#jam jar of dreams

[completeoveranalysis]

[3]

WE’RE GETTING IN IT NOW!

Not only did [Mysterious Lava Lamp Parents] pay the price of the closeness with their own children, they also paid the price of not being able to touch each other. 

THEY WENT INTO THIS JAM JAR ON PURPOSE.

IT WAS A PRICE THEY PAID WILLINGLY TO TURN BACK TIME. 

AND THEN WE SEE THE HANDS FROM PAGE ONE.

WE SEE THE BEGINNING OF THE MANGA. 

Which, it turns out, was chronologically in order! It wasn’t a vision of anything to come after it, it was a glimpse of [Mysteriously Unidentified Lava Lamp Parents] in their Jam Jar, where they went in order to turn back time, before the rest of the series happened. 

I’m guessing that means this is also how they knew to give Lava Lamp his instructions on going to the Clow Kingdom? Because something Else happened the first time around and they Turned Back Time to make sure Lava Lamp went there and caused Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle to happen instead? Which is wild to think about. And yet I'm not entirely sure if that checks out, since Evil Wolverine seems to be slightly outside of time. I suppose I could be wrong about that.

And yet I can’t see any other reason why they would have had to turn back time unless-

OH. WAIT.

… unless they were from the future? 

If they were future characters who went back to the right point in time to set the correct points in motion? 

I shouldn’t theorise about this too much, this is getting very farfetched and I’m absolutely running full speed ahead with very few facts but imagine. 

Imagine what that would mean, when added to the fact that they won’t show us their faces. 

There are only so many characters we would recognise. 

OR

WAIT

WAIT WAIT WAIT

OK

MORE SPECIFICALLY, THEY WON’T SHOW US THEIR ORIGINAL FACES

AT THE TOP RIGHT CORNER, THEIR APPEARANCES CHANGE WHEN THEY GO INTO THE JAM JAR

THEIR “OLDER” FACES ARE STILL UNSEEABLE, BUT THEY “TURN INTO” THE VERSION OF THEMSELVES WE ARE EXPECTING TO SEE FROM CHAPTER ONE. 

WE STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY LOOKED LIKE AS FULL ADULTS. 

There is potentially the most unhinged possible answer about who Lava Lamp’s parents are based on what Clamp will and won’t show us. The main option that isn't Cardcaptor Sakura genuinely doesn’t make any sense.

BUT ALSO, LOGIC IS DEAD IN THIS UNIVERSE. THEY HAVE SET THAT UP. 

DID THEY SET THAT UP SPECIFICALLY SO THAT THE MOST RIDICULOUS ANSWER FOR LAVA LAMP'S PARENTS COULD BE CORRECT?

I JUST DON’T KNOW ANYMORE.

[botchallthethings]

spinning fine singles: mistake. I WILL NEVER FINISH THESE BECAUSE THE YARN NEVER ENDS

[icedmetaltea]

Hey it’s the anon who dreamed about the four armed Godzilla and dinosaur daycare attendants. I’ve come 2 bother you once again with another strange dream of mine

This time the classic gray character everyone draws y/n as walked into the daycare. Immediately Sun goes Wtf because this human has gray skin and y/n for eyes. They’re confused why no one else finds this odd and end up staring at y/n. Y/n notices and asks if there’s something on their face and sun just outright states their concerns. Y/n with a strained smile says give me a moment and then turns around, they pull out their phone and call some random secret organization. Sun hears them say “it saw through my disguise” and “the robot knows 2 much”. Moon in suns head starts telling sun to make a break for it but before they could even start running some random FBI-looking dudes break in and tackle sun down. William Afton then jumped down from the ceiling along with Leon Kennedy but then the dream ended

My dear anon I am a month late buT WHAT DID YOU EAT BEFORE BED OH N O

[beck-a-leck]

Had a dream last night that i was trying to find someone a mason jar in my kitchen, and naturally couldn't (bc dream logic), and to assure her that I knew i had jars for her use i told her i had "at least ten galons worth of mason jars" meaning enough jars to store 10gal.

Which i only realized after i said it was maybe an excessive amount of mason jars to have for someone who does not do home-canning. And she commented on it.

And my dream-self had to cringe with my head stuck deep in my mysteriously empty cup/jar cabinet and admit "well... it was 2014."

After which i promptly woke up, frustrated that i could not find a suitable container in my kitchen for my dream-guest.

But lack or excess if mason jars is not what really stuck with me. It was counting the amount of jars I had in their combined volume and not just like "i bought a ton of jars."

[cloudwisp]

Domestic life with Wriothesley means you never have to struggle opening jars of any kind ever again. He was genuinely hurt the first time he heard your groans attempting to twist off the stubborn cap containing strawberry jam. He’s wondering why you’re even bothering with something so trivial when you could have asked him for help. He finally steps in the second you reach for a nearby paring knife to force the cap open, and takes the jar from your hand and loosens the lid with ease before handing it back to you. When you adorably pout and quip that you almost had it, a smirk forms at his lips and he gives you a playful look. “I’m sure you almost had it, sweetheart. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Domestic life with Wriothesley means pampering and spoiling the hardworking duke. You don’t think he partakes in leisure baths and only takes routine, quick showers. But you knew it’s something he couldn’t possibly say no to the suggestion, and so he follows you with your hand in his to the bathroom and you both help one another get undressed and dip your toes into the warm waters. He feels like he’s floating as you tell him to just let you take care of him—sweetly washing his hair, taking a bit of soap and sudsing him up, making sure he’s comfortable and perfectly relaxed, all while sharing giddy smiles and soft kisses across each other’s face.

Domestic life with Wriothesley means casual hip squeezes anytime he passes by you. Along with the fleeting kisses to your temple, a soft embrace from behind as he tucks his chin on your shoulder, a cheeky grab of your cute bum to elicit your squeal and giggles. Those little moments are where intimacy is created for you and him, and he loves that he can be openly affectionate with you and have it reciprocated. That absolutely includes well-wishes of you dreaming of only sweet things as he kisses you goodnight, and wakes you with gentle kisses early in the morning before he heads back to the Fortress of Meropide because you insisted it’s not a good morning unless you wake up to him and not an empty bed.

[noneorother]

The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 1

part 1 l part 2

This is going to have to be a multi-part series because there are *checks notes* 64 different covers that I've found so far.

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... 1. The original UK cover

Ahh, the standard by which all shall be judged. We're starting off with a nice & easy cover, with adorable woodcuts of Aziraphale and Crowley flanking a custom Good Omens font! While I have to take a few points off for the terrible kerning of the word "GoOD", the blockprint vibes and general bitchiness of Aziraphale's teeny weeny wittle face, along with the sick colour palette puts the orignial in my good graces. Tier: Great

2. The duelling US covers

Progress! Hail to the designer who figured out trying to make "GoOD" and "OMeNs" fit the same width was a fool's errand, and even managed to IMPROVE on the original handmade title by adding a little halo and devil's tale to the design. Aziraphale and Crowley are facing each other, while also managing to serve absolute cunt. Aziraphale is wearing EIGHTIES SNEAKERS. Crowley's little snake boots have HEELS. They've managed to keep the woodcut vibes and colour simplicity, while balancing out the full title of the book. Both authors get to trade off on who's name comes first! Dare I say, this is a work of genius. I could dock some points for Crowley's sad bat wings growing out of his right clavicle, but who am I to question greatness.

Tier: Blessed by God Herself

3. The Halo Master Chief(?) cover

How the mighty have fallen... As a Canadian child, I was subjected to maybe the most horrifying ad in existence by the War Amps warning children about machine safety. This cover is the paper embodiment of that ad. I am confused by the purple haze. I am frightened by the seeming ethereal flatness of Adam and Dog. I am strangely aroused by Aziraphale's eyebrows, and intensely saddened by the terrible outline/drop shadow they had to inflict on the type to fit "Pratchett" in that god awful space. Tier: WTF

4. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers

This cover inexplicably exists in two colour ways: red and teal. I put the audiobook cover here so you could experience the full illustration, and also how fucked up it is that they cropped the book version to include three horse-people of the apocalypse, but cut off DEATH on the regular cover. Points must be given for drawing a pretty slick Bentley, but I think we have to take even more points away for turning Crowley into a Ray Charles/Mike Wazowski hybrid. The ducks are nice. Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

5. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers continued

I don't know if the German designer of this cover *knew* that they were using western yeehaw cowboy woodblock letters when they made this cover, but judging by how they spaced the rest of the text at the bottom, THEY DID NOT CARE. And that seems to be a running theme for this one. We get kind of a duality thing going on with the black and pink background, but it just seems like somebody whispered the general themes of Good Omens into a jar, and threw it down a well, and this poor chap came along and picked it up. The baffling choice to align every piece of text on the cover *except* Neil Gaiman's name which is right aligned and rotated 90 degrees (not even real vertical type) will haunt my dreams, I think.

Tier: Bad

6. US, UK The Traffic Jam cover

For the love of Good Omens, WHY. I can think of so many more interesting symbols to put on the cover of this book than the ODEGRA SIGIL TRAFFIC JAM. Props for keeping the good colours and type, but like, I think this cover was secretly designed by @amtrak-official, or someone who just really, really likes public works. Tier: Does the Job

7. France, De bons présages cover

Leave it to France to make sure people know that Aziraphale and Crowley fuck severely. While I can't condone leaving out half the title of the book (and thinking a red carpenter's square counts as decoration), I can begrudgingly acknowledge that Ron Pearlman and Benedict Cumberbatch's love child is excellent Crowley casting. I think I give this a solid dark academia/10. Tier: Good (Omens)

8. France, De bons présages covers continued

Just imagine with me, if you will, the absolutely hilarious reality that this cover posits: Good Omens is exactly the same in every respect, but Crowley drives a pink 1950s convertible. Why do all of the colours on this cover look like they've been pre-digested? Why are the font choices and placement so bafflingly bad. My face is the demon's face holding that car. I feel his pain.

Tier: WTF

9. France, De bons présages covers continued

Minus points for not managing to write the full title of the book once again. I don't know what it is with the French. They seem pretty set on Good Omens being demonic. While I do appreciate a good Bosch-style demon party, the dude in the middle confounds me. All-caps Museo Sans that isn't even *centred* in the frame is just so lazy. I am le tired. Tier: Bad

10. France, De bons présages covers continued

Uhh. The font. The font is okay.... I think? Yeah. The font and kerning are. Okay. OHHH GOD I LOOKED DOWN BELOW THE TEXT WHYYYY. Tier: WTF

END of round one. I need a nap.

[stardew-shitposterino]

Stardew Valley Bachelors and how they deal with their secret crush on the farmer

———-——————————

BEHOOOOLD! I’m kind of back but I’m not because I have a job and feel tired most of the time. I still need to get used to adult life. Anyway, here are the bachelors and how they deal with having a fat crush on you, you cutesy farmer person covered in filth!

Contents might be a bit NSFW so MINORS…you know what not to do *fights them off with a stick*

Enjoy my brainrot 🍓🥰

Sam:

-Sammy is a cute little guy, almost like a dog wagging it’s tail when they see their owner.

-he is SO BAD at hiding it

-he will dream about you two jamming on a big stage together. In his ideal world, you two are a successful duo who make noise rock (kind of like the white stripes minus the weird siblings or married controversy)

-Sam will write songs about you. It’s not intentional per say, and he thinks he really sucks at writing love songs, but it just happens whenever he has to think about you. The words just start flowing.

