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[littlemissmentallyunstable]

there’s been lots of requests and comments so here it is PART 3!!! (SHE’S HERE first anon, hope you survived this long second anon and it was not a dream third anon, I’m posting/making it now fourth and fifth anon)

some of you were going feral for part 2 so I hope this lives up the expectation 😭😭 if not I’m severely sorry

title: the dancer and the angel part 3

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: grayson has just admitted to kissing lyra kane, the girl you’d been worried about, the girl that was stunning, the girl he said didn’t matter… he chose her over you so now what??

parts: part 1 part 2 part 4

warnings: swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: okay so I hate switching POVs but I felt it was necessary here and I know the start is the same as the part 2 but in Gray’s POV but trust me there is lot more

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31

GRAYSON’S POV

Guilt has chewed me up and spat me out the whole walk back to our shared room. There’s a pulsating lump in my throat that aches relentlessly, reminding me of what I’ve done. I am a terrible person. I never deserved her and now I’ve done the worst thing I could’ve possibly done, that anyone on this whole planet could’ve ever done. And she will never forgive me for it. I wish there was a way to turn back time and alter certain events. As soon as the time machine is invented, no doubt by my very own brother Xander, I’m coming back to moments before now to stop my idiot brain from-

I can’t even think it. Maybe it’s because it makes it more real. It’s like the last few moments of my life have been erased from my brain, it’s a blank canvas and I have no paints. I know what I did but I can’t remember exact details. Still, I can taste her on my lips, an over sweet taste that was almost too sickly has now morphed into something bitter. Her perfume lingers on my clothes and adds to my ever growing headache. I don’t want to smell her, I don’t want the reminder of the awful human I have become. The monster that now inhabits my body, lives in my skin, breathes my air and poisons the people I love. The ones I truly love.

Y/n. At one point she was the only reason I was still existing, still carrying on. She somehow managed to give me the fight to keep carrying on. I got up most days because I knew I would get to see her face. And now I’m going to throw everything away, our whole relationship. Everything we’ve been through or planned to go through together. It will reduced to nothing in a few minutes.

I’m outside the door, my feet have carried me here through muscle memory. I must go in, I must face her I’m aware but I’m afraid. I’ve never felt so pathetic. I wonder if she is still asleep. Though, I can’t work out whether I’d rather she be awake or asleep. I don’t think I could bear to look at her angelic feature either way. Those wide eyes, round lips, heavenly- I can’t bear it, I’m going to lose her, all of her.

I fiddle around with the key, hoping the door will just never unlock so I don’t have to face this. The mechanism clicks, mocking me. I step in silently and face the door to lock back up again. I don’t understand why, I know I’ll be kicked out in a matter of seconds, what good will a locked door be? And yet I’m still facing the door, fumbling with the key, my back towards her. Though I can hear her getting out of bed. She’s awake. My body’s immediate response is to go into a state of paralysis. I can’t move as the guilt ridden cement hardens over my body, creating an outer shell of the cruel creature I’ve become. Her body is behind mine. I can feel her bright presence radiating her usual tentative nature.

“Are you okay?” I hear her whisper as she touches my arm so gently it stings.

It stings so sharply because I know what I’ve done. The shameful crime I’ve committed. I jerk away suddenly.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, deep concern in her tone.

It kills me. It’s a poisoned dagger wedged deep within my heart, hitting every vital artery. Her voice is so soft, so melodic. She cares so much, too much and I’m about to destroy it all. And as much as I could not say a word I couldn’t live a lie, the guilt would eat me alive. How could I look her in the eye and tell her she’d always been the only one when I know she hadn’t? She’d already noticed earlier today my distant mood. She had always been observant, vigilant about those things concerning me and I’d always been grateful. I wouldn’t have that anymore. Lyra had been on my mind earlier and I couldn’t tell her. Now she would realise.

“No,” I reply.

My voice is unfamiliar to myself, it’s sharp and blunt. It sounds horribly harsh. I could feel it hurt her, the air ripples with a touch of dimness when I hurt her. Even with my back to her it’s obvious to me. I know her so well, too well and from this day on we might drift to perfect strangers. That thought hurts me more than anything.

“Where have you been?” she says. Her voice so sweet, so innocent, cruelly naïve.

I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to do it. It would be like smashing a glass ballerina. Something so beautiful, something so delicate should be preserved not purposely broken. I force my eyes to meet hers. I immediately regret it. The soft mellow colour all melts into one, clawing at my heartstrings and ripping the organ to shreds. She’s so beautiful. How had I ever looked at any other? How had I let myself?

Suddenly I’m drowning in guilt. I don’t know how, it just comes over me suddenly. Like a tidal wave I had my back to. I’ve been swept under by an endless ocean of shame. My lungs swollen full of my own black sin. I don’t know how but I manage to choke out two shaky words.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. My voice never cracks. She knows that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I’m the rock that never breaks and here I am. Here I am crumbling into dust. She’s too smart to miss the signs, she’s too clever not to immediately know something so horribly wrong, her mind is too sharp not to have worked half of it out. She’d already been suspicious of Lyra. She’d already seen what might happen between us even before I did, before it did actually happen.

“Gray?” she asks, my name sounding too sweet on her tongue. The next time she says it will taste bitter, I’m sure of it. She barely whispers the word but I hear her, it rings in my mind. It forever will.

I’m full of pure regret and guilt, it wracks my soul, shaking me relentlessly back and forth until I’m dizzy with it. Remorse’s doors suddenly burst wide open, ready for my grand entrance. My hopes and dreams snicker and smirk smugly as I walk down the runway, my head hanging in embarrassment.

I need to tell her. My heart races in my chest and there’s a lump stuck in my throat, so large it’s started to block my airways. I don’t know how to get the words out, I don’t know how to talk. I feel like I’m suffering some sort of aneurysm. She looks at me, her eyebrows pinched in and eyes narrowed and then I see it. Her eyebrows part and slowly sink. She knows already.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her voice of an angel shaking.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I haven’t cried in years I’ve forgotten this feeling, this heavy weighted agony that ripples through me causing water to infiltrate my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and still my shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, an uninvited raw desperation ripping through my voice, “I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” she grits through her teeth sharply, her eyes glitter so beautifully fierce and fiery, like she wants to kill.

But I know she’s trying to steady her rising sadness by covering up with her fury. I can see through her, like she can see through me. I freeze and the pause elongates. The aching silence is deadly, it’s fatal. I wish she didn’t have to make me say it.

“I kissed her,” I murmur, the words making me feel sick as I say them.

“Who?” she asks, he tone low and ferocious, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

I’m twisting a knife into her heart and I know it. But she wants me to cut deeper. She’s a woman of principle, I’ve already hurt her, I might as well do the job properly in her eyes. And I can’t deny her this. Not I’ve stripped her of her dignity, her trust, her love, her everything.

“I kissed Lyra,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the dampness on my cheeks.

A sour taste fills my mouth. The words send lightning sparks across my jaw, sending ribbons of agony down the sides of my face. The truth hurts. Literally. Tears are rolling the side of my face, but I don’t bring my hand to wipe them and nor do I stop them. I’ve never felt more broken.

But she doesn’t care, there is not pity in her eyes. Good. I don’t want he to pity me. She should hate me. She should want me to miserable and hope for me to have a lifetime of the torture I’ve just forced her to endure.

“Get out,” she murmurs, the anger bringing out her natural stunning features. A flicker of boldness in her eyes, the striking angles of her eyebrows, her strong thick lashes and her full lips.

“I’m sorry.” they’re the only words I remember how to say, through my internal fit of torment.

I expect her to hit me around the face, a good strong punch I know she can make or a sharp smack that’ll leave a red hand mark pressed against my cheek. I imagine she might scream at me and ask me all the questions I wish I had answers to. But she does none of that. She only looks at me darkly and utters two last words.

“Leave Grayson.”

I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back, through the numb façade. I know her better than she’ll ever realise. But it’s not fair for me to stay, not after this. She’s only asking one thing of me when she should be doing so much more. So I do. I turn my back on her again. And I leave.

***

Tears pummel down my cheeks like never before. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this. I’m blinded by them as I stumble sideways. I don’t know where I’m going. I stand on the edge of the cliff and sink to my knees, letting out a loud guttural scream. I’m there until my throat is so raw I can’t feel it. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood. And then I’m up again and running, following a path my footsteps are dragging me towards. I can’t think straight, I’m dizzy with pain. Before I know it I’m outside the safe house on the island. My hands tremor on the handle and I swing open the door, falling to the floor for my sobs to take me over. My chest aches and burns and tightens. That’s when I realise I can’t breathe properly. I fumble around for my phone, a tear splashing into the illuminated screen. With uncontrollably shaking hands, I typed no words. Just three numbers.

911

***

The wait feels like years, maybe even decades. Each second taunts me, with a mocking tick. I’d crumbled into the corner of the room at some point and stayed there, curled up and choking on my own sorry sobs. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

The question circles around my head like the nostalgia of a distorted tune of a merry go round. I’ve never made such a big mistake and my life and deep down there’s a sinking sensation that is telling me I’m not going to be able to make this better. I sob, loud harsh sobs that hurt my lungs and knock the air out of my stomach. My whole being shakes with every strangled noise that escapes my lips. Grieving. I’m grieving over something I chose to throw away. It’s cruelly ironic. But I think part of me is also grieving the good man I once thought myself to be, that she made me believe I could be.

I turned my back on the one and only person in this world who just cared about me, took me for who I am and believed I could do anything. She only wanted the best, she only wanted happiness and she deserved so much more and here I am, stabbing her in the back and dancing in her blood like a madman. She was my everything and I managed to mess it up, just like everything else in my life. I can’t have normal relationships, I can’t do something without messing it up. I’m one big screw up the opposite of how the old man raised me to be. He’s looking down on me now and I can feel his disappointment, like an infection coursing through my bloodstream. I failed him, I failed my brothers, I’ve failed her, I’ve failed myself.

She thought I was better, she believed I could be more than his expectation. And I was stupid enough to believe it, encourage it and let her belive the lie too. We’re all idiots.

I can recite her favourite song, her favourite flower, her favourite food and favourite colour. I can tell you all about her favourite novels and how she orders her books on an endless bookshelf. I know that she tells people her favourite film is ‘it’s a wonderful life’ but it’s actually secretly ‘tangled’. I know she prefers to stay inside and cuddle under blankets rather than have a night out. I know she’d rather reason a thousand books than watch a thousand movies. I know she wanted a library in her dream house and two, maybe three children with her husband and I know she’d sometimes debate about getting a cat as well. I know how she loves brownie batter more than the actual brownies and can’t sleep with any lights on. I know she still uses the bunny rhyme to tie her shoelaces and how she fiddles with her collarbone when she’s nervous. I know exactly what diamond she wanted in her engagement ring and her favourite country. I know what people she despises and I know what people she adores. I know every inch of her face, every hair on her head, every sparkle in her eyes and every cell on her skin.

I know her.

I know her, but that can’t help me now. Pain ripples across the left side of my chest and my hand clamps over it as I grit my teeth to try and bear it. I hear the door creek open and can’t tell whether it comforts me or not.

“Grayson pookie!” Xander calls out, “we’re here.”

His cheerful voice doesn’t provide me with the cushion to this pain I thought it might.

“And we have some in incredibly strong whisky,” Jameson adds, I can here the mischievous grin in his voice, it’s been the same all of his life.

“My nose hairs are officially burnt off,” Xander agrees.

I can’t speak. I try to call out for them but the words die in my swollen throat.

“Where are you Gray?” Nash calls out, he sounds a little more worried than the other two but is concealing it well.

“Here,” my voice is hoarse and laboured, even I can’t recognise it.

The mood immediately shifts, you can feel it. The air becomes tainted with concern as their footsteps approach my cowering figure. The case of whiskey is dropped as there is an audible thunk as it hits the floor. I can feel their bodies enveloping around mine creating something of a circle of safety. I look up to worried face and shiny eyes.

“Help me,” I gasp for air, greedily trying to gulp down the oxygen that I feel so deprived of, “please.”

“We’re here to help you Gray,” Nash murmurs softly. His voice had always been something comforting, especially when I was younger. I wonder if he will be so kind when I tell him what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me, there’s nothing he despises more than a man who can’t respect a woman.

I shake my head and choke out another struggling sob, instead of the words I don’t know how to say. Jameson’s eyes flit between mine and Nash’s, the concern rippling across his features. He’s never looked this concerned for me in his life. I think to all the times as children I’d helped him settle after a nightmare and wiped his tears that he hated falling when the old man had humiliated him. Oh how the tables had turned. Now it was my little brother wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his touch so gentle it shocks me.

“I can’t-“ I barely get out, wrapping my hands around my neck.

“Gray…” he trails off, unmasked emotion hitting his face like a train.

“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze as the invisible blanket that was set out to suffocate me tightens over my nose and mouth.

“Hey, Gray, look at me,” Nash says, his voice smooth and reassuring, “in and out okay, in and out.”

“I can’t,” I pant, my limbs shaking embarrassingly uncontrollably.

Xander takes both of my hands into his and squeezes them until they still, “yes you can, follow Nash’s instructions okay?”

“Slowly, do it with me,” Nash nods, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I do. In and out, a rhythmic pattern. Each time Nash reminds me how to breathe. There’s an aura of calmness about his voice that lulls my panic into a narcoleptic sleep. Once my breathing is halfway regulated I look at him, dead in the eye, with shaking sorrowful lips.

“I fucked up,” I sob, “I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

They all share a look, this is the worst state they’ve seen me and we all know it. I begin to pathetically sob uncontrollably once again, the feelings building up in my chest and tearing me apart from the inside out. It’s like a rabid pack of wolves had been set loose to feed on my internal organs. I don’t know how to stop the ocean of tears, I don’t know how to shut my mind off, I don’t know how to help myself. Reel myself in from this abominable mess I’ve become. I’m hyperventilating, my chest throbbing up and down unevenly. Nash nods towards Jameson, a short, soft, sharp nod of approval.

“Hey! Calm down!” Jameson snaps, giving me a hard slap around the face, “snap out of this!”

The shock shuts me up and the sting stops my tears. I’m back to reality instead of a wallowing mess. Nash must’ve been approving the slap I realise in the sudden cleared head I’d obtained

“Sorry,” Jameson mumbles at me, looking a little guilty.

I massage my jaw, “no I think I needed that.”

He grimaces and then softens his tone, “what happened Gray?”

I tense, growing very still, “I can’t say it out loud, I can’t, I’m awful, I’m horrible-“

“What happened?” Nash drawls.

I choke out yet another unnatural sound. Seems the slap didn’t snap me hard enough into reality. I exhale slowly. I have to say it, now or never.

“I kissed Lyra.”

The words hurt even more this time, that they did when I’d admitted it to y/n. Neither one of my brothers can mask their honest reaction.

“Oh fuck,” Jameson blurts out, “you cheated?”

Anger. He’s fuming with me. I can see the rage trailing through his eyes and blossoming into his expression.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply, feeling like a small child.

Jameson’s eyes widen and fury flashes across his face, “how can you not mean-“

Nash shoots him a look and his mouth glues shut. Then he turns to me and I can’t quite read him yet. I gulp.

“No one does that kind of thing for no reason,” he says sternly, “I never thought you’d be the one of the four of us to ever do that, seems I was mistaken little brother.”

Disappointment. He’s disappointed. A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Nash is disappointed in me. It’s one of the worst feelings imaginable. There had only been few times in my life when he had been and I remember the feeling all too well. Shame has me in a chokehold an it’s succeeding in strangling me. I can‘t bring myself to meet his eyes, I don’t want to see that look I can feel is on his face, that look of pure disapproval.

