#everything just kept on getting worse and worse

[solxamber]

Hello!! Can I get Octavinelle 7 fluff?

Always, For You. || Jade Leech

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "For you, anything." ; Genre: Fluff

You weren’t blind to who Jade Leech was. A man who thrived in chaos, stirred the pot just because he could, and smiled politely while doing it. People avoided asking for his help because, with Jade, everything came at a cost—whether you realized it or not.

Except when it came to you.

The first time it happened, it seemed insignificant. Grim had accidentally knocked over one of Crewel’s more volatile potions, the sparkling liquid oozing across the table, heading straight for your bag. You froze, unsure whether to grab your things or call for help, but before you could move, Jade stepped in.

“Careful,” he murmured, swiping your bag out of harm’s way with his gloved hands. His movements were graceful, calm, as if he were plucking a rare mushroom in one of his favorite forests. You stared at him in shock as he casually placed your bag on a safe countertop, not even glancing at the bubbling mess behind him.

“Uh… thanks?” you managed, unsure what just happened.

Jade turned to you, that polite, unreadable smile firmly in place. “Think nothing of it.” Then, as he walked away, he added over his shoulder, “For you, anything.”

You were left blinking, your heart doing an awkward little flip.

The second time was more dramatic. Floyd had you in a headlock, cackling about how you had to play some ridiculous game with him during lunch. You were already half-resigned to your fate when Jade appeared out of nowhere.

“Floyd,” he said smoothly, his tone calm but firm. “Let go.”

“C’mon, Jade, I’m just having fun!” Floyd whined but loosened his grip anyway.

Jade’s hand rested on his twin’s shoulder, his smile never faltering. “And I’m sure they appreciate your enthusiasm, but I believe their schedule is rather full today.”

Before you knew it, Floyd had been swept away, leaving you standing there dumbfounded.

“Uh… thanks again?” you called after Jade.

He paused, glanced back, and gave you that same polite smile, though this time his gaze lingered a moment too long. “Anything for you.”

It wasn’t fair, you thought later, as you mulled it over for the hundredth time. Jade didn’t help people out of the goodness of his heart. He liked to meddle, to twist situations to his advantage. And yet… he kept stepping in for you, expecting nothing in return.

The third time, you couldn’t take it anymore. After another ridiculous incident—this time involving him steering you away from an overly enthusiastic Ruggie and a “totally harmless” prank—you confronted him.

“Why do you keep helping me?” you blurted, cornering him in the Mostro Lounge after his shift.

Jade didn’t seem fazed. If anything, he looked amused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because!” you said, flustered. “You don’t… you don’t just help people! There’s always something in it for you. But with me, you just…” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely as your thoughts tangled.

Jade stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ah, but you’re special.” His voice softened, and you felt your heart stutter as he leaned in, close enough that his words were just for you. “For you, anything. Always.”

His smile wasn’t sharp this time—it was soft, genuine. And it was so much worse because it left you reeling, your cheeks heating as your chest filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

Jade didn’t wait for your response, just straightened and walked away, leaving you standing there, your mind spinning.

You weren’t sure what you’d done to earn his favor, but one thing was clear: Jade Leech had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the room.

Masterlist

[penvisions]

underbelly {gone to the dogs} - a holiday special

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: You and Joel have an understanding, a new thing between you both. Where once biting words were exchanged and annoyance flared, now there's this simmering thing that slowly takes hold. And who is Joel Miller if not a giving man at his core, determined to do right by the people he lets into his pack?

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: canon typical language, outbreak fic, age gap (about 15 years), sub! joel miller, dom / sub dynamics, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), oral (m and f receiving), sappy gift giving, holiday fic, some good ole pwp (well a little bc it's me lol)

Fic Notes: set at the beginning of their relationship, so between chapters five and six, i believe

A/N: hello, my loves! this is an apology of sorts for joel's behavior in the most recent chapter of the main series 😅felt like i needed to even the playing field a bit hehe. happy holidays and hope the days are good to y'all!

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The table in front of you is an organized mess. From the small baggies of pills and powder, to the piles of hand rolled cigarettes and joints separated in plastic bins, there are four more full of medicine and vitamins that aren’t offered at the infirmary. This is most of the current stock you have, save for a bin that contains five to ten baggies of each drug and pill you offer safely secured underneath the loose panel of wood that acts as one of the many patch ups to the walls of your apartment, this one in your bedroom right beside the bathroom door.

You’ve got a beaten up notebook open as you’re looping out names and exchanges owed. A tally of who you traded with the past two weeks and what they asked for in the next two. There’s a lot to organize and you take an afternoon each week to keep it all neatly transcribed. The small bottle of ink you have is beside the little stamp you’ve kept well hidden from anyone else. Not wanting it to fall into the wrong hands and end up being used on product that is certainly not yours or up to your standards.

Tess had just gotten up from the couch, her resting spot for a moment after work. An inner jacket pocket full of baggies she was about to go and deliver to the tenants of the building next door. Just as you’re about to get up and stretch your legs, the front door opens after a jingling of keys and the lock turning.

Joel.

He’s back late for the day, but you don’t mind getting the random hours to spend with him. You do a lap or two around the table before you set a pot of water up on the stove to boil in an attempt at a late lunch. There are a few cans of potatoes you found last week and you wanted to try and make something soft and hot- mashed potatoes.

Snow dusts the top of his shoulders as you watch him carefully lock the door behind himself, his thick fingers sliding the deadbolt and side latch locks. It’s all in his hair too, darkening the locks by contrast, though you can see the gray beginning to thread itself between the strands. Without a word, Joel is turning and something flies out of his grip and towards you across the room.

You catch it, though the hit of the hard thing is cushioned by a swath of thick paper around it and a twine bow tied to keep it closed.

“Joel, what the hell?” But he doesn’t respond, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair you had been in before disappearing into the bedroom. His boots clunk with the heavy steps he takes, the pain in his back and hips worse today without him needing to tell you. Sighing, you set the electric burner to the lowest setting and sit back at the table.

The little wrapped item gets set to the side, not forgotten but saved for later.

“Why didn’t you open it?”

“It’s just more of the same. Wanted to catalogue everything I already have before adding more to the roster,” You swoop the pencil in your hand over the expanse of the table, it was clear what was going on, wasn’t it? Why did he have to pick arguments with you even now, you’ve shared your apartment and bed with him for nearly a year. But sometimes you still feel like you didn’t know all of him and while you had resigned yourself to that very likely reality, you would take what he could offer you. What he was willing and wanting to offer you, because when you did- the tension in his shoulders eased just a bit, that scowl he wears so well lessens just a bit, his dark eyes lighten enough to let you glimpse at the person you assume he used to be.

“Darlin’, it ain’t none of that.” When you tilt your head to the side, much like an entranced dog, you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs, his next words the softest you’ve ever hear from him. In both sentiment and tone, aside from the night everything shifted. “It’s a gift for you. For the holiday.”

“Joel…” The confusion leaks out of you, replaced by a warmth in your chest. It’s been…god, it’s been years since anyone got you anything for the holidays. And here he is, all brooding and big and violent, giving you a piece of himself you hadn’t previously seen. His eyes are heavy on you as the paper crinkles, the twine unravels.

Atop the notebook, nestled in the ‘gift wrap’ is a little wooden figure. A dog. A cane corso dog.

A physical depiction of the very thing that lended you the nickname you’ve taken on in stride. Adapted in your endeavor to provide things for the people that the remnants of government forces refused to or asked for too much in exchange for. You were always giving, sacrificing, scrounging, never taking anything for yourself unless absolutely necessary. But this? This was something just for you, something made just for you but the looks of it. The scrapes and a blade obvious in the carving.

The gasp that leaves you does nothing to help the rapid flutter of your heart.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sharp eyes watching the way water droplets cling to your skin as you emerge from your shower. The door was wide open, the space heater Joel had found among the rubble now fixed and set between the bedroom and bathroom threshold. A lame attempt at bringing some warmness to where you both curled up at night.

The cold was getting to him, his body aching. Not just sore, but aching in the way that begins to spur thoughts of old age in his mind. He’s not that old, he doesn’t think. But he is a hell of a lot older than you and he sees it in the way you perk up at the sight of snow softly falling from the sky. In the way you offer to run to the commissary or the food hall for everyone when there’s just no energy for standing at the stove or tinkering with something that’s been broken one too many times.

