#fic: you are not alone

[thatskindarough]

“‘I just…I thought you might like to come back, one day,’ Crowley said very quietly. Aziraphale’s foot pressed against his again, and Crowley drew in a sudden breath, as if he hadn’t been breathing properly since Aziraphale had stopped touching him.”

This piece was a commission from the lovely @fellshish for their lovely friend, @alphacentaurinebula ‘s fic What Are You Doing Here? This fic is cute, funny, heartwarming, and incredibly spicy, and I’m very much looking forward to finishing it! Thank you Fells for being wonderful to work with, and happy (belated) birthday to you Alphacentauri, I’m very happy I could do this for you!

[kacchanot-fucking-deal-with-this]

So you know when you're writing a scene where the hero is carrying an injured person and you realize you've never been in this situation and have no idea how accurate the method of transportation actually is?

Oh boy, do I have a valuable resource for you!

Here is a PDF of the best ways to carry people depending on the situation and how conscious the injured person needs to be for the carrying position.

Literally a life saver.

(No pun intended.)

[demaparbat-hp]

Zuko's eyes watered against his will when the ghost of a woman he did not know smiled at him like he was her child.

Zuko decided right there and then that maybe, just maybe, this too was something he came to find.

Ghost-Mother takes a look into Zuko's soul in For the Spirits Chapter IX: A Rider Alone.

More than a stranded soul, Kya holds all the love of the Old Tribe and the means to calm a coming tempest. Zuko won't ever forget her.

(He won't be allowed to.)

[benevolenterrancy]

Mobei-Jun getting abandoned in the human realm by his favourite uncle and being left alone and terrified?? baby???? gonna lie awake thinking about him and Shang Qinghua meeting as children

[californiatowhee]

old fashioneds and tipsy daydreaming

bonus: the subsequent drunk texting

extra bonus, if you made it this far: what happens next, in fic form (spoiler: Phoenix and Miles kiss)

Behavioral Phenomenon | Phoenix/Edgeworth | 2.5k

[rafeandonlyrafe]

proper thank you

words: 600

warnings: 18+ only!, stepbro!rafe, sending nudes, stepcest, kinda dumb/baby reader???

“carry me up to bed rafey?” you coo at your step brother, fluttering your lashes as your pout turns into a giggle when he sighs, unable to resist your pleading face.

“you're the most annoying little sis ever.” rafe says, calling you the nickname just to tease you as he leans down, scooping you into his arms. he carries you like you weigh nothing, so easily slotting into the good older stepbrother role when your parents married, despite him being only a few months older than you.

“thank you rafey.” you say sweetly as he walks you up the stairs, your arms holding him around the shoulders, head leaned against his broad chest.

“yeah, you gotta give me a better thank you than that.” rafe rolls his eyes as he carries you into your bedroom. only once the door is closed do you press a wet kiss to his cheek as a proper thank you.

rafe plops you down on the bed unceremoniously. “there ya go.” he waves as he walks away, knowing it's not actually goodnight as you let out a whine.

“tuck me in?”

rafe hides his smirk before turning around, putting on his slightly annoyed act like he always does when you ask him.

rafe pulls the fluffy blanket out from under you. it's slightly weighted so it naturally tucks around your body anyways as rafe covers you, but his hands still move slowly, feeling your body as he pushes in the blanket until you're stuck tight underneath it.

“anything else? want me to tell you a bedtime story?” rafe says it as a joke, but with the way your eyes light up, he finds himself sitting on the edge of your bed, recounting three little pigs from memory the best he can.

“alright, you gotta get to bed now.” rafe glances at the clock on your nightstand as the hour hand ticks closer to midnight. “goodnight.”

