#again. its a joke and i get that. just a joke that is hard to reconcile with the experience i had as a homeless 10 year old

[omegapausestuck]

I've been thinking, since the act has ended, I've got a prime chance to gather my thoughts; and open a dialogue about the merits and perhaps the pitfalls of the current writing direction of the new comic. Besides, this post was getting WAY too long, so I hope to start a fresh one at the beginning of every act so as not to destroy people's dashes QUITE as much. I've never done a liveblog before, and honestly I wasn't planning to, but it just kind of happened this way, so I'm still figuring everything out. Let me know if you think I'm doing the shittiest job in the world, and you know SO MANY ways to improve it!

Anyway, I think we all know the state of the fandom, when hsbc started updating. We had just come off of the tragic release that was the epilogues, and then the subsequent insult to injury that the previous team had left behind with Homestuck². Nobody was left to believe in this thing, and I was certainly one of them.

I had kind of this general attitude of "Let's all point and laugh at how hard they bungle it THIS time!" but then something strange started happening. The writers were actually listening to the fan feedback, for once, and making marked improvements—in characterization, in tension, in dialogue, in art style, and in scope—it slowly dawned on me that I was genuinely excited to read the next page, not ironically.

I think a part of me wanted this to work, all along. Like sonic fans who had to sit through the most painful, doggiest shit of a game, like clockwork, every year, just in hopes that Sonic Team would get their act together and make something great that they wouldn't have to feel ashamed for their clear, undying love and devotion for the series.

So, when they showed themselves capable of admitting their faults, and refocusing themselves on making something that was completely new, and refreshing—I still cracked jokes, but—I started to root for them, too... and I'll tell you right now, that this era of the comic feels at times more homestuck than Homestuck proper.

These characters are no longer pastiches, or flanderized amalgamations of their various assorted stereotypes, but have a renewed sense of depth, and mature emotional resilience that I found criminally lacking as Homestuck drew to a close.

I've been very vocal about my opinions on Homestuck's "ending," if you can even call it that. It was made by fans, for fans; and it ultimately had nothing important to say about anything actually impactful. All of the themes of adolescence, and child soldiers, and societal indoctrination, and the cold calculus of war were thrown out in favor of the black and white brutality of "Big green man video game boss needs beating," and it's nice to see that depth woven back into the world again.

I'm not going to go into any spoilers, but a few standout moments to me were Jake's speech about believing in all the other Janes enough to give up on the monster this one had become, and Rose opening up about her insecurities with her sociopath of a father, where we realized along with him that he genuinely loves her, and didn't want the burden of being in control. Also, Vriska's whole dream sequence was a very close second that I'd feel guilty to not lend its flowers. (They managed to make me give a shit about her again, and that's an ASK! I was so sick of her raggedy, tired ass schtick! Grow up, bitch!) I'm not sure that the former team would have bothered with those scenes, and they're the most gripping parts of the story, for me.

We're still here because of these characters, and the fact that the authors finally understand that, and are developing them in ways that seem both natural, and respectful, have done more to heal the reputation of this franchise for me than any big multimedia push from the likes of Viz Media, or even Andrew Hussie himself would have, ever, achieved.

Now, we have a chance to see something new, and ambitious. I was cautiously optimistic before, and now I'm essentially just overcome with hope. If this is what we should come to expect from Homestuck in the near future, then we've actually got quite the incredible life ahead of us.

I can't help but look forward to it. How about you?

my reaction to that information.....

I guess this is a thing that's happening.

[dina-winchester]

Like Hell You Are

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Summary: Anger talks loud; regret whispers after. Some words land harder than fists—and you wish you could take them back the second they hit.

Warnings: Angst, emotional conflict, raised voices, hurtful language, mention of John Winchester (negative), temporary relationship tension, guilt, apology/make-up, soft intimacy

The motel room door slammed behind you, your boots hitting the cheap carpet in quick strides as you dropped your duffel with a thud.

Dean was already standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re not coming on the next hunt.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Oh, great. Here we go. Should I sit down for this speech or is it gonna be the same greatest hits? Too dangerous, you’re too close to it, let big bad Dean take care of everything—”

“Damn right it’s too dangerous!” he snapped, stepping closer. “You were almost torn apart last time, and you think I’m just gonna sit back and let you go charging in again?”

You scoffed, brushing past him. “Thanks for the lecture, Dad.”

“Don’t—” His voice dropped into that low, warning register. “Don’t pull that crap with me. I’m serious. You’re staying out of this one.”

“Oh, I’m staying out of it? Wow. That’s cute. Let me guess, you gonna chain me to the bed next? Or just drag me back here by my hair when I disobey your oh-so-important orders?”

He stared at you, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t a joke.”

You met his gaze, your voice laced in venom and hurt. “No, it’s not. But you don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t own me.”

“You think this is about owning you?” he barked, pacing now, hands clenching at his sides. “You think I wanna control you? I’m trying to keep you alive, for god’s sake!”

“And what, you’re the only one allowed to put your life on the line?” You folded your arms, chin up. “Sorry if I don’t wanna sit on the sidelines while you get torn up again. Sorry if I actually give a damn.”

He stalked toward you then, furious. “You’re not going.”

You didn’t back down. “Like hell I’m not.”

“Like hell you are!”

The words echoed between the two of you, the tension so thick it nearly buzzed in the air.

You looked at him, breathing hard.

He took a step forward, voice dropping an octave. “You’re not going. That’s an order.”

Your jaw clenched. You stared at him like he’d just slapped you.

“Oh,” you said with a humorless laugh. “An order? Really? Wow. You even hear yourself right now?”

“I’m serious,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “I can’t—I won’t let you walk into something like that. End of story.”

Something in you snapped.

“Right. Of course not. God forbid I make a decision without your stamp of approval,” you said, voice sharp. “Sound familiar?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, confused for half a second before you dropped the line.

“Well, congratulations. You’re just like your father.”

The silence that followed was like the world tipping off its axis.

Dean’s expression didn’t shift right away, but you saw it. That flicker. That punch to the gut you’d just delivered.

And your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Dean…” you said softly, the sarcasm stripped clean from your voice.

He blinked, jaw ticking, eyes suddenly not quite meeting yours.

“No,” you breathed, stepping closer. “No, baby, I didn’t mean that.”

He swallowed hard, and the way he looked at you then—like he’d been blindsided—cut deeper than any scream could’ve.

“I’m sorry.” You reached for him, hands cupping his face. “Dean. I didn’t mean it. That was low. That was—God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes closed as your thumbs brushed over the stubble on his cheeks. “I just… I was scared,” you whispered. “You say I almost got torn apart? I watched it happen to you. I felt it. And I hate being left behind just as much as you hate the idea of me getting hurt.”

His hands slowly came to rest over yours, cradling your wrists. “I didn’t mean to come down on you like that,” he rasped. “It’s not an order. I just… when it comes to you, I lose my grip. You get hurt and I—I can’t breathe.”

You stepped even closer, foreheads brushing, your voice cracking. “I’m not trying to be reckless. But I’m not a liability either. I’m with you, not beneath you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

You kissed him then—soft, aching, like it was the only way to say everything neither of you had words for. His hands settled around your waist, and you let your fingers thread into his hair, holding his face as if anchoring both of you.

When the kiss broke, you stayed close, his breath mingling with yours.

“You’re not him,” you whispered. “Not even close.”

He nodded, just once, before pressing another kiss to your lips.

“I don’t care what happens out there,” you whispered against his mouth. “We don’t go in divided.”

He pressed his lips to yours again. “Together,” he murmured. “Always.”

[yourlipstogodsears]

Baby, What Do You Want Me To Do? (Baby fever! Robby x Reader)

Summary: Robby and Reader try for a baby. (Mention of Dr. Collin’s’ miscarriage conversation with Robby, Breeding kink, talk of babies,etc)

I’m tired of Dr. Collin’s erasure💔

Robby wants a family more than anything. He’s still in love with Dr. Collins, the beautiful strong independent black woman he dated during Covid. But when she made it clear they won’t work out as anything more than friends… the yearning for eachother was too painful.

So Robby moves on with y/n , the bubbly ER nurse. She’s the sunshine to his stormy cloud. He thought after Collins told him years later about the miscarriage she had during Covid his chances of having a family stopped at the rainbow baby. But then came y/n. She’s younger than him, stable, happy as can be always. She makes him feel good about coming into work, about coming home. She made him fall back in love with living life. Something he’s never let himself feel after Adamson died during Covid.

Robby sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, trying to relax after a long shift. he can’t stop thinking about y/n with that patients baby today, the way the baby instantly soothed its crying in her arms. the tiny baby hand wrapped around her finger as she played with the baby. After everything that had happened with Dr. Collins and the loss she had suffered, he didn’t know much… but he knew he felt the urge to get y/n pregnant. he would need to have a talk about it.

y/n walks over and straddles his lap and moves his hands from his face, “my love.. you look amped, you okay?” she purrs, her hand running over his big broad shoulders.

Robby groans as y/n’s warm hands knead his shoulders, his mind already wandering to the idea of filling her belly with his child. He pulls her closer, his hands roaming over her curves possessively. “Baby... I want something from you... something only you can give me...”

she nods, “mmm yeah?” she hums affirmatively at his words, thinking he’s just gonna ask for sex. Like usual. Robby needs to be balls deep inside her before his shoulders can drop and his stress can melt.

Robby's hands move from her hips to her flat belly, his eyes filled with a deep longing and desire that has nothing to do with physical attraction. He swallows hard, his voice low and serious. “I want a family with you, y/n. I want to put a baby in you...”

she blushes softly, “you serious?”

Robby laughs softly, his hands spread possessively over her belly again. He sees the confusion in her eyes, like she thought he was just messing around. He cups her chin softly, his thumb caressing her jaw. "Baby, I'm serious. I want to knock you up."

she blushes brighter.

Robby leans in, kissing her softly, his hands moving to cup her face. He pulls back, his eyes searching hers. "I want to see you with a big belly. I want to hear you complain about your back hurting. I want to see you puke in the mornings."

“That almost sounds sadistic Robby” she mumbles softly.

Robby laughs again, pulling her into his chest. "Maybe it is. Maybe I just want to see you pregnant and soft and cute. Maybe I want to spoil the hell outta you while you're pregnant and then hold you through labor." He kisses the top of her head.

“Gonna sit behind me and hold me like they do on greys anatomy?” She was half joking.

Robby chuckles, his arms tightening around her. "Yeah baby. I'll be right there with you every step of the way." He pulls back to look into her eyes again, his expression turning serious. “But I need to know if you're ready for this. If you want this too...”

she nods, “if you are I am… we’ve been together for 2 years..”

Robby smiles softly, his hands moving back to her belly possessively. "Do you even want kids? Like really? " He needs to know if she wants this as badly as he does. He doesn't want her to feel forced or like he's trapping her.

“Always wanted to be a momma” she confesses softly.

Robby grins widely, his shoulders relaxing. "So if I get you pregnant..." He laughs softly, his mind already full of dirty thoughts and images of her pregnant. He pulls her closer, his mouth at her neck. "How many kids do you wanna have?" He mumbles.

“Two?” she says softly rolling her hips over his.

Robby groans softly as she grinds on him. He swallows hard, his mind going blank for a second. "Two kids. God you're gonna look so damn cute pregnant." He laughs softly, his hands moving to her hips to control her movement.

she lets him guide her hips over his bulge, “mhm”

Robby's eyes darken as he watches her move on him, his hands guiding her hips with more force. He realizes she's basically dry humping him while talking about having his babies. His voice drops lower, huskier. "Baby... if I start trying right now..."

she hums and kisses him and they strip and she settles on his big thick veiny cock.

