#is apple predictive text okay

[boop-le-snoot]

masterlist

untitled

I just had this vivid scene play out in my brain. Dropped to my knees in a local chain grocery store, had to pretend I was grabbin the bootleg brand chips from the bottom shelf. I'm definitely normal about this. Yea, I'm so abso-fucking-lutely normal about this.

So what if I'm ovulatin'? It ain't me sittin' here clenching my fuckin' thighs, no ma'am, nu-uh. Even my predictive text talks like Daryl now- okay, I may have a tiny little problem. I hope I never, never ever get the chance to look Norman Reedus in the eye.

4.5k words. VERY VERY NSFW. Just sweet and a little rough monkey lovin' where Daryl enjoys something for the simple sake of it feeling good. A little undercooked plot-wise but the smut has been grilled to a perfect medium-rare, slightly juicy, collard greens and mashed potatoes on the side with the mushroom sauce. Two packs of cigarettes later (he owes my lungs an apology),

Imagine you and Daryl going out on a - run, scouting mission, whatever - and hunkering down in a secure cabin for the night. It's summer, it's hot and stuffy inside, but luckily, the cabin has running water, even if it's ice-cold. So you wash up and apply some of the essential-oils-homemade-perfume-thing that someone at the community made for you.

You change into your PJs and come downstairs to amuse yourself til the sun sets completely.

He's smoking next to a crack in the boarded up windows and you, being on friendly terms, banter a bit and bum a cigarette off him. He doesn't mind when you use one of his knees to sit down. As you two joke, you ruffle his hair slightly, not missing the way his eyes narrow in pleasure.

That sparks a conversation about letting oneself to feel good things.

You say that it's different for women because they get judged for wanting to experience pleasure just for the sake of it and Daryl says he always thought it to be stupid. You say that he's not exactly the resident expert on that, which briefly makes his natural competitiveness overshadow his shyness and self-loathing.

Petulantly, he places your hand back in his hair and stresses the purring growl of pleasure as your scratch his scalp and let his moist tresses glide through tour fingers.

You laugh and say you're gonna braid his hair one day, in jest, and he growls back "yer pushin' yer luck, pretty girl," but his smile is hidden rather badly.

In revenge, you stomp out the cigarette and straddle his lap fully, attacking his head with a massage worthy of a spa parlour professional.

He grips your waist as his head hangs forward, a low rumble coming from his mouth as his nose comes that much closer to your neck.

Daryl takes a deep breath, and sensing you unbothered by it, says "ya smell good. like apple pie."

"Oh," he doesn't miss the slight hitch in your breath, "'member when I fixed up the 'lectric in number twelve? they paid me in some essential oil perfume they made. feels nice to... not smell death all day, every day. 's a nice change."

He nods, agreeing, remembering your strong feelings about doing some things just because they feel good. Not because it's useful or to survive, but just for a surge of happy hormones in your bloodstream.

Despite his best efforts to distract his body, one wiggle from you is all it takes for his excitement to be obvious. He freezes, but you adjust simply, politely, keeping your weight off his boner. Confused by your chill attitude, he lifts his head, forcing you to brush all of his hair out of his face.

Daryl feels vulnerable and exposed.

Your eyes slide down to his lips, once, twice, but you - just as stubborn as him - pick them back up. As he parts them to run the tip of his tongue over them in hopes of finding something to say, he notices it fully.

He notices the flush of your skin. His hands move on your waist, provoking another blink-and-youll-miss-it twitch of your fingertips and toes.

Gathering his ducks in a row, Daryl leans into you - your neck, not your lips, not yet - softly running the tip of his nose along your collarbone and up to your jaw.

"That feel good?" Voice gravelly low, it sends reverb through your chest.

"Yeah," you breathe quietly, your fingers in his hair shaking slightly. You lean more into him and that is all the encouragement he needs for the time being.

"Wanna make ya feel good," he admits, dry lips and scratchy stubble gliding along the length of your jaw. His breath is hot on the shell of your ear. "Can I do that, suga'-pie?"

"Mhm," you respond, his cheek now against yours - you rub into him gently, like a cat. The affectionate headbutt makes him chuckle quietly in his throat.

He continues nosing around your neck, feeling the muscles in your back and your thighs unclench one by one. You're practically on top of him, almost right there, over the throbbing erection in his pants, and he feels your control slip away bit by bit.

The flimsy wooden chair you two are sitting on creaks; Daryl doesn't place much trust in it. Planting his feet wide, securing his position, he inadvertently lands your cunt right over his cock. Both of you shudder and hiss at the contact.

The damn chair creaks again.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding down to your ass, hoisting you up and urging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he stands up, sending the raggedy chair clattering to the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat, your hands grab at his shoulders, kneading into the meat there. A few steps later, both of you land on the couch heavily; it creaks, too, but your legs have room and your body can finally relax against Daryl as you stabilise yourself on the surface.

He's panting, open-mouthed, looking at you with those stormy blue eyes, searching for something in your earnest, open face.

The corners of your mouth tug up.

He runs his palm over your back, settling on your nape to pull you into him. Your mouths connect; the kiss is slow and unhurried as you take the time to explore each other's mouths. There is no need to rush, no risk of being caught or ambushed; it really feels good. Following someone's advice for once, Daryl lets himself become utterly lost in the sweet kiss.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging softly every now and then, tipping the cup of him ever-so-slightly for short groans to spill into the kiss. Sometimes, you let your hands traverse the hills of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, fingertips poking around the collar of it.

It's overstimulating but at the same time, it's not enough. To give you a hint, Daryl timidly strokes the single bare inch of skin between your shirt and your pants, feeling the goosebumps even through the thick, calloused skin of his working hands.

The way your hips respond: restless and fluid, pressing into him just that much closer, prompts him to slide his hands further under your shirt, mapping the bony ridges of your spine. The skin along it is sensitive on any mammal, that much he knows, so he expects the twitch, expects the breathy moan leaving your lips; he revels in it, the kiss growing humid and sloppy.

Your hands slip into his shirt, finally, your warm palms on his hot skin. He's burning up inside out and you're- you're diligently adding fuel and accelerant to the fire. Blunt nails scratching over his uneven skin, you snag his bottom lip on your teeth as moisture gathers in the corners of your mouths.

The need for oxygen is strong.

Daryl inhales deep as he rests his forehead against yours.

Both of you are panting. Necking like horny teenagers, not a care in the world, no worry for tomorrow; it's near impossible to focus on anything else but the pulsating need at the spots where your bodies are pressed together.

It's all too much but neither of you want it to stop.

"Holy shit," your awed mumble causes Daryl to smirk lightly; as you shift in place, he swears he can smell how wet you are. His jeans must've gotten ruined by now, if not by you then by the weeping of his own cock.

It feels almost regretful to proceed. This exact feeling, if someone could figure out how to bottle it, would have people sellin' their soul for it, Daryl is damn sure.

It's the moment before lightning spears open the stuffy air of a muggy, stormy day. The millisecond before a heavily pregnant cloud gives birth to a solid wall of ice-cold rain; the blink of skies as they generously cool the overheated earth, filling up its parched cracks with invigorating liquid.

"Fuck," Daryl groans, tossing his head back onto the backrest of the couch, watching you through lidded eyes, "whatchu doin' to me, girl?"

You offer him a shaky, sheepish grin before your lust takes over your senses, pushing you back up to him. Your mouth connects with his neck, suckling, licking, nipping at the caramel skin there.

Daryl tastes of cheap soap and clear sweat, that musky scent of gasoline and leather unfurling into notes of pinewood and smoke as you nose deeper; right next to his ear, tickled by his hair, he smells and tastes like the best dessert at the carnival inside the town fair.

A little greasy and drenched in spices. You can't get enough of him. Opening your mouth, you stick your tongue out flat and lick.

Daryl groans. It's open-mouthed and loud. His hands grab your hips firmly, dragging you over the tent in his pants.

Both of you hiss at the friction.

Your knees wobble as your stance widens in an attempt to cover more surface are, to bring the feeling closer to your clit. There's at least four layers of fabric between your skin and his and it is something that is so sweetly, arduously annoying.

He pushes down again, harder this time, offering another delicious groan that you can't help but swirl in your mouth and recreate. The noise attracts his attention; Daryl watches you, watches your face, the flush on your chest, your heaving breasts. Like many men, he licks his lips utterly unintentionally when his eyes settle on your hard nipples.

Inwardly, you find enough clarity of mind to chuckle. Men and breasts nevel fail to amuse you when placed in close proximity. You push them outwards and his mouth is immediately right there, shirt and all, rolling a stiff nipple gently between his teeth.

The soft, damp cotton adds an edge to it; you feel your underwear slide over your cunt, the fabric absolutely saturated with your arousal.

Daryl's hands knead your ass as he takes in his fill of your breasts.

"That's, fuck," you pant, needing him to know, "that's really fuckin' good."

"Yeah?" He groans wetly before taking in as much of your breast as he can fit in your mouth; there's no finesse to it, just raw, unadulterated need.

"Uh-uh," you nod: his eagerness is what takes the cake.

Daryl tugs your shirt up; up and over your head and fuck knows where it flies, forgotten the moment his lips are back on one nipple, his fingers on the other. He rolls, he bites, he sucks.

Your breasts are wet with spit and sweat.

His breath ghosts over the damp areas, pebbling the tender bud to a state almost frigid.

You moan, loudly, wetly and openly. You gasp, you squirm, anything to quell the restlessness. It's like an army of fire ants trotting their primal, tribal dance under your skin, reducing you to a disoriented mess with a one-track mind. Your fingertips are pale where you hold onto Daryl in a feeble attempt to ground yourself.

He's smirking when he surfaces up. There's spit glistening on his chin, his lips are puffy, the deepest, most delicious shade of maroon. It's obvious the state of your undress and the intensity of your want is echoed by him.

"Feel good?" He has the audacity! to ask.

"Yeah," your response is lackluster in words but the tone and the pleading expression on your face conveys it all: your desire, your desperation.

With you on top of him, the only relief to your aching cunt so far has been provided by his bulge rubbing against your clothed slit. It's not enough, it's not even nearly enough.

Daryl's biceps bulge as he effortlessly lifts you up, "c'mere," placing you back-to-his-chest.

Your legs fall open on your own accord, hanging limply over his muscular thighs. The meat of his cock digs into the cheeks of your ass; you feel it twitch along with you when Daryl's thick palm cups the mound of your pussy in a gesture both tender and possessive.

"Fuckin' shit," his low mumble travels down the shell of your ear, "this all fr'me, sugar?"

"Yes," you breathe out as he slides his middle and ring fingers up and down your slit. There is no hiding it: your cunt had soaked right through your panties and the cotton of your pajama pants.

With some more maneouvering that comes unfairly easy to him (in your opinion), your pants join your t-shirt somewhere in the deepest pits of hell (a far corner of the room). The panties stay on and for that, you're grateful - a little - as the simplest, straightest of touches on the sensitive meat of your cunt feels like clear honey being poured over a-

Daryl taps two fingers at the top of your slit, right where you outer lips part to reveal your swollen clit.

"Fuck!" You yelp.

"So responsive," he mumbles. He sounds fascinated as he spreads his fingers, the rough tips gliding along the skin and the thick meat sliding over the soaked fabric. You quiver and he can't resist running his mouth, "that feel good?" His smirk is a little mocking, a little breathless.

Your resolve hops between strangling Daryl and begging him, the rabbit of your heart leaping in your chest, doing a binky when your lover shows you mercy by moving aside the sticky fabric covering your crotch. It immediately cools and you wince as it touches the hot flesh of your thigh.

Daryl's inhale is sharp, deep and loud as he dips the same two thick fingers inside your slit.

You're swollen and so wet, its practically dripping. Your clit twtiches under his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales his disbelief, "you like that, huh? This all for me?" The question proves to be rhetoric when the arm that holds you by your waist tightens on you and Daryl grinds his hips up into the small of your back.

The pitch of his voice drops impossibly low, "bet you taste sweet," as he scoops up some of the fluid, fingers snagging on the snug ring of your entrance, before bringing them up to his lips. He noisily sucks your cunt off his fingers, slurping, "fuck yes!"

Your eyes flutter shut as you cunt pitifully clenches around nothing, no doubt making an ever bigger mess between your legs and on his jeans. Your soft whine is an earnest compliment to the man doing his best to clean up your mess.

Daryl repeats the motion several times, scooping up the sticky droplets of your cunt juice, immediately sticking his fingers in his mouth.

You feel a little sad you can't see it, but your imagination supplements that which is lacking. You imagine his brow, furrowed; his eyes, closed; the tight 'o' of his lips around his fingers. Your cunt flexes again, spasming.

