced.

And then the clincher is, ofc, where as soon as Geto thinks he can conclude that Gojo has been fulfilled by his students cuz he said he is no longer lonely and he had an all-out brawl with another man that he (Geto) never managed to give the Strongest, he is told: his presence would have likely made Gojo satisfied. Bahahaha!! Yes, you shed those tears... you’re loved, you dumbo. (I say that lovingly.)

Gojo Satoru as the Strongest may have needed something you can’t give, but Gojo Satoru as himself was only satisfied with you. Can you be honest now?!? Gojo, is it really enough for him to be by your side and waiting for you at the airport, huh??? Or was it enough for you to see the millennia-old Kenjaku be shocked silly by Geto’s body proving his undying love for you by moving when you called out his first name?? lol. These boys make me feel like a giddy schoolgirl at times; yeah, if only this story wasn’t so dark.

Anyway, it’s an overdone analysis, I know. The common consensus is that Gojo tells Geto he is his best friend. But to me, it makes the most sense for his last, most sincere words to Geto, to be a confession of his feelings for him. It aligns well with Gojo saying he needed him to feel fulfilled in chapter 236 and his tearful / heartfelt chuckle. It aligns well with the love is a curse theme, and love following Geto everywhere, and him witnessing people professing their love too. He just never really knew that he was loved, or if he did, the one that mattered the most was Gojo and if he had known, it may have helped him receive love (be happier) in this world.

I mentioned earlier that love was seen to be a curse by Gojo. And through what Geto knows about cursing and what he has witnessed through the deaths and burdens carried by those who have loved and lost... could this be a reason for why Geto doesn't say it back to Gojo?

We will never know. Nanami chose his words to Yuji as well. So saying something like, 'I deserve to be cussed out at the end' is vague and as much as an apology.

I've said in a previous post too, that I personally feel his heartfelt smile was like a thanks and a nod to how he could smile sincerely - recognising the same bond they shared over their blue spring.

Like the hidden words kept between them, I hope his way of communicating was something also understood just between them.

That’s it from me on this topic - thanks for reading if you did.

Sorry if some of it is repetitive.

[graysparrowao3]

Fic Writer Questions

Helloooo! <3 Sorry to not have been around lately, life has been a bit rough but we persevere! Fic writing has kept me going, so this felt apt. On that note, you are loved and valid whoever you are and whoever you love 💛

P.s. While I was responding to this I saw some hugs come in for the hugs tags and I genuinely got a little touched 🫂 Virtual hugs to you all Tumblr friends <3 Please do feel welcome to let me know if I missed any of your amazing creations.

Thank you for the tag in dear @effelants! Who is currently sharing the long-awaited Dragon Age Alistair/Warden fic Sanguine!

An open invitation to all the writers out there who are missing a tag, and also tags to pass along the game and share if you'd like! <3 @dustdeepsea @beesht @velocitross @lolliputian @dutifullylazybread @lostinforestbound @kimberbohwrites @forget-me-maybe @reverieblondie @rinwellisathing @crowwolf @falcatas @shewolfofvilnius @lemonsrosesandlavender @redroomroaving @vera-king-hrfl @lizziemajestic

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

34 works.

2) What's your total AO3 word count?

274,996 words.

3) What are your top five fics by kudos?

I think by and large this mostly reflects when the fics were posted.

What If Rolan Was a Companion - Rolan/gn!Tav multichapter.

The Night at Last Light Inn - Rolan/M!Tav one-shot.

A Perfectly Reasonable Exchange - Rolan/gn!Tav one-shot.

What If Aradin Pushed Zevlor Too Far - Aradin/Zevlor oneshot.

A One Night Stand at The Blushing Mermaid - Rugan/Aradin one-shot.

4) What fandoms do you write for?

Baldur's Gate 3, that's what got me started on writing fanfic and I'm still deep in that brainrot.

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, even if I can't get to it right away. How kind that someone spent their time to read something I wrote and share something about it with me, I mean, that's the dream right there. I want to be sure to share gratitude for it. Also, that social aspect has been so lovely in general, meeting readers, other writers and fandom friends, and I'm always stoked if I comment and the writer replies to me.

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hoo boy. The 10th installment of The Northern Bastards for sure, which was supposed to 100% be the end (and most of the ones before it lolol). At the time I really was committed to it, then things happened in the world and I needed to manifest a happy ending somehow someway. My eternal gratitude to everyone who saw/wanted more even before I was moved to continue writing it.

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oddly enough, I think it's going to be How to Keep a Man and Lose a Devil, which was suggested and named by @crowwolf! We're 2 chapters from the end, and it's turned the series in a legitimate romance with a happy ending. I'm currently editing out the angsty moments in the rest of the draft because it just started to get sweeter and sweeter and less and less angsty. What a transformation!

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Maybe some that was less-than-thoughtful and discouraging, but not hateful, no. If anything I did almost expect some when I started the NB series but everyone has been incredibly supportive and kind.

9) Do you write smut?

Well, I do now! I've shared before, but for my own psychological safety I was very cautious about that and hadn't written smut before, but it's been very liberatory in adding that to my writing and definitely improved my skill and depth overall. I tend not to write it in isolation (my smut-writing 'experiment' "oneshot" is now 133,365 words and counting, whoops!).

10) Do you write crossovers?

I haven't as yet, but I did have an idea I enjoyed about the Zhentarim crew from BG3 doing a charity episode of Great British Bake-Off which I think would be hilarious.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of.

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I think The Night at Last Light Inn with @bihanny's Tav, Nox, would count! That was very fun.

14) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Huh. Well I'm not sure about all-time favourite. Much like 'fic', I didn't know what 'ship' was until someone told me it's what I was doing 😂 I suppose if I go through the games I like where there are choices, these are the couples that I always go for:

Mass Effect: Kaidan x M!Shep

Dragon Age Inquisition: Cullen x F!RogueLavellan

BG3: ...I don't know what happened. I appear to be smashing Rugan and Aradin together against all of our wills until it became a thing. I enjoy a lot of the NPC ships though, with other NPCs or OCs it's all good!

16) What are your writing strengths?

I think I've received good feedback on my characterizations, especially where it pertains to dialogue. I like to think I'm also fairly good with regards to writing and conveying emotions, personal conflict, and relationships, particularly so far with regards to angsty and emotional stuff.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Well I had to relearn dialogue grammar, but now that's out of the way... I think sometimes I struggle with coming up with fun and interesting, exciting original things, which is probably why I like writing other people's OCs and fic/plot suggestions. It gives inspiration to go places I might not have come up with otherwise. For fic I also tend to fall back on familiar words/phrases/constructions, but I'm okay with that. It's all for fun.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I haven't done. I don't have the fluency or knowledge to make it accurate and culturally respectful, but with research or lived experience it would be great to read cultures and languages diverse from mine.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Baldur's Gate 3, baybeeee! Still here deep in the BG3 brainrot.

Technically my first work on AO3, and how I found the site, is actually a series of posts following the first 3 Dragon Age games, but it's not really fanfic per se.

20) Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

What If Rolan Was A Companion was my first fic, so it will always be a bit special, even though I didn't even know 'writing fic' was what I was doing at the time lolol. There's a lot I'd do differently in it if I were to write it now with the knowledge I have, but it was the start of something special that lead to a lot of things I never would have expected so its meaning extends beyond the writing itself.

[pitchblackespresso]

Everything from BOTW had so much clear intent in it's design. Nothing felt random. Even for something as simple as chests everywhere, you could think "This was abandoned or lost by people running from the Calamity" it it would work.

TOTK, nothing made much sense. Why the fuck is the Hero of the Wild outfit, that Sheikah monks made and awarded to me specifically in the last game, buried in the fucking Depths? What is anything that's down there DOING there? Why are there these weird outcroppings on the cliffs in the surface, like Zonai rocks that somehow morphed into the landscape?

I can't tell you how deflating it was to return to that beautiful map to see that it's been littered with Zonai junk piles and those ugly chasms, that the Plateau was even more destroyed seeming. And obvious places for expansion, like actually going into the Citadel, were totally ignored.

There was almost no real emotional or intellectual reward for exploring at all. My favorite part of the game was The Great Sky Island, because it was all new and interesting. What's it say that the best part of the game is the tutorial? Which, oddly enough, was the reverse of my experience with BOTW.

You see, part of me agrees because there are a lot of dubious design choices (like the aforementioned Zonai junk piles, what an apt description), but another part clings onto the love I have for this game despite its numerous flaws.

For every nonsensical design, we also have choices that show how much love and care went into crafting a totk-Hyrule that felt familiar, but still distinct from botw. The caves are a perfect expansion and reward exploration with Misko's rare clothing items. The game remembers your horses and Champions' portrait from botw. Zelda's flower garden has silent princesses in it, fulfilling her old dream of domesticating them. Putting on the Yiga outfit in Gerudo Town sends you to prison. There's a royal claymore by King Rhoam's grave (his main weapon in AoC). The golden horse is already bonded to Link because he canonically travelled with Zelda and so spent a lot of time with the horse already. The nostalgic paraglider fabric is in the exact location in the Temple of Time where you first get the paraglider in botw. NPCs have character arc between games, like the groom in Rito Village leaving his toxic wife and getting in a (slightly) better relationship, or the terrible junkyard cook in Gerudo Canyon learning to cook with Monster Extract. Zelda's dropped torch is found at the bottom of the chasm. Mipha's Court wordlessly shows the journey of the Zora letting go of Mipha, but never forgetting her, by instead moving her statue to the former territory of a lynel that terrorized the Domain. Cheese.

Those are the details that I cling to when I think about totk, the ones I revisit the game for. That make it easy to ignore the piles of Zonai junk while I'm horseback travelling across Hyrule Field and instead look at the mounds of building materials that, yes, are there for the player to use, but are also part of the Hyrule Restoration Project, reminding you that this Hyrule is young and healing after a century of torment. Everyone's got an example of a detail in totk that I'm sure made them smile, and I like to think that those matter just as much as randomly retconning Typhlo Ruins all about almighty Rauru.

And if nothing else, we have suavemente Ganondorf

[dynamitegun]

Garrus remembered Shepard's funeral.

He'd never forget it.

