#i have so much i need to draw and even more i need to scream into the void about

[kawhh]

I was gonna go on anon with this, but you know what? I'm a whore for all three of our boys and I'm proud. So with that being said, what about being shared between Jack, Quinn and Trevor? Thoughts?

UNASHAMED WHORES UNITE. (before I sleep, it's 1am and I need a nap)

It keeps me up often. I'll admit. There's something about the balance of all three of them and how they'd make eachother worse.

They all have different levels of restraint but they'd all end up complete monsters. Constantly poking eachother. To the point of even making Q snap.

I feel like trevor would be the first to touch you. Forcing you on his lap, hooking your legs open. The way he'd trail his fingers slowly up your thighs, the way he'd threaten to violate you, hooking his thumbs under the lace of your underwear, snapping it back against your skin.

Burying his head in your neck, smirking at the brothers. If they're gonna be cowards about it, he's not gonna let that delay him ruining the cute little slut in his lap. A cruel look in his eyes as he bounces you slightly in his lap, forcing you to feel his cock press against you. Only getting harder with how they're glaring at him. Oh, if looks could kill.

Taking it further, licking a stripe up your neck as he lets his fingers dip under your underwear, close enough to your adorable little hole that he knows they won't know if it's actually touching you. Moaning in your ear, pretending that he's feeling you soaking his fingers.

He can see it working, he can see how worked up Jack's getting. His clenched fingers are pale. The slight tremble in his arms, the restraint he's using to not pounce on you. He swears he's almost drawing blood with how tight he's biting his lip. He won't take long. Just needs a little push.

"Mhmm.. Jaaack.. you really should feel how fucking soaked our little slut is. She's clenching around nothing.. such a fucking whore. Soaking my hand."

Biting your ear, making you squeak, giving your clit a harsh stroke, relishing in how Jack's eye's twitch at the sound of your arousal.

He's not focusing on Quinn. He won't snap until it's both of them bullying you. Too much of an ego. Too much self praise of his control.

The sound's too much for Jack, he's grabbing your ankles, yanking you down the bed. He can't handle not touching you. Can't handle someone touching his property. Trevor can't fuck you like he can. He's too selfish. He won't focus on you. Too focused on his own need to cum. Unlike him. He'll have you screaming before he even bottoms out in you.

Trevor's forgetting the numbers advantage. If he can get Quinn to snap, they're so in sync that he won't stand a chance. You'll be begging to be shared between them. You could wake up every morning with them, spit roasting you for breakfast.

He lets out a borderline growl as he watches Trevor rest your head against his cock. See? Selfish. Even now he's trying to get his dick sucked instead of worshiping you.

Fuck that.

He's yanking you even further down the bed, ignoring your comfort now that he's wrapped up in this ego battle. Blinded with how irritated he is. Giving you no warning as he rips your underwear, diving in to bite your hip, tearing the scraps from your body with his teeth. Glaring up at Trevor. He's still smirking. Still thinks he has the advantage. So what if he was the first to touch you?

Slapping your soaking pussy, the smugness increasing in his glare as you moan and jolt. Pussy clearly knows who it belongs to. Resting his head against your inner thigh, slowly leaving kisses around your hole, teasing you, the way you squeak if he gets too close.

Seeing Trevor twitch, kissing you directly on your tight, wet hole, frenching your cute little lips. Dragging his tongue along your walls. Eyes rolling back in his head at your taste. 'Course his girl tastes delicious. Digging his hands into your ass, lifting you up towards him. Needing more leverage to tongue fuck you. Smothering himself in your arousal. Feeling it drip down his chin, soaking the bed.

He can feel Quinn sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, looking up briefly to see him stroke your hair.

"Being a good girl for Jack, angel? Yeah? You gonna cum on his face? Warm your cunt up for me, yeah?"

You're crying at the contrast. The softness of Quinn's actions.. the brutal way Jack's swirling his tongue inside of you. Firmly trapped in their grip, far away from Trevor.

Helpless to defend against the way Jack manhandles you, flipping you onto your stomach, tugging your hair back, forcing you to look at Trevor. Murderous looking Trevor. He's suddenly thrusting into you, giving you no warning, no time to warm up. Going back on his need to make you cum and scream first. He needs this. Feeling his balls slap against your skin, the sound echoing through the room. Every slap making Trevor twitch.

Hammering into you, pushing you further into the bed. The drag of his cock against your walls is brain numbing. You don't know if you're crying, screaming or dying. He's slamming into your cervix, a little circle to his hips at the end of every thrust, making sure you can feel how big he is, how he fucks you better than anyone ever will.

Yelping as you feel hands on your ass, taking a second to realise what's happening. You'd almost forgotten. Whimpering as you're attacked with an even harder thrust, like he's telling you off for forgetting Quinn in your cock drunk haze.

Trying to squirm up the bed as your feel Quinn playing with your ass, stretching you apart to spit on your untouched hole, giving Jack a better view of how your cunt is gripping him, desperate to keep him inside.

It's no good. Good little sluts don't crawl away from what they're being given. You're being yanked down towards them, feeling like you're actually going to split apart on Jack's cock. Your vision blurs at the brutality.

Feeling Quinn slowly drag his thumb around your hole, threatening to push in. The pressure, the threat, making you whine loudly, begging them for mercy.

"Want me to really show you a good time, angel? Or do you want us both in that stretched little cunt?"

Jack's collapsing against your back at his brother's words, the darkness in his voice. Slamming into you one last time before he floods you. Watching his cum leak out, eyes widening as Quinn scoops it up with his thumb, pressing it against your ass. Forcing it in slightly, giving your ass a smack as a parting gift.

You're barely conscious, dragging your face up the soft bedsheets, glancing up at Trevor. He's a fucking mess. You can see his cum soaked boxers from here, the redness on his cheeks. The way he's just staring at you.

You're being grabbed, the brothers half throwing you up the bed, making you land close to Trevor. They're sandwiching you in a huddle on the bed before you can move. Quinn holding your leg up against his grip, grinding himself against you.

"Best you get some sleep.. before you wake up with my cock down your throat. Still have to show you who the best brother is, don't I?"

[hederasgarden]

Do you have any darker thoughts about your fav ATJ characters?

Bestie, I have so many thoughts, and I’m totally blaming @otaku-girl-ao3 for this. A few weeks ago, we spent an afternoon on Discord brainstorming what the ATJ characters would be like as dark versions of themselves and how that would manifest in distinct and interesting ways.

Just a quick note—this is quite a departure from the usual content on my blog and the type of things I typically write about. Recently, I’ve been gathering the courage to explore some darker themes in my writing (I blame BookTok for introducing me to a lot of questionable tropes). Please be kind and let me know if you’d like to see more of this kind of writing from me!

Characters: Sergei Kravinoff (Kraven the Hunter), Friedrich Harding (Nosferatu), Tangerine (Bullet Train), and Ives (Tenet) Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Dead dove, do not eat. VERY dark, depraved, and horny thoughts direct from me to you. Not all themes are tagged. Read at your own risk.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist

Sergei is a meticulous planner, taking his time to observe you and learn your habits. He likely comes across you by chance—perhaps while on the job or visiting his brother. It’s your scent that first grabs his attention, but it’s not what draws him back. It’s the softness and sweetness in your demeanor, the vulnerability you exude, completely unaware of the dangers around you. You’re the easiest prey he’s ever tracked, unaware even of the most basic threats. You’re always buried in a book or your phone, headphones on at full blast. If it weren’t for his quiet intervention, you would have been robbed or worse on your way home at least twice. 