Your eyes are on him as you approach but he doesn’t feel like he used to when they pinned him down in a challenge. Now he feels rooted to the spot, waiting to see what you would do with anticipation rather than anger at being challenged. He no longer feels like you’re heeling him, like he’s nothing but dirt and grime underneath the tread of your boots, flesh that was torn apart and stuck between your teeth.

No. Now he feels like he’s been granted a fresh breath of air straight from your lungs.

And he’s reveling in it. He can’t help out but reach with itching fingers, trailing over the silk of your damp skin. The hitch in your breath he can fucking hear is driving him wild, the way you freely walk around like this when before it was all growls and threats if he even so much as managed a glimpse of what you look like underneath your threadbare clothing. Of the real you that hides behind the harsh persona and attitude you’ve taken on as a shell against the world.

He sees it now, as you let him trail his fingers up to the crooks of your elbows and tug you between his legs. His lips press to your skin, a groan escaping from his chest despite the pull in his shoulder muscles at the action.

The shift of the dynamic was sudden, brought on by seeing you in a new element. One where he was able to glimpse the person you used to be. And it had made his heart both stutter and ache. If you had crossed paths before the end of the world, you would’ve thrown him for a loop, stuck in his head until he carved out time to do something about it. But as the universe played it’s hand, he’s still crossed paths with you. That’s good enough for him, despite the biting words you used to mean as you berated him and bossed him around- shoved the barrel of a gun in his face and demanded what the hell he thought he was doing trying to edge in on the smuggling scene here in this zone like he owned the place.

Because he didn’t then, and he still doesn’t now. No, that’s you.

And he’s now the muscle in it, determined to do right by the situation. It feels good to step down, to follow the orders he gets from you or from you by Tess’s mouth. To just be a piece in the game he had been heading for far too long in far too many places and scenarios. It was nice to just turn off his brain and listen.

He feels much the same way now as he watches with a quick thrumming of his heart and blood rushing to his cock as you move to kneel behind him on the bed still in only your thin towel. Hands gently kneed into his aching muscles, and he leans into the touch. It was a good thing, he thinks, to have taken the time to carve that figure for you. A gift. A frivolous thing he wanted to give to you in the midst of chaos and too cold weather, the half-smile it brought to your face worth the effort of a new hobby he had dared to try.

When prodding fingers find a particular hard knot between his neck and shoulder blade, the moan he lets out pinches his face up in pain.

“Lemme get the menthol stuff, it’ll help.”

He watches as you strut across the room and disappear into the kitchen, towel now gone and all your skin on display. He feels the swell of his cock harden in his jeans and presses a palm to relieve some of the ache there too.

He’s always been the one to lead, to take charge but he’s thinking more and more that you like being that way. And his mind blanks as you stand in front of him with hardened nipples and a jar of homemade lotion that smells far too strong to handle at the moment.

When you upcap it, he reaches out to stop you. The puzzled look that has the hint of annoyance behind it has him rolling his lips, words stuck in his throat. As the silence drags on, you must see the way that his eyes are darkened by arousal and contemplation. But you don’t move until he manages to unstick the words from where they’re lodged.

“Just…not right now. Your hands are good enough, we can save it for another time, yeah?”

Without a word, you’re twisting the cap back on the jar and then pushing a small hand to the center of his chest.

“Then lay back.”

“What for?” He raises a thick brow at the command, ready to dispel whatever hesitation that lingers in his body.

“Gonna take care of you. You gonna let me?”

All he can muster up is a nod before he listens and does exactly what you ask of him. He lets go of everything, every thought and you take the reigns from his hands. The clink of his belt is loud, breaking the drone of the heater working in the corner and the sound of his zipper as him closing his eyes tightly.

“You gifted me something and now let me do the same. Just lemme take the lead, turn that brain off for a moment, yeah?”

Joel sighs out a ‘yes’ as he lifts his hip at the tap of your palms there, allowing you to peel the jeans and boxers from his legs. Goosebumps crop up at the cooler temperature, the heat of his hardened cock bobs against his stomach. He’s never been this way before. Not with you and barely with Tess, physical and sexual interactions always on his terms, on his conditions. Giving into you know feels right, he trusts you. Even as he feels the nip of sharp teeth on his neck before a warm tongue sooths it over.

“You can be such a good boy sometimes.” And the praise falling from your lips in a confident tone should irk him, but it does nothing but cause him to jerk below the waist and clench his teeth together as he feels it wash over him. It’s genuine, not teasing. He should know, because he’s normally the one praising you in such a manner. It’s a nice moment, he realizes, letting you take the lead. Allowing himself to fall into your commands in a less than serious way. In a more serious way. This is everything.

His chest heaves as you move down his body, the denim shirt he’s wearing unbuttoned as you go, lips trailing over coarse chest hair, the trail that moves down down down…

The feeling of him in your mouth is a heady sensation, it’s lighting up your body in hot sparkles that almost vibrate in intensity. The salty, musky taste of him on your tongue is one you would never tire of, even if he seldom lets you indulge him this way.

Down to his core, he’s a giver. He’s someone who gives himself to those around him and that’s obvious even in the bedroom. He always pleasures you, with his plush, delectable lips. His thick fingers and wide hands, the edge of his strong nose. The heft and feel of his cock something you crave just as much as he seems to be willing to sink into your pulsing heat at any chance he could get. It wasn’t just about fucking. Hell, it wasn’t even just about being fucked by him- it was something more. A man whose walls were built so high, bricks unsettling and gaps forming as you both share daily responsibilities and nightly routines. You were bonded.

But right now? He’s given himself wholly over to you.

His lips form a hard line as you nose along the leading head of his cock, flushed a pretty dusky pink, the exact same shade. But you can’t fight the frown that threatens to take over your own as you press your them to the slit to gather the pearlescent drop there, tongue peeking out to taste it.

“Lemme hear you, Joel.” That paired with the hungry way you swallow him down has him surging up with a strangled expletive followed by your name. After that, he hardly has any trouble letting loose deep groans and guttural growls as you take him back into your mouth and hollow your cheeks. His hips lift as you take him as deep as you can, leaking head nudging the back of your throat in the most delicious way.

It's dangerous, how powerful you feel right now. With Joel Miller loose limbed and compliant beneath you, surrendering to whatever you deem he deserves.

But nothing compares to the grip his hands form on your hips and the frantic look in his eyes as you straddle his thick thighs and sink down on him until your bottom is flush with them. Panting, you grind slowly, reveling in the feel of him deep and stretching you to make room for him to nestle. He’s hitting that sweet spot only he can reach and starts burst in the corners of your vision as you meet his gaze.

He’s never looked for open and recked, eyes blown own, breath puffing out in harsh pants, lips glistening from where you swear drool shines over them…

Tracing the bounce of your chest as you continue to grind against him, pleasure swathing you both in a tingling that crawls over every inch of skin. You clench around him, pulling a tortured sound from him as he fights off the feeling of bucking up into you. The shaking of his legs makes you feel pride spark low in your belly just as a flash of heat does.

“Hold on tight, I’m gonna take a ride.”

His head knocks back harshly onto the bed when you lift up and slam back down, eyes fluttering shut as all he does is hold on tight to your hips and lets you take care of him.

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[hischierslovergirl]

G'mornin'! I just saw your post and I want to say it's always warming seeing someone getting back into writing!! And so please can I request:

Luke Hughes with "the first initial kiss being a peck, then they immediately go back in for a stronger, more passionate one" + "I'll give you a ride, don't worry."

Have a lovely day and take your time, no rush <33

Thank you so much for requesting and for your encouragement xx. This turned a bit longer than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy!

Just when you thought your day couldn’t get any worse, your car decided to show you just how bad it could get. You’d already had a long and crappy shift of dealing with handsy old men, your manager and coworkers were seemingly fighting to see who could piss you off the most, you had spilled a red colored drink on your white top, and now you had to deal with whatever problem your car has now. Needless to say, you were over it.

