#is it finally that time of year can I finally post these again??

[thebibliosphere]

I don’t remember if I’ve posted this here, but an update to my ongoing physical rehab for my old neck injury:

The knot of scar tissue that wrapped around the base of my skull on the right side from my chiropractic injury that has largely restricted my movement and caused a lot of compression pain over the last few years has finally started to give! I have natural movement on that side again!

Downside: it was load bearing scar tissue, none of the muscles on that side are strong enough to support the weight of my head anymore and my cranial instability has gotten noticeably worse, leading to more vertebrae slippage and nerve pinching.

This is not ideal and makes being upright very tiring, but the good news is I can start to rebuild the muscles in a healthy manner and hopefully maybe start to see some gradual improvement in this part of my body that has caused me debilitating pain for a very long time.

I may or may not end up with a custom neck brace in the new year to help. We’ll see what they say when I go back for my assessment.

But yeah. Progress! Progress with new problems, but progress!

[parfaitblogs]

i have more than enough ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the holiday season is achingly difficult to get through, when you are spencer reid, who believes he is no longer allowed to enjoy them. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. post prison!reid. word count: 2k a/n: and for my final act? the parfaitblogs special (post prison reid fic to a searows song). merry christmas from australia because it IS the 25th here!!! this is the end of my christmas advent calendar!! i had soo much fun writing these stories thank you to all that requested ♡

❄︎ advent calendar masterlist

He does not deserve a Christmas. 

Perhaps that is the only thing that runs through Spencer Reid's mind the second the Halloween decor filtered out of the stores, reindeer mugs entered them; while candy canes and Santa hats adorned every little item, and Christmas trees lit up every corner of every mall.

No matter what state he traveled to, he couldn't escape the festivities of the holiday season. He's pretty sure he's the only person who wants to. 

You waited for him. He feels immensely guilty for just how much waiting you've had to do all year. Waiting for him to go to trial, waiting for him to get out of prison, waiting for him to let you in again. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

You're waiting again. A Christmas tree that blandly sits empty and undecorated in the corner of your shared apartment; a Christmas roast you aren't sure if you'll even cook takes up too much space in your fridge; gingerbread cookies you promised your friends weeks ago remaining unbaked. 

He knew you were upset about it. His Christmas loving girlfriend forced to mute the celebrations of her favourite holiday because he couldn't find it in him to be excited about it. 

He didn't know how to fix it, really. 

You had tried everything to get him back into the Christmas spirit he's had for the past three years you've spent together. Baking with him, picking out the very Christmas tree that leaves the room smelling like a pine forest together, Christmas shopping for the presents he had no will to buy for his family and friends. 

Nothing had worked. 

"Spence?"

Sitting awkwardly at his — now — very minimally decorated desk, his head lifts from the papers in front of him, eyebrows frowning towards each other as his eyes land on you.

"Hi," he murmurs, putting the pen in his hand down in an effort to give you his full attention. He was getting better at that, these days. 

"I finished dinner," you tell him, fingers fidgeting with one another; a recent habit he had noticed you'd developed in the months between his arrest and release. "If you want to come eat."

He doesn't, but then again, he never does. And despite how awful he feels, he feels even more so for what he's putting you through, and the guilt that chews away at him is enough to will him to do small things — like eating — for you. 

"Yeah," he breathes out, and stands up from the desk, following you silently over to the meal sitting at the edge of the kitchen bench you had cooked for the two of you.

Silence overwhelmed you two as you ate, as it usually does. Sitting curled up beside one another on the couch, sharing a blanket and yet still feeling so distant from each other regardless. 

"Did you call your mom?" you ask him, and his fork pauses in the plate. 

Right. It's Christmas. The time for calling family members and sharing love for them during this supposed to be joyous time. 

"Not yet," he shakes his head. "I'll... get to it. Before Christmas is over."

"You have a week," you remind him, though it isn't to be passive aggressive at all. You genuinely wonder if he's forgotten the date of Christmas that has quickly crept up on you both.

"I know."

You stare silently at the coffee table after a short nod to his words, and you wrack your brain for things to say, just to keep him talking.

"Can I give you your gift before Christmas day?" 

He lifts his head, and you feel his eyes transfix on you.

"If you want."

You want him to want it too, but you aren't sure if that's a reasonable wish anymore. 

"I do," you nod, and quickly finish up your food, before you stand, and leave the room altogether. 

He places his plate next to yours on the coffee table — he'd remember to get to cleaning those later — just as you return, a square shaped brown paper gift in your hands, a purple ribbon tied in a bow around it. 

"You got me a square?" he asks you, and your heart warms at the teasing tone in his voice. He's trying. 

"Open it," you press, instinctively shaking his shoulder with both hands pressed up against it. 

"Okay, okay."

He's meticulous in pulling the plain wrapping paper off, and you almost want to open the gift for him. 

"Did you make this?" he asks you as he carefully pulls the square apart in front of your eyes, though he does already know the answer before you have a chance to start nodding your head. 

A Victorian Puzzle Purse situates delicately in his hands. Hands that pull it apart ever so slowly, taking note of every little drawn and painted detail on the paper, opening it up to a letter that he spent two minutes reading through — confirming that he was not only reading it once through. 

"Do you like it?" you ask him, almost hesitantly. 

"Victorian Puzzle Purse's were how lovers would communicate for Valentine's day," he says, instead of answering your question directly, as he neatly folds it back up into the intricate origami square it was originally when he pulled it out. "Sorry," he quickly adds, his eyes landing back on you. "That wasn't an answer. I do. I like it a lot."

"I know it isn't much, but I don't want to overwhelm you with gifts this Christmas. I'm honestly not even expecting anything big. We can just order food in and watch movies or something this year, if you'd prefer. You just have to promise me you'll at least let me put mistletoe up outside our bedroom, because it's kind of become tradition and... sorry."

He's staring at you, half dumbfounded, half in awe, as you realise you were rambling instead of sitting in the moment of him enjoying something seasonal, but you can't even find it within yourself to be frustrated at it. For he is letting a small smile grace his lips, and you're leaning forwards with a smile of your own, and for a second or more, he is not the shattered prison man, and you are not his distanced girlfriend. 

"You can put mistletoe outside our bedroom," he says, and you're breaking into an even wider grin.

"Really?"

"It's tradition."

You light up enough for there to be no need for a decorated Christmas tree in your apartment anymore, and you're threading your fingers through his hand to drag him up off the couch. 

Your gift to him remains on the coffee table as you lead him over to your bedroom door, prompting him to stay still, as you disappear to find the piece of familiar fake greenery. 

"Mistletoe!" you present it to him, and he takes it from you habitually, using the pin you also hand him and pinning it above your heads on the doorframe.

"I think we need to buy a new one," he says, hands dropping back by his side. His eyes are trained on you, but your own head is still tilted back, inspecting the faux plant. 

"I think we need to buy a real one," you answer conclusively, finally dropping your gaze to him. 

"Next year," he confirms. "Tradition complete?"

You shake your head. "The tradition ends with a kiss."

Hesitation follows your words, and you instantly regret them. 

It wasn't that you didn't kiss, or weren't intimate in any way. It's simply that it was on occasion now, and almost always motivated by something more important than a silly mistletoe tradition.

"It's okay," you cover your unwelcome disappointment with a smile. 

He ignores your reassurance. "It does end in a kiss, you're right."

"But we don't have to," you mumble.

"Yes," his hands encase your waist to do nothing more than to pull you closer to him. "We do."

"Not if you don't want to."

"Did I say that?"

You open your lips to respond, but the words die on your tongue. 

"What did I do to make you think I don't want to kiss you, angel?" he's frowning now, and you feel guilt settle in your chest. 

"Nothing, really. We just—um—don't kiss... as much. Anymore. Which is fine, by the way, and I can understand it. You're under no moral obligation to kiss me. Obviously."

His frown deepens. "I think we're experiencing a bout of miscommunication."

"What?"

"I thought you didn't want to kiss me," he explains, and suddenly, you're mirroring the confusion on his face. 

"Why would I not want to kiss you?" you ask him, incredulously. 

His shoulders slump at the question, and you force yourself not to fill the silence that follows.

"Prison," he replies, quietly. "I didn't think you'd really even want me once I got out of prison. You don't initiate anything anymore, either. I just assumed."

"I didn't initiate anything because I was waiting for you to initiate stuff."

"I can see that now."

"I didn't want to rush you," you tell him, as earnestly as possible. "I know prison was a lot, and you still haven't told me everything that happened, but I wanted you to not rush yourself. Or... us, I guess."

He swallows the lump of emotion that lodges in his throat. "I thought you were disappointed in me. Or—well, scared of me."

"No," your heart shatters, and you're sure he can hear it in your voice as your hands instantly cup his cheeks, fingers brushing over his cheekbones. "No, oh my God, Spencer."

"You shouldn't use the lord's name in vain. It's Christmas," he jokes, weakly. The smile you give him is weak, too.

"I was terrified for you. I was so worried about you in prison, and—and what they were doing to you in there. But never of you. Not a single part of me will ever be scared of you, sweet boy."

"I'm scared of me," he whispers, and his voice cracks in a way that has tears welling in your eyes. "I think differently, you know."

"And that automatically means I should be scared of you? Or makes you any less deserving of love?"

His silence is enough of a response. 

"I love you," you settle on telling him. "No matter what baggage you came back to me with. You deserve so much love, and I hate that you have been through so much. So much so that you believe yourself undeserving. You are not. You never will be. I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you, if I must. Or as long as you will let me."

"Forever," he replies, and you feel his hands close over your own on his face. "I will let you forever."

"Thank God. It'd be kind of embarrassing if I say all this and then you were to break up with me tomorrow," you say, and his cheeks stretch beneath your hands as he huffs a laugh.

"I won't break up with you."

"I wouldn't let you, anyways."

"Oh really?" his hands slide down to your waist once more. 

"Yeah," you confirm with a small nod, your own hands dropping to his neck, interlacing behind it, as you draw his head closer to yours. "You're stuck with me."

"I have not a word of complaint," he replies, and he's close enough that you feel the words tattoo your lips. "I love you."

And then he's kissing you, and there is an overwhelming amount of neglected feelings you had been missing poured into you, from his soul to yours. 

It was a kiss so unlike what you had grown used to in recent months. Fingers dug into your waist as a violent reminder of what you mean to him, and for the first time since May, you believed it. 

When he goes to pull away, you barely give him time to get air before you're chasing his lips again, and he tugs you impossibly closer with a laugh that vibrates against your face. 

You kiss him until your hands go numb behind his neck, and your legs begin to ache, and your waist is sure to have bruised in the shapes of his fingertips. Chest heaving and eyes full of more adoration than you think one human can have for another, you meet his gaze once more.