He takes you because he believes you're not meant to be on your own. You need someone to care for you, to protect you from the world that you don’t fully understand. Really, it’s lucky your paths crossed. He’s certain you’ll come to see things his way in time. Until then, he’s turned his home into a beautiful little cage for you to live in, complete with an entire library filled with your favorite books, cozy blankets to keep you warm, and all the ingredients for the meals you love to cook and enjoy. He’s done his research on what you like and he’ll bring you anything you ask for. Afterall, he’s a provider at heart.

There’s no concern of you running away. You've seen the large snow leopard that prowls around outside, and the one time you made a foolish attempt to escape, Sergei was quick to show you that he wouldn't always be so gentle or understanding. As @writercole suggested, once he has you back, he’ll also end up keeping you tethered by the ankle for a while, a lesson that if you try to run, he’ll leash you.

After you recover from that experience Sergei finds you’re a much better pet, settling into your new life and role. You start cooking for him when he's home, and willingly crawl into bed beside him, seeking out his warmth on those cold winter nights. Soon, Sergei knows you’ll be ready for the next step: starting a family of your own.

Friedrich (in a modern AU) strikes me as the type who would quietly manipulate situations to his advantage, working behind the scenes to ensure things unfold just how he wants. He’d spot you working at a cafe or store he frequently visits and, from that moment, start working on a plan to make you his.

Rather than using overt force, he’d rely on subtle pressure and gaslighting, making you doubt yourself and your choices. He’d skillfully set up circumstances to undermine you—ensuring you miss out on a job you desperately need, getting you fired, or putting you in a position where you have no choice but to turn to him. When you're at your lowest, he’ll swoop in as the savior, the one who appears to protect you. His goal is to make you dependent on him alone, carefully ensuring that when the time comes for him to make his move, you're in no position to resist. Consent would be questionable, but he'd remind you every time you hesitated that you said yes, that you asked for his help, and that you invited him in.

I can also see him isolating you from friends and family, slowly pulling you away from the support system you once had. He’d definitely be the type to love-bomb you, showering you with overwhelming attention and affection, using his money and influence to manipulate you further. 

He strikes me as a baby trapper, sabotaging your birth control or tampering with his condoms to ensure you get pregnant. He believes you'd be the perfect wife and mother—you just need his help to realize that. Once he has you, he’d be the most loving and attentive husband, always caring, but beneath that sweetness lies an unshakable belief that he knows what’s best. He’s the one who makes the decisions, subtly guiding everything with quiet confidence until, over time, the balance shifts in his favor and you start looking to him for help with even the easiest things. Despite all of this, Friedrich would likely still view himself as a good person, firmly rejecting any notion that he is abusive or in the wrong.

Tangerine is on the opposite end of the spectrum, much more inclined to use brute force and physical violence to make you understand your place. He has a short temper and struggles with impulse control, especially when you don't follow his demands. There’s no slow build-up with him—he has no time or patience for romance. The moment he sees you on the street, he decides you’re coming home with him, and that’s final. Or maybe Tangerine and Lemon are sent to kill your husband but when Tangerine sees just how sweet you are, completely unaware of who and what your husband really is, he decides to keep you for himself. After all, no one's going to miss you. They’ll assume you died in the house fire with your husband. 

Once he had you he would try and spoil you with a beautiful place to live, fine clothes and decadent food. He’d want you to look and dress a certain way for him. A darker version of him would fit the profile of a classic abuser—lashing out at you in anger, only to later show up with flowers and a hollow apology, turning the blame onto you as if you were the one who provoked it.

“Why do you have to make things so fuckin’ hard, huh?” Tangerine questions, caressing your bruised skin. “I hate when you make me do this to ya luv. You need to listen better.”

He’d definitely be the most terrifying of all the dark versions of the ATJ characters because of his unpredictability. (I do not know why but I have such a strong sense he’d pop you in the mouth/back hand you with those rings on and just….yeah.)

If Ives were to go dark, he’d likely abuse his power and authority in the workplace, targeting someone beneath him—someone who wasn’t military and who he could easily manipulate using his strength and knowledge. Maybe you’re his admin, someone he works closely with, and no one questions the fact that you’re often in his office with the door closed or staying late to finish tasks together. He’d be blunt about his intentions with you, setting clear expectations for how things would unfold. His actions would be predictable—if you were a good girl, you’d be rewarded; if you misbehaved, there would be consequences. Ives would be a steady, unyielding force, confident that, with time, you’d fall into line.

[in1-nutshell]

I still think rally racer liaison driving Swerve in a sticky situation would be cool as hell. Swerve would be tired as shit but Rally giving him a pep/ you did so well talk would be more effective than the usual sort he gets. Perhaps the exercise cyberdopamine hit would perk him up a bit too.. I wonder if it works like tht if someone is commanding the movement of your body 🤔

Rally Buddy is back!

Hope you enjoy!

Buddy the Rally Racer driving Swerve

SFW, Platonic, Human reader

MTMTE

The off world planetary visit was Rodimus’s idea.

He managed to convince Magnus and Megatron that it was good for the crew.

Rally truthfully thought that he was just getting a bit tired of being in the ship for so long.

The nearest planet was a bit hostile to Cybertronians.

Good thing that the bots could simply go into their holoforms from the ship.

The only problem was getting Rally over there with everyone else.

They couldn’t exactly spawn into the area like they could.

Rally: “What if I just drove in someone’s alt mode?” Rodimus: “Hmm, guess that would make sense. Alright then, who—” Rally: “I choose Swerve.” Rodimus: “What?” Magnus: “What?” Megatron: “What?” Whirl: “What?” Several other bots: “What?” Swerve: “HUH!?” Rodimus: “Why him?” Rally: “He has the least flashy alt mode and small enough not to draw attention.” Swerve deflates a bit. Rally: “And I trust Swerve more to drive me there in one piece and with my lunch still in me.” Swerve perks up a bit as Rodimus groans. Rodimus: “That was one time!” Rally: “One time too many Roddy. Swerve lets start heading out.”

For once everything was going right.

Everyone was behaving, even Whirl was a bit tamer than usual.

The drinks were nice, and it was a nice change in scenery.

And the inevitable bar fight wasn’t even their fault!

The small fight between bar patrons got ugly quickly as Rodimus made the call to have everyone get back to the ship.

Most of the bots holoforms ended up vanishing into thin air as soon as they were in the clear.

Swerve made sure to grab Rally’s hand as they navigated the messy bar to his alt mode.

Only one problem…

It seemed that something was wrong with Swerve’s ability to control his engine and overall ability to move by himself.

But all other functions worked manually.

Swerve: “Ah man! This does not look good! Do you think they noticed we left the bar? Wait do you think that they know what a cybertronian alt mode looks like?” Rally: “Swerve? Swerve buddy listen to me.” They pat the seat to get his attention. Rally: “Listen, we’re going to be just fine.” Swerve: “How?! I can’t move and we need to get to the ship—” Rally: “Which is why I’m going to drive!” Swerve: “Wait what?” Rally: “You can’t exactly move, but all other functions work right?” Swerve: “Yeah.” Rally: “I can drive us back to the ship. Its probably going to feel weird and all, but you gotta trust me on this Swerve.” Swerve: “All right Rally…” Rally pats again, much softer this time. Rally: “Hey, we’ll be okay. Your alt mode isn’t a formula one, but its got speed and durability. And those are two things we need right now. We got this Swerve. Now say it, We’re gonna make it!” Swerve: “We’re gonna make it.” Rally: “C’mon! Louder!” Swerve: “We’re gonna make it!” Rally gets into the driver’s seat. Rally: “Just tell the others to get the door open. We are coming in hot!” Swerve: “Yeah! Wait wh—AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!” Rally slams the gas, laughing while Swerve screams a bit.