Members of the club you worked at passed you by without even a simple glance in your direction as you stood there with frustrated tears welling in your eyes, phone to your ear as you tried to get a hold of anyone. Your hopes of someone coming to your rescue dwindled with each unanswered call until you had officially given up. You sank to the ground, knees pulled to your chest and back pressed against your car as you let out a sigh of defeat.

“Hey,” You heard a familiar voice call out.

You slowly lifted your head up from its spot between your knees and your gaze landed on Luke, one of the guys you grew friendly with during his many trips to the golf course. Though, truthfully, you had always been a bit more than friendly with him on occasion, always throwing subtle flirty remarks his way that he would bashfully return. He was a little on the shyer side than most of the guys you encountered at work, but you liked it. You liked him.

“Hi, Luke,” You weakly smiled at him, hoping the sun had set enough that he couldn’t make out the small streaks of mascara underneath your eyes.

“Is everything okay,” He carefully asks, taking a few steps closer to you with his hands shoved into his pockets, “I thought your shift was over a few hours ago?”

You decide to ignore the fact that he remembered you always got off at three on Tuesdays, but it still made your chest warm.

“It was,” You confirm, your eyes flickering to his usual group of rambunctious friends a few feet away from him before finding Luke again, “My car isn’t starting, and I can’t seem to find anyone to come pick me up, so I’m stuck here until my parents get back from the city in a few hours.”

“A few hours,” Luke lets out in disbelief before he shakes his head, his curls bouncing around in disarray, “Absolutely not. I can take you home. You’re not waiting out here for hours.”

“Luke, no,” You stressed, finally rising to your feet so you’re closer to eye level with him, though he still has quite a few inches on you, “I can handle waiting a bit longer. It’s okay. Plus, it’s way out of your way.”

A fact you knew courtesy of the time Jack had invited you to a party they had sometime last summer. A party that you left early because of the multitude of girls hoarding the one person you had gone there for.

“Doesn’t matter,” He stubbornly stands his ground, hesitantly taking a step towards you, “I’ll give you a ride, okay? Don’t worry. Making sure you get home safe will never be out of my way.”

Luke didn’t take no for an answer, and that was exactly how you ended up in seat of his expensive car with his music softly playing in the background. You had never been alone with Luke before, let alone in such a confined space, and it made you nervous. Any of the usual teasing and flirtatious remarks you would throw his way were left in the parking lot of the country club, only awkward casual conversation falling from your mouth now.

Luke kept stumbling over his words, occasionally veering off into a rant of sorts whenever certain things were brought up, and it made a smile twitch at your lips. After a few minutes he would realize that he had been talking far too long, though you didn’t mind, and he would mumble a bashful apology before directing the conversation into something different. By the time you were nearing your house, a bout of silence had fallen over the two of you and you watched everything flashed by.

“This is the one,” You pointed to the house on the right side of the street, “You can just drop me off at the end. I can walk the rest of the way.”

Luke brought his car to a stop right in front of your house, quickly throwing it into gear and grabbing the key before he was darting out of his seat. You watched him with furrowed brows and curious eyes as he jogged to the passenger door before carefully tugging it open. He was sporting a shy, timid smile, his hand grasping at the frame of the car as he patiently waited for you.

“Thank you,” You sheepishly mumble, hugging your bag to your side as you slip out of the seat.

“Of course,” He clears his throat, awkwardly shifting on his feet, “I’ll walk you to your door.”

Luke walked close enough to you that his hand kept brushing your arm, making warmth spread up your neck and to your cheeks as you kept your gaze on the ground in front of you. Once you were standing in front of the door, you finally turned to face Luke and you couldn’t help but admire the way he looked under the warm porch light. His features were soft and delicate, his curls framed his face in a way that made your mind run rampant with the idea of running your hands through them.

“Thank you, again,” You swallow thickly, “For taking me home. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” He nods, and you swear his eyes drift down to your lips, “It’s the least I can do after all the gatorade’s you supply for me and the boys.”

His joke brings a quiet giggle out of you as you playfully shake your head, “I definitely make sure to keep my cart stocked when I know you guys are coming. Though I can never seem to have enough for Jack.”

“Yeah, he throws them back like they’re going to disappear,” He chuckles, his lips tugging upwards into a smile.

“I believe that,” You airily chuckle, your gaze quickly darting to his mouth before looking away, “Well, I’m sure you probably have better things to do tonight, but I really do appreciate you.”

You hastily stand on your toes to place a small and delicate kiss on his cheek, your eyes fluttering closed for a fleeting moment until you were flat on your feet again. When you meet Luke’s eyes again, there was a certain glint to his eyes that made you nervous, but he gave you no time to dwell on it before he was surging forward and slamming his lips on your own. Your reaction was instantaneous, your bag falling from your shoulder as you wrap your arms around his neck and you kiss him back with everything you had in you.

Luke’s hands found purchase on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin as he brings you further into his chest. His mouth is moving against yours, unyielding and fueled by months of suppressed feelings as you lose yourself in the moment. It felt like the two of you were connected for hours when you regrettably pull away from him to catch your breath, his hands sliding to the small of your back to keep you close to him.

“I’m sorry,” He eventually breathes out, his chest heaving against you, “I just— Um, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time and I—”

“Luke,” You tenderly cut him off, peering up at him through your eyelashes, “I’ve been thinking about that for a long time, honestly. Actually, I was wondering if we could do it again sometime?”

[kathlare]

distant glow

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amid a snowy retreat in the French Alps with friends, Lando finds himself distracted by thoughts of Amelie, who's attending the premiere of her latest film in Mexico.

Wordcount: 1.0 k

Warnings: just fluff

December 18th, 2024 - French Alpes, France

Lando adjusted his goggles as the icy wind whipped against his face, standing at the edge of the slope with Max, Pietra, Martin, and a couple of other friends. The trip to the Alps had been Max’s idea, a pre-Christmas getaway to decompress before the holidays. Normally, Lando loved the thrill of skiing—his competitive streak made him race down the slopes faster than anyone else. But today, his mind was somewhere far away, thousands of miles south, in Mexico.

Max, gliding effortlessly next to Pietra, was chatting animatedly with her, their laughter echoing through the crisp mountain air. Lando couldn’t help but notice how Max reached out to adjust Pietra’s scarf or how she leaned into him with ease, as if the whole world existed only for them.

It wasn’t that Lando was jealous, he was happy for his best mate, but watching them stirred an ache in his chest. He missed her.

He missed the way Amelie would tease him relentlessly for his shit Spanish, her fingers absentmindedly brushing his as they walked. He missed the softness in her voice when she called him "Lan" and the way her laugh made his chest tighten in the best possible way. Hell, he even missed the way she bossed him around when they were deciding where to eat.

And now, he couldn’t stop picturing her on that yellow carpet, dazzling in whatever gown she had picked for the Wicked premiere. He had seen her walk a dozen carpets before, but there was something different about this one. It wasn’t just a movie—it was her movie, her moment.

—Mate, you coming, or are you just gonna stand there looking moody?— Max called, breaking Lando out of his thoughts.

—I’ll meet you guys down there,— Lando replied, tugging his goggles off and waving them on. —I’m starving anyway.—

Max shot him a knowing look but didn’t push. Lando had been acting like this all week, and everyone in their little group knew why. They might not have said it outright, but the way they kept glancing at him every time someone mentioned Amelie was enough.

Back at the chalet, Lando collapsed onto the couch as Martin turned on the massive TV for their lunch break. A tray of steaming pasta and bread sat in front of them, but Lando barely touched it, his eyes glued to his phone.

—Are you watching that livestream?— Pietra asked, settling next to Max with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

—Yeah,— Lando admitted, not even looking up. On the screen, Amelie stood outside the theater, beaming as she greeted fans and signed autographs. She was glowing in a floor-length, pale pink gown, her blonde hair styled in loose waves that reminded him of the day they’d spent at the beach back in August. The press cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing every inch of her. She looked like an actual goddess.

—Fucking hell,— Lando muttered, more to himself than anyone else. —She’s unreal.—

—She really is,— Max chimed in with a smirk. —Don’t tell me you’re getting all sappy again, mate.—

—Shut up,— Lando shot back, but there was no venom in his voice. —I can’t help it. Look at her!— He gestured at his phone like it explained everything.

