#kiera's fics ��˚⊹ ࿔

[love4pascal]

SMAU: Instagram posts with bsf!Rafe: Part three!

Rafe x Pogue bsf!reader

An: OMG we’ve made it to part three?? I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is appreciated 🩵🤍.

TAGLIST: @justsomerandompersonintheworld

[empthy1]

sugar mommy! tashi !! again. the torment will never end. i don't particularly want it to. ~350 word blurb.

"Mallorca or Mykonos, darling?" Tashi murmured as she noticed you awakening, seeing those eyes flutter. She adored you sleeping, but she liked you best somnolent and clinging to her. Especially when she could ask you such questions. To see you stumble over the cotton-feel and blearily attempt to articulate brought her more joy than it probably should.

"Hm?" You sound, sleepily into her skin, lips only parting for your tongue to wet them.

You're adorable. It's already midmorning. She's usually out of bed by now, slipping a robe over her negligee to get her routine started. Skincare, breakfast, the news. As it is everyday.

However, this morning she can do nothing. With you sprawled over her waist, head cushioned a silken-covered stomach, she can do nothing more than shift up against the headboard and catch up on her news in bed. She smiles as you melt back into her, yet without giving her the answer she needs.

"After the Roland-Garros. Where are we going, darling? Mallorca or Mykonos?"

She feels your huffing, puffed breath at the question. It slips warmly under the silk, making her thigh twitch minutely under your head. She sighs and rolls her eyes at your petulance.

"Darling, please. You know Roland-Garros is for me, and the trip after is for you. That's why I can't choose for you."

"But... we'll miss fashion week."

Ah. That's what's got you in a twist, isn't it? The tournament already eats away at two of those days, and the thought of relaxing on a Mediterranean beach, far from anyone isn't as appealing as sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her at yet another show of skill. This time, air conditioned. Hopefully. She still shudders at the remembrance of Marc Jacobs, Spring Collection, 2018.

"...fine, darling. We can stay for fashion week. But we are going to the beach next year. I don't tan quite as well under camera flashes as I do under the sun." Her hand falls to your locks, pushing them from obscuring your visage. You glimmer under the morning sun.

...perhaps she's content to stay in bed a little while longer.

[theatricalmage]

The juice box chronicles!! (@glitter-lisp n @eggmuffinwaffles )

I just HAD to make some fan art of the lil guys

Please read I beg!! 🙏

[trulyhblue]

BARCA GIRLS REQUESTS NOW PLEASE 🙈🙈😍😍

IM IN THE MOOD DONT LDT IT GO TO WASTE

I’D TAKE ANYYUING — INDIVIDIUDAL, COUPLES, KIDFOCS, SMUT, TEAM X READER ANYTHING

[agerefandomrambles]

hiii outer banks anon back- storyline wise I was thinking maybe sarah’s struggling with how things ended on the boat (she’s legit on bad terms with her whole family post s2 which must suck) and she regresses early in the day while she’s supposed to be doing [insert task] with jj and he ends up taking care of her til the others show up and ask what’s going on but jj is in full caregiver mode™️ and sarahs still regressed so they get little to no answers and just go along with it

- also if you could add in jj calling sarah princess but ofc no pressure, just a hc of mine that he would - also no pressure if this is too specific of a storyline for you to write

Title: Beach Day

Word count: 1147

Little! Sarah

Cg! JJ

Warnings: none that I can think of... let me know:)

Plot: Sarah regresses and JJ takes care of her

Sarah and JJ are the only people on the beach. 2 specks in a mile of white sand and blue ocean.

The rest of the pouges are back at the hut. John B's fast asleep because he had night shift, Kie is cooking the fish that John B caught, Pope is making a rain capturer and Cloe is making a spear to make fishing easier. JJ and Sarah are trying to forage for some food to add to the store. JJ is knee deep in the water trying (and failing) to catch a fish with his hands. Sarah is supposed to be collecting some edible berries and leaves.

Currently, Sarah is sitting in front of the bush, twirling a berry in her hand as she looks out the horizon, completely lost in thought.

She stares out into the ocean as images of her father and rafe's betrayal occupy her mind.

"Sarah! I got one!" JJ shouts, holding up a fish which promptly squirms out of his hands and swims off. "Sarah?" JJ calls again, abandoning his bid to catch a fish when she doesn't respond. "Yo Sarah? You alright?"

"Hey, Sar" JJ says softly, kneeling beside her. He gently places a hand on her shoulder, finally grabbing her attention. "What's wrong?" He asks gently, sympathy and worry etched over his features.

Sarah just looks at him with wide, scared eyes. She opens her mouth to tell him but all that comes out is a sob. She launches into him. JJ catches her with one hand and steadies them both with the other.

"Whoa Sarah? What's going on?"

Sarah just hiccups and buries her head into his chest. She whines when no words come out of her mouth. This isn't the first time that she's had one of these days where her words don't work and her movements aren't quiet right and she kinda just wants to curl up in a ball with one of her childhood stuffies. But it is the first time that it's ever happened in front of other people.

The two sit like that for a while, sarah sobbing loudly into JJ's chest and JJ trying to sort out what is going on. They don't move until Sarah's sobs have slowed to the occasional sniffle and JJ has worked out the questions he wants to ask.

The way that Sarah is snuggled up to him and her soft mumbles remind him oddly of himself. As far as he's aware, noone else on the pouges regress. But noone is aware that he regresses.

