#this was very fun to write

[sguidwards-bestfriend]

Oooo the juicyness, this would be such a cool under laying plot point that could be used to angst up stuff

Danny noticing small moments, a paper being in his bag when he thought he forgot it, his favorite school meal always having at least one portion left, his parents always chasing after a ghost blob when he gets home from school after a night of fighting. His bed is always made, and he always has an extra thermos somewhere even if he thought he'd used that one.

He stops having to deal with the weaker ghosts, but he's not sure why. When they do show, it's only when he can deal with it, their appearance meaning no one else will be out tonight.

Then he feels the presence of something different, not a ghost, not a person.

After a few months, he starts getting suspicious. Too many things are lining up. Only a few handfills of his regulars are acting any different, but it's enough to make him check.

He sees a boney elbow or ancient armor hiding around a corner. Tuck keeps catching the very edge of a man in books and a long coat, but they never catch his face. A ghost wearing a bright red he'd only seen once on another ghost. It's always disappearing right as he gets close to finding more.

He hears whispers from down empty halls, all he can tell is they say his name.

Phantom.

The chosen one.

When he meets frostbite he asks, but it's not as helpful as he hoped. The yeti has no recollection of any skeleton ghosts that would act on their own, and the rest would never help a mortal.

He does, however, give Danny a leather bound book in which is a list of deamons and their contracts. One name keeps repeating, John Constantine.

Then he finds Clockwork, who despite knowing everything is never helpful, ever. Danny's a point of interest for the Ancient. A future he cannot see until it comes to pass, desperate to fix the versions that have yet to be destroyed by his hand.

A man interested in ghosts appears at his parents' door. His trench coat contains something Danny can't quite see, looking through the book with Sam Danny tries looking at the "souls" of living things.

The next time the man appears in his living room he focuses. Staring into the man, just as he had practiced with Sam and Tuck.

It was harder this time, then a flash of an image in his mind made him sick. The man had holes in the wispy thing he saw, slashed into so many pieces it made Danny sick to his stomach.

He left as the man followed him with his eyes. Danny locked his door and spent the night at Sam's, terrified of what the man wants with his family.

He feels a shift in the town and doesn't get to follow the man as he tries to leave town. Pariah Dark appears, his skeleton army at his Will, the trenchcoat man is left forgotten.

The ghosts surround the town as they prepare to save their people.

As the wave upon wave of specters march through the town limits he feels a deep sadness among the troops. They yell no battle cry, they do not taunt, they are empty in a way he has never seen a ghost.

He's determined to free them, lock the King back into his eternal sleep, and offer them peace.

He's not just fighting for his people now, he's fighting for the ghosts, too.

After the final blow sends the Ghost King back into his sarcophagus, and he feels the massive shift as Amity returns to earth, he drops to his knees. He only realises he's won when a thin hand lays itself on his shoulder.

When he looks up, he sees a skeletal figure standing above him. The ghost moves forward and offers Danny his hand.

"Thank you." Danny says as he gets to his feet.

The ghost bows to him, "No, thank you." The scene around him looks disastrous, but they won.

Green fire and blue stains line his periphery, red streaks of blood dot their battle field.

"This is gunna take forever to clean up." He slouches forwards and shoves his shoulders back, popping his spine. "I'm going to check the injured. Good luck."

The ghost eminates shock, then softly gratitude floods in. Danny is not great at it yet, but he tries to respond in kind.

The ghost stands tall, then runs off to a grouping of other skelly ghosts that welcome him with a tackle and a massive pile of bones flaten them. He can feel their joy from where he stands.

As he looks around, he sees the remaining ghosts helping Sam and Tucker. A mix of his regulars and the skeleton soldiers picking up peices of buildingsand helping people up.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's just come across the start of a very odd relationship.

Benevolent Ruler, Peace Keeper and Chosen One, the Ghost King Phantom and his infinite army of the dead.

Up in space, unbeknownst to Danny, the JL meet with the JLD.

The boy they have been keeping an eye on has taken the grand title of the King of the Inbetween, the infinite realms.

And their two on field informers have just dissappeared, with the final message "I cant find Deadman."

Fic prompt #23

Dpxdc

Did you have in mind a plot where the protagonist goes back in time to save the future? What if Danny had become the King of Ghosts, but due to various problems in his human life, he had a rough time adjusting to his new social position? Despite this, Danny is deeply loved by his subjects—especially the skeleton army, who adore him after suffering under the tyranny of Pariah Dark. So, what if the army traveled back in time to serve Danny and free him from his human problems?

The Justice League is very concerned about the mysterious appearance of skeletons that seem to be obeying a teenager.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sweet Dreams, TN🩸🔥

shower smut with logan won the poll because of course it did. i love y'all, you horny bastards (affectionate)

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Worcount: 4.7k words of pure sin

Warnings: cursing, shower sex, foreplay, choking, groping, fingering, grinding, biting, bloodplay, marking, Logan's dirty mouth, light dom/sub, overstimulation, unprotected p in v sex (use protection pls), uneven refractory period

Song: Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets

Hot water rained down on you from the shower head. Steam poured off your warm body, lavender soap washed away by the thin streams of water, hair plastered to your scalp and neck. A small hum came from between your closed lips. Something indistinct, a little off key, to keep your mind occupied while you rinsed off your arms.

It had been a good day in the mansion. Class went well, the students following your instruction on pinch pots to the T, hardly any children lashing out during your instruction. One of the kids, Shauna, had stayed behind after class to give you a drawing. A scribbled sketch of you, her, and a handful of other classmates drawn in colorful crayon. That had earned her a tight hug and a heartfelt thank you. The drawing was now pinned to the corkboard above your desk amongst dozens of other students’ drawings.

You loved your kids. You really, truly did. Having the good fortune of being able to teach them art was one of the best parts of your long life. Spreading the joy of artistic expression to the young folks around you, the calming aspect of coloring a sketch or the soothing feel of clay between your fingers, was what got you out of bed in the morning.

Just as you were reaching for your hair conditioner, the leaf-patterned shower curtain rustled and drew back from the wall behind you. You let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Evening, Lo,” you said over your bare shoulder, a warm smirk turning up the corners of your lips. Your gaze was graced by the sight of a naked Logan behind you.

Warm, brown hair styled in two fluffy points, toned chest covered in dark curls, pronounced abs leading into more crisp, dark hair. You snapped your eyes back to his face to keep from staring. A cocky grin tugged on his lips.

“Hey there, doll,” he replied. Thick arms wrapped around your waist, gently tugging you backwards. Your back, covered in water droplets, collided with Logan’s chest. A breathy laugh came from your widening smile.

“Impatient, are we?” you asked teasingly. Your question was met with Logan trailing his lips up and down your exposed neck. An occasional nip with his canines here and there, scruffy beard scratching on your sensitive skin.

“You were taking too long,” Logan uttered as he nipped under your ear. Large, calloused hands began smoothing over your soaked skin. You shuddered against Logan, letting your head fall back against his broad shoulder.

“I’ve only been in the shower for ten minutes, Lo,” you breathed. You felt a puff of air brush against your neck as he huffed. 

“Still too long,” he said, snapping his teeth next to your earlobe. Logan’s hips rolled against your thighs. You could feel his half-hard cock grind between your legs. A choked moan leaked through your lips.

“Logan,” you whimpered under your breath. One of his warm hands traveled back up your body and wrapped loosely around your throat. You whined, high-pitched and needy, as your eyes fell closed.

His other hand continued its path south, smoothing water into your twitching skin, fingers pinching and teasing as they went. Sharp teeth scratched at the skin under your jaw.

“Tell me to stop and I will, doll. Don’t wanna interrupt your shower routine,” he whispered kindly into your skin. 

Your mind was utterly reeling. Consciousness split between a hand on your throat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip, Logan’s cock against the back of your legs, hot water pouring on your front. It was nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence with how wrecked you already felt. You cleared your throat, swallowing a knot the size of a baseball.

“All I have left is hair conditioner,” you said. Logan’s chest rumbled with a thoughtful hum. His hands retreated in their path to rest gently on your waist.

“Then don’t let me keep you,” he purred, thumbs massaging at your lowest ribs. His lazy grinding against your ass had stopped. You whined, nuzzling your nose into Logan’s stubble-covered throat.

“Please, Lo,” you uttered. You licked at the droplets of water gathering under his jaw, trying to tempt him back into touching you. Logan hummed again. His hazel eyes peered down at you.

“Once you’re done, doll. Then I’ll reward ya,” he said reassuringly. He used his shoulder to nudge you forward, practically prying your naked bodies apart. 

You huffed, frustrated and horny, as you leaned down to pick up your conditioner bottle. The white container sat mockingly in your wrinkling hand. Why should it control whether you get dicked down by the gorgeous man behind you? What right did this bottle of hair conditioner have to keep you from a good fucking?