Robby groans loudly as she sinks down on him, his hands gripping her hips tightly. He breaks the kiss to pant, "Fuck y/n...." his hips buck up instinctively, trying to get deeper without protection.

she starts to ride him, “this how you want it?” she wants to know how he wants to get her pregnant. how he wants to fill her up, and make her a mama.

Robby watches her tits bounce as she rides him. He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower. "Yeah baby like this..." His hips meet hers thrust for thrust. He realizes she's asking how he wants to do it for her. He growls softly, “Do you wanna get pregnant like this?"

“How do you want me”

Robby's eyes darken, his grip on her hips tightening. He pulls her down harder onto him. "Like this baby..." He thrusts up harder. "I wanna see my cum dripping outta that sweet pussy..." His voice drops lower, “I wanna fill this pretty girl up..."

Robby grins, seeing how much she's enjoying this. He starts to move faster, his thrusts becoming more powerful. “Gonna fuck you so good baby. Gonna make you a momma." He reaches down to rub her clit with his thumb as he fucks her.

she nods and pants gripping his shoulders for stability.

Robby watches her tits bounce, her nails dig into his shoulders, her pussy clenching around him... He realizes she's taking this seriously…like she actually wants him to knock her up right now while fucking her like this... “Fuck baby…” He growls softly.

she gasps, “fuck I’m gonna cum”

Robby's eyes roll back as he feels her pussy tighten around him. He pulls her down hard onto his cock, holding her there as he thrusts up into her, hitting her deep. "Cum for me baby... Cum on my big cock... Let me fill you up..."

she pushes her face into his neck muffling the cries of pleasure as he holds her in place and drills into her “fuck- Robby!” she squeaks as he holds her so she can’t escape feeling this good.

Robby growls softly at her muffled cries, his hips moving faster as he tries to fuck her deeper. He feels his balls tighten, knowing he's close. “Yeah baby... Right there..." He holds her down harder on him, "Gonna fuck my baby into you..."

she nods into his neck and squeals out needy moans.

Robby's body tenses as he finally reaches his peak. He pulls her down as hard as he can onto him and holds her there, his cock throbbing and pulsing as it pumps his cum deep into her. "Fuck... Fuck... I'm cumming..."

she cums with him at the same time, her nails leaving crescent moon indents on his shoulders.

Robby's vision whites out as he fills her with his hot, sticky cum. He collapses back onto the bed, pulling her down on top of him, keeping her in place as his cock continues to pump her full. "Stay... Stay just like that..."

she nods into his neck as she stays curled against him, his thick cock pulsing and jerking as he leaves not a single drop unspent.

Robby holds her there, his hands gently caressing her back and ass as he catches his breath. After a few moments, he starts to slowly move her hips, his semi-hard cock still inside her, making sure his cum stays deep in her. "Mmm... That's it baby...”

he lazily pumps into her for the second round, both of them breathlessly panting out praise to eachother. Kissing shoulders. Mumbling about getting pregnant.

“Another round like this?” she mumbles against his shoulder, her fingers trancing his chest.

As Robby slowly continues his pace into her, he can't help but whisper dirty, loving things in her ear. "Gonna knock you up so good... Gonna fill you up with my babies..." He kisses her shoulder, her neck, her jaw.

she hums against his neck kissing softly, “gonna make me a mama huh Robby?”

Robby groans deeply at her words, his cock throbbing inside her. "Fuck yes... Gonna make you the sexiest mama in Pittsburgh." He starts to fuck her harder, his hands gripping her hips tightly. "Come on baby, squeeze my cock..." He kisses her deeply.

she gasps and whines in the kiss, her sopping cum soaked cunt tightening again around him.

Robby breaks the kiss to growl against her lips, "You like that baby? You like my big cock filling you up?" He slams into her harder, his balls slapping against her with each thrust. He can feel another orgasm building quickly. "Gonna cum again baby..."

she nods eagerly, all soft mumbles, “love it baby.. give it to me.. need it baby…”

Robby's eyes roll back as he hears her needy pleas. He starts to fuck her like a wild animal, his hips snapping against hers as he chases his release. "Fuck... Fuck... I'm gonna cum again..."

she hums as he fills her full this time. Now two loads deep inside her.

He collapses back onto the mattress, keeping her pressed tightly against him, his sensitive cock still buried deep. “Jesus Christ... You're gonna kill me baby..." He runs his hands through her hair softly, making sure she stays in place. "Stay... need you to keep all that cum inside..."

she nods and nuzzles her nose against his neck.

Robby holds her close, his heart racing from the intense sex. He can feel his cum leaking out of her pussy slightly, but he keeps her pressed against him to keep it inside. "Love you..." He murmurs softly, kissing the top of her head. "My girl..."

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira

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Gif from @daryl-dixon-daydreams

TW: walkers (zombies), medical treatment, anesthesia, injuries, blood loss, blood transfusion, soft Daryl, protective Daryl, scared Daryl,

Part 35

Dead Weight - Part 36

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the softness. Clean sheets, a real pillow. The second thing you notice is the dull, persistent ache in your side and the way everything feels fuzzy around the edges.

The third thing you notice is Daryl.

He's slumped in a chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his chest—and deep dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept in days.

"Hey," you whisper, your voice coming out rougher than expected.

His head snaps up immediately, blue eyes wide and searching your face. "M'awake," he says, slightly startled and, despite his denials, coated in sleep.

His eyes soften with relief, so much so that it makes your chest tight. "How y'feelin'?"

"Like I got stabbed," you say, then immediately wince. "Sorry. That was... that was a really bad joke."

But Daryl's already moving closer, his hand finding yours with a gentleness that still surprises you. "Don't apologize. Just... don't scare me like that again, alright?"

The Doctor chooses that moment to appear, clipboard in hand and that professional calm that all doctors seem to master. "Good, you're awake. How's the pain level?"

"Manageable," you lie, because the circles under Daryl's eyes make you feel responsible for his obvious lack of sleep.

"She's lyin'," Daryl says immediately, and the doctor nods like he expected as much.

"The surgery went well. We removed the blade cleanly—no major organ damage, but you lost a lot of blood. You're looking at four to six weeks recovery time, and that's if you follow orders and don't push yourself."

Four to six weeks. It feels like a lifetime when you've now spent years of your life moving place to place.

"Did I... did anyone else get hurt?" you ask, memories of the warehouse starting to trickle back.

"Everyone else made it out," Glen's voice comes from the doorway, and you turn to see him hovering there with that same worried expression you remember from the van.

"Aiden didn't make it, but... that wasn't on you."

The relief is overwhelming, and combined with whatever painkillers they've got you on, it makes you feel loose and unfiltered in a way that would normally terrify you.

"Glen," you say seriously, reaching out your free hand toward him. "Have any of you been sleeping with Daryl?"

Glen stops mid-step, his eyebrows shooting up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Sleeping. Like, actual sleeping. Because he might get lonely and he's literally the safest place in the world. Nothing bad can happen when you're next to Daryl. He's like... like a security blanket that can shoot things."

Daryl's face has gone bright red, and is now buried in his hands, meanwhile Glen is trying very hard not to laugh.

"Uh, no. No one's tried that. But thanks for the... umm, recommendation?"

"Ask Maggie if she minds. Tell her its for safety reasons."

"Shuddup," Daryl mutters, but his thumb is stroking over your knuckles in a way that tells you he's more embarrassed than actually upset.

The doctor clears his throat. "The blood loss and medication can cause some... uninhibited conversation. It should wear off in a couple hours."

Over the next few days, you discover that the makeshift infirmary—really just a converted house—becomes a revolving door of visitors. Carl stops by with Judith, who seems fascinated by all the medical equipment until she starts fussing and Carl has to take her away.

Eugene appears with his usual stream of consciousness rambling about medical procedures and recovery times until Daryl finally snaps.

"Eugene, shut the hell up. She needs rest, not a damn lecture."

"I was merely providing information that might be—"

"Out." Daryl's voice goes flat and dangerous. "Get outta here."

You squeeze Daryl's hand weakly. "It's okay. He's just trying to help."

"Don't care. Yer hurt, and he's makin' it worse."

You look up at Daryl with tired eyes. "You don't have to protect me from friends."

"Yeah, I do," he says simply, settling back into his chair. "That's what m'here for."

The knife sits on the bedside table. Every time you look at it, Daryl's gaze follows yours, but he won't look directly at it. Won't touch it.

"I still want it," you tell him one afternoon when the pain is making you brave. "It's mine. You gave it to me."

"It hurt you."

"It saved my life more times than I can count. One accident doesn't change that."

But he still won't look at it, his jaw tight with something that looks like guilt.

Carol visits on her own one evening, settling into the chair Daryl vacated with her usual quiet grace. She studies you for a long moment before speaking.

"He's not sleeping," she says without preamble.

"What?"

"Daryl. He's not sleeping, barely eating. Just sits here or paces the hallway like a caged animal." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You need to talk to him."

"I'm trying. He won't listen."

"He'll listen to you. He always does."

When Daryl returns from whatever errand Carol sent him on, you pat the bed beside you. "Sit with me?"

He hesitates. "Don't wanna hurt ya."

"You won't. Please?"

He perches carefully on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the familiar scent of leather and outdoors that always clings to him.

"I can't sleep here," you admit quietly. "It's too... clean. Too quiet. I keep expecting something to go wrong."

He nods like he understands, chewing his lip slightly.

"Remember Atlanta?" you continue. "On the highway, when that herd came through?"

His expression softens slightly.

"Y'were scared out ya mind."

"I was. I'd never seen that many walkers in one place. And you... you didn't even know me then, not really, but you dragged me under that car and kept me safe and calm."

You reach for his hand, remembering. "You tapped on my cheek. Like a heartbeat. Kept me breathing steady until they passed."

Daryl's quiet for a long moment, eyes downcast, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "You were hyperventilatin'. Thought you might make a buncha noise."

"You saved my life that day."

He doesn't respond to that, but he does scoot closer, careful not to jostle your injured side. His free hand comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture so gentle it makes your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm so tired," you whisper. "But every time I close my eyes in here, I just... I can't."

Without a word, he takes your hand and places it palm-down against his chest, right over his heart. Then, barely perceptible, he starts tapping that same rhythm on the back of your hand with his fingertips. Steady. Reliable. Safe.

"What would I do without you." you mumble with a soft smile as sleep finally starts to take hold.

You don't see the way his eyes close tight like he's trying to hold onto the moment.

The woods are silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing, but Daryl barely notices. He's made it maybe half a mile from Alexandria before his legs give out, his back hitting the rough bark of an oak tree as he slides down to the forest floor.

His shoulders curl inward, head dropping between his knees like he's trying to make himself as small as possible—like that scared kid hiding in the closet while his daddy raged through the house with a belt in his hand.

The sob that tears from his throat sounds like something drowning. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the images that keep flashing through his mind—your blood on Glenn's hands, the way you'd looked so small and broken in that bed, the knife he'd given you buried in your side like some kind of sick joke.

He should have been there. Should have been the one watching your back, not off playing nice with Aaron and his recruitment bullshit. You'd almost died because he wasn't there to protect you, and the guilt is eating him alive from the inside out.

His hands are shaking as he pulls them away from his face, and he's dimly aware that he's making sounds—broken, animal noises that he can't seem to stop.

He just lets himself fall apart here, where the eyes of Alexandria can't find him.

The stairs feel like Mount Everest today, each step sending a dull ache through your side where the stitches pull at healing skin. You're only three weeks into what Denise, the new doctor, insists needs to be a full six-week recovery, but being cooped up in the infirmary was driving you crazy.