“How did she find out?” Xander asks quietly.

Shock. He hadn’t said anything until now, but his lips had been slightly parted and he’d paled a little. He never thought I’d do this to anyone, he’s yet another person I’ve let down.

“I told her,” I murmur, “the guilt was consuming me.”

“As it should,” Jameson snaps, twitching with a fiery ferocity.

“Jamie,” Nash says, trying to keep some kind of diplomacy.

“No,” he growls, “you don’t do that to a girl, your girl, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t take the moral highground now,” I spit.

“When you’ve cheated on your girlfirend? Yeah I think I will,” he replies, the bitterness rolling off of his tongue like a deadly poison. He doesn’t know I’ve already poisoned myself with my own actions, his words can’t hurt me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I falter.

“Bullshit,” he grits through his teeth, in two definitive and threatening symbols.

“Careful Jamie,” Nash warns.

“All this is your fault anyway,” I continue, ignoring the warning.

“So it’s my fault, you kissed another girl, yeah, okay Gray,” he nods his head with a sarcastic smile.

“It is!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air, “if you hadn’t locked me in a room with her-“

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t keep up dick under control,” he quips, interrupting me.

“You could’ve locked me with my one of my sisters but of course you just had choose the only girl who isn’t related to me,” I seethe.

“Odette isnt related to you,” Xander pipes up. I’d forgotten he was there, that anyone besides me and Jameson were there.

“Odette is old enough to be my grandmother,” I scowl at him, immediately feeling bad as the words leave my lips, but don’t dwell on it as I turn back to Jameson, “why did you make me a player in your sick excuse of a game?”

“You can’t use the game as an excuse,” he laughs darkly.

“I will,” I reply sharply, “this is your fault and Avery’s fault too.”

“Avery? Don’t make me laugh,” he rolls his eyes.

“The game never should’ve been created by her,” I yell, “that’s why I’m in this mess!”

“No, you’re in this mess because of you,” he shouts back, “but don’t you dare bring Avery in to this it’s not her fault.”

I feel like I’m one of those circus acts, the ones that lay on a spinning board and get knives hurled at them. Only in my case the knives are the truth and they actually hit me.

“Why did you make me a player?” I ask quieter now, my voice hoarse, “why?”

“I didn’t know making you a player would result in this,” he says.

“It was so irreverent,” I snap becoming angrier by the second, a sudden burst of red overriding any rational sense in my head, “I never needed to play.”

“You can’t pin this on me Gray, if it didn’t happen with Lyra, who knows who else it would’ve happened with,” he hisses.

“So you think I’m just like this? You think this is me?” I ask him, prodding the hollow space where my heart used to be.

“I didn’t before….” he trails off, sighing, “but now I don’t know what the fucking think of you.”

“Jamie,” Nash repeats again, in the same warning tone as before. We both ignore him.

“Just because you and Avery are all peaches and roses-“

“Leave Avery out of your anger issues,” he roars defensively.

“No,” I counter, raising an eyebrow, mirroring his usual argument demeanour, “you think you’re so perfect now you’ve got your dream girl and the two of you are so much better off than the rest of us, because your love is undeniable or whatever bullshit people feed you about it-“

Jameson’s features twitch for a split second. He’s hurt, but won’t show it. He’ll refuse but I know that it hit a nerve that won’t heal for a long time. I stop mid-sentence.

“I am far from perfect, I think we both know that,” he says, in a low voice, “look you’re hurting, I get it, but I’m not going to mollycoddle you and tell you it’s okay when it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to your face because as your brother that would be the worst possible thing for me to do to you.”

“My brother would try and understand what it’s like from my side,” I say, desperation clawing at my voice.

“You’re looking for a fight Grayson and it’s not going to end well, not with me,” he warns, shaking his head.

“Maybe I do want a fight, but you know you do too,” I growl rolling up my sleeves, “so fine, I’ll give you a fight Jamie.”

“I don’t want a fight, I want some justice for y/n,” he states simply, “she did nothing to deserve that Gray, she’s been so good to you, the sweetest soul on this earth and she’s helped you through a lot of shit and this is how you’re repaying her?”

“Jameson,” Nash says.

He ignores him for the third time and I can see his calm facade beginning to drop, “you think because you called a 911 and you’re here crying that I should feel sorry for you?”

“I thought you were going to be here for me,” I reply numbly, my tone dead, “clearly I’m mistaken.”

“I can’t be there for someone with no morals,” he replies, “you cheated and you’re the one who’s upset about it, how do you think she feels?”

“You think I don’t know her?” I fire back, my throat burning, “you think I don’t know exactly what she’s doing right now? I hate myself, I hate myself for doing what I did!”

“Good you should!” he screams back.

Before I know it I feel myself charges towards him, ready to throw a good punch but Nash and Xander launch onto me to quickly and managing to hold me back. Nash’s grip is so tight I don’t dare try and budge.

“Out. Now.” Nash says sharply to Jameson, “go and cool off.”

His tone sends a shiver down my spine that I won’t admit to. Jameson opens his mouth to argue.

“Jameson.”

He skulks away, with a sullen face. We all wait frozen until the door has been slammed shut. Nash lets my arm go, dropping it harshly and Xander follows suit.

“And you’re no better,” he turns to me, placing his cowboy hat on a nearby surface, “I’m only sending him away because you can’t be left alone in this mess and so the two of you don’t rip each other to pieces.”

Silence stills the room. His voice echoes but makes no sound all at the same time.

“Take a second, take a breath and we’re going to talk this through like adults,” he says, “if you want to carry on being a child then leave. Calm down, you’re not a toddler having a tantrum, you’re a grown man, act like it.”

Nash has a way of snapping me back to reality. I nod shakily.

“Talk.”

I begin, “I don’t even know why I kissed her, I didn’t mean to it just-“

“Happened?” he guesses, “no little brother, that doesn’t just happen.”

“The I don’t know Nash,” I say, tipping my head back and resting it on the wall behind me.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. It just did. She was there, just stood there. Her hands looped naturally around the back of my neck, warm and gentle, “someone sent me that ticket Grayson. I thought it was Avery but if it wasn’t…”

She trails off, her voice small and tentative. Her golden eyes filled with the utmost worry. I wanted her to know she’d be okay, that she’d have someone to keep her safe. Her arms get more comfortable around my neck. She’d felt it too, the electrifying spark between us. It was exhilarating but something about it was off, synthetic.

“Then who the hell was it?” I questioned, my hands magnetised to her cheek all of a sudden.

Lyra didn’t pull away and neither did I. I lower my head and she raised onto her toes and titled hers back a little. She was graceful, like a dancer. My lips brushed over hers. They were sweet like honey. For the first few moments it was bliss and the realisation hit, like a stone to my stomach. I jerked backwards suddenly, shaking my head.

“I can’t do this,” I said, my fingers trying to wipe her taste off of my lips, “I don’t- this isn’t-“

I was tongue-tied, not able to explain to her how wrong it was. The words wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to.

“Gray?” Lyra murmurs, a tender voice. Her amber eyes are widened and slightly confused.

“No,” I yell. She flinches and another wave of horribly strong emotion rushes over me, drowning me. “No I’m in love with someone else. I don’t know what that was. I can’t-“

I stumbled backward a few steps and the turned around and ran. Like the coward that I am.

“It did just happen,” I murmur, lifting my head from the wall to look my older brother in eye, “I swear to god, I didn’t intend for it to happen, I didn’t even know I had feelings for her.”

I can see he disagrees still and isn’t convinced. I don’t know how to prove it to him.

“Let’s establish one thing here, who do you like?” Xander asks me.

“I like Lyra,” I say slowly, “but I love y/n.”

Nash shakes his head, “if you loved her you wouldn’t have done that.”

“I made a mistake,” I press on.

“And you will pay for it and regret it for the rest of your life,” he shrugs, “it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth. Listen, I love Libby and loving someone means so many things. One of those things is that I don’t even look at other women, to me they don’t even really exist. Libby is my world and no one else even comes into the equation, so the fact is someone else came into the equation for you, meaning the love wasn’t there.”

“But it was, I felt it,” I say, my voice breaking as I press my chest.

“What do you feel for Lyra?” he asks plainly.

“I don’t know, she’s intriguing and smart and beautiful,” I murmur, “and I like her, but I don’t know if I have romantic feelings for her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

“Comfort? Lust? Greed? Selfishness? I don’t know it just happened,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Stop using that phrase as a get out clause,” Nash shakes his head, “you have to admit to yourself more than anyone that this didn’t just happen.”

“I leaned in and I put my lips of hers, and I didn’t stop it, it didn’t feel wrong straight away,” I admit out loud finally.

“It didn’t?” Xander says, looking wounded.

“No, it didn’t feel wrong until I realised what I’d done,” I say, looking down, suddenly finding my shoelaces to be the most interesting thing in the world.

No one replies for a long while. That’s when I realise how exhausted I truly am and how much I crave sleep.

“I vouched for you,” Xander says quietly, “I told her that you’d never do that, that you weren’t that guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, in denial at first. I take a moment to analyse his sentence and then come to a sickening realisation, “oh my god I am…”

“She was already anxious about where your loyalties were Gray,” he winces.

“I proved her right, I proved every worry she had right, I just proved to her that she shouldn’t have trusted me,” I spiral, hating that I hadn’t seen it sooner.

Xander looks to Nash for support for a reply.

“Yeah,” Nash sighs, “you did.”

“I need to fix this, there has to be a way-“

“Grayson,” the acuteness of his voice cuts through my sentence like a machete.

I freeze and clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“This isn’t a broken vase, you can’t glue it back together or buy a new one,” he tells me softly.

He was referring to a time where Jameson and I had been seven and eights years old. We’d been brawling of course, Hawthorne style and accidentally smashed a vase. Usually it wouldn’t matter, there were vases all over Hawthorne House and they were smashed frequently. But this wasn’t just any vase. It was nan’s priceless vase that had belonged to her daughter, our grandmother, Alice. We were never allowed within a five mile radius of it, but like the rebellious children we were, we didn’t listen. Through our fight we’d smashed the whole thing, it was truly destroyed. The two of us stayed up for nights on need gluing together the pieces only to realise it was never going to look like the original again. So we’d hunted to buy another, problem was, this vase was one of a kind. It turned out after four weeks or trying to ship a similar one in that nan had known the whole time. She didn’t speak to either of us for a good few months.

“This is real life, she is a real person and you hurt her,” he explains, “fixing this isn’t an option. There isn’t a way to fix it, there are no pieces to our back together, okay?”

I’m silent but it’s the loudest voice in the room. My face pinches together in agony. For the first time, a little of the disappointment fades and my brother’s face softens. He wraps a strong arm around me and I flop into him like a lifeless bag of nothingness. I bury my head into his shoulder and try to cry but there seems to be no tears left. He understands and holds me for a moment. Suddenly I’m six years old again and crying in Nash’s in my arms over Jameson hiding my favourite teddy bear at the time, then I’m eleven in his arms with pneumonia after being stupid enough to get caught in the rapids un the dead of winter wanting a good photograph of a rare fish, then I’m seventeen, crying over a redheaded girl who I thought I’d managed to murder. And now here I am, at twenty-two years old in his grasp once again, having made the greatest mistake of my life.

Suddenly I feel another set of arms wrap around the both of us.

“Group hug!” a familiar voice sings.

Leave it to Xander to make me crack a half smile in the darkest moments I’ve ever experienced. After a while I pull away and sigh.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask, pulling away.

“Honestly?” Xander asks.

I nod

“No,” he says. I wish I could see that little glimmer of a lie in his eyes, but I can’t. And it kills me.

“Think about it like this,” he sighs, “would you forgive Eve for what she did?”

“This is not the same thing,” I reply coldly.

“Eve cheated your trust, she betrayed you,” he explains gently, “that’s exactly how she feels.”

Dread fills my every pore as I murmur lifelessly, “I’m as bad as Eve.”

“No wait,” he says, looking guilty and panicked all at the same time, “that’s not what I meant!”

“I know,” I reassure him so some of his guilt subsides, “but it’s true and now I’ve just realised.”

“Look Gray, you aren’t Eve. You’re never going to be Eve, but think of how you felt then. That’s how y/n feels,” Nash soothes, “she’s not going to just forgive you, that’s not how it works.”

“You just broke her heart Gray,” Xander adds, careful to keep his tone as light as a feather, “for a girl you just met.”

“Why am I horrible person? Why do I always find a way to mess to something good?” I groan, smacking my head on the wall behind me. There’s an audible thump as pain spreads through the back of my skull. I wonder if I can concuss myself to forget all of this, but I don’t attempt the idea.

“You don’t-“

“No I do,” I say firmly, cutting him off, “I’m not meant for love, to love or to be loved, I’m not built for it. I’m not a good enough person for it. I’m never going to find my Libby or my Max or my Avery.“

“Grayson-“ Nash begins.

“Emily knew it and now so does y/n,” I snap.

My brothers still at her name, not moving a muscle. I never bring up Emily.

“Listen to me,” Nash says sharply, getting my attention, “you are meant to be loved. You are meant to love. I love you, Xander loves you, Jameson loves you and y/n loved you too…”

The change of tense makes my soul ache.

“…but this time around, you made a mistake, a costly mistake. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love.”

I nod numbly, robotically.

“What can I do to make it up to her?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble, “to show her I’m sorry? Something there has to be something.”

Nash gives me a grim look and Xander’s face remains blank, they’re the only answers I need. My head sinks into my hands. The door reopens and I look back up. Jameson has returned.

He meets my eyes, “Avery’s with her.”

Blood surges through my heart and I can almost smile. He checked on her. For me.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

Jameson looks at me and for a split second I almost see the ghost concern is his eyes. He shakes his head softly, “no, but she will be,” he replies, it’s an attempt to comfort me and I am grateful.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I’m not apologising for what I said, because I still stand by it and you won’t change my mind,” Jameson says, “but I am sorry for being so angry about it.”

“You were right,” I whisper, “you were right about me. I never deserved her, so was nothing but an angel to me and I just turned around and threw it all away. I abused the luxury I had, I stabbed her in the back and then gifted another with the knife, I’m a horrible person.”

“What you did was wrong, but that’s doesn’t make you a horrible person,” he sighs, “you need time Gray, this is going to take a lot of healing. On both sides.”

“I don’t deserve to heal, I deserve to be in pain,” I murmur, the dullness in my tone echos around the empty walls.

“Oh no, we’re not going back to emo Grayson,” Xander says quickly, shaking his head.

“I agree with Xander on this one,” Nash nods, readjusting his cowboy hat.

“I don’t want to hear you blasting my chemical romance at three a.m and then denying it later again, you came out of that phase we’re not going back there,” Jameson tells me.

I bark out a laugh that thaws my icy chest. I then bite the inside of my cheek.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” I say, looking at the ground,

Nash shakes his head softly.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed,” Xander says.

“You’ll get through this Gray,” Jamie agrees, “I know it.”

The room grows still.

“Can we drink that whiskey now?” I ask, to cut through the silence. I feel like getting drunk, I feel like I need some relief.

“Big brother,” Xander nods at Nash handing him the bottle.

“Little brother,” he tips his cowboy hat in reply before taking the bottle into his hands and cracking it open.

“Let me pour these things properly,” Nash grins, “Jamie, come help.”

“Wait me too!” Xander jumps up,

“Stay with Gray,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” I grumble, annoyance written all over my face.