-he might or might not have had some steamy shower fantasies about you…while in the shower. Jodie keeps complaining about the water bill being unusually high 👀

-yet, Sam is usually not too horny when he is in love with you. He is more gushy and daydreamy than anything

Sebastian:

-homeboy works with nightcore versions of love songs to cope with his longing

-he isn’t the type to show his feelings so openly, so no one really notices his crush on you. Maybe Sam, but well, he is Seb’s best bud. Of course he can tell

-He notices how his sleep has improved since having a crush on you. He willingly goes to bed earlier to have some time to imagine scenarios of you two

-just you and him together on his cool ass motorcycle, driving into the night and ending it with a passionate kiss (sounds familiar?)

-well,,, let’s just say Seb is increasingly horny since having a crush on you. Before, he was almost certain he is some sort of asexual, but nope 😃 he’s healthy and extremely down bad for the filthy farmer who eats raw fish out of the pond 🥰

-what I mean by horny? Uhhh… he didn’t really need to rely on certain websites to satisfy his needs, that’s for sure 👀

Harvey:

-Harvey is a good man. A very good man

-god bless his soul 😫

-Harv isn’t the type to have crushes easily…I can’t believe it either, considering his crush on Maru who is way younger than him 💀

-but in my head, he isn’t the type to be all lovey dovey over someone. That’s why he’s so bad at hiding it. But you don’t really notice. You just suspect it but it could also be his usual anxiety lol

-it happened anyway😎 and he doesn’t know how to cope. At all.

-he has to think about you at all times, especially when he looks at the empty jars of delicious pickles you’ve made him

-This man is usually collected, but now?! He forgets everything, can’t even form a comprehensible sentence at times when his mind is busy thinking about a romantic picknick date with a lovely farmer

-Harvey’s libido is pretty much a dead beat horse 💀 but now he even feels the desire to do some nasty nasty at times. It’s still pretty tame, he’s a gentleman through and through, but wild for him to have those feelings and longings after what feels like decades. He’s not mad at it. He has felt low-key dead inside for so long so this is very exciting and he’s eager to explore this side of him…despite being anxious 😭

Elliott:

-bet your ass he’s the prince of crushes

-he is very dedicated and welcomes those refreshing feelings with a kiss

-feeling better than usual AND having inspiration to write ?! SIGN HIM UP

-he will use every chance he can get to talk to you, maybe even get you drunk (in a non creepy way) because he likes when you’re unapologetically authentic and let loose. It makes him feel more in touch with your soul (or some shit idk I’m not a poet)

-Elliott is NOT SUBTLE

-you practically know from the start that he has the hots for you, but it’s kinda funny seeing him try to pretend it’s not that way…if you can even call that pretending not to be 😭

- his passion doesn’t end at his artistry. This guy will spend a lot of time in his shower thinking about what could be, or sitting at the docks at night just staring at the sea (he’s NOT doing anything nasty in public, peeps. Don’t get it twisted)

-I can also see him recreate a romantic bedroom date he’d love to have with you…but it’s just him 🤷🏼‍♀️ self care king 👑

Shane:

-like Harvey: HE CANNOT COPE!

-he hasn’t felt like this since high school. Every other encounter with potential partners was surface level and only based on sexual satisfaction

-so caring about you, thinking about what makes you happy and how he could be the reason you smile every day, that’s a lot for him

-as stupid as it sounds, he spirals and becomes low-key miserable over it. Give this man a 101 lesson on how to process emotions 😭

-despite the constant anxiety he feels, he low-key enjoys it. It’s kind of hopeless as well as pointless in his honest opinion, but there is this believe, that 0.00001% chance (in his mind) that he could turn his life around and be happy with you, married and maybe have a child of his own one day

-but that’s wishful thinking, riiiiiiight? So what does a self loathing piece of alcoholic man do instead of making a move? Yeah, self pleasure even more than usual, to get at least a bit of serotonin and the willpower to get his shit together, at least for you if it isn’t for him. He’s pretty rough with it too (ouch, unless you’re into that)

-sorry bros but him having a crush is not really all that cute. He’s my cutie pie, but let’s be real: him dealing with those feelings he tried to shut off for so long will be tragic in a way. He’s battling his inner demons here. So yeah… :(

Alex:

-my man, my maaaaan 🥰

-he has earned a soft spot in my heart, bless his soul

-so Alex has a crush on you from the start, it’s basically canon

-can he show his feelings? Yes! Can he do that in a way that can be read as the feelings he tries to get across to you? NO!

-low-key bullying is his love language 🥰

-at least in the beginning. He’s a bit anxious and fears he isn’t good enough for you, so he doesn’t try to be authentic. Being the jock jerk everyone expects him to be gets a reaction out of you and that’s better than nothing, right?

-he’s neither the poetic nor the intellectual type, so he doesn’t process his emotions by writing them down or putting them into words. Just imagine him going about his work-out routine, just thinking about your beautiful smile and rocking bod while sweating like a hog

-Alex and quiet ? Yes that’s possible. I imagine him to go quieter than usual since having a crush on you. He processes everything internally and that takes a lot of time for him as he usually just shrugs off his emotions and doesn’t try to brood too much on them. But now?! He can’t but blush in silence as he just imagines how soft and small your hands must be next to his (yours are way more impressive than his and calloused to the gods, but let him have this moment)

-when it comes to being nasty…Alex is a serial romantic. We know that he probably was the lady’s man back in school so he probably got some action one way or another. In other words, man has the libido of a teen that just hit puberty 💀

-despite being quite horny, he was able to manage to just do it every other day. Now, he cannot even get out of bed in the morning before doing it as you pester his dreams and make his hormones go crazy first thing in the morning…so many nice boxer shorts were lost along the way 🫡

-he also did his own laundry for the first time during that period lmfao

[moonwytte]

documenting the different things you get by interacting with the updated thisisnotawebsite.com ! <3

clickable areas: book of bill, the swords logo, the top of the computer, the jar behind the laptop, and buttons on the computer

computer inputs below!!!

mabel — puts stickers all over the lab. when all stickers are sticker-ed, the computer says “lab is now fully mabelized”

dipper — messages from bill instructing dipper to stare directly into the sun

mason — letter on anagrams by ford. ford mentions a cryptogram codex

tyrone / paper jam — photo of paper jam dipper. “here, he’s your problem now!”

stan / stanley — ebay search for brass knuckles / gold chains for old men / dogs playing poker / 8-ball cane / male girdle / shriner fez / colonel sanders tie / then opens up “wheel of shame!”

wheel of shame opens up various different pages including “ex wives”, “fears”, “secret shames”, “unreported crimes”, “failed products”, “darkest thought”, “lowest moments” and “how he beat me”.

clicking on “how he beat me” repeatedly gives you different messages

imstillonyourmind — video clip of the water, presumably a view of the water from stan and ford’s ship, with stans voice in the background

stanford / ford / sixer — “voulentary discharge” case report from an 18 year old ford.

filbrick — “i’m not impressed”

pines — computer screen reads “a good family tree”

bill / bill cipher — wikipedia article for the eye of providence (all seeing eye)

cipher — wikipedia article for “triangle”

book of bill — “hide it under shirt during pledge of allegiance”

vallis cineris — a staticky video of a young bill, with two other triangles (supposedly his parents). a robotic voice says “why did you do it?” repeatedly.

soos — 3 page message from soos. lol

pinata — video of a bill cipher pinata being hit by a little kid, bill going “OW WHY WHY”

wendy — 👌 (but upside down)

pacifica — note from pacifica

platinumpaz — a story about pacifica’s nightmare, and nearly making a deal with bill. character development!!!!

gideon — opens search bar for “sweat resistant bolo tie”. apparently there is also one where he sings(?) but i have not gotten that one.

waddles — pigplacementnetwork.com

robbie — text messages between xX*RobbieV*Xx and THOMPSON4

tad strange — a… strange video of someone cutting bread.

mcgucket — youtube search for “cotton eye joe”

hectoring — a song about bill is played, the lab computer screen shows a record will a logo of bill on it

giffany — downloads giffany onto the websites laptop, then downloads a file folder onto your laptop full of giffany’s sprites and messages to soos. will have to look closer at this one later

toby determined — search result for “restraining order”

blendin — “time agent lost and presumed incompetent”

various words and phrases are below the cut!

i put this in alphabetical order for your viewing conviencence, and my writing inconviencece!

29121239168518 — “what comes from zimtrex 5?”

3466554 — “what leaves a thin line in the snow?”

ad astra per aspera — a letter from ford ft. notes from mabel on bill’s statue + fords closure

alex — opens browser search for “flannel”

answer — “question”

axolotl — “you ask alotl questions”

baby / baby bill — an ultrasound of bill. “congrats, guess what’s growing inside you right now! see you in 9 months papa!”

black sheep — a test of patience from bill

blanching — youtube result for how to blanch vegetables

blind eye — WKHBOOVHH WKHBOODOOVHH plus a colour code at the bottom

booberry — meaning of life

burnedinside / burn side — a photo of destroyed looking oregon parks sign and a parks department badge

bye gold — “bye!”

card — a photo of a “fructose by the freakin yard” that also says “bill cipher, dream demon”

conspiracy — a video of someone trying to figure out soos’s broken countdown. there’s a joke about morse code in the sparks. “what does it MEAANNNN???”

cray cray — wikipedia result for “mental health”

cryptogram codex — downloads four different fonts

cursed — a clipboard with article pages for how kids can resist drawing bill. the second page is torn and there are drawings of bill scribbled underneath, with the text “he is watching” and “run”

curse wittebane — a bill themed ouija board

death — “life’s goth cousin”

deer teeth — “for you, kid!”

dippyfresh — a reddit post with a photo of the burger king kids club

disco girl — dipper singing in the shower and then singing along to the entirety of disco girl. catchy!

disney — “rat.gif censored for your protection”

divorce — a logo for the bar that bill goes too… billford divorce is real…

dorito — a floating dorito and then a bill jumpscare

ducktective — “ducktective stars in ‘love, quacktually’, coming to: ‘oi, it’s the cockney channel innit?’ this fall

easter egg — “easter eggs? sounds like a conspiracy”

euclydia — “dimension not found”

fbi — “your webcam is on. we are watching”

fortnite / skibidi / rizz — “life privileges revoked. now releasing poison gas”

fuck alex — search result for get help therapy

glass shard beach — a postcard

gravity falls — “never heard of it”

gun — “oh yes oh yes oh yes they both”

harold’s ramblings — “how is clown repellant made?”

help me / god — statue bill and an axolotl

hologram — “universe”

horror — the “always garden” urban legend. backrooms reference!

irregular — bill’s mugshot photos with a code at the bottom

just fit in — a video of someone playing with one of those shape games… i’m unsure what to call it. the game where you hurt he shape into its corosponding spot. you can hear distorted speaking at the end of the video as it glitches out

justblendin — cowboys at a camp… ft irl blendin!

kings of new jersey — downloads the stan twins secret code font

kubrick — a video zooming in on bill cipher inside of a lh old club, i can’t read what the text says (i’m not wearing my glasses SORRY)

liar lyre — “the 20tg ingredient of anti-ciphering tonic?”