“Staring at the conditioner ain’t gonna put it in your hair, doll,” Logan teased from behind you. You grumbled at his words, popping open the lid and squeezing the pale conditioner into your palm. You set the accursed bottle back on its shelf.

“It’s an asshole,” you said. That earned you a surprised laugh that shook Logan’s chest. The deep sound bounced off the tile walls and settled deep in your bones. A small grin pulled at your deep frown.

“And what did the bottle do to earn that title?” Logan chuckled. His thumbs continued to trace the lines of your ribs. You sighed while massaging the conditioner between your palms.

“It’s a fucking cockblock, Lo. How dare it keep your hands off me?” you griped, raising your arms to rub the conditioner into the ends of your hair. The flowery, clean scent filled the steam rising from both your and Logan’s bodies.

Logan’s fingers squeezed the soft flesh at your sides, earning a shocked yelp and an elbow to his ribs. He smirked at your response, “My hands are still on you.”

“You know what I mean,” you groused. 

Your fingers wove through your hair as you lathered the strands in cream-colored conditioner. You could just barely feel Logan’s chest brushing against your back. His hands smoothed up and down your sides, a hum of adoration slipping from his lips now and then.

When it came time to rinse your hair out, Logan’s grip on your waist tightened, keeping you from sticking your head under the water.

“Wait,” he said, hands lifting to rest on your shoulders. You cocked an eyebrow at him from over your shoulder. His brow furrowed, clearing his throat, “I… Can I wash your hair for you?”

The pure, unadulterated affection that flowed from that question punched you in the gut like an MMA fighter. You were utterly stunned. Mouth hanging open, eyes wide, breath halted in your lungs. Logan shifted uncomfortably under your perplexed stare.

“Forget it, it’s not-”

“Yes!” you said loudly, cutting him off. He looked taken aback at your exclamation. You turned in his hold so you could face him, palms resting on his chest, “You can wash my hair, Lo. It’s just… The last thing I expected you to ask.”

“Oh,” he sighed, relieved. A small, fond grin grew across his previously grumpy expression. He used the grip on your shoulders to walk you backwards. 

You matched his movement, eyes tracing the crow’s feet around his eyes, until you felt the hot water raining from the shower head pelting your back. Your eyes squinted as water dripped from your scalp and into your face. Logan breathed a chuckle at you, then his hands traveled up your neck and buried his fingers in your hair.

An involuntary, quiet moan slinked up your throat as rough calluses scraped along your scalp. Your eyes fluttered closed. Logan’s fingers massaged between strands of soaked hair, hitting all the spots that made your eyes roll back beneath your eyelids.

“Feel good?” Logan muttered, breath fanning across your damp cheeks. His pinkies dug into a spot at the base of your skull that made your toes curl. You gnawed on your bottom lip to prevent any more embarrassing noises.

You felt the faintest brush of Logan’s lips on yours. A ghost of a feeling, like the whisper of a summer breeze. Your fingers twitched against his chest. 

“How do I know your hair’s rinsed?” he asked. The buzz of the words on his lips vibrated your own. A needy whine clawed at the base of your throat.

“Not- Not slick anymore,” was all you could murmur. Your back arched, chest pressing against his, when he started massaging at the tense muscles in your neck. Heavy, warm strokes that eased any tension remaining along your shoulders. Logan chuckled above you.

“Your hair, or your cunt?” he whispered against your chewed lips. Your thighs clenched together around nothing. Burning arousal pooled in your stomach, your spine shivering beneath your flushed skin.

“Definitely hair,” you replied, a breathless laugh leaving your clenched jaw. You felt the smirk dance on Logan’s lips against your own. His fingers pulled through your hair, ringing the last remnants of conditioner out of the soaked strands. A light groan rattled your throat as he pulled on your roots.

Satisfied with his work, Logan slipped his fingers out of your hair and placed his palms on your waist again. It took a lot of effort to open your eyes.

Some of the water showering down on you had apparently reached Logan, as his dark hair laid flat against his scalp, slicked back away from his face. Thick droplets of water dripped from his soaked beard. Fond, wrinkled eyes traced along your face.

“How’d I do?” he asked. You lifted a hand from his chest, the limb feeling a hundred pounds heavier, and felt along the ends of your hair. Perfectly rinsed. Not a spot of conditioner left. You grinned up at him.

“A plus. Top marks,” you answered. His chest rumbled with a fond hum as he pulled you tighter against his chest. Knuckles traced along your spine, the rough joints digging into your back every other vertebrae. 

“And what do I get for such a high grade?” he questioned, hands shifting from stroking your back to gripping the plush skin of your ass. A startled gasp burst from your closed lips. Your nails dug into the firm muscle that lined his chest. 

“I thought you were rewarding me?” you replied shakily. Firm, rough squeezes of Logan’s long fingers on your ass kicked the air from your lungs. You could feel your knees start to buckle.

Logan ducked his head to nip under your chin. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses trailed along your quickly heating skin. Sharp drags of his teeth elicited quick, quiet moans from your lungs. His hot tongue trailed up the underside of your jaw and stopped just below your earlobe.

“I suppose I can make an exception this time,” he drawled in your ear, breath stirring the falling drops of water on your skin. Your hips bucked forward involuntarily. The trembling skin of your stomach rubbed against Logan’s fully hard cock. He groaned, pressing his cheek to yours, grinding his leaking tip into your abdomen.

“Logan,” you whined, nails scratching deep crescents into his skin. The grip on your ass tightened, pulling you impossibly closer to him, a deep growl rolling through his chest. Hot pants fell from his mouth as he continued to grind into you. 

The tile walls blurred as Logan spun you in his arms. Your back pinned against his chest, his cock wedged between your legs, his right arm wrapped around your throat, left hand gripping your hip. A startled moan punched its way out of your mouth.

“How many times do you think I can make you come, hotstuff? Three, four times?” he purred into your ear. The arm around your neck squeezed, choking you lightly, making your head spin. 

Gasping whimpers cascaded past your swollen lips. The heat gathering between your thighs spread through your whole body like a tidal wave. A sinful, aching need coursing through your veins. 

Logan’s fingers trailed down your stomach as he loosened his hold on your throat. The room around you swam amongst a sea of clouded desire. Your breath came back to you in brief spurts, your chest heaving and legs trembling.

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to find out,” Logan said, then nipped at your earlobe while his middle finger traced a lazy circle around your clit. Your head flew back against his shoulder. Electric shocks of bliss radiated from where he rubbed at your bundle of nerves.

“God, fuck! Logan!” you exclaimed through clenched teeth. He placed a firm kiss beneath the hinge of your jaw. Your mind was short circuiting. It felt like your entire existence was focused on Logan’s fingers rubbing and pinching and lightly scratching at your clit. Your knees threatened to give out. You clawed at the arm wrapped around your neck.

“That’s a good girl. Shh, you’re being so good,” he breathed into your skin. Rough grunts filled your ear as he continued to grind against your ass. 

He shifted his hand, his palm digging into your clit as his fingers stroked up and down your folds. You squirmed in his tight hold. Nails scratching at the skin of his forearm, pinpricks of blood left in your scrabbling wake. Logan pressed his lips to your temple.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he whispered, breath stirring the hair along your forehead. 

The pressure from the heel of Logan’s palm lessened as his middle finger pushed inside you. Rough skin and bony knuckles hit every single nerve ending. The stretch of his finger was absolutely exquisite. Not nearly enough to dull the burning need inside you, but filling you just enough to leave you panting and wanting more.

He brushed the pad of his fingertip against that spongy spot inside you. White stars dotted along the edges of your blurred vision. Euphoria poured into your veins like a raging waterfall. The loud moan that threatened to escape your lips was cut off as Logan squeezed his arm, choking you. Your eyes rolled back in your head again.

The sensation of his finger sliding in and out of you was only intensified by the vice he had on your throat. Soft-edged pleasure filled your mind with nothing but Logan. His fingers on and inside you, his warm breath on your temple, his cock grinding against you.

He added his pointer finger on the next push inside you. You stretched around the digits, arousal coating them in slick. Logan grunted in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. The grip on your throat lessened once again, humid air filling your strained lungs. His fingers glided inside you and brushed that spot, making you keen and whimper, then slid back out. 

A quick, brutal pace was set as he fingered you. Heel of Logan’s palm grinding against your clit, fingers pistoning in your cunt, arm squeezing and choking your neck. All you could do was cling to his forearm for dear life. That knot in your core twisted and churned with every shove of his fingers inside you. Unbridled ecstasy coated your bloodstream, shoving you further and further under the brutal waves drowning you with pleasure.