"I can manage the stairs," you insist one morning, determined to make it up to your room on your own steam.

"Like hell," Daryl says, but he's already positioning himself beside you, one arm around your waist for support.

Each step is an effort, your healing muscles protesting, but his presence beside you makes it manageable. When you pause halfway up, breathing hard, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.

"Take your time," he murmurs against your hair. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

The simple tenderness of it makes your chest tight with emotion. This is a side of Daryl that few people get to see—the gentle touches, the quiet care.

Behind you, the voices of your well-meaning psudeo family drift up from the kitchen—Glen's animated voice as he tells Maggie about another supply run, Carol's gentle insistence that you need to eat more to get your strength back.

They mean well, but right now all you want is the quiet sanctuary of your attic room.

Daryl seems to sense this. Without a word, he moves to your other side, letting you lean against him as you tackle the remaining steps. His body is warm and solid, and you can smell that familiar mix of leather and woodsmoke that's purely him.

"There," he murmurs as you finally reach the top, slightly breathless. "Told ya."

Your room—yours and Daryl's—feels like a haven after the clinicalness of the infirmary. The late afternoon light filters through the small window, casting everything in warm hues. Daryl's clearly been busy; the bed is freshly made with extra pillows, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand beside something wrapped in soft cloth.

"What's that?" you ask, settling carefully onto the edge of the bed.

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. "Yer knife. Cleaned it up, fixed the handle where it got damaged."

You unwrap it carefully, breath catching when you see the familiar vine and wildflower pattern etched into the wood. He's not just cleaned it—he's restored it, polished the blade until it gleams and reinforced the handle where it had cracked during the accident.

"Daryl..." Your voice comes out smaller than intended. "You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did." His voice is gruff, but there's something vulnerable underneath. "Was m'gift to you. My fault it—"

"Don't." You reach for his hand, squeezing gently. "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened."

He doesn't argue, but you can see he doesn't believe you either. Instead, he helps you settle back against the pillows, his movements careful and precise. When you wince slightly at the pull of stitches, his hands still immediately.

"Hurtin'?"

"Just sore." You catch his hand before he can pull away completely. "Stay?"

The next few days blur together in a haze of healing and quiet domesticity. Daryl barely leaves your side when he doesn't have to, bringing you meals and books, helping you to the bathroom when your pride finally gives way to practicality.

His touch is always gentle—fingertips brushing your forehead to check for fever, lips pressing soft kisses to your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

It's Carl who brings Judith up one afternoon, the baby gurgling happily in his arms.

"Thought you might want some company," he says with that shy smile that reminds you so much of the boy he used to be.

"Hand over my Lil Asskicker," you say, making grabbing motions that have Carl laughing despite himself.

Judith settles against you easily, her tiny fist wrapped around your finger as you prop yourself up against the pillows. She's grown so much since those early days at the prison, but she still has that perfect baby smell and the way she looks at you with those big, trusting eyes.

"You're gonna be trouble, aren't you little miss?" you murmur to her, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

That's how Daryl finds you twenty minutes later—Judith fast asleep against your chest, both of you bathed in afternoon sunlight. He pauses in the doorway, and something shifts in his expression as he takes in the scene.

This is w'family's 'spose ta look like, he thinks, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. Could I have this?.

"She botherin' you?" he asks softly, moving into the room.

"Never," you protest as he carefully lifts Judith from your arms. "Don't take away my baby fix."

"Yer fix needs a diaper change," he says practically, but there's fondness in his voice. "I'll bring her back later."

True to his word, he returns after settling Judith downstairs, this time carrying a steaming bowl that smells like Carol's vegetable soup.

"Carol's orders," he says, settling onto the edge of the bed. "Y'need to eat."

You accept the bowl gratefully, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into your hands. Daryl watches you eat with that intense focus he gets sometimes, like he's memorizing every detail.

"What?" you ask around a spoonful of soup.

"Nothin'." But his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Just... glad you're okay."

That night, he helps you get ready for bed with the same careful attention he's shown all along. He turns away while you change into sleeping clothes, hands you your medications with a glass of water, makes sure you have everything you need within reach.

When he finally climbs into bed beside you, he moves like he's afraid he might break you. But you scoot closer anyway, fitting yourself against his side despite the lingering soreness in your ribs.

"Comfortable?" he asks, his arm coming around you carefully.

"Mmm." You're already drowsy from the pain medication.

"Daryl" you murmur. "Can you do the thing?"

You feel the ghost of a smile against your hair and his fingers start a gentle rhythm against the back of your hand—tap, tap-tap, tap.

Like a heartbeat.

"Go on, sleep woman," he murmurs against your hair, and you feel rather than hear the words he mumbles as you drift off—something about being scared, about not knowing what he'd do if he had lost you.

The days continue to pass in this gentle rhythm. Glen and Maggie help out regularly, Glen still carrying guilt over what happened at the warehouse despite your repeated assurances that it wasn't his fault.

There are reports coming in about walkers with 'W' carved into their foreheads—something that has everyone on edge, though they try to hide their worry from you.

One morning, about four weeks into your recovery, Daryl comes upstairs looking conflicted.

"Aaron wants me t'go ..." he says without. "Recruitment thing... Imma tell him no"

"They need you," you say gently. "Go."

"Don't wanna leave you—"

"Daryl." You reach for his hands, squeezing them between yours. "I'm getting stronger every day. Carol and Maggie are here, and Glen's not going anywhere. I'll be fine for a couple of days."

He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working silently. Finally, he nods. "Y'sure ? ... No tryin' to do too much."

"I promise." You pull him down so his forehead rests on yours. "Just... come back in one piece."

His lips on your head feel like a vow.

While he's gone, you find yourself getting a little stronger each day. Maggie comes up one afternoon and finds you actually dressed and sitting in the chair by the window instead of propped up in bed.

"Look at you," she says with a smile, settling into the other chair. "Feeling better?"

"Getting there." You shift slightly, testing the pull of healing muscle. "Slowly but surely."

You talk about inconsequential things— Maggie's plans for expanding the garden, Glen's worry about the marked walkers. But there's comfort in the normalcy of it, in having your friend beside you as afternoon light streams through the window.

Meanwhile, miles away, Daryl sits in Aaron's car during a break in their recruitment search, his hand unconsciously moving to his pocket. His fingers find the small ring of antler there—carved from that first buck he caught at the prison, strung on a piece of braided string. You'd made it for him, dropped it on his matress like it was nothing.

Bring back a deer ... I’d love you forever.

He scoffed, he'd been such a prick to you then, all you were doin was tryin to keep folks spirits up.

He'd kept it. Worn it around his neck out hunting sometimes, carried it in his pocket since the prison fell because it felt too precious to risk losing.

By the time he returns two days later, you've managed to make it downstairs unaided and are sitting in the kitchen with Carol, helping her prepare vegetables for dinner. It's the most normal you've looked since the accident, and the relief that floods through him is almost overwhelming.

"Hey," you say softly when you see him, and your smile is bright enough to chase away the lingering shadows from the road.

"Hey Y'alright" He drops a gentle kiss on top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo. "Feelin' better?"

"Mmm." You lean your head back against him, solid and warm. "Missed you."

The admission makes something tight in his chest loosen. "Missed ya too."

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

It's about a week later, when you're finally starting to feel like yourself again, that everything changes. You're making your way slowly upstairs after spending the morning in the garden with Maggie when you hear Carol calling for Daryl from downstairs.

"He's up here," you call back, pushing open the door to your room.

"Hey," you called softly, not wanting to startle him. "Carol's looking for—"

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the look that crosses his face when he sees you is pure panic.

You both freeze.

This was the first time you'd seen him without a shirt, and the sight of his back stole the words from your throat. Raised, angry lines crisscrossed his skin—some thin and precise, others thick and jagged.

Old wounds that had healed into a roadmap of pain.

Daryl scrambled for his shirt, panic flashing across his face. "Shit—I didn't—you weren't supposed to—"

"Daryl." Your voice was barely a whisper.

He'd gotten tangled in his shirt, hands shaking as he tried to pull it on inside-out. "Just... just pretend you didn't see nothin', alright? It ain't—it don't matter—"

"Daryl, stop."

Something in your tone made him go still, though he wouldn't turn around. His shoulders were rigid with shame, head hanging low.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I know it's... I know they're ugly. Disgusting. I get it if ya—if this changes things."

Your heart shattered at the defeat in his voice. Slowly, carefully, you approached him like you would a wounded animal.

"Can I ... please?" you asked softly, your fingers hovering near his shoulder.

He flinched but didn't pull away. "Why'd you wanna?"

Instead of answering, you moved to stand behind him. On your tiptoes, you caredully reached his shoulder blades. The scars were worse up close—evidence of years of repugnant systematic cruelty.

Daryl was trembling now, every muscle coiled tight. "You don't gotta pretend they ain't there. I know what they look like."

Your throat burned with unshed tears, but you kept your voice steady. "They're part of you."

"They're ugly. They're—"

"They're proof," you interrupted gently.

He went quiet.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed the softest kiss to a scar near his left shoulder blade. You felt him shudder, heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Proof that you survived," you whispered against his skin, placing another gentle kiss. "Proof that you endured." Another kiss, this one over a particularly brutal-looking mark. "Proof that you fought to become who you are."

"Stop," he whispered with a huff of breath, but there was no real protest in it.

You continued your gentle ministrations, each kiss placed with reverence rather than pity.

"You know what I see ?"

A wet sound escaped him—half sob, half breath.

"I see a little boy who never gave up. I see someone who took all that pain and chose to be gentle anyway." You pressed your forehead between his shoulder blades, arms coming around his waist from behind. "I see the man who would die before letting anyone hurt any one of us the way someone hurt him."

Daryl's breath hitched, and you felt his tears drop onto your arms where they circled his waist, you move your hand to press your palm flat against his stomach, feeling his breathing become less ragged at the touch.

"You grew up to be exactly the kind of man who would have protected that little boy," you whispered. "Strong enough to stand between him and anyone who wanted to hurt him. Kind enough to make him feel safe."

He turned in your arms then, and the sight of tears tracking down his cheeks nearly undid you. But there was something else in his eyes now—not just shame, but wonder.

"Y'really mean that?" His voice was thick, vulnerable.

You reached up to cup his face, thumbs brushing away his tears. "Every scar on your body is a reminder that you survived to become this man. My man. They're not ugly, Daryl—they're sacred."

He pulled you against his chest then, holding you so tight you could barely breathe. His face was buried in your hair, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes were red but clearer than you'd ever seen them.

"Y'mean it, Y'sure?" he asked, searching your face.

Instead of answering with words, you took his hands and interlaced your fingers with his.

You dipped your head to catch his eyes under the curtain of his hair "Every word." You whispered

[r66dusthewriter]

Spring into summer

a/n: I’m back! Bear with me, I haven’t written in a long time.

Warnings: yearning lol

Contains: fluff and angst. No gendered pronous were used for the reader.

Wordcount: 1.2k

Frail rocks crumbled beneath your boots, each step landing with the weight of exhaustion as gravity pulled you mechanically towards your destination. Your body screamed in protest, muscles seizing with pain but you pressed on like a machine, only fueled by sheer will. Your mind flickered at the edges and lucidity slipped like smoke between your fingers yet your eyes stayed open, barely, eyelids held apart by the familiar trail you followed but with every step closer, sleep clawed deeper, an insistent pull that threatened your purpose.

You were still a day or two from Alexandria, fully aware that this detour will cost you but so could your state if you continued, so you walked to Oceanside. In a rare moment of calm, you closed your eyes and tilted your head toward the sky, letting the sun bathe your skin with the same warmth you hoped your weary feet would lead you to. You inhaled deeply, letting salty air flood your lungs like a drug you were desperate to grow addicted to.