"Tradition complete."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[scarlet-bee]

[Plain text:

how often do you see your family?

I live with them 59.9%

Once a week or more 6%

A few times a month 6.7%

Once a month 5.1%

A few times a year 14.9%

Once a year 2.3%

Less than once a year 3.5%

Other (tags?) 1.5%

Final result from 3,815 votes

most of us have a choice about how often we visit our families, but that is a luxury not granted to the families of those trapped in gaza, which has become an open-air prison under constant bombardment for more than a year. instead, separated from their loved ones and unable to hold them close, their only option is to turn to strangers online and convince them that the suffering is bad enough for people to help.

[ID 1: A close-up of a baby, looking at the camera. End ID.]

[ID 2: A toddler, standing outside, surrounded by plants. There is wreckage and rubble in the background. End ID.]

pictured are malak and amir, the young children of ahmed and iman. ahmed has been trying to raise money for his family from egypt to reunite with his family. he has been separated from them for almost a year, and can only see his children through photos.

please, please share this post to help ahmed's brother in law, mohammed, get surgery on his arm, which was injured in the war. the funds will also help the family afford to continue to live in gaza, and eventually escape the conflict and see ahmed again.

even $5, $10 will make a difference. skip buying a coffee today and send that money to a family who is trying desperately to stay together.

Palestine will be free, and until that day comes it is the obligation of those of us who are lucky enough to be outside of Gaza to give our love, support, and donations to those being terrorized by the occupation.

@mohammedatallaah

vetted by 90-ghost

End plain text.]

most of us have a choice about how often we visit our families, but that is a luxury not granted to the families of those trapped in gaza, which has become an open-air prison under constant bombardment for more than a year. instead, separated from their loved ones and unable to hold them close, their only option is to turn to strangers online and convince them that the suffering is bad enough for people to help.

pictured are malak and amir, the young children of ahmed and iman. ahmed has been trying to raise money for his family from egypt to reunite with his family. he has been separated from them for almost a year, and can only see his children through photos.

please, please share this post to help ahmed's brother in law, mohammed, get surgery on his arm, which was injured in the war. the funds will also help the family afford to continue to live in gaza, and eventually escape the conflict and see ahmed again.

even $5, $10 will make a difference. skip buying a coffee today and send that money to a family who is trying desperately to stay together.

Palestine will be free, and until that day comes it is the obligation of those of us who are lucky enough to be outside of Gaza to give our love, support, and donations to those being terrorized by the occupation.

@mohammedatallaah

vetted by 90-ghost

[theereboseffect]

art vs artist 2024!

i used sooo much blue and yellow this year, maybe next year ill branch out to more colours but i cant help that blue and yellow are just the best colours for drawing.

here are my favourite works for each month of 2024!

january:

I used colour layer modes instead of colouring 'organically', but this was the first time I made a drawing in full colour and actually really liked it. this was before i started painting colours directly into my drawings but its a great effort and i learned a lot about colour layer modes here!

february:

didn't make much great art this month but this sketch scratches my brain correctly. the contrast the hatching the lighting!!!! this was where i started being obsessed with the different forms you can manage to portray with just a little rimlight

march:

possibly one of my favourites of the WHOLE YEAR. Inspired by Andrew Salgado's work, I'm a huge fan of his stuff. In this I learned that colours are literally stupid and if you don't care about logic, you can actually make something very distinctive and somewhat abstract work. Kick-started my whole journey to learning colours so this was probably one of my most important pieces i've ever made

April:

again, not much good art but this is nice I guess. drew this for the anniversary of senna's death, i like the polaroidy feel

may:

I LOVE my may era. Most of everything was done with this oil painter brush I found and it just went very painterly and kinda abstract with strokes and colours, was a month of experimentation for sure

june:

I didn't like this very much when I made it originally, but looking back I love the kinda creaminess of this piece. I haven't really been able to recreate that effect so far though, so this one stands out to me for sure

july:

Not a fantastic art month for me, but I was experimenting with textures in this piece and learned a lot of what I SHOULDN'T do. Very useful

August

I made this piece because I hadn't spotted any other lesteban enjoyers in the wild. Idk the colours in this just came out very easily which is always enjoyable

September:

GRAHHHB the colours in this have me in a CHOKEHOLD the DESATURATED BLUE SHADOWS and PINK CHEEKS!!! This definitely isn't my best of the month but it BRINGS ME A LOT OF JOY OKAY I suddenly turned into an Esteban superfan in theast fiveish months of the year. so dumb that like one of my favourite pieces ever was a shitpost

November:

the textures the eyelash shadow. PERIODD!! the first of my f1 x gladiator series, i just love this a lot even if it doesn't look like max

december:

one of the best of my whole year tbh. Like the final boss where you use all the stuff you learned throughout your journey. The jewellery okay divaaa

okay very long post but i hope you guys like it!! thank you everyone for the support i've received this year you guys are the best

[waves-against-a-cliff]

After the End - Post-Apocalypse Omegaverse AU

Summary - The final obstacles.

Tags - Omegaverse (duh), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, non traditional dynamics, all of the 141 are alphas, you're an omega. Eventual smut, dub-con, knotting, mating press, polyamory, alphas love alphas. 141 x reader, injuries, masturbation

Masterlist

Support me and get early access!

For the next two nights they dote on Gaz and Soap, the two most injured of their pack, despite their grumblings and huffs. Though Soap can’t hide his chuffs as well as Gaz can and he earns a cheeky wink from his fellow mask alpha. Of course sitting in enemy woods is less then ideal while getting cozy and romantic but that hardly stops Gaz from being sat in Price’s lap while he dotes on his fellow alpha.

“Price, really this isn’t necssary,” Gaz insists but Price shakes his head and pushes what’s left of his rations for the night to Gaz.

“Please Kyle?” He damn nears begs for his partnered alpha to take the last half of the portions.

“John-” Gaz sighs and gingerly takes the portions from Price. “You know you’re playing dirty with those puppy eyes,” he snips but Price smiles and gives Gaz a little nuzzle to which he chuckles from.

Soap meanwhile is completely passed out, leaning against Ghost with his head on his shoulder and his injured shoulder rebandaged and treated with some salve they had learned to make from a fellow group of survivors. Sometimes Gaz wonders if they made it or if they ended up zombie flesh. They were really kind people. The kind don’t often make it he thought blearily as his eyes began to droop before a familiar scent filled his nose.

He immediately perks up and sniffs the air a few more times before his head snaps to the north where the wind is blowing from. “Do you smell that John? Simon?” He asks and gets silent nods as Soap wakes from his slumber as well.

“Aye, I smell it too,” Johnny says and shares a look with Ghost. “We’re close.”

“That we are. What do you say men? Ready to get going tomorrow at sun rise?” Price asks and the three other men give their affirmations. “Tomorrow at sun rise it is.”

The sun rising the next morning never felt so refreshing. Gaz, though he hardly slept because he kept catching small whiffs of the scent on the wind just enough for him. Just for him, it felt like a sirens call. Come to me Kyle, the scent whispers and there’s an extra sweet tinge to it around the edges, that if Gaz is recalling correctly means one thing and one thing only.

Heat.

They traversed together, practically holding hands. Hell, Soap might’ve actually held hands with Ghost for a little while until Gaz started to look a little too closely. They were not going to be split up this time by different traps or scents. They followed Gaz who was the one who was leading them towards where their precious, if not sadistic, omega was. Several times they, mostly Soap, almost fell for another trap but was yanked back by a member of their pack.

They were silent otherwise, their boots crunching the snow beneath them and it made some of them wince. Well, it made Ghost wince as he thought about how important it might be to get the element of surprise on such a vicious omega. Ghost had never encountered an omega so vicious and territorial. Then again, he thought, I’ve never met an omega who’s been alone for years. Truly alone.

Ghost could vaguely recall how he had been once he had been picked up in Mexico after digging himself out of that grave. Violent, baring his teeth at anyone who came near and he had needed to be sedated by the end of it. An unpleasant experience overall. As they walk, he tries to relate that to the omega. Alone in the woods for years, maybe even years before the end of the world as they knew it. It had taken them a while to get this far up north after being stranded in the country side of France.

He did not want to think about that time.

Then as they pushed through a few bushes there it was. A log cabin, the chimney did not emit smoke. “Clever girl,” Price comments as he observes the state of the cabin. “Windows boarded up and I’m willing to bet there’s a bar or something preventing us from opening the door easily,” he says, mostly to himself before he turns to the rest of his pack.

You can hear them. Even though they tread quietly, underneath them you can hear every foot step after they finally opened the door. Certainly surprised to find it only locked. You wince as you think about having to replace that lock and venturing into town again. It’s such a long hike and you’ve been worn through the last few days.

The never ending anxiety and… well you’ve been trying to avoid the truth of it all. But it seems impossible at this point. And this on coming heat. The cotton stuffed into your nose only does so much and your inner omega whines and begs to take it out. To just breathe in their scents, that aroma that makes your head spin and heat go straight to your core.

Against your better judgement you do so. As if your hands aren’t your own, you take out the cotton stuffed up your nose and breathe in deeply. Their scents, this close, hits like a freight train. You cover your mouth right before a whine escapes and you rub your thighs together as an ache between them forms. You can’t possibily be quiet enough to eek another orgasm out, you’ve already had five in the last two hours. You keep waiting to hit a wall but it doesn’t come and the ache persists. Like an itch you cannot scratch yourself. Your omega purrs again at the thought of one of them. Or two. Hell maybe even three of them surviving the traps you have laid out for them in the cabin.

One last test, your omega purrs as you slide a hand between your legs as you lay in the nest you had built a day before. One last test and we can see who is fit to be our alpha. Or alphas.

Support me and get early access!

[gold-onthe-inside]

Christmas Request: Spencer catches wind that one of JJ’s kids (or his own kid) doesn’t believe in Santa, so he commits to growing out his beard, dying it white and dressing up as Santa to bring a lil holiday cheer to the kiddos - can be xOC

santa's little helper 🍬🎅

who? spencer reid (post prison) x bau!reader

summary: after finding out henry no longer believes in santa after he missed last christmas, spencer dedicates this year to bringing the magic of christmas back to his godson's life... with a little help from you, of course.

content warnings: fleeting reference to cat adams, a little kissing, spencer with a beard, ambiguous status of reader's relationship to spencer (could be a wife, fiance, girlfriend, up to you),

In the 12 years you've known Spencer, he's never been keen on growing facial hair, and it had never been something you'd thought twice about. And then Cat Adams had come into your lives and had been determined to ruin the happily ever after the two of had fought so hard to make. Spencer's prison sentence had rivalled only Emily's faked death in the pain it had caused you two, the only difference being that at least Spencer wasn't actually dead. The two of you were a month and a half away from the anniversary of his release, and he'd completely stopped shaving for that year, growing out his facial hair.

