#He loved him to the moon and back and he never stopped loving him

[okwonyo]

SUGAR TALKING ꒪ ✿⠀ making doe eyes at them.

TESTI ────── 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾, 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝗅𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 !

❪ 日语 ❫ & fem!rea 1OOO fluff established relationship non-idol au ❜ skinship kissing ◜‿◝ REBLOGS&CLICK

지아 ⠀⦂⠀ since it won the poll :O

HEESEUNG

usually, he isn’t the the type to talk too much during movie nights. his hand always in yours as he watches the movie enthusiastically, never missing one bit of it.

but today it seems different— you don’t really know if it’s either because he is very passionate about this specific actor or if it’s because you called the said actor ‘hot’. but he won’t stop talking.

“seriously!” he huffs after a few seconds of calm. he smiles and shakes his head in fake nonchalance, “i don’t understand what he has that i don’t. do you prefe—”

the rest of his sentence dies in his throat when his eyes meet yours. you look at him wide eyed, with a little pout that makes his heart skip.

“shut up please,” you ask with a honey coat voice— his eyes grow wide. he is soon giggling, leaning on you, as if what you just said wasn’t almost an insult.

at least he stops talking.

⠀ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ﹙ᵕ ᵕ⠀look under the cut ! ♡

JAY

it is not a secret that you can get anything you want out of him. whether it’s his money or the entire world— you ask and you shall receive.

therefore, you don’t need to do anything else but ask for something that you want. because you know you got him wrapped around your finger. and that, if you wanted the moon, then you will have the moon.

sometimes, however, there is things that can’t be bought or that are hard to ask for. today, you want his attention.

you decided to not go bother him as you usually do. no, you choose to stare at him from across the room with the most bambi looking eyes you could manage. he should have noticed by now.

the long silence is what alarms him. he looks over you quickly, “are you—” then he looks again and his mouth falls agape. he sighs fondly, “c’mere, baby,”

JAKE

it’s not your fault. it really isn’t. he shouldn’t have been so easy to tease in the first place. getting a blush out of him is too easy and he is way too lovely for you to control yourself.

and ever since he confessed that he loved when you looked at him with those yes— you cannot stop looking at him with those eyes.

for a while, he is too occupied on his phone to even notice. but when his eyes shoots up to meet yours, he immediately smiles.

instinctively biting his lower lip, he stays silent for a while before throwing his head back and whining, “stop doing that!”

your eyes keep watching his growing blush as you laugh, “like what?” and he groans.

SUNGHON

he swears you do it all the time, but the truth is that you don’t even know what he is talking about. he mays affirm that you play dumb in purpose— you don’t, you really don’t.

the thing is that, he would say that you are trying to seduce him whenever you try to do anything. you run a hand through you hair? you want to make out. you grin? you want him to kiss you.

you just assumed he was that down bad.

“you are playing with me,” he smirks, looking down at you. your bodies moves along with the train you are standing in. you were already looking at him, but now there is confusion in your eyes. “don’t look at me like that.”

“what?” you giggle. honestly, you didn’t even know you were looking at him. admiring him is natural as breathing to you, “are you crazy?”

“when you look at me like that,” he whispers as he leans in. your arms are hugging his waist, your head is all the way titled up and he is so handsome, “my heart beats with need.”

SUNOO

you know he doesn’t get mad often— even if he does act like he is. he is too much of a softie to even think of being annoyed with you.

more times than not, he gets sulky. lips puckered as he gives you the silent treatment. it is always for silly things, however, just because he loves when you ask him to talk to you.

“i love you,” you tell him, holding onto his arm. he doesn’t do anything, obviously hiding his smile—and failing. “look at me.”

he takes a deep breath before bringing his focus on your instead of the dishes in front of him. his eyes fall into yours, “stop,” he says. turning red.

he tries to keep his annoyed attitude as hard as possible. he starts to take care of the dishes in the sink again— as if, trying to distract himself.

he keeps peeking at you. unable to control himself, he ends up crumbling. he hides his face in the crook of your neck in embarrassment.

JUNWGON

“my love, i���ll have to go eventually,” his tone is soft, his chuckles makes it harder for you to even consider letting him leave the bed and let him leave you.

he is not even gone. he is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you. you hold his hand with both of yours— chasing after his warmth that you already miss.

you don’t really care where he is going, you want him here. you make the most adorable eyes you can put up, in a tiny voice you say, “can’t you stay a little longer?”

he seems a tad taken aback. on of his eyebrows shots up ever so slightly. pretty red lips forms a ‘o’ and his dimples smiles when he smiles.

gets back under the cover, close to you. he kisses you gently, “work can wait.”

RIKI

“leave me alone!” your boyfriend whines, faking annoyance. he is laying on your bed, next to your plushies, with his hands on your hips as you sit on

him. he acts like he wants to push you away but his grip is way too strong.

he gets up, rather abruptly, making you settle on his laps. he makes sure you are as comfortable as possible but holds your wrists when you try to reach his hair.

“just a few!” giggles makes your voice tremble. you try to get out of his handle but you can’t— he is much stronger that you, “please!”

he looks at the hello kitty hairpins in your hands with narrowed eyes. he doesn’t look against the idea at all, you know he just fights because of principle, “no!”

you tilt your head to the side slightly, the prettiest pout appearing on your lips. you look at him with a specific look— the one who made him choked on his drink the first time. “please, for me,”

you are already wearing a victorious grin as soon as he groans. he ends up with more than just a few hairpins in his hair.

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[mariasont]

I know youre working on a fic right now but can you sometime make a fic where a new agent comes to work at the bau (the reader) and early seasons Spencer catches her interest, to which he's completely oblivious? Like just a cute little fluffy fic where two genius idiots can realise they like each other throughout their case together.

(also a lot of jokes from Morgan lol)

Reading Between the Lines - S.R

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x reader

warnings: reader just being in love with dr. reid

wc: 1.2k

The two of you were alone in the police station break room, which had become something of unofficial workspace for the team during the case. You'd been sitting there for a while, mostly pretending to read through a file while Spencer, across the table, actually read his—flipping through pages faster than should be humanly possible.

You'd been watching him out of the corner of your eye for the last ten minutes, trying (and failing) to keep your focus on your own. You couldn't help it. He was enthralling to watch. His long fingers moved smoothly over the paper, turning each page with that ridiculous speed-reading technique of his. And when he tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning the words so quickly it looked like he was barely reading at all, you were sure you'd never seen anyone more unfairly attractive in your entire life.

And you did mean unfairly in the purest sense. It was undeniably unfair—no, unnatural—for a man to possess such a perfect plethora of qualities, like Spencer Reid did.

You hated how obvious you were being. Every time Spencer glanced up at you, your face grew hot, and you had to fight the urge to duck your head like a nervous schoolgirl. It was absurd. You were a grown adult—a professional in the FBI, for gods' sake. You had no business mooning over someone this hard. But... it was Spencer. How could anyone not?

Eventually, you gave up trying to work and leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "How do you do that?"

Spencer glanced up, blinking. "Do what?"

"Read that fast," you said, gesturing toward the file in his hands. "I mean, it's like you're just flipping through the pages for fun, but you're actually... reading them, right? You're not just pretending?"

Spencer tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smile. "No, I'm not pretending. I'm absorbing the information. It's called speed-reading."

You raised an eyebrow. "And you just... taught yourself how to do that?"

He nodded, setting the file down in front of him. "It's not as hard as it looks. Anyone can learn it with enough practice."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," Spencer said, leaning back into his chair. "It's all about training your brain to recognize patterns in the text and absorb information in chunks rather than word by word. It's just a matter of rewiring how you process what you're reading."

You stared at him for a moment, then a grin spread across your face. "Teach me."

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Teach you?"

"Yeah," you said, sitting up straighter. "If anyone can learn it, prove it. Teach me how to speed-read."

For a second, he just stared at you, like he wasn't sure if you were serious. But then his expression morphed into something that looked almost... excited. "Okay. I can teach you."

You tried not to look too pleased as he reached for a book sitting on the nearby counter and slid it across the table toward you. It was some dry academic text about linguistic patterns across extinct languages—typical Spencer reading material—but you figured it didn't really matter what the book was. You weren't here for the content.

"Alright," Spencer said, pulling his chair closer to yours so he could see what you were looking at. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours, and every single coherent thought you had ever had evaporated into thin air. You swallowed hard, staring at the page but unable to actually read anything. "The first thing you need to do is stop subvocalizing."

"Sub... what?" you asked, already lost.

"Subvocalizing," he repeated patiently. "It's when you say the words in your head as you're reading them. Most people do it without even realizing it, but it slows you down. If you can train yourself to read without subvocalizing, you'll process the text much faster."

You nodded slowly, though you weren't sure you entirely understood. "Okay. So... how do I stop?"

Spencer smiled. "It takes practice, but one way to start is by using your finger to guide your eyes. Like this."

He reached out and gently took your hand, guiding your index finger to the first line of the text.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. His hand was warm, touch light as he moved your finger along the page. Did he notice the way you tensed up? Did he feel how clammy your palm was? If he did, he didn’t mention it, his focus entirely on the page. Meanwhile, your focus was entirely on him.

"Try to keep your eyes moving with your finger," Spencer said. "Don't focus too much on each individual word—just let your brain take in the whole line."

Every time you inhaled, you caught the faintest hint of soap and coffee—clean, warm, him—and it was becoming impossible to think straight.

"Okay," you said softly, moving your finger along the line as he'd shown you. "Like this?"

"Exactly. Now, try to pick up the pace. Keep your eyes moving."

You tried, but your focus kept slipping—not because of the text, but because of the way Spencer was leaning so close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watched you. You could feel his breath, soft and even, against the side of your face, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that this was probably the closest you'd ever been to him.

"Am I doing it right?"