"Sarah? Can you look at me?" He asks, not unkindly. When Sarah doesn't move from her position, he tilts her head up so her watery eyes meets his concerned ones.

"Feel funny..." She murmers, burying her head into his chest.

"Awe that's alright princess, have you felt like this before?" He asks smoothly, careful to keep his face neutral to not freak her out any more. She just nods against him, sniffling as she works herself up again into tears.

"Oh please don't cry! It's ok!" JJ is quick to console, rubbing her back soothingly. "I have days where I feel funny too."

The two lapse back into silence, Sarah quickly calming down in JJ's arms.

"Do you wanna help me try to catch a fish?" JJ asks when he's confident that she's calmed down. He offers up the fish as a way to distract her until its time to head back to the hut.

Sarah grins and nods her head enthusiastically. JJ takes her hand and pulls her into the water, showing her how to herd the fish towards him so he can grab them.

With her help, JJ starts to grab more fish. The two work together for hours. They probably would have caught more fish if Sarah didn't keep tripping over and scaring the fish away but JJ wasn't about to say that. They already had enough fish for the next day so he was mostly just trying to entertain her.

The two were so preoccupied with their efforts, giggling amongst each other and splashing one another, that they didn't even notice when John B and Cleo stood at the beach, watching with fond smiles.

They came to come find Sarah and JJ when they didn't come back when they were meant too. They didn't disturb the pair though, instead choosing to leave and come back with Pope and Kie.

By the time they come back, JJ and Sarah have dragged themselves out of the water and onto the beach where they were counting the fish (well, JJ was counting. Sarah was off to the side making a sandcastle).

"9, 10, 11. We caught 11 fish princess" JJ says, mostly to fill the silence. Since Sarah slipped, she's mostly been quiet so JJ has just been talking to her. He's not even sure if she's comprehending what he's saying but he doesn't want to make her feel like he's ignoring her so he's been chatting away.

"JJ? What's going on man?" John B asks, confusion clear in his face. Sarah looks up and whimpers his look, tears quickly brewing.

"Oh don't cry Sar. Look, here's a seashell. Why don't you put that on your sandcastle?" JJ jumps to distract Sarah before she dissolves into tears again.

John B just looks back at the other 3 and shrugs, confusion still clear on his face.

"Sarah? What are you doing?" Kiera tries, confusion evident in her voice. Sarah whimpers at her tone but doesn't even turn around, choosing to dump sand onto her 'sandcastle' (pile of sand).

"Quit freaking her out" JJ lectures them, not turning around either. He guts the fish while Sarah is busy with the sandcastle. The 4 just stand there, oogling the site before them.

JJ lets out a heavy sigh. "I can't explain what's going on right now but you can't just stand there looking like fools. Either help Sarah with her sandcastle, help me gut these fish or go back to doing your jobs at the hut"

This jumps the 4 back into action. Cleo and Pope head back to the cabin to finish their projects. John B sits down next to JJ and starts silently gutting the fish with him. Kie sits down next to Sarah and starts chatting to her while shaping the sandcastle.

Sarah starts babbling to Kie while dumping more sand on. JJ glances back every so often but doesn't step in. He keeps an eye on the situation but lets kiara watch Sarah.

John B, Kie, Sarah and JJ don't head back to the hut until the sun starts setting. JJ is carrying Sarah because she refused to walk.

In the morning, Sarah is sure to be embarrassed and the group will have to have a long talk but for now they're happy to just support one another without question.

[octolingkiera]

i love the twins so much 😭😭😭😭 i have so many feelings about them. so many thoughts. they live in my brain rent free

this is a part of @sariphantom's Rise August prompts

check out the fic on ao3 to get the full experience!!

Prompt: Day 2: Disaster Twins

Summary:

No one really remembers who said it first. Maybe it was Splinter in an effort to put to rest the debate of who was older. Maybe it was Leo and his need for connection with his family. Maybe it was Donnie in his unwavering devotion in unorthodox ways.

It didn’t really matter in the end. Leo and Donnie, Donnie and Leo, two for one special, peas in a pod, buy one get one, twins for life, for love, by choice.

Words: 2,521

🐢❤️💜💙🧡🐢

No one really remembers who said it first. Maybe it was Splinter in an effort to put to rest the debate of who was older. Maybe it was Leo and his need for connection with his family. Maybe it was Donnie in his unwavering devotion in unorthodox ways.

It doesn’t really matter in the end. Leo and Donnie, Donnie and Leo, two for one special, peas in a pod, buy one get one, twins for life, for love, by choice.

April didn’t understand it when she was very young. When she wasn’t quite a preteen, when she was just desperate for friends, when she found all and more in silly little group of green boys who stumbled into her life with wide eyes and naïve hope.

She didn’t understand it, but she wanted to.

She wanted to know what it was like to always have someone by your side, a partner in crime, a guaranteed player two, your equal and opposite in every way.

She remembers she asked Raph about it, desperate to understand her new friends. She didn’t know them all that well yet and she was so scared they would stop being friends with her—a ridiculous and unfounded fear, looking back—so she wanted to know how to avoid stepping on any potential conversational landmines regarding Leo and Donnie.

“How can they be twins?” April asked. “I thought twins were supposed to look the same?” She knows now that her question is silly and not all twins are identical, but she was eight and had never met any twins before, let alone heard of the concept of being fraternal twins.

“They just are,” Raph told her with absolute certainty as Donnie and Leo tussle around the floor of the projector room, Mikey indiscriminately cheering them on from the side. Donnie was currently winning, pressing Leo plastron side down on the floor. Leo was screeching and flailing but couldn’t get enough leverage to free himself.

