#Sweet Bricks Toffee

[starscreamingg]

fixing the uncuttable Toffee Block™ I made last night by boiling it again but this time with chocolate to make the cuttable Toffee Block™

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Best Intentions - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x femme Warnings: Angst. Smut. Mentions of shell shock and trauma. Word count: ~4.3k

Summary: An overview of how Tom and her came to be friends, and the set up for the story now that he's returned to Longsight. Series masterlist.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The imposing red brick building of Plymouth Grove Primary School is gigantic and intimidating to her as she enters through the gates to the playground, the thought of being left here for the entire day makes her clutch at her mum’s hand with tight desperation.

Her first day of school is one she’ll never forget, forever imprinted in her mind, owing to a big pair of blue eyes filled with mischief, and a grin with a pair of front teeth that remind her of a rabbit’s.

It’s morning break as she surveys the playground nervously, trying to decide if she feels brave enough to join in on a nearby game of hopscotch. It’s then that she feels a warm puff of air ruffle the back of her hair, and she spins around to see a sandy haired boy running back towards a group of laughing lads.

“I did it! I gobbed in her hair!” He shouts.

Humiliation warms her skin as tears prickle her eyes, and she hurries inside to the girls’ toilets to unsuccessfully try to locate where the offending spittle has landed, all the while sniffling back sobs.

It’s when dinnertime comes and she sits unhappily sipping her milk that she sees him again. He sidles up to her, alone this time, a sheepish look on his face.

“I didn’t really,” he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “Gob in your hair, I mean. I was dared to, so I pretended,”

“Oh,” is all she’s able to manage, not sure of what else to say.

“I’m Tom. Mates, yeah?” He says with his bunny toothed grin, and she can’t help but smile back.

He sits himself next to her, opening his own milk and they spend the remainder of the hour getting to know each other.

She’s surprised to learn that it’s his first day too, she had assumed from his confidence that he would be a couple of years above her. He lives with his dad, Douglas, who works as a bus conductor, his mum - Josie, and his sister, Lois, who is a couple of years above them.

He learns all about how she lives with her mum, and it’s just the two of them as her dad had passed away when she was a baby. Her mum runs the shop off of Stamford Road with her uncle, who lives in the flat above it.

Tom’s eyes light up at the mention of this. “The one with the jars of sherbet straws?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “And treacle toffees!”

By half past three that afternoon, as the children file back out of the school gates, her and Tom are firm friends.

Her mum and Josie stand waiting to collect them, and they discover that they live only a few streets apart, so the four of them and Lois walk home together, chattering excitedly about her and Tom’s first day of school.

From that day forward, the thought of being at school for the entire day fills her with excitement. Tom makes it a less scary place to be, and is quick to defend her if ever anyone tries to give her trouble.

Their friendship remains solid as the years pass, as does Tom’s compulsion for finding trouble. He adores showing off and being the centre of attention, but it’s always her he runs to when it’s time to face the consequences. She is a privy to a side of him that nobody else is, she has seen his fear, his sadness and his doubt.

They sit on the wall adjacent to her mum’s shop, a paper bag rustling between them as they help themselves to sherbet straws. Tom and Lois had walked home with her and her mum. Josie hadn’t been there to pick them up, she hadn’t been for a few days now.

“Should probably go home soon,” she slurs around a mouthful of sweets, “Need to do my homework.”

Tom nods slowly, moving his own sweet around in his mouth. “D’you…d’you think you could help me with mine?”

“Why?” She chides, “‘Cause you spent all lesson mucking about?”

“Come on,” he pleads, “Me mam’s not well, last thing she needs is me getting into trouble because I can’t do sums.”

She clicks her tongue and sighs. “Fine,” she says, jumping down from the wall.

“Smashing,” he grins, following after her.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. “What are mates for?”

Josie’s illness worsens and she passes away around the time that they start secondary school.

Tom’s behaviour becomes more uncontrollabe, exacerbated by his mum’s death, but with her and Lois at the all girls school, and him at the all boys, there is little that can be done to stop him.

Things come to a head one day when Douglas opens the door to an angry neighbour, who berates him for Tom having stolen the milk from their doorstep, running away laughing, before dropping and smashing it when they’d chased after him.

He’d come to her after Douglas had given him a stern telling off, head bowed and looking sorry for himself.

“He hates me,” Tom had said sullenly.

“He doesn’t hate you, Tom, you just need to behave yourself. Why’d you do it?”

“Was dared to,” he says with a shrug.

“Like when you spat in my hair?”

He presses his lips together, lowering his eyes. “I dunno why I do it. It’s just hard since mam’s gone, dad doesn’t understand me like she did.”

It’s then that she notices the tears that rim his eyes, and she pulls him into a hug.

When had he gotten so tall? He feels massive compared to how he used to.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “I’m glad we’re mates.”

The next few years follow a similar pattern; Tom gets into trouble and immediately runs to her each time, basking in the safety of her presence and comforting words.

As they grow older, Tom’s misbevaiour evolves into petty crimes which soon attract the attention of the police.

She also begins to notice the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him each time she pulls him into a hug, a troubling new habit he’s developed, no doubt to impress the older boys. 

He now seems impossibly tall, and with every inch he grows it feels like he pulls a little bit further away from her. It makes her heart ache.

She grows used to seeing him walking home in the mornings looking bedraggled, a cigarette perched between his lips, after having spent the night in the back of a pub to avoid the police, who would no doubt have been knocking at the door of the Bennett household the previous evening.

When news of war having broken out in Europe reaches them and lads Tom’s age begin signing up to the draft, Tom decides he’s having none of it.

“Signing up as a conchie!” He tells her, as they sit on the wall together, waving the green booklet for emphasis.

“Your dad was a conscientious objector,” she says, narrowing her eyes in disbelief, “Your beliefs are suddenly the same as his are they?”

Tom tuts, flicking his lighter absentmindedly. “Just don’t wanna sign my life away for a load of bollocks that’s got naff all to do with me,”

His mind soon changes once the police come knocking again. He enlists in the Navy, action he considers less direct than fighting on the front lines.

The night before he’s due to ship out, he has a rowdy celebration in the local pub, jeering and clinking glasses with those who’ve not yet joined the draft. She watches on with a heavy feeling in her chest, she knows behind all his claims of how many Germans he’s going to kill and how he’ll have a bird in every port that he’s terrified of what’s to come.

That much is proven as he walks her home later that night, unsteady on his feet and reeking of beer. He sways in front of her once they reach her front door, big blue eyes misty and filled with emotion.

“You okay, sailor?” She asks with a soft smile.

“Can I– can I stay the night?” He asks, suddenly seeming like the little boy he was back when they were in primary school and he’d apologised for pretending to spit in her hair. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

She’s never shared a bed with Tom before. They’ve always been just friends. Her throat runs dry at the thought, but in that moment he seems so vulnerable, she can’t deny him anything.

They creep up the rickety wooden stairs to her bedroom, careful not to wake her mum, and squeeze into the single bed that occupies the space. He clings tightly to her, long limbs wrapped around her, like a drowning man grasping onto a lifesaver.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers into the darkness.

“You’ll come back,” she reassures him, “You have to, who else would be my mate?”

She feels him smile against her shoulder. “Yeah, who else would put up with you?”

They giggle, before shushing each other as she elbows him in the ribs, and they fall asleep curled around each other.

Tom’s gone when wakes up.

They write letters back and forth to each other, but each one feels distant and lifeless. He’s writing with the mask he shows to the rest of the world, giving an emotionless recount of each of his days. She supposes he might be afraid or whose hands his words may end up in, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, so she clings to every letter, vapid as they are, grateful to still have a connection to him.

She visits the Bennett household once a week, to share the letters they’ve been exchanging - to her disappointment, the ones she receives are much the same as the ones he sends home to Douglas and Lois.

Over time, her mum and uncle join her on her visits. Her mum brings cakes and her uncle gets into the habit of playing cards with Douglas. She is glad for the closeness between their two families, it makes Tom’s absence seem less daunting.

It’s at the Bennetts’ house where she learns the news of the attack on the HMS Exeter, the Naval ship that Tom is stationed aboard. Her blood runs icy cold at the news, though the Exeter was victorious it is not without deaths and casualties.

The weeks spent waiting for news are agonising, and it’s Tom she’s thinking of as she leans against the shop counter, eyes fixed on the large front window, but too lost in her thoughts to see through it.

“Quarter of sherbet straws when you’re not away with the fairies,”

The familiar voice startles her out of her reverie and she looks up wide eyed at Tom’s smiling face.

God, he’s grown into those bunny teeth. Has his smile always been so handsome?

“Tom!” She squeals, rushing from behind the counter and throwing her arms around his neck. “Do your dad and Lois know you’re back?”

He hugs her warmly before pulling back. “Yeah, popped home first to say hello. Left me new bird there, actually, thought you’d wanna meet her?”

She hates the way her heart sinks at this, but nods regardless, flipping the closed sign on the shop door and locking it behind her.

Tom tells her all about the Battle of the River Plate as they walk back to his house. He grows solemn when he’s finished, glancing sideways at her.

“I saw people die,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna die. Can’t believe there’s so much of my life I’ve pissed up the wall.”

It’s then that she notices how much more mature he seems, wise beyond his years. He’s seen things that no man his young age should have seen. She reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a gesture which he returns.

“So, this is Vera,” he gestures towards the kitchen table as they head inside.

She laughs, relief washing over her, when she sees the little canary sitting in her cage.

For a few days it feels like everything is back to normal, until Tom gets a new posting and has to leave again.

“I’ll come back,” he tells her, taking her hands in his, “who else would be your mate?”

She can’t help but smile. “No one else would put up with me,”

He’s away longer this time, his letters are fewer and the worry gnaws at her with more intensity than ever before.

For the second time in her life she cries over Tom Bennett when she hears that he’s been declared as missing in action on the beaches of Dunkirk, a suspected capture by opposing forces.

Lois falls pregnant, and for a time the advancing stages of her pregnancy and eventual birth are a welcome distraction, a reminder that there is life amongst all the death that surrounds them.

Her grief is amplified when bombs fall over Manchester, a bottomless pit opening in her gut when she finds out that there was a direct hit on the Bennett house. Her uncle and Douglas had been inside playing cards at the time, neither had survived.

Her mum moves Lois and her baby into the flat above the shop, with her uncle gone the space is no longer occupied and it makes sense for them to have it, considering they no longer have a roof over their heads.

It’s comforting to have them so close, a little piece of Tom to hold onto until he comes back, if he comes back. She hates herself for thinking it.

When Tom next steps through the shop door, there’s no trace of his grin from last time. He looks skinny, haunted, he’s aged. There’s an anger within his blue eyes that replaces the mischief that used to sparkle there.

He doesn’t need to ask for her to know what he’s after. There will be no hugs of greeting this time.

“She’s upstairs,” she says softly, her stomach tied into knots.

He simply nods and walks towards the back to go up.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to hear the muffled sounds of arguing and not five minutes later he storms back downstairs and out into the street. She follows after him, grabbing the quarter of sherbet straws she’d bagged up for him.

He’s sat smoking on their usual spot on the wall, and she hops up beside him, placing the paper bag between them. He doesn’t touch them. She wonders when the last time he ate anything at all was, he looks so thin.

The silence between them feels painful, she doesn’t know what to say, but she can tell from the way his hands shake and the urgency with which he drags on his cigarette that if she doesn’t say something then he certainly won’t.

“You can’t be angry with Lois, y’know,” she says gently, “it’s not her fault,”

“Then whose is it?!” He snaps angrily, eyes narrowing as he looks at her.

He’s never spoken to her like that before and she shrinks away from it. “It’s not my fault either,” she whispers sadly.

His face softens, a look of shame replacing his anger as he averts his gaze, his lips twitching. “Sorry about your uncle,”

“Sorry about your dad,”

His return is brief, only a couple of days this time. Enough time for him to visit Douglas’ grave, but not enough for them to talk, not properly anyway. He reveals that he was taken to an American hospital in Paris, after being shot in Dunkirk. A woman named Henriette had helped him to escape France and he’d made his way home via Spain. It’s all so matter of fact the way that he recounts it, but she only has to look into his eyes to see the turmoil he’s feeling. It crushes her.

He looks fearful and uncertain when they say goodbye, the urge to cling to him and beg him not to go is overwhelming.

“You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?” He asks.

“Course I will, I always am,” she replies with a sad smile.

He cups her cheek, his large palm engulfing her face and leans down to press his lips to hers. She startles at first, they have never kissed before, but she quickly reciprocates, moving her mouth against Tom’s. His lips are so soft and there is a tenderness behind the gesture that brings tears to her eyes.

She’s breathless when they part, his forehead resting against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek.

“Mates, yeah?” He whispers.

The word makes her heart twinge. “Yeah, mates.”

Her fingers trace lightly across her mouth as she watches him walk away, kit bag slung over his shoulder.

Tom sends no letters at all the third time he leaves, so eventually she stops writing to him. She figures it can’t be nice for him to hear about how life is carrying on without him, how his niece has started to walk and talk, a new house built in place of his old one with a new family living inside it.

She can’t bear how the world continues, while she feels stuck in place, waiting for his return. It isn’t fair that there are people getting to laugh and love and live their lives, while he’s sacrificing his so that they may have the privilege.

With the exception of the morning paper sort, her mum has taken a step back from the shop, needing more rest than usual, and without her uncle around to help out, she’s taking on more hours in order to keep things ticking over. The sweet jars sit empty, rationing is difficult to get used to. She’ll never be able to come to terms with sending people away without the food they want and need, simply because the shop either doesn’t have enough stock, or they have already used their allotted portion for the week.

Her mind drifts back to how skeletal Tom had looked when she’d seen him last. She hopes he’s managing to eat.

It’s the beginning of September, the dying embers of summer glow dark orange on the horizon, as the evening battles the day for dominance in the increasingly earlier darkening of the sky.

Lois is on an evening shift, so her mum is round at the flat looking after the little one. She has the house to herself, and has lost count of the amount of times she’s read and re-read the same passage in her book, unable to take the words in.

She frowns when she hears the door knock, unsure of whether she should answer it or not, she’s not expecting anyone. Her hesitation provides enough time for a second knock, more urgent this time, so she relents, going to the front door and opening it.

It feels as though time freezes when she sees Tom standing there, gaunt and tired looking.

He doesn’t give her time to react, dropping his kit bag to the floor as he closes the door behind him and presses a bruising kiss to her lips. His hands pull at her clothes as he backs her towards the living room sofa, and she lets him.

She just needs to feel that he’s real, that he’s really back, so she loses herself in the moment, allowing him to climb on top of her, her own hands moving to strip him as he does the same to her.

Her fingertips stroke down his back and she’s shocked to find she can feel every vertebrae in his spine, and all the ribs that protrude through the skin. She’s never touched him in such an intimate manner before, but she knows he’s never been so emaciated. He feels hollow, yet there is strength to how he manhandles her.

Pulling her thighs apart, he settles between them, pushing her open with the thickness of his cock. She gasps, arching against him, clutching tightly to his shoulders as he pistons his hips in quick succession against hers. This is no gentle lovemaking, it is filled with raw animalistic need, a desire to feel something, anything.