For 'The Hero of the Citadel' the entire Presidium had been draped in black. A venue, the largest open space on station reserved for the ceremony. Barely a week after the Normandy had been destroyed and he'd learned of her demise they had set this up. A public funeral.

Garrus stayed clear of the rest of the crew, Of Tali who'd spent a good chunk of her savings returning to the Citadel, of grizzled Wrex who stayed silent for the entire affair, Ashley in her dress blues looking stoic. Liara of all people, oddly absent. Joker, in a wheelchair pushed by Dr Chakwas with a dead look in his quivering eyes. He couldn't face them, he needed to mourn alone.

The members of the Council, including newly appointed Councilor Anderson, each spoke of her as they took the podium. With the exception of Anderson, not as a soldier but instead as some sort of legend. Describing her as something else entirely. A disservice he had thought bitterly. They hadn't truly known her.

A procession of marines clad in plain black armor carried her empty casket. Each made a show of removing the N7 insignias from their chest and nailing it to her coffin. A sign of respect for their fallen. For today they weren't special. Not in her presence this last time. Garrus felt the ceremony to be apt, very Turian.

Next they let others speak, a hodgepodge of officials and diplomatic types, generals and admirals largely repeating the hollow words of earlier. Hacket was one exception. The grizzled Admiral of the 5th Fleet merely stated Shepard had "Done more with less" whenever he'd asked her. No words minced.

Then, a lone Alliance officer, a measly 1st Lieutenant who served with her earlier in her career took the podium. Spoke slowly about their service together. The words Garrus wouldn't remember but what he did next would never leave him. He began to sing. A low dry verse left his throat

"We stand beneath resounding rafters,"

"The walls around us are bare"

"They echo back our laugher,"

"It seems that the dead are still here."

Of all the show put on that day, he felt those short moments of song were the most genuine in a way. An expression of pure emotion that tugged at something within himself. Only later would he realize that awful feeling in his chest had been grief, but in those moments Garrus felt as though his feelings were personified by a song he'd come to learn was almost three centuries old.

The reaction from the mourners dignitaries, officers and press was mixed. One extranet article later called it "unnecessarily dour" which led Garrus to question what other mood a funeral might have.

Still they let the man finish, by the end his voice quivering slightly.

"So stand to your glasses steady,"

"This world is a world full of lies"

Wasn't it ever? Garrus thought bitterly.

"Here's a toast to the dead already,"

"And here's to the next one to die."

The Lieutenant, finished with a short frown. Fist clenched at his side and exited stage left. No one spoke for a moment, clearly not having anticipating his choice of send off, but the next speaker, a Volus diplomat took his place and began his own talk of Shepard's "legacy" and how the Galaxy would honor it going forward.

Not even dead a week and already pushed aside He thought rather un-turian like. Once he too would have viewed her the definition of a hero. Laid her life down in the line of duty. Honored memory living on for generations.

Now having served with her, knowing Commander Lucia Shepard as a person. With flaws and fears and everything else they scrubbed away when they built a hero? The entire thing for the most part was a farce. Only meant as a token gesture before everything she had stood for and died for was pushed aside. She was pushed aside in death.

The empty casket was sent to Mindior. A memorial was planned for her there. He left the station a few weeks later, after a few months of drifting the Terminus ending up on Omega.

There were some nights, with his team on recon, or during downtime back at base where his mind would wander back to that day. He never did know why. Not when he had so much else on his plate. He'd feel that awful squeeze in his chest, anguish burning his insides.

He never could forget it.

...

Notes:

The song in question is "Stand for your Glasses Steady" with some minor lyrical modifications well the tradition of nailing insignias into a coffin is a real funeral rite carried out by Navy SEALs.

[double-u-qed]

Hello! idk if the valentine's requests are still open,but if they are here are my suggestions :D (also if you don't like any of the ships feel free to ignore,i gonna put more than one in case i put one you wouldn't like to write :p)

Drift(Deadlock)/Ratchet- IDW

Breakdown/Knock Out- Prime

Knock Out/Starscream- Prime (This one is a guilty pleasure,believe it or not,but this was my first ship of the tf fandom,i wasn't even part of the fandom yet!)

Megatron/Ultra Magnus(Minimus Ambus)- IDW

Wheeljack/Ratchet- Prime

(no joke, part of the reason i took so long with this was because i rewrote it 5 times. i'd get to the 2k word mark and suddenly decide i didn't like it jakldgs. thank you again for your continued patience with me, and sorry again this is so late!

this sort of became angsty?? i wasn't even trying?? it just sort of happened... there was also a bonus scene where they kissed but the ending worked a little too well, so i didn't know how to include it TT)

as always, my formatting is completely gone on tumblr, so here is the AO3 link!

The day had already started off badly, so sure — why not progressively get worse? It wasn’t like he had things to do, or an army to command.

First, it had been menial, little things such as getting assigned to pointless tasks that were far beneath his rank—scouting out the middle of nowhere for signs of Autobot negotiations was a grunt’s job. Hardly befitting work for a trained Second in Command, if he may say so. Having to stay grounded, unable to fly, was perhaps the most demeaning aspect of it at all, no doubt intentional on Megatron’s part.

It was a game between them, a dance. The second Starscream did anything to piss him off, to the ground it was. He was Second, but nobody would be mistaken to say he was also the example, the blueprint. The picture of what to not do, for a punishment—public humiliation—soon followed.

After that, it was dealing with said disposable grunts, which was always a helmache in itself. One thing after another until it festers. They were fools, but — lacking in bulk and armor, Starscream’s always been more… dismissive than their leader. Forgettable. Easy to ward off. Strategy and quick thinking tends to only go so far when the simpletons team up, outnumbering him.

Their leader played ignorant, turning a blind eye to it all. It’s not like he trusted Starscream with any real authority away from his prying eyes. The fact his Second’s rank was always a constant struggling question of power never seemed to faze him at all. It wasn’t respect that anybody felt obligated to give, if not for fear of what Starscream could say to Megatron. Or, rather — what lies he is capable of weaving.

So, in other words, Starscream’s day was already bled dry and miserable, full of snide comments and insubordination that only gave way to compliance through the use of threats. As usual.

And, following suit, of course, Megatron would think it apt to make his day even worse. How typical.

That pesky little message was all it took to send the Seeker’s teeth gnashing, claws curling, and eyes downright murderous. Sudden calls for his presence were never a good thing, and he would be the galaxy’s biggest fool to think of this one as any different.

Everyone, for once, gives him a wide berth as he stomps his way into the central control sector, all the way into the Command Room.

The second he’s there, he’s prepared to put on a show of antics; a strut, a complaint, something deceitful spilling out of his mouth, full of dramatics — the works.

But he doesn’t get that far.

He steps into the room and almost immediately stops. Stops as all eyes turn to him at his sudden (and noisy) arrival. Two new sets of eyes are among them, tracking his movements. One curious, perhaps a bit bored; the other oddly intense and borderline unnerving. The inner ring of lenses and lights contract, an odd look crossing the face they belong to.

That’s all it takes to send Starscream’s entire mood crashing down from the small ledge of sensibility it had been clinging to. The promise of a helmache is imminent, blossoming of little halos that would leave a lesser mech gasping flooding his vision.

He nearly pivots on out on his heel right then and there, determined to head right on back from the direction he just came from. But instead, he locks eyes with Megatron, sparing only a simple, curt nod for the room’s other occupants.

He swears Megatron’s smirk is more malicious than usual as he briskly walks over, pulling his leader by the arm, giving them the illusion of privacy.

“Have you gone mad?” It slips out of his mouth with zero discretion or tact, hissed between teeth. A distressingly common occurrence, that.

“Now, Starscream, what could possibly be the issue?”

Aft. All of this was most certainly intentional. A foolish, childish ploy at annoying Starscream.

“Surely you’re joking.” He once again locks eyes with those peculiar eyes. It dawns on him that perhaps they never left to begin with, following him around.

Attention pulled back towards Megatron, the Seeker watches as his leader’s eyes slide over to him with the utmost disingenuous regard. As if he ever takes his Second’s words that seriously.

His tone, his words, they’re all predatory and so frustratingly calm, as if there wasn’t anything upsetting going on at all. “Have I ever been someone known to joke?”

No. That was so very much a ‘no’.

Something cold and bitter splashes around in Starscream’s spark chamber, a sour and acidic taste coating his tongue as he internall scowls. This wasn’t a part of their game, their dance. It was nothing more than trying to make an even bigger fool of Starscream; despite the fact he had yet to step out of line in a breem or two.

The only thing keeping his glare locked up tight is the fact he’s sorely acquainted with what happens when he isn’t so careful, when something slips through the cracks. His wings the typical victim, phantom twinges serving as a reminder. Even now, they pull flat against his back with the unspoken threat lying between those words. Flicking, rising, and falling in spastic little circles.

Irritation clamps down, taking a bite out of his patience.

He detests change — especially impromptu, impulsive bouts of it like this. His leader, however, seems to find it funny, not telling his Second in Command of such changes to the point he’s often the last to know. Go figure, really; Megatron thought himself infallible, above the opinions and input of others. The most classic example of hubris with the power to back it up, nobody daring to take a stand. Safe, secure, spoiled in riches — that was Megatron at his core. Everything else be damned.

But above all else, to Starscream, the most infuriating thing making his head pound was the very sight of these new… recruits Megatron seemed to have brought along. Without negotiating or discussing the idea with Starscream in the slightest. It would no doubt be up to him to show them around and tutor them in the most basic of things as well.

His grip on Megatron’s arm grows more urgent, a little more violent. “What are you trying to pull? How long have you been planning on having more people onboard the Nemesis?”

Perhaps, in a better world, Megatron would answer him. As it stands, he merely gives Starscream’s hand a little condescending pat. It lacks any pleasant quality. “Now isn’t the time.”

And it never was, was it?

By now his scowl has become very much real and openly malicious when he looks back over to where Megatron’s staring. The red racer—because of course it was an annoying grounder—practically beams at him, something appraising and potentially happy swimming around in his eyes. In response to a glare, no less. That made it bizarre and a problem that needed to be dealt with. It’s mocking is what it is, mischievous with something No Good hidden beneath the surface.

