#especially Taffy

[sinestrosmind]

I finally got Hope a harness!!! I can't wait to take her on walks now that I've got it, I feel a lot more confident with it than a collar and she seems to really like it!

I got the OneTigris Fire Watcher 2.0 in navy for her, and I got a really nice leash with a second handle near where it clips to her harness. There's some other things I wanna get for her so we can start Canicross training bc I know she'd love Canicross, she loves to run and I wanna run with her. I wanna get her checked by her vet before we begin training tho, make sure she's sound enough for Canicross, but goddddd I'm so fuckin excited!!!!

Maybe after Canicross training we could do dry land mushing??? maybe I can get a skateboard or something and we can go flying around the town. I wanna get her shoes, tho, because right now the temperature dictates if we go for walks or not that day. I also have to get her a water bottle for hotter days with or without shoes tbh. Today it's too hot and humid, so I don't want to take her for a walk, but when it's cooled down again I'm so walking with her- maybe we'll go to petsmart and people watch for exposure training????

just. godddd I'm so happy and so fucking excited I love Hope so much

[st1llwthyou]

this esshai spy getting more action than any of the LIs is actually so funny to me idk

[skunkes]

do al, talon or smunk do weed? al seems like he could bake up some banger edibles

thsi is one of those things i havent thought of bc its not something i actively do mysel but you know what. yes. all 3

[sysig]

Yes, the fluff is far preferable (Patreon)

[poems-of-a-lover]

i wanna go to a candy store with a pretty boy and get all of our favorite candies so we can go home and watch movies with all our sweets together

[musubiki]

Now that you mention it, I realized we get to see Lime liking all flustered in post time skip, clearly and fatally infatuated with Mochi, but we never think of Coco and Taffy's relationship, because coco is clearly different from mochi.

But at the same time I imagine taffy being even worse than lime with his reactions, mostly because he's less used to them.

So like, when do we see taffy lose it and melt on the floor? What about coco?

AH SO TRUE!!!!1 the nature of taffy and cocos relationship is a lot different than that of mochi and lime!!!! m&l is very heavily the mutual pining, dying inside from how much you love them but too scared/proud/anxious/busy to confess to them

TAFFY AND COCO ON THE OTHER HAND...........taffy is less used to his emotions, but since he was so isolated and fucked up being raised (molded) by amanita, he also lacks any restraint in telling coco how he feels when hes comfortable enough around her. lime is like "shit shit no cant ruin my friendship with mochi" vs taffy who is like "what? thats how i feel, so what? whats the big deal?" and doesnt realize how heavy it is. taffy would say the softest, most heart-warming loving beautiful affectionate words to coco (in front of everyone) and stand there like it was nothing. meanwhile everyone is like "BRUH?!?!?"

and coco is not a super stranger to romance. she dated people in high school before so shes a little more comfortable with love as a concept, and shes extremely gentle with taffy because she knows what hes like and what hes been through.

ALSO NOTEWORTHY: when taffy first tells her how he feels shes 100% not ready for it. i dont even know if she felt that way about him remotely when he first tells her, but again shes very kind to him about it and tells him exactly something along the lines of "youre a good person and im glad you came around and i like being around you and i think we could be something in the future im just not ready right now." but taffy knows already he wont love anyone but her so says something "thats fine, ill wait." and continues to love her until she IS ready.

(regardless hes so sweet and gentle and caring to her she does fall in love with him for real and they start going out during the timeskip)

(the only time we see taffy genuinely get flustered is when coco flirts with him and makes very obvious s*xu*l teasing hints and he blanks out LMFAO!!!!!)

[kumokumotenshi]

Wouldn't be funny if Linaria was Aes' babysitter

She was given to him as a subordinate but all she did was to care of him as if he was her child

I mean, considering how young Aes is, he probably would have someone to watch over him, sure, i see him as being very independent and surprisingly he can be on his own, but you know, he still has inocence, he is unaware of things, if he doesn't have guidance he can get himself into very dangerous situations

So i believe Linaria would do what's needed for Aes' well-being... until Hidou fucked everything up by kidnapping her, fucking bitch i still love him thought

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 246

Adjective: Aquatic

Noun: Throat

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Aquatic: relating to water; (of a plant or animal) growing or living in or near water

Throat: the passage which leads from the back of the mouth of a person or animal; the front part of a person's or animal's neck, behind which the esophagus, trachea, and blood vessels serving the head are situated; (literary) a voice of a person or a songbird; a thing compared to a throat, especially a narrow passage, entrance, or exit; (sailing) the forward upper corner of a quadrilateral fore-and-aft sail

[michaelinprogress]

I’ve seen a few people talk about the importance of the axe, but I wanted to put my take on it out there too.

Lisa watched her mom get axe murdered, and then her life was uprooted. She had nobody there for her (except taffy but she was misguided). And this person comes along, one who knows her better than anyone, and uses an axe to kill someone right in front of her.

Only this time, the axe is used to protect her. Something that destroyed her entire life is now being wielded by the one person she’s beginning to trust and feel seen and heard by.

And I don’t think it’s wrong for her to be thrilled and morbidly infatuated by this!!! Reclaiming and healing from trauma isn’t always pretty like everyone wants it to be, especially for young women and girls.

The axe becomes something to protect her and get revenge on those who hurt her. People who were supposed to be good to her, that she THOUGHT were good to her, but betrayed her.

The axe is something that she now wields.

She gets to reclaim it. She gets to trust someone again. She gets to feel loved, seen, and heard.

This movie is about reclaiming trauma as much as it is about a zombie love story!!!

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

seven | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The whiplash of last night's dinner seems rectified at breakfast. Marlene arrives an hour after you wake up with a basket of farmer’s market produce, glass bottles of fresh juice, a dozen eggs still dirty with a baby feather nestled between shells. She brings cuts of bacon so fat it’s practically pork belly, and all manner of greens for the omelettes. “Gotta keep these working men fed,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’d quite like to know why Sirius Black can’t make his own breakfast.” 

Sirius falls in barely half an hour later, all hardness gone, dressed in slacks and a brown leather jacket, his loose curls pinned away from his face. “I’m thinking of growing a moustache,” he says when he spots you on the sofa. “What do you think? I don’t have much space for one, really, but it would look rather refined.”

James shows up soon enough. You worry he’s angry with you after his quick departure last night, but he says, “Princess, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Mum said she saw a photo of us together in the paper. She’s having it framed.” 

Things between James and Sirius are frosty for all of half a day. 

So for a while everyone pretends the conversation about Baron Riddle never happened. Things go back to normal, driving lessons, self defence, clothes shopping. You keep attending your university classes at the local college upon Remus’ assistance —Sirius will find a way to have them transfer your credits, he says, so long as you finish this year. Two more terms and you can take a break. 

You pretend that everything is okay, and permanent. 

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” James says.

You tilt your head to him but keep your eyes on the burning white of the computer screen, scribbling the last words of a sentence down for your next assignment. Researching isn’t fun, and getting James special permission to enter the college building hadn’t been easy, but he makes your long afternoons bearable. “Do you celebrate?” you ask. 

“I do.” 

“Your mum will be happy to have you home.”

“I’m not going home this year.” 

Your beginning smile is stopped, fading fast. “‘Cos of me?” 

“Because this is the job,” he says easily. “It’s alright. I’ll still speak to her. She’s used to not seeing me. I’ve spent more time away from her than with her, for years.” 

You close your textbook, tracing its softening edges in an avoidance of his gaze. “Well. Well, I don’t really need you, James.” 

“No?” 

