#u CAN unsee it

[lchariott]

p4 kakyoin brainrot

[homochadensistm]

Why does Assad look like a Skyrim NPC

Gshdhfjsjkakf he's got that high elf build

[furiosophie]

"I have read Twilight," Morpheus says some months later and Hob nearly spits out his sandwich.

can’t promise forever (but i’m working on it)

by furiosophie 

[read on ao3]

ship: dream of the endless | morpheus/hob gadling

words: 8339, completed 

tags: crack treated too seriously, hurt/comfort, fluff, a bit of angst bc ofc there is, slow burn, literal sleeping together, just that morpheus doesn't technically sleep, hob is trying very hard to figure out what morpheus actually is and somehow his reference of choice is twilight by stephenie meyer, morpheus on his part is not making it easier for him, this fic only works bc i headcanon that hob went to therapy at least once, not beta read we die like hob's son (going out swinging), morpheus talk about ur feelings instead of finding exceedingly dramatic ways to storm off challenge

[solvevi]

magnetic robot arm besties

[chocolate-cream-soldier]

:/

[trollbreak]

Once again offering to show y’all my gnarly spine X-rays bc apparently that’s how I cope it’s wild that my bones just grew like that

[eames-with-a-rose]

Thanks to everyone im seeing Eloong moask face instead of Edward Norton

[kingsnack-moved]

i can’t be tamed by miley cyrus is s1 steve coded. more specifically the beginning lyrics and no i will not be taking any questions.  For those who don't know me I can get a bit crazy Have to get my way yep Twenty four hours a day 'Cause I'm hot like that Every guy, everywhere just gives me mad attention Like I'm under inspection I always get a ten 'cause I'm built like that I go through guys like money flying out the hands They try to change me but they realize they can't And every tomorrow is a day I never plan If you're gonna be my man understand

[chaotictomtom]

:3 im so so happy for the stacklands updaaate heeeheee having so much fun getting back to this game!!! brrrrrr automating everything brrrrrr new stuff yipee yipee yipee new content!!!!!

[kpopnstarwars]

NO NEED FOR ME TO HIDE🙏🏾🙏🏾

Bestie, are you going to continue Atonement universe?🥺 I am very curious on how their interactions could look like in the future, now that they have an accurate understanding of their intents

A/N: U ASKED JUST THE RIGHT QUESTION MY FAVOURITE BUNNY, but bc im evil i've made this into a bunch of feyd headcanons even tho no one asked

tw: 18+, smut headcanons (switch feyd ladies and gents), cannibalism (by the harpies), i dropkick everyone with feyd's trauma, therefore mentions of sa and pedophilia (fuck you vladimir), 'who did this to you' because man if that's not one of the yummiest things ever, nightmares, children and pregnancy, also sterility, swearing somewhere probably,

wc: 2.3k

part 1 (this can be read as a stand alone, it's just feyd headcanons)

feyd does everything he can to make up for how he treated you in the first months of your marriage

you assure him that it's fine, that he doesn't have to beat himself up over what he has done, but you still notice the pain in his eyes when he looks at you

he hovers close to you at all times, keeping a hand at the small of your back or pulling you close into his side

it's a strange process, only getting to know your husband in the fourth month of your marriage, but it's a process that you treasure

you'll ask him silly things from his favourite food to his opinions on the carvings on the table over there whenever the questions occur to you

it's late at night, while he's gently cleaning you up after sex or holding you tightly in his arms, your head tucked under his chin, when he tells you the deeper, more painful things

the grief in his voice is so raw as he describes to you how his uncle pitted him and rabban against each other from a young age, how his childhood was stolen from him - you ache for him, for the things that were taken from him before he could even fight for them

you find out about his nightmares soon after that - not because he tells you, but because one happens

you suspect there was something he wasn't quite ready to tell you, but you didn't press; no hands have handled feyd's heart the way he lets you, and you're determined to honour that privilege

a storm howls outside, and you think that the rumbles of thunder were what woke you

you turn over and realise it's feyd, his features contorted with fear even in his sleep, eyes rolling under the lids as he trembles, broken pleas leaving his lips

all you catch is a 'don't' and a 'please, uncle'

something cold slithers down your spine

touching his face, you grab his shoulder, shaking him, whispering his name, trying to wake him gently

a tear leaks down his cheek, and a meek sound leaves him, ripping your heart in two - you need to wake him up, free him from this dream

'feyd.'