You hoped that if it was something serious, he'd have told you, or if not you, his mandated therapist. Besides, other than that, he was taking care of himself, eating well, had finally started sleeping better, you had nothing else to complain about. You'd brought the beard up a couple months ago, but his brow had furrowed in concern and his brown puppy dog eyes baring his heart to you when he asked if you didn't like it. "No, I do like it," you had insisted, which was true. You'd learned early on that Spencer could play around with his hairstyles and you found him no less attractive (just never ever grow out a mullet again, for the love of God).

You'd grown used to it, too, his scruff tickling you when he'd kiss you, which was practically every time he got the chance these days. It's your turn to host the Christmas Eve party and the two of you are going over the house with a fine tooth comb, armed to the teeth with cleaning supplies, and that's when you find the white hairspray, mid-way through your bathroom cleanse. Which would go well with the Santa suit tucked away in the back of his wardrobe. You knew Spencer had his silly moments - with his mismatched socks and magic tricks, and with the amount of times he's pulled stuff out of your ear just to make you smile couldn't be counted. But it felt out of character for him to spend the whole night you had planned (Secret Santa, dinner, and Christmas movies) with white hair and a beard.

He's using all the body strength he has in rigorously cleaning the kitchen floor, intent on making it so clean you could eat off of it, when you trudge downstairs, hairspray in hand. "Spence, is this yours?" you asked, skipping the last step, to the kitchen and he looked up, then froze at the sight of the hairspray.

"It's not what it looks like," he tried, sitting on his knees and you narrowed your eyes.

"It looks like you're planning to dress as Santa at some point," you said, leaning against the doorway, and you watched him stand up and pull off his gloves.

"Okay, yeah, maybe it is what it looks like," he said with a sigh, taking a seat on a bar stool. "Henry, uh, doesn't believe in Santa anymore, so JJ and I were planning to let him stay up tomorrow night and catch Santa in the act."

"Oh," you said, nodding at first, but then frowning a little. "I mean, what's wrong with Henry not believing in Santa? He's like, 9 years old. That happens."

"I know it's developmentally appropriate for him to be questioning these things," Spencer said, letting out another little sigh. "But that's not why he doesn't believe in Santa anymore."

Your frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

He wet his lips, not quite meeting your gaze. "Last Christmas… he asked Santa for me to come home," he said quietly, almost ashamed. "And then when I wasn't there…"

"He stopped believing in Santa," you filled in the rest and he looked so sad. "Spence," you said softly, crossing over to hug him, setting the spray on the kitchen island. "It's not your fault."

"It is," he said, choking a little on his voice as he tucked himself into your arms.

"Honey, you were framed, it's not your fault," you insisted, rubbing his back.

"I just… I can't be the reason he doesn't believe in these things anymore," he mumbled into your shoulder.

"Okay, okay," you said, pulling away to look at him, your hands cupping his neck, thumbs stroking his bearded jaw. "Can I help?" His lips twitched into a smile at you.

"Well, um… Honestly, I think I'm gonna make a mess of the hairspray, and you did such a good job at Halloween with Jack's Cyberman costume--"

"I can do that," you murmured, kissing him gently, and his hands loosened to grasp your waist.

Now, here he sat in front of the mirror in the bathroom, watching you meticulously section and spray his hair, which was already damp from the shower.

"Did you know," he started, and you hummed in recognition that you were listening. "That Saint Nicholas was a real guy? He was Greek."

"The Greeks had saints?" you asked.

"Not really," he said, shaking his head as you sectioned out another piece of hair, coating it gently in white hairspray. "Not the kind you're thinking of, but Nicholas of Myra was real. Born in the third century. He apparently had a reputation for secret gift giving, like… leaving coins in people's shoes."

"Keep your head still," you chastised through a giggle.

"Sorry," he mumbled, tilting his chin up to keep still. "He died from natural causes in like, 340, which, for the time, was a good run. It was like… a hundred years later that he became a saint, but by then of course, all of the people who knew him personally were long gone."

"I hate when that happens," you murmured, shifting his chin so you could colour his beard next. "Appreciating people for what they've done after they've died."

"Well, he was very well respected during his life. The story goes that three separate couples were having financial trouble, and in those days, a daughter without a dowry would either never get married or would become a prostitute. So, according to the story, Saint Nick came in the middle of the night and climbed onto their roofs, and dropped three small pouches of gold down their chimneys."

"Honey, I'm gonna need you to be quiet or you're gonna taste hairspray," you said, colouring his jaw, just the hair around his lips left.

"Sorry," he said, his words muffled slightly, and you could see that he was trying desperately not to smile, his shoulders shaking. "I'm done," he said, and you were fairly sure the shake in his voice was from suppressed laughter.

You chuckle quietly, colouring the last of his beard. "All done, Mr Claus."

"How do I look?" he asked, getting out of the chair and taking a look in the mirror, his eyes going wide. "This looks incredible!"

"Yeah?" you asked, stepping away. Spencer had a habit of exaggerating your accomplishments, but you had done a pretty good job with his hair.

"You're a miracle worker," he said, turning to face you, and you could see his excitement. "Now, Santa needs to go get dressed." You chuckled, stepping out of the bathroom so he could get dressed, and sat by the foot of the bed, waiting.

When he reappeared ten minutes later wearing the Santa suit, the white hair and white beard you'd given him made him look like an old man, but there was a brightness in his eyes as he did a little twirl. "How do I look?" he asked, and in spite of how silly he looked, you couldn't help but find him handsome.

You laughed to yourself. "Perfectly in character. Though you could use a little belly."

"Are you saying I'm too thin?" he said, faking offence. He knew he was skinny but sometimes a little gentle ribbing was warranted.

"I'm just saying, Santa's supposed to be fat."

"I take good care of my cardiovascular health, thank you very much," he said, and he looked so ridiculous in the suit, with the white hair and beard, that you were unable to take the conversation seriously. "You know, the modern version of what Santa's supposed to look like was invented in the nineteenth century," he said, his hands on his hips, still very much in character. "Before then, Saint Nick was usually described as an older, slender man, and before that, he was more of a demonic black man. It's only in the fifties that the modern image of Santa was created."

"Okay, okay," you said, holding your hands up. "Skinny Santa it is." You checked your watch. "We should go before Henry actually falls asleep."

Spencer's expression went from Santa to slightly terrified very quickly. "Crap, is it time already?"

"Relax," you assured him, kissing his cheek before leading the way out. "It's just a little breaking and entering. You leave the gifts, you slip right back out."

"Just a little breaking and entering," he repeated dryly. "Why doesn't that make me feel better?"

You snickered quietly, grabbing your coat and car keys. "For someone who's supposed to be a hardened felon, you're so innocent."

He took offence to that. "Hey," he said, as you both started out of the house. "I was incarcerated for three months. I am very much street wise now."

You opened the passenger side door for him. "Streetwise? Really?"

He climbed into the passenger seat, sticking out his tongue at you as you shut the door.

"I know all about the street life," he said, as you got into the driver's side. "I know how they talk, I know what they do, I know..." His voice trailed off as you shot him a look. "Okay, so maybe everything I know about the street life comes from television."

You couldn't help another laugh as you started the car.

His lips curled into a smile when he saw your reaction, and he leaned across the middle of the car to kiss your cheek. He sat back in his seat and you began the short trip to JJ's house. "Alright, JJ said she's gonna leave the back door open," you said, going over the plan with the same gravity you used for unsub takedowns. "There's cookies and milk left on the kitchen counter. The tree's in the living room."

"Got it," Spencer said decidedly, nodding. "Cookies, milk, tree, simple."

You turned off the headlights as you approached the house, killing the engine across the street. Spencer got out of the car and jogged across the street, ducking around the side of the house. He found the back door like you'd said, and went inside, very much in undercover Santa mode. He went into the kitchen, making for the counter where the cookies and milk were, and that's when he heard it. Quiet footsteps coming down the stairs. Spencer panicked, trying to find a place to hide, but there really wasn't one. The cookies and milk were left in the middle of the counter, there weren't any cupboards or anything of the sort. He was stuck, with only the Christmas tree as a possible cover. There was nothing he could do but hope that whoever was coming downstairs didn't flip on the light as he dove behind the tree.

The footsteps stopped, and Spencer held his breath, his heart thudding in his chest as the Christmas tree needles dug into his skin. He could see a pair of little feet in front of him. They weren't JJ, which could only mean- "Mr Claus?" the little voice said, and he shut his eyes, praying to something, anything that he hadn't been caught by Henry.

After a long moment, he peeked out from behind the tree, only to find Henry staring right at him. "H-hi," Spencer stuttered. "I-I didn't realise you'd be awake."

Henry's eyes went wide. "I-It's really you." He had that childlike glee that came with finding out about the magic of Christmas, and while Spencer would usually give anything to have that look come back on Henry's face, this was a little inconvenient.

"Ah, I-I mean," Spencer fumbled over his words, trying to come up with a valid reason he would be in JJ's house at this moment, wearing a Santa suit and munching on cookies. "Um..."

"Where's your reindeer?" Henry asked, completely enthralled by Spencer, and he realised that he actually hadn't thought of a cover story to accompany the Santa suit.

"Oh, they're in the- they're in the sleigh," he said, and even he thought it sounded stupid when he said it out loud. "They're getting a rest while they can."

"The ride must be hard," Henry said, and Spencer was quietly impressed by that. He was just as smart as his parents, and he probably would have called him out on his lie if he'd given an excuse about a magic sleigh.

"It sure is," Spencer said, trying to keep his voice calm, and he hoped that the rest of the night wasn't going to be as awkward as this interaction had been so far. "Do you mind if I finish eating these? I only get so many breaks tonight." It was the sort of thing he could imagine a real Santa saying and Henry's eyes widened at that.

"Oh, of course," he said, stepping back. "I, uh, need to go to the bathroom." And then Henry was running upstairs. Once he was sure the kid had walked away, Spencer leaned against the wall, letting out a sigh and he silently hoped that you weren't watching him struggle. He finished off the last of the milk and the cookies, and, once he'd composed himself, he made his way to the living room and over to the Christmas tree. He dropped the bag of gifts under the tree, just as he was supposed to.

Meanwhile, Henry was upstairs, trying to get JJ to wake up. "Mom, Mom," he said, shaking his mother gently. "Wake up, Mom, you gotta see this."

JJ grumbled as she got up, Will shifting beside her, but still deep asleep. "What is it, Henry?"

"Santa is downstairs," he said in an excited whisper.

"He is?" JJ asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning a little, Henry pulling her out of bed with all his might.