His breaths are ragged against her neck and he finds release quickly, spilling inside of her with a grunt before collapsing and pulling her tight to his chest.

They lay quietly on the sofa together, nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the space. She has a thousand questions she longs to ask him, yet none of them seem appropriate. Despite the fact that Tom has just brutally had his way with her, she’s still in shock that he’s returned.

“I’m sorry I never wrote,” he says eventually, “was tired of never having any good news to tell you,”

“You’re back now,” she says quietly, fingers tracing over the bullet wound scar in his shoulder, “that’s all that matters,”

“Still mates then?” He asks.

Her heart lurches at the word. Is that all they are after what’s just happened?

“Yeah, still mates,”

He drifts to sleep in her arms and she holds him, until his thrashing pushes her from the sofa. She lands with a heavy thud on the living room carpet, watching in horror as Tom’s sweaty body writhes and cries out in terror in his sleep.

She kneels beside the sofa, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to still him and coax him awake. He startles, wide eyed, before clutching at her, burying his face in her neck and sobbing until he drifts into unconsciousness again.

As Tom settles back into life in Longsight, he goes right back to wearing a mask for everyone.

“Are you a hero?” Children shout as he walks down the street.

“Always have been, always will be,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Yet each day ends with him muffling his cries into her neck after she’s soothed his night terrors, she knows better than the act he puts on for everyone else’s benefit. She suspects that Tom may be suffering from shell shock, but doesn’t dare to bring it up. Knowing his father had the same, it is likely a sore subject for him.

His return sees a new development in their friendship, them sleeping together the night he came back isn’t a one off occurrence, yet each time he still continues to refer to her as a mate. It’s confusing for her, but not an issue she wishes to push, knowing that Tom is struggling with enough already. He’ll figure it out when he’s ready, she just needs to be there for him.

Tom gets a flat nearby, and finds a job at the local garage. Having served in the Navy has imparted mechanical skills to him, and he can easily work his way around an engine.

She sits perched on the workbench of the garage, admiring the view. Tom’s sandy coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead, his navy overalls tied around his waist, leaving him in just the white vest he wears underneath. His first customer of the day has yet to arrive, so he’s clean for now. She bites her lip at the thought of how dirty he’ll be by the end of the day.

It has become routine for her to spend a few mornings a week watching him work - her mum has never gotten out of the habit of insisting she wants to open the shop and sort the morning papers before heading home, so she is left to her own devices most days until the early afternoon. Tom doesn’t seem to mind having her hang around the garage.

When a car pulls in, a portly gentleman stepping out, Tom walks to greet him.

“It keeps overheating, I can’t understand why,” he explains to Tom.

“I’ll take a look for ya, mate. Come back in an hour, yeah?”

The man looks over at her with slight concern. “Will she…uh…be assisting you?”

Tom grins. “Nah, she’s just a mate, won’t let her near your motor, don’t worry.”

Just a mate.

She thinks back to how he’d knelt behind her not long after they’d woken up, just a couple of hours ago, pulling her hips back to meet each of his thrusts.

Just a mate.

Mates don’t do that.

Tom’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts. “Stupid old sod, just needs to put coolant in the engine. Gonna tell him I replaced the fan belt and charge him extra.”

She giggles, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He gives an easy shrug. “He’s loaded, he can afford it.”

She sighs, looking at her watch. “I’d better push off, mum’ll be expecting me at the shop. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Probably not,” Tom says. “Booked solid tomorrow, but come round to mine after?”

She nods, waving and walking away. She’s used to Tom letting her know when the garage will be busy, so makes a point to stay away so he’s not distracted.

It’s not until the end of the day, when she fishes around in her pocket for the keys to lock up the shop that she realises she has Tom’s lighter. She’s too tired to pop round and drop it off at his, so decides she’ll swing by the garage in the morning to give it back.

Her fingers wrap around it in her pocket, preparing to take it out to hand back as she approaches the garage the next morning.

She stops in her tracks when she sees a sleek black motor car parked in the vehicle bay, a tall, sophisticated, beautiful woman standing beside it. Her perfectly manicured nails stroke down Tom’s bare arm as her ruby red lips pull back into a smile.

Her heart lurches in her chest as she watches him reach out to tuck a strand of the woman’s long, dark hair behind her ear.

Her throat tightens, nausea bubbles in her stomach as she turns and walks away, the lighter long forgotten. It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away. She angrily swipes at the wetness that rims her eyes.

Just mates.

Fine, if that’s what Tom wanted then that’s all they’d ever be.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Chocolate Covered Anything Day 

Indulge in a chocolate fountain or fondue to dunk any treats you fancy or drizzle your favorite desserts in delicious sauce and syrup.

Chocolate, a candy loved by both children and adults alike. But how much can it go on? What edible creations can molten chocolate create? Where in the world are certain chocolate dishes made a favorite staple? Well, in order to find the answers to all those questions, we must do a time-hop into the past, for this is the search of the history of Chocolate Covered Everything Day!

Learn about Chocolate Covered In Anything Day

Who doesn’t love chocolate? It’s creamy, sweet, and delicious! While we can all eat chocolate on its own, it is fun to combine chocolate with other ingredients as well! A lot of people love strawberries dipped into chocolate; a real classic. Or, how about some chocolate pretzels? There are plenty of weird and wonderful ideas you can try as well, such as dipping French fries into chocolate ice cream. Hey, don’t knock it until you have tried it! If you have ever wondered what something would taste like in chocolate, today is the perfect opportunity for you to find out.

History of Chocolate Covered Everything Day

We all know and love the dark and sweet bricks called chocolate, we even melt it down and put on our ice cream! When was this delectable treat created? The history of chocolate begins in Mesoamerica. Fermented beverages made from chocolate date back to 1900 BC. The Aztecs believed that cacao seeds were the gift of Quetzalcoatl, the god of wisdom, and the seeds once had so much value that they were used as a form of currency. After chocolate’s arrival in Europe from oversea expeditions in the sixteenth century, sugar was added to it and it became popular throughout all of Europe, first among the ruling classes of the European societies, and then among the common people. Jose de Acosta, a Spanish missionary who lived in Peru and then Mexico in the later 16th century, described its use more generally.

Loathsome to such as are not acquainted with it, having a scum or froth that is very unpleasant taste. Yet it is a drink very much esteemed among the Indians, wherewith they feast noble men who pass through their country. The Spaniards, both men and women that are accustomed to the country are very greedy of this Chocolate. They say they make diverse sorts of it, some hot, some cold, and some temperate, and put therein much of that “chili”; yea, they make paste thereof, the which they say is good for the stomach and against the catarrh.

How to celebrate Chocolate Covered Everything Day

To celebrate the day where we coat everything we can in chocolate, we go out and find an affordable mini chocolate fountain, and then we buy whatever we like to go with our chocolate, take it home and set it up, and then enjoy the chocolate covered foods in the comfort of our own home, enjoying it any time we want! We can also celebrate by buying chocolate syrup, heating it up in a bowl and have a bowl of ice cream with a hot chocolate syrup topping.

There are lots of great chocolate desserts you can make on this day as well! We all deserve a treat now and again, and what better sweet treat than a chocolate-based dessert? From sticky toffee pudding to dark chocolate fondant, we take a look at the best desserts for chocolate lovers.

Let’s start with a Chocolate Sticky Toffee Pudding. This is a delicious traditional English dessert with a chocolate twist. When done correctly, sticky toffee features a rich moist sponge that is topped in a thick and indulgent toffee sauce. It is served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The coolness of the ice cream against the warmth of the toffee is an exquisite combination.

How about some Chocolate Bread and Butter Pudding? We recommend pairing the bread and butter pudding with a tasty rum banana ice cream. It’s comforting, creamy, and delicious.

You will struggle to find a dessert as decadent and indulgent as Dark Chocolate Fondant. You need just the right amount of gooeyness in the middle. The dessert is usually finished offer with a smooth and refreshing vanilla ice cream and a thick salted caramel sauce. Prepare for your taste buds to be sent into overdrive.

Finally, do you feel like being adventurous? How about some Chilli Spiced Chocolate Cake? Chilli and chocolate are two ingredients you wouldn’t expect to work well together but they make a delicious pairing. It’s not simply a case of making chocolate spicy. Both ingredients have real, varied fruit flavours and so it’s all about pairing them in a complementary manner, which is what you can do with a Chilli Spiced Chocolate Cake. Take this luxurious dessert and give it a contemporary edge by adding chilli, which gives a pleasant kick that will warm the back of your throat.

All in all, if you are a lover of chocolate sweets, you can rest assured that you will be more than happy with one of the four delicious desserts that have been mentioned! There are plenty of other recipes that you can try on National Chocolate Covered Anything Day!

Aside from making your own desserts, National Chocolate Covered Anything Day presents you with a good opportunity to support a local chocolatier. With the increase in the production of commercial chocolate, a lot of people overlook just how delicate and difficult the art of making chocolate can be! So, why not support your local chocolatier and let them know that you are amazed by their incredible work?

Source

[sinnohstruggles]

Alright, let's do this again

I'm Ex-Champion Juniper Frost, a Sinnohan with a Master's degree in pokébiology and a minor in Regional Mythos. I'm returning to the Eterna City University of Pokémon Studies to get my doctorate in Pokébiology.

And yes, I am a Froslass hybrid. I don't have heterochromia, the purple eye is glass because my mom tried to kill me. She only succeeded in fucking up my hearing, my eyeball to the point of removal and giving me a myriad of burn scars.

And yes, my mother is/was Commander Venus of Team Galactic.

Found out I'm Giratina's Chosen the hard way (it's a long story).

I switch between my home in Sunyshore City, Sinnoh, the apartment I've given my friend in Nimbasa City, Unova and my summer house that I rent out in Lumiose City, Kalos. My current residence is in Eterna City, Sinnoh.

Lex's the Gyarados and despite how she may look, menacing face and scars aside, she's much quieter than you'd think.

Lumipallo's the Abomasnow and he's by far the better in my team when it comes to his actions.

Trixie's the Gengar, she has a fair few issues of her own considering she was once a human but she's taking time to get over them.

Lance's the incredibly eloquent Gallade, a strong fighter with and equally strong vocabulary.

Fright's the Umbreon, who struggles to communicate as well as the others but I still love him all the same.

Sparks' the sweet-as-pie Scizor, he's all about caring for others despite his species' typical demeanour.

Now, this is my current team

My two shinies, Lillian and Toffee, were acquired in a quite odd way. Lillian attempted to jump me just outside of the cottage I rented out and Toffee was an apology gift from a boy who used a pokéball on me.

Not pictured is my support Aurorus, Nordlys, and her support Skiploom, Brick. I have Nordlys due to a lot of issues caused by trauma, she has Brick because she's mute and greatly struggles with communication.

Here's the playlist we have for him

OOC under here!!

Juniper is 24 and while the mun is also an adult, I'd rather keep nsfw stuff away due to the fact that Juniper interacts with children, teenagers and young adults.

Mail/unmail is on.

Dreams/malice (Musharna) is off.

Juniper's universe is post Platinum.

Other universes are welcome to interact.

Occasionally, this blog features potentially triggering content (drugging, abuse, etc). Warnings before these arcs are posted and the arcs will have specific tags to block.

Arcs tagged as above: Wardbound, Into The Laboratory, The Blizzard Rages On, Distborn Chosen, Inside The Mind Of The Broken Man, The Disappearance of Juniper Frost

Paused Arc: Into The Laboratory

Ongoing Arc (dealing with somewhat difficult topics): N/A

Ongoing Arc (no triggering topics): My Family, My Beloved

[libraryofloveletters]

Crazy In Love

Eddie Diaz x Reader 

Warnings: mentions of injuries, Eddie can’t do math or cook for shit, friends to lovers :))) 

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: takes place after Stuck (2x04) when abuela breaks her hip. Also, this was supposed to be for 911 readers week but I didn’t finish it in time sooooo just take it now instead :) 

-----

The phone rang, your arm stretched over the pile of dishes on the counter. “Hello ?” you answered, putting it on speaker and setting it back down.

Eddie’s voice rang through the speaker, echoing through the empty apartment. “Hey, can you do me a huge favour ?”

“If you're gonna ask me to bake a cake, I have literally no time, honey. I’m really sorry but I need to finish this order-” Eddie sounds like he cut himself off before saying something as you explain that you’re busy.

“Eds? Are you there ?”

“Yeah- yeah, I'm here.”

“What’s up?”

“You’re busy, I don’t want to bother you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes because no matter how busy you are, you always made time for Eddie. He sighs heavily, so much so that you can hear him thinking.

“Eddie, what is it ?”

“Can you pick Chris up from school ? I know you’re busy but if you can’t, that’s ok-” “of course I can pick him up!”

The sound of a breath being released before a feminine voice called out for him. “I gotta go, Abuela needs me but he’s off at 3. Thank you, y/n - really.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Eddie.”

He mumbles something before hanging up. You glance at the phone screen - 2:24. You had enough time to change and shove the dishes in the dishwasher before having to head out so you did just that.

You had picked up Christopher from school a million times. His teachers knew you well enough that Eddie no longer had to call and let them know he wouldn't be picking up Chris but that you would be.

Standing outside of the school, the PTA parents were gossiping within their little bubbles, talking about the other members behind their backs but smiling in their faces. You bit back a smile before walking towards the gate. The students were lined up by the door, waiting for the bell to ring.

The moment it does, the students come running out with their teacher a few feet behind them in an attempt to keep up with them. One by one, their teacher lets them out, Christopher finally spotting you and this teacher waves hello as they open the gate for him.

“Y/n! What are you doing here!?” his little face lights up with a smile.

“Your dad asked me to come get you, he's with abuela.”

The two of you start making your way back to the car when Christopher asks you what his plans for the afternoon were. Soon you realized that Eddie didn’t give you any explanation as to where to go or what to do after you picked up Chris.

“How does ice cream and then abuela’s sound ?”

“Can we take some for her and dad too?” Chris asks as you help him into the car.

“Of course we can.”

----

Christopher was lugging his backpack over his shoulder when you knocked on the door, two containers of ice cream in hand. Eddie opens the door, grinning at his son whose face matches his father’s.

“Hey kiddo” Eddie kneels, wrapping the boy in his arms. Christopher’s arms extend around his father, “hi dad, we bought ice cream” he points out the obvious.

Eddie glances up at you, the ice cream tucked under your arm - he flashes you a smile.

“Oh yeah?” he lets go of Chris. “Did you have any?”

“No,” he shakes his head, his hair flopping around as he snickers. Eddie pushes the hair from Christopher’s forehead. “So what’s this on your face?” swiping his finger on Chris’s chin, a little smudge of brown on his finger from the leftover ice cream.

“Paint.” Chris smiles at his father sweetly.

“Uh huh, paint.” he chuckles, stepping aside for Chris to come further into the house.

“Thanks for picking him up,” he leans on the door frame, stretching and his arms lift above his head as he does. You can’t help but glance down at the area of exposed skin - eyes glued to the man in front of you.