—You’re so dramatic,— Pietra teased, laughing. —We get it, you’re in love.—

—Yeah, well,— Lando said, shrugging. —Wouldn’t you be if your girlfriend was Amelie fucking Dayman?— He tossed his phone onto the coffee table, slumping back against the cushions. —It’s just... I miss her, okay? We’ve been apart for, what, four days? And it feels like a goddamn eternity.—

Martin chuckled. —You two literally spent a month glued to each other. You’re worse than a clingy teenager.—

—Yeah, but still,— Lando argued, rubbing the back of his neck. —I hate being apart. And don’t even get me started on how busy she’s been. I barely saw her in the weeks leading up to this trip because of the press tour. It’s like we’re finally together, but there’s always something keeping us apart.—

—Yet you make it work,— Pietra said, her tone softer now.

—Yeah,— Lando admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. —We do. Somehow, we always figure it out. She’s... she’s worth it, you know?—

Max leaned forward, smirking. —You’re so whipped, mate.—

—Yeah, I am,— Lando said, not even trying to deny it. —But she’s whipped for me too, so it’s fair.— He grinned, thinking about the way Amelie would melt whenever he called her "Ames" or kissed the top of her head when they cuddled.

—Seriously though,— he continued, his voice dropping to something more genuine, —we’ve come a long way since... you know, the first time we tried this.—

The room grew quieter. Everyone knew about their rocky history, the messy situationship that ended in heartbreak for both of them.

—But this time’s different,— Lando said, more to himself than anyone else. —We’ve grown up. We understand that we’ve got our own lives and schedules and friends. And yeah, it sucks sometimes... being apart like this, but I know we’re solid. She makes me feel like... like I’m enough, you know? Even when I’m halfway across the world.—

Pietra smiled at him, her expression warm. —That’s love, Lando.—

—Yeah,— he murmured, glancing back at the stream. Amelie was still on the yellow carpet, laughing at something Kit Connor had said. He couldn’t wait to tell her how breathtaking she looked, how proud he was of her.

And in just four days, he’d get to hold her again. December 22nd couldn’t come fast enough.

[shallowseeker]

via @monstermoviedean

Oh God, oh God, no one knows how important this is to me, and because it's Christmas, I can't stop myself venting again.

<cue the image of Raphael’s vessel>

DEAN: So is this what I'm looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?

CASTIEL: No, not at all. Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you.

DEAN looks away.

5x03

///

Instead, we find Dean, incredibly hungry and incredibly tired. Even though he apparently already already told Cas he was gonna crash, Dean delays his own rest, taking a moment to check on Rowena (aww!) and to try to refuel.

14x15

//

But before Dean can even eat or catch up with Cas, enter Sam:

So, Cas steps in to mentor Sam, hoping Dean can try his hand at connecting with Jack and get some much-needed sleep in the process (not to mention, getting to eat)!

14x15

///

Status of the team:

Cas has the Empty deal hanging over his head, and he’s scrambling to solve these unsolvable problems while also giving his loved one/partner time to rest. (And lordy geez, no wonder Cas tries to spare Dean… Even if it backfires spectacularly, it’s understandable given everything that he’s seeing Dean go through here).

Dean was head-injured and psychologically wounded from being The AU Michael vessel for so long. He likely feels directly responsible for both the Rowena and Jack injuries, as well as all the AU hunter deaths. (Note: Conjecture, but I think we see the first glimmer of emotional despair/crosstalk of blame aimed at Cas which is… fascinating. Sam of course misses it entirely, thinking Dean mostly made the decision to stay for Sam.)

Rowena was similarly psychologically wounded to Dean. She become the AU Michael vessel hoping that, although Michael would not honor his word, she could be strong enough to save the day, or at least hold him off for a bit. Then she failed spectacularly, watching her hands kill everyone she helped save from Apocalypse World.

Jack is perhaps the most severely wounded of all, sacrificing his soul in a move so painful that Cas and Dean can barely face it, lingering in the space of denial and forlorn hope. (Jack’s eating, so he must have a soul left, right? Donatello said he’s fine, so he’s fine, right?)

But Sam is spiraling so hard over his own losses, the above doesn’t even seem to occur to him. Sam has inflated responsibility, but it’s still so self-focused, I think?

Castiel: Maybe. *shoots Sam a knowing look after the case gets more complicated, and Sam yawns*

Sam: I'm good. I'm good, honestly.

Castiel: *dryly* Yeah, I know. Everybody's good. But after this, maybe Dean's right. *Then, chastising* You need to rest.

Sam: Can't.Just because I'm tired doesn't mean the monsters are gonna stop, you know? Doesn't mean anything. Plus we don't have as many Hunters as we used to.

In risking his own safety, Sam also risks the safety of those that love him. Cas is trying to mentor Sam, because Cas was crushed by the weight of his own authoritarian leadership, and like Sam, Cas too wanted to reject leadership, abdicate responsibility, and run away, fearful of “destroying everything again.”

///

However, even after snapping out of the need to run away, Sam only acknowledges his mistake in running Dean ragged and his own pain. I’m a little reminded of that moment in The End, where Sam calls Dean in a panic about his own destiny re: angel vessels, but doesn’t lead with empathy for Dean’s plight.

Sam: I hate this place right now. I hate it. Everywhere I look, I see them. I see Maggie.I guess that's why, uh -- why I was so desperate to get out of here, why I kept running us ragged. But I got to stop that. I-I can't keep running. I -- This is my home. This is our home. Dean, I think I just need some time.

Dean: *assessing, maybe a little disappointed* Okay.

Dean, seeing that Sam is very plugged into his own mistakes and emotional pain, but still isn’t considering the plight of the rest of the team, disengages.

Sam’s empathy for others is (404 Not Found)?

You ever just remember Dean kept an archangel trapped in his mind for months on nothing but sheer willpower?

[indigosunsetao3]

Happy Christmas, John Price

Christmas Story Single Dad John Price x Reader Christmas fluff

Merry Christmas if you all celebrate! 💙 There will be one more chapter for New Years.

The snow that the news originally predicted would be just a dusting for Christmas kept building. Three days ago, they upped it from a dusting to a few centimeters, but just the afternoon before, the weather stations had to eat crow and admit the storm was much bigger than they expected. It had stalled, and a few other ingredients had come together to potentially produce a half metre of snow in some places.

This amount of snow was unheard of in recent memory, and as the news started spreading, panic set in. People who needed to travel were trying to push up plans to get out earlier. Others were running to the store to prep for having family in the house for longer than expected. Traffic turned into a nightmare by lunchtime, and when dusk settled in, and the cold wind started, delays and cancellations began rolling in.

Trudging through the brisk swells of wind and the start of the storm you head toward your flat, flipping up your collar as you walk. Your travel plans are a bust, and while you would have loved to pick up some more wine to help wait out the storm, you aren't going to battle the shops. It’s not worth fighting with people to get the last box of crackers or standing for an hour in line. Cereal and mac and cheese would have to suffice for your Christmas meal.

By eight in the evening, the wind is howling, and snow is swirling around the street lamps. Pouring another glass of wine in the kitchen, you hear a knock at the door. You hesitate and stare at it when the knock sounds again. Who would be at your place this late on Christmas Eve?

After a quick glance out the peep hole, you open the door to find your neighbor standing there. He has a box at his feet, a sheepish grin on his face, and snow dotting his coat.

“John?” You ask pulling the door open a bit more.

You knew him enough to have polite conversation, grab his packages for him when he’s out of town for work, and him offer to lug your heavy things inside after shopping. But that’s about the extent of it.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I saw your lights on. I think we’re the only people still in town,” he reasons as he picks up the box. “That sounds worse than it is.”

“It’s fine,” you answer peering at the box as you glance into the box. Clothes with the tags still on them, a few toys, some trinkets, a stocking, and rolls of wrapping paper. “I don’t think those shirts will fit me, though,” you tease, glancing at a pale green long sleeved number.

He glances down and grins a bit before looking back at you.

“I was supposed to be home alone until Boxing Day. But the storm trapped Emily’s mom in Germany, so we had to make last minute changes..and she’s too nosey for her own good. I had to hide these in my boot until she went to sleep,” he starts explaining as you step aside to let him inside. “She still believes in Father Christmas, and I didn’t want to risk her waking up while…”

“Come in, we’ll figure it out,” you offer. You know what he’s asking without him having to. “She asleep?”