Not caring at all that he’s causing a scene at this point, Starscream leans closer once more into his leader’s space, hissing, “They’re incompetent fools merely looking to reap the glories and spoils of war. You can’t rely on them in the slightest to get work done. The—“

“Like yourself?” Megatron easily disrupts, voice loud enough that the Seeker is certain the two walking hunks of metal must have heard it. Amusement radiates off of them. Well, one of them, at least; the red one had his head tilted and pulled towards his shoulder in a rather haughty manner, face weirdly contemplative. As if he wasn’t sure what to make of the entire sight before him, but wanted to.

Stupid, stupid Megatron. Feelings aside, such disregard for rank in front of newbies like this was downright dangerous. It put his command into question, encouraged mutiny and insubordination.

Not that Megatron ever seemed to care.

The claws of Starscream’s hands brazenly clasp themselves impossibly tighter around the rusted fool’s arm, pulling him down to his level. Eyes never leaving their newest recruits.

“As I was saying, the big one there is no better than that foolish Autobot Wrecker. He no doubt thinks with his fists instead of his head, impulsive and brutish in all the ways that work against us. And the red one — don’t even get me started. It’s a wonder he can see anything past the size of his own ego. Racers like him are always vain, obnoxious, and a liability. He’s not the type to get his hands dirty.”

“Then it’s a good thing he won’t have to, isn’t it?” Before Starscream can ask, he’s already answering the unspoken question, yanking the Seeker’s hands far away from himself. It makes him yelp before he can help it. “So unless you have a better solution, Starscream, I suggest you shut your trap. You’re not as irreplacable as you seem to think you are.”

No threat from Megatron was ever an empty one, forcing the Seeker to fully pull away, reluctant.

He’s aware that he must appear to be pouting now, arms crossed and pointedly avoiding eye contact. He finds that he doesn’t care. “Did you at least verify their credentials? Backgrounds? Training?”

Now it’s Megatron’s turn to lean in real close, sharp teeth glinting. Starscream takes a step back. “You’ve made the mistake of thinking me an incompetent fool once,” the Decepticon leader begins, voice low, calm. “I don’t think you want to make that mistake twice.”

With that said, he goes back over to where the recruits are still standing up nice and tall, hands folded behind them like good little soldiers who had definitely not been eavesdropping.

Behind Megatron’s back, Starscream sneers, petulant until the end. It annoys him when that makes the racer smirk a little, before having his eyes dart back over to pay attention to whatever it is Megatron’s prattling about.

Sat in his usual chair, Starscream doesn’t bother reading the files Soundwave sends his way, continuing to scowl. Head in hand, the other tapping out an annoyed little song into the surface of the table. It amuses him, the way Megatron has to pretend it isn’t happening at all, carrying on with his dull spiel.

The only thing that occasionally interrupts him is whenever he catches the red one looking at him some more. The fourth time he catches it, he almost misses his cue to take part in the conversation.

Lucky for him, he’s used to slipping in and out of roles, playing his part well: offering up a hand despite his inner reluctance, all cordial smiles. First impressions matter, after all.

“Starscream — Second in Command of the Decepticon cause, as well as Aerial Commander,” he introduces himself, straight to the point. “Your integration into our ranks will be overseen by myself, so should you have any questions…” He leaves it open-ended, sweeping his hand out a bit and back around to himself in place of words.

Taking his offered hand, the large and brawn of the two firmly grasps the Seeker’s much smaller, more delicate hand. It’s a crushing hold, something internal protesting. It’s all Starscream can do to maintain his composure.

“Breakdown,” the recruit says, oblivious. “And this here is—“

“Knock Out,” the racer all too blithely interrupts, the very definition of chipper. That fox-like smile is back, his eyes closed. His grip is less firm, but no less unpleasant. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The Seeker is stunned, not daring to speak.

Knock Out’s companion, on the other hand, rolls his eyes.

It’s quiet, making Starscream realize all of the sudden that Megatron is no longer in the room. That left him, the recruits, and Soundwave.

Not that Soundwave counted much for company.

Collecting himself, Starscream gives Knock Out a look comprised of a raised optic ridge, trying to cow him with a look alone. He didn’t expect it to work, and it doesn’t.

Shameless — he adds it to his files accordingly.

Eyeing their newfound medic openly, Starscream is all too quick to pull his hand back towards his chest, more grimacing than smiling at this point. His hand feels strangely warm. “I’m sure.”

Traitorous, his mind screams. That smile, that look, those mannerisms — they were all those of someone who would betray you in a heartbeat. He finds you weak, easy prey. He’s already assessing the ways in which to kill you.

He’d have to keep an eye out and open. To protect himself, of course; whatever happens to Megatron is likely of no consequence to him. What will be, will be.

“Follow me,” Starscream eventually says after a moment of unsteady silence. He tosses the words over his shoulder, already turning and about to leave. “I’ll show you where you are both to stay for now.”

To his surprise, there aren’t any obvious hang-ups from there on. The two of them appear compliant enough, respecting the agreed-upon terms of their allegiance and everything else in between. Their questions are easy to answer and astute, showing that they actually pay attention to his words.

That is, until Knock Out ruins it all.

It was just the two of them now, Breakdown settling himself in his suite. Perhaps that was Starscream’s first mistake.

“Sooo…” Knock Out drawls, dancing his fingers along the surface of the medical slab, radiating an out sort of coyness as he smiles. “Do you visit the medbay often?”

The question stops Starscream in his tracks, blinking. “What.”

A shrug. “Exactly as I said.” Up and up his fingers go, distracting. Especially the way Knock Out was leaning over it, acting so languid. It makes Starscream feel odd, something giddy warming his insides as the other’s eyes lock on to his. The smile certainly doesn’t help. “Pretty bot like you, I’m sure you find yourself in all sorts of trouble.”

What sort of harassment was this? That’s what this was, right? The alternate option felt too out there to be true.

“Are you challenging the authority, the strength, of your superior?”

That makes Knock Out jolt, adjusting his posture until he’s upright again. Again, the inner lenses of his optics contract, expanding and narrowing in rapid succession before focusing once more. “Not at all. That- that wasn’t what I meant.” He scoffs a bit, but it isn’t mocking. It’s incredulous. “I- haven’t you ever been complimented before?”

Yes — plenty of times, in fact. Starscream was aware of what he looked like, thank you very much. But a pristine, brightly-colored mech like this doing such a thing? Someone so vain, self-absorbed? Starscream wasn’t forged yesterday.

If only he could truly convince all of himself of that. If only he could stop that part of himself that’s curious enough to wind up dead. “Whatever you’re trying to pull, I suggest you stop it right now. I won’t accept such behavior in the future; you would do well to remember that.”

The medic’s quiet, something passing over his features too quickly for the Seeker to process. “You don’t believe me.”

It isn’t phrased like a question.

“No,” Starscream snorts, “I don’t.”

Damningly, Knock Out drops the matter altogether, every question after respectably professional.

Still, Starscream thinks about it, mulling the words over. Rolls them around and around in his head until they’re worn down.

The only thing he’s certain of is this; he doesn’t intend on visiting the medbay for as long as possible.

Starscream was determined to keep his promise to himself, but as always, life had other plans. Really, it was foolish to think he could avoid it forever. Didn’t stop him from hoping, however.

In the beginning, it was just small injuries here and there, nothing too major. But every visit was followed by all sorts of flirting, sometimes small gifts.

Starscream never knew what to do, the bottles of polish and paint accumulating on his desk. They were exactly the sort of gifts he had expected someone like Knock Out to give, and that alone was a puzzle.

Since when had he thought about something like that?

Why did it feel like he couldn’t help himself whenever the other was around, always acting foolish and outside his normal guidelines? It was disgraceful and- and….

It made him happy.

He found himself smiling to himself, recalling something inane the medic had said. Some sort of joke that no one else had laughed at. It was a bit of a surprise, just how obscure and ridiculous Knock Out’s taste in humor was.

It was also charming.

And that was the problem.

Starscream onlines to find himself in the medbay.

He doesn’t remember how he got here.

Uncomprehendingly, he stares out at the ceiling, searching for an answer that doesn’t come.

There’s nothing holding him down, but he still feels too heavy to move. Too exhausted.

Lulling his head to the side, he sees Knock Out staring at his own hand, looking bored. A bottle of polish was beside him, giving off an odd fragrance. Not a bad one, per se, just. Odd.

“I wouldn’t move around too much if I were you,” Knock Out suddenly says, not even looking up from his inspection of his fingers. He picks at the seam. “You took a rather nasty hit to the head. Your gyros and systems are probably still recalibrating your coordination units. Or something. It’s not like I’m a medic with training or anything.”

Starscream blinks.

Seeing his confusion, the medic—still refusing to look up—juts his head in the direction of the slab next to the Seeker’s.

Lulling his head over, Starscream sees a Decepticon he never bothered to learn the proper designation of. Their wrists are bound, optics off.

“Had to initiate forced stasis when they refuse to take my advice. Who knew losing a limb could be painful.” Knock Out shrugs, looking completely unbothered.

“And the bindings?” Starscream asks, wincing a little at how hoarse his voice comes out.

Now Knock Out looks up, propping his head in one of his palms as he twirls the polish bottle on its corner. “He scratched my paint.”

It’s said so simply, as if it were only the most logical course of action. Starscream kind of gets it. He never claimed to not be a little shallow himself. “Huh.”

“As for you, I’m sure you’ll be out of here in less than a day. Just have to wait for the dizziness to mostly pass.

“And that will be…?”

“Are you that eager to leave?” Knock Out asks. It’s clearly meant to be teasing, but there’s something genuine woven in.

Starscream considers his answer, placing his head back in the middle, staring straight up. Time had passed — he knew Knock Out’s character a little better now. He was, without any doubt, the most vain and confusing mech Starscream had ever known.

But he was also useful and didn’t seem all too fond of Megatron himself. He teetered on the kind of self-serving Starscream needed if he wanted to be anything at all. To seize control and take over. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Knock Out only joined because it was most convenient for himself, offering protection. Being a medic had its downsides, too.

Lost in his own head, he fails to answer. By the time he realizes, it’s already been too long. Knock Out merely sighs, playing it off as if it were some sort of inside joke between them.

It’s blurted out anyway. “You’re… vexing.”