lies — “the game of lies”, a parody of the game of life. bill gives us a lesson on lying. lie until you aren’t lying anymore!

life — “life 72% complete. now loading death”

love ya bro — a drawing of stan and ford on the stan-o-war-II. the back has a bro-code on it. will have to translate

love — photo of the bill romance book from the alternate book of bill covers, and an audiobook version of it.

monster — google search for “THERES A MONSTER AT THE END OF THIS BOOK”

mountain don’t — “what’s a medicaid homonym?”

multilevel mark — “who defeated silas birchtrpe—?”

mystery shack — google search for confusion hill

mystery — “?”

naitsuaf — article on selling your soul, link to a soul selling contract

no — “your loss…”

nothing — “something”

portal — “portal.exe has been deleted. i bet you could build one”

question — “answer”

r34lity — pictures of bill’s henchmen in various places, the caption reads “they found a new home”

rat — “thurburts’ number?”

reality — “is an illusion”

scalene — “life form not found”

scary — photo of the bill spookeumps book from the alternate book of bill covers, and an audiobook version of it

scrimbles — life form not fount

season 1 — “season -1, anti-gravity falls”

season 2 — “season 1”

season 3 — “season 2”

season 4 has no result

seven eyes — a polaroid photo of bill’s crossed out henchman. the back says “leave him, escape to dimension [scratched out], it’s against the rules but it’s the one reality where you may be safe from him”

shave your grandma — chapter 9 of the bill textbook, two pages.

something — “nothing”

sorry — photo of ford and mcguckett with a letter from fiddleford on the back

tantrum — a transcript of a conversation between bill and time baby.

theory — MATTPAT???????

theraprism — warning sign

they’ll see — “is seeing believing?”

tinsel snake — “the 6th option on bill’s editing software?”

titansblood — “hoot hoot! password please!”

tj eckleburg — “never mention that name again”

torture mentally — “name an unpronounceable wizard”

triangle — “tri harder” or “)”

trigonometry / math — a note from bill complaining about plato

universe — “hologram”

various swear words — “not s&p approved! wash your mouth out with soap!”

virus — opens up “THEPLAGUE.PDF”

weird — weird al is now trapped in the computer (sorry!)

weirdmageddon — gravity falls gossiper news article, “nothing happened yesterday!”

who are you — “i could ask you the same question”

XGQRTHX — “where do tri angels come from?”

xyler / craz — youtube link to the jem and the holograms theme song

yes — “whats’s mcguckets favourite soda?”

[thewitchandtheassassin]

A Pirate’s Life for Me Part Eight (Wanda M x Reader x Natasha R.)

Summary: You've been taken, now he's being hunted.

Warnings: Violence. Lots of violence.

A/N: I haven't died. I swear. I'm... hopefully gonna have more stuff soonish.

Taglist: @natasharomanoffswife​ @natasha-danvers​ @aaron-despair​ @username23345 @xjiasx​ @nowthisisliving27 @higherfurther-romanova​ @summergeezburr @imnotasuperhero @miscmarvelwritings @captain-josslett @onlyafewfindtheway @hayleyokami @b-5by5 @lostandsearching @evilcr0ne​ @nightingalexx​@suki-is-a-queen

Lingering between consciousness and slumber, Natasha’s arm tightened around the lithe waist of the woman tucked against her chest, dragging her closer into the embrace as she breathed in the earthy, addicting scent of Wanda. Her fingers flexed outward in search of the other woman often curled around the brunette’s back but found no warmth to satisfy her quest. She grunted in displeasure, both from the lack of you and the dull sounds of the world waking outside the four walls of their temporary bedroom.

Drifting deeper into the land of dreams, she was almost asleep once until the jarring sound of a sudden, sharp yell sent her upright. Wanda yelped in surprise, nearly toppling off the bed before Natasha’s strong hand caught her upper arm.

“Natasha!” Yelena’s voice was clear among ruckus, the familiar twang of metal meeting filling what should be silence.

On her feet in an instant, she was swift to find her discarded sword before charging out the door with a half-dressed, disoriented Wanda close behind, her own weapon in hand. Rushing at Yelena’s assailant as she barreled out of the room, she jammed her blade through his side with practiced simplicity before shoving his soon-to-be-lifeless body to the floor.

“What the fuck has happened?” she demanded, peering at her crew fighting with familiarly dressed men throughout the hall.

 Maria’s attacker was already on his knees, choking on the crimson gushing from his open mouth. Kate had a man pinned to the wall, her knuckles split from the repeated motion of her knuckles meeting his face as she screamed at him with a ferocity that would have normally made Yelena swoon, if the situation were any different. She was young but fierce, a trait that often left the blonde drooling (much to Natasha’s amusement).

But you were nowhere to be found – and that didn’t sit well with her.

“Rumlow. He’s kidnapped (Y/N),” Yelena grunted, driving her sword through another man as he stumbled past her. “She threw a rock through my window. Woke me before his men began their siege on the inn. She left us enough time to stop a massacre, but I could not stop him from taking her. She was fighting him when I last saw her but I lost her in the attack. I am so sorry, captain.”

For a moment, the world narrowed into a darkened tunnel, blood roaring in her ears. You were taken. You were taken and they hadn’t been able to stop them.

With a furious, guttural scream that could’ve terrified the bravest of people, Natasha stormed over to the man locked in battle with Darci and slammed him into the wall. Startled by the sudden movement, his hand smacked off the wall and his sword skidded across the floor away from him as it tumbled from his grasp. His throat bobbed nervously as the tip of her blade dug in just below his chin, the rage in her eyes chilling him to the bone.

“Where is he taking her?” she snarled, watching emotionlessly as blood trickled onto her blade.

“W-we were told to k-kill you all and meet him at the ship! If we did not return, he will set sail for Cape Cod. To wed Lady (Y/N).”  The man’s cheeks were flush with fear, tears sliding over heated flesh and the front of his breeches darkening pathetically.

Lip curled in disgust, she dispatched the man with a flourish, never breaking eye contact even as his head fell away from his shoulders. Turning as his lifeless body slumped to the floor, she returned to her partner and right-hand with determination in her gait.

“We must dress and see if those on our boat still live. We have to stop Rumlow before he reaches Governor Pierce and Cape Cod, lest we…” she trailed off.

Despite the fire in her gaze, Wanda could see worry and panic peeking through. She was certain there was a similar concern mirrored in hers. If they could not get to you before he made landfall, would you be lost to them forever?

-X-

Fidgeting with the iron cuffs locked uncomfortably around your wrists, you growled as the tension in the chains endured. You’d been unconscious when they’d tossed the metal upon you and there was little means of escaping from them. It didn’t help that were confined in the belly of the ship, tucked in a dark space, with no means of finding a way to extract yourself from them. You’d initially been given a bed in the Captain’s Quarters, but you’d been thrown into the belly so you wouldn’t “cause the captain anymore problems”.

(It wasn’t your fault he was not fast enough to stop your teeth from sinking into the side of his hand after he dared to caress your cheek. Clearly he needed practice in moving quicker.)

The hatch above your head slowly creaked open, a shadowed face peering down at you. Darkness danced along his features, but you could vaguely make out the outline of the man serving as Rumlow’s right-hand, Helmut Zemo.

Truly the epitome of young and dumb.

“Are you alright, miss?” he awkwardly squeaked, his smile curled in an almost unnatural way.

Snorting, you narrowed your eyes into unimpressed slits. “I’m trapped in the belly of this bloody ship after being kidnapped, with no food or water or warmth, in the dark and wearing chains. What do you think?”

His cheeks grew ruddy under the contemptuous venom in your words, eyes flickering over his shoulder for a moment.

"Ah, apologies. That was a stupid question." Smiling uncomfortably, he opened the hatch a little more. "Would some fresh air help? Maybe some rations? It's not much but I don't feel right letting you starve to death down here."

Kidnapping and holding me hostage is fine, killing my family is fine, but letting me starve bothers him?

Resisting the urge to let your eyes roll back into your skull, you forced a meek smile at him. "That would be lovely, sir."

Perking up at your sudden compliance, he slowly ushered you up the rickety ladder before leading you out onto the deck of the ship. Keen eyes were studious and discrete as you looked upon the frothy waters but you saw no sign of your ship. For a split second, you wondered if they would abandon you, leave you to this fate - or worse, if they were icy corpses back in some dingy inn - but you shook away that thought. You were not helpless. If they did not come, you'd save yourself and spend your life searching for answers or revenge.

Whatever may come.

-X-

The first time he allowed you onto the deck, the crew had watched you with wary scrutiny. So you kept your wits, eating and drinking what you could to the best of your abilities. You would keep your cards close to your chest, watching the waters in hopes of seeing the flying colors you’d come to love on the horizon. And after a few days of being let topside, the scrutiny faded. Even Rumlow would hover less, choosing to stare at you from a distance, his face a mixture of disgust and longing. He clearly hated you for the choices you’d made – choosing those harlot pirates over a dignified man like himself - but that boyhood obsession of his still remained, burning in spite of his revulsion.

On your seventh day of being allowed to drink in the fresh air, Zemo carefully unlocked the metal from your wrists, wincing at the raw flesh beneath. "You are expected to wear these in the evening, lest you be tempted to overtake the ship, but Captain Rumlow believes you will not lash out during the day."

Delicate fingers traced over the abused skin. Glancing up at him, you demurely smiled, batting your eyes.

"Thank you. I see there is no point in being a problem, it would serve my best interests to learn more about this ship and its people. If I am expected to marry Brock, I should know you all better."

The lies poured off your tongue with ease, so honey-sweet and gentle that Zemo was oblivious to the dangers lurking beneath the surface. In his line of business, it should have learned to never trust a pretty face and yet, here he was.

To be so dumb and trusting, you mused, forcing away the smirk threatening to overtake the innocent smile.

The sun was high in the sky when you first noticed it. A tiny blip on the churning waters. It was quite a ways back, but the strength of the wind seemed to offer bursts of speed for the somewhat smaller vessel. None of Rumlow's crew seemed to pay any attention to the ship, far too arrogant to acknowledge they might not succeed, but you repeatedly peered over to it as the day crept along...

And you knew what comes next.

-X-

Tucking away the spyglass, an unnerving expression befell the redheaded pirate as she considered what to do. She could see you atop the boat, staring at her ship expectantly. As if you knew they would come.

A small piece of her wondered why you were allowed to trudge about so freely on that repulsive creature’s ship after you’d been taken, but she trusted you. 

She always had.

“Is it them?” Wanda inquired quietly, following Natasha’s eyes.

“Yes,” she murmured, gripping the hand that fell into hers, “I can see her standing on the deck. She knows we are coming.”

Wanda’s brow pinched as her lips turned down. “Do you think -”

“No.” The answer was abrupt and severe, halting wandering insecurities before they ran wild. She wanted to shake herself for ever having such a concern; she didn’t want Wanda to slip down the same path of thought. “She is a brilliant woman. I do not doubt she has played into Rumlow’s ego and pride to give herself an advantage. I believe she is simply waiting for a sign.”

Nodding, a steely resolve refined Wanda’s features. A thirst for blood and war shined treacherously in emerald irises, a sheer contrast to the sweet woman who often graced the boards of their fine ship.