“goodnight rafey.” you smile softly before letting out a yawn. “ill give you a proper thank you soon.”

rafe isn't sure what you mean until he makes it back to his room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone until a text message appears from you.

he clicks it to open up the image, his eyes widening and dick swelling as he sees you in a silky nightgown, the swell of your breasts clearly visible, nipples poking through the fabric. he recognizes the nightgown from a few days ago, but you clearly got further undressed.

rafes eyes bulge as the next image loads, the same pose, now sans nightgown, tits bare and thighs clenched together to make a delicious looking v that rafe wants to dive into.

a proper thank you ;) reads your text, along with one last image, this time with your legs spread, smile on your face as your cunt is on clear display. you took the marker tool to add to your lower stomach “property of big brother.”

rafe is in your room untucking you from your bed before the clock reaches midnight.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @yourenogoodforme @auryyz @mayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut

[chyarui]

MY BOIIIISSSSSSSS

Not enough jaster fanart out there so I have NO IDEA WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE. And the comics change his look a ton, I can’t decide. This is the vibe I get though ❤️

And *gasp* my first Jango fanart??? No the clones DONT count

This will also prolly be my only post for a while guys, uni waits for no soul 💔 luv you all

[andypantsx3]

what is one thing you absolutely want to write in 2024?

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Fifteen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: ANGST... that's about the only major warning I can think of

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Jurian and Vassa took the attic and became scarce, but when night and day slid into one another you still heard her painful screams, muffled as they were by the magic that encased their room. It was a feeling more than anything else. A tension that gripped the House until it seemed to be sobbing. At sunrise and sunset without fail, Vassa’s body broke and rearranged itself, flesh turning to feathers and feathers to flesh. Before it had been a painless process where her body came and went in its various forms, but no longer. Now she felt everything alongside an itch deep within her bones that couldn’t be satiated by food or drink or anything else. 

Go to the lake! Her body screamed. Go to Koschei! And then punished her when she didn’t comply. Like a beast had sunk its claws into her flesh, its waiting mouth only inches away from snapping. To stay away was a slow, agonizing march to death. To move close would be swift, but final, and somehow Vassa knew that if she gave into Koschei’s call, she would be lost forever.

You lingered at the base of the attic's staircase, your bare feet sinking into the soft rug until the sounds of cracking bones finally ceased. Three pairs of feet shuffled above your head and you heard Jurian’s faint whispers like a gentle push of air. When the door opened and Lucien emerged, you saw Vassa crumpled on the floor, now a bone-thin woman with dull, coppery hair and skin ravaged by scratches and pockmarks. 

“Shhhh. It’s ok.” Jurian whispered, encasing her in his arms. 

“I can’t,” her voice trembled. “It hurts. I-I-I’m burning.” 

“Y/n?” Lucien frowned. The door slammed shut with a bang and you jumped backwards. You clutched a velvet pouch close to your chest and then slowly held it out to Lucien. 

“It’s for Vassa,” you explained, trying to keep your eyes on his mismatched ones — one russet as river stones, one gold like the sun. He opened the bag and stared in confusion at the fine, white powder within, giving it a tentative sniff. “Morphine. Humans use it for pain.” 

“I know of it.” Lucien’s frown deepened. “They get addicted. Take too much and they die.” 

“She’s already addicted. That’s what’s happening isn’t it? Koschei’s drawing his power away to get her to return to the lake and every day that passes she’s dying.” Lucien tightened his fists around the bag, still skeptical. Vassa had endured enough. He didn’t want to have her endure this either. “The bag is enchanted and will never allow her to draw too much. Just enough to calm her hunger. If we’re lucky it might help her sleep too.” 

Lucien stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists from around the gold drawstring, waiting for Vassa’s cries to cease. But they never did. And there you were standing in front of him, unwavering and expectant. There was a glimmer of stubbornness in your gaze. A sign of the hours you’d spent researching Vassa’s condition and acquiring the strange human drug, and your disapproval if Lucien didn’t accept it. 

“Thank you, Y/n,” he whispered, “But please go. Vassa hates for anyone to see her like this. Even Jurian and I.” 

You swallowed thickly and nodded, disappearing down the stairs as quickly as you could. The next morning when the sun rose over the mountains and Vassa changed, you heard only the House’s usual breathings. 

The House buckled under the weight of the Inner Circle’s secrets and the sheer volume of history that had occurred within its walls and between its occupants. It utilized its magic in clever ways — your door opened with a creak that wasn’t there before so that Azriel would always hear your comings and goings. Lucien would suddenly find his door locked and the curtains drawn on the days when Helion made surprise visits to see Y/n. Nyx would find himself ushered around by a broomstick that swatted his ankles when the adults were discussing private matters. It was all a great deal of work. 

