#fanfiction is kinda nice

[sparkoflena]

The problem with being really really into a game/book is that at some point, you FINISH the game/book and there is no more new content.

What am I supposed to do with my life THEN

[sehtoast]

Hunger (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+ | Dry humping, making out. gender neutral reader. | Fic Directory

He's addicted. Nothing short of enraptured heart, mind, body, and soul with you. 

You're soft yet firm under him. You are the warmth he's always craved– the fire he's searched for since as long as he can remember. His hands are everywhere all at once. 

On your cheeks, your neck, shoulders, hips, chest. 

He touches you everywhere. He needs every inch, every fucking bit he can hold. 

He needs you. 

You do something to him that he cannot name. You light a flame, but it does not burn. 

You don't hurt. 

Your lips are soft against his, kiss bitten and plump from just how long you’d been going at it.  Must have been a while now…

Your gasps, your little shuddering breaths are beautiful music to his ears, more perfect than the heavens themselves could ever compose.  You are his instrument, and he, your musician– the maestro that will learn every possible way there is to make you sing for him.  Every stroke of his fingers under the hem of your shirt, every kneading grasp against your chest.

He breaks away for a time, but only to focus his attention on your neck.  The canvas on which his teeth and tongue will paint.  You are his magnum opus.  He will mark you, claim you, and you will forever be the most wonderful creation his hands have ever touched.

You shiver in his grasp, squirming, hands gripping in his ruffled undercut as he nips at you.  He is carnal hunger personified.  He is desire. He is need.  

And you are all that could ever satisfy him.

His tongue maps a path up your neck, over your jaw, up the curve of your cheekbone.  He kisses just shy of your ear, leaning in to whisper, “Mine.”

His hands are moving again, and you find your legs hiked up to wrap around his waist.  He presses into you, raging desire evident by the press of his cock within his suit.  Homelander’s teeth graze the flesh just beneath your ear as he grinds against your core, his breath fanning hot against you.

You hear him bite back a whine.

You tighten your legs, pulling him against you.  The friction makes you both groan, eyes meeting, minds connecting in silence.

I need you.

His lips meet yours, still wet from when he’d suckled his marks, and he rocks his hips.  His tongue caresses yours and he sighs loudly through his nose.  The sensation is tantalizing at best– not nearly enough to drive you over the edge.

But, him?

There was nobody in the world more sensitive than the man impervious to everything.

All it ever truly took was the knowledge that you reciprocate everything.  That you, center of his universe, would and do return his intensity.  That you’re unafraid to moan into his mouth or use your legs to aid in his quest for friction.  

He can smell your arousal.  How terribly you need him– just as he needs you.

To be wanted.  To be needed.

He can hear your heart hammering with more than just desire.

To be loved.

Crimson flutters behind his eyelids.  The force of his thrusts increases until they’re erratic, and your whimpers reverberate between your mouths as he tongues everywhere he can in yours.  It’s as though he means to consume you from the inside out.  He’s sloppy, messy, and hungry.

Even more so when your hips roll to meet his.

His forehead presses to yours, his brow knit, eyes clenched.  He separates from the kiss and saliva follows his lips as he pants hot and heavy against yours.

“O-Oh!”  He pushes against you hard and fast, a pitchy keen catching in his throat as his expression melts and he comes undone.  He cries out your name, and you pull him down to kiss again as his thrusts slow, becoming languid.  He rides out the waves, holding his breath.

“Oh ff– Oh fuck.”  He exhales hard,  eyes fluttering open to stare down at you.  “I…”

He knew you knew.

He came in his pants.

The wetness in his briefs adds a delicious sensation to each circular grind against you.  All he can do is groan while he attempts to collect himself.

But then came a pair of hands to rest at his cheeks.

Your hands.

Kisses to his forehead, just below his eyes, to the tip of his nose.

To his lips.

When he opens his eyes, he swears he’s in heaven.   

The fire in him is tame.  The fury he is so often burdened by is so featherlight that it may as well not even exist.

His heart is full.

For in his hands, in his heart, he holds you.

[leonardburton]

the thing is. juno & nureyev's relationship has been such a major guiding thread throughout the podcast and the major drive of season 5, and the fandom has built itself so much (as fandoms often do) around shipping the two of them.

and yet nureyev doesn't show up at all in the last episode! or, he does, but it's only implied (for all we know it could be like. alessandra strong)(i know it's not but it would be really funny) and we don't hear his voice.

and it's so important to me that despite the room that their romance has taken in the plot and in our hearts, his absence reinforces that the point of juno steel's story wasn't a lady getting his man, it was about learning to grow as person for himself and for his friends (and not just his love interest), and it was about finding his footing in life and being at peace with himself and his place in the world. and he did! his growth and relative serenity is so apparent and just. a balm to the soul

and the fact that his man is back is just a nice add-on, not a necessity for his happiness

[fiendishartist2]

shout out to elias bouchard for fucking up a perfectly good mildly toxic workplace. you literally couldn't have done worse

[chernabogs]

I can see an entire bouquet matching Malleus 😭 Calla lily, Ivy, Red Salvia, NATSURIUM and White carnation with pecks of Daffodil and Fern

Don't feel obligated to use all of them! Chose whichever you find most suitable! I just could stop with one alone, the more prompts i read the more i had this idea for a story in my head

I think you and I had the same idea cooking LMAOOO I hope I did this well! <3 Thank you for the request!!

Sin Eater

Inc: Malleus, Reader, a sin eater, and one advisor WC: 3.4k Warnings: Heavy discussion of grief and coping with loss Flowers: Calla Lily (something at first sight), Ivy (we’ve always been friends but we were never just friends), Natsurium (I refuse to bury you), Daffodil (a god bows before a mortal), Fern (In a world of magic, the greatest miracle was you... subtly implied) Summary: A quiet conversation in a hall between a prince, a starving idol, and a body.