 Back straightening, Natasha was transported back in time, to their early years of pirating. Watching her lover carve through pirates and imperials alike, her grace unfathomable even as she ended lives and bloodlines without a second thought. Remembered her bewitching dance of death, the vicious and beautiful intricacies of what was normally such a brutal act slowly earning her the name of Scarlet Witch, whispered across the seas in fear and awe.

And she could see herself, eyes empty and blade meticulous. Could remember killing her mentor and hearing him whisper the name, “Black Widow,” as blood spilled into her hands and onto her worn boots.

Swallowing down those memories, Natasha’s resolution became tangible and clear.

“Aim for that ship – and ram it.”

[eldritch-spouse]

Bregs obsession being a weirdo who secretly collected his cum in a jar who knows how and breg walking in on them slurping it like a regular drink

[Oh, you're so gross. I love you. Fem reader.]

TW: Unsanitary (cum jar TW? I dunno, it's gross.)

He can't really believe it.

There must be something wrong with his mind, with his sight, he's hallucinating. He's finally gone mad and this is what his melting brain chooses to taunt the breeder with.

It could be worse, all things considered. He has to admit that.

Out of all the horrid things a greatly perturbed mind could pluck from its many shelves of unfortunate life happenings, Breg's brain was the least bit merciful- And in the wake of his spontaneous insanity, he's only shown projections of you, eating his cum like it's frosting on a cake.

The monster remains stock still, partially hidden behind the door to the kitchen, black skin shimmering slightly in the pitch black darkness of your home, the only thing providing any light being the open freezer.

Breg didn't plan to get up from bed tonight. Sure, he finds it hard to sleep as many hours as humans apparently require, but that doesn't mean he can't cuddle you or play with your hair while you're deep into slumber. It just so happened that he did nap for a while, and when he woke, you weren't there. This had raised in the male no small amount of anxiety, and he began looking around for his mate. Perhaps it was wise of Breg not to call out for you, because he would have missed this marvel of a sight.

There you were, a decently-sized glass jar in your hand. The type you'd used to store jams or fancy desserts, the substance inside was of a pretty solid white coloration, nothing too off, so he wondered if you were going to cook something at that untimely hour. Said assumption died as soon as little hands unscrewed the lid. His nose never fails him, that was definitely fluid... After a quiet snort, Breg balked.

His cum?

That... Definitely smelled like him.

He sniffed again just to be sure, pelted with his own musk, even if masked by the coldness.

Why- Why did you have a jar of his seed? When did this happen, for that matter? Breg wasn't that surprised, you make him so horny he basically agrees to everything you want when you're touching him, but that didn't make this any less odd.

Some part of him soured. Were you selling it?

Again, his expectations are flung out the window, as the breeder watched you lick your lips, cheeks heated, slipping a single finger right into that mess and shoving it right in your mouth, a string of it falling to your chin. Breg could see your throat shift when you swallowed, making a quiet sigh of what he could only hope was contentment, before repeating the gesture.

He swears to anything out there his cocks never sprung up so fast.

It hurts actually, to get hard that fast. His slit is stretched before having had the time to warm up, Breg bites into his arm to muffle a groan of equal parts relief and mild pain. He can feel the events unfolding before him being burned into his frontal lobe, something he'll keep fresh in his mind for a while to thrill himself with.

It's one of the most puzzling but also erotic things the breeder has ever seen in his time outside captivity. Your short, pretty, now cum-stained tongue laps at slick pink lips and you forgo sucking on your fingers entirely in favor of tipping the jar directly into your mouth.

Oh fuck him. Fuck yes, Gods above yes. You filthy thing.

Breg feels his eyes bulge out under the layer of skin hiding them, stiffening -In many ways- As you almost chug it, audibly swallowing down his seed like it's the sweetest, most addicting treat one could ever hope to taste. You were never the type to waste his offer, now that Breg thinks a little, but he had no idea you loved it this much.

His cocks practically ooze to the floor, he wants to cry out from how hard he is, but the monster doesn't think he could forgive himself if he ruined the moment. The vision. The dream. Whatever the Hell this is, hardly reality.

This has to mean you love him as much as he loves you. There's no other explanation, you want him so bad and you're so taken with him that you'd collect the fruits of your love and eat it. So that it always remains with you at some capacity. Sure, his cocks throb, but so does his heart.

And then you had to moan.

The voice of self-control in Breg sits down and shrugs, telling him to do whatever at this point. His legs power him forward immediately and the monster stalks into the kitchen without so much as a click of claws on tiled floors. He's behind you in seconds, hovering like an unseen shadow, having to suppress the chirp from deep inside his throat when you make a gross slurp.

Do that again and he'll fucking cum.

A fever seizes his arms. He slams the fridge door closed. You're jarringly turned around, the container in your hands tumbling to the ground, thick enough not to break upon contact. Although you yelp and prepare to scream, the air to do such with is forced out of your figure when he pushes you down by the shoulders, forcing you to land on your knees. He'll regret this later, but right now, he's got other, urgent goals in mind.

You can't see anything in this blackness, but Breg gets to ogle you, a wet cock nudging your cheek while the other hovers untouched.

" W- What- "

" Please please please please- " As if he had the mind to say anything else, guiding a precum-soaked member to your lips desperately.

" Breg, I- " There's something akin to shame and timidity in your face.

" Please angel- It'll be quick. I'll come for you, as many times as you want, please I'm so hard. "

You gawk in what would be the general direction of his face, and he whimpers like a kicked dog until you finally slip the insistent length into your mouth, working at it. Breg sighs, then moans, as you focus on torturing the most sensitive parts. He fists his other girth with a fury, intent on keeping his promise.

" You- You don't think I'm gross? " His sweet angel must be joking.

" I think you should just tell me when you want my cum. " He nearly growls, a large hand edging you back to work. " Please harder. "

It doesn't take too long before you get more than a generous reward. It's hot and fresh as it slides down your throat, coats your mouth, chin and chest, the breeder more than happy to let you wring the rest out of him with that eager little tongue.

You seem secretly satisfied. Perhaps, in the dark, you forgot he can see your face perfectly fine. Breg grins as he resumes stroking his members in front of you.

" M-More? " He suggests.

He wakes up long before you. As usual.

Breg's planning on doing some simple errands for you, but of course, he hasn't forgotten your present. How could he?

There's a nasty little smirk on his vastly featureless face as he calmly walks back to your now shared bedroom.

Your bedside table is graced with a hefty, slightly bigger white jar filled to the brim. Warm, and perhaps clumsily cleaned.

Breg kisses your cheek before getting ready to leave.

He loves his mate so much.

[completeoveranalysis]

[6]

And we get... SOMETHING! Something sure did happen!

Is there an immediate explanation or -

NOPE.

OK END OF CHAPTER.

LET'S SEE.

The Jam Jar versions of Sakura and Syaoran are OUT, but can we piece together anything else?

Aside from the obvious visual differences (ie, covered in blood, asleep) there are a couple of things that make them look different to the present day Lava Lamp Guy and Super Sakura that we have in the middle here.

Their faces are SLIGHTLY different. Almost identical but not quite! The Jam Jar Syaoran also doesn't appear to have the goggles, and isn't wearing gloves either. Which is probably not significant, but I thought I'd mention it just in case.

Oh! Also the Jam Jar Sakura is slightly transparent! You can see the other Sakura's dress through her feet!

Wild!

What does it mean? WHO KNOWS, but I sure will wait patiently for CLAMP to tell me eventually without suffering every single day in the meantime :D

(lie)

[lawlietscaramels]

Stupid ╾ L

WOAH FROM DEC 2023 AND FINALLY FINISHED!!!! YIPPEE!!!

you decide to drop in on L's work with a basket of homemade sweets and it does not go as expected.

reader is kind of stupid + L is kind of a dick. y/a is your alias. It switches from past to present tense near the end. I'm terrible at writing arguments or plot. 🫡

this is a longer one.

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

Boring.

Boring, boring, boring.

You were stuck in a hotel room while L worked on something. He was being particularly cryptic about the case he was working on, more so than usual, and he hadn't texted you even a word in the past week or so. All you knew was that it was very dangerous, so much so that L had pushed his pride to the side for one minute (just the one, mind you) to outright plead that you stay on lockdown until he “figured a few things out.”

So here you were: in a big hotel room that you wished was smaller because it just reminded you L wasn't there.

And you. were. BORED.

Sighing as you rolled over to check your phone again, you groaned at the continued absence of any contact from L. You didn't think you were overly needy, though you were likely much much more so than L anticipated, but it wasn't too much to ask for the occasional confirmation he was still alive, right?

Maybe you'd drop in on him.

Yes, that was it! You knew where he was each week thanks to Watari, the wonderful old man, and surely if you knocked on the hotel door he'd open it at least long enough for you to give him a kiss hello. You did a little dance of delight and started preparing a basket of sweets to bring your boyfriend at his work.

The good thing about such an unnecessarily large hotel room was that it had a wonderful kitchen. Watari had been bringing you plenty of groceries, and as you enjoyed baking and could use it to pass the time, there were ample resources to create the desserts of L's dreams. Strawberry cheesecake with sweet white icing. Gingerbread men accompanied by marshmallow snowmen. L was always grumbling about sweets that they only made for holidays and never the rest of the year. A couple of assorted wrapped sweets and lollipops went in their own jar, tied up neatly with a gold ribbon and finished with a tag that read "sweets for my sweet." A little corny and over the top, sure, but perhaps it would soften L's seemingly stony cold exterior. And of course pastries too, croissants with chocolate melted all over them and caramel slice and scones with plentiful amounts of jam and cream.

Stepping back, you nodded, pleased at your creations. Another chunk of time fell away in the kitchen as you cleaned up the flour and bowls.

And then: off to L!

You took your basket with you, smiling stupidly wide all the way from your hotel room to the one L's staying in, a good half of the city away. Beaming, you threw open the door.

"Hello, Law—"

A hand was slammed against your mouth and L manhandled you into the wall, glaring. "You stupid idiot," he whispered, and your eyes chose that moment to meet the group of unfamiliar men scattered around the room.

...

Oh, no.

And you almost said his name. Your head dropped and you curled into yourself a little, heart beating fast and eyes downturned.

L let you down, gaze still cold, and turned back to the men.

You sighed and noted that your basket had fallen to the floor. Of course you had dropped it when he pinned you to the wall. Half of the sweets were ruined. "I thought you said I could come today," you told L's back.

"No, I said you couldn't come today." L turned back to give you another glare, then sighed. He never stays angry for long, or at least never stays hot headed about it. "I suppose it is in reason that you misheard. It was only the 'n't' that makes a difference and I do have a tendency to speak quietly. Very well, y/a. This is the Task Force: Aizawa, Ukita, Mogi..."

Greeting each of them with a small smile and nod, you wished you could just have an empty room and L. It had been a while. You had missed him. But no, here you had to stand, greeting these men in ties and suits.

They seemed nice enough, at least, but you really just wanted to melt into a puddle of shame thanks to their first impression of you.

L let you hang around for the rest of the day. You gave him the sweets which hadn't been ruined and went to work cleaning up the rest, and then moped, all of which took most of the time before the Task Force members began filing out the door, home to their families.

And then there you were.

Home with L.

He stared at you for a moment, his hands in his pockets, then spun around on a heel and hopped into his chair.

Back to work. Of course he was.

"Can we talk?"