An enormous wave threatened to crash over you. The knot tightened, your breath hitched, your knees gave out. Logan cradled you against his chest as he continued to finger-fuck you. Delicate praise whispered through gritted teeth filtered through your swirling senses. You distantly thought of how lucky it was that Logan could support your entire weight, seeing as your legs no longer functioned.

The brief, wandering thought was quickly shoved from your mind when Logan added his ring finger inside you. Three thick, long digits fucking into you at a brutal pace. Every shove inside you brushing against the spot that held you beneath those waves. Warm, honeyed pleasure filled your lungs. That tidal wave crested over your helpless body. Your cunt clenched around Logan’s fingers. You felt a feral grin spread over the lips pressed to your temple.

“That’s it. Come for me, sugar,” Logan grunted into your ear. With one final squeeze around your throat, the wave came crashing down on top of you.

World-encompassing rapture flooded your senses. Violent swells of utter euphoria crashed into you, over and over again. Your mind exploded into fractured glass, your lungs stuttered behind your ribs, your eyes screwed shut. Loud, choked moans threatened to break through the barrier Logan built with his arm locked around your throat.

You barely felt alive. The destruction and devastation that lay in the wake of your climax left you shivering in Logan’s arms. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your chest heaved when the vice around your neck loosened, your fingers gripping limply at Logan’s arm.

But he didn’t let up. He kept pounding into you at the same brutal pace, palm slapping wetly against your clit. You squirmed in his hold. Desperate pleas fell from your lips. You clawed and scraped at his forearm.

“Lo- I can’t- I- Logan, please,” you begged. Logan nipped at your hairline, shifting the arm around your throat down to grip around your waist, holding you flush against him.

“You can, doll. You can give me one more,” he said, biting at the column of your neck. The grinding of his cock on your ass ceased as he focused entirely on dragging you into another orgasm. You writhed against his chest, a sob rattling inside your chest.

The growing wave above you climbed higher and higher. Every pound inside you sent ripples of sharp heat coursing through your body. It was nearly nauseating, how quick the knot built up in your core. Almost painful how the surges of pleasure overtook your dazed mind.

Your orgasm rocked through you like a kick to the chest. Choked sobs wracked your trembling body, splashes of rapture coating your lungs and throat, leaving you a shaking and blubbering mess. Incoherent strings of curses and Logan’s name fell from your gaped mouth.

It seemed Logan had taken pity on you, as he withdrew his hand from between your thighs. A strained, relieved sigh broke through the incomprehensible noises and words streaming from your lips. He placed chaste kisses along the side of your face.

“Shhh, good girl. That’s my good girl,” Logan murmured against your temple. He rubbed soothing circles into your oversensitive skin. Heavy pants heaved out of you. The floor swayed beneath you, jets of hot water beating at you like hail on a window.

You gulped the steam-filled air into your lungs. Electric aftershocks made you shudder at each brush of Logan’s fingers on your body or his lips on your neck. The room around you returned to your vision in bits and pieces. White tiles lined in gray grout, yellow shower curtain decorated in painted leaves, silver handles and shower head, white hair conditioner bottle sitting on a clear plastic shelf.

“H-Holy shit, Lo,” you gasped. You felt a proud smile cross the lips pressed against your jaw. The arm tucked along your waist smoothed up and down your stomach. Gentle glides of his palms and fond kisses along your neck cleared the cloud that filled your mind. 

“Back with us?” he asked, setting you down on your unsteady feet. He held you upright as you found your footing on the slick shower floor. 

“Yeah. I think so,” you said as you turned to face Logan. As soon as your chest was pressed to his, a warm hand tucked under your chin and brought your lips to his. Gentle, sweet, relaxed. His tongue passed through your lips and licked into your pliant mouth. A light sigh escaped your throat and slipped between you.

“We can pause for a bit,” he whispered as he pulled back. A touch of concern furrowed between his dark brows. His thumb ran along your chin as he searched your eyes for hesitancy.

“No need,” you said, throwing him a lopsided smile as you carded your fingers through his drenched hair. You looped your arms around his shoulders, “I’m good to go. Wreck me all you want.”

The same feral grin you felt against your temple stretched across Logan’s lips. Sharp canines bared, eyes wide and looking at you like you were dinner. Excitement reawakened the arousal that had subsided in your abdomen.

Logan’s large hands scooped under your thighs and slammed your back against the slippery tile wall, your legs wrapping around his hips, as his mouth crashed into yours. His cock grinded into your oversensitive folds, flushed tip brushing at your clit. High, airy moans filtered from your throat and into the space your mouths shared. Your fingers buried themselves in his drenched hair.

A low growl left Logan’s chest when you tugged at his roots. His hips snapped forward, fingers digging into thick flesh, crisp hair at the base of his cock scraping the inside of your thighs.

“Shit, Lo, please just fuck me already,” you whined into his open mouth. Your hips moved in rhythm with Logan’s, desperation beginning to claw at your throat. Scalding waves of needneedneed coated your body in thick honey. 

Water cascaded down your bodies as Logan angled his hips to line up with your entrance. Anticipation burned away at your nerve endings.

The slow push inside, stretching and straining your soaked cunt to the limit, thick cock brushing against every bump and ridge. Your back bowed off the tile wall, pain and pleasure making an intoxicating concoction between your thighs. Blunt nails scraped at Logan’s shoulders. 

When, at last, he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused to allow you to adjust. His hazel eyes remained locked with yours, fingers squeezing at the skin along your thighs, gasping breath mingling with yours. 

He released his hold on one of your legs and directed you to bear your own weight. Your other leg remained hiked up over his hip. His forearm rested on the tile by your head as he leaned over you. The change in position drove him impossibly deeper inside you. Your eyes squeezed shut as you moaned.

“Ah- fuck, doll. Good?” Logan grunted next to your ear. You nodded, fingers burying themselves deeper in his hair. 

He tightened his grip on your leg as he pulled out. The slick glide overpowered your mind, sparks igniting on the edges of your vision. Logan wasted no time before thrusting back inside you to the hilt. A sharp groan shot out of your lips. His mouth crashed into yours as he set a slow, grinding pace. Hips barely leaving the inside of your thighs before rutting his cock against that spot inside you. 

“Sh-it!” you whined into Logan’s mouth. Every slow pull along your walls knocked the breath from your lungs. The skin above his cock, firm with taut muscle, rubbed at your aching clit. Shockwaves of pleasure centered on your cunt ricocheted through your body. 

You wouldn’t last long. Not with the remnants of your two previous orgasms hanging over you like a dense fog. You felt submerged in an ocean of sin. Dancing sunlight filtering through roaring waves above your head. Deep blue surrounding you on all sides. Thick, molasses leaden desire filling your lungs and making you gasp.

Logan’s teeth scraped at the skin above the artery in your neck. Canines digging into the flesh and drawing small droplets of blood. The arm he had braced above your head tangled in your freshly washed hair. He tilted your head to drink from the wine your body willingly provided.

This orgasm didn’t wash over you, it yanked. Grabbing you by the ankles and pulling your feet out from under you, sending you careening into a void of white hot ecstasy that coated you like black ink. 

“Fuck, yes, that’s a good girl,” Logan groaned against your throat as he withdrew from your cunt. Before you could blink you were spun in place, chest pressed against the tiled wall, knee hiked up by Logan’s hand. 

Tremors from your climax still rattled your joints as he pushed back inside you. His chest pressing into your back, lips wrapping around the cut in your neck, hand not supporting your leg squeezing at your breast. Rough fingers rolled your nipple between callused pads.

You could barely breathe after Logan started pounding into you. Cock ramming into you so hard you knew you’d walk funny for a week. Your hands scratched helplessly at the white tile. His teeth scraped at the thin skin under your ear, grunts thick with pleasure bouncing off the wall in front of you. You reached a hand over your shoulder and threaded your fingers in his hair, holding his mouth to your throat.

“B-Bite me, Lo. Mark me,” you breathed. He needed no further encouragement. His sharp canines pierced your skin and dug into your veins. You cried out at the intrusion in your flesh. Fresh, hot blood leaked from the bites and into Logan’s waiting mouth. You felt his breath hitch against your neck.

“God, vampire. I- fuck!” he panted. The hand holding your leg squeezed bruises into your thigh, the beginnings of painted blues and purples covering your flushed skin. Logan’s hips stuttered against your thighs. You could feel his chest heaving. It seemed the relentless fucking was absolutely destroying you both.

The large hand playing with your breast slipped between your thighs. Lazy, distracted circles rubbed into your overstimulated clit. You lurched against Logan’s chest. Head falling back on his broad shoulder, fingers squeezing damp hair, hips bucking to match his steadily slowing thrusts. 

A jagged groan stirred against your throat as Logan came undone, cock buried deep and spilling inside you. His heavy head fell to your shoulder. Heaving breaths gusted from his lips and blew the remaining water droplets off your heated skin. 