“Oh?” Knock Out asks, already back to his annoying habit of playing innocent. He plays around with — something in his hands. It almost looks like string, which only adds more questions to the whole pile of them Starscream has. “How so?”

Deadpan, Starscream just stares. It’s oddly effective.

Knock Out laughs. “Hmmm, point taken.”

“So you’re aware of your flirting.” There was a crack in the ceiling. Since when?

“That was the intention, yes.”

“Hm.” That would need to be fixed, soon. Maybe Breakdown would do it.

“That’s it?” Knock Out sounds strangely disappointed.

Starscream doesn’t shrug; just closes his eyes. “Is there anything more to say?”

Nothing. Nothing for a klik too long.

“You’re rather odd yourself, you know. First you think I’m joking, then suddenly you’re aware of it and acting like it doesn’t mean anything. Do- do you not want it to mean anything? You didn’t seem the type, no offense.”

That was true; Starscream was normally the flirtatious type. It used to get him into all kinds of trouble, in the past.

But something like that is also a distraction, an obstacle. Starscream wants power, devotion. People listening and obeying. Romance and the like is tricky, messy. It’s so disgustingly delicate and expectant.

“You’d flirt with anything with wheels,” is what Starscream eventually lands on.

“Trust,” Knock Out concedes, a smirk in his voice. “But you don’t have a set of wheels, so what does that tell you?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Is this funny to you?” Starscream asks, dodging the question entirely.

“A little,” the medic admits. “But only because you’re rather cute when you’re confused.”

“I’m not confused,” Starscream snaps. Even he can tell it’s lacking in bite, though. “I’m irritated.”

“Then say so. If you really want me to stop, I will. No more. I can respect boundaries.”

But that left the question that Starscream doesn’t know how to tackle; does he want him to stop? It did his ego plenty of favors whenever Knock Out would smile at him over the table during meetings, or the way he’d press a kiss into his hand, bowing and acting as if Starscream was a noble. It always left his hand warm for days.

“I don’t know.”

The Autobots were becoming infuriatingly clever as of late. Broken wings were proof of that, sticking out at odd angles they were not meant to, low to the ground.

It hurt. A lot.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt — energon spilling out between claws. It stains the hallways in long streaks across the walls, down and out through the labyrinthine maze of twisting corridors. Little splish, splashes echo as droplets hit the ground.

None of it hurt quite as much as the feeling of being defeated, of not doing enough. He’d been meticulous in this plan, practically obsessing over it. He tried to find faults to correct, so self-assured that he’d finally accomplished what he wanted.

Such is life and the way of war, he supposes.

It doesn’t make the sting hurt any less.

Curses fall one after the other as he uses the wall for support. Step by pitiful step, his destination the medbay, so tantalizingly far.

After what felt like an entire day, he does manage to pull himself to safety. A quick scan of the room reveals nobody else. Perfect.

He scurries over to the racks of jars and bottles. He didn’t have a clue what anything was, or what tools would fix a broken wing despite the numerous times he’s been here for that very thing. He didn’t even know how Knock Out kept track of all the clutter. Did he just have it all memorized?

Picking up a blue-tinted liquid, Starscream brings it up to eye-level for a better look.

“What… are you doing sulking around? In my medbay, at that.”

The sudden presence of someone else makes Starscream flinch. Unable to keep a steady hold on the bottle, it falls; bits of glass fly, slicing, rolling and falling, sliding and going. It’s quite a mess, blue liquid everywhere.

It sort of makes Starscream feel like crying. Everything’s already gone to shit, so why not? Why not indulge himself and allow a bit of weakness? Fall to the floor, hand over face, laughing until it becomes a sob?

But Knock Out’s still here, and he’s staring. Staring with bare, stark and liable confusion, an optic ridge raised and — something on his face. Something soft and inexplicably concerned.

Concern? Starscream does laugh then. Oddly, he doesn’t hear it, feeling it, knowing it, from the force of his shoulders moving.

Concern… Knock Out? It didn’t suit him, nor did it feel right; that urge to bow and break under the strain of too much growing in intensity. Like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap. To fray and break, pieces torn and everything else unraveling.

Knock Out was many things, but he wasn’t generally concerned over his patients. He had an odd fondness for the science itself, never shying away from the more gruesome parts of it, even though it left him dirty and dingy. He was fascinated with every aspect of the field. A little sadistically, maybe.

But he’d never been rough with Starscream, oh no. It leaves him confused, spiraling.

His hands feel so cold right now.

The medic still makes no move to clean up the mess. Somewhere in the chaos—the static encroaching and clawing at the edges of his vision—somehow, Knock Out’s gotten closer. Close enough to touch, to reach out; to try and try and try. To try and fix the wound.

But he doesn’t. The spilled energon keeps on flowing, Starscream’s plating pressed tight as he’s all wide-eyed and feeling clueless and unsightly, backed into a corner. He can’t help it, the way he stutters, stopping and starting sentences without lift-off. Nothing feels adequate, processor too tired and sluggish to explain himself.

How was he meant to, really? When he’s already been caught messing around and not where he’s meant to be. Everyone had surely heard the ruckus he and Megatron had caused, voices loud and words cold.

Yet, Knock Out’s acting like he heard nothing of the sort. As if this was exactly where Starscream was meant to be.

Hands splayed, every movement broadcasted televised, slow and measured. It’s a silent offer, one that — Starscream doesn’t have within him to take. He just sort of — stares, really. Follows every movement Knock Out makes with wide, warning eyes.

The only thing that feels real about all of this is the look of disdain that momentarily flashes across Knock Out’s face as he sidesteps the still-spreading puddle of solvent and something medicinal. It’s the only expression he really allows to slip through, everything else controlled.

His lips move — probably a quip of some kind — but Starscream’s too focused on that throbbing feeling behind him, not quite brave enough to turn.

Shock. That’s what this is. He’s so presently aware of that fact, even when the rest of him feels adrift.

But why? What was so shocking about today, really? Megatron was a fool. A fool’s kind of fool, leading his men into danger. Starscream tried, he really did. Tried to make the plan of a fool work.

It hadn’t.

So why is Knock Out now smiling?

It’s there again when the soft tugging of fingers begins after nothing but staring, the other bottle the Seeker had been holding seized in a manner that’s all too gentle for such a petty crime.

It’s not what he deserves. He’s not much the type to wallow in self-pity and deprecation, nitpicking faults and feeling sorry for himself. But the truth of the matter is that he fucked up, defeat tasteless and like dust lodged in his throat, suffocating.

But it’s what Knock Out gives.

“Back with us now?” Knock Out asks once the room stops being so indiscernible, so squiggled and shapeless.

“Yeah,” Starscream answers, out of breath. Why?

“Good, good.” Knock Out’s movements are still so blatant, so obvious as he reaches out, hand hovering over Starscream’s. Eyes searching for approval.

He relents. The why doesn’t matter.

“Your wings, huh?” Knock Out says, looking them over, leaning a bit against Starscream’s shoulder. Starscream’s never put much thought into it before, only now noticing the way Knock Out has to stand on the tips of his toes to really see. Even then, he’s mostly leaning to the side to truly see the damage in full.

“Are you really making fun of my height right now?”

Starscream puts his hand down.

“Thank you,” Knock Out dryly says. Fondly. So, so fond. Relieved.

Maybe that’s why Starscream doesn’t resist as he’s gently guided to sit down on the slab, Knock Out repairing his wings.

“Hey… why don’t we try?”

“Hm?”

“You and me.”

A pause. A sharp, tugging pull of his wing. It makes him hiss, a small, soft ‘sorry’ coming from behind.

It doesn’t change in volume or tone at all as Knock Out asks, “What made you change your mind?”

“You’re nice,” Starscream says, looking up at the ceiling. The crack had been repaired.

“That’s… that’s it?”

“There’s not many people I’d call nice.” He gives a half-hearted shrug, suddenly exhausted. “It’s simple, being around you. No expectations, no pretenses. You do things like this. So yeah: nice.”

And so, so much more. You make me feel wanted, alive. You’re always so fast, so intense; never hesitating.

When the silence stretches on, he can’t help thinking that maybe Knock Out left. That maybe it hadn’t been enough after all.

But then warm, spotless as ever arms gently wrap around his middle. It’s a little too gooey and soft for Starscream, but — he allows it, patting Knock Out’s hand when he feels it begin to tremble ever so slightly.

The entire thing was uncharacteristic of them both, but then again, wasn’t that what it was all about? Or something like that — Starscream can’t remember the last time he ever bothered with something like a genuine relationship.

Throat straining, constricting, Starscream barely manages to get out, “You’re going to ruin your paint.”

“That’s what the bottles I gave you for. We wear the same red,” comes the muffled reply, Knock Out’s face pressed up against his armor. It was like he never wanted to let go.

“Did you seriously give me a gift I was meant to use on you?” He tries twisting around to catch Knock Out’s expression, but stubbornly, the grounder refuses to let him.

All he can see is his finger as he points, gesturing. “It’s cute. Couples do cute things like that all the time.”

“You’re impossible,” Starscream says, laughing. It doesn’t even hurt when his wings bob in tune.

[lovings4turn]

could you maybe plz write something w/ steve harrington coming out as bi to his gf?? he’s just my lil bi boy and i feel like it’d be cute 🥹

☆ you're still you (s.h.)

— steve has something important to tell you, and you're there to reassure him

+ as a bi girlie myself,, bi steve holds a special place in my heart so i love this idea — is it the most realistic portrayal? no but its fun n cute and thats what matters!

instantly, you can tell that something isn't right.

the first sign: steve doesn't immediately hug you when you open the door.

he still envelopes you into his arms at the speed of light, sure, but there's a moment of hesitation that is never normally present when it comes to you. you're willing to brush it off, until the strange behaviour continues.

the second sign: your normally talkative and clingy boyfriend is acting oddly quiet, and his jokes and comments towards the movie you're currently watching seem almost forced.

it's after his fifth halfhearted joke of the evening that you pause the movie, turning to face your boyfriend despite his protests and complaints.

"we were just getting to the best part!" steve whines, a teasing pout playing on his lips.

"steve," you begin, voice soft. steve notices the way you're acting, treating him as though he's a wounded animal, and it's like he knows exactly where this conversation is going.

