#it ended up......Way longer than i anticipated

[solspina]

Hello! I saw that your request box is open if this doesn’t suit your taste you can ignore this.

Could you write a hurt to comfort fic that involves a workaholic Guilliman and his politically married wife?

They knew they had being married to a primark would be rough but they didn’t think it would be so emotionally draining/lonely. Guilliman finally decides to do something and acknowledges his wife when one day she’s considering divorce and there are TOO many suitors waiting to have her hand.

Could you add how Robute pines for her but doesn’t know how to show how he loves her because he’s trying to manage a dying imperium and he doesn’t think he’s worth loving?

Never Again Will I be Gone

roboute guilliman ⋆˙⟡

i deeply apologize if this is rushed, i couldn’t figure out how to end it and it may be a little all over the place, but i hope it is enjoyed nonetheless!

why spill blood if things can be handled peacefully? guilliman is far too afraid of becoming attached or falling in love with his wife, and eventually she places the most dreaded option on the table for him. when tragedy befalls her, guilliman can hold his act of withdrawal no longer

warnings: blood, distant ass guilliman

how she had gone from being an incredibly privileged noblewoman to the wife of the last remaining primarch, she did not know.

there was a point in time she had believed she was a beacon of hope for her people. once her father’s reign was over, she would finally be able to restore peace to her planet, heal the sick and the dying, uplift the thousands that resided there from poverty. It was only when she stood on the altar and was encapsulated within the piercing blue gaze of roboute guilliman that she realized her people could not be saved.

the planet she resided on, the one she was supposed to rule, had an astonishing militia. the imperium did not wish extinction upon an innocent colony, nor did they want to challenge a planet that would undeniably put up a fight. teaching her father the ways of the emperor was far easier than trying to convince him that a woman could lead or be of any importance.

that ideal had been drilled in her head her entire life. she was to be married off from the day she was born. not a single suitor met her father’s standards, for none of them held enough power, until guilliman.

but it was fulgrim who convinced guilliman to take a wife in the first place. her planet was dangerous. if a peaceful negotiation was on the table, why sacrifice any lives?

fulgrim relaxed in his chair, pulling his wine glass away from his lips with a sly but genuine smile on his face. “you don’t have to love her guilliman. ive wed dozens of women. we do this out of necessity for peace, not out of love.” he said, his tone aloof and dismissive. guilliman hated to admit that his brother was right, thousands of his sons and innocent humans did not need to lose their lives when peace was on the table. “besides,” fulgrim added, his eyes gleaming with mischief and something akin to lust. “she is quite beautiful. i’d watch your back, i’ve heard others deeply desire an opportunity with her” guilliman’s expression remained stale and unmoving from the papers on his desk, though an unfamiliar feeling flickered through his eyes at the thought of someone else coveting his soon to be wife. was this possession?

“sure thing, brother.” guilliman replied, cold, unfeeling, and professional as usual.

he did not get to meet her until their wedding day, and quite beautiful she was. gorgeous fragile, and timid. her cowardice in his presence was something he was not anticipating of a noble, let alone the daughter of an incredibly cruel king. yet her eyes, glassy with tears, looked upon her people with great sympathy and sadness. they looked back at her the same way. she was not cruel, she was kind. these people were being ripped away of the only kindness they had been shown from their rulers.

when her father approached the two of them, she seemed to shrink into guilliman, clinging to his arm as if her father would rip her away the moment he got close enough. the king’s gaze shifted back and forth between guilliman and the girl, before her wrist was grabbed with such force guilliman swore he heard a crack. “i’d like to say goodbye to my dearest daughter” the man said, cooing as she whimpered at the pressure on her wrist, her hand turning blue.

guilliman’s eyes narrowed as he wrapped an arm around her. “release her, and say your goodbyes here, then.” he stood sternly, eyeing the girl’s hand. her father let go, not expecting such a protective tone from the primarch. “i will not depart from my wife.”

he protected her from her father, sure. but his words were a lie. for he did not have to love her.

throughout 6 months of marriage, he had only allowed himself to see her a dozen or so times, each meeting brief and rushed. his sons took great care of her in his absence, always sure to carefully to reply to every “where’s lord guilliman?” with a flat and prompt “he’s busy”.

the only time she remembered physical contact with him was the kiss they shared their wedding day, and the occasional brushing of hands when she handed him his paperwork. being allowed to sit in his office and watch him do his work was a rare and very awkward occurrence. she had her own room. her own space. she should spend time there instead. neither her or her belongings were allowed in guilliman’s personal quarters, anything to stop her sweet and intoxicating scent from getting on his sheets. anything to stop him from falling in love. he does this out of necessity, he has no time for love. he did not have to love her.

he’d admire her from a distance instead, or he’d submerge himself in papers and documents to avoid catching a glimpse of her. she’d sit in her room, contemplating the blank tear stained divorce papers that sat upon her dresser as she traced her fingers over the contours in her wedding ring. all the paper needed was guilliman’s signature.

her quarters were still close to his despite being separated. he heard her cries at night, incredibly often. comfort, she needs comfort. she needs warmth. he’s been in that room before, it’s so… so cold. he knew, and yet never once did he act on it. instead, he sat alone in his room doing paperwork by the warmth of his fireplace, the cracking flames helping drown out her sobs. he did his best to ignore them. he did not have to love her.

sometimes he couldn’t help but stop and listen, pressing his ear against the cold wall, knowing just how freezing and lonely it must be past the walls of his massive and elaborate quarters. his bed was more than big enough for the both of them, and he mulled over the thought many times. it didn’t matter, a little cold wouldn’t kill her, he did not have to love her.

one particular night, though, guilliman did not hear her crying as usual. her sobs and the sounds of the fire were replaced by heavy footsteps approaching his door. the heavy metal boots of cato sicarius were unmistakable as he made his way toward the primarch, a stern but panicked look across his features. Something about the look on cato’s face caused guilliman’s heart to quicken.

“my lord” cato’s voice was close to trembling, sweat pooling on his forehead “it’s lady guilliman… she’s hurt” cato’s voice echoed despite his panting. guilliman rose to his feet with an urgency he had never before felt toward his wife, his heart filled with a mix of panic, confusion, and anger.

“how badly?” he asked with a hint of controlled fury behind the question, every millisecond that passed causing him to dread every possible answer more and more until his heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest.

“she is in critical condition, my lord” the worst possible outcome rang through cato’s lips, but fell on deaf ears as the primarch plowed past him, walking directly to the medical unit and ignoring anything attempting to grab his attention along the way.

guilliman cursed to himself. to hear her cry was one thing, to long for her was one thing, but to be absent and allow her to become fatally injured?

when he arrived in the medical bay, multiple medicae surrounded the bloody and trembling body of lady guilliman. tears poured from her eyes despite her state of near-unconsciousness, the clear wound left by none other than the claws of the night haunter was swollen and crimson, it’s bright redness mixed with black screamed at guilliman. he should’ve been there. there was not an excuse in the universe that would satisfy the fact he was blind enough to let konrad curze get his filthy hands on his wife.

“where’s… guilliman…” she choked out, past her exhaustion and teary eyes.

one of the nurses seemed to tense up at her sad and confused expression. despite his constant absence, despite the papers for divorce he had found on his desk, she still cried out for him. “i apologize my lady, he’s busy” the nurse responded, watching her face twist into a look of defeat. he’d already signed the papers, had them prepared for her, and placed them on her nightstand in her quarters.

his heart could hold its true feelings no longer as he felt it begin to crumble. “i’m here.” his voice announced his presence as he approached her bedside, the nurse who cared for her widened her eyes in shock, swiftly stepping to the side to allow guilliman to see his wife. she reached up weakly with a single one of her tiny hands. her eyes were half lidded, confused and full of sorrow.

he stepped forward, reaching out his own hand to grab onto hers. “you’re really here…” she whispered, a small smile upon her features. “you found my papers, guilliman?”

his smile, once mirroring hers, faded into the slightest frown. “yes.” he responded. his voice cold and yet sorrowful. “they are signed but,” he paused, wanting a moment to consider the weight of the words on his tongue. “I cannot let you return home until you have recovered.”

she frowned. “i don’t want to go back home, roboute.” he tensed at her use of his first name, the only piece of his identity that was truly his own. “but there i had my people, and here i have nothing at all…” her voice broke as she cried, the pain of her wound overwhelming her as the machines stitching her wound together brought healing alongside pain. Exhausted and in something akin to agony, tears began to stream down her face.