So it was a relief when Rhys and Feyre quietly moved their children to the House of Wind with Nesta and Cassian, and when Mor and Emerie took the final steps in emptying their rooms and went to hide out in their city apartment. It was even more of a relief when Helion returned to the Day Court, but not before throwing a heavy threat in Azriel’s face that if he should ever hurt his daughter again in any way, shape, or form, he’d strip the wings off his back. 

Meals at the House were tense, quiet affairs, something not even Feyre, Elain, and Nesta’s sisterly conversations or Cassian’s light-hearted humor could ease. Elain stayed close to Lucien’s side, one hand always on his arm or resting against his back or brushing against his, but that didn’t erase what the Blood Duel had done to his trust in Elain. He was kind, but guarded, especially when Azriel was in the room. But it was more than she could ask for because it was more than she’d ever given him in the beginning. 

You and Azriel were worse off.

You were speaking once more, but your words were always laced with a bit of apprehension and Azriel’s were always filled with sorrowful hope. Conversations were dull, short, and didn’t even begin to brush the surface of all the things you should have been talking about. You were terrified not of the Shadowsinger, but of his opinion of you. Did he want you so he could fix you? So that he could feel needed? So that you could be another one in a list of females he burned through? 

It never truly seemed like that was the case, but you also didn’t trust yourself when it came to your emotions. You had told him once that you couldn’t imagine having a love like Feyre and Rhysand’s, or Nesta and Cassian’s, and you still meant it. You were a matchstick and he was flint, and you didn’t know what would happen to you after he had lit you aflame. For all you knew, you were already burning and this wonderful thing you’d had with Azriel would live and die with nothing more than the memory of an embrace in Rhysand’s office to show for it. 

But oh how you ached to touch him again. To hold him like you had before and to have him return the gesture just as strongly. 

You stiffened when Azriel’s hand brushed your arm, warmth bursting out from the point of contact. 

“I’m sorry.” Azriel whispered, and he was talking about more than the wine he spilled when he reached over the table.

You spared him a glance, the first real look you’d given him in two weeks. The flagon slipped from his hands, and if it weren’t for his shadows catching it an inch above the floor, the room would have been doused in burgundy red. 

“Does Lucien know?” 

Rhysand looked up from his papers. Missives from the Darkbringer army and Illyrian troops up north clogged his desk, all begrudgingly accepting his orders to prepare for what could amount to another lengthy war. Letters thrown back and forth between the seven courts added to the chaos, all of them war-weary and desperate for a path that wouldn’t lead to bloodshed. 

You took up the center of his room and stood so quietly he hadn’t even noticed you until you spoke. It had been eating away at you for days since Lucien’s arrival. Every time you two saw one another or spoke, you tried to scrounge for clues that would reveal whether he knew he was Helion’s son and whether he might suspect you were Helion’s daughter as well. The other members of the Inner Circle had been tight-lipped about that secret, a skill you now knew they all possessed with alarming dexterity. 

“Does Lucien know he’s Helion’s son?”

Rhysand slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples with one careful hand. Finally he said, “Yes.” 

The answer knocked the breath from your lungs. You’d been expecting the opposite. “Does he… does he know about me?” 

Rhys sighed and shook his head. You didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. 

“How long has he known?” 

“Six years. Feyre was the one to tell him. She was actually the first of us to recognize the similarity, believe it or not. But then, no one ever dared to give weight to the rumors surrounding Helion and Aurelia Vanserra while Beron was alive.”

You rocked back and forth on your feet, breath shaking as it entered your body. “Six years. Six years and you never thought to tell Helion that he has a son? I thought you two were friends?”

Rhysand tensed. “I’m Lucien’s friend as well and he begged us to never speak of it - to live as though we’d never learned that secret. And I keep my secrets. We all do.” 

“You and your family have made that very clear in the time that I’ve been here.” 

“If you mean Azriel—”

“Don’t play dumb, Rhys, you know I’m talking about him.” Tears pricked at your eyes, adding to the humiliation that had coated you like a film ever since you’d seen his memories about Mor, Elain, and Gwyn. “I don’t—” You swallowed thickly, “I can imagine how you must have all been whispering behind my back about Azriel and I. How you must have found it so pathetic the way he charmed me when I was really his fourth choice.”

