#and that if i could just get through a few more months there'd be an announcement and a few more months and the concert

[kurthorton-moving]

wont be around today bc i am doing a lil rough mentally but i love u all and will probably b back soon

[seijorhi]

the idea of oikawa not being ready when he meets his soulmate.

it isn't that he thinks you're not good enough, not pretty enough, not right for him, it's just that oikawa wasn't expecting to find you so soon.

soulmates are forever, you'll be there waiting for him when all's said and done, but his career in volleyball – it won't be. he's young, fit and hungry for it; in his absolute prime, but if he doesn't put in the effort now, give it everything, 100% of what he has... it'll slip right through his fingers.

he can't risk that.

there's a strange sort of desperation that tugs at his chest when he tries to explain, to get you to understand it. it's a sacrifice you'll both be making for the sake of the career he's dreamed of his whole life.

the way your smile slowly slips away when you realise he's not asking for you to be patient and give him grace when his focus is more on volleyball than you, he's saying he can't have you around at all, because you will distract him.

he'd lose himself in you.

it's not forever, he stresses, only a little while. you're perfect, and in a year or two when he's more settled in his role, the starting setter on the right team, heading to the championships, he'll be there to give you everything you deserve. no – more. he'll make it up to you, all he's asking for (but he's not really asking, is he) is a bit of time and space.

the light dims in your eyes, a strange, glassy look taking over, and slowly, so fucking slowly, you pull your hands from his, let them fall weakly to your side. it takes a monumental effort to not snatch them back up.

'yeah, okay.'

the expression on your face is all wrong, your voice almost robotic, but oikawa knows it's the right thing. you'll forgive him, because that's what soulmates do. you'll forgive him and then fall even more in love with him and oikawa will spend every damn day showering you in the love and affection he can. he'll drown you in it.

just give him this. let him give everything to volleyball, before he shares himself with you.

—

you're a little too good at it.

it's harder than he expected, going no contact. he was the one who wanted it – needed it, really, for this to work – but there'd been a small part of him that sort of hoped you'd ignore what he wanted and reach out anyway. he'd imagined sneaking a quick peek at his phone during a water break to see a message from you, something simple, casual, a 'hope things are good!' or 'i caught some of the game last week'. was it unfair of him to want you keeping track of him? to see how far he'd come in the days, weeks, months since he'd asked for time?

it's like an itch under his skin, and it grows. a few of his new teammates have met their soulmates, carry the marks to show for it. they're all smug as fuck about it, but the thing is whenever their soulmates are watching from the stands, they play with a different kind of fire. they're better. envy burns watching them celebrate afterwards, all hungry kisses and smiles too fucking big.

he knows you'd be there too if you could. you'd be there every damn game, all of their practices too, cheering him on. his biggest fan.

it's an ache. he goes home to an empty apartment, better than the one he had when he met you, in a nicer part of town, but no less lifeless. there's no one to welcome him home, to wrap him up in a hug, kiss him how he likes and soothe away the days stresses. no one to warm his bed, no other pussy'll ever be as tempting as yours.

i miss you.

i'm thinking of you.

would it kill you to break his rules and reach out every now and then? to give him some kind of sign that this distance was driving you half as crazy as it was him?

are you trying to punish him?

it occurs to him that you probably don't have his phone number. it shouldn't have stopped you, because it wouldn't've stopped him.

—

the first time he tries to follow your instagram you block his account.

it's irritating, until he remembers that you're probably trying to abide by his rules. he can't exactly get mad at you for that, tries not to, and instead does what any sane man missing his soulmate would do; creates a fake account, steals a picture from one of his sister's friends and uses that as his profile pic – even goes so far as to follow a bunch of your friends’ accounts too, just so it doesn't look suspicious or weird when he follows you too.

and for a little while, it's enough. he can see what you're up to, who you're hanging out with, where you're going. he'll watch all your stories, your friends’ stories, just for a few seconds of you.

(maybe strokes his cock to a few of them, cums in his sheets gasping your name.)

you're being patient, he's being good, it's only for a few more months, he can last a little longer–

there's a new post on your insta, a snap of you and some asshole with his arm wrapped around your waist, your lips pressed to his cheek.

'Happy six months, love you a little more every day!'

[bugsmunched]

In the realm of romantic literature, it would be much appreciated if you could write Wolverine x Reader.

A tragic, angsty with a dash of spirited debate leading to an unforeseen outpouring of sentiments, tinged with a hint of mature themes. (18+)

[Dread not if such narratives are not within your repertoire.]

To put matters into more simplistic terms :

Wolverine/Logan Howlett x Reader. Angsty arguments turns rather bittersweet with an unexpected confession of feelings.

I hope this is sufficient!

"Lose You" - Logan Howlett x GN! Reader

WC: 2,485

Tw: Swearing, angst, yelling, Logan is a grumpy guy, mentions of sex, alluding to sex, broken glass

Requests are open!!

Three days. It has been three days since Logan had spoken to you, three long days since he even looked in your direction beyond a simple glance. You believed he was determined to ignore your existence for the rest of your life, and so did he. The manor was big enough for him to avoid you completely, except for the occasional glance exchange in the halls. His gaze was…cold…and distant. Nothing like it had been before. He seemed to hate you, and you began to hate yourself.

That inner loathing turned into an outwardly unpleasant mood, turning you into one of the more unpleasant mutants to interact with in the manor. After a couple extra days had passed, it has been a week since you talked to anyone beyond a short and angry conversation. Everyone in the manor knew what was happening, students and professors alike, but no one could do anything but watch the train wreck from a distance.

Soon enough it has been two weeks since Logan had talked to you, and you were fed up with him. Every time you even thought of him, you were overcome with an anger so strong it made you burst into tears and collapse to the ground. So, you did your best not to think about him, pushing him from your brain until he was just a distant memory.

One month. Your anger has turned into wallowing in pity and more self loathing. You couldn't believe that someone who you were once so close to would just abandon you completely like that. You locked yourself in your room most of your days, barely eating, barely sleeping. When you did sleep, the sleep was plagued with terrible nightmares. In the past, Logan would've been to your room in an instant to care for you after a nightmare, but recently there'd been nothing. He moved rooms to the other side of the manor, another means of avoiding you.

You woke up quickly, drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling rapidly from hyperventilating. Another nightmare has plagued your sleep, and there was no one there to soothe you. You wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around Logan's neck and bury your face in his chest as he held you. But, he wasn't there, and the lack of his presence caused you to break down. Your entire body shook as you let out quiet, broken sobs.

You held your pillow close to your chest, the soft fabric of the case soaking up your warm, salty tears. You were like that for a few hours, until the sun rose, filtering through your blinds. Your face was red and puffy from crying for so long, eyes dry and in pain. You sighed softly and slipped out of bed, peeking your head out of your door. It was still pretty early, so not many people would be awake yet, so it was relatively safe to sneak to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

You quietly made your way to the kitchen, slipping in to grab a glass of water before you stopped in your tracks. Logan was sat at the table, glass of whiskey in hand. It was obvious that he had been up for a while himself. Since this was your first time truly seeing him in a month, you felt your heart getting caught in your throat.

“L-Logan?” You muttered out loud before you could stop yourself.

He froze, his muscles tensing as he placed the glass of whiskey back down on the table. He didn't turn to meet your gaze, but he wasn't trying to up and leave, not yet anyway.

“Look at me Logan, please. “ You whispered with a broken whimper, your voice was pathetic. You couldn't believe how desperate you sounded - or how desperate you truly were.

“Get out of here, bub. “ Logan grumbled, not casting a glance in your direction.

Something about his tone set something off inside of you as you crossed your arms, voice shifting from whimpering and begging to annoyed. “ What, am I not allowed to grab a glass of water anymore? Oh I'm so sorry your highness,” you bowed, your voice laced with a mocking tone, “ I didn't realize what you said fucking goes. “

Logan tensed more at your tone and harsh words, hand gripping the glass with so much force you were surprised it wasn't breaking under the pressure. “Shut up. “ He grumbled, not quite a growl.

You walked over to the sink and grabbed a glass, filling it with water. When you were looking away, you could feel his piercing hot gaze on your skin. You spun around, glass of water shaking a little in your hand. “What the hell is your problem Logan?”

Silence filled your ears, which only made you more irritated.

“I asked you a fucking question, or are you suddenly too high and mighty to talk to someone commoner like me?” You sneered, watching as he gripped the glass tighter, it began to crack.

“Shut up. “ He growled, his breathing uneven and nostrils flaring.

“I don't think I will, because you've been a real dick recently, Wolvy. “

And with that mocking nickname, the glass shattered in his hand, pieces of glass sticking into his skin. You jumped a little bit, watching as he didn't even flinch, his hand just closing around the shards of glass.

A part of you grew very concerned for the gruff man, but you were still overcome with some anger and resentment towards him for having had the guts to ignore you for a whole month.

“Ooo the big scary wolverine can shatter a glass, you're not special. “ You sneered, taking a sip of your water.

Suddenly, without any warning, Logan was standing up, pushing you flush against the counter, hands on either side of you, caging you in. You dropped the glass you were holding out of shock, it fell to the floor and shattered, glass shards surrounding the two of you.

His breathing was ragged and unsteady, his eyes narrowed with anger. “Don't you know when to shut your mouth?” He growled, looking down at you.

“Don't you know when you're being a dick? Get your hands off of me, Logan. “

He huffed and took a step back, avoiding the shards of glass carefully, the shards in his hand slowly falling out as he healed. He stared at you, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. He looked at you like he hated you, like he loathed you entirely. His gaze made you want to shrink and run away, but you stood strong, meeting his gaze.

“Why are you being such a brat?” He huffed, picking the glass out of his hand before sliding both of his hands into his pockets.

“Why am I being such a- Oh my God. Seriously? Seriously Logan?! You dare to have the gall to call me a brat when you have been nothing but a total douche recently?! Oh my God. “ You said, giving a soft laugh, surprised at his words. You shook your head in disbelief.

“I have not been a total-”

“Don't even try to finish that sentence, dickwad. Because news flash, you've been a complete asshole! You've been avoiding me ever since that last mission! Fuck, you even switched rooms just so you could be as far away from me as possible. Every time you look at me, you look at me like I'm the worst person in the world. And I…and I didn't even get an explanation. “ You started yelling, before your voice began to crack as you choked back tears. You were deeply wounded by his actions, especially by the fact that you never even got an explanation as to why he completely abandoned you.

His gaze softened slightly, his brows letting up as concern began to lace his features. It hadn't even dawned on him that his actions had been harming you like this, driving you to brink of insanity.

“What, now you got nothing to say?” You muttered, crossing your arms as your eyes began to water. You could feel tears threatening to spill over the threshold. Your chest was rising and falling harshly due to your uneven breathing.

“ I'm sorry. “ He muttered, so quietly that you could barely even hear him at first.

“A sorry ain't going to fix this, asshole.” You huffed, turning your head away from him, your bottom lip beginning to quiver.

“I never wanted to hurt you. I just…I'm mad at you. “

“You're mad at me?! Why on earth would you be mad at me?!” You cried out in disbelief.

“Because you almost got yourself killed!” He yelled back, the loud sound causing you to close your eyes right as you flinched, tears finally spilling past the threshold, falling down your face.

He saw the tears roll down your face and gave a heavy sigh. Now he had done it. “That…that last mission…you completely drained yourself and left yourself open to be attacked…I don't understand why you would do that.. “

“Why would you even care if I got killed? With the way you've been acting, I thought you hated me. “ You spat, your voice shaky as you held back sobs.

“I can't hate you. Nothing in the world could make me hate you. “ He spoke weakly. His voice began cracking, he could feel tears swelling in his own eyes. But he swallowed them back, not wanting to upset you further.

“Wha-” you began, before he cut you off.

“I didn't mean for it to go this far. But…when I almost lost you, I realized that … you deserve someone who can protect you better than I. I almost failed you. So I drove a wedge between us. “ He sighed, placing his head in his hands for a moment.

“Lose me? Logan, what do you mean?”

“ You can't technically lose something that you never had, but I wanted- no I needed- you to be mine.”

“Logan…” You whispered as you looked at him once again, eyes wet with tears. “You always had me. I was never going to belong to anyone else.”

You took a step forward, reaching out a hand tentatively. “I was protecting you…because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you…”

“You can't lose me…” He took a step closer as well, hand intertwining with yours.

“You don't know that for sure…” You stepped closer, your bodies now inches apart.

