#like with months of delay

[leenfiend]

what’s ur type first < prev next > full comic

Preorders for physical copies of this comic are now OPEN until August 27th! There will be limited stock once preorders are done so grab it now if you want it

[otaku553]

Starting art fight with a portrait of @where-does-the-heart-lie ‘s Mueta :) jellyfish guy……. He’s so cool

[c-hrona]

Happy spooky days 🩸🧛‍♂️

[stubz]

Storyteller

"Hello Max, I'm here to surprise Pollix with a early pick up."

"Oh how nice, although I don't know if he'll want to go right now."

"Why not? Is he in the middle of a game?"

"No, its story time."

The tighalax smirks. "You really think he won't want to come because of 'story time'?" he laughs.

"Just look and see." the human smiles.

The teacher leads the giant feline being through the child centre to a corner where a colorful and beautiful plush carpet lays on the floor. Not that you could see it as it was covered by sitting younglings. All entranced by the human standing before them telling them a story rather animatedly and loudly.

"Pollix, lets go." calls Dux, looking at his cub.

Not even a glance.

"Pollix."

An ear twitch but still no look.

"...Pollix!"

The whole class looks including Kim.

"Oh, Pollix, your dad is here."

"Papa, not yet! The story isn't done." whines the cub.

"...you want to finish the story?"

"Pollix wants to finish the story! Jax and Morgana are fighting the monster now!" cries Nova.

"...is it almost over?"

"Oh, um, almost but, Pollix I can tell you the rest tomorrow-"

"My Papa says its okay!" Pollix cries interrupting Kim

"...is it okay if I...?" trails a very embarrassed Kim.

The tighalax nods and actually goes to sit next his cub. The sight making Max snort as the 8 foot tall feline like being towers over the younglings. After he settles in and Pollix snuggles in on his Papa's lap he gives Kim the okay to continue.

"...story teacher!" whines the children, their teacher taking too long for their liking to continue the story.

"Oh...right...okay then." she mutters, face red from nerves and embarrassment. This was the first time a parent saw her tell a story.

"...the monster roared at our heroes, swinging his mighty axe down at them. Flung into the air our hero, Jax, is grabbed by the giant's fist and thrown into the monster's mouth." The cubs gasp as the human acts out the catching their hero. Her voice slowly getting louder again.

"NO!"

"What does Morgana do?!"

"Is he dead?!"

"Morgana, seeing that the villain ate her friend charges at him as soon as she lands. Her sword drawn and ready, her face angry, eyes full of tears, and with a mighty cry leaps at the giant." She begins to act out the story, going back to her story telling enthusiasm.

"The monster in turn swings his axe at her, with her in the air it will definitely hit her. The axe hits Morgana and she falls to the ground badly hurt...but not without killing the beast. At the last moment she gathers all her magic into her sword and throws it at the giant monster, piercing his evil heart!" cries Kim, thrusting her hand out as if she had just thrown the very sword.

"...and then..." whispers Nova.

"The monster fades away, revealing a hurt but alive Jax. Seeing Morgana he drags himself to her and they hug, happy to see each other again. Even if they're both not in one piece. The healers arrive and the two head home where they continue the rest of their adventure together, as they were always meant to be. The end."

The cubs cheer with most asking for another story.

"No, no more stories for today. Let's give Kim a break, okay, she's already told you 4 stories." Max ushers the kids towards the toys.

"That was a very good tale teacher Kim, I never knew Earth had such interesting history."

"Hmm? Oh that wasn't our history."

"A legend or folktale then?"

"No, just a made up story."

"Ah, could you tell me the name of it? I would like to read it to Pollix at home, it sounded very interesting."

"Oh uh, I actually just made it up." the human smiles.

"You made it up!? How long ago? Must have taken you ages." Praised Dux, tail flicking in excitement.

"Actually I just made it up now, I make the story up as I go."

"...you make it up as you go...y'know that offer to quit your job and join my pack still stands right? Our planet and culture greatly value Storytellers such as yourselves, you could even make a great living if you worked for me."

"Thanks but I don't think I could ever do that, I hate public speaking!" grins the human.

"...but you just-"

"Children are the exception."

[skitskatdacat63]

One makes him up, so the other can break him down.

This is a little terrifying but hello!! Posted my first fic on ao3!! I would've saved the illustrations for the fic's eyes only, but I'm too happy with them haha. Hope you'll still go on to read regardless!!

As always, my thoughts and progress, since I can't help myself:

I'm soooooo proud of these. I never ever really do dramatic lighting, so I'm really surprised that I pulled it off.

It's surreal actually posting this because for a while, I've thought about how if I ever post a fic, I'll have to make illustrations too because I can't do anything not full force. Look at me now! I'm shocked. Also didn't think I'd finish it tonight, but here it sits before you nevertheless(though as always, I'm writing this past my bedtime before class, time efficient as always.) So with that being said, here are some notes, though if I had known I'd be writing this so soon, I would've prepared more lol.

First of all, I hope it's clear both of these are Mark's perception. Gah, the fact that his face is the only one you can see clearly. The first is obviously him unwillingly fantasizing about what exactly went down last night.

Aghhhhh the difference in colors and settings of the two drawings is so important to me. The warmth and intimacy of the bed behind curtains in the first one, and the coldness and openess of the second. It's so clear Mark feels like he's been distanced, like he's been ousted. It's like he's been thrown outside on a cold winter's day, no longer able to feel the heat from the comfortable warm stove inside.

Mark was probably assigned to Seb bcs he has a much greater appreciation for the Spanish etiquette, which Seb has very little interest in. He'll abide by it when he absolutely has to. But he's just a very non-typical Emperor. People find it charming so it's not a public death sentence for him, but it is an issue. Thus, Mark is there to keep him in line. Though important to note that when Fernando, who has an equal if not greater respect for the showmanship of etiquette, realizes Mark is interested in that as well, they start warming up to each other.

