#i would ask who fucked up my brain like that but i am well aware who did it

[actual-changeling]

i think my new anti depressants are working cause i no longer feel like i am about to drown in my own brain and there's some semblance of peace in my heart so i hope they keep doing that. it's only been a few days but there's definitely a difference. about fucking time man, i don't wanna have to try all available meds bro i just need these to do what they're supposed to.

[mira-s-bookclub]

Beneath a Veil of Shadows

Azriel x Reader

Note: First time I've ever posted anything I've written, so be aware of that when reading hahsh. I'd love requests or tips <3

Warnings: Mature language, fighting, injury and blood, captives, drugs.

Summary: Y/n knows very well how Azriel feels for her; detest. What happens when Rhysand sends Y/n alongside Azriel on what was supposed to be a "normal" check?

Word Count: 2,7k

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

“Oh Gods,” I huff out. I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my shirt. Having long forgone the idea of looking clean for the duration of this hike. I would not exactly call it a hike. Azriel did though.

“Fucking Hell.” I say, as my foot connects with the branch strategically placed to trip me. There is absolutely no way the male in front of me does not hear my huffing and puffing as we ascent up the hill. I lay in a dramatic Sigh to my complaining. Catching his attention.

Azriel stops beside a tree looking like it desperately needs water, I imagine I am not looking far from that, turning to look back at me.

“Ever occurred to you that complaining doesn’t help?” He mumbles. Looking all energetic and not-at-all sweaty like me. I had to stop during the first 10 minutes of the mission to change my leathers into a plain t-shirt and some knee shorts. I was not exactly the powerful, badass, beautiful-at-any-part-of-the-day warrior I had told the mirror in my bathroom before winnowing to the mountain range. I am fairly sure I did my makeup before leaving. Cannot focus enough right now to remember.

I stop by Azriel and swing off my pack. “Helped you stop, didn’t it?” I look up at him, smirking. He says nothing. Gods damned Illyrian warrior. Could not even bother to break a sweat.

We were sent by Rhysand to scout the area between the two south camps. There were a couple of ingrown roads leading between each camp. Illyrians may have wings and all that glory, but they are not capable of transporting heavier items or foods. The roads were not used by many, but Azriel managed to catch a lesser fae the other day, smuggling some other rather interesting items. It was not news that the Illyrians were importing questionable substances you would not in a thousand years find at the healers. I will give it to them, living in those camps would even make me resort to drugs. But I knew better, it could be poison. Poison for the brain, and poison for the body. It could be addictive.

“We’re close to the Camp, take a break, we’ll wait until nightfall.” Azriel said. Shuffling food and water out of his bag. Looks like we are resting in incline. I start packing out my own food and some fur to sit on. Making it rather cozy under the tree. My back to the tree, eating an apple, I watch him.

I did not lie when Feyre asked me before we left if I would be okay traveling with Azriel. It was not a secret how he looked at me, and how I looked back. I am sure, if he had any choice on the matter, he would choose any other companion. It hurt when he watched me. It felt like whatever I did would never be good enough, I was not good enough.

The Inner Circle all had their own little families inside the Circle. Feyre had Rhys and Nyx. Nesta had even settled down with Cassian and her friends. Her friend who also had, finally, taken the extremely subtle hint Mor had given her. Mor who had shrieked and hid under my blankets after I had convinced her to send out her Love letters to Emerie. Gods, even Amren had finally moved in with Varian and lived part time in the Summer Court. Rhys had even gifted her a healer prescribed sunscreen after she got badly burned. Elain had taken up Lucien’s offer to move to the Day Court, I had even heard rumors of a beautiful garden challenging even Tamlin’s. I was happy for them; I am happy for them. It could get a little lonely at times, but what could you expect? I was not even High fae.

There was a time when I had found solace in Azriel’s company, I like to think he did too. He became close, quiet nights in the library, breakfast at the nearby Café. He helped me a lot at the start.

I had grown up in Cretea, ruled over by Queen Miryam and her mate. An emissary from the Autumn Court had taken me in after finding me out alone by a brothel, abandoned he had told me later on. Neither of us could pinpoint exactly what I was, lesser-fae or mortal, it did not matter to me, he did not care enough to find out. I ended up in the Hewn City and later taken in by Madja after a dramatic incident resulting in Keirn’s broken arm. She had sought after an apprentice for quite some time, luckily for me.

As I watch Azriel I contemplate how my life would have worked out if I had stayed with Madja, and not taken up Cassian’s offer to train. Would I have met Feyre and Rhysand? Would fates have pushed me to Azriel? Or perhaps I would be inside now, safe, drinking tea and reading. I contemplate how Azriel has grown used to evading my every attempt to reconnect, he wasn’t mean per say, but he wasn’t friendly either. A wave of heat comes over me as Azriel bends down, way to close, to scavenge through his pack.

A fast inhale results in my apple choking me. I cough. And cough. And cough. Looking up through my wet eyelashes I see Azriel looking down at me. His face is set in a mixture of uncertainty and humor. Like he is trying so hard not to laugh.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I wasn’t about to.”

“I can see it on your face!” I can feel my cheeks redden.

Azriel loses the battle. He barks out a laugh and turns around, finding a cloth in his bag. “You have drool down your chin.” He snickers.

I snatch the cloth out of hand, drying my face. Azriel sits down beside me, back to the tree. There was an idyllic sort of silence in the mountain at this time, only birds and other animals out and about. This made it worth it - the hike.

“We’re going to slip into the current war-lord’s house and search it for the listed drugs.” Azriel hands me a slip of paper consisting of different substances.

“I didn’t know you write cursive.” I say, tracing his writing with my fingertips.

“Focus.”

“Yes, sir.” Azriel whips his head at me, hitting my head in the process.

“Fucking hell!” I scoot away and hold a hand to my head. “Fine, I know you don’t like me, but you don’t have to act on it?!” I watch his shocked face and wide eyes.

He puts a hand to his face. His voice is hard; “did you hurt yourself?” He looks up at me with those honey brown eyes, causing a shiver down my back.

“No, it’s fine.” I say, rubbing the bump on my head. “I’ve always had a thick head.” He snickers at the fact, though I know he thinks so too. It took me years of training to get to where I am now, it came to a point where even Amren said I was just being careful and considerate of my own body when training, hence why it took so long. But training did not mean being fit, which bites me in the ass on the rest of the way up, and the trip down this god forsaken mountain. Why we could not just take the road was beyond me. Feeling his eyes on me I turn again to Azriel.

I lift my brows. “You know a lot of females would call it creepy when someone is staring at them, especially when they don’t know.”

“You think I don’t like you?” He says. I do not know if I dreamed it or if his eyes were sad, mouth downturned.

“I know you don’t.” The painful truth is hard to swallow, but I have accepted it. “You cannot even find it in you to say ‘Hello’ to me in the morning.” I laugh, a little self-conscious that I notice this. His brows furrows even more and he leans forward.

“I do like you – “

“Gods Azriel, no you don’t,” I bite out, taking a bite out of my apple again. “Have you ever noticed how everyone, but you, compliment my food? Or even my training, which, God forbid, you notice occasionally has gotten good enough to challenge Nesta?” I feel deflated. There are not enough skills in the world to make Azriel look at me any different. I had begged Rhysand not to send me together with Azriel, using the excuse that I was feeling down. Did not support my case that I offered to go to the Mortal Realms to check up on Lucien and Elain, I could not be that sick. Either way, Rhys looked through me and told me that if it really was that bad, then they needed to find a solution to our problem. And I would never go to Couples-therapy with Azriel.

Azriel pulls forward and grabs my hands. “You have no idea, any idea how much you mean to me.” My breath hitched, and he is close enough to hear my thundering heart.

“You are lying.”

“You are delusional to think otherwise. There is not a day when it does not hurt to see you with anyone else, Cassian, Rhys, even laughing with Feyre.” His hair is messy, and his skin is glistening. I cannot help looking down at our hands. His hands, covered in calluses from years of training, scarred, but, oh, so beautiful.

He misunderstands and snatches his hands back, standing up. “You never speak to me, or even look at me. This does not make any sense.” I say.

“I look at you plenty.” He says as I stand up, towering over me.

“But Elain – “

“Elain was not like that. Elain was desperation, from both sides. It was a desperate attempt to get over you. She knew it too. We used to be best friends, you and I, but- “

“But we got too close.” When I look down, my hands are shaking. “Do you have any idea how much it hurt? Still hurts?  When you became distant and started ignoring me?” My voice cracks slightly at the hurt look on his face.

“It was never my intention, know that. I thought you did not want me like that, and when you and Lucien became friends- I could not watch you with anyone else, I would not have survived it.” My throat constricts, my breath comes in shallow gulps of air.

“I didn’t like Lucien; I didn’t like him like that at all.” I say quietly.

I look up at him and he gives me a sad smile.

“Would you back away if I kissed you? Runaway like the rest?” Azriel says softly, his face so open and sincere.

I walk the short distance towards him and take his hands in mine. Leaning up, “Never,” I kiss him. My heart had not felt this full in months, I am sure I would not be overreacting if I said years even. Something fell into place when I dragged my hand through Azriel’s hair, his hands sliding down to cup my backside.

“Azriel, I-” An arrow shot through the trees. My eyes widen as he spins us around, shielding me with his front, with his life. He grunts. An arrow protruding from the edge of his left wing, from the bone and meat around the elbow joint, an inch down and the arrow would have flown right through. My heart beats wildly. Azriel turns and pushes me behind him, shielding me from the position of the archer. What he did not take into consideration was the archer positioned behind our camp, shooting a series of arrows, hitting me. A whimper slips past my mouth and a look down at the arrow in my thigh. A green tint surrounds the wound, I must get the arrow out, fast.

“Y/n!” Azriel yells. He is across the camp in seconds, whipping out a sword, using his pack as shield as he sprints back for me.