“I would rather die than live in a world where you're not by my side. “ He placed a hand on your hip, pulling you flush against his chest.

“That's stupid…” You buried your face in his chest, sniffling softly.

“People do stupid things for the ones they love. “

You pulled your face away from his chest and looked up at him in disbelief. “ You shouldn't love me. “

“Why the hell not?”

“Because…”

“Sweetheart, nothing you say could change how I feel about you. Simply put, you are my world. I revolve around you, day and night, and without you I feel like I'm suffocating. You are my oxygen, you are my source of life. “ He muttered softly, looking down at you.

“If I'm so vital to your survival…why did you avoid me for so long?”

“I don't deserve you. “

“And I deserve you?”

“Sweetheart, you deserve the absolute world. If the grumpy, old, gruff man is who you want, then it's the grumpy, old, gruff man you'll get. But is that who you want?” Logan asked as he tilted his head gently to the side, his eyes watering.

“You're the one I want, Lo, but are you sure that I'm the one you want? Because -”

Logan dipped down and captured your lips in a soft kiss, hand resting on your cheek. You were surprised, but quickly melted into it, leaning against him as you kissed him back gently. He was holding you so delicately, like he thought you were going to break if he touched you wrong.

After a moment, he pulled away from the kiss, “You're the one I need. “

You gave a weak smile, burying your face in his chest once again. “‘M sorry for being so terrible to you..” you sniffled gently.

He lifted your chin so you were staring into his eyes. “ I don't want to hear your apology, sweetheart. You did nothing wrong. “ He smiled gently down at you.

“But I was awful…how can I make it up to you?”

“Promise me that no matter what…you'll put yourself before me? That you'll never sacrifice yourself for anyone. I won't be able to survive without you. “

You thought for a moment about all the implications of making that promise, but his eyes were staring into you with so much sincerity, that you knew you had to promise. “ I promise, Logan. “

He sighed with relief and pulled you closer, pulling you into another soft kiss. You noticed more this kiss, how coarse his lips felt against your own, but they felt wonderful. They felt like they were molded specifically to fit perfectly against your own.

Slowly, the kiss became more passionate as the dam of emotions came undone. Both of you became more desperate to never stop kissing the other, your hand sliding under his shirt slightly, resting against his abs.

He paused and pulled away, swallowing hard. “ Sweetheart, I think we have to calm down here…otherwise I think I'll take it too far. “

“ What if I want you to take it too far?”

“Sweetheart, you can't say shit like that…”

“ I mean it, Logan. “

“Don't get me wrong…I need you, darling, but it's probably just a heat of the moment thing and I don't want you to regr-”

You cut him off with a kiss, pulling his head down by placing a hand on the back of his neck. You could taste the whiskey on his lips. You pulled away after a moment. “ Sorry, I just really needed you to shut up. “ You said softly, placing a hand on his chest and rubbing gently. “ I promise you I won't regret it, Lo. “

He pulled your hand off his chest gently. “ Trust me sweetheart, I desire you more than anything else, but I'm also…slightly drunk. And I want there to be no chance of forgetting what I'm going to do to you. But I promise you…tonight, come to my room, and I will ravage this…delicious body. “ He said softly as he pulled you close, pressing his hard on against you for a moment, causing you to gasp.

He let go of your hips and pulled away, a smirk evident on his face. “ See you tonight sweetheart, alright? “

“O- okay Logan…” you managed to get out, face a bright red from a moment earlier as he walked out of the kitchen, leaving you to clean up the shards of glass on the floor, your stomach doing flips.

Tonight was going to be one hell of a night.

[coff33andb00ks]

More Than Anything - Part Two

oscar piastri x pop!singer reader x lando norris (with charles leclerc)

summary: In the spotlight's harsh glare, she shattered into a million pieces, then found redemption in an unexpected place warnings: language, smut (mdni!!) notes: i still hate doing smaus but this is fun

liked by charles_leclrec, landonorris, oscarpiastri and others ynyln: Surprise!!! Lover's End dropping in 3...2...1... Special thank you to all of you, my darlings, for your unwavering love and support over the past 6 months. (I'm only gonna post about Monaco and F1 for the rest of the week)

↳ user1: 'You can't love anyone, 'cause that would mean you had a heart' MY JAW IS ON THE FLOOR           ↳ user2: MOTHER ATE ↳ user2: silver springs my FAVOURITE           ↳ user3: so much anger in this EP ↳ user4: it's SO GOOD

"So you'll be riding along and having a normal chat with him. Pretend like the cameras aren't there. Feel free to ask questions about anything you'd like." The assistant lowered her voice. "Other than the PR photos at hospitality later and your interview Saturday about your history of loving formula one, this is the only formal thing you have to do all week, I promise."

"Thanks." Y/N nodded as the clip mic was attached to her blouse, grinning when she saw Charles approaching on a bicycle. Muffling a giggle when he nearly crashed into the side of the Ferrari waiting for him to give her the tour of Monaco, she greeted him warmly, thinking of their friendly chatting the night before at the Ferrari dinner.

"Are you ready to see Monaco?" Charles asked once a mic had been clipped to his shirt and an assistant had fixed his hair. He immediately ran his hand through it, ruining her work, and y/n grinned again.

"Absolutely."

He drove through the winding streets, stopping to point out the more famous sites – the hotel, the casino, the harbour – telling her stories from his childhood of watching the races, seeing the grandstands being built.

"Oh, you were always rich… I can't imagine growing up in a place like this," she said as he drove past the harbour which was filling with yachts. "But I guess it was all you knew."

Charles nodded, and she noticed he looked slightly panicked at her calling him rich. "I didn't appreciate how, ah… Privileged I was until I became a man. I'll show you my school?"

"Sorry, I grew up poor so I'm always fascinated when I meet someone who didn't. I'm well aware of how different my life is, but in my head I'll always be that little girl with no money at the book fair," she babbled.

He furrowed his brow. "Book fair?"

"Oh my god they were the best thing! You'd get a flyer with all the books they'd have available and the kids would circle everything they wanted. And there'd be things like posters and bookmarks and cheap little toys? Like a little bookstore set up in the school." She smiled at the memory.

"That is why you donate money to schools, yes? To help kids like you?" he asked softly.

Y/N smiled. "Exactly." She realized she was yapping as he drove through the streets but couldn't stop herself because it was something she cared about so much. And Charles seemed to genuinely care, nodding and smiling a little as she went on an on, to the point she didn't feel the need to apologize for her blathering.

"My school," he said, parking in front of a somewhat nondescript building. "I got into so much trouble here…"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Surely they were just inchidents?"

He giggled and she saw his cheeks darken as he pulled away from the curb. A few moments later, he asked, "You've traveled around the world. Do you have a favourite country to visit?"

She hummed thoughtfully. "You know… I've been around the world twice now. But I feel like I haven't seen any of it. It's always airport to hotel to media stations to venue and back again. I rarely get back home, though. So I'll say that's my favourite place to visit." She shifted in the seat to face him. "What's your favourite colour?"

He giggled again, tugging at his Ferrari polo. "I have to say read, no?"

Y/N grinned. "Ooo, the colour of love…"

The rest of the tour was filled with laughter and reflection, and they stood near the harbour chatting once they'd finished filming, discussing music and she got the feeling he was getting around to asking her out when someone walked by and Charles laughed, turning and calling out—

"Oscar!"

The man turned and y/n felt a giddiness rise in her stomach as she recognized him. His eyes were on Charles as they fist bumped and then his brown eyes swiveled towards her, widened, and…

"H-hi," he said, and she pretended to not notice the way his voice cracked.

Smiling, she held out her hand. "Hi, so great to meet you."

His hand was warm and strong and his cheeks were turning pink. "Ah." He cleared his throat, his cheeks turning darker, his hand still shaking hers. "Great t-to meet you t-too."

She felt the urge to giggle but refrained, continuing to shake his hand as she stared into his eyes. Next to her, Charles cleared his throat.

"We were just talking about her new music," he said.

They hadn't been but that seemed to snap Oscar out of his little stupor. His eyes widened and his lips quirked up into smile. He loosened his hold on her hand and she would have sworn she imagined his shaky exhale.

"Y-yeah, I listened this morning. It's great." Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. "As always."

"You're too sweet," she insisted, marveling when the pink of his cheeks darkened more. "I'm glad you enjoy it."

Charles looked from her to Oscar and back again, and she felt her cheeks grow warm when he smirked.

Oscar stammered – Oscar stammered! she would never get over him seemingly starstruck by her – out that he was a big fan of her music and she sensed him relax while she talked about recording in secret over the past few months. "Lando's a huge fan, too," he said, his cheeks still pink and his eyes still a little wide.

"Is he? I'd love to meet him."

He was already nodding. "Y-yeah, that'd be great. Y-you can drop by the motorhome anytime."

She felt the urge to play with her hair and probably would have if Charles hadn't been watching them so closely. "I'll do that, sure. Later on, after I do some PR stuff with Ferarri?"

Oscar's shoulders sagged and he was still nodding. "Excellent." He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck again. "I'll, um, see you later then."

As soon as he was out of earshot Charles laughed.

"I have never seen him like that around a celebrity."

Y/N watched Oscar disappear in the crowd milling along pit lane. "Really?"

Charles hummed and held out his arm. "You must have that effect on people."

"I really don't know why. I'm just me," she mumbled as she slid her arm through his to walk towards the Ferrari motorhome. "Well, no, I suppose I get it. It's just… Weird to think of someone notable being flustered meeting another notable person, right?"

"So you were flustered just now?" Charles hummed knowingly.

"Stop, he's one of my favourite drivers," she groaned. "I get flustered meeting anyone."

"You weren't flustered meeting me," he sighed with a dramatic wave of his hand.

"I was," she confessed, thinking of how anxious she'd been in those first moments after meeting him and Carlos the night before. Mainly because she hated formal, corporate affairs when everyone had to be on their best behaviour.

liked by charles_leclrec, carlossainz55, oscarpiastri and others ynyln: things I've learned today: my aussie accent is shit 😔, oscar hums a lot 🤭, carlos refers to me as "la pequeña niña americana" 🥰, and when I sit in a f1 car I feel claustrophobic 😬 tagged: landonorris, oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari

↳ carlossainz55: Sí, mi pequeña niña americana           ↳ ynyln: 🥰🥰🥰           ↳ user1: do you even understand that?           ↳ ynyln: no but it's spanish so I'm swooning ↳ oscarpiastri: I didn't say your Aussie accent was shit?           ↳ ynyln: Lando did 😔           ↳ landonorris: it is?           ↳ ynyln: you hurt my feelings ☹️           ↳ mclaren: Lando you should apologise           ↳ scuderiaferrari: so rude           ↳ ynyln: isn't it 🥺           ↳ landonorris: wtf 😥 ↳ user2: what was Oscar humming though?            ↳ user3: probably something off the wall            ↳ ynyln: it was the oscar mayer jingle            ↳ mclaren: that was you            ↳ ynyln: 🤫🤫🤫 ↳ landonorris: I'm sorry for saying your aussie accent is shit            ↳ ynyln: I forgive you 🤗

Looking up from her phone after posting the recap of her day to instagram, Y/N smiled at Charles, enjoying the quietness of the evening. Leo was dragging his toy around, growling playfully each time Charles tried to take it away. She hadn't expected his invitation to dinner after the end of media day, but here she was in his apartment, the flavor of his thrown together pasta dish lingering on her tongue.

Charles leaned back against the couch, tossing the toy across the room for Leo. "It's none of my business…" He sighed and shifted to look at her. "But are all your new songs about him?"

She nodded. "Wrote them in a fit of rage, really. Except Flowers, I wrote that when I realized how better off I am without him."

He eased the toy from Leo and tossed it again. "I am sorry you had your heart broken."

Y/N chuckled. "Me too."

"Are you looking for someone new?" he asked after a moment. After Leo dropped the toy and flopped dramatically on the rug.

"I don't know." She lifted an eyebrow. "Why, are you interested?"

Charles laughed softly. "In a relationship, no."

She wasn't disappointed, really, but she gave him a pout. "My poor ego…"

Grinning, he moved, kneeling on the floor in front of her. "But I'm willing to…" He hesitated, finally resting his hands on her knees. "Fuck the memory of your stupid ex away."

Her eyes widened at his boldness. Before she could think of the reasons she should say no, she was nodding, moving to the edge of the couch as his hands slipped up. "I'm fine with something casual," she murmured, sliding her hands over his shoulders.