"i'm fine," he says, voice firm but still soft. it's a tone reserved only for when he doesn't want to speak about something, which does nothing to quell your growing suspicions.

his hand goes to rest on your arm, the touch grounding, and he runs his palm up and down your skin in a soothing motion. "don't worry about me, baby, 'm okay."

"but you're not, steve. you've been acting off all night."

you aren't annoyed, no, you're the furthest thing from it right now. concerned is more of an apt word. you take his silence as a sign to keep talking, knowing if you press just a little longer, he'll come out with it.

"steve, babe, i just wanna know what's wrong," you say, putting your hand on top of his own and squeezing it in a show of reassurance. "hate seeing you like this and not being able to do anything about it."

steve sighs, and the force of his exhale causes his body to shake slightly.

"alright," he mumbles, more to himself in an effort to build up the courage to confess whatever it was he was holding so close to his chest.

"i like you," he begins, wetting his lips with his tongue as he weighs over his next words carefully. "but i... i think i might also like boys, as well..?"

his voice turns up at the end of his statement, making it more of a question as he scans your face for any sign of a reaction. he looks scared, and it hurts you to think steve had felt a level of worry or shame about admitting such a thing.

giving him your most reassuring look, you pull him into a tight hug and can practically feel his body go limp with relief, muscles no longer tense and alert.

"oh steve," you hum, pulling back to cup his face with your hand. his deep, brown eyes are wide as they look into your own, and you can't help but pepper kisses all over his face, delighting in the sound of a laugh escaping his lips. "is that all? you're still you, y'know. it doesn't matter to me, not one bit."

after a pause, you give him a cheeky grin, nodding towards the tv.

"now i see why you're so obsessed with 'ferris bueller's day off'," you tease. "ferris and sloane are quite the eye candy."

as he shoves your shoulder with a disgusted groan, unable to hide the wide smile spreading across his lips, you can't help but feel your heart swell.

your normal steve is back, and you couldn't be happier.

[spicedrobot]

maybe something with omeluum and a peculiar (sex pollen) mushroom from the underdark?!

(tumblr ate this ask, but I still had the email of it so here you go !!)

this also has blurg in it because I love them together I hope that's ok 🥰💖🙈 there's also slight spoilers for act 1/underdark/myconid colony content!

-

Tav returned to the myconid colony more quickly than Omeluum had anticipated. Normally, it would attribute Tav’s expeditiousness to his competency, but as the half-elf withdrew the requested specimen from his bag, Omeluum gave pause. Tav's movements were jittery and clumsy compared to the capable, dexterous ranger that it had observed previously. 

It wanted to inquire about the specimen’s procurance—it had only learned of the mushroom from a half-rotten journal which gave only vagaries to the fungi’s location—but Tav didn’t appear in good health. His dusky complexion was splotched all the way to the tips of his ears, and his skin glistened with a sheen more commonly found on illithid than humanoids. For a moment, Omeluum worried that his transformation had begun. Though the other telltale symptoms had not yet manifested, and Tav requested no assistance with the tadpole as he had done before. He simply stumbled away after payment was exchanged, his large druid companion tailing closer behind him than the rest. 

Curious, indeed. But if Tav’s condition was not an immediate cause for alarm, then Omeluum could turn its attention to the strange new specimen.

Unfolding it from the cloth it was wrapped in revealed an innocuous mushroom with a dark blue stem and supple, rounded caps. At first glance, it would seem at home with the other species nestled in the colony’s meadows. Omeluum wondered at its properties: the journal had been as vague about them as it had its location. 

It retreated to the small dwelling that constituted as the Society’s residence within the colony, away from the prying receptors of the myconid who may look poorly upon such a rarity dissected for research. Omeluum donned gloves and eyewear before handling the specimen directly. Overly precautious, perhaps, as few of the more dangerous Underdark fungi affected illithid in the same manner as its native denizens. 

As it turned out, Omeluum’s precautions had not mattered in the slightest.

After a few hours of inspection and initial observational notes, a dreariness began to overtake Omeluum. It may’ve suspected something was amiss, but it was past its normal time to rest, so it retired with little resistance.

It woke some time later to a hard grip on its shoulder.

“Omeluum, are you well?” 

Blurg was leaning over it, shaking it awake. Omeluum sat up in its bedroll and looked blearily at Blurg. His brows and mouth were pinched with concern, and his face was oddly colored in the dim light.

Strange… as strange as how Omeluum was feeling. Its skin tingled, felt as slick as it did after a proper and sumptuous meal. There was an unusual softness to its thoughts as well, as if they were a viscous solution being filtered by mere gravity. And the warmth—no, the heat—radiating in curious places—along its tentacles, beneath Blurg’s grip, and lower, much lower—

Omeluum meant to speak. Instead, it released a quiet, throaty rumble that shivered down to the tips of its tentacles. 

Impossibly, Blurg’s complexion darkened further, rich purple blooming over his cheeks and nose. He released Omeluum and began to pull away, but Omeluum grabbed his wrist.

They both froze. Omeluum hadn’t meant to do that. 

“That new specimen. It’s done something to you,” Blurg breathed.

Omeluum could find nothing to protest such a claim. It had been in perfect health before. “That would also explain the strange state of our infected companions.” It spoke slowly, each word rising soft like a bubble that was apt to be forgotten as soon as it popped. “Where is the specimen?”

“I’ve placed it in a more suitable container outside. Speaking of…” Blurg kept looking down at where Omeluum was holding him, then to his own feet, unwilling to meet its eyes. “... you should get some fresh air. Well, fresher. That mushroom’s spores have permeated the dwelling. Smells like a brothel in here.”

“A nice brothel, or a poor one?” Omeluum said as carefully as it could. It could not smell, at least not in the ways that other beings did. Its tentacles began to curl in on themselves, dragging along their own lengths restlessly. 

Blurg laughed. The comment seemed to ease him, and he looked at Omeluum properly. “A fine one.”

“And what aromas comprise of a fine brothel?”

Blurg’s gaze dropped to its tentacles. His shoulders tightened again. Omeluum felt the tension in Blurg’s wrist, his throbbing pulse, but he didn’t pull away. And Omeluum didn’t let go.

“It smells… good. Honey-sweet like a sussur bloom. And like sex, of course.”

Omeluum’s mind supplied what its olfactory senses lacked. It had tasted honey before, and it had felt the soft petals of a delicate sussur. Sex, it barely remembered; it hardly ever considered such acts as an illithid. But at its mention, Omeluum tightened its grip on Blurg’s wrist. Blood thundered under its palm, and the heat within itself grew to a fever pitch.

“I do not think… I should be outside in my current state.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? The affects may lessen—”

Omeluum shook its head. It pressed Blurg’s hand to its chest. Tentacles parted to make way for it, then drew closer again, sliding along his exposed forearm. There was a sensation, almost like a current, where their bodies connected. Omeluum closed its eyes, felt them cross in its skull, felt its lower half quiver.

“Omeluum,” Blurg choked out. His hand flexed against its chest, his claws digging into its tunic, scoring covered flesh. His voice was closer. He was closer. “Are you in pain? What should I do?”

“I…” Omeluum swallowed, shifted. It was humid inside and out, wet skin and heat. It was leaking through its tunic. “Will you touch me… offer succor?” It was almost too easy to ask, with its eyes closed, with Blurg so close, sharing its breath. “It… it will help.”

“Touch you.” Almost a question. His voice rose, cracked. 

Omeluum opened its eyes. Blurg was staring at Omeluum, staring hard. His nostrils were flared, his eyes bright. He was inhaling the spores, scenting Omeluum. 

He was interested. In an academic or sensual sense, Omeluum had no preference. It just wanted, burned. Its trousers were slick with it, its tentacles writhing, clutching what it could of Blurg’s arm, weaving between his fingers, leaving warm, damp trails in their wake. 

Things proceed quickly, then. Omeluum shifting over on its bedroll and Blurg all but falling into it. Its tentacles never quite freeing Blurg, dragging relentlessly over him until his hand slipped into Omeluum’s trousers. Then its tentacles clung. 

Omeluum tossed its head back and groaned at the touch. It had felt hot, and with fingers pressed against it, it was unbearable. The pressure it hadn’t been able to identify rose—desire, desperation—in organs that were all but vestigial. It throbbed and grew against Blurg’s hand, twisting and pulsing as something emerged from its body. Tentacles of some kind, Omeluum hadn’t even known that about itself, its dormant physiology normally so forgettable, so unimportant.

Blurg swore, his head half-tucked into Omeluum’s shoulder. He was embarrassed, and Omeluum knew it was asking too much of its companion. But shame wasn’t enough to make Omeluum push him away.

As the uniqueness of Omeluum’s body unfurled to Blurg’s touch, he groaned, leaned in closer, began to observe the mystery between Omeluum’s thighs. There was no way to tell him how to do it. Omeluum didn’t know itself. Yet, they were learned men, weren’t they? Blurg tested the external appendages first, stroking over them, petting along and between.

 Omeluum clutched at him. “Perhaps… internal stimulation?”

Blurg went purple in the ears, then he pressed a finger inside, careful with his claws. There wasn’t much room for it, but it was better like this, hotter, deeper. As he grew more confident, he hooked two fingers within, ground his knuckles against something firmer than the surrounding soft, twitching muscles. Omeluum began to rock into this touch instinctively, felt its insides seize and swell, tender and more sensitive than it would’ve dreamed. The sensation was incredible. Its external appendages agreed, dripping and twisting, curling around Blurg’s wrists, pulling him closer, trying to draw more inside.

“Blurg, I—” Omeluum whispered. Its hands clasped the back of Blurg’s tunic, claws nearly rending the fabric in its desperation. 

Blurg’s words, though gruff, were little more than a moan.“Well, get on with it.” 

He shifted his hand harder, circling against something new, something deeper, that spotted out Omeluum’s vision. Its tentacles were acting on their own again, salacious, twisting around Blurg’s throat, slipping against the edges of his ears. It wanted to push inside Blurg somehow, his mouth, stuff him full, have him choke—

Strangely, it was that thought that undid Omeluum, had it writhing as wildly as its tentacles, spilling in a hot rush over Blurg’s hand. The motions were uncontrolled, and it felt Blurg’s nails against it, but it was not enough to put off its ardor, in fact, it only seemed to enhance it.