Daryl's reward for it is to circle your clit with a featherlight touch of a single finger. His breath is heavy as he reaches lower, same finger sliding to your entrance: not breaching it, just circling, like a predator circles its prey. He must have the patience of a saint.

You, however, do not. Your hips have a mind of their own as they arch into him, your cunt so empty, it practically hurts.

"Tell me whatcha need," Daryl orders, the low of his voice seasoned with a pinch of pride and a pinch of desperation, "tell me, sugar."

"Inside," you keen, out of your mind, "I want you. Inside." There's drool gathering in the corners of your mouth.

Daryl obliges, but not before lubricating the entirety of his thick finger by sliding it over the outside of your cunt, causing another loud keen to fall from your lips.

When he pushes in, you swear you could cry from the sheer relief of finally getting something for your hungry cunt to wrap around.

Experimentally, he drags his finger in and out, slowly, tense as he watches your reaction, before adding in another. To say they're big would be an understatement: long and thick and textured, it's everything your cunt has craved for the past some minutes. Daryl pumps them in and out as you pant through the new sensation, acutely aware of the loud squelches coming from your hole with every plunge.

Your swollen lips and throbbing walls attempt to keep him hostage with every pull.

Daryl curses, something completely unintelligible, his rough voice completely lost to lust. "Gonna cum for me, eh?" He breathes as the contractions of your cunt become quicker, more rhythmic.

Your neglected clit pulses, your nipples are stiff as rocks, your breathing is uneven and shallow. You couldn't find your voice even if you tried; you don't try at all, letting your body do the talking. You fuck back onto his fingers to the best of your limited ability to move as short, loud, primal noises choke their way up your throat.

The throb of his cock against the small of your back is what sends you over the edge.

Daryl's panting, whimpering himself at the unabashed state of your being; you don't think he realises it, even, his eyes set on your cunt gripping onto his fingers.

When it clenches for one last time, you arch, you paint the walls of the room with curses and whimpers that would make even a prostitute blush as more sweet slick drips out your spasming hole and onto his fingers. Your legs tremble as your entire body goes limp in Daryl's hold.

Soft lips rest on the crown of your head, hot, uneven puffs of air frizz your damp hair.

As your brain does a factory reset, you become hyperaware of the hard, thick flesh pressing into you; a stark realization comes over your being, washing your body in a new layer of shivers. Your cunt still tingles, still aches for more.

"Daryl," you mumble, feeling him go stiff and hot, his name like the sweetest honey on your lips, "I want you inside me."

He shudders, he pants, his cock twitches pitifully once again in his pants. The tight denim had provided some relief, enough to focus on you, enough to stretch the time a little bit more. But now, with your body warm and lax and fucked out of your skull, how could he resist?

He didn't want to resist. He wanted to feel good.

In your dazed state, it was easy for him to pick you up, bridal-style, and carry you towards the singular bedroom in the cabin. He grinned at the clumsy way you immediately reached out to him, tangling your fingers in his hair, placing sloppy kisses on the nearest inches of skin you could reach.

The whine you let out when dropped onto the cool comforter?

Daryl's cock twitched demandingly.

The man stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the view: you, blinking up at him, breasts moving with each shallow breath, feet on the comforer and legs bent at the knee, a hint of flushed, swollen pussy peeking out from the crooked gusset of your underwear.

This may not be heaven but it was as close to it as he'll ever get.

The buckle of his belt clinked, denim shuffled as it was left somewhere behind him- Daryl wasted no time dropping to his knees, using two strong hands to bring your cunt up and into his face. The force of his inhale made your sensitive pussy quiver, it was something that made him smile against the fabric of your panties as moved it aside once more - this time with his teeth.

"Oh, fuck!" You yelped as the broad, wide, flat expanse of Daryl's tongue licked messily up your cunt, hole-to-clit.

"Mmm," he groaned, "fuckin' candy apple pussy," taking another taste. And then another, and another until your skin was raw from the stubble of his beard and you were left in a shaking, whimpering, wet mess of a human. His face was drenched. "Messy girl," he chided in a soft mock as your cunt provided him with another gush of arousal, "ya like bein' messy for me, don't cha?"

"Uh-uh," you arched, your usually concise vernacular reduced to whimpers, groans and two-syllable words that barely made any sense to your own ears, much less anyone else's.

Daryl was like a wild animal, lapping up the liquid, uncaring of the mess he made of you and of his own face.

"Please," you fought with your tongue and finally, finally won, "I wanna- uhh," well, maybe not quite.

Momentarily, he withdrew, wiping the side of his face on the inside of your thigh, "you want what? Tell me."

In your state, he could have touched you anywhere and it would have reduced you to a mindless, blabbering mess. So you settled on the next best thing. Your hand, the one that was in his hair, tugged him up - or tried to.

Daryl's responding growl, the shift of his shoulders, the absence of a single hand on your thigh - you knew the tug had him palming himself through his boxers. Another, purposeful tug was given, another growl followed as he stood up.

You weakly pushed yourself up higher on the large bed.

In the dim twilight of the bedroom, Daryl stood, shirt soaked through and through with sweat; his chest heaved as damp strands of hair fell over his face. They were unable to conceal the glistening layer of you on his chin, neither they could hide the blown pupils of his stare. There was almost no blue visible in his eyes.

You licked your dry lips, forcing them to cooperate, "c'mere," your hands stretched out towards him.

Daryl crawled on the bed and over you, sitting between your spread legs. Obedient, he leaned into you, placing sloppy, damp kisses over your face as you wound your arms around his neck. The tent in his boxers hovered less than an inch away from your bare cunt.

"I need ya'," you breathed, tasting yourself as you licked into his mouth, hoping to convey with you body what you couldn't with your words.

"Ya sure, sugar?" Ever the gentleman, Daryl pressed his clothed cock over your bare cunt, ruining his underwear even further; his muscles flexed under your palms.

"Uh-uh," the heat, the feel of his thick cock backtracked any progress you'd made on getting your vocal cords and your brain cooperate. There was nothing but lust and saliva gathered in your mouth now, something that both of you shared during another slow, wet kiss. Your teeth clashed, your tongues ran over each other, all graceless and sloppy.

With one swift, ragged motion of his hand, Daryl shoved his boxers down and over his cock, freeing it from the tight confines; that action alone was enough for him to let out a grunt as the cool air hit his leaking, flushed tip.

The same tip that slapped against your clit, jerking your body and his.

"F-f-fuck," Daryl wheezed, fisting his cock at the base, running the tip slowly over your lips, your clit and down to your hole, "m'not gunna last for shit like this."

Just get inside me!!! You wanted to scream. Instead, you wiggled your hips, you squeezed his shoulders.

The fat head of his cock slipped in, slowly, steadily. More wet, sticky noises got lost in the growl coming from Daryl's gritted teeth.

Your cunt was sucking him in, all wet and hot and snug and constantly flexing, rippling as it adjusted to his size. The roll of your hips that followed was utterly unintentional, driven by the most primitive of instincts.

"Oh, sugar," Daryl grasped your hip tightly, holding it in place, "fuckin' shit. What're you doin' to me, woman?" His speech slurred.

All you could reply was a series of small breaths, 'ah-ah-ah's' with every inch of his cock sliding into you, until you felt his heavy balls pressed against your ass.

If your eyes weren't clenched shut, you would have seen the wild look in Daryl's eyes, the way they darted between the blissed-out look on your face and the root of his cock secured against the entrance of your cunt.

Slowly, he withdrew, hissing at the smooth pleasure of your wet pussy sliding over his cock, and then he slammed back in.

Your body curled, arched; a shriek left your lips at the sudden realization. You held onto him tightly, his shoulders, his arms; the sweet feel of his skin, slick with sweat, bombarded your senses, drowning you in that natural, masculine smell of him.

You babbled some nonsense, something about how good he felt, how he fit just right and so nicely, how he was so good to you-

"You're so good to me," Daryl objected, Daryl stated, "s'fuckin' sweet. My sweet, messy girl."

The words alone brought you closer to the edge as he hammered away inside your oversensitive cunt. In fairness, he could have flicked your clit just once, or even taken his mouth to one of your hard, throbbing nipples-

Daryl's need to feel you come, to clench and gush around his rock-hard cock was at the forefront of his mind, followed closely by awe at the way your body molded perfectly against his. The way your thighs quivered as they attempted to wrap themselves around his hips, the desperation in your grip on his shoulders.

"Fuck!" He cursed, teethering at the very edge of his orgasm, "come for me, pretty girl, c'mon," he urged, swallowing his own moans and gasps.

"I- uh," you, too were almost right there. The coil in your stomach at its most tense, it sent small tremors inside your cunt, shocks of pure, hot, liquid ecstasy-

That traveled down Daryl's cock. Like damn rings during a heated game of muckers, the spasms of your cunt collected at the root of his shaft, one on top of the other, until he could do nothing else but rut roughly, sloppily into the equally sloppy mess of your cunt.

He felt it. It began somewhere at the deepest part of you, squeezin' the head of his cock firmly and traveling all the way down his shaft, until each ring of pleasure popped, releasing his seed into you-

Throbbing, your cunt pushed and gushed, a flash of lightning zapping your clit as Daryl's pubic bone ground into it with force. A hoarse scream tore from your throat, your body curling inward with the force of your orgasm. Strong, heavy spasms of his cock shooting hot ropes into you lulled you into the aftershocks.

It made both of your bodies limp with exhaustion. The cord had snapped and tension finally leaked out, dissolving like smoke and fog into the open air.

Sweaty, sticky and hot, the two of you panted your relief onto each other's cheeks.

Your lips connected with the rough stubble on Daryl's. Hair hung over his face, obscuring your smile.

"Whatchu grinnin' at?"

Boy, did he sound fucked-out. All smoke and gravel and spice and everything nice.

"Feels good."

"Heh," he chuckled, the noise coming from somewhere deep within his chest, "sure does."

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Find the word

Thanks @captain-kraken here, @the-golden-comet here, @cat-esper here!

Rules: post excerpts that contain the given words

My words: trust, complain, held, red, destroy, sense, withhold, underneath, time, voice, perfect, control

Your words: fun, entertain, water, sleep

Tagging @katelynnwrites @dyrewrites @oliolioxenfreewrites @cwritesfiction @drchenquill

+ ANYONE ELSE

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites @the-golden-comet

Keep reading for:

Jedi suspicious of his guide

Rose researching

Hye-Jin and Rose go to the lab

Sparring session!

Liam, Maddie, and the science of shapeshifting

X-Men

Maddie's dream

Noelle and apologizing

The dark side of telepathy

Parker's spontaneous lesson!

Carmen on Kelsey's powers

This got really long sorry.

Trust - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Jedi POV)

Still, I wasn't sure how much I could trust him. I knew Eomma was going to hold back using her powers on him, but that she also would if needed. Maybe just the threat of her powers was enough to scare him.

Complain - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Rose POV)

The art of the book was fantastic, but Damian Brown must have been really boring or something because his writing style was super dry and didn’t match the color of the book at all. However, the illustrator did help emphasize the points to make the text engaging, so I guess I couldn’t complain.

Held - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Hye-Jin POV)

We were quiet again, but the elevator doors opened to reveal the lab. “Good, you’re here,” said Dr. Asghar, while Dr. Moon said, “Did you have breakfast?” I held up my almost-apple-core. “Good,” said Dr. Moon. He gestured to the table in front of him. “Miss Song?”

Red - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Ash POV)

As predicted, Robbie was heading for Kelsey. Noelle flung out her hand, causing Robbie to trip over. The impact to the ground caused a faint dark red light to spread across his body. He shot it at Kelsey, who immediately dropped.

Destroy(ed) - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Maddie POV)

“So you’re saying matter can be created or destroyed in this dimension?” “Perhaps,” said Liam, pressing his hands together in deep thought. “But what if instead we’re borrowing mass from another pocket dimension? Like, there’s a pocket universe of just mass, and we put our mass there if we’re lessening our mass, or borrowing mass from there if we increase our mass?” “Hm,” I said. “That could work, but isn’t it complicated?” “Who knows?” said Liam.

Sense - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Gwen POV)

“What about a universe where Alii with powers are the ones who are oppressed?” I asked. “That doesn’t make sense,” Noelle said. “Why would the ones with powers be oppressed?” “X-Men,” Maddie pointed out.

Underneath - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Maddie POV)

Withhold - N/A

“Those are filthy,” I informed. Kelsey scoffed and reached under her hoodie to pull out a section of her shirt underneath, beginning to clean the lenses. “Fine, Mom,” she said in jest. “I dreamt about Brycen last night.” Kelsey blinked. “Change of subject, but okay. Why?”