As Raph and April watched on, Leo managed to flip positions with Donnie, then flopped down on Donnie’s soft shell, chest to back. He folded his arms on the back of Donnie’s shoulders and laid his head down like he intended to fall asleep. Donnie wriggled for a few moments, then pillowed his own head in his arms, huffing. In an instant, the fight left both of them, exchanged instead for large yawns and sleepy (and victorious, in Leo’s case) smiles.

April frowned and thought very hard. They just are, huh? She supposed it made sense. There was a lot of things that just were. You didn’t always have to understand them for them to be true.

Maybe this could be one of them.

Donnie would never admit it, not in a million years, but there was nothing he loved more than being Leo’s twin. It just made sense to him in a way that only machines and technology and science did. Leo and Donnie were twins that that was that, no more questions, thank you, goodnight.

For once, science fell by the wayside to make room for the emotional and illogical. Logically, Donnie knew that the two of them could physically not be twins. For one, turtles hatch from eggs and typically in clutches of several at once, so it was impossible for them to be twins in the sense that humans are. For another, the two are separate species entirely, from different scientific families, even, and were only related to each other in the way that they are both turtles—and have the same mutant rat father.

Dad never shied away from telling him that they were all his sons in every way that mattered. Growing up, he never told them that he was a human that was mutated into a rat, just that he was their father and he saved them from where they had been mutated from. When Donnie would push for answers, Splinter would just smile and shake his head, telling him, “You may not have come from me, but you are mine anyway.”

Donnie, of course, always took this as a challenge. He was never able to do serious, extensive testing as a child, and never cared to once he was old enough to craft the equipment needed for such experiments himself, but he could do research and think and infer. He figured there had to be some shared commonality between himself and his brothers—despite their differences, they all share quite a few similarities that could only come from one distinct source such as facial structures and physique. None of them was “more turtle” than the rest, regardless of childhood behaviors or interests.

These similarities always seemed especially highlighted with Leo and Donnie. Being the two closest in physical and mental developmental milestones, the two of them often, and nearly without fail, matched each other through all of life’s twists and turns. Whether it was losing teeth, first words and steps, even their height, the two of them aged in tandem, experienced life hand in hand, side by side, step for step.

Twins, in every way that truly mattered. Ride or die, together forever, only ‘til death do us part.

It’s why, after the invasion, Donnie is so indescribably furious, seething with a frothing anger that shares headspace only with a hysterical sense of premature grief that has no outlet.

Leo’s still here, but for five, ten minutes, he wasn’t, and Donnie thought he would have to learn how to live with that.

Leo loves being Donnie’s twin, and for better or for worse, he doesn’t care who knows. (As long as no one tells Donnie—it’s an understood thing between them, no words needed. Please. Neither one of them would be able to handle a talk about that.)

It’s great, awesome, amazing, having someone that’s right by your side your whole life. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Raph and Mikey too and he would do anything for them without question, but it’s different with Donnie. There’s just something there, some extra special connection that he can’t put into words, but he, they, know it’s there, sitting between them like it always has and always will.

When they were kids, they almost never separated. It was rare to find one without the other, or if they were, then it was brief, within line of sight or range of hearing; apart, but not really. They were each other’s confidants, their lockboxes of secrets, the ones they whispered everything and nothing to. Back when they were tiny, still small enough to fit in two hands, before Leo started talking and never stopped, before Donnie bloomed into his intelligence like the prodigy he is, they would cry if they were out of physical contact for longer than ten minutes.

Splinter likes to tell them stories of their early childhood sometimes. He talks about how Raph was already trying to wrangle his little brothers together, how Mikey was just so cuddly and affectionate, how Leo and Donnie were Leo-and-Donnie, a pair, a set, do not separate.

Point is, they were closer as children, much closer, indescribably closer.

Then they grew up, they learned about the world, they developed different hobbies, they came into their personalities, they built up walls, and Leo-and-Donnie became Leo and Donnie.

It makes him sad sometimes, to think about how close they used to be, and how things have had to change. He wants to cling to that childhood where the worst thing was learning there would never be a new Lou Jitsu movie, or reaching the end of his favorite Jupiter Jim adventure. He wishes he could take back everything he said that implied he wanted this new distance between them, this yawning abyss he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to cross again.

He wants his brother back the way they used to be, but he knows it’s just a pipe dream by now.

“I’m mad at you,” Donnie says after the invasion, once Leo can stay awake longer than ten minutes at a time. “I can’t believe you. How could you?”

Leo just looks at him for a long minute, eyes dark and searching. “I did what I had to do.”

“What you thought you had to do,” Donnie corrects, hands clenching into fists. He shoves them into his thighs, knuckle first. “You could have done something else. We could have done something else.”

“There was no time,” Leo says, and he sounds so tired. “It was do or die.”

Donnie flinches. “Don’t say that.” He came so close to making that a reality.

“Sorry,” Leo says, then continues, “but thats why I had to. I couldn’t let you die.”

Donnie’s glare is fierce and wild. “So we should have let you? Is that what you’re trying to say to me? Really?”

“Of course not,” Leo says, almost before Donnie is finished speaking, and it’s so genuine, so sincere, it gives Donnie pause. “I love you guys, so much, more than you’ll ever know. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to leave you.”

“But you still did,” Donnie says, voice losing its strength. “We almost lost you. For good. No take backs.” He takes a deep breath, holds it for several counts, then exhales. “I almost lost you.”