Now Rally’s reputation of being a former racer isn’t well known on the ship.

It’s more of an obscure fact that gets brought up every blue moon or every other month.

Swerve was one of the first ton the ship to know about Rally’s past.

He has most of their recorded races.

But being the car under Rally’s hands was a completely different experience.

It was exciting and terrifying.

Exciting because Rally was driving and pulling stunts on his alt mode that he would have never thought about doing.

Terrifying because he has to trust the Rally won’t wreck him.

He won’t be able to stop them if something were to happen.

Skids and Chromedome are by the open door. Chromedome: “You think they’re, okay?” Skids: “Have some faith Chromedome. I’m sure they’re fine. See! There’s Swerve right there.” Chromedome: “…Isn’t it a bit weird that he isn’t slowing down?” Skids: “Kind of—GET DOWN!” Both bots duck down as Swerve/Rally used a rock ramp and flew straight into the ship. Swerve/Rally skids a bit before stopping. Skids: “Geez Swerve! A little warning next—” Swerve/Rally suddenly raced down the hall, drifting at the last second at the corner. Skids: “…What was that?” Chromedome: “I don’t think I’ve seen Swerve even drift before.” Meanwhile at the medbay… Swerve: “SLOW DOWN! SLOW DOWN!” Swerve/ Rally drifts straight into the medbay, startling the medics before doing a donut and stopping. Rally: “We did it Swerve! You did amazing!” Swerve was trying to get over the several exciting/ near death experiences. Swerve: “Yay…” Velocity: “Swerve?” Rally opens the door. Rally: “Can someone take a look at Swerve? He can’t move by himself.”

Swerve gets fixed after a couple of minutes.

Rally stayed by his side the entire time.

The minibot going on and on about how exciting yet terrifying the experience was.

Gives so many compliments and praise to the human that they are just a flustered mess.

News about Swerve/Rally’s drifting and tricks gets around fast.

A few days later, Rally gets a bunch of bots asking to put on a show like the one with Swerve and offering themselves to them to drive.

Magnus has to get involved in making sure there is order in check with the line of bots wanting a turn to get driven.

They also get free drinks at Swerve’s for an entire week.

[basilone]

I wasn't about to let @blind-dates-fest pass me by, and I'm very excited to get to share this next piece! We're off to a racetrack in Wyoming this time, as we sneak a little peek at Gale Cleven's childhood... and get to know someone new!

It’s one of those slow business days. There’s no big race on today, even though it’s the weekend and there ought to be. It seems to Sally as though the whole of Wyoming is holding its breath for a little while. Waiting for next weekend, when the best horses and finest families will come out for a time on the track. That’s when the season really starts and the money begins to flow.

Well, at least, all of this is according to Mister Danvers from the ticketing booth. Sally doesn’t put a whole lot of stock in the opinion of a man who doesn’t know the difference between a cravat and a bow tie, especially not after he’d said Sally wouldn’t have to add any big numbers because hot dogs are cheap. But then Erica Post of the Post Winery had said the same, minus the snippy comment about Sally’s hot dogs, and so had Susan Rugatti, with the additional comment that Sally’s hair needs fixing.

There’s nothing wrong with her hair.

Sally puffs an exhale and swipes her unruly fringe off her forehead as she takes stock of her stand. Lunch rush has come and gone, insofar as one can call it a rush when it’s just fifteen people and three screaming kids, and the time of afternoon snacks isn’t quite reality yet. If she hurries just a little more than she is right now, she could finish that chapter on how to set broken bones and get a head’s start on next week’s studying.

She could do all of that, even though Miss Audrey’s currently gliding over to her stand with all the air of the faux French aristocracy in her countenance. She’s guiding a young boy not older than ten or eleven by the shoulder. Leaning on the kid, actually, as though she’s quite concerned he’s going to bolt sooner rather than later.

“Good afternoon, Miss Audrey!”

“Sally, ma chérie,” booms the woman, heavily-lidded eyes sparkling with good humor, “you are like an angel’s appearance to me!”

Sally can’t help but laugh at such nonsense. Miss Audrey’s always complimentary like that, often making a whole lot of hubbub about something. She works with hats and hair and harlots, darling – Miss Audrey’s words, not Sally’s – and is to the Wyoming racetrack as the President is to the White House.

“You flatter me,” she says, smiling as the woman draws close to her stand. “How’re the girls? And business?”

“One and the same, one and the same,” waves Miss Audrey, rolling her eyes for good measure. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves for putting us up in that tent right there. I told Mister Barbieri that I can’t cut hair like that, and oh Sally what that awful man told me next cannot be repeated in polite company...”

“They’re expecting some gusts of wind to roll in on Wednesday. You’ll be out of your tent by next weekend, then,” winks Sally, knowing everyone on the track would help foil Mister Barbieri’s best-laid plans any day of the week even though he owns the place. One tent won’t be a match for that kind of determination. “You got any clients coming in today, Miss Audrey?”

“Sure do. Next week’s gonna be a big hubbub, but can’t complain about today neither. I told the little mister here that we’re always happy to see him, but he shouldn’t stick around too long this time.”

Sally gives the kid a quick once-over. “Good of you,” she says, taking in the boy’s small shuffle and his apparent refusal to so much as look at her. “He ain’t one of yours, I know that much”– it’s just Miss Audrey’s Lola who’s got a kid, and that one’s as dark as this one’s fair –“so who’s the kid, anyway?”

“I’m not a kid!” says the boy, before Miss Audrey can even open her mouth to answer for him. His rather fierce glare flashes up at her from beneath his tousled blond hair. “My name is Gale”– there’s demand in the emphasis, a don’t you dare call me otherwise lurking in his tone –“and I’m nine!”

Sally only just manages to hide the largest portion of her smile. “Nice to meet ya, Mister Gale,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she makes a show of studying him. Collar on a too-neat shirt tugged a little askew, trousers that have been patched up at least twice, some scrapes on his knuckles, and a pair of battered-looking shoes. “My name’s Sally,” she offers, “and I’m nineteen.”

The kid – Gale – nods at her with the tiniest incline of his head. He didn’t object to being called mister, which should not feel like a won battle as much as it does right now. It’s kid he’s got problems with, then, and Sally can hardly blame him for that.

“Gale hasn’t yet had lunch. Or breakfast.” Miss Audrey manages to make it sound like an everyday sort of thing to be told at three in the afternoon, even though her mouth does that funny little disapproving thing that Sally’s never quite been able to mimic. “We had no idea about that until Candy heard that belly rumble, lemme tell ya that!”

Hides hunger, thinks Sally, already busying her hands with a warm bun and a knife. Miss Audrey lets him sit with her girls. A quiet kid, then, if even hard-shelled Candy manages to look out for him. She’s seen the like of him before, usually lurking in a group of rowdier kids, eyes roving everywhere but mouth refusing to show weakness.

“What d’ya want on your hot dogs, Gale?” she asks, making a show of adding one very hot sausage to the bun. “I’m getting two for you and one for me. Mine’s gonna have a whole lot of mustard and some red onions. And you look like the kinda man who knows exactly what to put on his.”

She’s not sure if it’s her wink or the promise of food that’s got him stepping out of Miss Audrey’s shadow. “D’you have ketchup, Miss Sally?” he wonders, blue eyes going wide as she nods in reply. “A-And… uh… I want cheese on one of them.”

“So that’s one ketchup dog and one ketchup-and-cheese dog?” she checks, showing him exactly what she’s doing to make his food. “Yeah?” She laughs as his nod turns rather vigorous. “All right, Mister Gale, I’m gonna add the ketchup now and I’m gonna need you to tell me stop, okay?”