You meet his eyes. Careful not to spook yourself. He’s looking at you with little emotion, impossible to infer his mood from expression alone. You don’t know what he means to ask you here. 

“Missing out on time with your family for me, when nobody even knows who I am–”

“That’s not true, is it? You get a fair few stares.” 

“Not because they really know who I am,” you whisper. “It’s like seeing someone you’re sure you’ve met before, but really you’ve seen them on TV. I’m like an odd memory or something.” 

“An odd memory.” 

You turn back to your computer and flick through the journal you’re reading for want of something to do. James twists in his chair with a hand fallen between your shoulders. Your skin tingles under his touch. “I just don’t think it’s good of me to have you when I’m fine.” 

“Do you have me, Princess?” James says, his voice turning soft slow as a taffy pull. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yes, I do.” James’ hand comes to rest on the desk beside yours, not touching you, not moving a millimetre. He can be so still, but it’s a stillness that came with practice. He’s as at ease here as he would be at home, trusting his abilities. Nothing that can get you here scares him, not for a second. “I’m afraid I’m yours for the foreseeable future.” 

You fight down a shiver. “It’s not fair for you to miss out on Christmas. I’ll be fine by myself. I would stay home, I promise, you could lock me in and set me free a week later.” 

“I won’t do that,” he says. 

“But you could, and then you won’t miss Christmas or your mum, and–” You realise you’re talking too loudly and tone it down. “And I’ll be fine on my own.” 

“You said, yeah…” 

You stare at the cover of your textbook. “Right.” 

James checks his watch. In his ‘bum bag’ as he calls it, the radio he’d been carrying around on his shoulder when you met makes a concealed crackle. He pulls it out and brings it to his mouth. “Say again?” he orders. 

“We’re waiting outside,” Sirius says, to your surprise. 

“Pads, you’ve actually done something I asked,” James says in amazement. 

“Not really. It’s Remus’ radio, you know I won’t carry them around. It’s ridiculous. I would’ve liked to have called you but you never answer, even if it’s life or death!” 

“It’s never life or death with you.” 

“Cruel. Tell the Princess to hurry her work, she promised we’d go to the cinema and it’s getting on.” 

“She’s done when she’s done,” James says. 

“I’m finished,” you say. 

“She’s finished,” James says. 

“Oh, good. Has she picked what movie she wants to see?” 

“Sirius, can’t we have this conversation in two minutes, when we’re in the same car.” 

“What’s the fun in that?” 

You pack away your things and log out of your account on the library computer. James offers to take your bag, grumbling when you insist on carrying it yourself, and rebelling against you as you descend the stairs into the college’s entrance atrium by holding open every stairwell door. 

“What movie does he want to see?” you ask James. 

“Never mind him,” James says, stilling at the shock of cold that ebbs from the main doors. “Button your coat, lovely.” 

You thought perhaps James would get to know you more and he’d stop using ‘lovely’. There isn’t all that much about you worth such a nice word, but he still says it. He calls Marlene gorgeous practically every morning when she makes his coffee, Lily sweetness or angel or —really, he’s quite fond of Lily. You don’t see her too often; she’s here to take care of diplomatic matters directly involving you, and so she pops in every now and then to gather your signatures or ask an opinion, busy at the embassy. You get this uncomfortable feeling when you see them together, too complicated to name, like fingers curled tight around your heart, squeezing until you’re squeamish and pounding behind the ears. And Sirius makes these jokes you’re too afraid to ask about, little snippy things aimed to make fun of James in a brotherly manner. Our Prongs likes a redhead. I considered going ginger for a bit, but I don’t have the complexion for it. You have no choice but to sit there still and silent until they change the subject. It must be the not knowing them well that makes it hard. 

Just outside of the college, Remus and Sirius wait in the front seats of a rather nice car. 

“Where did you get this?” James asks, stopped too far in the road. 

“Bought it.” 

“Why?” James asks. 

“You said I couldn’t get a bike.” 

“I said you couldn’t get a bike,” Remus corrects. “James said he wouldn’t get on the bike, or sit by your bedside if you drove it into a wall.” 

“You like it?” Sirius asks. 

James gives you a smug, fond smile. “Do we?” he asks. 

“It’s pretty,” you say. 

“She’s gorgeous, Princess! Don’t downplay it like that! Now, are you getting in? Remus has picked tonight’s movie–”

“Get out,” James says. 

“You are not driving my baby,” Sirius says, “I’ve only had her an hour.” 

“I don’t care how long you’ve had the car, if the Princess is riding in it, I’ll be the one driving it. You know the rules.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who makes the rules, and they’re stupid rules, so I suppose this time you’ll be letting me drive, won’t you?” Sirius asks. 

—

“My own car,” Sirius mutters to himself beside you, “can’t even drive my own bloody car. This is worse than the summer I saved for an electric guitar and my mother smashed it into smithereens in the foyer. At least Walburga let me play a couple of songs first.” 

“Walburga?” you ask, grinning. 

“Patron Saint of hydrophones,” Sirius says offhandedly. ”And cunts. It’s why I hate water so much, see, I’m worried mum’s going to deprive me of protection.” 

“Sorry, Princess, Sirius is having one of his days,” Remus says from the passenger seat. 

“I’m being serious,” Sirius says. “Unsurprisingly.” 

“Don’t let me tell Effy who you’ve just called mum,” James quips. 

“Euphemia,” Sirius says quickly, “name of a well-spoken woman. And she is well-spoken, James’ mum, she’s well everything. Well dressed, well kind,” —he puts his hand on your arm and rubs gently, enough affection for the woman in question running through him that it pours into you instead— “she would just love you to death, Your Gorgeousness.” 

“You are having one of those days,” you say. 

“Not sure I know what you mean.” Sirius grins at you, dark hair in his eyes, his irises a pale grey that catches you. “Alright there?” he asks. 

“Your eyes are grey.” 

“If you fancy me–”

“I thought they were brown, is all, like James’,” you say, voice taking a sharp turn into loudness in a poor attempt to move away from what you’ve said. 

“We can’t all have that dreamy mocha brown,” Sirius says. His grin has changed, morphed into a mischief you aren’t yet familiar with. “We all have grey eyes, the Black’s. My mother and father too. Makes sense they would, what with their… similar heritage.” 

Sirius doesn’t volunteer information about his family often, and as he does he squirms. You wonder if he’d tripped into saying it on automatic. You know intimately how that feels. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “I spent the last twenty years thinking my mum was a drunk and my father an idea. Of course, I know more about my dad now.” 

“Not about your mum?” 

“Oh, no. She’s dead, I think,” you say. 

“You don’t know?” 

Your turn to squirm. “Not really, no.” 

Sirius frowns. His lips part, a concerned platitude no doubt on his lips, but James’ strong voice cuts in, “You can share mine,” he says, “god knows she’s always trying to find another of my friends to parent. She even tried to baby Regulus when they first met.”

“Your brother?” you ask Sirius, remembering some tidbit of conversation. 

“He isn’t exactly versed in accepting affection,” Sirius says. 

“Neither were you!” James doesn’t look away from the road ahead as his arm reaches back. He points ineffectually. “And now look at you!” 

“Get me out of this car,” Sirius says. 

Remus, grey at the gills, murmurs, “I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Remus wars with migraine–motion sickness nausea on the corner of the street. James, having parked and locked the car once you all emerged, stands straight beside you, worry flashing across his face. Sirius has it all covered, patting the space between Remus’ shoulders slowly as Remus says, “Stop smothering me, or I’ll be sick on your shoes.” 

“Finally return the favour, then,” Sirius says. 

Remus groans, bending further toward the ground. 

“Is he okay?” you ask. 