"About what, y/a?" And he was still using your alias. For safety, sure, but also an emotional barrier between you. A veneer of professionalism, a clear wall of you are someone else that is hard to break through. "I do not want to get angry at you, and I'm not, but you have a tendency to say things that clash with what I see to be the truth if we—" two long fingers curling into quote marks— "'talk' after these situations." He turns so he can see you out of one eye, two fingers on his lip and one on his chin. "And I don't like being disagreed with."

You huff. "For one thing, that's a very unhealthy mindset."

L sighs and gives in to the fact this is happening, letting his fingers rest at the edge of the keyboard.

"For another, you can't just lock me up in a hotel and expect me to stay put every time you're working on a big case! You take a lot of big cases!" No, he doesn't do it all the time; he did THIS time, though, and you're suddenly realising just how pissed off you are.

"I'm not some pet or hopeless little child!" You spit the words. "Yeah, what I did today was stupid, but you're being stupid too!

"I hate it! I hate it! You can work and not lock me out! I don't need to see what you're doing or be in close quarters but at least let me know you're still alive once in a while! Or if you don't give a shit enough about me to do that, let me have control over my own fucking life! You don't have the right to tell me that I have to stay inside, have to use a burner phone, have to keep fifteen blocks away at a minimum! You don't have the right to do all that and then completely ignore me! You don't have the right!" And your voice is sore, now, but you're inhaling to keep going, keep screaming at the man you love, tell him how much you hate him how much he clearly hates you and should just leave already but–

"Are you done?" Static, cold.

You shut your mouth and sit down. Yes. You're done.

And L stands now, walks towards you. "Do you know why I do all that, yn? Why I insist you don't come near me while I work? Why I don't text you every morning on your personal phone? It's because this. Is. Dangerous." He is right above you now, staring down, blinking more than usual and eyelashes pressing down hard. Upset. "This is dangerous, do you understand? I could die. YOU COULD DIE."

"I," you say, and don't get any further.

"I don't want you to feel trapped, I don't want you to feel resentful and hateful and miserable." Or maybe he does. Maybe he does want you to run away, because you could die and he's terrible. L doesn't say that. "It's for your own good! It's for your own safety! It's because I'm scared you're going to die, yn, it's because I love you!"

He's screamed.

L never screams.

You stare at each other for a moment and L looks as shocked and scared with those wide panda eyes as you feel. A long long moment. He's biting his lip.

You reach your arms up and he hugs you suddenly and very very tightly.

"You're always using that to win arguments, you know," you mutter into his shoulder.

"Mm." L kisses you on the head. His eyes are closed, lips together and thin. He seems tired. He always seems tired. You need to talk. You need to find a balance, something healthy, something safe.

But not right now. You are tired too.

"...I love you too," you whisper.

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 ˏˋ⋆˖⁺˖⁀➷ 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌 + 𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜

©lawlietscaramels. Do not repost on other sites, claim as your own work, edit, rewrite or “fix,” feed to AI or otherwise use unethically.

[kittttycakes]

red currant

Read on AO3 here. No one can outrun grief, not even Morpheus, formerly Dream of the Endless. Grief is patient, and it will wait, even in the aisles of a grocery store, to take him into its arms and hold him tight. contents: Dreamling, human Morpheus, post-Kindly Ones, mild gore, brief discussion of food-related issues, grief

At first, Morpheus was too busy dealing with a body that needed things. It was often too cold, its joints ached terribly, and it took him longer than he cared to admit to recognize what hunger and thirst actually felt like. The latter came with their own host of indignities, not least of which was the seeming inability to properly digest dairy, and a strong aversion to certain textures, no matter how appealing the food in question might be in theory. 

Hob both understood, and didn’t. He was always warm, something Morpheus deeply envied, even if he wouldn’t admit to it aloud. He too struggled, sometimes, with food, albeit in a much different way; the cupboards were often overfull before being carefully culled for in-date products to donate away, and he ate to uncomfortable excess on occasion, as if he forgot that there would be more for the foreseeable future.

There was also the question of fashioning a life out of nothing. Morpheus was dragged to a tiny shop in an out of the way street and photographed for a passport purchased in cash, along with all other relevant cards and certificates that made someone human. He was, with great effort, persuaded to allow the doctor with kind eyes who still made house calls to examine him, who pronounced him to be in fair health and left him with a number of pamphlets on proper nutrition. He came to know how to use a phone in practice, instead of merely in theory. 

But Hob couldn’t stay with Morpheus in the flat forever, and Morpheus threw himself into the process of becoming human. He spent long hours reading, books he once would have known simply by touching their spine, learned instead page by page and word by word. He slept more often than he thought an adult human might need, and he spent time submerged in the bathtub, topping up the hot water the second it began to grow tepid. He played music on Hob’s speakers, any album that Hob owned, and didn’t stop to think why he couldn’t bear to sit still without distraction. 

Because Morpheus was fine. He had been trapped in a human body in a glass cage for a century; being suddenly and irrevocably shoved into the same form, pieced back together lovingly by hands he could not bear to contemplate, was almost a familiar feeling. He had not felt hunger or thirst or pain in that prison, but to discover them for himself was not mind-breaking. He endured, and he allowed Hob to care for him, and he did not let himself be otherwise. 

But all things, as he came to know, must change. 

He was alone in the shop around the corner from Hob’s flat. In exactly seventy-four minutes, Hob would be home for tea, and they were, inexplicably, entirely out of jam, which meant that he could not have jam on toast for tea, and that was entirely unacceptable. 

To Hob’s unending surprise, Morpheus liked the shop, just as he liked the park at noon when all manner of people were milling about, and the pub of an evening when it was full and loud and bright. He did not want to speak with people, but he wanted to be within them, surrounded by them, the rise and fall of their voices, and Hob hadn’t asked him why. He had, instead, shown him a website dedicated to ambient noise, and told him that he could have the coffee shop in the flat all day if he wanted, if that was what he liked. 

Morpheus was standing in front of the shelves dedicated to all manner of spreads, contemplating the relative merits of strawberry (a known quantity, which he liked very much) or red currant (unknown, untested, but also free of any bits, which he disliked very much, and red, which was a promising color when it came to foods), when he reached for a jar to peer at it up close, and instead met the hand of the shopper beside him, who had crept up without his awareness and reached for the exact same jar at the exact same moment. 

He withdrew his hand, out of courtesy, and began to offer an apology as the woman beside him did the same, and neither of them kept hold of the jar, which fell, end over end, until it landed with a very final sounding smash at their feet. The woman stepped back with a small cry of alarm, and Morpheus stood, as if rooted to the very ground itself, and contemplated the slightly wobbling red mess in front of him. Vaguely, he was aware of the woman stepping to the end of the aisle to catch the attention of a shop worker, who would undoubtedly gather cleaning supplies and in fifteen minutes, it would be as if it had never happened at all. 

There was a scent, a cloying sweetness that rose from the shattered remains of the jam jar, a scent that Morpheus was unsure anyone else had noticed, or that was perhaps unique to him as he stood, still and unmoving, a buzzing in his ears, like the whine of a particularly persistent fly, and he moved his hand as if to shoo it away and clean up the mess besides only to blink and see—

Viscera, deep and red as rubies; he was walking through a field of carnage, each step staining him further, gore working its way over his feet to his ankles—why had they bled? they were never flesh and blood (but that was a lie, a lie he told himself again and again and again—they had been flesh and blood to him) and he was walking towards the end of all things, or maybe just the end of himself, and it was quiet, so quiet, an unearthly silence so vast that it nearly swallowed him whole and he felt it, a physical thing, the shattering of all that he was, all that he was ever meant to be, but it hurt less than he thought it might, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it was over, the power gone, until—he had never felt so hollow, and he tried to reach out, to feel the warm familiarity of uncountable minds of his creation and those entirely independent of himself, human and creature alike, and found only an unending void, he had thought it quiet before but this, this was true nothingness, an abyss in which there was only him, and him alone and he was nothing, nothing, nothing at all—

“—all right, duck? Just a bit of jam on your boots and trousers, nothing that won’t wipe right off, I’m sure, and no staining to worry about, not with that very sensible black, hides a world of sin, doesn’t it?” 

The woman was standing near him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her, and once, he would have known her name. She was not touching him, only hovering a hand quite near him, as she continued, voice even more gentle. 

“Let’s just step to the side, and we can get out of everyone’s way while they clean up.” 

For one horrible, painful moment, he thought she might say more, might even offer to call someone for him, the look in her eyes well-meaning, but horribly perceptive. He could not bear to be seen. It was enough to jolt him into motion, and he nodded, somewhat stiffly, and moved away from the puddle of jam. The arrival of the shop worker, complete with cleaning supplies, distracted the woman long enough for Morpheus to enact his escape, abandoning any thoughts of tea or toast as he made his way, with single minded determination, back to the flat.

It was too quiet on his walk back, and it was too quiet inside the flat, the soft tick of the clock on the mantle and the gentle hum of the refrigerator not enough, never enough. Hob would be home in fifty-three minutes, and it was not enough. 

He burnt the paper in the sink, watching it crumble in on itself and smolder into ash, not knowing if it would even work, being as he was. Morpheus waited, hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink, his knuckles nearly white enough to match. She would understand, his sister. She would know what it was like. She could tell him what to do, how to live, now, that he was apart from the only piece of himself that he had ever cared for, no matter how imperfectly he had done so. He could not abide being so terribly, horribly alone, with only the sound of his own voice in his head to keep him company. There was no consciousness within him, save for his own. 

Morpheus did not hear her enter the flat. She had always been so good at silence, slipping into spaces like smoke. Her hand, when she laid it over his own, was slightly clammy, and so painfully familiar that it made his chest ache. 

“Brother,” she said, and he tried to speak, to greet her in return, but found that he could not force the words past his lips. She would know, he thought, she would understand. 

She led him to the couch, pulling him to sit beside her, and Despair enfolded Morpheus in her arms. 

[whereis-smp]

WHEREIS SMP MASTER POST

will update whenever more people post :P

ARTEMfluid - youtube/twitch

PrimaVeraArchive - youtube/twitch

Codther - youtube

ShlimeLIVE - youtube

WONDERFUL PEOPLE :3

Masquerade | @masqiscool : @wherearemogandpix | @whereisglitchduo

Leon | @dailyboatboys : @where-is-impulsesv

Artem | @artemfluid : @where-is-welsknight

Dee | @solqrays : @whereiscyansnail

Wolf | @arkynwolf : @whereisrendog

Ari | @where-is-cleo

Cod | @codther : @whereistibbycaps

Em | @emmaestrella : @where-is-pink-snail

Magenta | @magentasoup2527 : @whereisgem

Prima | @weirdeggii : @imp-and-skizz-but-everywhere

Magikarp | @gtws-in-various-places

Ailbhe | @gracefall-mcyt : @where-did-joe-go

Violet | @indigoviolet311 : @putting-mcyts-in-a-jar-of-jam

Aquatic | @aquaticwithnumbers : @where-is-vintagebeef

Mint | @dreamintkat | @craftedhermits : @whereislaurencezvahl

Rahne | @offline-nobody : @skizz-in-places-he-shouldnt-be

Flynn | @caramelcoatednightmares : @where-is-ethubs | @where-is-cuteguy

Yoshi | @your-local-manic-pixie-dream-gir | @where-is-grains-mending-book

Asher | @angelonasher : @doc-is-sometimes-in-places

[moorishflower]

A Fridge Full of Jam

Having a bad memory day today and so I wrote it out w/Dream

Sorry fav blorbo you get to experience the Horrors

He is walking back home from the park when he gets the text from Hob.