“I want to watch them pour whiskey properly,” Xander explains, “so I can impress Max.”

My eyebrows fly to my forehead, “Max drinks?”

“No I want to impress her though,” he grins.

‘You’re an odd human,” I almost laugh, tilting my head to the side.

“Why ta very much!” he says, almost skipping away.

Once I know they’re all gone, I lean back on the wall, my heart feeling a tiny bit less heavy. The pain isn’t gone. I think I’ve just gone numb. I feel hollow, empty, nothingness. Guilt is still gnawing at my insides but slower. A satifying clink against the fragile rim of the glass takes me out of my own head for a split second. There are hushed voices from the kitchen, I notice. I walk over to the door that lay ajar, I lean in to listen.

“We need to tell him,” it sounds like Jameson.

“Not now,” the accent indicates Nash.

“Then when?” Xander’s voice asks, “how long can we prolong it.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them, raising my voice a little.

They turn to face me, awkwardly remaining silent. The expressions on their faces don’t offer me comfort.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say, “it’s not like tonight could get any worse.”

They share a look. Apparently it can. I feel sick to my stomach.

I can barely breathe, “who died?”

“No one has died,” Xander says quickly, “yet.”

“What?” I say, my tone deadly,

Nash glares at him, then turns back to me. There’s sorrow laced delicately, deep within his hazel irises.

“Gray,” he says gently, “Gray we hate to do this but…”

“What? What is it?” I ask urgently.

“Gigi’s missing.”

The words shock me to my core. I feel my throat begin the close up as panic returns with a smirk and triumphant greeting. My whole world has collapsed in less than 24 hours.

***

YOUR POV

I don’t hate him. Call me naive or call me stupid. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could. The kind of love I have for him is unconditional, irrevocable. Time can’t heal a wound this deep and although it is still fresh now, I can tell. But if he were to say sorry I think I would forgive him every time. And if he asked me back I’d fall into his arms into an instant. And I hate myself for it, it’s stupid and it’s a little cruel. How easily I would take him back after what he did. I know I shouldn’t but something inside of me is drawn to him. Like an invisible magnet has been planted in our hearts. I wish I didn’t love so hard, fall so deeply, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so badly. But it’s in my nature, it’s who I am. I wonder if he knows how much pain I’m in, the rippling agony that rolls across my chest relentlessly with no hint as to when it will cease. I’m tired of being the second choice but unfortunately I wouldn’t mind being his. And I know it’s completely stupid of me to think that way, completely wrong but love makes you do stupid things so they say. I sit on the beach, by the sea in a state of numbness. Silent tears roll down my tears as the waves lap my feet. Deja vu washes over me and the memories of Grayson and I the night of the game flash through my mind.

I grip his hand and run with him as he guides me the just beyond the shore. He sits down swiftly on the sand and pulls me down to sit between his legs. I lean my back onto his chest and let him nuzzle his face into my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, “only you.”

Only me, huh? Only me…

The waves crash against the rocks, hurtling a salty spray towards me. I hear footsteps and turn around. Avery stands there, a mournful expression over her delicate face. She knows. I stumble towards her and collapse into her arms in a fit of uncontrollable sobs now and she holds me. Her touch is gentle and warm but it’s nothing compared to his. I realise he might never hold me in his arms again and I cry even harder.

***

I don’t hold Lyra accountable. She is not to blame. Some girls in my position might dream about different ways to brutally murder her but I can only ask what comfort would it bring me? My feelings are already dead, what good is more pain doing?

There was a choice that Grayson Hawthorne was given: his dancer or his angel. He chose his dancer and I hope he’s happy. Because angels have wings and we rise up stronger.

idk guys I think I wrote Grayson’s POV really awfully to be honest… also I feel like the 911 meet up was not like their normal ones where they try and like do something (e.g drink or dare) and then talk about the pain but that’s bc Grayson was in such a mess and then they had to drop the bomb that Gigi was missing. so anywayyyss…

I am sorry this took so long and I hope it lived up to any expectation you wanted it too (sorry if it didn’t) and I hope you enjoyed 🤍🤍 thanks for reading as always

TIG masterlist

[deltaromeo3]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴀɴɴᴏʏɪɴɢ ⋆ Lando Norris

pairing: lando norris x teammate!reader

summary: do they really hate each other like they said they do?

requested by: this ask

ツ A/N: should i write a part 2 to this? anyways, i changed it up a little! hope you still like it! let me know if you want to be tagged if theres a part 2? :)

You thought you would get along well with him, but turns out for some damn reason you didn’t. He disliked you and you had no idea why.

You figured you would stop racking your brain on trying to find a reason why he doesn’t seem to like you and just move on with it. So what did you do?

You treated him the way he treated you of course.

★★★

Your rivalry and hate towards each other quickly caught the attention of everyone on the grid, some saying that this rivalry will soon blossom into a friendship, possibly into something more than that.

Your season was going well so far, but you couldn’t say the same for Lando. He had multiple problems with his car and you could just see the frustration bubble up every single time he couldn’t deliver.

If he weren’t so mean and cold to you, you would’ve cheered him up but oh well.

The post race conference were where it hit hardest for him.

One by one, journalists were flaming him, rubbing it to him about the shit year he’s having and the even shittier race he just finished. And he just kept his cool to the shit that was being thrown at him.

You disliked him, sure, but you weren’t heartless.

“Um,” You chimed in to your mic. “I think that’s enough, no? We all understand that Lando didn’t perform as we would like him to, but this shouldn’t be a reason for everyone here to throw all these stupid questions at him. He’s a talented driver and we all know that. It’s just not his year. So, is anyone going to start asking him some real questions? Like how he managed to finish P10 despite having mechanical problems or should I retire and become a journalist instead?”

The crowd laughs at the ending of your sentence. You leaned back in to your seat, not even looking his way. But you knew that he was thankful you said something to stop it… at least you’d hope so.

★★★

Another Sunday quickly came and went. The race was over and this time, Lando managed to finish P3 alongside a Ferrari 1-2. They all went out to celebrate, even inviting you along. You politely decline, deciding to call it a night.

Luckily, the race was in Monaco, so instead of going back to a hotel, you were making your way back home.

It was well into the morning, and you had somehow fallen asleep on your sofa. You awoke to the TV screen displaying “Are you still watching” so you switched it off and headed to the kitchen before making your way to your room.

You were sipping on your drink when you heard your phone ring. Who the fuck is calling at this hour?

It was Charles. Of course.

“Where are you? Amber Lounge?”

This wasn’t a new occurrence. Usually Charles would crash at yours everytime he goes out partying in Monaco. And since he was in no state to drive, you would pick him up every single time.

“Yes! But mon chou-“ He yells. He doesn’t sound that drunk.

You cut him off, “Wait for me. I’ll come get you,” You ended the call.

“She didn’t even let me finish talking…” He looks down at his phone. “Oh this can only go so wrong…” He looks over to the bloke beside him.

You put on a hoodie and took your keys, quickly driving down to the club. As soon as you pulled up, you saw Charles sitting outside. But he wasn’t alone, oh no, he was with Carlos and together they were helping Lando.

You opened your car door, assuming Charles would get in but it was Lando instead. Shocked, you turned over to Charles.

“What’s this!?”

“You didn’t let me finish talking! I was gonna tell you that you’re taking him, not me!” He chinned towards Lando.

You grunt, “You owe me. Big time.”

“Yes yes, I owe you. Have fun. Love you mon chou,”

You rolled your eyes and drove off. Your car was starting to reek of alcohol so you kept the windows down.

“Mon chou,” Lando repeats, giggling to himself. “Charles c-calls you th-that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up Norris.”

You finally made it to your flat after trying to carry the 68kg driver from the garage to the house. You were mentally swearing to yourself for somehow managing to get into this situation.

As he laid on the sofa, you went to the kitchen to get an Aspirin and a cup of water. Not forgetting a set of fresh clothes for him to change into.

You placed the set of fresh clothes and water by his side, leaving him be.

You only took a few steps when you heard Lando calling out your name.

You turned your back to check on him, realising he had somehow managed to get the hoodie stuck on his head.

You laughed at the stupidity but quickly went to help him.

“Thank you,” He says as he kisses you on the cheek. “You are so nice,”

You went wide eye.

Did he just kiss me on the cheek? Gosh how much did he drink?

“Uh- y-you’re welcome. Now go to sleep kay?” You see him nod. You walked off and he calls you once again. You turned to face him.

“Aren’t you gonna join me?” He says, patting the sofa.

“What? No, no. God no. I’m good, thanks. See you in the morning,”

★★★

The sun was shining through your bedroom, meaning it was time to wake up. You made your way to the kitchen for breakfast after brushing your teeth.

You looked over towards the sofa, and to your surprise, Lando wasn’t sleeping on it. You shrugged it off and went to the kitchen to cook but your eyes were drawn to the plate on the countertop.

“made you breakfast. thank you for yesterday. eat up mon chou!” The note read.

You rolled your eyes. You’ll never hear the end of that nickname and you know it.

Deciding that this was a good enough reason to text Lando, you took out your phone to type. He was finally being nice for once….

Was this the start of the “blossoming romance” like what the other drivers said?

[starrierknight]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲

“Everyone has a thousand wishes before a tragedy, but just one afterward.” ― Fredrik Backman, Beartown

MASTERLIST | AO3

wc— 2.7k

pairing— gn!reader x gojo satoru

cws/tags— implied established relationship, soft angst -> fluff, dialogue heavy, bittersweet dramatic irony (sorry…)

Satoru shuffled through the entrance of his apartment, his broad shoulders slumping under the burden of accumulated exhaustion that stemmed from a relentless cascade of recent missions and back-to-back meetings. The air was cool and stagnant, a result of his prolonged absence, and the darkness possessed an extra density on this particular night, with shadows on the ground like a coat of sombre tar. The inevitability of time's unyielding march weighed on him—no respite for anyone, regardless of strength, regardless of fervent wishes for a momentary halt.

With a mechanical motion, Satoru toed off his shoes and pulled down his blindfold, the weariness etched on his face illuminated briefly by the feeble glow emanating from his phone's small screen. In the dimly lit hallway, a fleeting moment of recognition swept over him as he squinted at the clock reading a quarter past midnight. It was the 7th of December, and only then did he realise—or perhaps chose to forget—that today marked his own birthday.

A resigned sigh escaped him as he stowed his phone away, and he quietly padded through the hallway. The living room, to his surprise, was bathed in the warm glow of switched-on lamps. Did he leave them on again? It was a habit, an awful one that had persisted since his childhood. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Surveying the living room, he navigated past two inviting beanbags, a plush sofa, and an elegant armchair—each pristine and untouched. Their unblemished surfaces silently bore witness to the neglect they endured, patiently waiting for someone to sink into their embrace.

The air in the living room hung heavy with an eerie quietude, punctuated only by the soft murmur emanating from a television left on in the background—the neighbours, presumably. The muffled banter of comedians echoed in the hushed room, a re-run of a variety show that had been popular some time ago. Whispery peals of laughter broke the silence as the comedian did something particularly funny, like a playful ghost.

Satoru stole a glance at his reflection in the darkened screen of his own television. The wear and tear of recent months deepened contours of his countenance, with dark circles having taken up a permanent residence beneath his fatigued eyes. His fingers instinctively reached up to touch them, yet the weariness persisted—an unyielding toll.

A stark realisation settled in, an unwelcome guest—the remainder of his birthday would unfold in solitary confinement. No vibrant cake adorned with candles, no cheerful singing, no thoughtful gifts, and no laughter to punctuate the stillness. Just him. Little solace could be found in the accolades of his power, and disillusionment set in like an old friend. Strength, it seemed, could earn you many things, but company wasn't among them. A master of sorcery, a prisoner of his own solitude. C’est la vie.

“Happy birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you…”

A soft, warm light spilt from around the corner, catching Satoru's attention with its gentle glow unmistakably emanating from candlelight. A soft, nervous voice wove a melody through the air, and it took a moment for Satoru to register the familiar tune, sung with a touch of hesitation.

As the melody unfolded, the source of the enchanting light revealed itself—a single candle flickering on a cupcake clutched in your hands. The unexpected sight left Satoru momentarily frozen, the weariness that had draped his shoulders moments ago dissipating in the face of this surprising and thoughtful gesture. You moved slowly towards him, the melody continuing, though perhaps a bit off-key, until you stood a mere metre or so in front of him.

A curious expression danced across Satoru's face, an attempt to conceal the genuine surprise that coursed through him. A brief pause hung in the air before he blinked, shifting his gaze towards you. Speechless for a moment, he absorbed the surreal reality of the situation. He had given you a key to his place strictly for emergencies, and while this didn't fit the traditional definition, it certainly seemed to qualify.

Satoru's gaze locked onto the cupcake, its lone candle reflecting the fire that glimmered in your eyes. A subtle, amused smirk began to form on his face. "How long were you holding on to that for?"

Your sheepish smile grew, and you took a step closer, your pyjama-clad figure gracefully kneeling before him as he sat on the sofa. It was evident that you were barely half awake, and Satoru couldn't help but marvel at the fact that you likely roused yourself from sleep just for this impromptu celebration.

The cupcake hovered between you, and you extended it towards him, the candle flickering in the air. "Make a wish," you whispered.

Caught in the infectious glow of your smile, Satoru mirrored your expression as he reached for the cupcake. His fingers hesitated for a brief moment before gently taking hold of the sweet treat. His gaze shifted between the candle's soft glow and your eyes, contemplating the wish he was about to make.

In a familiar motion, Satoru extinguished the flame with care. He liked the way your nose wrinkled when you smelled the smoke. Uncharacteristically, he didn't immediately indulge in the cake, but instead, his gaze locked onto you.

"I wish for you.”

"You already have me, though. I'm right here," you replied, chuckling softly.

Satoru's attention returned to the cupcake, and he took a small, deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness that graced his tongue. He looked up after the first taste, a momentary pause hinting at a forthcoming response. Finally, he broke the silence with a smirk, his eyes filled with mischief—flickering back to life at the sight of you.

“I guess I'll settle for you as a birthday gift, then.”

Your teasing smile persisted as you rested your elbows on Satoru's knees, observing his amused grin as he indulged in cupcake. The close proximity didn't escape either of you, and Satoru found himself cracking a grin.

"Apologies for the disappointment.”

"No need to apologise. I think I hit the jackpot," Satoru replied with a quiet chuckle, savouring another bite of the cupcake. He paused, and then he added, "Although, I do have one gripe."

Curious, you prompted him with an, "Oh?"

Satoru's smile widened. "You forgot the most important part of a birthday." He paused to chew and swallow, then his free hand wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "You haven't given me my birthday kiss yet."

With a playful tilt of your head, you teased, "Really? I haven't heard of that tradition before."

Satoru's heartbeat quickened as you settled onto his lap. The remaining cupcake was abandoned on the coffee table, and his gaze remained fixed on you. Anticipation hung in the air, but instead of a kiss, a request was made.

"Come on. You know the drill." His tone was uncharacteristically earnest, and you recognized the sincerity beneath the teasing. 

However, you decided to play along, purposefully trailing off as you asked, "Are we talking one birthday kiss, or...?"

Cupping his cheeks in your palms, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Satoru's breath caught in his throat, his eyelids half-shut, and his expression transformed into one of pure contentment. Realisation soon dawned upon him—his requested kiss hadn't been fulfilled—and he swatted you away.

"I meant a kiss on the lips, you dimwit," he asserted, retaining a hint of genuine longing.