his eyes snap open, and in them, you clearly see the expression of a trapped, cornered animal

you say his name again, and he looks at you sharply, unseeing

he's awake and yet somehow he's still trapped in the nightmare; he wraps his hands around your throat, and you gasp, nails digging into his forearms in an effort to wake him up

with precious air, you rasp out his name again, and he blinks, slowly gaining consciousness

his face crumples when he finds his hands around your neck

distress limns his features as he backs away from you, shaking his head, horrified by his own doing

your head spins with lack of air but you reach out to him, refusing to let him slip away - you snare him in your arms, hold him tightly, kiss his face

he doesn't move, afraid to hurt you

you pull back to stare him in the eyes

'i'm okay. i am okay. you hear me, feyd? i'm fine. i'm not hurt.'

he buries his face in your shoulder and when you feel hot tears on your skin, rage simmers and seethes, wrathful in your chest

'who did this to you?'

your voice is dripping with fury; he shakes with a sob, and you run your hands up and down his back, trying to soothe him and the anger inside you

eventually, he calms, and you tilt his face up, gently wiping the tears off his cheeks, waiting

he holds out his arms again, and you oblige him, letting him hide his face in your shoulder as he tells you the substances of his nightmares - memories of the baron, eyes rabid, hands reaching, and it makes you tremble with rage

you crush feyd in your grip, and he clings onto you, his eyes wet, letting you anchor his drowning spirit

the two of you fall asleep twined together, feyd cradled in your embrace

in the morning, you cup his face in your hands and tell him that you will protect him, fight for him, love him until your blood stills in your veins

one of the first thing feyd does is dismiss his harpies from their duties

originally, he was going to get rid of them permanently, but you convinced him not to, telling him you wanted to meet them

to be honest, feyd didn't really understand (he thought you wanted to 'use' them for a bit and was kind of taken aback until you reassured him you just wanted to talk to them)

he stayed in the room anyways, knowing that his harpies could be jealous, but he had nothing to fear

all you do is chat to them, and in the same way you charmed him, you charm them

feyd marvels at the way you reach out to them and connect with them with so much ease, laughing and joking with them, complimenting their pretty eyes and tattoos as if they are your long time friends

from then on, they are no longer feyd's harpies, but yours

they accompany you around the palace and sometimes to court

the latter causes quite a stir; none of the nobles can make sense of why the na-baron's feral cannibal troupe are now dressed in fine clothing and following the na-baronness around

you enjoy their company - they brighten your day considerably, and are not afraid to make remarks a little too loudly in front of nobles

you have to hide your laughter when one of them comments on the scruffy facial hair of the duke addressing feyd, even more so when he stares at them wide eyed, a little fearful of them

in a way, they protect you and you protect them

if a noble approaches you with disrespect, they'll joke loudly among themselves about the taste of his flesh

in the same way, if someone makes a snide remark of their presence, you're quick to challenge it

the perplexed look on feyd's face amuses you to no end when he realises they prefer you now

feyd and the harpies teach you about harkonnen culture

feyd especially tells you stories about how he hunted on forests long cut down when he was a boy, and you love to listen to him, watching his face and drinking in the softer, nostalgic tone in his voice

he shows himself to you in little ways

feyd complains to you about the nobles in the court, how he hates their decorum and their entitlement

he talks to you for hours about different fighting forms, occasionally getting up to demonstrate them to you, and you marvel at the accuracy and fluidity of his movements

he takes you to his favourite parts of giedi prime, shows you the volcanoes and the less polluted parts of the capital city

he tells you the story of every scar on his body, and you find yourself captivated by the look in his eyes as he recalls a good fight

he whispers on your skin promises - promises of love, sweet on his tongue but never cloying, always true

in turn he asks you about your old life, about your home planet and your family

you answer happily, loving the way his eyes follow you, their blue tone becoming your favourite colour

you tell him about the time you visited to see him fight, how you saw the fire within him even then, and he chuckles, enthralled by the idea that even when the two of you were too young to really comprehend what your arranged marriage meant, you were still drawn to each other

he tells you how when he raised his knife, victorious, he spotted you in the crowd - a small girl, her back ram rod straight - and thought you were the sweetest thing he'd ever laid his eyes on

not that you seemed breakable to him; no, he thought you were formidable, too, not even bothering to hide your frown in an arena of cheering, happy faces

it felt right that he would marry a woman who wasn't afraid of him

feyd teaches you how to fight

he delights in the way you grow so bold with him, delivering snarky remarks if he teases you, rising to meet everything he throws at you

you're a good fighter - unpredictable in your moves - and he's immeasurably proud that he was the one who taught you

sometimes, once you're good enough to duel, you'll end up staggering to the nearest somewhat secluded area to fuck

now that you know you're not alone, you're so confident of yourself, confident in the electrifying look in your eyes and confident in the way you make him beg

feyd never thought he'd like to give up control, but with you it's addicting

he trusts you

he lets you ravage him, lets you use him until he's spent, panting, thighs shaking, knowing that you would let him do the same - knowing that you do let him do the same

there's something so raw about letting himself go in your touch

his head spins when you tie him up, your deft fingers checking the knots and tightening the bindings across his torso, making art with his skin as the canvas

feyd is addicted to you in every aspect

he can't get enough of your pussy; he'd spend hours between your legs, pulling sounds out of you that you didn't know you could make

he thinks that the closest he's ever come to heaven is when he's buried balls deep in your cunt while you beg him harder, faster