“Okay!”

“I’ll leave you both to it, Sal,” says Miss Audrey, patting a few crisp dollars into Sally’s apron’s pocket that Sally already knows better than to protest against. Her multi-ringed hand ruffles Gale’s hair as his first stop! rings out. “Enjoy your late lunch, and be good to Miss Sally.”

“Yes ma’am,” nods Gale, fingers already carefully rearranging his hair and smoothing its back while he leans over to see the ketchup progress on the second hot dog. “Stop! More cheese than ketchup, please,” he directs, sounding very sure of himself indeed. “They’re better with cheese.”

“D’you want cheese on both? You can, you know, it’s no trouble. Look,” she says, slightly overdoing it on the mustard for hers, “you can get as much as you want on these. Not a lot o’ people have been wanting cheese today, so you’re extra lucky!”

“Only if it’s no trouble…”

“None,” she smiles, putting more cheese than ketchup on both of his. “Now, c’mere, grab yourself a plate,” she directs, “and – oh, thank you!” She blinks in surprise as he holds another plate out to her. “That’s gonna make these onions a little easier to eat. They would’ve spilled all over my apron like yesterday otherwise!”

His you’re welcome, miss is rather soft-voiced. Almost shy, really, in comparison to some of the more loudly demanding nine-year-olds she’s seen out and about at the track. He’s got that look about him of someone who’s going to grow tall – all limbs and careful posture – even though he just sat down and made himself small as can be.

Sally brushes her apron and skirt down. Settles on the grass just outside her hot dog stand, next to her small pile of books and notes. Folds herself around her plate the same way Gale does – arm around it to shield it from view, hunched over the food just to be sure nobody takes it – and tucks into her own food with no small degree of relish.

“Oh, that’s the ticket,” she sighs, having only had a single coffee and an orange early this morning before she was almost late for her bus. She smiles as she peers up at the kid, who’s practically wolfing his food down. “You like ’em, Gale?”

His nod is accompanied by him licking his fingers clean and wiping them on his trousers. Sally finds she’s learning fast the longer she studies him. He’s somebody’s kid all right, because his clothes got patched up and he’s got manners some of the orphan kids don’t. Nobody objects to him spending time with Miss Audrey’s girls, even though Miss Audrey’s girls are scantily clad loudmouths who rake in more cash in two hours than Sally does in a week’s work.

“Does your daddy know how to find you?” she asks, deducing several things just from watching him polish his plate clean. “Is he expectin’ you at Miss Audrey’s?”

There it is. The small freeze. That little line to his shoulders that goes rigid and defensive all at once. “I know where to find him,” says Gale, biting the words out like the very syllables have their hackles raised at her. “It’s not time yet.”

“All right,” she agrees, setting her plate aside and leaning back a little. “You tell me when it’s time now. There’s a big clock out on th–”

“The pavilion.” His hands are a flurry of motion, dragging a chewed-on pencil and rather battered little notepad out of his shirt pocket. He doesn’t look at her. Flips the notepad open and sets his pencil to paper instead. “I been here before, you know.”

Sally almost winces at his tone. “All right, Buckaroo,” she sighs, propping her own book up on her knees, perfectly aware that she’s conceding defeat to a rather headstrong nine-year-old. She smiles as she catches his tiny grimace at the nickname. Gotcha, kid. “I’m here almost every day in summer. So are the hot dogs.”

She’s not surprised when he stays silent. Kids like him often do when something starts to sound too much like an invitation or expectation. It’s what she would’ve done, too, back in the time her mother was dreaming about winning big money instead of buying something to put on the dinner table.

Nine-year-old Sally would’ve killed for a hot dog.

“And your homework.”

Sally blinks away her furious stare at the differences between fibula and tibia. “Sorry,” she says, attempting to smile, “what was that?”

Gale’s half-moon smile flickers up at her. “Your homework, Miss. That’s here too.”

“So’s yours, by the look of that,” she nods, indicating his notes.

“It’s just some stuff.”

“Some stuff, huh? Me, I’m learning about bones.” Sally raises her book to show him, seeing how his arm has already come up to curl around his notepad to shield it from view. “See? I need to learn how to help fix them when they’re broken. So I need to learn what they look like when they’re normal, first.”

Gale peers at the pages more closely than she’d have imagined him to do. “That’s Latin.”

“A little! The bone names are like that,” she agrees, nodding, “and I think it makes them sound as important as they are. D’you know Latin?”

He shrugs. “Only if it’s got to do with calculating things. Like ad infinitum means that the operation is to be carried out endlessly.” His nose wrinkles a little at his explanation. “Infinity’s still really tricky, though, so I’m trying to work on limits rather than infinitesmals right now. I think infinity’s one of those things I’ll know once I’m as old as you.”

“Yeah?” Sally grins at him over the top of her book. “Are you going to be a scientist, then, Buckaroo?”

“No, I’m going to be a pilot! And they have to do loads of math!” He doesn’t grimace at the nickname this time. Scoots closer until he’s seated beside her, even, just so he can show her a sliver of his notepad that’s filled up with numbers and crude little graphs. “I’m practicin’ heaps of it.”

“Getting a good start!”

Gale nods vigorously. “I’m gonna be the bestest pilot ever, Miss Sally.”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees as his knee knocks against hers. “I’m gonna be a good nurse, too. It’s all in the work.”

“You’re gonna be the bestest.”

“Not if I don’t know the difference between a fibula and a tibia,” she snorts, tapping the page. “Just like you won’t be a pilot unless you know fancy things like trajectories and calculus. But we’re gonna learn all of that just fine out here.”

And may the good Lord please stop your daddy from clipping your wings before you got a chance to fly.

[sukunasun]

Do you ever plan to write a fic with a grumpy reader? Maybe with Getou or any chara of your choice?

screaming from the top of a building: grumpy readers are so relatable and deserve more nuance than being labelled as ice queens and stone-cold bitches! there is much more to unfold beyond the harsh exterior. how cantankerous and irritable you are but nonetheless meant to be understood and loved.

quietly, you lay there stowing away as a recluse. you love your books and your crochet hooks. working away and making the most of me-time. people don't draw near. instead, they try prodding with sticks and hurtling stones for a reaction hoping it's a smile or a nice conversation between two, but there is no gambling and taking chances. no risking it 'depending on your mood' because the weather report calls for sunny skies and yet, the storming grey cloud above your head stays looming. permanently brewing.

you claim it's just your face, your attitude, and overall unapproachable aura that inhibits you from making contacts and connections. an RBF that can't be cracked. "she's so intimidating," is a grating sound. you have long since given up on explaining yourself or waiting for the chance to when the backstory and lore is too revealing. not exactly dinner party talk. you wish it could be as easy as saying "im hurt and heartbroken beyond repair. mothering fear and angst without needing comfort." it feels nice, well-deserved even to wallow in dread.

there's bound to be disappointment from unmet expectations thus, you've stopped having them altogether. it feels better than accepting affection with open arms. so wrong, so weird to be wanted, to be chosen. where's the catch? when will the other shoe drop? the cycle of starting over becomes tiring, tedious—a mechanical performance. a complex creature who requires better coping mechanisms and a man who won't stab you in the back. friends who'd stop poking holes in the reasons when you say no, yet again, to meeting someone new in this state: when bricks are laid and piled high up in uniformed rows surrounding, it warrants avoiding all forms of showing and receiving love after the years spent shaping the architecture of your defences.

then there's geto. with his charm and wit and the way he pries the person from underneath facades and fabricated masks. your fragile, rocking foundations built on sand he topples down with a mere smile, hardened fortitudes he crushes to dust, weaving within hairline cracks and exploring the caverns of your heart like no one has before. all without much effort, or rather, he doesn't need to exert himself when you fall so willingly.