"Mostly," Spencer said, his hair brushing his forehead as he leaned even closer to point at a section of the text. His long fingers hovered just above yours, and your heart stuttered at the proximity. "But try not to pause at punctuation. Just keep your eyes moving in one fluid motion."

"Okay," you said again, though honestly, you weren't sure how much you were actually absorbing. Your brain was too busy screaming Spencer Reid is touching me. Spencer Reid is this close to me.

For a few more minutes, Spencer guided you through the process, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he helped you adjust your pace. You couldn’t tell if you were actually improving or if you were just doing your best to survive the moment without completely embarrassing yourself.

"You're doing better already," he said. "It just takes time to get used to."

You smiled back at him, cheeks warm. "Thanks. You're a good teacher."

Spencer’s ears turned pink, and he glanced down, his fingers brushing idly at the edge of the book. "I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. A good teacher, I mean."

You couldn't stop smiling.

"Maybe next time, you can teach me," he said suddenly.

You laughed. "I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you that you don’t already know, Spencer."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost teasing. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, his eyes met yours, before flicking back to the book.

Correction, you wouldn't be able to stop smiling for the next 3-5 business days.

Morgan was leaning against the hallway wall just outside the break room, holding his phone and scrolling casually, when you finally stepped out of the room.

You didn't see him at first—you were too busy floating on a cloud, practically glowing as you replayed the last few minutes with Spencer over and over in your mind. You were smiling so much your cheeks hurt, and you could still feel Spencer's hands on yours.

"Well, well, well," Morgan voice cut through your daydream, startling you so badly you almost tripped. You snapped your head toward him, your heart jumping to your throat. He was grinning like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "What's got you all smiley? Pretty boy say something sweet, or are you just thinking about those magic hands of his?"

You felt your face burst into flames. "What? No! It's not—"

Morgan held up a hand, shaking his head as he chuckled. "Save it, girl. I know the look of a lovesick rookie when I see one. Trust me—you've got it bad."

You sputtered, desperately trying to come up with a convincing rebuttal, but Morgan was already walking away. "Better make your move before he speed-reads right past you!"

You groaned, burying your burning face in your hands as Morgan’s laughter faded down the hall. Lovesick rookie? Was it really that obvious?

Yes. Yes, it was.

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @aecd27 @persephonestears @moonyxstars @xxmooxmooxx @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @jungchloee @she-wont-miss @duchesz @i2rapunzel @historicallyweirdandqueer @lcvealwayss @p13rc3-th3-m4tt13 @babyhoneybyhs

join my taglist here!

[luvtak]

Venus Felix, lfx x reader

being in love is scary, and felix had never been so afraid to say the words…

in other words, felix is in love!! and he’s too afraid to say it!!

genre/tw fluffagedeon, debilitating levels of comfort and adoration from both felix and reader, casual nakedness, showering together in a sweet way!, angel, honey, way too many references to greek myths, your honor they’re in love!!

wc 1221

Felix wished he could tell you, he wished desperately that he could reach out and hold you against him. He would tell you he loved you, that he thought of you when he said his prayers; Every night, asking God to keep you healthy before he said amen.

You don’t need it, he knows. You’re full of life, of love, of spirit… Sometimes, when the sun hits you just right, he even mistakes you for an angel—so heavenly, you must’ve been a gift.

He loves you, like any rotten thing loves the good. He’d forsake his beliefs if you told him to, he’d worship you like Kytheria in the Temple of Aphrodite; His mouth would beg for mercy while his eyes asked you for more, he would love you until the death rattle claimed him.

But he can’t tell you, can’t bear for you to see him so vulnerable. It’s only been a month. A month of bliss, of kisses and conversation, a month so serene he can’t think of ever letting go… But a month is too soon to tell a precious thing you love it.

You scare easily, he knows. Too often he finds himself frightening you, your frame jumping in the air and your eyes becoming saucers. The first time he kissed you, you shivered like a wounded animal: gasping into his mouth like you were giving him your soul.

In a way you were, breathing life out of his lungs just to give it back. In and out, oxygen into carbon. He remembers how you settled your hands on his belly, feeling it inflate… kiss… deflate… kiss. So sweet you are, as beautiful as any deity, and twice as charming.

Maybe he’ll tell you next month, cause surely he’ll love you more then. Maybe the flowers will be beginning to bloom and the sun will stay awake to see you return home to him. He’ll tell you he loves you when the moon begins to rise and settle kisses over your sleepy eyes.

You’ll love him then, you’ll love him and worship, him the same.

Although this thought doesn’t comfort his shaky stomach. The hot water pounding down around him doesn’t stop the rambling thoughts, he misses you… he loves you.

In a way, he feels inconsolable, like anything he does will just make the feeling worse instead of taking it away. He needs you in an embarrassing way, yearns for your hands to knead the stress out of his shoulders, for your smile to ease the knot in his throat.

If there was a shooting star he’d ask for you, you with your silly jokes and your loving hands. And like God himself, or the universe, or karma giving back, there you are—Lovely in your work clothes, pretty hands tapping on the bathroom door to say hello.

It only takes him a minute to tug you in, wrapping wet arms around your clothed body and pulling under the shower head. Closer than he needs to be, still not close enough.

“Felix! I’m still in my clothes!” You scream, but you’re laughing.

“Don’t worry about it, Angel, I’ll buy you new ones.” he says, still clutching you to his chest, his head sitting on your shoulder… lips swiping across your collar bones.

“Are you okay, Lix?”

“Better now that you’re here.” You can tell he means it, you can feel his hands shaking and where his lips quiver as they graze across your skin. “I missed you so much and everything was terrible…”

Oh your sweet boy, so darling, so bright.

“Felix, I missed you too.” you say, but the words are hard to utter—Confessions always feel like treachery. “Why don’t you tell me about it while I get out of these wet clothes?”

He tells you Chris was mean while he helps you out of your shirt, that Hyunjin was sad which made him sad while he laughs at your waddling legs struggling to break free from slacks. The laughs falter when you get to your underwear, but still he tells you how he didn’t eat enough, how everything went wrong.

Finally, when it’s just you and him, skin to skin, he tells you he misses you again. He tells you it it was a curse to be away from you for too long, but still, he doesn’t tell you the truth.

The real confession waits on his tongue, swiping along your mouth as he finally kisses you hello.

“I’m sorry it was horrible, honey, I wish I could always be with you…” you tell him, fingers combing through his freshly dyed hair.

“But you are…”

Oh Felix, my lovely, cosmic Felix… You think, feeling the sweeping joy settle in your belly. You love him, this miraculous boy who came into your life like a starfall; granting every wish you ever asked. He’s like a shooting star, a dandelion waving through a medley of flowers, a candle to blow out. You love him, in all the scary ways that come with that. “Don't be so shy, angel, I mean it… Can’t you feel it?”

With one hand he brings your digits to his throat, settling over his wild heartbeat, he tangles his other in your hair. You can’t even worry about how much wet hair you’ll lose, knotted over his slight fingers, connecting you to him in another way. Even obscured by the water, he is so beautiful… Looking down at you in reverence rather than conceit.

“I feel it, Lix. I feel it too.” Man he adores you, prayed for you, loved you into creation. It's so scary to love someone like this, like you’ll fall apart without them in your sight.

Felix has never been a coward, has never been too afraid to jump, to dream… but you are so godly, like a thunderbolt handed into his unworthy hand, and a mere mortal like him should always be too afraid to hold it.

He tells himself to find the courage, tell them you love them… he urges himself, gazing into your wide, beautiful eyes, and praying you’ll love him too.

With his eyes screwed shut, he finally tells you—

“I love you,” he says, “I loved you when I first saw you. I loved you last Monday when you snapped at me, I loved you yesterday and I couldn’t tell you. I love you so much, it hurts me.”

You’re quiet for a long time, holding onto his body like a lifeline, breathing in and out, oxygen into carbon. He’s everything, you think, everything good and everything bad—Pandora's box settled into your hands. He’s life.

“I love you too, more than I can say.” Your voice is quiet, muffled against his chest, but he feels your lips make the words. He can feel the I love you wrap around his aching heart, feel the tension in his muscles dissipating after every syllable. “I love you, Felix.” you say again.

You love him, you prayed for him… worshipped him like a statue in some temple.

He loves you, achingly so.

“Thank you for telling me.” He says, catching your laugh in his mouth, showing you he loves you. I wished for you, his kiss says, I wished you into life.

“I wished for you too.” You tell him, and his smile is the sun.

[sentientthing]

Reader adopts a big fluffy dog that's very opinionated, when and where walks happen is entirely the dogs decision. It's a good dog, perfectly pleasant but thick headed as a bull. Demands pets with authority a dog has no business having.

They love that mutt, got it from a shelter and doesn't have the heart to take charge when being a bit bossy is the only 'misbehavior' the dog ever shows, until it's walkie time in the middle of the night, new moon and cloudy, pitch black. Resigned you get the harness, leash and treat bag and bundle up. In a hurry to get the head of the house their wish you forget any kind of light, left your phone on your bedside table when you heard the grumbles of demands.

It seems to be a night for adventure, leash pulled taught in a direction you've never even walked by daylight and nose glued to the floor. The gates to a park at least let you know where you're going, not that you recognize the name, its far out of your usual range especially in the middle of the night. You cope by clinging to the 'scary dog privilege' even though the mutt never showed an ounce of aggression towards anything.

Looking around to not get caught off guard by a malicious stranger you miss your dog perking up, fixating a direction and taking off, the "STOP" leaves your mouth the second your body is jostled but its no use. You're dragged across the park, thankfully mostly grass but it still hurts. Digging your feet in is no use, hopelessly outmatched by the dog the shelter told you was perfectly sized for you. "Manageable my ass you stupid dog stop running!", you scream no care for time of day when you come to an abrupt halt, sliding a little on the muddy ground until someone grabs the leash and is immediately crowded by the traitor. All wags and tip taps, it'd be adorable if you weren't on your ass god knows where thanks to him.