A/N: i couldn't choose between these two scenarios so have both

EITHER after almost a year, you begin to wonder why you haven't pregnant

especially with the way feyd fucks you

so you seek the help of a doctor - the test results come back a week after, accusatory, damning

you're sterile

your first reaction is to tell feyd, but once you find yourself face to face with him, his gaze concerned as he holds your waist, you can't tell him

you just fall into his arms, staying your tears, doubts crawling into your skull and gnawing at the edges of your mind

you can't give him an heir

there's no way around it

what if he takes a concubine? what if he realises you serve no purpose to him? what if he stops loving you?

feyd doesn't pry about the tests results until the next day when he finds you in the shower, hands trembling and head bowed

he tips your chin up so he can look you in the eye

'tell me what troubles you, my love.'

so you do, with his fingers curled around your waist, the shower water running over your skin

he kisses you once you finish, and it tears at his heart the way you're looking up at him, trying to hide the worry in your eyes as you wait for his reply

feyd doesn't mince his words when he tells you that he doesn't care if you cannot give him an heir, that all he asks of you is to let him love you - it's then that the tears fall, and he kisses them away, holding you close to him

you grieve for the children you can never have, but feyd remains by you, almost supernatural with the way he senses your pain

your gaze might fall upon one of the servant's children, causing an ache in your heart, and within a few seconds his fingers will twine with yours and he'll tuck you into his side, kissing your hair

OR you have twins: one girl, one boy

the girl is three minutes older than the boy

feyd is obssessed with your pregnant body; he always has his hands on you in some way

he gets more protective, if that's possible

sometimes he lies between your thighs, his palms spread over your stomach as he talks to the two of them, and the softness and wonder in his eyes brings a warmth to your chest

feyd is with you when you feel the first contraction and promptly carries you to the midwives

he lets you crush his hand in your grip as you give birth to the lives you've made together, wiping the sweat off your forehead and quietly encouraging you

the first time you hand them to him to hold, he's hesitant, hands fluttering over you as he figures out what to do, but he's a fast learner

there's a fierce protective glint in his eyes when he cradles them in his arms, one that you glimpse when he looks at you too, and within it there's a deep, pure joy

he teaches them how to fight, and yet he's still so gentle with them, laughing as they giggle and cling to him, one latched onto each leg

the girl is how you'd imagine feyd was as a boy: half feral, yet charming when she wants to be, while the boy is a little calmer, more unflappable, and happy to entertain his sister's mischievous endeavours

both love the harpies, and there have been multiple times when you walk in on the twins gaping wide eyed at the harpies as they regale them with old tales

sometimes, feyd will scoop them up, one in each arm, so they can reach up and give you a little kiss on the cheek before he pecks your lips

you think it's beautiful, the family that you've made with him

feyd loves the way you look at him, with that mischief in your eyes, as if you're sharing a secret with him

he loves your sweet laughter, the softness in your hands when you touch him and how you don't shy away from protecting him, defiant even in his uncle's presence

he knows he would kill for you, die for you - he'd do anything for you

you would do the same: it makes feyd's head fuzzy, when you get so fiercely protective over him, placing your hand on his shoulder as you glare at the baron, lacing your words with venom when you address him

you'd stop at nothing, just to protect his honour

when you're after something, nothing stands in your way, and yet you can handle him with such soft, gentle hands, banishing his nightmares with the light tracing of your fingertips on his back

feyd heals in your presence, and you grow in his

your love is eternal

[lewisyellowhelmet]

freefall (pt 2)

lewis hamilton x mercedes engineer!reader

read part 1 here !!

summary: You and Lewis have let this go on too far, and for too long. (You are an engineer for Mercedes on Lewis’ side of the garage).

content: 18+!!!! general m/f sex acts. coworker relationship. let me know if u want anything else flagged!

You wake cold. The hotel air conditioning has kicked on during the night, a familiar whir in the ceiling, and in your sleep you’ve pulled the covers up around your chin in an attempt to keep your body warmth in. It takes a few circulations of the room for you to find the off switch for the air-con. 