Cottage pie for din love

Could u pick up 1 large onion + sum garlic on way home? ta

Dream looks at the message. There is a corner market between where he currently stands, stock still on the kerb, and the New Inn, where Hob currently is. He could, quite reasonably, stop there and purchase the items that Hob has requested of him.

Another message comes through as he is contemplating.

Sum tomato paste too pls

I love you!

He finds himself smiling at this last text. Hob has had many, many years to perfect shorthand of all varieties, but he has never once shortened 'I love you.' It is always the full declamatory sentence, complete with full stop or exclamation. There is something heart-rendingly lovely about it.

Dream stops at the corner market on his way back. Hob has furnished him with an identity of his own, now that he is human, complete with debit card, and money to make purchases, and a driver's license that he still hesitates to make use of.

(He once knew how to operate a car in theory, but that, along with billions of years' worth of other knowledge, is one of the things lost to him now that he is human.)

The market is not busy this time of day. Summer has come upon London, blanketing the great city in a smog of humidity and incipient rain. It is the sort of weather to drive most people indoors, where they might at least seek the relief of a fan, but Dream is not bothered. He is cold, almost always, and it is during weather such as this that he is allowed the luxury of short sleeves. During weather like this, he takes long walks in solitude, and goes to the park to feed the birds, and sometimes there are other travelers to accompany him, but more often than not he is alone.

He prefers that, some days. The crush of humanity is not nearly so pressing now that he no longer contains all of its dreams and nightmares within his own head, but it is sometimes, still, overwhelming.

Dream checks his phone. One large onion, garlic, and tomato paste. Is there anything else that they need while he is here? Strawberry jam, perhaps. He eats it on his toast each morning, so they are bound to be almost out. There is a specific garlic-parmesan salad dressing that Hob likes, and which this market happens to carry. He picks up a bottle and puts it in his basket, along with a jar of jam. Do they have crisps at home? He thinks they do, but is it the sort that he likes, or is it the sort that Hob likes? Hob prefers sharp flavours. Tomato. Salt and cider vinegar. Dream enjoys simple fare. He picks up a bag of Walkers 'roast chicken' crisps and studies it, then drops it into the bag.

He moves down the aisle.

The clouds have broken by the time he leaves the market, though not for the better. Rain patters in the gutters, dampens his hair and sticks it to his skull as Dream hurries home, a shopping bag in each hand. The New Inn is not far, but it is far enough that he is wet through when he ascends the steps to its front door, stamping his feet to knock loose any mud or debris that might cling to his boots.

"Welcome to the–oh, hullo, Dream," the hostess says. She is a petite, smart young woman named Anne. Once, he would have known her greatest fantasies. Now Dream knows that she attends university at King's, and that she had Hob for one of her professors last term, and that she is somewhere in her early twenties...and that is all. "Out doing a bit of shopping?"

"Hob is making cottage pie," he tells her. She smiles. Hob's employees – they are not technically his employees, but they all refer to themselves as such – observe his relationship with the Inn's proprietor as though they are a much-beloved television show. It is strange, to be the subject of a story in which his own opinion is entirely unwanted.

"Enjoy," Anne says, and Dream nods at her, and ascends the stairs to the second floor, which Hob has claimed as his own. The front door is unlocked, and so Dream lets himself in.

"That you, love?" he hears, floating from the kitchen. Dream follows the sound of it, stopping in the doorway. Hob is there, standing over the stovetop, a pot of water boiling and the pale, oblong shapes of several peeled potatoes bobbing about within. When he looks up, he smiles. "'Course it is, you never answer right away."

"I will endeavor to do so in future," Dream says. He sets the bags on the table and begins to unpack them, laying the items he purchased in a neat row so that he may put them away with utmost expedience. Hob temporarily disengages from the stovetop to look over his shoulder.

"Jam?" he asks, reaching around Dream's hip in order pick up the jar. "We've already got jam."

Dream peers at it. He uses it so often. Every day. He tries to think of how much had been in the jar when he had taken it out of the fridge that morning, but draws a blank. "But...I eat it every day," he says. His voice, even to his own ears, has the unpleasant texture of a whine. Plaintive. Hob takes him by the hand and leads him to the fridge.

"See?" he says, and there, in the fridge door, is not only one, but two jars of strawberry jam. One is not even opened. "Remember? You bought more a week ago."

He does not remember. It had happened a week ago. Dream stares at the jars. His hands feel very loose; he is suddenly glad that it is Hob who is holding the new (the third) jar, because he thinks if it were him he would have dropped it by now.

"I...forgot," he says. In that moment, in the aisle, it had seemed impossible that they should have enough. He uses it every day. It had not even crossed his mind that he might have already bought some earlier.

"Hey," Hob says. "Come here. It's all right, yeah? We'll find a recipe to use jam. It's fine." He puts the jar down on the counter, and Dream finds himself being drawn into a hug. The kitchen is steam-warm, and Hob smells like raw potatoes and fresh herbs. Dream presses his nose to the curve of Hob's neck and blinks back useless tears.

"I forgot," he says again. Hob runs a soothing palm up and down his spine.

"You know," Hob says, "I read something the NHS published a bit ago...about how depression affects memory? Basically, how prolonged periods of, ah, stress and anxiety can stunt how your brain makes new short term memories?"

Dream tries to tug away, but finds himself held fast. Hob's hand splays flat against the small of his back.

"It's all right," he says. "It is. You were...I mean, my memories of after Robyn died are like Swiss cheese. And you had all that great big Endlessness to rely on before, but now...it makes sense, is all I'm saying. And it's all right."

Dream makes a sound – he is not wholly certain it is a dignified sound, nor good-tempered – and this time does not try to pull away, but buries his face into Hob's clavicle.

"How do you stand it?" he asks. He means the wild swing of moods. He means the instability. He means the being human of it all. But there is no easy answer to any of these questions. The shortest, of course, is 'you just do.'

"Lists help," Hob says. "Alarms. Things like that. And sometimes you just roll with the punches." He sways to the side, hooking his fingers around the jar of strawberry jam and making room for it in the fridge door. "Sometimes you've got three jars of jam."

(Later, when they are eating their cottage pie sans tomato paste, because Dream had remembered he liked roast chicken crisps but not the final thing that Hob had asked of him, he will try to reflect on the wisdom of this. Love, he will think, is an unlocked front door, a sentence with a full stop, and a fridge full of jam.)

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Under Summer Stars

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: In Under the Summer Stars, the scene unfolds at the illustrious birthday celebration of Tarquin, set against the picturesque backdrop of the Summer Court. As the night descends into a playful chaos of laughter and drunken antics, the story centers around the heartwarming and sometimes chaotic experiences of a pregnant protagonist, you, her close-knit circle of friends, and their significant others, as well as your mate, Azriel. From navigating the complexities of motherhood and friendship to rekindling sibling bonds with Tamlin and igniting old flames, this fic covers a lot of ground. Amidst the revelry, unexpected moments of vulnerability and hilarity ensue, leading to a night that promises to be unforgettable.

Warnings: Mentions of sexual activity and brief nudity, along with pregnancy.

Word Count: 5.2k

Authors note: This includes only info from ACOTAR and does not include any background from Crescent City. Also, this is my first more lengthy fic so please read with that in mind! As much as I read, and reread this, there are bound to be typos so if you see them.... no you didn't.

“My love, you can't exactly camp out on the couch all day,” Azriel says. I glance up at him with a package of raspberries neatly arranged on my very pregnant belly. With a grand gesture towards the pile, I pop another berry into my mouth. “I’m not just hanging around—I’m busy making a baby here.”

Azriel grins as he snags a berry from my fingers and eats it himself. I shoot him a playful scowl, the kind meant more in jest than anger, and focus on devouring the rest of the berries.

“I do appreciate you taking a break from your hectic schedule to grow our little one,” Az jokes, his hands gently caressing my belly, “But we've got plans tonight, and you need to get ready.”

I let out a heavy sigh and dramatically flop my head back over the chair’s armrest, letting my hand, still holding a berry, dangle to the floor. “I really don’t wanna go,” I moan, while Azriel steadies the berry basket that's perilously close to sliding off my bump.

“You have to,” he chuckles softly.

“You can't make me,” I shoot back, my head still draped lazily over the back of the chair.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Azriel retorts, picking up the basket of berries and giving me a quick kiss on the forehead before taking them back to the kitchen.

I hear the tap running as he starts on some dishes—my ever-busy, nesting mate, who’s more prepared for this babe than I am, while we still have three months to go.

“What are you wearing?” I call out, curiosity peaking.

“What?” he yells back, sounding puzzled.

“Your outfit,” I clarify, pushing myself up with a grunt and swinging my legs around. While I still had time, this belly was proving to be a real hassle.

Azriel calls back, “Um, pants, a sweater and socks?”

I shuffle my way into the kitchen where Azriel stands, washing a plate with a tea towel casually thrown over his shoulder. “I mean, what are you wearing out tonight?”

Azriel dries a plate with the towel, then hangs it back over his shoulder before leaning casually against the kitchen counter, his palms resting on either side. His fingers tap rhythmically against the surface as he considers his wardrobe for the evening. “Probably the black button-down, slacks, and boots,” he decides with a nonchalant shrug.

I respond with a noncommittal “hm,” and swing open the fridge to scout my snack options. My hand lands on a jar of rhubarb jam. I pop the lid off and swipe a finger through the sticky sweet contents, humming in delight as I taste it. Azriel's chuckle floats over from the sink.

“It’s just not fair,” I complain, scooping another dollop of jam and licking it off. “You toss on anything that isn’t stained, torn, or stinking, and you’re gala-ready.”

Azriel, still busy with the dishes, throws a playful retort over his shoulder, “Are you suggesting I wouldn’t look good in a dress?”

I replace the jam in the fridge, leaning against it as I try and ponder that image. “Oh, you’d be stunning, no doubt. But let’s be real, the choices for females? Endless. Short dresses, long ones, off the shoulder, petticoats, sleek lines, just the right amount of lace…” I trail off, knowing he's smirking without even looking.

He finishes up, turning off the water and tossing the towel onto the counter with a flick of his wrist. I sigh, grabbing the towel to fold it neatly on a cabinet knob. Azriel rolls his eyes but his expression softens as he draws me close by my hips. I rest my chin on his chest, looking up into his hazel eyes that crinkle with amusement.

“What?” I inquire, feeling his hands smooth a stray hair behind my ear.

“You’re gorgeous, whether in ball gowns or in nothing at all,” he says earnestly.

“You’d think I'm gorgeous in nothing,” I retort, half-teasing. “You’re feral.”

He presses a soft kiss to my nose. “Only because I love you.”

I close my eyes, basking in the warmth of his words. “I love you too. But I still have no clue what I’ll wear tonight. Nothing fits since you knocked me up.”

He steps back, feigning offense. “Hey, it takes two to tango, particularly the naked tango. It’s not like I was alone in this.”

I glance down at my swollen belly, half-joking, “Well, you’re the responsible one. Should’ve warned me about the perpetual sweat and swelling.”

Azriel chuckles, striking a mock-serious pose. “Nothing fills me with more hope for our baby than hearing their mother call me,” he gestures to himself, “the responsible one.”