"Bad dog thief if you can't even train one.", you can't place the tone, or read the strangers face through his balaclava. Thief? You would never steal someones beloved pet. "Fuck you, I'm no thief. He's from a shelter, if I wanted a free dog I'd get a stray." The amount of awkward eye contact that followed made your skin crawl, you shivered in discomfort from your mud caked clothes to the scary stranger starring you down. Was he not going to react at all? Your attitude had always been your biggest flaw. Why couldn't the floor just open up and swallow you whole? You were going to die for mouthing off for sure, or worse. "C'mon boy, home.", he was looking at you but definitely talking to the dog, voice even as he yankes you up by the leash and herds you after the dog happily trotting the way it came. Oh no, your dog was going to YOUR home, backtracking through the park, mindful of the grooves he, or rather you, left. Caring about tripping you now, between treating you like a crash dummy and a lamb to the slaughter.

The streetlights flickered back on one by one, the silent man at your back cast eerie shadows over you every time you passed one. You could barely breath, fear clogged your throat, choking you. Running was out of the question, he would catch you, no doubt in your mind. You didn't dare think about what your- well, his dog really would do. He might even be trained to bite, maul you to bits for the crime of displeasing his master. Tears threatened to spill over your lashes at the thought, you blinked them away as hard as you could, whatever he thought of you now wouldn't be improved by turning into a sobbing mess. No crying about whatever this was, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you dissolve, if he wanted to he would crush you either way.

Your front door looked like a guillotine, the slanted window that once charmed you now made your stomach turn. You fumbled with the keys, hands shaking in helplessness. When they slipped your grasp, a gloved hand reaches out from behind you and catches them, palm up, the keys to your doom cradled in the hand of death. Slowly, you lifted your hand to take the keys back. The thought to stab him with them crossed your mind, but you had no follow-up. You stretched your fingers towards the house key. The next moment, you were crowded against the door and heard the keys jingle. The hinges protest when the door swung open. Unsteady legs carry you inside, mechanically taking off the harness and hanging the gear up in the dog corner.

The door clicks shut, and you refuse to acknowledge it in any way. Frozen in place, no useful thoughts in your head, your mind was screaming to do something anything at all. Time trickled by you in slow motion, for the first time you heard footsteps that weren't yours on your living room floor, the clicky noise of dog paws soon followed. Sounds from the kitchen startle you back into thought. That's where your knives are. He could take the damn fridge for all you cared right now, but you were not getting stabbed by knives you had picked out and paid for without a fight.

The sound of water hitting something metal had you confused, that weirdo did not follow you home to fill his dogs water bowl, that would be insane, and yet a few seconds later the water is being gobbled up loudly.

Something fills with water again, you're still looking at the slow swinging leash on the hook.

The stove beeps, the glasstop clinks quietly, something was placed on it.

Nails on the floor tell you the dog is scampering towards you, probably dripping water all the way. Soft fur brushes your fingers accompanied by the wet nose and tongue licking your hand. "You broken, pet?", leaning against the wall as nonchalant as the question he asked. The nickname had you glancing at the dog for a second before it clicked - this fucking guy dragged you around on a leash and called you pet like it was a normal thing to do.

You turned to give him a piece of your mind, freezing again when you saw him in the light. He'd been scary outside, dressed entirely in dark clothes and towering over you like a bad omen. In the light he looked downright terrifying, the skull print balaclava blending with his eye black, equally dark eyes looking at you with a bored expression, you had to guess. Good thing you hadn't tried anything, he looked perfectly able and willing to really hurt you. Not like how your bruised body ached from being dragged, real agony that would rip through you and fray every nerve you had. You were once again starring at each other, him waiting for a reply and you desperately trying to keep it together, whether you'd laugh or cry or attack him you didn't dare guess but something was boiling over.

The kettle whistles - you burst into a fit of nervous giggles.

[rockybloo]

I feel like bitchin so I'mma bitch bc I always see people going on rants on their Tumblrs and I'm long overdue for one. Anyways, this is a long one so be aware you are gonna be scrolling for a good bit if you view under the cut.

ANYWAYS, I know that that rude anon from last week is old news but their whole "I'm sad that Glitter and Guilt is a m/f relationship" thing is just a part of a never ending situation I am going to experience til the end of time (or til I stop posting stuff online) just because I focus on primarily m/f relationships in my art.

And they aren't even straight m/f relationships, which is what annoys me the most about comments like this. They're all bisexual. But because people see bisexual characters as better than straight but less than same-sex attracted orientation, I will always have to deal with these passive aggressive ass comments.

I dealt with this typa stuff SO OFTEN in my early days on Instagram, especially when I posted some of my gender nonconforming OCs like Danny (my pink demon man who dresses like a bimbo Barbie doll). It got to the point I stopped sharing him over there for a bit because I would get comments where people were hoping he had a boyfriend in the past, or they were disappointed I "never" drew any Sapphic couples because they mistook Danny as a woman in a pic where he was kissing Karrie.

And I get the whole desire to want more representation. Trust me, I'm bi, black, and nonbinary. I am NEVER going to get any type of representation outside of the indie artists I find in small niche circles online. I completely get the whole "m/f relationships are EVERYWHERE in mainstream media" mentality because I also agree but only to a point.

There's a ton of trashy m/f media, but there's also good shit when you dig because you can find people who don't just shove a guy and girl together and call that a done deal - they actually give them personality and chemistry and a fun dynamic.

I'm a firm believer that the gender of a ship shouldn't dictate if it's good or not. An interesting dynamic is what motivates me to care about a couple of characters dating. That's why it bugs me whenever someone suggests any kind of series to me and simply tells me "It's gay" before telling me the actual plotline. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT A SERIES IS ABOUT! DO NOT WASTE MY TIME!!! (Please do not pop into my inbox after reading this and suggest me stuff btw because I've never been a big suggestions unprompted person - I typically find stuff myself bc I have weird tastes ANYWAYS BACK TO MY RANTING)

When it comes to my art, I draw m/f relationships as a primary focus because it's fun to mess with gender dynamics and flip them on their head, as well as to give younger me the food I wish I had. Growing up, before I realized I was nonbinary, I rarely saw any black girls in loving relationships in animated series I enjoyed. And occasionally I would get flash banged with the long despised trope of "Disposable Black Girlfriend". So I never felt like m/f relationships were oversaturated in my eyes because there were barely any good ones that featured a black girl with a happy ending - which means from DAY MOTHERFUCKIN ONE I was starving for content.

So that obviously means that when I grew up and adopted my "Make your own food" mentality, I started cooking. AND COOK I STILL DO! Because in the end, I make all this food to please myself. OTHERS MAY EAT OF COURSE - I am always happy when people come to my restaurant to dine because they enjoy my meals, but I hate how every blue moon I will get someone who waltzes into my little eatery and tells me that they wish I cooked the meal they get from other restaurants.

Because it would be so much more productive to just go eat AT those restaurants since they already got the food you like.

Having people comment their displeasure about me drawing a guy and a girl together in a healthy (and occasionally insane) relationship is always baffling to me. It's never going to make me stop, it'll only make me draw more Red Beans or more Licorice. It's also so baffling because I know that if the tables where flipped - and I was drawing primarily same-sex bisexual couples (OR JUST SOME GAY OR LESBIAN COUPLES IN GENERAL BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE JUST DON'T CARE ABOUT BI FOLKS AT ALL), it would be so fuckin' frowned upon to comment "I wish you drew more m/f! 🥺"

But because I draw m/f bi couples, it's totally free game. IT'S DEF STILL FROWNED UPON but one is way more likely to make you look like an asshole than the other. Because even in cases where people have said they agree it's a dick move to complain about m/f from me, there's still that vibe of it being more acceptable just because of mainstream media having so many m/f couples and that being the standard of offline society.

But I'm not mainstream media. And I disagree with a lot of standards of offline society which is WHY I poke fun at gender norms with my OCs.

That's why getting a ton of new followers is such a "oh boy here we go" thing for me, because with old followers that have been around for awhile, they know what's up. They understand what I draw, what I write, and how my OCs typically behave. They get that my m/f ships have rabies.

But new followers don't know this. And this has led to some real big "OOF" moments. Like people calling Jack and Nana a "het" couple. Yes, I know that that's a term that doesn't JUST mean "heterosexual" and can refer to them being different genders. It still feels hella weird for me - it's why m/f is my preferred descriptor because it lacks that confusion.

New followers are typically the ones that leave the passive aggressive comments about me mostly drawing m/f. OFTEN because they think I am one of those artists who will draw whatever it takes to please my audience. BUT I AM NOT - THERE IS NO AUDIENCE INFLUENCE HERE ☝🏾

I am not a taxi where I pick people up whenever they call me and I drop them off wherever they tell me.

I am a roller-coaster. Specifically those ones where you can see the entire track layout in the distance so you know what you're in for. You may sit in the front or the back or somewhere in the middle but that is the last input you got before I take off at my own speed (that will be stated RIGHT on the warning sign you read as you walked in) and once I am done, you may get off and carry along your merry way through the rest of the park OR you may get on to ride again.

This entire passive aggression towards m/f ships is just so tiring to deal with because there will never be an end to it. Even after I post this, I know days, weeks, months, YEARS down the line - someone will see some Jack and Nana art, or some Bitterbat and Sweetheart comic, or ANY of my other m/f couples, and type up some comment about how they wish the couples were same-sex. Or someone will lament over the fact they thought a couple was same-sex but it turned out the dude was just hella feminine.

Because it just ain't enough to have bisexual characters that are dating the same sex because then people will call them "straight passing" and not count them as being queer. And having all my OCs being bisexuals ain't enough to mark me as a queer artists in some eyes because "making all your OCs bi is just lazy" and not me representing an aspect of myself that I constantly see sidelined online.