After, you stand against the big window until your alarm goes off, warm breath making a condensation cloud against the glass. You’re in Baku. No. Budapest. Budapest. You’ve been in this hotel before, you’ve seen this view. You have to close your eyes when the surge of memories come. The sound of Lewis singing to himself in the shower. His warm arm over your belly while you slept. Leaning over graphs together to try and figure out how to be faster, how to be better. Your iPhone is ringing, vibrating, morning alarm. The room is still cold. 

You get to the engineers room before Lewis does. It’s rained overnight, the track wet, the air brisk. Endless emails await you. The cars not right. Nothing is right. A headache is pulsing at your temples. Your coffee is cold before you remember to drink it. Others work around you. Recently, you’ve begun having this urge, strong and gripping, to stand up and be wild, to yell and scream. We were in love. We were in love and no one knew. I sacrificed that to give us another go at a championship and now you can’t even get the fucking car to work? 

  You have to close your eyes and practice box breathing until it passes. When you lift your head again, Lewis is moving around your desk to go into Toto’s office. He doesn’t look at you.

—

It has been a year. A hard year. You’d left the hotel room, left him, feeling on the verge of insanity. Lewis had let you go without much of a fight. It felt like his confession, his acceptance, had drained all his energy. Somewhere silent and hidden behind your heart, you wish he’d fought harder. Having to pretend nothing had happened in front of your co-workers was gut wrenching. Sleeping alone was worse. The break between seasons had helped, a forced separation, different cities, but now, in the thick of a new calendar, a new year, you were constantly turning corners and bumping into him. You couldn’t go back to the friendship you’d had before. And you couldn’t go forward into a new, adjusted working relationship. There was only a sense of coldness, of formality. No way forward, no way back. Only this compounding sense of dread, anticipating the next interaction. 

  Toto’s assistant sticks her head out of the office while you’re gazing unseeing at the screens in front of you, calling for you. Your bones feel stiff and unwilling as you unfold yourself, follow her into the small room. Lewis is sitting in front of the desk, one knee pulled up, gives you a polite smile upon your entrance. Toto is leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep thinking. There are no chairs for you. You hover behind Lewis, and refuse to think about reaching out, touching the back of his neck, smoothing your fingers into his hair. 

  Generic meeting. A summary of free practice, and then qualifying from the day before. Plans for the day. Any new ideas? Any solutions? Your headache is getting stronger. No solutions. 

  Lewis holds the door open for you when the meeting is over, and you can smell him as you move past. Familiar cologne. He used to laugh when you buried his face in his neck, sniffed over-dramatically, pretending to be a curious dog. He’d wriggled from the sensation, your tickling mouth, pressing nose. Pretended he didn’t like it, but always made sure to wear your favourite smell everyday anyway. 

  You need paracetamol. Too late you realise he’s following you to hospitality, where the first aid kit is stored. He is a step behind, lagging, despite easily being able to match your pace. You feel the gap keenly, an open wound. 

—

The over-ear headphones drown out the noise of the garage. This, at least, you can do. Go through the motions of race day, a familiar rhythm. Positioned on your stool in front of your screens, the microphone against your mouth, the final, tenuous connection between you and Lewis. A direct line between you and him. You go through the regular checks together, safety, engine, ensuring the connection is clear. The cars roar. The adrenaline pounds. 

  “Ready?” You ask. 

  “Ready.” 

You chew on the inside of your mouth so you don’t say, be safe, be careful. The lights flash down. The engines rev. The job begins. 

—

The air conditioning is on again in the hotel room. They’ve been in to change the sheets, the towels, vacuumed. You feel stupid with fatigue, with loneliness, with missing him. The after-race meetings had dragged. Lewis was tired. The atmosphere was tense. You want to sleep for ten years, but there is a plane to catch first thing tomorrow morning. There are spirits in the mini-fridge, ice clear and beckoning. You drink two in the shower, and another in front of BBC World News on the television. Are you dreaming? Is this real life? The gin gives everything a foggy haze. Your steps are unsteady. You sit in bed and scroll through yours and Lewis’ text threads. Room numbers. Memes. Inside jokes texted under the table during long meetings. You manage to convince yourself its a mistake when you tap through to his contact number, watch it dial, ring through. Listen to the connecting sound, hear him say, “hello?” before you realise what’s happened, what you’ve done, what rule you’ve broken. You hang up. Hot panic. The newsreader is talking about weather. Lewis is calling back, already, and you watch it ring out. You feel frozen by horror. The room is so cold, and the fridge is worse as you reach in, tiny bottles clinking together. Vodka this time. Forget, forget, forget. 