“I’m fine!” My breath is fast and shorter by the minute. “Just a flesh wound. Behind you Azriel!” A male slip from the trees and runs straight for Azriel, firing arrows as he goes.

I limp for the trees on the other side, providing cover. Kneeling in the dirt, I grab a hold of my shirt, ripping off a piece, I find the nearest branch and bite down. Taking hold of the arrow, I keep my mind clean of the bloody battle happening just out of this bush, knowing I am of no use reduced by an Ash-arrow; I rip it out. I groan. Blood pools out of the now open wound, and I tie my shirt around my thigh. Blood is already seeping through in red specks on the white fabric. I turn around to watch the battle.

Azriel is locked in a fight with two males, one seemingly high-fae, his movements sloppier than his friend. Convincing me that somebody’s system is not very clean. Another male comes strutting out from the bushes on my right, I duck lower. This one with wings. His movements reveal him to be confident that I have left Azriel. Knowing he stands to win against Azriel three to one.

Seeing an opening I make my move. Sprinting to the left, picking up my knife from my pack, I aim for the Illyrian and throw. My knife hits target, catching his side. He whirls around, not fast enough to duck my punch straight for his nose, breaking the bone. I try for a series of hits and punches, landing some while he evades the rest. I duck and swipe my leg out to catch him as he throws a punch, seeing my mistake a mile away I prepare. His trap works and he catches my foot, throwing me on the ground and lays his weight on top of me.

I steal a glance towards Azriel. Seeing the drugged one on the ground crying out from a serious cut across his abdomen. Another losing in hand-to-hand with Azriel.

A punch to my cheek snaps me out of it. My own knife, swiped, coming to rest against my throat in warning. His face is red and angry, bloody from my hit. “You are going to be a good girl and follow my lead.” He spits in my face.

Knife to the throat, there is not much I can do. I stand still against the Illyrian, not giving me an inch of space to turn on him. “Drop your weapons or she dies.”

Azriel, letting go of the male, slowly turns with his sword yet again in his hand. Looking over him I cannot find any serious wounds other than his wing, knowing that it is not fatal, but must hurt like a bitch. His gaze settles on the knife to my throat. I try to beg him with my gaze to finish these guys off, no matter if my neck is on the line, literally. “Drop. The. Weapon.” He speaks behind me. Azriel stands unmoving, his opponent, laying at his feet, had been wounded enough that adrenaline had kept him going.

“It looks like your boyfriend does not want to cooperate,” He whispers in my ear, his harsh voice making me shiver. “And how can I motivate him?” His knife stabs my throat, and I feel my neck giving away to the knife. I squeeze my eyes shut as blood trickles down my neck. And I hear a clash, as a sword is thrown to the ground.

“Let her go,” He seethes. “I am of more value to you. Rhysand is your problem, isn’t he?” Azriel says. “He stopped the trafficking of substances, but that is not why you are here, is it?”

“No, Shadow-singer. It is not.” His voice is softer, making me open my eyes again. Confusion clouds my mind. What could this mission be about, if not for piracy? I look at Azriel who stares at the male, his knife still against my throat. “You are coming with me.” And neither I nor Azriel is fast enough to respond to the hit, as we are both knocked unconscious.

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

To be added to the Taglists, comment:

All ACOTAR - 🌹

All Azriel - 🥀

All TOG - 🌼

[antiquarianfics]

Dark and Bloody Ground

So you violently murdered a man? So what? You did it in the name of love.

a/n: This is super loosely inspired by the song "Dark and Bloody Ground" by Ruston Kelly. Great song if you haven't heard it. Anyway, this is super gory and violent, but it's still a little fluffy... Hope you like it.

warning(s): Profanity, gore, extreme violence, sort of a hostage type situation, only kind of proofed.

note: I do not own Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliate characters.

You do not have permission to steal or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

Blood. Blood everywhere. It’s on the ground, on the body, on your hands, on your face. The scene looks as if a toddler was given a box of crayons—all shades of red—and a coloring sheet. It’s horrific. Blood splattered, crayon scribbled—however you look at it.

Your breathing is erratic, heavy breaths shake your body as your lungs struggle to take in air. You’ve over exerted yourself, but you can’t find even a smidgen of a fuck to give.

There’s a dull ache in your knees where you’re sat on them; you lean back to distribute some weight onto your heels. Once your knees are slightly alleviated, you become more aware of the constant ringing in your ears, the ringing that has been constant since the moment you pulled your weapon. Then, you notice the soreness in your fingers and glance down to where your hands are clenched in fists, your knuckles busted and bruised. Looking around, you see a bloodied knife a few feet away: your gun is still in its holster.

You look up at the bloodbath in front of you—the dead men in front of you.

Did I even pull my gun?

The ringing in your ears is deafening, and you can’t focus on anything other than the carnage. Or, you can’t until you hear Bucky call for you. Wait. Bucky.

The moment your brain processes Bucky’s voice, it’s as if someone hits the fast forward button until your brain catches up with what is actively happening around you. The ringing squeals until it doesn’t; your head swivels until your eyes lock on their target.

“Y/N,” Bucky repeats. “Doll.” He slides next to you on his knees slowly, grimacing slightly as he moves.

Bucky’s eyes are filled with worry, his every movement cautious. He takes in your current state, but he saw the whole thing. He saw you kill the man who lay dead before you. He watched as the deceased attempted to fight back, how he got a few minor licks in, and how it was for naught. Still, though, Bucky is cautious as he looks at you--as he tries to make sure you're okay.

"Oh, baby," you say, voice low and hoarse. You smile softly and raise a hand to cup Bucky's cheek. "Oh, how I've missed you."

Bucky smiles sadly, his own hand reaching up to cup your cheek. "I've missed you, too."

"Are you okay?" You ask, concern palpable.

"I am now. You've got me, Doll."

You nod. "Yeah, I've got you."

Bucky looks around the facility he'd been held prisoner in for weeks. The drab appearance had changed quickly in your fury; he'd never seen you like that before.

—

Bucky coughed as the HYDRA operative kicked him in the gut. In most cases, Bucky would have already killed the guy, but he'd been starved and neglected for days, pumped full of a chemical that lessened the effectiveness of the super soldier serum, and his body thus has been struggling to fight off a nasty infection from a three day old stab wound.

"I'll ask again, Winter Soldier. Where is it?" The man in charge, an unassuming man in a pressed gray suit, asks in an even tone.

"I'll tell 'ya again," Bucky spits, "fuck. you."

"Very well. Again." The man waves his hand carelessly in a 'go ahead' motion.

The HYDRA operative kicks Bucky again. That's when the door to the torture chamber opens, and there you stand with a stolen keycard held to the door.

Your eyes land on Bucky on the ground, then they shift to the operative carrying out the torture, and then they settle on the man in the suit. Bucky knows you see red.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward and hit the button to shut the door behind you, stopping an escape. Then, in a flash, you've thrown your knife into the HYDRA operative's head. The operative drops, his body twitching slightly before stilling, and blood slowly begins to pool from his cracked skull.

The moment the knife leaves your hand, you step forward and swing at the man in the suit. The man side steps, lets out a 'Who do you think you are?' before being silenced by your fist to his jaw. You punch the man again and he stumbles backward; he quickly manages to get his footing and takes a swing at you. He lands a punch to your gut and one to your face, but neither deters you. You pivot around him as he lunges forward and then kick him in the back. The man falls to the ground, manages to turn over onto his back, and he is immediately met by another right hook to the face as you jump on him. You straddle the guy as you repeatedly hit him: you feel as the man's jaw cracks, as his cheekbone splinters. You're vaguely aware when each hit feels less solid, when the man beneath you finally stills. You feel weightless, a bit gone, as you slide off of the man onto your knees, sitting back on your heels.

—

"We gotta get out of here," Bucky says, shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts of you murdering for him.

You nod and stand up with a light groan, grasping Bucky's hand and pulling him up with you. You let him wrap his arm around your shoulders, helping him walk as you make your escape.

—

Hours later, you and Bucky have not said much to one another. When you made it back to the jet, you were more worried about patching Bucky up and getting him something to eat than talking. Then, when he tried to say something, you shushed him and told him to get some rest. Now, though, as you're sitting next to his hospital bed in the med bay, and now that you know he's alright, you finally choose to talk about what happened.

"Bucky?" You say quietly, trying not to disturb him if he's asleep. You're hoping, selfishly, that he is.

"Hmm?" He hums, turning his head slightly and opening his tired eyes to look at you.

"I'm sorry. About today. I, uh. I know that was a lot..."

"Sweetheart, it's okay. You saved me. I should be thanking you; you shouldn't be apologizing."

You give him a tense smile.

"It's just. When I saw what they were doing to you... I saw red, Buck. I was so angry at them for hurting you, and I was scared. I just... I didn't think. But they didn't have to do all those awful things to you."

"I know."

"It makes me sick to think about."

"I know."

"You deserve so much better."

"I know."

You raise an eyebrow, disbelievingly.

"You do?"

"Well, I better. My girl violently killed two men because she thinks so."

You giggle. Despite everything, you giggle. Bucky smiles.

"Anyway," Bucky says, a light tone enveloping his words, "you know what they say."

"What's that?"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he teases.

"Especially when she has on her killing shoes," you laugh lightly.

"Mhmm. C'mere, Lizzie Borden." He holds out an arm for you as he scoots over to make room. You climb into the small bed with him, tucking yourself away into his embrace.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you, too," he replies, pressing a kiss into your hair.

[baby-tini]

i present my idea ✨knife kink dabi✨

TW: knife play, toxic relationship, Dabi hits her once, blood, threats, licking of said blood.

It was a weird request at first, he'll admit that. Then again, he's asked worst from you. His handprint branded into your ass proves so. While he does give you a little side-eye, he's absolutely not opposed to holding a sharp little thing to your throat while plead for him to not press down so hard. His pretty little princess wants him to hold a knife to their throat? Say less.