Me drawing bisexual m/f couples is viewed as something that can be tinkered and tampered with so I can be more appealing and inclusive to others like I'm some mainstream Hollywood series and not just some random person online who draw the fictional beings in my mind kissing each other whenever I got the crumb of free time. Primarily drawing m/f couples means I gotta just vibe whenever I see a moot or a friend post or reblog some weird sentiment referring to how lame m/f couples are and I just gotta HOPE that they aren't including bisexuals when they engage with stuff like that.

I'm in this weird space where I am wedged between "You're not a straight artist" and "You aren't drawing enough gay stuff" online.

And I'm fine with this since I've been online for over a decade at this point. This isn't a vent post, this is a rant. I don't need cheering up or comfort after posting this. This is just some real talk because I typically post lighthearted stuff since I like to keep my blogs positive.

But I also like to keep my shit honest and I think it's important to just state a piece of my mind. I wouldn't say I'm being vulnerable, this is just some insight to why I draw what I do and why I get so annoyed by certain interactions with people and certain sentiments online that are antagonistic of m/f ships that put them all down without hearing them out.

Blah blah blah I'm tired of typing and I've said most of the main points I've needed uuuummm

If you read this long have some m/f fluff

[king4aday]

A Postcard Story:

So for Dean's 46th this year, he decides to drag his husband around the states in Baby, ordering radio silence from his family to enjoy the open road, wherever the road takes them.

Here's a thread of postcards he sends Sam along the roadtrip:

Seattle was a nice place to start, people are kind and there's a lot of good food he's never tried. Dean was just glad that Cas could fly Baby with them to get there. Don't get him wrong, angel flight sucks too, for his stomach in particular, but it's nowhere near as bad as a plane.

When they drove into Cali, he was glad they managed to see the bridge in all it's glory. Real movie moment for him. They relaxed in Santa Cruz for a while, enjoying the views along the Pacific coast highway. He brought the Hawaiian shirts they bought when they all went to Gran Canaria a few summers ago as a family, getting nice tans before moving on.

Cas didn't let him rest for long when they got to L.A, asking Dean to hear him out before getting mad as he dragged him out. All frustration disappeared when they arrived at the studio though, Dean nerded out about the themed restaurants and rides while there was a mustard stain on his chin from chili dog he devoured. Cas was just happy to eat a burger and see Dean smile.

Tombstone flipped the tables for them. Now Cas loves his husband's passion, it's one of the most endearing qualities, he'd never let anyone dim the brightness he has talking about cowboys and westerns. But it can be a lot sometimes. He was committed to buying them both a full cowboy outfit before they left. Plus a hat for Jack, a buckle for Sam, new cowboy boots for Eileen and souvenirs he could hand out to the family.

Despite it being hot as balls, Dean loved being in Texas again. They ate some good authentic barbeque and went to a few museums Cas was interested in. Dean liked hearing him talk about the old buildings, the history and changes the landscape went through and Cas liked seeing Dean take selfies in front of the world's tallest cowboy boots, having to stop him promptly from climbing it and potentially breaking his back from a fall.

They took it slow in New Orleans, strolling down the french quarter like they were a couple courting in some Edwardian romance. It was warm but not oppressive, content to walk aimlessly, hand in hand, while the sounds of buskers playing strings echoed around the alleys. They danced under a street lamp, and kissed sweetly when the moon rose, all he could think about was how he felt safe in Cas' arms.

Dean loved it in Downtown, he felt right at home, locals welcoming him and Cas with open arms. They passed him free drinks when they saw their rings, pushed him on stage to sing some tipsy version of 'Should've been a cowboy'. Cas seemed to find it funny. He wouldn't say why.

He'd forgotten what a real Philly cheese steak was supposed to taste like but fuck him, he can't ever go back. One of the owners happily gave him the recipe, challenging him in recreating the sandwich he ordered. He's not got it perfect yet, but he's determined. At least Cas is a bottomless pit who can eat all the failed attempts he makes, zero waste fun!

New York was strange. He kept thinking about all the eccentrics and wide eyed kids who probably had dreams he'd never even considered before. At least when he looks at Cas now, he doesn't think he's done badly, hell maybe he's living a dream these New Yorkers wish they had too. He can't imagine what it's like to hedge all your scraped money and efforts on a chance of making it big as any kind of artist. He's pretty sure he already hit the jackpot with his life.

Teaching Cas to fish in Maine was a tumultuous task to put it nicely. Cas is already bitchy enough and Dean knows he can give as good as he gets, but they agreed never to go on a tiny boat alone together if one of them doesn't want to be drowned. Not to say they didn't have a good time though. They enjoyed the quiet of the calm waters and the breeze on their skin. Cas' first successful catch of the visit put them at ease, hell they were gonna drink a bottle of whiskey to celebrate, he got a pretty big one after all.

Cas was really making use of that sketchpad. He bought it for his husband a couple hundred miles back, noticing him sketching absent mindedly whenever there was a moment of reprieve. Dean hasn't seen everything inside, but he's seriously amazed at Cas' talent. Who knew right? It's a good way to store the memories, something more personal than the dorky couple selfies they took together in front of the falls. He'll look through them fondly later, remembering the time he took to enjoy his life, and enjoy Cas. Both things he's taken for granted before. He's learned his lesson now.

“It was awesome, seriously, and the water was so clear too, y'know? I asked Cas about Paradise falls on the way home” “The one in Venezuela?” Sam surmises, nursing his beer with a small smile. “Yeah! Well he said that he'd been a couple times centuries ago and it felt pretty magical then, and then I said ‘Did you know they're called Angel Falls too?’ and he gave me that look–” “I did not give you that look.” Cas frowns. “You totally did, Sam, you know the one.” “I did not give any looks, I just said that I was aware, and that was that.” Sam watches them both roll their eyes fondly at each other, hands definitely held together under the map table. “Whatever, my point is, we should totally go there together! I mean with the Angel flight express we could camp somewhere pretty close to the falls themselves.” “Like in 'Up' ? I'm in!” Jack says with a bright smile. Dean high fives him and Cas just sighs in exasperation. Eileen watches them all fondly, chin resting on her hand, likely feeling the same longing ache Sam does easing as she watches them all in the same space again. Sam missed this. He was really happy that Dean wanted to take time away for himself, for Cas too. They deserved to disappear from the world and live some of the life they both missed out on. But damn did he miss his family's regular bullshit, nothing makes him happier. “You know what, that sounds like a great idea.” Dean looks back at him with surprise, but it quickly shifts into that signature grin. “That's what I wanna hear! I knew I could count on you Sammy.” “How about we feed you before you go taking us to the other end of the world? Can't plan for reckless journeys on empty stomachs.” Ellen segways smartly. Dean claps his hands and points at her in agreement and they all start to get up to move. Sam sits and watches for a few seconds, just to be grateful for what he has. “Sammy, you good man?” Dean asks, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah I'm good. Oh hey, Dean?” Dean raises his eyebrows in question. “Happy birthday.” Dean rolls his eyes, but smiles at him, and they walk together towards the kitchen.

💙💚

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Name Day - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx's love life is complicated...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"You still haven't told me," Ekko says, and there's a hoarse hitch in his throat, "what you want."

"Want for what?"

"Your Name Day."

Jinx smiles.

Lifting one pale hand, she strokes a pattern into the bare curve of his shoulder. Zephyr leaves, looping in invisible spirals. He doesn't flinch; but he's close enough that she can see the flecks of deep-amber in his eyes darken to burnt coffee. His skin holds the same aroma: something clean, yet enticingly sharp.

It's a scent that's always clung to him, for as far as she can stretch memory's fingers. And for as long as she remembers, it's always stirred a peculiar sensation in her belly.

Something that leaves her both hungry all over and yet deeply satisfied at once.

Jinx breathes in, and holds it.

"I mean," Ekko goes on, his palm callused and warm on her kneecap. "We missed a lot of years. What're you supposed to get somebody who shoots at you half the time?"

"I'm not shooting at you now."

Though she could, if she wanted. PuffPuff is nestled between their bodies, snug inside her thigh-holster. For the moment, though, the danger's dormant. The gun may as well be a trusting little piggy tucked safely under a blanket.

There's no gap for a bullet to break on. And though both she and Ekko are fully-clothed, the moment's too bare for concealment.

This is Neutral Territory; these are naked feelings.

Neither is completely safe.

"There's lots of things I want," Jinx says, as her fingers itsy-bitsy spider up the curve of his bicep. "Problem is, most of 'em don't belong to me."

"And that's ever stopped you?"

"Nope."

She tips her chin; not quite meeting his querying gaze. Eye contact's a kind of trap; she hates being cornered.

But cornered she is; by the gentle pressure of his hand against her leg; by the cramped intimacy of the motorcar; by the drain of mutual antagonism they've been circling for months now.

No more blitzkriegs of bullets; no high-octane smackdowns. This is no longer a game. They've played too hard for the rules to be fair anymore.

Here, under the glow of a moon just shy of ripe, it's a dance. And in the stillness, they're in-sync: step for step, breath for breath, beat for beat.

Close as only a pair of clockwork hearts can be.

 "Look," Ekko says, because Mister Clever-Clogs has got to talk his way through whatever is incognito, even if that means blowing his own cover. "I didn't invite you here expecting anything. I don't. Not really. I just wanted..."

Jinx quirks a brow. "To talk to me?"

"Ye-eah." His voice cracks a tiny bit; a smile breaks the taut line of his jaw. "Guess so."

"So: talk."

"I—"

She scoots closer, tucking herself easily against him. Her blue head nestles on his breastbone. His chest's a hard curve; his heartbeat a tripwire cadence. She feels the tightly-coiled strength hidden in the lean armature of muscle. He's packed on pounds and inches since they'd last squared off on the Bridge. In place of puppy fat, there are accented angles: a firmer cut to the arms, a squared-off jaw, a broader shoulderspan.