The inherent disrespect of Fernando just. Throwing Seb's clothing onto the floor. Meanwhile he probably took like, 20 minutes folding his up(that's what Seb was gonna tell Mark at the end of the fic.) Borderline ripping off Seb's clothes only to edge him. Its not even like the ripping off the clothes is because of passion or anything, he's deliberately being an asshole. Don't worry Nandl, Seb's turned on by it!

So sorry to marknando fans if their dynamic feels like a complete 180 haha. Its not like I'm like, they actually hate each other!! It's just their relationship under completely different circumstances. They're like two dogs in a dog fight, they don't have any real reason to hate each other, but they're put against each other regardless. They don't understand their hatred, just know that they have it and that they're supposed to have it. The inherent hatred the mistress has for the spouse, and vice versa. If they actually were able to talk without barriers, they'd realize they actually get along pretty well. They kinda just hate each other because of their respective relationships to Seb. And then there's Seb who's mostly completely oblivious to his effect, though of course plays with it a bit.

Seb's marriage completely recontextualizes their relationship in Mark's eyes. Though there's something incredibly sado-masochistic about the way he can't blame Seb for it at all. He's a loyal dog after all. But when it was just them, he was obviously Seb's main companion and lover. Seb definitely slept with people on the side, but Mark brushed that off: 1. Bcs its very period typical. 2. He was the main, they were the side, what more needs to be said! But now *he's* the side piece, and is left wondering if their relationship was down to proximity alone. Not to pull a Mark and completely excuse Seb, but it's not. Just very different perceptions of love and relationships. And again, as I've mentioned before, he was raised to always be the most important person in the room, so he obviously has very different understandings, especially since he's always the center.

NANDL!!!!!! In my Habsburg book I've been reading lately, they randomly referred to one of them affectionately as "Nandl" and it's stuck in my head ever since. Can we start a movement to canonize that as an official Fernando nickname? I'm sooooo fond of it, I litrally ended the fic that way just so I could shoehorn that nickname in.

Speaking of the ending. It was really tough, I almost wanted to have Fernando burst in, looking for his ring, and then coming across whatever that is. But I didn't want to disrupt their moment anymore, it felt cruel. Though shame I couldn't mention that the reason why Seb's pants are nowhere to be found is because Fernando accidentally put them on and didn't realize till he was out of the room.

*I FORGOT TO POINT OUT ONE OF MY FAVORITE PARTS! Truly the danger of writing a post while falling asleep. There's something so incredibly funny to me the way they're talking so refined and then Seb just throws out: "that guy." It's a way to show his own disrespect of Fernando, not even using his name, implying he's just some guy(nur ein Kerl.) I laughed writing it cause it reminds me of the random dry humor anecdotes I've read lately.

[catsoupki]

CHP. ONE | INEBRIATION QUENCHES THE THIRST

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort, eventual smut (ch4)

CHAPTER LENGTH: 2,754 | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHP.

“You look like shit.” Bakugou stalks into the room just to catch you in your most vulnerable moment— you only had concealer applied to your face. “You insulted the wrong person, babe.” You shoot back before muttering a small ‘sorry’ to the angel of a woman that was doing your make-up, who shakes her head with a soft smile while muttering something about puppy love. You roll your eyes. Bakugou clicks his tongue before falling down on the seat beside you with a heavy thud. “You letting yourself go that soon, Kats?” The nickname you’ve given him doesn’t properly sound as your makeup artist, Tanaka, was it? covers your lips with some scrub.

You celebrate your victory of the day as he only answers with a tch. He glares at the poor soul assigned to do his make-up for the event through the mirror, before his gaze shifts towards you.

You look stunning, as always. Not that he’d admit it, ever. You look like you fit the title “Number Four Hero”. Wearing only a flimsy vest, your collarbones were exposed as you sat in the make-up chair. The lighting at the studio only further accentuated the curves of your arms— forcing him to will his eyes to meet anything else before you catch him, and he certainly, most definitely does not want to endure your teasing, and for the record, your teasing absolutely does not make his night spent at these charity events more tolerable and manageable, and, not even enjoyable. Not in the slightest bit. At least that’s what he tells himself anyway.

You two were intentionally put into the same room, as always— you’re notorious for being one of the few pro-heroes who’s able to keep up and deal with his temper and attitude. Ever since your graduation from Shiketsu, the media immediately spotted the similarities between your personalities and fighting styles: strategically brash, stupidly abrupt, and chaotically unpredictable. The only difference being that you aren’t unnecessarily rude to those who don’t deserve it;

Finally though, during an interview a few years after your debut, it was made clear that you had known Dynamight since he was a child growing up in the rural outskirts of Musutafu. Ever since, the two of you became each other’s automatic plus-one for every social event.

+++

Doing the breathing exercise your manager of all people taught you, you step out of the black vehicle, instantly greeted with a myriad of flashes and shouts. Paparazzi, fans and the like all vie for your attention, the December air nipping at your skin but you put on your plastic-smile and fight your way across the red carpet, stopping at the stairs and meeting the eye of Dynamight.

He was in a dashing grey suit and a black blazer the same shade as your low cut maxi dress, tailored to fit him at all the right places, all broad shoulders and tiny waist (his waist-to-hip ratio is infuriating) donning a red tie that didn’t live up to the crimson in his eyes at all. He looks good, as he always does. You really can’t be any more grateful to the shiver of sharks and cameras surrounding you two, by the time you get home, you can gawk at his stature in paparazzi pictures in the quiet of your humble abode. It doesn’t mean you won’t try your best to sneak glances up and down his body tonight though, but there will only be so many instances where he has his back turned to you.

His hand grazes your lower back while your arms remain at your sides, both of you standing at a slightly slanted angle so that you were facing each other in the tiniest bit. Flashes of cameras continue to barrage you two as the shouts get more and more aggressive, Bakugou quickly lifts up his hand and sends the photographers a hot and quick message of fuck-you with his middle finger; you were thankful, but that didn’t stop you from elbowing him in the ribs before you were so rudely torn away and steered around the venue by your plus-one.