“Y/n?” Eddie’s waving his hands in front of you, eyes raising from their previous spot to his face - the blush was creeping up on your face whilst that stupid smug smile of his was on his.

“Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You won’t be.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Stepping in, you take in the house. You had been by Isabel’s once or twice before but you had never come inside the house. The walls were painted a warm yellow colour, the furniture was spotless as was the rest of the house. Isabel sat on the couch with Chris beside her as he told her about his day at school.

“Chris, did you wash your hands?” Eddie calls, the door shutting. Chris doesn't answer which is an answer in itself. “Go now, please.” Eddie’s voice sounds closer, glancing behind you to see him beside you.

Chris grumbles but gets up, Isabel turns her attention to you and Eddie. “How are you feeling ?”

“As well as someone can with a broken hip” she gives you a smile.

“I’m glad you’re okay, you gave Eddie a scare” giving him a playful shove. “We got ice cream, vanilla and toffee. Chris said toffee was your favourite” handing her the small container. “It is, thank you. That’s so sweet of you.” she smiles, pulling the top off.

“No need to thank me, it was Christopher’s idea.”

“Ah, well I'll thank him when he comes back out.” she says smiling, “Eddie, a spoon please ?” she glances at the man beside you. He hums, stepping away for a moment to get her a spoon.

Chris comes running back in after washing his hands. “Dad! Can we stay over? Abuela said it was okay” he’s beside his father now, looking up at him with his big brown eyes that were practically begging him to let him.

You, Eddie and Isabel all knew that Christopher had his father wrapped around his finger and would ultimately get his way but Eddie had to give him a fatherly response and say no, they should go home. Isabel doesn't usually butt in but this time she did.

“Mijo, stay. I could use the company.” She says, patting the spot beside her and Chris makes his way over to sit beside her.

Eddie sighs, if he had a soft spot, it was for the two people on the couch. “Fine, just tonight then.”

Isabel smiles, satisfied with his answer. “y/n, stay for dinner darling. Eddie’s cooking” “Yea- who said I was cooking?” Eddie butts in, shocked at the assumption. “I did, mijo. Don’t worry, I'll tell you what to do.”

“Buddy, why don’t you finish up your homework so you can relax for the rest of the night ?” Eddie calls out to Chris, who again groans. He loved school but despised homework - as did most kids.

“I have math, I need help so I can’t do it because you’re busy.” Chris says plainly, thinking his statement will get him out of his math work because Eddie can’t do math for shit.

“I can help.”

“Y/n, you don't have to-” “no, it’s fine. C’mon kiddo” Chris grumbles, making his way to the dining room table, the two of you taking a seat when Eddie helps Isabel up and to the kitchen.

You can hear them talking and her telling Eddie to cut things a certain way or not to put too much of something into the pot. It only took 20 minutes for Christopher to finish his math homework, he brought it into the kitchen to show his dad.

“Look! I’m done! Math’s easy when you understand it.” that last bit was a little dig at Eddie and his math skills. You ruffled Chris’s hair as he walked back into the living room.

“Did he just-” Eddie watches his son make his way to the couch.

You hold back a laugh,“Mhm hm” Eddie shakes his head, chuckling. “Here, taste this.” he picks up some sauce from the pot, holding the spoon over his hand before handing it to Isabel.

Her face twists when she tastes it, “Eddie, I love you honey, but that’s terrible.” you press your lips together, holding back a chuckle.

“What?” he pouts, sighing. “I swear it tasted fine ten minutes ago.” sitting beside Isabel in defeat.

You pick up another spoon and taste some for yourself, your expression matching Isabel’s from moments ago. Eddie had remembered to put everything in, except the paprika and the salt, you add a bit of both and stir the pot. Taking the spoon from Eddie, you pick up a bit of the sauce and hand it back to Isabel.

“Ah, that’s better.” she hums, making you smile as she hands you back the spoon. Eddie sighs, letting you know that he was still there.

"Why don’t you go see if Christopher wants to watch something or if he wants a snack ?” his grandmother nudged him, a signal for him to leave the kitchen. “y/n can take over for you”

“Abuela, you can’t invite them in and have them work for their dinner.” he says, making her laugh.

“It’s okay Eds,” waving him off. “I don’t mind, really.”

Eddie left the kitchen and made his way over to the couch, listening as Chris told him about his day. He glanced back to see if everything was alright but he noticed that the two of you were laughing as you told Isabel something. Eddie would be lying if his heart didn’t skip a beat.

He stopped seeking his parents’ approval of who he dated- for a matter of fact, it went out the window when he brought Shannon home the first time but seeing you with an abuela made him so warm and happy, he couldn't help but smile.

---

Eddie’s hand slipped onto your hip, his chest against your back. “Can I help you, Eddie?” you mumble, your eyes on the dishes in front of you.

He hums, hands coming around and arms now wrapped around your waist. Eddie felt your wet hands pull his hands off of you, “Isabel and Chris are in the other room, stop it”

His head tilted, that innocent look on his face, “stop what?”

“Eddie,” turning to face him, “shh I don’t want to hear it” he cuts you off, hands back on your waist.

“I don’t think I've ever loved someone the way I love you.” His words come off so sweet and loving but hit you like a ton of bricks.

You loved Eddie, more than anything but you had never actually told him nor did you ever feel the need too. It was always implied that as friends, you loved and cared about each other.

Eddie always knew he loved you, there was never any question about that but something about you, seeing you with an abuela and how great you were with Christopher (as you always were) just pushed him over the edge.

He had to tell you.

“Y/n, you know I love you- and before you say anything, I know I’ve never actually said it to you but I didn’t feel like I had too, you knew I did.”

“I know.”

“Yeah.”

You were still gathering your thoughts, trying to come up with the words to tell him you loved him too but Eddie’s expression changed. His brows furrowed, eyes studying your face - the worry had set in.

What if you didn’t feel the same way ? God, he’d feel so stupid if he embarrassed himself like that.

The years of friendship were enough for you to realize how he was feeling. You were lacking words and you know what they say, actions speak louder than words.

Your hands reach for his face, now cupping his cheeks. Your lips meet his, he pulls you closer to him- if that's even possible. It was a few moments before you pulled away.

Eddie smiles lovingly at you and you’re sure you have the same expression plastered on your face. “Um- I think that says it.” you hum, smiling at him.

“Doesn't mean you can't say it,” he pokes fun at you, making you roll your eyes playfully.

“Eddie?”

“Y/n,”

“I love you.”

---- 

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[inkykeiji]

but if you send for me, you know i’ll come

and if you call for me you know i’ll run

characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi

genre: bittersweet, kinda fluffy, kinda angsty

notes: this is the epilogue for my break my bones but act as my spine series!! and, with this, the main series is officially done!!! wow, i actually can’t believe it. this series genuinely means so much to me; it’s so special, so personal, and i truly appreciate every single person who has read the entire thing. thank you so much for sticking with it!! i love you!!! and, as always, please heed the warnings below! stay safe everyone | title cred: old money by lana del rey

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, discussion of mental illness, an altered (and kind of unrealistic) inpatient program in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, visitations to the psychiatric ward at the hospital, talks of medications used to treat mental illness (non-specific), mentions of doctors and nurses, implied poly relationship, implied cheating (and confession of such), brief discussion of fucking and implied explicit audio recordings being received, a fear of tense rickety relationships being triggering, codependency, tomura’s father is one again referred to as The Boss, daddy kink without the kinkiness

words: 3.9k

part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist

synopsis:

You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.

It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.

That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital is a mammoth, boxy building, all slabs of white concrete and glistening glass, bordering the edges of Setagaya City, just before it morphs into Suginami.

 You know the grounds intimately by now, could navigate them with your eyes closed if you had to, having spent many hours strolling among the grassy knolls and shaded stone pathways, sheltered by the large oaks stretched and arched across the landscape, with Daddy’s large hand clasped firmly in your own, always babbling on about how amazed you are by the sheer quietness of the place, how remarkable it is that the sounds and bustles of the busy city can’t seem to penetrate the thick shrubbery and vegetation shrouding the hospital, lending to its tranquil nature.

 Humming in time to the gentle pat-pat-pats of your shoes against the manicured rock, you allow your mind to drift, to reflect, as your feet carry you towards the far end of the structure, a route you travel three times a week, directions ingrained in the tissues of your brain, nothing more than muscle memory at this point.

 Genuinely, you hate to admit it, but you had been pleasantly surprised by just how fast Tomura went from unwilling and difficult to compromising and cooperative.

 I told you so, Dabi had bragged with a playful sneer, index finger booping your nose. Tomura’s smart, Tomura adapts—I knew he’d figure out the system, the quickest way to get out of there, within weeks of being committed.

 You knew that, too, knew how clever and crafty your Daddy was, knew he’d get the hang of the whole thing and conform to the exactly what the situation necessitated to ensure his release as soon as possible. You did.

 You just didn’t think he’d be able to reign in his feelings so rapidly, so efficiently, when you had never seen him do anything like it before.

 That’s because you’ve only ever seen him with you, Dabi had rolled his eyes. You don’t know how he can get when he works, when he’s got an idea—a motive, a goal—hatching to life in his skull.

 You suppose that’s true, as well. Tomura has always considered himself King of the World—and for the most part, he was—and despite his explosive, hair trigger anger and innate brattiness (a result of rarely being told no in his life), he was intelligent and sly, cunning and practical, always devising a new plan to get him exactly what he wants, failure and you being the only two things to send his emotions awry. And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this entire incident—episode—has knocked him down a few pegs, has humbled him just a little.

 Dabi doubts it, but you think it might be a real possibility; Tomura had already surprised you once before, near the start of his treatment, when it had been decided that you and Dabi would confess to your sins.

 He had been astonishingly calm, when you had told him about it over a year ago, fingers twisting into uncomfortable knots and crystal dewdrops decorating your smooth cheeks, stammered words fractured with guilt, remorse weighing on your tongue.

 It’s alright, he knows, he had said, beckoning you over with an easygoing wave of his hand. He had an inkling, he had told you, tone tender with confounding clemency, a merciful little smile adorning his face. He’s glad you told him.

 It hasn’t been explicitly discussed since then—not with you, at least, though you’re unsure what Tomura and Dabi speak about during their private weekly phone calls—but you’re not quite sure it needs to be, at this point. It just…is.

 Tomura doesn’t like to talk about that time, those harrowed, anguishing months, and you and Dabi had collectively decided that it was best to spare him from the details, unless he one day specifically asks for them. As far as you were all concerned, knowing something happened, and that something is still happening, seems to be enough; there’s no need to detail the past, not now, not anymore.

 Like clockwork, you visit, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, never once missing a day in the whole year and a half he’s been committed, routinely climbing that white linoleum staircase to the west wing—Tomura’s wing, now—the stairwell illuminated by bright, organic sunshine, streaming in through the massive glass panels that line the walls, floor to ceiling.

 You don’t kid yourself into thinking that Tomura doesn’t have special privileges—special dwellings just for him, special visiting hours extended and increased in frequency—knowing well by now the type of things riches and prestige can buy you; knowing well by now just how powerful a man like Tomura’s father is.  

 Not that you’re complaining.

 Today is a Monday. Monday’s, you think, are the best. Because Monday’s are when you get to see him after two full days of being restricted, of not seeing him, which makes Friday’s, your last visit before those two full days of yearning, a specific type of longing procuring an ache in your chest—dull and throbbing at the core of your soul, radiating a painful pining throughout your limbs, infused in your blood and flesh and bones that can only be cured by your Daddy’s presence—the worst.

 Beams of gold filter through the large bay windows, catching in the delicate lace of the curtains and casting intricate shadows across the upholstery of the plush window-seat cushions. They dance across the fabric, dainty and graceful as a breeze twines itself around the thin drapes, an ever-changing myriad of shapes swaying elegantly to their own silent beat, a special song played by the wind just for them.

 But their beauty is nothing compared to the man standing in front of you. No, he’s a piece of art all on his own.

 Strands of pure silver, having lost their boyish blue tinge during Tomura’s acute phase, frame his temples, bangs pushed back from his forehead in thick waves, leftover tufts curling around his cheekbones and highlighting those brilliant rubies, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.

 Every time you see him, he looks better, you swear to God.

 Knitted cream cashmere envelopes his chest, stretched across prominent shoulder blades and blanketing his chest in its knotty embrace, intricate plaits of wool stretched perpendicular along the expanse of his torso, a sharp collarbone peaking out from beneath the braided neckline.

 You’re powerless to stop the soft giggle that bubbles past your lips as your eyes continue their journey down his form, noting the way his charcoal trousers clash with the fluffy blue bunny slippers adorning his feet—an impromptu gift from Dabi, which he had sworn Tomura had to own.

 Finally, your gaze flits back up to meet his, chapped lips still quirked up into that small, knowing, painfully familiar smile, and then you’re running, colliding against him with such force that he sways on the heels of his feet, the impact knocking a fond laugh from his chest.

 His embrace is soft and plush—not as much as it used to be, before the episode, before his muscle had melted off his bone, dissolved by delirium, but enough to be comforting, to be remindful.

 Inhaling deeply, your chest swells against his, saturating your lungs with his unique scent—fresh summer linen and sweet-sour lemon and the ghost of sandalwood cologne, clinging to all of his fabrics—perfusing your organs in a saccharine embrace.

 “I missed you,” you whimper into him, fingers curled in his thick sweater. “So much,”

 “It’s only been two days,” he teases, though his arms are wrapped around your waist tightly, crushing you to his body, warm and secure, home.

 “Doesn’t matter, don’t care,” you retort simply, nuzzling into his sternum. “It’s always two days too long,”

 A chuckle pries its way past his lips and he nods, because it’s true, because you’re right, giving you one final squeeze before finally releasing, large palm skimming down your bare arm to lace your fingers together, leading you towards your favourite seat, one of those opulent little nooks nestled against a large window.

 In the stark summer rays, his eyes look almost rosy, glittering jewels encrusted in flakey flesh and ivory bone, an eternal sunset etched into his irises—corals and cherries bleeding into salmons and scarlets, barely dimmed by the slight mist cast across his gaze by his prescribed medications.

 And, God, you fucking love him.

 It’s hard to believe he isn’t boiling in that heavy Aran sweater and those woollen slacks, body draped with a warm quilt of sunlight, but you know he’s still having trouble eating, even after his ceaseless complaints about the bland food served here had earned him the right to a personal chef—a donation, The Boss had called it, to the hospital and its patients; his way of reassuring them that this was not just for his son, as if they’d ever believe that.

 A mild gust drifts in through the open window, playing with the tendrils of his hair, those loose tufts that contour his bright eyes, ruby stare still directed out the window, surveying the grounds.

 And you wait. You always wait, the pads of your fingers tapping lightly against the back of his hand, idly tracing the veins and the bones, until he’s ready to begin.

 “So, they…” he stops, clearing his throat, shifting his jaw, blinking twice. “They, uh, they put me on new meds—more meds,”

 “Oh?” The question is soft, gentle and unobtrusive, an invitation for him to continue, should he wish to divulge.