She's reminded, viscerally, that the boy she'd spent a childhood chasing through backalleys—first as friends, then as foes—is almost full-grown.

His maturity should disquiet her; send her fleeing back to Silco's embrace. She was taught to give grown men wide berth growing up—her Daddy, for all his foibles, believed the best target's kept between the crosshairs. And Zaun's streets teemed with big, dumb bullies whose cojones outweighed common sense.

It took a fistful of firepower and a gutful of bloodlust to send 'em packing.

Jinx always carried both in excess.

Then she'd met Viktor—her wise, wasting Vitya. So pretty, with his fragile, haunted features and his aura of deathly calm, honed by decades of suffering. Like called to like; magic tangled where bodies dared not tread. She'd spent a summer breathing in his arid affections: sideways smiles traded over late-night hypotheses; cultured intonations lulling her racing mind into stillness; long-fingered hands, unhurried and precise, adjusting her measurements to bridge the gap where blind inspiration faltered.

He was safe. Safer still with his daredevil dreams of an unblemished sky, and a city reborn from scratch. With such high-swooping hopes, what did the secret stirrings of an eighteen-year-old girl matter?

Then they'd traversed to the Void, and matter ceased to hold meaning.

That day—in that rippling elsewhere of silvered sands and starfall and supernovas—she'd threaded the seams of herself to Viktor's. She'd left girlish fantasies at the wayside; she'd yielded her spirit to his, an apotheosis without parallel, surrender made sublime.

She became the magic. He became the mirror.

It was a fusion beyond mortal ken.

Except...

Except something was missing.

In the mortal plane, Viktor's soul-threads remain stitched tight to hers. The austere adulation that slips—ghostly and gilded—into her senses holds no equal, not on earth. They'd made a heaven of nothingness in the liminal. Naturally, her true self belonged there; in another realm entirely, removed from mere flesh.

Yet here, in the flesh, Jinx is alive.

Alive, and burning to be touched.

What would Viktor think, watching her nuzzle the curve of Ekko's throat? Knowing she's pledged to him in the aether—yet her heart beats hardest here? With a kid-king who rules the roost over a bunch of nobodies, but nourishes her deep-set hurts as if they're his own. Who has loved her at her weakest and loathed her at her wildest, but can't resist her when she's balanced on the fragile equilibrium between both extremes?

Viktor, Jinx thinks, would forgive her.

Viktor forgives everything. He's transcended limitation, become untouchable.

Whereas Ekko is touchable. And when he touches her, she feels it in every fiber of herself: messily, ecstatically, irrevocably.

What's it mean, Jinx wonders, as Ekko's lips butterfly her temple, that one man has her soul at knifepoint, but another one's holding her heart hostage? What's it say that she and Viktor fit together just right, but she and Ekko were built from perfectly mismatched puzzle pieces? What does it matter if she needs them both, but in ways so opposite they might as well be a different language?

How does she make the ends meet?

Especially when her life—her death—still hangs on Silco's strings? And her past—her future—still hinges on Vi's?

Her whole being seems composed of pieces that don't align. Broken fragments orbiting the very inverse of centrifugal force.

(One day, she'll write a book about it. An epic adventure of slapstick comedy, gunpowder tragedy, and interdimensional travel. All revolving around a revolution, because revolution's just love by another name.)

(Like magic.)

Ekko's fingertips trace up her spine. Jinx's trance fades.

[ladycatofwinterfell]

Reach beyond

Day 4 of @nedcatweek: Lord and Lady Stoneheart

The guardsman fell to his knees, lowering his head. Under the cross gaze of their lady the rest found it in them to do the same. All filled with dread at the monstrous sight before them. 

”Seven save us” one man mumbled. ”He lives.”

He had never been pious, though more and more he felt he needed what the gods had to offer.

’They speak of a man wandering these lands alone. They say he carries his head in his hands’ were the words that had been spoken to her. Ever since then she had been relentless. Barely letting anyone have a blink of rest, barely letting them stop to water the horses and have something to eat themselves. On and on she drove them. As silent as she had always been.

”What are we searching for?” a younger one asked. ”Why does she chase this rumour?”

It was clearly a tale told to frighten one another.

”She believes The Headless One is Lord Eddard Stark” an older one replied, having lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. ”We are searching for her husband.”

The younger one had shivered then. He was afraid of their lady. Their corpse walking. There could not be another one. There could not be two of the murdered Starks still walking.

What unnerved him even more was the thought of their lady loving. That there could be anything but burning rage in the red pits that were her eyes. In life she had been a wife and a mother, that he knew, but that had to be past. Their lady could no longer love. No being capable of love would do what she had done.

Even those among them who had initially been thrilled to follow the rumour eventually faltered when they found nothing. Days and weeks and moons passed and there was no sight of The Headless One. Though their lady wanted to hear nothing of returning to a camp. On and on they went in her fruitless pursuit of the man that had once been her husband.

”He does not exist” an older one said one night when their lady had disappeared between the trees. ”Unlike the talk of her these are baseless rumours.”

They all silently nodded. How would he have made it out of the capital? Who would have given him the kiss? How would he have risen? They all knew the Lannisters had taken his head. While their lady had floated in the river for days before she was brought back she had at least still had her head on her shoulders.

Still no one uttered a word of that to their lady. Rain beat down upon them from grey skies until they forgot what it was like to be dry and warm. They shivered through the nights and then shivered through the days. It was endless misery. 

”It was one thing to enact revenge” someone said on an especially wet night. ”Though chasing her fantasies…”

She had been mad from the beginning. From the moment she rose. Though it had become something else entirely ever since she heard that the men and women of the riverlands whispered of The Headless One.

The man that had brought the rumour to her came to bitterly regret it as she forced him forward. It was no comfort that she had joined the hunt herself. Her silent presence was always there, a dark shadow that engulfed them. Would she ever tire of it? Would she ever realise they were chasing nothing?

One of them insisted they not speak ill of her or her chase. It was still Lady Stark. They had a duty to her. And if Lord Stark was truly out there they had to find him. The others had quickly grown tired of him. 

”Of course you would say that, you were part of their guard” someone groaned when he had grown especially passionate in his defence of their lady. 

”Shut it, stableboy” someone else had grumbled.

”I was and remain in service of House Stark!” was his response. ”And my lady will not tolerate disloyalty.”

Though their lady never said anything. They knew she could speak if she held her throat together, but she had not uttered a word since they set out. Silent she was in her pursuit. They didn’t know  if she heard what they said even as they took care only to speak when she went off on her own. She had a way about her that implied she always listened, even when she was not there.

One day they all sat huddled together under a tree, trying to find refuge from the relentless rain. They passed most of their stops that way, there was no firewood dry enough to light fires with. They had all long since given up on the mere thought. Though at least their lady had allowed them a stop in the middle of the day so they could eat. Usually they had to move all the way until nightfall.

”She has been gone for longer than she usually is” said the guardsman.

”I don’t think you need to worry about her” said a younger one. ”Should anyone come across her they’ll run.”

He said it and though of how he himself had wanted to run the first time he laid eyes on her. The urge remained. There was something so deeply inhuman about her, he simply could not help it.

”And no one with anything at all between their ears would be this deep in the woods in this weather” an older one agreed.

Still the guardsman pushed himself up, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and moved to go towards where she had disappeared.

”You’ll get lost, you fool” said the older one who had just spoken.

Though before the guardsman could respond they heard someone move close by. A few seconds later their lady emerged between two trees. Several of them flinched when they saw that she held a severed head. Brown hair streaked with grey fell over her hands. That was all they could see as their lady held the head so that it was facing her.

”My lady, what is it—”

Another person came stumbling in behind her and they all screamed. It was a walking body with no head.

As they all scrambled to their feet, no one grasping the situation enough to understand how they were supposed to act, their lady carefully turned the head around so that they could see the face.

”Gods be good” the guardsman whispered. ”Lord Stark.”

The in life so neatly kept beard had grown long and shaggy, and it was a gaunter face than he remembered it being. Where the eyes had been there were empty hollows and around them were claw marks similar to those their lady had on her cheeks. Though there was no doubt in his mind about who the face belonged to. The nose and the mouth were the same. 

The guardsman fell to his knees, lowering his head. Under the cross gaze of their lady the rest found it in them to do the same. All filled with dread at the monstrous sight before them. 

”Seven save us” one man mumbled. ”He lives.”

He had never been pious, though more and more he felt he needed what the gods had to offer.

They were regarded with coolness before their lady gently laid the head on one arm so that she could use the other to take the body’s arm. Slowly she guided the body over to a tree and sat it down, placing herself next to him with the head in her lap.

It was long before anyone could tear their eyes away, but she paid them no mind. Merely sat there and calmly patted the head’s hair as if she was alone in the world with it. 

The youngest was the first to look away and once he had done so he could not bring himself to look again. He was so nauseous he was certain he would cast up all he had managed to eat. The sight of those ghastly hands holding the eyeless head would be forever burned into his mind.

Many others shared his terror. No one would eat another bite. It would be many nights before anyone could sleep without nightmares. 

While the others again gathered under the tree, pale and unable to speak, the guardsman went to sit closer to their lady and the body. He chose a different tree, but was close enough to hear her as she raised her hands to her throat and rasped out words.

”Ned” she croaked.

The eyeless head said nothing, of course, though the body managed to get an arm around their lady’s waist and held her to it.

When their lady smiled it was more of a twisted grimace. It took them seconds before they realised it was a smile. It frightened hem all, brought unease to the entire company. 

Their journey was at end, they had found The Headless One. And he would return to camp with them and their lady.

***

She sewed the head back on the body herself. Gently and lovingly she stitched together his neck. Then the youngest one had actually vomited. In life she must have been skilled with a needle, though the rigidness brought on by her time in death caused the stitching to be crude and uneven. Still they all agreed he was less horrible to look upon when he was not in two separate pieces.