Your initial impulse to deliver a biting remark was quelled by the generosity of the occasion, leaving you with a scoff and a genuine laugh. The realisation that it was his birthday earned him a begrudging admission: 

"I can't even say anything mean. Damn you," you muttered.

Satoru, basking in the triumph of his birthday immunity, allowed a smug curve to grace his lips. His hand ascended, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck. A subtle adjustment followed, pushing the label of your t-shirt back under the fabric, his gaze fixated on your lips.

"So… About that birthday kiss?" 

"Is that what the birthday boy wants?" you cooed, teasing him.

As your fingers threaded through Satoru's hair, the softness still surprised you. Strands of silk glided effortlessly through your fingertips, thick and luscious. A subtle warmth emanated from his scalp, a comforting contrast to the cool air enveloping you. His hair seemed to have a life of its own, smoothly intertwining with your fingers, inviting you to explore further, as if daring you to unravel a secret—like Satoru needed to be more enigmatic.

Satoru shivered when your fingertips brushed against the shorter hair of his undercut, prompting him to lean forward, closing the gap between you. His lips brushed against the smooth skin of your cheek, a gentle prelude to the desired kiss.

"Yes. That's exactly what he wants," he confessed, his warm breath caressing your skin, and he added with a note of urgency, "You can't tease me like this."

"Can't I?" you mumbled, brushing your lips against his jaw.

The unexpected movement prompted a jolt from Satoru. He tilted his head toward you, his gaze softening as your lips brushed against his jawline. A smirk played on his lips, and he responded by placing his hands on your waist. Leaning in, he subtly adjusted your position, allowing him to gently pull you closer. Cupping your face in his hands, Satoru's expression took on a bemused quality, and he raised a brow.

"I have feelings, you know?"

"Really? That's news to me," you retorted with a teasing lilt, eliciting a laugh from Satoru. He leaned in toward your ear, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing," he whispered before placing a light kiss on your neck, followed by a soft, childish giggle. "It turns out I'm not completely heartless after all."

As he tilted his head back, eyes shimmering in the warm lamplight, a slight blush adorned his face. You rolled your eyes, conceding.

"Fine. Close your eyes, okay? I'm gonna count down, and we'll do it properly. First kiss of the year for you, y'know?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, reluctantly closing them, his attention shifting to the distant sounds of the neighbour's television.

"Tell me when," he requested.

You obliged, gently running your fingers through his hair with a surreal lightness. "Three."

Satoru listened intently, eyes closed. He felt a slight discomfort but chose to ignore it, wanting to immerse himself fully in the unexpected warmth. As you continued counting, he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a significant moment. The anticipation lingered, and Satoru waited with bated breath.

"Two."

As you drew closer, he felt the warmth of your breath against your skin, and he murmured back, even softer, "One."

And then, it happened. 

Your lips met his, igniting a subtle gasp from him. A playful smile danced on your face, relishing in the delicate tension. Satoru, unable to resist, leaned in, reciprocating eagerly. His arms enveloped your back, pulling you into an embrace that sought to bridge every inch of distance. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped him, music to your very ears, the kind you could never tire from hearing.

Everything spoke—his lips, his tongue, his hands, his eyes. The rapid cadence of his heart and the hastening of his breath attested to the profound longing he harboured during his time away. His gaze, now softened, traced the contours of your face, absorbing the profound simplicity of the gesture. In this brief interlude, he held time in abeyance; kissing you always filled in the spaces between words, a language only the heart—your heart—was fluent in.

Breaking the silence, his voice carried an unusual softness as he uttered, "Thank you."

You tenderly stroked his cheek, and the gentle touch of your lips graced the tip of his nose. "Happy birthday, Satoru," your sweet murmur lingered in the air.

A blush painted Satoru's face a delicate shade of pink, his warm smile blooming in response to your affection. He reciprocated by reaching out to caress your cheek, his expression gradually transitioning from surprise to curiosity.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he quipped, "Since I've had my birthday kiss, I wanna ask a question."

"Ah, a birthday question?" 

He shrugged a shoulder. "Well, I wouldn't call it a birthday question, but it is a question I wanted to ask on my birthday." Pausing for effect, he leaned in towards your ear, his breath teasingly warm. "Can I kiss you one more time?"

Tilting your head, you whispered back, "That seems an awful lot like a birthday question.”

"I know, I know. This question doesn't fall within the scope of birthday questions, but just allow me to be an exception today." Satoru's wide grin and the playful flutter of his long, white eyelashes added a theatrical touch before he continued, "Please? It's my birthday."

You responded with a long-suffering, dramatic sigh, your hands finding their place on his cheeks. “It is your birthday.”

The unexpected touch of your hands on Satoru's cheeks momentarily left him dazed. He struggled to snap back into reality, staring at you in disbelief, searching for the right words. Ultimately, he could only nod his head in appreciation. Leaning in as if to initiate a kiss, he pulled away after a few tantalising moments, flashing a mischievous grin. 

"You're too easy."

Your snort of laughter followed. "Wow. That was kinda mean."

His grin widened as you laughed, and Satoru glanced away momentarily before turning back with another smirk. "Nah, you’re too easy. I’m just playing."

He chuckled quietly, the sound resonating with a mixture of satisfaction and playfulness. Suddenly, he leaned forward again, capturing your lips. Afterwards, he smoothly pulled you onto his lap, a familiar gesture.

“I’m allowed to be a bit selfish,” he remarked, a subtle plea for indulgence in his voice.

"You're not wrong," you acquiesced with a knowing smile.

As your fingers ran through his hair, his smile transformed into a dreamy expression. Yet, he swiftly shook off the enchantment, refocusing his gaze into your eyes, only to find himself a bit dazed once more.

“‘Course I'm not wrong. It’s my birthday,” Satoru mumbled, a hint of self-satisfaction evident in his tone.

"Right, of course. I forgot about birthday omniscience.”

He looked down at you for a moment before leaning in for another lingering kiss. Pulling away, he gently stroked your cheek, his touch both tender and possessive, before finally speaking again.

"My birthday. I deserve to be pampered."

"Because clearly, you're undeserving of being pampered every other day of the year," you drawled.

An eyebrow raised in surprise, his expression shifting from amused to somewhat curious as he gazed down at you. For a moment, he narrowed his eyes in thought before teasingly responding:

"Did you just compliment me?"

You gave him a wry smile. "I might've. Don't get used to it. It's a birthday compliment."

The grin instantly returned to Satoru's face, genuine warmth seeping through his entire response. He erupted into laughter, the kind that didn't just reside in his throat but resonated from the depths of his being. The corners of his well-loved eyes crinkled, and the sound wrapped around you. He shook his head, looking down at you adoringly.

"It's too late. I'm already getting used to it in my head."

“How sentimental.”

"It's my birthday. I’m allowed to be as sentimental as I want. It's the one day where I'm entitled to feel all mushy and sentimental. And you're stuck dealing with it."

He rested his face against your shoulder, nuzzling it slightly, and hugged you close to his chest. "Besides, you don't mind, right?"

"I guess not,” you said quietly, fondly. "Same time next year?"

Satoru leaned heavily against your shoulder, his nuzzles gentle and his breathing calm. The ease with which he rested against you spoke volumes, his breathing slowing with the rhythm of your hand running through his hair. Your question was largely in jest, but it didn’t matter. 

"Next year, and the year after that, and the year after that."

a/n: oof. I rushed to get this out on time lol. I’ve been busy working on smth substantial for getou and nearly forgot my 1# pookie’s bday!!!! *in Lemongrab’s voice:* UNACCEPTABLE!!!!!!!!!!! >:/

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[science-sculpt]

Epigenetics: A Journey Through Inheritance Beyond Genes

For centuries, scientists have been fascinated by the mysteries of heredity and how traits are passed down from generation to generation. DNA, the molecule that stores our genetic code, was once thought to be the sole determinant of our characteristics. However, a new frontier in biology, revealing a captivating layer of complexity beyond the DNA sequence itself: Epigenetics.

What is Epigenetics?

The term "epigenetics" was first coined in the 1940s by British biologist Conrad Waddington, but it wasn't until the late 20th century that its significance truly blossomed. Epigenetics, literally meaning "above genetics," refers to the study of heritable changes in gene expression that occur without alterations to the DNA sequence itself. Imagine DNA as the musical score, but epigenetics are the conductor and musicians who determine how the music is played. Through chemical modifications and adjustments to the proteins around DNA, epigenetics dictates which genes are turned on or off, influencing how cells function and ultimately shaping our health, development, and even behavior. Think of your DNA as the hardware: it contains the basic instructions for building and running your body. But epigenetics acts like the software, fine-tuning those instructions and determining which genes get turned on or off at specific times and in specific cells. These modifications, like chemical tags or changes in the packaging of DNA, don't alter the underlying code itself, but they can have a profound impact on how it's read and interpreted.

The Key Players:

DNA methylation: This process involves adding a methyl group to DNA, essentially silencing the gene it's attached to. Imagine it like putting a dimmer switch on a light bulb.

Histone modifications: Histones are proteins that package DNA, and changes in their structure can make genes more or less accessible to the cellular machinery needed for expression. Think of it like adjusting the curtains around a window - open wide for full light, slightly closed for filtered light.

Non-coding RNAs: These are molecules that don't code for proteins but can regulate gene expression in various ways. They're like the backstage crew in a play, ensuring everything runs smoothly.

The Power of Epigenetic Regulation

Epigenetic regulation plays a crucial role in various biological processes, including:

Development: During embryonic development, different cell types emerge from the same DNA blueprint by activating or silencing specific gene sets through epigenetic modifications.

Cellular differentiation: Specialized cells like muscle or nerve cells have unique functions due to differences in their active genes, controlled by epigenetic mechanisms.

Learning and memory: Epigenetic changes in brain cells are thought to be essential for learning and forming memories.

Aging: As we age, our epigenome accumulates changes that can contribute to age-related decline and disease.

Environmental influences: Diet, exercise, stress, and exposure to toxins can leave epigenetic marks on our genes, potentially impacting our health and even the health of future generations.

Epigenetics reminds us that we are not simply products of our genes. Our environment, choices, and experiences leave their mark, shaping who we are and potentially influencing our children's health. This deeper understanding of ourselves opens doors for self-awareness, empowerment, and potentially reshaping our narratives – not just as individuals, but as a species with the potential to leave a healthier legacy for generations to come.

[babecoups]

rodeo || johnny suh

⇝ title: Rodeo ⇝ pairing: rapper!johnny x manager!reader ⇝ genre: coworkers with benefits sort of | secret relationship | smut ⇝ summary: After Johnny sees you showing off on one of the set’s mechanical bulls, he can’t help but pull you into his trailer and put your riding skills to the test. ⇝ rating: 18+ ⇝ word count: 2.1k ⇝ warnings: unedited (i’m so sorry) | strong language | johnny wears a grill… warning you now | cowgirl duh | reverse cowgirl because we lit | rope play (not really sexual) | spanking/ass grabbing | them chains are staying on girlfriend | dom but bottom!johnny (like she’s fucking him) | spitting/spit play (sorry not sorry) | pet names | scratching | protected sex | gagging/choking on fingers | controlled orgasm | light obedience play | cum shots | the cheesy ending we all deserve | i think that’s all... enjoy!! ⇝ author’s note: Happy Birthday to my sis Beezy @hobeemin​ !! I love you and I wanted to write you something for your birthday. I did not expect it to get this filthy because I just cannot write Johnny in this way but the minute I thought about this look… I knew it was the one. Anyway, I hope you like it! I wrote it with love. 

⇝ playlist: Rodeo by Juvenile | Handstand by French Montana, Doja Cat, & Saweetie | Distraction by Kehlani

masterlist | join my permanent tag list? | mail box | read on ao3 | banner credits

“She is so going to fall. How many seconds are you giving her?”

Johnny leans against the railing, glancing at your assistant as he ponders in his thoughts.

“I give her about two seconds.”

“Bullshit. Both of you are going to be buying me lunch when this is over,” you chime in.

The two men share a laugh, and the rest of the staff join in as they prepare to watch you fail. Your eyes shift to Johnny when the lights reflect off the diamond-encrusted plate temporarily attached to his front bottom row of teeth. His tongue rolls over his top lip before he bites his lip absentmindedly, watching you as attentively as you are him. It’s a distraction you cannot indulge in due to the multiple people around you and the sudden jerk your body feels when the bull begins to move.

“Thirty seconds, motherfuckers! Pay attention.”

Your thighs clench, and you put on your game face, letting the snickers and side comments travel through your ears and disappear into the air. Your dominant hand holds on with all its strength while your other hand extends outward. You’re devoted to staying balanced because that’s going to be the key to lasting the entire time.

“Look at her only using one hand,” your assistant comments.

“That’s all I need.”

You hear Johnny fake a cough after your reply, and you squint your eyes at him just before the bull begins to spin. The ride starts to get rough quickly but you hang in there. Thirty seconds feel like hours when you’re being tossed around. Once you have a strong grip and a feel of what the bull can do, you’re about fifteen seconds in and ready to knock them out.

For show, you arch your back and smile at the people filming on their phones. The teasing is replaced with praises as everyone starts cheering you on. Everyone except one, who’s looking on with an unreadable expression. 

Suddenly, the ride switches gears, and you almost slip off. You struggle as you’re leaning toward one side, and you almost allow yourself to fall, forfeiting the last few seconds before a voice sways your decision. 

“Keep going, baby girl.”

You don’t even need to look to know who it belongs to. A switch flips on, and you regain control. The countdown begins, and your burning muscles work overtime to keep you on the bull. When time’s up, you make a victorious but not-so-graceful landing.

You lie there relishing in the cheers, but when your eyes open, you only want to see one person’s smile. However, he’s nowhere in sight. You get and dust yourself off before climbing out of the ring, receiving nothing but high-fives as you descend the stairs.

“Let’s go celebrate girl! You did that shit,” someone calls out.

You agree, but only to get them off your back while you seek out the man you’ve been waiting to talk to all day. “Yeah, I’m just going to go grab my stuff, and I’ll be back.”

It’s partly the truth. 

You will be back, but your purse is in the sprinter, on the other side of the set.

Still, you make your way past several trailers, looking for the one belonging to the star of the music video. Unfortunately, every trailer looks the same, and you can only pinpoint a general area of where he is.

As you peek into one trailer’s window, the door to the one behind you opens. When you turn around, you see Johnny standing on the threshold, wearing one of his signature smirks.

“Looking for someone?” he questions.

“Maybe.”

Johnny nods, his cowboy hat still covering his dark eyes. He’s probably waiting for the stylists to undress him since there’s one more shoot tomorrow, but since you’re here, you might be able to help with that.

“I see you don’t have time for me today. But it’s cool.”

You roll your eyes. He knows he can’t let himself get jealous; it’s too risky. 

The first time was supposed to be the last time, but a year later you still can’t keep your hands off each other. The industry isn’t kind to artists who sleep with their managers. No one wants to work with them out of fear of messy situations. The things you do to each other must remain a secret if you want it all to last. However, some days are more difficult than others.

“Whatever. I’m going to lunch,” you sigh. “Do you want anything?”

You start walking away before he responds, and once you’re about three feet away, something flies over your head and you feel it tighten around your midsection.

“What the–”

You look down and notice that you’re caught up in a rope. Before you can ask any questions, you’re pulled back until you run into something, or someone.

“You aren’t the only one who’s learned some tricks.”

Johnny spins you around, making you face him.

“Don’t be like that. You know I like teasing you,” he reasons, but you don’t want to hear it.

He knows you’re sensitive about this stuff, seeing many of your colleagues' reputations ruined for the same thing you’re doing with him. 