There’s someone knocking on the door. You manage to get yourself into a hotel issued robe, pull it tight, before you get into the small hallway, fumble with the handle, get the door open. You swear, and Lewis has to reach out to stop you closing the door again. 

  “Are you alright?” He asks. 

  “Yes,” you insist. 

  “You called me.” 

  “Did I? It must have been a mistake.”

Your voice sounds fake, even to you, the laugh reedy and broken. 

  “Are you drunk?” Lewis asks. 

  “No,” you lie. 

He drops his arm from where it was holding open the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a worn grey hoodie. One you used to wear to go make the coffee in the morning. You can tell from the softness of his expression he’s been recently asleep. You should shut the door now. Block him out again. Go to bed. Instead, you feel yourself start to cry, building in your chest, the tightness in your throat, burning in your eyes. 

  “Babe,” he says, so sad, so concerned, and the sob you emit is embarrassing and loud. You have to let go of the door to cover your face, feeling your back curve over. Lewis is gentle about coming inside, guiding you to the bed, tucking you in. He brings you a glass of water, makes you have three big sips. You’re still crying, childlike, red faced and snotty. He passes you tissues, strokes your hair. 

  “I’m sorry,” you start to say, even as he shushes you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “Everything’s okay.” 

You feel as if the world is ending. Crying like this in front of him. Drunk and messy. And the room is so fucking cold. 

  “Can you,” you stumble, wriggling over in the bed, throwing open the covers, “I’m really cold.” 

He says your name the way he used to say it, warm and intimate, a nickname. Like a lover. Like a partner. 

  “Are you sure?” He asks, even as you’re reaching out for him, dragging him in. 

  “Please,” you say, “I’m cold.” 

He tastes salty when you kiss him, your own tears on his mouth. He makes a wounded sound, but then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest, his leg over yours. You feel held, sheltered. He lets you kiss him again, deeper, better. 

  “I’m sorry,” you say again, when you need to breathe, and he’s smiling, warm eyes, smoothing you hair off your face. 

  “It’s okay,” he repeats, “Whatever you need.” 

Your hands are fists in his hoodie, “I need you.” 

  “How do you need me?”

  “Like this,” you whisper, lips brushing his, taking his hand to slip into your robe, over your breast. He sighs out a breath as his fingers touch your nipple, swipe over it again so you make a small, wanting noise. 

  It feels dreamlike, a long awaited thing. A rush, almost, to get out of your robe, Lewis out of his own clothes so you can sling a leg over his waist, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he pushes into you, his big hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him. Rasping breaths, the sudden heat of two bodies working together, the length of him inside you, pushing deep. It feels instinctual, animalistic, breathing him in, trying to remember everything, compartmentalise every second, every touch, every groan. Lewis rolls you onto your back, but stays close, his mouth finding yours, sharing breath as he grinds into you. You come quickly, nothing controlled, grasping at him and panting, shaking through it. Lewis holds himself there, lets you shudder and cry out, pulsing around him. His eyes are dark and liquid, but he keeps watching you, like he’s trying to remember as well, be present for everything. You don’t want this to ever end. When you can breathe again, he returns to his rythym, steady knocks of his hips into yours, the rush of his breath, of his body. His face drops into your neck when he finishes, hands gripping you like he will never let go again. You feel new, hot tears leak down your face as you hold him. 

—

You wake warm, this time. You’re curled around yourself, a child, with Lewis aligned to your back, his face against your spine, his arm over you, protecting you. You’re facing the window, curtains left open, blinking at an apartment building, holding hundreds of different lives, different bedrooms, different people. Lewis is still asleep, you can tell from the steadiness of his breath, the sleep-weight of his body over yours. You place your hand over his, interlinking knuckles. The more you wake up, the more you feel embarrassed, shame curdling in your belly. He’s done this out of pity. How gross, to call him, drunk, drag him into bed with you, to beg. You feel overheated, suddenly, untangle yourself from him, slip out of the covers and into the bathroom, pulling the sliding door to encase yourself in the marble and glass. Your eyes are swollen from crying. You mouth is bruised pink from him. There are fingertip bruises on your waist from where he’s held you. You have to sit on the lip of the built in tub so you don’t throw up, or start crying again. You haven’t washed your hair in a few days, and it hangs limp around your fingers, head in your hands, again. Hiding. Wanting to disappear. Your hangover makes you tremble. You’ve failed. You failed years ago, when you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him for the first time. You failed again when you turned your back on him. And now, to be so weak, to force him to do this again, to look after you. 

  The bathroom door slides open. Lewis is in your robe, tight around his shoulders. You try to smile at him, but even without seeing you know it’s more of a grimace. 