Both of you were accustomed to this, boring speeches from the host of the event — some balding guy that was shrivelling up in his seventies with too much money — awards honoured to the top five heroes and a bunch of group pictures.

“Next up, we have our number four hero, Metal Gear!” Your smile is as plastered to your face as the sweat on your hands as you walk on stage, met with claps and the beaming smiles of your friends and colleagues and ex-classmates. “This year, she not only made history by becoming the first female hero to achieve such a high ‘blood-spill’ rating, she also has the highest score for ‘the element of surprise’ since the founding of the Hero Commission!” You shake hands with the rich and balding guy as he hands you two plaques made of glass, the backstage workers motion for you to join Tsukuyomi next to the rest of the guests while you wait for the remaining heroes. “Smile!” The photographer gleams as you all but Katsuki does the basic celebrity face— cheeks up eyes open!

And the rest? It all goes by in a blur.

+++

It was some time close to the ass-crack of dawn. After attending the set amount of after-parties your manager set you to, you crawl into the back of the agency car before it speeds off to your honest cabin. Your gaze settles unfocused outside the window, tall and lonely street lights taking turns mocking your weak frown with their derisive yellow hues, you take note of the scattered blue lights in office towers, those who live a life not knowing comfort and safety, and a sense of gratitude fills your heart.

Fighting off inebriation and drowsiness doesn’t get easier despite the accumulation of experience, you’re flushed with alcohol, ears still buzzing with lost excitement, stomach fluttering with the remnants of butterflies from the times Katsuki brushed his knee against yours under the dining table that night, or when you felt his (almost envious) eyes burning holes at your back as you involuntarily talked with Monoma.

Slurring a quick thank you, you stumble out the door and fiddle with the keys before kicking off your heels and crash-landing on your couch. You won’t wake up until tomorrow, when your manager calls your house phone because she knows you. After all, she has worked with you since the founding of Metallica™, she knows your habits, she knows the battery of your cellphone has long been dead since last night, and she knows you haven’t showered yet, nor have you done anything really. So she calls you with a long enough buffer period that by then you’ll get your life and yourself back in check and open your eyes to another day of paperwork and patrolling.

She brings you your second cup of coffee in the morning. Hangovers are difficult to deal with so she gets you a cookie to help with the patrol you have to go on 17 minutes later too. You’re paired with a new sidekick whose name you forgot, the both of you groaning after hearing the screams of civilians and the shatters of windows in the penultimate minute of your duty time. You decide that you like this sidekick.

But it’s everyday work, you’re used to this. This being the fact that your neighbourhood burglars and robbers always resort themselves to metal weapons because they’re the cheapest and most accessible.

You’ll have to thank them for the relatively easy but interesting job though.

+++

This time the monthly group hangout is, surprisingly, being held at Bakugou’s place. You have no idea what blackmail Mina must have pulled up to convince him to let you guys absolutely wreck his place, but you keep your comments to yourself.

You’re the last to arrive, having just finished an interview with some late night show, you hurry towards Katsuki’s home, a modern and sleek one at that. He hired some designer who was apparently a friend of his mother, and man did that woman have taste.

The interior mostly consisted of neutrals, grey walls and black cupboards, and obviously a kitchen done to his exact liking, with a rotating seasoning rack, a two-door fridge, and a sink that has a detachable faucet with five different pressure settings.

Your knuckles were met with nothing on the third knock, the door swinging open to reveal an extra smiley and doubtlessly tipsy Kirishima. You can hear the television playing, some shitty movie with the cheesiest lines you’ve ever heard, ‘but I love her!’; Mina and Kirishima were probably the ones responsible for the rather unwise movie choice.

You give a polite wave, simultaneously kicking off your shoes before beelining to the makeshift bar to pour yourself at least two shots before joining the rest of them. Denki gives you his usual greeting, something something flirtatious with a wink, Sero a friendly hello, and of course, his elbows. Mina must be stuck in the bathroom since you still haven’t had air pushed out your lungs by her signature hug. And Bakugou? You don’t see him.

Ah, he’s in the kitchen. As much as he likes to complain that he isn’t Denki’s nor Sero’s private chef, you know he can’t stand their poor dietary choices, so he takes matters into his own hands instead. For whatever reason, their habits of eating instant ramen six nights a week never truly left them even after UA. Whatever Bakugou is making, it smells delirious, you feel yourself getting high just from smelling it—

“Oh my god bitch I haven’t seen you in so long!” So long as in two weeks. Just how she is anyway. You usually return her energy, but it’s been a busy day, so you just respond with a tired nod and hooded eyes before allowing yourself to be dragged towards the couches, but being weary doesn’t make you any less alert so you don’t miss the (worried) glance Katsuki sends you.

You guys are a weird, weird group. You’ve known Bakugou since he was a scrawny little kid at the sandbox, and for a long time you went on play dates together while your mothers sipped on expensive teas and gossiped about the neighbourhood drama, but when Katsuki started acting more violent and aggressive towards Izuku, you had stopped talking to him after numerous failed attempts of telling him to stop. He’d reply with ‘You don’t get to tell me what to do!’ or maybe ‘If you loved stupid Deku so much go play with him instead!’, his crimson orbs didn’t look familiar when he spat those ugly words at you.

You were sad, of course. Your mother was your saving grace because she told you you’d be moving a few streets away and attending a different school just three weeks later.

It was a bittersweet goodbye, whatever that meant for two seven year olds, but despite his absence from your life, his grip on you never loosened, his influence was as present as ever, and you found yourself longing to become a hero by the age of thirteen, your parents began to lecture you, and you were no longer the sweet nine year old toddler who listened to every word spoken by your dear father, but instead you rebelled— you filled out the high school application form yourself without consulting your parents, you put down your own phone number when your homeroom teacher requested to call your mother to make sure your school choices are final.

Even with Bakugou off of your mind, you two still had uncanny similarities that Izuku never unsaw. You didn’t make it into UA, but two years after the USJ event, you started studying at Shiketsu.