James doesn’t answer for a while. He sweeps his gaze around the streets, cataloguing people and squinting against the lowering sun as it shuttles behind buildings. The evening cold is setting in, lights of the cinema blue-bright white and buzzing just ahead. “Remus will be alright,” he says, sounding like he believes it wholeheartedly. “Just gets sick sometimes ‘cos of the headaches.” 

It really bothers him, all the same. He doesn’t hide it well, the twitch of his fingers to go help, his furtive glances. He looks up and down the road, behind the cars, around you, and always back at Remus and Sirius. 

“How old were you when you first went away to boarding school?” you ask. 

“We were eleven. Why?” 

“I’m just wondering. You’ve been friends for a really long time, then.” 

“Not too long, now, Princess. I’m only in my twenties.” 

“Right,” you laugh, “of course.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing! It didn’t mean anything.” 

He gets a Sirius brand of smile, then. No, not Sirius at all, just a James you haven’t met before, cheeky and funny at once. “Sure it didn’t,” he teases. “You think I’m old. Do I look old to you? I’ll have you know I’m in perfect athletic shape. My mile time is six minutes on the dot.”

“Very impressive,” you say. 

He rolls his shoulders. “Yes, it is.” 

A couple of feet away, Remus has stood tall, a hand covering his eyes. Sirius covers that hand with his own, his laugh carrying across the street. “You’re a mess, Lupin, but you’re nothing I can’t handle, obviously. Get over yourself.” 

“All I said was ‘fuck’s sake’,” Remus says.

“It was teeming with self loathing.” 

“It‘s like I’m stuck together with shit PVA or something, I feel ridiculous.” 

“You’re fine. You are. You’ve never looked so fine, Moony old chap.” 

“Can you stop?” Remus asks, sounding like he doesn’t mind it either way. 

“Sure,” Sirius says anyways, softer now by a thread. “I’m done.” 

“James, should we–”

James goes down with a quiet thump. Your hearing flats out, no sound of him as his arms curl outward and his back rolls —he’s too smart to let his head smack the pavement. 

You aren’t smart enough to move out of the line of fire. 

A weight like a log forced itself into your stomach, slamming your back to a chest. You thrust your head back hard and cry out as a stab of pain rushes through your head, stumbling as best you can away from it, but the arm doesn’t let you go. 

Sudden, there’s another cry of pain, male this time, and the arm is letting you go. You bound two steps forward and spin in time to see James in a fist fight with a masked assailant, punches popped faster than you can track: you see clearly only points of contact, James taking a hit to the chest, to the head, his face snapped sideways as his knee comes up. He puts all of his weight into the motion and kicks, putting some much needed space between the two of them. 

You glance back for Sirius and Remus in a tizzy and come face to face with another black mask. 

You aren’t sure why you do it. Perhaps James’ sense of urgency rubs off on you, all his echoes of why you don’t want to let an attacker take you away from the public eye if you can help it, or maybe it’s knowing James is locked into his own fight and he might not win against another, caught off guard like that. You can’t confess to thinking, only swinging, the power of your entire upper body thrust into a punch that shatters you with pain. 

Before you can see if the punch had any effect, someone is stepping in front of you and hitting him again. Twice, a third time, James hits the masked man until he’s incapacitated on the ground. 

He swings back to you with a harsh breath. Your ears pop. “What the fuck!” someone’s saying, not James, his lips unmoving as he looks you over. 

“…You okay?” he says finally, stepping into your space to hold you by the arms. “You’re not hurt?” 

You flinch as his hand slips down to yours. 

“My hand!” you yelp, pressing it to your chest.

“What about your hand?” 

“I punched that guy!” 

“Did you tuck your thumb into your hand?” 

“Yes!”

“I told you not to do that!” James exclaims, breathless and vaguely pained as he puts his hands out again to take your injured one. “You tuck your thumbnail against the curl of your index finger!” 

“Is it broken?” Sirius asks seriously, stepping over one of your attackers in his rush to be next to you. “Are you okay? Fuck, it looked like a good one, though!” 

“I didn’t think properly,” you say, biting back a whimper as James rolls down your sleeve, your hand shaking terribly in his grasp, “I was just scared–”

“No, I know, it’s not your fault,” James says in a run on, sounding far outside the realm of a professional as he pokes near your pinky fingers knuckle. Your whine of pain makes it worse. “Sorry, lovely. I think you have a fracture. Fuck, you didn’t have to do that, I had it handled.”

“He was gonna grab me!” 

“I know.” He rubs his brow. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” James raises his gaze to Sirius as though he’s going to ask for something, but he pauses. “Where’s Remus?” 

“Turned into a migraine pretty much the second before those guys turned up, I had to sit him down.” 

James holds your arm with both hands. His eyes are browner than anything as he levels your gaze. “I’m gonna fix this, okay? I just need to make sure they aren’t getting up.” 

“Okay.” The pain in your hand gets worse by the second.  

“Okay?” he asks. 

It hurts so badly that tears form, one dribbling hot and fat down your cheek. “Okay,” you say again, wobbling. 

His lips go flat, but he turns away to start cleaning up. Sirius takes his place, wrapping an arm behind your back with a comforting murmur that you don’t quite hear. 

—

James is gone for hours. Sirius and Mikkelson take you home, and waiting for you is a team of doctors and nurses that seem unperturbed to be treating a princess in her rinky dink living room. The craziest part about it all isn’t that you’ve been attacked, or that the two doctors and three nurses are smiley, unhurried but not uncaring, and it’s not that you wish James was there so sorely it has you unsettled despite the rapid pain relief, no. The craziest part is the portable x-ray machine. 

“We could’ve gone to the hospital,” you tell Sirius, leaning back in your kitchen chair as a sweet-faced nurse slips a brace carefully over your injured hand. 

“No, we couldn’t have.” 

“I don’t understand why not.” 

“Yes, you do.” Sirius points at the plate of biscuits by your cup insistently. “Go on.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Just something quick for your blood sugar. Or pressure? One of them. Would you rather have a sandwich?” 

“No.” 

“Princess, please,” he says, giving you a frown you're unused to, like you’re pissing him off and he expects it. 

You grab a biscuit to appease him. 

Remus is wrapped in a throw blanket in your bed, likely sleeping, or perhaps still furious that Sirius had asked one of the nurses to give him a good look. Her diagnosis wasn’t anything new; Remus is suffering in the third stage of a migraine. It’s best he be left alone for a little while to rest. He’s going to be very tired when he comes out of it. 

James hasn’t returned yet. When they first stuffed you to the brim with painkillers, you’d thought morosely that you‘d needed him there, but now you just wonder what’s taking him so long. Who were those men? One of them had grabbed you tightly with intent to drag you away, so where were you going? 

Your flat is growing more crowded by the second. Marlene is in the living room trying to take dinner orders from extremely happy doctors and bodyguards alike, and with her is a stranger, a woman with dark skin and darker hair, black curls piled away from her face. You haven’t asked about her yet. Perhaps Marlene needs help catering for the sheer amount of people. 

“This isn’t exactly incognito,” you say, “all these people.” 

“Yes, well, James wants you to move anyways. And maybe that’s for the best. It’s rather cramped in here.” 

“It wasn’t,” you say. 

He assesses you quietly. 

“What?” 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to move, but you must know you’re a sitting duck here.” 

“I must?” 