 “I don’t like them,” he frowns after a moment of silence, nose scrunching in distaste, eyes drifting to the tangled mess of hands, cradled tenderly in your lap. “They make me feel…foggy,”

 Concern tugs at the corners of your lips, a tender thumb rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles. “Did you let the doctors know?”

 Nodding, he looks away, front teeth nibbling at the dry skin of his lips, tugging thin pieces free, blood immediately pooling in their absence. “They said they’d lower the dosage, and to ‘give it some time’,”

 “Sometimes the side effects become more manageable, right?” you ask, and he nods again. “You can always stop and try something new if they don’t subside,”

 His head quirks slightly, a poor imitation of agreement, and you can sense his irritation, seething just beneath his skin, a powerful aura that embraces him like a cloak, or the familiar arms of a much beloved friend, cracking around him like strikes of crimson lightning, that ebb and flow, pop and fizzle, with each of his measured breaths.

 You can see it: in the way his eyes narrow and twitch, in the way his nostrils flare and his lips press together, forming a sharp hard line, in the way his molars grind together and his jaw flexes under the force of the action.

 And there he is, the man you met all those years ago, the man who’s brutally influential and maliciously insatiable, the man who gets what he wants with nothing more than a tilted head and a sharp smirk; only a mere wisp before he’s gone again, reigned into the recesses of Tomura’s chest, shackled behind a cage of bone.

 “I just—” he begins after a moment, exhaling harshly to calm the tremble lacing his tone, eyes slipping shut. “I’m sick of—of all of this,"

 And it’s difficult to watch—difficult to watch him cycle through meds in constant search of a cocktail that works efficiently, paired with the least side effects; difficult to watch the way this illness evolves to fight against him, his own mind sprouting claws and tearing through the manufactured solace encasing his brain; difficult to watch him stumble through pitfalls of suffering and despair, to dig himself out armed with his own determination and the unwavering love of his babies, just to slip back into it again.

 It’s a long process, the road to getting better—he knows it is. It’s a lifelong process, managing this illness, learning how to cope, how to control and care for it all—he doesn’t need you to tell him that.

 It doesn’t mean it sucks any less.

 “I know,” you whisper, working hard to keep your voice light, to keep from too much sympathy leaking into your tone, taking his other abandoned hand between your own and cradling it like it’s precious. “But you’re doing really well, Daddy. And we’re all so proud of you,”

 It’s evident that he has more to say, but you don’t push, watching with a sinking, tar encrusted heart as he shakes his head a little—to deny your statement, or to void his mind, you aren’t entirely sure. Clearing his throat, his fingers tighten around yours, and he changes the subject.

 “So. How is he?”

 And that, that manages to restore your smile.

 “He misses you a lot,” you tell him honestly, both hands squeezing his. “A lot. As always. You know, he’s a bit like a lost puppy without you,”

 Tomura snorts a little at that, but you can still see the melancholy hidden behind that thin veil of amusement. “I believe it,” he says softly. “You can tell him I miss him, too,”

 “I will,”

 A beat of silence passes, and it’s nice, it’s pleasant, blanketing the two of you in each other’s cozy presence, comfort accentuated by the toasty afternoon sun.

 “The nurse, um, the nurse says that maybe next week he can come up with you?” It’s supposed to be a statement, but it’s phrased as a question, imbued with the inquiry for your opinion.

 “That’s wonderful news, Daddy,”

 And your voice is so soft, so warm, so heart-wrenchingly sincere that it hurts, twinkling sparks emitted from the ball of fire roiling in your chest scathing his skin as they pour from your glimmering gaze and shimmering smile.

 But it’s beautiful, it’s comforting and familiar, and he welcomes the sting readily, basking in the way your buzz bubbles his brain and boils his blood.

 “Yeah, I—” swallowing thickly, his grip on your hand tightens, crimson eyes looking away, stare darting across the large rolling hills of jade, cushioned by dense pine. “I want to see him. I—I’m ready, I think,”

 “He’s gonna be so happy to hear it,” you giggle, and it’s hard to keep from gushing, it’s hard to suppress the wide smile excitement carves into your face, saturated in adoration and admiration, in hope and honour, a special type of pride reserved just for him, just for your Daddy. “He says the phone conversations just aren’t the same,” you pause, little fingers moving to brush silver strands from his brow, tips tracing the curve of his face, eyes following their languid movement. “I agree. It’s not the same,”

 Tomura nods, giving you a small smile, before that pleasant stillness drapes your forms again, enveloping you in its amicable embrace.

 “I’m nervous,” he whispers after a while, so quiet you barely hear it at all, though his hand is gripping yours with such strength that it procures dark fingerprints of periwinkle painted across your flesh, the nubby pads of his unoccupied fingertips rubbing against the thin skin of his wrist, chafing streaks of red against ivory, his nails trimmed meticulously short.

 And it feels like old times again, like those lazy afternoons and late evenings where Tomura would disclose all of his fears and anxieties to you, all of his hopes and dreams, sentiments peppered between kisses and whispered into your hair, or your neck, or your lips.

 It’s still true, that you’re the only one he truly feels comfortable talking about such vulnerabilities with; you always have been, you always will be. But that doesn’t discount the progress he’s made in his year and a half spent in this building, that doesn’t discredit the great strides he’s made in getting better, the astonishing advancements he’s made in cooperating with his doctors.

 “That’s understandable, Daddy,” you respond softly, gentle fingers beginning to tenderly uncurl his own, stiff and rigid, pressing lovingly into the joints to relax them, an instinctive reflex by this point. “But you’re making fantastic progress—no, really, you are, Tomura—and this is the next step, right?”

 Shakily, he hums, fingers twitching against your palms, a phantom urge to scratch again.

 “And if you feel like you’re ready then…” you trail off, shrugging a little, a gentle thumb running across bony knuckles. “Then you’re ready,”

 “But what if I—What if he—I’m worried it might—” chapped lips pull into a deep frown, forehead crinkling with the effort, and he looks away with a scoff, body beginning to quiver with infuriated annoyance. “That he might, y’know,”

 “Trigger it?”

 He grunts out an affirmative, accompanied by a single jerk of his head.

 “It’s okay, if he does,” you tell him, sure to keep your voice calm and vindicated. “He isn’t going to be upset with you, or angry, if that happens.”

 “I really want to see him,”

 “So we’ll give it a try. And if it isn’t the right time, then we’ll wait,” you pause, allowing your words time to snuggle into his brain, to soothe his anxieties and smooth his worries. “We’ll figure it out, together, the three of us,”

 “The three of us,” he murmurs. “Like the sound of that,”

 “Yeah,” you murmur, bringing his hand to your lips and embellishing it with chaste pecks, speaking through your kisses. “Me too,”

 It isn’t long after your pact that the nurse moves to retrieve you, gently uttering that your visiting time is up before retreating, allowing you some privacy for your temporary goodbyes.

 “I can’t wait to—can’t wait to fuck you,” Tomura breathes into your hair, nuzzling against your scalp as he presses your body to his. “Honestly, princess, I’m going fuckin’ crazy,”

 “It’s been way too long,” you murmur into his chest, nostalgia and longing stinging your eyes, voice high with a perpetual whine. “First thing when you get out,” looking up, your gaze searches his face, almost urgent, frantic, in its endeavours. “Promise me,”

 He chuckles a little, pulling back slightly to stare at you, his soft laugh conjuring a bought of pure sunshine, embellished with pretty rubies and silver ribbon, to bloom in your chest, fizzing and warm as it furls into a ball and sends warmth radiating through your veins.

 Holding up his pinky between your chests, he nods. “Promise,”

 “Pinky promise,” you giggle, twining your pinky around his and squeezing.

 “In the mean time, keep sending me those recordings,” he commands with a devilish smirk, voice dropping an octave.

 “You betcha, Daddy,” you wink, precious bubbles of shy giggles frothing in your throat. “See you on Wednesday,”

 “Looking forward to it, baby,”

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 In the hospital parking lot, Dabi leans against the drivers door of his gleaming Audi, lips wrapped around a cigarette, the worn carton of Marlboros discarded on the hood of the car, veiny cardboard box already half-empty.

 Perking up when he sees you bounding towards him, he quickly removes the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke out his nose just in time to catch you in one of his arms, laughing a little as your body curls into his, a leg slotted between his thighs.

 The zest of lemon, intertwined with the scent of fresh linen and garnished with the slightest whiff of expensive cologne, invades his throat, thick and sticky as it coils into a tight ball and lodges itself between the gummy walls.

 You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.

 It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.

 That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.

 Finally, his grasp loosens, but you stay clinging to him, leaning back just enough to glance up at his face.

 “So.” Dabi clears his throat a little, swallowing past Tomura's scent. “How is he?”

 Pressing your lips together, you suppress a small smile at the thought of their similarity, rocking a little on the balls of your feet as tingling excitement races the blood in your veins.

 “He wants to see you next week,”

 “What?” he breathes out through a disbelieving smile, tinged with hope, the corners of his mouth twitching as his arms slacken for a moment, then tighten again. “He—Really?”

 “Mhmm,” you nod. “And I can’t wait for him to get a look at your ridiculous hair,” giggling, you reach up to run your fingers through blended ink and ivory, tousled tufts that flow into one another like soft waves in a monochromatic sea, his half grown out roots melding with the onyx dye.

 “Shut up,” Dabi shoots back, but he’s leaning into your touch, neck tilting down and aiding in your ministrations. “You love my hair,”

 “I love everything about you, I think,”

 “You think?”

 “Mmm,” you hum in contemplation, and Dabi rolls his eyes, squeezing you to his form.

 “So, he’s, uh, he’s still doing well, then?”

 You nod. “Been keeping up that stability over the past few months now. Actually,” you begin, and Dabi just can’t help but melt into you a little, his own gaze softening and grin stretching as your eyes glitter with anticipation, a breathless smile plastered across your face, wobbling with elation, words stuffed full of excitement, letters practically bursting at the seams with precious giggles. “They said—They said if he’s able to continue maintaining it that he might be discharged in time for Christmas!”

 Dabi laughs again, a large hand moving to cup your cheek, cradling it in a rough palm like its his most cherished possession, sapphire shining with mirth.

 “Well,” he murmurs, knocking his forehead against yours, noses nudging intimately. “We better make it the best damn Christmas he’s ever fucking had then, huh?”

 “We will,” you nuzzle into him, the promise nothing more than a delicate wisp of breath caressing his face. “We will.”

 And driving home, back to the small flat Dabi had purchased for the two of you—temporary and close to the hospital, nothing more than a placeholder until Tomura returns, until you can really, truly begin your lives together—with Dabi’s hand on your thigh and Tomura’s scent in your hair, you allow that hesitant hope to blossom, glowing and beautiful, embroidered with the prettiest sapphires and the most magnificent rubies, swathed in brilliant silver and striking onyx, rooting at the very core of your soul as it begins to grow.

 It’s been a long journey thus far, with much education to be gleaned and growth to be had on all three fronts. And even though it’s just the beginning, even though the road ahead is rich with twists and turns, ornamented with thick thorns and sharp sparks, none of it frightens you—none of it frightens any of you at all; not when you have each other.

 Yes, it will be difficult and yes, it will be painful, and yes, there will be tears and trials, clashes and conflicts, but it’ll all be worth it, it’ll always be worth it, you just know it will.

 Because the three of you will survive it.

 Together.

[nanaminokanojo]

A Lot | SemiShira

CHARACTERS: Semi Eita X Shirabu Kenjiro CHAPTER COUNT: 1/1 WORD COUNT: 1600+ GENRE: fluff | boy x boy CONTENT WARNING: profanity | strong language SPOILERS: n/a CROSS POSTED ON A03 collection masterlist

"Glad you can make it."

Kenjiro’s voice registered in Eita’s ear, but he couldn't quite understand what the former was saying, unable to get over the way he strutted closer as if he was parting the Red Sea and emerging from it like a god surveying his domain. Kenjiro looked absolutely gorgeous in a pair of ripped jeans and a black, graphic shirt with some metal band's name printed on it, its wide armholes showing off his rather toned physique underneath.

It took the ash-blonde’s breath away. It was such a polar difference from how he would usually see Shirabu Kenjiro – almost always dressed neatly in either his med school uniform or something else proper as slacks and neatly-pressed oxford shirts – but the duality was a welcome sight with how Eita is finally seeing him wearing something more ‘human,’ so to say.

Just like the first time he met the younger guy after that impromptu gig where Eita’s band was called to perform, he had only one thing on his mind: ‘that,’ he thought, ‘that's the person I wanna marry,’ seeing how Kenjiro’s face morphed from that of utter tedium to genuine mirth which seemed to have lit up the dark, dingy bar where they’ve first crossed paths.

Even when Kenjro stood there, smiling to cover his confusion at the way Eita was just staring at him, the latter couldn't quite form words to say. His mind was just filled with the thoughts of what he wanted to do with Kenjiro if he had his way.

"Earth to Semi Eita?" the toffee-haired male said, finally making Eita snap out of it.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say, placing a hand behind his head as he suddenly felt embarrassed with how he was acting. Eita looked around, trying to keep his eyes off Kenjiro but to no avail. "This…this is something."

Kenjiro had given Eita tickets to the exclusive car show he was participating in. It wasn't exactly the older male’s thing, but since it was Kenjiro, he agreed to come, thinking maybe he would get to see more of what exactly goes inside his head. The former has been keeping him guessing for the past four months that they’ve known each other, but Eita had a hunch that Kenjiro liked cars. In what context, however, it was vague.

A smirk drew itself across Kenjiro’s mouth at Eita’s poor attempt at hiding the way he was staring but said nothing about it. The poor guy was acting atypically, usually cocky in his own environment with all the attention he gets on the regular for his pretty face and mind-blowing skills on the electric guitar, and yet, he had this side to him, all blushes and stumbling over his words. Kenjiro didn’t have to point that out. Besides, he found it sweet.

"Thanks for the tickets, by the way." Eita looked behind him where two of his friends were standing, saying things furtively to each other as they watched him, cheeky grins plastered on their faces. "I gave the rest to Tendou and Goshiki if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Glad you could all come."

Eita repeatedly rocked on the balls of his feet when his gaze finally locked with those caramel-hued eyes, unable to help it but check their owner out from head to toe. "So...is this your scene?"

"Uh-huh. You said you wanted to know, and this is pretty much it."

"You like going to car shows?" Eita surmised dumbly, Kenjiro’s rare laughter immediately filling his senses and rendering him useless.

Poor Eita did not even notice as a group of guys passed by, nearly knocking him over if it weren't for Kenjiro pulling him out of the way. In the process of trying to regain his balance, and quite frankly, his aplomb, Eita’s hands landed on Kenjiro’s waist, accidentally pushing him against the brick wall by the entrance to the venue, their faces mere inches from one another. He smelled of that strawberry lollipop he always had wedged between his lips and Eita wanted to taste it so badly.

Kenjro’s effect on him was just too profound. Eita was usually calm and collected but the former just causes him to be this bumbling fool whenever they were around one another.

"You okay?" Kenjiro asked, feigning innocence as his fingers lightly brushed over Eita’s tattooed arm. "You're acting all shy around me. What happened to the confident guitarist slash chick magnet I came to know?"