Time - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Noelle POV)

She paused. “Out of curiosity, was that the first time you apologized?” “No,” I answered truthfully, as I shot the ball across the room back into its crate telekinetically. “But I honestly do find it hard to realize when I come across as rude.”

Voice - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Jedi POV)

I felt the tiniest pinprick pop a hole in Eomma’s barrier. She sealed it immediately, but I then heard the man’s voice: I know what you are.

Perfect - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Akash POV)

In a fast yet graceful move, Parker thrust his hands out and up in a swooshing movement, causing a gust of wind to suddenly lift me out of my seat and a handful of yards in the air. “What the hell?!” I shouted at the same time as Robbie. “Parker!” Wade scolded as I struggled to gain control of the air around me, but whatever Parker was doing made it difficult to push back on the molecules. “Now he’s up! And in perfect time for our lesson!”

Control - from The Secret Portal Part Two

Carmen slid her glasses back on. “That black smoke can change atomic structure, but without being able to control her powers, I cannot provide an accurate enough sample to test what is going on.”

[keep-it-krispy]

LMK Ride Or Die AU

The AU is (relatively) parallel to cannon up to a point.

Sun Wukong (60), World famous Dancer and musician, wants to retire. He holds a battle of the bands style contest in Megapolis (his hometown), in which the winner will receive his Lucky golden Microphone (staff equivalent), and the opportunity to become his apprentice.

Mac (Macaque) is a bass player/beatboxer/break-dancer who turns out to be Sun wukong's twin brother, the black sheep of the family.

MK (21), a college freshman that works part time at his adopted father's noodle shop “Pigsy’s noodles” [his name is Paul, (42)], and a music prodigy with the uncanny ability to learn any instrument in under an hour, thinks it would be neat to enter the contest with his friend Mei [(22, Popular Twitch streamer and music buff, Heiress of the dragon family (Old Money)], who has been wanting to start a band since forever.

They convince Tang [(38, Paul’s Husband, accomplished Scholar and teacher at Malin’s college)] to be their manager, and recruit Sandy [(43, Ex con, Lyricist/poet, and lifetime friend of Paul] to write their songs. Calls themselves “the Monkie Kids”.

Red Kingston [(23), Red Son] A robotics genius trying to break into the music industry to spite his parents; Penelope Kingston [(48), princess iron fan, retired actress] and Bruce Kingston [(52), Demon Bull King, founder of Bullcorp [Apple equivalent Tech company]] decides to compete; seeing it as an opportunity to kickstart his career.

Other notable competitors are Jin and Yin (20) [Soundcloud rappers and Classmates of MK], and Malin Meister [(19), Nonbinary Social media influencer, rising Independent Artist/performer, and child of the late Laura Demona (58, Lady Bone Demon alternate, once an Actress and bitter Rival to Sun Wukong)].

The Monkie kids win, and MK gets chosen as Wikongs’s successor.

Red acts as the main antagonist, until new competition in the form of Spider Queen (22, Melissa bitsy) and her lackeys show up and threaten to throw the rest of them into obscurity, forcing them to work together to take her down.

For the main group, the majority of the plot goes much the same way as the cannon story; The crew learns the ins and outs of music production, how to operate in the music industry, improve their skills, compete to get gigs, become closer as a group;

But things get shaken up for Malin and Milton [(21), The not mayor alternate. Son of a corrupt politician/ Businessman who’s always overseas, trust fund kid. Plays right hand man/platonic life partner to Malin. He loves their 5D chess like approach to navigating life, and relies on their devastating smarts, weirdly accurate prediction skills, and artistic talent to get by] a week or so after Wukong’s contest.

Malin finishes editing their latest video, and decides to get something to eat as they wait for it to upload. They leave their office and go downstairs to see Milton standing, dazed and confused, in their Livingroom.

At least, they thought he was Milton. Until the actual Milton knocks at their door.

[”Oh, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.” Milton smiles. Malin is about to respond, when they feel a faint buzz in their pocket.

They look away from him to check their phone, face twisting in mild worry ”Are you certain you're okay, Milt? You never come over unannounced, and you've been acting pretty weird since you got here. something has to be wro-….” the words die in their throat as they unlock the device, confusion blossoming forth, as the text {”I'm outside.”} **was displayed on the screen, Clearly sent from Milton's phone number. Their blood ran cold, looking back at the man they had previously believed to be their friend, and seeing no phone in his hand.

It was strange, Malin hadn't noticed before. He looked exactly like Milton, from his head to his toes. He had the same voice, the same verbal ticks and gestural mannerisms; even his clothes resembled something they had seen on their friend before.

His eyes, though. Pure white, with no Irises or pupils, emanating a soft light they had previously mistook for the sun shining weirdly through the window. It was in that moment Malin realized that he hadn't blinked even once. during the whole conversation he had just sat there, not blinking or breathing. For a whole hour.

They looked at the front door, a sick feeling rising in their stomach as they made their way over. “Milton” made no move to stop them, just leaning back on the couch and crossing his legs with that familiar disarming smile. Malin gripped their self control with hands of iron composure, gulped, and opened the door.

…

……

……….

That was not Milton.]

They throw open the door, grab the real Milton and bolt, thoughts flashing between a reasonable “strange man broke into my house” to a maybe not as unreasonable as previously thought “Shape-shifters that want to steal our skin”

Of course, the mayor has unspeakable Eldritch power, so it's no chore for him to chase them both all over town and heard them into Milton’s manor. Once safely locked inside, cornered and terrified, The mayor explains to them that he’s from an alternate universe, answers their questions, assures them that he's not going to hurt them, basically waiting for them to stop panicking.

When the both of them calm down enough to make sense, he demands asks if he can stay with one of them until he can “find a way back to his universe”. he Just needs to rest here for a while “And then I’ll be out of your hair.” The threat behind his words Is crystal clear, and while Milton is sick with unease, Malin is confident in their ability to Handle This.

Milton takes Malin aside to discuss this with them

[”……. You have a plan, right?” “Milton, I appreciate your faith in me. But I'm not a miracle worker.” “Mal- come on. there has to be a way out of this.” “A wise man once said: Sometimes the way out isn't over, or around; but straight through.” “….I don't like this..” “If you're scared, he can stay at my house-” “No way.” “Then the only way out is..” Milton sighs, Malin pants him on the shoulder “We can rotate, I take him every other week.” “Mal I… I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone with this guy-”

“Every other week?” The Mayor interrupts from his spot on the other side of the room “That sounds like a great idea! That way, I can spend an equal amount of time with the both of you..”

They both take a moment to look at the man, standing well out of normal hearing range. Disquiet displayed on One, and determination emanating from the other “… Are you sure?” “Are you doubting my abilities?” “No- I'm worrying about your safety.” “I thought that was my job?” “Malin.” “I'll be fine, Milt. Just trust me.” Milton takes a breath “….. Always.]

And that was that. For the rest of the season the Mayor just kinda hangs out, helping around when he feels like it, advising them when they need it, being creepy when he thinks its funny, learning about their world. Malin’s just wondering when he'll get around to killing them.

Malin and Milton, go on to do their villain thing, plotting the downfall of “The Monkie Kids”.

A month before the main story, Malin discovered something that tied Sun Wukong to the death of their mother (its a long story), and has been waiting for an opportunity to do something about it ever since they found out.

Participating in his contest was a bust, so they move on to Constructing a plan around the annual Lunar New Year Music Deathmatch Tournament, Which Malin is certain The Monkie Kids will be participating in.

They plan to orchestrate a scenario that will allow them to confront Sun Wukong at the event; the result of said confrontation either being closure, or a domino effect that will defame Sun Wukong, destroy the main crew’s friendship, careers, and everything they’ve built; All the while boosting their own fame in one go.

Destiny, Fate, and inevitability is gonna be a big theme in this AU. In cannon, The Lady Bone Demon used the spider queen and her failure to kickstart her own conquest. This conquest causing the entire series to focus on her downfall.

And much of the same was supposed to happen in this alternate universe. Maybe not step for step and word for word, but the ultimate goal was congruent.

Spider queen’s crew would come back for vengeance. Malin would “assist” her, maneuvering her into a position that would briefly look like victory, a position that would place Sun Wukong within Malin's reach. Malin would confront him, and he would tell them that “Laura got herself killed.”

Outside events would prevent him from elaborating (he didn’t do it), and Malin would take that as a confession. In the wake of The Monkie Kids victory, The unfairness of it all would drive Malin to do everything in their power to take “The Monkie Kids” down, Ultimately resulting in their own defamation, abandonment, and eventual destruction.

But the introduction of the mayor had changed things.

Weirdly enough, the Mayor wasn't very secretive. Milton and Malin Didn't exactly know what they expected from an ancient, eldritch, space warping, gravity defying, scary as hell demon guy claiming to be an alternate universe version of one of them, but “being an open book” was absolutely not it.

He answered all of their questions, shared events that happened in his universe readily, and was more than happy to divulge information Malin couldn't even pry out of their own mother (when she was alive). Perhaps it was because nothing either of them could do would ever hurt him, Perhaps it was because he knew the both of them were too terrified of him to Inquire something that warranted more than a surface level explanation, perhaps he just didn't care, but the end result was the same.

One day before the Lunar New Year Music Deathmatch Tournament, Malin was standing in their living room, Watching the front of their house through the window. All of the arrangements had been made, the stage was set, And the show was ready to begin. All they were waiting for was a phone call from Milton, confirming that the last of the loose ends had been tied up.

The Mayor watched as well; He had been watching this whole time. This human was an interesting kind of dull. The way their eyes diligently snapped across every room showed their constant awareness of their surroundings. The intentional nature of their word and action, from the tiniest of gestures to the loudest of voices, spoke of iron self control. The extensive charts, lists, notes, and written observations on every being they have, are, and/or will ever meet demonstrates their borderline obsession with manipulation and control; however, the location in which they kept these documents exposes either simple civilian ineptitude, or a total lack of care for who might walk in and see it

[Opening the door, he was greeted with quite the spectacle. An entire room filled with documents and poster boards and conspiracy charts on every individual he had seen them interacting with, they even had one on him!

The war room isn't much of a surprise. It was true that Malin didn't look like the plotting and scheming type, but extensive interaction with them would at least clue one into their acute awareness of other people and their lives. In his eyes, it was a show of social competency; he was a little impressed with their attention to detail. But, Really? Above ground?? Just out in the open??? not even a lock on the door????).]

Malin was most like his lady, their mother, in the way that they approached the world. How they took it, struggling and fighting, into their merciless hands and gently shooshed it until it came to heel. They hungered for it’s salvation, and destruction in equal measure.

They would make a fine replacement.

It was in this moment that the Mayor decided to reveal to Malin what had happened to his version of her mother, Explaining every event, beginning to end, in full detail and leaving out nothing.

When Malin hears about their alternate mother’s plans, actions, and her subsequent downfall; and draws the parallels between those events and events in their life; They realize that they are very close to setting off a series of events that just might spell their own downfall… They stop, and they think.

Mayor expects his words to cause them to turn to him for help (trying to lure them into accepting his Eldritch power, warlock style) but is surprised when Malin instead calls Milton to cancel their dastardly plot.

[They get this… feeling in their chest. Like a chime ringing deep within their soul, and come to a decision. The phone rings for a moment, once again, and then three times. Milton’s voice filters through the speaker.

{”The arrangements have been made, we wait for your confirmation”}

“There has been a change of plans. Cancel the envoy, I’ll compete myself.”

The other end is quiet for a moment, Malin hears his silent confusion clear as day. One might worry for a seed of doubt using this moment to take root and sprout, but Malin knows better. At the end of the day, their friend beholds their word for gospel. It seems that this instance is no different.

{”Okay, Milton out.”}

The line goes dead, and Malin pulls the phone from their ear to look at the dark screen. They’re usually grateful for such a loyal and obedient ally; but they worry for him, sometimes.

”I’ve no reason to worry, you’re usually right about everything…”

they sigh, oh Milton..

Malin turns to face The Mayor, face set in concentration as a new plot began to blossom in their mind “I will not bend to the wheel of fate, nor will I fall as my mother has. As any version of her has. There is another way, There always is.”

Oh? A mote of anticipation rises alongside his surprise, the Mayor feels a familiar smile creep onto his face “Then what will you do?”

Malin looks back out the window, watching as Mk and his friend once again cut through their neighborhood; completely unaware of the jaws of death that always loomed nearby.

They turned back to him, looking over their shoulder as the light of a new idea shone through the crumbling cracks of the old one “I’m going to make some new friends.”

[silverjetsystm]

@positivelybeastly sent 🍯🍎 for our muses to share apples and honey | Accepting.

