#Indentation Error

[onlinecoursesusa]

Troubleshooting Common Python Programming Errors

You will undoubtedly run across errors when developing software. No matter how simple a language is to understand or use, bugs exist in every programming language. Despite Python's emphasis on readability, adherence to an expressive syntax, and reputation as one of the more user-friendly programming languages, it is vital to remember that you can still make errors in programming when using Python. By enrolling in the online Python programming certification course, you can learn to handle the error, and they will also teach you tips to minimize errors when programming.

Syntax error

When you write code that deviates from the conventions of the programming language, you make a syntax error. As a result, the code produces an incorrect line. For example, a string must be enclosed in quote marks when printing it out in Python. Incorrect use of parentheses, square brackets, or curly braces, misspelling of terms or function names, failure to include colons after flow control statements or failure to include necessary operators in expressions can all result in syntax errors. If you break one of the rules for writing Python code, syntax errors will appear.

Tip: Review your code thoroughly, particularly regarding indentation and syntax conventions. Syntax errors are usually highlighted by code editors, making them simpler to find.

Indentation Error

Python employs indentation to specify the structure and hierarchy of its code units. For instance, when constructing control statements in Java, curly brackets enclose all the code executed after assessing the condition. However, the code block will be indented in Python. Python typically uses four spaces or one tab for indentation. As a Python programmer, you run the risk of making indentation error if you don't add the necessary indentation, such as when writing control statements or functions if you use both tabs and spaces to create indentations because doing so confuses the interpreter if you put indentations in the wrong place, or if your indentations are inconsistent across your codebase.

Tip: Indentation should be done with a fixed amount of tabs or spaces throughout your code. Indentation mistakes may typically be corrected automatically by code editors.

TypeError

A TypeError in Python is an exception that appears when you attempt to carry out an operation using an unsupported data type. For instance, if you attempt to concatenate a string data type with an integer or add a string and an integer, a TypeError will occur. TypeErrors can also occur when you try to iterate through an object that cannot be iterated through, when you use functions or methods with wrong data types, or when you try to access items in an iterable like a list with a noninteger index. A TypeError will often result from any operation employing an invalid data type.

Tip: Review the operation's variables' and objects' data types in detail.

AttributeError

An AttributeError in Python happens when you try to utilize an attribute or invoke a method on an object that doesn't have those attributes or those methods. An AttributeError will occur if you attempt to call a string method on an integer because that method does not exist for that type of object.

Tip: Ensure the attribute or method you're trying to access is in the object you're working with. To examine the properties and methods of an object, use the dir() function.

NameError

When you try to use a variable, function, or module that doesn't exist, isn't defined in the current scope, or doesn't have a value set to it, you will get the NameError exception. Such a mistake frequently happens when variable or function names are misspelled or used before they have been defined. A NameError will also occur if a module is used without importing it.

Tip: Verify that the names of your variables or functions are written correctly and capitalized. Before using them, make sure they are defined.

Closing thoughts

Errors in Python programming are a normal part of the development process. Effective troubleshooting and debugging depend on understanding typical mistakes and their causes. You can improve your Python programming skills and reduce the impact of errors on your code by taking an online Python courses certification course.

[pencildragons]

snippet of married sabé/padmé/anakin, or as i like to call it, 'ani(dala)^2 couples counselling saves the galaxy that i'd said i'd share. this fic was originally meant to be codywan (or possibly cody/obi-wan/quinlan), and this is from its opening, hence . the codywan in it lolol. i think if i Do end up writing this, this fic would be the second or third part of a series, with the first work focusing more on. what is outlined in above linked post :]

Dear Cody, Obi-Wan writes. His hand is shaking, and the ink blots untidily about the flimsi, pooling at the stems of his lettering. I think you would like the mountain belt Padmé has whisked us away to. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision six months after we moved to Naboo; after years of having to do everything and say everything in careful moderation, as is befitting for a politician, I think she delights in wild spontaneity. Or perhaps it is just the time she has spent in critical proximity to Anakin. It is likely that he delights in her wild spontaneity too, more’s the pity. Now, instead of my Padawan merely being a bad influence on his wife, they are just bad influences on each other. It is a vicious, vicious cycle. Then again, when I think back to Christophsis—the first time, the week before I met you—perhaps this is not such a new development. I’m rambling. Back to the mountain belt. The tallest of its peaks is nineteen thousand metres, but the one that we now reside on is but a modest three thousand metres in height, known in the local language as Jaraam. Much of the belt and the surrounding region was colonised by a northern provence until Monarch Réillata, Padmé’s predecessor as Ruler of Naboo, brought about total planetary unification approximately fifteen years ago, at which point reparations were begun to be made. Since the reparations and the land being both placed under legislative protection from corporate or urban development and returned to its custodians, the traditional practices of transhumance between the high mountain pastures where we now reside, and the lower, warmer valleys has been allowed to flourish. Padmé’s mother, Jobal, hails from the semi-nomadic community whose territory includes Jaraam, and was wholeheartedly supportive of the decision to come here. I am to understand that she took great pains to ensure that both her children were taught of their heritage, of their language and culture, and it is a relief to her that her eldest is reconnecting with it. Anakin has told Padmé in no uncertain terms that he will not hear a word spoken in this house of Basic or of Nubian, the language so thoroughly globalised that the planet was named after it during its entry into the Republic, until after the children begin to learn those themselves when they enter the schooling system. He is adamant that along with Amatakka and Dai Bendu (at my request; believe you me that I will be shocked until the end of my days that he agreed, and without a fight), the children will also learn to speak first in Durrathaam, the language of this place. ‘Tongues of the heart’, he called it; I think fatherhood has changed him, Cody, for there is a maturity in him now that I do not recognise.

We are living in an old stone hut built for such semi-nomadic herders currently—Padmé tells me it is where her great-great-grandfather was born. Truth be told, I do not mind the hut. It is chill at night and the only power source comes from a singular solar generator that Anakin jury-rigged, relegated to powering the kitchen, the ‘fresher, and the comm-signal relay, and it is most certainly not a space space meant to be shared by four adults, three droids, and two infants, but we make do. Padmé and Sabé are, however, concocting plans to enlist the hordes of teenlings and young adults of House Thule, Padmé’s maternal family group, who apparently have nothing better to do than to help design and build a chateau. …And still I ramble. Oh, this place is beautiful, Cody. I remember the wonder in your eyes when we landed on Hoth and you saw that huge mountain range in the distance once the snowstorm had settled and the air was clear, and the view is somewhat similar. You can see for klicks and klicks, further than you could ever on Coruscant, even to the granite cliffs on the horizon before they plunge into the sea. If one looks up, one can see the sky, quite devoid of clouds and a soft, pinkish red, generally with a moon or two visible even in the daytime, although disrupted by the snow-capped horns of the mountains surrounding us. If one looks down, one can see the valleys spread out across the land, deep hollows of green and forests of close-growing alpine trees and the little settlements nestled among them. I feel like I can breathe, here. Now, for the most important thing; the star of this system is small and hot, and the sunrises—I think you would like the sunrises, Cody. I would even go so far as to say that they would make your list of the top twenty greatest sunrises you’ve ever personally witnessed. They’re better here than they are in Theed, I daresay, although I shall of course leave this final judgement to you. Yours always, Obi-Wan Kenobi

Obi-Wan puts down his pen and stares out the window at the cool light of the not-yet-dawn sparkling across the frost, then sighs and reaches beneath the dark recesses of his bed for the small plastoid box. It is not particularly big, although its protective casing is heavy, and he settles it on his lap, brushing his thumb over the small lock in the centre of the lid. Its key, slim and fine, is strung around his neck on the same cord as a chip of his lineage river-stone and the broken tip of a helmet antenna and the worn charms that Bant and Quinlan had made in their Padawan years long-past after his return from Melidaan; a collection of keepsakes from some of the most important people in his life that are now gone for whatever reason, be it distance or death. He dips his hand into his sleep tunic and draws the whole lot out, fits the key into its hole, and turns it. The box contains the few other material possessions that he owns: Anakin’s braid; his own lightsaber; a dozen prized ‘graphs that he hasn’t yet pinned upon the wall; the comm; and, beneath it all, a small sheaf of flimsies, folded neatly into thirds. He takes the letter from his lap and waves it in the air to dry. When the ink has set, he creases it into three with care and slips it to the very bottom of the pile, then shuts the lid, locks it, and replaces the box in its hiding place once more. He wonders, just for a moment, what his ex-Padawan and his wife and her wife would think if they knew that, once a week for the past eight months, he’s been writing letters to a man almost certainly dead. (It really doesn’t bear thinking about.)

if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging it!!! it rlly means a lot to me :3

[anambermusicbox]

Excerpt from 2024 人物 interview, found here:

For example, [while redoing the album] Qian Lei "forced" him to write a song. Qian Lei thought, this new album was extremely significant to him, so there should be a song Zhou Shen wrote himself. What's more, others have criticized him for not being able to compose. But Qian Lei knows he can---and quite well too. "It's not possible someone with strong emotions and a sensitive heart to not be able to write a good melody, it's completely not possible." Usually, Zhou Shen will hum out a melody and record it with his phone---sound engineer Xu Wei has listened to them and thought the melody lines were really good, and could absolutely be straightened out into an original song. But Zhou Shen always felt it wasn't good enough, and even said, to compose beside such a skilled composer like Lei-ge, it would be like an elementary schooler insisting on reciting their composition in front of a doctorate holder---so imprudent. His friends all know his personality---for a "master in self-deprication," being unduly humble was a daily occurrence. His old friend of ten years, lyricist 沃特艾文儿 said: "Not just composing---when I first met him, he even thought his singing was bad. It was so upsetting to me. I'm very relieved that he at least recognizes his singing ability now." Qian Lei has also listened to Zhou Shen's compositions before, and told him, isn't this pretty good? Zhou Shen said, don't mess with me. Qian Lei said, I'm serious, I'm not joking, it's quite good. Zhou Shen said, bye bye. Qian Lei said, bye bye yourself. Thus, when working on the new album, he would use every means possible to force him to write a song. One moment he would "hold a hammer behind him and get him to hurry up and write," the next moment he would set his mind at ease, saying "you don't have to overthink it, gradually the more you write the easier it will be. I'm here, so don't worry." This song was written at Qian Lei's home---once the first step of writing was taken, the rest went smoothly. Musically, Zhou Shen already had things in mind, and a few hours later, the main melody was basically set. Zhou Shen also participated a lot in writing the lyrics. He really liked the line "I can catch the flowers floating in the wind; I don't care whether I fall into the galaxy or into the mud." But "no matter how I sang it, it felt a little off, like it was missing something." He hummed it and hummed it, and out of nowhere added a soft, low, even a little "rude", "嘿，少管我," and "suddenly it came to life." Before, Zhou Shen had always wanted to write a song called "少管我." In his earlier years, he had randomly used these words in replies to fans, and in an interview where he talked about how his fans were never satisfied no matter what he changed his profile picture to, he ended up jokingly shouting "少管我, " and it then went viral. After that, Zhou Shen thought, as a singer, if one day I could turn "少管我" into a song, how interesting would that be. These past few years, he found a lot of people to compose its melody, but he always felt the melodies weren't quite what he wanted. The album that was cancelled also had a song in it named "少管我," but he still felt it wasn't quite right. Until now, it came to him like a "gift" from above. The first impression many people get from these three words is more or less rigid, sharp, harsh, stubborn, and capricious. But to Zhou Shen, a rebellious attitude is easy but truly knowing yourself is a long journey. "It's not necessarily about rebelling against the whole world, but you have to clearly know what version of yourself you want to be, and only then can you become yourself."