Leo stares down at the scratchy medbay blanket on his lap and grips in tight in his hand. “It wasn’t a decision I wanted to make.” His voice breaks on his next words. “I promise.”

Donnie stares at him, tears he’s been trying to ignore beading in the corners of his eyes. Leo isn’t one to make promises lightly, never has been, likely never will be. For someone who lies and pretends and twists the truth as much as Leo does, he’s kept every promise he’s ever made.

Except for one.

“You left me,” Donnie says, barely more than a whisper. “You promised we’d be together forever.”

“���Til death do us part,” Leo recites part of their childhood pact, lifting his head to stare towards the wall, eyes wet and distant.

Donnie sucks in a too-fast breath. He tries to regulate his breathing. They need to have this talk and he can’t ruin it by crying. He and Leo haven’t had a conversation this honest since they were both thirteen and wide-eyed, sneaking out to spend time on the surface by themselves, sitting on empty rooftops to commiserate about their lives and wallow in their new teen angst together. He can’t ruin this.

“We promised we’d grow old together.” Donnie barks a laugh, startling them both with the suddenness of it. “Sixteen isn’t old.”

“It was when we were six,” Leo jokes, like he can’t help himself. He sniffles and shakes his head immediately afterwards.

Donnie can’t even find it in himself to scold his brother. The anger has died, withered away, and all that’s left is the fear and the grief and the soul shattering feeling that nothing will be the same again. He’s mourning for a reality that no longer exists, for the brother that isn’t dead, for the broken promise that is technically no longer broken. All these big feelings have nowhere to go, nothing to aim at, so they’re just bunched up in his head, in his chest, and they’re pressing against his rib cage and skull with nowhere to go.

“We can’t do this again,” Donnie finally says a few minutes later. “This—we can’t let this happen again.”

“Technically we didn’t let anything happen,” Leo says, voice quiet, like he’s hoping he won’t be heard.

Donnie hears him anyway. Donnie always hears him. “But it did.” He grits his teeth, thinking. He takes a deep breath that shakes on the way out. “New promise,” he says, because it’s all he can do.

Leo finally turns and looks at him again, wide-eyed and expectant.

“Promise me that if you can’t find a way out,” he reaches over to grab Leo’s hand, squeezing tight, “then you tell me, so we can find a way out together.”

“What if there’s not a way out?” Leo asks, fingers tightening over Donnie’s. “What if there’s nothing else to do? What if there’s only one way to fix everything?”

Donnie hears the unspoken questions. What if the only way to save the day, to stop the bad guy, to save the world, is to risk life and limb and potentially never return?

Self-sacrifice is, unfortunately, a family tradition.

“Then we go together.” Simple as that.

Leo’s breath hitches, and he tries to pull away, but Donnie holds on with all his strength. “I can’t,” Leo croaks, tears threatening to spill over. “Tello, I could never.”

“You can,” Donnie asserts. He shakes the hand in his grip. “I’m not giving you a choice here, Nardo.”

Leo shakes his head, cheeks wet. “I don’t want that for you.”

“And I don’t want this for you.” Donnie gestures to the medbay and the assorted machines attached to Leo with his free hand. The heart monitor, still attached, but nearly muted, has almost outgrown its usefulness, as Leo is out of the danger zone, but the steady beep-beep-beep of the machine has become a soothing backdrop for this trying time. Donnie doesn’t have the heart to turn it off quite yet, pun not intended.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Donnie adds, once it’s clear Leo isn’t going to reply, too preoccupied with squeezing his eyes closed to staunch the flow of tears. “Twins for life, remember?”

“‘Til we’re old and wrinkly,” Leo whispers, breathing through the tears, silently weeping.

Donnie blinks hard and the tears in his own eyes finally spill over. “Exactly.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo cries, jolting in a hiccup that clearly hurts his still healing everything. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not okay, not really, but it will be,” Donnie says. Then, because Leo needs to hear this more than anything else, he adds, “I forgive you.” Then, for the real kicker, “It’s not your fault.”

Leo outright sobs, and Donnie surges forward to wrap his brother up in his arms, gathering him close as he’s overcome with emotion. Donnie holds on as tight as he dares, then even tighter when Leo clings back like Donnie will disappear if he starts to let go. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Leo buries his face in Donnie’s shoulder. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too. It’s okay. We’re all okay. It’s not your fault.”

When Raph comes by later to deliver their dinner, he finds Leo and Donnie curled up side by side on the bed, arms and legs tangled together with tubes and wires, foreheads and shoulders touching, fingers threaded, fast asleep. In that moment, superimposed over the image, he sees two much smaller turtles, back when they were Leo-and-Donnie, before they grew up and away and apart. They’ve crashed back together now, and it settles something in Raph that he hadn’t realized was off.

He smiles as he leaves the room. He’ll let them sleep just a little longer.

But first, he needs to take some pictures.

[cowardlycowboys]

3 new likes on a fic I wrote when I was like 18 🤝💪👍

[choicesficwriterscreations]

MC of the Month: Kiera Tomoe

Please welcome our second MC of the month! Each month, we will highlight one MC or OC that is currently on our Meet my MC / OC List. The MC / OC is selected randomly on the Wheel of Names, and eligibility requirements can be found here. We accept MC / OC profiles on an ongoing basis. Please feel free to send yours in!

This month's MC of the month is...

@julia-highstorms ' s Kiera Tomoe

Learn more about KIera and her creator, Julia, below.