“You are not a normal person, and you never will be. James won’t tell you about the things you should be scared of even if he’s honest about the risk, and I was at the mercy of his wrath last time, but I don’t care,” he says honestly. “I don’t. I need you to know that you’re not safe and it’s not because of some invisible maybe, there are real forces at play here. The sooner you move, the better. I know,” —he lowers his voice— “it’s a massive change, and you haven’t had time to catch your breath, but you can’t get comfortable now. And hey, you can keep the flat, yeah? You don’t have to give it away, but things aren’t safe here.” 

“But why not?” 

“It’s the Baron,” Sirius says, serious, quick, glancing at the door, “he’s not just cruel, he’s evil. He’s done things you’d never think he’d get away with, not now. It’s like the dark ages in his courts, the pure bloods–”

“Sirius, what the fuck?” Marlene says, pushing the door until it hits the wall. “Enough. She fucking broke her hand.” 

“And I’m telling her why.” 

“She broke it because she punched someone the wrong way,” the unknown woman says, warm but disapproving at once. “Who taught you to fight?” 

“Uh, it’s self defense,” you say uselessly. 

“James,” she tuts. 

Marlene appraises the nurse where she’s lingering at the counter, putting away her things. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, which is mostly sincere, just a tad pushy. 

The nurse says, “No, thank you,” and makes herself scarce. 

“This is Dorcas,” Marlene introduces as the door closes. No explanation to who she is follows as they settle against the counter tops. 

“Hi,” you say softly. 

“Hello.” Dorcas smiles, all signs of her disapproval wiped clean. “How’s the hand?” 

“Hurting.” 

“It’s nothing some rigatoni arrabbiata won’t fix, I’m sure.” 

“Sorry, Dorcas, but why the fuck are you here?” Sirius asks pleasantly. 

“Why do you think?” she asks sweetly back. 

“Usually to fuck me off.” 

“Enough,” Marlene says. “If you’re going to argue, you have two options. You can do it while pulling the tendons from these chicken fillets, or you can do it outside.” 

“Pass,” Sirius says. “I’ll go on as usual, as long as the snake stays quiet.” 

“You’re as bad as.” Dorcas crosses her arms over her chest. 

Sirius doesn’t rise to the bait, despite himself, and Marlene opens your fridge to begin cooking. He doesn’t mention the evil forces in play again, leaving you in your agony to brush it away. You’ll think of it later, or never, whichever comes first. 

“You can go to bed, if you like.” 

“Remus is in there.” 

“He won’t care. Pretty sure he had one of us in bed with him from first year to last,” Sirius says, taking one of your biscuits and eating it in two quick bites. 

You remember your own and put it down next to your cup of tea. Tea is fine, but these boys are constantly plying you with it and you’ve had enough to last a while. And the biscuits —who thought you could ever be sick of biscuits? 

“I’m not tired,” you say. “Maybe I’ll… finish some school work.” 

“Sure. Gonna be okay typing without your hand?” 

You wince. “Fuck. It’s my dominant hand, too.” 

“You’ll be out of commission for a while. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” You look down at your twinging hand, a slice of shadow banding across it under the table. “I’d rather have a broken hand than be dead.” 

“No one was going to kill you. Is that what Sirius has been telling you?” Marlene asks, glaring at Sirius from over her shoulder, her eyes like blue fire. 

“No,” you say. “He didn’t have to say anything about it to me for me to know I was in danger.” 

Marlene isn’t chastened. “You’re okay. James protected you, and he will again. You don’t need to worry about it, about any of that stuff.” 

“That’s willfully ignorant,” Dorcas says. 

Sirius takes another biscuit. “I actually agree.” 

They’re friendly from then on. You don’t have it in you to be surprised. 

—

James cannot stand London much longer. The police officers are knobs, the roads are shit, and now you’re getting attacked by freaks outside of the loneliest cinema he could find. He’s spent three hours in an interrogation room with a prick and one of the guys who tried to attack you, asking their intentions, who they work for, who they are, and it hasn’t mattered, when he could’ve been making sure you were alright. He gave strict instructions on how you were supposed to be treated and by who, but Sirius doesn’t always listen. What James realised somewhere between leaving you on the side of the road and the police station, is that he has sorely underestimated what needs to be done here to keep you safe. Dorcas might go a ways of helping that along, but he needs advice. 

He needs Mary. Maybe Lily and Emmeline full time. He needs anyone willing to help him. Dearborn, the twins. Reinforcements are necessary. 

He needs to breathe. He can’t believe you broke your hand doing something he should’ve done first. 

“Fucking winded me,” he says to himself, rolling his sore shoulder as he takes the stairs to your flat two at a time. “Wanker.” 

“Kiss your mum with that mouth?” Remus asks lightly. 

He’s sitting at the end of the hallway away from your flat with the window wide open, a cigarette wobbling between his lips. It’s not lit yet. 

“You should stay in bed,” James says, crossing the hall to stand by him. He finds a zippo lighter in Remus’ pocket and flicks it open, holding the flame to the cig, letting the end smoulder. “How is it?” 

“It’s not that bad. Didn’t make me sick.” 

“Wobbly?” James asks, closing the zippo to tuck away in his own pocket. 

Remus takes a deep inhale, hand on the window ledge to steady himself. “Only when I breathe,” he says on the exhale. 

They stand together for a bit. James sort of wants to smoke, it’s not like he didn’t do his fair share in school, but he was lucky it never caught him like Remus and Sirius, who both consider themselves casual smokers. I smoke to celebrate, Sirius said once, and to commiserate. So that’s a few a day, at least. 

Remus is less inclined. James can’t blame him either way. Isn’t he owed a vice while his head rears to implode? 

“How is the princess?” James asks eventually. 

“I can’t confess to seeing much of her,” Remus says, voice light enough to imply that you’re fine. “But she’s spent the afternoon with a fracture and Sirius. I dare say she’s miserable.” 

“Her hand is broken?” 

“Yep. But it’s a boxer’s fracture, it’ll heal in a month.” Remus gets about halfway down his cigarette before he squints at James with suspicion. “You were in a rush.” 

“Just checking you’re okay.” 

“Mm.” He takes another drag before pulling the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a tall line of ash out of the window. “She’s not upset with you.” 

“She should be.” 

“James, you’re such a martyr.”  

He shrugs. “I’m here to protect her and at the very first hurdle I’ve let her down. Actually, the second hurdle, because I’ve already hit her once, so hard she could barely keep her eyes open.” 

“You didn’t hit her, don’t say that.” 

“I did hit her.” 

“With a door.” 

“Yes, with a heavy object.” 

“By accident!” Remus laughs and snuffs his cigarette on the wall outside the window, drawing the butt inside a curled fist. It makes James wince. “You’re alright. Truthfully I think she just wants to see you ‘cos you’re nice to her.” 

“You’re nice to her.” 

“Yes, but I’m not in the best working order right now.” He smiles. “And I’m not like you, I won’t put my arm around her.” 

“Please don’t.” 

“I won’t. I would if she was upset, but she doesn’t seem upset. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

“Don’t say it like that!” 

Remus laughs again. “Like what? Stop making me laugh, my head is throbbing.”  

Sirius once made Remus laugh so hard it prompted a migraine, or at least it was conveniently timed. He swore off jokes and being witty for a good two weeks. “Shall I never joke again?” James asks. 

He sounds tired, even to himself. 

“It’s a start,” Remus says. 

“Time is it?” 

“Time to stop being a coward, I think. Little after seven. You’re done?” 

“Done. Too tired to make better decisions.” 

“You know that song by the Rolling Stones, Miss You?” Remus presses his hand to an eye. “Stuck in my head.” 

James loves how much Remus loves to talk to him. It’s stupid. “Guess I’m lying to myself, it’s just you and no one else,” James sing-songs quietly, with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I like your voice more than his.” 

“Charmer.”