When Omeluum’s thoughts dared to drift outward, it realized its tentacles were twisted around Blurg’s jaw, their tips trailing around his mouth. He was wet with Omeluum’s touch, marked. His breath was shallow, his pupils dilated. 

“I think I’m also in need of… assistance,” Blurg said. 

The spores, Omeluum thought belatedly, and looked down. 

Blurg’s trousers were tented with desire. A desire that Omeluum had never dealt with before. But Omeluum felt certain that, between them both, they would be able to figure it out. 

[ceruleanmusings]

desolation pt. 1

this is the expanded version of this headcanon i posted for mickames. i wrote this months ago and just condensed it for the headcanon or else it would've been super long. it's the same reason i broke it down into two parts. enjoy! (or not? it's pretty emotionally painful. oops! 😊) @partiallypearl @myloveforhergoeson

------

Mickey couldn’t pinpoint which hurt worse, her head or her heart.

Her head was easier to manage, at least. The throbbing, the dizziness, the stuffiness; that malaise could be treated with a few painkillers and water. She’d downed enough that morning everything downgraded to a dull ache. Just enough she could get out of bed and face herself in the mirror.

Kind of.

Her heart on the other hand… How could she heal that? There wasn’t a pill or some medicine she could take to fix that pain. It sat deep in her chest, dull but persistent, localized but splintering, dormant but relentless. A monster lying in wait, ready to sink its teeth in her, ready to go for the kill.

And if that’s how she felt, she couldn’t imagine how James fared.

She didn’t need to.

Nothing she could come up with would touch the reality laid out in front of her. She saw it in his face, in his eyes when her words, soaked and dripping with derision, slurred out her loose lips. Heard it in his voice when he suggested he take her home, even though he’d just been saying he wanted to take her on a spin around the dance floor. She’d initially refused because no one else was dancing and she’d feel silly. He’d said he didn’t care and if people did care they weren’t the ones he wanted to impress anyway.

God, how the hell could she be so stupid?

Sour waves pitched in her stomach; the resulting spray shot up her throat. She slapped a palm against her mouth, lips pressing against her teeth. The discomfort was a small price to pay for her choices. Her eyes slipped shut, released her from staring at the green in her face, the dullness to her eyes, the downward pull to her lips, the heavy sag to her shoulders. For the few seconds it took for the elevator to lift her up to the second floor, she stood suspended in the before and after.

If only she could exist in that space a little longer.

The bell dinged and her reflection split open, revealing the uniform hallway with its dingy orange carpets and white walls and dim lighting. Such staunch sameness that was oddly comforting. She let her legs carry her forward, follow the usual path she’d taken for the last three years.

Dread crawled down her spine. How much did she mess up? A year’s worth or three years’ worth? Was it all going to end, just like that? Did she still have a chance? Did they still have a chance? The rubber soles on her boots scuffed against the floor at her ungraceful halt. She pressed a hand against the wall, the cold seeped into her skin. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should turn around. At least then nothing would change. But then nothing would get better either. But nothing would change…

She forced down the lump in her throat and continued forward. Dragging this out any longer would only make things worse. She had to face the music at some point, as Kelly said. She wanted to hate Kelly for that, for the cliché comment and for how apt it was, but Kelly was right. She knew Kelly was right. God, she hated it when Kelly was right.

Her shoulders rose and dropped beneath the strength of her sigh. She shook out her shaky fingers, released another big sigh, and stopped in front of the door. 2J stared back at her, or the J did anyway due to the lighting nearby throwing a reflecting slat of light across the 2, making it meld into the gold backing. Because of course it did. The universe didn’t want to let her catch a break.

Movement shuffled on the other side of the door. Voices ping ponged back and forth, maybe from the TV? And the door continued to loom. She could walk in, just like usual, but this wasn’t like usual. Not anymore. No matter how much she wanted it to be. So, instead of entering and taking her space, she sucked in a breath, raised her hand, and knocked.

She squeezed her thumbs, the large knuckles popping beneath her tight grip. It kept her in place, holding herself under such a strong hold. She didn’t dare let go, knowing if she did, she’d allow herself to turn her back and run. She always ran. She was tired of running.

The door swung open in a smooth arc, slower than the usual exuberance that tended to meet her any other moment. She bit her lip, swung back on her heels, brushed her long dreads out her face and studied him. He stared back, studied her. She offered up a smile, a small one, for…something. A lifeline. A little bit of hope she hadn’t completely ruined everything. A warmth appeared in his eyes and she nearly fell over in relief. Thank God.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He approached before she could move, drawing her into a hug she clung onto. Her fingers dug into his jacket and she held on tight, letting the love wafting off him envelope her. Tears flooded her eyes and her head gradually became stuffy. She forced them back with a loud sniff and, once they let go, she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. And he still smiled at her.

“So…you know what happened?” she ventured, tucking some strands of hair behind her ear.

“Part of it. James and I share a room, you know.” Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I’m, well…you know.”

“Yeah.”

She sniffed and nodded, alternating tugging the hem of her sleeve down onto her palms. After the third time she tucked her hands up into her armpits. “Is he here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the room.”

“Okay.” She dragged her tongue against her lower lip. “Is it…just him?”

“Mhm. Logan and Kendall are at the mall.”

“Okay.” That was a relief. She loved the brotherhood the guys had forged over the years but, sometimes, they were a little too involved. She softly chuckled at that. That was the pot calling the kettle black, considering her and her sisters were worse in the best way. They spoke in “we”s so casually it was no wonder people had difficulty telling them apart, when they acted as if there was no separation between them. Still, the boys rode hard for each other. A little too hard, she’d say, in this case. She didn’t need to be around Kendall to know how upset he was at her for hurting James like that. That was his bro, she hurt him, he went in to protect him. She couldn’t blame him for that but damn did he make studio time difficult. She couldn’t blame him for that either.

“I can stay if you want,” Carlos said.

“That’s sweet, but we—” No. She shook her head. Erasing what she’d just said. This was her problem. “Uh, I need to talk about this. Just us. Besides, Sammi’s waiting for you downstairs.” Sammi had offered to stick around too. And while she appreciated her baby sister displaying so much concern without the following criticism (“help” as she liked to determine it), she knew they had to do this alone. “I know how much you’ve been looking forward to trying those Korean corn dogs.”

Excitement lit up his eyes. If only Sammi’s heart hadn’t been captured by someone else, she had a feeling Carlos and Sammi would’ve been a good match. She loved her future brother-in-law to pieces (their ending was inevitable; Sammi and Jay had been attached since sixth grade), but the little tweaks they’ve passed onto one another over the last few years gave her a glimpse of what they could have been. Opposites attract after all; she and James are living proof of that.

Or maybe they were.

Carlos hugged her again, stopping her smile from crumbling too far and he promised he’d try to hold back some of his thoughts so they could record it for their Youtube Channel (Mexci Beaucoup, a channel to highlight their backgrounds while also letting them have a place to review local food, try new recipes, and play games) and that he’d be there as soon as possible if she needed him.

They swapped places, Carlos stepping into the hall and she into the apartment. The door closed behind her and everything became still. People on the tv moved through the motions, their words quiet due to having been put on mute at some point. The refrigerator hummed, the clock on the oven ticked over, and the demo screen ran on the racing game in the corner.

She twisted the ring on her index finger, gathered up her nerves, and made a beeline for James and Carlos’ room. The door sat open a crack, bright light pooling onto the shiny hardwood. James’ vocalizations, soft yet precise, slipped through. They didn’t have a direction, each note was knitted together, piece by piece, as James wandered through the song. He tended to do that when thinking, singing beneath his breath. It helped keep his mind from wandering off too much when he needed to focus. The few times he chose to focus outside the world of music, anyway.

Well, no turning back now. She rapped against the door with the back of her finger, the ring tapping against the wood. Not too loud, not too soft. “James?” Was that her voice? She sounded as if she’d gargled with jagged rocks. Clearing her throat, she called his name again.

Seconds ticked by.

“Yeah?”

Her breath came out in a long exhale and she pressed her forehead against the door. That was good, right? At least now he talked to her instead of ignoring all her texts and calls.

“Can I come in?”

Silence again. She licked her lips, waiting. Her eyes traced the grains running in the door from the top corner of her vision to the bottom and up again. Down and up again. Down and up again. How long has it been, an hour?

“…I guess.”

It was better than nothing. She pushed open the door and nearly fell apart all over again. She did that to him, made him so listless and so lifeless. The joy that appeared in his eye whenever he laid eyes on her was nowhere to be seen, instead replaced by a dull pool of black. His hair hadn’t been brushed, or even if it had been, lying on the pillows ruined his efforts. His hair lay flat and lifeless over his forehead, nearly touching one of his eyes. Too dry to have been washed at some point. And his skin, usually glowing from the kiss of the sun, remained pale. The lively red swimming just beneath the surface of his cheeks, ready to pop out after a good show or a turn in the gym or when the temperature dropped or when she said something he particularly liked, she couldn’t detect.

Seeing his face that night hurt. This? This gutted her.

He didn’t say anything, only watched as she sat on the end of Carlos’s bed, trapping her hands between her knees. His fingers drummed on his stomach and his jaw clenched and fuck she hated the way he looked at her. As if didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking at, as if he were trying to figure her out. When before he’d look at her like she was precious, like he was enthralled, like she was the best thing in the world. She looked at him like that too, she’d seen it in their red-carpet pictures and the joint interviews, and now she couldn’t look him in the eye. Carlos’ unkempt bedspread, showcasing a large gaming controller, held her attention, all bundled up with the sheets, a few discarded t-shirts, candy wrappers, and an eraser that looked to have a bite taken out of it. She shifted her position, brought one leg up onto the bed to mess with her laces. The plastic aglet on one had begun to crack. She ran her thumb in the groove.

Still, neither of them said anything. She searched for the right opening, the right thing to say, but nothing measured up in her mind. This was James, not just James Diamond, but her James, her Bandana Man, her best friend. He deserved all the best words.

Though maybe she should start with the two she’d been uttering the past couple days.