You only had a moment to breathe before he rubbed at your clit with new fervor. Cock still within your cunt, release leaking out of you and down your legs, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw. 

“Gimme one more. C’mon, vampire. You can do it,” Logan said. He licked up the streams of blood spilling from the cuts in your neck. Your head spun, lungs feeling far too empty, cunt pulsing around his softening cock.

An explosion of stabbing, almost painful euphoria burst from your core and burned the rest of your body. Rubble crashed into your skin, fire burned at your senses, smoke filled your already heaving lungs. Your vision blacked out as your climax wiped your mind clean. 

You felt like you were drifting on a raft in a lazy river. Cool water ushering your limp body down a calm stream. An occasional wave rocking the raft to and fro. Warm sun streaming through breaks in the trees and heating your skin.

A light caress on your cheek broke you from your revere. Your eyelids peeled open, blurry gaze focusing on an incredibly hazy Logan sitting in front of you. When did you end up on the floor?

“There you are,” he said, breathing a small sigh of relief. You were both sprawled out on the floor of the shower. Logan must have shut off the water at some point as the steady stream wasn’t bouncing off the white tiles. Your tired gaze flitted over Logan’s seated body.

He was still naked. That much was delightfully obvious. Remnants of water from the shower head dripped from his soaked hair and down his face. Hazel eyes inspected your exhausted body from head to toe.

“Hey,” you mumbled, a weak smile gracing your lips. You felt utterly drained. It took everything in you to keep your eyes open and your head up. 

“Hey. You alright?” Logan replied while moving to kneel in front of you. Warm fingers brushed against the sides of your face. You gave him a tired nod. “Yeah, I’m good,” you said. Logan pressed a brief kiss into your hairline. You hummed in response, “Don’t know what I did to warrant all that, though.”

Logan breathed out a chuckle, “Nothing special. Just couldn’t deal with you getting all hot and wet without me.”

You weakly slapped him in the stomach. The attack was met with an amused sigh and another kiss to your forehead. A whisper of “asshole” left your reluctantly smiling lips.

i have been writing this for a solid eight hours now. enjoy

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[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - (Cat)Fish

day 19!! @youngroyals-events

Simon tries to convince a man on a dating app that, yes, that is his actual face in those pictures.

read below or on ao3 (T, 500)

You got a match! 

Wille liked your photo!

Wille sent a message!

_____________________

Wille: If you’re gonna use fake pictures you might as well make them believable…

Simon: im sorry what?

W: I’m just saying, it’s pretty obvious you’re a catfish. Those pictures are not real.

S: um yes they are? that's literally my face

W: Nice try! No one actually looks like that. Way too perfect.

S: is this some kind of weird pickup line because im not sure you’re executing it properly

W: No? What do you mean? Clearly those are photoshopped or something. Who has skin that smooth looking? Or eyes that beautiful shade of brown?

S: literally i do

W: Seriously, where did you find these? Did you edit them yourself?

S: did you get dropped on your head as a child or something

W: … I mean, probably. But that doesn’t matter here. I know an edit when I see one.

S: clearly you dont because that is my face thank you for the compliment, i guess???

W: You’re welcome for complimenting your editing skills. But I still don’t believe you.

S: ok now im convinced this is some weird plot toget me to send like nudes or something

W: Oh my gosh, no! I’m not even on here for that! I’m too much of a romantic for hook-ups. We’d have to go on at least a few dates first.  And I would only ever ask if I knew you wanted to.  To send pictures.  Naked ones. And only you felt safe doing so. But I think in person is better anyway.

S: okay…

W: Sorry if that was weird. I keep staring at the pictures and they’re making it hard for my brain to work.

S: hard huh?

W: Ha. Ha.

S: i guess that’s kinda sweet i’m not much into hook-ups either

W: Oh. That's cool. But, seriously, where did you find these pictures?

S: i remind you. that is me im starting to question your sanity Wille

W: Sure, Simon. You just walk around like that all day and somehow you’re still single and on a dating app. Sure, very believable, *catfish*! 

S: omfg i do have pet fish but im not a catfish you're one to talk no ones hair is that color also there is no way u have a perfect little freckle on ur top lip or do you put that there with makeup

W: What?? Me?? No, it’s not makeup! I am just Swedish! I get freckles in the sun!

S: suuuure

W: Don’t turn this around on me, Simon.  Except, wait, do you really have pet fish?

S: yes, i do

W: Can I see them? 

S: [Image attached]

W: Beautiful!  What are their names? 

S: idk if i can trust you with their names you think i’m a liar

W: :( Simon

S: :( Wille

W:

You can trust me.  It’s justified, I think, that I don’t believe you.

S: [Image attached] literally me [Image attached] me with fish for proof i cant believe your awful rizz is working on me … Wille? here i’ll write out a little note for you so you know its actually me [Image attached]

W: ‘.,;-=p./ ?um I-m her e SOrry I was.. You are real? 

S: lol i am real

W: When are you free?

S: huh?

W: I would like to take you on a date, Simon To apologize for calling you a catfish But also because you are funny and pretty, and I need to see you in person just to be totally sure that you’re actually real. 

S: hm i guess i’d be okay with that i wanna know what that freckle on your lip tastes like

W: asdnasfwaogjfan

S: their names are oski, olle, and felle, btw are you free tonight?

[redwayfarers]

stories we (don't) share

wayfarer. brissa varyn & aeran kellis & mc. set post prologue, pre ep 1. gen. 1,6k words. written for @wayfarer-exchange. caswyn brynmor belongs to @seismologically-silly! surprise, i was your exchange partner! your boy was fun to write and i hope you like this!

The Spire’s kitchen feels like home after all these years. Lingering smell of food fills Caswyn’s nostrils as soon as he opens the door, and he’s suddenly hit by a pang of familiarity that doesn’t come from the last ten years of his life, but a time before. Venison, if he had to guess; in another life, he watched his father bring home deer that fed the entire clan. Too small to help, he spent one whole evening watching venison cook and change color, and just as it’d become a rich brown, he was dragged away to play with the other kids. 

These odd moods are frequent these days. He feels restless, agitated, like he wants to be somewhere else, like this place isn’t enough anymore. His skin feels a little too tight, his name too small. Apprentice Brynmor, as Sero has a habit of calling him, in that particular tone of theirs. 

Grandmaster Sero, Caswyn greets back, puffing his chest. It never fails to make them laugh. 

He hears footsteps from the hallway. Traces of a heartbeat, the rustle of clothes. Aeran’s head pops up over his shoulder much faster than Caswyn had anticipated. “So, what’s gotten into Varyn tonight?” 

“No idea,” Caswyn shrugs. It lifts Aeran’s head up a little. “She doesn’t strike me as a sit and talk in the kitchen type. That’s what Cenric does.”

“You think he has a stash of the same stories that he tells to every apprentice? In a little notebook?” Aeran’s eyes are bright and muted in the light of the nearby candle.

“Should I go look for it?” Caswyn squints playfully. “I have a meeting with him tomorrow to talk about alassar. And, how much do you think Sero is willing to pay for it?” 

“Entirely too much,” Aeran whispers conspiratorially and straightens his back. “So, Brissa! Your apprentices are here! You didn’t specify you wanted us to sneak around!” Another set of footsteps, to the right; unhurried and easy. Clinking of metal.

“I didn’t, Aeran,” Varyn intones from a nearby table. She places a wine bottle right in the center of three beautifully arranged, expensive looking cups. “I was merely getting what I needed.” 

“They do hide those cups well,” Caswyn says gently. Varyn smiles. 

“Sero and Cenric had a bet, once,” she says by way of explanation. “If Sero managed to hide them so as Cenric couldn’t find them, they would go to Sero. If Cenric did find them, they stayed in Cenric’s custody. It was him who had originally brought them to the Spire at some point or another.”

Caswyn looks at her. Her hair is pulled up in a bun, lit by the candles she doesn’t need as an elf, her hands secure and practiced as she pours the wine in each of the cups. Her nails are uneven, her face a picture of calm joy. “So who do they belong to?” 

“I found them before Cenric ever did,” she answers. She almost sounds proud. “I suppose it makes them mine, but I’d declared them cups of the Spire.” 

“Cups of the Spire,” Aeran snickers. “You did mention them during a trip to Erenvor once.” 

Caswyn purses his lips. He was not invited to that trip. “Cups for future Wayfarers?” He supplies. 

“Yes,” Varyn replies. “In three days’ time, you will both be my and Cenric’s equals. But I wished to drink with you once more as apprentices. Would you rather be elsewhere, Caswyn?” 

Caswyn swallows. “No,” he mutters. It echoes in the otherwise quiet room. “I am quite happy to be here with you and Aeran.” 

