#some tlc

[buckybuckyboo]

Some TLC was really good! Love me some baby boy Bucky 🥵 and when he caller her his Queen 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

Thank you so much! I just wanted to take good care of Bucky 😉 I'm so glad you enjoyed it anon. Oh to be his Queen 🥺 💚💚💚💚

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lvi. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Shirayuki was alone and in distress, fatigued from her journey, upset by the shock of violence, friendless and ill.

What she wanted most was a knight — a champion of the defenseless, selfless in service, tireless in courtesy and charity.

Once, Mitsuhide might have been that to her.

...

He might have stepped into the breach and taken up the mantle, with the confidence born of purpose.

He would have aided her steadfastly, remaining by her side until he was assured of her security and recovery.

Now he knew better.

...

Mitsuhide was no knight.

...

He brought her to a hunting lodge not unlike the one where they had first met, in another time, another life.

It was the nearest shelter, now that night had fallen. Shirayuki’s assailants had lured her outside the city walls, and these would be sealed until daybreak.

The lodge was overloaded with memory, hauntings of the time before the war, but it was also well-provisioned and warm. 

It would do.

...

Another man might have shied from the pain of remembering, ignited by the familiar scenes of his former life, but Mitsuhide bowed to it.

He let the reminder of all that he had lost wash over him, allowed the ache to sink into his bones.

He deserved the pain.

...

Like a spur in his side, like a burr or a stone in his boot, the memories served as reminders to him. They bit into the skin of his heart, rubbed the callouses raw again. Some were scored as if with hot metal into the fabric of his mind.

Remembering kept it always before him – why he was here, why he was no longer a knight.

It could do nothing to atone for his failures, but it was better than walking free, as if none of it had ever happened.

...

Mitsuhide carried Shirayuki inside, glad to see that she had drifted into a doze.

He was no nurse, but his former duties — as he thought of them – had extended to mending a scrape or two.

The weight of those years gone pressed on him, paradoxically made heavier in their hollowness.

...

This was the burden that made him grim and unsmiling, taciturn in his hidden struggle as he tucked Shirayuki into a bed upstairs, checked the window for drafts, then retreated back down to warm a brick in the grate.

He kindled the coals. He hauled water from the cistern in the back. 

All the while, he was steeling himself to a task he found far more insurmountable than facing old memories.

...

Shirayuki might be feverish; she needed care.

It ought to be someone trustworthy, someone skilled – and someone who could get here fast.

Mitsuhide knew who it must be, for there was none better. Under such circumstances, he would hardly have trusted his friend to anyone else.

Shirayuki wanted a knight, and that knight was Kiki.

...

The trouble was, his former partner deserved to be left in peace, not harassed with messages and favors asked by one who didn’t merit her notice.

Disgraced in his own eyes as a warrior, still worse as a friend, he had never intended to  presume to renew contact – least of all after the response his parting gift had occasioned.

Mitsuhide had angered Kiki. There was no point in seeking her pardon, because her anger was justified.

...

He had no right to address himself to her, had forfeited all claims to her attention and assistance — but neither could he abandon Shirayuki to continue her journey alone in wintertime, bent on her dangerous search.

Not to act, in this case, would be worse than to give further offense.

...

He would be brief, Mitsuhide decided.

He would make his appeal not as an acquaintance, not with reference to a history now past, but in the name of charity.

He would write to Kiki.

...

First, Mitsuhide delayed.

He opened the cellar and extracted whatever might be of use from the supply cache stored there. From a sack of root vegetables, he prepared the sort of hardy stew that would warm and revitalize a body.

As food, it was fit more for camping or campaigning than for sickbeds, but he hoped it would do Shirayuki no harm at least.

Leaving it in the pot to simmer, he went out to ameliorate his hasty attentions to his horse, arranging its feed and brushing it down with meticulous care.

...

Satisfied that the animal would rest easy after its unaccustomed exercise, he returned inside to check on his charge.

On his way to the upper floor, he passed the satchel of messages stamped with the Clarines seal. It waited yet on the table inside the door, accusing him with its silence.

There was no one to carry word that urgent business had detained him because he was, after all, the courier of this route.

...

Another time, the delinquency might have troubled Mitsuhide. 