The birds chirping were so loud that they almost drowned out the sound of something emerging from the woods, a single dry branch splitting, a mistake that snapped your eyes forward as dread bloomed fast, certain that your exhaustion had finally led you to a premature death. The crossbow aimed at your heart was slowly lowered to his side, no arrow had been shot but your heart staggered all the same. As if it had just been pulled from the brink and strangely so, its beat echoed the same rhythm as his laugh once did. Perhaps you had mistaken the snap for the little breaks in your souls.

You ran, so fast you doubted your feet even touched the ground and suddenly, your chest was against his. His hands found you instantly, gripping, skimming, desperate to confirm you were real and not some cruel vision conjured by hope and misplaced grief. He pulled back just enough to see you, his striking blue eyes searched your face like they were memorizing you again. One hand stayed at your waist while the other rose, his thumb traced your cheek, soft and reverent as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard yet stared too long either way.

“Ya’ cut yer hair” He muttered, voice low and gravel-thick, just like you remembered. 

He could’ve said anything else… pointed out the new cuts on your skin, how hollow your eyes looked, how you swayed a little like you might pass out right there in his arms. Hell, he could've shoved you away and barked at you for disappearing like you expected but he didn’t. He stood there, fingers twitching with selfless devotion and eyes darting over your face like every second he got to look at you might be the last.

You let out a soft chuckle through the tears. “You didn’t yours”

“Yeah, well…m’ hair stylist quit” he sassed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost meant to smile. You laughed, broken but bright and he reached up, rough fingers brushing away your tears like they didn’t belong. You realized then that that was as much disappointment as you’d get from him, your rehearsed apologies now gone in the wind. No lecture, no anger, just that quiet acceptance that cut deeper than yelling ever could and a joke slipped through clenched teeth. Oh how you wished he loved you a little less sometimes.

After picking up the crossbow he had let fall to his feet, the two of you walked side by side towards Oceanside. Neither of you spoke, but you kept stealing glances at each other, uncertain if there were still lines left to cross or if two winters had buried them deep. You thought you’d tread lightly but you were dropped right where you left off. He practically snuck you in, pulling you from the small welcoming crowd with the same rude gentleness he always had. You followed, helplessly, almost instinctively, like a magnet pulled to its pair. 

The cabin he was staying in felt very much like a passing place but even so, you could still tell what was his, small signs but very familiar things. 

You stared while he rummaged in the bathroom, cursing under his breath and slamming doors in search of something.

The floor creaked beneath you as you stepped towards the bedside table, there wasn’t much on it, just a candle and an old picture of you that you felt drawn to. The edges were worn, soft from being handled but the image was clear. Kept. 

Then suddenly, it was taken from your hand. Daryl was right behind you, quiet as ever, slipping it into the inside pocket of his vest like it was some kind of secret.

“Nobody teach ya not t’ touch what ain’t yers?” he muttered.

You raised a brow at his deadpan expression, your lips twitching upwards “Excuse me?”

He scoffed, already opening the first aid kit in his hands “Mhm I forgive ya. Now sit” he said nodding toward the bed, his eyes locked on the dried blood staining the back of your shirt.

“I can do it myself.”

He hummed, low and dismissive. “Ya always could. Never changed a damn thing”

You sat cross legged on the bed, back to him, unbuttoning your shirt with quiet, shaky fingers. The fabric slipped from your shoulders and he moved in behind you, the mattress shifting under his weight. His skilled fingers hovered just above your skin, cool and hesitant and the silence between you felt like it was holding its breath.

“...Can i?” he asked, voice quieter now, stripped down to something real.

The question sent goosebumps racing across your skin, a shiver pulling through you. You’d bared yourself to him once, in more ways than one and you wondered if he knew you would again, without hesitation, if only he’d have you.

You simply nodded.

As the sting of alcohol met your skin and his rough hands softened with care, you felt the need for more pain rise. The urge to dig in, to say something sharp, something that could tear at your new wounds before they’d even had a chance to heal, to tip off a bandage that hadn’t even been placed yet.

“I’m sorry” you whispered, voice barely holding. You bit back the flood, how looking for people worth saving had dragged you farther and farther from home and how you’d let it. Your breath shook as you prepared to force the next words out but he was faster.

“For wha’?” he asked after a pause. You could feel his gaze settle on the side of your face. “Doin’ yer job?”

“You know what.”

He hummed low in his throat as he worked on the wound “Only stayed ‘cause I knew if ya saw me out there lookin’ for ya, I wouldn’t’ve heard the end of it…Wouldn’t have, if I thought ya weren’t comin’ back at all”

At that, you turned—just enough to meet his eyes. Your heart pounded so loud, so hard, you wondered if he could hear it. Hell, you wondered if he was qualified to check it. You didn’t say anything and neither did he. Your grip on the shirt at your chest loosened, arms falling slack as tears welled. Because even now, this love you both had, carried across seasons and miles, still warmed your skin more than any burning sun ever could.

[nialovessatoru]

thinking about academic rival gojo satoru who was mesmerised from the first time he saw you and grew even more infatuated with you as he realized how smart you were.

you didn’t engage much with other people, didn’t care for gossip or drama, never laughed at his jokes in class

only once, you called him a “pretentious mess” under your breath. you didn’t even stick around to see him splutter.

and god, he was obsessed.

he very quickly and harshly had to face how one-sided his infatuation was.

it was a stupid attempt at flirtation, something he didn’t spend too much thought on, because if he did, he would’ve overthought it and never said it.

on second thought, maybe that would’ve been better.

he leaned against the door of the classroom as you were about to leave, with a stupidly cocky grin that concealed his nerves effortlessly as he said something like,

“you know, it’s kind of hot when you get all snarky while explaining”

you blinked.

and blinked again.

then let out a harsh scoff.

“don’t you have somewhere to be, gojo?”

then you brushed past him without a second glance.

from your perspective, it cemented what you already assumed; gojo satoru was a cocky, smug asshole who only talked to you to get under your skin.

so that’s what you let yourself believe.

you became more competitive, tried to get better grades than him on everything and got infuriated when that resulted in the both of you becoming top of the class, equal in academic achievements.

at first, gojo didn’t understand why you always seemed so agitated when he scored better than you. he studied hard to impress you.

but you weren’t.

he entertained the rivalry regardless, seeing it as a game, something to bring you two closer in its own way.

when it finally clicked and he realized that you must’ve taken it as him seriously trying to defeat you, he decided to try again.

he approached you when you were sitting alone in the cafeteria, asked if you wanted to get coffee, real soft, real genuine.

and you just stared at him.

“what?”, he’d chuckled, awkwardly. “coffee. with me. it’s not poisoned, promise.”

your eyes narrowed at him, tone sarcastic.

“oh wow, you must really have too much time. and a great sense of humor too.”

he stilled.

“…what?”

“look, if this is some weird prank or pity thing, save it.”

and you grabbed your bag and walked away. again.

and for a moment, gojo just stood there, stunned.

he didn’t realize you thought he was that much of an asshole. that you took his efforts and the rivalry he assumed to be a friendly competition so negatively.

he didn’t know how to tell you he thought of you more than he should.

that he noticed the way you clicked your pen and poked out your lower lip whenever you were thinking.

the way your handwriting would get messier and slanted more towards the left, when you suddenly came up with something.

that the day you won against him in the debate and that the hint of pride you showed when you countered his claims never left his head.

something in his chest ached at being rejected this way but it ached even more at the realisation that you truly disliked him.

and okay, maybe he deserved your cold shoulder because he was entirely too cocky that one day and made a comment that clearly struck you the wrong way, which he never tried to fix.

but he will from now on.

god, he will.

he swears he’ll show you his true self. not your rival. not the popular prick who charmed girls left and right.

but the satoru whose heart felt like it was struck by cupids arrow from the first time he observed you from his desk on the other side in class.

he’d try.

try hard to make you see him for real.

because he needed you to know that side of him that wanted nothing more than your recognition.

the side of him that had fallen so hopelessly and deeply in love with you.

a/n: my fingers are itching to write a full fic about this because oh my god, i need him bad.

[holorform2009]

3008 y/n would be baffling to the survivors lol

Like one moment they are left alone with some furniture and the next they somehow built a deck/porch

Anon do we have the same minds??? I WAS PLANNING TO MAKE AN AU OF THAT!!!

3008! Child reader would definitely do this leaving the survivor gang baffled at your "Base" Guest 1337 will be the one to try and help you build another floor or maybe 007n7 too (Both of them can't let the literal child build the base all by yourself, probably because of their father instincts), the others will be in charge to stock the food supplies and med kits but in separate groups.

3008! Child reader have to remind them that they only have 5 minutes before the lights went out and another 5 minutes to turn the lights back to normal, so meaning they have to hurry up. Well no hurry for you because you can outrun them and knock them like a pro but you're very careful when it comes to blood moon event, the staff are way faster when it comes to blood moon especially the shorter staffs and taller staffs.

Guest 1337 have to scold you because you didn't head inside when night came, you only smile at him and replied that you need another plank wood for the roof, he lightly smack you in the head for that one.

He had a daughter back home and he had the right to be worried about you going outside JUST SO YOU CAN GRAB ANOTHER PLANK WOOD!! like— please don't do that again especially you went outside when blood moon came and you came back to the base injured, he definitely did not grab Elliot by the collar to drag him to you and give you a slice of pizza.

You didn't take the pizza because you said to them that it is useless and that it will only decrease your hungry and not increase your health— Ok why is Guest 1337 staring at you like that?– oOKOK CHILL! You took the slice from Elliot who is sweating bullets as they both watch you devour it in one go. "Happy now?— wait that shit healed me??" In the corner of your eyes you see Elliot left you with him silently.

"Language"

"Sorry, my bad vro" He pinched his nose bridge as he sighed loudly, then he looks at you with eyes narrowed. "Don't do that again, kid."

"Bro it wasn't even that bad—"

". . ."

"Okokok fine! I won't do it again!" You stood up as you pat your clothes as if it has debris on it, you were about to walk pass him when he suddenly placed his hand on your shoulder hard. "Promise me you won't?" You feel nervous today I wonder why. "Yep!" You didn't turn your head to look at him, you just raise your hand and give him a thumbs up. He lets go and quickly leave him behind. "Can't keep your promises, sorry buddy" you whispered as you look behind to see if he followed you, he's not, ok then! Time to flee and grab another wood plank—! "Oi kiddo! Don't even think about it" you flinched and turn to look at the man with a yellow helmet and a grey hoodie.

"We appreciate ya effort but ya nedda rest buddy" You deadpan at this. "BRUH—"

But pushing that aside! Everyone quickly got that hang of it, at least they're not running away from a killer anymore. Or is it..? You totally did not see a suspiciously man in black trenchcoat with a fedora hat and accompanied with a well dressed four men from a distance as you were on your way back to base, especially you spotted a red boy wandering around aimlessly.

Anyway! There are other times when you picked up a plushie and colas on your way to get wooden plank and you immediately thought of noob or when you brought the pencil shaped lamp that can change colors to place it in the base and Chance jokingly ask you if you can get a smiley face lamp that could change colors too like the one with the pencil you brought, and you did, leaving Chance uncharacteristically stare at you silently as you hand him the glowing lamp with a smiling face on it as its color changes.

"Kiddo, I was joking—"

"Sybau and take this already."

But there are other times when Taph was with you (because builderman asked him to protect you, probably take pity on guest because that soldier guy was so damn worried about you to the point he told you to stay in the base) to get furnitures or just another wooden plank to create more space for the survivor gang or make another floor.