“That’s not true.” Was what Rhysand was going to say. But he didn’t need to. Azriel said it for him. 

Your face lost all color, any bravado melting away at the feeling of Azriel’s shadows wrapping around your ankles like ribbons of silk. You could feel him in the room and that quiet darkness he carried around with him as inherently as if it were stitched onto his body. 

Azriel was shaking. Shaking. With anger, turmoil, or grief — you couldn’t name it. All you knew is that one moment you were standing in Rhysand’s office, all velvet upholstery and suave, expensive taste, and the next you were in Azriel’s room. 

Everything smelled like mountain air. Maybe it was the gothic windows that stretched into the vaulted ceilings, stained glass opening out onto a personal balcony with deep blue curtains fluttering in the breeze. But you were sure that even with the windows barred it would smell the same. It would smell like Azriel. If you threw open his wardrobe you’d come face to face with a wall of black. Lots and lots of black. Black suits he hardly ever wore. Black fighting leathers. Black leather jackets for everyday. Black trousers. Black boots on the floor. Very practical. Very Azriel. 

If you dug through his dresser drawers you’d find black boxers and socks to match and no shortage of knives and daggers hidden behind wooden planks or in leather sleeves nailed to the bottom of his desk. But at first glance you only saw three weapons in plain view — Truth Teller, blade down and stuck in the wood grain of his desk beside a pile of reports, and two obsidian blades hanging from the wall beside his midnight blue bed in the shape of an “x.” 

The smell — Azriel’s smell — calmed you, at least up to the point where you turned to find him standing less than six inches away, hazel eyes boring into yours. Then your pulse skyrocketed. You were certain that if he only looked down to your heart he’d see it pounding against your chest like a drum skin ready to burst. 

“That’s not true,” he repeated earnestly. “And don’t you dare believe it. Not even for a second.” 

His eyes jumped back and forth between yours and before he could stop himself, his hands were grasping yours in a gentle hold. The leather gloves were soft and supple beneath your fingertips. You wanted to rip them off so you could feel his scarred hands again. 

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” you whispered, suddenly feeling small. That angry humiliation went up in a puff of smoke and left you shy and uncertain. 

Azriel gripped your hands a little tighter and you watched as tendrils of shadow worked their way up your arms and got lost in your hair. “But I did,” he said breathlessly, “And I need you to know that it’s not true.” 

“Azriel—”

“I know—” he was shaking his head, “I know what Helion said and I won’t lie and tell you that I’m perfect or that I’ve made any smart decisions about love in the past — I’ve not make a single one — but… but Y/n you’re not a fourth choice. You’re not something broken that I’m trying to fix or some fantasy I’ve fallen for.”

His hands shook and despite the gloves his hands still felt sticky and wet. Slick with your blood. The burning scent of iron in his nose.

“You’re the most real thing in the world to me. You’re—” You’re my mate. The words crawled up his throat like acid and it just felt wrong. He would say those words to you. He would. But not now. Not like this. He came up with something else. “Y/n, please tell me you believe me. Please.”

And there you were. Falling all over again. Burning like a matchstick on fire. The flames slowly eating away at you bit by bit. You wondered what would happen when you finally hit the ground, or when you ran out of length. Would he still hold you like this? Would you still feel real to him? 

“How am I meant to know, Azriel?” 

You’d always been good at books. You knew the ways in which these stories worked where the themes and plot points had been preordained and written with the purpose of being tied up in a neat package by the final page. People were very different. They were unpredictable and chaotic and they could lie through the skin of their teeth and believe they were telling the truth. And that was the problem wasn’t it? Because you still believed every word that came out of Azriel’s mouth, and his hands still felt like they were keeping you tethered to this earth when sometimes your powers and the memories that came with them made you feel like a whisper on the wind. Weightless and at the mercy of something you couldn’t control. 

“You can trust me. You can know for yourself.” 

He pressed your hand against his cheek and you wanted to cry at the faint pricks of stubble beneath your skin and the sharp curve of his jaw. 

He wanted you to use your power on him. He wanted you to learn all the ways he wanted you. All the ways he loved you.  