"Which one you wanna use, angel- actually, I probably shouldn't call you an angel anymore, huh? I think masochistic slut fits better, yeah?" Your lips form into a little pout, eyebrows furrowing as you pull on his coat. He chuckles at that, fingers fisting in your hair to pull your head back. His right thumb gliding over your little pout, index tapping your lips and slipping in to press down on your tongue. Sticky drool running down his hand as he finger fucks your mouth. Slipping his wet digit out to gloss your lips with your own spit.

"Why are you so mean Dabi," he scoffs at that. With a flick of his wrist, you're left with a stinging cheek and your head looking to the right. There's an immediate cry that's rips itself out of your throat, feet stumbling back. Quickly snatching your arm before you could fall, he brings you over to the set of knives he has laid out for you. "I won't ask again, either choose one or I will, and trust me... you won't like my choice. I promise you that."

With a meek nod, you glance at the assortment of switch blades, there's pretty black one with blue flames on it that you're positive Dabi would've chosen. But your mind's already made when you see a black steel-blade with rubies embedded into the handle. Pretty vermillion glare at you from its place on the counter. You slide your thumb over it at first, finger playing with the pretty gems. Picking it up to test the weight, you glide your palm over the blade. Sharp. So very sharp, Dabi could kill, given he presses deep enough.

"That one? The blue one is so much prettier," he finishes with a scoff as he pouts. You ignore his comment, nodding your head, you hand it over to him. Taking it from you, he gestures to the bedroom, twirling the deadly blade around his fingers as he stares you down. Glancing at him in uncertainty, you walk past him towards the room.

The room is warm, remnants of Dabis heat still trapped in the comforter, smells like him too, strongly of ash and cigarette smoke. It makes your brain foggy, he always smells so good, his musk is a comforting scent. There's the harsh sound of combat boots walking towards you, eyes snapping to the door, in a first-hand witness to his taunting eyes.

"You look shy doll, I couldn't possibly understand why, you came to me with this request, 'member?" You give a nod, inhaling a shaky breath as you lie on your back. He coos at you in faux sympathy, stepping closer and closer, like a lion, hunting, prowling.. but Dabi isn't one to lie and wait for very long. Especially when you look so innocent, like a helpless fawn who isn't yet aware of dangers like him. You're basically teasing him at this point, eyes too wide for to not think about fucking you, destroying you 'till there's nothing left.

You blink for a second, only for a second. It's quick, no- he's quick. The blade feels cold against your throat, sharp tip pressing a little too deep into your jugular for comfort. The smooth metal running down your throat to your tits, smoothing it over your nipples, perked for attention for the sharp tip. Your skin lifting in goosebumps, hair standing at the back of your neck when he twirls it around your left nipple.

"...I wonder, what do you think would happen if I just-" he presses the blade down harder in-between your breasts, "- ah, well.. would you look at that, hm? You're just as pretty inside as you are on the outside, oh how lucky I am." It doesn't hurt, just stings a little. The sticky scarlet immediately staining your clothes, dripping down your chest in little rain-drops. He eyes the wound for a minute before leaning down and licking it off your tits.

He hums, pulling back to look you in the eyes, "better then I thought, but not nearly as good as that little cunt I love so much." There's blood staining his teeth- your blood at that. The tip of his tongue licking away the remainder on your chest as he moves the tip of the handle of the blade to press into your clit.

There's an immediate jump-back, hand shooting down to grab onto his own, and he doesn't like that. Not even a little. "What? You got a problem with this but not when I'm lickin' blood off your tits? Some priorities you got, huh?" He swats away your hand as he presses the handle back into your clit, sliding it down over your underwear to press into your slit.

"I'm gonna fuck you with this blade, you know? See if it makes you cum quicker then my cock." You want to close your legs but he swats at them before you can even think to do so. "Try an' close 'em, and your chest won't be the only thing leaking pretty red for me." Your eyes twitch close when you feel the solid press into you, fucking you through your panties.

"Ahh, there we go, got that pussy leaking real pretty for me now, huh slut? You like this shit? 'Course you do, you're my bitch after all, ain't that right?"

[idyllcy]

oops... i got married || TO THE CUTE DUDE IN CLASS?!

word count: 1.2k || Fic 4 of oops... i got married

summary: ... you do not understand how a man made god wants to marry you but frankly you don't care as long as you aren't dying to his hands

You get married as a joke.

Yes, there are limits to how much you can drink. Yes, there are limits to how insane you can get while drunk— but apparently getting married is not within that limit. You get married to some random guy— NOT SOME RANDOM GUY. SOMEONE YOU KNOW. WELL. KIND OF. You wake up to a legally signed marriage document and him in your kitchen, and you blink at the red booklet in your hands and then at your new lover at the door.

"You're going to be late for class."

"Oh. My. God."

"Yes, I am aware that is an expression of shock." Kamukura catches the mug that you've just hurled at his face.

"HOW ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?"

"We are married."

You blink at Kamukura. "WHY DID YOU EVEN AGREE TO MARRY ME?!"

"Perhaps you will bring a semblance of amusement to my day-to-day life." He pauses. "Also because you would have asked someone else had it not been me, and I would not have trusted you to not ask one of the old men in the bar."

You sigh, throwing your head back into the pillow. He has a point. 

"Shall I let the professor know that you are skipping class?"

"No." You snort. "Tell him my head feels like it's been cracked open from drinking too much yesterday."

"Anything else?"

"Will you divorce me if you get bored?" You turn your head to face him. "I mean, I got drunk, no?"

Kamukura nods, door clicking behind him as you bury your head into the pillow, screaming. You married the class genius. How the hell did he even agree to marrying you? What does it even mean that he married you for some semblance of amusement? What does it even mean that you got him to agree to marrying you? In what world does this happen? You scream back into the pillow, deciding that this would be a problem for you to face after your nap. What a great day to NOT have anything to do.

Except Kamukura comes home and you find that there's an assignment due by the end of the day— which makes you seriously contemplate your existence right then and there. Your new husband refuses to help you, and he watches you struggle in silence, lips pulled into a fraction of a smile, almost as if he were enjoying the way you were fighting for your life. Maybe you will beat him up next time (you would not win). So, you stare at Kamukura from the couch as he stares back, unblinking, unbothered.

"Help me."

"You are simply being lazy."

"Okay and?" You huff. "Is a husband's duty not to help his spouse?"

"Oftentimes, it is used as an excuse to not do something. If I were to do it for you, there will be a second, and then a third, and eventually, I will be the one doing all of it for you. Then, you would—"

"It's an elective." You deadpan.

"Perhaps this is, but who am I to say that you will not abuse your new husband and make him complete your major for you?"

"Izuru fucking Kamukura." You deadpan, voice even. "Will you cosplay as me to take my classes? Will you put on makeup so you can look like your beloved and take my tests for me? Will you take on the task of double life so I don't need to do anything?" 

Kamukura blinks at you, unbothered. "No."

"There you go." You sigh. "Will you at least teach me?"

"That, I will do."

You go through the homework with your husband, brain fried by the end of it, eyes spinning, annoyed as he explains everything with eerie precision catered to you. 

"Next thing you tell me is going to be something like "I attended Hope's Peak High School" or something of equal insane value."

"I shall do you one better." He tilts his head. "I was created by Hope's Peak Academy."

You pause. What.

"They took a talentless kid," Kamukura coughs lightly, "and transformed him into me."

"So they— They basically rewired your past in order to create you? I knew you were suspicious for taking 24 units." You deadpan. "You're an escaped government spy, aren't you."

"Government spy, no. Escaped, yes." His eyes dig past your soul until you are bare before him, but you do not look away. "Hope's Peak can not own a person under the law."

You raise a brow. "So why then did you marry me?"

"That is something for you to find out."

You find that the answer is that people tend to steer clear of you when you are with Kamukura. Perhaps it is some sort of primal urge to mark their territory, or the primal instinct to stay away from predators bigger than you, but Kamukura next to you equates to individualism. You find that even his unofficial fanclub that used to bother you stays away. Kamukura might have just thought of you as some strange trophy... or just someone he would not mind spending the rest of his life with. 

The answer comes at home, perhaps.

You stare at the man at your door, Kamukura not home, and you tilt your head as you start taking your shoes off.

The man speaks up when you start opening the door. "Does a man by the name of Kamukura live here?"

You blink twice. "No? I live alone."

"You have men's shoes at your door."

"They are there for safety."

"What about the two bowls of rice on the table?"

"Rather rude to look inside my place, isn't it?" You start to shut the door. "You can not search my house without a warrant. Besides, you aren't in Japan, you know? Welcome to the land of guns and eagles."

"Duck."

Kamukura holds your head down as the sound of a gun rings out on your floor. You've never been so glad you actually threw your whole life savings into a penthouse. Yet, you try turning around, his hand covering your eyes naturally.

"Is he dead?"

"Leave it to me." He ignores your question.

You listen to him as he has you step into the apartment, door shutting behind you as you start eating, biting the chopstick and blinking at the door absentmindedly.

Kamukura comes home, clean of any sign of what could have been a murder.

You don't know if you want to ask what he was up to. 

He stares at you, almost as if waiting for something to come out of your mouth before he moves to do anything.

You rack your brain for what you could even say to him.

"Good job." You raise a brow, staring at him and then the seat. "Now hurry up and eat. What were they even here for? Was it enough to warrant a gun to their head?"

"Yes." He blinks. "They were here to find me."

"Isn't it more suspicious that they're dead now?"

"I have disguised it as a slip on the stairs."

"With a gun wound?"

"The probability of a bullet bouncing off a wall into your own brain is small but never zero."

Ah.

Well, you suppose at least your husband won't be killing... you.