They follow one another down the hall to your door, where Mikkelson couldn’t look more bored keeping guard. Poor Mickey with the shit jobs and no company. At least he’s well paid. In the living room, there’s little evidence of the work he’s thought would be done here. No medical waste or mess, each pillow cleanly placed and each trinket of yours where you left it. There’s not much sound, but James cocks a trained ear and listens for everything. A rustle in the bathroom. A breath taken in the kitchen, then another. There’s definitely kissing, he thinks, heaving a horrendous sigh to let the lovebirds know they have company. 

Could’ve been you and Sirius, but he can’t see it happening. 

Marlene appears around the kitchen doorway, ever so slightly pink. “Hullo. Dinner?” 

“Yeah, please.” 

“Sure. Remus, you want something? Chicken soup?” 

Marlene will make chicken soup as most Genovian would, with pastina or acini de pepe, fresh rosemary, thyme, and Parmesan rind shredded over the top. It’s no less delicious than any other dish in her arsenal, but it’s so, so homely that Remus sighs wistfully and James can’t not ask, “Soup for me, too?” 

“Sure. It’s what I made for the princess, poor girl.” 

“She’s in the bathroom?” 

“For a while.” Marlene has the decency to smile apologetically. “You boys like red pepper, yeah?” 

“And Sirius?”

“I don’t know, James, I’m not a psychic.” 

“Right. Hi, Dorcas, how are you?” 

Dorcas appears in the door. James might think she was reluctant if he didn’t know better; Dorcas doesn’t ever do anything she doesn’t want to do. Her smile says something unreadable. “Fine,” she says concisely. 

James trudges away. In the bedroom, Sirius is curled up on your bed asleep. He shakes his head in wonderment and carries on to the bathroom. There’s water running behind the door, accompanied by the soft sounds of under-the-breath cursing. 

“Angel,” he says before he can stop himself, “are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“James?” 

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“James, I… have a long sleeve top on, and it’s hurting more than I thought with the cast. Can you… do you think Marlene would come help me?”

He shouldn’t — “I can help, angel. Is it hurting? You’re stuck, aren’t you?” 

“Just a bit.” 

Your hesitant voice echoing off the walls makes him chuckle. “I can get Marlene,” he says. 

He’s already turning when you say, “Uh, no, that’s fine. Can you get me out?” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I want it to be you,” you say quietly. 

James doesn’t know what to do with that. He opens the bathroom door and finds you uncomfortably twisted. You’ve tried to take off the sleeve on your injured arm first and ended up with the back of your shirt pulled away from you, pulled up, tight against your neck, a little gap between your chest and the fabric. You aren’t scandalous, barely undressed, but James knows you’re shy about how you look from fittings and intuition alike. He quickly encourages your uninjured hand into the air to loosen the band of fabric from behind your neck, and then easily tugs the entirety of it up your arms and off of you, more careful at your dominant hand. The moment you’re released, he takes the soft sleep shirt you’ve put on the laundry basket and ruches the sleeves. He sews your injured hand tentatively though one sleeve, then the other, before slipping it over your head and pulling it down. His knuckles skim your naked back, and he’s careful not to touch bare skin again. When he’s neatened you up, he holds your side in one hand. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning. 

“I know it’s just a fracture, but I feel like I can’t use it. Hurts.” 

“There’s no such thing as just a fracture,” he says. “Fractures hurt. Your hand is broken, it’s alright if you can’t move it. Do you need any more help?” 

You shake your head. “I managed the trousers by myself, thankfully.” 

James looks you over and finds himself softening swiftly. He does feel sorry for you. He thinks you’re allowed an allotment of pity. But he also just likes you, and doesn’t want to see you in pain. His colossal guilt doesn’t help. 

The darkness from outside is creeping in. You’ve a shadow on your cheek, another stretching out to your side. Your pajamas are worn —well-loved— a simple black t-shirt with a teddy bear on the chest and blue pajama trousers to match the teddy’s bow tie. You’ve the appearance of somebody who cried for a good hour or two, not so much splotchy or sore looking as simply coloured by the after effects of distress, a tiredness to your eyes that has nothing to do with sleep. You look small, but not in the sense of proportions. Just small. 

“How’s your pain?” he asks you quietly. 

“It’s not bad if I don’t move it.” 

“Try not to, then.” 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

“It’s all fine. I don’t have any more answers for you. Please, forgive me.” 

He knows a grudge hasn't crossed your mind. Still, he’s surprised again by your endless goodness, whether you might see it that way or not, your propensity for leniency and how it can be a brave, kind thing, “It wasn’t your fault, it just happened. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you weren’t there… Well, I can imagine. I can. And it really scares me.” You press your splinted hand to your abdomen. “Thank you for keeping me safe, James.” 

I didn’t keep you safe, I barely got to you in time, he thinks. He’s in over his head. He’s practically drowning in shame and responsibility and self-obsessed inner turmoil. 

He wants to be his best, for you. He wants to do this well. 

James has no idea how he’s going to do this. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, hiding everything but a stitch of breathlessness from his tone. 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

In over his head. Drowning, maybe. “No. Did you?” 

“I don’t have much appetite.” 

“Marl’s made chicken soup with little pasta stars,” he says, nodding toward the door. “You’ll love it. Promise.”

“You’ll eat too?” you ask. 

James feels a tightening in his stomach that he wisely ignores. Without answering aloud, he encourages you out of the bathroom to the kitchen, and you both eat.

He’s helping Marlene clear the plates away when you hesitate by the door. Sirius has unceremoniously tumbled from your bed to the sofa when Remus tried to rouse him, begging tiredly to be allowed to stay. You’d said yes without problem. You trust Sirius, and if you didn’t, James thinks you might trust him enough to know who you can be left alone with. Remus and Dorcas have been ferried back to the accommodation by one of the others. Marlene and James are set to leave together as soon as the kitchen is squared. 

And yet you hesitate. 

Haunting the door, James recognises the way one hand flutters, almost squeezes the air, wanting to wring the other but unable.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to use his body as a wall to offer you some privacy.

“Nothing.”

“You can go to bed if you need to, you don’t have to wait for us.” He manages a smirk. “You want me to change the sheets, don’t you? That Sirius Black character is a real heathen, isn't he? I don’t think a day went by when we were kids where his bed wasn’t inundated with crumbs.” 

“He ate in bed?” you ask. 

“Small rebellions.” 

“Remus says you guys shared a lot.” 

“We did. I don’t really know why. I know boys aren’t ‘supposed’ to love each other like that, but we never grew out of it.” James lonely without his mum and dad’s bed to climb into, Sirius realising he could have comfort whenever he wanted, even if he didn’t need it, and Remus, usually unwilling, occasionally doing the work himself if it was what was necessary to sleep again after a bad dream. (And the other, who didn’t often share, but leaves a bad taste in James’ mouth to recall.) 

“And it helped?” 

“Sometimes.” 

You squirm on the spot, but you force it out. “James, will you stay?” You’re apologetic. “I don’t think I can sleep if you go. I’m not scared, I promise, but…” 

James’ voice gets caught behind his teeth. 

“You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t mind, you can stay, you can have my bed, if you want, I’d just feel better if it was you.” 

“Of course I’ll stay.” 

You smile. 

“It’s my job to look after you. If you feel better knowing I’m out here on the sofa, then I’ll stay.” He offers a smile usually saved for his friends.

“Okay.” Something in you has gone slack. You’re warmed from the inside out, and so suddenly tired. “You won’t go in the bed?” 

“I won’t take it from you, no. I quite like how you make the sofa up, I’ll just shove Sirius over. I want the pillowcase with flowers and the blanket with fleece underneath, please.” 