The day of the interview at an art park in Tongzhou, Beijing, the sky darkened a little. Zhou Shen took out his cell phone and played the unmixed recording of "少管我." The melody was light, "like travelling, very free." He shook his head to beat, and listened to the song he had listened to countless times one more time. "When I was writing this song and its lyrics, I didn't have "少管我" in mind, but in the end it became the "少管我" that I wanted." Moments like these, sparks flying, you think, "that’s right"---that's the biggest joy in making an album.

[evilkaeya]

the worst pat about writing a report/research paper is actually formatting

[askbeannuts]

I lost track of how long we'd been there, searching, risking our safety every. Single. Time. Just to find SOMETHING, ANYTHING… Eventually, we had to give up, we had to tell others what had happened. It wouldn't be our responsibility alone, and word would eventually spread as we told anyone who would listen… some rightfully tried to accuse us of tricking Shaymin… of… killing her… but there were those who didn't believe that, they could tell by own words, actions and body language that we were not lying or hiding a crime… Shaymin… I refuse to believe she is gone… I REFUSE…! The following days were a blur, all I could remember was talks of a library, and a young Charizard seeking allies… I never paid them any mind, it wasn't worth my time, how good would someone, a failure like myself, be for saving others from crime? Despite my despair, however, those two fellows who traveled there with me, worked with me to venture into that dungeon after Shaymin far too many times to count, weren't letting me wallow alone. They talked to me about forming a team, their roles as cartographers were being taken over by far more qualified individuals, or so they told me… what kind of team would we form? Joining this "Xerneas Guild" or whatever? I remember asking something along those lines, but the two refused-they felt their mapping knowledge could be put to use elsewhere… the Dungeons.

I scoffed at this claim, but they insisted… the entire time we were venturing in and out of the dungeon forming in Shaymin's domain, it did not change, it wasn't until… that--I decided to entertain the two… dungeoneering was dangerous, no one would do so, but we could potentially gain resources from them if we did this, we could even, maybe one day… take back the lands we left behind… wishful thinking, but it was… something that kept my mind off of reality, at least for a moment. I agreed to forming a team, but I wasn't ready for that, not yet, so instead, I suggested we travel this new world. If we were going to risk everything venturing into these dungeons, we'd need to know the populace we'd be helping… that was my reasoning at least… and it seemed to work… while I agreed to join them… I still had resignations about doing such work… I'd failed so many times… how would now be different?

With the help of our Pidgeot friend, we traveled to the Southern Islands, explored them as well as we wished, though many of them were small and near empty in terms of civilization. We came to learn that many Pokémon decided to leave the moment they gained the ability to do so, and sought out their friends or family that were scattered by the chaos-wishful thinkers. These islands were mostly empty, quiet… too much so for me, I wanted to leave for better lands myself… it makes me laugh thinking back on things now.

The Eastern Isles… we weren't there long.

I had heard that to the West, the Tree of Life allowed Pokémon to evolve, and that the "trial" as some called it varied by those who ventured in, what caused them was still a mystery. Some even claimed to hear voices… it was all too strange for me, but the idea of venturing through that dungeon, the tree where heroes-mere children-saved this world from a cruel fate, was exciting to my companions. I really wonder if they were merely trying to cheer me up… their willingness to help me seek out Shaymin aside… I prayed I didn't steal them away from a good life to follow me into danger. Among the other islands, communities formed around dungeons that they could mine for resources… I couldn't help but laugh at the idea of "infinite resources" from a dungeon… even if there was some truth to it… wouldn't it be dangerous to just dig away like this for too long? If we did form a Guild-as my companions were starting to suggest in idle chatter-we would definitely have a dedicated safety team here, or many teams… but that's a future I haven't even begun to fathom yet. One curious note aside from this, were groups of species or types gathering together… their numbers were horrifyingly low and they seemed eager to find ways to save themselves from going extinct.

The answers to their goals were obvious, though I'd heard not all of these groups stayed in the West and some found ways to fly to wherever they pleased. I feel a long-term method to sky travel in groups won't be far off with the ways these Pokémon are wishing to travel, and considering how long it takes and how often breaks are needed… it will be a serious undertaking. My Pidgeot companion did mention the idea of a basket or something similar to carry Pokémon, but lamented at the speed cost it would have on someone like them… it's funny to imagine…

Our last stop on this tour was the North, bitter, windy and just purely cold, it wasn't the best place to venture to. Some settlements were forming and a curious group of farmers were cropping up in some places… were they meant to be a "Guild" too? They operated like one, but I wasn't too eager to find out… gardening isn't of my interest… despite being a grass type. The only part of our cold adventure I truly remember to this day was seeing what happened to Mt. Freeze… it had begun to fuse with another dungeon near it, becoming a massive valley with the mountain at its center. I couldn't begin to understand what happened, but we were told the dungeons "changed" and this occurred recently. Of all our travels and the few dungeons we came across, none had changed per the Pokémon living there… we assumed a "delay" was occurring, but couldn't pinpoint it now… instead we chose to step back, a large group of Pokémon had begun to gather, some seemed very distraught, with what I could hear, they seemed to be in mourning, something they only now were able to achieve… someone they loved was lost, either here, or this was their homeland. I chose to at least pay respects before we departed ourselves, from a distance, but someone spotted us and kindly greeted us.

They were an Absol, I distinctly remember talking with them for quite a while… they were mourning the loss of another Absol, one who worked closely with the Hero of the Meteor Crisis-which truly surprised me. This dungeon-what was left of it-was once their home, and the cataclysm did… this… to it. At first I felt I didn't have the right to, but I saw this becoming common from that "Xerneas Guild" leader, so I suggested a monument of some kind, to honor their partner, their hero. I remember the Absol falling silent for a long time, just looking out to the mountain, so I did the same. During that time, we had talked about everything I could figure was worth talking about… even though it pained me, we spoke of Shaymin… I didn't have the heart to tell them what I saw exactly, but they understood and let it be… until my suggestion that is. "Shaymin was brave-even if it didn't seem like it." I didn't verbally agree with Absol's statement… but what they said next left me thinking more. "Form your Guild. Take that reckless bravery and use it to help others." They also agreed to suggest the idea of a monument to the others, and that they'd settle somewhere nearby, though I advised against it if the dungeons are changing again, but they claimed it'd be fine. I… agreed to consider it, and eventually, after a bit of idle chatter, we separated and I returned to the Central Islands with my companions… I had some thinking to do…

… I forgot how long it's been since I visited that dungeon, but I remember the last time we did go there, the monument was built… hah, it had that new-age Unown script written on it… I think it said… "Heroes" if my translation is right… Ah, I need to get Smeargle to help me get used to writing and reading that… After I find some time to visit that little town of theirs, it's been a while…

An Excerpt from The Founder's Book: Shaymin Guild

[midnightwind]

hey if you guys liked the last blurb I shared, you'll like this direct continuation of it then, huh?

“Alright, I wasn't going to do anything dangerous.” She groused. “Just wanted to clear my head.”

“Alone. In a city still swarming with Antaam. While the gods are hunting you.” His favored monotone humor dripped from the words.

“I could have been planning to hang out at the Diamond for all you know.”

“With Viago there? If he didn’t scold you back through the mirror for shirking your contract, you would have been driven out by having to listen to him and Teia mercilessly flirt for the next 5 hours.”

That got an earnest grumble out of her as she crossed her arms. “Alright, fine. You got me. I was going to go for a run on the rooftops.”

He tapped a finger to his lips in thought before nodding. “I haven’t seen the city like that since the Ossurry. Sounds like a fine way to pass the evening.”

“Are…” She blinked incredulously at him. “Are you inviting yourself along?”

“Well, I already told Neve we were checking in with the Crows and I’d hate for her to think me a liar.” He countered with a grin before sobering. “You really shouldn’t go out alone, though. I can be a very quiet bodyguard if you’d like.”

A strangled noise of defeat escaped her. “Maker, fine. If you can keep up. You lose me, that’s on you.”

“You think you can outrun me?” He half laughed.

“I think you were stuck in a crystal and chains for a year, I have a lot of anger to burn off, and that I have had to run from a lot more jobs than you.”

That earned her an honest laugh. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Maybe.” She grinned before stepping backwards through the Eluvian.

She only half jogged to the dock leading to Treviso, using it as a warm up before they reached the city. He dutifully followed, eyes following her path with quiet intent. Sometimes it felt like he was on the hunt for something when she brought him along for jobs. She wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. Trying to ignore his gaze burning her back, she hopped gingerly into the Caretakers boat, bracing herself on her back foot as it lurched into motion. They sailed in silence, her nervous fingers plucking the ring of the lyrium knife from her belt and spinning it absently on a finger. The blade snicked out as it spun, letting her catch it once before sending it back to catch it on the other side of her hand. Back and forth it went until the boat reached the next island. She was jumping off before it fully stopped, waving at the Caretaker.

There was no backwards glance spared for her travelling companion, her own focus now lasered in on reaching the mirror leading home. They passed swiftly through the spirit market, the whispering wisps trailing behind them for a bit. As the Eluvians came into view she almost started sprinting then and there. When her feet finally hit Treviso brickwork, she took off like a shot. She was swinging along the ziplines, her toes barely touching the beams as she bounded over them, leaping gaps with a breathless laugh. Her magic was popping quick flashes as she jumped, boosting her forward faster and faster. The wind was snatching at her hair and leathers and it was the best feeling in the world.

Only one thing would make it better and that would be Lucanis lagging behind by several rooftops. As she popped up from a quick roll to the next building, she glanced over her shoulder. She was just in time to see him take the same jump, causing a thrill of alarm to shoot through her. He was fast. No one had been able to keep up with her in years. Well, no more going easy on him then. Electricity crackled along her skin, energizing her movements. She’d been steadily cultivating this magic ever since she’d joined the Crows. It wasn’t perfect and often left her ragged at the end, but it made her blood sing. It caused her feet to move in a zigzagging pattern, the nature of the magic forcing her to make concessions, but it ate the ground up greedily.

She was lost in the euphoria of the unfettered magic, only realizing the path she was taking when the yawning gap loomed before her. A second try at the jump that entangled her in this nightmare plot. A second chance to land it safely and maybe shake her persistent tail. A wide grin cracked her face, a mad laugh on her lips. She’d learned from the first attempt, pooling her magic for the initial jump. It burned in her veins before it exploded out below her. She vaulted into the darkness, reveling in the abyss stretching below her and the wind cutting at her face. Gravity began to sink its claws into her, but it was too late. She was flying too high. Faintly, she could hear the surprised sound the other assassin made at her jump and it only added to her glee.