“then i will give you everything” he replied with a solemn vow, turning to face the nurse as she nodded toward the primarch, the machine finishing its work and signaling to him that she was free to go as long as she did not walk or strain her body for a few days. he, for the first time, lifted his wife into his arms with more gentleness than that of which a primarch was capable.

he carried her into his room, past her own freezing cold quarters. he’d have her personal belongings moved within the next few days. Gently, he lay her on the soft rug next to his fireplace, not wanting to stain his bedsheets with her blood or hurt her as his period of scheduled rest passed. he removed his own armor, placing it to the side with ease before moving over to his bed. He did not lie down, instead grabbing a soft blanket and draping it over her body, ensuring she stayed warm. He sat next to her, placing her head on his thigh as she nestled into him for both comfort and warmth.

perhaps his scheduled rest meant nothing at all. damn the schedule. he had more important things to attend to now, and those marines of his were more than competent enough to handle it. his focus now was on nothing more than his wife, the girl who lay with her head in his lap as he stroked her head, memorizing every hair on her scalp like he should’ve long ago.

she shifted in her sleep, her body instinctively cuddling closer to her husband, thankful for the warmth she had always longed for. she did not cry on this night. he placed his hand over her shoulder and leaned back against the wall, his heart finally willing to admit the truth. he did not have to love her, but he did. by the emperor, he did.

[geotjwrs]

hey hope your doin’ well bro… Can you do a Olivia Rodrigo x male reader… one were he ask her to be his girlfriend with maybe a bit of smut at the end?

kiss it better (18+)

Pairings ; Olivia Rodrigo x Male!Reader

Warning/s ; short smut

The café was one of those quiet little places that felt like a well-kept secret. Nestled away from the busy streets of Los Angeles, it had the kind of charm that made you feel like you could stay for hours, just talking, sipping on coffee, and forgetting the world outside. It was your and Olivia’s go-to spot. You’d spent countless afternoons here, laughing about anything and everything. But today felt different. There was something hanging in the air between you two—something you’d been thinking about for a long time.

Olivia sat across from you, leaning back in her chair with her arms loosely crossed, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was in one of those oversized band tees she loved wearing, paired with ripped jeans and her favorite pair of worn-out sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, but she still looked effortlessly beautiful. She was talking about a new song she’d been working on, her eyes lighting up with excitement. You’d heard that tone in her voice before—the one where she got completely lost in her music.

“…and then the chorus just kinda hits you, like all the emotions at once, you know?” she said, waving her hands in front of her as if the music was right there between you.

You nodded, though your mind wasn’t entirely focused on the song. You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation you wanted to have. It had been playing in your head for days, weeks even. Every time you were with Olivia, it just felt… right. And tonight, sitting here with her, the soft glow of the café lights casting a warm hue over her face, you knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Liv,” you started, your voice a little quieter than usual.

She paused mid-sentence, her eyes darting to yours, noticing the sudden shift in your tone. “What’s up?” she asked, the curiosity clear in her voice.

You took a breath, running a hand through your hair. “I’ve been thinking… I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly, and she leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Tell me what?” she asked, her tone now softer, more attentive. The way she was looking at you—like you had her full attention—made the nerves in your chest flutter. But you had to say it. You had to get it out.

“I… I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you,” you began, stumbling a little over your words. “These past few months, hanging out, talking… It’s been amazing. But I’ve been feeling something more than just… you know, friendship.”

Olivia didn’t say anything, but you noticed the way her expression shifted ever so slightly, her eyes widening just a touch. She was waiting, hanging on your every word now.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I want to be more than just friends. I really like you, Olivia. A lot. And I’ve been wanting to ask you if you’d… if you’d be my girlfriend.”

The words tumbled out, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. The usual hum of the café’s background noise seemed to fade, leaving just you and Olivia in this small bubble of anticipation. You watched her, every second feeling like an eternity.

Her lips parted slightly, and for a second, you wondered if maybe you’d messed it up, maybe you’d misread everything between you two. But then she smiled—slowly at first, like she couldn’t quite believe what you’d just said. Her eyes softened, and she bit her lip, like she was trying to contain her excitement.

“Wait, are you serious?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, a nervous chuckle escaping you. “Yeah. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while, but… I didn’t know if—”

“I’d love that,” she cut you off, her smile growing wider. The relief that flooded through you was immediate, and you couldn’t help but grin back at her.

“Really?” you asked, your voice a little incredulous, though you didn’t know why.

“Of course!” she laughed, standing up suddenly from her chair, her excitement overflowing. “God, I was starting to wonder when you were going to say something.”

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard her right. “Wait… you were waiting for me to ask?”

“Duh,” Olivia teased, making her way around the small table to stand in front of you. “I’ve liked you for ages, Y/N.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words. She liked you too? This whole time? She slid into the seat beside you, her knee brushing against yours as she turned to face you fully. She was close now—closer than she’d ever been before—and the air between you felt suddenly electric.

Her hand reached for yours, her fingers intertwining with yours gently. “You have no idea how happy this makes me,” she said, her voice softer now, her smile still bright.

You could barely believe it was happening. Everything felt surreal, like you were floating. But the warmth of her hand in yours grounded you, made you realize that this moment—this perfect, intimate moment—was real.

Before you could respond, Olivia leaned in, her breath warm against your skin. Her lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could feel the tension building, the anticipation crackling in the air. You didn’t need words anymore. You closed the small gap between you, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

At first, it was gentle, almost shy, as if you were both testing the waters. But then Olivia’s hand slipped to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. Your heart pounded in your chest as you felt her body press lightly against yours, the heat between you rising with each second that passed. Her lips moved against yours, soft yet insistent, as though she’d been waiting for this as long as you had.

When you finally pulled away, your breath came in short bursts. Olivia’s eyes were dark, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her lips curved into a smirk.

“So… that was a yes, then?” you asked, your voice playful, though you were still catching your breath.

Olivia laughed softly, her fingers still tracing the back of your neck. “Yeah, I think that was a pretty solid yes.”

You leaned in again, unable to resist the pull between you two, but this time the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was heated, filled with the pent-up emotions that had been building between you both for so long. Her hands tangled in your hair, and you felt her shift, moving closer, almost on your lap now.

The café, the people, the city outside—all of it faded into the background as the world narrowed down to just the two of you. Your hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against you, and you could feel the heat of her body through her clothes. The intensity of the moment was dizzying, and every touch sent a jolt of electricity through you.

Just as things began to blur into something more, Olivia pulled back, her forehead resting against yours. You both sat there, breathing heavily, your hearts racing, the tension thick in the air.

She looked up at you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We should probably get out of here before we give these people a show,” she teased, her voice low, but there was something more behind her words—a promise of what was to come.After leaving the café, you followed Olivia back to her apartment. As she unlocked the door, she turned to you and whispered, "I've been thinking about this all day." She pulled you inside and pressed her lips against yours.

Your hands explored her body as you kissed, feeling the curves of her hips and the softness of her breasts. You broke the kiss and trailed kisses down her neck, making her moan with pleasure.

Olivia led you to her bedroom and pushed you down onto the bed. She straddled you and began to grind against your growing erection. You reached up and squeezed her breasts through her shirt, causing her to gasp.

She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside, revealing her lacy bra. You reached behind her and unclasped it, freeing her breasts. You took one in your mouth and sucked, making her moan even louder.

Olivia stood up and slipped out of her pants, revealing her matching lacy thong. She crawled back onto the bed and straddled you once again, this time with nothing between you.

You reached down and stroked her clit, making her wet and ready for you. She positioned herself over your cock and slowly lowered herself down onto it.

You both moaned as you felt the warmth of her pussy surrounding you. She began to ride you, grinding her hips against yours. You reached up and squeezed her breasts, causing her to moan even louder.

You flipped her over onto her back and began to thrust into her harder and faster. She wrapped her legs around your waist and pulled you deeper inside of her.

You could feel yourself getting close to climax, but you wanted to make this moment last. You slowed down your thrusts and reached down to stroke her clit.

Olivia moaned and bucked her hips, getting closer and closer to her own orgasm. You could feel her pussy tightening around your cock as she came, triggering your own release.

You collapsed onto the bed next to her, both of you panting and covered in sweat. "That was amazing," Olivia whispered, snuggling up against you.

You smiled and kissed the top of her head, already looking forward to your next intimate encounter.