You grew to be a wonderful teenager and soon, a preadolescent. You kept seeing Bakugou on the television, for the first few times you hated it, but you grew to accept that— you’ll have to share the same neighbourhood anyway.

That became true during your final year in Shiketsu, where you went to Miruko for your internship, you ran into Bakugou, the sidekick, there.

It took some reconciliation, sure. Months and months were spent biting at each other’s necks, never backing down from fights and bickers, but you were quickly adopted into their group despite being two years younger when Mina relaid the things she heard you call Bakugou to the rest of her friends (“Is Mitsuki doing well? Can’t be that well if she still has you as a son,” “You should text her yourself, maybe she’ll give you some skincare advice too.”)

Two shitty movies later, Denki and Sero have their arms around each other’s shoulders as they bump their way out the door and down the hallway, Kirishima is holding Mina’s heels while she herself is smothering you with kisses and telling you to get home safe, you would have texted her about it if you weren’t in the bad state that you are in now. They don’t say anything about you staying, you’re always the one to stay to help with clean-up at every meet-up anyway. But, this time, you think that maybe you should’ve left with them too, the air is awfully thick with tension, and you don’t know why—

“Fuck’s sakes eyebrows, just spit it out, we both know you have something to say.” Katsuki mumbles quite softly, but the way he aggressively picks up beer cans negates the gentleness he was trying to convey.

“‘m just tired. ‘s been a hefty week.”

You know it’s a blatant lie, even he knows it’s false. But he doesn’t call you out on your shit, not yet anyway. Instead, he decides to bribe you to save your ego.

He wraps up the cleaning process at lightning speed before bolting towards the kitchen. And just with the ingredients he’s pulled out, you know he’s making you your favourite soup.

(You ignore the feeling that infests your heart just by knowing he’s kept the necessary ingredients for your favourite soup in his fridge.)

The way he handles the knife, the food, the pot, even with the way he shuffles across the kitchen, grabbing the seasoning he knows you like, it’s all way too meticulous. It’s his territory, arguably more so than the battlefield. You sit at your usual spot, the left corner of the kitchen island to watch him cook, your spot. He hands you the mug, your favourite way to drink his soup, your favourite mug, and your own dedicated spoon. It’s all too meticulous, he leans against the countertop, drinking you in while you drink the soup he made. You look tired, more exhausted than usual, even more strenuous than the time you did 7 social events back to back.

He knows something’s wrong, he’s just waiting for you to tell him, like how you always do. And even you know you’ll tell him eventually. So you save both you and him some precious time and sleeping hours by spitting it out now.

“My parents have been giving me shit again, I thought that after they laid off a bit meant that they have finally come to terms with my work as a hero. Surprise surprise, they haven’t.”

The nonchalant look on your face, the would-be furrow between your brows, the would-be tears in your eyes, he already sees them. He inhales deeply, all the way down to the last crevice of his lungs, resting his eyes for a split second before realising just how sleepy he is, but he’ll always have time for you, so he doesn’t mention it.

He waits a bit more, and you’re confused at first, until you realise that he’s just waiting for you to finish the soup. So you do so hurriedly, and let him drag you to his bed. You flop onto it unceremoniously and certainly without much grace. He sighs, not having the heart to force you into cleaner pyjamas, he's just going to have to clean those sheets for the second time this week. He rolls onto the bed himself, he doesn’t touch you, not like he ever has, but he just lets you know he’s there, with his pillow, his blanket; it’s his cologne that floods the bed, it’s his apartment that you’re in, but you kind of knew, that he’s here, for you. Always your respite, always your safe haven.

[last-starry-sky]

too sweet pt 3 - innocent!reader x graves

(original idea inspired by this post by the lovely @shotmrmiller - part 1 here - part 2 here)

NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS - MDNI: (slut shaming, a lil bit of body horror-ish stuff, pov switches, lots of pet names (as per usual lol), dub-con if you squint (reader is a bit drunk so ymmv), fingering, look me in the eyes and tell me graves isn’t the type of guy to pack heat 24/7, i’m really leaning into how much of a virgin reader is so buckle in, no hard smut (again, sorry lmao))  

You were standing around the kitchen island with your mother. It was your usual morning ritual, but this morning was different somehow. You just couldn’t place it. Things seemed . . . weird. Off. Just a little to the left of normal. Like how the sun felt a too bright, blasting in the front windows like a floodlight, far too bright for the early morning.

You squinted at the bleached out white walls and shiny tile floor as your mom was cradled your face in her hands. They were cold. Your cheeks were cold. You shuddered in her grasp, peeling her off you as you stepped back. Your foot hit the leg of a stool behind you. You plopped down, falling right into the cushioned seat.  

“How was it sweetie? You have fun?” she said picking up her coffee cup with a smile so wide you wondered if it was hurting her. 

Her voice is unbearably high-pitched and sweet; like cold syrup pouring in your ear. It took you a moment to realize you had heard those words before, that this was not a dream.

It's a memory. 

Oh yeah, you realized, this was the morning after you went on your first date. You felt the stupid smile you had walked in with return to your face. Your first date with Phil.  

The thought of him warmed your brain. His hand in yours as he led you to the front door. How he’d let you doze off in his car on the way home. How warm and protected you felt laying against him by the bonfire. The memory was comforting, creating a mix of pleasant feelings in your chest.

“Yeah mom,” you replied automatically, “had a lot of fun.” It was the exact answer you had given her that morning. 

Her hands clenched around her steaming coffee cup, knuckles white.

“Tell. me. how. it. went.” She said punctuating every word, smile gone taught; practically carved into her cheeks. 

Weird, a rouge blip of a thought came to your mind. Those were the right words . . . but her voice, the way she said them. It was far too terse. This was not how you remem- 

“Really good,” you responded on queue, still dreamy and automatic. It was like you were on a track, all of the lines already set and all you had to do was say them as they came, no matter the parts of your conscious brain screamed at you that something was wrong. You have to stop. You have to stop now.

“That’s good!” she said flipping back into her overly-happy demeanor so fast it gave you whiplash. “He seems like such a nice man. Your dad just wouldn’t stop talking about him after you left!”