The rooftop rushed up to meet her far too soon. She wanted to soar forever, but instead she tucked her limbs close and let the momentum pull her into a roll. It took a few somersaults for her to be able to properly stop, falling backwards and sitting heavily. She was breathless, skin raw from the magic, and grinning from ear to ear. See if he could match that. The jump had made many a Crow falter when they’d tried to follow her, surely it would cause even the Demon of Vyrantium to pause. Except when she was turned around all she saw was the manic glee of Spite glowing from Lucanis. The demon’s wings unfurled, carrying him easily over the gap and even providing him with a soft landing. On his feet. Flat on his feet.

“Spite! You traitor.” She whined, letting herself drop to her back to struggle for air. “That’s cheating.”

[xervn]

till the sun is up

oneshot | cowboy sevika

ao3 link

summary: porch sex. that's about it.

18+ MDNI | 2k words | tags; modern au, cowboy sevika (doesn't play a big part though), established relationship, sevika has both arms (sorry, ik, i love it too), kissing, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, no use of y/n, porn w/ plot if you squint

took me weeks to write this because i'm lazy and a student, but i'm still in love with sevika. sorry if there's grammatical errors, i mostly wrote this with one hand (im joking)

It’s six-oh-something AM and you woke up to an empty bed; nothing but wrinkled sheets where your wife is supposed to be. You figure she’s keeping herself busy and will be back soon, so in the meantime, you tie your robe around your waist for a little warmth and head downstairs.

You get started on breakfast, turning on the griddle, and taking note of the things you guys need to stock up on. However, by the time you’re done, Sevika has still not shown up. You’re not used to waking up without seeing her, although the only reason you’re up right now is because you didn’t feel her next to you. 

“She must be in the barn.” You assume, making your way to the front door and to the porch. As expected, the horses are out, which could only mean Sevika was too. You make your own binoculars with your hands, trying to see if you can spot your wife in the distance, until you hear a soft grunt right beside you. 

A peaceful sight, Sevika napping on a wooden armchair like an uncle at a family gathering— you giggle at that— with her cowboy hat being used as a sleeping mask. You hate to have to wake her up, but you made her breakfast! And she should’ve been sleeping next to you anyways. 

“Vika..” You lean down to peek at her face, but, of course, her hat is blocking her eyes. “Vika, baby?” You squat down to plant a kiss on her cheek where you can manage, and she hums awake. “There you are.”

Sevika grunts and you giggle. She sits up and pulls her hat back on her head, squinting at the early morning sun that’s still rising, but somehow found a perfect angle to blind her. She turns to look at you instead. “Hey, sweetheart.” She greets with a rasp.

You spot her discomfort and use your body to block the incoming light for her. “Hi, I missed you.”

She smiles sleepily and reaches for your waist. She guides you down to sit on her lap and you happily let her. “‘M sorry. Woke up too early, thought I’d let the horses out and watch the sunrise...” She says before looking away to yawn. 

You gasp lightly, “Without me?” You clutch at your chest and Sevika chuckles at your theatrics. 

She gently tries to move your hand into hers, but you resist. She shakes her head, laughing, “No, no, no. Baby, please, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“But you made it sound so romantic.. I wouldn’t mind.” You pout. Sevika gives you a doubtful look and you pretend not to see it. 

“You’re not nice when I wake you up.” She reminds you.

“I would’ve been nice this time.” You lie.

“I didn’t want to test that.”

You playfully roll your eyes, “Oh, whatever.” You shift to get up, but Sevika quickly anchors you down.

“Where are you going?” She questions with her hands on you firmly; one around your waist and on your stomach, and the other indented in your thigh like you might float away. 

“Ease up, cowgirl. I made breakfast. I made you breakfast.” You reply, placing your hand on her cheek.

“Oh? What’d you make?” She asks as she leans her face into your touch, innocently. Her hands don’t budge.

“Bacon, eggs,” you list and Sevika nods in approval, “Pancakes, and coffee...” You drawl, and her eyes shut as she groans. “Uh-huh, are you gonna join me?” You ask, resting your hands on her chest and waiting for her answer.

She looks you in the eyes, until her gaze starts to go south, lingering at the low neckline of your nightgown. Your cleavage makes a sudden appearance she didn’t notice at first. Sevika was half-awake, but she’s definitely not anymore; whistling at the sight of you. Her grasp on your thigh leaves and goes to pull your satin robe down your shoulder. Surprised, you scold, “Sevika!”

“What?” She goes for the other shoulder and you make no attempts to stop her. “I can’t admire my wife?” She says, resting her rough hand on your thigh again, but this time she’s slowly massaging it up and down.

“You can, but I made you breakfast and it’ll get cold.”

“Baby, that’s what microwaves are for.” She coos, venturing her hand between your legs, slowly making her way up. 

They almost flinch shut and Sevika awes. Your face turns warm and you look away, towards your surroundings, and although she's right about the food, you guys are still outside. You mutter out, “But..”

“But what?” She asks. You continue to aimlessly look in the distance, even though you know damn well there’s nothing but farmland and horses. Sevika chuckles, “The horses don’t care and we don’t get visitors. Even if we did, you know I’d kill ‘em before they could see you like this, right?” You fix your lips to respond, but you pause when the hand on your stomach moves down to the lace hemline of your gown. Her fingers curl underneath, waiting to search. “I miss you.” She whispers.

Her words tug at your heart and her puppy eyes burn into you. You didn’t need much convincing anyways, but you fold and you mumble out, “I know what you’re doing...” Your marriage has taught two things, if Sevika “misses you” she either really does, or she really wants to fuck you. 

You reach for her hat and perch it on your head; an unspoken rule about cowboys Sevika once said. She grins up at you as you slide your hand over her shoulder, closing some distance between you two.

“I do miss you, I miss you all the time.” She assures, leaning in to freely press kisses on your shoulder. Her fingers finally lift your dress and her kisses begin to trail towards your neck. You can deduce which “missing” she meant, and you feel the same way. 

Exhaling, you tip your head to the side to give her more room. Sevika’s lips marking the new territory makes you tremble like it was the first time. It’s no surprise that after years of being together, she still makes your heart race. 

You move with her as she leans back, tugging you towards her. You involuntarily let out a squeak that she snickers at, and she gives you a kiss on the cheek and several more, distracting you from her spreading your legs indecently; hooking your outer leg over her strong forearm.

She wastes no time to ride up the front of your nightgown, showcasing your plain, flimsy, black, cat-themed underwear. Sevika doesn’t bat an eye, of course, she’s used to it. 

Right now, she’s only focused on one thing. Her hand purposefully ghosts over, so she can ogle at you writhing with anticipation. Your knitting brows, heavy breathing— it excites her. She’s getting worked up from watching you. “Look how bad you want it.” She teases affectionately.

Sevika presses her middle finger on your damp, clothed clit, observing and feeling every reaction that pulses from you. You let out a soft curse and she rewards it by moving her finger in tight circles. Sevika listens to how your breath staggers and clenches from the ache between her own legs. She tugs your underwear to the side to properly admire how wet you are. The cool, morning air makes you shiver. 

Pinning the fabric with her ring finger, she sensually swipes her middle up your folds. “All for me?”

Her voice has you melting, throbbing, and you're unable to contain the whine that escapes you. Sevika’s gaze locks on your lips the second she hears it, as if she’s hunting for the next one. You make sure she’ll be able to catch it, meeting her halfway for a kiss. 

She grins as your mouths collide, eyes fluttering shut and lips passionately fitting together like a two-piece puzzle. She brings another finger to aid her in rubbing soft circles on your clit; just enough to build pressure, but not enough to relieve it. The tip of her tongue runs over your parted bottom lip, waiting for an invitation in, and you allow it with a breathy moan. She languidly teases her tongue across yours, then pulls away just to watch you follow after her— which you do— and you can see how much she got off on it. 

Panting impatiently, “Sev…“ But you trail off as she gravitates towards you with another magnetizing, searing kiss. Your hands find the side of her neck, brushing up her nape. 

She sweetly pecks your lips, breaking away for a second, “You’re,” she kisses you again, “Just,” and again, “So,” and again, “Pretty. I had to look.” She murmurs.

Your face becomes home for a cheesy smile Sevika reciprocates dotingly. You lean in to kiss her, and as your lips brush against each other’s, her fingers suddenly resume their movement, this time firmly and relieving. You whimper over her lips, and she chuckles darkly against yours. She kisses you deeply as she steadily coaxes your clit on a perfect pressure point. 

Your legs begin to bow together from the overwhelming sensation, slowly coming to its climax, and Sevika takes it as a sign to slip her fingers into you. The stretch hurts good as she curls her fingers into ‘come-hither’ motions right where you need them. The previous build up resumes instantly and you’re back where you left off, right on the brink. 

“Vika, I’m gonna…“ You softly cry out, unable to finish your words because she only increases her speed at the mention of her name. Now her thick fingers are squelching in and out of you and the sounds are fogging your brain. If it wasn’t for the chirping birds and the huffing horses in the distance, you would’ve forgotten where you were.

“Not yet, just a little longer.” She says— demands even.

You sob out a moan, akin to a tantrum, “I can’t— fuck — I can’t.” 

Sevika plants a kiss on the corner of your lips; her fingers refusing to stop hitting your rough spot. “You can, baby. You don’t want me to stop, do you?” She whispers.

She puts up a good point you can’t argue. You don’t want her to stop, you’d hate for her to stop. “N- No, but maybe slow— hnng— d— shit— down?” You bargain half-heartedly in stutters and stammers.

“Where’s the fun in that? And if you come right now, so help me god.” She growls. Yet, the way she’s fucking you is telling you the opposite; there’s a thin line on torture and mind-breaking pleasure she’s crossing and you love it. You try not to love it too much before you explode on the spot. 

She can see how much you're trying, squirming, whining with every fast-paced stroke. One word from her and you’d come undone: that’s her favorite part. She extends her free arm, the one propping your leg up, and she puts four fingers on your clit, then rubs it harshly. That does it. You actually can’t hold it anymore unless you want half an orgasm. Your head jerks back and Sevika’s cowboy hat begins to slide off your head. There’s tears in your eyes, your legs are weak and shaking. You need it, you need it bad.

And she gives it to you. “Such a good girl. Go on, come for me.” 

Your release hits hard, like a cork popping off a champagne bottle. Your eyes pin shut as it reverberates down to your toes, and courses up your spine. You let out high-pitched, breathy moans, and Sevika harmonizes— not mockingly — soothingly, as she softly rubs out your orgasm. Your underwear falls back in place as she removes her fingers out of you and off of you. You wince and she murmurs an apology with a smug smile. 

“Holy shit,” You exhale as your legs fall over Sevika’s thighs. You can feel the air getting warmer, and as your eyes flutter open, the sky is colored a blue only a risen sun could paint. “I love you.”

“I love you.” She replies with a smile.

“Your turn now.”

She laughs heartily, briefly biting her lower lip, “But I thought the breakfast was gonna get cold?” 

You grin, “‘That’s what microwaves are for.’”

[chereid]

೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓨𝗢𝗨 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗜𝗧 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫 airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x female!bau!nonverbal!reader

ꨄ︎ 𝒮 ynopsis : : being nonverbal has it's difficulties. you speak with your hands━━SPENCER REID learned them by heart.