[babygirlwolverine]

cas had texted and said he’d be back at the bunker that night, and dean had stayed up until almost 3am waiting for the angel. when cas hadn’t walked through the bunker door, dean had to drag himself to bed before he passed out on the war table.

he didn’t sleep for long though, waking up just after 6am to check his phone. no messages from cas. was it too soon to start worrying?

making his way to the kitchen for a very strong cup of black coffee, dean shuffled past the bag in hallway while he rubbed blearily at his eyes. it took several long seconds before dean realized he’d almost tripped over cas’ overnight bag and he quickly backtracked and made a beeline for cas’ room.

the room was empty, no sign of cas’ current trenchcoat or of the angel anywhere.

frowning, dean wandered the hallways, searching for any signs of cas. but there was nothing. the bunker was quiet. empty. not even sam was awake yet.

convincing himself that the overnight bag had always been there and he’d just forgotten because he was tired, dean trudged back towards the kitchen by cutting through the library.

and he froze, mid-step.

slumped, lying curled up between two of the chairs at the table, was a sleeping angel using his trenchcoat as a pillow against the hard wooden seats.

a sleeping angel who was bundled up under dean’s old hoodie; the clothing item which usually held a permanent place in the backseat of the impala. the same hoodie that had gone missing a week ago.

dean’s heart stuttered in his chest.

his feet carried him gently across the library and he found himself reaching out and brushing a lock of hair off of cas’ forehead. the hood of the jacket was tucked up under cas’ chin, almost as if the angel had been burying his face in the cotton material, but the rest of it was slipping off and threatening to fall onto the floor.

breath catching in his throat, dean softly readjusted the hoodie and wrapped it around cas’ shoulders. cas let out a content sigh in his sleep, and dean suddenly felt weak in the knees.

cas had taken dean’s jacket with him when he’d left the bunker last week. and now, cas was using his hoodie as a blanket. a concept that years ago dean would’ve sworn up and down that cas would never understand because angels didn’t have feelings. yet, here cas was, carrying around dean’s old clothes, wearing his heart on dean’s worn sleeves.

smiling to himself, dean quietly made his way back to the kitchen to make honey tea for cas and a pot of coffee. he was going to need the caffeine courage to show cas that this was mutual.

as the coffee brewed and the tea steeped, dean snuck back into cas’ room and collected the one thing he was missing. wrapping one of cas’ old trenchcoats around his shoulders, dean was finally ready to put his own heart onto cas’ sleeve.

[cerealboxlore]

Billy Batson related question, as always! How do you think the League would react to Black Adam knowing who the Captain is, especially when they don’t even know? (The relationship between Billy and Teth doesn’t matter, they could be allies or enemies).

Billy Batson related questions are my personal favorites!

The idea of the Justice League not knowing who Captain Marvel's secret identity is always makes me giggle :D it's the layer of mystery and unknown danger that presents itself behind not knowing who the Big Red Cheese is that keeps them on edge sometimes. They admire their friend, but sometimes they do wonder, are they his friend? What is he? An alien? A human? A monster beneath the disguise of a man? Three kobolds in a trenchcoat? Nobody knows... They do wish to get to know their friend better.

Normally, most league members have their secret identities kept, you know, a secret. With the exception that Batman knows, of course. However, even he remains stumped on this mystery. He doesn't enjoy not knowing who Captain Marvel is behind the boy scout smile he often shines, but Batman is determined to find out one day. There's almost some respect for how well the Captain manages to hide his identity and tracks.

Meanwhile, Billy is surprised he's lasted this long with a secret identity. He's working with a braincell, half an oreo cookie, and a dream.

I got sidetracked, ack! Okay, so the relationship (depending on which version of Captain Marvel and Black Adam you are familiar with) is almost always going to be personal. There's their shared relationship with the wizard Shazam, but the one I'm most familiar with and enjoy is Black Adam being the one to have killed Billy's parents. (Also, I appreciate you separating the identity of Black Adam and Teth!)

It would be absolutely amazing and gutwrenching to see Captain Marvel shake hands with a "reformed" Black Adam, possibly during a public setting with the JL in attendance, fully knowing the truth behind his parents murders and still going through with the painful decision to let him go unpunished.

For Billy, this hurts. On a deep level that scars his heart and soul for allowing his parents deaths to go unavenged. For the years of pain, he spent alone on the streets homeless and separated from his twin sister, none of it can be fully healed no matter how hard he tries to forget. Scars fade over time, but to Billy, time is eternity. This pain will follow him for eternity.

However, as Captain Marvel, he understands that there's more to the situation that he can't control, and fighting Black Adam would only make things worse. With the wisdom of Solomon, he knows he can't justify a fight against the ruler of a nation, no matter what. So he just smiles for the camera and shakes the hand of the man who orphaned him.

It is through holding Black Adam's hand that the thought passes through his mind: the hand he's holding right now was once stained with the blood of his parents.

Then, the heroes are given a moment of privacy to be around each other without the public's eyes or ears to interfere, and that's when **** hits the fan.

Captain Marvel is avoiding Black Adam, understandably, but when Black Adam loudly calls out his name among the other heroes, Billy can't help but feel rage boil inside his divine blood.

"William. I thought you knew better than to ignore others when they're trying to talk to you. Such rudeness, I am most glad your parents were not the ones to raise such behavior in you."

Whispers among the league ensues. Was that the Captain's name? Did Black Adam know Captain Marvel on a personal level rather than just a regular hero and nemesis level? Despite the eyes watching them, waiting and prepared to step in case of a fight, the Captain grits his teeth and, through miserable eyes of a broken man, chooses to smile.

"Yeah, they really were good people, Adam. I may not live up to their expectations, but I do live for them. Every day. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

"Your gratitude is most welcome, William. May one day come where you live for Mary and Frederick, as well. They would appreciate you honoring them."

Through a wicked smile, Black Adam chuckles, turning his back to take his leave back to Khandak. Leaving Captain Marvel still smiling all alone, his fists at his side curled with rage, drawing his own divine blood from the intensity of his own strength.

After that, the league would be in all rumors and whispers about Captain Marvel. From the past, they knew that Black Adam was fond of taunting the Captain with strange and mean words during their harrowing battles, but had it all been a personal dig at him all this time? Did Black Adam have a hand in accidentally giving Captain Marvel the motivation to become a hero?

Superheroes like Batman would immediately be looking into any information they learned from this and try to decipher what is the truth behind the Captain. Or should he say, "William," now having a name to the face of the hero of Fawcett. He would also be investigating Black Adam far more closely now, should the reformed man ever step out of line. If he heard right and Black Adam had indeed killed the Captain's parents, then he needed to keep an eye on Captain Marvel, too. In case of a breakdown or instability in emotions.

On the other hand, heroes like the Flash and Superman would take the time to visit the Captain in his city and check on him. They'd be concerned after seeing how pained Captain Marvel was. If a villain like Black Adam knew who the Captain was and specifically chose not to reveal his true identity to the public and just the Justice League, then perhaps there was more to it. Superman knew as well how painful it was to let a guilty man go free because he was deemed "reformed" in the eyes of the public (Lex Luthor, ew).

Overall, there would be a whole range of emotions after finding out Black Adam knows who Captain Marvel is. And I am here for it!

[anzuhan]

[doctorwhoarchive]

as someone who absolutely adored Sam/Melissa in Scream 5 while most everyone else was hating on her and her acting, I’ve been thinking about this for a while and can honestly write a whole dissertation on this SO

Melissa was never a bad actress in 5. I’d argue it all comes down to how Sam was written and that she was intentionally a little more stoic. And then, as soon as Melissa had more input on the character and fought to give Sam more complexity in 6, suddenly everyone loved her and was praising her for “getting acing lessons”. Someone doesn’t just improve their acting that much in the few months timespan between when 5 came out and 6 was filmed, she was always that good!

The real reason I’m writing this though is because there’s a certain subtle aspect of Melissa’s acting that I’ve never seen anyone talk about before, but it might just be my favorite thing about her portrayal of Sam. MELISSA’S BODY LANGUAGE ACTING IS INCREDIBLE AND IT’S TIME WE SPEAK ABOUT IT!!

Maybe it’s just the mental illness in me that sees the same things I do in her, but a lot of little things she does/the way she carries herself stick out to me and I love it so much. The way she crosses her arms like she’s closed off whenever something particularly bad or uncomfortable is happening (she does this in shrine scene when Tara catches her talking to Billy, at the police station after Gale is attacked, and in 5 when she begins to tell Tara about finding the diary), the way her leg bounces when she’s nervous/anxious (like when she’s talking to Danny after the ladder scene), the way she fiddles with her hands (like in the scene right after she’s attacked in the hospital in 5), it all really catches my attention and it’s so subtle but perfect.

Melissa’s crushing it as Sam, and was way before everyone finally started appreciating her performance in 6. When I see her do those things I’m like!! I do those exact things too! It may not be a big deal to anybody else and they may not even notice it, but I notice it and absolutely love it and feel seen by it. It just feels like Melissa really put the time, effort, and thought into Sam and her mannerisms to make her a more well-rounded character, and I just think we all need to talk about it more.

[itsalwaysforyou]

the black sky and all those lights

a silly little something i wrote for jalentines!!

When Mal opens the dormitory door, Jay is standing in the hallway in his workout gear, hair tied up in a bun. He’s already grinning in that way he does when he wins a fight. Mal rolls her eyes at him. Grabbing her bag, she says bye to Evie, and joins Jay in the corridor. 

She scowls as they walk, her workout clothes tight on her skin. Jay had insisted they’d do things properly, and not in their usual leather. 