Their arrival is marked with the sombre chiming of Dragon City’s bells, which is the only reason Malleus knows they’re approaching Black Scale. The window of the bedroom you shared is wide open, letting in both the breeze and the song as he stands so still that one may consider him to be a mere statue on display. He feels equivalent to one; his breath is shallow, his body cold, and his expression far away enough that he hardly registers the carriage approaching. 

“Your highness?” A faint voice speaks by his right side. Malleus’ finger twitches at the sound as his emerald gaze slowly slides from the streets below to the advisor who is now anxiously twisting her sleeve. He can hardly remember her name—advisors come and go so often that they’ve become a blur in his mind—but he’s taken to calling her Scops due to the owlish stare that she always seems to wear around him. “The sin eater is here.”

Malleus stares for a moment before he looks back down to the courtyard. The carriage door is open, and a figure is now standing on the stone, speaking with one of the guards. The discussion is brief, ending with the guard walking to the doors and the figure looking upwards at the palace walls. A golden mask conceals their face, capturing the rays of the sun which battle through Briar Valley’s ever-present clouds, and they wear a simple black funeral suit. 

“I see that.” He replies curtly, his voice ungiving on how he’s really feeling. “They arrived quite quickly, didn’t they?” 

“I suppose they have,” Scops steps a bit closer to the window to look down at the sin eater. “Strange, really. It isn’t like their profession is a competitive market anymore.” 

Sin eaters used to be far more prominent in Briar Valley back when it was still Briar Nation, and old traditions were held to a greater esteem. Unfortunately, the changing of times meant the dismantling of old organizations and beliefs, rendering the sin eaters as nothing more than a token piece in a funeral party. Perhaps once they were esteemed in a religious fashion—but not anymore. Now they will sit for anyone, so long as they get their meal. 

You had always admired the old traditions, though. He remembers your avid interest in his family’s history, and the many nights you’d waste away in the library, reading tome after tome in delight. You had been the spearhead of a new age for old beliefs—revamping Briar Valley’s tourism through the demonstration of habits long dead—and you had made a difference. That’s why there is a sin eater here today. 

Malleus dislikes their presence, however. Them being here means that what he’s going through is not just a simple dream. He exhales through clenched teeth and forces his shoulders to relax as he turns on his heel and nods. 

“Regardless, it’s best not to keep guests waiting.”

_____________________________________________________________

The hallowed hall in which you lay is silent, even with the presence of the sin eater looming over your shrouded form. How they managed to move quickly enough that they arrived before Malleus did is something he decides not to question—nor does he question how they knew of the hall to begin with. Their profession is one that draws the most peculiar of magic users into it. Like a bloodhound, they caught your scent and followed it to the room. He’s surprised the guards who have been standing watch over you for a day now permitted them to enter. 

Malleus enters alone and waves for the room to be sealed. He notes the hesitation in his guard’s body language before they oblige, stepping away to pull the great wooden doors shut with a resounding boom that stirs a pair of birds residing in the rafters. Their wings flutter in distress as Malleus spares them a passing glance before returning his focus on the figure ahead. The sin eater has turned to look back at him, and he sees upon closer inspection that the mask they wear lacks a mouth. They incline their head in greeting before speaking in a surprisingly clear tone considering their facial obstruction. 

“Your grace. Forgive me for the intrusion before your arrival; I merely wished to prepare in advance.” Their voice is soft and low as they touch a hand to the place above their heart. Malleus hardly reacts to their words as he brushes past them to where you lay, body enshrouded in a white sheet with a torc affixed upon your neck. His fingers brush along its form; forged of mystium and gifted to you as a token by him. It was the closest he could get to a marriage declaration in the eyes of the Senate. 

“It’s hardly my place to prevent a sin eater from completing their role.” He replies languidly as his fingers skim off of the torc to rest on your chest. Stiff, still, and cold against his fingers. “I just wish you had not come to begin with.” 

He doesn’t wish to have you buried quite yet, but he knows he’s already pushing the limit of how long he can keep you. He kneels by the platform that holds your form as his fingers brush along the shroud that hides you. If he could, he would drag you off of this macabre display and back into the rooms you shared for so many decades together, to wrap you in his arms and pretend this isn’t happening. 

But that was foul. Utterly, utterly foul. Your body would putrefy and decay while he clung to a false hope of resurrection. 

No, the sin eater is here now. He just doesn’t want you out of sight quite yet. 

“Many do not welcome me, but I have never left without gratitude.” The sin eater replies softly. Like a god before a mortal, Malleus’ ethereal features are painted into a stony expression, his gaze still distant. He hardly feels a part of this world right now as he hums quietly in turn. 

“Perhaps.” He muses as his fingers toy with the shroud before he turns to look at the sin eater. Like his own face, their mask is a stony expression, their eyes concealed from his seeking gaze. If they were to not move and speak then they could easily be dismissed as one of the many statues adorning the hall. “How shall we proceed?” 

“Do you feel ready to proceed?” They posit as they gesture to your form. 

Malleus rises back to his feet but doesn’t remove his hand from your body. The pungent scent of flowers—used to disguise the sweetness of decay—wafts up with the abruptness of his motion. “The opportunity to refuse has long passed. I am aware that there is a feast to be had—that, they regaled me of this back when they were still alive.”

You had been enamoured by the concept of Briar Valley funerary rites throughout your time in life. He remembers thinking it to be grim when you would speak of them, and rather anxiety-inducing when you began to plan for your own. He always knew that your status as a human meant that you would join the stars long before he did—he had simply not wanted to think about it, though. In the end, your efforts to establish your own postmortem care had saved him a great deal of distress these past few days.

Your ability to think far ahead had been one of the many aspects he had loved about you. 

“Indeed, and I am delighted to see one is set for me.” The sin eater drifts off of the steps of the platform towards the far side of the room, where a table lay with an array of foods on it. Wine, dates, meats, and a variety of other luxuries decorate pristine plates and spotless cutlery. He had spared no expenses in the lavishness of your memoriam. “Sometimes I have served people who are still cooking the final meal by the time I arrive. But then again, I would expect a prince to have ample amounts of resources available to get things done.” 