In your words, tell us what you like most about your MC. Although I have written Rei (OPH MC) for a few years now, Kiera is the first MC I have created with an actual backstory and personality defined before I started writing. And this made me very fond of her, as she feels like the most realistic character I've ever created, along with Eli.

2. Do you feel your MC is like you at all? How are you alike or different? Apart from killing zombies, Kiera's personality is similar to mine: we're both pragmatic. Kiera prefers a hands-on approach rather than wasting time theorizing, so she usually makes decisions fast and firmly, not thinking twice (just like me lol). We share the same MBTI, ISFP. Kiera is also demiromantic, like me.

3. What is most important to your MC? What is their motivation in life?

Considering the situation they're living in - an apocalyptic world -Kiera's motivation isn't different from the others around her: surviving. After she meets the others and they founded the colony, as their leader, she also does everything within her willpower to make Olympus strive. And who knows, maybe find a cure, like they could do with Eli.

4. What are their biggest pet peeves? Dirk is her pet peeve 😂 seriously though, people who are excessively negative or who are always whining but don't help are what annoys her the most. So, Dirk.

5. If your MC could change one thing - anything - what would it be? Not live in an apocalyptic world lol 

6. What is your MC’s favorite song? At the Tower, they were forbidden to get access to music, books, and anything related to the "old world" from before the outbreak. So her favorite song would be the only melody Eli knows how to play on the guitar.

Is there anything else you’d like to share about your MC: if you'd like to know more about Kiera, access the Character Profile + Playlist I have created about her.

Thank you for sharing Kiera with us, Julia! You can all learn more about Kiera Tomoe here.

[torsamors]

💘💞🧿

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

Can i say. All of them. To an extent…. My most popular fic is an atla one and i recently reread the last chapter and was like ooooh man……….it couldve used some editing and i did rush writing it towards the end bc i left it alone for a year and really wanted to finish it….also i just think ive grown as a writer since then so it makes me cringe a lot dowbdoal. but yeah I think basically all of them i would love to rework someday (maybe minus my first bones fic.) owhdoabslan i think there’s always room for improvement yknow

💞what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language

Ooooh this is tough…..i tend to agree with the line of thought that fanfic is really character studies at the end of the day? So in regards to fanfics i love fics that explore a character’s mind/thoughts/background/etc. I like character driven plots for fics. I also think (again for fics specifically) the emotions in them are super important like if i don’t feel something while reading a story i really do think what’s the point?

🧿what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to?

Wow um<3 im bad with criticism against my writing honestlyyyy but i try not to be. I think with stuff i post online im like at the end of the day these are for me more than anyone else so if someone doesnt like them it’s kinda like…well this wasn’t for you anyway it was for me<3 like in regards to my fics the ones i think are my personal best are easily not the ones that are most popular but on the other hand i have a lot of sweet comments on those ones still so im like if one person likes it! thats a win! Sowhodan

[kieraelieson]

I checked my bookmarks to see if I have any short Sanders Sides fics there...and had a "who am I kidding" moment because I mostly read shorter fics. But...

"Death Bouquet" and "Shield" by SoDoRoses (FairyChess), "Growing Pains" by NikaylaSarae, "Mana-Shock" by Karalora, and "magical mutualism" by delimeful.

Awesome! I’ll check these out, thanks!

[empthy1]

like them? ── .✦ patrick zweig x reader

hallo!! this is more a character study than anything. his loser ways intrigue me. not really happy with the ending :[ hope you enjoy anyways ‪♡. 2k words.

You were perfect.

Your glacé demeanor was the thing that drew him to you. Screw what anyone else said, he deserved a minute amount of softness once in a blue moon.

Especially after a particularly humiliating challenger.

So what if he was distracted by you? That doesn't account for his less than stellar performance, surely (he can blame the motel mattress for the crick in his back) but it sure contributed. That toothy grin was lethal, and you didn't even know it.

He was drawn back to your sparkling eyes every time he hit, the sound of the thwack fading into the back of his mind. He knew you wouldn't catch him—you were watching the ball flicker over the net with every hard strike.

It was only inevitable you would catch him.

The ball sails past him, slamming into the rusted, chain-link fence with a loud crash. It tauntingly lodged in one of the openings. As your eyes dart to catch its motion, you instead catch his dark gaze right on yours.

Patrick plucks the ball from its sunken position and pockets it, shoving it into his too-big shorts. He swore they fit a couple months ago.

He shuffles off the court after a half-hearted handshake with his (much) younger opponent, who gives him a movie star grin—like he’d won Wimbledon and not a backwater challenger.

You're waiting for him at the barrier, hands pressing into the metal. It's gotten a bit nippier, recently, in the late November month.

The sight of your trembling shoulders and fixed gaze makes him bold enough to invite you for a bite to eat.

He’s cute, all bumbling motions and wry, nervous smirks. His hip hits the barrier after one particularly eager motion. He thinks he hides his resulting wince well.

(He does not.)

You ended up in a diner. There were two in the town. He’d learned from the woman at the motel. He only heard half of her sentence as he was dead on his feet, but he distinctly remembers being told one was "absolute shit."

When he took a sip of jet black coffee and felt the bitter, smooth burn on his tongue, he knew he chose the right one.

He tries to start conversation. A cough instantly lodges the second he tries to speak, catching on the buildup in his throat.

“-sorry. Yeah, so… why were you here to watch?” You definitely look too cool for this town. Too cool for him, which is a sentence he never thought he’d think. His younger self would be aghast.