"That I can give you, cherie."

His kiss was gentle, lips and tongue working against hers until she melted. Guided by his hands, she slid off the couch as he stood, the kiss growing in intensity as he pulled her towards the bedroom. "It's been a while," she mumbled between kisses, her fingers hesitating at the hem of his sweater. "So like… Tell me if I mess up."

Charles huffed out a soft laugh, nipping at her bottom lip. "It is like riding a bicycle, hm? You'll be unsteady at first then get into the rhythm."

"Just don't expect me to ride, I'm so not into being on top," she admitted, relieved when he laughed, breaking away to peel off his sweater. His skin was warm under her fingers and she kissed him before pulling back to remove her top, keeping her eyes on his face.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, one hand cupping the back of her neck as he kissed her again, this time with growing urgency. His other hand was everywhere – at her waist, teasing the waistband of her jeans, ghosting over her ribcage, tracing the curve of her breast, flicking open the button of her jeans.

"Ah!" she gasped sharply as his fingers eased into her panties, his facial hair grazing her neck while his lips moved down. Her gaze landed on the mirror behind him and she stared at the muscles of his back as they rippled under her touch, her eyes slipping shut when his fingers began to stroke her slit at the same time his mouth closed around her nipple.

"Are you watching yourself, cherie?" he whispered against her skin, moaning when her fingers clutched at his hair.

"No… Watching you," she breathed. She opened her eyes, watching her hand trail down his back.

Charles laughed quietly, pulling his mouth from her nipple with a soft pop. "Can I watch you?"

Blushing, she gave a small nod, helping him unfasten his jeans while her heart thrummed excitedly in her chest. His lips met hers again, his hands working her jeans down her legs.

His blanket was luxurious, his sheets soft beneath her knees as he gently situated her so she faced the mirror. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he exhaled slowly, his hands framing her hips and sweeping upwards. "So soft," he breathed, eyes locking with hers in the mirror, breath hot against her skin.

Y/N could only stare at him in the mirror, feeling as though she were watching another couple entirely, the eroticism of watching his hands explore her body making her feel disconnected. Until he whispered in her ear. Gentle commands, fervent admirations that forced her to feel his touch as well as see.

His hand slipped down, cupping between her thighs, and she moaned sharply at the sight of two fingers sliding into her pussy. Reaching back, she groped at his hip, nails dragging across his skin before her hand wrapped around his cock, watching his face as he let out a ragged moan.

He spoke but she barely registered the words, already reduced to pitiful, needy whines, the live porn in front of her only adding to her desire, and when his fingers, slick, dragged to grasp her hip she leaned forward in anticipation. Still stroking his cock, still watching his face ass while she felt him shift behind her. Her thumb smeared precum over the tip of him and she was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath before he groaned into her hair, his hands nudging hers away. She lifted her hand, catching his eye in the mirror as she licked her thumb clean.

Her eyes automatically closed when he began to enter her and she whined as his hand reached up, cupping her chin and lifting her head.

"Look at your face, mon couer," he whispered.

Pure, wanton neediness. She nodded, licking her lips, clutching his forearm with both hands and forcing her eyes to stay open while he entered her slowly.

In a split second of clarity she wondered if her chin always wobbled during penetration.

"Magnifique," Charles panted against her ear, his hand sliding down to lightly rest just below her neck.

"Oh my god," she whined.

His other hand gripped her hip tight, fingers digging into her flesh. "Good?" he whispered.

She nodded, staring at his white knuckles at her hip. "So good," she gasped, shifting on her knees slightly. Suddenly keen to see more. The hand on her hip squeezed and he began a slow roll of his hips, fucking her slowly. Watching her body respond, watching the look on his face, she felt her toes curl, heat twisting deep in her belly.

Within moments the woman in the mirror was flushed. Trembling. Breasts bouncing wildly, lips parted. Charles's hand slipped up, gently cupping her throat and holding her upright and she licked her lips, hips pushing back against him, eyes rolling back each time his cock hit her spot. All she could hear was his harsh breathing and deep moans and the delicious, slick sounds of him fucking her above the sound of her own racing heartbeat.

"I'm—" She cut off with a sharp cry as the hand on her hip slid forward, fingers strumming her clit in small, hard circles. A split second later her eyes closed, back arching and a guttural moan emanating from her as she came, pushing her hips back harshly and grinding against him. Stars scattered behind her eyelids and her moan turned into a series of harsh cries as his fingers worked her immediately into another crest of bliss until she was whimpering.

"Shh shh shh," he soothed, his fingers slowing, hips still rolling against hers as he guided her down. He stayed over her while she shuddered and gasped, fingers sliding off her clit when she squirmed.

She had no idea what he was murmuring in her ear, his mixture of broken English and French lost on her as she struggled to catch her breath. But she nodded, clutching his forearm until the world around her seemed to right itself, opening her eyes to see him staring at her in the mirror.

"Très magnifique," he whispered, both hands sliding over her back as he sat upright. His eyes met hers again and he gave her a smirk that very nearly made her cum again. "Now we can really have fun, yes?"

(reblogging with taglist in like 4 mins)

[dandylovesturtles]

more Firelined propaganda, because I love them. as always, Firefight is owned by @remedyturtles

for the @tmntaucompetition

-----

Somehow, their teammates are stable. As far as Donnie can tell, this is pretty lucky, given the shape they were in. The other Leo still hasn't come out of his shell, though, eerily silent where he's cradled in the other Donnie's arms. He hasn't wanted to let go, even since they moved the both of them to a cot, and Donnie can't blame him.

There'd been some more running around, some more efforts to get them treated and comfortable, over the course of the last few hours. And now Donnie is pretty sure it's late (or he's experiencing some kind of interdimensional jetlag), and everyone but him is asleep. They'd found another cot and forced Leo, shaking and clearly low on energy reserves, into it; he'd fussed and insisted he wasn't tired, but the moment his head hit the pillow he was fast asleep. It was a little funny - the kind of thing they could chuckle about now, so many months into Leo's recovery. Raph had slumped against the wall and Mikey had climbed into his lap to nap there.

Donnie had promised them he'd join them soon enough. But so far he hasn't moved from his chair by their teammates' cot, typing away on his wrist tech and occasionally asking Shelldon to run some calculations for him.

At least, Donnie thought he was the only one awake, but the longer he sits there, the more he starts to feel the telltale prickle of someone watching him. His eyes rise from his screens and meet the gaze of the other Donnie, awake and observing him from the cot.

He lowers his wrist and gives a little wave of his fingers to the other Donnie. "Do you need more painkillers?" he asks quietly.

(He really needs a distinct designation for their counterparts. He remembers Leo floating the names "Leonother" and "Donatwollo" and shudders. For now, he decides to mentally refer to them as Donnie-β and Leo-β.)

Donnie-β shakes his head. His eyes float beyond Donnie, to where Leo is asleep in his cot. He points and makes a sign that Donnie assumes is his name sign for Leo-β (different from the name sign for his Leo, which is interesting), then waits to see if Donnie understands. At his nod, Donnie-β proceeds to sign, "Sleep, how?" as best as he can under the circumstances.

Donnie lets out a huff that's almost a laugh. "I'm guessing your Leo also suffers from insomnia?" Donnie-β nods. "As it turns out, chronic fatigue is a surprisingly effective cure." Donnie turns back and glances at Leo, sleeping away. "Usually, anyway..."

There are sometimes days Leo suffers from both, too tired to move but unable to sleep. He's always especially emotional on days like that, and Donnie knows he hates it, so he's glad Leo's brain is letting him sleep tonight.

When he looks back, Donnie-β has a complicated expression on his face that Donnie doesn't know how to begin to unpack. After several awkward seconds of silence, Donnie-β signs again, just, "How?" this time.

"How was he hurt?" Donnie clarifies, and Donnie-β nods again. "It was... the Dark Armor. Draxum put him inside." At the wide-eyed look of horror on Donnie-β's face, Donnie comes to the conclusion, "That didn't happen in your timeline, did it?"

Donnie-β shakes his head. It's not a surprise, at this point.

"It seems to be a unique event to our timeline, at least insofar as those assembled here are concerned," says Donnie, flipping through screens to bring up the research he's done on the alternate timelines here. "So far I know of one other timeline where Leo was put inside the armor, but their circumstances are substantially different from ours." He looks back at their teammates, taking in their substantial injuries, then asks, quietly, "This wasn't the Shredder, was it?"

Tired, Donnie-β shakes his head. Then, with a trembling hand, he fingerspells, "Krang."

"We've heard of them," Donnie tells him. "In other universes... Well, it seems like no one got off particularly easily."

It takes some fumbling from his position, but Donnie-β manages to sign, "Maybe not you," indicating the entire group when he does.

Donnie just shakes his head. "We aren't any more lucky than you guys," he says, which makes Donnie-β's mouth twitch in a motion that is at once humorous and grim.

Another few minutes of silence follows, during which Donnie goes back to looking at his screens, mostly to give Donnie-β the illusion of space. He can tell Donnie-β is thinking something over and trying to decide if he wants to bring it up (pretty weird to see that thought process play out on a mirror of his own face, actually), and he also knows it will be easier for him to come to a decision if he's not being stared at.

Finally, Donnie-β motions for his attention, and, once he has it, signs out, "Was it bad?" before indicating that he's talking about Leo. "Mentally, emotionally," he adds.

Donnie grimaces. Ah, no wonder he debated over saying anything... This isn't a topic Donnie is eager to discuss, either. But he has a feeling Donnie-β must have a reason for asking, so he's willing to talk. A little, anyway.

"Yes," he says. And then, because saying it all out loud is starting to feel dangerous, he turns off his wrist tech and switches to modified ASL (luckily, other than the name signs, Donnie-β's version has been close enough for him to follow so far). "It was bad."

Donnie-β looks at Leo, hesitancy written all over his expression. "Can you tell me?" he finally signs, with shaky hands, like he's not sure he wants to know about it but has to ask.

Donnie hesitates, too. Talking about his brother's mental health issues to other people without Leo's permission is a line he would not normally cross. Leo deserves to control who has that kind of information about him, and in what circumstances they're told. In this situation, he doesn't think Leo would mind, but still...

He decides on a compromise. "I can tell you how it was for me."

Perhaps Donnie-β understands the thought process that led here, because he nods and doesn't press for more.

Donnie takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. Thinking about that time, at the beginning of Leo's recovery, is stressful and comes with no small amount of shame. But he can do it, if it will help someone else with their own troubles.

"He was struggling," Donnie signs, because that much he knows is safe to tell, "and I didn't understand. I pushed too hard. I needed him to heal on my timeline. I wanted things to be normal. I wanted to go back to how it was before."

He chews on his lip, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I was scared. I felt like I was losing someone. I wanted my Leo," he uses his own name sign for Leo, then points to be sure Donnie-β knows who he means, "back. I wasn't ready to accept I wasn't getting him back."

Donnie-β's face seemed to drain of color, and he hugged Leo-β to his chest ever tighter. Donnie could only imagine what was going though his counterpart's head.

"Mikey," he fingerspells the name for Donnie-β's benefit, "said I was in mourning." He shrugs exaggeratedly - not because he doesn't believe Mikey, but because feelings have never been his area of expertise. "And that was okay. But I needed to love Leo where he is now."

He glances back at his brother, still sleeping soundly. He feels his heart swell when he does - that part, at least, had been easy.

"Leo is different now. And I love him." Donnie makes the sign for "love" extra exaggerated, to add as much emphasis as he can. "Who he is now. As much. More." He glances over his shoulder again and smiles at Leo.

Donnie-β listens. He puts his chin on Leo-β's shell, tapping out the same message to him again.

"...Scared," he rasps out loud, and his voice barely works; Donnie has to lean in to hear. But Donnie-β seems unwilling now to take his hands off Leo-β. "Of losing him for good."

Donnie's own stomach drops at the idea. He gives his head a firm shake, like that will banish it entirely, for both of them.

"You won't," he says. "You'll save him."

Donnie-β looks hauntingly unsure. "How do you know?" he whispers.

"Because you're Donatello Hamato," says Donnie fiercely, "and you can do anything."

Donnie-β doesn't smile, or laugh, or react in any way a Donnie might normally. Donnie supposes that Leo-β isn't the only one who's going to be different now.

But he nods, seriously, his hand keeping up the gently taps on Leo-β's shell.

"Wouldn't want... to give Donnies a bad name," he murmurs.