Once his head was firmly in place she dedicated herself to grooming him. Combed through his hair with her hands, cut it using a knife and then tied half of it back with a leather cord. The beard she could not do much about, nor could anyone else. 

They all drew away as she tended to him. Had they spoken aloud then they would have found they agreed on that something was simply wrong with the entire ordeal. They tried to justify it to themselves, but could not escape that instincts told them to run from it. Something so monstrous was not supposed to be gentle. She was meant to be vicious and cruel. 

Still they could not escape that the monstrosity had been done to them. Both had met their ends through cutting betrayal, they had not wished to be the way they were. The guardsman especially repeated it to himself. Lord and Lady Stark had been different than they were. 

Most of the time the stitching around his neck could be hidden by cloaks and high collars. For a time he also tied a piece of cloth over where his eyes had been, hiding the empty hollows and the marks the birds had left around them. Eventually he ceased doing that. Perhaps he sensed it unnerved each and every person that was unfortunate enough to lay eyes on him. Everyone averted their gaze at the sight of the dark holes in his skull.

He was entirely blind and as silent as his lady, but he listened even more attentively than she did. Every little whisper reached him, and not a one could answer to how. They blamed the guardsman, initially, until they realised things no one told him still came to the attention of their lord. 

The guardsman spoke of how cold his eyes had sometimes been before. Grey eyes as hard as stone that judged and judged and judged. The judgment seemed even worse when there were no eyes. When he turned his face towards them and there was nothing that saw and still he knew. Still he judged.

Their lady had had a habit of disappearing every now and again ever since she rose. Leaving them to wander the woods for a few hours at a time. She still did, though she brought their lord with her. He rarely ever left her side, as soon as they were both standing she was holding his arm. Between trees and through creeks and over roots she led him. On and on.

”Do you think they still..?”

The question was raised a dark night when they had again vanished.

It brought grimaces from all his companions.

”Why are you thinking of it?” someone else demanded. ”They’re dead.”

”They’re not, though” said a third. ”And they still… love..?”

He was not certain it was love. Could they love? Or was it devotion that lingered from what they had been before? They could not speak with one another. He could not see her. Though very often they sat in silence together. Never before had there been some resemblance of peace in their lady’s expression. And though what little remained of her hair was white and brittle their lord would run his fingers through it.

”They loved each other deeply” said the guardsman. ”It was known through the entire north.”

Before him they had done their executions by hanging. The noose had been the fate of all those they had managed to catch. So it was no more. Their lord had not lost his precision with his eyes. No, he swung a sword as he had in life. Enacted his wife’s justice rather than the king’s.

He would sit entirely still, almost as if frozen, until their lady had delivered her sentence. Then he would rise, his rotted fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. 

”Mercy, mercy” they would cry as they were dragged to the block. 

Some were so young their voices broke as they wept. Boys not yet men. Though there was no mercy to be found once their lord had risen. Their lady had given her command and so he would put an end to whatever life he had before him.

”Lord Stark” a man begged. ”Lord Stark, I met you before. Your wife was with child, we spoke of the children. Please. Please, we spoke of our children. I am a good man, you know I am a good man. I have children.”

In spite of himself one of their own almost laughed, could not keep a smile off his face. How could one look at that thing and try to appeal to what had once been Eddard Stark? How could one gaze at his ruined face and believe there was a man there who would show mercy? Lord and Lady Stark were dead.

Their lord paused briefly. Their lady’s eyes burned more fiercely than they ever had. Red and hateful, her face twisted with it. 

”You’re a Lannister man” said another. ”They’ve got you to thank for that they have no children.” 

”I had nothing to do with it, I swear I had nothing—”

His head rolled all the same. His blood soaked into the soft ground, his eyes stared blankly at the sky above them. 

”He mentioned their children” whispered a young one as they huddled around the fire that night.

”And the next man brought before them will pay tenfold for that” said an older.

”The scum will deserve it” someone else added.

Even so he shuddered. He pulled his cloak around him, blaming the cold. It was cold. Winter would soon be upon them. 

”Winter is coming” the oldest among them said as the green was bleeding out of the leaves.

Their lord turned his head towards him and was still for a moment before nodding once. Indeed winter was coming. As it always did. Every summer had to end, life had to give way for the barren cold.

When the snow began falling it was gentle. Soft snowflakes danced through the air and covered the everything in a white blanket. The woods grew still and quiet.

It was only then it became apparent their lord did not breathe. White clouds formed before the faces of them all, but he did not breathe. 

”Whatever brought him back is different than the kiss of life” someone noted sullenly. 

Evil, he thought. Whatever kept him animated was not supposed to be in the world. That he would not voice, but he prayed. Each morning and each night he prayed.

”We’ll never know what brought him back. And I don’t want to know.”

Mere days after that first snow there was a storm. Winds made the snowflakes lash at any skin not covered and it was near impossible to see their hands if they held them in front of their faces. Biting cold unlike anything even the older among them had ever seen before. Winter as it had been in ages long past. Winter that put end to anything not strong enough to withhold it. True winter.

It was in this storm their lord and lady vanished. Out into the storm they went, never to return. Once the snowing eased enough for their men to search for them their tracks had long since been covered.

”They can’t have survived” the oldest muttered. ”The storm took them.”

Several others came to wonder if their lord even could die. Their lady lived through a kiss of life, she could be killed. But their lord had wandered headless for so long and he did not breathe. Nor did he eat or drink. Did he wander alone again? Had their lady perished in the cold?

”They meant to go somewhere.”

”Where would they have gone?”

They would never know. But among the people of the north there were soon whispers. 

[cookierunoutofideas]

Day 1 of "Writing SMC angst until he stops breaking my heart and comes home" (hopefully first and last)

So, after this post, someone sent me this ask in my main blog and I had an idea.

As usual, not beta read we crumble like cookies. Possibly OOC. Possibly crack. Cookies have human anatomy but made with cookie stuff. Fem! Reader. Making up random Cookie Run lore because I can. I am getting desperate, so pardon my lunacy, I just have terrible luck in gacha and need to let my frustrations out

+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"The DOG?!"

"Don't call him that!"

Shadow Milk Cookie can't believe his eyes. He can't believe his ears. He can't believe any of his senses nor his mind.

How did that happen? How did he not see it happening?

Shadow Milk knows for a fact that ever since the other half of his soul jam had awakened in the hands of another cookie, he has kept Pure Vanilla Cookie and his group under his gaze. Specially after Pure Vanilla Cookie somehow met (Y/N) Cookie, the one the Beast of Deceit has loved deeply since he first woke up in the Witch's baking tray, before he was even bestowed the Light of Knowledge, the two blinking confusedly at each other.

He had known, then and there, that they were meant to be together forever. It was like the Witches had baked them to fit together, almost as if they were originally one cookie dough that got separated in two. Even as he allowed the corruption—salvation to take over and transform him into something greater than the Witches would've allowed, his feelings for (Y/N) Cookie never once wavered. The joy he felt when Pure Vanilla Cookie finally did something good and guided him back to his beloved is simply too difficult to put on words.

She is as beautiful as always.

And so terribly close! He couldn't wait to finally break the seal fully and get back the life the damned Witches stole so he could finally reunite with (Y/N) Cookie.

So, then, why is she glaring at him? Standing there, at the Dark Side of The Moon, shoulders rigid and eyes piercing, (Y/N) Cookie proclaims that she has found someone else.

And it's a god damned CAKE MONSTER!!

"My love, what have the Witches done to your brain? Is this a joke? Must be a joke! Right? Right!"

"It's no joke, Shadow Milk Cookie. I have found love away from you and your lies," she crosses her arms, unamused. "Schwarzwälder is a sweet guy who treats me well. I'm very lucky to have him."

"You're enemies!"

"We were enemies. It was before Dark Enchantress Cookie abandoned her followers to covet the power of the Beasts."

"That– how–!"

"I don't need to explain myself to you!" (Y/N) cookie takes a step back and he can tell she'll soon manage to free herself from his influence. Shadow Milk Cookie remembers the days they spent training their magic together. "We are over, Shadow Milk Cookie! The next time we meet, it'll be on the battlefield, and you better hope White Lily manages to seal you before I crumble you!"

The connection severs then, the once warm and welcoming magic of his beloved now sharp and cold like a blade, and Shadow Milk Cookie is left alone in the dark realm of his own creation.

[mostmagical]

He's alone. After all, he's always been alone, and he's always been good at it. (Chat Blanc poem)

.

Rating: T Words: 847 Additional Tags: Angst; Grief/Mourning; Suicidal Thoughts; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Read on Ao3

Alone.

He’s always been alone, for as far back as he can see.

Tonight is no different, beneath the hollow of what was the moon, or

at least, he thinks it to be tonight, despite the bleak, empty sky.

There was a moment, some seconds, a brief and fleeting time,

in which, for a bit, he hadn’t been in that aching solitude.

Marinette— chère Ladybug, with her love and warming hugs,

she had held onto him— tight for dear life— as she cried,

and he felt the pull, the hook, tugging along his ventricle.

Alone.

He would never let her be alone, for he would always be there.

He’d swore it before, and he swore it again then once more.

By her side, he would be sword and shield, to both her body

and heart, cage it from the icy loneliness that hangs overhead.

It was fine; they were well, or so he had thought, but,

love isn’t meant for him; it had all been for naught.

For when they believed it to be won, that’s when

it all came crashing, shattering, in the guise of his mom.

Alone.

Oh, how he had felt so alone since she’d gone.

Daily lessons spent with Nathalie were long and lonely,

until Mère walked into the room, and time stretched, with

a simple smile, and loneliness fled, peeling the edge of

rose-colored everything, with warm eyes and flaxen hair.

He loved her, loved her so much, the hook akin to an anchor,

and so when he saw her, asleep in that casket, it dragged,

disturbing his heart’s fragile riverbed and feeble shoals.

Alone.