The hallways are decorated for Valentine’s Day, making Auradon Prep even more gaudy and colourful as usual. Pink and red hearts plastered across the walls, boasting the abundance of love here in Auradon. Jay’s had a thousand notes in his locker. Mal’s had none. Every morning, she watches Jay approach his locker like he would a target on the Isle. Weight forward, shoulders squared; ready to fight if needs be. And the paper falls to the floor like blood, only sickly pastel. Scrawled glittery gel pen. Words confessing passionate love, or asking him on dates, or doodles of hearts. Jay smiles the whole time. Greets and winks at girls. Scrunches those notes up in a fist. 

“Everywhere looks disgusting,” Mal says as they approach the sports hall. Heart-shaped bunting crests the doors.

Jay holds the door open for her. “It’s fun.”

“You would think that.”

The sports hall is mercifully free of décor. They drop their bags in the corner and begin to warm up, another stupid practice Jay insists on. His top rides up as he side-stretches. Isle rule: never show skin, especially to the enemy. Except, Jay loved to parade around in those stupid sleeveless vests. She’s yelled at him plenty of times about it—Are you insane? You’re a walking target. He would just grin and say, they’ll have to catch me first.

Jay laughs as he grabs the practice swords from their stands. “Here.” 

He throws it, and Mal catches. The weight in her hand is familiar. Already, her pulse is thrumming faster, and maybe if she closes her eyes she’ll be back on the docks, with the wind ripping at her hair, and the salt stinging her nose, and half a dozen of Uma’s crew jeering over the clanging of swords. 

Jay chucks her a mask too, before attaching one to his own face. The mesh turns her vision slightly hazy.

“Ready?” Jay asks.

Mal’s watched fencing practise a few times, mostly as an excuse not to do homework and instead watch her boys wipe the floor with all those prissy Auradon princes. Coach Jenkins appointed Jay captain of the team a few months ago, a role he takes more seriously than she’s ever seen him take anything. 

“Rassembler! Salute! Lower the point. Masks down. En guarde!”

Mal lunges first, which Jay clearly anticipates, parrying her blow. He circles. Strikes. Mal blocks it. He’s quick. Reflexes honed to a sword’s point; learned by practise and theory. Mal lashes out again, just catching his free arm before he jerks away. She grins underneath her mask. Her breath comes quicker. Jay’s blade arcs down, hitting her chest. Mal swats his blade away. She hears him laugh. She growls. Strike. Parry. Strike. Block. Strike. Jay lands another hit. Their shoes squeak against the linoleum floor. 

“Come on, Mal,” Jay teases. 

Mal lunges like a cat on its prey. Jay’s blade grates against hers like steel against flint. Jay may be quick but Mal’s smaller, and she weaves her way through Jay’s blade until they both have the sword’s point angled at each other’s chests. 

They’re both panting. Jay lowers his sword first. Takes off his mask. 

“You came in clutch at the end,” he says. 

Mal huffs, wiggling the mask off her face and wiping her forehead with a sleeve. “You actually get training.”

“And now I’m training you!” 

His hair has loosened during the sparring, spilling out at the seams. He unties the bun; flips his hair down and shakes it out. In this late-afternoon light, his hair could be made of gold. Hair longer than Mal’s ever had. 

He pulls his hair back into its bun, deft fingers making quick work. When he straightens back up again, his face is slightly flushed from the match. 

And Mal looks at this boy she’s known most of her life; this face and these hands; a boy that has held her at the end of the world and the start of a new one. And she snatches back down her mask. 

“Again,” she says, lifting up her sword. 

She’s swinging before Jay’s even had the chance to pull his own mask back down. Her blade slices against his chest, and she hears the breath escape from his lungs. 

“Fuck!’

Jay’s blocking her hits in no time. Mal grits her teeth. A boy who’s inhabited every place she’s ever been. The shadow along the street; a fixed point on the rooftops. Those long, quick fingers that know their way around bandage; around open flesh; around her own hands. Like a comet to Earth. Like an eclipse. Totally consuming. 

And here, where the sun shines brighter than they could have ever dreamed, she is left blistering. Those girls that fawn over Jay, professing their love with the same ease that Mal can hold a dagger to a throat. Jay’s clicking tongue, and that low fry to his voice when he’s chatting someone up. Everything is always so easy to him. He can wrap anyone around his finger with a wink. 

His blade slams into her stomach. Mal pants, the budding pain in her side clearing her head. Jay’s standing above her like some heavenly deity. 

“Best of four?” he offers.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“C’mon. Let’s take a break.”

Jay drops his sword and grabs his water bottle from his bag. Mal joins him, still gripping her sword, gulping down her water like a man in a desert. 

“We should do this again soon,” Jay says. 

“Tomorrow?”

“It’s the Valentine’s Ball tomorrow.”

Mal snorts. “Yeah, and?”

“I was gonna go.”

His words are coming too slow; too considered. Like when he used to talk about his dad, or a particularly bad Barge Day. Rehearsed. A guard dog who’s smelled danger, prowling at the sidelines. 

Mal presents her blade. “En guarde!” she shouts, and Jay ducks her swing before scrambling over to his own sword. 

“Really, Mal? Another sneak attack?”

“I’m keeping you on your toes.”

They waltz around the sports hall, the blades clashing and slicing and singing.

“We all agreed we weren’t going to go to the Ball,” Mal says, jabbing at Jay.

“We never agreed anything.”

Jay lands a blow. They are at the dockyard, with its rotting wooden pier and dead fish stench. The screeching of metal; the shouting; Mal’s heart hammering like the tide. Blood, and life. The roar in her ears. A dragon’s call. Body moving without a thought, as quick as a lightning strike. Not having to look behind her because she knows Jay is there.

“Exactly!” she says. “Why would we want to go to some stuffy Auradon ball?” Jay tries to say something but she ignores him. “Why would we care about Valentine’s Day? It’s corny, and over-commercialised, and a stupid excuse to make everything about love.”

Jay has her backed up against a wall. With no time to mount his mask, his lips are slightly parted, and his hair is escaping from his bun again. He looks just like he did on the Isle; none of his perfect prince act that fools Auradon. His sword hovers above her throat. 

“Do you yield?” His voice is low.

Mal stares at him. Those eyes that have seen every part of her. All the blood; every smile; her pale skin in the dark Isle nights. The boy that has beheld her every action; weighed it all against his own understanding of the world, and decided that they slot together as easily as a bullet in a pistol.

“Who are you going with to the Ball?” Mal asks. She’s still clutching her sword. She could claim the upper hand, if she really wanted.

A grin creeps across Jay’s face. All those notes and heart-shaped lollipops. The giggling girls at his locker. He could pick any one of them. All of them so beautiful, in their sunset-coloured dresses. He could have anything he wanted.

“Well,” Jay says. “I was going to ask you.”

The sword’s point makes sure they keep their distance. Never too close. All touches so light; so fleeting, as if you could’ve mistaken them for a dream. As if you could’ve imagined the whole thing. All those nights in the hideout where the barrier of the body seemed thin, and the world became so small: just two kids who wouldn’t even dare knock knees. 

So Mal shakes it all away with a laugh. “I’m not going to the Valentine’s Ball.”

Jay lowers his blade. Neither of them move. “Not even with me?” 

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other girls who actually want to go with you.”

“I want to go with you.”

His words echo through the empty hall. His word is as steadfast as ever, the only opinion Mal will ever trust. Compass, anchor: Jay does it all. 

Heralded here, Mal as real as the vast sky outside. Here, in his gaze, held aloft by trust where there shouldn’t be and compassion where there shouldn’t be and understanding where there shouldn’t be. A home for all her broken bones. 

Mal’s lips unfurl into a smile. This ache in her chest. In her throat. Jay always being able to disarm her. Jay in every place she’s ever been. Jay as her shadow; her skin; her second self. A reflection in the mirror. The line of separation is nonexistent. Like the sun, like the moon: one cannot exist without the other.

[science-lings]

For a possible prompt: Twilight showing a cat and her kittens to those of the chain who've never seen a cat before like Wild and Wind?

All that knew him, knew that Wild was impossible to keep stationary. He loved to wander and climb things, even when he wasn't traveling he tended to pace or at the very least fidget restlessly in place. Sleeping was always a battle, no matter how exhausted he was, he simply refused to settle down. Usually it took an equally stubborn wolf to pin him down for him to even attempt a nap.

It was a quiet morning in Lon Lon Ranch when Twilight was finally able to find a temporary solution. The day before, he had become friends with the ranch's incredibly friendly farm cat. Once he had gained her trust, she led him directly to a warm corner of the horse stables, where a litter of her tiny kittens awaited their arrival. They were too small to do more than stumble around on their own while crying for their mother, but just on the edge of being too large for her to carry them around by the scruff of their necks.

Needless to say, Twilight was MIA for a while after that.

However, the momma cat gave him an idea. Wild had awoken before the sun had fully risen, despite the fact that they had paused their travels and there was no conceivable reason for him not to take advantage of one of the rare safe mornings to sleep in. Twilight refused to consider that it was hypocritical that he was also awake this early for no reason.