“For now,” John answers as he sets the box on the ground by the coffee table. “Spent the past few hours doing up the tree. She wanted blue and white this year and eventually made me sit while she fixed my mistakes,” he laughs as he pulls out rolls of paper.

Setting your glass of wine down on the end table, you grab a pair of scissors from the kitchen. John has all the items laid out and boxes to put things in. For being such an intimidating looking man, he certainly looks out of place and unsure as he looks at everything to figure out where to start.

“You work on the stocking,” you offer, sitting on the couch next to him. "I’ll box.”

“Why are you still home?” John asks as he hands you the roll of tape as you seal up a pair of pajamas.

“I’ve been stranded at the airport before. I wasn’t risking it over the holidays,” you state as you grab a roll of paper and begin measuring it out to wrap. “Not so sure I hate the idea of a quiet Christmas at home though. My family can be…a lot,” you laugh.

You both work while chatting a bit, the Christmas movie you had been watching playing in the background. Despite being out of his element, John seems to be enjoying the work. His wrapping isn’t world class; the edges are bent, the ends jagged, and some things are too loose, while others are so tight they look like they may tear.

To keep the illusion of Father Christmas, you send him back to his flat to find things of his own to wrap. It doesn’t matter if it’s old items; Emily will be too excited to notice that detail, but she would certainly pick up on the fact that her dad had no gifts. When he returns with a few shirts that look relatively new and a coffee mug, you smirk before taking them.

“You’ve got nothing under your tree,” John remarks as he glances at the tree in the window. It’s a small thing, a few twinkling lights and ornaments covering up the bare spots.

“Oh, no. I sent my gifts for family to my parents, easier than trying to travel with them,” you explain pouring yourself another glass of wine and topping off the one you had poured for him.

“No I meant,” he pauses as you hold out your hand for the tape that keeps disappearing. “For you. No gifts to open in the morning?”

“Ah, no,” you reply with a small shrug. “Not a big deal. I’m sure my family will send them in the post.”

By the time you both finish your drinks and clean up, it's almost eleven. He doesn’t say anything else about your lack of gifts, but you see him looking at the tree around your flat and then at the pile of gifts at your feet a few times.

“Get some sleep, she’ll be up at the crack of dawn,” you joke as John heads back into his place to set the gifts out.

“You as well,” John states as he looks at you from across the hall for a moment before slipping into his dark living room.

Unintentionally you fall asleep on the couch. Having spent the rest of your evening watching the snow from the living room couch. So when another round of knocks, sounding more impatient and perhaps a bit quieter rap on your door, you jolt up. It’s barely seven, and you yawn and stretch, ambling to the door to pull it open.

“Forget some-“ you start before seeing it’s not John there, but Emily.

She’s wide eyed and grinning as she fumbles her hands in front of her. The little girl is practically bouncing with excitement. Glitter from the wrapping paper coats her hands and shirt, and you spot a pair of socks you had wrapped the night before on her feet.

“Morning!” She bursts out, “dad asked me to come over and invite you for breakfast! He said you were all by yourself for Christmas because of the snow…like us!” She turns to look back at the door where John has appeared, a bit of flour on his flannel shirt…another item you had helped wrap.

“It’ll be ready in about ten minutes,” John adds as Emily darts back to him, pushing past his legs to get back to her gifts. “If you’d like to join that is,” he finishes watching Emily go before turning to look back at you.

“You know…why not,” you state after a second with a shrug. “I’ll just go get changed.”

“We eat breakfast in our pajamas,” Emily chimes in when she returns with a doll, fingers twirling the hair that matches hers.

“Uh, well,” you glance at your sweats and sleep shirt. “Alright be there in a moment.”

You take the few minutes you have to freshen up, ie fix your sleep mussed face and hair then quickly brush your teeth before heading over. The flat smells of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup as you push open the door. The layout is the same as your place, just mirrored, so you’re able to find the kitchen easily.

“Father Christmas did pretty good it looks like,” you state as John digs out plates and forks.

“She was beyond excited. I think she was a bit nervous about him not knowing where she was…Christmas is always at her mother’s,” he explains as he heads to small dining room table. “But at five sharp she was squealing and dragging me from bed.”

“You did good, dad,” you whisper, glancing over your shoulder to see Emily on the floor digging another new toy out of the box.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he replies and when you turn back around there’s a small box sitting in front of you. Wrapped in the same paper as the night before, but with a ribbon and tag with your name.

“I, what’s this?” You ask grabbing the box and turning it over in your hands. “You didn’t have to get me something,” you mutter as he slides a plate in front of you.

“Wasn’t me. Father Christmas must have mixed up our houses,” John answers with a knowing smirk as Emily slides into one of the chairs.

“What is it?” Emily asks as you peel back a corner and glance at John who’s busying himself at the sink.

Not sure what to expect, you pop off the top of the box and peer inside. It’s a familiar looking pair of socks, the same ones on Emily’s feet, though on your size. Pulling them out, you spot John's note under them, and you carefully put the cover back on. Emily doesn't need to see the note and ruin the illusion.

“It looks like we have matching socks,” you say with a grin, looking at Emily as you hold them up.

“Dad got a pair too!” She exclaims before darting from the table to go find them.

“When did you have time to get these?” You ask as you clutch the soft material. “It’s a blizzard out there,” you remark glancing at the bright white snow still falling.

“Doesn’t matter,” John answers as he sits across from you and nudges the box toward you again. “There’s one more thing in there,” he adds as he glances to where Emily is rooting around in the discarded paper. “A proper gift…I hope,” he adds as Emily comes in and shoves the socks at John, demanding he put them on so you all match.

While they’re busy, you unfold the letter still in the box and read it over. It’s an invitation to dinner and drinks with John for New Year's—a date of sorts at a very hard to get into restaurant in downtown London that costs about half your rent for one meal.

You blink at it, preparing to refuse because of the cost, but when you glance up to see John smiling a bit nervously at you, you don’t.

Unable to give him an answer with Emily sitting there, you eat instead, grinning to yourself and catching John’s eye every once in a while. The anxious grin John had at first turns into a dazzling one as time goes on. And when Emily darts to her room to get changed, yelling about sledding, you catch John’s arm as he stands up.

“Wasn’t exactly the Christmas I had planned,” you state as he looks at you. “But…it is better than the quiet one I was planning on having. Only issue is, I have nothing to give you.”

“A yes would be good enough for me,” John states as his eyes dart to the box.

“A yes? That’s it?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you stand up, realizing how close you are to him. “Seems easy…and not exactly a fair trade since you’re the one taking me out. ”

“Just a yes,” he replies looking down at you, his hand braced on the table fisting a bit.

“Well then. I wouldn’t want to ruin the day, John,” you say quietly. “So, Happy Christmas,” you state and push up on your toes to kiss his cheek lightly.

“Happy Christmas,” he answers, cupping your cheek to give you a proper kiss before his eyes dart to the suspiciously well placed mistletoe…right above your chair.

[jadeshifting]

🍅 i don't like tomatos but i like drama

LOLL REAL

🍅 SCARLET TOMATO … what’s the juiciest secret you’ve ever kept or will keep in your DR? the kind of scandalous thing that would positively burst into drama if revealed

★⋆. — IN MY HOGWARTS DR

the juiciest secret I’ve got locked away—and believe me, it’s a juicy one—is that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are sneaking around like a pair of star-crossed lunatics. Gryffindor’s golden girl and Slytherin’s prince, all clandestine meetings and smoldering stares across the library—and in the broom closet by the dungeon entrance, which is where i unfortunately found them that one time (gag.) if anyone found out, the castle would combust in a glorious mess of gossip and hexes. but me? i’m just sitting pretty with front-row seats to the drama that could unfold… if I were a worse friend

★⋆. — IN MY SUPERNATURAL DR

this one isn’t just one of those little skeletons you tuck away in a closet—no, this one’s practically a full-blown graveyard.

there’s this one hunt, right when i start tagging along with Sam and Dean. we’re up against a crossroads demon, and here’s the thing about crossroads demons—they’re all about deals. me? i’ve got a history with them.

it isn’t the kind of thing i feel like unpacking with the boys. years ago, when I was barely more than a kid with nowhere to go and nothing to lose, i stood at a crossroads myself. and yeah, i made a deal. ten years of freedom in exchange for a soul I didn’t think I’d need anyway. i’d planned to outwit the system, find some loophole, or just live wild and free while the clock ticked down.

the secret isn’t just the deal—it’s that I’m still on borrowed time. the clock is ticking, and neither of them has any idea. if they found out? it’d be the drama of the century. Sam would get all earnest and determined to save me, probably drowning in research until he passed out, and Dean? Dean would be furious, storming around and yelling.