He's caught, so he saw no sense in lying. He chuckled. "You look extra hot today is all." Eita joined their hands together, lifting Kenjiro’s to his lips, also teasing him. .Two could play this game,’ he thought, not wanting to look stupid.

"Thanks?" Kenjiro’s expression didn't waver. "And to answer your question, I don't just like going to these events. I compete. I thought this was a good opportunity to show you." With their hands still entwined, he pulled Eita towards the inner grounds. "Let's go."

Eita would gladly go to wherever Kenjiro wishes to take him, liking the way he looked under the light of the setting sun instead of the usual smoke-filtered, dim lights of the bars where they would usually meet. The younger male’s excitement as he briefly looked at Eita was palpable, and it had the latter feeling all sorts of ways.

"What exactly do you do to compete?" he asked, absolutely clueless of what was happening.

"I build."

‘Is there anything about you that isn’t anything short of amazing?’

"Ta-da!" Kenjiro gestured towards this vintage Mustang, candy apple red with its top down and its interior in ivory.

Eita blinked at the car, shifting his eyes from it to the wonder that was this boy who seemed to hide so many things behind his unassuming facade. "You – you built this?"

"Mhmm. Full restoration. What do you think?" Kenjiro a toothy grin, eyes bright as he waited for Eita’s response.

"It's amazing. You're amazing."

Not really conscious of his actions anymore and filled with pride for Kenjiro’s talent, Eita found himself pulling the former towards him, arms snaking around his waist and planting a kiss to his temple.

Kenjiro laughed slightly but did not do anything to stop him. "If you keep doing that, I'll assume you actually like me, Semi."

His dark, drowning pools for eyes focused on Kenjiro, their fingers finding each other again in a slow, sensuous gliding of skin on skin and for a moment there, that spark which ignited flames in Eita spurred him on to admit how he felt on the inside without thinking. "I do like you."

It was Kenjiro’s turn to be flustered, not able to do anything else but look up at Eita, everything around them going quiet. At that moment, he could only focus on the person before him, not even hearing it when the number for his entry was called through the loud speakers.

"A lot, actually..."

"Semi..."

Kenjiro felt a hand on his shoulder and saw one of his crew members looking at him happily. "Jiro, you won!"

"Huh?" He extricated himself from Eita who was smiling encouragingly as he tried to make sense of what was going on. Everything was happening too quickly.

"Congratulations, Ken," Eita said, the nickname he gave Kenjiro, rolling off his tongue like spell that held the latter to him like the planets revolving around the sun. "Go on, claim your prize."

Kenjiro just looked at him, conflicted. Eita just confessed his feelings and yet he was pushing him to go get what he had won. It was the most polarizing thing for Kenjiro at the moment, and for the first time, he was disconcerted about things that involved Semi Eita. He is always the one teasing and confusing the silvery-haired dude, not the other way around.

Kenjiro turned but his steps faltered as he nodded slowly, gingerly pointing towards the podium, but he couldn't get himself to walk away when Eita, too, was looking at him expectantly.

Kenjiro had liked him since the first time they met. The feelings were mutual, just that he found it easier to be less obvious about it. Eita was just too attractive for words and Kejiro understood why people flocked to him and that's without mentioning how talented he is as a musician. He himself fell into that rabbit hole, and he was glad he did.

Over the time Kenjiro has known him, Eita proved to be this sensitive soul who was always considerate of people around him, and he spoke from experience. He just had a way of making Kenjiro feel important, asking about his preferences and showing up at the best of times even if he doesn't get any benefit from it apart from getting to know Kenjiro, his interests. His being. And Eita always seems to take pride in whatever Kenjiro did.

"Jiro, come on!" his companions said, but he shook his head, walking back to where Eita stood, a wide smile gracing his lips as their eyes met.

"Go ahead and get it." He spoke breathlessly. “I've got my prize right here.”

They laughed, shaking their heads as they walked towards the podium.

Kenjiro, on the other hand, made his way to Eita, throwing his arms around his neck when he was near enough. He stood on his toes and pulled Eita close. His arms automatically held onto Kenjiro despite his evident surprise, eyes growing wide at the sudden turn of events.

"I like you, too, Eita. A lot, actually," Kenjiro repeated Eita’s words earlier before crashing his lips to his.

-end-

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY FURUDATE HARUICHI’S “HAIKYUU!”. [20220313]

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[imtryingmybeskar]

Day Six of Steph's Christmas writing challenge. There's a few longer pieces coming up, and I'm still working on a request, a piece for Writer Wednesday and the next Chapter of Red Letter Day. All of which leads me to tell you that this is 509 words long 😅

18+ only, Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey x F! Reader. Tiny hints of smut at the end.

Fireplace

The cabin was glorious. So plush and glamourous that you didn't really feel that "cabin" was an accurate descriptive. Warm pine walls surrounded you, two storeys high and with large windows set into the roof so that you could appreciate the beauty of the stars from your bed on a clear night. The furniture made from soft, toffee coloured leather and covered with an abundance of cosy, colourful knitted blankets and giant cushions. The kitchen, modern and yet still welcoming, was stocked with everything two people could possibly want for a pre-Christmas getaway. The house had been decorated when you had arrived too, with lots of tasteful and traditional touches - garlands of pine with poinsettias, lights and small red baubles wound their way up the bannister and were draped over the mantelpiece, a wreath with a giant red velvet ribbon had been hung on the front door to welcome you.

The star of the show was a large Christmas tree decorated in gold and red and glowing softly with warm white lights. It was currently the only light source in the room, except for the fire. And oh, the fire was magnificent. The piece de resistance of the cabin, for sure. Set within in a warm, red bricked fireplace, it was comforting and beautiful and roaring its heat into the room. It was also as big as you, horizontally across. And you knew this because you were currently lying on the floor in front of it, your head resting on the naked chest of a certain Mr. J. Daniels, your fingers trailing over the soft-to-coarse hair under his stomach, as his arms were wrapped around you and holding you close to him. The fire was making his skin glow golden, a thin sheen of sweat belying the freezing temperatures and swirling snow that could be seen outside.

You raised your head to him, taking in how the firelight burned within the black depths of his eyes, how his moustache raised on one side to give you that cheeky, lopsided grin you had fallen head over heels for, how his dark hair was sticking to his forehead from having his face buried between your thighs for the past half hour. You grinned, drunk on the love of him.

"Isn't this really cliched?" you joked.

"What, this?" he said, his eyes widening and that gorgeous Texan drawl raising a pitch in mock astonishment. "Lying naked with a beautiful woman on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire in a log cabin? No, I do not believe that has ever been thought of before."

"Hmm," you pondered. "Then how about this?" You raised yourself up and straddled him in one fluid movement, his cock pressed heavy and thick against your entrance, which was slippery with a mix of his saliva and your arousal. "Has this been done before?"

He smiled up at you, his eyes full of mischievous desire. "Not by us, sweet thing," he replied, his voice low and full of promise, his hands drifting softly over your thighs.

Taglist - @thisshipwillsail316 @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @elegantduckturtle @dihra-vesa @midwesternwitchery @just-here-for-the-moment @eri16

Day Seven

[prettynxsty]

Spandex

Sub!J-Hope x Domme!Reader

Warnings: polishing (cock head play), power bottom-ish hoseok, hoseok has a pussy, risky semi-public sex, its not really a kink but cameltoe 🥴, impregnation kink, biting, mild sweat kink?, nipple play, nothing short of a creampie

Summary: We barely have a plot this time, reader and Hobi go to Jin’s barbecue and get terribly nasty in the bathroom.

AN: We have the appearance of ot7 in this fic. This was another product of my horrible imagination, enjoy. Sidenote, they’re not kissing each other on the mouth, it’s cheek to cheek as a greeting.

“Are you sure about this?” You peered over at him warily, glancing back at yourself in the mirror.

“Of course, we’re going to be the best dressed there.” Hoseok turns to you with a pointed look, ceasing the fussing over his hair. “Are you doubting my styling abilities?”

“Not at all, but..” You start but trail off in defeat, you knew exactly how stubborn he could be.

“The only person that’s going to be looking at your dick is me,” he turns back to the mirror to fuss over himself, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You threw your hands in the air, grabbing the pair of leggings off of the bed and will yourself to step into them. Sighing through your nose, you decide to tuck your dick into one of the legs instead of letting it rest in a nearly ridiculously sized bulge.

You absolutely loved the idea of wearing matching outfits to Jin’s barbecue, however you never would have guessed that your fiance would put you in such a predicament. Instead of leggings, he wore an irreverent pair of biker shorts that were cut higher than what could have been legally allowed.

You scratch at your bicep for a brief second before grabbing your button up off of the bed. You slip it over your arms, folding the collar down before working the buttons from the bottom to the top. You admire the graphic print as you grab two tails on the sides and twist them neatly before tucking them under the rest of the fabric. You take your time, pulling up the waist of the leggings and achieve the perfect tuck of your shirt.

In contrast, Hoseok’s top was cropped to flash a sliver of his belly and waist chain. He must have had the mind to subtly (loudly) outshine your friends, should any of them have decided to wear matching outfits with their own partners.

“Okay, how do I look babe?” His voice takes you out of your meticulous fretting, turning from the bathroom to where he stood in front of the dresser.

You step back into your house slippers, shuffling out to get a better look.

You remembered why summer had become a close second, if not first to your favorite season. His loose curls swish with life, breathing deep praline chestnut. His cologne smells fresh with a twist of sweet tang, like an ice cold lemonade that kisses you good afternoon during the hottest days.

His skin was halfway between his stunning butter pecan to his deeper toffee with a little rosy flush. He chews on his bottom lip with a cheeky smile, he loved when you got that look in your eye. Hoseok drops his arms and places his hands over the front of his waist, shimmying his shoulders and hips.

Seamless. Your eyes dip down to where his shorts began, coasting a hair above the middle of his thigh. The crotch of his shorts hug his slim little mound and dip in touch, showing exactly where his pussy lips split apart. His inner thighs stretch and sway with each little happy swing of his hips.

“What do you think? What do you think?” He squeals, turning to the side and glancing at himself in the mirror. Your heart beats a little harder for a moment, reminding you that it’s still there. His ass bounces just slightly under the give of the spandex, curving gorgeously from the small of his back.

“I like it a lot, and I can really move in it!” He turns his back to you, arching slightly and spreading his feet before bouncing his ass.

“Keep playing and we won’t make it to Jin’s barbecue.” You wag a finger at him, turning back toward the mirror in the bathroom.

“You know, we could do it right now.” His lips lift into a smile, eyes shimmering with thought unholy. You knew then that you were in for it, you just didn’t know when.

“Not a chance, Jin won’t ever let it go.”

_

You should’ve thought that the heat was disgusting, abhorrent. Although you couldn’t bring yourself to feel it, something about it was nostalgic.

The sun’s rays burned your skin in a way that made pleasant fuzzies creep into your chest. Your forehead is damp, but it doesn’t drip. The light outside was clearer, defining the world’s colors.

Sinewy, fibrous clouds spread and stretch over the expanse of blue overhead. The breeze is ever changing, gusts that warm you and gusts that cool you in concatenation.

Jin’s fence is built of high, wood stained cognac. He didn’t fix the pool for the season yet, everyone preferred to swim during the thick of temperature. You enter through the back, hailed with the warmth of friendship.

The first to approach you is Taehyung, the flush of his cheeks is of the sun’s kiss, not yet too many beers had. The can swishes in his hand as he wraps his arms around you, giving your back a firm pat before pressing his cheek to yours in a kiss.

You rub his back just before he pulls away and greets Hoseok just the same. Nearest to you is Yoongi, to which you slink up behind his chair and sling an arm over his shoulder. His fisherman’s hat brushes your ear as his warmer cheek presses against yours, greeting him.

Jimin’s sandals scrape over the concrete bricks as he approaches you, arms wide open with two damp bottles of ale in between his thumb and index finger. He eagerly receives your kiss in greeting, pressing the bottle into your palm before moving to show love to his old friend.

You enter the semicircle of chairs, kissing Namjoon from his chair before you are yanked into Jungkook’s embrace. Leaning on the tips of your toes, you kiss him and squirm with a noise of alarm.

“Sweaty?” He chuckles, squeezing you before stepping back.

“Ew, yes.” You catch on to his laughter, brows scrunching together.

“Wouldn’t be as bad if hyung cleaned his pool so we could swim.”

“So you could throw us all in one by one? I think I’m good.”

Jungkook runs his fingers through his damp hair, combing it back. “You’ll be alright, he’ll get it cleaned soon anyway.”

You shake your head, lovingly patting his shoulder before making your way toward the grill.

Jin stands back from the smoke, spatula in one hand and the other propped on his hip. His face is hard with concentration, breaking into something relaxed as you approach.

“This should have been a potluck, I’m already tired.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead over the back of his wrist, leaning down to receive your greeting.

_

Old friends, new friends, friends of friends, and friends of Jin slowly fill out the rest of the backyard, growing a sense of liveliness about you.

You eventually needed a break from the music, dropping yourself in a chair with a plastic cup full of something wild. Jin’s Juice, he liked to dub it. Something that opened the back of your brain and let loose the versions of yourself trapped under your skin, behind the glass of mirrors.

It really should’ve tasted like gasoline, this stuff. But he managed to make it taste like the past. Near an elixir, it was your tongue’s choice to decide what it was. Your tongue this time decided to open, you’re pleased with the mouth smacking tang of lemon, balanced with kisses of sugar and bubbles that sparkle over your tongue.

You pant, carefully pouring away the rest of the drink into a mouthful before tossing it toward the garbage can nearby.

Hoseok notices immediately that something is amiss, slipping his way through a thicket of dancing bodies, swinging, undulating limbs and parts. The pit of his stomach is warm and glowing with coconut rum. His giddy smile widens into a grin that bares his beautiful top row of chompers when he spots you.

He flounces over, dropping himself on your lap, slowly leaning his back against your chest. He turns his head, his lips clumsily passing over the folds of your ear.

“... thought you left.”

The tickling of his breath makes your stomach flutter, you’re not in a place to hide your feelings right now.

“Nah, it’s just hot.” You murmur against the nape of his neck.

He hums in reply, leaning forward and planting his hands on your knees to plant his feet properly. You lean your head back against the chair. You weren’t sure if it was on purpose or happened to be your luck, but Hoseok fully sat himself on your bulge, thighs spread over yours.

The music crawls up his toes like a current, rushing up his body. His shoulders sway back and forth, though it doesn’t take long for his hips to follow.

He glances dramatically over his shoulder at you, lips pouting and spreading around word after word in the current song. His lower back curves and swivels with each wicked grind forward. He spreads his thighs further apart, bouncing his ass over your bulge.

Your lips together, popping out around a single word. “Please.” Your voice is lost in the sound. Your hand molds under the thick of his ass, squeezing it.

He’s only fueled by the burn and yearn, tongue poking through his teeth. His chest bounces with a chuckle that could only be called satisfaction.

Your hand slips around the back of his thigh, dragging your fingertips over his stomach. The small links of his waist chain graze against your palm

A whisper from the back of your skull reminds you that the sun is still high and you must respect the decency of other eyes. He was beautiful, pulling you under, bewitched.