Even knowing his absence to be rightful, he would have fretted over the disappointed expectations of the dozens of faceless names. Each was expecting a letter, perhaps eagerly sought, perhaps of critical importance.

Now he accepted the fault as his natural state. It came as no surprise that he would find himself inadequate in neglecting even this simplest of duties.

...

Grimmer than ever, he eased open the door to Shirayuki’s room.

Shirayuki stirred at his entrance but did not wake, so he advanced in silence to slide the hot brick into a bundle of linens at the foot of the bed. 

He was tiptoeing out of the room when a sound stopped him.

“Mitsuhide,” she sighed, her eyes unfocused.

...

He set a bowl of the steaming stew beside her bed.

“Where are we,” Shirayuki mumbled, her face turning towards the smell.

“Somewhere safe,” Mitsuhide answered, his shoulders tensing. 

...

Before she could inquire further, he hurried to ask, “Are you—shall I—?” He gestured uncertainly to the bowl, but she was already sitting up and pulling it towards her.

“Gotta keep my strength up,” she informed him, gripping the spoon with a look of intent concentration. “Long way to go.”

Mitsuhide didn’t argue with her. He hovered, with just a trace of his old anxiety, as she adamantly ate her way down to the dregs.

...

Shirayuki sank back with a sigh, looking spent but less pale — a touch of color had entered her cheeks.

The wan face on the pillow, crowned like the sun with its halo of red, seemed easier now, the lines of pain and tension eased.

Mitsuhide backed out of the room without another word. He chided, berated himself for neglecting her out of no better motive than the wish to avoid embarrassment. The time for delays had passed.

...

It was a formal, yet urgent letter. It outlined the facts of the case, without any expectations of resuming contact for his own sake on his own auspices.

Shirayuki may be ill, he explained. I fear for her safety should she continue alone, unguarded.

He noted the address. He signed it simply, not giving himself time to dwell on the closing or what reception it might meet with.

Then he sealed it and secured it in his courier bag.

...

Mitsuhide stacked the fire high with logs, so that the stove would not burn out in his absence. He left the stew on a low simmer, for Shirayuki to refresh herself when she woke.

Then he bundled himself into his cloak and set off into the night.

There was a letter to deliver, and that was his work now – the only work he was fit for.

[space-manatees]

hey

.

.

.

hey you

.

.

.

c’mere

.

.

.

bring your face in real close

.

.

.

.

cLOSER

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

*mwuah* you’re doing so well, I’m proud of you ^_^

[yellowraincoat]

Linh Cinder now in technicolor!

Trivia: ​3rd one is where she’s unscrewing Thorne’s prison toilet from the wall. Bc she’s classy like that

[bananasplit133]

Dial T for Tenna

Ant Tenna/Reader

Summary: You’re hired to be Tenna’s emotional liaison—a corporate stress ball for a TV star known for explosive tantrums. Despite his fierce resistance and fear of losing fame, you patiently absorb his outbursts and fears, slowly earning his reluctant trust. Your job isn’t to fix him, but to keep him afloat—and somehow, that makes all the difference.

AO3 link

__________

“ WHAT!? I DON’T NEED AN EMOTIONAL SUPPORT LIGHTNER! WHAT WOULD THE AUDIENCE THINK?! ”

The figure with the TV-shaped head practically shrieked , his screen flickering wildly between harsh static and a burning red glow. His fists slammed onto the glossy conference room table with enough force to rattle the papers scattered across it. The higher-ups remained unmoved, their faces trained in professional calm — clearly, this wasn’t their first time weathering one of Tenna’s infamous tantrums. One of them even exchanged a knowing glance with another, their patience worn but not broken.

“Mr. Tenna,” a tired voice finally cut through the tension, a middle-aged woman adjusting her glasses with deliberate slowness. On her blouse rested a nametag labeled ‘Kairos.’”Her tone was firm but not unkind, the kind of voice used when dealing with someone prone to theatrics. “You had a breakdown on-air last week because your intro jingle was played in mono. What do you think the audience thinks of that?”

Tenna’s screen dimmed slightly, like a flickering heartbeat. He threw his head back with a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, as if protecting himself from the words. “It wasn’t a breakdown! It was a performance piece ! ART, I tell you!” His voice cracked somewhere between indignation and desperation. He pivoted to glance sideways at the conference room windows as if searching for some invisible applause or sympathy from the empty hallway outside.