★⋆. — IN MY EVER AFTER HIGH DR

let me just say this—when you’re the future queen of Eros’ Kingdom, the tea you hold isn’t just hot, it’s boiling. i’m talking love triangles that could crumble kingdoms, forbidden crushes that would make headlines, and alliances so tangled they’d crush political alliances in a half-second.

maybe the juiciest is that there’s a certain royal someone who’s been sneaking around with someone they definitely shouldn’t be. i won’t spill who, because Cupid confidentiality, you know? my wings are heavy with secrets… besides, i’m not exactly unfamiliar with falling in love with someone below your political status (a bodyguard. embarrassingly cliche)

★⋆. — IN MY WALKING DEAD DR

it’s gotta be the fact that i wrote Carl a love letter before everything went sideways with Negan. it’s probably still tucked under my mattress, sealed in an envelope with his name on it, and no one but me knows what’s inside. i didn’t even plan on giving it to him—i mean, what if he laughed, or worse, just didn’t feel the same? i can imagine Carl reading about how I wanted us to road trip down Route 66 in the Ranger, just the two of us, collecting supplies and chasing sunsets. or how I admitted, plain as day, that being with him made the apocalypse feel like something I could survive. if he found out, i don’t know how he’d feel, so I stuffed it away, figuring it was safer as my little secret

[bloody-cupcakes]

can you do some joe goldberg whump headcanons?? maybe with love or an x reader

A/N: yeah of course! I chose to do x reader since that's what I write for my blogs haha

Tw: yandere/dark content, gender neutral reader, obsessive behavior, stalking, kidnapping, murder, slight gore/injuries mentioned (both on accident and intentional), drugging, emotional manipulation/gaslighting, blackmail, Stockholm syndrome implied at the end

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First of all, know that he never actually wants to hurt you. He doesn't enjoy seeing you in any kind of pain, or hearing your muffled cries through the gag as he punishes you for whatever it is that you've done wrong this time. He loves you, and he just wants what's best for you after all

He only stalks you out of a need to know where you are at all times, just so he can be sure that you're safe. What would he do if something happened and he wasn't there to protect you? He'd never be able to forgive himself for it, hence him memorizing your entire schedule off the top of his head

Anyone who he deems as toxic or unworthy of being in your life is instantly gotten rid of, though he does feel a bit of guilt when you inevitably find out and call him a monster for it. I mean, it's fair enough, but it still hurts to hear from you of all people

"Baby, baby, can't you see? I did this for you," he does his best to reassure you, but that only makes your panicking get even worse. To be fair, you did wake up in a glass box with an accidental cut on your head from where he slammed you into the wall in a state of blind rage upon him realizing you knew what he'd done, so he could understand your fear. He just wished you'd stop staring at him like he was some sort of a monster when all he wanted to do was keep you safe

He tries to give you some space in hopes that it'll help, but as your silent (and sometimes not-so-silent) resentment begins to grow he becomes more desperate and needy. Everything he does is for you, and this is how you treat him?

Of course he can't help but adore you regardless, which is why he hates having to pin you down and whack at your ankles and knees with the hammer he uses for his book restorations. "If you're going to act like a brat, I have to treat you like one," he mutters softly while you sob in his arms after, barely able to walk after the "punishment" you'd received from him

Something you're made well aware of early on is just how much he loves you (or claims to anyway) but you soon realize that's not enough and that you have to somehow find it in you to love him back. There is no other option if you want to make it out of this alive, but how could you ever love a murderer?

It takes a while, but eventually you behave well enough over time to be able to convince him to move you out of the cage and to his apartment as long as you promise to continue being good. You try to run away that same night, and back to the basement you go, along with a brand new welt on your head from where he had to knock you out in order to get you down there

You beg over and over to be let out, and he promises he will on the condition that you'll let him give you an IV drip full of something that'll keep you feeling complacent and numb (a drug he got courtesy of Paco, who stole it from his mom for Joe's own private use)

He doesn't like keeping you drugged up, but if you insist on trying to escape then there really is no other solution, now is there? Besides, he likes being able to hold you at night and much rather prefers to keep you in the comfortable environment of his place anyway

At first you flat out refuse, but finally you reluctantly agree to his conditions, unable to bear peeing in a bucket and sleeping on the floor any longer. It felt dehumanizing, like you were nothing more than a pet kept for his entertainment. At least his apartment had a real bed and a bathroom

The drugs he put you on made you feel light and free, and it was much easier for you to obey when you were dosed up with them. Things seem to be doing okay until he discovers you'd somehow switched the specially made liquid IV full of drugs with plain water, which resulted in you attempting to leave yet again. God, when will you learn that it's never going to work out for you?

This time when you wake up in the cage, you find yourself covered in blood and lying next to the dead body of your old best friend. Joe simply watches as you frantically try your best to resuscitate the already rotting corpse with several different versions of CPR to no avail

"What have you done?" You scream hysterically, your eyes wide and frightened as you look down at the carnage you found yourself in, your clothes stained crimson red in a manner that almost seemed to mock you

"Next time you pull another stunt like that, it'll be someone you truly care about who's in there with you," he states in a way that's almost cold despite the somewhat sad look in his eyes. He really didn't want it to have to come to this, but you forced his hand. "Now you're going to help me get rid of the body, or I'll have to punish you even worse than that, do you understand?"

It was then that you knew there would be no escape. He'd always find new ways to torture you, mentally and emotionally if nothing else, and each time you stepped out of line you'd only end up getting more injured from it. Not to mention he had had ample amount of planted evidence in order to frame you if he really wanted, so naturally the only thing you could do was agree

That night you found yourself back in his small apartment, wrapped up snugly in his arms as you laid in bed together. The drugs had you feeling much more calm just like usual, and you almost felt bad for everything you'd put him through. "I'm sorry," you slurred while glancing up at him, your eyes droopy from the stolen medication you were on

He just shook his head at your apology, leaning down to place a light kiss to the tip of your nose. "No, baby, don't apologize. It's okay now, I forgive you," he gently promised you, glad that you weren't trying to fight him and his affection anymore

"Mgrh... love you..." came your mumbled reply as you buried your face in his chest. You loved him. You really, truly did. He'd gotten you to see just how much he truly cared, and you loved him for it. A smile graced his lips as he tugged you in a little bit closer. It was then that he decided no matter what the cost, he was going to keep you forever, not that you seemed to mind. He was glad the two of you were finally on the same page for once

[itwdoris]

not revised.

weird yuuji who bites his tongue with curiosity every time you receive a notification from that app you use so much, who always tries to read without meaning to, he can't help it, why don't you let him see? he's your friend =(

do you mind? because he kept taking so many photos while you were almost dozing on his chest, purposely waiting for you to fall completely asleep so he could go through your cell phone and check everything out. he sent these bunch of pretty photos to himself, ah, but it was even better to discover your secret.

i mean, you already knew he was a bit weird, but- you're too? writing this kind of thing in that app he had to download just to keep up with you, becoming your number one fan, acting as if nothing was happening as you chat on the sofa, usually cuddling while he reblogs your new post.

you should know he's a pervert too, making him all red and sweaty from jerking off so much, with both hands, panting so many moans and rolling his eyes with pleasure because he just wants to pee and you said ok that post that you love to drink it, don't you? that you love to take it all in your cunt.

he may be a bit weird, but you're just as he is, aren't you? because he can see how much worse it gets, and how much you want it too, becoming so obsessed on his cellphone just waiting for your answers in the private chat, then looking at you irl and only imagining your pretty face all wet with his piss like you said on last night post.

i dunno, im just horny, was better in my head

[somecosmic-typashit]

|Normalise actually motivating shifters who struggle with their minds|

I'm actually sick of some of these "harsh motivations" on social medias, because a lot of them are straight up nothing else but insults and shameful words. It only does the opposite instead of motivation, because some of them doesn't even give context or explaining.