You purse your lips familiarly, and suddenly it's not you sitting across from him but her, tawny skin matte in the diner's shitty lighting and messy braid slung over one shoulder. Your words snap him out of his revere.

"Oh, well, I'm just a fan. You've got such a explosive style... I like it."

Well that's something she'd never say.

The unfamiliar kindness to your tone makes him smile crookedly.

He's different that night, around you. Not that you'd know.

His soft laughter rings through the almost-empty diner. You'd both ordered food by now—just waiting it to be delivered from the noisy kitchen. He can't remember exactly what you'd said that made him laugh like that, tinkling in a way he'd never let escape him before, but he finds he can't really remember.

When your food comes, you do this polite little shimmy back, eyes following the plate of pancakes as it's placed down in front of you. Jesus, that's familiar. He misses seeing how his eyes would go big at every meal, eagerly taking in the veritable mountain of food in front of him.

Then, his hot plate of eggs and toast is placed down in front of him and he can't help but dig in. He forgets all about him, if only for a moment, at the melt of warm, cheesy eggs on his tongue. Yep. Definitely the good diner.

One thing he's used to—feeling hungry. For food, for people, for happiness.

It leads to impulses. Bad ones.

He's accepted dates from so many sleazes. Let them push him and treat him wrong for reasons he doesn't want to think about can't understand.

Whatever. Introspection's a bitch.

He prefers to let them feed him on their dime and then have the mediocre sex they expect from him for their kindness. He slips out after they fall asleep and returns to his apartment or motel room (or car, when it's that bad.)

Oddly enough, you don't give him those urges. The results of his mindless swiping don't feel like the little meet-cute he'd fallen into.

The last thing he expects to do is to slip you his number he scrawled on the receipt for the bill you split. Can't imagine why he's kissing your cheek under the awning, protecting you both from the rain before waving you off—giggling, actually laughing at the view of you as you run to your car, hood pulled up over your head.

Not even a thought ran through him about propositioning you.

He returns to his stuffy motel room, peels off his shirt at the muted hum of the shitty AC. Broken again. He'll be gone by morning, anyway.

Slumping back against the mattress, his eyelids press visions of light eyes and curling hair to his mind. They don't feel as oppressive, as terrifying when their intercut with your voice, your smile.

The next time he sees you, it's colder. Far into winter, his breaths puff clouds into the air. The city is windier than the small town you'd met in, the skyscrapers tunneling the frigid air right against his back.

This was a long time coming. You'd think him younger (or busier) with the way he's glued to his phone—awaiting your messages and, later, calls.

He definitely feels younger; less like a man in his early thirties and more like a teenage girl. He hadn't crushed like this since—

That's enough of that.

The long trudge to your apartment was only caused by the less-than-ideal parking your old building had. By the time he made it to your doorstep, ringing the bell with tingling fingers and rubbing his reddening nose, he was thoroughly frozen.

His clothes was less than ideal, too—unused to being in a place that snows during the winter months. He runs from the freezing temperatures, fearing the slowness they bring and the idleness that may trap him. He flees to California and Florida for the winter, creeping around the coast and clinging on to the barest hints of heat that remain there.

Your apartment is his California, now.

The second the door opens, he's hit with a wave of warmth. The warm air seeps over his skin, coming from the rumbling heater and the scattered burning candles and the happily humming oven.

Yeah. He could get used to that. Especially the bright smile on your face at the sight of him, nose red and eyes squinted despondently.

"Pat. Come in. Jeez—you look cold."

Being swept into your apartment felt intimate. His shoulders tensed at the tug of his coat, unwilling to part with it even if you were just trying to be a good hostess—

Yet, as soon as the heavy fabric slipped off his back, he realized how laden it had been with ice and melted snow, keeping the chill pressed to his skin.

The flannel he had on underneath, layered over a long-sleeve, was much warmer. It seemed to absorb from the air and from his own body heat, insulating his trembling arms. His frozen hands rise to rub at his biceps, before slipping up to bathe in the pocket of heat it'd created.

He doesn't even notice being led to the couch, pressed into the cushion by your gentle hands. He settles heavily against one of your throw pillows.

The bustle of you in the kitchen is firmly background noise now, the faint clicking of a mechanical timer buzzing on the counter. Without the cumbersome weight of the cold, the desire for sleep enfolds his mind. His eyelids droop heavy, burdened no more with gelid crystals of ice.

A melting droplet slips down his cheek, followed soon by a salty one. They runoff, fading into the throw pillow that bears his curly head.

He's knocked out before the timer even beeps.

“Hey, hey.” Is softly cooed in his ear, a warm hand shaking his shoulder.

Oh. It’s Art, waking him up for practice—whatever, five more minutes. He attempts to shrug off the touch and flop on his belly, but his resting place feels smaller than his bed was at Mark Rebellato.

No, the fingers are too slim, and this is definitely closer to twin-sized. Tashi, then. Dude, he just got back from tour yesterday. He huffs and grumbles and tries to roll over again. Can’t she let him sleep in—

But he keeps getting shaken, and he blinks open bleary eyes to find no hint of… them. Just you, blinking down at him with a steaming bowl clutched in your other hand.

His sleep-crusted eyes flutter, caught off-guard at the rush of memories and then the brutal battering of your visage on his brain. Right. You're here, with him—or he's here, with you. In your apartment, on your couch. He'd fallen asleep.

"Dinner, Pat. Have you gotten thinner?"