I roll my eyes playfully. “I’m sure you have something, love,” Azriel reassures me, nodding towards the lavish extension we jokingly call 'the second closet.'

I scoff, a smirk teasing my lips as I walk past him, giving his chest a light tap. “Guess I’ll just have to try on everything,” I tease, pausing in the doorway with a sultry glance over my shoulder. “You know, strip down, wander about in the buff, slip into something, despise it, peel it off...” My voice trails off, my smile growing more provocative as I catch the shift in his gaze—lips captured by teeth, eyes deepening with interest. “I might just need a second opinion.”

Azriel’s response is a deep, throaty sound that rumbles through the room, his playful side unfurling. “I’m certain I could be of assistance,” he quips, his tone laced with promise as he begins to close the distance between us.

Before he can reach me, I slip into the hallway, my steps light and teasing. I hear his footsteps quicken, a hint of urgency as he follows me up the stairs to our room, anticipation building with every step.

______________________________________________________________

By the time I settle on an outfit, Azriel has left me breathless no fewer than three times, each interlude accompanied by a chorus of compliments—beautiful, stunning, irresistible—every synonym for 'ravishing' that he can think of. The silver lining to this pregnancy, aside from the obvious, has been the noticeable spike in our libidos. Azriel's hands are seemingly glued to me, and barring the occasional wave of nausea or the fact that my toes have become a distant memory, I'm game for his advances nearly anytime, anywhere. It was actually our rampant escapades that clued us in on the pregnancy before Azriel noticed the shift in my scent—we were both equally wild, seeking out secluded spots in the River House, shadowy alleyways in Velaris, and once, rather riskily, an old woodshed in the Autumn Court while Rhys and Eris were busy hunting nearby. 'Feral' might be an understatement—I was downright voracious.

Emerging from the bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing behind me, I find Azriel sprawled across the bed, as naked and carefree as ever despite our looming engagement. He flashes a lazy grin. “Round four?” he proposes, propping his head on his palms against the headboard.

“You're the one who insisted I get ready,” I remind him with a chuckle, tossing the towel onto the bed and striding toward the closet.

As I delve into the sea of clothes, Azriel's voice floats in, tinged with mischief, “And then you stripped, and suddenly, I stopped caring.” I can't help but laugh, sifting through hangers as I search for something that will accommodate both my bump and the sweltering heat of a Summer Court party in August. I wanted a word with whomever planned the date for this. 

I pull out a floor-length, champagne pink silk gown that gleams with a light pearlescent chiffon cascading down the front. The dress, cinching just below my breasts, seems ready to accommodate both myself and the growing babe. The slit running up the side promises a hint of breeze on what I accept will be another warm evening. As I touch the fabric, memories of wearing it to Nyx’s first starfall flood back—Azriel and I, not yet mated, laughing under the twinkling lights while Cassian, wine glass in hand, serenaded the night with a mix of folk songs and his own tipsy renditions.

Slipping the gown over my head, the bump causes the hem to rise slightly, creating an unintended high-low effect. Nothing a good pair of heels can’t fix. I reach behind to fasten the top but struggle with the buttons. "Az," I call out softly.

"Yeah?" His voice drifts from the bathroom, mingling with the sound of running water.

"Can you come here for a second?" I ask.

Azriel appears, his hair tousled and falling into his eyes, which light up as he sees me. “You still have that one?” he remarks, a touch of nostalgia in his tone.

"I haven’t worn it in a while, but it seems to still fit, right?" I motion for him to help with the buttons at my neck, which he does with practiced ease. He stands behind me, and we both gaze into the closet’s full-length mirror. He wraps his arms around my waist, gently lifting the weight of my belly for a moment. I lean back against his shoulder, relieved by his support.

"Just like I said," he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You look beautiful." He eases the weight back down and sweeps my damp hair over my shoulders, leaving a kiss on my temple. "Half an hour," he reminds me before disappearing back into the bathroom.

I take another moment to smooth the dress over my bump, admiring the silhouette from the side.

Azriel returns from his bath, towel-drying his hair with a shake that reminds me of a playful puppy. I'm securing my hair into a low braided bun, trying to keep as cool as possible. I pull two strands to softly frame my face, catching glimpses of Azriel in the mirror as he parades, unabashedly bare, back into the closet.

From the depths of the closet, Azriel's voice floats out playfully, "Hm, what to wear, what to wear—so many options." His mock contemplation sends a chuckle through me as I clasp on a pair of simple pearl earrings.

He emerges moments later, his black shirt hanging open, pants secured, and socks in hand. "It was a tough decision," he remarks, catching my eye in the mirror as he settles on the edge of the bed to slip on his socks. "But I managed to pick the perfect ensemble." He flashes a cheeky grin, and I roll my eyes playfully as I fasten a silver necklace with a tiny blue sapphire pendant—echoing the color of Azriel’s siphons—around my neck, adjusting it to rest just right.

Turning back to him, I see Azriel buttoning his shirt, meticulously placing his siphons into the custom slits designed for them. I step closer to assist with securing one on his left hand.

Giving him a thorough once-over as he completes a slow twirl for my inspection, I adjust his shirt slightly, smoothing my hands over his shoulders. "Do I look great?" he asks, half-jokingly.

"Beautiful," I reply, grinning. "Can you grab my shoes for me?"

He strides over to the blanket chest at the foot of our bed, retrieving the tan, two-strapped heels I'd selected for the evening. He juggles them in his hands, skeptical. "My love, there's no way you're going to keep these on all night."

I shoot him a defiant glare before setting the heels on the floor and sliding my feet into them. "I plan to."

But as I lean forward to fasten the straps, my belly firmly intervenes, making me pause and push a strand of hair behind my ear. I look up at Azriel, who's barely concealing his amusement. "Little help?" I ask, sheepishly.

Dropping to one knee, Azriel secures the straps for me, his fingers gentle. He plants a kiss on my thigh and mutters, "I’m not carrying these all night."

I nudge him away playfully, marching back to the closet to grab a pair of flat sandals. I hand them to him with a mock-serious tone. "Here, ask Rhys to stash these in a pocket realm in case I need them."

Azriel laughs softly, tucking the flats under his arm as we head out of the bedroom together.

______________________________________________________________

We converge with the rest of our group at the River House where Rhys and Feyre have arranged to winnow us directly to the Summer Court. Unlike Rhys, Azriel encourages me to maintain my normal activities during pregnancy, thus making winnowing an accessible choice. Cassian, Nesta, Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, and I begin our descent from the manor, with Elain cradling Cassian and Nesta’s baby girl, Nyx playfully tugging at her dress and waving eagerly to his parents. Feyre sends Nyx a blown kiss, which he theatrically catches and presses to his lips before launching one back her way. Rhys places a hand on Feyre’s lower back, open to the breeze from its low cut to bring her focus on our departure. Lucien appears in the doorway, his son perched high on his shoulders, as they wave us off. “We’ll be back later!” Cassian bellows toward the house.

Lucien shouts back with a teasing tone, “No rush! And be on your best behavior!”

Cassian responds with a vulgar gesture and Elain slaps her hand over Nyx’s eyes to shield him from it. After enduring a pregnancy marked by relentless morning sickness, Nesta found solace in the ocean's breeze. She spent much of her time at Tarquin’s castle, situated atop a cliff with sweeping views of the sea. Tarquin, empathetic and familiar with the challenges of parenthood, graciously readmitted Cassian into the Summer Court, with the strict caveat that Nesta keep him in sight at all times.

With an arm slung around Rhys, Cassian is the first to be winnowed, followed swiftly by Feyre and Nesta, and then Azriel and me. Although I can still manage the winnowing process, a twinge of motion sickness usually follows. Nonetheless, I prefer it to flying, which only prolongs the discomfort. As we materialize on the steps of the Summer Court palace, Azriel steadies me with gentle hands at my waist as I lean forward, taking a deep, stabilizing breath.

“You alright?” Azriel inquires.

I nod, the fresh ocean breeze helping to soothe my senses. Once assured of my steadiness, I take a moment to absorb the breathtaking view. Tarquin has chosen his "Summer House" for his hundredth birthday celebration—an amusing choice given its grandeur. Situated on a cliff opposite his main castle, easily visible across the bay, this secondary residence is no less opulent. Sandstone columns and marble steps lead to grand doors beautifully inlaid with blue and pink seaglass, while orbs of faelight suspended in fishing nets add a whimsical touch. With the sun dipping below the horizon, the sky is aflame in vibrant shades of pink and orange, creating a spectacular backdrop as we ascend the steps.

As we proceed, Azriel casually hands my sandals to Rhys, who offers me a knowing smile before they vanish into a pocket realm.

The grand doors swung open, revealing the entrancing melody of a live band in the foyer. The interior of the house matched the exterior in opulence, with a domed glass ceiling that bathed the marble floor in the sunset’s spectrum. Seashells were intricately embedded in the floor, and the familiar columns from outside now stood amidst streams of crystal-clear water that seemed to flow through the hall and cascade down the stairs. As we advanced, I marveled at the pearl mosaics adorning the high ceiling, a grandeur that left me nearly speechless.

Pulling gently on Azriel's arm to draw him closer, I whispered conspiratorially, “I want to change the theme of the nursery.”

Azriel chuckled, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It took Cassian and me a week to paint it the color it is, and you mulled over those two shades of yellow for three weeks beforehand.”

Cassian's voice floated from behind, tinged with mock horror, “If you’re asking me to paint again, you’re on your own.”

At the top of the grand staircase, the crowd below melded into a vibrant tapestry of colors and movement. Feyre, in her flowing turquoise gown, descended gracefully with Rhys by her side, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. Azriel and I followed, his hand a constant presence on my hip, grounding me.

I scanned the sea of faces for a particular one, but as the crowd parted, I found myself face-to-face with Tarquin instead, his smile broad and slightly tipsy.

“Look who brought in the bats!” he exclaimed jovially.

Rhys clapped Tarquin on the shoulder, wishing him a happy birthday. He then picked up a glass of champagne, offering one to Feyre, and they toasted to Tarquin’s continued health. After the brief exchange, Tarquin turned his attention to us. Azriel exchanged a firm handshake with him, while Cassian, standing slightly behind Nesta with his hands on her shoulders, received a more personal summon.

“Cassian,” Tarquin slurred slightly, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I want to show you something.”

Cassian looked down at Nesta, who responded with a nonchalant shrug. He then followed Tarquin out onto the balcony, his curiosity piqued. Azriel watched them leave with a guarded expression.

Nesta, catching the look, nudged Azriel gently. “Just go make sure Tarquin doesn’t throw him off,” she urged.

“On it,” Azriel replied briskly, striding after them with a determined pace.

Nesta grasped my hand, weaving us through the bustling crowd, muttering how she was going to need a stiff drink to get through this night. Since the birth of her daughter, Nesta had been grappling with intense separation anxiety, rarely managing a few hours away. She and Cassian had attempted a weekend trip getaway and she made it only four hours before returning in tears, taking her young babe from my arms and sobbing into her jet black hair. Since then, Nesta had promised she was going to stop being “mama” all the time and start being herself again. 

We reached the bar located near the grand staircase, where a fae female was expertly crafting cocktails. Nesta ordered a “Seabreeze,” and I opted for a lemonade.