You don't need to scold them now srs, like the fuck? Harsh motivation can only be truth, there's no need for degrading words, only truth itself can hurt enough already. That's what harsh motivation is. Some people are still stuck on misinformations and just don't know or understand everything about shifting yet. There's nothing wrong with that, because they're still expanding their knowledge and changing their beliefs. We've all been there, and even us are still learning about new things everyday and we're still letting go of everything that doesn't do us any good anymore. Have some understanding towards those who are still growing.

You can't call someone stupid and say "It's all your fault you're experiencing what you don't want now! You choosed this life here before entering this vessel!" It does not make you look superior or cool, you just sound like a deranged maniac and nothing more than lunatic. While there's some truth to example I gave and I can see the reason why would someone say that to someone, you should still explain the reason why you said that and maybe give an example to support it, because it also didn't made any sense to me when I heard it for first time and first thing that popped on my mind was "Why the fuck would anybody choose this kind of life? I'm not that dumb." Because I wasn't deeply educated in shifting, spirituality, manifestation, void state/pure awareness and ego back then. I still thought this is my original/first reality and that I'm here against my own will, overall I still had a limiting mindset.

Instead of directly spitting in someone's face with this kind of "harsh motivation", why can't you say something like: "Both positive and negative assumptions are delusional thoughts that shape your own reality if you're convinced in them. One isn't more delusional than the other and one isn't more true than the other because they're both form of assumptions without any proof. And law of assumption proposes that our beliefs and expectations influence the world around us that can be both negative and positive." Simple as that.

For example, Iused to think like: "I feel like shit everyday for years straight, this is getting worse everyday and I won't get to nowhere. I'll fall apart completely in the future." Did I continue feeling like shit with that mindset? Yes I did. Why did I felt like shit? Because I kept beating my own ass up with constant self hatred and I kept listening to everyone else around me who are clearly trying to make me feel worse for their own self satisfaction and I believed their own beliefs because I let the fear eat me and I thought everyone else is better than me.

So, when I realized I'm miserable because I kept adding the fuel to misery, I cutted off that kind of mindset. Because others assumptions about me don't defy who I truly am and what I'll become actually, since they don't even know me personally, they can't decide for me either who I'll be and that's only version of me from their perspective/imagination. Did I stop feeling like shit everyday after thinking like this instead? Yes I did. Everyone creates reality for their own selves with their beliefs and views, someone's personal truth isn't ours unless we believe that it's true in the first place.

The reason everything is now the way it is, is because of patterns from our past experiences/lives which we didn't change before shifting in this place. That's why they seem familiar/repetitive, that's why you already know things without reading or hearing confirmation for them, that's why you recognise someone you just met from somewhere you don't even remember, it's all from past experiences. The reason we don't remember none of them is because we aren't tied to one reality/temporary life and we're supposed to explore our imagination and all infinite possibilities. We can't shift permanently to other reality with memories from previous ones because it doesn't match or align with the new reality, at least not if they're drastically different.

You don't need to suffocate people from this community with toxic positivity or insult them. Don't even try to motivate or teach others something if you won't even tell them what they actually need. No you don't need to motivate or teach anybody it's not your job, nobody said you should do it, but if you want to do it and choosed to, do it properly at least. I'm not telling you to baby them or cuddle them, just stop being a dick and get to the straight point.

[lykegenia]

2024 Writing Roundup

tagged by @juneiper-art - thank you!

words posted: 73,510

additional words written: between all the buffer chapters in my longfics plus a few sundry bits it's at least 30k

grand total of words: just over 100k altogether, I think

fandoms: Dragon Age, The Wayhaven Chronicles, and a backstory short story for one of my DnD characters

highest kudos: Rosemary and Citrus, a Rookanis slow burn retelling of Veilguard that's already grown far past its original scope

highest hit oneshot: He Makes Her Cry (He Doesn't Like It), my first foray into MasonxF!Detective from TWC, set during Book Three

new things I tried: I mostly stick to my habits, though with Rosemary and Citrus I've been posting as I go and trying to stick to a proper schedule, which is unusual for me.

fic I spent the most time on: As The World Falls Down, my AU retelling of Dragon Age Origins in which Alistair was raised by the Couslands instead of going to the templars

fic I spent the least time on: He Makes Her Cry, but only because it's so short compared to the others

favorite thing I wrote: This whole upcoming chapter for As The World Falls Down, really, but here's a sneak preview:

Cautiously, he wended his way through the shadows to Eamon’s office, girded by his imagination and the knowledge that getting caught couldn’t be worse than whatever fate was being decided for him just beyond the door. Even before he rounded the final corner, he caught the timbre of angry male voices spilling out into the hallway, and as he edged closer along the wall so that the squeak of floorboards would not betray him he strained his ears to make out the words. “– told her he sleeps in the kennels, that he gets only scraps from the cook! There is no answer for it.” The voice held a note of familiarity, but one that Alistair could not place over the shock of hearing himself so vehemently defended. “Regardless of where you get your information, this is not a matter within your purview,” came a terse reply – Eamon, in a tone low and deep with disapproval. “That is your concern here?” demanded the first voice. “I made enquiries after what I saw that day. I must say, you kept him well hidden, but that does not excuse you. Had I entrusted one of my children to the care of another, only to find them so poorly mistreated, the person responsible would find themselves very sorry indeed.” “You told me the boy was cared for.” This was a third voice, the second stranger who had ridden into the yard. “You assured me it would be so.” “I have done more for him than any would rightfully expect me to, given the circumstances,” Eamon retorted. “I have even secured him a future in a role worthy of respect –” “You wanted to make a problem disappear and thought the templars would be the easiest way to explain it.” “How dare –” “Enough!” The third voice sounded angry, and weary. “Eamon, I should have been consulted before you spoke with Knight-Captain Renwick.” “Consulted?” the second voice scoffed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but –” All three went silent. Too late, Alistair clapped his hand over his mouth. He backed away from the door, the imaginary echo of his gasp ringing in his ears. Whichever way he tried to run, the hallway was too long, he wouldn’t be fast enough to get out of sight before –

favorite thing(s) I read: I've done a lot more reading this year, but I'm limiting it to three:

Kiss Me Moonstruck by @theluckywizard - I'm in love with this Garrett Hawke, who manages to be a famed mercenary at the same time as a complete sap and a passable wit, and the premise of the story happens to tick all of my favourite romance tropes

Attachment Theory by @thee-morrigan - Everything about this Natex F!Detective AU is rich and delicious and the imagery is gorgeous

Sanguine by @effelants - If you want an Alistair whose characterisation is on point, then this is the fic for you. The Changes to the plot of the game keep the story fresh, and the mystery around Moira is a very compelling dive into the lore around magic and spirits

writing goals for 2025: be more consistent with actually writing, try to get my word count up, and actually go back to the longfics I've been neglecting and start posting again

new works:

Patience, And Words, And Waterfalls - TWC, musing on Leah's inability to tell Nate how she feels

Mercies - The battle for Haven, with the feelings starting to show between Cullen and Maighread Trevelyan

He Makes Her Cry

Rosemary and Citrus

Tagging forward to everyone already mentioned, plus @vela-ad-astra @athenasdragon @serenpedac @naiatabris and @lalizah - no pressure!

[dracaelus]

I have this hc that Bruce started letting his hair grow after his parents died. 

It wasn't a conscious choice; it's just that in the months following their deaths, no one remembered something as simple as his hair appointment. 

Then, Bruce kept seeing his photos all over the city—the photos they took of him the night his parents died, his face covered in blood and tears. Even worse, he saw the other pictures: the ones from back when his parents were alive, the ones where he was smiling at them, the ones where he looked happy. His uncle made sure the press didn't get a single picture of him after he saw the ones they took that night, so they kept posting "new" old pictures just to keep things fresh every time they talked about the Waynes — which they did a lot. Bruce looked at those photos and kept thinking to himself, 

"That's not me." 