That was . . . normal. You still felt weird, squirming in your seat and looking at your hands just to look at anything but her. Maybe if you kept going everything would go back to norm-

“He is nice,” you said before you could stop yourself. “So nice. I’m glad you both like him, too. We want-”

She interrupted you.

"Oh, but I don’t, honey.”  

“What?” you gasped off script, cracking away whatever part of the memory had it’s tenuous hold on you. This isn’t how this went. You remember this morning. You remember what she said. You know-

“You heard me. Whore,” she said, smile dripping off her face. Her words were like a black hole. Void of emotion and sucking you in with a terror like oblivion as the unreal brightness of the room turned dimmer and dimmer behind her.

Your mouth fell open. You tried to do something, anything: turn around, backpedal, run, but you couldn’t. Of course you couldn’t. You never can run away in a dream. You were forced to watch your mother’s face swirl off into the cheery kitchen around her as her voice turned acrid and shrill.

“Don’t play dumb with me you little slut.” Her eyes falling inward into black pits that shone back at you. Mirrors into your own guilty soul. “I know what you do when you’re alone in your room. I can hear you. And now, even that’s not enough? Look at you. I spent all that time, raising you right, taking you to church, putting the fear of God in you, and still you ended up like this. What would your father think if he saw you now? Letting a stranger touch his daughter, in public no less!”

“Mom!” you managed to gasp out, cheeks burning. How did she know? How did she find out?

“Don’t mother me!” her squaking, multitudinous voice called out, echoing around the little kitchen as a pit twisted deeper and deeper in your gut. 

“You think you’re still my little girl? Look at where you’ve done. What you’re planning to do.” You felt like God himself was there shaming you. The cup shattered in her hand, spraying blue ceramic in slow motion. “I sure hope you enjoy your night with him because you’ve made your own bed now.”  

-

The truck sways, bouncing up and down and then left to right, waking you suddenly from your soft, childlike sleep. You hear Phil mumble a quiet ‘sonofabitch’ above you as he corrected the truck with his left hand while squeezing your waist protectively with his right. You’re still right where you’re supposed to be: cuddled safely into his chest.

You crack open your eyes a slit. The cab is dark, interrupted only by the irregular pass of streetlights that flooded the cab suddenly with light only to plunge it back into inky, silent dark a second later. 

You can feel his bicep flex, tensing to hold you close, behind your head. When he’s got the truck back safely in his lane, his muscles in his arm relax. He sighs into your hair and you feel his hand move back down to your thigh, the rough skin of his fingers slowly stroked at the exposed skin south of your skirt. You sigh softly, shivering at his touch, burying your face in his shirt as you stretch yourself in his lap. 

His hand stops when you move, turning to look down at you. It lays there, warm and strong, on your thigh.

“I wake y’up, sweets?” he asked, his breath rustling your hair.

You squirmed in his lap as you shook your head, stretching your neck and wiping at your eyes. His hand tensed on your leg. 

“What happened back there?” you asked sleepily. The alcohol had made your tongue heavy and clumsy in your mouth. You could still taste strawberries when you swallowed. 

“Ah. Oh that? Just a . . . just a log in the road,” he said with a pause and a shrug. 

He patted your thigh once before reaching up to take the wheel with both hands. He let out a soft groan as he canted his hips, shuffling your body on top of him as he readjusted himself in his seat. His eyes were focused straight down the road. It made you sad to lose his touch but you understood. Out the windshield you could see the road he was driving you down, if only what was illuminated by the headlights. Pine trees thickly lined both sides of the unfamiliar two lane road, interrupted only by the odd set of mailboxes that signaled a line of houses down hidden dirt roads. Everything was dark green and black. No stars. No moon. You didn’t know he lived so far out in the country, but then again, you had never been brave enough to ask. 

“You okay?” you asked quietly, still not quite woken up. You wrapped your arm around his ribs, relaxing into him, stealing his warmth.

“Yeah,” he said moving his left hand, letting it drip down the steering wheel until it just barely hung off the bottom. “Musta been a raccoon or somethin’ in the road. Got distracted.” 

He let go of the steering wheel, bringing his hand to grip your thigh where his other hand had been just a few minutes ago, right on the hem of your skirt. His thumb swiped back and forth, gently tracing from the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh to the top of your leg. The motion sent tingles racing to your core. You moved your leg a fraction of an inch to relieve the pressure but had to bite back a moan. Oh no, you thought tipping your head against his chest. You could feel how wet you still were. 

“Saw it too late ‘n had to swerve,” he added as an afterthought. You wondered if he had taken his eyes off the road to watch you now; if he could see you with your eyes closed, lip caught in your teeth, blissed out and squirming against his leg. 

He spread his fingers, pressing his warm palm flat to your leg, as he brushed up under your dress. You let your head loll back against his bicep behind you, unable to to keep your next moan from escaping.

“Now I got you distractin’ me,” he said with a hiss into your hair, sliding his hand up further. His fingers brushed at the edge of your panties. You squirmed under him as he danced ever so close to where you wanted him. Needed him.

“Phil,” you sighed. 

You were just about to crack, to grab his hand with your own and make him touch you, when he stopped, resuming his absent stroking. 

“Hold on jus’ a little bit longer, darlin’,” he said with a squeeze to your upper thigh. “Last turn’s comin’ up.”

He slowed down fractionally, taking a wide left turn that swayed the whole truck, the driver’s side wheels falling down into the slope of the ditch before pulling back onto the road. You bounced in his lap as the truck transitioned from the rough, but still somewhat maintained, concrete country road, to dirt and gravel. The trees lined the narrow road even closer than before, choking out the light from the increasingly rare streetlights. 

He took his free hand out from your dress, nudged in between your legs and his pants and adjusted himself. He closed his eyes for but a moment and groaned as he palmed his cock. It made you blush, you weren’t exactly used to men acting like this around you, but it also made you wickedly excited. He was like this because of you. You had made this strong, older man, a soldier, race you home on a dark rainy road just so he could get his hands on you. 