“I can’t wait until you can drink with me again,” Nesta said, picking up her drink. The swirling glitter within the blue liquid looked delicious and I found myself licking my lips as I watched her down it. “You’re the only one who can keep up with me when we dance.” She said before ordering another. 

“Not too much longer,” I responded, caressing the babe within me. 

Nesta looked at me thoughtfully, the blue glitter swirling in her glass, “I want you to have a girl, so Elora can grow up with a friend. Not surrounded by Feyre and Elain’s boys.” 

I smiled at her, I had asked the healer to keep the baby’s sex a secret from everyone but Azriel who, as spymaster, kept that information under lock and key. 

My gaze returned to scanning the crowd, and finally, I spotted the familiar broad shoulders and gleaming blond hair of my older brother. I tugged at Nesta’s hand, leading her over toward Tamlin. As he sensed my approach, he turned swiftly and enveloped me in a hug.

“Careful!” I cautioned, a mix of surprise and laughter, before he gently set me back down on my feet.

Tamlin scanned me from head to toe, his eyes alight with surprise and mirth. “I didn’t know you’d be here!” he shouted, his speech slightly slurred from the drinks.

“I wasn’t sure I would make it, but I figured why not enjoy myself before the baby arrives,” I smiled back at him.

Nesta, still holding a subtle grudge against Tamlin for the whole “cauldron fae thing”, glanced at her nails and offered a cool, “Hello Tamlin.”

Tamlin, ever the optimist about winning back some favor, took her hand and kissed it—a bold move he’d likely reconsider sober. “Nesta, lovely to see you. You look stunning.”

And stunning she was in her pastel green gown with its daring neckline and slits, revealing her long, toned, cream colored legs— her dress, much like mine, but tailored to hug her figure perfectly. “You’re drunk,” Nesta quipped, pulling her hand away with a laugh.

Tamlin’s smirk widened. “Only a little. I would’ve paced myself had I known my favorite sister was coming.” 

“For what? It’s not like she can party hard right now,” Nesta pointed out, gesturing towards my pregnant belly.

Realizing his faux pas, Tamlin’s eyes widened, and he awkwardly placed his hands on my stomach. We were never a family that embraced often, and his sudden affection felt out of place. “I forgot!” he exclaimed. “Hi, baby!”

Trying to stifle her laughter, Nesta shot me a look that triggered my own snort of amusement.

“Tam, maybe it’s time for some water,” I suggested gently. “It’s still early, and you’re already peaking.”

Shaking his head, his blonde locks falling into his eyes, Tamlin pulled me into another hug, elongating the word “great” as if to emphasize his point. “I’m great,” he insisted.

“I just miss you, that’s all,” he murmured, his voice muffled by my hair. “I miss the name-calling and our hunting trips. Remember those?”

“Like asshat and idiot?” I replied, finally managing to extricate myself from his grip. His nostalgia often painted a rosier picture of our past than my own memories did.

In a moment of pause, he suddenly asked, “You promise you’ll bring my niece to see me?” he asked earnestly, searching my eyes.

“I promise, Tam, though I’ve told you—I don’t know the baby’s gender yet.”

“It’s a girl,” he slurred confidently. “I’d bet on it.”

Nesta joined in, “You could make that bet. Rhys and Cassian think it’s a boy. Feyre and I are betting on a girl.”

Attempting to high-five Nesta, Tamlin found no takers and ended up clapping his own hand. “Hell yeah, team girl!”

“Where’s Lucien?” he then asked, trying to shift the topic.

“Home with the kids,” I informed him.

“That old man,” Tamlin scoffed, his drink sloshing dangerously. “Has one kid and thinks he’s too good for a night out.”

Laughing, I couldn't help but tease, “Tam, you’re really drunk.”

“Am not,” he protested weakly. “You’re drunk.”

“Sure,” I agreed, rolling my eyes indulgently.

He squinted across the ballroom, waving vaguely. “Gotta go see a guy about a thing,” he declared, stumbling slightly as he made his exit after a quick, affectionate peck on my forehead.

As he sauntered off, Nesta and I couldn't contain our laughter. “I haven’t seen him this plastered in ages,” I noted, reminiscing about our younger days spent lounging by the lake in the Spring Court.

Catching her breath, Nesta added, “He’s actually tolerable when he’s like this.

I wiped a tear from my eye, still laughing, though each breath was a bit strained around the edges due to the baby pressing up against my lungs. Just as I managed to catch my breath, I heard my brother's boisterous shout, "Who do I have to screw to get a screwball around here?" Sending me into another peal of laughter.

Nesta, pulling herself together, wiped the smeared eyeliner from under her eyes and snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

My laughter seemed to stir a frenzy of activity within me; I placed a hand over my stomach as a particularly vigorous kick landed just under my lungs, knocking the wind out of me. I doubled over slightly, laughing through the discomfort, while Nesta leaned in with a worried look. "Are you alright?"

"Totally fine, the little one just got a bit too excited," I assured her, patting my belly. Nesta reached out, asking to feel the kicks, and when my baby delivered another strong jab, her face lit up with a mix of awe and amusement. "Certainly strong," she remarked.

"Unfortunately for me, yes," I agreed, sharing a knowing smile.

Her eyes filled with nostalgia. "I so miss that."

I gently placed my hand over hers. "I try to remind myself I’ll miss it too. Usually I do a good job, until she decides to kick my bladder and I end up pissing myself."

Nesta chuckled, her hand instinctively resting on her own stomach where her little one had grown not so long ago. I squeezed her hand affectionately. "You doing okay?" I asked, noting the slight tension in her expression.

She offered a tight-lipped smile, her eyes betraying a hint of her inner struggle—the pull to return to her child who, despite adoring her father, seemed to reserve her deepest affections for her mother. "Just say the word, and I’ll fake a headache, or actually wet myself, and we can bolt."

Nesta shook her head slightly, more to reassure herself than me. "No," she paused, then stronger, "No, this is good for me. I know she’s fine."

I squeezed her hand again, offering a gentle reassurance. "Just because she's okay doesn't mean you have to be," I reminded her softly. Nesta wiped a stray tear from her cheek, still clutching her champagne, before quickly finishing it off with a relieved smile.

"I am glad I can do that again," she said, nodding towards her empty glass before setting it on a passing tray.

Together, we continued weaving through the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries with various courtiers—some of whom were so tipsy they scarcely remembered who we were. Throughout my pregnancy, I'd never been offered so many drinks that I had to politely decline. It seemed every mother and elder fae woman felt compelled to touch my stomach, causing my little one to energetically respond.

Every so often, I bumped into my brother, and we playfully stuck our tongues out at each other. However, as we mingled through the crowd, neither Cassian nor Azriel crossed our path. Eventually, we found Feyre, just as a Summer Courtier excused themselves from her company. She gave them a warm, promising touch on the shoulder before turning to face us. With a deep sigh and a quick roll of her eyes, Feyre shot back her drink—a twirling pink concoction that made her wince from its potency.

"Having fun?" Nesta inquired, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

Feyre, still recovering from the fiery liquid, nodded. "Absolutely. I love playing the diplomat at other courts. I can't really start drinking until everyone else is well into their cups." She then snatched Nesta’s wine glass and drained it. "Can't afford to make a fool of the Night Court."

I chuckled to myself. Feyre might have been slightly tipsy, but as High Lady, she only truly relaxed around family. After many evenings spent with her, I knew her tolerance was notably high—we'd even had a shot contest when I first came to live with them. In my enforced sobriety over the past seven months, I had observed the high fae's love for maintaining a facade of sobriety, despite obvious inebriation.

"Have you seen Az or Cass?" I asked, scanning the room.

Feyre glanced around, her brows knitting slightly. "No, I haven't, actually. Not since they stepped out onto the balcony with Tarquin."

"Where's Rhys?" Nesta chimed in, her voice laced with mild irritation.

Feyre threw her hands up, nearly clipping a waiter bustling by with more drinks—which she quickly commandeered. "Don’t know. He wandered off somewhere when I was chatting with what's-her-face. Haven't seen him since."

"Fantastic," Nesta remarked dryly, "We’ve been here an hour and the boys' club has already managed to vanish on us."

While Nesta and Feyre chatted, I slipped into a corner to send a gentle pulse through our bond. Receiving no response, I intensified the signal, only to get a slight jolt followed by Azriel's slurred, "What's up, pretty lady?"

I turned back to Nesta and Feyre with a grin. "They're drunk."

I messaged Azriel again, asking, "Hi my love, where are you?"

His chuckle echoed down the bond, "Beach."

Realizing that was all the information I was likely to get, I informed Nesta and Feyre, "They're on the beach."

"They left?!" Nesta half-yelled, frustration mounting. "I want to leave!"

Seizing our hands, she led us through the crowd, up the stairs, and out the door. Outside, her braid loosened, hairs springing free as they often did when she drank. Spotting a sign for the beach, she marched us in that direction. Feyre, slightly tipsy, giggled and leaned on me as we followed Nesta.

Reaching the sandy path, Nesta kicked off her heels and hiked up her dress, staggering forward. Feyre and I quickly followed suit, Feyre removing her own shoes and then helping me with mine before we continued on with Nesta, the tall seagrass swaying in the night breeze.

The pathway was lit by fae lights, and the cool ocean wind caused goosebumps to rise on my skin. Feyre held my hand for balance as we walked, with Nesta leading determinedly ahead.

When we finally reached the beach, Nesta scanned the bonfires for our mates. Feyre, losing her footing in a dip, fell onto the sand with a shriek of laughter. I couldn't help but laugh as she lay there, the sand clinging to her dress and hair.

Her laughter contagious, Nesta turned and joined in, stumbling over to help Feyre up as the wind pressed her silk dress against her legs. Without warning, Feyre threw back her head and called out, "Rhysand!" Nesta shouted “Cassian, get your ass over here! I want to go home and drink without clothes on!” This promptied laughs from other partygoers.

When Nesta tried to yell again, I quickly covered her mouth, accidentally getting sand in her mouth, which she spat out as Feyre howled with laughter.

Down the beach, Rhys's voice called back, "Feyre Darling!" Pointing in his direction, Feyre declared, "That one's mine," and staggered off toward the boys.

Nesta, wrapping an arm around me, leaned on me as we followed. Soon, Feyre charged into Rhys, sending them both into the sand, while Cassian's laughter boomed over the crashing surf, nearly toppling him from his driftwood seat. Tarquin, adding wood to the fire, doubled over with laughter.

Nesta settled next to Cassian, her arms crossed and her gaze fixed on the ocean. "Hi Ness," Cassian slurred, pulling her into his lap and showering her with kisses despite her protests. "Stop, stop," she laughed. "I'm supposed to be mad at you."

"You can't resist me!" Cassian declared, landing another sloppy kiss.

Meanwhile, Azriel sat in the sand, a bottle of wine in hand, his smile lighting up as he saw me. Dropping beside him, I laid my head on his shoulder. "Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," I replied, seeking a kiss which he tenderly delivered, his lips tasting of sweet strawberry wine.

Azriel stashed the bottle in the sand, wrapping one arm around me and lazily stroking my stomach with the other. Together, we took in the serene scene—Feyre and Rhys wrapped in each other's arms, Cassian and Nesta chatting with Tarquin, all of us enjoying the moment.

There, with Azriel and our soon-to-arrive baby, I soaked in the beauty of our world, filled with anticipation for the new life we were about to welcome.