He felt light-years away from the kid in the pictures. Bruce hadn't felt like himself since that night. He didn't know who he was now, but he wasn't him. In fact, he didn't even look like him. 

He couldn't remember the last time he smiled. He had bags under his eyes — the kind he'd only ever seen in grown-ups — because he kept having these stupid nightmares every time he tried to sleep. He didn't have his parents with him anymore. And his hair was longer, bc his mom wasn't there to notice and take him to her hairdresser. 

Everything changed. 

His entire life changed. 

And somewhere along the way, his hair became the only proof he had of this. 

So when someone, likely Alfred, finally realized how long his hair had gotten and tried to give him a haircut — to put it lightly, Bruce didn't take it well. He screamed and kicked and ran, and — most importantly — when they managed to cut a lock of his hair, he cried. He cried like he hadn't cried since that night. He sobbed so hard he almost threw up. 

So they let him keep his hair like that. 

And it kept growing. 

It was hard for him to explain why it was so important to him that his hair remained untouched. 

He didn't even care for it — he made no effort to take care of it and only bothered to brush it so it wouldn't look bad enough that someone would try to cut it again. 

It got even more neglected after he started on his journey around the world — there was no threat of anyone cutting it, so Bruce didn't have to worry about keeping it decent. 

When he met Minhkhoa, he was also wearing his hair long. At first, Khoa didn't think much about Bruce's hair, but after seeing how little effort he put into taking care of it, he asked why he didn't just cut it and keep it short.

Bruce's mistake was genuinely trying to explain. 

He talked about how it was a reminder of his parent's death and how part of him was disgusted by the idea of going back to how he was before they were gone. He told him how different and wrong he felt after their deaths and how the thing that scared him the most wasn't the idea that things would never get better, but rather the possibility of returning to how he was when they were still alive, as if their loss simply never happened. Worst of all, he talked about how in a sad way, his long hair reminded him of their absence because it showed no one was taking care of him. 

The tricky thing about his relationship with Khoa is that every once in a while, Bruce would say things about himself and unknowingly trigger a "self-recognition through the other" reaction in Khoa — something Khoa didn't like and almost always led to fighting. 

So they fought. 

Khoa responded to his vulnerability by saying a lot of mean things to Bruce, and then the fight got physical. 

Khoa went to a hairdresser that same day and got his hair cut — something he hadn't thought of doing since leaving home. He eventually learned to cut his hair himself and took special care of it, just to show Bruce how ridiculous he was for thinking he needed to let his hair grow messy and unkept just bc he didn't have a stupid adult to take care of it for him — unlike Bruce, Khoa was more than capable of taking care of himself without help from anyone.

He also tried to cut Bruce's hair in a fit of rage, but his rage wasn't quite as strong as Bruce's. He fought him like a demon, and the fight ended after Bruce bit him so hard it left a scar Khoa carried for many years after. 

Khoa didn't try cutting it again, but every once in a while, when they were at the same place and on good terms — a rarity — he would take care of Bruce's hair. He would untangle the thousands of knots, brush it out, wash and moisturize it until it looked good and felt nice to touch. As a show of trust (or guilt for the bite), Bruce sometimes let him trim the ends. Khoa did this mostly out of pettiness and as a strange and convoluted way of mocking Bruce for his irrationality — but deep down, it was also bc he cared for Bruce, and he could take care of him, couldn't he see that?

Bruce finally cut his hair before going back to Gotham. 

By then, years had passed since his parents' death, and he wasn't afraid anymore. He had made a decision, one that would tie him to them forever, and he didn't need his hair as proof of the transformation he had undergone. He knew what he had become now. 

He cut his hair in the same style he wore in his youth, and when he looked in the mirror, there were still no traces of the kid in those photos. 

He wasn't him anymore.

In fact, he didn't even look like him.

[space929]

I feel like Hobie would be the person who understands that empathy isn't just saying how another person is feeling without their permission, as that's rather invasive.

That, of course, doesn't mean he can't say anything.

While I doubt he ripped him apart based on how Gwen reacted, he can absolutely talk with him a bit and make positive he won't shoot her the moment she comes back. That he will actually give her the gift when she returns.

He can definitely imply knowledge over the event and let him know that he did help Gwen out after everything. It isn't breaking trust if he simply insinuates knowledge to a person who also knows. It isn't speaking for her if he doesn't talk from her perspective.

And honestly? That has the very real possibility to make George feel worse. He feels guilty for doing it. Then someone comes into his house and tells him that yes, she was existing. Yes, he'd helped her. Yes, he'd kept her safe.

That implies, yes, I did what you were supposed to do.

And that keeps poking at the issue before finally getting to the point.

If she comes back, will he shoot her?

That has to feel like a dagger to the heart. To not know where she's been, have someone else come and poke at his guilt in a way that George himself has to fill in the blanks for.

And then to finally ask the question that George must've thought a thousand times over. The question that mattered most. One he could only hope Hobie believed because it was the only possibility of him seeing his daughter again.

I don't know. There's just something about filling in context for yourself that makes words so much more powerful. Not to mention that an imagination can run rampant when you have no information and a lot of stress. Clarifying her wellbeing, talking about her when she isn't around, it nullifies that a bit.

Point is, there are much better ways to communicate. Don't do this to people. It's rude. But I feel like this is a possibility.

One more thing with Hobie. Cpt Stacy says he was a real piece of work, so obviously he didn’t just drop in and leave the dimension watch and was like “Oy, this is for Gwen if she comes back. Cheers.” I always took this to mean Hobie had a bit of a talk with George about Gwen, maybe even gave him a piece of his mind. I feel like he’d definitely do that.

Oh yeah, the way Captain Stacy talked about him, I'm pretty sure Hobie rightfully chewed him out lmao

[shadowsole]

.

[triglycercule]

can the mtt commit more crimes that just murder please i know theyre the MURDER time trio but ppppleasse,,,, please,,,,,,

they'd be terrible to be next to on the highway. horror's going 160 mph amd has long past gone over the speed limit. dust's out for BLOOD and by blood i mean your tires. he's somehow sniping those round rubber wheels from the high moving vehicle with the precision of a master fruit ninja player. if your car explodes or flips over in the process that's not his fault. and then to make matters worse for everyone on the highway killer's in the backseat scratching up the doors and windows of your car with a knife everytime horror gets close to another car and oops he accidentally just disfigured your face also did i mention theyre all drunk during this

ok so theyve all got the classic face WHY DONT THEY ABUSE IT!!!! horror gets to do a little paper mache to cover up his head hole and then wearing glasses. killer i dont know what the FUCK he can do to get rid of his perpetual tears but let's just pretend that theyre conveniently gone for now. and then all dust has to do is put down his hood! anyways identity theft is cool. imagine how much they could totally fuck up classic's reputation with this. set up fake tinder profiles and then scam people for their credit card info/free dates (while ordering every expensive thing) and stealing wallets. walking into various grillby's's around the multiverse and telling terrible jokes. like ACTUALLY bad jokes. and then of course just being a huge piece of shit at the bar. god theres so many things they could do pretending to be classic. which one of us is hikaru looking ahh except the only difference between the three is the color of the stains on their clothes (either gray (dust) black (killer) or red. well faded red (horror))

ROBBERY!!!! ROBBERIES PLURAL!!!??? train robbery gas station robbery bank robbery GOVERNMENT robbery (what would you rob the government for?? documents??? idk) anyways. mtt robbing a train except its just a really shitty plan and they dont know jackshit about what theyre doing. killer's taken over the conductor's cabin and now he is booking it. how fast are trains allowed to go idk but the maximum. anyways meanwhile horror's on the tracks fucking up the rails with his strength or whatever (listen i know he's weak but picking and choosing what hcs i believe in is my art) and dust is there to teleport him away before the train crashes into him and turns him into a trolley problem victim. and then of course that shit doesnt fucking work and the train just ends up flipping over and catching on fire or something (killer survives because of course he does he's killer). and then in the end dust just has to flip the entire train over and they just stroll into the part that actually HAS the money

and then they go out and get ice cream. sometimes the murderers need to take a break from murdering and just do NORMAL crime yk???

[dailyriolu]

A silly guide on how I draw normal Riolu vs My sona