“It’s not funny, though.”

Noticing the small pout on your lips, Johnny gives the rope enough slack for it to fall and he pulls you in for a hug. His chin rests on your forehead, keeping an eye out for anyone and listening carefully for footsteps. 

“You’re so worrisome,” he sighs, caressing your back. “I was just trying to have a little fun with you.”

“Fuck off,” you murmur into his jacket. 

Your cheek presses against his bare pecs, and you find comfort in the warmth of his sun-kissed skin.

“Woah. You’re so mean. I just figured since you liked riding that bull so much, maybe you’d want to go for a real ride.”

Your head lifts and moves away from his chest so you can look at him. “What?”

“Oh, now I have your attention, hm?”

His smirk grows into a smile and reveals his mouthpiece. It shines even brighter when he takes off his hat and places it on your head. Johnny gestures towards his trailer and winks at you.

“Let’s get it, cowgirl.”

Seated on Johnny’s lap, your hand grasps the gold links around his neck while you grind against him. Both of you panting and sweating, the world doesn’t even exist at this moment.

“So good for me,” he growls. “How am I supposed to leave you alone?”

His nails dig into your flesh as he holds your globes within his grasp, wanting to be as close to you as he physically can.

“You don’t. Problem solved.”

You start to move more swiftly, feeling a familiar sensation creeping inside your gut. Johnny’s dick enters your womb each time you land on his hips, leaving you gasping and moaning louder than you should be.

“Yeah? So that means you’re mine, right?”

“Fuck. Johnny.”

The way his lips curl into a grin when you cry his name leaves you shivering and begging him.

For what, is unclear to you, but all you know is that you want him badly.

“Yeah, you’re mine,” he states confidently. “Open your mouth.”

He’s right about that. You are.

Whatever he wants, he gets it—because he never holds back when pleasing you.

Your lips part enough for you to stick out your tongue. He wastes no time shoving his fingers deep inside and spitting into your crevice. Two of his digits push his saliva deep into your throat, making you gag around them. You stare at him through your watery eyes, your damp lashes, and fresh tears blurring your vision. However, you can still make out the pleased expression on his face.

You purposely clench around him, and his hips buck off the couch. Johnny then grabs your waist, halting your movements while he speaks.

“I see how you wanna play. Turn around.” You lift yourself slightly, keeping him inside while you turn in the opposite direction. As you find the right position, Johnny slaps your ass, making you squeak in surprise. He kneads the flesh tenderly, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze of appreciation. “Let’s see how long you can stay on this ride.”

As soon as you start to ride his cock, Johnny begins to thrust into you, nearly bouncing you off of his lap. His toned thighs make it difficult for you to control the pace, but with a hand holding onto his leg, you’re saved from falling on the floor. 

Once you’ve gotten accustomed to the way he’s slamming into you, you’re able to regain control. You arch your back and place your free hand on top of his hat sitting on your head. The sounds that begin to leave your lips become feral, and you can hear Johnny’s grunts turn into moans and gasps. He’s close, and so are you. You decide to make the last seconds count.

“You feel so good,” you purr. “Do I feel good, Johnny?”

He throws back his head and whispers a few expletives. 

“You feel like heaven, baby. You already know.”

You whimper in response, his deep voice soothing to your ears.

“So wet, so tight. You know how much I love this pussy.”

“Fuck!”

“What’s wrong? Need to come?” he quizzes. 

“Can I? Please.”

Your raspy cries fill the room just like the lewd noises produced by your arousal squelching between your thighs. Johnny ceases his movements and allows you to chase your own release while he watches in awe. He holds your waist to support you and guide you because your body is moving faster than your mind can keep up with.

“Get you one, cowgirl. You deserve it.”

When those words leave his lips, your sense of reality disappears. Everything grows white, and you have no control over your body. Your orgasm takes your breath away, leaving you struggling to catch your breath. A shockwave ripples through you, and the sensation is intoxicating. 

You can hear Johnny’s groans as he tries to hold on, but the warm feeling of your walls pulsing around his cock is almost unbearable. His cock twitches inside of you as you ride out your high, but he hangs on until you’re flopping forward on your face.

Johnny quickly gets up, and removes the condom, so he can shoot his load all over your ass. Hot ropes of his cum paint your skin, but you’re too out of it to complain about being sticky.

“Are you okay, baby?”

You sigh. “I am.”

“Alright, well you should probably–”

Johnny's phone rings, and he walks across the room to check it. He answers it and puts it on speaker, so you assume it’s important.

“Yeah?”

Fuck. It’s your assistant looking for you. 

“She’s in my trailer,” Johnny explains.

You immediately sit up and look at him with wide eyes. Why would he say that?

“She’s embarrassed because she got sick from that bull ride. You’ll have to take lunch without her.”

You exhale and relax your body, sinking into the couch.

“That was too close,” you whisper.

Johnny throws you a wink, and you respond with a small smile. They’d probably have a million questions had he not thought of that response so quickly.

“Yeah, she’s going to get back to the hotel in the sprinter with me, but I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

When the call ends, Johnny joins you on the couch. He wipes the cum off of your skin and tosses the shirt on the floor before he speaks.

“So,” he begins. You turn so you can see his face. “We have the rest of the day together. What are we doing?”

You shrug.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can…”

You grab his arm and pull him on top of you. Your lips graze his ear, and he shudders.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

Smirking, your fingers dance up his biceps.

“Maybe we can take a nap?”

“Now, that’s hot.”

“I know, right?” you giggle.

When silence takes over, you play in Johnny’s hair as he hums.

“You think they’ll notice if that hat goes missing?”

His question makes you roll your eyes. 

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” you respond. “But, no. They have several because they know how you are.”

You return to twirling his strands between your fingers, enjoying the post-orgasm quality time until he ruins it once again.

“Good. I wonder if it’ll stay on while I’m fucking you from the back.”

Honestly, as long as he shows you what other trick he’s learned with that rope, he can do anything he wants with you.

[katherinecrighton]

Nuts and Bolts: Some Writing Advice

(Reposting a 2013 post from the Anna Katherine co-tumblr)

A friend of mine awhile back asked the aether for some practical, straightforward writing advice, which I assumed meant nuts and bolts stuff.

This is what I ended up writing to her.

(Caveat emptor: 1. The reason advice looks contradictory is because it literally is different for everyone — shit that works for one person won’t work for someone else. Just stick it in your toolbox and move along. 2. I will say obvious shit that you already know. Because it’s possible somebody else doesn’t. 3. You may totally disagree with anything/everything I say, oh my god, that’s fine.)

1. Use the word “said.” Throw in a “she declaimed” every once in a while if you like, but don’t do it all the time. Feel free to put in no dialogue tags at all, if it’s clear who’s speaking. But “said” is free and generally invisible to the reader (and the goal is to not remind the reader that they’re reading).

2. Writing advice for short fiction and writing advice for novels are and writing advice for one genre versus another are all going to tell you slightly (or wildly) different things. So, you know, watch out for that. I suggest switching mediums entirely, and try reading up on screenplays or three-panel comics.

3. Stick your finished draft into a Kindle or some other robot reader, and have a mechanical voice read the story to you. It’s a step removed, and you’ll hear where it clunks. Make notes as it goes.

4. If you don’t have a robot reader, read it out loud to yourself. Actually out loud. Put check marks wherever you cringe. It’s where the reader will likely cringe too.

5. Start your story at the point of change. It’s more interesting. Backfill with exposition a couple of paragraphs later.

6. Sometimes, if I’m writing a one-off, I pick a motif and stick with it as a lodestone for all my descriptions. It’s a way of creating a sort of subliminal mood and atmosphere for the reader, while at the same time maintaining a nice sense of continuity.

7. The English language likes to hear things in threes. Three bears, three nights, three wishes, and what with one thing and another, three years passed. English also likes iambic pentameter and any other rhyme or rhythm scheme it can get its hands on. Readers want language to both have a pretty meaning (three brothers seek their fortune) and a pretty sound (now is the winter of our discontent). The fastest way to do this, and not have it be totally obvious, is to combine the two. Have three lines of description, three examples of something, three jokes — and do it semi-regularly. It creates a rhythm in your work, like a heartbeat. Study other people’s stories and see if you can find where they’re doing the same or similar things. Count stuff.

8. Then, later, fuck with your readers by breaking the rhythm. Stop the heartbeat. Miss the step. The reader will get nervous and uncomfortable and have no idea why. Makes for good tension.

9. Other things that make readers uncomfortable: Set dressing. We’re used to visual mediums. If you want to set up a really uncomfortable scene, describe key things around it going in, and make it clear that it’s Not Okay. A pair of scissors that have been left half open. A door that is not entirely shut. A radio caught between two stations, the garden hose still left running. Nothing overt, nothing obvious – just stuff that feels uncomfortable to read. Do enough of those in a row, as you head toward a confrontation, and the reader will be a ball of avidly reading tension by the end of it. 

10. Graphic sex scenes are equal to action scenes. In both instances, know where everybody is, and what everybody’s doing. Describe with more physical action than you think is necessary. If the reader doesn’t know where everybody’s limbs are and what tools are being used, then they’ll get confused and bored. You can always edit later.

[the-family-business-83]

Species Decipit

Part 1 | Masterlist WIP

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: The Winchester brothers were once good friends with Sarah. She was a good hunter, and made pretty good company too. But after running into the Men of Letters, things changed drastically for the trio.

Type: Series

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC Sarah Rogers (probably more that'll be introduced later on)

Genre: Angst, action, slight fluff, possible smut but not yet

Warnings: If you haven't seen the whole show, this series contains spoilers for seasons 11-12.

There will be mentions of blood and violence, and alcohol use. There will also be a fair amount of cussing, but not more than what's in the show. If those aren't your thing though, read at your own risk. Some parts of this series may contain more of these subjects than others. Also, fair warning, this gets very angsty, like a lot of angst, so be prepared.

Word count: 3,493

Send me an ask to let me know if you wanna be added/removed from the taglist!

Beta: I don't know their Tumblr tag but @Outofnowhere82 on Discord, a member of the @spnfanficpond, helped me with this one

A/N: I posted this on Wattpad first, it was posted with the title "Everybody Wants to be My Enemy" (Link here) but I decided to change it a little and post it here too. I think I like this one better so I hope you guys enjoy this angst-coaster ride 🥰

The moment she pulled the key from her pocket and slotted it into the keyhole of the heavy iron door, Sarah had to take a moment just to breathe in. The walk up after sliding out of her car was one that felt like she'd been on auto-pilot, as her mind was already wandering through the surreality of being back here again. How many times had she come in, and yet this time would be among one of the only–if not the only–that she did so without the two lumbering flannel-clad brothers Winchester flanking her sides; the only time she'd come here without knowing that they'd probably be waiting beyond that door, for her to come in or to open it for her.

But as she closed her eyes for a brief second, she shook the thoughts away and turned the key over to unlock the mechanism, and pulled it out only when she heard the familiar click to grant her access. Descending down the small winding staircase, she made it to the second and final door to go inside, which she pushed open after another quick unlock with the key, and stepped inside as she tucked said key into one of her pockets a moment later. Her gaze shifted throughout the room, her cerulean hues not being able to see much in the pitch dark. Sarah pulled a flashlight out of the duffle bag on her shoulder, and clicked it on as she carefully made her way down the stairs to find the power box. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling she had at the fact that the place was not only dark but also so quiet she probably could have heard a faucet leaking in the shower room halfway across the bunker. It was stupid wishful thinking but some part of her had hoped that maybe, just maybe they were home… but they weren't, and she told herself to grow up because it was stupid to have hoped for in the first place.

Once she found the power box, the blonde flicked her eyes over the different switches for a moment, before pushing the correct ones up to turn everything on. In the blink of an eye, everything in the war room lit up, followed by the library, and in the hallways that lead out of the war room. For a moment, it was almost soothing, because she was reminded of the first time she'd come here seeing the place all lit up in all its true glory. She still remembered Sam explaining what the place was, where things were, and the house rules. Which of course, Dean had chimed in for that last part, no surprise there. But the memory, fleeting as it came, made the tall huntress smile faintly in reminiscence. It was such a simpler time, compared to now.

When her mind came back to reality a second later, Sarah cleared her throat and clicked off her flashlight, putting it away as she took a right and started heading down the hallway towards where the rooms were. She was headed for her own room, so she could set her things down at least, but curiosity got the better of her when she passed by familiar number 11; Dean's room. She's already gone past it but something made her stop, and backtrack to the door where she turned and clenched her jaw as if it would hold back the wave of guilt that threatened to come forward. She shouldn't have come back here, it was hard enough to be finding her footing right now without those men, and the place may have been home once but now it just reminded her of the things she'd done. Yet somehow she couldn't stop herself as she pushed the door open further from where it was slightly open just a crack.

Fumbling her hand along the wall on the inside of the room, she flipped the light switch on. She didn't know what she was really expecting, but she wasn't sure she was prepared to see it still in the same shape as it had been the last time she'd seen it. Wall decorated with all Dean's weapons as per usual, a crate filled with vinyl records right next to his record player just as he liked it, his desk still a mess that had a system of Dean's own devising…. And most of all the bed of all things was still half-assed in the process of making it. It made her shake her head slightly but whether it was out of familiar amusement or sadness would be up for debate. She made her way over to the record player then, and set her bag on the chair before selecting a Rolling Stones album. The needle was set on its surface a moment later as the blonde set it up, and she turned up the volume a bit while the classic crackling switched to the first notes of "You Can't Always Get What You Want". Admittedly, as she heard it start she almost switched it to a different track, or just a new vinyl entirely, but instead she snorted a sort of scoff at the cruel irony and picked up her bag again as she left the room with the door open so she could hear it continuing to play.

Sarah deposited her bag into her room next, because it happened to be on the way in-between Dean's and Sam's room, always had been. And she didn't even bother with unpacking yet, just leaving her bag on her bed as she ran some cold water to splash on her face with the sink that was in there. It took her a moment to just, settle, because readjusting to what she used to call home was a big step for her, truth be told. But as she hummed along to the song drifting from Dean's bedroom, the tall huntress did actually take it upon herself to trek down the hall further to Sam's room, hands in her pockets as she walked. And what she found was an empty room, bare of decorations, in contrast to his brother's. But the other difference was that it was still neat as ever; neatly made bed, tidy coat rack, not a thing out of place. Unless you counted the few books that were sprawled across that very same neatly made bed, with a small stack living on the desk beside his laptop from whenever the last time he'd used them was. It was a sad sight, as familiar as it was. She was so used to finding the man busying between one book to another in here, whenever he wasn't stationed in the library to do the exact same thing. She didn't spend as much time in that room however; she ended up turning away with a deep breath in and shut the door behind herself, clicking the light off on her way.

Like riding a bike, she found the kitchen with no problem, and bumped the light on with her elbow as she was mid-way through pulling her shoulder-length hair into a messy bun. Once that was done, she went straight for the fridge to find herself a beer….if there even was any still. She didn't trust any of the food in there honestly, not with how long it had been. So she didn't think much of any of it or how it looked as she shut the door a moment later and instead searched out the bottle of Jack she'd always kept in one of the cabinets for safekeeping. Glad it was still in its same hiding spot, Sarah took to finding herself a glass a moment later, poured some liquor into it and took a long sip. But she damn near dropped it when she heard a very deep, very familiar voice as she froze, thankful that the bottle was already on the counter. She hadn't even heard him come in but that voice sure alerted her to his presence, followed by the feeling of metal against her henley covered spine.