“I give nothing but the finest when it comes to them.” Malleus retorts sharply as he goes to sit in the chair on the other side of the table. Before he can properly settle, the sin eater raises a hand and shakes their head. 

“Turn the chair around if you please. You are not meant to see my face when I eat—that honour is for the deceased, and the deceased alone.” 

Malleus pauses, his hand resting on the back of the chair before he obliges and twists it around to face the wall. He then sits down and crosses his legs patiently. Despite the fact that he knows the sin eater to be unarmed, he still feels a prickle of paranoia creep up his spine. Old habits die hard when one has been hunted for so many years. 

Eventually he hears the sound of the sin eater sitting down in their respective seat, followed by something heavy hitting the table. The sin eater clears their throat, and the sound is far clearer now than before. Their mask has been removed—which means the rite has officially begun. Malleus inhales and readies himself for what he recalls the next few steps to be. 

“Tell me about them. Call them to the table where we feast.” There’s a brief pause then before a fork scrapes against porcelain plates. Malleus’ eyes flutter shut as he gives a low sigh. 

“Mira calirh.” The affectionate term flows from his tongue easily as he touches upon memories long passed. How can he summarize you in a simple conversation? You had been a person of many complexities—of devotion, of will, of love as boundless as the sea. To boil all that you were down into a mere few lines felt sacrilegious in his heart. 

“Tell me of your first.” The sin eater prompts, and so he does. 

“I met them outside of their dorm. I thought the place was abandoned, but suddenly they were there before me, sleep-dazed and curious. I remember thinking how calm they were when facing me directly—only to find out they hadn’t a single clue about who I was.” Malleus’ lips curl into a faint grin as he pictures the moment so clearly. He can see you in your youth, eyes glassy with sleep and hair slightly dishevelled. You had not registered in his mind as someone of importance quite yet. 

Oh, how such a thing would change. 

“Tell me more.” The sin eater urges. He can hear the wine glass lifting and being set back down on the table. Malleus’ hands clasp tight as he feels his fingers begin to grow numb. In his peripheral vision, he thinks he sees movement from the pedestal. He resists the impulse to look its way as he considers his next words. 

“It made me feel… alive. For a moment. They would accompany me, speak with me. It was shortly after my overblot that I began to consider them as a friend—although I suspect we never were just that. It was two summers later that I began to consider them something more.” 

Malleus pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. He remembers that summer—it had been warmer than usual in the Valley, and you had come to visit for a week. He recalls the smell of sunscreen and the sight of you with your hat on your head as you sat in a field of eternal green. The land was lush and abundant with life, but it had been you that had drawn his gaze the strongest. 

The sin eater pushes a plate away before grabbing another. It drags across the wooden table with a bitter screech. “Is that so?” 

“Quite. They stayed with me for a week, and I wished every night that the next day would never come, only so that I could hold onto them for just a bit longer. I kissed their cheek before they departed through the mirror back to NRC—I wanted to kiss their lips, but I panicked and missed.” He can’t help but laugh at that. His palms had been sweating and his mind had been in a panic when he clumsily pressed his lips to your cheek in a kiss of farewell. “Foolish I was. Fortunately, it didn’t turn them away from me. The next time we met, they made sure my aim was true.” 

“Young love has a habit of sending our hearts aflutter, no?” The sin eater muses as more scraping sounds out. “Tell me when you loved them.”

When? Malleus’ brow furrows as he considers the question. When did he not, really? 

“Every day. Every hour. Every minute. I think once they became mine there was not a moment I did not love them, even when we had our disagreements, or the obligations of my role drew me abroad. I loved them in the day, I loved them in the night. And in the sparse moments between, I loved them even more.” Malleus feels his jaw clench slightly. “We could not be married, and so I made sure they knew my devotion.”

“You could not marry because they were not fae. I remember that being a point of contention in the papers.” 

The sin eater must be a fae themself, then, if they can recall the tabloids from that time so easily while looking as young as they appeared. Malleus bristles at their comment. 

“Yes, that was a point of great contention, and one I had to swallow despite working to change the laws. Even my grandmother agreed that such outdated beliefs had no business in and amongst our courtiers.” 

He had fought viciously against nobility for the opportunity to keep you by his side. Eventually it had ended in a standoff, with the courtiers begrudgingly agreeing to permit you to live in Black Scale, so long as you never officially became his consort. Your body hasn’t even been cold for a day, and he’s already heard rumours from Scops that the Senate is hunting for a suitable replacement. 

The knowledge tastes like bitter fruit on his tongue.

He thinks he sees the flutter of white fabric moving at the pedestal again. His brow furrows as he rationalizes it away as a trick of the odd lighting in the hall. Still, the cold breeze that follows makes him shift in his seat uncomfortably.

“Tell me how you loved them.” The sin eater diverts his thoughts and the conversation once more as something heavy scrapes across the table. It may be the plate of quail he saw—or the pig's head. “What did you do to always let them know?” 

“Everything. Anything they wanted I would give to them. If they had asked me to move the mountains we rest on, I would do so. If they asked me to pluck the sun from the sky and fasten it into a brooch for them, I would make sure it was held by the finest of metals. If they wished for the rains to fall and the earth to turn green, then I would drag the clouds from across the world to where they stood.” Malleus shivers again as he feels an ache in his chest. It’s been there for days now. “Magic bends to my whims, but I bent to theirs.” 

“But you couldn’t give them time.” There’s a licking sound and a low hum of satisfaction from the sin eater. “Time will eat everyone in the end—much like how I feast on their memories now. You could give them every precious gem and flower in the world, but you could not give them a second more than what they were meant to have.” 

“If I could have, then I would.” He snarls back, his head turning slightly to glare at the blurred image of the sin eater. “I would have stolen the seconds from anything and everything and given it to them instead. The gods know they would have benefited from it. They had plans, ideas, to improve this nation and now? Now they’re already beginning to decay.” 