The champion had settled sitting with his back against a tree, seemingly relishing the gentle quiet of the pre-waking world, breathing in the cool morning breeze, but posed in such a way that would suggest that any moment he was going to stand up and wander around. Twilight had to act before the kid had the chance to do so.

Wild was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden weight leaning against his side, he really didn't expect anyone else to be awake. He was about to utter a greeting when he saw what was in his mentor's grasp.

A tiny but strong squeaking noise that reminded him of a fox escaped the mouth of the palm-sized creature. He couldn't help but let out a gasp at the sheer smallness of the animal. His wide eyes snapped up to Twilight in a silent question that was delightfully answered when the baby... whatever it was, was handed over to him. He grinned when he realized that its fur was just as soft as it looked.

"I remembered that you don't really have cats in your time, which is incredibly tragic, so I decided that this is the perfect opportunity to educate you on something very important. This is a kitten."

"Its face kind of reminds me of a Lynel, but cute." Wild let the kitten curl up on his lap using his hand as a blanket.

"I guess a Lynel might be the closest thing you have to a cat..." Twilight muttered with a bit of horror in his voice. Wild merely laughed.

At this point, the mother cat had found them and her stolen baby, though she didn't seem very bothered. She sniffed Wild's bent elbow and rubbed up against him with a surprising aggressiveness. He patted her head, which she really seemed to enjoy. Despite this, she quickly left, seemingly satisfied with the care her child was left in.

Wild was disappointed in her disappearance but it was only for a minute, as she returned soon after with another kitten, placing it beside the first one on a confused champion's tunic.

"What is it doing?" He asked the Rancher nervously.

"She likes you. So much so that she wants you to babysit." He replied proudly.

"I just learned what a cat was, I don't think I'm qualified for this."

The cat left again, and she came back again with another kitten. At this point, Wild had started to get nervous, he wasn't sure he was ready for such responsibility.

"You're doing fine, just keep them warm." Twi raised an eyebrow at how seriously the kid was taking this.

The cat left, and she returned with a kitten. She did it again, and again, and again, until the kittens had all been transferred to their new babysitter.

Once all the kittens were accounted for, Twilight stood up again with a stretch.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Back to bed," he responded as if it were obvious, starting to stroll back to the house.

"You can't just leave me here! Twi! I'm not ready to be a mother!" His voice raised in volume as his brother got further and further away.

The mother cat curled up at his side, and he accepted the fact that he was stuck and wouldn't dare move, in fear of bothering the kittens. With a sigh, he patted the larger cat beside him, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be stuck like this.

Send me prompts?

[crystalbeastsquidney]

Bi-Han and Sareena talk about their names (word count: ~2.2k)

[just something I wanted to write for my 3-year t anniversary :0)]

[Don’t tag as ship]

“So, why ‘Bi-Han?”

The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t completely out of the blue, but a little forward for what they’d been talking about.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s just my name,” he answered. They were sitting on the stairs leading into one of the temple courtyards, the one with the statue of a large seated figure holding two lit braziers, one set in each palm. It was nighttime, but strong flames and the light of the full moon reflecting off the snow gave them more than enough to see. They’d gone out to get away from the bustle and noise inside for a spell, and had spent the past few minutes casually talking about their lives—the events that they’d gone through, the choices they’d made, and how that shaped them into the people they were now. Talking just to talk, and well, that was what she had ended up asking him.

Sareena laughed and playfully jabbed him in the side, “I mean why did you pick it. ‘Cold Wall’ isn’t exactly a common name, y’know—not one I’ve ever heard before.”

“Well, you’ve spent most of your life in hell, not exactly prime ground for hearing ‘common’ names, no?” Bi-Han quipped.

“Fair enough, I was just wondering.”

He looked out towards the horizon, idly watching the stars, and the clouds rolling across them shimmering under the moonlight. He knew full well what she’d meant, they had always talked freely about such things. Even if they didn’t, her and Ashrah had spent weeks—months even—reconstructing and restoring his body from death and corruption. It was doubtful she wouldn’t have noticed the scars just beneath his chest during all that time.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she added at his silence.

“No, it’s just… sort of long-winded, is all.”

Shrugging, Sareena leaned back resting her elbows on the steps behind her, “I’ve got nowhere else to be,” she smiled.

Bi-Han thought a moment, then smirked, “Then why don’t you go first? Why did you pick ‘Sareena?”

“I didn’t,” she answered plainly, “It’s always been my name—at least as far as I can remember.”

That gave Bi-Han pause, and he looked at her to ask, “You’ve never thought about changing it?”

She shrugged again, the pointed studs on the shoulders of her jacket glittering with reflected light. “No, it’s never really bothered me. It’s like…” she took her turn in gazing up at the sky as she spoke. The cold Arctika wind blew gently over the mountains—over Earthrealm—sweeping her hair into her face. She pushed that lock of white back behind her ear, feeling the heat of her face despite the cold as her hand brushed against her cheek. She still bore the evidence of her past, the hellfire that coursed through her veins, the very heat keeping her comfortable in a simple jacket left open in the front while Bi-Han sat bundled up beside her. And yet here she was, away from the Netherrealm, free from Quan Chi… To think those dreams that had once seemed so far off and fleeting had come true so long ago already. It was…

“Serenity; the state of being calm, peaceful, and untroubled,” she said, staring at the moon.

“In that case, it doesn’t sound like it fit you that well when we first met,” Bi-Han commented.

“No, no it didn’t.” She laughed and continued looking upward, admiring the lunar halo shining above, tranquil against the dark night sky. “But it does now.”

Bi-Han smiled for her and watched the moon as well, until he felt her eyes move to him half-expectantly.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, “…This is probably going to sound unrelated at first, but bear with me.”

Sareena gave him an understanding nod, and waited, eyes alight listening intently.

Rubbing his hands together to chase away the late night chill, Bi-Han began. “You know well enough that being a cryomancer is a big deal in the Lin Kuei, and our titles are no different. They’re like our second names. I don’t really know if Kuai Liang’s kept it around or not, but we used to have this tradition where, in order to receive your title, you had to first prove your cryomancy—“

He paused when Sareena made a face. It was subtle, but apparent enough in how her brow scrunched.

“Prove?’ What, did they line everyone up to make sure they could actually shoot little snowflakes from their fingertips?” she joked, even waggling her own in his face.

Being a demon, her breath condensed thick and foggy between them given the extra heat. Bi-Han laughed, lightly smacking her hands away. “It wasn’t that simple, just having cryomancy wasn’t the point,” he clarified, “It was about having purpose and precision. It’s one thing to blindly shoot ice from your hands—knowing how to use it is another thing entirely.”

“Gosh, it must have been a lot then,” her demeanor quickly shifted, knowing what she knew of the Lin Kuei before Kuai Liang had taken the helm.

“Eh, not really—maybe back when the clan was only cryomancers it was more involved, but by mine and Kuai Liang’s time, it was a formality; a rite of passage for the cryomancers we did have. I got my title when I was about… six or seven I think.”

Sareena’s eyes were full and bright with curiosity at this point. Bi-Han couldn’t tell if it were the fire reflecting in them, or if her retinas produced a natural eyeshine. Either way, her pupils were lost in the sharp red of her irises. “Then what did you have to do?” she asked.

He brought the memory to his mind’s forefront and carefully recounted it so as to not miss any of the details. “How it went was… you’d sit across from a fellow cryomancer, typically your oldest male relative—since, traditionally, he was who picked your name. For Kuai Liang and myself, it was our Grandfather. We both would create a ball of ice in our hands and—” he paused as he mimed the motion, one hand above the other, fingers slightly hooked pointing to the opposite wrist, as if caressing the empty space between. He had hardly realized he was doing it, but the resulting melancholy came with the reminder of what he’d lost. No ice formed as he continued the motion, no matter how hard he focused, or visualized.

A soft noise stirred him, and he looked up to see Saibot had emerged from wherever they’d been hidden away in the shadows. They sat in the snow a short distance in front of him and Sareena, listening with similar intrigue. His cryomancy was gone, likely never to return, but it had been replaced by something he could never imagine giving up.

He continued, “At the Grandmaster’s prompting, we would cause the ice to dissipate and reform in tandem. We did this six times, and if he thought you had displayed proper control over your cryomancy, you were allowed to receive your title.”

“Why six times?” Sareena asked, ever the inquirer.

Bi-Han shrugged, “probably because it’s a lucky number, or maybe it was something to do with how snowflakes always have six points.”

“Wow, okay, so your Grandfather named you Sub-Zero?” she looked to him with soft wonder.

He bit back a laugh, “You’re getting ahead of me. Sub-Zero was his title, I only inherited it… later.”

“Oh… I’m sorry,” Sareena deflated, a little embarrassed at herself.