The woman’s lips twitched into a small, unconvinced smile, but her tone hardened as she pressed on. “You almost stepped on a spectator during one of your... outbursts.” Her voice had an edge now, the kind that cuts through denial like a knife.

“We were lucky that… Mike, was it? … was quick to switch to the standby screen. There are still people who attended the live show and thought the whole thing was part of the act,” she said, her voice lowering. “But it wasn’t. It was chaos, and it could’ve ended badly.”

Tenna’s flickering face shifted into something almost like regret, but it was swallowed quickly by a flare of defensiveness. “They didn’t understand the nuance of the moment,” he said, voice dropping to a low growl, “the audience loved it. Or at least, they should have.”

You sat silently in the corner, clutching your clipboard like a shield against the storm of static and emotion filling the room. You studied him— him , the man called Mr. Tenna—livewire in a cheap suit, a walking television set full of ego, noise, and drama wrapped in flickering static. At least, that was what the audience saw. What they didn’t see were the cracks beneath that flashing exterior, the meltdowns nobody talked about. You wouldn’t be here if he were fine, of course.

Clearing your throat, you stepped forward, voice small but steady. “Hi. I’m—”

Suddenly, he whipped around with a jolt, screen flashing erratically like an angry broadcast signal losing control. “ You’re the therapy human?” His voice dripped with revulsion and disbelief, and for a being without eyes, you could’ve sworn his gaze was burning right through you.

You forced a slight smile, trying your best to seem friendly and approachable despite the electric tension crackling between you. “I prefer emotional liaison, actually,” you said, hoping that a little humor might ease the edge. You had about… one day until you’d be working together, and starting on good terms seemed like the smartest move.

He recoiled as if you’d slapped him, the static on his screen suddenly buzzing louder. “ You prefer being a corporate babysitter ?!” His tone was scandalized, almost theatrical in its outrage. “Do I look like I need coddling?! I am the FACE of this network!” His fists clenched so tightly you thought the cables behind him might snap.

A voice muttered from the back of the room, barely audible over the static crackle but impossible to ignore: “And that face almost squashed a person to death last Thursday.” A dry chuckle rippled through the others, but Tenna’s flickering screen turned cold, as if stung by the reminder.

He growled lowly, almost threateningly, but something in his body language softened — a tiny, imperceptible shift in his posture. Did he shrink a bit or are your eyes playing tricks on your mind? The glare flickered for a split second into something unreadable, before the storm of static roared back louder than ever.

The room fell quiet after the comment, a heavy kind of silence that made your skin feel tight. You gripped your clipboard tighter, your fingers digging into the edges without realizing it.

Tenna’s screen flickered with static, and though he didn’t have eyes, you felt the weight of his glare like heat pressed against your skin. The higher-ups exchanged tired looks but said nothing—this wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with one of his outbursts, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

The tension in the room was thick, like everyone was waiting for him to explode again or collapse entirely, but he just sat there, fists clenched on the table, his screen pulsing red with every shallow breath you could almost hear.

Finally, Kairos cleared her throat, her voice low and even as she broke the silence. “Tenna, nobody’s denying you’re the star. The ratings speak for themselves. But the breakdowns, the outbursts—they’re starting to take a toll on the show and on you. You can’t keep going like this and expect everything to hold together.” Her eyes met his flickering screen with a steady calm, like she was trying to get through to him without triggering another meltdown.

Tenna wheezed in response, a short burst of static crackling across the room. “Breakdowns? Those were.. performances . If I toned it down, the audience would lose interest. They’d stop watching. Th - They can’t stop watching…” The faint white glow pulsed beneath his skin, quicker now—like a warning light struggling to stay steady.

Your fingers tightened on the clipboard.

You’d read the reports. Watched the clips. Heard the stories. You knew the warning signs. The shift in his tone, the flickering of his screen, the flickering red bleeding into violent static. The pitch of his voice was climbing now—desperate, not loud.

……

“They’d stop watching…”

That was it. That was the trigger.

You could see it happening like slow-motion—his shoulders rising with tension, screen pulsing erratically, hands twitching like they were trying to grasp onto something real before his mind unraveled. You could practically hear the wires buzzing behind his eyes.

This was it. Your cue.

You stood up slowly.