You swallow noisily, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around his waist to cease his grinding.

“Bathroom.”

His brows shoot up in surprise, stunned before he squirms in your arms as you shift to stand.

“What? Wait!” He pouts as you set him on his feet before straightening your legs.

You don’t rush, rather saunter away as casually as possible. Your cock throbs helplessly against your thigh as you push open the screen door and step into the chilly house before closing it behind you.

It felt eerily empty since nobody chose to enter unless they needed to get to the bathroom. You pass through the living room and round the couch, silently thanking Jin for having a bathroom downstairs.

You pull the door closed behind you, locking it before dumping yourself over the sink with a groan. You glance at yourself in the mirror, your lids hung low with the buzz floating through your body. You flick at the sink knob, running the water.

It wouldn’t be an instant fix as it went in the movies, but it’d provide you with enough focus to will away your hard on. Blankly you watch the tap run.

It didn’t take Hoseok long to set it in his thick skull that he was going to get it from you no matter what it took. He entered the house just as you shut the door behind you. He approaches the door, placing his hand over the handle. Locked.

He knew well enough that the lock on this door was weak. In fact, it played a role in a lot of pranks over the years.

He whirls around, jogging toward the kitchen. He knew Jin’s place like the back of his hand, just as they all knew each others. Third drawer to the left, it rolls open with ease. He grabs a butter knife and shuts away the rest.

By memory, he lodges the rounded tip into the strike, pushing back the latch bolt. The door welcomes him in silence as he carefully sets the knife on the vase on the floor. He slips through the crack, before pulling it closed.

You cup your hands under the running water, guiding it up and onto the lower half of your face. The click of the door makes your heart jump, snapping your head toward the door.

“You okay?” He wraps his arms around you from behind, his skin pushes heat through yours. You hadn’t realized how much you’d cooled down already.

“Why are you so hot?” You whined, splashing more water over your cheeks.

“Thank you~” he hummed and giggled as he pressed his forehead against the center of your back.

Although you were well aware he was a cup or can shy of drunk, he seemed to retain his fine motor skills anyway. He slips a hand under the waistband of your leggings, snatching up your softening dick.

You feel a tug in your gut without pause when he seals his grip around your heavy shaft. His fingers slip over the pliant flesh as he rolls your foreskin down with his thumb.

Your resolve is wavering.

He lifts his head, pressing a noisy, wet kiss over the grove connecting the back of your ear to your head. You press your lips together, huffing as a shiver crawls up to your shoulders. You knock the faucet closed with a damp fist, gripping the counter with your other hand.

His knuckles roll under the fabric of your leggings as he drags the head of your cock over the ridges of his palm.

“I’m so fucking wet right now, we can be quick.” He muttered into your ear, biting gently on your lobe before sucking it between his lips.

The tip of his index finger circled your frenulum before he presses down and scrubs his finger back and forth. Your toes curl with a groan that swells into a sweet moan.

“Ugh, I love it when I can hear you,” he releases your ear with a pop before moving to work his way down. He finds a place that seems tasty enough, laving his tongue over his before sealing his lips around it.

He slows his assault on your frenulum, wrapping his index and thumb around your glans, squeezing and jerking it.

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip with a growl, he washed away your manner of reason much too easily. Your mind cracks into fragments unseen, blown away by his breath.

You make an ugly choked noise, losing rhythm in your breath when wet squelching fills the air.

“God, yes.” He breathes, lifting his fingers to his mouth to smear some of your precum over his tongue before squeezing his fingers back around the head of your cock.

“You’re so fucking nasty.” Your voice was strained. He dug his teeth into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, tightening his hold on the head of your cock.

Your vision breaks and sparkles. There should have been dents in the counter from your grip. He drags the tip of his tongue around the rosying flesh surrounding your bite mark.

The tip of his nose traces up the column of your neck, meandering to the back. Your hair stands on end. There was something about that spot that made you lose control, and he loved to abuse it.

He presses an opened mouth kiss to the nape of your neck, suckling gently. You swallow noisily as his canines drag over it.

Thick, heavy expletives roll over your gums when he bites down. Only the noise of your heartbeats and blood rushing to your ears is apparent.

“God, take your fucking shorts off.”

The trembling growl in your timbre sends a bounty of blood rushing to his pussy, it felt like his thighs were sticking together. He places a sympathetic kiss over your dark bite mark, shuffling back to work his garment down.

He manages to get one leg out before you shove him against the light grey wall.

“Bet you’re so wet that it’d just go in.”

He whines, throwing his arms around your shoulders as you lift one of his thighs and prop it on your hip.

You grip your dick and swish the head in between his blood swollen folds.

“Look at how fucking red it got.” Your cock jumps in your hand as you give it a few pumps, pulling back your foreskin. You nudge the tip against his clit, licking your lips when he jerks his hips away with a squeal.

“Too much?” You sneer, returning to pumping the head in between his lips. You didn’t fail to catch each squeak when the head of your cock caught around the edge of his hole.

His fists curl around handfuls of your shirt as you press your way in.

“You gonna get me pregnant tonight? Mnh, I didn’t take my birth control this morning.” He keens, gently dropping his forehead against yours. It hardly took a brush of his lips against yours before you consumed his mouth in a filthy kiss.

You curl your tongue around his, sucking it into your mouth noisily. You grind your hips upward, fully settling your hips against his. His moan is muffled by your lips, tongue slipping over the backs of your gums.

You release him with a smack, licking up the traces of vanilla and coconut from the seam of your lips.

“Play with my tits,” he arches his back against the wall, pushing his chest toward you.

You shove a hand under his top, shoving the fabric out of your way with your wrist. He sings for you as your skin begins to thump against his with each thrust.

The pad of your thumb scrubs over the center of his nipple, squeezing a moan out of him.

“Fuck, you gonna give me a baby?” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, throwing his head back with a cheeky smile when you rut in deeper.

His thighs are tingling, it felt so… otherworldly when you went in raw.

His brows knit together, his lips falling apart with a breathy moan. You clumsily shove his crop top further up his chest, leaning in and taking his nipple into your mouth with a wet suckle.

You occupy your free hand by moving it below. You push apart his outer lips with your fingers, gently sweeping your thumb over the head of his clit.

Hoseok immediately seizes up, squirming against you with a cry.

“Please!” He squealed, his inner thighs spasmed in such a way that his knees nearly buckled.

You roll the tip of his nipple between your teeth, scrubbing the tip of your tongue over it. You release it and kiss around the edges of his areola before treating his other nipple to the same.

“You gonna cum on this dick?” You murmur, digging the heel of your thumb over his little pink nub.

“Oh my god,” he hisses while tilting his hips. “Fuck me harder!”

You move toward his neck, nosing at his shoulder. The clapping of your skin rings in your ears.

Squelching, squirting, wet, disgusting. His breath catches in his throat before coming out as a delighted croon.

His cream spreads over your length and adds a slip that makes your thighs flex.

The beating of yours and his heart takes further residence in your ears. Too much.

Too much. Too much. Too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch.

You cum with a rattling groan that sets your limbs aglow, burning and tingling that you can’t get away from. You feel the comforting presence of his nails dragging circles over the canvas of your shoulder blades.

Your erratic breath follows his in canon, slowing to synchronicity as you remember all that surrounds you.

He meets you with a gooey smile, his kiss sets off warm white bursts in your head.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

_

Jin sent a text to their group chat later, asking why there was a butter knife on the vase by the bathroom.

[teabooksandsweets]

Fred chuckled. “That incredible bird. He's really talented, isn't he? A tad eccentric, but very talented. I'm sure you'll team up well. A storm is coming.” “Pardon me?” “A storm is coming. Not now, but soon. I wonder what he wants.” “Or she,” said Annabel Lee. “Or she, indeed. It's an uncommon time for storms to arrive, and I always hope they won't take too much with them as they leave.” “I have not yet decided if I actually like storms, or if I dislike them.” Fred chuckled at that and slowly shook his head. “Naw, you can't like or dislike a storm. They simply are. Don't waste too much affection or aversion on them, as you will feel different each time. There is nothing steady about a storm. I just wonder of what kind this one is.” “What are the kinds of Storm, Fred?” “Methinks... Change, Chaos, and Courage. Time, 'f course, but that's diff'rent matter. I just hope it won't be destructive, ya know?” Annabel Lee frowned and looked at her friend. “Are you alright, Fred?” she asked, and he nodded quickly. “Don't bite your lip, it will get hurt in the cold wind. Don't look like that! I know it's calm still, but just wait. It will get bad, truly... I'm not nervous! Shut up, Annabel Lee, let's go home – what do you want?” he asked a butterfly that decided to rest on Annabel Lee's neck. “I don't want anything at all is what I want,” said the Butterfly, “and I want you to listen, no don't listen, listen. Listen to me, no don't, I have heard you talking, I did not spy, I only fly! I am a butterfly, Mr Butterfly, indeed, good sir! And madam what a beautiful day, turn around, we have more sun here, no don't turn around, it's safe on the West! Beware of the Tempest!” At that, annoyed Fred looked up at the insect. “You feel the storm, too?” “I feel the storm, no I don't feel, I don't feel anything but love, baby, and what sweet lovers are you on a romantic da-” “Shut up, and tell about the storm!” “Storm? A Time Storm? No, good Sir, haven't for years. No, no. A bad wind, evolutionary, revolutionary, flowing hurting, healing from beneath the waters of the sea are lobsters thick as thick can be. Please, take care, take good care. He who killed, and who repaid, Night, will help you! You loved with a love that was more than love little pussy her coat is so warm and if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm. If you worry, follow the yellow brick road to Timur Lenk. Goodbye.” The butterfly had gorgeous teal wings with bronze coloured patterns of various kinds, and he was beautiful, and disappeared. Annabel Lee looked at him flying away, until he was entirely out of sight. “See,” said Fred, “even he agrees with me.” “You don't usually care much about an insect's opinion, Fred.” “But he agreed with me. Believe me, I'm better than a weather forecast. Wind-up frogs are awfully giddy.” Dat be true. In fact, at one point, a meteorologist's apprentice used too much oil on them, and they all swirled around the observatory, which delayed the forecast by three days. Four people got the sniffles. “I think we'd better go somewhere... warm,” suggested Fred and got up, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Or you'll get a cold in that frail dress, dear.” Annabel Lee scowled at that, but followed her friend whose walk was quite... uptight? She was not exactly sure how to name it. Fred didn't point out the names of flowers and their exact shades of colour, nor did he complain about the magazines left in the grass. He didn't even stop to pick some toffees from the tree Scowler Jack had planted, but he did wait for Annabel Lee, who could never resist a good toffee.

[maldarchive]

SUB/TEXT

*

That in which I find a photograph of my husband and I folded into a book I knew I would read again a few years later. I am pained by the similarity of our features: our smiles resembling one another's, our eyes held at exactly the same angle, our cheeks flushed, our joy singular. I meant for this to be a sharp incision of memory. Unfettered by time or place. I knew that years later when I would press this image between my thumb and my finger I would feel the same painful twinge of skin pierced, heart-hurt. In no way do I think does this speak to my masochism. In all ways I believe it speaks to my love which in all ways I believe would have been half for having been complete.

*

Unlike the lover I had before my husband I did not try to memorialize his words in trying to shove them into my own mouth and spit them out venom-like at anyone who passed by. Now I no longer remember what he sounded like or said to me or said to me with such cruelty that I could never forgive him.

*

Grief is blocks of ice melting endlessly at the bridge of my nose. Grief does not care that my life now is far richer for having compromised my life then. Grief does not mind the blows does not think much of the pain inflicted on me through him. Grief is sticky toffee in the teeth of remembrance. Grief sits stands runs writes and drives me insane. It does not want to weigh what's gained against what's lost. It only wants to put its sweet paw inside my belly and howl its greatest revenge.

*

In the year I have spent now without my husband I have recreated everything. I bought new sheets, cut short my hair, brought home a new cat a new penchant for lilies and expensive groceries and clothes I could never have afforded earlier. I'm not trying to prove anything to him, though was he to visit me at any point I would do my best to point towards the new fridge new pasta-roller new earrings. Every surface scrubbed clean of him, how beautiful and fresh, it's like you were never even here.

*

One of the reasons why I was left by my husband was his mother. She did not think well of me instead she thought I was bitter-tongue demon-child leeching on the kindness of her sweethearted son. The first time I met her she gave me the best advice: stay the fuck away. If I had listened to her I'd have been all the better for it.

*

Instead I thought: take your advice and slam it against the wall shatter it like a slab of granite.

Instead I thought: I will rebel, and in this rebellion, become stronger.

Not once did I stop to consider that I was wrong.

*

My husband had soft eyes downy brows large ears and a receding hairline. Even now I think even now I could recognize him anywhere even now in the dark. And I suspect although I have made every effort to make myself unfamiliar I suspect despite my best he will recognize me too even if by the smallest whiff of my shoulder.

*

I call him my husband for the sake of the story but in truth he never was he would never be. March came and fell and crumbled beneath us. Blue skies parted and then sealed back up their little rims. I stopped trying to think clearly and gave into the fog all my limbs and bones and muscle all my whims and my defeat.

*

Perhaps the words I say most often these days are come home. To my friends to my neighbors to the rain etcetera. Whoever comes is more than welcome: I keep a whole room to spare, a new toothbrush, clean towels, left-overs from last night. I consider myself a good host, a ghost if you will, a good host who thinks god of every visitor. If ever my husband was to ring the bell I would take him straight to the vastness of our guest bed, its vacancy calling, I would take him straight into me, a whole year's worth of waiting crammed into my frail body.

*

That in which I find a photograph from two years ago and forget where I am and what has happened since.

That in which I knew this would take place and gladly encouraged it.

That in which I am waiting for everything I have tried so fervently to kill and placed bricks over and placed books over and placed everything heavy I could find over so as to feel protected.

That in which nothing I have is enough for me to feel that my loss was worth it.

That in which I know that my grief is lying to me that in which I know that my grief is lying to me that in which I know that my grief is lying to me that in which I know that my grief is lying to me that in which I know that my grief is lying to me that in which I know that my grief is lying to me and I lay on my side listening as if in a green field some years ago in perfect sun on your perfect chin

[rabbitcruiser]

National Chocolate Covered Anything Day 

Indulge in a chocolate fountain or fondue to dunk any treats you fancy or drizzle your favorite desserts in delicious sauce and syrup.

Chocolate, a candy loved by both children and adults alike. But how much can it go on? What edible creations can molten chocolate create? Where in the world are certain chocolate dishes made a favorite staple? Well, in order to find the answers to all those questions, we must do a time-hop into the past, for this is the search of the history of Chocolate Covered Everything Day!

Learn about Chocolate Covered In Anything Day

Who doesn’t love chocolate? It’s creamy, sweet, and delicious! While we can all eat chocolate on its own, it is fun to combine chocolate with other ingredients as well! A lot of people love strawberries dipped into chocolate; a real classic. Or, how about some chocolate pretzels? There are plenty of weird and wonderful ideas you can try as well, such as dipping French fries into chocolate ice cream. Hey, don’t knock it until you have tried it! If you have ever wondered what something would taste like in chocolate, today is the perfect opportunity for you to find out.