“It’s alright.” He looked out at the skyline again, thinking about that same memory still, and the nights when his dear Yéye took him and Kuai Liang out on nights just like this to tell them the stories written in the stars. He remembered the cold hands that had pinned his medallion bearing the Lin Kuei’s insignia to his robes—how it hung with a notable weight from his small frame—and the hug that had followed. His arms might have been chilly, but his heart was not.

“He named me… Glacier; Bīngchuān.”

Sareena sat quietly for a moment, taking it all in, and then said, “And he named your brother ‘Tundra’, right?”

“Mmhm, he actually had a reason for that. Apparently, when glaciers move they tend to erode everything in their path into a flat, open plain. I guess his idea was that as a glacier travels, it paves the way for a tundra to form.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Sareena beamed. “Your grandfather sounds like an intelligent man.”

Bi-Han chuckled, “I’m sure he’d be happy to know you think that kindly of him.”

They both went quiet for a few seconds, just existing in the moment, until Sareena finally asked, “So how did you get ‘Bi-Han’ from ‘Bīngchuān?”

He shuffled where he was seated, the frigid stone starting to numb his legs, “Well, I guess we’re alike in that regard—I didn’t.” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly when Sareena whipped her head around to stare at him, “it’s honestly kind of embarrassing thinking about how it’s the reason I have my name and all…”

“Okay, now you have to tell me,” her face erupted into a devilish grin. Saibot likewise prodded him, wanting to know as well.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, shooing them both away. He knew full well they would force the issue if he resisted, and figured it didn’t really matter anyway. His name was his name, and nothing would ever change that. “See the thing is, ‘Bīngchuān’ does mean ‘glacier’, but when you look at the hanzi it’s literally ‘ice river,” he began to explain, “which isn’t wrong, but it’s not really how most people think about them either, I would say.”

Saibot and Sareena just kept looking at him, waiting for the rest.

“The thing is, I was pretty young when I got my title, and Kuai Liang’s almost three years younger than me… so he understood that my title was ‘Bīngchuān’, but he didn’t know that it meant glacier, or even what one was…”

They kept staring, only now Sareena was struggling to hide a wide grin plastered across her face.

He continued, averting his eyes, “Anyway, one day I took him out to part of the inner wall of the temple ramparts and tried to explain it by covering a section in ice. I was hoping he’d realize glaciers are like walls of ice, but…” and then he sighed again, “instead, he said it was like a—”

“Bi-Han? Oh, there you three are,” Kuai Liang’s voice came from the temple doors behind them. Soft light poured out from inside, silhouetting him in its glow. He stopped after a second, standing in the open archway, “…Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope! Sounds like you’re right on queue,” Sareena quipped. She turned to Bi-Han and added, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed, that’s actually super cute. I wish my name could’ve had a basis like that.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about,” Kuai Liang realized, coming down the steps to join them for a minute. He sat between them, wrapping an arm around his brother as he had noticeably begun to shiver beneath the many coats he was wearing. “You never wanted me to call you anything else.”

“I know,” Bi-Han said, soft and sentimental, hugging him back. He loved his name and the fact that Kuai Liang was who had given it to him. The details just felt a little overtly childish and silly, was all. He hadn’t even needed to choose it either, eventually he just preferred it over his birth name, and the rest followed suit.

Another voice came from the temple, cutting through the moment, “Did you find him yet?”

They all looked to see Johnny as he peered through the doorway, already shivering from the cold. “Oh, hey—get back in here man, we all wanna do cake already,” he said to Bi-Han.

“Why do you need me for that?”

Everyone gave him a look before Johnny said, “Dude, it’s literally your birthday.”

“I’m kidding,” Bi-Han grumbled after they continued to stare, “I thought out of everyone, you were supposed to be the expert of picking up on jokes.”

Sipping from whatever drink he had in hand, Johnny turned back into the temple’s warmth, back to the small party they were throwing, “I am. You’re just bad at telling ‘em,” he said nonchalantly, and laughed while walking away.

Kuai Liang laughed as well, and urged both his brother and Sareena to their feet. Bi-Han took a moment first to fashion a cane out of shadows to help in standing, and kept it firm in hand as he walked.

Sareena trailed behind beside him, trudging up the temple steps. “Y’know, I think it’s nice that you were able to have your family name you like that,” she smiled.

“Yeah? I guess it is.” He thought as they walked, about how she wished her own name’s meaning were a little deeper. “…Hey, um, would you want to be called ‘Serenity?” he asked simply.

“That’s okay, I’m happy with ‘Sareena’. But thanks.”

He smiled and nodded. Together they filed back into the temple after Kuai Liang, with Saibot returning to Bi-Han’s shade in the gentle light. Back to the warmth, kindness, friends and family that a life renewed had bestowed him with.

[kurtsascot]

getting older- KWS 2023 Day 2

written for klaine word scramble day 2!

been writing a lot of angst in my wip so i felt inspired to write some fluff- this challenge was super fun;;

i will crosspost on ao3 once i get back from vacation.

enjoy married klaine that is canon (?) compliant

blaine anderson/kurt hummel

rated T, 2394 words

summary: blaine discovers he needs glasses. kurt helps him cope with getting older.

words used: realign, linger, gel, glare, angle

Blaine always knew that this was a possibility, but he didn’t think today would be the day.

“You need glasses,” the shopping mall optometrist says with a degree of nonchalance that only annoys Blaine further. He’s tapping away at his chunky, dated keyboard, working to pull up Blaine’s vision prescription, avoiding eye contact. Blaine has determined that his vision must be so horrendously disgusting that looking him in the eye is out of the question. “You’re getting older, and so are your eyes.”

“I don’t wear glasses,” Blaine says, like it’s a valid argument. “I can’t need glasses.”

The optometrist doesn’t look back. He hits print. “Well, you do need them.” He swivels in his chair and faces Blaine, eyebrows raised, with a face that mimics parental disappointment. “And you should wear them.”

He gets up to leave and Blaine is on his heels. “You don’t get it,” Blaine says, and he’s whining, but this guy really just doesn’t get it. “I’m an actor. Stage makeup is already enough of a headache without glasses or contacts. I can’t have my roles limited.” There’s another optometrist in Blaine’s path, and Blaine does a quick side step to avoid running straight into her. He nicks the back of his optometrist’s-he just met the guy and Blaine’s not possessive but right now this guy is his- heels in the stumble. “Shit, sorry.”

The man hands Blaine’s file off to the receptionist. “Are you really arguing with me?” He straightens out his lab coat, and Blaine tries not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Why does this guy have a lab coat on in the middle of an Ohio mall? He’s not even a real doctor-why is Blaine listening to him? “Look, you can’t see up close, and your distance vision needs a little help. Since you are more farsighted, you can probably get away with not wearing any glasses on stage and see just fine.”

“Probably?” Blaine needs something definitive.

Fake-doctor guy just shrugs. “I don’t know what you do for a living, man, and I really don’t care.” He gestures with his working, perfect eyes behind Blaine. “Go pick out some frames. We have a buy-one-get-one sale going on.”

Blaine doesn’t move. He shuffles on his feet. His hand roots around his pants pocket for his phone. “This can’t be happening,” he mutters to himself.

The receptionist gives the optometrist a worried look. He just shrugs again and walks off into the back.

Blaine momentarily entertains following him- he wasn’t even done talking to him- but, no, that’d be crazy and controlling. Blaine’s trying to not be like that anymore.

The receptionist’s voice pulls Blaine out of his crisis. She sounds mousy. “Glasses aren’t that bad,” she tries. “They can help elevate your personal style.”

“My style does not need elevated,” Blaine defends, shooting a text. He’s squinting at the screen as he sends it, hoping that whatever blurred jargon he typed actually meant something. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“If this is the worst day of your life, can we switch places?” Her expression is less affectionate now, and she gives Blaine a pointed look. “I have to deal with disgruntled customers arguing with our staff and moping.”

Blaine’s eyes may narrow at her, but it’s honestly half a squint. He lets out a huff. “It’s not personal. I’m not mad at you specifically.”

“Right, but you are taking it out on me.”

Blaine opens his mouth to defend himself, but stops. He knows she’s right. “I’m sorry,” he offers. For the first time since stepping in the store, he actually looks around. “Any of the frames here will work with the sale?”

She offers Blaine a soft smile. “Any frames. You will have to let me know if you want two pairs bifocals, or one pair of bifocals and one pair for distance, or-“ She starts shuffling through Blaine’s file, and her gaze stops mid-way on the page. “I would recommend bifocals.” She looks up at Blaine. “How long have you not been able to see?”

Now, Blaine’s embarrassed. He looks around the store and no one is pointing and laughing at him, so, that’s good. No ones even paying attention to him.

Somehow, it still feels like they are. “I’m going to go look at frames,” he mutters, saying it aloud to hold himself accountable, and steps away from the counter.