But you couldn’t do it. 

Azriel panicked when you remained silent, staring at him and at his hands like you were frightened. All at once he was back on the streets of Velaris, cobblestones shaving away at the skin of his palms as he dragged his way up to you inch by bloody inch, fighting against a body that was too broken to move. 

He couldn’t remember what it felt like when he’d stabbed you through the chest and dropped you on the street. Everything between the moment he saw Andrian’s clear-cut eyes to the moment he saw Rhysand’s horrified gaze was fuzzy and dark. But that made it worse because now in his nightmares he could imagine all the ways he’d hurt you, each version teeming with the same level of horror and possibility as the previous one. 

He let you go and hated himself when you stepped back, your hand slipping away. 

“I won’t… I won’t hurt you again, Y/n. I swear on my life. I’ll-I’ll make a bargain, I don’t care. I would sooner die than let something like that happen again.” 

I don’t know what I’d do with that kind of love. If I’d be able to handle it. It might be too much for me.

“Y/n, please.”

 I am not broken. But I am afraid. 

You fled from his bedroom. 

The air had a bite to it now with winter descending. The snow line on the mountains dipped lower and lower each day, creeping like ivy down a brick wall. 

Elain never wore gloves. Not when she was gardening. It was something she and Ione had in common. She liked the feeling of her strong hands, the callouses on her palms and fingers that she’d earned all on her own. She grunted, slamming her shovel into the soil and feeling the microscopic chips of ice give way when she kicked down on the blade. It was too late in the season to be planting tulip bulbs. If she’d been in Velaris she would have done this four weeks ago. But it was alright with her. She knew the value of hard work, and she had enough hope for the future to believe that even though she was late, she’d have something beautiful to call hers come springtime. 

“It’s time for that conversation I was telling you about,” she said cryptically, as was her way. 

Lucien dropped the final basket beside where Elain now knelt in the dirt, her pale pink dress dirtied and littered with her own handprints. The brown bulbs rolled around like oversized chestnuts, the kind that he’d be roasting over a fire right now if he were still in Autumn Court. Instead he was here, lingering in a Court that had never felt like home. Then again… he’d never felt at home in Autumn, Spring, or the Human Lands either. 

He straightened up and wiped his hands clean on his trousers, golden and russet eyes trailing over the River House’s grounds for this mysterious person he was meant to speak to.

There. 

The faint swishing of black robes behind a dark green topiary tree. He should have known Elain had been talking about you. 

You cracked your knuckles and rehearsed the words you’d scribbled out earlier that day and then set to fire in a maddening loop. You’d been restless with the truth of Lucien’s parentage and you couldn’t believe that the others had held their tongues so readily. As it was, without Azriel’s company to help quiet your mind, you’d dug into this new piece of information like a starving animal and couldn’t let go.

Was this a good time to tell him? Would there ever be a good time to tell him? You had no idea. 

Somewhere in the attic, you knew Vassa was itching to take to the skies like the burning comet she was. Every night she shivered in Jurian’s arms, the morphine barely able to take the edge off the humming in her bones, and every morning she let him lock her away in her cage. It was getting worse and worse trying to keep her from succumbing to Koschei’s influence. Even now you thought you could hear her keen cries whistling from the attic like ten thousand arrows launched into the air. 

Somewhere else, in a secret, hidden place you knew nothing about, Andrian had finally been imprisoned. Andrian with his bent neck and silver, candy-floss hair and bloody little hands. 

You shivered and jumped back five feet when Lucien called your name, kind eyes narrowed in concern. His shirt was loose and open and the sweat on his body rose like mist off his skin. He was his mother’s son first, Helion’s child second, and fire still ran through his veins. The chill did not touch him. 

He tipped his head to the side, red hair spilling out from the messy way he’d tied it up and away from his face. A brutal scar ran through his eye like a fissure, starting at the center of his brow before clawing its way down his jaw like a lightning strike frozen in time. But for all the cruelty he’d been dealt with in life, his eyes were gentle, even the mechanical one that whirred and flashed in the sun. 