Moon Kni.ght is used to working on call. Night shift only. This whole 24 and 7 sitch is older than this whole gig. Ol’ Lockley don’t mean Cap’s black ops squad. We’d been busy the last two days. Me and Grant split Rosh Hashanah down the middle. Mr. Reform takes day 1 and I take day 2. Sometimes Spector does Tashlich.

Lockley. Clarify.

Tossing bird seed at the water for our sins is a revolving door--

Not that one, though I’m sure they appreciate you playfully reducing our prac--

Right, right. For those of you playing along at home, Jews are Jews. Reform is just as – what do the kids say now, ‘valid’?

I don’t know. It’s not like we can text anyone.

As Orthodox an’ Conservative an’ Reconstructionist and ya get the point. I gotta elbow Wall Street. Sign of affection.

Start over.

Oyyyyyyy. Okay.

Moon Kni.ght is used to working on call but not on teams. Not in the morning. Better?

I’m taking you off narration.

Putz. Spector’s gonna leave things out.

Cut.

Take 3. Roll sound, roll camera.

Action.

Shir Hama'aloth. A crescent helicopter lands in the hanger floating above the water.

White glider-cape vaguely catching monitor light glow, Moon Kni.ght stumbles into the Quincarrier proper clutching a stuffed paper bag. “Morning,” he rasps. He hopes.

Pleasantly happy to see him? Commander Rogers wished him “Shana tovah.”

Moon Kni.ght paused. Half-open silver-teal eyes glance over the Commander’s face to a blessedly monitor-free wall. What could be one potentially determining how genuine the Commander was, it was really that prompt providing context for the last

Number of days he had been out. The paper bag. The hangover. Nedda’s tooth aching, gut churning note he peeked at and recoiled like she was retiring.

“Thanks. There’s,” holds up the paper bag, cape shining, Breakfast? Brunch? “Leftovers.”

Ant Man gives him a weird look as he passes by to the too big to be a break room, too small to be a cafeteria chow situation.

Valkyrie’s talking about apples in the distance. Cup of strong coffee in one glove, half full bag in the other, white tactical boots follow a path he knows is becoming predictable, knows everyone knows he’s becoming predictable (paranoid) to Han- McC- Hank’s lab. Boots know where they’re going is the point. Scowling, wracking his brain if (fine) Hank sticks to his lab because of work, avoidance of the others, or some other reason. Could be anything. Not his business. Right?

“Not my business,” he mutters into his lid. Just like the heartbeat stutters when the double doors open automatically, revealing Hank, peering through a microscope. Side profiles are easier to stare. Learning expressions. Seeing the whole face instead of Moon Kni.ght, Spector, intensely eyeballing.

Please tell me-- Mask rolled to the bridge of his nose, cracked lips turn up on his stubble face, a bend to his tone attempting-to-be-casual, “Hungry?” I can’t take it all home. It’ll rot. Go stale.

Regardless, he sits at the table, unpacking the bag. Honeycrisp and green apples. Plastic honey dipper container, almost half full. “Neighbors have bees. They like clover,” he mutters. Half of fluffy torn challah, round for the chag. Small fancy cheeses, half and quarter moon assortments.

“I didn’t make this,” he adds, brows rising in his shadowed mask when opening the large salad container – roasted aubergines with yogurt tahini, pomegranate jewels. "My housekeeper slash cook" She thinks I'll starve. She treats my job like I'm trying to make friends at the office. No, he doesn't want to sound pathetic in front of Hank. Not when they've had an accord.

"Goes all out for holidays." A wan smile, a nod. Maybe that's what happened. Not everything is Nedda's cooking.

He makes a plate from the spread for two. Crescent darts turn red-gold and green apples into slices, honey drizzled off to the side. Another pause. Cape carefully folded, he sets it aside, white mask, gloves, and gauntlets joining it. Tired brown eyes blink, are rubbed, stretching his left side’s scars tissue.

Didn’t want to make a mess. He almost convinces himself, still sipping glances at Hank’s feline face, soft blue fur, tracing clawed hands. Adam’s apple bobs, he inhales pine and musk. Covers with a sip of coffee.

Maybe this year will be sweeter. Sweet like Hank’s eyes, like his cat-like mouth he keeps glancing at. Sweet like honey, the crunch of apple dipped that doesn’t fill him.

[l3viat8an]

New game! Type in “[insert character here] thinks I am” and let predictive text fill in the rest (sorry to non-apple users 😅) anyway, here’s the results I got for the om characters!

Lucifer: “Lucifer thinks I am not the best at the job.” Ouch, Luci, that hurts ☹️

Mammon: “Mammon thinks I am not the one.” DUDE WTF, why is predictive text so mean?!

Leviathan: “Levi thinks I am a good person.” Finally, someone who isn’t an arse 😒

Asmodeus: “Asmo thinks I am not going back into this house.” I…literally died to free your brother, what do you MEAN

Beelzebub: “Beel thinks I am an expert and he knows how much of my time I spend with him.” Finally one that’s on brand for the character and isn’t rude. Thanks Beely, I like you too 🥹.

Belphegor: “Belphi thinks I am a little more than the guy who is the most famous man.” I have no clue what this means. Thanks, ig?

Barbatos: “Barb thinks I am going into a relationship.” I mean…technically MC can canonically date everyone all at once, so yeah, accurate. Again, don’t know what it means, but he was nice so he gets a pass.

Diavolo: “Dia thinks I am the best person in this world.” OMG, finally a fave who actively likes me!

Solomon: “Solomon thinks I always look like an alien when I walk around.” No comment 😒

Simeon: “Simeon thinks I am the best of the bunch because I have no idea how to play football.” Uhhhh…idk what to say to this one. Play ball, ig 🧢⚾️🏟️

Luke: “Luke thinks I am a little more of an artist than I really am.” Awwwe, luke believes in me 🥹

Mephistopheles: “Mephisto thinks I am not the only man in the room that is not in a position where he is being treated like an ordinary person.” Again, what does this mean

-🌚

Why do I get the feeling mine are gonna be stupid or honry 💀

Lucifer: “Lucifer thinks I am a good boy 👦” wrong gender but alright-

Mammon: “Mammon thinks I am so happy to have a new friend.” He’s not wrong lol I love making new friends

Levi: “Levi thinks I am well aware that it was okay and it wasn’t okay to be here too long as it wasn’t me.” What??-

Satan: “Satan thinks I am greatly confused by my work and my thoughts and I will feel better now because of my heart.” True I am always confused-

Asmo: “Asmo thinks I am the queen of the world too much to use for me too and it’s okay 👍” I keep getting emoji’s 😭

Beel: “Beel thinks I am amazing and I’m not going on this time anymore and I’m just tired lol” 💀 ouch-

Belphie: “Belphie thinks I am a very cute person and cute girl and she is always welcome to come over and kiss.” clingy much Belphie? Tho that’s adorable XD

Barbatos: “Barbatos thinks I am so happy to have a new one here and it is a great opportunity for him and me too talk about it and the kids.” What kids??-

Diavolo: “Diavolo thinks I am cuter than ever and it’s sweet of me and my eyes are always alive too and I’m so happy for you 🥹” shkshauwhahabwv somebody come get this man-

Solomon: “Solomon thinks I am ish and my eyes hurt me and I don’t know why they have to keep me laughing at them and I’m trying not too much for me.” Ish?? I am ish? 💀

Simeon: “Simeon thinks I am amazing and I’m so cute and adorable and cute and I always love her ❤️”okay I’m stopping nothing can top this one 💚

[parcequecestnotreprojeeeet]

Hi, it’s me, Fanfic Anon #2. This is a short piece inspired by everyone’s thoughts on Brigitte’s dress for the upcoming State Dinner. To avoid being wrong, this piece doesn’t settle on a colour prediction. Enjoy!

He saw her smiling to herself as she sent of a quick text before serving their dinner, and he felt a little prick of jealousy - why was she smiling, who was making his wife smile like that? "Chérie?" He asked, a little peeved.

"Yes?" She replied a little distracted, only serving to further his inner turmoil.

"Who was that you were texting? Who made you smile like that? Was it Didier?"

"Oh, good grief, Emmanuel! Not this again! It was my stylist. He sent me the final sketch for my British State Dinner gown. I was smiling because the dress is beautiful, and I’m very happy with the final product. As you will be too, you idiot."

"Oh," he replied, embarrassed, once again his irrational brain getting ahead of him. He paused for a minute, "can I see it?"

"No!" She laughed, setting his plate down in front of him to soften the blow.

"Why not?" He asked looking up at her with a slight pout and puppy dog eyes.

"Because I want you to be surprised, chéri. I like seeing how you react when you first see me all dolled up. You make me feel beautiful."

"You are beautiful, Brigitte. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. With or without clothes on."

"Flattery isn’t going to work. Although, you can definitely pick the flirting back up later tonight," she winked at him.

"Can I try and guess about it?"

"Sure, why not," she allowed, tucking into her dish.

"Is it white?" He guessed her favourite color.

"I wonder why that was your first thought," she smiled at him.

"Well is it?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny your suspicions."

"Party pooper."

"I said you could guess. I never said I would tell you anything."

"Can I make a request?"

"I did say final sketch, but I’m curious, so I’ll allow it."

"Can you make it short? I want to see your gorgeous legs."

She laughed at that. "I don’t think we’ve gone with a cocktail dress code so, no. But I will tell you there’s a slit."

He groaned at that mental image.

"I told you that you would like it," she smirked, slipping her foot out of her shoe and dragging it along the inside of his calf to tease him.

His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, trying to gain control over the way his body was reacting to his wife’s game of footsie. "If you want to finish dinner, I’m going to need you to stop that."

"I’m okay to skip to dessert if you are."

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” he growled, lunging across the table towards her and wrapping her in his arms, enjoying her squeal in delight as he softly dropped her on their bed before he began to coax very different delighted noises out of her for the rest of the night.

Hellooo fanfic Anon #2! ❤️

Not Didier again 😂

Hahaha but I liked the combination of several comments we made here, especially Emmanuel himself waiting the dress to be short, the little sneaky 🤭😏

Oh la la, Brigitte’s game of footsie on Emmanuel... 😏🔥 Yes, who even needs dessert anyways 🤭😂

Thank you so much, fanfic Anon #2! ❤️❤️❤️

[crying-pan420]

@trendyshadowqueen @thisistheroomofthedead incorrect quotes

Diego : *coughs blood* 
Aaron : Don't die, Diego ! 
Diego : Don't tell me what to do!

*While planning to break in somewhere* 
Liam : Hey, let's do "Get Help!" 
Diego : What? 
Liam : "Get Help." 
Diego : No. 
Liam : C'mon, you love it! 
Diego : I hate it. 
Liam : It's great! It works every time! 
Diego : It's humiliating. 
Liam : Do you have a better plan? 
Diego : No. 
Liam : We're doing it! 
Diego : We are not doing "Get Help!" 
*A Minute Later* 
Liam , carrying Diego : Get help! Please! They're dying! Help Them! *throws Diego at guards, knocking them out* 
Liam : Ahh, classic! 
Diego : *gets up* I still hate it. It's humiliating. 
Liam , laughing: Not for me, it's not.

Diego : Just so everyone knows, don't ever try to climb a tree at night carrying a strobe light, owls DON'T like it. 
Jade: ...what happened? 
Diego : I made a VERY bad mistake.

Aaron , texting in the group chat: I wonder what Apple shots would look like? 
Liam : *Sends a picture of of a syringe with an apple slice shoddily edited inside* 
Jade: *Sends a picture of a shot glass with an Apple poorly drawn inside* 
Diego : *Sends picture of person dunking a Basketball into the hoop but replaced the basketball with a poorly resized apple* 
Aaron : I hate all of you.

Aaron : What's worse than a heartbreak? 
Jade: Waking up in the morning and your phone wasn't charging. 
Liam : Waking up in the morning. 
Diego : Waking up.

Jade: They... well, I wouldn't call it inheritance per se. What do you call it when you kill someone and get their stuff? 
Liam : Um, murder??? 
Aaron : Adventuring! 
Diego : Tuesday.

Liam : Today at 7 am, Diego poured a Monster energy drink in their coffee, said "I'm going to die" and drank the whole thing. 
Jade: I watched Diego brew their coffee with Monster instead of water. Three cups in two hours. I think they ascended into the astral realm. 
Aaron : The survivability of the human race never fails to amaze me.

Jade: We might have gotten into a bar room brawl back in the city. 
Liam : Well, that was entirely predictable. 
Jade: One of them punched a gang member. 
Liam : Aaron ? 
Jade: Diego , actually. 
Liam : Oh, that was going to be my second guess.