  “I don’t know what to say,” you tell him, raking your hands through your hair, “I’m just so, so sorry.” 

  “You said that a lot last night.” 

Lewis doesn’t move any further into the room. Stays in the doorway. Watches. Witnesses. 

  “I can’t believe I. I’m so embarrassed.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t be.” 

  “Lewis,” you’re speechless. What is there to say? How to apologise? To take back? 

  “Look,” he spreads his hands, surrender, “We don’t have to talk about it. It never happened.” 

  “Never happened,” you echo. Vomit threatens. Never happened. 

  “If that’s what you want,” Lewis says. 

You’re nodding, looking down at your bare feet on the tiles, “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

  The silence makes you want to scream. Just to break it. You can hear your heartbeat in your head. A constant pound. You stay there, on the edge of the bathtub, while he gets dressed. He doesn’t look in on his way out. The door shuts with a finality. 

—

You fly to Oxford. He flies to Monaco. You don’t speak. 

—

It happens in the middle of the night. The off season. When you check your phone for the first time the next morning, waiting for the kettle to boil, you have so many missed calls your phone has stopped counting them. The photos are blurry, but it’s obvious if you know what you’re looking for. Through a small window in the door of your office. In the first one, you’re just laughing together, the second you are reaching for his hand, the final one you are in his lap, your mouth hidden by his, Lewis’ big hands in your hair. You’re still staring at them when he calls. He does’t say anything when you pick you. You just breathe, together, for a long moment. 

  “So it happened,” you finally say. 

  “It happened,” he agrees. 

  “I haven’t spoken to anyone else yet. I just woke up,” you say. 

  “Don’t,” he says, “I’m going to fly in this afternoon. We’ll have a meeting with the publicists. Toto wants HR there, as well.” 

  “Fuck.” 

You hesitate, and then, “Was Toto mad?”

  “He wasn’t happy. He reckons Susie knew and didn’t tell him.” 

  “Where did the photos come from?”

  “Ex-employee, they think. Was waiting for the right time.” 

  “And now is the right time?” You can hear the edge of hysteria in your voice. 

  “I’m really sorry,” Lewis says. 

  “It’s not your fault.” 

  “I’m still sorry.”

You need to boil the kettle again, tea forgotten. You realise you're gripping the kitchen bench so hard your knuckles have gone white. You let go. You look out over the garden, crisp with morning frost. Christmas soon. You’ll have to explain to your family. 

  “Did Toto say anything about my job?” You ask, feeling sick at the thought. 

  “No. I said if he fired you, I would quit.” 

  “Don’t be stupid.” 

  “I’m not.” 

There’s quiet again. You flick the kettle on.

  “I think it’s good if we come in together. We can plan what we want to say. I can pick you up from your house,” he says. 

  “Alright.” 

  “Don’t answer any numbers you don’t know, okay? Media might call.”

  “Really? I was just gonna pick up strange numbers all day,” you say, a bite in your tone. Lewis laughs though, an amused huff. 

  “You’re right, sorry. I’m control-freaking.” 

You hum an agreement. 

  "I’ll see you soon, then,” he says. 

  You suddenly have a fierce urge not to let him end the call, to let his voice anchor you. 

  “Alright,” you say, and hang up first. 

—

The meeting is awful, of course. People are panicking. Toto scolds. You go silent. Lewis rages. In the end, the core group sits silent around a meeting table. The most promising solution is to paint it as star-crossed lovers, meant to be, soulmates. Refusing to be kept apart by jobs and contracts. This would be perfect, perhaps, if you were still together. 

  “Could you pretend? Until it died down,” Toto had said. 

  “No,” you’d snapped, speaking over Lewis’, “It depends what she wants.” 

Now, the silence is stale, nothing left to say, but no agreement reached. Your eyes prick with fatigue. 

—

Lewis drives you home. When he pulls into the driveway, you’re too tired to get out of the car. There is a light on inside. Your mum must be here, checking in on you. Has heard somehow, which must mean it's on the internet.

  “How are you feeling?” Lewis asks, when you make no move to open the door. 

  “Tired,” you say, “You?”

  “Sad.” 

It’s unconscious, reaching to to touch his leg, an urge to comfort. He sighs. The muscle of him is warm through his jeans. 

  “If this had happened a year ago,” he starts, and stops, shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter.” 

  “If it happened a year ago, what?” You say. He shrugs. 

  “Everything might have turned out okay.” 

You turn your face from him, look out the window into the dark street. It makes your heart throb painfully to see him. You can’t speak through a thick, swollen throat. 

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say it,” you finally manage to whisper. Your hand is still on his thigh. 

  “Didn’t say what?" 