"Don't move a muscle, bitch." His voice was hard, gravely with how low his tone was despite being just loud enough to catch her attention. His signature etched silver Colt M1911 with ivory grips was up and aimed square at her as he pressed it against the middle of her back, and if looks alone could kill, Dean's stoney features probably would have. Sarah wasn't normally on the receiving end of such looks, but she'd seen them before, and she didn't need to look at him to feel it on her now, just knowing he was glaring holes into the back of her skull. The weary woman didn't say anything at first, too stunned to really know what to say and not daring to move with how Dean looked. So there was a moment of utter silence between the two, one that was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

"I'm gonna start asking questions and so help me I better get nothing but straight answers from you." He didn't have to tell her why for her to know what would happen if she didn't. Swallowing hard, she simply nodded, and let him go on. "Why the hell are you here? Did your new, fancy boss send you?"

She didn't know how to describe it, but there was a part of her that grimaced when he said it like that, and yet another part of her couldn't help being pissed underneath whatever showed on the surface. "No. As far as they know I'm dead now. I plan to keep it that way."

"Right. So you just decided to come in for a visit, is that it?" He didn't sound any happier than before, in fact if it was possible he almost sounded a little more pissed. The truth was the last he'd seen her, they were on opposing sides and Dean still couldn't get past it. As far as he knew she was still the Brits' lackey, and in his eyes she was lucky he didn't shoot her on sight. "I'm only gonna ask one more time. Why. Are. You. Here?"

Breathing in deeply she turned just a little more to face him better, and in the same motion pulled the gun swiftly from his hands as she clicked out the cartridge before tossing it onto the counter. She didn't get a word in, at least not much beyond an 'I was-', before she had to duck as a heavy right hook was coming her way. She was quick to move with his hits, keeping up decently as they scuffled there in the kitchen but he played dirty by chucking a towel in her face to disorient her and proceeded to sweep her legs from under her. Going down with a grunt as she hit the hard tile floor; before she knew it she was wrapped up by the man as he knelt beside her, his arms expertly around her neck in a headlock as she tried to squirm and free herself.

Unaware for the moment, Sam came into the bunker right about then, dumping his things on the war room table for now because he'd noticed with the lack of a response from his brother with the conversation he'd tried to start, that Dean wasn't in sight, and frowned as he looked around. "Hey, dude- where'd you go? Dean??" He waited another moment or so before he started down one of the halls and calling out louder for him to hopefully hear. "Dean! Hey, where are you man?"

Still there had been no response. Giving a tired sigh, the taller Winchester ran a hand through his hair, about to give up. But that was when he caught, albeit faintly, scuffling from the kitchen, before a few metallic clangs of things clashing, and that put the male into alert mode as he then pulled his pistol out and began jogging for the kitchen as he followed the direction of the sounds. "Dean?! Dean!!"

By the time Sam got there, Sarah was fighting just to stay conscious, because there was nothing within her immediate reach that she could really use, and even if she wasn't short, Dean was still bigger than her and so it was hard to fight him off. "De- Dean- lis'n- pl'se- I'm not he- to hur- I jus-" the huntress tried to choke out against the strong forearm squeezed against her windpipe. She hadn't even noticed Sam arriving, as she was too focused on keeping her vision focused and trying to get oxygen–both of which she was definitely failing at with how the bigger man holding her made it impossible to get enough air in no matter how hard she kicked and fought.

"Dean, what is-" and this time, Sam was the one to cut himself off, because he recognized the blonde right away even in that situation. And he almost, almost shot her right there because of how he'd come into this. But the pacifist buried in him urged him not to, at least for now, so instead he readjusted his aim to be towards her thigh, grazing just enough to not be too fatal but also enough to catch attention and keep her from running very far. "Dean! Hey, let her go!"

At first all Dean gave his brother was a hard look, because the idea was insane. She'd tried to kill them before, or at least fed them to the lions in a way, and he really fucking hoped his brother wasn't trying to forgive her for all of that. But Sam's voice came again, urging him. "Dean, c'mon. She can't get away like that, you can let her go."

Finally, with a split second of debating, Dean let her go with a grumble, and stood up as he went to grab his gun and reload it before aiming it on Sarah once more.

Had she the lung capacity, Sarah would have screamed when her leg was shot like that. But she didn't, and so no sound left her unless you count the squeak that briefly croaked out at it, with her eyes scrunching shut to grit through the pain. Even still, she fought to keep herself conscious, and when she was finally released? She fell to her side, one arm weakly propping herself up while the other massaged her throat as she coughed, trying to regain air to lessen the stars in her blotted vision. After a moment, she finally leaned herself up against the island as she just worked on catching her breath, a hand squeezed against her thigh where the bullet had hit her to help stem the bleeding. It was already staining her jeans a dark red, leaving traces on the tiles where it dripped slightly. It wasn't much but it was enough that with the momentary deprivation of oxygen in tandem with the bloodloss—and her own….less than ideal health state—she was already feeling a bit dizzy and fighting to stay awake. She closed her eyes just for a moment against the pain, as if somehow she could will it all away and maybe when she opened them again, this would all have been her imagination so they could start over.

"Now what happened here?" Sam was the first to break the very brief lull of silence, excluding Sarah's coughing, and he glanced to his brother for a moment, arching a brow.

Sarah paused for a moment to settle herself, breathing in first before answering. "I just wanted to come home. There's no reason, there's no scheme, nothing… I'm just trying to get a handle on myself again, that's all. I didn't think you were here, the lights were off and no one seemed to be around." She obliged him with her answer, albeit weakly, despite how she tried not to sound or look it. But Sarah never had been the best at hiding her emotions on her face, or at least not with people who knew her well. In fact, probably the only time she was perfect at it was when the Brits had her under their thumb. But she doubted Sam would believe a word she said, let alone Dean. The look of distrust never once left the older Winchester's features, and once she'd answered, there was even a small squint. She knew all too well that meant he was debating whether to even give her a sliver of trust to believe her story. "Look, Dean, I-"

"Save it. I don't want the pity story you're cooking up there. I want you out of my kitchen and out the damn door. Because so help me, if I see your face in here again-" his voice, which had raised a little to cut the blonde off, was interrupted by his brother as he shot a look at Dean. Never once did Dean's attention leave her though. "Dean, slow down a sec. How'd she even get in?- how'd you get in?" The taller male's gaze shifted to Sarah with the second question, brows furrowed as he tried to work out the equation in his mind.

In any normal circumstance the woman would have been not just relieved but also glad to see the other brother, but any glimpse of those feelings was squashed by the fact that his reaction damn near mirrored Dean's. "I…I still had a key. Look, like I said neither of you were even home when I got here, I thought-" But she cut herself off there, licking her lips and clearing her throat as she quickly changed her words from 'I thought you were really gone' to: "I thought the place was empty, I just needed a place to…find my own head."

"Plenty of motels, coulda bunked down anywhere. Why here?" Dean's response came without skipping a beat. And Sarah had to try not to wince at the coldness in his voice.

That stung. More than she wanted to admit. She knew she'd done….horrible things, she knew that and so in a way she didn't blame him. But that didn't make it hurt any less to hear that from him. "Because this is home. This is square number one for me, I thought it would help-"

This time it was Sam who cut in, mulling over her words. "Help what, exactly? And why should we believe a word from you?"

"You don't wanna believe me, fine. I don't give a rat's ass. But if you're gonna shoot me, shoot me. If you really wanna hear jackshit from me? Stop reaming my ass out and take it or leave it." She sounded frustrated that time, wearily so, and likely because of the pain in her leg for the most part. Fumbling for the towel that had been dropped on the floor, she tugged it over and used it to tie around her thigh because her hand was not only getting tired but also not doing the best job of applying pressure, the blood already beginning to ooze out between her fingers. She grimaced through the sting of pain it shot through her leg, before resting her head back against the island once she'd finished the task and letting her eyes slide closed.

Dean shared a glance with his brother, jaw muscles clenched and gaze asking the silent question of 'your call, what's it gonna be?' because if it was up to him, he was ready to unload a clip in her. Sam was the one giving her any kind of leg to stand on here, so whatever sliver of the emerald eyed man that was giving her even a fraction of a chance, that was the part that was letting Sam make the call.

The taller male took that silent message, and glanced towards Sarah once more, a brief squint flashing through his eyes as he considered the options. "Alright, start talking then. From the beginning, no crap, tell us what happened since you left to work with the Brits."

This was going to be….a long ass night. She knew it would be. Though she supposed it would have been anyway, regardless of whether it went this way or not; the only difference in this version was that they were really still alive, and Sarah wasn't sure if that was more of a relief than it was pain. It was complicated. Whatever the case though, the tired huntress sighed, albeit shallowly due to her current state, but as pained as she was to do so she nodded with eyes closed as if to hide away from the two towering men while she tried to recall. Soon though her mind seemed to fail her, fading into simple darkness as the sounds around her dimmed out. Seconds turned into minutes, without her even realizing, as she stayed like that, unconscious to anything happening around her.

Taglist: @ageekchiclife @babypieandwhiskey @buckys-zomdoll @canadianspnhunter @cas-backwards-tie @castieltrash1 @deanscarlett @deanwanddamons @ellewritesfix05 @emilyshurley @emoryhemsworth @firefly-in-darkness @idreamofhazel @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @katelyn--renee @kayteonline @kickingitwithkirk @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @manawhaat @melbelle45 @mrswhozeewhatsis @mysaintsasinner @mysupernaturalfics @notnaturalanahi @plaidstiel-wormstache @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @supernatural-jackles @there-must-be-a-lock @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @trend90s @waywardjoy @whispersandwhiskerburn @akshi8278 @fuiabarcelos @ssonia13

[drivinmeinsane]

{ Under Pressure }

※ Driver (solo) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※

※ Summary: Driver is feeling under the weather. Blaming the oppressive Los Angeles heat for the tightness in his chest, the mechanic leaves in the middle of his shift to try to recover only to receive a shock when it turns out to be something that he should be utterly incapable of. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Male Lactation, Lactation Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Cumming Untouched. ※ Word count: 1,666 ※ Status: Oneshot/complete ※ Author's note: n/a

Time is going by painfully slowly. Every movement is laced with discomfort, and Driver can hardly focus on his work. His chest has felt tight since he left his apartment this morning. Each movement serves to agitate it.

The mechanic is in the midst of removing the last lug nut on a customer’s car when he feels something slide down his torso. He’s been flushed and sweating since he started work, so he thinks little of it. Summers in Los Angeles are hot and it is certainly warm in the open air of the garage. Exertion combined with whatever is wrong with him must be taking a toll. He feels unusually sticky beneath his layers.

“You look like shit, kid.” Shannon comments, catching the distressed eyes of his employee.

He shrugs in response, setting the impact driver aside on the cart alongside the rest of his tools and the displaced lug nuts. What is there to say? Shannon’s right. Driver knows he looks like a wreck and he sure feels like it too.

“Look…” The other man sucks his teeth thoughtfully, “Get that tire set off to the side and just get outta here. Go home. Get some rest. I don’t want to catch whatever illness has you looking like that. Damn.”

Driver doesn’t have it in himself to argue. He pulls the tire off the hub and drops it onto the floor beside the tool cart with a grunt. The action provokes another round of unexpected moisture to slick down his torso. He doesn’t return the other mechanic’s goodbye wave as he hurriedly walks past him towards his own vehicle. He doesn’t usually appreciate Shannon’s meddling, but occasionally, the older man is right.

Making contact with the steering wheel of the Malibu sends his head thudding back against the headrest as he tries to control the sudden flare of something in his gut. Pulling the seat belt over his sensitive chest and feeling it tighten into place when he buckles it has him gritting his teeth. He can’t put a finger on the sensation he’s feeling. It’s almost as though his skin feels too tight, too hot. The drive back to his apartment is immensely unpleasant. He flexes his hands over and over on the steering for the entire journey.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The first thing that Driver does when he gets home after closing the door behind himself is strip off his work button-up and toss it onto the kitchen counter with his keys. He wrestles himself out of his socks and boots before he makes his way to the bathroom and fumbles for the light switch. The minute the bulbs come to life with a buzz, he’s confronted with the sight of himself in the mirror. His undershirt is soaked through in some places. The blue fabric is darker from mid chest and downwards. He skates a concerned hand over the damp material, catching the hem of the shirt right above his belt and pulling it up to his chin. He almost takes it off entirely but decides against it. That seems too intimate.

His eyes trail back to the mirror and he freezes at seeing his reflection. He has been feeling discomfort for a number of weeks, ever since he had taken an active role in his neighbors’ lives. His chest has felt larger, each pec more defined than they had been prior. The stunt driver had chalked it up to muscle growth. He has been doing more lifting and carrying lately between increased work at the garage and helping out the woman living down the hall. But this… There is no precedent for this. His nipples are swollen into hard, straining peaks. The veins are more prominent than before, lightning arcs of blue against the pale sky of his skin.

Warily, Driver presses his fingers to his right areola. His breath gets caught in his throat at the feeling. A white substance beads on the tip, teetering precariously. He presses a little harder, giving the sensitive flesh a slight squeeze. A spurt of fluid surprises him. It runs, opaque and thick, over his fingers. Despite his better judgment, he lifts the hand to his face and gives the liquid an exploratory sniff. It smells slightly sweet. Surely, it can’t be what he’s thinking it might be. He brushes his tongue over it in doubt. The substance is rich and creamy on his taste buds. It’s milk.

His mind goes blank with shock. He’s lactating. Somehow, impossibly, his body is producing milk. For a moment, he considers pulling his shirt back down and going down the hall to ask his neighbor for help. She had given birth to a kid. He’s not pregnant, not even capable of it, but she might know what to do. He imagines himself knocking on her door, explaining that his chest is leaking milk, and the thought horrifies him. He can’t do it. He’s alone in this and he has to resolve it by himself.

He wipes the spit-slicked hand on his shirt before gripping the pulled up hem between his teeth. Driver braces a hand on the edge of the sink, he traces his fingers shakily down from his cloth filled mouth and back to his pectoral. He finds the nipple again and gives it another firm squeeze. More milk leaks out, but the pressure underneath the surface doesn’t feel as intense.

Driver searches his mind for any scrap of information that might assist him with this. He remembers going on a field trip to a hobby farm when he was young, before he stopped going to school at 16. Gradually, the memory of the farmer explaining how to milk a cow comes to mind. He cringes at himself for the association but does his best to mimic the instructions he was given a decade ago. He grips himself at the base of the nipple with his thumb and pointer finger, as close to the skin of his breast as he can go. Slowly, he gives it a gentle pull and is rewarded with a steady spurt. Encouraged, he lets go of the sink and takes his other, more tender, nipple in hand. He mimics the milking motion he had done for the other. The relief is immense. He can’t help but relax into it. His skin doesn’t feel so tight over his engorged chest now that he has drained some of the milk.

A deep breath through his nose and straightened back gets him on the right track to start dealing with the problem in earnest. With both hands tugging his nipples between the calloused pads of his fingers, he allows himself to wonder what it would feel like to have someone’s mouth doing the work for him. If he concentrates, he can almost feel the wet brush of a tongue over his tender skin. He breaks stride on one stroke just to feel the milk slick brush of his thumb against the peak. A particularly strong spray hits the mirror. The liquid runs down the surface in dense streaks.

Despite himself, he’s hard in his jeans and can’t help but grind against the edge of the sink, trying to relieve another source of internal pressure. He pants around his gag, jaw clenching. With his eyes lidded, he catches glimpses of himself in the spattered mirror, snapshots of unwilling pleasure. Saliva leaks from the corners of his mouth into the fabric of his shirt. It’s doing a commendable job of muffling his low groans and growls as he milks himself. His overworked nipples are a brilliant, rosy pink from the stimulation. Milk has run down in wide streams over his hands and down his torso, soaking into the fabric of his jeans. It’s hard to tell if the front of the pants are more of a mess from the trickling milk from his chest or the precum leaking from his cock.