"why don't we do something else tonight, dinner and a movie?" he questions when you call again. right after work when the stress is at an all-time high and he's...well, you don't know what he does, but he makes himself available for you. he'll admit it's made him feel special being the only person let in, when everyone else has to scavenge for scraps, he's a privileged selected one. seen the glimpses of the warmth you possess when laid bare and sated.

such a skill he has to wring out the truth. still, you go on with the "i like being alone," answer. a mantra, a repetitive hymn to soothe the sting and sharp clawing against the chest til it no longer feels so. numb and sore aches it leaves behind. 'you'll regret it when you realize i'm too much for you,' stays clogged in your throat. he'd only admonish you for such thoughts. 'that's not true' he'd say, but you know better than to believe that.

"i get it," geto replies, feigning casualness when he's not a stranger to isolation and avoidant habits. sometimes he wished he wasn't exposed to a mirror of his own makeup. a paragon of performative indifference and detachment. "i'll leave when you want me to," he reassures you, but was that a wavering you hear in his voice? you don't dare assume because he makes things easy. not the kind to complicate, nor commit. say the word and he'd give you all the solitude you need. dodging the serious questions and serious labels. friend, boyfriend, guy-im-sleeping-with. he doesn't care for them because you don't.

maybe he's just referring to the task at hand, used to forgoing aftercare and post-orgasm cuddles for a late-night drive home. excluding that one time you allowed him a night on your couch. he won't stay if your hand comes up to his sweaty chest, pushing him away before he's had the chance to pull out and slide the worn condom off. it keeps him at a distance and he takes it as a sign that this is as far as intimacy goes—no kissing on the lips, no secrets and sweet nothings, your moans don't escape and neither do his plethora of dirty speeches, stifled and gritting in a tight-lipped prison—there is no room for it at all.

the last thing you need is to dispose whatever is left of an already flimsy resolve. becoming vulnerable and exposed to his rejection or the knee-jerk reaction when he touches you—when the strap of your dress falls at an angle, he instinctively chases after the smooth slope of shoulder with his lips, pressing soft kisses there and everywhere else simmering with anxiety, humming pleased and contented to taste the nerves slipping away, sinking his teeth in and feeling the flesh give to his possession—a longing that courses through and wrenches around your heart tight. you're so selfish to follow after his hands, to feel them feel you. they should be upon another but he grabs and gropes greedily like he can't wait any longer.

"or you could let me stay," he offers.

"the couch makes your back hurt," you reply.

"your bed is big enough for two," he counterclaims. doing what he does best. it's not the first time he's tried to hint at more, waiting for the opportune moment when you're putty in his hands, relenting to him.

"we can't," you gasp when he slips two fingers past your dripping folds. the smirk he wears hidden in the crook of your neck. "why–" you claw at his forearm tucked between your thighs, clenching around his limb for leverage while he makes you squirm and jolt with every nudge against your gspot. "–why me?" why an unpleasant, unfriendly, unwanted woman like you, haven't you suffered enough? why does he choose to torment you with his favour while seeking for yours. you remind yourself there's no place, no space for him here. you like the way things are no matter how painfully lonely it gets, you like the cool touch of your sheets and the emptiness your fingers trail over in the mornings. it's what you know, what you settled for. since when do two people meet and see each other for themselves, choosing to stay for long after the thinly veiled ugliness is stripped away. how do you tell him you're starting to grow accustomed. almost adoring. you've flown too close to the sun before, how do you deal with the fallout when you're inevitably lurched into the suffocating and slow descent towards earth?

in the last few seconds cresting upon your climax, suguru feels it building around the edges of your jittering limbs. head lolling back as you choke, fighting back your moans. your hips thrust in time, chasing after his fingers. he settles them as deep as he can, pumping fast and pressing down against your clit til it hurts, til the hard pressure causes your juices to drip down his fingers, squelching and making a mess.

fuck it, he knows it's the only time you'll have him this close so his arms brace you, supported by his strong chest, crushed by his biceps, suguru coaxes you, "i don't care how far you push me, or how much you pretend, i want you and i know you want me too—"

you shake your head, resisting, stop it, stop uncovering me. he talks of your lust as if some incontrovertible proof, you won't give in. with indefatigable, unwavering effort you set the record straight. "i don't like you like that," lying right as you're about to explode from pleasure, not the kind that feels like a firework, shooting silent and bursting forth, but you seize every muscle in his hold. choking on your breaths and feeling it tighten and coil in your stomach, in your toes, compact and revving, it releases like an engine. rolling and roiling so unyieldingly it makes your ears ring, suffocating you til your vision goes black, and a scream forces it way past your lips.

neither high-pitched nor guttural, it reverberates so soothingly, "im sorry!" you cry. for being this way, for using and tossing him aside, for wanting more. you sob with your head thrown back while suguru hums right against your ear. sounding pleased and pleasured with your admission.

slowing his fingers in time with your panting breaths, he questions "do you really think i wouldn't like you?" it's not the right time to do this but he can hardly bear it, he longs for truth, "do you not believe me?"

looking upon his face through half-lidded eyes, you see that interrogative spark in his expression, his arms never letting go. a tense anticipation takes shape. the air is thick with the scent of damp skin and something else—his shampoo, his cologne, you chase after it for more, pressed into his chest, it only takes one whiff to get a fill, the same way you cling to the corners of pillowcases and duvet covers for that little bit.

what has changed? he makes you act a fool, forlorn and fumbling around in the most fatuous ways. i want you he said so clearly. and it warms your being like never before. there is an urge to make excuses, accuse him for being in lust, he only said it in the heat of the moment, ensnared by a need for possession.

but there is no point in looking back.

"i believe you," you say, noses bumping and slotting close when your lips betray your better judgement, or rather, your unfavourable one. "i'll try." is the best you can offer.

[larluce]

LETS PLAY!!

What do you think is this merthur story about?

Fire and smoke, burning and suffocation, was the only thing Merlin could see and feel.

"Satan can take many forms!" He could distinguish the voice of the king that was superimposed on the others who shouted 'Witch!' in the background. "Like this witch, who has taken the appearance of a man to confuse my son and induce him to commit the worst of sins. Do not be fooled! They call themselves healers, but with their spells and potions they corrupt our children."

Merlin would have laughed if he had the strength. If he were really a woman, he would not be in this situation to begin with. But he supposed that it suited the king for people to believe that. Maybe he even tried to convince himself that this was the truth.

That his son was not a sodomite.

The flames rose and burned his skin more intensely. He let out a heartrending scream.

Arthur... even his thoughts sounded weak, but he made an effort think of Arthur.

He remembered when he saw him for the first time, entering his medicinal herbs and potion stant. His pearly smile, his sky-colored eyes, his blond hair like gold. He remembered their walks through the fields, when they kissed for the first time under his own roof, his laughter, when they gave themselves to each other for the first time with such passion and, yet, so much innocence in that small cabin abandoned in the middle of the forest.

Tears ran through his eyes. How could such a beautiful thing be a sin?

Another burst of fire. He shouted again, but the scream quickly turned into a cough. Hopefully the smoke would kill him before the fire.

Think of his voice the pain was unbearable, but the memory of his beloved made it a little less unbearable. He could almost hear his voice saying "I love you" in the ear after making love. His voice saying his name as if savoring it in his mouth.

But suddenly he heard the voice of his beloved farther away, still saying his name, but this time screaming in horror.

"Merlin!" his screams were almost as heartbreaking as his, as if he were also being burned in flames. "No! Let me go! Merlin!"