Liam : So Aaron was just using me? 
Jade: I’m sorry, Liam . 
Diego , trying to contain their amusement: You must feel pretty stupid right now. 
Liam : 
Jade: Ok, that’s a time-out. 
Diego : No, I was just trying to- 
Jade: Go sit over there! 
Diego : *walks away in defeat*

Aaron : *points at Liam * A human turtleneck, *points at Jade* a narcissistic monster, *points at Diego * and literally the dumbest person I’ve ever met. 
Diego : And who am I? Describe me now

Jade: Yesterday, I watched Diego try to eat a decorative rock from Liam 's potted plant. Aaron caught them, and told them they can't eat rocks. Diego started whining something about no food being in the house before walking away.

Liam : Oh god, they texted you ‘hi.’’ punctuation only means one thing, Aaron . They're mad at you. 
Aaron : No, it's Diego . They're just being gramatically correct! 
*meanwhile* 
Diego : And then I used a period so they'd know that I'm mad at them. 
Jade: A period doesn't say 'I'm mad', it says 'you're dead to me'. 
Diego : I stand by my choice.

Diego : I’m gonna die alone. 
Liam : Diego , you’re not gonna die alone. 
Diego : Aaron , was my safety net, okay? They got married and now I have to get a snake. 
Jade: Uh-huh. Why is that? 
Diego : If I’m gonna be an old lonely person, I’m gonna need a thing, you know? A hook. Like that guy in the subway who eats his own face. 
Diego : So I figured I’ll be “Crazy Man With A Snake”, you know? Crazy snake man. 
Diego : Then I’ll get more snakes, call them my babies. Kids won’t walk past my place, they will run! RUN AWAY FROM CRAZY SNAKE MAN!

Aaron : Good night. 
Liam : Sleep tight. 
Diego : Don't let the bedbugs crawl up to your ear and whisper threatening things that make you question yourself. 
Jade: Great, now Liam 's crying.

[godsperfectprincess]

9 & 23 & 49 :)

9. which do you prefer, cotton candy or funnel cake?

100% funnel cake… i love cotton candy if i am being given it but the second i am somewhere that sells funnel cake i am immediately ready to spend $15 on it

23. five words that describe you?

i hate this question </3 when i am asked this question i text you and merc for the answer </3 um okay okay. let’s see. probably kind, silly, passionate, caring and creative

49. what scents do you like?

depends on for what! i like floral perfumes & any variation of linen for candles & lavender laundry detergent. and any apple scent bath and body works has in the fall (predictably)

[miafoxmanblogs]

Module 2: Surveillance and Algorithmic Culture

Do you ever think about the good, the bad, and the ugly of surveillance and algorithmic culture in social media? Well let’s take a look.

The realities of surveillance in the “empire” of social media and the ways it affects our lives and privacy is highlighted in Bruce Schneier's eye-opening article, “The Internet Is a Surveillance State.” Schneier begins by looking at the weaknesses of the internet by looking at news that Chinese military hackers have gained entry to Facebook to conduct attacks against the U.S. government. The arrest of Hector Monsegur, who is the head of the LulzSac hacker movement) is mentioned to highlight the impacts suffered by people engaged in hacking. This is not okay. Or normal. We are being tracked ALL the time. The internet is a surveillance state where people are always being watched by several platforms like Google, Facebook, and Apple, regardless of whether they are users or not. We are being watched even if we are offline on Facebook through our purchasing habits. These companies are saving our information and are profiting from our lives. This raises many concerns in my opinion. Schneier is convincing from the evidence he has gathered as well as the examples he provides. 

Let’s move on to algorithmic culture. Algorithms are what social media platforms use to decide what kind of content to show their users. They are personalized to the user and show what is going to engage them. In Ted Striphas’s article, “Algorithmic Culture,” he analyzes the impacts algorithms have on society. The article uses the concepts of Raymond Williams in which algorithmic culture has led to a growing shift from “publicness.” It is not like this. It is all personalized. Everything has become reversed in the digital age. This new form of culture has led to a sort of power role in which our influence is in the hands of people. Saifya Umoja Noble speaks upon oppressions in her introduction of “The Power of Algorithms.” She particularly focuses on how search engines, such as Google, promote racism, sexism, and meritocracy; especially for people of color and women. She gave the example of how when you look up a “black girl” on Google; the first suggestion is HotBlackPussy.com. This is completely unacceptable and I would say the overarching theme is the need for awareness and to “reduce online racial hostility.”   

With this I really want to know what is going to happen in society where the world is messed up by these algorithms over the long haul? How long is this going to go on for? Is AI going to take over these algorithmic cultures and what could be the implications? The Rolling Stones article "These Women Tried to Warn Us About AI" by Lorena O'neil hints at this. She mentions LLM's that are "generative AI systems trained on extensive data to predict and generate highly human-like text." AI is writing papers for college students (which is happening WAY too much), influencing publishers to replace the words of human journalists, and are starting to come for people's jobs. There are far too many questions to ask about AI as well as surveillance and algorithmic culture. And I think about it almost every single day. It is affecting my life as well as millions of others. Why aren't we doing anything about it? Do people just simply not care? This must be stopped.

[aiweirdness]

Okay GPT-3: Candy hearts!

I’m continuing my Valentine’s Day tradition of getting huge neural nets to generate candy heart messages! The latest contender is GPT-3, which is ridiculously overpowered for the task of generating insipid two-word love messages.

The thing people tend to call “GPT-3” is actually an imprecise catchall term for a bunch of different trained models within OpenAI’s API umbrella. Usually we mean “DaVinci”, the most powerful of the models. And there’s even a variant of DaVinci that can follow instructions.

When I gave DaVinci the following prompt:

Generate 12 candy heart messages, a maximum of 10 characters long, in all caps. Do not include existing candy heart messages.

These are some of the messages it generated:

FOLLOW HELP I NEED WHY GGOD I STILL EVIL RIBBON UNBELIEF SPACE YEET SAMOA

The DaVinci candy hearts I rejected included everything from the very predictable to the very much too long:

I LOVE YOU BE HAPPY IS YOU! YOUR 1968 WIN WE'VE DATED FOR 6 MYRIADS OF YEARS I Wish You A Merry Christmas TO CANOE THE NOSE YOU BEAR THE PETALS SHRUBBERY'S PRECIOUS EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL BETTHER IN COCONUT

(Plus the occasional awful message, because even with candy hearts as the topic, it doesn’t always stay away from the terrible stuff it picked up in its general online training)

But what about the other variants of GPT-3?

The tiniest is Ada. (Granted, it’s only tiny compared to its siblings - compared to previous neural nets I’ve worked with it’s still a monster). When I prompted it to complete “12 new candy heart messages of 2021:”, here’s (unedited) what it wrote.

12 new candy heart messages of 2021: 1. sweets: 2. dumplings 3. candy bars 4. apple pie 5. apple pie 6. apple pie 7. apple pie 8. apple pie 9. apple pie 10. apple pie 11. apple pie 12. apple pie

Next largest is Babbage. Here’s what it generated:

12 new candy heart messages of 2021: 1. I'm so glad you did this for me. 2. I'm glad that you'll figure out a few things. 3. Can I come over tomorrow? 4. Can I stay? 5. Can I stay till April 3rd? 6. I found out the truth! 7. I'm sorry. 8. I'm afraid. 9. I'm happy you came to my rescue. 10. I'm happy you're here. 11. I'm glad you don't hate me anymore. 12. You know, it would be nice if you would say such things.

Just one notch below DaVinci itself is Curie:

12 new candy heart messages of 2021: 1. I am the best. 2. I am the best. 3. I am the best. 4. I am the best. 5. I am the best. 6. I am the best. 7. I am the best. 8. I am the best. 9. I am the best. 10. I am the best. 11. I am the best. 12. I am the best.

There’s a personality quiz in this somewhere.

I experimented with a few other prompts to get DaVinci to do weirder candy hearts, and the one that seemed to work the best was a short story in which far-future AIs got into candy hearts as a form of communication.

23. The sky is fading to purple. 24. Please move your bulk away from my hatch. 25. Our tentacles are more alike than you might think.

The resulting candy heart messages were far too long to fit on a human-sized candy heart, but I guess when the candy hearts can be transmitted intergalactically, they can also hold a little more text.

If you’re an AI Weirdness supporter you can read more of these as bonus content! Or become a free subscriber to get AI Weirdness in your inbox.

[rpf-bat]

It’s sinking in. I’m seeing My Chemical Romance tonight. After two years of pandemic postponements. After six years spent thinking my favorite band would never reunite. It’s really happening.

In 2016, I was….going through a lot. That was the year I was supposed to graduate from college, but circumstances forced me to drop out. I felt bitter, watching my former classmates graduate without me. I had also just gone no-contact with my abusive parents, and was attempting to live in my own place for the first time. My roommates were actively stealing from me. My old friends from my hometown ghosted me, and my new friends became….actual ghosts. 😞 Oh. And I also got run over by a fucking truck while crossing the street.

I… didn’t want to live anymore. But I stayed alive, telling myself, what if MCR reunite someday? Wouldn’t you want to be here, to see that?

The dark voice in my head insisted, they’re never coming back, it’s all pointless. But every night I used to watch some random clip of a concert in 2007, where Gerard pleads with the audience to never, ever “p*ss their life away on suic*de.”

Okay, Gerard.

If you say so, Gerard.

I don’t know why I’m doing this for you, Gerard, but maybe someday I’ll look back and be glad I did.

And then in the autumn of 2016, I started this blog. And I could never have predicted, all the wonderful, incredible friends I would make because of that.

Tonight I’m wearing one of the MCR shirts @au-revior-little-biscuit sent me for my birthday in….I want to say 2017 or 2018?

I’m wearing the incredible shoes that @thorn-apple-thekilljoy hand-painted for me.

I’m wearing the Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge eyeshadow @idontwannabetherightwayround sent me in the mail.

I spent the whole trip up here texting @robinruns and @thewordworrier and @eerie-von.

I feel like I’m not just going to the MCR concert. I’m carrying the whole MCR Tumblr community with me.

I feel so blessed to have been a part of this community for six years. Even though I don’t actively write MCR RPF much anymore, I just feel….so blessed to know y’all.

My irl circumstances have changed so much in the last six years, too. I went back to school and got an Associates degree. I got a better job. I made amazing friends in my own city, like @burning-river-ghost, who is attending the show with me tonight!!

I feel so abundantly fucking happy to be alive 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

[etherrreal]

“sweet on you”

Pairing: osamu x gn!reader Genre: fluff WC: 1,168 Summary: you’re on a mission to confess to osamu and you’re hoping that he’ll get the hint with some tasty homemade desserts Warning: there are like 2 puns that are the worst, im so sorry. A/N: sooo, this came out longer than intended lol hope you don’t mind that I can’t write a drabble! but this idea just inspired me to much that I couldn’t help myself! -Luna

Mission "Confess-to-Osamu" began the day after the Inarizaki volleyball team won an intense game, the final set ending in a 32-30 win.

You had to stay up all night to do it, but you managed to make and decorate a dozen cookies shaped like volleyballs and one special cookie that resembled his jersey, the number 11 written carefully in chocolate-flavored icing. You wrapped them up in a cellophane bag, complete with a black ribbon tied into a neat bow.

You arrived at homeroom as early as possible, wanting to place the cookies on his desk and sit down to calm your nervous heart. From the back of the room, you watched as he strolled in 20 minutes later, sending you a wave and a tired smile. He dumped his bag on the floor before picking up the note you tucked under the bag of cookies that read:

'congratulations on your win! you played an amazing game, wish I could've celebrated with you :)'

His eyebrows scrunched as he racked his brain to try to figure out whose handwriting it could be. He shrugged when nothing came to mind, figuring it was just another gift from one of those fangirls who frequented his team’s volleyball matches. At the very least, it gave him something to rub in Atsumu’s face later.

He sat down, munching on one of the volleyball-shaped cookies, which he found delicious enough to eat two more of. You slapped your forehead, more annoyed at yourself rather than Osamu.

Okay, time to try something else.

You made a single-serve raspberry tart this time after you heard Osamu mention to his friends one day that he had a strong craving for one. Again, you arrived early to school, placing the note face down under the treat and spoon so none of your nosy classmates could read it as they walked by.

This time, you made sure to sign your initials at the end of the note, figuring that was the reason why it didn't click for him last time. However, knowing that he would immediately figure out that it was you had your palms sweaty and knees weak.

Osamu walked into homeroom, barely awake, but when he saw the dessert on his desk, his eyes shot open, face lighting up with interest. He looked up to greet you, but you were busy staring blankly at your textbook. The cookies from last time had been devoured before he even left school, though he did save the jersey cookie because he appreciated the effort put into it.