Closing his eyes and hovering on the cusp of orgasm, he pushes his pelvis tightly against the sink. Driver lets himself daydream further. He lets himself imagine someone standing behind him, shoving his hands aside and taking over for him. Their hands would milk him dry with expert ease, pulling at both of his nipples, teasing the liquid from his full glands. He wonders if they would rub their own crotch against his ass while they grind him against the porcelain in front of him.

That's all it takes for his own imagination to push him over the edge into a free fall. He curls over, grabbing onto the faucet for stability as he rides it out. The moan he lets out despite being gagged is loud enough to warrant a neighborly complaint, but he hardly hears his own noises over the ringing in his ears. His cock is twitching and pulsing in his jeans. The material is a sodden mess. He pulls the shirt out of his mouth and over his head to drop it onto the floor at his feet.

Breathing heavily, legs trembling with the aftershocks, he tries to rally himself. He grabs the hand towel hanging on the rail mounted on the shower door. He has quite the mess to clean up before he can wash the rapidly cooling evidence off of himself. Breathing heavily, he wipes down the mirror. He does the best that he can in his current state and tosses the hand towel onto the floor to join his discarded shirt. His jeans follow suit.

Hurriedly, not wanting to think about the mess streaked across his skin, he turns the shower on. Not waiting for the water to heat up, the mechanic steps under the spray. The sensation of icy needles raining onto him helps to distract him from his overheated, sensitive body. He feels wrung dry, exhausted. This has to have been a one time thing. Surely, every day won’t find him with his hands on his chest, working busily at his nipples to keep the involuntary leaking at bay.

[stridersdiner]

Rancher!Graves likes his bikes.

It took a while for our teenaged Phil to figure out what exactly was wrong with that ol' motorcycle his friend Hank told him about. If only Hank knew he had just unleashed a new obsession that'd follow Phil into adulthood.

Hank's father has had this thing for the better half of a decade, and when it broke down some two years ago, it was doomed to collect dust at his estate. Something about being a wealthy man meant being able to afford such fleeting hobbies, but he was charitable enough to give it to Phil so long as he was willing to put in the work to fix it.

It took months of troubleshooting and tinkering. The spare shed was in disarray; ground littered with spare parts and tools, smears of oil and grease (it was getting hard to tell what was what at this point), and a handful of mechanics guides and books. He had some sleepless nights, fueled by the interlocked hands of want and need shrouding his mind.

He often spent mornings climbing out of the shed and lugging himself onto the school bus, where Hank would give him a knowing look and insist on calling a mechanic from a few towns over to help-

"You can't keep sleeping through English, Phil. My father was only kiddin' about fixing it yourself."

but Phil knew better. Better to get the job done yourself. Feels better that way anyways.

God, was he right. He turned the key with baited breath, eyes wide as the instrument panel lit up. The motor purred to life in an instant, and when he turned one of the handles, it roared. He had never been happier, running his hand over the shiny red fuel tank, the tight upholstered leather seat. He laughed- he yawped. And Pa came rushin' over like he had heard the end of the world start from inside his own shed.

"Philly, what in the world are you doin' makin' this much noise?" "Finally got 'er workin', Pa!"

Pa's panic softened as he took a second to really listen to the motor. He circled the bike, staring down at it and back up at Phil. He was proud, honestly, as he clapped his hand over Phil's shoulder.

"Y'know, Ma didn't actually think you'd be able to fix it up. Think that was the only reason she let ya' have it."

And Phil's smile grew wider.

"I'll jus' tell 'er I'll only ride it into town." "You lyin'?" "Yup-yup."

When Ma found out, it took her nearly a year to come to terms with the fact that her baby boy was riding a motorcycle. Ever the worrywart. She frowned every time she watched him mount the bike, sighing as she watched him put on his helmet (that she made him get) and fix his riding gloves (that she also made him get).

But that bike was his pride and joy for years. He rode it to prom, and his high school graduation ceremony. He wiped it down every other day, and made sure the paint was still shiny. So when that trusty 1985 Honda Shadow finally bit the dust, he was devastated.

Cried real tears, maybe ones worse than when Joey left for the army.

And then picked himself up and started workin' hard to replace it. He drove Pa's ol' truck for the time being.

After a little while, he finally saved up enough to get a brand new bike. Could barely contain himself when Pa drove him to go pick it up- clutching onto his helmet, flipping the visor up and down like a light switch. He was thrilled to be back on a bike, and he practically left Pa in the dust during the ride home. (Phil pulled off to the side of the road to wait because he felt bad for leaving him so far behind.)

Even now, when you finally agree to take a ride with him on his precious bike, he's still just as excited as he was when he first mounted that Shadow back in high school- especially at the feeling of your arms wrapping around his middle and the side of your helmet pressed against his shoulder blade. He loves being close to you. He loves it even more when you're clinging onto him. He takes you out on the bike a lot more now that he knows you're not that scared of it anymore.

Babes that wanted to be tagged:

@mockerycrow @kivi-no

[ilikeyoualive]

Wendigo Simon "Ghost" Riley HC's

Warnings: Mentions of Cannibalism (duh), Possessiveness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wendigo's are their own warning really

Word Count: 724

Tagging @resident-idiot-simp because Wendigo Ghost Supremacy.

And, if your interest is piqued by this AU, feel free to check out my Main Masterlist!

My personal headcanon is that Wendigo's tend to be hoarders, although that particular instinct has been heavily repressed by Ghost due to a mixture of intense military training and sheer willpower. However, even though Ghost won’t randomly collect things that catch his eye in the field or on base, he still allows himself to covet essential items such as his tactical skull mask, his numerous skull-themed balaclava, and his favorite mug.

Seeing as they are particularly territorial of the things (or people) that they consider theirs, it’s kind of a big deal when they start giving and/or sharing stuff with others because it’s a sign of kinship and/or affection. So Ghost will randomly offer to make his team members a cup of tea when he’s making some for himself, subtly sharing with them. But he only does little things that wouldn’t be recognized as the affectionate gestures that they were unless you know him well.

So, for example, after the “Alone” mission in canon Ghost would simply let Soap keep the knife that he had found in the unfortunate Shadow that had crossed the Ghost’s path. To do this, Ghost probably just wouldn’t bring up the knife at all once everything has settled down, which in itself is a subtle indication that Soap has permission to keep it because if he didn’t want Soap to have it then he would bluntly ask for it to be returned.

Unfortunately, Soap still recalled how Ghost had said that he would like the knife back during the whole mess that was “Alone” and would totally approach Ghost privately to try and return it to him. Though Ghost wouldn’t move to take it, merely leveling poor Soap with that empty stare of his until Soap lost his nerve and beat a hasty retreat. The bizarre and nerve-racking experience would lead Soap to never try and give that particular item back again, but he does start carrying the knife with him on missions.

Due to the typically uncontrollable/untamable nature of his particular species, Ghost’s instincts are the hardest to repress, which makes hostile and bloodthirsty his default state of being. But with people that he sees as his (the 141, essentially) the urge to eat them decreases a significant amount, but that only makes the instinct to possess them all the worse. It’s a trade-off that Ghost is more than willing to make though, because he likes his team alive.

One of the pros of being seen as one of Ghost’s “possessions” is, first and foremost, that if he were to go into a feeding frenzy then you wouldn’t be on the menu. There’s also the simple fact that he’s easier to direct toward a target (or targets) while his higher brain function is switched off in favor of mindless feeding, which usually only happens when he’s “fatally” wounded in the field.

Not that he can actually be severely injured or killed by anything other than fire, that is. So Ghost is able to heal from wounds that would be a death sentence to a human and even other supernatural creatures because he only actually has one thing that can do serious damage to his person and since the fact that he’s a Wendigo is kept under lock and key -along with the knowledge that the supernatural exist in general- that means that most people wouldn't think to bring a flamethrower to a gunfight.

Ghost’s mind is dark and more than a bit twisted due to being a Wendigo for longer than he had been a human, so I see him as having a bit of what I like to call “Hannibal Mentality” where he just kinda wants to possess people and keep them with him forever. His way of doing so? Eating them.

Not, like, while they're alive mind you. But say, Roach were to die on a mission with Ghost, who would be compelled to eat Roach’s body since he doesn't have bodily functions that cause him to produce waste, so whatever he eats is quite literally with him forever. It would be challenging enough for him to simply give Price the dog tags instead of keeping them for himself, but there would certainly be no body to give to relatives or next of kin.

[simplegenius042]

What do your OCs carry on their person? + "What Kind Of Suffering Is Your OC?" Quiz

Tagged by @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton and @deputy-morgan-malone for the former and tagged by @adelaidedrubman and @g0dspeeed for the latter.

Tagging @shallow-gravy @strangefable @jillvalentinesday @josephslittledeputy @derelictheretic @voidika @onehornedbeast @vampireninjabunnies-blog @minilev @neverthesameneveranother @nightbloodbix @wrathfulrook @direwombat @chazz-anova @cassietrn and @strafethesesinners

(I can't seem to tag @josephseedismyfather's blog, are they alright?)

The quiz can be found here.

Will do the main protagonists of my series (The UnTitledverse, Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, Life, Despair & Monsters and Wings And Horns).

Joaquin Cobalt (during Phase One, at least) -> Joaquin has got a short sword, a pocketknife, a revolver, ammo for the revolver, paperclips and bobby pins (for lockpicking), a notepad he uses to take notes of the universe he's stuck in, any deodorant, shampoo and conditioner he can find, testosterone prescriptions, rations, canteen of water, any spare clothes he can buy (or steal/scavenge... he is likely being hunted by the Chairman at this point in his life after all, and currency doesn't always stay the same in each universe), three polaroid pictures that all include himself with Lisa, Maisie and Mario & Calvin, respectively. He has a scarf, boots, an umbrella and goggles for extra protection from the environment. Also a mechanical contraption that allows him to travel to a different universe (he's trying to get back to his old original one). He also has specialized binoculars that can switch to nightvision when needed.

Sylvester Silva Omar -> On person Silva usually has a handgun, an ornate knife called the "Silver Dragon" (something she took from Paul), regular binoculars, two radios (one to coordinate with the Resistance and listen in on Eden's Gate, the other to call Kamski because her flip phone doesn't have any service, LOL), her now useless Nokia flip phone, her house key to Omar's Residence (where she spends her time alone and unbothered, having meals, showers and rest, as well as hiding from the Christmas snow), Elsa's lodge key, her deputy badge, cuffs (which she forgets she has on until much, much later), her golden locket (inside it is the only remaining picture that Elsa took of Silva with Irene and an infant Persephone), a small backpack (which usually holds extra clothes, a water bottle, medical supplies from Kamski as well as additional weapons and ammo), gas mask for when she eventually decides she's sick of the Bliss' bullshit (after being attacked by an angel or bear that she thought was a civilian for the umpteenth time). She did have prescribed medicine for her PTSD, but that has since run out, and the Hope County Clinic had either been pillaged by Eden's Gate or can't replenish their supplies since the county is on lockdown. She does have Joseph's Word for a while before giving it back to Faith. Eventually Silva also gets glasses between her time in the bunker after the Collapse and during Old Dusk (the New Dawn arc), as well as a crossbow (because I think she deserves one), not to mention the ring.

Haoyu Anabuki - Haoyu is the one with the least amount of shit. A wallet, phone (which has a screenshot of the Literature Club as the opening image which includes Haoyu themself, their sibling Monika, and both their friends Sayori, Yuri and Natsuki), antibiotics and reading glasses is the most you get from them. Anything else is stashed in their little pocket dimension. I'm sure the others here would be looking to kick Haoyu's ass for being the second person with the least amount of stuff to carry.

Archangel Metatron - Because first goes to Metatron, a literal archangel who's clothes are part of his disguise, and only really has a flaming sword to worry about.

BONUS Azriel - Poor girl doesn't have enough pockets to carry every shiny thing she sees. But to recap; in Azriel's years as an Angel of Death, she only carried around a hood, cloak and two sickles. Justified, she's technically dead and an immortal soul doing Death's deeds, so she's kind of omnipresent and omnipotent. But in her mortal years as a child, she tries to pocket and carry way too many things, sometimes her own creations, and has a bayonet pistol as well as several explosives she built or stole herself. As an adult, Azriel has heavier weapons (like a bayonet minigun) and better explosives, plus cogs and other doohickeys that she uses as accessories or utilizes for uses not for their initial purpose (like a hair tie). She also has hair dye just in case her dark hair starts showing again. And plenty of fake badges and ID card.

Now onwards to the suffering of the Antagonists! Since I just did the protagonists I thought it was only fair the antagonists got to shine.

First up!

Edward Carmine (The UnTitledverse, The Perfect Storm saga)

While I do agree that Edward is experiencing a kind of despair, he is too focused on his own superiority-complex to even consider that this isn't healthy. He is too ambitious to worry about trivial things like hope. He is too unsympathetic and without empathy towards his own downfalls to even reflect on his actions. Edward believes the world works a certain way, and he will have it focused on him whether it likes it or not.

Father Adam Omar (Far Cry The Silver Chronicles, Silva's Hope fic)

Adam Omar is the result of living up to the horrible expectations of a shitty society based on class (that he proceeds to make worse), groomed by the previous Prophet Omar and the Voice with words of importance and righteousness, as well as several unspecified disorders (plus biological factors) that the Congregation could care less about doing anything about. Though these do not at all justify any of the heinous shit he does to everyone, including his own children. Proceeding, "The Taker" most definitely describes Adam. Though I highly doubt Adam would ever change his mindset, especially when it has proven successful for him thus far.

Sir Enigma Malvolio (Life Despair & Monsters)

I'm unsure about this one. Malvolio really is the person who spreads despair on anyone he meets through his unethical "social experiments". He's a creature from an alternate dimension disguised as a human, I highly doubt he believes in concepts like "hope" and "religion". He is hooked entirely on the unethical side of science. He wants to help humans "evolve" but really he wants to satisfy his own "itch" and twisted curiosity (plus his Darwinist/dog-eat-dog ideology).

Xiang Ba'al (Wings And Horns, Original Work)

Xiang, a demon from the Sloth Ring of Hell, the last creature anyone, not even Metatron, would expect to go on a mission to dismantle the Soulmate System after he sees the consequences of it after finding the damned soul of a ten-year-old girl named Jezebel (that he adopts) wandering in Hell after a horrible confrontation in the mortal realm. Xiang believes he is giving humans an opportunity to remove their soulmarks (or soulbrands, which are arguably worse), which in his POV, is a curse that has plagued the mortal realms for far too long. Problem is (besides the extremism and forcing people to do so against their will) Xiang doesn't have a lot of runes nor the energy to power those runes (due to being a Sloth Demon) in order to successfully eradicate the soulmate system (leaving him to comprise a plan to make as much noise as possible to show the Gods that "hey, your system is broken beyond repair!"). While Jezebel dislikes the extremism, she finds Xiang caring enough for her to dismantle a system that completely fucked her over despite the consequences he could face is very touching. It's the thought that counts, in Jezebel's opinion.

And BONUS...