Merlin made an effort and looked up. He tried to distinguish something, but couldn't see anything. There was too much smoke.

No... no, no, no, no ¡No! a despair grew within him, even greater than his fear to death. He could not die without seeing him! Not without seeing his face one last time.

"Let me see him!" he prayed to the heavens then with all his might. "Let me see him, just one more time, please."

And God granted it... only not in the way he expected.

...

Several centuries later...

Mildred Duffy, a 60-year-old woman, looked out the window with a motherly smile as the principal guided another interested couple to the playground to meet some of the children. That orphanage had become almost a second home for her and she loved those children as if they were her own. It would always be a great joy to find each child a home, a family, even if later she would spend weeks missing their little faces and worrying about their destiny. She turned her attention to the even younger children that were in the same room, who were drawing at the tables or playing with dolls peacefully on the floor. No couple who saw them would believe how murky the past of many of them were just by seeing them like that, in their purest innocence.

"Did you send for me, Miss Duffy?" a voice took her out of her reverie.

He turned to meet one of the young volunteers there. She suppressed the laughter when she noticed how noticeably tired and stressed she was, with some hairs coming out of her bun and her clothes tugged and stained with paint.

"I did… Claire, right? I need you to keep an eye on the kids while I take care of something".

The girl opened her eyes wide.

"All of them?" The girl's voice rose an octave and Mildred couldn't contain a soft laugh this time.

"Careful, Claire. They can smell your fear."

"I'm not afraid of them". The girl became defensive immediately. "It's just that I didn't think they were going to be—"

"Such little devils? They are" Mildred interrupted smiling. "But only if you let them. You've made the mistake of seeing them as helpless children in need and they have used the compassion you have towards them in their favor". She shook her head in disapproval. "Pitty is the last thing you should feel for them, Claire. It's okay for you to be kind, but there is a thin line between being kind and being permissive. Show them who has the authority!" she tapped her on the back, encouraging her, before heading to the door. "They are all yours".

…

Mildred went down the creaky wooden stairs, unhurriedly. She'd only had to file some papers in her office. Something that hadn't taken more than 20 minutes, so she decided to give 15 minutes more for herself. She was confident Claire wasn't having any problems. Besides, she was an old woman, she also deserved a break.

She didn't intend to do anything other than wander around the place for a while. She wanted to make a mental note of what could be changed in the infrastructure, aesthetically speaking, such as the color of the walls, which seemed to come from the same palette of opaque colors for more cheerful colors, for example, or some furniture that didn't seem to combine with the space. Mildred sometimes believed maybe she should've been an interior designer instead of a tutor because of how much those details bothered her.

But Mildred's plans changed as soon as she finished going down the stairs.

"That he deserved it, he deserved it" she heard a little voice. "Doesn't mean you didn't do wrong, Double C. You know Dimples doesn't like when you're mean to people".

The woman turned in the direction of the voice, surprised. At this time children were either in the playground or in the games rooms, where couples could see them, not hidden in the corridors.

"Okay, okay, I'll drop it. But don't think we've finished this conversation, uh? I should be mad at you too, you know"

She soon found the source of the sound. On one side of the stairs, in a half-hidden corner, a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes was sitting on the floor playing chess… completely alone.

"Don't hurry me" the girl complained to someone who wasn't there, seeing the black pieces in front of her with an infinite concentration. "I'm thinking"

A new maternal smile formed on Mildred's face. She would recognize that girl anywhere.

"Am I interrupting?" decided to make her presence known.

"Of course not, Miss Duffy" said the girl returning the smile. "Prince Cotton Candy and I were playing."

"I see" Mildred said in a particularly animated voice and sat next to her watching the game as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "I didn't know you knew how to play chess. Who taught you, darling?"

"Fairy Dimples"

"Of course" she giggled, tender. The girl probably was making up her own chess rules. "Is she around?"

"He, he is a he" corrected the girl. "And no, Cotton Candy and Dimples fought again for something stupid, and they won't be in the same room until they make up"

"Looks like they fight a lot."

"They do, but they love each other"

"It's good to know that". Miss Duffy decided then to turn a little serious. "Bridget—"

"Brigitta" corrected the girl. "But you can call me Biddy. Prince Cotton Candy calls me that."

"Sorry" she apologized. "Biddy, I don't doubt Prince Cotton Candy and Fairy Dimples are very nice people and great friends, but maybe you could… try to make some new friends? It's not good that you isolate yourself so much from the other children, darling".

"I had other friends" the girl's cheerful voice clouded a bit of sadness. "Jheny and Chris. But they aren't here anymore".

Mildred's heart clenched in her chest. From what the orphanage psychologist had told her, these three had been inseparable… well, at least until the children in question were adopted, leaving little Biddy alone. Prince Cotton Candy and Fairy Dimples appeared shortly after she said goodbye to the last of her two friends.

"Imaginary friends are sometimes created as a defense mechanism to cope with a loss or it may be the result of a major change or significant alteration in a child's life," the psychologist had explained her "But it's nothing abnormal, Mildred, she's 5. Many children have imaginary friends at that age and as soon as they came, they leave, it's not something we should force. I think it's important to clarify her she shouldn't prefer her imaginary friends over the real ones, but beyond that, I don't think you have anything to worry about. "

Yes, maybe she was worrying too much.

"Check!" exclaimed the girl, excited, eating a bishop with her horse and cornered the white king.

"Oh, wow. You really can play chess" Mildred said surprised when she saw the girl moved the pieces correctly.

"Yes, I told you Fairy Dimples taught me"

Mildred frowned and shifted her gaze from the girl to her side, specifically where a second player would be if there was one.

A chill ran through her. Could it be…?

An incredulous laugh escaped her, dismissing those thoughts immediately. Yes, she was definitely worrying too much.

"Right, I forgot" She stood up, briefly resting one hand on the girl's shoulder in a loving manner. "Don't forget to leave that board in its place when you finish, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Duffin" the girl answered cheerfully and dismissed her with her hand in a very adorable way. Mildred smiled. She didn't understand why nobody hasn't adopted that girl yet. She was way too charming.

Well, time to go see how Claire was doing with those little devils.

…

"Double C!" Little Biddy said as if she was calling someone out. "It's your turn".

Silence.

The impatient expression of the girl softened to a more understanding one.

"You know Dimples never stays angry for too long. he's not even avoiding you to bother you. He disappears because he doesn't want to say hurtful things that aren't true… Or at least that's what he told me."

Silence.

The girl laughed.

"Well, don't tell me that, tell him. And remove that sad doggy face already and play. Come on, be a good loser".

Almost immediately afterwards a white bishop rose into the air and, in one quick movement, brought down the black king.

The little girl smiled.

"Checkmate".

...

Now, this originally was a very old draft I had for a another's fandom story that I never finished cause the fandom kind of died in between. But today a started reading my old drafts out of nostalgia and I realised this prompt actually fitted merthur way better than it did for the original pair. I made very minor changes (we got Brigitta in this AU too! :D).