"That's right," says Donnie, a sigh in his voice. "And - not to sound like Raph here - but maybe you should start by getting some rest yourself."

Donnie-β lets out a noise that is close enough to an annoyed huff it makes Donnie smile.

"If anything happens-"

"We'll wake you. Don't worry."

A nod. Donnie-β's eyelids droop.

He's asleep soon, curled around Leo-β's shell even in slumber. Donnie makes sure the blankets are tucked firmly around both of them, then stretches.

"Shelldon, wake me if anything changes."

"Sure thing, dude."

Donnie looks at Raph and Mikey's mini-turtle pile, then turns back to Leo's cot. It's not really big enough for two, but without his battle shell Donnie is pretty sure he can make it work.

He tucks himself in behind Leo. Leo makes a soft noise in his sleep, turning over and curling into Donnie instinctively.

Donnie would never want anyone else for a Leo. He knows Donnie-β feels the same about Leo-β. And that's why Donnie can rest - believing, eventually, they would be okay.

[moorishflower]

Dirty Talk (Dreamling, Explicit)

This is because of @landwriter making me realize I don't have much practice writing dirty talk. This is still pretty tame in that regard.

"I don't think you're even capable of talking dirty," is what Hob says, one fine winter evening, comfortable and a bit comfortably tipsy, sat at his regular table in the New Inn with Dream of the Endless sat across from him, and he knows by the way Dream rears back like a cat whose nose has been flicked that he's made a mistake in saying it. It's only been a few months since Dream has come back into his life, since he's gifted Hob with information and explanations and finally, in the trenches of autumn as the leaves had crumpled from the trees in red and gold splendor, the rare sight of his smile and a trembling lower lip, and a soft, My friend, but in those few months Hob's come to the realization that he would do anything, literally anything and everything, to hold Dream's friendship. To make him feel safe. To keep him here.

And maybe mocking his friend's mode of speaking isn't the right way to go about it but, again, he's just pissed enough for it to not seem like a big deal, and Dream doesn't seem upset so much as he seems offended. Mates give each other shit all the time, Hob reassures himself, and it's not like they were talking about something life-changing. Dream had only been complaining about his sibling interfering with his realm, which has apparently caused some sort of imbalance in the Dreaming, and from there had followed a great lot of metaphysical and esoteric explanations that boiled down to 'wet dreams are on the rise' (pun intended). It explains why he's had so many in the past week. It doesn't explain why so many of them have featured dark hair and skin like cloaked starlight and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, but that's his albatross to bear, not Dream's.

And then Dream had said something along the lines of how sex dreams had used to have poetry to them, there'd been an intimate back and forth, not just of bodies but of words, a build-up and a climax. One thing had led to another, and Hob had said what he said, and he stands by it. Still stands by it, even as Dream's eyes turn flinty and the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk that would shame the devil.

"I am the Prince of Stories," he murmurs. His voice is a laser that cuts through the raucous din of the New Inn. There's a van's worth of footballers a few tables down, either celebrating or commiserating, it's not clear which, and the entire pub is lousy with the noise. Hob doesn't have to lean forward to hear his friend, so tuned is he to that purring baritone, but he does so anyways. It gets him closer to Dream, who also leans in, like he's about to share a secret. "Do you truly believe me incapable of crafting words titillating enough to bring one to completion?"

"I don't think you've ever said the word 'cunt' in your life," Hob says, doubling down like the idiot he is. He's never claimed to be a wise man, and especially not when he's in his cups. Besides, it's the winter hols, he's got nothing to do tomorrow, and if he ends this night with nightmares that make him piss the bed he'll concede that Dream has won this round.

"You would be incorrect."

Hob can't imagine Dream ever speaking in a way that's less than dignified. There's such power to him, all the time, such staid and solemn surety, and there's no room in that sort of denseness for telling your partner how much you'd like to suck their brains out of their prick. More's the pity, because he thinks if he could imagine it, the shape of his stranger's lips around the word 'cock' would surely be a fine feature to add to his repertoire of fantasies.

It's at this point that Hob makes the stupidest decision he's made all night.

"Prove it," he says, and takes a sip of his drink, secure in the knowledge that six centuries of swiving has rendered him immune to embarrassment, even in such a public setting. There is a long pause during which the only sound is the ambient riot of the Inn around them, the clink of glasses and the cheering -- or bemoaning? -- of the footballers, the nearly-incomprehensible drone of the sound system piping Top 40s Modern Rock into the kitchen behind the bar, Marv the bartender swearing as he uncorks a bottle of champagne for a mixer.

Then Hob feels something brush against his foot beneath the table, and the rest of the pub goes silent.

Or rather, not silent, but…muffled. Like someone's draped a great blanket over the both of them, and now it's just him and Dream, as it's always been, as it always will be, facing each other across a worn, wooden table, as much of the original wood as Hob had been able to salvage. He's worked it into the foundations, into the bartop and the tables and the floor, trying to preserve the stories he'd told for his stranger, the history, like it was ale that had soaked into the floorboards. Dream's eyes are focused on him, impossibly blue, and he feels another soft touch, this time higher up his leg. Like a foot stroking up his calf, except no game of footsie has ever left him feeling this breathless before, this yearning.

"Would you have me prove it to you with words of prose, Hob Gadling?" Dream's voice is a thing with texture. It'd be prosaic to compare it to such human stuff as velvet or fox fur, but Hob's limited in his petty human understanding, and to his ears it's plush and warm and welcoming. It's a voice to bury your face into, a voice that drips down the skin like warm honey or candlewax, with just enough bite to be interesting. "Would you have me woo you with poetry? Shall I compare thee, not to a summer's day, but to the wild bounty of the fields? More comely than all of autumn's fruits and grains, thy hair rich as the loam and the fertile earth?"

Fertile is an unfair word for him to use, Hob thinks. His brain's scattered out his ears in an attempt to try and hear better, but he doesn't have a choice, because if he wants to not hear he's going to have to get up and leave. And not listening to this just…isn't an option. Not with how Dream is looking at him, head cocked like a bird and his mouth red as garnets shaping around words, words, words.

"Shall I opine about the shape of your body? How broad and virile your chest? I have seen you at sport, Hob, and I know what you hide beneath sweaters and cardigans. I have seen the daydreams of those who lust after you. They imagine you coming in from your war games, stripping the shirt from your back and drinking the sweat from your body. They imagine what it would be like to sink to their knees and bury their mouths into your most intimate places. Worshiping you with hand and tongue. Would you have me describe these fantasies, Hob?"

Oh, please, he thinks, and wonders if it must show on his face, how dry his mouth's become, how tight his trousers are now, because Dream's little smirk grows wider. His pupils are blown so large they nearly eclipse his irises, and there's only a thin ring of startling blue outlining a sea of infinite void.

"Or would you prefer it in cruder terms?" The light pressure that's been dragging up and down his leg inches higher; it feels like fingers kneading into the soft insides of his thighs, and Hob's legs fall open to give the phantom hands better access. The Inn looks and sounds like it's moving in slow motion, but maybe that's just because he can't look away from Dream.

"Would you like me to describe how beautiful your cock is?" Dream asks, and he says it with the disaffected expression of someone asking about the weather and the deep and growling voice of a jungle cat, and Hob is fairly certain he makes a noise of his own, something undignified and stifled by how quickly he bites his lip. "How the weight of it would fit perfectly in my hand? You are made for pleasure, Hob. Thick. Heavy. Better still, to hold the shape of you in my mouth."

"Oh, fuck," Hob says. He's barely aware that he says it, but Dream's eyes light up with fiendish inner fire. There's no blue anymore. It's just black, and stars, and Hob drifting in them like a rogue comet, burning up.

"Yes. I could describe how you would fuck me. How you would turn me inside out. I would want to ride you first, to see the shape of you inside me. I would want you to fill me with your spend until I could taste it in my throat, and then, when I had found my pleasure, I would want you to bear me down into the bed. I would want you to break me in half, Hob Gadling, because I will accept no less than the most ardent lover, and if I do not finish the night with your cum leaking down my thighs and my arsehole gaping for you, I will not be satisfied."

The ghost-touch that's been drifting higher and higher along his thighs presses firmly against his groin, and Hob makes a strangled, gasping little noise, swallowed up by the thick syrupy slowness of the Inn, and comes in his pants. It's an orgasm so sharp and sweet and high that it feels like the prolonged note of a flute, and leaves his thighs quivering in the aftermath, and his breath coming in heady little rasps. He hadn't even been aware he was that keyed up, but then, he hadn't been aware of anything but Dream, and Dream's voice, and now how Dream is staring at him across the way, eyes glittering like a thousand diamonds set in velvet. Hob watches as he slowly lifts his hand from beneath the table, spreading his fingers. They're covered in cum, little beads and drips of it sliding down to the second knuckle, and Dream holds his gaze like a fist around Hob's heart as he raises his hand to his mouth and begins licking his fingers clean.

There's another noise, an uncomfortable whimper, that Hob doesn't want to think is him but probably is.

"Have I sufficiently proven myself?" Dream asks, popping his fingers free of his mouth with the most obscene, wet sound that Hob has ever heard. He imagines those fingers spearing into him and making that same sound from all the lube dripping out of his arse, and Dream's nostrils flare.

"Dunno," Hob manages to say, when he finally finds his voice. It's a thready, needy voice, but it is there. "Could use some more convincing. Don't suppose…you fancy coming upstairs to continue this conversation?"

There's a gentle stroke along the inside of his thigh, making his poor, spent cock twitch, and Dream smiles at him. "Yes. I believe there is more I could tell you, Hob Gadling."

And there is. A lot more. That night, and into the morning, and the next, and the next. Hob needs a lot of convincing.

He's grateful Dream seems up to the challenge.

[sonnet009games]

Incubus Chapter 2.5

(A small glimpse into Flea's POV sometime between Chapter 2 and 3. For mature readers only.)

The sun was way too bright; the day way too young. Flea didn't regret flouncing out of the detective's apartment—it was a damn good flounce—but it would've been better if he could've killed more time there. There were a few bars on Pink Street that opened at midday, and he could hole up in a corner of one of them until it was time to move on to Shangri-La, but fucking Christ—what a long day.

He was still left with a few hours to while away before then, and his feet had carried him to Moss Park before he'd even realized he was heading anywhere in particular. It was a quiet, green patch of tranquility in the middle of the city, and ever since the night a few years back when he'd woken up there after a blackout evening of true craziness, he'd sometimes found himself coming back of his own volition on days like these, when the hours were so long and the thoughts so loud.

He took a seat on a bench by the little pond and half-watched the still, green water. He didn't regret what he'd said. None of it. Not even the really vicious shit. There'd be no point in regretting it. It happened. It had to happen.

The sun broke through the clouds, warm enough that Flea didn't hate it. It had been jacket weather for a while, and he hadn't had a jacket since he lost his last one—nearly eight months ago now. Time flew. Well, it did and it didn't.

A man appeared in his periphery and sat on the bench beside him. His nervous energy clued Flea in right away that the man was here for him. This always happened now. You visit a park a few times, just so happen to get a little hungry and successfully proposition a passerby one time, and the bench you did it on gets a reputation and suddenly you can't come to the park to just sit for a few minutes ever again.

Flea opened his mouth to tell the man to fuck off, then stopped himself. What was the alternative? Sitting here, alone with his thoughts? Revisiting the events of the last 24 hours again and again until noon? Remembering the look on the detective's face—

"Fuck it. I could eat." He turned and lounged against the bench. "Hey, handsome."

Until Chapter 3...

[ineffabildaddy]

hi everyone<3 personal update incoming for those interested in my writing

i'm not having the best time atm. i've been ill twice in the past month, once with a recurring chest infection. i'm basically the only one present to look out for my mum's wellbeing/mental health, which is hanging by a thread. my job's getting more and more anxiety-inducing for me. also, a few days ago i was evacuated from my flat because there'd been an electrical fire in the building, which has opened a whole new can of worms about electrical safety in my (very old) block, meaning me and my flatmates are displaced indefinitely (though we all have somewhere to stay) while things get fixed and up to an acceptable standard. then there's the usual mental health stuff and managing my neurodivergent brain going on.

i know i don't have to explain why i haven't been writing much lately or updating my wips but i do want to explain because i don't want anyone thinking it's due to a lack of love or enthusiasm, even through all this shit the fandom's undergoing atm. i wish i could be a beacon of light and bring my readers and friends happiness during this time and it's killing me that i haven't been able to provide that.

i love you all and i still love aziraphale and crowley just as much but my capacity is very limited at the moment. i haven't stopped writing by any means but things are slow-going. i'm also still supporting and engaging with other fic writers, and also artists, but updating my blog's also taken a back seat lately.

again, i rly wanna stress how much love i have for u all, and i am still here! just having a bit of a weird one</3 thank you so so much for taking the time to read this<3

[crushedsweets]

Do you have any headcanons of Lyra and Toby’s relationship?

this has been in my inbox for like over a week by now because this is a big task in my head. i will focus more on the family itself, but obviously the siblings r there.