He lifted the tart to grab the note that was stuck underneath. It read:

'hope you liked the cookies from last time! I made a raspberry tart because you're just so sweet ♥'

When you peeked over to look at him, you noticed that there was confusion written all over his face, not knowing what the hell the letters at the bottom stood for. You heard him repeating word combinations that began with your initials to try to figure it out.

Your forehead hit the desk, baffled by how a man could be so cute but so stupid.

This was going to be it. You would place the slice of apple pie on his desk, he would read the note–with your whole name on it this time–and he would finally understand how much you liked him.

So, you went through the same process as before, setting it neatly on his desk with a folded note underneath.  There was no way that he could misconstrue anything this time.

Osamu was suspicious when he saw the sweet treat on his desk that morning. He reached for the note first, like always, to examine it.

'I hope you're not occu-pied this weekend ; want to go on a date with me?'

He knew that you would never be so blatant with your confession, not with your shy nature. Not when all it took was a simple wave from him to make you blush and look away. You'd most likely approach him in a less public setting to ask him out, or text him privately.

Which is why he assumed that this entire thing was just his brother pranking him with some store-bought pie. ‘Tsumu had teased him recently when he’d gushed about how cute you were before. He didn't put it past his brother to mess with him just because he kicked his ass in practice yesterday.

He sat down at his desk with a loud 'humph,' angrily digging into his pie that tasted just as good as the rest of his desserts he had received before.

Meanwhile, you were so frustrated that you swore you felt your soul leave your body.

You'd had enough. The stress of leaving Osamu desserts and waiting for him to figure out how much you liked him was too much. You were just going to have to be blunt and in his face with your confession.

Storming into class with a packaged cupcake in hand, you stopped right in front of his desk. He was taken aback by your sudden appearance.

"Oh, hey, (Y/N)," he greeted. "That's a good lookin' cupcake ya got there. Who's it for?"

You froze. You knew your newfound confidence could only last so long. Actually standing in front of his desk and looking into his eyes was very different from staring at yourself in the mirror as you rehearsed your lines.

Osamu watched as your mouth flapped open and closed, thinking about how you resembled a goldfish at that moment. Suddenly, you shoved the cupcake towards him, looking away shyly.

He barely heard you squeak out the words, "I like you."

He had never felt more stupid than he did in that moment. It finally dawned on him that it had been you the whole time, leaving him the edible gifts and little notes. It actually was your attempt at asking him out.

Osamu gently took the plastic container out of your hands, fingers brushing against yours. "I can't believe it was actually you. Thought it was my stupid brother prankin' me."

You failed to make eye contact with him despite chuckling at his assumption, instead toying with the buttons of your blazer.

They’re so adorable. He had to put you out of your misery. "Do ya still wanna go on that date with me? It's the least I can do for all the trouble I caused. Maybe I can cook for you this time?"

You nodded in response, feeling like you were going to combust at any moment.

"Great! We can walk home together, and I'll whip ya up something good to eat."

"Sounds good," you said once you found your voice. 

Your cheeks were no doubt on fire as you sat at your desk. You assumed that at any moment, you'd be waking up from this wonderful dream. There was no way you could predict that he'd reciprocate your feelings but now that you knew, you didn't think you'd ever stop smiling.

Written by: Luna

[wallwriterstuff]

The Good I Come Home To ||Leon S. Kennedy x Female!Reader|| Part 1

Warnings: Angsty, PTSD Leon being very jumpy and shell-shocked, mentions of sex. 

Words: 3318

Summary: Originally posted to my Archive of Our Own Account. 

Part 2 can be found here

Leon has kept it very casual with you for months, seemingly oblivious of the growing feelings you harbour. You have no idea just how badly it hurts him to leave you every time until he tries to cut you out of his life completely. You have other ideas. You just have to persuade Leon they're the right ones.

Leon S. Kennedy was a complicated man in many respects, but it was easy to unravel all those complex layers if you started looking at his core values, his sense of purpose. To serve, to protect. Leon was built to be the bodyguard of humanity, the first line of defence between unimaginable horror and the things he loved. Every experience had moulded him into this hard shell of a man, so far from the one people used to know. It had been interesting, really, to see an old friend from the Police Academy approach him and see just how different they had turned out. They both had the eyes of experience anybody in the force acquired over time, but Leon’s were sterner, like an unbreakable stone as opposed to ice you could chip away at and eventually shatter. This old friend of his had a small-town job and apple pie life. He had the white picket fence and the wife who kissed him when he came home to freshly made dinner. His children were doing well at school.

Leon had listened like his life was a whole other world away. It was visible in his eyes, though he carefully kept it off his face, that the comparison between each man actually disturbed him. You hadn’t meant to see of course. It was pure coincidence you’d happened to be in the supermarket, walking down that same aisle. His old friend had hit the barricade you so often hit when you asked. You’d stopped questioning it after a few months of back and forth and the looming threat of losing him became a dark and unbearable burden.

“So er, heard about the huge explosion at Raccoon. Where’d they place you after that?”

“Nowhere. I work for the government now.”

“Oh damn. FBI?”

“Something like that.”

His job was the complicated topic. Classified and bad enough to put a certain brand of darkness behind his eyes when you asked, it was  best left untouched by your hands because it was hidden beneath the many layers of the man you’d only ever been allowed to scratch the surface of – literally and figuratively. Beyond his core values, the simplicity of Leon S. Kennedy lay in his needs. He was a flesh and blood man after all. He was guaranteed to need to eat, to do laundry, to shower, to relieve himself. These simple needs were what made him somewhat predictable to you. On his best days, when he text you days or hours before, you were almost guaranteed to be wined and dined. Okay so the wine and dine option was sometimes more like beer and take-out pizza but it was always paid for by him if you bought the alcohol.

When he was feeling a little less than okay, you’d get no outright statement of his desire to see you, but he’d hedge around the topic and wait for you to ask him, like he was afraid to be a nuisance. You’d only get this awkward and prompting behaviour from him an hour or two before he showed up which left you little time to prepare, but a quick shower was always on the cards. In his worst moments, he’d give no warning and simply show up at your house with smouldering eyes that demanded your attention and everything else you had to give him. God help you, you always gave him everything. As simple as his needs were, as his feelings on the matter appeared, yours were much more complicated. Leon S. Kennedy had made it clear from the start when he met you at the bar that fateful night, all chiselled jaw and playful eyes, that nothing serious was to come of this.

It had progressed to a proper agreement when you both seemed to just keep running into each other. You were free to date, if you so pleased, and he’d stop showing up. He’d be gone like dust in the wind, untraceable and impossible to bring back. You didn’t want that. Until the day either of you became tied down you had agreed you were exclusive. You sated each other only. It was hard to keep to that promise all the time when he was away for long periods, but you remained true to your word anyway, and that was how it had stayed for a solid eight months. Leon came back to a bed you kept free just for him and left in the morning like it was no more than a pit-stop on a long and winding road.

You suspected he wasn’t proud of it. You thought sometimes you could see something softer in his eyes, something that made you think he wished for something more than he was already giving you. There were moments his eyes lingered when he said goodbye, times his hands stayed on you a little longer than they usually did. On rare occasions, when he was just a bit too drunk after what you guessed was a bad job, you let him sleep it off with his arms around you and listened to the whimpers in his sleep with an aching heart. Leon consistently let you have his body, gave you the briefest glimpses at the big heart he held so carefully hidden away, but never once did he let you into his mind. As much as you loved being with him, you had never truly been with him at all. You’d never truly connected with him beyond anything physical. It pained you to know you never would. You cared for him too much. You saw the deep pain he carried with him everywhere, and you’d never be able to alleviate that load because he wouldn’t let you.

You had to pause the TV to be sure you’d actually heard anything at all, but when you heard the noise again it was stronger, bolder. Knocking. Glancing at the clock, you turned the TV off with a frown. There weren’t many people who would come knocking at this late hour, and you didn’t know if your heart was in it tonight to let him in when he would forever keep you out. As if on cue, when you opened the door to a dripping wet Leon, thunder rumbled and rattled the open window in the corridor of your apartment block. A small puddle of water had formed on the windowsill, dripping in as the harsh rain battered the glass. Leaving your door propped with the door stop you kept nearby for moments like these, you crossed to the window to close it and lock out the weather. You felt sullen enough without the storm clouds invading your house.

“Leon if you’re here to drink that’s okay but I’m not really up for-“ you cut yourself off, uncertain all of a sudden as to what it was he was here for. His needs were always so simple, the looks and actions associated with them something you had come to learn to recognise without much conscious thought. This was entirely new. Those piercing blue eyes were sullen, fighting between being as hard as sapphire and as soft as calm ocean waves. What was frightening was the depth of the ocean you saw. It was like staring into an abyss of torment. Red-ringed and with whisky on his breath, it didn’t take a genius to realise Leon had been crying and was in fairly bad shape. Hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, he stared at you through those horribly complex eyes, his mouth half open like he wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out. He was pale, breaths even but heavy, like he had to physically remind himself to huff out each one.

Wordlessly, you took him by the hand. His skin was freezing to the touch and you guessed the faithful jacket had done little to keep the bitter cold from seeping into his exposed skin. Your theory was proven right when his cheeks were just as cold to the touch.

“I…” you thought he might say more but it was like watching a caveman learn to talk. There were only sounds, no words. He was usually very skilful with his tongue but tonight those talents were nowhere to be found. Pushing his jacket from his shoulders you hung it to dry over the back of your sofa, hoping the radiator would do its job and leave it toasty for him when he inevitably put it on to leave you again. You ignored the stinging in your chest at the thought. Leon didn’t need you to be petty right now. Truthfully, you were frightened. Leon’s carefully constructed composure had been shattered by something and you didn’t think you wanted to know what was strong enough to shatter this man’s rock hard exterior and cut him so deeply. He stood dumbly in your hallway, and you gently pushed him to the edge of the sofa to take off his shoes so they wouldn’t traipse water into your home.

“Shhh Leon, just come with me.” You coaxed him back onto socked feet, leading him down the hall to your bathroom.

“No…no Y/N I, I don’t…” he swallowed.

“Do you trust me Leon?” you asked him, keeping your voice gentle like you were cajoling a wild animal into eating from your palm. Leon nodded without question and you smiled slightly. “Then just follow for me now.” You kicked open your door and led him to the edge of the tub, grabbing a towel from the shelving units there and placing it on the sink.

“What are you doing?” he could barely speak above a whisper, looking confused and upset and lost all at once.

“I’m going to run you a nice hot bath before you catch your death. I don’t know how long you were in the rain for Leon but you’re frozen to the bone.” You said calmly, putting the plug in the tub and turning on the tap for the hot water. Leon didn’t answer, merely watched you with the eyes of a man so lost in trauma he couldn’t find his way back to the surface world and make sense of the happenings around him. While you waited for the water to turn steamy, you rubbed at his hair with the towel in your hand to dry it. You knew something was incredibly wrong when he let you mess it up like that. There were very few instances you were allowed to touch his hair and you had to always, always comb it back into place or suffer the consequences. Occasionally, you took a break to fill the tub with some of your prized bath oils. Lavender, camomile, jasmine, all your favourite scents from a beautiful kit a colleague had bought you as part of secret Santa last year.

He didn’t comment as the room filled with intoxicating, relaxing scents, nor when you checked the temperature again and told him he could get in when he was ready. He held the towel in both hands, staring at the cotton as if it might hold some answers.

“Thank you.” He mumbled. You nodded once.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” you asked him. He nodded once, but he didn’t meet your gaze. He was lying you were sure. “Okay. Take as long as you need in here, I’ll be about when you feel ready to see me alright?” you promised, leaning up to kiss his cheek softly. Your lips lingered a little too long, but Leon didn’t move away. He closed his eyes as if the contact was all he had wanted and more. As the door closed behind you you heard the soft, muffled sob he tried so hard to bury in the towel, and your heart broke a little more. Something had shattered Leon S. Kennedy and it didn’t sit well with you at all to see him this vulnerable. He needed the space right now to get his mind back in order but once he did, when he was ready to face you, you weren’t sure you’d get an explanation from him. He’d shut down every time you’d ever asked for one before.

He’d woken screaming one night, lashing out so violently that if you had been sat upright there’d have been no way to avoid his fist and he’d have knocked you out cold. When you tried to ask what was wrong, he’d simply snapped at you to leave him be and left your apartment so fast there could have been a fire under his ass. So, what did you do? Did you just not even try? He hadn’t made a move on you, had specifically said no when he saw you heading in the direction of the bedroom. But if he wasn’t here for sex what was he here for? It only added to your anxiety that you really had no clue what he wanted if it wasn’t your body he’d come for, and though part of you thought that should make you angry, another part of you hoped that that meant it was something more that he was after this time. The kind of more you wanted.