Tenna didn’t notice you at first. His fingers dug into the table, his voice sputtering out through waves of static like he was buffering his own panic.

“Th-The screen goes black, the audience stops caring, and then what? Will i just be forgotten forever?!”

His screen flashed violently now, looping between half-rendered animations—laugh tracks, applause, then sharp cuts of color bars and a black void with a lonely “NO SIGNAL” bouncing like a screensaver. It wasn’t just theatrics. It was fear.

Real, raw fear.

You set the clipboard down and took a careful step forward. “Hey…”

No response. His hands trembled, static warping the air around him like heat off a broken screen.

Another step.

“ hey ... big guy,” you said again, voice a little louder, but still soft. Not confrontational. Not challenging. “Take a breath.”

His head snapped toward you like a spotlight locking onto a performer mid-show. His screen froze on harsh red again. “What do you know about it? You don’t get it—people used to wait their whole week to see me! Prime time! I was the moment. Now people skip through me. Speed me up. Mute me. Forget me.”

He was spiraling. You could see it in the way his screen blinked so fast it was strobing. Another step. You were close now.

You raised your hands gently—like you were approaching a scared animal. “ Mr Tenna…”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no fire in it. Only static. “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

You were right in front of him now. Up close, he was still a tad taller than you, and when he wasn’t yelling, he looked… small. Like something burnt out behind the glass.

“Listen,” you said, “TV isn’t dead.”

His screen flickered into confusion.

You kept going. “Yeah, it’s changed. Sure, people scroll and tap and speed things up. But there’s always going to be people that love the screen. Who wait for a broadcast. Who feel something when a jingle plays just right. Hell…”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug, voice quieter now. “Even I still watch TV.”

His screen glitched.

“…You do?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Call me old-fashioned. But sometimes I just want to sit down and get lost in something. No skipping. No rewinding. Just letting a story carry me.”

His shoulders loosened, just slightly. The screen faded from red to a low, pulsing blue.

“I don’t want to replace you,” you added. “I just want to help you stay on the air.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then he let out a sound—not quite a laugh, but something close. A wheezy, half-scrambled chuckle, like an old VCR trying to play a warped tape.

His head tilted to the side, and his screen flickered again. A soft glow. A little animation—a TV with legs sitting on a couch, popcorn in hand.

“…You’re weird.”

You smiled. “Maybe a little.”

He slumped back into his chair with a mechanical sigh, one hand running down the side of his screen like he was physically powering himself down. The static fizzled out, leaving only a dim, flickering white glow.

“Fine,” he muttered. "This didn’t happen. I wasn’t about to short-circuit or whatever you think you saw. If anyone asks, I was just... adjusting my contrast settings.”

“No promises,” you teased, tapping your clipboard gently. “But hey… thanks for not melting down.” Looks like your first paycheck will be an earned one.

He gave a soft static hum in response, barely audible.

Then, just before the silence could stretch too long, his screen lit up with one final message, typed in clunky, retro font:

THANKS FOR WATCHING.

And this time, it wasn’t sad.

…

The static fizzled out.

Silence hung in the air, but this time, it didn’t crackle with tension. It was something softer. Tentative. Like the room was afraid to break whatever fragile truce had just been formed between chaos and calm.

Then a chair scraped quietly. Papers rustled. The higher-ups began shifting in their seats, murmuring among themselves in low voices, their once-stern faces now marked with something that might have been relief.

Kairos tapped the end of her pen against her clipboard, eyebrows raised in something close to approval. “Well,” she said, standing slowly. “That went… better than expected.”

“I thought he was going to overload again,” someone muttered.

“Or throw the table through the glass,” another added, half-joking, half-serious.

Kairos didn’t smile, but her expression softened as she looked at you. “Not bad, liaison. You might actually survive this gig.”

Another higher-up leaned toward her, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear: “Good call on this one. We might’ve found the right match for him.”

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, still standing beside Tenna, whose glow had dimmed to a low white hum like a set left on in a dark room. He didn’t speak again—not really. But his screen flickered faintly. And that was enough.

The suits filed out slowly, muttering updates and schedules to one another, the crisis seemingly defused for now. You picked up your clipboard, still warm where your hands had gripped it earlier, and cast one last glance at Tenna before turning to follow them out.