History of Chocolate Covered Everything Day

We all know and love the dark and sweet bricks called chocolate, we even melt it down and put on our ice cream! When was this delectable treat created? The history of chocolate begins in Mesoamerica. Fermented beverages made from chocolate date back to 1900 BC. The Aztecs believed that cacao seeds were the gift of Quetzalcoatl, the god of wisdom, and the seeds once had so much value that they were used as a form of currency. After chocolate’s arrival in Europe from oversea expeditions in the sixteenth century, sugar was added to it and it became popular throughout all of Europe, first among the ruling classes of the European societies, and then among the common people. Jose de Acosta, a Spanish missionary who lived in Peru and then Mexico in the later 16th century, described its use more generally.

Loathsome to such as are not acquainted with it, having a scum or froth that is very unpleasant taste. Yet it is a drink very much esteemed among the Indians, wherewith they feast noble men who pass through their country. The Spaniards, both men and women that are accustomed to the country are very greedy of this Chocolate. They say they make diverse sorts of it, some hot, some cold, and some temperate, and put therein much of that “chili”; yea, they make paste thereof, the which they say is good for the stomach and against the catarrh.

How to celebrate Chocolate Covered Everything Day

To celebrate the day where we coat everything we can in chocolate, we go out and find an affordable mini chocolate fountain, and then we buy whatever we like to go with our chocolate, take it home and set it up, and then enjoy the chocolate covered foods in the comfort of our own home, enjoying it any time we want! We can also celebrate by buying chocolate syrup, heating it up in a bowl and have a bowl of ice cream with a hot chocolate syrup topping.

There are lots of great chocolate desserts you can make on this day as well! We all deserve a treat now and again, and what better sweet treat than a chocolate-based dessert? From sticky toffee pudding to dark chocolate fondant, we take a look at the best desserts for chocolate lovers.

Let’s start with a Chocolate Sticky Toffee Pudding. This is a delicious traditional English dessert with a chocolate twist. When done correctly, sticky toffee features a rich moist sponge that is topped in a thick and indulgent toffee sauce. It is served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The coolness of the ice cream against the warmth of the toffee is an exquisite combination.

How about some Chocolate Bread and Butter Pudding? We recommend pairing the bread and butter pudding with a tasty rum banana ice cream. It’s comforting, creamy, and delicious.

You will struggle to find a dessert as decadent and indulgent as Dark Chocolate Fondant. You need just the right amount of gooeyness in the middle. The dessert is usually finished offer with a smooth and refreshing vanilla ice cream and a thick salted caramel sauce. Prepare for your taste buds to be sent into overdrive.

Finally, do you feel like being adventurous? How about some Chilli Spiced Chocolate Cake? Chilli and chocolate are two ingredients you wouldn’t expect to work well together but they make a delicious pairing. It’s not simply a case of making chocolate spicy. Both ingredients have real, varied fruit flavours and so it’s all about pairing them in a complementary manner, which is what you can do with a Chilli Spiced Chocolate Cake. Take this luxurious dessert and give it a contemporary edge by adding chilli, which gives a pleasant kick that will warm the back of your throat.

All in all, if you are a lover of chocolate sweets, you can rest assured that you will be more than happy with one of the four delicious desserts that have been mentioned! There are plenty of other recipes that you can try on National Chocolate Covered Anything Day!

Aside from making your own desserts, National Chocolate Covered Anything Day presents you with a good opportunity to support a local chocolatier. With the increase in the production of commercial chocolate, a lot of people overlook just how delicate and difficult the art of making chocolate can be! So, why not support your local chocolatier and let them know that you are amazed by their incredible work?

Source

[narniagiftexchange]

                               THE AUTUMN NARNIAN GIFT EXCHANGE.

for @youhavegottobejokingeustace  from  @athoughtfox

Eustace Clarence Scrubb has gotten used to sleeping among the sounds of other people.  Under the decks of the Dawn Treader, the nights had crept along by the shufflings and coughings and snorings of the sailors, and Caspian’s muttering and Edmund’s quiet breathing, and the ship herself, whispering, sighing through the waters like a living thing.

Now, night silence is so loud to him that he awakens at the sound of it. The stillness of the walls is dizzying; he has not yet stopped expecting them to tilt. Squinting at the bed Alberta had made up on the other side of his room, he sees that it is empty, and being alone now feels so strange and heavy that he is not surprised it had pressed him from sleep.

He staggers out of bed and downstairs. Edmund has opened the kitchen’s blackout curtains and the milky blue light that comes before sunrise is sidling through the cold windows. Autumn is knocking at the door of the year; soon his cousins will be gone.

Eustace turns away from that thought and towards the cousin who is here now. Edmund is sitting at the kitchen table, dark, soft-edged and still as a shadow. He is already dressed, his cap and scarf lying next to an untouched cup of tea.

“Are you off somewhere?” Eustace asks, his voice creaky, the back of his throat tasting of salty smoke. It often does, so shortly after dreaming of his own bones long and hot and hollow, the earth falling away beneath him.

“Phone box,” Edmund replies to the window.

Eustace blinks.

“It’s half past five in the morning.”

“There won’t be anyone else around, then, will there?”

Edmund’s curtness stings. There are some moments when he wishes that he still had his scales, his dragon-thick hide. Something tight and ugly wells up in the dim silence, until Edmund interrupts it by shifting in his chair, dragging a hand over his face.

“Sorry, cuz. I don’t mean to sound-”

He cuts himself off with a vague wave at the wounded room. Eustace shrugs it away and the air loosens, even if the shadows are no brighter. Taking a seat along from Edmund, he studies his cousin’s snow-blank expression, the violet smears of sleeplessness around his eyes. A week ago – months ago – he would have seen only a gap for needling, a vulnerable spot to close his teeth on. Now, he sits uncertainly in the thin quiet, his tongue tasting like a flint. He has never been quite brave enough before to interrupt his cousin’s dawn hauntings, when he drifts through the house melancholy and absent as a ghost. Anything he could say seems so small and insufficient, a pebble in the ocean.

“Are you sure that – er – they’ll be up? Only it’d be a bit of a bother going all that way to the phone box if there’s no one at the other end.”

“The Professor’s got a phone in his house. And I’ll not be waking the old chap. Pete says the Professor would sleep through an air raid; he always has to answer the phone anyway.”

Edmund is sliding pennies across the scrubbed table-top from one hand to the other, counting up their value as each one gleams wanly. At the last, there is a breath of pained silence before he sweeps them all brusquely off the table, back to his pocket, and Eustace realises that his cousin does not have enough money to pay for the call.    

“Wait-wait!”

He almost falls out of his chair, rushing back up to his bedroom and snatching a bag from under his bed. When he gets back to the kitchen, he empties it eagerly onto the table, and Edmund raises his eyebrows at the assortment of sweets, trinkets and coins that spill out.

“Hoarding, cousin?” he asks dryly.

Eustace ignores this, picking through his old treasures until he comes upon a couple of extra copper pennies, enough to make up the rest of the cost of the phone call. He pounces on them and thrusts them across the table at his cousin.

“Go on,” he says, “take them.”

Edmund stares. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. What was I spending it on, anyway?” Eustace picks up a brown paper bag of sweets and waves it dismissively. “Go and make your call.”

Edmund takes the coins and stands, grabbing Eustace’s shoulder and squeezing hard for a moment. His voice comes out a little thickly. “Eustace, you’re – you’re a brick. Thanks.”

Eustace nods, something light ballooning in him. He surveys his mean little hoard, thinking of the streams of gold he had lain in, thinking of the fresh sweet pain of scraping away scales and coins.  

“Will you say hello to Peter for me?” he asks, rather shy.

“’Course,” Edmund replies, tying his scarf briskly.

Eustace realises that the bag of sweets is still sitting fatly in his hand.

“Erm,” he says, “do you want a toffee? For the walk?”

Edmund’s laughter feels like a very great victory, warm as fire in his lungs.

[thdorkmagnet]

Light of the Sun and Stars chapter 43: The Hand of Fate (Preview)

Summary: His whole life Marco Diaz has been raised by monsters, living under the cruel rule of their leader, Toffee. But one day Marco escapes into Mewni where he meets a magical princess and Mewman like himself, who begins teaching him all about her world. Together they will learn about life, love, and the lights within each of them, as they change their world forever.

Chapter Synopsis: What would you do for a second chance, Marco Diaz?

A/N: Hi yes I’m still alive!! Sorry this chapter is taking so long, I was sick with Covid in January and everything got delayed and I’ve been having to focus on recovering. I’m doing much better now but my energy levels still aren’t quite what they used to be. Anyways thanks for the patience, hope you enjoy the preview!

Check out my other stuff on Fanfiction!

Index

The first thing Marco was aware of as he opened his eyes was the fog that clouded his mind. His head felt like it was underwater, his consciousness swimming in and out of reality, making it difficult to focus. It took him a few seconds to even realize he was laying down. He squinted his eyes, his vision unnaturally blurry, like his eyes had forgotten how to work for a brief period of time. Marco off-handedly wondered if he should be concerned about all this but the fear was quickly swallowed by the fog. Marco didn’t move at first, his limbs were too heavy, so instead he just lay and bed and waited for his head to clear. After a good minute, the fuzziness in his brain started to die down and his vision cleared enough for him to get a good look at his surroundings. 

That’s when he realized he wasn’t in his bed. 

Marco sat up quickly, causing his head to spin again but that was the least of his concerns as he looked around the dark room he had woken up in. The boy panted nervously a few times, his heart hammering against his chest in fear when he realized he knew this room. It was his room at Buff Frog’s cottage. The boy rubbed his eyes a few times, just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things but another quick glance around the silent room confirmed it. He was in the Monster’s cottage. 

“How did I…” Marco whispered softly, perplexed by this strange situation. He tried to remember how he could have ended up there but his mind was drawing a blank. He recalled Star and him watching the sunset together like always and Star’s sweet kiss goodnight when they parted ways, his girlfriend turning in early out of exhaustion over the day’s activities. He had hung out with Jackie and Janna for a bit, the two girls teaching him how to play some Earth card game called “poker”, although apparently poking your opponent was not part of the rules. Janna was incredibly good at the game and had beaten both Jackie and him with ease. After that, he had told Daisy and Violet a quick goodnight story before heading to his own bed, tired but satisfied with his day.  The last thing he remembered was settling under the warm sheets in his bed at Butterfly Castle. 

So how had he gone from there to here. Marco frowned, looking around the room in confusion. That was when something new caught his eye. All his stuff from the castle was here too, as if the situation wasn’t strange enough already. Normally his room at Buff Frog’s place was more or less bare, it was more a glorified place to sleep than anything else, since Marco spent most of his time there with the Monsters. So how had all his stuff been moved there overnight? 

Marco realized laying around in bed was not getting him anywhere, he needed to investigate this mystery further. He hopped out of bed and moved over to his open closet, pulling down one of his prized hoodies. He examined it for a moment but couldn’t find anything off about it, as far as he could tell it was the same set of hoodies he normally wore. He slipped it on without a second thought, not caring he was still in his PJ’s underneath. He was starting to get freaked out and needed some sense of comfort, and since Star wasn’t here one of his hoodies would just have to do.

Marco creaked open the door to his room, trying to make as little noise as possible. He looked around the empty hallway for any signs of life but saw nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, something felt off to him, something about this whole thing just wasn’t quite right. It took him a few second to put him finger on it but when it finally came to him, the surrelness of it all left him stumped. It was too quiet. Normally, Buff Frog’s cottage was always full of some kind of chatter between the many Monsters that lived there. At all hours of the day he would always be able to hear Beard Deer and Lobster Claws arguing about something or Big Chicken’s clucking or Bearicorn’s atrocious singing, not even the loud snoring of Potato Baby as he went about his day. But now there was nothing. Just silence. And it unnerved Marco.

But then as if some force of the universe had read his mind, his ears picked up a small sound echoing through the barren hallway. Humming. Someone was humming. And from the sound of it, it was a woman’s voice. Now Marco’s interest was thoroughly peaked and his need to investigate won over his growing anxiety instantly. Taking a deep, calming breath, Marco ventured out into the hallway, slowly tip-toeing in the direction he thought the humming was coming from.

From what he could tell, it seemed like it was coming from downstairs and Marco tried to quietly creep that way. But to his surprise, he picked up on something he had missed before. The hallway was smaller somehow. Before, Buff Frog and the Monsters had made enough rooms so that any Monster who wanted one could have one. But now the hallway had been shortened and the number of rooms cut down significantly. There were only four rooms upstairs now, counting his, and Marco was beginning to wonder if he was still dreaming. It certainly would make more sense than his dad’s house being reconstructed overnight. Marco slowly descended the staircase, his thoughts and heartbeat racing with each step.

The humming grew louder and he tried to place a face with the voice but his mind was drawing a blank. It was clearly a woman’s voice and something about the tone reminded him of Lily when she was putting Daisy and Violet to bed. There was something instantly soothing about the simplistic melody, almost like… he had heard it before? The woman’s voice as well, was oddly familiar, some distant memory tugging at the back of his mind although he couldn’t quite see it yet.

He reached the final step of the staircase and gazed over to the kitchen, finally spotting the source of the humming. A woman stood by the oven, her back to him as she fiddled with sizzling pans full of delicious smelling food, her hands working quickly to cook the meal. Marco could only stare at her in shock, wondering why and how some strange woman had snuck into his dad’s home to cook breakfast. His head spun with questions as he wondered what the right course of action was here, he had never been taught what to do in this kind of situation. 

So he did the first thing that came to mind, he spoke to her. “Hello?” he called in a tiny voice which shook from nerves and confusion. 

The woman stopped what she was doing and slowly turned to face him. Marco could see the confusion in her eyes before a warm smile widened on her face as she spotted him. There was a small flash of recognition there, although Marco couldn’t say the same since he was still sure he had never seen this person in his entire life. Although, some deeper part of his mind seemed to be trying to tell him something though he had yet to determine what as it fought to escape the fog. 

“Good morning, Marco. Did you sleep well?” the woman said as she cleaned her hands on the fancy apron she was wearing, her tone bright and she spoke with a level of familiarity that sent Marco’s head spinning. 

“Do I… know you?” the hooded teen asked, an eyebrow slowly raising. Those words must have triggered something because he felt the memory fight harder to free itself, but the fog clung tightly and refused to let go. 

The woman seemed surprised by this response, her head cocking to the side to observe him and her eyebrows pinching together in worry. “What do you mean, sweetie?” she asked.

Sweetie, Marco thought, now feeling even more confused. And the memory fought harder. Marco tried to ignore the battle going on in his brain as he asked, “Did my dad hire you or something?”

The woman laughed at this, her voice light and achingly familiar and it made Marco’s heart clench for reasons his mind had yet to decipher. “Marco, you aren’t making any sense,” she said and her eyes shined with some form of affection that felt completely foreign to Marco. “Is this some kind of game?”