Varyn smiles. “Good. Sit, then.” 

Aeran squeezes Caswyn’s shoulder and brushes past him. “Let’s go,” he repeats, and it takes Caswyn a second to see past the similarities between him and Varyn. There’s something in that motion that Varyn does. It makes his heart clench. Does he have any mannerisms of her? Did Aeran pick it up on the way to Erenvor that one time, when Caswyn wasn’t invited? 

He shakes his head and walks over to where Varyn gestured. The rich smell of wine hits him, and he smiles. “Thank you, Varyn,” he says gently. “Did this come from Vestra?” 

“Didn’t know aeda had a good sense of smell as well as hearing,” Aeran mutters into his cup. Varyn shoots him a look. “What? We aren’t meeting any stuffy noble, Varyn. We’re drinking with friends. Relax.” 

Varyn blinks. “You’re right, Aeran,” she relaxes her shoulders. “This is.. Entirely too inappropriate unless we are conspiring. But yes, Caswyn. Vestran brew from Vodena, 1203. A gift from a friend, from another life.” 

“Court customs are weird,” Caswyn comments. Forests of Artanis seem like an entirely simpler world to him. He raises his cup. “Cheers!” 

“Cheers!” Three cups echo in the quiet room at this late hour. 

“To the Wayfarer Order,” Caswyn adds. Aeran nods and takes a hearty sip. Varyn daintily sips hers, and leans back. They sit in a comfortable silence until Caswyn speaks again. “This reminds me of Clan Brynmor gatherings.” His brow furrows in memory. “A cousin’s wedding.” 

“Oh?” Aeran turns his head to him. “Embarrassing the newlyweds?”

“We wish them good luck in Vestra,” Varyn whispers, her tone light, “but customs vary across this great continent of ours.” 

“No!” Caswyn laughs. “We were kids, we grew bored of the adults' party so we made a separate little fire from theirs. One of the grooms was the brother of one of the other kids, so they shared stories about him, and then we all started doing the same. Sharing stories of our family, I mean.” 

“They let kids drink at Brynmor?” Aeran asks curiously. 

“Only if we ask nicely,” Caswyn whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Varyn or Sero.” 

Varyn laughs. Her eyes are soft. That’s a rare sight. “What story did you tell?” 

Caswyn takes a sip. His heart aches a little. “My mother, Alarani, she died when I was young,” he says. “She was..” Words linger in the air, barely formed. Like Varyn, in some respects. 

No! Wrong! Caswyn looks at the table, ashamed. Alarani was nothing like Varyn; she was cold and judgmental, whereas Varyn is like a mother Alarani wishes she’d been. Too bad she’s dead. Caswyn isn’t terribly concerned. Aeran’s just had his “went to pick berries in the woods with mom” moment, and if he looks close enough, Caswyn will find that he had those moments too. 

Like when Varyn left Aeran to study magical classification once while she and Caswyn went for a trek in the woods around the Spire. It was summer, she could see in the dark, and she’d been living for decades in this place. She taught Caswyn the winding paths around the Spire while they talked for hours about the stars and whatever else. 

They are both Varyn’s sons. 

“She took me on a walk through the woods,” Caswyn says. “Told me what it was like to fly.” A pause. “I sometimes do wish I had her wings. They were beautiful.” 

“I think aeda wings are cool,” Aeran replies. “You’d look great with aeda wings like your crest.” 

“I would not have met you and Varyn, then,” Caswyn shrugs. “I am happy being wingless, in reality.” 

He tries to imagine his life without Varyn and Aeran. Faces of Clan Brynmor’s children are a distant and blurry image, left behind in a life Caswyn doesn’t want to return to. Aeran’s fingers glide over the engraving on the metal cup. Images of Sero and Cenric, either asleep or engrossed in their work, stand in sharp detail as if they were here with him. 

Maybe Caswyn’s gift to the life the Order had given him could be wooden statues. Alas, he doesn’t have enough time to carve them all. 

He’s becoming a Wayfarer in three days. 

And he will decide to forget how Varyn takes Aeran with her to diplomatic missions and not Caswyn. He will decide to forget the inside jokes she shares with Aeran. They’re elves. They will outlive him by decades, if not centuries. He refuses to harbor hurt where joy could take root.

Instead he will remember Sero’s pranks, Varyn’s gentle smiles, sparring with Aeran. Apprentice Brynmor now exists as tomorrow’s relic, forming the altar of Wayfarer Brynmor with all the happiness of a childhood his clan couldn’t really give him. 

Alarani’s bones dig deeper into the earth. 

“Will we have gatherings like this once we’re Wayfarers?” Caswyn asks. “Once we’re back from the road, Aeran and I, I mean.” 

Varyn looks at her cup with an expression Caswyn can’t decode. She then looks at him and reaches out to squeeze his hand just once. “I would be happy to hear of your stories and adventures,” she says softly. 

Aeran laughs and places his own hand on top before Varyn can pull hers away. “Maybe we finally stop sharing the same ones, Cas,” he says with a brilliant smile. 

I recall certain stories I wasn’t here for, Caswyn almost thinks. Instead he just runs his thumb over Varyn’s finger. “It’ll be glorious,” he says, and it feels true. 

He will still carve out those statuettes. He will bring them back as gifts. Aeran and Varyn will be happy to see them. 

The Spire’s kitchen feels like home, after all these years. 

(Years will go by. Aeran and Varyn will see those statues and they will smile and be happy to see them. The kitchen will periodically smell like Vestran wine again.

Years later, the Spire, the kitchen and the statuettes will burn in flames. Elven hands will dig through ashes, soaked in Vestran wine.

But tonight, Caswyn knows he will be happy. At least for a time.)

[iggy-spades]

Uncle Waluigi

Waluigi's always hated kids. But when he takes on a babysitting role for eight kids, they start to change his heart.

not my best work but had a lot of fun

♤◇♧♡

Lemme be clear with you. I hate kids. With the exception of Wario's little sister Apricot, all kids are horrid creatures. But I love money more than I hate kids. So when I saw that Bowser was paying the big bucks to babysit eight kids, I let my greed get the best of me.

I headed to the castle and knocked on the door. I held my tennis racket out in case those little bastards tried anything. And good thing I did, because the big guy with the sunglasses lobbed a fireball my way. I accidentally sniped the light blue one as I returned the serve. Crap. Bowser's gonna be furious.

The kid, miraculously, was okay. Looking back, it makes sense. He's a... what're they called?

"Dragon Koopa." a voice says behind me.

I yelp and turn around. The green one with glasses stands in front of me. Taking his hair into consideration, he's just barely taller than me, but if he were bald like Shades, he'd be shorter than me.

"Sorry to interrupt your narration." he mutters. "I'll just... sorry."

Aw, geez, I was narrating out loud again. It's something I unknowingly do sometimes.

"I'm Iggy. I take it you're the babysitter?" he says in a surprisingly timid voice.

I'm not sure if I trust him. But then again, I don't trust anyone. Besides, he seems a little nervous to engage in small talk. Boy, do I know what that feels like.

"I'm Waluigi. It's... ugh, I hate being polite..."

"Then don't be." Blue, now outside as well, says with a giggle. Are all Dragon Koopa children this sneaky? "We're the Koopalings! We just love being mean!"

Iggy laughs. It's a laugh that's both scary and cute. I can't help but laugh as well. A weird feeling of comfort and belonging washes over me. Maybe this won't be so bad.

"Displeasure to meet you, ya rotten bastards. I'm Waluigi." I respond.

Blue laughs and shakes my hand. He's ready to talk about tennis to me. Normally, I hate when kids ramble on and on, but I love tennis. Maybe I'll listen to Blue's ramblings. Besides, he's, dare I say, not nauseatingly ugly like most kids are.

I enter the castle with Blue and Iggy and am immediately greeted by Shades and four other, what did Iggy call them? Right. Dragon Koopas. Between Blue, Shades, Iggy, and these four Dragon Koopas, there's only seven.

"Hey, where's Bowser's mini-me?" I ask worriedly. I'm not worried about him, of course. I'm worried about my paycheck and possibly my life.

"Junior? He's shy, so he's probably hiding." the one with the bow says.

I sigh relievedly. Thank the stars nothing happened to him. I don't want to be turned into Roasted Waluigi by Bowser.

Blue chuckles and introduces himself, and the other of the Koopalings, as Blue– I mean Larry; had called himself and the others, follow suit, with the exception of Iggy, who had introduced himself already, and Junior, who hasn't shown up yet. Wendy, the one with the bow, had said he's a bit shy, so maybe he's hiding?

Gray seems the most hesitant to introduce himself. Ludwig, the one with a bunch of hair, starts to tell me why, but Morton, as Ludwig had called him, interjects.