[copperbadge]

RE watching thoughts: I’m not 100% sure, but it might be that the whole “I am not my thoughts” is about engaging and identifying with your metacognition MORE than your initial thoughts. Because I get where you’re coming from - what is a consciousness but a collection of thoughts and feelings? But you can also have thoughts about your own thoughts that are more useful for dealing with whatever situation you’re in, I guess. (Random aside - every time I start thinking about thinking about thinking my brain inevitably starts thinking about Tiffany Aching and The Wee Free Men.)

I really should have replied to this ask sooner because it's going to seem like a non-sequitur now (this was sent much earlier in March) but I'm kind of glad I didn't, because I've been chatting with people about this and I think I understand more why there's an emphasis in some therapies on the idea that we are not our thoughts.

(I uh, haven't read the Tiffany books so I'm not much help there.)

I am coming to understand that many, perhaps most, people judge themselves, comprehensively and harshly, based on their thoughts. Perhaps it's just a lot of people who struggle with mental health, but given the commonality of the sentiment I don't know if I'd confine it that tightly; generally it appears that people cannot conceive of themselves as anything other than a binary of good or bad. So many people I've talked to about this portion of DBT, the watching-questioning-identifying thoughts portion, say that it helps to snap them out of a spiral of "I'm a horrible person, I deserve to suffer/die, I can never be redeemed" after they've failed at something, or had a negative thought, or reacted poorly to an unexpected event.

That is not something I've ever experienced. I mean, jokingly maybe, but not in a real, internal sense.

And that's not to brag -- I'm not saying I think I'm a good person, either, because I don't think I'm a good person. I don't conceive of myself in terms of good or bad. I never cuddle my cats and think "I'm such a good cat dad" or forget to feed them and think "I should die now." I have a perpetual morally neutral attitude towards my own existence; my thoughts and actions might trend me one direction or another but I'm aware of the temporary nature of that. If I fuck up I'll worry about who I might have hurt or whether I'll be fired or what's going to happen as a consequence, if I am polite to someone who didn't deserve it I know I was acting kindly in the moment, but I don't make an inherent moral judgement of myself based on that. And it seems like the vast majority of people do. Which you would think would make me feel pretty good about myself, but honestly...I don't know.

A lot of people I know who have ADHD or are Autistic have talked about seeing themselves as other, as alien -- like that one webcomic artist who draws themself with little antennae to indicate they're strange and different. I've always understood why one might do that, but I never felt that way myself, before or after the diagnosis. After all, let's remember, I was The Normal* Child of my siblings, and if I was The Normal One before the diagnosis, why wouldn't I remain Mostly Normal after?

* As ever, I'm using "normal" as a cultural term, to indicate what we think of as mainstream, not because normal is a thing that really exists.

My life has been relatively solitary -- I have friends and family and I love them but I'm rarely part of a large group, I don't spend a lot of time out in public interacting with people, I'm not a big socializer. Before the Adderall, I really couldn't be, I took too much psychic damage from interpersonal interaction, so I chose those very carefully. And now my DBT class has been a rare moment when I'm encountering contradictions to a lot of my assumptions about the way human beings in our society interact, react, and behave. I just...don't fit that mold very well. I think of it as having crossed wiring, not in the sense that I'm faulty but just in the sense that I'm very, very different. Not Normal. It's not exactly a bad feeling but it's certainly not a great one, internalizing the sensation of alienness.

DBT is proving to be a mixed bag but not in the way I or my therapist intended -- it seems to be either things I was already instinctively doing or things that simply do not apply to me. In one way it's disappointing because it means there isn't much help to be had (we're a little over halfway through the course and I keep thinking "Maybe next class will be useful") but on the other hand it's validating that so much of what I came up with myself as unconscious coping mechanisms is literally what I would have been told to do anyway.

Sometimes it's a combination of both, though, which really blows. I guess most people, if they reframe another person's actions, actually find emotional relief in that, and I don't. An example from the class is that if someone is rude to you, you can consider how they might be having a hard day, and be polite in return; that's great, in terms of defusing a situation, and it's something I do a fair amount of. But apparently it's also something that for most people results in feeling less awful about the interaction, and that's not the case for me. Which is why so much of DBT feels to me like lying to oneself. It's not lying for most people.

So, yeah. I'm going to finish out the course and keep trying things with the therapist but I suspect given everything, I might already be at "as good as it gets" in terms of emotional work. Which isn't the worst thing in the world, and there is still the option to try medication that could help, but I think there will come a point where I'm going to have to deal with the fallout of just how different I am, and how that has impacted my life. Might end up a good thing; something I've really been trying to resolve is unhappiness over being unpartnered and highly likely to remain that way, and at least if this provides a better understanding of why, then perhaps I can process that and put it to rest in a way I've been trying to do but not succeeding well at.

So, we'll see. But I find it both fascinating and kind of horrifying how many people can believe they are irredeemably bad, even if the belief is only temporary, simply because they had an uncharitable thought or impulse. It makes me somewhat grateful for the crossed wires, at least.

[autisticlancemcclain]

fic rec friday 61

hello and welcome to fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

Autistic Lance (Voltron) [series] by dontthinkiwont

"Look, okay, I get it, I like peanut butter, you like sharks. It's a thing, whatever. But seriously, dude - what the fuck?" - Or, Lance has Autism Spectrum Disorder and this can cause him to fixate on some things. Like, maybe, for instance, great white sharks. For example.

yes i like this series for projection reasons. whatever. it was also one of the first autistic lance fics out there!! and its v heavy in platonic relationships yall are gonna love it

2. Revelations and Reactions by @azapofinspiration

Keith couldn't believe it. He was part Galra. That was hard enough to deal with... But then he realized that he would have to tell the rest of the team. He couldn't help but fear how they would react. In which Keith reveals that he's part Galra after facing the Blade of Marmora's trials.

azap truly never misses. they KNOWWWW how to do found family like a CHAMP and i will never get tired of reading canon corrections where keith is like. loved and accepted lol

3. A Memory Like a Snapshot by MemeKonVLD

Pidge is still close —closer than is entirely comfortable if he has to be honest— giving him an evaluating glance. Lance doesn’t really know where to look, other than up her nose— but that grows old pretty fast. So he looks at himself in the reflection of her glasses. And squints. He touches his own face for the first time since waking up— and feels the roughness of his chin. “I have stubble,” he says, and the words are as alarmed as they can be even though they still sound slightly slurred, slightly off. Pidge blinks a couple of times at him, and finally retracts into a more comfortable distance. “Well, yeah,” she says. “You are like, what? 22? 23 in a couple of months?” “I’m feeling— I’m feeling a little queasy,” he says then, with bright spots of color dancing in front of his eyes as he thinks 22. Suddenly, a bucket gets shoved against his face. He takes hold of it with clammy fingers and he leans on his side so he can... use it. Thoroughly. “I’m having Garrison flashbacks,” he hears Pidge say.   (Or: Lance is stung by an alien bug, loses his memories temporarily and makes assumptions about his and Keith's relationship. Also, Pidge cheats at Uno.)

losing your memories. and waking up. and someone treats you so kindly and lovingly that you know, immediately, in the bones of you, that they love you. and the feeling in your chest even if your brain doesnt remember of love for them tells you clearly that this person is your soulmate. i am going to LOSE IT

4. Love in the Times of (Intergalactic) War by MemeKonVLD

Lance: Oh, man. [I see him grow visibly excited here, leaning forward and putting his hands up— he’s big on gesticulating, as anyone who’s watched the pilots of Voltron host SNL a couple of months ago knows.] Space is vast. I know that’s not groundbreaking knowledge there, and everyone’s somewhat aware of it, but— being up there? traveling around space for years, and knowing we never even— we never even came near to touching upon a tenth of what’s out there? That’s cool, weird and scary all in one.

WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT 2016 FICS. HUH. ICONIQUE?? AMAZING??? SHOWSTOPPING?? INCREDIBLE??? bc pov outsider is the BEST and watching how much lance SHINES to anyone who looks at him...yeah

5. Skin by MemeKonVLD

He’s aware of Lance talking to him, but he’s still too asleep to try to decipher whatever it is he’s blabbering about. He only starts paying attention when one of Lance’s hands goes to the drawstring of his pajama pants. “Whoa, what are you doing?” He asks, slapping Lance’s hand away, cheeks warm. “You,” Lance starts, pointing at him (and Keith notices that for all he’s made fun of him for the last forever for them, he’s wearing his fingerless gloves), “are not screwing up my skin care routine, man.” (AKA: the one where Keith and Lance switch bodies.)

suave keith and flustered lance my BELOVED. swapped bodies truly has to be one of the top ten tropes of all time. love watching them be in love and also stupid

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

[multifandom-worlds]

Hey honey! Can I request reader x Bucky with some period comfort? Mine are always horrendous and I’m sick the whole time. 😭

The Pains of Being a Woman

Genre: smut

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: well you know, period sex, self-conscousness and talk of inadequacy.

Authors Note: Well, this defitely took a turn I was not expecting when I first saw your request as you are well aware. I hope this is enough... comfort for you! Written from Bucky's POV

Every month, like clockwork, my fiance ends up curled up in bed, miserable and sick due to her period. Those seven days are absolute hell for her; she’s unable to work, can barely keep food down, and can handle moving from the bed to the bathroom. Every month is terrible, but she seemed to have a worse time than usual this time. I will never understand her pain, but I know someone who could - actually, a few someones. 

“Natasha! Wanda! I need your help; where are you?” 

I walk around the compound, trying to find the only two other women I like despite having several women around at a time. I found them in the kitchen, interestingly enough, discussing my wife. “You two, I need help. She’s worse today than in several months, and I don’t know how to help. She’s currently napping in bed with the heating pad, but I want to do more. What can I do?” 