As you reached the door, you heard the softest burst of static behind you—almost like a whisper.

“...Don’t be late tomorrow.”

You smiled without turning around.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

_______

PART 2

[arcane-aesthetics]

[nonglukest]

❤️‍🩹 🫂 ❤️‍🩹 Top Form ☆ 01.07

[luminique]

lighter loves getting massages from you. they’re not top quality like those massage parlors but they’re comforting, not as painful too. the simple shoulder massage that has him closing his eyes, feeling your touch on his skin. soft grunts and groans leave his body as his aching muscles also lose their tension from before.

he especially likes it when your hands slowly go up his neck and to his scalp. his brain shuts off as your fingers tangle through his dark teal locks and focus on giving him scalp massages. even after you’re done, he’s just stuck there for a moment. his body relishing in all of the pressure that had been released from his body, all because of your hands. maybe next time you should consider washing his hair while giving him a scalp massage….

[jaskieriswitchersexual]

With Hob having lived for approximately six and a half centuries, he's done a lot more sleeping than most living creatures (except maybe cats) and with that, he's probably met a significant number of the dreams and nightmares in The Dreaming at some point.

Hob is the quintessential dreamer, the dreams adore him, but his life has also not been easy and he's well-acquainted with the nightmares as well.

What I'm saying is, when Dream finally brings Hob to the Dreaming to introduce him to the family give him a tour of the realm, the dreams and nightmares come out to meet Hob like he's their old friend. Hob is strangely touched and also having the time of his life, while Dream is pouting that his creations have stolen Hob's attention away.

*edit* if you'd like to make a fic of this idea, please go ahead, just send me a link when you're done because I'd love to see it!

[yaboisbullshit]

Some of yall who say that you would fuck Darth Vader are cowards. Suitless Darth Vader is amazing, but Suit Darth Vader? You gotta love him too. Don’t be a pussy, love the weird mangled man.

[the-merry-otter]

Going through the workshop that now belongs to me (I bought it off the SCAdian who was living in this house previously) and I FOUND A SWORD 😃😃😃

[yellowraincoat]

In the lunar chronicles universe there are hour long compilations of every time Cinder or Kai has ever accidentally called the other by their informal name during an official government meeting or press conference

Like ✨Kaider being bad at hiding their relationship for 10 minutes straight✨

And then it’s just clips of Cinder going “Kai— Kai— Emperor Kai— Kai….to—“ Kai calling her Cinder instead of Selene over and over again.

[jello-library]

Writing idea getting shot into the abyss!

But, imagine Stanley having a dream that he had kids with his s/o in his mullet younger years but to wake up from it abruptly (not like shooting up from the bed but like eyes shot wide open and he’s panting a bit)

Only to find the twins sneaking into their bed cause they had a nightmare on him losing his memories and they couldn’t save him.

It’s being like “We may have none of our own but these two are perfect..” he loves them so much I’m gonna cry :’)))

[rosy-crow]

Gonna be real for a sec.

Someone needed to do this for sane Sephiroth.

(He’d be the one getting cuddled)

[thosewhocomeafter]

eternally having thoughts about conquest. what if he'd been given nolan's treatment? if he'd spent 20 years among humans, would he still have the same arc? if he was shown how to love, shown true human connection, what could have been? his whole life he's only been put in his comfort zone, doing what he's good at. they didn't even give him a fucking name, with no thought about how that would effect him. sure, he says he likes doing it, but does he really or is it just something he's been taught?

tldr i could actually fix him given time guys!!!

[kittykatninja321]

The purpose of characterizing jaybin as this inherently violent reckless kid is to justify the victim blaming that started basically immediately after Jason’s death (did Batman fuck up by involving child sidekicks? No it’s the child who’s inherently doomed), but I don’t think that gets Bruce off the hook at all. Because then the new story becomes that Bruce saw this apparently emotionally disturbed homeless child and decided to recruit him into Vigilante Violence instead of doing literally anything else? Jason is not a trained from birth assassin child the way Damian is nor does he have any pre existing yearning for the cape vigilante inclinations. He is an incredibly normal kid considering his circumstances, sign him up for after school wrestling and some counseling if it’s that serious bro like what are we doing? You’re telling me that Bruce with all of his rich guy resources is flopping where a semi competent underpaid social worker could’ve succeeded??