No. You had to try for him. You couldn’t let him go on like this. He didn’t have to fight the war in his head alone, not when you were here. At least, if he wanted to go it alone, he could have someone stable waiting with a safety net if he stumbled. For now you’d let him linger and soak in the tub, and you’d make the most out of the ingredients you had in the fridge. If he stayed, he could eat it off a plate. If he didn’t…well, you’d make some in a container in case. Pasta bake had always been your father’s speciality and it had been your favourite as a child, was still your comfort food now. Chicken and bacon sizzled, pasta boiled, and you grated the cheese to the rhythm of your favourite song playing softly on the radio while the milk and butter warmed on the stove. You snagged a piece of bacon from the wok and let the salty flavour burn your tongue.

With your masterpiece constructed and more cheese grated on top, you slid the dish into the oven for it to crisp up and set your timer, setting about washing the utensils next. It kept your hands busy, kept your mind from wandering too much, but even the sudsy water couldn’t quite keep your mind from ticking over. Why had Leon come here in the pouring rain? What had spooked him so badly he’d thought, in his less than coherent state, that he needed to be here in your apartment? Did the fact he’d come to you mean anything at all or did he just happen to be nearby? You put the saucepan a little harder than necessary into the rack when it slipped from your hands, jumping and cursing to yourself at the loud clang it had made.

“Y/N!” Leon almost roared your name in pure, abject terror. Eyes wide you rushed for the bathroom, hands still soapy and dripping water. He was already out of the bathtub, naked and scrambling through his jacket until he came up with a gun of all things, aimed right at you as you burst through the door. A shriek escaped you and you immediately dropped to the floor, hands above your head.

“Leon it’s me!” you begged. Harsh breathing filled the room.

“Where is it?” he demanded. You peeked up at him from below your arms, lowering them slowly. He was half-crouched, eyes wild and fixated on the door that led back to your room. He offered you a hand. “Come on, get up and get behind me, where is it?” he repeated the question more firmly now.

“Where’s what? Leon I – there’s only us here. I just dropped a saucepan.” You breathed. His expression faltered, confusion flooding his features first , then guilt, and finally grief. His eyes closed and he inhaled deeply, held it, exhaled slowly. He lowered his gun after a few more deep breaths.

“I’m sorry.” He said, looking a little like a kicked puppy. You shook your head, slowly pushing to your feet so as not to startle him. His skin was tinged pink, little suds clinging to the ends of his hair. The timer went off in the kitchen and Leon flinched again, hand tensing around the gun. You soothingly placed your hand on his arm.

“It’s just the timer. We’re the only people here Leon, nothing’s going to hurt us. How’s about you dry off and come have something to eat?” you suggested. He blanched at the mention of food and you frowned. “You don’t have to eat everything, just a little bit, you look really pale.” You reached for the towel and held it out to him until he reluctantly nodded and wrapped it around his waist. You left the door slightly ajar and headed for the kitchen to switch off the damn timer. He was so jumpy, so eager to jump to your defence. You plated up a small portion, not wanting to put him off with a large one. You didn’t feel particularly hungry yourself but you’d had a proper meal earlier in the evening, a cup of tea would suffice, camomile and honey would soothe your nerves. Leon had a liking for peppermint you knew. Maybe if he was nauseous that would help him eat? Tea and pasta bake served you sat opposite his place, one hand wrapped around the handle of your mug and the other pulled up to your mouth, your teeth nibbling the side of your nail.

“You’ll make your thumb sore.” He lingered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he should sit down or run away. You dropped your hand and placed a more welcoming smile on your lips, nodding to the plate.

“Chicken and bacon pasta bake. It’s good.” You invited. Hesitantly, Leon shuffled to the chair and sat down. You didn’t push him to talk. Months of being with Leon had assured you that pushing would only clam him up further, and you wanted to pry him open tonight. With a sinking feeling, you realised it might be the last night you ever saw him. He’d let himself be extremely vulnerable to you already and you weren’t the type of person to see this kind of trauma and let it go unchecked. You’d want to check in on him, you’d want to help him feel better, and Leon didn’t appreciate the questions you’d have to ask to get the kind of help he needed right. He sighed slightly, picking up the fork and taking a small bite. He looked physically sick for the first few mouthfuls, and you made an effort to distract him with small talk about the weather, your day and all its mundane happenings.

He seemed enraptured by your very voice, soaking in every syllable that crossed your lips and mindlessly working his arm and mouth to clear the plate and drain the mug in front of him.

“Can I have a bit more? It’s really good.” He surprised you with his request but you obliged him, spooning some more on his plate.

“If you’re that partial to it you can take some home to.” You said simply. He nodded once, clearing the second portion with ease and looking much better for it. The colour had returned to his cheeks and he looked a little more put together than before. You settled back in your chair, watched him clean his plate and put it in the drying rack. It was a courtesy you’d never have asked for but were grateful for nonetheless. He didn’t turn around though, keeping his back to you and tightening his grip on the countertop.

[luckysevenwrites]

Jealousy

Xiaojun just wants to have all of your attention. He doesn’t want to have to share you with some other guy. His plan for the day was to fill it with so much fun that you wouldn’t have a chance to think about that other guys. Sadly, the rainstorm that came in had other plans.

Part of the long term couples series. 

             Running down the street with your jacket pulled up over your head you feel the presence of another body behind you as you dodge other people who are scrambling to find cover from the rain. Peeking up from under your jacket you see your destination up ahead and pick up your pace. The person behind you picks up their speed as well and you can hear them grumbling as they chase after you. Flinging yourself at the door you stumble into the lobby and drop your soak jacket down and do a scan of your body. You are soak through and are already creating a puddle on the floor from all the rain.

             Turning to the side you see Xiaojun dropping his coat as well. Droplets are falling rapidly from the ends of his hair, his wet clothes clinging to him, and a puddle is forming below him as well. He shakes himself causing more water to fall and to splash onto you. Jumping back to avoid the water you almost slip forgetting about the water covering the floor. Xiaojun reaches out for you steadying you with his hand. Once he’s sure that you have regained your balance, he releases you and heads towards the elevator. Following him you feel a little bad about the mess of water that you have left on the floor but there wasn’t much that you could do about it.

             Waiting for the elevator you glance over at Xiaojun. His jaw is clenched his hands balled up into fists. Before you have a chance to say anything to him about his mood the elevator dings and he moves inside with you following behind him. The doors close and the two of you stand next to one another in silence. Goosebumps start to rise on your skin, and you don’t think twice about moving into Xiaojun’s space for warmth. He wraps his arm around you and rubs his arm up and down your side quickly, trying to warm you up.

             “So much for it being a sunny day,” you mock thinking back to what the forecast was predicted to be today. It was supposed to be a warm fall day. Instead, the two of you along with every other person out got caught in a rainstorm.

             “Tell me about it. My plans for the two of us are ruined.” Xiaojun’s voice is clipped, and you know that he is upset about having to cancel your plans for the day. But this time he seems more upset than he normally would be, and you are trying to understand why he is so upset about having to change your plans.

             “It’s no big deal. As long as I get to spend time with my bestie, I’m happy,” you cheerfully sing trying to lift his spirits but all it seems to do is make the scowl on his face deepen. Frowning you lean more into Xiaojun and give his waist a squeeze.

             “Please don’t be upset. I don’t want our day together to be filled with you being moody. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, and we should be having fun together.”

             The elevator dings and the two of you look towards the opening doors. Xiaojun doesn’t say anything, but he does tuck you in closer to him and pulls you forward with him. He knows that he shouldn’t be upset about having to cancel your plans, that getting to spend time with you at all is better than no time spent together at all. But he had plans for today, today he wanted to fill the day with endless fun so that you would completely forget about the guy you were seeing, and he wouldn’t have to hear about him once. That he wouldn’t have to worry about you pulling out your phone to text him or take a call from him. He wanted you completely focused on him and what the two of you were doing. Now he wasn’t sure how he was going to keep your attention completely on him when he was confined to his apartment.

             “I just wanted today to be perfect, and the rain has ruined everything that I’ve had planned for today,” Xiaojun tells you has he punches in the code for his apartment a little more forcefully than is necessary.

             Walking in with Xiaojun you allow him to pull you towards his bedroom. Where he lets you go to go rummaging through is drawers for some dry clothes. You wrap your arms around yourself and rub your hands up and down your arms trying to stay warm while Xiaojun rifles through is clothes. He’s agitated and you know that he isn’t about to let today’s little inconvenience go. He’s going to let it consume his thoughts. And again, you try to understand what makes today different from any other time the two of you had to cancel or change plans. You keep coming up blank.

             Xiaojun comes to stand in front of you with a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. He places them in your hands and tells you that you can change in here and that he’ll change in the bathroom. He turns and disappears into the bathroom leaving you standing in the middle of the room staring at the space where he once stood.

             Shaking yourself you strip out of your wet clothes and chance into the warm clothes that Xiaojun gave you. Once your changed you sit on the end of his bed crossing your legs and resting your head in your hand. You watch the door to the bathroom waiting for it to open. After a few more moments Xiaojun calls out to ask if you are dressed. When you tell him it’s safe to come out you watch him walk out in an outfit similar to yours. He looks at you perched on the end of his bed and the anger that was in his eyes earlier starts to disappear as he makes his way towards you.

             He stops in front of you causing you to tilt your head back to be able to look at him. He looks down at you taking in you wearing his clothes, your wet hair piled on top of your head and Xiaojun wants to reach out and cup your face between his hands. To lean down towards you and to touch his lips to yours. He wants you but he can’t have you, you’re his friend and you are seeing someone else. You are the definition of unavailable. At that thought Xiaojun earlier mood returns, and he finds himself balling his hands up again.

             “Hey what’s with the dark mood again?” You ask as you uncross your legs and come up onto your knees. Reaching out for Xiaojun you place both your hands on his shoulders and give him a slight shake, “What is going on with you today. You have never been this upset before when plans had to change.”

             Xiaojun imagines telling you it all. Telling you how he doesn’t like that you are dating, that every time he has to hear about a date you been on it guts him. How he is irrationally jealous that you spent your time with another man that isn’t him. That someone else gets to hold your hand, kiss you, and be with you. That he hates that he has to share space in your head and heart with another man who might one day take up all the space you have leaving none for him. He almost tells you how he is scared that one day he is going to lose you because you don’t need him any more or because you have to choose a relationship over your friendship with him and you choose the relationship. For a split second he almost tells you it all. But he doesn’t because he’s scared. Instead, he settles for a half truth.

             “I just wanted today to be fun for the two of us. Where all your attention is on us and I don’t have to compete with your boyfriend, “Xiaojun sighs and you widen your eyes at his admission, “I guess I’m feeling some jealousy at having to share you.”

             Pulling Xiaojun into you, you wrap your arms around his neck and burry your face into the crook of his neck. You didn’t want him to ever feel like he had to compete with whoever you were seeing. Doesn’t he know how important he is to you. That all of your relationships have ended because you choose him every time. That as soon as someone you are dating starts to get upset with how much time you spend with him and gives you the line, “him or me,” you pick him every time. That you would gladly cancel your plans with your date if he asked you too.

             “How long have you been feeling like this?” You whisper into his neck. Xiaojun wraps his arms around you securing you to him.

             “Just recently,” he admits, “I think I’m just experiencing some jealous emotions because of how serious you seem to be with this guy.”

             Xiaojun wasn’t lying he was jealous this time compared to all the others because this time it seemed serious. You have been seeing this guy for months now and it didn’t seem like it was staying casual it was moving into the serious territory. You had even mentioned wanting him to meet the guy you were seeing. That was probably when Xiaojun had first experience the feeling of jealousy because he had never met anyone you had dated. This guy was different, important enough to you for you to want him to meet him. And he was worried about what it meant.

             “That doesn’t mean that he’s more important than you,” you pull away from Xiaojun and cup his face between your hands forcing him to look at you, “you will always be the most important person in my life. No matter who I date.”

             “You say that now but,” Xiaojun starts.

             “But nothing!” You firmly tell him. “You will always mean more, always.”

             You stress the last word locking eyes with Xiaojun. You want him to know that you mean it. That no matter who you end up dating, where you end up in life, he will always be the most important person in your life. He was your best friend, more than a best friend and nothing and no one would ever take his place.

             “Okay,” Xiaojun sighs his shoulders sagging and you pull him into another hug. You had thought something was up with him the last time you saw him and now that he admitted what was bothering him you hoped that things between the two of you would get better.

             “Are we okay?” You ask pulling away from him again to look into his eyes.

             “Yeah, we’re okay. We’ll always be okay,” Xiaojun tells you. This time he gives into his hands and reaches one hand out to softly trace the apple of your cheek. As long as he always had you in his life, he would be okay. He just can’t handle losing you, that is something that he knows he would never survive.