"No! Morton worried Purple Guy make fun of him..." Morton exclaims. He gasps and looks towards me. "Morton not mean to say that. Promise you not make fun of Morton speak..."

Listen. I love being a prick, but I have standards. Making fun of Morton's way of talking is low-hanging fruit, and I'm a tall bastard.

"Sure thing, big man."

Morton smiles and reaches his arms out for a hug. Ew. I hate hugs. And Morton looks like he could snap my spine in half. Luckily, Wendy backs me up.

"Hey, Morty, I get that you wanna thank beanpole here, but I don't think he'd be happy if you snapped his spine." she says.

"Right. Morton sorry." Morton apologizes.

Roy, the guy with the shades, turns to me and grins. "That was an excellent return on the fireball. Don't worry about hurtin' Larry, that nerd had it comin'."

"Hey!" Larry shouts.

Iggy suddenly looks around and bolts off. I ask where he's going, but he doesn't answer. I tell the others to stay put, but of course, Lemmy, the smallest, and surprisingly, second oldest, decides to join me. Surprisingly, he's able to keep up. We arrive and see Bowser and Iggy trying to get Junior down from a support beam several stories higher than them. The giant Bowser statue looms over us.

My heart sinks. I never liked the brat, but I don't want him to fall to his death, especially since his father's very overprotective. My life is on the line here.

Wait, Bowser?

"Why–" I begin.

"Junior, get down from there! It's dangerous!" Iggy shouts.

"I'm scared!" Junior shouts back.

"I'll catch you!" Bowser reassures.

"It's too high!"

"Stay still, we'll figure something out!"

"Okay!"

I'm not worn out from my run, but Lemmy's clutching his chest and breathing so hard you'd think he's dying. It must've been a sprint for him and his short legs. Poor guy.

Bowser turns around and sees me and Lemmy. The little Koopaling's still catching his breath, so I pick him up as I approach the king. A little hiss echoes from the ceiling, and a tiny fireball falls down. Bowser blocks it, then glares upwards.

"Junior, once we get you down from there, you're grounded!" he yells.

Iggy turns around and waves. I set Lemmy down and he grins as he hugs his younger brother. Awww.

"You okay, Lems?" Iggy asks.

Lemmy's still catching his breath, so he just nods and puts a thumb up.

Iggy unexpectedly stomps on my foot. Hard. It hurts. I'd always heard the rumors about him, but never really believed them. Guess they were true.

"Your shoe was on fire." he explains. Oh.

I look down and see that my shoe has a scorch mark. The stench of burning leather fills the air. The Koopalings and I cough and fan the smoke from my shoe away.

Apparently Dragon Koopas are resistant to smoke, since Iggy's the first to recover, and Lemmy's the second. Iggy asks if I'm okay. Why is he being so nice? What's his plan?

"My plan..." Iggy says with an annoyed huff. "is to make sure you're alright."

Great, I was monologuing.

"We think you're pretty cool." he continues.

This is a prank. It has to be. Nobody likes me except maybe Wario and his little sister.

"You got me. April Fools." I say with a sad smile.

"It's not a joke!" Iggy snaps angrily. He coughs, then sniffles like he's about to cry. "I recognize your behaviour because I was the same way!"

Iggy trembles and his breathing goes shallow. I should be annoyed with him, but I feel... bad for him.

Junior suddenly slips and falls. Almost instinctively, I jump up, bounce a few meters off of Bowser's head, and catch Junior in mid-air. His spikes dig into me, but that's the least of my worries. His descent slows, and mine speeds up. Bowser catches us and gently sets us down.

The silence is deafening. Even Iggy, who's on the brink of tears, is quiet.

"You... you saved me. Why?" Junior eventually asks.

"Didn't want your dad to kill me." I say. "You okay, ya little brat?"

Junior sobs and hugs me. Ew. I hate hugs. I hate crying kids. And I especially hate when little snot-faced gremlins touch me. So why am I... at peace?

"You're bleeding..." Junior mutters as he suddenly backs away. His bandana and face are stained with blood.

I look down. Seven gashes adorn my torso in a hexagonal fashion. Luckily, the cuts aren't too deep, but it's a bit of a shock.

"That's the least of my worries."

"Stay still, I'm gonna go get Grandpa!" Junior tells me as he runs off.

A few minutes later, an old fart of a Koopa teleports into the room with Junior. He mumbles incoherently, and my wounds heal.

"Sorry for trying to hurt you earlier." Junior says sheepishly.

"Eh, I'm used to it. But why was your dad here anyway?"

Bowser sighs and picks up Junior.

"I didn't really trust you at first, so Kamek and I stayed behind to watch you. But you surpassed our expectations and even put yourself in harm's way to save my son."

"Give yourself some credit, young man. The kids seem to adore you." the old fart (I presume that's Kamek) says.

The kids! Crap! I rush to the hall and find the other five Koopalings calmly doing various activities.

"So how'd it go?" Wendy asks.

"Stressful." I admit.

The kids listen intently as I tell the story. Apparently I was still pretty hard on myself at points.

"Purple Guy– er... Waluigi... not failure! Waluigi save Junior!" Morton says. His beady eyes light up in awe. "That makes Waluigi friend."

Morton thinks of me as a friend...

"Waluigi!" Lemmy shouts. I turn around and see that he's about 15 yards away. I'll never get used to how sneaky Dragon Koopa children are.

"Are you gonna stay for dinner?" he asks.

It's not even 9:00 and the kid's already asking about dinner. I was originally planning on leaving in a few minutes after learning the job was just a ruse, but I think I might stay.

"Eh, why not? Not like I have anything better to do." I say with a shrug.