You close your eyes, lean to rest your forehead on the car window with a thunk. 

  “Didn’t say that I loved you back.”

  “Did you?” 

 You laugh, exhausted from carrying it for so long, “Lewis. Of course. Of course I do. So much.” 

  “You do?”

Your eyes fly open, realising your mistake. You snatch your hand from his leg, turn to face him, “I did. I did then.” 

  “You don’t love me anymore,” he clarifies. He’s frowning, forehead creased. The night is pressing in on the car, dark and claustrophobic. You can’t speak. 

  “Because nothing has changed for me. I feel the same as I did then,” Lewis says, and you can see how he’s working to speak, jaw twitching, forcing the words out. Something private, and hidden, being pushed into the open. You’re pressing your hands together in your lap, painfully tight. 

  “Alright,” you say, hate yourself for it. He looks away. His eyes are gleaming. 

  “Alright.”

You get out of the car. Stiff and awkward. You get your key in the front door, hear him turn the engine back on. Fear is clawing at your chest. You turn around anyway, back down the steps, jump in front of the car so he has to slam on the breaks, a screech breaking the night air. He’s opening the drivers door at the same time you’re trying to open it, get to him. He’s half out of the car and you’re half in when you kiss him, cold air, warm mouths. He’s grasping your head, holding you steady. 

  "I’m sorry,” you’re panting, “I’m sorry.” 

  “Stop apologising,” Lewis says, “What’s done is done.” 

You keep kissing him, his face, his nose, his jaw. 

  “I love you,” you press into his skin, you kiss into his mouth, “I love you.” 

Lewis is pulling you into his lap, back into the car, pulling the door shut again, crammed in. Your hands under his shirt, feeling his skin, feeling him breathe. 

  “Do you?” He asks, holding your face in front of him. You feel your face hurt with how wide you are grinning, a release of something held inside for so long. Your hands mirror his on his face, precious in your fingers. 

  “I do. I do. I love you.” 

Lewis half laughs, half sobs. His eyes are shining. The car horn beeps from a stray elbow. You keep kissing him anyway. 

[circuscountdowns]

Hello I have too many thoughts on sheep/goat traditions for this damn game so I thought this one might interest you: Yearly sheep Tradition of shearing. Come the spring thaw and the 'lambing' season, families sit down together and trim their wool as a sort of bonding ritual. None of it goes to waste! For families expecting new lil lambies, the wool is spun and made into clothing. for families content as they are, it is spun into yarn and made into fiber crafts like blankets and toys. Cuz now I cant unsee your lamb using their wool for yarn and turning said yarn into a cat toy for nari. like a little mouse with button eyes and a long winding tail (that the twins are totally not allowed to steal get your own u heathens) anywho thats my rambling done -sKITTERS BACK TO MY CAVE-

aw that’s sweet! I do have wool-producing cult ocs, an Angora Rabbit and an Alpaca that Lamb is very very fond of for the companionship in trimming/shearing. Spinning their wool is something they all bond over and provides well for the cult :) doing it for newborns every year is so cute!

Cat toy is such a good idea!!! I can see it too hope you don’t mind me drawing it skdjsksk that’s so cute!

Mouse follower watching lamb make it : 👁️ who’s that for?

[theroundbartable]

Camelot is being attacked by a sorcerer. Somehow the knights manage to capture them, but the sorcerer has one last ace up his sleeve:

Sorcerer: you can never win, Arthur Pendragon. I am going to steal the soul of the most valuable person in this room and you can do nothing to stop me!!!

Arthur: and who is that? Can't you be more specific?

Sorcerer: *grabs stone around his neck* well, i'm curious, too, Arthur Pendragon. If it's not you, then I'm afraid you're not worthy of being king!

Arthur: *hand around sword tightens* everyone in this room is equally valuable!

Sorcerer: is that so? *Enchants the stone*

....

A second later, Merlin collapses to the ground

... *silence*

Sorcerer: what the fuck? A servant? Really?

Arthur: *panics* what did you do to him?

Sorcerer: i have His soul, idiot. I told you already! Hold on, why is he standing up? How- oh fuck

Merlin: *raises to his feet. Eyes unseeing.*

Arthur: Merlin? U okay? Do you still have a soul?

Merlin: *doesn't answer* *eyes turn gold*

Sorcerer: this is bad

Merlin: *stretches out hand*

Sorcerer: okay, this is really, really bad. You guys should run

Arthur: what? Why? Why are his eyes like that? What's going on?

Sorcerer: look. It was never my attention to hurt anyone. I just needed the money. The soul thing was my escape plan should I get caught. But we really need to get out of here, because we will all die if we don't

Merlin: *eyes still golden* *attacks*

Sorcerer: *barely manages to deflect the attack* yap. This was a bad idea.