Marco felt the memory strain to get free, tearing at the fog as it tried to push itself to the front of his mind. He opened his mouth to reply but the word froze there, he was too confused to speak. Some part of him told him to observe the woman and he began to pick up on small details, auburn hair, green eyes, pink cheekmarks. Okay that’s a good starting point, he told himself. Now focus on those things.

Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail but it did little to stop the unruly curls. Her eyes were warm and inviting and some deep part of him seemed to recognize the stare. Her stare. And her cheekmarks were-

The fog finally broke under the weight of the memory as realization hit him like a ton of bricks. No, it couldn't be, he told himself, unable to believe who was standing before him. He nearly chocked on a sob as he managed to say in a small, broken voice the word he had been longing to say his entire life. 

“Mom!”

[fireheartfaery]

Day 7: “You’re a bad liar did you know?”

masterlist; my links

college AU

TW: panic attacks, mentions of anxiety

Yrene is late. Again. In her twenty three years of life she has strived to be as punctual as her aunt, early by exactly three minutes. But in the last week, with finals looming over her like the death towers they used to sneak into in their teens, she has pulled all-nighters that haven't quite managed to turn into all-dayers. In short she's exhausted, and so is her alarm. Which is why, at 8:02 in the morning she stands in the line at their university café, waiting rather impatiently for her turn at the counter. Her foot taps on the ground, unconsciously, fingers drumming on folded arms. Calculations and anatomy are spinning in her brain as she visualizes the huge whiteboard covered in notes above her bed. Strategically placed their in case gaining information by osmosis may suddenly become a thing and she can actually get smarter in her sleep.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and with an irritated frown she whips it out.

How are you feeling? Chaol's name flashes across the screen.

She smiles as she slides the screen open and types out a reply to her best friend. Like if i don’t get a liter of coffee i’m going to keel over and die.

He sends wide eyed emojis, please don't drink a liter of coffee. You will die.

hey, She laughs at his worry. Always worrying. who's supposed to be the doctor here? Me or you?

Before she can read his reply a throat is clearing behind her, and a hand is waving in her peripheral vision.

She looks up and realizes there's no-one in front of her. She's holding up the line. Her cheeks burn like coal as she stumbles to the counter. "I'll uh, I'll have my usual." Why is her heart beating so fast? "Large black with a dash of hazelnut."

"Sure, is that all?"

She cannot even breathe, the scratchy fabric of her polo neck is tightening around her neck. "Yes thanks!" She chokes out, laying far too many notes on the counter and dashing out.

Air, the colour of glaciers and mirror fragments, snaps at her skin. She let's it. Her breathing, erratic and struggling fogs, up the pretty world. She sinks to the floor, back grazing the rough brick of the coffee shop. The world is moving in and out of focus. Toffee being stretched and molded around her throat.

A hand lands on her knee.

"Hey," The voice is gentle. It sounds like a muffled echo in her ears. "My name is Mor. I think you're having a panic attack. Is there something I can do to help?"

Yrene looks up, she sees blonde waves and pretty brown. Her throat tightens. She's definitely not breathing. Where has the world gone?

"Okay i’m going to ask you to do something for me." That voice is still so soft. Sweet like her aunt's candied apples.

"Can you try to take a deep breath for me." If she was listening she would have scoffed. "And while you do that I want you to point out five things you can see." There's a beat. "Can you do that?"

She wants to ask how she's supposed to talk when her lungs have been squished like grapes. They will not make flavourful wine.

"Just point with your finger." Mor says.

Yrene sucks in a breath. It is as shaky as a smoker's hands.

She points her index finger at the woman in front of her.

"One." The blonde says.

She points to the ground; can feel the cool under her nails.

"Two."

Her finger catches on the book that had spilled from her bag when she collapsed against the wall.

"Three."

She looks at the sky. It is grey. It is there. She points.

"Four." The quiet smile on her golden lips is back. "Just one more."

Yrene wants to point to her ribcage. To show it isn't expanding. She is going to die. She points to the necklace hanging around her throat instead, the owl pendant warm from her skin.

"Five." Mor holds her hands. She cannot feel the heat radiating of her skin. She cannot feel anything. "Can you tell me four things you can touch?“

She is faster this time. Confused, but clearing. The wool of her jumper. The sunshine locks of the girl in front of her. The fluffy keychain Elide had got her at the start of the year. The plant stubbornly growing out of the sidewalk.

"Three things you can hear?"

Her voice is croaky, strangled in a way she hasn't heard before. She uses it anyway. Because she can.

"The bell above the coffee shop." It tinkles in acknowledgment. Students walk out laughing. "The cars on the road." There's an expensive car in the midst of traffic. She can hear it's soft purr. "My breathing." It is loud and full of life in her ears. She is grateful.

"Two things you can smell?"

She takes a breath, let's the university fill up her body. "The melting snow. It smells like rain puddles, muddy and dirty and fun to play in."

"One more?"

“You." Her senses are all over the place. Her common sense has disappeared entirely. "You smell like cinnamon, and the faintest hint of soap."

The laugh is enough to settle the last of Yrene's frazzled nerves. It is bright and full and carries happiness like a bouquet. She settles, heart rate slowing, lungs expanding, contracting, skin feeling the first nips of cold once more.

"Does that mean you like the way I smell?" The blonde grins, squeezing their still joined hands.

She thinks about it for a second. "Yes." Her earth brown eyes collide with Mor's caramel gaze. "I think I do."

"Can you give me one thing you can taste?"

Yrene knows she's lost it when the first thing that's pops into her mind is the woman's lips. She shuts her eyes to the thought, feeling her bones sludge inside her. Everything aches. She's held herself up for so long.

"How about this?"

The bitter smell of coffee wafting between faint hazelnut greets her. She opens her eyes to see her order dangling between slender fingers. Taking the cup, she tips its back, letting the hot liquid spill down her throat. It warms her from the inside. It burns away the dregs of the panic, hiding in the folds of her. Waiting.

When the cup is drained she looks to Mor, who is sitting their patiently, observing the world.

"How did you know to do that?"

"I suffer from panic attacks and anxiety attacks. It works for me." She shrugs as if it is not a constant and exhausting force. "Also," A bright smile takes over her face, "I'm a psychology major."

"Can I book you as my therapist when you graduate?"

There's that laughter again. The one that lights up all her insides. "I have a while to go before I get to qualified therapist status."

"Really?" Yrene frowns, "How long does it take?"

"I have to get my masters before I can practice."

"Wow," Her mind is a little blown. The med students are so cut off from the rest of the faculties- maybe by choice, maybe by design- that learning about other degrees always blows her away. Just the other day Feyre was telling her about the art students and the portfolios they have to submit. She can't imagine sitting down to pick a topic and then pouring your heart and soul into it. Med school made sense. There was no grey slate, at least for the most part. This is where the ulna is. This is how to tie off your suture. This formula tells you how to blow up the lab. The last one had been an honest miskate... the first time.

"Do you think you can stand?" Mor gets up, as graceful as a flamingo, and then offers a hand.

Yrene takes it without hesitation. She marvels at the contrast between her earth brown skin and Mor's burnt gold. The richest colours in the world. The ones that glow under the sun.

"Can I walk you to your dorm?"

"I have to get to class. If I rush I can be there for the second half of the double."

"Uh," She winces, looking at the hello kitty watch on her wrist. "It's been an hour?"

Her eyes widen to the size of planets. "It's been what?" Her voice is high pitched. "Oh gods oh gods oh gods. What if I missed the exam briefing? What if prof said something vital? What if—"

"Hey!" Mor clamps down on her shoulder, turns her so they're facing each other. Yrene only slightly shorter. "You were in no state to go to class. You still aren't. You should go to your dorm and rest. Maybe eat some carbs. Is there anyone who can take notes for you? And relay information?"

She frowns, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Well I guess Rowan is in that class, and Nesta."

"They will help you?"

She nods. She breathes.

"Wonderful." Mor smiles. It's is pretty enough that Yrene sees stars. "Then we'll walk to your dorm and I'll make sure you're settled with some chamomile tea and some cheese sandwiches and then I'll go to my own classes."

They start walking, sludgy snow squelching under their boots.

"Won't you be late for class?"

The blonde just grins. She decides not to ask.

"You know I don't know your name?"

"Guess," It's her turn to be all mysterious and cheeky.

Mor looks at her closely, eyes traveling unashamedly from the top of her screwed curls to the tops of her black wellingtons.

"Irene."

She stumbles over herself. Looks at the woman alongside her. There isn’t enough oxygen in the world for her gasp of shock. "That's not it."

The blonde scrunches her nose in amusement. "“You’re a bad liar did you know?”

She sticks out her tongue. "How did you..."

"My friends call me Truth-Speaker."

"That's creepy." She raises a brow. It just makes Mor grin wider. "It's Yrene with a Y not an I."

"Pretty," She mumbles. "My full name is Morrigan."

"Pretty." She echoes. "Hey, you want to come drink chamomile tea and eat carbs with me?“

The blonde clasps their hands together beaming at the leaking blue sky.

"I'd love nothing more, Yrene."

She sees, touches, hears, smells, and tastes the happiness that clings to them as they step into the dorm.

------------------------------------------------------------

When i originally thought up the idea for this Mor was supposed to be the new barista and Yrene the regular and they would meet-embarrassing when Mor gets the order wrong. Do not ask me how it turned into this?

I hope i have been sensitive about this topic and portrayed Yrene and her panic attack properly.

Tags:

 @nishlicious-01​

[ashes-and-ashes]

It’s been one day without Fred and George can’t breathe.

He’s heard of it, before, when someone lost a twin, the way the world stopped spinning, the air stopped moving, like an arm or a leg or hourehart being ripped from your body. Like stepping on shore after years at sea, the way the land seemed to sway underneath your feet, the world seeming so empty without Fred at his side.

He’s still covered in Fred’s blood, dried flakes of crimson smeared across his skin. For a moment, he’s spinning back through time, staring at his hands whilst blood gushed from his nose, the sugary-sweet taste of nosebleed nougat still heavy on his tongue. For a moment he’s with Fred again, the way they could always read each other’s thoughts, how he was never, not once alone.

He doesn’t know if he can survive another day. He wishes he could die.

~

It’s been 7 days without Fred.

He hasn’t been able to sleep, the comforting sounds of Fred’s even breaths absent, the room ringing uncomfortably with silence. For 20 years he had fallen asleep to the sound of his brother, the rustle of the blankets, the soft murmurs of his dreams and now the room was empty.

They used to dream together, sometimes, would appear in each other’s nightmares, fight their way out together. He remembers when he was 10 and terrified of the statue against the brick wall of Diagon Alley, how he had dreamed that it had come alive and was hunting him down. Fred had appeared in a flash of blue light, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. They had fought off the statue together with dungbombs, and George was never afraid of that statue again.

Thank you, he had said.

Don’t worry about it.

He knows now that there would be no one to save him from his nightmares now.

~

It’s been 30 days without Fred and George is drowning.

He finds himself pleading, begging to whoever was up there bring him back, I’ll do anything just bring him back. He stares in the mirror and sees his twin staring back and his heart hurts, screams at the knowledge that Fred was gone, that he would never have his twin again.

His family has moved on, he knows, slowly but surely and he’s the only one left, still drowning in the grief and the pain and the sorrow. Time passes differently now, infinitely long and yet too fast for him to track, the days warping like years, like months, like seconds.

He wishes he had been taken too.

~

It’s been 62 days without Fred.

The grief still hits him, takes him by surprise. He was wearing a coat the other day, reached into his pocket and pulled out a Ton-Tongue toffee -

And how could he explain to the random passerby’s, the kind lady who had grabbed his shoulder and said “Son? Are you alright?” How could he explain all the late nights spent developing those sweets, all the doxy bites and the acid burns and the explosions, the ones that always turned both their heads the colour of soot, the hours after spent laughing and cursing and writing even more notes?

Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes sits empty and desolate, the windows dark and the glass dusty. He can’t bring himself to go back in there, the rooms and the roof and the shelves full of Fred, full of his brother.

They had spent all of last summer trying to find the perfect shade of purple to paint their walls with, a mix between indigo and navy, something deep and dark and powerful. Pizzaz Purple, they’d decided, after much deliberation.

He can’t look at it without feeling sick.

~

It’s been 90 days without Fred.

He sits in the bar, with Lee Jordan by his side. He knows he’s been drinking too much since Fred’s been gone. He can’t stop.

Sometimes he finds himself turning around, as if to speak to the ghost of a brother long gone. Sometimes he finds himself laughing at something they would have both loved, a fragment of a memory coming back to him.

The realization that he truly was gone always hurt so much more.

So he sits in the bar and he knocks back drinks, one after another until the spinning in his head is enough to drown out the thoughts of Fred. What does it matter if I never wake up? he thinks. At least I’ll be with him.

Lee stares into his cup. He’s maybe the only person who could understand what George was feeling, the only person who knew Fred like he did. “I loved him,” he says. “Did he ever tell you that?”

He didn’t need to, George thinks. He knew his twin like the back of his hand, every smile and every laugh, every brush of his hands against Lee’s. His twin only really loved two people romantically, Lee and Angelina and he had loved Lee for longer.

But Lee’s still waiting for an answer so he smiles and knocks back his drink, closes his eyes and says “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

~

It’s been 184 days without Fred and George is going to kill Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy’s in his flat right now, all pale hair and grey eyes, positively glowing with happiness and George wants to kill him.

He’s happy. He’s happy Harry managed to find some love in his life because God that kid deserved it but he doesn’t think he can look Malfoy in the eyes, see the Mark on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says. He sounds like he means it. George doesn’t care.

“Get out.”

He sees Harry move out of the corner of his eye, subtlety positioning his body between him and Malfoy. George wonders when he had changed, from the jokester of the family to someone dangerous enough to hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says again, and George is this close to snapping -

“We should go,” Harry says, his voice low. George watched them leave.

He knows Fred would preache forgiveness. He doesn’t care.

~

It’s been 300 days without Fred.

George runs into Angelina on the street, near the enterance to Diagon Alley. He stares at the statue of the Hag new the enterance and fights back the lump in his throat.

“I know you’ve heard this before,” Angelina says, “But I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he speaks, devoid of any of his old humor. “It’s been almost a year.”

“I know,” Angelina says quietly. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

He takes her into a bar and buys her a drink. She’s a pro Quidditch player these days, and George sits quietly in the back whilst she is swarmed with requests for autographs. Afterwards they sit in silence, the ice melting in the glasses in front of them.

“Does it get any easier?” she asks, staring into her cup. “You know. Losing someone.”

George lets out a long breath, stares at the familiar expanse of freckled skin on his arm. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

Angelina fixes him with a steady stare.

“No,” he says. “And I feel like I should move on. But I...if I died...”

“Wouldn’t you want him to move on? To live his life?”

“Of course, but - “

“He wouldn’t want you to end up like this, George.”

George lets out a dry chuckle. “You think I haven’t heard this before?”

Angelina raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard it from me.”

With a flourish, she slaps down a napkin onto the surface of the bar, a number scrawled in a flowery script. “Call me. When you’re ready to start living again.”

George watches her leave, her long black hair swaying behind her, and for the first time since Fred died a smile stretches across his face.