He put his hand chastely on your waist for a moment, flexing his fingers into your skin. It was as if he was weighing his choices. When you sighed into his touch he let out a held in groan. His choice was made. He skimmed his hand down your body to the press of your legs. When he got to the edge of your dress, he slid his hand under, bunching it against his sleeve as he sought out his prize.

It was the tip of his middle finger that first grazed your pussy. It made you jump, his touch punching out a gasp even through the cloth of your panties. He kept going, pushing his whole hand to palm at your warm, aching core. He ground the bottom of his palm against you, fingers stroked at your weeping hole, earning a pitiful whine into his chest. The brute, indirect pressure was making your legs shake.

You grabbed at his arm, looking up at him with pleading eyes. His eyes stayed stubbornly on the road. “Phil . . . please,” you begged. “Please-”

He cut you off by twisting his hand, curling his fingers under the waistband of your underwear to stroke at your silken folds in a single, fluid motion. You clenched, nails digging into his arm as you squeaked out a silent Ah as your eyes flew shut. 

The truck slowed to a crawl, headlights swaying back and forth, illuminating the same frame of unfamiliar road and dark, foreboding trees, as he concentrated on slipping his fingers through your untouched pussy. His ability to drive completely shot. You were lost too in the overload of new sensations. Your wetness covered his fingers, dulling the rough texture of his skin. He used his strength to press almost too hard as he made a circuit through your labia, up to your clit, finally swirling down and around your hole. You’d never had someone else touch you there, and even your own “experiments”, alone and frustrated in your bed, hadn’t yielded very much pleasure. But this, the tingling, shooting pleasure coiling tight in your core that had you open-mouth panting. This could be something.

He took his remaining hand off the steering wheel to wrap both his arms around you, leaving his whole body flexed on to the brake like a vice. He pressed his face into your hair as he rolled his hips against you with a moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he said with a flick of his fingers across your clit that made you flinch. He was completely blissed out - his voice rough and heady. The combination made you shiver against him. “Fuck. We can’t-” he said tipping your jaw up, forcing you to face him again as a blush crept over your cheeks, “-can’t do this here.” He pressed an open mouthed kiss against your lips before pulling back, his nose sliding against yours. “Open your mouth for me now, babydoll,” he said taking his hand away from your pussy to peel your bottom lip open with his thumb, your own slick painting your jaw. 

-

Somehow, someway, he did manage to pull his brain out of his cock and drive that last stretch of road to his house. As much as he had wanted to throw his plans to the wind and just fuck you in the truck he reminded himself that this was your first time. He needed to make it good for you. 

No high school specials tonight. That wouldn’t make you stay. 

He let himself indulge in one more sleepy, dazed kiss before he mechanically went through the motions to shut off the car. Slide the clutch into park, unbuckle, radio off, lights off, turn the key in the ignition. He had to move you off his lap to get out first before he could scoop you back up into his arms to bring you inside. When he leaned in to pull you out he saw his jacket crumpled into the corner of the passenger seat. You nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, almost ready to fall asleep again. A corner of your bright purse stuck out. It was tangled inside his jacket, almost completely hidden. He hugged you tight to his chest as you shivered from the misting rain. Your phone was probably in there too. 

Shame, he thought as he slammed the door shut with his free hand, you’ll probably be looking for that in the morning. 

He didn’t set you down until he got to the front door, not that you protested. Your useless heels would have sunk into the mud of the lawn anyway. It was still cold night despite the weather clearing. He liked feeling of you shivering against his side in the dark as he unlocked his front door. It wasn’t longer than a moment before he had the deadbolt and door unlocked, shooing you inside ahead of him. 

You ambled in, tipsy and disoriented, in the dark, heels clacking in an unsteady gait across the wood floor. He listened with amusement as you made your way around his unfamiliar home with only the sparse outside light to guide you. Sometimes he forgot how dark it could get out here in the country. 

He stopped at the dinner table, taking his time, unloading his usual carry: wallet from his left pocket, phone from his right. Each made a light clink against his keys as he tossed them onto the table. He reached around his back and unclipped his holster from inside his slacks. His clip followed shortly. They both made a weighty thunk on the table. He rubbed at the sore spot the grip had worn into his back, suppressing a groan. It didn’t help that his holster had slid to the middle of his back, making him adjust the way he sat the whole drive home with you wriggling in his lap. 

Once his watch was off his wrist and his shoes kicked behind him, he walked silently back to the door and locked the deadbolt. The sharp CLACK of the metal had always been comforting, but now, it was exciting. A sign that everything was ready. That you were safe now. Finally. he thought with a sly smile creeping across his face. Locked inside his home (could be yours too, in a heartbeat, if you asked). With no one around for miles to bother you. Right were you were always meant to be, darling.

The only safer place you could be is wrapped in his arms, and he planned to remedy that problem as soon as he found you. 

It didn’t take much of a hunt to find you. You’d made a light thump as you found the end of the couch with your hip in the living room and had decided it was as good a place as any to lean against. He had to give you credit, you had hauled yourself up onto the arm of the sofa all by yourself. It was almost cute to watch you struggle to keep your balance as you reached down for your ankle straps, little frustrated noises falling from your lips. 

He was quiet in his socks. He could tell you hadn’t heard him when you jumped as his hand touched your knee. He laughed at it as he slid up your thigh boldly.

“Phil . . .” you said grabbing his belt, looking up with pleading eyes.  

“Need help, baby?” he teased, trailing his hand back down to hook under your knee. You let out a gasp, crumpling his shirt at his waist as your fingers clamped suddenly together. He held your hips with his other hand, hiking your leg up to his hip, allowing him to smoothly slot himself in between your legs. 

This was going so fucking well. 

It took a little bit of fiddling in the dark, but he managed to unclasp your left heel, letting it fall with a loud THUNK against the floor. It didn’t help that there was not another sound in the house beside your rasping breaths. You were such a cute little thing like this: holding on for dear life, whining into his chest, barely able to breathe already. He smoothed his hand up your leg until it met his other hand at your waist. He couldn’t help but give you a little squeeze. You yelped, head shooting up out of his chest to lay your pleading eyes on him.