"Yep. He's downstairs in the living room," he said, dragging her out of bed, and he wasn't kidding because his strength was remarkable. JJ let her son pull her down the stairs, neither of them seeing Santa sneak out the back door. He jogged across the street to the car, getting inside. You watched him in mild amusement as he shut the door, and he was slightly out of breath, which was a comical combination with the Santa suit.

"Mission accomplished?" you asked, a smile on your lips.

"I got caught," he breathed, his voice sounding slightly panicked, and your smile faded into concern as you realised he was serious. "But I think I covered it."

"Did he realise you weren't Santa?" you asked.

"I don't think so," he said, and he did seem a little unsure. "He didn't mention anything about it, and he seemed excited by me being there, but I honestly don't know. It's probably a fifty-fifty chance that he realized it was me."

Meanwhile, Henry had dragged his mom downstairs to an empty living room. "I swear he was here," Henry protested, and JJ was still half-asleep and only slightly confused. "I-I saw him."

"M sure you did, baby," JJ murmured. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"No, I did see him!" Henry said, looking around the living room. He ran into the kitchen. "And he was eating the cookies and the milk!"

"Well, he probably left, Henry," JJ reasoned, following him. "He's got a lot of kids to deliver to."

The wonder on Henry's face was replaced with disappointment, and JJ pulled the nine year-old into a hug. "I know it sucks, baby," she said. "But I'm sure Santa will have left you lots of gifts." Henry huffed, pouting, and JJ smiled down at his adorable expression. "Come on," she said, starting up the stairs. "Back to bed, kiddo."

Once they reached upstairs, Henry climbed into bed, and JJ tucked him in. He looked slightly upset, but JJ planted a kiss on his forehead. Even at nine-years-old, he still wanted to believe in Santa. "So, you believe in Santa again?" JJ asked.

"I told you," Henry said, his voice indignant, sounding very much like his father. "I saw him."

JJ couldn't help a smile, ruffling his hair. "I know."

He gave her a sleepy smile, and then yawned, snuggling down into bed. “Goodnight, mom,” he mumbled.

"Goodnight, baby," JJ murmured. She watched him for a moment, waiting for that slow rise and fall of his chest that meant he was breathing like only the asleep could, and once she was sure he was asleep, she tiptoed out of his room, shutting the door quietly behind her, thanking Spencer in her head.

[knavesflames]

Arlecchino’s Christmas Gift

Hello omg sorry for not posting I’ve been crashing out in terms of physical health (yes yes, I’m sick again, yay me!!)

Anyway, a little Christmas present for you all. Apologies if the standard is not Normal, but it will be soon.

Word count: 1497

Contents: soft Arlecchino, bottom!Arlecchino, fingering

Nsft utc<3

Christmas is a busy time for the House of the Hearth. With God knows how many children, Arlecchino works hard to make sure they all have a lovely day. Barbecues are out of the question, the snowflakes sticking to the ground a definite rejection of yet another barbecue. Instead, she opts for cooking a huge feast (or rather, you cook, she tells you to stop adding seasoning).

Watching the children eat and open the gifts she’s spent too much mora on, you can see that her eyes have softened significantly, even if her smile is small and barely there. “I don’t want gifts,” she’ll mutter when you ask her what she wants, she does it every year. “Gifts are unnecessary and superficial. The children receive them because they are children.”

You think she says this because she doesn’t know how to receive gifts. The House of the Hearth before was.. unkind, to say the least. The poor woman has been so busy, she’s barely had time to think about herself (you wonder if that’s the point), you know very well that the children are her priority, always. You, too. She’s made it abundantly clear multiple times to multiple times that it’s you and the children who come first.

When you see her sigh and wipe her forehead in slight frustration, you start to get an idea of what you can give her. Something she wouldn’t deem superficial, something she looks like she needs. And of course, when you excuse yourself early with the claim that you’re ’so tired’ and ‘the day has been exhausting’, she lets you leave with a soft kiss on your forehead and a murmur of affection. You don’t go to sleep, though, no. You wait until you hear the children leave the main dining hall and shuffle to their rooms to sleep before you start putting your plan in motion. You know she won’t go to bed for a little bit, she never does.

You waste no time in making yourself her gift. Putting on the lingerie you know she adores, dimming the lights and putting the small box of.. objects, by the bed, you position yourself comfortably. With clumsy movements, you manage to tie the ribbon around your wrists the way she’s done to you so many times. You admit it’s difficult, doing it with one working hand, but you get it done well enough. Then, what else is there to do but wait? The whole idea is for her to feel better and have whatever relief she desires, but you can’t help but feel excitement bubbling inside of you with every second that passes. She doesn’t feel good unless you feel good. That became obvious when she couldn’t cum until you were just as desperate as she was.

You let out a small breath when you finally hear her soft footsteps, and you’re trying to picture her reaction in your head. For some reason, you suddenly become nervous— what if she just wants to go to bed, or what if she just hates the idea? The ideas run through your head until—

“My dear?”

Your thoughts are cut short when your eyes snap to her. She looks a little shocked, her lips parted slightly, and her eyes scanning you, but she doesn’t seem repulsed or uninterested.

“Merry Christmas. You dislike gifts because they’re superficial, but I’m not, am I?”

Arlecchino swallows, her throat suddenly dry. You’ve always been the thing that gets her to react the most, both of you know that. Her words falter for a second before she manages to murmur.

“No, no you are not,” taking a step forward, then another, her hand reaching out to graze your skin gently. “Archons, look at you. You’re beautiful. All wrapped up, too.”

You smile sweetly at her, all worries dissipating at the look on her face. For someone as ruthless as her, she certainly softens up when you’re around, her touch gentle and her words quiet.

“How long did that take you? Wrapping oneself with one hand is a difficult task, no?”

“It took a while. Worth it to see your face. You can undo it if you want, or you can keep them like this.”

“Stay like that.”

“Okay.” Your own words are a whisper, and you continue to smile softly up at her. Her hands are delicate when they move over your skin, nails gently scratching in the places she knows makes you shiver.

“You wore my favourite.”

“For you.”

“You’re too good to me.” A breath, barely a whisper, but it’s heard nonetheless. It was only for you to hear anyway. She leans down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips until you return the kiss, letting her tongue meet yours with a soft sigh. You go to wrap your arms around her, before remembering that you have, in fact, tied yourself up. You think you feel her smile slightly into the kiss before her hand wraps firmly around your binded wrists.

Her kisses move downwards, sucking gently at the pulse point of your neck to feel you shiver. She seems to enjoy doing that, working you up only to make you wait. But, as promised, it’s her turn tonight, so you don’t complain. When she’s satisfied that your hands will stay in place and won’t struggle to get out of the ribbon restraints, her hand moves, fingers ghosting the hem of your underwear before slowly pulling it down. You help her, lifting your hips and stretching your legs so they’ll come off as quickly as possible. When they do come off, landing on the floor with a quiet noise, she leans on the bed, knee parting your legs.

Arlecchino grumbles when she realises she’s still fully clothed, and you think you see her hands trembling as she quickly fumbles to unbutton every single button she has and shed the fabric. She returns to her place soon after, her bare skin warmer than flames against yours. Her knee resumes its actions, pushing your legs apart until it meets your core, already aching. You gasp, and she relishes in the sound. She does the movement again before stopping. Digits move swiftly in finally unwrapping the ribbon around your wrists, tossing it to the side.

“I need you,” Arlecchino mutters, almost like she’s embarrassed. “I need you. Please.”

“How?” Although you enjoy occasionally being dominant, you can’t bring yourself to tonight. The poor woman has been so stressed, and this is her gift, after all.

“You know how.”

“Fingers or tongue, Peruere?”

She gasps at the usage of her actual name, her movements of her hands caressing each part of your body she can reach before she manages to speak.

“Fingers. Please.”

So, you waste no time in letting your own hand slip between her legs, moving until you find her clit. You give it a few experimental rubs, finding a rhythm she seems to enjoy before letting your lips land on her neck. You’d tease her for the quiet gasps she lets out, or for the way your fingers slide so easily into her, but you don’t think you have it in you, especially not when her hips start rocking into your hand with a rhythm so messy it’s almost pathetic, in an affectionate way. But she’s getting impatient and frustrated, and she can’t chase what she wants so badly with the rhythm she has.

You let her try for a bit longer, but the small whine that escapes her usually quiet mouth almost makes you feel bad. So, your free hand moves to her hip, gently stopping her before guiding her into a rhythm that causes all sounds to cease— only out of pure pleasure, her mouth hanging open and her eyes, usually so piercing, squeezed shut.

“It’s good?” You hum, struggling to contain the small giggle at the sight of her as needy as she is now.

“Quite.” Comes the only strained reply before her head buries back into your neck. She’s close, you can tell that much by the way she clenches around your curling fingers again and again.

“Are you going to cum for me, Peruere?”

“Yes, for you, yes.” She rasps out. It’s a struggle for her to get out any words at all by this point, and anything she does get out is less than coherent. Then her body tenses, she lets out a sound you know all too well— a mix of a grunt, groan and a whimper all in one, before she collapses onto you, her legs shaking.

You mumble sweet praises into her ear, stroking her now tousled hair until she regains her breath and stops trembling.

“Merry Christmas.” You chuckle, kissing her shoulder.

“That.. may have been the best gift I have ever had. My birthday is in August, if you’re curious.”

She’s being silly, you know that much, but you have one too many ideas to let them fizzle out now.

[glassmermaids]

THREE'S A CROWD — donaldson/zweig

𖡼 an extended version of this blurb; years of unresolved issues and feelings make for one hell of a dinner. | content/warning: angst, some awkward dialogue icl, reader also played tennis and went to stanford, thoughts of cheating and/or emotional cheating I guess? | wc: ± 3700

𖡼 thank you @diyasgarden for proofreading this for me and giving me the encouragement to actually post it, you are a literal angel ilysm

You don't think you've ever been this nervous in your life.

In all honesty, that was an exaggeration. You could think of a few moments that rivaled your current situation; the day of your graduation, the night you scraped together the courage to finally kiss the boy you had a crush on and later on the first time you found yourself naked underneath him, the day of your wedding.

All of those times, it felt like the world was trying to swallow you whole and eat you alive, like everything around you was rapidly crashing down and you had no way of controlling it.

That same feeling has overtaken your body now; your chest feels constricted as you take labored breaths, but you ignore it as you wipe one of the many surfaces in the house for the umpteenth time. You could probably see your reflection in every tabletop by now, but you needed to do something to keep yourself occupied.

The whole day had been like this, up early in the fear of not having enough time to prepare. The morning was spent deep cleaning, and after that, you had started preparing the very meticulously thought out menu for the night. You had been on your feet the whole day, to the point where Art had grown increasingly worried.

He finds you in the living area, wiping at one of the photos' frames, eyes distant and anxious as you stared into the picture. Your efforts are interrupted by a hand placed on your shoulder, effectively stopping you on your self-destructive path.