You leave to get his provisions. He follows your gaze. It’s why he knows you look back at him as you cross the threshold to your room. 

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM Question: What do the various Espada Think of Tousen? Follow-up question, will they, the bunch of dumbasses that they are (because Aizen made them for loyalty, not thinking), declare him their unquestioned leader once Aizen, Gin and Urloquia fork off to see the cosmic taffy pull (also presuming that Barrigan winds up face down in a ditch per canon)?

Bless you for asking this, I needed something to chew on. I'm going to answer these one at a time because the post would be insanely long, and how the thought of him Before the Battle of Karakura Probably:

---

Aaroniero and Arruruerie are SURE they've met before, and that they owes the man a debt of gratitude.

It's possible, they suppose. They have consumed and absorbed the memories of so many hollows that maybe they remember the face from a hollow he killed.

At least, that's what they hope is going on.

But they have Nightmares. Not of being pursued by Shinigami but of being the Shinigami in hot pursuit. Dreams of walking through a city, surrounded by humans that adore them. Names and Faces- Rukia and her dipshit older brother, Jushiro with the nice couch they sometimes pass out on after long nights- if Jushiro's husband wasn't already there. ...Memories, of meeting each other, and falling in love. How it felt as natural to look up to her as it was to gaze at the moon. How waking up to him felt as natural as the dawn. Memories of being married by Captain Ukitake, after Tousen had done them the inexplicable favor of organizing the whole party and acquiring wedding rings. He loves organizing things for people. Ukitake had smiled. Especially weddings. I just hope it's not guilt from the one he didn't get to. His husband had frowned.

That's impossible, of course. They know who they are, how they arose from the vile muck in the shadowy pits of Hueco Mundo. They never stood in the sun one late afternoon, to marry, not with how it burns.

...and yet.

There's no harm in being polite, right? They don't mind locking Glottineria in it's scabbard with an audible click when he comes into the room, to affirm lack of hostilities. Or giving him the cup of tea Aizen gives everyone at his insufferable meetings afterwards- it's not like they can drink it! ...And if sometimes, when they've been working late in the lab studying the effects and causes of Hollowfication, when Tousen gets tired and starts to call them "Kaien" and "Miyako"-

-Well, what's the harm in answering in the voices he expects to hear?

[pomefioredove]

Don’t mind me sliding in so soon after you posted your Christmas event teehee

can I have a sugar cookie, #3, with frosting and sprinkles please?

order #3; sugar with frosting and sprinkles

HIII mutual hi!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ with him

tropes: only one bed and hurt/comfort characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu word count: 700

The days following the incident at S.T.Y.X. were long.

What was only two weeks between the return of the overblot victims and the repair of Ramshackle felt like years, stretched between the fingers of Vil Schoenheit like taffy, sticky and sickeningly sweet.

After all you had done for him, keeping you at Pomefiore while the broken ribs in your own inelegant dorm were mended felt more than right; it felt natural.

There was, of course, the problem with the rooms.

Something- dust, perhaps, or a certain perfume, or a pollen from one of the many flowers that filled Pomefiore's colorful interior- set off the worst sneezing fits in Grim, and even if you were not so worried, Vil could not have let him get his snot all over the furniture.

Resolved, ever so quietly, by the discovery that whatever mysterious allergen Grim reacted to was not present in Vil's bedroom, and so there you stayed.

In his room.

In his bed.

With him.

Under different circumstances, Vil would not have minded such a thing. He's not fussy, and the housewarden's bed is spacious enough for two, three, even four people to sleep comfortably, especially you, whom he would have space for even if he slept on a cot or in a hammock.

Under kinder circumstances, he would be most worried about your sleep-kicking and Grim's shedding.

That was not the problem.

The problem was that, since returning from S.T.Y.X., Vil had woken up from the same dream every night, teary-eyed and panicked, his eyes burning and breath stolen.

He was afraid the noise of his pounding heart would wake you.

The first night, he didn't sleep at all. He couldn't find it within himself to close his eyes, the fear of his nightmare and the thought of the look on your face if you saw him panicked and sobbing, kept him awake.

The next, he got a few hours.

And then none after that.

It was affecting his beauty and his confidence, then, this pervasive fear, this lack of sleep. And yet, he would not bring himself to talk to you. He would rather go tired than admit he was afraid.

On the fourth night, Vil wakes again, tears burning down his cheeks and pooling on the pillow beneath him, gathering in his perfect hair and crusting it with its salt. He can't breathe, and so he stumbles out of bed, completely inelegantly (though he's hardly thinking of that now), and to his vanity, gripping the sides of it and thoroughly, neurotically making sure the reflection in the mirror is still him.

His mouth is dry, lips chapped. He'll deal with that in a moment, he thinks. He needs to get ahold of himself.

In the dark of the room, with his blood pumping in his ears and his vision focused only on the mirror, on the reflection that he's not quite convinced is his, he doesn't hear you getting out of bed.

Vil is unaware you're even awake, until he feels your arms around his waist and your cheek against his back.

He stills. You can surely feel the wild beating of his heart, but you say nothing of it.

Finally, after Vil has regained the ability to breathe, after his heart has calmed, after the world becomes more than just him and the mirror and the beautiful person in it, you whisper.

"We don't have to talk about it,"

He says nothing.

"I just want you to be okay."

His mind is full of thoughts but none make it to his tongue. After a moment of breathing, of trying to breathe after hearing you say a thing like that, you pull him back to the bed, and let him lie on top of you, his arms around your waist and his head on your shoulder. It's an unfamiliar position for Vil Schoenheit, but a good one.

He breathes against your neck. You gently wipe his tears away with the pad of your thumb.

And he falls asleep, undisturbed by direbeast snores and nightmares alike. You keep him there, close to you, that night and the next.

Vil has no trouble sleeping after that.

[heartfullofleeches]

Dentist Darling who despises Sucrose (Taffy Candy Yan) and their candy store- More sweetness is the last thing anyone in their town needs. Especially with all this bizarre cases of rapid tooth decay sprouting up. What can Sucrose say? Their treats are irresistible! Darling would know if they just tried a bite. Too bad they've been scared off candy since they were a child. Cavities are a not something to be taken lightly, but Darling may lean a bit too far on the safe side. Perhaps it's for the best. After all, they're still around and kicking while others who've eaten Sucrose's candy face side effects ranging from tooth aches to terrible nightmares and in some cases death. Sucrose would make sure Darling doesn't meet the same end.

All they have to do is take one little bite of him and Sucrose will take care of the rest.

-

Sucrose: Ohhhh, Gumdrop! I made a gift basket for you! Filled to the brim with all the best sellers from my shop! Try a piece, won't you?

Dentist Darling: You will not tempt me with such filth, trash.

Sucrose: If you want a real sweet temptation I can always drop my pants and let you have a taste of my taffy stick.

Dentist Darling: What was that?

Sucrose: Nothing! ^⁠_⁠^

[emo-batboy]

Things Battinson Totally Did During His First Year of University

Using Unhinged or Odd Things I Also Did as a College Freshman :D

Note: for this list, let’s believe Bruce was living in an (admittedly expensive and swanky) dorm because it is required for first-years, especially those entering at a young age, and Alfred told him he needed to make friends. Also yes I did every single thing on this list. I never claimed to be a role model

Bruce, to his TA: I’m so sorry I’m late to class. I gave blood a few hours ago and almost fainted on the way here, but it won’t happen again.