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ontents : : nonverbal!reader. reader knows sign language. asl. spencer learns asl. fluff. mutual pining. rossi knows sign language. the reason why reader is nonverbal,, past trauma( the team knows but won't be talked about ). light smut. reader being the one rambling( using sign language ) and spencer focusing on you and your hands alone. teasing from the team. the team didn't know about your relationship for a while(aside from rossi). grammatical errors. ooc.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 1.7k

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : OKAY. i made this a week ago. also,, this idea popped up after reading,, this by @/mggslover !,, gained the motivation to write it because of a boy my age who is nonverbal !! met him at the hospital && he was sososo sweet. i couldn't understand what he was trying to tell me😭😭 i made him type on my notes,, he didn't seem bothered by it,, so it's okay... ishm I FORGOT TO ASK FOR HIS SOCIALS IM GONNA KMS. also! i mentioned i met the guy at the hospital ,, yeah,, still haven't recovered.. SO THIS WON'T BE GOOD-GOOD I'M SORRY💔 also i still don't know sign language so indented = sign language. i made rossi know asl,, bc yay why not,,, contains too many breaks because i acc do nawt know anything ab sign language but,, wanted to write thistgisthis. and for the last time . I AM MINORLYATFAULT DAMMIT

the first time SPENCER REID laid eyes on you, you were signing with rossi. it was quick, neat, rehearsed. the others were slightly confused, derek arching a brow, jj tilting her head, emily sort of just standing there with a strangely amused expression. but reid? reid was focused. like laser beam concentrated. he was already trying to recall what you had just signed.

rossi had patted your shoulder and left, but you remained standing in the center of the briefing room, notebook held in front of you like a shield.

"she's nonverbal," garcia had whispered afterward, when she added, "not mute, though. trauma-related, i believe. i overheard that from strauss once. she can talk, just. doesn't. or won't."

it didn't make him pity you. he just considered how you spoke. how calculated it was. how careful you had to be, how you hacked out understanding in silence. he thought that was sort of beautiful. he thought it was absolutely beautiful.

so naturally he began learning asl. and not the watered down kind. complete, perfect grammar, complete complications, practiced every night( he read eight different asl books and read each of them three times). he didn't want to ask you to adjust for him. he wanted to be able to meet you where you were.

he began small.

hi.

and your eyes had widened a bit, guarded. but you signed back,

hi, spencer.

and that was the start.

over time, your conversations increased. it became kinda a secret language between you two( if you take rossi out of the picture ). sometimes in the car on stakeouts, he'd ask you questions just to see the way you signed. like the way you'd talk about the stars or the way the wind blew that day. usually it's him who rambles. but he can't help it. and you'd always get a little smile when you saw him staring at your hands like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe.

the team saw something, but not everything. you always signed to them, usually to rossi, but gradually more and more to spencer. and yeah, reid signed back, but they just thought he was being nice. helpful. because he was like that. always happy to learn a new language. especially so he could converse with a friend. and don't take it the wrong way, they're learning. trying. but they aren't spencer reid who could finish reading 20,000 words per minute.

rossi was the one who glanced at you both with that knowing look.

"pretty sure he's in love with you, kid" he told you one morning, dryly, as he was making coffee. you blinked at him. signed,,

how do you know?

he smiled. "because he stares at you the same way emily stares at tequila."

... don't you mean you? you wanted to state, but restrained yourself.

the teasing came later.

morgan began it all. "pretty boy's got himself a signing buddy,"( more like you got yourself a signing buddy. ) he teased one morning. "y'all look like you're passing notes in class."

reid blushed so red it was really alarming.

you just rolled your eyes and waved your fingers:

jealous you can't keep up?

"i━━ okay, okay, she got me. i'm out."

everyone laughed( he couldn't even understand half of what you signed ). except rossi, who sipped his coffee like he was privy to some information they were not.

reid was quiet that entire day. and the next.

of course, he'd eventually snap.

he saw you in the break room, empty. where you typically retreated to escape the commotion. he seemed nervous. restless. hands quivering slightly as if he couldn't help but keep them moving.

can i talk to you?

you nodded, clearing a space beside you. he sat down across from you. deep breath.

i like you. i like you a lot. i think about you constantly and not just in a friendly way. in a.more-than-that way.

he winced a little, as if preparing himself for rejection.

you blinked. heart pounding. giddy. and then slowly, you signed,

me too. i like you, spencer. but. let's keep it private? work is still work.

his entire face beamed. "yes! yes, of course. absolutely. private. secret. top secret. agent-level secret."

you smiled. just a little gasp. no sound, but he could see it in your eyes.

he was already lovesick-looking.

oh, and dating spencer reid was like falling into poetry. he signed you good mornings, good afternoons, and good evenings. he annotated books for you with both little notes and signs he wanted to show you. he kissed your hands sometimes like they were the whole language he adored.

no one knew. or at least, they didn't know know. you were always signing regardless. sometimes you'd touch your fingers against his wrist and jj would just smile, thinking nothing of it. morgan was too busy making noise. hotch, well.. hotch. garcia kept shipping you with literally everyone( mostly spencer ).

the one and only rossi raised an eyebrow whenever reid would look at you for just a fraction too long.

"still think i was wrong?" he whispered one afternoon, walking past you in the corridor.

no. definitely not. but you didn't sign.

"so," rossi asked a week later at the round table, not even glancing up from his file. "you two finished sneaking around yet?"

you and spencer both stiffened.

morgan choked on his coffee. "wait, what?"

"they've been dating. for weeks now. maybe months. i don't know. you all are blind."

emily looked at you with big eyes. "what?"

you just signed,

hi.

spencer coughed. blushed. again.

"man," derek complained. "i knew something was up."

"no, you didn't," garcia chastised. "rossi knew. he always knows."

rossi just smiled, smug. "i read fast."

it was raining the night it happened. spencer had volunteered to drive you home from the jet. everyone else had already separated.

he came up with some reason to come in. books he borrowed? something along those lines( silly of him, you both just left the jet, what books ?).

the moment the door closed after him, he turned to you.

"can i kiss you?"

you nodded. a little too quickly. too eagerly.

and it was soft. soft. but also desperate. like he'd been waiting for years. your hands in his hair, and his arms tight around your waist like he couldn't believe you were real.

you took him to the couch. didn't need to utter a word. he trailed, kissing you once more like a habit. his fingers traced your jaw, your neck, down your back. your hands signed between kisses,

you're so warm.

he grinned against your mouth. "you're perfect."

it became hotter. clothes were not completely vanished but they were. relocated. his lips on your neck. your legs. your belly. and you ━━ you couldn't keep it in.

the moaned. escaped before you could shut them up. breathy, soft, but oh so there.

spencer stopped. eyes wide open. he stared up at you. you freaked out.

i'm sorry.

you signed, panicking.

"don't be," he breathed. "god, don't be. that was the most gorgeous sound i've ever heard."

and then he kissed you again, slow and once again, desperate.

you allowed him to hold you afterward. his hand beneath your shirt was warm but never inched any lower, as if he was scared of rushing you. and perhaps that's why your body trusted him.

perhaps that's why when he asked ━━ with a gentle brush of his lips against your jaw, eyes asking permission more than anything ━━ if he could kiss you again, you let him.

and it was messier this time. not the hesitant type, not the uncertain type. it was desperate, much longed for. his fingers buried in your hair, and yours gripping the nape of his neck, thumb tracing behind his ear. and the way he kissed, god, he kissed as if he was committing every curve your lips held to memory.

his glasses misted, but he didn't mind. you smiled during the kiss, teeth clashing once as he attempted to smile in return. you signed against his chest ━━ adorable. ( adorable. adorable. adorable. ) he only smiled harder.

"you're unfair," he whispered, thumb tracing the edge of your mouth. "you know what you do to me?"

tell me.

he leaned in to kiss you again. slower, softer.

"you ruin me."

in a good way?

"the best way."

somehow, you found yourself lying back on the couch. your fingers intertwined in his shirt and his weight resting carefully over you. you buried your face in his neck and kissed there. slow, soft.

he grunted ━━ not even ━━ but you felt it more than you heard it. you kissed beneath his jaw. again. again. again. you did not say a word but you were loud in other ways. he let you feel safe enough to be loud.

he whispered something akin to "jesus, you're perfect" against your cheek, and it curled your toes. his hand remained at your waist, and your leg touched his. you moved ━━ wanting more, not all, just more.

he drew back only to ask, "are you sure?"

you nodded. signed ,

yes. please.

his lips slammed against yours again.

it was still soft, but different now. a little deeper. teeth brushing, tongue dancing. he didn't force. he let you welcome him. and you did. you drew him in again and again. he kissed you like a man who'd waited months., because he had.

he kissed you until your chest was heaving and your body was warmer than ever.

and when you moved again, thighs touching more, his hand crept up to cradle your cheek.

"we can stop whenever," he vowed. breathless. hopeful.

i don't want to.

he kissed your fingertips for that. soft, reverent. then your knuckles. your wrist. your pulse.

when he finally drew back, both of you were flushed and swollen-lipped. you let out a soft giggle.

so. dating?

he blinked. then laughed. his laugh is also adorable. head thrown back, nose scrunched.

"yes. very, very much dating."

cool.

you attempted to look and act cool, too, but your smile was way too wide.

"cool," he repeated.

the following week at the office, nothing changed. to everyone else.

to rossi, you noticed the smirk you received from him across the conference room table.

to reid, you signed,

missed you.

while getting coffee.

he clenched his lip to keep from grinning. signed back,

me more.

morgan cocked an eyebrow from the hallway. "you two ever gonna share the inside joke or what?"

"nope," reid replied, taking a swallow and not looking at anyone.

never.

but when he strode past your desk, he touched your hand. and you looked at him like he hung the stars.

and yeah, you were still quiet.

but with him, you never had to be quiet.

© reidscherrygirl

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐓𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐨 𝐔𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭

Pairing: dad!felix x ghost!afab!reader, married, nonidol!au

Synopsis: you died (God forbid) at childbirth. Life without you was hell for Felix. Struggling with raising the kids, work, and your ghost? He wanted to end his own life. As haunting as it may seem, the ghost of you was. Ft. Chan and minsung

Warnings: death, angst, mentions of soy sauce, Felix has hallucinations of reader, comfort, mentions of religion

A/n: my next Felix fic will contain happiness and joy I promise 🤧 if the topics of soy sauce (suicide) or religion do not sit well with you please skip this fic. If you have extra eyes for errors...no you don't.

Felix still sets the table for four.

It's instinct—muscle memory burned into his bones. One plate for him, two for the twins, and the last one… yours. His hands hesitate over it every night, but he sets it down anyway. His fingers shake when he places the fork beside it, and the lump in his throat is always there, suffocating.

"You're doing it again, Daddy."

The soft voice of his daughter, Kara, snaps him back to reality. She stands by the kitchen island, her big brown eyes filled with something she shouldn't understand yet—worry. Beside her, her twin brother, Noel, stares at his lap, his small hands clutching the hem of his sweater.

Felix glances at the extra plate. He swears, just for a moment, he sees your hand reaching for the utensils. His vision blurs. He blinks. You're gone. The chair remains empty, untouched.

"Sorry, baby," he whispers, forcing a smile as he moves the plate away. "Go wash your hands before dinner, yeah?"

They listen. They always do. Because they know. They know their daddy isn’t the same.

Because you're gone.

The first sign was a dull ache in your lower back, a persistent pressure that you brushed off as exhaustion. After all, carrying yours and Felix’s child for the past nine months had been both a dream and a trial—your body stretched and strained, but your heart swelled with love. Felix was a devoted husband, never letting you lift a finger, always pressing soft kisses against your belly as he whispered to the life growing inside you.