"Yay!" Lemmy cheers.

~~~

I came there a few months ago looking for gold, and I found it. Both literal gold in the form of payment, and figurative gold in the form of eight horrible little hellions. These kids are ruthless, mannerless brats. And I love that about them.

Apricot's school made it to the tennis finals. Diamond City versus King Koopa. I sit between the two sides, since I'm cheering for both teams. I can't disrespect Appy like that, but I also want to see Lare perform his best.

A familiar Dragon Koopa runs up and leaps into my arms. I catch him and hug him.

"Hey, Wally, who's that?" Apricot asks.

"I'm Larry, leader of the King Koopa Middle School tennis team, Electrodrome DJ, and infamous Koopaling!" Larry shouts excitedly as he squirms from my arms. "Prepare to eat dirt, Diamond City chump!"

Apricot giggles and shakes his hand.

"I'm Apricot, Wario's little sister and leader of the Diamond City Middle School tennis team. Don't get cocky, Koopaling."

The tennis match deals deuces upon deuces as both teams struggle to secure a victory. The referee eventually calls it, leading to the first ever championship tie. Apricot and Larry have smiles that could light up an entire megacity. They excitedly tell me about their tennis match, then run off to their respective siblings.

I think I'm gonna bring her with me next time I visit the Koopalings.

[icy-book]

For @serikyl: "Maybe something soft where Sparrow gets to look after Lark?" "Lark Garcia, my dearest brother, you are an idiot."

This was hardly an unusual sentence to hear in the Oak-Garcia-Swallows household, nor was it a sentiment unique to that household. Lark could point to at least 5 other people who would readily agree, namely his friends and their partners, and there were plenty more beyond that. What was unusual was that for once, it wasn't about him doing something reckless or self-destructive.

No, what had provoked this statement was this: he had been trying to open his medicine with a pair of scissors. The medicine which was in a glass bottle.

Why, you may ask? Because Lark Garcia was sick. And when he was sick, he became very, very stupid.

Fortunately, Sparrow had swooped in and taken the scissors away from him before he could succeed in opening (read: breaking) the bottle.

"Why are you even out of bed?" he asked as he reached up to hide the scissors in a cupboard where Lark couldn't reach. "You should be resting."

"Thirsty. Sick. Wanted to stop being ill, medicine stops you being ill."

It made perfect sense to him, and he didn't understand why Sparrow wouldn't let him have any more.

"Too much medicine makes you more ill. A very common fact that you know. Now, go to bed, you're still burning up."

He grumbled as Sparrow took his hand and led him back up stairs. "How can medicine make you ill? That's dumb. Should make you powerful. Ultra healing. Never get sick again.

Sparrow chuckled, brushing Lark's curls off his forehead to check his temperature again. "Yes, brother, it should. But it doesn't, so let me give you the doses, since I'm the one that can actually read the instructions and listen to them."

The bed felt softer than before as Lark settled in to it. Being sick always made him feel like a grumpy, tired child again, and Sparrow said he acted like one too.

"Anything else you want before I sit down properly again?"

"Sing me a lullaby, please? Like Mama used to."

Sparrow's eyes softened, and normally he would be able to tell exactly what his brother was thinking. But his brain was too cloudy.

He hated being sick. Kept him away from Sparrow.

"Sure. I can do that."

His voice was soft and soothing; he'd always had a lovely singing voice. Lark's eyes fluttered close, lulled to sleep by the melody. He was safe with Sparrow

[worstloki]

SUMMARY:

For this man with whom misfortune followed so eagerly there was nothing more resplendent than foraging ingredients in an abandoned forest. Any bad luck that would strike him would do so regardless, and he was long used to such being the case. Xie Lian poked at a few of the mushrooms and, not finding any strange plumes of dust coming off them, smiled and began to gather some of them up. A soup, he thought, would be warm and filling, and it had been so long since he had eaten! With his sleeves filled with mushrooms and the sound of a tinkling river, Xie Lian happily made his way, toddling along the forest floor in his white robes and bamboo hat. OR: Xie Lian stumbles across one mysterious ghost-fairy after another after wandering down a staircase into a world which doesn’t make much sense - except when it chooses to. (Alice in Wonderland AU with Xie Lian meeting the 4 calamities)

Written as part of the @tgcf-reverse-big-bang in accompaniment to a beautiful artwork by @opossum-art !

[windwheelaspen]

For The Promise Of A Distant Tomorrow

AO3 LINK HERE.

✦ Chapters 1-2 Uploaded.

SUMMARY

“If the people of Teyvat refuse to be responsible adults and take care of their damn children, THEN I’LL GET OVER THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!”

Such was Frey's grand, drunken, tearful declaration to his tiny, cramped, one-bedroom apartment as he got himself blind-drunk on the cheap, odd-tasting wine his absent father had sent over as a graduation gift. Under normal circumstances, the story would have gone on like this: he would pass out, wake up with an excruciating hangover, swear off drinking for the rest of his life, then proceed to live out the rest of his days as a half-down, half-up human being on Earth.

Unfortunately, it seemed that his great proclamation had made quite the impression on the Cosmos, as he was then bound to the “ Making Sunlit Childhood Memories! To Raise Cubs In A Different World ☆ ” System.

(Cub-Raising System for short.)

The Mission: To raise Teyvat’s precious cubs and help them grow to their full potential.

The Meaning: Frey had no clue.

OR

When error after error begins to plague the world of Teyvat, Frey is forced to juggle being a Responsible Adult with uncovering the truth of a world not his own–

— All for the promise of a distant tomorrow.

EXCERPT

[ The Cosmos has decided that you, Host, are the best fit for this System and its mission. ] It stated seriously. [ With the System’s assistance, the Host shall go forth and raise Teyvat’s precious cubs– ]

“Wait,” Frey said, realization striking him like a thunderbolt. “‘Raising cubs’? I’m going to be a dad ?!”

[ That is one way to think of it. ]

“I’m 22!” Frey said, his voice an unnatural few pitches higher. “I just graduated uni! You want me to be responsible for a child ?!”

[ The Host said he would do it. ] Was it just him, or did the System sound vaguely accusing?

“I was drunk !” 

[ Records show that such a phrase is often uttered by scumbags once faced with the consequences of their drunken actions. ] The System said gravely. [ Is the Host a scumbag? ]

Frey was seconds away from falling to his knees. “This is different and you know it!” Was he really fighting a talking ball of light for his honor right now? “Besides, it’s not just about me! Kids need someone old and wise and responsible. Not–” He gestured emphatically to himself. “ Me. ”

— END OF EXCERPT.

AO3 LINK HERE.

[shoesofthefishermanswife]

solve a gramle with me!

a couple weeks ago i finished my linguistics minor and i thought i'd do a very different kind of post and walk you guys through decoding a spectrogram! (mistakes and all)

northern arizona university created their own version of wordle for linguists, called 'gramle,' which gives the player a spectrogram and they have to guess the word being said.

the player types in IPA symbols (which will appear in this post and you can listen to here). they are then told if the sound is wrong, right but in the wrong place, or fully right.

here's a relatively easy one that i solved in 3 guesses:

(unfortunately, i didn't take a screenshot so you'll have to ignore the photo quality and the cursor on the screen. oops!)

for those unfamiliar with spectrograms, this looks pretty unintelligible. spectrograms are a graph of frequency over time, with intensity (or amplitude) of the waves shown via shading. to understand why they're helpful, we need to understand how air moves through your vocal tract:

the airwaves in your vocal tract are composed of many different frequencies of waves, all bouncing around. air moves through your vocal tract and hits different parts depending on the shape. different frequencies of waves are then amplified or dampened by the shape your mouth was in. the frequencies of waves that get amplified the most form dark bars of intensity called "formants." these formants can then give us clues about what shape the mouth was in when the speech sound was made!

in the picture above, we can see several different patterns of darkness and lightness. those are different sounds. in gramle, we are looking for 5 different sounds.

my first step is to identify the borders of the sounds

now that we have the boundaries between the sounds, we are going to try to identify the type of sound they are, aka their 'manner of articulation' (HOW the sounds are made).

here's what we can tell:

this word looks like it has two vowels in it, separated by a period of blankness. this means it will be two syllables.

the period of blankness is clearly a stop

the sound at the end is clearly a fricative

the sound at the beginning is also a fricative, but i guessed that it was an approximant first. (this was silly of me, and we'll get into why in a little bit)

now that we know HOW the sounds are made, we can look for clues about WHERE they're made (place of articulation):

again, here's what we can tell:

both vowels have a big distance between their first and second formant. F1 is low while F2 is high. this means they are high, front vowels. probably they are /i/ or /ɪ/

the formants on either side of the stop are bending downwards. this tells us the sound is probably bilabial, meaning it's produced with two lips. it's probably /p/ or /b/

there is also a completely blank period, meaning there's no voicing bar. (voicing is the vibration of the vocal folds and it shows up as a little bit of low-frequency noise). therefore, we can make an educated guess that the sound is /p/

the fricative has a ton of noise really high in frequency. this means it's a sibilant, a class of s-like sounds that make hissing noises. alveolar sibilants, /s/ and /z/, have higher pitched hissing than their postalveolar counterparts, /ʃ/ and/ʒ/.

(we're ignoring the first sound for now)

here's what i guessed:

(this is the word "lapis")

let's break this down:

because i could not think of a word that used vowel /i/, i went with /æ/ even though i knew it was wrong. this is still a game of wordle after all!

/ɪ/ was correct, but not in the right spot, which means the first vowel must be /ɪ/. because the second vowel is not /ɪ/, it must be /i/

/p/ was correct. yay!

/s/ was not right, which bummed me. I was pretty sure it was an alveolar fricative, but I didn't see a voicing bar. my two strategies were to change my assumptions about place and vocing, changing my guess to either /ʃ/ (voiceless post-alveolar), or /z/ (voiced alveolar)

I thought that the first sound was an approximant because the sound waves seemed more organized than they are for the final sound. approximants are made by resitrcitng airflow, but not so tighly and it does not become nearly as turbulent as the air does in a fricative. I tried /l/ without much strong place evidence.

with some new thoughts, it was time for my second guess. this time, i do not aim for a real word but instead throw some sounds on there to test them.

(this is not a real word, but if it were, it would be spelled ripiche)

we got the vowels confirmed!

/ʃ/ was not the ending. i guessed this because i thought there wasn't a voicing bar, but that can be tricky. a more experienced spectrogram reader would probably guess /z/ before /ʃ/, because the place evidence was stronger than the voicing evidence. but hey, i'm still learning :)