Arthur: merlin has magic?

Sorcerer: so not the problem right now. He IS magic! And I have no idea how to return his soul. Seriously! Run!!!

[cantfuckbracket]

Welcome to the Can't Fuck Bracket, where YOU vote for the character who has the most unfuckable swag

Do you love characters that don't fuck? Characters whose dicks would make U-turns and whose pussies would clamp itselves shut if they ever came close to performing a sexual act? Characters who would try to fuck and end up leaving snot all over their poor partner? Characters who have never ever ever made their partner cum? Well, this bracket is for you!

Submit and vote for YOUR favorite unfuckable characters and let's find out who Tumblr crowns the least fuckable of them all!

Rules and clarifications:

"Can't fuck" is different from "doesn't want to fuck". This is about characters who either suck at sex or could never find a willing partner, not asexual/sex-repulsed characters

This is also not about being a virgin or inexperienced, this is for characters who could fuck a billion times and would still suck at it

You can submit both your beloved blorbos who have 0 game and characters you hate with a passion

"Can't fuck" can mean both "could never find a willing partner" and "would suck shit ass in bed". It's up to you

Last year's contestants are only eligible if they did not make it past the group stage. So check that your submission isn't featured in this post to make sure they're eligible!

Goofy from Disney will also not be accepted. I've seen things I can't unsee

No real people unless they've been dead for at least 100 years.

"Being dead" is not in itself a reason to be considered unfuckable, otherwise this would become a deadguybracket 2.0. It's fine if that's mentioned but it can't be the only reason

Propaganda is not only encouraged, I'd say it's the whole point! You can tag me in it and I'll reblog it

Be nice to each other and also to me. I'm just making a silly little poll. It's not life and death. Also I have other things going on in my life

You can diss your opponents if you want but practice common sense when doing so

And that's all... For now! You can use this form to submit your characters! Go crazy go stupid!

[ghouljams]

FAE PRICE SCRUFFING FAE GHOST R U FUCKING KIDDING ME!!! the first time price does it he's fully expecting ghost to loose it and attempt to murder a human but ghost just.... calms down.

It's an instinct, to combat aggression, to sooth young fae, to enforce hierarchy. It's an intimacy that Price can hardly afford. Ghost has been through so much, hardly has a name to him anymore. The last thing Price wants is to overplay his hand. Except the problem with fae who hardly have a name, is they hardly have more than instinct to guide them. So when Ghost lunges, teeth bared, eyes wild and caught in a fury that Price won't put a name to, it's instinct that makes him grab for the man.

His fingers wrap around Ghost's neck with a firm grip, squeezing the covered flesh as he pulls him back with a snarl of warning. He doesn't expect Ghost to go limp, to hang in his grasp with heaving breaths and his pupils blowing wider by the second. If anything Price expected a struggle, a fight for dominance, a fight against the intimacy of the gesture. Surely Ghost didn't trust him enough to allow him to- but he did. Something warms in Price's chest, a heavy tether enforced again by this display of trust, of vulnerability.

"Control your dog," The fae he'd been attempting to collect a debt from snaps. Price hardly hears them, tipping his head to inspect Ghost, the way he stares unseeing at the world in front of him is

interesting.

Interesting enough for Price to wave his free hand and let the smoke and shadows of the room consume the other fae. Wherever they send them too isn't his business. He'll collect later, for now he has more pressing matters. Matters like the tent in Ghost's pants, the way his eyes have started burning with shame or annoyance, maybe -hm, it's tricky, Ghost still isn't talking so he can't ask- maybe it's that fight for dominance that seems to consume him so often.

Price drops him from his hold and Ghost drops to his knees. His fingers flex, clenching and unclenching in tight fists. "Is that what you are," Price asks, "a dog?"

"No," Ghost grits out, the first word Price has heard him speak in months. He'd be more proud if it wasn't coming after such hot fury.

"Then get up," Price tells him, crouching next to him. He knows the feeling that lights up between himself and Ghost at the order. Knows it as clearly as he knows his own name, as clearly as he knows the dark heat in Ghost's eyes when he glances at him. Price hums, reaches to grab Ghost's chin, pushing past the initial flinch to tug Ghost's head up to meet his eye. "If you're lookin' for me to force ya I won't, you gotta ask."

Ghost doesn't move an inch, his bite still worse than his bark, but neither does Price. He's a patient man, but that doesn't shorten the moment between the two of them. Nor does it lessen the heavy weight of Ghost's decision when he does finally admit, "Want ya to fuck me."