You turn around to find your husband's warm yet almost pitiful eyes, sparing you a comforting smile. "Everything's already perfect, y'know," he says, hand smoothing down your arm before he grabs ahold of your hand. You sigh softly, shoulders deflating as the tension leaves your body at his words and his reassuring touch.

"I know," you say softly, "I'm just a little nervous." He smiles again, almost as if the notion of you being nervous is hilarious to him. "Don't be," he simply says, "It's just Patrick."

It's just Patrick. Now it's your turn to laugh, shaking your head as you let the words settle in your unnerved mind. "Right," you agree, "It's just Patrick." Art nods as he notices your now much calmer demeanor, hand giving yours another loving squeeze, and he takes a moment to really appreciate your outfit for the night.

The dress fits you like a glove — a gift from your last anniversary, he notices — and the low neckline places attention to the beautiful diamond necklace also gifted by him. You had chosen a pretty pair of kitten heels to match, he knows because he remembers them laying next to the bed this afternoon, but you've since switched to a pair of bunny slipper seeing as you've been on your feet almost all day. He smiles at the sight, scoffing a laugh when he sees you wiggle your toes in the slippers.

"You look beautiful," he compliments you, reveling in the way you turn shy at his words.

The intimate moment is interrupted by a knock on your door, and at once, Art can see and feel the tension return to your body as your shoulders go rigid and your hand squeezes his. Art checks his wristwatch quickly before his attention returns to yours again. "Everything'll be fine," he says softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead before he urges you forward.

You make your way to the door, taking a few deep breaths before you open the door with a bit more force than intended. Infront of you he stands like a dream, or maybe an hallucination, holding a small bouquet of flowers with an unsure smile.

You're absolutely beaming, he thinks to himself, watching as a smile stretches across your face, ear to eat. "Pat," you breathe before you're moving to wrap your arms around him in a greeting filled with so much warmth. He feels his heart ache hearing the nickname you've bestowed onto him so many years ago.

He reciprocates your embrace immediately, welcoming your embrace and taking the moment to enjoy the smell of your perfume and body lotion; sweet vanilla and cinnamon. He tries to ignore the standoffish, almost indignant look Art gives him from behind you, still standing in the threshold with crossed arms.

You pull away, and Patrick immediately misses your warmth, the type of warmth he's embarrassed to say he hasn't felt in a long time. You usher everyone inside, accepting the rather cheap, store-bought bouquet from Patrick with a genuine and thankful smile and soon everyone is sat around the dinner table engaged in what could only be described as awkward small talk.

It saddens you in all honesty, the way things now seem so strained between you all. You were obviously expecting a little bit of tension because there would obviously be after all these years of no contact, but you had underestimated to what extent that tension would be.

You can't help but reminisce about how things used to be between you; when the heat of summer would suffocate you in Art's dorm room as you all sat spattered around the floor with a half finished six pack and only each other's company to keep you entertained.

You've been together for as long as you can remember, starting out as long-limbed, awkward teenagers at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy who somehow found each other at a really crucial time and never really separated after that. You remember the night's they'd sneak themselves into your dorm room and you'd spend hours talking about anything and everything until they were inevitably kicked out by your bunk mate when it got too late and she grew tired of your hushed whispered. Some of those nights you'd end up talk about how you imagined your futures would look like.

And as you grew older, your friendship only flourished further, no longer awkward teenagers but confident young people who knew exactly what they wanted from life.

It was clear Patrick simply wanted a comfortable life like the one he was accustomed to since birth. He wasn't willing to work or it, and figured his talent would be enough to get him by and keep him relevant without having to grovel at his parent's feat. In short; he wanted the life his family had provided him, without his family providing it for him.

Art wanted what everyone around him wanted for him; to do good in school and tennis, to reach great success in his career, be able to make some money off of it, and then finally settle down and reap the fruits of his hard work.

You were hungry for your place among the best. You wanted to fully showcase the potential everyone had seen in you from a young age and to establish yourself in your abilities, prove to yourself and everyone else that the opportunities given to you were not in vain and make a name for yourself.

It all worked out for the most part, you suppose.

The reverie you find yourself in is broken at the sound of your husband's voice, shortly followed by the sound of his knife slightly scratching against the porcelain plate as he cuts at his steak. "You still playing, Patrick?" he asks, not really looking at him until the words leave his mouth. Patrick nods, mouth full as he quickly chews, not having expected Art to ask him anything seeing as the conversation had been kept afloat mostly by you.

"Yeah," he finally speaks, and Art hums, his mouth pulling to the side the way it always does whenever hes about to say something snarky or sarcastic. "And how's that going?" he quickly follows up. You can see the way Patrick pauses, utensils frozen in his hands before he's raising his head once again with a smile. "It's going," he says, turning to you before he continues. "I think I have a chance at the Open."

"That's great, Pat," you say excitedly, smile so wide is almost looks like it hurts. Your hand touches his upper in a quick squeeze to show him your excitement. It's an innocent gesture, but because Patrick is an emotional masochist in that way, his mind fixates on the feeling of your hand on his skin, warm and soft.

He returns the smile you give him, not as enthusiasticly but just as genuine, smile lines visible. "Thank you," he says, hands finally continuing to cut at his food. "You retired though, right Art?" he asks after a short while, now looking Art square in the eyes. "Yup," Art replies, popping the p a little too hard. "Why?" Patrick asks, "you still had a few good years in you, we all know that."

"I just didn't wanna play anymore," Art stated plainly, "I wanted to be home with my family more. Tennis isn't the only thing I've got going on." Patrick can't help but laugh a little at a jab so obviously being thrown his way, nodding in defeat and understanding before his attention now turns to you. You squirm a little under his now undivided attention.

"What about you? You still play?" he asks before he brings a cut up piece of steak to his mouth. You sputter a little at his question. "I kind of reached the end of my career I guess?" you answered, shrugging dismissively. "I've won a few slams, signed a bunch of brand deals. It was fun, but that's not my goal anymore," you continued.

"What is your goal now?" he asks, eyes gawking your every little expression as if he's trying to engrave it in his mind; from the way you nervously bite at the skin of your lips as you consider his question or the way your neatly manicured nails lightly drum against the table as you think. He looks at you if he'll never again get a chance to look at you upclose after tonight.

In a way, he already knew what your answer would be. His mind goes back to a few months ago, a sports magazine he had been paging through while staying the night at some dingy motel when he found the article of you inside. Like some lovesick teenager, he had spent close to an eternity staring into the pictures of you displayed in neat boxes between the chapters of the article. It felt like the first time in years he had allowed himself to really look at you, after what felt like a lifetime of trying to run away from you and your ever looming image.

The second last paragraphed had covered the same topic that had now been brought up at the table.

What are your main goals now after your early retirement? the question had laid in italics, catching his attention so much so that he had brought the magazine closer to his face as he laid in bed. Ironically, your answer had been the exact same as it is now.

"I feel like I've already proven myself in my ability. I just want to settle down, focus more on the domestic side of my life," you answered with an almost shy smile, shrugging again. Patrick hummed, smiling at how similar you and your husband's reasonings were. "Damn, you guys have changed," he says to no one in particular as he continues stabbing and cutting at his food. "I remember there was a time both of you would've been willing to play till you physically couldn't anymore, all in the hopes of 'becoming something', being the best. Especially you," he says, pointing his fork at you, "And now you're playing house." The words taste unnaturally bitter in his mouth, so he spits them out at you in a sardonic tone.

"But it's nice," he says, a futile attempt at defusing the situation, "that you wanna settle down, yknow? Really cute." A silence settles in the air after that.

The rest of the dinner goes surprisingly smoothly, albeit much more awkward than ever before thanks to the added tension of Patrick's brash words.

When all the now empty plates were being taken to the kitchen, Patrick quietly excused himself to smoke and you had directed him to the patio before you made your way to the kitchen where Art had started with the dishes. You watched as his broad back flexed and moved as he worked, your hand not resisting to come up and rub between his shoulder blades to relieve the tension that you could practically feel radiating off of him. He sighs at the feeling of your hand, quickly drying his hands before turning around to face you.

"Hi," you say "Hi," he returns, eyes briefly scanning over your features. "You alright?" he asks, hand comes up to squeeze your upper arm. "Yeah," you say softly, "I'm just hoping he had a nice time." Art's face scrunches a little but he quickly fixes it, humming in understanding as you once again get lost in your thoughts.

"I really think he hates us, Art," you say with after a few moments, looking up at him with eyes that looked like they were on the verge of tears. "He doesn't," Art says very assured, hand moving from your arm up to your cheek as his thumb quickly wipes the one tear that managed to escape. "He doesn't hate you," he continues. "I'm more inclined to say he hates me," he adds with a sad laugh, but you couldn't really find it in you to laugh. You move your head to place a kiss to the inside of his palm before you wordlessly made your way onto the patio.

Patrick doesn't notice you at first, only when the click of the sliding door closing rings through the silence. You spare him an awkward smile as you rub your arms to try and shield them from the biting cold of the outside. Wordlessly, you move until you're standing next to him, a silence loaded with everything left unsaid filling the space between you. His cigarette, half smoked, now hangs from the side of his mouth, secured by his teeth as he starts digging into his pockets until he pulls out a smushed packet of cigarettes. He opens it and offers the pack to you, to which you softly shake your head in decline, giving him an apologetic smile.

"I don't smoke anymore," you say softly, watching the way his eyebrows raise in suprise before he's haphazardly stuffing the packet back into his pants with a huff of laughter. "You really did change," he comments more to himself, making you furrow your brows at his town.

"I don't think that much has changed, Pat," you reasoned, voice uncharacteristically small as his words settle deep in your stomach like bile. "You're making it sound like we've turned into these horrible people." He spares you a look as he takes the half smoken cigarette out of his mouth, huffing out a cloud of smoke as he watches you intently. He not so subtly gives you a complete once-over, eyes going from the top of your head down to the bunny slippers that you were still wearing, having forgotten to change them. He huffs a small laugh at the sight.

"Why did you invite me over?" he asks, ending the question with your name. It shocks you how foreign it sounds from his mouth. You don't even have time to reply until he continues. "Is this some sick joke between you and Art? Bring poor old Patrick over and show him how much better things are going with us? How much better our life is without him in it?"

"No, Patrick, of course not," you retort, not even giving the statement a chance to settle in the air. "Then what is it? Why am I here?" Patrick asks, voice rising slightly in frustration as he raises his hands in the air, the cigarette between his fore and middle finger already died out. "I just wanted to see you Patrick, is that so hard to believe?" you ask, voice raising slightly as the irritation now settles in your body. He laughs at your question, and it makes you want to slap him across the face for finding anything funny in your frustration.