But then came the unmistakable pop, followed by a rush of warm liquid pooling at your feet.

"Felix," you called out, gripping the kitchen counter as a sharp pain followed. Your voice was tight, urgent. "Felix!"

The sound of rapid footsteps echoed before Felix skidded into the room, his freckles standing stark against his paling skin. His eyes darted between your soaked pajama pants and the expression on your face.

“Shit,” he breathed. “It’s time?”

You barely nodded before another contraction hit, and Felix was already moving. He grabbed the hospital bag, set aside and pre-packed for cases such as these. He slipped your shoes on, and helped you waddle to the car, his hands firm but gentle. In the passenger seat, you gritted your teeth through the pain as Felix sped through the darkened streets, one hand gripping the wheel, the other gripping yours.

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe, yeah?” His voice wavered, betraying his own panic, but he tried to stay strong for you.

When you arrived at the hospital, nurses rushed in with a wheelchair, and Felix stayed glued to your side as they wheeled you into the delivery room. Chan was already there—Felix had called him on the way, his best friend appearing as if he had been waiting for the moment.

"You're okay," Chan reassured Felix, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "She's in good hands."

Felix sees you everywhere.

When he stands in the shower, forehead pressed against the cold tile, he feels your hands ghosting over his back. When he rolls over in bed, he hears the whisper of your breath, feels the indentation of your body beside him. When he makes breakfast, his ears pick up the faintest hum of a song you used to sing in the mornings.

He turns around every time. But you’re never there.

"You're haunting me," he mutters into the bathroom wall. "Or I'm losing my mind."

Maybe both. Because he dreams of you, too. But in his dreams, you're real. Warm. Soft. Breathing. And when he wakes up, he's still here, and you're still dead.

The next few hours were a haze of pain, sweat, and exhaustion. The contractions came like relentless waves, pulling you under before giving you a brief moment to breathe. Felix was right there, his voice the anchor keeping you steady.

"You're doing so good, baby. So, so good," he whispered, pressing kisses to your damp forehead.

But something felt wrong. The pain was unbearable, and your body was growing weaker with every passing second. The doctors’ voices became a background hum, their expressions growing grim. And then, something changed. The room erupted into controlled chaos. Nurses shuffled rapidly, the beeping of the machines becoming frantic. A sharp pain tore through you, and Felix’s grip tightened on your hand.

“Sir, we need you to step out,” one of the doctors said, firm but gentle.

“What? No, I’m not leaving her—”

“Felix,” you gasped, barely able to focus on his face. Your vision blurred, the edges of the world turning white-hot. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he choked, his voice breaking. But before he could protest further, Chan was pulling him back, guiding him out of the room as Felix fought against him.

"I can't leave her!"

"You have to," Chan said, his voice strained. "Let them do their job, Felix."

Felix stares at the bottle of pills on the counter.

The label blurs in his vision, the prescription name meaningless. He isn’t sick—at least, not in the way doctors could fix. One pill wouldn’t be enough. Two, maybe three, wouldn’t silence the ache in his chest. But if he took the whole bottle… maybe he could sleep for real this time.

Maybe he’d wake up next to you.

Felix clenches his jaw. His fingers tremble as he reaches for it, the weight of the plastic foreign in his palm.

"It wouldn't hurt, right?"

He already feels dead. Then, a small voice breaks the silence.

"Daddy?"

His grip on the bottle loosens. He turns. Kara stands in the doorway, her stuffed rabbit dangling from her fingers, her face half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light. She rubs her tired eyes. "What are you doing?"

Felix swallows. He slides the bottle behind him. Forces a smile. "Nothing, baby. Couldn't sleep."

Kara shuffles closer, her small brows furrowing. "Were you talking to Mommy again?"

Felix's breath hitches.

Felix’s leg bounced uncontrollably as he sat in the waiting room, his hands gripping his face. Chan and Minho, who Chan had called not too long ago sat beside him, silent pillars of support. Every second felt like a lifetime. Then the doors opened. The head doctor stepped in, pulling off her gloves. Her face was unreadable, but Felix felt the shift in the air before she even spoke.

“The babies are safe.” A breath of relief left Felix’s lips.

“But…”

The room went still.

“She didn’t make it.”

It was as if someone had reached into his chest and ripped his heart out, leaving an empty, gaping wound. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—”

“I’m so sorry.”

Felix’s knees buckled, and he collapsed into Chan’s arms, a broken sob tearing from his throat. He clutched at his chest as if trying to hold himself together, but it was useless. The love of his life—his wife, his best friend, the mother of his child—was gone. And no matter how much he screamed, no matter how much he begged, you weren’t coming back.

"Felix, man… you gotta talk to someone."

Chan's voice is low, careful, like he's afraid Felix might break. Maybe he will.

They're sitting on Felix's couch, beer bottles on the coffee table. The kids are at Minho's place tonight. The two men were the pillars barely holding his weight. His house is quiet. It feels wrong. Felix stares at his beer, fingers tapping against the glass. "Talk to who?" Chan exhales through his nose. "A therapist. A priest. Us."

Felix scoffs, tilting his head back against the couch. "I've been talking to someone." His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "But she doesn’t talk back."

Chan stills.

Felix chuckles, but it sounds like it hurts. His hands move to play with the chain around his neck, your rings as its pendant. "I see her, Chris. I hear her. I fucking feel her sometimes." He takes a sharp breath. "I know she’s not real, but I—I just keep thinking… if I just hold on a little longer, maybe I can go where she is. Maybe then—”

“Don’t.”

Chan’s voice is firm, and when Felix meets his eyes, they're glistening.

"Don't say that," Chan cuts him off, his own voice cracking. Felix looks away. He doesn’t want to see the tears in his best friend's eyes. It makes everything feel too real.

"The kids need you. We need you."

Felix swallows thickly. He knows. God, he knows. But grief is a monster, an anchor, dragging him deeper and deeper into waters he doesn't want to fight anymore.

"Then tell her to let me go," Felix whispers.

Chan's jaw tightens. He grips Felix's shoulder. "Maybe… maybe she’s not holding on to you, Lix. Maybe you're holding on to her." Felix blinks. The thought steals the air from his lungs. Because if he lets go of you… does that mean you’ll finally disappear?

That night, Felix lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t turn when he hears the shift of the sheets beside him. He doesn’t flinch when he feels the familiar warmth pressed against his back.

"You’re not real," he whispers.

Silence.

Then, the faintest breath against his ear. "I know." His chest tightens. "Then why are you still here?" A pause. Then, softer:

"Because you keep calling me."

Felix squeezes his eyes shut.

The mattress shifts. A hand—your hand—brushes through his hair. His body shudders, but he doesn’t move. He wants to hold on. He wants to let go. "Lixie," you whisper, and it’s almost enough to break him. "The kids need you more than I do now." His throat clenches. "But I miss you."

"I know, and it’s not your fault," you murmur. "But it will be if you don’t live and let me go."

Felix’s fingers clutch the sheets. He swears he feels a kiss pressed to the back of his head. Then—nothing. His body turns instinctively, reaching for you. But you’re not there. The bed returns to its cold state and he can’t help but press his face into the pillow as he sobs.

_

The morning lights barely seeped through the curtains of Minho’s apartment. The kitchen was quiet, save for the sizzling and occasional scrapes of the spatula against the pan. Jisung stood by the counter, stirring a cup of coffee, multitasking with sleep and cooking. Then the sound of small footsteps pattering against the floor pulled him to glance at the hallway. The twins waddled at the entrance, dressed in their pajamas, expressions soft and sleepy.

“Good morning sleepyheads.” He smiles, setting his mug down.

“Good morning, Uncle Han.” Kara replied.

Noel looked at the stack of pancakes on the counter and pointed. “You want pancakes, Noel?” The boy nodded sheepishly.

Kara climbed on one of the kitchen barstools as Jisung got to plating their breakfast. "Uncle Han?" she calls out helping her brother sit on one stool too. He looks over at her, ruffling her hair as a sign that she has his attention.

"I love daddy, but I don’t think he’s happy." she whispers.

Jisung’s breath caught, the weight of her words hitting him like a punch tot the chest. Noel spoke up next his voice softer than his sister’s. “He talks to Mommy when he thinks were asleep.”

Han swallowed, his heart squeezing painfully. He went across to them, placing a gentle hand on Kara’s shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart…” he didn’t even know where to begin.

Minho had warned him. Felix had ben struggling. He told him of how he barely ate or slept. The weight of losing you, of raising two kids alone, of feeling like he wasn’t enough. It crushed him. And his own children where beginning to see the cracks. Big mistake.

He took a shaky breath, forcing a smile. “Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world. Sometimes…grown-ups get sad too, and it’s hard for them to talk about it.”

Noel’s eyes welled up with tears. “Is he gonna be okay?” Jisung pulled him into a hug, cooing at him and rubbing his back. “Yeah, baby. He’s gonna be okay.” But as he held him, the truth sat heavy on his chest. Because he didn’t know if Felix would be okay.

That afternoon as Felix came to pick up the twins, Minho suggests they have a drink before he left. Jisung took the hint and went with Kara and Noel to the playroom. Minho uncorks two bottles of beer and gives one to Felix which he takes hesitantly. He walked over to the couch and Felix sat beside him. He took his first sip, uncharacteristically silent, watching Felix carefully.

"Have you prayed?" Minho's voice is quiet.

Felix scoffs, staring at the beer bottle in his hands.

"I don't think He listens to people like me," Felix mutters.

Minho leans back against the couch, arms crossed. "Why? Because you’re grieving?" Felix shakes his head. "Because I don't believe in Him anymore."

A heavy pause. "Did you ever?"

Felix lets out a slow breath. "She did." His fingers tighten around the bottle. "She used to say we’d be together forever, that nothing—not even death—could take us away from each other."

His throat burns. "She said we’d see each other again one day." Minho’s gaze softens. "And you don’t think that’s true?" Felix exhales shakily. "I don’t know anymore."

Another pause. Another drink. Them Minho speaks.

"Lix, you’re still here for a reason."

"Yeah? What reason is that?"

Minho raises a brow. "Your kids, dumbass."

Felix looks up. Minho’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something firm in his eyes—something Felix wishes he could hold on to. Minho leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You think God’s punishing you, but maybe He’s giving you time. Maybe He’s saying, ‘Hey, you’re not done yet.’"

Felix swallows, a lump forming in his throat. He’s so tired.

His knee nudges Felix’s. "You think she’d want you to stop fighting?" Felix doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Because he knows you wouldn’t want him to.

On the drive home, Felix thinks about crashing the car into the curb. It was late so the police would see it as drunk driving or consequences of stress. But when he’d glance at the rear-view mirror and see his children pretending to eat cars in the backseat his hands grip the wheel tighter.

That night, Felix lies awake in bed. The ceiling is blank. The sheets are cold. He turns over, waiting for it. For you. And then there you are. You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, eyes full of love and sadness and something he can’t quite name.

Felix grips the sheets. "Are you real?" You smile softly. "Do you want me to be?" His breath stutters. "I don’t know anymore.” You reach out just barely, fingertips brushing his. He shudders. "Felix," you whisper, "it's not your time yet."