Shopping for glasses, Blaine discovers, should be a torture tactic that the US government reserves for enemies of the state. The frames look promising displayed, but none look right on his face. Certain frames look so similar that the price jump is laughable. Other frames Blaine doesn’t even attempt to try on because, well, there is a reason some of them are so cheap. They look clunky or dated.

Like the frames, Blaine feels dated. He isn’t one to get hung up on age, but he’s in his thirties now, and today, well, he is feeling that old.

Older, even. He should just check himself into an retirement village at this point. First his eyes, then his mobility-his mind surely is soon to follow, if he hasn’t started to lose it already.

Blaine might currently be losing it.

Blaine loves sunglasses shopping. Sunglasses shopping makes him feel chic. Why is this so painful?

Blaine’s just staring at the discarded, already tried-on and not instantly hated frames lined up in front of him when Kurt shows up.

“I got your text.” Kurt looks a little flustered. He hangs his sunglasses off the neckline of his shirt. “What’s the emergency?” Across his collarbone there’s a thin sheen of sweat from the summer heat, and Blaine can’t help but look. “Hey-my eyes are up here.”

Blaine tears his focus away from Kurt’s neck and up to his face. He is looking at Blaine with a soft, amused expression, but there’s some tension held in his jaw. “You came.”

“What’s the emergency?” Kurt asks. He plays with Blaine’s hair a top of his head. It was humid today, and Blaine had to use some gel. He wishes he would have been able to keep his hair fluffy-maybe this whole ordeal wouldn’t feel so restrictive. “Are your eyes going to fall out of your head?”

“I need glasses,” Blaine laments.

Kurt blinks at him, then steps back and scoffs. “I left work early because you need glasses?!”

“Shit-I forgot what day it was.”

“I can’t skip out on rehearsal, Blaine. I can’t set a bad example for all the fresh-out-of-college extras.”

“I know.” Blaine groans. “I’m sorry. I was-I am freaking out, okay.”

“I got that from your text,” Kurt deadpans, but gets closer to him nonetheless, so they are standing shoulder to shoulder. His eyes survey the plethora of frames in front of them. “You need glasses?” The question sounds softer now, more emphatic.

“Bifocals,” Blaine corrects with a grimace. “I’m officially old.”

“I’m older than you.”

“And yet, you don’t need glasses.”

Kurt picks up a frame holds it up to the light, turning his hand to take it in from a different angle. “I take care of my eyes,” he says, not looking at Blaine. “I told you those exercises I do are important.” He tilts his head and passes Blaine a glance. “You should stretch your eyes, especially when you insist on reading in low light. Or, at least put on a lamp.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, but he’s not really listening. He’s focusing on the endless variety of frames in front of him and how they are all terrible and make him feel terrible.

“Hey.” Kurt places a hand on Blaine’s shoulder and holds him steady, rubbing his thumb in small circles. “Do you want my help?”

Tension is released from Blaine’s shoulders that Blaine wasn’t aware he was holding. He visibly exhales and hangs his head. “Yes.” He rolls his shoulders back and picks up one of the glasses frames he has been eyeing, putting them quickly over his ears. “What do you think of these?” Blaine asks as he turns away from the mirror and towards Kurt.

Kurt fights off a nose twitch and steps back. “Those are-“ He knows Blaine is going through it, and he’s trying to be polite-“Different.” A beat. “I don’t think they suit you.”

“You can say they look bad on me.”

Kurt exhales a sigh of relief. “They look bad on you,” he admits. “You look like a cartoon character,” he adds without thought.

Blaine laughs and puts the glasses back on the display, far away from his pile of maybes. He picks up another pair, puts them on, and turns towards Kurt. “Okay. And these?”

Kurt blinks at him. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.” He looks up. “You know, with the lighting and the glare.”

“I can get anti-glare lenses.”

“Yeah…” Kurt trails off.

Blaine takes off the glasses and puts them back with an amused hum.

“Look,” Kurt says. He starts going through Blaine’s pile and putting the ones back that he hates, not even asking Blaine to try them on. “You can get frames anywhere. It doesn’t have to be here. We can order a bunch online and try them on at home.”

“Yeah, but,” Blaine clears his throat and picks up a pair that Kurt hasn’t gotten to yet. He puts them on and says to his reflection, “If I don’t get them today, I feel like I won’t get them at all.”

Kurt watches Blaine in the mirror. There’s a moment where Kurt studies Blaine’s face, and then, he lets out a sigh. “Okay.” He steps forward and looks at the frames in front of him, only this time, he is actually looking at them. “Let’s do this then.”

Instantly, Kurt picks up a pair from the wall and hands them to Blaine by one of the ear pieces. “This one,” Kurt says, sounding so sure of himself. Blaine falls a little more in love with him. “This one is nice.”

Blaine swaps the pair he has on for Kurt’s selection. It’s different from the others he tried on, but they look okay, Blaine thinks- they aren’t prescription yet, so, like, he can’t be sure he doesn’t look stupid. “I like them.” Blaine means it when he says it, but he’s not entirely convinced that he can be someone that just…wears glasses. “Do you like them?”

Kurt nods. “I do. You look distinguished.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow and leans closer to the mirror. “You think?” He turns his face side to side. “Isn’t distinguished a nicer way to say old?”

“No, it’s something entirely different.” Kurt places both his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and gives them a little rub. “Distinguished is hot.” He pecks Blaine’s cheek, his lips against his stubble. “You look hot.”

Blaine feels the smile before he sees it. He straightens his posture a bit, and gives himself another look. “Okay, you’re right. I like them.” He turns to face Kurt on his heels, snaking his hands around his lower back. “Thank you.”

Kurt hums in response, a small smile spread across his face. He gives Blaine’s shoulders a squeeze and brings his lips down to meet Blaine’s. It’s mostly innocent-they are in public- but Kurt’s affection always gives Blaine a lingering, floaty feeling, and now that they have settled on a pair of glasses, Blaine’s mind is floating away along with his restraint to keep this kiss simple and chaste.

When Kurt pulls back, he takes a bit of Blaine’s heart with him. Blaine thinks he has a bit of Kurt’s heart too- if they were keeping score over all these years, Blaine thinks there’s an even split. “I love you, you know that right.” Kurt pulls the glasses down Blaine’s face by the nose bridge, letting them rest on the tip. “Bad eyesight and all.”

Blaine’s grinning like an idiot, but he doesn’t care. He pushes the frames back to realign them. “I love you too,” Blaine says. He glances back towards the receptionist, who waves them over, looking entertained. “We should pay for these. If you are serious about them.”

Kurt steps back and pulls the frames off of Blaine’s face. “I didn’t even look at the price,” he mumbles as they make their way towards the counter. In a couple weeks, they’ll have to come back once the lenses come in to get the frames fitted, but today, it feels like the glasses are already Blaine’s.

Then, Kurt lets out an unsettled, amused squeak as he eyes the price tag, and his cheeks pinken.

Blaine attempts to decipher the number, but Kurt holds the frames over Blaine’s head and passes them to the secretary, taking advantage of their slight height difference. “Don’t worry about it,” Kurt says, pulling out his wallet “My treat.”

“Kurt-“

“Blaine, if you knew how much they were,” he says as the woman swipes his card, “you wouldn’t get them.”

Blaine blinks. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Hey,” Kurt leans on the counter and Blaine’s eyes naturally follow the motion. “They make you happy. You like them. Let me get you something you like-I splurge on my own wardrobe often enough.” The receptionist hands Kurt’s card back, and Kurt grabs it between two fingers. “We can invest in something that you wear every day.”

“You make me happy,” Blaine corrects, watching as Kurt places the card back in his wallet. “I don’t need anything expensive.”

“Well, buying you this makes me happy.” Kurt hold’s Blaine’s forearm and gives it a squeeze. It’s like Kurt knows Blaine’s floating, and he’s prepared to anchor him. “Let me be happy.”

Blaine finds himself nodding because, really, there isn’t another option when Kurt is looking at him like that, with a fondness that seems intuitive, as natural as breathing. “Alright.” He’s smiling and presses a kiss to Kurt’s lips. It’s half teeth, but it’s perfect. “Let’s be happy together.”

A little later, as they shuffle around car seats to find space for Kurt’s impromptu clothing haul and throw away half-opened water bottles and their daughter’s forgotten candy wrappers, Blaine realizes that getting older isn’t so bad, as long as he can do it with Kurt.

Glasses have a way of letting you see things clearly.