While I never finished the story, I clearly remember how it was going to go, so... What do you think is happening? Share your theories in the reblogs or comments 😄

[fall0utmind]

my only thought about Alex was that Marс (probably as always) downplays the scale of his problems after their divorce and Alex can only believe him. Although it's unlikely, he knows Marс like hell, so it's possible they don't live together for some reason. Which adds to Mark's loneliness and his pain, because even Alex can't be around and feels like that, because I don't believe Alex would be cut off from this situation, they love each other too much. As for the "He passes out very publically after a race" , well, that should be a big boom. Perhaps Valentino (as I understand you stick to the canon version until 2018) will be shocked. Yeah! It wasn't all a hoax, and Marc really loved him all the time. Mental crisis and horror, grandpa is almost going crazy (this time for real). And it's probably during this period that Marc feels so bad that only Valentino can help him (the effects of pills and lack of heat can probably be so bad that he ends up in the hospital). Well, shaky attempts at a truce will begin. Alex and his family will probably fight with Vale (metaphorically, although a real fight would be funny, for example, if Vale didn't come out as a winner, because he feels guilty anyway) You didn't mention Luka, but maybe he and Peссo will even try to do something before the big bang happens, but Marс probably won't believe them and won't listen to them. So then they will have a very strong influence on Valentino in his search for redemption, including from the position that you are our alpha and you have failed us.

Hello, what a bunch of fab ideas. Where do I even start!!

Okay, yes, I love the idea with Alex. I think it's also super important that Alex is a beta. It means he doesn't understand the draw to Vale or the need to do xyz. Alex kinda just assumes that he just doesn't understand. And yes, potentially, in this universe, they don't live together. I can imagine marc being very reluctant for help and playing down his issues. So he wouldn't want Alex there all the time, seeing his pain and discomfort. Obviously, that means he's more separated from Alex, which inevitably makes it WORSE. OUCH. So marc hasn't cut Alex out in the same way as everyobe else cause hes still pack, but there's more distance.

Okay I have so many ideas about the passing out post race.

2025 championship, marc is racing pecco for the title. I can't decide whether I want it to be set in Valencia, last race vibes, or if I just want Marc to clean sweep it and wrap up the championship earlier than that?

Either way, marc crosses the line, and his body just gives up. The whole race has been hell. He's overheating, sweating buckets, and there's blood dripping down his chin. He thinks it's from his nose. He's dizzy. He might throw up.

The bike feels wild underneath him, the engine hot. The world is beginning to feel fuzzy around the edges. He tires to act normal, to celebrate, but he's so, so tired.

He tries to pull the bike to a stop to celebrate with the fans. His muscles are weak, and they slide. He just about control it, laughing it off. When marc eventually stops, his legs are shaking, and he goes to stand, but he can't weigh barely. The whole world is spinning now, nausea churning in his gut. He needs to take his helmet off, gasping for air, hands scrabbling for the clips. His hands are shaking too much. Probably for the best, people would freak out about the blood.

Hes on the floor now, how did he end up on the floor. People are shouting, screaming for medical - cheers of celebration turned to horror. Marc thinks it might be a dream. The officials stand over him, he can see their mouths moving but can't discern the words.

Alex's gead comes into view, and marc tries to reach out, but his hands feel like lead. He just wants to sleep. He's safe now. Alex is here, so he lets go.

**

In the garage, people are watching on in horror. Valentino looks like his world has just been turned upside down. Imagine the carnage. Alex pulls up by where Marc collapsed, then pecco.

Alex is shouting, concern on his face. Pecco is similarly tense, freezing when he sees Marc motionless. It's horrifying.

They pull marcs helmet off, and there's blood. Why is there blood. Cue very dramatic vale. He's having a breakdown. He's an idiot. The guilt is incredible. He did this double points because not only is there the human guikt but also, he hurt an omega!!! His omega!!! And he caused all the pain! When he should have been protecting marc.

Anyways, they take him to the hospital like you said, because it's bad. It's really bad. It's defo a case of only vale can help. He needs a pack. Hence, I get an opportunity to write more vr46 x marc bonding scenes. Which is my fave. I might talk about the dynamics there in another post, if people want??

Marcs family are madddd! Remember, marc has been completely rejecting his omega. He goes home for xmas (pre reconcilliation) and refuses to nest. Only sits on the edge of his mother's. Won't scent with anyone, has practically forgotten how to. Can you imagine the pain. The horror. (They don't know about the things Vale said. Just assumes it's marc isolating himself or getting upset - genders dysphoria). So when they find out that Marc had been kicked out of the pack... well, they aren't happy.

Omg yes, luca and pecco. They are incredibly suspicious of what's happening with marc. Especially when pecco and marc become teammates. And Marc never being in the pack room. But marc is avoiding them like no tomorrow, because it hurts!!! So yes I think they're mad at vale too.

I also, as a side note, think the whole grid and vr46 pack would love having a marc pack. And older pack omega? Someone to guide and provide love and calm and balance to the pack??? Absolutely amazing.

Thank you for this ask!!!!

[optimisticgrey]

Not tonight

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summary: You and Halsin are the last ones awake at the Elfsong Tavern and your mind drifts back to another time, where Halsin loved and trusted you.

author's note: I had a shit day at work and saw this post by @transkingcobra which got me thinking. So I had to write about it. This is a Spin Off of Echoes of the Thread, where a Tav remembers their previous runs (think honor mode)

content warning: Deep longing. Smut implied. Submissive Halsin implied.

word count: 1k

AO3 Link

You rest on one of the couches as the others slowly disperse for the night. One by one, doors close, Karlach’s wonderfully booming laughter echoing through the room until the last door swings shut.

It makes you smile as you turn your head.

Halsin is the only one left.

He finishes his pipe, carefully emptying the contents into the fire.

It’s the pipe you always grab for him in the Emerald Grove.

Ever since you first learned where he keeps it, you’ve made a habit of tucking it away in your pack until you can free him from the goblin dungeon.

Every time.

And every time, he’s charmed and just a little flustered when you hand it back.

“You need rest,” Halsin observes.

You look up, realizing your gaze had drifted to his hands, watching as he cleans the pipe with a small rag.

You know how those hands feel.

And gods, you miss them more than words can fathom.

His eyes study you closely, moving over your face with quiet intensity.

Those eyes.

Heterochromatic. The outer grey ring that shrinks as the day brightens, the warm hazel spreading like sunlight.

You remember waking up to them, nearly silver in the morning light, twinkling with mischief and love as his hand found your hip, your cheek, drawing you in for the first, intimate kiss of the day.

“I know,” you sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions, closing your eyes.

You can’t look at him without longing.

Without nearly breaking apart.

It’s hard enough during the day, but tonight… tonight, it’s unbearable.

“There’s so much to do,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice light. “We’ll be up and running again come morning.”

But the ache in your chest doesn’t lessen.

You crave him.

You always have.

And you know he would never decline if you reached for him.

He never has.

But that is not what you need tonight.

Tonight, you need the Halsin who trusts you.

The one you lost last time.

The one you failed.

The memory is a wound that has not stopped to bleed.

You have failed all of them, more times than you dare or allow yourself to count but Halsin’s last death still haunts you.

Orin had slain everyone, left their bodies scattered around you.

You had screamed yourself hoarse, fighting with every ounce of strength against the spell that held you in place.

You had begged her, cursed her, offered your own life in his place.

Anything, anything, anything just to spare him.

But she only smiled as she drove the dagger into his heart.

And you had watched, powerless, screaming and crying as the light left his eyes.

The love of your life.

The Halsin who trusted you. Deeply and wholeheartedly.

With his life, his heart but also his worst fears.

The one who let you hold him through his nightmares when the world crumbled around him, when for a few precious hours in the safety of your arms, he no longer had to pretend to be strong.

When he shed not only his armour but his masks as well.

When it all became too much.

When his past caught up to him, and he surrendered, offering himself into your care.

When he knew, and trusted, that you would hold him, carry him through the storm.

It was a rare gift.

He does not give his vulnerability freely.

“There is always work to be done,” he says, his voice low and measured, though his gaze lingers on you with quiet concern. “But even the strongest trees must rest, must drink deep of stillness to stand tall. We could all use a respite—if only for a day or two.”

You smile weakly.