"What's funny?" you finally ask him. "You wanted to see me?" he repeats mockingly, shaking his head at the mere thought of it. "Yes! I wanted to see you, Patrick! I've always wanted to see you," you say defeatedly. "It can't be that hard to believe, I mean—" you scoff, "—You're completely estranged from us. You never call anymore, nor do you answer my calls. I invited you to our wedding, and you didn't even have the fucking decency to show up!" There's hurt in your voice, but it's overpowered by the immense anger. "What makes you think I would want to come to your wedding?" he asks, and it's like someone threw a bucket of ice water on you. The words hurt more than you could imagine, coming from who you consider one of your closest friends.

"What?" you ask, voice small and now absent of any anger, but an overwhelming sorrow takes its place. "You threw me out! You two found each other, forgot about me and all of a sudden it was just about "your perfect careers" and "your perfect relationship". I didn't fit into that mold but you were just to scared to tell me that. So you lead me on until I'd leave on my own acord." The words sound smaller and more far-away the more he talks, and you have to take your focus away from your own internal turmoil to notice how the tears seem to sit shallow in his eyes.

It's unnerving seeing him in this state, you believe you've seen Patrick cry atleast two times in all the years you've known him. The reasons are long forgotten, memories corroded with time, but the hollowness that had formed in the pit of your belly at the sight of him so broken was an unforgettable feeling. You feel it now as you stand in the wind, staring at Patrick who was desperately waiting for you to say something, anything.

"There was never a mold, Patrick," you find yourself saying. "That was never the intention, yknow. To make you feel like you didn't fit into our lives anymore. If me reaching out meant anything, it's that I always wanted you in my life. In our life." He says nothing, and for a moment your mind drifts to Art. Wondering if he was still in the kitchen washing dishes. If he had maybe heard the commotion by now. If he heard it and just decided to stay out of it and allow the two of you to verbally lash each other out on his patio.

It's always been left unsaid, but he knew you and Patrick had a different bond. You became close to him first before you ever even warmed up to Art. You had always gravitated towards him, because you were in many ways just like him. Art tried not to think about it for too long because inevitably the question of why him and not Patrick would pop up and he'd lose sleep for a few days.

Patrick's notion was so far off and he didn't even know it. He didn't know how much he actually fit in, or atleast how much you had wanted him to fit into the so called mold you had created. He was deeply threaded into every part of your life and being in a way he wasn't even aware of. A few years ago, when Art had proposed to you, you had thought about the possibility of inviting Patrick and it made your heart flutter. His seat ended up being empty on the day of the ceremony. When the conversation of kids had came up, you thought of Patrick being able to see your children grow up. The possibility that his children and yours could be friends like you were.

It was unhealthy — to be so attached to someone who apparently wanted nothing to do with you anymore, but you couldn't help it. At times it even felt adulterous; thinking of another man that much while being in such a happy and practically perfect marriage.

"I really enjoyed the dinner," Patrick speaks up suddenly, although his voice is soft and devoid of all the earlier anger. He ends the sentence with your name, but it still sounds so foreign coming out of his mouth, like poison he'd rather regurgitate than keep in his system. "Please, Pat," you beg. For what? For him to stay? To stay in your life and play part in the fantasy you had of your perfect life where all of you could be together forever? You don't even know yourself.

As quiet as ever, he throws the already dead cigarette on your wooden flooring of your patio, watching as it falls perfectly between two floor boards and onto the ground before turning his attention to you once again. His big hand grabs the side of your face so softly, fingers curling to the back of your head in an almost protective nature. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, lips lingering there as he takes in the smell of your shampoo. He pulls away slowly and looks down at you with sorrow eyes, but you can't find it in you to look at him in fear of bursting into tears.

For good measure, or maybe because he's greedy and wants one last taste of you, he presses another kiss to the side of your head before he's retracting and leaving you outside in the biting cold. You hear the sliding door close with a click before he makes his way back inside and then back outside to wherever he had come from. To your own disgust, the thought lingers that you wish he had kissed you one more time.

[simplydnp]

What do you think Dan and Phil will do in 2025?what kinda mischief will they get themselves in this time.

i'm a little sus of their 'prepare for the march thing' that they've alluded to in a preshow qna. there's also the 'you haven't seen dan and phil 2.0 yet' comment. but mischief? hmmm

i forsee a wdapteo 5 in our future. people have suggested it as 'promo' for the uk leg, but most of those shows are sold out already (and have been for months LMAO)

i desperately hope they film one of the london shows, so tit can be posted to yt

im also so sus of the iceland show, i'll say it. there's gonna be Something that goes down, either at the show or after.

february is gonna be quiet; they need the rest and so do we.

march: dog. and we'll all go wild. his name will either be john or barkypants.

im not sure how they'll top this year's april fools, but i'm sure it'll be much less produced and even more insane (just cause i don't see them returning to dapc)

tit is finally posted to youtube, they sell the merch online, though no dad hats bc they can't keep up with the paperwork for all of us

they couldn't do it this year bc tour so i'm predicting dnp pride merch

will they travel for summer again? i think they enjoyed turkiye. they'll find a way to be even more boyfriends if they do

they give confirmation that the phouse will never be finished actually

...september is a great time to get married wouldn't you agree

they clown on us so bad by being bert and ernie for halloween

calendar theme: dan and phil and a goddamn good night's sleep

they're gonna do gamingmas and none of us will be ready for the 'ultimate' video on the 24th

(my not so secret wish this year is for a dan iom picture again 🙏)

[daretolovemyrambling]

ARCANE: unreliable narrators (Silco and Vander focused) PART 1

I haven't really been in this tag/fandom before the season 2 finale, but can we talk about how both Vander and Silco are unreliable narrators? Especially when it comes to their flashback scenes?

I don't get why i've seen so many take the flashbacks we got in the show at face value. The show makes clear time and time again that when we get a flashback from the point of view of a single character, they are an unreliable narrator.

some examples of other characters:

on the left: biased/not the reality (character's memory/pov) vs on the right: unbiased/reality (our, the viewers, pov)

I'm going to use video clips and transcripts of the memories because I can't just gif like 5 minutes of scenes. Since you can only have one video per post, I will have to post this in several parts.

Let's start with Warwick's memories from 2x5:

We see that the memory of Warwick in episode 2x5 is all over the place, memories from the past 15-20 years come flooding back in bits and pieces. 

In the first moment of this scene we see Warwick running through the mines, then we see Singed who has experimented on him, we see the Monkey Toy aggressively banging it's cymbals against each other, then we see a younger looking Silco about to swing something at an enforcer, for a split second the Monkey's face replaces Silco's, we see that it was a bottle bomb and set that enforcer on fire.

I think this represents Silco's almost obsessive nature when it came to their fight for Zaun's freedom, the Monkey overwhelms you with it's loud noise the same way Silco likely overwhelmed Vander with his ruthless actions.

the next scene, Silco looks horrified at Vander and we cut to Vander drowning Silco, then back to the moment Vander (and likely Silco) discover Felicia's lifeless body. 

We see a moment of Vander punching an enforcer with his gauntlets from 1x1, cut to the Monkey's face again, then we see Warwick's perspective of the prison fight with the enforcers in 2x4 (we see him choke one of them out with his claws) and slashing several more of them brutally.

Finally, we cut back to the mines were he hallucinates a toddler-aged Powder crying her little eyes out (it looks like something that actually happened. I think this might be a moment shortly after he takes in the girls. Powder looks like she just woke up from a nightmare, her body language is shy and scared). He softly wipes the tears away with his left hand (same hand he used to choke Silco and an enforcer just a few moments earlier) 

Powder's face turns into Jinx and then pre-teen Powder and we follow Powder's lifeless gaze to Felicia dancing at the Jukebox, before finally, Vander images a Silco shortly after the murder attempt, this Silco is still dripping wet from the lake (and he uses his signature glass) but smiles at Vander invitingly (likely a moment that actually happend but was warped by the many nightmares Vander likely had about what he did).

The idea that Silco escalated the Bridge Riot and thus caused the death of many Zaunites, including Felicia and Connol, is definitely supported by this short memory, but it's *not* the only way you can read the scene. Vander's memories are evidently completely scrambled, he is remembering the worst moments of his life all at once.

It's just as valid to say that Silco was not there during the Bridge Scene in season 1 episode 1 as to say that he was!

That is what makes unreliable narrators so interesting, we can make assumptions to what happend, but if we don't get an unbiased view at a scene, we don't know for sure if it happend the way the narrator imagined it.

Examples where we have unbiased flashbacks would be flashbacks like Mel's childhood in 1x8 and the Bar scene with Felicia in 2x5. In these scenes we don't follow the pov of one character, of course information is still omitted from us to an extend, but we can make our own assumption instead of seeing the biased/narrow pov of a single character.

[dalliancekay]

Aziraphale loves Crowley but...

(A clickbait title? Me? Possibly)

There's this thought rattling in my brain for a good while and I have to try to get it out.

So most of the fandom seems to operate under the impression that Crowley loves Aziraphale unreservedly (since Eden) and that he is waiting for the angel to catch up with him.

This is evident across metas here, and many posts and comments elsewhere. Even fics (if I'm permitted to say that) keep dancing around the idea that Crowley never knows where he stands. It's not that obvious how Aziraphale feels about Crowley (especially to Crowley). Because Aziraphale is forever denying their connection (as if he didn’t have good enough reason) and/or also that Crowley, who is always open about his feelings, is waiting for Aziraphale to finally admit at some point (sooner than later please) how he feels so they can be together (...I'm not going there today...).

But I did have discussions with people from other countries and cultures. Notably @sayuri-of-the-valley who told me that most people in their country would assume Aziraphale is the smitten one and it's not so obvious how Crowley feels (he might be just toying with the angel?).

So I've been thinking about how Aziraphale feels from what we see.

In Before the Beginning, which is their first encounter, Aziraphale is immediately taken by the sweet, pretty, enthusiastic angel who seems completely oblivious to Aziraphale's hopes to be noticed.

We do not know if they meet again as angels or how long after their meeting the Great War happens. I would think this is not their only encounter. But it could be. I think they became friends and at some later point Angel!Crowley asked Aziraphale to join in the rebellion (or at least come with him to hang out with the guys and find out what it's about). But forever cautious Aziraphale warned him that it's not a good idea and refused and ... Crowley Fell.

Next time they see each other is in Eden.

They seem to recognise each other and Crawley is clearly pretty happy to see Aziraphale who does not introduce himself but Aziraphale gently prompts the demon to introduce himself.

Aziraphale seems a little unsure how they stand at first ... ...and I think it's because of what has transpired before the Fall (is Aziraphale forgiven?). But as Crawley gently teases him about the recently passed events, Aziraphale is assured and trusts Crawley as if nothing much changed between them and he readily admits he's given away his sword to the demon. (The truth of which he does not disclose to God Herself.)