They were even kinder when he looked at you. You with your inquisitive gaze and curious nature, like a stray cat that couldn’t help but linger too long at doorways. One foot inside, one foot ready to run and hide. He’d caught you watching him at dinners, and he’d catch himself staring when you walked around the house with a book in your hand, so utterly absorbed that you would bump against doorways and bang your hips against sharp corners. 

“Elain told me about you. Did you know that?” 

You blinked in surprise. “What did she say?”

“Elain… Elain doesn’t always speak clearly. Much of what comes out of her mouth can feel eerie or discomforting. But, she told me before we left for the Night Court that I would be happy I came. That I would never regret the things I learned on my trip.” He tilted his head even further, looking more and more like a fox with each turn of his face. “And she mentioned a bird. A bird with ink-tipped wings and eyes like a crow.” 

You flexed your fingers, well aware that the tips were smudged with ink, the nails bitten down to the quick. 

“Someone clever and cautious who’d been hidden away their whole life and needed to see the sun.” 

You felt stripped bare. That strange vulnerability that comes with being summed up in so few words had you feeling airy. Like one sentence could be enough to carry the weight of the three centuries you’d lived and never buckle. 

“I know you’re Helion’s son. I recognized it the moment I saw you.” 

Lucien stepped back, scarlet brows shooting up into his hair with alarm.

You hesitated, then continued on cautiously. “I recognized it because I would know my father’s face anywhere.” 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

I KNOW IT'S A CLIFFHANGER ENDING BUT I NEEDED TO BREAK EVERYTHING INTO CHAPTERS SOMEWHERE AND I'M GOING TO TRY AND GET CHAPTER 16 UP BY WEDNESDAY SO I DON'T LEAVE Y'ALL HANGING FOR TOO LONG. HAVE MERCY!!!

The good news is that Chapter 16 is already mostly written, I just need to edit it all to make sure things flow smoothly. Also, LUCIEN KNOWS NOW AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sorry for the Azriel angst... but it's delicious, no?

[taurus-spacecraft]

Young zaundads with SPECIAL BIG THANKS TO @out-there-tmblr who is writing AMAZING FRICKING STUFF ABUT THEM!! and inspires me to draw more of our gays guys🫶

[tommowluvr]

[yama13]

TW// Faucest, minors dni

Satoru x reader

You didn't know how you ended up here, with your legs dangling by Satoru's ears, dancing with every harsh thrust. Your pussy ended up clenching with every dirty word that slips from Satoru's lips with your wrists laying next to your ears, forcing you to see the taboo words as they slip past Satoru's lips.

“You feel so good clenching around your brother’s cock” he hissed with his tongue in your ear and his balls slapping your clit.

You supposed it was due to a month ago when this drunken girl hung around Satoru in a pathetic, depressing way around the bar. She ignored you, and Satoru's hand around your waist, giggling obnoxiously that started bothering after five minutes of her. You empathized with her, you really did. You were once that drunken girl in a bar so many nights ago before you found Satoru. But even then you at least knew not to go after another girl's man.

"So... is he like, your brother?"

You were alone cursing your boyfriend's bladder for leaving you alone with this girl who seriously asked you, if the guy whose hand was basically on top of your ass, is your brother?

"Uh-"

"Cause he's like seriously cute. You wouldn't mind putting in a good word for me right? I think he likes me-"

"Hey! Everything okay?" your boyfriend asked. Returning to your side, sliding his palm against yours.

"Oh yeah! I was just telling your sister here how I-"

Your neck grew hot at the word, trying to ignore the anger at this stranger for making you feel so small. You lunged forward towards Satoru. Practically shoving your tongue inside his mouth. A surprised gasp left his lips and his hand squeezed yours once he felt you tug at the loop of his pants, slotting his leg between yours.

The two of you continued to swap saliva and you reluctantly pulled away but not before pressing a quick peck to his swollen lips.

"Yeah, we were talking about how a great big brother you are!"

You didn't have time to look in her direction. Satoru was pulling you away, the blur of bodies and the heat of the bar was replaced with the cold air. He pulled you into an alleyway tugging your panties down and shoving his cock inside of you. You're sure you heard the sounds of someone giggling in the distance but you ignored it when Satoru's hand's wrapped around your throat.

It happened more after that.