“Do what you do best. Make her cum.” Natasha said very matter-of-factly. “Orgasms help with cramping, and the dopamine rush will help, even for a few moments. Plus, she doesn’t like to admit it, but her period leaves her feeling incredibly undesirable to you; this is a way you can prove too that you are still attracted to her.”

I thought about it, trying to work out the logistics of how it would work before deciding on a warm shower. It’s not like we’ve never done it in the shower before; I know the best way to make it work.  “Thank you, Nat; I appreciate the advice,” I say before quickly dashing upstairs to start the water before waking her up gently. 

Kissing her cheek gently, I whisper in her ear, loud enough to wake her up but soft enough not to startle her. “Hey, babydoll, get up. I have a shower going for you; it’ll help, trust me.” She groans in response, sliding deeper under the mountain of covers she has piled on her body. A soft laugh escapes my lips as I slide my arms underneath to retrieve her from her cocoon of warmth and comfort. 

She groans but doesn’t put up a fight to get out of my grasp. I place her on the bathroom floor's cold tile before grabbing two towels. She looks at me curiously. Before she even had to ask, I already knew what she was curious about. “I thought I would join you if that’s okay by you.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t…I don’t wear tampons when I’m home. Are you sure you want to join me? Plus. I’m so bloated; why would you want to look at me, let alone touch me?” She questions, nervously looking down. I walk back over to her, hooking my finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at me. 

“Babydoll, I have been with you for years; your period has never made me disgusted or uncomfortable. It’s a fact of life,” I smile, carefully slipping my hands under her shirt and pulling it over her head. She removes the rest of her clothes before stepping into the shower, sighing contently as the warm water rains down on her.

I watch her momentarily, admiring her perfect body, when she notices I haven’t joined her like I mentioned I would. “You’re not joining me, Bucky? It’s because I’m bloated, isn't it? God, why am I so stupid? Why did I honestly believe someone like you, looking like all sorts of sculpted from marble, would want someone like me.” 

“Babydoll,” I say calmly before slipping from my clothes. “Whatever your brain is saying to you is wrong. You are not stupid; I was admiring all your fucking perfect curves, and that's why I was not getting in.” I place my hands on her hips as I step into the shower behind her, slipping one hand around her hips, the other encasing her shoulders, pulling her body tight to mine. 

She squeaks slightly, feeling my lips brush against her neck, her hands gripping onto my thighs. “W-what are you doing, Bucky…did you forget I was on my period…?” She asks hesitantly, melting into my chest the way she always does. 

The hand that rests on her hips trails down her pelvis before gently brushing against her clit while I subtly grind against her perfect ass. “What do you think I’m doing babydoll? Can I not fuck my woman in the shower?” I punctuate my question by slipping my finger along her folds, making her squirm in my arms.

“But..?” She begins to protest, but I quickly relocate my hand from her shoulders to gently gripping her neck. “But nothing, doll.” Repositioning us so her hands were on the wall before her, I wrapped a hand around her thigh, lifting her leg. “I want to make my girl feel something other than pain.”

“But I’m not toned like I usually am; how could you even get hard when looking at me?”

How had I never realized how little she felt about herself? How had I gone years without realizing it? I carefully arrange myself, slowly grinding against her ass, rock-hard cock brushing against her folds, begging for entrance. “There is never a time I am with you that I am not imagining the feeling of you around me, sheathed entirely inside you, doll; you are the most perfect woman I have ever seen.”

She moans softly, grinding her hips against me, whimpering slightly. “Please, Bucky…please fuck me. I need to feel you stretch me out. I need some sort of release, please!”

That was all the consent I needed before aligning with her entrance and pushing into her. The gasp that left her mouth was erotic and almost broke the little control I had left. Slowly pushing inside her, I peppered her shoulder and neck with kisses until I was ultimately inside her, relishing in the tight warmth of her perfect cunt. A few moments passed, enough for her to get accustomed to me; she gave me the all-clear to start moving. 

“Bucky… fuck fuck fuck, please don’t stop. I’m so close, so painfully close.” She whined, her voice strained and filled with a deep need. Who was I to deny her what she craved? I speed up, rubbing quicker circles on her clit, pulling that well-deserved climax out of her. 

I groaned in her ear, craving the delicious drag her cunt offered as I slowly picked up speed, gripping her thigh, no doubt leaving bruises on her delicate flesh, but I didn’t care; I was going to make my woman cum one way or another. I rub gentle circles around her clit, earning increasingly more desperate moans to tumble from her lips. She places her hands on the shower walls, keeping herself upright and balanced.

“I won’t let you fall, doll,” I whispered in her ear, increasing my pace and slowly pulling her climax from her body. She whimpers and moans, her walls clenching around me deliciously. “Gods, you are so perfect,” I whisper again, gently sucking the sweet spot below her ear. It was taking all my self-control not to finish right now. I slowed but increased the power behind each thrust, rough and strong. 

Her walls spasm as a blissed-out cry falls from her lips as the coil in her belly snaps, opening the floodgates. Slowing down my thrusts, I help her ride out her high, hugging her tight to my body as I release her leg from my punishing grip, rubbing soothingly along her thigh and kissing her shoulder.

“You took me so well, doll. You never cease to amaze me with how well you can take me; I am in awe of you.” I mumble against her skin, running my hands up her belly, resting there while she comes down from her high. “I love you, doll, on and off your period. Now let's get you something to eat, then we can lay in bed for the rest of the day.”

[7thleveldown]

Tumblr for Werewolves

So… If stiles existed you KNOW he would have had a Tumblr. In this essay I will…

Derek walks over to the dining table to pick up his laptop which Stiles had been researching on. Well, research? He's pretty sure this isn't research.

“Stiles, what the hell is this?” Derek gestures to the open webpage on the laptop.

“It's the internet Derek, I know I've explained this to you before.” The smirk from Stiles is so unbelievably arrogant Derek could slap him. But maybe he could have a little fun with this.

“Yes. I am aware,” he says, completely deadpan, “you took great pains with it. Or caused me pain anyway. But I meant this specifically… This… Does not look like pack research. I don't admittedly know what to does look like, but…” he scowled at Stiles 

“What are you…” Stiles muttered as he came back from the kitchen, looking confused, before barking out a laugh. “Nah, man, that's just Tumblr, I was taking a little break from the research to clear my head.”

Derek put on his best (hopefully) confused and grumpy expression at Stiles’ reponse. “But, what… Is it?” Derek saw Peter appear on the sidelines. His ability to pick up on mischief, whether he was creating it or not, was terrifying.

“Dude! Come on! Tumblr? It's probably older than you are!” Stiles laughed and then seeing Derek's face, he pretended to pout. “Aww, did they not have Tumblr for technologically backward werewolves who only want to scowl? Poor sourwolf, you don't know what you've been missing! The fanfiction alone! The memes! The in-jokes!” Stiles was gesticulating more and more wildly, pacing around the room.

“Oh come on Derek, you-” Derek shot Peter a look and a smirk that made Peter falter just a little as he realised what was going on, but not enough for Stiles to notice. “You must remember Tumblr, Laura was always on there.” Derek sent Peter the slightest nod of thanks, and Peter's eyes lit up in glee.

“Laura had Tumblr? Do you know what her username was? We could find it! I could find it, we could see what she…” Stiles trailed off as he realised what he was saying. “You know, I could try, if you wanted me to?” 

Stiles had stopped pacing, his voice softening and his arms wrapped around himself. This had taken a turn Derek had not expected.

“I guess I might be able to remember… Maybe if you explain it to me, because it just seems so…”

Stiles’ face lit up in response. “Course! I mean, we gotta start with bringing you into the 21st Century sometime, or at least the 19th would help, because the whole Heathcliff lurking in shadows thing is kinda old. We need to get you to understand our references!”

“I know who Heathcliff is, if that's any help?” Derek said, trying to sound a little coward and out of his depth. Stiles could be such an ass sometimes, and Derek would get his own back.

“Of course you do, big guy, of course you do.”

So, Derek sits back and makes Stiles try to explain exactly what Tumblr is, in excruciating detail. And then pretends to still not understand it. Peter has had to leave the room several times so he doesn’t burst out in laughter.

“Derek! Come on! This is not that hard! For the love of….” Stiles flounces around the room, getting redder and redder in the face, and even Derek is beginning to break at this.

“Stiles, what was it you were saying about codes? I think I remember something about that…” Peter asks, distracting Stiles’ attention from Derek for a moment.

“Yes! Yep, codes… It's one of those things so people would say a phrase, and it would identify them to other Tumblr users in the real world, but mean nothing to anyone else… it’s um…”

“Stiles, don’t tell me that great brain of yours has forgotten the code? Wasn’t it about liking something?” Peter was not holding back his smirk.

At that moment, in a moment of weakness, Derek replies “I like your shoelaces.” He screws up his face as he realises what he has just said out loud.

“I fucking KNEW IT!” crows Stiles, spinning on the spot to point the finger at Derek. “I will find you in there, you can’t hide from me, there is no getting away from me now, I will find you.”

Derek sighs. Great. “This isn’t Taken, Stiles. Stop trying to channel Liam Neeson.”

The sound that is emitted from Stiles could best be described as a squark. “But you don’t…. But you….” He flails between Derek and Peter, who is laughing so hard he’s struggling to breathe. Stiles spins himself around so much, he ends up making himself dizzy and ends up on the floor with a thump.

Peter stops laughing long enough to glare at Derek. “Did you HAVE to break him? He’s my entertainment!”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

A slurred "I'm okay" is heard from the floor.

[mixsethaddams]

Throwing my hat into the latest trend of Shovel Talk posts. tw reference to past child abuse (not detailed)

Eddie gets the shovel talk from no less than five people.

Dustin, Robin, Erica, Max and Lucas. (Those two came as a pair, as they so often did since the Vecnapocolypse) Actually, technically six, if you count the fact that Dustin kept saying And Will Said...