“As things do.” The sin eater tosses a bone onto a plate as Malleus looks back to the wall. He feels something cold brush against him again, and then the scraping of a chair to his right. His shoulders tense at the sound and he wonders if the sin eater has changed places. 

Until they speak. 

“How very kind of you to finally join us.” 

The comment is simple and one that draws confusion in Malleus until it finally clicks in place and his entire body plunges into freezing water. The world spins to a stop as he hears a whispering voice by his ear, its words indiscernible. Malleus’ eyes widen and dilate as any words he had to say stutter to a stop from his lips, drawn shut by a cold touch brushing up his arm—much like how his touch had brushed along yours moments ago. 

“One last bite, then.” The sin eater interjects once more as they push another plate away. “Tell me how you will keep them alive. The body may be rotting, but the soul does still linger. Within this hall, within this palace, within the memories stored in your mind. How will you honour that?” 

The words become clearer now. Your voice is soft as your breath brushes against the skin behind his ear, making him shiver as a small, painful sound escapes him. The scent of you lingers just beneath that of the roses your body was bathed in before being wrapped for your cremation. He can feel the brush of the shroud against him as phantom fingers touch his back. 

He wants to turn to see you as he once knew—but something tells him that doing so will merely send you away faster. 

“Their legacy.” He offers slowly, eyes fluttering shut again as he loses himself in your touch. “Their memory carries on through years upon generations of work. They brought life back to Briar Valley’s beliefs. They reshaped this old, rotting home—reshaped me—into something better. I may have portraits of them, and statues, and items that they loved dear stored in my rooms—but I think the only thing they would wish for me to do is continue the work they had started.” 

A sensation floods him then like that brought on by a lover’s kiss. It curls around his wounded heart and floods itself through his veins, warming his body in a way that it hasn’t been able to for days. Another pained sound leaves him, but it is not drawn out because of any agony. 

Then, as quickly as it arrived, the sensations are all gone. Your scent disappears, your touch disappears, and Malleus Draconia is left once more to sit in a stiff wooden chair in a large, desolate hall, with a body and a sin eater as his company. He wants to grasp for you and hold you in place like he did so dearly with your body—but the voice screams at him again that this is not the way it plays out. 

The sin eater sets the cutlery down before drawing their mask over their face. They push the chair back to stand, and only when they’re on their feet again does Malleus turn to them. He can feel wetness on his cheeks as he stares at their slender, frail form. He had managed to keep himself from crying so far—but now it’s become a battle he can no longer wage.

“What a delectable meal.” The sin eater sighs as they brush down their suit before stepping away from the table. They pause as they face the prince before bending at the waist in a low bow. The black pits that represent their eyes do not stray from his face as they do so. “They rest—as you should, too. I know you have at least another day of the wake to endure, so try to recover as much energy as you can. They would not want you to suffer on their behalf.”

Malleus doesn’t reply as his gaze drifts to your shrouded form on the pedestal. His love, his partner, his calirh. When the sin eater is already halfway to the door, he clears his throat, causing them to pause and look his way. Malleus stares at their masked face with an expression of neutrality once more. 

“... thank you.” He offers softly. The sin eater tilts their head, bows, and steps out of the silent hall.

[stjernespiller]

Another eye

Can also be found on AO3

You can’t see anything.

Blood drips from your face. You think it hurts, in that distant way everything does now. You try to get it out of your eye, just enough to see the fight, but your vision stays dark through the wet sounds of blood and flesh.

Stupid, you think to yourself. Stupid stupid idiot, zoning out in a battle. Should have just looped forward to the king instead of taking that bathroom break and fighting the floor boss. Couldn’t even blinding cry, so what did it matter?

Your family members are speaking. They don’t do that much in battle. You should probably listen.

Bonnie is crying.

Mirabelle heals you again, a light feeling drifting over you that does nothing to take away the weight in your stomach. You don’t know why she did it again, you just need to get this blood out of your eye and you can go back to the fight, stop zoning out just enough to beat the sadness blocking your way to asking the king the question you’ve been dreading.

Isabeau is saying something very close to you. You think it’s him, at least, from the deeper tone. You can’t hear it. Can’t fight can’t see can’t hear. You’re pathetic.

He touches your face.

It’s- new, strange, unexpected. You flinch, and he takes his hand back, like your family always does because you’re so weak you can’t even handle being touched. But the hand only leaves for a moment before it’s back again, holding your cheek. you stand very, very still.

Is the fight over? It has to be. You almost had it before you got distracted and let yourself get hit. Maybe Isabeau and Odile got it while Mirabelle was healing you. He wouldn’t be touching you like this if the sadness was still attacking, back turned to where it stood.

He wipes the blood away from your eye, unstained hand doing a much better job than yours had. You still can’t see. You still can’t hear what any of them are saying. He sounds close to tears, though.

Ah. You know why you can’t see.

It clears your hearing. Fear, for some reason, leaves when you exhale. You breathe deep in, again, and a full sense of calmness fills the space of the fear you breathe out.

The blood hadn’t covered your eye, it was coming out of it. Stupid Siffrin didn’t pay attention to the fight and lost another eye.

Isabeau is cursing, voice wet with tears. His other hand cups your jaw, keeping your head in place. He wipes more blood away, touching your eyeball with so much gentleness you feel it should heal it. Mirabelle crafts another healing spell, and Odile asks Bonnie for the one sweet tonic you picked up this loop.

You pick up your wooden arms, raising them slowly, like through a thick fog, to land your hands on Isabeau’s. He drops his hands from your face. You’re speaking to your whole party when you say, “It won’t work.”

Bonnie sobs. Someone, likely Odile, pours a tonic on your eye anyway.

You just need to get to a frozen tear. You don’t remember where they are, but maybe you could convince your family to lead you to one. If you could find some excuse. Or just swing your arms around until you hit one.

“The head housemaiden could heal you,” Mirabelle whispers, voice just as teary as Isabeau’s. “I should have taken more healing classes. Studied more on my own. I can’t do it. And by the time we get to her...”