again, i try an approximant. i did not want to pick /w/ as that would create the same labial bend we saw for /p/, and /ɹ/ keeps F1 and F2 relatively in the same spot. the problem here is that it bends F3 a lot, and so I knew it wasn't quite right either. noticing that the sound is actually quite quiet by looking on the waveform, i realize that it's probably a fricative. the absence of a voicing bar also points to a fricative, as English approximants are voiced by default

now i can try again for a real guess:

(the word is "hippies")

i tried /z/ at the end this time and it was correct!

there was not a lot of evidence for the place of the fricative, so once i knew all the other sounds, i tried to see which sound would make a real english word. my best option was /h/, as 'fippies' and 'thipies' aren't words.

/h/ is produced in the glottis, which is the opening in your larynx. there is hardly any constriction when /h/ is made and it's place as a fricative is sometimes debated. because of this, it make sense that there weren't any strong place cues.

and with that we solved the gramle!

i hope to grow better at these and maybe be able to walk you all through a harder one! thank you for reading :)

[crimmcakes]

Trent Crimm wakes up from surgery. Ted Lasso is there.

--------

Words: 3029

Rating: Teen audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Ted Lasso, Trent Crimm

Relationships: Trent Crimm & Ted Lasso

Additional Tags: Fluff, Hospitals, waking up from anaesthetic, warnings for talks of procedures, minor talk of pain, but i promise it's just silly and light hearted, set somewhere at the beginning of season 3, more friendship than romance, but obv it's always tedtrent romance too, no beta we die like earl greyhound, Ted Lasso being Ted Lasso, Trent going through the mortifying ideal of being perceived, and speedrunning every emotion under the sun, Trent Crimm needs a hug, always

[astorichan]

In My Dreams You're Gone | 31 - i look inside myself and see my heart is black

Work summary:

The Void had been still for an amount of time unthinkable, the being able to unite it fallen so long ago.

Its stillness breaks when a small shade rejects its call, refuses to merge with it and lay to rest, instead pushing its resolve onto the sea.

Fix it. Save them, it demands, and something answers.

Something stirs deep within; something meant to be forgotten awakens; something powerful beyond anything Hallownest has known in its entire existence heeds the call, throwing the vessel and itself both into a time long lost.

Mere weeks before the Sealing, a wounded vessel staggers out of the Temple.

Chapter summary:

The Pale King and Grimm make a discovery. Ghost realises their mistake.

Characters:

The Pale King, Grimm, Ghost, White Lady, Hornet

Author's notes:

l o r e

[enjoythesilentworld]

sunday snippet :)

if you havent seen it already go read the little teaser from the incredible @pagegirlintraining, but also here is some more from the 'fucking finally' chapter of the so dubbed hostel boys fic! (cut for nsfw reasons)

Wille felt all three weeks crawl up the back of his spine again until he was making desperate sounds and trying to put his hands all over every inch of Simon all at once.

He was unbelievably hard again, and Simon wasn’t close enough, but seemed to feel it just as much as Wille. 

“Wille.” Simon’s fingernails dug into Wille’s chest, little red lines he would gently run his fingers over later. 

“Simon.”

They moved together, Wille arching up into Simon and Simon’s spine curving under Wille’s hands. If the aircon was still going, Wille couldn’t feel it. If the hotel room was still standing around them, Wille couldn’t feel it. All there was, all that mattered, was Simon’s tongue soothing along his top lip, Simon’s hands tugging at his hair, Simon’s cock rubbing up alongside his. All that mattered was the immense heat, the harsh breaths, was Simon asking, “Do you want to fuck me?” 

“I—Yes. Fuck. Of course,” Wille stuttered, trying to get his brain to function enough to confirm to Simon that, yes, he did want that. Very much, in fact. 

[a-concert-just-for-me]

Bi(r)ds

11/24/23 Tw: Blood

Doctors John and Julie Gottman, couples specialists of the Gottman Institute, invented an interesting theory of how humans connect with one another. They describe humans’ attempts to connect as “bids for connections.”

A bid for connection is “an attempt to get attention, affection, and/or acceptance."

It makes sense.

When in a logical mood, one can understand how important the call and response nature of bids are as the building blocks of trust. Humans are no different from birds singing the other half of a melody to join each other in holy bird matrimony.

But the other times, when you’re sitting alone—When there’s no other metaphorical dumbass bird to sing back to you—these constant, easy transactions you see between others blind your sight and fill you with misplaced rage.

You see bids in the way your friends hold hands with their partners; in the way their lips curl up in amusement as they make the unspoken decision to sit even closer to one another

You see bids when you’re out shopping alone; in the way you watch parents hold car doors open for their own parents

You see bids when children are skipping down wet sidewalks; in the way they never stray too far from their mother’s worried hand

You see bids when girls look at each other and laugh about jokes only they understand; in the way they take photos of one another to preserve their experiences onto film

(Why can’t you have that?)

(What’s wrong with you?)

Let’s go back to birds. Birds are easier than humans.

Have you ever heard of the Kauaʻi ʻōʻō bird?

Maybe not. They’re gone now. They were left behind as humans destroyed their land.

(They don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, it seems)

But for a while, there was one left, holding out hope.

The senior scientist that recorded his last call on tape stated "He is the last male of a species singing for a female who will never come."

How awful it must have been to have kept singing and singing,

Only to be met with silence.

One can only imagine that when the scientists came by to record him,

He’d gotten his hopes up that someone would finally hear him

And do something about it

But nothing came of it

They could listen, but what could they do, really? The forest wasn’t built for him. Not anymore, at least.

(It was his problem, in the end.)

Again, the fact was, there was no one left like him. Or maybe there was?

After all, that was the hope he was clinging to as he broke the silence night after night

(You bet the other animals grumbled at his chatter)

Maybe his kin was just on the other side of the world, across oceans, across groves of forests, across crumbling civilizations

(Maybe he could find her?)

But this meant nothing to him if she was out of reach, didn’t it? If she was alive, she was impossible to find. She probably didn’t even need him. She could adapt. She could find a different singer. One that could be closer to her than the male could dream to be.

He didn’t know how to adapt.

(You wonder if his voice ever wavered)

(You know that yours has)

Enough about birds.

The term ‘bids for connection’ actually reminds most of a community event humans call auctions.

If bidding for connection could be likened to your blink-and-you’ll-miss-it attempts at dumping your thoughts in walls of text online

Then bids for connection on your end haven’t been going well for a while.

One would think from the way you’re always the one left in the empty auction hall with a fistful of dollar bills

That you’d make better choices than to raise your hand and make a pathetic offer.

But nowadays something in you smartens up the second your hand is even glanced at

You crumple the money and throw it on the floor before they get the chance to call out your bid

You reel the spark of courage back in; as you wind it back around the bobbin in your chest, it becomes dyed with blood-red shame.

It’s okay. Maybe the psychiatrists and therapists will be the ones to clinically listen to you cry and take pity on you.

They can listen, but what can they do, really? The world isn’t built for you. Not anymore, at least.

(It is your problem, in the end.)

You don’t know how to adapt.

The Gottmans describe the responses to bids for connection as “turning towards, turning against, and turning away.”

When in a neutral mood, one can recognize that just because most turn away, or in layman’s terms, ignore you, it doesn’t mean everyone will.

But when you can’t take it anymore and impulsively act on your hope, you smash your hand through the frosted pane you view the world through. Retract it. Peek through the hole you made. Snarl at your moment of weakness. Turn away. Look back. See the blood running down the glass.

(You hope that someone sees it. You fantasize of someone seeing it. Maybe they’d wonder if you’re okay. Maybe they’d come looking for you.)

(Or maybe they wouldn’t. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing.)

(You need to get a rag to clean it up.)

(You need to stomp the tape recorder into the fucking grass.)

And isn’t that just like you?

Always

Bidding

and

(hiding)

Calling

and hearing

(silence)

[physicallyimprobable]

Oh you fool. You should not have brought up numerical bases while responding to one of my posts. Now you must face the consequences: Exposition. Sorry to everyone who was excited about the number schtick but we've gotta talk about divisibility now.

Okay so first let's bring everyone up to speed. What do we mean by handling divisibility? We mean that, given a number, we can tell whether or not that number is divisible my some given digit.

It's easy to check if a number is divisible by five just by looking at the last digit: 0 and 5 mean divisible by five, anything else means it isn't. 10025 is divisible by five but 109539 is not. This is because five divides ten.

It's easy to check if a number is divisible by three just by adding the digits; if the sum is divisible by three then so is the original number. 55698 → 33 is divisible by three but 35810 → 17 is not. This is because three divides nine, which is one less than ten.

It's easy to check if a number is divisible by eleven just by adding every other digit and subtracting the remaining digits; if the difference is divisible by eleven then so is the original number. 25971 → 12–12 = 0 is divisible by eleven but 269853 → 16–17 = -1 is not. This is because eleven divides eleven, which is one more than ten.

These tricks work in general for any number that is equal to, one less than, or one more than, the base that we are considering. It also works for the divisors of those numbers, and for the products of those divisors. This is a lot to think about so I made a computer do the thinking for me with some quick python code which spat out a list that I could copy-paste into Desmos.

This is a plot of numerical bases from 2 to 64, where the height is the percentage of numbers less than the base for which there is an easy divisibility test. As we can see, bases 2 through 6 pass with a perfect score (and in particular base 6 reigns supreme as it usually does), but if we for some inexplicable reason want a base higher than six, base ten gets... a bronze metal!

So, base ten is not really the superior number system in this regard, although it is better than twelve. Base fourteen is actually the gold medalist of the non-perfect scores, being both right above a prime and right below a semiprime. But base ten is even beaten out by its close neighbor, the silver medalist,

which is base eleven.

wait no I wasn't planning to continue the pattern hang on wait

I miss the world before AI image generation

Secondly, I also miss the world where AI image generation was just incoherent blobs and obvious fakes

Thirdly, I miss when I had a spark in my eye

[black-quadrant]

sometimes all you need is one passionate person who goes berserk for your work to keep you creating

[anna-scribbles]

old doodles from the archives 🫶