They all say in and around the same thing. Steve deserves the world, he's been the babysitter for longer than Eddie's been the DM, blah blah blah. Honestly, Eddie's getting a little tired of people assuming he'll hurt Steve and leave him heartbroken. By the time he closed the door after saying goodbye on the final He Means More To Us Than You Do conversation, he was left in no doubt that the kids expected him to fuck up royally and they would not hesitate to choose Steve when (not if, as far as they were concerned) it happened. They would never forgive him. It was good to know where he stood, he guessed.

What Eddie didn't know, was that Steve was getting a few shovel talks of his own.

Wayne was first, obviously. Steve wasn't surprised to be pulled aside at the Byers/Hopper barbecue to listen to some very unsubtle threats about what might happen to him if Eddie came home with so much as a pout Even One Time, Boy, You Hear Me?

More surprising, was Joyce.

Joyce came by one night under the pretence of bringing by some leftover lasagne. Steve offered her a tea and they sat in the kitchen together while she asked polite questions about how things with Eddie were going. When Steve was done telling her all about the constant butterflies in his stomach, she clasped his hand gently across the table.

"I'm happy for you sweetie, I am,"

"Thanks Joy–"

"But you need to understand that Eddie is a fragile boy, and he needs real love, Steve. He's not the type to be happy with a, what do you call it, a fling? He's not the type for that,"

Steve was taken aback.

"This isn't a fling, Joyce,"

"Can you promise me that? I remember him from when he was just a kid and, god, well, I'd hate to see him hurt,"

Steve's mouth was open and closing like a fish, totally at a loss for words.

"Steve, can you promise me that? I know you're grown now and things are different, but I need you to say it for me,"

"I promise, I... I'm not who I used to be,"

Joyce patted his hand.

"Good boy. I better get home,"

And then there was Hopper.

Hopper knocked on the front door of the Harrington house early one Saturday morning, three sharp thuds on the door that made you think, Yup, Cops Are Here.

Steve answered still half asleep, barely aware he'd even pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

Hopper didn't accept the invite to come inside. He noticed Eddie's boots by the door.

"He here?"

"Uh, yeah, has been since yesterday, why? Did someone say he done something?"

"No, he's not who I'm here for,"

"What? I haven't done anything?"

"Good, and I expect you to keep it that way,"

Steve didn't know how to react. His eyes were still adjusting to the daylight and his brain hasn't quite woken up yet.

"Hop, I don't know what you're talking about,"

"El told me that you all know about the night he went to live with his uncle, says he told everyone the basics when Jon was worrying about turning out like Lonnie,"

"Yeah, he told me some more about it after too,"

"Figured he might,"

Steve shuffled from one foot to the other.

"I still don't know why you're here..."

"I was the one who carried him out of that house that night, Steve,"

"Oh,"

Oh indeed. Hopper's voice was gruff and low. Steve was actually nervous.

"I listened to him cry for hours. He couldn't breathe it was so bad. I never wanted to hear another child even speak after having to sit in the room while he told Wayne what went down,"

"I–"

"And I don't think I'll ever be able to sit right with the idea of that kid being sad again, because of someone else messing with him. I never forgot what he sounded like when he cried. Don't make me have to see him cry again, Steve. Do you understand me?"

Steve was stunned. All he could do was nod dumbly. There was no point offering any sort of defence, Hopper obviously wasn't here to listen. He was here to tell. Of all the people Steve might have thought would be on Team Munson, the former chief of police wasn't exactly top of the list. Eddie's distinct lack of criminal record through his teens might have been some indicator though.

Hopper gave Steve a curt nod and turned back down the driveway without another word.

He closed the door and leaned against the wood, letting out a low breath. Eddie appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

"Baby? Who was that?"

"Uh, Hopper..."

Eddie huffed a sleepy laugh.

"Hmm, shit, Law Man swing by to make sure I was behaving myself?"

Steve went to Eddie and pulled him into a tight hug, nuzzling into his hair. He really had no clue, did he?

"He was just checking in,"

Eddie hummed and went towards the kitchen to switch the coffee pot on. He had told Steve about the shovel talks he got from the kids earlier in the week. Trivial threats about leaving Hellfire and never helping him write a song again or going to one of his shows, taking back his Walkie privileges, things that seemed like the end of the world to a group of minors. Eddie had wistfully mentioned that Steve would never have to worry about being on the receiving end of something like that, he didn't think anyone really cared enough. Maybe You'll Get A Weird Look From Wayne, But I Think You're In The Clear, Golden Boy.

Eddie had no idea about the people that were looking out for him without him realising it. It made Steve's heart hurt. He'd half expected Robin and the others to have words with Eddie. It was almost a joke, he hadn't thought twice about it because he just kind of knew it would happen. He knew they cared, and he couldn't imagine how it would feel to be so sure that they didn't. That no one did.

Steve made a promise to himself then and there to never let Eddie feel like no one cared enough ever again, giving himself his very own version of the Don't Hurt Eddie Munson shovel talk.

It was the least Eddie deserved.

(Also posted to my ao3)

[pansy-picnics]

First off I need to just mention that your Uknighted dream art is top tier elite and i am in love. Like you have no idea.

Okay, now thats said, do you have any soft ot3 headcanons/scenes that you can imagine happening but can’t figure out how to write etc etc.? 💕

God is all of them an option bc the answer is all of them

I SWEAR I. HAVE SO MANY IDEAS AND THOUGHTS TAKING UP SPACE IN MY BRAIN (Both for ukd and for the entire family tbh) that i just CANNOT bring myself to draw or write or anything. If i had the time to be able to draw everything that popped in my head it would be OVER for yall i stg. And then theres my in progress fic i have up right now which i last updated in like (checks notes) January but i swear i’ve been THINKING about updating it again and that counts right

- Ummm. this is just something i find very funny but i absolutely love the idea that before they “Formally” announce their relationship, the public have just been spreading rumors left and right about the princess’s “affair”. cass and rapunzel somehow NEVER notice this but for a while it seems like eugene cant go ANYWHERE without someone either awkwardly being like “Soooo how are things going with the princess ^_^;;;” or just straight up asking “Hey is your wife cheating on you?” with no hesitation.

and eugene, being the attention whore he is obviously just Went with it and was like “Well yeah duh. Who do you think set them up”

EVERYONE GOES CRAZY.

before long literally EVERYONE has heard about it. rapunzel’s fucking Parents have heard about it. people in other KINGDOMS have heard about it. Meanwhile eugene’s having the time of his Life. He’s got disguises just to go in and listen in on the servants’ gossip. at this point he’s just started Making shit up and every day he’s spreading a proposition thats somehow even more absurd than the last. Most of them don’t even make sense. Like “Oh yeah no the reason rapunzel and cass are always sneaking off together isn’t because they’re having a steamy love affair it’s actually because they’ve been making blood sacrifices to the underworld to make sure zhan tiri never returns. Just girl things yk?”

“No see you’ve got it all wrong thats not cassandra at all. That’s shorty. He and rapunzel are having a book club together. It’s not going very well because shorty keeps eating all the books.” Or his personal favorite, “Wait you thought RAPUNZEL was the one having the affair?” gets them EVERY TIME.

Cass and rapunzel finally declare things officially only for everyone to become even MORE confused and they finally realize eugenes been fueling the fire for the past 3 months and he had just Assumed they were already aware of it

eugene: ….Wait you guys didnt know about that?

raps: i

raps: NO????

eugene:

eugene: um. Oops

cass: THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN “OOPS”?????

- this is kind of random but i PROMISE its going somewhere bear with me. In my head eugene is NOT the captain of the guard because a character becoming a cop is literally a fate worse than death. instead i like to imagine he does some kind of social work and is also an author…Eugene has a rlly strong connection to literature and is a great storyteller, hes got a flair for the dramatic and a strong imagination and seeing how much the flynn rider books meant to him in his childhood, i think he’d absolutely want to create something like that for other people 🥹

Anyways one of my favorite ideas w them is a modern au where rapunzel and eugene are both starving artists who are making a webcomic together…Eugene is still trying to publish his first novel and is writing for the comic in the meantime. theyre aspiring towards turning it into a graphic novel. Cass is literally just forcing everyone around her to read it. You’ve already read it? Read it again /J. She’s their number one hypeman but she’s trying to act sooo chill about it to keep up her Cool stone cold butch aesthetic. She’s like going to cons with them and hands out business cards and helps sell merch and she has a side account on twitter where she gets into heated arguments with anyone who hateposts about it.

Bonus points: it’s a fantasy comic about a lost princess, her knight girlfriend and her rogue boyfriend and is loosely a reference to the events of the canon show

- OH OH something that DEFINITELY fits this category has to be the girls taking eugene to the lagoon for the first time…….I think cass and rapunzel still spend a lot of dates there just the two of them, and no matter what it is very much Their Spot ™, but after things become official it just. Doesn’t really feel right to keep it exclusively between them anymore. i have a LOTTTT of thoughts on this…..rapunzel bouncing around and showing everything to him and cass just being dragged along for the ride…picnics together by the water while cass and raps are eagerly telling him all the stories of what he missed out on. it’s their quiet place i think they escape to whenever they don’t want to be bothered at the castle LOL. eugene officiates the cassunzel wedding there….. not to mention if/when they have kids 🥹 Augh. They make sooo many memories there i think🫶🫶🫶

- Not a specific scene so much as just a silly hc but rapunzel LOVES it when they “fight” over her. Usually it’s just a playful thing and rapunzel finds it so cute and endearing. They have the exact same banter every time and the same fake “duel” for her hand and raps will NEVER get tired of it

- oh and SPA DAYS. God cassandra’s self care routines by herself have always been SHIT. I love that girl but i think she absolutely reeks. Her hair looks like something died in it and whenever it gets too long she just grabs the nearest sharp object and cuts it off in one swoop. Eugene and rapunzel are UTTERLY horrified by this and they do not let that shit fly as soon as she’s living with them. They have little self care nights at least once a week, sometimes just with the three of them and sometimes the rest of the family gets into it too, it depends on the day. eugene helps do her hair for her and they pick out all sorts of fancy products for her skin and her curls and just absolutely SPOIL her. at first shes kinda whiny about it but once she realizes how much better she feels on a day to day basis she reluctantly apologizes for ever doubting them

[touteslespetiteschosess]

Love To Hate Me || Kylian Mbappé

Plot: Kylian had it all figured out, he'd finally move away from PSG after one more year in red and blue, so why did this random woman have to come and ruin everything for him?