That small part of him had accepted she left him alone,

but to see her there, time stopped at once, reality split.

She had never left, she’d been— she was here, all along,

just waiting, sleeping, or suspended, just under his home.

The call of “Adrien—” in his voice cut like the sharpest knives,

scoring old and newer scars, with “for us” used as though

there had been so much of an “us” in the entire year that

Emilie had been gone, and they, the two, were both—

Alone.

From there it’s a blur— a hit, a smash, a bleed,

tears burning his eyes, over things he can’t yet see.

His father, his father, there, with an outstretched hand,

begging, pleading, words falling on aching ears of

guilt, so much guilt, and plays on his deepest fears.

He had screamed out “Stop it, stop it!” louder than ever,

but still— and yet— for Père, it would never be enough.

And then he— He couldn’t, he hadn’t known what to do.

Alone.

How could he act, knowing, again, he would be all alone?

But still, it didn’t matter; he ruins everything he touches.

Emotional, reactive, he was bound— meant— to lose all control.

Tears stream down now, over masked and rounded cheeks,

and he wonders How could I, how could I do this?

If only he were stronger, if only he could bear the weight,

then, perhaps, he could have saved her, saved everything,

and their love would be enough to keep him from being so—

Alone.

Perhaps, or maybe— maybe, yes, it’s better this way.

He stares down at his hand, white pulse of destruction,

and for a moment, he thinks Maybe, maybe more than a moment.

But his chest, it pounds, heart beating heavier, heavier,

and his breaths quicken, his lungs burning drier, drier.

His palm thrusts down on the concrete, to splinters and cracks.

It crumbles to decay, splashing to the endless sea, née Paris,

rippling for seconds that pass, then over, silent, it all glasses.

Alone.

As silence reigns louder in his ears, he’s reminded, again.

He’s never felt it stronger than now, staring, staring—

He thinks he can see down to the lifeless, very bottom.

The water’s yet murky, but it’s unstirring, so placid.

It looks so quiet, quiet enough that he could rest,

and he’s so tired, tired of it all and everything.

So he wonders, should he lay there, curled in the substrate,

the knight at his fallen Lady’s feet, prostrated, repentant? 

Alone.

After all, without her, he’s worse than nothing—

A speck, a wreck, nothing but emotional waste.

His heart, it pulls, forevermore towards her—

It’s physical, it’s aching, bleeding and pussing,

as though there’s a hole clean through his chest.

He drops to his knees as he cries, fists clenched,

salt-tasting tear tracks stinging reddened skin,

as he remembers how unfit he is to fix anything.

Alone.

He can feel it, everything looming down over him,

stalactite of sorrow aimed directly between pointed ears.

Behind the bars of his bedroom, it’s formed over mere

years of his own heart, exposed, unprotected and bare,

with solitude and loneliness, armed weapons of pain.

He can’t keep anyone close, he can’t keep them in sight;

he always finds a way to hurt them, soon in time,

so it’s better he’s learned now, to keep to himself.

He deserves this, it’s true, more than anything else.

…and so, now, Chat Blanc is—

alone.

[ravenwriter16]

so what was it like for the emperor sun, moon and eclipse all those 8 years with our absence.. I love the idea that we never left their minds.. it truly warms my heart... Despite their uh...fatherly obsession haha it's still warming to have someone wanting to find you.

Did they never stop or ever thought about giving up?

Was it straight away since we left they started searching?

Also how did sun first get communication with the mayor 🤔

Cause it's been years...so it must have been recent for them?

As didn't sun and moon come straight away once they found out the location? Or did they wait a while to plan?

Eclipse: *Pours you some herbal tea* of course we haven't forgotten about you. What kind of fathers would we be if we did?

Moon: *picks up his own teacup while using his mana to pass you some macarons* As for you first question, starlight, we NEVER stopped looking for you. Even when it seemed hopeless.

Sun: *grabs one of the small cucumber sandwiches* and the night you left, we...wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. To see if you would come home on your own accord instead of having us send out the entire army to go and bring you back.

Moon: It was a very long and painful night...

Eclipse: *hands you your cup* As for the informant, that one is easy to explain. You see, I sent out word around the seventh year of your tantrum--MHM!

Sun: *shoves a sandwich into Eclipse's mouth* It's my story, Eclipse. Any-who, as your father said, Sunflower, he sent word about you to the farthest villages in our Empire. I, myself, was in the middle of searching for you on one of the isles when I received a flame message from that...man.

Moon: *Snarls into his cup as he sips his tea* if you can call him that...

Sun: *Nods before continuing* He wrote that a girl around your age was running a shop in his village. We've had many fake calls over the years, so I asked him to send something you had touched. He sent me a peach pit.

Eclipse: *Swallows the rest of the sandwich* I still have that pit~.

Sun: I used a simple mana matching spell, knowing that your mana would probably be overwhelming due to the fact you hadn't been using any spells. And sure enough! It was YOU!

Moon: He came home immediately afterwards, prattling on and on about how he found you. I couldn't believe it and Eclipse almost set the palace on fire at the news.

Eclipse: I did not--,

Sun: Yes you did.

Moon: *Gives them a pointed look* As I was SAYING...Once we calmed Eclipse down, we decided that we should first reinforce the security of the palace, decide on the arrangements of your room, and who should go out and bring you back home.

Eclipse: I fought them tooth and nail to be able to go myself, but they convinced me otherwise...barely...

Moon: *rolls his eyes* Stars is that the truth...

Sun: *holds your hand, warmly smiling at you* But all that is in the past. No need to dwell on it. Focus on the present, love. Do you want some more sweets?

[strawbabysimp]

Sub!Shigaraki Kink Alphabet

A/N: I needed motivation and a long Shiggy prompt will do that~ I meant to do an NSFW Alphabet but by the time I realized I was just doing kinks it was too late to stop lol ♡

A = Anal

Shigaraki is a slut for ass-play and goes absolutely slack-jawed when you plunge anything into his tight heat. He seemingly never stretches out entirely, always clamping down tightly on the object of his desire, enjoying the moment more than you do undoubtedly. He'll even enjoy a finger in dry, showing just how desperate and empty he feels without being filled.

B = Ball Torture

He loves having you get him on the floor just to press your heel into the base of his cock. The feeling of pressure on such a vulnerable area has him lashing out vocally but it's all a part of the game. He wants you to break him, step down just a bit harder to keep in place - force him to take it. He wants it.

C = Cumshot

Shigaraki loves the evidence of you two's coupling covering him, particularly his face, marking him filthy and used up after the event. It doesn't matter if it's his or another person's (though he does enjoy his own more), he's desperate for it and he makes it known. Sometimes you'll have him beg to come on his own face.

D = Dildo

Plunging a dildo deep into Shigaraki's ass or mouth is a nice treat for when you really want to make an impact. He prefers length over girth so that it reaches deep inside his tight body and fucks into his prostate nice and easily. Sometimes when you're sucking his dick he'll subconsciously start mumbling for you to fuck his ass with the faux-cock, the slick slipping between his cheeks acting as the only lube he needs when you give in to his request.

E = Exhibition

His hand finds yours in the corner of a coffee shop, a crowded line, or another highly inappropriate time and he'll bring both palms to his body. What may seem like casual hand-holding is foreplay for him; laying out your flesh firmly against his abdomen to feel how his muscles clench against you. Maybe he'll even shove a plug deep in his greedy hole before you two leave the house so when you press deeply you feel the familiar shiver of his body being stuffed.

F = Face-Fucking

Whether it's from you or him, Shigaraki is desperate for the pleasure that comes with human desperation. The unrestrained movements and animalistic nature of having you thrust your hips up into his awaiting face. He eats up every motion, swallowing down the combination of your fluids and his spit. He salivates at the taste of you, moving his tongue desperately as you smash against him, giving him little range for movement.

G = Gangbang Fantasies

Shigaraki loves being filled from both ends, an array of flaccid objects and splayed fingers making his mind blank and insides full. Obscene sucking and gagging can be heard from his own willing abuse of his mouth, shoving himself deeper onto the toys as he imagines vague figures thrusting into him roughly. He loves when you help, your own sex making harsh movements against his face or lower half as your hands abuse his holes and surfaces, slapping faux-cocks against his face and mocking his slutty nature. Pain and pleasure mix together as he experiences a heaven of overstimulation and depravity - the perfect world for him.

H = HuCow

He begs you to milk him without words, coming to you with a bell collar already around his neck and spotted blue and white ears blending into his similar-colored hair. He fantasizes as your hand wraps around him, methodically milking him for all he's worth - bringing forth precious liquid from a beast unable to speak. He lets out a long, drawn-out moan, the bell around his neck ringing out as his head is thrown back. His body is so sensitive but so needy, his instincts driving his desire. He needs you to empty him, he feels so full.

I = Impact Play

Harsh slaps leave your partner gasping. Wide eyes look at you like you both hung the moon and destroyed it. It gives Tomura an instinctual desire to ask why why why but the next slap takes the words out of his mind and replaces them with stinging tears in his eyes. He wants this; to be willingly abused, the emotional and physical pain swirling around his stomach and swelling his cock pathetically. If you were to leave him be he would only whine and grind his hips pathetically, craving the stimulation your hits bring to every inch of his body. Your hand strikes his face and his cock leaks.

J = Jerking Off

Making a mess of himself for you is something he'll do without much prompting. A simple instruction to get on the bed and start touching himself has him smiling with cracked lips before quickly tearing his clothes off. He loves when you instruct him but he doesn't need it. His fingers already coated in his own spit wrap around his aching cock and with a firm grasp, he's thrusting up into his hand with a slightly agar mouth. The blue-haired boy makes no effort to contain his sounds as his moans meld with wet, lude noises from his minstrations.