ROGERS FAMILY HCS UNDER THE CUT... tw for abuse and addiction, of course

ok. WE'RE GETTING PERSONAL HERE. im the eldest daughter of 3 so the way in which i project into older siblings is insane. ive also had an addict father(no where near like frank though let me clarify) so in general . . the story.. makes me feel very...... basically their relationship is very personal to me.

lyra is about 2-3 years older than toby.

frank's dad was in the vietnam war, his grandparents were in wwii, his grandparents in wwi, etc. so he went into military service right after marrying connie. for a long while, he was SUPER military strict. those kids were up, made their bed, and down for chores by 6am everyday. he made them do military time rather than civilian time. he was incredibly traditional, expected a perfectly clean household, a polite soft daughter, a strong bold son, perfect wife. he wanted the 1950s nuclear family model. so toby and lyra grew up in a very clean, strict, traditional household.

in my au, frank wasnt outright abusive until the kids were around 8-11. it was after he developed his addictions and lost his job. the kids really didnt understand what was changing at first, and legitimately were like 'omg dad isnt making us wake up at 5am everyday..... this is so cool'.

theyd start having sleepovers in eachothers room, slacking a bit on chores, going to sleep late, sleeping in. toby didnt develop his tourettes until he was around 7, so lyra and toby would walk home from their elementary school together. sometimes, theyd walk another friend home first, stop at convenience stores to get candy, pet a cat, etc. frank didnt say a thing for the first few months, just drunken grumbles along connies worried 'WHERE HAVE U BEEN'. if they weren't walking around the area, they were in the backyard playing soccer.

eventually the abuse began, and all of those little freedoms were quickly stripped from the kids.

toby developing tourrettes around this time was a painful coincidence, because not only did he experience abuse at home, but awful bullying at school. he was promptly pulled out after completing 3rd grade. he was only 8.

lyra would practically run home from school everyday, as fast as a 12 year old girl with a backpack could manage, just because she spent all 7 hours in school worrying about toby at home. connie had to start working to pay bills, so..

when toby was around 11 and lyra was around 13, toby started kinda just. being more distant. he was kind of a dick to lyra for a period of time, half because of everything he was going through, half because puberty is rough. his room started getting messy, lyra had to start picking up chores he was slacking on , etc. lyra isnt perfect and began to resent toby for this, and eventually, the two were kinda at eachothers throats for like 6 months. which isnt a lot, but for kids, its an eternity.

when franks abuse evolved from ''just'' verbal abuse, to shoves, to slaps, to full on beatings, toby started egging frank on. just to get him off of lyra and connie. obviously he couldnt feel it, and while it sure took a fucking mental toll, it was so much easier to just wait it out rather than listen to the girls cry.

lyra didnt even realize toby was doing this for a while, she just thought it was all part of him going through his little hormonal asshole phase, until one day frank made a fucked up comment about 'youre lucky that boy is always causing trouble. was supposed to be you'. then it kinda clicked and she very quickly tried to fix their relationship back to what it was.

frank eventually scared connie so badly that there'd be periods of time where she'd take the kids in the middle of the night, and run off to either her parents place, or even a random hotel in another city. she'd use cash, force the kids to keep their phones at home, leave literally everything behind and often make the kids pick out new toothbrushes at a random walmart. etc. it would only last a few days each time, and lyra fought so hard to stay strong while her mom cried and toby closed himself off.

she'd try to get toby to come to the hotel pools with her, try to get him to watch tv with her, try to get him to just fucking talk to her. he was often catatonic during these little runaways, once the confusion adrenaline and fear wore off

it wasnt until they went around a month without seeing their father, and frank had some weird fucking. 'those are MY kids too' thing and went to connie's parents house while all the adults were out, and forced the kids back home. this was the first time lyra was full on sobbing and begging and pleading in years. that was what shifted something in toby, too.

now tobys 13, lyras 15, and theyre on better footing. theyre starting to understand eachother. tobys back on keeping up with chores, knowing that either him lyra or connie was going to get beat if they were missed. sometimes he'd just silently come into lyras room and lay down and watch tv with her. they'd talk about books, about school, their trust was built right back up and toby ended up being the first to know about lyras school drama, gossip, boys, etc.

toby wasn't really socialized properly, since he's been homeschooled for 6 years by now. all the time, he'd hear lyras stories, and wish he could go to school. his mom would be horrified anytime toby asked, because all she could remember was her sweet boy coming home and crying into her arms after a day of being mocked and pushed around by peers.

so he began to live through lyra, in a sense ? he almost became a diary for lyra, and he kinda loved it. she was like a sitcom to him.

frank wasnt a good father by any means during this period, he was still awful, but he wasn't constantly looking for trouble. the kids kept to themselves, connie did everything she was expected to, he didnt give a shit about their grades or social lives. he couldn't even recgonize when lyra was coming home late.

lyra got her license the second she turned 16. the house had two cars, and its not like frank was ever going anywhere, so she was always going everywhere. she adored the freedom, and took toby wherever he'd let her. he only really left the house if he was going grocery shopping with his mom or something, so it was kinda weird now that he was just. going to malls. going to restaurants. going to parks. just Hanging Out. every now and again he'd stick around when Lyra was with her friends, but he didn't like them so it was rare.

sometimes theyd just drive together for a long time. at night, she was the one to take him to every hospital visit, she even got him to volunteer at a pet shelter she worked at for a bit. 3 years and they become so close again, and lyra is tobys best friend. she's his entire world because who else does he have ? he loves his mom, but she's married to the man he hates more than anything

toby was 16 and lyra was 18 when frank strangled toby till he passed out. thats finally when connie kicked frank out, forcing frank to go live on his moms couch. lyra was mortified and started spending an absurd amount of time with toby. she took online community college courses just so she could spend even more time with toby, and it didnt hurt to do so since frank wasnt there anymore. things were getting better for the family, frank was gone, lyra was in college, connie was working, toby was volunteering at shelters and even had a few acquaintances he'd talk to now and again.

lyra picked toby up from the shelter he volunteered at when the accident happened.

lyra and connie had matching silver necklaces with a circle pendant that had their initials. toby didnt cuz frank would get pissed if toby tried wearing jewelry, but when lyra died, toby immediately clung to it. he wears it religiously. the only time he takes it off is if he knows he's going to kill someone that day. otherwise, its always on him.

lyra died and was buried in colorado. toby lives in alabama now. so he really doesnt visit her grave often. only on her birthday, he'll scramble together some money and get brian, tim, and kate to agree to cover his uh. 'shifts' with slenderman, and take a few loooonnnggg train rides over to colorado.

he'll leave two bouquets of flowers. one for lyra, one for connie.

connie just feels in her heart that its toby. she has no reason to believe it, they've never bumped into eachother (toby's visiting at like 2am and falls asleep near the grave for a few hours), but she knows nobody else whos visiting lyras grave and leaving two sets of the same flowers.

toby and lyras childhood home was put on sale shortly after it was reconstructed from the fire, and connie moved in with her sister. lyras bedroom door was the only one that was shut and left unscathed after the fire (legitimately keep your doors shut if you ever have a housefire it can save entire bedrooms and even lives). the rest of the house was ruined, but not lyras room. connie kept every single one of her belongings, but she's put some photos out on the grave. tobys taken them, and connie believes it was him. again, she has no reason to believe it other than the flowers and 'why would someone take a photo of my dead daughter.'

anyway hi. in tears. i love them. sorry. i just retell their story over and over and get sad everytime

[hwashotcheeto]

Incubus!San learning how to properly love his human partner 🥰 When his s/o doesn't want to have sex, he gets confused and doesn't know what to do, making him sad and starts thinking he's unworthy of their love but they teach him other ways of showing affection and San feels his heart swell up and tries to remember all of the other ways to love them :3

Aaaaah, yes! I love it!

This was an idea that @malldreamprincess and I came up with a LONG long time ago when we were obsessed with incubu/succubi, and I'm so glad it came back (Thank you my love 💜).

And before we get started, here's what I think "Incubus San" might look like

WC: 1k

CW: Fluff, really fluffy. Some crying, comforts, cuddles, honestly just really sweet

"Not tonight, San," you mumbled as you rolled over in bed. Your incubus boyfriend sat in confused, stunned silence as you went to sleep without him.

You'd been dating (or what one could consider "dating," since he was living with you) for a month now, and whenever you'd been stressed or sad, San had soothed the pain with sex. You'd thought it was for him, that he was the one tired and needed sex to feel better.

But in truth, it was all for you. He truly cared about you, but he didn't know how else to show it. Through sex, he was able to take care of you and make you feel better. He was unsure of how you saw it, but he saw it as therapy.

So as he laid back down that night, he felt powerless. He didn't want you to suffer alone. But he didn't know how to help you.

You slept in the next morning, not getting up until almost noon. It was your day off, who cared what time you got up?

You pulled yourself out of bed and made your way into the kitchen. San was in the other room, he heard you rummaging around in the kitchen for a sandwich. Just something to stave off the hunger that was gnawing at your stomach.

With sandwich in hand, you made your way to the living room and stopped when you saw him. He was curled up, hugging one of the pillows, his head down. When he looked up at you, his eyes were red and puffy.

"Are you crying?" You asked softly. San rubbed the tears off his cheeks and cleared his throat before he replied.

"I want to help you," he said, his voice hoarse. "I don't like seeing you sad, and I want to help, but I don't know how." His voice broke on the last few words, and he hugged the pillow tighter.

Your heart broke in your chest. "What do you mean you don't know how?"

"I don't know what to do to make you happy. Please, tell me, I..." The tears poured from his eyes again, with a little choke as he tried to continue.

You put your sandwich down on the table and went to hug San. The pillow was forgotten as you pulled him into your arms and he hugged you back.

When you decided to keep an incubus around, you weren't expecting this level of affection, this desire to make you happy. He's a sex demon, why would he care about anything besides, well, sex?

But San was clearly more than his title presented. He wanted you to be happy. He genuinely cared about you if he was begging to know how to make you happy.

There'd be a learning curve, definitely. But for the both of you, it was worth it.

A week later, you returned home starving. You didn't have the chance to get dinner on the way home, as you were low on gas, and couldn't afford either currently anyways.

But as you were taking off your shoes and coat, you smelled food. It smelled divine, your mouth watered and your stomach growled in need.

You went into the kitchen and stopped dead in your tracks. San was putting the finishing touches on two sets of foods, which again, made your stomach growl.

San looked up at the noise and smiled at you, his eyes turning into slits. "I knew I timed it right." He stepped back from the counter and motioned to the food, presenting it to you. "I tried to make it how you said you liked it."

It was the most gorgeous plate of food you'd ever seen.

You threw your arms around San's neck and hugged him tight. You hadn't asked him to make dinner, you never asked him to make you food at all.

But here he made you a food you mentioned in a passing conversation, not even thinking about it, and made it so you'd be able to eat it right when you got home.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Anything for you."

The two of you sat on the couch and watched a movie while you ate. It tasted better than you'd ever had it before.

You dropped your phone onto the coffee table and covered your face, tears springing from your eyes.

Almost like a dog, San heard you crying and came running, sitting next to you and hugging you tight.

"What's wrong?" He asked, but you shook your head as you leaned into him, hugging him tightly. You didn't want to talk about it, you just wanted to cry.

"Okay, you don't have to tell me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your head. "I'll be here when you want to talk, okay?"

You nodded, then pulled yourself up to sit on his lap sideways, your legs over his. San held you tight against him, keeping his hand on your head to hold you against his chest.

And there you stayed. For who knows how long, crying in the arms of your attentive, caring boyfriend.

You felt safe. And loved.

You were cleaning up after dinner when San came up and hugged you from behind. He kissed your head and nuzzled into your neck.

"Dinner was wonderful, angel."

"Yeah? I thought it could've been better."

"No, no, I really liked it." He squeezed your waist as he closed his eyes, breathing in your scent. You'd been gone for long hours lately, so San was extra clingy today.