Signs up for a class called “Age of Dinosaurs” despite it not being required whatsoever and proceeds to work his entire schedule around it

Bruce: Your mental health is super important. If you think you should see the on-campus therapist, go see them. Friend: Fine. I’ll sign up for therapy if you sign up for therapy too. Bruce: Hold on-

Finds a loophole in his housing contract that allows him to get a pet frog, calls him kermit :)

Gets a second frog because Kermit was lonely, names it Constantine after Muppets Most Wanted, then realizes that they’re gay for each other. Wonders if the rainbow-colored rocks he got them triggered anything

Swings dramatically between calling Alfred every single day and ghosting him for weeks, cries when he realizes what he did

“Accidentally” joins the student body council, doesn’t know what he’s doing, gets re-elected anyway

Molds a dragon out of Laffy Taffy instead of doing his work

Bruce: *joins Honors, gets all A’s, takes the max amount of classes, has several minors, overachieves* Also Bruce: I’m a failure.

Breaks into a building after hours to study because NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AT THE LIBRARY

Bruce: I will not get seasonal depression this year. Bruce: *gets real and seasonal depression that year*

Meticulously schedules his day with a color-coded planner because if he sits down for too long, the thoughts will consume him

Gives a presentation to his rhetoric class on how much he likes Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse (it is 20 minutes long)

Successfully allocates funding from the student body council to pay for free feminine products in the dorms OUT OF SPITE because someone said it couldn't be done. fuck you, Andrew

Bruce: It is not an all-nighter if I go to sleep before my first class. Friend: It is 7:30am, the sun is in the sky, and your first class is at 12:30. Bruce: But I am getting sleep.

Refuses to go anywhere without his backpack because what if he needs three notebooks at once

Loses over 20 pounds because ✨stress✨ and scares the shit out of Alfred when he comes home for Thanksgiving

Argues with his TA over the one (1) question he got wrong on his Dinosaur exam

Bruce, calling Alfred: Hello father figure. How do I do taxes? Do I have to do them myself? Also, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Joins in on a charity arts-and-crafts project that gives kids books with matching activities made by volunteers, proceeds to commandeer the project because “it’s not color-blind friendly” and rewrites the instructions for everyone

Makes a murder wall

Goes to one (1) sports game and proceeds to leave in the first ten minutes because it’s way too loud wtf is wrong with people

Professor, addressing the lecture hall: I dare you to write an essay about these two sentences. Bruce: *writes an essay about six words, gets a 100, never even read the book*

Crawls into the ceiling for some alone time

Ghosts someone after a date because he’s too scared to tell them he didn’t know it was a date in the first place and now he feels bad

Classmate: How tf does he walk across campus that fast? I go in the same direction he does on my bike, and he’s always ahead of me. Bruce: *is gay sprinting to Dinosaur class*

Refuses to let others use his Favorite Pen TM

Constantly gets mistaken for a Grad Student because he is “so wise and mature” (bestie, that’s the autism)

Alfred: *casually mentions he got into a car accident through text* Bruce: *replies with a meme while hyperventilating because he doesn’t know what to do with that information??!*

Wears a suit to one of his finals

Regularly eats non-organic food for the first time in his life, proceeds to learn about several allergies Alfred forgot to mention he has

Writes “What is a Hot Pocket?” in calligraphy and proceeds to laugh his ass off alone in his dorm because he is so exhausted he’s reached the point of delusion

Locks himself out of his dorm right before class, frantically asks the floor group chat if someone can help, proceeds to tell the nice gay man on the floor who saved him “I love you” because his social skills have hit rock bottom

Makes a little music album display next to his desk for his favorite band (Nirvana) His friends call it a shrine, and they are technically correct

Has a blacklist of people he refuses to interact with because Reasons

Counselor: What do you want to do when you graduate? Bruce: *gestures vaguely*

Refuses to take the bus because there are people in there and he doesn’t like those

Loses one of his frogs, how tf did he do that, they’re fully aquatic, oh fuck, this is probably why they got rid of that loophole a year later because unbeknownst to Bruce, he accidentally started a frog revolution in the dorms, btw he SWEARS he did not mean to do that

Has two trash cans in his room: one for the Good Garbage, and one for the Bad Garbage. Only Bruce knows which is which

Bruce: *writes a creative piece about a ship’s final thoughts as it sinks, bringing its passengers down with it* TA: Absolutely lovely, Bruce, but are you okay?

Goes on Night Walks, keeps himself safe by maintaining a level 12 resting bitch face at all times

Earns the nickname “8th floor cryptid” after pacing the halls at 3am when it’s too cold for Night Walks (honestly tho how tf didn’t he get the nickname earlier?)

Bruce: Do you think a depressed person could do this? Bruce: *has a manic episode*

Okay that's all love you BYE

[the-californicationist]

he comes closer and closer...

Price/Reader - TW: bondage, explicit consent, anal fingering, begging, male whimpering, edgeplay, blowjobs

“I want you to remember, especially in an hour or so, that you asked for this,” you kissed his bearded cheek softly, smelling his cologne, “Begged for it, even.”

“Aye. I did,” he replied, his accent thick and heady.

Captain Price was fully naked and strapped down to his office desk, tied with a length of paracord. His body was stretched out like a rubber band, his skin shining from sweat and covered in dark hair. You could hear his labored breathing and feel his eyes on you, watching you as you walked around the desk, rubbing his arms and legs with your hands, playing with his nipples, fondling him everywhere except where he wanted you to. 

“And yet, you say I’m being unfair?” You pouted playfully, settling yourself between his knees, purposely avoiding his twitching cock.

“Edging involves at least a little…attention. Touch me, love. Please.”

“Begging again? How desperate you are tonight,” you smiled, lowering your mouth just above where his pink head could reach. Watching his hips and cock strain towards you was enchanting. 

“Baby, please, it aches. You can’t…please, don’t just leave me like this.”

“Maybe just one little taste, hmm? Just to see if you’ll be a good boy.”

“I will,” he strained harder, fighting the ropes, “I will, I promise. Please-please-please…”

“I don’t know, Captain. Do you remember the rules?”

“Yes, love, I remember. Please, just -”

“Tell me.”

He sighed, and you watched his abs flex on the exhale, his belly convulsing with his ragged breaths,

“I have to warn you when I come, and…”

“And?” You drug out the word like a sticky strand of taffy, pulling it to the point of breaking. 

“...and if I don’t, I can’t have your cunt.”

“No, you can’t. So, be good, John. Show me you want this pussy.”

He growled, 

“Fuck, I want it right bloody now. Please, baby, I -”

“Shh. Enough. You need to learn patience, my darling. We’re just getting started.”

You put a dollop of lube in your hand and rubbed it all over his shaft. He was so swollen, and the cockring you put around him had kept him that way for a while. It was wrapped around the base of his shaft and under his balls, stretching the skin and keeping it rigid. He was grunting as you worked him, his whole body reacting to your touch. The desk creaked as he strained against it. You were a little concerned about its integrity. If he broke the straps, or the desk, there were no rules left to bind him. 

“Mmm, unhgh…yeah, just like that. Fuuuuuck…” Price groaned loudly. 

You stopped, pulling away from him with a wet pop. 

“Ah! No, no, no…” He complained. 

You ran your fingers up and down his torso, threatening to touch his cock again. Every time you got close, you could hear the wood of the desk cry out, stretching from his strength. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” You asked him, licking his nipple, biting his skin. 

“Oh, fuck, yes it does. Please, come back.”

You returned to his cock, but instead of quick solid strokes, you pulled him slowly, painfully slowly, and at an odd angle, so none of his regular sensations were available for him to hold onto. Each time you pulled up and over his cockhead, he would grunt for you, like an angry bull. 