Warnings: Kylian being very mildly sexist (for character growth of course<3)

Word Count: 1276

Masterlist

"But you leaked it?"

"No, I didn't."

Kylian's face was a flat line, though with every word she said, his lips inched closer to a frown. His hazel eyes were fixed on her, sat across from him.

"Your team did and given that the main man in your team is your father, I'd say you were well aware it was going to happen."

Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, each strand neatly slicked back. Surely that hurt her head, maybe it restricted blood flow to her brain- maybe that's why she was such a dick!

His life had been perfectly planned out, his career finally making sense, looking like it was going somewhere. Then, the new manager had arrived and so had his stupid, new PR head. What had been wrong with the old head of PR? Nothing! Sure, he was elderly, out of touch, and not very good at his job and his replacement was young and sharp and beautiful and... that wasn't relevant to her work.

How dare she barge in here in her six-inch heels and her tight, tight blouse and tarnish his name? Who even needed heels that high for work?

He was Kylian Mbappé; he'd given everything for this club and for his country and when he'd written that letter all he'd wanted was a peaceful exit from the team. Now, not only the Parisian media but all media in France and worldwide hated him. Maybe the only people who liked him right now were Spanish journalists.

"Kylian, I admire you greatly. You are a brilliant player and I know your worth." Enrique, the coach, said from his seat beside y/n, "So do my superiors and surely you're aware that we really can't let you go on a free transfer."

"I didn't ask to go on a free transfer, I just said I am not willing to extend my contract." he defended.

"But you want to play until the end of the season when your contract runs out, and no team in their right mind would therefore buy you weeks before you become a free agent."

Y/n spoke quickly yet clearly, sure in her words and sure in herself. When she finished, her lips, painted a dark rose, settled in a line, as she blinked once, twice, her long lashes fluttering.

"Last time I checked, dealing with transfers wasn't in your job description," he bit back.

"No, I'm in charge of the team's image which your transfers are really tarnishing, so you've kind of dragged them to my attention yourself."

"I told you, I didn't leak the letter."

"Oh, well if you say you didn't, you must be telling the truth. I will get my goons to slowly torture each of your teammates until one of them admits to the crime."

Her composed watch didn't shift from him. He glared at her. If looks could kill.

"That won't be necessary, Miss Briggs. Kylian, we have two options here." Enrique said, calmly, "Option one, you and your posse agree to start negotiations with us for a contract extension and-"

"I choose option two." Kylian cut in, bluntly, scowling at the entire room.

"Great. So, option two, we'll exclude you from the squad for the Japan tour and you can spend the Summer training with the loft." Enrique declared, standing up and gathering his files from the desk, "Great talk. Very productive."

As the coach exited, his team leaving with him, Kylian sat there dumbfounded. The only person who remained in the room was y/n, as she jotted something down in her notebook. Finishing writing, she snapped the cover shut and slotted her pen into her blouse's chest pocket. His eyes followed it. Glancing up, she watched him watching her for a couple of seconds before she stood up.

"So, that's it, I'm just fucking cut from the squad?" he seethed.

She nodded, easily humming, "Mhm. What did you expect?"

"You know I love this club. You and Enrique can't just march in here and bench me. I'm Kylian Mbappé."

"I didn't bench you." she scoffed, starting for the door.

"Please, I don't know who you are but for some reason, Enrique listens to what you say and I know you had a hand in this. I don't know why he trusts your opinions since you don't even know football, but stay out of my way, okay?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, spinning around slowly, her mouth slightly agape, though her lips curled up ever so slightly in a way that told him he was a dead man walking.

"Luis respects what I say because I'm good at my job. I know that you're not used to working alongside women and maybe your fragile ego can't handle being booted out of the squad but you brought this on yourself, Mbappé. I don't work for you or Luis, I work for Paris Saint-Germain and I'll do what's best for the club. So, here's my advice, from one master of their field to another, get your shit together and sign a new contract or come September time you might find yourself at a club you like a whole lot less than this one. How does the Qatari league sound? Your whole internalised chauvinism thing will go over a treat there. Like one of the locals already!"

With that, she stormed out of the door, her hips swaying, and he was truly alone in the huge meeting room. Hesitantly, he pulled out his phone and quickly punched in a Google search: chauvinism definition.

chauvinism: excessive or prejudiced support for one's own cause or group, in particular male prejudice against women

He frowned, surely that was a bit far. He didn't hate her because she was a woman. He hated her because she was ruining his life. That had nothing to do with her gender. Well, maybe his burning desire for her contributed to his hatred. He'd never hated the old head of PR this much and maybe that was because he was old and wrinkled and didn't wear blouses that tight or skirts that tight or watch him with eyes like that and-

No, he wasn't attracted to her. Well, not like that. Yes, she was a very attractive woman, that was a fact, but he knew lots of attractive women. He wasn't attracted to her, he could just appreciate that she was, well, attractive and- God, what was he doing? Why were his thoughts spiralling like this, perv?

Maybe he just hated her because she was loud and arrogant and seemed to think Kylian was the enemy and that in vanquishing him, she was doing Paris, nay France, a great service. Noble warrior.

Well, she'd made a big mistake.

Maybe journalists and fans would turn against him for a couple of weeks, caught up in the excitement of his gripping transfer saga. That didn't matter because at the end of the day, he was Kylian Mbappé. He'd lead France to that trophy in 2018, even if he'd been a teenager, and he'd scored three goals and a fucking penalty in the world cup final after that. The country wouldn't turn against him for long, that was for sure.

She'd tried to turn him into the enemy but all she'd really done was make the biggest mistake of all. She'd made herself his enemy, and she'd sorely regret that.

Groaning, he stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he did and stormed out of the meeting room. He wasn't leaving and he wasn't signing that new contract. Nobody could make him: not Enrique, not Al-Khelaifi, and most certainly not y/n.

Masterlist Chapter 2

[dramionestills]

Dramione month day 12 (yes, i did two of this one): fake dating

“Shitshitshitshit” she slid behind a pillar as quickly as she could in the godforsaken high heels Lavender and Pansy had styled her in. (“They’re fuck me heels, Granger, you have to wear them!” “She’s right, Mione, plus they make your legs look fantastic!” She’s wearing a ball gown, no one can see how her legs look, so why she agreed to the shoes was beyond her)

With her back flush against the cool marble she leaned to the left and strained her neck to see if she had managed to shake Cormac. She couldn’t see him nearby, but could not be sure he was gone as there were too many people mingling and pairing up on the dancefloor.

“Granger, may I inquire as to what exactly you are doing?” the familiar drawl jolted Hermione from her search.

“Merlin, Malfoy! You startled me.” Her hand against her chest to calm her heartbeat after the, not altogether unpleasant, surprise.

“If you must know, I am hiding from Cormac.”

“McLaggen? What does he want?” he grumbled as he brought the flute of champagne to his lips.

“Idiot seems to believe I am finally going to give him a chance and has been following me around all evening.” She huffed.

“Well, seems like he’s gone elsewhere. You can come out of hiding now.”

“Right, of course. Ugh, I am dying for some of that Champagne. Had to leave my flute when I fled.” And right as she was walking back to the main dancefloor she spotted Cormac, who had clearly spotted her and was making his way straight to her.

She froze for a millisecond before making the very rash decision of throwing her arm out and grabbing onto Malfoy’s dress robes’ sleeve.

“I beg your pardon? Unhand me this inst..”

“Please, please you have to pretend to be my date. He’s coming here and can’t deal with him. So please, pretend to be my boyfriend for the rest of the night?” Her eyes had taken on a desperate look but as she spoke she had siddled closer to Draco and was now holding onto his lapel, gazing up at him. It looked like an intimate conversation rather than the rather crude negotiation that it was.

Draco smirked.

“You’ll owe me for this.” he whispered as he grabbed onto her waist and pulled her even closer. He smelled divine, she would need to ask what cologne he wore after this.

“Yes, yes, whatever you want.” He raised an eyebrow. “Within reason, you prick”.

“Very well, here goes nothing” his lips brushed against hers when Cormac finally reached them.

“Hermione there you are! And you are with… Malfoy?”

Hermione’s breath was becoming shallower. She had underestimated how much she would react to Draco’s proximity. When had she slung her arm around his neck?

Despite the rising flush on her cheeks and the way her brain was refusing to cooperate with her, she tilted her head towards McLaggen and responded:

“Yes, I’m with Draco. Have been for a few months now, right, love?”

“Mm. quite right. Best decision I ever made was to ask you out.” His voice was rough and he was speaking directly into her neck, causing goosebumps to arise. She would not be surprised to find her knickers ruined by the end of this conversation.

“Oh, I wasn't aware of this development. Quite alright. Have a fine evening.” And if Cormac sounded confused and looked disappointed by this neither Draco nor Hermione took notice. They were back to looking into each other’s eyes and the heat in their gazes was unmistakable.

“So.. just fake dating for a night, Granger?”

“Perhaps I can be convinced to reconsider the “fake” part of this arrangement”

[kydrogendragon]

Oooooh, Sex Professor Hob and/or Porn Star Hob, please!