He probably has. He accepts the bowl greedily, digging the offered fork deep into the white rice and chicken, dripping with a sauce he's never had but supremely enjoys.

It's different, home-cooked meals. He'd never had one, a true one, until he'd met him. To have a member of the family cook and pour hours into a dish was something he'd never seen. He usually didn't even glimpse the cooks, and was shooed from the bustling kitchen anytime he so much as tried to peek in.

The presentation wasn't the masterful art he'd grown to know, with perfectly placed leaves and round dollops of puree. But it steamed, wafting scents into his nose. He appreciated every bite.

You'd flipped on the TV while he was devouring the meal. Once he zones back in, he hears it—a droning voice enunciating familiar words.

"This is live coverage of the Australian Open, looks like the Donaldsons are coming in now—"

His head shoots up.

Gaze contacting with the screen, he glimpses cropped blond and a newly-cut bob. His eyes are downcast, following obediently behind her like an acolyte. Occasionally, he sees his gaze dart up, as if she'd acknowledge him and stray from her warpath.

Yeah, he's seen this before. Keep pushing, Sisyphus. She's no Orpheus.

He finds the strength to turn it off. His thin fingers tug the remote from your lap, impacting the little red button harshly. The place of it on your coffee table echoes.

"...can we go to bed?"

He's never been cradled like this before. After you'd fussed, shoved him into a too-big sweatshirt (he doesn't know where you got it) and graciously let him take his jeans off, you tugged him to your chest and buried your nose in his still-damp hair.

His hands are still warm from the bowl when they snake over your skin. Bared thighs slot against yours, pulled close and tangled in the web that is you.

Usually, he'd struggle. Resist the pull and tug of silken, sticky threads—each one only entrapping him further.

This time, he sinks into them. Surrenders, like a venom-laded fly to be wrapped and ensnared. The sounds of your breathing soothe his restless mind.

You're no longer him, with his smile and the youthful glimmer he used to see. Or her, with your funny, but scathing commentary. He doesn't see her in your focused looks, or hear him in your laughs. They meld together, swirled and blended into an amalgamation.

You soothe the roughened edges of the image. There's no cutting feeling in his gut or the curl of a vice around his ribs.

Just the press of your collarbone against his forehead and your breath through his short tresses.

[elleldoe]

Knowledge Is Pain by ElleLDoe

Corban Yaxley x OFC

(18+, Older Man/Younger Woman, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Abduction, Imprisonment, Non-Con, Deatheaters doing Deatheater things, this one is rough if you click the link be mindful to read the tags for warnings)

Somewhere between the foggy remains of a dream and a distant memory Kiera had always known certain things. In the beginning people had met it with slight amusement, the vivid imagination of a child, now Kiera knew better than to bring it up. Mandatory therapy for the delusions of a burnt-out adult was hardly something she needed when she had her life and her job to focus on. Still it seemed real, even realer when Kiera thought she recognized one of the villains, that had previously only existed in her head, on the street, even realer when he seemed to recognize her too.

[figureofdismay]

boy i wish i had left myself any kind of outline or notes about my intentions re: Spend Our Days Like Matches when i was working on it. I thought "it didn't matter" because Clock Wise was the "real fic" and SODLM was just a way to let off steam in between doing "the real work." I have a huge detailed outline for Clock Wise a timeline board.

Unfortunately, 6 or 7 years later, I think SODLM is much better than Clock Wise and is more worth my time, and I have nothing preserved about the big giant gaps in my WIP document.

Anyway. Continuum is on amazon prime now and my Alec x Kiera feelings are rekindling and I wish I hadn't accidentally sabotaged myself.

[kuiinncedes]

brooo

[octolingkiera]

decided to start posting the fills i made as a part of @sariphantom's Rise August prompts. got six so far. sorry the tumblr post is so late lol. i don't normally post fics to my main like this.

check out the fic on ao3 to get the full experience!!

Prompt: Day 1: Mad Dogs

Summary:

“Okay, Mad Dogz,” Raph says one day when they’re out following a mutant crime alert, “let’s roll out.”

“Still can’t believe we haven’t come up with a better name than that,” Leo gripes, rolling his eyes and following the motion with his whole body. “I mean, really. None of us are dogs, and none of us are really that mad.” He looks between each of his brothers, searching. “Right?”

Words: 1,295

🐢❤️💜💙🧡🐢

“Okay, Mad Dogz,” Raph says one day when they’re out following a mutant crime alert, “let’s roll out.”

“Still can’t believe we haven’t come up with a better name than that,” Leo gripes, rolling his eyes and following the motion with his whole body. “I mean, really. None of us are dogs, and none of us are really that mad.” He looks between each of his brothers, searching. “Right?”

“I dunno, Leo,” Mikey says, contemplative. “I am filled with a lot of rage…” He adopts a thinking pose, brow furrowed and eyes distant, hand gripping his chin.

Raph sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He says nothing but his reaction speaks for itself.

Donnie, not bothering to look up from his phone, flaps a hand in the air dismissively. “I keep all my anger bottled up in here,” he taps his chest, “and hope one day it will just kill me. Like a normal person,” he adds, as if what he just described is unequivocally a universal experience.

Leo purses his lips and steeples his hands, holding this fingers to his mouth. “So that’s a yes to the mad, then.”

“Or it could be, like, the coo-coo for cocoa puffs type of mad!” Mikey chimes in, crossing his eyes and swirling a finger beside his ear. “Y’know, like British people say.”