Changing your grip, you massaged his balls and he sighed. Then, you rubbed his inner thighs and the skin behind his sack and between his legs, pressing on his internal root, jerking it as if it were his cock at the surface. It made his dick flag up and down as you did so, and he did everything he could to move you either forwards or back, being cruelly teased by your positioning. 

You stopped again. You heard him groan deep and low. His cock was rosy pink, flushed with blood and thicker than you’d ever seen it. You put some lube on your finger and dipped between his legs, finding his asshole, warm and covered in thick hair. He jolted, as much as the ropes would allow.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you remember Warsaw?”

His eyes were wild, but then they went ice cold, the realization washing over him. You chuckled, continuing, rimming your finger around his hole as you spoke, 

“You found me during our field training, and you held me down, plunging those fingers into my pussy and my ass, not allowing me to come for a whole evening, telling me that only bad soldiers got caught, and since I was bad, I didn’t deserve an orgasm. Have you been bad, John?”

You slipped a finger past his outer muscles, feeling the smooth skin inside of his asshole, massaging it in slow, aching circles. He held his breath, but he was shaking his head back and forth, protesting against your appraisal of his sins. You checked in with him, pausing your movements.

“Green or yellow?”

It took a few moments, but he growled out a very clear, 

“Green, love. Green.”

You pushed your finger in until you found the spot you were looking for. You began to rub little firm circles inside of him while jerking his cock with your free hand. There was so much to love about the feedback you were getting from him. His face was wide with intense pleasure, and his pupils were fully blown. You thrust your hand around him faster, focusing on his head. As soon as you saw his eyes clench shut, you removed yourself from him entirely. 

“No! Fuckin’ hell,” he moaned, frustrated and desperate for you to let him finish. 

“Mmm, about to break a rule, Captain? You never were good at following orders.”

You sucked his cock into your mouth, softly, gently, and applied almost no suction. He bucked against the table, slamming his hips and back into the wood. You could hear the ropes tightening against their bites. He was groaning and shaking from your warm, wet mouth. You lay your tongue at the base of his head and began to lap at his skin in long, slow licks. It was too slow and soft for him to feel any release, but it was enough to drive him past the point of normalcy. 

“Fuck! Fuck, more. More, love. I need more, please. Please. Please! Fuuuuuuck.”

You put your finger at the entrance of his asshole, but you didn’t enter him again. Still, he throbbed in your mouth, just the idea of you touching him inside gave him the same sensation. You pulled him out of you and leisurely massaged his dick again, keeping him right on the edge of his pleasure. Price was literally trembling with every moment of your touch, loudly grunting, unashamed of his behavior. 

Then, you decided to finger him again, taking it away the moment his breathing changed. You put him back in your mouth. Then, you took him out. At one point, you left him altogether, making a cup of tea and drinking it while you sat in his office chair, watching him watch you. Smiling. He thrashed against the ropes. 

He really was terrifying, objectively. Price could kill you in less than a second if he wanted to. He was enormous, muscular, and sharp as a knife. There was no where you could run, and there was no chance of you fighting him off. As you watched him writhe and pull at his bindings, you studied his form. His strong legs and huge ass provided immense leverage against the desktop, bowing the edges of its planks downward - ever so slightly - as he thrust against it. The captain’s wide chest bulged with his mountainous shoulders, causing the rope to whine as it tightened on its knot, the fibers stretching past their limits. Every time he threw his hips down in blissful agony, the whole room shuddered. He was like some sort of beast you’d caught in a trap. A tiger by the tail. 

Finally, you decided to end his suffering, but he didn’t know that. As you approached the desk again, he began to beg you,

“Please, love. Please. I’ll be good. I promise. Please, let me come. I’ll be good. Baby, please…”

There it was. That’s what you wanted. An obedient Price was a rare sight, and seeing him unfold right before your very eyes, like a rose in bloom, relaxing into your will - it was mesmerizing. You wanted to rub your nose in those pliant petals, bend them back away from his honeyed center. You were hooked. 

“Mmm. That's it, baby. Surely, such a good boy deserves a reward, hm?”

“Oh, fuck,” his tone was dark now that he knew what was coming. 

You put your mouth on him and grabbed his balls gently in your hand, sucking him with a strong rhythm, massaging his heavy sack with each thrust of your head. Price wasn’t that long, but his girth was a struggle. You pushed past it, giving the man what he’d been waiting for, choking yourself, pulling off his cockring and letting the blood flow back into his core as you swallowed his head in the back of your throat. 

"I'm gonna come. Oh, my God. I'm gonna fuckin' come, baby. Yes-yes-yes...ahhh!"

The wait was so worth it. With each bob of your head, he seized and panicked. It was as if every suckle was giving him a separate orgasm, and he came like a firehose. It squirted down your throat, hot and salty, and he was screaming for you. You were certain the whole base could hear him, even though they were all the way in the barracks. His legs locked out straight, pulling the ropes tight, and his back arched off of the desk in perfect agony. 

You drained his cock by pulling out the last few drops from his shaft, licking them up like dripping ice cream from a cone. Then, you untied his legs and hands. He lay there, panting, his face twisted in complexity, feeling aftershocks and riding them out, sated and drunkenly happy. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, girl, you better start runnin'. As soon as I get my legs, you are in for it.”

You bolted for the door, looking back at him over your shoulder, grinning. He had already rolled off of the desk and was trying to throw on his shorts, stumbling, slowly catching his bearings, quickly getting ready to hunt you down.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

Read Part 2 here.

[skippudippu]

this is really inspired by a post someone else made but I can’t find it rn 😭😭 but hear me out okay

yes lisa frankenstein is a campy silly funny slasher romcom, and I ADORE it for that. but I’ve been thinking abt how it comments on the way society treats people with trauma, especially women, especially in past decades. the three major women each demonstrate different effects of that.

Lisa is the most obvious — we know what happened to her mom, and we see how everyone feels about her. hell, she tells us. nobody cares about her healing, they just want her to move on. (this also ties into themes of the original Frankenstein story; he wasn’t a monster, but everyone treated him like he was, so he became one.) instead of helping her, everyone others Lisa because she does not hide her pain, nor the effects that pain has had on her. so she becomes the dangerous freak everyone made her out to be.

then we have Janet — Janet, whose father died in the Vietnam war, who appears to have ignored her trauma exactly the way society wanted her to. she buried her pain in order to fit into traditional feminine roles: she’s a mother, she keeps up her home, she’s thin and made-up and absolutely drenched in feminine colors and silhouettes. but the unchecked trauma ate her up inside, and it made her into an antagonist. she became the very sort of person that contributed to her own suffering. she’s perpetuating a vile cycle.

and finally, there’s Taffy, who naturally checks every box on the ‘traditional femininity’ checklist. social and bright and pretty. a cheerleader, a party girl, toeing the line between fitting in and being memorable. she’s never experienced the kinds of struggle that Janet or Lisa did — until the end of the movie. that shot of the man in the car looking at her, beaten and bloody and scared out of her mind. and he drives away without a word. the minute she has a big, ugly problem? she’s dismissed. she’s othered, the same way that Lisa was.

but in Taffy’s final scene, she’s visiting Lisa’s grave. she wears the rosary, a symbol of her otherness. her dress is a feminine cut, and it’s black w pink flowers. she has just been a victim of events scarily similar to Lisa: her mother was killed by a frankenstein, she witnessed death, she was subsequently dismissed for her trauma. but I have to hope that this symbolizes the difference between Taffy and Lisa/Janet; that she’ll break the cycle; that she’ll be able to address her suffering while reclaiming her femininity.