His chest tightens. "But I—" Your hand cups his cheek. He chokes back a sob. "You have to live," you say, so soft, but firm. "For them. For yourself." He closes his eyes. Tears slip down his temples.

"I don't know how," he admits, voice barely there. "You will," you promise. "And when the time comes, I’ll be waiting."

His lip trembles. "Swear it."

Your fingers brush over his heart.

"I swear."

The next morning, Felix sits on the balcony watching the sunrise. The sky is painted with soft oranges and pinks, warmth seeping through the horizon.

Kara finds him there, wrapping her little arms around his waist.

"Daddy?"

Felix runs a hand through her hair.

"I love you," he whispers.

Kara tilts her head up at him, smiling sleepily. "Mommy said that too."

Noel appears on the balcony too, rubbing his eyes sleep lines evident on his face. He clings to him too. "Love you too, Daddy."

Felix freezes. His fingers twitch. She hums. "She told me in my dream. She said she’s okay now." He exhales shakily. The wind brushes past, gentle. Familiar.

Kara holds him even tighter. "Mommy loves you too."

For the first time in forever, he feels light.

Maybe… you're finally at peace.

And one day, he will be too.

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

Cough cough...

Taglist:

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @necrozica @sh0dor1 @leeknow-minho2 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @bbokvhs @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @day138 @katchowbbie @imeverycliche @yoongiismylove2018 @morkleesgirl @rockstarkkami @alisonyus @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @lillymochilover @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential

~kc 💗

[getaapologist]

Lines of your Hands

Pairing: Emperor Geta x sculptor!reader

Warnings: none

A/N: Just a little idea I had that I wanted to write out! I still have other Geta requests I want to work on. I've got some for Sam as well. I'm trying to stay in this little productive spell! Thank you for requesting and commenting, etc. It makes it easier to stay engaged. I appreciate you! Hope you enjoy this.

“What are you doing with that?” Emperor Geta asked, his alert, watchful gaze following every movement you made. Scrutinizing, distrustful.

Uncertain.

The thin implement you held was used to more carefully and precisely shape the clay sat in front of you. And currently, you were measuring the distance between his brows with it. You brought the implement close to his face, but avoided touching his skin, marking with a finger the span in question. You then moved it to the same area of the sculpt you were working on, and made an indentation, marking the measurement.  

“I am measuring you, Emperor.”

“Measuring?” His voice was low, a bit scratchy with disuse. 

The sun shining in through the terrace behind you lit up his face perfectly. His eyes glowed amber. His hair shone in the afternoon sun, his laurel crown glinting a halo around his head. You knew your sculpt would hardly do him justice. If you could capture even a small part of his cautious look, you would consider your work sufficient.

“I must be as precise as possible. My mentor will sculpt you from marble, using this. Any errors I make will impair the finished product.”

Holding up the implement, you measure brow height, the distance between the brow and eyelid as well, making the relevant marks in clay.

“Could your mentor not just come here and sculpt this himself?”

You met his eye from around the side of the clay head. “Am I not good enough, Emperor?”

He blinked. “I did not say that,” he backpedaled.

“Have you ever carved marble, Emperor?” you asked, biting your lip to hide the smile that threatened to bloom across your face.

“Well, no.”

You squinted as you aligned the implement with the bridge of his nose. “Could you sit here for weeks?”

Realization settled in his features. “Right. Yes, I imagine not.”

So he allowed you to continue your work. Slowly but surely, clay Geta took form. Though it was obvious he was sitting uncomfortably in this silence, he did not complain. He could have, he was an Emperor, after all, but he didn’t.

Instead, his eyes watched your hands move. He watched as you swiped at an itch on your forehead, leaving behind a streak of dark clay. He noted the way you sometimes leaned in close, quite close, actually, to the clay, fussing over some detail. It was then that your knee touched his.

It burned.

He wanted to feel the cold squelch of the clay on his face. Wanted your hands pressed into his skin. Wanted you to measure all of him with your fingers. The length of his neck, width of his shoulders, the span of his palms.  

He imagined you pressing your fingers in, to smooth out his own skin into the shape you wanted. You would dip your fingers in the small basin of water, smoothing them over his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose. Along his lips.

He became possessed with a desire to drag you into his lap, sculpture be damned. He wanted you to touch him for a different reason altogether.

Heat raced up his neck to his cheeks as he collected his thoughts, wondering where they had come from.

“Are you alright, Emperor? Is it too warm in the sunlight?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine. It was sweltering. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back.

And suddenly his breath caught.

Measuring his lips, you let your fingers just barely ghost along his bottom lip as you moved the implement in place, not accounting for the fullness of them. 

“Sorry,” you spoke quietly, shocking him as you lowered your hands, the implement too, only to return with a small scrap of damp linen.

You began wiping away the stray clay from his lip, muttering apologies for the state of you. You weren’t used to handling Emperors, you explained. You were out of your element here.

None of it sunk in. He was too enraptured by the way your mostly clean hand gripped his jaw, holding him in place, as you wiped at the grey smudge.

As if you were unafraid of the consequences for touching an Emperor in such a manner. Or perhaps more likely, they did not occur to you.

His hands wrapped around your wrists, tightly, almost uncomfortably so.

“I need you to stop that,” he demanded.

Heat filled your face. “I’m sorry, Emperor.”

He shook off the apology. “I believe I need a break,” he confessed. Though you’d never guess why.

Without waiting for your acceptance, he released you and stood, marching across the room and passing through a door. 

Silence descended again. You looked to your work, fingers smoothing along the sculpted forehead, the brow, the nose, the cheekbones. The rest largely unfinished. Unrefined.

Still, it looked a great deal like him, which was the idea, anyway. It would be a bit of a failure if it didn’t. There was still plenty left to do, but with the way your wrists burned, you wondered if you would be able to finish it all today.

Suddenly the door opened again, and Emperor Geta stepped back into the room, his skin slightly damp and pink as he reclaimed his seat, his knee accidentally brushing against yours.

“Forgive me.” 

Forgive me for leaving to scrub my skin nearly raw to get rid of the sensations your touch left behind, would have been more accurate, he supposed.

“Do you want to continue?” 

He clenched his hands together in his lap, nodding. “I would ask you to be more careful,” he warned. Not for your sake. 

For his.

“Of course, Emperor,” you answered, noting the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes any longer, the tension held in his arms and shoulders. The firm set of his brow.

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your amusement. 

He was… affected. It filled you with warmth as you moved to resume your careful measurement of his lips.

[ next entry for sculptor!reader is here ]

[quandledlngle69]

⸻ 糸師凛 ITOSHI RIN.

TW; obsession, ritual, demonic things, blood, family trauma, deep detail of body, dolls, pain, corrupt religion, child abuse, mention of strangulation, vivification.

ever since you were young, your mother shunned you for your obsession with dolls. hours were spent crafting your first doll from scraps of fabric, straw and animal bones.

you didn't show your mother your perfect creation–knowing her lips would curl in disgust, and she would scoff, turning her head away while mumbling something hurtful under her breath. something about sin, something about god's unlove for such behaviour.

dolls were unholy, vile objects for the devil to merge with, a mockery of gods actual human creations. thats what she told you as she strangled you with a rosemary, the marks indented in your skin for weeks.

your father was an indifferent, absent man. he had spent not a nick of time with you–rather too engrossed in his scientific pursuits then being a family man. you grew up with no friends, a curse and a blessing; not having anyone to talk to beside yourself, but no one to judge you for your rather unnatural hobby. you recall your younger self passing by a workshops with a collection of dolls, always managing to captivate you; your little nose pressing into the glass, fogging it up with your warm breath until your mother yanked you away.

a part of you hoped for your future self that it was just an awkward phase that you would grow out of–though you never did. the gratification you felt making dolls, slowly becoming more life–like the more you matured–as if on the journey with you, made it unthinkable to ever let go. it was apart of you, and it soon surged into something more sinister; human hair, picked off scabs, even blood was shoved into the heart of the doll, sewn up or sculpted behind an imitation of the protective hard, white, calcium rows.

you wouldn't utter to any soul what you created in the dark, hidden behind excuses of intentions and an insatiable itch of something highly unethical.

the last straw was when a young man you were arranged to be wedded to shunned you once he found out about your 'hobby.'

that only instigated a heated screaming match with your mother, who promptly kicked you out once she realised her fears were concrete, that you would age alone, without a ring ever on your finger.

perhaps its the fact you were a misanthropist that coerced you to endure the next decade locked away in a shrubby attic–the rent cheap and no one to disturb you. you crafted what you had never done before, a life–sized anthropomorphic doll. you've had an image of the perfect man since you were a little girl. sketches ranging from little scribbles from when you were a wee thing, to fully fleshed out realism of this fictional man. sometimes he was in your dreams, a whisper away, smoke in the wind that couldn't be heard.

it was trial and error, and you had almost gone into a deep debt with the overly luxurious, top–quality materials and supplies you had gathered. your hands were rough and calloused from the work, your lungs damaged with the hard dust and particles you were too careless to filter out with a mask. from dawn till dusk, the hours not wasted, yet slaving away, a steaming cup of black coffee always on your wooden desk.

when you had finally concluded your work, you had taken a step back and admired it in all its glory. His face sculpted from your callous but nimble fingers, facial features eerily in harmony with each other, sharp like a cutting edge of a diamond.

his figure loomed over you, much taller than most handful of men walking the city streets. the doll's black hair was trimmed accordingly, bangs wispy sweeping across the right side of his eye; in the dim light, it flaunted a subtle seaweed–green tint. it's glass eyes were the most alluring part, most costly–worth an arm and a leg. a bright, opalescent teal–cold in nature, almost reticent. it's long lashes only tied them together like a ribbon of a bow, imagining if it blinked, they would flutter softly like butterfly wings.

you loved it–no, you were full of jubilation.

a familiar name abruptly popped into your mind, a man of a lover in a foreign book you once read. you quickly snagged a fountain pen, your hand carefully stretching out the dolls foot, scribbling heartedly on the sole bottom of the shoe.

Itoshi, Rin.

────────

you would spend the next few days observing, hours spent just staring rather hard at your masterpiece, never seemingly finding a flaw. you would talk to it, even if it was all one–sided, making you feel sheepish at times, yet you never stopped.

but slowly, the insatiable greed for more than this came to your mind. that this wasn't enough. it wasn't enough to just have this immobile showpiece of yours, hiding away in the darkest parts of your studio. in your dreams, it talked, breathed with lungs, a warm specimen as if it had blood running in it's veins.

it was gormless to think this wishfully.

────────

arguably, this wasn't a good idea, standing in a grotesque cathedral, abandoned long ago. it was the witches hour–there was only pitch darkness, the air smelling faintly of wax, dust, and something unsettling–sacrifice. you stood outside of it, the ominous pentagram bold on the wooden floor panels, the stick of red chalk staining your hands. some of the symbols you didn't understand, almost an ancient text that spoke nothing but sinful deeds. five lit candles stationary on each sharp point, their fire threatening to flicker out.

you didn't know what was more unsettling, the fact this suffocating atmosphere was purely demonic or the fact you were still going through with it, aware of the potential consequences. you were sporting a dangerous game, playing as god. this was damning your soul, that truth was crystal clear when the ritual required your blood, a drop long smeared on the dolls cheek.

then came the words–latin, you think.

you stumbled over them, your speech ever slow, butchering the pronunciation; yet evidently enough to indulge in whatever demonic power you were summoning.