She trails of. Crafts another healing cure. It works just as well as the others.

Healing of this scale needs to be done quick. You know, because you all talked about it when you lost your first eye, and when Isabeau showed you a small scar on his bicep. Go more than an hour or two without the right healing craft, and it’ll be permanent.

An idea lights up in your mind. You turn your head, but it all stays black, and you can’t look anyone in the eye.

“We can find a tear. Freeze me.” It’s so perfect. You almost have to stop yourself from grinning. The best excuse you could have ever asked for. “when you beat the king and everyone unfreezes, someone can help me.”

The lie is easy, as easy as all the others you’ve filled these two days with. They won’t beat the king without you. You won’t unfreeze with everyone else, and the head housemaiden will never help you. But you need to see to fight, and you need to loop to see, and you need a tear to loop.

It’s quiet for a moment. “Will that work?” Odile asks, voice strangely soft.

“It’s worth a try.”

“We’ll find a tear!” Bonnie yells. They either stamp their foot or jump in place. “We’ll defeat the king and you’ll get your eye back!” their voice is still wet. You don’t know why. Are they scared of fighting the king without you? Now you’re thinking about the loop you let them go alone. Stars, you really are an awful person. Of course they’re scared when you can’t keep fighting, and just before the king, too.

“Let’s bandage it until then.” Mirabelle says, and a piece of cloth presses against your face. It’s nice and cool. “Your coat is all dark know.”

Odile, you think, listening to the footsteps, start walking. “We can’t go back,” she says, “hopefully there will be some tears further in.”

You walk after her. The corridor is as familiar to you as the rest of this blinding house. You don’t need an eye to know the way.

Isabeau still hovers beside you, steps heavy but careful. He doesn’t offer to guide you, probably afraid to touch you, but you can imagine his arm reaching out, hovering above your shoulder, ready to steer you away from the walls or the floor or what else you might kill yourself on. Fragile little Siffrin, can’t walk on his own.

Bonnie is to your other side, rushing ahead for two steps at a time before falling back again, never straying far. They hiccup, and audibly sniff their snot in. You feel awful. The tear is close. You just need to loop.

Mirabelle walks in front of you with Odile. You can almost feel her continuously looking back at you, footsteps irregular in that familiar pattern. You don’t know why it’s familiar, and when you try to remember, it slips away like lightless sand between your fingers.

The air is tense. You slip into your mind, a little. Claude is up ahead, frozen in time with the secret ingredient. You turn a corner, and don’t think about how strange it looks to your family for you to walk through the corridor like this. Isabeau calling you graceful is there, memory pushing itself to the front of your mind, but you don’t force yourself to act as if you don’t know this place better than yourself. They won’t remember.

“Does it hurt?” Bonnie whispers besides you. You instinctively look towards them, but still see nothing but darkness around you. “Sorry, stupid question. Of course it hurts.” Their voice is still wet. They sniffle. “You just act like it doesn’t.”

You’ve been acting a lot. Almost everything feels like a secret, a lie, a play. This isn’t one of them. “It’s just an eye.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN JUST AN EYE?!” Bonnie yells, and their voice is still wet, but it cracks in fury. “You always do this, you don’t care about anything! It’s your eye, you can’t see, you lost both of them now! You have to care!”

They hate you. You remember, now, that they don’t love you. You couldn’t get yourself to help them this loop, too tired from hearing the same thing again and again and again. In this moment, Bonnie hasn’t hugged you. In this moment, you haven’t talked with Bonnie about losing your first eye. In this moment, they still hate you.

But it’s fine. You’re on your way to a tear. You’ve all been walking this stretch for a while, Mirabelle should see Claude soon, and then they’ll find the safe room, and after that - you think you’ve seen tears there before.

“It’s just an eye,” you say again, because you can’t bring yourself to pretend any differently, that it matters to you more than having to loop and run through the third floor again. “I’ve lost worse.”

Bonnie doesn’t respond. Claude has to be here soon, right? Was she always this deep in the corridor?

"How is your eyes not the worst thing you've lost?" Mirabelle asks, so quiet you almost don’t hear her. The kind of question she doesn’t expect a response to.

You shouldn’t respond. You don’t want to respond. How can you. You can’t speak it’s name, can’t tell them anything about it, and you already didn’t help Odile this loop because you couldn’t bring yourself to follow the blinding script again when she won’t understand and won’t remember and won’t care.

“I lost my home,” you say anyway, because it’s all one big cosmic joke. They won’t remember anyway. It doesn’t matter. “And I don’t even remember it.”

Does your country matter, if no one remembers it?

Isabeau speaks up, always the emotionally mature one. “I’m sorry, that sounds awful.”

“You never remember anything,” Bonnie sniffles, sounding tired. The kind of exhausted you get calming down from crying. You wish your stupid eye would let you cry.

You’ve already broken the dam. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. “I don’t.” Isabeau tugs at you cloak, pulling you slightly towards him. He lets you go, a meter more to the left of the corridor than before, and doesn’t explain anything. You don’t ask.

“Not even the word for a stuffed animal. Or a sharpening stone, which you use all the time. Or bananas.” It seems to calm Bonnie down, listing all the things you don’t remember. You follow along.

“Not the name for all the birds in Dormount. What bonding earring are. What we did last week. My family. My country. Your names, that one time.”

It doesn’t calm you down. Or the others, for that matter. Isabeau stopped walking. The other three follow suit.

You stop too, because the others did. Then you wish you had kept going, because now you’re just standing here, and you still can’t see anything.

“Sif...” Isabeau starts, soft and careful. “I’m sorry. We’ve been poking fun at your memory, but this... We need to talk, after we beat the king.”

You don’t want to talk. Have you already made the pun on your memory this loop? Bonnie said you couldn’t remember the name, so probably, you need something else, something to divert the attention, it doesn’t matter because they’ll forget but right now they remember and you don’t want to talk.