You were also curious about his subspace trip mines and wanted to borrow from him in your adventure to get stuffs, he says no, and you frowned. Understandable because you're just a child. And yet you steal it anyways, noticing this Taph immediately tells builderman about this and then Builderman totally tell guest 1337 about you. Expect to be grounded by Guest, again. 007n7 looks at you in sympathy as Dusekkar was in charge to watch you, 007n7 then opened his mouth and says:

"You should've done that—"

"Shut da paq up bro I'm not in the mood for that" 007n7 frowns as at your response as he and Dusekkar watched you standing in the corner, your face was facing the wall in front of you, your shoulders slouched. You hear a faint voice coming down from the first floor below you (you, Dusekkar and 007n7 are currently at the second floor) "Language kid!" It was Guest's voice. "That guy pmo..." you grumbled. 007n7 and Dusekkar looked at each other before looking back at you as they both sighed and shake their heads.

After that had happened, you want to go outside to restock or maybe find plushies on your way but before you could set foot outside a hand grabbed your left shoulder, your smile immediately turned upside down as you turn around to see Shedletsky. "Sorry kiddo, but you're gonna stay here and let the adults do the work." You have the urge to say 'sybau you fattas' but you held back. "We don't want Guest to have grey hairs now do we? Especially the others." He patted your shoulder before gently pushing you back inside.

You're annoyed by their behavior at this point like they treat as if you're a baby that needed a babysitter I mean you're obviously the youngest here but you can handle yourself just fine! You regret letting them inside your base, or did you..?

As for two time... You avoided them like the plague, to be honest you're creeped out by their eerily behavior. The first time you interact with them is when they suddenly ask you to join a cult religious, obviously you said no. Sometimes, when you got to the base injured Elliot was the first to see you all bloody and he immediately gives you a pizza in instinct or maybe he doesn't want guest to see you like this, will ask you to stay because he was worried as well just like the others because you're a kid in their group.

Your favorite person here is Dusekkar, whenever you're feeling tired your thoughts immediately went to Dusekkar. You just walk up to him as you yawned and lift your arms up and did a grabby hand motion at him, signalling him to pick you up.

You don't know why you're so comfortable around his presence, maybe you found him cool because of his unique appearance? His calming aura? Either way he lets you sleep on his shoulder as you doze off to Dreamland.

[deadlyflan]

Someone of your choice to Raph with number 2 or Leo with 23 :D

IT'S THE HURT/COMFORT DRABBLE* MEME! (*A 100-word limit is impossible for me. This is not a literal drabble. It's just generally "short.")

Pine requested: Someone of your choice to Raph prompt #2 “You’re burning up.”

2003!micro-fic.

Leonardo yanked his hand back from Raphael’s forehead with a hiss. “You’re burning up.”

“Ha. You’re burning up.” Raph sluggishly accused. His panting filled the stuffy, dusty space.

Leonardo fumbled in the dark for the canteen.

They’d just gone for a day hike. He wanted to check out the cliffs and copper cave shrines in the hills above the Battle Nexus Arena. It was just a hike. Get some sunshine. Stretch their legs. He’d convinced Raph to come with him. Everyone else wanted to stay in town and eat street food–why hadn’t he just gone with them? Why’d he have to drag Raph into this? Into a landslide?

He knocked into the canteen with clumsy fingers and it toppled over. Leo could hear it slide down, bouncing off loose rocks and gravel. The short stairwell down into the little pocket of air by the shrine had turned into a ski slope of ankle-twisting stones. And their only water supply had just disappeared down it. “Dammit!”

“Uh-uh, Leo.” Raph coughed and the loose dirt and small stones rained down from above them. His lower half was pinned in the rock slide, but his head and one arm were still free. “Put a.” He coughed again. More pebbles and a few larger rocks hit them both. “A dollar in the swear jar.”

“Stop talking. Every time you cough, the rest of the ceiling could fall in.” Leonardo pulled out his shell cell. The battery light blinked its warnings, but he needed the light from the screen if he was going to find the canteen. “I’m gonna go get the canteen.”

“What? Go?” Raph sounded more alert and alarmed than he had since the rocks hit him.

“Just down the stairs. There’s maybe–”

“Leo.”

“Raph. There’s only–”

“Leo!” Raph’s hot hand gripped his wrist as if he were falling off a building.

“Raph! It’s our only water. You’re bleeding. You’re feverish. You’re stuck; it has to be me that gets it. It’s only 3 or 4 steps down. I’ll be right back.” Leonardo knew he was rushing Raph to let go. But the battery would only last so long.

“I–” Raph’s voice cracked around the single syllable, and Leonardo desperately wanted to sit back down next to him.

“I’ll be right back.” Leonardo returned his brother’s grip, squeezing just as hard. “I promise, brother.”

In the faint green light of the shell cell, Raph grimaced, but surrendered Leo’s arm. With supreme force of will, Leo let go as well. On hands and knees, he backed down the uneven stones, bumping and sliding even the few feet to the bottom. His shell made horrific grinding noises against the ceiling as he went.

“Leo?” Raph’s voice sounded so far up above. He coughed and Leonardo could hear the cascade of gravel that pelted down on him. “Dammit.”

Leo held the phone up, trying to see his brother in the gloom. He’d stirred up too much dust, though. The light reflected off it and Raph was just a dark patch in the darker hillside.

“Dollar for the swear jar,” Leo choked out. His heart wasn’t in the joke. It hung in the thick air between them. He needed to finish up and get back up there. How heavy were the stones on Raph's chest? Was he smothering?

Leonardo drew in as deep a breath as he dared. How long before they ran out of oxygen? “I’m at the bottom. Don’t talk so much. You’ll cough again.” Leonardo wheezed and hacked, but at least the ceiling held. “There’s room to turn around down here. I can see the canteen.”

The dim light of the shell cell reflected off the spidery veins of green copper that lay like a net along the walls at the back of the shrine. As Leonardo scrambled over the uneven landslide debris towards the canteen, his phone lit up and trilled with pings and beeps and alerts. He nearly dropped it! “What?!”

“WHAT?,” called Raph from up the incline. “What’s going on, Leo?!”

“It’s–Raph! Raph! We have signal! There’s signal! The–the copper down here–we’re getting a signal!” Leonardo hit the call button with one hand and grabbed the canteen with the other. “Raph, we’re getting out of here!”

[tinytennisskirt]

dad!art anon here ill do this emoji 🫧<3

i was thinking maybe art and reader are trying for their first baby and maybe they just for married and he’s sooo inlove and readers so inlove something cute love uuuuu

A Married Thing:

summary: art donaldson wants one thing for the rest of his life and that’s you. he made that clear when he proposed, then when he married you, and makes it very clear that he wants you and maybe a little you… for the rest of his life- when it’s finally just you and him after a long day of wedding activities.

warnings: smuttttttttt, art being reverent and devotional, slight breeding kink from art, talk of pregnancy, etc.

Art takes a second to let it all settle in. It’s so much; he has to run a hand over his face to try to ground himself and remember that this is real. This is his life. You are his life, and with that ring on your finger, you’re the rest of it too. The second the officiant says he can kiss you, he does with so much of himself. He kisses you like he means it, like his foot is down, like you just bought the grave plot next to his. His hands wrap around your waist while yours wrap around his neck, a kiss so close to an embrace, everyone who sees it can feel how much he loves you.  

He’s as thrilled for where things will lead you as he was on your first date. He talked a big game while you were dating, all the typical promises a man makes to marry you, to give you a good life, except Art meant every single one. You had every reason to doubt him at first, love is love and men are men, but Art knew he loved you very early on and didn’t stop trying to show it, not once. 

So when he put his grandmother’s ring on your finger, he figured this was all he ever wanted. He couldn’t imagine loving or having you more, but of course, marriage was still to come- impossible, maybe. His heart might explode. And you kissed him, hard, crying the same tears he was. Some luck had found him, he thought.

 And luckier, you can imagine a ring on the finger, a few glasses of wine- it was a sure thing that he loved you. Right there, on the couch where he’d gotten on his knees, reverent to your ‘yes’, and the fact that soon you’d be his wife. You tasted like his fiancée now. 

So he kisses you at that altar like he means it, his mother loudly crying tears of joy. You pull away and you laugh and he sighs like his knees might give out. “Are you okay?” You ask, hand on his chest, smiling the smile he fell in love with before he even knew your name. He nods, and unexpectedly, kisses you again, eliciting a second, even louder cheer from family and friends, this cheer spotted brightly with laughter. 

The reception is lovely, family everywhere, friends drinking and talking and celebrating. The speeches make you cry, and Art himself is having a hard time trying to fathom that any of this is his. His family, his new, bigger family, is wonderful and inspiring. The room is thick with appreciation, love, and sentiment.  These people are here, and despite a wedding, they aren’t even close to understanding how much he loves you. 

 He listens to his mom give her speech, talking about you like the angel that you are- and that breaks him open, just a little. “Hope it’s not too soon to say,” his mother starts to sign off, “But a grandbaby or two wouldn’t be too bad while I’m still in my prime.” She does a little shimmy, laughing loudly, tapping the side of her nose at him.

His heart surges just a little at the thought. It’s been talked about, but it’s your hand finding his under the table at the joke that really gets him. It’s like he’s been turned into a teenager again, the way his ears pink. The idea of a life with you after this stepping stone hits him like a freight train every time he remembers it’s real, over and over again, all of its beauty, all of it being completely within reach. He steals you away for a dance the second he can. 

“Married,” you say, like you’re tasting it. “Mrs. Donaldson.” 

It’s like music. He can’t help but grin. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you smile, and he swears it’s brighter than any light in the room. His eyes wander your face like it’s the first time, like it’s all unknown, and he’s mapping it out. “What’s on your mind?” 

“I love you,” he repeats, like he’s lost. Eyebrows knit. “You’re beautiful.” It’s real, he knows it, but so many other things begin to seep through the cracks. And just as his mother ‘wouldn’t mind a grandbaby’, he finds himself lost in the fact that he wouldn’t mind a daughter, especially if she ends up as beautiful as you are. 

You bite your lip and mouth ‘thank you’, under your breath.  

“I was- am, thinking about what my mom said.” He admits. “That maybe not now, but soon…”

“Mmm, yeah,” you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, your nose brushes his. “You want a little tennis player, hm?” 

He tugs you in by your waist, unable to hide the grin that blooms from ear to ear. The after-party dress is silk under his fingers. He wonders how easily it might slip off… “Hey- whatever she wants to get involved in,” 

“She?” You giggle and kiss him into it. “I love you so, so much. I want this too.” You assure him, swallowing. Your eyes dart like they do when you’re shy, “But sooner than soon…” 

He lowers his voice, and it’s a little funny how his smile goes completely serious, “Now?” And his smile still breaks through, like he can’t suppress it. 

You laugh, leaning into his shoulder. His hand instinctively finds the back of your head, laughing with you. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. God, he loves you so much. The smallest things, like your laugh, remind him of the decades ahead of him that he gets to listen to it. For now, it’d echo around your apartment, but soon a house, a home. He knows he’s the luckiest man alive, still yet to find himself luckier. 

“Later than now, sooner than… Sorry,” you giggle, meeting his eyes. “I… want you. I want that. For us, our… future. But later.” 

“I have to wait?” He chuckles in return, “After you say something like that?” 

Your smile pulls up at the corner like a smirk, he feels like he just lost all his breath. Your eyes twinkle. He’s hard, he knows that, so do you. “Mhm,” you nod slowly, looking quite satisfied with his reaction, almost smug. “Soon. Later.”

“You’re cruel,” he kisses you, once, twice. You kiss him the third time, holding him as close as you can. His skin feels hot, sparked, and it hits him all over again. 

By the time everyone is gone to their hotel rooms, you and Art are both beyond tired. The perks of such a friendly family are great, except for when their energy keeps going well into the night. You, in that pretty white dress, silky- that seems to ask to fall off your body, the way the sleeve droops down your shoulder. He admits he’s reasonably buzzed off that good red wine, the same as you, but just enough to feel the lust settle in like love itself, in his throat, his chest, his hands. 

Your shoes are already in your hands, the white ribbon that wrapped up your calves is draped over your arm, and you lean, tired, against him in the elevator, cheek pressed to his dress shirt. A lifetime of being yours to lean on makes him smile. He kisses the top of your head, just casually, as if it’s just the small gesture it seems to be, and not the vessel of all of his restraint. 

“Art,” you say, from under his chin. Soft, to get his attention. His eyes meet yours as the elevator dings its arrival to the honeymoon suite. He looks up at it, taking in how it’s decorated gently in pretty pinks and oranges, noting the large, circular bed complete with draping curtains in the corner. The dim lamp lighting casts that orange and pink light over you, in that dress, looking at him like he owes you something. And he does, he always will, for you loving him the way you do. You blink softly, almost nervously, and he catches it. Your promise of later is more haunting than it had been the entire rest of the reception. He couldn’t get it out of his head, the idea, the dream so close in reach- you, a family, that you wanted it and soon. Now. 

He wonders if you taste like his wife, but he just swallows, hard. “I love you so much, I can’t believe I married you.” 

“Us, married. I love you, too,” you sigh, breathing the words out like they have weight. “So much. And I’m not… forward in… wanting a baby?” You giggle like it’s the silliest thing. It sort of is, but isn’t, not the way he’s thinking. 

His heart jumps at the word like he hasn’t spent his entire life fantasizing about the night he fucks you with that intention. Gently, his hands find your waist, and he pulls you by it gently into the suite. The doors close, blending into the wall now. “You have no idea,” he says, low, face close to yours, causing a tired smile to climb your expression. His hand cups your face, your jaw, as he leans down to kiss your neck, the gentlest he possibly can. He feels how it makes you shiver, “I want you. I want a baby, I want a family.”

“We’re still house-hunting,” You reason with a tilt of your head, his arms slipping around you with the ease of that white silk. His fingertips brush the backs of your arms, and he swears he can’t tell where you start and the fabric ends. He knows your words are just to prompt him. 

“We’ll find a house,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing higher, hand moving your hair to kiss up toward your ear. Your hands grip the front of his dress shirt in a way that gets him harder than he already is. The smallest little things you do, so incredibly beautifully, as simple as your hands bracing against the way his kiss feels, it’s more intoxicating than any red wine buzz. “Somewhere pretty, near some good schools…” He continues, kissing your ear itself. The sensation sends a wave of pinpricks down your entire body, causing you to hold him tighter. “- I want this. I love you.” He can’t say it enough. 

“I love you, too,” you manage, breathily. He pulls away from your neck, a smile on his face that strikes you as a man ruined and completely, entirely, in love. His hands cup your face, the lightest touch imaginable, in a way that makes you feel it in your bones. That love. His reverence. “I need you. Now. Please.” You tell him, under his gaze. He lets out a breath that comes out just the slightest bit shaky, making you smile again. There isn’t a better response than kissing you. 

It’s not an urgent kiss, there’s no rush. It’s late, you’re both a little tiny bit wine drunk, and he is a man starved. He kisses you gently, but with the force of all of his passions. He’s never loved anyone or anything more than he loves you, and he kisses you like those words are on his tongue. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your head back to kiss you, lips parting to allow as much as possible, while his other hand subconsciously gathers silk off of your waist, hips, ass. He’s done this a million times, but this feels differently charged and new. His heart pounds like it’s the first time he’s ever touched you. 

“I’m going to have your baby,” you giggle, even in a kiss as serious as this one. It’s why he loves you. The words have more power than you think- Art hoists you up into his arms, and in a second, your back is pressed to the bed's dark pink Egyptian cotton sheets. Something in the phrase fuels him, he knows that- you know that. “I want it so badly.” 

Art kisses down your jaw, your neck, collarbone, hands still under you, travelling the places the silk borders on skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You smell like home and faintly of the bouquet that rested against your chest all afternoon. His hand finds yours, holding it gently, closer to a cradle than a hold. And he brought it to his lips, lifting his head from kissing your collarbone to kiss the ring on your finger. Lips brushing skin so slightly, somehow, even that touch sent another sheet of goosebumps over your skin. “I want it-” he starts, kissing your knuckles, then your fingertips, before meeting your eyes, “So much more than you know.” 

“Mhm?” You prompt him again. Cheeky. He can’t help but grin, kissing down toward the shoulder of your dress. That slow, soft hand of his comes up, and slowly, his pointer finger rims the left shoulder of your dress, gently pulling down. “You think about it?” You ask, a little breathy. 

“All the time,” he admits, voice thick with devotion and focus, his other hand coming to slip the other strap of your dress down your arm. “You’d never leave bed…” He kisses your shoulder. “I’d take care of you, every ache, every craving… You’ll be so, so gorgeous, carrying something made of us both. I can’t even think about it too much, I’ll go crazy.” 

You chuckle, keeping composed though your skin burns at his every word, “I’d like to see it.” And you pull him by his shirt into another kiss. Slow, wide, generous. He can’t help but feel complete every time your mouth meets his. Every kiss in return from him is made of sugar, wine, and gratitude. You push, sitting up, the front of your dress falling like a feather in the air, revealing everything you had hidden, waiting for him. He pulls away, forehead resting against yours, laughing under his breath, almost like he can’t believe all of it is for him. Lacy white, balconette, his. And he kisses you like he means it. 

You end up standing again, just for a few moments, the dress falling from where it gathered at your waist to land soundlessly on the floor. He cups your face, your back pressing to the bedpost. He hasn’t even let himself see you in all of this yet; he can’t, or he risks getting ahead of himself. “Art-” you say, between kisses. “I need you.” 

“I need you,” he returns in the same pause, kissing you again. “Need you-”

“You have me, all of me, I- ” You giggle, pulling away. It gets him harder, almost painfully, in his dress pants. He meets your eyes in the warm light of the room. He chuckles with you. “You have all of me…” You continue, hands slipping around his neck. He lets his eyes wander down your frame, eyeing all of the lingerie that will only ever be for his eyes. He looks at you like he found religion. “Forever.” 

“You’re-” he chokes. “Perfect. I love you. I want you. I need you.” His knuckles gently skim your collarbone, then the curve of your breast, the side of your arm, your waist, his eyes following as his other hand meets the other at your hip. Your chest rises and falls, heavy with each breath. The air is full of trust that you both inhale like a drug. He can see his future reflected in your every feature. Your giggle at his soft words, hoping to be copied into something equally yours and his. “Can you imagine it?” He asks you. 

Your smile makes him want to fall to his knees. “You’ll be such a good dad…” 

His grin is from ear to ear, voice hushed,  “And you’ll be the best mom. God, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to give you everything, all of it, all of me.  I…” Your fingers start on his buttons, quickly undoing every one as if you’re just as eager as he is. Everything you do takes him out. 

“What happens if I start wanting ice cream at 2 am?” You tease, almost. Another prompt he’s happy to speak about. 

“Then I go find some,” he replies, lost in you. “You’ll share?” 

“Always. What about tennis?” 

“Hiatus, play locally,” he replies without even pausing a beat, your fingers on the last few buttons. He swallows hard, like his throat is dry. He sways closer to you, he can’t help it. His nose grazes yours, eyes flickering from your eyes to your body, all the lace waiting to be thrown across the room. 

You draw out the act of pulling his shirt off, slowly opening the front, taking his wrists in your hands to undo his cuffs. You tsk, cheeks pink, “What about when I end up… huge and swollen and sore? When I can’t get upstairs or reach around myself, hm?” You pull him just a little closer, knowing the impact of your words. His ears match your cheeks, and his lips part just a little, a small breath slipping out. The shirt falls off his shoulders and meets your dress on the floor. You’re already on the buttons of his pants, not even looking. Eyes on him to study that lust-clouded gaze he’s dripping onto you. “What about then?” 

“You-” you’re making him nervous. Only you could unravel him this way. He breathes out hard, hands on you, moving, sliding, just trying to touch you the most he can. “I would do anything to see you like that,” he replies. “All the evidence of us under your shirt, knowing I did that, we did that. I want to watch the changes happen, see you grow with our baby.” 

“Our,” you repeat, because it sounds beautiful, and you aren’t sure how to function when you want him this badly.

“You’ll be so gorgeous, even more so- I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.” Your hand finds him down the front of his pants, and he hums into your mouth. “Hey-” He catches, cupping your jaw again. He kisses your nose before he kisses you again full force, his hips pinning you to the bedpost, pressing against you. And almost like it’s funny that he isn’t fucking you, he picks you up off the ground, one hand on your waist, the other under you, both of you laughing breathily. He kisses you, head tilted back, as you get pressed back into the bed. 

You crawl backward, pushing yourself back against the pillows, eyes bright, eager, hungry. He follows, letting you tug his pants the rest of the way off. He’s hard, still quite painfully, even without the pants. He crawls over you, kissing you into the pillows. Despite all the heat of the moment it’s soft, like each kiss has effort put into it. Hands travel each other like it’s all new, and it is. It’ll be the first time he gets to have sex with his wife. He loves the thought, he loves the sound of the word. 

He kisses back over your ear, jaw, neck, and collarbone, trailing tiny bites all the way down. His mouth kisses lower until it meets the top of your breast, right above where it matters, which is half an inch hidden under the lace that adorns you, decorates you. He can’t get over this, you, your body, what it does for him, does to him, and will soon be doing for your future. “I want to fuck you so badly,” he mumbles, his hold on you tight as he continues lower, down your body. He likes that he can feel your skin so affected by his touch, loves the small gasp that comes from you when he kisses your stomach. The top, just under the wire of the pretty little bra that one of his hands was unhooking, then the middle of your stomach, “You’re meant for this.” He tells you, worshipful in the way he looks at you. “I want to give you this.” 

“Please do,” you smile, then breathe out. He lowers himself, chest resting on the bed between your legs, as he kisses your lower stomach, where the lacy bottom part of the set begins. He then kisses your hip, where the waistband sits, then your thigh, taking all of his time, but he can feel your restraint as he gets closer to where you need him. “Please.” You follow. 

He does what he’s told, but gentler than wanted, a nudge with his nose, through the fabric. He’s done this so many times, he’s spot on. Your thighs squeeze just gently, and he shuts his eyes under the pressure of it, trying not to press himself into the bed too much. “Art…” 

“I know,” he replies quietly. But he pulls himself away, that cheeky grin on his face. “One thing first.” He says, propping himself up just enough to kiss your thigh again, right below the garter. You giggle from above him on the bed, disbelieving that he paused things just for this… His teeth graze your skin on purpose when he pulls it gently down… over your knee, over your calf, and off your foot. The first of three items to be thrown far out of reach. 

You nearly gasp at just the sight. His body is contoured by the shadows from the dim lamp, he’s still so hard, the front of his boxers just a little wet from everything that had already happened. Your bra comes off and gets thrown as well. He chuckles, crawling right back to where you want him, except this time, he doesn’t tease or kiss anywhere but exactly where you want him. Through the fabric. 

“You’re so-“ his tongue pushes against the fabric, words humming against your clit. “Wet. My god.” Hands reach up and pull at the sides of your underwear, getting it gone, down. You raise your hips, but he doesn’t even take it all the way off. He pulls them as much as he can before he’s between your legs again. Your legs go over his shoulders, kicking the lingerie to the other far corner as your hips involuntarily press up toward his mouth. You taste like his wife, and it’s his favourite thing in the world. 