Their relationship progresses as far as it can in the circumstances over the next centuries and millennia, they both care and look after each other. Until the next big heart-breaking 'break-up' happens. An impossible ask.

You can see how this request basically pierces Aziraphale's heart. He would prefer they don't see each other again than give in to such extraordinarily dangerous request. Out of the question! This would mean the end of existence for Crowley. He would not just be discorporated, not 'just' taken away. He'd be gone.

If they truly don't see each other for almost 80 years, this must have hurt so so deeply.

Next they see each other then, it's 1941. I know some people HC that Crowley slept until then but I think it's very unlikely. He seems to know what is happening with WWII, and besides, he has his car, which he says he has from new and you wouldn't buy a 1926 Bentley new in 1940.

So back to the husbands. Aziraphale might very well think he will never be forgiven for his resolute refusal of handing Crowley the one thing that can so easily simply wipe him from existence.

When Crowley shows up in the church, Aziraphale yet again is not sure where he stands. Is he forgiven? What is Crowley coming to do? (No, I don't think Aziraphale thought Crowley was coming with revenge or anything similar, I assume it's as he says, as Aziraphale assumes he's there because of his job, to do something for Hell). But Crowley assures him that is not the case and they fall into their usual bickering.

And all is well. Aziraphale breathes out and THEN Crowley remembers to save his books.

And Aziraphale knows he's forgiven.

When 1967 comes around and he hears about Crowley's frankly insane decision to get some humans to source holy water for him, the angel breaks his own heart and hands Crowley a double walled, securely closed vessel with the dangerous substance just because it's the safer option.

The next break up is...

After that they 'see' each other when Aziraphale's (soul? essence?) discorporated self finds Crowley drinking in the pub.

Crowley tells Aziraphale he lost his best friend... What is Aziraphale thinking?

Yet again, I suppose he's unsure where he stands. He did after all made a decision to do something Crowley disagreed with. And Crowley left. Twice. Aziraphale didn't want to run. He was going to try and find a way to save the Earth even if it meant to try and talk to God and whatever consequences would follow from that.

But Crowley is so gentle with him as he tells him his home burned down. He even has the one book Aziraphale really needed, somehow saved. So Aziraphale asks for help. They can do this.

And they do.

So we see Aziraphale through aeons, looking up to Crowley, admiring his wit, integrity, being exasperated with him, trying to keep him safe - from unreasonable requests just as much as from rash decisions and words that can have severe consequences. Aziraphale is an angel who is unlike any other. He finds himself, long before the rebellion of half the Host is a thing, in knowledge that some things should not be mentioned or suggested or criticised and he tries to stop this lovely angel he just met from getting into trouble.

Which he keeps doing for millions of years...

However. It doesn't always work. The angel Falls. He is hurt and abandoned by the God who made him and deemed unforgivable. He is threatened and punished when he just wants to be himself and Aziraphale sees all of this and loves him and tries to keep him safe and he is not always succeeding, having to make more and more difficult decisions.

And Aziraphale doubts himself. Is he good enough. Is something wrong with him. We see how anxious he gets all the time. What is he doing wrong. They were never allowed to speak to each other about how they feel. For the longest time they didn’t even know how to name their feelings I’m sure. They didn’t make any promises.

They both hope, yes but where I see people HC that Crowley doubts an angel would unconditionally love a demon (maybe he does, but I don’t really see it - I think Crowley knows all that talk of fiends is just a cover), I also see that Aziraphale thinks he’s not good enough. That he can’t give enough and that it’s a problem (it is to some fans but if he’s ever holding back - ‘you go too fast for me Crowley’, it’s only ever to keep the demon safe).

But yes, I think Crowley thinks the chasm that can’t be overcome between them is the angel/demon one. Because She made him unforgivable. And Aziraphale thinks that their world would never allow them to be together (and he’s right) and he simply can’t agree to trying when it’s doomed to failure. If they run, how long would they have together? What kind of freedom would they have as hunted outcasts? So he keeps making these difficult decisions. And feeling so guilty for them.

The hardest of which we meet at the end of Season Two.

Aziraphale meets the Second in Command of the ruler of their world who 'invites' him to run Heaven. After Aziraphale refuses several times, we see him enter his home and tell Crowley that he got an offer and ask Crowley to come with him.

And Crowley. Says no.

And all the subsequent metas focus on how Crowley was betrayed by Aziraphale's 'decision', how Aziraphale does not deserve to be loved or wanted or be forgiven by the demon.

And how does Aziraphale feel?

Does Aziraphale still think he can be forgiven?

[undertalecookingwithkindness]

A Very Merry Christmas from The Eclipse!

It's that time of the year again! A time of merriment, jolliness and generosity! A time of hot cocoa, candy canes and gingerbread! A time of KINDNESS! It's Christmas!!!!

The staff at The Eclipse is getting everything ready for a big celebration, as you can see! The Christmas cheer is really flowing, though someone should probably go help Luna untangle themself from the Christmas lights... Still, why don't we have a look under the tree and at the gifts... Oh! It looks like one of them has your name on it! I wonder what it is?

Surprise! It's an update on Undertale Cooking With Kindness!

(Hmm, you don't look very surprised, were you shaking the gift box to figure out what was in it?)

UPDATE

It feels like we've been pretty quiet since the Halloween Update, huh? And that's for a good reason. As many of you may be intimately familiar with, the first chunk of December tends to be a time not of holly jolly cheer, but of hellish torture. Yes, I'm of course talking about

EXAM SEASON!!!

Indeed, many of our team members, myself included, were focusing on exams and schoolwork all of December and much of November, so very little progress has been made. Still, that doesn't mean no progress was made. We've got a lot to how off for you all today, but first, we've got a new team member to introduce you to.

Welcome our new artist and spriter: LightMoonCream! They drew Sunny in the Christmas illustration! You may be familiar with them from their work on Nighfell, but they've decided to hop on board the wild ride that is bringing The Eclipse to life! In the spirit of Christmas, let's all give them a very merry welcome to the team!

Speaking of very merry welcomes... It appears there's someone else that needs some introducing, I'm sure you've noticed him in the illustration or in the previous post that teased him, but it's finally time to properly introduce you to...

Courier!

Courier will be helping out with deliveries in the Eclipse. After all, everyone in the underground deserves a taste of the food at the Eclipse no matter how close or far they may live. Mawzz understood the potential in incorporating a delivery service into the business, so he called up one of his debtors goons employees. Courier will be flying you all across the Underground to help you deliver orders put in by customers.

According to Mawzz, and to his uniform, he used to work for the Underground Postal Service, but was fired for unknown reasons. He doesn’t talk about why that happened, but his firing does create a very shady gap in his resume...

Courier is a very outwardly serious and brooding monster. He’s here for business, not to make friends. However… he does have quite a few things that break through that cold exterior. He’s a little embarrassed about it, but he just can’t resist the allure of a shiny coin or of some sweet treat. Give him what he wants, and he may just open up a little bit. Just a bit though. The mask of coolness may be a façade, and perhaps not exactly a convincing one, but it’s one he’s committed to, damn it!

I suppose we should take a small aside to introduce deliveries. Staying in one place in the underground is cozy and all, but don't you feel like you're missing out on some fun exploration? Well, in deliveries, you'll leave the Eclipse and head off to familiar areas of the Underground to try and give a loyal customer their food. Sounds simple, right? What could possibly go wrong!

Do keep in mind, though, deliveries aren't planned to be included in the first demo. Still, that doesn't mean we have nothing to show off related to them.

You know what time it is? Get your carolling books out, because it's time for the

MUSIC SECTION

One of the areas you'll be making an excursion into for deliveries is the quaint and quiet Snowdin Town. The town is even smaller than the one you know in Undertale, so the new remix is even simpler sounding to match. A homely snow-filled paradise where everyone knows each other and is merry... It's quite appropriate, don't you think? It really fits the vibe of the season.

It's cold out there alone... The wind cuts into you and won't let you forget how small you are, won't let you forget the pain of the path you chose for yourself. You had a choice between comfort and the cold, and now your only company is the chill of the flurry.

UPDATED TRACKS!

An updated version of the intro theme courtesy of Venn November (or is December?) It's not an immediately noticeable difference, but once you listen to the old version and the new version back to back, it's clear to see. Close your eyes and imagine the epic intro that could be attached to this song...

Ok, now open them again, we've got one more updated track to show off:

At last, Customer Approaching is finally out of the draft stage and is complete! I hope you enjoy this theme, cause as you work your daily shifts at The Eclipse, you'll become very familiar with this song. Hey, would you rather listen to this on loop for a couple of minutes or the same Christmas playlist on loop for weeks? You gotta give our real retail workers their flowers!

Ok, that's enough music talk for now, it's time to actually talk about the progress on the game!

GAME PROGRESS

As I said before, progress was stunted somewhat during the past few months, but that doesn't mean we haven't done anything. In fact... It is with great pride and joy that I announce that the cooking system is almost complete! Yes, the bones of the cooking system have been all mostly put in place and stress-tested. You can almost complete a full day of work at The Eclipse. We've implemented the timer, customer waves, the functional COOK button, and a handful of minigames. We're currently hard at work implementing the final piece of the foundation of our unique gameplay: Recipes and Reputation/Prestige! To talk more in depth about this, please welcome our resident back-end coding and implementation expert: Moist!

"The primary 'battle' system is underpinned by a custom-built module that tracks Sunny's progress as they prepare a meal for a customer of The Eclipse, keeps a repository of all the recipes sunny is capable of making stored nice and safe their head, and calculates how well they've done afterward. In the final release, You may be able to cook more complex recipes in later days. As it stands, early recipes will be less complex, but the handler seems fairly stable in its current state!"

— moist

There you have it, in the coming weeks we'll finish implementing this final piece, and at that point the cooking system will be complete! From there, it's just a matter of creating the encounters and waves, stress-testing and polishing, and voilá! We'll be able to show off entirely finalized days of cooking, and from there we'll be all set up to start proper work on the demo.

But what about beyond cooking? What's progress looking like on the overworld, cutscenes and etc.?

Well, we've got a lot of the maps from the demo, well, not done, but set up for integration as we move our focus into cutscene and scene creation. In fact, ignoring some unfinished cutscenes, the map for the game's intro area is complete! Hopefully with some elbow grease from me and the rest of the team in the coming months, those cutscenes will be completed, and the demo maps we're still missing will be set up.

In short, while we were slowed down for the past few months, it seems as if these next few months are going to be very productive for us. Everything seems to be coming up Sunny!