“I’m sorry.”

James didn’t react. His gaze burned her cheek. She closed her eyes, counted to three, breathed, and forced herself to look at him. His eyebrows had twitched downwards, just slightly, almost as if he didn’t understand the words. She hadn’t spoken in the wrong language, had she? No, she used the right one. She wouldn’t dare hide behind French like she used to. Back when she wanted to say what was on her mind, on her heart, but had been afraid of his response. Even if she still was afraid, she needed to hear whatever it was he had to say.

He didn’t say much that night. Of which she was equally glad and upset about.

“James…” His eyebrows lifted a little this time, asking a silent question. What? It was a good one. What did she want? What did she have to say? What could she do to fix everything?

She wanted him.

She didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t know what to do.

But an apology was a good start. That’s what her father always said.

“I’m sorry. For everything I said. For…” She paused, swallowing the sour bile shooting up her throat. It crept and burned but she pushed on. “For embarrassing you. For hurting you. For getting drunk. For being so uncomfortable and insecure I took it out on you. I ruined your night.”

James snorted, causing her to wince. It may as well have been a gunshot. At least it was something, even though the thinly veiled derision wasn’t lost on her. She deserved it.

“I was wrong. For…for a lot. At the time I was very…out of my element. I had you there but…I didn’t really. It was your mom’s event and she needed you to move around and schmooze and…and I needed you there with me. But I didn’t tell you that. And I should have—”

“Uh, yeah!” James shot up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The light had returned to his eyes, but it was a flickering flame. Not so much hatred, thankfully, but anger for sure. Frustration. And maybe a twinge of confusion. “You really should have!” Blowing out a breath, he rubbed his hands across his face and he shook his head. “I don’t get it! You’re the one who keeps saying you want open communication!”

Shame weighed down her head. “I know.”

“And you’re the one who keeps saying you want respect.”

“I know.”

“And you’re the one who keeps saying you want honesty.”

“I know.”

“So why doesn’t this apply to you too?”

“It does.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Now he rubbed his hand across his mouth. “You’ve always been able to talk to me, Mickey. Always. And yet this one time you didn’t.”

“I got scared.”

“Of what? Of me?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then what?”

“Of the whole thing!” She hadn’t meant to be so loud, so abrupt, but it shot out of her all at once. All the anguish and frustration and. “I’m not used to that world, James! I don’t belong there!” Sniffing, she scrubbed her eyes with her sleeve, willing herself not to let the tears lining up on her eyelids fall. “And I could tell other people thought that too. And I knew they were wondering ‘what’s that girl doing on his arm’? And I just…I couldn’t handle it.”

“You’re my girlfriend. Obviously you’d be there.”

“I know but I’m not like the girlfriends I knew they think you should have. Especially your mom.”

James scoffed. “My mom doesn’t matter.”

Mickey rolled her eyes. “Of course she matters! She’s the only reason we went!”

“Well sor-ry for wanting to show you off.”

“I’m not blaming you, James! I’m trying to explain!” She slowly counted to five and pushed her hair out her face. Then she gathered it up and draped it down one side, letting head escape off her neck. “They’re all…fancy and dripping in jewelry I’d never be able to afford. And…and they haven’t pushed a lawn mower. Or gone a month and a half having to save money just to afford a good Christmas gift for their parents. They talked about taking trips to the Alps and vacationing in the Hamptons and…strange luxury skincare routines. I couldn’t keep up.” She twisted her mouth to the side, a brief attempt to stave off the words that had bounced around in her mind, but there was no point. Being honest was the best thing now. “I’ve never felt more inadequate in my life. I kept stumbling whenever they asked me questions about my life and what I do and I just felt so…stupid. Some of the kids around me kept saying it’d help smooth things out and I got desperate. I wanted to be my best for you, but I—clearly—went about it the wrong way.”

His swallow was audible. He blinked once, twice, three times and a sheen appeared over his eyes. “What about the rest?”

“Uhm…” She dreaded this part. This part was what kept her in bed all weekend, hiding under her covers, clutching her pillows and wishing it was all a bad dream. “They started asking questions, if I knew anyone around the place. If I’d heard of them or knew what they were about. I felt like it was some kind of game or something against me. And then they started…they started asking me about you and what you were like and if you still did this or still acted like that. And I got a little…caught up in it.”

That was an understatement. She hadn’t meant to join in on their ribbing. But her alcohol-soaked brain couldn’t keep up with their questions. And for the first time in her life people seemed to be really interested in what she said, what she was thinking. And they knew him! Most of them did, anyway. They grew up in overlapping circles with business-minded parents. So it was them catching up, or so her brain had excused at the time. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed and her nose tingled and stuffed, prepared to break. She held strong, even as the biting comments replayed in her head.

“Is he really that vain?”

“No. Not really. I mean, sometimes, he talks about himself. …Well, he talks about himself a lot. I don’t know if he’s ever heard silence before.”

“How do you put up with that?”

“Oh, it’s okay. I don’t mind it. It does get annoying sometimes, though. Like…you realize you’re dating me and not your mirror right? Sometimes I want to talk. I mean, do I have to put a picture of your face over my face for you to want to know what I’m interested in?”

“He’s always been like that. Always has to remind people he’s so important and he’s Brooke Diamond’s kid and he’s the best at everything.”

“Not everythin’. He was kind of a bad kisser at first. I mean it was good but a little too eager. Like trying to win kissin’ points or somethin’.”

“Wow. He’s lucky he’s hot.”

“I know, right? He’s like a puppy! Slobbered like one at first too.”

“You had a handful training him then?”

“You have no idea. But it’s worth it.”

“How long have you been together?”

“A little under a year.”

“Does he shit gold or somethin’? That’s some patience.”

“Well…he’s hot. But he’s kinda dumb. He’s a real good singer, though. And he’s hot. So it balances out. I wouldn’t torture myself like this for nothin’.”

She’d turned away after that, the urge to empty her bladder hitting her strong. But the hit to her chest and her heart was much worse when she spotted James behind her, holding two plates in one hand and two glasses in the other. His mouth pulled in, his eyes squinted, and then his face relaxed and turned to stone. She watched, breaths shaky, as he set the plates and glasses down on the empty tray of a passing waiter, put a smile on his face, and approached. And when he placed a hand on her lower back she trembled all over, barely hearing him telling the others something had come up and they were going to leave. Everything blurred together after that, thanks in part to the tears flooding her eyes.

She hadn’t been able to face him since.

“Do you actually think that? About me? That you’re torturing yourself being with me?”

“No! I don’t, at all!” She slid off the bed, kneeling in front of him to take his hands. They shook beneath her grip. She rubbed her thumbs against the backs of his hands and looked up at him. He looked away. “I didn’t say my thoughts right.” She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and pressed on. “It was really…really bad wording.” Being with him wasn’t torture. Being with him was the best thing that ever happened to her. He had to know that! “You’ve always been so sweet and understanding and attentive in ways I could’ve only imagined. That’s why I feel so lucky to be with you. That someone like you wants to be with me. I love being with you, James.

“I’m so, so sorry. I hurt you. I know that. I should’ve stuck up for you. I should’ve had your back. I was insecure and you suffered for it. I should’ve walked away from the conversation.” Still nothing. She squeezed his hands tighter. “I won’t do it ever again. I promise.” Not that she would ever be invited back to a place like that. She was lucky Mrs. Diamond spared a plus one her way, especially with all the ways she’d made it clear she had other people in mind for James; people with better backgrounds, better stakes in the world, better worth.

Better, better, better.

“Can I…I just need to know something.”

Mickey nodded rapidly, her hair swinging in front of her face at the motion. “Anything. Whatever you need.”

Finally, he looked at her again. A rock dropped hard in her stomach at the deep sadness darkening the hazel in his eyes. “…Why do I have to keep proving myself to you?”

“James—”

“I mean”—he let out a humorless laugh—"I’m just…sick and tired of having to…to work to get people to see I’m worth it. I mean, I think I am. I know I am. First…first my mom. And then Gustavo. …I thought you were the one person I didn’t have to do that with.”

Tears fell freely down her face, rolled over her cheeks and curled beneath her chin. “…I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He pulled his hands from hers. She momentarily gripped the air, holding onto the last bits of warmth before it was kicked aside by the cool air. She curled her fingers into her palms and forced herself away from him, when all she wanted to do was hug him, hold him close and smell the Piranha Man Spray he (and she) loved. (‘Cuda reworked and rebranded after getting hit with numerous lawsuits over allergic reactions and animal testing. James liked the Zeus line.) He stretched out on the bed, resuming his old position staring up at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on his stomach.

She watched him, waiting, twisting her fingers within one another. “Um…do you want to talk more or…?”

“No.” The single word was blunt, but it cut right through her. His chest lifted, dropped, and he rolled onto his side, his back facing her. ”Can you just go?”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Okay.” She nodded again, wiping the tears off her face with her sleeve. She made it all the way to the door when she paused. “James? …If…if you want to break up with me, I’ll understand.”

Silence.

She deserved it.

And she sat in it when she finally forced herself out of the room, out of the apartment, down the hall, and to the elevator. It was only when the doors closed, fusing her broken image back together, thought slightly jagged, that she broke down and sobbed.

[akwolfgrl]

Of fur and fangs part 7

<part 6

Sherlock glanced at the shifter, who was to be his flatmate. An optimist, oddly enough, going by the fact he brought a few things over, unexpected. Sherlock wondered how long he would last. Maybe he could put on a good impression. He needed to clean for a bit longer before gaining access to his funds once more. No more dining on drug addicts, and no more injecting the bags of blood with a seven percent solution. At least he still had cigarettes and nicotine patches. He still hadn't been able to figure out why he could smoke cigarettes but had to drink blood in order to feel the cocaine's effects, same with alcohol.

They make small talk before knocking on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it, wearing a purple house dress. The brownie welcomed them in. Sherlock noticed her eyes quickly shift from John Watson to him, a warm smile on her face.

“Oh, Sherlock," she hugs him, one of the few people who are allowed to do so, the brownie was like a second mother to him. “It’s so good to see you found someone,” She cooed.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson," He knew she would still be apt to play matchmaker no matter what he said on the subject.