All night, he found some way to touch you, hug you, be with you, anything. He wanted to be at your side, taking care of you, being with you.

And that's what he was doing. No lingering touches on your chest, no kissing on your neck, nothing with an ulterior motive.

San just wanted to hold you. To be with you.

To make sure you feel loved. And you did.

Your boyfriend had made you feel so, so loved.

You turned around in his arms and hugged him back, leaning into his neck. He squeezed you tight.

"San?" You asked softly.

"Yes?"

"I think I love you."

A smile spread across San's face, making his eyes turn to little slits again.

"I think I love you too, angel."

Aaaah, I love fluffy character development like this, it's so cute 🥰 I hope this was good enough for you @malldreamprincess.

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

[kyoghurts]

hh-hi hi, i've been scrawling the mashle x reader tags all day, and i'm very desperate to see someone write anything for my gorgeous wife magarette macaron ;v; preferably fem-reader. i just think about her entry in the fanbook alot about how she'd like someone preferably stronger than her, and i'd just imagine a student who deeply respects and admires her who's motivated to improve their magical ability and their inclination for the arts (painting, dance, music etc, it might even be part of their magic ehe, something that'd compliment margarette's sound magic <3) to try and catch her eye. my apologies if it's too specific! i understand female/nb characters in the mashle fandom aren't exactly the apple of many writers' eyes, and i hope your studies are going well ;u; i would just like to see some content of my favourite character. thank you!

LOVE. oil on canvas

content ♡ prns used for margarette in this fic are they/them. gn reader. fluff. established relationship. not proofread. half assed poetry writing. gazing each at each other with lots of descriptive scenes and not many dialogues. wrote this while having writers block :( apologies

notes ♡ MARGARETTE MACARON THE NONBINARY EVER <3 sorry your request took so long :( the first few parts were written 2 months ago and left there until i could not pick out details from the outline i made, so i had to modify a bit until i visualise it properly. div creds to cafekitsune!

there'd have at least an answer to every call of your heartbeats each time margarette macaron comes to slip its way into your thoughts, the sound of their chuckles or the shape of their grin, the swift catch of eye as you bump into them at random intervals, the occasional quips and teases when chances arrive. you long to find an answer to your heart hammering inside your chest, you want this organ to quell itself because if this keeps up, you might as well just die from a heart-attack.

but even when you get the gist of your feelings, the answer doesn't come to you in details smaller than the canvas of a larger size than what you're used to. the big picture is there, but it lacks...something. and you don't know what it is.

(why you admire them so much to the extent of soaring high of inspirations. like a drug that streams in the bloodstream subtle but persistent, an addiction in a good way. each interaction is recalled even more vividly than the last. it’s enough to drive you insane.)

(why, that’d you even go as far as to take it upon yourself to scramble for ways to grab their attention. you don’t.. want to admit it, but perhaps a part of you is so driven to win this once-in-a-lifetime art contest because you want margarette to finally see you. in the same way you see them)

(and for reasons… you can’t bring yourself to conclude)

you’re standing in front of your piece like a man slowly decaying, a dejected look smothered all over your face, accompanied by splotches of paint and dirt. you probably look like shit, but even that thought doesn’t bring you to feel anything.

days—weeks of letting your emotions snowball into a flurry of frustration, anxiety, and starving ambition until it crashes against a wall, tall and sturdy, completely shutting you down. you’re spent. and now your mind inevitably falls back into a place you know so much and not.

your piece, although praised by many of your peers, you can’t seem to bring the same enthusiasm to yourself. yes, the message is clear, the artistry is well done, and yet… it lacks a detail so precise you can never capture whole. a fleeting dream in wide waking eyes, it flashes through your vision and yet can never be caught in the paint and tremblings hands that you have.

a missing part. a body without a heart, leaving a hollow in the left of the sternum, and between its lungs.

you’re about to heave a sigh of resignation when footsteps approach you, clean and smooth traces that you’ve heard and know so much, a calm stride despite everything.

margarette calls out to you, familiarity in their lips, honey-soaked tongue and well-poised and its sending you into a state of shock, tongue tied. why are they here? heart on your throat, eyes blown like a deer caught in a headlight. they smile, though different than politeness they often express, it’s curves at the end tells a more softer story. a gentle stroke of touch.

they look concerned, so to speak.

“it’s late out, (name).” they tell you, and you have to slowly gaze at the clock across the room and wake up from your daze, look at the windows to see midnight blues greet you in a gentle reminder. “why are you still here?”

“i only have a week to finish this…” you motion towards your canvas, somehow you can’t find the word to call it an artwork. not to margarette of all people.

“it’s lovely, dear” you purse your lips, looking down instead of accepting their words of praise head on, as if you don’t trust any of it, like how you don’t trust yourself.

“hmm, i do have some suggestions, take it as a grain of salt.”

you lift your head so suddenly it gives you a fright. “really?”

margarette’s attention doesn’t waver, they gaze your artwork with scrutiny, half lidded and in deep thought.

for some reason, you feel vulnerable with this. like they’re not just staring at your piece, they’re including you, too. it’s your work, after all, and from the way they tilt their head and eyes not leaving every single detail, it feels as though they’re looking through the artist’s intention— what’s beyond the efforts of the craft that most people always want to look past.

for some reason, it scares you how they’re so quiet, how close they are next to you right now. and though you don’t want to admit it, but the more you stare at margarette, the more clearer their features become. you wonder what it would feel like to trace the musical note marks traveling through the eyes to their cheekbones, how dangerous it must be if you swipe your thumb against their lips as you smudge the dark color that so attracts you. how it would all feel if you cup their face and scrutinise you instead. to memorize you the same way you’ve been studying art itself.

when they finally speak, a flood of ideas break through the dam. they tell you it’s mostly minor details, but to you, it means everything. and you’re not even exaggerating it, art has been your call, even your personal magic speaks for itself, and you want to let margarette know how much this means to you. how much of a burden has been lifted off your shoulders, in just an instant.

“your work inspires me.” they chuckle, faint and airy and it’s making you blush. “i hear a beautiful sound just by gazing at it.”

they turn to you, a smile on their lips.

you don’t want to tear your gaze, you say, “if my work sings to your soul, then…its fulfilled its purpose.”

“it has, my dear.” they might have noticed something on your face, because they start sifting underneath their robe, and pulls out a cloth. “you have paint all over you.”

“oh where-”

“here.” they lift your chin, wiping the side of your face with their other hand, and they take their time doing so. their movements delicate and gentle, your eyes on them the whole time, completely breathless.

(with the lights casting shadows across your face, twilight saying hello in your window, and the person you so admire from a place raw within a heart that feels hollow and not, empty but full and heavy, you want to capture this particular moment with this particular person in a time that’s suspended and remembered.)

(there are pieces that simply evoke too many emotions inside your ribcage, but this piece could actually lead you to an answer you’ve been putting on hold for so long.)

(the answer is simple, actually, you could laugh at yourself for this.)

you hadn’t realised that you did laugh, margarette stops from wiping and watches you in surprised amusement, the softness in their expression stirs your stomach in such a familiar way as you feel your face starting to burn. “sorry,” you say in between chuckles, “that was sudden.”

after a while of small talks and discussions towards your artwork, you finally call it a night. margarette walks you to your dorm, and you can’t miss the way they wave at you and mutter goodnight as you close your door.

you’re sure your going to dream about this for days without end.

you didn’t expect for your work to be displayed in such a grand way, with golden frames and a title plate situated under the piece. honestly, you’d think this is another dream questionable enough that you’re starting to battle reality, like right now.

you think you’re going to wake up soon and forget that day they announced your name as the first placer and that people literally hurdled towards you in utter shock and excitement, screaming in your ear until it bleeds from the “congratulations!!” to “you slayed like picasso on a caffeine high!” and “you've officially made the rest of us look like we're finger-painting with our toes. congrats on the epic win!” and more out of pocket forms of praise that you don’t want to hear any further.

you want to wake up that is until they stood on the hall to where your artwork was displayed, until they see the small plate with the title written in a small, minimalist text.

as you approach margarette anxiously, you soon find yourself not needing to be so tense. you watch as they scan your piece similar to that night, subtly taking each and every detail with their whole, undivided attention.

"congratulations," they say, their voice filled with warmth and sincerity. "you've captured something truly special here.”

this time, you smile with pride and gratitude. you don’t have to say anything for when they ask for your hand and they kiss your knuckles so delicate you feel elated, so over the moon that the answer to your heartbeats has been settled like stilled ocean. no longer in hunger for a call, no storms raging inside your poetic little heart.

you take one good look at your piece before margarette leads you to- well, this is most definitely not a dream, but you’re sure they ask you if you’re free at the moment, asking to join them for lunch.

your bright, excited ‘i’d love to!’ doesn’t leave any doubts, in fact, margarette can only squeeze your hand in response. as if saying they reciprocate how you feel, and that the missing piece has always been there for you all along.

© kyoghurts ★ reblogs & likes are well appreciated!

[halfmoth-halfman]

Does Price ever find out what Canary went through when she was with Makarov? Does she tell him about everything (the lingerie wedding dress, the controlled meals, all of that) or does he only know bits and pieces of it? If not, does she tell anyone else about it?

yes by the ending of the epilogue he knows pretty much everything that happened while she was with graves and makarov. i don't think she would've told him all at once tho. it would've taken her time to really open up about what she went through, and even then she'd prob only talk about things when it was related to something happening with her currently.

more details under the cut but fair warning it's kinda long

like i think the food thing would come up first after they get back together. canary probably wouldn't bring up graves and makarov controlling her meals and food portions until like price notices she doesn't eat as much when they have dinner together or rudy mentions that she's asked him to make her smaller portions and she still doesn't eat all of it. price would be careful about bringing it up to her, but she starts telling him about them controlling her food and how she still hasn't fully recovered from that, and it would be a big moment of realization for price that her trauma goes a lot deeper than he expected. he'd be pissed and feel so guilty of course, but she would be his priority so he'd only show her understanding and comfort, and he and rudy would help however they could to help her get her appetite back.

she'd probably give him other bits and pieces over the years kinda as she works through them with her therapist too. and i think at some point, she'd invite price to join her for a session or two to talk about their relationship and he'd ask about how to better help with her panic attacks and what he can do to help her feel comfortable in general not just in their relationship. i also think that would lead him to finding his own therapist to work through his guilt about the things he's done to canary, and also to finally work through his guilt about gaz and farah's parents as well. things would be very different from when they were first together, but it would be overall a far healthier and stronger relationship.

she would def have a hard time with interrogations for a while, and would have to depend on one of her ghosts or like ale/ghost/konig to handle them for her. i think it would be a few years before she would ever be able to watch one without immediately thinking of herself in her father's study at makarov's mercy, and even after that first one price would probably comfort her through a panic attack once the whole thing was over.

when kids are brought up, she tells him about her childhood, how her father raised her and used her and pitted her and graves against each other. that would probably be one of the harder conversations for her, and there'd be a lot of complicated feelings about her parents that price doesn't quite get but he'd be there for her and assure that if they ever have kids (which would only happen through an accident because they both agree gaz and farah are enough) she would never turn into her father, and he'd never let anything happen to her.

it would also take a long time for her to tell him about how she got the scars on her hand. i think she'd be hesitant to tell him because they'd be in a good place and she wouldn't want him to feel more guilty, but much like how she explained the scar on her shoulder, she'd eventually tell price in a moment where it was just the two of them. she'd explain everything, about feeling confident on stage for the first time in those five months, about seeing graves with kira for the first time, then seeing price with the blonde, then her breakdown backstage and her smashing the mirror. she'd choke up in the middle of explaining, esp when talking about price and the blonde, and it would be one of the few times price cries in front of her. eventually they talk about the night at the club when she was shot, and she explains how ready she was to end it all right there, and price just fully breaks down. it's a long night of the two of them talking and apologizing and crying and comforting one another, and they're both exhausted the next day but there's a sort of weight lifted off of them at the same time.

i don't think the dress thing would come up until canary's picking out her dress for her and price's wedding and i don't think she'd initially talk to price about it. i think valeria would probably catch onto her anxiety first while they're working to design the dress together, and when asked, canary just kinda word vomits about her other wedding dresses and how much she hated them. valeria would help her through it, hyping her up as much as possible about getting to choose her own dress and how amazing she'll look and how she'll be surrounded by people who wouldn't care if she was covered head to toe as long as she felt safe. she'd say it in her own valeria way obv but it would help canary a lot. and then i think she'd tell price about it later, and he'd, once again, hope and pray that makarov and graves are suffering for eternity for everything they put her through, and do everything he can to reassure her.

other than price, i think her therapist would be the only one to know everything that happened but i think she would talk to gaz, ghost, and keegan the most about what happened to her. gaz would be more like a shoulder for her lean on or vent, her and ghost would bond over their dif traumas and talk about their different coping techniques to help each other out, and keegan would mostly know just because he's her personal bodyguard and is so close to her constantly. like i imagine they'd end up being good friends and she would come to really trust him enough to tell him about her past. i think she'd mention some things to the others - like rudy and alex know about the food, valeria knows about the dresses, farah and roach know about the forced performances and stage anxiety, the ghosts know about her being randomly stolen and dragged to the study, everyone knows about the interrogations, etc.

riley also knows everything because canary talks to him like he's a person anytime he's in the room with her - which is pretty much all the time. and he gets very good at knowing when to lay his head in her lap to ground her when she starts getting overwhelmed.