────────

It hurt.

it hurt a lot–why did it hurt?

it started from the inside out, the developing cardiac muscle forming a beat, squeezing and expanding. nerves emerged from seemingly nowhere, flourishing in sparks as they danced like undone pieces of thread to every crevice of his body. a warmth of muscle and fat melded together like butter, limbs jerking, fingers and toes flexible with their contraction and flexion.

for the first time, he involuntarily inhaled, like such a thing was a natural urge. it was sharp, painful, it burned like hot coal in his chest. his lungs, fixed behind rows of bone, spasmed and heaved. he could smell. it carved itself in his nose, it was musty, like mildew and sawdust. he could almost taste it on his tongue. he could blink, delve visually into the blurry world in front of him. his skin felt as though it was doused with gasoline and lit with a match, without the mercy of relief.

he throat ached with a sore.

someone was screaming. is it him? is that deep, agony–filled voice belonging to him only?

his head lolled forward, his whole body alamort, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he struggled to open them, his resolve too weak, eyelids too heavy. he felt a warm liquid running out of his nostril, something red and thick. his new given mind not being able to compose a simple thought in such a nebulochaotic state.

he couldn't understand the sudden cold feeling brushing against his cheek, the sudden invasion of aroma, something sandalwood and paint–like. something hoisted his slugged and limp body up, as if he was still a ragdoll. a sturdy warmth bloomed on his front, a muttering of a voice, his nose brushing against what seemed like a neck.

it was the last thing seared into his mind before the world went dark.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

waaaaa i can't remember who to tag for this divider if you know pls lmk

[cerealboxlore]

Heads Up Seven Up

Tagged by @wolfsbanesparks: Post the last 7 lines of your current WIP. Y'all don't even know the mountain of a mess my WIPs are right now...

Billy Batson's Middle School Survival Guide (Billy enters middle school for the first time and has to deal with a lot of changes to his double lives.)

Children were meant to be seen and not heard, as the saying goes. If Ebeneezer Batson had his way, Billy wouldn't be seen or heard at all anywhere. His short time living with him had been a memory Billy longed to forget day by day, but just as he was beginning to move on from those nightmares that woke him up during the night, reality sent him a cruel wake-up call. A wake-up call in the form of his dear old uncle sitting across from him in a cafe. His back was turned to him, but Billy knew that bald head. He could recognize it miles away. Only that bald head had the deep scar from Billy's fingernails all those years ago when he was trying to defend himself. Feeling his chest squeeze tight with unease, Billy was about to step out of his seat and leave the cafe without his order, when he felt the hand of someone on his shoulder pushing him back down.

Are You Smart Than A Fifth Grader? (In which Billy is unable to become Captain Marvel and has to use the power of friendship to save the day!...along with the power of violence.)

"Billy-hey, Biiilly! Pssst! Pass the note back to me...hey, pass the note please!" Cissie shouted in a whisper, avoiding the attention of their teacher, Mrs. Kingston, who was observing her class like an old hawk, occasionally throwing a glare in their direction to steer them back to their assignment. Cissie Sommerly wasn't exactly the stealthiest girl in the world, but Billy wasn't exactly recruiting the new "A-Team" here. Their plan had to be perfect, requiring every available moment to be used to carry out ideas and strategies for the mission. While Mrs. Kingston turned her head to pick up a pencil, Billy tossed the note back over to Cissie, watching her read it in silence. "...Billy. We agreed on this! We said I was going to dress up as Batman when we take down Oggar! Think of another costume!" "Cissie you need to write it in the note! And I'm sorry! I never had to worry about a costume before and-oh, hi, Mrs. Kingston...please don't make me read the note out loud..."

Fear Me For You Know Me (When Mr. Mind tires of his brainless acquaintances in Fawcett City, he extends his non-existent hand to new allies in Gotham, ones that understand and appreciate the horrors of the mind like he does.)

Billy sat down and tried his best to clear his head, but whenever he opened his eyes to convince himself the danger wasn't real, the sight of his twin sister decaying in front of him greeted him coldly. Shivering, his tearful eyes went back to being closed tight, his hands covering his ears. He knew none of this was real. It couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real. And yet... All he wanted to do was hug that illusion of his sister, Mary, haunting his mind, and apologize for everything he couldn't do, for her life he couldn't save before in their uncle's house.

I have way more than this, but this is just keeping it short for the sake of my mother who is telling me to go to sleep already. This was a lot of fun though! Sharing my WIPs is terrifying, but maybe I need this motivation to actually finish them.

I'm going to tag a few people, but y'all don't gotta respond if y'all don't want to! @megamindsupremacy @billy-and-friends @markus209 (I actually based that one idea of yours about Billy thinking Mary was dead in my new WIP) Thank you so much @wolfsbanesparks for tagging me in this! I might just do a part 2, haha

Heads Up Seven Up

Tagged by @zorilleerrant: post the last 7 lines of your current WIP.

I have so many so here's a few snippets under the cut.

The Legend of Nightwing and Flamebird (written for FTH and for camp Nano. Basically Dick and Kara are the reincarnations of the Kryptonian legends)

The thought of seeing him again, to hear his voice, even just in a recording, made her words stick in her throat. The man who claimed to be Kal hesitantly held out his hand to her, offering peace, offering answers, perhaps even offering asylum. Kara had so many reasons to reject those offers, so many reasons not to trust him. If he was lying to her, then the real Kal was out there somewhere, scared and alone. But for all her attempted bravado, she was scared and alone too. She wanted this kindness to be real almost as much as she wanted him to be lying. Kara took his hand and let him lead her away from her pod and into this strange new planet she had landed on.

Pretty Little Thing (my ongoing serial killer mystery fic)

And now Clark felt like an ass for all the times he’d found excuses to leave those conversations. He wondered if he had stayed, if he had listened, would Cap have told him about his magical side missions? Would he have told him about how he got his powers, how they worked, how he learned to use them? Would he have reached out to Clark to let him know where he was going and how long he would be gone? Would it have made a difference at all? But none of those were questions he would ever know the answer to. He promised himself that when they got the Captain back–and they had to, he couldn’t stand the thought of actually losing him, not like this–he would listen to anything and everything the Captain said.

A Mind of His Own (Another fic for FTH about Billy and Hal after Billy's identity has been discovered)

Barry cleared his throat awkwardly beside him, leaning in as if to tell him a secret, one that apparently everyone except Hal was aware of. “Cap…Cap isn’t a member of the League anymore.” “What?” Hal dropped his feet to the ground, spinning around wildly to face his friend. He could already tell that his eyes were bugging out from behind his mask. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What happened? Did he quit?” “No he was…suspended from active duty.” “Why? For how long?” “At least until his eighteenth birthday.” “Excuse me? His what?”

I've got more, but these are the main ones right now (though I do have a Duke Thomas fic I literally just started too)

I'm going to tag a few people but feel free to jump in if you're interested/have something you want to share! @cerealboxlore, @theycallme-ook, @feebisart, @electricdazeworld, @penny-anna

Thanks @zorilleerrant for tagging me! This was really fun!

[saturnzlv]

HELPING HAND

leon kennedy x gn!reader

notes: mature language, college au, suggestive content, re2r adjacent. wc: 1.1k | m.list

when life couldn’t get any worse, you want to fuck a blond guy.

he keeps his white reeboks pristine, his hair is always well-kept and brushed neatly, his lips never seem chapped, and his fingernails look better than your own. with the way he holds his pencil and drags the graphite along the paper, his handwriting looks more perfect than a teenage girls in her diary.

this guy is seriously starting to piss you off.

“you got that?” leon asks.

you snap out of your brief daydream, gaze lifting from his hand holding a pencil to those wide blue eyes that can pull you in like a tide. “uh, yeah,” you say, sitting up straighter in your chair. clearing your throat, you glance to your notebook that leon had written in.

“good,” he says. “i think we can finish up for today then.”

he lets you take a look at his notes on your paper. turns out this tutoring thing is seriously needed. his handwriting fills the page, correcting all your errors. how were you supposed to know how to properly use semicolons and em-dashes? you had fucked up so many of those damn symbols, it looked like hundreds of halves of winky-face emoticons were attacking your paper before leon edited your work.

a sigh falls from your lips, and you lean back in your chair for a second. “this shit is driving me insane,” you mutter.

as you stand from your chair and pack away your notebook, leon tilts his head up to look at you. it’s a pretty sight, but he ruins it when he opens his mouth.

“at least you’re not bored,” he jokes.

god, that horrible humor of his just makes you want to drop to your knees and unzip his pants to get him to shut up. however, the little smile he has makes up for the shitty joke. you can’t help the corners of your lips lifting in response, and you’re sure leon’s proud that he got you to react positively to his joke.

“whatever, blondie.” you wave your hand in dismissal of his words, pulling your bag’s strap over your shoulder. “same time thursday?”

he stands from his chair, gesturing to the door of his dorm room. “yeah.” he nods. “i’ll walk you out.”

that earns a slight laugh from you. “walk me out,” you repeat with a roll of your eyes. “you’re walking me, like, two feet to the door.”

“it’s still walking you out,” he counters. he opens the door for you, and you step out into the hall. you give a small wave before turning, and the door clicks shut behind you.

your next tutoring session comes by, and you quickly realize you can’t pay attention for the life of you. sure you get distracted during class, but your professor is the worst at explaining the damn language she speaks. it isn’t your fault you’re failing, and it isn’t your fault that your tutor is so distracting.

the tone of leon’s voice is always light; it’s softer than most boys you talk to. you notice how his brows briefly furrow when he re-reads a sentence, or when he makes a mistake and has to erase what he wrote. his tongue sometimes darts out to wet his lips, bringing his bottom lip in for just a moment.

he’s a pretty boy with cute habits. from hours of being tutored, there’s hours of staring. it’s almost laughable at how you’ve now memorized the little details of his. the beauty marks and light dusting of freckles littering his fair skin, the small indent at his chin, the soft curve and tiny bump along his nose—you’ve memorized it all.

and as he goes on and on, verbally editing your essay that’s due tomorrow, you just want to shut him up with a kiss. it’s nice of him to take time out of his day to tutor you. he won’t take cash payment, he’s said so numerous times, and you’re no good with your words. however, you know that the phrase ‘actions speak louder’ exists for a reason.