He pressed his advantage immediately. He chuckled and leaned down to peck a gentle, toying kiss on your lips. His hand was already moving down to your remaining shoe as he pulled away, a small, disappointed oh falling from your lips. This time, he wouldn’t let you hide. He moved his hand from your waist to the small of your back, rough fingers catching on the smooth, clingy fabric of your dress. You were red cheeked and panting, a small ah all the noise you could make, when he pressed you forward, forcing you flush against his front. Only an inch of needy, heated space separated his cock from your barely-clothed pussy and, good fucking God, did he need it. 

Need it. Need it. Fucking need-ed-it.

Your ankle in his hand, he deftly popped your hip open. He tilted forward that last, cloying centimeter to feel you. His eyes fell shut as he pressed to you with a groan. You were so warm. He could feel it through his pants. You let out a shamefully high-pitched whine in return. He felt his trapped cock jump in his pants. He was throbbing and, fuck, so were you. He couldn’t feel it yet, but he knew you were wet. How could you not be? All that excitement in the car had to have your pussy working overtime. 

Your second heel fell to the floor. 

“Phil . . .” you whined in the silence that followed, pawing at his sides and back. His dress shirt made soft swishing noises under your nails. It was almost like music. 

He chanced looking down at you. Fuck did you look gorgeous. Your skin shimmered in the dark with sweat. The first thing that caught his eye was your breasts pushed against his ribs, that little silver cross hidden safely away, swallowed entirely by your chest. Your eyes were huge, with pupils blown wide and glassy with tears as you looked up at him. You were chewing on your bottom lip again, the irritation making it all the more red and kissable. The more blissed out and needy he made you, the more irresistible you became. 

A perfect, vicious circle. A positive feedback loop.

He let go of your ankle to place his hand on your cheek. You were beyond flush, more like burning. When he felt you fold your leg around his hip of your own volition he couldn’t help but feel satisfied. He rutted forward into you. It was a rough pleasure that did almost nothing for both of you, but it was something. A tease in this slow, slow dance he had been leading you on, a preview of what was to come, maybe even a reward for holding on this long, for doing so so well.

“Doin’ okay, sweets?” he asked, petting your burning cheek with his thumb. 

You nodded with a bat of your lashes. You straightened your back suddenly to make yourself taller when you saw him leaning down to kiss you. You were still so excited, enthusiastic. 

Trusting. 

He let all the chains come off. Long gone were the quick, chaste pecks at your front door. The ones that drew you into him. A delicate summer moth hypnotized by a porch light, never to escape. Even the “real” kisses he’d had with you outside the restaurant and in the truck were blown away. He held your jaw open with an iron grip while he forced his tongue in your mouth. He was sloppy, aggressive, taking what he wanted. He would only momentarily break away to nip at your open, panting lips, before diving back in. It amazed him how submissive you were. You weren’t fighting him in any way, just let him control everything while you let out an occasional moan or whine. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to figure out why that was. 

You’d never been kissed like this before. How could you have an opinion on how you liked it when you’d never- Fuck, he forgot. How could he forget? You’d never done anything before. He’s got a little virgin in his hands, whining and squirming, practically begging for it. 

Hmm, he thought. Could he really . . . could he make you beg for it?

He squeezed the side of your thigh as he rolled another thrust against you, groaning against your lips. You yelped at the pain of his fingers biting into your skin, but it dissolved into another high-pitched whine. Fuck, could listen to that all night. Your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him close. 

“Phil,” you sighed as he rolled his hands up your thighs, dragging your dress up with it. “Phil please.”

Oh fuck, he thought. She’s really going to do it.

“Please what, darlin’?” he asked hoarsely, resting his forehead against yours, watching you squirm as he tried to pull your dress out from under you.

“Please . . .” you trailed off shyly, trying to make him stop by pawing at his hands. Not that you could.

“Gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he said voice drawn gruff and dry. 

He balled the stretchy fabric of your dress in his fists and pulled. It resisted, pulling ever so slowly from where it was trapped under you. The sound itself was delicious tension. More music to his ears. It was a long, soft noise as the knit stretched to it's limit in the quiet of the room. You tried to turn your head away, to hide your pants and whines, but he prevented it by shoving his face into your neck. He kissed and nipped at your neck until, without fanfare, your skirt popped out from under you.  

You slammed a hand to his chest before he could make another move. This time, he obeyed you. 

“Phil!” you plead, red faced from embarrassment, “Can we . . . can we not- um can we go . . . ” You caught your breath for another couple moments, wiggling your knees on either side of his waist, before turning to him. “Can we do this in your bed . . . please?” 

He hauled you up by your thighs, throwing you up onto his chest without another word. You scrambled to throw your arms around his neck as he backed away from the couch. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into the side of your head.

[wizardofgoodfortune]

LYTA HALL & ROSE WALKER The Sandman, S01E08: Playing House dedicated to @violetoftheendless

[tennessoui]

“Kiaree is pregnant,” Obi-Wan says, as if Anakin is supposed to care about this woman and her baby. “If her name is drawn from the victor‘s pool, I will take her place.” “Like hell you will,” Anakin snarls. “There are other victors.”

“Magdeline is old,” Obi-Wan’s eyes cut away, fall to the space between their hands. Good, Anakin thinks viciously, he should find it hard to look at him. “She should not have to go back to Coruscant. Not ever again in her lifetime. If her name is drawn—” “Then you will let it be!” Anakin rounds the corners of the counter, unthinkingly fast. He clasps his hand around Obi-Wan’s shoulder, squeezing the fine fabric that Coruscant has dressed him in tightly. “Why would you volunteer for them, Obi-Wan? They have never volunteered for you.”