K = Katoptronophilia

It wasn't uncommon for Shigaraki to spread his legs wide as your fingers both wrapped around his cock and plunged deep into his ass. His eyes would screw shut tightly as you made quite a mess of him. This wasn't enough however and you wasted no time slapping the sensitive length of his cock, bouncing it back against his tightened stomach before telling him to "look at himself." Closet walls reflected the image of you two's coupling back at him, causing his tip to leak even more without further touch. You would call him a slut, perverted, far too cocky - which you'd emphasize with another slap to the associated member. He'd groan at the abuse and over time only grow more addicted to the sight of himself.

L = Lactation

Dose him up with pills, fill his breasts with milk like a properly fucked bitch. Force him to lactate so you can savor every twist of his nipples as you draw forth more of the thin liquid. It's a pathetic excuse for a mother's milk but Shigaraki has always been a failure - you remind him as you bring the droplets up to his lip for him to suckle on. It was like he was your own little experiment.

M = Maid Training

Strict rules and harsh tasks made the effeminate man feel at ease. The occasional slaps to his ass and cooking in only an apron had pink cheeks contrasting his hair nicely - which was of course held back in a frilly headband. Sometimes you liked to have him clean on his hand-and-knees, watching as his hole fluttered tauntingly when he reached for something purposely far away. He was a needy slut and his services were paid for through means of sexual satisfaction, scrubbing the floors and wiping down the counters as his own movements caused him to fuck his own body back on your fingers.

N = Ncytophilia

The night scenery blinded him; curtains closed with the distant knowledge that the moon was out somewhere through the black-out material fueled the filling of his cock. His senses were heightened and he always felt more at peace in the darkness. Shigaraki knew this was how he was meant to be fucked: completely at the mercy of the other, felt up and sensitive.

O = Odaxelagnia

Shigaraki was a sensitive and expressive thing, often uncontrollably spasming or screaming out beneath you. Sometimes when you'd be pulled tightly to him he couldn't help but let his teeth grip you in ways his hands never could, pressing every groove he can into the tender flesh of your arm or shoulder. It's okay if he draws blood or leaves a bruise because he'll egg you on for revenge, begging for you to return the treatment tenfold. He loved being marked and abused, bitten up and spit out by the one he adored.

P = Partialism (Feet)

The diminishing factor of worshipping your feet was not lost on him. Something about being knelt down before an individual made him emotional, the submission so in his face as he thanked you for the soles pressed against his cheek. Usually, the process was slow and tender, with him nuzzling against your ankle and relishing in the soft grip you gave the blue strands atop his head. The feeling of both acceptance and vulnerability flowed through him as he licked up and down the expanse of your foot, dipping his tongue between the digits below as you lifted them off the ground to make the task easier. Sometimes after a rough day, you would surprise him with a harsh kick away from you, pulling at his heart and leaving a bruise against his already marred skin. Sometimes you liked to see him cry beneath the weight of your foot.

Q = Queening

The feel of your hole draped over his mouth had him pathetically attempting to lap at the tasteful organ. He was perfectly fine having his breathing constricted in favor of your temporary pleasure. If he died with you on top of him, grinding against his foul mouth then maybe he could say he went out happy.

R = Role Reversal

It was fun when Shigaraki insisted on acting tough when you both knew he begged daily for the sexual abuse you gave him. You swore he only did it to get broken rougher than usual; brought further down from his imaginary pedestal. You both enjoyed the force used on him when you instilled in his mind he would never know full choice in this relationship, always giving it up to you in the end. You'd make him crave it.

S = Spit

With your shoe on Shigaraki's head and his tongue against the floor like a good boy, your lover will eagerly lick up the treat from your mouth. He joins the two of you's saliva on his tongue with a savoring moan, eyes closed as his tastebuds scrape the surface for more of your fluids. He shows you his tongue when he wants more, looking into your eyes as a sort of wordless begging, sometimes flexing his throat or letting out frustrated moans if you don't spit in his face promptly.

T = Total Power Exchange

Tomura is very open to a total power exchange dynamic and even prefers it, as long as the proper accommodations are made and agreed upon to not harm his goals. Plus, he couldn't properly get off without knowing he was properly seeking the destruction of hero society.

U = Urine

Fucking him open with even just your fingers can easily run his balls dry, but depending on the time and clenching of his muscles his bladder will be painfully full. With permission and the loosening of your grip around the base of his cock, he'll come squirting the golden liquid into his own mouth. Gargling the piss with a fucked-out smile the man will silently thank you with more shake of his body.

V = Vampires

You hoped it wasn't the time around Toga rubbing off on him, but Shigaraki Tomura had developed an increasing desire for you to consume his being - consumed himself by the thought of your all-encompassing love. He could imagine fangs springing from your mouth as your canines penetrated his skin from behind; he loved having you hovered over his back, a hand around his cock as your hips pressed against his ass. Overpowering him, he thought, even if he could destroy anything with the touch of his hand.

W = Werewolves

Surrounded by fierce abominations, maybe even considered one himself, Shigaraki was fascinated by the concept of being dominated by some fierce beast. Humanlike and able to consent, even force him, that's what he wanted. Something to hold him down and knot him. He'll research into some temporary quirk you guys can have some fun with, or settle for some nice biting and a thickened dildo to pop through the rim of his asshole satisfyingly.

X = XXX

He's a fucking nymphomaniac, unable to control himself sometimes as he rubs up against your thigh desperately. You give him a criticizing look but that only eggs him on further, the disapproval in your gaze a familiar and enticing thing. If you don't want to please him that's fine, he won't force you, but he'll get away from you in a huff and open up his laptop to watch porn at full volume. The moans are broken up by the sound of his pants coming off and wet noises combined with familiar moans taunt you from his spot. He's fine coming like that too if you refuse to get up. He'll finish with a sharp gasp and walk away to clean himself up with a smirk.

Z = Zzz

You'll know when Shigaraki is feeling especially needy because he'll make a point of sleeping with his clothes off, his usual boxers conveniently close to the floor for a prompt clean-up material. It was your choice what to do with him, all the options running through your mind - you could wait for him to fall asleep, curl up behind him to palm his cock in a way that brought him closer to your body, or maybe hoped you woke from the usual annoying street-goer to fuck him awake to the beat of their too-loud music.

[jennegatron]

When I think about Murph saying that there are all these parallel dimensions where the season plays out differently and Theo stays static through the whole show, but in this one he has to grow and change and it makes me want to howl at the moon. Theobald didn't have to grow. He's a stuffy middle aged man. Amethar refuses to listen to him though. He asks for his king to try, to find it in him to reach out to Saccharina and Amethar, a fuck up to his core, doesn't. So Theo has to choose. And it all comes back to the person he actually wanted to serve. It comes back to Lazuli and what she saw in him. That he's capable and if he pushes himself he can be more than he ever considered himself able to do. He can do magic. He can think for himself. He can love rules and structure but it should never cage him in or stop him from doing what he knows is right. Ripping my shirt in half like macho man randy savage.

3 different people describe theobald gumbar/murph as a goon in a crown of candy (lapin - what a large goon you are, brennan when he uses swirlwarden to burst out of the dairy sea, you goon you absolute fucker, and he describes himself as a goon in the sugar plum fairy temple fight when he delays his turn with gooey and the marauders to wait till after Saccharina has gone). theo is a flunkie. theo is a goon. or that's what he thinks until the rubber hits the road and he has to grow and step into his truth of loving magic more than monarchy. oh the GROWTH. the MAN HE IS. oh i love the gummy bear knight.

[ehhlien]

Somewhere online I read a post that said "Lestat topped Louis and now Louis tops Armand" and I really didn't think too deeply about it; I don't think about things like that much. But also I felt like "mhmm.. Armand seems to exert so much power over Louis, I'm not seeing it". But then Armand was so vulnerable in this episode, and you could see how much he yearns for the love of someone who is eternally occupied by someone else, whether or not he knows it, and he later refers to Louis as 'maître' and now I do in fact believe it.

[dapurinthos]

sifo: we should pick a bland code name to use instead of sith. something greatly disliked so it would make sense that we're complaining about it. ari: dairy. milkmen. lactose. sifo: right. i call this meeting of the dairy defamation d ... can't think of a word. ari: dominion. division.

~planning the serenno arc chapters means i get to seed things now like the 'can clearly see that it is the depression when looking back, but not at the time' bits, like at the perlemian orbital facility gathering~

“I don't know,” I burst out, then flip my hood up over my head. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Everything feels wrong. A weight has fastened itself to me, a set of armour that impedes instead of protects. There's a shrieking, out-of-tune viol where the pegs have been twisted so far around that the strings are ready to snap like the negative reinforcement of an elastic band against my wrist each time a thought I don't want surfaces. He looks around and leads me off to the side, just beyond the entrance of a hallway that leads to the off-limits part of the station. It’s lined with fancy chairs that look more like sugar confections atop a cake than actual furniture. Master Si pulls one of the chairs over and sits in it, leaning forward until his head is on the same level as mine. “Hey, it's okay.” “No, it's not.” My throat constricts. “Then we'll make it okay, all right? Come here, breathe with me.” He cups my elbows and I rest my hands on the inside of his forearms, on the bracers he wears to keep his sleeves out of the way. They are more decorative than utilitarian, with elasticized lacing up the inside where the fabric of his sleeves bunches up. I clear my throat thrice and blink rapidly to clear my eyes. In for the count of three, hold for the count of seven, and then out for five. Again. And again. It takes a few more rounds than usual until the shrieking becomes more of a background hum. Still there, but quieted enough until it can be properly dealt with later. “Want a hug?” “Lean.” “No, I'm Sifo-Dyas,” he says like it's the pinnacle of wit, but straightens up in the chair so I can lean into his side. I swat his leg with the back of my hand like I've spotted a mosquito there. After a moment, I speak. “Come on, there are milkmen to stick pins into.” “Picked a particular poking pin?” “Illegitimacy of all milkmen claiming the title after the moon landing.”

[karcin9gen]

i. am thinking about tom tonight