“i think if you were to move this sentence from here to the beginning, it’ll read more smoothly,” leon says.

his head lifts, baby blue eyes finding yours, and his lips part to continue speaking. you don’t allow him to continue when you lean in and cut him off with your lips pressing to his. he almost freezes as your lips meet and your palm cups his jaw, but his eyes quickly flutter shut and his lips purse against yours when he registers what the hell just happened.

it’s a little too short for his liking. when you pull back and lower your hand from his jaw, leon’s almost disappointed. he wants to reach out and bring you back in for another, but he’s damn near shell-shocked. not even a stupid quip can fall from his lips.

you, however, can make a stupid quip. “you talk too much,” you say. leon finally finds his footing and brings you in for another kiss.

one more thing you quickly realize is that, despite his awkwardness, leon actually knows what he’s doing. his hand skims along the muscle of your thigh before resting at your hip, drawing you closer to his body. it’s difficult, since you’re sitting in two different chairs, angled oddly, but you get the message and lift yourself from your seat.

with him manspread, your knee rests between his thighs against the wooden seat of the chair. both your palms cradle his face as you lean over him, kissing him over and over again. you’re kissing him like he’s oxygen and you’ve been deprived of breathing, yet he doesn’t complain about the desperation of it. in fact, he’s enjoying it more than you know.

you soon learn that leon’s an absolute sucker for kisses. when you pull away to fix your position, a borderline whine elicits from the back of his throat, the loss of your lips on his making him feel needy for more. his hands at your hips ever so slightly tightens its hold as you straddle his lap. your lips find his once more for a quick kiss or two, and you then forcibly (gently) tilt his head back to trail your kisses down the column of his neck.

a whispered prayer of your name falls from leon’s lips. his fingertips snake under the fabric of your shirt and along the bare expanse of your side. his begs are silent, yet who are you to deny him from his wants? besides, you know damn well you want it too.

[infamous-if]

So sorry for the delay! ! My VS Code program wasn't calibrated with CSIDE and in the indentions basically messed up. The prologue coding is so wonky that honestly if I do anything I end up fucking up 2839393 lines of code. If you've been following a while, you're probably well aware of much hatred for the prologue's coding lmao but we live and we learn.

Storyline wise, not much has changed. Scenes are largely the same, since I'm pretty happy with what I wrote a year ago. For this rewrite, I focused mainly on the big things like choices that will impact the rest of the story and O's gender selection. Some new things include:

you can now play with Orion or Oriana Quinn

you can now express if the band went through a musical rebrand after seven and what the old genre was (which will come up later).

you can now choose whether mc "changed" after seven and what change that was (there's 4, technically 2, options and a "default" vague option, im open to more options since I wanted to do this but couldn't really think of any believable ones beyond the four).

new mc personality: attached vs detached. your mc can have an extra attachment to the band for obvious reasons, or can feel the opposite.

coordinating outfits can now be exclusive to the band members. your mc can be the unique unicorn of the group since they're the lead singer (this is definitely not gonna bite them in the ass later)

adding to that, your mc's reason for fame can be due to wanting to keep the band together.

a new flavor text feeling about seven is now added which is basically "idk how I feel" instead of hating or loving them, you can just make it that MC's feelings for them is just a big question mark. REALISM!

stat changes: stern/playful -- same thing as humorous/serious I just wanted words that encompassed a wider range of behavior Leader/follower - whether mc takes on the leader role or not camaraderie - a band stat that measures the trust/morale/closeness of the band

u can probably see where im going with the stats huh....

smaller changes include:

more choices and options

prose changes + dialogue additions and expanded/ added scenes

The beta testers have not touched this yet, as I wanted to bring it out to collect some last suggestions, ideas from Patrons. Of course, as always, if you do catch errors, please let me know.

My main concern for errors: O's pronouns. It was a long process but I may have missed a few pronouns here and there. Please let me know if you catch any <3

PROLOGUE: 93K WORDS (for context, the old prologue and chapter 1 were 92k together. The prologue is a tiny bit inflated but :))) 

I will make a post about beta testers soon. I've been quiet on that front because I've been just prioritizing getting this out first.

Now available for Band tier! (6$)

[nothingspecialjustaloserlesbian]

─ .✦"a little bit harder now" 18+

sevika x sadist!reader

warning:: mature content, sexual content, mild profanity, mild humiliation, some dirty talks, readers a fucking tease and a sadist, there might be some grammatic errors bc i just rawdogged this fic

side note:: kinda nervous since this is my first time writing smut for the blog idk if y'all would like it or not

MEN DNI! MEN DNI! MEN DNI! MINOR DNI! MINOR DNI!

nobody knew your dirty little secret, not even your beloved girlfriend Sevika

at first you thought it was only a little kink, you like hearing Sevika grunt when you guys have sex, it made you thrive even more, but slowly it turned into a even bigger problem

whenever Sevika would come home, with new bruises, wounds, and small cuts that she received during fights, you were concerned— really, but you can't help but squeeze your thighs together and bit your lower lip when she isn't looking

and it even gets more enjoyable when you dab alcohol on her cuts and wounds, groans and grunts leave her lips and you swear you could feel her muscle tense

—well that didn't help with easing the throbbing of your clit, you were so lost in thought you were completely caught off guard when Sevika grabbed your wrist and spoke with her usual voice gravelly with her signature gruff

her tone was firm but wasn't mean “you've been starin’ off since i walked in lookin’ like this, what’s goin’ on doll?” you didn't replied immediately, you averted your eyes and looked back at her wounds

you can't help but remember how she stumbled through the door, the grunts and groans the slips out of her mouth, you squeeze you thighs together, tighter this time

you cleared your throat and gave her a small smile “...I-it's nothing” your answer earned you a look from Sevika, she lets out a small huff and crossed her arms together, she raised an eyebrow at you

her eyes then looked down and saw that your desperately pressing your thighs together, she was momentarily caught off guard... we're you turned on by this?

like fucking literally, she was confused but it didn't last long, she looks up at you and smirk “you gettin’ off on seein’ me banged up or somethin’?” you looked up at her, shocked and an embarrassed look on your face

your face heats up, blood rasing from your face, you didn't even have enough time to answer when she pulled you up in one swift motion and sat you on her lap, a visible smug grin on her face

she leans back on the couch you were now straddling on her lap, as she puts her hand on your lower back, you try to push away and stood up "“S-Sev...! i’m not done disinfecting your wounds... a-at least let me finish first.." you stammer out

but Sevika had other plans, she gripped on you waist and pulled you closer, mouth already latched on your neck, open and messy kiss over your neck

“A-ah...! Sev...!” you let out a soft superise moan, Sevika just stares at you like an asshole, and continues covering your neck with kisses, you just wanted to wipe that smirk off her face for once

as Sevika was busy marking you up, she tugged your shorts down while slipping her knees in between your thighs and rub it in slow motions

just as she discarded your shorts on the ground,and was about to go next on your panties, you pulled Sevika's hair back, which caused her head to be yanked back, you then bit on her neck, not enough to break skin but enough to leave an indent of your bite

Sevika let out a groan “Nngh... Damn sweetheart-” before Sevika could finish her sentence, you suddenly stood up and spoke "Get up for me, will you?" your tone is a mix of both commanding and sweet

but never the less, Sevika stood up and chuckled "...you givin' me orders now?-" just as Sevika leaned down for a kiss, you leaned into her ear and spoke- no order her

"on your knees, and keep that pretty mouth shut unless i say otherwise"

your tone was low and deliberate, Sevika was caught off guard again but she smirks and spoke "Heh… look at you growin’ teeth" her voice is low, to match yours, and rough

Sevika thought about your command and decided to give it a little go "alright then, let’s see if you can back it up" and with that she got down on both her knees and looked up at you

you smiled, a smug one, you then let out a whisper but loud enough to hear "Good girl" Sevika grunts, in surprise, where the hell did you get that sudden dominance?

but damn it, she was already growing wet, she smirked up at you as you sat down, you examine her a bit before you made your second order

just like before, your voice held that low and commanding tone "...Take your top off" You said as you eyed her tank top, Sevika raised an eyebrow but the look at your face left not room for arguments and smart ass comments

Sevika let out a short chuckle and took off her top, as she was about to take off her sport bra off too you tsk causing her to stop

"Tch... did i told you to take off your bra?" you glared down on her, causing her to raise a brow, then she spoke "Careful, sweetheart. You're startin’ to forget your place-"

Sevika was cut off to a firm press to her crotch, she lets out a grunt and looks down and realized you were pressing right down on her clit, not hard to hurt but definitely hard to make the scariest women in Zuan pause

"wrong answer, the right answer should been 'no'." you said firmly, you then leaned in, rest you elbow on your knee and your chin on the back of your palm

"...and you do know the consequences, right?" Atusuke hummed as they pressed more firmer on Sevika's crotch, and rubbing circles, in a slow and teasing pace

"tch..." you heard Sevika as you were about to pressed further, Sevika groaned with a smirk "Hnn... keep it up. Won’t be long ‘til you’re under me, beggin’, moanin’ my name like a prayer." Sevika smirk, eyes half lidded and voice low, the smirk tugging on her sacred lips

you smirk, you then remove your foot from her crotch and spread your thighs open reveal your white pantie, with an obvious wet pet right where your pussy rest beneath the fabric "then prove it." you hummed, mischief glinting on your eyes— Sevika? already deep into the challenge

✧₊⁺─ .✦pt 2 is getting delayed for a month or so

[hiraethwrote]

contents : MDNI, no pronouns used but written with feminine reader in mind, horny satoru, suggestive, one curse word, no use of y/n, very rushed, probably some writing errors wc < 1k

an : got an opening shift in a few hours, but i just woke up and can’t fall back asleep so enjoy this

imagine spa night with satoru.

he’s very much onboard with the idea, because he knows you’ll be wearing one of his t-shirts that hangs over your criminally short pyjama shorts — it drives him absolutely crazy.

you’re sat straddling him, and he rests his big hands on your soft thighs, his fingers slowly creeping under the edge of your shorts — but he’s not allowed to travel any further before you quickly pluck one of his stray eyebrow hairs, his hands reactively squeezing your flesh.

your giggles fill the room, teasing and taunting him, calling him such a baby for his over-the-top reaction — it was just a little hair, after all.

it earns you a dramatic pout, eyebrows knitting together as if he is requesting sympathy for his immense pain. you just continue to laugh at him, before going in for another pluck.

this time his strong hands squeeze harder, causing you to yelp. you capture his face in your hand to keep him directed towards you. he’s unable to hide how he’s a little amused by the sound he caused, unintentionally (or so he says).

“sit still”, you demand. you readjust yourself to get a better angle of his eyebrows, accidentally applying pressure to his crotch, feeling how it slowly causes his bulge to grow. “you’re so easy,” you tease, sucking in your cheeks. inching closer to his face with the tweezers, you desperately try to ignore the very prominent pressure under you.

his expression is changed now, frustration switched out with playfulness — satoru is no longer interested in spa night. his digits make their way further under the fabric with clear intent, tugging softly at your panties. it’s his turn to chuckle, when he feels the staggered breath you let out in order to calm yourself down, brush against his face.

just as you’re about to go in for another hair, his hands secure around your legs in a firm grip before he abruptly stands up. “satoru,” you squeal, arms snaking around his shoulders for support.

he sits you down in the bathroom sink, wincing when the cool porcelain gets in contact with your naked skin. placed snuggly between your legs, he leans forward, ignoring your cute complaints as he captures your lips in a lustful kiss.

you’re flush against his bare chest, heat seeping of him in waves while his fingers dig into your thighs with a sense of urgency, leaving modest indents in your skin.

a shy whimper escapes him when you pull away from his affection. “thought you wanted spa night-“

“oh, fuck spa night,” he breaths, instantly going in to reconnect your kiss, that quickly turn deeply passionate — needy. your fingers start to grasp at his shoulders, just as desperate to feel him as he is you. with a self satisfied smirk, he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling the cutest sounds roll past your your tongue which has his blood boil.

spa night with satoru always ends in the bedroom.

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited