#always looking out for other people and having to be taught and claw their way into how to look out for themselves

[mythtakens]

Bobby Eddie character parallels yes obviously flawless no notes but Bobby Eddie Maddie character parallels??????? I think about that too hard I need a sedative

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Headless Biker x Reader content: gender neutral reader, violence, gore, dubious consent, inspired by Gakkou no Kaidan

"So you won't do anything about it?"

The officer looked up, unimpressed by your tone, then flipped another page from the book he was reading.

"There's nothing to be done, kid. It's always been a quiet neighborhood. No one else has ever complained, let alone brought up some 'biker gang' noise in the middle of the night. You're either having strange dreams, or you're off your meds."

You let the door slam on your way out. Bastard cops, you thought, stomping back to your apartment. For weeks now you'd been tormented by some asshole revving up his engine, driving up and down the road, right underneath your window. Were your dark circles not enough evidence to this perpetual misfortune?

Very well, then. If the authorities refused to help, you were going to take matters into your own hands. You glanced at the clock and focused your ears. It was around the time your troublemaker showed up. After a moment or two came a faint buzz in the distance, the mechanical rumble of a motorcycle approaching. You got up and rushed downstairs with a bat tucked under your jacket.

You quickly determined, however, that a bat might not have been the best defense against...whatever was standing before you. There was indeed a motorcycle, so you felt vindicated: your ears weren't deceiving you. On the downside, whoever sat upon the retro Kawasaki Vulcan wasn't entirely human.

The neck ended abruptly, violently, with a clean cut. There was dried blood on the old-fashioned uniform, yet the discoloration of the skin hinted at a very old wound; or, better said, cause of death.

"What the hell," you mumbled to yourself. "Bosozoku hasn't been a thing in decades."

More importantly, were you going to be killed? Historical technicalities aside, you were facing a tenebrously tall, muscular zombie of a gang member. His long coat folded with the wind, but you could read out the 'extreme violence' embroidered along it. You wondered if the sinewy arm extending towards you was about to bash your skull in. Instead, it pulled you closer. The mysterious ghoul patted the empty seat behind him.

Yandere!Headless Biker is not a man of many words. Not like he can speak to begin with, but you get the feeling he would've been just as silent and stoic with a working mouth. You guessed his intentions from the way he touched you: with a peculiar familiarity and affection, as if he was dealing with his most prized possession. His arm never leaves your side once you're off his bike. If he's not riding with you in the back, he'll hold you in his lap and trace every curve and every corner, committing them to memory.

Yandere!Headless Biker is just as stubborn as he is violent. Once he decides something, it becomes the law. "I'm sorry, do you think we're dating," you had asked once after a particularly intense fondling session. You found your answer soon enough when one of your coworkers offered to walk you home. It was late and he wanted you to be safe, most likely not anticipating that he would be the one struck down by your haunting suitor. Despite your pleas and terrified shouts, he didn't stop swinging the metal pipe until your poor colleague was an unrecognizable mess of broken bone and exposed flesh. His fingers then clawed around your throat, pressing you against the wall of your building. He couldn't talk, of course, but you felt it deeply within your soul. The words formed in your mind, mixing with the sounds of your desperate gasps for air: you belong to me. You nodded in agony until he finally released you from the unforgiving grip.

Yandere!Headless Biker has never treated you harshly ever since that incident. It was a lamentable lesson that needed to be taught - as much as it pained him to see you in those circumstances. It's other people that have to suffer, not you. You've no fault in it, especially now that you understand your place.

Yandere!Headless Biker doesn't really bring up his ghostly predicament. You have occasionally questioned him about his decapitated state, though he's indifferent to your curiosity. You suspect he lost a fight and has been holding a grudge ever since, and whenever you bring up your theory, he angrily ruffles your hair. Perhaps you're on the right track. While it may have been originally true, he has other reasons to stick around today. You. He'd crawl his way out of the depths of Hell just to be with you. You're all his, now and in whatever afterlife might follow.

Yandere!Headless Biker is one angry man. His jealousy knows no bounds, and you've learned to avert your gaze from anyone who could fall victim to his wrath. Except those who could use a little disciplinary ruffle, of course, such as the officer who so enthusiastically declined to deal with your complaints. You almost felt bad when you saw him pathetically begging on the ground, but you had warned him about a gang member on the loose.

"Someone needs head," you remarked humorously as you gawked at the bloodied knuckles of your undead boyfriend.

Why, yes, that is certainly one way to release frustrations. The tall delinquent turns to you expectantly.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Ghost Eater

Summary: You don't like exorcists. They don't much like you either.

-----

You’d always thought big restaurants like the Brownie Industry only did well in small, midwestern towns like the one you came from. A year working in LA has taught you that, no matter where you go, people will always love garlic bread and sugar.

It’s your day off which means you’re pulling a double shift. You haven’t had time to wash your hair for the past two weeks so it’s frizzing out of your claw clip and flying wild around your face. The lighting is so dim that you’ve tripped over two black purses already, luckily not while you’re running food. The big dining room sounds like an apiary with the tittering laughter of the later adult crowd that’s filtered in from the theater across the four lane road. The main difference between the Brownie Industry here and the one back home is size. The ceiling soars overhead, supported by a series of concrete pillars separating the dining area into three sections.

Normally it would be three servers per section. Today, it’s just you in yours.

One more hour. That’s what the manager promised you. It might even be true if the host stand quits seating you after the table you’re approaching.

There are three people at the table. A woman whose hair might be light blonde or gray in the light of day, her eyes light and piercing. Her face is soft from age, emphasized by the tight, lace collar of her off-season sweater. She reminds you strongly of your mom’s nemesis on the HOA board. The man couldn’t be more out of place next to her despite their equivalent age. He’s wearing a leather jacket – again, it’s not cold here – and a Norwegian metal shirt underneath. His hair is definitely white, so white it almost glows. He’s frowning at the teenager across the table as if she’s touched his motorcycle without permission.

The teenager might be the first you’ve seen all night who doesn’t have their phone out. She’s decked out in what you consider grandma florals – a t-shirt scattered with daisy chains, a bucket hat made out of nana’s carpet bag, and a hand-crocheted scarf in pastel.  You can’t really see her face under the shadow of her hat and there’s an odd, blurred quality to the way she fiddles with her napkin. You let your eyes skip past her and back to the two adults. Teenagers don’t pay the bill.

“Welcome to Brownie Industry!” you chirp. You’re sweaty and red but the faded yellow light hides that. You’re a service industry pro so none of your exhaustion shows on your face when you ask, “Is this your first-time dining with us?”

If you weren’t so burned out, you’d have noticed before you introduced yourself.

“Are you Grady?” the woman asks. Her voice is more posh than you expected even with her lace collar. “Grady Pace?”

Fuck. There’s a noticeable temperature differential now that you’re close to them. The restaurant is warm from the number of bodies, maybe even warmer than the summer air outside, but stepping up next to their table feels like walking into an ice rink.

“I’m your waitress,” you say. You don’t have time for this conversation. You’ve got five minutes in your cycle to take their order and then you’ve got food to run. “If you need any other services from me, I have a website.”

“We messaged you,” the man says. His lips thin to the point his thick mustache covers them entirely. “You never responded.”

Because you’ve been making more money at the Brownie Industry than your other job. “I’ll take a look at it tonight.”

“Wait,” the teenager says, sitting upright. She looks from you to the adults and back again. When she smiles, there’s no humor in it. “This is why we drove eight hours to have dinner at the Brownie Industry? For her?”

“Katie, be polite—”

“I’m sorry,” Katie says, “It’s just—I found a priest, you know? An actual exorcist priest and you guys want to trust a waitress over him?”

“Ugh exorcists,” you say. The memory of sour cabbage is so heavy on your tongue that you stick your tongue out in disgust. When you see Katie’s look, you backtrack. “Effective! Definitely effective.”

“Your mistakes have cost us too much already,” the man says, shaking a finger at her. “We are not converting just for an exorcism.”

“I normally don’t agree with your father,” the woman tells Katie, “but in this case I would like to leave conversion as a last resort.”

“We wouldn’t actually convert,” Katie says, rolling her eyes.

“Pretty sure exorcists can tell when you lie,” you tell Katie. When her scowl deepens, you clear your throat. “Did you all need another minute to think about the menu?”

“We need you to help us,” the dad says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I know you’re at work and I’m sorry we’re bothering you.”

“We’re desperate,” the mom says. She reaches for her purse. “We’ll pay you. Triple the rate on your website or even quadruple. We need that thing gone by tonight.”

Katie covers her face. “Mom. You’re embarrassing me. Terry isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, he’s bad, young lady,” the dad says sternly. “A bad influence.”

“We caught her trying to perform another séance yesterday,” the mom confesses to you. She leans forward with a pinched expression. “So Terry’s friend Larry could visit too.”

“Interesting,” you say. The food bell rings, but you think you can ignore it for another minute. You study Katie’s blush. “Why did you do that?”

If she was being compelled, she won’t have an answer to your question. You’ve dealt with a lot of ghosts in your time, but so few are sentient enough – or powerful enough – for compulsion.

“Go on,” the dad says, gesturing at you. “Tell her.”

“Leroy, she’s embarrassed enough,” the mom says.

“No, she’s not, Sarah.” The dad – Leroy – gestures to you again. “Tell her.”

Katie huffs, clearly resistant. But when her dad huffs back, she caves. “So,” she says, “I have this YouTube channel—”

“I’m off in an hour,” you interrupt. You don’t care that you’re being rude. Your patience ran out as soon as she said YouTube. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” You turn to go.

“A moment!” Sarah shakes out her menu. “How’s the nicoise salad?”

Of course they’re going to order. They’d better tip too if they want you to help them with their ghost problem.

----.

“You said an hour,” mom Sarah says when you leave out the employee entrance. She’s shivering next to her daughter. Leroy is off smoking behind his motorcycle, parked next to the Tesla Katie is leaning on, but he stubs out his cigarette on the asphalt when you walk up. “It’s been two.”

“I had side work,” you say instead of it would have been one if not for you. You rub your bare arms when the familiar ghost chill washes over you. You want nothing more than to go home and wash the scent of garlic and brownie batter out of your hair. “Was there something wrong with my service?”

“No?”

You try to make your voice light. “I see.”

Sarah frowns at your tone anyway. “Why?”

“You tipped five dollars.”

Katie jolts like a scalded cat. “Mom!”

Leroy scrubs a hand over his face. “Sarah…”

“What?” Sarah throws up her hands. The parking lot lights catch on her Swarovski charm bracelet. “I tipped!”

“Like ten percent,” Katie says. She pulls her bucket hat over her eyes for a beat and then peeks at you from under it. “I’m so sorry. It’s not you, she’s always like this.”

“It was actually a six percent tip,” you say. You’re getting a clearer picture of this little family now. It’s becoming more and more understandable why Katie might have started summoning ghosts. “If you want to be precise.”

Leroy reaches for his back pocket. “Let me.”

Sarah swats at his hand. “We’re about to pay her a lot more than that!”

“For a completely separate job,” Leroy says. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and hands it to you with a grimace. “Sorry, Grady, I should’ve checked.”

“You should’ve paid if you cared so much,” Sarah retorts. She folds her arms over her chest. She taps her cheek and widens her eyes. “Oh wait… you never pay.”

“Sure,” Leroy says. This time it’s his turn to throw his hands in the air. “Sure, Sarah. I don’t pay for anything to do with our daughter’s private school or her dance classes or her health insurance—”

“If the court hadn’t mandated—”

“You make twice as much as me—"

“Guys!” Katie says loudly. Her mouth is a thin line of upset when she says, “Argue about what an expensive burden I am later when we don’t have an audience, okay?”

Her parents speak at the same time.

“You’re twisting my words,” Sarah says. “I never said—"

“Sweetie, you’re not a burden—”

“Can you just get this ghost out of me?” Katie asks you. She goes for nonchalance and falls short. “My parents haven’t been in the same room for the last five years for a reason.” She fakes whispering. “They don’t play nicely with others.”

Sarah bristles. “Katie.”

“God, I know how that is,” you say. The whole interaction is giving you the worst case of sympathy for Katie. Before her parents can say anything else, you change the subject. “How long have you been haunted?”

“Six months,” Katie says. She fiddles with her bucket hat so that you can see her eyes for the first time. They’re brown, like her dad’s, and have heavy bruises underneath. She shrugs. “They only noticed a month ago though.”

“I noticed your behavior had changed,” Sarah defends. Like her daughter, she fidgets. She plays with her bracelet and clears her throat. “I thought it was a teenage thing.”

“What signs did you notice first?” you ask the parents. They glance at each other and then away.

“Let’s just say we noticed different things,” Leroy says dryly. He pulls out his phone.

“Moodiness,” Sarah says. She ticks them off on her fingers. “Laziness. Disrespect. Over-sleeping.”

“Those are just teenager things,” Katie says with an astounding level of self awareness. She shrugs. “I’m a senior now. They’re lucky it didn’t start sooner.”

“I,” Leroy says, “noticed this.” He turns his phone towards you.

“Ah,” Sarah says, “Yes. That.”

You examine the picture. It’s of Katie on a small dirt bike. She’s wearing a helmet in the picture, but you recognize the fashion sense in the floral boots she’s wearing. The scene behind her is of the hills, low scrub brush recognizable to someone who’s lived in LA for the past five years. On the bike behind her is a smudge. It could be a cloud of dirt blown into frame or maybe a camera glitch. It could be if it weren’t for the leering face emerging from the cloud right behind her head.

“I just want to say I did not agree to getting her a motorcycle,” Sarah says.

“Mom, not the point,” Katie says.

“Look how close that creep is to my daughter,” Leroy says. He jabs a finger at Katie’s waist in the photo where you can see a ghostly hand. “I want him gone.”

“Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it!” Katie turns to you earnestly. “Terry never rode a bike before and I thought, like, what if he moved on after he got a chance to? It was a philanthropic effort!”

“Plant a tree if you want to be a philanthropist,” Leroy growls. “I want this guy away from my daughter.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm really,” Katie says. “He would move on if he could! He says he’s stuck to me because of how I summoned him. He’s like, really sorry. He even spelled out Sorry in the bathroom mirror once.”

“What,” Sarah says in a dangerous voice, “was Terry doing in the bathroom with you, Katie?”

Katie splutters. “Mom, don’t be gross!”

The family descends into bickering. You have heard about ghosts being stuck to a person before, but usually that’s when the person has some sort of psychic powers. Katie’s wearing crystal in her ears, but they aren’t charged. She might develop some talent later in life, but right now she’s a normal girl.

The parking lost is nearly empty now. You recognize a few employee cars, but very few customers. The kitchen will be cleaning for another half hour before they’re ready to go home.  The reality is that, if Terry is stuck, you might not be the best way to handle the situation. If he’s not…

Well.

It’s time to talk to Terry.

Opening your ghost sense is hard to describe. Some psychics liken it to a third eye, right in the middle of their forehead. You’ve always thought that sounded really cool like maybe the world gets cast in a blue hue when they do it and the dead appear like they do in movies. You’ve met other psychics who say it’s like a sixth sense. They know where the ghost is and it’s like they download all that information until their minds can just sort of conjure their image.

For you, it’s like letting your body remember it has a second mouth. Cats have an extra sensory organ on the roof of their mouth that lets them detect scents better. Your second mouth is a bit like that. You can still smell brownies and garlic and the city air of LA, but you can also smell/taste something else.

Something like…pepper?

Your eyes water and you sneeze so viciously that your eyes close. When you open them again, four people are staring at you in surprise.

“Gesundheit,” Leroy says.

“You sneeze like Dad does,” Katie says.

“Did no one ever teach you to cover your mouth?” Sarah asks in disgust.

“I wish you would’ve sneezed on her,” Terry says, nodding to Sarah. “She’s such a bitch.”

“Thank you for the commentary, everyone,” you say. You wipe your nose with the collar of your shirt as you consider Terry. It’s dirty anyway. “Terry. Interesting name for a ghost.”

Terry hasn’t noticed that you can see him yet. He’s floating behind Katie, one arm casually flung over her shoulder. It’s hard to place when he died based on his appearance alone. His hair is chin length, emphasizing the width of his jaw. Squire cuts have been popular for several decades and the bowling shirt he’s wearing could either be a modern fashion statement or a dated uniform. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, sun-kissed and with the air of someone who tells a lot of jokes at the expense of others. His arm around Katie strikes you as possessive, the glare he gives her parents venomous.

“I didn’t name him,” Katie says. “He said it’s short of Torrance.”

You blink. “Wouldn’t he be Torri then?”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Katie and Terry say at the same time. Their cadence is so close that it actually sounds like Terry’s baritone comes out of Katie’s mouth. For a moment, his arm flickers, clipping into her shoulder like a bad animation. When it does, Terry’s form grows brighter, more solid. Then Katie shivers and he’s forced out of her.

You and Terry click your tongues at the same time.

You remember how Katie’s hands seemed to blur at the dinner table. Terry’s not just haunting Katie. He’s trying to possess her. You wonder if that’s why Katie looked up an exorcist rather than a simple spiritual cleansing. Did she know how much danger she was in?

“Okay,” you say. You tear your attention away from Katie and Terry for a moment. Business first. “Sarah. Leroy. Who was it that found my site?”

“I did,” Sarah says. She raises her chin when you can’t hide your surprise. “When Katie was looking up exorcists—”

“She didn’t mean it,” Terry says. He pats Katie’s hat. “Right?”

“—I looked up alternative solutions,” Sarah says, not having heard Terry. Her confidence falters for a moment and she rubs her arm. “I have had some… negative experiences with exorcisms. I don’t want my daughter to go through that.”

Katie’s head whips towards her mother. “What? I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago,” Leroy says. For the first time, he reaches out and hugs Sarah with one arm. You don’t know what surprises you more; Leroy hugging Sarah or Sarah leaning into his side. “When Sarah told me, we decided to put our differences aside. I vetted you through some of my contacts and they all agreed you’d be a safe bet.”

“I am,” you say. You’re not bragging either. You’re probably the safest bet in half the western states besides your older sister. “There are some…peculiarities in my method.”

“Charlatan,” Terry whispers in Katie’s ear. He’s grinning now. “Only charlatans are that confident. Look! She can’t even see me!”

Katie looks doubtful.

Usually, you’d try to talk to Terry at this point. Sometimes spirits can be negotiated with. They can be encouraged to move on or to take on a less aggressive form of haunting. Those that are truly stuck can be helped with the right sort of ritual work. But the way Terry’s affecting Katie’s mood and that fucking arm around her shoulders…

You don’t really want to talk to Terry.

“We can ask Terry to move on,” you tell the family.

“Nooooooo,” Terry says and flips you off. “Pass!”

“Sometimes spirits don’t realize how deeply they’re affecting their hosts,” you say.

“You don’t even know how deep I’m about to be,” Terry jeers at you.

“Many ghosts are confused when they’re called to interact with the living,” you say. “It can blur their understanding of death and, as a result, they cling to life. If they stick around long enough, their presence will affect the living like what’s happening to Katie. It’s not always malicious. It can be a symptom of that confusion.”

“Katie, tell her to piss off,” Terry hisses in the teen’s ear. “I’m not confused, I’m bored.” His voice deepens. “Tell her we don’t need her help. Tell her we’re going home.”

Katie opens her mouth robotically. “That’s…” Her brow creases as she tries to figure out what she was going to say. “It seems like we don’t need help then. Terry will move on when he’s ready, like I thought.”

“We aren’t paying you for a ghost therapy session,” Sarah snaps. It’s only because you’re really focusing that you can see the unease under her anger. She’s noticed something wrong with Katie. “Katie, Terry is going away today.”

“Fuck you,” Terry says.

“Fuck you,” Katie says.

Leroy’s head rears back. “Katie, you don’t use that language with your mother!”

“Fuck you too,” Katie and Terry say. The parking lot lights flicker.

“No, fuck you, Terry,” you say, stepping between Katie and her parents. Leroy starts like he’s going to pull you out of the way, but he doesn’t.

“Terry?” Leroy asks. He looks scared. “Terry said that? Is Terry possessing my daughter?”

“Not yet.” You eye Terry’s arm and the way his fingers are sinking into Katie’s arm.

“Oh fuck,” Terry says. He doesn’t look scared. Not yet. Instead, he grins. “You can see me.”

“Not every ghost is malicious,” you tell the parents without taking your eyes off Terry. “But some are.”

“I’m not malicious.” Terry runs a hand through his hair, still grinning. The parking lot lights flicker overhead again. “I care about Katie a lot.”

“Terry’s never hurt me,” Katie says.

You ignore her. She’s not even shaking Terry off now. Her gaze is dull on your face when you say, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m some sort of ghost therapist. However, it’s important to differentiate between malicious and non-malicious hauntings in my practice. My methods are unconventional and, if used indiscriminately, I can get in a lot of trouble.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Leroy says. He steps into your periphery. His gaze flicks from you to the spot you’re staring at over Katie’s shoulder. “We want Terry gone.”

“Not a soul,” Sarah promises. She comes up on your other side. “Please help our daughter.”

“Terry,” you say. Your second mouth is yawning wide somewhere in the back of your brain. The taste of pepper isn’t as overwhelming now. “Last chance. Renounce your claim on Katie’s soul and slither back into whatever hole you came out of.”

“We’re soulmates,” Terry says. He bares his teeth at you. “Go on, Charlatan. Call on your God to banish me. I’ve been around for decades and no exorcist has ever been able to put a scratch on me. And when they manage to push me out?” He laughs and the temperature drops another ten degrees. An unholy light flickers in his eyes. “I just come right back.”

“Then I guess I won’t feel guilty,” you say.

“Guilty?” Katie asks.

You walk forward two steps and grab Terry’s face. Terry’s skin is soft and jelly-like. His facial bones undulate like rubber under your grip. “Hi, Terry.”

Now Terry’s afraid. “What the fuck, you can touch—?”

“Bye, Terry.” You drag him towards you. His fingers pop out of Katie’s arm with a wet sucking sound, and he claws at your wrist.

“Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait--”

You eat Terry.

People come from all around to eat at the Brownie Industry. They love the density of the desserts and the heaps of garlic spread over home-baked (shipped frozen) rolls. It’s a treat to know you’re always going to enjoy the meal even if you’re far from home or eating at the same location a hundred times. It’s consistency, sugar and butter. An easy addiction to have.

Eating ghosts is like that for you. They fizz in your second mouth like champagne and melt like fudge. It’s hard to describe and the ephemeral quality of it sends shivers down your spine. Somewhere Terry is screaming in anguish, maybe crying. You think that the family you’re helping is screaming something too, but the sensation of eating is so consuming you can’t hear the words.

Terry is younger than other ghosts you’ve eaten. He doesn’t have the depth of flavor you’d once been addicted to back in Illinois. The best ghost you’ve ever eaten had been like a six-course meal with all the centuries she’d been carrying. In comparison, Terry is like a bag of pepper chips. Interesting, but gone in a moment. Still, he hits the spot.

When you’re done, you burp a purple cloud of ectoplasm into the still night air.

Leroy is the first to speak. His eyes are so wide you can see the whites all around them. “Pay her, Sarah,” he says breathlessly. His hands shake as he reaches for Katie, steadying her on her feet. “Now.”

You smack your lips and graciously accept the wad of cash Sarah hands you. You raise your eyebrows. “This is more than three times my rate.”

“Consider it a tip,” Sarah says. She’s more composed than Leroy, but still pale. She studies you. “That was…revolting.”

“You didn’t have to watch,” you say. You put your money away and then perk up at a sudden thought. “Hey, if you can, can you leave me a review on my site?”

“I thought you didn’t want us to tell anyone?”

You wave your hand. “Secrets are bad for business. Besides, Terry deserved it. I’m sure they’ll understand if you write that in your review.”

“They…?”

You smile and don’t answer.

The family don’t ask many more questions after that. The parents promise to leave a review and Katie just stares at you as if concussed. You assure the parents that she’ll be back to normal as soon as the soul-shock wears off. 

“And if it doesn’t?” Sarah asks.

“Message me,” you say.

“You don’t check your messages,” Leroy says.

“Oh,” you say, patting your stomach, “I’ll be checking them a lot more often now.”

You’re hungry again.

---

(Patreon)

[chowadoe]

my Metamy kid!! his name is Dusty Rose :D ft. single mom Amy Rose and Absentee baby daddy metal sonic LOL

his name's Dusty Rose after Dusty Miller, a plant that looks like metal/silver. Dusty Rose is also a pink color ! it also rhymes with Rusty Rose. im so smart (/j)

born from Metal Sonic's core and infused with Amy's biosignature, Amy and Metal Sonic had a very brief 'thing'... eventually Metal Sonic was soft rebooted and sent away yet again, but he left a piece of himself (part of his 'core'? infused with chaos energy..?) to Amy, which then became Dusty. leaving Dusty as the last true remaining testament of their love

(I just love the idea of Amy with a Waitress style character arc... finding love again in raising her child and not the way she used to think, being spent with another person)

Dusty would be very fixated on the idea of love, after all his mother raised him on the notion of that. Amy's standards for true love and fairytale romance have definitely changed being with Metal Sonic, but the root message being that love is all encompassing and transformative.

He was 'created' to look like Mobian, and Amy treats him no differently than any other Mobian/human. Still, he believes that he should hide all the parts that 'other' him from society, which means his robot parts. (legwarmers!)

He's got a bit of a bad boy edge to him LOLLL i kind of created him that he'd be an emo kid. (fall out boy.. my chemical romance.. a bit of IDKHow) really good at electric guitar and part of a band. eventually he finds his passion is in lyric-writing (all those love stories and inheriting his mother's gift for writing love letters)

he often wonders what a beating heart is like, as someone without one. he's interested in the heartbeats and the pulses of others, but he is a total sweetheart himself.. still, even to other mobians unaware that he is an android (a weapon at that), it's still a little off-putting..

more abt him belolow

Dusty's core is already made/designed after Amy's biosignature, and in meeting other people, he's able to read their biodata and stash it into an archive, but he doesn't reproduce it onto himself. (though unsure if he could? either his code has a blockade or he chooses not to)

Dusty, additional to his stash of weapons, has the ability to shift too like his papa... become something similar to Metal Overlord but not entirely... like a half robot dragon boy or smth.. IF he's under the right conditions to have it pulled out of him. or something

Dusty DOES "grow" up. basically, he's an inorganic being whose core is trying to emulate/copy the growth progression of other organic beings.

As it would grow in size (and Dusty's cognition "matures"), his mother and her friends would modify as needed to adjust his frame, etc, but rarely were things ever replaced. Like a mollusk, its shell growing in size- but one needing accommodations. A heart bigger than its own body that threatens to spill- a chick that has outgrown its shell, well before its expected date- needing modifications to keep it inside and protected

Metal Sonic and Amy would have something profound-- one of those tragic, star-crossed enemies-to-lovers dark fantasy romance stories Amy's always loved to read about- but then having it play in real time and having to come to terms with the real world implications of actually having one. It's just that- a fantasy. and metal sonic would grapple with the ideas of love, which i think would be inherently dark and a little possessive given his upbringing-- but what him and Amy have would be sweet at the very core of it. so him giving a piece of his core that reads and adapts to Amy's biosignature and oops... accidental baby....

Dusty finds himself drawn to music. his mom and dad couldn't quite communicate love language physically (with Metal Sonic's claws and his lack of mouth) so I hc that Amy taught Metal Sonic how to hum and sing and communicate their love through music and vocalizations (which carried onto Dusty)

4th pic is Dusty doing breathing exercises with his mama... Dusty gets embarrassed super easily so him and Amy would regularly do breathing exercises so he doesn't overheat like a PC

[glowettee]

✧ girlblogging saved my life | tribute to girlbloggers of tumblr

💌 a love letter to the girls who feel everything all at once

hi angel. mindy here.

i just want to talk to you for a second. not as a persona, not as a brand, not even as a blog, but as a girl who started typing into a blank text box one day and never stopped.

because the truth is, i didn’t make this blog because i was healed. i made it because i was hurting.

and somewhere between the aesthetic pinterest photos, the late-night diary entries, the posts that only got 3 notes, the 2am reblogs of girls who looked like soft versions of my pain... i found something. i found you.

✿

i didn’t know i was creating a life raft when i made this blog. but looking back, i can see it so clearly now: i was a girl who needed a safe place to feel everything. to be too much, too emotional, too ambitious, too dreamy. irl, i felt like i was being graded for everything, my appearance, my intelligence, my tone of voice, even the way i sat in a chair. everything had to be curated and clean and perfect.

but on here? on tumblr? i could fall apart in lowercase.

i could write things like “i feel like a forgotten ballerina in a dusty theater” and no one would ask me if i was okay. they’d just reblog it with “me too.” and somehow, that felt more healing than any conversation i’d ever had.

✿

girlblogging didn’t just save my life. it gave me one.

a life where i could romanticize my flashcards, where healing could look like claw clips and classical music and drinking water in a wine glass. a life where i could turn loneliness into poetry and ambition into art. a life where i wasn’t just surviving... i was curating, creating, soft-launching a girl i had always dreamed of being.

i started girlblogging when i didn’t have the words for what i was feeling. but now i know, it was grief. it was burnout. it was self-abandonment. and slowly, one pink post-it thought at a time, i started writing my way back to myself.

✿

when people ask what girlblogging even is, i just smile. because it’s not something you can explain in one sentence. it’s something you feel.

it’s the way you post blurry photos of your eyeliner because it makes you feel powerful. it’s the way you build entire personalities out of fictional girls like spencer hastings, wonyoung, cher horowitz, and elle woods. it’s the way you turn your trauma into templates and your survival into routines. it’s how we whisper “you’re not alone” to each other through digital scraps of diaries, gifs, playlists, and checklists titled ✧ how to feel like yourself again.

girlblogging is archiving your girlhood in real-time. and i think that’s the most radical thing we’ve ever done.

✿

i’ve met girls here who are quiet geniuses. girls who write like moonlight. girls who study like the world is ending. girls who’ve taught me how to rest, how to flirt with life again, how to turn breakdowns into soft resets. girls who made me feel seen in a way real life never did.

and the best part? they’re just like me. just like you. we’re all here, in this glittery corner of the internet, building worlds from our bedrooms, lighting candles for each other, sending each other healing in the form of moodboards and poetry and routines.

this is a community of unspoken survival. we never say it directly. we just post something beautiful and hope someone else recognizes the ache behind it.

and we do. every time.

✿

so this is my love letter. to you. to the girlbloggers. to the dreamers who stayed up late to make a new aesthetic header even though they had homework. to the girls who reblogged posts about self-worth while silently trying to believe them. to the ones who took notes like it was an artform. to the ones who healed in lowercase and sparkles. to the ones who are still learning how to love themselves in soft, sustainable ways.

you saved me. girlblogging saved me. you taught me how to live again.

and i just want to say... whatever you’re going through, you’re not weird for needing this space. you’re not cringey for making everything an aesthetic. you’re not “too much” for feeling everything at once.

you’re just a girl in the middle of becoming. and that’s a sacred thing.

never let the world convince you that softness isn’t powerful. it is. it always has been.

✿

so keep posting your little poems and guides. keep updating your theme at 1am. keep reblogging things that feel like you. because maybe girlblogging isn’t about being seen. maybe it’s about seeing yourself for the first time in forever.

and maybe that’s enough.

tributed to all the girlblogging community on tumblr + these amazing creators/girlbloggers:

@prettieinpink

@honeytonedhottie

@b3byd0ll

@thegirlingold

@dollywons

@agirlwithglam

@cantmakeitonmyown

@bunnysdollette

@maxiglow

@malusokay

@girljournal

@bloomzone

@4theitgirls

@milkoomi

@realprissygirl

~ mindy ♡

[navybrat817]

The Dad Diaries: Grief

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky explains grief to Jamie as best as he can when you need a minute to yourself. Word Count: Over 1.2k Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, touch of fluff, grief, loss of a friend, reflecting, talk of death, feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and a dad, okay?). A/N: Another part to the The Dad Diaries . Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky could hear your cries before he reached the bedroom, the sound causing a lump to form in his throat. He could picture you hastily wiping at your face when he knocked. You were in pain and it hurt him to know you were hurting. The worst part was that it wasn’t the kind of pain he could fix by patching it up. It was the kind of hurt that lingered beneath the surface before it clawed its way out.

Grief.

“Do you need anything, doll?” He asked.

“Just give me a minute, please!” You called out, your voice close to sounding like your normal self. You were trying your best to be strong when what you needed was a moment to break. People didn’t realize the weight of the things they carried until they buckled under them.

And you didn’t need to be strong all the time.

“Mama?” Jamie asked, reaching a hand out toward the door.

Bucky kissed the top of his head. “Mama needs a minute,” he whispered before he held him against his chest. He hoped his smell and steady heart beat soothed him. “She’ll snuggle up with you soon, okay?”

If anything could make you feel better apart from being in his arms, it was having your son nuzzle against you.

Jamie made a small sound, his lower lip trembling. “Mama,” he said again.

Bucky didn’t take it to heart that his son wanted you. He understood that there were days when he’d want his dad and other days he’d want his mom and times when he’d want both of you. If anything, he felt proud that his son wanted to go to you. Maybe he sensed that you needed support and love.

“I know you want your mama,” he said, carrying him back to the living room. “But you are stuck with me for another minute.”

Jamie moved his head, his eyes set in a stubborn stare. He looked so much like you at that moment, demanding with a look to know what was the matter and how to fix it. What could he say?

“Jamie, you know how you have your Uncle Steve and Uncle Sam and Aunt Nat and everyone else?” He asked, a sad smile touching his lips at the happy look in his little boy’s eyes at the mention of his friends. He wanted his child to hold onto that innocence for as long as he could. “Well, your mama had a friend who was going to be like an aunt to you, too.”

Was. Past tense. Because your friend recently passed away. You wondered if she knew how important she was to you. If she knew how she impacted your life. She was too young in your eyes to go. Still had so many things she wanted to do. While death is fair in that it comes for everyone, it doesn’t always feel fair when someone you care for is taken away too soon.

The one thing you were thankful for was that she was no longer in pain.

“Mama’s friend, your aunt, isn’t here anymore. She misses her and she’s sad that she’s gone.”

“Mama sad?” Jamie repeated, his eyes wide.

“Yeah, Nugget. She’s very sad. Grieving. And grief is… so many things,” Bucky explained, swallowing a bit as he felt a crack in his heart. “It’s loss and mourning. It’s love that you carry inside and it no longer has a place to go.”

Jamie gazed at him, soaking up every word. His son was too young to hear something like this. Too precious. But if life taught him anything, it’s that it was too short and there was no guarantee of tomorrow.

“Some days the grief comes out of nowhere. You never really know when it’ll happen or why. You may hear a song you’ve heard dozens of times before or catch a scent of something familiar and it triggers a memory or feeling,” he told him, kissing his forehead again because he needed to ground himself. “You think you’re fine and then you fall apart.”

That was exactly what had happened a few minutes prior. You were smiling one moment as the three of you sat in the living room and the next you burst into tears before you rushed out. Bucky wished like hell he could’ve manifested your sadness into something tangible so he could snuff it out. It wasn’t his battle to fight, but he could be by your side to wipe the tears away if you let him. Or whisper words of care. Or to say nothing at all. Some didn’t always want to hear words of comfort or hope when they just needed to feel.

He would be there to give you whatever you needed or asked for.

“It’s okay to feel those feelings, Jamie. I get sad, too. There’s no timeline for healing or grieving. It takes as long as it takes. And we’re lucky in a way to feel things so strongly,” he told him. You were always understanding and patient on his off days. He more than lucked out by having you as his wife. “You know what your Uncle Vis says grief is? That it’s love persevering,” he added, bouncing him a bit to make him smile. It put a smile on his face, too. “And your mama has so much love to give.”

“So do you.”

Bucky looked toward the doorway where you stood. Bloodshot and puffy eyes, but with a small smile on your beautiful face. He wanted to hold you and remind you that you weren’t alone. “Hey,” he said as Jamie reached for you. “I think he wants to cheer you up.”

“Is that right? Well, I think a snuggle with my boys is just the thing I need,” you said as you took a seat beside Bucky and took Jamie into your arms. “Sorry I rushed off like that.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky whispered. He had plenty of moments where he needed to step away and compose himself when his thoughts got too loud. “We just want you to be okay,” he added, kissing your temple before Jamie grabbed your face.

“Mama no sad,” he said, forcing your cheeks up in a smile. The sight almost brought tears to Bucky’s eyes because it was so simple and heartfelt. “No sad.”

You giggled, a soft sound, before it erupted into full blown laughter. It soothed the crack he felt earlier in his heart. The room felt brighter, especially when Jamie joined in with the laughter. “Not sad, Nugget,” you assured him before you looked at your husband, love shining through like always. “Not anymore.”

The grief from your loss would come again in waves. Just like the days Bucky mourned the parts of his life he lost and couldn’t get back. Some days were harder than others, especially when regret and “what if’s” came to mind, but the important thing was that neither of you allowed yourselves to live alone or lose yourselves in grief. Not when there was so much to be thankful for.

You felt what you needed to feel. You asked for help and leaned on each other. And you carried on together.

Because what is grief, if not love persevering?

I lost more than one loved one recently and writing this helped me process some of the loss. We all need someone like Bucky. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[konigs-favorite-wife]

You’re a cute, not so little wolf hybrid of 141, the HHSA&S had teamed up with 141 to test new program. Involving Humans who had taken a liking to their animal forms and were able to complete testing and courses to be able to join as K-9 Unit

This was supposed to be more helpful, as Hybrid in animal form should be able to understand and receive human speech, communication, and commands easier then a K-9 who would have to be taught these commands. You Handler, ‘Ghost’ was strict with you during training, refusing to let you be loose, lazy and flabby like the other Hybrids who got comfortable. He had to assure that since you were a wolf, unlike the other Shepherds, Malinois, and retrievers, you would have to prove your worth and obedience to remain in the program. So you did.

Until a day came where Ghost strapped you to his chest in a harness, you dangling there as you all boarded a plane getting ready to fly to a new cover location. That is where you saw HIM. A large man, a black hood over his face as he stood, eyeing your team as they dropped, You landed on the ground, sticking by Ghost, as he stared the other man down, the other man speaking up with a heavy German accent, “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you arrived alive” his voice wasn’t deep, a stake contrast to his form, still your ears perked up listening, turning to look up at your handler as he spoke. “I could say the same, König.” Ghost's gruff voice sounded on the edge of threatening, but your front paws tapped excitedly as you looked up at Ghost, Ghost motioning for you to still, you did. Tail dropping, curious and wanting to meet with the new man as if he were a new toy.

You let out a small whine, sitting, waiting, eventually the rest of the main squad arrived, Captain Price approached, greeting the Colonel, both men tense as they passively came to an agreement of how the two opposing sides would find common ground in the meantime. It’s just no one expected it to be you.

First it started with people watching your wolf ears always popping up over tables, windows, behind the sofa, or just in passing, it didn’t matter, from the opposing team, almost all of them were interested in seeing that set of wolf ears twitching, and moving around, as you sniffed around, looking for something of somewhere to lay. Slowly, it moved to KorTac members in passing, lingering and watching the 141 Wolf in action while training, Ghost being passive as he shouted commands and orders, wanting to prove that his force was one to be reckoned with.

Eventually the training takes a toll, attempting to scurry off and hide at any chance to avoid longer training hours, leading you to sniffing around in more secluded areas. Claws clicking as your paws clicked over the flooring, tail wagging as you picked up a scent, sniffing and tracking it, a sense of distress, following it more determined, pausing as you came open him. Colonel König, seemingly sat on an office chair in distress, leaning back, a hand pressed to his masked face, your ears flattening as you quietly approached the man. Using your nose to nudge his hands that is gripping his pants thigh tightly, noting how he tensed as your snout nudged his hand, lifting his hand off his mask. Eyeing you as you whine, a small bark at him, sitting by his leg, resting your jaw on his thigh, attempting to push your head under his hand, he lets out a shaky breath. A shaky dry laugh, as he placed his hand on your head.

“Emotional Distress Service?” He asked, eyeing you, blue eyes contrasting the stark black, you whined, looking up at him, letting out a small bark, he didn’t speak back. You lifted a paw, placing it on his thigh beside your face as you let out a chuff, feeling his thumb rub over your head and ear, the rest of his hand splayed out over your head, lightly scratching at your thick fur, finding a way of grounding himself as he ran his fingers through your fur absentmindedly. “A wolf, not a hound. Tell me why that Brit decided to domesticate such a majestic creature who deserves to be free, not strapped in a kennel for war.”

You closed your eyes enjoying the attention, tail wagging as you yapped at him happily. He let out a laugh that rumbled lowly in his chest, almost silent as his shoulder shifted slightly with the laugh. “What an interesting creature.”

That’s how it started, sneaking away after training, sniffing out the colonel, resting your head on his leg, and letting him pet you, always absentmindedly as he ran a hand over your head and fur. Always giving big hand a friendly lick goodbye as you would turn to leave.

Becoming familiar with his scent, and being able to find him when you could sense tension, anxiety or anything wrong with the man, you would immediately find your way to him. During the day youd find him in his chair or sat on the ground, alternating between laying over his lap, or sitting beside him and resting your snout in his shoulder, lightly nudging his Mask or shoulder with your snout, whining and pawing at him to keep him company, as his hands found purchase in your fur, attempting to ground himself.

Sometimes at night, you could sense the man silently breaking down, trotting to his room, scratching at his food until he let you in, in which you would curl up by his side on his bed, resting your snout on his chest, monitoring his breathing and heart rate, feeling his heart rate, listening to his breathing, occasionally his hands tugging to rough at your fur when a wave of emotion would crash over him. Pawing at him in attempts to grab his attention, he’d often end refocus, letting go, smoothing out your fur, and fighting the battle to stay conscious and aware of the world around him

Slowly day by day, you found yourself following the Colonel around, ears and tail perked up, wagging happily, panting and looking up at him and watching him all day, until Ghost would call you over for usual maintenance and training. Running over with a whine, Ghost looked very unimpressed as he’d work you out in the training grounds, calling you a traitor without any real sting knowing above all you were also just a human with emotions. That was something he couldn’t exercise out of you even if he wanted to.

Afterwards, you’d ramble off, lounging around, resting after training, or whatever else you could find yourself doing. But it wouldn’t be too long, all it would take was a certain man in passing, for you to push yourself up, following and staring up at him like he was your world. Finally one day, he was sat on the tracks of a tank, slouched back against the tank, you approached slowly, wolf body shifting as you approached, his feet grazing the ground, as he slid further back, patting the spot between his thighs on the track, you placed your front paws there, looking up at him as held your furry face in his heads rubbing your head and neck, watching you, as you panted happily, tail wagging and staring up at him again. Those blue eyes finally locking in on you, blinking as he studied you, speaking up. “You’re staring at me like I’m your world, should I be concerned about your little puppy infatuation” Your ears folding sheepish, as you let out a small bark, leaving him with an amused laugh, he patted your head with a solid pat, before gently running his hand through your fur again.

It was then, you let out a whine, pulling away from his pets, standing on the ground, your front paws tapping as you became indecisive, leaving him with a questioning look, as he slid off the tracks, kneeling down to you, offering a hand. “What is wrong y/n?” You whined again, letting out a gruff bark, you jumped to the side, conflicted as you did a turn, looking back at König as you whined, sitting and looking up at him with big eyes. He gently reached out, rubbing your back, “What’s wrong pup” you huffed, snorting out air, running off and around the tank, taking a leap of faith, as you shifted back into your human form, fixing the clothes you were wearing, compressing leggings and an oversized long sleeve shirt that was usually used for training during shifting. You peeked back out, just as you heard his footsteps coming.

He froze, wide eyed, staring at you, He knew hybrids were in service.. but for some reason part of him didn’t want to accept you were one, because it would mean another human had seen him in his distress. The silence was thick, you waited for a reaction, König’s heart was racing, mind processing faster than his heart rate as he tried to adjust and think of something. This wasn’t a mission, this wasn’t something he could easily brush off and say ‘That’s it, let’s move on to the next one’. He shifted, awkwardly, your wolf ears perking up, hearing the shifting and heart rate, as you swallowed speaking up.

“I’m y/n..” you looked up at him through your lashes, hands fidgeting, eyes now cast down as he finally cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest as he nodded. “You are one of the Hybrid Specialists.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, still you nodded, “Yes Sir, Colonel Sir” He nodded as you both fell into silence. He wasn’t attracted to a K-9.. but how come now that he saw you as a human he felt something stirring in his chest. Still he was too perplexed to say anything just yet.

“Why were you doing this?” The question was direct, not cold, but almost demanding an answer, you spoke up, looking up at him. “I was trained to respond to Anxiety, Panic and other forms of distress. I wasn’t trying to coax information or weakness out of you.” You admitted, the wolf ears on your head flattening as you tried to hold his stare. He nodded slowly, watching you, neither of you sure of what you were waiting for, finally you took a step closer, offering a hand. “Can we start from the beginning?”

That’s where it started, during the day, you were a simple Wolf, on your usual routine, behind closed doors, you’d shift back to your human form, finding purchase in König’s Office, studying him curiously as you talked aimlessly, feeling his eyes linger on you as he’d occasionally speak up with an answer or question. It was more interesting when he would answer with a story of his own. He’d note how your ears would work up, and risk would wag excitedly as he would go on with a simple story. To him it was just history, to you, it was unlocking a new part of a map you were trying to figure out.

Soon enough, the bad days would pick up again. When you’d wolf around, picking up on distress, and coaxing your way into his room, huffing as your nudged at him, his hands finding purchase in your fur, but it wasn’t enough. It was a day where he was shaking, holding on too tight, slowly starting to hyperventilate, you shifted to your human form in his arms, hugging his back tightly as you knelt between his legs where he sat on the floor, he tensed, squeezing his eyes closed, burying his haphazardly make face into your shoulder. Holding you tighter as you held back tighter, not letting go as you whispered softly to him.

“You’re alright, you’re here now, I’m here with you. Breathe, everything will be okay, you don’t have to worry now, you’re not alone, I have you now.”

Slowly it progressed, in the common room, you could be laid out on the Sofa, Soap patting your head as he scrolled through his phone, then König would walk in, you’d jump up and trot over to him, he’d pet your head as he walked, not looking away from the paper he was holding, “Guten Morgen Hund” walking to the counter and throwing the paper away decided it was useless, tossing you a piece of bacon from breakfast before fixing himself a coffee, his own teammates watch him in surprise as he seemed to talk to you like it was normal, you sitting there barking back replies.

Following him around more publicly, it was obvious to everyone, that you were becoming more and more infatuated with the Colonel, but no one could exactly read König, only noting how he’d toss you an extra piece of meat or let you linger around and follow him as he went about his day. Even in training on the field, it shocked everyone who was present to see you run up to him with a back, gruff barks as you dropped a ball in front of him, only for him to entertain you by chunking the ball as far as he could.

Everything was good until the day came.. there was a heated argument over between Ghost and König over something minuscule, but of course no one would dare step between both hulking men, everyone stood on the side lines, watching wearily, until it fell silent, Ghost turning and saying, “Y/n, move out” signaling for you to follow him, but you looked at König, he kept his arms crossed. Turning to look at you, hearing your whine, ears folded back, It was a decision, you’re decision. Was your loyalty as a Hybrid to your team, or would you let yourself be led by what your heart ached for. Torn, Ghost turned back to look at you after he noted you weren’t following. The tension in the room doubled now as everyone watched. You whined, laying on the floor, neither of the two men budging against the other, both of them watching you, so you whined, laying on the floor, not moving either way.

König’s eyes softened slightly, Ghost cocking a brow at you, not moved but curious why you were acting like this.

You whined at Ghost letting out a small bark, stretching yourself out on the floor with a huff. He sighed, remembering you did this same thing when he locked one of your favorite toys away as punishment, you didn’t leave that closet all day stretched out huffing all day. He sighed, taking a knee getting to your level, “What is it Pup.” You whined again, barking, lowering your head to your paws, letting out a mix of a whine and a bark. Starting to crawl to König with a whine, Ghost rolled his eyes, watching you very unimpressed. “Got the hots for the Austrian do you?” You whined with a bark, resting your head on König's boot.

Ghost was offended, but once again, as a Lieutenant and Handler, he disagreed with you entirely. But as a human, he was conflicted, you’re human, and have your own emotions. But his job and his humanity were battling to drag you back or leave you be. It took Soap smacking his arm and shaking his head. “Mate.”

🤍🤍🖤🤍🤍🖤🖤🤍🖤🖤🤍🤍🖤🤍🤍

The days pass and sure enough, König grows more comfortable with more intimate gestures. Of course sometimes he still springs up worried that a lingering touch or his hand grazing your waist as you lay with him in bed is too much. It is amusing and endearing how you have to reassure him. He worries about boundaries Even if you don’t have any issue, but learns soon enough to pay attention to your wagging tail and perked ears. You’re still the same, it’s just him being jumpy not wanting to scare you off.

Weeks pass, he grows more comfortable holding you close at night. Dragging you onto his chest to avoid crushing you under his weight, you laughing quietly and hugging his chest, burying your face in his chest, just enjoying his warmth and presence. Speaking with him quietly in whispers, talking endlessly in the privacy of the night, it wasn’t sexual, it never had to be for him to enjoy your company. In all honesty, he’d probably combust if you outright suggested such a thing.

Soon, weeks turned to months, and he found himself, lingering outside at night. Conflicted, you yawed, a dog like whine escaping as you trotted over to him. Shifting to your human form as you sat beside him, you didn’t sense any distress or anxiety, not even a wave of panic. You looked at him, patting his shoulder gently. “What's wrong?”

He turned to look at you, his hand reaching up to rest on yours, “Liebling” he fell silent, patting your hand. You looked at him, waiting, he sighed, you weren’t sure what went through his mind, as his other hand came up, pulling his mask off, you’re eyes widening, as you took in his face, immediately looking away to respect his privacy, feeling his hand let go of you, turning you to face him. His blue eyes almost pleading as he looked at you, the scars over his face, prominent against his skin, a dark scar through his lip. He took in your reaction, not letting you look away, your ears flattening, heart aching. You pulled his hand away, standing between his legs and hugging his neck, burying your face against his head, his arms weakly holding your waist, you whispered his name “König” he held you tighter, pulling you closer again your chest, you never would’ve thought of the man before you crying, but you felt those hot tears over your skin. Holding him tighter, as he quietly sobbed your name. “Y/n”

You pulled away, gently kissing his face, every scar and deformity. “König”

He held your wrists where your hands held his face, eyes closed, broken sniffles, as you rested your head against his.

It was a silent understanding. As long as you were with him, he would be with you.

(Sorry, sometimes I just be rambling and typing in my head)

[immortaljai]

hiiii! can I request hcs of a jealous and protective (and slightly possessive🤭) logan with his bimbo!gf? I love your work ! 💗

It was sometimes a bad thing, you were so cute, so...unaware of your surroundings- AND HE TRIED TO GIVE YOU OTHER OPTIONS (you ended up shooting him on accident) So basically, you have a very possessive guard dog, he's always around you and if he isn't by the slight chance his eyes will be on you. He knows that people would love to harm him and what better way than is pretty innocent girlfriend who seems ditzy?

Logan is no dumbass though; he always has your location and constantly checks it with the "dumb new technology" you taught him to use.

If it's a night out with Wade his hand is in yours or he's got his hand on your belt strap. Another thing if some girl tried to flirt with him, he mean mugs them and points them with his eyes to your pink comically small looking bag that has been on his shoulder.

If they persist, he will growl at them and literally sneer a "Fuck off, ma girls waitin' fa ya to leave" it's quite a spectacle to see him so possessive over you.

If you go out alone or wonder off you have..proof of your claim ship either tree tattooed claws on your chest with a small heart or hickeys, maybe both to send the message.

[differenteagletragedy]

Idk if you’re looking for any ideas and if you’re not than just disregard this lol, anyway I absolutely love your writing, I was thinking the song “it will come back” by Hozier is so soap coded, idk if you heard it but if you haven’t you should listen to it, makes me think of soap everytime, anyway you could totally do something with him and this song and I’d eat it right the fuck up 🤤

Thank you!! I am always looking for ideas, and I love getting them from songs — I haven’t heard this one, but I hope you like it!

Johnny is the life of the party. When he's on leave, when he's allowed to be relaxed, he does just that. He's never met a stranger ... but he's never had someone who really knows him, either.

The people at work know him as one thing, his family knows him as another. The girls he meets sometimes down at the pub, they know him as something else entirely. Because he can be an attractive, charming man, and he can be a good soldier, a doting son, a jerk of a little brother.

But he can't be all of it at once. And he certainly can't show anyone what lies beneath.

You, with your little claws, you scratch at it. You dig into him, pulling back the skin and muscle, rooting around in your attempts to get at his deepest self laid bare.

"Not such a good idea, hen," he tells you one night when, after he pulls out of you, you pull him in to hold him close.

It's your fifth or sixth time hooking up, a casual thing -- at least, that's what he tells himself. And each time, you take a little more of him when it's over.

"Why's that?" you ask softly, like you don't know exactly what your doing. You press his head against your chest, cradling it there, and stroke his back with delicate touches that he could so easily become addicted to if he wasn't terrified of needing something like this.

"Lots of reasons," he answers. "I snore like a bear, for one."

"And for two?"

He smiles, tilting his head to rest his chin between your breasts, looking up at you, and says, "I steal the covers."

You smile back, considering. Then you sink your teeth in.

"Why don't you ever want to stay the night? Truly."

"No one ever taught you not to feed stray cats?"

It's another deflection, one you don't even respond to -- you just keep moving your hands, soothing his already sated body until he sighs and lays his head back down on you. Your heart beats steady against his ear, and he digs his fingers into your side where he holds you.

"Why would you want me to?" he asks.

"Because I like you," you tell him, not missing a beat. "I like spending time with you. You're funny and cute and you seem a little sad, but like you don't want to show it, and I've kind of started realizing that I don't care for that."

If there's a way to answer that, Johnny has no idea what it is.

He's not even sure himself what he's sad about, or why he can't just talk to you about it all. He always puts these arbitrary little qualifiers on the time you spend together and what you are to each other. "Just having fun, lass." "Let's not get too attached, shall we?"

Maybe it has something to do with being the youngest of four -- maybe it taught him how to need less. Or perhaps it has to do with being a third-generation soldier. Maybe self-reliance has been bred into him.

Or maybe it's all bullshit. Maybe he knows exactly how much he craves this -- not just your body, but these softer moments when you hold him, when you ask him questions and then wait to hear him answer -- and he simply can't stomach it. Can't bear the thought of having it for real, all the time, only for it to be ripped away, one way or another.

Because whether it's a toy snatched away by his sisters' hands, a uniformed stranger sitting him down with a somber "son, we've got some bad news about your father," or some girl who he could see himself falling in love with telling him she just can’t handle the stress of being with someone like him, things always get ripped away from him.

He’d like it, he thinks, if he could talk about all this with you. You’re so smart and insightful, and the way you look at him sometimes makes him think you really see him. He wonders, fleetingly, if you could be one thing that he got to keep.

But he can’t talk about it, not just yet.

Maybe next time.

[inej-ruination-ghafa]

PICK AND CHOOSE - l.c

Warnings: skin picking

Summary: the one where Luke and you finally discuss whatever is going on in the relationship

Wordcount: 2.4k

You sat down on his bed, the Hermes cabin empty because they were working on a prank against the Athena cabin with the Hephaestus boys.

You had called for this conversation with Luke, both of you putting it off because what was there really to say. This was it now and your heart was speeding up at a record time and you were worried it was going to beat so fast it would fly out of your chest.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just-” you looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin by your fingernails, “-I dunno, just feeling a little insecure,”

You could feel the shame wash over you at the words because there is no need whatsoever for you to feel that way.

well there is.

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you continue to stare at your skin, hoping that the insecurity will go away with every tug of the hangnails at your fingers.

Maybe it was the fact that he had been paying you no attention since that night or maybe it was the way that you couldn’t stand the thought of other girls looking at him the way that they do, eyes roaming over his body. God, you should be the only one allowed to look at him like that.

You didn't know how long you had been silent for before he reached down and grabbed your hand, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Insecure?”

You scoffed at his words. This was not how this should go. You were supposed to be okay with casual, that’s what the two of you had discussed.

Insecure. The word made you feel sick to your stomach because it was such a petty feeling, like envy and jealousy. It came out of nowhere and sometimes just surprised you but you had been feeling it all your life.

It had been a rough day anyway but the way he said the words made it even worse. It felt like he was taunting you.

You pulled your hand away and placed it back in your lap, only just noticing the skin bleeding at your fingernails.

“It’s silly, I know-“ you started to say and he cut you off.

“It’s not silly,” he reassured, “Everyone gets insecure,”

You shook your head, “This-” you gestured between the two of you, “-us,” just saying the word made your face heat with embarrassment because what us was there.

It felt wrong, like two little kids playing dress up at having feelings. Luke was the first guy you had ever thought about in this way and here you were making a fool of yourself in front of him.

“I dont mean to be-” the words couldnt come. This was one of those emotions that you could never quite phrase and no matter what word you used, it always came out wrong, “-needy?”

Luke could sense your uncertainty about it all and he just watched you intently, those eyes that you could stare in for hours now only gave you one look. Pity.

You had to fight back the words that were trying to claw out of your throat. You wanted to yell and scream and tell him how pathetic that look made you feel, like you were some rescue puppy he had found on the streets and taught new tricks. He was your first: first kiss, first makeout, first…

Images flashed in your mind of him laying in your empty cabin, shirtless, you on top of him, hands pressed against his chest. Then you were lying there next to him in his bed, head laying against his chest as he explained the book he was reading to you. Those moments felt so far away as you looked into his eyes.

“You’re not being needy,”

this time you did scoff, “You know that thing babies get when they play peek-a-boo? Object permanence? I feel like I have that with people. Like if you’re not in the room then you must hate me and this paranoia has followed me round my whole life. Gods, sometimes, dont you just think that everyone hates you and that they’re faking being friends with you?”

The words stumbled off of your tongue before you could stop them and by then you had blurted it all out, chest heaving at the end as you realised how vulnerable you had just been in front of him.

You didn’t even look up from your hands as you waited to hear his response. He was going to hate this and you knew it.

Luke was so calm all the time, holding his composure about this. He barely even mentioned whatever was going on between you when you were with the other campers. It was like you didn’t even exist.

You couldn’t quite but your finger on how long you had been sitting on that feeling but maybe it had been there since the moment you first kissed in your cabin after the bonfire, his lips tasting like the moonshine the Dionysus kids brewed and his hand pressed firmly against your back.

You finally looked up at him, eyes meeting yours. When you would stand up, there was a significant height difference but here, sitting down, you were on even playing ground.

“We can stop,”

those words made your heart sink, stomach twisting into knots at the idea. How could you go back to the way things were before when he had been looking at you like that? When you knew what he sounded like in bed, breathy words whispered into your ear?

“That’s not why I came here,” you stated, eyebrows furrowed as you tried to put into words the way you felt.

There were no words and there never would be. How could you ever express all of the love and care that you have for him without seeming obsessed after two makeout sessions. This was supposed to be casual.

You had promised him no feelings from either of you and yet here you were less than two weeks later, heart so full to the brim with him that any pain he felt, you felt tenfold.

“Then why did you?” He asked so nonchalantly and you could feel the tears burning at the back of your eyes.

Shaking your head, you looked back at your blood stained fingernails, “I shouldn’t have,”

His eyes trailed down to your hands. You both shared the same bad habit, biting at your fingernails. His were painful, bitten to the halfway point and scared yet yours were healed, nice paint always draped on top to hide the peeling of your skin - your next victim.

Luke grabbed onto your hands to stop you from the compulsion and you felt forced to look into his eyes, “I don’t want to stop either,”

They were the words that you wanted to feel so why did they make your heart sink even lower into your chest?

“I-” the words were caught in your throat. Keep your composure. Thats what you kept repeating to yourself as you felt the tears brimming on your waterline. Crying in front of him was not on the agenda today.

Casual. Most boys dream and most girls nightmare. You should be okay with all that you could get from him, a kiss here and there but maybe that was making these feelings worse.

Maybe it was the way that he wouldn’t act like he wanted you on some nights, barely even acknowledging that you are there, his conversation focused on some other camper as you stood by the sidelines waiting like an idiot.

Maybe it was the way he talked to other girls, their eyes trailing over his shoulders and arms like he was on the market, hand on his shoulder as they laughed at one of his shitty jokes.

Maybe it was the way that you wanted him to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you close, to kiss you when the other head of cabins were looking, to want to make out with you when he was sober as well as drunk.

“I like you,” you blurted the words out.

He chuckled, “I like you too, is that not obvious,”

You shook your head with disdain at his comment. This was not time for silly jokes.

“No. I really like you and I dont want you to kiss other girls,”

his brow furrowed and he shook his head quickly, “Who said I want to kiss other girls?” He questioned.

You shrugged, a sheepishness coming over you at your admissions, “Beckendorf,” you stated, “He said he wanted to wingman you,”

”Did I say I wanted Beckendorf to wingman me?”

“No, but-“ you furrowed your brow and he just looked at your confusion.

“I like you a lot,” he promised but the words seemed to melt off of your skin like they meant nothing, “I do not want other girls, it’s just-“

You cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “You want to be single but have me on the side, just in case you get bored?”

He could hear the spitefulness in your words, the anger in your tone and he wondered how long this had been building up in your chest for, how long you had been wanting to say this to him.

“That is not what you are to me,” he reassured but the words didn’t help.

Scoffing, you pulled your hands away, “Then why don’t you want to kiss me? Why do I have to make the effort all the time?”

He tilted his head to the side and looked at you, watching as a tear slipped over your waterline. You cursed yourself as he leaned forward and wiped the tear away with the pad of his finger. He hated to see you like this, so much self loathing inside of you.

“I’m nervous,”

Now that was a ridiculous statement, “You? Nervous,” you shook your head at the woods because there was no way that they could ever be true, “You are like the coolest person I know, why would you get nervous?”

You watched as a blush crept up to his cheeks, “Because you’re the coolest person I know,”

your eyes widened at his admission and you wondered if he meant it.

“I worry that we are going to screw up our friendship by doing this, that I am no going to be a good boyfriend for you. I cannot lose you,” he admitted and you just sat there for a moment, staring at him.

“I think i just did, screw it up I mean,”

He shook his head, “You? Never,” he promised, hand coming down to rest on your knee which you only just noticed was bouncing up and down in your nervous state, “I care about you so much,”

”Then show it,”

“The other campers-” he started to say and you sighed. Great. Another excuse why you were not going to be working out.

“Ignore them, let’s be us,” you were practically begging at this point because you knew he could call this arrangement off any second and you would be left drowning in all the affection you never got to show him.

“I don’t want them to know, they will get involved and ruin this,” he was right and you hated that.

“I want you to want me,” the words tumbled from your mouth easier than you expected them to, “I want to be at the bonfires and you dance with me and talk to me and it sounds so needy,”

“It’s not needy,”

”It is!” You exclaimed.

The room went silent and you were left staring at one another, listening to the creeking of the walls in the wind and the rustling of the grass, “It is,” you repeated, a little bit quieter.

”I can’t do casual,”

He nodded, understanding the complexity of it all, “I can’t do a relationship,”

A sob was caught in your throat as you heard those words, they were the last thing that you wanted to hear and he knew that, watching as your face contort at his statement, lip trembling as you tried to stop the tears from overflowing.

“Okay,”

He tilted his head to the side, “Okay?”

You just shrugged because what was there left to do. There was no way that you were going to be able to convince him that you were worth it, that you were worthy of being his girlfriend if he didn’t want to be convinced.

“You’re an idiot,” he stated and you turned to look at him with a face that read shock horror.

“Excuse me?”

He could see all the hurt and anger bubbling up inside of you, brows pulling together and nose scrunching up just like it always did before a fight. He knew you too well.

“I would try. For you,” he stated and there it was again, the flip of emotion on your face to one of confusion, your lip pulling up in confusion, brows still furrowed but softening to complexity, “I want you in my life and more than a friend,”

You shook your head because this was all so wrong. You stood up, head spinning. This was not the way that this was supposed to go. This was going to be you breaking this thing off with him and yet here you were potentially entering into a relationship.

He followed after you before you could reach the cabin door, hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer to him, “Say yes,”

“Luke,” a hand came out, balancing against his chest.

“Say yes,” he repeated, nose nuzzling against your throat. You knew this was wrong but Gods, it felt so right.

“Luke,”

He hummed in response, looking up at you with those big brown eyes that you had come to love over the years.

”Say yes,” he hoped one more time would do the trick.

You nodded your head, leaning down to feel his breath against your lips, “Okay,” you nudged your nose against his, “Okay,”

“Be my girlfriend?” The words seemed so natural on his tongue and you couldn’t fight the warm feeling in your chest at being addressed in that way.

You kissed him then and there. There still were not enough words to explain this feeling but as you kissed against the door in the Hermes cabin, you knew you were going to regret this moment in the long run.

But right now, there was no regret.

A/N sorry for the lack of posts, I've been at uni for a while but I'm feeling the inspiration. This is good for you guys and bad for me because this is the most autobiographical fanfic I've written in a while so enjoy as my love life plummets to hell

[the-hole-in-terzos-shoe]

Two Can Keep a Secret... If One of Them is Dead

Papa Emeritus III (Terzo) x Omega x Reader

Hiiiiiiiiii bitches ❤️ it's been a long time. I've been sitting on a few wips for a while. Obviously I took a break from writing; I'm not sure how frequently I'll continue writing, but I'm happy I finished this one!

This is the follow up to Dreams Come True and connected to My Dirty Little Secret 💋 enjoy!

Word count: 4.1k

CW: PURE SMUT, threesome, dom/sub a little bit, size difference, knotting, p in v, lingerie, MDNI

You're still the only person he trusted to see him like this. Even after nearly a year of meeting in private, wearing your lingerie together, Terzo only wanted this with you. He liked to laze about for hours, enjoying his new outfits, not wanting to waste them by getting right down to business, so you'd tease each other, play with yourselves, kiss and makeout for quite a while leading up to the main event.

"You look beautiful in this. What's that you say in Italian--𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘢?" The Italian always make him blush so prettily, a warm pink spreading across his chest and cheeks. Slowly dragging your fingernails over the bow on his hip, he inhales sharply, arching up into the sensation.

"You already have me so hard," Terzo groans, "I feel, ah, horny drunk!" He giggles. It's a giggle he would never want anyone but you to hear; it would be unflattering for a Papa to be heard giggling like that. He always has such a cold exterior, unhappy even. There are so few people who know how warm he really can be, and what he truly likes.

Sure, you've seen him in many gorgeous lingerie sets, but you also know he likes to read, further he likes to read aloud to you until you fall asleep; he knows a lot about vintage wines; you know his grandmother taught him to cook at a young age back in Italy; he can braid hair; and he likes to sing along to old vinyl records.

In all the time you'd known him, you'd only known him to get close to one other person, or ghoul, rather--

*𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬*

"Who is that?" Terzo whispers, softly looking up at you.

"I don't know, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢, it's your room," you chuckle, stroking his cheek softly, "Why don't you answer it?"

"B-but..." He looks down at himself, "They can't see me like this."

"Then put on your robe," you kiss his nose to encourage him, well aware of the panic in his eyes, as well as the way his heartbeat speeds up in his chest. "Surely whoever it is would only come at this late hour if it were important..." you kiss next to his ear before breathing softly, "or unless they feel welcome in your chambers." After that, you lean up, removing your body from his and retrieving his robe from the closet door. As he sits up on the bed, you hand it to him before informing him, "I'll go to the restroom, give you some privacy." You give him a quick kiss, and exit to the next room.

Hesitantly, he pulls on the silk charmeuse cover-up before shuffling over to the heavy mahogany door. Quietly, he turns the antique glass doorknob to poke his head out. His defenses are lowered as he sees his favorite ghoul, "Omega," he sighs in relief, "I should've expected it was you. Ever the gentleman for only knocking once, despite me making you wait."

"Papa," is all the tall demon says. And 'tall' really is an understatement; it was one thing to see him on stage, but to see him in person and have to crane your neck back to even meet his eyes, it really speaks to the way he towers over everybody. Slowly, he cups Terzo's black locks in his large clawed hand, leaning down to kiss him.

The antipope's fingers smooth over the ghoul's chest, feeling the inhumanly slow thump beneath his ribs. Few people knew that the frontman of Ghost was thinking of his most beloved ghoul when he wrote the lines of Cirice... "𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵."

"Omegahhh..." He breathes as his ghoul moves to kiss his neck, a weak spot for the leader of the church. With a little nudge, Terzo is pushing Omega off of him. "Omega," he inhales raggedly, "I- I wasn't expecting you. I'm, uh, I'm not--"

"What's this?" the demon interrupts his Papa, gesturing to the thin black strap peeking out from beneath his robe where the ghoul's mouth had just been.

The shorter man immediately pulls his robes back into place, crossing his arms. "It is nothing, amante."

The ghoul chuckles darkly, "C'mon," he takes Terzo's hips in his hands to walk him back into the bedroom, clicking the door shut and locking it. "You can't hide from me, Papa," he says lowly before raking his fingers through those short raven locks once again to steal another kiss.

After a long evening of teasing with you, combined with a heated kiss from his Omega, Terzo can hardly help the lustblown look in his eyes.

Speak of the devil, you're sitting on the bed silently observing the scene playing out. It only takes the deft creature a few short seconds of observation before he spots you. "I didn't know you were with somebody, Papa."

A mix of flustered feelings crosses the man's face as he looks back and forth between you and the ghoul: desire, confusion... guilt. He'd normally never 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 feel guilty being caught between two lovers, if it had been any other lovers. But the two of you? You're the one soft spot he has in this world, and Omega is the one that holds him together when everything is falling apart.

"Terzo?" You ask, and you have to hold back a smug smile when his love drunk eyes meet yours, "Did you double-book yourself, love?"

When he bites his lip and looks down at his feet though, you know it's gone a little further than simple teasing.

Leaping from the bed, you rush to his side. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you whisper, "Hey, hey, what's wrong, huh?"

He looks as if he's about to tear up, "I don't want to lose either of you," he says weakly.

"What?? Who said anything about that?! No, it's okay, baby," you pull him into a hug, rubbing circles into his back to calm him ease his mind. "Why would you think that, sweetheart?"

"Because... You didn't know about each other," he straightens up a bit as he explains.

"Terz... Everyone in the world knows about you and Omega," you stroke his cheek again, "and I'm sure it's not lost on him that you take other lovers. Right, Omega?"

The ghoul simply nods, slipping his hand into his Papa's and caressing the smaller digits with his thumb. They share a long glance at one another before Terzo apologizes, "Mi dispiace."

"No apologies. It's all okay," you step back, giving him some space, but still holding his other hand, "besides... We could all have a lot of fun together, hm?"

The antipope looks down again, this time trying to hide his smile.

You take a step towards him, waiting for him to look up, so you can kiss him properly. Your lips move together until you suddenly break the kiss, Terzo chasing after you. "C'mon, Omega," you offer the invitation as you move behind your lover, nibbling on the shell of his ear. As he leans into your affections, the ghoul sees the time to strike; while Terzo's neck is exposed, Omega meets the skin with teeth and tongue.

The poor man trapped between you can't help the moan that rips from his chest. His mismatched eyes roll back and his jaw goes slack as his fingers clammer to hold onto anything: your thigh, Omega's arm, dear life.

It's only when Omega goes for the ties on his Papa's robes that the shorter one stiffens up again. Clutching the collar, he keeps the article of clothing closed. "Papa?" the ghoul asks, uncertainty in his tone. Very rarely is he barred from getting under his lover's clothes.

"I should go change," the raven haired man mumbles, but you catch him before he can get away from you.

"He's never seen you dressed up, has he?" you whisper quietly in his ear. He shakes his head no. You reply, a little louder this time, "You should show him how pretty you can be, 𝘭𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢..."

Terzo is pretty sure you're trying to break his brain. Caught once again between embarrassment and lust, he glances back and forth between his lovers. "I- I can't," he softly declares, face blooming a shade of red you'd never seen on him before.

Just as you're about to speak another phrase of encouragement, Omega simply takes his lover's hand again, gently tracing his large thumb over his small fingers. "Pretty Papa," is all the ghoul utters.

Terzo looks up, sharing a long look with his ghoul, before offering an almost imperceivable nod.

Slowly, almost glacially, Omega places a hand on the smaller man's shoulder, sliding the piece of silk out of the way to reveal a little more skin, as well as the same bra strap that had been peeking out earlier. He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to Terzo's lips, "Pretty Papa," he asserts again before moving forward with sliding his robe off.

It's tantalizing to watch these two with one another; they have a way of communicating with hardly any words. Trust is not something that one receives easily from Papa Emeritus the Third, but it runs deep with his ghoul, and one can practically see the loyalty present in Omega's eyes when he looks at his Papa. You can't help but imagine their nights together on tour, lost in one another's bodies and finding a little slice of home in each other when home was really halfway across the world.

It really is a simple set that Terzo is wearing: a sheer black bra with matching panties, with little bows tied at his hips and on his back, kind of like a dressed up bikini.

Omega growls at the sight, dropping to his knees. "Pretty Papa," he grumbles excitedly one last time before starting to place sloppy open mouthed kisses to his abdomen and above his hips, nails scratching at Terzo's soft thighs hard enough to leave bright red claw marks.

Overwhelmed as he is, your lover still turns to look for you as the demon draws little moans and whimpers from him. In a second, you're by his side, treating him with the soft kind of love that he likes: stroking his cheek and kissing his nose and heated gazes. The juxtaposition of yours and Omega's affections feel as if they're tearing the man asunder, but like a greedy little fool, he wants both. "I need you," he blurts out looking at you, "both of you," he finishes his sentence looking down at the ghoul knelt before him.

Knowing the desperate look in his lover's eyes, Omega picks him up, wrapping his muscular arms around his favorite pair of thighs. Trudging a few steps across the room, the ghoul makes a rag doll of Trrzo, tossing his small frame onto the plush pile of pillows. Before crawling on top of the man, Omega thinks better of it, turning to catch your eye. Sitting back on one heel while the other foot braces his weight on the floor, he turns halfway towards you, offering out his hand.

You consider him for a moment, then you carefully put your hand in his--and boy, do you become aware of how large this creature is when you do that. Expecting that he could whisk you across the room effortlessly, you're surprised to find how gentlemanly he is as he helps hoist you up onto the bed. Softly, you thank him before going to rest next to Terzo.

"La mia bestia knows how to be sweet when I want him to be," murmurs quietly in your ear, side-eyeing the demon. You offer a low chuckle before giving him a kiss, tracing your fingers along his neck and jawbone.

Suddenly, the man slips from your grasp down the bed, practically strung up by his feet by Omega. His lover pounces on top of him, claiming the smaller man's mouth and drawing a wimpy little moan from him. When the kids is broken, you hear Terzo speak up again, "Now, amante, it isn't nice to swipe toys away from others on the playground."

Omega shoots a look at you then back at Terzo. With a growl and a nip on his lover's ear, he murmurs, "You are a toy. My favorite toy..." Without another word, he picks the man up, whipping him around so Terzo's back is flush with the demon's abdomen. "I guess I'll share," he grunts, trailing long claws up tan thighs and threatening the ties on the little black lingerie set. "Il mio bel Papa," the ghoul places possessive kisses marking Terzo's neck. It's enchanting to hear him speak Italian. "Ragazzo dolce, it will be a shame to take it off, but you have quite the treat to share with her."

A gasp, then a sigh, as Terzo's eyes flutter upward, finally receiving some relief where he needs it most. The ghoul's oversized hand massages him through the fine silk, expertly working base and tip simultaneously. With his knees trembling, your Papa reaches back to brace himself, nails digging into Omega's ink black thighs. He'd been teased and edged by you all afternoon into the evening; it wouldn't take much for him to come undone.

By this point, you can't help but slip your fingers over your clothed folds at the sight of how Omega handles your shared lover. Watching him rake his nails over Terzo's hips until those little black bows loosen, revealing him to you both is something you could watch over and over again. The size of his taloned hand taking over the length that had made you feel so full before...

"Hnnngg..." the whine abruptly rips itself from the small man through, "Ah! Ommegahhhnnn..."

The sound of your Papa whining for someone so desperately sends waves of heat through you, but it's immediately overshadowed by the sudden pang of guilt you feel as the ghoul barks a swift, commanding, "NO." Omega grips the base of Terzo's cock tightly, eliciting a high pitched groan from the raven haired man as his body bucks, eyes screwed shut.

You'd never been so cruel as to completely deny your lover of his orgasm; even if your edging went overboard, you couldn't resist seeing Terzo in such pleasure. But wow, Omega even made you feel like your hand had been caught in the cookie jar with that harsh demand.

Terzo chokes out a sob, his body held up only by Omega's grip on him: one hand still firmly around his member and the other wrapped tightly around his Papa's chest and shoulders. When Terzo turns to his beloved demon with tear-filled eyes, the ghoul simply chuckles, remarking, "We couldn't have you ruin all the fun so soon, hm?" before tossing him aside, where he lands beside you.

In an instant, you're wrapped around him, as he curls up catching his breath. Placing kisses to the top of his head and smoothing down his raven locks, you whisper how good he was, telling him what a great job he did, and that it's all okay. "You're still my pretty principessa," you smile at him before he pulls you in for another one of your honey-sweet kisses. "Are you okay?" you inquire more seriously after.

He nods, reassuring you that this isn't his first rodeo, "You should see me in the Ghoul's Den... Although I must admit, this is a heady combination of lovers for me." Both of you share a breathy laugh, falling into snuggling once again, hands trailing one another's bodies as you're careful to avoid what is likely a very overstimulated area on him.

Skilled hands apply the perfect amount of pressure as they squeeze and pinch your flesh, drawing his favorite little noises from you. As his fingers slide the strap of your lingerie from your shoulder, his lips follow sensually, trailing feather light kisses to your soft skin. "It is time to take this off, no?" He always asks permission before undressing you, and you always concede; no one makes getting undressed as romantic as Terzo.

As he slides the last stitch of clothing off down your legs, you pose a question, "What about this?" You gesture towards his lacy black bra, "Do you want this off?"

Smirking, he shakes his head no, "We will let Omega have his fun."

As if on queue, the demon reappears at the foot of the bed, completely devoid of clothes, his large member in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. Terzo perks up, a knowing look on his face, before he crawls down the bed and places a kiss to Omega's lips before spinning around and positioning himself on all fours in front of his lover. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦.

"You won't get it so easy tonight, Papa," the demons voice rumbles.

Terzo's head spins around so fast you're sure he just have whiplash.

Omega chuckles darkly, "It would be rude to forget your other guest." He grabs Terzo's jaw, forcing him to hold eye contact, "Pleasure her. Prepare her as I prepare you." One final swipe of the pad of his thumb across the smaller man's lips accentuates his point.

The raven haired man turns back to you, gesturing for you to lie in front of him, "Good thing-"

"𝘏𝘶𝘴𝘩." The word is accented by a harsh smack on Terzo's thigh, "You're nothing but our toy tonight."

Papa feigns a pitiful look, but he does a poor job hiding his smirk as he falls to his elbows between your legs. Starting with a few soft open-mouthed kisses on your folds, he assumes the position: arms wrapped around your thighs holding you in place, ass high up in the air for Omega to have his way with.

Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, you find some much needed relief against his tongue. Holding eye contact with him, your soft moans let your lover know that he's doing an excellent job, as always.

Behind him, Omega places a lubed up finger right where his amore wants it most. You feel Terzo suck in an anticipatory breath before continuing his ministrations. Teasingly, the ghoul circles his finger around before pushing slowly into his lover, drawing a needy moan from him.

It feels good when Terzo moans against you like that. You reach down and tangle your fingers in his hair to let him know.

Omega starts properly working the smaller man open, pumping one finger then two in and out of his tight little hole. Terzo eats you out like a man starved, throwing himself into the task at hand to keep from getting worked up too quickly. He hollows out his cheeks as he sucks your clit hard, tongue still flicking over your bud.

By now, you're much noisier than before between Terzo's wicked tongue and the sight of Omega turning his boyfriend to putty. In that moment, you learn there's nothing quite as hot as when Terzo's tongue stutters, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows knitted upward as Omega finds that sweet spot inside him.

The ghoul only tortures his lover momentarily, pulling three thick fingers out of him before lining his monstrous member up between those plump cheeks. "You want it?"

Terzo let's out a shaky, "Mm-hmmm..." nodding against your core. He looks up to you almost as if to apologize, for what you don't know. Maybe for what you're about to witness. Maybe because he's a little distracted from the way he normally pleases you.

Either way, no apology was needed. You're more turned on than you have been in a while seeing these two together.

Slicking up with a bit more lube, Omega slides past his Papa's rim with a pop, earning guttural noises from the small man. All of a sudden, Terzo is pulled away from you entirely as the ghoul manhandles the little black bra, gripping it to roughly push his lover back on his cock. Terzo fists the sheets in pain and pleasure as he takes everything the demon will give him.

"Good boy. Pretty Papa."

"Ohh-Omegaahh..." he huffs, eyes glazed over.

The ghoul leans over his lover, rocking in and out of him slowly until he's full to the hilt before whispering, "You're falling down on the job, Papa," and gesturing at you.

Knowing that Omega won't give him what he wants until he's done as he's told, Terzo grabs you by the ankles, roughly dragging you down the bed and reattaching his mouth to you. It's nearly overwhelming not only physically, but also the way that this ghoul makes your Papa act like he's searching for an oasis in the desert: he'll get what he craves if he works hard enough for it.

This time, the raven haired man hikes your legs up, hooking them on his shoulders and doesn't hesitate to slip two digits into you. The rush of it all doesn't give you time to falter--you're hurdling right towards the edge.

Only then does the ghoul settle into a rhythm--a fierce punishing rhythm--thrusting in and out of Terzo.

Locking eyes with equally desperate looks, you and Terzo find yourselves at the mercy of Omega, dominant enough to command two lovers at once. Tremors ripple through your body as your orgasm overcomes you; hot white takes over your vision as Papa obediently works you through your high.

Coming back to reality, you find your body directly beneath your lover's, his wild lust-blown eyes looking for yours. Oversensitivity rushes through you as Terzo rocks his member against your dripping wet cunt, controlled by the rough drag of Omega's hips.

"Per favore... lasciami prenderti, per favore," the raven haired man huffs his need in your ear, to which you nod your consent.

With a groan, he enters you; it won't be long until he's spent. Omega has to practically force the smaller man's hips up as he collapses on top of you, his arms weak from the evening.

Greedily, Terzo laps at your skin, kissing and sucking your neck and chest. In that moment, your hands tangled in those short black locks, your eyes wander up to the dark figure at the edge of the bed. Mesmerized, he watches the point where he's connected with the man that hold his heart. Like shockwaves, you feel the passionate way he fills Terzo, making the smaller man press into you.

Were it not for his ink black skin, you would've sworn he was blushing as his voice finally breaks, "Ter... Terzo-"

"Dammelo 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰!" Terzo barks at his lover, knowing exactly what that one little word from the ghoul means.

With a growl, Omega fiercely grabs Terzo's shoulder, forcing his body back on his swollen knot. Just before Papa's length pulled out of you, they both rock back forward into you. Letting out a whorish moan, Terzo cums deep inside you; both your body and his are rushed full of warmth as the two men finish. The idea alone sends another small ripple through you...

You wrap your arms around the man pressed tight against your body, massaging your hands across his back as you watch him grunt and moan his way through his orgasm. Your soothing motions are cut short by a heavy weight on one your hands. Warm but electrifying, Omega's hand encapsulates yours. Looking up, you make eye contact--𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 make eye contact--with the ghoul for the first time.

You feel connected with him in some way, like you can feel how much he appreciates what you do for the man he loves. Terzo and Omega possess one another in the way they love, but Omega recognizes that his Papa needs the tenderness that you offer.

Flashing an almost imperceptible smirk at the beast, your attention is pulled back to the one lying on top of you.

"Mmhuuhh..." he mutters

"Hmm?" you ask, smiling down at Terzo, "You okay?"

"Mm.. completely, uhhh, fucked out," he sputters against your chest before pulling out of you.

Both you and Omega chuckle at the little man, and in one swift motion, Omega turns them both so they're lying on their sides next to you, still connected at the knot.

"C'mere," Terzo mumbles, grabbing at your waist.

Sliding in to cuddle with them, you jest, "How do you have even an ounce of energy left, principessa?"

"I don't," he squints his eyes to steal a glance up at you.

Leaning down, you kiss his forehead, "Go to sleep. Sweet dreams, Papa."

[roseandxanderfics]

"Silent Comfort" - Roy Kent x TouchStarved!Reader

Summary: Roy Kent notices your struggle with emotional walls and, with subtle gestures, slowly helps you open up. Through small, comforting touches and quiet understanding, you realize you don’t have to face the world alone anymore.

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

You’ve never been good at expressing your emotions. Not in the way that people expect, at least. Growing up, your feelings were often muted—either ignored or dismissed. So, you learned to hide them, bury them deep within. Even now, as an adult, the tendency to keep things inside was something you couldn't shake. Physical touch was another thing you’d never been taught to crave. You had become accustomed to being alone, to existing in your own space, without needing to reach out for comfort. But recently, you had begun to realize just how much the absence of human connection—of simple gestures like a hand on your shoulder or a soft touch on your arm—had begun to weigh on you.

Roy Kent was the opposite of everything you were. Where you were quiet, he was loud and brash, his emotions as apparent as his every move. He had this aura of gruffness, an air of no-nonsense toughness that made most people keep their distance. But you, having seen through the outer layer, knew there was more to him. You’d caught glimpses of the softness underneath—the rare moments when he let his guard down, just enough for someone to notice.

At first, it was the small things. Roy never spoke to you much outside of training sessions or practice, but there were moments that stood out. Like the first time you found yourself in the middle of a particularly stressful training day. You were trying to keep it together, as usual, but the tightness in your chest made it almost impossible to focus. You hadn’t realized how badly your anxiety was starting to claw at you until you felt a hand on your back, just a gentle pressure that seemed to take the edge off for a moment.

You looked up, startled, to find Roy standing there, his usual scowl softened. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. His touch alone was enough—just a small gesture, but one that grounded you in a way that words never had. You found yourself exhaling deeply, the knot in your chest loosening with that one simple connection.

It wasn’t something you asked for, but in that moment, you realized it was everything you had been missing.

After that day, Roy seemed to notice things about you that others overlooked. When your shoulders tensed or your eyes flickered to the floor in discomfort, he’d give you space, but also subtly offer his presence—always close, but never pushing. And then there were the times when he’d offer a quiet reassurance, sometimes with just the briefest touch—a hand on your shoulder or a light pat on your back. He was never one to hover or act overly concerned, but it was clear that he was attuned to you in a way that you hadn’t experienced before.

It took time, but soon enough, you came to rely on those small moments of connection. Roy, with his tough exterior and no-nonsense attitude, had become a source of quiet comfort. You didn’t need him to ask questions. You didn’t need him to say anything at all. Just the knowledge that, when you needed it, he would be there with a hand on your shoulder or a brief, calming presence, was enough to make the weight in your chest feel a little lighter.

One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting day of training, you were seated on a bench near the field, trying to catch your breath. The space around you seemed to feel increasingly louder, the chatter of the team, the distant hum of the stadium lights, all blending together into an overwhelming cacophony. You had no idea why today felt harder than others, but you couldn’t shake the anxiety building inside of you. You wanted to get up and walk away, but the heaviness in your body kept you rooted in place.

That’s when you heard his voice. “You okay?”

Roy’s tone was softer than usual, though still unmistakably Roy—gruff, but there was an edge of concern you hadn’t noticed before. You looked up at him, startled by his proximity. He was standing beside you, his usual scowl softened into something more unreadable.

You nodded quickly, not trusting your voice. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk, it was just that you didn’t know how to explain the sensation of being stuck—of feeling like everything was too much. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say any of that. So instead, you muttered, “I’m fine.”

Roy didn’t leave. He didn’t scoff at you or brush you off. He simply crouched down next to you, his knees cracking as he adjusted his position. His hand, big and warm, settled on your shoulder with an almost startling tenderness. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t force you to look at him. He just let his touch speak in the way that words couldn’t. And it made the tightness in your chest loosen, just a little.

“You don’t always have to be fine,” Roy said quietly, the words hanging between you like an invitation to open up—but you didn’t have to. It was more like a recognition, a gentle permission to feel however you needed to feel.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you faded, and all that remained was his hand on your shoulder, the comforting weight of it pressing through the fabric of your shirt and into your skin. There was something so simple, so human, about it. It was nothing grand or dramatic, but it was real. And in that moment, it was all you needed.

“I’m… not,” you admitted finally, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The vulnerability was new, but it didn’t feel as terrifying as it usually did. With Roy, it felt almost safe.

He didn’t push you to say more. Instead, he gave you a small nod and stood up. “Well, whenever you’re ready to talk, you know where I am.”

And just like that, the moment passed. But something had shifted—something subtle. You no longer felt like you were walking through your days completely alone with your emotions. You weren’t sure what it meant, exactly, but you felt… seen.

In the days that followed, Roy continued to offer the same quiet gestures, small acts of reassurance that didn’t require any explanation. If you were tense before a meeting, he would lightly touch your shoulder as if to say, “I’ve got you.” If you were struggling to concentrate during practice, he would glance over and offer a quick, silent nod, as though to remind you that you didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

And then, one evening, after a particularly draining game, you found yourself walking through the crowded pub with the team. Everyone was laughing, shouting over one another, but you felt the familiar pressure building in your chest. You tried to push it down, tried to get through the night, but it was hard. You just wanted to disappear.

You found an empty corner near the bar and took a seat, nursing a drink. The noise around you felt like it was closing in, the laughter of others growing louder and louder in contrast to your own quiet, spiraling thoughts. You weren’t used to feeling this way in public, especially not when the team was celebrating, but today felt different. You felt small in a way that made it hard to breathe.

And that’s when Roy appeared. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t push. He simply slid into the seat next to you and sat quietly for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine, you know,” he said, his gaze fixed ahead, not looking at you directly but still present.

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The vulnerability was unsettling, but you knew it was a truth that you couldn’t avoid anymore.

“I just don’t know how to be okay sometimes,” you murmured, the words soft but raw. “I try to keep it together, but… it’s hard.”

Roy didn’t say anything for a while, his hand finding its way to your knee, a comforting pressure that was more than enough to speak louder than any words could. He didn’t need to fix anything. He didn’t offer solutions. He just was there, letting you breathe in the stillness of the moment.

And that’s when you realized something. The fear of being vulnerable had never been about the other person—it had been about you, about the fear of being rejected. But with Roy, it wasn’t rejection that you felt. It was acceptance. It was quiet comfort in the simplest ways.

When you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, there was nothing but understanding in his gaze. He didn’t need to know all the details. He didn’t need anything from you except for you to be there, to trust him, even if it was just a little. He stood up after a while, offering you his hand, his touch lingering for a beat longer than usual.

“Come on,” he said with a soft smirk. “Let’s get out of here.”

It wasn’t about running away from your feelings or the crowd. It was about letting someone else be there with you, and with Roy, you no longer had to hide behind the walls you had built for so long. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was something. Something real. And that was enough.

The two of you walked out of the pub together, side by side. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone in the world.

[malk1ns]

march 2 vs maple leafs, 6-5 OT loss

exciting game; sid milestones; can't be mad! inspired by this very sweet anecdote; oh, boys.

Zhenya’s favorite part about being in pre-heat is that nothing bothers him.

Oh, he might have a flare of temper in-game if someone hits him too hard or he misses the net, but it’s gone in the space of a breath. A bad loss that might normally have him brooding for hours when he gets home doesn’t even have a chance to dig its claws into his psyche, because why would he be upset? There will be more hockey games, more times to get on the ice with his favorite people and skate around and try to score.

It’s like floating around permanently encased in a cloud of the really potent weed Ilyusha brings out for them in the offseason, the stuff that makes Zhenya’s head feel like it’s separated from his body, floating along after himself like a balloon on a string. Better though, because in pre-heat he gets to go back to Sid’s house and work on his nest.

Zhenya’s always been a messy nester, ever since he first presented. He’s self-aware enough to acknowledge that he’s been coddled since an early age when his talent became evident, and he tries not to take advantage of it, does his best to not over-burden the Penguins staffers who have to run around taking care of them all, but the one place it spills out has always been his nesting.

Most omegas are taught to keep their impulses to the home, to pick an out-of-the way space to pile their blankets and pillows and whatever other treasures they decide to bring in with them, to tuck gifts from their courting alphas in discreet corners instead of leaving them out to show off. Zhenya’s not most omegas, though, and he’s never kept his nesting to himself.

Sid indulges him badly. Zhenya knows that when Sid first started courting him he received all sorts of advice, different ways to bring a mouthy omega to heel, methods to mold Zhenya into whatever Sid wanted. What Sid wanted then, what he wants now, is Zhenya exactly as he is, and Zhenya is someone who likes gifts, who likes being petted and praised and fussed over, who likes blankets and pillows and Sid’s shirts redolent with scent in easy reach at all times.

Dana used to sneak Zhenya old practice jerseys so he could keep them in his locker at the practice rink. Zhenya would feel bad for his stallmates with the way his hoard spills out into their space, but whenever he sits down on the bench and leans against all his stuff, his brain goes fuzzy and pleased until Sid appears to fish him out and take him home.

The guys do give him shit for it when Sid isn’t hovering and ready to snap at anyone who so much as looks at Zhenya wrong. Zhenya has a bad habit of piling pillows around himself when they’re on roadies, even at the plane card table, squishing whoever’s next to him into the cabin wall. Usually it’s Kris, and he’s not afraid of teasing Zhenya; Sid’s anger the one time he came over to scold them for giving Zhenya a hard time just made Kris laugh.

It’s not like Zhenya minds. It’s nice to sink into the ribbing and giggle along—he likes being part of a group, especially when he’s the center of attention. Teasing doesn’t bother him.

Nothing in pre-heat has ever bothered Zhenya, so when he loses the practice puck into the netting and can’t retrieve it, he doesn’t know why it sits on his chest like a rock.

It’s not like it was anything special. He and Sid were fucking around like usual during warmups, and Sid passed him a puck after Zhenya made a big production of needing it from Sid’s backhand. Shit they do before every game. And yet here he is, shaking at the netting and crossing his fingers inside his gloves that when it falls, it falls onto the ice instead of into the waiting hands of fans on the other side of the glass.

At least it goes to a kid, Zhenya tries to console himself when the puck finally does fall. A little boy swimming in a Crosby jersey, eyes huge in awe as he stares at the puck in his hands while his parents take pictures.

Zhenya taps the glass, smiles, and skates away before he can do something ridiculous like go to Tags and demand someone get the puck back from the boy.

He takes a minute to try and compose himself by switching out his gloves, but the guys keep skating up to rib him gently about how he looked, fixating on getting a puck down as if they’re not surrounded by dozens more during warmups. Zhenya laughs along with them, because if the guys are in a good mood then that means it wasn’t bad, but they’re not the ones who lost a gift from Sid.

A puck. It was just a puck. Not a gift.

He feels weird as they troop off the ice when warmups end, shaking his head a little to try and clear it out.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Sid notices, because Sid always notices. 

Zhenya thinks about telling him, but there’s nothing Sid can do, and—it’s stupid. That’s why everyone was laughing. If they knew what he was thinking, they’d laugh even more, and Zhenya feels too vulnerable to handle that today.

The blanket Sid got him to keep in his stall is spread out over the bench, and Zhenya digs his fingers into it when he sits down and gets his gloves off, leaning back and taking a big breath.

“I’m okay,” he finally says, peeking up at where Sid’s hovering over him. Sid frowns, and Zhenya wants to pout and make Sid take him home, but they have a game, so he smiles instead.

He forgets about it while they’re playing. Sid always has a mean little edge to his game when Zhenya’s in pre-heat, flying around on the ice and snapping pucks at the net and looking at the bench to make sure Zhenya’s watching, and Zhenya gets distracted watching him play so well. It’s a fun game, exciting back-and-forth, and they lose but it doesn’t matter because Sid hit two milestones tonight and they get to go home to Zhenya’s best nest, the biggest one in Sid’s house, and they don’t have to leave for Colorado until late tomorrow afternoon.

Once he’s showered and waiting for Sid, the weird feeling creeps back in. Sid whisks them home, but it gets worse on the road. He can feel his shoulders tightening up.

When Sid puts the car in park Zhenya flees inside, nearly tripping as he kicks off his shoes in his haste to get upstairs. 

His nest isn’t right.

Zhenya gets more and more frantic as nothing he does fixes it. He digs through their laundry for the sleep shirt Sid used last night, but even that doesn’t make it better.

He’s sitting in the middle of the bed, hands full of cloth and no idea what to do next, when Sid finally makes his way upstairs.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, approaching the next with caution. “Can I come in?”

Zhenya nods mutely and scoots to the side, trying to smooth down one of the blankets to make room. Sid clambers onto the mattress and catches Zhenya’s hands in his.

“I have something that might help,” he says, letting go to reach into his hoodie pocket. “Here.”

He drops a puck into Zhenya’s waiting hands.

Zhenya stares at it. It’s not one of the display ones they have in a case downstairs, the commemorative ones with their Stanley Cup dates printed on them. It’s not even one of their milestone pucks.

It’s old, with ratty tape around the edge and the logo practically scratched off. Zhenya squints at it—it doesn’t look like their skating penguin. 

The sharpie on the tape is worn, but the date in Dana’s blocky handwriting is clear: OCTOBER 19 2006.

“It’s the first goal of yours I assisted on,” Sid says as Zhenya stares at it. “I have that one, and I have my first goal you assisted on too, but I thought you might like this one.”

Zhenya squeezes the puck tight enough in his hands that the edge digs into his skin. “You keep?” His voice is hushed, and he can feel the foggy pleasure of pre-heat bleeding back in, distress draining away.

“Course, baby,” Sid says, shifting closer so he can put his arms around Zhenya’s torso. “It’s special. I’m sorry you lost the one from warmups, but does this make it better?”

Zhenya hums, twisting in Sid’s arms to carefully balance the puck near the top of the nest, a place of pride.

He closes his eyes at the press of Sid’s lips to his neck. Everything’s just right now.

[rooksamoris]

Amora, thoughts on this? And how can it be applied to the scarabia duo

omg my cousin sent me this video too!!

in regard to JAMIL <3

he definitely gives me cat person vibes (literally everyone in the middle east/north africa is a cat person from armenia to oman to algeria). i headcanon that scarabia has a bunch of cats around the place. jamil carries heavy baskets of laundry while kittens brush by his bare ankles as he walks about.

its so funny to sit beside him while the cats hide under his hair.

"Ah--out of my hair," he grumbles, pulling the kitten away from his hair. Its tiny claws were clinging to the thick strands, tangling them up with its excitable movements. When he sees the amusement on your face, he rolls his eyes and places the kitty in your lap, gently. He was always so mindful of how he held them, "Pull their hair instead, Za'afaraan (saffron)," he commands. He named the cats in Scarabia after spices. How cute.

i bet he and his family would go on park days too. it's a quick and cheap way of them getting to enjoy each other's company, but it is always so short lived. his responsibilities to kalim are all consuming.

Najma leaned over and glanced at her brother's phone, "Can't you put that down for a minute, himar (donkey)?" she asked, gesturing to the ma'amoul (date stuffed biscuit) and chai that was in front of them. His father had bought it from the souq (market) and his mother made the tea. It was the recipe she had taught him years ago. Jamil rolled his eyes, and shoved his sister's cheek away, "I need to make sure he stays at the estate." He kept his gaze away from his parents. There had to be some sort of tension and guilt... "Yeah, whatever..." Najma trailed off, before sipping her own tea. Her fingers traced over patterns on the sheet they sat on. Ornate swirls and floral motifs. Her unsaid words were weaving their way into the designs, never to be said, but to be seen in her dark eyes. When was the last time they had even spent family time like this? Her brother sighs and breaks his ma'amoul in half, "Here," he says, setting his phone down. Hopefully for longer than a few minutes.

as for KALIM!!

im sure he loves all animals, but cats?? he loves them, especially big cats. you can't tell me that the al-asim family don't have their own version of raja from aladdin. it gives jamil a heart attack at first, but soon enough this tiger is kalim's favorite thing in the world. the tiger ends up trained to protect and coddle kalim. whenever he's in the scalding sands, after greeting all his siblings, he rushes into the fur of his tiger.

"Ra'isa!" he yells, as he leaps against the large tiger. His arms wrapped around her back and then he nuzzled his cheek to its fur. There was a grin on his face as Ra'isa began to curl her body around him. You just stared in a mix of fear and apprehension. You glance between him and the tiger that was cuddling up to him. Of course, you expected chaos when you decided to visit the Scalding Sands with your boyfriend, but this? "Uhm..? Kalim..?" When his ruby eyes notice the look on your face, he laughs and grabs your hand, pulling you closer, "Don't worry. Ra'isa is very friendly with people I like," he reassures, guiding your hand over her fur. Ra'isa leaned into your touch, sensing her owner's adoration for you. When she curled her head in your direction, her face found its way to your belly, clearing signalling for your to scratch behind her eyes. Kalim leaned against the big cat, watching you with a look of joy. His two favorite people were getting along.

kalim's family is MASSIVE. i don't imagine they all go out too often due to how much security would be needed, but they all definitely have chaotic tea parties. you'd think with all that wealth the kids would not have to fight over who gets the last piece of ma'amoul or the last bite of fatta tamr (yemeni dish. its just small pieces of bint al-sahn mixed with minced dates and honey).

Kalim was holding up a box of assorted Turkish Delights away from all of his younger siblings who immediately rushed to his side when they heard he had brought them. He laughed as they reached up their short arms for the box, "There's enough for everyone, just get into a line," he said. The box was full enough to give each of them three pieces of the treats, and yet they still argued about who would get the first piece.

overall, yeah. arab men aren't scary. they literally kiss their homies good night, since when you greet a friend or are leaving for the night, you kiss each other's cheek.

[shewritesinblackink]

A revolution of hearts - Haymitch Abernathy fanfiction

Haymitch x f!reader

Masterlist

part 1

Next part

A loud bang! precedes heavy footsteps and startles Haymitch who is nursing a glass of a golden ember liquid near the giant windows overlooking the Capitol. The view from the penthouse is breathtaking, overlooking the city. Yet he turns and watches as you walk in the room with a certainty to your steps that Haymitch has rarely seen before.

Your heels clicked loudly on the marble floor, not a single time you falter like you have a target in mind already and won’t back down. You aim directly for the polished silver tray on a side table, grab one of the glass bottles and pour yourself a drink. A generous drink, by Haymitch’s standards. And that’s saying something.

His gaze follows your every movement, as you put the bottle back down and swallow the liquid in one motion. You don’t even flinch. And he is kind of impressed because the bottle you randomly chose actually contains the good stuff, as he calls it.

And his eyes follow your movements again as you pour yourself another glass, down it again like it’s nothing more but water. You take an inhale, pour a third glass, put the lid back on the bottle a little too violently and with your glass in hand you turn around.

Not a single look in his direction. To be honest Haymitch doesn't think you knew he was there to begin with. He had stayed so still and silent in the corner of the room that in your angry state you probably didn’t notice him at all. He chuckles slightly, but his brow furrows in slight concern still.

You don’t know each other well. Your name had been reaped only three years ago. And yet it felt like an eternity had passed.

No one truly cried for you when Effie announced your name through the microphone. No one to come and say goodbyes before taking off in the train. A train you knew damn well you would never get off of if you ever survived the games. If, keyword darling.

What hurt you the most that day, was that despite having what people call a family, no one had shown up to give you a hug or tell you to be strong. You had stayed silent and alone in the room.

Shrugging it off, allowing the pain to transform, to morph into something deeper, somber. You allowed yourself to store that feeling, to keep it caged inside of you.

Not too close that it would slip out without a warning, but not too far either that you couldn’t reach for it and use it to fuel your body and mind to help you survive. Because sadness never helped anyone go far.

Because the only thing that has kept you alive all these twenty years has always been anger and spite. You stayed in spite of the world being against you, in spite of your mother treating you like shit. In spite of your need to disappear from the surface of this world. A recurring thought. A tragic one that kept coming again and again almost every night when everything was silent and dark.

Sadness, loneliness, despair. They couldn’t keep you alive like anger could. 

Haymitch hadn’t shown up in the train the first few days of the trip. You were left alone with your thoughts and the other tribute. Stuck with you in a train racing towards what was most likely to be your last day breathing. Eventually he had come on the last day, throwing advice like they were burning his tongue.

To you it felt like he had given up on you and the other tribute already, without even getting to know you and your abilities. The male tribute didn’t stand a chance according to you. He was too weak physically and kept avoiding your gaze at the table.

You had decided to keep to yourself then, but after a short while Effie had successfully clawed her way to your heart and you came to like her company. Begrudgingly. Despite her extravagant personality matching her outfit and character so well, she felt familiar somehow. It was an odd feeling. She taught you some things about the Capitol and the other Districts. And maybe in another lifetime, if she wasn’t escorting you to a certain death, you could be friends. Maybe.

When the cannon had echoed in the arena for the first time, you fought every instinct that told you to run far from the blood bath. Instead you forced your feet to run as fast as possible, dodging spears and knives, bodies falling and battling around you. Screams all around you.

You snatched everything you could find and carry and ran away without looking back once. You didn’t stop running until you couldn’t hear the battle raging, until your legs gave out beneath you and your throat and lungs burned from breathing.

Haymitch had been in the viewing room with everyone, as custom has it. A glass of something in hand, eyes half closed, like he was actually bored and didnt’ give a chance to his tributes. 

He remembers when he slowly went from a limp mass on a couch to a body of nervousness and tension watching his tribute fight for her life. He remembers the feeling of guilt stinging in his chest where his heart was when he watched as you sliced your opponent’s throat open with a cry so full of rage that the entire viewing room fell silent.

He remembers looking around at the faces, all turned toward the giant screen on the wall. Everybody watching the girl from twelve wipe the blood from her knife with her bare hand.

At that moment, he felt something strangely foreign but also familiar. It scared him, scared him a lot but he unconsciously pushed the feeling aside and set his goal on getting you sponsors.

He spent all his time divided between watching you and sweet talking to ever rich patrons of Panem, trying to sell them the dream of the girl from twelve. He wasn’t sure he was half-convincing, but he wanted to try. Because he knew that if he didn’t it would mean he had already given up on you.

And a part of him couldn’t give up now, when you still hadn’t. When you were still fighting in that damn arena, giving it your all and everything. He thought if you were to come back– if you were ever to win these games– that you would come back with a hole in you and it would be your soul missing. Taken from you with violence and blood and tears.

His work had paid off and he was able to send you food or water. The arena you were stuck in was bare of any source of food and water, so that’s what he focused on giving you. He told himself he was giving you a chance, giving you time to survive long enough and hide that you wouldn’t have to kill. But another voice in his head told him he was only evading the inevitable. You would surely die like all the others.

And yet, you didn’t hide away, you didn’t run anymore. You fought every tribute that stood in your way. Everyone that showed any aggressivity toward you, you fought them and killed them without second thoughts. You didn’t allow it to affect you. You told yourself you could let it consume you later once you made it out alive.

Haymitch saw the look in your eyes. A look so dark it scared even himself. The blood didn’t scare you though, you were covered in it, dirt and branches sticking to you like you were a wild animal.

Back in the Capitol Haymitch was submerged with work, day and night. Rich citizens betting on you, patrons pulling strings and giving more money for Haymitch to you sponsors. They were fascinated with the Wild girl from twelve. That was how they all called you. The Wild. The Savage.

It’s not like you were eating their corpses after killing them, you barely touched them, only searching them for items you could use. You were just trying to survive a sick game created to entertain and punish.

Haymitch couldn’t believe what was happening. Maybe he wouldn’t be the lone victor of District twelve anymore. This thought was strange, and he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. Because he knew all too well what fate awaited you if you came back.

He knew all too well what the Capitol did with its Victors. And he hated it with all his being, but he decided to bury these thoughts deep and focus on the present moment. On his work. For the first time of his life after winning his games, he felt a somewhat sense of duty. A goal giving sense and meaning to his bleak existence.

And now standing in the penthouse of the training center for tributes, his glass almost empty in hand, looking at the door you had just slammed shut on your way out.

He could hear your heels clicking on the floor and a door slamming shut again.

Effie walked in the room not long after, some papers in hands, humming to herself as if everything was normal in the most perfect world.

Haymitch moved back to the window, overlooking the Capitol and sank back into his thoughts. Wondering how his life had changed in barely a few years. 

He wasn’t the only victor from twelve now, the train ride to the Capitol less lonely. You were a pain in the ass at first, asking him questions. But you gave up, seeing as you couldn't get anything out of him after your win.

He still drank too much most of the days, passing out on any furniture he could find. But now the burden of being a mentor had fallen directly into your delicate and yet bloody hands and he was glad he could ditch this forced duty and stay in his room, drinking himself to death.

He wished he didn’t have to come all together though, but it had been made clear that the mentors were mandated to the Capitol. Whether or not they gave a damn about their tributes and tried to help them was entirely irrelevant.

Hours passed by and Haymitch stayed stuck inside his own mind, only shifting from the window to one of the couches. His drink still in hands, mostly empty. He was spiraling and couldn’t stop it.

Next part:)

[flat-neines]

Ok. Polychromy got hands to spare. But I did say that I'd talk about nyx being a nightmare kid but not in a cool way.

(This has some references to abuse, racism, sa and systemic misogyny that happens in canon, this could be triggering to read for people. Rant is under the cut)

It's often discussed or speculated in anti spaces (and fellow mutuals) on how nyx possibly grows up to be everything rhysand hates, rebelling against the night court for illyria, etc. all while lamenting that it would never be canon and I find myself enjoying them all the same but.

What if nyx grows up to be worse than feysand could ever be?

Like. It wouldn't even unrealistic for it to happen either, just unforseen from the perspective of feysand. Imagine this: a tentative peace has settled over prythian despite the growing conflicts in the continent and human lands or the looming threat of the deathless. Rhysand and feyre promise to do better and never be like their parents.

This is a nice sentiment, and nyx grows up wanting for nothing* (to the visible eye) due to both his parents being daemati. Nyx has every comfort. And every entitlement.

Children are mirrors and sponges with people not realizing how much a kid can internalize from watching an adult behaves towards someone else. And it almost always, always starts with the family.

I don't believe feyre (or rhysand for that matter) would immediately mistreat their own child**. But I don't think they'll ever grow up, change their behavior towards anyone else and take accountability. This is where the problem lies.

Nyx would be taught to be kind and compassionate but watch as his father coldly allows innocent people to rot underneath a mountain or the steppes and his uncles callously using them for cannon fodder. He would be told to treat others with respect as he watches his aunts constantly trampling the boundaries of his other aunt and his entire family disregarding sovereignty of other courts and nations. He would be taught to be just, and see how his family shackles his own aunt (and cousin possibly) into a life debt over something that wasn't even her fault. Nyx wouldn't grasp treating women well with how feyre herself looks down on femininity and does fuck all for the women in her court. And consent and privacy? Out the window the moment he had enough consciousness for rhysand to claw into.

And this is the tip of the iceberg too, as I don't really want to touch on feysand's personal issues (or the political implications). Nyx is going to be taught to be a good person as he observes how his family enforces segregation, child marriages, misogynistic violence towards women and institutional abuses both domestically and internationally with their behavior. He's going to internalize this as normal. "It's just a mask" does not work as an explanation to someone who wouldn't completely understand the concept. Besides the obvious 'cool story, you still killed people though'.

Nyx is going to grow up having entitlement worse than feyre and deliberate cruelty that makes rhysand pause because he believes that this behavior is acceptable, correct even. And while feysand and the ic would shield him from actual consequences (reinforcing the attitude) they'll also be scratching thier heads "on how did he get so bad??" while never examining their own actions.

Evil and cruelty are ultimately banal things. Rhysand and his little circle aren't special for being snarky, unfunny assholes; you can find them a dime a dozen. And if you [feyre], who has given them the world on a golden platter, has no motivation to make an effort to be better; why should your child have it either?

*this talking about physical safety and needs, not emotional ones, though meeting both is necessary for raising healthy children. Feysand are incredibly emotionally immature people and wouldn't be able to meet that requirement irregardless of what they do.

** I'm not going into the fact that rhysand would drop his kid into a war camp or blood rite and thinking it's perfectly acceptable to do so. Or the fact that feyre might groom her kid into a clone of her mate and think it's a good thing which is why I say immediately not intentionally here.