[apocalypseornaw]

Secrets

With secrets being hidden between not only Dean and Sam but between yourself and Sam too you're not the only one to feel the divide.

Just a drabble I couldn't get out my head

Sam loved you. That was one thing in his life he was certain of and up until the last few months he'd been sure of that love being reciprocated.

He knew the after effects of the trials had not only taken a lot out of him physically but out of you and Dean as well on a mental aspect. He understood that maybe there'd been some bonding there between you and his older brother but at times he'd started to question if it was bonding or something more.

The pushing point to make his heart threaten to crumble was finding you and Dean in the library. He hadn't said anything, standing back out of sight and not able to hear much. He didn't need to hear it all, what he heard was enough. Dean was holding you in his arms, rubbing your back soothingly "Sweetheart I promise you we will figure it out. You're gonna be ok not matter what I have to do"

He watched as you'd leaned back from Dean's embrace far enough to wipe your eyes and look up at him "I don't know what I'm going to do if Sam finds out. I love him Dean but.." more tears started so Dean pulled you back against his chest "Shh it's ok"

A few days passed since that interaction. You'd barely been at the bunker, gone some days before Sam was even awake. This was one of those days. You'd been gone since about seven that morning or well according to Dean.

"Do you know what's going on with Y/N?" He finally asked Dean as he sat across from him at one of the long tables the library held.

"What ya mean?" Was the response he got along with a glass of bourbon being pushed over to him,as if Dean didn't know exactly what he meant. "She's been gone for days. She barely lets me touch her, when she is with me it seems like she's only halfway there. I feel like I'm losing her and I have no idea what I've done wrong"

----------

Dean hated hearing the pain in his little brother's voice talking about you but damn he'd promised you to hold this secret on top of the others. The day you'd come to him, holding that little plastic test he felt like his entire world stopped. He'd never thought about how dire the consequences of his decisions could run.

"You're pregnant?" He asked in a low voice. You nodded, tears welling up in the corner of your eyes "Dean it only happened one time without protection but..." "but what?" You'd swallowed twice before the tears started to fall freely "What if it's a nephilim? I mean this with Ezekiel is territory we've never encountered. What if the angel doesn't have to be in the driver's seat for the encounter?"

He pulled you into his arms, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you as his own nerves ran rampant. He'd never thought about it. He had no clue if it was possible "Sweetheart I promise you we will figure it out. You're gonna be ok not matter what I have to do"

He would figure it out. No matter what it took. He'd never seen Sam happier than he was with you, not to mention you were basically his best friend. No, they weren't losing you. You leaned back from his embrace far enough to wipe your eyes "I don't know what I'm going to do if Sam finds out. I love him Dean but.."

A sob rippled through your body so he pulled you back into his chest "Shh it's ok"

-------------

Sam knew Dean well enough to spot most of his tells. He was thinking about something, more than likely you. "I'm sure whatever it is she'll talk to you about it when she's ready man. I mean come on, she's a hunter. She was raised under Bobby's foot same as us. She's not the best at talking about her feelings anymore than we are but I know that girl loves you"

Sam nodded slowly, taking a sip of the bourbon. He didn't have concrete proof, no matter what his heart was saying. He couldn't exactly accuse Dean of sleeping with you. He'd never been jealous of Dean, hell his entire life Dean had always taken care of him. Why was it that it seemed as if you were the one thing Dean had chosen to take for himself?

"Yeah, I'm sure you're right" he finally said after a moment trying to ignore the tightness in his chest and the heaviness in the pit of his stomach.

Part 2

[blurbfics]

There'd Better Be a Mirrorball | Azriel x OFC [part five]

Summary: Azriel and Eowyn begin their one-on-one training. A request is made.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: male/female sparring, blink-and-you-miss-it praise kink, slow-burn

Minors, do not interact

a/n: this scene was actually the first one I wrote and i've rewritten it so many times i don't even know what words are anymore. sorry its so short!

part one -- part two -- part three -- part four

"I held your hand until the light/ The scars were on the back

And all the time we were the right/ Was it just retract?

And they can try to put you down, wear you out/ Get you through the idea of the luck

Well, I thought you were the sweetest kill

Did we even know?"

Broken Social Scene, Sweetest Kill

She had to remind herself, for what felt like a million times that first day, that there was nothing to feel nervous about. It’s not that she felt uneasy or unsafe with the Shadowsinger. Quite the opposite. In the past few months that she’d been training with the rest of the Valkyries, she’d embraced the newfound strength and confidence that rose within her, both physically and mentally. Found out she actually enjoyed spending time with others, not only the priestesses, but also the High Lady on the semi-frequent occasions she visited the House of Wind, and of course, with the Illyrians as well.

Although she wouldn’t go so far as to call Cassian and Azriel her friends, there was more than professional respect shared amongst them. It wasn’t hard to break that wall of professionalism with Cassian, in fact he insisted on it lest he feel restricted or stilted by such a superfluous thing as polite manners, but Azriel… Azriel was entirely different.

To Cassian that is. Because every time Eowyn interacted with Azriel, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense that she knew him, or rather, that he knew her. She didn’t know where the stupid idea came from. In fact, whenever it sprung back to the front of her mind when she was near him, she promptly banished it away at once, yet it always returned.

Thus, the fact that they spent the first training session in absolute silence other than Azriel’s given instructions and occasional corrections only made it that much more awkward. And irritating.

Eowyn wasn’t the most talkative fae by nature, much preferring to observe her surroundings than interact, but something about the silence between them irked her. It wasn’t so much that he wasn’t talking that bothered her, it was that there seemed to be so much left unspoken between them. Like they were both on the verge of an important revelation and neither of them had the balls to speak up first.

So two days later during their second session together, she gathered her wits and decided to get the job done herself.

The pair were currently sparring with long wooden staffs. The first few months of her training consisted of learning and getting used to the basics: breathing exercises, core strengthening, stamina building, with an emphasis on building the necessary strength and muscle to carry on the rest. Soon, she learned the basics of hand-to-hand combat, had moved on to sword fighting (with practice wooden swords, of course), and had even spent a few weeks learning archery. 

She was aware that sparring with her was like child’s play for Azriel. She had seen him truly spar with his brothers to know that he could kill her with a single hand, and one had to only glimpse at them— at the panting breaths puffing out at the veil covering her face, arms bare for once and glittering with sweat due to the day’s heat (on its last trenches of summer in its attempt to give them its all before it settled in for a seasonal retreat)— and him, face serious and focused on her movements and technique but otherwise untouched by both the sweltering weather and the exertion she felt and was sure to feel for days.

“May I-“ she interrupted herself with a hiss when the end of his staff hit her thigh, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to point out a lapse in her defense. She smacked it away with the end of hers, not bothering to get into position before attacking, hoping it would serve as a distraction to get a hit in. Clearly, her lousy attempt didn’t work, earning her another two whacks on either side of her arms for her lack of defense and centering herself before attacking.

The goal of their extra training lesson consisted of one thing, Azriel had told her, she just needed to get one hit in. If she got a hit in, they would be done for the day and would meet in two days time to try another technique in which she had the same goal.

Smug bastard knew it wouldn’t happen, thus, she had to remain for the remainder of the two hours they were set to train together.

“May I ask you a question?” she huffed, taking a step back to center herself. She angled her body only slightly to the side, making sure to keep her weight centered as she held her staff up in a defense position, knees bent slightly.

She awaited his response as she awaited his attack. He swung his staff at his side in a skillful swoop as he considered her for a moment. The response came first. “Within reason.”

In a flurry of movement, much too fast for her to comprehend, he had her both disarmed and on her ass. She scowled up at him even though he couldn’t see her face. Still, he snorted lightly in amusement, as if he knew just exactly what she’d called him in her mind, before extending a hand out for her.

“It’s about your shadows,” she confessed as she gripped his hand for him to yank her up. Didn’t even think about it when she did so, but when she touched his hand and felt the scars under her fingertips, scars she’d seen him hide away in shame, she couldn’t help the way her fingers lightly grazed them as he gently pulled away once she was on her feet. She felt him tense under her hand at her words, however, his lips pursing almost imperceptibly.

“Nothing invasive,” she promised immediately, unsure of how to tell him she didn’t mean to ask how he came to master his shadows. Didn’t want to inquire after something so intimate. “I'm just curious about them. If they’re sentient, if they’re their own magic or if they’re the same as the shadows there,” she gestured towards the stairs vaguely with her head, “if they’re different from my own shadow. If they have opinions…. If they share them with you” she looked down at the silhouette of her formed at her feet from the sun's light.

He considered her words, only angling his head in a gesture to continue. She picked up her staff and took her defense position once more, awaiting. 

“Yes and no,” he replied cryptically. She rolled her eyes behind her veil. When he didn’t elaborate and shifted to mirror her stance, she understood. Didn’t know how but she didn’t miss a beat at her queue.

Attack.

Though he was ready for it, she went to strike fast and hard, diagonally right to left, using her other hand to swing the staff around, advancing as she did to slice, hard, once, twice, three times, she swung low for his feet and used the momentary shift in movement to swing back up and strike forward and then swing.

He smoothly parried each swing, staff swiftly connecting with hers with a force that rattled her bones, meeting each strike and shifting out of the way as she tried to push him back. Not once did she manage to get even close to hit him and yet his eyes glinted with a satisfaction she had never seen before, especially not directed at her.

She and Azriel? Yeah, they weren’t close like that. So why was she feeling a strange kind of familiarity with him as if she knew him and he understood her?

Begone, she mentally hissed at the thought, parrying off his own quick attempt to sneak an attack and responding in kind.

“Good, Eowyn” he almost purred, and the shiver that ran down her spine at the praise and the way her name rolled off his tongue was so powerful she almost didn’t hear the words that followed. “They are sentient, and they are their own entity, but they’re also an extension of myself. They make sure their opinions are known to me,” he emphasized, his show of only the briefest instances of fondness for his shadows causing something in her to perk up at attention. Then his face contorted, “As for how they operate among the shadows…. How I travel through them, I… apologize. I’ve never been good at explaining them. Even my brother’s don’t fully understand…”

“I understand,” she nodded earnestly, before shaking her head, “I mean I don’t understand because I don’t have shadows obviously but I can empathize with the… feeling.” Her words lost their spark towards the end, the last word coming out stiltedly and rough.

If he thought her a fool, it didn’t show on his face. 

“Let’s go through that again, there were a few places you left your guard open.”

Once he’d had her repeat the exact movements she had done and had constructively criticized every aspect of them and had her do it twice more ‘but properly this time,’ he spoke up.

“You’re not from the Night Court, are you?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering pulling the same move he did, but then decided against it, too interested in where the conversation was leading.

“What makes you think that?”

“Your accent,” he replied immediately, “it’s good. Enough to convince anyone else, but I can hear it in the cadence of certain vowels, like when you said ‘ask.’”

The deftness with which he provided not only his argument, which was a certainty at this point, but also clear examples shouldn’t have sent her for a loop but it did. Only briefly.  Because he was the Spymaster of the Court of Nightmares, after all, and a notorious one at that.

“And where am I from?” She couldn't help but challenge. Suddenly it wasn’t the infamous Shadowsinger, often serving as the Night Court’s torturer and executioner, asking her questions, but rather it was her testing how much of the rumors and whispers that breezed in the wind were true about him. At that moment, eyes locked on his, even though he couldn’t see hers, standing before each other in paralleling fighting stances, she found him immeasurably fascinating.