“Aren’t there any tears here?” You ask, and it comes out harsher than you planned.

“Oh! No, not yet, but there’s a door here, maybe on the other side?” Mirabelle sounds nervous and jumpy. Did you do that? Stars, you’re awful.

Then you think. There’s a door, and you hear someone open it. Claude was before the door. She was, you know it, you can’t have forgotten that, Mirabelle stops you all and says the same thing every time.

Did you all walk past her? Did... did Mirabelle change the script? Because you’re blind now?

Your head hurts. You walk towards the door, and only need to follow the wall for a moment before you reach it, having been pulled from the middle of the corridor by Isabeau. Was that.... because of Claude? Did he pull you out of the way?

When Mirabelle tells everyone to hurry through the safe room, they do so. No one talks about taking a break, and Odile’s stomach doesn’t rumble. You’re through the room without eating or touching the star.

“There!” Bonnie yells, first out of the second door.

“A tear,” Odile says simply. “Two, actually. Pick your poison, Siffrin.”

You chuckle, just a little. Lean right. But you don’t actually know where in the room the tears are. You just know the door to the king is straight ahead.

“Can I lead you to it?” Isabeau offers. You empty your mind, think of nothing, and hold out your hand.

He guides you in an arch. Let’s go of your hand. You reach out, and dream of nothing.

[kakusu-shipping]

Wait I almost completely forgot I had a dream the other night that I got an Anon Hate message that claimed to be Koro-Sensei saying he would never love me due to the Proshipping thing and I just remember replying with a 20 bullet point list of How to Spot a Fake Koro-Sensei, as reviewed by Koro-Sensei.

Was a little sad to wake up and find the ask wasn't real.

[superat626]

Wanted to draw something of an old crush.

[westwiiind]

big fan of how the two main love interest/mother characters in how to train your dragon canonically CANNOT cook for SHIT. httyd said fuck ur gender roles the MEN will be doing the cooking bc if the WOMEN did it ppl would DIE

[seventh-district]

again and again i find myself lamenting that audio roleplay isn't taken more seriously by some people. like yeah, they often have a romantic element, and by nature they usually directly involve/address the listener- and i totally get that those things aren't to everyone's taste. no art or entertainment is universally appealing, and that's okay! but.. it still makes me a lil sad that the "cringe" reputation of asmr/audio rp precedes it. there's a whole lot of talent and creativity being poured into these audios by so many people that i feel goes unrecognized and/or disrespected simply due to the medium that the stories are being told through.

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Blood Drops on Roses: Bargaining: The Third Stage of Grief (20/80)

“Let’s shake on it.” Twilight stuck his hand out, then drew back, saying, “Just… nothing too crazy, alright?”

‘You owe me, you owe me.’ Wild raised a perfunctory eyebrow as Twilight squirmed. ‘Anything else isn't a part of the deal.’

“No, I guess it isn’t.” Twilight said, defeated, as he stuck his hand out once more. He looked queasy as they clasped hands. He paused a step. “And Wild?”

‘Yeah?’

“Watch the spice. They ain’t from here.”

‘Spoil sport.’

Read the rest of this chapter here! Blood Drops on Roses Ch 20

Or check out the whole series, including the Prologues, here! Blood Drops On Roses: A Linked Universe Fanfic

[paperedking]

Chapters: 1/5 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake (DCU) Summary:

As Jason adjusts to the manor being much fuller than he remembers, he meets Damian. Damian is having a difficult time, but Jason won’t begrudge a kid for wanting to hide.

Mine and @loverofbumblebees‘s fic for the @batfam-big-bang! I had so much fun working on this! A big thanks to @starsofshadowanddust for being an incredible beta. @essiestarr made some incredible art for this fic, which you can find here.

[elbiotipo]

I believe men in general should engage more with the romance genre and romance fiction. I believe it's nice to write a good cute romance story and get giddy about "will they or won't they kiss? :o" This is not any moral or political statement from my part I just want to talk about shipping with my bros.

[im-nora-ephron-bitch]

Hi friends! Here is the second and final part of the medical modern AU fic no one wanted.

As stated on a personal note: there’s a lot of me in here. I think I projected a lot of my own garbage on poor Eloise here. And while I am not a person of daily routines and habits…I am someone who pushes people away. Someone who gets dependent too easily. Someone with a whole lot of dead parent baggage that they carry with them.

So anyways, this was a nice little world to escape to with all of that. I hope you enjoy. Or don’t enjoy. Either way, I really did have fun playing in this world for a bit!

[chernabogs]

‘  where  has  choosing  goodheartedness  and  having  golden  hair  ever  gotten  you  ? 

hiii um this prompt with a prince silver au maybe? maybe him being kept in the dark about the war and living a perfect life, but then finding out about what the silver owls are doing / planning to do to the fae?

I took this in sort of a subtle approach, if that's ok! I was writing this and suddenly I was like hmmm what if someone nudged him to begin looking into things himself... and voila. Bean-nighe was the first thing I thought of. I did also tweak the line a little!

RED RIVER

Inc: Silver, his nanny, a Bean-nighe/Washerwoman, Leah & Knight of Dawn mention Warnings: Blood (I mean... washerwoman do that), implications of oppression (fae). AU-verse of Silver being raised by Leah and KoD. C7 spoilers, somewhat. Little bit of Scottish mythos in here too. WC: 2.4k Summary: After his nanny goes missing, Silver finds himself lost in the forests, where he comes across a woman washing strange clothing in a stream.

He only begins to clue in that something is amiss when his nanny is absent one morning. She’s a fae, with long hay-coloured hair and slate eyes that still hold a twinkle when she smiles at him. She only really smiles at him—her little sun—but otherwise wears a blank expression. Her eyes always fix to the floor whenever his uncle is with him and she shrinks into the shadows, his quiet nanny, only to emerge from her shell when they’re alone again. 