“Oh, how lovely, a doctor. Maybe he will keep you out of trouble,” She spoke with a knowing gleam in her eyes before she led the way upstairs.

John headed up the stairs first. Sherlock watched the shifter’s arse, it was hugged nicely in the man's trousers. It wasn't a common thing for Sherlock to pay attention to, he needed his mind clear to focus on The Work. Unfortunately the good doctor hit quite a few of the items on Sherlock's checklist when it comes to sexual attraction: he was blonde, muscular without being grotesque, moderately intelligent (he was no genius), and a soldier. They reached the top of the stairs, John politely waited for him to open the door. Sherlock watched John as he glanced about the flat.

“Oh, this could be nice, very nice indeed.” John nodded, sounding pleased.

“Yes, yes, my thoughts precisely.” Thus far, things were going smoothly.

“As soon as we get some of this cleared up.” John spoke just as Sherlock did.

“That’s why I’ve already taken the liberty of moving in.”

They glanced at one another, Sherlock should have seen this coming. He felt himself begin to panic slightly. John was interesting thus far and Sherlock really did not want to look for another potential flatmate. He quickly began to attempt to tidy up, moving stacks of papers, stabbing his mail on the fireplace mantel with a small dagger.

He turned his back to John. “Obviously, I can tidy up a bit.”

“That's a human skull.” John pointed to his friend of sorts.

Sherlock turned to see the other man pointing at the skeletal remains of a head. “Ah, yes, a friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." his voice trailed off.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson interrupted them before things got any more awkward. This was why Sherlock avoided social interactions, but the need to play nice was imperative. Sherlock took his coat and scarf off while she spoke to John.

“Well, what do you think, Doctor?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“John if you please,” The blond man corrected.

“John. There's a second bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it.“ The gleam was back in her eyes, she had never gone this hard in before.

“Yes, please actually.“

“Oh, don't worry, dearie, there’s all sorts near here. Mrs. Turner, next door, has married ones,” Mrs. Hudson even winked at him.

“We've only just met, Mrs Hudson,” he told her kindly while putting his stuff down and draping his dress uniform over the red armchair. Sherlock filed that information away for another time.

Already claiming it as his own, Sherlock watched as the doctor ran his wrists over the fabric of the arms, which was fine since Sherlock preferred the black leather one. Sherlock watched John turn his attention to the rest of his items, opening the box and taking out a carefully wrapped mug and a wooden box that smelled of tea. Sherlock could tell by the way he handled the box it meant a lot to him and by how worn it was, it was no surprise the shifter smelled permanently of tea.

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made,” Mrs. Hudson spoke, tutting a bit as she went to tidy up the kitchen pots, pans, and some of his equipment that went flouting about. As she started cleaning, her magic filled the kitchen with her motherly warmth. It had not taken long for Sherlock to see her as a second mother, despite trying hard not to, he had known her for so long it had been a losing battle from the beginning.

“I looked you up on the Internet last night,” John spoke, sitting on the red chair, his box and mug balanced on his knees, most likely he didn't wish to disturb Mrs. Hudson's cleaning.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked, eager to hear what John thought.

“I found your website, The Science Of Deduction, I believe that's what you call it.”

“What did you think?” Sherlock asked, eager to get to the point.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and a pilot by his left thumb?'' John asked in disbelief and a hint of amazement in his voice.

“Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and the way you hold yourself. I can read your brother's drinking problem in your mobile phone. The fact you're a coyote shifter by your hair color, lack of a place to stay, the scent of fur you carry with you and the lack of any close familiar scent on your clothes.” If John was part of a pack his clothes would smell it. Packs are very touchy feely.

Sherlock turned his back to stare out the window at the police car that had just pulled up. The raccoon shifter, DI Lestrade, got out. He could feel John's eyes on him.

“How?”

“What about these suicides, then? Sherlock, thought it would be right up your street. Three. Exactly the same,” Mrs. Hudson spoke, a newspaper rustling in her hands.

“Four. There's been a fourth. There's something different this time.” Sherlock was eager to join the case.

Part 8>

[italiangothicwriteblr]

Haven’t even written porn for the ships yet but take this I guess??

NSFW below cut

“I’ve been thinking, and there’s really no reason this has to be miserable.”

Enrico hated that smug, self-satisfied note in Nero’s voice. Of course he would say that, a man with nothing to lose.

“I see no reason we can’t try and get along. Even if you don’t yet love me like a husband, surely we can find some common ground?”

“We have nothing in common,” Enrico sneered, but he was too exhausted to give it any real heat, “I hate you.”

“So does everyone else. But the thing is, they also hate you.”

With the swiftness of a knife to the heart, Enrico pondered the truth of Nero’s words. He almost shot back, telling Nero that he deserved the hatred he got, but…so did Enrico. As despised as the man was, he may be one of the only people to understand Enrico’s situation.

“You..aren’t entirely incorrect” he finally conceded.

Nero’s face twisted into that facsimile of a smile that always made Enrico shiver.

“Exactly. If you let us, I think we could make a brilliant pair. The usurper king and the despot duke. I know you have a thing for self-sabotage, but since we’re to be wed anyway, we should…take full advantage of the match.”

There was no mistaking the look in Nero’s eye, and Enrico horrified himself when the disgust he expected didn’t come. He took a deep breath, straightened, and met Nero’s gaze.

“Fine. If you’re suggesting what I think you are..let’s do it. No use putting it off.”

Nero’s face lit up with triumph, which oddly enough warmed Enrico’s heart a bit. Even by his enemy, it felt nice to be wanted, to be desired after what he had done.

If you looked past his personality: arrogant, rude, and greedy, Nero wasn’t even a bad-looking man. Soft-looking hair, long, thin fingers, and, Enrico noted as Nero stripped his shirt off, muscles all down his stomach.

Maybe a distraction was what he needed. This man was going to be his husband, after all.

Depressed, empty, and looking for anything to make him feel again, Enrico grabbed Nero’s jaw and pulled him into a searing kiss.

It wasn’t good, in the traditional sense of the word. He had only ever kissed men he’d been in love with—when he was a teenager, kissing Giovanni by the lake, his heart had fluttered with the tell-tale signs of young infatuation. Then, of course, there was Niccolo. The ecstasy born from the contentment and passion of being with your one true love was written into him for eternity.

He knew he could never feel either of those with Nero. But there was something in the way he kissed, harsh and rough, that was what he needed.

He’d already had the good fortune to marry for love. Why not try marrying for hate?

Every part of him rebelled at his being with Nero this way—kissing him, wrapping arms around him, pushing him back onto the bed—but he fought the feeling down. The disgust he felt slowly began to mingle with pleasure—an apt metaphor for the state of his life, he thought wryly.

“I’ll prove that you made the right choice” Nero growled, attacking his neck with ferocity, “trust me.”

“I’ve never trusted you, and I’m not about to start.” Enrico bit back, even as Nero was hastily undoing his pants.

Enrico wondered if he only felt so good because he was being touched by another human for the first time in months. The sight of Nero taking his cock out, which should have been a horror, made him let out an involuntary shiver of want.

He needed care, but in the absence of it, what Nero was offering would do.

Nero’s dick was…fine. Enrico hardly had a large catalog of reference, but he’d spent ten years riding one of the biggest cocks in the empire. And, gods, thinking back on it now, Nic’s hands on his hips while Enrico pulled on his hair, gasping for breath in the best way.

The fantasy combined with Nero’s stimulation was enough to bring him to the edge, coming with a muffled groan, biting his lip to avoid saying the wrong name. He’d never hear the end of it.

When he opened his eyes, Nero was looking back at him, smug pride engraved in his features.

“You see? I told you this marriage need not be a tomb.”

Wrapping himself in only a robe, he swanned out of the room, making his business there quite unambiguous to everyone passing the King’s chambers.

Enrico wrapped himself in a blanket, and turned over to sleep with tears in his eyes

[raisinchallah]

you know i have mostly rewatched one against an army as its own standalone thing i dont think ive watched it in order well since the first time ive watched it and its interesting really a crossroads of television styles and evolution its interesting i feel like far less important episodes have had closer links to each other and like its not like elements of the rift go totally unmentioned in one against an army and i do also think if it got itself to mired into backstory and past stuff well the show simply wouldnt be what it is and i think the core of the show is its extreme flexibility to kind of be whatever it wants ive seen some people compare it to doctor who which is imo quite apt and apparently it was a bit of an influence on rtd rebooting the show which u know u really can see with the whole angsty war trauma brooding leather wearing character who can pull all sorts of strange ideas out of the back pocket and knows all these historical figures personally opening the world up to a bored blonde 19 year old who wants to get out of her boring life... but anyways i think if u make a show like that too serialized and every episode leads perfectly into the next you simply cant go from wild comedy fight with fish one day to life hangs in the balance heartbreaking fight to the death to save the love of your life and have it all still work as a singular show if u know every episode must open with some kind of rundown of the events prior but anyways in like most episodes its really felt like even in the most innocuous episodes there is always this level of emotional reality connecting and building up xena and gabrielles relationship that makes the jarring disconnect of essentially nothing of the bitter suite going mentioned in one against an army when the season had so well balanced itself with a lot of wonderfully thematically connected loose two parters and all and i think while they do not need to be emotionally recounting all the events in illusia i think the episode would be a lot stronger if instead of gabrielles ankle being injured the reason shes not fighting is because she and xena are not on good terms still or that she has decided she doesnt want to fight after all of those experiences she hasnt been in a battle in a serious way since her first kill i think the ankle injury is so tonally dissonant with the rest of the episode and is part of a weird angle to the later gabrielle comedy bits where the joke is shes angry or not having fun which always feel oddly mean spirited when all the other actors get to let loose in more wacky ways anyways tho i often enjoy the mixture of comedy and tragedy in xena it simply is not funny enough or serious enough to really work and i think if it was more about emotional wounds and it can remain somewhat unspecified but i think it would truly make the episode hit another level if u got to see the emotional journey for xena to go from frostiness and discomfort in the beginning of the episode to it being this true breakthrough that she really does love gabrielle so much and that she will do anything to protect her and it could feel like a more complete emotional wrap up to the whole arc tho obviously these are feelings that can never truly be resolved and are frankly the driving questions that power all their relationship and conflict but you know...