He could genuinely live between your legs, always hungry, starved even. His tongue works, flicks, drags, pushes, while he sucks just gently enough to elicit the first real moan of the night from you. Broken, slow, low, breathy, for him. He knows just what to do- it’s often that you have to try not to finish under his mouth. He wants more, he tries for more, thinking about what he’s about to do. Thinking about the difference he is about to make. 

Art moans against your cunt, unable to help himself at how your muscles contract around his tongue, at how you taste, how it feels to lick from your base to your clit and back again. Your fingers tangle themselves deep in his blonde curls, tinted pink by the light that reflects off the sheets. He is suddenly struck harder by that freight train of reality and emotion. You feel like a drug, warming his body through the blood in his system. 

The want comes crashing, dizzying, burning hotter and brighter than before. Suddenly, the need to be inside you washes overwhelmingly over him. He wants more. Not just to taste, but to have, to bring close, to come into. He knows the feeling is mutual, through some insane connection-or maybe it was just what happened when you got married-because you mumbled his name almost incoherently the millisecond before he pulled himself away from you. 

He uses the discarded dress shirt to wipe his mouth before he crawls over you again to kiss you, almost desperately. Still, rushless, more like neither of you could handle waiting. Your hands tug at his boxers with one hand, one immediately gripping him the second he’s freed of them. He groans quietly. As a joke, you toss them all the way across the room, making him laugh as he kisses you again. Your legs are parted, he’s over you, you’re under him. He can feel the heat radiating between you as you give him that loving little nod. “I need you. Deep, okay? I need it, I need that, I want your baby, I want-” you mumble, words falling out. 

“I don’t want to be-” he lines himself up, “-anywhere else.” He breathes. Your lips are centimetres apart, breathing each other’s air. His hand braces your hip, upper thigh, as he slowly pushes into you, feeling your body give way to his shape and stretch so perfectly around him. He holds his breath, and you gasp. He goes so slowly, your nails are already digging into his back. Your muscles push him, squeeze him, he can’t help but groan lightly. “You feel so good-” 

“Fuck, Art,” you sigh. His name sounds like a symphony when you say it, so out of breath. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” He says, ruined, not even buried to the hilt. “S-So much. My- god- my wife, my pretty-” he kisses you just as his hips meet yours. You gasp, he feels the air cold on his lips, then the heat of your exhale. “I love you so much.”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance to say more, pulling himself just slightly out, then slowly sinking back in. Usually, off wine, he wouldn’t feel this much, but his senses seem to be high. He can feel every inch of you lining him, can feel every little twinge of pleasure that comes from getting so deeply inside of you. He can’t stop thinking about you, pregnant and perfect, all his fault. He’s practicing control, fucking you so slowly the way he is. 

The way he moves is with worship. His hands lift the crook of your waist, your hips, letting him rotate them. He reads your body language like it’s the bible, leaning into every little thing that makes you moan. The lift, the angle, the slow squeeze of his hand at the flesh of your thigh, your chest, your stomach. He’s memorizing all of the ‘before’ because he knows how this ends. Slowly, he picks up pace, though every thrust is just as deep as the last, hips meeting yours every time. The sound is graphic, he knows how wet you can get, but he’s never heard it this loud, this wet, and the reminder that this sound is his for life only makes him fuck you harder. 

“I can’t- god, you’re perfect,” he groans over your lips. They’re wet from kissing. “I can’t stop thinking about it-” he breathes. “You, full with our daughter. Every change, every want, every need, I want to give- I want to give you  everything.”

“God-” you try to smile or laugh or quip again about the fact he keeps insisting the unconceived baby is a girl, but only a moan makes it out of your mouth. A moan and a quiet smile, which of course, drives him crazy. You sigh, “I’m yours. Yours to have-” you can’t finish your sentence, silenced by your own moans. You swear he’s doing it on purpose. 

“Tell me what you need.” 

“I can’t-” he already knows. “Fuck, harder? Faster? I just want you to put a baby in me, it feels so good- it’s not fair.” You tell him, words continuing to spill off your tongue. You kiss him between breaths, messy, but still perfect. The impact of him hitting the top of you is dizzying. The perfect pace, pushing, pumping as you squeeze around him. His hands grip you harder, but still manage to be closer to an embrace than a handhold. 

He’s happy to oblige and fuck you the way you need. He would do anything for you, all of this, even if it took him hours. He goes harder, faster, and your hand leaves his hair to grab the headboard behind you. He moans loudly, unable to control any part of this anymore. It’s like sense takes over and your bodies tangle, but your souls are having their own sex. He continues to watch you, looking down at where he can see himself disappear into your cunt. So wet, so smooth, warm, tight. “You’re-” he huffs, “Godsent. I love you more than anything, fuck, you feel so good, I’m close-” 

“I need you to come in me,” you blurt, desperate. He’s never felt an orgasm knot in his stomach like it was already happening, yet pending. You feel like home, you feel like the future home of his children. “Fuck me, just fuck me, I want it so badly, Art. I want to make you a-” you’re going to say father, dad, or anything, but he’s too quick to follow your instructions, both hands on your hips now, lifting them to fuck into you. All of his muscles are tensed, showing their definition, so gorgeous already glinting with a slight sweat that was bound to get worse as the night went on. He had no plans of this being the only round tonight, and neither did you; you were newlyweds, after all. 

His breathing gets heavy, low, and your eyes roll back the way they do when he knows he’s doing something right. You tighten around him every thrust like you’re going to take all of it from him. It’s a mess, a scene, a sight, the way he groans and whines when you pull his hair. He can barely handle how you feel on a regular night, but with all of this love in the air, all of these promises, it all hit a lot harder. Gracious and in love, he supports your body as he fucks you with all of this intention. His fingers trail your stomach and dip down between. 

Art finds your clit like it’s the easiest action in the world and knows exactly how to touch you so that the sense of his finger mixes with the impact of his length to your cervix. You’re a mess, the way he loves you, hair messy and lips shiny, body shaking under his touch. You are his entire life, shaking underneath him, begging to carry his and your future in you, and best believe, he will make sure that any baby he makes with you will be made with the labour of both his climax and yours. Little circles, building the pleasure in your core to an undeniable point. “I-” you’re so pretty, unable to speak, only moan, sigh, and breathe. “Please.” And beg. 

“I’m so close,” he repeats, voice climbing with warning, thrusts not faltering, but pressing deeper with every thrust. There’s a pinch in your lower stomach, and like he reads your mind, he takes your weight under his knee, doesn’t stop fucking you for one second, and presses his other hand to your lower stomach. Your orgasm winds up like something ready to spring,  like it might split you in two, constant, humming pleasure. The impact, the gentle circles on your clit, the press. You hold onto him like he can save you from what he’s doing. He grins, bending to kiss the closest place to your face, your chest. The angle kills him, you’re tighter this way, and he feels himself speeding toward the edge. “I need you to come for me,” he says quietly. “For me.” 

You can barely breathe or think, but your body feels like it’s about to break. “I can’t. I’m trying- ”

“You can- God, you can, I need you to, please,” his tone is almost a whine, so breathless. 

“I’m yours, I’m yours, don’t stop,” you plead, and it takes all he has in him not to finish right then. “God, Art, don’t stop, I need you, I need you to come inside me, please, please, please.” Your string of desperate words continues to keep him breathless. 

“I am- I will, I need you to come on me, for me,” he returns. “You’re so beautiful, you feel so good, I love you.” His own string of desperation falls from his lips. His orgasm rises through his entire body, pending, waiting for the crash. It feels like waiting for the ocean to fall on your head and wipe you away. You, you’re convinced your body just can’t take this much pleasure. “You can do this, feel this, I need you-to-” He’s losing to himself, leaking inside of you already, almost. He’s at the sharpest edge he’s ever met. He pushes just slightly more, he speeds up his fingers, and he feels your orgasm begin to unravel inside of you, your muscles tightening suddenly. He feels himself about to spill over. He breathes out hard, feeling your resistance against his length, sucking him in, almost, taking him so well the way you always do. The way he always tells you, you do. “I’m-”

He feels it, all of it, as it comes over you. Your entire body writhes like you can’t take it, like it’s too much to bear. Your moans come falling like collected breaths, shaky, harsh, broken. He can feel the flood as your release is met, and he wants more than anything to feel it, how wet you are, how you shake, and pay close attention to every detail, but you get impossibly tight, and he can’t stop now to sit and admire. Just as it breaks in you, he can’t keep himself from what he wants, what he needs. “Oh fuck- I’m coming, I’m-” he chokes himself out with a groan, thrusts not faltering once as he gets thrown off that very edge. His body tenses, his cock coiling itself, then with that final kick, spilling into you. Pouring into you. And it was only then that he slowed to a stop, all the way inside of you. 

The orgasm lasted much longer than either of you anticipated. It hits him, hits him more, and desperately, messily, you kiss him, full on.  It takes twenty seconds for him to finally let his muscles relax, completely finished. Your hips squirm, orgasm unfinished- you’re flooding the bed with a mixture of yourself and him. He whispers soft words, reassurance, and devotional praise as he watches your pleasure span ten seconds more than his. Neither you nor him were aware that it could even happen, but neither of you would ever complain. Maybe it’s a married thing. 

You taste like the rest of his life, and you look like a woman ruined. Art, on the other hand, looks destroyed. He stays that way, lying with you, while your hands tangle in his hair again, gentler this time. Your chest is rising and falling, high, low. His fingers trace patterns on the bare skin of your stomach. Neither of you speaks for three minutes, just laying connected, blissed out, completely gone. “I love you so much,” he breaks the silence. 

“I love you more,” you tell him. “That was-” 

“So-”

“Mhm,” you sighed happily. “Round two soon?” You joke. You’re perfect. 

He laughed, a hearty, loud laugh, “Of course.” And he pulls out, cleaning you up a little, then himself, before coming to crawl back over you again. He plants a kiss on your stomach before finding a place in the crook of your neck. Both of you still have your breaths to catch. “I can hardly wait-” 

It only takes about ten months of waiting before Art meets his daughter. She’s small, sweet, beautiful, like you. She has your eyes, your smile. He sees himself reflected in her eyes and knows this is it. He sits next to you in the hospital bed, his own face tear-streaked, matching yours.  This is all real, all perfect, all he’s ever wanted, all in one place. 

- - - -

i haven’t posted anything like this in soooo long you need to forgive me for losing my taglist! if you’d like to be a part of it, never be afraid to comment to be added!