“The actions of others do not control my own, Anakin,” Obi-Wan snaps, pushing him away, freeing himself from his grasp. “I will volunteer to serve as master and mentor, as I am the most suitable to be victor—” Anakin grinds his teeth together, pushing himself back into Obi-Wan’s space, pinning him against the counter. “You would do that to me?” he asks, low, voice a dark growl in his throat. Obi-Wan has styled his hair carefully, slicked it back and trimmed his beard. Anakin touches the lines of his beard, ghosts over the glossy locks before shoving his fingers into it, messing up the tidy strands. “You would take yourself away from me, for months more?”

“The Games will last no more than a fortnight,” Obi-Wan murmurs, keeping his back straight, unwilling to melt into Anakin’s touch. “I will be back on Stewjoni soil before the leaves turn gold.”

“You will be parsecs away from me until the spring,” Anakin replies, and he gentles his hold, smooths over the mess of Obi-Wan’s bangs and slots himself up against him. Not fighting, not pushing. Pressing, coaxing. “Your body will be here, but your mind will not. Do not pretend as if you do not know what I am talking about.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth falls open, a flash of red as he wets his bottom lip and looks away. Of course he knows what Anakin means. The years that he must go to Coruscant, the years that he is made master of two children who are destined to die bloody and screaming, those years haunt him in his eyes. It is the price he pays as a victor—it is not just his Games that haunts him. It is every Game he has ever been made to watch, to participate in even from the sidelines.

And he may be willing to pay that price so that his other victors may live without it, but Anakin will not allow the same.

[gunsatthaphan]

????

[sleepanonymous]

Remember when I said I swear I wasn't trying to drag out posting all the videos I took in Phoenix during the Teeth of God tour? 😅 Yeah, me too.

Like the description states, I almost decided against uploading this one altogether because of the angle and lighting. I eventually decided to because of a conversation I had with @autumns-veil about the lighting specifically during this song from the Teeth of God tour. Anyone lucky enough to make barricade in front of Vessel can attest to this, I'm certain; the lighting framed him in such a way that it felt like it was just you and Vessel in the venue together, despite being pressed up against 7 other people in the crowd and face to face with the security.

Whoever programed the lights, specifically for this song, deserves everything good in the world; a raise, awards, a good night's sleep.

[vivitalks]

man. derek is such an interesting character in season 1, especially when you can look at him through the lens of having seen the whole show, because he's like an unreliable narrator for scott, even though he's not a narrator for the show.

the thing is, derek in season 1 is the primary vehicle for werewolf lore. as new viewers, we're reliant on his character to explain to us the rules and conceits of the genre, but once you've seen the whole show, that role is no longer necessary. but for scott, in season 1, derek is the sole source of werewolf intel. derek is werewolf jesus. which means that everything scott initially learns about being a werewolf is filtered through the Derek Hale Trauma Matrix, and neither of them know it.

for example: in 1x05, derek tells scott that pain is what keeps you human (which is a mantra that gets repeated and referenced a ton over the course of the rest of the show). scott has been a werewolf for all of five seconds, and has no choice but to take the word of this obviously much more knowledgeable werewolf. in that way, derek operates as a kind of narrator for scott, giving him information and context he couldn't really get any other way. but it's unreliable info. don't get me wrong - derek isn't trying to be an unreliable narrator; he's not aware of how much his life experience has colored his understanding of his own species. it's just that...well...derek is a twenty-something with the kind of trauma that eats other trauma for breakfast. of course he would say that pain is what keeps you human. at this point in the show, pain is all he has.

this is the same guy who, in the next episode, says this:

DEREK: You getting angry? That's your first lesson. You want to learn how to control this, how to shift-- you do it through anger, by tapping into a primal animal rage, and you can't do that with her around. SCOTT: [defensively] I can get angry. DEREK: Not angry enough. This is the only way that I can teach you.

except we know, and scott quickly learns (in that very same episode, in fact), that this isn't true. anger doesn't work for everyone, and it doesn't work for scott, who's not an angry person. the things that work for derek won't work for all werewolves - but how would derek know that? he's never had to teach someone to be a werewolf before. he's not actually werewolf jesus.

to scott, derek is the only trustworthy source of information on being a werewolf, because he's the only werewolf scott knows. and from derek's perspective, everything he knows about being a werewolf must be true, because it's true for him. derek is the narrator, and it's only as his backstory unfolds that the viewers, and scott, learn just how much his history and trauma have obscured the reality of things, even for derek himself.

pain is not what makes you human. it's what makes derek human. because the moments in derek's life that stand out to him most are all tinged with tragedy. mercy killing his high school girlfriend. losing his entire family in a house fire. the death of his sister. for derek, to be human is to be in pain, and to be angry about that is the only way to be in control. after all, he doesn't have anyone teaching him otherwise.

[aarafox]

Ngl I really do hope the avatar makers got light of the zukka hype and wouldn’t mind exploring the idea hehe…

[chocodile]

Hyden feels he has a lot of wisdom he could impart upon Theo, if only Theo would take his excellent advice to heart.

[nevermoorsource]

Yet another Silverborn delay has unfortunately happened, hopefully it's the last one. Here are the latest dates:

September 25th, 2024 -> October 30th, 2024 for Australia

It’s currently still September 26th, 2024 for the United Kingdom, but I honestly expect that to change as well…

The January 28th, 2025 date for America remains unchanged

[felassan]

Do you think they would announce the release date once Veilguard finally get it's esrb rating? I'm not familiar with the testing but i wonder how long would it take for them to do that.

hello! ◕‿◕ I'm not familiar with the testing/esrb rating process and how it may relate to timing of announcing release dates, sorry. :<

Edit: a user with some experience of this in games kindly shared the following answer/info with me, to pop here (thanku!) -

"I actually do kind of have an answer about release dates/ESRB rating! They are not generally tied together for games, but the ESRB rating might effect when the release date is. As an example, if you're trying to stay within a certain rating (like the game I worked on did), you need to have time to change dialogue and items that could change the rating. In my case, we had to go through and remove curse words/alcohol references, and cut it close since the release date had already been announced. Dragon Age is intended for adult audiences and will likely get an M, so I don't think the rating is why the release date hasn't been announced yet."