She wanted to open his mind and inspect every thought, every secret, everything that made him him.

His jaw twitched, wings ruffling slightly. She grinned under the veil.

“You were the only one, out of all the priestesses, that didn’t bask in the sun when you came out here for the first time.”

Again, she wasn’t sure why she was surprised by how much he noticed. She had seen him almost as soon as she’d crossed the threshold leading up from the stairs that first time, but he had been talking with Cassian, facing away from her.

“I-“ he hesitated for once. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable-“

“You’re not.”

He startled slightly at the firmness of her tone but took it well, only nodding once before continuing.

“You joined us in early spring. By summer, almost everyone wore less layers due to the heat, but you didn’t… I mean, until recently,” he cleared his throat, and if Eowyn didn’t know any better she could’ve sworn the tip of his ears turned pink as he glanced down at her bare arms. “I can only assume it’s because you don’t like feeling the sun on your skin.”

Quite accurate.

“So… any guesses?”

She hadn’t noticed when they had stopped, her staff was still in her grasp but they now stood in front of each other, simply talking.

“Winter.”

She tilted her head, slightly disappointed but figured it was as good a guess as any. Her contempt for the sun– not something she was too vocal about– had less to do with the time of day or weather and more to do with the feel of the heat it emanated, a reminder of the pain she’d been forced to endure. “Dawn,” she corrected, glancing at the clock to see they had ten minutes left. Didn’t linger on the thought that crossed her mind, on how time flew by without her noticing.

“But you didn’t live there long.”

“Are you still guessing or do you already know everything?”

“I don’t-“ he shook his head, looking almost affronted, if the brief flash of emotion could be called that. “I haven’t looked into you, if that’s what you mean. No. I respect your privacy, and the privacy of everyone seeking safe haven in the library.”

“With the exception of a few, though, right?” She’d heard of how he’d saved Gwyn. Had heard the same story from several other priestesses who had gushed over the handsome shadowsinger over the years.

“Well yes, but only when I’ve been able to provide help, or when I get justice for them… with their permission and by request.”

“Right,” Eowyn nodded. She glanced at the clock again. Two minutes.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to answer me?”

She hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side, “what was the question again?”

“Dawn Court. How long were you there?” his eyes narrowed.

“Why don’t you… look into it?”

He stared at her blankly. 

She sighed. “You have my permission. In fact,” she swung the staff at her side in the exact perfect synchronized way he had done before when taunting her, “let’s call it a request.”

taglist: @lilah-asteria , @a-courtof-azriel, @honk4emoboyz , @feyretopia , @mrsjna , @buttermilktea11 , @bravo-delta-eccho , @kylieinwonderland

[fuckyeahfightlock]

Whumpril 2024

-18- Broken Glass

For no real reason, Harry assumed it would take his family ages to come clean out his flat. They'd have the wake and funeral to cope with, and that must take nearly a week. Then finding someone to let them in the building, give them a key to his door. At least a day arguing about who would do it (his mum would say it was too much but that his dad should pack up everything and bring it back to her; his sister would say she was too busy with her kids, and she probably was; his brother might volunteer because he'd always been a bit morbid). From the time his body was taken away, he reckoned he had at least ten days. Maybe longer; the rent was paid through the end of the month.

He and Adam let themselves in on a dreary late morning, a week after his body had gone away, alone, in a van.

"Where's all my things?" he protested, feeling violated, like he'd been burgled. The furniture was there, of course. The telly on its stand, plates and pots and teacups in the kitchen, wineglasses hung by their feet beneath the cupboards. But where were his books? He'd only had a few, carefully chosen, which he kept because he wanted to read them again. One had the author's signature in it.

"Someone cleaned it," Adam offered, looking sorry, for some reason trying to gentle him. It made Harry angrier to be coddled; he had reason to be fucked off about it. "Your family? So soon?"

Harry shouldered past him, a rough brush of their chests that made Adam step backward half a pace. Harry was glad of the chance to get physical with someone, even the wrong someone. It was the same in his bedroom. A new, clean mattress on the bed. His clothes gone from the cupboard and chest. There'd been socks on the floor, a water glass on the bedside table, a blanket he'd liked enough to move from flat to flat ever since he left home. He knelt and looked under the bed for a box full of ticket stubs, foreign coins, his passport, letters from people who'd cared enough about him to send letters at all. Worse than burgled; he'd been deleted.

"No one cares," he muttered, getting to his feet and storming through the flat. Adam stood helpless and silent by the open bedroom door. "No one cares that I was ever here."

"Harry."

"Why is it like I was never even here?" he raged, and his vision blurred with tears. "I'm here for my things. I'm here!" He yanked a wine glass from where it hung from the rack in the kitchen, and hurled it across the flat. It smashed against the big window, an explosion of shards and specks, a satisfying brittle sound. He threw another one. And another. Adam reached his side as he kicked the TV to the floor, grabbing for his arm just as he was about to take a swing at a mirror hanging on the wall above it.

Holding Harry's fist in both his hands, Adam loudly said, "That's enough," and stood between him and the mirror, though Harry didn't want him there, didn't want to look at him just then. "That's enough, you'll only hurt yourself."

All at once, Harry's fury deflated, and his breath caught on a sob he worked to swallow. "Do you think they were here--my family--and we didn't even know?"

Adam was still holding his hand, and worked to loosen his fist, cradled Harry's hand to his chest and looked at him with soft eyes. "I don't know. Maybe." He shrugged a little, shook his head.

"I could have--" Harry started.

"No." Adam shook his head. "Don't think about that." He released his grip on Harry's hand and held him by the shoulders, then touched the side of his face. "Anyway, maybe it wasn't them."

"That's worse," Harry said. "Bad enough to think they were right here, and I never knew. But maybe they couldn't even be bothered."

Adam pulled Harry's head down onto his shoulder, caressed the back of his head, kissed him and whispered beside his ear. "You're loved, Harry. Nevermind." Kissed him once more. "You're loved."

[wexhappyxfew]

"walking in the park" for your new girl Flo? 💚 I have yet to read her blind date, but I bet this prompt will be fun for her!! 😊

hi killy! so sorry it's taken me some time to get to this - as you know, busy schedule and courses i'm in the midst of, but!! i have been working on this for a bit and finally feel that it is ready to get out to the world. it's definitely angsty though - i feel i've just taken some of these prompts and pushed sadness into them lol. BUT, i can absolutely say it was a joy to write and to dig into this side of her character. so THANK YOU!

prompt: 'walking in the park'

featuring: Florence 'Flo' Godfrey and Harry Croby (and Meatball haha!)

Quiet was probably the scariest five letter word she could think of at the minute.

Thorpe Abbotts was always loud, an almost more comforting four letter word that was always in her mind.

The small park on the edge of the center square in Langmere was a far cry from that. Because it was simply that, quiet. Something that was never a guarantee.

She'd frequented this small park throughout the summer months - now with the bitter chill of the wind and the fading of green leaves from trees, it filled the pit in her stomach with more remorse and sadness than she would've liked.

The bench was cold, but she wasn't lonely - the sun was out, shining brightly, warming her cold hands. Meatball was wrestling a patch of leaves, rustling about, tearing at the dried bit of life. There were some families here with their kids, a few older couples walking dogs or feeding the birds. There was still joy even in the midst of wartime. She shut her eyes and took in a breath.

"This seat taken?" Flo looked up from her spot on the bench she'd found, and saw the shadowed and sunny figure of Harry Crosby, lead navigator of the 100th, stood there. Flo looked up at him and swallowed briefly before nodding.

There'd been some run-ins on base here and there - even a few conversations as of late. And if anything, he was starting to be one of the last familiar faces on base for her to see about. She offered a weak smile.

Crosby sat beside her, stiffly at first, before relaxing and looking down to his interlinked hands. They sat in a quiet bit of silence for a moment of time, the two of them listening to the world around them, far away from war for the time being, yet still on the border where it was enough to overshadow how peaceful the place truly was.

"Everything alright?" he asked her and she spared him a glance and nodded.

"Yeah, just, thinking a lot if I'm being honest," she told him with a nod, before noticing the soft look on his face and smiling a bit, "yeah, too much thinking." Harry let out a laugh and looked towards her and offered a somewhat sad smile, the light in his eyes dimmed but not gone, persistent, but flickering.

"You're the last familiar face for me on base," Flo whispered quietly, "besides maybe Rosie. Or Lemmons or Wink. But otherwise, everyone else….."

"Yeah." offered Crosby, his voice a delicate calm and quiet that settled the uncontrollable tremors of her nervous legs or twitch in her eye, "It's nice to see you though." He looked over at her with such a sincere look on his face that she were sure she could've broken down at the drop of a hat just at his words.

At the realization, at the break of his voice, the oddity of it, the heartache, the unusual feel of having to experience that.

That.

Losing all they had in the past few months.

It hurt to think about, to even relive.

Flo gently reached forward and looped her arm through his and gave it a comforting squeeze - she knew Bubbles death had hit him in harder ways than he had cared to admit. She remembered how she'd see them in the flying club, out on the tarmac, in the summer warmth, bathed in the sun's rays as they lounged in the green grass under the blue sky. Now, he seemed a shell of who he once was, broken by that horrid thing called war and what it meant to lose someone. Her eyes welled.

"You holding up okay?" he asked her quietly, glancing her way, earnestness in his voice and tone that made her shoulders go ridged and her mind go numb.

Everyone on that base was suffering about something in their own way.

Whether it was grief wrangled into a tightly wound ball, waiting to burst, or a certain sadness that even a morning sunrise couldn't hinder, it was something they were all dealing with - and in their own ways.

Lemmons had mentioned it the other night, when she'd finished some last minute details repainting something on one of the planes - he'd told her to hit the hay, take the night. He always seemed to know when she was lost in that daze she couldn't pull herself out of. She knew he could always sense it, see it. Between the look on her face, or that look in her eye. He always knew when her head was somewhere else and that she was trying to distract herself somehow.

Sometimes it was because she was thinking too much, or too hard about something, usually a certain someone that had occupied the greater part of her mind for months, who was suddenly gone.

Or sometimes it was because she wanted to take Meatball on a walk and try to help clear her mind.

Sometimes, it was her curled in her cot, Meatball's head cuddled in her lap, his gentle eyes looking up at her as she stared numbly out of the window by her cot.

He seemed to know, Meatball that is, that there was something going on. It was almost like she didn't know what else to do and had resorted to just always having Meatball close by - at breakfast, out on the tarmac, late nights spent staring at the stars, just her and Meatball side by side.

Flo felt silly sometimes, sitting out there telling Meatball all the deepest parts of her, but then her eyes would well with tears and he would sit and stay like the good dog he was, and listen, even if it meant the occasional treat or extra leftover of something off the table after dinner.

Sometimes she wondered if Meatball realized he was gone. That he wasn't just gone on a trip or gone for a few months, that he wasn't returning and coming back.

Sometimes she wondered if he knew somehow in his mind that Benny was gone.

Flo looked to Crosby and nodded.

"Yeah," she managed out with a nod, like she was half-convincing herself that she was okay, "yeah, I'm okay." Crosby offered her a crooked smile and she tipped her head towards him.

"How about yourself?" she asked him, trying to put on her best smile his way, "I know you've been working hard; we come in at the end of the night and you're still up." Crosby let a grin grow on his face and chuckled before looking at her and nodding.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Crosby said, "writing to Jean, or well…..trying, is the better word for it." Flo watched his face; the way his mouth seemed to frown and his eyes looked sadder and more sullen, the far-off look distant in his orbs that flickered in and out when he glanced someone's way.

"It's hard," Flo whispered, her voice dropped to a resolute tone, the emotion simmering at the brims, "to try and tell someone what it's like, to be here. Experiencing it. Living it." Crosby looked to her and she tilted her head.

"My Ma and Dad always write, asking how I am, how the boys are…." Flo felt her throat tighten, thick with grief for a split second and shook her head, "ask about Benny, too, any news. It's just…." Flo stared out to the park, her eyes watering as she felt her shoulders drop. She was never great at feeling her emotions - sure they were there, but she could never really explain them in a way that made sense. So when she got to writing, it was usually a blank page for minutes before she could even write "Dear….".

"No one really understands unless they're here." Crosby said quietly, before gently placing his free hand over the one curled around his arm, "We'll find a way to be okay again." Flo watched him and then nodded, something in his voice and his eye convincing her that he was right.

Crosby was always right.