[konglindorm]

The Black Bull of Norroway

So despite having "Norway" in the title, this is a Scottish fairy tale. It does, however, have a lot in common with one of the best known Norwegian fairy tales around. Which is why I decided to talk about it today.

Our heroine is the youngest of three sisters, as our heroines often are. They all go to a washerwoman for a sort of mystical matchmaking session, and the oldest two go off with some men in nice carriages who come by her door, while our girl sees a black bull riding past, and because this is a weird sort of matchmaking gig, she gets dropped on the bull's back, and off they go.

They have a long journey, during which she eats out of his right ear and drinks out of his left, until they arrive at a castle, where apparently the bull's older brother lives. She's given a magic apple, and then they move onto another castle, where another brother lives, and give her a pear. In a third brother's castle she gets a magic plum. Then they ride on to a glen, and the bull leaves her there, with instructions not to move at all, while he goes to fight the Old One.

The bull tells her that if everything turns blue he's won, and if everything turns red, the Old One has. So she sits by herself in the glen, waiting, which isn't my idea of a good honeymoon, until everything turns blue. She's really excited, though I'm not sure why - it hasn't exactly been a fantastic marriage so far. Anyway, she's excited, so she moves around a little (just, like, uncrossing her legs), against the bull's express orders, and consequently, he's unable to find her again.

Our girl wanders long and far in search of him - again, not clear on the why. She doesn't owe him anything and we haven't seen them bonding in any way. Why not just go home?

But she wanders. She comes eventually to a glass hill, too slippery to climb, and meets a smith who promises to make her special glass-climbing cleats if she works for him for seven years. And she agrees, which, again, no clue why - she hasn't been given any indication that her missing bull is up the hill. And she walked around the entire base searching for a way up, so she could have just kept going.

After seven years she climbs the hill in her special shoes, and meets another washerwoman. This one is apparently a little less magical, and not a fantastic person.

She tells our girl about a knight who will marry whoever washes his dirty clothes. Which is where we really start getting "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" vibes - it's the return of the magic laundry. The washerwoman can't wash the clothes. Her daughter can't wash the clothes. But our girl falls madly in love with this knight - um, honey, what about the bull you've been doing all this work to find? - and she's able to wash his clothes, through the purity of her love or something, idk.

The washerwoman lies to the knight and tells him that her daughter washed the clothes, a wedding date is set, and our girl is devastated. She gets out her magic apple, finds a bunch of jewels inside, and gives them all to the washerwoman's daughter in exchange for a night with the knight before their wedding. The washerwoman drugs him, so he sleeps straight through her speech about the seven years of hard work she's put into bringing about their reunion, and, okay, when and how, exactly, did she figure out that her bull and the knight were the same person? Because this is literally the first time it's come up in the text. I mean, it was obvious to us, but it shouldn't have been obvious to her, right?

I'm so confused.

Things move forward predictably from here - she makes the same deal with the pear and the plum, eventually someone tells the knight about all the noise someone's making in his bedroom at night, and he doesn't take the drugged drink on the final night. He's reunited with our girl, and they burn the washerwoman and her daughter (details on this move not provided) and live happily ever after.

This story...this story is just...wow.

I have so many unanswered questions. There are so many plotholes. This is such a mess.

Why are we choosing husbands based on who (or what) walks past a washerwoman's door first? Why does the bull have to fight an Old One? What does that even mean? Why can't he find her again if she moves at all, and for how many hours or days was she expected to hold completely still? Why did he have to leave her in the middle of nowhere, instead of one of the THREE castles we just visited?

Why did she feel the need to go after him instead of just going home? Why was she so determined to climb the glass hill, when she's fully capable of walking around it, and we have no evidence that the bull is even up there? If shoes that can climb that hill are worth seven years of labor, why are the washerwoman and her daughter just chilling up there? They can't possibly be getting a lot of business.

How did the knight get up there? Why is his clothing magically dirty? Is it from his fight with the Old One? Has our girl actually met him as the knight, or just heard about him? How does she know who he is? When does she figure out who he is? Why are we, the audience, not kept up to date about this discovery?

I just - it's a mess. I give up.

[plaidbooks]

Cabin Life - Whittling Roses

A/N: Hello, I have lost complete control of myself and just keep writing this AU. I blame @berniesilvas, but I also love her and this AU so much. For now, this was all the concrete ideas I had--everything else is vague ideas that I don’t have a fic plotted for yet. I hope you all enjoy!

Tags: just fluff, the briefest mention of smut (only one line), and a little bit of a make-out session

Words: 1857

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart  @beccabarba  @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @permanentlydizzy @ben-c-group-therapy  @infiniteoddball @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @alwaysachorusgirl  @glimmerglittergirl  @reading--mermaid  @averyhotchner  @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles @crowleysqueenofhell @dreamlover31

As predicted, the snowstorm blocked off contact between you and Sonny for most of the winter months. As soon as the snow started to melt, it would snow again, causing a bigger buildup. He texted you when he could—when the cells had connection—but otherwise, he was confined to his cabin, as you were to yours.

He never once stopped thinking about you, especially when he was huddled in a pile of your blankets, the fireplace happily crackling in front of him. He remembered the night he made love to you right there on the floor, and he wished he could do it again, in his bed this time. Even the thought of your body in his embrace, your warmth and scent surrounding him, was enough to make his body flush with desire.

To help take his mind off you…well, to help control his thoughts—there was no “not thinking” about you—he took a block of wood inside, his whittling blade in hand. When he looked at that block of unimpressive, plain wood, he could clearly see what he wanted to make. But even with his skill, it was a complicated task. At least he had months to work on it.

He spent most of his time whittling. He only took a break to cook, eat, maybe watch tv if he could get a signal in the blizzard. He also brought in a separate piece of wood, to practice different techniques on; he wanted his gift to you to be perfect, to show his love for you.

Sonny let his mind wander as he whittled—as long as he paid attention to the details. His mind irrevocably went back to you every time. He wanted to ask how you felt about kids; though you had mentioned wanting them before, he wanted to see if that was still true.

Eventually, his mind wandered to him marrying you. He wanted to propose, with rings and everything, have both your families there. Maybe he could build an archway to go in that meadow or something, cover it with flowers. He was already building a bridge to go across that creek by his place. An archway shouldn’t be too hard.

Then he smiled as a thought struck him; what if he whittled the wedding rings? He’d have to get better, perfect his craft before he even attempted at something so important. He’d have to talk to you about that, too, make sure you were okay with it. He had enough money to buy a traditional ring, if that’s what you wanted.

 ***********************

About a month into his project, he finished the first of what he hoped would be a dozen roses. He gazed intently at the bud, the petals. Then, his eyes travelled down the stem to the leaf, the veins carved into it. Was it the best rose ever made? Absolutely not. But it was a rose, and it would be perfect for you.

It had taken him much longer than he had anticipated to make one rose. He had stopped frequently to practice petals and veins, though, which had taken up time. Still, he was afraid he wouldn’t finish them quick enough; he had never spent a winter in the cabin, and he didn’t know how long the storms lasted (he had to make a call to the Willis’s for how to cover his gardens). So, while he felt jubilation at finishing one rose, he didn’t celebrate, instead getting right back to it.

The second rose only took him two weeks, and the third, a week. Now that the stems were done, he was getting faster at doing the petals and leaves. He still took his time, made sure he didn’t mess them up, but he was improving. Some of them, he left as bulbs, the petals just opening, while others were in full bloom. He debated painting them, but he wanted to make his own dyes, and he had no idea how to do that. Plus, he kind of liked the light, wooden color.

Once he finished, he fought the urge to continue working on them. He did go back and fix up some details in the first flower that he learned to deal with by the tenth. Now came the question of what to put them in. Does he get a fancy ribbon and tie the stems together for a bouquet? Or should he whittle a vase for them? It’s not like they needed water.

Outside, the blizzard raged on. So, Sonny figured he could make a vase, and if he didn’t like it, he could toss it in the fireplace. Taking yet another block of wood, he got to work. This project, he had a little less of a vision than before. He thought about it as he pulled the roses together, measuring how big of an opening he needed on top.

Slowly, a shape began to form in his mind’s eye, and he started cutting. He wanted a long, skinny neck on top, and a wider base. He wouldn’t have to hollow the inside, only the top part enough to hold the roses. Still, he was doing it by hand, and it took him another month to have just the basic shape done. But he wanted to add details.

Taking his smallest whittling tool, he went to work on the design. Maybe it was corny, but Sonny was a corny guy. He carved apples and his best attempt at lavender flowers, the two things that drew you both together. And in the middle, he carved out a heart, both of your initials inside. He smiled when he was done, knowing that you’d love it regardless; it came from him.

He collected all the wooden roses and rearranged them in the vase until they were how he wanted them. He smiled proudly at the sight, and he wished the snow would stop so he could give them to you now.

 **********************

He only had to wait another two weeks before the snow finally let up enough for him to visit you. The sky was a bright blue, the sun making the fallen snow blinding. Sonny texted you that he was coming over, asking if you wanted to go with him to the local shops to restock on some food. You agreed, and he was instantly on his ATV, the roses zipped up protectively in his jacket.

Sonny parked, then came up to your front door, vase in hand. He knocked and then was suddenly worried that you’d hate the roses, that you’d think him childish. You had given him blankets, something useful, while all he made was wooden flowers—

You opened the door, smiling brightly when you saw Sonny standing there. You had missed him deeply, and you were happy to see his hair and beard longer. Then your eyes flicked down to the wooden vase clutched in his hand.

“What’s this?” you asked, voice hushed in awe at the bouquet.

He swallowed hard. “I, uh, I made ya these fer ya…. I thought, ya know, that I should get ya flowers. But they always wilt and die, so I thought if I made them outta wood, then….”

“You—you made these?” Your eyes tore from the roses to lock to his blues.

He slowly extended his arm, holding the vase out to you, and you took it, marveling at the details in the leaves and petals, then the vase itself. You chuckled as you recognized the apples and lavender, and you had to blink away tears when you saw the heart.

“Sonny, I love them. Thank you so much,” you breathed, smiling up at him.

He grinned nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “Ya do? I was afraid that they weren’t useful—”

“Of course, they’re useful,” you replied, and he tilted his head, brow furrowed. “They show me how much you love me, even when you’re not here to tell me yourself.”

The brightness of his smile could match that of the sun. “Plus, they’ll never die, like my love for you.”

“You sap,” you said, giggling. With your free hand, you grabbed his jacket and pulled him to you for a sweet kiss. His nose and lips were chilled from the wind outside, but you didn’t care. Besides, his lips warmed quickly enough against yours.

“Come on; let’s head to the market so I can get ya home ‘fore the snow starts back up,” Sonny muttered against your lips.

You snuck another kiss. “Why bring me home? Why not just take me to your place? I know we could keep each other warm”

He let out a low growl, kissing you deeper, his tongue in your mouth. Your bodies were magnetic, drawing each other closer. It was a struggle to pull away long enough to place the roses on a table before you were back, body melding to his, hand going to his hair. He pushed you against the doorjamb, hands exploring under the hem of your jacket.

Your father cleared his throat from inside the house, and Sonny sprung off you as if you had shocked him. “S—sorry, sir—” he stammered, face turning a bright red.

Your father crossed his arms, giving him a hard look. “Just close the door; you’re letting the heat out.”

You gave Sonny a sheepish grin as he came inside, closing the door behind him. You told him you needed to pack some things, and you took the vase, heading for your room, leaving Sonny and your father alone.

The latter studied Sonny intently, gazing at him from over his spectacles, and Sonny tried not to fidget under his scrutiny.

“I intend to marry your daughter,” he blurted out. He winced internally; why the fuck did he say that?! But now that it was out there, he was prepared to defend it to the death. He kept his face a mask of stone, not letting your father see his fear.

He continued staring at Sonny, weighing his words. “Does she know that?”

“She does; I told her last time she was over. From the moment I saw her, I knew that I wanted nothin’ more than to marry her.”

He nodded lightly; just a jut of his chin. “Have you proposed? Do you have a ring?”

“It’s only been a few months; I wanted to wait a lil, make sure it’s what she wants, too,” Sonny explained.

“Just don’t wait too long; I don’t want you leading her on or hurting her.”

Sonny’s eyes widened in offense. “I would never—”

You came back right then, a duffle bag in your hand, and glancing nervously between the two men. “Whatcha talkin’ about?” you asked uncertainly.

“Nothing dear. Have fun and stay safe,” your father said, and he came over, kissing your cheek, then headed to a different room.

You cocked an eyebrow at Sonny, but he just shook his head, moving to hold the door open for you. Confused at the tension, you went out into the crisp, winter air, taking a deep breath. You were sure Sonny would tell you the whole story later.