“Ew,” Leo says, because that’s all that needs to be said about that.

Raph slices his hands through the air, groaning. “Alright, that’s enough!” He sighs again and crosses his arms. “It’s a cool name. I like the name. We’re keeping the name—”

“For now,” Leo cuts in, arching a brow.

“We’re keeping the name, and that’s it.” Raph turns on Leo to growl out the words, then straightens. “Now quit stalling. We got a bad guy to bust!”

“I’m just saying,” Leo says, hours later, after the bad guy is beaten, their victory Run of the Mill pizza has been consumed, and their after-victory pizza (aka, tomorrow’s lunch) has been purchased to take home. “There’s gotta be a better name out there. Something that really says who we are and what we’re about. Something that describes us. Something that makes people think of us when they hear it.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Mikey groans, slumped over on Raph’s shell as the biggest brother carries the youngest and also the stack of half a dozen pizzas. “Maybe if we just let it happen he’ll tire himself out.”

Raph’s next exhale is heavy, the burden of Atlas in his eternal torment. “Pizza Supreme, I wish.”

“Like who?” Donnie asks, unable to help himself from engaging with Leo in a verbal spar. “Who exactly are we trying to get to remember us? The bad guys? They don’t even know our names.”

“They don’t?” Mikey asks, frowning. “Well that’s rude of us.”

Donnie rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “We’re not trying to market ourselves here. We’re effectively vigilantes, moonlighting as heroes for no other reason than we can. It’s better we stay under the radar, so to speak.”

“Just a secret between us and all of New York,” Leo says with a laugh. “Face it, guys. We’re not exactly very subtle.” He gives Donnie a sideways look as he says, “Especially not when we’re in the Turtle Tank.”

Donnie gasps and glares at Leo. To anyone that doesn’t know Donnie, they might assume that he’s genuinely offended, but Leo knows his brothers better than himself—there’s no heat to Donnie’s glare, and he’s holding himself the way he does when he’s entirely at ease with himself and the situation. “Gasp! You take that back! My baby is a marvel of engineering! A masterpiece of technology! How dare you imply that she’s an eyesore!”

“You said it, not me.” Leo shrugs, feigning disinterest. “I mean really. Who drives a tank around? Especially in the city.”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to your slander! You’re just jealous she’s better than you!” Donnie tips his nose up and crosses his arms, looking away with a huff.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of,” Leo says, shaking his head, expression full of melodrama as he flings the tails of his mask over his shoulder. “I’m already the best-looking thing in this town.”

As Leo and Donnie devolve into increasingly nonsensical arguments, Mikey pokes Raph in the temple to get his attention. “So why’d you pick that name anyway, Raph?”

Raph tilts his head away from the prodding and lets out a singular chuckle. “I dunno. I just thought it sounded cool. Tough. Somethin’ that would show that we’re heroes. Hero teams have team names.” He shrugs, nearly jostling Mikey from his perch. “That’s it.”

Mikey giggles and snuggles closer. “Well I like it,” he says, wrapping an arm around Raph’s neck in a loose hug. “Leo’s just jealous he can’t come up with anything better,” he says, whispering into Raph’s ear to avoid drawing Leo’s attention.

“Heh, well, you know Leo. He’s just gotta do everything he can to be a pain the ass,” Raph says, picking up the pace to take the lead of the group, scooping up Leo in his free arm as he overtakes him. Leo squawks and struggles, but soon resigns to his fate as Donnie snickers at him.

It’s during one of Leo’s will-they-won’t-they sleepless nights that he decides to brainstorm a few new team names. He plays around with a few options, narrowing down the elements he wants to include—namely the turtle, the ninja, the mutant, and the teenage aspects—but he just can’t make the connection work. He even writes it down, filling a whole notebook page with scratched out suggestions that don’t make the cut, but eventually he gives it up, promising himself to come back to the idea when he’s had a bit more sleep.

He never really gets to do that.

Between Draxum, the Foot, the Shredder, Big Mama, the Shredder again, adjusting to the new lair, trying and failing to adjust to the new leader thing, and then the Krang, the whole issue of their team name falls to the wayside.

It’s not until a week or so after he wakes up from his brief coma that the topic ever comes up again.

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Raph says one day, apropos of nothing, sitting beside the medbay bed Leo’s been (and will be, for the foreseeable future) laid up on. “Hell of a good team name.” He smiles and it pulls funny at the bandages still sitting over his damaged eye. “Good job, Leo.”

“I can’t take all the credit,” Leo says, immediately, instinctively. He takes a few seconds to process what’s being said to him, then shakes his head. “It wasn’t all me. We came up with it together.”

Raph chuckles and shakes his head, cradling Leo’s hand between his own. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

“Not as good as Mad Dogz though,” Leo admits, a tiny smile on his face. It lights up his eyes, despite the sallow complexion and mottled bruises. “Well,” he backtracks, shifting into a smirk as he turns his eyes away, pretending to think, “maybe not worse. Just as good. I did help come up with it, after all.”

Raph laughs, the sound coming from deep in his belly, and Leo joins in with breathy little giggles that rattle his broken ribs and irritate the cracks in his shell and plastron. It hurts but it’s the good kind of hurt; the hurt that comes from joy.

It feels nice to laugh, even if it’s about something as silly as a team name. Who really cares, in the end? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Mad Dogz, or something else, they’re still the same people.

Mutants. Turtles. Whatever.

[cowardlycowboys]

the fact people have my xmen playlist saved is shocking