One time he told her that she felt more like a mother to him than his real one. It isn’t Leah’s fault that she’s absent for portions of his life—that goes part and parcel with being a royal, after all—but absence does not make his heart grow any fonder. His nanny had looked terrified when he said this. She had pressed a finger to her lips and begged him not to say that again, not to say that to anyone. 

When she vanishes, he looks for her. It’s what any child would do.  

He straps his wooden sword to his hip and embarks out of the white manor that is his home into the gnarled woods beyond. Where most children would shy away from the shadows, he strides forward, as brave as his father when it comes to facing the unknown. 

Or at least, as brave as he assumes his father to be. They so rarely interact, despite his name being ‘Silver’ after the armour that the man adorns. Silver, like blades that cut through the night. Silver, like the moon's rays that will touch on new land. The absence of him does not make Silver’s heart grow any fonder either. 

“Nanny?” He calls, his small voice lost to the vast space around him as his neat shoes become muddied from the earth. Assistants had dressed him this morning in fine garbs befitting his position as a young prince. Silver didn’t know why they bothered to begin with. By the end of the day, his knees were always dirty, and his palms scratched up from playing in the woods. Nanny would scold him as she washed the cuts clean and kissed them better, making the wounds vanish into smooth skin. 

When no one replies to his call, he pouts a little as his hand rests on his wooden sword. He isn’t allowed a real one quite yet. He’s still too young, according to his trainer, and needs to perfect working with a wooden sword before receiving iron. A wooden sword is sorely inefficient when it comes to creatures in these woods. Dire Beasts, Stygian Boars, Dryads and Elves—Silver has heard of them all through nanny’s stories at night. 

The Dire Beasts aren’t bad. He can probably climb a tree and wait them out if needed. Stygian Boars often just rooted around the dirt and could be easily bypassed so long as you didn’t spook them. Dryads and Elves, though, are more complicated. Dryads can use nature to their advantage and Elves can use their sharp tongues. Silver knows better than to cross paths with either of them. 

But he needs to find his nanny, and quickly. He wonders if perhaps she’s gone into the woods again to collect flowers and strayed off the path. He used to wake up every morning with a new bouquet by his bedside of flowers he’s never seen before—dark purple and tempting. By the evening, the flowers are gone, but the joy of waking up with them lingers in his memory. 

The space grows darker as he continues to navigate over roots of trees older than even his parents. His small hand grasps the wood to leverage himself as the air grows heavy and a new scent begins to invade him. It smells ancient as well and makes his nose curl as he wanders down an embankment. 

His path is soon interrupted by the sight of someone kneeling by the river that runs below, her back hunched as she appears to be washing something in the stream. He can hear her humming a soft, mournful sounding song as her hands work in a rhythmic manner, dipping the cloth beneath the stream before raising it up and submerging it again. It’s a mesmerizing motion that draws him closer to where she kneels. However, when his foot lands on a twig, making it snap under the weight of his body, the woman ceases her motions and turns her head to look his way. 

She’s an older woman, with the beginnings of wrinkles lining her face and a headscarf concealing her hair. Her dark brown eyes seem to peer right through him as her lips tilt down into a frown and she straightens up. “Boy. Why do you watch me from the shadows?” 

Silver feels the flush of embarrassment burn his cheeks as he rises, walking forward until he draws to a stop a few feet away from the woman. The wooden sword hits against his thigh as he moves, and the woman's gaze watches it with interest. When he’s close—but not too close—he wrings his hands together with a down-turned gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you,” he begins, studying the rocks by his feet as he speaks. “Can you help me?” 

“Help?” The woman’s hoarse tone pitches in amusement as he hears water sloshing again. He looks up to see that she’s resumed her washing. At a closer distance, he can also see the wicker basket by her side, the edge of another cloth peeking out from beneath the lid. “What a peculiar request. Most don’t want my help.” 

Silver thinks this a rather odd thing to say, but he rationalizes that perhaps others are just more cautious, and likely don’t have a missing nanny to worry about. The woman washes quietly for a moment before speaking again as she sets her cloth on a nearby rock to dry. It’s a white linen shirt, in a style that Silver had seen a few of his father’s fellow soldier’s wear. “What is a child like you doing wandering these woods alone?” 

“My nanny is missing. She likes to come into these woods to pick flowers, and I think she may have become lost.” Silver inches forward to squat near the woman by the stream. His small hand reaches out to splash in the water as the woman opens her wicker basket. “I was wondering if—”

His words cut off when he sees what the woman pulls out. It’s another linen skirt, like what his nanny would wear, but this one is not just white. A violent, scarlet stain mars the front of it, accompanied by the pungent smell of copper that makes his breath stutter as he falls back on his rear. His wooden sword clacks against the stones he lands on. The washerwoman seems unaffected by his reaction as she submerges the shirt into the stream and begins to scrub it. 

“Wondering if I have seen her?” The washerwoman then prompts as she scrubs away. Silver gawks at the sight. The only time he’d seen blood before is when he’s fallen and scraped up his hands on the cobbles in the palace’s courtyard. Even then, this was just a little blood. The skirt that the washerwoman is cleaning has far more than a little. Mutely, he nods. 

The washerwoman turns the fabric over before looking at him again. Her dark eyes seem far more lifeless and ancient now that he was closer to her side. “What is your nanny’s name?” 

The question makes him blink. He didn’t know his nanny’s name. She had only been ‘nanny’ to him, or ‘servant’ to the other nobles in the court. His hands reach down to nervously wring the bottom of his shirt. “I… I don’t know. But she’s a fae! With gold hair, grey eyes, and a kindest heart. I miss her. I want her to come home.”

His description makes the woman pause as her hands remain in the creek. Her face reveals none of what she’s thinking. “What is your name?” 

“Silver?” His answer comes out as a question as he frowns. He isn’t too sure why who he is has importance here. He’s looking for his nanny—shouldn’t she be the focus of the washerwoman’s questions? 

Still, the woman hums as she resumes her washing. “Your father is a knight, yes? What is it that you think he does?” 