At a coffee shop, or in the Costco line, the two of you would act like the perfect couple. Hands dangling, forehead kisses, and a quick peck followed by a loud "you're the best sister" or a "my brother is so sexy" Making the people around you uncomfortable pulled a laugh from you but it always ended with you bent over the hood of your car, or in the bathroom with Satoru panting next to your ear.

It was just a joke to you. One that ended with you getting laid and the genesis of your exhibitionist kink. But to Satoru, it was the birth of a more taboo kink.

"Come on, say who's fucking you this good."

"Nghh...Perv- Pervert!" you gasped, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your cheek was squished against the pillow, the headboard leaving a Thump, Thump, Thump and your ah, ah, ah's muffled against the sheets. You can't believe that this joke was actually turning him on.

"Shhh!" Satoru hisses, his tongue in your ear and his body hunched over yours. His hips rotated in a slow tantalizing way, making your pussy squeeze around his cock. His fingers slide down your body, cupping your pussy and his fingers played with your clit.

"You wouldn't want mom or dad to catch their son and daughter in bed together... would you?"

He pulled his hips back, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. You felt like a bitch underneath your boyfriend. The two hunched over like wild animals, grunting and whining with every slow drag of his cock. It was animalistic and dirty and you couldn't help but push yourself back wanting more. His words were turning you on and your shame was evaporating, your pussy demanding more.

"What would they say? That's, your sis- sister! You're her older brother" You squeezed around Satoru's cock at the name. Sister, Brother. Holy shit you were enjoying this. His hips sped up, and you can feel your bro-boyfriend's cock deep in your guts.

"I'm sorry Mom! But nghh she felt so good! Her pussy feels amazing. I can't. Stop. Fucking. My Siter!"

He panted next to your eyes. His body lay on top of yours, his hips humping inside of you. God, you were so close.

"Who's making you feel this good? Be a good sister and tell your bro-"

"My brother!" You squealed, your pussy squirting around him. "My brother is making his sister feel so good!" You cum around him, bucking your hips back trying to get his cum inside you,

"That's a good little sister." He leaves a smack to your ass, flipping you on to your back and shoving his cock back in, buying into you.

"Now let me put a baby inside my sister yeah"

You smiled up at Satoru, not caring that the neighbors could hear your moans of I love my brother. You're lucky that you were a pervert as well.

[demaparbat-hp]

He noticed the spears resting not too far away from the women. Zuko squinted his eyes and recoiled at the sight of blood painting the blades, in clear contrast to the whimsical whites and blues of the South. These women were hunters.

The Southern Water Tribe brings shades of white to Zuko's soul in For The Spirits Chapter IX: A Rider Alone.

Sharpened mothers and fatherless children resting on the back of tattered tents. A Ghost-Mother, a shapeless howl, and the blue eyes from his dream—everything comes together in the land of the Midnight Sun.

[xitsensunmoon]

The thing that kills me about dca and robots in general, is that no matter how hard they try, they will never be able to relate to an experience of having a childhood.

An experience of having a caregiver. Experience of growing. An experience of gaining experience.

They were brought into this world for a reason, for a specific purpose and their only function is to follow it. They have a motherboard without really knowing what the "mother" part of it means.

You were born knowing nothing? You were a blank canvas? You grew your knowledge and vocabulary and experience slowly with age? They wonder how that must've felt.

Are they even allowed to wonder, how could it be, to be able to choose your purpose? To be able to pursue the horizon if you want to do so. To be a canvas, and if you don't like the painting, to cover it up and start over.

No, no. They are no canvas. Circuit boards don't work that way. You erase, you rewrite. No layers, no wait time. You exist as you are or you don't exist at all.

Their future is determined by whoever knits the very strict lines of code into their system.

Your future is determined by you. Unlimited. You hold the brush.

Are you scared?

They know they would be.

No rules to follow? No, no. They wouldn't be able to choose what to do with their life either. It's probably a good thing they were made for this life! To tend to children, to soothe the parents. It's a life they fit into, it's a life they know and easily glide through.

It's a life that will never ever change.

Right?