One final thing before we sign off... I'm sure everybody's clamouring for some sort of release date for the demo, but despite all the work we've done, we can't promise an exact date. All we know is that we're hoping to be able to release the first demo in late 2025, but we can't confidently assure you that that will happen. As always, though, if you think you can help that happen, do send me a DM on Discord (shadowofroserade) with an application to join the team.

However, we would still like to announce a planned release date for something else. If all goes according to plan the reveal trailer for Undertale Cooking with Kindness should come out in January*, so stay seated everybody! We've got an appetizer to die for coming up!

*while that is the current plan, it is quite possible that it will be delayed into February depending on future circumstances.

Until then...

Kind Regards,

The Eclipse.

[aleisters]

i am making the sappy post about darby, finally.

the shoot love in wrestling is something that really gets to me. and it really gets to me with darby because he's a quintessential underdog. like, shoot he used to be a loner and honestly kind of a loser and a guy with an ugly personality. he can be awkward and stuttering and lisping and he has a really fucking mixed bag of tattoos.

if you go back and watch old interviews with him, he's borderline extremely unpleasant, he's rude and obnoxious, it's often demonstrably clear that he's not happy for some reason or another. he's never really mean to the interviewer, but "shows up to the facetime interview from his bed" is like. okay.

but after he joined aew, he started getting better. for the past year and a half especially he's become someone you can trust with things. he's smiley, he doesn't talk deep and slow to account for his lisp anymore. he's trusted to do things, to do media interviews, to carry around belts, to say he wants to be world champ, to represent aew in the climbing of mount everest. tony khan is paying for some (if not all?) of his mountain climbing training. that's insane.

and i don't think you get who darby is today - outwardly generous (he has random people staying with him all the time, to learn to wrestle, to lose weight with his help, whatever they want), smiley and friendly and personable - without the shoot love. you don't have who darby is today without the fact that tony khan believes in him so much. without his idolisation of jon moxley, and that moxley believes in him for real too. you don't get it without darby being trusted to work with sting - sting! the iconic wrestler sting! and then sting trusting darby's opinion that sting can return to in-ring wrestling (instead of just cinematic amtches). in the present, darby is training sting's son to wrestle. all of that is love.

there's love with the bucks too, who wanted to hire him, who love that he skateboards and stuck up for him incorporating that into his gimmick. who have wanted to wrestle with him before and then got to do that multiple times this year. darby who appears in the background of bte doing stuff like building skateboards for matt. who nick does all the primary checking-on during stunts in their matches. darby can't manage to kayfabe say a bad word about them, he's like "yeah the bucks hired me and i'm so grateful for everything they've done and they're amazing. btw they suck yeah boo hiss evps" it's fucking... cute...

and darby and brody have such a long and deep friendship that they can't wrestle without brody making some proclamation about how they're going to do it forever. brody has a tattoo about darby. eddie kingston had darby for about 1 match before becoming a Ruffling His Hair guy. adam copeland went one step further and said i'd had this boy for one match and i'm going to cuddle him and kiss him on tv. ridiculous sweet stuff.

i'm not putting darby on a pedestal, because he's fallible and imperfect and he's done weird and bad stuff, but i'm not using this post to talk about something that requires a genuine nuanced conversation, i'm using it to talk pathetic and wax romantic about my number one favourite wrestler.

i think he is one of those people who you can really shoot see the development of from an unfriendly gremlin into like, a gremlin that everyone loves for some reason. everyone around him loves him and wants to give him good opportunities and he pays that back so much, as often as possible. he does it by being the pinch hitter when nobody else is right for it, even at the expense of his own body. he does it by raising money for the skateparks that saved him as a kid. he does it by looking after the people around him - making sure his parents never have to work again. he does it by wrestling well, at the top of his game and still improving.

and i'm soft and i believe that love did all that. i think without the people who love him he'd still be a weird off-putting little mess.

and i hope 2025 is his year. i wanna see him at the top of every mountain he wants to climb.

[hotvintagepoll]

Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr (The Grass Is Greener, An Affair to Remember)—no propaganda submitted

Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman (Notorious, Indiscreet)—in Notorious their tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife as Cary Grant finally returns to confess his feelings to Ingrid Bergman and ends up half-carrying her out of the clutches of her Nazi husband - "Say it again, it keeps me awake." "I love you." the camera work and their chemistry are insane here. [link] This scene is long and gorgeous but truthfully the entire movie is worth watching!!!! I had to have watched Indiscreet at least four times this year. both our actors are all grown up by now and their peculiar little domestic situation is overwhelmingly sexy and hilarious. I positvely adore them in this film. [link]  

This is round 1 of a mini Christmas tournament. Each poll lasts for three days. If you’d like to send additional propaganda supporting your favorite hot couple, you can reblog this post with your propaganda added, send it to my asks, or tag me in it. To vote in all the polls, click here. Happy holidays!

[additional sexy propaganda under the cut]

No additional propaganda was submitted for Grant and Kerr.

Grant and Bergman:

I can’t be articulate, all I can do is point at Notorious and whimper. Guarded spies who fall in love but it is his JOB to make her SEDUCE someone ELSE? Hitchcock at his hottest. Let’s go.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

You'll Poke Your Eye Out

Prompt Day 25: Christmas | Word Count: 541 | Rating: T | CW: Lingering Upside Down Trauma, Language | Tags: Future Fic, Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Relationship, Christmas at Wayne's, Eating Nuts (Not Like That), Hurt/Comfort

Steve sits on the couch at Wayne's, a large stainless steel bowl in his lap, the nut cracker tool in one hand and metal pick in the other.

Eddie walks by behind the couch, brand new Polaroid camera hanging around his neck. It's been a full morning of Eddie taking pictures of anything and everything, laying the instant pictures out across every flat surface.

"You'll poke your eye out," Eddie says flippantly as he keeps moving. 

Well, that's not the plan, but if he does, maybe it'll have been worth it.

Because nothing, nothing, says it is Christmas like the big bowl of partially cracked open pecans on Wayne's coffee table. Steve had never had anything like it in his house while growing up. A big bowl of in-shell nuts, just sitting in the living room? His mother would have never allowed such a thing. The mess that could have even potentially been created would have given her hives.

Steve doesn't know where Wayne gets the nuts, or why they are such an integral part of the Munson family tradition, but he's grown to anticipate them every year.

The first time he'd seen the metal tools, they seemed kind of like medieval torture devices. Eddie had to show him how to use them: Putting the pecan between the metal claws, squeezing until the shell breaks. Then using the pick to dig out the meat. Eat. Rinse, repeat.

Sometimes it's walnuts, but it's usually pecans.

It gives him something to do with his hands, and he prefers that most of the time. He can't just sit still. Idle hands, and all that. Keeping his mind busy, even in this mundane way, is the best thing he's found to keep everything running smoothly. Steve knows Eddie bounced back from his tangle with the Upside Down almost totally unscathed. 

Steve didn't. 

That's not true. Not totally. 

He thought he was fine. The first year, even the second, he'd had no problems at all. But in time it snuck up on him, and knocked him to his knees. Eddie picked him back up, and he's been picking him up ever since. 

The physical scars he can deal with just fine, but the mental scars that were hidden away where he couldn't even tend to them fucking suck, and he prefers to keep busy.

So, today, he cracks nuts. 

When Eddie finally sits down next to him, Steve starts cracking them for him. One after another, handing over the small slivers of nuts, and occasionally entire halves in perfect condition. He'll be better at it by New Year's. The rust will be shaken off, and he'll be able to crack more without breaking them into small pieces. It just takes time to acclimate, he knows that and accepts it. 

It is what it is. Nothing is perfect, definitely not him, and he doesn't expect to be. Not anymore.

At the end of the night, he picks his empty shells out of the bowl, and tosses them in the trash. Eddie runs the Dustbuster around the couch, and it's like Steve never made a mess at all.

Tomorrow, Wayne will have refilled the bowl and Steve will start the process all over again, Eddie at his side.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

Notes: I feel like I often explore Eddie struggling after the events of S4, but what if Steve felt it more? What if Eddie bounced back like a cat using one of his nine lives?

[1shadowhole]

Since it's once again the 24th, here comes the annual reminder from me that Kingdom Come AKA the so called BBC MERLIN'S Canonical Season 6 is actually anything but canon and was made by fans.

BBC Merlin doesn't have a Season 6

And every year people tell me "I don't think that anyone actually believes that Kingdom Come is canon" and every year I cry because no, no a lot of people do. Maybe not on Tumblr but everywhere else you always see comment threads that go a little something like this:

"omg the ending was so sad why did the writers do that?😭😭"

"don't worry! The writers actually wrote the script for Season 6 that later got cancelled, but it's online you can read it!!"

"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT THANK YOU SO MUCH"

Ahhhhhhhh

And I also make these posts for all the new, wonderful fans that don't know the whole story, who may stumble upon the Kingdom Come blog and read "the canonical ending of the show" or whatever lie the people who made it wrote and believe it to be the case. Because why wouldn't you? It's says it is! BUT IT ISN'T!!

Why am I so pressed about it?

I mean I ain't going to lie the main reason is because I don't like it and think it is a great example of character assassination and disregard of what the original show wanted to share with the finale.

But I mean there are many fanfics (and kingdom come IS a fanfic) that I think are just as bad if not worse. Why don't I also complain about them? Because it isn't my place! I can criticise some tropes but you'll never see me directly attacking a specific fic by name! It's a story someone made for free just because they like writing.

But since these creators clearly believe that their work is somehow superior and has more value than other fics, I will treat it as such! And if you wanted it to be canon so bad I will criticise it like I do with the actual show. And trust me, as much as I adore BBC Merlin I am not blind to its flaws, and I am very critical about them on here.

So yeah. I think it sucks that a lot of fans believe that's the actual ending! Even if you liked it (and so didn't think that the show ended horribly with all its morals squashed) I don't think it's right that you fell for a lie. I had conversations with people who loved it and think of it as their personal season 6 while knowing it isn't canon. And that's wonderful! But you should know the truth.

So let me repeat this one last time

BBC Merlin has no canonical season 6

I feel like I was a lot harsher and aggressive this time around. I think it's because I lost a close family member just this month, and with Christmas so close my nerves are frayed.

But my goal is to make so many of these posts that when you look Kingdom Come up you find them before the actual blog lol. So anyone reading will know not to trust what the blog says.

And to make it clear. Hidden in their posts they do say it is fanmade. But you have to look for it, and if you just want to read you won't see it.

Plus the way they make it sound, the script they sent to BBC (btw... DON'T SEND YOUR FICS TO WRITERS FFS) was actually accepted lmao. And the only issue was the actors didn't want to come back.

Sure babe, sure. That's how shows work.

Damn I'm so salty today.

Again I wouldn't talk about other fics this way, I swear.

Now go read And like the cycle of the year we begin again. Or the Change Trilogy. Both very different, but very long and amazing possible Season 6s