You knew he would say this before the words left his lips.

You knew he would support your wish for rest.

He always does.

Your mind drifts to your last night together.

The night before you lost him.

He had trusted you so deeply, he had submitted to you.

Allowed you to bind him to the bed post and lustfully torture him for hours.

Until he was able to turn his mind off.

Until he was able to let go.

Until he begged you to allow him to find release.

But you have kept riding him, teasing him, never finishing him.

Allowing yourself to come over and over again, your lips pressed to his ear, whispering words of praise, love and lust that made him squirm.

You had pressed your body against his trembling lips, guiding his touch, allowing him to kiss only where you permitted.

When you finally let him find release, he cried.

Shuddering with relief, his sweat-slicked body trembling so violently that the bedpost gave way, bringing the canopy down with it.

You had managed to cast a quick shield, catching veils and wood splinters before they could touch you. And he had laughed, deep and wholehearted, pulling you into his arms.

One of the best memories you were allowed to keep.

You open your eyes and look at him now.

The sight of him clenches around your heart like a fist, all the memories you try to cherish in quiet, lonely hours, rushing back all at once.

You remember what his hands feel like.

How they feel, simply holding yours.

Drawing you closer into a hug.

Trailing soft circles on your hip bones.

How his lips taste.

The way they tremble in the moment before meeting yours.

What his gentle, quiet voice, the one he only allows to show when you were intimate, did to your mind, heart and loins.

You miss him more than words can hold, and you usually think yourself quite eloquent.

But not tonight.

Tonight, this Halsin is your friend and he watches you with quiet concern.

“Good night, Halsin,” you murmur as you stand, retreating to bed alone.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

EDYN TIDESTRIDER, CHALLENGER OF THE UNDERSEA, RIVAL OF THE DEEP. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOUR BROTHER WAS CHOSEN TO BE A WEAPON OF THE GODS? HOW WILL YOU UNDO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE TO HIM?

[egophiliac]

SILVER EMERGENCYRESD THE LORE N O W BEFORE YOU GET SPOILED

me: well, it's 3 AM and the update is out, might as well play a little as long as I can't sleep.

twst: :)

me: it's probably just a short filler bit anyway!

twst: >:)

[s0fter-sin]

rewatching s1 and in ep2 w*ndigo, dean makes a joke about not bringing provisions into the woods just to pull out a bag of peanut butter m&m’s and stick with me here, it’s why the later seasons’ “goofy dean” loses me

this moment is clearly a joke but if you think about it too much, it also makes some sense; a family size bag of peanut m&m’s is calorie dense and even the high sugar is good to keep you moving which they need on an overnight hunt. it also shows how due to their upbringing, they’ve had to eat lower quality food, things they always had access to that was cheap and also in bulk

what does dean eating ghost pepper jerky then tipping water on himself exist for other than to be a cringy joke? what does smelling old chinese food, testing to see if it's still good then shaking his head with cabbage hanging out his mouth when it isn't serve? it's just to make him look stupid and contrast sam's healthy/clean diet (and superiority but that’s another conversation) which has always existed but it used to be nuanced and natural

we see dean as a child give up the food he wanted to eat so sam could eat it. (“i’m sick of spaghetti-os,” “you’re the one who wanted them,” … “i want lucky charms!” “… there’s only enough for one bowl and i haven’t had any yet!” proceeds to give them to sam, 1x18) we know he hustled and stole food to ensure sam ate. (“so, what’d he take?” “get this- peanut butter and bread.” 9x07)

we also see throughout the early seasons dean teasing sam about his salad or healthy choice while he eats some form of burger or other fast food (or notably, cheerfully eating prison food that sam won’t touch, 2x19). it's typical sibling teasing but it also shows that it isn't new for sam to eat like that and for dean to know he eats like that

sam being picky isn't just a character trait they chose for him, it's a result of how dean raised him; he raised him to like and want healthy food and be food secure enough to reject food he didn't want

but dean eats anything he is given and seeks out unhealthy - cheap, plentiful, filling - food

he is the opposite of picky to the point of it being a consistent bit; they show him multiple times eating when it's socially frowned upon to do so eg. questioning a grieving victim when they're trying to be discreet (1x14, 2x15, 2x18)

a similar moment to the chinese food is in 4x19; dean wakes up in the car while sam brushes his teeth outside and is hungry. sam says there's a sandwich in the backseat, dean smells it and recoils bc it's an old tuna sandwich. the moment is funny on its own but it also exists as a comparison of their lives to adam's; he has a loving mother, goes to school and importantly, a steady stable childhood

it’s a joke with a purpose

it also supports dean's food insecurity; he wakes up and is immediately hungry, enough to complain about it and seek out food before anything else

dean is always hungry bc he never has access to nutritionally rich foods bc he got used to using the money he earned to buy sam's more expensive food. he got used to his cheaper, denser foods and grew up with (and continues to live with) intermittent access to said foods. think of how long it takes to drive from one state to another; how many hours it can take to see another town that offers food, if you arrive at a reasonable enough time for anything to be open. also think how they can’t keep any food beyond what fits in an esky; nothing that needs defrosting, nothing can be heated up. it’s bags and jars and take out for as long as they can trust it

then they get the bunker which has its own kitchen

dean even describes himself as "nesting" when he decorates his room, something he hasn't had since he was four years old, and he uses said kitchen to cook a burger from scratch that he is proud of. he is food secure for the first time in his life and it shows in how often he cooks for both himself and sam

so these moments where they have him acting goofy regarding food are no longer character driven and only exist as a joke which is why they come across as cringy and out of character compared to similar earlier moments

a lot of my issues with dean's characterisation started when they introduced the bunker. the argument can and is made that the reason these jokes happen is bc he feels safe in the bunker, that bc he now has a home he can relax and unmask but that still doesn't feel sufficient. they crank up these sillier moments for both of them, giving them a sort of playing house comedy vibe of two roommates with completely different personalities but it doesn't feel like an authentic progression. it feels forced; an attempt at humour for humour's sake

food stopped being an informed part of their characters and their trauma and instead became flanderised; sam is the judgy vegetarian health nut and dean is his borderline slovenly carnivore counterpart

[gomzdrawfr]

Gomzzzzz hello!!! I’ve been lurking in your blog for like, over a year now and I just wanted to say, your art is so freaking amazing and cute....the big cheeks!! I’ve always struggled with confidence in my own work, to the point where sharing anything felt almost impossible (stare at my stuff for hours only to delete them) But seeing you do your thing? I decided to try posting too. Okay it took a while but when I did I was fully expecting it to get like… 2 likes, max. But then YOU reblogged it, and my phone basically exploded. I’m not even kidding—my notifications were wild, and for the first time, I actually felt proud of something I made. It might sound silly and you probably don't know which art of mine you reblog but it really hyped me up and frankly...i found back the feel to draw again. I can't thank you enough for doing what you do, for making cod space a better and nicer place (your reblogs on others are always soooo positive and top tier)

Anyway, I’m keeping myself anonymous because, uhhh, social anxiety vibes and don’t want to overwhelm you;w; but I hope you know how much you’ve impacted people like me just by being yourself. I’m wishing you the absolute best for 2025!! zapping you with my beams to give you braincells for your school stuff

you deserve all the good things fr

-🦈

🥹

CryING iN THE CLUB— (my room)

Shark anon, thank you for the sweetest words, I really needed this today…and I’m so proud of you for finding back the love to draw again. I hope 2025 will be a blast for you too man!! Remember to take rest and have a good year ahead

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[inkedhorror]

oh when did that happen...

[jesse-cosay]

I just realized I'm gonna have to start posting art here again. Devastating.

[chickenbyday]

.