[menaceadored]

Okayyyy so a big thing that has been holding me back while writing this fic that no one is wanting or anticipating is that I had this idea to create a second conflict for Nancy with school for the B plot, but then that conflict became two conflicts when I added my OCs and it all just got way more convoluted than I anticipated- so in order to move forward with this story, I’m cutting the B plot down significantly so I can refocus on Robin and Hawkins and less on the OCs in Boston

[brunneraleo]

First 4 Artfights from this year! I'm gonna post them in batches for ease. First character is Daphne who belongs to barnacle_bess Second is Archie who belongs to UmbralDove Third is Lunetta who belongs to astrochromatic / @lucesdulces Fourth is Ires who belongs to panda-chantheking

I'm assuming these images wont be super high quality so feel free to head to my own artfight (brunneraleo) to have a look at them in full detail if you so desire

[inkybinkyboink]

thinking abt howards insomnia. we never hear about his mom so what if she wasnt there when he was a kid so what if that’s what started it all. and then it got better and then his dad pushed him to become a lawyer and then it got worse again, and so his dad got chuck to mentor howard and his insomnia got a little better, things made more sense now. but everything feels wrong? at the same time? and he just kind of keeps pushing through it until one day his body just shuts it away and suddenly he’s howard hamlin, partner at HHM, and he’s got a wife and everything is Fine and he hasn’t slept for more than 5 hours a night since he was 22 but its Fine because he’s howard hamlin, owner of HHM and chuck is always staring over his shoulder- he’s his mentor after all- but it’s Fine. and then chuck gets sick and its just howard in the office and...for the first time- very briefly- things are quiet and..peaceful. and he gets a full night’s rest for the first time in decades and he feels free. and then..chuck dies. and suddenly everything starts to crumble and howard doesnt know what he’s doing anymore and he jjust lies awake at night alone in bed without his wife in a gigantic house that’s way too big and he thinks about everything on earth that he’s done wrong and oh look at that it’s dawn and he’s only slept an hour and thirty-six minutes. he gets to the office, and he’s shaking. his therapist tells him it’s just nerves- not to think so much about sleeping. a watched kettle never boils. it works for a while, until it doesnt. it works until people at the office start whispering about how he’s addicted to drugs, that he’s compensating for his wife’s absence by filling the empty time with whores and prostitutes. he cant find the original photos on his desk and he stands there shaking and sobbing because why cant he sleep? there’s a gun to his head and howard finally gets to sleep undisturbed. the salty sea water feels nice on his soul, and he feels free being rid of landlocked new mexico.

[peridots-pixiwolf]

hey guess who is actually and without exaggeration crying over ultrakill

[allinsideyourhead]

Paul Simon- Seven Psalms: first thoughts

I could listen to a lyrically uninspiring but musically tantalising song all day long, but not the opposite. If there’s no magical substance in the music, then regardless of the lyrics, it’s unlikely to capture me. Paul Simon’s music has the exceedingly rare quality of being both musically and lyrically outstanding. With a beautiful and powerful subtlety like no one else, he so effectively explores the human condition and what it means to be alive. Seven Psalms is truly no exception; with that oh-so captivating combination of poetic storytelling and subtle injection of wit, cynicism and humour which Paul has deftly weaved into his music for the past 6 decades still shining through at exactly the right moments, amidst the fittingly foreboding surges of percussion, which are highly effective in every instance they appear.

The overall production is just perfectly suited to the contemplative, deeply personal, honest, and often raw nature of the lyrics. His voice and guitar playing feel particularly intimate— almost like the kind of thing that would come to you in a dream in which it was just Paul and yourself in the room. I’m a Humanist, but the religious imagery in no way hinders my ability to appreciate and absorb the lyrics. On the contrary— you’re in no way being told what to think, it’s all completely open to interpretation, and in fact, I believe that to be one of its key messages. After a couple of listens, it already became apparent to me that this is an album of many layers and potential interpretations , which will reveal themselves gradually as one becomes increasingly familiar with it.

Of course it’s early days, but it doesn’t strike me as an album I’ll go to for casual or background listening, and that’s very much to its credit. My first listen was at 1am, in bed, in the dark, and it feels like that was exactly what was needed— especially as the concept itself was inspired by a dream. I can’t recall a first-listening experience as deeply moving and soul-stirring as this one. As I lay there in the pitch black, it almost felt as if I was being invited to contemplate my own existence, with a completely unique and deeply emotional listening experience as a backdrop for doing so. I certainly found myself doing so— in between contemplating the existence of the 81-year old genius who has brought immeasurable amounts of joy into our lives with his music, at which point it all got rather emotional.

The way in which you choose to interpret and read into this piece is completely up to you— the concept of mortality, the beauty of the dreamlike imagery against the subtle wit and commentary, and everything in between— it’s all in there, in my professional opinion.

[stereopticons]

36 for the wrapped fic!

Thank you, friend! This is the song, so I’m so sorry for the pain you’re about to experience lmao:

It’s been one year, four months, and thirteen days since David had a good night’s sleep.

He’s tried everything—melatonin, pot, even some benzos that he scored from Mutt. Hell, he even tried exercise, which Stevie mocked him for mercilessly. But nothing helps. He’s resigned to the fact that he just can’t sleep alone anymore.

Or else, he just can’t sleep without a certain person in his bed.

It’s been one year, four months, and thirteen days since he last said goodbye to Patrick.

He thought it would get easier as time passed. That is what people say, isn’t it? That time heals all wounds? But it hasn’t. Nothing has stopped the way he can still taste Patrick’s lips on his, or the way he can still hear Patrick’s voice in his head. Then again, maybe he doesn’t want it to.

He just wishes it didn’t still hurt so much.

David wasn’t looking for anything when he went into Ray’s that day, not a business partner, much less a romantic one. And yet somehow, he got both. He hadn’t known then what it could be like, being Patrick Brewer’s partner in business and in love. And in a way, he wishes he didn’t know now.

Technically, Patrick is still his business partner. That much hasn’t changed, even if they’re not together anymore. But he sticks to keeping the store running from behind the scenes and leaves the day-to-day operations to David. His emails that accompany the weekly sales reports are always very civil and polite.

It hurts David more than he can say.

Stevie bangs into the store carrying two massive coffees just after David reopens after lunch, like she does most days. She claims she needs a break from Roland at the motel, but he knows she’s checking in on him. She sets one coffee on the counter in front of him and looks him up and down like she’s looking for new injuries. It’s just another thing she does now. They don’t talk about it.

Seemingly satisfied with his physical well-being, if not his mental state, she launches into a story about Twyla, Ray, and a misplaced shipment of fish. David listens enough to interject at the appropriate times, but his heart isn’t really in it. He just goes through the motions, like he does with most things these days.

“I was thinking about checking out the Wobbly Elm tonight,” Stevie says. “Wanna come?”

“I can’t tonight,” he replies automatically. Like he has anything else going on. Like she won’t see through that immediately.

“Oh, come on. There’s a hockey game tonight, so you know there’ll be plenty of people there.”

David sighs. He should go, maybe meet someone, get his needs met for the night. He’s tried, though. There’s been a handful of randoms that he’s gone home with, hoping that it’ll fill that Patrick-shaped hole inside of him, but it always leaves him feeling worse in the morning. He can’t deal with that tonight.

Stevie heads back to the motel, leaving him alone in the store again. She’ll text him later to ask him to go to the bar again, just because she always does, even though they both know he won’t reply. David sighs again and goes back to restocking the body milk.

He wants to be angry about the way Patrick has ruined him for anyone else. He wants to be angry about the way Patrick took all the color in David’s life with him when he left. And he tried. He was angry for a while. But now he’s just tired.

The rest of the day passes without incident, and David is just closing down the register for the night when he sees a figure on the dark sidewalk. He’d be afraid, except he’d know that figure anywhere. The way the fabric of the man’s jeans hug his thighs and the way his toque doesn’t cover his ears is a dead giveaway. The breath catches in David’s throat as Patrick walks up the store’s front steps. He’s just as beautiful as the day they say goodbye.

When David catches his eye through the glass, Patrick raises a gloved hand in a small, sad wave, but he doesn’t open the door, despite the fact that he still has a key. David hurries over to open the door, too curious about what Patrick is doing here to think about the ache that slices through him when he catches a whiff of Patrick’s still-familiar scent.

“Hi,” Patrick says softly when David opens the door.

“Hi?” David shivers as the winter wind cuts through his sweater. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” He’s sidestepping the question but David lets it go because Patrick shouldn’t have to ask.

“It’s still your store too,” he can’t help but say as he steps aside to let Patrick in, shutting the door behind him. He leaves it unlocked, though, just in case.

“I know.” His voice is soft but fractured in a way that stabs at the holes in the wall around David’s heart. He’s been meaning to patch up those cracks, but the plaster never seems to stick.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the store that not even David’s carefully curated playlist can ease. He knows he should say something, do something, anything, but he can’t seem to figure out what.

“David,” Patrick says, and just hearing his name on Patrick’s lips after all this time is enough to bring David to his knees. He grabs the edge of the table to keep himself standing. “Can we talk?”

It’s been three months and eleven days since David started sleeping again.

Not that he’s counting.

Send me a number 1-101 and I’ll write a ficlet based on the corresponding song on my Spotify wrapped.