Urijah Callaghan (The UnTitledverse, The Omniscience Rule and The UnTitled Ventures sagas)

Urijah has an extremely nihilistic outlook in life, not helping that Madame Callaghan (his parental figure/kidnapper) pushes him further into this extreme form of nihilism. He did care at one point. He really did. But now to him, nothing matters. Except for his mission to wipe the multiverse and everyone in it from existence with a bomb he designed. Even his companions from Cognito, Inc. Including his closest companion, Reagan Ridley. He views it as a kind of mercy than living under Zachariah's cruel and callous hand.

[winteratdusk]

Totally forgot to share this when I first posted, but chapter 2 of my new fic is now up! Some Steve/Bucky hurt/comfort, as always.

It was November of 1941, the air was bright and clear and cold, and Bucky was starting to feel like he was living at the end of the world. Or, with the world at war, responsibility on his shoulders, and the draft looming closer by the day, Bucky's just trying his best to stay afloat. Drinking seems to help, until it doesn’t.

Main, overarching warning for depictions of unhealthy alcohol use as a coping mechanism. More specific warnings are in the tags and chapter notes, so please be sure to check those as well! Chapter 2 snippet below the cut:

Bucky sat slouched over the bar, staring into the depths of his drink. 

It was a dive bar close to the docks, one Bucky always glanced over his shoulder before entering, afraid Jack or someone else from work might be passing by and see him go in. Since he and Steve had finally gotten over themselves, taking the plunge into the relationship that, to Bucky, had always felt halfway inevitable, they went out dancing a lot less. It was both exhausting and unfair, inviting out girls just to keep up appearances. They now spent more time out at bars like this instead – places where Bucky could run his hand up Steve’s thigh or link their hands together under the table and know that nobody would bat an eye.

There had been a time when Bucky had loved it, the openness they found in these places when everywhere else they had to be so careful. He was enjoying it far less now that he had to spend his evening listening to Steve animatedly talking politics to the shiny-haired boy sitting next to them at the bar, leaving Bucky to either try and fail to keep up or drink in silence.

“It’s bullying, is what it is,” Steve ranted, that familiar bit of Irish starting to creep into his voice. “Hitler thinks he can push everyone in Europe around, just like he’s already been doing to his own people!”

The boy beside him was nodding intensely, dark eyes fixed on Steve’s face. Bucky knocked back the rest of his drink and tried to subtly flag down the bartender.

“Exactly,” the boy agreed. “It’s not about glory or adventure or anything, like other guys keep saying. It’s about justice. We’ve finally got the chance to do something good. You’re joining up, right?”

Bucky saw Steve deflate for a moment before quickly squaring his shoulders again. “Trying. Wouldn’t take me the first time around, but I’m gonna prove them wrong.”

“And you?” 

The boy beside Steve addressed Bucky just as the bartender handed him his next drink. Bucky winced, hoping that neither Steve nor his new friend had caught on to the fact that most of the empty glasses in front of them were Bucky’s already, or that somewhere along the line he’d switched to ordering doubles. 

He wasn’t trying to get drunk, not really — it had just felt so good to loosen up a little, and he could hardly fault himself for not wanting that feeling to stop. 

“Buck?” Steve asked, expectant.

“I, uh… yeah,” Bucky said. “Yeah, I think I will. Just gotta make sure my folks are taken care of first. And I mean, I already signed up for the selective service last summer when they told us we all had to, so…”

Bucky knew it wasn’t the righteous answer Steve’s friend was looking for. He only hoped he was imagining the matching frown echoed on Steve’s face.

Bucky was saved from having to sit through any more of the conversation when someone sat down at the old, out-of-tune piano in the corner of the bar. As the first off-key notes of a drinking song permeated the room, the atmosphere shifted, faraway problems disappearing in favor of current celebration.

Steve’s new friend had turned around, talking to another man on the other end of the bar, and Steve’s eyes were on Bucky again. They were glassy and framed with long eyelashes. Their deep blue looked dark in the low light, and Bucky’s stomach swooped with a sensation like falling as he felt himself leaning towards them, tunneling into them. 

Steve’s lips parted, saying something that could hardly be heard over the raucous music. They were bright pink, glistening with the last sip of his drink, and Bucky wanted so badly to kiss them, to claim those lips for himself. He forced himself to hold back, pressing a hand flat to the sticky surface of the bar beside his drink to keep himself from touching Steve anywhere he could reach. 

[themoonknight-system]

The Moonknight System

This DID System is made up of three identities: Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and Jake Lockley. See below biographies for details.

The Moonknight System was created as a coping mechanism after they experienced repeated childhood trauma. It is not a party trick or a fun way to always have built-in friends. The alters within The Moonknight System are all aware of each other and mostly get along, but many other systems do not have this luxury.

Steven Grant

Pronouns: He/Him System Role: Host Alias: Mr. Knight Likes: Ancient Egypt, Museums, the National Geographic Channel, Cooking Dislikes: Steak, the nickname Scottie, Sandals

Marc Spector

Pronouns: He/Him System Role: Protector Alias: Moon Knight Likes: Exercise, his wife Layla, Traveling, Coffee Dislikes: Bullies, Organized Religion, Confined Spaces

Jake Lockley

Pronouns: He/They System Role: Gatekeeper Alias: N/A Likes: Boxing, Driving, New York City Dislikes: wouldn't you like to know

Navigation Key:

Chat Font = Inner World Discussion Between Alters

Regular Font = Discussions out loud

((Text in parentheses)) = RP Admin is speaking

Tags

#steven grant here = Steven Grant is fronting

#it's marc spector = Marc Spector is fronting

#yo soy jake = Jake Lockley is fronting

Notes:

Do not ask to speak to a certain alter. That's not how DID works.

Alter switches do not happen on command or regularly. Some alters may front for long periods of time, some for only a short time. ((Profile pictures will change whenever a different alter is fronting))

[tapwrites]

How to Write Dialogue

A lot of a story is told through narration: action, description, exposition, and so on. But a big part of characters interacting tends to be speech. In prose, we call this "dialogue."

The key to what happens in the scene for this is...

People communicate in their own way.

To a new customer entering their store, a gruff character might say "What do you want?" Whereas a more personable character might say "Welcome in! Can I help you?"

Maybe the character would use body language, with a wave as they speak. Or only use body language to communicate in this moment, with a polite nod and smile to the customer with no dialogue.

If they share some knowledge with character they are communicating with, they may speak differently, with an unspoken shared context for their conversation. Compared to speaking to a character who doesn't have that knowledge.

If both characters have the shared context of knowing Frank is coming for tea at 6, it would be odd if one said "Frank is coming for tea at 6." Because the person they are speaking to already knows that. (Unless they have some reason to believe they've forgotten.)

But it would be natural for one to say, "When was he coming, again?" or "I hope he doesn't start smoking like he did last time," without even declaring who they're talking about, or what the situation is. Just the new stuff. Just like people do in real life.

Think about why the character chooses to speak at this time, not before, not waiting until later? What do they want to communicate? How do they want to communicate it, how do they phrase it, what other things go along with it like tone, volume, body language as I mentioned earlier?

And of course, all of those things are affected by the character's personality, their mood and emotions in that moment, their relationship to the people they are communicating with, and the subject they are talking about.

A lot of times all of that just comes naturally from our understanding of the character, and we don't have to think through each of these one at a time. But if you're stuck, making it more of a "process" can help you get rolling.

And now, onto the mechanics of dialogue in the prose itself...

To mark text as being spoken instead of narration, it should start and end with double-quotes, "like this." There are novels that use single-quotes, but this is a rare exception and tends to be more common in older books. But if that's your thing, you do you.

Apparently, the UK flips this and starts with 'single-quotes'. I've lived in the UK all my life, and was taught to use double-quotes. So... I guess your mileage may vary, I don't know what that's all about... 😅

If a line of dialogue ends with a complete sentence, it will normally put the punctuation before the last quote. There are exceptions, and stylistic choices, but that's the general rule for dialogue.

"The sky isn't blue."

You can have quotations within the dialogue, marked with single-quotes. And, in theory, the further down the rabbit hole you go, it switches back and forth between single and double quotes.

So, a quote within dialogue has single-quotes. A quote within a quote within dialogue has single quotes again. And so on...

"And he said to me, 'Go over there and tell them, "Frank said, 'The sky is blue, darn it!'"'"

Yes this does look weird, and yes it can be confusing keeping track of the layers of quotation. Which is why it's very rare, in fiction at least. Instead of making a direct quote, a speaker normally paraphrased, or rewritten in other ways to simplify the structure of the dialogue.

"Frank said to tell you the sky is blue."

If the dialogue ends its own sentence, but the sentence as a whole continues with a dialogue tag, the full-stop/period at the end of the dialogue becomes a comma.

"The sky isn't blue," Geraldine said.

This is because a dialogue tag is actually part of the same sentence.

A dialogue tag is like a luggage tag tied to the end of the dialogue to tell us more about how it was said.

In the example above, there is a dialogue tag to tell us the character who said it: Geraldine.

You could write the dialogue tag in a couple of other ways:

"The sky isn't blue," said Geraldine. Geraldine said, "The sky isn't blue."

But this is uncommon in modern novels, and makes it have a different old-timey vibe that may be confusing or distracting for readers. So bear that in mind if you want to try it out.

Now, if it's part of a longer piece of dialogue, you could leave it to the end of the spoken words to have the dialogue tag as normal. But the reader will be wondering through the whole thing... "Yeah, but who's even saying all this?"

To avoid this, try to have the indication of the speaker sooner rather than later. You can use any of the methods from this article to do so. But one example would be:

"Fourscore and seven years ago," Lincoln said, "our fathers brought forth, on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal..." (and so on)

For longer text like this, you can actually have paragraphs within the dialogue. The paragraph doesn't end in a quotation mark because the dialogue isn't ending. But then the new paragraph does have a quotation mark to remind the reader it's still dialogue.

"Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. "Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure."

Again, confusing to read, and rarely needed or used in modern fiction. But something to know about. A better way would be to break up the dialogue with some "Blocking"--a stage term for people moving around the scene.

This would be a new paragraph, as it focuses on something else, and then another new paragraph continuing the dialogue. If we focus on a different character with the in-between paragraph, you might want to remind them who is speaking when they continue.

Lincoln stood for a moment, taking in the crowd. Then drew in a breath. "Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." The crowd looked uneasy, a low murmur floating across them. Lincoln shook his head. "Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure."

Going back to dialogue tags... Other verbs can be used instead of "said," to better describe how it was said.

"The sky isn't blue," Geraldine muttered.

There is a general tip that the same word shouldn't be used over and over in quick succession, because it draws attention to itself. But this doesn't apply to all words. Structural words like "a" and "the" shouldn't (and often couldn't) be replaced with a new synonym every time they're used.

This is because they simply fade into the background; the reader knows that they are common words and don't matter to the meaning of the sentence so much. So they just sort of brush over it. "Said" is one such word.

Don't be afraid of "said."

Some writers still try to not use "said" much, and instead use "thesaurus words"--synonyms with the same meaning--throughout their writing. However this actually draws more attention to it that using the simple "said," which people brush over anyway.

Take a look at the following examples:

"The sky isn't blue," Geraldine said. "The sky isn't blue," Geraldine stated. "The sky isn't blue," Geraldine explained.

Is "stated" describing how the line was said better than "said"? Not really. And is "explained" adding anything to the story that isn't from the dialogue? Nope.

If there is a line of dialogue, then it was said/stated/explained/said in reply/asked, depending on what was said and the context. We know what was said. So when a character asks something, the verb "asked" doesn't do anything that reading the question didn't do. So you may as well put "said."

"The sky isn't blue," Geraldine smirked. "The sky isn't blue," Geraldine yawned.

And if you go too far with it, trying to incorporate an action into it, you can get yourself into a real mess. Smirking is not saying anything. You can smirk while saying something. But if the action you are performing is a smirk, or yawn, or laugh... you, my friend, have uttered no words!

These are known as "said-bookisms": words used to avoid writing "said." And named after a book that was written listing such words for writers to use (you may have seen similar posters/graphics on the internet). But as we don't need to avoid writing "said," we can safely throw out the book!

Earlier we used "muttered" instead of "said." Was that okay? Well, did that add to story? Does it tell the reader more about what was said? Yes! Now they know the words weren't simply spoken; they were said quietly, muttered under the breath.

Anything that tells us more about how the dialogue was said is fine. If the character shouted or screamed, or they muttered or mumbled, or slurred... they aren't necessarily obvious from the dialogue. So if they fit, and they describe the utterance of words, then go for it!

Sometimes writers have entire actions as a dialogue tag.

"The sky isn't blue," Geraldine moved over to the window, peering out.

That action isn't describing the act of saying that dialogue. So it doesn't make sense for it to be part of the same sentence. Just split it into its own sentence, and you should be good.

"The sky isn't blue." Geraldine moved over to the window, peering out.

However, these things may be indicated earlier in the paragraph, before the dialogue begins.

Geraldine looked up. "The sky isn't blue."

Because Geraldine has been established as the focus of this paragraph, any dialogue will be assumed to come from Geraldine.

Here, the first sentence describes an action the character took. But it could be a narrated thought. Or an expression. You can indicate the focus of the paragraph in many different ways, but however you do it, that can be used by the reader to infer who the speaker is.

You can of course add a dialogue tag anyway, using the pronoun of the character.

Geraldine looked up. "The sky isn't blue," she said.

The tone of the dialogue--the way it is said by the character--can also be implied by the context in the paragraph up to that point.

Geraldine laughed. "The sky isn't blue." Geraldine gasped. "The sky isn't blue."

Whatever context the reader has before the dialogue will colour how they "hear" it in their minds as they read.

Geraldine whispered, staring up in awe. "The sky isn't blue." Geraldine screamed. "The sky isn't blue!" Geraldine staggered through the door, drunkenly. "The sky isn't blue."

In the last example, the character's general state or attitude is shown. So as you read what she says, you'll naturally imagine it being said differently. That's the beauty of writing...

The final story in the reader's mind is made from the teamwork between writer and reader.

You can actually get away with having no indication of the speaker at all, in particular circumstances.

Geraldine smiled, her nose wrinkling. "The sky isn't blue." "I think you'll find it is, Gerry dear," Frank muttered, packing. "No, no, you don't understand... the sky is not blue!" "Poppycock." "Look!"

Did you have any trouble knowing who was saying what? If not, why not? Because we had other context clues.

The first couple of lines had the speakers clearly declared. And, as they're the only two characters that are in the scene, it's natural that they'd each take turns--going back and forth in their conversation. Also, if this is in the middle of a book and you're used to how the characters talk differently, that can help too.

Just be careful to not rely on this back-and-forth effect for too long, because it will get confusing after a bit. Just pepper in something to remind the reader of whose turn it is--the character does something as they speak, or a simple dialogue tag is added. And the reader will keep up better.

[masteraqua]

re: your tags on Mel’s post!! I think it varies on a case by case basis. Putting dual wielding aside for a sec, Sora has one keyblade, Kingdom Key, that he switches the keychain on in order to wield other keyblades. So no matter how many keychains he acquired, he’s still got just the one keyblade

But there have been other cases in which a character is in possession of two separate Keyblades, but are (in theory) only able to summon one of those two at a time. Aqua and Ephemera are good examples, in possession Master’s Defender in addition to still having Rainfell / Starlight. Therefore technically having two keyblades

Good points! Sora and Roxas can dual wield in KH2/Days because of the whole Ventus situation and having multiple hearts at their disposal at the time. So I think the cleanest way to read it is that you can use as many keyblades as you have hearts.

My comment about flip-flopping lore was directed at the fact that keychains are only mentioned in KH1 and DDD and are occasionally replaced with another gameplay mechanic altogether (i.e. gears in Days).