“He helps people, of course. Lots of people like my father. But... I need to find my nanny, and he’s too busy to help me. Have you seen her?” Silver tries to turn the conversation back to his nanny again. He’s beginning to feel worried about how he still hasn’t found her, and soon it will be mid-afternoon. He’s been walking for a while in these woods now. 

“You must think of him as a noble man. What of your mother?”

“She’s a princess. She helps people too.” He can feel his worry growing as the washerwoman keeps cleaning. The creek ran red for a moment before clearing up again. When the washerwoman sets the skirt on the rock and reaches in her basket again, Silver winces and looks away. 

“You must think of her as a noble woman. Do they spend much time with you, or is it just your nanny?” 

“It’s… mostly just my nanny. She’s always with me, which is why I need to find her. Something isn’t right.” He looks back when he hears her hands submerge in the water again. The creek runs red once more as she twists and turns the fabric. “Please, have you seen her?” 

“Does your nanny let you out beyond the palace walls? Let you accompany your family?” The washerwoman’s lips turn to a frown—another brief expression of emotion. “Does she let you know how noble your family truly is?”

Silver feels himself shrinking back as the washerwoman’s voice drops. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No. I don’t see my mother and father often. They’re always busy, and nanny doesn’t like me to find them until they’ve been back for a few days.”  

The washerwoman nods as if this all makes perfect sense to her. She sits back on her ankles again before looking at him. Water drips off her forearms and a strand of dull brown hair has fallen free from beneath her headscarf. The washerwoman wrings out the clothing item she’s holding before tossing it aside with a carelessness that startles Silver. 

“Your nanny will not be returning to you. Your family is not as noble as you think. Go home, and do not let your court placate you any further. I detest having to wash the clothing of a child.” Her voice is dull and monotone as she grabs her wicker basket, now almost empty save for one more article of clothing. She pulls it out and Silver notes that this garb seems more expensive looking than the rest. It’s a silk shirt, and for a moment he thinks it looks like the one his father wore the last time he saw it. This, too, is marred by a brutal red stain across the front. 

“What do you mean she won’t be returning? Please, I need to find her!” His disregards caution as he inches forward, his small hand grabbing for the washerwoman’s arm. When he touches her skin, it’s as though his entire body is plunged into ice water, like it’s him that the woman is holding beneath the stream. She jerks her arm free with a gasp and it’s with this motion that he sees the sharp teeth she’s been hiding. She is not human—she’s fae, precisely like his nanny. 

“You may be young, but I do not believe in blinding the youth. Ask your father what your uncle truly does—ask why your uncle was the last to request your nanny’s presence. Do not go further into these woods. Your golden hair and good heartedness will not provide you the kindness and security that your towering palace walls do.” The washerwoman wrings out the shirt before tossing it into her wicker basket. She grabs the other items from the rock—somehow already dry despite just being set down—and tosses them into the basket as well. “Your nanny was a fae. It would be wise, young prince, to begin asking why so many of the fae that once served you are now absent.” 

Silver stares at the washerwoman in mute shock as she rises, tucking the wicker basket under her arm with a blank expression once more. Now that she was standing he could see other aspects of her indicative of her heritage. Her nails are clawed, her skin unnaturally pallid, and the hem of her skirt is stained like the clothing she cleans. She looks like death incarnate—and despite his child's mind, Silver begins to realize that something is deeply amiss. 

“I don’t…” he begins, wanting to know more, wanting to ask the woman what she knows about his nanny. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes as he scrambles to his feet. The wooden sword attached to his hip now feels even more worthless than before. 

The washerwoman hesitates. Her kind is not apt to console, or express kindness—she washes the clothing of those about to meet their end in a dispassionate manner. But the look of loss on Silver’s face and the harrowing future she sees before him causes her hand to reach out and tenderly brush back a few strands of his golden hair. It’s a brief comfort that she offers before drawing back. “Go home. It will soon be time for you to grow up, and you must not allow yourself to be blinded by those around you.” 

These are the last words she speaks before Silver blinks and she’s gone. The only traces of her are the wet stains on the rocks and the faint, lingering scent of copper. He can feel hot tears running down his cheeks, which he wipes away with a sniffle before grabbing his wooden sword again. 

His nanny is gone, and his family knows where she went. The sting of betrayal lingers in Silver’s chest as he turns heel and begins to run back down the path he came from. Even though he’s still a child, he knows now that something is amiss—and he’s going to find the truth, no matter what may stand in his way.

[triplefool]

Hiiiii, I’m posting chapter 4 again because chapter 5 is coming very soon (using the long Eastern weekend for that yay) ^^

Details are below but it’s basically my idea of what season 3 could be, with a depressed Crowley and a frustrated Aziraphale who have to come together at some point (perhaps now hehe). Lots of Muriel, and other familiar faces. Some gender talk, it’s important to me. Some flashbacks (1941 shhhhh). Hopefully epic (especially starting chapter 4) but also funny, sweet and beautiful. 

Thanks for reading and if you ever like it, share etc.! :)

~

Chapters: 4/6 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Maggie/Nina (Good Omens), Crowley/Nina (Good Omens), Crowley/Muriel (Good Omens), And many more I'm too lazy for this Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens), Muriel (Good Omens), Nina (Good Omens), Maggie (Good Omens), Who knows who else, Michael (Good Omens), Uriel (Good Omens), Saraqael (Good Omens), The Bentley (Good Omens), St James's Park Ducks (Good Omens), more but don't want to spoil Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 02, I love spoilers but would never impose this insane lifestyle to anyone else, just read and find out, probably no graphic violence, No Sex, Whump, mostly emotional, The Second Coming (Good Omens), cuz well that's announced, They/Them Pronouns for Muriel (Good Omens), for the well-deserved representation, okay that's enough lol, (chapter 3 has a 1941 flashback just saying just saying), Shh Summary:

After Aziraphale leaves, Crowley realises he has nothing to do, no hobby. All he has really, is a broken heart. Thankfully, the people he knows on earth are not doing so well either. (And don't get me started on Heaven and Hell...)