Yesss, I love both of these honestly, so have snippets of both! I think, technically, these both came from asks on Gabe's blog. The Porn Star one was an older one at this point. I'll have to see about tracking down the links. Since these are longer, I'll shove them below a Read More.

Porn Star Hob:

"Dream?" Hob asks, eyes wide as he watches the King of Dreams and Nightmares slowly slide to his knees in front of Hob's naked form. A set of cool and pale hands rest on the dip of his hips, thumbs caressing the tan skin beneath. Before he can get another word out, Dream's warm tongue reaches out, licking up his length. He moans, hands darting forward to claw into Dream's shoulders. A few heads turn in the studio at the noise. Hob's cheeks warm, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than he ever has before in this line of work. "Dream, what are you—" "I would attend to you personally, if you are amenable," Dream says, the tip of Hob's cock resting on those pretty red lips as he stares up through his lashes. It's a sight that just about breaks him. His grip tightens, closing his eyes so he doesn't cum all over his lover's face right here and now and ruin the entire shoot. Though, if he's honest, Dream could probably get him hard within minutes again if he tried. Hob's pretty sure his body's become hardwired to respond to Dream and that damn smirk of his by this point. Taking a breath, Hob opens his eyes again. Dream sits, resting on his knees, still looking up at him with that intense gaze Hob loves so much. But he doesn't move further, clearly waiting for Hob's permission to continue. "I—God's wounds, Dream. Yeah, of course, I'm always amenable, but—" Hob licks his lips. "—I just can't cum yet." Dream smirks. "I am well aware of what this job I would take would entail, Hob Gadling." As if to ensure Hob believed him, Dream moves a hand from Hob's hip and circles his fingers around the base of his cock and squeezes. The pressure is perfect and taunting and Hob's beginning to fear for his sanity. Normally, the fluffer's that he worked with would either give him a simple handie or hold him in their mouths. It worked, kept him hard, but that was about it. With Dream here, now, looking like the porn industry's twinky wet dream—ha—yeah . . . Hob's fucked. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the rest of the shoot at this point.

Sex Professor Hob:

(For some context, this one features Ace Dream who's working through his own internalized acephobia [kinda] and Hob's his tutor [who also fucks his willing clients])

“Who's making you smile so much?” “It is no one.” ‘As you deserve too. You getting that cake you talked about?’ “No one my ass. You get a new girlfriend and not tell me?” Jessamy reaches for his phone, but he pulls it closer to his chest, ignoring the blush at his cheeks. “I am still quite single, thank you for the reminder.” He sighs, clicking the screen off. He will send Hob a picture once it is made as he promised. “It was just my history tutor. He sent me a picture of his cat.” Jessamy rolls her eyes and leans back into the seat. “Should have guessed it was a cat. Makes much more sense in hindsight.” Dream shoots her a look which does nothing but make her giggle. “Who're you seeing by the way? I've got that Early Asian history class on the docket next semester and I know I'll be desperately in need of help.” “His name is Hob Gadling. I think you would like him. He's an exceptional tutor.” Jessamy's eyes go wide. "Oh my god," she says, slamming her drink onto the table. Dream is grateful for the lid lest it end up all over him instead. "The sex professor?" Dream's brain stops. "The what?" "Gadling! Colloquially known as the Sex Professor? Oddly attractive tutor? Does English and History 'officially' but most people go to him for the sex?" Dream feels as if he's been tipped into an alternate reality. "Professor Gadling. Hob Gadling. Sleeps with his clients? His younger clients" "Okay, you make it sound bad when you put it that way. Never heard a bad word about him in that regard. People say it's always very consensual and that he's also a very good lay. Lucienne's gone to him." "Lucienne has slept with him?” "Yup! Told me it's where she learned some of her moves." "I do not need to hear this." "Are you gonna sleep with him? Lots of people claim he's the best they've ever had. He's apparently as good of a teacher in bed as he is behind the desk." "Jessamy—" "You could probably use some stress relief. Maybe he'll give you a reward for passing that test of yours?" "Jessamy, please stop." She blinks and raises her hands in surrender. "Okay, I hear you. Topic: dropped." "Thank you." He folds his head into his arms where they rest on the table, trying not to think too hard about everything he just learned from Jessamy in a matter of two minutes. Of course he'd manage to find the one (he hopes it's just one) university level tutor that also offers "sex education" on the side. He can hear Desire's voice in his head already. “Dream!” His name is called from the counter. He takes a deep breath in before extricating himself from the booth. He grabs their items, his own drink secured between his chest and arm, and sits back down. The crepe cake does look delicious, but now as he looks down at it, all he can think of is what Jessamy had said. Had Hob been trying to coerce Dream into sleeping with him? Is that why he was texting him things unrelated to their sessions? He takes a sip of his coffee and tries to focus on Jessamy's trailing story about the latest art department drama. He never sends Hob a picture of that cake.

Wip List

[kit-williams]

Barn Anon. Pre-heresy Angron but my headcanon is the bond sort of numbs the effects of the Nails. However it’s proximity based and the moment he gets too far the Nails are back in full force. How much it numbs the Nails? Who knows! Some days it’s better, other days it’s worse.

Some days he pities you. This poor human that has to deal with him. He’s fully aware that he’s more than likely the worst guest, or rather housemate given how often he’s at your place now. Other days he’s lost in the haze of anger and fury. Then there’s the days that he feels like himself, his true self, the Angron before the Nails.

He wants to beg for forgiveness for the things he has said and done, wants to chase you off before the Nails’ influence creeps back in and consume him once more. He knows he’s a mess and he knows you deserve better. Somehow you haven’t run from him, you’re still here and patiently supporting and helping him, ever patient and kind. He has seen his World Eaters, the ones before and after this…. Heresy that they speak of.

When the Nails’ influence are at its lowest, he feels the guilt, regret and self-loathing once more. His World Eaters deserved a better Primarch, just as you deserve a better bond-partner.

DID I JUST MAKE/CONFIRM THE HUSBANDRY AU IS A FIXIT FIC?

WELL FUCK YOU I LIKE FIXING ANGRON

Angron is interested in this strange world... half successful of removing nails from his sons just getting a few out would be better then nothing at all. Given who he is and what he is... several apotocaries are joining to watch the surgery... it seems none of his apothocary sons joined him here as he is certain they are the ones to put the nails into their brothers.

He watches you knit as today is a day that they don't dig into his brain... the guilt eats at him and yet you seem to know when he is deep in his thoughts. "You nervous about Surgery Angron?" You ask looking up at him as your hands do their practiced motions.

"No." He says looking down at her. "Why do you keep me around?"

You make a dismissve noise, "Why do you say it like that? Like you're some animal unworthy of a kind hand?"

"Because I am."

"You're not. Sure you can say you don't deserve it but I'm going to overrule you on that."

He lets out a wicked noise not exactly a laugh but not something dismissive either, "Mouthy little creature aren't you?"

"I aim to please Angron."

Before he can say something a nurse walks out, "We're ready."

"I'll be nearby." You reply.

And all Angron can think is he hopes he either wakes up with less pain or doesn't wake up at all.

[youcouldmakealife]

Fic snippet, Fiona&Holden(/James); from the series that never was

So one of my favourite things is when characters twist out of my grasp and announce themselves to be something different than I initially thought they were. I absolutely love it. The moments I'm aware that I am not in control of the story are some of the very best ones as a writer, because I don't know what's coming, and that's exciting.

But it's also annoying as hell. Because everything I've written that comes next? Yeah, it's not canon anymore. Of all my series, Cards on the Table had the most material already written before I started to post the series, some of it occurring significantly later in the narrative, because Holden came easy, but James was proving recalcitrant, so I wrote a lot of scenes, mostly dialogue (dialogue almost always comes first for me), trying to get my finger on his pulse.

And not a bit of it is canon anymore, even though it's still the same Holden, and mostly the same James (I think the biggest pivot point was when I realized that at his core, James isn't driven by anger, as I originally thought. It looks like that on the surface, especially at the beginning of the series, but it's not anger, it's irritability from being constantly fucking overstimulated and exhausted. He's Fed Up. And okay, yes, angry, but that is a Holden Chase specific trigger he's responding to, not his general state of being.)

ANYWAY.

This scene was jossed a long time ago, but I held onto it, because some scenes you're just fond of. And I'm sharing it for the same reason.

I meant to post this after the 'Fiona knows' reveal but it completely slipped my brain until now.

This is completely AU, thanks to James pulling a Bryce on me, but in another universe, just slightly different, Fiona still makes sure her knowing is a mic drop moment.

(Context for the scene, he has told her he's been fucking a teammate, because he's the same as he was from the start, and so is his brain-to-mouth filter, but he hasn't identified who)

(Forgive me, this preamble is longer than the fic snippet)

“How long did we go out, exactly?” Holden asks.

Fiona’s quiet. “Uh,” she says. “Let me see, it was right before prom—“

Holden winces. She forgives, but she does not forget.

“Six months?” Fiona says. “Give or take?”

“Okay,” Holden says. Still his longest relationship, then. He’s got time.

“Share with the class?” Fiona says.

“Can’t,” Holden says.

“Oh, it’s mystery man,” Fiona says flatly.

“Sorry,” Holden says. He really would tell her if he could.

“Minnesotan Mystery Man,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, I—“ Holden says. “Wait, what?”

“Captain of the Whalers Mystery Man,” Fiona says.

They actually only have one Minnesotan, as far as Holden’s aware, so she made her point the first time, but he does appreciate the commitment to the bit.

“How’d you know?” Holden says.

“Babe,” Fiona says. “You are not a subtle person.”

“I think I’m very subtle,” Holden says, but he can’t even finish the sentence without laughing at himself.

“And you stopped complaining about Erickson right around the time you started fucking a teammate,” Fiona says.

“I still complain about him,” Holden protests. “Have you known this whole time?”

“Pretty much,” Fiona says.

“Well,” Holden says. “Fuck.”