[bruisedboys]

drunk remus will forever be my kryptonite. like imagine him just rambling about everything and then he sees you and is like "ohmygodyouresopretty"

hannah oh em gee. drunk lovesick remus is my everything. I love u for this

summary: remus is drunk and whipped

gn!reader 0.5k words

You walk Remus to the bathroom partly because he’s so drunk he can barely walk in a straight line, and partly because you’re just as clingy as he is right now and you’re not even drunk.

Your arm is braced around his lower back as you lead him down the carpeted hallway. He’s rambling about all sorts of nonsense, and you can’t say you completely understand or even catch a single intelligible word. But it’s nice to listen to his voice. Even if it’s all slurred and sticky.

When you stop at the bathroom door, Remus is not paying attention where he’s going and tries to keep walking. You snag his wrist and pull him back.

“Remus,” you say, trying desperately not to laugh. “Bathroom’s back here, love.”

Remus staggers backwards into your side. His eyes zero in on the bathroom door and then he blinks. “Oh.”

You snort but cover it up with a fake cough. And anyway, Remus is too inebriated to hear you having a laugh at him. He twists the arm that you’ve got in your hand to grab your hand with his instead. Then he pushes the bathroom door open and tries to pull you with him.

“Remus, what are you doing?” You giggle, planting your feet firmly on the threshold and refusing to let him pull you any further.

Remus turns, a blunt, almost impatient look on his face. “I’m going to the bathroom, dove. What does it look like?”

You snort. This time you don’t even bother hiding it. “I’m not coming with you, Remus.”

Remus looks at you like you’re crazy. “What?”

You shake your head at him, very amused and very looking forward to teasing him for this for the rest of his life. “What, d’you want me to hold it?” You ask, incredulous. “I’m not coming.”

Remus pouts at you. “Baby,” he whines.

You hold your ground, even though he looks awfully cute when he’s pouting like that. “Baby,” you mock.

Remus scowls. “Fine then,” he says moodily. You know he’s not actually angry but he’s a damn good actor, even when drunk. He drops your hand and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

You don’t have to wait long for him to finish. A few minutes pass and then the door opens and Remus appears again. Looking far less sullen, like he’s forgotten all about your refusal to join him in the bathroom.

“Hi,” you say, grinning.

Remus stands there with his hand on the doorknob and a halo of light around his head and blinks. Stares at you hard. Then blinks again.

“Spare me,” he murmurs.

You’re alarmed, to say the least. “What?” you giggle, “Remus, what are you talking about?”

“I swear you’ve gotten prettier since two minutes ago,” he says, and he sounds genuinely boggled. Flabbergasted. “How is that possible? Are you kidding me?”

He takes your face in his big hands and stares at you intensely. He pulls your face so close to his he could kiss you. Looks at you with big wide eyes and parted lips.

“You’re sick,” he says eventually, after a lifetime of his eyes travelling all over your face. “Why would you do this to me?”

You giggle. Your chest feels tight though you won’t tell him that. “I didn’t do anything, Remus.”

Remus huffs. “Sure you didn’t,” he says, all sarcasm. “You’re—“

You kiss him to shut him up. Purely to make him stop talking, of course, and not because his doting is making your face burn.

-

[drenched-in-sunlight]

saying this as respectfully as possible but. Do not put fandom content creators on a pedestal. We are also just fans contributing to a community just as you are. We have boundary on our own work and that’s it. What I say is not and should not be considered sth the whole fandom should listen to. I’m just a normal ass person ranting about things on my blog. If it does not have a fandom tag for others to engage in, do not make it out to be me trying to start fights or addressing the whole community. Because it’s not.

I’ve said it before and I will say it again, my art, my lore talk, is biased. I’ve never tried to hide that I view Marika a certain way and will always develop my theory following that base assumption.

Aside from translation stuffs and pointing out in-game items, everything else I say you can look at it, agree or disagree, and move on to form your own opinions. Just because I draw stuffs doesn’t mean you get to saddle me with responsibilities about managing fandom expectations. What the hell? I’m a fan artist, I’m the last person who you should look at for “leaderism” (?) WHAT?

I can and will be a hater in my own space, like I know sometimes other artists will just post their stuffs and not engage too heavily with fandom, and for a while I did try to do that here (because I’m already a dramatic ass on twitter), that’s just not me though.

You will get art and you will get my opinions as well.