[adam--official]

I know I've been doing more mod posts than roleplay posts but christ aliveeee do you know how many expletives we use.in day to day life. "Oh my god," "Jesus Christ," "fuck," "what the hell," "goodness," "holy shit," or anything similar!!! All expletives are cultural, most of them involving religion or taboos. Fuck is a swear because sex is frowned upon, son of a bitch is a swear because having a child outside of wedlock is frowned upon, shit is a swear because excrement is viewed as gross, and don't even mention all the ones relating to Christianity! Anything "holy" is relating to God, saying Oh My Anything is essentially a prayer, "damn" refers to sending something to hell, even "oh, man" is a weird cultural thing that I don't know the meaning of but definitely stemmed from something specific. The only way I can get away with saying oh man is when I'm actually having Eve refer to Adam as man. Like "speak not to me of blasphemy, man!" sorta thing. They don't have the names Adam and Eve yet so it.works. the closest thing to an expletive I've used is when Adam refers to gods burning hand, "burning" being the expletive here because it hurt. But how do I use a swear when these people have never experienced any pain, and nothing is taboo? I'm kind of just having them groan and yell a lot

With the angels it's easier. They were created specifically to serve God, so anything outside of God is bad. The view everything in the context of The Lord™. They don't say things like "oh.my god" because that stems from praying, it's more like a quick plea, and angels don't pray. They do say things like "forsaken", to imply that God doesn't like that thing and therefore it sucks. It's used in a similar way to "damn," such as "I stubbed my toe on that forsaken coffee table" or "God forsake this mess!" The angel insults are wild too, they're not allowed to say anything that directly insults God, or imply that God is anything but Good, so I have to get creative. So they're saying things like "I fear God was distracted during the moment of your creation." It's very passive-aggressive, southern-baptisty. They say "God forsake" when they mean fuck as a verb. Like "God forsake you" instead of "fuck you." The angels of a higher rank are usually more aggressive with their insults because they know they're useful and they know that as long as they have no genuine bad feelings towards God, He doesn't care. The lower ranking ones (foot soldiers mostly) rarely ever insult anyone or imply anything remotely negative at all about God because they fear His wrath and they know they're expendable.

With the Fallen (angels, aka devils) it's not hard. They say things like "burning" and "bloody" and "blood and ash!" (Stole that from wheel of time) and pretty much anything to do with fire. For example, "Blood and ash! I stub my burning toe on this bloody coffee table, agh ow this flaming pious chunk of char!" Pious to show its stupid, because the fallen believe worship of any kind is stupid, and they don't like god very much. Chunk of char/charcoal to show that it's functionally useless and serves no purpose and is a waste. The angels and the Fallen existed before the humans did so.they had time to create some semblance of culture.

I wonder what the watchers will do. I mean they were stationed on mt ararat for thousands of years they're gonna be speaking practically a different language. With all the inside jokes and the shared duty/purpose.. it's gonna be really specific. I'll probably have the ability to pay attention be a good thing, and distraction be a bad thing. Like "shit semjaza are you distracted?" At first it was an actual insult but then they realized they were literally doing nothing and they didn't need to pay attention anyway so it kinda became a joke. Still, things relating to attention/distraction are used as expletives left over from a time when it actually mattered. Like saying "punished again by inattention! I stubbed my toe on this coffee table!" Other swears will be specific to the one speaking. A blacksmith might say "this warped coffee table," a jeweler might call it impure or inclusive, an astronomer might call it cloudy.

Basically in order to determine what to use for swears I have to determine the values of the group, what they like and their taboos, and incorporate that in a way that doesn't sound silly. I'm writing this in a way where they speak an ancient language and I'm translating, so if they were speaking their hypothetical native language it would be normal, but this is English which is so heavily influenced by Christianity that anything besides that sounds stupid! Aghgh I hate globalization

Anyways thank you for coming to my ted talk. Can u tell I like anthropology

[earlgreytea68]

I just finished a show on Netflix called "Envidiosa," and I loved it, which is unusual for me, since I usually get easily annoyed by most fiction these days.

I saw a lot of people complaining that the heroine was awful and selfish and horrible, and I was wondering what was wrong with me that I sympathized with her. Like, she made a bunch of bad decisions, but I always understood why she was making those decisions. The show, to me, really paid attention to its actual characters and how they would behave and what they would do. Also, the MC really spoke to me. She's a 40-year-old woman who feels like everyone else got the "perfect life" but her, which she defines as marriage and kids. The storyline of the show is more complex than that, but it really did resonate with me, because I am a single, childless woman in my 40s, and I am very happy, I don't want to suggest that I'm not, but I also know that I spend a lot a lot of years thinking I really NEEDED to get married and have kids, that that would of course be what my future had to look like, because that's what it looked like for everyone all around me and that's what society tells us, and I really felt for this MC struggling with her life not turning out the way it was "supposed to." I don't think we see enough characters out there really grappling with that in as much depth as this show did. Like, yeah, sometimes you DO feel like everyone shows up with nothing but good news and you're the only loser whose life isn't going well. Idk, maybe that's just a me thing but my twenties were a rough time and this really made me feel more seen but in a good way, like, yeah, I recognized this person and her struggle.

But then this show did something even more shocking and actually let the OTP, like, get to know each other and develop a relationship so that you could understand why they would want to be together????? This seems like the most basic element of a romcom but wow, almost NONE of them bother to actually do this, they just give you, like, a montage scene of the OTP walking on the beach together or playing a board game and they're like, "SEE, THEY'RE OBVIOUSLY PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER." This show took its time and the OTP had a bunch of scenes together where they actually had fun with each other and connected with each other and I was rooting for them so hard and really, I almost never root for the OTP of a romcom because usually I don't care about them at all lol.

Anyway, I was really, really impressed by this show. I didn't expect so much going in, but it was very thoughtful and well-done. Also, it was hilarious. I laughed so much. All of the characters were great and I loved all of them. I don't speak fluent Spanish but I understand enough to get by and the subtitling of this show is awful, there were so many jokes that I could hear in the original Spanish being spoken that just were lost in the subtitles, sigh, I wish they would have done a better job with that. But it's okay, because it didn't REALLY take away from the rest of the show.

Oh, also, the soundtrack was awesome, A+.

So, I very seldom recommend anything, as you know, I am the most difficult person in the world to please. And I can totally see how some people might hate this show, like, I get it, the MC is a lot to deal with. But I also really loved her and if you want a show about good characters behaving in a way that mostly makes sense and isn't just manipulated for plot purposes, this was a good one, PLUS it was funny, PLUS it had a decent ending (there's another season coming that makes me nervous but I was very satisfied with these two seasons). (And I HATE stupid contrivances to keep an OTP apart, I really do, and I was worried every once in a while that this show was veering off into that territory, but it always swerved its way back onto the track for me, mostly because it always was so rooted in the characters that I got what it was doing and going for, and again, it helped that EVERYONE seemed alike a fully imagined person on the canvase, not just the OTP.) (Well, the love triangle girl that the guy starts dating kind of bothered me but she was the only one.)

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

Charles is one of my favourite characters, and I will defend him to the death. But generally, the way that he treats Edwin vs Crystal in the early episodes does really bother me.

I love this analysis of it.

The way I tend to rationalize it - and the way most of us tend to rationalize it - is hard, because it's not really what the show seems to want us to think. I personally think Charles and Crystal's dynamic is at its best when Charles serves as an older brother/protector type of figure to her (see, him going Crystal, NO. when she wants to go to Hell with him.) The show paints him more as being flighty because of his crush on Crystal, which is really disengaging to me in addition to being (in my correct opinion) a really stupid reason to side with someone over your best friend of 30+ years.

There's a disconnect between what the fandom thinks and Charles's canon character vs the in-show motivations that Charles is given. As in, this post and other fan posts about this seem to delve deeper into Charles than the show itself does. Which is one of my few complaints about DBDA, honestly. Charles and Crystal's compelling dynamic that the fandom tends to latch onto is never really explored, and instead we get a very surface-level teenage crush that holds minimal substance.

For me, I tend to think of the I know, I know stuff more as, like, a joke. I do agree that it's part of a good cop/bad cop thing that Charles and Edwin have going on, and I think it's consensual (for the lack of a better word.) And I empathize with Charles wanting to help a 16 year old amnesiac when he's much older than her and probably feeling protective (this is, again, a much more compelling dynamic hiding under the surface.) I would do the same in Charles's position.

But also, he is so bad with boundaries. Like, Edwin lives in the office, too, and gets no say whether he wants a stranger in his home? Nah. Not right. Especially after they find out that there's a demon from Hell in her head. Just so much to unpack there.

And I think that if Charles were... more aware of Edwin's scope of trauma, if Edwin were more open about it, Charles wouldn't do it. But I think that because Charles compartmentalizes his own trauma and Edwin does it alongside him, it's very out of sight, out of mind. Edwin's not a traumatized guy between a rock and a hard place, because if he were, Charles would be, too. Edwin, who Charles loves, is obviously being a stuck-in-his-ways hard-ass because that's a less difficult characterization for Charles to manage and conceptualize.

There's so much to think about here.

For my own sanity I choose to believe that when Charles does things like say to Crystal “I know, I know, but…” (implying that he finds Edwin annoying) that it’s a pre-agreed upon thing

We’ve seen that they deliberately split up social roles, which in most cases means Charles is good cop and Edwin’s bad cop. That’s established from the very beginning: Charles is smooth and reassuring and likable with Emma, but when they need someone to “play hardball” (to make sure they get paid, and also because Emma is being fraudulent) Edwin takes over. It’s established later that their social division of labor is very intentional, with Edwin explicitly stating that he’s taking over for negotiation with the Cat King and talking to Shelby because those fall more under his area of social expertise.

Meanwhile, Edwin’s very aware that he’s sharp and abrasive and, well, a bit of an acquired taste for the majority of the human population. He knows most people find him annoying.

So it makes perfect sense, honestly, for part of their good cop-bad cop setup to involve Charles intentionally playing off Edwin’s abrasiveness - building rapport with people by commiserating with them over how annoying Edwin is. That’s a standard part of how good cop-bad cop dynamics work, the good cop looks better by contrast with the bad cop, is seen as a savior from them or at least a relief.

It’s 100% a lie from Charles’s side - he does not, in fact, find Edwin annoying in the slightest - but Edwin already knows that other people do and he does not mind that fact being used to their advantage, so Charles eventually agrees to go along with that strategy. We even see that, in canon, when Charles tells Emma in a conspiratorial voice that Edwin’s about to play hardball… and then proceeds to watch Edwin do so with utter heart-eyes.

(Which is all very well until Charles starts going off with Crystal and bulldozing over Edwin’s needs and anxieties in favor of Crystal and taking Crystal’s side over a significant period of time, instead of just during a moment of negotiation, and Edwin starts to wonder if this time Charles actually means it, and even if he’s meant it all along, if that’s why he hates their afterlife, because he’s always found Edwin as annoying as other people do and just been more polite about it than most - meanwhile Charles has no idea that Edwin could think he means it because WTF, of course he doesn’t.)

[033h]

I see sooo many tweets about “men these days only care about hedi slimane and matcha they should be fighting in a WAR”… as someone who’s dated my fair share of twinky fashion dudes like yeah obviously some are assholes but it just feels like another side of the “I’m just a girl” girl math coquetteposting coin to me. Like you don’t HAVE to date them I promise there are plenty of conventionally masculine men out there. Rather than “there are no MEN anymore” theyre prob just not in the same circles as you or you keep engaging w straight twink content and getting more of it and making urself mad.

Maybe it’s bcus I’m bi but I prefer more feminine men and I don’t think I have particularly worse dating experiences than other ppl for it. Nor do I think the men I’ve dated were doing it for “clout” lmao. Some definitely are performative and annoying but so are men of any genre it feels like we r just doubling down on policing gender expression tbh. If you don’t fw it just ignore it. The only real issue is when they get defensive and veer into homophobia but in my experience most of them actually have more queer friends bcus they share interests lol.

Ultimately it’s not even about feminine cis straight men being victims. I just think we should think carefully about why we’re so mad about them and what that feeds into re the bigger picture of how we perceive gender expression and transgression in this increasingly conservative and transphobic environment. I kinda think it’s actually not great to go back to 2010 “that’s so gay” “metrosexual” gender policing.

[day-mark]

god i fucking love competitive play, i love watching high level, skilled gameplay from passionate players, i love learning the statistics for each player and the game as a whole, i love hearing everyone and especially the casters glaze the fuck out of my favorite players. mc summit/mojang and mc.c you will be fucking dealt with .

[traumatoonz]

[spoopup]

bosses that are hard and long and dont have checkpoints are not my friend they are my natural enemy.